The Nightingale Girls (55 page)

‘Talking of backing out . . . I hope you haven’t changed your mind about this afternoon?’ Millie rolled over on the bed and propped her chin in her hand to look at Helen.

She swallowed hard. ‘Of course not.’

‘Good. Because the appointment is in –’ she checked her watch ‘– half an hour.’

‘I’m looking forward to it.’ It was a lie, of course. Helen had been awake half the night, wondering if she was doing the right thing. ‘Is Doyle still coming with us?’

‘I’ve arranged to meet her there.’ Millie rolled off the bed. ‘I’d better get my skates on, hadn’t I?’ she said, unbuttoning her collar. ‘Don’t want to keep Madame Daphne waiting, do we?’

As usual, Millie took ages getting ready, and Dora was already waiting for them when they hurried up the street just after three.

‘I thought you’d changed your mind?’ she grinned.

‘Honestly, why does everyone think I’m going to change my mind?’ Helen huffed.

Dora and Millie looked at each other. ‘You changed your mind last week,’ Millie reminded her.

‘Well, I’m not going to change it now.’ Helen took a deep breath and pushed through the door ahead of them.

She didn’t think she’d ever seen so many shades of pink as there were in Madame Daphne’s hair salon. The air was perfumed with the smell of lavender mingled with peroxide and hair lacquer. Helen had never been inside such a place before. It seemed terribly frivolous. Madame Daphne greeted them effusively. She was a small, round woman in a pink smock that perfectly matched her lipstick. For a woman who claimed to be French, she had the broadest East-End accent Helen had ever heard.

‘I’ve never seen such a lovely head of hair,’ she said admiringly as she brushed Helen’s long dark tresses. ‘It’s nearly down to your waist. And so shiny, too. Seems a pity to cut it all off.’

‘Is it?’ Helen gulped at her reflection in the mirror. Maybe she was right? Maybe this was all a big mistake? It had been Millie’s idea, and look how rash she was . . .

‘Although short hair is all the fashion these days,’ Madame Daphne assured her hastily, seeing Helen’s look of panic. ‘Look at mine.’

Helen looked. Madame Daphne’s halo of stiff, teased curls didn’t reassure her.

‘You can change your mind if you want?’ Millie whispered.

‘No, she can’t,’ Dora put in. ‘I haven’t taken a day off just so I can watch her having the heebie-jeebies. Besides, she knows she wants it cut. She’s been on about it for ages. Cut it off,’ she instructed the hairdresser.

Madame Daphne smiled at Helen in the mirror, scissors poised. ‘Shall I?’

Helen hesitated. Dora was right, she’d been wanting to cut her hair for ages. And Charlie was all for it, too.

‘You’d still be beautiful to me if you had your head shaved and wore a hat made of bananas,’ he’d assured her.

Helen smiled, thinking about him. She could hardly believe that a year ago she’d been so lonely. Now she had a boyfriend who adored her, and friends who cared about her. Even her mother was making more of an effort to understand her. Although Helen wasn’t sure how she would feel about her getting her hair cut. Constance Tremayne had always had very strong opinions about Helen’s appearance, and was bound to be furious that she hadn’t consulted her about it. Helen could almost see her face in the mirror, her expression pinched with disapproval.

‘Short hair is fast, Helen.’

Yes, Mother, she replied in her head. But it’s my hair, and my life.

She met Madame Daphne’s eye as she stood over her, scissors snapping expectantly a few inches from her ear.

‘Do it,’ she said.

First of all, a big thank you to my agent Caroline Sheldon and my editor Rosie de Courcy for taking a chance on me and letting me loose on the Nightingale Girls. I hope I’ve justified your faith in me!

I’m also grateful to the Royal College of Nursing Archives and to Graham Thurgood for allowing me to plunder his PhD research at Huddersfield University. And to all the real life nurses who have come forward to tell me their stories. I’d particularly like to thank Lucy Staples, and Alison Heath and her friends for a wonderful afternoon of tea and reminiscences. I look forward to another meeting!

Finally, I’d like to thank my husband Ken and my daughter Harriet for putting up with the despair and tantrums, my friends for not minding when I couldn’t come out to play for months, and the team at
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magazine in York for knowing when not to ask how the book was coming along.