The Children of Lovely Lane

by Nadine Dorries

  Pray to God it’s not that Miss Bone Grinder bossy boots, she thought as she saw Emily nervously remove and replace the kirby grips in her hair. That would be a disaster. What in God’s name was Sister Haycock thinking, putting a dragon like that forward to be interviewed? Was she mad?

  Dr Gaskell smiled at Elsie, as though he could read her thoughts, which almost made her jump. She smiled back nervously as she rubbed an imaginary stain off the surface of the trolley and stacked the dirty water glasses before placing them on top.

  Elsie had lingered during the process of every appointment made at St Angelus since 1931 and prided herself on always knowing who was to be the new member of staff before anyone else did. This time there was going to be a battle, judging by the tone of Matron’s voice and the enthusiasm in Emily’s, both of them championing entirely different candidates.

  Now, as the clock struck five, she accidentally on purpose dropped a plate of crumbs on to the floor. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said to no one in particular as she got down on her knees. ‘I’ll have to go and fetch the Ewbank for that now. What a mess.’

  But no one was paying her any attention. So she got down on to the floor on her hands and knees to pick up the crumbs and shuffled herself out of sight and under the table. They would forget about her under there and she could hear every word. She was inches from the legs and shoes of Mrs Jolly from the LDHB. She couldn’t help noticing the neatly tied laces on the brown brogues. She’s got a nasty bunion, thought Elsie as she spotted the bulging lump on the side of her foot. No wonder she looks like she’s chewing a lemon. Must be killing her.

  Elsie wrinkled her nose. Mrs Jolly’s feet had a strange odour of leather and sweat. She put her hand over her nose. She was dangerously close to sneezing.

  Emily sat at the table and almost held her breath. She was dreading the outcome of this day more with every second that passed. She would not have minded any of the other applicants and was now almost wishing scary Sister Antrobus had applied.

  Dr Gaskell was always Emily’s ally on the board, but she knew he had to travel to Manchester that evening for the annual regional TB committee dinner. He’d even said to her at the beginning of the day, ‘We need to be prompt here today, Emily.’ He had taken to calling her Emily over the past few months. She thought it might be his little way of letting her know that he agreed with her that St Angelus was out of step with the way Liverpool was moving and they were all far too formal with each other. She felt as though he was being almost paternal towards her. She hoped he would be able to stay until the end of the meeting.

  It was now down to the representatives from the Liverpool District Hospitals Board to make their decision. Since the creation of the NHS, there had always been at least one LDHB member at any important meeting of the hospital board, but this was the first time that LDHB members had outnumbered St Angelus staff. Emily wondered if that was deliberate. ‘Interesting,’ had been Dr Gaskell’s rather dry observation as they’d filed into the boardroom that morning. They weren’t an inspiring-looking lot. Hatted and gloved, bespectacled and tweeded, the handbag-carrying four had marched into the room and, in an early indication of their self-importance, Mrs Jolly had sat herself down at the head of the board table without having been invited. ‘Worrying,’ whispered Dr Gaskell to Emily. That was usually his place.

  There was something very deliberate and knowing about this little group of want-to-be hospital matrons. ‘Is this a not so subtle way of the LDHB letting us know that we are no longer in charge of who works here?’ Emily had whispered back to Dr Gaskell.

  He raised his cup and saucer and drank from the tea Elsie had just given him. ‘Terrifying,’ he replied. ‘St Angelus is a family. However, I’m not sure the Liverpool District Hospitals Board is aware of that.’

  Mrs Jolly, the war widow of an army general, along with her three attendant officer-class war widows, had seemed less than impressed with the younger, more modern applicants they had interviewed. Coughs and sniffs and a general harrumphing had accompanied some of the questions Emily had asked the candidates. They are trying to put me off, Emily had thought. She had shot a look at Mrs Jolly, who had met Emily’s gaze without so much as a flinch. Emily had begun to feel uncomfortable.

  During the lunch break, she and Dr Gaskell conferred over their sandwich plate in the corner while Matron and Mrs Jolly appeared to be getting along famously. ‘Where have these old boots come from?’ said Emily as she sniffed a salmon-paste sandwich she’d taken from Elsie’s trolley. ‘Why have the LDHB sent these women?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Dr Gaskell replied. ‘But I have heard that the LDHB is kindly disposed towards those who make generous donations to hospital causes and positions. Healthcare in Liverpool is a bottomless pit and so I imagine all funds are gratefully received.’

  ‘Just because you give money, doesn’t mean you can do a job, though. Or that you have any idea what qualities are needed in a new assistant matron.’

  ‘Ah, well, that is part of the problem. Not enough men left after the war to cope with the running of the NHS. It’s only been in operation for five years, remember, and there just aren’t enough women trained or wanting to work. The LDHB are turning for help to the widows of the men who probably would have taken positions of responsibility. To those who want to help, obviously. Which is how we have ended up with the likes of Mrs Jolly. They’ve been appointed to the board on the basis of status, class, generosity and who they were once married to. But many of them did help with the war effort. They probably have ability, just not the ability to choose the right assistant matron for us.’

  This irritated Emily. The future of St Angelus was more important than a shortage of men and patronage. ‘Why couldn’t they have sent women who have experience in hospitals and nursing?’

  ‘Well, as married nurses are not allowed to work, it’s hardly surprising. Mrs Jolly, though, she was a code breaker during the war. They aren’t idiots. It’s just that they were all married to senior officers. They have a certain outlook and every one of them will be looking for an assistant matron who is just like them. That was why I asked you to filter the candidates. To ensure that they only had people like you to select from.’

  Emily felt like she wanted to faint. If they were going to appoint a candidate who was just like they were, it would be Miss Van Gilder. ‘Oh God, what have I done?’ she said.

  ‘Made a mistake?’ he replied gently. ‘Don’t worry, Emily. If there is one thing I know about this hospital after my many years here, it is that it has a life of its own. Nothing happens that was not meant to. Everything works out for the best and, remember, this is your first meeting with Miss Van Gilder. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems, my dear.’

  Now, as the afternoon was drawing to a close, the four ladies of the LDHB had stopped whispering and conferring among themselves. Emily was practically shaking with nerves. Surely they would not all agree on the same candidate, she thought. Surely they would not appoint someone that Matron, Dr Gaskell and she herself did not approve of. Or, perhaps more accurately in this case, just she and Dr Gaskell, as Matron and Miss Van Gilder had appeared to get along a little too well. That just could not happen. The decision would have to be unanimous, surely?

  Mrs Jolly cleared her throat several times. ‘There is no doubt in my mind who is the right candidate,’ she announced.

  You could be mistaken for Miss Van Gilder’s sister, thought Emily as Mrs Jolly began to speak. You’re so alike. And then it dawned on her that if Sarah Anne Jolly had applied for the position of assistant matron, on the basis of her name, all other attributes and achievements being equal, she would have been selected for interview too. Emily wanted to bury her face in her hands, but instead she smiled sweetly. She would give nothing away.

  ‘The LDHB representatives are united in our decision. Miss Ava Van Gilder appears to be the ideal candidate. We are in desperate need of someone who is strong and resourceful to assist Matron in moving St Angelus forward to deal with the m
any challenges being presented in Liverpool today. The LDHB will be undertaking many new appraisals of the hospital. We shall assess whether or not the hospital is efficient in the manner in which it operates. It is no longer a voluntary hospital. We are answerable to Mr Churchill, the new department of health and the taxpayer. There is no room for error. The steps we are taking with the National Health Service have not been walked before and in Miss Van Gilder we have someone who will enable us to continue without losing our way.’

  Emily wanted to cry. She had been taken in by the name, Ava Van Gilder, because it had sounded like the name of a musician or an artist. But what had arrived was a potential tyrant. Oh, what have I done, Emily thought to herself for the hundredth time. I should have applied for the job myself.

  ‘Matron, please write and offer Miss Van Gilder the post of assistant matron forthwith. She is to assume her position as soon as possible. This hospital is all but buckling under the pressure of patient demand and we cannot afford to waste a minute.’

  Mrs Jolly slowly rose from her chair. Once she was standing, the others respectfully followed suit. She folded her spectacles, placed them into their tortoiseshell case and snapped it shut. As far as she was concerned, they were done.

  Without another word, the four members of the LDHB made their way to the door. Mrs Twigg, the nicest of the bunch, hobbled along at the rear. As she passed Emily, she reached out, gave her hand a small squeeze of sympathy and silently mouthed the words, ‘I’m sorry.’ Emily smiled meekly back, her eyes downcast. Mrs Twigg had been very sweet. Sweet but weak. It dawned on Emily that a name like Veronica Twigg would never have passed her selection criteria.

  They didn’t even ask us which candidate we liked best, she thought resentfully as she watched them go. Dr Gaskell met her eye. ‘They aren’t even applying for references,’ she whispered to him.

  ‘This is the new world, Emily,’ he replied. ‘I am sure someone somewhere will undertake that process. Yet another responsibility removed from our shoulders. It has begun: the transfer of power from the people who have run the hospital for so long, who know the patients, to the faceless bureaucrats in the NHS. I’m glad I’m an old doctor and not a young one like my son. I fear a monster is being created in the NHS. It will become a vehicle for people like Mrs Jolly, who have no clinical or nursing experience, to dictate to those of us who do. Even doctors. Don’t be surprised if one day the likes of Mrs Jolly tell us how our patients should be looked after. And now, if you will excuse me, I have to catch my train.’

  Emily was left alone in the room with Matron.

  ‘Well, I thought they would have at least consulted me,’ Matron said to Emily as she gathered up the papers and pencils. ‘However, no matter. As it is, they chose the candidate I would have voted for.’

  ‘But, Matron, is it enough that we have her work record? No one asked why she left her previous hospital. Should we not at least apply for our own reference?’

  ‘As it happens, I do know the matron at St Dunstan’s. We trained together at the London, years ago. I shall drop her a line. I wouldn’t take someone on, Sister Haycock, unless I knew their background, I can assure you. Regardless of Mrs Jolly and her posse.’

  This did not cheer Emily, but she supposed it was a crumb of hope.

  ‘However, I have to say, Sister Haycock, there are many roles I will be delighted to hand over. The running of the domestics, ward orderlies, porters and porter’s lads, to begin with.’

  There was a slight thud, which came from under the long table. It was the sound of Elsie’s head hitting wood. But neither Emily nor Matron heard it as, still chatting, they moved into Matron’s sitting room. As they walked, Matron cast a glance at Emily from the corner of her eye. She could tell she was downhearted and she sympathized. She knew how she felt. Disappointment was an emotion she had dealt with all of her life, on a daily basis. Her first thought as she woke every morning was that she was different and that she was about to face another lonely day. She lived with a secret and no one knew. Or so she thought.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Cheer up, Sister Haycock. You will see. She looks to me like a very efficient woman. Just what we need. It is all about getting the job done. We have appointed an assistant matron, not a friend. Now, there is a bottle of sherry in my sideboard and a fire in my sitting room. Let’s toast the appointment of our new assistant matron.’

  As they closed the boardroom door, Elsie shuffled out backwards, on her hands and knees, from underneath the board table, the dustpan and brush still gripped in her fingers. She had remained deathly still throughout the final minutes of the meeting, determined to draw no attention to herself, and it had worked. They had all forgotten about her, as they knew she would.

  ‘Well, they don’t see me when I’m stood in the middle of the room with a teapot in my hand. All they see is the tea. I was as safe as houses under the table,’ she said later to Biddy when she recounted the details of the afternoon. ‘Sometimes it’s just the thing, to be invisible.’

  As she heard the latch on Matron’s sitting-room door drop, she sprang to her feet, rubbed her head just where she had banged it on the table and pushed the service trolley out of the room, into the small kitchen at the back. She heard the sideboard door open and close in Matron’s sitting room, followed by the clinking of sherry glasses.

  ‘Well now, they won’t be wanting any more tea. And you can bloomin’ wait,’ she said to the pile of dirty crockery. She untied her wraparound apron and flung it on top of the plates. She was safe in the kitchenette. It was her domain. Matron never entered during daylight hours. She would not see the dirty dishes and Elsie would have it all cleared away by nightfall.

  She opened the rear door so Blackie could make his way back to his basket in Matron’s sitting room, then flew down the back stairs and out across the porter’s yard in the direction of the greasy-spoon café where she had arranged to meet Dessie, Biddy, Branna and Madge. Oh, that woman is going to be terrible trouble for us all, and dangerous, too, she thought as she walked as fast as the rules would allow, past the school of nursing, trying not to break into a run.

  Even Elsie, with her years of experience at St Angelus and her uncanny knack for predicting the future, could not have had any idea just how right she was.

  6

  Lockie Keenan called in at the harbourmaster’s office to check if any of the ships waiting out at the bar would be sailing in to dock.

  ‘Not a cat in hell’s chance,’ said the harbourmaster. ‘Everything that was in before Wednesday has been unloaded and the smog is so thick, it’ll be hours before any of them can get in. There’s even soot on the bleedin’ smog. It’s in my nose and everywhere. Never known it so bad.’

  Lockie had expected as much. He’d left his horse in the stable and the rags over his cart. The smog was so thick, it was only because he made the walk to the docks every day and knew each step that he’d been able to find his way to the dock gate without getting lost. First the snow and now the smog, he thought to himself. It hadn’t been the easiest of weeks. And there was more snow on the way, or so it said in the Echo.

  Lockie traded between the docks and the processing plants. Lads like him bought jute off the ships as it was unloaded, then sold it on to processing works in the city ready to be spun into rope within the hour. Once the jute was done, they went back for the metal, to be smelted and coiled into brass wire. Much of what arrived at the docks was transferred up the hill with a horse and dray. Lockie used his horse to draw the cart all day long, but he knew the horse could do with the rest today.

  ‘What’s that package bulging out of your pocket? Brought me a present, have you? You’re doing so well, Lockie, mine’ll be a bottle of whiskey, please, and thank you very much.’

  Lockie laughed. ‘It’s all saved, so it is. Every penny I can. Want to work for myself one day, not every other bugger. It’s a Christmas present for Lily, down at McConaghy’s. It’s a while off yet, but I wanted to be sure to get her something. I
’ve known her family a long time, and I know well enough, none of them will get her a present. She’s like my little sister, that kid, and she needs a break. It’s just a proper hairbrush, with a handle and things, nothing much.’

  ‘You’re a kind lad, Lockie. You’ll make a lucky girl a good husband one day.’

  Lockie chuckled again. ‘I can’t see that happening any time soon. Lily says I’m too fussy. I suppose I am. It’s not me who’s fussy, it’s me mam. I daren’t take anyone home to our house – you know what me mam’s like.’

  ‘Aye, I do. Since she’s moved out of Clare Cottages, she’s got worse. Stop being so good at your job, Lockie, it’s gone to her head, all the dosh you’re taking home.’

  Lockie grinned. The harbourmaster was right. His mother was nothing short of a social climber. Lockie had been able to afford the rent on a house – not just any house, a biggish house – and she had not stopped crowing since. He knew the kind of girl he was looking for was one like Lily, but they didn’t make many like that. He’d known Lily since she was a baby. She was the closest he had to a little sister and he was the closest she had to a big brother. Lockie was the only reason Lily’s stepfather refrained from using his fists as often as he used to, even when drunk, because he knew he would have Lockie down on him like a ton of bricks. And given that Lockie was six foot four and almost the same across his shoulders, no one wanted that.

  *

  While Lockie was chatting to the harbourmaster, Lily herself was walking down the landing of Clare Cottages on her way to work. Unbeknown to her, behind almost every window she passed on her way to the stairs, someone was making a comment about her.

  ‘Look at her with her head high, who does that one think she is?’

  ‘Feel sorry for that Lily, a lot to put up with, she has.’

  On fine days, Mrs McGuffy and the other women would gather on the landings and watch as the kids walked across the road to the school at St Chad’s. Mrs McGuffy was always gruff but kindly towards Lily, more so than some of the others. She had the loudest voice and Lily often heard herself being discussed as she walked along the road. ‘Would you look at the cut of that poor girl. Holding that family together, she is. Be in care, those kids would, if it wasn’t for her. Someone would be ringing the welfare if she wasn’t such a hard worker.’