‘Maria, I know we’d planned to have some supper, but I could go home by myself.’
‘No, wait for me, I’m coming now.’
‘But your sister–’
‘I’m just off.’ Phoebe dropped some coins into her bag. ‘Some of us ’as got to work tonight. Rose, it was nice to meet you. If you’re ever over Haggerston way–’
‘I shall be sure to come and see you,’ promised Rose.
‘Over my dead body,’ Rose thought she heard Maria say. ‘Rose, we were going to have some supper.’
‘Yes.’ Rose watched Phoebe mince away, sashaying down the hospital steps and off into the night. ‘Sister Hall was saying there’s a nice place near the station, where lots of nurses go. She said the food’s all right.’
Rose and Maria walked through the cold streets. These days they were full of men in khaki, officers and men. ‘Good evening, Sisters,’ said a captain, touching his hat to them as he walked by.
‘It’s strange how it takes a war to make men treat us with respect,’ murmured Maria. ‘If we’d met that man six months ago, he’d have thought we were a couple of tarts, looking for trade.’
‘Even though we’re nurses?’
‘Especially since we’re nurses,’ said Maria. ‘We’re not ladies, so we must be whores.’
Rose bit her lip and wondered – was Phoebe Gower a whore? She looked like one, and even Rose knew actresses were women of easy virtue, who often lived with men they hadn’t married.
Alex Denham’s mother was supposed to have been a whore. So had she had her hair bleached brassy yellow to the texture of dry straw, had she worn tight skirts that showed her figure, had she had a saucy grin and glittering dark eyes?
Alex Denham. Rose knew she should forget him, or at least consign him to the vault of memory, sealed inside a box along with other things and people she couldn’t think about, or she would cry.
‘A penny for them?’ said Maria.
‘What?’ Rose rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just tired.’
‘Do you want to go straight home?’
‘No, I want my dinner.’ Rose lengthened her stride. ‘Look, Oldham’s Supper Rooms – that must be the place.’
Rose was expecting trouble. But when she finally received a letter from her mother, there were no reproaches and no threats. Lady Courtenay didn’t even ask if Rose was coming home. She did mention Boris was pining for his mistress, plodding round the Minster howling and keeping everyone awake at night.
Poor Boris, Rose thought guiltily. He hadn’t tried to make her marry Michael or forbidden her to join the VAD.
She wrote back to her mother straight away, saying she was sorry for the anxiety she must have caused and promising to visit as soon as she could get away. But she also wondered why her mother wasn’t angry – or didn’t seem to be.
She found out soon enough. As she was doing dressings one morning, Sister Hall came up and said she had a visitor in the lobby.
‘I’ll see to Corporal Anderson,’ she added, with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Off you go, Miss Courtenay. You may have the rest of the morning off.’
Rose expected it to be her father, possibly with two policemen and a padded van. But when she walked into the lobby, determined to assert herself and resist arrest, she saw Michael Easton standing chatting to the porter. He was in the uniform of a second lieutenant in the Royal Dorsets, and looked very handsome.
‘Hello, Rose,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d come and see you.’
‘I hope you didn’t make a special journey?’ Rose hoped she looked braver than she felt.
‘No, of course not.’ Michael smiled urbanely. ‘I had to see my tailor and do other things in town.’
They took a cab to Piccadilly. As they drove along, Michael didn’t speak to Rose at all. He took her to a restaurant, where he ordered without asking what she wanted. He told the waiter that the lady would like a glass of wine.
‘Well, what a pretty pickle,’ he observed.
‘I’d rather you didn’t talk to me
‘No, wait for me, I’m coming now.’
‘But your sister–’
‘I’m just off.’ Phoebe dropped some coins into her bag. ‘Some of us ’as got to work tonight. Rose, it was nice to meet you. If you’re ever over Haggerston way–’
‘I shall be sure to come and see you,’ promised Rose.
‘Over my dead body,’ Rose thought she heard Maria say. ‘Rose, we were going to have some supper.’
‘Yes.’ Rose watched Phoebe mince away, sashaying down the hospital steps and off into the night. ‘Sister Hall was saying there’s a nice place near the station, where lots of nurses go. She said the food’s all right.’
Rose and Maria walked through the cold streets. These days they were full of men in khaki, officers and men. ‘Good evening, Sisters,’ said a captain, touching his hat to them as he walked by.
‘It’s strange how it takes a war to make men treat us with respect,’ murmured Maria. ‘If we’d met that man six months ago, he’d have thought we were a couple of tarts, looking for trade.’
‘Even though we’re nurses?’
‘Especially since we’re nurses,’ said Maria. ‘We’re not ladies, so we must be whores.’
Rose bit her lip and wondered – was Phoebe Gower a whore? She looked like one, and even Rose knew actresses were women of easy virtue, who often lived with men they hadn’t married.
Alex Denham’s mother was supposed to have been a whore. So had she had her hair bleached brassy yellow to the texture of dry straw, had she worn tight skirts that showed her figure, had she had a saucy grin and glittering dark eyes?
Alex Denham. Rose knew she should forget him, or at least consign him to the vault of memory, sealed inside a box along with other things and people she couldn’t think about, or she would cry.
‘A penny for them?’ said Maria.
‘What?’ Rose rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just tired.’
‘Do you want to go straight home?’
‘No, I want my dinner.’ Rose lengthened her stride. ‘Look, Oldham’s Supper Rooms – that must be the place.’
Rose was expecting trouble. But when she finally received a letter from her mother, there were no reproaches and no threats. Lady Courtenay didn’t even ask if Rose was coming home. She did mention Boris was pining for his mistress, plodding round the Minster howling and keeping everyone awake at night.
Poor Boris, Rose thought guiltily. He hadn’t tried to make her marry Michael or forbidden her to join the VAD.
She wrote back to her mother straight away, saying she was sorry for the anxiety she must have caused and promising to visit as soon as she could get away. But she also wondered why her mother wasn’t angry – or didn’t seem to be.
She found out soon enough. As she was doing dressings one morning, Sister Hall came up and said she had a visitor in the lobby.
‘I’ll see to Corporal Anderson,’ she added, with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Off you go, Miss Courtenay. You may have the rest of the morning off.’
Rose expected it to be her father, possibly with two policemen and a padded van. But when she walked into the lobby, determined to assert herself and resist arrest, she saw Michael Easton standing chatting to the porter. He was in the uniform of a second lieutenant in the Royal Dorsets, and looked very handsome.
‘Hello, Rose,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d come and see you.’
‘I hope you didn’t make a special journey?’ Rose hoped she looked braver than she felt.
‘No, of course not.’ Michael smiled urbanely. ‘I had to see my tailor and do other things in town.’
They took a cab to Piccadilly. As they drove along, Michael didn’t speak to Rose at all. He took her to a restaurant, where he ordered without asking what she wanted. He told the waiter that the lady would like a glass of wine.
‘Well, what a pretty pickle,’ he observed.
‘I’d rather you didn’t talk to me
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