Cathy Sharp - Christmas for the Halfpenny Orphans

‘We can’t force her to tell us and I shan’t try,’ Angela said. ‘We’ll have to wait until the twins feel they can trust us … Is Sarah still clinging to that dirty old pipe?’

‘Yes. She hid it as soon as she saw me, but I knew what it was. I’ve seen her holding it to her cheek and singing. Tears slip down her cheeks but she doesn’t say anything – merely parrots whatever Samantha says if she has to answer.’

‘She may simply be slow. Sarah is a sweet, loving child and Samantha is protective of her. There’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘As they’re both girls, there’s no bother about them staying together. Perhaps Sarah will have more to say when she feels comfortable with us.’

‘Well, they may not be here long; you see, they have an aunt who may be willing to take them.’

‘Oh, well perhaps that’s best,’ Wendy agreed. ‘I’d better get back to the ward. I left Jean to give the children their drinks, but she’s due a break soon.’

She met Tilly as she was on her way to the kitchen and greeted her with a friendly smile, but though the girl smiled back, she walked on without speaking. Wendy hadn’t got to know her yet. Sometimes Tilly would join in a conversation, but more often she was quiet and wary of saying much. Wendy thought there was something sad about her …

Wendy had known enough sadness of her own. The only man she’d ever loved had died in the war, as had so many others – and then Wendy’s mother had died of cancer. She’d spent months nursing her and afterwards she’d wanted a change from general nursing, so this job had been a godsend. Wendy loved her job here and, although it couldn’t fill the empty space inside her that the deaths of her loved ones had left, several of the children had already found their way into her heart …

Angela filed away her reports and stretched her shoulders. She really wished that she was going somewhere nice that evening instead of a charity meeting. Her evening out with Mark had ended so abruptly; they’d hardly had time to have a drink before he was rushing off to see his patient.

‘I wouldn’t go, but Alan Royston is a friend,’ Mark had told her. ‘I told them to call me if there were complications during the operation – it’s always risky, trying to remove a tumour on the brain. No matter how skilled the surgeon, it could go either way.’

‘I understand, Mark,’ Angela had said, swallowing her disappointment. ‘You must go to your friend. If anything should happen you would never forgive yourself.’

‘I was the one who talked him into having the op. The tumour had grown to the point it was going to kill him or leave him severely impaired. If he dies now I shall be left wondering if he might have had a few more months if he’d refused …’

Angela’s heart went out to him. She suspected he wouldn’t take the death of a friend easily and she wished she could have gone with him to support him. However, Mark would never have allowed it.

She was reaching for her jacket, ready to leave for the evening, when the phone rang. Angela hesitated and then reached for the receiver. ‘Angela Morton here.’

‘Angela, my love,’ her father’s voice came down the line. ‘How are you? I’m planning to pop up to town this weekend, and I thought perhaps dinner and the theatre later? I can stay overnight and we’ll have lunch the next day before I go back.’

‘Oh, Daddy, it is lovely to hear from you, and I’d love to go out to dinner with you on Saturday. I’ll try to get tickets for a show. Shall I book them and a room for you?’

‘No, I’ll see to the room,’ he said. ‘It’ll be good to see you, and we need to have a talk. It’s about your mother – but we’ll discuss all that when I see you.’

‘Is something the matter? Mother isn’t worse, is she?’ Angela’s mother had been drinking heavily for months before her breakdown the previous Christmas, when it had all come out. It had taken months to persuade her to go to a special clinic in Switzerland for treatment, and in the end it was Mark who had persuaded her to do so.

‘No. In fact from the sound of it she’s feeling better. I’ll tell you all the news at the weekend. I won’t keep you.’

‘Yes, all right. Lovely to hear from you. I’ll look forward to the weekend.’

She frowned as she replaced the receiver. Her mother’s behaviour had been erratic for some time, but the breakdown last Christmas had come as a shock. Despite his attempt at reassurance, Angela couldn’t help feeling anxious about whatever it was her father wanted to tell her.

Mark had known of Mrs Hendry’s illness for months but he hadn’t told Angela – and she’d been angry with him for that. Perhaps that was one of the causes of this rift between them. Angela had been in the wrong; Mark could not betray a confidence, and it was her father who should have told her but he’d kept it to himself. In the aftermath of the breakdown Angela had offered to give up her work at St Saviour’s, but her father wouldn’t hear of it.

As she set off homeward along Halfpenny Street, Angela’s thoughts were preoccupied with things she could do nothing about. She turned the corner and passed the newly restored and recently reopened pub with its hanging baskets bringing a touch of welcome colour. The scent of the blooms was no longer overpowered by the tang of city drains, thanks to the efforts of the road sweeper who’d been hired to keep the pavements and gutters clean. He was an ex-soldier – his limp a relic of the war, if she was not mistaken – and he never failed to tip his cap in greeting whenever they passed on the street.

She could hear the tooting of a car horn somewhere and out on the river there was a hooter blaring from one of the barges. The vacant spaces left by Hitler’s bombs made the area seem more rundown than it actually was, but some headway had been made in clearing the rubble and one or two new buildings were going up, bringing a sense that things were moving on at last. There were still shortages, and rationing had yet to be lifted on essential items such as sugar, butter, canned and dried fruit, chocolate biscuits, clothing and petrol. Yet there was a growing feeling, encouraged by upbeat newspaper reports, that they were finally leaving those dark years of war and devastation behind.

More and more of late, Angela was aware of a vague sense of wistfulness, of needing something more in her life. She longed to be going somewhere nice for a change instead of another charity meeting. It would probably be very dull, since the housing charity was made up of a few well-intentioned people who wanted to contribute but seemed incapable of actually doing anything. Until Angela had taken over as secretary, their meetings had been spent going round and round in circles, talking endlessly and never reaching a decision. By sheer force of energy, she’d managed to galvanise them into approving funding for new housing to be built on the site they’d acquired. Now if she could only get them to come to a decision on which builder would carry out the work …

The Methodist hall, with its walls clad in dark oak wainscoting and drab grey paint, and a permanent odour of musty old books in the air, was not the most welcoming of venues. As usual, the old-fashioned radiators were proving unequal to the task of heating the draughty interior, and Angela was debating whether to hang her coat on the hallstand or keep it on for the duration of the meeting when she was hailed by Stan Bridges, Chairman of the Housing Society.