‘Who’s she?’
‘She runs the Female Chronic ward here. A real dragon, everyone is simply terrified of her. And with good reason, too. If it had been down to her, I would have been straight out of Nightingale’s after that exam. But luckily Matron gave me another chance. I don’t think Sister Hyde was very pleased about it.’
Dora laughed. ‘You’re a card, d’you know that?’
Millie smiled back. She was used to people laughing at her. And she didn’t mind Dora doing it if it meant they could be friends.
As they walked back to the practical room, Dora said suddenly, ‘I don’t mind, you know. If you want me to swap with her?’
‘Who?’
‘Your friend Lane. I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it?’ She didn’t look at Millie as she spoke. ‘You two have got such a lot in common—’
‘Are you saying I’m a horrible little snob? Thanks a lot!’
‘No, but—’
Millie stopped in the corridor, forcing Dora to turn and look at her. ‘Promise me you won’t even think about leaving me with her?’ she said solemnly. ‘I don’t think I could cope with her droning on about how rich and clever she is.’
Dora didn’t say any more until they’d reached the practical room. ‘So you don’t mind sharing a room with me, then?’
‘That depends,’ Millie said.
‘On what?’
‘On whether you’re going to give me the silent treatment like Tremayne all the time.’
Dora smiled reluctantly. ‘I’ll try not to. Although it’s difficult to get a word in edgeways with you!’
‘I know,’ Millie sighed. ‘My grandmother always says I should try to maintain a dignified silence, but I can’t.’
They made sure they sat together at supper. Grey mince and hard-boiled potatoes again, Millie thought. She tried not to imagine the succulent roast her father and grandmother would be sitting down to at Billinghurst.
A group of second-year students were whispering at the next table. Planning a party, Millie guessed, smiling to herself. Sister Sutton might think she had them all under control, raiding their rooms and prowling the corridors with that wretched dog of hers, sniffing out their misdeeds. Not to mention Mr Hopkins and his army of porters standing guard at the hospital gates. But they would have been astonished at how much mischief went on right under their noses.
‘But it seems so mean not to ask her,’ one of the students was saying.
‘If you ask her, no one else will come,’ another said. ‘They’ll all be too scared she’ll tell her mother. She wouldn’t come anyway. She never joins in with anything. All she ever wants to do is stay in her room and study.’
‘It sounds as if they’re talking about Tremayne?’ Millie said to Dora.
‘That girl Hollins warned me about her last night,’ Dora said, refilling her mug with cocoa. ‘She said she wasn’t to be trusted. But she seems all right to me. A bit quiet, but there’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘Oh, she’s not bad. I feel sorry for her actually.’ No matter how hard training might be, Millie had made some very good friends at Nightingale’s. They gathered in each other’s rooms to gossip and study, took trips to the cinema and treated themselves to tea in the local cafe if they were feeling flush.
But as far as she knew, Helen Tremayne had no friends. Millie had done her best to include her, inviting her on various outings. But Helen had said no so often she had given up asking.
After supper they went back to their room. Millie had arranged to go out with some of her friends to hear how they had got on during their first day on the wards.
‘Why don’t you come with us?’ she asked Dora, pulling the pins out of her hair and enjoying the blissful freedom of it tumbling around her face.
‘Thanks, but I’d rather stay here. Anyway, I’m a bit short until we get paid.’
‘I’ll treat you,’ Millie offered.
Dora’s smile tightened. ‘No, thanks,’ she refused politely.
Millie watched her unlacing her shoes. She had been thinking about what Lucy had said all afternoon, and knew she had to speak up.
‘Look here – about your books.’ She saw Dora’s shoulders stiffen but carried on. ‘I know you’re a bit short of money, so I was thinking – what if I gave you mine? I could easily order some more, and we could share until they arrive . . .’
She hadn’t expected any thanks for her offer, but she certainly didn’t expect Dora’s stony expression as she turned around to face her.
‘Do you think I’m a charity case?’ she said coldly.
‘No, not at all. I just thought—’
‘You thought because you’re rich and I’m poor, I’d be grateful for your cast-offs? Well, let me tell you something. My family have never accepted charity in our lives and we’re not going to start now.’
Dora turned away to finish unlacing her shoes. Millie felt hot shame wash over her.
‘I – I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. She’d put her foot in it as usual. How could she be so stupid? Dora was right, it was very high-handed of her to go around bestowing her bounty on all and sundry. She was as bad as her grandmother, ordering their kitchen scraps to be distributed among the estate workers and then expecting them to be grateful.
Millie got changed in silence. She felt so wretched, she couldn’t even summon up any anger when she realised Sister Sutton had been in her drawers again and confiscated her lipstick. She was leaning on the chest of drawers, trying to dab some powder on her face, when she heard the creak of floorboards behind her and saw Dora’s face reflected behind her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.
Millie met her eyes in the mirror. ‘So am I. I didn’t mean to offend you, truly.’
‘I know. You only wanted to help, and I shouldn’t have flown off the handle like that.’ Dora smiled sheepishly. ‘Can we start again? Be friends?’
She held out her hand. Millie took it gratefully. ‘Yes, please. And I promise I won’t ever try to offer you anything again.’
‘Oh.’ Dora’s mouth twisted. ‘Well, that’s a shame, because I wouldn’t say no to borrowing those books? Just a loan, mind, when you’re not using them?’ she added hastily.
‘Please, have them . . .’ Millie began, then stopped herself. She could see from the proud tilt of Dora’s chin that she would never accept anything that even hinted at charity. ‘Just borrow them whenever you like,’ she offered.
Chapter Eight
EVERY THURSDAY, VERONICA Hanley met Sister Parker and Sister Sutton to make a quilt.
None of them could remember how long they had been doing it, or why they had even started. But that didn’t matter. What Miss Hanley and the two elderly nurses looked forward to most was making themselves comfortable in the overstuffed armchairs of Sister Sutton’s cosy sitting room and putting the world to rights while they snipped and stitched. The arrangement suited Veronica Hanley, who couldn’t abide idleness in any form. She would never have allowed herself to sit and drink tea and gossip for the sake of it. But cutting out neat squares of fabric, hemming and pinning then stitching them together, gave her a sense of purpose.
She knew the other sisters looked forward to their weekly get togethers as much as she did. Florence Parker and Agatha Sutton had been staff nurses when Veronica Hanley first came to the Nightingale as a student. They were sisters of their own wards by the time she had qualified, and she had worked as a staff nurse on Male Medical under Sister Parker for many years.
Now the pair were in their sixties and approaching the end of their nursing careers, they had been given the less arduous jobs of looking after the students. It was a great kindness on the part of the old Matron, and so typical of her, thought Miss Hanley. She could never imagine Miss Fox, with her mad passion for modernising everything, sparing much thought for two elderly ladies. She would have retired them a long time ago, thrown them out like an old hospital mattress that had served its purpose and was no longer of any use.
‘Are you quite well, Veronica?’ Florence Parker enquired in her soft Scottish accent. ‘You’re wielding that needle like Brutus on the Ides of March.’
‘I am well, thank you, Florence.’ She stared down in frustration at the big, ugly stitches she had just made. She was determined not to allow that wretched woman to ruin her enjoyment of her afternoon, sitting with her friends around the crackling fire, Sparky dozing on the rug at their feet. Outside, the November wind howled, hurling rain like pebbles against the window.
And yet she couldn’t forget about it.
‘I suppose this is something to do with our new Matron?’ Florence Parker regarded her shrewdly over the rim of her spectacles. ‘Come along, my dear, you may as well spit it out. What has she done now?’
Veronica pressed her lips tightly together in an effort not to speak. It wasn’t her way to whinge and complain. Her father would never have tolerated it. Even when her mother died in India while she was away at boarding school, she wasn’t allowed to shed any tears.
‘We’ll have no weeping and wailing in front of the servants,’ her father had declared briskly, as they followed the funeral cortège under the baking Bombay sun.
But this wasn’t complaining for the sake of it, she decided.
‘She has done away with the bath book,’ she said.
Silence fell. Veronica waited for an explosion of outrage from the other sisters.
‘Is that all?’ Florence said, returning to her stitching. ‘Really, Veronica, from the way you were talking, I thought it must be something truly serious.’
‘But this is serious.’ Veronica stared at her in disbelief. How could she not see how serious it was? For as long as she could remember, each ward had kept a detailed ledger recording when each patient was given a bath. It was an absolute cornerstone of care on the wards, enshrined in many years of tradition. The very idea of getting rid of it was sacrilege.
‘Well, I can’t see the harm in it,’ Florence said. ‘I must say, I’m surprised we still have them at all. I’ve always thought it was a rather silly system, and such a waste of time. Surely a sister should know if one of her patients hasn’t had a bath in three days? It’s a poor show on her if she doesn’t.’
‘But . . . but . . .’ Veronica’s mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. For someone who had trained at the very nursing school that Florence Nightingale had set up at St Thomas’ Hospital, and who had even met Miss Nightingale herself, Sister Parker took a rather surprising attitude towards standards, she decided.
‘Well, I agree with you, Veronica. It’s an absolute disgrace,’ Agatha Sutton declared, her chins wobbling as she cut herself another slice of seed cake. ‘It’s the way we’ve always done things here, and Miss Fox should respect that.’
‘Exactly.’ Veronica nodded in agreement, trying not to notice that Agatha was dropping crumbs all over her sewing.
‘There’s nothing wrong with change, Agatha. If we insisted on continuing to do things the way we’d always done them, then we would still be sawing off people’s legs without anaesthetic, and drilling holes in their heads to let out the bad humours,’ Florence Parker put in.
‘That isn’t the same thing at all,’ Agatha Sutton exclaimed crossly.
‘Isn’t it? The world is changing, whether we like it or not. We need to embrace the new ways, or get left behind. Not all change is bad, you know.’
‘Well, I don’t hold with any of it.’
Veronica Hanley fixed her gaze on the mantelpiece as the sisters bickered. A stuffed magpie trapped under a glass dome stared glassily back at her. Agatha had a mania for knick-knacks. Every table and inch of sideboard seemed to be crammed with china ornaments, glass paperweights, toby jugs, and a curious creature made from polished shells, with ‘A Gift from Hastings’ printed on it.
It was all far too sentimental for her taste. She had no time for fanciful gew-gaws. As the daughter of a British army officer, travelling from one continent to the other, she had learnt early on not to become too attached to anything.
‘I think it can only lead to laziness,’ Agatha declared.
‘I agree,’ Veronica said firmly. ‘And I’m sure Mrs Tremayne will feel the same way when I tell her about it.’
Florence Parker put down her sewing and looked up sharply. ‘You’re going to tell Mrs Tremayne?’
‘Why not? She is on the Board of Trustees. She should know about anything that affects the reputation of the hospital.’
‘I agree, but surely it is Matron’s place to tell her, not yours?’
Two bright spots of colour burned in Veronica’s cheeks, and not just from the warmth of the fire. It was only a mild rebuke, but it hit home.
‘Mrs Tremayne would want to know,’ she insisted stubbornly. Constance Tremayne had confided as much herself, when she had graciously invited Miss Hanley out for tea shortly after Miss Fox had been appointed.
‘I can assure you, Miss Hanley, that had the decision been left to me it would be you at the helm,’ she had said, as she poured tea into delicate china cups. She was so gracious, so elegant, with her fine bones like a ballerina.
They had first met when Veronica Hanley was a young girl. Before she’d started her training at the Nightingale, she had spent two years as a cadet nurse in a small hospital in Ipswich, where Constance Tremayne was a young staff nurse.
Not that Mrs Tremayne remembered her. Veronica hadn’t liked to mention their earlier acquaintance. She guessed Constance would have no interest in remembering those early days.
‘I daresay Nightingale’s is in for a rather bumpy voyage with Miss Fox,’ Mrs Tremayne had continued. ‘But I hope I can rely on you to help keep our little ship on an even keel. And if you should ever find something amiss, you know you can always bring it to my attention . . .’
Veronica knew exactly what she meant. She didn’t hold with spying, or any other underhand behaviour. But she didn’t believe there was anything underhand about Constance Tremayne’s request. She knew Nightingale’s meant as much to Mrs Tremayne as it did to her. She was only asking this for the good of the hospital.
‘I will do my best, Mrs Tremayne,’ she had promised solemnly.
Constance Tremayne had laughed lightly. ‘Constance, please. We are friends, after all.’
Veronica was so flattered and flustered she had slopped tea into her saucer. She’d thought about reminding her just how far back their acquaintance went, but had a feeling Mrs Tremayne wouldn’t want to know.
‘Quite right, too,’ Agatha said now, sucking the end of her thread. ‘Really, Florence, I am most surprised at you. Veronica understands how things should be done. She has dedicated her whole life to the Nightingale. We don’t want some chit of a girl coming in and ruining everything.’ She squinted up at the light as she tried to thread the needle with her short, fat fingers. ‘Where is she from, anyway? Does anyone know anything about her? She’s Irish, isn’t she?’
‘I believe she’s from somewhere in the north,’ Veronica said. ‘Lancashire, I think.’
‘Well, that’s just as bad,’ Agatha Sutton said. ‘She doesn’t know how we do things here. Whereas Veronica—’
She suddenly broke off, threw down her sewing and hauled herself to her feet. Veronica and Florence exchanged wry looks as she trundled across the room, Sparky at her heels, threw open the door and bellowed, ‘You! Yes, you girl. Did I hear you running just then? Don’t argue with me, I trust my own hearing more than I trust you. No, I don’t want to hear your feeble excuses. I’m not interested in them. If I catch you running one more time, I will send you to Matron. And I dare say you won’t be in such a hurry to get to her office.’
She slammed the door shut, bustled back to her armchair, lowered herself into it and picked up her sewing as if no
thing had happened.
‘Nothing gets past you, does it, Agatha?’ Florence Parker said, amused.
‘Indeed it doesn’t. One has to be absolutely firm with these girls. Heaven knows, some of them need it. You can’t imagine the lack of discipline when they arrive here. Some of them are little better than savages. It makes me wonder what their mothers have been doing all these years.’ She went back to trying to thread her needle, until Veronica took it from her.
‘I have to agree,’ Florence said. ‘It’s very difficult getting them to concentrate in the classroom. It’s taken this past two weeks to get the silliness out of them. And some of them still haven’t lost it.’
‘What are they like, the new set?’ Veronica asked, handing the threaded needle back to Agatha.
‘A rather mixed bag, I’m afraid. Some are very bright, but there are one or two others who leave me rather despairing.’
‘Let me guess – Benedict?’ Agatha Sutton shook her head. ‘She is simply the most frivolous girl I have ever met. I rather thought she might have gone home after failing preliminary training first time. After all, it’s not as if the girl needs a career.’
‘I must say, I was surprised to see her return,’ Florence agreed. ‘Perhaps she has more spirit than we give her credit for? She certainly tries hard enough. Although she does tend to lack concentration.’
‘Not what we want on the wards,’ Veronica said firmly.
‘I thought putting her in a room with Tremayne would calm her down, but it doesn’t seem to have worked,’ said Agatha.
Veronica smiled approvingly. Helen Tremayne would be a good influence on anyone. Her mother must be so proud of her. ‘I’m surprised Matron allowed her a second chance,’ she said.
Florence sent her a sharp look. ‘I dare say she had her reasons.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. But I must say, she has made some rather odd decisions with this new set.’ Veronica paused. ‘Speaking of which, how is that other girl getting on? The one with the ginger hair?’
‘You mean Doyle? She’s very bright.’
The Nightingale Girls Page 7