Nightingale

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Yes, I suppose I was extremely eager to put myself in direct danger as a way of shaking my fist at fate.’

  ‘Tell me about the prayer book?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘It was in Alexandria with the rest of my belongings but I left in such a hurry and I didn’t want to take anything so precious. At least in the Middle East our lives had a sense of routine on the hospital ship. We had places to store our belongings and so on.’ She frowned, only now thinking it through properly as she nibbled on a biscuit that was delicious with its hum of ginger warming her tongue. ‘I’m going to find Rosie Parsons – I know she would have been given the task of packing up my stuff and storing it for me. I’ll have to start with her family because I’ve no idea where she ended up. Actually you may recall she was at the hotel with me the day you and I met.’

  Eugenie shook her head. ‘I don’t recall her clearly but do you mean to say you haven’t been in touch with her during the war?’

  ‘I’m ashamed to admit that I haven’t, but even you can see that I ran away from the Middle East. I was convinced by others and what felt like overwhelming circumstantial evidence that Jamie had died and I needed to leave everything that reminded me of him behind.’

  Her friend sighed. ‘I understand.’ Claire smiled at the wan, birdlike woman who now sat against the pillows with hands that trembled when she held her cup and saucer, and her still neatly coiffed hair was now so white against the linen it seemed transparent. ‘Here, take this, dear, before I spill it.’ She handed the crockery to Claire and drew her exquisitely embroidered shawl closer around her shoulders. ‘So this Rosie and the prayer book is your first step to what?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, but it feels as though they are pieces to the jigsaw of my life.’ Claire shrugged. ‘Sorry, I know that sounds dramatic.’

  ‘Not at all. I think it’s as valid as it is a wise plan. It’s important to reconnect with anything familiar – places, people, things. They make us feel safe. They also give confidence. It will help you to believe in Jamie Wren.’

  Claire gave a firm nod. ‘Until April first comes, I will not give up on him.’

  15

  Claire strolled from Hove Station munching on a Fry’s Turkish Delight Bar, which she’d seen advertised beside the young boy selling newspapers. In a whimsical mood she’d allowed herself to believe the universe had its spiritual hands firmly against her back, encouraging her in this mission to find the Arabic prayer book.

  The flowery taste of Roses of Otto and the scent of rosewater that overtook her senses as she bit through the paper-thin covering of chocolate to the pleasantly chewy pink gel beneath it took her instantly back to her days in the Middle East, sipping floral-­flavoured sherbets with the very friend she was hunting. Claire recalled that the Ottomans were famous for using the extracted oil from rose petals to flavour drinks, bathwater, even food, and especially their sweet treats. She smiled as she let the floral taste engulf her senses while she focused on remembering the directions from one of the railway staff for how to find Wilbury Crescent.

  ‘Take you about ten minutes, miss, maybe fifteen if you dilly-dally. But it’s a beautiful morning so a gorgeous girl like you might as well take your time and enjoy some rare sun. Lots of daffodils and tulips about.’ He lifted his cap to her.

  Claire was now imagining three years of news to catch up on with Rosie. Guilt slightly soured the sweetness of chocolate as she acknowledged how poor it was that she had taken this long to make contact again with the woman who had worn a smile for her throughout those tireless working hours. Rosie had always managed to find something to look forward to amidst all the horror, even if it was as simple as a proper bath.

  She set her shoulders and began to look forward to hugging her friend again. Claire checked the street signs. She’d been walking down a long, wide avenue called The Drive for ages, it felt, but now she was mercifully faced with a choice: left or right down Eaton Road.

  An old woman was passing with an equally elderly dog. Claire interrupted them to ask for help.

  ‘It’s that way, dear,’ the woman said, pointing left. ‘Follow this side of the parish church and once you see the vicarage, I think you turn left.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she called to the woman’s back, but only the dog glanced around, panting. Claire looked up at the grand, imposing sandstone building and followed the southern walls down Eaton Road. The church filled the block and right enough she saw Wilbury Crescent to her left. With a fresh skip in her step she passed the vicarage and began looking for the house number of Rosie’s family home. She remembered it from the countless letters she posted on behalf of Rosie to her family.

  Finally she stood in front of the right sandstone brick Victorian villa with its large bay window. She saw the net curtains part and a woman’s face peep out at her and she lifted a hand in salutation but the curtains snapped back into place. Claire hesitated only momentarily before she walked up the short flight of stairs to tap gently with the doorknocker.

  ‘Yes?’ the woman who opened it asked. She looked nervous, her eyes not fully making contact with Claire’s gaze.

  ‘Hello, are you Mrs Parsons?’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman threw a quick glance behind her. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m Claire Nightingale.’

  ‘Yes?’

  She smiled, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry to just arrive like this. Let me start again. I’m Claire and I’m an old friend of Rosie’s . . . this is the home of Rosie Parsons, am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Claire wondered if she would ever get more than a single syllable from the small, mousy woman who had still not opened the door much beyond a crack where a narrow column of her face and a glimpse of her floral pinny could be seen.

  ‘Um, Rosie and I used to nurse together. We were, well, close when we worked together in the Mediterranean on a hospital ship.’ She shrugged, not really wanting to explain all of this on a front doorstep. ‘I rather hoped she might be home.’

  A couple of young faces with masses of sweet red ringlets suddenly pushed the door open more and poked around Mrs Parsons’ shoulders.

  ‘Oh, this must be the beautiful twins! Rosie told me all about you. Now, which of you is Meggie?’

  One girl gave a shy gasp.

  ‘So you,’ she pointed, ‘must be the older twin by one minute – Sally, right?’

  Sally nodded but her expression was more cautious than her sister’s. ‘Who is it, Mum?’

  ‘Rosie’s dead,’ the woman said flatly, ignoring her daughter and fixing Claire with a dull-eyed stare. It felt like an accusation.

  ‘Dead?’ She began to hear a ringing sound in her ears like the howl of a lonely animal. ‘Rosie’s dead?’ she repeated, as if by saying it again she could change what the words meant.

  A man had arrived. ‘Who’s this then, luv?’

  ‘Er, Mr P-Parsons?’ she stammered in shock.

  ‘That’s me. Can I help you?’

  Claire explained again. ‘Your wife has just told me that Rosie died.’

  He nodded grimly. ‘You knew our girl, did you?’

  ‘Yes, we were good friends.’

  ‘Odd that we haven’t seen you, then,’ he remarked and the truth bit hard. ‘You remember her mentioning a girl called Claire, don’t you, luv?’

  Mrs Parsons barely blinked.

  He returned his attention to Claire. ‘Lost our lovely Rosie last year. Go on, you kids. Let the lady be.’

  The youngsters disappeared into the shadows and she was left with Rosie’s parents, and the Roses of Otto tasted only of guilt now.

  ________

  Claire was propped, straight-backed and glum in the dark sitting room, as Bill Parsons told her the full story. She didn’t want the tea that was clutched in her lap but she also didn’t want to appear rude; plus it gave her something to do with her hands. She couldn’t cry, couldn’t talk, could barely breathe as his trembling voice told of their loss, but she could hear the pulse
of her heartbeat in her head and with each beat it echoed her internal scream of shame.

  ‘. . . just one of those things, I guess. The bomb landed right on the hospital tent where our Rosie was. About fifteen others were killed outright too, we heard through the Red Cross. No suffering, the second letter said – that one was from a nice doctor who knew her and wrote to us of his sadness. He was first on the scene and assures us it was instant; he believes the blast flung her against an iron cot and she, um . . .’ He glanced at his wife, who stared into the distance expressionless. ‘Well, it was her neck. Broken.’ He found a sad smile. ‘I think he was a bit sweet on her, wasn’t he, Nell?’ He touched his wife’s hand gently.

  Nell Parsons nodded silently. Claire smelled cabbage cooking, powerfully overriding the sweet aroma of wax polish that made all the dark wood surfaces gleam around her, and could hear the twins’ muffled voices coming from somewhere upstairs.

  ‘Anyway,’ Bill continued, clearing his throat, ‘she loved her work, that girl, and she made us proud. We’ve got all her letters and I do remember your name coming up fondly.’

  ‘We were separated when I suddenly went to Belgium and obviously Rosie moved on to France.’

  ‘Yes, and she knew the dangers. But what can you do? I could name a dozen families right now who’ve all lost someone close. We’re no different,’ he said, taking Nell’s hand into his lap and squeezing it. ‘But we do miss her. She was special – our first child and always such a sunny girl.’

  Claire looked away and stared past the net curtains and the sash windows to the street, where the sound of parish bells were echoing.

  ‘They practise at this time,’ Mr Parsons said, reading her thoughts.

  She nodded, smiling sadly, and looked back towards him. ‘How is the rest of the family?’

  ‘Oh, you know, trying to get back to normal. Robbie survived and without any serious injury so we have to be grateful. Danny and Charlie were too young to go and they’re both blessed enough to be working. Lizzie . . .’ He looked down. ‘Our Lizzie’s been changed by the war. She did her bit on the home front, worked hard, but she took Rosie’s death badly. She’s got a nice young man now, though; returned soldier who walks with a stick, and he’ll do all right, that boy. I’m hopeful that Dennis can bring Lizzie back to that happy-go-lucky girl she used to be. They’ll be married next year so we have that to look forward to.’ He patted his wife’s hand again. ‘Grandchildren and all that. Lizzie said if she has a daughter, she’ll call her Rose.’ He cleared his throat and fell silent. His wife gave no eye contact, no clue even that she was still following their conversation.

  Claire drew a silent breath. ‘Do you mind me asking if you received any of Rosie’s personal effects?’

  ‘All of it, I think, luv, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ his wife answered, surprising Claire. She stood and started clearing away the cups and saucers. Claire hurriedly swallowed the tepid tea and thanked Nell with a nod when she handed hers onto the tray. The woman left the room with silent footsteps.

  ‘I’m afraid my wife has taken Rosie’s death deeply to heart. You’ll have to forgive her.’

  ‘I do,’ she murmured.

  ‘They were great friends, she and Rosie. It’s been a year but the way Nell behaves you’d think the telegram arrived yesterday. My wife’s nephew died on his way home this month too, can you believe? Spanish flu, we think.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Parsons, I’m so, so sorry.’

  He sighed. ‘I’m sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing.’

  ‘Do you mind me asking if you recall a prayer book in Rosie’s stuff . . . it was written in Arabic? I know that sounds terribly strange for her to have such a thing but there is good reason for it.’

  He shook his head, frowning. ‘Nell?’ he called. Then called again. She finally returned. ‘Did Rosie have a prayer book in that box?’

  ‘In Arabic,’ Claire reinforced gently.

  ‘Yes.’

  Her heart leapt. ‘Um, forgive me, but that book belonged to me . . . well, actually not me, but to my fiancé.’ It was easier to fib at this point. ‘I was hoping I might have it returned. He’s gone missing and I have nothing of his except that. I’ve convinced myself that if I can find the prayer book, I might be able to find him.’

  ‘Your fiancé’s an Arab?’ Mr Parsons asked, incredulous.

  ‘Oh, no, no, not at all. He’s Australian. From the Light Horse.’ She felt the pride rising at the mention of these facts, glad to note that she was speaking in the present tense. Already he was beginning to feel alive again for her. ‘No, he . . . um, that prayer book was a gift from someone special,’ she said, skirting the truth. ‘I promised I would look after it but I had to leave in a hurry from Egypt and I was hopeful that Rosie would keep it with her things and now I know she did.’ She shrugged.

  Rosie’s father looked unimpressed. ‘The soldiers you cared for were fighting the Arabs out there, weren’t they?’ The fresh accusation in his voice punched through his kind, gentle demeanour.

  She forgave him, though. Everyone wanted to blame someone for losing loved ones and it didn’t matter that it was the German army that lobbed the bomb in France with Rosie’s name on it. ‘Um, no, the men we cared for in Gallipoli were fighting Turks.’

  ‘Same thing,’ Mrs Parsons said, finally speaking up.

  ‘Not really, no, but that’s academic now,’ she said, her embarrassment at correcting them colouring her cheeks. ‘I mean, we all just want peace and to patch up our lives, don’t we?’ she appealed.

  Neither of them answered.

  ‘James Wren – he’s my fiancé – asked me to take care of this prayer book and I simply want to find it. It’s no good to anyone else.’

  ‘Well, we don’t want any book like that in our house, do we, luv?’

  ‘No. It’s why I got rid of it.’

  Claire’s throat felt suddenly as dry as the faded rose petal potpourri in a dish in front of the fireplace. Had she heard right? ‘Did you say it’s not here, Mrs Parsons?’

  ‘I didn’t like it,’ she remarked. ‘It was all damaged and you couldn’t read anything anyway. I couldn’t imagine why our Rosie would have such a horrible thing. I thought they’d made a mistake when they sent it.’

  ‘Oh, gosh – please tell me you know where it is?’

  They both looked back at her unmoved. Mrs Parsons shrugged. ‘It went out with the jumble.’

  The air suddenly felt too thick to breathe. ‘To a jumble sale?’

  ‘No, I did take it to our church jumble sale but someone took an interest in it before the event. Seemed to know what it was all about. Gave me half a crown for it. I was happy. Helped towards the memorial plaque for Rosie in the park gardens.’

  Claire lifted her hand to her mouth to stop her letting out the sound of soft despair. She gathered herself. ‘Er, do you know how I might reach him?’

  ‘Oh, I remember that fellow,’ Mr Parsons chipped in as his wife began a slow lift of one shoulder. ‘He was a collector, wasn’t he, luv?’

  ‘I don’t recall.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he told me that while you were talking to Eleanor. He was with his “friend”.’ He coughed meaningfully and Claire blinked, not understanding the innuendo. This time he didn’t wait for Mrs Parsons to offer her anticipated careless shrug. ‘Yes, he told me he keeps a place in the Lanes of Brighton, if I’m not mistaken.’

  Claire felt her hopes rise. ‘Where? Would you know?’

  ‘I don’t, but if you ask around he couldn’t be too hard to find. Um, I think his name was Fotheringham.’

  Claire repeated the name silently: Fotheringham. ‘I’ll go straightaway. I’m presuming it’s not too far?’

  ‘No.’ He snorted softly. ‘Fifteen minutes on the bus from Church Road. Just follow our street down towards the sea. You’ll know it. Main road that takes you from Hove into Brighton.’

  ‘Thank you both,’ she said in the politest tone she could muster above the
pounding of her pulse. ‘For the tea and for your help. I’m deeply sorry about Rosie.’

  Mrs Parsons looked relieved to show her the door.

  ‘There’s no grave, I’m presuming?’ Claire wondered as they walked into the hall.

  ‘No, she’s buried with the others in France,’ Bill replied for his wife. ‘Well, farewell, Miss Nightingale. I hope you find your book and that your young man returns to you.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you again.’ She shook his hand and followed his wife to the front door. ‘Um, please say goodbye to the girls for me. I’m sorry I didn’t bring them anything, but I shall send something.’

  ‘No need, Miss Nightingale,’ Rosie’s mother said, her voice as leaden as it had been since their eyes first met.

  16

  Claire had ambled through the warren of narrow streets that centuries earlier had been the alleyways of fishermen and smugglers in the old town of Brighton. The crowded lanes later developed as cheap housing for workers servicing the gentry of Brighton in their fashionable villas by the seaside. More recently the myriad alleyways had become popular with antiquarians who gobbled up the creaking, shabby houses and shopfronts to give them a new lease of life and value.

  Nevertheless, in parts it felt intriguingly medieval to Claire as she began asking in various shops and eating houses about Leo Fotheringham; she was rapidly losing hope when an extremely elderly man in a dusty gold and silver exchange shop frowned for a long time and said he vaguely knew Fotheringham but hadn’t seen him in a while and the place to find him was likely the Sussex Arms where he drank with his friend. Again the word sounded loaded but Claire was not interested in Fotheringham, only in what she hoped he still had in his possession.

  She found the pub and while it might not be seemly for a young woman to enter alone, she didn’t give herself a second’s hesitation. She gazed around the dim interior where dust motes hung lazily in the thin shafts of light from small windows, feeling deeply self-­conscious as men leaning against the wide bar, or huddled over tables sharing a mumbling pint, regarded her.