Nightingales at War (7 page)

HELEN WAS ALREADY
waiting in the Casualty Hall for Dora when she reported for duty first thing on Monday morning. Matron was with her.

‘Oh, there you are, Riley,’ Miss Fox greeted her. ‘I just wanted to let you know you’ll be moving today.’

‘Moving, Matron?’

‘We’re opening up Holmes ward for the Dunkirk casualties, and I want you to help out for the next few weeks. I know you’ve settled here in Casualty, but we have urgent need of you elsewhere, I’m afraid.’

‘Yes, Matron.’ Dora’s reply was automatic but her heart was beating rapidly against her chest, as if it could fight its way out of her ribcage.

‘Get changed and report to Holmes as soon as possible, would you? I know Sister Holmes would be very grateful for some help. The casualties are expected within the next hour, and there is a great deal to do before then.’

‘Yes, Matron.’ Dora watched her walk away, glad she had managed to resist the urge to argue. It wouldn’t have done any good, since Matron’s decision was always final.

‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said, when Miss Fox had gone. ‘I wanted to keep you, but Matron insisted.’

‘Why me?’ Dora asked, trying to sound calm. ‘Why couldn’t she send Kowalski instead?’

‘From what Matron told me, they need an experienced nurse up there. They only have Sister Holmes and one of the new VADs to look after the whole ward.’

Yes, but why me? Dora repeated silently. It was her worst nightmare come true. She had started work at the Nightingale hoping it might help take her mind off what was happening to Nick across the Channel. And now she had been put on a ward looking after servicemen just like him. They would be badly wounded, too, in just the way she feared Nick might be one day. How she would ever cope she had no idea.

‘You heard what she said. It’ll only be for a couple of weeks.’ Helen’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘If you really can’t manage then I’m sure Matron will send you back, under the circumstances—’

Dora stared at her friend’s sympathetic expression, appalled she had given herself away. She’d had no idea her fears were written so clearly across her face for all to see. The last thing Dora wanted to do was let on how afraid she really was.

She quickly readjusted her features. ‘Oh, I’ll be all right,’ she said as breezily as she could. ‘I just thought I might be of more use here, that’s all.’

‘Are you sure? I thought you might be worried about Nick.’

‘Why should I be? I told you, Nick can take care of himself.’ She gritted her teeth into what she hoped was a convincing smile. Helen sent her a sideways look but said nothing. Once again, Dora was grateful to her friend for her wisdom. She wasn’t sure she could have kept up the pretence if Helen had questioned her further.

Up on Holmes ward, she found a state of orderly chaos. The porters were still wheeling empty beds and lockers on to the ward and setting them up in two tidy rows either side of the vast room. Two VADs were making the beds as quickly as they arrived, while another was cleaning the floor, and yet another sat at the table in the middle of the ward, stitching hooks into blackout curtains. The tall windows had been thrown open, but the whole ward still smelled strongly of fresh paint.

In the centre of it all stood Miss Pallister, Sister of Holmes ward. She was another familiar face from Dora’s training days. Sister Holmes was in her late thirties and movie-star glamorous, with her rounded figure, pillowy lips and wavy blonde hair. She was also living proof that appearances could be very deceiving indeed. Those soft curves hid a spiky temper and a heart of pure granite.

She barely bothered to greet Dora, ordering her instead to start making up hot water bottles.

‘I sent the new VAD to do it half an hour ago, but the muddle-headed girl doesn’t have the first idea what she’s supposed to be doing,’ she sighed, rolling her eyes heavenwards. ‘And you,’ she called across the ward to the girl who was making the bed. ‘What did I tell you about making sure all the wheels point the same way?’

Dora found the new ward VAD in the sluice, filling hot water bottles. Sister Holmes was right, she did seem to be making rather a meal of it, carefully expelling the air from each bottle by pressing it against the flat bib of her apron, then fastening the stopper and checking it over and over again for leaks. At the rate she was going, the bottles would be cold long before she got them into the beds.

She greeted Dora with wide-eyed enthusiasm. ‘Oh, hello, you must be Nurse Riley?’ she lisped. With her blonde plaits and buck teeth, she looked and sounded as if she’d just skipped off the lacrosse pitch of a posh girls’ boarding school. ‘I’m Daisy Bushell.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Dora nodded towards the hot water bottle in the girl’s hands. ‘How are you getting on with those?’

‘Nearly done, I think. It’s all terribly exciting, isn’t it?’ Daisy whispered. ‘I can’t wait for the patients to arrive.’

I can, Dora thought grimly.

‘My fiancé is in the RAF,’ Daisy continued. ‘I applied for a military hospital, so I was awfully disappointed when I was sent here instead. But now it looks as if we’re going to be nursing real war casualties after all.’

Dora stared at her blankly. ‘Real war casualties?’

‘You know – wounded soldiers and so on. Isn’t it thrilling?’

‘Thrilling isn’t a word I’d use,’ Dora muttered. ‘Besides, sick and injured people are all the same, whether they’re in uniform or not.’

‘Well, you say that. But there is difference, isn’t there?’ Daisy smiled knowingly. ‘I mean, you really feel as if you’re doing your bit when you’re nursing soldiers, don’t you?’

She was young, Dora told herself. Young and naïve, and she didn’t know what she was saying. But with Dora trying to hold on to what was left of her nerves, the last thing she needed was a chatterbox like Daisy Bushell trampling all over them with her nonsense.

‘If you really want to do your bit, you’ll get those bottles into the beds before they turn stone cold,’ she snapped.

They had finished airing all the beds as the telephone rang on Sister’s desk, warning of the first casualties’ arrival. Dora busied herself, straightening her cap and adjusting her apron to steady her nerves, while all the time Daisy chattered on behind her. It was all Dora could do not to turn round and shake the girl until her teeth rattled.

And then they arrived, a filthy, bleeding mass of exhausted humanity.

As the porters wheeled them in, Dora, Sister Holmes and the doctors got to work immediately, peeling off dirty dressings and examining wounds. Sister Holmes had already instructed Dora that she was to assess the men herself, treating those she could and sending the worst cases down to Theatre, or referring them to one of the doctors.

With Daisy Bushell still behind her, craning over her shoulder to get a good look, Dora approached her first case, a young man whose leg had been blown off. As Dora peeled the filthy dressing from the bloody stump of his leg, she could already see the wound seemed to be moving. Sure enough, she lifted the dressing to reveal a seething mass of maggots.

‘Oh, my gosh!’ she heard Daisy whisper from behind her hand. ‘How revolting . . .’

‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Dora said. ‘The maggots will eat away at the dead tissue, so it’s less likely to get infected.’ But it was too late. Dora heard the thump behind her as Daisy Bushell slid gracefully to the ground.

At least it shut her up for a minute.

From that moment on, they didn’t stop all day. They worked steadily, cleaning, stitching and dressing wounds, setting up infusions, and giving morphine injections. As she was plunging the needle into another patient’s arm, it suddenly occurred to Dora that her hands were no longer shaking. The nerves that had plagued her on her first day in Casualty had been chased away by the adrenaline surging around her body.

The men were in a shocking state when they arrived – dirty, exhausted and starving. Some had been lying on stretchers on the beaches for twenty-four hours. They had been sent straight from the Casualty Clearing Station on the south coast, and wore scrawled labels from the army medics, stating their injuries. In most cases no label was needed. The filthy makeshift dressings wrapped around shattered limbs or bloodied stumps were all anyone needed to see.

The whole time she was working, Dora’s heart was in her mouth, terrified that the next body she encountered would be Nick’s.

She tried to push it out of her mind, determined to stay focused. The men didn’t need her sympathy. They needed her help, and she gave it unstintingly, until her eyes ached and her hands were sore and her legs could barely hold her up any longer.

Unfortunately, Daisy didn’t have the same strong stomach or capacity for hard work. Every time she caught a glimpse of blood she would keel over. Dora got so tired of stopping whatever she was doing to haul the girl off the floor, that in the end she dumped her in the sluice with a bottle of sal volatile.

‘I don’t know why you want to work in a hospital if you can’t stand the sight of blood!’ she snapped.

‘I didn’t know, did I?’ Daisy wailed. ‘I had no idea how awful it would be. I couldn’t imagine—’

‘What did you expect? They’ve been in a war, they ain’t going to come back with grazed knees, are they?’ Dora stared at her. ‘And to think you wanted to work in a military hospital! You couldn’t nurse a cold!’

‘I’m sorry!’ Daisy burst into noisy tears. ‘It’s just every time I see one of those poor men, I think of my fiancé Richard. What if he’s been injured? What if he’s dead?’

‘You can’t think like that,’ Dora said.

‘I can’t help it!’

Dora watched her sobbing, huddled on the floor of the sluice. In spite of her annoyance, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for the girl.

‘Wait there,’ she said. She hurried off to fetch a tot of brandy from the locked cupboard in the kitchen, and handed it to the VAD. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Now pull yourself together, and don’t let Sister catch you crying or you really will be in trouble.’

‘Thank you.’ Daisy sniffed back her tears and lifted the glass shakily to her lips, grimacing at the taste. ‘Sorry for being so wet, Nurse Riley. I only wish I could be as strong as you, I really do.’

Dora didn’t reply. Deep down, she wished she could be as wet as Daisy Bushell. Perhaps letting go and having a good cry might stop the terrible ache in her chest.

WHEN EVE ARRIVED
for the final First Aid lecture, the first thing she noticed was Jennifer, sitting on her own in the back row. There was no sign of Cissy.

Eve scuttled past her to her usual place in the far corner of the room as the instructor began her lecture on bathing.

‘If a patient is too ill to bathe themselves, then you will have to do it for them,’ she said. ‘Washing a patient is the most important of your duties. Do it skilfully and you will make the patient feel better and gain their confidence. Do it clumsily and you will badly affect their comfort and health.’

Eve glanced across at Jennifer. She was inspecting her nails, hardly listening as usual. She was dressed up to the nines in a cornflower blue dress, her dark hair carefully curled.

‘I would like you to experience for yourselves what it feels like to be washed, as it may give you a better understanding of what you’re doing,’ the instructor continued. ‘So this evening you will be practising giving each other a blanket bath, rather than the dummy. We will assume for the purpose of the exercise that it is a medical patient without any obvious injury. Get into your pairs, please.’

Eve looked around for her usual partner, then remembered that Miss Witchell had told her she had to visit her elderly mother in Basingstoke, and wouldn’t be coming to the class. Her gaze travelled the room, looking for another partner – and found Jennifer. For a moment their eyes locked, and Eve saw her own dismay reflected in Jennifer’s face.

‘You two,’ the instructor said. ‘Pair up quickly, please.’

Eve felt Jennifer’s dark mood as they set the trolley together. She clattered the nail scissors, hairbrush and comb, and splashed water into the hand basin so carelessly Eve had to rescue the flannel, sponge and soap before she soaked them.

It’s not my fault, Eve wanted to shout. I’m not enjoying this any more than you are. But she bit her tongue as they set up the screens and pulled the upper bedclothes off the bed.

‘I’ll go first,’ Jennifer announced abruptly, slipping off her dainty sandals and hopping on to the bed before Eve could argue.

Not that she would. She was relieved not to have to submit to Jennifer’s rough ministrations. She could only imagine how she would wield the flannel, the mood she seemed to be in.

‘Where’s your friend this evening?’ Eve asked, as she carefully rolled the mackintosh sheet and blanket underneath her.

‘She’s not feeling well,’ Jennifer replied, tight-lipped.

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘She’s making herself ill, that’s what!’ Jennifer looked cross. ‘She reckons she’s too upset to come out. She’s spent all week shut away indoors, listening to the news on the wireless.’

Eve was thoughtful as she covered Jennifer with a warmed blanket and went through the pretence of removing her clothes in preparation for washing her.

‘Is her boyfriend in France, then?’ she asked.

‘He’s in the Royal Navy.’

‘Oh, dear, no wonder she’s so worried.’ Even Aunt Freda had been glued to the wireless for the past few days, waiting for news. ‘Those sailors are so brave, aren’t they, going in under fire like that? And with so many ships being sunk—’

‘Don’t,’ Jennifer cut her off coldly. ‘I hear enough about it from Cissy. I’d rather not talk about it any more, if it’s all the same to you?’

‘Sorry.’ Eve fell silent, concentrating on her task. She was surprised by the way Jennifer had spoken about Cissy and her boyfriend, though. She and Cissy were such good friends, surely Jennifer should have been more sympathetic.

Perhaps that was just the way friends were with each other, she thought, as she finished the job and covered Jennifer with a dry blanket. She had never had a close friend of her own, so she didn’t know.

Then it was Jennifer’s turn to perform the blanket bath. She made no effort to hide her disdain for the task as she roughly set about Eve’s face and limbs with the sponge.

‘Just think, soon we’ll be doing this for a real patient,’ Eve tried again to make conversation.

Jennifer gave a bored sigh. ‘I can’t wait.’

Before Eve could reply, the instructor came over.

‘How are you getting on?’ she asked.

‘All right,’ Jennifer replied.

‘I think that’s for your patient to judge, don’t you?’ The woman turned to Eve. ‘What do you say about it, Miss Ainsley? If you were a patient, would you feel reassured by Miss Caldwell’s treatment?’

Eve caught Jennifer’s warning look over the instructor’s shoulder. ‘Yes, Miss,’ she mumbled, her blush rising.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ The instructor sent her a sceptical look, but didn’t question her further. She turned back to Jennifer and said, ‘It’s a pity you can’t look the part as well, Miss Caldwell. How many times do I have to remind you, the rules governing a VAD’s appearance are the same as for any other trained nurse? There is to be no make-up or jewellery, hair must be covered at all times, and nails are to be unvarnished and cut short.’

‘Yes, Miss.’ Jennifer waited until she had gone, then rolled her eyes. ‘How typical! The first time she could actually say something nice, and all she can do is look for faults. I really don’t think that woman likes me.’ She held up her hands, displaying her pink-painted nails. ‘Well, I don’t care what she says. I’m not cutting these off for anyone.’

The class dragged on and finally finished just after nine. Eve panicked as they stepped into the darkness of the blacked-out street. She watched Jennifer arranging her hat on her dark curls, wondering if she should say anything. Finally, fear drove her to blurt out, ‘Do you mind if I walk home with you?’

‘Why? Don’t tell me you’re frightened of the dark?’ Jennifer mocked. Then she caught sight of Eve’s expression and her mouth twisted. ‘You are, aren’t you? For goodness’ sake, what a baby!’

So would you be, if you’d been locked in a cellar as often as I have, Eve thought, but didn’t reply.

‘Why don’t you get the bus, if you’re that scared?’ Jennifer said.

‘The bus doesn’t always run at this time, not since they changed the timetable. I waited ages for it last week, and it didn’t come.’ Eve hadn’t got home until after ten o’clock, and her aunt had gone mad. She didn’t want to risk that again.

Jennifer sighed. ‘All right, I suppose you could walk with me,’ she agreed. ‘But only as far as Cable Street, mind. I’m not going out of my way.’

But they hadn’t got as far as the corner before a sleek black car drew up beside them and a man’s voice said, ‘Going my way?’

Eve was so startled she almost broke into a run. But Jennifer gave a funny little smile of recognition and sauntered over to the car.

‘Depends where you’re going, doesn’t it?’ she purred.

‘Wherever you like, sweetheart.’

‘I suppose you could give me a lift home.’ Jennifer shrugged. She opened the car door, then turned to Eve. ‘Are you coming, or what?’

Eve stood rooted to the spot, dry-mouthed with panic. ‘I – I can’t,’ she said.

Jennifer’s mouth twisted. ‘What d’you mean, you can’t? Don’t tell me you’re frightened of cars as well as the dark?’

Eve stared at her. She simply couldn’t imagine what her aunt would do if she saw her getting out of a stranger’s car. And even if Aunt Freda didn’t see her, one of her church cronies was bound to be spying. Word would get back to her aunt, and then Eve’s life wouldn’t be worth living.

‘Suit yourself,’ Jennifer said carelessly, climbing into the passenger seat. ‘Don’t let those monsters get you in the dark, will you?’

The man flashed a wolfish grin at her in the darkness of the car. He looked every bit as dangerous as he had that night when he’d rescued her at the dance hall.

‘Alone at last,’ he murmured. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to get out too, while you’ve got the chance?’

Jennifer’s heart raced in her chest. ‘No, thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

His smile broadened. ‘I like a girl who ain’t afraid to take chances.’

Jennifer did her best to act cool. ‘Haven’t seen you around for a while,’ she commented.

‘Been looking for me, have you?’

‘No!’ she replied, a bit too quickly. No need to let him know she’d been back to the Palais every Friday.

He looked over his shoulder, pulling into the road. ‘Where to?’ he asked.

‘Flint Terrace,’ Jennifer replied. Then, remembering her father would be at home, she added, ‘But you can drop me in Cable Street. I don’t want to go all the way.’

‘I bet you say that to all the boys!’ the man said.

Jennifer laughed, but her palms were clammy. Perhaps Eve had the right idea, after all? It suddenly occurred to Jennifer that she might have been a bit rash, climbing into a car with a virtual stranger in the dead of night. She barely knew him, apart from that one incident when he’d rescued her from the soldier. She could only imagine what Cissy would say about it.

‘So where have you been this evening?’ he asked. ‘Out with your boyfriend?’

‘If you must know, I’ve been to nursing class.’

‘You’re going to be a nurse?’

‘No, I’m going to be a bricklayer, what do you think?’

His mouth slanted. ‘I bet you’ll make a good nurse. I wouldn’t mind waking up to find a pretty girl like you at my bedside!’

‘Cheeky!’ Jennifer smiled, forgetting her nerves. She loved flirting, and he was a good partner. Not every man understood the rules, but he did. ‘If you’re going to talk to me like that, you ought to tell me your name.’

‘It’s Johnny. Johnny Fayers.’

‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. I’m—’

‘Jen,’ he said. ‘I heard your mate speak to you the first night we met.’

Jennifer did her best to look aloof, but inside she was squirming with pleasure. He’d remembered her, that was a good sign. ‘Jennifer Caldwell, actually.’

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Caldwell.’

She looked across at his profile, craggy in the moonlight. His slicked-back dark hair emphasised his flattened nose and the silvery scar running down his cheek. He was a few years older than her, she guessed. His presence seemed to fill the car, the smell of his cologne, the powerful, masculine scent of him. Cissy was right, he was definitely dangerous.

‘How did you get that scar?’ She said the first thing that came into her head.

‘You’re not backward in coming forward, are you?’ He smiled. ‘If you must know, I was in a fight.’

‘Did you win?’

‘I always win, darlin’.’

Jennifer studied him from under her lashes, noticing his height and his muscular build under his suit jacket. ‘You look like you can take care of yourself,’ she remarked.

‘I reckon I can, at that.’

Johnny glanced across at her, and she caught the challenging glint in his eye. ‘So don’t your boyfriend mind you getting lifts off strange men?’ he asked.

‘I haven’t got a boyfriend.’

His brows lifted. ‘No? I’m surprised. Pretty girl like you, I thought you’d be courting.’

‘For your information, I have plenty of offers. Just no one serious.’

‘Prefer to play the field, eh? You sound like a girl after my own heart.’

‘Something like that.’ Jennifer craned her neck to peer into the darkness. ‘You can drop me off here.’

‘You sure you don’t want me to take you to your door? It’s not safe, you know, in the blackout. You get all kinds of ne’er-do-wells hanging about.’

‘I know. I’m looking at one,’ Jennifer said.

He put his hand to his heart and pretended to be wounded. ‘You’re a very cruel young lady, do you know that?’

‘So I’ve been told.’

He pulled the car up and she started to get out.

‘Well, thanks for the lift,’ she said.

‘It was my pleasure.’

She paused, waiting for him to ask her out. They all did, sooner or later.

‘Well?’ he prompted. ‘Was there something else you wanted?’

‘No,’ Jen replied, disappointment making her voice sharp. ‘No, not at all.’

‘Well, then, I’ll bid you goodnight.’

As she got out of the car, Jennifer caught a glimpse of Johnny’s knowing smile and slammed the door angrily in his face.

She stood on the pavement in the darkness and watched him drive off, the blackness swallowing up the car at the end of the road. Was he teasing, or was he really not interested in her? It was hard to tell.

Jennifer frowned. She had always fancied herself as being very good at the flirting game. But she had the distinct feeling she’d met her match.