Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘Well, Miss Maltby,’ he said as he shook her hand. ‘You look a good deal better than you did the last time I saw you. Hard work must agree with you,’ he added, for he knew all about their nursing activities.

  As she led him into the morning room, she said in a low voice, ‘You’re right – I think I thrive on it, but I’m not sure the same can be said of Isobel. Anyway, here we are . . .’

  With a light tap on the door, she led the way into the room and stood to the side whilst Dr Tomkinson sat beside Isobel and gently took hold of her wrist to feel her pulse. ‘Now, Miss Isobel,’ he greeted her with familiarity. He’d known her and the family since childhood.

  ‘Oh Doctor – I feel such a failure – so useless!’ Her voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears.

  Florrie watched in concern. This was so unlike Isobel. She was always so strong, so resilient, so – so purposeful. But at this moment she reminded the younger girl of her own mother, Clara, who seemed to have spent most of her days lying on a sofa shedding tears about one thing or another. Florrie was suddenly afraid. Was her dear friend really ill?

  ‘I feel so nauseous all the time,’ Isobel was saying weakly. ‘Especially in a morning . . .’

  The doctor leaned closer to her and murmured something so softly that Florrie could not hear what he said. But she saw Isobel’s response, saw her raise her head from the cushion and stare, with wide eyes, into the doctor’s face. ‘No – no,’ Isobel whispered. ‘I – I haven’t. I never realized – never thought for a moment. . .’ She gave a sigh, leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes.

  Florrie could contain her fear no longer. ‘What is it? Is she ill? Should I send for – for—’ She faltered. There was no one she could send for – not immediately. Both Tim and now Gervase too were away at training camp. But if it was really serious, then she must get word to them somehow. They were both still in this country. Perhaps they could get compassionate leave, perhaps . . .

  Dr Tomkinson was standing up and turning round towards Florrie. She braced herself to hear the worst. But the doctor was smiling, beaming in fact. ‘Don’t look so worried, Miss Maltby. Miss Isobel – though I should now start calling her by her married name, especially in these circumstances—’

  ‘Circumstances? What – circumstances?’

  ‘I believe, though it’s early days yet, that she is with child.’

  ‘With – with— Oh!’ Now it was Florrie whose eyes widened. ‘She’s going to have a baby. Oh, Iso—’ Arms outstretched, she rushed towards her and dropped to her knees beside the sofa. ‘How wonderful! Tim will be thrilled and so will Lady Lee.’

  Isobel opened her eyes and smiled weakly. ‘It – it just takes a bit of getting used to. I – I never thought that could be the reason. I just thought it was all the hard work we’ve been doing. You seem to cope so well, Florrie. It’s as if you were born to it. But me – I just thought I was an idle rich girl who’d never had to do a day’s hard work in her life.’

  Florrie smiled inwardly at Isobel’s words: ‘As if you were born to it.’ Well, it was in her genes, after all, for her grandmother Augusta had indeed been born into a hard-working life. Aloud, she said, ‘Of course, you’d have coped. You were doing, but this explains it all.’ She glanced up at Dr Tomkinson. ‘She should give it up, shouldn’t she? Straight away.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. I know you both want to do your bit, but you must think of the well-being of your child now.’

  ‘Besides,’ Florrie grinned, ‘the Hon. Tim – once he hears about this – will put his foot down very firmly. And so will Lady Lee.’

  Isobel smiled, looking a little mesmerized, as if she still couldn’t take it in.

  ‘Will Tim want you to go to their home in Dorset?’

  ‘Perhaps – I don’t know.’ Isobel put her hand to her forehead. ‘Tim was born there and he might want our child,’ Isobel savoured the word for a moment, ‘to be born there too, and if that’s what he wants, then that’s what I’ll do. But, for the time being, the least I can do is go home to Bixley and run the estate for Gervase.’ She looked straight into Florrie’s eyes. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘I think that’s the very best thing you could do. My father – and Gran – will be on hand to help. And then, nearer your time, you could travel to Dorset – if you need to.’

  They both looked up at the doctor who nodded his approval. ‘Capital idea.’ Then he smiled again and wagged his finger. ‘But no more working at the hospital. You must tell them what’s happened, Miss Maltby, and that she’ll not be resuming her duties. Doctor’s orders.’

  As he took his leave and the door closed behind him, Isobel and Florrie clung to each other, overcome by a fit of the giggles. They were laughing with relief and joy and the thought that Florrie would have to explain everything to Sister Blackstock.

  ‘Oh, I can just see her face,’ Florrie spluttered, ‘when I tell her that Miss Richards is having a baby.’

  ‘She’ll think I’m a fallen women. I bet she doesn’t believe you . . .’

  Twenty-Three

  Just as Isobel had anticipated, Sister Blackstock took a lot of convincing and even when she began to accept that truth, she still wasn’t pleased.

  ‘So – Miss Richards has been married all the time? Even when she first applied to become a nurse?’

  ‘She was married in October and, when she came back from her honeymoon, her husband went away to military college and we came back to London and volunteered our services.’

  ‘So she deceived us. She led us to believe she was single. She’s wasted our time trying to train her to be useful.’ The woman fixed Florrie with a steely gaze. ‘And what about you? What lies have you told us?’

  Florrie answered quickly. ‘I’m single – quite unattached – and willing to do anything you ask of me, but,’ she paused before, greatly daring, she added, ‘I’d like you to be honest with me. Am I really working towards being accepted as a VAD nurse or am I just being used as a skivvy?’

  For a moment, Florrie thought she’d gone too far. The sister’s eyes widened and a flush of anger spread up her face. She stared at the girl standing in front of her, taking in the lovely, yet strong face, the determined look in those brown eyes, the bold tilt of her head, and knew there was no deceiving her. To Florrie’s astonishment, Sister Blackstock’s stern expression lightened and she smiled, looking suddenly much younger. She glanced down at her watch, pinned just above her left breast. ‘You’re not due on duty for another ten minutes. I was just going to make myself a cup of tea. Won’t you join me? Sit down a moment.’

  Florrie sank down into a chair, her legs giving way beneath her in surprise.

  When they were once again facing each other across the desk, but this time both seated with a cup of tea before them, Sister Blackstock said, ‘I know I’m an old dragon on the ward – I have to be. We get all sorts coming in here – and I don’t mean just the patients.’ She smiled with a brief flash of humour. ‘And especially since the war started. All the debutantes coming here with the fanciful notion of being a heroine smoothing the fevered brow of the wounded officers, and perhaps finding themselves a husband in the process.’

  Florrie grimaced.

  ‘Oh yes,’ the sister went on. ‘I had you – and your friend – marked down as two of them. At least I did until I saw you working. I have to admit I was mistaken. You’ve done everything asked of you cheerfully and without a word of complaint. You must have seen for yourself that several young women have come and gone, even during the two weeks you’ve been here?’

  Florrie nodded.

  ‘Well, they couldn’t stand the pace and were never going to. They hadn’t a clue what they would face out there in the field. They’d never have coped, whereas—’ She paused again and held Florrie’s gaze. Then she nodded slowly as if her own question had been answered. ‘Whereas I think you will.’

  Florrie gasped. The sister had said ‘will’, not ‘would’. Did tha
t mean . . . ?

  Sister Blackstock was smiling. ‘You were a suffragette, weren’t you?’

  Florrie nodded guardedly. Not everyone had agreed with their beliefs or their actions, but it seemed the sister did. ‘I applaud you. I wish I’d had half your courage. I’d have joined you, but—’ She spread her hands. ‘If I had done, I think I might have lost my job and my career, and I have to admit that nursing is all I’ve ever wanted to do. And – and now—’ She faltered a moment and, deep in her eyes, there was the look of loss. It was the same look that Florrie saw in the eyes of so many women these days. The sister’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It’s all I’m ever likely to do.’

  Still Florrie made no comment, even though she was now curious about the woman before her. Had she lost someone in the war? But her mind wasn’t really on the sister – not totally. She was waiting with bated breath, hoping . . .

  Sister Blackstock cleared her throat and martialled her wandering thoughts. ‘Miss Maltby, from now on I will see that you’re able to do some proper nursing. You do know that you have to obtain certain qualifications, don’t you, before you’d be allowed to go overseas? Reach certain standards?’

  Florrie nodded. ‘How long should that take?’

  Sister Blackstock shrugged. ‘Not long – with my help.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’

  ‘But I do have an ulterior motive. I’m hoping to go to France myself. I’ve volunteered my services to the Red Cross.’ She smiled as she added, ‘With Matron’s approval of course.’ Matron’s arrival on the wards had the younger nurses – Sister Blackstock too – scurrying to see that everything was in order. Florrie had even seen one of the probationers become so flustered in the austere presence that she’d actually curtsied. The VADs just merged into the background and tried to make themselves invisible. ‘I had word only last week that it’s likely I shall be sent out to France about April, and they’d like me to hand-pick the nurses to take with me. And you – if you make the grade – would be one of them.’

  Florrie’s face was a picture. ‘Oh, thank you, Sister.’

  Rosemary Blackstock’s eyes twinkled suddenly. ‘You didn’t quite answer my earlier question. I don’t think you’ve been entirely truthful about your age, have you?’

  A flush of embarrassment crept up Florrie’s face. ‘No,’ she said candidly. ‘I’m not quite the age they say I should be. But,’ she added with a trace of bitterness in her tone, ‘if my sixteen-year-old brother can be allowed to take the King’s shilling, then I don’t see why I can’t be allowed to go to the Front as a Kitchener nurse.’

  ‘It’s a little different.’ The sister sighed sadly. ‘You will be expected to save lives, whereas your brother—’

  ‘Will be expected to take lives,’ Florrie whispered, facing the awful truth. ‘Until he gives his own.’

  Now Sister Blackstock was silent.

  They drank their tea, lost in their own thoughts until the sister stood up and said briskly, ‘Now, work hard for me for the next two days, then home you go for Christmas and when you come back, we’ll start you working for your certificates. By the way, please give my good wishes to Miss Richards.’ She smiled impishly. ‘Obviously that’s not her name, but it’s the only one I know. I do hope her work here hasn’t done her any harm.’

  ‘I’m sure it hasn’t. She’ll be fine once she’s rested. She’s planning to travel home to Lincolnshire in time for Christmas. And now I’ll be able to go with her.

  Thank you, Sister.’

  ‘Where will you stay when you come back?’

  ‘Oh, Iso has said I can stay on in their London home.’

  So it was that Isobel and Florrie returned home for Christmas and New Year, Isobel to stay, but Florrie meaning to return.

  On the train Isobel leaned towards Florrie. ‘I know you won’t accept Gervase, but Florrie dear, do be nice to my brother this year. I received a letter from him earlier this week. He – he sails for France early in the New Year.’

  Horrified, Florrie stared at her. ‘I didn’t think it would be so soon. I mean, hasn’t he got to undergo training?’

  ‘No, don’t you remember? He did his basic training for the army just before our father died. He was going to make the army his career, but then he had to come home and manage the estate.’

  ‘Oh yes, now I remember,’ Florrie said apologetically.

  ‘Anyway, because of that he’s only going on a much shorter retraining course. I’m not quite sure how it works. All I know is, he thinks he’ll be posted quite soon.’

  Florrie said no more and was silent for the rest of the journey.

  Gervase, dear Gervase, was going to France – possibly to the Front and she might never see him again.

  The mere thought filled her with dread.

  ‘Hey, what’s all this?’ Gervase laughed as Florrie flung herself into his arms when the Maltby family arrived at Bixley Manor to spend New Year’s Eve together. None of them felt they could call it a celebration. Not this year. ‘My darling girl, what’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m sorry – I’m being silly.’

  ‘Is it James?’ Gervase asked gently. James had not been allowed home for Christmas, throwing his mother into another frenzy of weeping and wailing.

  ‘No – no – it’s you.’

  ‘Me!’ Gervase was startled. ‘Why? What have I done?’

  ‘You – you’re going abroad – to France, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes, but, my dear, so will you.’

  ‘Oh yes, but that’s only nursing.’

  Gervase laughed wryly. ‘Only nursing. My dear girl, don’t underestimate either the value of what you’ll be doing or the danger you’ll be in.’

  ‘But it won’t be like being at the Front, will it?’

  ‘That depends. If you’re asked to go to a field ambulance near the fighting you’ll go, won’t you?’

  Florrie stared at him as he nodded slowly. ‘Oh, I know you, Florence Maltby, you’ll go all right. And if you do—’ His face was suddenly grey with anxiety. ‘You’ll be in almost as much danger as the men in the trenches. And you’re worried about me!’

  He held her close and stroked her hair. She heard the laughter in his voice as he tried to lighten the moment by saying, ‘I suppose now’s the perfect time to ask you to marry me, isn’t it? After all, it is New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Oh, Gervase!’ Florrie buried her face against his chest and clung to him all the harder.

  Florrie returned to London on the 2nd January 1915 and reported for duty the following day. For the next three months, Sister Blackstock worked her harder than she’d ever worked any of the other volunteers. She was testing her – and Florrie knew it. With the co-operation of her fellow sisters, Rosemary Blackstock arranged for Florrie to work on each type of ward in turn throughout the huge hospital.

  ‘And now,’ she told her in the middle of March, ‘you’re ready to be let loose on the soldiers. You’ll be going to Sister Carey.’ It was one of the wards that had been given over to wounded soldiers brought home from France.

  ‘Edith Carey and I did our training at the same time,’ Sister Blackstock went on. ‘And we’ve remained friends ever since. In fact,’ she smiled, ‘we’re hoping to go to France together. She has a couple of professional nurses that want to go too, but you’re the only volunteer that we feel is reaching the required standard. By the end of this month I hope you’ll get the certificates you need and then—’ Her smile broadened. ‘We’ll be ready when the call comes.’

  Florrie was pink with pleasure. ‘Thank you, Sister.’

  The woman shrugged. ‘You’ve done well, Maltby. You’ve done everything I’ve asked of you and even more.’ She nodded. ‘Oh yes, I know you covered for one of the young VADs when she couldn’t cope. Don’t think I don’t know. There’s not much I don’t see.’

  ‘She suffers terribly each month—’ Florrie tried to explain, but the sister shook her head.

  ‘Not good enough. It’
s not an illness and, if she can’t cope, then she shouldn’t be here. However, she is good most of the time, and I think Matron feels she could be kept on to work here. But going overseas is out of the question, I’m afraid.’

  Florrie was disappointed. She’d become quite friendly with the tiny blonde girl who looked as if a puff of wind would blow her over. But she said nothing. No doubt the sister was right.

  The work on Sister Carey’s surgical ward was more heartbreaking than arduous. Some of the injuries were hideous. There was one poor boy with half his face blown away. Florrie marvelled that he was still alive and at how cheerful he was. As she’d been warned to do by Sister Blackstock, she looked straight at him and forced herself not to avert her gaze.

  ‘Got to ’ave another op tomorrow, Nurse,’ he told Florrie, his speech slurred and scarcely recognizable, as one of the professional nurses – Grace Featherstone – took her round the ward. ‘A ya goin’ to ’old me ’and?’

  Grace looked decidedly miffed. ‘She’s not a proper nurse. She’s a VAD. You call her “Maltby”, not “Nurse”.’

  Florrie smiled at him and followed Grace as she marched to the next bed. ‘This patient is nil by mouth. He’s due for his operation later today.’

  The bedclothes were a mound above the man’s legs. Florrie glanced at his face and saw that there were tears in his eyes. ‘Got to come off – both of ’em. Gangrene, they reckon.’ He paused a moment and glanced at Nurse Featherstone, before turning back to Florrie and saying deliberately, ‘Nurse.’

  Grace Featherstone gave a loud sniff of disapproval.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Florrie murmured, then she smiled and nodded at the patient. ‘I’ll see you later then.’

  The man returned her steady gaze. ‘I hopes so – Nurse.’

  ‘So?’ Grace Featherstone asked. She led Florrie back to the small room at the end of the ward where a window looked out over the beds packed closely together. ‘Do you think you can cope? We can’t do with any hysterics or fainting at the first sight of blood.’