The Orphans of Halfpenny Street. Cathy Sharp

more than enough to cope with as it is.’

      ‘To be honest, I could do with more help, but I dare not risk it.’ Michelle picked up the tray and took it inside, kicking the door to with the heel of her shoe. She felt a bit mean for tearing Angela Morton off a strip like that, but Jake had taken the chicken pox despite his proud boast that he never did get ill, and, as luck would have it, he was worse than either his sister or his elder brother.

      Sister Beatrice had done her best to contain the sickness to the three children in the isolation ward, and so far her precautions were working. The trouble was that there just weren’t enough trained nurses to cope if a really nasty infection were to spread to the dormitories. Even Sister took extreme precautions when visiting the children, covering up her uniform in the rest room and donning a clean apron before going about her business afterwards.

      Neither Michelle nor Sally had had an evening off since Dick first went down with the sickness, several days earlier. They were taking it in turns to rest, but for a lot of the time it needed both of them to keep the children cool and comfortable. If Sister Beatrice had not taken her turn, Michelle thought she couldn’t have coped.

      Holding back another sigh, she poured herself a mug of tea, but before she could take more than a sip, Jake was calling out. She put the cup down and went to sit by his bed, soothing his heated brow and watching him with sympathy. He felt so ill and on top of all that he’d suffered in the short years of his life, the sickness was taking its toll on him. He’d certainly got much worse in the last few hours. Seeing how pale and vulnerable he looked, a shiver of fear went through her because she was already fond of him. He was such a likeable little boy and his serious looks had tugged at her heart.

      ‘Please get better,’ Michelle murmured fervently, hardly knowing whether she was entreating him or praying to God. ‘Don’t die … please don’t die …’ Michelle was afraid that he was slipping away from them, despite all the love and care he’d been given, his once-vital spirit all but extinguished. Yet what more could she do to save him? Although a bright, intelligent boy, his physical strength had been affected by the years of neglect. Her throat caught with tears and she felt a surge of rebellion and despair.

      She left him as Susie started to whimper and gave the child a drink to ease her headache. Susie was actually on the mend; she’d only taken it lightly and apart from a tendency to scratch her face because the scabs itched, she was causing less anxiety than either of her brothers.

      The door from the rest room opened and Sally entered. ‘I thought I heard the tea tray. How is Jake now?’

      ‘Still restless. I’m worried about him, Sally, but there’s nothing more Sister Beatrice can do if she comes – and she was up half the night with him, because she insisted we get some rest. Unless, do you think we should have the doctor?’

      ‘Why don’t you go and speak to Sister about it? The poor little thing seems to be getting worse all the time and perhaps we should have the doctor out.’

      ‘Normally, we try to manage ourselves. Sister doesn’t like to waste the doctor’s time,’ Michelle said but she was uneasy, fearful that the child might slip away from them.

      ‘I know,’ Sally agreed. ‘Shall I sponge him down while you drink your tea?’

      ‘Yes, please,’ Michelle said. ‘He has so many spots now, far more than either of the other two … if Sister Beatrice hadn’t looked at him herself last night I should wonder if what he has is something worse …’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I’ll go and talk to her and suggest the doctor just in case of …’

      ‘What?’ Sally stared at her in horror. ‘You don’t mean smallpox? No, it can’t be … that’s a killer. My father’s mother died of it years ago.’

      ‘Well, it has crossed my mind – but I’m sure I’m wrong. It’s just a severe case of the chicken pox, but I’ll ask Sister to take a look and tell her that I’m worried about him. If he needs a doctor we shouldn’t leave it too long. Can you hold the fort while I speak to Sister?’

      ‘Of course I shall,’ Sally said. ‘You look almost all in, Michelle. After you’ve spoken to Sister, why don’t you take your tea into the rest room and have a little sleep?’

      ‘If you’re sure you can manage …’ Michelle arched back, feeling the ache in the small of her spine. ‘I’m so tired, but you must call me if Jake takes a turn for the worse … and I’ll ask Sister now if we should call the doctor out …’

      Angela looked round the room that had been offered to her. It was clean but basic with none of the comforts she was used to, but it would do for a while and would be useful on those nights when she stayed over at the home to help out, even if she found an apartment she liked. There was no point in staying at a hotel that entailed a long bus ride when she had the use of a bed here. As soon as she got used to St Saviour’s and its occupants, she would look for a nice little flat she could make into a home.

      A rueful smile touched her mouth, because so far she hadn’t been made to feel welcome here. Sister Beatrice had greeted her politely but she’d sensed an underlying hostility that she couldn’t explain. Why would the woman want to put a barrier between them from the start? Angela had been sent to help her, and was very willing to do whatever was asked of her, even though Mark had made it clear that her main task was to bring St Saviour’s in line with more modern thinking … but the stern Sister wasn’t the only one to show dislike. Cook had told her that she must ask for what she wanted and not go making tea or sandwiches herself.

      ‘That’s our job,’ she’d said, scowling as Angela began to lay out the tray. ‘Just ask for what you want, and we’ll give you the proper menu for the nurses and carers. The children have different, of course. Sister Beatrice decides what special diets they need, if any – so don’t go getting food for them without my say-so. You might end up doing more harm than good; besides, I don’t want my precious rations being wasted. We can’t afford to waste a scrap.’

      ‘Of course not, Mrs Jones. I wouldn’t even know where to start …’

      She’d let her gaze wander around the large kitchen with its array of copper-bottomed pans hanging above a huge range, the painted wooden dresser and shelves crowded with an assortment of crockery. A large scrubbed pine table occupied the middle of the long room and was littered with dishes and wire trays, which held freshly cooked pies and jam tarts. The food, she’d discovered, was kept in a huge cold pantry and there was a refrigerator for the perishables. It made a loud chirring noise and sounded as if it were overloaded and might give out at any moment. She guessed that it was some years old. They could really do with a new one, more modern and efficient. Perhaps she could make that one of her first priorities, raise some money towards it – that was if a new one could be found. The shops were still struggling to buy in goods like refrigerators, which had been considered a luxury and expendable when metal was in such short supply during the war.

      Yes, already she’d begun to make a mental list of changes, but once she got inside the building next door destined for the new wing, her job would really begin.

      ‘Well, just remember what I’ve said and we’ll get on all right.’ Cook glared at her. ‘We’re short-staffed at the moment so you’ll have to wait until I’ve done this semolina pudding for the children …’

      Angela had waited patiently, wishing that she could just prepare the tray herself, but she didn’t want to tread on anyone’s toes, and would rather not make an enemy of the cook right from the word go.

      She’d thought the nurses in the isolation ward would at least be glad to get a plate of both chicken paste and tomato sandwiches, a pot of tea, and the jugs of cold lemon barley for their patients. However, that very pretty nurse had snapped her head off and made her begin to wonder why on earth she’d ever accepted this post. Mark Adderbury had spoken of her being needed and wanted, but it certainly didn’t look that way at the moment.

      Perhaps she should have taken the offer to return to her old posting in Portsmouth, and yet there were too many memories there – of happier days when she’d