AN ORPHAN’S SORROW
Cathy Sharp

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Cathy Sharp 2020

Cover [photograph/illustration] © CollaborationJS

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cathy Sharp asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008387648

Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008387655

Version: 2020-08-13

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Cathy Sharp

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
1937

‘Mummy, please don’t hurt me!’ the child whimpered as her mother caught hold of her arm, strong fingers digging into her flesh as she dragged her along the landing to the top of the dimly lit stairs. ‘I didn’t mean to wet the bed.’

‘Filthy child!’ Her mother’s grip tightened on her arm. ‘I just can’t cope with this, Cassie. With your father gone and me ill it’s time to end it for both of us …’

‘Mummy, you’re frightening me!’ Cassie cried. ‘P-please don’t talk like this …’

‘We’ll go in the river together,’ her mother said, eyes wild with despair. ‘It’s the best for us, Cassie. Your father left us and we’ve no money to pay rent on even these poor rooms. I can’t feed you – or myself …’

They had reached the top of the steep stairs. Cassie clutched at her mother as she started to drag her down them, bumping her against the bannisters so that she stumbled to her knees on the worn carpeting, banging her elbows and head against the knobbly bannisters. She cried out and screamed to her mother to let her go.

‘I don’t want to die, Mummy!’ Cassie wept desperately, pushing at her mother as hard as she could, struggling to break free of the punishing grip. She was terrified of the woman she’d always loved, hardly recognising her in the wild-eyed creature who was tormenting her with threats of death. She jerked one last time, trying to evade the iron grip – and then it happened. Her mother screamed, her body hanging in the balance for one terrible moment before she tumbled backwards down the stairs, dragging Cassie with her. Cassie screamed loudly as her head struck the wooden bannister and then everything went black and she sank into an unconsciousness …

Gradually, through the mists and the pain, over time that she was unaware of passing, the girl heard women talking, women with harsh voices and rough hands that seemed almost to punish as they tended her ills. Her mind whirled with distress as she struggled to remember what had happened. But her head hurt and she couldn’t remember properly, everything was muddled in her mind.

‘Her poor mother broke her neck,’ a woman said in a loud voice on the day the mists cleared for the first time. ‘The police say the neighbours heard shouting and screaming – they think the girl might have pushed her mother.’

‘Cassie pushed her mother down the stairs?’ a second female voice said. ‘Well, I never. I would never have thought it – she looks like such a sweet little girl, so fragile and pretty with that pale hair and those lovely blue eyes …’

‘Well, you never know these things,’ the first voice sighed. ‘Children can be evil little devils you know.’

‘What will they do with her?’

‘I think they’ll put her away somewhere. I mean, she obviously isn’t right in the head since the fall, is she? No doubt she’ll be shut up in an institution where she can’t do any harm – or maybe they’ll send her to Australia like they do all the unwanted kids these days.’

Tears slipped down Cassie’s cheeks. She remembered her name now and her mother shouting at her before she fell … Was it her fault? Cassie didn’t know. All she understood was that no one wanted her, no one loved her and that she was going to be sent away to somewhere she’d never heard of … it terrified her.

The voices were moving away now. Shivering, Cassie slipped out of bed and pulled on the clothes she found folded on a chair beside her. She walked through the long room where other children lay in beds, few of them moving, their eyes just staring. One of the children started screaming and some ladies that Cassie thought might be nurses gathered around her bed, trying to calm her. No one noticed Cassie as she walked out of the room, down the stairs and out of the front door into the street …

CHAPTER 1

Sister Jean Norton shivered in the cool night air, pulling up her coat collar and looking about the street down which she needed to walk every evening after her work was done. It was a wretched place of dirty terraces with broken window frames, paint peeling from them, and gutters choked with filth; and she wished that she did not have to negotiate its length to reach her comfortable little cottage, but the only other way was a mile longer and she was tired after a heavy day’s work at the Lady Rosalie Infirmary in the dockland area of London’s East End, known affectionately to the locals as the Rosie.

In her mid-thirties, dark-haired with grey eyes that were often too serious, she was slim to the point of being thin, and dedicated. Jean loved her work at the Rosie despite the pain and despair she witnessed far too often within its shaded wards. With her record of exemplary nursing, she could, if she wished, apply for a job at a major hospital and expect to be offered it, but she had gone to the Rosie when her life was a living hell and Matron had shown her kindness, respect and given Jean her trust. Even when she was sick of the stink of unwashed bodies, urine and festering ulcers, she would never think of leaving her post.

‘Whatcha, missus!’ the cheeky voice brought Jean out of her reverie as she entered Pail Street, an even dirtier place than the one she’d just left and darker, with only one street light, the others all having been broken by louts throwing stones at the glass. She looked at the dirt-streaked face of the young urchin. By his size, he looked no more than eleven but she knew that he was two years older. She frowned; it was already dark and he should be at home, safe with his mother.

‘Jamie Martin,’ she said, her voice scolding and harsh, even though she did not dislike the lad. ‘What are you doing out at this hour? Your mother will be worrying.’

‘No, she ain’t, she’s stone cold dead,’ Jamie said. ‘Me pa came ’ome drunk and I think ’e ’it ’er on the ’ead and she fell down, dead as a doornail.’ The words sounded brutal except for the underlying hint of fear in his voice and for a moment she wondered if he was lying.

‘Jamie! May God forgive you,’ she said and then, as she looked closer, saw he had been crying. ‘Are you telling me the truth, boy?’

He nodded at her, looking a picture of abject misery. ‘I swear it’s true, missus. I wouldn’t lie to you – not you, missus, ’cos you was kind to me and Arch when Ma was bad afore and yer ’elped Arch …’

‘When did this happen?’ Jean asked, feeling shocked and bewildered. The boy’s tone was as cocky and defiant as always but his face showed his fear and misery.

‘Last night,’ Jamie said and rubbed at his eyes. ‘I heard the old bugger shoutin’ at ’er but I didn’t know she were dead until this mornin’ when I come down and found her on the kitchen floor. She’s white and cold, her face all battered – and Pa’s gone. He’s took his army coat what ’e had in the war and cleared orf. Took his pipe and the money from Ma’s jar on the shelf, too.’

‘Goodness me!’ Jean was shocked to the core. ‘What did you do, child? Have you told anyone else – the doctor?’

‘Nah, he wouldn’t come near,’ Jamie said. ‘Pa threw ’im out last time Ma was sick. Pa called ’im bad names and wouldn’t pay ’im and ’e swore it was the last time he’d set foot in our ’ouse. Marth next door is out and there ain’t no one else what would care; they ’ate me dad.’

Jean nodded, knowing that Ted Martin was what the locals termed a bad lot. Even in these hard times most of the men in the street struggled to find enough work to feed their families and remain honest, but Ted Martin was known for being all kinds of a rogue and even the hardened working men of Pail Street steered clear of him. She realised that Jamie must have hung about the street all day waiting for someone to come he dare approach.

‘Will you take me to her?’ Jean asked, looking at the young boy anxiously.

‘I bin ’anging around waitin’ fer yer,’ Jamie said and sniffed, wiping his dripping nose on his threadbare sleeve. He shuffled his feet, looking both guilty and miserable. ‘I remembered you ’elped Arch when ’e was in trouble wiv the constable and I thought …’

‘Yes, of course I’ll help,’ Jean said instantly, though she feared it must already be too late. If Lizzie Martin had lain all night and all day on a cold floor in weather like this, she wouldn’t stand much chance even if she’d still lived after her husband battered her. Jean took Jamie’s hand and held on to it and he ran with her down the street.

‘If Arch ’ad been ’ere ’e would’ve known what ter do …’ Jamie was anxious, clearly feeling that he ought to have done something sooner.

‘Where is your brother, Jamie?’

‘Went orf ter look fer work down south last month,’ Jamie told her. ‘Said ’e’d come back fer me when ’e was settled – said it weren’t no life fer any of us wiv Pa the way he is – said if Ma had any sense she’d leave ’im …’

Jean nodded. Archie was Lizzie Martin’s eldest son but still only seventeen. When he’d left school to work on the docks at fifteen, he’d been forced to help his father in a robbery where he worked. The police had suspected an inside job and Archie had been questioned. He’d given Jean’s name as a witness to prove he wasn’t on the docks at the time the police said and she had spoken for him, because it was true. Afterwards, when they were alone, she’d made the lad tell her the truth and he’d promised her he hadn’t been involved in the robbery.

‘Pa made me tell him what time the watchman came on and other things,’ he said looking ashamed. ‘He said I had ter be there and help him get inside the warehouse where the stuff was stashed – tins of bully beef, fruit and stuff like that. He hit me so I had to say I would, but then I ran orf and went to the church hall – and that’s where yer saw me. I never done nothin’ bad …’

Ted Martin had been arrested, charged and convicted with stealing a crate of tinned food. He’d been sent to prison for eighteen months and when he came out, he was even more surly and brutal than when he went in if that were possible. He’d beaten his wife and his elder son and Jamie would have got it too if he hadn’t been staying with his nan down the road. She’d been ill then and died a few weeks later, of the shame, Lizzie Martin told her friends.

It hadn’t taken Archie long to decide to move away, Jean thought. His father had been back from prison only four months. Jean wondered why she hadn’t known, but she was on day duty for the moment and it was late when she walked home and she hardly ever said more than good evening to anyone.

They had reached Jamie’s kitchen door. She pushed it open and went in. There was no electric light here, just oil lamps and candles. She groped her way in the almost pitch-black darkness to the table and felt around, but even as she tutted in frustration, a match was struck and a candle flame flared. Jamie knew where his ma kept the candle. He lit a second and Jean saw Lizzie Martin lying on the floor.

It was immediately obvious that she was dead. Her face was a bloody mess and there was a pool of congealed blood under her head where her husband had hit her, time and again. The iron poker used to strike her was lying on the floor by her side. Either Ted Martin had been too drunk or too panicked to try and hide what he’d done and he’d just cleared off with whatever he could lay his hands on.

Jean knelt beside the dead woman, touching her face and closing the terrible staring eyes. She felt tears sting her own as she thought of the wretched life Lizzie Martin had endured for years. Why hadn’t she taken her children and left the drunk who beat her and made all their lives miserable?

It was too late now. Jean looked up at the fearful face of the young lad.

‘I’m sorry, Jamie, she is dead. We can’t help her but we have to get the police and the doctor – it is a formality and I’ll see to it. Can you go next door to Marth for a few minutes while I sort this out? She’ll be back by now. You can come home with me after I’ve sorted this out and I’ll look after you until we find Arch or someone to take you in.’

‘Yeah, all right,’ Jamie said and gave her a frightened stare. His bottom lip was trembling; tears filled his eyes, then trickled down his cheek, and she knew he’d been hoping Lizzie Martin wasn’t really dead and that, as a nurse, Jean could make his mother wake up. Now he knew for certain she was dead and there was no bringing her back and he’d realised he had no one. ‘I’ll be wiv Marth next door. She’ll have me fer a bit …’

Marth Gilbert was a hard-working widow who had given birth to three sons, all of whom were now married with children of their own. She went out scrubbing floors early in the mornings and then went off to help one of her daughters-in-law until the children were in bed. Jean knew the boy would be all right with her until she had this situation under control.

Jean ran down to the telephone box on the corner of Shilling Street, which for once hadn’t been damaged, and rang the police. They told her to wait and they would send a constable round. She rang the doctor next and his wife said he was out but she’d tell him when he got in. Jean told her it was too late for him to do anything in any event and put the phone down. She was angry that no one had been near Lizzie all day, though they must have heard the shouting and screaming the night before – and nor had anyone offered to take Jamie in, even though he must have been loitering outside on this bitter February day. Where was the neighbourly spirit London’s East End was famous for? In this street it didn’t seem to exist, but perhaps times were so hard the folk of the lane had no sympathy to spare for others. Her anger cooled as she returned to the end-of-terrace house more slowly. Most of the women in the lane worked when they could, even if their men had jobs, which many of them didn’t, because there still wasn’t much work going for labourers. Probably the truth was that no one liked the Martin family. Lizzie had had a sharp tongue on her at times, the children had been neglected when their mother was ill and Jamie was cheeky. He hadn’t asked his neighbours for help because the only one kind enough to take him in was Marth.

Marth came scurrying in as soon as Jean got back to the narrow little house, with its parlour, kitchen, lean-to scullery and outside toilet. Upstairs were two bedrooms and a landing. Marth entered through the scullery and went quickly to Lizzie’s prostrate form. She gave a little cry of shock and looked at Jean in dismay.

‘No wonder he didn’t know what ter do! Now what’s to happen to that poor lad?’ she asked. ‘Lizzie wasn’t the best ma to her kids but the boy loved her. I’d ’ave ’im if I were sure Ted Martin had gorn fer good.’

‘I doubt he will come back now,’ Jean said. ‘After this, they will hang him. If you could manage Jamie, Marth, he might be better off here, at least for a while – or I could take him home with me …’ Jean frowned as her mind sought for a better solution.

Lady Rosalie and Matron had combined to help orphaned or abused children find foster parents in the recent past, but she knew there were always more children needing homes than suitable carers to take them in. In Jamie’s case it might be that the authorities would decide to put him in an orphanage outside London – and she couldn’t see that suiting the boy. No, he would be better off in the streets he knew and perhaps his brother would come home and look after him.

‘If he goes ter school I’d be home when he gets back,’ Marth said and nodded. ‘I’m used to boys, Sister Norton. I reckon he would be more trouble ter you, lass.’

‘Well … perhaps we can get some money to help you,’ Jean said uncertainly, because she knew it must be a struggle for Marth to manage on what she earned, but the older woman shook her head.

‘If yer go to them bloody Children’s Welfare lot they’ll take him in the orphanage and like as not he’ll be shifted orf ter Australia or the ends of the earth. Nah, Jamie will be better wiv me and nought said. My boys will see we don’t go short. My Eddie is workin’ fer a builder now, and Ernie is on the ships – and Pete, well, he’s thinkin’ about the army. His wife wants ’im ter stay ’ere but he’s got the itch. Got married too soon, that boy did – told ’im ter be careful but he wouldn’t listen and ended up ’avin’ ter wed that little cat. She got ’er claws in ’im, all right – told ’im she was havin’ his kid and then lost the poor little mite after she’d got my boy tight …’

Jean nodded, only half listening to Marth’s tale of woe. She’d heard all this when Marth had come into the infirmary with a festering toe. Jean had tended it for her but Marth wouldn’t stay in as a patient and so Jean had called on her at home every couple of days for a fortnight until it was better. Jean had visited several of the women in this street over the years she’d worked for the Rosie, but none of them were particularly friendly and she understood why Jamie had waited for her to come home. It was truly a horrible place to live. Jean didn’t like the smell or the atmosphere of the place, but she was a nurse – and when people came to her asking for help, she could not refuse. Her manner was stern and she seldom laughed, other than when with a special friend, but she knew her duty to those in need.

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ she said when Marth had finished her complaining. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’

‘Aye, lass, I know,’ Marth said and grinned. ‘Folk round ’ere reckon as you’re a real sourpuss but I tell ’em they’re wrong. I know you’ve a good heart on yer, Jean Norton, even if yer try ter hide it.’

Something in Marth’s tone made Jean smile despite herself. ‘You are a good woman, Marth Gilbert. You’ve had as hard a life as any round here and yet you always help your neighbours and I’ve never seen you lose your temper.’

‘Oh, I used ter do that when me boys were young,’ Marth chortled. ‘I’ve mellowed in me old age, love. Once they’ve took Lizzie away you get orf ’ome and leave the young ’un to me.’

‘All right – if it’s what you want.’ Jean couldn’t help feeling relieved. The responsibility for a young boy was a lot to take on in her position but she would have done it for a while. ‘Perhaps Archie will come back for him as he promised.’

‘Aye, providing he hasn’t gone orf ter Spain ter fight that foolish civil war. There’s four young lads gone from round ’ere this past week. My Ernie said they was fed up wiv bein’ told there’s no work – and they think it’s romantic.’

‘Until they lose a leg or an eye,’ Jean said grimly.

Although a child then, she vividly remembered the injuries the terrible war with Germany had inflicted on her own family – her father and two uncles killed and Josh … Her mind veered away from the memory of the school friend she’d known who had volunteered when only sixteen and been returned with no legs, a ruined face and blind in one eye. Josh had seen clearly with his one eye and he’d seen the horror she couldn’t hide. She thought it was the reason he’d crawled to his bedroom window and somehow managed to fall through it when his parents slept.

At fourteen years, Jean had been an idealistic child who admired the tall strong lad who, being a neighbour, she talked to nearly every day. He’d volunteered and been taken into the army, even though he was too young, but of course Josh had been a sportsman and looked older. Perhaps it was the realisation that he would never play cricket or football again that had made him take his life, but Jean was sure it was her fault and she’d never forgiven herself. She sometimes thought it was the reason she’d taken up nursing rather than following her hope of being a singer on the stage. It had been a childish dream and children of that terrible war grew up too quickly. The reality of grey-faced men who had been gassed or badly injured had made her dedicate her life to nursing and she sometimes thought that she was trying to heal Josh every time she treated the sick and dying. He’d never been her lover – someone else had broken her heart – but when she was lonely and the doubts crept up on her, it was always Josh’s eyes, accusing her, that she saw in her mind.

Marth departed to get Jamie some supper and Jean covered Lizzie with a coat. It wasn’t long before the police constable arrived and soon after the doctor, who grumbled about being called until he saw Lizzie lying there dead. Jean waited until the undertaker arrived to take Lizzie’s body away and then she went home.

Letting herself into her kitchen, she realised the range was almost out and hurried to bank it up. She needed a cup of tea and her supper and then she might be able to get this chill out of her limbs. It was far from the first time she’d seen a dead body but it had been unpleasant to find Lizzie like that and the police had warned her to be careful; Ted Martin was a vindictive man and might resent her for reporting what his son had said he’d done. Jamie couldn’t bring himself to tell the police but Jean had had no hesitation. Shivering, she scurried about the kitchen preparing her supper of scrambled eggs and mushrooms with toast.

The house seemed empty and lonely and she wished her friend would visit but knew he would not – they met now and then but always in a public place for coffee or a drink, because it was safer. Both of them wanted more but it wouldn’t do because George Bent was married and even though his wife had banished him to the spare room, Jean wasn’t an adulteress and she didn’t want to be the one who destroyed another woman’s home.

‘I’d have left her years back if it wasn’t for the kids,’ George had told her more than once. ‘She wouldn’t care – but the children would be upset and I can’t do it, Jean. I wish I could but …’

Jean had put a finger to his lips. ‘No, you mustn’t think like that,’ she’d said. ‘We can only be friends, George. I won’t be responsible for tearing your home apart.’

‘I know – and I can’t bring myself to do it either, because I did love her once. But I do love you, Jean. I think about you all the time …’

‘Not when you’re in court pleading a client’s case, I hope,’ she said, teasing him, because he was an excellent lawyer and often took cases on others might believe hopeless. ‘I think a lot of you, George but …’ She’d shaken her head.

It was strange how easy she felt with George. They’d met when he had been visiting a friend’s son at the hospital – for a few weeks he’d been a regular visitor and they’d struck up their unusual friendship. She ought to be tense or upset because of their situation, but she never was – just grateful for the few minutes they snatched to be together. He was the man she might have married if he’d been free, though she’d vowed she never would marry again. but there were times now that she felt lonely and reason told her it would be better to marry for friendship rather than go into old age alone.

Sighing, Jean made a pot of tea and picked up her evening paper. The headlines were about a missing heiress. Apparently, she’d just walked out of her house and no one had seen her for days; it was an interesting story, but Jean’s mind wouldn’t concentrate on the news. Morbid thoughts would get her nowhere. She’d made her bed years ago and, for the most part, she was content. Besides, George had some tickets for a concert at the weekend. His wife was going to visit her elderly grandmother in Southend and taking the children so they would have a chance to meet.

CHAPTER 2

Cassie entered the house though the open door that led to the kitchen of the large house and the table had been set for tea with bread, butter and a pot of honey. Glancing uneasily over her shoulder and expecting someone to come at any moment, she moved slowly towards the table and the food, her hand reaching towards the bread. It felt a little dry but was still fresh enough to eat, especially when you were as hungry as Cassie. Up to now she had been taking food from market stalls when the owners weren’t looking, and occasionally from the back alleys when housewives had left their back doors open with the pantry in plain view while they gossiped on their front doorsteps. Her mother had told her it was wrong to steal, but it wasn’t stealing if you were hungry she thought.

She broke off a piece of bread and spread it with butter and honey and bit into it, relishing the sweet taste. Yes, the bread was a bit stale but she’d eaten worse, even when she was at home with … Her mind shied away from thoughts of home. She’d managed to shut her memories off while she was wandering the streets alone.

Looking about her, Cassie saw a bottle of orange squash on the draining board and a tall green drinking glass. She poured herself a generous measure and topped it up with water from the tap, gulping it down. Every so often she glanced over her shoulder, still expecting to be caught and punished and she was ready to flee out of the still-open door, but as the minutes ticked by on the wall clock and she heard no sounds, her sense of fear receded. It was safe and warm here and they wouldn’t look for her this far away from that awful place …

Cassie had walked and walked for days, hiding whenever anyone noticed her, but few people bothered to give her a second glance. She wandered around the large kitchen, touching things, marvelling at the space and how nice it was – even better than when they’d had a daddy to look after them. Since then life had been harder and harder.

Once again she blocked the memories, memories of a mother becoming ill, pale and thin and permanently shrill, of hands that had once been soft and loving which now slapped and pinched, of the loving smile which had gone, of the despair and grief that remained.

In the pantry, Cassie found the shelves were filled with tins of fruit and there were more bottles of squash. She found a bottle of milk too, but when she opened it, it was sour and smelled horrid, so she poured it down the sink.

Not liking the smell that remained, she went out into the hall and slowly mounted the stairs. They were covered in carpet and her feet didn’t make any noise. After the noise and dirt of the streets, Cassie liked the quiet of this house near the river. At the top of the stairs were five doors, all but one closed. Drawn to the open door, she peeped in, half expecting that now someone would shout at her, but the room was furnished with lovely things, even though no one was there. Entering, Cassie looked about her. Everything was so pretty – cream and pink and lots of frothy lace and a fine material you could see through on the bed and the dressing table.

Approaching the dressing table, she saw that its glass top was littered with pretty bottles with silver-coloured tops. There were hair brushes and ribbons, combs and bottles with stuff in that smelled nice when she held them to her nose – and then she saw the box. It was black with flowers painted on it and when she opened the lid, she discovered a mirror that reflected all the sparkling things inside.

Cassie laughed with delight as she took rings and necklaces from the box and draped them on herself. They were all so pretty and they caught the light from the window – and there were lovely clothes on the bed and in the open wardrobe. Just hanging there, pretty pastels and deep shades in jewel colours that made her want to touch. Drawn irresistibly to one pretty dress in a shining silver material, Cassie stroked it and held it against herself.

She’d always loved to play dressing up with her mother’s things but there had never been anything as beautiful as these dresses and scarves. Laughing as she started to pull all the dresses from the wardrobe and hold them to her, Cassie forgot to be afraid. No one was here. Perhaps no one lived here and she could stay here forever …

It was much warmer in the house than outside and tiredness began to steal over her. Clutching a furry teddy bear she found lying on the bed, she curled up in the big armchair and closed her eyes. She could stay here until someone came to claim the house – but perhaps no one would come and she could stay forever …

‘Mary, my dear, how are you?’ Lady Rosalie kissed her cheek and looked approvingly at the Matron of the Rosie Infirmary, of which, as well as various other good causes, she was a patron. Her main interest in life since her husband’s death some years previously was underprivileged children and she was now chairwoman of a board that dealt with providing foster homes for abused and orphaned children. ‘Forgive me for not coming to see you these past weeks, Mary, but I have been snowed under with work – and my son was home from his boarding school for a time – the poor darling had the measles and they sent him home to recover.’

Mary Thurston smiled and nodded. She understood how busy her friend was and that her only son was very dear to her, the more since she was unlikely to marry again and have the large family she would have liked. Perhaps it was because she’d been thwarted in that that she took such an avid interest in children who needed help. Whatever, it was an interest they shared and Mary was always pleased to see her and to hear what had been happening.

‘Have you interviewed that couple you were thinking of placing on your list as foster carers?’ she asked. ‘The ones who own a little grocer’s shop?’

Lady Rosalie nodded, but looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, I have. I think they will do – but one has to be so careful. We do not need a repeat of what happened to that young lad you asked me to help last year!’

‘You mean Charlie?’ Mary smiled as Lady Rosalie nodded. The young lad had been placed with a husband and wife who proved unsuitable and treated him as an unpaid servant, but he’d got away from them and proved his own resourcefulness by living on the streets for some time. ‘Thankfully, Charlie and Maisie are safe with their aunt now, though I think he may be staying with Mrs Cartwright at the moment …’ Gwen Cartwright had taken Charlie and his sister in until his aunt could fetch them the previous Christmas and Charlie wanted to stay with her when he left school and took up an apprenticeship as a carpenter.

‘Yes – Gwen is an excellent woman,’ Lady Rosalie said with a look of satisfaction. ‘She is now at the top of my list and I shall not hesitate when the right child comes along. I know how fond she and Nurse Sarah are of Charlie and his sister.’

‘Yes, they are,’ Mary agreed. ‘Would you take a glass of sherry, Rosalie – or would you prefer a cup of tea?’

‘Tea, if it’s no trouble,’ Lady Rosalie said and sighed. ‘I am still adding suitable families to my list – if you hear of any …’

‘Yes, of course I’ll let you know.’ Mary looked thoughtful. ‘Is it still your criteria that it must be a couple in business or full-time work – you’re not interested in single-parent arrangements?’

‘Perhaps, in certain circumstances, like Gwen’s where she has an excellent daughter, but in most cases the foster mother needs to be at home to look after her children – and the father needs to be in permanent work.’

‘Well, I suppose that is sensible – but it means quite a few good-hearted women who might take on a child in need would be disqualified.’

Lady Rosalie agreed and that made Mary think hard. She’d known of several cases in the East End where hard-working women had taken in the child of a friend or neighbour who had died. They hadn’t asked for money or support and no one’s permission had been sought, but the authorities wouldn’t sanction their adoption or foster care if it came to their attention, yet it often worked perfectly well.

‘I must go – I have other calls to make,’ Lady Rosalie said after they’d drunk two cups of tea and chatted for half an hour or so. ‘I shall come again soon – and do not hesitate to ask if you have children who need a foster home.’ She got up and then turned, looking upset as she thought of something. ‘They still haven’t found the little girl whose mother fell down the stairs and broke her neck. Cassie was in a temporary holding centre for sick, problem children and ran away some weeks after Christmas. I keep thinking she might turn up here.’

‘Unfortunately, she hasn’t been brought in to us.’ Mary looked concerned. ‘The nights have been so cold I dread to think how she’s managing alone on the streets.’

‘If only she’d been brought to us instead of that awful place …’ Lady Rosalie sighed. ‘I’m not surprised she ran away from there; it has a bad name. Well, you know where I am if you hear anything.’

‘I shall let you know as always,’ Mary promised and got up to kiss her cheek and press hands before her visitor left. They’d bonded when Lady Rosalie’s husband was dying of his terrible illness and had remained friends. It was a good arrangement, because Lady Rosalie often gave money to the infirmary when it was needed, even though they were officially funded by the council – but that was never enough to run the place as she liked.

Sighing, Mary got up to do her rounds of the wards. London’s East End had so many sick and needy and her wards were often overflowing, some of the beds occupied by men and women who had nowhere else to go. A smile came to her lips. Sometimes she thought it was a pity she couldn’t find foster homes for the elderly and sick as well as the children!

CHAPTER 3

Nurse Sarah kissed her mother’s cheek and reminded her that Charlie would be arriving some time that day. It wasn’t likely that Mrs Cartwright would forget something she’d been looking forward to and Sarah knew she’d been cooking all the previous day in preparation. They both liked the youth who presently lived with his aunt but was coming for a few days to stay with his self-adopted mother. Charlie liked Sarah’s ‘Mum’, as he called her, and he’d been writing her long letters about when he would get to live with her and start his apprenticeship as a carpenter on the docks. He’d got almost a year longer at school, but it had closed for a week for half term and so he was travelling up to London on the train by himself. His aunt had given him the money for his ticket and she’d written herself to make sure Sarah’s mother was happy to have him.

‘As if I’d forget,’ Sarah’s mother said and smiled. ‘I’ve got his room ready and I’ll be baking his favourite cakes this morning.’

‘What about me?’ Sarah asked, teasing her. ‘What about my favourites?’

‘Get on with you!’ Her mother gave her a little shove. ‘That man of yours will be waiting and if you linger any longer, you’ll hardly see him before it’s time for your shift.’

‘Steve will walk me from the bus stop if he can,’ Sarah said. ‘He tries to sneak a few minutes from his regular beat but we’re going to the flicks tonight anyway – so you’ll have Charlie all to yourself.’

She laughed as her mother shooed her out of the door. There was an atmosphere of fun and laughter in their home these days. Sarah had put the uncertainty and distress of the past year from her mind. Her old, unhappy, relationship was forgotten and she’d settled down to being courted by Steve – Constable Jones as she’d first known him. He’d come into her life when Charlie had been staying in the children’s room at the Infirmary, his mother dying after a brutal attack. They’d found the boy and his sister in some derelict houses after the children had run away rather than be sent to an orphanage. Sarah’s mother had taken the children in for a few days and then their aunt had come for them – but Charlie wanted to live and work in London after he left school and he’d asked if he could live with Sarah’s mother when he left school. Mrs Cartwright had been only too pleased to agree.

Sarah couldn’t help feeling pleased too. She wasn’t ready to marry yet, but she thought perhaps it might happen later that year. Steve was giving her time, because he knew she’d been let down by her former fiancé and didn’t want to rush her. However, she knew that she’d fallen deeply in love with him and it was only a matter of time before he proposed. Steve was likely to be offered a police house somewhere in the area when he married and they would be near enough to visit her mother often, most days in fact. Yet a police officer could be moved anywhere and Sarah hated the idea of her mother being completely alone. She’d been strong when her husband died and had never tried to tie her daughter down, but Sarah loved her and worried about her. If Charlie lived with her, as he’d asked, it would mean she had someone to fuss over and Sarah knew that was what her mother needed.

Walking in to her work at the Lady Rosalie Infirmary, Sarah was thoughtful. Her mother was a very youthful 44-year-old and there was really no reason why she shouldn’t marry again, for companionship if not for love, but neither of them had spoken about the possibility. Mrs Cartwright had talked of taking in a lodger and about her friends – but never of another husband.

Sarah sighed and put the problem to the far recesses of her mind. Mum wouldn’t want her to worry, but she couldn’t help it now and then.

Steve was waiting for her when she reached the end of Button Street. He smiled as she went to him, hands outstretched, kissing her lips softly, his fingertips lingered on her cheek. Sarah smiled into his eyes.

‘Miss me?’ she asked and saw the laughter spark, because they spent most evenings together when they could and at the moment, they both worked days.

‘You know I did,’ he said and his eyes told her that he loved her. ‘I looked in the paper earlier and there’s a Laurel and Hardy film showing and an Alfred Hitchcock – which do you fancy?’

‘Oh, I think the thriller,’ Sarah said and looked up at him. ‘Unless you get enough of that in your work?’

‘I don’t mind a good thriller,’ Steve said. ‘Most of them aren’t like life anyway – they make it seem romantic instead of sordid and the murder I was called to last night was as sordid as they come.’

‘Oh, what happened?’

‘I may as well tell you, because one of your nurses was involved – Sister Norton. She was the one who found the poor woman. She’d been murdered by her husband and left on the floor all night and day. Her young son was too frightened to come to us – most of them are – and his neighbour was out all day. No one else in the street will have anything to do with the family. Apparently the boy, Jamie, trusts Sister Norton so he waited all that time for her to come home, out on the street in the bitter cold, because he dared not stay in the house.’

‘How terrible,’ Sarah said, shocked. ‘Poor Sister Norton to find that – and that child … How old is he?’

‘Thirteen, Sister Norton said, but he looks younger; he’s small for his age. You’d think he would come to us or ask the doctor to visit but his father went to prison nearly two years back and his elder brother was questioned at the time. The doctor is already owed money and might not have gone if he’d asked. Jamie must have been scared to death; probably afraid he’d be blamed.’

‘He couldn’t have done it?’

‘No, his story checked out. The neighbour heard shouting at eleven that night but she was in bed so when it went quiet, she just drifted back to sleep. She was out at five in the morning to do her work and then at her daughter-in-law’s all day – the daughter-in-law has three small children and can’t cope alone so Mrs Gilbert helps her until they’re safely in bed. When she got back home, Sister Norton was there.’

Sarah nodded. The story he’d just told her was not uncommon. Violence was prevalent in some of the poorer areas of the East End. Men beat their wives when they returned home drunk and many of them came for treatment at the Infirmary, but this woman wasn’t the first to be murdered by a drunken lout, whether her husband or lover.

‘So where is the boy now?’ Sarah asked.

‘Staying with the neighbour for the moment. Sister Norton offered to take him in for a while but Mrs Gilbert said he’d be all right with her until his brother came back for him.’

‘Yes, I suppose that would be best. Sister Norton doesn’t have time to look after a young boy – I’m surprised she offered.’

‘I was too,’ Steve admitted. ‘She seemed different – more approachable – last night. Maybe she isn’t the ogress she seems, love.’

Sarah laughed. ‘No, she isn’t that bad, just stern, always correcting the nurses under her and making us do things again. She has high standards.’

‘Yes, I think that must be it,’ he agreed. ‘I know she’s grumbled at you because of me a few times – but I suppose she wants her ward run just so.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed thoughtfully. ‘I like that she offered to take the child in, though. It makes her seem more human, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, she’s human,’ he said and grinned as they stopped outside the infirmary. ‘It’s funny how little we know about folk we work with, isn’t it? I didn’t know my sergeant’s little boy is a cripple until yesterday. He was born like it, poor little devil. They’ve just had a daughter and she’s fine – I think it was the emotion and relief that made him talk about it.’

‘Oh yes, I knew about Sergeant Bartlett’s son,’ Sarah said. ‘We had him in the clinic a few months back and he was quite poorly for a while. Your sergeant came in to thank us for looking after him and sending him home well – very emotional he was – and he bought us a box of Fry’s chocolates.’

‘Well, I never,’ Steve said and sighed as the church clock struck the hour. ‘I’d better go and so had you, love. See you this evening!’

‘Don’t forget Charlie will be there tonight.’

‘I shan’t.’ Steve smiled and walked off.

Sarah entered the infirmary and saw Kathy Saunders talking to her friend Bert Rush. They worked together on the cleaning staff and were supposed to be attending to the floors and stairs. Everyone knew that Bert was sweet on Kathy but until recently Kathy’s mother had refused to let her go courting. The girl was still only seventeen and Bert was nearly twice her age, but Kathy’s mother thought the world of him because he’d saved the girl from a brutal assault and she allowed her to go out with him. Sarah wasn’t sure how the age difference would work out if their relationship became serious, but she knew Kathy was happier now.

Going quickly up to the children’s ward, which was where she normally worked, she saw that Sister Norton was already there and making her first round of the day. The night nurse was just leaving and she shot Sarah a look that told her to be careful.

‘And where have you been, nurse?’ Sister Norton asked as she went to join her on her round. Her eyes went to the clock but she saw that it was just one minute past the hour and contented herself with a frown.

‘Sorry, Sister,’ Sarah said. ‘Is there anything you particularly want me to do?’

‘Yes, I need this child given a bed bath please – and then you start the breakfasts, please.’

Sarah nodded. She bent over the little boy in question and caught the sour smell of his diarrhoea and her throat gagged, because it was unusually strong. He’d been having bouts of it ever since he’d been admitted and, so far, the medicines they’d given him hadn’t stopped it.

Sarah smiled at him reassuringly and went off to fetch a bowl of warm water and cloths to wash him. When she pulled back the covers, she understood the smell. He had rolled in it all night by the looks of things and it was all over the sheets and his nightclothes.

Setting to work with a will, Sarah stripped away his dirty pyjamas and the soiled sheets and then washed him clean and dried him on soft towels. He was a little sore on his bottom so she applied a soothing cream, dressed him in clean pyjamas and sat him in a chair while she got the bed tidy. He looked at her shyly as she told him he could get back in bed when he liked.

‘I’m sorry, Nurse Sarah. I didn’t mean to do it …’

‘I know that, Ned,’ she told him gently. ‘You’ve got a nasty bug in your tummy and it’s not your fault. When the doctor gets it sorted, you’ll be all right to go home again.’

Tears welled in his eyes. ‘Ma says I’m dirty and she thinks I do it on purpose, ’cos it ’appens so much. I don’t think she wants me ’ome.’

‘Of course, she does,’ Sarah said and smiled down at him. Now that he was clean and fresh, he looked beautiful and she couldn’t imagine any mother not loving him – and yet she knew it happened. Women with too many children, too little money and too much to do might turn from a child that habitually messed its bed night after night. Anger and tiredness made people say things they didn’t mean and Sarah wouldn’t condemn a woman she didn’t know. ‘I’m sure she loves you, Ned.’

‘Nah, she don’t; she thinks I’m a nuisance,’ he said. ‘Mark is her favourite and Jinny. She never wanted me ’cos I ain’t me dad’s, that’s what she says, but I don’t know what she means. Do you know what she means, nurse?’

Sarah shook her head. It was clear to her what the boy’s mother meant but she couldn’t tell him. She felt pity in her heart for the youngster. Unwanted and unloved, he struggled with an illness that recurred frequently and because of it felt he was a nuisance to everyone.

‘You’re not a nuisance to me, Ned,’ Sarah said. ‘Just call me if you feel you need the toilet quick – but don’t worry if you make a mess.’

Ned clearly hadn’t told the night nurse that he was soiled. If she’d bothered to check she would have known but Nora was new to the infirmary and Sarah thought her a little careless in her work. However, she would reserve judgement until she knew more.

After she’d cleared away the dirty linen and water, Sarah returned to the ward. Mabel had brought the breakfast trolley up from the kitchen. She was new too, and had replaced Ruby in the kitchens as a helper. Thankfully, the cook hadn’t left them and the food served up was still hot and edible. Not like home-cooked food, but reasonable, and most of the kids ate it up as soon as they felt well enough. It was probably better than they got at home.

Sarah took the food round; she liked this job because it helped her to see whether the children were recovering from the sickness that brought them to the ward. Once they started to sit up and look for food you knew they were well on their way to going home.

Ned only wanted a piece of toast and marmalade. Sarah had told him he just had a tummy upset to comfort him but she wasn’t sure what Ned’s problem was, because the doctors hadn’t been able to make up their minds.

‘Wouldn’t you like an egg or a piece of bacon?’ she asked and he shook his head, looking wan. Sarah frowned; she didn’t think he was getting better at all. She made up her mind to talk to Sister Norton about it.

Sister was still checking pulses and temperatures. Sarah finished her job and saw Sister heading for her office at the end of the ward. She hesitated in the doorway and Sister Norton looked up, clearly irritated.

‘What is it, nurse?’

‘It’s about Ned Rutter,’ Sarah said. ‘Do you think he’s any better, Sister? I think he seems worse …’

‘Yes, he is – and I’m glad you noticed,’ Sister Norton said. ‘I’m worried about him. We thought it was just a stomach infection when he came in with constant bowel movements – but now I think it must be something more. I believe the doctor should do more investigations.’

‘Yes. I wondered … do you think he has some sort of trouble with his gut or his bowels? I mean, he can’t eat much and what he does eat goes through him too quickly. If it’s not an infection …’

‘Are you thinking of a growth of some sort?’ Sister Norton looked her in the eyes and Sarah flinched.

‘I do hope not – at his age! It isn’t fair!’

‘Life is seldom fair, nurse,’ Sister Norton said. ‘We’ll keep a close eye on him, you and I, Nurse Sarah. I want you to tell me whatever you notice, even if it seems unimportant.’

‘Yes, Sister, of course.’

‘Good – and well done for telling me.’

Sarah nodded but made no answer. She seldom got a well done from Sister Norton, though Sister Ruth Linton, one of the senior staff was always praising her.

As she worked through the morning, Sarah’s thoughts remained with the young boy. He called her once urgently and she was just in time to save him from another accident. He was close to tears and she saw that he was very upset because he felt he was naughty to cause her so much extra work and no matter how often she told him she didn’t mind, he still looked unhappy. At lunchtime he once again refused most of the food, eating only a small piece of the treacle tart that had been sent up for the children.

Sarah sat on his bed and asked him if he was in pain. He shook his head, looking at her in silent misery – and then, suddenly it came out. Sometimes he had violent bouts of pain but he could go for days with nothing. However, the more he ate the more mess he made and his mother told him he was a filthy little pig and she would put him out in the yard where he belonged if he went on making a mess.

Sarah saw the tears in his eyes and felt enraged. How could any woman speak to her young son that way? It was beyond understanding, because it was so cruel. She wanted to go round and tell the woman what she thought of her but knew that she dared not. Feeling the way she did, she would be sure to lose her temper and might find herself in serious trouble – might even lose her job. However, she could not hold it inside and so she told Sister Norton a little later that afternoon.

‘Thank you,’ Sister said and nodded. ‘He won’t talk to me – but now I see what is troubling the poor child. Yes, I agree, this is mindless cruelty and needs to be stopped. I shall visit the mother and speak to her.’

‘Is that wise?’ Sarah dared to ask. ‘Might it not rebound on him if we tell her what he said?’

‘Do you imagine me a fool?’ Sister’s brows arched. ‘I shall not go blundering in, but merely talk to her about the boy – discover where her true feelings lie. I believe this child has something seriously wrong. It is not an illness I have come across – most of these cases are infections or some kind of gastric problem – however, I think I do recall something …’ She shook her head as Sarah’s eyes questioned. ‘It was in a medical journal I read a few years back. I shall speak to Dr Mitchell about the boy’s condition.’

Dr Mitchell was new to the infirmary. He worked for a large hospital in London but he knew Lady Rosalie personally and gave some of his time to the infirmary free of charge, because she had asked him if he would.

‘Thank you,’ Sarah said. ‘I can’t bear to think of what that little boy must suffer at home.’

‘You must leave it to me,’ Sister Norton said. ‘Continue to report everything to me and we shall see what we can do for Ned before he leaves us.’

Sarah felt better as she went off to finish her work. She’d always thought Sister Norton uncaring because she was sharp and strict, but now she thought she might just have been wrong. Steve said you never knew people you met or worked with until you got under their skin and perhaps something or someone had done just that to Sister Norton and the softer side was showing a little.

CHAPTER 4

Nurse Jenny looked around the market stalls. She wanted a birthday present for one of her colleagues and had seen some pretty scarves a week or so earlier. Spying the stall she needed, Jenny stopped to look at the selection and bought a pretty pink and blue scarf and then a green one. She would give the green one to her sister Lily as a little treat. Lily was also a nurse and she liked green a lot. Jenny sometimes felt she neglected her, because she went out far more than Lily did with her friend Chris – boyfriend really, though they had never been lovers. Chris was too often away and Jenny got a bit fed up with staying home when he wasn’t in London, though he was fun to go out with when he was home and generous.

Having bought the scarves, Jenny became aware that she was being watched intently as she approached a stall selling freshly-baked cakes and fruit pies and flans. Her eyes moved over the milling crowd and then she saw the little girl – a dirty little waif with big blue eyes staring at her. Something tugged at Jenny’s heart and she turned to the stallholder, buying cakes for herself and Lily and then a bag with two iced buns in. The little girl was still staring at her in that intent way.

‘Are you hungry?’ Jenny asked, advancing towards the child. The girl took two steps back, but her eyes were fastened on the brown paper bag in Jenny’s hand. Deciding that to try and advance on her would only scare her, Jenny held the bag out. ‘These are for you – if you would like them?’

For a moment the child stared at her as if wondering whether to trust her and then she suddenly darted forward and snatched the bag, running off immediately as though she feared Jenny would grab her if she didn’t.

‘Come back, I shan’t hurt you!’ Jenny called but the child had disappeared into the crowd.

‘Pinched yer cakes, did she?’ a woman asked, shaking her head. ‘Them street kids are a bloomin’ nuisance.’

‘No, I wanted her to have them. I think she was hungry,’ Jenny said. ‘I ought to have done more to help her …’

‘Yer can’t help them urchins,’ the woman retorted with a sniff of disgust. ‘They’re all thieves and rogues; the coppers should shut the lot of ’em up in institutions if yer ask me!’

Jenny’s throat caught with emotion and she felt the sting of tears; she shook her head and moved away. She felt sad that a child of that age should be living on the streets, relying on the charity of strangers to feed her, yet she couldn’t do much to help the child. Neither she nor Lily had time to care for a little girl and the only other thing was to hand her over to the police who might possibly stick her in an institution. The lucky ones came to the Rosie or were placed with foster parents, but many more went to orphanages, often out of London and away from all they knew – the rest lived on the streets or with parents who cared nothing for them …

‘I felt so upset,’ Jenny told her sister when she got in later. ‘I gave her the sticky buns because she looked so hungry – but she needed love and a good home, Lily.’

‘Yes, I know, love,’ her sister told her sympathetically. ‘But she is only one of many, Jenny. She probably has a home but her parents can’t afford to feed her properly.’

‘Perhaps,’ Jenny sighed. The child had touched her heart and yet she knew that Lily was probably right. If the little girl was living on the streets the police would have picked her up and taken her somewhere. She must have a home to go to – even if it was unsuitable.

‘Did you see this?’ Lily offered Jenny the evening paper that she’d bought from the shop on the corner where they lived. ‘That heiress is still missing. The police are looking for her but they say she probably went off with someone she liked.’

‘Why are they making so much of it in the paper?’ Jenny asked, hardly bothering to glance at the article. She was more interested in the child with the big hungry eyes.

‘Oh, they say she is a little bit fey … or not quite right in the head,’ Lily said. ‘She had someone to look after her but the woman was called to a sick relative and says she only left Miss Gillows alone for two days before the police were alerted.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Jenny frowned. ‘How old is she?’

‘About twenty-two.’ Lily smiled. ‘No, she isn’t your little urchin! I wonder if she’s been murdered? She might have been robbed – apparently, she liked jewellery.’

‘Or she got fed up and went off for a while,’ Jenny said and sighed, looking round the kitchen. ‘Oh, I do miss Gran!’

‘Yes, me too,’ Lily agreed. ‘I thought she would always be here but that flu …’ She blinked hard and wiped her face with the back of her hand.

‘I know.’ Jenny went to put her arms around her. ‘I bought you a little present – it might cheer you up a bit.’

Lily sniffed harder. ‘You’re a good sister, Jenny. I hope you know I love and appreciate you?’

‘Of course, I do,’ Jenny said. ‘Are there any letters for me?’

‘No.’ Lily smiled. ‘I would tell you if Chris had written, Jenny – but I’m sure he’s busy. He’ll write as soon as he can, I know.’

Jenny shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. What shall we have for tea?’

‘I thought I’d make some tinned salmon sandwiches.’

‘Lovely,’ Jenny agreed. ‘I bought a nice cake for afters so we can indulge ourselves.’

She went to take off her coat and wash her hands while her sister made their tea and as she did so, Lily wondered why Chris hadn’t written for a few weeks. It was foolish of her but she sometimes thought she looked forward to his letters more than her sister – and that was stupid. He was Jenny’s boyfriend and could never be anything more to her. She bit her lip as she buttered bread and spread the salmon, mashed with vinegar and pepper, onto the bread, then cut the sandwiches neatly into triangles.

Jenny had been concerned about the little urchin she’d seen in the market but there were so many of them. Frowning, she wondered for a moment if it was the child, Cassie, the police had been searching for with no success. Her mother had fallen down the stairs at her lodging house, taking the girl with her. While the girl had been knocked unconscious for a time, the mother had fallen badly and broken her neck. When the neighbours found them, the child had been taken to a place of safety and cared for – but it hadn’t been very safe after all, because she had run away when she came to her senses.

Lily couldn’t understand how the people who were supposed to care for her had been so careless. She’d been in a ward with other sick and disturbed children and she’d just walked out – something that just wouldn’t have happened at the Rosie. Such a pity she hadn’t been brought to them but they had lived in a different area of London.

Shaking her head, Lily’s mind returned to Chris’s letters; he would write again soon, she was certain, because he loved Jenny.

Lily sighed, looking up with a smile as her sister entered the kitchen. Jenny was so lucky … but Lily loved her and she didn’t begrudge her her happiness.

‘Shall we go out somewhere this weekend?’ Jenny asked. ‘I’ve got Sunday off and so have you.’

‘Yes, let’s do that,’ Lily agreed. ‘We haven’t had a day out for ages.’

CHAPTER 5

Jean caught Dr Mitchell before he left after visiting the chronically sick ward. He was walking hastily towards the entrance when she touched his arm and turned to her with a frown, as if he felt annoyed that she had delayed him.

‘A moment of your time, doctor?’

He hesitated, then, ‘Is it important?’

‘Yes, I believe a child’s life is at risk …’

‘In that case my time is yours,’ he said. ‘Is there a pub where I could get a beer and a sandwich? I haven’t had lunch and we could talk as I eat – I’m back on duty at my hospital this evening.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry to have delayed you – perhaps another time …?’

‘No, if it was important enough to ask, it deserves a reply,’ Matthew Mitchell replied. ‘Are you hungry? A ham sandwich and a beer would just fill the bill for me.’

‘And me,’ she agreed, feeling she would enjoy eating a meal in company with someone for a change. ‘Yes, I’d be delighted to treat you, doctor – after all, I’m the one taking your time.’

‘I never say no to an attractive woman,’ he quipped and they left the infirmary, crossing the road. Jean led him down a narrow lane to a pub she’d had a drink in with George a few times. He nodded approvingly. ‘This is clean and the food looks freshly made …’

They found a table and Dr Mitchell insisted on ordering at the bar. Jean was content to let him. She never drank or ate at a pub by herself and it was more comfortable that way, but she would insist on repaying him their bill.

Dr Mitchell returned with a tray with their sandwiches of crusty bread and butter, ham and mustard, and two glasses of pale ale. Jean sipped her drink tentatively and found it wasn’t bad. She smiled because she’d never tried it before, normally sticking to lemonade or, very occasionally, a port and lemon.

‘Thank you,’ she said and took a sandwich. He was already on his second and if he hadn’t told her she would have guessed that he’d missed lunch, not unusual, she suspected, for such a busy man.

‘Now,’ he said and took a swallow of beer, ‘tell me please.’

Jean launched into an account of all that Nurse Sarah had told her. ‘I wondered if it might be a nervous complaint?’ she offered apprehensively, because doctors didn’t like nurses giving their own diagnoses. ‘I read something similar once in a medical journal but it was a long time ago and I can’t recall it accurately – but this child doesn’t have an infection causing his diarrhoea I’m certain of it.’

‘Ah …’ Dr Mitchell nodded and devoured another sandwich, looking thoughtful as he chewed. ‘Yes, I see. Well, you did right to ask me, Sister Norton, because I do know of the condition, though it is not generally diagnosed. It is difficult to be sure and a lot of people questioned the original thesis by Doctors Crohn, Ginzburg and Oppenheimer in 1932 – it’s usually known as Crohn’s Disease, by the way.’

‘I don’t know if that’s the paper I read,’ Sister Norton acknowledged. It had been published after her training and she knew that she might not have read all the articles in the medical journal she still took each month. It was difficult to keep up with new discoveries, especially when you were a hard-working nurse and lived alone.

‘You’re not the only one,’ Matthew Mitchell smiled at her and Jean found she was smiling back. ‘Some doctors are not completely convinced by their findings but I think they were probably right to publish. I’ll look in on the boy tomorrow. Unfortunately, if it is Crohn’s as I suspect, there is no known cure and we’re not sure how to treat it – but it is a physical condition and in certain cases might be critical.’

‘That’s what I feared,’ Jean replied and watched him wolf down the last sandwich. He certainly was hungry! She offered him the one left on her plate but he shook his head.

‘No, I’m full now – and I must go. Thank you for bringing this interesting case to my attention, Sister Norton. I shall see you tomorrow.’

She took some money from her purse and offered it to him. ‘For the meal …’

‘Not necessary,’ he said and gave her another blinding smile. ‘It was a pleasure, Sister Norton. We must do it again sometime when I’m not in a hurry.’

She watched as he disappeared out of the door, pausing to salute her before he disappeared. For a moment Jean stared after him, feeling a little as if a whirlwind had caught her up.

Jean decided to visit Marth on her way home. Jamie was at the kitchen table demolishing a thick slice of bread and dripping and by his expression it would seem that he enjoyed the fatty treat. He looked better and brighter than when she’d last seen him and she felt relieved that she’d done the right thing. Her immediate reaction had been to take him in until a proper home could be arranged, which meant either his brother’s return or an orphanage, but Jamie looked at home with Marth and actually managed a grin.

‘I just came to see you were all right,’ she told him, surprised to feel a tug on her heartstrings as she looked at his face, which was still slightly grubby, though cleaner than the previous day. ‘Not giving Marth too much trouble, I hope?’

‘Nah, ’course not,’ Jamie said and looked at her. ‘I’m a good boy, ain’t I, Marth?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say you’re good but you ain’t bad,’ Marth said and her plump body shook with mirth. ‘Yer ain’t no trouble to me, lad. Yer can go and play wiv your mates for an hour or so if yer want.’

‘Thanks, Marth!’ Jamie scrambled down from the table and grabbed his worn jacket before shooting out the back door before she could change her mind.

‘You should let him help with the work,’ Jean suggested. ‘Might do him good, you never know.’

‘Aye, well, ’e fetched in the coal this mornin’,’ Marth said, ‘and ’e ran to the corner shop for a loaf for me.’ She hesitated, then: ‘Will yer take a bite to eat or a cup of tea, Sister Norton?’

Jean was about to refuse when she realised she had nothing much to do at home that evening. ‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea,’ she said and sat down at the table. ‘I had a sandwich and a glass of beer with a friend – well, I drank half of the beer. I’ve never tried it before but I could do with a nice cup of tea.’

‘Sit you there and I’ll brew a fresh pot,’ Marth said, smiling and nodding. ‘I made a seed cake when I got home. It’s still warm, if you could fancy a slice – I’m havin’ one meself.’

‘Then I shall too,’ Jean said. ‘Do you know if Lizzie heard from Archie at all? Did he find a job down south?’

‘Not that she ever told me, but she didn’t talk most days – it was that wretch she wed. Told her to keep her mouth shut or he’d fill it for her with his fist.’

Jean nodded, letting the older woman talk, her gossip spreading to others in the street. It was as well to know what was going on, because when the women turned up with black eyes and broken arms at the Infirmary it helped to know if it was truly an accident or the result of a brutal beating.

The tea was drunk, the cake eaten and only then, reluctantly, Jean took her leave. She didn’t know why, but she was feeling down in the dumps. It had suddenly come home to her that she had no life outside her work, except for her occasional outings with George. Work had always been enough for her before but suddenly she felt that her life was empty – not meaningless, because her job was important, but sad. Yes, she decided, she felt sad, and she’d made up her mind long ago that she wouldn’t let herself look back or regret. Then she’d met George and their friendship had filled a space in her life. For a while that had been enough but now …? A sigh escaped her. She wasn’t sure what was wrong with her tonight, but it wouldn’t do. She must pull herself together, go home and have an early night to make sure she was ready for work the next day.

Jamie ventured to the end of the lane, looking for another boy to play football or rounders with, but there was no one about on his street. Their mothers probably had them doing jobs before they went to bed, just like Ma used to with him. The thought of his mother lying on the ground, staring up at him with dead eyes and blood all round her head, made tears start to his eyes and he cuffed them away angrily. He’d shut the horror of it out of his mind but sometimes it crept back … He wasn’t going to cry though. Boys didn’t cry! His father had taught him that long ago.

‘Yah, cry baby, cry!’ Voices chanted at him from the shadows making him jump. He hadn’t seen them standing there and for a moment he was scared but then he saw them emerge from the shadows, two boys from his school, both of them older and bigger than Jamie. He knew that they seldom attended school and came from Bull Lane, which was some streets away and an even worse area than this one. Jamie also knew that they had a reputation as bullies, but they were on his street and he was too proud to run.

‘I’m not crying,’ he muttered and scowled at them. ‘I ain’t afraid of you Red Brothers, neither.’ They ran with a gang of street children who called themselves Brothers of the Red. It was a name that held no meaning for Jamie but he was aware that many children were terrified of the Brothers, associating the word red with blood, as they were meant to.

‘If yer ain’t afraid, prove it,’ the taller of the two challenged, taking a menacing step nearer Jamie. His name was Leo Ruffard and both boys were in the class above him, or should have been if they ever bothered to turn up; the second lad’s name was Mick Rimmer, but they called themselves brothers.

‘All right, put ’em up then!’ Jamie said defiantly and lifted his fists before him, ready to punch. He’d had enough fights at school over his father after Pa was sent to prison to learn that most boys backed down if he showed them a boxing stance. He might be small for his age but he wasn’t a coward and he was ready to have a go. Not that he knew how to box properly, but Arch could and he’d shown him a few sharp moves.

‘If your assailant is bigger than you, hit below the belt,’ Arch had told him. ‘It ain’t proper rules and it ain’t fair, but if he’s a bully he deserves it.’

Jamie waited for the Red Brothers to come at him, thinking they would take him together, but the elder one – Leo, he thought – suddenly brought out a knife with a long blade. Jamie’s blood froze. He knew he couldn’t get near enough to land a low blow with someone who carried a knife. His eyes moved from side to side as he thought of his chances of escape, which were probably nil. Realising they would chase him down before he could get home, Jamie retained his stance.

‘Only bloody cowards use a knife,’ he said lifting his head with reckless defiance. ‘If you weren’t scared, you’d face me like a man!’

Leo stopped and the younger boy took his cue from him, hesitating and looking to his senior for guidance. Jamie was scared but determined not to back down. No point in running when they’d get him anyway. He was still waiting for them to pounce when Leo suddenly laughed and a second later his shadow laughed too. The knife went back into Leo’s pocket. Jamie waited uncertainly.

‘What yer doin’ out then?’ Leo asked. ‘We’re goin’ ter ’ave a bit of fun – want ter come?’

‘Yeah, why not?’ Jamie breathed a sigh of relief, hardly believing that he was being asked to go along with them and not lying beaten and bloody on the ground. ‘Where yer goin’?’

‘If yer want ter run wiv us, yer shut yer mouth,’ Leo said. ‘If yer ain’t a coward yer might be allowed to join the Button Street Brothers.’

Jamie took a deep breath. Arch had warned him never to get involved with the gangs of street children but his brother wasn’t around to protect him anymore and he knew if he walked away now they would gang up on him another day and that day he would be beaten or stabbed.

‘I ain’t no coward,’ Jamie said, which was true enough. His mother and brother had warned him about getting into trouble with the law but his father had sneered at them. He was a thief and a murderer and Jamie didn’t want to be like him, but he had to live in these streets for now and the best way was to go along with the bullies but try not to do anything his ma wouldn’t have liked. ‘I don’t care what I do,’ he lied – a lie he knew even then that he would regret.

‘Yer livin’ wiv yer neighbour now yer pa’s done fer the old woman?’ Leo asked and Jamie nodded. He hated that Leo had called his mother that, but what could he do?

‘Yeah, until Arch comes back.’

‘Yer brother’s gorn,’ Leo sneered. ‘He won’t come back fer yer – and that old bugger Marth won’t want yer long. Yer better orf wiv us – reckon we’re yer brothers. We’re all brothers, see. Ain’t got no one wot cares, just like yer – and so we look after ourselves.’ He grinned at the other Red Brother. Jamie couldn’t recall hearing his name and didn’t think he’d ever seen him at school.

‘What do I call yer?’ he asked.

The boy looked at Leo, who nodded and then said, ‘I’m Mick Rimmer but yer call me Brother. We don’t use names … ain’t that right, Brother?’ His eyes were on Leo as usual, waiting for approval.

‘Yeah.’ Leo’s eyes glittered in the light of streetlamps. He stopped and pointed across the street at the little corner shop there. ‘That’s where we’re goin’ – we fancy some sweets, cakes and fags, don’t we, Brother?’ He looked at Rimmer and winked.

‘But they’re closed …’ Jamie began but the words stuck in his throat, because he knew just what they were planning. ‘How are you goin’ ter get in?’

‘Through a window at the back,’ Leo replied. ‘Guy who owns it lives over the top but the silly old fool is nearly deaf and he won’t hear if we’re careful. By the time he gets down to the shop, we’ll have grabbed what we want and scarpered.’ His eyes narrowed and Jamie could see him fingering the knife in his pocket. ‘Are yer in?’

Jamie took a deep breath. He knew Mr Forrest at the corner shop well and liked him. He hated the idea of stealing from the old man, but he had no choice.

‘Yeah,’ he said in a voice as strong as he could make it. ‘I’m in.’

‘Good, because yer goin’ in after the stuff,’ Leo told him with an evil grin. ‘The window ain’t big enough fer either of us and all the others ’ave iron bars over ’em.’

Now Jamie understood why he’d been given a chance. If he hadn’t been the right size to get through the window, they would just have beaten him. He half wished he’d let them get on with it, but it would make them really angry if he said no now and that knife in Leo’s pocket could kill.

‘All right,’ he agreed hiding his reluctance beneath a show of bravado. ‘Tell me what yer want and I’ll bring it.’

‘Yer a right un’.’ Leo grinned again, a proper one this time. ‘I thought yer would be like yer bloody brother, but yer all right. Now listen, I’ve got a little torch so yer can see what we want and everything is in the storeroom. Yer don’t need to go through the front. Just grab as much as yer can and pass it out ter us and then get out as quick as yer can.’

Jamie’s heart was racing as they led him round to the back of Mr Forrest’s corner shop and pointed out the tiny window. It was just big enough for a boy of his size to squeeze. He felt his legs shaking and his mouth felt dry as he watched Leo prise the catch open. It was surprising how easy it was for the experienced thief to open what looked like a locked window. Jamie wondered if they’d somehow managed to fix it from inside earlier, perhaps distracting the shopkeeper while one of them slipped into his store room and moved the catch.

There was even an empty wooden crate left nearby for him to stand on, raising him up enough to wriggle through the narrow bit head-first. He slithered down to the floor, landing with a little thump. His nerves jangling, Jamie listened for sounds from upstairs but there was none. He switched on the torch and started to explore the shelves, quickly discovering boxes of chocolate bars, full sweet jars and several stacks of cigarettes, both Players and Woodbines. Knowing the Players were expensive, Jamie ignored them and swept up the Woodbines. He bundled them through the window and rushed back for the chocolate, grabbing handfuls out of the boxes and returning to throw them out to the others. He passed two big jars of sweets out and some packets of biscuits, but as he went back for more, he knocked a box off the shelf and the noise frightened him. He rushed back to the window because he thought he heard a sound from above.

‘He’s heard us!’ Jamie said and moved a chair so that he could scramble up on it and dive head-first through the window. He’d expected Leo to catch him before he hit the ground, but the Red Brothers had scarpered and Jamie landed in a heap on the gravel outside, scraping his knees and cheek. A light had come on upstairs and, as Jamie got to his feet and ran, someone looked out of the window and yelled.

‘Come back ’ere you dirty little thief! I’ll teach you to rob my granda!’ A boot followed the yell but Jamie was already swallowed up by the darkness of the street.

He ran and ran through the streets he knew so well, wondering if the Red Brothers would come after him, but he heard and saw nothing. At the first hint of danger they’d cut and run, leaving him to sink or swim alone. He knew then that he wasn’t one of them, even though he’d done what they wanted and got nothing out of it himself, not even one chocolate bar. He’d just given it all to Leo and he’d been left in the lurch.

For a moment Jamie had the strangest feeling that he was being watched. He glanced over his shoulder but couldn’t see anyone. If those bullies came after him again, he would fight, even if they thrashed him. They were rotten cowards and he hated them now for what they’d made him do.

Jamie’s mouth set in a grim line. He felt sick at what he’d done and he was glad that Mr Forrest’s grandson had been home from the army and heard him. He wished he hadn’t given those pigs as much as he had. It was the last time they would make him do a robbery for them! Jamie would take a beating, but he wouldn’t go out unprepared in future. He would fetch one of Ma’s sharp knives from her kitchen drawer and give those bullies as good as he got. Jamie remembered how quickly they’d given in when challenged and he thought that, like most bullies, they were cowards at heart, just the way Arch always said they were. If his brother had still been here, they would never have dared threaten him.

His mind made up, Jamie went home to Marth’s warm kitchen. He wished he’d been braver for the start and felt sorry for Mr Forrest, who didn’t deserve to be robbed. Ma would be ashamed of him and Arch would give him a hiding for it. Tears stung his eyes but he brushed them away angrily. It was no good wishing that Arch was here to help him fight the Red Brothers. He was on his own and the only one he could rely on was himself.

Watching from the shadows, the little girl shivered, pulling the warm shawl about her shoulders. She’d found it at the place she was now calling her house and loved the feel of its softness about her neck and face. She’d wandered a long way today, searching for something, though she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. The mists in her head were thicker some days and she couldn’t remember anything, not even her name.

Those horrible boys were bullies. The smaller boy should have run away from them but they’d frightened him, as they frightened her – except that she could run fast and they never caught her, even though they’d tried to hurt her once. She’d scratched one of the boys on the face then and kicked his shins, and when he yelled and let go, she’d run off as fast as she could and hidden. She was good at hiding.

It was a pity the small boy hadn’t seen her when she’d tried to call him from her hiding place, but he’d been too frightened to see anything except the bullies who were threatening him. She thought it was a shame, because she might have taken him to her house so that they could play. Jamie looked lost and lonely, just like her. A little smile lit her thin, dirty face as she remembered the name the bullies had called him and then, just for a minute, she remembered her own name.

She was Cassie and – and her mother had wanted to drown her in the river. For a moment she recalled the desperate struggle on the stairs and then her mother’s scream as she tumbled backwards down them, dragging Cassie with her. Just for one blinding second it was all so clear to her – and then the voices saying she was evil and would be locked away in an institution.

Cassie felt the sting of urine on her legs as she wet herself. Tears rushed to her eyes and she started to run. She had to get back to her house, because only there could she be safe from the people who wanted to lock her up. As she ran, panting in terror, the past became muddled again and she remembered a woman sitting by the firelight singing a song she’d loved and a man who smelled of tobacco and some sort of drink on his breath – but, in another instant, it was lost and all she could think of was the need to return to her house, the beautiful house that someone had so clearly left for her to find safety in …

CHAPTER 6

Steve was waiting for Sarah when she got off her bus as usual the next morning; she didn’t always bother with the bus but it was drizzling with rain and she’d decided not to walk. She went to greet Steve with a smile but saw that he was looking stern and didn’t smile as easily as he normally did when they met. Touching his hand, she looked up at him, searching for clues. Had she done something to upset him?

‘What’s wrong, Steve? Are you upset about something?’

‘Well, yes, I am as a matter of fact,’ he said. ‘It was a robbery last night at the corner of Bull Street, the little grocer’s there.’

‘I know that shop well,’ Sarah said. ‘Sister Norton lives not far away – and Mum has a friend who does a lot of her shopping there because she says old Mr Forrest is so lovely to her …’ She saw the grim look in his eyes and hers widened. ‘What happened?’

‘Forrest’s grandson was there and heard them, fortunately. He scared them off before they could take more than some sweets and a few packets of Woodbines, but Mr Forrest was upset and then taken ill in the night, and they’ve rushed him to hospital. They say it is his heart and it’s touch and go whether he survives.’

‘Oh no! I bought Mum some chocolate there last year for Mothering Sunday and he was really friendly.’ Sarah understood why Steve was so upset. He must have been called to the shop in the early hours.

‘I know him well,’ Steve told her grimly. ‘I like him, Sarah – a lot. He’s the sort you’d want as a grandfather. Often gives the kids an extra sweet but nothing untoward about him. He’s not a groper, just loves kids. If I catch the little buggers who did it, I’ll give them the fright of their lives!’

‘You must be angry but you can only arrest them.’ She looked at Steve uncertainly, because she’d never seen him this angry before.

‘I know, but I can threaten them with hanging if the old man dies!’ he said and she knew it was anger talking. Steve was upset because he’d known the victim of what was really a petty crime. ‘His grandson was in tears, Sarah. We were at school together. He’s a grown man, in the army and home on leave, and yet he was crying. He saw the lad scarper – just one and not very big – but he’d have to be small to get in the window. They’ve got bars over all the others. However, I looked around outside and I’m sure there was more than one lad. It looks as if they put the little one through the window and then ran and left him to get out as best he could. He probably cut himself on the gravel when he landed …’

‘Have you any idea who did it?’

‘I’ve got an idea.’ Steve frowned. ‘They call themselves The Brothers of the Red or some such fanciful thing and it’s not a big gang. We think about four or five altogether, but we know they’re active in the area. Most of them are thirteen or fourteen and they play truant from school all the time. We send school officers round to their homes but the officers tell us they’re afraid to go near some of the houses unless we go with them – the fathers are all known criminals, the mothers often drunk or on the game. The leader of the gang lives with his grandmother, because his parents are dead, and I doubt she can do anything with him.’ He shook his head. ‘It isn’t surprising they grow up the way they do, but we have to prove they’re guilty and so far, they’ve not left any clues – however, this time they made a mistake. There are fingerprints all over, a child’s prints, so we know it must be the young devil who got in that window – the trouble is, he was probably a first timer and it might be hard to find him.’

‘I’m sorry your friend’s grandfather was hurt,’ Sarah said as she heard the clock strike. ‘Oh, I have to go or I’ll be late. Shall I see you this evening? Mum thought you might like to talk to Charlie?’

‘Yes, I should,’ Steve agreed and smiled. ‘Now there’s a young lad I like. He could have turned bad but he didn’t – and I respect him for his choice to make something of his life.’

‘You can tell me about it tonight,’ Sarah said and kissed his cheek. She turned and ran into the infirmary. Sister Norton was going to be angry because it was already two minutes past the hour.

However, when she arrived on the ward, slightly breathless, Sister Norton wasn’t in; Sister Rose Harwell was there instead. She smiled as Sarah came up to her and nodded.

‘I’m glad to see you nicely on time,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a busy morning ahead. I’m afraid we’ve had two new patients come in overnight – but one has gone into the chronically sick ward. Dr Mitchell came in early this morning and had Ned transferred. He wants us to give the child more time and he knows we can’t keep a watch over certain patients the way they do in the critical ward.’

The chronically sick ward was small and housed only a few patients at a time, allowing the nurses to sit with their patients for hours if need be.

‘Sister Norton and I were keeping a strict eye on him,’ Sarah said feeling a bit distressed that their patient had been moved.

‘Yes, but it seems that he was in terrible pain last night and the night nurse had to summon Sister Linton because she couldn’t cope.’

‘I see.’ Sarah nodded, understanding now. It was the first bout of violent pain Ned had endured since entering the infirmary and the doctors were clearly concerned if they’d moved him to a ward reserved for patients who might not recover. ‘I shall visit him in my break, Sister – if that is permitted?’

‘Of course, it is, nurse,’ Sister Rose said. She looked at Sarah gravely but with kindness. ‘But you really can’t allow yourself to get fond of patients, Sarah. We none of us can. Either they get better and go home – often to families who don’t look after them – or sometimes they die. It can hurt either way.’

‘I know,’ Sarah took the mild rebuke as it was meant, to help rather than scold. ‘But I was just getting to know him, gain his confidence.’

‘Yes, I know. Dr Mitchell wants to speak to you later. He says that Sister Norton alerted him to Ned’s condition, because of you. He probably wants to say well done.’

Sarah smiled and thanked her and they got on with the work of the day. She didn’t ask why Sister Norton wasn’t in and it wasn’t until they had a tea break later that Kathy told her what she’d heard.

‘Sister Norton was up all night. She was called out to an elderly man who was having a heart attack after his shop was robbed and went with him to the London. She waited until she was told he was stabilised for the moment and then went home. She rang Matron this morning and told her she wouldn’t be in today.’

‘Yes, I heard that Mr Forrest at the corner shop had had a heart attack,’ Sarah said. ‘I suppose they knew Jean lived nearby and asked her to come, rather than the doctor.’ It wasn’t uncommon in the lanes and narrow, dirty streets of the East End, for nurses who lived near to be called out rather than the doctor. Doctors charged more to visit and many people just couldn’t afford it while others didn’t see why they should pay them when the nurse would tell you just as much for free. Sister Norton would have gone immediately, without a thought, and wouldn’t have asked for a penny.

Kathy had come up with the meal trolley that morning and had obviously overheard part of their conversation. She brought it up when Sarah went to fetch breakfast for one of the children, asking for more information.

‘I wouldn’t have thought she would bother to sit there all night for him,’ Kathy said looking surprised when Sarah told her why Sister Norton wasn’t at work. ‘She always seems so stern.’

‘Yes, but perhaps she isn’t always like that?’ Sarah suggested and smiled at her, deciding to change the subject. ‘How are you, Kathy?’

‘Good!’ Kathy blushed and looked uncertain. ‘You’ll never guess – Bert asked me to marry him.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘Well, I’ll have to ask my mother,’ Kathy said and laughed. ‘But I told him I would, if she says it’s all right.’

‘You’re very young to marry – only seventeen,’ Sarah said gently.

‘But I’ll be eighteen this year. Besides, I like Bert. He makes me laugh and he keeps me safe – that’s what Mum says you need in a husband.’

Sarah nodded but made no further comment. It seemed that Kathy’s mother, having made up her mind she liked Bert, had decided to push the girl into a safe marriage. That might not be a bad thing, but Kathy might wake up one day in the future and decide that she wanted to see a bit more life than her much older husband was up for … Still, that was not Sarah’s business, it was Kathy’s; and only she knew whether it was what she truly wanted of life.

When Sarah returned to the ward after popping in to see Ned, who was under sedation and didn’t know she was there, she discovered Dr Mitchell talking to Sister Rose. He turned, looked at her and smiled in welcome.

‘Good morning, Nurse Sarah,’ he said. ‘I wanted to have a word with you about my patient. Tell me, what was it that led you to tell Sister Norton that you were certain Ned’s problem was not an infection?’

‘I just sensed it was more,’ she said. ‘I know the signs of infection were there and we all thought it must be a nasty tummy upset when he first came in – but I talked to him and it seems he gets days of violent pain followed by days when he feels nothing, but this constant diarrhoea is causing trouble with his mother.’

‘Ah yes, she wouldn’t understand that her son has a condition that will, unfortunately, affect him for most of his life. It has a name, Crohn’s disease, but few doctors know of it and even fewer can diagnose it.’

‘What exactly is it?’ Sarah asked.

‘If we knew for sure, perhaps we could find a cure …’ He sighed, his brow creasing. ‘It is probably a bit of twisted gut or something of the kind, but, whatever, it causes inflammation and therefore pain. There are various symptoms: fever, pain, and the diarrhoea, of course. What little we know is that a liquid or soft diet is best for sufferers, though some do not respond – and if it comes to the worst we might have to operate and take out the inflamed section.’

‘Wouldn’t that be dangerous?’ Sarah felt sharp concern for the young boy who had never known a loving home.

‘Yes, it could be. We’re not really sure yet, because the condition has only been identified in the last few years and not enough is known yet, but if we do nothing and the diet does not work, he could die.’

Sarah felt tears prick her eyes but blinked them away. She was a nurse. She was a professional. She could not allow herself to be emotional over a patient.

‘You do well to care, because he has no one else,’ Dr Mitchell said, seeing what she tried to hide. ‘I visited his mother this morning. Apparently, Sister Norton had been there first and was given a flea in her ear. I was almost thrown out and threatened with a carving knife! She told me she didn’t care what we did to “The little brat” – her own words – but she didn’t want him back soiling his bed every night.’

‘How disgusting she must be!’ Sarah cried forgetting her position in her anger.

‘She most certainly is.’ Dr Mitchell grinned broadly. ‘I got out of there pretty quickly, let me tell you – and I’ll be talking to people I know. Ned will not go back to that hellhole. Once he can leave us, he will go to an orphanage or an adoption centre.’

‘Or a foster home?’ Sarah said and blushed as he looked at her intently. ‘My mother would take him in for a while, I know she would.’

‘That I can’t promise,’ he said. ‘Once I report the case it will be out of my hands – but in the meantime, I should like you to spend as much time with him as you can spare, nurse. He seems to have taken to you.’

‘And then?’

‘And then we’ll see what Matron and Lady Rosalie say,’ he suggested and winked at her as he turned to leave the ward. Sarah smiled. Dr Mitchell wasn’t like most of the others, who looked down on the nurses like gods from afar. She liked him – and if she and Ned got on as well as they always had, she thought Dr Mitchell and Lady Rosalie might just see the wisdom in letting her take the child home with her, at least for a while – and now she’d best return to the ward before Matron had her guts for garters!

Jean had been very distressed to be called out the previous evening to Mr Forrest. He was such a gentle, kindly man and she often shopped with him. She could buy things more cheaply on the market sometimes, but his stock was always fresh and reliable and it was a pleasure to stop and talk to him. He allowed his customers to taste tiny slivers of whatever cheese or ham he currently had for sale and his time was yours for as long as you wished. She’d arranged for him to be taken into hospital and gone with him herself, because his grandson was busy with the police. The constable who’d turned up after a frantic phone call had been Constable Steve Jones and Jean knew he was courting Nurse Sarah Cartwright. He had a nice manner with him and she’d liked the way he’d calmed Phil Forrest down – the army sergeant had been incandescent with fury, and in clear distress over his grandfather but together they’d sorted it out and she’d been glad to help.

Sitting at the hospital waiting for news she could take back to his grandson, Jean hadn’t been aware of tiredness. She was used to night duty and it wasn’t as if she was on her feet. One of the young nurses had brought her a cup of tea and then a doctor had come to tell her that Mr Forrest was settled for the night and over the worst.

The doctor spoke confidently. ‘He should make a full recovery, providing he doesn’t have another attack immediately. You know yourself, Sister Norton, we can never be certain these things are over for at least a couple of days. If he had another attack as severe as the last it would probably kill him, but we shall keep him here and watch over him and I have every hope he will come through.’

‘He is in the best place,’ Jean said. ‘Do you think his attack was caused by the break-in – or is it likely that it could have happened anytime?’

‘We shall do further investigation while he is here,’ the doctor said, ‘but at his age he may well have had symptoms he’s not bothered to report to his doctor.’

Jean had left the hospital then and taken a taxi home. She’d made tea and toast for herself, feeling tired all of a sudden and deciding she would go to bed as soon as she’d rung the infirmary and let them know she wouldn’t be in that day. She could have gone in a bit later, but she would probably be tired and a tired nurse was not an efficient nurse. Far better someone else should take her place for a day.

Sister Ruth Linton had been very understanding. Her superior, Matron might not be best pleased at having to rearrange her staff but would do it.

Jean had taken another cup of tea to bed and slept until after two o’clock, when she got up and bathed and dressed in a skirt and jumper, deciding to walk round to Forrest’s corner shop and see if Sergeant Forrest had any further news of his grandfather’s condition. She thought the shop might be closed but it was open as usual and the tall, rugged young man stood behind the counter. He smiled at her as she went in.

‘Good afternoon, Sister Norton,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you came in. I wanted to thank you for all you did last night. I was afraid to leave the shop in case the bastards came back to finish the job – excuse my language, ma’am – but I was so angry over it. Grandfather doesn’t make a fortune out of this place, he never has, just a few pounds to keep him going.’

‘I doubt if a small shop ever earns much,’ Jean said sympathetically. ‘Some of the kids here don’t know right from wrong. Their fathers are probably out of work and their mothers can’t control them – but it still doesn’t excuse what they did.’

‘I know how bad things have been,’ Phil Forrest agreed. ‘My parents had their hard times, same as others, and that’s why Dad wouldn’t let me work on the docks. He told me the army was the place for me and he was right. I’d hate to live round here again – but I think the world of Grandfather and I visit as often as I’m able.’

‘You haven’t heard anything more?’

‘No. I’ll go to the hospital when I finish up here, but I didn’t want him to lose more than he already has so I opened up as usual. I’ve had a lot of folk in and they all say how sorry they are and they hope he’ll be back soon, but I’m not sure he can ever return to what he was.’

‘There’s no way he can afford to employ a full-time assistant?’

Phil shook his head. ‘The shop doesn’t earn enough, Sister Norton. I think he may have to sell up and go to live with my parents. My mother will happily take him in but she’s got two children still at school and Dad to look after, so she couldn’t manage the shop as well.’

Jean nodded her understanding and made sympathetic noises. She knew there was no comfort to be given in such a case. Mr Forrest was old and if he could no longer run his shop, he would need to sell it and move in with his daughter-in-law and son. The alternative did not bear thinking of for an independent man.

She bought a few things and walked back home just as the schools were emptying. As she entered Pail Street, she saw Jamie Martin walking towards Marth’s house, looking furtively over his shoulder. Moving quickly to catch up with him, she tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped in fear, his eyes wild as he looked at her.

‘Is something wrong, Jamie?’ she asked and he shook his head but she saw a bruise on his cheek. ‘Are you afraid of someone – one of the boys from your school, perhaps?’

Jamie hesitated and then nodded looking at her and now she saw a different expression, which she suspected, might be shame. ‘Yeah,’ he said at last. ‘It’s a gang, Sister Norton. They gave me a bit of a ’iding last night – they’re bullies and all the kids are scared of them. Arch ain’t, but he ain’t ’ere.’

‘I see …’ She pursed her lips. ‘Isn’t there anyone you could talk to about it – your teacher or a policeman perhaps?’

Now Jamie looked really frightened. Instead of answering her, he took to his heels and sprinted the few yards to Marth’s house, disappearing around the corner and no doubt into her kitchen.

Jean frowned, considering what to do for the best. Should she follow him into Marth’s kitchen and insist on the whole story or leave him to make up his own mind how to deal with the bullies? She sighed and walked past, knowing that she couldn’t interfere unless he asked. Jamie was staying with Marth, his unofficial foster mother, who had promised to contact his brother as soon as they had word of his whereabouts. Jean had no authority and no right to make him tell her his story if he didn’t wish to.

She was still thoughtful as she approached her cottage and saw, to her surprise, that she had a visitor waiting. George seldom came to her home, because they’d decided at the outset it wasn’t sensible. To meet for a drink or a coffee was one thing but to be alone together in her home was quite another and would undoubtedly cause gossip.

‘Jean!’ George came to meet her as she approached and she saw that he looked bothered – annoyed and worried. ‘I’m glad to have found you. Matron told me you were at home so I came but there was no answer.’

‘I went to the shop,’ she said. ‘Come in, George, I wasn’t expecting to see you before the concert next week.’

‘I know – but …’ He glanced round, as if wondering who was watching or listening. ‘I’ll tell you inside.’

Jean unlocked her back door and they went into her neat kitchen. It smelled slightly of her toast from earlier and she frowned, opening a window to let some air in. Then she turned to look at him expectantly.

‘George, you wanted to tell me something?’

‘It’s Lilian …’ He paused and took a deep breath. Lilian was his wife and Jean prepared for the worst, because when he spoke of her it was usually to cancel an arrangement or complain of her tantrums. ‘She wants to go and live with her sister in Bournemouth. The kids are at boarding school and Lilian is miserable. She says she’s had enough of me and wants me to give her a divorce – she says she knows I’m having an affair and it is up to me to make it easy for her.’

Jean pulled out a chair and sat down, her breath suddenly gone. She felt shaken. Divorce was such a shocking thing and she didn’t actually know anyone who’d been through one. It was usually the product of scandal and the other woman in the case inevitably lost her reputation. Everyone was always on the side of the wife. If Jean was named, she would be known as a scarlet woman!

‘We aren’t having an affair,’ she said, ‘so how can she know anything? We’ve had a drink together and been to a concert a couple of times as friends – but nothing more!’

‘Of course not,’ George said nodding in agreement. ‘I might wish it was more, but we’ve been sensible. I told her it was nonsense but she says she’s had a private detective follow me and he has photographs of us together and unless I agree she will go to your employers and make a fuss – and she would, Jean. I’m so sorry, my dear. I thought I had been careful but she smelled your perfume on a handkerchief and …’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘I don’t even know how it got there.’

Jean frowned as she wracked her brain for the memory and then nodded. ‘You took a piece of grit from my eye and wiped a tear from my cheek – it was when the men were working on the road and some dust blew into my eye.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘Such a tiny thing …’

‘I never wear perfume at work,’ Jean said with a frown. ‘She couldn’t have smelled it – perhaps my soap …’ She looked at him, seeing the flush in his cheeks and guessed that her wife had accused him more in hope than knowledge and he’d given himself away. George had made it clear he wanted an affair on several occasions. Jean had resisted, mainly because of past hurts, but also because she hadn’t wanted to be the cause of a divorce.

‘I thought I should warn you,’ George said and looked uncomfortable under her accusing stare. ‘You won’t be named, of course. I can arrange something – pay a prostitute and get someone to take pictures. If it means I’m finally free we could—’

‘Don’t, George!’ Jean said, sounding sharper than she intended. ‘We are friends – and I shan’t deny I’ve been tempted to let it be more – but that doesn’t mean I want to get married!’

‘Oh …’ He looked crestfallen and disappointed and Jean wondered why she’d said it. Only a few days ago she thought she would have been pleased that he would soon be free of the wife he’d long disliked. ‘I thought … you know how I think of you, Jean.’

‘Yes, and I am very fond of you,’ she replied and sighed. ‘I didn’t mean to be sharp, George. You caught me at a bad time and – and I’m upset that I might be accused of being an adulteress.’

‘Yes, of course. You look tired …’ He looked at her, belatedly seeing the signs of strain. ‘What’s wrong, old girl?’

Jean ignored the form of address, though it irritated her. ‘I was up all night with a patient and he is very ill – he may die and he is someone I rather like. Most of the locals do. We all visit his shop at least once a week, because we don’t want him to give up – though perhaps he should have done after his wife died.’

Jean found herself telling George all about the break-in. He shook his head sadly and then nodded. ‘It happens all too often when the shopkeepers get too old,’ he said. ‘I’m always being asked to defend little blighters who’ve been stealing sweets and cigarettes from elderly men and women who eke a living from these tiny corner shops. I get paid a few quid for getting the kids off with a caution or a fine when they ought to send the rogues off somewhere and teach them a lesson – a spell in the army would be as good as anything, if they were old enough.’

‘Sergeant Forrest thinks it was schoolchildren.’

‘That’s the trouble,’ George shook his head. ‘If the police find them and go to the parents, they’ll lie through their teeth for them, and even if there’s irrefutable proof, some busybody will come along and say they should be given a rap on the knuckles and let off. Nowhere to send the blighters that’s the problem. What few remand institutions for underage offenders exist, are filled to bursting.’

In his capacity as a solicitor for criminals, George was well aware of the situation and Jean did not doubt his word. They’d met when she’d sought a solicitor on behalf of one of her neighbours, who was being threatened with eviction by her landlord because she owed two weeks’ rent. A collection amongst friends and neighbours had paid the arrears but still the landlord had wanted Millie Jenkins out of her cottage. However, George had soon put the domineering landlord in his place and Jean had invited him for a drink to thank him for his help. They’d liked each other from the start and George had been honest about the state of his sterile marriage. Jean had told him who and what she was, but her secrets had never been discussed – with George or anyone. The hurts she’d suffered when she was a young nurse, straight out of training and full of belief, remained buried deep inside and that was the way she intended them to stay. No one needed to know that Jean had been deceived, betrayed and discarded but it wasn’t going to happen again.

‘Well, I’d better go,’ George said and looked reluctant. ‘If I stay it may be added to the list Lilian is preparing to use against me.’

‘This divorce …’ Jean looked at him anxiously. ‘Are you sure my name won’t be used?’

‘I’ll do my utmost to stop it,’ he promised and came towards her. He reached out for her and then bent his head to kiss her. Jean felt the tickle of the little moustache he’d grown. She smiled and let him kiss her. She was quite fond of him, though it wasn’t the blinding, all-consuming love that she’d once known and lost. George smiled down at her and then lifted her chin. ‘I haven’t been able to court you as I should – but when this horrid business is over, I’ll show you how I really feel.’

‘Let’s wait and see how you feel once you’re free,’ she suggested and smiled at him. ‘I am very fond of you, George, but I don’t think we should meet until it is over.’

‘No,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘I took a risk today but I changed buses three times and I don’t think I was followed. It means abandoning our trip to the concert but I’ll let you know when it is over.’

‘Thank you.’ Jean went to the door with him, waved and then returned to her kitchen. For some reason she was close to tears. She’d enjoyed meeting George sometimes, but would she really want him here in her home every day and all night? She wasn’t sure it would suit her to play the part of a dutiful wife. Her job was important to her and she didn’t imagine she could have a successful marriage and carry on working full time at the infirmary.

Sighing, she went to the dresser drawer and took out a paper pattern. She had some material to make a dress that she’d bought more than a month earlier and put away. That evening she would cut out the pieces of one of her favourite styles. She’d used it many times before and knew it suited her tall, slightly thin frame. The neckline was modest and she normally added collars, either of lace or white linen, double stitched to make it stiffer. With long sleeves, a fitted bodice and a semi-straight skirt that ended just above the ankles it made her look elegant but respectable. A woman in her position needed to be careful and dress modestly. Anything too frivolous and the women of the lanes around her would start to speculate. She could imagine what a few of her neighbours would be thinking of George’s visit as it was – and smiled as she realised that they would be counting the minutes and wondering if he’d been there long enough to have committed an indecent act with her …

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.