‘All this talk of war is bound to stir up bad memories,’ Kathleen said to her kindly. ‘It’s everywhere you turn, isn’t it?’
Frannie nodded. Owen Evans was right about that, at any rate. The streets were lined with sandbags, and trenches had already been dug in all the parks to shelter people caught in air raids. There was even talk of families being separated and children being sent away from the city.
It was hard to believe that only a few weeks ago the country had rejoiced when the Prime Minister returned from Munich clutching a piece of paper promising peace. That Sunday morning the bells had rung out in churches across the land, and everyone had breathed a sigh of relief that they might not be going to war after all.
But it had soon become clear that whatever Hitler had promised, nothing was going to stand in the way of his ambitions. Gloom and resignation had settled over the country once more. Shortly afterwards, they had lined up to be issued with their gas masks by the council. Frannie’s was still in its cardboard box in her room. She couldn’t bring herself to touch it. Just seeing it on the shelf made her feel ill.
‘I’m sure good sense will prevail eventually,’ Kathleen said.
‘I hope so. I only wish everyone would stop talking about it.’
They were both silent for a moment, lost in their thoughts. Then Kathleen smiled and said, ‘Let’s talk about something more pleasant, shall we? How are arrangements for the concert coming on?’
Frannie grimaced. ‘Much the same as usual, I’m afraid.’
Every year the staff of the Nightingale Hospital put on a Christmas show for the patients and their families. And every year Frannie promised herself she wouldn’t get involved with organising it. But as November rolled around and the festive season approached, she found herself confronted with all those hopeful faces and she couldn’t say no.
Kathleen smiled at her. ‘I’m sure you must secretly enjoy it?’
‘Perhaps I do,’ Frannie agreed ruefully. ‘But not when I have to spend all my time sorting out their squabbles. Not to mention explaining to Sister Wren yet again why she can’t do a duet with Mr Cooper.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Kathleen’s grey eyes lit up with mischief. ‘Perhaps Mr Cooper should just give in gracefully?’
Frannie leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘Between you and me, Mr Cooper has begged not to be put with her. He was very firm on that point.’
‘Poor Sister Wren!’
‘Poor Mr Cooper, you mean!’ The ward sister’s relentless infatuation with the obstetrics consultant had been going on for several years now, even though he was a married man and clearly not interested.
‘Speak of the devil . . .’
Frannie followed Kathleen’s gaze to the far end of the room. Miriam Trott, sister of Wren ward, was making her way towards them, sheet music tucked under her arm. ‘Oh, lord. Don’t leave me,’ begged Frannie. ‘Pretend we have some important ward business to discuss.’
‘I can’t, I’m afraid. I have a meeting with Mrs Tremayne in ten minutes.’
Frannie pulled a face, her own problems instantly forgotten. ‘Oh, dear. What does she want?’
‘Heaven knows. I’m just wondering what she can possibly have found to complain about now.’
‘Perhaps she just wants a chat?’
Kathleen sent her an old-fashioned look. ‘I don’t think so. That woman is the bane of my life. And she’s been even worse since she was made Chairwoman of the Board of Trustees.’
‘You’re more than a match for her.’
‘I hope so. But I’m not really in the mood to do battle at the moment.’
There was something wistful about Kathleen’s expression that made Frannie look twice at her friend. ‘Are you all right, Kath? You look rather tired.’
‘I’m quite all right, thank you.’ Her smile was back in place. ‘I just have better things to do than listen to Mrs Tremayne’s complaints. And speaking of complaints . . .’
Suddenly Miriam Trott was standing beside them. ‘Excuse me, Matron, but might I have a word with Miss Wallace?’ she said, planting herself in front of Frannie and blocking her means of escape.
‘Of course,’ Kathleen said. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘No, really, Matron, there’s no need—’ Frannie sent her a silent, imploring look, which she blithely ignored.
‘It’s quite all right, Sister. I must prepare for my meeting.’
And then she was gone. Frannie watched her making her way towards the dining-room doors, pausing here and there to exchange a few words with the nurses who had gathered to rehearse.
‘Miss Wallace?’ Sister Wren’s voice insinuated its way into her thoughts. ‘I wondered if I could talk to you about my music? I have a few ideas for duets. I thought perhaps Mr Cooper and I—’
‘I want to talk to you about the Casualty department.’
Constance Tremayne was not a woman to beat about the bush. She sat on the other side of the desk from Kathleen, hands curled around her handbag. Everything about her was tightly drawn, from her ramrod-straight spine to the dark hair pulled into a severe bun at the nape of her long, thin neck. With her permanently pursed lips, she always put Kathleen in mind of a sucked lemon.
‘What about it?’ she asked. Behind her easy smile she was tensed, waiting for the blow to fall. In the four years she had been Matron of the Nightingale hospital, she had never known Mrs Tremayne come into her office without making a complaint of some kind.
‘I understand Sister Percival is leaving?’
‘That’s right. She’s moving down to Devon to nurse her sick mother.’
‘So you’ll be looking for a replacement. Do you have anyone in mind?’
Kathleen looked into Mrs Tremayne’s inquisitive face and fought the urge to tell her to mind her own business. Be nice, Kath, she warned herself. She knew from experience Constance Tremayne could be dangerous when crossed. ‘I was planning to move one of the other staff nurses. Perhaps Staff Nurse Lund—’
‘Is that wise?’ Constance Tremayne asked. ‘I mean, I’m sure Staff Nurse Lund is a perfectly adequate nurse, but wouldn’t Casualty be better run by someone with Theatre experience? I was talking to Dr McKay the other day, and he told me they are dealing with more and more surgical emergencies these days. Road accidents and so forth. He would very much like to be able to deal with more such emergencies in Casualty, rather than waste valuable time sending them up to Theatre. But for that he would really need a qualified Theatre nurse . . .’
‘I see.’ Kathleen could already tell where this conversation was going, and why Mrs Tremayne had been so keen to see her. The Chairwoman of the Board of Trustees might think she was being clever, but she was as transparent as the cut-glass paperweight on Kathleen’s desk.
‘Of course, as Matron it’s your decision,’ Constance went on. But before Kathleen could draw breath, she added, ‘Although it does occur to me that my daughter Helen might be a suitable candidate. After all, she has two years’ experience in Theatre.’
There it was. Constance Tremayne had shown her hand, and now it was Kathleen’s turn to respond.
‘I agree, Helen is a very accomplished nurse,’ she said. ‘I’ve certainly heard good reports from Sister Theatre. But,’ she added, as the self-satisfied smile widened on Mrs Tremayne’s face, ‘she is still very young. It’s barely two years since she passed her State Final. She needs more experience as a staff nurse before she takes on the role of Sister.’
‘I’m sure Helen would relish the challenge,’ Mrs Tremayne put in swiftly.
I daresay Helen wouldn’t have much choice in the matter, Kathleen thought. She wondered if Constance had troubled herself to ask her daughter’s opinion. In Kathleen’s experience, she seldom did.
She considered the suggestion. She had to admit, Constance Tremayne was right, they would benefit from having an experienced Theatre nurse in Casualty. Kathleen too had spoken to Dr McKay at length, and she knew he had high hopes of adding another operating theatr
e to the Casualty department.
But she worried for poor Helen. After only two years as a qualified nurse, she might be out of her depth.
As if she sensed Kathleen wavering, Mrs Tremayne pushed on. ‘I must admit, I have a personal reason for suggesting it,’ she said. ‘As you know, the last two years haven’t been easy for my daughter.’
‘Indeed,’ Kathleen agreed. Everyone knew Helen’s tragic story. She had married her sweetheart in a rushed wedding at the hospital, only for him to die two weeks later. Poor Helen was so heartbroken that for a while it seemed she might not even get as far as taking her exams.
Now she appeared to be working well in Theatre, if the reports of her were anything to go by. Kathleen admired the young woman for her determination and courage.
‘I think it would be good for her to take on a new challenge,’ Mrs Tremayne said. ‘She has shut herself away in Theatre for too long.’
Kathleen regarded the other woman across the desk. Perhaps there was a shred of humanity in her after all?
‘I’ll talk to her,’ she promised. ‘We’ll see what she has to say on the matter.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find she’s quite willing,’ Mrs Tremayne dismissed this airily.
Kathleen sighed. Poor Helen. No doubt she would succumb to her mother’s implacable will, as they all did eventually.
After Mrs Tremayne had left, Kathleen watched her from the window of her office. She marched purposefully across the courtyard, rigidly upright, as if even the howling November wind couldn’t bend her. The sky was a leaden yellowish-grey, heavy with the promise of snow. Kathleen shivered in spite of the warmth of the blazing fire in her office. She disliked this time of year: the deadening hand of winter settling on everything, the gusty wind that stripped the trees, leaving them bare and shivering. It felt too much like death for her liking.
Chapter Three
ON A SNOWY Saturday morning in December, Helen Dawson laid flowers on her husband Charlie’s grave. It would have been his twenty-fifth birthday.
‘It was like this the day he was born.’ His mother Nellie stood at the foot of the grave, her coat pulled tightly around her bulky figure. ‘Snow piled up outside the door, it was. My old man had to dig a path down the alley for the midwife to get in.’ She shivered. ‘Charlie hated the cold, bless him. Never liked that his birthday was in the winter. “Why couldn’t I have been born in the summer?” he used to say. “Winter’s such a rotten time of year.”’
She fell silent, her lips trembling. Helen pretended not to notice as she arranged carnations in an urn, a splash of scarlet against the white snow. She kept her eyes averted so she didn’t have to look at Charlie’s name, carved into the grey slab of a headstone. As long as she didn’t allow herself to read the words, she could stay strong.
‘It doesn’t get any easier, does it?’ Nellie seemed to read her thoughts. ‘I know it’s past two years, but I still miss him.’
‘Me too,’ Helen said quietly.
‘Bless you, love, of course you do. It was cruel, him being taken so soon after you were married.’
‘At least we were married.’ Helen knew on her wedding day that they wouldn’t have long together, but she was determined to take his name before he died. Sad as they were, those few days as man and wife had been the most special time she could remember.
She felt the hot tears brimming and dashed them away with her gloved hand. She wished she could be more like Nellie, letting her emotions spill out. But her own mother had taught her differently.
Nellie’s hand settled on her sleeve, comforting her. ‘Come on, love,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk you to the hospital.’
They trudged back together through the streets of Bethnal Green. Thick white pelmets of snow clung to the roofs and window sills of the narrow terraces, but on the street it had turned to an ugly grey slush that seeped through their shoes. That didn’t deter the children, who whooped with delight as they pulled their makeshift sledges up and down the middle of the street, laughing as they aimed gritty grey snowballs at each other. One whizzed past Helen’s shoulder, narrowly missing her and Nellie.
‘Sorry, missus!’ A boy stuck his head around the corner and gave them a cheeky grin. ‘That was meant for my mate!’
‘Little perishers.’ Nellie shook her head, smiling indulgently. ‘My lot used to be just the same. As soon as it snowed they’d be out in it, getting up to all sorts.’
‘William and I were too,’ Helen recalled. ‘He once decided to save himself the trouble of making a real snowman by covering me in snow instead. I had to stand still for so long, I couldn’t feel my feet. I nearly had frostbite by the time Mother realised what he was doing.’
‘That’s big brothers for you,’ Nellie chuckled. ‘Charlie and his cousins were just the same with our Ivy.’
She fell silent again. Helen tucked her arm under Nellie’s and they walked on, passing the end of Columbia Road Market. As it was a Saturday morning, the narrow street was already bustling with people. The stallholders, wrapped up in layers of coats, scarves, hats, mufflers and gloves, stamped their feet and blew on their hands to keep out the cold as they plied their trade. A couple waved at Nellie as she and Helen passed by the end of the road. The Dawsons had been running a fruit and veg stall on the market for more than twenty-five years, and everyone knew them.
‘Pity my poor Ivy on the stall this morning!’ Nellie grinned. ‘She won’t be happy, getting up at the crack of dawn to set up in this weather.’
‘Do you want to go down and say hello?’ Helen asked.
‘And listen to her complain? Not likely!’ Nellie rolled her eyes. ‘Ta very much, love, but I’d rather have a nice natter with you. You can tell me what’s going on at that hospital of yours.’
‘Well, it’s funny you should ask . . .’ As they walked, Helen told Nellie about starting her new job as acting Casualty Sister the following week.
‘Sister, eh? Blimey, girl, you kept that quiet.’ Nellie looked impressed. ‘That’s a step up for you, ain’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’
Nellie sent her a sideways look. ‘You don’t sound too sure about it, I must say.’
‘I am,’ Helen said. ‘It’s just – oh, I don’t know.’ She paused, searching for the right words to explain the worries that had kept her awake for the past week. ‘I’m not sure if I’m up to the job. I’ve only been qualified as a nurse for two years. It’s early to be promoted.’
‘They must think a lot of you, then.’
Helen was silent. She suspected it had more to do with her mother’s interference. Helen could almost see it in Matron’s face when she’d told her about the job.
Nellie squeezed her hand. ‘Come on, spit it out. You’ve got something on your mind, I can tell.’
Helen smiled ruefully. How strange that she could talk to Nellie more easily than she could to her own mother. Constance Tremayne would only dismiss her fears and tell her she was being silly.
‘I’m worried I don’t have the first idea about running a ward, let alone a department as busy as Casualty,’ she said. ‘And the staff nurse under me is years senior to me. I don’t know what she’ll think of that.’
‘Then you’ll just have to show ’em what you’re made of, won’t you?’ Nellie said. ‘Besides, that Matron of yours wouldn’t have given you the job if she didn’t reckon you could manage it.’
‘I suppose not,’ Helen agreed reluctantly. ‘But I didn’t want to move from Theatre. I liked working there.’
Nellie shuddered. ‘Rather you than me, love. I don’t think I could watch people being cut about all day long!’
‘You forget they’re people,’ Helen said. ‘They’re just cases to be treated.’
That was what she liked about it. In Theatre, the patients were brought in, put to sleep, treated and then taken away again. It wasn’t like working on the ward. Helen never had to get to know them, or listen to their stories, or worry that they might not pull through. They were just nam
es on a list, to be forgotten about as soon as the operation was over.
They skirted the tall, wrought-iron gates of Victoria Park. Beyond the gates it looked like a wintry wonderland, the dark, skeletal trees laced with snow.
‘I suppose you’ll be working over Christmas, if you’re in charge?’ Nellie said.
‘I hadn’t really thought about it,’ Helen replied. ‘I’ll be in charge of the duty rosters. But it doesn’t seem fair to give myself time off when the other nurses might have families they want to visit.’
‘Don’t you want to visit yours?’
Helen was silent for a moment. ‘Well, my father will be busy in church most of the day, and I expect William will be on call at the hospital as usual, so there’ll only be me and Mother . . .’ She let her voice trail off.
‘You could always spend Christmas with us?’ Nellie suggested. ‘We’re only round the corner, and you know we’d love to have you. The kids are always asking when you’re coming to visit.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I wouldn’t want to impose.’
‘You wouldn’t be imposing,’ Nellie said. ‘You’re family, remember?’ She put her hand over Helen’s. ‘Charlie would have wanted us to look after you.’
Helen smiled. She had been welcomed so easily into his rough and ready family, it made her feel ashamed to remember how badly her own mother had treated him. Constance Tremayne had never got over the fact that her daughter had married a costermonger’s son.
‘He wouldn’t have wanted you to be a stranger,’ Nellie said, then added, ‘he wouldn’t have wanted you to be unhappy either.’
There was something about the way she said it that made Helen turn to look at her.
‘I am happy,’ she said.
‘Are you?’
‘Of course. As happy as I can be,’ she added in a low voice.
The truth was, she wasn’t sure what happiness was any more. After two long years, the first sharp pain of Charlie’s loss had subsided to a dull ache. She still yearned for him, but these days she could wake up in the morning and not dread the thought of dragging herself through her next waking hours. Only very occasionally did it catch her out. Like when she dreamed of him so vividly that she woke up believing he was still there with her. Then the fresh pain of loss would make her catch her breath.
A Nightingale Christmas Wish Page 2
