No Place For a Lady

by Gill Paul

  Dorothea was frustrated by the delay. Rumours soon spread about the reasons for it: ‘I heard Miss Nightingale says she doesn’t want any more nurses, that she already has enough,’ said one woman. ‘She’s not keen on nurses she didn’t choose herself,’ said another. ‘She and Miss Stanley have fallen out over it.’ Yet another blamed religious prejudice: ‘She doesn’t like the fact there are so many Roman Catholics among us; she’s afraid we’ll try to convert the patients instead of curing them.’

  The nurses felt angry to have come all that way only to be left sitting idle, but for Dorothea it meant she had a chance to start looking for Lucy and she began exploring the neighbourhood around the hotel. Every time she turned a corner and came upon a group of officers’ wives, she felt a surge of hope, only for it to be dashed. Once she thought she saw Lucy’s blonde hair up ahead, but when she overtook the lady in question, she was at least twenty years too old. Lucy kept appearing as an unspeaking figure in her dreams but on the horizon, too far away to reach. It was Christmas, a time for families to be together, but Dorothea spent Christmas Day with a group of nurses she had only known a few weeks, eating mince pies sent by the British ambassador’s wife and playing whist. They could hear sounds of music and revelry from the embassy next door, where a ball was being held, but none of their party was invited.

  Dorothea left the company at one point to speak to the hotel receptionist.

  ‘Would it be possible to arrange transport to take me to the Barracks Hospital in Scutari tomorrow? First thing, please.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Dorothea assumed that the hotel receptionist would order a carriage for her, like the Hansom cabs one could hail in London. She was astonished when she was led to the waterside where the Bosphorus divided the city, and saw waiting for her a rather precarious-looking ten-foot-long caïque.

  ‘Is this how I’m to travel to the hospital?’ she asked.

  The receptionist bowed. ‘Yes, Ma’am. It is on the other shore. Permit me to help you aboard.’

  Dorothea felt a twinge of anxiety as he helped her step into the wooden caïque with blue paint peeling from its sides, and she lowered herself carefully onto some cushions in the stern, just above the water level. The Bosphorus was choppy and they bobbed on the waves.

  ‘How long will it take to get there?’ she asked the stocky sailor manning the sails. It seemed he didn’t speak English so she called after the receptionist, who had a rapid exchange in Turkish with the sailor before replying, ‘About twenty minutes. Enjoy your trip, Ma’am.’

  The sailor leapt around, angling the sails to catch the wind, and soon they were speeding out into the centre of the wide channel that separated the city of Constantinople into two halves. He yelled furiously at the proprietors of other caïques who got in their way and zigzagged round the huge ships, giving them a wide berth. It was chilly out there, despite the bright sunshine, and Dorothea was glad of her warm winter coat, bonnet and muffler. She hadn’t mentioned her trip to Miss Davis, who would almost certainly have wanted to accompany her. If she were to find Lucy, she wanted them to be alone so they could sit and tell each other everything that had happened since their last meeting. It only occurred to her once they were on the water that she should have mentioned her whereabouts in case an accident befell her. Too late now.

  About halfway across, when they had not been mowed down by any huge international vessels, Dorothea decided she was in safe hands and began to enjoy the view. The sun peeped from behind clouds, illuminating the golden domes of mosques and the white marble of palaces along the shores. She felt very brave to be undertaking this trip on her own, in a foreign land, but a sense of purpose drove her. Perhaps, at the end of the day, she would be returning with Lucy reclining beside her on the cushions at the back of the caïque.

  A tower stood on a rock just off the Asiatic shore and Dorothea assumed it was some kind of lighthouse. The sailor pointed at an imposing white stone building with a terracotta roof and four corner turrets sitting up a wooded slope and announced, ‘Selimiye Kişlasi.’ Dorothea hoped that was Turkish for ‘barracks hospital’ and that there had not been some fearful misunderstanding; she had been very clear with the receptionist. The caïque pulled in to a jetty at the foot of the slope, from which she could see a trail winding steeply upwards. The captain took her hand and helped her onto the jetty, indicating in sign language that he would remain there until she returned.

  She began to walk up the rough-hewn path, her boots slithering in mud. The carcass of a black dog lay on its side, its fur matted, eyes pecked out of their sockets and flies buzzing around. She gave it a wide berth. A crumpled newspaper fluttered in the breeze, and just behind it a mound of faeces had attracted a swarm of buzzing insects. This was obviously not a path used by everyday tourists, which one would hope would be a little more gentrified. She could cope, of course – London streets could be just as bad – but when she saw a rat covered in fleas that glistened like a shiny moving coat, she shuddered and walked faster.

  As she approached the barracks building, Dorothea saw a nun in a black habit by one of the entrances and hurried over.

  ‘Good morning! Do you speak English?’

  ‘Yes?’ The nun was carrying an armful of linen and seemed in a hurry.

  ‘I’m told the wives of English soldiers who were left behind at Varna have been brought here and I’m trying to locate someone. I wonder if you could tell me where they might be found?’

  The nun looked at Dorothea’s coat, her hair, her bonnet, and clearly recognised a lady of good breeding. ‘They’re living in the cellars beneath this building – round that way.’ She pointed. ‘But I don’t think you want to be going there. It’s not very savoury. Some have regrettably fallen into bad ways.’

  ‘I’m grateful to you.’ Dorothea nodded her thanks. She wasn’t going to let anyone put her off once she’d come all this way so she headed in the direction indicated. It was only then the breeze turned in her direction, and brought a stench of rotten, decomposing flesh and drains blocked with days-old sewage. The Thames often stank with the effluent from slaughterhouses and the overflowing of cesspits fed by household lavatories, but it was as nothing compared to the foulness of this smell, which caught in her throat and made Dorothea gag. She lifted her muffler to cover her mouth and nose before continuing round behind the building.

  Towards the back, she saw some filthy children sitting on the steps down to a dark cellar doorway. She greeted them but they just stared at her and didn’t move aside, forcing her to push past them and tread on the very edge of the stairs. There were no windows in the cellar and it took her eyes a few moments to become accustomed to the gloom. She could hear sounds of human life – murmuring, heavy breathing, snoring – but still it came as a shock to find quite how many creatures were crowded into that dank basement in conditions of complete squalor. Just near her feet, two women sat on the ground sharing a bottle of some kind of alcoholic liquor. They stared up with curiosity but were obviously inebriated so she didn’t stop to question them. Other women were in various states of undress, and she didn’t feel it would be proper to address them. She pulled the muffler tight, worried about catching a disease from the foul air, and stepped further into the room. Now she could see there were perhaps forty or fifty souls here, all crammed together, sleeping on blankets on the ground.

  She stopped by one woman who appeared relatively sober. ‘Excuse me, I’m sorry to trouble you but I wonder if I might ask you some questions?’ The woman shrugged consent, or at least didn’t refuse.

  ‘I’m trying to find my sister Mrs Lucy Harvington, who travelled to Varna with the 8th Hussars. Might you know her?’

  ‘Nope, never ’eard of ’er.’

  ‘Were you at Varna?’

  ‘Yeah, before the bloody army abandoned us here.’

  ‘Are they not looking after you?’ Dorothea frowned.

  The woman snorted. ‘Does it look as though they are looking after us? What d’you thi
nk?’ She gestured around the room.

  ‘You must complain,’ Dorothea insisted. ‘Talk to Miss Nightingale. Someone must have been charged with your wellbeing.’

  The woman laughed harshly. ‘Yeah, we’ll have a chat with Miss Nightingale …’ – she spat on the floor – ‘if only she will let us through the doors of her nice clean hospital. What d’ya think the chances are?’

  ‘I’m sure the army would arrange transport home if you asked for it.’

  ‘Yeah, and what do you suggest we do there? Set up a flower-arranging society? Chat to our servants about what’s for dinner? We ain’t got no money, milady.’

  Dorothea took a step back. She didn’t know what advice to offer. ‘I’m sorry for your troubles. I would be most grateful if you could ask around about my sister.’ She emphasised the words ‘most grateful’ to imply there might be a small reward. ‘If anyone has heard of the whereabouts of Mrs Lucy Harvington, please ask them to contact me at the Hôtel d’Angleterre.’

  There was general laughter and someone mimicked her accent: ‘Oh yes, the Oh-tell Dongle Terr, we’ll be sure to let her know.’ This provoked more laughter from those in the vicinity and Dorothea began to feel alarmed.

  ‘Thank you very much, ladies,’ she said as she stepped over extended legs, trying to avoid standing on anyone’s ragged possessions on her way to the entrance.

  ‘Ladies!’ the sarcastic cry echoed, causing more raucous laughter.

  Dorothea hurried up the steps, her heart beating hard. Lucy would never stay in a place like this, would she? Even if the army abandoned her, she had sufficient eloquence to complain to someone and insist they find her suitable accommodation. She couldn’t understand why these women had let themselves go so badly. She supposed that soldiers’ wives tended to be rough sorts without much education or breeding, but surely they were used to better than this?

  Dorothea hesitated outside the cellar, wondering whether to abandon the search, but another doorway beckoned further up the incline. She would simply peer inside to see if the situation was the same. When she reached it, she saw a corridor with several rooms leading off and she stepped in for a look. She couldn’t see anyone sitting on the floor but she could hear footsteps close by, and headed towards them. A shadow passed in front of her and she called out, ‘Excuse me’ but there was no reply. The corridor curved to the right and she decided she would simply glance around that bend then head for the exit. Suddenly two men appeared, blocking her path.

  ‘I do apologise,’ Dorothea said, automatically polite, shrinking against the wall to let them pass. They were dark-haired and swarthy, and they stank of cheap alcohol. One said something to the other in a language she couldn’t make out, but she was pretty sure was not Turkish. Scared now, Dorothea turned to leave then all of a sudden one of the men shoved her in the back so hard that she fell face-down on the floor with a thump. She started to scream but a filthy hand pressed over her mouth and she felt a man lower his weight onto her back. There was no time to think; she struggled with all her might to get free but she was pinned down. Her arms were bent beneath her. Did they want money? She had some coins in her reticule and tried to yank it free, but then she felt the men lifting her petticoats and she kicked her legs hard in desperation. No! Stop this now! She tried to bite the hand covering her mouth but couldn’t get her teeth around it. Two hands gripped her ankles, forcing them apart, and another one began to fumble with her drawers. She struggled with renewed vigour, tears stinging her eyes, and managed to free an arm, with which she repeatedly pummelled the leg of the man lying on top of her. He didn’t seem to notice. Against the two of them she had no chance.

  They found the seam where her drawers separated and she felt fingers probing her private parts, where she had never been touched before, causing a stinging sensation. Tears began to stream down her face and her whole body trembled. The fingers poked hard at her, seeking entrance, and she squeezed her eyes tight, clenching her fists against the pain. Surely this was not happening to her? It couldn’t be. She must be dreaming. The fight left her and she slipped into a state of deep shock. Perhaps she was about to be murdered. Perhaps these were the last moments of her life. She would never see dear Lucy again.

  She came round to scratching sensations below, as if the man’s fingernails were untrimmed, as if he were clawing at her like an animal. He uttered what sounded like a swear word, and the other grunted. They seemed annoyed about something. Suddenly the hand was removed from her mouth, the weight lifted from her back and the men appeared to be leaving. She heard the clatter of a couple of coins landing on the ground just by her face, then their voices receding. The whole incident had lasted no more than a few minutes.

  Dorothea lay waiting till she was sure they had gone then sat up and yanked at her drawers and petticoats to cover her modesty. One stocking had a hole at the knee but she could darn that later. She glanced around to see if anyone had been watching but there wasn’t a soul in sight. She wiped her eyes with a lace handkerchief and blew her nose into it, then stood up, finding her legs shaky. She pulled her coat tightly around her, adjusted her bonnet, and staggered out into the daylight.

  The children still sat on the steps further down and didn’t look up as she passed. She marched back along the front of the building, keeping her eyes focused straight ahead. She hurried down the steps to the waterside, past the flea-ridden rat and the dead dog and to her great relief the caïque she had arrived in was still there, secured to the jetty. The sailor was smoking but he flicked his cigarette into the water and took her hand to help her climb on board.

  ‘Hôtel d’Angleterre, please,’ she said in a trembling voice as she sat down, and he began to prepare the sails.

  All the way back she ignored the pain between her legs, didn’t allow herself to think about what had just happened. She couldn’t bear to. Most of the time she simply stared at the murky green water. Maybe if she could manage not to think about it for long enough, she could simply pretend it had never happened.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Dorothea hurried up the stairs to her hotel room and locked the door behind her, then sat on the edge of the bed and rummaged in her medical kit for a bottle of smelling salts. She inhaled deeply and the ammonia made her sneeze before she felt the familiar increase in heart rate. At least the salts helped to clear the revolting smell of the cellars from her nostrils.

  When she felt well enough, she stripped to her undergarments and began to wash herself in a basin of cold water. She could have asked one of the hotel maids to draw her a hot bath but she didn’t want to see anyone, not yet. Between her legs there were scratches and the whole area was inflamed from its rough handling. After careful washing she applied some turpentine oil, which stung so smartly it brought tears to her eyes. She’d heard that prostitutes used mercury to prevent diseases such as syphilis and gonorrhoea but she hadn’t brought any with her.

  Once she had finished washing, Dorothea pulled on her nightgown and climbed into bed. The sheets were soft and cool and she closed her eyes hoping for the oblivion of sleep, but instead she began to shiver. She pulled her coat on top for warmth and lay in a cocoon listening to the far-off murmur of ladies’ voices in the gardens and some Turkish maids talking in the corridor. She was so stupid, coming to this foreign land with her naïve English assumptions. She’d imagined that the soldiers’ wives would simply be staying in another hotel, where she could make enquiries for Lucy at reception. It hadn’t occurred to her they would be reduced to such dire circumstances, or that foreign men would make certain assumptions about her simply because she was found there. She had lived a protected life to date, but all her old ideas would have to be discarded in this radically different situation.

  There was a knock on the door and Dorothea cowered under the covers until she heard the voice of Elizabeth Davis: ‘Are you all right, dear?’

  It would be good to see a friend. Dorothea climbed out of bed and unlocked the door to let her in.

 
‘I’ve been feeling rather unwell today,’ she explained, her voice trembling. ‘I’m sure I just need some rest.’ She sat on the bed.

  Elizabeth took in her pallor and placed a hand on her forehead. ‘You feel rather hot. Lie down and let me take your pulse.’ She frowned and declared the pulse to be weak and erratic. ‘Is your digestion disturbed?’ Dorothea said not, but admitted she had been feeling a little dizzy. ‘Any coughing?’ Dorothea shook her head. Elizabeth bent to listen to her chest, then asked if there was a rash, or any pain. Again, Dorothea told her there was not, although it was a lie as her private parts were still throbbing.

  ‘I think perhaps it is a nervous exhaustion brought on by worry about my sister. No doubt a day in bed will cure me.’

  Elizabeth was concerned by her high temperature, though, and a slight inflammation she detected in the neck. Dorothea was once again shivering and Elizabeth tucked the covers tightly around her. ‘You’re sure there is no sore throat or headache?’

  ‘Perhaps a mild headache but nothing that sleep won’t cure.’ She closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted with the effort of conversation.

  ‘You rest, my dear. I’m going to ask the kitchen to prepare some lemonade and I’ll return later to see if your temperature has dropped.’ She glanced at Dorothea’s open medical kit. ‘Between us we have a cornucopia of medicines, at least.’

  When Elizabeth returned, she brought another nurse, Kate Anderson, and a bowl of warm arrowroot mixed with port wine as well as a tall glass of cool sweet lemonade, which Dorothea sipped gratefully.