The Nightingale Christmas Show
Page 26
Bess took a sharp turn left into a yard. ‘Right, here we are.’ She swung herself off her bicycle and propped it against the whitewashed wall of an outside privy. ‘We’ll walk through from here.’
Agnes dismounted gingerly and stood for a moment, waiting to recover her balance. ‘What shall I do with the bicycle?’ she asked.
‘Oh, we just leave them anywhere.’
‘Will they be safe?’
Bess sent her an almost pitying look. ‘Of course they’ll be safe. No one round here would steal a district nurse’s bicycle.’ She retrieved her Gladstone bag from the front basket. ‘Now come on.’
‘Who are we going to see?’ Agnes asked, following her through a tiny gap between two buildings.
‘A lass called Maisie Warren. She’s not been well all throughout her pregnancy, and since she’s got no family around her, I’ve been calling in every week or so to keep an eye on her …’
Bess went on talking, but Agnes had ceased to listen. All she could hear was the blood thrumming in her ears.
Pregnant. Why did that have to be her first case?
She wanted to turn and run, but Bess had already ducked under a drooping line of grubby washing and was heading for a back door. The paint was peeling off it, exposing bare, rotten wood beneath. The sour odour of urine hung in the air from the outhouses across the yard.
A filthy-looking child sat on the doorstep, prodding at a crack in the concrete with a twig. She was no more than five years old, her feet bare and ingrained with dirt. From behind her, inside the house, came the sound of a baby screaming.
‘Hello, pet,’ Bess greeted her. ‘I’ve come to see your mum.’
‘She’s asleep,’ the girl replied, not looking up. ‘Mrs Pilcher says she’s poorly, and I’m not to bother her till she wakes up.’
‘Mrs Pilcher?’ Agnes saw Bess stiffen, her hand on the doorlatch. ‘Has she been to see your mum, love?’
The girl nodded, still poking at the crack. Inside the house, the baby’s cries grew more insistent. ‘She told me to wait out here. But our Ronnie’s been making such a racket.’ She looked up for the first time, gazing at them with round, solemn eyes in a grimy face. She was the grubbiest child Agnes had ever seen. ‘Shall I go and see to him? I didn’t like to disturb Mum, not after Mrs Pilcher told me not to.’
‘Why don’t you let me see to him, love?’ Bess replied. Her voice was bright, but Agnes could see her smile was stretched a little too wide. ‘You wait out here a bit longer, and I’ll make sure your brother’s all right.’
‘What about Mum? Mrs Pilcher said—’
‘Oh, I’m sure she won’t mind. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse. Now you be a good girl and wait out here.’
The little girl stuck out her chin. ‘I am a good girl. Mrs Pilcher told me so. She gave me a toffee.’
‘That’s nice, love,’ Bess replied absently, her hand already lifting the latch. The door stuck, and she leaned her shoulder against it to shift it open. ‘Give us a hand’ she hissed to Agnes, who quickly stepped forward to help. They pushed hard until the door finally gave.
Inside the cottage was in darkness, all the curtains pulled closed. Even though it was a warm September afternoon, a fire blazed in the grate. Agnes was nearly knocked sideways by the sweltering heat, as well as the sickening stench of decay, sour sweat and general filth. She put her hand over her mouth quickly as she felt the bile rising in her throat.
A screaming toddler waddled towards them out of the gloom, naked but for a grey, sodden nappy hanging low between his legs. He stretched out his arms imploringly to Agnes, his tearful face contorted.
‘Well, don’t just stand there. Can’t you see the poor mite wants to be picked up?’ Bess said.
Agnes reached down reluctantly and scooped him up, holding him at arm’s length. The reek of ammonia from his urine-soaked nappy made her eyes water.
‘What shall I do with him?’ she asked through clenched lips.
‘Use your common sense, girl,’ Bess snapped, dumping her bag on the kitchen table. There was a strained edge to her voice that Agnes hadn’t heard before. ‘Now, let’s get these curtains open, so we can see what we’re doing.’
Bess pulled back the thin curtains, but scant light came through the grimy glass. ‘Maisie?’ she called out. ‘Are you about, love?’
Agnes looked around. The single room seemed to be a kitchen and living room combined. A heavy black cooking range was built around the fire, with a stone sink on the opposite wall, under the window. A scrubbed table and chairs and a small, threadbare armchair filled the rest of the room. A door on the other side led to what Agnes guessed must be the bedroom.
‘Who’s Mrs Pilcher?’ she asked.
‘You don’t want to know,’ Bess said grimly. ‘But if she’s been sniffing around … Maisie?’ she called out again. ‘It’s the district nurse, pet. Just come to make sure you’re all right.’
She headed for the bedroom door, leaving Agnes still dangling the baby at arm’s length. At least he’d stopped crying for the moment, and was staring at her with wide, wet eyes full of curiosity. Twin trickles of mucous ran from his tiny button nose.
She was looking around for somewhere to settle him when Bess reappeared, her face white.
‘Miss Sheridan?’ Agnes took one look at the Assistant Superintendent’s expression and quickly dumped the baby on the rag rug in front of the fire. Ignoring his screams of outrage, she hurried towards the bedroom.
‘No, don’t go in—’ Bess tried to block her way but the metallic stench of blood had already filled Agnes’ nose and throat. Over Bess’ shoulder she saw a young woman lying on the bed, livid white against a tangle of blood-soaked sheets. Agnes reeled back, putting her hand up as if to ward off the dreadful sight.
‘You asked about Mrs Pilcher.’ Bess’ voice was low and matter-of-fact. ‘Well, this is her handiwork.’
‘Is … is she …?’
‘She’s dead, poor lass.’ Bess shook her head. ‘You’d best go and fetch the doctor,’ she said. ‘The surgery is on Vicar Lane, just down from the District House. Go by Templar Street, it’ll be quicker … Miss Sheridan? Agnes? Are you listening?’
Bess’ voice seemed to come from the end of a long tunnel. Tiny black dots danced before Agnes’ eyes. She clutched at the doorframe for support as she felt her knees buckle beneath her. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was the woman’s glazed, dead stare.
A pair of hands closed firmly on her shoulders, propelling her away from the scene. Agnes tried to take a step but her legs wouldn’t hold her. The last thing she heard was Bess Bradshaw saying her name as she slithered gracefully to the floor.
She opened her eyes a moment later, to find herself slumped in the threadbare armchair with the Assistant Superintendent leaning over her, wafting a bottle of sal volatile under her nose. Bess Bradshaw’s beady eyes were mocking.
‘Do you still think you can cope with anything, Miss Sheridan?’ she asked.
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Copyright © Donna Douglas 2017
Extract from The Nurses of Steeple Street © Donna Douglas 2016
Cover photography by Colin Thomas except background © TopFoto
Donna Douglas has asserted her right to be identified as the autho
r of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
First published in Great Britain by Arrow Books in 2017
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ISBN 9781784757137