The Nightingale Nurses

by Donna Douglas

  Charlie smiled as Helen stood beside him at the altar. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, reaching for her hand.

  ‘So do you,’ Helen replied.

  Charlie nodded to his father, who helped him back into his wheelchair, and then they turned to her own father, standing before them with his prayer book poised, his face beaming with pride above his starched white surplice.

  ‘Dearly beloved, we are here to witness the marriage of Helen Constance Tremayne to Charles Edward Dawson . . .’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  THE WEDDING HAD tired Charlie out. By the time Helen had changed from her dress and back into her uniform he was fast asleep.

  ‘Sister Judd said to give you some privacy,’ Millie said, pulling the screens around the bed. ‘She says you can stay as long as you like, since it’s a special occasion.’

  He went on sleeping for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening while Helen sat at his bedside, holding his hand and admiring him with quiet pride. He even looked handsome when he was asleep, she thought. She tried not to notice the sheen of perspiration that made his pale skin glisten like a pearl. She knew he had been fighting off the progress of his illness, willing himself to get through their wedding day. But now the effort had finally exhausted him.

  ‘My husband.’ She tried the words out loud. It sounded so strange. But the whole afternoon had been so unreal. She felt as if she was drifting through the most magical dream, buoyed up by goodwill and kindness.

  It was past eight o’clock when Charlie finally woke up. He stared about him in confusion and Helen’s heart skipped, wondering if this might be the moment when it all started to go wrong. But then he saw her and smiled.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘About four hours.’

  ‘That long?’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Did everyone go home?’

  ‘They’ve gone to the pub to celebrate.’

  ‘You should have gone with them.’

  ‘I’d rather stay here with you.’

  He held up her hand. Her silver-paper ring was wrapped around her finger next to her new wedding band. ‘You’re not still wearing that, are you?’

  ‘I like it.’ It meant as much to her as any diamond.

  He smiled wryly at her. ‘Not much of a ring, is it? And not much of a honeymoon for you, stuck at my bedside.’

  ‘Not much of a honeymoon for you, either.’ She smiled. ‘Never mind, we’ll have to have a proper honeymoon when you’re better.’

  His smile faded. ‘Helen—’

  ‘We’ll go to Southend,’ she gabbled on, determined to keep the shadows at bay. ‘And we’ll walk along the pier and the seafront. And you can show me the Planetarium, and the amusement park . . .’

  She clung to Charlie’s hand, silently begging him to keep up the fantasy with her. He seemed to understand.

  ‘And cockling,’ he said sleepily. ‘Don’t forget the cockling.’

  ‘How could I forget that?’ Helen leaned across him. ‘Charlie? Don’t go to sleep yet, I’ve only got a little while before I have to go on duty.’

  But he had already drifted off, his breathing soft and shallow.

  She hadn’t meant to cry in front of him, but somehow the emotion of the day overcame her and the tears started to flow.

  ‘Helen?’ He groped for her hand on top of the bedcover.

  ‘I thought you were asleep?’

  ‘I was.’ He half opened his eyes. It seemed to take all his strength. ‘I’m sorry, love, I’m just so tired . . .’

  ‘That’s all right. You get some rest.’

  ‘You’re not going to cry, are you? Only tears of happiness on your wedding day, Helen Tremayne.’

  She smiled shakily. ‘It’s Helen Dawson now, don’t forget.’

  ‘So it is.’ His mouth curved. ‘I like the sound of that.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Millie peeped through the screens. ‘It’s twenty to nine. Shouldn’t you be getting ready to go on duty soon?’

  ‘I’ve still got a few minutes.’ Helen clung to Charlie’s hand, her fingers curling into his. He tried to squeeze back but she could feel the strength ebbing out of his muscles. Slowly the strong young man she had once known was leaving her.

  I’ll just have to be strong for both of us, she thought.

  With a roar of fury, Joe drove his fist into the sandbag, sinking every ounce of his rage into the punch.

  ‘Watch it!’ his friend Tom laughed, dodging it as it swung on its chain. ‘Blimey, what’s that poor old bag ever done to you?’

  Joe didn’t reply. He sank another furious punch into the sandbag, sending it swinging on its chain again. No matter how hard he hit out, his rage was still there, burning inside him. He could punch and punch until he was exhausted, sweat running down his body, and the rage would still be there, consuming him.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ Tom’s face was worried.

  ‘Fine,’ Joe snapped back. ‘Couldn’t be better.’

  He landed another punch in the centre of the sandbag, imagining Nick Riley doubling over in front of him.

  Joe Armstrong didn’t like to lose at anything. That was what made him such a formidable opponent in the ring. He knew he had a reputation for fighting dirty, but he didn’t care. To him, winning was everything. The ends justified the means.

  He bent closer to the sandbag, jabbing at it, left, right, left, right, until all his strength was spent.

  ‘That’s enough, mate.’ He emerged from his fog of rage to see Tom watching him worriedly.

  ‘You’re right.’ Joe smiled at his friend, stripping off his gloves. ‘Sling us that towel, would you?’

  Tom tossed it to him. ‘Shall we stop off for a pint on the way home?’

  ‘Why not? I’ve got to have a word with Maurice first, though.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘My next fight.’ He wiped the back of his neck with the towel. ‘I’ll meet you outside, all right?’

  Maurice was just finishing putting a young boxer through his paces with a sparring partner in the ring.

  ‘All right, Joe?’ he greeted him. Maurice Jones’ slight build led many people to misjudge him. He had been the undisputed featherweight champion of Whitechapel for more than twenty years. ‘Saw you training just now. You looked like a bloke with a grudge!’

  Joe didn’t smile back. ‘I want to talk to you about my next fight.’

  ‘Of course, my boy, of course. I was talking to Terry Willis about you only the other day, as a matter of fact. He’s got a bout next Tuesday that might interest you. Against Kid Lewis at the Whitechapel Working Men’s Club?’

  ‘I want to fight Nick Riley.’

  ‘Do what?’ Maurice laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Joe frowned.

  Maurice’s smile dropped a fraction. ‘You’re serious, ain’t you? You and Nick Riley?’

  ‘’S’right.’ He caught Maurice’s quick frown. ‘What’s the matter? Ain’t I good enough?’

  Maurice slipped between the ropes of the ring and jumped down to Joe’s level. ‘Look, lad, I’ll be honest with you. You’re a good fighter, one of the best I’ve got. But you’re not in the same league as Nick Riley. He’s – well, boxers like him don’t come along very often. He’s something special.’

  Anger buzzed in Joe’s ears, like a bee trapped inside his head.

  You’re not in the same league as Nick Riley. He’s something special.

  Everywhere he turned, that was all he seemed to hear.

  ‘I want to fight him,’ he said stubbornly. I want to kill him, a small voice in his head added.

  Maurice seemed to understand. He patted him on the shoulder. ‘Look, son. If this is personal between you two, I reckon it’s better if you take him on outside the ring, all right? I know you got a temper on you, and I don’t want you bringing no grudges with you when you fight.’

  Joe stared at him for a moment. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said.

  Chapter
Thirty-Eight

  IT WAS STARTING to rain as Nick lifted the latch on the back gate of number twenty-six Griffin Street. It was early afternoon but the pall of pewter-grey cloud seemed to press down on the narrow back yard, making it feel like twilight.

  ‘Danny?’ he called. Usually his brother would be perched on top of the coal bunker waiting for him, but today the yard was empty.

  He wiped the mud off his boots – he didn’t know why, since his mum never cleaned – and let himself in through the back door.

  ‘Dan? Where are you, mate?’

  His voice echoed around the darkened, empty kitchen. His heart beat quickened.

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘Not so loud, you’ll wake the flippin’ dead!’ June emerged from her bedroom, fastening the sash of her shabby dressing gown. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Been on another bender?’ Nick looked at his mother, and a wave of revulsion hit him. June Riley looked half dead. Her eyes were smudged and traces of lipstick were smeared like jam around her mouth. ‘I hope you didn’t leave Danny on his own?’

  ‘Oh, give it a rest. I’m entitled to a life, ain’t I?’

  A man’s voice called out from the other side of the bedroom door, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘No one, Norm. Go back to sleep.’ June reached for her cigarette packet and tipped one out. ‘What?’ she said, catching Nick’s disapproving gaze. ‘Aren’t I allowed to have friends round either?’

  His lip curled. ‘I’m surprised you can remember his name, that’s all.’

  ‘I can’t help it if I get lonely.’ June lit her cigarette, took a deep drag and regarded him coldly through the rising plume of smoke. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure, anyway? Have you come to check up on me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t even bother. I’ve come to see Danny.’ He looked around. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Out on the yard, sitting on top of that bloody coal bunker, where do you think?’

  ‘No, he ain’t.’

  She looked at him sharply. ‘He must be. He ain’t here, is he?’

  ‘I can see that!’ Nick’s heart started to hammer against his ribs.

  June pulled her dressing gown more tightly around her and went to the back door.

  ‘Danny?’ she called out to the empty yard. ‘Danny love, where are you?’

  Silence. Nick and his mother looked at each other. He could see his own panic reflected in her eyes.

  Danny wasn’t safe out on his own. Crowds and traffic scared him, he didn’t know how to cope. Nick tried to shut his mind to the awful visions that crowded into his head.

  Behind them, the bedroom door opened and a man appeared looking bleary-eyed, pulling his braces over his shoulders. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  June was already yanking on her shoes. ‘Oh, Norm. My son’s gone missing.’

  Nick turned on her, his fear exploding into fury. ‘Oh, you’re worried now, are you? Maybe if you’d thought more about him and less about your fancy man, Danny wouldn’t have run off!’

  ‘Don’t you have a go at me. Maybe if you hadn’t gone off and left us on our own, he’d still be safe.’

  ‘You’re his mother, you’re meant to look after him. You couldn’t look after a cat, let alone your own son!’

  ‘Now listen here,’ Norm stepped forward, ‘don’t you speak to your mother like that!’

  Nick turned on him. ‘And what are you going to do about it?’ he snarled.

  The man took one look into Nick’s blazing eyes and backed off straight away. ‘All right, mate, calm down,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it, boy.’

  ‘I ain’t your mate,’ Nick said. ‘And I certainly ain’t no one’s boy.’

  ‘Belt up, you two. What are we going to do?’ June asked.

  Nick turned to look at her. She suddenly looked very old, her face creased with fear. But he felt no pity for her. She’d wished both her sons dead too many times.

  ‘N-Nick?’

  Nick swung round. His brother stood in the back doorway. ‘Blimey, Danny, you gave us a fright, going off like that.’

  June turned on him. ‘Where were you, you little sod?’

  ‘I was h-hiding.’ Danny’s eyes were fearful.

  ‘Oh, yeah? Who from?’ Nick flicked a hostile glance at Norm.

  ‘Don’t look at me, I ain’t touched him!’ Norm protested.

  ‘You’d better not have,’ Nick growled.

  Norm shook his head. ‘Stuff this,’ he muttered. ‘I’m off.’

  ‘Norm, don’t go. Wait!’ June pleaded. He sent her a contemptuous look.

  ‘You ain’t worth it, love.’

  ‘Norm!’

  But he was already gone, slamming the door behind him.

  June faced Nick. ‘Now see what you’ve done!’ she accused. ‘We had a good thing going, him and me. But you had to go and ruin it, didn’t you?’

  But Nick wasn’t listening. All his attention was fixed on his brother.

  ‘Go and put some clothes on while I talk to Dan,’ he said to his mother.

  ‘Don’t you tell me what to do in my own house!’

  ‘It’s my house, in case you’ve forgotten. I pay the rent.’

  June opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again. Snatching up her cigarette packet, she stormed out, slamming the door.

  Nick ruffled Danny’s hair. ‘How about we go and get some chips, eh? I dunno about you, but I’m starving.’

  They went down to the fish and chip shop, Nick bought them both saveloy and chips and they sat on the kerb to eat them.

  ‘Where did you run off to?’ Nick carefully unwrapped the newspaper around his brother’s food and handed it to him.

  ‘I w-went for a walk. B-By the c-canal.’

  Nick whipped round to look at him, all his senses instantly sharpened. ‘The canal? Blimey, Danny, how many times have I told you you’re not to go down there by yourself? It’s not safe on that path, you could slip in or anything . . .’ He saw the panic on his brother’s face and forced himself to calm down. ‘I’m sorry, mate, I didn’t mean to shout. But I worry about you, see? If anything happened to you . . .’

  If anything happened to Danny he would never, ever forgive himself.

  ‘Who were you hiding from anyway?’ He tried to keep his voice casual as he stared across the street at a rag and bone man trundling past, his wagon piled high with old bits of scrap metal.

  Danny stared ahead of him. ‘I mustn’t say anything.’

  ‘Mustn’t say anything about what? You can tell me, Dan. I’m your big brother. We don’t have any secrets, do we?’ He nudged him, but Danny jerked away.

  ‘She said she’d get her brothers on me if I told,’ he said.

  Nick stopped, a chip halfway to his mouth. ‘Who told you that?’ Danny fell very quiet, his mouth closing like a trap. ‘Do you mean Ruby?’ Nick saw the blush creeping up his brother’s neck. ‘What exactly did she say, Danny?’

  ‘I c-can’t tell you,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s a s-secret. I sh-shouldn’t have been listening, but I c-couldn’t help it. I was just sitting there when her and her m-mum were talking.’

  ‘What were they talking about?’

  ‘The b-baby.’

  Nick drew in a deep breath. ‘And what did they say about the baby?’

  ‘I c-can’t!’ Danny turned anguished eyes to meet Nick’s. ‘She said you’d b-be angry with me if you f-found out.’

  ‘You know I’d never get angry with you, Danny boy.’

  ‘D-Dennis and Frank would. Sh-she said she’d set them on m-me.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Nick’s jaw tightened. ‘Don’t you worry about Dennis and Frank, mate. You leave them to me,’ he said grimly. ‘Now just tell me what you heard. Right from the beginning.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  HELEN SAT AT the back of the classroom, lost in her thoughts. It wasn’t like her to daydream through a lecture, but today she could only stare out of the window, her pen still in
her hand.

  Outside the summer was finally surrendering to autumn, which had blown in with a gusty wind that had almost stripped the trees of their burnished leaves overnight. Mr Hopkins was in the courtyard struggling with a wheelbarrow and shovel, trying to pick up the drifts. But every time he filled the barrow another gust of wind picked them up in a mini-whirlwind and tossed them through the air again.

  Helen smiled to herself. Poor Mr Hopkins, he was fighting a losing battle but he refused to give up. She knew how he felt.

  She stared at the clock. Was there still half an hour to go? She wished she hadn’t listened to Charlie and come to the lecture. She would far rather be with him.

  A whole week had passed since their wedding. And with every passing day, Helen began to feel as if the doctors had got it wrong. It made her smile to see the indignation on Mr Latimer’s face every time he did his rounds. He seemed to take it as a personal affront that Charlie had dared to live beyond his prediction.

  Helen knew Charlie was fighting back. She could feel him getting stronger every day. Only once had he woken up from one of his long sleeps and not known who she was, and that was just for a minute or two. And when she held his hand she could feel his fingers curling around hers.

  She refused to listen to her brother William when he took her to one side and tried to explain how the disease would slowly claim Charlie.

  ‘But he’s getting better,’ she insisted. ‘There must be something else you can try to help him, surely? What about Prontosil, or lumbar puncture? It says in my textbook—’

  But William only shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Hel, they won’t do any good, and they’d only cause him more suffering. You wouldn’t want to put him through that, would you?’

  ‘I told you, he’s improving. He just needs some help to fight it . . .’

  But all William had done was look at her in that pitying way that drove her mad with frustration. And Helen had gone back to her books, looking for a new cure, something that might offer some hope. She spent more time researching than on her revision these days.