A Nightingale Christmas Wish

by Donna Douglas

  It was a modest place, just two rooms and a kitchen, but Dora had turned it into a warm and welcoming home. Helen always enjoyed visiting, and sharing in her friend’s new life and happiness.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come, in this filthy weather.’ Dora helped her visitor off with her coat in the narrow hallway. It was strange to see Dora out of her nurse’s uniform and wrapped in a flowery pinny. But her freckled face and mop of untidy red curls were just the same. ‘Come through to the kitchen. You’ll have to excuse the mess, I’m making the Christmas pudding with Danny. We’ve left it a bit late this year.’

  ‘It all smells delicious,’ Helen said, as she followed her friend down the passageway into the brightly lit warmth of the kitchen. It was filled with a warm, aromatic fug of baking fruit and spices.

  ‘That’ll be the batch of mince pies I’ve got in the oven,’ Dora said.

  A young man stood at the scrubbed kitchen table, stirring pudding mixture in a big earthenware bowl. When he saw Helen he dropped the wooden spoon and darted into the scullery.

  ‘Don’t be shy, Danny, it’s only Helen. You know her, don’t you?’ Dora said gently. ‘Come on, mate, come in and say hello. She ain’t going to bite you.’

  Helen watched Dora coax her brother-in-law back into the kitchen. He edged towards the kitchen table, still not looking at Helen.

  ‘That’s it,’ Dora said. ‘You finish off that mixture while I put the kettle on.’ She ruffled the young man’s hair affectionately and picked up the kettle. ‘Cuppa?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Helen watched Danny from the other end of the kitchen table as he moved slowly to pick up his wooden spoon again, his wary gaze still turned away from her. She’d been shocked when she first met him and found out he was Nick Riley’s brother. His pale hair, translucent skin and slack, vacant expression were nothing like Nick’s dark good looks. He was in his early twenties but he had the mind of a child – the result of an accident, Dora had told her.

  ‘Come on, then. I’m dying to hear all your news,’ Dora said as she bustled around making tea. ‘What’s been happening at the Nightingale?’

  ‘I’m surprised Nick doesn’t tell you.’

  Dora laughed. ‘My husband ain’t exactly the chatty type, in case you hadn’t noticed! Besides, he says the last thing he wants to talk about when he gets home is work. But I like to hear what’s been going on.’

  ‘Do you miss it?’ Helen asked.

  Dora paused for a moment. ‘Sometimes,’ she admitted. ‘I mean, I’m happy with what I’ve got,’ she added hastily. ‘I wouldn’t swap my life for all the tea in China. But, yes, I miss being on the wards, and having a laugh with the other nurses. We had some good times, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ Helen agreed. ‘We did.’

  Sometimes she longed for the old days when they’d shared the draughty attic room at the student nurses’ home, giggling and grumbling and crying together. It had all seemed so simple then, when all they had to worry about were their exams, or whether the Home Sister would catch them climbing through a window after lights out.

  ‘There you are.’ Dora put a cup down in front of her.

  ‘Aren’t you having one?’

  Dora shook her head. ‘I don’t really fancy it. Besides, I’ve got to get this pudding on.’ She moved around the table to inspect the mixture Danny had been stirring. ‘How are you getting on, Dan? That’s lovely. I reckon it could do with some more fruit though, don’t you? Fetch us some from the cupboard, there’s a good boy.’ She looked up at Helen. ‘Come on, then. Let’s hear all your news. How are you getting on in Casualty?’

  Helen sighed. ‘Not too well, I’m afraid.’

  It was a relief to unburden herself to someone. She told Dora all about her problems with Dr McKay. Dora listened sympathetically as she worked, her arms going back and forth, adding the fruit Danny had brought from the larder, and stirring the mixture. From time to time she stopped to blow one of her red curls off her face.

  ‘Oh, my gawd!’ She shrieked with laughter when Helen told her about the snowball incident. ‘I wish I’d been there. Fancy you smacking someone in the face with a snowball, Helen Dawson! And a doctor, no less.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Helen groaned, covering her face with her hands. ‘I want to die every time I think about it.’

  ‘Did he say anything about it afterwards?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s been stony silence ever since.’

  At least he’d stopped seeking her out to criticise her. Now he just seemed to avoid her.

  ‘Well, that’s peculiar,’ Dora said. ‘It ain’t like Dr McKay not to have a sense of humour. He was a real sweetheart when I worked with him. Couldn’t do enough for people.’

  ‘I know, that’s what everyone tells me,’ Helen sighed. ‘I’m beginning to think I’m the only one in the world he doesn’t like. Anyway, I’m not going to let him spoil my afternoon,’ she said determinedly, picking up her teacup.

  ‘Good for you.’

  She watched Dora go to the oven, take out a tray of hot mince pies and dump them unceremoniously on the draining board.

  ‘Aren’t you going to take them out of the tin?’ Helen asked.

  ‘In a minute. To be honest, the smell’s making me feel a bit queasy.’

  Dora went back to the big pudding bowl. ‘Right, now we’ve all got to take turns to stir this and make a wish,’ she said. ‘Come on, Helen, you can go first.’

  Helen did as she was told, closing her eyes as she scraped the spoon around the bowl. Danny took his turn and then Dora. Helen watched her friend as she stirred the pudding round and around, her eyes tightly shut.

  ‘I bet I know what you’ve wished for.’ Helen smiled.

  A frown crossed Dora’s freckled face. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, Dora! I’ve never known you say no to a cup of tea before, and as for the smell of your delicious baking making you feel sick . . .’ She looked down at her friend’s waistline. ‘And covering yourself up in that pinny doesn’t fool me, either.’

  Dora grinned, her hand moving down to smooth the folds over her stomach. ‘I might have known I wouldn’t be able to pull the wool over a nurse’s eyes!’

  ‘So I’m right, then? You’re pregnant?’

  Dora nodded, her eyes sparkling. ‘I’m due in June. We didn’t want to tell anyone until we were sure.’ She smiled sheepishly. ‘You’re right, that’s what I was wishing for. That my baby will be born healthy.’

  ‘You don’t need to wish for that. You’ll be fine,’ Helen reassured her.

  ‘I will if my husband has anything to do with it. He’s treating me like I’m made of glass. Won’t let me do anything.’

  ‘Quite right, too. You deserve to be thoroughly spoiled.’ Helen smiled at her. ‘For heaven’s sake, Dora, why did you let me go on rambling about my problems when you had such big news?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if I should tell you.’ Dora sent her a cautious look from underneath her lashes.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I dunno . . . it didn’t seem right somehow.’ She went back to stirring the pudding. ‘I was worried you might be upset.’

  ‘But why on earth should I be—’ Helen stared at her, and the truth slowly dawned. ‘You mean because of Charlie and me?’

  Dora nodded not looking up. ‘I just feel a bit guilty that I’m so happy,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Well, don’t be,’ Helen said firmly. ‘What kind of friend would I be if I resented you for something like that? Anyway, you deserve to be happy, Dora Riley. And I’m really happy for you. But I’m warning you now, I’m going to spoil this baby!’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ Dora said. ‘I reckon his dad’s going to be worse!’

  Just at that moment, the back door banged open and Nick came in, stamping the snow off his boots.

  ‘All right, my darling? Give us a cuddle to warm me up, it’s perishing out there . . .’ He stopped talking when he saw Helen. ‘Oh, sorry. I didn�
�t know we had company.’

  ‘It’s all right, I was just leaving.’

  ‘You don’t have to go on my account,’ Nick said. He shrugged off his overcoat and it struck Helen how handsome he was – tall, lean and muscular, with a shock of dark curls and inky blue eyes.

  ‘Stay and have some more tea,’ Dora offered. ‘Someone’s got to eat those mince pies,’ she added. ‘I ain’t going to touch them myself.’

  ‘No, honestly, I’d best go.’

  ‘At least let Nick walk you back to the hospital. I don’t like the thought of you walking on your own in the dark.’

  Helen shot a quick look at him. ‘Really, I’ll be quite all right. I’ve brought my bicycle with me.’

  ‘That thing!’ Dora rolled her eyes. ‘You’d never get me on one of those.’

  ‘They’re very handy, once you get used to them.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ As she saw her friend to the door, Dora lowered her voice and said, ‘Don’t go chucking snowballs at anyone else, will you?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ Helen promised. ‘And you take care of yourself, won’t you?’

  Dora glanced over her shoulder at Nick. ‘Not much chance of me doing anything else, with His Lordship watching over me.’

  The cold wind slapped Helen in the face as she stepped outside. Even with her coat pulled around her, the sleet stung her cheeks. As she mounted her bicycle, she looked back through the window into the brightly lit kitchen. Nick and Dora were standing close together, his hands closed protectively around her waist. He leaned forward to whisper something to her, nuzzling her ear as he did. Dora laughed and squirmed away. Then her arms went up, winding around his neck, and they kissed.

  Helen felt a pang of dreadful loneliness, watching them. She desperately wanted someone to look at her the way Nick looked at Dora, the way Charlie used to look at her.

  She cycled home carefully through the darkened streets. Lights spilled out from the houses. As she passed, Helen caught tantalising glimpses of Christmas trees, and front parlours festooned in decorations, and happy families.

  Would it always be this way for her? she wondered. Would she always feel like an outsider, looking in on other people’s happiness but never being able to share it?

  She thought about her own Christmas wish as she’d stirred the pudding. She’d wished that she wouldn’t be lonely any more. But as she headed back to the hospital and her solitary room, it felt as if her wish would never come true.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘I NEED YOUR help.’

  Frannie paused at the end of Adam Campbell’s bed. He was propped up on the pillows, a truculent look on his face.

  ‘Certainly, Mr Campbell, if I can,’ she replied pleasantly. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘I need to write a letter and I can’t do it myself.’ He held up his bandaged wrist.

  Frannie smiled to herself. She’d watched him struggling for days, trying to write with his left hand. She’d wondered how long it would take him to admit he needed help.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’ll make a deal with you.’

  His brows drew together. He looked so like his father when he frowned, she thought. ‘What sort of deal?’

  ‘I’ll allow one of the nurses to write your letter for you, if you promise to speak to your father the next time he comes to visit.’

  Adam looked outraged. ‘No!’

  ‘I’m not asking for a miracle, Mr Campbell. Just talk to him for ten minutes, that’s all.’

  ‘I won’t do it.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not trying to be rude, Sister, but if you knew anything about me and my father you wouldn’t even ask.’

  ‘Why? Because he abandoned you as a child?’

  Adam stared at her. ‘How did you – I suppose he’s been crying on your shoulder?’ he said bitterly.

  ‘Your father is the last person to cry on anyone’s shoulder, as you well know,’ Frannie said. ‘But he feels very sorry for what happened to you. And I know he’d like the chance to make it up to you.’

  ‘Well, he’s too late.’ Adam’s mouth was a tight line of resentment. ‘He should have thought of that when he packed me off to boarding school.’

  ‘He didn’t know what else to do,’ Frannie said. ‘It was a difficult situation for both of you . . .’

  ‘But I was a child!’ Adam shot back. ‘He should have tried to take care of me, but he abandoned me just like everyone else did. He put the army before his own son, and I’ll never forgive him for that.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he’ll ever forgive himself,’ Frannie said quietly.

  Adam was silent for a moment. She wasn’t sure if her words had had any effect on him.

  ‘He knows he made mistakes, but all he’s asking for is a chance to put things right,’ she urged. ‘Just spare him ten minutes, that’s all.’

  ‘No.’

  Frannie sighed. ‘Then I’m afraid I can’t spare anyone to write your letter for you.’

  As she turned to go, Adam said sulkily, ‘All right. I’ll talk to him, if I must. But you needn’t think we’ll end up the best of friends.’

  ‘I’m not asking for that,’ Frannie assured him.

  ‘Well?’ Effie prompted.

  ‘I’m thinking!’ Adam shot her a stony look. ‘I’ve got to think what to write, haven’t I?’

  ‘You’ve had weeks to think about it,’ she pointed out. He ignored her.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Right, here goes. “Chère Adeline . . .”’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It’s French.’

  ‘Oh.’ Effie hesitated, not wanting to show her ignorance. Then she said, ‘How do you spell that?’

  ‘C-h-e-r-e. Honestly, don’t you know how to speak French?’

  ‘There isn’t much call for it where I come from,’ Effie snapped back, a blush rising in her cheeks.

  Adam looked disappointed. ‘I was going to write the whole thing in French, but I don’t suppose I can now.’

  ‘Would you like me to see if one of the other nurses can help?’

  ‘No. No, it’s all right.’ He lay back against the pillows, a frown creasing his handsome features. Effie waited, her pen poised. Cramp started to creep into her fingers as they both sat in silence, and she had just put down her pen to stretch them when he suddenly said, ‘I know. Write this down. “Take, oh take, those lips away, that so sweetly were forsworn . . .”’

  Effie stopped. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s a poem,’ Adam said, a touch of irritation in his voice. ‘By John Fletcher. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him, either?’

  ‘I didn’t really pay much attention to poetry at school,’ Effie confessed.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’ Adam sent her a pitying look. ‘Anyway, you don’t need to understand this to write it down, do you?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Effie agreed. ‘So what comes next after “forsworn”?’

  “‘And those eyes, like break of day, that do mislead the morn. But my kisses bring again—”’

  ‘Hang on, I can’t keep up with you.’

  ‘Can’t you write any faster?’

  ‘I can, if you don’t mind a lot of spidery scrawl.’

  Adam sighed. ‘Very well, then. “But my kisses bring again, seals of love, though sealed in vain . . .”’

  He went on quoting, and Effie struggled to keep up with him. She didn’t understand most of the flowery language about hills of snow and hearts in icy chains, but it all sounded terribly romantic. It almost made her wish she’d paid more attention during those dry old poetry lessons.

  It also made her wish she had a man who cared enough to send her poems about their heart being bound in icy chains by their love for her.

  Finally, he finished dictating his letter, and Effie signed it for him. ‘Shall I add a few kisses?’ she suggested.

  Adam sent her a withering look. ‘Certainly not,’ he said.

  �
�Why not? I think it’s nice.’

  ‘Yes, well, that says a lot about you, doesn’t it? Just put it in the envelope and seal it up. You will make sure it’s posted?’ he said.

  ‘I’ll put a stamp on it and post it myself,’ Effie promised.

  ‘Thank you.’ As she walked away, he called out, ‘And don’t even think about drawing hearts on the envelope.’

  ‘Spoilsport!’ Effie looked back at him over her shoulder. He was half smiling.

  The following Sunday afternoon, Frannie was at the final rehearsal for the Christmas show. She sat at her table in front of the makeshift stage, and wondered how many more times she could listen to the sisters’ choir warbling their way through ‘Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind’. She was beginning to hear it in her sleep now, complete with Sister Wren’s excruciating flat soprano.

  And as if that wasn’t enough to give her a headache, Mr Hopkins the Head Porter was making a terrible fuss about the lighting for the stage.

  ‘I don’t think it’s safe, Sister, I really don’t,’ he said. He stood over Frannie, a dapper little Welshman, his bushy grey moustache bristling with indignation. ‘I mean, what if someone trips over it? They could have the whole lot down. And then you only have to have it catch the curtain and . . .’ He broke off, miming a complete catastrophe. ‘A deathtrap,’ he concluded finally.

  ‘So you’ve said, Mr Hopkins. Several times.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think you realise the seriousness of the situation, Sister. And there’s talk of the medical students lighting matches on stage, too. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what I think of that?’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t, Mr Hopkins.’

  But he did anyway. Frannie propped her elbows on the table and buried her head in her hands and prayed for someone, anyone, to rescue her.

  And then someone did.

  ‘Sister?’

  She looked up sharply. There, towering behind Mr Hopkins, was John Campbell.

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’ he said.

  ‘No! No, not at all.’ Frannie turned to the Head Porter. ‘Would you excuse us for a moment, please, Mr Hopkins?’

  As he strode off to bully the porters who were rigging up the curtains, Frannie smiled with relief at John. ‘That was a very timely interruption,’ she said. ‘You saved me from another lecture from our Head Porter on why the whole production is going to go up in flames.’