An Angel Sings

by Nadine Dorries

  AN ANGEL SINGS

  Nadine Dorries

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  About An Angel Sings

  1950s Liverpool

  Christmas is one of the most harrowing times of year for the nurses of St Angelus Hospital.

  The Matron takes on Tilly, a new clerk, to ease the load in the busy festive period. Tilly is bright and hard-working, but she is keeping a secret from her colleagues. Everyday Tilly makes a heartbreaking decision – but she has no other choice.

  If Matron – with her traditional values and strict discipline – learnt the truth about her new clerk, Tilly’s career would be ruined.

  Could Matron ever forgive the deceit?

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About An Angel Sings

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  About Nadine Dorries

  About The Lovely Lane Series

  About The Four Streets Trilogy

  Also by Nadine Dorries

  Newsletter

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  1

  Matron cast a quick glance over the letter of application she had received from Miss Tilly Townsend. She had interviewed five people that day for the position of junior admissions clerk and was on the point of despair, until Sister Theresa telephoned her and an interesting conversation had followed.

  ‘Honestly, Blackie,’ she said to her little Scottie dog, sat in his basket in front of the fire. ‘Since the war, there is such a shortage of women with qualifications looking for work. They are all married too young, with babies.’ Blackie looked up at his beloved mistress and tilted his head, waiting for the word ‘walkies’.

  ‘I know what you want, Blackie. One more to see, and then we are off.’

  Matron was due at St Angelus Convent to meet Sister Theresa and Dr Gaskell at four thirty, to plan the Christmas carol services and Christmas morning mass for those patients who could be taken across the road in wheelchairs. Blackie was a welcome visitor to the convent and she would take him once around the park, on the way.

  She took the tea Elsie had left on her desk and drank it, as she looked out over the car park and the dark redbrick Victorian hospital building, that had begun life as a workhouse. Black soot residue ran down the tall chimneys where the smoke from the coke holes and furnace spewed out. Beyond it, the River Mersey looked dull, as it reflected the heavy grey sky from which the rain fell with relentless monotony. Despite the rain, snow was coming. Matron had looked out from her office window over the river often enough to know its moods and predict the weather. She saw a group of nurses almost running from the greasy spoon hospital café back to their wards. Their pink uniforms were the only flash of warm colour on an otherwise grey day. She smiled at the sight of her nurses. She loved St Angelus. She had been there so long, that she felt she was St Angelus. Looking across the car park, she saw Dr Andrew Cohen heading to the doctors’ sitting room from his green Morris Minor and she sighed as her heart tightened. Such a sad story. She made a mental note to invite him up for tea. ‘The anniversary must be very close, Blackie,’ she said.

  *

  ‘Go on, love, have a cuppa tea, it won’t cost you anything,’ Matron’s housekeeper, Elsie, had said to Tilly Townsend who was sitting on a hard-backed chair outside Matron’s office. Jake, the porter, who was also Elsie’s son-in-law, had left her to wait there almost an hour earlier. Elsie noted the dark, wet patches on the shoulders of Tilly’s coat.

  ‘It’s freezing out there today and look at you, you’re soaked through. I’ve just taken a cup into Matron. It’s no trouble, I won’t even have to brew a fresh pot. Did you come on the bus?’

  So many questions and the one thing Tilly Townsend really had to avoid, was questions. Tilly reached up to push the damp strands of her long auburn hair back over her ears and adjusted the clip which held it in place. Elsie hadn’t offered a cup of tea to everyone being interviewed for the junior admission clerks post. She was far too busy for that. But this young woman had a look about her: she needed the job, judging by the thinness of her coat and the way she refused to remove it. Elsie knew only too well why that would be. What was underneath was even less presentable than the coat, which was almost threadbare. The last button was different from the rest, the pocket on one side was coming away and she glimpsed the steel shaft of a safety pin, holding the other pocket in place. Elsie felt a surge of sympathy. The girl had so obviously made an effort, by fastening a green paisley scarf around the collar. Yet, despite her appearance, this young woman had something about her. It wasn’t just that despite her lack of powder and lipstick, she was the prettiest of the interviewees; she was also the only one trying to hide something. Elsie had seen it all, through the war, on the Dock streets, working at St Angelus hospital and she could smell a secret a mile off. Tilly’s pale skin, lips almost as blue as her haunted eyes, told Elsie that she needed a warm drink inside and a few kind words. Tilly was the last to be interviewed that day and Elsie knew Matron would want to get this one over and done with quickly.

  ‘Thank you very much, I will have one then, but only if it’s no trouble for you,’ said Tilly, grateful to give Elsie something to do and thus avoid inevitable questions. It was the Liverpool way to be open and answer personal questions from strangers. Questions that anyone from anywhere else would find intrusive.

  ‘Lovely, I’ll pop a couple of custard creams on the saucer,’ said Elsie, bustling away, and pretending she hadn’t heard Tilly’s stomach rumbling in response.

  Five minutes later, Elsie smiled with pleasure at the colour returning to Tilly’s cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes, as she dipped and finished the last biscuit.

  ‘Is Matron very fierce?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, no, but, what you have to remember is that St Angelus is her baby. Very fussy about who works here, she is. Has very high standards does Matron. You won’t find just anyone working here.’ Elsie preened and pushed back her shoulders. She had worked at St Angelus since before the war. She knew every corner of the hospital and every person who worked in it.

  She wondered what she had said, as she saw Tilly’s face drop, but it was too late to ask. The huge oak wooden door leading to the office swung open and Matron stood there, pristine and forbidding.

  ‘Go on, she wants you,’ said Elsie. Tilly rose, and turned to hand her the tea. ‘Oh no, take it in with you, you’ve half a cup there. Matron won’t mind at all. God knows, she drinks a bucket of the stuff a day herself.’

  ‘I take it that as a single woman, you are still living at home, Miss... let me see, I do apologise,’ Matron turned the sheet of ivory Basildon Bond over in her hand and read the signature at the bottom of the page, ‘Ah, yes, Miss Townsend.’

  Matron slipped the sheet of paper into a buff coloured folder, along with the remaining neatly written letters of application for the post of junior admissions clerk and, with a sense of relief, snapped the folder shut. Silence filled her office, broken only by the crackling coals in the fireplace and the icy rain driving against the large window behind her desk.

  Blackie sat up in his basket and threw Matron a forlorn look. It was almost time for his walk. It was late afternoon; the light was fading fast and it was definitely time to go. For Tilly, it had been a gruelling interview.

  The advert for the position had run for week in the Liverpool Echo. Matron had been disappointed in th
e number of applications and was considering running the advertisement again once the Christmas holidays were over.

  Now she re-read the letter of reference Tilly had given her.

  ‘It’s from Sister Theresa,’ she had said. ‘I’m off to meet her after I have finished here.’

  Tilly thought that Matron must be able to hear her heart beating. It banged against her chest wall so hard that it hurt. Her mouth dried and her tongue felt twice its normal size. Matron raised her eyebrows, and peered over the rim of her spectacles at the young woman sitting in front of her, with her legs crossed at the ankles and tucked under the chair. The cup of tea Elsie had brought her trembled every now and then, revealing her nervousness and she rested her finger tips lightly on the saucer to prevent the tea from spilling over. She now wished she had politely refused. Being subjected to Matron’s inscrutable and all-knowing gaze, was difficult enough when you had so much to hide, and now that she was about to tell the biggest lie of all, her hand would not stop shaking, her palms felt damp and her mouth dry.

  She licked her cracked lips, filled her lungs with a silent, deep breath, met Matron’s steady eyes and smiled. ‘Yes, she was my headmistress, before she retired to the convent.’

  Matron was good friends with Sister Theresa, since she had retired from teaching and taken up the post of Mother Superior at the convent. She made a mental note to speak to her about Tilly later in the afternoon.

  ‘And, do you live at home with your parents? If my staff don’t live in, I need to know they have a stable home situation. We see all kinds of life and – sadly – death here. I’m afraid that, as the junior admissions clerk in Casualty, you will see your fair share of it all.’

  Tilly swallowed hard. ‘I do, Matron. My parents run a respectable boarding establishment for professional young ladies only. That’s why my address is a postbox number. Mother thinks it’s best for everyone if mail is kept private. I am the only one left at home. My two sisters are both married, with children of their own.’

  Matron beamed. ‘Excellent, excellent, and your reference is marvellous. Sister describes you as loyal, trustworthy and hard-working, all qualities I admire and look for in staff. Yes, Miss Townsend, you will do nicely. Can you start right away? Rather sudden, I know, but I have trees being delivered and the wards to decorate for Christmas, not to mention the carol service which we are holding in the main entrance this year. The children’s ward is busier than usual, with chest infections and children in status asthmaticus being admitted every day. It’s all arrived a month early this year, thanks to the rain. Is there any reason why you cannot start in the morning? Quiet,’ Matron barked over her shoulder as Blackie growled. Tilly opened and closed her mouth. There was a compelling reason why she could not start the next morning. It was impossible, but then life without a job was also impossible. She absolutely could not visit the welfare office; it would be the end of everything, if she did.

  ‘Thank you, Matron, I would love to start in the morning. What time would you like me to be here?’

  *

  Dr Gaskell peered over his glasses at Dr Andrew Cohen, who had finished his round of junior and senior houseman jobs and was now looking for a Registrar position. It was the last step on the ladder towards being a consultant and the positions were much sought after, mainly on the golf course. He had been a star of the medical school and one of the best housemen to pass through St Angelus for some time. They were in the consultants’ sitting room and had devoured hot buttered crumpets and milky coffee while sitting in the two most comfortable wingback armchairs in front of the fire. Andrew’s coat hung on the hat stand and the room smelt of wet wool and warm food. Dr Gaskell had just finished his chronic bronchitis clinic and a folded stethoscope jutted out of his jacket pocket. As a consultant, he never wore a white coat and his wife complained about the number of jackets he ruined. The consultants’ sitting room had been thrown up after the war and had a tin roof. The rain beat out a tattoo and they both had to speak louder to compete with the noise as the fire blazed to ward off the damp air.

  ‘I’ve never been in here before,’ said Andrew, glancing at the framed qualifications hanging on the wall and noticing a set of gold clubs, leaning up against the wall near the door.

  ‘Ah, well, one day soon you will be elevated to the role of consultant and then you will have your own chair in here. You’re in Mabbutt’s right now.’ Andrew felt honoured and dared to hope that this was a good sign.

  He wiped his mouth with the napkin next to his plate. This was the sum of his ambition. To become a chest consultant. He hadn’t realised the position would come with his own chair.

  ‘I would be delighted to offer you the position of registrar, if you would be happy to accept?’ Dr Gaskell felt a dull ache in his gut. A responsibility to one of his dearest friends, Andrew’s father, weighed heavy on his shoulders. Andrew could only nod his head in response before he stuttered, ‘thank you, thank you. I would be honoured and delighted to accept.’ Dr Gaskell grinned as he held out his hand and Andrew grasped it tight as they shook hands. ‘Well, that’s a relief. I thought you were going to turn me down for a moment. Start on Casualty tomorrow and work through until Christmas Eve, if you will,’ Dr Gaskell said. ‘It’s been a wet December and we’ve had some corkers admitted onto the ward. Popping an extra doctor of your quality onto Casualty, so close to Christmas, will win me no end of brownie points with Matron. It will be good experience before we transfer you onto the chest ward in January.’

  Andrew dropped his hand and swallowed his disappointment. He hid it well and remembered to smile at the very last moment.

  ‘Don’t forget to smile,’ Mrs Hope, the housekeeper had said as she fussed around that morning. ‘A smile can go a long way, especially at Christmas.’

  Andrew sometimes felt as though he had forgotten how to smile at all.

  ‘I am so grateful,’ he said now. ‘I’m really looking forward to joining the firm, Dr Gaskell.’ That bit was true; he really was. It would only be just over a week on Casualty, the one department he had hoped to avoid. He would survive. He was good at that. He had served his time in house doctor jobs for over five years at St Angelus, now it was time to specialise in the clinics and on the chest ward and if he had to cross the bridge of Casualty to get there, he would do it.

  Dr Gaskell slapped his forehead and slumped back in the chair. ‘Oh, Andrew, please, forgive me. How totally remiss of me. Mrs Gaskell only reminded me the other day that it’s the anniversary. We intended to visit the grave to lay some flowers. Mrs Gaskell was going to ask Matron to join us. Forget working on Casualty. You take Christmas off, go and visit that lovely sister of yours in Edinburgh and come straight onto the ward after New Year.’

  Andrew knew what he had to say and do. His emotions must come second to his job. ‘Absolutely not. Can you imagine what my father would say if he was here now?’

  Dr Gaskell nodded. ‘I can, Andrew. Your father was a great eye surgeon. No one would ever have known, other than those who were his close friends, how keenly he carried a sense of debt and dare I say it, gratitude. He would have worked every day in this hospital, caring for the people of Liverpool, if your mother had let him.’

  Andrew clasped his hands together, ‘I do, I know that. My father was certain that I would never have to live through what they did. He said that if he worked every single day of his life, he could never repay the kindness of Liverpool and its people.’

  Andrew’s parents had fled Nazi Germany weeks before the outbreak of the Second World War. Life had been one of hard work, thankfulness and repayment, until a fatal car crash, a year ago. Every time Andrew walked past Casualty, he wondered if he could have saved them, if he had been the doctor on duty. Christmas was coming and the memories were still raw.

  ‘Well, if you are sure?’

  Andrew didn’t hesitate in his reply, ‘I am. I can’t think of a better place to be and as you say, with the number of chest infections, it’s always useful if they can
be stabilised on Casualty and sent home for Christmas, rather than filling up the beds on the ward.’

  Dr Gaskell extended his hand. ‘That’s my boy. Look, I’m afraid I have to dash. I’m accompanying Matron to the convent to sort out the patients’ Christmas mass arrangements and I happen to know Mrs Tanner is keeping me a slice of her Victoria sandwich at the WVS.’ He had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I know I know, I shouldn’t have eaten the crumpets. Just don’t tell Mrs Gaskell.’

  He patted his expanding waistline and this time, Andrew did smile. He could, indeed he definitely would survive a week in the place where his parents had died because they would have been beside themselves with pride, knowing their son was going to work for one of the most eminent chest doctors in the country. It was an opportunity he was going to seize with both hands.

  *

  Matron buttoned her cloak up at the neck and crossed the red straps behind, before she made her way to the main entrance, with Blackie trotting along beside her. She caught sight of Dr Gaskell, chatting to Maisie Tanner. Maisie ran the Women’s Voluntary Service refreshments stand and shop and was also mother of student nurse Pammy Tanner.

  ‘Come along, Dr Gaskell, or we will be late,’ Matron said.

  Maisie whispered, ‘Oh dear, you had better run, Dr Gaskell.’

  He had taken to popping in to have a chat with Maisie whenever he had a clinic. ‘Run, Maisie?’ he said, dropping threepence into the contributions box. ‘I can’t remember the last time I did that. Dance, now, that’s a different matter altogether. I’ve been dancing to Matron’s tune my entire life.’

  ‘Go on, off with you,’ said Maisie, as she wiped down her wooden counter with a knitted dish cloth, ‘where would any of us be without Matron?’

  Dr Gaskell placed his hat carefully on his head and tugged down the front rim before he fastened the buttons on his coat. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, Mrs Tanner, but I would be on a golf course, enjoying retirement and in Mrs Gaskell’s good books. Coming, Matron.’