A Nightingale Christmas Carol

by Donna Douglas

  ‘This is different,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t want her to know—’

  ‘—You don’t want her to know what a cowardly little swine her brother is?’ Dora finished for him.

  Stefan’s stubbled chin lifted. ‘I cannot blame him,’ he said. ‘He was only trying to protect his sister. I would have done the same to defend my family.’

  Would you? Dora thought. She doubted it. If Stefan had a problem with someone she had a feeling he would face them man to man, not kick them when they were defenceless.

  But that was Arthur Jenkins all over. A nasty little coward.

  Stefan, on the other hand, reminded her of her Nick. She smiled. ‘You sound like a true East End boy.’

  His battered face was wistful. ‘If only that was true, Nurse Riley. Then perhaps we would not be in this mess.’

  Chapter Forty

  Kitty was shocked to see Stefan on the ward when she reported for duty early the following morning. Nurse Riley warned her he was in a bad way before she saw him.

  ‘The swelling has gone down, but he still has some nasty cuts and bruises,’ she said. ‘Dr Abbott has kept him in for observation, but so far there’s no sign of permanent damage.’

  But nothing could have prepared Kitty for the sight of Stefan lying there, his face half swaddled in dressings, blackish purple bruises blossoming around his eyes.

  A lump rose in her throat. ‘What happened to you?’ she whispered.

  He turned his head to look at her. ‘Your brother knows about us.’

  Kitty reeled. ‘Arthur did this?’

  ‘And your friend Mal.’

  Kitty looked towards the double doors. Luckily for Mal, he wasn’t on duty. Arthur had taken the day off too, complaining of a stomach ache. Now she understood why.

  ‘I’ll kill them,’ she muttered.

  ‘Don’t you think there’s been enough of that?’ Stefan reached for her hand. ‘It’s you I’m worried about. Your brother will tell your father, I think.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Kitty said. ‘He had to know sometime.’

  ‘Yes, but not like this.’ Stefan paused. ‘Will he punish you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ An image of her father that morning, flying into another of his pointless rages over a burnt piece of toast, and her mother quietly weeping in the scullery, came into her mind.

  Stefan seemed to read her thoughts. ‘It would have been better if you and I had never met,’ he said grimly.

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘Because then you might have married a nice English boy, and your family would have been happy.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t have been happy.’

  He tried to smile, then flinched with pain. ‘And are you happy now?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, without hesitation. And it was true. She didn’t know why, she certainly had no right to be. All the simple things that other couples took for granted were forbidden to her. She didn’t know if she would ever be able to walk down the street with him, much less go dancing or even hold hands.

  Perhaps they wouldn’t even have a future. Perhaps their romance was doomed from the start.

  But all she knew was that she was happy just knowing that he loved her now, with all his heart. And she loved him.

  And she would gladly do it all over again.

  His hand found hers, their fingers touching on top of the bedcovers. ‘I am afraid for you, liebling. I only wish I could be there with you when you talk to your father. I feel so useless—’ He sighed with frustration.

  ‘I don’t think you being there would help at all.’ Kitty saw his worried frown and smiled. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘I’ll talk to him tonight. I’m sure it won’t be that bad. I mean, what’s the worst he can do?’

  Poor Kitty, Dora thought as she watched them from the other end of the ward. She had really set herself up for trouble when she fell in love with Stefan Bauer.

  Kitty’s wretched brother had a lot to answer for, one way or another. Dora hadn’t been surprised when she’d found out Arthur had decided not to show his face today. It was too much to hope that his guilty conscience was troubling him. Fools like Arthur Jenkins were so convinced they were right, they could never see any way but their own.

  She saw Kitty’s hand brush against Stefan’s, and turned away. It was just as well Helen didn’t come on duty until eight. She would never have tolerated such behaviour.

  After helping Kitty and Miss Sloan with clearing away the breakfast dishes, making beds and dealing with bedpans, one of Dora’s first jobs that morning was to prepare one of the new patients for surgery.

  ‘Right then,’ she said brightly, pushing aside the curtains. ‘Let’s get you all spruced up ready for – oh!’ She started at the sight of Major Von Mundel at the man’s bedside. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here.’

  He shot to his feet. ‘Pardon me, Nurse Riley. I was explaining to Geimeiner Hassel what his operation involved.’

  ‘Oh well, you carry on.’

  ‘Nein, I have finished now. I will leave you to your work.’ He nodded briefly to the young man then hurried off, closing the curtains behind him. It was only when he’d gone that Dora realised they hadn’t looked each other in the eye once.

  It was so sad, she thought. Once they might have smiled, exchanged some pleasantries, but now there was nothing but awkwardness between them. She had lost a good friend in Major Von Mundel.

  Another reason to thank Arthur Jenkins, she thought bitterly.

  By the time Dora had finished preparing the patient, Helen had come on duty.

  All the nurses immediately stopped what they were doing and stood to attention, but Helen swept past without looking at any of them. Dora caught her friend’s tight-lipped expression and was instantly wary.

  Something had happened, she was sure of it.

  Helen wore the same grim look as they gathered around the ward table for morning prayers. She stared down at her hands as Dora passed on the night nurse’s report, then did her rounds and handed out the work lists with barely a word.

  ‘Someone’s in a good mood!’ Miss Sloan observed as they dispersed to get on with their duties.

  ‘It’s going to be a bad day for us,’ Kitty agreed.

  But Dora was more concerned about her friend. Helen looked close to tears throughout the morning as she accompanied first Dr Abbott and then Matron on their rounds. Every time Dora tried to speak to her, she was met with a blank stare and a cold, terse reply.

  By lunchtime, she could stand it no longer. Just before she went on her break, Dora knocked on the door to Helen’s office.

  ‘Come in.’

  Helen look up, her smile fading when she saw Dora standing before her. ‘Yes?’ she said.

  All morning, Dora had been mentally rehearsing ways she could approach Helen. But when she opened her mouth, all she could blurt out was, ‘Have I done something wrong?’

  Helen put down her pen and glared at her. ‘You have to ask me that question?’

  Dora was taken aback. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about—’

  ‘Oh, I think you do!’

  A picture of Major Von Mundel flashed into Dora’s mind. Helen must have heard the rumours that Arthur Jenkins had been spreading, she thought.

  ‘I had a letter this morning,’ Helen said, tight-lipped. ‘From David.’

  ‘Oh.’ Relief flooded through Dora, followed by confusion. ‘But what’s that got to do with me?’

  Helen gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Nothing. But that didn’t stop you poking your nose in, did it? And after everything I said to you—’

  Dora frowned. ‘You’re not making sense.’

  ‘He knows, Dora. He knows everything – about what happened.’

  ‘But how?’

  Helen sighed. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me. We both know you wrote to him.’

  ‘Me?’ Dora echoed in disbelief. ‘But I didn’t—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it!’ Helen
waved her hand, dismissing her. ‘I don’t want to hear your excuses. For God’s sake, why couldn’t you just mind your own business? I told you I didn’t want him to know, and yet you took it upon yourself to write to him. Why, Dora? Why would you do that to me?’

  ‘Now just a minute—’ Dora gathered herself. ‘I didn’t write to David.’

  ‘But you signed it!’

  ‘I’m telling you, it wasn’t me.’

  ‘Then who was it?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? But anyone could put my name on a letter.’

  ‘But you and Clare are the only ones who know.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should ask her,’ Dora said.

  Helen stared at her in disbelief. ‘Are you suggesting Clare wrote a letter to David, pretending it was from you?’

  ‘Why not? I reckon it’s just the sort of sneaky thing she’d do.’

  ‘Sneaky! That’s rich, coming from you. Clare’s kept my secret for months. Why would she suddenly take it into her head to write to David after all this time?’

  ‘As I said, you’d better ask her that,’ Dora said. ‘All I know is I didn’t write that letter. I made you a promise and I would never break my word. You do believe me, don’t you?’

  The long look Helen gave her spoke volumes. ‘I don’t know what to think any more,’ she murmured.

  Dora stiffened. ‘Then we ain’t got anything more to say to each other,’ she said. ‘I may be a lot of things, Helen, but I ain’t a liar. And I keep secrets, too.’

  She turned to leave. As she reached the door, she heard Helen say her name, but she was too proud to look back.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Kitty didn’t know what to expect when she got home that evening.

  Her heart was racing in her chest as she let herself in the back door. Her mother was at the stove, making cocoa. When she looked up, Kitty could see she’d been crying.

  Florrie Jenkins turned off the gas and turned to Kitty, wiping her hands on her pinny.

  ‘Oh Kitty love,’ she whispered. ‘What have you done?’

  Before Kitty could reply, her father’s voice rose from the parlour. ‘Is that her?’

  Kitty looked at her mother’s fearful face. ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘Come in here, girl.’

  Fear dried Kitty’s throat, but she managed a smile for her mother.

  ‘Here goes,’ she whispered. ‘Wish me luck, won’t you?’

  Her mother put her hand on her arm. ‘Try not to upset him, won’t you?’ she begged.

  ‘I think it’s a bit late for that, don’t you, Mum?’

  Her father was sitting in his favourite moquette armchair. His face was impassive but the restless tapping of his fingers on the arm of the chair gave away his agitation. Kitty looked down at his hand and realised that he had almost worn away the fabric over the years.

  Arthur sat in the armchair opposite, wearing the same stern, self-righteous expression as his father.

  Kitty turned to her brother in disgust. ‘I’m surprised you’ve got the nerve to show your face, after what you did.’

  Arthur turned red. ‘I only did what was right,’ he muttered. ‘Which is more than I can say for you—’

  ‘Be quiet, Arthur,’ her father ordered. ‘Kitty, sit down.’ He nodded towards the hard wooden chairs around the table.

  She lifted her chin, determined not to be intimidated. ‘I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind—’

  ‘I said sit down!’ His voice rose.

  ‘Do as he says, love. Please?’ She hadn’t realised her mother had crept into the room behind her. Kitty took one look at her imploring face and pulled out a chair.

  Her father paused for a moment. He stared down at his fingers tapping on the arm of the chair and Kitty could see him trying to compose himself.

  Finally, he said, ‘So what’s all this our Arthur’s been telling us about you carrying on with some German?’

  Kitty looked from her mother’s anxious face to Arthur’s sullen expression. Finally, she allowed herself to look at her father.

  She took a deep, steadying breath. ‘It’s true,’ she said.

  ‘You see?’ Arthur piped up. ‘I told you, didn’t I?’

  ‘I told you to be quiet, Arthur!’ Horace Jenkins growled, his gaze fixed on Kitty. His face was unreadable.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ she started to explain. ‘Stefan isn’t—’

  Her father held up his hand, silencing her. ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ he said. ‘I won’t have his name spoken in this house.’

  ‘How could you?’ her mother whispered. ‘A German—’

  ‘Do you think I wanted it to happen?’ Kitty said. ‘He didn’t want it either, but we couldn’t help it. We just fell in love—’ She saw her father flinch. ‘I know this is difficult for you, but if you could just meet him, you’d know he isn’t like—’

  ‘I don’t want to meet him!’ Her father turned on her, coldly furious. ‘You think I’d have a German in this house, after what happened to Raymond?’

  ‘Stefan didn’t kill Raymond—’

  ‘I told you, I don’t want to hear his name! I don’t care what he’s like, either.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t understand you, Kitty. You know what the Germans did to us . . .’ His voice cracked, betraying his pain. ‘They destroyed this family.’

  ‘And we destroyed his,’ Kitty said. ‘His brother was killed, shot dead by Allied troops. Our boys, Dad—’

  ‘They deserved it,’ Arthur said.

  ‘They were surrendering!’ Kitty shot back. She turned to her father. ‘They’re no different from us, Dad. They have homes, and families. They are good and bad, just like we are—’

  ‘Enough of this!’ Her father slammed his hand down on the arm of his chair, startling her into silence. ‘I won’t hear any more.’ He rose from his chair. ‘You’re to have nothing more to do with him, Kitty. And that’s my final word.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’ll write to the camp, have him moved somewhere else. Somewhere far away—’

  ‘You can’t do that. He’ll be in trouble if they find out.’

  ‘Serves him right for taking advantage of English girls, doesn’t it?’

  ‘He didn’t take advantage of me. I love him.’

  She saw her father jump from his chair and lunge at her, his face livid. But the ringing slap still caught her by surprise.

  ‘How dare you?’ he hissed. ‘How dare you speak like that in this house! I won’t have it, d’you hear me? I won’t have my daughter talking like a slut!’

  Kitty put her hand up to her stinging cheek. ‘A slut? Is that what you think I am?’ Her father looked away, his face rigid. ‘I s’pose you’d rather I was like Bea Doyle, running after GIs? I s’pose you’d rather I went dancing up West, and getting up to all sorts for a pair of nylons. It wouldn’t matter what I did, would it, as long as they were on our side! But to fall in love with one man, a good, decent man, whose only crime is to be born in the wrong country – well, that makes me a whore!’

  Her father swung round to face her, his eyes bulging with fury. Kitty flinched back, but refused to be cowed.

  ‘Go on, slap me again if it makes you feel better,’ she taunted him. ‘You can hit me all you like but it won’t change the way I feel. I love Stefan, and I want to be with him.’

  ‘Not while you’re under my roof, you won’t.’

  Kitty stared at him, shocked. ‘Are you turning me out of the house?’

  ‘If that’s what it takes to bring you to your senses.’

  Kitty stared at him. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘If that’s what you want, I’ll move out.’

  ‘No!’ Her mother came to life. ‘We don’t want you to go, do we, Father? Tell her she mustn’t go.’

  Horace Jenkins folded his arms across his chest. ‘She’s over twenty-one, she can do as she likes.’

  ‘Horace!’

  ‘She’s made her choice, Florrie.’

  ‘I’ll go and pack
my things,’ Kitty said quietly.

  She was still reeling later as she emptied her chest of drawers on to the bed. She knew her father would be angry, but she’d never imagined he would put her out on the street.

  The door opened, and her heart leapt, thinking it might be her father. But it was only Arthur.

  ‘Dad told me to fetch this for you—’ He dumped a battered old suitcase on the bed.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Arthur hesitated for a moment, and Kitty could tell he was trying to work out what to say to her. But instead he ducked his head and left the room, banging the door behind him.

  Kitty stared at the suitcase, tears filling her eyes. She hadn’t seen it since she was a child, and her dad had taken them all for a week in Margate. She remembered her excitement as he hauled the suitcase on to the train, chiding her mother for packing so much.

  ‘Did you have to bring the kitchen sink, woman?’ he’d said. But it was a good-natured complaint, because that was what her father was like before his anger and bitterness consumed him. And her mother had just laughed, because that was what she did before her fear and misery consumed her. And Kitty had sat with her brothers, craning their necks, each of them competing to see who could be the first to see the sea . . .

  She dashed away a tear at the sound of the soft knock on the door. Her mother crept into the room, and Kitty could see she’d been crying too.

  ‘Don’t go, Kitty,’ she pleaded.

  ‘What choice have I got?’

  ‘But this is your home.’

  ‘Not any more. He’s made that very clear.’ She glanced at the door.

  ‘You know what your father’s like. But he cares for you, love. He just finds it hard to show it, that’s all.’

  Kitty looked at her mother. ‘When are you going to stop making excuses for him, Mum? He’s a bully.’

  Florrie Jenkins winced. ‘He loves you,’ she insisted. ‘You’re his little girl. He just finds it very difficult to think that you’d—’ She looked up at Kitty imploringly. ‘Couldn’t you just forget about this man?’ she begged.

  Kitty shook her head. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘But what if he’s moved away? Your dad reckons he’s going to report him—’