The Nightingale Girls

CHAPTER Twenty-Eight



‘DON’T LOOK NOW, duchess, but your young man’s got his eye on you again.’

Millie looked over her shoulder to where William stood hovering by the end of a patient’s bed at the far end of the ward, pretending to check their notes. He had taken to turning up at different times of the day, ostensibly checking on patients, taking an unusual interest in their welfare.

‘He’s persistent, I’ll say that for him,’ Blanche commented. ‘That’s the third time today he’s been to see Mrs Ruddock. The poor woman will start thinking she’s for the high jump if he keeps frowning at her notes like that.’

‘I do wish he’d go away,’ Millie sighed.

‘Go on, you must have a soft spot for him? He’s a handsome lad. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, that’s for sure. Mind you,’ added Blanche, ‘I wouldn’t kick anyone out of bed, would I? I’d be skint otherwise!’

She cackled with laughter, and Millie joined in. In the six weeks she’d been on Wren she had learnt a lot from the women on the ward. And not just medical knowledge, either. Her grandmother would be shocked by some of the ideas she’d picked up.

William turned at the sound of their laughter, and smiled. Millie hurriedly went back to her polishing, in case the ward maid reported her again. The ward maids were the eyes and ears of the sisters, and Sister Wren’s maid Lettie Pike was especially vigilant.

‘Poor Dr Tremayne,’ Blanche said. ‘I s’pose you’ll be after marrying a lord or summat, won’t you, love?’

Blanche had been fascinated to find out about Millie’s family background. She’d laughed out loud at the idea of having methylated spirit rubbed into her backside by an Earl’s daughter.

Millie kept her entertained with stories about the balls and parties she had been to, and the grand families she mixed with. She was worried it might seem like bragging, but Blanche reckoned that listening to her was better than the films.

‘I’m not sure I want to marry anyone just yet,’ Millie said, rubbing hard at a tarnished spot on the brass plate beside Blanche’s bed. If only the local dignitaries who donated to the hospital knew how long the poor pros spent polishing their blessed name plaques, she thought, they might think twice about handing over the money.

‘Quite right, too,’ Blanche said, checking her lipstick in her mirror compact. ‘You should play hard to get. Don’t make the same mistakes I did, love. Not that there’s much chance of that, you being a real lady and everything.’ She smiled wryly.

‘You’re a real lady too, Blanche,’ Millie said.

‘Bless you, lovey.’ Blanche blushed pink with pleasure. ‘Ain’t nobody called me that in a long time. But that’s all going to change, see? Once Mr Cooper’s fixed me up and I’m out of this place, things are going to be different. I’m going to make a new start.’

‘On your sister’s farm?’ Millie had heard the story several times, but she knew Blanche never tired of talking about it. Her sister’s husband had just died, leaving her with five children and a rundown farm in Essex to look after. She’d asked Blanche if she would move down there and help her.

Millie could hardly imagine Blanche tottering around a farmyard in her high heels and red lipstick, but the idea seemed to cheer her up so much she didn’t want to dampen her spirits.

‘I can’t wait to get out of this place,’ Blanche said firmly. ‘This will be a new lease of life for me, with Elsie and the kids.’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ Millie agreed.

‘You never know, I might meet a nice farmhand and settle down.’ Blanche opened her bedside drawer and took out a brown paper cone. ‘Humbug, love?’ She proffered the bag to Millie.

She eyed the bag longingly. ‘I can’t.’

‘Go on. One won’t hurt.’

‘We’re not supposed to eat on the ward.’

‘I won’t tell.’

Millie quickly took the humbug before Sister Wren noticed. It tasted divine. It was so strange – not so long ago she would have taken such pleasures for granted. But now a sweet or a piece of toffee or just the chance to sit down for a minute in her long day was a real pleasure to be savoured.

‘Benedict!’

No sooner had she put the sweet in her mouth than Sister Wren’s voice rang out from the other end of the ward, summoning her. Millie made her way as slowly as she could down the length of the ward, desperately trying to finish the humbug before she got to Sister Wren. But somehow it seemed to have swelled to giant proportions, and her throat was so dry she couldn’t swallow it.

‘Hurry up, Nurse. I don’t have all day!’

As she approached, she could see Sister Wren’s eyes narrowing on her. Matron’s office, here I come, she thought miserably.

Just at that moment William stepped out in front of her, so quickly she almost collided with him.

‘Sister,’ he said. ‘May I ask you something?’

Sister Wren tutted. ‘What is it now, Dr Tremayne?’

‘I wonder if I might take a look at Miss Fletcher’s wound?’

‘Must you? We’ve only just put on a new dressing.’

‘I am rather worried about it.’

‘Mr Cooper seemed perfectly satisfied when he did his rounds yesterday.’

‘All the same, I would like to take another look.’

‘Very well, then.’ As Sister Wren turned away, Millie quickly spat the humbug into her hand and looked around desperately for somewhere to deposit it.

The only place she would find was Sister Wren’s prize aspidistra. She had just dropped her sweet into the pot when Sister Wren swung round again.

‘Benedict, perhaps you could assist Dr Tremayne? I’m far too busy.’

‘Yes, Sister.’

As they walked away together, Millie whispered, ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ William replied innocently. ‘Although if it puts you forever in my debt, then I’m happy to accept your thanks.’

‘How will I ever repay you?’ Millie smiled.

‘You could have dinner with me tonight?’

‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I already have plans.’

‘Then cancel them.’

‘I can’t.’

‘But you would if you could?’ His dark eyes teased her.

‘I certainly wouldn’t.’ They reached Miss Fletcher’s bed, and Millie pulled the screens around it.

‘Then we’ll just have to make it another night,’ he said in a low voice.

‘What makes you think I’ll say yes another night?’

‘Because you find my charm irresistible. And if you don’t, I’ll tell Sister Wren who buried a humbug in her aspidistra.’

Helen hurried across the courtyard towards the porters’ lodge with her head down, her cloak pulled around her against the cold March wind. It was five o’clock and darkness was gathering. The shivering plane trees stood stark against the purple-grey sky. Lights from the ward windows above her cast long shadows across the wet cobbles.

‘Good evening, Nurse Tremayne. Nasty cold one, isn’t it?’ Mr Hopkins greeted her in his sing-song Welsh accent. The porters’ lodge seemed warm and welcoming after the cold darkness. A hearty fire burned in the grate and the kettle sang on the gas ring. In the room beyond, Helen could see a few of the porters reading their newspapers and playing cards. ‘I still can’t get used to seeing you in the evenings and not the mornings. Throws my routine right out, so it does.’

‘I’m sorry about that, Mr Hopkins.’ Helen pulled her letter out from under her cloak and handed it over.

‘It’s nice, though, that you still find time to write to your mother, even when you’re on night duty.’

I don’t have much choice, Helen thought. If she didn’t, her mother would be up at the hospital gates in no time, demanding to know why.

She was just about to turn away when Mr Hopkins said, ‘Hold on, Nurse. I’ve got one for you, too.’

Helen frowned. Her mother was usually far too busy to write letters in return. And she couldn’t imagine why her father would want to write to her.

But it wasn’t from either of her parents. Her heart leapt as she studied the spidery, unfamiliar scrawl. She didn’t dare hope who it might be from.

‘Everything all right, Nurse?’ Mr Hopkins was watching her carefully.

‘Yes, yes Mr Hopkins. Everything’s fine. Thank you.’

Edwin Hopkins saw the little skip in Nurse Tremayne’s step as she crossed the courtyard. It was lovely to see the way her eyes lit up as she saw the letter. That young man who’d come in to deliver it must mean a lot to her, he decided.

‘Is that kettle boiled yet, Mr Hopkins?’ One of the porters called out from the back room.

‘I’m doing it now.’ He smiled to himself as he turned off the gas and warmed the teapot. Maybe Nurse Tremayne would get to do a bit of gadding after all, he thought.

Helen could feel her letter burning a hole in her pocket all the way through the first two hours of her duty. She didn’t dare get it out and read it, although she was absolutely desperate.

Her first emotion when Mr Hopkins had given her the letter was of happiness that Charlie Denton had remembered her. But by the time she’d reached the ward, she’d already convinced herself that it must be bad news. He had changed his mind about taking her out, and was trying to extricate himself as best he could from an awkward situation. For all Helen knew, Sally might even have decided to give him a second chance.

Helen didn’t blame him. She knew all about patients who formed romantic attachments to the nurses who cared for them, only to realise their mistake once they returned to their real lives. She should just be grateful that he had thought enough of her to set her straight, she decided firmly.

That night she couldn’t wait for Amy to go off for her midnight rendezvous in the kitchen with the junior doctors, so she could have some time to read her letter in peace. She sat at the ward desk and read by the dim green-shaded light. All around her, the women filled the air with their low moans, but Helen was too lost in her letter to notice.

Dear Helen,

I hope you don’t mind me writing to you. I bet you thought you’d seen the last of me, but here I am, turning up like a bad penny. I just thought I’d let you know how I’m getting on.

I’ve settled back into my old life, enjoying seeing my mates and going to the pub, just like you said. No work yet, but that’s to be expected, I suppose. I’m sure something will come along. Anyway, I’m getting around a lot on the new leg, and surprising everyone with what I can do. My dad reckons it won’t be long before I’m playing for Orient. Mind you, the way they’ve been playing lately, I reckon even a bloke with one leg would be an improvement! I still get a bit down sometimes, but whenever I start to feel sorry for myself, I hear your voice in my head, telling me to count my blessings. I reckon I needed that kick up the backside you gave me, although I can’t say I was happy about it at the time!

Listen to me, rabbiting on about myself. How are you getting on? How is night duty? It’s only another six weeks till you finish, isn’t it? You see, I’m counting the days. I still want to take you out when you get off. I want to show you how well I’m doing – you never know, I might even take you dancing by then!

Seriously, Helen, I know you’ve probably forgotten all about me – heaven knows, you must have patients asking you out all the time. But it really would mean a lot to me if you gave me a chance. Promise me you’ll think about it, anyway.

I’ll be in touch again next month. In the meantime, I’ll have my fingers crossed you’ll say yes.

Yours,

Charlie Denton

P.S. Sorry for writing to you at the hospital. I hope it doesn’t get you into any trouble with your Matron.

Helen laid the letter in her lap and paused for a moment, savouring it. The paper was smudged with ink and covered with crossings out, but to her it was as beautiful as one of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Charlie Denton hadn’t forgotten her. He still thought about her, and he was counting the days until he could take her out.

She could never accept, she knew that. Her mother would never allow it. But it was still nice to know that somewhere out there, someone cared.

‘Nurse? Nurse, come here at once!’ Mrs Mortimer’s voice rang out imperiously from the darkness, breaking into her pleasant thoughts. Helen put her letter down and tiptoed down the ward.

‘What is it, Mrs Mortimer?’

‘I can’t sleep.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Mortimer. Here, let me try to make you more comfortable.’

‘More comfortable? These wretched pillows feel as if they’ve been stuffed with coal. And I don’t know what you’re grinning at.’ She glared at Helen through the darkness. ‘Are you an idiot, girl?’

‘No, Mrs Mortimer.’ Helen tried hard not to smile as she plumped up the pillows. Charlie Denton hadn’t forgotten her, and not even Maud Mortimer could wipe the smile off her face tonight.