An Angel Sings

By Nadine Dorries

A stunning new short story from Sunday Times bestseller Nadine Dorries.
1950s Liverpool.

Christmas is one of the most harrowing times of year for the nurses of St Angelus Hospital.

The Matron takes on Tilly, a new clerk, to ease the load in the busy festive period. Tilly is bright and hard-working, but she is keeping a secret from her colleagues. Everyday Tilly makes a heartbreaking decision – but she has no other choice.

If Matron – with her traditional values and strict discipline – learnt the truth about her new clerk, Tilly's career would be ruined.

Could Matron ever forgive the deceit?

'Captivating, phenomenal and touching' 23 REVIEW STREET.

'A funny and sometimes shocking saga. I couldn't put it down' CRISTINA ODONE.

'The characters are engaging... and the theme of the novel powerful' THE TIMES.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Nov 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781789541984

Nadine Dorries

The Rt Hon. Nadine Dorries grew up in a working-class family in Liverpool. She spent part of her childhood living on a farm with her grandmother, and attended school in a small remote village in the west of Ireland. She trained as a nurse, then followed with a successful career in which she established and then sold her own business. She is an MP, presently serving as Secretary of State for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport, and has three daughters. The Rt Hon. Nadine Dorries grew up in a working-class family in Liverpool. She spent part of her childhood living on a farm with her grandmother, and attended school in a small remote village in the west of Ireland. She trained as a nurse, then followed with a successful career in which she established and then sold her own business. She has been MP for Mid Bedfordshire since 2005, and previously served as Secretary of State for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport. She has three daughters, and is based in Gloucestershire.

Book preview

1

Matron cast a quick glance over the letter of application she had received from Miss Tilly Townsend. She had interviewed five people that day for the position of junior admissions clerk and was on the point of despair, until Sister Theresa telephoned her and an interesting conversation had followed.

‘Honestly, Blackie,’ she said to her little Scottie dog, sat in his basket in front of the fire. ‘Since the war, there is such a shortage of women with qualifications looking for work. They are all married too young, with babies.’ Blackie looked up at his beloved mistress and tilted his head, waiting for the word ‘walkies’.

‘I know what you want, Blackie. One more to see, and then we are off.’

Matron was due at St Angelus Convent to meet Sister Theresa and Dr Gaskell at four thirty, to plan the Christmas carol services and Christmas morning mass for those patients who could be taken across the road in wheelchairs. Blackie was a welcome visitor to the convent and she would take him once around the park, on the way.

She took the tea Elsie had left on her desk and drank it, as she looked out over the car park and the dark redbrick Victorian hospital building, that had begun life as a workhouse. Black soot residue ran down the tall chimneys where the smoke from the coke holes and furnace spewed out. Beyond it, the River Mersey looked dull, as it reflected the heavy grey sky from which the rain fell with relentless monotony. Despite the rain, snow was coming. Matron had looked out from her office window over the river often enough to know its moods and predict the weather. She saw a group of nurses almost running from the greasy spoon hospital café back to their wards. Their pink uniforms were the only flash of warm colour on an otherwise grey day. She smiled at the sight of her nurses. She loved St Angelus. She had been there so long, that she felt she was St Angelus. Looking across the car park, she saw Dr Andrew Cohen heading to the doctors’ sitting room from his green Morris Minor and she sighed as her heart tightened. Such a sad story. She made a mental note to invite him up for tea. ‘The anniversary must be very close, Blackie,’ she said.

*

‘Go on, love, have a cuppa tea, it won’t cost you anything,’ Matron’s housekeeper, Elsie, had said to Tilly Townsend who was sitting on a hard-backed chair outside Matron’s office. Jake, the porter, who was also Elsie’s son-in-law, had left her to wait there almost an hour earlier. Elsie noted the dark, wet patches on the shoulders of Tilly’s coat.

‘It’s freezing out there today and look at you, you’re soaked through. I’ve just taken a cup into Matron. It’s no trouble, I won’t even have to brew a fresh pot. Did you come on the bus?’

So many questions and the one thing Tilly Townsend really had to avoid, was questions. Tilly reached up to push the damp strands of her long auburn hair back over her ears and adjusted the clip which held it in place. Elsie hadn’t offered a cup of tea to everyone being interviewed for the junior admission clerks post. She was far too busy for that. But this young woman had a look about her: she needed the job, judging by the thinness of her coat and the way she refused to remove it. Elsie knew only too well why that would be. What was underneath was even less presentable than the coat, which was almost threadbare. The last button was different from the rest, the pocket on one side was coming away and she glimpsed the steel shaft of a safety pin, holding the other pocket in place. Elsie felt a surge of sympathy. The girl had so obviously made an effort, by fastening a green paisley scarf around the collar. Yet, despite her appearance, this young woman had something about her. It wasn’t just that despite her lack of powder and lipstick, she was the prettiest of the interviewees; she was also the only one trying to hide something. Elsie had seen it all, through the war, on the Dock streets, working at St Angelus hospital and she could smell a secret a mile off. Tilly’s pale skin, lips almost as blue as her haunted eyes, told Elsie that she needed a warm drink inside and a few kind words. Tilly was the last to be interviewed that day and Elsie knew Matron would want to get this one over and done with quickly.

‘Thank you very much, I will have one then, but only if it’s no trouble for you,’ said Tilly, grateful to give Elsie something to do and thus avoid inevitable questions. It was the Liverpool way to be open and answer personal questions from strangers. Questions that anyone from anywhere else would find intrusive.

‘Lovely, I’ll pop a couple of custard creams on the saucer,’ said Elsie, bustling away, and pretending she hadn’t heard Tilly’s stomach rumbling in response.

Five minutes later, Elsie smiled with pleasure at the colour returning to Tilly’s cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes, as she dipped and finished the last biscuit.

‘Is Matron very fierce?’ she asked.

‘Oh, no, but, what you have to remember is that St Angelus is her baby. Very fussy about who works here, she is. Has very high standards does Matron. You won’t find just anyone working here.’ Elsie preened and pushed back her shoulders. She had worked at St Angelus since before the war. She knew every corner of the hospital and every person who worked in it.

She wondered what she had said, as she saw Tilly’s face drop, but it was too late to ask. The huge oak wooden door leading to the office swung open and Matron stood there, pristine and forbidding.

‘Go on, she wants you,’ said Elsie. Tilly rose, and turned to hand her the tea. ‘Oh no, take it in with you, you’ve half a cup there. Matron won’t mind at all. God knows, she drinks a bucket of the stuff a day herself.’

‘I take it that as a single woman, you are still living at home, Miss... let me see, I do apologise,’ Matron turned the sheet of ivory Basildon Bond over in her hand and read the signature at the bottom of the page, ‘Ah, yes, Miss Townsend.’

Matron slipped the sheet of paper into a buff coloured folder, along with the remaining neatly written letters of application for the post of junior admissions clerk and, with a sense of relief, snapped the folder shut. Silence filled her office, broken only by the crackling coals in the fireplace and the icy rain driving against the large window behind her desk.

Blackie sat up in his basket and threw Matron a forlorn look. It was almost time for his walk. It was late afternoon; the light was fading fast