A Nightingale Christmas Carol

by Donna Douglas

  Colour rose in Arthur’s face. He stared back at the Major with utter loathing. Dora sensed a fight brewing, and stepped in quickly.

  ‘We have a patient, yes,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’

  She led the way to where the man was waiting to be taken down for his hernia operation.

  ‘Be careful with him,’ she warned, as Arthur helped him roughly into the wheelchair.

  He ignored her. But as they were making their way down to theatre, Arthur suddenly asked, ‘I don’t s’pose there’s any more word on your husband, is there, Nurse Riley?’

  His words stopped Dora in her tracks. Nick’s loss was like a broken limb. As long as she didn’t test it, she could manage. But as soon as she put any weight on it, the pain shot through her, taking her breath away.

  ‘No,’ she said quietly.

  ‘He’s definitely gone, then?’

  Dora clenched her hands into fists at her sides, bracing herself. A month after the letter arrived, she had given up hoping for a miracle.

  ‘Only some of the lads were talking about him just the other day,’ Arthur went on, seemingly oblivious to her pain. ‘I didn’t know him myself, of course – he’d signed up before I started working here – but Mr Hopkins was telling us what a good fellow he was when he worked here. Salt of the earth, he said. And you know, Mr Hopkins doesn’t say that about everyone.’

  He was just being nice, Dora told herself. He wasn’t to know that every word he said was like a knife blade slashing at her.

  ‘Anyway, the lads were wondering if they should do something in his memory. I mean, you shouldn’t forget a man who died for his country, should you?’ His gaze met hers. ‘What do you think, Nurse Riley?’

  Mercifully, they had reached the doors to the theatre block, where Theatre Sister was waiting for them. Dora quickly left the patient with her, and hurried back to the ward.

  Arthur didn’t mean anything by it, she kept telling herself. But there was something about the keen way he had watched her that made her think he knew exactly the effect his words were having.

  As if she needed anyone to remind her how much she missed Nick. He was on her mind every single minute of the day. Her grief would have consumed her, driven her mad if she’d let it. But in order to function, to get through her day without breaking down, she had learned to subdue her thoughts of him. By pushing them down, she could be the person everyone expected her to be, competent and cheerful, a dutiful nurse and a good mother to her children.

  But they were still there, lurking beneath the surface, like dark, dense weeds on a pond bed. As Dora skimmed along, she could feel the tendrils reaching up to her, ready to twine around her and drag her down.

  It didn’t take much to bring him to her mind. Hearing his name, or a favourite song, or a voice that sounded like his, or seeing a flash of a dark curly head in the middle of a busy street, and she would feel those tendrils grasping at her, pulling her into the murky depths.

  Fortunately she was kept busy all day. Several new patients arrived on the ward, and there were charts to be written up, beds to be made, temperatures and pulses to be taken, and endless enemas and aperients and dressings and drips to be done. Arthur went back and forth with the other patients, fetching and carrying. Dora could feel him watching her, but luckily he said no more about Nick.

  It wasn’t until later that afternoon that she remembered the toys Major Von Mundel had given her that morning.

  ‘I’ll take them down to the canteen while I’m on my tea break,’ she said to Miss Sloan. ‘I’m sure the ladies from the WVS will be able to pass them on.’

  ‘Oh, but they’ve already gone, my dear,’ Miss Sloan said. ‘Young Arthur took them just now. I thought you’d told him to do it?’

  ‘No,’ Dora frowned. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  Miss Sloan looked crestfallen. ‘Oh dear, have I done something wrong?’

  Dora shook her head. ‘But I think someone else has,’ she muttered.

  Arthur tossed the wooden engine into the fiery maw of the stoke hole and smiled as he watched it burn.

  He tried to imagine the Nazi who’d made it, labouring away on a piece of scrap wood for hours. What a waste of time, he sneered.

  He picked up the next doll. It had bright red hair, like Dora Riley.

  Wouldn’t she be furious when she found out what he’d done? But by then it would be too late.

  He was glad, thinking about how upset she would be. It served her right, the way she kowtowed to the Germans. Especially that arrogant swine Von Mundel. She let him swan around as if he owned the place.

  And we all know why, he thought, skimming the red-haired doll into the stoke hole. It crackled as it burned, sending out a shower of bright sparks.

  The door opened behind him, and he heard footsteps on the stairs. Then Dora Riley’s voice coming out of the darkness.

  ‘Arthur Jenkins? Are you down here?’

  Arthur calmly turned back to the fire and tipped the rest of the contents of the box on to the flames. Dora Riley didn’t frighten him. Besides, he was ready for her.

  ‘There you are,’ Dora approached him. ‘Didn’t you hear me calling to—’ Her gaze fell to the empty box in his hands. ‘Where are the toys?’

  Arthur didn’t reply. He went on staring into the flames of the stoke hole. The way they danced was almost mesmerising, he could watch it all day.

  Behind him, Dora let out a cry. She grabbed a pair of tongs and tried to pull the toys out. But all she could save was a single doll, burnt to a blackened stump but for its stupidly smiling face.

  Arthur could hardly keep from smiling himself to look at it.

  ‘Who told you to take those toys?’ Dora demanded, turning on him.

  He composed his features into a picture of innocence. ‘I found the box and thought it was rubbish, Nurse.’

  ‘You’re lying. You knew very well what it was. You did this on purpose!’

  ‘Why would I do a thing like that, Nurse?’

  Dora stared at him angrily, her face flickering with light from the flames. ‘Those toys were meant for the WVS shop, to raise money for our prisoners of war.’

  That shook him a little, but he rallied. ‘We don’t need anything from the Germans!’

  ‘Tell that to the poor POWs who’ll go without now!’ Dora threw down the tongs. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Arthur Jenkins!’

  ‘You’re the one who should be ashamed of yourself!’

  She was walking away from him when he said it. She turned back slowly.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Arthur looked at her. ‘It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is. And your poor husband not even cold in the ground.’

  Dora advanced towards him. The look on her face made Arthur quake, but he stood his ground.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You and that German, carrying on. And you needn’t deny it, ’cos I saw the two of you at Christmas. He had his arms round you.’ He saw the colour drain from Dora Riley’s face, her freckles standing out livid against the whiteness of her skin. ‘You make me sick,’ he said. ‘While your husband was fighting and dying for his country, you were kissing and cuddling with a Nazi—’

  The slap came out of nowhere, sending his head flying backwards and nearly knocking him off balance. Arthur recovered himself, his hand going to his stinging cheek. His ears were ringing so hard he could barely hear what Dora was saying to him. He could only see her mouth moving and the flash of fury in her eyes.

  ‘—and if I hear you’ve been spreading filthy lies about me, Arthur Jenkins, you’ll get worse than that!’ were her final angry words. Then she stormed out.

  Arthur heard her footsteps stomping up the basement stairs, and then the door slammed above him, so hard it echoed around the brick walls. He kept his hand pressed to his cheek. Her blow had hurt, but the wound to his pride was worse.

  He kicked out angrily at the blackened doll she had dropped at his feet.
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br />   Well, she’d done it now, he thought.

  Dora stood outside the basement door, gulping in the cold, fresh air. It was a blustery day, and the wind whipped at her cap, nearly tearing it from her head. But Dora barely noticed, she was so consumed with anger and disgust.

  How could anyone think that she would ever . . .

  Her mind recoiled from the thought. She couldn’t even put it into words, it was so horrible. And yet Arthur had seen her with his own eyes, caught in a single moment of weakness. It might not have been what he thought it was, but Dora still burned with shame over it. She should never have let her guard down, allowed herself to be vulnerable.

  Was Arthur right? Had she betrayed Nick?

  She looked around, panicking that she barely recognised the landscape around her. She had spent nearly ten years of her life here, and yet suddenly the hospital buildings all seemed strange to her, as if the world had shifted on its axis.

  She hated herself, but she hated Arthur more. How dare he cast a stain on her marriage and sour Nick’s memory?

  But then, perhaps she only had herself to blame. Hadn’t Helen tried to warn her about getting too close to the Germans? But as usual Dora had decided she knew best, and now she was suffering the consequences.

  Helen was right, she should never have made friends with Major Von Mundel.

  Somehow she managed to gather herself enough to go back to the ward. She kept her head down, not wanting to meet anyone’s eye, sure that her guilt was written for everyone to see.

  ‘Nurse Riley?’ Dora jumped at the sound of her name. She looked up to see Helen standing at the door to her office. ‘Could you come in here, please? There’s someone to see you.’

  Dora hurried up the ward, her mind racing. ‘Someone to see me, Sister? But who—’

  The words died in her throat when she saw her brother Alfie sitting in the chair opposite Helen’s desk. He looked so out of place in the neat office, with his scruffy brown hair, grubby hands and trousers barely meeting his boots.

  Dora saw her brother’s look of distress, and suddenly all her other worries vanished.

  ‘Alfie, what is it?’ Her heart pushed its way up to her throat, nearly choking her. ‘Is it Nanna— ?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s Auntie Lily. She’s run away from home!’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ‘Hank. My Hank.’

  Kitty handed over another handkerchief, helpless to do anything else. Bea had been sobbing at the kitchen table for over an hour. She was like a bottomless pit of grief.

  From what Kitty could make out between Bea’s hysterics, Lily Doyle had packed her bags and done a flit, taking her little daughter with her. According to the note she’d left, she’d run off with Bea’s boyfriend Hank.

  ‘They’ve fallen in love, so she reckons,’ Bea said, her face puffy with crying. ‘Turns out they’ve been seeing each other behind my back all this time. Sneaky little bitch! And after I was so good to her, taking her out because I was worried she was lonely. Letting her play gooseberry with me and Hank, when all the time she was making eyes at him behind my back, planning to steal him away from me!’

  It takes two, Kitty thought. But she knew better than to say anything. The last thing she wanted was for Bea to start crying again.

  ‘Do you know where they’ve gone?’

  ‘No, and I don’t care, either. They can go to hell for all I care. She’d better not come near me again if she knows what’s good for her!’

  ‘It’s funny, she always used to be so against him,’ Kitty said. ‘I didn’t think she liked him at all.’

  ‘That just goes to show what an underhand cow she is, doesn’t it?’ Bea said. ‘She was trying to put me off him because she wanted him for herself.’

  Kitty watched her blowing her nose noisily. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best you found out what he was really like now, before it was too late?’ she said.

  Bea glared her at, her eyes red and swollen. ‘It’s already too late, can’t you tell? My heart’s broken and I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. We were supposed to be going to America to start a new life. Now he’ll be taking her instead of me. It’s not fair!’

  She started howling again. Kitty’s mother came into the kitchen.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, dear?’ she whispered.

  Bea sniffed back her tears. ‘Haven’t you got anything stronger?’

  Florrie Jenkins looked anxious. ‘Well, no . . .’

  ‘Then it will have to be tea,’ Bea said. ‘With plenty of sugar, for the shock.’

  ‘We haven’t got any sugar,’ Florrie said to Kitty as she helped her make the tea in the scullery. ‘Will that be all right?’

  ‘It’ll have to be.’

  ‘How long do you think she’s going to stay?’ her mother asked. ‘Only I’ve got to get your dad’s tea on.’

  Kitty shot a grim look over her shoulder towards the kitchen. ‘Who knows?’ Bea looked as if she was there for the duration, slumped over the kitchen table, her sodden handkerchief pressed to her face.

  ‘She makes me sick,’ Bea muttered, as Kitty pushed the teacup in front of her. Her mother had taken refuge with her crocheting in the parlour. ‘To look at her, you’d think butter wouldn’t melt. Always whining about how sad and lonely she was, making us all feel sorry for her. And all the time she was laughing at me, letting me make a fool of myself!’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t like that—’ Kitty started to say, but Bea cut her off.

  ‘Excuse me, allow me to know about my own sister-in-law!’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what my poor brother will say when he finds out his wife’s run off – ugh, what is this?’ She took a sip of her tea and made a face. ‘I thought I said plenty of sugar?’

  ‘We haven’t got any. You’ll have to do without.’

  ‘I suppose it’ll have to do,’ Bea said gloomily. She took another sip and grimaced. ‘I suppose that’s something else that will have to change. Hank used to bring all those extra rations round. Now she’ll be the one getting all the chocolates and the nylons!’

  Kitty looked away. She knew it wasn’t supposed to be funny, but she couldn’t help smiling at her friend’s remark. Only Bea could think of stockings at a time like this.

  It was too much to hope that Bea wouldn’t notice. ‘Well, I’m glad someone’s laughing!’ she snapped, her voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘You could be more sympathetic, Kitty Jenkins. I am broken-hearted, after all.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I am, honestly.’ Kitty bit her lip. If Bea started crying again she might never leave.

  ‘Anyway, she’ll get what’s coming to her,’ Bea said, crumpling her handkerchief into a ball in her fist. ‘I’m going to write to Peter and tell him all about it. You wait till he hears what she’s been doing!’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Kitty said. ‘How do you think he’s going to feel, getting a letter like that? Especially when he’s so far away.’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s got to know sometime, hasn’t he?’

  Bea looked so self-righteous, Kitty felt like reminding her who it was who’d led Lily astray in the first place. But once again, she held her tongue.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got to do something,’ Bea said. ‘They can’t just be allowed to treat me like this and get away with it. I know,’ she went on, her face brightening. ‘I’ll pretend I’m pregnant. That’ll scare him!’

  ‘But you don’t know where he is.’

  Bea’s face fell. ‘You’re right,’ she mumbled, downcast. ‘I don’t know what I can do, in that case.’

  She looked so defeated, Kitty’s heart went out to her. ‘You’re better off just forgetting all about him,’ she said.

  Bea turned on her. ‘That’s easy for you to say. You’ve never been in love.’ Then, before Kitty could reply, she went on, ‘But you’re right, I shouldn’t stay in moping. I’m a free agent now, I might as well go out and enjoy myself.’ She grinned at Kitty. ‘What do you say? We’ll get dolled up
, put on our glad rags and go out on the town. You never know, we might meet a couple of nice boys.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Kitty said.

  Bea frowned. ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know why,’ Kitty lowered her voice. ‘I already have a sweetheart.’

  ‘Who?’ Bea looked puzzled for a moment, then her face cleared. ‘Oh, you mean the German?’

  ‘Shh!’ Kitty shot a wary look towards the kitchen door. ‘Keep your voice down. I don’t want Mum to hear.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not real, is it?’ Bea was dismissive.

  Kitty bristled. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean, it’s not as if he’s really your sweetheart. He can’t take you dancing or anything, can he? You never even see him.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I see him every morning when I go to work, and every evening when I head home. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, we can pass letters to each other.’

  She lived for Stefan’s letters. He might have found it hard to speak about his feelings for her, but his love flowed through his words on paper.

  ‘So you wave to each other and pass notes? How daring!’ Bea laughed scornfully.

  Kitty felt the heat rising in her face. ‘It might not seem like much to you, but Stefan could get locked up or even shot if we were found out,’ she defended herself. ‘And when the war’s over, we’ll be together properly,’ she added.

  Bea looked pitying. ‘Don’t be daft. Once the war’s over he’ll go home and forget all about you.’

  ‘No, he won’t!’

  ‘Well, he’s hardly going to stay here, is he?’

  Kitty lifted her chin. ‘Then I’ll go with him. What?’ she said, as Bea laughed. ‘What’s wrong with following my heart? It wasn’t such a daft idea when you thought you were going to America with Hank—’

  She saw her friend’s face crumple and shut up abruptly. ‘I’m sorry, Bea,’ she started to say. ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Bea was tight-lipped, the picture of injured dignity. ‘It’s time I was going home, anyway.’

  ‘Stay, please,’ Kitty begged. ‘Have some tea with us. I’m sure Mum wouldn’t mind—’