The Fortunes of Francesca Page 7

‘Do they need them?’ she asked Mrs Payne as they went to and fro with the patients’ breakfast trays.

  Mrs Payne laughed. ‘I doubt it, but who am I to worry about that? If they all sleep all night, you see, there’s no need for a lot of nurses, is there?’

  ‘What do they do during the day? Several of the ladies seem quite active.’

  ‘Well, there’s the telly, isn’t there? And some of them have a newspaper. They’re well fed and kept clean. Look, ducks, they’re old. I’ve been nursing geriatrics for years. Hospitals don’t have the staff or the money to do more for them. I’ve worked in homes like this one for a long time now, and this one is not bad compared with some I’ve worked at. Don’t you worry your head about it. No one’s unkind to the patients here, I can promise you that. Now here’s Mrs Wright; we can be off in ten minutes...’

  Mrs Wright was middle-aged, too, and she looked nice. Franny was careful to address her as ‘Sister’ and felt better about the patients; she looked kind and efficient and it was obvious that the two young assistants stood in some awe of her. Franny took herself off home, reflecting that so far the job was at least what she had hoped it would be. She wasn’t very happy about the patients, but they seemed content... Early days, she reminded herself.

  * * *

  SHE SETTLED DOWN quickly and, although the work wasn’t hard, it was necessary to keep awake and alert throughout the night—and two of those nights she was alone. Washing and feeding eighteen old ladies took time, and she wasn’t a girl to cut corners. She went back to Fish Street each morning, tired to the bone, to take Auntie her breakfast in bed and get herself a meal.

  To cook was too much of an effort, so she made tea and ate a slice of toast, tidied the house and prepared lunch, before having a shower. In her dressing gown, she saw Auntie safely into the sitting room, had coffee with her and then got her a light meal.

  ‘You must eat something,’ Auntie always said worriedly, but Franny always declared that she had had a huge meal at the nursing home.

  ‘I’ll cook something when I get up,’ she’d assure her. ‘I’m going to bed now, but you’re to wake me if you don’t feel well or you need me. I’ll leave the door open. The tea tray is ready if you fancy a cup before I get down.’

  She would leave Auntie sitting by the gas fire with her knitting and her books and take herself off to bed. It seemed to her that she had no sooner put her head on the pillow than the alarm went off and she had to get up again. A cup of tea and then a meal shared with Auntie and Finn revived her; she told herself that life wasn’t bad at all, and she had two days off to look forward to.

  By the end of the second week she had got into a routine which she told herself was admirable. The two days off were a godsend; she was able to shop, clean the house, have two nights’ sleep in her bed, sit by the fire and listen to Auntie reminiscing about her youth and hear Finn’s sparse accounts of his days. She was content, she told herself, but she didn’t dare to look too far ahead.

  It was during the third week of her work at the nursing home that Auntie had an appointment to go to St Giles’ for a check-up. There was no indication as to who would see her, but all the same, just in case it would be the professor, Franny persuaded Finn to take an afternoon off and accompany his aunt. She tried not to think too much about the professor, aware that she was finding it difficult to forget him. To see him again would be pointless and foolish, would reawaken her wish to get to know him. She saw Auntie and Finn off and after an early lunch took herself off to bed.

  * * *

  THE PROFESSOR’S CLINIC was busier than ever, so Auntie waited patiently for her turn, aware that Finn wanted to get back to his books. She suggested that he might see the professor, but Finn shook his head. ‘No way—he’s here to see his patients. He wouldn’t have time for me.’

  But the professor did have time. While he examined Auntie he asked a few questions—was she quite happy to be back home? Was she doing as he had told her, leading a very gentle way of life? Was Franny with her?

  Auntie said yes, and then added, ‘Franny isn’t with me. Finn brought me; Franny’s in bed.’

  ‘Ill?’ The professor’s voice was sharp.

  ‘No, no. She’s doing night duty.’ Auntie waxed garrulous. ‘The dear child works at night so that she can be in the house with me during the day. Finn’s at home at night, of course.’

  The professor looked up from the notes he was writing. ‘I thought Franny was at Lady Trumper’s.’

  ‘She left. I believe she annoyed Lady Trumper in some way.’

  The professor reflected that that was very likely. ‘She is quite happy with her present job?’

  Auntie was cautious. ‘Well, she doesn’t say much about it. It seems rather a sad sort of place and she seems to be on her own a great deal.’

  ‘I dare say it’s close by Fish Street?’ asked the professor casually.

  ‘A short bus ride.’ Auntie was sitting back, enjoying the pleasant gossip. She didn’t see Sister’s impatient look and the professor ignored it. ‘Eighteen patients—not your kind of patient, though. Old ladies—not ill, exactly, but there because it’s convenient for their families.’

  ‘I occasionally get called out to a nursing home, but I don’t recall visiting this one...’

  ‘Pimlico,’ said Auntie. ‘It’s called The Haven.’

  ‘Most appropriate,’ observed the professor as he smiled at Auntie very kindly. ‘But home is best, is it not?’

  ‘Indeed, it is. May I know if I’m quite well again? Shall I be able to do a little more? It would be such a help if I could just do the shopping and some of the housework.’

  ‘It is still early days, Mrs Blake, but by all means start doing light jobs around the house. But only for short periods—and you must rest as much as possible. Do you sleep well?’

  ‘Like a top,’ said Auntie.

  He got up and shook hands. ‘I’d like to see you again, of course. Will you go to Reception? They will give you a date. Is Finn in the waiting room?’

  When Auntie said that he was there, the professor walked with her. To Sister’s indignation, the other patients’ interest and to Finn’s huge and inarticulate delight, he spent a few minutes with him asking him about his studies.

  It was late afternoon by the time they got home, and Franny was up, still in her dressing gown, getting tea. She listened to all that they had to tell her, careful not to ask any questions about the professor, and Auntie quite forgot to tell her that she had told him where Franny was working. She thought about that later and decided that perhaps she shouldn’t have done so. It would be better to say nothing...

  * * *

  THE PROFESSOR NEVER overlooked even the smallest detail. He had asked Auntie how many nights in the week Franny worked and she had told him, adding for good measure on which nights she was free. He would go and see her, he reflected, merely to satisfy himself that she had a good job and was able to give Auntie the care she still needed—Auntie was his patient and he was responsible for her welfare.

  It was some days before the opportunity occurred for him to go and see her. Given an early breakfast by Crisp, who contained his curiosity with difficulty, he drove himself to The Haven and parked a few yards from it. He watched three women—the day staff, he presumed—go in, and then an older woman leave, and, a moment later, Franny.

  She was not looking her best, he perceived at once. Indeed, studying her as he eased the car forward, he saw that her face wasn’t only plain, it was without color, and thin. When he was alongside her he opened the door.

  ‘Get in,’ he told her, and because she was surprised she did.

  Only, once sitting beside him, she said sharply, ‘No, I don’t want to. I’m going home.’

  He leaned over and fastened her seat belt. ‘Good morning, Franny, I’ll drive you home.’

&
nbsp; ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Auntie? Is there something wrong? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Your aunt is doing very nicely—making splendid progress. I wished to see for myself that you were able to cope.’

  ‘Well, that’s different. Everything’s fine. This is a nice job and I get plenty of time off to see to the house and Auntie. I’m sorry I upset Lady Trumper—I didn’t mean to—but it was a good thing, really, because I had to find another job.’ She turned a tired face with an over-cheerful smile to him. ‘I get two free days a week and the pay’s quite good.’

  ‘Good. How many patients are there at this place?’

  ‘Eighteen. They’re not ill, only old and shaky and needing care.’

  ‘How many nurses do you have at night?’

  ‘Well, there’s me and then there’s Mrs Payne...’

  ‘And who else? Who relieves for nights off?’

  ‘Oh, well—we relieve each other.’

  ‘And then you are alone? All night?’ They had crossed the bridge and were almost at Fish Street. ‘You wash and feed all the patients before you hand over in the morning?’

  ‘Yes. Professor, why are you so interested? Anyway, now you know, don’t you?’

  He drew up soundlessly before her door. ‘Now I know that you are overworked, Franny, not getting enough help or sleep or exercise, and you are beginning to look like a small scarecrow.’

  She had been glad to see him, though too tired to respond to him, but now she sat up straight and turned an indignant face to his.

  ‘Whatever next? Scarecrow, indeed! I was beginning to think you were rather nice, but you’re not.’ She made to get out of the car but his hand over hers prevented that. ‘I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for Auntie,’ she added rather stiffly. ‘But I assure you that I’m quite capable of looking after her and running my own life. Thank you for the lift.’

  He got out of the car and opened her door. ‘I’ve made you angry. I’m sorry. Forget about not liking me and listen to me as you would listen to your doctor. Think about finding work away from London if you can. Somewhere where Auntie can potter gently in the garden and you can work where you have a chance to meet people and enjoy your life. The life you lead now is nothing but genteel slavery. Goodbye, Franny.’

  She didn’t reply. Suddenly she wanted to tell him just how awful the job was, how tired she was, how life seemed an endless round of work, shopping, and seeing to Auntie and the house. Even with Finn, who did his best.

  She mumbled something, still not looking at him, opened the door and went inside, closing it quietly behind her. It had taken an effort to do that; what she had really wanted to do was throw herself onto his massive chest and bawl her eyes out in comfort.

  Finn wasn’t home and Auntie was in bed. She sniffed away her tears and began the morning chores—tea for Auntie and a cup for herself, breakfast, the sitting room to tidy and dust, the kitchen to clear, lunch to think about, shopping... Another day in a succession of days which stretched into the future.

  She stopped laying Auntie’s tray. The professor had said that Auntie would be better out of London—well, there were jobs all over the country and it was worth thinking about it.

  During the next few days she thought a very great deal about the future. To move right away from London would be a tremendous upheaval. Finn would have to get digs—though she didn’t think he would mind that. He would see more of his friends and feel free to spend his leisure as he wanted and not feel that he must stay at home at night and help with the chores. As for Auntie, Franny thought that once she got used to the idea she would like it. This house was rented, and probably they could find something as cheap or cheaper out of London. Besides, she herself might find work which was better paid...

  She searched the columns of The Lady magazine, for people wanting help in the house, help with children, carers for elderly members of the family. I won’t hurry, Franny told herself, I’ll wait until just the right kind of job turns up—not too far away from London and Finn, somewhere where I can get to work easily, where a house or a flat goes with the job, and where there is a mild social life for Auntie such as the Women’s Institute or a special club.

  Full of optimism, she didn’t allow herself to think of her own future. During the scant moments of peace and quiet at the nursing home she thought about the professor. He had washed his hands of her and she deserved it. She had been ungrateful and rude and she would forget him just as he surely must have forgotten her.

  * * *

  A WEEK OR two went by, and now that she had made up her mind Franny set about looking for a job in real earnest, though she still said nothing to Finn or Auntie. Time enough for that when she had found what she wanted. There had been three likely jobs in Kent, Sussex and Surrey, and she had written to all three; it seemed there was nothing to stop her careful planning.

  However, there was. Auntie caught a cold which became a chill—nothing to worry about, her doctor assured her, but she was to stay in bed until she had taken the antibiotics he had prescribed and not go out of doors until the weather improved.

  Franny managed somehow to go to work, do the shopping and keep the house tidy, but she had to cut her sleep to a few hours during the day. She was anxious about Auntie, and anxious, too, that nothing should interrupt Finn’s studies.

  It was becoming evident to her that Auntie needed more care than she was getting. However caring Franny was, she needed someone there all the time. Franny wished there was someone in whom she could confide. The professor would have done nicely, she thought ruefully, but dismissed him impatiently from her mind. ‘Stand on your own two feet, my girl, and don’t moan,’ she told herself.

  Auntie made slow progress, but after a few days she came downstairs, looking pale and frail and a bit peevish. She made no bones about broaching a subject Franny had avoided. ‘This can’t go on, Franny,’ said Auntie weakly. ‘You’re doing too much and we have to put a stop to it. I’ve been thinking that I might go into a home...’

  ‘Don’t you even dare think about it. This is your home, Auntie, and you made it home for Finn and me. I’m perfectly all right and you’re getting better each day.’

  ‘Well, something must be done,’ said Auntie obstinately. ‘I don’t intend—’ She was interrupted by a knock at the door, and Franny, glad to put an end to the conversation, went to open it.

  Uncle William stood there, supported by gutter crutches, and his wife, Aunt Editha. He was a short, stout man with a red face made fierce by bushy eyebrows and a perpetual frown, and, when he spoke, he had a harsh voice.

  ‘Well, girl, don’t just stand there, let me in.’

  Uncle William was a man whom no one liked, with the possible exception of his wife. He was considerably older than Auntie and Franny’s mother and had already been a spoilt and bad-tempered boy when they were born. Since his doting parents had turned a blind eye on his bullying ways and arrogance they had fallen victim to his domineering ways. Not that the two girls had been meek about that—they had stood up to him valiantly and on one occasion had belaboured him so furiously that he had tripped and fallen. The consequence had been a black eye, a broken nose and several front teeth knocked out.

  The two girls had been severely punished but he had been the laughing stock of the other young men of his acquaintance. He had vowed then that he would never forgive them and that somehow, some day, however long it took, he would get even with them.

  The opportunity had come sooner than expected; their parents had died within weeks of each other and he had become the family’s guardian.

  Auntie had escaped first, marrying a man against her brother’s wishes, but since she had been twenty-one he had been able to do nothing about it. And then Franny’s mother had been fortunate enough to meet a ma
n when she was nineteen who had married her out of hand, despite William’s efforts to prevent him.

  Franny, aware from childhood of Uncle William’s nasty nature, and regarding him as a kind of family ogre, now stifled a nasty feeling of foreboding and held the door wide.

  ‘You’re a surprise, Uncle William.’ She nodded at her aunt, who was a thin, middle-aged lady elegantly dressed in a beautiful winter coat which Franny instantly coveted. ‘And you, too, Aunt.’

  She led them into the sitting room where Auntie, wrapped in a rather tatty shawl, sat by the fire. She had started to doze, and now when she opened her eyes she stared and closed them again. Franny, aware that she was shutting out the unwelcome sight of her brother, touched her gently on the arm.

  ‘Auntie, here are Uncle William and Aunt Editha. I don’t know why they have come, but I dare say we shall be told.’

  She offered chairs, ignoring Aunt Editha’s shuddering looks at the room. ‘Finn is in medical school; he’ll be home later.’

  Her uncle spoke. ‘Don’t take after your mother, do you? She was pretty... What do you do with yourself? Don’t look too healthy to me.’

  ‘I am very well. If you are at all interested in the matter, Auntie has had a recent heart operation and is recovering nicely.’ Franny eyed him with dislike. ‘Why are you here, Uncle, after all these years of ignoring us? For all you might have known, we could have been dead or emigrated.’

  Auntie was wide awake now. She said, still feeling peevish, ‘Indeed, yes. A fine brother you’ve been to me, and uncaring of your nephew and niece—your own flesh and blood, too.’ She turned an indignant eye on her sister-in-law. ‘And you’re no better.’

  Aunt Editha looked astonished, as well she might. Auntie had never spoken to her like that before—of course, she was getting on; old people tended to forget themselves. She opened her mouth to reply but Uncle William forestalled her. ‘That is why we are here.’ He attempted to soften his voice. ‘To make amends.’

  He paused, but if he expected looks of gratitude he didn’t get them. He waited for a moment and then went on. ‘Editha and I have decided that we should give you a home. I can see that you, Emma, are greatly in need of one. Is this house yours?’