A Nightingale Christmas Carol

by Donna Douglas

  ‘Then I’ll go with him.’

  Her mother stared at her. ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘I would.’ She hadn’t realised it until she’d said it. ‘We belong together, Mum,’ she said simply.

  Her mother stared at her wonderingly. ‘You really love him, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Enough to give up everything for him?’

  ‘If I have to.’

  Her mother watched her in silence as she finished her packing. ‘Where will you go?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘I’ll get a place at the nurses’ home. They’ve just reopened it, so I’m sure they’ll be able to fit me in.’

  Fresh tears filled her mother’s eyes. ‘Can’t you just do as your father says?’

  Kitty shook her head. ‘Not any more, Mum.’

  She fastened the catches on the suitcase and hauled it off the bed. ‘There,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve got everything I need.’ She turned to her mother, and for the first time she felt her resolve give way. Once she walked out of this house she would never be back.

  Her mother seemed to share her thoughts. ‘I always thought you’d leave this house as a bride,’ she said.

  ‘So did I.’

  Florrie hugged her, wrapping her arms around her tightly, as if she couldn’t bear to let her go. ‘You will come back and visit, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Kitty said.

  ‘And you never know, your dad might change his mind one day?’

  ‘You never know,’ Kitty smiled. But they both knew that her father would never back down.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The evening after his eighteenth birthday, Arthur Jenkins sat alone in the public bar of the Crown and Anchor, and got drunk.

  ‘Steady on, kid,’ the landlord warned, as he downed another pint. ‘That’s strong stuff if you’re not used to it.’

  ‘I ain’t a kid!’ Arthur slammed the glass down defiantly on the bar. ‘Another one,’ he said.

  The landlord locked eyes with him for a moment, then reached for the glass. ‘All right, as it’s your birthday. But that’s the last. Your father will have my guts for garters if I send you home drunk.’

  The beer tasted bitter and disgusting, and Arthur had to force himself to glug it down, but it made his head swim and took the jagged edge off his misery, and that was what he needed.

  Today was supposed to be the best day of his life, but a doctor had ruined it with a single stroke of his pen.

  Grade D. Unfit for military service.

  He drained his glass with a grimace and tried to order another, but the landlord was busy polishing glasses at the other end of the bar and refused to meet his eye. Arthur knew he should leave, but he stayed on the stool at the bar, staring into his empty glass. He had nowhere else to go.

  He was completely lost.

  He didn’t know what the other lads at the porters’ lodge would say. For years, Arthur had been planning for it, talking about the day he could finally enlist. After D-Day, they had teased him that the war would be over by the time he’d signed up, but Mr Hopkins had stuck up for him.

  ‘Leave the lad alone, at least he wants to go and do his duty,’ he’d said.

  Now he would have to go back and face them all. The humiliation was almost too crushing to bear.

  And then there was his father. Arthur’s stomach churned, rising into his throat, at the thought of facing him.

  It had all been so different yesterday. His mother had made him a cake with chocolate for icing, and his dad had brought his old service revolver down from the top of the wardrobe where he’d kept it for nearly thirty years.

  ‘Just think, son,’ he’d said. ‘In a few weeks you’ll have one of these to call your own.’

  He’d let him hold it, and shown him how it worked, but his mum had got upset and begged him to put it away. But before he had, his father had clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘My son, the soldier,’ he’d said, pride shining out of his eyes. It was the same pride Arthur saw every time his father talked about Raymond.

  How would he ever feel proud of Arthur now, with his weak chest and flat feet and bad eyes?

  He pushed the glass across the bar. ‘I’ll have another.’

  ‘Oh no, you won’t,’ the landlord said, snatching the empty glass. ‘Go home, Arthur. Your mum will be worried about you.’

  ‘I told you, I ain’t a kid!’

  ‘Then stop behaving like one.’ The landlord glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. You dad will be in for his usual in a minute. Do you want him to find you like this?’

  He was right, Arthur thought. He’d forgotten his father was working the evening shifts on the buses this week. At least if he got home soon, he could go to bed and not have to face him.

  There were voices coming from the kitchen when he let himself in. Arthur tensed, worried that his father had changed his mind and come home early. But then he realised one of the voices was Kitty’s.

  She was sitting at the kitchen table with her mother. She jumped up guiltily when Arthur walked in, then relaxed.

  ‘Oh, it’s only you. I thought it was Dad, come back early.’

  Arthur looked away as he shrugged off his coat. It wasn’t his fault she was banished from the house, he told himself. His father gave her a choice, and she took it.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘I came to bring you a present.’ She handed him the parcel, wrapped in brown paper. ‘Happy birthday, Arthur.’

  ‘Go on, then. Open it,’ his mother prompted as he stared at the parcel in his sister’s hands. The paper was soft and criss-crossed with lines where it had been used over and over again. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a new sheet of wrapping paper.

  Arthur took the parcel and unwrapped it. Inside was a knitted scarf in the red and white colours of Clapton Orient, his favourite football team.

  ‘It took me ages to make,’ Kitty said. ‘You do like it, don’t you?’

  Arthur stared at the scarf in his hands, unable to speak. Guilt choked him.

  ‘Here, try it on.’ Kitty took the scarf out of his hands and went to wind it round his neck. As she stepped towards him, she suddenly sniffed and said, ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘I daresay he’s been celebrating, haven’t you, son?’ His mother smiled. She rose from her seat. ‘I’ll go and make you a cup of tea.’

  As she headed for the scullery, Kitty said, ‘Mum told me you’d been to enlist. I bet you couldn’t wait, could you?’ He didn’t reply. ‘So go on, then. Where are they sending you?’

  Still he couldn’t speak. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth.

  ‘Oh dear, you don’t look very happy about it,’ Kitty smiled. ‘Don’t tell me you’re digging latrines—’

  He thrust the piece of paper into her hand. Kitty looked down at it. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

  He couldn’t look at her as she scanned the paper. He expected her to laugh at him, but all she said was, ‘Oh, Arthur. I’m sorry.’

  Her sympathy stung him. After everything he’d done to her, Kitty still cared about him.

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell me it serves me right?’ he said in a choked voice.

  ‘Why should I?’ Kitty sounded genuinely bemused. ‘I know you had your heart set on signing up.’

  ‘I tried to tell them that, but they wouldn’t listen to me.’ Finally, Arthur could open his heart to someone. ‘What am I going to tell Dad?’

  ‘Just tell him the truth.’

  ‘But he’ll be so disappointed. He’ll think I’m a failure.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Arthur.’

  ‘But he was so looking forward to seeing me in uniform—’

  Their mother returned, carrying the tea tray. ‘Here we are,’ she smiled.

  Kitty looked at the clock. ‘Sorry, Mum, I’ll have to go,’ she said regretfully. ‘Dad will b
e home in a minute. I don’t want him to catch me here.’

  Florrie Jenkins looked crestfallen. ‘I suppose not.’ She set down the tray. ‘I’ll see you again soon, won’t I, love?’

  ‘I’ll try to come round tomorrow night. But I don’t finish until nine, so we might only have a little while.’

  Arthur watched them embrace, guilt flooding through him. It wasn’t his fault, he told himself again. That German had broken up his family, not him.

  He managed to avoid his father that night, and the following morning. But he couldn’t avoid the lads at work.

  They were all sympathetic, and Mr Hopkins put his hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Never mind, lad. You did your best.’ But Arthur could see the disappointment in his eyes as he said it.

  His best wasn’t good enough. He had failed.

  And if the head porter could be upset about it, how much worse would his own father feel?

  It was a long day. Arthur’s head ached, and the drink he’d had the night before sloshed queasily around in his belly. Once he had to rush off to be sick on his way to taking a patient to theatre.

  It was a relief when nine o’clock came. He was about to go off duty when a written message came down to the porters’ lodge, asking him to come up to the POWs’ ward.

  ‘Can’t someone else go?’ Arthur begged. ‘I’m just knocking off.’

  Mr Hopkins shook his head. ‘It’s asking for you particularly. Perhaps it’s that sister of yours? If it is, kindly tell her to telephone in future and speak to me, instead of sending down notes.’ He waved the scrap of paper. ‘I’m letting it go this once, but in future I’ll be putting these in the bin, where they belong.’

  Arthur plodded up to the POWs’ ward, but Kitty was nowhere to be found. Sister Dawson wasn’t there, as usual, and Nurse Riley was in Sister’s office, going through some paperwork with the night nurse. The lights in the ward had already been turned down and the lamps shaded with green cloth, casting a sickly glow.

  Arthur was just about to leave when Major Von Mundel appeared. ‘Ah, Herr Jenkins. If you are looking for your sister, I believe she is in the bathroom.’

  Arthur glared at the man in dislike. Usually he would have ignored him as if he hadn’t spoken. But it was late and he was too tired to argue. He also wanted to get home and go to bed before his dad came off his shift. It was cowardly, but he still hadn’t worked out how he was going to break the news to him.

  He went into the first bathroom and looked around, but there was no sign of Kitty. Arthur sighed with annoyance. Someone was playing silly beggars, and he had neither the time nor the patience for it.

  He went into the second bathroom. ‘Kitty?’ he called out. He went to look round the door, when suddenly he felt a hand at his back, shoving him roughly into the room. A second later the door closed behind him.

  Arthur swung round to find himself staring into the coldly smiling face of Major Von Mundel.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure you would receive my note.’

  Arthur looked around in panic. ‘Where’s Kitty?’

  ‘Your sister went off duty ten minutes ago, Herr Jenkins. Or may I call you Arthur?’

  He could feel his heart thudding in his throat. ‘What’s the matter?’ Major Von Mundel taunted him softly. ‘Have you lost your courage without your friends to back you up?’

  Arthur elbowed past him and tried to make a break for the door, but Major Von Mundel was too quick for him. Like lightning, he grabbed Arthur’s arm and yanked it up behind his back, slamming him into the wall.

  ‘Please don’t try to run, Arthur. Believe me, there are many men outside who would like to do far worse to you than I would. You see, you are not the only one with friends.’ He pushed Arthur harder into the wall. The tiles were cold and hard against his cheek. ‘Oberleutnant Bauer has friends, too. And so does Nurse Riley.’

  He leaned forward, his voice menacing in its softness. ‘You have been spreading lies about her. She is a good woman, and she does not deserve to be treated like that. Do you understand? Do you?’ He shook him so hard, Arthur felt his stomach rising in protest.

  ‘I’m going to be – sick,’ he gasped.

  Major Von Mundel released him abruptly. Arthur barely made it to the toilet. He hung over the bowl, gasping and retching. All the time he could feel Major Von Mundel standing over him, watching him.

  ‘You stink,’ he said in disgust. ‘Look at you. You are not a man. You are a disgrace.’ He leaned over. ‘Never, ever speak of Nurse Riley again, or I will kill you. Do you understand?’ he hissed.

  Suddenly the door opened and Dora Riley came in. ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.

  ‘I am afraid poor Arthur here was taken ill. I was helping him,’ Major Von Mundel replied.

  ‘Is that right?’

  Arthur sat back on his heels and wiped his face with his sleeve but said nothing.

  Dora looked from one to the other. ‘How are you feeling now?’ she asked Arthur.

  ‘I am sure he will be fine,’ Major Von Mundel answered for him. ‘All he needs is some fresh air.’

  Dora’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing going on?’

  Arthur looked again at Von Mundel. His eyes were as clear and cold as ice.

  ‘Nothing,’ he mumbled.

  As he walked the length of the ward, Arthur could feel the eyes of every man following him. From somewhere in the gloom came a whisper in German, then the sound of muffled laughter.

  He burned with humiliation. They could laugh, he thought. But he would make them all sorry.

  Especially that arrogant bastard Von Mundel. More than anyone, he would pay for his humiliation.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  By Good Friday, everyone knew the war was drawing to a close. Almost a week earlier, Field Marshal Montgomery’s army had crossed the Rhine. Now the Americans were closing in on the Ruhr, the Russians were crossing into Austria, and the Polish flag flew once again over Danzig. It looked as if the Germans had started to move out of Holland, too.

  Everyone seemed in a light-hearted mood except Dora, as she stood at her window, watching the dawn rise over the scarred rooftops of Bethnal Green.

  Nothing else mattered, because today should have been Nick’s thirtieth birthday.

  ‘Happy birthday, love,’ she murmured, looking up into the sky, as heavy and grey as a bundle of dirty washing.

  The twins slumbered on in the big bed, curved around the warm, rumpled space where their mother had lain a few minutes earlier. She had promised to help them make their dad a birthday card when she came off duty that afternoon.

  ‘Can we send it to him?’ Walter had asked the previous evening.

  ‘No, we should keep it for when he comes home. That’s a better idea, ain’t it, Mum?’ Winnie put in. ‘Then we can watch him open it.’

  A lump rose in Dora’s throat and she glanced at her mother, who sat in tight-lipped silence.

  ‘You’ve got to tell them sometime,’ Rose had said later, as they washed up in the scullery.

  ‘I will,’ Dora said, drying a dish. ‘But not yet.’

  ‘What if they hear it from someone else? They’re old enough to understand, you know. And you’d be surprised what kids take in—’

  ‘I’ll tell them when I’m ready, all right?’

  Dora saw her mother flinch, and wished she hadn’t been so sharp. Rose was only talking sense, as usual. And Dora had tried to sit the children down and tell them their father was dead. But every time she stopped herself before she managed to say the words.

  She pressed her face closer to the window, feeling the cool glass against her forehead.

  Let’s face it, Dora Riley. You’re not ready to admit it to yourself, let alone anyone else, she thought.

  It wasn’t fair. The world should have stopped on the day he died. It had stopped for her. But the rest of the world went on relentlessly, every night turning into day, and every day a series of hours to be g
ot through and endured.

  Dora did a good job of masking her feelings. She got up, washed, dressed, ate and went to work. She carried out her duties, chatting, smiling and offering comfort where it was needed. At home, she helped with the housework, looked after her children and gave every appearance that she was coping with her husband’s loss.

  It was only at night, when the whole house was asleep and the children were tucked in on either side of her, that she allowed herself to cry for Nick. Sometimes she would cry herself to sleep. At other times, she would lie awake all night, tortured by thoughts of him.

  Everyone else might be celebrating the Great Advance of the Allies across Europe. But it meant nothing to Dora.

  Because even when it was over, Nick still wouldn’t be coming home.

  But as usual she managed to put a smile on her face on the ward when they listened to the BBC news. Miss Sloan and Kitty gathered around the wireless, and Major Von Mundel joined them, translating for the rest of the men.

  The latest news was that Hitler had ordered that German towns and factories be destroyed, leaving nothing for the Allies to capture. Dora looked at Major Von Mundel’s grim expression as he translated, and wondered if he was thinking about his children.

  She tried to talk to him afterwards, but Miss Sloan approached him, asking him to translate a patient’s letter from home. Dora saw the relief on his face, and understood. They both needed something to occupy their minds today.

  She was in the kitchen, preparing some beef tea for a patient with anaemia, when Helen Dawson appeared. In her hands was a small brown paper package.

  ‘Riley, can you spare a moment?’ she asked.

  Dora was surprised. Ever since their argument a few days ago, they had been avoiding each other.

  ‘What is it, Sister?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve brought you this—’ She put the package down and stepped back quickly, as if it were an unexploded incendiary she had just placed on the kitchen table.

  Mystified, Dora opened the box. Inside was a small jam sponge cake, dusted with icing sugar.

  ‘I – don’t understand—’

  ‘My mother sent it to me,’ Helen said. ‘I thought you might like it – as it’s a special occasion?’