May passed a peaceful half hour in the kitchen with Mrs Lewis. Both the atmosphere and the temperature was noticeably warmer than upstairs. As she took her leave she edged towards the scullery, determined to slip out through the servants’ door, but Mrs Lewis, realising her intention, hauled herself out of her basket chair and shuffled forward.
‘No, no, Miss Winton, you musn’t leave by the back door – the Vicar would never forgive me!’
‘Now, Mrs Lewis, it will be much quicker. He has visitors, I wouldn’t dream of disturbing him.’
May moved forward, but Mrs Lewis, her face puckered with distress, barred her way. Realising the old lady was genuinely upset, May gave in and turned instead towards the door leading to the hall stairs.
‘Very well, Mrs Lewis, but I can’t let you climb these steps, with your leg in the state it is. I’ll say goodbye to Mr Lisle, and he’ll see me out.’
May had no intention of doing any such thing. Shutting the kitchen door firmly but quietly behind her she stepped lightly up the drugget and into the back of the hall, intending to make a rush for the front door and to slip through it before either her host or his visitors were aware of her departure. But just before she reached the drawing room door on her left her attention was caught by the strident tones of Mrs Tranter, carrying through the ill-fitting panels. When she heard what she was saying May froze.
‘Agnes, my dear, let that be an object lesson to you! The dreadful consequences of young women trying to be independent! That girl – so pert! The way she tried to answer me back! And her looks – red-faced, blowsy – did you see the state of her hands?’ There was an assenting murmur from her daughter. May stood riveted, barely conscious of the click of a door opening across the hallway. Mrs Tranter’s voice boomed out again. ‘Agnes, I could scarcely believe my eyes, an unmarried girl,’ the tone was lowered, but still clearly audible, ‘her, her chest! So unrestrained, so prominent!’
May was transfixed. Then, as her anger rose, she became aware of a muffled snort to her right. Mr Lisle, his hand clasped over his mouth, was draped against the newel post, overcome by a paroxysm of suppressed laughter. May felt a wave of pure fury wash over her as she looked at his shaking shoulders. She marched across, seized his arm and wrenched it away from his face, hissing, ‘How dare you – how dare you!’
He straightened up and made an obvious effort to pull himself together, then his glance fell on her heaving bosom; his lips began to curve again and, leaning forward, eyes alight with mischief, he whispered to her: ‘But Miss Winton, she’s right! Your, your… it is – but it’s quite superb!’
May was too angry for speech. She seized his quivering shoulders, glared up into his face and shook him, hard. But he was stronger than she was. He put his hands to her waist and held her at arms length.
‘Come now, Miss Winton, no violence, please, remember, I am a man of peace! ‘ He smiled down into her infuriated eyes. Held fast, May was suddenly very conscious of her flushed face and disordered hair, but before she could break free from his restraining grasp she heard the door behind her open. Mrs Tranter, made suspicious by her host’s overlong absence, was coming in quest of her prey. May stood paralysed.
‘Walter, how could you! And you, you shameless hussy, take your hands off him, this instant!’
Her words broke the spell. May sprang back, collided with the outraged bosom of the bishop’s relict and was summarily bounced to one side. There was a howl of anguish from Shadrak as she landed on his tail. Mrs Tranter ignored them both. She turned the full force of her fury onto the young vicar, on whose face May saw the dawning realisation of what their tableau must have looked like.
‘Mrs Tranter, please, let me explain…’
But she would have none of it. ‘When I see your poor dear mother, tomorrow, at the earliest opportunity,’ each word was slowly and deliberately enunciated, ‘I shall tell her,’ there was a dramatic pause, ‘All! Come, Agnes.’ Then she turned back to Walter Lisle. ‘We shall see you again, Sir, when you have come to your senses.’ She swept out of the door. Agnes, pink rabbit nose aquiver and china blue eyes brimming with tears, darted a last agonised look at the young clergyman.
Walter Lisle gazed after them, his expression appalled. Then he suddenly remembered May’s presence. ‘Miss Winton’ – May cut his words short.
‘Goodbye, Mr Lisle.’ She pulled the tattered remnants of her dignity around her together with her cloak and almost ran out of the open door and down the gravel path, her eyes stinging, her face burning.
She came out of the vicarage gate and turned instinctively away from the cab into which Mrs Tranter was climbing. Soon she was adrift in unfamiliar streets, all of which looked confusingly alike: she lost her sense of direction. The sun had gone in, and a damp, clammy fog was beginning to rise from the greasy pavements. She felt very alone. The emotions roused by the scene in the Vicarage hall were taking their toll: a wave of nausea swept over her. She stopped and clutched her side, looking about her. She was completely lost.
She walked forward onto a bridge and looked down. It spanned a foul-smelling canal which she did not recognise at all. The road was deserted. While she stood hesitating a dark, bent figure appeared from a side alley beyond the bridge. May ran forward.
‘Excuse me, would you be so good as to tell me the way back to the East India Dock Road?’
A seamed old face peered back at her. ‘I couldn’t tell yer, Miss,’ moving on. ‘This un’s Limehouse Cut,’ gesturing at the stinking water as he shuffled on.
May realised that she could not even find her way back to the Vicarage, not that she would ever ask the help of Walter Lisle, she thought with a small flash of spirit. The memory of his remarks in the hall brought back some warmth to May’s cheeks. She must pull herself together, she was only in London, for goodness’ sake – Limehouse Cut was hardly the Orinoco.
She took several deep breaths and tried to regain her self control. She must find a place where there were more people, then she could ask about public transport; fortunately she was carrying some small change. Her first priority was to get back to the hospital on time for her evening duty. The road beyond the Cut seemed wider – better take a gamble and press on.
May stepped forward briskly, hugging her cloak around her in the cold, dank air. Soon, there were more people about. She waited until she saw a respectable-looking woman dressed in black and went up to her, asking for the nearest railway station.
‘Why, Miss, you’re only a step from Bromley; keep going, it’s straight ahead.’
With a sigh of relief May pressed on. Suddenly she heard the welcome hiss of escaping steam, and there were the station steps. She rushed up them and into the booking hall. The clerk was young, but efficient.
‘East India Dock Road, Miss? St Katharine’s? You really want the North London line to Poplar, that’s Bromley South Station, but it’s a tidy walk, especially in this weather. Best use the Great Eastern instead: go down to Stepney, there’s one due in three minutes, you’re in luck. Then catch the Blackwall train, watch for the board on the front. It’ll drop you the wrong side of the Dock, but I’d say it was your best bet.’
May only had enough to pay for a third class ticket, but this was no time for niceties.
‘Platform One, Miss.’
‘Thank you, thank you so much.’
Once on the train she sank onto the narrow seat with a sigh of relief. The journey back was blessedly uneventful. On arriving at Stepney she found she only had ten minutes to wait for her connection. A glance at the clock and a quick calculation reassured her that, as long as she moved quickly, she would be back on the ward on time.
May had opened the door and leapt out of the carriage before the train had properly stopped. Ignoring an indignant: ‘Mind yourself, Miss!’ from a porter she raced for the exit, flew down the steps into Black Wall Way, dodged a grocer’s van as she sped over the tunnel entrance and turned right into Robin Hood Lane. By the time she reached the Dock Road she was hot and panting, but her goal was in sight. There were no trams coming so she ran behind a cart, waited for a wagon to pass and then headed for the high archway.
Jenks was on duty. He beamed at her as she shot in. ‘You’ll make the Derby this year, Nurse Winton, sure you will.’
May gasped a greeting and slowed to a more decorous pace as she came within the hospital precincts. It wouldn’t do to be stopped by an irate Sister at this stage. The hands of the big clock on the tower stood at five to five: she had just made it.
The worst ravages of her hair had been restored on the train, so with a quick splash to wash her hands and face and a hasty donning of apron and cap she was ready.
Sister Martha looked her over suspiciously. ‘You seem a trifle heated, Nurse Winton.’
‘I had to run from the station, Sister, I was a little late.’
Sister shook her head disapprovingly. ‘You young nurses, travelling everywhere by train and omnibus – you should be out getting exercise, tramping the streets, like I did in my young days.’
‘Yes, Sister.’ May thought wryly that she just couldn’t please anybody, today.
For the rest of the evening May felt dull and clumsy. She fumbled with the first fomentation, scalding her hands, and having to start again. When they came to dress old Carrie’s leg the foetid odour of the pus seemed more foul than before, and as they took the bowls back to the steriliser Staff Nurse Lee voiced May’s fears.
‘I’m afraid she’ll have to be transferred to Isaiah Ward, Winton.’
‘Oh, Staff, she’ll be so upset: she’s made friends here.’
‘She’ll do no good to her friends if she stays here. It’s too risky to keep her.’ May knew that this was true, but felt very sorry for the uncomplaining old lady.
Hetty asked about her visit to the vicarage. May found it an effort to answer cheerfully, but Hetty seemed pleased that she had seen Mrs Lewis and chatted about her grandmother’s leg. ‘It comes and goes, Nurse, sometimes it’s there, and sometimes it’s not.’ May smiled and moved on.
Sister Martha was late dismissing them, and they all had to bolt their suppers, under the accusing glare of Home Sister. May sat next to Ellen, but for once she didn’t feel the urge to confide in her. The scene with Mrs Tranter had hurt. She tried not to think of it.
‘Cocoa, May?’ Ellen asked when they got upstairs.
‘No thanks, Ellen, I’ve got rather a headache. I think I’ll go straight to bed.’
Ellen looked at her searchingly. Then she pressed May’s hand and said, ‘Well, you know where we are if you want us. Look after yourself, May.’
But once she was in bed, sleep would not come. The events of the afternoon crowded in upon her. With unpleasant clarity she heard again Mrs Tranter’s condemnation: ‘Pert – redfaced – blowsy – did you see the state of her hands?’ Well, she was not ashamed of her hands, they were roughened by hard work, but ‘pert’, ‘blowsy’, – how dare she call her so! And Walter Lisle, how could he have laughed when she was being insulted? But as she replayed the scene in her head May remembered a tiny sound, ignored in the heat of the moment: the click of the other door opening. Suppose he hadn’t heard the earlier strictures at all – only Mrs Tranter’s comment on her bosom? He was still guilty of gross indelicacy, May told herself firmly, but – but not of the unkindness she had been laying to his charge. And she should never have seized hold of him like that, whatever the provocation. What must he be thinking of her now? No wonder the bishop’s widow had called her a shameless hussy!
By now May felt cold and wretched. She pulled the hot water bottle up from her feet and clutched it to her chest. Fighting off the threatening tears she finally fell asleep.