Alfred and Emily Read Free Page A

on the trestles was plentiful. She knew Emily and Daisy would fall on it the moment they arrived. She had already had words with the trustees of several hospitals, with well-known matrons and schools of nursing. It was wicked and short-sighted to expect girls to do such hard work on such poor food. She was planning a letter to The Times .
    When the girls arrived, Mrs. Lane would not allow herself to comment on how thin and bad they looked. They kissed her and at once attacked the food.
    With laden plates they sat on cushions beside Mrs. Lane and ate. Mrs. Lane could not bear to look at those roughened hands: she literally averted her eyes.
    â€˜We cannot stay long,’ said Emily and Daisy. They were both on night duty. Not probationers now, Mrs. Lane had to remind herself. They were in their second year, were actually nursing patients. How time did fly, they all agreed.
    Alfred, tea-time announced for the players, came over. He greeted Daisy, whom he had always known, but not Emily. He did not recognize her. He remembered Emily as a robust, tall girl – surely athletic: he had witnessed her leap over the fence.
    He said to Mrs. Lane, ‘One reason I’m glad not to be going of to Luton or somewhere: I like dropping in for a bit of your fruit cake.’ And his smile was certainly enough to win the heart of anybody at all who was not his mother.
    â€˜You know,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t be in the bank. You know me.’
    â€˜Yes, Alfred, and I’m so glad you won’t be going away.’
    Daisy did not hear this, or pretended not to: she thought Alfred did not know she would be even more glad.
    â€˜Perhaps I’ll drop in and see you when I come up to London,’ said Alfred to Daisy.
    â€˜I’ll look forward to it,’ said Daisy.
    Alfred was called back to the game; and soon the girls kissed Mrs. Lane and went off back to London.

August 1907
    Emily and Daisy passed their finals well, and Mrs. Lane wrote to Mrs. McVeagh, the stepmother. She had thought of writing to John McVeagh, but that would have been too much of a confrontation. The stepmother returned a note. ‘Thank you for letting me know about Emily. What a clever girl she has always been. Yours sincerely.’
    Mrs. Lane was pretty sure John McVeagh would have been following Emily’s progress, stage by stage. Mrs. John McVeagh (that nasty old crow) had said ‘letting me know’. Not one to go against her husband, then. Mrs. Lane wrote to say she was giving a dance for her daughter, Daisy (whom of course they knew well as Emily’s best friend), and for Emily. ‘You would all be welcome.’ The father and the stepmother wouldn’t come, but there was Emily’s brother. Perhaps he would.
    Mrs. Lane could have killed John McVeagh with her own two hands. Not to mention the stepmother. Surely they might have reflected that Emily had no one to applaud her, let alone make a dance for her. And could not that old stinge at least have given Emily money for some clothes?
    On the nurses’ pay Emily could not have afforded to dress well; she had the most basic of wardrobes. And she ought to have a dress, a real one: would it have cost that pompous old fool (John McVeagh) so much to send her money for a decent ‘best’ dress?
    Emily would be dreaming of a dress, Mrs. Lane knew. Her daughter was. Wouldn’t any girl? Not since she was a schoolgirl had Emily owned a pretty frock.
    She’s got no mother, no mother, Mrs. Lane reminded herself as she planned a special dress for Emily. She had bought a bolt of sweetly pretty sprigged white muslin and she made Daisy (her little angel) a dress cut from one she had had herself as a girl. Puffed sleeves, ribbons, a fichu of lace. Having seen Daisy in it, she at once cut one out for Emily, having got Daisy to make sure of measurements.
    They all got dressed in Daisy’s bedroom, Mrs. Lane in her best grey satin, and Emily was disappointed,