A Nightingale Christmas Carol

by Donna Douglas

  ‘Is that you, love?’ Florrie Jenkins called out as Kitty let herself in the back door twenty minutes later.

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ Kitty followed the sound of her voice. Her mother was in the kitchen, doing some mending while a man on the wireless gave advice to listeners about what they should be doing on their allotments.

  ‘Where are Dad and Arthur?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Home Guard drill tonight. You know they never miss it.’ Her mother looked up at her over the sock she was darning. ‘You’re early,’ she said.

  ‘Yes – I was tired, so I decided to come home.’

  ‘But you had a nice time?’

  Kitty read the anxiety in her mother’s gaze. Florrie was so desperate for her to be happy, it was written all over her face.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘I had a lovely time.’

  ‘I am glad.’ Her mother let out a sigh of relief. ‘Why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it?’

  So Kitty sat down in the chair opposite her mother, and made up a tale about the wonderful night out she’d had, how she had laughed and talked and danced with a Scottish soldier called Mal. It was only half true, but as she talked, she could see her mother’s face clearing, her worried frown turning into a look of happiness.

  ‘That is good news,’ she said, when Kitty had finished. ‘You should get out more, you know. It would do you the world of good.’

  Kitty lifted her hand to smooth down her hair. ‘I will,’ she said. ‘I promise.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘It’s not fair. They shouldn’t make you do this.’

  Helen stood at the mirror, fastening her starched collar. Behind her, she could see Clare’s reflection as she sat on the edge of the bed. From the look of distress on her face, Clare seemed more upset about the situation than Helen was.

  ‘I don’t think I have much choice,’ she said. ‘You heard what Major Ellis said. There’s a shortage of QAs, so I have to act as Sister for two wards.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But POWs! And after what happened—’

  ‘Don’t,’ Helen cut her off sharply. ‘There’s no point in going on about it. It’s my duty and I simply have to get on with it.’

  Clare’s mouth pulled down at the corners, a sure sign she was offended. ‘I was only trying to help—’

  But you’re not, are you? You’re only making it worse by going on about it. Helen bit back the retort. She knew how sensitive Clare could be.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I just find it hard to talk about, that’s all.’

  Her words seemed to have the right effect. Clare’s expression softened. ‘At least we’ll be working on the ward together some of the time,’ she said. ‘So I’ll be there when you need to get away from – them.’ Her face brightened. ‘We can hide in the kitchen drinking tea, and if anyone from the POWs’ ward comes looking for you, I can say you’re busy . . .’

  ‘I expect I will be busy, with two wards to look after,’ Helen said.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Clare said archly. ‘I can hide you away so you never have to have anything to do with those awful men—’

  ‘Is that a letter from home?’ Helen interrupted her, desperate to change the subject.

  Clare picked up the envelope lying next to her on the bed. ‘Yes, it’s from my brother.’

  ‘The pilot?’

  Clare nodded. ‘He’s having a very jolly time, by all accounts.’ She paused for a moment, then said, ‘There was a letter waiting for you, too. I took it out of your pigeon-hole.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ There was something about the way Clare said it that made Helen instantly wary.

  ‘It’s from France.’

  Helen carried on adjusting her collar, conscious that her fingers were suddenly shaking.

  ‘Don’t you want to read it?’ Clare asked.

  ‘No,’ Helen said.

  Clare took the letter out of her pocket. Helen saw the thin blue envelope and her heart lurched painfully against her ribs. It took all her self-control not to tear it out of Clare’s hands.

  ‘It’s the third one he’s sent. You’d think he’d take the hint, wouldn’t you?’

  Helen smiled reluctantly. ‘He would call it determination.’

  Clare looked up at her. ‘You sound as if you’re glad he’s still writing to you.’ She held out the envelope. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to read it?’

  Helen eyed the envelope for a moment, then turned away firmly. ‘Throw it away,’ she said.

  ‘If that’s what you want.’

  No, she thought. Of course it isn’t what I want. But it was the way things had to be. She had no choice in the matter, any more than she had a choice about working on a ward full of POWs.

  As if she could read her thoughts, Clare said, ‘You’re right. I mean, suppose he ever found out . . .’

  ‘How do I look?’ Helen interrupted. She turned round to face her, smoothing down her uniform.

  Luckily, her distraction worked. Clare beamed at her. ‘Very smart, love.’

  ‘That’s something, anyway.’ Helen checked her watch. ‘Oh well, I’d better go. Wish me luck.’

  Clare grimaced. ‘Poor Helen. I reckon you’re going to need it.’

  ‘What if they can’t speak English?’

  Dora looked up from scrubbing rust stains from the cast-iron bath tub. It had been a long time since Wren ward had been occupied, and it was dusty, unloved and in need of a thorough clean.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘They won’t, will they? Speak English, I mean? Not if they’re German.’ Miss Sloan stood over her, her cloth in her hand, frowning with concern.

  ‘I suppose not.’ Dora turned back to her scrubbing but she could hear Miss Sloan fidgeting behind her, a sure sign she was upset about something.

  ‘Then how will we manage?’ she wanted to know.

  Dora gave up trying to work, sat back on her heels and massaged the back of her neck. Leonora Sloan had been fretting all day about one thing or another, and it was starting to give Dora a headache.

  ‘Matron said they’ll probably have an English-speaking officer to translate for them,’ she said.

  Miss Sloan pulled a face. ‘Well, I’m not sure I like the sound of that,’ she said.

  ‘And I’m sure Sister Dawson will be able to understand them a bit. She’s been in Europe with the QAs, after all,’ Dora said.

  ‘If she ever shows her face,’ Miss Sloan said darkly.

  Dora frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We haven’t seen much of her, have we? She’s supposed to be in charge of the ward, but she’s hardly ever here.’

  ‘Sister Dawson has two wards to run. It’s hardly surprising she’s busy,’ Dora defended her.

  ’If you ask me, she seems more interested in the other ward than this one,’ Miss Sloan remarked.

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  ‘I think it is. She seems like rather a cold fish to me.’

  Dora confronted the VAD. ‘Actually, Helen Dawson is a good friend of mine. And she isn’t cold at all,’ she said. ‘She’s one of the most conscientious, compassionate nurses I’ve ever worked with.’

  That shut her up. Miss Sloan’s mouth took on a pinched look. ‘Well, pardon me if I was speaking out of turn,’ she muttered. She went back to her polishing, attacking a dull spot on the chrome tap with unnecessary force.

  Before she could say any more, Kitty Jenkins appeared in the doorway.

  ‘The linen order has arrived, Staff. Will you check it?’

  ‘That’s Sister’s job, surely?’

  ‘Sister Dawson has been called away to the other ward, Staff.’

  Dora shot a sideways look at Miss Sloan. The VAD had her back turned, still polishing away at the taps, but the stiffness of her spine spoke volumes. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said.

  As she followed Kitty out of the room, Dora said, ‘Thank heavens you rescued me. I think Miss Sloan and I were about to fall out.’

&
nbsp; She smiled, but Kitty didn’t smile back. She had been in a bad mood ever since they found out they were being moved to the POWs’ ward the day before. Dora knew Kitty had been to see Matron, but she guessed from the girl’s stony expression that her meeting with Miss Fox had not gone well.

  She followed Kitty to the linen cupboard, where Arthur Jenkins was waiting, leaning on his trolley, looking bored. He was a tall, gangly young man, with a tousled mop of pale brown hair, and a cluster of angry spots along his jawline.

  He saw Dora approaching and drummed his fingers impatiently on the handle of his trolley, but she calmly ignored him as she took the list from Kitty and started to count the sheets and pillowcases.

  ‘They’re all there,’ Arthur interrupted her rudely.

  Dora sent him a cold look over the piece of paper. ‘I’m sure they are, but it’s my job to check them all the same.’ She finished counting and ticked the piece of paper. Then she said to Kitty, ‘Right, now we’ll check them properly.’

  Arthur sighed and looked ostentatiously at his watch, but Dora once again ignored him as she and Kitty unfurled the top sheet and inspected it.

  ‘Are you sure this linen is new?’ Dora asked.

  ‘It’s what the laundry sent up,’ Arthur shrugged.

  ‘It seems very worn. And look, there’s a hole in this one.’ She shook her head. ‘No, this won’t do at all.’ Dora turned to Arthur. ‘Take it back to the laundry and tell them we need more.’

  ‘They’re good enough for the Nazis, surely,’ Arthur muttered under his breath.

  Dora swung round on him. ‘They’re not good enough for me! I want you to return this lot, and to come back with something decent. Well? What are you waiting for?’ she snapped, as Arthur glared mutinously at her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Helen Dawson approached them, her expression stern under her frilled white cap.

  ‘It’s this linen that the laundry has sent up, Sister,’ Dora said. ‘It’s far too worn to put on the beds.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Helen inspected one of the pillowcases. ‘It seems quite acceptable to me,’ she said, handing it back to Dora.

  Dora stared at her. ‘But it’s nearly threadbare. Look at this hole—’ She went to show her, but Helen waved her away.

  ‘I’m sure it’s the best that can be done,’ she said. ‘It might not be ideal, but we must be practical and make do with what we have.’

  ‘But there was a new delivery last week!’ Dora protested.

  Helen didn’t look at her. Turning to Kitty, she said, ‘See the beds are made up stat, Nurse. The prisoners will be here shortly, and we’ve already wasted enough time.’

  She turned and left them, her starched apron crackling as she walked briskly away.

  ‘That’s told you,’ Arthur Jenkins muttered under his breath. He sounded so pleased with himself, Dora couldn’t bear to look at him. She stared after Helen, her mouth open in stunned disbelief.

  This wasn’t like her. The Helen she used to know would never have accepted something as shoddy as threadbare sheets.

  Perhaps Miss Sloan was right after all, she thought.

  Chapter Eight

  There were guards on the ward doors when Kitty returned from lunch later.

  It gave her a start to see the two young men in British khaki combat uniform, lounging against the wall, their rifles at their sides.

  As she approached, she heard one of them say to the other, ‘Hello, who have we here?’

  The other soldier turned to look at her, and Kitty stopped in her tracks. She could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, as if it might burst out of the bib of her apron.

  Oh no. It couldn’t be. Not him . . .

  Mal looked as shocked as she was. For the briefest moment, his eyes flicked up to her temple, now covered by her starched linen cap.

  He cleared his throat nervously. ‘Afternoon, Nurse,’ he greeted her, his face colouring.

  Kitty ignored his greeting. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re here to guard the prisoners,’ Mal explained. ‘Make sure they don’t try to make a run for it.’

  So this was the top secret, hush-hush mission they’d been sent on. Kitty would have laughed, if she wasn’t so embarrassed at seeing Mal again.

  She glanced towards the double doors. ‘Are they here already?’

  Before they could reply, the doors flew open and Miss Sloan appeared.

  ‘Thank heavens you’re here, Nurse Jenkins. We’ve just had a telephone call to say the ambulance has arrived. They’re on their way.’

  Len grinned. ‘There’s your answer!’

  As Kitty turned to go, Mal said, ‘Look, about last night—’

  Kitty ignored him and hurried after Miss Sloan on to the ward. As the doors closed, she heard Len say, ‘Well, that’s a turn-up for the books, eh pal? And there was you, thinking you’d never see her again!’

  ‘Much good it’ll do me, I reckon,’ Mal muttered in reply.

  Without thinking, Kitty smoothed down her sleeve to reassure herself her scar was covered up.

  Miss Sloan was pacing up and down the empty ward, her hands clasped together. Wisps of greying hair escaped from under her cap.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she squawked. ‘They’ll be here any minute and Nurse Riley is still on her dinner break.’

  ‘Where’s Sister Dawson?’ Kitty asked.

  Miss Sloan rolled her eyes. ‘Well, that’s a good question! She was called away to the other ward yet again. I telephoned to let her know they were on their way but a rather rude young woman told me Sister was too busy to come. We’re on our own!’ Her voice quivered. ‘Oh Nurse, what shall we do?’

  The VAD’s panic had an oddly calming effect on Kitty. She surveyed the two lines of beds down either side of the long ward, illuminated by shafts of sunlight from the tall windows. The beds were all made up, hot water bottles in each to air the sheets. The air was fragrant with the smell of polish and Lysol. The cupboards and kitchen and sluice room were all stocked and ready.

  ‘There’s nothing else we can do, is there?’ she said. ‘We just have to wait.’

  They didn’t have to wait long. Within a few minutes, the doors opened and the first of the POWs were brought in.

  Kitty stood in the middle of the ward, Miss Sloan at her side, as the porters carried in stretchers.

  ‘They’re so young!’ the VAD whispered. ‘I didn’t expect that, did you?’

  ‘No,’ Kitty said. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. In her mind, the Germans were murderous fiends. But these were little more than boys, some of them seemed no older than Arthur. They looked sick with terror, staring around them fearfully, their grey-green uniforms worn and filthy.

  Pity lurched inside Kitty at the forlorn sight, but she braced herself against it. Young and afraid as they were, they were still capable of shooting a gun, or wielding a bayonet, or letting loose a torpedo to sink a ship . . .

  Arthur came through the double doors, holding on to the end of a stretcher. Even from the other end of the ward Kitty could see the taut resentment on his face.

  ‘You there!’ A man strode in behind him. He wore an officer’s uniform, with high leather boots and a cap tucked under his arm. He was exactly what Kitty had imagined a German to look like: tall, blond and autocratic-looking.

  He tapped Arthur on the shoulder. ‘Have a care!’ he snapped, his perfect English bearing only the slightest trace of an accent. ‘He is a patient, not a sack of potatoes.’

  Kitty saw Arthur’s body stiffen, and held her breath. Please, Arthur, don’t do anything daft, she prayed silently.

  Arthur swung round to confront him, but Kitty managed to snag his gaze. She gave him a small, desperate shake of her head. Her brother pursed his lips, but to her relief he turned away.

  The man barely seemed to notice. He stood in the middle of the ward and looked around.

  ‘Who is in charge here?’ he demanded. He turned to face Kitty and Miss
Sloan, who stared back at him silently. ‘You two,’ he said, looking down his long straight nose at them. ‘Which one of you is the Oberschwester – the sister in charge of this ward?’

  Kitty could feel Miss Sloan’s expectant gaze on her. Arthur was also watching her.

  She knew she shouldn’t be intimidated by the man, that he was a prisoner like the others, but there was something about those cold blue eyes that unnerved her.

  ‘Well?’ he snapped. ‘Don’t you understand English? I am asking you a question.’

  ‘Perhaps if you asked her politely, she might answer you.’

  Kitty’s knees sagged with relief as Nurse Riley appeared in the doorway.

  The man swung round. ‘Are you the Oberschwester?’

  ‘I’m Nurse Riley, the senior staff nurse on this ward. And you are?’

  He pulled himself up to his full height. He towered over Nurse Riley, but she didn’t seem intimidated in the slightest.

  ‘I am Major Karl Von Mundel. I have been put in charge of the ward.’

  Nurse Riley folded her arms across her chest. ‘Oh yes? And who told you that, then?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Unless Matron tells us otherwise, I think you’ll find Sister Dawson runs this ward, not you.’

  Kitty saw the man’s eyes narrow. Good for you, she silently encouraged Nurse Riley.

  ‘And where is this – Sister Dawson?’ He pronounced the name with contempt.

  Dora looked at Kitty, who managed a slight shake of her head.

  ‘She isn’t here at the moment,’ Dora said.

  Major Von Mundel looked affronted. ‘That is not correct. She should be here.’

  ‘I expect she will be, when she’s finished attending to her other patients.’ Nurse Riley looked up at him. ‘In the meantime, Nurse Jenkins and I will take care of these men and prepare them for the doctor’s round.’

  ‘There is no need for that,’ he dismissed. ‘I am a doctor, and I will be looking after the patients on this ward.’

  Dora shook her head. ‘Thank you, but we have our own doctors in this hospital.’

  He stood a little straighter. ‘But I am a qualified surgeon!’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you can discuss it with Dr Abbott, but until I hear otherwise, he’ll be the one I take orders from.’