The Nightingale Nurses Page 11

  ‘I’m glad you did. And thanks for looking out for him.’

  ‘I did it for you, not him.’ Joe wrapped his fingers tighter around hers. ‘I’d do anything for you, Dora.’

  He moved in to kiss her again, but she pressed her hand against his chest, keeping him at a distance. ‘Look, Joe, I don’t want you getting the wrong idea.’

  He frowned. ‘What about?’

  ‘Us.’ She looked up into his face. His eyes were narrowed, wary. ‘I really like you, but I meant what I said. I’m not your girl.’

  ‘What are you, then?’

  ‘I dunno. Your friend, I suppose.’

  His mouth curled. ‘I don’t usually take my friends to the pictures, or buy them expensive boxes of chocolates.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to buy me chocolates.’

  ‘You didn’t turn them down, either!’ His hand tightened around hers, squeezing her fingers. ‘What is it you want, Dora? One minute you’re keen on me, the next you’re giving me the cold shoulder.’ His gaze sharpened, suddenly hostile. ‘Is there someone else? Is that it?’

  His question took her by surprise. She looked up into his eyes, glittering in the light from the street lamp.

  ‘No, there’s no one else,’ she said, pulling free from his grasp. ‘But even if there were, it wouldn’t be any of your business.’

  Joe glared at her and then suddenly the darkness cleared from his face, just as it had in the cinema earlier.

  ‘You’re right, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘If you want to stay friends, then that’s all right by me.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ she said, relieved.

  ‘But don’t think I’m giving up on you,’ he went on. ‘You might not want to be my girl now, but one day you will.’ He smiled down at her, his handsome face full of confidence. ‘You wait, Dora Doyle. I’m going to win you over in the end!’

  Chapter Eleven

  HELEN STOOD BACK and admired her reflection in the changing-room mirror. In all her twenty-two years she had never worn a ballgown before, and she was startled at the transformation in herself. The deep raspberry pink perfectly suited her dark colouring, and the elegant drape of the bias cut made her feel sophisticated and grown up.

  She did a half-turn, enjoying the swish of the satin fabric against her skin – and then she caught her mother’s reflection in the edge of the mirror. Constance Tremayne was perched on a gilt chair, gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap, mouth pursed in objection.

  ‘No, no, that simply won’t do. You can’t wear that décollétage with your long neck, it makes you look like a giraffe.’

  Helen turned back to look at herself. She no longer saw an elegant princess but the gawky girl she really was.

  ‘Where is that wretched assistant? How long does it take someone to look for a dress, I wonder?’ Constance looked around, frowning.

  She’s probably hiding, Helen thought. Her mother had had the poor salesgirl running around for the past hour.

  ‘Must you slouch so, Helen? Stand up straight, and put your shoulders back. I know you’re far too tall, but you’ll just have to make the best of it . . . ah, here she is,’ said Constance as the salesgirl appeared, staggering under the weight of another armful of dresses. ‘About time, too. Have you brought the blue one I asked for? No, not that one. I meant the other blue one. Does that look blue to you? It looks distinctly eau de nil to me.’ Constance tutted. ‘Well, I suppose she might as well try it on. But go and fetch that blue one. Run along, girl, we don’t have all day.’

  ‘She’s doing her best, Mother,’ Helen said, as the girl scuttled off.

  ‘I’m sure she is, but it’s simply not good enough.’ Constance gave a heavy sigh. ‘Honestly, you would think a place like Selfridges would have more experienced people to assist customers, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps there aren’t any more dresses left for me to try on?’ Helen gazed in despair at the rows of gowns hanging up on the rail in front of her. They had been in the ladies’ evening wear department for almost two hours, and so far nothing had been to her mother’s satisfaction. Helen was beginning to think there wasn’t a dress in existence that would disguise all her faults.

  ‘Nonsense, I’m sure we’ll find something,’ Constance dismissed briskly. ‘We just have to keep looking until we find one. It’s a good thing you have a half-day’s holiday.’

  Helen glanced at the clock. She had planned to spend her precious afternoon off with Charlie, until her mother had informed her they would be shopping for a dress for the Founder’s Day Ball instead. Luckily, Charlie had come up with the idea of meeting her up west and having tea at Lyons in the Strand.

  The salesgirl returned with more dresses, and Helen was bundled into the changing room to try on the next of her mother’s selections.

  ‘I don’t understand why I need a new dress anyway,’ she said, as the salesgirl fastened her into a green crepe creation. ‘I’m sure Benedict has a gown she would let me borrow.’

  ‘Go to the Founder’s Day Ball in a borrowed dress? I wouldn’t hear of it.’ Her mother’s outraged voice rang out from the other side of the changing-room curtain. ‘This is a very important occasion, and as the daughter of a member of the Board of Trustees, you need to look your best. There will be some very important people attending, and I do not want you to let me or yourself down. Remember, everything you do and say reflects on me.’

  Helen caught the salesgirl’s eye in the mirror, and saw her look of silent sympathy.

  ‘But no one will be looking at me.’

  ‘Of course they will. As I said, there are some very important people attending this event. You must make a good impression on them, for the sake of your future career.’

  I’d rather have fun, Helen thought.

  They had never had a ball at the hospital before. Founder’s Day was in July and so far the most exciting thing to happen on it was a garden party held two years ago. But this year the Trustees had decided to hold a fundraising ball instead. Or rather, Constance Tremayne had decided and the other Trustees had followed meekly in her wake, as usual.

  It was to be the social highlight of the year. It was still two months away, but the other nurses were already excitedly planning what they were going to wear, and how many bottles of gin they could smuggle in tucked into their stocking tops.

  Helen pulled back the curtain and emerged from the changing room to present herself before her mother. She could hardly bring herself to look at her own reflection. The dress was made of a stiff fabric that scratched her skin. It was matronly, long-sleeved, and fastened up to the neck with an unbecoming ruffle. The drab, muddy green colour made her pale face look sallow. It was the ugliest dress Helen had ever seen.

  She already knew what her mother would say before she opened her mouth.

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s the best we’ve seen so far.’

  Helen caught the salesgirl’s appalled look. ‘Don’t you think it might be a bit – old for me, Mother?’ she ventured.

  ‘Nonsense, it’s entirely appropriate. You young girls dress far too indecently these days,’ Constance dismissed this.

  Appropriate. Helen smiled at the word. She couldn’t remember her mother ever telling her she looked beautiful. The only one who told her that was Charlie.

  She glanced at the clock. Not long to go now, and she would be meeting him.

  ‘Under Nelson’s column at four o’clock. Don’t be late!’ he’d warned her.

  ‘Helen? Are you listening to me?’

  She turned to her mother, still smiling. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said, I’m buying this dress. Unless you want to try on some of the others again?’

  ‘No!’ Helen said. ‘It’s all right, honestly. We’ll take this one.’

  ‘Very good. But we will have to have it altered, of course. If only you weren’t so thin . . .’ Constance shrugged. ‘Oh, well, I suppose it can’t be helped.’ She nodded to the salesgirl, who hurried off to fetch her pins.


  As Helen stood there patiently, being tucked and darted and hemmed into place, Constance opened her capacious crocodile-skin handbag, took out her diary and consulted it. ‘Now, I have a number of errands to do in town, and then I have to go to the hospital. I have a meeting with Matron about some new equipment she has insisted we order.’ Helen recognised the light of battle in her eyes. ‘We can take a taxi to the Nightingale together.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need. I’m meeting Charlie in town.’

  Constance looked up sharply. ‘But I’d planned for us to have tea in Fortnum’s.’

  Helen twisted round to look at her. Constance was already consulting her diary again, ticking things off as if that was an end to the matter.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but Charlie will already be on his way. I can’t put him off.’ Not that Helen would want to, even if she could. ‘Why don’t we all have tea together?’ she suggested.

  Constance’s mouth lifted at the corner. ‘In Fortnum’s? I don’t think so, my dear.’

  Helen bristled. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s not really what he’s used to, is it?’

  He’s not going to drink his tea out of his saucer, if that’s what you’re worried about, Helen thought. ‘We could go to Lyons instead?’

  ‘But I want to go to Fortnum’s.’

  Helen sighed. ‘I wish you’d give Charlie a chance, Mother,’ she said. ‘You’d like him if you got to know him.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s a pleasant enough young man, in his way.’ Constance turned her attention to the salesgirl instead. ‘Are you sure that hem is quite straight?’ she said. ‘It looks rather lopsided to me.’

  Helen turned back to the mirror, frustration welling up inside her. As usual, her mother had closed the subject. But this time Helen was determined to get her point across.

  ‘You’ll have to meet him at the ball,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so, dear.’ Constance didn’t lift her gaze from the hem of the dress.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean he’s not coming to the ball.’ Her mother looked at Helen. ‘You didn’t really think he was invited, did you?’ she said with a quizzical smile.

  ‘But he’s my boyfriend! All the other girls are taking theirs.’

  Constance shot a look at the salesgirl crouching at their feet. ‘This is not the time to discuss it,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’

  ‘No, Mother, we’ll talk about it now.’ Helen fought to keep her voice from shaking. ‘I’m not letting you sweep this under the carpet again. You’re always doing this, pretending Charlie doesn’t exist. Why don’t you want him to come to the ball?’

  Constance went white to her lips. ‘Really, Helen, I don’t know why you’re taking this tone with me,’ she snapped. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m only doing it because I’m concerned for him. I don’t want him to feel embarrassed or out of place.’

  ‘Who says he’d be out of place?’

  Her mother smiled condescendingly. ‘It’s not a world he’s used to, is it? Mixing with important and influential people, he’d be like a fish out of water. I’m sure he’d be far happier staying with his own kind.’

  ‘His own kind?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Her mother pursed her lips. ‘Working-class people.’

  Helen gasped. ‘This isn’t about Charlie at all. You don’t want him there because you’re worried he’ll embarrass you.’

  ‘No, I’m worried he’ll embarrass you.’ Constance’s dark eyes flared with anger.

  ‘He won’t,’ Helen said. ‘Because I’m not a snob like you.’

  ‘If being a snob means I don’t think he’s good enough for you, then perhaps I am.’ Constance bristled. ‘Anyway, I’ve made up my mind. He’s not coming to the ball, and that’s final.’

  ‘Very well. If he’s not coming then neither am I.’ Helen looked down at the salesgirl, who was clearly enjoying every word. ‘Help me take this off, please. We won’t be buying it after all.’

  The girl started to pull out the pins, but Constance stopped her. ‘Please continue,’ she instructed. ‘Really, Helen, do you have to be so dramatic? You’re making yourself look foolish.’

  ‘I mean it, Mother. I’d rather stay at home than go to this wretched ball without Charlie.’

  Their eyes clashed and held for a moment, both waiting for the other to yield.

  ‘You’re being very childish,’ her mother said in a low voice.

  ‘We’ll see, shall we?’ Helen turned to the girl. ‘Are you going to help me with this horrible dress or do I have to tear it off?’ she snapped, surprising herself with her sharp tone. Usually she would be all apologetic politeness, but her mother had enraged her too much.

  Without waiting for a reply, Helen gathered up the dress and headed back to the changing room, trailing pins behind her.

  ‘Helen, wait! Put that dress back on at once, you’re making an exhibition of yourself!’ Her mother’s sharp voice followed her into the changing room. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Not until you’re ready to listen to me.’ She swished the changing-room curtain across, shutting out her mother’s livid face.

  Constance Tremayne poured herself a cup of tea. She was so upset, she didn’t even check if the pot was warmed properly.

  Having tea in Fortnum & Mason was one of her little treats whenever she came up to town from Richmond. But now Helen had ruined it all with her silly temper tantrum.

  The mere fact that her daughter had spoken to her like that was proof to Constance that Charlie Dawson was not a good influence. Helen would never have defied her like that before she met him, and she certainly wouldn’t have flounced out of the shop, leaving her humiliated in front of the salesgirl. Helen used to be such a respectful, well-mannered girl, and he was turning her into a hoyden. She would be eating pease pudding and swearing like a docker soon.

  Constance pursed her lips, remembering how rude Helen had been. Why couldn’t she see her mother was only doing this for her own good? Everything Constance Tremayne did was for Helen’s benefit, to help her to rise as far as she could in the world and never sink into ignominy.

  Because Constance Tremayne had been there, and she never, ever wanted that for her daughter.

  She shuddered to remember the mistakes she had made when she was a young girl like Helen. The man she had fallen in love with had far more wealth and power than Charlie Dawson, but he’d still brought about her downfall. Constance had been so besotted, she hadn’t seen the danger until it was too late and her reputation was ruined.

  Marriage to Timothy Tremayne, a young curate, had saved her and helped restore her to her rightful place in respectable society. But no matter how many charitable committees she sat on, how many flower shows she judged and how blameless a life she led, the memory of her earlier disgrace was like a stain on her character that she could never wash off.

  The only thing she could do was to make sure her daughter never made the same mistake. From the moment Helen was born, Constance had exercised ruthless control over her daughter’s life. She chose her clothes, her friends, dictated where she went to school and what her career should be. She knew she could be overbearing at times, but she was acting out of love.

  And then Charlie Dawson had come along, and twenty years of careful management had gone out of the window.

  Helen thought she was in love, but Constance knew better. She understood how that kind of infatuation could ruin a life. And she wasn’t prepared to sit back and watch her daughter brought low by an East End stallholder’s son.

  Constance Tremayne had come too far for that.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘OI! KEEP YOUR hands off the merchandise.’

  Ruby grinned at the stallholder, a potato in her hand. ‘Ain’t I allowed to know what I’m buying?’

  ‘As long as you are buying.’

  ‘’Course I am.’ Ruby tossed him the potato. ‘I’ll have two pounds, and half a pound
of carrots to go with them.’

  ‘Cooking a nice roast for your husband, are you?’ The costermonger smiled. ‘That’s the way to a man’s heart, so they say.’

  ‘I can think of a better way!’ Ruby winked at him, then caught his wife’s fierce glare.

  ‘Take no notice of her,’ the man whispered as he tipped the potatoes into Ruby’s bag. ‘I’ve put you a few extra spuds in, just for brightening up my day.’

  ‘Ta, love.’

  As Ruby walked off, the stallholder shouted after her, ‘I hope you brighten your husband’s day, too.’

  So do I, Ruby thought. Because she needed all the help she could get.

  After six weeks of marriage, she had finally decided to tell Nick the truth about the baby.

  ‘The longer you leave it, the worse it’ll be,’ her mother had warned her that morning when Ruby called in to Griffin Street for a cup of tea. ‘I dunno why you didn’t just tell him straight off, get it over and done with.’

  ‘I couldn’t.’ The past six weeks had been the happiest of Ruby’s life. She couldn’t bring herself to spoil things.

  ‘Well, you’ve got yourself in a right old mess now, haven’t you? He’s got eyes in his head, girl. He’s going to wonder why you’re not showing, when you’re meant to be nearly four months gone!’

  Ruby put her hand over her stomach, flat under her fitted skirt. ‘He won’t notice.’

  ‘Nick Riley ain’t a fool. So you’d best not treat him like one if you know what’s good for you.’

  ‘Bit late for that, ain’t it?’

  Ruby had been silly, she knew it. Her mother was right, she should never have put it off. Now she’d made everything ten times worse.

  ‘He’s going to kill me when he finds out,’ she whispered.

  ‘He ain’t going to be shouting from the rooftops, that’s for sure.’ Lettie Pike’s thin face took on a rare expression of sympathy. ‘I know it ain’t going to be easy. But you’ll get round him, love. You always do. Look at that washing machine. Only you could pull a trick like that and get away with it!’ She smiled with grudging admiration.

  ‘This is a kid we’re talking about, not a flaming washing machine!’ Panic washed over Ruby. ‘What if he leaves me, Mum?’