The Nightingale Girls

by Donna Douglas

  He broke off at the sound of Nanna’s voice in the back yard.

  ‘All right, Danny love? You guarding that coal hole again? No danger of anyone getting their hands on our coal with you around, is there, mate?’

  Dora barely had time to scramble to her feet before her grandmother came in through the back door, laden down with shopping.

  ‘I’m telling you, that market isn’t what it was,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Time was when you could – oh, hello,’ she stopped when she saw Dora. ‘This is a nice surprise. D’you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘She’s on her way out,’ Alf interrupted Dora before she had a chance to speak.

  Nick knew something was wrong the minute he walked in through the door. Danny was huddled in a corner, his head buried in his arms. He’d been picking at the ends of his bony fingers until they bled, a sure sign he was anxious.

  ‘All right, mate?’ Nick shrugged off his coat and went over to him. ‘What’s the matter? Has Mum had a go at you again?’ He would swing for her if she’d hit him again. You only had to raise your hand to Danny to send him into hysterics.

  As Danny lifted his face to look at him, Nick saw his red-rimmed eyes and the rivulets streaming from his nose. He looked as if he’d been crying for hours.

  ‘What’s happened?’ He crouched down until his face was level with his brother’s, forcing his voice to stay calm even though anger pulsed through him. ‘Who did this to you?’ Whoever it was, he was going to tear them limb from limb. Slowly.

  Danny wiped his nose clumsily on his frayed sleeve. ‘Alf h-hit Dora,’ he managed to stammer.

  Nick went cold. ‘You what?’

  ‘I s-saw him,’ Danny lip wobbled. ‘He g-grabbed her, then he th-threw her like this—’ he pushed with his arms, nearly knocking his brother off balance.

  Nick frowned. ‘Why would he do something like that, Danny? It doesn’t sound like Alf.’ It couldn’t be true, he told himself. Although he knew his brother wasn’t capable of telling a lie, sometimes he got confused.

  ‘I saw it!’ Danny insisted. ‘I was sitting out th-there.’ He pointed towards the back yard. ‘I saw Dora going in, and th-then I heard her telling Alf to l-leave Josie alone. She s-said she’d tell their m-mum but he just laughed at her. And then he . . . he hit her.’

  He started to cry again, weeping noisy tears into his shirt sleeve. Nick automatically fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and thrust it at him, his thoughts elsewhere.

  That dirty, filthy bastard. He felt himself begin to shake with anger. Suddenly it all made sense. Why Josie had run away, why Dora had been so worried about her.

  Had he touched Dora too? He didn’t want to think about it, but remembering how she’d shrunk from him when he’d tried to kiss her . . .

  He shot to his feet, propelled by a rage so white hot it would have sent him hammering Alf Doyle’s door down if Danny hadn’t whimpered with fear.

  ‘N-Nick, please,’ he begged. ‘D-don’t look like that. I don’t like it when you l-look like that.’

  Nick looked at his brother, barely seeing him through a mist of fury as red as blood. Then, slowly, he forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath. He unclenched his fists, stretching his fingers until the knuckles cracked.

  Alf Doyle could wait, he decided.

  ‘It’s all right, Danny,’ he soothed his agitated brother. ‘See? I’ve calmed down. I’m not going to do anything, mate. You ain’t got nothing to fear. Now let’s see if there’s anything in the house for tea, eh?’

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  HENRY RETTINGHAM WAS well enough to return home. He walked slowly into the house, supported by Seb and Felix the chauffeur on either side. Millie and her grandmother gathered in the drawing room to greet him, waiting patiently as he lowered himself agonisingly slowly into his leather chair.

  The doctors had warned that his recovery would be lengthy, but Millie hadn’t realised how difficult it would be for him until she watched him try to lift the tea Patchett the butler brought in for him.

  As his cup rattled on the saucer, she sprang forward to help.

  ‘Here, let me—’

  Her father waved her away. ‘No, Amelia, I – I have to learn to do these things for . . . myself,’ he insisted. His voice was slurred, each word dragged out of him with effort. It hurt Millie to hear him struggle so much.

  She glanced at Seb for guidance. He smiled and gave her a reassuring nod. It was such a relief having him there, she thought. Somehow she didn’t feel quite so alone.

  He had been wonderful, helping to run the estate while her father was recovering. ‘Not that it needs much running,’ he told Millie. ‘Between them, your father and Jackson have got the place going like clockwork.’

  They had slipped into a comfortable domestic routine. Once Millie was reassured that her father was getting better, she’d allowed herself to take time away from his bedside at the hospital. She was surprised by how fully occupied her days were. If she wasn’t running the house, discussing dinner plans and laundry lists with the housekeeper Mrs Saunders, she was riding out with Seb to visit the tenants or meeting the estate manager. As August progressed, the itinerant hop pickers began to arrive in vanloads from London for the annual harvest. Millie helped organise them into their teams, and sorted out temporary accommodation for them. With her training in mind, she even brought in the St Francis Mission to set up a mobile medical centre in one of the old barns. She helped out there sometimes, bandaging strained ligaments, bathing sore eyes and administering medicine. It felt good to be busy and useful all day, and to feel the sun on her face as she worked, instead of being stuck in the gloomy wards.

  She kept promising herself she would return to London. But as time wore on, she wondered if London was really where she wanted to be.

  ‘I wonder if I should stay here?’ she mused to Seb one evening at dinner. ‘I’ve missed so much of my training, I might not be able to catch up. And with Daddy still being so ill . . .’

  ‘Your father is making progress,’ Seb reminded her. ‘And you know he would be absolutely livid with you if you didn’t go back to London.’

  ‘Would he?’ Millie wasn’t so sure.

  In the end it was Henry himself who gave her the answer. She had been sitting with him, going through the accounts, when he suddenly said, ‘You and Sebastian have done an . . . excellent job. I’m sure we shall all miss you when you return to L-London.’

  She lifted the ledgers from his lap and placed them carefully on the rug at his feet. ‘Who says I’m going back?’

  He frowned at her. ‘I may have had a blow to the . . . head, but I have not forgotten you have your . . . training to finish.’

  ‘Don’t you want me at Billinghurst?’ she asked lightly.

  ‘Of course I do. Nothing would make me . . . happier.’ His face twisted with the effort of speaking. ‘But only after you finish your . . . training.’ He put out a shaky hand to her. ‘Nursing is your dream, Millie. Finish your training, and then . . .’

  And then what? she thought. He was right, nursing was her dream. But his illness had made her realise that she had other responsibilities, too.

  But her father wouldn’t hear of her staying. And so, with a heavy heart, and a great deal of remonstration from her grandmother, she caught the train back to London.

  The Dowager Countess was so beside herself with outrage, she took herself off to the Dower House and refused to speak to Millie at all before she left.

  ‘She’ll get over it,’ Seb laughed as he drove her to the station.

  ‘You don’t know Granny.’ Millie turned to him, her face anxious. ‘You do think I’m doing the right thing, don’t you? Or am I just being selfish?’

  ‘We’ve been through all this,’ he said wisely. ‘You don’t need to worry about your father. I’ll stay and keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t do too much. Although the way he’s going, he won’t need me for much longer. I can tell he’s it
ching to be rid of me!’

  ‘Nonsense, he loves having you at Billinghurst. You’re like the son he never had.’ Millie sent Seb a sidelong look. ‘I’m very grateful for your help.’

  ‘Grateful?’ He laughed. ‘I’d sort of hoped you’d feel more for me than that by now.’

  She stared ahead of her at the winding country lane in silence. Neither of them had referred to their kiss since it had happened, although she knew it was playing on his mind as much as it was on hers.

  Millie still felt wretchedly confused. She knew she had relied on him too much, gone far beyond the bounds of friendship. He had every right to think their relationship had changed. But was she ready for that?

  ‘You don’t have to stay until the train comes,’ she said as Seb helped her on to the platform with her luggage.

  ‘Why do you keep trying to send me away when all I want is to be with you?’ Their eyes met. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t say these things to you. I know it’s not what you want to hear.’ He smiled bracingly. ‘We’re just friends, that’s all. I know that, and I’ve accepted it. I mean, it would be idiotic of me to say I wasn’t bitterly disappointed, but I’m sure in time I’ll learn to—’ He pulled a wry face. ‘Do you think I should shut up now?’

  ‘I think that would be a good idea.’

  There were a few other people on the platform. Further down, a young couple not much older than them were saying a passionate goodbye. Millie tried hard not to stare as they clung to each other fiercely, neither of them wanting to let go. What did it feel like to be that much in love? she wondered.

  She glanced at Seb from under the brim of her hat. He was watching the couple too, his face envious.

  Darling Seb. When she’d told him she was grateful, she’d meant so much more than that. She simply couldn’t have got through the past couple of weeks without him. The relief when she saw him that day, standing in the hall, dressed in his shooting tweeds, having driven all the way down from Scotland just to be with her. From that moment she’d felt as if she could breathe again, as if everything would be all right simply because he was with her.

  And he had been with her ever since. His reassuring presence was always at her side as she sat with her father. He had held her when she’d cried tears of despair during the darkest moments, and he was the one who made her laugh when she’d desperately needed cheering up. Somehow he always knew what she was thinking, and the right thing to say to make it better.

  She looked across at his finely drawn profile as he gazed down the line, waiting for the train, committing to memory the long, straight line of his nose, the curve of his lips and the sharp angle of his chin. As if he knew he was being observed, he turned to look at her with a puzzled smile, his fair brows drawn over warm grey eyes.

  She suddenly realised how much she’d miss that smile, miss him. That was the real reason she had been so reluctant to go back to London. It wasn’t the thought of saying goodbye to Billinghurst that upset her, or even of leaving her father. It was the thought of going through a whole day without seeing Seb.

  ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing, I just—’ Millie struggled to find the right words. Oh, God, why had she left it until now to realise how she felt? It was so typical of her, always the last to catch on, as Dora would say.

  And now she’d left it too late. The train was approaching, the tracks rumbling. All along the platform the passengers were starting to galvanise themselves.

  ‘Seb,’ she started to say, but he was already gathering up her cases.

  ‘What will you do when you get to London?’ he asked. ‘You will take a taxi, won’t you? You can’t possibly struggle on the bus with all this luggage.’

  ‘Seb—’

  ‘Do you think you’ll be able to telephone when you get back to the hospital? I know your father will be worried about you, even if he says he isn’t.’

  ‘Seb, listen . . .’ Her words were drowned out by the hiss of the train’s brakes as it rumbled to a halt. People were starting to move, doors opening and banging shut, porters busy with luggage. Seb loaded her cases on to the train, not looking at her, as if he were determined to keep himself busy and detached.

  ‘Seb!’ Everything suddenly seemed to go very quiet as Millie screamed out his name.

  He turned to face her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you mind awfully doing something for me?’

  ‘What’s that?’ He smiled at her, his kind, handsome face squinting in the sun.

  ‘Shut up and kiss me,’ she said.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  VERONICA HANLEY MARCHED up the worn stone steps to St Oswald’s Church Vicarage and rapped smartly on the door with far more confidence than she was feeling. For all she had travelled the world with her father’s regiment, she was never really at ease outside the familiar surroundings of the Nightingale Hospital. She felt uncomfortable out of uniform, too, in her squashed hat and old coat that smelt of mothballs.

  For tuppence she would have turned around and got straight back on the bus to Bethnal Green. But she’d come all this way and now she had to see it through. Show some backbone, as her father used to say.

  She hoped Mrs Tremayne would forgive the intrusion. She hoped even more she would forgive what Veronica had to say.

  The housekeeper showed her into the drawing room, a beautiful sunny room with French windows that opened out on to the garden. Veronica stood for a moment, admiring the beautifully manicured lawn, trimmed by immaculate borders, not a flower out of place. It was exactly the kind of garden she herself would have designed, appealing to her sense of order.

  ‘Miss Hanley?’ Constance Tremayne greeted her from the doorway. She looked rather put out to see her. ‘This is most unexpected,’ she said in a cool voice. ‘You’re lucky to have caught me, I’m due at a charity committee meeting in an hour.’

  ‘I won’t keep you, Mrs Tremayne. I’m sure you’re very busy.’ Veronica’s throat suddenly felt very dry. She would have appreciated a cup of tea, but Mrs Tremayne didn’t look as if she was about to offer her one. ‘I’ve come about Helen. You’re not really thinking of sending her to Scotland, are you?’

  ‘Not thinking about it, Miss Hanley. I’m going to do it. As soon as it can be arranged, in fact.’ Mrs Tremayne advanced into the room. She looked neat as ever in her sage green twinset and tweed skirt, her hair immaculately knotted at the nape of her neck. She was such a tiny, delicate creature, Veronica felt like a clodhopper next to her.

  Constance Tremayne bestowed a smile on her. ‘Actually, Miss Hanley, I’ve been meaning to thank you. If you hadn’t alerted me to what was going on, I might never have found out what my daughter was up to. And then, heaven knows what would have happened.’ Her shoulders shuddered delicately. ‘Thanks to you, I have managed to step in and stop Helen from making a grave mistake, one which could have blighted her whole future.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ Veronica said. ‘I think you are the one making the mistake. You shouldn’t take Helen away from the Nightingale.’ She noticed Constance Tremayne’s darkening expression, but blundered on, ‘She’s an excellent student, and an asset to the hospital. And what’s more I believe she is happy and settled there. It would be so unfair to uproot her and move her all the way to Scotland. And who knows what effect it will have on her studies.’

  ‘Miss Hanley, please.’ Constance held up one hand to silence her. ‘I have no wish to offend you, but as I explained to Matron, neither you nor she has any idea what it’s like to bring up a daughter. Helen is young and naïve. She doesn’t know her own mind. She must be protected from her own base desires . . .’

  Veronica Hanley stared at her in frustration. She wished she understood delicacy and tact, because she needed them for what she had to say next. For a moment she almost wished she had Matron’s facility with words. She might not approve of Kathleen Fox’s methods, or indeed anything much about her, but she had to admit Matron had a way of talking that seemed to get thr
ough to people. Unlike Veronica, who just seemed to blunder about, trampling over everything like the big, clumsy thing she was.

  A bull in a china shop, her mother had always called her. That was exactly what she felt like now.

  ‘Well, Miss Hanley,’ Constance was already dismissing her. ‘Thank you for coming all this way, but I do have another appointment . . .’

  ‘Wait.’ Veronica rummaged in her ancient handbag. It had been her mother’s and had lain unused at the back of her wardrobe for such a long time the leather was cracked and dry. ‘I have a photograph I would like to show you. I think it’s in here somewhere . . .’

  Constance tutted. ‘Can’t it wait, Miss Hanley? Only I am in rather a hurry.’

  ‘Please, it won’t take a moment . . . ah, here it is.’ She pulled the photograph out of her bag. The sepia image had yellowed with age. ‘I think you might find it interesting.’

  Constance Tremayne took the photograph with a heavy sigh. ‘Really, Miss Hanley, I don’t have time to . . .’ She stopped dead as her gaze fixed on the figures in the photograph.

  Veronica had seen the colour drain from people’s faces when they were given bad news about a loved one. And here it was, happening to Constance Tremayne. Her skin turned the colour of putty.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said faintly. ‘How did you get this?’

  ‘Before I began my training at the Nightingale, I was a cadet nurse at a hospital on the south coast. St Anthony’s in Whitstable. That’s a photograph of all the staff, taken one Christmas.’ She pointed over Mrs Tremayne’s shoulder at the chubby girl standing head and shoulders above her neighours in the middle of a row. ‘That’s me. I was a big galumphing thing even then.’ She moved her finger up to the back row of the photograph. ‘Those are the sisters, and those,’ she traced some more of the faces, ‘are the staff nurses. I can still remember their names, all these years later. Porter, Casey . . . and there’s Nurse Brown. She was on the TB ward. Very efficient. I must confess, I always wanted to be like her.’