The Nightingale Sisters

by Donna Douglas

  ‘But I knew it would only be a matter of time before he found us. And now he has.’ She turned unhappy eyes to meet Matron’s. ‘Now do you see why I can’t stay?’ she pleaded.

  Matron stared back at her. ‘I see why you can’t go,’ she said.

  ‘But Mrs Sherman knows I’m here. It’s only a matter of time before she brings Victor here, and then—’

  ‘And then we will deal with him,’ Matron said firmly.

  Violet laughed. ‘Oh, Miss Fox,’ she said, almost pityingly. ‘Do you really think you will be equal to my husband?’ She shook her head.

  ‘I know that you will stand a better chance against him here than if you run off on your own.’

  ‘And why should that be?’

  Matron frowned at her. ‘Because here you are amongst friends.’ She rose to her feet. ‘It’s your choice, of course. If you want to leave, I can’t stop you. But I urge you to reconsider.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t underestimate us, Violet.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  SUICIDE.

  Millie seemed to hear the word wherever she went on that cold, grey morning.

  ‘Sleeping pills,’ the ward maid whispered as she made up the fire. ‘They reckon she saved them up to finish herself off. Must have been planning it for a long time.’

  ‘I don’t understand it.’ Millie heard two first years discussing it in whispers outside the sluice door as she tested the rack of early-morning urine samples. ‘How could it even have happened? The patients are always supervised taking their medicines, aren’t they?’

  ‘There’s nothing to stop them sticking a pill under their tongue and then spitting it out when the nurses have gone, is there? I bet that’s what she did, the cunning old cow.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that! It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead. I don’t know how she even managed it with her hands the way they were. It must have taken a lot of effort.’

  ‘Maybe someone did it for her? I would have shoved a few pills down her throat if I’d known.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’

  ‘Why not? Don’t forget how she used to torment us and call us names. I’m not sorry she’s gone!’

  Unable to stand it any longer, Millie burst out of the sluice and confronted them. ‘Haven’t you two got anything better to do than gossip?’ she snapped. They both stared at her; Millie was known to be the most easy-going of the seniors and never one to pull rank. But today she wasn’t feeling sunny-natured.

  ‘You,’ she addressed the second girl, ‘have you finished with those bedpans?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then you’d better get on with it, hadn’t you? Go on!’ They both glared sullenly at her but knew better than to argue. Easy-going or not, Millie was still senior to them, and answering her back could earn them a trip to Matron’s office.

  Millie closed the sluice door and leant against the counter top, fighting the urge to be sick. She could hardly bear to be on the ward this morning. Maud’s empty bed was like a silent reproach to her. The place seemed depressingly silent without her imperious voice ringing out, summoning a nurse to complain about something or other. When the porter brought up the newspapers, Millie had found herself searching through it for Maud’s copy of The Times, ready to start on the crossword when she had a spare moment.

  She had pulled herself together with effort and forced herself to start testing the samples, determined to get on with her work. But grief still ached in her chest, making it hard for her to breathe.

  She felt totally alone in her sadness. No one else seemed to mourn Maud’s passing. They gossiped about it, but only because they had precious little else to talk about and a suicide on Female Chronics was such a novelty. Sister Hyde went about her business, handing out work lists and giving orders, as if there was nothing wrong at all.

  No one seemed to care that it was Maud who had died. Irascible, infuriating Maud, with her sharp tongue and even sharper intelligence, who had a lifetime of stories to tell and no one to listen to them.

  She had tried to tell Millie, though. On Saturday night – was it really only thirty-six hours ago? It felt like a lifetime. Millie remembered Maud’s strange mood, how she had wanted to talk about her childhood hopes, her dreams. She must have known she was going to end her life that night.

  Why hadn’t Millie realised what was happening? A good nurse would have known, she felt sure of that. A good nurse would have spotted the warning signs.

  That night Maud had wanted Millie to stay with her. It was odd for her to ask for anything, and yet she had begged her to stay. Would it have made any difference if she had, Millie wondered. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave, perhaps Maud would have known there was someone who cared about her, and it would have given her the strength she needed to carry on . . .

  But she hadn’t. She had been selfish, too keen to get off duty. Desperate to go to a silly dance she hadn’t even enjoyed.

  What was the last thing Maud had told her? Not to have any regrets.

  Too late, Maud, she thought bitterly. Because she knew she would regret walking out of that ward for the rest of her life.

  Helen came in as she was washing up the specimen glasses.

  ‘Have you finished the testing?’

  ‘All done.’

  Helen looked around. ‘Where’s Mrs Weaver’s sample? You haven’t thrown it away?’

  ‘Of course. Why?’

  ‘Didn’t you check her notes? It’s a twenty-four-hour sample. You were supposed to put it with what we collected yesterday.’

  ‘I didn’t know, did I?’ Sweat broke out on Millie’s brow. ‘Maybe no one will notice?’

  ‘Benedict, this is a patient we’re talking about. It doesn’t matter if no one notices, the results will still be wrong.’

  ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Only one thing for it, I’m afraid – you’re going to have to come clean to Sister.’

  Sister Hyde’s brow was already furrowed with irritation, even before they explained what had happened.

  ‘I suppose this is your doing, Benedict?’ Millie stared at the polished floor, her hands knotting behind her back. ‘I might have known. Why is it that disaster always seems to follow you around, Nurse?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sister,’ she mumbled.

  ‘I do. It’s because you are thoughtless. You spend far too much time daydreaming about engagement rings and nights out, and do not pay nearly enough attention to the task in hand—’

  Millie didn’t hear the rest of what she was saying. A strange buzzing sound filled her ears, like a swarm of angry bees inside her head. She stared at Sister Hyde’s face, saw her thin lips moving as she listed Millie’s failings yet again. She didn’t need to hear them, she already knew them all off by heart. She was thoughtless, muddle-headed, untidy, completely incompetent. She would never, ever make a good nurse as long as she lived.

  But she didn’t need Sister Hyde to tell her that. It was staring her in the face, every time she looked at Maud’s empty bed.

  The angry buzz still filled Millie’s head. She could feel pressure building up, as if her brain would burst. Before she knew what she was doing, she was pulling off her apron.

  Sister Hyde stared at her. ‘What do you think you’re doing, Benedict?’

  ‘Something I should have done a long time ago, Sister.’ She yanked the grips from her cap, tore it off her head and stuffed it into Sister Hyde’s hands.

  Then she walked down the length of the ward, letting the doors swing shut behind her.

  The air in the Porters’ Lodge crackled with tension as the two men squared up to each other.

  ‘What did you just call me?’ Harry Fishman muttered.

  He was big and solid, brown eyes scowling from under a shock of blue-black curls.

  Five minutes ago he had been laughing and joking with the others as he waited for the kettle to boil.

  ‘Fancy a cuppa, new boy?’ he’d called out to Peter, who was playing cards with Nic
k.

  ‘No, thanks, I’ll make my own.’

  Nick stiffened, instantly alert to the tension in the room. The other men felt it too. They stopped talking and looked from one to the other, waiting.

  ‘Oh, yes? And why’s that, then?’

  Nick flashed a warning glance at Peter. Harry was a good bloke, ready to have a laugh with anyone. But he had fists like ham hocks, and even Nick would have thought twice about taking him on.

  ‘Because I don’t take anything from dirty Jews.’

  The hatred in Pete’s eyes shocked Nick. He had grown up with Peter Doyle, and had never seen him so full of malice. His broad, freckled face burnt with it, his stocky body rigid with tension.

  Harry Fishman scowled. ‘Come over here and say that!’

  ‘Pete—’ Nick put out his hand to stop him but Peter had dropped his cards and was already on his feet.

  ‘What did you just call me?’ Harry repeated his question.

  Peter barely came up to his shoulder, but he looked the other man squarely in the eye.

  ‘You’re a dirty Jew,’ he snarled.

  Nick saw Harry’s hand go back. He sprang like a panther, getting in between the men and trapping Harry’s fist in mid-air.

  ‘You don’t want to do that,’ he said softly.

  Harry glared at him, his jaw tightening. ‘Stay out of this, Nick. It ain’t your fight. Stop protecting him.’

  ‘I’m protecting you, mate,’ Nick said quietly. ‘What do you think old Hopkins is going to say about porters scrapping on duty?’

  Harry hesitated for a moment, then slowly lowered his fist. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘That little runt’s not worth losing my job over.’

  As he turned away, Peter jeered from behind Nick’s shoulder, ‘That’s right. Run away, you coward!’

  Harry swung round, but Nick beat him to it. Grabbing Peter under the chin, he rammed him up against the wall.

  ‘And you!’ he said. ‘Just shut it, all right? Do you want to get yourself sacked, you silly sod?’

  Mr Hopkins already had his eye on Peter. He’d warned Nick to keep Doyle out of trouble.

  ‘He’s getting under a lot of people’s skin,’ he’d said. ‘I only took him on because you vouched for him. Now it’s up to you to make sure he stays on the straight and narrow.’

  Peter’s eyes bulged, showing wide circles of white around the startled green. ‘N-No,’ he managed.

  ‘Then behave yourself.’ Nick released him. ‘Come on, you can help me with the linen delivery.’

  As they left, Harry Fishman sidled over and whispered, ‘You want to keep a muzzle on that dog of yours, Nick. Before he bites the wrong person.’

  He glanced across at the other porters, watching in hostile silence. He knew that unless he had been there, not one of them would have stood up to defend Peter if Harry Fishman had decided to throw that punch.

  He didn’t blame them either. If it hadn’t been for Dora, he would have belted Peter himself.

  ‘You’ve got to keep your nose clean,’ he warned as they headed towards the hospital laundry. ‘Mr Hopkins won’t put up with any of your Blackshirt rubbish in here.’

  ‘It’s not rubbish,’ Peter muttered defensively. ‘What Mr Mosley says is right. There’s going to be trouble in the East End, you see if there ain’t.’

  ‘And there’s going to be trouble in here, if you don’t learn to keep your trap shut.’ Nick looked sideways at him. ‘I mean it. You don’t want to make any enemies in this place. Not if you want to keep your job.’

  Peter said nothing. His mouth was a set, stubborn line. Nick remembered that expression from when they were kids. Peter had always been in trouble then, standing up to the bigger kids like a little mongrel terrier, growling and snapping and refusing to admit he was in the wrong.

  The laundry was warm and welcoming after the brisk chill outside. The thick, steamy air smelt of freshly starched linen. Women with their sleeves rolled up and scarves wrapped around their heads were busy folding and feeding sheets into hissing pressing machines, while others tended the bank of giant tubs that rumbled at the far end of the laundry.

  Nick showed Peter where to find the finished bundles of linen and towels, and how to load up a trolley with the separate orders for each ward.

  ‘They should already be bundled up, but be sure to count them and double check against the list for each ward before you take them up,’ he said, showing him the piece of paper with every item marked. ‘The sisters play merry hell if you forget something and they have to send down for it.’

  With their trolleys loaded up, they made their way to the service lift. Nick pulled the doors closed, shut the grille and pressed the button. At first Peter was sulkily silent, but as they made their way around the wards, delivering bundles of linen, his frostiness started to thaw.

  Their final call was to Wren. ‘Watch the Sister here, she’s a right snappy cow,’ Nick hissed as he pushed the trolley through the double doors.

  ‘Blimey, look at all these women in their nighties!’ Peter snorted with laughter. Then he caught sight of his sister, at the far end of the ward. ‘There’s Dora, look. Cooeee! Dor!’

  He started to wave, but Nick dug him sharply in the ribs. ‘Shhh! Nurses ain’t allowed to talk to men while they’re in uniform.’

  ‘But she’s my sister!’

  ‘You could be the Pearly King of Bethnal Green and she still wouldn’t be able to talk to you!’

  It took all his self-control for Nick not to look at Dora himself as he handed the list to the staff nurse to check. Thankfully the bitch of a Sister was nowhere in sight, otherwise she was bound to give him trouble over something.

  ‘Thank you.’ The nurse signed her name and handed the piece of paper back to him. ‘Put it in the linen cupboard, will you?’

  ‘I can never get over how different Dora looks in her uniform,’ Peter remarked, as they unpacked the bundles on to the shelves. ‘Sort of grown-up.’

  ‘She is.’ Finally, Nick allowed himself a glance sideways at her. She was taking a patient’s pulse, her head bent as she held the woman’s wrist. He caught a glimpse of her profile, her blob of a nose, her wide, smiling mouth. The patient said something to her and she laughed, a merry, husky sound that made Nick’s heart race uncomfortably in his chest.

  ‘You know she’s courting now?’

  It was a casual comment, but it hit him like a blow. Nick spun round. Peter was lifting another bundle of linen into the cupboard, apparently unaware that he had just thrown his friend’s world into chaos.

  ‘Who’s she courting?’

  ‘That policeman – Joe Armstrong? The one whose sister’s lodging at our place.’ Peter grinned. ‘He seems very keen. He’s always dropping round on the off chance Dora might be there. He took her dancing the other night. Can you imagine that? Our Dora dancing!’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, Mum and Nanna are convinced it’s all serious. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to go out with my sister though, can you?’

  Nick glanced over his shoulder at Dora. She scribbled a figure on the patient’s chart then hung it back in place. As she did, she spotted Nick and gave him a warm smile.

  ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t imagine that at all.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  BY THE TIME Millie got back to her room, Sister Sutton had upended her bed again. Seeing the sheets, pillows, blankets and mattress tipped in an untidy heap was too much for her. Sinking down in the middle of the wreckage, Millie cried her heart out.

  This was it. It was over. She could never go back to the ward, never set foot inside the hospital again. Matron would send for her, and she would be instantly dismissed. And good riddance.

  But even as shame and misery washed over her, she felt relieved. She was so tired of trying every day, and failing every time. Of knowing that all the other nurses, even the first years, were better and cleverer than her, more competent, more everything. Finally she accepted what Sister Hyde, Matron and everyone else had kno
wn for ages: she was a terrible nurse.

  Perhaps if Maud Mortimer’s care had been left to someone who knew what they were doing, she would still be alive now.

  ‘I might have known your room would be a mess, Benedict.’

  Sobbing noisily into her pillow, she hadn’t heard the creaking tread on the attic stairs. Now Sister Hyde stood in the doorway looking down at her, Millie’s crumpled cap still clasped in her hands.

  Millie instantly stumbled to her feet, wiping her puffy, tear-ravaged face.

  Sister Hyde’s brows rose. ‘I’m pleased to see you have remembered your manners, at least.’ She looked down her long, aquiline nose at the girl. ‘Now, perhaps you would care to explain what that ridiculous outburst on the ward was all about?’

  Millie felt her nerve failing under Sister’s severe gaze, but held it together long enough to say, ‘I’m leaving, Sister.’

  ‘And why, may I ask?’

  Millie stared at her. Wasn’t it obvious? ‘With respect, Sister, you’ve told me yourself. I am thoughtless, untidy, incompetent, I daydream constantly—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m aware of all that,’ Sister Hyde cut her off impatiently. ‘But I’ve told you all that before and you’ve never decided to leave. Why now, girl?’

  Millie braced herself. There was no point in lying about it. Fixing her gaze on the spotted mirror behind Sister Hyde’s shoulder, she said flatly, ‘Please, Sister, it’s my fault Maud – Mrs Mortimer – died.’

  Sister Hyde went very still for a moment. ‘Explain yourself,’ she said.

  Millie opened her mouth, and everything came out in a rush. About Saturday night, how she had neglected Maud, refused to stay and talk to her when she needed her most.

  ‘And you think Mrs Mortimer decided to kill herself because you didn’t help her with The Times crossword?’ Sister Hyde said slowly.

  ‘There’s more to it than that, Sister. I didn’t listen to her. Looking back on it now, I’m sure she was trying to tell me something. The clues were there, just like a crossword. The way she talked about not having regrets . . . If only I’d listened to her, perhaps she wouldn’t have felt so alone . . .’ Millie swallowed hard. Tears were beginning to roll down her cheeks again but with Sister Hyde staring so hard at her she didn’t dare wipe them away on her sleeve.