The Nightingale Girls - By Donna Douglas Page 0,130
her up screaming.
Bea was playing out with some other children from their street when Dora arrived in Griffin Street. She heard her little sister’s voice before she’d even turned the corner, bossing everyone about. They were taking turns to bowl a hoop made from the metal rim of an old bicycle wheel. But as soon as she saw Dora, Bea abandoned the game and ran up the street to greet her.
‘We’ve got a hoop, look! Although it’s mine really,’ she added with a warning glare at the children who hovered nearby. ‘I found it.’
But Dora wasn’t listening. Her attention was fixed on the skinny, dark-haired girl sitting on the kerb, shoulders hunched, her knees drawn up under her chin.
Dora’s stomach plummeted. ‘Josie?’
Bea glanced over her shoulder. ‘No use talking to her. She don’t want to play. Just sits there looking miserable. She’s hardly said a dickie bird since we left Auntie Brenda’s.’ She pulled a face, then turned to Dora, her green eyes brightening. ‘You’ll play with us, won’t you?’
‘Later on,’ Dora said, already heading across the street towards Josie.
Josie didn’t see her until Dora said her name. When she looked up, her face seemed thin and drawn, huge fearful dark eyes above jutting cheekbones.
‘What are you doing here?’ Josie asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
‘I was just about to ask you the same question. I thought you were staying at Auntie Brenda’s?’
‘Auntie Brenda’s eldest has gone down with scarlet fever, so Mum thought I’d be safer at home.’
If only she knew, Dora thought. She sat down next to her on the kerb. ‘Are you all right, love?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’ Josie’s voice sounded hollow.
‘Why did you run away?’
‘I was just being daft.’ Josie hugged her knees tighter under her chin. Dora noticed how thin her arms were in her cotton summer dress. At fifteen, she was still no more than a child.
‘You must have had a reason . . .?’
‘I told you, I was being daft.’ Josie met her eye. ‘Don’t ask me any more,’ she pleaded.
Josie shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she insisted stubbornly. But her wretched face told a different story.
‘Josie—’
‘Leave it, Dora, please. There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.’
Dora stared at her sister’s profile, and knew she had to say something. She had kept her secret buried in a deep, dark place, somewhere she would never have to look at it or think about it. But now, for her sister’s sake, she had to bring her own shame back out into the light.
‘Josie,’ she began, already hating the words that came out of her mouth. ‘There’s something I need to tell you—’
But she didn’t have a chance to finish before they heard a yell from inside the house. Bea dropped her hoop with a clatter and started running, Dora and Josie on her heels.
They almost collided with their mother coming out of the back door.
‘Oh, Dora, thank God you’re here!’ She clutched her arm. ‘Fetch an ambulance, quickly. Your dad’s collapsed!’
Chapter Forty-Two
‘APPENDICITIS,’ SISTER HOLMES said.
She looked at the two women sitting opposite her in her office. One, a careworn, middle-aged woman in a blue coat, was trying desperately not to cry, her eyes fixed on her hands. By contrast, Doyle seemed unnaturally calm. Sister Holmes wondered if she’d really taken in the news.
‘Mr Dwyer the consultant is operating now,’ Sister Holmes went on.
‘My Alf will be all right, won’t he?’ Mrs Doyle looked up at her anxiously.
Sister Holmes glanced at Doyle. She looked unfamiliar in her faded summer dress, her abundant red curls framing her face. ‘He’s in the best possible hands,’ she replied blandly.
Doyle met her gaze steadily. At least she understood how serious the situation was. Sister Homes hoped she could explain it to her mother more gently.
‘When can I see him?’ Rose Doyle asked.
‘Not for some time, I’m afraid. Your husband will need time to recover after the operation. But we will let you know the outcome as soon as possible.’
Sister Homes stood up, indicating the meeting was at an end. Delivering bad news always made her feel uncomfortable. She felt so helpless in the face of people’s grief. She was far more at home on the ward, where she could make people feel better in a practical way.