Nightingales at War (6 page)

KATHLEEN FOX AND
Veronica Hanley stood motionless side by side in the office, their gaze fixed on the wireless as they listened in silence to the broadcast from Westminster Abbey. The Archbishop of Canterbury’s voice was grave as he intoned the prayers ‘for our soldiers in peril’. It was strange to think that the very same prayer was being said in churches all around the country.

The broadcast came to a close and Kathleen raised her gaze to look at Miss Hanley. The Assistant Matron’s square-jawed face was rigid.

‘Those poor men,’ she murmured.

‘Indeed, Miss Hanley.’ For once they were in agreement.

Up until that morning, they had received little news of what was happening to their troops in France. But then they had woken to find that the Germans had driven the British Expeditionary Force back to the coast of northern France. Thousands of soldiers were now cornered on the beach at Dunkirk, fighting for their lives as they desperately awaited evacuation.

‘In peril’ must be putting it mildly, Kathleen thought. She couldn’t imagine what the government was doing about it, but the situation must be hopeless indeed if the King himself was on his knees, praying for their salvation.

‘We should prepare ourselves to receive casualties,’ she said.

‘But surely they will go to military hospitals, Matron?’

Kathleen looked at her assistant’s bemused face. Miss Hanley clearly hadn’t grasped the scale of the problem at all. ‘I daresay the military hospitals will take all they can,’ she agreed. ‘But we are talking about thousands of injured men, Miss Hanley. Far beyond the capacity of the military establishments.’

‘Surely not, Matron?’ Miss Hanley said briskly. ‘The British forces will prevail. They must!’

Kathleen wondered if Veronica Hanley had been listening to the radio broadcast at all. She looked so utterly sure of herself as she stood there, bristling with self-righteousness. Had Miss Hanley been on that beach at Dunkirk, Kathleen felt sure she would never have taken shelter or feared for her life. She would have been leading a last, desperate charge against the Germans.

‘Nevertheless, I think we should prepare ourselves,’ Kathleen said quietly.

Before Miss Hanley could reply, there was a knock on the door and James Cooper strode in. Previously a consultant at the hospital, he had taken over as the Nightingale’s Senior Surgical Officer when the war started.

‘Have you heard the news?’ he asked.

Kathleen nodded. ‘We were just discussing it.’

‘I’ve just spoken to the Area Medical Officer on the telephone, and he’s asked that we ready ourselves to receive casualties within the next twenty-four hours.’

Kathleen sent Miss Hanley a sideways glance. ‘How many casualties should we expect?’

‘Around forty. Possibly more. We can take them, can’t we?’ Mr Cooper asked.

Kathleen took a deep breath. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We have Holmes and Peel wards standing empty for just such an emergency. All we’ll need to do is reallocate nurses—’

Miss Hanley cleared her throat loudly. ‘Excuse me, Matron, but have you forgotten Holmes and Peel are both currently being decorated?’ she reminded her.

Kathleen’s heart sank. Why hadn’t she remembered that? Mr Brewer and his men had moved in on Friday, clattering up the stairs with ladders and paintbrushes.

‘Surely they’re not both out of commission at the same time?’ James Cooper looked irritated.

‘I’m afraid so, Doctor,’ Miss Hanley said.

‘But whose idea was that?’

Kathleen caught her assistant’s smug look. ‘It was my decision,’ she admitted.

‘Matron thought it would save time,’ Miss Hanley added.

James Cooper sighed. ‘That’s a nuisance, I must say. But we’ll just have to do the best with what we have, I suppose. What do you suggest?’

Kathleen rallied. ‘Well, if we put some extra beds in Everett, we could clear Blake . . .’

‘Surely it would be better the other way around, Matron?’ Miss Hanley interrupted again. ‘Blake has a much larger balcony than Everett. That could accommodate at least half a dozen beds, if it had to?’

‘Good idea.’ Mr Cooper nodded. ‘And what about Parry? There aren’t many children there at the moment, from what I recall.’

‘That’s true, Mr Cooper,’ Miss Hanley said. ‘We could send most of them home and make use of the beds there. And that would mean we didn’t need extra staff . . .’

Kathleen listened to them, feeling all the while like a silly schoolgirl who wasn’t allowed to join in with the adults’ conversation. If only she had thought for a moment about the foolishness of putting two wards out of action at the same time, instead of allowing her annoyance with Miss Hanley to cloud her judgement. But she’d been so determined to prove a point to her Assistant Matron, she had blundered ahead without thinking. Now she was being allowed to play no part in sorting out the mess she had created.

But it was more than just her pride that was hurt. Her error had caused a crisis at the hospital, and possibly put the lives of injured soldiers in danger.

She had to redeem herself somehow.

‘Can’t we finish decorating at least one of those wards by tomorrow?’ She hadn’t realised she’d said the words out loud until she caught the astonished looks on Miss Hanley’s and Mr Cooper’s faces.

Miss Hanley gave her a patronising look. ‘I hardly think so, Matron,’ she said. ‘May I remind you, the decorators only started work on Friday? They’ve barely begun.’

‘Then it wouldn’t be too difficult for them to stop, would it? I’m sure we can put up with an unpainted ward for a little longer.’

‘It really isn’t that simple, Matron,’ Miss Hanley said. ‘The paintwork has already been stripped, and there is undercoat on the walls. If you had been up there to see it, you would realise—’

‘Then we’ll get the decorators to come back and finish it today!’ Kathleen snapped.

‘On a Sunday, Matron? I hardly think that’s possible.’

‘We won’t know until we try, will we?’ Kathleen could feel herself growing flustered. Miss Hanley was right, of course. She wished she had never come up with such a desperate suggestion. Now she had made herself looked even more foolish in front of Mr Cooper. She could feel him staring at her. He probably thought she’d lost her senses.

‘Excuse me,’ he said patiently. ‘This is all very interesting, but what shall I tell the Area Medical Officer?’

Kathleen turned to him. ‘You can tell him to send his casualties,’ she said.

James Cooper’s brows rose. ‘All of them?’

‘All of them,’ Kathleen said firmly, ignoring Miss Hanley. ‘We will have a ward ready for them by tomorrow morning.’

Even if I have to stay up all night and paint it myself, she thought.

‘Well, that was a waste of time.’

Aunt Freda pulled on her gloves, her face pinched with disapproval. Eve’s heart sank. When her aunt disliked the church service, it could put her in a bad mood for the rest of the day.

‘All those prayers for the soldiers in peril,’ Aunt Freda continued. ‘One comes to church to be enlightened and instructed, not to pray for souls who aren’t worth saving anyway.’

Eve shot a wary glance towards a group of women who stood at the back of the church, weeping and comforting each other. She hoped they hadn’t heard her aunt’s comment. ‘A lot of the people here have sons and husbands fighting in France,’ she said.

‘Yes, and most of them had never set foot inside a church until this war broke out,’ Aunt Freda scoffed. ‘I’ve seen those women out in the street. I’ve seen the way they act, laughing and using profane language and taking the Lord’s name in vain. But as soon as it suits them, they’re in here on their knees, praying to Him to help them. Much good it will do them,’ she said with a grim smile. ‘God will judge them, you see if He doesn’t. He will punish the sinners.’

She raised her voice and Eve cringed, seeing the women look their way. She wished her aunt would shut up, but nothing would stop Freda Ainsley when she was in one of her moods. She glared back at the women, as if daring them to approach her.

‘Really, Mrs Ainsley, that’s hardly Christian.’

Reverend Stanton stood behind them, a young man at his side. Eve had never seen him before, but she could tell at once the two men were related. They were both tall and sandy-haired, with lively green eyes and wide, friendly smiles.

Aunt Freda turned on him. ‘Reverend,’ she said, tight-lipped, ‘I was just saying, I felt this morning’s service left a lot to be desired.’

Eve saw a look of astonishment appear on the younger man’s face. But Reverend Stanton’s smile only broadened.

‘As usual, I welcome your comments,’ he said smoothly. ‘I’m sure they will be most – incisive.’ Then, before Aunt Freda could enlighten him further, he added, ‘Have you met my son Oliver? He’s just returned from France.’

Aunt Freda’s brows rose. ‘You were fighting?’

The young man shook his head. ‘I was at art school in Paris.’

‘Unfortunately his studies have been curtailed by recent events, so he’ll be staying with us for a while.’ Reverend Stanton smiled at Eve. ‘You two are a similar age. Perhaps you could befriend him, since he doesn’t know anyone in the area?’

Eve glanced at Oliver Stanton. He looked as horrified by the idea as she was.

Thankfully, her aunt stepped in. ‘That won’t be possible,’ she said tautly. ‘Eve has far too much work to do helping me in the shop. Besides, I don’t hold with girls consorting with young men,’ she added. ‘It isn’t decent.’

‘I’m sure I wasn’t suggesting anything improper, Mrs Ainsley,’ Reverend Stanton said, as Eve blushed.

‘All the same, I don’t hold with it,’ Aunt Freda insisted. ‘Especially not for my niece. She has sin in her blood,’ she confided.

Eve stared at the worn stone flags beneath her feet. She didn’t dare look at Oliver Stanton, she could only imagine what he was thinking.

‘Anyway, it’s time we were going,’ Aunt Freda said. She gripped Eve’s shoulder, propelling her towards the church door. ‘Good day to you, Reverend. And you, Mr Stanton.’

‘It was nice to meet you,’ Oliver called after them as they hurried away.

Reverend Stanton’s wife and daughter were waiting at the door. Muriel Stanton was a few years older than Eve, tall and fair-haired like her father, with the same green eyes and bright smile.

‘Ah, Mrs Ainsley,’ Mrs Stanton greeted Aunt Freda. ‘I’m so glad I ran into you both. I’ve been meaning to thank you for the wonderful work you did, altering Muriel’s dress for her.’

‘I thought it was ruined when I ripped the skirt so badly,’ Muriel put in. ‘But honestly, when Mother showed me how you’d mended it, I couldn’t believe it. I could hardly see it had been damaged at all.’

Aunt Freda allowed herself a small smile. ‘You’re quite welcome, I’m sure.’

Mrs Stanton turned to Eve. ‘You really are a gifted seamstress, Eve. I wonder if you would accept a small token of our appreciation . . .’

She reached into her handbag for her purse, but Aunt Freda put out her hand to stop her.

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Eve doesn’t need it, thank you.’

‘But I just wanted to—’

‘She was just doing her job, that’s all. No more and no less.’

‘But—’

‘Come along, Eve.’ Once again, she felt her aunt’s grip on her shoulder. Her fingers seemed to be digging even harder into her flesh this time.

As they walked away, Aunt Freda muttered, ‘And you needn’t get above yourself either. She was only being kind.’

‘Yes, Aunt.’

‘You’re nothing special. You just remember that,’ Aunt Freda warned her.

‘I – I know that, Aunt.’

As they left the church, Eve risked a glance back over her shoulder. Muriel Stanton was still standing at the church doors, chatting to another parishioner. Her mother stood at her side. The look of smiling pride on Mrs Stanton’s face as she gazed at her daughter gave Eve a painful pang of envy.

How she wished her aunt could love her like that. She longed for nothing more than to make Aunt Freda proud. And yet no matter how hard she tried, nothing she did was ever good enough.

How unlovable must she be, Eve wondered, if her own flesh and blood could despise her so much?

IT WAS ALMOST
midnight on Sunday evening when James Cooper emerged from the basement operating theatre, exhausted and in low spirits. It always affected him badly when he lost a patient. After nearly twenty years as a surgeon, he knew he should have been used to it, but each time he felt the same sadness and frustration when he had to admit defeat.

There was no shame in giving up in this case. The emergency appendix operation had been long and difficult, and no one but he had truly expected the patient to live. The appendix had perforated, and the entire peritoneal cavity was a toxic mess. But still James had battled on long after he sensed Dr Jameson and the nurses losing heart.

Everyone thought it was his professional pride that refused to allow him to give up. But it was more than that. James dreaded facing his patients’ families. He hated to see the hope die on their faces when he had to explain that, in spite of his best efforts, he had failed to save their loved one’s life. They had put all their trust in him, and he’d let them down.

It was particularly hard in this case, as the patient was a young father. James had sat rigid behind his desk, watching the man’s widow weeping and not knowing what to say or do to comfort her. All he could do was repeat the facts over and over again.

‘It was too late . . . the appendix had already perforated . . . too much damage . . .’

He didn’t think she’d taken in anything he’d said, and he didn’t blame her. All the poor woman knew was that she’d lost the man she loved, and her children had lost their father. And there was nothing he could say to take away the pain.

He wondered if Simone would cry for him the way that woman had wept for her husband. He doubted it. It would probably be a blessed release for both of them.

He thought about going home, but couldn’t face it. Once upon a time Simone might have been waiting up for him, but after more than twenty years of marriage, he knew her bedroom door would be firmly closed. Unless she was in one of her argumentative moods, in which case he would face endless hours of questions and accusations about where he’d been and who he’d been with. Then there would be tears and bitter recriminations, and he would end up apologising just to make it all stop.

No, it wasn’t worth going home. As he wearily climbed the stairs, James wondered how his life had gone so badly wrong that he preferred a hard couch in his office to his own marital bed.

James Cooper had been just twenty years old and a young officer when he’d first met Simone in Amiens. She was a young girl then, helping her father run the village inn where many of the men went to escape during their rare periods of rest. After the horrors James had witnessed on the battlefield, she had proved a welcome escape, a breath of sweet, fresh air to chase away the stench of death and despair. Young and romantic as he was, James had fancied himself in love. He had married Simone as soon as the war was over, and brought her home with him to England.

But it wasn’t long before he realised that the urgent passion fuelled by the intensity of war couldn’t be sustained in the quiet of peacetime. They were like strangers, unable to find any common ground between them. And it didn’t help that Simone was desperately unhappy in her new home. Like a beautiful, exotic hothouse flower, she simply couldn’t survive in the chilly, grey climate of England. She hated the people, the weather, the language. But most of all she hated James for bringing her there. He did his best to make their marriage work, but Simone’s indifference, combined with her violent, jealous moods, eventually proved too much for him. Now they were like barely civil strangers, existing side by side in an atmosphere of mutual resentment.

He had reached the landing that led to his office when he heard a curious sound from above him. At first he thought it might be exhaustion playing tricks on him. But as he paused on the stairs to listen, he realised it wasn’t his imagination. Drifting down the stairs were the sounds of laughter – and music.

Curious, he followed them to the top floor, where the empty wards were situated. From along the passageway came the strong smell of fresh paint. As James approached, he could hear the hubbub of voices. It sounded as if someone was having a party in Holmes ward.

He opened the double doors, and an extraordinary sight met his eyes. The cavernous ward, stripped of beds, furniture and curtains at the tall windows, was filled with people. James recognised nurses, medical students, porters, even a couple of ward maids, all merrily wielding paint brushes side by side. The decorators were there, too, in their brown overalls, looking askance at the efforts of those around them. Over in the corner, a gramophone was playing.

And in the middle of it all was Kathleen Fox. James picked her out straight away, halfway up a ladder, painting a window frame. He barely recognised her in paint-spattered overalls, her chestnut hair wrapped up in a colourful scarf.

He stood in the doorway, watching her for a moment as she chatted happily to the young medical student beside her. But then she spotted him and came down the ladder to greet him.

‘Mr Cooper!’ She had a smudge of white paint across her nose. ‘This is a surprise. What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve just come out of Theatre.’ He gazed around him. ‘You seem to have mobilised quite an army!’ he commented.

‘Oh, I can’t take the credit for it,’ she dismissed. ‘I simply explained the situation and everyone volunteered to help the decorators get finished in time for tomorrow. Although between you and me, I’m not sure they’re entirely appreciative of our efforts!’ she confided with a smile.

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

‘I wouldn’t be too certain. Poor Mr Brewer the foreman is doing his best to keep control of everyone, but I feel the situation is getting away from him!’

She grinned. James didn’t think he had ever seen her looking so full of life. Out of her severe black uniform, she looked far younger than her forty-odd years, laughter sparkling in her grey eyes.

‘It’s looking splendid anyway,’ he said.

‘Do you think so?’ Kathleen looked around her. ‘We won’t be able to get all the furniture back in place and the curtains up until the paint’s dry tomorrow morning, but hopefully it should all be ready by the time the casualties start to arrive.’

‘You’ve done very well.’

She blushed. ‘I felt I should correct my mistake,’ she admitted quietly.

‘Not to mention prove Miss Hanley wrong?’

Kathleen sent him a quick look, then a slow smile spread across her face. ‘I’m afraid you may be right,’ she admitted shamefaced. ‘Is that very terrible of me?’

‘Not terrible at all, if it means the ward is ready for when the men arrive. But you do realise if you manage to pull this off, Miss Hanley will probably claim it was all her idea?’

‘You may be right about that, too.’ Kathleen looked rueful. James had to fight the urge to reach out and rub the smudge of paint from her nose. ‘But we still have quite a lot to do, so I’m afraid Miss Hanley may yet have the last laugh.’

‘Could you use an extra pair of hands?’

She frowned. ‘Surely you’ll want to go home, if you’ve been in Theatre all this time?’

He thought about Simone, waiting for him, spoiling for another fight. Or his house, dark and unwelcoming. ‘I’d like to do my bit.’ He shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘So where do you want me to start?’

‘Well, you’ll need to change first . . . if you go and see Mr Hopkins, he’ll kit you out in something suitable. Then . . .’ Kathleen looked around the ward, ‘if you have a head for heights, you could make a start on the ceiling?’

As they worked on into the early hours, James was surprised to find he was enjoying himself. The medical students and nurses seemed to have an endless supply of energy, even breaking off from their painting to perform a spirited rendition of ‘The Lambeth Walk’.

James caught Kathleen Fox’s eye across the ward. She was still perched on her ladder, watching the couples and clapping along to the gramophone music. She had exactly the right idea, he thought. She understood that everyone would work a lot harder if they were allowed to have fun at the same time.

He was just glad Miss Hanley wasn’t there to see it. She would have had a fit, he decided.

‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ Mr Brewer, the decorators’ foreman, said from below his ladder. ‘In all my born days, I don’t think I’ve ever worked on a job quite like this one. Don’t think I’ve ever worked on a Sunday either, come to think of it.’

‘It’s very kind of you to give up your day off to help us,’ James said.

‘Didn’t have much choice.’ Herbert Brewer nodded towards Kathleen. ‘Turned up on my doorstep she did, just after my missus and I had finished our dinner. She explained about the lads coming back from France, and how she needed the ward to be ready for them, and of course I couldn’t refuse. Neither could any of my lads. We’ve all got sons and brothers in France, we’d want them to be looked after. Wouldn’t like to think they didn’t have a decent place to come home to.’ He grinned up at James, showing wide-spaced gaps between his yellowing teeth. ‘Wouldn’t like to try saying no to Miss Fox neither. She’s got a way about her, your Matron,’ he said.

James looked at Kathleen again, still perched on her ladder, clapping in time to the music. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘She certainly has.’