‘Fucking charity,’ said Ronnie, shutting the door to the workroom behind her and leaning heavily against it as though something savage were at her heels. ‘It may well begin at home, but I didn’t expect to have to live with it morning, noon and night. I don’t know why we do it to ourselves.’
Lettice looked up from the design she was working on and rinsed her paintbrush vigorously in a Staffordshire harvest jug which stood on her desk, chipped and missing its handle like most of the antiques she collected. ‘Cheer up, darling,’ she said brightly. ‘It’s nearly over.’
‘Is it, though? I know we’ve almost finished the costumes, but somebody’—Ronnie looked pointedly at her sister—‘somebody agreed to make the do-gooders’ evening gowns for them and donate all the profits to the charity. So now we’ve got to clothe the whole of the bloody Cowdray Club as well as their ridiculous gala night.’ Lettice caught her eye accusingly. ‘All right, I know there are only eight of them, but it feels like the whole club.’
‘Seven, darling—you can’t count Josephine. It’ll be so nice to see her.’
‘Of course it will, but I’ll never understand how she can bear to rattle around with those harridans in Cavendish Square for weeks at a time.’
‘It’s convenient for her, and she couldn’t have come to us this time—it’s chaos here and even worse at Maiden Lane. She says the club’s very comfortable, though.’
‘I’m sure it is, but all those women in one place …’ Ronnie shuddered. ‘It can’t be healthy, and they’re so dull. It’s as much as I can do to stay awake for the duration of a fitting. Fittings that your generosity has thrust upon us, I might add.’
‘I thought it would be a nice gesture to make the dresses as well,’ Lettice said defensively, sucking the tip of her paintbrush to make a fine point. ‘The nurses are a very good cause, after all, and those ladies on the committee work so hard to raise money for them.’
‘Hard my arse! Swanning around with a glass of free champers in their hand?’
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s not all galas.’
‘No—you’re right. Twice a year they swap their designer gowns for some overalls and imagine they know what it’s like to be a working girl. Jesus!’ She held up her hands in exasperation. ‘I can think of a nice gesture, too, but I can make mine sitting down.’ She lit a cigarette and demonstrated. ‘It would all have to happen when we’ve got work coming out of our ears, wouldn’t it? There’s all of Wendy’s ballet to do before Christmas and we haven’t even thought about Bitter Harvest yet—it’s only a matter of time before the director asks to see the designs. In fact, we seem to have forgotten that we work in the theatre at all. Celia Bannerman and Amy Coward will be laughing their way to the bank in a haze of silk and chiffon, while our whole business goes to the dogs in tatters.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, darling—you do exaggerate.’ There was a knock at the door, and an attractive dark-haired girl poked her head round without waiting for a response. It was a face which would have been more at home on a cinema screen than behind a sewing machine, and Lettice smiled at her, glad of some respite from Ronnie’s tirade. ‘Yes, Marjorie—what is it?’
‘Mrs Reader says we’ve run out of black bugle beads, Miss, and someone from the club has just telephoned to see where the samples for the accessories are. Apparently you said one of us would drop them round to Cavendish Square. Do you want me to kill two birds with one stone?’
‘Only if I can choose the birds,’ Ronnie muttered sarcastically.
‘Ignore her,’ Lettice said, ‘and yes please—that would be very helpful. There might be some other things we need from Debenhams, though—give me five minutes and I’ll bring you a list.’
Marjorie shut the door behind her and Ronnie raised an eyebrow. ‘So I exaggerate, do I? Accessories? They only have to snap their expensively manicured fingers for us to jump—and for what? The self-glorification of half a dozen bored women with more time and money than they know what to do with. Go on, admit it—you know I’m right.’ She got up and looked over her sister’s shoulders. ‘God, that’s good,’ she said, admiring the delicate image which was just receiving its finishing touches. ‘Please tell me we’re not giving it away.’
‘Of course we’re not.’ Lettice tore the sheet of thick white paper impatiently from its pad and waved it back and forth a few times to dry the paint. ‘While you’ve been holding forth, I’ve been hard at it,’ she said, and handed the page over smugly. ‘I think you’ll find that Wendy’s ballet has been taking shape without you.’ Enjoying the surprise on Ronnie’s face, she continued: ‘Anyway, not all charity is selfless—we took Marjorie on trust from prison and she’s turned out to be the best seamstress we’ve got.’
‘All right, all right—I agree with you completely about that, but rehabilitation is a very different thing from meddling and fundraising. I’m proud that we’ve been able to give Marjorie a fresh start—she’s not even quite such a cheeky little madam as she was when she first arrived.’
Lettice laughed. ‘I’m sure a girl needs a bit of spirit where she’s been. Anyway, I always like to meet someone who can give you a run for your money.’ She stood up and walked over to the glass that separated the main workroom from the small design studio which the sisters shared. ‘And the other girls seem to like her. I was worried they’d give her a hard time at first, but she settled in right away. It’s hard to believe she’s only been with us for six months.’
Ronnie stubbed her cigarette out and joined her sister at the window. ‘It’s hard to believe that this is here at all,’ she said, looking across at the roomful of women, engrossed in a series of small individual tasks that made up a remarkably successful whole—a business which now occupied two houses in St Martin’s Lane and kept sixty people on the payroll, including thirty fulltime seamstresses. ‘The last eighteen months have been extraordinary, haven’t they? First Hamlet, and now Romeo—we’ve never had better notices than the ones we’re getting at the moment. Johnny’s certainly been lucky for us.’
‘And Josephine—if it weren’t for the success of Richard of Bordeaux, I’m not sure any of us would have had the freedom we’ve enjoyed since.’
They watched as their head cutter showed one of the newer girls how to work with a length of beautiful soft crêpe, reassuring her when she got it wrong and patiently starting again at the beginning. ‘Look at Hilda,’ Ronnie said affectionately. ‘Do you remember when she taught us to cut fabric and make up costumes like that? She was the village dressmaker’s niece and we couldn’t tell one end of a needle from the other—who’d have thought that we’d all end up here?’
‘And thank God she still enjoys it as much as we do. I suppose we could have our pick of cutters and supervisors now, but I honestly think the whole place would fall apart if Hilda left us.’
‘Then let’s just pray that she doesn’t—and if good works will keep the sun shining down on us, then I suppose we can afford a few free frocks. You’d better get that girl over there sharpish with her samples.’
Lettice jotted some items down on a bit of paper and went out into the workroom to deliver her list. ‘Ask them to put it all on our account,’ she said, piling a glut of brightly coloured materials into Marjorie’s arms to be parcelled up. ‘And deliver the samples to Miss Bannerman at the club, with this letter. We’ve only got a few days to make any alterations, so if she can send a couple of the women round this afternoon, that would be helpful. But don’t be long—there’s still so much to do today. Take the bus, and get back here by lunchtime at the latest.’
‘With the change from the bus fare,’ Ronnie called, winking at the girl. ‘We know what you’re like.’
‘If you did, Miss, you’d blush,’ Marjorie said good-naturedly, winking back. ‘I’ll see you later if I don’t get a better offer.’
Marjorie went down the corridor to the small back room where the girls kept their outdoor clothes and rifled through the layers of coats and scarves which accumulated each morning, looking for her own modest raincoat. The racks held a hotch-potch of clothing, which functioned as a catalogue of styles from the last twenty years or more—the Motley sisters were fair with their wages but a good coat, once afforded, was unlikely to be replaced quickly for the sake of fashion, even here. The varying shapes and sizes reminded her of her last day in prison, walking down the line of discharge cubicles to the one where her own clothes awaited her, past a series of outfits which would have been the envy of any jumble sale in London—petticoats, skirts and hand-knitted jumpers, some in preposterous colours, others faded and drab; some torn and stained, others smarter and more respectable. It was a brief glimpse of lives waiting to begin again, and it mattered because it was the moment when women found their old selves, free of the levelling effect of prison and the loss of individuality—femininity, even—which was standard Holloway procedure.
She found her coat and tied the belt tightly round her waist, remembering how, at the end of her last sentence, a fur coat had graced one of the cells, removed from its mothballs and looking as good as new after months of careful storage. A black crêpe de Chine dress was on a hanger next to it and, on the bench, washed and neatly folded, lay a pair of black silk panties, some stockings and a pale pink brassiere. Marjorie had stopped for a moment, transfixed by clothes which were so unfamiliar, and had tried to imagine how the underwear would feel against her skin. What sort of life would she be returning to if she owned clothes like that? she wondered, but the prison officer moved her roughly on to the end of the row before she could decide and she became Marjorie Baker again, equal to the best of them while she was inside but nothing special anywhere else. The sight of her own clothes mocked any illusions she might still have harboured. There was no need for a hanger here: the worn woollen cardigan, second-hand skirt and loose-fitting stockings—mended and torn again, just like her life sat in a shapeless pile on a chair. She had been brought in to Holloway in winter; now it was May, but no one at home could be bothered to bring her clothes better suited to a summer release and she had been too proud to accept the offer of something from the prisoners’ aid store. Shaking off the memory, Marjorie picked up the parcel and envelopes, then, as she noticed a lipstick poking out of one of the girls’ pockets, put it down again and helped herself. It would have been easy to take a few bob from these pockets, but the theft would surely be traced back to her and, in any case, she had never had the stomach for stealing from her own sort. She examined her reflection in a small powder compact which someone had obligingly left out, then put the lipstick back where it came from. Even now, six months after her release, she found it hard to get the thought of those other clothes out of her head. But that was her trouble—her mother had often said so, and Marjorie knew she was right. She was never satisfied, never had been. She always wanted something more.
Not that there had been much to be satisfied with until now, she thought, picking her way carefully down the iron staircase which led out into the cobbled courtyard at the back of the premises. Being brought up in Campbell Road—the sort of street you had to lie about living in if you were to stand a chance in hell of getting work—wasn’t exactly the perfect start in life. Seven households shared number 35, and the Bakers had a room at the top, across the landing from a knife-grinder and his family. There was nothing unusual about their slum; the pattern was repeated all the way up the street, and she’d had to laugh back in May, just after she came out, when the old Poor But Loyal bedsheet banner was dragged out for the Jubilee, just like it always was for any day of national celebration. There it hung, amongst the tattered bunting and faded Union Jacks—but loyal to what? she had wondered. To a king who didn’t even know they existed? Or to the good old days of community life, when Campbell Road muddled through, immune to interference from outsiders? Surely the only people who truly believed that were the ones who had never lived there. As far as Marjorie was concerned, the only thing the street had going for it was its proximity to Holloway; at least she never had to worry about finding the bus fare home when they let her out.
She crossed St Martin’s Lane and cut through Cecil Court, passing between two theatres to get to Charing Cross Road. A bus was already in sight and she had to run to catch it, but the pavements were quiet at this time of the morning and she reached the stop in plenty of time. Although there was scarcely anybody on board, a man gave up his seat for her at the front of the lower deck. She accepted it with a polite smile, then looked steadfastly out of the window, making it impossible for him to benefit from his gallantry by forcing a conversation. If there was one important lesson that her father had taught her, it was that men were not to be relied upon for anything in life, and she had long since perfected a way of discouraging them from believing that her good looks were any reason to be hopeful. He was a waster, her dad—and had been for as long as she could remember. A builder’s labourer by trade, he travelled all over north London but they were lucky if he came home with thirty shillings a week and, when he wasn’t working, he was in and out of jail on a series of petty charges. He was a philanderer, too—she had known what that was long before she ever heard the word—and he had made the years that followed the war work for him, taking advantage of women who, with a shortage of men and no prospects of their own marriage, were prepared to lower their standards and settle for a share in somebody else’s. She hated his weakness and his cheap opportunism, but despised her mother even more for allowing it to happen. In her mother’s unquestioning acceptance of her lot, Marjorie had seen the image of her own future. It rang a warning bell in her head, louder and more lasting than any deterrent which an institution could throw at her, and it told her to make self-reliance her guiding principle—no matter how much trouble that brought or what the consequences were.
She rang the bell for the bus to drop her at Oxford Circus and strolled slowly down Holles Street, savouring the novel experience of walking through a decent part of town and having a reason to be there. This time, surely, things ought to be different? She had a new job—one that she was good at, which wasn’t the same, day in, day out; she had friends, some from Holloway and others found within the easy camaraderie of the Motley girls; and, for the first time in her life, she could see a way out of Campbell Road. It ought to be enough. Yet still the dissatisfaction gnawed away at her, still she knew that—sooner or later—she’d be chasing something else, proving her mother right. ‘We know what you’re like,’ Miss Motley had said and, while Marjorie knew that no malice had been intended by the comment, the predictable future which it hinted at—the impossibility of change—depressed her. She hesitated for a moment outside 20 Cavendish Square; then, when she was sure she was tidy and presentable, she walked boldly through the Cowdray Club’s doors, marvelling at how readily they opened for her. It was true, people did know what her sort was like—but they didn’t know what she could be; she didn’t even know that herself. Perhaps this time she’d have the chance to find out.
She stood patiently in the entrance hall, waiting for the woman behind the desk to finish speaking on the telephone. Prison taught you to see people as types rather than human beings, and—as the receptionist stretched out her conversation for as long as possible, making her wait and throwing practised smiles at the members as they passed through, thinking she was one of them—Marjorie could tell instantly what sort of creature she was. This small area, where people came and went but never stayed for long, was the only empire she would ever know, and she was welcome to it; there was a big, wide world out there, and she was not about to be made to feel uncomfortable by a glorified message-taker. ‘Can I help you?’ the woman asked at last, looking grudgingly at Marjorie.
‘I’ve come from Motley to deliver these for the gala evening,’ she said, putting the parcel of materials down on the counter. ‘They’re for Miss Bannerman.’
‘Leave them with me. I’ll make sure she gets them,’ the receptionist said with a dismissive nod.
‘There’s a note here from Miss Motley, too,’ Marjorie continued, undaunted. ‘She’d be obliged if you could let Miss Bannerman have everything straight away.’
There was a heavy sigh. ‘Miss Bannerman is very busy this morning, but I’m sure she’ll attend to …’—she waved her hand vaguely at the parcel—‘to whatever seems to be so urgent as soon as she has a moment.’
Marjorie was about to argue when she felt a hearty slap on the shoulder. ‘Baker—how nice to see you!’ The Irish accent was unmistakeable, warm but full of authority. Enjoying the surprise on the receptionist’s face, Marjorie turned round to greet Mary Size, but her sense of one-upmanship was not the only reason why she was genuinely pleased to see the deputy governor of Holloway. Like most of the girls who had passed through prison on her watch, Marjorie had an ungrudging respect for Miss Size and the way she approached a difficult and often unrewarding job. Despite her vast list of responsibilities, Marjorie had never known her to refuse to see anyone, inmate or member of staff, and she listened to the most trivial request or serious complaint with patience and a fair mind—qualities which were more valuable to those on the receiving end of them than any other. Miss Size had an instinctive understanding of what mattered to women in prison and, although her reforms fell far short of her ideals, her passion for improvement was strong. Thanks to her, the women now had looking glasses in their cells and photographs on their walls, and Marjorie was not the only discharged girl to owe her first job to Miss Size’s quiet but imaginative scheming.
‘Baker and I go back a long way, Miss Timpson,’ the governor explained, seeming to enjoy the receptionist’s astonishment as much as Marjorie. ‘Don’t we, Baker?’
‘Yes, Miss—three stretches now, isn’t it?’
‘You haven’t lost your sense of humour, I see. What brings you to this part of town? Are you here to see Peters?’
‘No, Miss, I’m on an errand from Motley—it’s for the gala next week.’
‘Ah, yes—I’m looking forward to that. Which reminds me—am I supposed to pick the dress up or something?’
‘No, Miss—we’ll deliver them to the club. But you do need to stop by and have a final fitting first, just to make sure everything’s all right. In fact,’ she added, looking pointedly at the Timpson woman, ‘that’s partly why I’m here. Miss Motley needs to see everyone as soon as possible in case we have to make any alterations.’
‘Fine, fine—I’ll come after lunch on my way back to the prison. Will that be all right?’
‘Yes, Miss, of course—and anyone else who’s free today.’
‘Wait here—I’ll see who’s about.’ Marjorie did as she was told, smiling infuriatingly at Miss Timpson, while Mary Size put her head round the door of the bar. ‘Gerry,’ she called, ‘you’re going to the gala, aren’t you? Come out here a minute.’ The woman who came out into the hallway wore a stunning Schiaparelli trouser suit, and Marjorie remembered her from an earlier visit to Motley; in fact, she was the sort it would have been impossible to forget. ‘We’re needed for another fitting. Could you do Miss Baker here a favour and pop round to St Martin’s Lane this afternoon?’
Geraldine smiled. ‘It would be a pleasure.’ She walked over to Marjorie and brazenly stroked her cheek. ‘Nice to see you again, Miss Baker. Will you be looking after me again this afternoon?’
‘I don’t know, Miss,’ Marjorie said modestly. ‘It depends what Mrs Reader has got lined up for me when I get back. I suppose I could say you’d asked for me personally.’
‘Yes, why don’t you do that? I’ll be there around five but, if I’m late, I’m sure you’ll wait for me.’
‘I’ll put you in the book. It’s Lady Ashby, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ she said, drifting back towards the bar. ‘Sweet of you to remember.’
‘You’re still in touch with Peters, I hope?’ Miss Size asked as Marjorie made a note of the appointment. ‘You were a good friend to her during her spell with us, and I’d like to know you’re keeping an eye on her now you’re both out.’
‘Oh yes, Miss—we go out and have a bit of a laugh when we can. We had a day out last weekend and I saw her yesterday. She was all right—a bit quiet, that’s all.’
‘Well, that’s only to be expected, but she’ll perk up again, I’m sure. Are you going to say hello to her now, as you’re here? I’m sure Miss Timpson would be only too happy to fetch her for you.’ Her manner was courteous enough, but there was a twinkle in her eye as she turned back to the desk. ‘That would be all right, wouldn’t it?’
‘Lucy Peters isn’t due her break for another ten minutes,’ the receptionist said, standing her ground as best she could. ‘I’ll let her know that Miss—uh—Miss Baker would like to see her, though.’
‘Excellent. And I’ll see you later, Baker.’
She walked off into the club and Marjorie was left alone with Miss Timpson’s thinly disguised pique. ‘If you’d like to wait outside, I’ll tell Lucy you’re here,’ she said. ‘We don’t allow staff to fraternise on the premises.’
Marjorie couldn’t be bothered to argue over the battle when the war was so clearly hers, so she did as she was asked and strolled over to one of the benches in the middle of Cavendish Square. It was cold but not unpleasant, and the sun was out, so she sat down and lit a cigarette, keeping a nervous eye on the clock which graced the front of the Westminster Bank. It wasn’t the day to get into trouble with the Motley sisters, not with the deputy governor due, and she was about to give up and carry on with her list of errands when Lucy appeared at the corner of Henrietta Street. Marjorie waved, and beckoned her over. ‘Where the bleeding hell have you been?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been here fifteen minutes, and I’ll be out on my ear if I’m not back by lunchtime.’
‘Sorry, but that bitch on reception made me wipe all the ashtrays in the drawing room before she’d let me out.’ Lucy accepted a cigarette gratefully. ‘I’m glad you’re here, though—there’s something I need you to do for me.’ She reached under her coat and took a small silver photograph frame out of the pocket of her apron. ‘Will you look after this for me for a bit?’
Marjorie took it from her and looked down at the image of a woman and her young baby. ‘Where did you get this?’
Lucy wouldn’t meet her eye. ‘I found it on one of the women’s writing desks. I know I shouldn’t have taken it, but I couldn’t help myself—she’s such a lovely little thing. I can’t keep it in my room,’ she explained, and Marjorie could see that she was close to tears. ‘I overheard Bannerman talking about getting the police in, and they’re bound to come to me first—they always do.’
‘Well this is hardly worth getting caught for, is it?’ Marjorie said, angry at her friend’s stupidity. ‘What the hell are you thinking of?’ Then, as she saw the sadness on the young girl’s face, she softened. ‘Look, Lucy, you’ve got to be careful,’ she continued, putting her arm round her. ‘You’ve got to put all that behind you and get on with your life, and you won’t change anything by nicking worthless bits of tat.’
‘It’s all right for you—you’ve got a good job and some girls to have a bit of fun with—and a bloke who’d look after you if you’d let him.’
Marjorie gave a scornful laugh. ‘It’s himself he’d be looking after, not me,’ she said. ‘You should know that after what you’ve been through. They’re all the same, men, wherever they come from, and a girl’s got no chance of a life if she waits for a bloke to help her. You make your own luck, Luce, but not like this.’ She held up the stolen frame, then put it in her pocket. ‘I’ll keep it safe for you, of course I will, but don’t go nicking anything else—I’ve got something much better than that lined up.’ She smiled and pinched Lucy’s cheek, trying to cheer the girl up. ‘Something that’ll be enough for us both. If we’re going back down, we might as well go properly, eh?’ It was a joke, but the worried look on Lucy’s face exasperated her. ‘Don’t you want anything better than this?’ she asked impatiently. ‘Scrubbing tables while that lot look down their noses at you?’
‘It’s not so bad,’ Lucy said defiantly. ‘I’ve got somewhere to live and a bit of money coming in.’
‘Yeah, and for that you’re supposed to spend every waking hour being grateful to them. Have you forgotten all those things we talked about? A flat of our own one day, flowers on the table and friends to visit. A gramophone. The odd trip to the pictures, even?’ Lucy began to smile again. ‘That’s better,’ Marjorie continued. ‘There’s no one in the world who can stop us having that if we’re clever.’
‘I suppose not, but won’t you even tell me what you’re up to?’
‘Best that you don’t know at the moment. But you trust me, don’t you?’
Lucy nodded reluctantly. ‘I’d better get back,’ she said. ‘I don’t want any more trouble today.’
Marjorie gave her a hug, and they walked back towards the club. ‘Looks like you got out just in time, Luce,’ she said, glancing across the road to where a middle-aged man was getting out of a car. ‘That’s a copper if ever I saw one.’ Lucy followed her gaze, and Marjorie saw the fear return to her eyes. ‘Chin up, girl,’ she said. ‘You’ll be all right. There’s nothing else dodgy in your room, is there?’ Lucy shook her head. ‘Good—then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Is it your afternoon off tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, I’m off at one.’
‘Then I’ll meet you here and we can go for a walk. I might have some good news for you by then.’
‘News about what?’
‘About our future.’ She threw the end of her last cigarette on to the pavement and ground it under her shoe, then kissed Lucy quickly on the cheek. ‘Start making a list of films you’d like to see,’ she called back over her shoulder.
‘Tell the sergeant I’ll be with him in a few minutes.’ Celia Bannerman put the receiver back on its cradle and sighed heavily. Miss Timpson’s announcement of Scotland Yard in her foyer felt like a personal blow, and she did not need the disapproval in the receptionist’s voice to tell her that a policeman’s arrival undermined everything she had done for the Cowdray Club over the years, and threatened all that she still hoped to achieve. She had had no choice but to involve the police—the women who had received the letters had insisted on it—but, now they were here, a process had been set in motion which was no longer entirely under her control and she felt uneasy, perhaps even a little afraid. How many of those women would thank her, she wondered, when their privacy was disturbed, their pasts raked over? Surely she was not the only one who had done things in her life which she regretted? And even if the matter was resolved satisfactorily, the fact that she had allowed it to arise at all would still hang over her as a mark of failure, proof that she was undeserving of the trust which Lady Cowdray had placed in her.
She would have to tell the president, of course. Although the club functioned independently, it was linked to the College of Nursing by funding and by reputation, and any trouble in one body would soon seep through to the other. She was lucky that she had been able to contain it until now, but the last thing she needed was for Miriam Sharpe to bump into Scotland Yard with no warning. They came from two different sides of nursing: Sharpe was a hands-on traditionalist through and through, scathing about so many of the changes that had taken place in medicine over the years, and they had never had an easy relationship. While Lady Cowdray was alive, she had harnessed their different skills into a fragile but effective alliance; now, their differing viewpoints hovered constantly on the brink of outright animosity. But Celia was on the defensive here and she should, out of courtesy, give Sharpe the opportunity to sit in on the discussion she was about to have. Reluctantly, she picked up the telephone.
‘Miriam Sharpe.’
‘Miriam—are you free at the moment? I need to speak to you urgently—can I come and see you on my way downstairs?’
‘Don’t bother, Celia—I was just on my way up to you.’
The line went dead and, less than a minute later, there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ Celia called, but the president of the College of Nursing was not in the mood to wait for an invitation. She strode across the room, ignoring the chair that was offered to her, and threw a copy of The Times across the desk. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ she asked, her face white with rage.
‘It’s an advertisement for the gala.’
‘I know what it is—and it’s bad enough that you deprive nurses of their economic and professional independence by seeking charity at all, but to raise it in their name without mentioning that the proceeds are to be siphoned off into a private women’s club is despicable beyond belief.’
‘Oh for God’s sake—nothing is being “siphoned off”, as you put it. We’re raising money to support two mutually dependent organisations,’ she added, deciding that now was not the best time to admit that further funds were to go to the Actors’ Orphanage in order to secure Noël Coward’s support for the gala. ‘You make it sound like fraud.’
‘That’s exactly what it is. Can you honestly tell me that people reading this won’t suppose that their money is going directly to support the everyday needs of our nurses? It’s worded deliberately to suggest that.’
‘The whole purpose of the club is exactly what you’ve just mentioned. Aren’t nurses allowed to enjoy a little relaxation and luxury? Don’t you think they work more effectively and with a better heart if they’re offered that? You’re behind the times, Miriam—they’re women, not machines. It’s not like it was when we were young.’
‘Oh? So what’s changed? The dedicated are still trodden on or passed over, just like they always were. It was exactly the same after the war—how much of the money raised to support nurses in distress actually went to them? It was all put into bricks and mortar or administration. When will you realise that we’re tired of being thrust forward as some sort of unblushing mendicant every time funds are needed? There’s no room for politics in nursing, and there never will be.’
‘You really expect me to believe that you’re oblivious to the value of politics? All those letters to The Times haven’t come out of thin air. You’re behind them, any fool could see that you’ve virtually just quoted them word for word. But if you think I’ll allow you to split this place down the middle, then you’re mistaken.’ She took a deep breath and tried to control herself before she really went too far: she hadn’t wanted to antagonise Sharpe—it would only make things worse when she told her who was waiting downstairs. ‘Anyway, I didn’t call you in for that,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’m sorry to say that we’ve had a number of thefts in the club, and one or two members of the committee have received some unpleasant letters—anonymous ones. Obviously it doesn’t affect the college, but I’ve had to call the police in and I thought you should know.’
‘Doesn’t affect the college? How can you say that? You’re even more deluded than I thought you were, Celia. Of course it affects us—that sort of notoriety doesn’t stay conveniently in a box just because you’d like it to.’
‘You’re blowing it out of all proportion. It’s simply …’
‘It’s simply that you decided to bring ex-prisoners into this organisation. I told you what would happen if you did, but you wouldn’t listen. Once more, nurses have to be guinea pigs in your precious rehabilitation schemes.’
‘There’s no reason to suppose that any of the Holloway girls are behind either the thefts or the letters, although of course we’ll look into it.’
‘Of course it will be one of them! A leopard doesn’t change its spots.’
‘You’d lock them all up and throw away the key, I suppose. Has it ever occurred to you that they might deserve a second chance?’
‘And has it ever occurred to you that if you wanted to help convicts, you should have stayed in the prison service? You talk so eloquently of expanding a nurse’s horizons—by showing her how to cheat and steal? I can only imagine what Lady Cowdray would have thought to that.’
Incensed, Celia stood up and slammed her hand down on the desk. ‘I knew Lady Cowdray better than anyone here, so don’t tell me what she would and wouldn’t think.’ The telephone rang, and she snatched the receiver up. ‘Yes? No, Miss Timpson—of course I haven’t forgotten he’s here. Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be down shortly.’ She made an effort to regain her composure and looked at Miriam Sharpe. When she spoke again, her voice was unnaturally calm. ‘I have to go now and talk to this policeman. Do you want to come and listen to what he has to say?’
‘Why would I want to do that? This is your mess and, as you pointed out, it’s got nothing to do with me.’ Sharpe turned and walked to the door without another word, but paused before leaving. ‘You’ve taken your eye off the ball lately, Celia. Don’t expect any help from me when your empire starts to crumble.’
It didn’t take Marjorie long to collect the things she needed from Debenhams, and she ran up the back steps to the workroom at precisely a quarter to one. ‘Everything all right at the club?’ Hilda Reader asked as Marjorie put the beads down on her worktable.
‘Yes, Mrs Reader. Miss Bannerman was busy, but I spoke to Miss Size and she and Lady Ashby are coming over this afternoon for their fittings.’
‘Good girl. You might as well take your lunch break now—you’ve got a visitor.’
‘What?’
‘Your father turned up—he said you were expecting him.’ Marjorie knew that the expression on her face must have exposed the lie, but Hilda Reader was too discreet to comment. ‘He said he’d wait for you across the road.’
In the pub, no doubt, Marjorie thought as she hurried back down, wondering if her fury and embarrassment were written all over her face. Sure enough, her father had taken a corner seat in the Salisbury Arms and was just draining his pint glass as she walked in. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ she asked, sitting down opposite him.
‘Come on, love—that’s not very friendly, is it?’ he said. ‘It’s Friday—I thought you might have some wages for me.’
‘Then you thought wrong. We don’t get paid till the end of the day, but don’t get your hopes up. I wouldn’t give you anything even if I had it, so you’d better make that your last drink.’
‘But it’s your mother’s birthday on Sunday, love. You want her to have something nice, don’t you?’
‘The best present you could give her would be to clear off and leave us to it.’
‘You know you don’t mean that. Why don’t you nip back to work like a good girl and ask that nice lady if you can have your money now? It’s not like you’re going to bunk off this afternoon, is it, and I’m sure she’ll understand if you tell her it’s for your old dad.’
‘Like hell, I will. I’ve got a chance here now, and I’m not about to let you ruin it for me.’
She stood up to go, but he reached across the table and took her wrist in his hand. ‘Don’t kid yourself,’ he scoffed. ‘You know as well as I do that your new friends aren’t all they’re made out to be. You’ll never be anything other than a cheap little crook. It’s in your blood—and I should know. You’ll be back inside before you know it, and I’m bloody well going to get what I can out of you before that happens.’
Marjorie wrenched her hand away, accidentally catching the glass as she did so and knocking it to the floor. Blinded by anger and terrified that her father spoke the truth, she picked up one of the broken pieces and thrust it towards him. As he held his hands up to protect his face, Marjorie—for the first time in her life—felt stronger than he was. The balance of power in their relationship had suddenly shifted. How could she not have noticed that he had become an old man? The realisation seemed to shock her father as much as it did her: he made no attempt to speak to her as she placed the glass gently back on the table and left the pub.