The Nightingale Girls - By Donna Douglas Page 0,99

know, she was taken straight down to the mortuary. What are you talking about, anyway? What lipstick?’

‘I promised her . . . I promised I’d put her lipstick on for her.’

‘I don’t suppose she’s in any position to hold you to your promise.’ Lucy shrugged. She picked up her bucket and handed it to Millie. ‘Anyway, you need to take over. I’m off. And do try to cheer up,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Sister Wren will have a fit if you go around with a face like a wet weekend.’

Chapter Thirty-One

‘I DON’T UNDERSTAND it,’ Lucy Lane said. ‘Why do you want to go to some old tart’s funeral?’

‘Blanche wasn’t an old tart. She was kind, generous, warm-hearted . . . ’ Everything you’re not, Millie almost added.

‘I don’t think your family would approve of you going to the funeral of an East End prostitute,’ Lucy said. ‘And I doubt Matron would like it either.’

‘It’s my day off, and I can do as I please,’ Millie retorted. ‘If I want to pay my respects at someone’s funeral, I can.’

But it was about more than paying her respects. She still felt guiltily that she’d somehow let Blanche down.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Dora offered. ‘I’m on a split shift today. I don’t have to be back on the ward until five.’ She glared at Lucy, defying her to argue.

‘Thanks,’ Millie said gratefully. ‘I was a bit nervous about going, actually. I’ve never been to a funeral before.’

‘You’ve never seen anything like an East End funeral,’ Dora promised her. ‘It’s a big occasion round here. Bigger than weddings, sometimes. People who don’t have two halfpennies to rub together get into debt so they can give their nearest and dearest a good send off. Carriages drawn by horses decked out in black feathers, strings of mourners in top hats, the lot. And then there’s the big party afterwards!’ she said.

But there was no horse-drawn carriage at Blanche’s funeral, nor any black feathers, nor mourners in top hats. Only a handful of people were gathered around her graveside in the damp, grey afternoon. There was Blanche’s sister Elsie and her five children, and a couple of tired-looking women Millie guessed must be Blanche’s old friends from the docks. A young man stood with them, looking smart in his dark suit, head bowed at the graveside. Millie felt a jolt of recognition.

‘That’s Tremayne’s brother, isn’t it?’ Dora whispered as they approached the grave. ‘What’s he doing here? I wonder.’

‘Same as us, I suppose.’ Millie avoided William’s eye as she and Dora took their places beside the grave.

The service was short and to the point. Even the vicar seemed impatient to get it over with, rushing through the formalities as the drizzle dampened his cassock.

Millie kept her gaze fixed on the coffin as it was lowered into the ground. She wondered what Blanche looked like. She hoped someone had dressed her up nicely in her favourite bright colours. Blanche wouldn’t have liked to go into the hereafter looking less than her best.

She thought about the lipstick, and a lump rose in her throat. She took a deep breath, sniffing back tears. Immediately she felt a handkerchief pressed into her hand.

‘Here,’ William whispered.

‘Thanks.’ She took it, feeling foolish. No one else seemed to be crying, not even Blanche’s sister. Why did she have to be so sentimental?

Afterwards, her sister approached them. ‘Excuse me, I’m Mrs Wilkins. Were you friends of my sister?’ she asked. She was nowhere near as showy as Blanche in her plain black coat, her mousy hair tucked into a limp felt hat. Her eyes, green like Blanche’s, were full of suspicion.

‘Yes. I mean no . . . not friends exactly . . .’

‘We’re from the Nightingale Hospital,’ Dora explained, as Millie scrabbled for the right words. ‘My friend nursed Miss Desmond.’

Mrs Wilkins’ eyes lit up, and suddenly she looked more like Blanche. ‘Are you Millie? Blanche wrote to me about you. She told me there was a nice young nurse on her ward she’d made friends with. She thought a lot of you.’

‘Did she?’

‘Oh, yes. Reckoned you were the best of the lot. Treated her right, she said.’ Mrs Wilkins lowered her voice. ‘There weren’t many who did that to my sister, her being what she was.’

Millie lowered her gaze, embarrassed by the hot tears that sprang to her eyes.

‘Bless you.’ Mrs Wilkins smiled fondly at her. ‘My Blanche told me you had a soft heart.’

Please stop it, Millie begged silently. She didn’t want