Two for Sorrow jt-3

by Nicola Upson

  ‘Baker and I go back a long way, Miss Timpson,’ the governor explained, seeming to enjoy the receptionist’s astonishment as much as Marjorie. ‘Don’t we, Baker?’

  ‘Yes, Miss—three stretches now, isn’t it?’

  ‘You haven’t lost your sense of humour, I see. What brings you to this part of town? Are you here to see Peters?’

  ‘No, Miss, I’m on an errand from Motley—it’s for the gala next week.’

  ‘Ah, yes—I’m looking forward to that. Which reminds me—am I supposed to pick the dress up or something?’

  ‘No, Miss—we’ll deliver them to the club. But you do need to stop by and have a final fitting first, just to make sure everything’s all right. In fact,’ she added, looking pointedly at the Timpson woman, ‘that’s partly why I’m here. Miss Motley needs to see everyone as soon as possible in case we have to make any alterations.’

  ‘Fine, fine—I’ll come after lunch on my way back to the prison. Will that be all right?’

  ‘Yes, Miss, of course—and anyone else who’s free today.’

  ‘Wait here—I’ll see who’s about.’ Marjorie did as she was told, smiling infuriatingly at Miss Timpson, while Mary Size put her head round the door of the bar. ‘Gerry,’ she called, ‘you’re going to the gala, aren’t you? Come out here a minute.’ The woman who came out into the hallway wore a stunning Schiaparelli trouser suit, and Marjorie remembered her from an earlier visit to Motley; in fact, she was the sort it would have been impossible to forget. ‘We’re needed for another fitting. Could you do Miss Baker here a favour and pop round to St Martin’s Lane this afternoon?’

  Geraldine smiled. ‘It would be a pleasure.’ She walked over to Marjorie and brazenly stroked her cheek. ‘Nice to see you again, Miss Baker. Will you be looking after me again this afternoon?’

  ‘I don’t know, Miss,’ Marjorie said modestly. ‘It depends what Mrs Reader has got lined up for me when I get back. I suppose I could say you’d asked for me personally.’

  ‘Yes, why don’t you do that? I’ll be there around five but, if I’m late, I’m sure you’ll wait for me.’

  ‘I’ll put you in the book. It’s Lady Ashby, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, drifting back towards the bar. ‘Sweet of you to remember.’

  ‘You’re still in touch with Peters, I hope?’ Miss Size asked as Marjorie made a note of the appointment. ‘You were a good friend to her during her spell with us, and I’d like to know you’re keeping an eye on her now you’re both out.’

  ‘Oh yes, Miss—we go out and have a bit of a laugh when we can. We had a day out last weekend and I saw her yesterday. She was all right—a bit quiet, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, that’s only to be expected, but she’ll perk up again, I’m sure. Are you going to say hello to her now, as you’re here? I’m sure Miss Timpson would be only too happy to fetch her for you.’ Her manner was courteous enough, but there was a twinkle in her eye as she turned back to the desk. ‘That would be all right, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Lucy Peters isn’t due her break for another ten minutes,’ the receptionist said, standing her ground as best she could. ‘I’ll let her know that Miss—uh—Miss Baker would like to see her, though.’

  ‘Excellent. And I’ll see you later, Baker.’

  She walked off into the club and Marjorie was left alone with Miss Timpson’s thinly disguised pique. ‘If you’d like to wait outside, I’ll tell Lucy you’re here,’ she said. ‘We don’t allow staff to fraternise on the premises.’

  Marjorie couldn’t be bothered to argue over the battle when the war was so clearly hers, so she did as she was asked and strolled over to one of the benches in the middle of Cavendish Square. It was cold but not unpleasant, and the sun was out, so she sat down and lit a cigarette, keeping a nervous eye on the clock which graced the front of the Westminster Bank. It wasn’t the day to get into trouble with the Motley sisters, not with the deputy governor due, and she was about to give up and carry on with her list of errands when Lucy appeared at the corner of Henrietta Street. Marjorie waved, and beckoned her over. ‘Where the bleeding hell have you been?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been here fifteen minutes, and I’ll be out on my ear if I’m not back by lunchtime.’

  ‘Sorry, but that bitch on reception made me wipe all the ashtrays in the drawing room before she’d let me out.’ Lucy accepted a cigarette gratefully. ‘I’m glad you’re here, though—there’s something I need you to do for me.’ She reached under her coat and took a small silver photograph frame out of the pocket of her apron. ‘Will you look after this for me for a bit?’

  Marjorie took it from her and looked down at the image of a woman and her young baby. ‘Where did you get this?’

  Lucy wouldn’t meet her eye. ‘I found it on one of the women’s writing desks. I know I shouldn’t have taken it, but I couldn’t help myself—she’s such a lovely little thing. I can’t keep it in my room,’ she explained, and Marjorie could see that she was close to tears. ‘I overheard Bannerman talking about getting the police in, and they’re bound to come to me first—they always do.’

  ‘Well this is hardly worth getting caught for, is it?’ Marjorie said, angry at her friend’s stupidity. ‘What the hell are you thinking of?’ Then, as she saw the sadness on the young girl’s face, she softened. ‘Look, Lucy, you’ve got to be careful,’ she continued, putting her arm round her. ‘You’ve got to put all that behind you and get on with your life, and you won’t change anything by nicking worthless bits of tat.’

  ‘It’s all right for you—you’ve got a good job and some girls to have a bit of fun with—and a bloke who’d look after you if you’d let him.’

  Marjorie gave a scornful laugh. ‘It’s himself he’d be looking after, not me,’ she said. ‘You should know that after what you’ve been through. They’re all the same, men, wherever they come from, and a girl’s got no chance of a life if she waits for a bloke to help her. You make your own luck, Luce, but not like this.’ She held up the stolen frame, then put it in her pocket. ‘I’ll keep it safe for you, of course I will, but don’t go nicking anything else—I’ve got something much better than that lined up.’ She smiled and pinched Lucy’s cheek, trying to cheer the girl up. ‘Something that’ll be enough for us both. If we’re going back down, we might as well go properly, eh?’ It was a joke, but the worried look on Lucy’s face exasperated her. ‘Don’t you want anything better than this?’ she asked impatiently. ‘Scrubbing tables while that lot look down their noses at you?’

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ Lucy said defiantly. ‘I’ve got somewhere to live and a bit of money coming in.’

  ‘Yeah, and for that you’re supposed to spend every waking hour being grateful to them. Have you forgotten all those things we talked about? A flat of our own one day, flowers on the table and friends to visit. A gramophone. The odd trip to the pictures, even?’ Lucy began to smile again. ‘That’s better,’ Marjorie continued. ‘There’s no one in the world who can stop us having that if we’re clever.’

  ‘I suppose not, but won’t you even tell me what you’re up to?’

  ‘Best that you don’t know at the moment. But you trust me, don’t you?’

  Lucy nodded reluctantly. ‘I’d better get back,’ she said. ‘I don’t want any more trouble today.’

  Marjorie gave her a hug, and they walked back towards the club. ‘Looks like you got out just in time, Luce,’ she said, glancing across the road to where a middle-aged man was getting out of a car. ‘That’s a copper if ever I saw one.’ Lucy followed her gaze, and Marjorie saw the fear return to her eyes. ‘Chin up, girl,’ she said. ‘You’ll be all right. There’s nothing else dodgy in your room, is there?’ Lucy shook her head. ‘Good—then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Is it your afternoon off tomorrow?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m off at one.’

  ‘Then I’ll meet you here and we can go for a walk. I might have some good news for you by then.’

  ‘News about what?’
/>
  ‘About our future.’ She threw the end of her last cigarette on to the pavement and ground it under her shoe, then kissed Lucy quickly on the cheek. ‘Start making a list of films you’d like to see,’ she called back over her shoulder.

  ‘Tell the sergeant I’ll be with him in a few minutes.’ Celia Bannerman put the receiver back on its cradle and sighed heavily. Miss Timpson’s announcement of Scotland Yard in her foyer felt like a personal blow, and she did not need the disapproval in the receptionist’s voice to tell her that a policeman’s arrival undermined everything she had done for the Cowdray Club over the years, and threatened all that she still hoped to achieve. She had had no choice but to involve the police—the women who had received the letters had insisted on it—but, now they were here, a process had been set in motion which was no longer entirely under her control and she felt uneasy, perhaps even a little afraid. How many of those women would thank her, she wondered, when their privacy was disturbed, their pasts raked over? Surely she was not the only one who had done things in her life which she regretted? And even if the matter was resolved satisfactorily, the fact that she had allowed it to arise at all would still hang over her as a mark of failure, proof that she was undeserving of the trust which Lady Cowdray had placed in her.

  She would have to tell the president, of course. Although the club functioned independently, it was linked to the College of Nursing by funding and by reputation, and any trouble in one body would soon seep through to the other. She was lucky that she had been able to contain it until now, but the last thing she needed was for Miriam Sharpe to bump into Scotland Yard with no warning. They came from two different sides of nursing: Sharpe was a hands-on traditionalist through and through, scathing about so many of the changes that had taken place in medicine over the years, and they had never had an easy relationship. While Lady Cowdray was alive, she had harnessed their different skills into a fragile but effective alliance; now, their differing viewpoints hovered constantly on the brink of outright animosity. But Celia was on the defensive here and she should, out of courtesy, give Sharpe the opportunity to sit in on the discussion she was about to have. Reluctantly, she picked up the telephone.

  ‘Miriam Sharpe.’

  ‘Miriam—are you free at the moment? I need to speak to you urgently—can I come and see you on my way downstairs?’

  ‘Don’t bother, Celia—I was just on my way up to you.’

  The line went dead and, less than a minute later, there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ Celia called, but the president of the College of Nursing was not in the mood to wait for an invitation. She strode across the room, ignoring the chair that was offered to her, and threw a copy of The Times across the desk. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ she asked, her face white with rage.

  ‘It’s an advertisement for the gala.’

  ‘I know what it is—and it’s bad enough that you deprive nurses of their economic and professional independence by seeking charity at all, but to raise it in their name without mentioning that the proceeds are to be siphoned off into a private women’s club is despicable beyond belief.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake—nothing is being “siphoned off”, as you put it. We’re raising money to support two mutually dependent organisations,’ she added, deciding that now was not the best time to admit that further funds were to go to the Actors’ Orphanage in order to secure Noël Coward’s support for the gala. ‘You make it sound like fraud.’

  ‘That’s exactly what it is. Can you honestly tell me that people reading this won’t suppose that their money is going directly to support the everyday needs of our nurses? It’s worded deliberately to suggest that.’

  ‘The whole purpose of the club is exactly what you’ve just mentioned. Aren’t nurses allowed to enjoy a little relaxation and luxury? Don’t you think they work more effectively and with a better heart if they’re offered that? You’re behind the times, Miriam—they’re women, not machines. It’s not like it was when we were young.’

  ‘Oh? So what’s changed? The dedicated are still trodden on or passed over, just like they always were. It was exactly the same after the war—how much of the money raised to support nurses in distress actually went to them? It was all put into bricks and mortar or administration. When will you realise that we’re tired of being thrust forward as some sort of unblushing mendicant every time funds are needed? There’s no room for politics in nursing, and there never will be.’

  ‘You really expect me to believe that you’re oblivious to the value of politics? All those letters to The Times haven’t come out of thin air. You’re behind them, any fool could see that you’ve virtually just quoted them word for word. But if you think I’ll allow you to split this place down the middle, then you’re mistaken.’ She took a deep breath and tried to control herself before she really went too far: she hadn’t wanted to antagonise Sharpe—it would only make things worse when she told her who was waiting downstairs. ‘Anyway, I didn’t call you in for that,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’m sorry to say that we’ve had a number of thefts in the club, and one or two members of the committee have received some unpleasant letters—anonymous ones. Obviously it doesn’t affect the college, but I’ve had to call the police in and I thought you should know.’

  ‘Doesn’t affect the college? How can you say that? You’re even more deluded than I thought you were, Celia. Of course it affects us—that sort of notoriety doesn’t stay conveniently in a box just because you’d like it to.’

  ‘You’re blowing it out of all proportion. It’s simply …’

  ‘It’s simply that you decided to bring ex-prisoners into this organisation. I told you what would happen if you did, but you wouldn’t listen. Once more, nurses have to be guinea pigs in your precious rehabilitation schemes.’

  ‘There’s no reason to suppose that any of the Holloway girls are behind either the thefts or the letters, although of course we’ll look into it.’

  ‘Of course it will be one of them! A leopard doesn’t change its spots.’

  ‘You’d lock them all up and throw away the key, I suppose. Has it ever occurred to you that they might deserve a second chance?’

  ‘And has it ever occurred to you that if you wanted to help convicts, you should have stayed in the prison service? You talk so eloquently of expanding a nurse’s horizons—by showing her how to cheat and steal? I can only imagine what Lady Cowdray would have thought to that.’

  Incensed, Celia stood up and slammed her hand down on the desk. ‘I knew Lady Cowdray better than anyone here, so don’t tell me what she would and wouldn’t think.’ The telephone rang, and she snatched the receiver up. ‘Yes? No, Miss Timpson—of course I haven’t forgotten he’s here. Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be down shortly.’ She made an effort to regain her composure and looked at Miriam Sharpe. When she spoke again, her voice was unnaturally calm. ‘I have to go now and talk to this policeman. Do you want to come and listen to what he has to say?’

  ‘Why would I want to do that? This is your mess and, as you pointed out, it’s got nothing to do with me.’ Sharpe turned and walked to the door without another word, but paused before leaving. ‘You’ve taken your eye off the ball lately, Celia. Don’t expect any help from me when your empire starts to crumble.’

  It didn’t take Marjorie long to collect the things she needed from Debenhams, and she ran up the back steps to the workroom at precisely a quarter to one. ‘Everything all right at the club?’ Hilda Reader asked as Marjorie put the beads down on her worktable.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Reader. Miss Bannerman was busy, but I spoke to Miss Size and she and Lady Ashby are coming over this afternoon for their fittings.’

  ‘Good girl. You might as well take your lunch break now—you’ve got a visitor.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your father turned up—he said you were expecting him.’ Marjorie knew that the expression on her face must have exposed the lie, but Hilda Reader was too discreet to comment. ‘He said he’d wait for you
across the road.’

  In the pub, no doubt, Marjorie thought as she hurried back down, wondering if her fury and embarrassment were written all over her face. Sure enough, her father had taken a corner seat in the Salisbury Arms and was just draining his pint glass as she walked in. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ she asked, sitting down opposite him.

  ‘Come on, love—that’s not very friendly, is it?’ he said. ‘It’s Friday—I thought you might have some wages for me.’

  ‘Then you thought wrong. We don’t get paid till the end of the day, but don’t get your hopes up. I wouldn’t give you anything even if I had it, so you’d better make that your last drink.’

  ‘But it’s your mother’s birthday on Sunday, love. You want her to have something nice, don’t you?’

  ‘The best present you could give her would be to clear off and leave us to it.’

  ‘You know you don’t mean that. Why don’t you nip back to work like a good girl and ask that nice lady if you can have your money now? It’s not like you’re going to bunk off this afternoon, is it, and I’m sure she’ll understand if you tell her it’s for your old dad.’

  ‘Like hell, I will. I’ve got a chance here now, and I’m not about to let you ruin it for me.’

  She stood up to go, but he reached across the table and took her wrist in his hand. ‘Don’t kid yourself,’ he scoffed. ‘You know as well as I do that your new friends aren’t all they’re made out to be. You’ll never be anything other than a cheap little crook. It’s in your blood—and I should know. You’ll be back inside before you know it, and I’m bloody well going to get what I can out of you before that happens.’