The Nurses of Steeple Street

by Donna Douglas

  ‘Much obliged.’ He touched the peak of his cap and went on with his work.

  Polly had said she didn’t mind, but she was painfully conscious of the young man close by as she laid her flowers on Frank’s grave. This time she didn’t force herself to look at the inscription. She didn’t want anyone to witness her distress.

  The young man kept his back turned, as if he didn’t want to see it either.

  Finally, she stood up and brushed the dirt from her dress. It was a warm day for early October, the sun high in the sky, and Polly had put on the cornflower-sprigged summer dress that Frank had always liked best.

  She was going to walk away, but something stopped her. It was a question that had been troubling her ever since her last visit, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to rest until she had an answer.

  She cleared her throat. ‘I wanted to ask you … what happened to the dog?’

  The young man didn’t turn round, but she saw his broad shoulders stiffen. ‘It’s gone,’ he muttered finally.

  ‘Oh no!’ Polly was filled with dismay. ‘You didn’t—’

  ‘No, miss.’ He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t do anything like that.’

  Polly let out a sigh of relief. ‘I’m glad. Where has it gone, do you know?’

  ‘No idea, miss.’ The man went back to his work, ending the conversation. Polly watched him for a moment.

  ‘It’s such a shame,’ she said. ‘I wish it could have found a good home here. I don’t like to think of it out there, fending for itself …’

  The man turned slowly to look at her over his shoulder. He paused for a moment, as if weighing something up in his mind. Then he said, ‘Can you keep a secret, miss?’

  He said it in such a low voice, Polly wasn’t sure she’d heard him at first. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But what …’

  He set down his shears on the grass. ‘Come wi’ me,’ he said.

  Polly followed him past the back of the church, through the churchyard, until they reached a narrow gate set in the wall. The young man shouldered it open and led the way into an untended area, a small patch of wasteland with a couple of low, tin-roofed outbuildings at the far end, screened by overgrown shrubs.

  Polly picked her way through the long grass after him as he headed for the nearest shed. ‘What—’ she started to ask, but he put a finger to his lips to silence her.

  ‘Don’t make too much noise,’ he warned. ‘He’s still a bit afeared around strangers.’

  He gently lifted the latch on the shed door. ‘It’s all right, lad,’ Polly heard him whisper. ‘It’s only me.’

  He opened the door and Polly heard a rustle inside, followed by the scrabble of clawed feet moving across the wooden floor. She peered over his shoulder into the gloom and saw a dark shape trotting towards them.

  Its hackles rose when it saw Polly. A low, warning growl came from its throat as a pair of brown eyes eyed her warily. Then, suddenly, it stopped growling and came to her.

  Polly reached out and let it nuzzle her hand. ‘Hello, you beautiful creature,’ she said. ‘My goodness, you look a lot better than the last time I saw you.’

  In the shaft of sunlight flooding in through the open shed door, she could see the dog’s skinny flanks had filled out, its ribs no longer jutting painfully through its now glossy black coat.

  ‘That wound’s healing up nicely,’ she said. ‘Someone’s been looking after you very well.’

  The young man coloured slightly. ‘I’ve just been chucking him a few scraps now and then,’ he muttered.

  ‘You’ve been doing more than that, I can tell. Look at him. He seems so happy.’ She could see the trust shining out of the dog’s warm brown eyes. He looked as if he was smiling, his long pink tongue lolling from his mouth.

  ‘All he needed was a bit of love and somewhere to call home.’ There was something about the way he said it that made Polly turn to look at him in the gloom. His face was all hard planes and angles, his grey eyes too full of anger and resentment to be handsome. A faint scar ran down one cheek.

  She dragged her gaze away. ‘Are you going to keep him?’ she asked.

  ‘I reckon so. My granddad’s said he won’t have him in the cottage, but I don’t reckon it will be long before he changes his mind about that. Eh, boy?’ He bent down and fussed the dog. ‘He says this fella’s a mangy beast, but I’ve caught him feeding him a few scraps too, when he doesn’t think I’m watching.’ His mouth curved in a half smile.

  ‘What does the vicar think about it?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him about it yet, but I reckon he’ll be all right. He’s a good man.’ He looked at her warily. ‘You won’t tell your friend the curate, will you?’

  Polly blushed. ‘He’s not my friend.’

  She crouched down and stroked the dog, caressing his velvety ears. He responded by licking her hands.

  The young man watched her. ‘In’t you scared to touch him, after he nearly took your hand off?’

  ‘Why should I be? He only lashed out because he was afraid.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true enough. But I don’t reckon I would have stood a chance of keeping him if you’d made trouble for him.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘There’s plenty who would.’

  Their eyes met in the darkness of the shed, and Polly felt the sudden rush of an emotion she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  She turned away sharply, her attention back on the dog. ‘Have you given him a name yet?’

  ‘I’ve been calling him Job.’

  ‘Job? That’s an odd name for a dog.’

  The young man scuffed the toe of his muddy boot on the bare boards. ‘It seemed only right to give him a name from the Bible. Granddad says that Job had a lot of troubles, and I reckon this one’s had more than his fair share of troubles too. Eh, lad?’

  Polly straightened up. ‘I’m glad he’s found a good home, at any rate.’

  ‘Everyone deserves a second chance,’ the young man muttered.

  Polly glanced at him. There was something odd about the way he’d said it.

  ‘I’d best go,’ she said.

  They slipped outside. As the young man lowered the latch, Polly heard a gentle whining from the other side of the door. She smiled.

  ‘He wants you to stay with him.’

  ‘It’s you he wants,’ the young man replied. ‘He never cries when I leave him. Nor Granddad neither. I reckon he likes you.’

  ‘I like him too,’ Polly said.

  As she started to walk away, the young man called out, ‘Happen you could come and visit him again sometime?’

  She turned to look over her shoulder at him. He was clutching his cap in both hands, a truculent expression on his face, as if he was angry with himself for asking.

  Polly smiled. ‘I’d like that,’ she said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Agnes was about to be told off again.

  After nearly three weeks of following Bess Bradshaw around, she had come to know when a reprimand was due. Bess wouldn’t say anything in front of the patient, but her face would tighten, her brows would draw together in a stern line, and she would fold her mouth so that her lips disappeared. Then all Agnes could do was brace herself for the onslaught she knew was coming.

  Sure enough, as they stepped out of Mrs Reed’s cottage, Bess turned on her and said, ‘And what was that all about, may I ask?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Agnes said, although she knew very well.

  ‘Contradicting me in front of Mrs Reed like that. I wish you’d keep your opinions to yourself. It doesn’t do for Queen’s Nurses to be bickering in front of patients, you know.’

  ‘I wasn’t bickering,’ Agnes replied calmly. ‘And it wasn’t simply an opinion. It’s a medical fact that obesity puts unnecessary strain on the arthritic joints—’

  ‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Bess snapped back. ‘You’re not the only one who’s a trained nurse, you know, even though you seem to think
you are!’

  Then you should do something about it, Agnes said silently.

  Winifred Reed was sixty years old, bedridden with arthritis, and easily one of the fattest women Agnes had ever seen. She lay marooned on her bed, her face lost in a sea of quivering chins, her flannel nightdress stretched over acres of blubbery flesh.

  Agnes had been quite terrified every time the woman shifted on the bed. The springs groaned so painfully under her weight, at any moment she had expected the bedframe to splinter and crash through the floor, taking Mrs Reed and them with it.

  And yet the patient passed the time doing crosswords and eating cake. And Bess did nothing to stop her.

  ‘All I suggested was that she should stop eating so much and try doing some exercise,’ Agnes said.

  ‘Yes, and I’m sure that did her a lot of good, listening to your lecture!’ Bess retorted. ‘You do realise you’ve just gone and undone weeks of work, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Believe it or not, Miss Sheridan, I have been trying to educate Mrs Reed. But it’s not an easy job, breaking the habits of a lifetime. And Mrs Reed is not an easy woman either. She’s very sensitive when it comes to her weight. You have to approach these things slowly and carefully. Not like a bull in a ruddy china shop!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Agnes said quietly. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘No, and you never bother to ask either. You just jump straight in, assuming you know everything.’

  ‘Yes, but surely—’

  ‘Really, Miss Sheridan, I do wish you’d stop offering your opinions all the time. You might know all there is to know about nursing, but you don’t understand the first thing about people.’ Bess shook her head. ‘If you want to be a Queen’s Nurse, you’ll have to learn that not everything is as cut and dried as it is in your textbooks.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever be a Queen’s Nurse, since I’m never allowed to do anything!’ Agnes muttered.

  Bess Bradshaw stared at her. ‘What are you on about? You’re always doing something.’

  ‘I make tea and wash instruments,’ Agnes said.

  ‘And you go to lectures.’

  ‘What use are lectures, if I’m never allowed any practical experience?’

  Bess sighed impatiently. ‘As I’ve already explained several times, they’re a funny lot in Quarry Hill. They don’t take kindly to strangers. It takes a bit of time to win their trust.’

  ‘How am I going to do that when all I ever do is put the kettle on? I am quite capable, you know,’ Agnes said. ‘I’ve worked in Theatre and assisted with complicated surgical procedures.’

  She could have bitten her tongue the moment she said it. Bess’ eyes lit up with that familiar mocking glint.

  ‘Have you now?’ Her mouth twitched, and Agnes knew she had amused her again. No doubt Bess would tease her mercilessly for it back at the district nurses’ house.

  But then the Assistant Superintendent surprised her by adding, ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  Agnes stopped in her tracks. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s about time you started taking on more nursing duties. And you can start by giving Mr Shapcott his bath this afternoon.’

  Agnes stared at her. ‘Do you mean it?’

  ‘Of course. If you think you can manage it?’

  Bess was teasing her, but Agnes didn’t mind. She was too delighted at the thought of actually doing some real nursing. Even if it was the kind of nursing a probationer would usually do.

  ‘Yes, I can,’ she said.

  ‘Good, that’s settled, then.’ Bess mounted her bicycle, and Agnes followed suit. She was so excited, she barely noticed when she pedalled through a puddle and soaked her stockings.

  Just to make the day even better, they arrived back in Steeple Street before lunch was over, so Agnes was able to eat with the others for once. Afterwards, she went off to the district room to sterilise the instruments Bess had used that morning, ready for that afternoon’s round.

  Phil Fletcher came in as Agnes was loading up the temperamental old steriliser. The other student nurse was out of breath, still dressed in her coat, bag in her hand.

  ‘I’ve missed lunch, haven’t I?’ she groaned. ‘I knew it! I got a wretched puncture and had to wheel the bike all the way back from Otley.’

  ‘You must be worn out,’ Agnes said.

  ‘I am.’ Phil flopped down on the wooden chair. ‘I’m almost too tired to go to the kitchen and beg Dottie to make me a sandwich.’

  Agnes smiled sympathetically. She and Phil might not have got off to the best start, but over the past three weeks Agnes had learned that her fellow trainee’s bark was much worse than her bite. Phil was a hardworking girl, fiercely bright, and most of her grumpiness stemmed from the fact that she and her mentor Miss Templeton covered a rural district nearly twenty miles away, and she had to cycle there and back every day on a worn-out old bicycle.

  After seeing her coming home every evening in a state of exhaustion, Agnes had begun to understand why she looked forward to a relaxing soak in the bath.

  ‘Would you like me to do your sterilising for you?’ she offered.

  Phil’s eyes flickered open. ‘Would you?’

  ‘I’m just doing mine, so it’d be no trouble. Here, pass me your bag.’

  ‘Thank you, you’re an angel.’ Phil handed it to her. ‘Honestly, you don’t know how lucky you are, working just round the corner in Quarry Hill.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Agnes said. ‘It’s rather grim.’

  ‘Yes, but at least you don’t have to cycle a hundred miles a day! Honestly, if the Association doesn’t get me a motorcycle soon, I might just give up.’ Phil ran her hand through her hair. ‘Anyway, listen to me going on. How was your morning? Has Mrs Bradshaw let you anywhere near a patient yet, or is she still hogging them all to herself?’

  ‘Actually, she’s promised I can give a patient their bath this afternoon.’

  ‘A bath, eh? Goodness, how daring. You’ll be cutting their toenails next. How did that come about?’

  ‘I had it out with her.’

  Phil sat up straighter. ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m not sure that was wise,’ Phil said.

  ‘It worked, didn’t it? I’m actually going to be doing some nursing at last. Well, after a fashion,’ Agnes amended. ‘Anyway, I think Mrs Bradshaw actually respected me for it,’ she said. ‘You know how fond of plain speaking she is, so I was just as plain with her.’

  Agnes was very proud of herself, when she thought about it. She only wished she had thought of trying it sooner.

  ‘If you say so, although I can’t say I’ve ever heard of anyone getting the better of Bess Bradshaw.’ Phil stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. ‘So who is the lucky patient on the receiving end of your delicate ministrations?’ she asked.

  ‘Mr Shapcott.’

  Phil’s eyes widened. ‘Isaiah Shapcott?’

  ‘I think so. We haven’t called on him before so I thought he must be a new patient. Why? Have you heard of him?’

  ‘Oh, my dear, everyone in Steeple Street has heard of Isaiah Shapcott.’ Phil grinned at her. ‘And I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I think Bess might well have got her revenge on you after all!’

  Chapter Twelve

  Christine lay on her back, watching the cobwebs drifting in the breeze from the open window. Outside, she could hear the metallic clank of a tinker going past on his bicycle, plying his wares, and the rancid smell of yesterday’s frying drifting up from the fish-and-chip shop next door.

  Underneath her, the sheets felt threadbare and greasy. Christine shuddered to think how many people had lain on them before her.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts?’

  She turned to look at Oliver as he lay next to her, her head resting in the crook of his arm. His gaze was fixed on her, dark and intense, a slight smile on his soft lips. His olive skin still gleamed with pe
rspiration from their love-making.

  ‘I was just wondering how long it’d been since they washed these sheets,’ she said.

  Oliver laughed. ‘How romantic! And there was I, expecting something truly profound.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re a funny one, Christine Fairbrass.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ she said. ‘I don’t like this place. I swear something bit me last time I was here. It’s—’ She struggled to think of a word she’d read recently. ‘Tawdry,’ she said.

  ‘Tawdry or not, it’s all I can afford,’ Oliver said. ‘But if my princess is not happy with it, then I will try to find a heavenly bower more suited to her taste,’ he replied with a touch of mockery.

  ‘I don’t know why we can’t just go to your lodgings.’ Christine spoke the words that had been on her mind for a while. ‘You wouldn’t have to pay anything then.’

  He grinned. ‘My landlady would love that! She runs a respectable boarding house. She will not put up with lady callers in the rooms!’ he mimicked her high-pitched voice.

  ‘But surely if we’re courting …?’

  ‘It wouldn’t matter to her, she still wouldn’t allow it.’

  Christine swallowed down her disappointment. She was hoping Oliver would reassure her that they were indeed courting, because sometimes it didn’t really feel as if they were. She understood why they had to be careful, but that didn’t stop her feeling like a dirty little secret.

  But she had to be content. Oliver might not be able to declare himself in public, but he certainly showed her in private how much he loved her, with his wonderful, romantic words and blissful love-making.

  There were many girls who would give a lot for such an ardent lover, she told herself.

  She sat up, pushing back the sheets and sliding her feet on to the bare wooden floor.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘I have to go home.’

  ‘Surely not so soon? I’d hoped you might be able to stay a bit longer.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, looking around for her clothes. ‘My mum will be expecting me back.’

  ‘Where does she think you are?’