Nightingales at War

by Donna Douglas

  ‘Sister Holmes can manage. You must put yourself first,’ she advised.

  Dora gave her a long look. ‘With all due respect, Matron, I’ve got a family to think about. I ain’t got time to think about myself.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Kathleen couldn’t hide her frustration. ‘Surely there must be someone you could speak to about this? I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.’

  ‘I know, and I wish I could help,’ James Cooper’s voice was sympathetic at the other end of the telephone line. ‘But as a military matter, it’s quite out of my control. I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You know I would do something about it if I could. But rules are rules, especially where the army is concerned.’

  ‘I know,’ Kathleen sighed. She looked up as Miss Hanley entered the room with the staff rotas in her hand. ‘It just seems so sad, that’s all. All she’d need is to see him for a few hours, just to reassure herself . . .’

  ‘I understand you’re trying to help, but if you want my advice I’d let it go,’ James Cooper said.

  That’s the trouble, Kathleen thought. I can’t let it go. She had spent all afternoon trying to find a way to help Dora Riley. She had even pondered the idea of asking that Nick be transferred to the Nightingale Hospital. But she realised that was impractical. Their resources were stretched enough, without her putting more pressure on everyone.

  ‘But if you’d seen the state the poor girl was in—’

  ‘So are a lot of other girls.’ James Cooper echoed Dora’s words. ‘You can’t help everyone, Miss Fox.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  As Kathleen put the phone down, Miss Hanley was still waiting by the door. Kathleen already knew she’d been listening to every word. ‘I take it Mr Cooper couldn’t help, Matron?’

  Kathleen shook her head. ‘Unfortunately not.’

  Miss Hanley sighed. ‘I did try to tell you.’

  Something about the smug way she said it made Kathleen’s hackles rise. ‘And you were quite right, Miss Hanley – as usual!’ she snapped.

  Her assistant looked offended. ‘I’m sure I take no pleasure in it, Matron.’

  Don’t you? Kathleen thought. She wished she’d never shared her worries about Dora Riley with the Assistant Matron. Miss Hanley had spent all afternoon making her feelings about the matter very plain.

  She made them plain again now. ‘It’s probably for the best,’ she said. ‘As Matron of this hospital, I’m sure you have better things to do with your time and energy than to involve yourself in nurses’ private matters.’

  ‘But don’t you see? This isn’t just a private matter,’ Kathleen said. ‘A young nurse is on the point of collapse because she’s so worried about her husband. If we could help ease some of her anxiety, she might be able to continue with her duties.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ Miss Hanley started to argue, but Kathleen held up her hand to silence her. She had heard more than she could stand from her assistant on the matter. ‘There is more to a hospital than wards and beds, Miss Hanley. What makes the Nightingale work is the people within it. And I don’t just mean names on a duty list either.’ She waved the rota that Miss Hanley had placed on her desk. ‘If we don’t care for the staff, then we won’t have a hospital at all.’

  A mottled flush spread up Miss Hanley’s neck. ‘I didn’t realise you felt so strongly about it, Matron,’ she muttered.

  ‘I feel strongly about everyone in this hospital, Miss Hanley. That’s my job.’

  Even you, she thought, as the Assistant Matron huffed off, slamming the door behind her. Kathleen rested her elbows on the desk and buried her face in her hands as the weariness of the day caught up with her. Sometimes she felt life would be a lot simpler if she took Miss Hanley’s view and ran the hospital like a military operation. Perhaps her assistant was right and she shouldn’t allow herself to get too involved?

  But then she thought about poor Dora Riley, and all the other hard-working nurses and sisters who dedicated so much of their lives to the Nightingale. How could she stop herself from caring about them?

  She was pleased to see Dora Riley had followed her orders at least. There was no sign of the young staff nurse when Kathleen did her rounds the following morning. With her usual unerring efficiency, Miss Hanley had arranged for a student, Nurse Padgett, to step in from the Female Acute ward.

  ‘I’m sure it’s for the best, under the circumstances,’ Sister Holmes said as they began their inspection. ‘Riley’s been under a great deal of strain, unbeknownst to us all.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Still, at least the poor girl will be able to set her mind at rest now.’

  Kathleen stared at her, mystified. ‘What do you mean, Sister?’

  ‘When she visits her husband.’ Now it was Sister Holmes’s turn to look mystified. ‘Surely you know, Matron? Miss Hanley has arranged for her to go up to Oxford on Saturday morning.’

  ‘No,’ Kathleen replied. ‘No, I didn’t know.’

  ‘It seems she has a connection in the War Office. One of the top brass, no less. Very convenient for us, don’t you think?’

  ‘Very,’ Kathleen agreed, tight-lipped.

  Miss Hanley was rearranging the duty lists yet again when Kathleen returned to her office later. Various papers were set out in front of her, and she was drawing lines between them with a pencil and ruler. It looked like a complex geometrical puzzle.

  ‘What’s all this I hear about Nurse Riley?’ asked Kathleen.

  Miss Hanley didn’t look up from her drawing. ‘After our conversation yesterday, I decided to make a telephone call to my cousin,’ she said. ‘He’s in the War Office. I thought he might be able to help, and he did.’

  She picked up her eraser and scrubbed at the paper, rubbing out the line she had just drawn. Kathleen stared at the top of the Assistant Matron’s head. She had always known Veronica Hanley came from a distinguished military family. ‘Why didn’t you think to mention it yesterday?’ she asked.

  Miss Hanley looked up, meeting her eye for the first time. ‘Because I didn’t think the situation warranted it yesterday. But then I considered what you’d said, and I decided to trust your judgement.’

  They faced each other across the desk. Kathleen didn’t know whether to be pleased or to reach over and strangle her. Miss Hanley had had the solution within her grasp all the time, but had kept it to herself. And probably would have continued keeping it to herself if she hadn’t had a belated change of heart.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kathleen said shortly. It was all she could trust herself to say.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE FURTHEST DORA had ever been out of London was Kent, in the summers she’d spent hop-picking as a child, so travelling to Oxford felt like the other end of the world to her. The train moved slowly, inching past fields and countryside, pulling into sidings every five minutes to allow another troop train to pass. The other passengers crammed into the packed carriage threw open windows and complained about the delay and the sweltering heat, but Dora scarcely noticed as she stared unseeingly out of the window. Part of her wanted to get there quickly, but another part wanted the journey to go on for ever, so that she didn’t have to face what lay ahead of her.

  At Oxford station, the porter laughed when she asked about the next bus to Fairdown Hall.

  ‘You’ve just missed it, love. Next one doesn’t go for another three hours. And don’t go looking for a taxi, neither, ’cos there ain’t one to be had.’

  ‘I’ll have to walk, then.’

  ‘But it’s nigh on five miles!’

  ‘That don’t matter. Can you point out the way?’

  The porter regarded her with sympathy. ‘Your young man at the military hospital?’

  Dora gritted her teeth against the pain that shot through her. ‘My husband,’ she muttered.

  ‘My boy was at Dunkirk. Bad business, that was.’ He shook his head in sorrow. ‘He made it back all right, but plenty of his mates didn’t. Bad business.’ He looked at Dora, then
consulted his watch and said, ‘Look here, the next train ain’t due for another two hours. Why don’t I give you a lift up to the Hall? You’ll have to walk back, mind, but at least I can get you there.’

  Dora blinked at him, shocked by his unexpected kindness. ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble?’

  ‘No trouble at all, love.’ He smiled at her. ‘I expect you’ll be keen to see your husband, eh?’

  Dora hesitated. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I am.’

  As they made their way through the narrow country lanes, Dora was glad of the porter’s kindness. She might never have found her way otherwise. It wasn’t at all like the streets of London, full of familiar buildings and landmarks to guide her way. Here it was nothing but endless trees and hedgerows, with not even a signpost to mark the way.

  ‘They took ’em all down a few weeks back,’ the porter explained. ‘Meant to confuse the Germans if they invade, but it’s just a bloody nuisance for the rest of us. Pardon my French.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll have to remember the way for when you come back. Although I daresay someone will be coming to the station, if you ask ’em.’ He sent her a sideways look. ‘What happened to your husband, then?’

  ‘He was shot in the chest.’

  Dora stared out of the window, watching the scenery roll past, thinking about Nick. She was grateful that Miss Hanley had managed to organise her visit, but at the same time she’d had several sleepless nights wondering what she might find when she finally saw him.

  ‘He’ll be all right.’ The porter’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘He’s in good hands. Those nurses, they really look after ’em up at the Hall.’

  Dora caught his look and realised her fears must have shown on her face. She forced herself to smile back, grateful again for his kindness.

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  Fairdown Hall had once been a girls’ boarding school. But the dormitories had been turned into wards, and the outside tennis courts given over to rows of military vehicles. Dora made her way up the drive, grateful yet again for the porter’s offer of a lift. It was another glorious June day, with the sun blazing out of a cloudless blue sky, and just walking up the drive was enough to send rivulets of perspiration running down the back of her neck. How she would have felt after walking five miles she didn’t know.

  The house itself was beautiful, with mullioned windows and ivy creeping over its mellow stone walls the colour of honey. On the spreading lawns in front of the house, wounded servicemen in wheelchairs sat under the dappled shade of trees, enjoying the sunshine.

  The front doors were open and Dora stepped into the cool shade of the grand entrance hall, with marble floors, wood-panelled walls and a wide, sweeping staircase before her. It might have been a palace, but for the nurses and VADs going back and forth.

  An elderly porter emerged from a doorway to greet her. He bore such a remarkable resemblance to the Nightingale’s own Head Porter Mr Hopkins, short and stocky with a bristling moustache and an air of self-importance, that Dora almost laughed in spite of her nerves.

  ‘Can I help you, Miss?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve come to see one of your patients – Private Nick Riley?’ She clenched her hands together to stop herself shaking as she said his name. ‘I’m Mrs Riley. His wife.’

  The man opened up a large ledger in front of him. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘I’m not sure . . . I think someone from the War Office telephoned to say I was coming.’

  The man looked impressed. ‘The War Office, eh? Let’s see . . .’ He consulted the list in his ledger. ‘Well, there’s no sign of a Mrs Riley here. Do you have an appointment card?’

  ‘Do I need one?’

  He looked up at her, his eyes sharp over his bristling moustache. ‘This is a military hospital, Madam. Everyone needs an appointment.’

  ‘But I was told I could come. It was all arranged by—’

  ‘The War Office. So you say.’ The porter sent her a sceptical look. ‘But no one comes in here without an appointment card. Not even Mr Churchill himself.’

  Looking at his truculent face, Dora could almost believe it. ‘But I’ve come all the way from London!’ Her nerves, already at breaking point, began to stretch a little thinner.

  ‘I don’t care if you’ve come from Timbuctoo. Rules are rules.’

  Dora glared at him. He looked as if he was enjoying every minute of his job. She thought again about Mr Hopkins, and the satisfaction he always seemed to get from reporting nurses to Matron.

  ‘All right, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait.’

  He stared at her. ‘What do you mean, wait?’

  ‘I’ll wait here until you let me see my husband.’ She dumped her bag at her feet.

  ‘But – you can’t do that!’

  ‘Why not? I won’t be in the way. And I’ve slept in worst places than this, I assure you.’

  She pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing her arms firmly to let the porter know she wasn’t going anywhere.

  ‘I’ll have you removed,’ he threatened.

  ‘Try it.’

  Their eyes met and held. The man blustered with impotent rage, but Dora ignored him. Finally, he gave in. ‘I’ll let Sister West know you’re here,’ he said, waving over one of the other porters. ‘But I’m warning you, if she doesn’t give her permission then that’s it.’

  Luckily, Sister West turned out to be more helpful than the porter. She came down the sweeping staircase to greet Dora herself. She was in her forties, a tall, graceful woman who reminded Dora very much of Miss Fox, with her pleasant smile and serene manner.

  ‘Mrs Riley,’ she greeted her. ‘I’m so sorry you’ve been kept waiting. We had a telephone call from the War Office to tell us you were coming, although the message obviously didn’t get through to everyone.’ She glanced meaningfully at the man behind the desk.

  ‘How’s Nick?’ Dora was so anxious she forgot her manners, blurting out the question that had been burning in her mind all the way from London.

  Sister West smiled. ‘He’ll be all the better for seeing you, I imagine. Come up to the ward, and we’ll talk on the way.’

  They climbed the staircase. Grand-looking portraits in gilded frames frowned down on Dora as she passed.

  As they approached the ward, Sister West explained that Nick had suffered a gunshot wound to his upper chest that had missed his heart by a few inches. ‘To be honest with you, Mrs Riley, it was a miracle he survived,’ she said. ‘And it was an even bigger miracle that the medics did a final sweep of the beach and found him, otherwise he might have been left for dead . . .’

  Dora’s knees buckled and she gripped the polished banister rail to stop herself from stumbling.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to alarm you.’ Sister West’s face was full of concern. ‘I can assure you, your husband is making an excellent recovery. His will to live is very strong indeed. I wish all my patients were like him.’

  Dora thought about poor Private Gerrard. His will to live had been strong, too. But sometimes willpower wasn’t enough.

  His widow would have received his belongings by now. They were all she had left to remember him by. Whatever happened, at least Dora had been given the chance to see Nick again. She was grateful for that, at least.

  Sister West pushed open the door to the ward. ‘Right, here we are,’ she said. ‘Your husband’s bed is out on the balcony, down there on the right.’

  It was all so familiar to her: the smell of disinfectant, the rows of beds and the busy, purposeful air of the nurses and VADs moving between them. It felt very strange for Dora not to be with them, tending to the patients.

  She saw Nick before he saw her. His bed was out on the covered balcony, facing away from the rest of the ward. He had his back to her as he stared out across the grounds. She fought the desperate urge to throw herself into his arms.

  ‘If you’ve come to tell me I need to occupy my time, you can bugger off,’ he threw carelessly over his shoul
der as she approached. ‘I’m all right as I am, thanks very much.’

  ‘I hope you’re not being a difficult patient, Nick Riley?’

  He turned round quickly, wincing with pain. ‘Dora?’

  She barely recognised him, his dark curls shorn into a severe army haircut. He’d lost weight, and his face seemed all harsh planes and sunken hollows. There was a line of scars and yellowing bruises across his jutting cheekbones and flattened boxer’s nose.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ He blinked at her.

  ‘Oh, you know. I was just passing and thought I’d drop in.’ She grinned with delight at the stunned look on his face. It wasn’t often anyone caught Nick Riley unawares.

  He recovered his composure, giving her that slanted half smile that she had missed so much. ‘I’m glad you did.’ He looked her up and down, devouring her with his inky blue eyes. ‘I’m surprised you managed to get past the front desk, though. They never let anyone in.’

  ‘I’ve got friends in high places, ain’t I? Besides, I told the porter I wasn’t going anywhere till I’d seen you.’

  His mouth twisted. ‘That’s my girl. You never give up without a fight, do you?’

  ‘Nor do you, from what I hear.’

  His smile faded. ‘I suppose not,’ he said quietly.

  Dora sat down beside his bed. ‘So how are you?’ she asked, diverting her gaze from the dressings that swathed his broad chest.

  ‘Oh, I’ll live.’

  She recognised his dismissive reply. It was the same thing she heard every day from the soldiers on the ward. Some were desperate to talk about their experiences, to share their stories with anyone who might listen. Others played it down, kept it locked away inside, unable to give voice to what had happened to them.

  Dora wished she could ask Nick what she needed to know. But he was like her, he kept his feelings to himself. He might tell her one day, but only when he was good and ready.

  ‘Never mind about me anyway,’ he dismissed. ‘How are you? How are the kids?’

  ‘They’re fine. Getting bigger every day. They’ll be toddling soon, I expect.’