Nightingales on Call (12 page)

Gordon paused for a moment, considering. ‘I think the best course of action would be to stay quiet for now,’ he said. ‘The bank has faith in your father. That’s why they were prepared to accept such a risky investment . . . because they believed he would make it pay off in the end. Even now they have found out about the German government taking over the factories there, they will still be expecting your father to pull off a miracle, as he has in the past. That’s why they haven’t moved in to foreclose yet.’

‘Except there won’t be a miracle this time,’ Lucy said.

‘We don’t know that,’ Gordon replied. ‘We have no idea where your father is. He could be in Europe at this very moment, doing a deal that will save everything.’ He tried to smile comfortingly at her. ‘That’s the kind of man he is.’

Or he might just have run away from the mess he’s created, Lucy thought. Perhaps that was the kind of man he was, too?

But she understood that her godfather was trying to make her feel better, and so smiled in appreciation. ‘And the best thing we can do is to keep quiet about his disappearance?’

Gordon nodded. ‘It’s vital the bank doesn’t find out he’s vanished. Otherwise they’ll realise something is seriously wrong and act to wind up the loan, with disastrous consequences for you.’

‘So what will we tell people?’

‘We can say he’s gone abroad, that he’s in America drumming up new business. That will keep the bank happy for now. Believe me, they won’t want to look foolish when it transpires they have lent so much money on a failed project. They won’t ask too many difficult questions at the moment.’

‘And hopefully, by the time they do, my father will be back home and everything will be sorted out,’ Lucy said. It was all she could cling to, the idea that he would be able to make everything right, just as he always had.

Gordon gave her a narrow smile. ‘Let’s hope so, my dear,’ he said. ‘For everyone’s sake.’

NICK SAW THE
gloved fist coming at his face seconds before it slammed into him. He tried to dodge the punch but his feet moved sluggishly, as if trapped in thick mud. He felt the sickening crunch of his jaw as the fist drove into it, the spasm of his neck muscles as his head jerked sideways from the force of the blow.

Stay on your feet . . . stay on your feet . . .

He staggered but somehow stayed upright, the roar of the crowd muffled by the ringing in his ears. He wasn’t sure if they were yelling encouragement or outrage. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and pain blossomed in his head as the world blurred before his eyes.

Stay on your feet . . . stay on your feet . . .

It shouldn’t have been this hard. He’d faced Jackie Masters in the ring four times, and each time had knocked him out before the end of round three. But now it was round six, and Nick was struggling.

Through a mist of pain he saw his opponent bobbing in front of him, fists raised, ready to strike again. Another hook like the last one, and Nick knew he’d be down. As Jackie took his swing, Nick’s reflexes took over. He swerved, curving his body away from the blow, then came in with a swift uppercut to his opponent’s exposed chin. He saw Jackie’s eyes widen briefly in shock as he reeled backwards then hit the canvas like a felled tree. Nick felt his own knees buckling but willed himself to stay upright. He gulped in air, feeling the warm drip of blood off his chin as the referee counted his opponent out.

‘Eight . . . nine . . . ten!’

The yells of the crowd seemed to be coming from a long way away. Nick barely knew what was happening as he felt his hand jerked into the air in salute. All he could think about was getting out of the ring before he collapsed.

Jimmy, his trainer, was furious as he sponged Nick’s shattered jaw in the dingy back room.

‘What did I tell you?’ he said. ‘I told you not to fight. I said this would happen. “Don’t get in the ring again, Nick,” I said. “It’s too dangerous.” But did you listen?’

‘I won, didn’t I?’ He forced the words out, his lips already stiff with congealed blood.

‘It was a lucky punch. Another minute and he would have had you on the ropes.’ Jimmy’s face was creased with anxiety as he pressed the sponge against Nick’s face. ‘You’re not as quick as you once were – not since the accident. You can’t get yourself out of trouble like you used to. And you don’t have to look at me like that,’ he went on. ‘You might scare other people with that stare of yours, Nick Riley, but you don’t scare me. I’ve known you since you were a nipper, don’t forget. I’m not frightened to tell you the truth.’

‘More’s the pity,’ Nick grunted. Jimmy was the only one brave enough to face up to him. He was like a father to Nick, far more so than his own useless father had ever been. Nick respected his trainer. Also, even though Jimmy hadn’t been in the ring for thirty years, he still had the sinewy strength of someone who knew how to deliver a killer punch.

Nick was only angry with Jimmy because he was right. Nick’s fractured pelvis might have healed, but it had slowed him down. He might still pack a punch like a freight train, but he couldn’t dodge or weave away from blows liked he used to.

‘I’m serious, Nick. I don’t want to see you in the ring again,’ Jimmy said.

‘I ain’t got a choice. I need the money.’

‘Nothing’s worth getting clobbered for, night after night.’

Nick thought of Dora. The idea of never being married to her was too dreadful for him to contemplate. ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he said.

Jimmy shook his head. ‘Then I hope the next bloke you fight manages to knock some sense into you.’

After Jimmy had patched him up, Nick went to find Terry Willis, the promoter who’d arranged the fight. He was in the bar as usual, talking to a dark, thickset man Nick had never seen before.

‘Nicky boy!’ Nick caught a waft of whisky on Terry’s breath as the promoter turned to face him. ‘Were your ears burning? We were just talking about you. What are you drinking?’

‘I’m not. I’ve come for my money.’

Terry turned to him, his smile slack in his narrow, foxy face. ‘Have you now? I’m not so sure I should pay you, after that performance.’

‘I won, didn’t I?’

‘By the skin of your teeth.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not what I’ve come to expect from you, Nick. Not what the crowd expects, either.’ He sighed. ‘Bit of a disappointment, to be honest—’

Nick’s hand flashed out, grabbing Terry’s lapels. ‘I won,’ he growled. ‘And now I want my money.’

Terry grinned nervously. ‘No need to get uppity, son,’ he squeaked. ‘I was only having a laugh. Of course you can have your money.’

Nick released him, and Terry took a moment to straighten his pinstripe suit before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes.

‘I see what you mean, Terry. He’s got a short fuse, all right!’ the stranger said. ‘I reckon he’s just what I’m looking for.’

Nick turned around to face the man who had spoken. He looked as if he’d been battered himself a few times, judging from his flattened nose and cauliflower ears.

‘And who are you when you’re at home?’

‘Let me introduce you to Lew Smith,’ Terry said. ‘He’s in the fight game, like myself.’

‘Hardly!’ The other man grinned, showing off a mouthful of gold teeth. ‘I provide a different kind of – entertainment.’

Nick narrowed his eyes. There was something about Lew Smith he didn’t care for. ‘Yeah? And what’s that then?’

‘Ever done any bare-knuckle fighting?’

Nick nodded. ‘A bit.’ He’d been a street fighter when he was a kid, to earn money for his family. Luckily, Jimmy had found him and encouraged him into the ring instead. And Nick was grateful for it. Bare-knuckle boxing was brutal.

‘Lew runs the boxing booth at his family’s travelling fair,’ Terry explained. ‘He’s always looking for likely lads to fight all comers. Ain’t that right, Lew?’

The man nodded. ‘It’s easy money for a fighter,’ he said. ‘Most of the fellows who step up are amateurs, wanting to try their luck and impress the girls. A couple of taps and they’re usually down. But, of course, you have to put on a decent show for the crowds, make ‘em think the local lads stand a chance. That way they might come back for another go, see?’ He put down his drink. ‘So how would you like to earn some decent money? I reckon it would suit you down to the ground. And you wouldn’t have to get battered every night for it either.’ He cocked his head. ‘What do you say?’

Nick hesitated. Once upon a time he’d hoped to go to America and fight Max Baer, the world champion. He would have been insulted at the very idea of taking on strangers in a bare-knuckle boxing booth. And God only knew what Jimmy would say about it.

But then he thought about Dora. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any boxing title.

‘I’m interested,’ he said.

Jess looked around to make sure no one was watching then aimed a vicious kick at the vacuum cleaner.

Stupid, cumbersome thing! The supervisor at the main nurses’ home was very taken with it, insisted it was a marvellous labour-saving device that would make their lives much easier, but Jess couldn’t see how. By the time she’d hauled its heavy iron bulk up three flights of stairs, she was bathed in sweat and more exhausted than if she’d used a broom.

And then there was the noise . . . It bellowed like an angry bull, which generally brought Sister Sutton or one of the students running out to complain. As if Jess enjoyed it any more than they did! She went back to her room at the end of every day with ringing ears and aching temples.

And then there were some days, like today, when the wretched thing just wouldn’t start. It squatted in the middle of the students’ sitting room, silent and malevolent.

Jess flopped down on one of the settees and tucked a tendril of damp hair back under her cap. She wasn’t even supposed to be cleaning in here, but Sister Sutton had insisted.

‘But I cleaned the sitting room yesterday,’ Jess had protested.

‘You obviously didn’t make a very good job of it, or it wouldn’t need doing again,’ Sister Sutton snapped back.

‘You told me I had to clean the bathrooms this morning first thing.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ Sister Sutton said.

‘Yes, you did. You said . . .’

‘Good gracious, girl, I think I should know what I said or didn’t say, don’t you?’ Sister Sutton glared at her. ‘Now please don’t argue with me, or I shall start to think you’re a troublemaker.’

So now Jess had to waste her time cleaning a room that was already spotless. She stood up with a sigh and started plumping the cushions to make it look as if she’d been busy. As she did, she noticed a book wedged down the side of the settee.

She pulled it out. It was another textbook,
Anatomy and Physiology for Nurses
by Evelyn Pearce. Jess couldn’t resist flicking it open. She had been reading the students’ textbooks whenever she found them in their rooms, snatching a few minutes here and there to stop and devour a chapter. And the more she read, the more she started to understand all the long words and Latin names. And the more she understood, the more fascinated she became. Until she had started reading books like these, she’d had no idea how extraordinary the human body was, or how all the bones and muscles and organs worked in harmony with each other. It was like a complex puzzle, the pieces fitting perfectly together.

How could the girls sigh and roll their eyes and complain about having to study something so wonderful? Jess wondered.

She was so transfixed by her reading she barely caught the flash of brown and white out of the corner of her eye. She looked up sharply to see Sister Sutton standing in the doorway, Sparky dancing around her fat ankles.

Jess dropped the book and jumped to her feet. ‘I – I’m sorry, Sister,’ she stammered. ‘The vacuum cleaner overheated again, so I was waiting for it to settle—’

‘What were you reading?’ Sister Sutton’s brows met in a frown over her beady eyes.

‘Just a book I found, Sister. I wasn’t doing any harm,’ Jess gabbled on. ‘I was going to put it back, honest.’

‘Never mind that.’ Sister Sutton held out her hand. ‘Give it to me, please. I sincerely hope it wasn’t one of those cheap romance novels? I’ve warned the girls before about filling their heads with—’

She fell silent as Jess handed her the book. Sister turned it over in her hands and then flicked through the pages as if she suspected a trick.

‘What were you doing with this?’ she asked finally.

‘Reading it, Sister.’

Sister Sutton’s frown deepened. ‘Tell the truth, girl. You couldn’t possibly understand a book like this.’

Jess’ skin prickled with indignation. ‘Yes, I do. You can ask me a question about it, if you like?’

‘Don’t be insolent.’ The Home Sister looked down at the book, then back at her. ‘Why would you want to read this?’

‘I find it interesting.’ Jess lifted her chin. ‘How the human body works and everything.’

‘I wish some of the students shared your interest,’ Sister Sutton grunted. She tucked the book in her pocket. ‘But may I remind you, you are a maid, not a nurse. It is not your place to study.’

‘No, Sister.’

‘Now get on with your work. I don’t expect to find you slacking again.’

As she turned to leave, Jess said, ‘Please, Sister, I’ve done everything you told me to do.’

Sister Sutton swung round. ‘Everything?’

‘Yes, Sister.’

‘Then you’d best go up to the top floor and clean the landings. And take that thing with you.’ She nodded at the vacuum cleaner. ‘It gives Sparky a headache.’

EFFIE SAT AT
the back of the stuffy classroom, chin resting in her hands, fighting to keep her eyes open as Sister Parker the Sister Tutor explained how to clean a broom.

‘Let me remind you, Nurses, good work is not done with dirty brooms,’ she rapped out in her Scottish accent. ‘They should be washed once a week by dipping the bristles into boiling water with a little washing soda. The handles must, of course, be scrubbed thoroughly with soap and a brush.’

Effie looked around the classroom. The other girls in her set were all scribbling furiously, their heads down. Effie frowned at her own empty page. How on earth could they find so much to write about washing a broom?