Nightingales at War (25 page)

JENNIFER HAD A
dream. She was floating on a cloud with a bright light all around her, and far below her she could hear her parents’ voices. Her mother was crying and her father was trying to comfort her. Except he didn’t sound like her father. His voice was low and shaking, as if he was trying to stop himself crying, too. Jennifer wanted to call out to them, but she was too far away, and she couldn’t make them hear her.

She felt something tugging at her, pulling her out of her dream. But she resisted. She didn’t want to leave the floating warmth of her cloud behind and drift back to the cold, hard earth.

And then she opened her eyes and she was still dreaming, still floating. Only this time they weren’t just voices – she could see her mother sitting beside her, and her father. Just as in her dream, he had his arm around her mum’s shoulders, comforting her.

Jennifer tried to speak, but her face was stiff and painful, as if she was wearing a tight mask. The pain made her cry out, and her mother looked up.

‘She’s awake! Alec, she’s awake! Oh, thank God!’ Elsie was smiling, but tears streamed down her face.

‘I’ll fetch someone,’ her father said.

Fetch someone? Who? Jennifer tried to look around, but everything seemed blurred, shrouded in a strange mist. She could just make out dim pools of lamplight, white-painted brickwork, and a smell that seemed very familiar to her. Disinfectant, mingled with the slightest tang of damp . . .

Her father returned with a tall figure in a grey dress. As the woman drew closer, Jennifer recognised Sister Dawson.

But it made no sense. If she was in hospital, why was she lying down and not tending to the patients?

Suddenly it all came back to her, a torrent of memories flowing into her head at the same time, overwhelming her. The club, Johnny, their argument . . . the images came too thick and fast for her to see them properly.

Sister Dawson was checking Jennifer’s pulse and breathing, calm and professional as ever. All the while Jennifer’s mind was racing, trying to piece together what had happened. But everything was like a jigsaw puzzle, fragments of a picture that didn’t seem to fit together.

She remembered running up the steps, into the street. Then someone had called out to her, a warning . . .

And then nothing.

‘Johnny?’ She tried to say his name, but her tongue refused to move in her mouth.

‘Jen?’ Her mother’s face loomed anxiously in front of her. Poor Elsie Caldwell looked as if she’d aged ten years. ‘What did you say, love?’

‘Johnny . . .’ Tears of frustration pricked her eyes, stinging her face as she struggled to speak.

Sister Dawson laid a calming hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t try to move, my dear,’ she said. ‘Dr McKay has given you some morphia for the pain. It’ll wear off in a while.’ Sister Dawson lifted one of Jennifer’s eyelids to check her pupils. ‘But I’m afraid you’ll be rather sore when it does.’

‘She’s lucky to be alive,’ her father said. ‘When I first saw her in that ambulance . . .’ He shuddered. ‘I’ve got used to seeing casualties, I can tell you. I’ve seen a lot worse than our Jen, too. But when you turn up to something like that and find your own daughter covered in blood—’ His shoulders heaved, and it took a moment for Jennifer to realise that he was crying. She tried to reach out for him, but her limbs didn’t seem to belong to her.

‘She’s luckier than most,’ her mother said. ‘It would have been a different story if she’d been in that club with those other poor souls. Buried alive, they were. Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’

Johnny . . .

‘What happened – to Johnny?’ she managed to ask. She saw the quick look that flashed between her mother and father and immediately knew the answer. ‘Is – is he dead?’

Elsie Caldwell leaned over and patted her hand. Jennifer felt the weight of her fingers, but no warmth. It was as if her skin was dead. ‘I’m so sorry, love.’

Johnny was dead. Before Jennifer could take in the information she felt herself being pulled backwards into the numbing fog of sleep, until she was flying, floating, drifting again on her cloud, with her mother and father and Sister Dawson and the troubles of the world far below her.

But this time her dream was more vivid. She was on the street outside the club, and someone was calling to her, trying to warn her. Everyone was running, and she tried to run too. But then came the sound of shattering glass, and suddenly she was being thrown through the air.

She woke up, flailing and gasping for breath. It felt as if a thousand wasps were crawling over her skin, stinging her all at once with white-hot shards of pain.

‘Jen?’ There was no sign of her parents, but Cissy was at her bedside, in her uniform. She was smiling, but her white, worried face and red-rimmed eyes gave her away. ‘You’re awake at last.’

‘My – face . . .’ Jennifer could make a sound, but still struggled to shape her swollen lips around the words. She could feel the skin splitting as she tried to speak, blood oozing from painful wounds. Her head felt as if it had been filled with hot, molten metal.

Oh,God, what was happening to her?

She tried to touch her face, but Cissy took hold of her hand.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Wait until I’ve finished.’

It was then Jennifer saw the forceps in her friend’s hand. In her lap, tiny fragments of bloodied glass glittered like ghastly rubies in a receiver dish.

A wave of sickness welled up inside her. ‘Bad?’ she asked.

‘Not too bad.’ But Cissy’s hand was trembling as she leaned in to remove another piece of glass. She was a terrible liar, Jennifer thought.

She pulled out the glass, and Jennifer flinched in pain. ‘Does it hurt?’ Cissy asked, immediately anxious. ‘Shall I fetch the doctor, see if he can give you any more morphia?’

Jennifer shook her head. ‘Not morphia . . . mirror.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Cissy started to say, but Jennifer grabbed her hand.

‘Mirror,’ she repeated, forcing her painful mouth to say the word clearly. She stared at Cissy, trying to signal with her eyes what she couldn’t manage with her voice, imploring her friend to help her.

Cissy’s round blue eyes filled with tears. ‘Honestly, Jen, I think it’s for the best if you don’t see,’ she said.

‘Want – to.’ She tightened her grasp on her friend’s hand. ‘Please?’

Cissy glanced around, then set down the dish and forceps and hurried off.

She returned a moment later with a small hand mirror. ‘I really shouldn’t be doing this, you know,’ she said, looking around. ‘I expect Sister will have a fit.’ She went to show Jennifer her reflection, then hesitated. ‘Are you sure about this? Perhaps I should fetch the doctor first, see what he says?’

‘Please, Cis.’

Cissy sighed, and angled the mirror above Jen’s head for her to see her reflection. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks, really,’ she said lamely.

But one glance told Jennifer that it was worse. Much worse.

‘
CUP OF TEA,
love?’

Dora pressed a cup of strong brew into the cold hands of the woman in front of her. She and her family had arrived before dawn, the latest to be bombed out of their home.

There had scarcely been any raids in the month since early November. But the previous night Hitler had sent a handful of bombers over to remind them all they still weren’t safe in their beds.

And Mrs Gibbons and her family had caught the worst of it. Dora recognised the shock on the poor woman’s face as she struggled to come to terms with what had happened to her.

‘Cheers, ducks.’ Mrs Gibbons gave her a tired smile and took a slurp of tea. ‘Ah, that’s better.’ She smacked her lips appreciatively. ‘Although I must say, it’ll take more than a cuppa to sort out my problems,’ she sighed.

‘I know it’s hard at the moment,’ Dora sympathised. ‘But I’m sure you’ll find somewhere else to live soon.’

‘I hope so, love. This place is nice enough, but I wouldn’t want to spend Christmas here.’

Dora and the other WVS volunteers had tried hard to make the rest centre look a bit more festive as Christmas approached. Someone had unearthed a box of old decorations, and now the school hall was strung with tinsel and paper garlands. It was an incongruous sight next to the exhausted faces of families who had lost everything.

At least Dora and her family had started to get back on their feet. The Corporation had found them a couple of nice rooms at the top of a tenement house in Roman Road. It wasn’t the same as Griffin Street – her mum missed her backyard and Nanna didn’t like all the stairs – but they had a place to call their own.

Dora had tried to do as Nick said and persuade them to leave London, but Nanna wouldn’t budge.

‘I don’t care how many bombs he drops, Hitler ain’t chasing me out of the East End,’ she declared defiantly. ‘You lot can go if you like, but I’m staying put.’

After that, there was no question of Dora leaving her family. She couldn’t imagine being separated from her mum, and knew she would only worry herself to death if she and the twins left them behind in London.

But at the same time she worried that she hadn’t taken Nick’s advice. What if something happened to the babies because they’d stayed in the city? It was that fear that haunted her, robbing her of sleep. Sometimes she would sit at the window all night, staring out at the dark sky, watching for danger.

And when she did sleep, she always dreamed about Danny.

Even though she tried to smile and make the best of things for the sake of her family, Danny’s death still hung over her like a dark shadow. Sometimes she would wake in the early hours after a vivid dream, convinced he was in the room with her. Or she would be sitting up in bed, keeping watch, and she would hear him singing.

‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine . . .’

She missed him desperately, but the twins missed him even more. They would call out for him, holding out their arms, waiting to be picked up. Then they would cry when Dora appeared instead.

‘He ain’t here, sweetheart,’ she would say, tears pricking her eyes. ‘I only wish he was.’

She couldn’t blame Danny for haunting her. She had let him down so badly, no wonder he hadn’t forgiven her. She wasn’t sure she would ever forgive herself.

Her mother came to join her as she washed up. Rose Doyle worked alongside her at the rest centre for a couple of hours a day. Dora insisted on bringing the twins with her. She had scarcely let them out of her sight since the night of the bombing.

‘I’m worried about the Trewell boy,’ said Rose. ‘He’s got an awful cough. Been up all night, so his mum says.’

‘She needs to take him to a doctor, in that case.’

‘She doesn’t want to send for one. Between you and me, I think she’s a bit frightened of doctors since her husband died.’ Her mother paused, and Dora knew what was coming next. ‘Couldn’t you take a look at him?’

Dora shook her head. ‘I can’t, Mum.’

‘But why not?’

‘Because I don’t do that any more. I look after my own family, I don’t care for other people’s.’

‘You don’t mean that. I’ve never known you turn your back on anyone in need.’

Dora looked into her mother’s face, and knew she was right. Try as she might, she couldn’t ignore a plea for help.

‘Where is he?’ she sighed.

Paddy Trewell was seven years old, and usually a lively boy. Dora often saw him running around the rest centre, playing with his toy train. But now he lay listless on a mattress, racked with a cough that shook his skinny little body.

Dora put her hand to his forehead. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any fever, which is a good sign,’ she told his worried mother, who sat anxiously beside him. ‘Just keep him warm, and make sure he gets plenty of rest.’

‘Easier said than done in this place!’ Mrs Trewell said grimly.

Paddy Trewell coughed again. His little chest went into spasm, his ribs jutting painfully through his skin with every cough.

‘He also needs something for that chest,’ Dora said. ‘An inhalation of turpentine or Friar’s Balsam would be best.’

‘I’ve got some liniment, would that help?’ her mother offered.

Dora nodded. ‘It might relieve the pain, at any rate,’ she said. ‘Bring it here, and I’ll show you how to rub it into his chest. Bear in mind, you’ll need to do it every couple of hours . . .’

‘You know, you’re wasted here,’ her mother said later, after Dora had shown Mrs Trewell how to treat her son’s cough. ‘You should be back at that hospital, not here making cups of tea.’

Dora held up her hand. ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ she said flatly.

‘But—’

‘I’m never going back to nursing, and that’s an end to it.’

She went to finish the washing up, but her mother followed her. ‘I don’t understand why not,’ said Rose. ‘I thought you enjoyed it?’

‘I did.’

‘Well, then.’

‘I enjoyed it too much, Mum. That was the trouble.’

Matron had tried to warn her on that day back in the spring when she went to ask for her job back. She’d told Dora that nursing would consume her entire life and test her priorities, and she was right. Except Dora had got her priorities wrong. She’d put her work above her family, and Danny had paid the price for it.

Rose Doyle sighed. ‘How long are you going to go on punishing yourself, Dor? You know it wasn’t your fault Danny died. And stopping nursing ain’t going to bring him back, is it?’

‘I know that,’ Dora said quietly.

She scrubbed at a pan, until she felt her mother’s hand on her arm. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted you to go on punishing yourself, love,’ she said quietly. ‘He would have wanted you to help people.’

‘I am helping people, Mum.’

‘Not like this,’ Rose said. ‘I mean really helping. Why don’t you go back to nursing, love? I’m sure they could do with you at the hospital—’

‘Don’t, Mum,’ Dora cut her off. ‘I can’t go back, all right? Don’t ask me again.’

The truth was she couldn’t even walk past the hospital without averting her gaze. Just the thought of going back through those gates made her feel sick.

But she had to. By the following day, Paddy Trewell had got much worse. Dora could feel the burning heat coming off his face before she’d even put her hand near his sweat-glistened cheek.

‘You need to get him to hospital,’ she told his mother.

‘Can’t you do anything?’ Mrs Trewell begged. ‘Maybe some more of that liniment—’

Dora shook her head. ‘Liniment won’t help now the infection’s taken a hold. Hospital’s the best place for him, honestly.’

Mrs Trewell’s lip trembled. ‘But I’m scared,’ she said. ‘They took my Albert into hospital and he never came out . . .’

‘Paddy will be all right, I promise,’ Dora assured her. ‘But he needs proper treatment.’

‘Will you come with us?’ Mrs Trewell asked.

‘I can’t.’

‘Please, Dora? I’d feel a lot better about it if you were there.’

‘I’ve got to stay here and look after the twins.’

‘They’ll be fine with me,’ Rose Doyle stepped in. ‘You go, Dora. Do what you can for little Paddy.’

Dora sighed. As her mother said, she could never turn her back on anyone in need. More’s the pity, she thought.

It took all her courage to walk through the hospital gates. By the time they reached the courtyard, Dora was trembling so much she couldn’t face going into the Casualty Hall.

‘You go in,’ she urged Mrs Trewell. ‘I’ll sit out here and wait for you. It’s all right, I’ll be here if you need me,’ she said, when the other woman looked reluctant.

‘Promise?’ Mrs Trewell said. ‘Promise you’ll stay here?’

‘I promise.’

She sat down on the bench under the plane trees in the middle of the courtyard, huddled in her coat against the December chill. How strange that the trees and the bench had stayed standing when so many of the hospital buildings had come down around them, she thought.

There was building work going on around the Casualty Hall. The tented structure remained around what was left of the building, its sign still resolutely in place.

The Nightingale Hospital – open for business as usual.

They’d laughed about it when Matron had it put up, but it had made them feel proud, too. As if it was somehow one in the eye for Hitler. They were standing up to him, defying him.

And now they were rebuilding the walls of the Casualty Hall, making it bigger and better than ever by the look of it.

‘Dora?’ She swung round. Helen stood behind her, navy blue cloak wrapped around her shoulders. ‘I thought it was you.’ She smiled. ‘What are you doing here? You haven’t come to ask for your old job back, have you?’ Her face brightened hopefully.

Dora shook her head. ‘One of the kids at the rest centre was taken poorly. I see you’re rebuilding?’ she changed the subject, nodding towards the Casualty Hall.

‘At last!’ Helen said. ‘I must say, I’ll be glad to work in a real building again. That tent gets a bit chilly at this time of year, and we practically have to wrestle the blankets off the nurses to give to the patients!’ she laughed.

‘I can imagine.’

Helen nodded towards the building and beamed with pride. ‘Can you believe we raised most of the money to rebuild it from that collecting jar Matron left on the booking-in desk?’

‘Never!’

‘It’s true. You’d be amazed what people put into it. One man walked in and stuck a five-pound note in, just because he was so proud of us for staying open through the Blitz! And those workmen are mostly volunteers,’ she added. ‘Just ordinary people, giving their time and their labour for nothing, because they want to put the Nightingale back together again.’ She turned to Dora, smiling. ‘It’s wonderful when you think about it, isn’t it?’

A lump rose in Dora’s throat, and she could only nod in agreement.

It was wonderful indeed. And it made her proud that she had once been a part of it. Seeing it again made her realise why she had been so reluctant to come back to the hospital. It was because she knew how much she still missed it.

As if she could read her thoughts, Helen suddenly said, ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come back? I’d love it if you did. A few more of our nurses have gone off to serve abroad, and we’re desperately short. And now David’s leaving, too—’ she stopped short, biting her lip.

Dora stared at her. ‘Dr McKay’s been called up?’

Helen nodded. ‘He’s joining the medical corps. He’s been wanting to go for a while, but he didn’t want to leave while London was being bombed. But now the Germans seem to be laying off us for a while, there isn’t as much to keep him here.’

‘Except you,’ Dora said.

Helen lifted her shoulders in a graceful shrug. ‘We all have to do our bit. I understand that.’

‘Doesn’t make it any easier, does it?’

‘I suppose not.’ She managed a brave smile. ‘But really, I’m no worse off than hundreds of other women, am I? We see them in here every day, wives and mothers who have had to send their men off to war. I’m lucky that I’ve been able to keep him with me for so long. But I always knew this day would come . . .’

Her voice tailed off, but Dora could read only too clearly the thoughts behind her unhappy dark eyes. Poor Helen. She had already had her heart broken once in her young life. She dearly hoped her friend never had to endure that pain again.

‘Anyway, I think I’d find it easier to bear if I had a friend here,’ Helen went on, pulling herself together. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t consider coming back?’

‘I can’t,’ Dora said. ‘I’m sorry.’

Helen paused. ‘I understand, you know,’ she said. ‘You can’t help blaming yourself when someone close to you dies. You constantly ask yourself if there was anything you could have done differently. When Charlie died, I blamed myself too.’

‘That was different,’ Dora said. ‘You couldn’t have stopped him getting scarlet fever.’

‘And you couldn’t have stopped that bomb dropping.’

‘No, but I could have been there.’

‘And then you might have died too, and the twins would have been without a mother.’ Helen sent her a considering look. ‘Are you sure you’re not just punishing yourself by turning your back on something you love? Because I’m sure Danny wouldn’t have wanted you to do that—’

‘Stop,’ Dora begged her. ‘I’ve heard it enough from my mum. I don’t want to talk about it, please?’

Helen nodded. ‘Then I won’t try to force you,’ she said. ‘But please, promise me you’ll think about it at least?’

Dora nodded, but she already knew what her answer would be.

Perhaps Helen was right, she thought. Perhaps she was punishing herself. But if so, it was the right thing to do. Danny had lost his life, and the least she could do was to lose something that she treasured, too.

I am doing the right thing, aren’t I, Danny? She sent the thought up into the empty air.

Just then Dora spotted Mrs Trewell across the yard, and went over to meet her.

‘What’s happened? How’s Paddy?’

‘They’ve taken him in,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘But it’s all right, the doctor said they’ll be able to treat him. He reckons he’ll be as right as rain in a day or two. He’s already brightened up no end, especially once he got a look at all the toys on the Children’s ward!’ Mrs Trewell gave Dora a shaky smile. ‘Thanks for talking some sense into me.’