Violet looked at Dr Armstrong’s stunned face and realised they were thinking the same thing.
Buchenwald. Violet had seen the Pathé newsreels and read the newspapers, but no matter how much evidence she’d encountered, she could not imagine the horror she had seen was real, that there were people who were capable of committing such cruelty to their fellow human beings.
The young doctor pulled himself together. ‘Give him fomentations for the pain. Glycerin of belladonna. And of course, plenty of rest, no sitting up and no excitement.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
‘Do you have trouble sleeping?’ Dr Armstrong asked the man.
Isaak Gruber shook his head. ‘I do not sleep,’ he said.
‘Then I’ll prescribe a sleeping draught—’
‘Nein, Herr Doktor, I would rather not, if you don’t mind?’ His voice was polite but firm. ‘I prefer not to sleep, as I suffer from nightmares. I am worried I may disturb the other patients.’
Dr Armstrong looked at Violet. ‘What do you think, Sister?’
Violet read the silent plea in the young man’s eyes. Junior doctors often looked to the ward sisters for help and advice. It wasn’t until they had reached the lofty heights of senior consultant that they decided they knew everything.
She glanced at Isaak Gruber’s worried face. ‘I believe it might cause Dr Gruber unnecessary agitation if we try to give him something he doesn’t want to take,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could prescribe a sleeping draught just in case, on the understanding that we only administer it if it’s strictly necessary?’
‘Good idea.’ Dr Armstrong looked relieved. ‘I’ll write out a prescription, and you inform the night staff.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
As they walked away from the bed, Dr Armstrong said, ‘Well, Sister, what do you think of him? I bet the old man has quite a story to tell, don’t you?’
‘Indeed, Doctor. But he really isn’t that old. Just turned fifty, according to his notes.’
‘Really? I could have sworn he was much older than that.’ Dr Armstrong let out a low whistle. ‘I suppose that’s what being locked up in one of those filthy places does to you.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
They stopped at the ward desk so Dr Armstrong could write a prescription. As he pulled out his pen, a tangled knot of coloured silk handkerchiefs fell from his pocket and rolled across the floor.
‘Oh, leave them,’ Dr Armstrong said carelessly, as Violet went to retrieve them. ‘I won’t be needing them any more, anyway.’ He looked rueful. ‘They were for my magic act, for the Christmas show,’ he explained. ‘But I made rather a mess of it.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘I fell to pieces under the Assistant Matron’s steely gaze,’ he sighed.
‘I understand she has that effect on some people,’ Violet said.
‘Anyway, it looks as if my performing days are over. I don’t suppose Miss Davis will give me another chance.’
‘Perhaps you should consider a new act?’ Violet suggested.
His handsome face lit up. ‘Perhaps I could. It’s worth thinking about, at any rate.’ He grinned at her. ‘Thank you, Sister. Perhaps my stage career might not be over after all?’
He went off, humming to himself, considerably cheered up. Violet smiled after him. He was a brave man if he was willing to step into the lion’s den and put himself in front of Miss Davis a second time.
She waited until Nurse Wesley took over the night shift, so she could instruct her properly on Dr Gruber’s case. Then she stayed a while longer to make sure he was as settled as he could be, before finally making her way home.
Oliver was waiting for her.
‘Mrs Morgan’s gone to bed, but she left you some supper on the stove,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch it for you, shall I?’
‘Bless you, that’s very kind. But I’ll eat it in the kitchen, it’ll be warmer in there. I thought you were going out dancing again tonight?’ She carried her plate carefully over from the stove to the table.
‘I changed my mind. I wanted to speak to you.’
‘Oh yes? That sounds rather ominous!’ She smiled across the table at him.
Oliver didn’t return her smile. He said nothing for a moment, staring down at his fingers as they tangled and untangled themselves in front of him. Then he said, ‘I’ve decided to meet her.’
Violet stopped, her fork halfway to her mouth. Her heart plunged in despair, but she forced herself to stay calm. ‘I see.’
He looked up at her. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘It’s your decision, my love.’
‘I know, but – I don’t want to upset you,’ he said.
Then don’t go, Violet wanted to say.
She looked at his earnest face. He was such a wonderful, good-hearted young man. She had brought him up that way, to care deeply about other people’s feelings.
She forced her fork to her mouth, even though her appetite had quite gone. ‘You must do as you think best,’ she said.
‘You could come with me?’
‘No!’ The word came out too quickly.
‘Why not?’
Violet took a calming breath. ‘It’s you she wants to see, not me.’
He paused. ‘Why did you stop speaking to her?’ he asked. ‘I keep wondering about it.’
Violet opened her mouth, then closed it again. ‘I told you, it was something and nothing,’ she said finally. ‘A stupid disagreement that got out of hand.’
‘Was it about my father?’
Violet stared at him. ‘Why do you ask that? Has she said anything to you?’
He shrugged. ‘I thought there must be a reason why you two stopped speaking. I wondered if she disapproved of you marrying him?’
Violet nearly laughed. If only you knew, she thought. But she would never tell him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Your grandmother liked your father very much.’
‘Then why—’
‘Oliver, I’m too tired to talk about this,’ Violet cut him off. ‘Do you think we could discuss it another time?’
‘Of course.’ Oliver stood up, pushing his chair back with a clatter. ‘I’ll go upstairs and leave you to your supper. Goodnight, Mother.’
He never called her mother, except when he was in a bad mood. He didn’t kiss her either, something he had done every night since he was a baby.
‘Oliver?’
He turned back to face her. ‘Yes?’
‘You mustn’t – expect too much of your grandmother.’
He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Violet paused, trying to choose her words carefully. ‘I mean she can be a rather selfish woman. If she’s got in touch with you, then it’s probably because she wants something from you.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Violet had her suspicions, but she didn’t want to share them with her son. ‘Just be careful, that’s all.’
Oliver’s frown deepened, his dark brows lowering. ‘Perhaps she’s changed?’
Violet shook her head. ‘She’ll never do that. Believe me, my mother always thinks she is right.’
‘Perhaps you’re more alike than you think,’ Oliver said.
‘Oliver!’ She tried to call him back as he left the room, but either he couldn’t hear her or he chose not to.
She stared down at her plate of food, all her hunger gone. Tension knotted her stomach, making it impossible to eat.
She could already feel her son slipping away from her. The close bond between them was coming loose, and it was all her mother’s fault. How long before she managed to drive a wedge between them, just as Victor had tried to do?
The following day, Violet waited until Kathleen had finished her rounds, then asked to speak to her in private. Miss Davis didn’t look too happy about it, but Violet was too anxious to care about the Assistant Matron’s petty jealousies.
Once they were in her office, Kathleen said, ‘What is it? Is it one of the patients?’
Violet
shook her head. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you with my personal problems, but it’s this business with my mother. Oliver’s decided he wants to meet her.’
‘I see. And what did you say?’ Kathleen asked.
‘What could I say? I can’t very well stop him, can I?’ Violet muttered.
‘And would you want to?’
‘I’m sure I don’t care either way.’
Kathleen gave her a wise smile. ‘Are you certain about that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, if you’re that indifferent about it, why are you so worried?’
Violet frowned. She had expected Kathleen to be as shocked and outraged as she felt. Her friend knew everything Dorothy Tanner had done to her, after all.
But all she said was, ‘Perhaps it would be for the best if you both met her?’
Violet fought hard to control her anger. ‘And how do you work that out?’
‘You’ve been angry with her for a long time, and I’m sure it can’t be good for you. If you saw her again, perhaps—’
‘I don’t want to see her again!’ Violet snapped. ‘And you’re right, I really don’t want Oliver to see her, either.’
Kathleen nodded, as if that was the answer she had been expecting. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because I don’t trust her. I’m worried she’ll hurt him.’
‘Or are you worried she’ll hurt you again?’
Violet lifted her chin. ‘She can’t hurt me any more. She can’t,’ she insisted, seeing the sceptical look on her friend’s face. ‘I don’t care enough to let her affect me any more. I just don’t want Oliver to feel let down, that’s all.’
Kathleen just gave another of her infuriatingly wise smiles. ‘If you say so,’ she said.
But as the days went by, it seemed as if she might be worrying over nothing. Oliver didn’t mention visiting his grandmother again, and Violet began to relax.
In the meantime, Kathleen asked her to take over the Christmas show rehearsal while Miss Davis was covering the night sister’s duties.
‘What does Miss Davis say about that?’ Violet asked.
‘Miss Davis doesn’t have much say in the matter,’ Kathleen replied, with a hint of a smile. ‘Do see if you can knock them into some kind of shape, Violet. I must say, I’m getting rather worried about this show.’
But Violet could see no reason for Matron to fear. Without Miss Davis’s endless criticism and sour looks, everyone seemed to relax and enjoy themselves. Violet was able to enjoy herself too as she played the piano, laughed at the skits and tapped her feet to the songs. Even Mr Hopkins’ chosen recitation didn’t seem too dreary for once. And they finished the evening with a rousing chorus of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’.
Violet was still humming to herself when she returned home, tired but happy.
‘Cooee,’ she called out as she shrugged off her coat. ‘I’m home, Mrs Morgan. Put the kettle on, would you, I’m parched—’ She stopped as Mrs Morgan herself appeared in the kitchen doorway, wringing her hands. Even in the gloom of the hallway, Violet could see the strained look on her face. ‘Why, Mrs M, whatever is the matter?’ she asked.
Mrs Morgan nodded towards the living-room door. ‘You’ve got a visitor, ducks,’ she said in a low voice.
Violet frowned. ‘Who? It’s a bit late for visitors, surely—’
She walked in and stopped dead when she saw the woman sitting in the armchair beside the fire.
‘Hello, Violet,’ said Dorothy Tanner.
Violet was shocked at how much her mother had aged in the last fourteen years. She was still as elegant as ever, done up to the nines in a smart green coat with a fox-fur collar. But the hair under her neat hat was quite white, and the powder on her carefully made-up face had settled into a network of lines around her eyes and mouth.
Even so, there was still a self-possessed air about her that made Violet’s hackles rise.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.
Oliver stood up. ‘I asked her to come,’ he said with a touch of defiance. ‘I thought it would be a good idea for you two to meet after all this time.’
‘Oh, you did, did you?’ Violet stared at her son. Blood surged, ringing in her ears. Between him and her mother, she felt cornered, like an animal.
Her mother rose to her feet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise … Oliver told me you were expecting me …’
‘No,’ Violet said. ‘No, I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘I suppose I’d better go—’
‘I think that would be best.’
‘No! You don’t have to leave, Grandmother.’ Oliver faced Violet. ‘I want her to stay.’
Violet recognised his father in his blazing eyes. Oliver had never spoken to her in that tone before. Fear clenched her stomach. Her mother had come, and she had brought Victor Dangerfield’s spirit with her.
‘If your mother doesn’t want me here—’ Dorothy Tanner started to say. Violet turned on her.
‘Oh no, of course you must stay, if that’s what Oliver wants!’ She spat out the words.
Just at that moment Mrs Morgan came in with a tea tray, breaking the tension.
‘Here you are, ducks,’ she said. Violet noticed the wary look she gave Dorothy Tanner as she set the tray down.
‘Thank you, Mrs M.’ Mrs Morgan turned back towards the door, but Violet called her back. ‘Won’t you join us?’
‘Well, I—’ Mrs Morgan shot a quick look at Dorothy. ‘I wouldn’t want to intrude if you’ve got company?’
‘Nonsense, I insist.’ Violet pleaded with her silently. She badly needed an ally. Left alone with Oliver and her mother, she wasn’t sure what she would do.
Fortunately, Mrs Morgan seemed to understand her unspoken terror. She seated herself with an uneasy smile at Dorothy Tanner.
Violet’s mother said nothing, but her mouth was pressed into a tight line of disapproval.
The atmosphere was tense around the tea table. Oliver and his grandmother made stilted conversation. Mrs Morgan did her best to join in where she could, while Violet stared into the flames of the fire and remained obstinately silent. She knew she was acting like a sulky child but she couldn’t help herself. It was late, she was tired and she wanted to go to bed. Besides, she hadn’t asked Dorothy Tanner to come here, and she had no intention of making her welcome. The sooner she left, the better.
But all the while, the sound of her mother’s voice unnerved her, bringing back memories. Her laughter made Violet think of happier times, before Victor came into her life, when she had been secure in her mother’s love. She had to keep reminding herself over and over what Dorothy had done, how she had treated her. Anything to keep up the barrier between them.
‘You have a lovely house, Violet,’ her mother made another attempt at conversation, looking round her. ‘Really quite charming.’
‘It belongs to Mrs Morgan,’ Violet replied sullenly, not looking at her. ‘We needed somewhere to live when we came back to London, and she was kind enough to take us in,’ she added, hoping the point was not lost on her mother.
Mrs Morgan waved away the compliment. ‘I like having the company,’ she said.
‘You should have seen some of the places we’ve had to live in over the years,’ Violet went on. She saw her mother wince but she wanted to hurt her. ‘Filthy hovels, some of them, with bugs crawling up the walls and neighbours stealing from us. Oliver used to suffer terribly with bronchitis every winter because of the damp. One year he even ended up in hospital. We weren’t sure if he would even survive, his chest was so bad.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ her mother said stiffly, not meeting her eye.
‘Are you?’ Violet said. ‘Are you really?’
‘Mother!’ Oliver protested.
‘Where do you live, Mrs Tanner?’ Mrs Morgan interrupted them.
‘Over the river in Camberwell.’
‘Camberwell, eh? Very nice,’ Mrs Morgan commented approvingly. �
��You’ve got lodgings there, have you?’
‘Actually, I’m a live-in housekeeper for a well-to-do family.’
‘Fancy that. Did you hear that, Violet?’
‘Only the best for my mother,’ Violet murmured.
Her mother turned to her. ‘Like you, I was lucky to find somewhere,’ she said. ‘My house was bombed during the Blitz.’
‘Bombed out, eh? That was bad luck,’ Mrs Morgan said.
‘I was out shopping at the time. Queuing up to buy fish, would you believe? If there hadn’t been such a long wait I might have been in the house when it happened.’
‘Well, bless me! So shortages had their good side, after all!’ Mrs Morgan chuckled. ‘Did you hear that, Violet? Lucky thing, wasn’t it?’
Violet stared back at her. What was wrong with them all? Even Mrs Morgan seemed to have fallen under her mother’s spell.
‘My mother always falls on her feet,’ she muttered.
Mrs Morgan picked up the teapot. ‘This is empty,’ she said. ‘I’ll make us a fresh pot, shall I? Oliver, love, help me with the tray, will you? Give your mum and your gran a chance to have a talk properly.’
Violet watched them go, seized with panic. She caught Mrs Morgan’s eye as she closed the door behind them. Talk to her, her look said.
But that was easier said than done. Fourteen years and a chasm of bitterness lay between them.
Violet went on staring at the door long after it had closed, unable to bring herself to look at her mother.
Dorothy cleared her throat. ‘Oliver is a fine young man,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes,’ Violet said. ‘Yes, he is.’
‘He was telling me he has a place at Oxford next year, to study medicine? He must take after his father—’
‘No!’ Violet turned on her angrily. ‘No, he doesn’t take after his father. I’ve made sure of that.’
Her mother looked taken aback. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘I don’t care what you meant. Don’t even speak that man’s name in this house.’
‘I – I beg your pardon.’ Dorothy retreated into hurt silence.
Violet turned to her, her tension spilling over. ‘Why have you come, Mother?’ She voiced the question that had been preying on her mind night after night.
The Nightingale Christmas Show Page 9
