Mayfair Rebel

by Mayfair Rebel (retail) (epub)

  He raised enquiring eyebrows and she had to continue. ‘I’m starting on Abraham and Sarah Wards – tonight.’

  His head jerked up. ‘Tonight! You mean you’re on night duty?’ May nodded. ‘Miss Winton, you should be in bed; or were you able to sleep this morning?’

  May shook her head. ‘Oh no, I worked this morning, until midday – it’s quite usual, you know. We are supposed to go to bed then, but I have difficulty in sleeping when I’m on nights, and I never can beforehand, especially as I’m still on the day nurses’ corridor until tomorrow. I’d have just lain there in this sweltering heat, getting more and more depressed – all the lovely fresh air from the river and the exercise has been the best thing possible.’ Her voice was decided, and Walter Lisle ceased to argue; but she could see he was still concerned. so she exerted herself to make it quite clear that she was full of energy, and longing to go back on the wards tonight. She almost convinced herself.

  At six o’clock Archie said he must be making tracks shortly, so May left the two men together while she ran downstairs to have a word with Mrs Lewis.

  Back in the hallway, she turned to Walter Lisle and asked, rather shyly, ‘I wonder, would you mind showing us round your church before we leave? I’d like to see it, and Archie’s not in a hurry: he never is.’

  Walter Lisle was clearly pleased. He took them through the small garden, past the dehydrated shrubs and into the shadows of the church porch. Inside it was cool and dim, but as her eyes became accustomed to the change in light May realised that it was very different from the churches she was used to. Even the hospital chapel had a sense of age about it, but this was obviously very new and raw. The pews were a sickly yellow pitch pine, and the tiles on the floor a jarring red. Yet it had a sense of purpose, for all its newness: it felt like a church which was used, as if the cheerful, Sunday-morning-best-clothes-from-the-pawnshop throng of East End worshippers had only just left, and would be in again soon.

  May walked down the aisle and studied the ornate metal screen, then turned to the pulpit, and tried to visualise Walter there, in his cassock, preaching to a Cockney congregation.

  He misunderstood her interest and said, ‘Yes, it is rather well-carved, isn’t it?’ She saw that it was: simple, but with firm, bold lines.

  She lowered her gaze to the lectern. ‘What a splendid eagle!’ The bird’s eye was commanding, the beak savagely curved and the talons of the great claws looked completely lifelike as they gripped the brass sphere.

  Walter laughed. ‘He’s rather fat, though, isn’t he? I’m not sure he’ll ever be able to fly.’

  ‘Of course he will, you wait – one Sunday morning in the middle of matins he’ll suddenly flap his great wings and soar away up to the roof, and perch screaming on the rafters!’

  Walter laughed and patted the arched neck. ‘I can’t allow that, old boy – you’ll have to stay on your perch, where you’re needed.’

  Archie’s voice was indignant. ‘What are you two going on about? The thing’s made of brass!’

  Walter looked at May and gave the ghost of a wink. Then he said soothingly, ‘Don’t worry, Archie, I’ll keep it securely chained up.’

  Walter was going to set out to summon a cab from South Bromley station but May said firmly, ‘Archie and I can perfectly well walk to the cab rank, Mr Lisle, if you’ll just point us in the right direction.’

  ‘Then I’ll come with you, to see you safely installed – I don’t want you getting lost. Archie doesn’t know the East End.’

  ‘But I do, Mr Lisle.’ Then May remembered her experiences of several months back, and stopped protesting.

  As Archie secured the cab May turned to their host. ‘I have enjoyed myself this afternoon. Thank you so much, Mr Lisle.’

  ‘The pleasure has been mine, Miss Winton.’ He paused, then asked, ‘When you are on night duty, do you work every night?’

  ‘Until we finish, then we get three nights off, but I usually sleep through the first twenty-four hours.’

  ‘So there won’t be any more dinner parties at Arlington Street?’

  ‘No, the Season will be over by the time I’m on days again.’

  He seemed to be searching for words, when Archie thumped him on the shoulder.

  ‘It’s been a most interesting experience, Tate old man. Can’t get over that dry dock, it made quite an impression on me.’ Walter Lisle flicked a glance in May’s direction; she shivered. Archie continued unheeding, ‘I’ll have to look into this shipping business, perhaps it’s the career I’ve been looking for. Can you fix me up with a job, May?’

  Walter Lisle said, ‘Frears are shipbuilders, Archie, not ship-owners. You’ve got a lot to learn.’

  Archie was as irrepressible as ever. ‘There’s time, I’m only a youngster. Come on May, I want a quick canter in the Park before dinner.’

  May looked back at Walter as her cousin hauled her into the cab. ‘Goodbye, Mr Lisle, and thank you again.’

  Walter hung on to the door as the driver started to close it. ‘Thank you, for the pleasure of your company.’ He paused, then as the driver looked impatient he slowly drew back, saying, ‘If there is ever anything else I can do for you, Miss Winton, do please ask me.’

  The door shut with a little click. Walter drew back and lifted his hand in salute. May raised hers in reply. Archie said, ‘There you are, May, there’s your chance. Ask him to put up a quick prayer that Chef will decide to do what that chap Soyer did – you know, in the Crimea – and dedicate his life to feeding the starving nurses of St Katharine’s. Tate’s a powerful prayer, you know.’

  May said sharply, ‘Oh shut up, Archie.’ She threw herself back on her seat. Archie looked at her closely. Then he patted her hand. ‘Not looking forward to nights, are you old thing? I know, it always knocks you sideways, I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘Yes, yes you’re right Archie. I don’t want to go on night duty tonight.’

  Chapter Thirty Two

  May’s two previous spells of night duty had been in the cooler weather, when there had at least been the compensation of snuggling up in bed on a cold morning with a hot water bottle. Now she found it difficult to go to bed on a hot summer day; even when, in desperation she took off her nightdress and lay naked under the sheet with the window wide open, she still felt suffocated by the muffling heat. On the other hand, she was spared the sweating daytime toil on the wards, with the high collar gripping her neck and her black stockings clinging stickily to her legs. Then, even the special lightweight hunting corsets of silk elastic seemed to drag on her hips like chainmail.

  At night there was a freshness in the air, never found by day in the East End. Also, Abraham Ward had a balcony, where the dirty linen basket was kept, so there were brief, reviving moments to be snatched there in the course of the night – but only brief, since the medical wards of Abraham and the smaller Sarah were both very heavy. Many of the patients were struggling for breath, or lying still, not making even the smallest of movements, staring at the nurses with wide, fever-bright eyes. And always there were men muttering strings of meaningless words, voices rising and falling in the far-off wanderings of delirium. They could be eerie wards at night, and May was often grateful for the never-ceasing summer hum of the city around her.

  Yet as she walked through the big ward doors at nine o’clock each night, basket of provisions on one arm and swinging the bag containing her soft shoes in her hand, she felt a surge of satisfaction and pride: in fifteen minutes the wards would be hers. Sister Abraham and the two Staff Nurses would give their reports and depart, and she would be left in total control of sixty lives, and deaths, for ten long hours.

  May knew by now that Matron’s choices were not, as they had at first seemed, made in a random and unpredictable fashion. She had been chosen for this position because she was deemed capable of filling it: only a few third year nurses supervised double wards. Wright, the pro deputed to Sarah was a competent second year – without her May’s nights would have been fran
tic indeed. Fitton, a first year, who was her own pro on Abraham was far less satisfactory.

  Fitton was a late entrant to nursing. May guessed she was well over thirty, and knew she had spent some years as a school teacher. But her motives for making the change remained a mystery, since Fitton said little over their evening meals together, other than the occasional reluctant admission of tiredness. This May could recognise for herself, since the woman’s aching feet and swollen ankles were revealed in her shuffling walk. May, remembering her own time of trial on nights in the hell of Isaiah, did her best to hearten Fitton, and gave such advice as she could; but the junior nurse was so much older than May herself, and was so reserved, that she felt self-conscious about instructing her, and so confined herself to practical demonstrations and supervision. These were certainly needed, since Fitton was slow and awkward with the patients. May often had to conceal her irritation at her subordinate’s clumsiness, and remind herself that at least she was not careless and slapdash like some new pros.

  If Fitton was silent and humourless then Wright, whenever May dashed through the connecting corridor to help and to supervise, had a ready smile and a quick response. Night duty seemed to leave Wright unmarked, and she often bubbled over with some small incident which had tickled her imagination. May suspected that her colleague’s light-heartedness owed something to the preference which one of the house physicians showed for drinking his cocoa on Sarah Ward. However, May did not see herself as one of Matron’s spies: on the contrary, she made a point of escorting Night Sister through the connecting corridor with an over-loud swing of the door. This brought Wright pink-cheeked from the ward, where often a cadaverous figure could be seen earnestly studying a temperature chart at the far end. May could afford to be tolerant: she knew Wright was too good a nurse to neglect her patients – indeed, May thought to herself, it would appear that her personal attractions were enhancing their medical care, since Charles Wilson spent so much time on Sarah Ward.

  The spell of hot weather finally broke, and a cooling breeze blew in from the river, followed by rain, so that May felt fresher than she had done for weeks as she pushed open the doors of Abraham that night. Sister was grave.

  ‘I’m afraid three of the pneumonias are near their crises, Nurse Winton. They will need constant watching, and we have a new admission, the patient at the far end on the right. The police brought him in this morning; they found him in a collapsed state under the railway arches. I don’t know what to make of him, and nor does Dr Wilson. He may be a case of DTs, but he seems quiet enough at the moment. Sometimes these big men have no resistance.’

  ‘Do we know his name, Sister?’

  ‘No, not yet. No one has enquired of him, and his clothes suggested a casual labourer – perhaps he should have gone to the workhouse infirmary.’ Sister gave the rest of her report and left.

  May was kept busy with her pneumonias, grouped together in the middle of the ward near the night table; she was only able to make quick dashes to inspect the other patients. On one of these she noticed that Connor, a nephritis, was becoming distressed, and she had to call out Charles Wilson and set up a bronchitis tent around the bed. As the long spouted kettle hissed gently she was thankful for the cooler weather.

  The regular ward routine was left largely to Fitton, who dragged herself uncomplainingly to sluice and linen room and then to the kitchen, to cook their midnight meal. Fitton was quite a good cook, whatever her other short-comings, and May sat down at the central table with anticipation, but there was no time to savour her food tonight. Within minutes she was up again, and while on her feet she decided to make a quick dash to Sarah. Fortunately things were quieter there, and Wright cheerfully offered to cut and butter Abraham’s breakfast bread as well as her own.

  Fitton started to get up when May returned, but May, noting the dark circles round the older woman’s eyes, signalled her back to her chair, and told her she must take the full half-hour.

  ‘There’s no need for both of us to be up – I’ll ask you to relieve me later, thanks.’

  May knew she wouldn’t, but she didn’t want to hurt Fitton’s pride, since that seemed to be all that was keeping the other nurse going. Fitton slumped back without a word, and sat hunched over the table, chewing very slowly, as though the meal were sawdust instead of nicely scrambled eggs.

  By five to five, two of the pneumonias were clearly holding their own, and May was bending over the third, her finger on his thready pulse, when she heard a choking cry from the far end of the ward. She glanced up sharply and at that moment the anonymous patient in the last bed reared up. May began moving swiftly forward, but Fitton, coming through the balcony door with the soiled linen bucket was there before her. She put a restraining hand on the man’s shoulder and in an instant he lunged forward, flung himself out of the bed and sank his fingers straight into Fitton’s throat. In front of May’s horrified gaze he swept her off the floor and began shaking her from side to side like a rag doll. Fitton’s mouth opened wide in a soundless scream and May was running – running as she had never run before. She swept a lotion trolley to one side with a crash, and was aware of several pairs of startled eyes staring from the beds – but she knew the men were too ill to give any help. Then she was there, and had flung herself on the man, dragging his arms back by brute force. Fitton fell against the bed and now May, in her turn, was fighting. He went for her throat – she felt the balls of his thumbs pressing – and for one dizzying instant she thought she had lost. But May was bigger and stronger than Fitton, and more determined. She wrenched with all the strength of her arms and managed to pull his hands away for a moment. And in that moment, out of the corner of her eye, May saw Fitton bend forward and sink her teeth into the man’s calf. He squealed, a loud angry note, then suddenly shook May off and began to lurch down the ward. For one insane second May wanted to laugh at the sheer burlesque of the episode, but deadly seriousness returned as the man began to gather speed and May remembered the madness in his eyes and the helpless patients all around her. She forced her shaking limbs into activity and began to run again. The man was ignoring the patients, most of them incredibly still asleep, and was heading for the door – but it was the door in the side of the ward, the door which led to Sarah. May’s mind screamed as she thought of that ward full of bedridden women, with only Wright’s small form to protect them. She threw herself after him and reached the corridor only feet behind him. Then, suddenly, tiny Wright was there, her mouth a round ‘oh’ of surprise as she stared at the intruder; she was clasping a loaf to her bosom, but in the other hand glinted the sharp steel of the bread knife. The man saw it, skidded to a halt, turned on his heel, cannoned into May behind him, threw her against the passage wall and began to run back to Abraham. May pulled herself up again, turned to Wright and cried, ‘The bell, press the bell!’

  She just had time to see Wright’s nod of comprehension before she was off again, gasping, bruised and panting, but still running. Below Abraham was Elizabeth Ward, and this thought lent wings to her feet. But the man did not pause; nightshirt flapping in the wind he was outside, and heading for the main entrance. Now May began to have fears for his safety: he seemed blind and deaf, and impervious to the sharp gravel under his bare feet. Had Wright reached the emergency bell in time, the bell which rang in the porter’s lodge? Only seconds had passed, but it seemed to May as if she had been running in this mad flight for an eternity. Then he was past the porter’s lodge, with the porter only just behind him – but behind him. May slowed down, her heart thudding against her ribs – at least he was away from the hospital, with its burden of vulnerable patients.

  Then she heard a high-pitched, keening scream, the clanking hiss of a tram abruptly stopping, and the screech of iron-shod wheels and hooves striking cobbles. The shouts which followed told her the rest of the story, and as she walked out onto the Dock Road she felt the bitter taste of failure rise into her mouth.

  Matron came to the ward half an hour later. Her face, beneat
h its immaculate headdress was set and grim.

  ‘Your patient was killed, Nurse Winton.’ Her voice was stern.

  May bent her head. ‘I’m sorry, Matron.’

  ‘Why did you not ring the emergency bell at once? You know that is the correct procedure.’

  May looked at the bell, winking malevolently at her from the first of the centre pillars. Her brain was dull and her arms and legs leaden with shock and fatigue. Should she have gone to the bell first? But if she had done, what of Fitton, who was even now attending to a patient down the ward, shaken and bruised, but undeniably alive? Yet she should have rung the bell. She felt too exhausted to even try and defend herself. Her throat was on fire where the man had gripped her neck and the right side of her body ached where he had flung her against the corridor wall.

  Matron waited, but May only repeated, ‘I’m sorry, Matron.’

  The older woman’s voice was icy. ‘There will have to be an inquest. I will call in the House Governor this morning, and we shall have to consider your position, Nurse Winton.’ Her skirts rustled as she swept through the door May held open for her.

  Fitton came up for instructions. ‘What did Matron say?’ Her voice was hoarse and barely audible.

  ‘She is sending for the House Governor. I should have rung the bell, first.’

  Fitton swallowed painfully. ‘But you didn’t have time!’

  May shook her head. ‘I should have made time. It was my fault. A patient was killed, and it was my fault.’ She felt utterly defeated.

  Fitton gripped her arm and pointed to the bell. ‘Where were you standing when he attacked me?’ Her rasping voice was urgent, but May was beyond rational thought.

  She gestured to the middle bed. ‘I was beside Harris.’

  Fitton was reduced to a croak by now. ‘But Winton, if you’d gone to…’

  There was a stifled cry from the other side of the ward and May shook off Fitton’s restraining hand and walked mechanically to the patient.