The Nurses of Steeple Street

by Donna Douglas

  ‘She’ll need one if she’s going to fit in round here.’

  ‘You’re right about that,’ Bess agreed. ‘Between you and me, I don’t think she’ll last long.’

  Agnes finished cleaning her wounds and came back into the kitchen. Lil and Bess turned to greet her.

  ‘Feeling better?’ Bess asked, still with that maddening twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Agnes replied stiffly.

  ‘You still whiff a bit,’ Lil said, fanning her hand in front of her face.

  ‘She’s right,’ Bess said. ‘You’d best stay down here while I go up and see the patient. Here,’ she reached into her bag and brought out cotton wool swabs and a bottle of antiseptic, ‘better get some of this on.’

  Bess went up the staircase leading from the kitchen, clutching her trusty bag, leaving Agnes to the tender mercies of Lil Fairbrass.

  ‘You’ll be wanting a brew, I suppose?’ she said.

  ‘I …’ Agnes was about to refuse when she remembered Bess Bradshaw’s warning. ‘That would be very nice, thank you,’ she said.

  Agnes could feel Lil watching her from the scullery as she dabbed at her wounds with the antiseptic. The children were watching her too. Did everyone in Quarry Hill stare like that? she wondered. It was terribly off-putting.

  She had just finished applying the antiseptic when the back door opened and a young girl walked in. At first Agnes thought she might be seeing things, the girl looked so out of place. She was dressed in a neat dark blue blazer and a straw boater, a shiny leather satchel slung over her shoulder. She was small and very pretty, with a delicate heart-shaped face dominated by a pair of lustrous green eyes.

  But before Agnes could speak, Lil came bustling out of the scullery, drying her hands on a tea towel.

  ‘Christine? What are you doing home at this hour?’ She looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s not even dinnertime yet.’

  ‘I wasn’t feeling well, so they sent me home.’ The girl pulled the satchel off her shoulder and put it down on the table.

  ‘Not well? What’s the matter with you, love?’

  ‘I just felt a bit sick, that’s all.’ The girl took off her hat and a luxuriant mass of rich red curls tumbled over her shoulders. She sniffed the air. ‘What’s that horrible smell?’

  ‘Oh, take no notice. It’s just the nurse sitting there,’ Lil dismissed. ‘Sick? That’s not like you. Have you got a temperature?’ She went to put her hand on the girl’s forehead, but Christine pushed her away.

  ‘Stop fussing, Mum. I’m all right now, honestly. Just a bit tired, that’s all.’

  Mum? Agnes looked from one to the other in disbelief. She could scarcely believe that Lil Fairbrass could have given birth to such an exquisite-looking girl. Apart from the red hair, there was no family resemblance at all.

  Feeling slightly at a loss, Agnes decided she might as well step in and try to make herself useful.

  ‘I could take a look at her, if you like?’ she offered.

  ‘It’s all right, we’ll wait for t’nurse,’ Lil said, still fussing over the girl.

  Agnes pressed her lips together. ‘I am a nurse,’ she said tightly.

  ‘You know what I mean. The proper nurse.’

  Just as Agnes was opening her mouth to respond, Bess came down the stairs, the wooden steps creaking under her weight.

  ‘His chest’s a lot worse today, so I’m going to set up a steam tent—’ she started to say, then she noticed the young girl standing there. ‘Hello, Christine, love. No school today?’

  ‘She’s been sent home poorly,’ Lil said. ‘I wondered if you’d mind having a look at her? Only Vera Acaster’s husband has just come down with scarlet fever, and I’m worried she might have it …’

  ‘I did offer to examine her,’ Agnes said, but neither of the women paid her any attention. Only the girl gave her an embarrassed smile, as if she understood her awkwardness.

  ‘Let’s have a look at you, then.’ Bess reached into her bag for her thermometer and slipped it into the girl’s mouth, then checked her over. ‘Well, there’s no sign of a rash that I can see.’

  ‘It’s not like her to be sick,’ Lil said. ‘Or to miss school.’

  Bess took out the thermometer and examined it. ‘There’s no high temperature either,’ she said, squinting at the numbers. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Fairbrass, I don’t think she’s got scarlet fever. Probably just a stomach chill, or she ate something that didn’t agree with her.’

  ‘Oh, thank the Lord!’ Lil crossed herself. ‘I don’t think I could stand it if anything happened to my Christine.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d put her to bed and let her get some rest,’ Bess advised. ‘And nothing but weak tea and dry toast until the sickness passes.’

  ‘You hear that?’ Lil turned to her daughter. ‘You get yourself off to bed. And no sitting up reading,’ she warned. ‘If I find you with those schoolbooks of yours, I’ll tan your hide for you.’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ the girl sighed. She smiled at Bess. ‘Goodbye, Nurse Bradshaw. And goodbye – um—’ She gave a shy little nod, then headed off. It suddenly occurred to Agnes that no one had bothered to introduce her.

  Bess finished setting up the steam tent for Lil Fairbrass’ father upstairs, by which time Lil had brewed a pot of tea. Agnes glanced at her watch as they all settled down for a cup. They had already missed lunch at the district nurses’ home. At this rate, they wouldn’t have any time at all before the afternoon round started.

  But Bess seemed in no hurry to leave as she listened to Lil fretting about her daughter.

  ‘Christine’s always been delicate,’ she declared. ‘Her brothers are all as tough as old boots – well, you’ll know that, nurse, you’ve looked after them often enough when they’ve broken bones and Lord knows what else. But our Christine’s different. She’s my baby.’ Lil smiled, her hard-boned face suddenly suffused by love. ‘And she works so hard. That’s the trouble, I reckon. She’s never away from those schoolbooks. But I suppose it’s to be expected, seeing as how she wants to be a teacher.’

  ‘She’ll be all right, Mrs Fairbrass, I promise you.’ Bess reached over and patted her hand. ‘A couple of days’ bed rest and she’ll be up and about again. I’ll check on her when I come in tomorrow to see your father.’

  ‘Would you? I’d be much obliged, nurse.’

  When they finally left the Fairbrasses’, Bess Bradshaw sent Agnes back to the district nurses’ house to change.

  ‘I can’t have you trailing after me smelling like a rag and bone yard,’ she said. ‘You’ll upset the patients.’

  Despite her best efforts, Agnes managed to get herself lost in the warren of streets around Quarry Hill. By the time she found her way back to the district nurses’ house, Dottie was clearing the dining room, and most of the nurses had retired to write up their notes from their morning rounds.

  Agnes went upstairs to bathe and change, and found Polly already there. She was sitting at the mirror, brushing her hair.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘How did your first morning go?’ Then she caught sight of Agnes’ bedraggled reflection in the mirror. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Would you believe, I ended up in a fight?’

  Agnes explained what had happened, and to her credit, Polly didn’t laugh like her mother had.

  ‘You poor love,’ she sympathised. ‘You’re not having a great deal of luck in Quarry Hill, are you?’

  ‘It was all horrible.’ Agnes unfastened her starched collar and pulled it off. ‘I hated every minute of it.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Polly said soothingly.

  ‘Will I? I don’t think so.’ Agnes sighed with frustration. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if I’d actually done some proper nursing. But so far all I’ve done is watch Mrs Bradshaw drinking endless cups of tea!’ Then she remembered who Polly was. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Polly said. ‘I know what my mother is like,
remember? I told you she would try to provoke you, didn’t I? She can probably tell it irritates you.’ Polly turned back to her reflection and teased a strand of blonde hair into place.

  It was then that Agnes noticed her room mate wasn’t wearing her uniform, but a rather fetching pink dress. ‘Aren’t you back on duty this afternoon?’ she asked.

  Polly shook her head. ‘It’s my afternoon off.’

  ‘You look very smart. Are you going somewhere nice?’

  ‘I’m going to visit someone,’ Polly said quietly.

  ‘Oh yes? Anyone special?’

  Polly paused for a moment. ‘My husband,’ she said.

  Chapter Seven

  The churchyard was deserted in the middle of the afternoon. Any funerals usually took place in the morning, and even though there were usually a couple of other mourners visiting their loved ones, this time the weather must have kept them away. Dark, threatening clouds, black as bruises, were rolling in, blocking out the sun and making the churchyard seem even more sombre.

  Polly didn’t mind the rain that started to spit as she passed through the lych gate and made her way up the path. She preferred the solitude the bad weather offered.

  Yet she wasn’t alone. As she drew closer to the church building, she noticed the lone figure of a gravedigger hard at work on the far side of the churchyard. Careless of the weather, he’d hung his jacket from one of the low branches of an overhanging tree while he worked. Even from the other side of the churchyard, Polly could see the rain had plastered his dark hair to his face. But the man barely seemed to notice as he dug into the ground, sending up spadefuls of earth on to a growing mound behind him.

  Then, as if he sensed he was being watched, he suddenly stopped digging, straightened up and stared back at her.

  Caught, Polly gave him a quick, embarrassed nod and hurried on, past the church and up the slight rise to the far end of the churchyard, where Frank rested close to the wall, under the shade of a yew tree.

  Polly felt the familiar sense of panic and dread churning in her stomach as she approached his grave. Her knees went weak, her legs resisting her, so it was all she could do to force herself to walk the last few paces.

  When she had first experienced the panic, going to visit Frank immediately after his funeral, to her shame she had given in to it and run away. But gradually she had forced herself to ignore the voice that cried out inside her, telling her to spare herself and turn back. Now, two years later, the pain and panic hadn’t lessened, but she had learned to control them better.

  It helped that over the years the grass had grown, softening what once had been a stark, raw mound of freshly dug earth. But the headstone was still as hard and uncompromising as it had been on the first day she saw it.

  Polly kept her eyes averted from it as she kneeled down and replaced the faded flowers with the fresh carnations she had brought. Then, finally, when she couldn’t avoid it any longer, she stood up, brushed the dirt from her knees, and forced herself to lift her gaze and look at his name.

  Francis Patrick Malone

  Born 18th September 1901

  Died 22nd June 1922

  Beloved son, brother and husband

  Polly kept on staring at the letters, waiting for the pain to subside. But it only seemed to grow sharper, until the letters blurred as tears filled her eyes.

  ‘ “Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he die, yet shall he live.” ’

  Polly swung round at the sound of the voice behind her. A smiling young man stood there, sheltering under an umbrella and leaning heavily on a walking stick. A starched dog collar was just visible under the mackintosh he wore.

  ‘What did you say?’ she blurted out.

  His smile wavered. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I just happened to glance out of the vicarage window and saw you standing there. You looked so forlorn, I thought you might be in need of some consolation. You know – “blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted”, that sort of thing?’

  ‘What I’m in need of is to be left alone!’ Polly snapped back, then regretted it immediately when she saw the young man’s expression falter. A blush swept up from under his dog collar to flood his face.

  ‘I do beg your pardon,’ he murmured. ‘You’re quite right, I shouldn’t have disturbed your privacy—’

  He started to turn away, but Polly called out to him.

  ‘No, wait! I’m the one who should apologise. I’m sorry for snapping. I know you were only trying to be nice.’

  ‘I’m afraid the vicar is always taking me to task for my over-eagerness,’ the young man said ruefully. ‘ “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread” and all that.’ He turned his gaze to Frank’s grave. ‘But I don’t suppose there is any comfort I could offer someone who has lost a loved one so young.’ He shook his head. ‘Just twenty-one years old,’ he murmured. ‘Only five years younger than I am.’ He looked up at Polly. His eyes were a gentle brown, the colour of hazelnuts. His hair was slightly lighter, curling slightly around his ears. ‘Was he your brother?’

  ‘My husband.’

  ‘How tragic.’ The young man fell silent for a long time, as if he couldn’t find the right words. The only sound was the steady rain pattering down on his umbrella. Polly tightened her mackintosh around her as water dripped off the brim of her hat. It would be a sodden mess by the time she got back to the district nurses’ house, she thought.

  ‘Oh, do excuse me. What on earth am I thinking?’ As if he could read her mind, the young man suddenly hurried forward to cover her with his umbrella. ‘Here, allow me.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Polly said. ‘I’m going now anyway.’

  ‘Then allow me to walk you back to the gate. You must think I have the most dreadful manners. We haven’t even been introduced.’ He juggled his walking stick and umbrella for a moment so he could offer her a free hand. ‘I’m Matthew Elliott, the new curate. At least, I suppose I must still be new,’ he mused. ‘I’ve been here three months now, but that’s how everyone still refers to me.’

  Polly smiled. ‘I’m Polly Malone.’

  ‘Polly.’ He repeated the name thoughtfully. ‘I must admit, I’ve seen you a couple of times when you’ve been visiting. I had hoped you might come to church, so I could introduce myself properly.’

  Polly looked down at the path, embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid I don’t attend as regularly as I should.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no matter,’ he dismissed. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you off about it. I leave all that sort of thing to Reverend Turner! No, I just noticed how sad you always looked.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone look sad when they come to visit someone’s grave?’ Polly asked.

  Matthew shook his head. ‘Not always. I’ve seen people smiling like the Cheshire Cat. I suppose, to be charitable, it might be that they’re relieved and happy that their loved ones are free from pain and have entered the Kingdom of Heaven. But sometimes I’m not so sure. Would you believe, I once saw a woman dancing on her husband’s grave?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It’s quite true. They had barely finished burying him and she was doing a jig!’

  Polly smiled in spite of herself. ‘I suppose you must see some strange sights?’

  ‘Some strange sights – and some very sad ones too. That was why I decided to brave the elements to see you today. I wanted to find out your story.’

  ‘Well, now you know.’

  ‘What do you mean? I hardly know anything about you. Where you live, for instance, and what kind of work you do. You do work, I suppose?’

  But Polly wasn’t listening. Her attention was fixed on a movement near the gate. A large dark shape was prowling along the wall, behind some overgrown shrubs. She could hear the rustling of the wet leaves as it moved slowly and carefully, just out of sight.

  Then the bushes parted and a broad black head suddenly appeared, making her jump until she realised what it was.


  ‘Look, it’s a dog!’ she cried.

  Matthew looked in the direction she was pointing. ‘So it is. What’s that doing here, I wonder.’ He turned and called out to the young man who was still digging a grave on the far side of the churchyard. ‘I say – you there! Come and get rid of this thing, will you?’

  The young man continued to dig, his spade moving with a slow, steady rhythm.

  Matthew tutted. ‘I don’t suppose he can hear me from so far away.’

  Oh yes he can, Polly thought. She didn’t know why, but somehow she knew the other man had heard every word. But for reasons best known to himself, he had chosen to ignore the curate.

  She looked back at the dog. ‘We should leave it,’ she said. ‘It isn’t doing any harm. It will probably find its own way out of the gate in a minute.’

  Matthew’s smooth features twisted into a frown. ‘We can’t just leave stray dogs to wander around the churchyard. What if it attacked someone?’

  ‘It seems harmless—’ Polly started to say, but Matthew had already shoved his umbrella into her hand and was crashing into the undergrowth after the dog.

  ‘Hey, you! Get away with you.’ He advanced on the animal, his stick raised. The dog backed away, snarling, head lowered, hackles standing on end, its gaze fixed on the stick.

  ‘You see? It’s vicious,’ the curate called back over his shoulder to Polly.

  ‘Only because you’ve cornered it,’ she called back. ‘The poor thing is terrified. Just leave it, please.’

  Matthew raised his stick again and the dog let loose a frenzy of barking. Its eyes rolled back in its head, revealing bloodshot whites.

  ‘No!’ Polly was about to rush at Matthew and stop him, but someone else beat her to it. The young gravedigger came out of nowhere, putting himself between Matthew and the cornered animal, brandishing his spade like a weapon. He was still in his shirtsleeves and his damp shirt clung to him, revealing powerfully muscled arms.

  ‘Don’t you dare lay a finger on him,’ he warned in a low voice that sounded even more ominous than the dog’s deep-throated growl.