Nightingales Under the Mistletoe

by Donna Douglas

  Once or twice she had managed to snatch a few hours with her friends, if one of them had the morning or afternoon off duty. They had even been to the pictures in Tunbridge Wells with Kit, Max and Harry. But most of the time, Jess lived in a twilight world of poorly children.

  And they were all desperately poorly. For the whole of her twelve-hour shift Jess had to cope alone with twenty sick children, none of whom slept for more than an hour at a time. As she hurried from bed to bed, comforting them, cleaning up vomit and changing wet and dirty beds, she lived in fear of one of them convulsing or choking during a severe bout of whooping.

  Each night was an endless vigil of loneliness and anxiety, ending with exhaustion and a pile of stained linen to rinse for the laundry.

  Not surprisingly, the day nurse looked at the end of her tether as she handed over to Jess.

  ‘We had a new one in today, a baby,’ she said. ‘Whooping cough and gastro-enteritis. He needs to be barrier nursed, so I’ve hung up an overall for you by the bed. Be really careful, won’t you? The last thing we need is for the rest of them to get infected.’

  ‘I will,’ Jess promised.

  ‘Dr Drake said he’ll check on him in a couple of hours, but of course you know to telephone him at any time if you’re worried. I have to say, I’m not sure the poor little mite will last the night.’ She spoke in a flat, matter-of-fact way. They lost too many children on the Fever Wards to allow themselves to mourn them. ‘You’re supposed to be sharing a runner tonight, but I haven’t seen her yet so I expect one of the other wards has already nabbed her. Do telephone the Night Sister if you need any help, won’t you?’

  Much good it will do me, Jess thought. The Night Sister would just tell her to get on with it, as usual. Miss Tanner did her best to help, but she couldn’t magic spare nurses out of thin air.

  After the day nurse had gone off duty, Jess went round all the beds, checking on everyone, cleaning up vomit and changing beds while all around her children screamed and retched and made the terrifying whooping sound that seemed to turn their little bodies inside out.

  Then she went to attend to the baby, remembering to put on the overall and cap that hung beside his cot. She did it carefully, pushing her arm through one sleeve then the other, fastening the button and tying the tape around her waist.

  The baby’s name was Stephen Cope. He was a tiny, feverish little thing, clammy with perspiration. Strands of fine hair clung damply to his scalp. Jess checked him over and gave him a few drops of boiled, cooled water from a sterilised pipette.

  She was changing his nappy when the runner appeared. She was a pro, a local girl called Julie Todd.

  ‘Ugh, that looks nasty.’ She flinched from the livid green contents of the nappy.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Poor lamb.’ Julie peered past Jess’s shoulder at the baby in the cot. ‘Will he do, do you think?’

  ‘The day staff nurse didn’t seem to think so, but you never know.’ Jess hoped he would. Losing a baby was awful enough, but it was particularly cruel so close to Christmas. She could only imagine what Stephen’s poor parents must be going through, ragged with worry for their little boy.

  Julie took the soiled nappy out to the incinerator, but she didn’t come back. Runners were in short supply, and Julie had either been nabbed by another ward or she had dallied by the Furnace Room for a sneaky cigarette. Being warm and isolated made it a popular spot for exhausted night nurses.

  Either way, her absence irritated Jess as she rushed around, trying to deal with all the children’s needs at once. A three-year-old girl struggling to breathe who needed a steam tent. A frightened eight-year-old evacuee who woke up in tears after a nightmare. All his friends had gone back to London for Christmas, but his mum hadn’t sent for him. Now he was terrified that the bombs had got her or, that she had forgotten about him.

  Jess did her best to console him, all the while aware that at the other end of the ward at least two more children were coughing themselves sick.

  And then baby Stephen started screaming.

  He was in a terrible state by the time Jess reached his cot, feverish and almost black in the face. As Jess went to put on her overall and gown, he suddenly started to convulse violently, his tiny body jerking and twisting like a puppet.

  For a moment she froze, utterly terrified. Then, forgetting her cap and gown, she scooped Stephen up into her arms and ran with him to the sluice.

  She could hear the other children screaming out for her but she was deaf to them as she filled a sink with cold water and immersed the baby in it as gently as possible. She had never done it before, it was something she’d only heard about in lectures while she was training. She wasn’t even sure it would work, or if the shock of the cold water would kill him. But if it didn’t, she knew the convulsions would.

  She closed her eyes, praying fervently, until she felt the twitching and jerking stop. Stephen went very still in her arms. Jess hardly dared to open her eyes, terrified that the poor little mite would be dead.

  But, thank God, he was staring up at her with his bright little button eyes. Jess took him out of the water and undressed him quickly, put him in a clean nappy and laid him back in his cot. Then she telephoned to let Dr Drake know what had happened.

  She put the telephone receiver down and slumped back in Sister’s chair. It was just turned midnight, and she felt as if she’d already lived through a lifetime.

  Dr Drake arrived on the ward five minutes later.

  ‘How is the child?’ For once Jess was so thankful to see him she didn’t mind his abrupt manner.

  ‘He’s a lot better, Doctor. His temperature is still high, but not dangerously so. And he’s taken some more water.’

  She waited tensely while Dr Drake examined the baby. ‘And he was convulsing, you say?’

  ‘Yes, Doctor. I tried to cool him down as best I could. It seemed to work.’

  She didn’t mention what had happened afterwards, how she had sat in the darkness at Sister’s desk and cried quietly with relief.

  ‘Indeed. Indeed,’ Dr Drake muttered. For the first time he looked properly at Jess, and she felt herself pinned by a pair of sharply intelligent eyes. ‘How did you know what to do?’ he asked.

  ‘I only did what any other nurse would do, sir.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He went on staring at her for a long time, until Jess started to feel uncomfortable. Then he looked away and scribbled a few lines on the baby’s notes. ‘Well, he seems to be doing well at the moment,’ he said, hanging up the chart on the end of the cot. ‘Telephone me immediately if there is another crisis.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  As he took off his overall, he said quietly, ‘Well done, Nurse.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He went to walk away, then stopped. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘I thought you should know, I arranged for Mrs Briggs on Female Medical to be transferred back to London today.’

  Jess blinked at him. ‘Thank you, sir,’ was all she managed to say.

  She watched him as he strode off down the ward, letting the doors swing shut behind him without looking back. Had she really just had a few kind words from Dr Drake? Effie and Daisy would never believe it, she decided.

  She was right, Daisy didn’t believe it.

  ‘You’re making it up,’ she declared, when Jess met her the following afternoon. They were going to a WVS sale of work in the village hall where Daisy was hoping to find some Christmas presents for her family.

  ‘I’m telling you, it happened.’

  ‘You mean to say Dr Drake was actually nice to someone?’ Daisy grinned. ‘You don’t think it was that mistletoe giving him ideas, do you?’

  ‘Don’t!’ Jess still blushed to think about it.

  The village hall was set out with long tables, each neatly arranged with all kinds of items for sale. There were peg dollies and teddies made from fabric scraps, home-made cakes, Christmas puddings and jars of jam, knitted scarves, gloves and hats, as well as
all kinds of second-hand toys and clothes.

  Jess spotted Miss Pomfrey, her varicose veins now on the mend, sitting behind a long table laden with her precious embroidered tray cloths and antimacassars.

  Mrs Huntley-Osborne moved briskly amongst them, exhorting everyone to buy.

  ‘It’s all in a good cause,’ she boomed. ‘All proceeds to the Prisoners-of-War Fund.’

  ‘I could do with some mistletoe, to give Max some ideas,’ Daisy said, examining a painted wooden car. ‘He’s so shy, it’s all I can do to get him to hold my hand!’

  ‘You should take it as a good sign, that he respects you,’ Jess said. ‘It’s better for a man to be a bit reserved than out for what he can get.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Daisy said but she still looked wistful. ‘I just wish he was a bit more keen. You know, like Effie’s Kit?’

  He’s a bit too keen, if you ask me, Jess thought. Going to the pictures in Tunbridge Wells, she had sat chastely in the front of the stalls with Harry, Daisy and Max, while Effie and Kit wrestled in the back row. Jess was worried that her friend was getting into a situation she might not be able to control. But as usual when Effie was in love, there was no telling her anything.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve invited him to spend Christmas Day with us, so hopefully that will give him a bit of a push,’ Daisy said.

  Jess sent her a sideways look. ‘What does your sister say about having an extra mouth to feed at Christmas?’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t told her yet – but I expect she’ll be all right about it,’ Daisy replied airily. ‘Grace never makes a fuss about anything. What do you think about a jigsaw puzzle for my brother? On second thoughts, he probably wouldn’t sit still long enough to do it!’ she answered her own question.

  In the end, Daisy bought a bow and arrow for her brother, and a knitted doll for her younger sister.

  ‘Now I’ve got to find something for Grace,’ she said, sorting through a pile of second-hand clothes.

  ‘How about some scented soap?’ Jess suggested.

  Daisy shook her head. ‘Grace doesn’t like anything fancy. How about this?’ She held up a knitted scarf in a dull brown colour.

  ‘It’s very – practical,’ Jess said tactfully.

  ‘It’s perfect for her.’ Daisy was searching in her purse for the money when there was a commotion behind them.

  ‘I’m telling you, I was going to pay for it!’

  ‘What the—?’ Jess looked around to see a heavily pregnant, red-haired girl arguing with one of the WVS helpers. She was holding a baby’s knitted matinee jacket.

  Daisy nudged Jess. ‘Oh, dear, there’s going to be trouble now,’ she said, a hint of glee in her voice.

  ‘Who is she?’ Jess asked.

  ‘Her name’s Sarah Newland. She used to be Mrs Huntley-Osborne’s maid, until—’ She nodded towards the girl’s swollen belly. ‘Mrs Huntley-Osborne gave Sarah her cards and told her never to darken her door again.’

  The woman behind the table snatched the matinee jacket from the girl’s hands. ‘Clear off! We don’t want any trouble from you,’ she snapped.

  ‘I haven’t come to make trouble, I just wanted to buy some baby clothes.’

  ‘Well, they’re not for sale to the likes of you. These are for respectable mothers.’

  ‘I am respectable!’

  The woman sneered. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word, Sarah Newland! Now be on your way.’

  The girl looked near to tears but utterly defiant. ‘You can throw me out, but you can’t make me leave this village,’ she declared. ‘I’m staying whether you like it or not.’

  She directed her comment to Mrs Huntley-Osborne, who was standing as rigid as a statue, watching the scene.

  As the girl turned to leave, Jess hurried over.

  ‘How much for the jacket?’ she asked the woman behind the table.

  ‘Sixpence, but …’

  Before the woman knew what was happening, Jess thrust a coin into her hand and snatched up the jacket. Then she turned and offered it to Sarah.

  ‘Go on, take it,’ she said. ‘It’s for you.’

  Sarah Newland looked warily from the tiny knitted jacket to Jess’s face and back again.

  ‘No, thanks,’ she spat out. ‘I don’t want anyone’s charity.’

  Then she turned on her heel and walked out, her head held proudly high.

  Daisy came up behind Jess as she stood, frozen with shock. ‘I wouldn’t get involved, if I were you.’ She took her friend’s arm to steer her away. As Jess went to follow her, the knitted jacket still in her hand, she glanced up and caught Mrs Huntley-Osborne’s eye. She was staring straight back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  IT FELT STRANGE to be in a hospital again.

  Breathing in the disinfectant-scented air, Millie was transported to her training days. Except now she was no longer a pro trying to escape the eagle eye of the ward sister. She was the lady of the manor, come to dispense some festive cheer to the patients at the behest of the Hospital Fund-Raising Committee.

  Even so, when she saw Matron waiting for her with the rest of the committee members, it was all Millie could do not to stand to attention.

  Matron stepped forward to greet her but Mrs Huntley-Osborne got there first. ‘Lady Amelia, how wonderful to see you,’ she took charge of the situation, almost elbowing Miss Jenkins out of the way in her rush.

  ‘I’m so thankful that you have given up your Christmas Eve to visit my hospital,’ Miss Jenkins joined in, with a pointed look sideways at her friend.

  ‘If you’ll come this way …’ Mrs Huntley-Osborne stepped neatly in front of her.

  ‘After you, Mrs Huntley-Osborne.’ Matron smiled through clenched teeth.

  It was comical to watch the pair of them jockeying for position as they led the way down the corridors. At any moment, Millie expected their ample backsides to become wedged in the double doors as they tried to pass through at the same time.

  They visited each ward in turn so Millie could hand out gifts. Each ward was bright and cheerful, decorated with a Christmas tree and paper chains looped across the high ceilings. As they entered each ward, the sister in charge would be waiting to greet them. Millie recognised some faces from her days at the Nightingale. And judging from the puzzled looks several of the ward sisters gave her, they knew her, too. She could almost see the consternation on their faces as they tried to place where they had met Lady Amelia Rushton before. It made her smile to think what they would say if they knew she was the same Nurse Millie Benedict who had often featured so unfavourably in their ward reports.

  ‘It seems very busy,’ she commented to Matron. ‘I would have expected most of the patients to go home for Christmas, yet you seem to have extra beds in every ward?’

  ‘I’m afraid we are rather overcrowded,’ Matron agreed. ‘It generally happens during the winter months, when we’re overrun with bronchial complaints. But we’ve also had to turn two of our wards over to military patients. And we have to find room for all the patients they keep sending down from London. As if we didn’t have enough sick people down here.’ She heaved a sigh.

  ‘I’m sure it must be in the patients’ best interests to send them?’

  ‘I daresay it is.’ Miss Jenkins sniffed. ‘But I must say, Lady Amelia, between you and me, I don’t like it one bit. Of course I didn’t object when I was told that the Nightingale was moving down here. I had hoped their Matron and I could work together. But she has completely taken over in a most unwelcome manner.’

  ‘Our delightful hospital has been quite overrun with sick people from London, bringing their nasty diseases with them,’ Mrs Pomfrey put in.

  ‘And the London nurses leave a great deal to be desired,’ Matron finished. ‘Honestly, I don’t believe I’ve ever met such a shabby, ill-disciplined group of young women as those Nightingale nurses.’

  ‘Really?’ Millie said. ‘How interesting.’

  The Nightingale nurses certainly didn’t seem shabby or ill-
disciplined to her as they moved around the wards purposefully in their familiar blue uniforms, going back and forth with trolleys and trays, plumping pillows, straightening bedclothes and consoling the patients. It made Millie long for the days when she had been one of them, giggling and gossiping with her friends in the sluice when Sister wasn’t looking.

  On the Military Ward, Millie was pleased to see another familiar face. She remembered Miss Wallace, the ward sister, from her days in training. She had always been the most delightful of the sisters, friendly and caring to even the humblest of pros.

  Miss Wallace seemed just as pleased to see her. ‘Why, Nurse Benedict,’ she greeted her, a wide smile lighting up her face. ‘Have you come to work?’

  ‘Unfortunately not, Sister.’

  ‘That’s a pity. We could do with some more good nurses here.’ She flicked the slightest of glances in Matron’s direction.

  ‘I’m not sure how good I was,’ Millie said ruefully.

  Matron broke in, looking puzzled. ‘I didn’t know you were a nurse, your ladyship?’

  Millie smiled at Miss Wallace. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact, I trained at the Nightingale.’

  She didn’t want to look at Miss Jenkins’s face, but she was sure it was a picture.

  Matron was rendered speechless for the rest of their tour. Afterwards, when Millie joined the other trustees for tea, Matron excused herself from the festivities. Millie thought she might have offended her with her jibe about the Nightingale, until Miss Jenkins explained that she had to go and rehearse for the Christmas show.

  ‘Oh, the Christmas show!’ Mrs Huntley-Osborne trilled. ‘What fun! I must say, I am looking forward to it this year. Tell me, Matron, will you be performing another of your memorable arias?’

  ‘I will indeed,’ Miss Jenkins beamed. ‘“Let The Bright Seraphim”, if all goes well.’

  But Millie was hardly listening. The Christmas show. Just those three words brought all kinds of wonderful memories rushing back, of scurrilous songs and sketches composed in bedrooms, rehearsals that left them aching with laughter and poor Miss Wallace trying to keep control of it all. ‘You’re putting on a Christmas show?’ she said.