by Cathy Sharp
‘What does Arthur do?’
‘I dunno,’ Billy said, but Mary Ellen thought he was lying. She could always tell, because his ears went red and so did his neck. Rose said Arthur was a thief for certain, but she couldn’t say that to her friend. She threw for a top square and missed, and Billy chortled, stepping in to throw his own stone. This time he landed it exactly where he wanted and set off up the squares. He was on his way back when Mary Ellen saw her sister coming down the lane and knew it was time to call a halt. Before she could speak the delivery boy screeched to a stop beside her.
‘Wotcha, Billy,’ Bertie Carter called. ‘I ain’t seen yer for a while. Where yer been?’
‘To stay wiv me nanna,’ Billy said, his attention turned. ‘What yer doin’, then?’
‘Got a job delivering sausages,’ Bertie said. ‘Me bloody pa’s drunk all his pay again so ma told me to get out and find a job.’
Mary Ellen saw Rose glaring at her and knew she would be annoyed to see her talking to two boys she would describe as being rogues.
‘I’ve got to go, Billy,’ she said. ‘It’s time for my tea now.’
‘All right,’ he agreed but looked disappointed. ‘It was nice seein’ yer, Mary Ellen. Don’t forget, if they put me in that home I shall be there waitin’ fer yer …’
‘I’m orf,’ Bertie said. ‘Yer can come wiv me, Billy. I’ll get a bag of chips on me way home and you can share ’em.’
‘All right,’ Billy agreed.
Whistling, he ran off after Bertie, the pair of them reaching the end of the lane just as Rose came up to Mary Ellen. She stared after him with a look of annoyance on her pretty face. ‘Was that that Baggins boy?’
‘Yes. His nanna’s gone into hospital and he came to see if his brother is back, but he isn’t – and they’re going to put him in a home.’
‘In my opinion they should have done it long ago,’ Rose said. ‘If he’s left to run the streets he will turn out just like that good-for-nothing brother of his …’
‘Billy isn’t like his brother.’
‘Ma told you not to have anything to do with him, Mary Ellen, and now I’m telling you. He comes from bad blood and we do not want you getting into trouble because of him. Go in now and wash your hands. Then you can help me set the table and get the tea on …’
‘I thought we were going to have ham and tomatoes tonight?’
It was Friday night and before Ma got ill they’d always had ham for tea, because it was pay day, but now there wasn’t enough money for treats like that unless Rose brought them.
‘There was no ham left by four this afternoon, and Mr Brown wouldn’t cut a new one until tomorrow. I bought a bit of fish and I’ll mash some potatoes to go with it.’
Mary Ellen pulled a face behind her sister’s back. She didn’t like fish and she’d been looking forward to a slice of ham all day, because all she’d had at midday was a slice of bread and dripping. Rose could be mean sometimes, finding fault with Billy for no reason, and then bringing fish for tea when she knew Mary Ellen hated it.
She would rather have a piece of bread and jam and if Rose hadn’t brought a fresh loaf, she would make toast of the old bread and put the last of the strawberry jam on it.
TWO
‘Angela, this is a welcome surprise.’ Mark Adderbury rose to his feet, offering his hand as his guest entered the study of his old, rambling, but rather lovely house, which adjoined the surgery attended by his private patients. Situated at the edge of the small but charming Sussex village where they both lived, its appearance was testament to his status as a respected and expensive psychiatrist. He’d come down for a long weekend and did not return until the following day. ‘What may I do for you?’
‘I haven’t come as a patient,’ Angela said with the sweet smile that won hearts but these days did not quite reach her eyes. Mark understood the sadness that lay behind those expressive eyes, because when her husband John had been killed in the war, he too had felt the sharp pang of loss for his best friend. It had been then that Angela had drawn closer to him, glad of his sympathy and understanding. ‘I wanted to ask your advice.’
His eyes moved over her, noting the style of her dress, the New Look which Christian Dior had introduced that April, with its longer full skirt and shaped waist that gave women’s figures that hourglass shape. The rag trade in London had copied it within hours, getting cheaper versions into their shop windows to tempt women who were sick to death of the Utility dresses that were all that had been available during the war. However, by the look of Angela’s dress, she had probably bought it in Paris when she stopped there on her way back from Switzerland, where she’d been on behalf of some patients; military personnel with private means, whose families had sent them for a rest cure after their traumatic experiences.
In her capacity as an administrator for the military hospital in Portsmouth, she’d sought Mark’s advice when it was deemed necessary to find a clinic which might just be able to mend the minds of some badly damaged war heroes. Yet Angela had known only too well that it wasn’t just their minds that had been damaged; in many cases they had lost a leg or arm, sometimes both, but there was help for amputees these days. It was the men with faces so severely burned that they looked like something from a horror film that Angela had felt for the most, skin blistered, eyes damaged, sometimes sightless – and some poor devils didn’t even have a nose. Yes, there were wonderful surgeons ready to reconstruct a face, but it would mean endless pain and operations. She’d told Mark afterwards that she believed a lot of men would rather be dead than endure the look in the eyes of friends and family … and he knew she’d broken her heart over the hopeless cases.
He’d told her about the clinic, of which he was a co-owner, and she’d managed the rest herself, though she’d complained bitterly because she wasn’t able to offer the same service to deserving soldiers who didn’t have private means. He suspected that she’d paid for one or two of her lame ducks to have the special treatment out of her own pocket; he’d often done the same himself and thought that having money to spare came in handy sometimes.
It was a pity that the job of hospital administrator had been her last, because she had excellent managerial skills. The hospital had been loath to lose her but Angela’s mother had wanted her to come home, and since she was recovering from a severe bout of flu and seemed very low, Angela had obliged her – perhaps because she too needed to rest and recover her spirits.
Mark saw the signs of strain in her face and the dullness of those eyes that had once seemed to glow with life and vitality. Only five years ago she had been considered beautiful, with her dark blonde hair, azure eyes and sensual mouth, the only daughter of middle-class parents, her father a much respected family lawyer. Angela had been expected by her parents – some would say required – to make a brilliant marriage, and indeed she had, though rather later than had been hoped. For years she had led a butterfly existence, playing at being her father’s secretary and enjoying the social whirl, despite her mother’s frequent hints that it was time she settled down. Even though she was presented to several eligible men, Angela just hadn’t found anyone she could bear to think of as a husband and stubbornly refused to give way to her mother’s urging, even though they argued often. However, after meeting Captain John Morton, a handsome and charming Army officer, at a Young Farmer’s ball at the age of twenty-nine, she had fallen madly in love, been swept off her feet and married him within a month. Much to her mother’s displeasure, she had chosen a quiet wedding without any fuss and drama. Angela told her closest friends that her mother had never forgiven her for cheating her out of a big society wedding, but as she had also been fond of saying, ‘With a war going on we just didn’t have time to waste, besides, it would have seemed wrong when everyone was suffering.’
‘You know you can count on me as your friend,’ Mark said now, giving her his comforting smile, which, he was well aware, his wealthy patients declared was worth every penny of the exorbitant fees
he charged for consultations. ‘You are feeling less tired now, I think?’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ Angela replied. ‘In fact I have so much energy that I am bored to tears. I just cannot live at home and help my mother with her charity work or I shall go mad …’ She laughed softly, and his heart caught because it was a while since he’d heard her do so – not since John was killed. ‘Not literally. I’m not going to have a breakdown or anything. I just want something to do with my life – something worthwhile. I’ve had enough of endless society engagements and dinners with my mother’s friends. Besides, Mother wants to find me another husband and I can’t … I won’t let her bully me into another marriage.’
‘I agree that three years is too soon for you to think of anyone else, because you were so much in love with John,’ he said, although he wished it were otherwise, because he would have liked the chance to offer her love and a reason to be happy again. ‘Do you want me to speak to her for you?’
‘No, thank you. I need work, proper work that takes me away from here – away from my comfortable life. I want to live in the real world rather than Mother’s. I find most of her friends shallow and selfish and I want to help those in need. I’m not hysterical, even though Mother looks at me as if she thinks I am when I say something like that. She thinks she helps people because she sits on the board of a charity and raises funds for her pet projects but she has no true idea of what goes on.’
‘A little unkind, wouldn’t you say?’ Mark raised his brows. ‘Your mother does help others less fortunate in her own way; she just doesn’t wish to get her hands dirty. That’s what you’re after, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Angela’s smile was rueful. ‘It sounds awful put like that – as if I’m a middle-class do-gooder trying to earn my Brownie points.’
‘Have you considered that that is how you may appear to people who truly have to get their hands dirty to survive? If I were to find you a job – or at least point you in the right direction – you would almost certainly come up against prejudice because of your background.’
‘Do you know of something that might suit me? All I want is a chance … something to make it worthwhile getting up in the morning. Something to take away this emptiness …’
Her eagerness touched him, the sudden glow in her eyes making him realise that she was truly in earnest. Although the perfect beauty she’d once enjoyed had gone, she retained the clean symmetry of good bones, her face a little angular these days, but perhaps more arresting because it told of her suffering – and she had the best ankles Mark had ever seen on a woman. It couldn’t hurt to help her on her way. She might change her mind once the reality of hard work came home to roost, but there was no harm in letting her try. He realised now that it had been in his mind to ask her for a while, because she would be perfect for the role of the new Administrator of St Saviour’s – and of course it would give Mark the perfect excuse to see her more often. He smiled inwardly, because he knew his own feelings had played their part in his decision.
‘As it happens, I do know of something. I was actually thinking of mentioning it to you, Angela. You may not be aware, but I am on the board of a charity that runs a children’s home in the East End of London …’
‘Daddy told me a little about it. It’s why I came to you, because I thought you might know of someone needing help? I don’t have to be paid.’
Mark nodded, because he knew that John had left her well provided for; Angela didn’t need to work, but he could see that she needed the discipline of it. Outwardly, she appeared to have coped well with her bereavement, but one had only to watch her to see the grief that lived inside her. She’d come home for her mother’s sake, but he’d never approved of her giving up work for such a reason; of course if John had lived he would have expected it, but then she would have had a busy life caring for a home and a husband she adored.
Mark had been attracted to Angela from the first time he saw her, at a charity dance her mother had arranged when she was about twenty-two and he just twenty-six. He’d still been married then, of course, and working in a London hospital, down for the weekend to look at a house he hoped to purchase with a small inheritance from an uncle. He’d simply admired the bright and beautiful girl that she was from a distance, arranged to put a deposit on his house and gone back to London the next day, visiting occasionally to oversee the renovations at the property. He’d acquired the house mostly for Edine’s sake, thinking it might suit her health to live in the country, but he’d often wondered since if it had been a mistake. Over the years Edine and he had met Angela and her parents at various social affairs, but by the time Mark had suddenly found himself free, Angela had been in the throes of falling in love with his best friend. It was really only after John’s death, when he’d held her in his arms and let her cry against his broad shoulder, that he’d realised how deep his feelings ran.
Mark felt the ache like a yearning hunger deep in his guts. It was hard behaving like a perfect gentleman and a good friend, when what he really wanted was to take her in his arms and kiss her until she melted into him, submitting herself to his loving … but that was the daydream of a man in love and Mark had to face reality.
He got up and went over to the sideboard to pour a small glass of sherry for each of them, and brought the tray back to the desk, giving himself time to think over how to answer her.
‘St Saviour’s has recently been given a Government grant, which is wonderful, but it means big changes, and that’s where you could help, Angela. Sister Beatrice is an excellent nurse. She has been in charge of the home for the past two years and we are delighted with the improvements she’s made on the nursing side; but good as she is, she dislikes paperwork – and she does tend to drag her feet a bit when it comes to change. Her desk is always piled high with papers in no order whatsoever, and her reports are always late and usually leave much to be desired. She is a nurse first and foremost: a dedicated, hard-working and intelligent woman, but the office work is beginning to slip. Some of the governors are growing concerned and I think she may find the new order hard to accept.’
‘She sounds a wonderful person, Mark.’
‘She is, but we do need to bring St Saviour’s into the modern world, Angela. Right-thinking people are questioning the way some homes have been run in the past – especially after that fiasco when all those children were sent overseas. Three thousand of them went down on that ship the Germans torpedoed and it caused an outcry against the high-handed men who sent them off without a thought for what the children wanted. In my opinion it’s time we started to think about the wishes of the child involved. Look at the way they were just shipped off to the country at the start of the war – and some of them went missing; others had a terrible time. Instead of being kept safe and cared for they were treated little better than servants.’
‘That was awful,’ Angela said. ‘If they were going to send them off like that, they could at least have made sure the homes they went to were properly vetted.’
‘From what I heard, people just turned up and selected who they wanted and took them off. Some mothers didn’t even know where their kids were … but that’s not what concerns us now. I want to make sure that our home is run for the benefit of the children in order to give them a better future – education comes into that and it helps if their minds are stimulated, not just at school, but in their home too. I want us to show them there is another way of life …’
‘You mean take them to places of interest, outings that they will enjoy but will open their minds too?’
‘Yes, but perhaps there are other ways you could encourage them to think for themselves, Angela? I should like you to consider what we could do to change both the way St Saviour’s is run and any improvements to both the old and the new building. You have a clear mind and I’m sure your views and your sense of order would help Sister Beatrice. I am not asking you to take over from her, Angela, but she is struggling to cope with all the responsibility, and once the Board approve
s any changes, it will be your task to implement them. You are not supplanting Sister but you could help her find her way.’
‘I did quite a bit of reorganising at the hospital.’
‘Yes, so I’ve been told, and they were grateful for the changes you suggested. The difference is that change will not be welcome to everyone at St Saviour’s, Angela.’
‘I’m prepared for that,’ she said and sipped her sherry thoughtfully. ‘I need a challenge, Mark. At the moment life feels a bit empty …’
‘You will have more than enough to do if you take this on. Make no bones about it, Angela; the children you will meet are often the casualties of violent and broken homes. Some are so damaged mentally that I’m not sure we shall ever get them right, others are physically ill. St Saviour’s takes in any children in need of help, no matter what their background or religion.’
‘That’s perfect,’ Angela said and leaned forward, her face alight with interest. Mark caught a breath of her perfume; it was light and sensual and made his guts ache with the need to take her in his arms.
Mark continued, ‘It is a poor area; many of the old houses are not far off being slums. Hitler got rid of some of the worst, but there are still too many narrow lanes and rundown streets. St Saviour’s itself is in Halfpenny Street, but there are lots of alleys and lanes leading off it, though locals refer to the whole area as the ’Alfpenny or if they really want to bamboozle you, as the Two Farthin’s.’
‘That’s clever.’
Angela laughed and Mark nodded his appreciation of her humour. ‘Yes, they’re unique, these people. It doesn’t seem to matter what hardships they have to endure, they will come up with something to laugh at.’
‘I can’t wait to find out for myself. Please go on, Mark; it’s fascinating.’
‘The house was once a Georgian mansion, quite beautiful inside, I believe, but all that grandeur was lost when it became a hospital for contagious illnesses. The people of the area have never had enough to eat and rationing hasn’t made that much difference to some of them, because they couldn’t afford to buy more even if food was plentiful. Indeed, at St Saviour’s our children eat better than they ever have in their lives; they wear decent clothes and have shoes without holes. Of course, you’ll find decent families living in the vicinity, businesses and shops too, but it’s the kind of area where in the old days diphtheria would have swept through like wildfire. Thank goodness we have a vaccine for that now, but there are plenty of other diseases to cope with. Polio is a terrible illness and there’s too much of it about these days.’
