Nightingales at War

by Donna Douglas

  Now she was a fully fledged student nurse at the Nightingale, and the training school had returned to London from the country, Matron had offered Eve the option of moving in to the students’ home. Usually it would have been compulsory for all students to live in, but the war had changed that as well as everything else. The hospital was short of accommodation, thanks to all the bomb damage, so nurses living locally could have the choice of staying at home if it suited them.

  Eve had decided to stay at the Stantons’. She had been nervous about asking them, convinced they would want to be rid of her. But to her surprise Mrs Stanton had said, ‘Well, of course you must stay, my dear. We’d be sorry if you left us.’

  And then there was Aunt Freda to think about. She had entrusted her niece to the Stantons’ care, and would be furious if Eve left without her permission.

  Eve put down her fork and pushed her plate away. The thought of her aunt was enough to rob her of her appetite.

  After four months in the convalescent home, Aunt Freda had recovered her strength enough for the doctors to consider discharging her. She was already making plans, writing to various London estate agents to enquire about finding a place for them to live.

  Eve knew her aunt couldn’t stay an invalid for ever, but the thought of returning to her old life made her feel ill.

  She had already half planned that if that day came, she would take the chance of moving into the students’ home. She knew Aunt Freda wouldn’t be pleased about it, and would do her best to stop her. But the past few months had taught Eve that she was strong enough to resist her aunt’s bullying.

  At least, she hoped she was.

  After she’d finished her supper and washed up her dishes, Eve set about the mending Mrs Stanton had left for her. The vicar’s wife had been insistent that she didn’t expect Eve to work for her keep – ‘We’re just pleased to have you here, my dear’ – but Eve liked to feel she was contributing something. And using her sewing skills was something she could do very easily.

  But it wasn’t just the family’s mending she did. After seeing how she’d transformed that old jumble dress for the Christmas dance, Muriel and Mrs Stanton had asked her to perform the same magic on their old clothes. She’d reshaped dresses, added sleeves and hemlines, and had even turned an old tablecloth into a work blouse for Muriel. She was currently refashioning a worn-out pair of Reverend Stanton’s trousers into a skirt, unpicking the seams and adding contrasting panels of fabric from a remnant Mrs Stanton had picked up at the market.

  Eve had set up her machine in the attic room, so her work wouldn’t disturb the rest of the family. Oliver also sometimes used it as a studio. He’d obviously been working there before he left for work because his easel was set up in a corner, with a canvas propped on it. It was a picture he’d been working on for weeks, and even though Eve knew he didn’t like anyone looking at his work before it was finished, she couldn’t resist creeping across the room to take a peek.

  She expected to see one of his landscapes. Oliver had produced some hauntingly beautiful sketches of the bombed-out buildings of London, perfectly capturing the pathos and dignity of the ruined city. But this time it was a portrait.

  A portrait of her.

  Or rather, a portrait of the girl she used to be, before Cissy taught her to curl her hair and she’d spent her wages on the last lipstick in Woolworth’s. Before she had become the girl she wanted to be.

  She was sitting at her sewing machine, working. Her head was bent, and her hair hung limply on either side of her pale face. Even her posture seemed apologetic, her shoulders hunched as if she had no right to occupy too much space.

  Eve stared at the picture, repelled and enraptured at the same time. No one had ever painted a portrait of her before. She couldn’t imagine anyone taking that much interest in her yet Oliver had captured her in every line.

  But what he had captured, what he had exposed on the canvas, made her feel angry and vulnerable. It reminded her too much of the person she was trying to forget. She wished he could have painted her as she was now, pretty and confident, with a smile on her face. Not the old, scared Eve she had once been.

  There was a paint-stained cloth lying on the table. She picked it up and threw it over the picture. But as she worked at her machine, she could feel the old Eve taunting her from behind her veil.

  Oliver came home from duty at the hospital an hour later. Eve heard him coming up the stairs to the attic, but kept her eyes fixed on the seam she was sewing.

  He stopped in the doorway. ‘Oh! I didn’t realise you’d be here.’

  ‘I had some sewing to finish.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move towards the easel.

  ‘You’ve seen the picture, then?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was going to show it to you, but I wanted to wait until it was finished.’ He was silent for a long time, and Eve could feel the question burning inside him, wanting to be spoken. Finally, he said, ‘What did you think?’

  Eve considered it for a moment. ‘It’s very good,’ she replied. There was no denying the skill that had gone into creating it. ‘But it isn’t very flattering, is it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She looked up at him. He was standing at the easel, frowning at the picture as if he were seeing it for the first time.

  ‘I look so ugly and unhappy.’

  ‘Not to me. I think you look beautiful.’

  She looked at him sharply, wondering if he was making fun of her. But his face was sincere.

  ‘It’s a picture of how I used to be before . . .’

  ‘Before you started trying to be someone else?’ he finished for her.

  ‘Before I changed,’ Eve corrected him firmly. ‘Anyway, why shouldn’t I try to be someone else, if it makes me happy?’

  ‘Does it make you happy?’

  How could he even ask that question? She was the happiest she had ever been in her life, surely he could see that?

  ‘I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with changing who you are,’ Oliver went on. ‘As long as you’re not doing it to please anyone else.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Aren’t you? It seems to me you’ve turned into Cissy Baxter’s pet.’

  Eve gasped, outraged. ‘Cissy’s my friend!’

  ‘Only because you do everything you’re told. Everything you do, the way you act, even the way you dress – it’s all approved by her, isn’t it?’

  Eve wanted to deny it, but she knew it was true. ‘So what if it is? She’s only giving me her advice.’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’ Oliver’s mouth curled. ‘What kind of friendship is it when you’re only allowed to do what’s acceptable? A true friend should care about you whatever you’re like.’

  Eve suddenly thought about Cissy, so worried about Jennifer’s feelings even though she’d done nothing to deserve her friendship.

  As if he knew what she was thinking, Oliver said, ‘Cissy doesn’t care about you, anyway. She’s just using you because she’s fallen out with Jennifer and she needs to have a new stooge.’

  His comment was like a blow to the stomach, hurting Eve so much that she couldn’t speak for a moment. Oliver must have realised he’d gone too far, because he said, ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It was hurtful.’

  Eve didn’t speak. She carefully finished the seam she was sewing, then broke off the thread and folded her work away.

  All the time she could feel him watching her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, truly. I just wanted to make you understand, Cissy doesn’t have your best interests at heart.’

  ‘And you do?’ she snapped at him. ‘You know what’s best for me, do you?’

  ‘I want you to be happy—’

  ‘I am happy.’

  ‘Only because you’re pretending to be someone you’re not. Can’t you see, Eve? There’s nothing wrong with who you are.’

  His words
haunted her as she lay in bed that night, staring into the darkness, unable to sleep.

  There’s nothing wrong with who you are.

  What did he know about it? Perhaps she was trying to be someone else, but what was wrong with that, if it made her happier and more confident?

  She thought about the unhappy wretch in the picture, all defeated eyes and hunched shoulders.

  There’s nothing wrong with who you are.

  He was wrong, she thought. There must have been something terribly wrong with who she was, if her own flesh and blood couldn’t find it in their heart to love her.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  KATHLEEN WAS HAVING tea in Fortnum’s with James Cooper when Constance Tremayne walked in.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Panic surged through Kathleen at the sight of the neatly suited figure, hair done up in a tight bun, making her way across the Fountain Restaurant towards them. ‘We should leave—’ She glanced around for a means of escape.

  James, by contrast, was very relaxed as he sipped his tea. ‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘We’re only having tea together. What’s wrong with that?’

  Kathleen stared at him in disbelief. ‘But she’s the head of the Trustees! Oh, no, she’s seen us. She’s coming over. Now what do we do?’

  ‘Smile, darling.’ James turned in his seat as Mrs Tremayne bustled over. ‘Mrs Tremayne!’ he greeted her warmly. ‘How lovely to see you.’

  ‘Mr Cooper . . . Matron.’ Constance Tremayne fixed her beady eyes on Kathleen. ‘I’m surprised to see you here, I must say.’

  ‘Dedicated as we are, even we need some time off from the Nightingale,’ James said smoothly.

  ‘Indeed.’ Mrs Tremayne’s mouth pursed. ‘I’m just surprised you choose to spend your free time together, that’s all.’

  Kathleen felt the blush sweeping up her body, starting from her toes. It had reached her knees by the time James said, ‘Actually, we were discussing Nightingale business. The new drainage system, in fact. Won’t you join us?’ Much to Kathleen’s horror, he waved to the waiter for a spare chair.

  ‘Thank you, but I’m already meeting someone.’ Mrs Tremayne looked at Kathleen again. Her piercing gaze seemed to go right through her. ‘Have a nice time, won’t you?’

  ‘And you, Mrs Tremayne,’ James said.

  As Mrs Tremayne walked away, Kathleen leaned towards him and hissed, ‘What were you thinking? Why did you invite her to join us?’

  ‘Because I knew she’d say no.’ He lifted the lid on the teapot and peered inside.

  ‘She might have said yes.’

  ‘And spend all afternoon discussing drains? I very much doubt it. I think we need some more hot water. Or shall we order a fresh pot?’

  Kathleen stared at him, lost between exasperation and admiration. ‘You have nerves of steel,’ she said.

  ‘Of course I do. I’m a surgeon. Besides, it’s far less suspicious than jumping about like a cat on hot bricks,’ he added, sending her a meaningful look.

  ‘I suppose you’re right. But I can’t help it.’ Mrs Tremayne made Kathleen nervous at the best of times, but now . . .

  She was still watching from across the restaurant. Kathleen looked away, convinced guilt was written all over her face. She and James Cooper might be innocently taking tea together now, but a few hours ago she’d been in his bed.

  ‘If only it hadn’t been Mrs Tremayne,’ she said. ‘You know how deeply moral she is, and how much she detests me. She would have a field day if she thought I was having an affair with a married man.’

  ‘You make it sound so tawdry. My wife and I are living apart, remember?’

  ‘I know, but you’re still a married man in the eyes of the law.’ And, more importantly, in the eyes of Mrs Tremayne. ‘We could both lose our jobs.’

  ‘In that case, perhaps we should run away together?’

  Kathleen smiled reluctantly. ‘That sounds like a wonderful idea.’

  ‘I mean it. I want to be with you, more than anything in the world.’

  ‘And I want to be with you.’

  ‘Then what are we waiting for? Why don’t we just pack our bags and go?’

  She caught the gleam in his eyes and realised he was deadly serious. ‘Where would we go?’

  ‘I don’t care. Anywhere, as long as it’s with you. I’m sick of sneaking about, hiding away. I want to be able to tell the world how much I love you.’

  ‘You can tell the world, as long as you don’t tell Mrs Tremayne!’ Kathleen joked, flicking her gaze over to the other woman, sitting in a corner of the restaurant.

  ‘I’m serious, Kathleen. I can’t wait two years for this divorce to come through. I want to be with you now, and to hell with Mrs Tremayne and everyone else.’

  ‘And what about your career?’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll find work at another hospital. Or if not, I’ll give it up and become a sheep farmer, or a shoemaker, or anything at all. Just as long as you’re there with me.’

  He started to reach across the table but Kathleen drew away from his hand. James sighed with frustration.

  ‘Isn’t that what you want?’ he pleaded. ‘For us to be together?’

  ‘You know it is.’

  In spite of having to keep their romance a secret, the last few weeks had been the happiest of Kathleen’s life. She hadn’t loved anyone the way she loved James Cooper, or been loved so completely either. Her only regret was that she had missed out on so many years of feeling this way.

  And yet . . .

  ‘Running away isn’t the answer,’ she said. ‘It won’t solve our problems, it will only create more.’

  ‘Then we’ll deal with them. Together.’

  Together. Just hearing the word warmed her.

  ‘It’s still a big step,’ she said.

  ‘Promise me you’ll think about it, at least?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘I love you, Kathleen.’

  ‘I love you too, James.’

  His hand snaked across the table again, his fingertips brushing hers. And this time she didn’t pull away.

  When Kathleen returned to the Nightingale, the first person she met was Veronica Hanley.

  ‘I’ve just had a meeting with the cook,’ she announced, dropping a pile of papers on to Kathleen’s desk. ‘She tells me you haven’t agreed next week’s menus with her yet.’

  ‘Oh, dear, I completely forgot. I’ll go and talk to her—’

  ‘It’s quite all right, Matron, I’ve already attended to the matter.’ Miss Hanley pursed her mouth. ‘Although in future it would be preferable if you could try to remember these things. We all have to pull together if this hospital is to run properly, you know.’

  ‘Of course, Miss Hanley. I do apologise.’

  Kathleen smiled through gritted teeth. The idea of running away with James Cooper had never seemed more tempting.

  Chapter Fifty

  ‘NOW DON’T FORGET, try to look interested in what he’s saying, even if you don’t understand it. If you don’t, just smile and nod. And whatever you do, don’t look bored!’

  ‘But what if he is boring?’ Eve asked Cissy’s reflection in the mirror.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. You’ve still got to make him feel as if he’s the most fascinating man on earth. And you’ve got to be fascinating, too,’ Cissy warned, pulling a pin out of Eve’s hair so that a curl tumbled down to her shoulder.

  ‘How do I do that? You know how tongue-tied I get, I’ll never think of anything clever to say.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to be clever. Men don’t like women who are too clever.’ Cissy combed the curl around her fingers. ‘In fact, try not to say anything at all. Just sit there and look mysterious, as if you’ve got a secret. You know, like Bette Davis?’ She sighed at Eve’s blank look. ‘Like this.’

  Eve studied Cissy’s mysterious face. She looked more like she had a stomach ache than a secret.

  It was all very nerve-racking. She was relieved Cissy had the morning off and coul
d help her prepare for her lunch date.

  ‘I didn’t realise there was so much to remember.’ If she’d known going on a date with Simon Jameson was going to be this complicated, Eve would never have agreed to it in the first place. ‘Why do I have to remember all these rules, anyway?’

  Cissy sent her an almost pitying look. ‘Because you have to captivate him,’ she said patiently. ‘You have to be the woman of his dreams.’

  ‘Yes, but surely if I really were the woman of his dreams I wouldn’t have to pretend to be – ow!’ Eve yelped as Cissy pulled out another curl and yanked her scalp with it.

  ‘And you have to suffer to be beautiful, too,’ Cissy said primly.

  Eve suddenly thought of Oliver, and what he’d make of it all. He would probably laugh at her, she decided. Or say that it proved his point: she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

  Which was true, she thought. A lot of what Oliver had said made sense to her now, no matter how much she might have denied it at the time. She had modelled herself on Cissy and Jennifer because she wanted so badly for them to like her, and didn’t believe anyone could ever accept her as she was.

  But Oliver had. It was there, in the portrait he’d painted of her. He’d seen the real Eve, and he still liked her. Not only that, he preferred her the way she used to be.

  She wished she still had the portrait so she could look at it again and try to see what he’d seen in her. But the day after their argument, she’d found it discarded in a corner of the attic. Seeing it abandoned had hurt Eve deeply. Oliver had taken so much trouble over it, and in rejecting it she felt he’d also rejected her.

  ‘There, all done.’ Cissy stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘You look lovely, Evie. Simon Jameson won’t know what’s hit him.’ She paused to tweak a loose curl into place. ‘Y’know, I’ve got a funny feeling about you two. I think you might really hit it off. You might even end up getting married.’

  ‘Stop it! I’m only going out for lunch with him. I might decide I don’t like him.’ But even though she was smiling, Eve felt a prickle of unease. This was all going too far, too fast. She felt as if she was hurtling along the track of someone else’s life.