District Nurse on Call

by Donna Douglas

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Donna Douglas

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Copyright

  About the Book

  The second book in the Sunday Times bestselling Nurses of Steeple Street series about a District Nurse in a Yorkshire mining town.

  West Yorkshire, 1926

  After completing her training in Steeple Street, Agnes Sheridan is looking forward to making her mark as Bowden’s first district nurse, confident she can make a difference in the locals’ lives.

  But when Agnes arrives, she’s treated with suspicion, labelled just another servant of the wealthy mine owners. The locals would much rather place their trust in the resident healer – Hannah Arkwright.

  And when the General Strike throws the village into turmoil, the miners and their families face hunger and hardship, and Agnes finds her loyalties tested.

  Now it’s time to prove whose side she is really on and to fight for her place in the village …

  About the Author

  Donna Douglas lives in York with her husband and two cats. They have a grown-up daughter. When she is not busy writing, she is generally reading, watching Netflix or drinking cocktails. Sometimes all at the same time.

  Also by Donna Douglas

  The Nightingale Series

  The Nightingale Girls

  The Nightingale Sisters

  The Nightingale Nurses

  Nightingales on Call

  A Nightingale Christmas Wish

  Nightingales at War

  Nightingales Under the Mistletoe

  A Nightingale Christmas Carol

  The Nurses of Steeple Street Series

  The Nurses of Steeple Street

  Acknowledgements

  This book almost never saw the light of day due to me being struck down by illness halfway through. I’d like to thank the following people for their patience and their persistence.

  The team at Random House, especially Selina Walker, Susan Sandon, Cass Di Bello and my new editor Viola Hayden, who must have wondered at times what kind of author she had been landed with. I’d also like to thank the sales team for dealing so well with the ever-changing schedules and deadlines.

  My agent Caroline Sheldon, for being so understanding and for dealing with all the difficult stuff. And there was a lot of difficult stuff.

  My friends and family for rallying round me and bolstering my spirits. Plus, of course, the amazing people who helped me get well again, especially Dr Geddes and Dr Sinclair, Ranza, Amanda, Marji and a guy called John in Boots who will never know what his quick-thinking advice did for me.

  To my very good friend June Smith-Sheppard,

  for always being there

  Chapter One

  1926

  ‘Well, here it is, my dear. Your new home.’

  Philippa stopped the car on top of a ridge overlooking the valley and peered through the windscreen. ‘It doesn’t look very promising, I must say.’

  Agnes Sheridan got out of the passenger seat, struggling against the chilly March wind that threatened to tear the cap from her head. She clamped it in place with one hand and pulled her navy blue overcoat more tightly around her with the other as she gazed down into the valley.

  Phil was right, it wasn’t promising. The village of Bowden settled like grey sediment in the bottom of the shallow valley bowl, surrounded on all sides by the rolling bracken-covered Yorkshire moors. From her viewpoint, Agnes could make out a collection of solid-looking buildings in the centre of the village, a school, some shops and the spire of a church. But it was the colliery that drew her eye. It lay to the east of the village, a sprawl of yards, outbuildings, railway lines, black spoil heaps, and the tall, stark shapes of the winding machinery, towering over the tight grids of terraced cottages clustered in their shadow.

  Bowden Main Colliery. The reason the village – and she – was here.

  Behind her, she heard Phil get out of the car.

  ‘Just imagine,’ she said, coming to stand beside her. ‘You’re going to be responsible for all these people now. All those hacking coughs and sore eyes and injured limbs and bad chests. Coal miners aren’t known for their good health, are they? I expect most of them will be on their last legs.’ She lit up a cigarette. ‘And the children … malnourished and crawling with lice, I should imagine.’

  ‘It can’t be any worse than Quarry Hill,’ Agnes said.

  Phil shuddered. ‘God, no. Nothing could be worse than Quarry Hill.’

  As part of their district nursing training, they had both spent time in the rundown Leeds slums. At the time, Agnes couldn’t wait to get her badge and escape to a district of her own. Now she wished she was back there, still safe under the watchful eye of her mentor, Bess Bradshaw.

  As if she could guess her thoughts, Phil suddenly turned to her and said, ‘Are you sure you’re ready for this, my dear?’

  It was a question Agnes had asked herself several times over the past few weeks, ever since Miss Gale, the Nursing Superintendent at Steeple Street, had given her the news. Bowden was to be her first official placement as a Queen’s Nurse, and the responsibility lay heavy on Agnes’ shoulders. She hadn’t been able to sleep at all the previous night for thinking about it.

  What if it was too much for her? What if she couldn’t cope?

  But in the light of day she refused to give in to such fears.

  ‘Of course.’ She gathered her coat more tightly around herself and looked down at the village, nestling below. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘You always did like a challenge, didn’t you?’ Phil said. ‘Not like me. Give me my nice rural patch any day. Healthy farmers’ wives giving birth like shelling peas, and rosy-cheeked children, and nothing more serious than the occasional cow stamping on a milkmaid’s foot.’

  Agnes smiled. ‘You never used to say that when you had to cycle thirty miles and back every day!’

  ‘That was before Veronica came along.’ Phil lovingly stroked the bonnet of her Ford. For as lo
ng as Agnes had known her, Phil had been pestering the District Association for a motorcycle, and finally – probably hoping to keep her quiet for good, Agnes thought wryly – they had given in and allocated her a car. Phil adored Veronica, but her driving left a lot to be desired. Agnes had kept her eyes closed all the way from Leeds, her fingers gripping the edge of the leather seat as they sped along the twisting country lanes.

  ‘Anyway, we’d best get going.’ Phil stubbed out her cigarette and started back to the car. ‘You want to make the right impression on your first day, don’t you?’

  They headed downhill and soon the open farmland and fields gave way to a patch of straggly woodland before the road flattened into the village.

  On closer inspection, Bowden wasn’t quite as bad as Agnes had thought. Away from the pit, and the tight knots of colliery cottages clustered around it, there were a couple of streets of larger, more well-to-do houses, a patchwork of neatly kept allotments, a recreation ground, a few plainly built chapels and a row of shops, all empty and locked up on this late Sunday afternoon.

  Agnes gritted her teeth as Veronica bumped along the narrow, deeply rutted street.

  ‘Don’t you think we should go a little slower?’ she said.

  ‘Nonsense, there’s no one about,’ Phil dismissed, peering through the windscreen. ‘Now remind me again what we’re looking for?’

  ‘The Miners’ Welfare Institute. Miss Gale said it was just behind the Co-op.’

  ‘We must have passed it. I’ll turn round.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Agnes begged, as her friend wrestled with the gearstick, throwing Veronica into reverse.

  ‘Oh, do stop fussing, Agnes! Honestly, you’re starting to make me nervous, the way you go on—’

  ‘Look out!’ Agnes caught a flash of movement behind them as Veronica jerked backwards. A second later there was a bump and an almighty clatter.

  Phil slammed on the brake pedal, her face ashen. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I think you hit something.’

  ‘Oh, Lord, no!’ Her friend’s face paled as she sat frozen behind the wheel. ‘What if I’ve damaged Veronica? The District Association will take her away for sure.’

  ‘Never mind Veronica!’ Agnes jumped out of the car and ran to the rear of it. A man lay sprawled on the pavement, tangled with a bicycle that was half hidden under Veronica’s back bumper.

  She bent down beside him. ‘Oh, my goodness, are you all right?’

  ‘What do you reckon?’ A pair of snapping slate-grey eyes met hers. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at? You could have killed me.’

  ‘Yes, well, you shouldn’t have cycled behind me while I was reversing, should you?’ Phil said, getting out of the car.

  The man glared at her. ‘Are you trying to say it were my fault?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Of course not.’ Agnes shot a warning look at Phil. ‘Now, can you move? Are you in any pain?’

  ‘I’ll live, no thanks to you.’ He started to extricate himself from under his bicycle. Agnes made a move to assist him, but he shrugged her off.

  ‘I only want to help you.’

  ‘I reckon you’ve done enough.’

  He struggled to his feet and brushed himself down. His jacket was threadbare at the elbows, Agnes noticed, and his grubby collarless shirt had seen better days. He was in his thirties, with black hair and a lean, unsmiling face.

  He reached down and started to disentangle the bicycle from under Veronica’s bumper.

  ‘Careful,’ Phil said. ‘Don’t scratch my paintwork.’

  Agnes saw the man’s dark frown and stepped in again. ‘Is your bicycle damaged?’ she asked.

  ‘If it is, you’ll owe me for a new one.’

  He took a long time to inspect his bicycle, spinning the wheels and testing the handlebars. Agnes looked at her watch and agonised over the time.

  ‘Will you be much longer?’ she asked finally. ‘Only I have an appointment.’

  He gave her a grim look. ‘Aye, I could tell you were in a hurry.’

  Finally, after what seemed like an unbearably long time, the man seemed to decide his bicycle was roadworthy after all.

  ‘I’m glad it’s all right,’ Agnes said, relieved.

  ‘Time will tell, won’t it?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not injured? I’m a nurse, you see, and—’

  ‘You’re a ruddy menace, that’s what you are!’ He swung his leg over his bicycle and was gone.

  Agnes watched him as he cycled off down the road, muttering to himself. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, but something told her she wouldn’t have wanted to hear it.

  ‘What a charming man,’ Phil commented dryly. ‘I do hope for your sake they’re not all like him.’

  ‘You can’t really blame him, can you?’ Agnes sighed. ‘So much for making a good impression!’

  Phil giggled. ‘We certainly made an impression on his bicycle!’

  ‘It’s not funny, Phil. I told you not to drive so fast. I’m supposed to be here to nurse people, not put them in hospital!’

  ‘It was an accident.’ Phil shrugged. ‘Anyway, you saw him. He was perfectly fine. Now, shall we go?’

  ‘I think I’d prefer to find my way to the Miners’ Welfare Institute by myself,’ Agnes said. ‘It might be easier on foot.’ And safer, she added silently.

  ‘But what about your things?’

  ‘It’s only one suitcase and my medical bag. I should be able to manage them on my bicycle.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure?’ Phil opened the boot and helped Agnes unload her bicycle and suitcase. Then they stood for a moment, looking at each other awkwardly.

  ‘Well, cheerio, my dear.’ Phil lunged forward and hugged her fiercely. ‘I’ll miss you, old thing,’ she mumbled into her shoulder.

  Agnes hesitated, too surprised to respond. Phil had always been an unsentimental type. In fact, she could be positively hard-faced at times.

  ‘Steady on!’ She tried to make light of it, disentangling herself from her friend’s embrace. ‘I’ll be coming back to Steeple Street soon. I have to report regularly to Miss Gale, remember?’

  ‘I know. But it won’t be the same, will it?’

  No, Agnes thought a moment later as she watched Phil manoeuvring Veronica haphazardly back down the narrow high street. It won’t be the same at all.

  Chapter Two

  After cycling around the deserted streets a few times, Agnes finally found the solid, red-brick building with a sign over the door reading ‘Miners’ Welfare Institute and Reading Room’.

  There was an elderly man waiting on the step, his tall, thin frame stooped over a walking stick. He approached Agnes as she climbed off her bicycle.

  ‘Miss Sheridan? I’m Eric Wardle, from the Miners’ Welfare Committee. I’m the one who’s been in correspondence with your Miss Gale.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Wardle. How do you do?’ As she went to shake his hand, Agnes found herself looking up into a pair of bright blue eyes and realised she had been wrong about Eric Wardle. In spite of his lined, weary face and bent frame, he was no older than his late forties. She wondered what terrible illness had aged him before his time. ‘I’m sorry I’m a little late. It took me a while to find this place.’

  Eric Wardle waved away her words. ‘No matter, lass, tha’s here now. Come wi’ me, I’ll take you up to the committee room. They’re all waiting for thee.’

  The Miners’ Welfare Institute had an unmistakably masculine air about it. The walls of the long passageway were lined with photographs of various sports teams, arms folded, posing proudly in football shorts or cricket whites, and groups of older men cradling pigeons outside their lofts. The lingering smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air mingled with the musky scent of stale sweat. From a half-open doorway at the far end of the long passage, Agnes could hear the distant sound of a piano playing.

  Eric Wardle hobbled ahead of her past a glass cabinet full of gleaming trophies, and up a n
arrow staircase to a door marked with a brass sign saying ‘Committee Room’. From beyond the door came the sound of men’s voices, raised in what sounded like a heated debate.

  ‘Here we are.’ He turned to smile at her as he pushed the door open. ‘No need to fear, lass. They won’t bite you. Well, most of ’em, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not afraid,’ Agnes assured him, adjusting her cap and squaring her shoulders.

  Eric Wardle sent her a considering look. ‘Nay,’ he said. ‘Tha doesn’t strike me as the fearful type.’

  Four men sat at a long table in front of the window. They stopped talking when Agnes walked in, and rose to their feet, but only three pairs of eyes turned to look at her. The man at the far end of the row kept his gaze fixed on the papers on the table in front of him, as if he had more important matters on his mind than greeting a lady.

  ‘Now then,’ Eric Wardle said. ‘This is Miss Sheridan, who’s to be our new district nurse.’ He pulled out the solitary chair on the opposite side of the table for Agnes to sit down, then shuffled slowly to join the other men, taking the seat that had been left for him in the centre of the row. Agnes noted the quietly respectful way the others moved aside to make room for him. ‘Miss Sheridan, this is Sam Maskell, one of the overmen at the pit, this is Reg Willis, Tom Chadwick – and this is Seth Stanhope, the union branch secretary.’

  ‘We’ve met.’ Seth Stanhope lifted his scowling grey gaze from his papers at last and Agnes felt an unpleasant jolt of recognition.

  ‘Now then,’ Eric Wardle continued, ‘as Chairman of the Welfare Committee, I’m calling this meeting to order. Let’s be as quick as we can, shall we? We’ve all got homes to go to, and I daresay Miss Sheridan will be worn out after her journey from Leeds.’

  Agnes deliberately turned her attention from Seth Stanhope to the other men. They looked slightly uncomfortable, sitting at the table done up in their Sunday best suits. The small wiry man on the end, Reg Willis, kept running one finger around the inside of his starched shirt collar as if it was strangling him, while Tom Chadwick blushed furiously, as if he had never seen a woman before in his life. Only Sam Maskell seemed at ease, leaning back in his chair, his waistcoat straining over his portly belly.