Nightingales Under the Mistletoe (27 page)

EFFIE KNEW SHE
would have to see Connor sooner or later.

When she went on duty at noon she was immediately tense and watchful, waiting for him to spring out at her at any moment like an avenging angel.

Connor would be angry, she had no doubt of that. She had managed to give him the slip and go away with the others, and he would never forgive her for it. He would have to retaliate, his pride wouldn't allow him to do anything else. Dealing with Connor was like a sword fight, constantly parrying and striking at each other's weak spots.

She secretly quite enjoyed the constant battle of wits that went on between them, but not today. Today she was far too miserable over Kit to take pleasure in anything.

‘You don't look your usual cheery self, dear?' Mrs Flynn observed, when Effie went to record her pulse and temperature after lunch. ‘You haven't had a lovers' tiff, have you?'

Effie stared at her. ‘How did you know?'

Mrs Flynn smiled. ‘I thought as much. He was just the same first thing this morning. Turned up to bring the post with a face like thunder, he did. I said to myself, “Deirdre, something's not right with that young man.” Because he's usually such a cheerful soul, isn't he?'

Effie realised what she meant. ‘Oh, no, it's not Connor—'

But Mrs Flynn wasn't listening as she leaned forward and patted Effie's hand. ‘Take my advice, love,' she said. ‘Make it up with him. Life's too short for quarrels. Besides, you've got a good one there. You don't want to lose him, do you?'

Life's too short … Wasn't that what Kit had said to her yesterday? What if something happened to him? What if he was killed before she'd had a chance to tell him how sorry she was?

Mrs Flynn was right, she did have a good one there. She would never find another man like Kit, and she'd let him slip through her fingers.

Mrs Flynn looked over her shoulder. ‘Here's your chance,' she said, nodding towards the door.

Effie turned round. Connor had come in, pushing an empty wheelchair.

‘All aboard for the
Skylark
,' he started to say, then saw Effie and stopped dead. For a moment they stared, both eyeing each other warily.

‘Ah, Mr Cleary.' Sister Allen came bustling down the ward towards him, breaking the tension. ‘You've come to take Mrs Needham down for her X-ray? She's over there in bed seven. O'Hara, go down with her.'

‘Me, Sister?'

‘I don't see any other O'Haras around here, do you?' Sister's smile disappeared. ‘Go on, girl, hurry along. And no sloping off for a cigarette while Mrs Needham is having her treatment,' she warned.

They travelled down in the rickety old lift together in awkward silence. They stood shoulder to shoulder, both staring at the metal grille across the lift door. It was strange, Effie thought miserably. Yesterday neither Connor nor Kit would leave her alone, and today neither of them would even look at her.

They made their way to the X-ray room, Connor striding ahead and Effie trailing behind. As they headed down the green-painted corridor Connor chatted to Mrs Needham, reassuring her about her treatment.

‘It's nothing to worry about, Mrs N,' he said. ‘They're just after taking some photographs. They want to make sure you're as good-looking on the inside as you are on the outside!'

‘Oh, you!' Mrs Needham chuckled. ‘You're such a charmer. Isn't he a charmer, Nurse?'

‘If you say so.' Effie kept her eyes fixed on the wall, angry with herself for feeling so nervous. Why did she have to justify herself to Connor Cleary anyway?

Once Mrs Needham had been safely transported to the X-ray room, there was nothing for them to do except wait for her to come back.

‘You can go if you like?' Effie offered. ‘I'll let you know when we need to go back to the ward.'

‘No thanks, I'll wait,' Connor replied stiffly.

The silence stretched between them, becoming more and more tense until in the end Effie couldn't bear it any more.

‘Go on, then,' she said. ‘Let's get it over with.'

He stared at her blankly. ‘Get what over with?'

‘The lecture. There's bound to be a lecture, isn't there? I expect you're just dying to tell me how irresponsible I am!'

‘I've got nothing to say to you, Euphemia.'

It was the defeated way he said it that shook her. He sounded subdued, almost disappointed.

Effie rallied. ‘That makes a change,' she snapped.

She hoped he might bite, but he didn't. She risked a sideways glance at him. His profile looked as if it had been carved from granite.

‘I don't care anyway,' Effie went on defiantly. ‘I'm allowed to do as I please. You're not my father, and I don't have to ask your permission!'

‘Thank God for that,' Connor muttered. ‘If your father were here he'd give you the belt for what you did.'

Effie pulled a face. ‘It wasn't that bad. All I did was sneak away for one night—'

Connor swung round to face her. ‘You make it sound so casual,' he said. ‘But I suppose that's the kind of girl you are these days, isn't it?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘That's the way you do things over here. Dropping your drawers for any man who shows an interest!'

Effie recoiled. ‘But I didn't!'

‘Of course you didn't.' Connor's lip curled. ‘I daresay you stayed up all night playing Ludo, didn't you? Or did he give you a goodnight kiss and send you off to bed by yourself?'

That's exactly what happened, she wanted to say. But anger prevented her. She didn't have to explain herself to the likes of him.

‘I haven't done anything wrong,' she said.

‘Not by your standards, I suppose. But where I'm from, nice girls don't go around doing that. Or had you forgotten that?'

Connor sounded so patronising, Effie could feel her hackles rising.

‘Why should I listen to you?' she derided. ‘You're just – a potato farmer's son!' She repeated Kit's insult, forgetting how she'd stood up for Connor over it.

He flinched, and she knew her barb had hit its mark.

‘Better that than a whore,' he hissed.

She'd slapped his face before she could stop herself. As soon as she'd done it she knew she'd made a terrible mistake. Her hand seemed to burn with the imprint of Connor's bristled jaw.

Her hand went up to touch the reddened patch on his cheek, but he jerked his head away, out of her reach.

‘Do you really think Kit will still care about you?' His voice was low and full of contempt. ‘Now he's got what he wants, he's probably forgotten about you already, moved on to the next girl …'

Effie didn't mean to cry. She had never, ever cried in front of Connor Cleary. But his words had opened up a wound in her heart, exposing her worst fears, and suddenly she couldn't stop the tears that spilled down her cheeks.

She looked away quickly, but it was too much to hope that Connor hadn't noticed.

‘Wait … Are you crying?'

‘No,' she mumbled

‘Yes, you are. You're crying.' He sounded bewildered, and Effie didn't blame him. Even as a child, when he'd teased and tormented her, she had never let him see how much he'd upset her.

‘What's wrong? Effie, talk to me.'

‘Leave me alone.' The gentleness in his voice upset her even more. If he'd teased her now, perhaps she might have found the strength to fight back. But Connor being nice to her was more than she could cope with.

Fortunately, the door to the X-ray department opened then and the nurse announced that Mrs Needham was ready to be taken back to the ward.

Once again they travelled in deathly silence, the only sound the creak and rattle of the ancient lift as it rose to the third floor.

Effie stood as still as she could, every muscle in her body rigid. Don't cry, she told herself over and over again. She'd already shown Connor more weakness than was good for her. He'd thrust at her heart and she'd been unprepared, hadn't parried fast enough.

But she would be ready next time.

ON A BRIGHT,
cold Thursday morning in late January, they were halfway through Dr Drake's ward round when the telephone rang on Sister's desk. It was the Casualty department with an emergency admission, an injured aircraftman from the base at Billinghurst Manor. He had been badly burned in a petrol-can explosion while servicing one of the planes.

After the initial moment of shock, Miss Wallace swung smoothly into action.

‘We'll put him in bed one,' she instructed Grace. ‘Draw the screens round until we know the extent of his injuries. Rushton, please run a saline bath. He'll need to be treated before we dress his wounds.'

They hurried off to do as they were instructed. Millie was quite calm at first, moving automatically, her mind focused on the task. It was only when the patient arrived that she felt her self-control starting to slip.

It started with the smell: the horrendous stench of burned flesh and hair that went straight to her stomach until it was all Millie could do not to gag. She could see Grace felt the same even though, like Millie, she was trying not to show it. Only the whiteness of Grace's knuckles as she pressed her hand to her mouth gave away how she felt.

The orderlies carried the man, screaming in pain and swathed in blankets, straight into the bathroom. It was only when they laid him down and the blankets were removed that Millie saw how terribly injured he was.

His clothes had been cut off him in Casualty, save for the large patches where the fabric of his overalls had stuck to his skin. His hands had been burned away to blackened claws, with bone showing through where the flesh had melted away. One side of his face was a blistered mess, his hair singed off to expose his burned scalp. The burns extended down one side of his body to the top of his right leg.

Millie's stomach clenched at the sight of him. Suddenly she saw, not a stranger but her own husband Seb, screaming out in agony.

She sucked in deep breaths through her mouth so she wouldn't have to smell the sickening stench. She must have breathed too hard or too fast, because the room began to spin. She planted her feet further apart to steady herself.

‘Put him into the bath, quickly.' Even the calm, unflappable Miss Wallace had a tremor in her voice as she gave her order.

The orderlies carefully lifted him into the lukewarm water, and almost at once the man's screams began to subside to whimpers as the soothing saline did its work.

‘There, that should do it.' Miss Wallace stood up. ‘We'll leave him there to soak for a while, then hopefully we should be able to remove those bits of cloth that are still sticking to him … Rushton? Are you listening to me?'

Millie tried to focus on Miss Wallace's face, framed by her white linen bonnet, but black spots began to dance in front of her eyes, chasing each other across her vision. She heard the ward sister say her name, but her voice seemed to be coming from a long way away.

You will not faint. You will not faint
, Millie told herself over and over. But already her head was growing heavier, pitching forward, taking the rest of her body with it.

The next thing she knew she was sprawled on the bathroom floor, the tiles cold underneath her, with the acrid smell of
sal volatile
being wafted under her nose.

‘Nurse Rushton?' Miss Wallace's concerned face swam into focus above her. ‘Nurse Rushton, can you hear me?'

Millie struggled to sit up. But Miss Wallace pushed her gently back down.

‘No, you must rest there for a moment,' she said.

‘But the patient—'

‘Maynard is tending to him. Try to sit up and put your head between your knees for a moment. It might help.'

Millie felt foolish, sitting on the bathroom floor while Miss Wallace and Grace set about bathing the patient. She felt even worse after they left her sitting there while they dressed the aircraftman's wounds and got him into bed.

It should be me, she thought. I should be the one helping Miss Wallace with his dressings, not an untrained VAD. But instead she was slumped foolishly against the bathroom wall, as limp as a rag doll.

Once she had got herself to her feet and straightened her uniform, Millie reported to Miss Wallace's office.

‘Ah, Rushton. How are you feeling?' The ward sister regarded her sympathetically across her desk.

‘Better now, thank you, Sister. I'm terribly sorry.'

‘These things happen, Nurse Rushton. But I think it might be better if you went home for the rest of the afternoon.'

‘No!' The cry escaped her before she could check it. ‘I need to be here, Sister. There's so much to be done.'

Miss Wallace raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I appreciate you want to help, Rushton, but the last thing I need is one of my nurses fainting every five minutes!'

Millie blushed. ‘But it won't happen again, Sister, I promise.'

‘Won't it? Maynard explained to me that you'd lost your husband.' Miss Wallace chose her words delicately. ‘Your reaction to the patient is completely understandable under the circumstances.'

Millie's face burned with shame but she said nothing.

‘I think you should rest for the afternoon,' Miss Wallace said gently. ‘Come back on duty at five o'clock if you feel you're able.'

Millie went home, feeling thoroughly ashamed of herself. Over and over again, she pictured herself sliding to the floor, and Miss Wallace's kind voice telling her to rest, as if she was one of the patients to be cared for, and not a nurse.

What had she been thinking? No wonder the ward sister had sent her home. ‘The last thing I need is my nurses fainting all over the place,' she'd said. Millie had become more of a hindrance than a help.

She had pinned all her hopes on going back to nursing. Even when she was making a mess of everything else in her life, at the back of her mind she had always consoled herself with the thought that once there had been something she was good at, a place where she fitted in.