by Alys Clare
He sounds, Lily thinks, as if he is trying to reassure her by talking so brightly.
She feels a sense of foreboding. She conjures up Aunt Eliza’s heartening presence.
They round a shallow bend. Lily sees the figure of a woman in a dark-blue gabardine coat striding along in the direction of the station. She is tall with a masculine bearing, an unflattering felt hat squashed low on her head. She has an empty wicker basket over one arm. She looks up as the trap goes past, and Lily has an impression of light eyes, looking intently at her.
Now Eddy turns the horse in through black wrought-iron gates to the right and they trot up a curving drive running through winter-bare trees to emerge on to a wide gravelled semicircle. A house rises up behind the semicircle. It is built of the same yellowish-grey stone and a flight of steps leads up to the porticoed door. A large bay window juts forward to the right of the door, a square tower to the left, and on either side the building rambles away, its architecture giving the impression that wings and extensions have been added here and there over the years as need dictated.
Eddy has brought the horse to a halt at the foot of the steps and now he jumps down and hurries round to give her a hand. He picks up her suitcase from the back of the trap and as they reach the steps a bright voice calls, ‘Miss Henry! Welcome to Shardlowes School.’
Lily looks up to see Georgiana Long beaming down at her. She takes her case from Eddy, murmurs her thanks and walks up the steps.
Not by the smallest wink, tic or nod does Miss Long indicate that there is more behind this encounter than a school teacher greeting the new nurse who has just been engaged. She wrests the case out of Lily’s hand and says, ‘Forgive me if I go ahead. I shall lead the way to your room, and perhaps you would like to refresh yourself before meeting Miss Carmichael?’
‘I would,’ Lily agrees.
Miss Long nods in satisfaction and limps her stuttering walk across the wide hall and up the left-hand side of a double staircase that curves out and comes back to unite with the opposite flight to form a landing. She sets off down the landing to the right, and Lily has an impression of a series of solid oak doors amid the dark panelling. They go through a heavy door to the left and up a second flight of stairs, and at once the light is brighter. Then they set out along a narrow landing with a sloping ceiling on the left, windows at regular intervals admitting the thin winter sunshine. Doors open to the right, widely spaced and suggesting large rooms. Miss Long says, ‘These are the dormitories for Senior School, Alice, Louise and Helena’ – Lily recognizes the names of three of the Queen’s daughters – ‘six girls in each, and their classrooms are on the floor beneath. Junior School have both their classrooms and their dormitories up ahead in New Wing.’
They come to a corner, and she points to her left. ‘That is New Wing,’ she says. ‘Junior girls sleep up to eight to a dormitory and we have Red, Blue and Green.’
You couldn’t accuse whoever named the junior dormitories of having too vivid an imagination, Lily thinks.
Miss Long is hurrying on ahead, leaving the corridors of dormitories and taking a turn to the right. It leads into a wide passage with a window at the far end and five doors open off it.
‘This is New Sanatorium Block – the San – and here is Matron’s suite,’ she says softly, indicating the first door on the right, ‘bedroom and sitting room. Matron’s not here just now – she has gone into Cambridge for supplies – or else I’d introduce you. Over here on the opposite side we have Sick Bay’ – the first door on the left – ‘the treatment room and the bathroom.’ She opens each door and Lily has a glimpse inside. The sick bay has six beds, all perfectly made up with crisp white sheets and brown wool blankets, and there is a smell of bleach. The treatment room has a table, two chairs and an examination couch, and all of one wall is made up of cupboards, many with sturdy locks. The bathroom is large, chilly and spotless, the water closet in a small walled-off cubicle.
‘And here is your room.’ Miss Long opens the final door and steps back to let Lily precede her into the room. There is a single bed, made up like those in the sick bay but with a deep blue blanket. There is a small cupboard in the corner, a dressing table with an oval swivel mirror in a frame, a narrow chair with a padded seat, a pretty little fireplace, a washstand with ewer, bowl and slop bucket beneath, a bedside table with a drawer and a chamber pot cupboard. The walls are papered in a blue and green flowered pattern and the curtains are dark blue.
‘It is charming,’ Lily says, genuinely pleased.
‘We have moved Nurse Evans’s belongings out so as to give you space,’ Miss Long says.
‘Oh! Is that all right?’
‘She has few personal items and she won’t mind,’ Miss Long says. ‘Besides, it appears she took most of her possessions with her. She was an army nurse for many years and learned to live simply.’ She stands in the middle of the pleasant room, looking round. ‘Now I think that’s everything …’
Lily takes her suitcase and puts it on the little fold-up wooden rack designed for that purpose; no nurse ever puts a case on a bed. Miss Long nods her approval. ‘That goes under the bed when you have finished with it.’ She points to the rack. ‘I will leave you to settle yourself in. Come down when you have done so – can you remember the way back to Main Stairs? – and take the door to the left of the entrance. Miss Carmichael awaits you there with what I am sure will be a welcome cup of coffee.’
Having probably even fewer personal effects than the absent and minimally minded Nurse Evans, Lily unpacks in five minutes. She uses the bathroom, washing the smuts of the journey from her hands and face. Then, not giving herself time to feel nervous, she heads off down two flights of stairs and prepares to meet the headmistress of Shardlowes.
She taps on the door of the room to the left of the entrance and a low-pitched voice calls, ‘Come in.’
Lily obeys.
The room is warm, a fire going strongly in the wide hearth. Before it is a long settee, on either side of which is a pair of wing chairs, one of them occupied. On a table behind the settee is a tray bearing a pot of coffee, milk jug, sugar bowl and two bone-china cups and saucers.
There is time for no more than a cursory survey, for the chair’s occupant has risen to her feet and is advancing towards Lily, her hand outstretched and a faint smile on her pale face.
‘Welcome, Miss Henry. I am Arabella Carmichael,’ she says, taking Lily’s hand and limply shaking it; hers is long, slightly moist and, despite the warmth of the room, cold.
‘Thank you,’ Lily responds. ‘How do you do, Miss Carmichael?’
‘Sit down’ – Miss Carmichael indicates the wing chair on the other side of the hearth – ‘and I will pour coffee. Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, please.’
The coffee is excellent, and made with hot milk.
‘Now, let me run through a few matters with you, Nurse,’ Miss Carmichael says, re-seating herself in her chair. Lily, noticing the alteration from Miss Henry to Nurse, acknowledges this as the moment she changes from a guest to an employee.
‘Miss Long has explained about Nurse Evans’s mother, I believe?’
‘She has.’
Miss Carmichael looks disapproving. ‘It was very sudden. Nurse Evans said she must go at once since her mother was gravely ill, dying, apparently’ – she sounds as if she suspects this is an exaggeration to ensure that Nurse Evans’s request could not be refused – ‘and we had little choice in the matter. It is to our great good fortune, Nurse Henry, that Miss Long’s friend knows you, vouches for you and was aware that you were in search of a position.’ The faint smile appears again, and Lily wonders if this is the best Miss Carmichael can do.
‘My good fortune too, Miss Carmichael,’ she says politely.
Miss Carmichael inclines her head, as if such praise is no more than Shardlowes School’s – and her – due.
She embarks on a brief description of the layout of Lily’s new domain and her duties, but since Lily
has already been shown the dormitories and the sick bay, and her knowledge of how to look after girls is undoubtedly vastly greater than Miss Carmichael’s, she contents herself with nodding occasionally while she studies the headmistress of Shardlowes School.
Arabella Carmichael is tall, slim, elegant, beautiful in a chilly way and probably in her mid- to late thirties. She sits upright in her wing chair, her back perfectly straight. She is dressed in pale grey: a well-cut skirt and a little fitted jacket that buttons up to a high neck. Her hair is very fair and drawn back into an elaborate bun, her eyes so pale that it is difficult to detect if they are blue, green or grey. She picks up her cup with the most delicate of finger-and-thumb grips on its slender handle, and replaces it carefully dead centre in the saucer. Whenever she has taken a sip, she puts a folded, lace-edged, immaculate white handkerchief to her lips. She radiates self-discipline and authority, appears to be totally without humour and, to judge by her dismissive remarks about Nurse Evans’s sick mother, not over-endowed with compassion.
If Lily and Felix are right about Miss Long’s secret feelings for her headmistress, Lily can see how they could have arisen, for Miss Carmichael is a fine-looking woman who has achieved success in her profession.
Lily, however, dislikes her.
Miss Carmichael’s words are interrupted by a tap on the door. It opens before the headmistress can say ‘Come in’, and with a fleeting expression of irritation, Miss Carmichael consults the pretty little gold watch pinned to her breast.
‘Time has flown and it is later than I thought,’ she murmurs, eyeing the newcomer with a frown. Then, looking at Lily, she says, ‘Nurse Henry, let me present Miss Ann Dickinson, known to us all as Miss Dickie, who is Head of Junior School.’
Lily gets to her feet to greet the newcomer.
Ann Dickinson is twenty years older than Miss Carmichael, if not more. Her thin gunmetal grey hair is pulled fiercely back into a tight little knot, her face is pouchy, her eyes are intensely dark brown, very small and deeply set, with folds of fat around them and crumpled eyelids. As she holds out her hand to Lily, she is smiling; a sort of twinkly expression that draws her thin lips out into a straight line and bunches her cheeks up beneath her eyes, so that the latter all but disappear. She is dressed in a dark grey skirt and a white blouse with a soft round collar, a small cameo brooch concealing the top button.
Lily’s immediate impression is that the smile, the bunched-up cheeks and the twinkle are artificial and that Miss Dickie’s true nature is very different.
Telling herself not to be so hasty and judgemental, she grasps Miss Dickie’s hand and, in response to the polite words of welcome, says, ‘Thank you. I am very pleased to be here.’
She should perhaps have added something about being sure she was going to be very happy at Shardlowes, but it would be a huge lie so she doesn’t.
Lily resumes her seat as Miss Dickie perches on the very edge of the settee and describes the composition and the running of Junior School. Just as Lily is wondering how many more times she is to be told about the arrangement of the dormitories, a gong sounds in the hall. Miss Carmichael interrupts Miss Dickie and says, ‘That is the gong for First Luncheon, which is for Junior School, so we must excuse Miss Dickie while she goes to supervise.’ The older woman gets up, gives the headmistress a brief nod and leaves the room. ‘Most of the staff attend Second Luncheon,’ she goes on, ‘as indeed I hope you will today, Nurse Henry.’
There is a definite emphasis on today.
Deciding she is not to be cowed, Lily says, ‘And on other days?’
‘Meals for Matron and Matron’s Assistant are taken in Matron’s sitting room, brought up by the kitchen staff.’
‘I see.’ Lily is careful to keep her expression neutral, although she is relieved that meals will not habitually be taken under the pale, cold eyes of Arabella Carmichael.
‘As soon as we have eaten’ – Miss Carmichael rises, giving the clear impression that the interview is over – ‘I suggest, Nurse, that you return to your room and change into the uniform that you will find folded and ready for you in the wardrobe.’
Lily hesitates. What would the real assistant matron do? Meekly comply, or assert a little independence of mind?’
Lily sighs inwardly, for she understands that whatever a real assistant would do is not relevant.
‘Thank you, Miss Carmichael, but that will not be necessary,’ she hears herself say. ‘I am already in my nursing uniform, as no doubt you have observed.’ She indicates the beautifully fitting black gown with its row of tiny buttons and starched white collar. ‘As you will also see, I was trained by St Walburga’s Nursing Service.’ She points to the tiny gold letters on her pin. ‘After luncheon I shall put on my headdress and apron, so that the pupils and the remainder of the staff will recognize me for what I am.’
Miss Carmichael’s marble-pale face is expressionless. Lily believes she can sense the conflict raging within the sparse breast. Is she to put this uppity new arrival in her place, or is it preferable to yield? The school is in dire need of a matron’s assistant, and in every other respect Lily – Nurse Leonora Henry – fits the bill.
‘Very well, Nurse,’ Miss Carmichael says eventually.
This time she doesn’t even bother with the faint smile.
As Lily watches her tidy the cups and saucers on the tray, she has the sudden suspicion – no, stronger than that, she knows – that Miss Carmichael has no idea her new assistant matron is anything other than she purports to be.
The secret of Lily’s true purpose here is a secret known only to herself and Georgiana Long.
In that moment of realization, Lily isn’t sure if to be relieved or profoundly troubled.
FIVE
Number 3, Hob’s Court feels very empty.
It is Tuesday morning, the day after Lily’s departure. Felix has made himself a cup of tea and checked yet again that Lily has locked the door to the passage at the rear of the house and the door to the shed. After prowling restlessly around the ground floor for some time, he sits down at his desk, flipping through the pages of his notebook. He is waiting for Violetta to provide information on the MacKilliver brothers or Freddie Fanshawe-Turnbull, preferably all three, and also hoping that Marm will turn up more details on the Band of Angels and their establishments.
For the time being Felix has nothing to do, for the Bureau’s recent cases have all been resolved. Not that any of them were either taxing or interesting, Felix thinks morosely, and nor did they even earn much.
He feels the mood of dejection deepen.
Because he knows what its true cause is and doesn’t want to think about it, he closes his eyes and goes back over everything he has learned about Shardlowes School and the Band of Angels. He imagines he heard Georgiana Long’s light voice, speaking of the missing girls …
… and comes up with something challenging and interesting that he can work on without the absent and temporarily unreachable Lily. Something, moreover, which will involve all his resourcefulness and get him out of the office into the bargain. He puts his notebook and pencil in his inside pocket, bundles himself into his outdoor clothes, then lets himself out of 3, Hob’s Court and hurries away in the direction of Victoria Station.
He marches east along the Embankment, turning up to the left just before the hospital. He calls at Kinver Street, where he swiftly packs a small overnight bag, leaving a note for Marm to say he’s going to Brighton and may be away for a day or two.
Despite the cold, he is too hot when he reaches Victoria Station, for he has walked fast. He unbuttons his heavy coat as he strides to the ticket booth, then, following the clerk’s laconic pointing hand, heads for the right platform. The locomotive is building up steam, about to leave; the barrier clangs shut immediately after Felix has gone through. He hurries past the extravagantly comfortable Pullman coaches to the second-class accommodation further along, and swings up into a half-empty carriage. He nods a greeting to the other passengers – a vicar
and his steely-eyed wife, a young man with a battered suitcase and a shiny suit, an elderly woman knitting something in violent purple – and sits down just as the train jerks into movement.
By good fortune, none of the others has wanted to take the seat nearest the window facing forward, Felix’s favourite. His small bag stowed on the rack above, his coat, scarf, hat and gloves rolled up beside it, he settles back with a private sigh of delight. He loves train journeys. He has perhaps an hour and a half to enjoy and he intends to make the very most of it.
The train pulls into the station.
Felix looks up in faint surprise as the clergyman courteously asks him to move his feet so that he and his wife may disembark. Muttering an apology, Felix obliges. Despite his intentions, halfway through the journey his thoughts had turned to what he was going to do when he arrived, and for the last three-quarters of an hour he has been thinking hard and writing notes. He retrieves his bag, puts on his coat and jumps down after the clergyman. Depositing his bag in the left-luggage office, he heads out into the brilliant light and intensely cold air of Brighton.
He knows the town rather well.
In an earlier phase of his life he was the companion, secretary and general assistant of a widowed French countess some sixteen years his senior. He was also her lover; a state of affairs greatly to their mutual satisfaction and enjoyed honestly and openly by both. Solange Devaux-Moncontour had a decrepit old pile of an ancestral home in rural Brittany and a seaside house in Dinard, but she loved to travel – she loved to travel with Felix particularly – and one glorious summer she had taken a small apartment in the heart of Regency Brighton.
Quite a lot of Felix’s forty-five minutes of musing on the train had in fact been taken up with cheerful and erotic memories of Solange, if he is honest with himself.