The Nightingale Sisters (6 page)

As she climbed the stairs, Violet was seized by the familiar feeling of foreboding that lasted until the moment she pushed open the door to her room and saw her son again.

He was sitting cross-legged in the old armchair, frowning over his book. An eiderdown shrouded his skinny shoulders.

Seeing him like that, his brow puckered, lip pushed out in concentration, reminded her so strongly of his father that she felt her heart leap into her throat.

‘Hello, darling. All dressed and ready, I see. What a good boy you are.’ Violet smiled brightly as she pulled off her gloves. ‘Did you sleep well, sweetheart? No nightmares?’

He shook his head. ‘But I kept waking up because of the cold.’

‘It is rather chilly, isn’t it?’ Violet shivered. She glanced at the blackened, empty grate. Still no coal, despite all her pleading and threats to the landlady.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Mrs Bainbridge again.’ She leant over and kissed the top of her son’s dark head. He squirmed away, a typical seven year old who didn’t want to be babied. ‘Shall I make us some breakfast?’

She went into the tiny kitchenette that adjoined their room. It was barely more than a cupboard, with just enough room for a sink and an ancient gas stove, separated from their room by a thin, faded curtain.

The condensation on the tiny window above the sink had turned to ice, and the sills were rimed with black mould. Violet tested it with the end of her finger and frowned. It was no good for Oliver. His breathing was already heavy and troubled. The last thing they needed was a chest infection as bad as last year’s.

She peered out of the grimy glass over the blackened rooftops. How did they ever end up like this? she wondered. She’d chosen the lodgings because they were cheap, far enough away from the Nightingale that she didn’t risk being spotted, and the landlady hadn’t asked too many questions. But it wasn’t good enough. Oliver deserved a real home, somewhere with a garden where he could run and play. It was no life for a child, staying cooped up in one tiny room.

And it was no life for her, either. As she paced the hospital corridors every night, her mind was tormented by fears that he might wake up, scared and alone, wanting his mother. Or worse, that something dreadful might befall him while she wasn’t there to watch over him.

She prepared some thin slices of bread and butter, and they chatted as they ate.

‘Did you see any dead people?’ Oliver asked through a mouthful, his dark eyes gleaming.

Violet thought about the poor man on Male Surgical. ‘Heavens, what a question.’ She reached over and brushed a stray lock of hair out of her son’s eyes. ‘It’s much better to think about all the people who get well in a hospital, isn’t it?’

Oliver considered this for a moment as he chewed. ‘I prefer to think about dead people,’ he said. ‘Are people very scary when they’re dead, Mummy?’

‘Not at all,’ Violet replied. ‘They just look like people. People who are asleep, I suppose.’

‘I want to work in a hospital when I grow up.’

Violet smiled at him over the rim of her teacup. ‘Like Mummy, you mean?’

‘No, I want to be a doctor like Daddy. He was a good doctor, wasn’t he?’

It took less than a second for her to compose herself. ‘Yes, darling, he was. A very good doctor.’

‘Did he save people’s lives?’

‘Lots of people’s lives.’ She checked her watch. ‘Now hurry up and finish your breakfast. We’ll have to look smart if we don’t want to be late for school.’

She bundled Oliver up in as many layers of jumpers, coat, scarves and gloves as she could find. Just before they left, she took her ring out of her pocket and slipped it on to the third finger of her left hand, then put on her own gloves.

Mrs Bainbridge must have been listening out for them, because she was waiting in the passageway when they came downstairs. A skinny, one-eyed ginger cat insinuated itself around her legs.

‘Your rent’s due.’ She held out a callused palm for the money. ‘I’ll have it now, if you don’t mind.’

Violet regarded her with disdain, taking in her stained crossover pinny with a shrunken cardigan worn over the top, and the cigarette dangling from her thin lips.

‘The fire in my room has not been lit,’ she said. ‘I told you my son has a weak chest. The room needs to be kept warm and well ventilated. You said you would be able to make up the fire while I’m not here. I pay you extra to do it.’

‘I do it every night before I go to bed.’

‘Then why is the room freezing every morning?’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Mrs Bainbridge’s pale eyes bulged in outrage.

‘I’m saying I want you to keep to our agreement.’

‘If you don’t like it, you can always find somewhere else to live. Although I dunno as how there’d be many respectable places would take a woman on her own with a kid.’ She glanced meaningfully at Violet.

‘As I explained to you, I’m a widow.’

‘’Course you are, dearie.’ Mrs Bainbridge smiled nastily, showing a mouthful of brown, stumpy teeth. ‘And I’m Mae West.’

She stretched her palm out further. Violet took out her purse, counted a few coins and handed them to her.

Mrs Bainbridge checked the money then looked up sharply. ‘What’s this? I’m ten bob short.’

‘I’ll give you the rest when there’s a decent fire in my room. And when you stop stealing my coal,’ Violet added.

A dull flush crept up Mrs Bainbridge’s face. ‘Don’t know what she’s so uppity about,’ Violet heard her mutter darkly to the cat as she shuffled back down the passageway. ‘A widow indeed! Take more than a cheap secondhand ring to pull the wool over my eyes. I know a wrong ‘un when I see one.’

They walked briskly to school, trying to keep warm. The fog had lifted, but their breath hung in the frosty air.

Violet gripped Oliver’s hand, not letting him go until they were safely at the school gates.

‘Now don’t forget,’ she warned him, ‘wait for me by the door. Don’t come out of the gates, and don’t talk to anyone else. Do you hear me?’

‘Why can’t I walk home with the other boys?’ he protested.

‘I’ve told you, Ollie. It’s not safe for you.’

‘Why not?’

Violet tried to find the right words, then gave up. ‘Just do as I say,’ she said, holding him at arms’ length, her eyes fixed on his. ‘And promise me you’ll never go off with anyone else. No matter what they say to you.’

‘I promise, Mummy. I won’t let the bad people get me.’ Oliver looked so solemn, Violet couldn’t help hugging him fiercely.

‘Mummy!’ He wriggled free, embarrassed. ‘I’m not a baby,’ he protested.

‘No, you’re not. You’re growing up fast.’ Too fast, she thought. One day he would be old enough to understand the truth. She wondered if she would ever find the courage to tell him.

She watched him go into the solid, redbrick school building with the other children. Only when he was out of sight and the doors had closed did she turn away and head back to her lodgings.

Oliver was her pride and joy, the only important thing in her life, but she had to keep him a secret, not least from her employers. Nurses were supposed to devote themselves to their work, so no one would have taken Violet on if they’d known she had a child to look after.

And there were other reasons why they had to remain in the shadows, reasons even Oliver couldn’t know about.

On the way, she decided to stop off at the chemist’s to buy some Friar’s Balsam and cough medicine. She knew from past attacks that Oliver’s bronchitis could come on suddenly, and she wanted to be prepared.

Out of habit, she kept to the narrow backstreets where she could, only emerging on to Cable Street when she had to. Even then she constantly glanced over her shoulder, eyes darting everywhere, searching the faces of passers-by.

There was a queue in the chemist’s. The severe winter, with its snow, icy winds and freezing fog, had brought on all kinds of complaints, from chest infections to chilblains. And rather than pay to see a doctor, most people preferred to try to cure their ailments themselves, either with pills from the chemist or home remedies.

Violet had just given the chemist her order when the bell over the door jangled and Sister Blake walked in. Violet was so used to seeing her in a severe grey dress, her face framed by a starched white bonnet, that she almost didn’t recognise the pretty, dark-haired woman in her crimson coat and neat felt hat.

She turned away quickly, pulling up her scarf so she wouldn’t be seen. But it was too late. Sister Blake was already edging past the queue towards her.

‘Miss Tanner?’

Violet turned around. ‘Sister,’ she greeted her. She was wearing gloves, but still instinctively hid her left hand in the folds of her coat.

‘I think, since we’re both out of uniform, you could call me Frannie.’ Her smile was warm and friendly, lighting up her sparkling dark eyes. ‘And I shall call you Violet, if I may?’

Violet tentatively returned her smile. She hadn’t had much to do with Frannie so far, but her ward seemed happy and well run, and no one had a bad word to say about her.

‘It seems odd, doesn’t it, coming to a chemist’s when we’re surrounded by medicine all day?’ Frannie said. ‘But it’s my day off and I’m going to visit my elderly aunt, and she’s insisted I should bring her some of Dr Williams’ Pink Pills. I’ve tried telling her they’re a waste of money, but she’s convinced they do wonders for her nerves, so what can you do?’ She shrugged. ‘What about you? I do hope you’re not sickening for anything?’

‘No, no, it’s – um – for a friend.’ Violet couldn’t meet her eye as the chemist appeared with her medicines wrapped up in a brown paper bag.

‘I’m glad to hear it. I don’t know what we’d do without our Night Sister!’ Frannie beamed. There was the trace of a northern accent in her voice. ‘How do you like the Nightingale? I hope you’re settling in all right?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Violet edged away a few steps.

‘I’m sorry we haven’t been properly introduced. We’re rather like ships in the night, aren’t we?’

‘Mmm.’ Violet eyed the door. A few more steps and she could escape.

But Frannie had other ideas. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you wait for me?’ she suggested. ‘If you’re not in any hurry we could have a cup of tea. It would be nice to have a chat, get to know each other . . .’

‘I am in a hurry,’ Violet cut her off abruptly.

‘Oh.’ Frannie looked startled. ‘Of course, how silly of me. I suppose you’ve not long finished your shift, haven’t you? You’ll be wanting your bed, I expect.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps some other time?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘It would be nice for you to get to know all the Sisters, wouldn’t it?’ Her face brightened. ‘I don’t suppose you’re interested in music at all? Only some of us like to get together and sing in a choir now and then – nothing serious, strictly for our own amusement. I don’t know if you’d like to come along?’

‘I can’t sing.’

‘Neither can most of our little group, but don’t tell them I said that!’ She smiled mischievously. ‘I’m sure there must be some way we could all get together? It must be awfully lonely for you, working every night and never seeing anyone?’

‘Actually, I prefer my own company,’ Violet said bluntly.

‘Oh.’ Frannie’s smile faltered a little. ‘Right. I understand.’

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’ Violet was out of the shop before Frannie had a chance to say any more.

She hurried home, her package tucked firmly under one arm. She felt a stab of guilt for what she’d done. She hadn’t meant to be so sharp with Sister Blake; the poor woman was only trying to be friendly. And she seemed exactly the sort Violet might have chosen for a friend, if she had dared to allow herself such a luxury.

THE NEW PATIENT
on Female Chronics had been found sleeping rough under the railway arches. She was a deaf mute, breathless, coughing and barely able to stand when the police brought her in. But that didn’t stop her scratching and kicking out at Millie and Helen as they tried to get her clothes off in the bathroom.

‘But you’ll enjoy it,’ Millie coaxed, jumping backwards as the woman’s boot caught her squarely on the shin. ‘Look, lots of lovely hot water for you to soak in.’ She tested it with the tip of her elbow. ‘I jolly well wouldn’t mind it myself, I can tell you.’

A deep, hot bath was one of the many luxuries she missed; junior students like her had to shiver in a couple of tepid inches after the seniors regularly nabbed all the hot water at the nurses’ home. But at least they weren’t as badly off as the first-year probationers, who regularly emerged from the bathroom with chattering teeth and blue extremities.

‘I don’t think you’re going to persuade her like that,’ Helen sighed. ‘If you ask me, brute force is needed.’

Millie stepped back, hands on her hips. ‘So what do you suggest? Should we—’

Before she had time to finish the sentence, Helen had sidestepped the woman’s swinging boot and moved in swiftly to grab her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides and pushing her down to land with a thump on a chair. The woman gave a final grunt of defeat as all the fight went out of her.

Millie stared at Helen admiringly. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’

‘Fighting with my brother.’ Helen paused for a moment, breathing hard. ‘Right, you get her boots off while I hold her. Then at least she can’t do so much damage if she starts fighting again.’

It took them ten minutes to peel off the layers of rags the woman was wearing. Her clothes, if anyone could call them that, were stiff with dirt and stank of stale urine.

‘Poor old thing,’ Millie said, as the woman stared balefully at her. ‘How could anyone let herself get in this state?’

But there was worse to come. Underneath her clothes, her skin was ingrained with dirt and encrusted with oozing sores. And when Millie pulled off her shapeless hat, she jumped back with a scream of fright.

‘Oh my God, Tremayne, her head is moving!’

Helen peered over. ‘Lice,’ she said.

Millie clamped a hand over her mouth. It was all she could do not to run screaming from the bathroom.

‘For heaven’s sake, Benedict, pull yourself together,’ Helen said. ‘It’s only a few bugs.’