The sound of laughter drifted from the other room. Mrs Rankin was chatting happily to her mother, oblivious to the drama going on.
The infant’s feet were so tiny, they fitted easily into Agnes’ palm. They looked as if they belonged to a doll, so tiny and white and perfect, with their toenails like little pink shells.
Opposite her, Bess was holding the baby’s arms between her thumb and forefinger, slowly and gently circling them upwards and outwards. Her face was perspiring from the heat of the fire. A stray lock of greying hair had escaped from its pins and hung limply in front of her face.
‘Come on, little lass,’ she whispered. ‘Come on – breathe!’
As soon as she said it, Agnes noticed the slightest rise and fall of the blanket that covered the baby’s body.
‘She did!’ she cried. ‘She breathed, I saw it!’
Bess stopped her circling and bent down to check the baby’s breathing. Agnes held her own breath until Bess looked up and she saw the light of hope fade from her face.
‘Nothing,’ said Bess. ‘There’s no heartbeat now, either.’
Agnes fought against the raw despair that clutched at her. ‘But I saw it,’ she insisted. ‘She was breathing, I swear it. Please, let’s try again,’ she begged.
Bess shook her head. ‘She’s gone.’
Agnes gathered up the baby in her arms. She felt limp and lifeless, like a rag doll.
‘Isn’t there something else we could do?’ she pleaded. ‘Perhaps if we gave her a warm bath, that might—’
‘She’s gone, lass. Don’t make it worse than it is.’ Bess clambered to her feet. ‘I’d best go and tell her mother,’ she said quietly.
Alone, Agnes tucked the blanket tighter around the baby, wrapping her up carefully as if she could warm life into her tiny limbs.
But in her heart she knew she was dead, as dead as her own baby boy she had once held in her arms.
Agnes would never forget the ice in the midwife’s voice as she’d wrenched him away. ‘Stop crying, you silly girl,’ she’d snapped. ‘No one cares about your tears.’
She could feel them falling again, but this time she didn’t try to stop them.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘Really, Mrs Bradshaw. Was there any need to take the poor girl out in the middle of the night?’
Miss Gale was unimpressed when they returned to the nurses’ home just after eight o’clock and she saw the state Agnes Sheridan was in. Even Bess had to admit the girl looked dreadful. Her skin had a greyish pallor, and she couldn’t stop shivering.
Miss Gale had sent her straight to bed and summoned Dr Branning.
‘She’s probably taken a chill,’ she said.
‘Chill, my eye!’ Bess snorted. ‘It wasn’t even that cold last night.’
‘Then what do you think is wrong with her?’
Bess was silent. She didn’t want to tell the Superintendent what she’d witnessed earlier that morning. ‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly.
‘At any rate, we can’t send her out to care for patients until we can be sure she isn’t infectious,’ Miss Gale went on. ‘As if we weren’t short-handed enough.’
‘I’m already visiting her patients with her anyway, so she’ll not be missed,’ Bess said dismissively. ‘It’ll probably be easier without her, to be honest.
Miss Gale gave her a look of reproach. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a little unfair on her?’
‘Hardly! Have you forgotten all the trouble she’s caused lately? We’ve had patients lining up to complain about her.’
‘I know,’ Miss Gale sighed. ‘But the girl tries hard, and she’s very keen to make amends for her mistakes.’
A fleeting vision came into Bess’ mind. The loss of a baby was always sad for a nurse, but she had never seen anyone shed tears like Agnes Sheridan had done. It had shocked Bess to see Agnes kneeling there on the rug, silhouetted against the firelight, sobbing helplessly over the infant’s lifeless form. Not even a mother could mourn like she had. The girl had seemed utterly heartbroken.
It made Bess wonder what had happened to her during her training to make her react in such a way. Now she came to think of it, Agnes had seemed scared to death throughout the birth.
As Bess turned to go, she asked, ‘Did she have a reference?’
Miss Gale didn’t look up, already absorbed in some paperwork. ‘Hmm?’
‘Miss Sheridan. I wondered if she had a reference from that maternity home – St Jude’s, wasn’t it?’
Miss Gale thought for a moment. ‘No,’ she said finally. ‘As I recall, her reference was written by the Matron of the Nightingale Hospital. And very good it was too.’
‘Don’t you think it’s odd that St Jude’s didn’t supply one? After all, you’d think—’
Miss Gale sighed. ‘Really, Mrs Bradshaw, I’m beginning to think you have some kind of grudge against the girl.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘Isn’t it?’ Her superior sent her a long, steady look. They had been working together for a long time, but she still had the power to make Bess blush. ‘Since it clearly troubles you so much, I’ll just remind you that Agnes Sheridan is the daughter of an old school friend of mine. She wrote to me, saying that her daughter had expressed an interest in district nursing, and wondering if I might take her under my wing, so to speak. Having met the girl, and seen her excellent reference from her training hospital, I decided to give her a chance. I hope that satisfies you, Mrs Bradshaw?’
Miss Gale’s steely gaze spoke volumes.
‘I’ll go and see about Miss Sheridan’s list of patients,’ Bess muttered.
Fortunately the list wasn’t too long or troublesome, and Bess was glad to reacquaint herself with some of her former patients that Agnes Sheridan had been attending.
She had half expected to find discontent among them, but she was surprised to find that most of them had come to accept the new nurse. Some even had a good word to say for her.
‘Although she in’t like you, nurse,’ Mrs Wilson was quick to reassure Bess. ‘And I do miss having a gossip sometimes.’
And then, at the end of the list, came Isaiah Shapcott.
This was an old patient Bess wasn’t so pleased to be meeting again. It had been such a relief to pass him over to Miss Sheridan after so many years of frustration and failure. Not to mention all the things she’d had thrown at her.
Bess braced herself as she knocked, peering up at the window above to make sure no nasty surprises landed on her head. She would give it five minutes, she decided, before she gave it up as a bad job.
No sooner had she knocked than the front door swung open. But there was no sign of Isaiah Shapcott.
The dapper little man who stood on the threshold bore a passing resemblance to Mr Shapcott, with the same slight build and narrow, foxy face. But there any similiarity ended. Because this man had a shining pink face and closely cropped hair. His shirt and waistcoat were slightly shabby, but at least they didn’t reek of stale sweat.
‘Mr Shapcott?’ If it was indeed him, he had undergone a miraculous transformation.
He looked just as puzzled to see her. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
‘I’m Mrs Bradshaw, the district nurse. You remember me, don’t you?’
His frown deepened. ‘Aye, I remember you all right.’ He leaned out of the doorway to look up and down the street. ‘What happened to t’other one? The real nurse?’
Bess fought down a stab of annoyance. ‘Miss Sheridan is unwell, so I’ve come in her place. Do you mind if I come in?’
Isaiah looked dubious. ‘Depends,’ he said.
‘On what?’
‘You won’t try to give me a bath, will you?’ He screwed up his face. ‘Only t’nurse said no one was going to make me, ever again.’
‘You look quite clean to me,’ Bess said.
‘Oh, I am,’ he said proudly. ‘I have a bath every week. I quite like it, as it turns out. It in’t that I ever minded having o
ne before,’ he told her. ‘Only I prefer to do it by myself.’
‘Well, if you’re managing by yourself you won’t need my help, will you? But I’d like to come in for a minute, just to check everything’s in order.’
He stood aside to let her in, but Bess could sense his wariness. Inside the house had undergone a similar transformation. The thick layers of dust had been swept away, the floor had been scrubbed, newspaper had been taken away from the windows and the glass cleaned, to let the sunshine stream in.
‘I’ve got the bath all ready.’ Isaiah led her over to the fireside. ‘I brought the tub in and filled it with water and everything.’
Bess stepped behind the makeshift clothes-horse screen and bent down to test the water with her hand. She was conscious of Isaiah watching her attentively, waiting for her approval. ‘It all seems to be in order,’ she said.
His skinny shoulders relaxed, his smile broadening. ‘I like to do it, to save t’nurse the trouble,’ he said. ‘It’s not fair to make her lift and carry heavy things around, little scrap like her.’ He looked Bess up and down, then added, ‘Mind, if I’d known you were coming I would have let you bring it in by yoursen!’
Bess ignored his comment. ‘Well, it all seems to be in order,’ she said, looking around her. ‘I see you’ve cleaned the house up too.’
‘Aye. T’nurse helped me get it straight.’
‘Miss Sheridan helped you?’
‘She did. She said I’d feel better if I kept it all tidy, like. And she were right an’ all.’ He looked around his home, glowing with pride.
Bess frowned, trying to picture prim Miss Sheridan on her hands and knees, scrubbing floors. Her imagination failed her.
‘I don’t s’pose you’ve brought t’paper with you?’ asked Isaiah.
His voice brought Bess back to the present. ‘Paper?’ she said blankly. ‘What paper?’
‘T’real nurse always brings me the Sporting Life. She sits and reads it to me while I’m having me bath. I’m teaching her about the horses, you see. All the bloodlines and suchlike. She says I must know everything there is to know,’ he said proudly.
‘I’m sure you do, Mr Shapcott.’
‘I don’t suppose you’re interested in bloodlines, are you, missus?’
‘I don’t know much about them,’ Bess admitted.
He looked her up and down again. ‘I daresay you’ve never been on a horse in your life neither. T’real nurse can ride. She used to have a pony called Daffodil.’
‘Did she indeed?’
‘I’ll have me bath now, if you don’t mind. Before t’water gets cold.’
Isaiah disappeared behind the screen to get undressed. ‘You can busy yoursen for a while, can’t you, missus?’ he said.
‘Oh, aye. I’ve got plenty I can be getting on with.’ Bess settled herself down at the table to catch up with her notes while Isaiah splashed happily on the other side of the screen, every so often stopping to make conversation.
He was full of glowing praise for the ‘real’ nurse. ‘I know all about her,’ he told Bess. ‘She don’t come from round here, her dad’s a doctor and her brother was killed in t’war. Oh, and she’s got a sister too, who’s married. She’s just had a baby. But I s’pose you’ll know that already, seeing as how you work together.’
‘No,’ Bess said. ‘No, I didn’t.’ There was a great deal about Agnes Sheridan she didn’t know, she reflected.
Isaiah finally emerged from his bath, clean and pink and dressed in a fresh shirt.
‘T’real nurse got it for me from a jumble sale,’ he told Bess. ‘Imagine, folk throwing out good clothes like these. Anyway, she reckons I can wear one while I wash the other. Clever, in’t it?’ He beamed at her.
‘Very clever, Mr Shapcott.’
‘Aye, well, I won’t keep you.’ He was already ushering her to the door. ‘Will t’real nurse be back next week, d’you reckon?’
Bess looked at his shining, hopeful face.
‘I expect so,’ she said.
She returned to the district nurses’ house to find Agnes Sheridan was still confined to bed.
‘She’s running a slight fever, according to Dr Branning,’ Miss Gale said. Bess ignored the Superintendent’s look of reproach.
The truth was, she did feel slightly guilty. Seeing how the patients had taken to Miss Sheridan, and particularly how she had transformed the life of Isaiah Shapcott, had made Bess see the student nurse in a new light.
But there was still something about Agnes Sheridan that didn’t sit right with her. And Bess needed to get to the bottom of it.
She was in the common room, finishing off a letter to the Matron of St Jude’s, when there was a knock on the door and Dottie appeared.
‘There’s a vicar wanting to see you,’ she announced.
‘A vicar? What on earth would a vicar want with me?’ Bess saw Dottie’s blank face and knew there was no point in asking her. It would have taken her all her mental capacity just to open the door. ‘Best show him in, lass,’ she said.
He seemed too young to be a vicar. He was thirty years old at the most, his square- jawed face softened by a frame of light brown curls.
‘Mrs Bradshaw?’ He stepped towards her, holding out his hand to shake hers. ‘I’m Matthew Elliott, the curate of St Martin’s.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Bess looked up at him. ‘Well, I’m afraid if you’re collecting for anything, you should see the Superintendent, Miss Gale. But I warn you, we’re as poor as church mice ourselves here …’
‘Oh no, it’s not your money I’m after.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m here about your daughter. I am right in thinking Polly Malone is your daughter, isn’t she? That’s what the vicar told me.’
Bess stiffened. ‘What about her?’
Matthew Elliott looked grave. ‘May I sit down?’ he asked. ‘I have a story to tell you, and it may take some time.’
Chapter Thirty
Polly felt for Henry Slater’s pulse under his papery skin, and counted the slow, steady beats under her fingers. Fifteen … sixteen … She looked at her watch, willing them on.
Her frowning face must have given her away because Henry grinned and said, ‘Has it stopped, nurse?’
Polly managed a smile. ‘No, Mr Slater, you’ll be pleased to know your heart’s still beating.’
‘Well, that’s a relief!’
‘Isn’t it?’ She let go of his wrist and busied herself plumping his pillows. ‘Now, can I get you something to eat?’
‘That’s kind of you, nurse, but you don’t need to bother. Finn made me a bit of toast earlier on.’
‘That was good of him.’
‘Oh, aye, he’s a decent lad when he wants to be. Or else summat’s put him in a good mood.’ Henry winked at her.
Polly glanced at Finn, who was staring out of the window, feigning unconcern as usual. His face was turned away, but she could see the tide of colour sweeping up his throat.
‘I’ll see about making you a cup of tea, at any rate,’ she said.
She left the room and Finn followed close at her heels.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’ She went to the sink to wash her hands.
‘Don’t give me that. You might be able to fool the old man, but you can’t fool me. I saw your face when you took his pulse.’ Finn’s frown deepened. ‘He’s getting worse, in’t he?’
Polly looked over her shoulder at him. She should have known Finn would notice. His eyes were so sharp, they missed nothing.
‘Your grandfather’s pulse is a little slower than usual,’ she admitted.
Finn’s face clouded. ‘What does that mean? Is he all right?’
‘I’m sure he is, but I’ll need to speak to the doctor before I give him his medication.’
She saw Finn tense, and fought the urge to put her arms around him. She badly wanted to comfort him, but she knew it wouldn’t be professional. She always made sure she kept her distance when she was tending to his grandf
ather. While Polly was working, Finn was nothing more to her than the relative of a patient.
It was only when they were alone together that she could give in to her true feelings.
‘Are you sure I shouldn’t call for an ambulance?’ he asked.
‘No, I’ll walk up to the telephone box.’
She went to fetch her coat from the peg by the door. Finn watched her.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Just sit with him until I get back. He’ll be all right, honestly.’ Finn looked so lost that she reached for his hand without thinking. His fingers immediately curled around hers. He lifted her hand to his mouth and planted the lightest of kisses on her palm. His lips barely brushed her skin, yet it was enough to send shockwaves pulsing through her.
Polly pulled away, before her impulse could take over.
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ she promised.
She could have called at the vicarage and asked to use their telephone, but she didn’t want to run the risk of meeting Matthew Elliott. So instead she hurried down the path through the churchyard towards the lych gate. It was a bright, cold day, and the wintry sun was shining through the bare branches of the trees, laying stripes of light across her path.
Everything seemed to be bathed in sunshine, and she was happy. It bubbled up inside her, making her want to laugh out loud. It was as if she’d thrown off a heavy mantle that had been weighing her down, so suddenly she could step lightly, her head held high.
What would your mother say if she could see you now? The fear crept in, irritating her.
Polly pushed it aside determinedly. She refused to listen to the inner voice that told her she was letting her mother down, heading for disaster.
Polly knew there could be no future for her and Finn. She told herself time and time again that she wouldn’t allow her feelings for him to escalate, not the way they had with Frank. She had too much to lose.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy what they had now. Surely it wouldn’t do any harm to bask in a little happiness, even if it was only for a short time? They weren’t hurting anyone. No one need ever know …
The Nurses of Steeple Street Page 22