Front Line Nurse

‘Oh well … I have Mrs Marshall, who you’ve met,’ the superintendent replied. ‘She is a general assistant and she comes in each day. One or two extra helpers are engaged occasionally when needed, and of course there are always the two domestics who clean and do regular hours in the laundry.’

‘You have quite a task force here, Miss Kingston,’ Randolph said, and she smiled.

‘Ah, but I haven’t mentioned our wonderful cook, Mrs Vera Haines! She is resident, naturally, as is our young nurse, Nancy’ the superintendent said. ‘Nancy is a cheerful young lady who sometimes helps the nuns in the schoolroom, or accompanies the children when they go to the park. But she goes home at weekends, so it’s fortunate that, after all these years, I am well able to cope with any minor medical problems which may crop up. And of course, I can always call the parish doctor if necessary,’ she added.

Randolph glanced at the clock on the wall. He didn’t want to take up too much of the woman’s time, but if he was going to put his plan into action, he had to know what he was taking on – and what it was going to cost. ‘Would you mind showing me around, Miss Kingston?’ he asked politely. ‘Because I would very much like to help in some way if possible, and …’

Emma Kingston stood up. ‘Of course you may look around, Mr Garfield,’ she said, ‘but I am afraid we are beyond help now. We just cannot afford to stay here with the small financial help we receive. The whole place is in need of a thorough overhaul, such lighting as we have needs replacing and the plumbing is in a poor state.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘So one has to face facts – this building is not fit for purpose, and that is why it is to be sold. Apart from the fact that, as I explained, our benefactor has died,’ she added.

Randolph did not reply, but followed her along the corridor and up to the stairs to be shown the five small bedrooms for the orphans – all very neat and tidy, he noted to himself.

‘These rooms at the end are the ones for Nancy, Mrs Haines and myself,’ Miss Kingston said, ‘and our nursery for the babies is there as well. The two small bathrooms we have are downstairs – which can be slightly inconvenient.’

Is Angelina in the nursery?’ Randolph asked casually, and Emma Kingston stopped.

‘Yes – would you like to take a peep, Mr Garfield?’

‘Together, they went into the nursery and as Randolph gazed down at the child he had the greatest difficulty in not scooping her up into his arms. Cocooned in snow-white covers, she was fast asleep. On the soft white pillow was the pink teddy bear, the one tiny possession she had brought with her.

‘She is the most delightful baby,’ Miss Kingston murmured softly. ‘We are all in love with her. It’s as if she’s determined to be no trouble to anyone.’

Just then, Angelina stirred and opened her eyes, and Randolph felt tears welling up in his own. What possible future was in store for this little one, abandoned at birth? Why couldn’t she be his, his and Sybil’s? One of the children they’d planned to have?

The superintendent interrupted his thoughts as she said quietly, ‘Her next feed is almost due, but see? Angelina is looking at us, Mr Garfield, giving us the onceover! This is quite unusual in so young a child,’ she added.

Randolph found his voice. ‘She is … perfect,’ he said. ‘Surely a gift from God.’

Miss Kingston glanced at him covertly. For a hard-nosed businessman, Mr Garfield was rather a surprise.

‘It is very quiet everywhere,’ Randolph said as he followed her back down, and she half-turned to glance at him.

‘Ah well, at this time on a Saturday afternoon the children are usually taken to the park – if the weather is reasonable – but they’ll be back soon and looking forward to teatime. Cook usually makes cakes on Saturdays.’

Emma Kingston opened a door and gestured for Randolph to look inside. ‘This is where food is eaten,’ she said, ‘and the children have three meals a day, breakfast, dinner and tea, and a warm drink last thing.’

Randolph looked down at the two long trestle tables, the wooden benches pushed beneath. ‘I must say that I was aware of a very appetising smell as I came in earlier,’ he said. ‘So what was on the menu for dinner today?’

‘It was tripe and onions today, with mashed potatoes, and an apple for pudding,’ Miss Kingston said, ‘and while tripe may not be everyone’s first choice we are on a very tight budget, so the children must eat what they are given.’ She smiled briefly. ‘Orphans are not allowed to be fussy, Mr Garfield, but our cook always manages to make everything so tasty that it is unusual for even a scrap of food to be left on the plates. And the staff eat exactly the same.’

Finally, Randolph was shown the playroom and the schoolroom next to it, with the single desks in rows and a large blackboard and easel at the front of the class.

‘Do the children enjoy their lessons with the nuns?’ Randolph enquired. ‘I mean, do you have behavioural problems?’

‘Sometimes,’ Miss Kingston admitted, ‘but orphans are just children, all with difficult backgrounds – well, those we know about. But some of them are just picked up from the street, little strays that no one knows a thing about. So of course they can be naughty, but that’s only to be expected– and I try and talk them out of their bad humour with a hug, and maybe a sweet or two,’ she added.

Following her back into her office, Randolph decided that it was time to come clean.

‘Miss Kingston,’ he said, ‘I have something to say which may come as a surprise, but all things being equal, I am going to buy this building, and will expect it to be run exactly as it is at the moment.’

The woman’s reaction was immediate. ‘Mr Garfield … Mr Garfield, I am not sure what to say, but—’

‘The only thing I would ask you to say, Miss Kingston,’ Randolph interrupted, ‘is that, if it all goes through as I hope it will, would you stay on in your present position here and help me … advise me? My business life is obviously totally different from owning an orphanage, as you will appreciate, and I am going to need expert guidance. Can I dare to hope that you will provide that guidance?’

For a full ten seconds Emma Kingston didn’t utter a word. Then she said simply, ‘It would be my privilege, Mr Garfield. And my utter joy.’

He stood up to leave, then hesitated. ‘It is very sad that no one has come forward to claim Angelina,’ he said, and the superintendent nodded.

‘Indeed it is,’ she said quietly. ‘And … I do have news which it grieves me to tell you, Mr Garfield. But the body of a young woman was found late on Thursday night, about half a mile from here and … it seems that she had quite recently given birth.’

Randolph felt his stomach lurch in horror at this information, yet he was well aware that almost every week in the year it was commonplace for nameless bodies to be swept up on the streets of London. Jacob Mason’s classless, rootless, useless human beings …

Chapter 3

December 1913

Alone at home in his study, Randolph stared out at the cheerless wintry scene, his heart heavy with dread. There was no denying any longer that war with Germany was imminent. The newspapers were full of gloom – Mr Winston Churchill who, in the last couple of years, had demanded the construction of huge battleships to counter Germany’s massive fleet, appeared to be hungry for the conflict to begin as soon as possible. And it seemed that he might get his wish because military exercises could be regularly witnessed on the streets of London and artillery batteries had appeared at the mouth of the Thames. Ready and waiting …

Randolph ran a hand through his hair. The thought of war was hideous for many reasons – not only because of the blood, sweat and tears which would be shed, but the damage to the economy would be enormous, the wealth of the country eroded. Any sea-faring trades would be affected, and that included Garfield’s.

But all those considerations were not what was really making Randolph’s stomach churn with anxiety. It was the fact that Alexander would almost certainly be the age at which he would be expected to join the British army and do his bit to help defend France and Belgium against the enemy. Randolph had kept a close watch on the news over the preceding months and had a shrewd idea as to what that would entail. The thought that his beloved son should come to harm, or suffer an early death, was the worst possible nightmare. If that did happen, Randolph himself would not wish to go on living.

He tried to cheer up. After all, in a couple of days Alexander would be coming home from his boarding school for the Christmas holidays, and despite everything, that was enough to ease Randolph’s frown.

Ever since Alexander and Jacob Mason’s daughter, Honora, had been born, the two families always spent the two main Christmas days together. The Masons had no other children, nor close family members, so it seemed a natural thing to do. The two families took it in turns to host the festivities and this year it was going to be at the Masons’ house. Although, as usual, there would be merely five of them enjoying the festivities the noise and hilarity was always enough for a crowd. From very early days, the two children had always loved being together, and even now that they were both almost 17 years old, nothing had changed. As Jacob kept insisting, they had been a pigeon pair since birth, and he would always make sure that the ubiquitous sprig of mistletoe was there above the front door so that Honora and Alexander could be witnessed showing their special love for each other and receive a round of applause from Jacob and Elizabeth. But Randolph would merely smile. He hoped his friends were not going to be disappointed in their matchmaking hopes. Alexander seemed engrossed in his college life, and although, next year, he was expected to start a business degree course, Randolph had been advised that they should think again as his son showed an exceptional understanding of physics. It appeared that a different future might await him.

For Randolph, Christmas Eve was the occasion he most looked forward to. Ever since he had a acquired the orphanage, he had made a point of visiting the place several times every month, and Christmas Eve was a special date. He and Alexander would go there together and take presents and treats for the staff. Of course, the children always had a bulging stocking to open on Christmas morning, but it was the magic of the day before which touched Randolph the most. To hear his little orphans sing carols to him, and see their faces alive with hope and excitement, always pulled at his heart strings.

Now, glancing at his watch, he saw that it was almost time for his supper to be served, but first, he needed to look through some papers. Opening one of the drawers in his desk, a small brown envelope took his attention. Of course, he knew what it held because he had looked through it many times.

It was a bundle of precious letters that Miss Kingston had sent him some years ago. Letters that Randolph guarded with the same care that he gave to his important financial papers, because every child who had been capable of doing so had written to him telling him what they would like to be when they grew up and left the orphanage.

This exercise had been Miss Kingston’s idea, and she could not have known the pleasure it would give to their benefactor every time he read the careful writing. There were going to be train drivers and policemen, writers and singers – one 8-year-old wanted to be the Archbishop of Canterbury, and several wanted to own their own sweet shops. But the thing was, they all had hopes, and Randolph did his best to help as many of them as he could. After all, he was influential and had already seen several of the 14-year-olds find work, giving them the chance to earn money and develop some self-respect and independence. Last year he had been especially pleased to see one of his youngsters, who’d always been top of the class in arithmetic, secure an apprenticeship with a firm of accountants – business associates of Randolph’s. And despite Jacob Mason’s cynical outlook on orphans, over the last year or two he had agreed to take on three lads to work in his factory and had grudgingly admitted that, so far, he couldn’t complain. But he had also stated that at the first sign of pilfering or wasting time, the culprit would be out on his ear. ‘It’s all in the genes, Randolph,’ Jacob would say complacently. ‘Just mark my words, because I know I’m right. In the end, none of them can possibly amount to much, not with their background.’

But it was always one special letter in the bundle which Randolph would keep to read last. Not that he needed to read it because he knew it off by heart. The writing was childish but perfectly formed and confident. It read:

Dear Mr Garfield,

I am seven years old and I have been a Garfield orphan all my life. I have not had any other home, and I do not want one because I am very happy here even though the nuns get cross in the schoolroom sometimes and give us the cane.

The only thing I want when I grow up is to get married and have my own house to keep clean, and my own children to look after. I have already met my husband, he is Mr Alexander, and I love him and I know he loves me because when he visits he always says he likes my dress and one day he said he thought my hair was a very pretty colour. He is a kind person so I know he would treat me well and not beat me like Ruby was beaten. Ruby is my best friend, and she is going to be my bridesmaid at the wedding.

Thank you very much for all you give us at the Garfield Home. You are a kind person.

I hope you are well. I am very well.

Yours sincerely,

Angelina Green

August 1914

Emma Kingston glanced at the calendar on her desk. The war, the much dreaded war, was now a month old, and so far all seemed to be quiet. Thoughtfully, she went across to the window and stared out, a shiver of dread running through her. Because surely this was just the calm before the storm. She knew it, felt it in her bones – after all, she studied the papers, listened to the wireless, heard the ranting of their politicians, the determination and intransigence of the unstoppable German invaders. The country, perhaps the whole world, was about to embark on a nightmare of indescribable horror.

And how many of the little orphans who had passed through her hands might be caught up in it, maimed, killed …

Presently, the superintendent popped her head around the school room door.

‘Angelina, would you go to the sick room, please? The nurse could do with another pair of hands this morning. Oh, and after dinner, I would like to see you in my office for a few minutes.’

Angelina, who had been helping the younger children recite their times tables, turned at once to do as she’d been asked. If there was one place she loved best in the world to be, it was in the medical room at the far end of the corridor. For the last couple of days there had been a sickness bug going about and the current young nurse, Greta, always asked for Angelina, who, Greta had said more than once, had a natural understanding of what needed to be done and a gift for reassuring the little patients and making them feel safe. But Emma Kingston had realised this talent for a long time, and it had clearly been proved when a little waif – later known as Ruby – had been brought in from the streets, half-naked and badly bruised. For many weeks the poor child had not uttered a single word, keeping her eyes and mouth tightly shut, and even now, after so many years had passed, the superintendent’s anger rose in her throat at the memory of that little one’s distress. Not even her own kindly experience had been able to make the child talk. But Angelina had taken the little girl under her wing, reading Peter Pan and Wendy to her, over and over again, and letting her share and cuddle Angelina’s precious pink teddy as they were in bed together. So when one day the little voice had finally whispered ‘My name is Ruby’, it had seemed as if Angelina had performed a small miracle.

Now, Angelina tapped on the superintendent’s door and went in. Emma Kingston looked up. This child – no longer a child – had developed into a beautiful young woman. She had grown quite tall, with a willowy figure that seemed full of grace and energy, and her long, golden brown hair falling in soft waves around her face, always shone with health,

‘Ah, there you are, dear. Come and sit down for a few minutes because we’ve one or two things to discuss.’

Angelina sat at the other side of the desk and looked across. ‘Is there something you need me to do, Miss Kingston?’

‘No, it’s more about you, dear, and what’s ahead.’ She cleared her throat. This was one of the duties she never enjoyed. ‘I don’t need to remind you that in a few months you will be 14 years old,’ she went on, ‘and that in January you will be leaving us and moving on to pastures new.’

Angelina sat forward and smiled. ‘You mean that I must make space for another child to come and live at The Garfield?’

‘Yes, I am afraid so, and if I had my way you would all stay on here for ever!’ the superintendent said. ‘But as you know 14 has always been the leaving age, and Mr Garfield, too, is of the opinion that all children should be encouraged to make their own way in the world and accept responsibility for themselves. But he also insists that the door is never closed to any of you and that you are welcome to come and visit as often as you like.’

She looked away for a moment, not wanting to admit that parting with Angelina was going to be hard. She had always been a special child, a favourite child. And why should she not be, because it was thanks to her arrival fourteen years ago that the orphanage had been transformed, or that it even existed in this place. The day that Randolph Garfield had turned up, holding that little shoe box, had been a red-letter day for all of them, and if someone else had found the baby this orphanage would now be an empty shell. Instead, under his ownership, new lighting and heating had been installed straightaway, there were now two bathrooms upstairs, the kitchen had been refitted with new equipment and every room was regularly redecorated in bright colours. Not only those practical considerations had been attended to, but there was always a continuous supply of new books and toys and games – the Meccano sets brought in a few years ago proving an endless fascination for both girls and boys.

It seemed that Mr Garfield was determined to leave no stone unturned for his orphans, often employing extra tutors to help any child with difficulties, or who showed a talent or willingness to learn. Mr Garfield regularly came in to visit, often bringing his young son with him, and it always surprised Emma Kingston that their benefactor was very good at remembering most of the children’s names. But he never again referred to Angelina’s sad beginning, nor treated her differently from the others. In fact, discussion about any of the orphans was discouraged at the Home. The totally unknown were baptised and given simple Christian names, and told that their parents had died, that they were all in the same boat and the past was the past. The future, their future, was what mattered. The superintendent sighed happily at her own thoughts. Ten years ago she should have retired, but she was still here at the Garfield, and had never been more content with her lot.

‘I shall be very sorry to leave,’ Angelina said, ‘because I have always been so happy here.’ She smiled. ‘Though I am sure the nuns will be glad to see the back of me, especially Sister Bernadette because she’s never forgiven me for calling out that she’d given us the wrong answer to one of the sums in a test. I got caned for that because she said I was being very rude in challenging her authority.’

Emma Kingston smiled briefly. She knew the nuns often used the cane on the children’s outstretched hands, and although she did not approve of physical punishment there was little she could say. The orphanage was fortunate to have the support of the priory, and of the nuns, who came over each day. This was an arrangement which had always gone on, and it was part of the agreement with Father Laurence who still remained a nominal trustee. But the superintendent didn’t care much for the priest who came in far too often for her liking. After all, once prayers and the reading of the day and perhaps a hymn had taken place, there wasn’t that much for the man to do, but he usually made sure he was around to join them at mealtimes. He was very tall and gaunt, always dressed in his long black garb, and he rarely smiled.

‘And I know someone else who won’t be sorry that I’m going,’ Angelina went on. ‘Mrs Marshall! She will be very glad to see the back of me! For as long as I can remember she’s told me to shut up and make myself scarce!’

Angelina looked away for a moment, not wanting to remember that one horrible event between her and Mrs Marshall that had given her nightmares for weeks afterwards.

It had been a day not long after Angelina’s tenth birthday, when both the ovens in the kitchen had stopped working. Such a thing had never happened before, and for two days the orphanage had had to buy in their dinner from outside caterers. At midday, a white delivery van had arrived at the entrance, and Mrs Marshall had been there to receive the food and carry it inside, helped by one of the children. It had been on the second day that Mrs Marshall had called Angelina out from the school room to assist her.

‘Hurry up,’ the woman had said crossly, as the two had made their way down the long passageway. ‘That van won’t wait there for ever!’

‘I am hurrying up,’ Angelina had replied, annoyed that she’d had to leave the arithmetic lesson, her favourite. She’d trotted after Mrs Marshall. ‘I can’t walk any faster! Your legs are longer than mine, remember!’

‘Always ready with a reply, aren’t you, Miss!’ Mrs Marshall had said. ‘I wish I’d been born with even half of your cheek!’

At the entrance, the van had been there, ready and waiting. The driver entered and, one, by one, had placed three large, rectangular, shiny steel pans of hot food on the table in the hall. Then he’d touched his cap and was gone.

Mrs Marshall had gingerly lifted the lid from each pan, and she and Angelina had gazed at the contents. The first had held slice after slice of beef, accompanied by rows and rows of crisp, roast potatoes, all lying in a generous amount of rich brown gravy. The smell had made Angelina’s mouth water.

‘Can we pinch a spud?’ she’d whispered, only to be rewarded with a clip over the ear.

The next pan had held cabbage and diced carrots, and in the third were the puddings, tiny jam roly polys, with a deep space at the end of the pan to hold the hot custard.

‘Come on, let’s get this lot into the kitchen before it all goes cold!’ Mrs Marshall had said tersely, picking up the heaviest pan with the meat and potatoes inside. ‘You bring the vegetables, Angelina. And don’t dawdle!’

The next few moments were to be the ones imprinted on Angelina’s memory for the rest of her life.

With Mrs Marshall going ahead, they’d been making their way along the corridor towards the kitchen, when suddenly the older woman had lost her grip on her hot pan and it fell to the floor with an ear-deafening crash, spilling the contents all over the place. And lying there in front of their horrified eyes, were the precious meat and potatoes, all floating in the gravy – which had begun swirling around and creeping into the cracks and corners of the stone floor.

For a few seconds neither of them spoke, then Angelina had put her own pan down on the floor and began trying to salvage some of the wasted food, just as Mrs Haines, hearing the commotion, had begun hurrying from the kitchen.

‘What on earth is going on!’ the cook had demanded. ‘Oh my Good Lor …’ she’d said on seeing the mess. ‘Whatever are we going to do now!’