and pretended not to know what Sister Parker was talking about.
‘Young Doyle. She passed her preliminary training. More than passed, in fact. Her marks were excellent. They might have been even better if she’d had access to books earlier.’
Veronica gave her a tight smile. ‘She is a tribute to your excellent teaching, Florence.’
‘She’s a very bright girl,’ Florence Parker corrected her, a touch of irritation in her voice. ‘Even if some people would have dismissed her out of hand,’ she added pointedly.
‘You’re talking as if she’s already a qualified nurse,’ Sister Sutton said, leaning over her sewing to pass a biscuit to Sparky. ‘She still has three years and several more examinations to go before we can say that.’
‘Indeed,’ Miss Hanley agreed. ‘Girls can change a great deal in three years.’
They lapsed into tense silence. Veronica had the feeling Florence was bursting to say something more, but manners prevented her. She was surprised at her friend. She had always thought Sister Parker had standards. Now she was beginning to sound like some kind of socialist.
‘What about Benedict? Did she pass?’ Sister Sutton asked.
Florence Parker thought about it for a moment. ‘She scraped through, yes.’
‘Well, I hope she changes in the next three years,’ Agatha Sutton said with feeling. ‘Otherwise God help our poor patients!’
Chapter Twenty-Two
HAVING TEA WITH her mother was always an ordeal for Helen. Constance Tremayne criticised everything, from where they were seated – ‘Not a corner table, please. And not over by the window, either’ – to the quality of the sandwiches. ‘I hope they are freshly made?’ she frowned at the waitress, who stood with her notepad poised.
‘Yes, Madam. Freshly made to order.’
‘Then we shall have an assortment and a pot of tea for two.’ She snapped her menu shut.
‘Any cakes, Madam?’
Constance looked down her nose at the girl. ‘Did I order cakes?’
‘No, but—’
‘Then obviously we do not require any. And make sure the pot has been warmed and the water is boiling,’ she called after the waitress.
Helen put down her own menu. There wasn’t much point in looking at it, since her mother always ordered for her anyway.
It was a cold, wet January afternoon, and Helen was on her break. She was due back on the ward at five o’clock, and felt guilty that she was already counting the hours. She found herself thinking about Charlie Denton. He was due to go home that day, and Helen had hoped she might be there to see him off. But Sister Holmes had put her down on the rota to take her break from three till five, and then her mother had summoned her for afternoon tea, and Helen couldn’t possibly say no to either of them.
The waitress returned with their tea and sandwiches. Helen cringed as her mother inspected everything. It took her some time, but finally Constance found something that wasn’t to her satisfaction.
‘Waitress! Over here, if you please.’
The girl came over, her expression resigned. ‘What can I do for you, Madam?’
‘You can take this teacup away and bring me a clean one. Look at it, it’s revolting.’ She shuddered with distaste.
The waitress peered into the cup. Helen prayed she wouldn’t argue; she could already see the light of battle gleaming in her mother’s eyes.
‘Very well, Madam.’
Helen caught the waitress’ scowl as she took the offending cup away. The poor girl might feel put upon, but at least she only had to put up with Mrs Tremayne for half an hour or so. Helen had been under her thumb for the last twenty years.
‘That’s better,’ Constance said, when the waitress had returned with a spotless cup. She turned her attention back to Helen. ‘Now, where were we?’
Helen folded her hands in her lap and waited patiently for her own inspection. She was certain that, unlike the second teacup, she would not pass muster.
She could feel her mother’s gaze, raking her up and down. Finally, Constance said, ‘Have you cut your hair?’
‘Just a couple of inches.’ Helen fingered the ends of her hair uncertainly. ‘But I was thinking of having it cut a bit shorter,’ she ventured. ‘A lot of the other girls are having theirs done, and—’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ her mother cut her off.
‘But it’s all the fashion. And it would be a lot more practical.’
‘Short hair looks fast.’
Helen watched her mother pour the tea. It was a waste of time to argue. Constance Tremayne had spoken and that was the end of the matter.
She allowed her thoughts to drift back to Mr Denton,