A Nightingale Christmas Wish

by Donna Douglas

  A solemn twelve-year-old with dark hair fastened in tight plaits, she frowned at him. ‘Yes, Uncle.’

  ‘I don’t think you have. Look.’ He reached up towards her ear and produced a farthing between his fingers. ‘You see?’ he said, handing it to her.

  Beth and Philip both stared at the coin, then at each other.

  ‘Your turn, Philip.’ David reached forward, fingers brushing the little boy’s silky dark hair. ‘Well, I never,’ he declared, as he produced a penny. ‘Look at that.’

  Philip grinned sheepishly and scratched his ear. ‘Do it again!’ he said.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure . . .’ David grinned. ‘Oh, all right, then. If you insist.’

  By the time he’d emptied his pockets of all his change, both children were giggling. Then he played horses with them, going around the floor on all fours while they took turns to jump all over him, until their mother declared, ‘That’s enough! You’ve worn your poor uncle out!’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ David said, collapsing under the weight as both children hurled themselves on top of him.

  ‘All the same, it’s time for bed.’

  The children protested. ‘Oh, Mummy, can’t we stay up until midnight, just this once?’

  David looked appealingly at her. ‘Go on, Clare. It is New Year’s Eve, after all.’

  She shook her head. ‘Can you imagine if your father were to come home and find you still up?’

  The children sobered immediately, shocked to their senses. They jumped off David’s back and stood to attention, as if Clare had somehow summoned the spectre of their father into the room.

  ‘Get up to bed,’ she said, more gently. ‘I’ll come and tuck you in.’

  ‘Can Uncle David do it?’ Philip pleaded.

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘If you insist.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Clare said, as they listened to the children hurrying back up the stairs, chattering loudly this time.

  ‘I don’t mind at all. You know I love spending time with them.’

  ‘You’re very good with them. That’s the first time I’ve heard them laugh in a long time.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. They’re like different children when their father isn’t here.’

  ‘I know,’ Clare said quietly. She went over to the drinks cabinet and poured them both a brandy. ‘Graham can’t help it, you know,’ she said. ‘It’s just his way, that’s all. He was nearly forty when Beth was born, he’s bound to be set in his ways . . .’

  ‘Stop making excuses for him,’ David cut her off. ‘He’s a monster. He treats you and the children appallingly.’

  Clare was shocked. ‘Don’t say that,’ she begged. ‘Graham is a good man.’

  ‘Is that why he’s gone off to spend the evening with his mistress?’

  He saw his sister wince, and immediately regretted speaking so bluntly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. But you know as well as I do that’s where he is.’

  He had been shocked and outraged when Clare first confided in him that her husband had another woman. David had immediately wanted to confront Graham, but his sister had begged him not to say anything. It was becoming more and more difficult for him to stay silent, let alone be civil.

  ‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘But I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Why not? I can’t understand how you can ignore it, go on pretending it’s not happening.’

  ‘Because it’s easier that way.’ Clare looked at him, defeat in her eyes. ‘If I say something, it would only start another fight. It might even push him further away from me. And then what would I do?’

  ‘You could always leave him?’

  ‘And where would I go? A woman on her own with two children. How would I support them?’

  ‘I’d look after you, you know that.’

  She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’

  ‘You’re not asking me. I’m offering.’ He leaned forward. ‘I want to help you, Clare. I could set you up with a place to live. I could look after you.’

  ‘What about the children? They need their father.’

  ‘They don’t need a father who makes their lives a misery, and you don’t need a husband who treats you badly either. Please, Clare? I can’t bear to see you in this state.’

  She stared into the flickering flames in the fireplace. ‘You don’t understand. I know my marriage isn’t perfect. But I made my vows, and I need to abide by them.’

  David stared at her in frustration. They’d had the same conversation many times, and it always ended the same way. Clare would never leave Graham, no matter how badly he treated her. She still clung to the idea that marriage was for life. She refused to admit that she’d made a mistake in marrying him.

  And he understood why, too.

  ‘If we’d inherited Father’s house in his will you would be free,’ he said. ‘You would have enough money to be independent.’

  ‘Yes, well, that didn’t happen, did it?’

  ‘No, it didn’t,’ he said bitterly. ‘Instead you’re married to a monster, and our wicked stepmother living in our house. She’s got exactly what she wanted, hasn’t she?’

  Clare sighed. ‘There’s no point in getting upset about it, David.’

  ‘I can’t help it. She made all our lives a misery. If it hadn’t been for her, you would never have run off and married Graham.’

  ‘That’s not true. I didn’t have to marry him.’ Clare refilled her brother’s glass. ‘I know you don’t care for him, and I realise he can be difficult. But he’s good to us in his own way. And if I hadn’t married him, I would never have had the children. So I have to be thankful for that, don’t I?’

  David gazed into his sister’s face. ‘I wish I had your optimistic nature.’

  ‘Uncle David!’ The children’s voices drifted down from upstairs before he could say any more.

  He left just after midnight. He hugged his sister fiercely and wished her a happy New Year. He also pressed a £10 note into her hand.

  ‘I can’t take this!’ She tried to give it back, but David insisted.

  ‘Treat yourself to something nice,’ he urged. ‘I just wish I could do more.’

  ‘I know – and thank you.’ She gave him a brave smile.

  ‘I mean, it, Clare. Any time you decide you want to leave, just let me know.’

  He couldn’t stop thinking about her all the way home in the taxi. Whatever she said, he knew the real reason she had married Graham was to escape from their unhappy home, and their stepmother. She had made everyone’s lives such a misery that Clare had run off and married the first man who’d showed her any kind of affection. She had sought solace in marriage and creating a family of her own . . . much good it had done her. David had sought his own comfort by avoiding making any kind of commitment altogether.

  He returned to the doctors’ house. The home for lonely bachelors, as Jonathan mockingly called it these days. As if he hadn’t been grateful enough for it for so many years!

  But it did feel like a different place to David since his old friend had left. One by one, David had seen his fellow doctors get married and move out, to be replaced by other eager young housemen. Even though he was only thirty-five, David had begun to feel out of place surrounded by so many young men.

  Even so, it didn’t bother him. He would rather grow into a crusty old bachelor like Mr Hobbs than settle for the compromise his sister’s marriage had been.

  A sudden image of Helen Dawson came unbidden to his mind, sitting on a bench in the snow, crying over a dead child. He’d understood her pain, so of course he’d had to comfort her. He ruthlessly pushed from his mind the thought that there might be anything more to it than that.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  IT WAS JUST as well they’d decided to keep the Casualty department open, Helen reflected as she closed the doors on the last patient just after eleven o’clock. Even though she and Dr Ross had mainly been dressing wounds and c
onsoling tearful drunks, they had also dealt with an elderly man with a cardiac arrest and a young mother who’d gone into premature labour during a family party. In both cases, being admitted to hospital quickly had saved them.

  But now the night and the year were almost over, and for the next eight or nine hours the department was only open to admissions by ambulance.

  ‘And hopefully we won’t have too many of those this evening,’ Dr Ross had said as he dragged himself off to sleep in the consulting room. ‘Good night, Sister.’

  ‘Good night, Doctor. And Happy New Year to you.’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, of course,’ he yawned, shrugging off his white coat. ‘See you in nineteen thirty-nine.’

  And so Helen was seeing in the New Year alone. As she pulled the bolt across the double doors, she thought wistfully of the merry evening she could have been spending in Trafalgar Square with Christopher, if only she hadn’t been so cautious. Though she knew it wouldn’t have been a good idea, she still couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like to kick up her heels and have fun, just for one reckless night.

  She was turning down the lamps in the Casualty hall when she heard a sharp rap on the doors.

  ‘We’re closed,’ she called out. ‘Emergencies only.’

  ‘This is an emergency,’ a muffled voice called out from the other side.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Helen sighed as she crossed the hall to unbolt the doors. If this was another drunk looking for a bed for the night, she would not be amused. She had only just finished scrubbing the floor with Lysol after the last one.

  ‘I told you, it’s emergencies only . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she saw Christopher standing there, a bottle of brandy in his hand. Flakes of snow sparkled in his hair. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to see you.’ He sauntered past her and looked around. ‘On your own, are you?’

  ‘Dr Ross is resting. We’ve had a busy night.’ Helen closed the door behind him, shutting out a rush of cold air. ‘I thought you’d be up West by now, seeing the New Year in?’

  ‘I was. But then I realised I’d rather spend it with you.’

  Helen opened her mouth, then closed it again. She caught sight of her reflection in the lamplit window. She looked a terrible mess, her apron stained and the laces of her bonnet hanging loose. Her face was drawn, dark shadows like bruises under her eyes. Why Christopher didn’t run away screaming at the sight of her, she had no idea.

  ‘I was surprised when I got your note,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had a girl stand me up before. Proper wounded my pride, it did.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I forgive you.’ He grinned at her.

  Helen looked up into his laughing eyes. She could believe girls didn’t say no to him very often.

  She dragged her gaze away. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she offered.

  ‘I’d rather have a drop of this.’ He held up the bottle. ‘Get a couple of glasses and we’ll have a drink together.’

  ‘This is a Casualty department, not a cocktail party!’ Helen replied, shocked. ‘Dr Ross would report me in a moment if he caught me drinking on duty.’

  ‘But it’s New Year’s Eve!’

  ‘It’s still against the rules. He’d report me if he knew you were here, too.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to be quiet, won’t I? And if he comes in, I’ll lie down and pretend to be dying.’

  Helen smiled in spite of herself. ‘Let’s sit down by the door,’ she said. ‘Then you can get out quickly if Dr Ross wakes up.’

  They sat on the bench closest to it. Christopher was relaxed but Helen perched on the edge of her seat, her gaze fixed on the passageway leading to the consulting rooms.

  ‘Am I making you nervous?’ Christopher joked.

  ‘I told you, I don’t want Dr Ross to catch us.’

  ‘Do you always follow the rules?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . .’ She stared at him. The question had never occurred to her before. She had been following rules all her life; first her mother’s, then the hospital’s. ‘Because it’s all I’ve ever done,’ she said.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like much fun.’

  ‘No, but it’s a lot less trouble.’

  ‘I don’t mind a bit of trouble now and then,’ Christopher said.

  Helen smiled sideways at him ‘I can imagine.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Is that why you didn’t come out with me tonight?’ he asked. ‘Because you thought I’d be trouble?’

  Guilty heat rose in her face. ‘I told you, I had to work.’

  ‘And is that the only reason?’ Helen didn’t reply. ‘Only I wondered if it was because you felt bad about Charlie.’

  Helen glanced up at him. But before she could reply, he went on, ‘Because I feel bad, too.’

  His comment took her by surprise. She stared at him in the darkness. ‘You?’

  He nodded. ‘Charlie and I were so close, I looked up to him. That’s why when I met you . . .’ He shrugged expressively. ‘I knew straight away I liked you. But you being Charlie’s wife – well, it doesn’t make it easy, does it?’

  ‘No,’ Helen said. ‘It doesn’t.’

  He looked so honest, so vulnerable, she wanted to be honest too.

  ‘I suppose I was nervous about seeing you,’ she confessed. ‘I’ve never – spent time with any man since Charlie. I wasn’t sure if it would be right. Especially . . .’

  ‘Especially with me being Charlie’s cousin?’ he finished for her. Helen nodded. ‘You can’t live your life in the shadows,’ he said softly. ‘I know Charlie would never have wanted that for you. I mean, would you have wanted him to be alone for the rest of his life if you’d died?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘But it’s just so difficult . . .’

  ‘Then I’ll help you,’ said Christopher.

  Helen looked down at her hands. Five years of nursing had left her long, slender fingers raw and callused.

  ‘Why me?’ She asked the question that had been niggling at her from the moment he’d asked her out. You could have your pick of girls, I’m sure. Why choose someone as complicated as me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘All I know is there’s something about you. I could see it from the minute I set eyes on you.’ He sent her a sideways smile. ‘This is going to sound daft, but I sometimes wonder if Charlie didn’t send you to me. Because he knew I’d look after you.’

  Helen smiled at him. For some reason, that didn’t sound daft at all. In fact, it sounded like just the sort of thing her loving husband would have done. Perhaps her Christmas wish was going to come true, after all.

  ‘I think I will have some of that brandy,’ she said.

  With a grin Christopher handed her the bottle. ‘Go on, live dangerously.’

  Helen took a gulp, wincing as the fiery liquid burned its way down her throat. ‘I’m not sure I know how,’ she admitted.

  Christopher’s eyes met hers, alight with intent. ‘Then I’ll have to show you, won’t I?’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  IT WAS NEW Year’s Day, and after the excitement of celebrating with her friends up West, Effie O’Hara was back to earth with a bump, enduring Mass with her sister Bridget.

  It was too cruel to make her get up so early, she decided. It had been past two o’clock in the morning when she and the others had finally tumbled through the skylight window into their room. And after far too many glasses of champagne, she had nearly broken her neck shinning up the icy drainpipe. Now her head was pounding and the smell of the incense was making her feel decidedly sick.

  Not that Bridget was sympathetic. She sat beside Effie, ramrod-straight as usual, hands folded in her lap, listening primly to the priest droning on in Latin as if she understood every word. Each time Effie allowed her eyelids to droop over her prayer book, Bridget dug her sharply in the ribs, making her wake up with a yelp. No need to
wonder where she’d spent New Year’s Eve, Effie thought. Bridget’s idea of reckless abandon was a cup of cocoa and an improving book.

  After what seemed like hours, the service was finally over and Effie was able to escape into the cold, bright sunshine. The sun had broken through the leaden clouds and glittered off the thick blanket of snow, transforming the mean, ugly little streets of the East End into a place of magical beauty. Children ran to and fro, pulling makeshift sledges made of old tin trays. Others tossed snowballs at each other, laughing and shrieking as they ducked into doorways.

  On the pavement the snow had been churned up to muddy slush. Effie’s shoes slipped and slithered as she picked her way along. Bridget, of course, had no such difficulty. She seemed as sure-footed as ever as she strode ahead of her sister, lecturing her over her shoulder as she went.

  ‘Fancy falling asleep in the middle of Mass!’ she snapped. ‘I’m ashamed of you, Euphemia O’Hara, I really am.’

  ‘I didn’t fall asleep,’ Effie mumbled.

  ‘You were snoring during the Our Father! Everyone was looking at us, I didn’t know where to put myself.’ Bridget shot her a look of disdain. ‘When are you back on duty?’

  ‘Not until five.’

  ‘Good. That should give you time to smarten yourself up.’

  Effie looked down at herself. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  ‘What’s right with you?’ Bridget stopped and turned on her heel to face her sister. ‘You’re a disgrace. Your hair looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in weeks, you’re pasty-faced and your eyes are bloodshot.’ Effie backed away as Bridget leaned in towards her. ‘And you smell like a brewery,’ she declared.

  ‘If you must know, I don’t feel well,’ Effie defended herself. ‘I think I might be coming down with something.’

  ‘The only thing you’re coming down with is a hangover. I suppose you were out until all hours last night?’

  ‘No,’ Effie lied.

  ‘Show me your hands.’

  ‘No, you can’t – let me go!’ Effie yelped as Bridget seized her fingers in a tight pinching grasp and pulled off her glove.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ she said, releasing her. ‘They’re covered in scratches. You’ve been climbing up drainpipes.’