‘Get away with you!’
‘I mean it. You’re a snowy dove trooping with crows.’
She laughed. ‘A what?’
‘It’s from Romeo and Juliet. It means you stand out above all others. Christine “doth teach the torches to burn bright”,’ he quoted.
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said, secretly pleased. Oliver was so clever, he was always saying such wonderful, romantic things to her.
She didn’t know why he took such an interest in her. Compared to him, she was nothing special. He was so well-spoken, he obviously came from a good family. She was sure there were other girls who were far more suited to him than she was.
And yet he had chosen her. One day, out of the blue, when she had been sitting on her bench, trying not to cry because of some cruel remark Joan Cathcart had made, she had suddenly heard a voice say: ‘You remind me of Cathy Earnshaw.’
She looked up and there was Oliver, standing a few yards away on the other side of the line. He wasn’t looking in her direction, but she knew he was speaking to her.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she’d said.
‘I’ve been watching you for a few days now. You always wander around this field on your own like Cathy Earnshaw on the moors.’ He glanced her way, his dark eyes meeting hers. ‘You know? Wuthering Heights?’
‘I’ve never read it.’
He shook his head. ‘Gracious, what do they teach you girls?’
The following day, when she reached her bench, there was a battered copy of Wuthering Heights tucked underneath it.
He hadn’t spoken to her again for some time, but Christine knew he was watching her from the other side of the field. And when no one else was watching, sometimes he would smile at her, or nod in her direction.
Then, one day when she was walking home from school, he’d followed her.
‘I had to speak to you,’ he’d told her breathlessly. ‘I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.’
Christine was so shocked, it had taken a moment for her to speak. ‘I – I’ve got your book,’ she faltered. ‘I finished it ages ago … I didn’t like to leave it on the bench …’
She had started to reach into her bag, but he’d stopped her. ‘Never mind the book,’ he had said. ‘Just tell me your name before I go mad.’
And so it began. From then on, they met every day on the way home from school. She found out his name was Oliver, that he was twenty-one years old, and a student teacher at the boys’ school. He came from a very old Russian family, and he and several of his relatives had fled the revolution in their homeland eight years earlier. He told her the most extraordinary stories, like something out of a novel. It all sounded dazzlingly exotic to Christine, compared to her humble background.
And yet he still seemed interested in her. He held her hand, recited love poetry to her, told her she was the most beautiful and fascinating girl he had ever met.
And then, one day, he had kissed her. It was a moment Christine knew she would never forget, the moment she fell dizzyingly in love with him.
She knew he loved her too. It was in his passionate kiss today as they sat on a bench by the empty bandstand, the way his tongue plundered her mouth and his hands roamed urgently over her body.
Christine sat up, pushing his hand away. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Someone might see us.’
‘You’re right.’ He pulled away from her, his high cheekbones flushed, his enlarged pupils darkening his eyes. ‘But I can’t help it. You’re so beautiful, you make me want you so much.’
Christine leaned against him, enjoying the warm solidity of his body as she listened to him talk. It was a miracle to her that after six months he still loved and desired her.
‘Can we meet tomorrow?’ he pleaded huskily. ‘The usual place?’
Christine hesitated. She looked down, kicking at a tuft of grass.
‘I was thinking,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we do something else for a change?’
‘Like what?’ His tone sharpened.
‘I don’t know … We could go to the pictures, or out for tea?’
Her eldest brother Tony was courting a girl from Fleet Lane. He was always taking her to the pictures, or she would come round to their house for tea.
‘And what if someone saw us? You know I could get into trouble. I could lose my job.’
Is that the only reason? she wondered. ‘Anyone would think you were ashamed to be seen with me,’ she muttered.
He laughed. ‘You know that’s not true.’
‘Isn’t it?’
Oliver sighed. ‘Look, it won’t always be like this,’ he said. ‘When I’ve finished my training and you’ve left school, we can be together properly, I promise.’
‘That’s a long way off.’
‘Well, you’ll just have to be patient, won’t you?’ He kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, all right? After school?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Good girl.’ He kissed her again and then got to his feet, brushing the grass off his perfectly pressed trousers. ‘Now, I have to go. “Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good night till it be morrow.” ’
He gave her an extravagant bow and then he was gone. Christine watched him striding away, up the bank.
It was so romantic, she told herself. They were like Romeo and Juliet, kept apart by circumstances beyond their control.
And look what happened to them.
Christine pushed the thought from her mind. She and Oliver weren’t doomed. One day they would be together, she was sure of it. All she had to do was trust, and be patient.
Chapter Nine
‘Put the kettle on, Miss Sheridan!’
Bess Bradshaw sang out the now familiar words over her shoulder as she headed up the passageway where her patient, Mrs Gawtrey, was waiting to have her arthritic limbs massaged.
‘Yes, Mrs Bradshaw.’ Agnes gritted her teeth in frustration and went off to the kitchen. Typical, she thought. She had been accompanying Bess for over a week now, and so far hadn’t been allowed to lay her hands on a single patient. She was little more than a glorified servant, carrying Bess’ bag, preparing washbowls, or sterilising instruments if she was very lucky.
And sometimes, if the patient was bedbound, too poorly or had no obliging relative around, she had to make the tea.
Agnes was astonished at the quantity of tea Bess Brad-shaw managed to get through in the course of a day. Every time they went to see a patient, the kettle would be on and the cups would be set out on the tray even before they’d managed to get their coats off.
Most of the time Agnes refused to join in, though she knew it irritated Bess to see her sitting there, empty hands folded in her lap, surreptitiously checking her watch every five minutes. But apart from thinking it was a complete waste of time, there was a practical reason for Agnes’ refusal. She knew that if she drank the gallons of tea offered, sooner or later she would have to succumb to one of the disgusting outside privies. She had been forced by circumstance to use one on her second day, and she never, ever wanted to repeat the experience.
After a couple of days, she had ventured to suggest that they might get through their rounds quicker if they didn’t stop for tea all the time, but Bess had been adamant.
‘You may not think it, Miss Sheridan, but spending time with the patients, chatting to them and raising their spirits, is just as important as changing dressings and giving injections,’ she had said. ‘You’d be surprised what you get out of someone when you’re sitting down with a brew together. They’ll tell you all kinds of things they wouldn’t bother the doctor about, things that can help their treatment. You want to be a bit less eager to pack up and get away all the time, then you might learn something.’
There’s no chance of me learning anything at this rate, Agnes thought as she arranged the teacups on a tray and waited for the kettle to boil. She felt like a maid of all work. If she went on like this for much longer, she would
soon have forgotten all her nursing training.
Loud laughter was coming from Mrs Gawtrey’s bedroom as Agnes carried the tray up the passageway. But it stopped as soon as she walked into the room. No need to ask what – or who – they were laughing about, she thought bitterly. Agnes had become the subject of much amusement among the patients, with Bess regaling them all with her funny stories. Her favourite was about the time when Agnes was knocked flying into the dustbins by Lil Fairbrass. It seemed to grow more colourful every time she told it.
Bess, of course, was completely unabashed, smiling blandly at Agnes as if butter wouldn’t melt in her big mouth.
But for once Agnes forgot to be irritated as she was faced with the astonishing sight of Queenie Gawtrey’s bedroom.
It was like stepping into a gypsy waggon, it was so crammed with colourful knick-knacks. Every surface seemed to be covered with brass oil lamps, copper milk churns, china ornaments and vases of coloured glass, and wooden panelling painted with birds, vines and fruit in bright shades of red, gold and green.
In the middle of it all sat Queenie herself. In spite of her great age – Bess reckoned she must be at least eighty, although no one was certain – her hair was the darkest jet black Agnes had ever seen, in stark contrast to her white powdered face and slash of crimson lipstick. Her eyebrows were two thin black arches drawn high on her forehead, giving her an oddly surprised look.
‘You’ll like Queenie Gawtrey,’ Bess had told her that morning. ‘She’s quite a character.’
Agnes’ heart had sunk. Over the past week, she had heard Bess Bradshaw say those words countless times, and on each occasion it had meant one thing – trouble. As it turned out, Quarry Hill was full of characters, most of them not particularly pleasant.
‘Queenie was once a nurse herself, or so she likes to tell people,’ Bess had informed Agnes as they’d cycled into Quarry Hill that morning. ‘Not that she ever needed any kind of formal training. All her knowledge came from her mother and grandmother, who taught her all the old Romany ways of healing.’
‘She’s a gypsy?’ Agnes asked.
‘So she says. Although her travelling days are long behind her, thanks to her chronic arthritis. Well, it wouldn’t do to be on the road at her age, I suppose.’
She might be infirm, but Queenie’s wits seemed sharp enough as she greeted Agnes.
‘So this is her, is it?’ she said, her voice a low, throaty croak.
‘This is Miss Sheridan,’ Bess said.
‘Miss, is it? In’t you got another name?’
‘Agnes.’
‘But never Aggie, I’ll bet?’
Bess laughed. ‘How did you know that?’
‘You’d be surprised what I know,’ Queenie replied mysteriously. ‘My eyes might be dim, but I’ve still got the sight.’
It was true, Agnes thought. The old woman’s eyes were opaque with age, but Agnes could still feel the sharpness behind her gaze.
‘Only one person ever called you Aggie,’ she said. ‘And he’s long gone, isn’t he? Gone but not forgotten.’
An image of Daniel flashed into her mind. Agnes fought not to react, aware of Bess Bradshaw watching her. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she managed to say.
Thankfully, Bess interrupted before Queenie could say any more. ‘Right, let’s get on,’ she said. ‘Fetch that blanket from in front of the fire, Miss Sheridan. Then you can pour the tea.’
Agnes handed it to her, still aware of Queenie’s gaze fixed on her. The old woman unnerved her.
Fortunately, by the time she had finished pouring the tea, Queenie seemed to have lost interest in Agnes.
‘Can’t say as this massage lark is doing much good, to tell the truth,’ the old woman grumbled, as Bess got to work. ‘Now, my grandmother always used to swear by a liniment for arthritis. Made it herself, she did, out of Fuller’s Earth and horse piss. It draws the pain out, you see,’ she explained over Bess’ shoulder to Agnes. ‘It has to be fresh, mind. While it’s still hot is best.’
‘Yes, well, Miss Sheridan is not going out chasing horses and carts down the road, and no more am I. Not even for you, Queenie lass,’ Bess said briskly.
‘Ah, well, I s’pose I’ll have to make do wi’ another brew.’ Queenie drained her teacup and peered into it. ‘What’s this?’ she said. ‘No leaves?’
‘I used the strainer,’ Agnes said.
‘The strainer!’ Queenie looked outraged. ‘How am I supposed to read my fortune?’
Agnes glanced at Bess. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know—’
‘Queenie fancies herself a bit of a fortune teller,’ Bess explained.
‘A bit of a fortune teller?’ Queenie turned on her. ‘I’ll have you know they were queueing up on Bridlington seafront when I had my tent down there.’ She looked meaningfully at Agnes. ‘You’d like your leaves read, wouldn’t you, lovey?’
Agnes shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Go on. I bet I could tell a lot about you from your leaves. I can already see you’ve suffered a great deal of sadness in your life. I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘Let’s do the other leg, shall we?’ Bess said briskly.
‘I can tell what’s in your future too,’ Queenie went on, her gaze still fixed on Agnes.
‘We know what’s in our future, Queenie. Three sets of dressing changes, four bed baths and a bad case of measles!’ Bess joked. But the old woman ignored her. As Agnes went to take the empty cup from her, she grabbed her other hand.
‘I’ll read your palm instead, shall I?’
‘No!’ Agnes tried to pull away but Queenie was surprisingly strong for an arthritic old lady.
‘Ooh, I was right,’ she said. ‘You have had a lot of sadness in your life, haven’t you?’ She passed a gnarled finger over the softness of Agnes’ palm. ‘Yes, lots of troubles … and they’re not over yet, are they? There’s something in your past that casts a shadow over your present …’ She looked up at Agnes, and the years seemed to fall away, leaving her gaze as sharp and dark as jagged jet. ‘ “Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin,” ’ she quoted in a high, strange voice that didn’t seem to belong to her.
Agnes snatched her hand away, hiding it in the folds of her blue dress. Her palm felt scalded. ‘I – I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Come on, we’ve got work to do,’ Bess interrupted sternly. ‘We don’t have time for fairground sideshows. Go and wash up those cups, Miss Sheridan, if you please.’
Agnes was silently thankful for Bess’ intervention as she escaped. She stood in the tiny kitchen, trying to calm herself down.
Queenie couldn’t know, she told herself. It was nothing more than a lucky guess.
But to say something like that … How could she possibly have picked that particular quotation out of nowhere?
Agnes thought about her cold, cheerless room at St Jude’s, and the Bible quotation that hung on the wall in front of her bed, so it was the first thing she saw every morning, and the last thing every night.
Psalm 51, verse 2: ‘Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin’.
Agnes scratched at her palm, as if she could somehow rub away the lines that had given her away.
Agnes was still trembling when they left Queenie’s house. She tried to pretend she wasn’t, but Bess had seen her hands shaking as she put her wash things away in her bag.
‘What do you suppose Queenie meant just now?’ Bess couldn’t resist asking.
The young woman’s face was carefully blank. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘When she was telling your fortune? She came out with something very strange, don’t you think?’
‘I have no idea.’ Agnes’ voice was dismissive, but Bess could hear the strain beneath.
‘I think she was quoting from the Bible.’
‘Was she? I wasn’t really paying attention.’
Liar, Bess thought. She glanced at the girl’s sharp profile.
Her face seemed composed enough, but her lips were pressed tightly together, as if to stop herself from crying. The old lady had upset her far more than she was willing to let on.
For a moment, Bess felt sorry for her.
‘You don’t want to pay any attention to that daft old bat,’ she said. ‘She’s always going on about something. It’s all nonsense.’
‘I know.’ Agnes looked at her, and the mask was back in place, pointed chin lifted, ready to face the world. ‘Shall we go?’ she said, checking her watch. ‘We don’t want to be late, do we?’
Clock watching as usual, Bess thought, as the girl wheeled her bicycle out of the yard ahead of her. Or was it that she couldn’t wait to put some distance between herself and Queenie Gawtrey?
Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin …
Bess couldn’t help feeling the mystery of Agnes Sheridan had just deepened.
Chapter Ten
Matthew Elliott wasn’t at the vicarage when Polly returned his umbrella. The vicar’s housekeeper told her he was out visiting a new family in the parish.
‘He’ll be so sorry he missed you,’ she added with a knowing smile. ‘Between you and me, he’s been waiting every day for you to arrive.’
Polly tried to smile back, but inside she felt relieved. She had been putting off coming back for nearly two weeks because she found Matthew’s interest in her rather overwhelming. The last thing she wanted was to give him any encouragement.
After she’d left the vicarage, she followed the path to the churchyard. As she turned the corner around the church, her heart stopped in her chest at the sight of a tall, dark-haired figure standing over Frank’s grave. It took a moment for her to recognise the sexton’s grandson, hacking back the low branches of the yew tree that overhung the headstone. Once again, he had hung up his jacket and his shirtsleeves were rolled back to reveal sinewy forearms.
He stopped when he saw her approach, his expression wary.
‘Sorry, miss,’ he mumbled, lowering his knife. ‘I can come back later …’
‘It’s all right,’ Polly replied. ‘I don’t mind you being here, if you’ve got work to do.’
The Nurses of Steeple Street Page 8