by Alys Clare
Felix has a very good idea what it was: the refusal to allow the man to purchase the ticket, the soft muttered words to the ticket clerk, the checking to make sure her companion had gone, all indicate the same thing. But, not wanting to spoil the old boy’s moment, he whispers back, ‘No! What?’
The porter sits back again. ‘Wasn’t really going to London, was she?’
‘Good Lord!’ Felix exclaims.
‘No, she wasn’t,’ the old porter says, nodding.
‘So which platform did she tell you to take her to?’
The old man draws out the moment. Then eventually he says, ‘The one for the west-bound train.’
‘And you checked, of course, with your colleague in the ticket booth as to her destination?’
‘Course I did.’ The porter grins. ‘She was bound for Portsmouth.’
SIX
Lily’s first full day as assistant matron at Shardlowes School begins early on Tuesday morning with a peremptory knock on her door. As she calls out ‘Come in’, the door is pushed open to reveal a broad, fat figure in a heavy dressing gown, her grey hair in pins and curl papers, her big, florid face shiny and cross-looking, standing on the landing.
Lily is glad that this unexpected visitor has not found her in bed and waking muzzily and untidily from deep sleep, but seated before the dressing table in her wrap, having already slipped along to the lavatory and fetched the jug of hot water with which she has just finished washing.
‘Nurse Henry, I assume,’ the fat woman says.
Of course, Lily thinks. She waits.
‘I am Matron,’ the large woman says, in the tones of one announcing a far grander title. ‘I had a bugger of a day yesterday, the suppliers let me down again and I missed my train, which meant I had to wait almost half an hour for Eddy to fetch me, and as a result I have taken chill and shall stay in bed today.’
‘A wise precaution,’ Lily murmurs.
Matron looks at her intently, frowning slightly. ‘Yes, well.’ She sniffs wetly, as if to prove the point about having taken chill. ‘You’re a Swan, or so I’m told.’
‘I am,’ Lily confirms.
‘And you refuse to wear our uniform, preferring your own,’ Matron ploughs on, and to Lily’s ears she sounds as if she hasn’t decided whether to be resentful or admiring. Lily makes no comment.
‘Well, there’s not likely to be much to do today,’ Matron continues. ‘Several of Blue are down with a cold, none of them sufficiently unwell to be off lessons, and there’s a nasty cough in Helena. Then there’s a sprained ankle from last Saturday’s hockey match, and that’s about it. You can busy yourself tidying the sick-bay cupboard, Evans’ll have left it in the usual chaos, I have no doubt of that.’ She scowls, sneezes explosively and with no attempt to smother it with her handkerchief, turns and begins to close the door. At the last moment another thought strikes her and she opens it again. ‘The little Dunbar-Lea child will probably come creeping and crawling to you for something or other but don’t you have any truck with her, she’s a malingerer if ever I saw one.’ A fierce scowl distorts Matron’s heavy brow. ‘The wretched girl’s been pestering me with some problem concerning her mother, if you please, set off by a visit her parents made last September. Goodness, the child’s lucky to have had a visit, it’s more than most of them get, and now this nonsense.’ Matron shakes her head at the folly of it. ‘Miss Dickie needs to take a firm hand with the girl. Me, I usually find that a large dose of castor oil sorts her out.’ With a nod of satisfaction at her own sagacity, Matron shuts the door – slams it, in fact – and Lily is alone.
She gets up and goes to the wardrobe, taking out her black uniform gown with its stiff white collar. Putting it on feels as if she is dressing herself in calm confidence. She brushes her hair, drawing it back into its bun, puts on her starched white apron and then fastens the wide band of stiff white cloth around her head, attaching it securely around the bun as she used to do every morning at this time. Then she unfolds the black veil of a fully qualified SWNS nurse and pins it to the white band.
At last she looks at herself in the looking glass.
Her heart seems to arrest for an instant, then beats very quickly for a few seconds before resuming its steady rhythm.
‘Enough,’ she says aloud, more shaken than she will admit.
She turns away, makes her bed with economical efficiency, checks to see that all is neat and tidy and leaves the room.
It is early still: more than an hour until the girls will clatter down to the refectory for breakfast. But Lily will not be idle and allow entry to everything she is trying not to think about. She lets herself quietly into the sick bay and performs an assessment of its state of tidiness. There is room for improvement, and she makes a mental note of how she will go about it.
She notices a kettle, teapot, caddy, biscuit barrel, cups and saucers on a small shelf in the corner, as well as a small spirit stove. She slips along the landing to fill the kettle and then makes a pot of tea. She pours out a cup, puts two biscuits in the saucer and puts it on a tray, together with sugar bowl and spoon, and carries the tray along to Matron’s room. She taps very softly, in case Matron has gone back to sleep, but there is another of the tremendous sneezes and Matron calls croakily and crossly, ‘What is it now?’, as if this is the fourth or fifth time Lily has bothered her rather than the first.
‘I thought a cup of tea might be welcome,’ Lily says, going in and putting the little tray down on the crowded bedside table; Matron, she reflects, is a fine one to accuse other people of chaos, her own room being a fusty-smelling jumble of draped garments, knick-knacks, photographs in frames (mostly of a fat spaniel) and too much furniture.
But Matron is looking at her from the piled pillows and the tumbled bedclothes with a look of affection.
‘D’you know, Nurse,’ she says, ‘this is the first cup of tea anyone’s brought to my bed since – oh, good God, since for ever, probably.’
Lily smiles. ‘Sugar?’
‘Three.’
Matron sips at the tea, eyeing Lily over the cup. ‘Got your day planned?’
‘Yes.’ Lily folds her hands over her apron, keeping them still as a SWNS nurse is taught. ‘I have yet to familiarize myself with the morning routine so I intend to visit the dormitories, where I’ll check on the state of the colds in Blue, the cough in Helena and the sprained ankle in – actually, Matron, I don’t believe you told me which dormitory that was.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ Matron is looking at her approvingly. ‘Louise. And it’s Eunice Carter, who’s a big girl, pale blonde hair, good hockey player although resents being put in goal so frequently. It’s her size, see, she blocks balls so easily and—’
‘Thank you,’ Lily interrupts smoothly. ‘Now, may I fetch you another cup of tea before I go?’
Another assessing look, this time with narrowed eyes. Matron assents to the second cup – ‘And a handful of those biscuits too’ – and then Lily backs out of the stuffy, slightly malodorous room and firmly closes the door.
A bell rings out loudly and for some time as Lily strides along the corridor where the junior dormitories are located. She approaches the middle one, Blue, and quietly lets herself in.
Seven beds are arranged within. Their occupants are reluctantly waking up in obedience to the bell’s insistence. An older girl stands inside the door, eyeing the seven smaller girls. Lily observes that one little girl has the long, glossy black hair and dark skin of India, another has a deformity of some sort of the right hand, and a third is grossly overweight; this last child is wheezing and puffing as she bends to retrieve some item from under her bed. The girls are dragging on heavy black stockings, navy blue shin-length gowns and white pinafores; the older girl – a monitor or prefect – wears a full-length navy skirt and a white high-buttoned blouse, a blue sash over her blouse from right shoulder to left hip. Lily deduces from her watchful gaze and the smaller girls’ clear awe that the sash is a badge of office.
All is
calm, all is quiet.
The older girl, sensing Lily’s presence, turns.
‘I am Nurse Henry, assistant matron,’ Lily says.
The girl – she is about fifteen, brown hair in a long braid down her back, rather dour expression – says politely, ‘Good morning, Nurse Henry,’ eyebrows raised in faint enquiry.
‘I understand some of the girls in Blue have a cold,’ Lily says softly. ‘I have come to ensure they are fit for lessons.’
The monitor’s expression gives away her surprise, revealing to Lily that such a visit is unusual. But she is too well-mannered to question a member of staff. She calls out three names and three girls of about eight or nine step forward, one hopping as she puts on a stocking, all three faces wearing similar expressions of apprehension. Lily asks one or two questions, putting a hand to one damp forehead, but the girls all say they don’t feel too bad and the one with the damp forehead – it is the black-haired child – says it’s not the sweat of fever, she’s just washed her face.
Lily turns back to the monitor. ‘Thank you …?’
‘Sudie Brown-Caldicot, Helena dormitory, monitor for Blue dormitory,’ the girl supplies smartly.
‘Thank you, Sudie. Good morning, girls,’ she says to the dormitory in general as she turns to go.
‘Good morning, Nurse,’ eight voices respond.
Lily walks on to the seniors’ corridor and finds the three doors marked Alice, Helena and Louise. Here the older girls supervise themselves, calmly following an efficient routine. The girl with the cough in Helena says she has slept well, and Lily tells her to come to the sick bay for some cough syrup if necessary. The big blonde in Louise is limping quite badly, and Lily instructs her to report to her after breakfast.
A second bell clangs out as Lily leaves Louise dormitory, and there is the sound of some three dozen pairs of booted feet as the girls march along the corridors and down the stairs to breakfast.
Lily waits until the sounds are a distant rumble, then takes a moment to peer into each of the six dormitories. Beds are made, nightgowns are stowed under pillows, damp towels and flannels hung on the wooden racks beside the washstands.
She walks back to the sick bay, reflecting on her first impressions. She feels uneasy. Despite the good manners and the highly efficient morning routine, there is something out of kilter up here in these chilly corridors. She is striding on, deep in thought, when suddenly the temperature drops abruptly and all at once she is very cold. Immediately following this sensation comes a memory – far too vivid a memory – of her misgivings about this place. Not only mine, she thinks, for Felix felt them too.
She stops, sensing the atmosphere around her.
She can hear a hum of distant voices, a faint clatter of cutlery, a door closing. Normal sounds. The cold feeling has gone.
Nevertheless, she puts her hand to her bosom and feels for the little glass bottle she wears next to her skin. It is a gift from Tamáz and it is a protective amulet. It has already saved her life once, and she’d had no intention of coming to Shardlowes without it.
Better to be safe than sorry.
Back in her room, she discovers that breakfast has been left for her on a tray. Tea, porridge, poached eggs on toast, all well-cooked, and if the tea and the food are a little cold, that is nobody’s fault but hers since whoever brought the tray must have expected to find her in her room.
She discovers she is very hungry and eats every scrap.
The morning passes swiftly. She treats the sprained ankle, and the big blonde called Eunice Carter copes with the discomfort of her injury with stoicism worthy of a good sportswoman. She looks briefly mutinous when Lily orders no games for this week at least, but Shardlowes’ discipline comes into play again and she accepts the ban without comment, thanking Nurse as she limps away.
Lily spends the remainder of the morning sorting out the sick bay. She imposes her own order on the cupboards and shelves, wondering if Nurse Evans will manage to find anything on her return to duty and deciding she doesn’t much care.
She looks in on Matron a couple of times. On the first occasion Matron is deeply asleep and stertorously snoring; on the second she is sitting up and peevishly asking Lily if it is lunch time. It is, and Lily takes her own meal in to eat with Matron. The conversation is illuminating; Matron accepts Lily’s remarks about the excellent standard of discipline in the school as if she herself had instigated it, only admitting in response to Lily’s questions that it’s Miss Dickie who is really responsible, adding, ‘She gets them young, see, and she has her own methods.’
It is only afterwards, remembering, that Lily feels that sense of chill again and understands that the words are open to a sinister interpretation.
It is mid-afternoon. Lily is back in the sick bay, having taken advantage of a quiet hour to go for a walk. It is bitterly cold outside; she has been forcibly reminded that she is in the Fens.
She is putting away some fresh supplies that have been delivered during her absence – bandages, sanitary towels, flannels – when there is a timid little tap on the door.
‘Come in!’ She turns expectantly.
The door opens slowly and the top half of a face appears in the gap. It is that of a child not yet on the cusp of womanhood; eleven or twelve. Soft light-brown hair is centrally parted above a broad, pale forehead, and the large eyes are china-blue.
‘Come right in,’ Lily says with a smile.
The eyes crease up as the child returns the smile. She opens the door fully and steps into the room.
The hair, the eyes and the smooth white skin are where beauty stops. Beneath the little button of a nose there is a deep, dark, puckered scar that once split the upper lip, now drawn up to reveal the teeth, giving an unfortunate, rabbit-like appearance.
Hare lip, Lily thinks automatically, probably repaired soon after birth and not well.
As if that were not enough, as the child advances towards Lily it becomes clear that she has a limp that is even more disabling than Miss Long’s. Looking down, Lily sees that the right leg is considerably shorter than the left, a condition only partially alleviated by a huge corrective boot with a heavily built-up sole.
‘Good afternoon,’ Lily says. ‘Who are you?’
‘Marigold Jane Dunbar-Lea,’ the child responds. The g of Marigold and, even more so, the d and b of Dunbar are mispronounced. In her head Lily hears the voice of the tutor in one of her SWNS lectures: The cleft-palate deformity means that only an imperfect seal is made in the mouth and the necessary pressure for certain letters and diphthongs cannot build up.
‘Well, Marigold, sit down here’ – Lily pushes forward a wooden stool – ‘and tell me what I can do for you.’
Slowly Marigold sits down, eyes fixed on Lily. ‘You’re not going to …’ – y’re hot hoing ho – she begins, then firmly shuts her mouth.
‘Not going to what?’ Lily asks gently.
Marigold shrugs. ‘Matron and Nurse Evans usually send me away.’
‘I shall not do that.’
‘You—’ Then, surprise flooding the little face, ‘You can understand me, and we’ve only just met!’ Han. Het.
Lily nods. ‘I have to listen very carefully,’ she admits, ‘but yes, I can understand you.
Marigold’s expression suggests this is something of a miracle. ‘But—’ Hut.
‘Now,’ Lily says briskly, ‘are you hurt? Have you a pain?’ Are you malingering, as Matron says you tend to?
‘I have a pain here.’ Marigold points to her belly. ‘We had boiled bacon and butter beans with parsley sauce for luncheon – I expect you did too, Nurse – and I had two helpings, and now my tummy feels very full and it hurts.’
‘Butter beans often make you feel bloated,’ Lily says. ‘May I feel your tummy?’ Marigold nods. Lily feels distension, hard under her hand. ‘I think it will pass,’ she says after a moment, ‘but in the meantime I shall give you some peppermint mixture, which is good for the digestion, and suggest that you gently rub your
tummy like this.’ She puts her hand on her own belly, slowly making firm circles around her navel. Marigold copies the gesture. ‘If you are still in pain at bedtime,’ Lily goes on, ‘come to see me and I shall prepare a hot water bottle.’
She doses Marigold with a large spoonful of peppermint mixture, and the girl jumps off the stool and heads towards the door, calling her thanks over her shoulder.
‘You’re in a hurry to get away!’ Lily responds with a smile.
Marigold turns, grinning. ‘Yes. I’m making my escape before you fetch the castor oil bottle.’
She stumbles out, closing the door, and Lily listens to the sound of her uneven gait fading along the passage.
She has the distinct impression that Marigold’s bright eyes and keen intelligence have just been sounding her out.
With supper eaten in her room, the tray collected and no further duties for the day, Lily is tempted to ease off her boots and stretch out on her bed. She has done all she can to settle into Shardlowes and learn its routine. She ought to be tired, for it has been a long and challenging day; instead she feels restless. She paces to and fro across the small room, but the restricted space does not allow her to vent her nervous energy. If only there were a clear and obvious cause for anxiety, she thinks, then I could tackle it and decide what to do. But there isn’t.
It is a moment when, were she back in Chelsea, she would have talked the day’s events over with Felix. He would have been the perfect ally just now, for hadn’t he too felt that strange, sinister sense of something wrong when Miss Long had finished explaining herself to them?