drink or on drugs—Amelia didn’t know which and didn’t care to find out—had created a detachment from life which made her ideal for a particular sort of work. Theirs was a strange, twisted relationship, she thought, as she watched the older woman’s slow progress along the pavement. They were bonded by their work and had to rely on some sort of trust, but with that came a resentment that neither could flourish without the other. In her darker moments, distanced from her husband and fearful for her child, Amelia felt trapped by circumstances from which she could see no escape. While she knew that the trap was of her own making, she hated Walters, both as an unwelcome reminder of her situation and as a scapegoat for it. It did not require a great deal of understanding to know that the feeling was mutual.
She opened the door before Walters had a chance to ring the bell, and stood aside to let her into the hallway. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she whispered angrily. ‘I said five o’clock.’
Walters was dressed respectably enough in the brown cape which she always wore, tied tightly with a black ribbon at the throat, but her smile seemed grotesquely out of place in a face which had been destroyed by hard living and which looked much older than its fifty-odd years. It reminded Amelia of the terrible old women who haunted the fairy tales that she read to Lizzie, and the impression was hardly dispelled by Walters’s response. ‘A few minutes isn’t going to make any difference to the little one, is it?’ she said, and held out her arms. Amelia noticed the dirt under her ragged fingernails, and hid her disgust as she handed the baby over: she needed help, no matter what form it took; Walters knew it, and never missed an opportunity to exploit the fact. On a previous visit, when Amelia had been called away for a moment by one of her patients, she had come back into the parlour to find Walters holding Lizzie in her arms, and the triumphant expression on her face was enough to remind Amelia how easily they could destroy each other; there was no doubting who had the most to lose. Now, Walters kissed the newborn’s forehead and the child stopped crying immediately. ‘She’s a pretty little thing,’ she said softly, laughing as the child stretched out a tiny hand to touch her face. ‘I’ll be sorry to see her go.’
‘I’ve told you before,’ Amelia said angrily, realising how like her husband she sounded, ‘I don’t want to know what happens after you leave here.’
She went hurriedly over to a small bureau in the corner, unlocked the top left-hand drawer and removed a cash-box, feeling Walters’s eyes on her all the time. As she counted out thirty shillings on to the table, the other woman laid the child carefully down on the settee and scraped the money into her purse without waiting to be asked. ‘It’s not much to pay for a clear conscience,’ she said quietly. ‘Not when you expect me to do all your dirty work.’
‘It’s what we agreed.’
Walters picked the baby up and wrapped her in the thick blanket which Amelia had put ready. ‘That was a long time ago, though, and you’ve kept me very busy just lately. Seems to me you should face up to the truth or pay a bit more for your ignorance.’
‘I’m not listening,’ Amelia said, still clutching the rest of the money. ‘Just take the child and go.’
‘What will it be this time, I wonder?’ Walters mused, running her hand lightly across the baby’s cheek. ‘River or rubbish dump? Which do you fancy, my little one?’
Amelia turned away and put her hands over her ears. ‘Stop it!’ she screamed. ‘Get out—now!’
There was a tentative knock at the door and a young woman looked in on them. She was the latest intake, and it was obvious from her swollen belly that the birth was only a matter of days away. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, looking curiously at Walters and the baby.
‘Yes, Ada, we’re fine,’ Amelia said, pulling herself together. ‘Go back upstairs—you should be resting.’
‘You’re kindness itself, aren’t you?’ Walters said sarcastically as soon as they were alone again. ‘Always so concerned for their welfare. But what about my welfare, eh? Who looks out for me? I’m taking all the risks here, while you sleep easy in your bed. How do I know you won’t turn me in?’
‘Because we’re in this together,’ Amelia said, horrified at how true it was. ‘Now just leave.’ Walters opened her mouth to speak but changed her mind, and turned to go with nothing more than a defiant glance. Amelia heard the front door close and, in response, footsteps from the room above, and realised that the baby’s mother—still weak after the birth—must have struggled out of bed and walked over to the window for a final glimpse of her child. What in God’s name must she be thinking? Amelia wondered. Was she trying to imagine the fine, wealthy lady who would bring her daughter up, or did she know in her heart that Walters’s was the last touch which the baby would know? The thought made her desperate to see Lizzie and she hurried up to the nursery. When she opened the door, the child was standing over by the window and she turned an excited face to her mother.
‘It’s so cold now, Mummy. Do you think it’s going to snow?’
‘Oh, it’s bound to soon,’ Amelia said, bending down to cuddle her. They looked out of the window together, trying to see beyond their own reflection to the darkness of the yard and the houses opposite and, as she caught sight of herself next to her daughter’s innocence, it seemed to Amelia that her own face had grown so much older in the last few months. If only it were just the physical shell that decayed with age, she thought, and not the heart: the world—her world—would be a very different place.
‘What’s that, Mummy?’ Lizzie asked, pointing to the handful of five-pound notes that her mother had forgotten to put back in the bureau before coming upstairs.
‘That’s Christmas,’ she said, smiling.
Lizzie frowned. ‘But Christmas is too far away.’
‘Oh, it’s only a few weeks, and they’ll fly by quickly enough as long as you’re good.’ She hugged her daughter tightly. ‘And I promise you—it will be the best Christmas that any little girl could have.’
Chapter Two
Josephine tore the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and added it to the others on her desk, pleased to see that the pile was steadily growing but relieved to be able to step back into the present for a while. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why, but the conversation with Celia had unsettled her and she found retracing the origins of Lizzie Sach’s suicide unaccountably depressing. Standing up to stretch her legs, she looked around the room and realised that its measured comfort and privacy were suddenly not at all what she wanted; right now, she felt like some company. It was a little after nine o’clock and still early enough to while away a couple of hours in the bar, but she was reluctant to run the risk of getting embroiled in the club’s politics and, in any case, small talk with comparative strangers wasn’t really what she was looking for. Perhaps it was time she owned up to being in town and went to see Archie? He wouldn’t mind being interrupted at this time of night and she knew she could rely on him to dilute Celia’s disapproval with a genuine interest in what she was doing. Even if he was out, a walk through the West End at night would cheer her after an evening spent with Sach and Walters.
She changed quickly and found Archie’s flat-warming present among the pile of packages that Robert had brought up earlier, then went downstairs to the bar to collect a bottle of wine. It was quiet for the time of night and the only person Josephine recognised among the handful of women was Geraldine Ashby. She sat alone at a table, and Josephine was surprised to see that—unguarded and, as she thought, unscrutinised—Geraldine’s face wore a very different expression from its usual blase cheerfulness. Tonight, as she stared across the room at a group of young nurses who had obviously just come off duty, her sadness made her seem remote and untouchable. The mask fell effortlessly back into place as soon as she realised she had company, but the contrast made her fleeting melancholy even more striking.
‘Josephine—thank God,’ she said, coming over to the bar. ‘This place is like a morgue tonight. You’ll have a drink with me, I hope?’
‘I can’t, Gerry—I’m sorry. I’ve only popped in to get a bottle.’ She chose from the list and waited while the wine was brought up from the cellar. ‘Where were you, anyway? You seemed miles away.’
‘Oh, you know—a collection of pretty young women in uniform. It’s easy to get distracted.’ The comment was perfectly in character but, from what Josephine had seen a moment ago, casual flirting could not have been further from Geraldine’s mind. ‘And talking of idle distractions,’ she added, ‘if you’re ordering fine wines to take off the premises, you must have tracked down your mystery admirer. Am I right?’
‘I’m not sure, but there’s only one way to find out,’ Josephine said, smiling. ‘I’ll let you know tomorrow.’
It was a beautifully clear night, but cold, and Josephine pulled her fur closer round her as she walked briskly
