Front Line Nurse. Rosie James
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.
‘And I know someone else who won’t be sorry that I’m going,’ Angelina went on. ‘Mrs Marshall! She will be very glad to see the back of me! For as long as I can remember she’s told me to shut up and make myself scarce!’
Angelina looked away for a moment, not wanting to remember that one horrible event between her and Mrs Marshall that had given her nightmares for weeks afterwards.
It had been a day not long after Angelina’s tenth birthday, when both the ovens in the kitchen had stopped working. Such a thing had never happened before, and for two days the orphanage had had to buy in their dinner from outside caterers. At midday, a white delivery van had arrived at the entrance, and Mrs Marshall had been there to receive the food and carry it inside, helped by one of the children. It had been on the second day that Mrs Marshall had called Angelina out from the school room to assist her.
‘Hurry up,’ the woman had said crossly, as the two had made their way down the long passageway. ‘That van won’t wait there for ever!’
‘I am hurrying up,’ Angelina had replied, annoyed that she’d had to leave the arithmetic lesson, her favourite. She’d trotted after Mrs Marshall. ‘I can’t walk any faster! Your legs are longer than mine, remember!’
‘Always ready with a reply, aren’t you, Miss!’ Mrs Marshall had said. ‘I wish I’d been born with even half of your cheek!’
At the entrance, the van had been there, ready and waiting. The driver entered and, one, by one, had placed three large, rectangular, shiny steel pans of hot food on the table in the hall. Then he’d touched his cap and was gone.
Mrs Marshall had gingerly lifted the lid from each pan, and she and Angelina had gazed at the contents. The first had held slice after slice of beef, accompanied by rows and rows of crisp, roast potatoes, all lying in a generous amount of rich brown gravy. The smell had made Angelina’s mouth water.
‘Can we pinch a spud?’ she’d whispered, only to be rewarded with a clip over the ear.
The next pan had held cabbage and diced carrots, and in the third were the puddings, tiny jam roly polys, with a deep space at the end of the pan to hold the hot custard.
‘Come on, let’s get this lot into the kitchen before it all goes cold!’ Mrs Marshall had said tersely, picking up the heaviest pan with the meat and potatoes inside. ‘You bring the vegetables, Angelina. And don’t dawdle!’
The next few moments were to be the ones imprinted on Angelina’s memory for the rest of her life.
With