Snow Angels: An emotional Christmas read from the Sunday Times bestseller (The Lovely Lane Series Book 5)

by Nadine Dorries

  As she heard Louis shuffle restlessly in his pram, Emily licked her dry lips. No, she told herself, they were making progress. They would find common ground over a slice of heavenly cake and she would find the divine inspiration she needed to get out of this hole. She placed her hand on the wide leather arm to rise and make her way to the kitchen, then the next question hit her like a slap on the face.

  ‘Tell me,’ Miss Devonshire said, ‘I am very curious and I do have an official obligation to be satisfied with regard to your answer. You see, I am not satisfied and I am aware that you are not telling me the truth.’ She pinned Emily back onto the chair with just her look alone. ‘Just how is it you think you can continue to run the school of nursing at St Angelus and rear a child who has had such a dreadful start in life, given that the two roles are entirely incompatible and the one of childrearing, very much a full-time job? We do not allow working women to foster or to adopt – and giving up work was a condition of your having Louis. Mrs Horton, you have lied to us on your forms, and you knew you were lying, didn’t you?’

  Dessie rose from his chair as fast as a bullet from a gun. ‘I’ll go and make the tea and fetch the cake,’ he said.

  Emily rose just as fast. ‘Yes, I’ll, er, I’ll fetch the plates. She looked up at the Virgin Mary and, in her head, whispered, ‘Please, help me…’ as Miss Devonshire’s voice droned on. Then Emily laughed. It sounded like glass breaking. ‘Of course it is a perfectly reasonable question – and I haven’t lied at all. I have been trying to leave, honestly I have, but you know Matron and how busy the hospital is. Anyway, I’ll just make the tea, Miss Devonshire – these men, they like to think they can do everything as well as we can, don’t they?’ She let the door close tight behind her before Miss Devonshire could reply.

  Once she was in the kitchen Dessie hissed in an urgent whisper, ‘Emily, what the hell is going on? What does she mean, you’ve been lying? You have never given up work, you’ve never tried. Matron thinks they allowed you to work with Louis. Matron thinks it’s because you worked at the hospital and had such good medical knowledge and contacts that we were allowed to take him with so little fuss. Please tell me what’s going on. How do we get out of this?’ Emily stood, stock-still, one arm folded across her chest, the other, across her mouth as though trying to stem a flow of words wanting to rush out. ‘She’s quite obviously never going to buy us taking him into work for Biddy to look after and using Mrs Duffy and Elsie when you are stuck. She’s not the type to go for that in a month of Sundays.’

  Emily looked crestfallen. ‘I don’t know, I haven’t had time, I didn’t think of that one… Oh, Dessie I meant to give up work. I know I said to them that I would, but we’ve managed, haven’t we? And the time went so fast and it’s all working so well. I know there’s a bit of juggling but, he’s thriving on it.’

  Dessie looked into his wife’s face. Her eyes were darting around the kitchen as though expecting to find the answer to her dilemma in the tea caddy or the bread crock. ‘Emily, you are going to have to tell her and you are going to give up work or we are not going to be allowed to keep him. Did you think someone just like you was going to walk through that door? Someone with your imagination and energy and the work ethic of Matron? She has already questioned your character, as good as called you a liar.’

  Emily’s face fell; her colour drained away into her boots and her bottom lip wobbled. Dessie grabbed her by the elbows and looked into her face. ‘Emily, do not doubt yourself. You are one of those few rare people who knows how to save lives, to raise a child, heal the sick, to get things done. You have been looking after people and solving problems all your life. That woman in there? She has a list of rules she has written down in a book – she is nothing compared to you. But unless we tick every one of her blessed rules, she will not let us keep Louis, not even if we had a testimonial from the Pope himself, never mind Matron. You are going to have to tell her you have given up work and you will have to do it.’

  He let Emily go and wiped his brow with his hand as he broke out into a sweat. ‘God in heaven, she might take him with her now! You’ve lied to Matron and she may sack you anyway – and me into the bargain. Emily, what have you done?’

  Emily felt strangely strong in the face of Dessie’s meltdown, her own entirely forgotten. One of them had to be strong at all times, there was too much at stake. She squared her shoulders and walked over to the kitchen cupboard and took down Elsie’s large tin with a picture of a small boy with chestnut curls cuddling a golden labrador on the lid. She looked down at the smiling face of the boy and took a deep breath. It occurred to her suddenly that he looked just like Louis. We must get him a dog… the thought randomly flitted across her mind. She was used to dealing with a crisis, she would not let this one beat her. Chocolate would be her unbreakable sword of courage. She removed the lid from the tin and almost immediately, the kitchen filled with the intense aroma of dark and velvety cocoa. Emily smiled as her face transformed from panic to pleasure. It was like a drug.

  She looked defiantly at her husband and said, ‘I can’t and I won’t leave my job, Dessie. And I will not give up Louis either.’

  ‘Jesus wept.’ Dessie ran his hand through his hair and turned away from her to face the door. He had removed his cap to receive the visitor, an unusual event in itself as it only normally came off for bed. He felt exposed on a number of fronts. His heart tightened with fear as he realised how much little Louis already meant to him. He turned back to his wife. ‘Emily, you are going to have to lie again because we are in trouble here. Why didn’t you tell me and Matron that giving up work was a condition? Look at her, she is never going to let a working woman foster and adopt him. She will have him out of here and through the gates of Strawberry Fields in a flash.’

  Emily bit her lip. ‘Well, may God forgive me, because that is never going to happen. Not unless it’s over my dead body. Trust me, Dessie, I can sort this.’ She blessed herself, muttered a prayer and minutes later they both walked back into the parlour and laid two trays on the table, one laden with the teapot and cups, the other with the chocolate cake which Emily placed closer to Miss Devonshire. Emily noticed that Miss Devonshire couldn’t help herself – she leant forward and inhaled the smell of the chocolate. There was a particular type of woman of a certain age, who had become acquainted with a limited supply of chocolate, only to have it taken away from them throughout the war years and rationing and Emily had noticed that they were all the same, hooked on the magic of the cocoa bean. Chocolate was the drug of peacetime and there were some who couldn’t get enough of it, couldn’t resist it, would have sold a baby to get their hands on it…

  As Miss Devonshire inhaled, Emily noted the faint beginnings of a smile lift the corners of her mouth and her cheeks flushed slightly. Louis made urgent cooing noises in the pram – it was as if the aroma of cocoa had wafted over and slipped under the hood to alert him.

  ‘Here, let me cut you a nice big slice,’ said Emily as she crouched on her knees beside the table.

  The tip of the bone-handled knife pierced through the glazed chocolate and, as she slowly depressed it, shards of chocolate slivers tumbled onto the plate, then the cake itself broke to the pressure as the knife slipped down through the layers of moist, dark-chocolate sponge and whipped, cocoa-loaded buttercream. Emily could have wept with gratitude as she placed the cake slice onto her best Old Country Roses Royal Albert china, placed a floral-handled cake fork on the side and handed it to Miss Devonshire. Elsie, I love you, she thought as Miss Devonshire’s breath quickened, and a moistness appeared on her top lip.

  However, she was obviously a woman used to denying herself and metering out the pleasures in life. She teased herself, licked her lips, and in a slow and definite act of denial, placed the plate on her lap, lifted up her folder and said, ‘Now, let’s at least answer a few of these questions before we try this wonderful cake. I am very sorry to have to tell you that we have received a letter of complaint informing us that you hav
e been leaving the child with a variety of carers, that his upbringing is chaotic. That you have not given up work to care for the boy as agreed and you have even been seen out pushing the pram, late at night. Is this true?’

  ‘Louis,’ said Dessie, who was pouring the tea. ‘His name is Louis. Who was this letter from?’

  Emily glowered at Dessie whose tone was cold and controlled. She could see he was white with anger.

  ‘I’m sure you are both aware that the case of this little boy is known all over Liverpool. It was in the news, on the television. Not that I approve of that, but there are people out there who have written in from time to time enquiring about his welfare, concerned members of the public. Of course, we don’t give any details away in our replies, other than to say the boy is well cared for. It is obvious that someone has taken it upon themselves to ensure that all is above board, proper and correct.’

  Emily couldn’t help herself. She shot forward in her chair. ‘How dare they! There is no child more loved or cared for in Liverpool than Louis. He has more people looking out for him than you can imagine.’

  Miss Devonshire smiled. ‘I am very sure. However, we do have to satisfy ourselves that the conditions of adoption are met and we do require a certain level of integrity and honesty from our potential parents – and I am afraid to say that we do have an issue here regarding your statement that you had given up work and the facts as they are today. Mrs Horton, you do not comply with our basic criteria.’

  Emily lifted her teacup, sipped, took a breath, prayed to the statue of Mary bearing down on her from the wall above and let the steam provide a filter for her lie, a cover for her blushes. She swallowed hard. Her first visit in the morning would have to be to Matron’s office to tell her what she had done. The baby she already thought of as her own would not be abandoned a second time. She had to tell Matron that she had lied to her and would have to give up work that very day. If this dragon insisted that she had to give up her career as Sister Tutor in order to comply with the rules, then so be it. She had reached a wall.

  Emily was the one who had had her cake and eaten it. But it was a price she would have to pay and the person who would suffer as a result would be Louis. Not only did they need her money, but she was very sure Louis was the happy, bouncy well-adjusted baby boy he was because of all the external stimulation he enjoyed from the people who had supported her and Dessie in raising him. Emily placed her cup on the table as Miss Devonshire bit into the cake.

  ‘Oh, this is just delicious,’ she said. ‘Matron’s housekeeper you say? She knows her cake.’

  Emily smiled and rose to meet the impatient call of the child she now thought of as their son. They were both so full of love for him, it exhaled on their breath and filled the room. It ran through their veins and rested deep in their heart as much as it would have for any child they had conceived and given birth to.

  ‘I’ll help,’ said Dessie. ‘You can meet the most important person in the house, now,’ he joked, his voice brittle as he followed Emily but Miss Devonshire wasn’t listening as she heaped another fork of chocolate cream into her mouth.

  ‘What a waste of cake,’ Emily hissed to him.

  ‘And what a whopping lie you told,’ he whispered back as she scooped Louis up into her arms, his gurgles of delight masking their voices. ‘I can’t believe you lied to Matron. You will have to confess, first thing in the morning. Emily, what were you thinking of?’

  Emily lifted Louis who began to jump up and down in her arms and, throwing his arms out to Dessie, made excited squealing noises of sheer pleasure.

  ‘You may just get away with this, but you will need Matron on your side and this affects all of us, our family,’ mouthed Dessie as he grinned at Louis to distract him. ‘Come on, little fella, does that nappy need changing? I can do it as well as make the tea, can’t I? Your da is a man of many talents,’ he said in a voice loaded with a false brightness.

  Emily looked crestfallen, her shoulders slumped. She had let them all down. When they had first brought Louis home, children’s services had been delighted, almost no questions asked, but she did remember the final paragraph on the form and her final conversation with Mrs Casey, where she promised to give up work. She remembered the conversation with Matron, the day she lied and told Matron that Mrs Casey was happy for her to continue working. Her fingers had been crossed behind her back – but, right now, that gave her no comfort. The words on the forms she had signed, swam before her eyes, all adoptive mothers are expected to devote themselves fully to the raising of the adopted child. No adoption can be approved in a home where a mother works either full- or part-time, not even for pin money.

  Emily remembered the words ‘pin money’.

  At the time they had brought him home, Matron had sorted it all, answered all the awkward question, attended the interviews with the police and children’s services had been only too happy not to have to deal with such a high-profile case. This meeting was a very different to the ones only a year ago.

  ‘Who wrote that letter of complaint, Dessie? His – his real mother?’

  He could see her mind working and shook his head in despair. ‘No! Not his real mother, Emily, because she’s here, looking after him, charming the snake sitting in our parlour eating Elsie’s chocolate cake who thinks we aren’t good enough.’

  Emily grabbed at his sleeve, a look of desperation in her eyes. ‘But Dessie, who else could it be? Do you really believe that people have been writing and asking about him? Mrs Casey was always so nice and she never said that. I-I feel as though I’m being watched.’

  Dessie transferred Louis to his side and wrapped the boy’s legs around his waist. His hair had only just begun to grow. They had joked that he would be in his first cap before he could walk or visit a barber. Emily reached out and stroked back the thin and fine curling tufts of hair that were beginning to cover his scalp.

  ‘He’s my son,’ she looked up to Dessie with tears in her eyes, ‘and someone is trying to get him taken from us. It must be her.’

  Dessie threw his free arm around his wife and almost violently pulled her into him. ‘Emily, he’s our son and no one is taking him anywhere.’ He kissed the top of her head and hugged his wife hard again and then let her go. ‘Come on, pull yourself together now, we have a job to do. We will both go and see Matron in the morning and ask her what we should do. The worst of this is the complaint. But he’s ours and he’s staying here with us.’

  Emily extracted a handkerchief from inside her sleeve, blew her nose hard and, taking hold of her son’s foot, blew a raspberry on his toes, made him giggle with delight.

  ‘I’m fine, I’ve had my wobble,’ she said and Dessie knew what she meant. His Emily was strong and able, but fell down her own emotional manholes every now and then and he had seen it happen so often, he knew just what to do. His job was to pull her back up. She smiled up at him and his heart stopped racing with fear.

  ‘Thank God for that. Tell you what, when that one has gone and this is over, I’m off to the pub and I’ll bring us back a pint and a gin and orange to have in with our tea.’

  ‘Ssshhh,’ said Emily with her finger on her lips and a smile she could not suppress – and grinning, Dessie called out in a falsely bright voice and with a wink to his Emily, ‘Here we go. Here’s our little Louis and he’s dying to meet you!’ He walked ahead of Emily into the parlour, saying, ‘Right then, Louis, you come along and meet Mrs Duke.’

  *

  Bertie arrived at the pub ten minutes earlier than usual, buoyed up by the extra ten shillings in his pocket and the knowledge that Ida wouldn’t be back until the morning. He was free. No wife to nag him and no Dessie on his back, just him and his pint and his paper. Sometimes life wasn’t too bad at all. As soon as he opened the bar door, he was dismayed to see Rex, his own son, a lazy man who feigned illness and lived off his daughter’s benevolence and his wife’s understanding, sitting at the end of the bar in Bertie’s usual. Bertie was ashamed of Rex. He w
as a man who begged pints from others, something Bertie had never done and he had never put his hand in his pocket for anyone else. Rex caught Bertie’s eye before he had a chance to slip around to the other end of the bar.

  ‘Dad, how’s me mam? Off down the hospital on her night shift, is she? I told our Gracie today, get Matron to give you more hours, queen. We could do with a bit extra in the bread bin. I said, ask your nan, she’ll sort it.’

  The area around Rex was clear and, as a consequence, the remainder of the stools further down the bar were full. Another source of shame to Bertie – his son was shunned by local men. Bertie wasn’t the only one who preferred to avoid him. Reluctantly, Bertie slipped onto the only vacant stool, placed his folded copy of the Echo on the bar and called out to the barman, but didn’t ask for his drink by name. He didn’t need to. The barman nodded his head in acknowledgement and Bertie knew his pint would appear by his side shortly.

  ‘Doesn’t our Gracie work enough hours?’ said Bertie. ‘She’s still only a kid. I see her in the nurses’ home every morning and Ida tells me she’s up in the clinics in the afternoon.’

  Rex sipped at his almost empty pint, his belly protruding out over the top of the belt of his trousers and barely contained by the fabric of his stretched shirt, the recently relocated buttons as close to the edge as they could now sit. Rex swallowed the last dregs in his pot and peered pointedly into the bottom as he placed it on the bar with an exaggerated thud.

  ‘Aye, well, she could do a few in the evening as well. She’s only helping her mam with the tea for the kids and the dishes when she’s at home and that doesn’t bring anything in through the door, does it? She knows I can’t work with my back, can I, Dad?’

  Bertie swivelled the bar stool so that it slightly faced away from Rex and opened the Echo out onto the page with the football news. He removed his tobacco tin from his jacket pocket and extracted a roll-up he had made before he left the house, just for this purpose and then counted out the change for his pint and laid it on the counter in a neat pile of pennies with a silver sixpence on top.