Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Donna Douglas
Title Page
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Copyright
About the Book
1937 sees new challenges for the trainee nurses
Dora and her old enemy Lucy are paired up on the children’s ward for the final three months of their training. The two nurses couldn’t seem more different, but they may have more in common than they think, as each hides a secret heartache.
… and new faces at the Nightingale
Jess is the feisty eldest daughter of a notorious East End family and determined to prove herself as a ward maid.
And new trainee nurse Effie can’t wait to escape her small Irish village, and make her way as a nurse in London. But Effie’s sister Katie soon begins to worry that Effie’s behaviour is out of control.
Nightingales on call and in crisis: have they got what it takes?
About the Author
Donna Douglas lives in York with her husband and daughter. Besides writing novels, she is also a very well-respected freelance journalist and has written many features for the Daily Mail.
Also available by Donna Douglas
The Nightingale Girls
The Nightingale Sisters
The Nightingale Nurses
and as an ebook original
A Child is Born: A Nightingales Christmas Story
Nightingales on Call
Donna Douglas
Acknowledgements
As ever, I would like to thank my agent Caroline Sheldon for all her support and encouragement. I’d also like to thank everyone at Arrow, especially my editor Jenny Geras, the very organised Katherine Murphy, and Andrew Sauerwine’s hard-working sales team.
Thanks must also go to everyone who has helped me with my research. This includes the patient archivists at the Royal College of Nursing, the Bethnal Green Local History Library, and the British Library. I’m also grateful to my new friends in the York League of Nurses, who invited me for tea and gave me so much new material to work with!
Last, but certainly not least, I would like to thank my husband Ken for holding the fort at home when I was locked away finishing the book. And as ever, thanks to my daughter Harriet for reading each chapter as I wrote it, and offering lots of good advice. I couldn’t have done this without you both.
To Daphne Anderson
with love from Julia (and me)
Chapter One
‘YOUR DUTIES WILL begin at five o’clock sharp. You will lay the fires, draw the curtains and make sure the boiler is lit. You will then wake me at precisely half past five with a cup of tea and my breakfast. I like two boiled eggs and buttered toast. Lightly boiled, mind. I can’t abide eggs like rubber.’
The Home Sister glared at Jess as if she doubted she could ever be equal to such a task. Jess smiled back, her tongue rammed in her cheek to stop herself answering back. She didn’t want to lose this job before she’d managed to get it.
‘At six o’clock you must wake the students,’ Sister Sutton went on. ‘Once they have gone, you will clean the bathrooms, sweep, dust and polish all the halls and stairs, and clean the students’ sitting room. The nurses are supposed to keep it tidy, but they tend to be rather careless.’ Her nose wrinkled with distaste. ‘I will carry out my inspection at midday, so I expect everything to be in order by then.’ She stared at Jess, her eyes as tiny and dark as raisins in her doughy face. ‘You have been in service, you say?’
Jess nodded. ‘Since I was thirteen.’ Although none of the houses where she had been employed as a maid of all work were anywhere near as big as the student nurses’ home. With its grand entrance, sweeping staircase and long passages, it was like one of the great manor houses she had read about in her favourite Jane Austen novels. Except there were no works of art on the drab, brown-painted walls, and the floors were covered in polished lino and not Turkish rugs. But the ornate plasterwork on the high ceilings still whispered of the house’s elegant past.
As the Home Sister continued to list the maid’s duties, Jess gazed up at the twisting plaster vine leaves and carved bunches of grapes and wondered how she would ever be able to reach up there with a duster.
‘Are you listening to me, girl?’ Sister Sutton’s sharp voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘I hope you’re not daydreaming? I have no time for daydreamers.’
‘No, Miss. Sorry, Miss.’
‘Please address me as Sister.’
‘Yes, Miss – I mean, Sister.’
Jess bobbed her head. She wasn’t easily intimidated, but Sister Sutton was as imposing as the house she presided over. She wasn’t much taller than Jess, but at least three times as wide, her grey uniform stretched over her solid bulk. Wisps of wiry silver hair escaped from beneath her starched white bonnet, tied in a bow amid her quivering chins. A Jack Russell terrier pranced around her feet, yapping up at Jess. The din filled the echoing passageway where they stood, but Sister Sutton seemed oblivious to it.
‘It says in your references that you’re a hard worker and quick to learn.’ The Home Sister looked doubtful as she consulted the letter in her hand.
‘I am, Miss – Sister.’
‘Your previous employer seemed very satisfied with you. So why did you want to leave?’
‘I want a live-in job, Sister.’
‘Really?’ Sister Sutton’s brows rose. ‘Most young girls seem to want to live out these days.’
Most young girls don’t come from where I do, Jess thought. ‘I would prefer to live in,’ was all she said.
The terrier scrabbled at her leg, its claws digging through her stockings. Jess bent to stroke it but it lunged forward, snapping at her outstretched fingers. She snatched her hand back sharply.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Sparky is very fussy about people,’ Sister Sutton said.
Jess eyed the dog. He stared straight back at her with hostile black eyes, as if he knew exactly who she was and where she had come from.
The front door opened and two students came in, chattering together. As soon as they spotte
d Sister Sutton they froze and fell instantly silent. They tried to slink towards the stairs, but the Home Sister wheeled round to confront them.
‘You two! Where do you think you’re going?’ she demanded.
The girls exchanged nervous glances. They weren’t much older than Jess, one pretty and blue-eyed with dark curls, the other brown-haired and sharp-featured.
‘Please, Sister, it’s two o’clock,’ the dark-haired girl whispered. She had a lilting Irish accent that was as sweet as her round face.
‘I can tell the time perfectly well, thank you very much. Why aren’t you on your wards?’
‘We’ve been sent off duty until five, Sister,’ the other student explained. Her voice was clear and crisp, each syllable perfectly pronounced, like one of the lady announcers Jess had heard on the wireless.
‘I see. Why couldn’t you have said that, O’Hara?’ Sister Sutton swung her bulk around to face the Irish girl again.
‘I – I – sorry, Sister,’ she mumbled.
‘I should think so, too. And look at the state of you. Crumpled apron, grubby collar – and is that a pin I see sticking out of your cap?’ She drew in a sharp breath. ‘Tidy yourself up immediately or I shall cancel your half-day off.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
Jess stared at the Irish girl as she fumbled with her cap. Jess couldn’t see why Sister Sutton was making so much fuss. The girl looked immaculate to her, in her blue-and-white striped dress and spotless apron. But she couldn’t imagine how hot that heavy fabric and those woollen stockings must feel on such a warm April afternoon.
Jess caught the brown-haired girl’s eye and gave her a sympathetic smile. The girl tossed her head, stuck her turned-up nose in the air and stalked straight past her towards the stairs, the Irish girl hurrying behind with her head down.
Charming, Jess thought. She pulled a face at the girl’s retreating back, then quickly stopped when she realised the Home Sister was watching.
‘Are you sure you’re capable of this kind of work?’ she said. ‘You don’t look as if you could lift a broom.’
Jess knew what Sister Sutton was thinking. At seventeen years old, she was still as slight as a child.
‘I’m stronger than I look,’ she shot back, squaring her shoulders. ‘Just give me a chance, and you’ll soon see what I can do.’
Sister Sutton pursed her mouth. ‘You’re certainly good at speaking up for yourself, I can see that.’
Jess pressed her lips together. Trust her to let her temper get the better of her! And she’d tried to be so careful not to put a foot wrong.
But then Sister Sutton heaved a sigh that shook all her chins and said, ‘Very well, you may have a trial. One month and then I shall decide whether you’re up to the job or not.’
Jess untwisted her cramped fingers from the folds of her skirt. She had been keeping them crossed since she arrived on the doorstep of the nurses’ home. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Sister,’ Sister Sutton corrected her. ‘You must refer to me and the other nursing sisters correctly at all times. You must also remember not to speak to anyone unless they speak to you first, and to stand up whenever a sister enters the room. And you must keep your distance from the other girls here. They are student nurses at the Nightingale Hospital, and as such they are your social superiors. They must be treated with due deference.’
Jess thought about the sharp-featured girl, tossing her head so haughtily and walking past Jess as if she didn’t exist. But after four years in service, she was used to being treated like part of the furniture.
And if that was what it took to escape from her home, then she would willingly become invisible.
‘Now,’ Sister Sutton went on, ‘I will show you to your room.’ She bustled off down the passageway, a bunch of keys jingling from her belt. Reaching the door at the farthest end of the passage, she took the keys in her hand and held them close to her face, squinting at each in turn until she selected the right one.
‘Here we are,’ she said, unlocking the door and throwing it open. ‘The room’s small, but perfectly adequate for your needs.’
Jess stepped inside. Sister Sutton was right, it was small. Scarcely bigger than a cupboard, with just enough room for a narrow bed and a chest of drawers. But to Jess, it seemed like a palace. There was even a small shelf above the bed where she could keep her books.
She stepped inside, breathing in the clean smell of furniture polish and fresh linen. Spring sunshine flooded the room, making everything bright and cheerful.
Jess went over to the window and gazed out over the garden. It couldn’t be more different from the grim tenement she lived in now. Living here would be like waking up in Victoria Park, surrounded by grass and trees and flowers every day.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed.
Sister Sutton huffed. ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ she said. ‘But as I said, it’s perfectly adequate for a maid’s needs.’
Jess looked around her again. Whatever the Home Sister might think, to her it was perfect. Almost too perfect. Jess Jago didn’t usually get that kind of luck.
Perhaps 1937 was going to be the year everything changed for her, she thought.
Jess delayed going home for as long as possible, turning her steps towards Columbia Road Market instead. In the middle of a Monday afternoon it was a lively mass of people and colourful stalls. The cries of the street vendors mingled with the banter of the stallholders as they plied their wares, everything from second-hand clothes, fruit and veg, pungent cat meat and trays of Indian toffee. The pot mender pushed his clanking bicycle up and down the street, laden down with the tools of his trade. The air was rich with the smell of freshly baked bread and the sharp tang of pickled fish from the Jewish grocers.
Jess lingered at the second-hand bookstall, imagining what she would buy once she had a few spare pennies to her name. The titles all seemed to call to her, each one promising great adventure, the chance to escape from her own life for a while. She could be transported back to the court of King Arthur or into the heat of the Arabian desert, just by turning the pages. Jess wasn’t sure she could have endured the last few years without being able to shut herself away in a quiet corner and live in someone else’s imagined world.
A copy of Great Expectations caught her eye. It had seen better days, its cover stained and worn, the spine tattered. But it had been her mother’s favourite, the story of a boy taken from his humble home and raised to wealth by a mysterious benefactor. Jess still remembered the tears running down her mother’s cheeks as Sarah Jago had read it out loud to her.
‘One day that will happen to you, Jess,’ she would whisper. ‘One day you’ll have the chance to get away from this place. And when that day comes I want you to go and never look back.’
‘Only if you come with me,’ Jess would always reply. ‘I’m not going anywhere without you.’
Her mother would look around at the damp, crumbling walls with her saddest smile on her face. ‘It’s too late for me, my love,’ she would sigh.
And she was right. That dingy terrace house had been Sarah Jago’s prison until the day she died.
The stallholder was leaning against the wall, smoking. He was a young man, no more than twenty years old, his dark hair slicked back off his face with brilliantine.
‘The penny romances are over there,’ he said carelessly, pointing with his cigarette to a heap of books spread out on a sheet on the pavement.
‘I prefer Dickens.’
Out of the corner of her eye Jess caught the young man’s look of surprise.
‘Oh, yeah? And what have you read?’ he asked with a smirk.
Jess paused for a moment, ticking them off on her fingers. ‘Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, Nicholas Nickleby . . .’
He looked impressed. ‘Is that a fact?’
‘And how much Dickens have you read?’ Jess fired back.
The young man grinned. ‘I’m more of a Racing Post man myself.’
‘And you run a bookstall?’ She couldn’t imagine being surrounded by books all day long and not wanting to read them.
‘It’s my dad’s. I’m just helping out till something else comes along.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette. His slicked-back hair emphasised the narrowness of his face. With that and the shiny patches on his suit, Jess got the impression of a young man trying too hard to be someone he wasn’t.
He looked down at the pile of dog-eared books. ‘Not much call for Dickens round here,’ he sighed. ‘Dunno why my dad bought them, to be honest. Reckon he must have got a job lot cheap.’ He regarded her with interest. ‘You know, I would have had you down as more of a romantic.’
Jess knew when she was being flirted with. She kept her eyes fixed on the gold lettering down the spine of the book. ‘I haven’t got time for all that nonsense.’
‘Go on! I thought every young girl liked a bit of love in her life.’
She ignored him. ‘So how much do you want for this?’ she asked, holding up the book.
‘A tanner?’ he said hopefully.
Jess laughed. ‘You just said you couldn’t get rid of them. Besides, it’s falling to bits!’
‘Yes, but it’s what’s inside that counts, ain’t it?’ He winked at her.
Before Jess could reply, an angry voice startled them both.
‘Oi, you! Sling your hook.’
Jess glanced around and realised the shout was directed at her. A costermonger from a nearby fruit and veg stall was bearing down on her, red-faced. Jess regarded him calmly.
‘You talking to me, Mister?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I am. We don’t want your sort round here.’
‘Do you mind? She’s a customer,’ the young man put in.
‘Customer?’ The costermonger’s mouth curled. ‘Don’t make me laugh. She’s one of them Jago kids, from the hatcheries. They’d nick the teeth out your head if they thought they could get away with it.’ He turned on Jess, jabbing his finger inches away from her face. ‘I caught one of your lot pinching apples off my stall this morning. Little sod thought I couldn’t see him.’
Jess squared up to her accuser. ‘I wasn’t going to pinch anything,’ she said.
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