Miss Nightingale's Nurses

by Kate Eastham

  Two steps from the top his foot slipped. She gasped and shot up from her chair. He made a sound, not even a word, and held his right hand out towards her with his fingers splayed. Ada sat back down and let him continue. She had to leave him; he needed to be alone up there at one side of the partition that they had made when Frank was getting older. A flimsy divide that gave each of them some private space when Frank was getting too big to share a bed with Padraic.

  She sat and listened to him move slowly around the room upstairs, heard the belt of his breeches hit the floor as he took them off, letting them fall to the ground rather than folding them neatly over the chair back as was his usual practice. She heard the heavy sound of the bed as he slumped down on it and then the creaking of the bed frame as he tossed from side to side, trying to get to sleep. Then it went quiet and she was left sitting alone at the kitchen table with two cups of cold tea, feeling exhausted but with all kinds of thoughts singing through her head: anger for what she thought might have been Frank’s reckless behaviour starting to seep in.

  She felt that she would never sleep again but knew that she had to try to go to bed. So, leaving the cold tea on the table she slipped out of her clothes and into a nightgown, then drew back the curtain of the small bed space that nestled under the stairs.

  This was usually one of her favourite moments of the day. The outside of the curtain was a plain brown fabric, serviceable stuff that all the houses used. The inside, however, provided a magical space. She had made it from a spoiled bolt of cloth that her grandfather had brought back from the docks one day. They weren’t sure but they thought it was silk from China. It had fallen from a cargo on to the deck and had been mostly ruined by sea water, but Ada had found just enough to make a panel for her curtain and, for her, it was like a porthole into another world.

  She lay there now looking at the square of pale yellow silk, a patch of sunshine in her time of need. She remembered the day Grandfather had brought it home, how excited they both were unrolling it on to the kitchen table, finding a section unspoiled and seeing for the first time the splendour of the embroidery, the pale pink and luscious blues and reds woven into flowers and butterflies and exotic birds, all on a background of the warmest yellow. Just the right colour to give calm.

  As Ada lay there she looked at the woven scene and moved her gaze from butterfly to flower to bird as she often did. That night though she didn’t see it in her usual way, creating stories in her head as she went. That night she used it to try and calm herself by counting the number of pink flowers, then the butterflies and so on, until she felt some kind of relief coming over her body. Then and only then could she let out the deep sobs inside her chest and let flow the salt tears that she had been struggling to hold back. She lay on her side and let them flow and flow into her pillow.

  There was no sound from upstairs; at least her grandfather had settled.

  Ada slept fitfully, and woke listening for something, although she didn’t know what. The house was quiet, just the noises of the next-door neighbours raking the fire and the dull mumble of morning voices.

  It took a second or two for Ada to recall what had happened, and when she did the shock came back to her with new force. She shot up in bed, straining her ears for the sound of Frank’s snore or anything that might indicate that it had all been a mistake; that he had made his way home in the night and would be wondering what all the fuss was about.

  But there was no sound from upstairs, no sound at all.

  Grandfather must be exhausted, she thought as she made herself get up to start the day. She needed to light the fire and start breakfast before he came down. She pulled on her clothes and nipped out through the back door to the shared privy. She was expecting to see some of the neighbours waiting in line, but there was no one. It must be a bit later than I thought, she said to herself.

  She knew that she would never get used to the shared privy. She hated it, preferring to use the chamber pot if she could, but that was under her grandfather’s bed and she didn’t want to disturb him yet.

  Taking a shovel of coal on the way back into the house, she set to and raked the cinders. She felt empty and sore inside, and her hands were shaking as she placed a few sticks in the grate. Doing her usual work helped a little and she knew that she would have to keep busy to stop herself thinking about Frank. When she’d made sure that her grandfather was all right she would go back down to the dock and try to find out what had happened and what needed to be done next.

  She knew that Padraic wouldn’t be going in to work, but she thought that she should now go and wake him; he needed to be getting up and having his breakfast. He might want to go down the street and make some enquiries about Frank himself.

  She climbed the stairs, gently calling his name.

  He must have been exhausted and still be sleeping, she thought, when there was no reply. Yes, that’s it, she thought, seeing the line of his back under the covers as he lay on his side facing away from her.

  Unwilling to disturb him from the sleep that was protecting him from shock and sorrow, she stood for a few moments gazing down on him. Asleep in the same bed that her mother had lain in to give birth to her eighteen years ago and that she had shared with Frank when they were little. It still had the same patchwork quilt and the same simple crucifix on the wall over the bed head. She glanced to the other wall and saw the small black iron grate where she had played at keeping house, a stack of coins and a comb resting on the mantel that Padraic had taken from his pocket before undressing, and his breeches on the floor, the only thing that was out of place in this well-loved environment.

  He was still flat out so she moved quietly to shake his arm.

  The flesh beneath his shirt felt soft and his arm flopped back behind him at a strange angle.

  ‘Grandfather,’ she said, shaking him harder. Then: ‘Grandfather!’ much louder when she got no response. She rolled him back towards her and he slumped over, his face blotched dark red, his lips white and his unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling.

  Ada started to scream, then to wail, and she continued to shake the poor, lifeless corpse of Padraic Houston until those next door and a passer-by in the street broke through the front door and ran up the stairs to help.

  Someone with strong arms grabbed her from behind and tried to pull her back from the bed, but Ada fell to her knees, ragged sobs escaping from her body as she held on to her grandfather’s arm. She felt someone – it must have been Mrs Hanlon, the neighbour from next door that she hardly knew – place a hand on her shoulder. A hand that seemed to understand something of what she was going through but could offer no comfort for Ada.

  ‘Fetch the doctor, fetch the doctor!’ she screamed, and the voice of Mrs Hanlon replied, telling her that someone had gone for him. It wouldn’t be long.

  It seemed to take forever before Ada heard the sound of a leather-soled shoe on the wooden stairs and the doctor was there by the bedside, confirming the news she had been dreading.

  Ada glared at him, shouting, ‘No, no!’ and grasped her grandfather’s hand more tightly.

  The doctor stood for a moment then shook his head and indicated to Mrs Hanlon that he wanted to speak to her downstairs. They left the room and Ada continued to kneel by the bed. She vowed to herself that she would not move from the side of that bed until someone could do something about this.

  She could hear the murmur of voices from downstairs and felt that she needed to know what was being said. Standing up from the bed, she took another moment to look at her grandfather’s beloved face and then leant down and pulled the cover up to his chin. Not over his face, not yet, but up to his chin.

  Her legs were weak and her heart was racing but she managed to climb down the stairs. The doctor was just leaving and gave her a sorrowful look as he went through the door.

  Mrs Hanlon turned to her and repeated what the doctor had said: ‘They think his heart gave out, just gave out, what with the shock of what happened yesterday.’


  Ada found herself crying again and starting to sob.

  ‘Go back upstairs,’ said Mrs Hanlon gently. ‘Go back up and spend some time with him while you can.’

  Ada nodded and then she was climbing the stairs and kneeling beside the bed, reaching out to hold on to her grandfather’s hand.

  She couldn’t even think about Frank now. She pushed the thoughts away and tried to cling to a happier version of events: he was missing, he would be back, and she would need to tell him about what had happened to grandfather, and how he had given her such a scare.

  But it was starting to sink in: there would be only bad news to tell Frank. Their grandfather was gone. He was gone and there would be no more stories, and no more of his wonderful smiles. She would never hear the sound of his voice again or feel the warm touch of his hand. She felt completely devastated, all alone in the world, an orphan.

  At some stage she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to find Mary’s shocked face looking down at her, tears in her eyes. She got up and Mary hugged her as closely as she could with her pregnant belly. Ada could feel the baby kicking frantically. How strange, she thought, it feels like it knows that something is wrong.

  Mary’s mother came to help her daughter’s stricken friend, saying a prayer for a man that she thought very highly of, a man that she had known all of her married life. When she was finished Mrs Regan pulled herself up from the bed and looked down at him, scarcely able to believe the bad luck that had struck his family. ‘Well, Padraic Houston, you’ve been a good man and no man could have done a better job with those two grandchildren. May you rest in peace now, Padraic, and don’t you worry, we’ll help look after your Ada.’

  2

  ‘So I never lose an opportunity of urging a practical beginning, however small, for it is wonderful how often in such matters the mustard-seed germinates and roots itself.’

  Florence Nightingale

  After the priest had said his final Amen and gone, Ada went back up the stairs to find some money for the coffin. As she entered the room she was almost surprised to find her grandfather still lying there on his back with the two big pennies over his eyes where she had laid them herself.

  Wiping away her tears, she went to the fireplace and pulled out the tin with a picture of Queen Victoria on the lid from the space in the chimney. She couldn’t remember how old she was when he had showed it to her but it was a few years back and she had felt very special as she stood there with him swearing her to secrecy and instructing her to tell no one where it was hidden, not even Frank. It was a bit dusty on top but in there she found some notes and coins. She didn’t know how much a coffin cost but took out a handful of notes. As she did she saw a piece of yellowed paper folded at the bottom of the tin. It crossed her mind that she should be wondering what it was, but she felt so strange and slowed up she couldn’t even bring herself to lift the paper out and examine it.

  ‘Thanks, Ada,’ said Mrs Regan, counting out the notes she needed then telling her to put the rest back and not tell anyone where she kept it. ‘Not anyone,’ she said emphatically. ‘There have been too many cases of the recently bereaved being robbed around here for us to take any chances.’

  Recently bereaved, thought Ada, mulling the phrase over in her head.

  Later that day the coffin was brought and it just fitted up the stairs and into the bedroom. The joiner had a couple of his men with him and they lifted Padraic into the box, leaving the lid propped at the side, leaning against the wall.

  Ada told Mrs Regan to make all the arrangements at the church and things were done around her. The Regans stayed close with her all through that day and during the wake of the night. Someone brought in a bottle of whisky and a few glasses were drunk. Ada would have none; she had once had a sip and had disliked the strong burning liquid that made her gasp. Neither did she want anything to do with the substance that could turn normal hard-working men into the violent beasts that she sometimes heard and encountered out on the streets of Liverpool.

  Time passed in a blur, and by the morning of the funeral Ada had entered some other kind of existence. She walked with Mary behind the coffin on the way up to the church, the neighbours standing out in the street with their heads bowed and caps off, the street quiet apart from the whimper of a child and the noise of the port as the world continued to turn. She heard the sound of crying and then she realized it was herself and Mary.

  Four strong men from the Regan family carried the coffin on their shoulders over the short distance to the church. A real mark of respect, everyone knew that – if it had been someone of lesser standing they would have needed to pay for the wheeled cart to trundle him up the cobbles. But Padraic Houston was held in high esteem. He had been a very good man.

  She would recall snatches of the mass and the final lowering of the coffin into the grave that held Padraic’s Edna and his daughter, Maggie. Then the priest’s voice saying ashes to ashes and the heavy, broken sound of the handful of soil that she threw down on to the lid.

  In the days that followed the funeral Ada tried to make sense of her situation but her thoughts did not seem to be able to connect. She attempted to keep up with her daily cycle of chores but somehow things got mixed up. She found herself standing staring out of the window or holding a book that was her grandfather’s, or sitting at his place in the kitchen holding one of his shirts.

  She kept thinking that she was doing all right, that she was managing well, and then her eyes would fall on something that belonged to him or she would find a small item, like a stub of a pencil, and she would burst into tears. Floods of tears.

  She struggled to sleep at night but found herself needing a nap during the day and dozing off almost anywhere, sometimes lying on his bed or wandering into Frank’s room. She was completely disconnected from the reality of Frank’s disappearance, not making any effort to go to the dock, ask any questions or find anything out, still telling herself that he would turn up one of these days ‘like a bad penny’. Mary and Mrs Regan had told her that they would listen out for any news and let her know. But although they regularly came in with food and to relight the fire for Ada when she forgot to put more coal on, there was never any news about Frank.

  Ada sometimes fancied she heard the sound of her grandfather upstairs: a creak of a floorboard as he moved around; the sound of him getting out of bed, especially in the early morning, as if he was getting ready for work. She would wake hearing this, having forgotten overnight that he was dead and gone.

  She would hear his voice calling down to her, with the rising intonation on her name, about to ask her a question. Sometimes she would almost shout back, and then the reality would hit her. As she sat at the table she could hear his conversation and him regularly telling her not to be afraid, that she was strong and clever and who knows what she might achieve.

  ‘You are here for a reason, Ada.’

  Then she would hear him ask her if he had told her the story about the … but he would never say what. And, like he’d always told her, ‘One day you will tell your own stories, Ada.’

  Sometimes she would dream that she was sitting on his knee and they were talking. She was trying to tell him one of her made-up, childish stories. He would say she had a good imagination. ‘What’s imagination, Grandfather?’ And he would tell her and then write the word down for her with the stub of a pencil he always carried in his pocket, spelling it out and breaking it down, ‘I-mag-in-ation’, and then repeating it, making sure that she got the new word. ‘I like that word, Grandfather.’ And she would add it to all the other words that he had given her since he first showed her the letters and taught her the sounds, making sure that his Ada, and her brother Frank, would be able to read.

  Well-meaning neighbours and acquaintances called in to offer their respects and give advice, sometimes telling her – trying to make her feel better – that there were deaths all the time, every day, in Liverpool. People were falling under carts, setting themselves on fire, drowning in the harbour
, falling down stairs, being murdered. Someone told her that the other day a woman had slipped on an orange peel in the street and fallen to the ground, broken her thigh bone and died from the injury. As easy as that. So don’t be surprised at anything that can happen, Ada. At least the old man died in his bed, peacefully sleeping, at least there was that.

  But he is still dead, she wanted to scream at them. And no matter how he died the pain for her was the same. She knew they meant well, the people who came back and forth through the house at that time, but young as she was, she knew that she would have to go through this terrible pain on her own and try to grieve in the best way she could.

  Mrs Regan came in to tell her that Mary’s baby had been born, a healthy baby boy, and Ada smiled and asked about her friend but could not feel any real joy. She was just numb.

  She wandered around the house with her mother-of-pearl brooch pinned to her blouse, all the time using up the stash of coins that her grandfather had hidden for a rainy day along with his funeral money. This felt like much more than a rainy day; this felt like the end of the world.

  Anyway, she kept pottering along and the money kept going down until some weeks later, when the people had stopped coming in with food, she found herself feeling a bit hungry. She went to the stash to get some money so she could go up to the shop, but there was only one penny coin left, just one.

  As she stood over the bed where she’d placed the empty tin, holding the single, last penny in her hand, she looked into the box again. It was completely empty apart from that piece of yellowed paper lining the bottom. Lifting it out to check if there was any chance of more money beneath it she unfolded the paper and found that it had some writing on it. The ink had faded and the letters were badly shaped but when she went over to the window she could just make out the words:

  Dear Maggie Houston,

  My man Francis cannot marry you. He has a wife and a child all ready.

  Signed,