An Orphan's Dream Page 3

  Rose nodded and walked on quickly, her heart racing. If only Peter Clark would say something to give her a clue as to his feelings! She sensed that he liked her and she knew for a fact that he wasn’t married – Rose had asked about that the first time he smiled at her in a way she thought was special. He was always pleasant to her and she felt that he went out of his way to speak to her each time he was called to the infirmary – and yet he hadn’t asked her out and he’d given no indication that he wanted to be more than a colleague.

  Perhaps that was why he’d caught her imagination. Had he been the same as most men she met, making flirtatious eyes at her and asking her out on every occasion, Rose would probably have labelled him a flirt and that would have been that; she wouldn’t have given him a chance. It might be because he made no advances to her that she liked him and had begun to trust him, not just as a doctor – she knew he was brilliant at his work! – but also as a man.

  Rose lifted her head as she emerged into the dark streets about the infirmary. Situated at the end of Button Street, the Lady Rosalie Infirmary was right in the heart of the East End of London. Little alleys, mean narrow streets, crowded courts and the broader main streets were all known to her, because she’d grown up only a short distance away, down near the dockyards. Now she lived only a few streets away in a decent lodging house in Bell Lane, which ran off from Shilling Street in a tangent. To get there she had to pass through some rough areas and it made her acutely aware of the extreme poverty of many living in this part of London. It was no surprise to Sister Rose that children came into her ward half-starved and filthy dirty, with nits in their hair and suffering from all kinds of illnesses, including broken bones and bruises. Often their parents were so poor that a slice of bread and dripping was a luxury for the kids and they never saw an orange or even a boiled egg. Most of them thought it was heaven being in the Rosie, where they were fed with good nourishing food.

  Shivering, she pulled her coat collar up, glad of the knitted beret pulled over her glossy hair and her warm scarf. She pinned her thick hair up in a French pleat at the back of her head to keep it neat for work. Mike, before she’d discovered he was married, had once told her that her hair had the red-gold flame of a field of ripe corn at harvest time …

  Rose walked swiftly towards the end of Button Street. The street lamps weren’t particularly bright and she glanced over her should once, half fearing she was being followed. She’d been followed by a thug once before, but even as he’d tried to steal her nurse’s bag a young man had appeared out of the gloom and driven him away. He’d taken her attacker in an arm lock and escorted him away, calling out over his shoulder that he’d see it didn’t happen again. Rose hadn’t even had the chance to thank him properly, and she had no idea of her hero’s name. Yet she knew that, despite the poverty and the rogues that lurked in these mean streets, there were many honest, brave young men like him who wanted no praise for helping one of the Rosie’s nurses. Folk round here respected the staff of the infirmary, who did all they could to help when they were sick. In the dim light she hadn’t even seen the face of her rescuer clearly, but she’d thanked him in her head many times.

  There was no one behind her now and Rose turned into Shilling Street and crossed the road, heading for Mrs Robinson’s house at the end of Bell Lane. It was icily cold tonight and she would be glad when she was inside in the warm. A sigh of relief touched her lips as she entered the kitchen and the homely face of her wonderful landlady greeted her with a bright smile.

  ‘Well, there you are, Rose. Tired and hungry I’ll be bound. I’ve got a lovely fish pie in the oven and there’s carrots and leeks to go with it, my love – and a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Did I ever tell you I think my guardian angel was looking after me when I found you, Beattie?’

  Beattie Robinson beamed at her. ‘That you have, my love – and he was looking out for me too, because I needed a lodger and there are some awful folk about – but I got you and I couldn’t be happier.’ Rose had come to the lodging house after her mother could no longer look after herself or be left on her own. Rose paid for her to be cared for by a widowed cousin who was grateful for the extra income and had been a nurse herself, so knew how to care for the mother who hardly knew Rose these days. Rose had found the lodgings cheaper than having to run her own home and although she now earned more, was too comfortable here to think of moving into a house of her own.

  She went to Beattie and put her arms about her ample waist. ‘I can smell that pie and it makes me hungry. They feed us at the Rosie – but nothing like you cook!’

  ‘Sit you down and I’ll serve,’ Beattie said, ‘and then you can tell me all about your day.’ Beattie always wanted to know everything. ‘How is that Matron doing and all your patients then?’

  ‘Thank you so much for coming to see me, doctor,’ Matron said and rose to her feet as they shook hands. ‘My patient is very unwell. Her fever keeps rising no matter what we do – and I can’t put my finger on the problem.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to take a look at her. At seventy she should be able to pull through an operation for the removal of a gall bladder. I can’t see why she has a continuing fever – unless there is an infection.’

  ‘Yes, I think that may well be the case – but I don’t know why. Her dressings have been changed regularly and the wound is healing nicely.’

  ‘Outwardly,’ Dr Peter Clark agreed. ‘It may be an internal infection – and they are the worst because we can’t do very much about them.’

  It was true. A wound to the skin or a limb could be kept clean, swabbed with a disinfectant and healing balms, but there was nothing yet available that would cure an internal infection. You could calm a fever with medicines but if the infection ran too deep it too often killed the patient.

  Following Matron to the ward, Peter glanced at the neat rows of beds, each surrounded by curtains which were drawn back to allow the patients to see what was happening. Several of the patients knew him and smiled or waved a hand and he smiled back. He was known to many of these people because he gave much of his time to the East End poor free of charge. Some of his fellow doctors at the London Hospital said he was mad not to ask for payment but Peter didn’t care. He was fortunate to have been left an inheritance which meant that, if he chose, he could sit at home all day or visit a gentleman’s club and drink port wine. But Peter enjoyed being a doctor. There was, in his opinion, nothing better than seeing a sick patient recover and go home to their family.

  The curtains around Mrs Edie Simpson’s bed were closed and she was lying with her eyes closed, her face flushed – too flushed. He felt her forehead, finding she was clammy and damp with sweat. Clearly, she had a fever and it made him frown, because he knew her operation had gone well.

  He pulled the covers back and then inched her nightdress up to reveal the dressing, which he deftly removed. It looked perfectly clean and when he bent to sniff it there was no smell of putrefaction, which hopefully meant it wasn’t the surgery that had caused this fever.

  Using his stethoscope, he listened to her chest and frowned. She seemed perfectly fine – but the fever was a cause for concern. Turning, he looked at Matron.

  ‘Do we have a ward where she can be placed in isolation?’

  ‘Yes, there is a small room at the end of this ward, Dr Clark, but—’

  ‘I’m not suggesting she has anything nasty but I think we should take precautions. It is just possible that she was incubating some kind of infection before her operation and it has now come out.’ Replacing the nightgown to its proper place and drawing up the bedcover, he frowned. ‘I suggest isolation and sponging regularly to cool her down – and something to ease her; she’s moaning a little and may be suffering pain.’

  ‘Yes, doctor.’ Matron looked relieved. ‘You don’t think it is due to the surgery then?’

  ‘No, I believe she may have brought this in with her – and that’s why I want her in isolation. Gloves, aprons and masks when the nurses lo
ok after her. We don’t want whatever she has to spread, do we?’

  ‘No, doctor.’ Matron smiled at him. ‘I’m so glad you came. I was really concerned that we’d mistreated her.’

  ‘That she was being nursed well was never in doubt,’ he said. ‘I’ll wash my hands and then leave you, Matron, but please don’t hesitate to call me again if you need me. Either I or my assistant will come whenever we are needed.’

  Matron nodded. His assistant was a nice young man but he knew she preferred his personal attendance because, she said, he was so certain and sure – and gentle with the patients. Some of the doctors could be rough and Matron was known to disapprove of that, because a sick person needed gentle kindness, not abrupt words or careless actions.

  After washing his hands thoroughly in the basin at the end of the ward, Peter left the Rosie and went out into the night. He hoped the patient’s fever would turn out to be something simple but there was always a chance it could be nasty.

  Walking briskly in the night air, Peter’s thoughts turned to the young woman he’d spoken to briefly on his arrival at the infirmary and he smiled. He’d been attracted to Sister Rose from the first moment he’d seen her but some of his colleagues had warned him to watch out.

  ‘She hates men,’ the senior clinician, Richard Harris, had told him. ‘I asked her for a drink at Christmas about two years ago and she nearly bit my head off – told me she wasn’t interested in no uncertain terms.’

  Peter had heard similar stories from other doctors who had tried to interest Sister Rose in a date and failed. At first, she’d seemed a bit frosty with him but recently her smiles had been warmer and he’d been tempted to ask her if she wanted to go for a meal or something, but his natural caution held him back. Peter had loved a young nurse at his training hospital but Sheila had been a terrible flirt and although she’d gone out with Peter for some months, he’d discovered she was dating others behind his back, and sleeping with them too.

  When he taxed her with it, Sheila had laughed and said she wanted a good time before she settled down to one man and boredom. Her scorn had hurt him for a while but he’d got over it. A woman who gave herself to anyone that easily wasn’t worth breaking your heart over. So, he’d got on with his job – which he loved – and dated other young women casually, often in a group with other young medical personnel. It was fine while he was young and not particularly looking for a steady relationship, but one day he wanted a loving wife and a family. Although he lived in a small, family-run hotel, which was situated close to the London Hospital where he worked two days a week, he could afford a nice house with a garden, and that was what he wanted. He might even set up as a GP one day, with his own surgery, but it would still be in the East End of London. A country practice wasn’t for him. While there were many sick people everywhere, something about the spirit of the East End people appealed and he liked treating them and seeing them go back to their hard lives with new hope.

  Smiling, Peter found his modest and ancient Ford car – still with all its wheels intact. The lads round here would pinch anything but they knew the car was his and any lad who tried to nick his wheels would have his ear clipped by one of the others and told to leave Doctor Peter’s car be.

  Next time he saw Sister Rose, he decided, he would ask her if she would like to have a meal with him on her day off; in the meantime, he’d promised to help out at a meal given for the old folk at the Methodist Hall on Sunday …

  CHAPTER 4

  Danny shivered in the cold wind. His home had never been warm since his mother’s death, but here on the streets it was bitter and getting worse as the night drew on. He’d been wandering for three days, sleeping in the doorways of shops to keep out of the rain that had fallen steadily. As yet he hadn’t found the place he was looking for, but he’d met a boy he’d known by sight from school and he’d told Danny that if he kept walking towards the river there was a mission hall that would give him some hot soup and bread. However, he must have taken a wrong turning because he hadn’t come near the hall.

  Shivering with cold, Danny wondered if he’d done the right thing by leaving his home. Perhaps it would have been better to stay there and take the beatings his father handed out when he was drunk. He looked about him as the street lights started to go on and darkness fell. During the day, Danny had walked inside the larger shops, wandering around for something to do and keep warm, but now they were all closing. He’d spent an hour or so in a library but then the lady in charge had asked him why he wasn’t at school. Perhaps he should go to school and ask for help – but his father might fetch him back and then he would really belt him hard. His fear of another beating was worse than the trouble he’d get into for missing school so he’d just kept on walking.

  Now he stood undecided, dreading another night alone on the dark streets. Hungry, cold and tired, Danny was close to tears. He didn’t get easily frightened but there was a hollow feeling inside him as he realised he’d got completely lost, and had no idea where he was or where to go.

  ‘Feeling lost, son?’ a friendly voice asked, and Danny looked at the man who had spoken.

  He was thin and wiry, perhaps thirty-odd, with short dark hair slicked back and smartly dressed. His smile was reassuring and Danny nodded his head.

  ‘I was looking for the Methodist Hall,’ he confided. ‘Jimmy said I can get some hot soup there.’

  ‘Cold and hungry, are you?’ the man asked sympathetically. ‘It’s not very nice, is it? I know what it is like to go hungry when you’re young – that’s why I work for folk who help lost children.’ He looked at Danny, an odd expression in his eyes. ‘Have you heard of the Sally Army?’

  ‘Yeah, Ma always used to say they were all right – she said they would help yer without interfering like the council lot.’

  The man smiled again, more confidently this time. ‘Yes, that’s right, that’s what we do, lad. Now, I can’t tell you where this Methodist Hall is, but I can take you to our place and I can do better than some soup – how would you like a nice packet of fish and chips with salt and vinegar?’

  ‘Can we eat them out of the paper?’ Danny asked eagerly. ‘I ain’t never had fish from a chipper, though.’ But he loved chips and it was years since he’d had a packet, the last bought as a birthday treat by his mother for his birthday nearly a year before she died.

  ‘We’ll get them now,’ his new friend said. ‘And then we’ll go to the Salvation Army Hall. My name is Jim, by the way – just like your friend.’

  The man’s voice, smile and tone were reassuring and Danny fell into step with him. His stomach rumbled as he eagerly anticipated the food. He wondered what the fish would be like.

  At the shop, Jim told Danny to wait outside and he stood looking into the window that was misted up with steam, stamping his feet to keep out the cold. His grandfather’s coat was too big for him, but without it he would have frozen the last couple of nights and he felt comforted by the knapsack on his back. His silver watch and the few pennies he possessed were tucked safely inside his shirt.

  ‘Here you are, lad,’ Jim said handing him the newspaper-wrapped packet of fish and chips salted and soaked in vinegar, just the way Danny liked chips. He took them eagerly and began to woof them down, enjoying his first taste of shop-cooked fish in batter, burning his mouth in his haste because they were so hot – so hot but so delicious!

  ‘Eat them slowly,’ his new friend said, laughing. ‘You don’t want to choke yourself!’ He hesitated then said, ‘Will you tell me your name?’

  ‘Danny – Danny Bryant,’ Danny mumbled between mouthfuls. The fish and chips were so wonderful that all he wanted to do was concentrate on eating and it wasn’t until they’d left the lights of the busy streets behind that he began to notice his surroundings. It was darker now in these narrow lanes and Danny felt the first prickle of unease. ‘Where are we going, mister?’

  ‘To the Salvation Army Home,’ he replied easily. ‘They’ll give you a bed for the night and tell y
ou where you can get free food and shelter.’

  Danny nodded and continued to eat. He had no reason to doubt what he was being told and yet his feeling of unease began to increase as he noticed the increasing drabness of the streets through which they were passing – he wouldn’t have thought the Sally Army would be here. At the back of his mind was being taken to the Salvation Army Hall by his mother. She’d gone to ask for advice when her mother had been ill and taken to the infirmary – Granny had died that winter and his mother had been sad for a while, but she’d wiped Danny’s tears and told him that Granny had gone to Heaven. When his mother died, Danny’s father had told him to stop his bawling and stormed off to get drunk.

  ‘Finished?’ Jim asked him and took the greasy papers, throwing them into the gutter.

  Mum wouldn’t have approved, Danny thought. She’d always said you should put your rubbish in the bin at home if there wasn’t one on the street. The prickling at his nape increased as they stopped outside a door. Danny knew instantly that this wasn’t the Sally Army Hall – it was just a very shabby house and he hesitated, holding back as Jim knocked at the door.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked, feeling suddenly frightened.

  ‘We’re going inside, Danny,’ the man said and reached out as if he would take hold of Danny’s arm.

  ‘No! You tricked me – this isn’t the Sally Army!’ Danny backed away as the man lunged at him, trying to grab him. He turned and ran back down the lane but the man was on him at once and he felt a strong hand grab him. As he was grasped by the arm, he kicked out and struggled, yelling and screaming out, ‘Get orf me!’

  The man’s hold didn’t lessen as they struggled and then he heard another voice and there were two of them holding him. Danny had no chance of getting away from two grown men and he was snatched off his feet and carried by his shoulders and legs back down the narrow alley towards the house that had terrified him.