Nightingale Wedding Bells

by Donna Douglas

  ‘Yes, well, that seems to be in order,’ Matron said. ‘Although I notice the fire at the far end of the ward has not been lit, and it’s rather chilly.’

  ‘I’ll see to it at once, Matron.’

  Grace waited, still holding her breath, until the double doors had closed behind Matron, then she allowed herself to exhale. Mary and Sylvia did the same.

  ‘Thank the Lord!’ Mary said. ‘I thought she’d never go.’

  ‘Did you see her inspecting those castors?’ Sylvia said. ‘I’m so glad Sister made me scrub them with a toothbrush yesterday!’

  ‘We can’t relax yet. We’ve still got Dr Logan’s round to come.’ Grace looked up at the clock. It was only half-past nine, but it felt as if she had been on duty for several hours. ‘I’d better see to that fire before he gets here.’

  ‘Get Marchant to do it,’ Sylvia said. ‘That’s what the VADs are here for, to do the menial tasks.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone has told Marchant that!’ Mary laughed.

  ‘No one would dare.’ Grace said.

  Most of the VADs lived in absolute terror of the nurses, but not Vivienne Marchant. She was a terribly grand lady in her fifties, the wife of one of the hospital’s Board of Trustees, who had decided it would be rather fun to do her bit and join the Voluntary Aid Detachment.

  Unfortunately, she had never quite grasped what it meant to be a VAD. Or rather, she chose not to. She was very good at reading and writing letters for the men, and she always took a great deal of trouble serving tea, although not all the men appreciated her wafer-thin cucumber sandwiches. Once she had even had her piano brought in from home so she could entertain the patients with her singing, until Matron tactfully suggested they could all do without her tremulous soprano.

  But when it came to getting her hands dirty, Mrs Marchant was decidedly unforthcoming.

  ‘Nurse, I simply don’t have the first idea how to make up a fire,’ she insisted, as she and Grace stood in front of the fireplace. ‘We have a girl to do it at home.’

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ Grace said. ‘You just have to clean out the grate, then take some paper and some kindling, and—’

  ‘So many instructions! I’ll never remember them all.’ Vivienne Marchant looked flustered. ‘I really think it would be easier if you showed me, Nurse. Then I’ll know what to do next time.’

  There was a point at which she could have said no, Grace reflected later, as she kneeled down before the fireplace, sweeping ashes out of the grate on to a sheet of newspaper. There was a moment when she could have straightened her shoulders, looked Mrs Marchant in the eyes and told her just to get on with it. But she couldn’t for the life of her think when it had been. In fact, Mrs Marchant had long since lost interest in watching her demonstration and had disappeared off to the kitchen to gossip with the other VADs.

  Grace tried to tell herself she didn’t really mind, that it was probably quicker and easier for her just to do it herself. But inside she felt foolish.

  She was still trying to coax some life into the fire when Sylvia came up behind her and said, ‘Duffield, it’s ten o’clock. Shouldn’t we be outside, waiting for the doctor?’

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ Grace jumped to her feet and gathered up the newspaper, sending up a cloud of ash. ‘He’s probably out there waiting now. Go outside with Finnegan and keep him occupied, will you? I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve cleaned this lot up.’

  It was a little ceremony all the doctors expected on their round, to be greeted at the doors by the ward sister and nurses, who would then follow him like handmaidens from bed to bed.

  As Sylvia and Mary left, Grace stuffed the newspaper bundle in a metal bucket, and scuffed the drift of ash into the polished floor with the toe of her shoe. Hopefully Dr Logan would not be quite so meticulous in his inspection as Matron had been.

  Then she hurried down the ward, jabbing a loose pin back into her cap as she went.

  Just as she had feared, Dr Logan was already waiting in the corridor, frowning ostentatiously at his watch. Sylvia Saunders and Mary Finnegan stood awkwardly beside him, shuffling their feet.

  The nurses both stared at Grace in horror as she threw herself through the double doors. Sylvia’s eyes were as round as saucers, while Mary looked as if she had accidentally swallowed a frog.

  What were they staring at? Grace wondered. She put her hand up to check the pin in her cap.

  ‘There you are, Nurse. I must say, I’m—’ Dr Logan looked up from his watch and instantly fell silent.

  Grace followed his gaze and immediately realised why Sylvia and Mary had looked so horrified. Her once spotless white apron was streaked grey with ash. Her hands were grimy with it, under her nails and between her fingers.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, I …’

  ‘Shall we go?’ Dr Logan cut her off. ‘We’re already nearly five minutes late as it is.’

  They followed him through the double doors, Grace trailing behind.

  ‘Oh, Duffield, what have you done? You look as if you’ve been sweeping the chimney, never mind making the fire!’ Mary gave a muffled snort of laughter.

  ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘Your apron and your hands are filthy, and you’ve got a smudge on the end of your nose,’ Sylvia said.

  Grace scrubbed at her face with the corner of her apron. ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Not really.’ Sylvia looked pained. ‘Just be glad it’s only Dr Logan doing the rounds, and not one of the consultants.’

  ‘Dr Logan is bad enough.’ Grace looked at the doctor’s broad back. He did not turn around, but she could tell from the rigid set of his shoulders that he was bristling with outrage. ‘I’m going to have to sneak off and change my apron, at least.’

  ‘You can’t!’ Mary looked panicked. ‘You’ve got to be here to answer his questions.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Sylvia said. ‘You’ll only annoy him more if you disappear.’

  ‘But it’ll only be for a minute,’ Grace said. ‘Surely he won’t even notice if—’

  ‘Nurse?’ Dr Logan’s voice rang out, stopping her in her tracks. ‘Would you mind telling me what has happened to the patient in bed five?’

  Grace stared at Captain Jeffers’ empty bed. ‘He’s gone,’ she said.

  ‘I can see that, Nurse,’ Dr Logan said impatiently. ‘But where has he gone, that’s the question?’

  Grace went on staring at the rumpled bedclothes, as if they could somehow yield a clue. ‘I – I don’t know.’

  Just do the best you can and make sure you don’t lose anyone. Sister had meant it as a joke, but it didn’t seem so funny anymore.

  Dr Logan cleared his throat, startling her back to attention. ‘Don’t you think you should look for him?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Grace turned to Sylvia and Mary. ‘Saunders, go and check the kitchen. And Finnegan, have a look in the bathroom.’ Please God he had taken himself off there, she thought.

  She looked at the patients to either side of Captain Jeffers’ bed. They stared vacantly back at her. There was no point her asking where he had gone. They barely knew what was going on from one moment to the next.

  She turned back to Dr Logan. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.

  He said nothing, but his stony look said it all.

  Sylvia and Mary returned to report that there was no sign of Captain Jeffers in the kitchen, the sluice, the scullery, the prep room or either of the bathrooms. Fighting panic, Grace was about to suggest they search the linen cupboard when the doors opened and an orderly came in, pushing a wheelchair with Captain Jeffers in it. He was pale and shivering in his rain-soaked pyjamas, his fair hair dripping.

  ‘Lost someone, have you?’ the orderly said cheerfully. ‘One of the porters caught him just as he was wandering out of the main gates.’

  ‘I was only going to get some cigarettes,’ Captain Jeffers replied in injured tones. ‘I told you I’d run out.’

  ‘Lucky the porter spotted him,’ the orderly said
. ‘He would have been halfway to Roman Road by now. And in his pyjamas too!’

  ‘Oh, Captain Jeffers, you’re freezing. Let’s get you warmed up and out of those wet clothes. Nurse Saunders, run a hot bath for him. And Nurse Finnegan, prepare some hot water bottles for his bed. Oh, and we’ll need some extra blankets—’

  ‘What about my cigarettes?’ Captain Jeffers complained.

  ‘Here.’ Dr Logan took a packet of Woodbines out of the pocket of his white coat and thrust them at him.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. You’re a true gentleman. May I trouble you for a light?’

  Grace cringed as Dr Logan took out a box of matches and lit the officer’s cigarette. She knew she should say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

  ‘Doctor, I—’ she began, but Dr Logan interrupted her.

  ‘I’ll come back and finish my round when you’ve sorted out this mess,’ he said shortly.

  Then he turned on his heel and left the ward.

  Captain Jeffers blew a smoke ring into the air. ‘Oh, dear. He seems rather miffed. I hope it isn’t anything I’ve done?’

  Grace stared down the ward. Dr Logan had barely looked at her since the moment she had come through the double doors.

  ‘No, Captain,’ she sighed. ‘I think it’s me he’s miffed with.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘The neurasthenia ward? But why?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Edward’s voice was flat, but Anna could sense the frustration simmering inside him.

  She didn’t blame him for it, either. They’d both been expecting him to be discharged at the end of the week, but this morning Dr Carlyle had announced that he was to be moved to Wilson ward.

  ‘Have they said anything to you about it?’ he asked Anna.

  She shook her head. ‘The first I knew was when Sister told me to pack up your things. I asked her why, but she gave me short shrift.’

  ‘You’re here to follow the doctors’ orders, Nurse, not to question their decisions,’ had been her exact words.

  Edward sank back against the pillows with an angry sigh. ‘I wish I understood why they were moving me to the shell shock ward, of all places. It’s not as if I’m a gibbering wreck, is it?’

  Anna paused for a moment, her hands stilling as she packed his belongings into a box. ‘I suppose they must have their reasons,’ she said slowly.

  Edward sat up straighter. ‘What?’ he demanded. ‘You do know something, don’t you? Come on, tell me!’

  Anna hesitated. ‘It’s just something I saw in your notes,’ she said.

  Edward stiffened. ‘What? What did you see?’

  Anna raised her gaze to meet his. ‘Dr Carlyle says you’ve been having nightmares.’

  His face lost all expression for a moment, but a tiny muscle flickered in his jaw.

  ‘I don’t know what she’s talking about,’ Edward dismissed. ‘Everyone in this place has them. It’s the ones who don’t wake up screaming that you have to watch out for!’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not just screaming, is it? It says in your notes that you sometimes sleep walk, that you’ve been violent—’

  ‘What rot!’ Edward snapped. ‘It was one night, if you must know. And I wasn’t violent, as she calls it. An orderly tried to get hold of me and I lashed out in my sleep. As soon as I woke up and realised I’d clipped him, I was mortified. That hardly makes me a madman, does it?’

  ‘Well, no, but …’

  ‘Oh, so you do think I am mad, do you?’ Edward’s eyes flashed angrily.

  ‘Of course not,’ Anna said.

  He went very still, his whole body tense. Then the fight seemed to go out of him and his shoulders slumped.

  ‘I’m sorry. Ignore me, I’m just feeling wretched. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I’m just so disappointed, that’s all.’

  Anna watched him. He started to gnaw on his thumbnail, a sure sign he was sinking into a black mood. ‘Try to look on the bright side,’ she urged. ‘It might not be for very long.’

  ‘I hope not! The last thing I want is to be locked up with all the lunatics.’ He looked at her, and Anna saw the fear and shame in his eyes. ‘I’m not like them, really I’m not,’ he said quietly.

  He looked so scared, it was all Anna could do not to hug him. Shell shock provoked strong feelings among the men on Monaghan ward. Some rejected the very idea, claiming it was nothing more than cowardice. Others, who had witnessed it at close hand, knew better.

  And some, like Edward, were terrified at the thought of being rendered weak and unmanly by their own minds.

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘Do you?’ He smiled warily. ‘Do you really?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you still want to marry me?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘I don’t know … I can understand why you wouldn’t want to, if – if what they say is true.’ His gaze shifted towards the double doors and Anna knew he was worried about what awaited him on Wilson ward. Those empty, shambling shells of men, screaming in the night and jumping at shadows.

  She knew that wasn’t her Edward, no matter how bad his nightmares were. Yes, he might be traumatised by four years of war, but it was nothing that love and patience couldn’t cure.

  And she couldn’t wait to make a start.

  ‘Let’s set a date for the wedding,’ she said.

  Edward turned sharply to face her. ‘Do you mean it?’

  ‘Why not? We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?’

  He smiled. ‘When?’

  ‘How about Christmas?’

  His mouth twisted. ‘That’s only a couple of weeks away. I might not even be discharged by then.’

  ‘New Year, then. How about New Year’s Eve? I’m sure you will be home by then.’ Anna reached for his hand. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful to start the New Year as man and wife?’

  He looked down at her hand resting in his.

  ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more,’ he said.

  Grace was surprised to hear Edward Stanning had been transferred to Wilson. She had always thought of him as such a strong, steady type. And yet there he was when she reported for night duty, sitting up in the bed next to Corporal Frost’s, a sullen expression on his face.

  ‘I’m afraid Private Stanning has not settled in very well,’ Miss Parker said when she was going through the patients’ notes with Grace. ‘He refuses to speak, and wouldn’t even look at me earlier when I tried to talk to him. Dr Carlyle has prescribed a sedative for him this evening, but he may well refuse to take it.’ She handed over his notes. ‘I fear you may have your work cut out with him, Nurse.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Sister.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, Nurse. And at least you’ll have Marchant with you. I’m sure she will be a great source of help and comfort.’

  Grace caught the gleam of amusement in Miss Parker’s blue eyes. ‘Thank you, Sister,’ she said.

  When she had finished taking report from Sister, Grace helped Sylvia Saunders and Mary Finnegan hand out cups of cocoa to the patients, then assisted with the bedpans.

  After that it was time for the medication round. As Sister had predicted, Edward refused his sedative.

  ‘I don’t need it, Nurse,’ he insisted. ‘I shall sleep quite well without it.’

  ‘Are you sure, Private Stanning? I see from your notes your nightmares can be—’

  ‘I’m well aware what my notes say, Nurse. But I’m telling you, I don’t need a sedative.’

  Grace looked at him for a moment, so solid and strong-willed, his mouth set in a stubborn line.

  ‘Very well.’ She made a note on his chart. ‘But let me know if you change your mind. I’m afraid night-time on this ward can be rather lively.’

  ‘If you can sleep standing up in a dugout, you can sleep anywhere.’ He was smiling again, back to his old charming self.

  ‘I don’t know why you didn’t just force him to take the sedative,’
Vivienne Marchant said as she followed Grace and the medications trolley to the next bed.

  ‘How could I?’ Grace reasoned. ‘Anyway, the men on this ward are fragile enough without being forced into anything.’

  ‘He didn’t seem very fragile to me.’ Vivienne Marchant sniffed. ‘Are you sure he belongs here? He doesn’t seem like the other patients.’

  ‘Dr Carlyle must have had her reasons for bringing him here.’ Although Grace had to admit, Marchant had a point. Edward seemed far too fit and healthy for Wilson ward.

  But there had been something there, the briefest loss of control, that made her feel there was more to Edward Stanning than met the eye.

  Once the medication round was finished, Grace prepared to settle the ward for the night. She turned down the lamps over each bed, then placed a green cloth over her desk lamp to dim its light before settling down to make a start on the reports.

  She already knew the night would not be a peaceful one. In spite of their sedatives and sleeping draughts, the men were always restless then. They sobbed and moaned in their sleep, or screamed out orders. Even the mute ones, who never spoke a word when they were awake, cried out garbled warnings of ‘Fire!’ and ‘Watch out!’ They crawled across the floor, slithering under imaginary barbed wire, or sat bolt upright, arms flailing, fending off invisible missiles. It was awful to watch them coming to life, living out their nightmares in their sleep. Grace barely sat for five minutes without having to get up and coax someone back into bed, or sponge their sweating face, or hold their hands until their terrible, breathless panic subsided.

  The only one who made no sound was Edward Stanning. He lay on his back, eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling.

  Grace was about to offer him the sedative again then changed her mind and went quietly back to her desk.

  Shortly after midnight, the air-raid warning started. Looking out of the double doors, Grace saw the Head Porter marching down the long corridor that ran the length of the wards, followed by a retinue of porters and orderlies, all ringing bells.

  ‘Gosh, an air raid. How exciting,’ Marchant said.