Front Line Nurse

by Rosie James

  The only thing I want when I grow up is to get married and have my own house to keep clean, and my own children to look after. I have already met my husband, he is Mr Alexander, and I love him and I know he loves me because when he visits he always says he likes my dress and one day he said he thought my hair was a very pretty colour. He is a kind person so I know he would treat me well and not beat me like Ruby was beaten. Ruby is my best friend, and she is going to be my bridesmaid at the wedding.

  Thank you very much for all you give us at the Garfield Home. You are a kind person.

  I hope you are well. I am very well.

  Yours sincerely,

  Angelina Green

  August 1914

  Emma Kingston glanced at the calendar on her desk. The war, the much dreaded war, was now a month old, and so far all seemed to be quiet. Thoughtfully, she went across to the window and stared out, a shiver of dread running through her. Because surely this was just the calm before the storm. She knew it, felt it in her bones – after all, she studied the papers, listened to the wireless, heard the ranting of their politicians, the determination and intransigence of the unstoppable German invaders. The country, perhaps the whole world, was about to embark on a nightmare of indescribable horror.

  And how many of the little orphans who had passed through her hands might be caught up in it, maimed, killed …

  Presently, the superintendent popped her head around the school room door.

  ‘Angelina, would you go to the sick room, please? The nurse could do with another pair of hands this morning. Oh, and after dinner, I would like to see you in my office for a few minutes.’

  Angelina, who had been helping the younger children recite their times tables, turned at once to do as she’d been asked. If there was one place she loved best in the world to be, it was in the medical room at the far end of the corridor. For the last couple of days there had been a sickness bug going about and the current young nurse, Greta, always asked for Angelina, who, Greta had said more than once, had a natural understanding of what needed to be done and a gift for reassuring the little patients and making them feel safe. But Emma Kingston had realised this talent for a long time, and it had clearly been proved when a little waif – later known as Ruby – had been brought in from the streets, half-naked and badly bruised. For many weeks the poor child had not uttered a single word, keeping her eyes and mouth tightly shut, and even now, after so many years had passed, the superintendent’s anger rose in her throat at the memory of that little one’s distress. Not even her own kindly experience had been able to make the child talk. But Angelina had taken the little girl under her wing, reading Peter Pan and Wendy to her, over and over again, and letting her share and cuddle Angelina’s precious pink teddy as they were in bed together. So when one day the little voice had finally whispered ‘My name is Ruby’, it had seemed as if Angelina had performed a small miracle.

  Now, Angelina tapped on the superintendent’s door and went in. Emma Kingston looked up. This child – no longer a child – had developed into a beautiful young woman. She had grown quite tall, with a willowy figure that seemed full of grace and energy, and her long, golden brown hair falling in soft waves around her face, always shone with health,

  ‘Ah, there you are, dear. Come and sit down for a few minutes because we’ve one or two things to discuss.’

  Angelina sat at the other side of the desk and looked across. ‘Is there something you need me to do, Miss Kingston?’

  ‘No, it’s more about you, dear, and what’s ahead.’ She cleared her throat. This was one of the duties she never enjoyed. ‘I don’t need to remind you that in a few months you will be 14 years old,’ she went on, ‘and that in January you will be leaving us and moving on to pastures new.’

  Angelina sat forward and smiled. ‘You mean that I must make space for another child to come and live at The Garfield?’

  ‘Yes, I am afraid so, and if I had my way you would all stay on here for ever!’ the superintendent said. ‘But as you know 14 has always been the leaving age, and Mr Garfield, too, is of the opinion that all children should be encouraged to make their own way in the world and accept responsibility for themselves. But he also insists that the door is never closed to any of you and that you are welcome to come and visit as often as you like.’

  She looked away for a moment, not wanting to admit that parting with Angelina was going to be hard. She had always been a special child, a favourite child. And why should she not be, because it was thanks to her arrival fourteen years ago that the orphanage had been transformed, or that it even existed in this place. The day that Randolph Garfield had turned up, holding that little shoe box, had been a red-letter day for all of them, and if someone else had found the baby this orphanage would now be an empty shell. Instead, under his ownership, new lighting and heating had been installed straightaway, there were now two bathrooms upstairs, the kitchen had been refitted with new equipment and every room was regularly redecorated in bright colours. Not only those practical considerations had been attended to, but there was always a continuous supply of new books and toys and games – the Meccano sets brought in a few years ago proving an endless fascination for both girls and boys.

  It seemed that Mr Garfield was determined to leave no stone unturned for his orphans, often employing extra tutors to help any child with difficulties, or who showed a talent or willingness to learn. Mr Garfield regularly came in to visit, often bringing his young son with him, and it always surprised Emma Kingston that their benefactor was very good at remembering most of the children’s names. But he never again referred to Angelina’s sad beginning, nor treated her differently from the others. In fact, discussion about any of the orphans was discouraged at the Home. The totally unknown were baptised and given simple Christian names, and told that their parents had died, that they were all in the same boat and the past was the past. The future, their future, was what mattered. The superintendent sighed happily at her own thoughts. Ten years ago she should have retired, but she was still here at the Garfield, and had never been more content with her lot.

  ‘I shall be very sorry to leave,’ Angelina said, ‘because I have always been so happy here.’ She smiled. ‘Though I am sure the nuns will be glad to see the back of me, especially Sister Bernadette because she’s never forgiven me for calling out that she’d given us the wrong answer to one of the sums in a test. I got caned for that because she said I was being very rude in challenging her authority.’

  Emma Kingston smiled briefly. She knew the nuns often used the cane on the children’s outstretched hands, and although she did not approve of physical punishment there was little she could say. The orphanage was fortunate to have the support of the priory, and of the nuns, who came over each day. This was an arrangement which had always gone on, and it was part of the agreement with Father Laurence who still remained a nominal trustee. But the superintendent didn’t care much for the priest who came in far too often for her liking. After all, once prayers and the reading of the day and perhaps a hymn had taken place, there wasn’t that much for the man to do, but he usually made sure he was around to join them at mealtimes. He was very tall and gaunt, always dressed in his long black garb, and he rarely smiled.

  ‘And I know someone else who won’t be sorry that I’m going,’ Angelina went on. ‘Mrs Marshall! She will be very glad to see the back of me! For as long as I can remember she’s told me to shut up and make myself scarce!’

  Angelina looked away for a moment, not wanting to remember that one horrible event between her and Mrs Marshall that had given her nightmares for weeks afterwards.

  It had been a day not long after Angelina’s tenth birthday, when both the ovens in the kitchen had stopped working. Such a thing had never happened before, and for two days the orphanage had had to buy in their dinner from outside caterers. At midday, a white delivery van had arrived at the entrance, and Mrs Marshall had been there to receive the food and carry it inside, helped by one of the children.
It had been on the second day that Mrs Marshall had called Angelina out from the school room to assist her.

  ‘Hurry up,’ the woman had said crossly, as the two had made their way down the long passageway. ‘That van won’t wait there for ever!’

  ‘I am hurrying up,’ Angelina had replied, annoyed that she’d had to leave the arithmetic lesson, her favourite. She’d trotted after Mrs Marshall. ‘I can’t walk any faster! Your legs are longer than mine, remember!’

  ‘Always ready with a reply, aren’t you, Miss!’ Mrs Marshall had said. ‘I wish I’d been born with even half of your cheek!’

  At the entrance, the van had been there, ready and waiting. The driver entered and, one, by one, had placed three large, rectangular, shiny steel pans of hot food on the table in the hall. Then he’d touched his cap and was gone.

  Mrs Marshall had gingerly lifted the lid from each pan, and she and Angelina had gazed at the contents. The first had held slice after slice of beef, accompanied by rows and rows of crisp, roast potatoes, all lying in a generous amount of rich brown gravy. The smell had made Angelina’s mouth water.

  ‘Can we pinch a spud?’ she’d whispered, only to be rewarded with a clip over the ear.

  The next pan had held cabbage and diced carrots, and in the third were the puddings, tiny jam roly polys, with a deep space at the end of the pan to hold the hot custard.

  ‘Come on, let’s get this lot into the kitchen before it all goes cold!’ Mrs Marshall had said tersely, picking up the heaviest pan with the meat and potatoes inside. ‘You bring the vegetables, Angelina. And don’t dawdle!’

  The next few moments were to be the ones imprinted on Angelina’s memory for the rest of her life.

  With Mrs Marshall going ahead, they’d been making their way along the corridor towards the kitchen, when suddenly the older woman had lost her grip on her hot pan and it fell to the floor with an ear-deafening crash, spilling the contents all over the place. And lying there in front of their horrified eyes, were the precious meat and potatoes, all floating in the gravy – which had begun swirling around and creeping into the cracks and corners of the stone floor.

  For a few seconds neither of them spoke, then Angelina had put her own pan down on the floor and began trying to salvage some of the wasted food, just as Mrs Haines, hearing the commotion, had begun hurrying from the kitchen.

  ‘What on earth is going on!’ the cook had demanded. ‘Oh my Good Lor …’ she’d said on seeing the mess. ‘Whatever are we going to do now!’

  ‘That was all Angelina’s fault!’ Mrs Marshall had declared shrilly, her voice ringing through the corridor, ‘She is such a stupid child! I told her to be careful, but she would insist on carrying the heaviest pan! She thinks she knows everything, can do everything better than anyone else and it’s time someone taught her a lesson!’

  For once, Angelina had been speechless. How could she be accused of something that was not her fault? How could Mrs Marshall be so horrible?

  Trying to stem her tears, Angelina had just stared unbelievingly at Mrs Marshall. ‘But I wasn’t holding that pan! You know I wasn’t!’ Angelina had spluttered. ‘You dropped it, not me! It’s not fair to say it was me!’

  But she was to get no further because just then Emma Kingston had appeared.

  ‘Oh dear,’ the superintendent had said as she’d surveyed the scene. ‘Never mind, we must make do as best we can – it’s too late to order a replacement, but I’m sure we can deal with this.’ She had lifted the lid from the other pan. ‘Look, we still have the vegetables and the puddings must be in that other one back there on the table, so all is not lost and perhaps marmite sandwiches will fill the gap, just for once.’

  ‘I told Angelina to be careful!’ Mrs Marshall had declared, determined to maintain the fallacy, ‘but you can’t tell her! Oh no. This one always knows best!’

  ‘Never mind,’ Emma Kingston had said. ‘Accidents do happen now and again.’ She’d glanced briefly at Angelina. ‘Perhaps you will help Mrs Marshall clean this up, Angelina, and then come and have your own dinner. Mrs Haines and I will take the other pans to the kitchen and prepare the tables. Everyone will soon be getting hungry!’

  Then, Mrs Marshall had gone to the kitchen to fetch a large bowl, and soap and water and cloths, and between them, she and Angelina had picked up all the beautiful potatoes, one after another, and the slices of meat, and had washed the floor until all that remained of the event was a large, black stain which would soon dry up and disappear, leaving no trace that anything had happened.

  But what would not disappear, ever, was Angelina’s memory of the occasion. As she and Mrs Marshall had knelt there together on the floor, not another word had passed between them. Because what would have been the point? The older woman had told a direct lie to save her face, and as an adult, her version of the accident would be the one believed if Angelina had decided to say anything to the superintendent or Mrs Haines. But it had taught Angelina one of the hardest lessons in life – that adults are quite capable of telling downright lies, and justice does not always prevail.

  At the end of the evening, with everything completed, she’d stood up and gazed into Mrs Marshall’s unflinching eyes – only to see a look of triumph. The woman had got herself off the hook.

  Mrs Marshall, while carrying all the cleaning materials back into the kitchen, had breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs Haines, the matriarch of the domestic staff, would have had a few choice words to say to her if she had known the truth. The cook had a quick tongue and was ready to criticise the others in her domain when things went a bit wrong, and there had been one or two small incidents recently that had put Mrs Marshall on the wrong foot.

  Mrs Marshall had shrugged to herself. Anyway, Miss Angelina Green, the Miss Who Can Do No Wrong, would come to no harm over being accused. Oh no, she wouldn’t get told off. Besides, Mrs Marshall loved it here at the Garfield and couldn’t afford to lose this job. The money was good, and she had a sick husband to feed and take care of.

  Besides, who cared about a child’s sensitivities? Children got over things pretty quickly.

  Later that night, lying next to Ruby who was sleeping soundly, Angelina had wished with all her heart that she could tell Mr Alexander about what had happened. He would understand and sympathise with her, she knew he would, because each time he visited he always made a point of seeking her out so that they could have their lovely chats together. Mr Alexander was the sort of person you could say anything to, and Angelina had known that he would be as cross with Mrs Marshall as she was.

  Now, almost four years later, the superintendent nodded at Angelina’s remark that the girl believed Mrs Marshall had never liked her. Emma Kingston had always been aware of the woman’s short temper – especially, it seemed, with Angelina who, from such an early age had been so bright, so clever, so quick to catch on. Perhaps Mrs Marshall was actually jealous of the child’s ability in the schoolroom, because she herself was not well educated. In fact, little was known about the woman because she never discussed her personal life other than to say that she lived near the docks with her ailing husband. But she was a good worker and always came in on time, and over the years had introduced one or two other women, neighbours of hers, who needed casual employment, and so far all had proved more than satisfactory. Emma Kingston had found this useful, because she preferred to engage recommended staff.

  ‘Well, we can’t be liked by everyone in this world, can we, Angelina?’ the superintendent said cheerfully. ‘And make no mistake, you are dearly loved by all the rest of us.’ Now then—’ she looked down at the folder on her desk ‘—we shall naturally find you suitable accommodation after you leave here, and I am sure that it will not be difficult to find you work so this is what I want us to talk about. Do you have any particular wishes? You are a very competent girl in so many ways, dear – so, for example, I am certain you would be welcome to learn a trade in one of the hotels or guest houses. You might even like to learn more about cookery because
you seem very happy in the kitchen helping Mrs Haines. Apart from washing up and keeping the place clean, she’s told me that you are quick at peeling vegetables and very good at rubbing up short crust pastry!’

  ‘Yes, I do like being in the kitchen,’ Angelina said. ‘Mrs Haines has taught me a lot.’

  ‘Or maybe you would like to think about office work,’ the superintendent went on. ‘Perhaps Mr Garfield knows of someone who could do with a young clerk.’ She glanced at Angelina quickly. ‘Of course, everyone has to start at the bottom and you will not earn very much at the beginning.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind that, Miss Kingston,’ Angelina said.

  ‘Of course, there are still a few months to go yet, before we need take any action, but do any of my suggestions appeal to you, Angelina? Or do you have thoughts of your own?’

  Angelina took a deep breath. ‘Miss Kingston, I know exactly what I am going to do with my life.’

  The superintendent looked up, unsurprised at this. Angelina had had her feet very firmly on the ground from the moment she had taken her first steps.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I am going to train to be a nurse,’ Angelina said emphatically, and without stopping for breath she went on. ‘I have been thinking so much about it, and talking to Greta, and she’s told me that St Thomas’s have a nurses’ training school and that anyone can apply and I know I’m a bit young but next year I shall be going on fifteen and that’s how old they’ll take you and I know I can be a good nurse because I’ve helped in the medical room for a long time now, haven’t I? Nancy is a ward sister at the hospital now, and she could tell them about me and explain that I work hard and that the sight of blood doesn’t upset me – I know what to do with damaged knees and bumped heads – and I don’t mind cleaning up sick—’

  Emma Kingston raised her hand and smiled. ‘Well then, I think we shall have to make some enquiries about this Angelina, and if you think it is really what you want.’