The Nurses of Steeple Street

by Donna Douglas

  It was all a matter of teaching them what to expect, Agnes told herself. Bess Bradshaw had spoiled them, and now Agnes had to show them she was a nurse, not a companion or a maid of all work.

  She finished her rounds and hurried back to Steeple Street. Dottie looked most put out to see her.

  ‘You’re not due back while twelve,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘Yes, I’m a little earlier than I expected.’ Agnes consulted her watch. Perhaps she could have spent a bit more time on Mr Fentiman’s bunions, but no matter. The old boy had seemed happy enough.

  ‘Dinner in’t on the table while one,’ Dottie told her.

  ‘I know,’ Agnes agreed equably. ‘But I’d love a cup of tea.’

  Dottie stared at her, then rushed off. Agnes sighed. After more than six weeks, she still couldn’t get the girl to say more than a few words to her.

  She checked the pigeon holes. There was still no letter from her mother. It had been so long since she’d had any news, Agnes had ceased to feel disappointed.

  She went into the district room to write up her notes. As time passed and midday drew nearer, the other district nurses began to arrive home. One by one they came into the district room to unpack their bags, sterilise their instruments, write up their notes and make telephone calls.

  Agnes finished her notes just as the clock struck one. She joined the others around the dining table. The only one missing was Bess Bradshaw.

  She came rushing in ten minutes later. They heard her before they saw her, puffing and panting and muttering under her breath as she hurried to wash her hands. Finally she appeared, red-faced and flustered.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she muttered. ‘Nasty case of croup.’

  ‘Really, Bess, you should take a leaf out of your protégée’s book,’ Miss Goode remarked, helping herself to a spoonful of mashed potato. ‘Miss Sheridan had finished her round and was back before the rest of us.’

  Agnes shot her a quick glance. Miss Goode might look angelic, but Agnes had quickly learned that she was a great mischief-maker, always looking to stir up trouble wherever she could.

  ‘Was she now?’ Bess muttered, pulling out her chair and plonking herself down in it.

  ‘And all on foot too,’ Miss Goode added. ‘Poor Miss Sheridan. When are you going to sort out a new bicycle for her?’

  ‘I’ve already told her, she shouldn’t have been so careless with the last one,’ Bess muttered. She was in a foul mood, Agnes could tell. And Miss Goode wasn’t making it any better.

  ‘I’m sure I can wait until Miss Gale can arrange another one,’ Agnes said quietly.

  ‘You’ll wait a long time then,’ Phil Fletcher put in from the other end of the table. ‘The Association have to find the funds for a motorcycle for Miss Templeton and me first. Our need is greater than yours.’

  Fortunately the conversation turned to the subject of motorcycles, and whether it would be safe for elderly Miss Templeton to go careering around the country lanes on one. It wasn’t until after lunch that Agnes had to face Bess’ interrogation of her.

  ‘Why did you finish your round so early?’ she said.

  Because I’m more efficient than you are, Agnes thought, but said nothing.

  ‘Are you sure you saw everyone?’ Bess looked suspicious.

  ‘Indeed I did.’

  It was too much to hope she might be praised for her hard work, of course. Bess was determined to find fault. Her square chin jutted, a sure sign she was looking for trouble.

  ‘You changed Mr Marsh’s dressing? And you checked the wound as I asked you?’ Agnes nodded. ‘And you didn’t rush Queenie Gawtrey’s massage? She doesn’t like it when you’re rough, you know.’

  ‘All done.’

  ‘Did any of them ask for me?’

  ‘No,’ Agnes lied. ‘They all seemed perfectly satisfied.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Bess sniffed. She looked most put out, Agnes decided. ‘Well, I’ve got your calls for this afternoon.’ She handed over the list. ‘It’s all quite straightforward. A couple of baths, a message and the rest general nursing care. Oh, and then there’s this one.’ She pointed to a name at the bottom of the list. ‘New patient. Well, new to you anyway. She’s well known to the rest of us, unfortunately.’

  Agnes read the name on the list. ‘Sarah Franklin. Gastric influenza.’

  ‘That’s what she says, anyway.’ Bess grimaced. ‘She’s over the worst, and the doctor’s advised plenty of rest and fluids until she can face food again. But don’t spend too much time on her.’

  Agnes looked up from her list in surprise. She’d never heard Bess say that before. ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Because she’s been on and off our list for years. Always something wrong with her. If it’s not headaches, it’s stomach pains or something else. If you ask me, she just enjoys the attention. Anyway, I daresay she’ll try to get you running round her like all the others, so don’t give in to her,’ Bess warned. ‘And make sure you leave her till last, otherwise you’ll get nowt else done.’

  The idea of someone who could waste even Bess Brad-shaw’s time intrigued Agnes all afternoon, and she couldn’t wait for her last visit of the day. The address on the list was a grocer’s shop on the corner of Regent Street and Myrtle Street. ‘H. Franklin & Son’ was written in faded gold lettering above the door.

  As Agnes approached, she saw the shop door was open, and she could hear voices coming from inside.

  ‘I’m sorry, love. I can’t do it,’ a man was saying.

  ‘Please, Mr Franklin?’ The woman’s voice was familiar. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. I’ll pay you back, I swear.’

  ‘I know, and I wish I could help you. But I’ve already given you more credit than I should. I can’t give you any more.’

  Agnes stepped quietly into the shop and realised where she’d heard the woman’s voice. Mrs Willis was standing at the counter, a small child clinging to each of her hands.

  ‘But what am I going to do? We haven’t got a penny coming in now Norman’s lost his job again. How am I going to feed the kids?’

  ‘Like I said, I wish I could help you.’

  The distress in Mrs Willis’ voice was so painful, Agnes couldn’t bear to witness it. She was about to turn and leave the shop when the shopkeeper suddenly said, ‘All right, nurse? I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  Mrs Willis swung round, colour rushing into her face. Her expression hardened when she saw Agnes.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll not keep you,’ she muttered, and fled the shop, pushing past in her haste to get away.

  The shopkeeper shrugged apologetically to Agnes. ‘Poor woman,’ he said. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times her husband’s been out of work. It’s the war injuries, y’see. Can’t keep a job for long, poor soul.’

  Agnes thought of the terrible scars on Mr Willis’ legs and body. There was barely a man walking who hadn’t experienced horror in the trenches. ‘Anyway,’ the shopkeeper went on, brightening, ‘you’re here to see my Sarah, aren’t you? You’d best come this way.’ He lifted the flap on the counter to let Agnes through.

  Sarah Franklin was propped up in bed. She greeted Agnes with a wan smile.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said. ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m Miss Sheridan.’

  Agnes braced herself, waiting to be asked where the ‘real’ nurse was, but all she did was nod and say, ‘I’m Sarah Franklin. I daresay the other nurse has told you about me? I’m afraid I’m rather a regular patient of hers.’

  She looked like the tragic heroine of a pre-Raphaelite painting, her dark hair spread over the pillow around her long, pale face. Her eyes were wide and filled with sadness, and Agnes had to remind herself that she was probably quite adept at playing the suffering martyr.

  ‘Let’s see what we can do for you today, shall we?’ She consulted the message paper the doctor had left for her. As Bess had said, Mrs Franklin had recently suffered a bout of stomach flu.
The nausea and sickness had gone, but it had left her feeling very tired and listless.

  ‘How are you feeling today?’ Agnes asked her.

  ‘Still very weak, I’m afraid, nurse.’

  ‘Any pain?’

  ‘A little.’ She ran a thin white hand over her abdomen.

  ‘She’s being brave,’ her husband joined in from the doorway. ‘She was wretched with it last night. Up half the night, she was.’

  Sarah gave him a tremulous smile. ‘Shouldn’t you go and mind the shop, Harry? I’m sure the nurse can manage without you.’ She waited until the door had closed, then said, ‘Poor lamb, he does fuss so.’

  And I bet you enjoy every minute, Agnes thought. ‘Have you eaten anything?’

  ‘Harry made me something last night, but it made me feel so ill …’

  ‘You were sick again?’

  ‘No, just pain. The most awful pain you could imagine.’

  ‘Are you still in pain now?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘I’ll make you a hot water bottle. That might help.’

  ‘Thank you, nurse. You’re very kind.’

  Agnes prepared the hot water bottle and wrapped it in a towel. But as she put it near her patient, Sarah yelped in pain.

  Agnes frowned. ‘Does it hurt when I touch it?’ Sarah nodded. ‘Where does it hurt?’ She laid her hand on her stomach, close to her heart. ‘Here?’ Sarah shook her head. ‘What about here …?’ Agnes moved her hand to the epigastrium and pressed lightly. Sarah hissed, catching her lip between her teeth to stop herself from crying out.

  Agnes took her hand away. Odd, she thought. Gastric influenza didn’t usually cause so much pain.

  Sarah must have noticed her puzzled expression because her eyes widened. ‘What is it, nurse?’ she whispered. ‘What’s wrong with me? Is it serious?’

  Agnes came to, remembering Bess’ warning. ‘Oh no,’ she assured her briskly. ‘Nothing to worry about. I’ll give you an aspirin for the pain, shall I? That should help you get some rest.’

  ‘Thank you, nurse.’ Sarah smiled up at her. ‘You know, I’m so glad you came instead of Mrs Bradshaw. I really don’t feel she ever listens to me.’

  The shop was empty, and Mr Franklin was cleaning down the bacon slicer when Agnes left. He looked up from his work and said, ‘How is she, nurse? Is she getting any better, do you think?’

  ‘I’m sure she’s almost over her gastric flu,’ Agnes replied.

  ‘Are you?’ Mr Franklin frowned. ‘She were proper bad last night. In agony, she was. Mind, I blame myself,’ he said. ‘It were me that made her eat something. I didn’t think it would do any harm,’ he said. ‘Just a bit of salad. That in’t going to do anyone any harm, is it, nurse?’

  ‘No,’ Agnes said. ‘No, I daresay not.’ But her thoughts were already elsewhere, trying to recall something. Something she had once been told, or that she had seen written down …

  No, it was gone. It crept in the shadows on the edge of her memory, refusing to show itself no matter how hard she tried to bring it into the light.

  ‘Something wrong, nurse?’ Mr Franklin frowned at her.

  ‘No, not at all.’ Agnes managed a smile, but the elusive memory bothered her.

  It was still troubling her when she returned to Steeple Street that evening. For once, Bess had returned before her and was waiting in the district room.

  ‘You took your time,’ she said with great satisfaction.

  ‘Yes, well, it took a long while for me to walk back,’ Agnes replied pointedly.

  ‘I thought Mrs Franklin might have kept you with her list of symptoms. How did you get on with her anyway?’ she asked.

  ‘She did seem very unwell.’

  ‘You see what I mean? Always after attention.’

  ‘I’m not sure if she was. She was in a great deal of pain. And she should have recovered from her gastric influenza by now.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll probably spin it out for as long as she can, if I know her,’ Bess dismissed. ‘She loves to have everyone fussing around her, like that besotted wretch of a husband of hers.’

  ‘All the same, I think I’d like to go and see her again.’

  Bess shook her head. ‘There’s no need. You’ll only encourage her.’

  ‘But I think there might be something genuinely wrong with her.’

  Bess laughed. ‘I can see she’s already got you twisted round her little finger!’

  ‘It’s nothing like that. I just—’ But Bess cut her off.

  ‘I won’t hear of it, Miss Sheridan,’ she said, wagging a warning finger. ‘I forbid you to go again. Do you understand?

  Chapter Eighteen

  October was proving to be wet and turbulent month. The month that had come in with such a glorious Indian summer went out with grey skies and thunderstorms. Stormy gusts of wind shook the last of the leaves from the trees and rain fell steadily, churning the grass in the churchyard to a soggy quagmire.

  Polly paused on the front step of Henry Slater’s cottage, carefully scraping the mud off her shoes as she waited for someone to answer the door. Chilly raindrops dripped from her cap and ran down inside the collar of her coat.

  There was no reply. No sound of approaching footsteps, or Job’s eager barking as he threw himself at the door.

  She lifted the latch and let herself into the cottage, looking round. The kitchen was empty, the range cold. Finn must be out, Polly thought, fighting down her disappointment. She hadn’t realised how much she’d looked forward to seeing him until he wasn’t there.

  She reminded herself she was here to see Henry, not his grandson. But over the past few days she had been calling, her friendship with Finn had started to blossom again. He still barely spoke to her, but Polly sensed things were more relaxed between them.

  ‘Mr Slater?’ she called out, as she unfastened her coat and hung it carefully on the back of the door.

  There was no reply although she thought she could hear the low murmur of voices coming from the old man’s bedroom at the end of the passageway.

  Polly set her bag down on the table. Finn had spread newspaper out for her, even though the table was spotlessly clean as usual. She smiled to herself. He might not make a fuss about it, but he was always so thoughtful.

  ‘Mr Slater?’ she called out again, as she stepped into the passageway. Again, there was no reply but for the low hum of voices.

  Polly followed the sound to the old man’s bedroom. Henry was sitting up in bed, with Matthew Elliott at his bedside, head bowed, hands clasped, lips moving in prayer.

  She started to creep away, just as Matthew looked up.

  ‘It’s quite all right, nurse,’ he said. ‘We’ve finished now.’ He smiled up at her. ‘I just popped round to see how Mr Slater was getting on, and to say a prayer for his safe recovery.’

  That explained Finn’s absence, Polly thought. He would have made himself scarce if he knew the curate was visiting.

  ‘I’m sure it’s a great comfort to him,’ she said.

  ‘The sooner he recovers the better. We can’t do without our faithful sexton.’ Matthew smiled down at Henry.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ he said quietly. ‘Finn does most of the heavy lifting work these days.’

  Matthew’s smile slipped slightly. ‘Yes, but it’s hardly the same as seeing your friendly face around the church, Mr Slater.’

  No one could accuse Finn Slater of being friendly, Polly thought. ‘I’ll just go and wash my hands,’ she said.

  Matthew followed her into the kitchen. ‘I’m glad to see you,’ he said. ‘I wanted a word with you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘That dance I mentioned, to raise funds for the new roof? Well, it’s this Friday,’ he said. ‘So – I wondered if you’d like to come?’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Oh do say you will. It will be such fun.’

  Matthew’s gaze was so earnest, it made Polly’s heart sink. She knew he was interested in her, and didn�
�t want to raise his hopes.

  ‘I will come,’ she said. ‘And I’ll bring some of the other district nurses too,’ she added. ‘The more the merrier, don’t you think?’

  Matthew’s face fell. ‘Oh, er – yes, of course. Absolutely.’

  Polly looked at his crestfallen expression and felt a twinge of guilt. Matthew had only ever been charming to her; she didn’t know why she found it so hard to like him.

  She went to the sink. She could feel him standing behind her, watching her.

  ‘Was there something else?’ she asked over her shoulder.

  ‘I – um – I just wondered how Mr Slater is doing. Has he shown any improvement?’

  ‘He’s doing as well as can be expected,’ Polly gave the automatic reply. If Matthew wanted to know any more, he would have to talk to Henry himself. It wasn’t her place to discuss patients’ progress with anyone but their family.

  ‘I do feel for the poor man. He really should be in hospital. I keep telling the vicar he should try to persuade him, but he says Mr Slater feels better at home.’

  ‘And so he does,’ Polly said.

  ‘Yes, but it can’t be very good for him, being at the mercy of that grandson of his …’

  ‘Actually, Finn cares for his grandfather very well.’ She looked around the kitchen. ‘You only have to look at this place to see that.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Matthew didn’t sound convinced. ‘All the same, I’m not surprised the poor old fellow collapsed. It must be a terrible strain, living under the same roof as someone like that.’

  Polly pressed her lips together and went on soaping her hands. She could tell the curate had more to say, but she had no wish to hear it.

  ‘Actually, I’m surprised your Superintendent allows you to visit by yourself,’ Matthew went on. ‘I must say, I’m not happy about you being alone with someone like him.’

  Polly couldn’t ignore him any longer. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  An unpleasant sensation crept up her spine. ‘Know what?’