Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  As they entered, Sister Carey looked up from her desk and smiled. She was an older woman – in her forties, Florrie guessed – with brown hair flecked with grey, a wide smile and gentle brown eyes. ‘I don’t think Miss Maltby is the fainting type.’ Her voice was low and cultured. ‘She’s a suffragette girl.’

  Grace stared at her and – to Florrie’s surprise – her mouth actually dropped open. ‘Are you really?’

  Florrie nodded. ‘Was. All our activities are suspended because of the war.’

  ‘Did you ever get arrested? Go to prison?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  Reluctant admiration crept into the other girl’s eyes as Sister Carey put in slyly, ‘They tell me she went on hunger strike and had to be force-fed.’

  Grace gasped. ‘No!’

  ‘So, I don’t think, Nurse Featherstone, that our new recruit is going to let the sight of a little blood and gore upset her.’

  ‘Maybe not, Sister,’ Grace Featherstone was still not quite ready to admit defeat. ‘But that doesn’t make her a good nurse, does it? A trained nurse.’

  ‘True,’ the sister acknowledged. They were talking now as if Florrie were not in the room. ‘But that’s rather up to us, don’t you think?’

  ‘And what happens after the war, might I ask? These VADs will think themselves proper nurses. They’ll take our jobs, they’ll—’

  ‘Some might,’ Florrie interrupted them now. ‘But not all of us.’ She grinned saucily as she added, ‘Most of us will want to slip happily back into our cosseted, privileged lives.’

  Sister Carey hid her smile as she added, ‘And you should perhaps know now, Nurse Featherstone, that if Maltby does cope well on our ward, Sister Blackstock intends her to come with us to France.’ Her expression hardened. ‘I hope you will help her over the next few weeks. I’m sure she’ll be an asset to our little party.’ She paused a moment and then added pointedly, ‘Professional nurse or not.’

  Grace turned a faint shade of embarrassed pink. ‘Of course, Sister,’ she murmured, taking the rebuke well, for now there was a new-found respect in her eyes.

  The following two weeks were gruelling. If Florrie had thought the work exhausting before, nursing on the soldiers’ ward reached a new level. It wasn’t just the physical weariness; it was the strain on her emotions that was the hardest. To see such brave young men maimed for life, to hear their tales of the hardships they’d suffered and the pals they’d lost tore at her heart strings. And worst of all, the man who’d had his legs removed and who’d been her champion died three days after his operation. His heart just gave out after the trauma his body had suffered.

  ‘If only,’ she heard one of the surgeons, Dr Johnson, mutter, ‘we could get to them sooner. We could save so many more lives. But by the time they’ve lain for hours on the battlefield, maybe trapped in No-Man’s-Land or in a stinking shell-hole, been carried to the field hospital where they might receive only minimal medical treatment and finally been put aboard trains and boats before they reach us – what hope do we have?’

  And all the time Florrie couldn’t stop thinking: this could happen to the Hon. Tim, to Gervase or, worst of all, to her little brother.

  Twenty-Four

  ‘So,’ Augusta regarded her with solemn eyes, ‘you’re really going?’

  ‘Yes, Gran. I’m going back to London tomorrow.’ Florrie could not hide her excitement. She was home for a flying visit over Easter, but couldn’t wait to get back. She’d seen Isobel, but both Gervase and the Hon. Tim were away. ‘We cross the Channel next Monday.’

  ‘The 12th April,’ Augusta murmured. ‘Your grandfather’s birthday.’

  Florrie knelt beside her grandmother’s chair. ‘I’d forgotten. Sorry.’

  Augusta smiled, but deep in her eyes there was still the sorrow of her loss and now there was a new anxiety. For James and for Florrie.

  ‘To the Front?’ Augusta asked bluntly. There was no hiding the truth from her.

  ‘More than likely,’ Florrie replied cheerfully. ‘Sister Blackstock will go where she can be of most use – though we have to go where the Red Cross sends us. And I’m to go with her, another sister and two nurses – professional nurses. Sister Blackstock’s been a brick. She’s helped me get the certificates I need in record time and thrown all the nursing duties she can at me. We’ve been inoculated, vaccinated – any reason they could think of to stick a needle in us, I think they’ve done. So, we’re ready to go.’

  ‘And you’ve coped? With everything?’

  Florrie was not a conceited girl, so when she nodded and said, ‘Well, most of the time’, Augusta knew full well that the girl had more than likely tackled every gory task set her – and done it. This Sister Blackstock, whose name littered Florrie’s conversation, wouldn’t be taking the girl to the battlefields of France with her if she didn’t think she could cope. Of that, Augusta was sure. And at this moment, she didn’t know whether to be extremely proud of her granddaughter or to wish – secretly – that the girl had failed dismally. That, at least, would have kept her safely at home. But that was not Augusta’s way.

  As if reading some of her grandmother’s thoughts, Florrie said softly, ‘But please, Gran, don’t tell Mother. Let her think I’m at a hospital miles behind the lines – well away from the danger.’

  Augusta smiled wryly. ‘My dear girl, convincing your mother you’ll not be in any danger would be a miracle.’ Her mouth twitched with amusement. ‘But I’ll do my best.’ She paused and then added imperiously, ‘Write to me, Florrie dear, just as often as you can. And let me know what you need.’

  ‘I’ve enough clothes and equipment to survive in the wilderness, let alone in a civilized country. D’you know, besides our uniforms, personal under-garments and possessions, we have to take camping gear.’ She ticked off the items on her fingers. ‘A folding bed and sleeping bag, a camp chair, washstand – all canvas – to say nothing of knife, fork and spoon, scissors, an enamel mug, towels – oh, all sorts of things. So many I can’t remember them all. Much of it packs into a kit bag. And we’re allowed a trunk and a holdall. I just don’t know how I’m going to carry it all.’

  Augusta chuckled. ‘I’m sure you’ll manage, and it’s wise to take as much as you can with you. The poor French folk—’ She shook her head sadly. ‘They can’t have much left to give. And if you need anything else when you get out there, be sure to let me know. And not only that; if there are things your patients need, the good Mrs Ponsonby and I will rally the ladies of the local area. I’m sure you will soon have more socks and balaclavas than you have soldiers to wear them.’

  Florrie laughed and then sobered as she added seriously, ‘Try to involve Mother. It might help if she were to feel useful.’

  Augusta nodded, but shrugged doubtfully.

  ‘And James,’ Florrie said softly. It tore at her heart that she hadn’t seen him again before leaving the country. ‘D’you know where he is now?’

  Augusta pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘No. We haven’t heard from him for two weeks. Your poor mother is demented with worry, whilst your father—’ She gave a snort of disgust, but said no more. But she didn’t need to. Florrie understood perfectly. Edgar would be strutting about like a proud peacock, broadcasting to anyone who’d listen that his son had volunteered.

  ‘Let me know what’s happening, won’t you? And Gran—’ She fixed the old lady with a stare. ‘I want the truth. Always.’

  ‘Of course, my dear. Would you expect anything less of me?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  In a rare moment of pride, Edgar himself drove Florrie to the station. Augusta had said her goodbyes in private and Clara had taken to her bed. So only Edgar stood beside her on the platform, saw that her luggage was loaded into the guard’s van and then waved her off as the train pulled out of the station.

  ‘Take care of yourself, my dear. I’m very proud of you. Very proud . . .’ His words were lost amidst the noise of the train and the smoke hid him fr
om her view, but as Florrie sat down in the carriage, she had a lump in her throat. It was the closest she’d ever felt to her father and the first time she could ever remember him showing such affection to her. But it still seemed strange to her that the only time Edgar had ever displayed pride in either of his offspring had been when he was waving them off to war.

  The Channel crossing was choppy and poor Sister Blackstock was seasick.

  ‘I didn’t think my first real nursing duty would be for you,’ Florrie teased. ‘You look positively green, Sister.’

  Rosemary groaned. ‘Less of your cheek, if you please, Nurse.’

  Florrie smiled. It gave her a thrill to hear herself addressed as such. And by Sister Blackstock too – that was a real achievement.

  There were fifty medical staff aboard the ship, made up of members of the St John’s Ambulance Brigade and the British Red Cross, to which Sister Blackstock and her nurses were attached. There were six from the London Hospital: Sisters Blackstock and Carey, Nurses Featherstone and Newton and VAD Maltby. To their surprise the sixth member of their small group was Dr Johnson.

  ‘Can’t let you ladies go on your own,’ the big man boomed with a hearty laugh. He was tall and broad with a handlebar moustache, and Florrie for one was delighted he was going with them, though whether they would all be working together remained to be seen.

  Thankful to step ashore again, the whole group travelled south from Boulogne for about ten miles to Camiers, a village near the coast. Several camp hospitals had recently been erected behind the sand dunes. Nearby were base camps, training camps and a machine-gun school. A railway line served them all.

  ‘Is this it?’ Florrie gazed around her at the rows and rows of tents of all sizes, some as big as marquees.

  ‘I think so. We’ve to report to a Sister Warren, so if we can find her, we’ll know we’re in the right place,’ Sister Blackstock said and added grimly as she glanced about her, ‘Though how we’re expected to keep our patients warm and dry in tents beats me. And no doubt we’ll be expected to sleep in a tent too.’

  She was right. Florrie found herself sharing a bell tent with Grace Featherstone and Hetty Newton. Grace seemed to have accepted Florrie now, but Hetty looked askance at having to share with a mere VAD. Florrie took no notice and arranged her clothes and few belongings in boxes close to her camp bed. As she unpacked, she realized a little sadly that any friendliness that had existed between herself and Sister Blackstock might be at an end. Here – more than ever – she suspected that despite her hard-won certificates, she’d be relegated once more to the status of a skivvy whilst the ‘real’ nurses looked after the patients. But she didn’t mind. She was here in France and ‘doing her bit’.

  Sister Mabel Warren, who’d been in France almost from the beginning, greeted their party. Dr Johnson was borne off by another doctor, leaving the sister to show the newcomers round. She was small and wiry – in her fifties, Florrie guessed – but her sharp grey eyes missed nothing. She rarely smiled and then only at the patients, but her manner was quiet and reassuring, bringing calm and order to chaos. Though in fear of her displeasure, it seemed that all those under her revered and worshipped her. As for the patients in her care, Florence Nightingale herself could not have been more loved.

  To her delight, Florrie was assigned to the ‘wards’ under Sister Blackstock’s charge along with Grace Featherstone and Hetty Newton. Work for them all began the following day and Florrie eased herself quietly into the background. Every morning she made the beds, dusted the lockers, helped the patients to wash, took temperatures and served lunch. Later in the afternoon, the beds were made again and tea was served at five o’clock. Then she should have been off-duty, but Florrie found herself once again at the beck and call of everyone, just as she had been at the London Hospital at first. The nurses who’d been there a while were quick to put the new VAD very firmly in her place.

  ‘Maltby – get rid of these filthy clothes . . .’

  ‘Maltby – clean up that mess . . .’

  ‘Find a cradle for this lad. He’s got trench foot. And if you can’t find one here, Maltby, beg, borrow or steal – just get one. But mind you return it when we’re done with it. That’s the unwritten rule round here.’

  ‘Maltby – Maltby – Maltby . . .’

  Then gradually, as more and more wounded arrived and the wards became stretched to bursting point, they began to ask for her help with nursing duties.

  ‘Help me give this man a bed-bath.’

  ‘Maltby, help Nurse Featherstone with that young man’s dressing.’

  And finally, when Hetty Newton fainted whilst cleaning the septic stump of a man whose arm had been blown off at the elbow, ‘Maltby, take over . . .’

  Later, Hetty, sitting on her camp bed in the shared tent, wept. ‘I feel such a fool. Me – a nurse – passing out at the sight of a wound.’

  ‘Well, it was pretty gruesome,’ Florrie said, handing her a strong, hot cup of tea and sitting down beside her. ‘Far worse than just an ordinary wound. We’re all used to the sight of blood, but that. . .’ Florrie shuddered.

  ‘It’s all gruesome,’ Grace remarked, coming in at that moment and catching Florrie’s words. She sat down on her own bed, eased off her shoes and rubbed her feet. She closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘I never in my worst nightmares imagined it could be as bad as this.’

  Hetty gulped her tea and began to feel a little better. ‘You know, Maltby, you’re doin’ ever so well, ain’t she, Grace? You ought to train to be a nurse after this is all over. You’re a natural.’ She pulled a comical face. ‘An’ I never thought I’d say that to a debutante VAD.’

  Florrie laughed. ‘I’ll take that as a real compliment. But I’m not a real debutante. I was too wild to be presented at court.’

  Grace leaned forward and in an exaggerated whisper said, ‘She was one of them suffragettes. Been in prison, she has.’ She cast her eyes upwards as if in despair. ‘The types we have to put up with.’ But it was said in teasing good humour and not without a hint of admiration.

  Hetty’s eyes widened. ‘Were you? My auntie was one of them, but it’s all stopped now ’cos of the war, ain’t it?’

  Florrie nodded, ‘But once – like you say – this is all over . . .’ She said no more, but the two girls were left in no doubt that Florrie Maltby meant to resume her militant activities to win the right for women to vote.

  ‘Well, I reckon you’ve got a point, girl,’ Grace said, easing her shoes back on. ‘If we’re good enough to do all sorts of jobs to help the war effort, then I reckon we’re good enough to vote. Now, you an’ me’d best get back. Sister’ll be looking for us. You rest a bit, our Het. We’ll cover for you, won’t we, Florrie?’

  ‘Of course.’

  From that day, the two girls called her by her Christian name in private and now they often called upon her for real nursing duties. Even Sister Warren, who visited the wards every day, seemed to recognize Florrie’s capabilities, even though she still wore the VAD uniform.

  They’d scarcely settled in when rumours of a huge battle near the Belgian border reached their camp. Sister Warren called all her senior nursing staff together, and Rosemary Blackstock related the information to her nurses later.

  ‘We’re to expect a great influx of patients and Sister Warren has asked me to take charge of one of the operating theatres.’ She glanced at Florrie, Grace and Hetty. ‘And you three are to come with me. Are you sure you’re up to it, Nurse Newton?’

  Hetty nodded, anxious not to be left out. ‘It was only that one time, Sister. It won’t happen again.’

  Satisfied, Sister Blackstock nodded.

  ‘Sister,’ Grace asked, ‘do we have to move? Our sleeping quarters, I mean?’

  Rosemary smiled. No doubt in her mind that the girl was hoping for some improvement in their billet. ‘No, I’m afraid not. You’ll just have to walk a little further each day, that’s all.’

  Behind her back the three girls exchanged
a glance and grimaced.

  However tired she was by the end of her shift, Florrie had managed to scribble a few lines home each day, to either her mother and father, Augusta or Isobel. Word from home came spasmodically as the arrival of mail was erratic. Her mother’s letters were full of tales of woe, her father’s full of glee that both his children were doing their bit, but whenever she saw Augusta’s scrawling handwriting, Florrie pounced gleefully on the letter.

  Well, my dear, the miracle has happened. Your mother is knitting furiously and attends all Mrs Ponsonby’s fund-raising activities in the village. We even held a fair here at the Hall last Saturday. Your mother performed the opening ceremony and was made a great fuss of by all the locals. Do try to send her cheerful news, my dear, though you can always tell me the truth. James is still safely on British soil at gunnery school at present, so there’s no need to worry about him just yet. I saw Isobel last week. She is well, but anxious about both the Hon. Tim and Gervase. They all send their love to you. We’re not sure where they are and they can’t say, but Timothy and Isobel devised a kind of code. She believes he is near a place called Ypres . . .

  Twenty-Five

  Two days after receiving Augusta’s letter, rumours flew around the camp that a major battle was being waged near Ypres. Florrie’s heart turned cold. Was Tim there? Was he in the thick of the fighting? Was he safe? And what of Gervase? She’d no idea where he was, though she knew he’d come to France. It was quite feasible that he was there too. The only thought that gave her hope was that James was still safely in England.

  It seemed the trains bringing the wounded from the Belgian border would never stop. Soon the wards were bursting and time off was a thing of the past. Florrie’s hours of duty were even longer and so heartbreaking that she could scarcely drag herself back to her tent, undress and wash, never mind writing letters. She’d never known such utter weariness or hopelessness – not even during her time in Holloway. To see a whole generation of fine young men mutilated and suffering made her rage inwardly. Where was the sense in it all? But she was too exhausted to do anything except get through each day and do the very best she could to help the wounded and dying.