Miss Nightingale's Nurses

by Kate Eastham

  Kate Eastham

  * * *

  MISS NIGHTINGALE’S NURSES

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  MISS NIGHTINGALE’S NURSES

  Kate Eastham trained as a nurse and midwife on the Nightingale Wards of Preston Royal Infirmary. She has over thirty years’ experience working in hospital, residential and hospice care. Born and bred in Lancashire, she is married with three grown-up children and one grandchild. Always reading, she gained a degree in English Literature and was inspired to write after researching the history of nursing and of her own family, with its roots in Liverpool, northern mill towns and rural Lancashire.

  The Crimean War was one ‘in which women, so long confined to the domestic sphere, finally found an active and indispensable role as nurses, and one that would ultimately make nursing an acceptable profession for their sex. It was also the last war in which British army wives were allowed to accompany their husbands on campaign, and thus bear witness to and share the terrible catalogue of suffering, death and disease that war brings in its wake.’

  Helen Rappaport, No Place for Ladies: The Untold Story of Women in the Crimean War

  Prologue

  ‘Live life when you have it. Life is a splendid gift – there is nothing small about it.’

  Florence Nightingale

  Liverpool, 1837

  ‘I might be in luck,’ muttered the midwife quietly to herself as she delivered the baby safely on to the bed. And she was right: the child’s face was indeed covered by a thin, silvery membrane. It was a caul, so rare that this was the first she’d ever seen. It was a valued talisman and she knew full well that she’d be able to get good money for it. In all the time she’d been delivering babies in these streets, in all that time, she’d never had a caul. And the moment she saw it she knew exactly what she would do: she wouldn’t say a thing to the mother; she would have that caul for herself. She had only ever heard stories from other women who attended births about how much you could get for one. They were so rare that no one she knew had ever had one for themselves. But this would be hers and she knew plenty of sailors who would be interested in buying such a powerful token to keep them safe on a voyage. After all, everybody knew that a man who carried a caul could never drown.

  She grabbed a piece of clean cloth from the side of the bed and pressed it flat to the baby’s face, hoping that the transparent membrane covering the child’s nose and mouth would stick fast and not scrunch up. She took her time with this, trying to get the best position on the cloth.

  ‘Why isn’t the baby crying?’ said the mother from the other end of the bed.

  The midwife didn’t reply; she was at a crucial stage: the caul was just starting to stick to the cloth.

  ‘Mrs O’Dowd?’ said the mother more urgently.

  ‘Just a moment …’ muttered the midwife as the caul started to peel off the baby’s face.

  ‘Mrs O’Dowd,’ said the mother with rising panic in her voice, ‘is the baby all right?’

  At last the caul was safe and Mrs O’Dowd laid it carefully aside before turning her attention to the baby. It was still a bit blue and didn’t seem to be breathing so she picked up a piece of flannel and wiped out its nose and then gave its body a bit of a rub. Still nothing, so she got a towel and used it to rub the baby all over. Then it started to snuffle.

  ‘Baby’s fine, Maggie, she’s just fine.’

  ‘Is it a girl?’ said the mother.

  ‘It is indeed a girl,’ said Mrs O’Dowd, looking up with a smile, ‘and she’s a bonny baby girl as well.’

  Maggie laid her head back down on the pillow with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Now I’ll just cut the cord and you can have a hold of her,’ she said, fishing in her pocket for two pieces of apron string. ‘I need to tie these very tight or there’ll be blood squirting everywhere.’

  When the pieces of apron string were tied tight about an inch apart on the cord, the midwife took the sharp knife that she always carried for the purpose and sliced it through, separating the baby from its mother with one clean stroke. That’s when the baby started to cry, to properly cry. Maggie looked anxiously down the bed again as Mrs O’Dowd took a knitted blanket and laid the writhing baby on it, wrapping her firmly and then cradling her expertly with one arm before walking up to the top of the bed and handing the sticky, crying bundle to the mother.

  ‘You did very well there, Maggie,’ said Mrs O’Dowd as she stood with her hands on her hips watching the mother soothe her baby, then seeing the baby open her dark eyes to look at her mother for the very first time. There was no crying now.

  ‘Will you look at that, Maggie, she knows you already.’

  Maggie smiled and spoke a few words to her daughter.

  Mrs O’Dowd stood for a few moments more, sharing this special time with mother and baby, and then she roused herself and said, ‘Now, Maggie, you might remember from when your first was born, we need to get the afterbirth out.’

  Moving back down to the bottom of the bed the midwife thought all was progressing as it should, so she readied herself, only to find that there didn’t seem to be anything moving but there was quite a lot of blood and it was starting to pool on the bed.

  ‘Maggie,’ she said, trying to keep the rising panic out of her voice, ‘you’re doing very well but could you try and bear down a little to push the afterbirth along?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Maggie but she had no strength left to push and seemed to be getting a bit sleepy.

  The midwife looked again between the woman’s legs; the bleeding was steady and there was still no sign of the afterbirth.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ said Mrs O’Dowd, looking up to her face, an element of unease creeping in. Maggie gazed at the midwife and tried to speak but stumbled on her words. ‘Not so good,’ she said at last, her voice very quiet. ‘Take the baby … will you …’ she murmured, her voice slurring then tailing off.

  To her credit, Mrs O’Dowd stayed calm enough to swiftly remove the baby from the mother’s limp grasp. But after she placed her in the wooden crib, carefully prepared with a spotlessly clean sheet, she turned back to the bed to see with alarm that blood was flowing more heavily now, soaking into the mattress. Within seconds there was blood dripping from underneath the bed on to the scrubbed wooden floor.

  In full panic, her mouth dry and her heart racing, Mrs O’Dowd did her best to try and grasp the afterbirth and deliver it. When this didn’t work she stuffed a ball of cloth up the birth canal to try and put some pressure on to stop the bleeding. But nothing could be done. The afterbirth was stuck fast, the bleeding was torrential, and within minutes she was watching in horror as Maggie’s face and hands turned white and her life ebbed away.

  Mrs O’Dowd stood helpless, a sob rising in her chest. This had happened to her before, more than once, a woman bleeding right in front of her eyes, and she knew that there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. Nothing at all, except go to the top of the
bed and hold on to the woman’s hand, hold her fast. And in no time at all Maggie was gone and the room was silent except for the drip, drip of her blood on to the wooden floor.

  The midwife stood for some time with her head bowed, still holding Maggie’s hand. When she came to, knowing there were things that needed to be done, she looked down and saw the baby girl wriggling in the crib, already loosening the blanket around her. Poor little mite, she thought, starting out in this world with no mother. Poor little thing. And then she thought grimly that the caul hadn’t brought the little one much luck so far, but then who knew what the future might hold? And as she stood there looking at the baby, Mrs O’Dowd felt goose bumps on her arms and a prickling at the back of her neck and she knew for sure that the little girl was going to be a special one.

  Letting go of Maggie’s hand, Mrs O’Dowd reached over and gently closed her eyes. Death in childbed was common but all the midwives she knew took pains to conduct decent and proper rituals for preparing the mother’s body. Now, we need to get things in order, she said to herself, pulling the sheet up to cover the dead woman’s face.

  Seeing the caul by the side of the bed, Mrs O’Dowd drew in a sharp breath; she wasn’t sure she would be able to take it with her now. Then again, what would they do with it here? There was only Maggie’s father and he would be completely overwhelmed by all of this. It would be the last thing on his mind. He might not even want to see it, not after what had happened. So she reached out and took the caul, quietly slipping it into her bag before she could change her mind.

  Maggie’s father had been out to work on the docks that day. He knew his daughter was labouring and was hoping to come home to find the job done. After all, it was the second child to be born to his only daughter and from what he understood the labour should be quicker. The first, when Frank was born, had lasted for days and he had been coming and going to and from work with the sound of her wailing and screaming in his head.

  As he approached their small home he was relieved not to hear the screams out in the street; all seemed quiet and calm in there. Closing the door behind him, he could hear movement in the one room that they had upstairs but no excited chatter of the women or the sound of a baby crying. A feeling of heaviness gripped his heart and his voice would not come out properly as he called up the stairs.

  ‘Everything all right up there, Mrs O’Dowd?’

  He heard a gasp from the midwife and within seconds she was clattering down the stairs, her face ashen, trying to hold back the tears. He knew instantly something was badly wrong.

  ‘Is the baby …?’ He couldn’t get the words out.

  ‘Yes, yes, the baby is safe, Mr Houston, but Maggie, she … she …’ Her words broke on a sob. ‘I’m so sorry, there was nothing I could do.’

  Padraic Houston had lived long enough to know that many women died during childbirth. That, in fact, women who found themselves with child carried the prospect of their own death alongside the joy of bringing new life. But that’s what happened to other women; this was his Maggie, his little girl.

  He stood in the small parlour of his own home, his hand across his mouth, holding back the sobs. Mrs O’Dowd stood in front of him, unable to find any words of comfort, but gently placing her hand – still stained with Maggie’s blood – on his arm. It was the tentative cry of the baby girl lying alone in her wooden crib upstairs that did it in the end and the man crumpled as if someone had punched him. Mrs O’Dowd grabbed him and held him close as he stood there crying, patting his shoulder and trying to find some soothing words. Padraic nodded a few times but could not speak, his voice strangled back in his throat. He pulled away from the midwife and went out through the door.

  No one knew where Padraic Houston went that day and he could not remember. He walked and walked and was gone for three hours. Mrs O’Dowd did not worry; she had seen this reaction before and knew that he would be back. What’s more, she had known Padraic for years; he was a good man, a steady man with regular employment on the harbour, a freight clerk who needed to wear a collar and tie for the job. He would be back for the grandchildren.

  She stayed with the baby and took care of Maggie’s body, cleaning off as much of the blood as she could. She knew that they would need a clean mattress under her; it had been drenched with blood and was completely ruined.

  The women from down the street had already been in. They always knew, without being told, what was happening in each of the houses. They had helped Mrs O’Dowd mop up the pool of blood under the bed; they had brought scrubbing brushes and had a good go at the stain that remained, but no amount of scrubbing could clear it and the blood had soaked through between the floorboards, becoming a part of the fabric of that house forever.

  Then they helped Mrs O’Dowd roll Maggie’s body and pull the clean mattress under her. It had been borrowed from two doors down where Mrs Regan was looking after Maggie’s little lad, Frank. He was too young to know properly what was going on but they would take him up to see his mother when he came home. They would let him sit on the bed and touch her cold skin and say goodbye, so that he would have some understanding of what had happened and, in time, know that she was gone.

  When Padraic returned he had the strength to see Maggie’s body and to give a name to his new granddaughter. He called her Ada, after his own mother. And the next day he set off with a heavy heart to see the priest and arrange not just a christening, but a burial that would take place on the same day.

  1

  ‘There is no part of my life, upon which I can look back without pain.’

  Florence Nightingale

  Liverpool, 1844

  Padraic relished the Sunday afternoons that he could spend at home with the children. From their small house they could hear the noise of the port and sometimes smell whatever cargo was in dock. He liked to be able to hear the ships loading and unloading, the hum of the harbour, occasional shouts, and know that for one day, he did not need to be involved, he did not need to be recording numbers in a ledger or arguing over tallies.

  On these days Ada would sit on his knee and chatter away to him as he told stories of sailors and mermaids and pirates. Frank would be sitting at his feet playing with some wooden blocks and the carved figures that Padraic had made for him. The boy seemed to be able to spend endless hours stacking and restacking the blocks, moving the figures around, completely lost in a world of his own.

  Ada, now seven, was sitting on her grandfather’s knee one Sunday, snuggled up to his waistcoat where she could hear the tick of his watch, when she looked up at Padraic and said, ‘Mary Regan says that I’m a bastard.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said that I’m a bastard.’

  ‘Well, you tell Mary Regan that you are not a bastard. You have a father but he is a sailor and he is out at sea.’

  Frank turned from his play with the blocks and asked, ‘Is he, Grandfather, is he?’ Padraic had never seen young Frank as interested in anything ever.

  ‘He is indeed and a very good sailor too.’

  ‘See, Ada,’ said Frank, ‘I told you so.’

  It seemed that there had been all kinds of conversations going on that Padraic had not been party to. Not wanting to disclose any more information about the man who had given his daughter two children but never married her, Padraic tried to change the subject.

  ‘Well, Ada, did I tell you about the man who saw a mermaid sitting on the harbour wall?’

  ‘I knew that anyway,’ said Ada, slipping from Padraic’s knee and confronting her brother. ‘I knew that, I just didn’t want to talk about it.’

  Frank stood up and glared at his sister. ‘You did not, you said it wasn’t true.’

  ‘I never did,’ Ada snapped back at him.

  ‘You did so,’ Frank replied, leaning down and bringing his face close to Ada’s.

  Padraic could see that Ada wasn’t going to back down. Her breath was coming quickly and her shoulders were held square. ‘Now then, Ada,’ he said stea
dily, but she wasn’t having any of that and in the next moment she was running upstairs and throwing herself on to the bed.

  He gave her a minute then followed her up.

  Sitting down on the creaky iron bedstead, still covered with the patchwork quilt that Maggie had made, he was forced to acknowledge that he should have taken the lead with this stuff and made sure the children had the story before others started telling it to them.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ada,’ he said, ‘I should have talked to you about your father. It’s just that when your mother died I was sad for a very long time and then we just got on with things and it never seemed the right time. Is it all right if I tell you a little bit about him now?’ Ada nodded her head with her face still pressed into the pillow.

  He took a deep breath, stroking his granddaughter’s hair as he spoke. ‘Well, Ada, your father was a sailor. A strong, handsome fella with dark, curly hair and a bit of a swagger about him. You have his hair and your mother’s eyes. And Frank has his father’s eyes.’

  Padraic glanced down the stairs. He could see Frank sitting on the bottom step, all ears.

  ‘Well, your father once told me that he had sailed all around the world and seen many wonderful things: huge whales; dolphins leaping at the side of the boat; night skies so full of stars that you could hardly put a pin between them; pearls found by divers in the depths of the ocean. And he probably saw a few mermaids as well.’

  ‘When is he coming back?’ asked Ada, turning over and propping herself up on her elbows, with that adorable scrunch between her brows when she asked a question. Which was often.

  ‘Well now, Ada, I just don’t know, because when the ships go out you never know when they might come back. They have so many adventures out there and sometimes they decide to stay longer.’

  Padraic knew for a fact that the children’s father, Francis, had been back into Liverpool at least twice since Ada was born, and each time he had sent word asking if he could see the children. But Padraic had not liked the man when Maggie was alive and he certainly didn’t want to see him now, not with the life that he led, with the drinking and suchlike. He didn’t want him near the children. Especially since he was sure that some of the things he remembered about Francis were beginning to show in Frank, a certain moodiness and stubborn streak, things that he didn’t want to be reinforced by contact with the lad’s father. The man was best away.