Tilly had seen the pub opening its doors as she ran past and she knew that was where Mrs Kelly was heading. ‘I have to start at the hospital right away, Mrs Kelly. They offered me the job, there and then.’
‘Oh, well now, isn’t that smashing. I told you you’d get a break soon, didn’t I, love?’
Tilly hated herself for what she was about to ask and if there had been another way of going about it, she would have grasped it with both hands. But Sister Theresa was right, although her boarding house left much to be desired, Mrs Kelly was a woman who lived in fear of eternal damnation. She spent her life between the pub and confession and was always looking for ways to please the priest and Sister Theresa. ‘Mrs Kelly, will you mind Sam while I’m at work, for the first few weeks, until I can sort something else out?’ The words had almost stuck in her throat. Tears filled her eyes. She was desperate.
Mrs Kelly smiled. ‘How much?’
‘Five shillings,’ said Tilly. She had thought this through on the way home. The offer of a job had been the answer to her prayers. Something at last was going her way. ‘That leaves me enough then for the rent, electric, food and the bus. It will only be temporary, until I can find a more suitable arrangement. Here’s a shilling for today.’ Tilly balanced the baby and the bottle in one arm and with one hand, dug into her coat pocket for her purse. ‘I will need to bring him to your room at seven thirty. I start at nine.’
Mrs Kelly’s small, black eyes were fixed on the shilling, her passport to a glass of mild. Her cheekbones jutted sharply from her nicotine-stained face. Her thin, bony shoulders looked like a pair of wing nubs raised, ready for flight. She fixed Tilly with a steady smile through what remained of her brown stained teeth.
‘That’ll be grand,’ she said. ‘But I’ll need the five shillings in advance, I know you have it. You bring him down in the morning, he’ll be fine with me.’ She snatched the shilling and was away and down the stairs without a backward glance.
Tilly heard the front door slam and from the window, watched as her landlady and newly appointed carer of her precious son, ran in through the doors of the Queen’s Vaults. Tilly knew she would be the last to leave that night. As Sam finished his bottle, she lifted him onto her shoulder to wind him. ‘Two weeks at the most, my darling boy,’ she whispered into the side of his face. ‘As soon as Christmas is out of the way.’
An hour later, with Sam lying in the drawer, happily kicking his legs and talking to the central light in the ceiling, Tilly ate her tin of warmed soup and a cold potato, left over from the previous evening. She had opened the door of the electric oven to warm the room, as there was no fire this high up in the house. The room was still bomb-damaged and had not been decorated since before the war. The damp wallpaper, once a pattern of trellis roses, peeled from the top. Her single bed was positioned flat against the wall and the top of the cupboard was taken up by an electric ring. The room smelt of despair and damp. Tilly took her tin out from under the bed and, laying it on the pink candlewick bedspread that had been a donation from Sister Theresa, began to count the money inside. It was no surprise to her that Mrs Kelly had revealed that she knew about the tin, having long suspected she had searched her room when she was out. She just felt grateful that it was still there and untouched.
‘Ten pounds eight and sixpence, Sam,’ she said as keeping the coins, she pushed the notes back inside and banged the lid shut. ‘This job has come just in the nick of time or else, God alone knows what we would do.’
Sam blew contented milk bubbles and punched the air with his arms. It was the last of the money she had taken, when, obeying Sister Theresa, she had returned home and told her strict and domineering parents, that she was pregnant. She had allowed herself to dream of sympathy, of kindness and comfort.
Her father’s response had been to remove the belt from his trousers. ‘Who was the bastard? Tell me? I’ll go around there now and I’ll take the priest with me.’
Her mother had collapsed onto a chair and wailed. ‘How can I ever hold my head up at the Mothers’ Union? The shame of it. We will be the talk of the neighbourhood. She has to get rid, before it’s too late. We will find someone. Who was it, you little whore, tell me?’ Her mother was back onto her feet, screeching, almost hysterical and just before her father’s belt hit her, the palm of her mother’s hand had already found her face.
That night Tilly had lain in her room, and vowed it would be her last. She could tell no one, would tell no one who the father was, because not a living soul, other than Sister Theresa, would believe her. In the early hours of the morning, she rose, slipped into the kitchen, removed her father’s wallet from where he had left it on the table, ready to take to work. She removed ten pounds and then creeping to the cupboard on the wall, took down the tin box that held his savings and took a further forty pounds. She also had what was left of her teaching salary, after her parents had taken most of it. Then she ran all the way to the convent to throw herself on the mercy of Sister Theresa, before the police found her. Her father would undoubtedly call them. They would go to the school to look for her, her place of work, but not to the convent, the only place for her to hide.
4
Mrs Kelly was still in bed, when Tilly knocked on the door at seven thirty. She had to bang hard on the door to wake her.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ she whispered into her son’s dark downy hair. ‘None of this is your fault.’ Tears choked her and her heart hammered in her chest. She glanced down at her watch, she was running out of minutes and banged on the door again. ‘Mrs Kelly, please, I have to leave.’
The door across the landing flew open. ‘Who the bleedin’ hell is it?’ Sam was alarmed by the sudden, raised male voice, a sound he was unused to. He began to bellow with fright. The man instantly looked shame-faced. His face was nut brown and weather beaten, his neck and arms as white as bottles of milk. Removing the cigarette from his lips, he half smiled in an apologetic way.
‘Sorry, queen, didn’t realise it was you. Mrs Kelly said you were coming down. How is the little lad. Hope I didn’t wake him when I got in last night. I was on the Morry. We dock at funny hours this time of the year.’
It was Arthur, one of the many merchant seamen who came in and out of the port and took temporary lodgings with Mrs Kelly. Arthur had a wife in Rotterdam and was Tilly’s particular favourite. He had been gone for almost a week.
‘Arthur, we didn’t hear you,’ Tilly replied, hugging the now screaming Sam to her chest.
‘Oh, that’s good, then. Sorry about the language. I thought someone was breaking into Mrs Kelly’s, thought it might be the bizzies.’
At that moment, Mrs Kelly opened her door. ‘Is it morning already?’ she asked through port-stained lips.
Tilly took a deep breath. The smell of stale sweat and tobacco was as strong as ever.
‘Would you look at the state of you, all la di da. Where did that cardi come from?’
Tilly had to stop herself from flinching as Mrs Kelly pulled at the caramel-coloured knitted cardigan, which was fastened up to the neck, over a slightly too large tweed skirt. A blouse with a dainty lace collar peeped out from beneath the cardigan. Tilly felt smarter than she had for a very long time. She knew that the colour suited her hair, freshly washed last night in cold water and half scooped up into her clip.
Realising that Tilly was not going to answer her question, Mrs Kelly tried again. ‘Have you got my five shillings? I’ve told you, I’m not a charity. Mother of God, what is wrong with him? Come here, little fella, you’ll be waking the house up. You can come back to bed with me.’ Mrs Kelly put out her arms for Sam just as Tilly hugged him closer.
‘Don’t worry about the noise on my account, Mrs Kelly. I’ve one of me own at home, just like him,’ said Arthur.
Tilly gave him a grateful half smile of thanks while she took a deep breath and eased her son’s thumb towards his mouth for comfort.
‘Have you the money, love? There’s a few bits I want to buy today
.’ Mrs Kelly held out the palm of her less-than-clean hand. Tilly took a deep breath. This was it, hand Sam over, or run the risk of losing him forever. The mere thought made her shake with fear.
She took a deep breath and looked Mrs Kelly in the eye. ‘Mrs Kelly, I have brought you two and six. If all goes to plan, I shall give you the final two and six on Wednesday.’
She sounded much stronger than she felt. The truth was, she was convinced that if she gave Mrs Kelly the whole five shillings, she would spend the day across the road in the Queen’s Vaults and Sam would be alone and neglected.
She could see the battle raging in Mrs Kelly and seized her moment. ‘Also, this money is for caring for Sam, which means he never leaves your sight and you must promise you will stay here. I will call into the Queen’s on my way home and ask if you’ve been in. If you have, our arrangement will end. Do you understand?’ Mrs Kelly’s eyes flashed with annoyance. Sam had picked up on the distress in Tilly’s voice, and now let out a half-hearted cry.
‘Shush now, I won’t be long,’ Tilly said into the side of his cheek. I’ll be home by six and with you all night.’
Her throat was so tight; she could barely speak, her eyes were full of tears and her mind overwhelmed by a desire to flee. The thought of running down the stairs and out of the rat-ridden, stinking house into the fresh air was almost irresistible. The knowledge of what would happen if she was caught, intolerable.
Where would they run to? To whom? If she ran to her parents’ house, they would call the welfare. Tell them that she had nowhere to go. No way to look after her son. That he had to be taken into care. A single mother was judged as morally bankrupt before she opened her mouth. She was like an infectious disease had known sex and, having known it once, would be looking for more and infect others with her desire. A single mother, a social outcast. Tilly suppressed the sobs, blinked away her tears, kept her expression inscrutable and did the most painful thing she had ever done in her life. She placed her son into the arms of the last woman on earth she would want to look after him and dropping the string bag with Sam’s feed on the floor just inside Mrs Kelly’s door, flew down the stairs. Once outside the front door with its peeling dark green paint, she dashed away the tears with the back of her hand.
‘No. No. Don’t go back, this is the only way,’ she told herself, as she fought an overwhelming urge to rush back in, grab Sam from the still half-drunk woman, and run for their lives.
5
‘Are you lost, love?’ Maisie Tanner caught sight of Tilly hovering in the main entrance looking up at the signs. ‘You must be the new admissions clerk. Come with me. Sister Pokey told me to keep an eye out for you. I’m Maisie Tanner. I run the WVS and I’m the general dogsbody hereabouts. You’ll have a smashing time working with Doreen. Lovely she is. Oh, hang on, here’s our Pammy, I’m her mam. She’ll take you down. She’s working on Casualty herself. That’s where Doreen’s little cubby hole is, but she likes to call it her office and you know, we let her, because that keeps her happy.’
Tilly turned to see a group of nurses emerging through the revolving doors. Under their capes, pink uniforms could be seen peeping through, and hands clutching white starched hats. One by one they stopped in front of the mirror above the fire burning in the small grate and stood on tiptoe to smooth down hair and aprons before clipping the starched caps into place.
‘Nurse Tanner, Nurse Tanner,’ Maisie called to her daughter. Seeing Tilly’s surprise, Maisie said, ‘Yes, I know, it seems funny that I have to call our Pammy this, but Matron is a stickler for standards. Fair, mind. You won’t meet anyone fairer than she is.’
‘Mam, I’m late,’ said Pammy. ‘Sister Pokey will skin us alive.’
‘No, she won’t, our Pammy, because you and Nurse Brogan are taking this young lady with you. She’s starting work today as the new admissions clerk with Doreen, aren’t you, love?’
Tilly nodded, speechless.
‘What’s your name, love?’ Maisie placed her hand on Tilly’s arm and felt the trembling beneath her fingertips.
Tilly swallowed hard, she didn’t think her mouth would work. ‘Tilly,’ she said, and then aware of a protocol she was yet to understand fully, ‘Miss Tilly Townsend.’
‘Hello,’ said Pammy, ‘I’m Pammy Tanner and this is Dana Brogan. Though I’m really sorry, you will have to call us Nurse Tanner and Nurse Brogan on Casualty.’
Dana beamed at her and Tilly, having spent the past year feeling ashamed and afraid, felt herself flush with appreciation and something bordering on pleasure.
‘But,’ said Dana, pushing a clip into her cap, ‘if you come to the Grapes with Doreen and the rest of us, after work one night, you can call us what you like then, Doreen has some corkers for us.’
Tilly felt her rising heart plummet. The pain felt like a heavy hand on a fresh bruise. She would never be able to socialise with the people who were about to become her workmates. It was out of the question.
Maisie noted how the light dulled in her eyes, saw the downward curve in what had been the beginning of a bright smile. ‘Off you go, me lovelies,’ she said and then to Tilly, ‘and if there’s anything you need, love, that’s where you find me, serving tea and sympathy, all day long. Remember that. OK? I’m always there and besides, I love an excuse for a natter.’
Half an hour later, Tilly was sitting on a chair opposite Doreen, behind a hatch in a very small office in the Casualty department. It was indeed more like a cubby hole. Tilly had only ever been in a hospital once before, as a child with a broken arm. She remembered the smell of the Lysol and decided she liked it. Compared with the smell of the house in Upper Parliament Street, it felt fresh and clean in her lungs.
‘More tea?’ Doreen picked up the brown earthenware pot and poured tea into Tilly’s cup. ‘We have one cup, first thing in the morning, in my office. That was your most important lesson today, Miss Townsend, learning where the kettle lives because after a busy night, it can be bedlam in here. Then, mid-morning, we head to the greasy spoon, with everyone else and that’s where we catch up with all the gossip.
‘Don’t be afraid of the nurses, there’s the odd one a bit above themselves, but honestly, most of them are just lovely.’
Tilly had liked Doreen on sight, she couldn’t have tried harder to put her at her ease.
‘It will all be a bit much at first. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but you are the third person in this job in three months. The first ran screaming from behind a curtain, when a lady whose details she had been sent to record miscarried. The second spent five minutes trying to persuade a patient to answer her questions, only to discover she was dead. She wasn’t happy.’
‘Who, the patient?’ asked a wide-eyed Tilly.
Doreen giggled. ‘No, silly. The very prim and proper young woman Matron sent to do this job before you. Honestly, they didn’t really like dealing with patients and relatives and sometimes you know, it all goes a bit mad in here. It is a hospital. Some people get better, some don’t and many of the ones who don’t, depart this world in here, behind those curtains. You are going see dead people, Miss Townsend, and if you think you are going to feel the need to do a runner, you’d better let me know now, so I’m not wasting me time.’
Tilly folded her hands in her lap. ‘You really don’t have to worry about me,’ she said. ‘I want to make a go of this job. I’m not squeamish and I am certainly not afraid of dealing with people. I’ve met all types.’ Her voice was determined and confident and even surprised Tilly herself.
Doreen grinned. ‘Right then, are you ready for the next list? Your job as admissions clerk is to visit every patient admitted onto the wards as a list case. So, that will be those who are having operations, or have been admitted for non-emergency investigations and of course, every patient on Casualty. While they are here, in Casualty, they are our patients. We need all their details and then a set of case notes, which you will leave in the ward office if they are transferred to a ward, or in the in-tray on the
hatch, here, if they are to remain on Casualty for any length of time. Before you go home each night, your last job is to take the notes from the out-box and drop them into the medical records office. Have you got all that?’
Tilly nodded. She had a diploma in education and had been a junior school teacher for three years at the convent school. This job seemed like a doddle, compared with looking after a classroom of thirty seven year olds. Tilly looked down at her notes as she spoke, ‘It all seems fairly straightforward so far.’
She could never tell anyone how much she had loved being a teacher. It had been her vocation. She missed her friends almost as much, and her choir. Tilly loved to sing and had established the school choir all by herself. It had been wonderful. Now, she had Sam instead of her choir. A little boy, not a class of thirty and that was it, the two of them were alone and she knew in her heart that she would probably never sing again.
‘You know, I think you are going to fit in here,’ said Doreen. This one did seem promising, she thought. ‘Now, have you got all that written down?’ Without waiting for a reply, she continued. ‘Here is the next list. Each patient has an NHS number. We usually have to make a phone call to find out what that is, although some of the more organised ones arrive clutching their NHS card. I love those patients; they make our life so much easier. Here, take a look,’ Doreen handed Tilly a sheet of paper. ‘See, next of kin, phone number of the nearest pub, or shop with a telephone. Most of our admissions are from the Dock Road streets, not had one in yet who owns their own phone. Have you got all that?’
Tilly had, but she found it hard to concentrate and to prevent her thoughts from wandering to Sam and how awful leaving him had been. She had stepped from the dirty, run-down environment of Upper Parliament Street into a world of cleanliness and order and she was having to adjust, fast. ‘I have,’ she said as she lifted her head from the notepad she was writing in.
An Angel Sings Page 3
