Nightingale

by Fiona McIntosh

  They’d passed a stall selling cut fruit. Watermelons bled vivid juice the colour of blood to remind Claire she couldn’t escape her imagination, while guavas were spliced with knives dipped in salt and spices, and the citrus of oranges overrode even the aroma of freshly boiled coffee and vaporised tobacco.

  ‘Madam, madam!’ the fruit seller had called but the nurses walked on, steadfastly refusing him eye contact. Claire knew that to even pause would mean all the merchants would begin to badger them, including the nearby corn seller with his luminous yellow cobs.

  ‘The sun is bleaching your hair to the colour of that corn silk,’ Rosie had noted and Claire had stolen a look at the roasting husks. Her friend was likely right; her hair had lost the buttery yellow it had been in England and had become a pale golden, not that it saw much sun these days. It was mostly hidden beneath her starched veil and only on days like today did she feel the freedom of loosening off some of the tight pinning so the soft waves escaped.

  ‘Mmm, now I feel hungry,’ Rosie had admitted.

  Far more pressing than food for Claire had been her need to slake a thirst and wash away the grime of coal dust and sand blown in on the warm winds from the desert.

  They’d veered once more towards the waterfront where the breeze off the sea found them again; normally fresh and salty, these days it tasted of fumes from the large fleet of ships that were taking on supplies or dropping off yet more soldiers. Trailing them had been a flock of small children with hands open and voices chattering demands.

  ‘Come on, Claire, let’s speed up or we’re going to be mobbed.’

  Giving a coin meant the begging only escalated and attracted a bigger crowd. She remembered how her gaze had fallen on an elderly man, looking like a pile of old rags, cross-legged and propped up in the full heat of the sun with only a piece of fabric wrapped around his head for protection. He had stumps for arms. When he looked up, drawn by the sound of the begging children, his rheumy gaze had connected with hers and the guilt he wanted her to feel had banged at the door of her chest like an unwelcome visitor. She’d hated herself for looking away and straight into the dark stare of two veiled women, shrouded in black from head to toe. Claire had envied them slightly in that moment; those women seemed to glide wraith-like through the maelstrom of children, street sellers, beggars, mules and carts, barely being noticed yet seeing everything through that slit in their veil. She wondered now what they thought of her, still in uniform, all crisply stiff in white and grey. Why did she care? War was hard enough without adding more pressure on her reserves by falling into this disconsolate mindset. It wasn’t good for anyone – not her, not for the patients she tended, or the people she worked with . . . certainly not for the friend who stared at her now across the table from the cool verandah of the Windsor Palace Hotel with an expression that was a mix of enquiry and soft concern. Rosie Parsons loved a mystery and Claire knew she could sense one.

  ‘Pomegranate and lime, or violet?’ Rosie asked, reaching across the table for the gilded glass filled with a liquid the colour of a pink sunset. ‘I think the violet suits your mood.’

  Claire didn’t argue. She took the green sherbet that Rose had ordered, made from pounded violet petals and boiled with sugar. Dainty, brilliantly purple fresh flowers floated on her drink and caressed her lips as she sipped; lips that could still remember the kiss that was the origin of this new and entirely unsettled frame of mind she was now in. Violet sherbet was an odd flavor, she decided as she swallowed; scented and subtle, it sounded so feminine but the floral taste wasn’t refreshing enough for her.

  ‘How is it?’ Rosie sighed, pulling a rose petal from her tongue as politely as she could.

  ‘I wish I’d gone for the pomegranate and lime now.’

  ‘You certainly are in a contrary mood, Claire. What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, the constant parade of death and destruction, maybe?’

  Rosie’s gaze narrowed at the sting of sarcasm. ‘Are you going to share, or are you going to pretend this gloom is perfectly normal?’

  Claire shrugged and put the violet sherbet down. It was making her feel queasy. She took a deep breath of air, clearer now that they were down on the Corniche, which ran for ten miles of the waterfront. In the distance, past the hush and tranquillity of the Windsor and its pampered guests, she could hear the squeal of the trains from the nearby Ramle Railway Station.

  Rosie looked around, pretended to let it go, but Claire knew better. Her friend would find an oblique approach.

  ‘I love this place. It feels like a palace,’ Rosie gushed.

  ‘I think it was built to give that impression. Those frescoes on the ceiling would have taken an army of painters and heaven knows how long to complete.’

  ‘I think I could live in Alexandria,’ Rosie sighed.

  ‘Really? You wouldn’t miss home?’

  ‘I don’t miss England. It’s too wet and cold but I miss my family.’

  ‘You said you ran away into nursing to get away from all those brothers and sisters.’

  ‘I did. But war quickly has a way of making you realise what matters, doesn’t it? Now I’d give anything to glare at my younger brothers for the tadpoles that grow into frogs and suddenly appear in my room, or to scold Lizzie for borrowing my cardigan, or to take the twins to the park to feed the ducks.’ Rosie shook her head. ‘I used to think my life was so boring but it was always full of laughter and love.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘Here’s to laughter and love, Claire.’ She raised her glass.

  Claire did the same and sipped her odd-tasting cocktail again. ‘I feel envious of your family and all that love.’

  ‘And I envy you for living in Australia and travelling alone to England and now adventuring here . . . I’m sure you’ll take off to new and exciting places when the war is done. I heard one of the doctors saying that he didn’t think we’d be in Turkey for much longer.’

  ‘Really?’ She frowned.

  ‘He was just guessing. I think I’d go back to England, maybe apply for one of the war hospitals on the coast. We could go together, maybe share digs. You can meet my family in Hove.’

  Claire smiled softly. ‘Sounds nice,’ she murmured.

  ‘Dad will like you because you’re quiet. We’re all chatterboxes. Mum’s the worst of us.’

  ‘How many of you are there?’

  ‘Ten, if you include Gran. We’re lucky we’re given housing through Dad’s job. It’s a nice big house with a long garden and even an apple tree with a treehouse.’ She laughed. ‘I never thought I’d say it but I do miss them all and can’t wait to see them again.’

  A young African man, dressed in a richly adorned waistcoat and pantaloons, wearing a crimson fez that marked him as one of the porters, struggled with a small bag of golf clubs and two suitcases. Claire wondered who on this earth was thinking about golf in the middle of a war.

  Rosie sat forward. ‘Something’s up. You don’t seem yourself.’ She frowned, considering Claire. ‘Has one of the doctors made a pass?’

  ‘No!’ Then she realised maybe this was a way out. ‘It’s one of the patients I’m thinking about,’ she admitted. ‘I just felt sorry for him and I think his situation summed up this war for me. The whole push at Gallipoli feels hopeless.’

  ‘We knew that from day one, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes, but how many have to die to prove to the decision-makers it’s hopeless?’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your soldier.’

  ‘He’s not mine,’ she bristled.

  ‘Really? I noticed you took special interest in one despicably handsome brave from the Light Horse. All that talk of knowing the families. I think you’re sweet on him.’

  She swallowed, feeling the colour rise to her cheeks.

  ‘Claire! I was joking! But I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘Rosie,’ she interrupted, as she signalled to the waiter with a raised hand, ‘I had just held the hand
of his closest friend who died while Jamie wept. I was on the shore, in the midst of all the despair and it caught me in an unguarded moment. Later I just happened to be on a break, insisted upon by Matron, when I saw Jamie arrive for treatment. Given what had recently occurred I thought I’d make it a little easier for him. I knew all he needed was a wound cleaned and some stitches. I left the stitches to —’

  ‘I know, I heard. You’ve gone to some trouble to explain an inconsequence.’

  ‘Because you’re trying to make the inconsequential seem important,’ she snapped.

  Rosie chuckled, undeterred. ‘Do you deny he’s unspeakably attractive?’

  ‘I deny that I noticed,’ she lied. ‘But yes, he’s handsome enough. He was covered top to toe in mud and blood, incidentally.’

  ‘Really? The fact that you call him Jamie while we call him Trooper Wren is a bit of a giveaway,’ Rosie said, arching an eyebrow expertly as she sipped.

  The waiter arrived and bought Claire precious moments; she wasn’t ready to share Jamie with Rosie. What if he died? Then she’d have to put up with Rosie’s pity but first there would be her friend’s gushing enthusiasm for Claire’s romance. No, Jamie was her secret for now. The man waited. ‘Sorry, I wonder if I could order some lemonade instead, please?’ She momentarily felt obliged to give an explanation but he would surely be used to the whims of the spoilt Westerners who frequented the hotel.

  His expression barely flickered in response. ‘Carbonated, madam?’

  ‘Fresh, thank you.’

  He removed himself and the violet sherbet, and having found the calm she needed, Claire returned her gaze to Rosie. ‘Did you hear about the armistice?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. There’s talk it will be underway by the time we get in tomorrow morning. It’s too hot for the Nhouza Gardens after here. Shall we look in on Davies Bryan? I need some hosiery and I like their fixed prices.’

  Claire’s lemonade arrived and she was instantly grateful for the sour, refreshing tang. She sighed her pleasure as it chased away the cloying floral sweetness of her previous drink. ‘Yes, of course. I need to exchange some money anyway. Perhaps we can grab a meal at Walkers & Meimarachi before we go? We promised the owner we’d go next time we were in town.’

  ‘Perfect. I wish we had time for the Alhambra. We could use some of the happy atmosphere and music of the club.’

  Claire gave her a soft glance of reproach. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Then, Claire Nightingale, something is definitely wrong with you. After where we’ve been you should be busting for some entertainment.’

  Claire knew her friend was right.

  ‘Claire?’

  She let out a small breath. ‘I was just thinking that perhaps the orchestra might be playing tonight at Walkers.’ The name echoed through her thoughts. Walker’s Ridge where Jamie lives . . . or dies.

  ‘Oh, that’s true. Wonderful. Something to look forward to. So, hurry up. I’ve finished,’ Rosie said, draining her sherbet. ‘I’m going to visit the lav, and then I’ll find out how much it is to stay here. I think we should treat ourselves next visit. We could share a room – what do you think?’

  Claire grinned her answer and waved her on as she sucked on the waxed paper straw in her lemonade. It would have been a relief to talk about Jamie but Rosie was a helpless chatterbox and she wouldn’t have been able to keep Claire’s secret between them. It made her feel guilty but as soon as Rosie had moved out of her line of sight her expression fell again and she pressed on her memories of two days ago like a bruise, wanting to feel the pain as though addicted to it.

  He’d kissed her, apologised, and she could have left it like that – a moment’s madness, an error. But she had pursued him, suffering her own heartbeat of insanity by encouraging him. By the time Matron had happened upon her in the stores room, Claire had accepted the truth that she’d been entranced by him from the first moment she’d seen him stagger towards her, wearing that agonised look of entreaty, which seemed directed only at her.

  She’d thought about it far too often since and it now felt like a well-trodden pathway in her mind. So many unrelated incidents had conspired to bring them together on that beach of hell, within the same sun-drenched hour, and in that same moment of heartbreak. Claire had decided that they were two lone birds that had flown with the guidance of fate to this island. James Wren with his disarming smile and melancholy mood had trapped her, just like the tiny nightingale she was named after. And now, even though they were separated by many nautical miles, she was convinced he still held her heart captive.

  Is this what it felt like – that most elusive of emotions? If love was meant to empower, why did she feel so suddenly and helplessly bound? Sitting here, fully dislocated from her life in either Britain or Australia, Claire wondered whether she was in love. How was it possible outside of novels to fall for a stranger so swiftly, so hard, in fact, that one’s whole world seemed wrong unless that person were part of it? Her new grief stemmed from this pain of separation and the sudden relentless fear for Jamie’s safety.

  Rosie’s voice gushed into her mind with a stream of words about the hotel and Claire dug up a grin for her friend and stopped pressing the bruise. Over the rim of her glass she saw an elderly woman watching her from another table. She was dressed in cream linens, far more suitable for the climate than her own starched uniform. They exchanged a polite smile.

  ‘Ready?’ Rosie said, gathering her bag, hat and cape – no veil at least. When in uniform Matron insisted they wear it proudly and properly. ‘Wish we’d taken time to change now,’ she grumbled, smoothing her uniform. ‘I’ve paid, by the way.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. Yes, ready, but now I need the lav. Why don’t you go find us a horse and cab? My treat. I’ve got nothing else to spend it on.’

  Rosie gasped. ‘Oh, what fun. We’ll make him take the long way to Cherif Pasha Street.’

  Claire excused herself and went in search of the rest rooms, dawdling to peer into the elegant dining room and at the frescoes. A silent female attendant, dressed sumptuously in the hotel colours of deep crimson and ultramarine, stood guard to supervise the handing out of small towels and tiny scoops of soap paste. While Claire was washing her hands another guest arrived at her side to use the second basin.

  Claire immediately recognised the elderly lady who had smiled at her from the verandah. ‘Oh, good morning.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Nearly good afternoon,’ she grinned.

  ‘Hello, my dear.’ Her refined accent told Claire she was English. ‘Are you from the Australian hospital?’

  ‘I’m from the hospital ship, Gascon.’

  ‘Oh, my word. You brave thing. Is it truly as terrible as the news we hear from the Dardanelles?’

  ‘Worse,’ Claire admitted with a sad smile.

  The woman sighed. ‘I’ve lived in Egypt for the last score years. I just can’t seem to get any enthusiasm up to return to wet and windy Hertfordshire, although that’s precisely what I’m doing, and while the news in Europe feels too incredible to counter, I still can’t quite believe what’s going on in our backyard here.’

  ‘It’s hopeless. That’s the truth of it. We should pull out. Too many thousands already dead, or so badly maimed they probably wish they were.’

  ‘War is a dreadful business. Women should run the world.’

  Claire chuckled.

  ‘Eugenie Lester,’ she said, drying her hands before offering to shake Claire’s. ‘Do call me Eugenie.’

  ‘I’m Claire Nightingale.’

  ‘Oh, charming name – now there’s a woman for whom I hold immense admiration; your inspiration, no doubt.’

  Claire nodded. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘You’re wearing an Australian uniform, but you sound English.’ Her eyes sparkled with interest.

  Claire was used to this query. She kept her explanation brief, then concluded, ‘I returned to England, did my nurse’s training and . . . here I am in Egypt. I guess I straddle
both countries, although I feel as mixed up as my nationality today.’

  ‘Good gracious. But I sense you rather like the adventure of such a dangerous place. What’s more, I doubt you’d take up nursing unless you enjoyed being valued?’ The startling bright blue of her gaze searched Claire’s and pinned her down as though she could see into all her private thoughts. ‘I’ll bet all your patients find a will to recover when treated by you, my dear. Don’t underestimate the balm that a beautiful face, gentle manner and tender hands can be for a wounded man.’

  The only one not surprised by Claire’s sudden tears was Eugenie, who stretched her thin arms, tanned and wrinkled like tissue paper, around her. Claire instinctively bent into the embrace and wept. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. At the funeral of her father, perhaps, although those had been slow, silent tears, not this shaking outburst.

  ‘Cry it out, my girl. I’m very glad we’ve met. I think we were meant to,’ she soothed.

  The attendant offered another towel and a shy, soft smile.

  Claire sniffed and thanked her. ‘Shokran.’

  ‘Al’afw,’ she murmured, her dark eyes full of understanding. She tapped her heart and nodded.

  ‘I think she’s right,’ Eugenie probed. ‘This is not about war, I suspect. This is about your heart.’

  Claire swallowed back a small sob. ‘I don’t know what it is, but it hurts.’

  ‘“It” surely has a name, my dear?’

  ‘James Wren.’ It was out before she could censor herself.

  Eugenie didn’t look surprised, and leaned harder on her walking cane. ‘Ah. He’s fighting, presumably?’

  She nodded miserably. ‘I’m good at my job, Eugenie. I wouldn’t say I don’t get involved because I feel touched by every man’s wounds that we try and repair, but there’s always the next in line and I’ve managed to keep a clear head and not get too lost or overwhelmed by it all.’

  ‘Until this one, you mean?’