Rosie James - Front Line Nurse

But it was always one special letter in the bundle which Randolph would keep to read last. Not that he needed to read it because he knew it off by heart. The writing was childish but perfectly formed and confident. It read:

Dear Mr Garfield,

I am seven years old and I have been a Garfield orphan all my life. I have not had any other home, and I do not want one because I am very happy here even though the nuns get cross in the schoolroom sometimes and give us the cane.

The only thing I want when I grow up is to get married and have my own house to keep clean, and my own children to look after. I have already met my husband, he is Mr Alexander, and I love him and I know he loves me because when he visits he always says he likes my dress and one day he said he thought my hair was a very pretty colour. He is a kind person so I know he would treat me well and not beat me like Ruby was beaten. Ruby is my best friend, and she is going to be my bridesmaid at the wedding.

Thank you very much for all you give us at the Garfield Home. You are a kind person.

I hope you are well. I am very well.

Yours sincerely,

Angelina Green

Emma Kingston glanced at the calendar on her desk. The war, the much dreaded war, was now a month old, and so far all seemed to be quiet. Thoughtfully, she went across to the window and stared out, a shiver of dread running through her. Because surely this was just the calm before the storm. She knew it, felt it in her bones – after all, she studied the papers, listened to the wireless, heard the ranting of their politicians, the determination and intransigence of the unstoppable German invaders. The country, perhaps the whole world, was about to embark on a nightmare of indescribable horror.

And how many of the little orphans who had passed through her hands might be caught up in it, maimed, killed …

Presently, the superintendent popped her head around the school room door.

‘Angelina, would you go to the sick room, please? The nurse could do with another pair of hands this morning. Oh, and after dinner, I would like to see you in my office for a few minutes.’

Angelina, who had been helping the younger children recite their times tables, turned at once to do as she’d been asked. If there was one place she loved best in the world to be, it was in the medical room at the far end of the corridor. For the last couple of days there had been a sickness bug going about and the current young nurse, Greta, always asked for Angelina, who, Greta had said more than once, had a natural understanding of what needed to be done and a gift for reassuring the little patients and making them feel safe. But Emma Kingston had realised this talent for a long time, and it had clearly been proved when a little waif – later known as Ruby – had been brought in from the streets, half-naked and badly bruised. For many weeks the poor child had not uttered a single word, keeping her eyes and mouth tightly shut, and even now, after so many years had passed, the superintendent’s anger rose in her throat at the memory of that little one’s distress. Not even her own kindly experience had been able to make the child talk. But Angelina had taken the little girl under her wing, reading Peter Pan and Wendy to her, over and over again, and letting her share and cuddle Angelina’s precious pink teddy as they were in bed together. So when one day the little voice had finally whispered ‘My name is Ruby’, it had seemed as if Angelina had performed a small miracle.

Now, Angelina tapped on the superintendent’s door and went in. Emma Kingston looked up. This child – no longer a child – had developed into a beautiful young woman. She had grown quite tall, with a willowy figure that seemed full of grace and energy, and her long, golden brown hair falling in soft waves around her face, always shone with health,

‘Ah, there you are, dear. Come and sit down for a few minutes because we’ve one or two things to discuss.’

Angelina sat at the other side of the desk and looked across. ‘Is there something you need me to do, Miss Kingston?’

‘No, it’s more about you, dear, and what’s ahead.’ She cleared her throat. This was one of the duties she never enjoyed. ‘I don’t need to remind you that in a few months you will be 14 years old,’ she went on, ‘and that in January you will be leaving us and moving on to pastures new.’

Angelina sat forward and smiled. ‘You mean that I must make space for another child to come and live at The Garfield?’

‘Yes, I am afraid so, and if I had my way you would all stay on here for ever!’ the superintendent said. ‘But as you know 14 has always been the leaving age, and Mr Garfield, too, is of the opinion that all children should be encouraged to make their own way in the world and accept responsibility for themselves. But he also insists that the door is never closed to any of you and that you are welcome to come and visit as often as you like.’

She looked away for a moment, not wanting to admit that parting with Angelina was going to be hard. She had always been a special child, a favourite child. And why should she not be, because it was thanks to her arrival fourteen years ago that the orphanage had been transformed, or that it even existed in this place. The day that Randolph Garfield had turned up, holding that little shoe box, had been a red-letter day for all of them, and if someone else had found the baby this orphanage would now be an empty shell. Instead, under his ownership, new lighting and heating had been installed straightaway, there were now two bathrooms upstairs, the kitchen had been refitted with new equipment and every room was regularly redecorated in bright colours. Not only those practical considerations had been attended to, but there was always a continuous supply of new books and toys and games – the Meccano sets brought in a few years ago proving an endless fascination for both girls and boys.

It seemed that Mr Garfield was determined to leave no stone unturned for his orphans, often employing extra tutors to help any child with difficulties, or who showed a talent or willingness to learn. Mr Garfield regularly came in to visit, often bringing his young son with him, and it always surprised Emma Kingston that their benefactor was very good at remembering most of the children’s names. But he never again referred to Angelina’s sad beginning, nor treated her differently from the others. In fact, discussion about any of the orphans was discouraged at the Home. The totally unknown were baptised and given simple Christian names, and told that their parents had died, that they were all in the same boat and the past was the past. The future, their future, was what mattered. The superintendent sighed happily at her own thoughts. Ten years ago she should have retired, but she was still here at the Garfield, and had never been more content with her lot.

‘I shall be very sorry to leave,’ Angelina said, ‘because I have always been so happy here.’ She smiled. ‘Though I am sure the nuns will be glad to see the back of me, especially Sister Bernadette because she’s never forgiven me for calling out that she’d given us the wrong answer to one of the sums in a test. I got caned for that because she said I was being very rude in challenging her authority.’

Emma Kingston smiled briefly. She knew the nuns often used the cane on the children’s outstretched hands, and although she did not approve of physical punishment there was little she could say. The orphanage was fortunate to have the support of the priory, and of the nuns, who came over each day. This was an arrangement which had always gone on, and it was part of the agreement with Father Laurence who still remained a nominal trustee. But the superintendent didn’t care much for the priest who came in far too often for her liking. After all, once prayers and the reading of the day and perhaps a hymn had taken place, there wasn’t that much for the man to do, but he usually made sure he was around to join them at mealtimes. He was very tall and gaunt, always dressed in his long black garb, and he rarely smiled.