Daughter of Mine

‘Who’s it from?’ Marjorie asked.

Pat and Betty exchanged knowing glances. Lizzie had explained away the birthday roses, and apparently to her satisfaction, but this was something else entirely. Lizzie was naturally reticent and too worried about being teased to tell Pat or Betty about her meeting with Steve in November, and the fact she had been seeing him since. It wasn’t hard, for their times off rarely coincided and they were too preoccupied with their own love lives to worry overmuch about Lizzie’s, and Marjorie had no idea of any of it. So, as far as Pat and Betty were aware, this bracelet had arrived out of the blue.

It was like a statement, Betty thought; like saying, To hell with being friends. I want something more. And so she said to Marjorie, ‘It’s from Lizzie’s feller.’

‘Steve’s not my feller,’ Lizzie protested.

‘Oh no,’ Pat said, with a hint of derision. ‘Let’s say I wish some non-feller of mine would send me something half so nice.’ And she pulled the card from the box ‘“All my love always, Steve”,’ she read out. ‘Like I said, some friend that Steve.’

The card unnerved Lizzie and she knew she should have a talk with Steve as soon as possible. She withdrew the bracelet and played it though her fingers. It was gorgeous and she knew it would have been expensive. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t accept it.’

‘Don’t be such a bloody fool,’ Pat admonished.

‘I need to talk to him about this,’ Lizzie said. ‘Set the record straight.’ But she knew that was a vain wish. The guests were arriving any time after four o’clock that afternoon, and from when they stepped into the hotel until they checked out on 1

January she knew she’d hardly stop running. The hours would be long, sleep a luxury she could only dream of, and time off virtually non-existent.

In a way she was glad of it. She was able to push the problem of what to do about the bracelet to the back of her mind.

On 3

January Steve took her dancing at the Locarno. She spent some of the tips she’d earned over the festive season to buy a dress from C&A Modes. It was of rose velvet with a scooped neckline and fell to the floor, the bottom section gathered in little pleats. She had her hair piled on her head with combs the same colour as the dress, and peeping from beneath it were dainty high-heeled shoes. On one of her slender wrists was Steve’s bracelet. He was so pleased. He hadn’t been sure she would accept it, especially after what he’d written on the card.

Everything pleased him that night. Lizzie thanked him warmly for the bracelet and said truthfully it was the prettiest thing she’d ever owned, but she chided him for spending so much on it. ‘And who else would I spend it on?’ he asked. ‘Now, Lizzie, my money is my own and I must choose how to spend it.’

Lizzie kissed him gently on the lips in gratitude and friendship and he felt his body grow hot with desire, but he told himself to go easy. Lizzie had noticed nothing untoward and she removed her jacket and said, ‘Do you like the dress? I treated myself.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, surveying it. He was bowled over by the strength of his feelings coursing through him and excited by the prospect of being able to legitimately hold Lizzie in his arms as they danced. He put his arms gently around her and said, ‘And you’re beautiful, Lizzie.’

Lizzie, though embarrassed, was warmed by his genuine praise and realised she’d missed not seeing him over Christmas. Don’t depend on him, she’d warned herself, but the alternative if she didn’t go out with Steve was a dismal one.

She had a wonderful time, so wonderful that when Steve left her back at the hotel she kissed him again on the lips. ‘Thank you, Steve.’

‘You deserved a treat tonight,’ he told her. ‘You’ve been working like a Trojan at this place. You’re thinner than ever.’

‘Och, Steve, don’t worry, I’m as strong as an ox.’

‘Oxen don’t come in such pretty packages,’ Steve said. ‘Look after yourself.’

‘I will, don’t worry.’

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_93d71276-d1ed-57a0-ac28-f09585c79e05)

The following morning Lizzie didn’t feel a bit like an ox. In fact, she woke feeling very strange indeed. She was dripping wet with sweat, her head was thumping and she felt as if she had a tight band around her chest. She was due to serve breakfasts with Marjorie and she struggled to get out of bed, though the room tilted in a most alarming way.

She slumped back on the bed again, and Marjorie, coming back from the bathroom and beginning to dress, said, ‘God, are you all right? Your face is as red as a beetroot.’

Lizzie wasn’t surprised. She could feel the sweat standing out on her forehead, trickling down her back, and seeping between her breasts. She opened her mouth to say she felt a little strange, but she was taken unawares by a fit of coughing.

‘God, Lizzie, I don’t think you’d better go downstairs like that.’

‘No, I’m all right, I’m fine,’ Lizzie said in a husky voice.

‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ Marjorie said, putting her feet into her shoes. ‘Stay here, I’ll have a word with someone.’

Lizzie tried to tell the doctor that the manager had summoned that she was all right too, between bouts of coughing and gasping for breath. The doctor was Scottish and one to stand no nonsense and he said, ‘Please let me be the judge of that, young lady. I wouldna dream of telling you how to serve breakfast now, would I? Open up the front of your nightie and let’s have a wee listen to that chest of yours.’

Acutely embarrassed, Lizzie undid the buttons at her neck and the doctor sounded her chest with the stethoscope. ‘Hm, hm,’ was all the comment he made, and then he straightened up and said, ‘Pull it right off.’

‘What?’

‘I need to listen to your back.’

‘I can’t.’

‘I’m a doctor, lassie,’ the man barked. ‘Here to see how ill you are, not to look at your body. Now pull off your nightie.’

Lizzie did as the doctor bid, glad they were alone, and the doctor listened and he also gave her back little taps. Eventually he said, ‘All right, put your nightie back on.’

‘What is it, Doctor?’

‘Bronchitis,’ the doctor replied, ‘and a bad dose I might add. Need to take care of it.’

To the manager he said more. ‘Have to see it doesn’t turn to pneumonia. Needs careful nursing, for that girl might have little resistance and she’s as thin as a rake.’

‘She’s never had a day off sick before.’

‘Well, she’ll have more than a day now.’

‘I have a hotel to run.’

‘I am aware of that.’

‘What I mean is, I can’t have her here,’ the manager said. ‘With one down anyway, I won’t have the staff to nurse her and I presume she won’t be able to stay in a dormitory with the others?’

‘It’s not something I would recommend.’

‘Well then…’

‘The only place for her, if you’re adamant, is the hospital.’

‘See to it, can you?’

The doctor, grim-faced, saw to it, and when he told Lizzie that she was to go to the General Hospital, she shed bitter tears. She’d never been in hospital in her life and didn’t want to go now. Surely to God she wasn’t that sick. People died in hospital.

Lizzie sent a note to Steve to tell him what had happened and he turned up at the hospital a couple of days later. Lizzie had deteriorated during that time and it tore at his heart to see her fighting for breath, the beads of glistening sweat on her forehead lending a sheen to her face, despite the ministrations of the nurses.

Knowing she had little breath to talk, he did the talking, and for hours. Much of what he said went over her head, but she liked the sound of his voice and it was nice to have someone near, holding her hand.