‘Bliss. You’re a gem, Mrs M.’
A blush rose in Mrs Morgan’s cheeks. ‘Oh, get on with you! I’m just happy to make myself useful.’
Mrs Morgan had proved herself more than useful. She was a widow whose two sons had been killed during the war, one in North Africa and one in the D-Day landings. The house was too big for her on her own, so she rented half of it to Violet and Oliver.
‘I’d only rattle around in it by myself!’ she had told her cheerfully, as she had shown her round. ‘It’ll be lovely to have some company.’
Over the months Mrs Morgan had become more than just Violet’s landlady. She cooked for them, and kept house while Violet went to work. Violet knew that Mrs Morgan appreciated having them around, especially Oliver, who had become almost a replacement for her own son.
They had become a little family, the three of them in their warm, cosy house. For the first time in a long while, Violet was beginning to feel as if she had found a real home at last.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Another one of them solicitor’s letters came for you,’ Mrs Morgan called out from the kitchen. ‘I put it on the mantelpiece.’
‘So I see,’ Violet sighed. She didn’t need to open it to know what it would say. She had not been in touch with Victor’s solicitors since his death ten years earlier. But with Oliver about to turn eighteen, they had taken to writing to her every month, reminding her about his inheritance and urging her to get in touch.
So far Violet had ignored them. She knew she would have to address the matter soon, but she could not bring herself to do it. It would mean unearthing all kinds of memories she did not want to think about.
She plucked it from the mantelpiece and turned it over in her hands. The letter seemed fatter than usual. What else had they found to say? she wondered.
She tore it open and pulled out the letter, hardly bothering to read the neatly typed words. But this time there was something else tucked inside. Another letter, smaller and handwritten.
Apprehension crawled up Violet’s spine as she unfolded it and saw the familiar flowing writing on the envelope. Even after nearly fourteen years, she would know her mother’s hand anywhere.
She hesitated, wondering whether to open it, but then she noticed the name on the front of the letter.
It was addressed to Oliver.
‘I’m home!’
Just at that moment the front door banged, startling her. Violet hastily stuffed the letter into her pocket and turned to greet her son as he came in, bringing a gust of cold air from the street with him.
She could never look at Oliver without feeling a huge swell of pride. It hardly seemed like a couple of years since he was a little boy, and now he was a young man. A handsome one too, with her height and dark colouring.
Or so it seemed to anyone else. Only Violet noticed the way his black hair grew in a widow’s peak like Victor’s, and how his intense dark eyes resembled his father’s.
She pushed away the thought. Oliver might look like his father, and he had the same quick mind and fierce intelligence. But that was where the similarity ended. Violet had made sure of that. She had worked hard to bring him up as a kind, caring young man, to give him the compassion his father had lacked.
But it was still hard to look into those eyes and not feel a shiver sometimes.
‘Hello, Ma.’ Oliver leaned forward and planted a noisy kiss on her cheek. Violet pushed him away, laughing.
‘Get off, you’re freezing!’
‘I’m not surprised. The bus gave up halfway up the Mile End Road and we had to walk the rest of the way.’
‘Never mind, you’re home now. Sit down by the fire and get warm. Mrs Morgan’s just brewing up a pot of tea.’
‘Sorry, I can’t stop. I’m supposed to be meeting some friends, and I’m late as it is.’ He hurried into the hall, shedding his coat, hat and scarf as he went.
Violet followed him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To the dance hall.’ He blushed as he said it. His new-found interest in girls was something he found hard to admit. ‘I need to get changed and then I’m off.’
‘What time will you be home?’
‘Not late, I promise.’
‘Oliver, wait. A letter came—’ Violet started to say, but he was already thudding up the stairs.
Mrs Morgan emerged from the kitchen with a tea tray. ‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ she commented.
‘He’s going out.’
Mrs Morgan smiled affectionately. ‘I wish I had half his energy. He don’t stop still for more than a minute, does he?’
‘No, he doesn’t.’ Violet managed to smile back. But all she could think about was the letter still burning a hole in her pocket.
It would have to wait until the morning, she decided.
But the following morning came, and Oliver was still asleep when Violet left for the hospital, so the letter remained locked away in the bureau drawer.
It stayed on her mind all morning, occupying her thoughts. And when Matron and Miss Davis arrived for their ward round, for once Violet was too preoccupied to notice the Assistant Matron’s carping, or her endless fault-finding.
Until they reached the bedside of a bronchitis patient, and Miss Davis took great delight in pointing out that his temperature had not been filled in on the hour as it should have been.
‘See for yourself.’ Violet could only stare at the chart Miss Davis thrust under her nose.
‘I don’t understand,’ she murmured.
‘I do,’ Miss Davis said. ‘Someone made a mistake, and you didn’t notice it. It’s as simple as that.’
Out of the corner of her eye she could see the distraught face of student nurse Philips, chewing her lip.
‘I suppose I must have done,’ she said quietly.
She saw Miss Fox’s reproachful look and shame washed over her. How could she be so careless? It wasn’t even Miss Davis’s smug expression that bothered her; it was the fact that she had been so absorbed in her own problems she had neglected her duties.
She wasn’t surprised when, after the round, Miss Fox said quietly, ‘Would you come to my office and see me later, Sister?’
‘Yes, Matron. Of course.’ Violet could hardly meet Kathleen’s eye. They might be friends outside the hospital, but as Matron she would not tolerate mistakes. Friends or not, she would not hesitate to tear Violet off a strip if she thought she had let down a patient.
Nurse Philips approached her after they had gone. ‘I’m sorry, Sister,’ she said. ‘I was the one who made the mistake. Should I go to Matron and tell her it was my fault?’
Violet shook her head. The poor girl looked near to tears. ‘It was my responsibility to make sure it was done correctly,’ she said. ‘I’ll take the consequences. But you must make sure it never happens again,’ she warned.
‘Yes, Sister. I swear I’ll check it properly next time.’
Violet was heavy-hearted when she stood outside Miss Fox’s office half an hour later. She felt like a silly probationer, on report for breaking a thermometer. And just to make it worse, Miss Davis seemed to be enjoying every minute. She pretended to be absorbed in some paperwork or other, but Violet could feel the Assistant Matron watching her avidly from behind her desk.
By the time Miss Fox called out, ‘Enter,’ Violet’s hand was so clammy with nerves she could barely grip the doorknob to let herself in.
Kathleen looked up, smiling. ‘Ah, Sister, do sit down—’
‘I’m sorry,’ Violet blurted out. ‘I made a mistake and I only have myself to blame for it. I wasn’t concentrating on what I was doing, and there is no excuse for that. All I can do is promise it won’t happen again—’
‘I’m sure it won’t.’ Kathleen’s voice was gentle. ‘You’re an excellent nurse, Violet, and it’s not like you to make a mistake like that. Which is why I called you here.’ She steepled her fingers and looked at Violet consideringly over the top of them. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
Violet blinked. ‘I’m so
rry, Matron, I don’t understand—’
‘There’s clearly something troubling you, and it’s affecting your work. I would like to know what it is.’ She smiled. ‘I’m asking you as your friend, not as your matron,’ she said.
Violet was about to deny everything but then she looked into Kathleen’s warm grey eyes and realised how much she needed her friend’s good advice.
‘I’ve had a letter from my mother,’ she said. ‘Or rather, Oliver has.’
‘I see.’ Kathleen sat back in her seat. She was one of the first people Violet had dared to share her story with when she came to the Nightingale, so she understood what the letter meant. ‘What does she say?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t given it to him yet.’
Kathleen’s face was calm and composed, framed by her starched white headdress. But Violet could see the deep thought in her eyes. ‘How long is it since you’ve been in contact with her?’
‘Nearly fourteen years.’
‘It must be strange to hear from her again after so long.’
Strange was one way of putting it, Violet thought. She had lain awake all night, going over what had happened between her and her mother, reliving their argument and the rift that had grown between them.
’Why has she written now, I wonder?’ Kathleen mused.
‘I don’t know.’ She had been asking herself the same question, and she still hadn’t come up with an answer.
‘Perhaps she wants to build some bridges between you?’
‘After fourteen years?’ Violet couldn’t stop her bitterness spilling out. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘she wrote to Oliver, not me. I’m not the one she wants to build bridges with.’
She knew that after all these years she shouldn’t be hurt by it, but it still felt as if her mother was rejecting her all over again.
‘What are you going to tell Oliver?’ Kathleen asked.
‘I don’t know.’ That was something else that preoccupied her. ‘He knows we had a disagreement years ago, and we haven’t spoken to each other since. That’s the truth, after all.’
‘But you haven’t told him why it happened?’
‘How could I?’ If she tried to explain then she would have to tell him the truth about his father. And she couldn’t do that. Whatever happened, Oliver must never know the kind of man Victor really was.
‘So are you going to give the letter to him?’
Violet sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to. It is addressed to him, after all.’ But even as she said it, she felt a pang of anxiety. Why had her mother decided to appear now, just as she had found some kind of peace in her life at last?
As if she could read her thoughts, Kathleen said, ‘I’m sure you don’t need to worry, Violet.’
Violet forced a smile. Kathleen might be a very wise woman and a kind friend, but she would never understand how deeply Dorothy Tanner had hurt her.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m worrying over nothing, I’m sure. I’ll give Oliver the letter and see what happens.’
As they left the office, Miss Fox asked, ‘How did the first Christmas show meeting go?’
Violet hesitated. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Sister Wren came to see me first thing this morning.’
‘And?’
‘She was rather more forthcoming than you,’ Kathleen said ruefully.
‘I daresay she would be,’ Violet said. Trust Miriam Trott to go rushing to Matron, trying to make trouble.
‘Was it as bad as she makes out?’ Kathleen asked.
Once again, Violet paused, trying to choose her words carefully. ‘Miss Davis has a – different way of doing things. It’s bound to upset a few people.’
‘It’s upset Miss Trott, that’s for sure.’ Kathleen shook her head. ‘I can see I shall have to keep a close eye on our Assistant Matron. I notice she’s put a rather odd list up on the wall this morning. I wonder what that’s all about?’
‘You’d better ask Miss Davis that.’
‘Oh, I will. Don’t you worry.’ Violet spotted the light of battle in Kathleen Fox’s eyes.
‘Why did you give her the job?’ The question had been troubling Violet ever since Miss Davis had waved the piece of paper under her nose so triumphantly the previous day.
‘I thought it would be interesting for her,’ Kathleen replied. ‘She strikes me as the kind of young woman who likes a challenge.’
‘And is that the only reason?’
‘What other reason would there be?’
Violet looked into her friend’s blandly smiling face and realised she had been mistaken to suspect her. Kathleen Fox would never be cruel or devious enough to set someone up to fail. Or would she?
As Kathleen followed her from the office, she said, ‘Now, remember what I said, won’t you? I’m always here, if you need to speak to me.’
‘Thank you, Matron.’ Violet caught Miss Davis’s eye, and saw her coldly furious expression. If it wasn’t such an absurd notion, she could have sworn the Assistant Matron was jealous.
As she walked away and closed the door behind her, she could already hear Miss Fox bringing up the subject of the Christmas show. Poor Miss Davis, she thought. She hoped for her own sake she managed to get a grip on the matter before too long.
Her earlier mistake with the patient’s notes forced her to focus her mind on her work for the rest of the day. But try as she might to ignore them, Violet could feel her anxieties about her mother’s letter encroaching on her thoughts. In spite of what she had said to Kathleen, she was worried. She had worked so hard to make a good life for herself and Oliver. All the hardships they had faced over the past years had forged a close bond between them.
And now she was afraid her mother would come along and ruin everything.
When Oliver came home that evening, Violet was waiting with the letter.
‘This came for you yesterday.’ She handed it to him, trying hard to sound casual. ‘It’s from your grandmother.’
‘My grandmother?’ His gaze flew to hers, full of concern. ‘Why is she writing to me?’
Why indeed, Violet thought. She forced a smile. ‘You’d better read it and find out, hadn’t you?’
She watched as he tore the envelope open. Her mouth was as dry as sand as he read through it, his dark eyes moving swiftly over the lines. She watched him closely, trying to guess what thoughts were going through his mind.
Finally he stopped reading. ‘Well?’ Violet said.
He held it out to her. ‘You can read it yourself, if you like.’
It was all she could do to stop herself shrinking back from the piece of paper in his hand. ‘She wrote to you, not me.’
Oliver scanned through the letter again. ‘She says she misses me, and thinks about me all the time,’ he said. ‘She says she’s never forgotten me.’
Does she mention me? Violet pressed her lips together to stop herself speaking out loud. She hated herself for even thinking the question. What did it matter to her whether her mother ever thought of her? Besides, Dorothy Tanner had made her contempt for her very clear the last time they had come face-to-face.
‘Is that all she says?’ she asked.
Oliver hesitated. ‘She says she’d like to see me.’
Violet felt a lurch in her chest. ‘And is that what you want?’
‘I don’t know. What do you think?’
She wanted to snatch the letter from his hands, throw it on the fire and never have to think about her mother again. But somehow she managed to hold back her feelings. ‘You’re a man now,’ she said. ‘It’s your decision, not mine.’
‘But I don’t want to do anything to upset you.’ Suddenly he looked like a little boy again, his dark eyes vulnerable. He glanced down at the letter. ‘Besides, I hardly remember her.’
‘You don’t have to make up your mind now,’ Violet said. ‘Why don’t you think about it?’
‘I will.’
A week went by, and Oliver said no more about his grandmother’s letter. He mi
ght have forgotten about it, but Violet was still troubled. It took all her will to concentrate on her work, and the forthcoming Christmas show.
But she missed the first of the rehearsals, thanks to the arrival of a new admission on Jarvis ward, just as they were due to begin.
Isaak Gruber arrived with a bossy little woman, who introduced herself as his cousin. She instantly tried to take charge, and no amount of gentle but firm persuasion from Violet could budge her from Dr Gruber’s side.
‘Gerte, the nurse is too polite to tell you she wants you to leave, so I will have to do it for her,’ Isaak Gruber said. ‘You will have to excuse Gerte, she does like to think she knows best,’ he added with a sigh to Violet.
‘You need someone to take care of you, Isaak,’ Gerte insisted. ‘After everything you’ve been through—’
‘After everything I’ve been through, you think I’m going to be upset by a hospital like this?’ Isaak Gruber peered at her over his spectacles. ‘Look around you, Gerte. Look at the schwester here. I will be quite safe here, I assure you. So go back to fussing over your husband and your children, and allow these people to look after me for once.’
Gerte still looked fretful. But at least Violet managed to convince her to go off and have a cup of tea, with the promise that she could return and check on her cousin later.
Dr Gruber sighed with relief when she had gone. ‘Dear Gerte,’ he said. ‘I am a lucky man to have such family as hers, but sometimes …’ He shook his head in regret.
Violet had just finished supervising the other nurses in setting up the cradle for Isaak Gruber’s leg when Tom Armstrong, the junior registrar, arrived to examine him.
He confirmed the man’s swollen limb was a result of phlebitis, an inflammation of the vein.
‘Ah yes,’ Dr Gruber nodded wisely. ‘I have had this before. A result of typhoid fever, I believe.’
‘Good lord!’ Tom Armstrong said. ‘We haven’t had a case of typhoid in the hospital for years. Have we, Sister?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Then you are fortunate indeed,’ Isaak Gruber said. ‘There was barely a soul in Buchenwald who did not suffer from it. Of course, we had no medical care then. We survived, or we died.’ He gave them a weary smile. ‘My wife and my children died.’
The Nightingale Christmas Show Page 8