‘Is there a problem with that?’
Matron looked up and peered at him over her glasses. ‘Not as far as I am concerned. Emily had permission to continue working and adopt which is unusual, I know, but they did allow it. I specifically checked with Emily when she said she and Dessie wanted to adopt him and she told me that Mrs Casey had said it was absolutely fine; and as Emily herself said, how would we have won the war if women hadn’t gone out to work? I’m afraid they are going to have a tough time with this Miss Devonshire. I’m not sure that if she had been the head of children’s services when Louis was discharged, she would have allowed them to take him straight from the hospital to home. She was a right stickler, do you remember? She tried to block the building plans for the new maternity unit, said that in her experience, babies should be born at home.
‘I smell trouble, I can tell you. It also says that Emily has him out in the pram, late at night. That’s just not true. Well, apart from the night they were at my party. Oh my goodness, it must have been someone who was at the party who has written the complaint! Who on earth can that have been? I need to see Emily immediately.’ Matron picked up the phone on her desk and dialled the switchboard. ‘You had better go and find Elsie,’ she whispered to Dr Gaskell, ‘we are all going to need some tea,’ and then, ‘Ah, Madge, can you get me Sister Horton on the telephone, please, I need to speak to her urgently.’
Madge sounded very apologetic. ‘I’m so sorry, Matron, I can’t. She and Louis have already left, and Dessie too. Big night tonight – they are completing the paperwork for the adoption. Someone from the adoption services arranged to meet them at the house, so they left early. Nervous as a newborn kittens they both were.’
‘Oh Madge, I was dreading that!’ Matron sighed and made no other comment realising that she had probably said too much already and hastened her goodbye. ‘Thank you, Madge.’
‘I can call in there on my way home if you would like,’ said Madge, her voice anxious.
‘No, no, Madge, I will catch her in the morning, thank you,’ she said and replaced the receiver, looking in dismay at Dr Gaskell. ‘Emily and Dessie have already left, because they have a meeting with children’s services – oh dear, they are going to be in for a bit of a shock when they discover someone has made a complaint.’
‘Complaint?’ Dr Gaskell snorted. ‘I don’t know a baby better raised than that child. Did they see what he was like the day he was admitted to hospital? Do they know he had been abandoned and left to die?’
Matron shook her head. ‘I am sure that is all in the case notes and the former head, Mrs Casey, was very well aware and they have probably gone home thinking it is she who is coming to see them.’
Dr Gaskell shrugged. ‘Well, as I said, no child’s better reared so there won’t be any problem at all. One look at him and Miss Devonshire will be singing their praises. This is a storm in a teacup, nothing for us to worry about.’ She made to speak but he raised his hand and cut her off. ‘No, really, you must not worry. Can you imagine Emily tolerating that?’ He pointed to the letter. ‘She will handle it perfectly well. She’s worked in this hospital all of her working life. She knows how to speak to people from dockers to that Minister who came from the Government when you made the proposal for the new unit – and then there’s Dessie, a man of great tact and diplomacy; he won’t put a foot wrong. Dessie is so devoted to that baby, he makes me feel ashamed that I left all the raising of Oliver when he was a baby to my wife. All will be well. Personally, I am looking forward to seeing them both tomorrow and hearing how they dealt with the old battleaxe. Now, where is Elsie? I’m half dead with thirst.’
*
Emily ran all the way from St Angelus, taking shortcuts through the cobbled back alleys as fast as she could move while pushing the pram. ‘Where are you two off to in such a hurry?’ asked Mavis, stepping out of her back gate as Emily almost collided into her with the pram.
‘Oh, Mavis, I’m sorry. We’ve got Mrs Casey coming from children’s services to fill in the final paperwork for the adoption. We had exams at the school today and… well, you know what’s it’s like.’
Mavis peered over the top of the canopy at little Louis. ‘Do you know what, none of us know how you’ve managed to do it, Emily. Hold down your job and bring that little fella up as well as you both have. I said to the others at break yesterday, thank God she has that sitting room and kitchen over at the school, and Biddy, she’d never be able to manage otherwise, but if anyone was going to do it, it would be you.’
Emily blushed under the rush of unexpected praise. ‘I’ve had a lot of help, Mavis. Dessie is well-trained – and who’d have thought I’d ever say that? And, you know, I don’t have to work weekends. I feel as though this little lad is being brought up by a big family, which is funny, really, considering I don’t have any family at all.’
Mavis placed her hand on Emily’s arm. ‘You’ve got us, love.’
‘And I don’t know what I would do without you all, honestly. Biddy, Elsie, Mrs Duffy… you all love him as though he is one of your own. The biggest blessings in my life, you all are.’
Mavis smiled. ‘I’ll tell you what, queen, I’ve never known Matron so soft since he arrived. Did you know, the other day when she was taking Blackie for a walk around the park, she tied his lead to the handle of the pram and took Louis with her? I saw her going past the window and I’m not sure she’s ever pushed a pram before. It’s like she was trying it out, bouncing it up and down, she was, and she did smile.’
Emily laughed. ‘I saw her myself. Elsie had taken him over to Matron’s kitchen and apparently he joined in a meeting between her and Dr Gaskell and spent the time being bounced up and down on Dr Gaskell’s knee.’ Emily shook her head, smiling. ‘Honest to God, I don’t know how Dessie and I get away with it. And Matron was so excited about the Christmas tree for her flat this year – she’s bought presents for Louis to go under it.’
She stretched out across the pram and pulled up the blanket that Louis had pushed down before sleep had claimed him through the rocking and bouncing of the pram over the cobbled road. No one knew his true birthday, he had never been registered before his admission to hospital – the abandoned child who had been so emaciated when he arrived on the children’s ward it had been touch and go. Left in the garage of an empty house, he had barely ever cried, having learnt from a very young age that there was no point: no one ever came.
‘She has a heart of butter, does Matron. She just doesn’t like us to know, that’s all,’ said Mavis as she shuffled around in her bag, removed a packet of cigarettes and lit one. ‘You want one for the journey home, love?’ she said to Emily as she held out the packet.
‘No, neither of us smoke around Louis.’
‘Why not?’ asked Mavis. ‘The only thing it will harm is his pocket when he gets older if he takes a liking to it.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure about that,’ said Emily. ‘Anyway, I need to polish the parlour before Mrs Casey gets there. Dessie is on his way now too, but I should just make it before him. Thank God Louis is sleeping.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about her, no one can judge you, Emily, not unless his name is St Peter.’ Mavis took one last peer over the top of the canopy, blowing her smoke into the pram, as they parted. Emily waved her hands and tried, without Mavis being able to see, to waft the smoke away from the face of her peacefully sleeping child.
*
‘Hello, I’m Miss Devonshire, no relation to the Duke, just in case you were wondering.’ Her laugh cackled, forced and rehearsed for the frequent times she used her unfunny explanation to accompany her officious introduction. Emily and Dessie were speechless in front of the total stranger and ushered her into the house, past the sleeping Louis in his pram and invited her to take a seat in the front parlour of their terraced house. They looked at each other with amazement as they watched the stranger march down their hallway.
‘Who is she?’ mouthed Dessie to Emily as he closed the door.
&nb
sp; ‘I’ve no idea,’ Emily mouthed back.
Miss Devonshire had failed to remove her gloves as she shook their hands, her own so thin Dessie could feel the hard bones beneath. He had disliked her on sight. ‘What Duke?’ he mouthed to Emily now as the woman took in the layout of the parlour with one sweeping glance, ignoring them. Much older than either of them, her forbidding style of dress, pickled in pre-war aspic, made Emily feel flippant and very unmotherly in comparison. Miss Devonshire wore a mid-calf length tweed skirt, a frilled high blouse, a hand-knitted heather-coloured cardigan buttoned up to the neck and a cameo brooch securing her blouse peeped out over the top. Her hair was dark, worn in tight short pin curls tucked under a bottle-green felt hat with a feather pinned in the side.
‘Is Mrs Casey poorly?’ Emily asked, her voice tentative.
‘Poorly? Not as far as I know. She has left and I have taken her post. I am the person you will be dealing with from now on. Yes, I thought it was you.’ Miss Devonshire peered at Emily over her glasses. ‘I used to sit on the board of trustees at St Angelus.’
Emily racked her brain and then she remembered her, a difficult, uncompromising and stubborn woman who had voted against her application to train as a nurse. A woman who was easily impressed by an applicant with an address in the right neighbourhood of Liverpool and quick to discriminate against those who came from around the dock streets.
‘Here, let me take your coat – you’ll feel the benefit when you leave,’ Emily said, trying to make her voice sound as helpful and cheerful as possible.
Miss Devonshire slipped the open, thick worsted wool from her arms. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said as her eyes took in the room. She missed nothing, from the dust on the brow of the plaster cast of the Virgin Mary to the teacup stain on the Formica coffee table. Emily noticed that the clothes and detritus associated with Louis, which she had shoved behind the sideboard, were peeping out, right in Miss Devonshire’s line of vision.
Whilst Miss Devonshire appraised the parlour, Emily took a peep at the label on the inside of her coat – Andrée of London it read and Emily thought Miss Devonshire must be a wealthy woman. What would she make of their terraced house in the middle of a row with no garden and only a back yard? Emily wriggled slightly as she walked back in from the hall and pulled her skirt down, aware it was not as long as Miss Devonshire’s and afraid of being thought a victim of fashion, rather than a devotee to her son. Miss Devonshire turned her attention disapprovingly towards Emily as she sat on the sofa opposite and clasped her knees together and turned her legs in one smooth manoeuvre, over to the right. Miss Devonshire acknowledged the attempt with a raise of her eyebrows as she bent to retrieve a folder and pen from her bag on the floor. She examined both Emily and Dessie over the top of her spectacles in the manner of unusual specimens under a microscope.
‘Can I get you some tea, before we begin?’ asked Dessie.
Miss Devonshire looked at Dessie as though he had grown two heads and then at Emily, the tilt of her head asked the question: isn’t that your job? That alone had been enough to get Dessie’s back up, before she had even refused the offer.
‘No thank you,’ she said stiffly.
Emily frowned; she knew the drill, having written the St Angelus manual for training nurses preparing to move from working at the hospital to the district herself. ‘Refuse all offers of drinks from homes where general levels of hygiene are below standard and there is a perceived risk of contracting gastroenteritis or a potential risk of cross-contamination when entering the next home on your visit list.’
She thinks our cups aren’t clean enough, Dessie thought to himself, or that a man is incapable of making a brew. He made tea in the porter’s hut for the men all day long. Especially the younger lads, who often reported for work in the morning without a brew or a crust in their bellies. Despite his usual even and placid personality, it was obvious to Emily that his blood had begun to simmer. It was a rare sight.
‘Obviously, the child is well and sleeping,’ she began.
‘His name is Louis, thank you,’ said Dessie, who sounded as though he was giving instructions to an under-porter as well as stating a fact. The ‘thank you’ hung in the air, a command, waiting to be obeyed. Emily caught her breath when he spoke again. ‘His name is Louis. I thought you would have known that, from the notes in your hand. The night sister on the ward when he was admitted, she named him. It’s all part of his story and in his notes. We don’t know what his real name was, or even if he had one… Mrs Casey knew the background.’ Dessie felt challenged and uncomfortable. He sensed danger, but had no idea why.
It was apparent that Miss Devonshire was not terribly interested in the detail and frowned. She turned over a page in her notes, glanced down and said, ‘Ah, yes, Louis. Now, under normal circumstances, he would have been transferred straight to the Salvation Army home in Strawberry Fields. But with your position at the hospital, as the head of the school of nursing at the time, before you stood down, and with yourself being a porter—’
‘Head porter,’ Dessie interrupted. And then, as if to make sure she understood, he said it again, ‘I’m the head porter.’ Then he fixed his incredulous gaze on his wife. Stood down? Before Emily stood down? Stood down from what? Miss Devonshire’s words ran riot in his brain. But he had no time to comment as Miss Devonshire lifted her eyes to his.
‘Er yes, indeed, head porter.’ It was apparent that she had little regard for the variation of rank, once rank had fallen so low. She continued, ‘It has been some months now and his mother has not been traced so it is time for us to complete the paperwork for the child. However, there are a number of problems and I’m afraid one is quite serious and does cast a question over your reliability and trustworthiness and, therefore, your suitability as a mother.’ She had turned her gaze and her attention fully onto Emily.
‘Louis, his name is Louis,’ said Dessie, his voice tightly controlled. She had done it again; it was as if the identity of Louis didn’t matter to her, he was just a commodity, a name in a cardboard file.
He’s guessed something is wrong and I must know what it is and I haven’t told him, thought Emily. She knew he had been about to tell Miss Devonshire that Emily had not stood down as sister tutor at the school of nursing, that she was very much still in post and in charge, but something had stopped him. Emily took in a sharp breath; she knew her Dessie and she had never once seen him lose his temper, but she could sense that in just the few moments since Miss Devonshire had walked into their house, she had upset him; and added to that, he was confused.
Miss Devonshire had the good grace to flush pink as she realised she had failed to remember Louis’ name, only seconds after being reminded and half folded the notes over, her face set. She looked far from happy, not a woman who enjoyed having been found wanting and corrected. Oh, no, thought Emily. This is all wrong. We are going to lose him. She doesn’t like us and she knows, I can tell, she knows. In a flash, a thought came into her mind.
‘Dessie, I would love a cup of tea, would you make one for me, please? Miss Devonshire, are you sure that you won’t join me? We don’t have many opportunities to get out the best china since Louis arrived, do we, Dessie?’ Miss Devonshire squared her shoulders as her back stiffened. ‘And Matron’s housekeeper, Elsie, she knew you were coming today, she lives down the road,’ she added hurriedly, ‘and called in just half an hour ago. I saw her yesterday down at the shops and told her you were coming.’
Dessie’s head swivelled. Down at the shops? Called in half an hour ago? No she didn’t. You have seen her every day this week at work.
‘Elsie said that she had told Matron about your visit and that Matron asked her to make one of her best chocolate sponge cakes so that we had a lovely cake to offer you.’
Dessie stared at Emily, speechless. She was talking too much, too fast. Elsie hadn’t called in, Emily had brought the sponge back herself from the hospital in a tin on the tray on the bottom of the pram. Why was his wife saying such t
hings?
Emily shuffled to the edge of the sofa cushion and, with her hands in her lap said, ‘So Matron’s housekeeper has made a chocolate sponge with a chocolate buttercream filling covered in melted glazed chocolate – she melts the chocolate with cream and it is divine. It’s her speciality, just for you. Dessie is desperate for a slice, aren’t you, Dessie?’ Emily gave Dessie a look with a flick of the eyes towards the kitchen. It was a look that told him exactly what he needed to do. ‘Elsie’s cakes are as light as a feather. You will never taste any lighter, unless of course, it’s one of Mavis Tanner’s.’
Dessie hadn’t moved. His face set, his eyes never leaving Miss Devonshire. He was clearly displaying an expression that Emily knew would normally have been reserved for an audacious cockroach that had strayed under the skirting board into the parlour. She glared at Dessie to help her, but no help was forthcoming. Miss Devonshire, though, smiled, her expression softened, Emily took a second to wonder at the magic held in the mere mention of the word ‘chocolate’. ‘I just know that Elsie will ask me if you enjoyed it when I next see them, her, when I see her, her, Just her. She will be asked by Matron you see and without your accepting a cup of tea…’ Emily trailed off, suddenly realising herself she was talking too much.
‘Well of course, I would not want to disappoint Matron,’ said Miss Devonshire. ‘It sounds delicious. How generous of her. My mother was a patient of Dr Gaskell’s during the war and was nursed by Matron herself. A small slice would be most agreeable.’
Emily smiled and her shoulders, which she hadn’t realised were as stiff as a board, began to relax. Matron had won the day, but then, didn’t she always? The clock struck four on the mantelpiece as the plaster statue of Our Lady appeared to shed a tear from her place on the wall. Never before had Emily felt her presence in the room as she did at that moment. It had been brought back from a trip to Lourdes and, in the firelight, Emily often thought she caught her smiling – but at that moment Emily felt as though the Virgin Mother was weeping for her and Dessie.
Snow Angels: An emotional Christmas read from the Sunday Times bestseller (The Lovely Lane Series Book 5) Page 14