Nightingales at War

by Donna Douglas

  Kathleen looked from one to the other of the Trustees in disbelief. ‘But it isn’t safe!’ she burst out finally. ‘You saw what happened last time the Casualty Hall was hit by a bomb. Are you seriously proposing we make doctors and nurses go back to work somewhere they might be killed at any time? The patients and doctors and staff would be like sitting ducks, waiting for the next bomb to hit.’

  ‘They are in any case,’ Gerald Munroe pointed out quietly.

  ‘We all are,’ Mr Philips put in.

  ‘And we need to do something,’ Mrs Tremayne said. ‘As Dr McKay said, we can’t go on treating dozens of patients in a cramped, unlit basement.’

  ‘Then perhaps it would be better to inform the Area Medical Officer that we’re not in a position to take any more patients?’ Kathleen snapped back.

  There was a murmur of dissent around the table. As usual, Mrs Tremayne’s view held sway, and the meeting ended with the Clerk of Works being sent off to patch up what was left of the Casualty Hall. Kathleen came out of the meeting feeling very agitated, to hear the drone of yet another air-raid siren.

  A tide of weary, resigned-looking nurses, tin helmets perched on top of their caps, started to trudge down to the basement. Kathleen should have followed them, but she couldn’t face another moment crammed into the narrow, overheated space. Instead she turned and went in the opposite direction, up the emergency staircase that led to the roof.

  It was just past six and the sky was growing dark. Silhouetted against the moon on the far side of the roof stood the lone figure of Miss Hanley in her tin hat, watching for fires. The last person she wanted to see. Kathleen was about to slink away when Miss Hanley called out to her.

  ‘Bomber’s moon tonight, Matron.’

  Kathleen turned around. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s a clear night.’ She pointed skywards towards the moon, bright in the cloudless sky. ‘That means they’ll be over soon. Hundreds of them, I expect.’ She gazed around her. ‘There’ll be some blazes tonight.’

  Kathleen stared at her. The Assistant Matron’s eyes were gleaming in the darkness, almost as if she relished the prospect.

  ‘But our boys will be more than a match for them,’ Miss Hanley went on. ‘Did you hear the news? They say we’ve managed to shoot down a record number of Germans on the south coast. That’s something, isn’t it?’

  ‘I honestly can’t bring myself to listen to the news any more,’ Kathleen admitted.

  Miss Hanley couldn’t have looked more scandalised if Kathleen had produced a swastika armband from her pocket. ‘Not listen to the news, Matron? But – how do you know what’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t think I want to know.’ Kathleen stared out over the broken landscape below them, bracing itself for another onslaught. London can take it, everyone kept saying. But it didn’t seem that way to her.

  Miss Hanley looked at her questioningly. ‘Is everything all right, Matron?’

  Kathleen laughed. What a question, with half of London smouldering around them!

  ‘Why do you stay up here night after night, Miss Hanley?’ she asked.

  The Assistant Matron puffed out her cheeks. ‘It’s my duty, Matron.’

  ‘Yes, but what’s the point? The hospital is still collapsing around our ears, in spite of your best efforts. Frankly, there’s very little left of the building to be destroyed.’

  Miss Hanley looked confused for a moment. Then she frowned. ‘That sounds rather defeatist, Matron.’

  ‘Of course I’m defeatist!’ Kathleen’s last shred of patience, the fragment she had been holding on to throughout the Trustees’ meeting, now slipped away from her. ‘Look around you, Miss Hanley. We’ve been defeated, or hadn’t you noticed? We have nothing left. No gas, no electricity, no water half the time. Our buildings have either been blown up, or they’re falling down around our ears. Our nurses are exhausted, trying to cope in desperate conditions. But even then we can’t even look after more than a handful of patients because we don’t have the equipment or the resources or even the beds to cope.’

  ‘Mr Philips will sort it out,’ Miss Hanley insisted stoically. ‘And once the Casualty department is up and running again—’

  ‘For how long?’ Kathleen cut her off. ‘How long before there’s another bomb? How long before something else falls down, or someone else gets killed?’

  A muscle in Miss Hanley’s square jaw twitched with tension.

  ‘Then what do you suggest we do?’ she said.

  Kathleen’s shoulders slumped. ‘I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t know anything any more. Everyone keeps coming to me for answers, and I have no more to give.’

  She started to walk away, and had almost reached the steps when Miss Hanley called after her, ‘If you’ll pardon me for saying so, Matron, I think you’re looking at this in the wrong way.’

  Kathleen hesitated. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You look around and see ruined buildings and no electricity. I see Mr Philips and his men working round the clock to clear away rubble and get everything running smoothly again. You see exhausted nurses struggling to cope. I see resourceful girls sterilising instruments over Primus stoves, and doctors operating under umbrellas while plaster dust showers down on them. You see despair, Matron. I see people who are dedicated to keeping this hospital running.’ Miss Hanley came closer, her broad, masculine shape outlined against the moonlight. ‘Do you remember a few months ago, you told me that there was more to a hospital than bricks and mortar? It was the people who made a hospital, you said. I didn’t understand what you meant at the time, but now I think I do.’

  She jabbed her finger in the direction of the courtyard below. ‘You’re right, this hospital has been badly damaged. But it stays open because of the spirit of the people in it. I thought you had that spirit too, Matron.’ She sounded disappointed. ‘What happened to the woman who rallied her troops to decorate a ward when no one else thought it could be done?’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s gone, Miss Hanley.’ She disappeared a long time ago, Kathleen thought. She was wiped out of existence by the constant bombing raids, leaving a cynical shell in her place.

  ‘Then you must find her again,’ Miss Hanley said briskly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s your duty!’ The Assistant Matron’s eyes glittered with fervour under the shadow of her tin hat. ‘The staff of this hospital rely on you for inspiration, guidance. If you give up . . .’

  Kathleen shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m too tired,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you do it, as you’re so determined to see this thing through? You’ve always wanted to take charge, now’s your chance.’

  Miss Hanley shook her head. ‘I know where my strengths lie, Matron, and where they don’t. I realise I could never understand people the way you do. I lack your – compassion.’

  Kathleen smiled in spite of herself. Only Miss Hanley could pay someone a compliment and make it sound like a criticism.

  ‘We all have our part to play, Matron. Mine is to watch out for fires. Yours is to lead us through this war with our heads held high.’

  Kathleen looked back at her assistant. Miss Hanley hadn’t made a move, but Kathleen still felt as if she had been given a good hard kick in the backside.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A LARGE SIGN hung from what was left of the Casualty Hall, greeting Eve as she came on duty two days later.

  ‘The Nightingale Hospital – open for business as usual.’

  ‘A bit more open than usual, if you ask me!’ Oliver nodded towards the makeshift tarpaulin wall billowing like a sail in the early-morning breeze. ‘Someone’s got a sense of humour.’

  ‘I don’t care, so long as it means we can move out of that horrible basement,’ Eve replied. The novelty of trying to dress wounds by the light of a hurricane lamp had worn off a long time ago. ‘That sign is funny though, isn’t it? I wonder who put it up?’

  As if in answer to her question, an op
ening in the tarpaulin flapped aside and Matron emerged, her arms full of linen, and marched purposefully across the courtyard.

  As she passed Eve, she beamed and said, ‘Good morning, Miss Ainsley. Lovely day, isn’t it?’

  Eve glanced around her at the chilly grey autumn morning. Icy spots of rain were beginning to dampen her shoulders, and cordite-scented smoke lingered on the air from the previous night’s raids. But Matron’s smile was so bright and convincing, Eve couldn’t help but smile back and say, ‘Yes, Matron.’

  ‘Do you like the sign? Rather fun, isn’t it? I thought we might as well let people know we’re still going strong.’

  ‘Someone’s in a good mood,’ Oliver remarked as they watched her walking away, humming to herself.

  ‘She is, isn’t she?’ Eve was glad to see Miss Fox smiling again. The last few days had depressed them all, especially when all the wards came down. But the sign showed they were fighting back. It was a message of hope, of defiance.

  ‘Don’t look now, but your friend’s coming.’ Oliver glanced over his shoulder towards Cissy, who was sauntering up the drive behind them. ‘Better make myself scarce. Wouldn’t do for her to see us talking to each other, would it?’

  ‘Oliver, wait . . .’ Eve started to say, but he was already gone, making his way across the yard to the Porters’ Lodge.

  Eve watched him go, his shoulders hunched against the October chill. Poor Oliver. He didn’t talk about his work, but she knew that the other porters still treated him like an outcast. It filled her with shame that she didn’t defend him, especially in front of Cissy when she owed him and his family so much. The Stantons had been kind to her, giving her much more than a roof over her head for the past six weeks. They had taken her into their hearts, shown her for the first time what it was like to be part of a proper, loving family. For the first time in her life Eve didn’t have to creep around in fear, wondering where the next punishment, the next harsh word was coming from.

  It had taken a while to get used to not having to be afraid all the time. But every day Eve felt herself slowly blooming, like a flower opening in the sun.

  In that time she’d also got to know Oliver better, and she understood why he had chosen not to go and fight. She appreciated that his decision hadn’t been an easy one, that he’d searched his soul and his conscience for a long time before he decided what had to be done. It certainly wasn’t that he was a coward, as everyone believed. If anything, Eve thought he’d shown a great deal of courage in standing up for what he believed was right. She dearly wished everyone could see him for the kind-hearted young man he truly was.

  Especially Cissy. Sometimes Eve felt as if she was the bigger coward for not standing up to Cissy when she criticised Oliver.

  One of these days, Eve told herself. But her fledgling friendship was too new, too much of a novelty, for her to want to spoil it just yet.

  Cissy came up behind her, looking disgruntled.

  ‘What’s all this?’ she said, nodding towards the Casualty Hall. ‘Does this mean we won’t be working in the basement any more?’

  Eve nodded. ‘I think so.’

  Cissy pulled a face. ‘Well, that’s just typical, isn’t it? I liked the basement. I won’t be able to sneak off to the stoke hole for a cigarette any more.’

  Inside the tent, a weary-looking Nurse Riley greeted them and told them to get on with preparing the dressings.

  ‘We had a busy night, and our supplies are running low,’ she said.

  ‘Bossy!’ Cissy stuck her tongue out at the nurse’s retreating figure. ‘Jen warned me she was a slave-driver, and she was right. Well, Riley needn’t think I’m hurrying!’

  Ten minutes later they sat in the treatment room, rolling the cotton wool into swabs.

  Cissy watched Eve rolling them on her knees for a moment, then said, ‘You know, I’ve heard that if you roll them under your bosom it makes you more shapely.’

  Eve looked doubtfully down at her chest, flat as a pancake under the bib of her starched apron. ‘I’m not sure it would work on me,’ she said.

  ‘You never know,’ Cissy said kindly. ‘Can’t hurt to have a go, can it? After all, we girls need all the help we can get to improve our looks, with everything so short these days.’

  ‘I don’t think anything would improve mine!’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You could look all right, you know, if you wore a bit of make-up and did your hair nicely.’ Cissy squinted at her, sizing her up. ‘You’re not exactly Lana Turner,’ she declared finally, ‘but you could definitely improve on what you’ve got. And not all film stars are that pretty,’ she added. ‘They just know how to make the best of themselves, that’s all. I could show you, if you like?’

  Eve concentrated on the cotton wool ball she was rolling. ‘I don’t know about that,’ she murmured.

  ‘Why not? You want to look nice, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think my aunt would like it.’

  ‘But your aunt isn’t here, is she?’ Cissy pointed out.

  Eve didn’t reply. Aunt Freda might be tucked away down in the country, but fear of her still lingered in Eve’s mind. She could still hear her aunt’s harsh voice jangling in her mind.

  Just like your mother . . . Selfish, selfish little whore . . .

  Perhaps she was right, Eve thought. Perhaps, without her aunt’s guiding influence, Eve’s wantonness was finally emerging. She would never have even thought about doing anything to her hair if Aunt Freda had been there.

  Her panic must have shown on her face because Cissy said scornfully, ‘For goodness’ sake, I’m only going to put a few curlers in your hair!’

  ‘All the same, I’ll have to ask Mrs Stanton.’ She would know, Eve thought. Mrs Stanton was a vicar’s wife, after all. She would be able to guide her.

  ‘Why do you need anyone’s permission?’ Cissy asked. ‘It’s your hair, you can do as you like with it.’

  Eve stared at her. Until that moment, the idea had never occurred to her. She had been so used to pleasing other people, the idea of pleasing herself was all too much for her.

  ‘But I suppose you’re right.’ Cissy’s next comment took the wind out of her sails again. ‘I mean, you don’t want to embarrass the vicar, do you?’ Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Poor you,’ she sympathised. ‘It can’t be much fun, having to lodge at a vicarage. I expect they’re as dull as ditchwater, aren’t they?’

  Eve cleared her throat nervously. ‘Actually, I’m having a nice time,’ she said. ‘The Stantons have been very kind to me.’

  Every day was a revelation to her. Muriel had lent her novels and magazines to read, the likes of which Eve had never seen before. Mrs Stanton had started to teach her the piano and Oliver had promised to show her how to sketch, even though she was sure she would never have half his talent.

  She was allowed to listen to the radio, not just to the news broadcasts but to all kinds of other programmes like It’s That Man Again and Scrapbook. They discussed the news over breakfast and tea. At first Eve had sat mutely listening to the others giving their opinions. She had panicked the first time Reverend Stanton asked her what she thought. Even more surprising, they had actually listened to her. No one had mocked her, or criticised her, and she didn’t have to worry about getting the strap if she said the wrong thing.

  All the same, she was nervous of broaching the subject of Cissy doing her hair. Mrs Stanton seemed very kind and easy-going, but what if Eve offended her in some way? What if Aunt Freda was right and she betrayed her true nature by suggesting it? Perhaps the only reason they were so kind to her was because they didn’t yet know how wicked she really was. If she said the wrong thing she could easily give herself away, and then where would she be?

  It wasn’t until they were clearing the table after tea that Eve finally plucked up the courage to ask.

  ‘I wondered . . .’ She kept her eyes fixed on the sink as she filled it, not daring to look over her shoulder. ‘Would it be all right if one
of the girls at work curled my hair for me?’

  Mrs Stanton laughed. ‘My goodness, you don’t have to ask my permission!’

  ‘I wasn’t sure . . . I didn’t know if it would be all right?’ Eve risked a cautious glance over her shoulder.

  ‘You’re a young girl. Of course you’ll want to do your hair and make yourself look nice. You should see some of the styles Muriel has had over the years!’ Mrs Stanton sent her a long, considering look. ‘But I suppose your aunt has never allowed you to do that?’ she said.

  Eve dropped her gaze again. She didn’t want to criticise Aunt Freda. In spite of her faults, she had taken Eve in and brought her up as best she could.

  ‘You may do as you please, Eve.’ Mrs Stanton’s voice was kind.

  You may do as you please. She had never heard those words before.

  ‘And you don’t have to do all the work here either,’ Mrs Stanton went on. ‘That’s the fourth time this week you’ve cleared the table and washed up.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Eve said. ‘I’ve always done it, and I like to make myself useful.’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t have to make yourself useful,’ Mrs Stanton said. ‘You don’t have to earn your keep while you’re with us, Eve. We’re just happy to have you here.’

  She paused, her hands plunged into the warm, soapy water. It was the first time she had ever heard those words, too.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ‘WHAT DO YOU mean, you can’t come?’

  Jennifer stared at her friend in astonishment. She had never known Cissy to miss the chance of a night out dancing in her life.

  Her friend couldn’t meet her eye. ‘I told you, I’ve already promised to do something else,’ she said.

  ‘But we haven’t had a night out in ages!’

  ‘That’s not my fault, is it? You’re always busy with Johnny these days.’

  She was right, Jennifer thought guiltily. She had been neglecting Cissy a lot lately. But it wasn’t her fault if Johnny wanted to take her out all the time. She could hardly be expected to say no to a night out up west, could she?