The Nightingale Girls (30 page)

The boxing club was in a basement under the King’s Arms pub, a rough old dive near the canal. A narrow door led down from the street.

Dora paused for a moment before going inside. This was the last place she wanted to go, but she had no choice. Nick had been avoiding her for weeks, ever since their argument over the hamsa. She’d tried everything to talk to him, even risked catching his eye while they were on the wards. But he’d just walked by with his face turned away.

Now, two months on, she was determined to track him down and pay him back the money she owed him, no matter what it took.

She stepped carefully down the steep staircase and found herself in a dingy, low-ceilinged room reeking of stale sweat. In the centre of the floor two men were slugging it out in a boxing ring, while all around the room other men were exercising with weights or working on punchbags hung from the ceiling.

She was still peering around, trying to find Nick, when a man came up to her. He was middle-aged, with the broad shoulders and flattened features of a boxer.

‘Excuse me, Miss, but you can’t come in here.’ His voice was gruff. ‘This club is for men only.’

‘But I’m looking for someone—’

‘I don’t care if you’re looking for the Prince of Wales, you can’t come in here. Now, if you don’t mind . . .’

As he started to hustle her out, Dora suddenly spotted Nick over in the corner, head down, driving his fists into one of the heavy punchbags.

‘Nick!’ She dodged past the man and darted towards him.

Nick looked up sharply. ‘Dora?’ His dark hair hung damply in his eyes and he pushed it back with a gloved hand. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Looking for you. Same as I have been these past two months.’

The other man appeared behind her. ‘I’ve told her she can’t come in here, Nick, but she won’t listen. Do you want to throw her out or shall I?’

Nick looked from him to Dora and back again. ‘Five minutes, Jimmy? Please?’

The man sighed. ‘Five minutes. But then I’m coming back and I’m putting you over my shoulder.’ He pointed a warning finger at Dora.

The shadow of a smile crossed Nick’s face. ‘He means it, too.’ He turned back to his punchbag. ‘You shouldn’t have come here.’

‘I needed to find you. Didn’t you get any of my notes?’

‘I got ’em all right.’ He drove his fists into the punchbag. Sweat gleamed on his powerful muscles, clearly outlined under his thin vest.

‘It would have been nice of you to answer instead of ignoring them.’

‘Wasn’t that answer enough for you?’

‘Maybe you don’t want this, then?’ Dora reached into her pocket and drew out the money she’d been keeping carefully in an envelope. ‘Maybe you’re so loaded you can afford to give your money away?’

She held it out to him. Nick glanced down at it, then took it. ‘You could have left it at the porters’ lodge.’

‘I didn’t want some toerag to nick it, did I?’ She hesitated. ‘Besides, I wanted to apologise. I shouldn’t have
flown off the handle at you like that. I was wrong, and I wanted to say sorry.’

Nick stared at her for a moment. It was hard to work out what was going on behind those hooded eyes of his. She thought he might reply, but he just turned around and thudded his fist squarely into the middle of the punchbag. ‘Was that it?’ he said gruffly. Dora nodded. ‘You’d best get off, then, hadn’t you, before Jimmy comes back.’

He turned his back on her and carried on aiming punch after punch into the heavy sandbag, his fists thrusting like pistons. Dora watched him for a moment.

‘Blimey, Max Baer doesn’t stand a chance, does he?’ she said.

Nick stopped dead. ‘What do you know about Max Baer?’

‘Danny said you wanted to go to America and fight him one day.’ She saw his quick frown. ‘It’s all right, he said it was a secret. I’m not going to tell anyone.’

Nick’s eyes met hers, then he turned back to the punchbag. ‘It’s just a stupid dream,’ he muttered.

‘I don’t think it’s stupid.’ Dora watched the muscles of his back working under his sweat-slicked vest. ‘I reckon you could do it.’

‘Oh yeah? Expert on boxing now, are you?’

‘No, but I know determination when I see it. And I don’t reckon it’s stupid to have a dream. Sometimes dreams are all that keep you going. You can’t give up on them, can you?’

His leather-gloved hands closed around the bag, stopping it dead. ‘I’m not ready to give up on anything,’ he said.

‘All right, you two.’ Jimmy came up to them, his meaty arms folded across his chest. ‘Time’s up. If you want to
whisper sweet nothings to each other go down the Palais like everyone else.’

Dora glanced at Nick. ‘No, you’re all right,’ she said. ‘I reckon he’s got two left feet anyway.’

Nick gave her the ghost of a smile. ‘You’ll never know, will you?’

I’m not ready to give up either, Dora thought the following morning, as she walked on to the ward. She could already feel several pairs of eyes swivel towards her, anticipating the fun and games they would have.

But this time Dora was ready for them. She’d been thinking about it all night. Nursing was her dream, and she wasn’t going to let anyone stand in her way. Especially not the likes of Alf Doyle, or a bunch of bored men who wanted to act like schoolboys.

Their first job was the bedpan and bottle round. As Dora approached Mr Hubbard’s bed, he was already grinning.

‘Sorry, Nurse,’ he said. ‘I’m having a bit of trouble with the bottle. I wonder if I could ask you to help me put it in? You know, my . . .’

Dora smiled sweetly. ‘Of course, Mr Hubbard,’ she said.

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Really?’ he said. Dora understood his surprise. Usually she would flee in confusion when he had made the same request, almost knocking over the screens in her haste to get away.

But this time she’d come prepared. Still smiling, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a large pair of rat-tooth forceps.

‘Now,’ she said brightly, snapping the spiked jaws in front of his face. ‘Let’s see if we can help you, shall we?’

‘Ooh, no, no, it’s all right, Nurse. Do you know what?
I think I can manage after all,’ he reassured her hastily, his eyes round as he stared in fear at the forceps.

Dora smiled. ‘I thought you might.’

As she walked away, Sister Blake approached her. ‘Doyle, did I just see you threaten a patient with a pair of forceps?’ she asked.

Dora gulped, her moment of triumph vanishing like mist. ‘Y-yes, Sister.’

A slow smile spread across Sister Blake’s face. ‘Excellent work. Perhaps we might make a nurse of you yet,’ she said.

BLANCHE DESMOND WENT
down to surgery on a trolley, like Cleopatra going down the Nile on her barge.

‘Well, this is it.’ She winked at Millie. ‘I’m glad you’re coming with me, love.’

‘So am I.’ Usually it was a senior’s job to accompany patients down to Theatre, but Blanche had insisted she wanted Millie with her.

‘A lot of those other nurses walk by with their noses in the air and won’t give me the time of day. But our Millie’s different,’ she’d told Sister Wren.

Sister was outraged – she was the one who gave orders on her ward – but as it happened one of the seniors had been taken to the sick room with a fever and they were short-staffed, so it suited her to give Millie the job.

‘But I’ll be having words with you later about allowing patients to call you by your Christian name,’ she’d warned ominously.

They made their way through the grey-painted corridors, a porter pushing the trolley, Millie walking beside Blanche. She felt terribly important in her uniform. It helped her walk with her head held high, in a way that Madame Vacani’s deportment lessons had never managed to teach her.

‘Hold my hand, would you, love?’

Blanche reached out to her. Millie took her hand and curled her fingers around it.

‘Silly, isn’t it? But I can’t help feeling a bit nervous now it’s all happening,’ she whispered.

Millie squeezed her hand. ‘You’ll be fine, Blanche,’ she reassured her.

‘I hope so, love. Funny thing is, I had a dream last night that I wasn’t going to make it. A what do you call it? Premonition.’

‘Everyone feels nervous before an operation,’ Millie said.

‘Let’s hope the surgeon doesn’t!’ Blanche managed a wobbly smile. She looked so vulnerable without her usual mask of powder and scarlet lipstick.

‘You’ve got nothing to worry about,’ Millie reassured her. ‘This is a routine operation, and Mr Cooper knows what he’s doing. You’ll be as right as rain when he’s finished with you.’

‘I hope so, love. It’s not been much of a life, but I’d be sorry if this was my lot.’

‘It won’t be,’ Millie said. ‘Just think, in a few weeks’ time you’ll be chasing chickens around your sister’s farmyard and wondering what you were ever worrying about!’

Blanche smiled, and this time her smile reached her eyes. It crinkled the skin at the corners, showing her age.

‘I’ll have a good send off before then, I hope,’ she said. ‘A party in the King’s Arms, and you can all drink to my good health. You’ll come, won’t you, love?’

‘I’d love to,’ Millie said. ‘I’ve never been to a pub before.’

Blanche’s mouth fell open. ‘You what? How old are you?’

‘Nineteen. Nearly twenty, actually.’

‘Blimey, love, by the time I was your age, I was – well, never mind what I was,’ said Blanche hastily. ‘Let’s just say I’d seen the inside of a fair few pubs by then. Next you’ll be telling me you’ve never had a port and lemon?’

Millie shook her head. ‘I haven’t. But I’ll try anything once.’

‘Don’t be saying that, girl. You don’t know what trouble you’ll end up in!’

They both laughed. Then Millie remembered the porter was listening, and started to blush.

Blanche gazed at her fondly. ‘You’re a lovely girl, do you know that? You’ve been very good to me while I’ve been here. And you’re a bloody good nurse, too.’

‘I don’t think Sister Wren would agree with you!’

‘Sister Wren doesn’t know her arse from her elbow, if you’ll pardon my French.’

‘Let’s hope the surgeon does, or you’ll be in trouble,’ the porter said cheekily.

Blanche stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. She suddenly seemed more like her old self again, her hearty, wheezing laughter ringing out down the corridor.

William was waiting for them on the other side of the double doors to the theatre.

‘There you are, Miss Desmond,’ he greeted her with a smile. ‘We were wondering what had happened to you. We thought you might have changed your mind and stood us up?’

‘Stand up Mr Cooper? Not a chance. Although I feel a bit strange, seeing him without my lipstick on. I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could . . .’

‘Sorry, Blanche, it’s against the rules,’ Millie said. ‘But I’ll make sure you’re wearing it when you come round.’

‘Promise? I feel naked without my lipstick.’

‘I promise,’ Millie said.

‘You look beautiful without it anyway,’ William put in gallantly.

‘Ooh, listen to you!’ Blanche chuckled. ‘You’d better
watch out, Millie love. Looks like your young man’s got his eye on me now!’

Millie couldn’t bring herself to look at William as colour scalded her face. ‘This is where I have to leave you,’ she said.

‘Don’t.’ Blanche was suddenly serious, her fingers tightening around Millie’s. ‘Stay with me,’ she pleaded.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m not allowed.’ Millie felt suddenly flustered. ‘But I’ll be waiting with a nice cup of tea when you wake up.’

‘And I’ll take good care of you in the meantime,’ William put in.

As the porter wheeled her away, Blanche called back, ‘You will make sure I’ve got my lipstick on when I come round, won’t you? I don’t feel right without it.’

They were the last words Millie ever heard her say.

Millie was due to take her break from three until five. She had arranged to meet Sophia at the dressmaker’s for a fitting that afternoon, but was determined to be back on the ward in time to keep her promise to Blanche.

She changed out of her uniform and ran to catch the bus up to Piccadilly. By the time she arrived, puffing for breath at the top of the stairs to the dressmaker’s atelier, Sophia’s cousin Margaret was already standing in the middle of the room wearing a calico toile of her bridesmaid’s dress while two of the dressmaker’s assistants knelt at her feet, busily pinning and adjusting.

Millie was surprised to see Georgina Farsley was also there.

‘She invited herself,’ Sophia whispered as she kissed Millie in greeting. ‘Thank God you turned up – I think she was about to offer to take your place.’

The dressmaker’s studio was a large, sunny, white-painted room looking out over Green Park. Millie gazed out over the well-dressed people strolling in the park and sighed happily. It felt almost decadent to be somewhere that didn’t smell of disinfectant, where there wasn’t always someone calling for her, or watching for her every mistake.

It felt just like old times, laughing and gossiping with Sophia as the dressmakers fitted her dress. Her friend, as she’d expected, was full of chatter about the plans for her forthcoming wedding.

‘We’re having it at St Margaret’s, of course. Mother’s already tying herself in knots, trying to make sure it’s the biggest and grandest wedding they’ve ever seen. I think she’d even try to outdo Princess Marina if she could!’

‘Oh, but she looked beautiful on her wedding day, didn’t she?’ Georgina sighed. ‘Edward Molyneux really did her proud with that design. So simple, but so stunning. Are you having a tiara like her, or flowers?’ she asked Sophia.

‘Flowers, I think. Although I dare say Mother has it all planned.’ Sophia smiled wistfully. ‘I don’t really care what I wear or where I get married, as long as I’m marrying David.’

‘And becoming the next Duchess of Cleveland,’ Georgina said eagerly.

The other girls looked at each other uneasily. ‘I’m not marrying him because of his title,’ Sophia said.

‘Of course you’re not,’ Georgina said quickly. ‘But it doesn’t hurt to have people referring to you as “Your Grace”, does it?’ She saw their expressions. ‘Oh, come on! What girl doesn’t want to marry a man with a title?’