A Nightingale Christmas Carol

by Donna Douglas

  ‘I wish you’d told me,’ Helen said. ‘I’m your friend . . .’

  ‘Are you?’

  That startled her. Helen stared at her for a moment, her face crumpling. ‘Please don’t be like this,’ she begged.

  ‘How do you expect me to be?’

  ‘I just want to help you!’

  ‘And I’ve just told you, I don’t need your help.’ Dora finished folding the clothes. ‘Now, if you don’t mind—’

  She picked up the pile and started towards the bedroom.

  ‘That’s your trouble, Dora Riley,’ Helen said behind her. ‘You never admit when you need help.’ Dora stopped, turning slowly to face her. ‘You’re too proud,’ Helen went on. ‘You keep everything locked away, tell everyone you can manage when you can’t.’ She stepped towards her, holding out her hand. ‘I’m only trying to be a friend to you—’

  ‘You’re not my friend. Not any more!’

  The words exploded out of her. Helen looked stunned. ‘You don’t mean that,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Dora turned on her. ‘You’ve changed, Helen. You’re not the girl I used to know.’

  ‘That’s not true—’

  ‘Isn’t it? The Helen I knew was kind and gentle, not cruel like you. She would never have torn down Christmas decorations out of spite, or refused to sing a carol to cheer up a sick patient!’

  Helen flinched. ‘Things have been difficult for me – since I came back to England,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You reckon I don’t know that?’ Dora dumped the pile of clothes on Nanna’s chair and advanced towards Helen. ‘You tell me I’m too proud, that I keep everything locked away, but you’re every bit as bad as me, Helen Dawson. The only trouble is, you can’t hide it as well as I can.’

  Helen’s eyes widened, huge, dark pools in her pale face. ‘I – I don’t know what you mean,’ she stammered. ‘I haven’t hidden anything—’

  ‘Really?’ Dora folded her arms across her chest. ‘Then why don’t you tell me the truth about what happened to you in Africa?’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Helen looked at the ground. ‘I told you what happened. I was attacked.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘I – I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’ve watched you. I’ve seen how you flinch whenever one of the prisoners comes near you, or even speaks to you. You can’t bear to touch them—’

  ‘Are you surprised, after what happened to me?’ Helen said sharply.

  ‘What did happen to you, Helen? That’s what I want to know. Because it must have been more than you’re telling everyone.’

  Dora held her gaze, silently urging her to tell the truth. Helen stared back at her for a moment, then she looked away.

  ‘I can’t stay here and listen to this—’ She started to gather up her coat and belongings, her movements agitated.

  ‘He raped you, didn’t he?’

  Helen froze, her hands raised to put on her hat. For a moment Dora caught the anguish in her gaze before her mask came down again.

  ‘Really, Dora, I wish you—’

  ‘Does anyone else know?’ Dora interrupted her. ‘Does David—’

  ‘No!’ Helen’s mouth slammed shut as if she would have snatched the word back from the air if she could. But it was too late.

  Her shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘No,’ she said, more quietly. ‘No, he doesn’t know.’

  For a moment neither of them moved. Helen stood, still in her coat and hat, a forlorn statue in the middle of the kitchen.

  Dora went to the cupboard and found the bottle of brandy on the top shelf that Hank had brought them at Christmas. No one touched the stuff, but her mother had kept it ‘for emergencies’.

  She got out two glasses and poured a splash of brandy into each of them, then handed one to Helen.

  ‘I think you’d better sit down and tell me all about it,’ she said.

  It took a long time for Helen to tell her story. Dora waited patiently, sitting opposite her in Nanna’s rocking chair. She understood how difficult it was for Helen to find the words and say them out loud for the first time.

  She didn’t give him a name. He was a prisoner of war, she said, an educated German officer who acted as a translator on the ward.

  Dora thought of Major Von Mundel. No wonder Helen despised him so much.

  ‘We trusted him,’ Helen said. ‘He was allowed to wander at will around the ward, he played cards with the men, helped us serve the meals. He was almost like one of us.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I thought of him more like a friend than as a prisoner – we all did,’ she said. ‘He would even keep me company while I was on nights. We’d sit and talk, and he’d tell me all about his family, and I’d tell him about mine, and about David . . .’ Her hand shook as she raised her glass to her lips. ‘The other girls teased me he had a soft spot for me. But I didn’t take any notice,’ she whispered. ‘I just thought he was harmless. And then he started to leave me letters, and presents.’ Her gaze strayed to the box on the table which had contained the wooden ark. ‘I’d come on duty and find a little posy of flowers on the desk, or some poetry he’d written. The other girls thought it was sweet, but I didn’t like it.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Dora asked.

  ‘I told him it had to stop. I told him I liked him as a friend, but I was engaged to David, and I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Helen took another gulp of brandy. ‘He seemed to accept it. The presents and letters stopped, and we went back to the way things were. Or so I thought. But looking back, I suppose there was something odd about him. He would watch me when the doctors were there. If I laughed with them, or even spoke to one of them for too long, it would put him in a bad mood for the rest of the day.’ She looked up at Dora, imploring for her understanding. ‘I didn’t realise it at the time, or I would have done something about it. It was only after—’ She broke off, staring down at the glass she cradled in her hands.

  ‘What happened?’ Dora asked softly.

  It took a long time for Helen to reply. Dora watched her friend staring into space. She looked as if she was a million miles away, but Dora could see the pain flickering in her eyes as she relived what had happened to her. She was fighting to put it into words, Dora could tell.

  It had all started, she explained finally, with a party at the officers’ mess. Helen had had a good time, drinking and laughing with her friends, but she had gone home early with a headache.

  ‘I went back to the hospital compound to ask the night nurse for some aspirin,’ she said. ‘He was waiting for me by the perimeter fence. He asked me if I’d had a good evening.’ She shook her head. ‘Even then, I didn’t think anything of it. I thought he was just being polite. I even started to tell him about the evening, but then – I don’t know . . . he changed . . .’ Her face was bleak, remembering. ‘He told me he’d been watching the officers’ mess all night, that he’d seen me talking to other men. Then he hit me.’ Her voice was devoid of emotion. ‘I was so shocked, I didn’t even react. He went berserk. He called me terrible names, told me I was a whore and I deserved to be treated like one. Then he hit me again and knocked me to the ground . . .’

  She raised her glass to her lips but didn’t drink. Her eyes stared unseeingly ahead of her, as if she was watching the scene all over again.

  ‘I didn’t even try to fight him off,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t. I just lay there until it was over, like I was dead . . .’ She shook her head.

  ‘There was else nothing you could do.’

  ‘Yes, but to just let it happen like that . . . I feel so ashamed . . . It’s what you should do, isn’t it? Everyone fights back . . .’

  I didn’t. Dora’s hands tightened around her glass. Her stepfather had forced himself on her for years, and she had stopped fighting back. Kicking and clawing and scratching only prolonged the agony and
gave him power. In the end she just lay there and forced her mind to float free, detaching herself from what was happening to her body.

  She wondered if she should speak up, tell her story. Perhaps it would make Helen feel better to know she wasn’t alone. But when she opened her mouth to speak, the words wouldn’t come.

  ‘What happened then?’ was all she could say.

  ‘Nothing. He stood up, got dressed and walked away, as if nothing had happened. I just lay there for a while, and then I went back to the nurses’ quarters.’

  ‘You didn’t tell anyone.’ It was more of a statement than a question.

  Helen shook her head. ‘I was too ashamed. And I didn’t want to admit it had really happened, either. I thought if I didn’t tell anyone, it wasn’t really true . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘But then Clare came home from the party and found me in the shower, scrubbing myself. I was crying, and my skin was raw, but I still couldn’t get clean . . .’ Her voice hitched. ‘She helped me. She dried me off and dressed me as if I was a child, and then she made me tell her the whole story.’

  She lifted her eyes to meet Dora’s. ‘I know you don’t like her, but she saved my life. She looked after me. She was the one who made up the story about me being attacked. I had the bruises to prove it, after all.’ She put her hand up to her face. ‘Clare came with me to see the commander the following morning, and she did all the talking, and managed to get me transferred back to England. I don’t know what would have happened if it wasn’t for her. I think I might have just crawled away into the desert and died . . .’

  ‘What about him?’ Dora said.

  Helen shuddered. ‘I couldn’t report for duty – I just couldn’t face him – but Clare said he was laughing and joking, and making tea for the nurses, as if nothing had happened. I started to think I was going mad, as if I’d imagined it all.’ She put down her glass and wrapped her arms around herself, as if to make herself as small as possible. ‘I couldn’t stay there. He might have been able to pretend that nothing had happened, but I couldn’t.’

  ‘And then you came home and they put you on the POWs’ ward,’ Dora said.

  ‘Now do you see?’ Helen’s eyes were dark, pleading for her understanding. ‘I can’t bear to be near them. Every time I hear their voices or their laughter, it just reminds me . . .’ She looked at Dora. ‘And then there’s him,’ she said dully.

  ‘Major Von Mundel?’

  She winced at the sound of his name. ‘I don’t trust him,’ she said. ‘I watch you with him, and I keep thinking what if—’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ Dora said. ‘He isn’t like that.’

  ‘That’s how I felt, until—’ Helen fell silent, but her look spoke volumes.

  Dora drained her glass. ‘And you’ve never told anyone else about this?’ she said, changing the subject. Helen shook her head. ‘Not even David?’

  ‘No!’ Helen looked dismayed. ‘I could never tell him. I’d die of shame if he knew.’

  ‘But surely he must know sometime?’ She looked at Helen’s stricken face, and suddenly the truth dawned. How could she have not seen it before? ‘You’ve left him,’ she said.

  Helen looked down at her hands, knotted in her lap. ‘It seemed like the best way,’ she said quietly.

  Dora stared at her friend, her heart tugging with pity for her. Poor Helen. Just when she’d finally found love again, fate stepped in and took it away from her. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘The same as I’ve been telling everyone else. That I felt we’d drifted apart and I’d stopped loving him.’

  ‘But you haven’t?’

  Helen looked up, her eyes wretched. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘And how did he take it?’

  ‘Not very well.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘He’s been bombarding me with letters ever since, begging me to take him back, to give him another chance. It breaks my heart,’ she sighed.

  ‘Then wouldn’t it be easier to tell him the truth? I’m sure he’d understand . . .’

  ‘It would never be the same between us. It couldn’t be.’ Helen shook her head, her dark hair tumbling around her face. ‘No matter what he said, I’d know he’d always be wondering about what happened to me. And besides, what man would want a woman who was damaged goods?’

  Dora lowered her gaze. She was not one to judge. She had never told Nick what she had gone through with her stepfather, either. It was the memory of what Alf Doyle had done to her that had almost kept her and Nick apart forever.

  But somehow her love for him had allowed her to conquer her fear and shame. She wished the same thing could happen to her friend.

  ‘You won’t tell him, will you?’ Helen was staring at her, imploring her.

  Dora shook her head. ‘He won’t hear it from me.’

  ‘Are you sure? I couldn’t bear it if he knew . . .’

  ‘I can keep a secret, Helen.’ God knows, she’d been keeping enough of her own.

  Helen gave her a shaky smile. ‘I know. I should never have doubted you. And I should have told you what had happened. But I didn’t want to talk about it, and Clare thought it would be best if we kept it between us, so—’

  I bet she did, Dora thought. It explained the proprietorial way Clare acted over Helen, always trying to shut Dora out. Helen never seemed to notice it, but Dora did.

  But then she remembered how Clare had helped Helen, and how she had been such a good friend to her when she needed one. She really had no right to criticise, she decided.

  ‘Do you forgive me?’ Helen’s voice broke in to her thoughts. Dora frowned.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For the way I’ve behaved. I know I haven’t been a good friend to you—’

  ‘I haven’t been a good friend to you, either.’ Perhaps if she had been a better friend she might have noticed Helen’s anguish sooner.

  Helen gave her a tentative smile. ‘Perhaps we can make up for it now?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Helen held up her empty glass for a toast. ‘To friendship.’

  Dora clashed her glass against Helen’s. ‘And no more secrets,’ she said.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  February 1945

  ‘Well, look who it is!’

  Kitty didn’t pay any attention to Arthur’s comment as they walked through the hospital gates together. She was used to her brother making derogatory remarks about the POW work party whenever he saw them. Ever since Christmas, a lorry-load of a dozen or so prisoners and their guards arrived each morning to work on rebuilding the hospital.

  Kitty had ceased to notice them over the two months they had been working there, but Arthur never failed to stop and hurl abuse their way.

  She was about to tell him to shut up, when his next comment stopped her in her tracks.

  ‘It is him, isn’t it? That one with the gammy leg?’ Arthur peered closer, his mouth curling. ‘It is him! I’d know that arrogant face of his anywhere.’

  Kitty turned to look properly at the men toiling among the tumbledown outbuildings, their slate-coloured uniforms blending with the grey chill of the February morning.

  She picked out Stefan straight away, heading across the weed-strewn waste ground, a hod of bricks resting on his shoulder. Only the slightest trace of a limp gave away that he had once been injured.

  Her heart leapt in her chest and she had to press her lips together to stop herself crying out his name.

  ‘It is him, isn’t it?’ Arthur said.

  ‘Is it? I can’t tell.’ Kitty managed an indifferent shrug. ‘Come on, we’ll be late.’ She started to walk away, but her legs had turned to jelly beneath her.

  She was a fool to think she had forgotten about Stefan Bauer. She had done her best to push him to the back of her mind because she had no choice. But he was always there, lingering on the edge of her thoughts.

  To her shame, she had even held on to the photograph of him and his brother that he had told her to throw away. She kept it at the bottom of her jewelle
ry box and refused to allow herself to look at it, but it was a comfort to know it was there.

  And now he was here, right in front of her, and it felt as if all her dreams and all her worst nightmares had come true at once.

  Kitty waited until Arthur had gone off to the porters’ lodge and she had reached the steps of the main hospital building before she risked another look back over her shoulder at him. He was stooped over, unloading bricks from the hod. As she watched him, he suddenly straightened up. He took his cap off and raked his hand through his brown hair, scanning the horizon.

  He caught sight of her and Kitty’s heart stopped in her chest, waiting for him to recognise her. She smiled, her hand half raised, ready to wave when he looked her way. But his gaze slid straight past her before he went back to his work.

  Kitty lowered her hand, fighting down her bitter disappointment. All this time, she had imagined that Stefan might be pining for her the way she was for him. But it had been nearly two months now. He probably didn’t even remember her.

  She was watching him, Stefan knew. He was aware of her from the moment she had walked in through the hospital gates with her brother. He had tracked her out of the corner of his eye as they walked up the drive together. She had said goodbye to her brother at the porters’ lodge and then continued alone towards the main hospital building.

  Only when he thought it was safe had Stefan finally allowed himself to look up. And there she was, staring straight back at him.

  He saw her smile, her hand lifting, ready to wave. And he’d also seen her disappointment when he looked away. But he wasn’t ready. He’d spent the past two months putting his heart back together, pretending he didn’t care. He didn’t want it broken again.

  Too late, he thought grimly. His fragile defences had shattered into a million pieces the moment he saw her smile.

  Coming back to the hospital had been a mistake, just as he’d known it would be. When the Lagerführer had declared him fit enough to be sent out in one of the work parties, Stefan had prayed he would be assigned to one of the farms that dotted the flat Essex countryside around the camp.