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

by Nadine Dorries

  ‘You haven’t got a spare one in that tin have you, Dad?’ asked Rex, his face a picture of hope as Bertie lit up. Bertie sighed, looked in his tin, extracted a Rizla, shredded some tobacco into the fold and handed it over.

  ‘Here, roll it yourself.’

  Rex’s eyes lit up.

  The pint arrived, the money was scooped up by the barman and Bertie took a much anticipated and very long pull. Rex lit the cigarette and failed to say thank you.

  ‘Our Gracie said she saw you this morning, down at Lovely Lane. It’s going on a long time that job, isn’t it?’

  Bertie would rather not have engaged in conversation, but it appeared that Rex had other ideas. ‘She did that, she makes a lovely cup of tea, does our Gracie.’

  Rex snorted. ‘Someone wants to tell our Gracie, charity begins at home. I’d have to pay her to get her to make me a drink in our house; either that or beg, she has no heart that girl. All about her mam and the kids, she is. I may not as well exist.’

  Bertie tugged on his cigarette and blew the smoke towards Rex. He wondered if Gracie ever wished that Rex didn’t exist, because as shameful a thought as it was, he knew he did. He tried to think of something that Rex had ever done that was useful and nothing at all came to mind. He blamed Ida for spoiling him when he was a kid.

  ‘Well, she makes tea for us in work and I suppose she is paid to make it. She can turn out a nice cake, too,’ said Bertie as he smoothed the pages of the newspaper flat with the edge of his palm.

  Rex looked hurt and Bertie felt guilty. ‘She’s never made a cake for me.’ He was a man who was more stupid than he was unthinking and Bertie knew that and felt filled with shame. His evening was not going as he planned. ‘Did you get to speak to her then?’ asked Rex. ‘Did she tell you about the woman she keeps seeing hanging around the nurses’ home and the hospital? She thought she must be a mate of me mam’s because she saw them walking together through the back gate of the hospital the other night.’

  Bertie flicked the page over, he was only halfway down the obituaries, already disappointed that he hadn’t yet come across anyone he knew. After the obituaries, he would move on to the football. Often keen to read even the first few lines as soon as the paper landed in his hands, he never succumbed to his own temptation. He saved the best until last. It was a mark of his strength of character that only Bertie knew about and appreciated. The best until last, when he was sat in the pub, his pint in one hand, his cigarette in the other and the football pages laid out before him. That was as close as Bertie could get to heaven on earth – and right now, his own son, the laziest man in the neighbourhood, was spoiling his moment. He glanced up, irritated.

  ‘No, Gracie never said anything to me other than would I like her to fill up the sugar bowl in our hut.’ Bertie looked back down at his paper. He hoped his tone had been sharp enough to deflect any further questioning, but Rex was having none of it. He had come to the pub to talk and a man of very few manners, he ploughed on.

  ‘I thought it’s nice that my mam had a friend now. It’s not like she’s Mrs Popular, is it?’

  Bertie took a deep breath. He had read the same lines three times. He had been out of sorts since Ida had left the house, had felt as though there was a stone in his gut since she’d told him she had written the letter of complaint about the abandoned baby because it didn’t feel right. He had seen Mrs Duffy with the baby boy when he was at work and she acted as kindly and with as much affection and pride as any grandmother would have. His Ida wasn’t Mrs Popular and she wasn’t Mrs Nice either – and he felt a strong sense that this time Ida had crossed the line in her interfering.

  ‘No, Rex, you’re right. Your mam isn’t Mrs Popular, in the same way, you aren’t Mr Hardworking and that poor wife of yours, God love her, she must be the most hard done to and unluckiest woman in the dock streets to have got herself married to a lazy git like you.’

  Ida might be meddlesome and unpopular, but when it came down to it, she was his Ida and he would have to undo the harm she had done. Tomorrow, he was going to get her to write another letter to the children’s services. He saw the baby every day and despite his grumbles, he was a well looked after little lad. He could not deny that and he could not stand by and see Mrs Duffy heartbroken either. He would tell Ida how unhappy he was with her letter and to try and undo any harm she had caused. He placed the lid back on his tobacco tin, picked up his pint and looked around the bar. The corner of the bench seat was free.

  ‘There’s a draught coming through that door. I’m off to sit by the fire,’ he said and before Rex could say another word, he had moved. As he finally settled into his paper, he realised he couldn’t concentrate and it wasn’t just the letter Ida had written that was bothering him, or his son, grumbling in the corner and cadging a pint from an unsuspecting stranger who had just walked in. And then he remembered. He had seen a woman himself at the park gates, across the road to the nurses’ home; she had been there every morning when he arrived. Bertie had noticed her because he was always the first to arrive and he had to wait for Mrs Duffy to open the side gate for him after he rang the bell to let her know he was there. Was that the woman Ida was friendly with? Ida wasn’t really friendly with anyone. Even her daughters avoided visiting whenever they could.

  Bertie moaned – all he wanted was a quiet life – and making complaints to the authorities didn’t seem to him like a good way to go about achieving that. He sensed something bad might come about as a result of Ida’s interfering. ‘What’s up with that woman?’ he muttered to himself as, giving up, he neatly folded his newspaper.

  ‘Another pint over there, Bertie?’ called out the barman above the noise.

  Bertie slipped his tobacco tin back into his pocket. ‘Not tonight, I’m off back to our house,’ he shouted back, and made his way back home along the edge of the Mersey and wondered why Ida had to make his life so complicated.

  *

  Eva sat in her room on her bed and turned the pages of the Echo the librarian had given her a spare copy of to take away. ‘We keep ten of each one, just in case someone wants one, so go on, take it.’ As she turned each page, it felt like a lead weight as she struggled to take in the words, while still able to breathe. Her son had been almost dead by the time he had been found. The police were involved, the case left open – and they were still searching for the mother. She read every last word again as she’d done every evening and when she had finished, she composed herself. No, there was no road to redemption. Only one way forward. She would have to summon every ounce of bravery she had but it would be no hardship. At the end of it, her son would be in her arms and he would, once more, be her own.

  Chapter 13

  Mavis Tanner, Doreen and Mrs Duffy were in the kitchen in Lovely Lane nurses’ home, scrubbing down the large square pine table, ready to start the WVS baking that had had to be postponed because so many people were down with colds and flu.

  ‘They were all on earlies today, so no one to help me to clean down after breakfast,’ said Mrs Duffy, apologising regardless of the fact that none were necessary.

  ‘Didn’t our Pammy help?’ asked Mavis.

  ‘Your Pammy always helps, they all do. I’ve never had such good probationers to look after.’

  Mavis rinsed her cloth out under the tap and looked delighted with Mrs Duffy’s answer. ‘What about Gracie? Where’s she?’ she asked over her shoulder.

  ‘Gracie is turning out all the bedrooms. I’ve told her to get the beds out from the wall and give them a good brush and mop behind – that should keep her occupied and out of my hair until it’s time to go up to the hospital and do her stint on outpatients.’

  ‘Mrs Duffy!’ Doreen looked cross. ‘You mustn’t be mean to Gracie, she’s a hard little worker.’

  Mrs Duffy looked sheepish, but was unrelenting. ‘Doreen, I don’t need her. I manage very well. Didn’t I just say, I have the best nurses to look after, anywhere? This is their home while they are with me. They don’t want stran
gers poking about in their things.’ She was as aware as anyone of how ungracious she sounded and felt cross with herself. She had no explanation as to why she resented Gracie as much as she did.

  Mavis changed the subject. ‘I’m surprised our Pammy is a good help, to be honest, her head is so full of her and her Anthony. I swear to God, they’ll end up married those two.’

  Mrs Duffy beamed with pleasure. ‘A wedding, and to a doctor too! Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Doreen?’

  Doreen was in the fridge, removing packs of butter. ‘It would,’ she said, ‘only if I get to be bridesmaid, though. That’s me, always the bridesmaid, never the bride.’

  Mrs Duffy gave Doreen a second glance; something was wrong. ‘Are you feeling all right, Doreen?’ she asked her.

  ‘Oh aye, I’m just fine,’ said Doreen and she loaded her arms and closed the fridge door. ‘Never mind me, what I want to know is why is Mrs Gaskell coming here today?’

  ‘Oh, that’s my fault,’ said Mavis, ‘I invited her.’

  Mrs Duffy was in the larder, bending her knees as she picked up the huge flour bin with two hands and walked with it, banging against her thighs, back into the kitchen which was a hive of activity. Doreen walked over to the Roberts’ radio on the sideboard and began to fiddle with the dial.

  ‘There’s going to be a Christmas party and then a christening for Victoria and Roland’s baby before we have a wedding,’ said Mavis who was laying out enamel baking trays on the sideboard. ‘I couldn’t make these cakes in my house, even if I wanted to because I’ve got four dresses on the go and a tailor’s dummy stood half-dressed in the larder for the party of the year. No wonder our Stan never comes home and spends all his night in the pub – there’s nowhere safe for him to sit without getting a pin stuck in his backside.’

  ‘Have you had your invite, Mrs Duffy?’ asked Doreen.

  ‘I have and I’ve decided I’ll be going on the train with Emily and Dessie. Biddy is having Louis at her own house – he’s staying there overnight and Elsie is going to help her. Dessie has booked us into a little pub, just down the lane from the Davenports’ house and I’m so excited. It’s a little holiday, and just before Christmas, too.’

  Mavis frowned. ‘Well, I hope it keeps fine for you. You know what the weather can be like over there – they’re right by the moors and it can turn awful nasty in an instant.’

  Music began to fill the air, crackling at first but then it rose to fill the kitchen.

  ‘Doreen, how do I get that back onto the world news when you’ve gone?’ said Mrs Duffy, frowning.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Doreen grinning, ‘I’ll do it for you. Now, you never answered my question, why is Mrs Gaskell coming here today? I’m sure she’s not your best friend, Mavis, so who asked you to invite her?’

  Mavis was now back at the table and she could just about reach the centre of the table if she stretched long and hard and flicked her cloth with the end of her fingers. ‘There, gotcha,’ she said as she scattered errant bread crumbs towards her. ‘Emily Horton did, almost put my arm up my back. She said it would be a good thing if we asked Dr Gaskell’s wife to get more involved in things and I have no idea why. I mean, I’ve never even heard Emily mention the woman’s name before, have you?’

  Mrs Duffy looked slightly put out. She was close to Emily, was virtually Louis’ surrogate grandmother and Emily ran most things past her. ‘I have to say, I’m very surprised she didn’t say anything to me. The first I heard was when Dessie mentioned it this morning.’

  Mavis placed her hands on her hips and sighed. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Mrs Duffy? I suppose I should have asked first, I just assumed Emily would have.’

  Mrs Duffy placed a pile of brass weights on the wooden table. ‘Well, I’m not putting up with any lah-di-dah, just because she’s a doctor’s wife.’

  ‘Nor me, said Mavis as she lifted down the heavy set of brass scales from the shelf. ‘The amount we have got on between now and Christmas, there’s no room for any more parties or big ideas. I told Emily, she needs to sit on Matron if she comes up with any of her fancy notions. The drinks party went straight to her head and I don’t just mean the sherry. We have the carol concert. One member of staff with a voice like a nightingale and she thinks we can all sing like angels. I thought the mince pie and sherry evening in her flat for all the doctors and their wives was enough, oh but no, not Matron. She wants a cake sale at the WVS the week before Christmas now and sherry and mince pies giving out to everyone at the concert – and have you noticed, there is one theme running through all of this: bleeding cakes and baking – and who makes them all? Muggins here. And you, I couldn’t manage without you lot of course.’

  Mavis lifted her apron out of her wicker basket which stood on the draining board, gave it a flick and began to fasten the ties around her waist. ‘Right, well, Mrs Gaskell, she’s already late and I haven’t got time to waste. Let’s get cracking on the mini Christmas cakes for the WVS.’

  Mrs Duffy was already peeling the greaseproof paper from the butter.

  ‘That’s a shame. I hope she still comes, I was looking forward to meeting her myself,’ said Doreen.

  Mavis lifted the bags of dried fruit from her own basket. ‘Well, I was myself when I went to knock on her door,’ said Mavis. ‘I have to say, she’s not one of us. Very timid, I would say. Like a frightened mouse she was when she answered the door – and you know, Madge thought it was very odd when I told her Emily had asked me to call on her. I got the feeling Madge knew something, but she wasn’t letting on.’

  ‘Madge, not letting on?’ said Mrs Duffy. ‘Are you kidding – she can’t hold her own water that one; why Matron has her in charge of the switchboard, I’ll never know.’

  ‘I’ve though that many a time,’ said Mavis. ‘It’s because she can put a voice on, not like us, eh. Where’re the glacé cherries, Mrs Duffy? And will someone put that flamin’ dog outside? He’s just nearly had the butter.’ Scamp was as familiar with the terminology ‘flamin’ dog’ as he was his true name and in a streak of grey and flying hair, he left the kitchen in a flash with the butter paper hanging from his teeth. ‘What am I going to grease the trays with now!’ shouted Mavis, giving chase.

  *

  Doris Lillian May Gaskell stood on the steps of the nurses’ home and stared at the brass knocker of the front door. The unfriendly looking and gleaming lion’s head glared at her. Her heart was pounding in her chest like a trapped bird. She could hear the sound of music and laughter and a loud shout and no matter how hard she tried, her hand would not move from her side to lift the large knocker. She had found it impossible to refuse Mavis Tanner when she had knocked on her front door, but saying she would help in the safety of her own kitchen was one thing, being out here now, in this strange and unfamiliar setting, was another altogether. She turned as she heard the squeal of the brakes on the bus and thought of running down the steps and jumping on, but then, what would she say to him when she got home and he asked her why she hadn’t gone, after saying she was? She felt beads of perspiration on the back of her neck, her hands wringing in front of her.

  ‘Do it,’ she said to herself, ‘just do it.’

  She stared again at the knocker and then at the bell pull – and although it was only inches away from her, it could have been miles. Her hands and arms felt like lead. She heard the laughter from inside rise and float out around her. It should have sounded welcoming; instead it felt intimidating and threatening. She had thought it would be only Mavis waiting for her, but there were definitely four or five voices inside. She almost jumped out of her skin as she heard the sound of metal banging and, looking to the side, she saw a young girl, emptying a metal pail of rubbish into a bin.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Just turn the handle, the door isn’t locked during the day.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Gaskell, ‘it’s my first time here and I, er…’ She looked around for a reason why she had been staring at the door knocker like a madwoman. ‘I-
I know the little boy, Louis, is here quite often and I didn’t want to wake him.’

  Gracie placed the pail and dustpan on the ground and walked towards her. ‘Oh, well, his pram is always in that room there,’ she pointed to the window on the right of the doorway, ‘or because Mrs Duffy likes him to get lots of fresh air, since they began the building at the back, he’s often on the top of the steps out here. To be honest with you, nothing ever wakes him up.’ Gracie laughed at just the thought of Louis. ‘He’s a little terror,’ she said as she reached the steps.

  Neither of them turned at the sound of a small cough from behind the hedge, thinking it was just someone walking towards the park. Gracie looked at Mrs Gaskell and then at the door and, walking up the steps, opened the door for her.

  ‘Here you go. I’ll come in with you.’ Gracie walked on ahead. ‘Mrs Duffy, you have a visitor,’ she called out.

  Mrs Gaskell was rooted to the spot; her feet still wouldn’t move and her heart beat like a runaway train. Her eyes filled with tears and she felt ridiculous, childish, trapped. Do it, move your feet a voice screamed in her head. She felt physically sick. God, was this who and what she had become? Where was the carefree, beautiful young woman who had walked down the aisle all those years ago? The young woman who had happily given up her job at the Blue Star Line offices down on the docks to raise her family.

  ‘I’m going to become a lady of leisure,’ she had laughed when she had handed her notice in. And that was what she had done. So much leisure, there were some days that felt as though they lasted for two and the hours that weighed so heavy she dragged herself through each one, never quite finishing the tasks she had set for herself, as she sat and waited for the time to pass. When had she become this pathetic specimen who didn’t even have the confidence to go outside the house, unless it was to places she knew well, like the butcher’s or the greengrocer’s? What morning had it been when she no longer wanted to leap on the bus into town and go shopping, finding excuses to stay at home? She had persuaded herself so often that to go out of the house was an effort, to stay indoors a pleasure.