Nightingales on Call

by Donna Douglas

  ‘There, doesn’t that feel better?’ she asked. Archie didn’t reply. He stood there, submitting to her ministrations in offended silence.

  ‘Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?’ Lucy snapped at him. ‘Aren’t you going to say thank you?’

  Archie stuck his tongue out at her. Dora smiled to herself as she reached over to the radiator for the pyjamas Sister Parry had found for him. Sister kept a stock of donated nightclothes in the linen cupboard and handed them out to children whose own clothes were too dirty or unfit to be worn.

  ‘If you ask me, your mate’s the one who needs to have her mouth washed out with soap!’ Archie said, when Lucy went off to find a pro to clean the bathroom.

  I can’t argue with you there, Dora thought, but all she commented was, ‘She’s not from round here. She doesn’t understand people like us.’

  Archie regarded her with sharp-eyed interest. ‘Are you from round here then?’

  Dora nodded. ‘Griffin Street, the other side of the park. How about you?’

  ‘Wicker’s Yard.’

  ‘You might know my mum’s cousin Ivy then? She lives near there. Got a son about your age – Freddie Jackson?’

  His face brightened. ‘He’s in my class at school.’

  After that Dora seemed to win his trust. Archie explained that his mother was a widow with six children, and he was the eldest.

  ‘That sounds like my family,’ she said. ‘Except I’m not the eldest. I’ve got an older brother, Peter. He works as a porter here.’

  By the time she’d got him into his pyjamas, Archie was looking a lot brighter. Until they came out of the bathroom and found Sister Parry waiting for them, arms folded. Lucy was with her. She reminded Dora of Sister Sutton’s terrier Sparky, the way she stuck so closely to her mistress’ heels.

  ‘There you are, Nurse. What on earth took you so long?’

  Dora shot a glance at Lucy. ‘Sorry, Sister.’

  She tensed, waiting for the inevitable telling off.

  ‘Well, I must say, he’s looking a lot better than he was when he came in.’ Sister Parry made a grab for Archie and examined behind his ears, holding him fast as he tried to squirm away. ‘Oh, do keep still!’ she barked. ‘I hope we’re not going to have any trouble with you, young man?’

  She turned to Lucy. ‘Put this patient to bed, and make sure he’s comfortable,’ she ordered. ‘Mr Hobbs will be up to see him shortly. Nurse Lane?’ Her voice sharpened. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  But Lucy wasn’t listening. Her horrified gaze was fixed on Dora. ‘Please, Sister . . . I think Doyle’s caught something . . .’

  Dora looked down, and let out a scream. Her snowy apron bib was covered in reddish-brown dots. And they were crawling in a steady line up towards her chin.

  ‘Lice! Just what we need.’ Sister Parry tutted impatiently. ‘You’ll have to go to the Porters’ Lodge and ask Mr Hopkins to fumigate your clothes.’ She turned to Lucy. ‘Go and get Doyle a fresh uniform to put on. Really, Nurse, you should have been more careful.’

  ‘I was completely mortified,’ Dora told Millie later as they sat in their room, trying to study. ‘Can you imagine, having to wash yourself down with disinfectant in the Porters’ Lodge? Not to mention having to listen to Mr Hopkins lecturing me because he’s got better things to do with his time than fumigate nurses’ uniforms.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you,’ Millie soothed her. ‘It happens to everyone sooner or later. The perils of being a nurse in the East End, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Lane didn’t make it any better,’ Dora said. ‘I swear she was laughing at me behind Sister’s back.’

  ‘Oh, take no notice of her,’ Millie said. ‘You know what a cat she is. Anyway, at least you know now how to deal with a case of pediculosis of clothing, which is one of the questions in this book.’ She consulted her nursing manual. ‘Now, describe the preparation of a surgical fomentation.’

  ‘That’s easy,’ Dora replied. ‘A surgical fomentation is to be placed over a wound, so it must be prepared with every aseptic precaution. The fomentation is boiled in a steriliser for five minutes, then wrung dry and handed in the wringer to the dresser. Boracic lint should be used, or other antiseptics may be added to the boiling water.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Carbolic acid one in eighty, perchloride of mercury one in two thousand, lysol half a drachm to the pint, or eusol equal quantities.’ Dora pulled a face at her. ‘You see? You can’t catch me out. Now it’s my turn.’ She flicked over the pages of her book. ‘What is the difference in sputum between the early and late stages of phthisis?’

  ‘Well, I know in the later stages it becomes nummular,’ Millie said. ‘But in the early stages . . . is it tinged with blood?’

  ‘It can be,’ Dora quoted. ‘But it’s generally greenish-yellow.’

  ‘I get confused with so many different samples.’ Millie put down her book. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I’m bothering, since I’m getting married straight after the exams anyway. What’s the point of storing up all this information if I’m never going to be able to use it?’

  Dora caught a wistful expression on her face. ‘You do want to get married, don’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Millie said. ‘I adore Sebastian, and I can’t wait to marry him. But sometimes I wish I’d been allowed to find out what life was like as a proper Staff Nurse. You know, just for a few months.’

  Poor Millie, Dora thought. Most girls would have envied her privileged position. Millie, or Lady Amelia Benedict to give her her full title, was the daughter of an earl. She had grown up living with her widowed father and her grandmother in a castle in the heart of the Kent countryside. But Millie had turned her back on her privileged debutante’s life to train as a nurse, much to her grandmother the Dowager Countess’ horror.

  ‘Couldn’t you put the wedding off for a few months?’ Dora suggested.

  Millie laughed. ‘Grandmother would have apoplexy! She’s been desperate for this day to come for so long, I don’t think she could stand to wait any longer.’ She shook her head. ‘Poor Granny! All her friend’s granddaughters are safely married off, and some have already had their first child. I’m a terrible embarrassment to her as it is. And she’s also terrified that Papa will die before I manage to produce a suitable heir for the estate. And then we’ll all have to squash into the Dower House, which will be utterly horrifying for her.’

  Dora stared at her in wonder. Millie was so matter-of-fact about it, but her future had been set in stone from the moment she was born. If she didn’t marry and produce a son, her father’s estate would pass to the next male in line, an obscure cousin in Northumberland.

  Fortunately for everyone, Millie had fallen in love with Lord Sebastian Rushton, the youngest son of a duke, just in time. But Dora wondered what the reaction of her friend’s family would have been if Millie had decided to stay single and continue with her nursing.

  She and Dora were so different it was a marvel that they had become such firm friends. But after three years of sharing a room, laughing and crying together and helping each other through all kinds of sorrows, Dora couldn’t imagine life without her now.

  They had grown so close that Millie had even asked her to be a bridesmaid at the wedding. Although how an East End girl from the back streets of Bethnal Green would manage at a posh society do, Dora had no idea.

  ‘Anyway, we must press on,’ Millie said briskly, picking up her book. ‘We still have to get you through this exam, don’t we? I expect to see you in the blue dress of a staff nurse by Christmas.’

  It was on the tip of Dora’s tongue to say that she could be married herself by then. Ever since Nick told her there might be a chance of him getting his divorce more quickly, she had been desperate to share her exciting news. But she’d kept silent. She couldn’t trust anyone with such a secret. And besides, she could still hardly believe it was true. She wouldn’t allow herself to put any faith in it until she saw the divorce pape
rs in Nick’s hand.

  Millie was in the middle of a complicated question about Fowler’s position when there was a knock on the door and Jess the maid staggered in under the weight of an armful of bedding. The top of her dark head was barely visible over the pile of blankets and pillows.

  ‘What’s this?’ Millie asked, putting down her book.

  ‘Sister Sutton told me to bring it up.’

  Dora looked at Millie. ‘We must be getting a room mate at last.’

  ‘Gosh, how exciting!’ Millie’s eyes shone. ‘Do you think it’s one of the new students?’

  Dora stood up as Jess lurched across the room towards her. ‘Here, let me help you with that.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss.’

  ‘You can leave the bedding, if you like. We’ll make up the bed, won’t we, Benedict?’

  ‘Of course,’ Millie said, standing up.

  ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t.’ Jess looked from one to the other, her face full of concern. ‘Sister Sutton might not like it.’

  ‘I’m sure we can make a bed to Sister Sutton’s satisfaction by now.’ Dora smiled at the frightened girl.

  ‘Even me,’ Millie added cheerfully. ‘Well, most of the time anyway.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Doyle. Mind your own business and let the maid do her job!’ said a sharp voice from the doorway.

  Dora looked up. Lucy Lane stood there, a deep scowl on her face.

  ‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’ Dora snapped back.

  Lucy’s scowl deepened. ‘It is my business,’ she said. ‘Didn’t Sister Sutton tell you? I’m going to be sharing this room from now on!’

  Chapter Seven

  JESS GAVE THE skirting board a final polish, then straightened up and massaged her aching back while she admired her handiwork. It was after two and she had been up since before dawn, turning mattresses, making up beds, cleaning out cupboards and making sure everything was in order for when the new students arrived later that day.

  Now she had turned her attention to the seniors’ rooms. The students were supposed to keep their own accommodation tidy, but the rooms were rarely cleaned to Sister Sutton’s satisfaction, and Jess felt so sorry for the poor, exhausted girls coming home to stripped beds and a tongue lashing from the Home Sister that she had taken to cleaning them herself.

  She threw open the small skylight window and shook her duster out. It seemed strange to see the third bed in the attic room made up at last. She wondered how the two girls were getting on with their new room mate. The ginger-haired one hadn’t looked too happy about it, and Jess didn’t blame her. She could never forget how that sharp-faced girl Lucy Lane had snubbed her so rudely on the day she’d come for her interview.

  After nearly a month Jess had started to get to know the individual students. Not personally – Sister Sutton would never allow that – but she had built up a picture of them from seeing them in the passageways and cleaning up after them. Dusting photographs told her the Irish girl on the first floor had lots of sisters, and a sweetheart who was a policeman. Tidying piles of Picturegoer and bottles of hydrogen peroxide under a bed told her the blonde on the second floor loved Clark Gable and secretly bleached her hair. And all the belongings strewn on the chest of drawers in this room told her the fair-haired, nicely spoken girl was very scatty indeed.

  Jess smiled to herself as she put the girl’s jewellery carefully back into its box. She didn’t mind too much about tidying up after her. At least the fair-haired girl and her ginger friend were always pleasant to Jess, and greeted her whenever they passed. Not like some of the girls, who walked right past her as if she was no more worth their attention than the grandfather clock in the hall.

  She reached under the bed to check for dust, and her hand touched something heavy. A book.

  Jess pulled it out and dusted off the green cloth cover with her hand. A Complete System of Nursing by E. Millicent Ashdown, read the gold letters on the spine.

  She flicked through it. There were hundreds of pages of text, interspersed with pictures of people in various splints and bandages.

  Did the nurses really have to learn all this? wondered Jess. No wonder they always looked so tired.

  She sank down on the fair-haired girl’s bed, and started to read. There were a lot of long words in the book, most of which Jess couldn’t untangle, but it was utterly fascinating, like looking through a window into a strange new world.

  But this was real, not fictional. This was all about the human body, and how it worked. Jess flicked through the pages faster and faster, taking it all in, soaking up the information like a sponge. And all the while her mind was working, thinking what a privilege it must be to be able to go to lectures and learn so much every day.

  She jumped at the sound of heavy footsteps creaking up the stairs. She barely had time to slip the book under the pillow and scramble to her feet when the door opened and Sister Sutton stood there, Sparky at her feet.

  ‘Good gracious, girl, what are you doing here?’ She eyed Jess. ‘Isn’t it supposed to be your half-day today?’

  ‘Yes, but I wanted to make sure everything was done,’ Jess replied, stepping slightly to one side so Sister Sutton couldn’t see the corner of the book sticking out from under the pillow. ‘I know we’ll be busy when the new students arrive, so I don’t mind staying.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, child.’ Sister Sutton folded her fat hands in front of her and looked around. ‘Are you sure you’ve done everything? Polished the banisters? Tidied the linen cupboard?’ She thought for a moment. ‘Did you clean the bathrooms properly? I hope you haven’t been slapdash.’

  ‘You can inspect them if you like,’ Jess said.

  Sister Sutton stiffened, her chins wobbling. ‘I most certainly will, you can be sure of that. I don’t need you to tell me my job, girl.’

  She bustled off down the stairs, Sparky trotting after her, his nose in the air. Jess followed meekly behind.

  She waited tensely as Sister Sutton walked around, running her finger along the tops of the doors and the windowsills.

  ‘As you can see, I managed to scrub those marks off the taps,’ offered Jess, breaking the silence. ‘It took a bit of elbow grease, but I did it.’

  Sister Sutton sniffed. ‘I suppose you’ve done a passable job,’ she conceded, then added, ‘although you might have used a little more elbow grease on those tiles.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’ Jess tried not to smile. How typical! She could have been up all night scrubbing those tiles and Sister Sutton would still have found fault.

  But Jess had learned not to take offence. It was just the Home Sister’s way.

  ‘Now get off with you,’ Sister Sutton said. ‘And see you return by five,’ she added. ‘I daresay there will be plenty to do when the new girls arrive.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  ‘And Jess?’

  She turned. ‘Yes, Sister?’

  ‘Are you aware your month’s trial is up at the end of this week?’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’ Jess swallowed hard. She had been aware of little else for several days.

  Sister Sutton paused. ‘I can see no reason why we shouldn’t make the arrangement permanent,’ she said. ‘If that is acceptable to you?’

  Jess fought to stop herself from smiling with relief. ‘Yes, Sister,’ she said. ‘It is.’

  ‘Very well. Then I will see you at five o’clock sharp.’

  Her mother was right, Effie O’Hara thought. The East End of London was very different from Killarney.

  As she stepped off the bus in Wapping, the sights, sounds and smells of the city rushed in to fill her senses. The air was alive with the sound of shouting, street vendors selling their wares and the scream of seagulls wheeling overhead around the nearby docks. Distant factory chimneys belched smoke into the grimy sky. Even the sun that had been so clear and brilliant over the fields and lanes as she left Ireland cast no more than a dismal grey light over the damp city streets.

  And all those p
eople . . . Effie had never seen so many, not even on the busiest market day in Killarney. The drab tide pushed and nudged past her as she stood on the corner, her bags at her feet.

  Effie felt her optimism fading. It was only the thought of facing her mother that stopped her getting straight back on the bus and catching the next boat home.

  She squared her shoulders. This won’t do, Euphemia O’Hara, she told herself. You wanted life, and here it is. Besides, once she reached the Nightingale Hospital, she would have her sisters to look after her.

  All she had to do was find her way there.

  But it seemed so different from when she’d come for her interview two months earlier. Then her mother had been with her, and her sister Bridget had met them from the station and brought them in a taxi, and Effie hadn’t had to worry about anything.

  ‘You lost, Miss?’

  A voice behind her made her start. She swung round. A boy stood behind her. He was about twelve years old, with untidy tufts of mud-brown hair sticking out from under his shabby cap.

  ‘I’m looking for the Florence Nightingale Hospital.’ She tried not to stare at the birthmark on the boy’s cheek. Her mother was always telling her off for gawping.

  ‘I know it. I’m going that way myself, as it happens. I could show you the way?’

  Effie hesitated. He was just a child, not the kind of stranger her mother and sisters had warned her about.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That would be very kind.’

  ‘Right you are, then.’ He picked up her heavy bag with ease and started briskly down the road. Effie bobbed along behind, doing her best to keep up with him.

  He talked as fast as he walked, chattering to her over his shoulder. His cockney accent was so strong Effie could barely understand him. She was too out of breath to keep up a conversation anyway.

  ‘This way, Miss.’ The boy dodged around a corner and ducked into a narrow alleyway. Grim, blackened walls running with damp rose on either side of them, leaving only a thin strip of dull daylight high above to show the way. ‘Now you don’t want to be coming this way by yourself. It’s not safe,’ he warned. ‘But you’re all right with me. I know my way around, see.’