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Epub ISBN: 9781473539457
Version 1.0
Published by Cornerstone Digital 2016
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A Child is Born Copyright © Donna Douglas, 2013
A Nightingale Christmas Wish Copyright © Donna Douglas, 2014
Little Girl Lost Copyright © Donna Douglas, 2015
Nightingales Under the Mistletoe Copyright © Donna Douglas, 2015
Donna Douglas has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Cornerstone Digital
First published in the USA in 2016 by Del Rey
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
CHRISTMAS EVE 1936 was the foggiest night anyone could remember.
A deadening grey pall hung over the streets of Bethnal Green, dense, cold and carrying a metallic tang from the factory chimneys. People inched through it, bumping into each other on the shrouded streets, their heads down, faces muffled in scarves and coat collars to keep the damp air off their chests. No one wanted a bout of bronchitis for Christmas.
A real pea souper, Sydney Allen thought to himself as he nosed his trolley bus through the sparse evening traffic along Burdett Road towards Mile End, hunched over the wheel, peering into the gloom. Thank God it was his last run before he clocked off for Christmas.
He was looking forward to getting home, that was for sure. His missus would have a good fire going, and the kettle on, and she’d be fussing around getting the house straight for Christmas. The kids would be excited too. Bless them, they’d hardly slept for a week. They’d set their heart on Father Christmas bringing them a bike, and Sydney had been worried he might not be able to afford it, but his mate on the bins had come up trumps with an old one someone had chucked out. Sydney had spent the last month putting it together and polishing it up in his mate’s back yard, and now it was as good as new. He couldn’t wait to see the kids’ faces when they clapped eyes on it.
Not long to go now, he thought, as he turned on to Mile End Road. Some people had started their Christmas early, judging by the laughter and festive sing-song coming from behind him. The brightly lit interior of the trolley bus was full to bursting, standing room only, but no one seemed to mind. They were all just grateful to be warm and cosy and heading home. A few sounded the worse for wear as they joined in with the chorus of ‘Silent Night’.
‘Silent Night? We should be so lucky, the row you lot are making!’ the conductor complained, but next minute he was joining in, getting into the Christmas spirit.
Sydney grinned to himself and started humming under his breath. Not long now. Just a little way down the Mile End Road, then a right turn towards Stepney Green station, and they’d all be home …
Suddenly, his headlamps picked out a woman standing on the pavement waiting to cross the road, the fog swirling around her. She had her head down, her coat pulled tight. Afterwards he had no idea what made him do it. Perhaps it was ten years of driving trolley buses in East London that had given him an instinct, but without thinking he slammed on the brakes, just as the woman stepped off the kerb straight into his path.
He heard swearing and shouts of outrage behind him as the passengers tumbled around inside the trolley bus. But he barely noticed them, as he sat shaking behind the wheel, his eyes shut tight in fear of what lay ahead of him.
‘I HOPE IT’S a quiet night tonight.’
Helen stood at the mirror, fastening her collar stud ready for her night duty. ‘It’s always awful when someone is rushed in on Christmas Eve, isn’t it? You can’t help thinking of their families, and how they must be feeling.’
She glanced at the reflection of her room mate Jennifer Ryan. She sat cross-legged on the bed, studying her face in the mirror of her powder compact. Unlike Helen, Jennifer had finished her duty for the day and was getting ready to go out and celebrate Christmas with her friends.
Helen gave up waiting for a reply and turned back to her reflection to adjust her starched collar. She had only recently moved into the nurses’ home after passing her State Finals, and she was still getting used to it.
Not that Staff Nurse Ryan made it any easier for her. It wasn’t that she was particularly unfriendly. She just seemed to act as if Helen didn’t exist.
She tried again. ‘I suppose it must be even sadder for you on Parry ward? All those children away from their families at Christmas?’
Jennifer shrugged. ‘Sister Parry does her best to make it special for them.’
Helen waited for her to continue, but she went back to powdering her face. Helen sighed. And she thought she was the shy one!
She decided to make one final stab at conversation.
‘Will you be working tomorrow? Or are you one of the lucky ones, going home to your family?’
Jennifer scowled back at her over her mirror. ‘I’m working. Thank God,’ she murmured under her breath, so quietly Helen wondered if she’d imagined it.
‘I suppose I’ll be sleeping through most of it, if we’re busy tonight.’ Not that it bothered Helen too much. She would happily have given the whole of Christmas a miss, if she could.
This was her first Christmas without Charlie. She still missed him terribly, but she forced herself to look forward, not back, because she knew it was what he would have wanted.
All the same, she knew this Christmas would be a test for her. She dearly wished she had her friends around her. Her old room mates Millie and Dora would have cheered her up. Helen missed their laughter, and the way they helped each other through so much heartache. She would have loved to go on sharing a room with them for ever, but they were still students and she was now a qualified Staff Nurse.
She smiled, thinking about how excited they would be as Christmas approached. No doubt Millie would have decorated their chilly attic room with paper chains by now, in defiance of the Home Sister. She would have hidden presents for Dora and Helen under her bed, and it would be all they could do to stop her bursting and telling them what she’d bought. Darling Millie, she always said she preferred giving gifts to receiving them.
Talking of giving … Helen suddenly remembered the post she’d picked up that morning.
‘I almost forgot. A card arrived for you.’ She went to her drawer to fetch it.
Jennifer looked up sharply. ‘For me?’
‘I picked it up with my letters this morning. Mr Hopkins insisted I should take it. He said you hadn’t picked up your post in a few days?’
She handed it over. It felt thick, like a Christmas card. Perhaps it would cheer Jennifer up, she thought.
Jennifer didn’t take it at first. She just sat there on the bed, staring down at the cream envelope. Then, finally, she snatched it from Helen’s hand, glanced at the writing, ripped it up and threw the pieces into the bin.
Helen stared at her in astonishment. ‘What did you do that for? You didn’t even see who it was from.’
‘I already know.’ Jennifer’s voice was flat. She clicked her compact shut and threw it in her bag, then gathered up her coat. ‘I’m going out,’ she said. ‘Good night.’
‘Good night. And happy Christmas …’ Helen started to say, but the door slammed shut.
Helen stared at the door, then her gaze dropped to the fragments in the bin. Who could have sent Jennifer a card that put her in such a bad mood, she wondered?
She shrugged. It was none of her business, anyway, she told herself as she pinned her cap in place, folding the starched fabric deftly so that not an inch of her dark hair was showing.
But all the time, she couldn’t stop thinking about that torn-up card in the bin. She knew it was none of her business, and that she shouldn’t look. But all the same …
Before she knew it, she was on her knees in front of the bin, picking out the pieces of card and putting them together like a jigsaw on the polished linoleum floor.
She thought it would be a Christmas card, but it wasn’t. It was a birthday card, covered in embossed roses. She dug around in the bin and found some more pieces, enough to put together the scrawled greeting inside: To Jenny, from your loving father.
‘I’ve forgotten my scarf, and I’m not going out in that fog without – what are you doing?’
Helen jumped guiltily at the sound of Jennifer’s voice. Jennifer stood in the doorway, her bag in her hand, quivering with outrage.
Helen jumped up. ‘I’m sorry, I was just looking—’
‘Snooping, you mean!’ Jennifer swooped into the room. Pushing past her, she bent down and gathered up the pieces of card. ‘You had no right. No right at all.’
‘I know … I’m sorry.’ Helen saw the flush of angry colour in Jennifer’s face and knew she’d made a terrible mistake. ‘I was just curious, that’s all.’
‘Well, don’t be.’ Jennifer straightened up and threw the pieces of card back into the bin.
She snatched up her scarf from the bed and headed for the door.
‘I didn’t know it was your birthday?’ Helen said.
Jennifer paused briefly in the doorway. ‘It isn’t,’ she said.
‘But the card—’
‘It’s a lie.’ Before Helen could say any more, Jennifer added sharply, ‘Shouldn’t you be reporting for duty? Miss Feehan won’t be pleased if you’re late.’
‘Oh Lord, you’re right.’ Helen jammed her feet into her stout black shoes and swung her thick navy-blue cloak around her shoulders. By the time she was ready, Jennifer had gone.
Helen hesitated, glancing at the bin. Far from making friends with her new room mate, she had a feeling she had just made things a lot worse.
AS SOON AS Helen arrived in Theatre, she realised that her hopes for a quiet, uneventful Christmas Eve were going to be dashed.
‘There’s been a trolley bus accident on the Mile End Road,’ Miss Feehan the Theatre Sister greeted her as she took off her cloak. ‘Several passengers hurt, most with shock and minor injuries; they’re being dealt with in Casualty. But a woman was run down.’
‘Oh no.’ Helen shuddered, despite the sweltering heat of the operating theatre. ‘How bad is she, Sister?’
‘She was very lucky. The driver saw her and managed to put the brakes on just in time. But she was pregnant, and she’s gone into labour. Mr Cooper is on his way down for an emergency caesarean. I need you to prep for him as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, Sister.’ Helen changed out of her heavy calico dress and into her Theatre uniform as quickly as she could, then set about preparing the tray of instruments that the consultant would need. She could only imagine Mr Cooper’s dismay at being summoned so late on Christmas Eve. She was surprised the senior consultant was on call, and not one of his registrars or housemen. Perhaps, like Helen, he thought he might get away with a quiet night.
She finished preparing the instruments and had just covered them with a sterile cloth when the patient arrived on a trolley, pushed by a porter and accompanied by Nurse Willard from Casualty.
‘She’s been shaved, and we’ve washed out her stomach, just in case,’ she said.
Helen looked down at the woman. She was short, stocky and dark-haired, with heavy, solid limbs and thick black brows that made her look as if she was frowning, even in repose. Her sallow skin had an ashen tinge and her wide lips were pale and cracked. ‘How long has she been unconscious?’ she asked.
‘Since she came in. Reckon she must have cracked her head when she went down in front of that trolley car.’ Nurse Willard winced. ‘It’s horrible when you think about it, isn’t it?’
‘It could have been a lot worse if that driver hadn’t managed to stop in time.’
‘I suppose you’re right. She was lucky, anyway. I don’t suppose she saw it coming until it was nearly on top of her, in this fog.’
‘Hmm.’ Helen ignored her as she fetched a basin of clean hot water and soap and briskly set about cleaning the woman’s abdomen before the operation. Penny Willard had a reputation as a chatterbox, and she couldn’t afford to waste any time. Mr Cooper wouldn’t be impressed if he arrived and found his patient unprepared while Helen stood gossiping.
Fortunately, Miss Feehan arrived and put a stop to it. ‘Don’t you have other patients to attend to, Nurse?’ she asked. ‘Dawson has work to do, even if you don’t.’
She shook her head as Nurse Willard slouched off. ‘Look at her,’ she tutted. ‘I’ve seen snails move faster. You wouldn’t think Casualty was packed to the rafters with the walking wounded, would you? How Sister Cas must despair of that girl!’
Helen rinsed off the soap, then purified the woman’s abdomen with warm carbolic lotion. She had just applied a perchloride compress when the consultant Mr Cooper swept in. Even in his surgical gown, a cap pulled over his black hair, he still looked like a matinee idol.
‘Thank you, Nurse.’ His blue eyes twinkled at her over his surgical mask. Unlike the other consultants, who tended to treat nurses as if they were no more than another piece of surgical equipment, he was always courteous to the people around him. ‘Right, let’s get this baby delivered, shall we?’
In spite of his confidence, it was a difficult operation. Helen could feel the tension in the room as Mr Cooper worked quickly, constantly checking with the anaesthetist that the woman’s vital signs weren’t dropping away. It was Helen’s job to act as intermediary between the scrubbed nurse and the non-sterile area of the operating theatre, and she found herself crossing her fingers for the poor woman’s safety as she watched the operation nervously from the other side of the Theatre.
It took Mr Cooper less than ten minutes to deliver the baby into the world. He emerged, blue-grey and furious, his tiny fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut, mouth wide open, screaming in protest.
‘At least we know there’s nothing wrong with his lungs!’ Mr Cooper beamed around at them. ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, it looks as if we might have delivered the Nightingale’s first Christmas baby.’
‘There’s still two hours to go until Christmas Day,’ Dr Little the anaesthetist reminded him. ‘We could deliver another half dozen before then.’
‘Good Lord, I hope not!’ Mr Cooper rolled his eyes. ‘My wife will be furious if I’m not home before midnight. I’ve had to abandon a drinks party in Kensington for this as it is.’
CHRISTMAS MORNING BROUGHT a great deal of excitement on Parry, the Children’s ward. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, Sister Parry had been gathering together bits and pieces for the children, and had fashioned stockings out of tubular bandages, which Miss Tanner the Night Sister had hung at the foot of each child’s bed during the night. There were exclamations of delight as the children woke up to their very own stocking stuffed with oranges, apples, treacle toffees, pencils, marbles and other marvels.
Meanwhile, the nurses on Parry had a Christmas gift of their own to ooh and aah over.
‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ One of the students, Katie O’Hara, sighed, rocking the new baby softly in her arms. ‘Such a little dote. We should call him Gabriel, because he looks like a little angel.’
‘Don’t let Sister hear you,’ Jennifer Ryan warned. ‘You know what she’s like about getting too attached to the children.’
‘She can’t mind us giving the little chap a name.’ Katie O’Hara planted a kiss on the baby’s downy brow. ‘We’ve got to call him something.’
‘No, but she’ll mind if she catches you cuddling him again,’ said Jennifer. ‘Put him back in his cot before she sees you, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Is there any news of his mother?’ another of the students asked.
Jennifer shook her head. ‘She still hasn’t recovered consciousness.’
They stood around the cot, each silent as they considered how grave the situation was.
‘Just think how happy she’ll be when she wakes up and finds out she has a baby son,’ Katie said brightly.
‘If she wakes up,’ someone else spoke the words they were all thinking.
Katie bent down and fussed with the baby’s blanket, tucking it in around him. ‘Imagine having your birthday on Christmas Eve,’ she mused, changing the subject. ‘He’ll get twice the presents.’
‘Or miss out completely,’ one of the students said grimly. ‘My brother’s birthday is on Boxing Day, and he’s forever complaining people only give him one present.’
‘He’s lucky he gets anything at all, with that attitude!’ Katie replied.
‘When you’ve stopped gossiping, perhaps you can all get on with your work?’ Jennifer cut them off sharply. ‘I know it’s Christmas, but there are still dressings to be changed and beds to be made.’
‘Hark at her,’ she heard Katie O’Hara complaining as she walked away. ‘Someone’s full of the festive spirit!’
They busied themselves for a couple of hours, then at ten o’clock Sister Parry summoned them all into her office for a cup of coffee and a nip of brandy. She distributed small gifts of soap and talcum powder to each of the nurses, and they in turn gave her the cigarette case they’d clubbed together to buy for her. Shortly afterwards, Mr Hopkins the Head Porter arrived on the ward dressed as Father Christmas, with yet more gifts for the children, generously donated by the Board of Trustees.
‘Look at them,’ Sister Parry whispered to Jennifer as they watched them excitedly tearing off wrapping paper and pulling at string. ‘Odd, isn’t it, that this might be the best Christmas some of the poor little beggars have ever had?’
‘Yes, Sister.’ Jennifer smiled. The brandy had made Sister Parry uncharacteristically sentimental. Once it wore off, she would be stalking down the ward, demanding that they clear up the mess.
Jennifer was off duty from one until five, so she left the students trying to quieten down the thoroughly overexcited children in time for their Christmas dinner, and headed off to the dining hall. There was a festive mood here, too, as the assembled nurses, some of them wearing paper hats over their caps, watched Mr Cooper applying his surgical skills to a turkey. Matron and some of the Board of Trustees were with them, taking pride of place at the Sisters’ table, so the merriment was more subdued than it might have been.
Afterwards, she was heading back to the nurses’ home to put her feet up when she spotted a familiar blue Wolseley parked outside. She stopped in her tracks and started to retreat back towards the main hospital building. But the driver had already seen her and was getting out of the car.
‘Jenny?’
She stopped, hearing the crunch of her father’s approaching footsteps on the gravel drive. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Can’t I come and visit you on your birthday?’ He sounded jovial.
Jennifer’s hands balled into fists at her sides. ‘It’s not my birthday,’ she said in a low voice.
‘It’s what your mother and I always considered to be your birthday. The day you came to us. The day our lives together began.’
‘Yes, but it’s not my real birthday, is it? Just like you’re not my real parents.’
‘Jenny!’ She sensed him flinch. ‘How can you say that?’
‘It’s the truth.’ She allowed herself to look at him. He had aged in the year since her mother – or the woman who called herself her mother – had died. He was no longer the tall, strong man she remembered as a child. He was stooped, his face thinner. Jennifer had to steel herself not to reach out to him.
He lied to you, she reminded herself. For twenty-five years, he has lied to you about everything – your name, where you came from, even your birthday is not real.
‘I’m your father,’ he said wearily. ‘I know it was a shock for you, finding out the way you did—’
‘A shock?’ A laugh escaped her. ‘You mean being told at your mother’s funeral by a relative you hardly know that you’re adopted?’
Geoffrey Ryan took off his hat and ran his hand over his balding head. He’d lost more hair in the last year, too. The wintry sunshine gleamed on his pale scalp.
‘It was wrong of us,’ he sighed. ‘We meant to tell you, we truly did. But we thought it would be best to wait until you were older. And then, as time went on, it became harder and harder to find the right time.’ He looked up at her, his eyes full of appeal. ‘We were so afraid that when you found out you would turn against us—’
‘And so it was easier to go on lying to me?’ Jennifer lashed out. ‘You were so selfish, so concerned with what you wanted, you didn’t think for a moment about me!’
‘That’s not true. We thought about you all the time. You were the centre of our world, right from the moment we first held you in our arms …’ His voice trembled with emotion. ‘All right, perhaps your mother didn’t give birth to you. But you were our baby in every other sense of the word. We couldn’t have cared for you or loved you more if you had been our flesh and blood.’
‘But I’m not,’ Jennifer said coldly.
Her father sighed. ‘Jenny, I wish you could find it in your heart to forgive us – to forgive me,’ he amended in a choked voice. ‘It’s not fair that you’re treating me like this. We need each other, especially now your mother has gone …’
‘You lied to me,’ Jennifer repeated. ‘My whole life has turned out to be a lie, and I can’t forgive you for that. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you.’
‘Jenny—’
‘Leave me alone, will you? Just leave me alone.’
She moved to step past him, but he held on to her arm. ‘Before you go, I want to give you this.’
He opened the car, reached into the back seat and pulled out a parcel, wrapped up in flowery wrapping paper and topped off with a flamboyant silky bow. Jennifer regarded it warily. ‘What is it?’
‘Call it a birthday present.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘Jenny, please—’
‘I told you, I don’t want it. I don’t want anything from you – except to be left alone!’ She shrugged him off and stomped off back towards the nurses’ home, slamming the door behind her.
She stood at the door, watching him through the leaded panes of coloured glass. The way his shoulders slumped in defeat, the parcel still in his hands, nearly broke her heart. And when he brought his hand up to his eyes to rub away his tears, she had to turn away to stop herself crying too.
She knew she was being harsh, but she was so hurt and angry she couldn’t help herself. A year ago her idyllic life had been turned upside down and she’d found out the people she loved and trusted most in the whole world had lied to her. Now, in the course of twelve months, she had become wary, suspicious and unable to trust anyone.
How was she supposed to forgive something like that?
‘WHAT ARE YOU doing here? You do realise the other staff nurses will give you hell if they find out you’ve been slumming it with us humble students?’
Helen laughed off her friend Dora’s teasing. ‘Fine, if you don’t want your Christmas presents, I’ll just go and give them to someone who’ll appreciate them—’
‘Oh no, if there are presents then I suppose we can let you off. What do you reckon, Benedict?’ Dora winked at Millie.
‘As long as she doesn’t go straight off and report us to Matron for daring to speak to her,’ Millie agreed.
It felt odd to be back in the attic room. The chill wind still whistled through the ill-fitting skylight window, and the floorboards still showed through a balding patch in the faded rug. But it was comforting to be back, and she settled cross-legged on her old bed in the corner, although the lumpy old mattress was bare on the iron bedstead.
‘You still haven’t been given a new room mate, then?’ she said.
‘No, thank God,’ Dora said with feeling, reaching up to open the skylight so she could light a cigarette. The Home Sister disapproved of smoking, and had once thrown a bucket of cold water over a student she had caught lighting up in her room.
‘We’re hoping Sister Sutton won’t remember we have a spare bed up here,’ Millie said. ‘It wouldn’t be the same sharing with anyone but you.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Helen replied gloomily. ‘My new room mate isn’t a bit like you.’
‘You mean she doesn’t leave her things lying all over the place like Benedict?’ Dora grinned, then dodged as Millie aimed a pillow at her.
‘What’s she like?’ Millie asked.
‘A bit odd, actually.’ Helen thought for a moment, trying to find the words to describe Jennifer. ‘Not unfriendly, exactly. Just very quiet.’
‘Sounds like bliss,’ Dora said, glancing at Millie.
Dora and Millie smoked their cigarettes as they talked about their Christmas on the wards. Dora was the luckiest. She was working on Male Orthopaedics, which always tended to be a lark. The patients were mostly young men with sports injuries, very lively and always up for a laugh. The ward was also run by Sister Blake, who, unlike many of the other ward sisters, was known for her sense of humour and kindness to her nurses.
‘But we’ve still been busy,’ Dora said. ‘We had a few emergency admissions last night, passengers who were injured when their trolley bus hit that woman. There were a couple of broken bones and a dislocated hip. Very nasty.’
‘Not as bad as that poor woman who ended up in front of it,’ Millie shuddered. ‘She still hasn’t recovered consciousness yet. The consultant reckons she must have sustained a nasty head injury.’
‘Does anyone know who she is yet?’ Helen asked.
Millie shook her head. ‘She had no bag or purse on her. No one has any idea who she is.’
‘It’s almost as if she didn’t want to be found,’ Dora remarked.
Millie frowned. ‘Why wouldn’t she want to be found?’
‘That bus driver said she walked straight out in front of him, didn’t he? Perhaps she wanted to kill herself?’
‘Surely not!’ Millie looked genuinely shocked. ‘Not in her condition.’
Dora and Helen exchanged glances. Millie was endearingly naive sometimes, Helen thought.
‘All the more reason, I’d say,’ Dora said. ‘She wouldn’t be the first pregnant woman to try to do something daft. Look at all those poor girls who end up in Gynae, half butchered by backstreet abortionists. Just so they can avoid the shame of having a baby out of wedlock.’
‘Yes, but this baby wasn’t born out of wedlock. The woman’s got a ring on her finger.’
‘That means nothing,’ Dora said knowingly. ‘What about that cheap ring Seb bought so you could sneak off to a guest house in Brighton?’
Millie blushed. ‘That’s different. And besides, this woman looks married.’
Helen laughed. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I don’t know … she just does. I’m certain she has a husband somewhere.’
‘So why hasn’t he come looking for her?’ Dora asked.
Millie shrugged. ‘I wish I knew,’ she sighed.
ON BOXING DAY, much to everyone’s relief, the woman finally regained consciousness.
Millie was doing TPRs when the woman’s eyes flicked open.
‘Where … where am I?’ She looked around wildly, then caught sight of Millie in her uniform and her face filled with terror. ‘Who are you? What’s happening to me?’
‘Shh, it’s all right. You’re in hospital, but you’re quite safe.’ Millie put her hands on her shoulders, gently easing her back against the pillows. ‘Don’t try to move just yet. I’ll fetch Sister.’
Sister Judd was a small, shy woman who rarely spoke above a whisper. But this time her gentle, soothing voice was just what was needed to calm the agitated woman.
‘You were in a nasty accident,’ she explained. ‘You’ve been asleep for two days.’
The woman stared up at her blankly. ‘I don’t know … I don’t remember anything,’ she murmured. She spoke with an East End accent, but there was a foreign edge to her voice – Russian or some other Eastern European language, Millie guessed. That would match with her dark colouring and heavy features.
‘Can you tell me your name?’ Sister Judd asked.
The woman’s face filled with panic. ‘I – I don’t know!’ she grabbed Sister Judd’s sleeve. ‘I’ve told you, I don’t remember anything! Oh God, I don’t even know my own name!’ She burst into noisy tears.
‘Shh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure it will all come back to you in a day or so,’ Sister Judd soothed. ‘In the meantime, just try to rest. I’ll send for the consultant and then we’ll try to find you something to eat. I daresay you’re hungry, aren’t you?’
The consultant was summoned. He duly examined her, and declared that she seemed to be recovering well. Millie was then instructed to prepare some Benger’s Food for her.
‘I’m surprised she hasn’t asked about her baby,’ another student, Lucy Lane, commented as she joined Millie in the hospital kitchen.
‘She probably doesn’t remember anything about it,’ Millie said.
Lucy Lane snorted with derision. ‘How can anyone forget they’re pregnant, for heaven’s sake?’
‘The poor woman can’t even remember her own name,’ Millie reminded her.
Lucy folded her arms. ‘Well, I think someone should tell her,’ she declared.
‘I expect Sister Judd will break it to her gently, when she thinks the time is right,’ Millie said primly, stirring the contents of the beaker. ‘Do you think I’ve left this long enough?’ she asked. ‘Sister said at least twenty minutes, but I think it—’
Before she could finish her sentence, a loud cry almost made her drop the beaker she was holding. It was followed closely by the most unearthly wailing sound.
Lucy gave a twisted smile. ‘If you ask me, Sister’s just broken the news to her,’ she said.
LITTLE GABRIEL WAS three days old, and the nurses were still fighting over who would have the pleasure of giving him his feeds. As Staff Nurse, Jennifer usually managed to pull rank over the students, but that didn’t stop them wandering in from the milk kitchen to sneak a peep at him as he suckled contentedly on his bottle.
‘Look at him, he’s such a sweetheart,’ Katie O’Hara sighed. ‘I wonder why his mother hasn’t been down to see him yet.’
‘She still doesn’t accept that she’s his mother,’ Jennifer replied, stroking his fluffy head. From what she’d heard, the mystery woman still couldn’t recollect her name, where she’d come from or anything that had happened before her accident. So the news that she had somehow given birth to a baby son while she was unconscious had come as a huge shock to her. Jennifer wasn’t surprised it was taking her a while to get used to the idea that she was the mother of a newborn.
‘All the same, you’d think she’d want to see him, wouldn’t you? If only out of curiosity.’
‘Why should she, if she doesn’t believe he’s hers?’
‘Perhaps if she saw him, she might have some kind of – I don’t know – motherly instinct?’
Jennifer smiled down at the baby, who stared back up at her with unfocused eyes. One of his hands had come free of his shawl. It was like a tiny pink starfish, hardly bigger than her thumb. ‘I don’t think it works like that, O’Hara.’
Katie shook her head. ‘It’s so sad. What will happen to him if she doesn’t accept him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I suppose if they can’t find the father they’ll put him up for adoption. That would be such a shame, wouldn’t it? The little angel deserves to grow up in a real family.’
Jennifer stroked his tiny palm with the tip of her finger. His fingers immediately closed around hers, grasping her with surprising strength. A lump of emotion rose in her throat.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Yes, he does.’
THE FOLLOWING DAY, up on Female Surgical, Millie and the mystery woman were talking about anything and everything except the baby.
Sister Judd had warned them not to mention him for a while. ‘The consultant believes she’s been through enough emotional trauma over the past couple of days, and it’s not a good idea to tax her any further,’ she’d advised in her whispering voice, having gathered her nurses around her desk the previous morning. ‘We need to be gentle with her. But that doesn’t mean we can’t try to coax her memory in other ways. Try to talk to her as much as possible, ask her questions. Perhaps something might trigger a memory.’
Which was why, as Millie washed the woman, she was chattering about her own forthcoming wedding.
‘We can’t get married until after I qualify, so the date is set for straight after my State Finals next October,’ she said as she sponged her down. ‘That’s if Seb – my fiancé – is back in England by then. He’s a journalist, you see. A foreign correspondent, based in Berlin,’ she added proudly.
The woman didn’t react as she carefully soaped her limbs. Millie tried again.
‘What about your husband?’ she asked.
The woman’s mouth was an obstinate line. ‘What husband? I don’t have a husband.’
‘You have a wedding ring.’
The woman looked down at it, detached. ‘I don’t remember anything about him,’ she said flatly.
Millie thought about it for a moment. ‘Aren’t you curious, though?’
‘Of course I’m curious!’ the woman snapped. ‘Do you think I like not knowing who I am, or where I come from?’
‘I suppose not.’ Millie bit her lip. ‘But we might be able to find him if you could remember something. A name, or what he looks like?’
‘Don’t you think I’m trying?’ the woman cut her off angrily. ‘Every morning I wake up hoping it will all come back to me. I lie here, hour after hour, thinking of names and faces, hoping something will fit. But it never does.’ She dashed away a tear with a soapy hand. ‘I don’t even remember that trolley bus hitting me, let alone what I was doing on the Mile End Road …’ She stopped, catching Millie’s look. ‘What? What are you staring at?’
‘How did you know you were on the Mile End Road?’ Millie asked.
The woman frowned. ‘I don’t know, do I? One of you lot must have said something.’
Millie shook her head. ‘None of us know where the accident happened.’
‘Then the police must have told me.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, when that policeman came to see me yesterday morning, I’m sure he mentioned it. How else would I know something like that?’
How indeed? Millie thought as she fetched a warm towel from the radiator.
As she helped dry her down, the woman said, ‘How’s the baby?’
Millie hesitated. ‘I thought you didn’t remember being pregnant?’
‘I don’t. But you lot say I was, and all I seem to hear is whispering about him. And then there’s this,’ She put her hand over her operation scar under its thick layer of dressing. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all.’
‘Oh, he’s a little pet, so I’m told. All the nurses adore him. They’ve called him Gabriel.’
‘Gabriel?’
‘Because he arrived at Christmas. And he’s an angel.’ Millie grinned. ‘But he’s not feeling particularly angelic at the moment, from what I hear. He has had a touch of colic.’
The woman stopped in the middle of drying herself, her dark brows drawing together in a frown. ‘Colic? What’s that? Is it serious?’
‘Not really. Just a few little pains, that’s all. The nurses are looking after him, so I’m sure he’ll soon get over it.’ Millie sent her a knowing smile. ‘You seem very concerned?’
The woman looked away. ‘I don’t like to think of any kiddie in pain.’
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go down and take a quick peep at him?’ she offered. ‘The consultant says you’re well enough to be up and about, and I could fetch a wheelchair for you …?’
‘No,’ the woman insisted, her mask back in place. ‘I’ve already said, I don’t remember him. He means nothing to me.’
BY THAT EVENING, baby Gabriel’s colic had begun to settle. But he was still fretful, howling in his cot after his feed, his little knees drawn up in pain.
‘Sister Parry said we should leave him if he cries,’ the worried student told Violet Tanner the Night Sister when she did her rounds. ‘She says babies get spoilt if they’re picked up too often.’
Violet held on to her temper. Sister Parry was an excellent, conscientious nurse who cared deeply for the children in her own way, but she had no motherly instincts at all.
‘Sister Parry is not in charge of this ward during the night – I am,’ she stated firmly. ‘And I want you to pick that baby up and comfort him until he goes to sleep. If you don’t, he will only scream the place down and wake up all the other children. And we don’t want that, do we?’
‘No, Sister. Thank you, Sister.’ The student bobbed her head.
‘If he doesn’t settle, try massaging his stomach for a while. Or call me and we will try some weak peppermint water. That may help him.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
As soon as the young girl picked the baby out of his cot, his crying subsided. No doubt Sister Parry would say that proved how spoilt he was, but to Violet it just meant he was more comfortable in a different position. Either way, at least he might go to sleep and give the poor exhausted student some rest, too.
She was leaving the ward when she saw a hunched shadow moving slowly at the far end of the corridor ahead of her.
‘Hello? Who’s there?’ She lifted her torch and its beam trapped a woman, barefoot and cowering in a hospital nightgown, at the foot of the stairs.
Violet recognised her at once. It was the mystery woman from Judd ward.
‘Gracious, what are you doing out of bed?’ she called out.
‘I got lost on my way to the toilet.’
‘You should have called the night nurse to help you.’ Violet approached her. She was hunched over, her hand across her abdomen, face twisted in pain. How she had made it down two flights of stairs after such a major operation, she didn’t know. She must have been very determined to get where she was going, Violet thought.
And then it dawned on her. ‘Were you looking for the nursery, by any chance?’
‘No!’ the woman replied, too quickly. ‘I told you, I wanted the toilet.’
‘There are two toilets on Judd ward. You must have walked right past them. Here, let me help you.’ Violet steered her towards the stairs and sat her down. ‘You wait there while I find a porter to bring a wheelchair for you. You can’t possibly walk back to the ward in your condition.’
‘I’m fine,’ the woman said through gritted teeth. Her face was pale in the torchlight.
‘Even so, I shall summon a porter.’ Violet hesitated. ‘But we can go to the nursery first, if you would prefer?’
The woman stared at the ground, her face stubborn. ‘No,’ she muttered.
The porter arrived shortly afterwards and helped her into a wheelchair. They headed back up to Female Surgical, where the terrified student was wandering the passageway looking for her.
Violet smiled. ‘You see? You give the nurses quite a fright when you wander off in the middle of the night.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ the woman grunted.
As she watched her heading off towards the ward doors, accompanied by the student, Violet suddenly called out to her, ‘By the way?’
The woman turned around slowly. ‘What?’
‘Gabriel’s colic isn’t too serious. Just a bit uncomfortable for the poor lamb, that’s all. In case you were wondering?’
The woman didn’t answer. But in the darkness, Violet thought she saw the slightest nod of her head.
VISITING DAY ON the Male Orthopaedic ward was usually a happy time. But Dora noticed that one of the patients was looking miserable as Sister Blake opened the ward doors and the visitors began to file in, two by two.
She watched him, his eyes fixed expectantly on the doors, only to see his face fall as the last of the visitors arrived and made their way to the other beds.
She made him a cup of tea to cheer him up. ‘Here you are, Mr Shinwell. Nice and strong, the way you like it.’
‘Thanks, Nurse.’ But he didn’t give her his usual smile or even look up as she placed the cup down on his bedside locker.
She frowned at him, concerned. ‘Is everything all right, Mr Shinwell?’
‘Not really.’ His gaze strayed past her to the double doors. ‘I thought my missus might come today, but there’s no sign of her.’
Dora searched for something reassuring to say, but the words deserted her. There had been no sign of Mr Shinwell’s wife since he was brought in four days earlier. He was one of the passengers injured on the trolley bus on Christmas Eve. That night they had been besieged on the ward by worried relatives, anxious for news of their loved ones. But no one seemed to be worried about poor Mr Shinwell and his fractured ankle.
It was a shame, she thought. He was such a lovely man. Never any trouble, and so grateful for all the attention the nurses gave him, even though they assured him a dozen times a day that they were only doing their job.
‘There must be some explanation, I’m sure,’ she said briskly as she plumped up his pillows. But Mr Shinwell didn’t look convinced.
‘I think she’s left me,’ he said.
Dora stared down at him, the pillow still in her hands. ‘Surely not?’
‘I’ve seen it coming for a while.’ He ran his hand through his thinning dark hair. ‘We’ve been having a few troubles, y’see. Maia always said I put my business before her, and maybe I did. But I only did it for her,’ he added, his dark brown eyes pleading for understanding. ‘We arrived here with nothing, and I’ve been doing my best to build up my furniture-making business. I want to give her a good life, you see. The kind of life she’s always wanted.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that, surely,’ Dora said.
‘Except I could never seem to give her what she wanted. That’s why she’s left me.’ He looked downcast, his heavy-lidded eyes full of sadness. ‘I’ve lost her for ever, I know I have. She’s gone off and found someone who can make her happy.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Dora murmured.
Mr Shinwell looked up at her, suddenly hopeful. ‘Will you do something for me, Nurse?’ he pleaded. ‘Go round to my house, see if she really has gone?’
Dora shook her head. ‘I don’t think I should get involved, Mr Shinwell. That’s a job for the police—’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘They’ve already been round. Reckon they couldn’t get an answer when they knocked. But I need to know for sure, you see. I need to know if my Maia has really left me.’
He reached into his locker drawer and pulled out a set of keys. ‘Here, you can let yourself in. It’s number seven, Pikestaff Street. Near Stepney Green.’
He tried to give her the keys, but Dora tucked her hands behind her back. ‘I really can’t, Mr Shinwell. I’d get into terrible trouble if anyone found out—’
‘They won’t. Please, Nurse?’ he begged. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.’
Dora hesitated. She knew it was against the rules, but Mr Shinwell was obviously going mad with worry. He wasn’t eating or sleeping, and even though his injuries weren’t too serious, he didn’t seem to be recovering as quickly as he should. It was as if he’d lost the will to get better.
Perhaps if he knew his wife was waiting for him at home, it might encourage him. And even if she wasn’t, at least his mind might be at rest.
She checked up and down the ward. Luckily, Sister Blake was busy talking to a group of junior students around the ward table, so she couldn’t see her.
‘All right, give me the keys,’ she murmured in a low voice, holding out her hand.
‘Thanks, Nurse.’ He handed them to her and Dora slipped them into her pocket. ‘I’m grateful to you, I really am.’
‘I only hope I don’t live to regret it,’ Dora said.
‘I WISH YOU nurses would pick up your post more often,’ the Head Porter Mr Hopkins grumbled. ‘This has been waiting for you for two days now. If this continues, I will have to talk to Matron about it.’ He pulled himself up to his full five foot six and puffed out his chest. ‘I can’t have things cluttering up my cubby holes.’
But Jennifer Ryan wasn’t listening. She was too busy staring at the parcel, wrapped in flowery paper and topped off with a flamboyant bow, that Mr Hopkins had just set before her in the hatch of the Porters’ Lodge.
‘There’s a letter with it.’ Mr Hopkins slapped a plain white envelope on top of the parcel. ‘Most insistent you should read it, he was. As if it’s any of my business what you nurses do with your post. As long as you don’t leave it here.’ His neatly trimmed moustache bristled.
Given the chance, Jennifer would have abandoned the parcel and walked away. But with Mr Hopkins’ steely gaze on her, she had no choice but to carry the box back to her room.
Even then, she had no intention of opening it. Just because her father had delivered it, that didn’t mean she had to take any notice. His persistence irritated her. Why couldn’t he respect her wish to be left alone?
But in the end her curiosity got the better of her. Sitting on her bed, leaving the parcel on the floor by her feet, she tore open the letter and read it.
Dear Jenny, it said, in her father’s neat, precise handwriting. I tried to give this to you on Christmas Day, but you wouldn’t take it. However, I feel it’s very important you have it, so I am leaving it here for you.
You asked for the truth, and so I am giving it to you. Inside this parcel is a box containing everything your mother and I ever knew about your birth. It doesn’t amount to a great deal – just your birth certificate, and a couple of photographs taken when you were a baby, presumably with your mother. We never met her, but the adoption agency said she was a respectable young woman. Your mother and I prayed for her happiness every day, and never stopped thanking her for the wonderful child she had given us.
As I have said, it may not be much, but it may be enough for you to start looking for your real parents. If that’s what you want.
Jenny, I am so sorry you feel we let you down and lied to you. Perhaps we should have told you, but in our defence all I can say is that from the moment we brought you into our home, we genuinely felt you were our baby. There was never any question in our mind that we didn’t love you as our own, and we always have.
What you do next is your decision. You are a wonderful, wise young woman, and I daresay you will do what is best. But whatever happens, I want you to know that I will always love you, and I will always, always think of you as my dearest daughter.
I wish you every happiness, my darling. From your loving father, Geoffrey Ryan.
It was seeing his name, written in neat cursive script, that lanced her heart with pain. By the end of the letter, she could hardly make out the words through a blur of hot tears.
She heard footsteps approaching down the passageway towards her room, and quickly tried to wipe her eyes, just as Helen walked in.
It was midday, and she must have just woken up after her night duty. She came in bleary-eyed, still half asleep. But she snapped awake as soon as she saw the box.
‘What’s that?’
‘A present from – my father.’
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’
Jennifer shook her head. ‘I already know what’s in it.’
Helen frowned. ‘You don’t seem very excited. Is it something awful?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jennifer sighed.
She looked up at Helen. She had been so preoccupied with her own misery, she hadn’t really given the other girl a fair chance since she’d moved in. But Helen wasn’t like the other nurses, always scrabbling around for the latest gossip they could pass around the wards. Her face was so full of sympathy and kindness; Jennifer knew she could trust her. Besides, she had to share her thoughts with someone. They had been buzzing around inside her head like angry flies for so long, they were in danger of sending her mad if she didn’t let them out soon.
‘If I tell you something, can you promise to keep it a secret?’ she said.
Helen frowned. ‘That depends what it is,’ she replied. ‘If keeping your secret means hurting someone else or putting them in danger, then I can’t promise anything.’
Jennifer nodded. At least she was honest about it. ‘It’s nothing like that,’ she said. ‘But it’s personal.’
Helen slipped off her shoes and sat down on her bed, tucking her feet under her. ‘Then tell me,’ she said.
Jennifer told her. She explained everything, from that dreadful moment at her mother’s funeral, when a well-meaning distant cousin had accidentally let slip the shocking revelation, to her latest argument with her father.