Nightingales Under the Mistletoe (17 page)

After the show, he left the rest of the men and fought his way towards her as she was leaving.

He thought he'd lost her in the crowd, until he spotted her by the doors. She was saying goodbye to the woman in the tweed coat.

She turned to leave and he called out to her. ‘Millie?'

She looked over her shoulder at him, and her smile disappeared like the sun behind a cloud. Her eyes darted to the doors, then back to him.

‘William,' she greeted him warily. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘We were invited to see the show.' Why did he suddenly feel like a tongue-tied schoolboy? he wondered. ‘I got your note,' he said.

A delicate blush coloured her cheeks. ‘Thank you for the tree,' she said. ‘It was very thoughtful.'

‘I thought you and Henry might like it. The men wanted to do something to thank you. You've been so helpful and accommodating to us.'

He saw her expression change and wondered how he'd managed to say the wrong thing again.

‘May I give you a lift?' he offered.

‘No, thank you. I have my car outside.'

‘A drink, then?' He knew he sounded desperate, but he didn't care.

Panic filled her eyes. ‘I have to go home,' she muttered. ‘It's Christmas Eve, Henry will be waiting for me …'

As she pushed open the door, William blurted out, ‘Have I done something wrong?'

She glanced back at him, but said nothing.

‘I might be imagining it, but you seem rather distant,' William went on, stumbling over his words. ‘I wondered if I'd offended you in some way. That fountain business, perhaps? Because if it is …'

‘It isn't,' Millie said shortly. ‘I've told you, I don't want the fountain replaced.'

She paused for a while and William waited for her to speak again. They stood like two stones in a stream, with the rest of the world flowing around them.

‘It has come to my attention,' she said finally, ‘that I may have been rather – over enthusiastic of late.'

‘I don't understand. What do you mean?'

Millie stared at the ground, and he could see it was difficult for her to speak. ‘I spend far too much time at the house,' she said.

‘It's your house.'

‘That's the point. It isn't my house any more.' She looked up at him. ‘I should have left you to it, and not got involved so much. But I just wanted to do my bit, you see. To be useful for once …'

He saw the vulnerability in her blue eyes, and felt himself melt.

‘Can we have that drink? Please?' he said.

It was early evening, and the Keeper's Rest had just opened its doors so it was very quiet, save for the landlady polishing glasses behind the bar and a couple of diehard regulars who supped their pints in the corner.

Millie looked up at William as he put her drink in front of her. ‘What's this?'

‘Port and lemon,' he said. ‘Don't you remember?'

‘The first drink you ever bought for me.' The faintest trace of a smile touched her lips. ‘Gosh, I was so naïve in those days, I'd never even been into a pub before. I had no idea what to drink.'

‘You soon got a taste for these, as I recall. You drank so much, I practically had to carry you back to the hospital.'

They were both silent for a moment, and William could tell they were sharing the same memory. He had almost kissed her that day. She had asked him to, but he'd turned her down because he didn't want to take advantage. He'd cursed himself for it afterwards, of course. Why hadn't he kissed her while he had the chance?

His gaze dropped to her soft pink lips. He'd kissed many girls since then, but she was the one he remembered.

The girl who got away.

Millie sat upright, suddenly brisk and businesslike again. ‘Hopefully that won't happen this evening,' she said stiffly.

Not a chance, he thought. How could he kiss her with that mask in the way?

‘Did you enjoy the show?' he asked, changing the subject.

‘It was very entertaining.'

‘Very,' William agreed. ‘I particularly enjoyed it when that elderly doctor nearly toppled off the stage.'

‘Lord, yes. Poor man, I felt so sorry for him. Do you think he was ill?'

William laughed. ‘I think he was tight!'

‘Really?'

‘I could practically smell the whisky on his breath from where I was sitting.'

‘You're a fine one to talk. I seem to remember you used to partake of some Dutch courage during the Christmas shows at the Nightingale.' Millie reminded him.

‘You're right,' William agreed ruefully. ‘Do you remember that year we did a duet and I forgot all the words?'

‘You left me standing there, absolutely mortified—'

Once again she stopped abruptly, remembering herself.

‘I miss those days,' William said.

‘So do I,' she agreed. ‘It was the one time in my life when I actually felt as if I belonged somewhere.'

He frowned at her. She was gazing down at her glass, a sad, lost look on her face.

‘Don't you feel as if you belong at Billinghurst any more because we're there?' he asked.

Millie shook her head. ‘No, it isn't that. I'm glad you're here. At least the house can be useful, even if I can't be.'

There it was again. That word. Useful. Every time she said it her face clouded over, he noticed.

‘Surely you must feel useful, running the estate?'

‘My land agent runs the estate. Between you and me, I'm rather hopeless at it. At least, my grandmother thinks so.'

William thought about the formidable Lady Rettingham. She would not be an easy woman to please, he decided.

‘What about your son? You take care of him, don't you?'

‘When his nanny allows me near him.' Millie lifted her slim shoulders in a shrug. ‘So you see, Squadron Leader, I'm not really needed anywhere.'

She looked up and gave him a sweet, sad smile. In that moment he desperately wished he could do or say something to help her.

‘Perhaps you should go and ask Matron for a job?' he suggested.

A glint of humour lit up her eyes. ‘I would love to see my grandmother's face if I did that!'

‘I'm serious,' he said. ‘You said yourself you felt as if you belonged as a nurse. And I'm sure they would love to have you back.'

She shook her head. ‘I couldn't. It's been so long … I'm sure I don't have the skills any more.'

‘It's only been four years since you qualified. I'm sure there are women nursing who have been out of the profession for far longer than you. Besides, your skills will come back to you.'

A strange expression came over Millie's face. She was already considering the possibility; he could tell by the sparkle of hope in her eyes.

‘At least think about it,' he urged.

‘I will. Thank you.'

They finished their drink and headed back to their cars. William wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but Millie seemed to have more of a spring in her step.

‘Well, goodbye,' she said, as he opened her car door for her. ‘I hope you have a good Christmas.'

‘You, too.' On impulse, he added, ‘You could come to the Officers' Mess tomorrow for a drink, if you like? Bring your grandmother and little Henry,' he added quickly, sensing she was about to refuse.

Millie smiled. ‘I'm sure Henry would love to meet the pilots!'

‘I expect they'd like to meet him, too. Especially as so many of them are away from their own families.'

The smile faded from Millie's face, and once again he saw the guard go up. ‘As long as you're sure I wouldn't be in the way?'

William sighed. ‘Millie, I don't know where you've got this absurd idea from, but you should put it out of your mind straight away. You could never be in the way. I'd see you every day if I could—'

He hadn't meant to say it, and as soon as he saw Millie's startled expression he wished he could take back the words.

But then she smiled again. ‘I'll remember that,' she said. ‘Happy Christmas, Squadron Leader Tremayne.'

‘Happy Christmas, Lady Amelia,' he replied.

‘
HAPPY CHRISTMAS, NURSE!
How about a Christmas kiss?'

Tommo was the first person to greet Grace when she came on duty on Christmas morning. He was with the other men at the table, eating his breakfast, sitting awkwardly sideways with his bandaged leg propped up on a chair beside him.

‘You'll get a punch in the kisser if you don't shut up!' The man next to him rolled his eyes at Grace. ‘Talks all day from morning till night, he does. Never gives anyone a minute's peace.'

‘You're all boring, that's your trouble, Granddad!' Tommo snarled back. ‘I'm telling you, Nurse, I can't wait to get out of here.'

‘And so say all of us!' the men chorused around the table.

Tommo ignored them and turned back to Grace. ‘Can I have my kiss, then?' He craned forward, his eyes closed, lips puckered in readiness.

‘Look at him!' his neighbour said. ‘As if anyone would want to kiss that ugly mug.'

Grace was still smiling as she went into the kitchen, where Alice Freeman was spreading margarine on to slices of bread.

‘Good morning, Nurse Freeman. Merry Christmas,' Grace said.

‘Morning,' Alice mumbled. She had her back turned, but Grace could see from the rigid line of her shoulders that something wasn't quite right.

‘Is everything all right, Nurse Freeman?' she asked.

Alice glanced over her shoulder at her. ‘Yes, thank you,' she replied, but her smile was strained as she handed the plate to Grace. ‘Will you take this to Mr Jones?'

The screens had been removed from around Alan Jones's bed a few days earlier, as Dr Drake had decided that it might benefit him more if he could see what was going on around him.

Not that he seemed to take much notice of anything. He lay listlessly in bed, propped up against his pillows, staring mournfully at the world from his single unbandaged eye.

He barely registered Grace's presence as she drew up a chair beside him.

‘Good morning, Mr Jones,' she greeted him. ‘I've got your breakfast for you.'

No response. Grace started to feed him his porridge, patiently coaxing the spoon past his slack lips. He was like an empty husk of a man, she thought, the spark of life had departed.

‘It's a bloody miracle, ain't it?' Grace looked round to see Tommo standing at the foot of the bed, leaning heavily on his crutches. ‘A bullet like that to the head – it's enough to kill anyone, ain't it?'

Grace looked down at Alan. ‘He's lucky to be alive,' she said.

‘Is he?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You should hear him, screaming and crying in his sleep. What must there be in his head to make him go on like that? Those doctors might have taken a bullet out of his head but they can't take out all those memories, can they? They're still in there, all those fears and horrible sights he saw, and he's trapped in there with them.' He tapped his temple to make his point. ‘That's no way to live, is it?'

Grace glanced at Alan Jones. His face registered no emotion. She scraped her spoon on the rim of the bowl and held it up to his lips. There was no reaction. All the time she was aware of Tommo, still watching her with interest. His presence made her nervous.

‘Don't you want to finish your breakfast?' she asked pointedly.

‘I ain't hungry.' Tommo looked over to where the other men were sitting, laughing and joking together. ‘Besides, I don't want to sit with that lot. They're all too boring.'

As if to prove him wrong, a shout of laughter went up from the table. ‘They look as if they're having a good time,' Grace commented.

‘Not with me.'

‘Perhaps if you made more of an effort to fit in, instead of trying to get on everyone's nerves all the time, you might get on with them better?' she suggested kindly.

‘I don't want to get on with them. I want my mates.'

‘They could be your mates.'

‘I mean my real mates. In the regiment.' Tommo looked like a belligerent child, teetering on the edge of a tantrum.

Miss Wallace came on to the ward at eight o'clock. She quickly did her rounds, wishing all the men Happy Christmas, and handing out small gifts to each of them.

‘Writing paper!' Tommo stared at his present in disgust ‘What am I supposed to do with that?'

‘Write to your family?' Grace suggested.

‘I ain't got any family. And I can't read nor write neither.'

The man in the bed next to him, a kindly sergeant called Jefferson, sighed. ‘Give it here, I'll swap with you,' he said. ‘Your writing paper for a half a packet of Craven A's, how about that?'

‘I suppose so.' Tommo handed the paper over with bad grace. ‘But I'd rather have a whole packet,' he added.

Sergeant Jefferson grimaced. ‘Don't push your luck, mate!'

Once they had finished their chores, Miss Wallace called Grace and Alice into her office for coffee and a nip of brandy from the locked cupboard she kept for medicinal purposes.

She gave them both a gift, too. Grace's was a small, leatherbound book.

‘It's one of my old nursing textbooks,' Miss Wallace explained. ‘It's rather out of date now, I'm afraid, but it might be of interest to you, since you seem keen to learn more about nursing.'

‘Thank you, Sister.' Grace studied the tiny print on the tissue-fine pages.

‘I thought it might even inspire you to consider training yourself one day.'

Grace looked up at her. ‘Me, Sister?'

‘Why not? You have a real talent for it.'

Grace looked down at the book again so Miss Wallace wouldn't see her face. No one had ever said she had a talent for anything, except cooking and keeping house. Wait until Daisy hears about this, she thought. Her sister would be so proud.