Christmas for the Halfpenny Orphans Page 5

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Mary Ellen said, puzzled by Samantha’s hostility. ‘Sarah is very pretty. I wish I had hair her colour.’

  ‘We’re twins,’ Samantha said, the stiffness easing out of her. ‘I thought I could look out for us both after Pa … but I couldn’t find enough food to eat. I tried to sell what we had left but the man cheated me and would only give me five shillings for all of it …’

  ‘What man?’ Mary Ellen asked.

  ‘Alf, from the scrapyard. I know it was worth more, perhaps two or three pounds, but all he paid me was five bob and he threatened to tell the police I’d stolen it if I didn’t leave it with him.’

  ‘Even two pounds wouldn’t have lasted long,’ Mary Ellen said. ‘Don’t you have anyone you could live with?’

  Samantha shook her head, but Sarah took her thumb from her mouth and said, ‘Aunt Jane won’t have Sarah. She says Sarah idiot girl – Pa gone away …’

  ‘Sarah – don’t, love,’ Samantha said, looking at her sadly before turning back to Mary Ellen. ‘I didn’t want to live with Aunt Jane. She’s not kind – and she hates Sarah.’

  ‘She sounds horrid,’ Mary Ellen said. ‘But you’ll be all right here. It seems strange at first, but Nan is nice and so are the nurses, and Miss Angela. Sister Beatrice is a bit fierce, but she’s not bad really. And we have good things to eat …’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘My father died and then my mother got ill. She was unwell for ages, then my sister Rose went off to train as a nurse and we didn’t have any money. Ma wouldn’t tell Rose she was worse and we were so hungry sometimes – and then she got really ill and they put her in hospital, but she died last Christmas. My sister couldn’t look after me – so that’s why I live here; I haven’t got anywhere else until Rose finds us a place to live. She’s always busy and sometimes I think she never will find us a new house.’

  ‘Pa not come back,’ Sarah said. She reached under her pillow and took out two pieces of what looked like rubbish to Mary Ellen, and then she saw it was a broken clay pipe with a long handle. Sarah held it to her cheek, crooning to herself, tears slipping down her cheeks. ‘Pa not love Sarah … Child of Satan …’

  ‘What did she say?’ Mary Ellen was shocked.

  ‘Our father called her that for breaking his favourite pipe. Sarah didn’t mean to upset him, she loves Pa, but he doesn’t care about us. He thinks she’s too slow and clumsy, and he beat her until I made him stop.’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I threw the pee in my chamber pot over him,’ Samantha said simply.

  Mary Ellen stared at her in awe for a moment and then erupted into peals of laughter. ‘Oh, that’s so funny,’ she said. ‘You’re brave, like Marion. When a burglar tried to steal our Christmas food she hit him with her crutch and then Angela came and fought him, and he tripped over and hit his head – and then Sister Beatrice came and stood over him with the rolling pin until Alice came and took over from her. She looked so fierce I laughed and so did Billy, even though the burglar was his brother Arthur!’

  Samantha sat forward, suddenly showing signs of interest as Mary Ellen recounted the story of how Billy’s brother had planned to eat their special food and then set fire to the home.

  ‘What happened to him?’ Samantha asked, a gleam in her eyes.

  ‘Billy heard he’d been sentenced to ten years in prison. He was a thief and he tried to make Billy help him, but Billy didn’t want to so he came back here and hid. That’s why Arthur was intent on burning us all in our beds, ’cept he can’t now, ’cos he’s locked up in choky.’

  ‘So you were heroes and saved the day,’ Samantha said. She paused for a moment, then asked, ‘What happens here – is it like prison?’

  Mary Ellen shook her head. ‘I asked Billy that when I heard my sister Rose saying I would have to come here when Mum was ill. No, it’s OK, even though it’s not like being in your own home. Sister Beatrice is stern and gets cross if you’re naughty and break the rules, but she’s all right underneath. She has to be strict, see. She’s in charge of us and gets into trouble if we do bad things.’

  Samantha looked solemn. ‘It was easy at school when we were younger. I sat next to Sarah and explained the lessons and writing to her, but we got told off for talking – and then they separated us. Sarah was taken to a class for younger children and they didn’t bother to teach her anything, but she can learn – if you tell her enough times she will remember.’

  Sarah’s eyes wore a glazed look, as if she were lost in her crooning. She’d stopped listening to them, and was fondling her father’s broken pipe, her cheeks streaked with tears.

  ‘You should tell Nancy about her. She’s younger but works with the carers. She’ll help Sarah with reading and puzzles once you’re settled in. She reads to the little ones, but Sarah could join them in the mornings rather than go to school with us.’

  ‘Perhaps … but they might send her to a special school. It’s what Pa was saying last year, but it didn’t happen; there wasn’t a spare place for her. My aunt wanted to put her in a mental institution for daft people and that’s why we ran away. If they try to do that to my Sarah, we’ll run away again.’

  ‘You ought to tell Miss Angela what you’ve told me,’ Mary Ellen said. ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t let them send her away if you asked her not to.’

  ‘No, I shan’t tell them,’ Samantha said fiercely. ‘Promise me you won’t tell either, Mary Ellen. Cross your heart and hope to die if you betray us.’

  ‘I shan’t tell anyone,’ Mary Ellen said. ‘I think Sister would let you stay if she could, but it might not be up to her …’ She broke off as the door opened and someone came in. It was Nurse Wendy and Mary Ellen wished she could share the secret with her, but she’d promised she wouldn’t on pain of death and that was a solemn oath.

  ‘Ah, here you are, Mary Ellen,’ Wendy said. ‘I’m glad you’ve been making friends with Samantha and Sarah, as you are all moving into the new dorm tomorrow. This afternoon, one of us will be helping you and Marion to pack your things. Samantha and Sarah, you’re both perfectly healthy and will go to your dorm straight from here. You’ll find your clothes and things waiting in the dorm, but I’ll bring you your school clothes. You’ll wear a skirt and blouse like Mary Ellen’s …’

  ‘What happened to our clothes?’ Samantha asked, reverting to her hostile manner.

  ‘They’ve been washed and you will find them in your locker with the new undies and nightdresses you’ve been given. Everyone has to wear school clothes unless you go out with a relative for a special treat.’

  ‘We haven’t got any relatives,’ Samantha said.

  Mary Ellen frowned over the fib but didn’t contradict her. Her new friends had both an aunt and a father, even though one of them didn’t want Sarah and the other had deserted them – but it was up to Samantha to share her story when she was ready. Mary Ellen wouldn’t tell. Nothing would make her …

  ‘They were talking easily when I went in,’ Wendy told Angela later that day when they sat together in the staff room, ‘but Samantha clammed up as soon as she saw me. I’m sure Mary Ellen knows a lot more about them than we do, but you know how loyal she is. Wild horses wouldn’t get it out of her unless she thought it would save their lives.’

  ‘We can’t force her to tell us and I shan’t try,’ Angela said. ‘We’ll have to wait until the twins feel they can trust us … Is Sarah still clinging to that dirty old pipe?’

  ‘Yes. She hid it as soon as she saw me, but I knew what it was. I’ve seen her holding it to her cheek and singing. Tears slip down her cheeks but she doesn’t say anything – merely parrots whatever Samantha says if she has to answer.’

  ‘She may simply be slow. Sarah is a sweet, loving child and Samantha is protective of her. There’s nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘As they’re both girls, there’s no bother about them staying together. Perhaps Sarah will have more to say when she feels comfortable with us.’

/>   ‘Well, they may not be here long; you see, they have an aunt who may be willing to take them.’

  ‘Oh, well perhaps that’s best,’ Wendy agreed. ‘I’d better get back to the ward. I left Jean to give the children their drinks, but she’s due a break soon.’

  She met Tilly as she was on her way to the kitchen and greeted her with a friendly smile, but though the girl smiled back, she walked on without speaking. Wendy hadn’t got to know her yet. Sometimes Tilly would join in a conversation, but more often she was quiet and wary of saying much. Wendy thought there was something sad about her …

  Wendy had known enough sadness of her own. The only man she’d ever loved had died in the war, as had so many others – and then Wendy’s mother had died of cancer. She’d spent months nursing her and afterwards she’d wanted a change from general nursing, so this job had been a godsend. Wendy loved her job here and, although it couldn’t fill the empty space inside her that the deaths of her loved ones had left, several of the children had already found their way into her heart …

  SIX

  Angela filed away her reports and stretched her shoulders. She really wished that she was going somewhere nice that evening instead of a charity meeting. Her evening out with Mark had ended so abruptly; they’d hardly had time to have a drink before he was rushing off to see his patient.

  ‘I wouldn’t go, but Alan Royston is a friend,’ Mark had told her. ‘I told them to call me if there were complications during the operation – it’s always risky, trying to remove a tumour on the brain. No matter how skilled the surgeon, it could go either way.’

  ‘I understand, Mark,’ Angela had said, swallowing her disappointment. ‘You must go to your friend. If anything should happen you would never forgive yourself.’

  ‘I was the one who talked him into having the op. The tumour had grown to the point it was going to kill him or leave him severely impaired. If he dies now I shall be left wondering if he might have had a few more months if he’d refused …’

  Angela’s heart went out to him. She suspected he wouldn’t take the death of a friend easily and she wished she could have gone with him to support him. However, Mark would never have allowed it.

  She was reaching for her jacket, ready to leave for the evening, when the phone rang. Angela hesitated and then reached for the receiver. ‘Angela Morton here.’

  ‘Angela, my love,’ her father’s voice came down the line. ‘How are you? I’m planning to pop up to town this weekend, and I thought perhaps dinner and the theatre later? I can stay overnight and we’ll have lunch the next day before I go back.’

  ‘Oh, Daddy, it is lovely to hear from you, and I’d love to go out to dinner with you on Saturday. I’ll try to get tickets for a show. Shall I book them and a room for you?’

  ‘No, I’ll see to the room,’ he said. ‘It’ll be good to see you, and we need to have a talk. It’s about your mother – but we’ll discuss all that when I see you.’

  ‘Is something the matter? Mother isn’t worse, is she?’ Angela’s mother had been drinking heavily for months before her breakdown the previous Christmas, when it had all come out. It had taken months to persuade her to go to a special clinic in Switzerland for treatment, and in the end it was Mark who had persuaded her to do so.

  ‘No. In fact from the sound of it she’s feeling better. I’ll tell you all the news at the weekend. I won’t keep you.’

  ‘Yes, all right. Lovely to hear from you. I’ll look forward to the weekend.’

  She frowned as she replaced the receiver. Her mother’s behaviour had been erratic for some time, but the breakdown last Christmas had come as a shock. Despite his attempt at reassurance, Angela couldn’t help feeling anxious about whatever it was her father wanted to tell her.

  Mark had known of Mrs Hendry’s illness for months but he hadn’t told Angela – and she’d been angry with him for that. Perhaps that was one of the causes of this rift between them. Angela had been in the wrong; Mark could not betray a confidence, and it was her father who should have told her but he’d kept it to himself. In the aftermath of the breakdown Angela had offered to give up her work at St Saviour’s, but her father wouldn’t hear of it.

  As she set off homeward along Halfpenny Street, Angela’s thoughts were preoccupied with things she could do nothing about. She turned the corner and passed the newly restored and recently reopened pub with its hanging baskets bringing a touch of welcome colour. The scent of the blooms was no longer overpowered by the tang of city drains, thanks to the efforts of the road sweeper who’d been hired to keep the pavements and gutters clean. He was an ex-soldier – his limp a relic of the war, if she was not mistaken – and he never failed to tip his cap in greeting whenever they passed on the street.

  She could hear the tooting of a car horn somewhere and out on the river there was a hooter blaring from one of the barges. The vacant spaces left by Hitler’s bombs made the area seem more rundown than it actually was, but some headway had been made in clearing the rubble and one or two new buildings were going up, bringing a sense that things were moving on at last. There were still shortages, and rationing had yet to be lifted on essential items such as sugar, butter, canned and dried fruit, chocolate biscuits, clothing and petrol. Yet there was a growing feeling, encouraged by upbeat newspaper reports, that they were finally leaving those dark years of war and devastation behind.

  More and more of late, Angela was aware of a vague sense of wistfulness, of needing something more in her life. She longed to be going somewhere nice for a change instead of another charity meeting. It would probably be very dull, since the housing charity was made up of a few well-intentioned people who wanted to contribute but seemed incapable of actually doing anything. Until Angela had taken over as secretary, their meetings had been spent going round and round in circles, talking endlessly and never reaching a decision. By sheer force of energy, she’d managed to galvanise them into approving funding for new housing to be built on the site they’d acquired. Now if she could only get them to come to a decision on which builder would carry out the work …

  The Methodist hall, with its walls clad in dark oak wainscoting and drab grey paint, and a permanent odour of musty old books in the air, was not the most welcoming of venues. As usual, the old-fashioned radiators were proving unequal to the task of heating the draughty interior, and Angela was debating whether to hang her coat on the hallstand or keep it on for the duration of the meeting when she was hailed by Stan Bridges, Chairman of the Housing Society.

  ‘Angela, just the person! I’d like you to meet Henry Arnold,’ he beamed, ushering her towards an extremely attractive young man. ‘Henry, this is Mrs Morton, one of the unpaid angels who keep our little charity run—’ He broke off as the door opened to admit another new arrival, then hurried over to greet them, Angela and her new companion immediately forgotten.

  ‘Mr Arnold, I had no idea you would be coming tonight,’ Angela said, extending her hand to him. ‘I knew we had whittled the list of prospective builders down to three, but I thought it was to be decided this evening …’

  ‘Please, call me Henry,’ he said, giving her a smile that lit his blue eyes with a dazzling brilliance. ‘I think I precipitated things rather. Stan Bridges is the director of a firm for whom I have recently built a block of offices and he mentioned over a drink that this project was open for tender.’

  ‘So you thought you would jump the gun and present yourself uninvited?’

  The note of annoyance in her voice was too pronounced to be mistaken, and Henry Arnold’s expression betrayed a flash of pique that gave way to amusement. ‘You’ve got me wrong, Angela,’ he said, a faint northern accent discernible. ‘Stan asked me to come this evening to meet you and some of the others. You see, he thinks my proposition is too good to be missed.’

  ‘And what is your proposition, exactly?’ Angela replied coolly. She didn’t care for his presumption in using her first name without invitation.

  ‘I’ve been invited t
o pitch my plans to you this evening,’ he said. ‘Basically, I’ve told Stan that I will not only match any offer from my rivals, I’ll take twenty per cent off it – and give as good quality or better.’

  ‘And what will you get out of it?’

  ‘The pleasure of knowing six families will have decent homes to live in at rents they can afford,’ he replied. ‘I’m a wealthy man, Angela. My father made a fortune up north from his mills – and I’ve taken up where he left off. Since I came out of the Army I’ve gone into building on my own account and there’s more work than I ever dreamed of. Once the brick ovens really get going again, we’ll see houses shooting up all over the country. We’re building a better Britain, and everyone must benefit from that – I hope you’ll agree?’

  ‘Yes, I do agree that we want decent homes at affordable rents,’ Angela said, wondering why she’d immediately felt hostility towards this man. She knew the charity board would be likely to agree to his proposals – how could they refuse such an offer? Yet she wondered what the catch was – what he hoped to gain. He struck her as altogether too smooth, too good to be true. ‘But why should you offer us such a bargain?’

  ‘I make my money from the rich men who can afford large office buildings in the centre of London and other big cities. My firm is delighted to take every penny we can from them, but when it comes to deserving causes, I’m a different animal. I like to help those who need it – and I’m told you’re the same.’

  ‘I support good causes, but I don’t have the kind of fortune I imagine you have at your disposal.’

  The corner of Henry Arnold’s mouth lifted in what she took to be a superior smirk. ‘Not many do, Angela. My father gave me a damned good start and I’ve built on his work. I dare say I could live in comfort for the rest of my life without lifting a finger – but why should I? Particularly when I can use some of my money to help those that need it.’

  ‘I can’t think of a single reason,’ Angela conceded, realising she was beaten. He seemed insufferably arrogant, but she supposed he had every right to be given his wealth and his good works. ‘I suppose I must thank you for coming to our aid. Twenty per cent is a lot of money – but I intend to get those other estimates, Mr Arnold. I will specify exactly what we want, and I shall expect to get it.’