But then she heard Dora’s voice again, loud and clear.
He’s nothing like Charlie.
No, he was nothing like Charlie. But Helen loved him, and more than anything she wanted to be like Dora, full of contentment, knitting little jackets for her baby and waiting for her husband to come home.
‘Helen?’ Christopher prompted. He was looking up at her, his eyes full of hope.
‘Yes.’ She smiled at him. ‘Yes, Chris, I will marry you.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
DAVID MCKAY STOOD at the head of the table and surveyed the Board of Trustees gathered before him. They were a mixed bunch, to say the least. Reginald Collins, a timid little accountant, scribbled figures on the blotter in front of him, while local MP Gerald Munroe examined his fingernails and the aged Lady Fenella Brake snoozed quietly. On the opposite side of the table sat Malcolm Eaton, the newest member of the Board, a fresh-faced young lawyer. Next to him was Matron, a distant expression on her face.
But it was to the lady at the far end of the table that David addressed his remarks. Whatever anyone else said, everyone knew it was Mrs Constance Tremayne who really made all the decisions for the Nightingale Hospital Board of Trustees.
He cleared his throat and met her steely gaze. ‘Last Christmas Eve we experienced an emergency in the Casualty department,’ he said. ‘A local church hall caught fire, and we had to deal with the victims. More than fifty people were brought in that night, some slightly injured, others fatally.’ He looked around the table. Everyone but Matron stared back at him, politely blank-faced. Lady Fenella snored quietly.
‘The incident proved to me that we are woefully unprepared to cope effectively with such an emergency,’ he said. ‘Treating fifty people stretched the Casualty staff to its limits. Imagine how much worse it would be if it were a bomb dropping, or a gas attack.’
He saw the uncomfortable looks exchanged around the table. No one wanted to imagine such a thing.
Only Constance Tremayne didn’t flinch. ‘What point are you making, Dr McKay?’ she asked pleasantly.
David cleared his throat. He had no idea why such a slightly built, middle-aged lady should make him so nervous, but she did.
‘We need to make provision for war,’ he said. ‘An extension to the current Casualty department if possible, with more staff and more emergency operating theatres.’ He saw the expressions of dismay around the table, but carried on without drawing breath, ‘We will also probably need to set up some kind of cleansing station, in the event of gas attacks.’
‘Extensions? More staff and operating theatres? And where is the money coming for all this?’ Reginald Collins asked.
‘Desperate times call for desperate measures. At the very least, we need to carry out an emergency drill,’ went on Dr McKay, his confidence dwindling. He could feel perspiration trickling down inside the collar of his shirt, in spite of the coldness of the room.
‘Emergency drill?’ Constance Tremayne said. ‘Please explain.’
‘We would replicate a large-scale emergency – for instance, a gas attack – so we could practise our response,’ David explained. ‘Several London boroughs have held such drills, I believe.’
‘I read about one in the papers,’ Gerald Munroe chimed in. ‘Chelsea, I think it was. Bodies strewn about all over Sloane Square, apparently. Sounded quite a lark!’ he guffawed.
‘I’m not sure if it would be a lark,’ David said quietly. ‘But it certainly would be very useful practice.’
‘Where would you find the bodies?’ Reginald looked worried.
Gerald laughed again. ‘My dear man, if you can’t find bodies in a hospital, where can you find them?’
‘We would use real people, not cadavers,’ David put in quickly, seeing Reginald go pale.
‘And would we have to pay them?’ He scribbled a few more figures on his blotter. ‘Because this could prove very expensive . . .’
‘Perhaps he’d rather we did use cadavers!’ David heard Malcolm Eaton mutter to Matron. She didn’t reply.
David’s exasperation mounted. If they were quibbling over paying people to take part in an emergency drill, it was unlikely he was going to get his extension to the building.
‘I’m sure we can find some local people willing to volunteer,’ he said. ‘If not, we could use medical students, or some of the junior nurses. Or perhaps you yourselves would like to offer—’ He saw the frozen look on Constance Tremayne’s face and stopped talking.
‘Well, I’m sure this all sounds very jolly,’ she said through a tight smile. ‘And I’ve no doubt our young nurses would love to spend a few hours larking about with the medical students, pretending to be unconscious. But I wonder who would look after the patients while your – drill – was going on?’ Her lip curled over the word.
David turned to Kathleen Fox, hoping she might speak up for him. But she stared back at him blankly. ‘Nevertheless, I believe it’s very important we are as prepared as we can possibly be in the event of war,’ he ploughed on.
‘That’s all we seem to hear about these days,’ Gerald Munroe grumbled. ‘Anyone would think we were already at war, the way people go on.’
They all turned to look at him.
‘Dr McKay is right,’ Malcolm said. ‘We should be prepared.’
‘We’re as prepared as we need to be,’ Gerald said, leaning back in his chair with a complacent look on his face.
Something about his self-satisfied expression made David’s patience snap. He leaned forward, gaze sweeping round the whole table. Even Lady Fenella woke up. ‘Let me be clear on this,’ he said. ‘When those bombs start dropping, London is going to be the worst-hit place in England, and the East End is likely to bear the brunt. Think of it. Such a dense population, and so close to the docks – we’re an obvious target. We could see hundreds – no, thousands – of casualties. We need to be able to deal with them.’
‘Why?’
David looked up sharply. Constance Tremayne had spoken quietly, but her voice still carried all the way around the table.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked.
‘If things are going to be as terrible as you say, then perhaps we shouldn’t be asking ourselves how we can prepare for such an emergency. Perhaps instead we should be asking whether we should even try?’
There was a stunned silence. David wondered briefly if she’d gone mad.
‘But we’re a hospital,’ he said.
‘I’m aware of that, Dr McKay.’ Mrs Tremayne’s voice held an underlying note of steel. ‘I’m also aware that should war break out, it’s highly likely that the Nightingale will close down.’
‘Wait a minute . . . did you say we’re going to shut down?’ Gerald Munroe said.
‘I think we should certainly consider the possibility.’
‘But – that’s absurd!’ David didn’t realise he’d spoken out loud until he saw all eyes turn towards him. ‘We can’t close the hospital. It’s unthinkable!’
There was a general murmur of agreement around the table. Only Mrs Tremayne remained icily silent.
‘As you said yourself, Doctor, this area is likely to be the worst affected,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s highly unlikely that we would be able to function normally as a hospital if the dreadful events you describe come to pass. It would be highly dangerous for the staff and the patients.’
‘And what about dealing with casualties? Who is going to look after them?’
‘I daresay they will be transported to another hospital, out of harm’s way. It makes no sense for them to be treated in a place where they’re likely to be in danger, does it?’
‘But time is of the essence when treating emergencies. Transporting them miles by ambulance could mean the difference between life and death.’
‘So could staying in a hospital with bombs dropping through the roof,’ Mrs Tremayne pointed out mildly.
Frustrated, David directed his gaze to Miss Fox. Surely she couldn’t sit and listen to this? She m
ust be as outraged as he was. But she scarcely seemed to be paying attention, her pen moving restlessly over her blotter, sketching abstract shapes on the thick white paper.
Malcolm Eaton broke the tense silence. ‘I’m sure we don’t need to come to any drastic decisions just yet,’ he said, looking around the table. ‘Besides, we don’t even know if there’s going to be a war.’
‘Quite right,’ Gerald Munroe agreed. ‘Could all just be a lot of fuss over nothing.’
‘Why don’t we just wait and see what happens, and then think about it?’
‘I agree,’ Constance Tremayne said. But David could see from her expression that whatever discussions might follow, her mind was already made up.
The meeting drew to a close shortly afterwards. He was still feeling shaken as he gathered up his notes.
‘Is it always that bad?’ he asked Kathleen Fox.
‘Hmm?’ She looked up at him, smiling vaguely.
‘The Trustees’ meeting. Is it always such an ordeal?’
‘That depends if Mrs Tremayne has a particular bee in her bonnet about something.’
‘She certainly had one today.’ David paused, considering. He was still reeling from the shock of what he’d heard. ‘You don’t think she really means it, do you? About closing down the hospital?’
‘Who can say?’
David frowned. Miss Fox’s expression was so bland, they might have been discussing the new linen order, not the future of the hospital.
He peered at her. She was usually a handsome woman, but today she looked rather pale and drawn. ‘Miss Fox, are you quite well?’ he asked.
She looked at him sharply. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You just seem rather distracted, that’s all.’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
David had reached the door when Miss Fox suddenly said, ‘Actually, Dr McKay—’
He turned to face her. ‘Yes?’
Their eyes met for a second. Then she shook her head. ‘No, it’s nothing,’ she said, forcing a smile.
He returned to the Casualty department and went straight to see Jonathan Adler in his consulting room.
‘Well, that was a complete waste of time,’ David said, slamming his papers down on the desk.
‘Oh, dear. We’re not getting our extra resources, then?’
‘Hardly. In fact . . .’ He stopped talking abruptly. This was no time to start spreading doom and gloom about the hospital’s future. Rumour spread around the Nightingale faster than the influenza virus.
‘I daresay you did your best, old man,’ Jonathan said mildly.
‘Yes, but I’m still no match for Mrs Tremayne. I don’t know what it is about that woman, but she really infuriates me.’
‘Like mother, like daughter, eh?’
David frowned at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sister Dawson is Constance Tremayne’s daughter, remember?’
‘Helen Dawson is nothing like her mother,’ David said firmly.
‘Yes, but she still gets under your skin, doesn’t she?’
David thought about Helen Dawson, and what a great asset she’d been to the Casualty department. He’d been wrong about her, he didn’t mind admitting it. She knew her job, and she ran the department better than it had been run in years.
‘I’ve got used to her,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘And she’s good at her job, I must say.’
Jonathan grinned. ‘High praise indeed, coming from you! The poor girl couldn’t do a thing right a few months ago.’
‘As I said, I’ve got used to her.’ More than that, in fact. Helen Dawson might be young, but she wasn’t the silly, empty-headed girl he’d feared she would be. She was calm, patient and unfailingly good-humoured, whether she was soothing an angry drunk, consoling a frightened child or dealing with a stomach-churning injury. David liked having her at his side when he treated patients. Her serenity seemed to wash over everything around her.
‘I don’t know how we’re going to manage without her.’
David looked up at Jonathan, not sure he’d heard correctly. ‘What do you mean? Why should we have to manage without her?’
‘When she gets married, of course.’ Jonathan looked at him. ‘Oh, you won’t have heard the news, will you? Our Sister Dawson is engaged.’
David froze. It was as if all the air had suddenly been sucked from his body, making it too painful for him to breathe.
‘Since when?’ he said.
‘Well, she only told us an hour ago, but it all happened a couple of days ago, apparently. Quite a whirlwind romance, so Nurse Willard reckons. Some young merchant seaman she met at Christmas. You know what they say, I suppose. All the nice girls love a sailor!’ he laughed.
David had a sudden image of a handsome, fair-haired young man swaggering into his consulting room, so full of himself. Just the kind to bowl a naïve girl right off her feet . . .
‘She can’t,’ he said.
Jonathan’s brows rose. ‘I’m sorry, old boy?’
‘I mean, she can’t do this to the department,’ David amended, seeing his friend’s look of surprise. ‘Does she know what she’s doing? Does she even care that she’s leaving the rest of us in the lurch?’
‘I didn’t think you cared much for her? You’ve always said we needed someone older, more experienced—’
‘Yes, well, I was wrong, wasn’t I?’ David snapped. ‘She’s been a real asset to this department, and now we’re losing her without a by your leave. How are we supposed to cope without her? This place will descend into chaos!’
‘I hardly think it will be that bad.’
‘And fancy getting engaged to someone she’s only known five minutes,’ David went on, not listening. ‘It’s the height of lunacy, in my opinion.’
‘Surely that’s her business?’
‘It’s our business too, if it means we lose a damn good nurse! Honestly, I don’t know why this hospital goes to so much trouble and expense to train these girls for three years, when all they do is run off and marry the first man they meet. It’s a complete waste of everyone’s time.’
‘You didn’t say that when Nurse Willard got engaged. I seem to remember you bought her a bunch of flowers,’ Jonathan pointed out mildly.
‘That’s different!’ David said. ‘I wasn’t surprised by her getting married. It was pretty obvious she was only ever biding her time here. And besides, Nurse Willard isn’t half the nurse Helen Dawson is. I’m very disappointed in her, I really am.’ He stopped, aware that his friend was studying him with interest. ‘What?’
‘Well, I never,’ Jonathan said wonderingly. ‘So that’s the reason she got under your skin so much. You’ve fallen for her!’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ David dismissed this, turning away. ‘I’m just put out, that’s all. And so should you be,’ he said.
‘Oh, I am. You’re right, Sister Dawson is an excellent nurse, and I’ll certainly miss her. But not as much as you, by the way you’re acting.’ Jonathan regarded him consideringly. ‘But this has got nothing to do with her abilities as a nurse, has it? You’re jealous.’
‘And you’re mad,’ David declared, snatching up his notes.
‘I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner,’ Jonathan went on, ignoring him. How did Shakespeare put it? “My only love sprung from my only hate?”’
‘Sister Dawson and I are hardly star-crossed lovers,’ David snapped. Embarrassment prickled like spreading heat up the back of his neck. If this was his friend’s idea of a joke, he didn’t find it very funny.
Once again, Jonathan ignored him. ‘But what are you going to do about it? Are you going to tell her how you feel?’ he asked.
David stared at him, appalled. ‘What?’
‘You can’t just keep quiet about it, surely? Good heavens, David, this is the first woman you’ve ever lost your head over. You can’t possibly let her walk out of your life!’
‘Jonathan, if anyone has lost their head, it’s you,’ David said flatly. ‘I
think you’ve been spending far too long gossiping with Nurse Willard. You’re as foolish and romantic as each other. You’ll probably be braiding each other’s hair soon.’
‘You can deny it all you like, but I can see I’ve hit a nerve.’ Jonathan’s voice followed David as he left the consulting room, closing the door behind him. ‘Just wait until Esther hears about this. She won’t be able to believe it either.’
Chapter Thirty
‘DO WE HAVE to do this now?’ Helen pleaded. ‘Why can’t we wait until later, when things are more settled?’
‘Everything is settled,’ Christopher said firmly. ‘Unless you’re having second thoughts?’ he asked with a smile.
‘Of course not,’ Helen replied, although she’d thought of little else over the restless weekend since his proposal.
‘Good.’ He lifted her hand to look at the ring he’d given her. The diamonds and sapphires sparkled in the spring sunshine. ‘Don’t look so worried, love. She’ll be delighted, I promise.’
‘Will she?’
‘‘Course she will. Anyway, we’ve got to tell her sooner or later. And I’d rather do it before I go away. It’s been hard enough keeping it to myself all weekend. I reckon I’ll burst if I have to wait any longer!’
He looked so excited, just like a child, Helen couldn’t help smiling.
But her heart was still sinking to her shoes as Christopher pushed open the front door.
‘Anyone home?’ he called out. ‘Auntie Nellie?’
‘I’m out the back, love.’
Helen followed Christopher down the narrow passageway, through to the kitchen. The scullery door was open, and Nellie was in the yard, bent over the galvanised tin tub, scrubbing her husband’s shirt with a slab of green soap.
She looked up. ‘All right, Chris? You were out and about early. You usually like a nice lie-in.’
‘I’d promised to meet someone.’
He pushed Helen forward as she cowered in the shadows behind him. Nellie straightened up, smile fading to a bewildered frown.
‘Helen? What are you doing here, love?’
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