‘On your own?’ The landlady had looked her up and down as she handed over the room key.
‘My – er – husband will be coming later.’
‘Of course. I’ll send him up, shall I?’ The woman gave her a shrewd little smile. It was the first time Christine had noticed the contempt in her eyes. How did she ever think they had fooled the landlady with their false name in the register and the curtain ring on Christine’s left hand?
She was so nervous, she could feel the perspiration gathering under her arms. Her hands were slippery with it, and yet her throat was as dry as sand.
Christine, do you think you might be pregnant?
The nurse’s words had been spoken so calmly, and yet they had blown Christine’s world apart. Up until that moment, it had never occurred to her that she might be in trouble. It was true, she couldn’t remember the last time her monthlies had come. But she hadn’t given it a second thought. It certainly hadn’t occurred to her that it had anything to do with having a baby, until the nurse mentioned it. Then Christine had gone to the library and consulted one of the dusty old medical books in the reference section, and discovered the awful truth.
Up until then, she had only had the vaguest of notions about where babies came from. It was difficult not to pick up ideas in a place like Quarry Hill, where the women gathered to gossip on every doorstep, and people lived so crammed in together that the messy details of everyone’s lives couldn’t help but be shared. But somehow her mother had managed to shield her from the facts of how they came to be made.
‘All in good time,’ was all she’d say, whenever Christine asked a question. ‘You’ll know all about that once you’re married.’
And so Christine had remained blissfully ignorant, convinced that somehow only married women could ever conceive a baby. She was aware that what she and Oliver did in this very bedroom was somehow wrong and forbidden, but she had never imagined that it would result in her falling pregnant.
Now she felt ashamed and foolish. She was Christine Fairbrass, the scholarship girl. She should have asked questions, known better.
And now look at her.
But it would be all right, she told herself. She had Oliver. He loved her, and she could trust him to make everything all right. That was how she had comforted herself during the past two weeks of sleepless nights, while she’d listened to her mother snoring beside her and tried to still her own rising panic.
Sometimes Christine had been so desperate, she’d almost woken her mother up to tell her, just to get it over with. She knew Lil would be angry and upset. But surely she wouldn’t mind so much once she found out Christine was engaged, and everything was respectable. And to a teacher, no less. Christine might have to say goodbye to her own dreams, but wasn’t being the wife of a teacher nearly as good? It would still give Lil a chance to hold up her head among her neighbours in Quarry Hill, at least.
Christine heard Oliver’s footsteps coming up the stairs and shot to her feet. She smoothed down her skirt and fussed with her hair, tucking it behind her ears as the door opened.
Her treacherous heart lifted at the sight of him, so dark and handsome. He smiled when he saw her, and Christine felt sick, knowing what she had to say to him.
‘Hello, there. The landlady said you’d already arrived. Am I late?’
‘No, I – I’m early.’
‘I’m glad. It will give us even more time together.’
He came towards her, his arms held out, but she sidestepped his embrace.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t.’
He frowned. ‘What is it, my love?’
His gentle concern, mingled with her own overwhelming anxiety, was too much for Christine, and she burst into tears. All her carefully planned words were swept away in a tidal wave of sobbing.
‘Oh, my love!’ Oliver gathered her into his arms, comforting her. ‘There, don’t cry,’ he crooned softly, his lips buried in her hair. He smelled of clean, lemony cologne. ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. Has something happened?’
‘Oh, Oliver.’ She pressed her face against his chest, muffling her words. She wished she could stay there for ever, in the comforting circle of his arms. Being there would make everything all right.
‘What is it? Tell me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Oh God, don’t say your mother’s found out about us?’
Christine shook her head. She could hear the steady beat of his heart. ‘Do you love me?’ she asked.
‘Of course I love you, you silly goose.’ He pulled away from her and took her face in both his hands, tilting her chin up to look down at her. His eyes were the deepest brown, so warm and gentle. ‘Now tell me what’s wrong,’ he said.
Christine lowered her gaze. If she looked at him, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to say the words.
‘I … I think I’m pregnant,’ she whispered.
She heard his sharp intake of breath and felt him freeze, his fingers stiffening on her face. She didn’t dare look up, afraid of what she might see in his eyes.
‘No.’
He released her abruptly and turned away. He started to pace the room, as restless as a caged beast, running his hands through his dark hair.
‘No,’ he muttered again, under his breath. ‘No, no, no!’
Christine held herself rigid. He was just in shock, she told herself. In a moment he would calm down and tell her what to do, and everything would be all right again …
‘Oliver?’ she said. He didn’t hear her. He was lost in a world of his own, pacing the room, his face buried in his hands.
This wasn’t right. She had wanted him to be the one to take her in his arms and reassure her that all would be well. She needed his comfort, not the other way round.
‘Oliver, please—’ She went to put her hand on his arm, but he flinched from her touch.
‘How could you?’ he snapped. ‘How could you let it happen?’
She felt his anger like a blow, and it took her a moment to steady herself.
‘Me?’ she echoed faintly.
He turned away from her and fixed his gaze on the faded wallpaper, as if it would somehow tell him what to do.
‘Are you sure?’ he said.
‘I – I think so.’
‘You think so?’ he swung round to face her. ‘You mean you’re not certain?’
‘I …’ She fumbled desperately for the right words. No, I’m not sure, she wanted to shout. I’ve never been in this position before and I don’t know what’s happening to me. She wanted to take back what she’d said, just so he wouldn’t turn away from her again. But she couldn’t turn back the clock, no matter how much she wanted to.
She remembered flicking through the whispering pages of the medical book in the library, reading the words written there, her desperation spiralling. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘Yes, I am certain.’
He turned away again and Christine stared at the space between his shoulder blades.
Why wasn’t he helping her? Why wasn’t he making this better? He was losing control, letting his emotions get the better of him, when he should have been looking after her.
She wanted to rage at him, but she knew she had to stay calm. She wrapped her arms around her body, trying to comfort herself.
‘I know it’s a shock,’ she said quietly. ‘But it isn’t as bad as it seems, honestly.’
He gave a derisive snort, but Christine ignored him.
‘It just means we’ll have to bring our plans forward, that’s all,’ she continued.
He looked over his shoulder at her, his face blank. ‘Plans? What plans?’
‘We’re going to get married, aren’t we?’
‘Married?’ There was something in the cold way he said it that made her uneasy. Up until that moment she had never doubted him. She knew he would be shocked, angry even. But it had never occurred to her that Oliver wouldn’t take care of her.
‘You do want to marry me, don’t you?’ she said in a small voice.
He didn’t reply, but he didn’t have to. One look at his blank expression and Christine knew he had been lying to her. All those fine words, those flowery declarations of love, but he’d only been telling her what she wanted to hear.
And, like a fool, she’d believed him.
She felt tears pricking the back of her eyes again. Now she really was frightened, because she realised she was utterly alone.
‘Look, don’t cry.’ His voice was gentle when he spoke again, more like the Oliver she knew. He took her hands in his, thumbs circling her knuckles, coaxing the warmth back into them. She hadn’t realised how cold she was until he held her. ‘I meant it when I said I loved you. But I can’t marry you, you must see that?’
‘Why not?’ Her voice was thick, blurred with tears. ‘Why can’t you marry me?’
‘It would be the end of everything for me – for us. Who would ever employ me once word of this got out? My career would be over before it started. I could never support you, or the …’ His gaze dropped to her belly, still quite flat beneath her loose dress.
‘Then you could find other work.’ Surely the only thing that mattered was that they were together.
‘I don’t want another job.’ His jaw tensed obstinately. ‘I’ve worked hard for this. I’m not going to throw it all away because of one silly mistake I … I’.
Too late he realised what he’d said, and his mouth slammed shut.
Christine stared at him. ‘Is that all I am to you? A mistake?’
Oliver released her hands and stepped away from her, putting distance between them again. ‘My family would be furious,’ he muttered.
‘My mother will be furious too,’ Christine pointed out.
‘It’s hardly the same thing.’
His dismissive tone needled her. ‘Why isn’t it the same?’ she asked. But she already knew the answer. She wasn’t good enough for him. And no matter how many scholarships she won, she would never be good enough for him because of who she was and where she came from.
‘I don’t know why you bothered with me in the first place,’ she said. But she knew the answer to that, too. He had taken advantage of her because she was lonely and vulnerable. And she had fallen for it.
She started to cry again. Oliver sighed impatiently. ‘Look, don’t get upset,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we can think of something. I’m not going to leave you in the lurch, don’t worry about that.’ A spark of hope lit up inside her, only to be dashed when he went on. ‘I can give you money.’
‘Money?’ She looked at him blankly. ‘Why would I want your money?’
‘To … you know …’ he nodded towards her belly.
Christine stared at him. ‘I don’t understand … What do you want me to do?’
‘Oh, come on, Christine! You know exactly what I mean. You must know someone who could – help you.’
She had a sudden mental image of Annie Pilcher, skulking around the streets, never meeting anyone’s eyes.
She does favours for women. Wasn’t that what Rene Wells had said?
Christine thought about poor dead Maisie Warren. ‘I can’t do that,’ she murmured.
‘You must,’ Oliver urged her. ‘It’s the only way. Look, I don’t mind paying,’ he said. ‘I have some savings, although I don’t know how much these things cost …’
‘I don’t want your money,’ Christine said.
‘But I want to help. I’m only thinking of you.’
She would have laughed if she hadn’t been so terrified.
‘No, you’re not. You’re thinking of yourself.’
‘That’s not true. I’m just trying to be practical, that’s all. You don’t want to end up burdened with a child, do you? You said yourself, you want to make something of your life.’ Oliver took a step towards her. ‘Just think,’ he said, ‘once this is all over, you could finish your education, become a teacher yourself … You could have a future.’
His voice was soft as a caress, insinuating its way into her thoughts. He had always had a way of charming her, bending her to his will with his words.
But now she could see those words for what they were – empty.
‘Are you sure it’s not your future you’re worried about?’ she said to him.
He blanched. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You said yourself, no one would employ you if word of this got out. I could go to the boys’ school, tell them what you’d done.’
‘You wouldn’t!’
‘Why not? I’ve nothing to lose, have I? It’s not as if I’ve a good name like yours!’ she threw back at him.
His chin lifted, but she could see the fear in his eyes. ‘If you did that then we would both be in a mess and I wouldn’t be able to help you.’
Christine laughed harshly. ‘Help? So far all you’ve done is offer me money.’
‘And that’s all I have to offer.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ She barely knew what she was saying. All she wanted to do was to lash out, to hurt him as he’d hurt her. ‘What if I went to your family and told them? They’d make you marry me …’
Oliver’s mouth twisted. ‘Is that what you really think? I’m sorry, my dear, but you’re quite wrong. I daresay they’d be utterly furious, but the last thing they’d want me to do is marry someone like you.’ He shook his head pityingly. ‘Look, if you think you can make trouble for me, then you are welcome to try. But I’m warning you, I will deny everything. And who do you think people will believe?’
Christine reeled away from the look of utter contempt in his face. It was the same look Joan Cathcart gave her, the look that said she would never be rich or important enough to matter to anyone.
How had she not seen it before? she wondered. Had she really been so blinded by love she hadn’t seen him for what he was?
Oliver picked up his hat, ready to leave. ‘My offer still stands,’ he told her coldly. ‘The money is there if you want it. But I’m warning you, if I find out you’ve tried to make trouble for me, then you’re on your own.’
‘Oliver—’ she started to say, but he’d already slammed out of the room. Christine listened to his footsteps hurrying down the stairs, as if he couldn’t put enough distance between them.
She curled up on the bed, where they’d made love and he’d whispered sweet words to her, and they’d talked about their future so many times.
He was wrong, she thought. She was already on her own.
Chapter Seventeen
‘What happened to the real nurse?’
Agnes pressed her lips together and said nothing as she undid her bag and took out the massage lotion. After nearly three weeks of doing rounds on her own, she was getting heartily sick of hearing those words.
‘I am a real nurse, Mrs Gawtrey,’ she said through a tight smile. ‘Now, let’s have a look at your legs, shall we?’
Queenie looked dubious as Agnes rolled down her stockings and started the massage. She kept up a steady pace, kneading and rolling the flesh between her fingers, feeling the shapeless lumps of arthritic bone underneath.
‘Steady on!’ Queen protested. ‘I in’t made of bread dough, y’know!’
‘I have to use a lot of friction or you won’t feel the benefit.’
‘I think I preferred t’other one,’ the old woman grumbled. ‘You’re a bit rough. And your hands are cold.’
‘Sorry.’ Agnes rubbed her hands together to warm them. She wished Bess had kept Queenie on as one of her patients. Agnes had been wary of her ever since the old woman had tried to tell her fortune.
She hadn’t mentioned that day since, and Agnes hoped she might have forgotten about it. But as she continued to massage, she could feel Queenie watching her closely, her rheumy eyes narrowed.
‘I remember you,’ she said at last. ‘You came here before.’
‘I’ve been here a few times, Mrs Gawtrey,’ Agnes replied lightly.
‘Aye, I know that, lass. But it’s just come back to me. I read your palm, didn’t I?’
‘D
id you? I can’t remember,’ Agnes said. Then, as Queenie opened her mouth to speak, she said, ‘Could you please not talk while I’m doing this? It interferes with my concentration.’
‘Concentration be blowed!’ Queenie muttered. ‘T’other one never had to concentrate. She could chat all day long, whatever she were doing. Mind you, she were a real nurse,’ she added with a sniff.
Agnes sat back on her heels and rubbed her hands on a cloth. ‘There. All done.’
Queenie’s baggy face settled into an expression of dis-satisfaction. ‘That was quick. Are you sure you’ve done it proper?’
‘Quite sure.’ Agnes had already rolled the old woman’s stockings back into place and was on her feet, packing up her bag.
‘You’ll stop for a brew of tea?’ Queenie said.
‘I’m afraid I can’t.’ Agnes did her best to sound regretful. ‘I don’t have time. I have a lot of patients to see this morning.’
‘The real nurse always had time for a brew.’
‘Perhaps next time?’ Agnes said.
‘Happen I won’t offer next time,’ Queenie muttered.
I should be so lucky, Agnes thought, as she let herself out of the house. She was terrified that Queenie might try to read her tealeaves again.
Agnes looked back at the cottage. She felt slightly guilty that she hadn’t offered to make the old lady a pot of tea before she left. She knew Queenie found it difficult to get about.
But then she reminded herself it wasn’t her job. Agnes was there to massage her patient’s legs and provide general nursing care, not to run around after her. If she started making tea for everyone, before long she would end up cleaning or running errands for them too, and then she would have made a rod for her own back.
Agnes checked her watch and was pleased to see that it was only eleven o’clock and she had already almost finished her list of calls. That’s what a bit of efficiency does, she thought.
Of course, not all the patients had taken to her new way of doing things, any more than they’d taken to the idea of Agnes replacing Bess. But she had stood firm. There was to be no more drinking endless cups of tea or wasting time with idle chit-chat. She timed herself to make sure she didn’t dawdle too long, and if a patient needed extra care, would note it carefully in her book so she could call in a bit earlier the following day.
The Nurses of Steeple Street Page 13