Because Sister Wren had needs. And since those needs could never be met by the man she loved – unless a terrible accident befell Mrs Cooper – she had to find someone else.
She eyed that morning’s edition of The Times, which lay across the arm of her chair, folded open at the Personal columns. There, among the births, marriages and appeals for missing people to come forward to ‘hear something to their advantage’, were the Lonely Hearts advertisements.
Sister Wren went through them every morning when the maid brought her breakfast, circling any likely prospects. Then, while having her midday meal in her sitting room, she would write letters to be posted discreetly at the Porters’ Lodge that afternoon.
Rather discouragingly, most of her letters went unanswered. But every so often she would find herself taking tea with a gentleman. Unfortunately, the ones she met seldom bore any resemblance to James Cooper.
There was a soft knock on the door. ‘Enter,’ said Sister Wren, stuffing the newspaper out of sight behind a cushion. The door opened a fraction, and Ann Cuthbert, her staff nurse, peered through the crack.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Sister, but they’ve just rung to say the new admission’s on her way up.’
Sister Wren sighed with annoyance. She hated new patients arriving on the day of the consultant’s visit. They took a long time to settle in and made her ward look messy. They had to be washed and prepared, there were charts to fill in, and then usually one or other of the nosy women in the nearby beds would want to start chatting, all adding to the general disorder.
‘Thank you, Cuthbert. I’ll be with you shortly.’
As soon as the nurse had gone Sister Wren placed her cap back on her head and tied the bow under her chin, being careful not to ruffle her artfully teased curls. She added a dab of rouge to colour her sallow cheeks and smudged on some pink lipstick – even though make-up was forbidden on the wards, she couldn’t countenance meeting Mr Cooper looking anything but her best – then stepped out of her sitting room and back on to the adjoining ward, to find out which of her nurses needed the sternest reprimand.
Frustratingly, they seemed to have been hard at work in her absence. The ward was swept, dusted and scrubbed; the floors shone and a satisfying aroma of carbolic hung in the air. Even the leaves of her prize aspidistra gleamed like polished leather. The beds were neatly made and every patient was sitting propped up, hair brushed and wearing a fresh nightgown in honour of the consultant’s visit.
The student nurses all stopped what they were doing and looked at her expectantly, waiting for her nod of approval. All except one.
Doyle was chatting to one of the patients again. Sister Wren felt her hackles rise as she watched them laughing together. Hadn’t she warned her nurses not to be too familiar with the patients? Most of them were coarse East End types with rough manners and loud voices – not the kind of women decent young girls should associate with, in her opinion. It made her shudder sometimes to see them in their shabby nightgowns, yelling to each other across the ward as if they were in Petticoat Lane, not a hospital. And as for their jokes . . . no respectable woman should have to listen to some of the things they said.
And yet there was Doyle, laughing with one of them. Worse still, it was that awful Mrs Patterson, a costermonger’s wife from Haggerston, who had been admitted with a prolapse. Hardly surprising, Sister Wren thought, since she had given birth to hordes of children. They swarmed to the hospital to see her every Sunday, and it took all Sister Wren’s efforts to stop them all coming in at once. Time and time again she’d taken the trouble to explain that only two visitors at a time were allowed, but still it hadn’t sunk in. They would stand outside the ward doors, sobbing and wailing and leaving sticky, smudged fingerprints on the glass.
Mrs Patterson was one of Sister Wren’s least-favourite patients. And the feeling was mutual; she had overheard the patient telling her husband that the ward sister was ‘a right snotty cow’.
Sister Wren stormed over to them.
‘Doyle, I thought I told you to clean the bathrooms?’
She was used to students snapping to attention the moment she spoke to them. But Doyle faced her with an almost insolent calm.
‘I finished them an hour ago, Sister. I’ve done everything on the work list you gave me.’ She had a rough way of speaking that made Sister Wren wince. Common girls like Doyle shouldn’t be allowed to train as nurses, in her opinion. Only respectable, well brought up women like herself should ever be considered for a career in such a caring profession.
‘Then why didn’t you ask for more work?’
‘I did, Sister. But Staff Nurse Cuthbert told me I could go for dinner when you came back. I should have gone an hour ago.’
Sister Wren’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you complaining, Doyle?’
‘No, Sister.’ Her freckled face was bland, her muddy green eyes giving nothing away. But there was something about the way she faced Sister Wren that made her think Doyle wasn’t nearly as afraid of her as she should have been.
‘It’s my fault, Sister,’ Mrs Patterson interrupted. ‘I’ve been feeling a bit down, what with being away from the kids, so I asked Nurse Doyle for a bit of company. I hope I haven’t got her into trouble?’ She looked anxiously from one to the other.
Sister Wren ignored her, her gaze fixed on Dora.
‘Are you sure you don’t have any complaints about the way I run my ward? Because I’m sure Matron would be happy to discuss them with you.’
Do it, Sister Wren urged her silently. Answer me back if you dare. All she needed was one word, a sideways look, and she could send Doyle straight to Matron.
She looked like the type who could fly off the handle, with that square obstinate jaw and fiery red hair of hers. Common, uneducated types like her were notoriously bad at keeping their temper in check.
But somehow she managed it. ‘No, Sister,’ she said.
Sister Wren would have liked to try and provoke her further, but they were distracted by the arrival of the new patient. Sister Wren busied herself supervising the porter and making sure the woman, whose name was Mrs Venables, was made comfortable. At least she seemed a cut above their usual rabble of patients, Sister Wren thought. She was well spoken, and her suitcase was made from good-quality leather.
‘Shall I have Ennis wash her and get her ready?’ Staff Nurse Cuthbert asked.
Sister Wren considered the matter for a moment. ‘No, have Doyle do it,’ she said finally.
Cuthbert frowned in confusion. ‘But Doyle is the only one who hasn’t been for dinner yet. If she doesn’t go soon, she’ll miss it—’
‘Who is running this ward, you or me?’ Sister Wren interrupted her.
‘You are, of course, but—’
‘And I say Doyle has to prepare Mrs Venables. If she misses her dinner, then so be it. A good nurse should put her patients before everything,’ Sister Wren said piously.
‘Yes, Sister.’ Cuthbert bobbed her head in agreement and went off to deliver the bad news to Doyle. She looked so grim, Sister Wren observed, anyone would think she was the one who was faced with the prospect of missing her dinner.
Mrs Venables was a very nice lady, and extremely apologetic when she found out she was keeping Dora from her dinner.
‘Oh, that’s no good at all, is it?’ she tutted. ‘It’s such a shame. Why couldn’t one of the other nurses do this?’
Because Sister doesn’t have it in for the other nurses like she does for me, Dora thought. But as moaning to patients simply wasn’t done, she smiled and said, ‘I really don’t mind. Now let’s get you into your nightdress, shall we? Then you’ll be all ready to meet our consultant, Mr Cooper. You’ll want to look your best for him.’
She felt light-headed as she fastened the laces of Mrs Venables’ nightgown. Not only had she not eaten, she hadn’t sat down since she came on duty at seven that morning. But she didn’t dare complain to Sister Wren. Students might be entitled to three regular breaks during their shift, but if
the ward sister forgot or they were too busy, then they didn’t get them.
Which would be fair enough if they really were busy. But somehow all the other students had been given leave to go for dinner except Dora.
She knew from talking to the other nurses that Sister Wren could be very spiteful if she didn’t like someone, whether it was a patient or a student. But why she had taken against her Dora had no idea. She’d tried to do her best, did everything she was asked to do without complaint, even though she knew for a fact that she was given all the dirtiest jobs on her work list. But nothing she did could please Sister Wren.
It wasn’t just Sister who was out to make her life a misery either. Her old neighbour Lettie Pike was the ward maid on Wren, and ever since Dora had arrived, she hadn’t missed a chance to make a sly dig about the Doyle family.
‘How’s your mum?’ She sidled up to Dora now as she pushed her trolley back to the sluice. Her narrow, pinched face was a mask of pretend concern. ‘I saw her out the other day, but I hardly recognised her. Shocking, she looked. Really shocking. White as a ghost. And so thin! But no wonder, with all the worry she’s got. I saw the rent man knocking again yesterday. That’s the third time he’s come looking for his money this week. And Rose was always such a regular payer, and all.’
She shook her head sadly, but her pretence of concern didn’t fool Dora for a moment. Lettie had bitterly resented the upturn in Rose’s fortunes when she’d married Alf Doyle, and now Dora knew she was rubbing her hands together in glee at the thought of her neighbour falling on hard times.
‘As long as he’s not knocking on your door, you haven’t got anything to worry about, have you?’ she replied shortly.
‘There’s no need to take that tone with me.’ Lettie’s beady little eyes turned cold. ‘If you don’t want me to show a bit of neighbourly concern, then I won’t bother.’
‘If by that you mean sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, then no, I don’t want you to bother.’
Dora barged at the sluice door with her trolley, shoving it open and letting it fly back in Lettie’s face.
By the time they served dinner to the patients, Dora’s stomach was groaning in protest. She was so hungry, the smell of baked cod and mashed potatoes almost made her feel sick.
‘Here, have mine. I’m not that hungry,’ Mrs Venables offered, pushing her plate towards her.
‘I can’t.’ Dora eyed it longingly, her mouth already watering. ‘We’re not allowed to eat on the ward.’
‘But you must be starving. You’ll pass out if you don’t get something to eat.’
‘I’ll be all right. Now, can I get you a cup of tea to have with your dinner?’
But as she stood in the kitchen later, scraping the leftovers into the pig bin, Dora felt faint with hunger. It was so wrong to throw food away when it was almost untouched. And why should the pigs eat when she couldn’t?
She lifted a plate to her face, letting the aroma waft towards her nostrils. Even the smell of the food made her head spin.
Her eyes darted towards the kitchen door. Surely no one would notice if she just helped herself to a morsel of cold cod?
She’d barely shovelled it into her mouth when the kitchen door was flung open and Lettie Pike stood there.
‘Look at you, eating leftovers off patients’ plates.’ She shook her head. ‘You know that’s against the rules, don’t you? What would Sister say about that? I wonder.’
‘I expect you’ll find out, won’t you?’ Dora helped herself to another piece of fish off the plate. Lettie was going to tell anyway, so she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
But Lettie didn’t get the chance to say anything. Sister Wren disappeared off to her sitting room again after dinner, to prepare for Mr Cooper’s arrival. Meanwhile Dora and the other nurses changed into fresh caps and aprons and rushed around the ward, making sure everything was in place for the great man’s visit.
Despite her hasty pickings in the kitchen, Dora was still feeling light-headed as she joined the line waiting outside the ward doors to greet Mr Cooper and his retinue of white-coated medical students, housemen and registrars. One of them, Dr Tremayne, gave her a brief nod of greeting. He was her room mate Helen’s elder brother. He had also had a brief flirtation with their other room mate Millie Benedict before she had got engaged.
‘Good afternoon, Sister.’ Mr Cooper barely acknowledged the presence of the other nurses waiting in a neat line behind her. Such was their lowly place in life, Dora thought. She had already learnt that uttering any sound in front of a consultant, moving or even making eye contact, was forbidden.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Cooper.’ Any trace of harshness had disappeared from Sister Wren’s manner, to be replaced by a barely recognisable simpering girlishness. ‘The patients are ready for you, if you would like to come this way?’
Dora stayed at the end of the line as they progressed from bed to bed. It seemed to take such a long time for Mr Cooper to read every set of notes and talk to each patient, then question his students on the best treatment for them. Dora shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying to stop her knees from giving way. She could feel beads of sweat trickling from under her cap.
‘And what would it tell you if this patient were to present with a rigor, pyrexia and a severe headache?’ Mr Cooper was asking his students, who stared blank-faced back at him.
‘Meningitis?’ one of them ventured.
‘Possible, but unlikely since this is a gynaecology ward.’ Mr Cooper tutted impatiently, his gaze scanning the group of students. ‘Come along, surely one of you must have picked up a textbook at some point?’
As his eyes moved along the line, for some reason he caught sight of Dora. She saw the frown gathering between his dark brows.
‘Nurse? Are you all right?’
She started at his unexpected attention. ‘Y-yes, sir.’
‘Are you sure? You look very—’
Everyone turned to look at her, their faces blurring in front of her eyes. She didn’t hear the last of the sentence as her knees buckled. The last thing she saw was Dr Tremayne stepping forward to catch her as she slipped to the ground.
She jerked awake to the pungent smell of sal volatile being wafted under her nose, and found herself staring up into the deep blue eyes of Mr Cooper.
‘You’re back.’ He smiled. ‘You gave us all quite a shock there, Nurse.’
‘Wh-where am I?’ Dora looked around, her senses slowly bringing the world into focus. The crisply starched pillows crackling under her head, the smell of lysol, the sight of Sister Wren scowling with rage . . . She tried to sit up, but Mr Cooper’s hands closed on her shoulders, guiding her back against the pillows.
‘No, you’re not to get up for a moment,’ he said. ‘I’ve sent the maid for some hot sweet tea. You’re to sit there and drink it before you even think about moving. And then I want you to go back to your room and lie down for the rest of the afternoon.’
Dora caught sight of Sister Wren’s thunderous face behind him. If it had been anyone else but a consultant, she would have dragged Dora off that bed herself and forced her to wash bedpans for the rest of the day as punishment.
But since it was Mr Cooper, all she could do was smile and nod. Only Dora could see the bitter frustration in her thin mouth and narrowed eyes.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she whispered.
‘Not at all, Nurse.’ He addressed his students. ‘We must look after our nursing staff as well as we look after our patients, for without them we doctors can do nothing.’
He gave Dora a final nod before sweeping off to the next bed. She was still blinking in disbelief about what had happened when Sister Wren appeared at her bedside.
‘And when you’ve finished putting your feet up while everyone else does your share of the work, I want you to report to Matron,’ she hissed. ‘Lettie has told me about you helping yourself to food in the kitchen. Perhaps you’d like to explain why you feel you’re above the r
ules?’
Chapter Five
IT HAD BEEN a long, difficult night. They had lost two patients, one on Female Chronics and a particularly sad death on Male Surgical. A cancer patient, not yet thirty, with three children and his wife expecting a fourth. The young nurse left in charge of the ward hadn’t yet learnt not to break her heart over every patient, so Violet had had to dry her tears as well as inform the duty registrar and see that last offices had been performed.
‘But it’s just not fair . . . he was so young,’ the young nurse wept as they gently washed the man’s face and combed his hair.
‘He was in great pain. At least his suffering is over now,’ Violet replied. If you want to cry for anyone, do it for his wife, she added silently. The young man’s troubles might be over, but with three mouths to feed and a baby on the way, hers were just beginning.
It was almost eight o’clock by the time she reached her lodgings in Shadwell. The January sky was still a dull slate grey and a damp fog had rolled in off the river, shrouding the cobbled alleyways. Violet pulled her scarf up around her mouth to keep out the metallic tang of the air and the damp, rotting smell of the river at low tide, visible between the looming Victorian wharves and warehouses.
She lodged in a room on the top floor of a tall tenement. A stale smell of overcooked cabbage mingled with the pungent odour of cat’s urine greeted her as she pushed open the front door and entered a narrow hallway. From the depths of the house came the sound of shouting and a baby wailing.
As she climbed the stairs, Violet was seized by the familiar feeling of foreboding that lasted until the moment she pushed open the door to her room and saw her son again.
He was sitting cross-legged in the old armchair, frowning over his book. An eiderdown shrouded his skinny shoulders.
Seeing him like that, his brow puckered, lip pushed out in concentration, reminded her so strongly of his father that she felt her heart leap into her throat.
The Nightingale Sisters Page 4
