The Nightingale Nurses (15 page)

She’d learned her lesson after the washing machine, so she made sure she only bought small things, just bits and pieces to brighten up the place and make it nice. Some new sheets and blankets, fluffy towels for the bathroom, a butter dish to go with her wedding china. But even odds and ends added up, and soon she was behind with the repayments.

Which was when she’d started hiding the reminder notes under the mattress. Out of sight, out of mind.

‘Ruby?’ Nick frowned at her. ‘Are you all right?’

She opened her mouth to speak but started to cry instead.

‘Ruby!’ He came forward and put his arms around her. ‘Come on, girl, it’s not the end of the world. I just don’t want you to run up any more bills we can’t pay, all right?’ He pulled her closer, against the hard muscled wall of his chest. It felt so safe, so secure. ‘Promise me you won’t do that?’

She nodded, sniffing back her tears. ‘I won’t,’ she mumbled into his shirt. But she wasn’t even thinking about money. Relief was like a bright white light, flooding her brain and leaving no room for anything else.

‘Come here, you daft cow.’ He pulled her closer. ‘Why did you think I was going to leave you?’

Tell him
, a voice inside her head urged.

‘I – I don’t know,’ she sniffed.

‘I told you, I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to look after you and our baby, whatever happens.’

Whatever happens
. The grim determination in his voice scared her. Ruby pulled away from him.

‘You do love me, don’t you, Nick?’ She searched his face, desperately beseeching.

He looked down at her, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. ‘You’re my wife, Ruby.’

‘That’s no answer, is it? I can think of a lot of husbands who don’t love their wives. Look at my dad. Him and my mum had to get married, and they’ve spent the last twenty odd years making each other suffer for it.’

Nick’s mouth curved. ‘You think I’m like your dad?’

Ruby thought about her father, fat and slovenly in his stained vest, his thinning hair spread across his gleaming pink scalp, and a reluctant smile came to her lips. ‘I suppose not.’

‘That’s a relief, at any rate.’ Nick looked down at her, his eyes suddenly serious. ‘Listen, there’s no reason why we should end up like your mum and dad, or mine for that matter. I know it wasn’t the best start to a marriage, but we’ve still got a lot going for us. I want this to work out, Ruby. I don’t want our baby growing up in an unhappy home, any more than you do.’

And what if there were no baby? The question hovered on her lips, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

‘But you’ve got to understand, I don’t like lies, Ruby,’ Nick went on. ‘I’ve grown up around too many of them to want to listen to any more.’ He pressed his lips into her hair. ‘You know there’s nothing you can’t tell me. As long as we’re honest with each other, we can get through anything.’

Tell him.

‘Nick . . .’

He held her at arm’s length. ‘Blimey, don’t tell me you’ve got something else to get off your chest already?’ His eyes lit up with amusement. ‘Let me guess . . . your mum’s moving in?’

‘It’s about the baby . . .’

She saw his face fall. ‘What about it?’ he said. ‘Is there something wrong? Has something happened?’ His gaze immediately dropped to her belly.

‘No, it’s just—’ She couldn’t tell him. She desperately wanted to, but the words dried in her throat.

She pressed her face to his chest. She could feel his heart beating steadily against her cheek. She breathed in the warm, male smell of his skin. It was like a drug to her, she couldn’t imagine living without it.

‘Everything’s fine,’ she said. ‘That’s all I wanted to tell you.’

He grinned. ‘That’s a relief! You had me worried for a minute there.’

Ruby pulled herself out of his embrace, picked up her shopping bag and headed for the kitchen. ‘I’d better get on with our tea, or we’ll be eating at midnight.’

‘Before you do, I’ve got a little present for you.’

Her heart lifted. ‘For me? What is it?’

‘Wait there.’ He disappeared into the bedroom and returned a moment later with a brown paper package. ‘Here,’ he said, handing it to her.

Her fingers fumbled with the string. ‘What is it?’ The package felt soft. Perhaps it was a new blouse, or that gorgeous cornflower blue jumper she’d had her eye on? Although she couldn’t really imagine Nick going anywhere near a ladies’ wear shop, let alone knowing what to ask for . . .

Impatient, she gave up trying to untie the string and ripped at the brown paper instead. But it wasn’t a new blouse inside, or a jumper.

‘One of the porters at work gave them to me,’ Nick said. ‘His nipper’s grown out of them so his missus wondered if we could make use of them.’ He beamed with pride. ‘Lovely, ain’t they?’

Ruby stared down at the pile of matinee jackets and bootees in her hands. The delicate, lacy knitting and tiny ribbons seemed to be taunting her.

He frowned at her. ‘You all right, Ruby?’

‘I—’

Tell him
, the voice said again.

‘Look, I know you’ve set your heart on having everything new, but I didn’t think it would hurt to have them,’ he said. ‘Every little helps, eh? Besides, Arthur reckons they’ve hardly been worn. Turned out his baby was a right bruiser when he was born, hardly fitted any of his newborn clothes.’ He picked up one of the matinee jackets and held it up. ‘I reckon our baby’s going to be the best-dressed kid in Bethnal Green, don’t you?’

A TIDE OF
indignation had carried Helen all the way down Regent Street, across Piccadilly Circus and down Haymarket. By the time she’d stomped her way to Trafalgar Square, she was worn out but still fuming.

How dare her mother look down at her nose at Charlie? She hadn’t even taken the time to get to know him before she’d condemned him. It was so typical of her.

Helen plonked herself down on the steps under Nelson’s column. It was a fine May day, and the fountains in Trafalgar Square sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine. People milled around, tourists and street vendors and newspaper sellers, their cries filling the air.

Helen watched a woman in a headscarf feeding pigeons from a brown paper bag. They gathered around her in a grey swarm, nudging and pecking each other to get closer. Every so often the rumble of a passing bus would send them fluttering up into the air, only to settle again a moment later. One even flew up to perch on top of the woman’s head.

Usually Helen would have enjoyed watching the world go by, but today she could hardly bring herself to smile at the birds’ antics. Her mother had cast a shadow over her whole day, taking away the last shred of happiness as she always did.

Then Helen saw Charlie crossing the road towards her, and her heart lifted. She ran towards him and hugged him fiercely.

‘Steady on!’ he laughed, straightening his hat. ‘Blimey, I should be late more often.’ He leaned down and kissed her. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’

‘I’m just happy to see you, that’s all.’

‘I’m happy to see you, too.’ He held her at arm’s length. ‘You look beautiful.’

‘So do you.’ He looked different, dressed in a raincoat, a rakish trilby on his golden head.

‘I dunno about that!’ An embarrassed blush rose in his cheeks. ‘But I thought I’d smarten myself up a bit, since we’re up west. What do you reckon? Do I look like a proper gent?’

His words touched a nerve with her. ‘You’re always a gentleman to me,’ Helen replied, tight-lipped.

Charlie’s smile turned quizzical. ‘You all right, love?’

‘I’m fine.’ She took his arm. ‘Do you mind if we don’t have tea just yet? I’d rather do something else for a while.’

‘What’s the matter? Has shopping with your mum taken away your appetite?’

‘Just a bit.’ Helen looked away so he wouldn’t see her grim expression.

They crossed the road to the National Gallery. It was an oasis of peace after the bustle of traffic and people in the square. Helen wandered from one vast echoing room to another, hand in hand with Charlie, quietly lost in the beautiful paintings.

‘When are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’ he whispered, as they stood in the Impressionists room.

‘There’s nothing wrong.’

‘Come off it. You’ve been staring at that vase of flowers for ten minutes.’ He sent her a shrewd sidelong look. ‘It’s your mum, ain’t it? Have you two had another falling out?’

‘You could say that.’ Helen was still tight-lipped. ‘I told her I wasn’t going to the ball.’

Charlie’s laughter earned him a stern look from the curator sitting by the door. ‘Blimey, was the dress that horrible?’

‘It was nothing to do with the dress.’

‘What was it, then?’ He paused. ‘Was it about me?’

‘No,’ she said. But her quick, unguarded glance gave her away.

‘Yes, it was. I can see it in your face.’ He sighed. ‘What’s this all about, Helen?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it. I’d rather forget my mother, if you don’t mind. We haven’t got long together, and I don’t want her to ruin it.’

‘I reckon she’s already done that, don’t you?’ Charlie reached out, turning her chin so she had no choice but to look into his smiling blue eyes. ‘You can’t hide anything from me, Helen. I know you too well. So you might as well tell me about it.’

They sat down on a bench in the middle of the hushed gallery, and in a whisper Helen explained what had happened.

‘It was awful,’ she said, unable to control her anger any longer. ‘She made it sound as if she was doing you a favour by not inviting you.’

‘She might be right,’ Charlie agreed. ‘Let’s face it, I’m not the kind to get dressed up in a monkey suit. And it’s not as if I can dance, is it?’ he said wryly.

‘It’s not right at all! She’s just being a bully as usual, trying to control everyone around her.’ Helen’s mouth set in defiance. ‘Well, she needn’t think she can control me. I’ve already told her I’m not going to her stupid ball, and that’s final.’

Charlie was silent for a moment.

‘And what good will that do?’ he said at last.

Helen stole a glance at his profile. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It won’t help the situation, will it? If you don’t go, your mother will blame me. She’ll say that I’m a bad influence, that I’ve turned you against her.’

‘But that’s not true! This is all her doing, not yours.’

‘That doesn’t matter. It’s what she’ll think, and you know it.’

Helen buried her face in her hands. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said helplessly. ‘I’ve spent my whole life trying to please her, and now it feels as if she’s asking me to choose between the two of you. How am I supposed to do that?’

‘Shh, don’t get upset.’ She felt Charlie’s arm around her, strong and reassuring. ‘It’ll all be all right. You wait and see.’

‘How? How can it be all right?’

‘These things have a habit of working themselves out.’ He kissed her head. ‘Now you need to swallow your pride and tell your mum you will go to her ball after all.’

‘But—’

‘No, listen to me. You go and enjoy yourself. You deserve a good night out.’

‘It won’t be a good night out without you.’

‘’Course it will. All your friends will be there, so you’ll have fun. And I bet you’ll be the belle of the ball, too.’

‘Not if my mother has anything to do with it!’

‘You’d look beautiful in anything.’

Helen looked at him through a blur of tears. If only her mother could hear Charlie now, she thought, surely she would realise how wonderful he was? ‘Are you sure I should go? Because I’d really rather stay with you . . .’

‘I told you, didn’t I?’ He kissed her. ‘Now can we go and have some tea? You might have lost your appetite, but all this looking at pictures has got me gasping for a cuppa!’

Dora barely recognised her brother at first.

A small crowd had gathered around the corner of Columbia Road market, where a man stood on a soap box making a speech. In his well-pressed military uniform, with his polished boots, neatly clipped moustache and slicked-back hair, he could have been Sir Oswald Mosley himself.

‘People of the East End,’ he addressed the crowd in a powerful voice, ‘we have lived under the yoke of the Jews for too long. English properties . . . our very livelihoods . . . have fallen into their hands.’

Dora let the speaker’s words wash over her. Her attention was fixed on Peter. He stood with a dozen other men, forming a guard around the man who spoke. His black uniform gave him a menacing air she had never seen in him before. It was hard to remind herself that this stern-faced stranger was her beloved big brother, who had chalked a wicket on the wall and taught her how to play cricket, laughing as he caught her out time and time again.

‘Over the years, the Jews have obtained a monopoly of the businesses in East London,’ the orator continued. ‘Unless the workers accept the terms offered to them, they get no job. And the labour of the relatives of Jewish bosses from Germany – the cheapest labour in London today – is used as a weapon to force down our wages to the lowest possible level.’

‘Funny, I don’t remember seeing him queuing up at the dock gates with the rest of us every morning!’ a man in the crowd quipped.

‘Look at him, in his fancy uniform. He don’t look like he’s had to do a day’s work in his life,’ another added. But Dora noticed the crowd had grown, as more and more people drifted away from the market stalls to listen to what the speaker had to say.

‘We must rise up and reclaim what is rightfully ours,’ he boomed. ‘I urge you to take up the struggle against Jews and communists, otherwise you will witness your churches pulled down, your children’s eyes torn out and nuns carried through the streets and raped!’

A shocked hush fell over the crowd. A few people cheered, while others looked at each other in horror. Peter and the other men scanned the crowd with narrowed, hostile eyes.

‘Down with the Blackshirt troublemakers! Fascism means war!’ a young man suddenly cried out from the other side of the crowd. Immediately, three or four of the Blackshirts plunged into the crowd after him. There was a scuffle, lots of shoving and shouting. A woman screamed out, ‘Leave him alone! Don’t hurt him!’ Dora tried to go forward but the surging crowd held her back.