‘And there you go again, Stanley Nettles, putting your twopenn’orth in when it’s not required.
‘But I don’t understand. Why don’t you want to go and listen to ’im play the piano? I bet ’e’s good.’
It was a perfectly rational question, but for too many reasons Romily didn’t want to dwell on, she knew she shouldn’t go, even though in essence the idea had its appeal.
With Bobby tied to the pram outside the surgery, Romily carefully carried Isabella inside with them. Wrapped in a blanket, the baby was still sleeping soundly when they took their seats in the small waiting room while Dr Garland’s receptionist, Cynthia Blackwood, dealt with somebody on the telephone. She was still speaking to the caller when Dr Garland appeared with his hat and coat on.
‘I got delayed on my rounds,’ he said. ‘Have you been waiting long? Terribly sorry if you have. Nothing wrong with the baby, is there?’ His face and tone of voice were the epitome of concern. He’d admitted to Romily how upset he’d been when he’d returned from his holiday and learned of Allegra’s death.
‘Isabella’s fine,’ she said, rising to her feet, ‘although it might be prudent for you to check her over while we’re here, just to be on the safe side.’
‘Of course,’ he said. Noticing Stanley as he hung up his coat on the ornate rack beside the door, he smiled. ‘Hello there, young man. So you’ve returned to us, have you?’
Suddenly looking anxious, Stanley took a step back. Romily put a gentle but reassuring hand on his shoulder, regretting now how abrupt she’d been with him.
‘It’s Stanley I’ve come about,’ she said, her voice lowered, conscious that Cynthia Blackwood was all ears now that she had ended her conversation on the telephone.
‘Well then, let’s go through and have a chat, shall we?’
With his expression drawn into a frown, Dr Garland dabbed iodine on the burns on Stanley’s body, the poor lad bravely gritting his teeth all the while and then relaxing when the dressings were applied. When he had finished, he called for Cynthia to take the boy and give him a glass of barley water and a biscuit.
‘This is one of the worst cases of child abuse I’ve come across,’ he said when they were alone. ‘You did the right thing in bringing the boy to see me.’
‘I can’t allow Mrs Nettles to drag him back to London again; my conscience just won’t let me,’ said Romily. She was deeply shocked at what she’d just seen. How could a mother do that, or allow it to happen? ‘And yet I know she’s his mother,’ she continued. ‘It’s her right to have him.’
‘Why don’t we cross that bridge if we need to?’
‘We?’
‘Having treated Stanley, I’ll happily act as a witness that he’s in more danger by being with his mother than he is with you.’
‘She could claim she didn’t touch him, that it was her boyfriend who did it. Or, heaven forbid, she could say I’m to blame.’
‘I hardly think Stanley would let anyone believe that. Not for a second. Now then, let me take a look at Isabella.’
When they left Dr Garland, and still feeling guilty that she’d been so terse with Stanley, Romily offered to take him to the sweet shop to make amends. His face lit up. ‘You ain’t cross with me no more, then?’ he said.
‘No,’ she replied, ‘and I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you earlier. It was quite unnecessary.’
‘So will you go and see Mr Abbott play the piano? I think ’e’d like you to be there.’
She laughed. ‘You’re a pushy little devil when you want to be, aren’t you?’
The boy just smiled back at her and she suddenly thought: why not go? And why not take Hope with her so they could both have an evening out? A change of scene would probably do them good. And Isabella would be in safe hands with Florence, of course she would. But of equal concern to Romily was the feeling she knew she had to get over – that agreeing to attend the concert felt like a betrayal of her love for Jack. It was just a concert, nothing more.
‘Now then, Stanley,’ she said, her mind made up, ‘our next port of call is the newsagent’s, where we’re going to place an advertisement to find a new housemaid.’
It was a task she didn’t particularly relish. Whoever came to work at Island House would have to be exactly the right person. She didn’t want the applecart upset in any way.
Chapter Sixty
April 1940
It was nearly three weeks later when Stanley came careering into the kitchen one afternoon at top speed. He was panting hard and had Bobby hot on his heels.
‘You ain’t never gonna believe it!’ he cried, dropping his school bag and gas mask case to the floor. ‘Never in a million years!’
‘And you’ll never believe the sharpness of my tongue if you carry on hollering and banging,’ replied Mrs Partridge. ‘Florence has just got Isabella off to sleep, so hush with all your noise. Now wash your hands and sit down with a composure more befitting a gentleman. A gentleman who speaks properly too.’
