‘If only that were possible, Schwester. But in my experience infection only gets worse if you try to ignore it.’ He smiled at her. ‘Look at me. If I can learn to heal my wounds, then anyone can. You just have to ask for help.’
Charlotte caught his eye and looked away sharply. ‘You may read your book for another half an hour, but no more,’ she said, trying to recover her authority. ‘I hope you manage to get some sleep, Mr Gruber.’
‘You too, Schwester,’ she heard him say softly as she closed the door.
As she made her way down to the maternity block to continue her round, she passed the doors to the dining room. From beyond them came the sound of a piano playing and voices singing.
Charlotte looked at her watch. It was past ten o’clock. If the rehearsals were still going on, then it could only mean Miss Tanner was struggling as badly as she had.
She couldn’t resist sneaking a quick look. She pushed the door open a fraction, and peered through the crack.
Everyone was gathered around the piano, their voices all joined in a rousing rendition of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’. From the look of them, they were all enjoying themselves immensely.
And there, in the middle of it, was Miss Tanner, looking enormously pleased with herself as she played the piano.
Jealousy curdled in her stomach. Charlotte let the door shut, but the sound of the ward sister’s easy laughter seemed to follow her, taunting her as she hurried away.
After a week, the night sister had recovered sufficiently to resume her duties, just in time for that week’s rehearsal.
Everyone seemed rather disappointed to see Charlotte when she arrived in the dining hall.
‘I thought Miss Tanner had taken over?’ Miss Trott said, looking put out.
‘Only last week,’ Charlotte snapped. ‘I am still in charge.’
She had hoped that after last week everyone might have improved. But if anything, it was an even bigger shambles than the first week. No one seemed to have prepared at all. Cues were missed, lines fluffed and words forgotten. Two student nurses who had always seemed so friendly were suddenly bickering between themselves, while the young doctor they were with was caught helplessly in the middle.
‘Really, I can’t think what you did last week,’ Charlotte said, glaring at Miss Tanner. But the ward sister hardly seemed to hear her as she sat at the piano, staring vacantly into space. She looked as if she were a million miles away.
Charlotte was so exhausted from a week of night duties that her nerves and her patience were worn thin.
Even Bill Brigham, her star act, seemed to let her down. Or rather, his assistant did. When Peggy Atkins dropped a pack of cards for the third time, scattering them over the stage, Charlotte felt herself snap.
‘Good lord, can’t you do anything right?’ she cried, as the woman scrambled about on the floor, trying to gather them up.
‘It doesn’t matter, Peg,’ Bill Brigham jumped in loyally to defend her. Charlotte turned on him.
‘Of course it matters! It needs to be perfect. If you can’t understand that then you shouldn’t be here!’
A stunned silence followed her words. All around her, she could feel the other performers exchanging uncomfortable looks.
Bill Brigham took Peggy Atkins’ arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We don’t have to stand here just to be shouted at by the likes of her. This is supposed to be a daft show, not a Royal Command Performance!’ He stomped off the stage, Peggy Atkins following behind.
Charlotte watched them go, consumed by white-hot rage.
They didn’t understand, none of them did. This show had to be perfect, it had to be. It was her one chance to prove herself to Matron, and no one was going to ruin it for her.
‘Miss Davis—’ Miss Tanner’s voice broke the silence.
Charlotte whirled round to face her. ‘Oh, I might have known you’d have something to say about it!’ she snapped. ‘Well, if you don’t like the way I do things, you can go too!’
For a moment no one moved. Then, slowly, Miss Tanner lowered the lid over the piano keyboard, gathered up her music and stood up.
Charlotte watched her walk out of the room, her tall figure stiff with injured dignity. A moment later, Miss Trott followed her, sending Charlotte an accusing look over her shoulder.
Gradually, one by one, the others left, their heads down, shuffling out of the door. Charlotte watched them go, her spine straight, head held high. Now her white-hot rage had cooled, she suddenly felt very foolish.
Afterwards, she sat alone in the dining room and stared at the empty stage.
She blamed Miss Tanner. She must have turned their minds against her last week. She could just imagine her winning them all over to her side with her smiles and her charm.
Charlotte had no charm to fight back with, she knew that. She didn’t know the right words to say, or how to smile her way out of trouble. All she had done was to try to get the job done as efficiently as she could.
It was all she had ever done.
That night they came to her again. This time she was trying to count the bodies, writing the number on the blackboard outside the tent for the artillery boys to collect them. But she kept getting it wrong, over and over again. And then the lorries came to take them away and dump them in the mass grave, and as they rumbled off Charlotte heard the groans of pain coming from the back, and knew she had got it wrong, that people would be dumped in the pit, buried alive among the diseased corpses, and it would all be her fault …
The following night she was in the human laundry, as they had called it. The vast tents, with their lines of trestle tables. The lines of emaciated naked bodies, some of them barely more than bags of bones, diseased and rotting and crawling with lice.
It was for their own good, she told herself as she shaved and scrubbed and sprayed them with DDT as if they were little better than animals. But still she couldn’t look in their eyes.
She was just trying to get the job done, as efficiently as she could.
She had the same nightmare the next night, and the one after that. Every night she would wake herself up, sobbing and terrified. One night she cried out so loud that Sister Hyde knocked on her door to see if she was all right.
After that, Charlotte gave up sleeping. Instead she would sit up in the hard armchair in her room, staring out of the window into the wintry darkness to stop herself thinking.
All too soon, the week went by and the next rehearsal approached. Charlotte hoped that after her outburst the previous week people might have decided to take the show more seriously. After all, there was only the dress rehearsal before their Christmas Day performance.
She was the first to arrive in the dining room as usual. She set out the chairs, laid out her papers, sat down and waited.
And waited.
Charlotte glanced at her watch. A quarter past six. Really, this was unacceptable. She would have to talk to them all again, she decided. Everyone needed to buckle down, start taking this show seriously.
By the time she heard the double doors creak behind her, she was too angry to turn around and face the latecomers.
‘There you are!’ she snapped. ‘Really, if you can’t be bothered to attend rehearsals on time—’
‘No one is coming.’
Charlotte swung round in her seat at the sound of Miss Tanner’s voice. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.
‘No one is coming.’ Miss Tanner stood in the doorway. ‘They’ve all decided they don’t want to take part in the show. And after the way you’ve treated them, I’m not surprised.’
Charlotte stared at her, nonplussed. ‘But they can’t do that! They have to take part—’
‘You still don’t understand, do you?’ Miss Tanner sounded almost pitying, if Charlotte hadn’t known better. ‘They don’t have to do anything, Miss Davis. You’re not in the army now. You can’t just give orders and expect people to obey them.’
Charlotte stared at Miss Tanner. There was something about th
e ward sister’s calm face that made her throat burn with rage.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ she accused.
Miss Tanner’s brows rose. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To ruin everything?’
‘Why on earth would I want to ruin the Christmas show?’
‘So you could make a fool of me, and prove to Matron that you’re better than I am.’
Miss Tanner shook her head. ‘You’re being ridiculous. I came here to let you know what was happening because I didn’t want you to sit here looking foolish. Now I wish I hadn’t bothered!’
‘I suppose it was your idea for them to walk out?’
Miss Tanner narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting I had anything to do with this?’
‘Why not? You’ve been trying to undermine me ever since I came here! You think I haven’t seen you cosying up to Matron, whispering together?’
‘Miss Fox and I are friends—’
‘Don’t I know it!’ Charlotte snapped. ‘You want my job, don’t you? You think you should have been made Assistant Matron. And because you weren’t, you want to make a fool of me—’
‘You’re doing a very good job of making a fool of yourself!’ Miss Tanner shot back. ‘I tried to warn you, but as usual you wouldn’t listen. You always think you know best.’
‘You sabotaged me—’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Do you really think all I have to think about is getting one over on you?’ Miss Tanner’s voice was full of exasperation. ‘Believe me, some of us have more important things to worry about than you and your wretched show!’
For the first time, Charlotte caught a glimpse of real pain in the other woman’s eyes. She looked tired, she noticed. Her smile was gone, and there were lines of tension around her mouth.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.
‘If you must know, I wanted to help you,’ Miss Tanner said, more quietly. ‘I felt sorry for you. I thought you could do with a friend—’
‘I don’t need a friend!’ Charlotte spat back. ‘And I don’t need anyone’s help, either.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Davis.’
Charlotte kept her back obstinately turned as she heard Miss Tanner leave, the door closing behind her.
She sank her head into her hands in despair. She didn’t need help. She was strong, she was capable. She could deal with anything. She had proved that, hadn’t she? Time and time again, going where the others didn’t dare, doing all the jobs that no one else could. She was invincible. All she had to do was keep her head up, refuse to show weakness.
That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Davis.
She had another nightmare that night. This time she was alone, in the middle of a field. The lorry was there, stacked up with dead bodies, and she was trying to dig a mass grave, all alone with her bare hands. She woke to the sound of Major Hugh’s voice.
Everyone needs a friend, Charlotte.
And then another voice, heavy with a German accent. You have to ask for help.
She sat bolt upright in the darkness. Was it really that simple?
The hospital was in silence, slumbering in the middle of the night. The Night Sister had done her rounds and there was not a soul in the empty passageways as Charlotte made her way up to Jarvis ward.
Isaak Gruber was awake as usual. He looked up from the book he was reading by the dim light of the green shaded lamp. He didn’t seem too surprised to see her.
‘Schwester,’ he said.
‘I was there.’ The words came out in a rush, terrified that if she stopped she might never say them. ‘The day they liberated Bergen-Belsen.’ She looked up at him. ‘I need help,’ she whispered.
Isaak Gruber nodded, as if this was something he had been expecting, and laid aside his book.
‘I think you had better sit down and tell me everything, don’t you?’ he said kindly.
Violet
2nd December 1945
Violet came away from the first meeting with a sinking heart. It was just as she’d feared; Charlotte Davis was hopelessly out of her depth with this Christmas show. She might be able to make lists and organise rosters, but she didn’t know the first thing about dealing with people.
Look at the way she’d spoken to her. All Violet had done was try to offer the girl some friendly advice, but Miss Davis had thrown it back in her face.
Well, if that was the way she wanted to behave, she couldn’t expect any more help from her.
But irritated as she was, Violet still couldn’t help feeling a twinge of compassion at the thought of Miss Davis standing there, so helpless and uncomprehending in the face of everything, clutching that wretched piece of paper like it was a lifeline.
Violet was on her way back up the stairs to Jarvis ward when Miss Trott caught up with her.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘What did you think?’
‘About what?’ Violet replied, although she knew very well what the ward sister was talking about.
‘The meeting, of course.’ Then, before Violet had a chance to answer, she went on, ‘She’s going to make a terrible mess of it, don’t you think? Anyone can see she’s completely out of her depth. I must say, I’m surprised at Matron for giving her the job in the first place.’
So am I, Violet thought. ‘I daresay she had her reasons,’ she replied carefully.
Miriam shot her a scornful look. ‘Trust you to be tactful, just because you and Miss Fox are such good friends. But I’m telling you, it will be a miracle if we even have a Christmas show, the way things are going.’
‘It was only the first meeting,’ Violet said. ‘We shouldn’t rush to judge anything.’
‘Hmm.’ Miriam Trott pursed her lips. ‘Well, I’m telling you now, I for one certainly won’t be taking part if she continues to take that attitude. Did you see those dreadful songs on that list? As if anyone wants to hear that nonsense. What’s wrong with “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming”, that’s what I want to know?’
‘Well—’
‘The Assistant Matron has no idea about the way we do things here,’ Miriam continued. ‘But that’s hardly surprising, I suppose. I mean, it’s not as if she’s one of us, is she?’
Violet’s skin prickled. ‘One of us?’ she said coldly.
‘You know what I mean. She’s barely been here a few months. She doesn’t fit in.’
Violet stared at Miriam’s prim little face, so full of spite. She knew only too well what it was like not to fit in. Ten years ago, when she had first arrived at the Nightingale, she was the one Miriam Trott regarded as an outsider. For months, the ward sister had made it her business to poke and pry about in her personal life.
‘Perhaps we should wait and see what she comes up with?’ she said. ‘You never know, she might surprise us all.’
‘I very much doubt it,’ Miriam sniffed. ‘You mark my words, this will all end in disaster.’
And no doubt you’ll be there to clap your hands in glee when it does, Violet thought as she watched the ward sister’s diminutive figure strutting off down the corridor. There was nothing Miriam Trott enjoyed more than watching someone else come a cropper.
But then, Miriam wasn’t the only one who wanted to see Charlotte Davis get her comeuppance. The girl didn’t go out of her way to make friends, that was for sure.
She put Miss Davis from her mind as she changed out of her uniform and headed home. Unlike the other ward sisters, who mainly lived in, Violet rented a house in one of the few remaining terraces that looked over Victoria Park.
It was a cold, foggy night, and the street lamps barely pierced the gloom as Violet picked her way carefully along the wintry streets. It was a relief to reach Cheshire Street at last, and to see the welcoming light that blazed in the window of number three.
She paused for a moment, looking up at the house. She was lucky to have found such a nice place, especially when so many poor East Enders were having to m
ake do in hastily constructed prefabs. Violet had thought they would have to do the same when they first returned from the sector hospital in Kent.
But then fate had brought her to Mrs Morgan’s door.
Violet let herself into the narrow hallway, and was met by the warm, fragrant aroma of baking. She sniffed appreciatively, smelling cinnamon and spices.
‘Is that you, Oliver?’ Mrs Morgan emerged from the kitchen at the end of the passageway, wiping her hands on her pinny.
‘No, Mrs M, it’s me.’ Violet unpinned her hat and set it on the hallstand. ‘Terrible night, isn’t it?’
‘I’ll say. I went down to Atkins’ to buy some ham earlier, and I’ll be blowed if it didn’t take me half an hour to get there and back. Could hardly see me hand in front of me face, the fog was that bad. Here, let me help you.’ She took Violet’s coat for her as she shrugged it off, and hung it up on the hallstand.
‘You say Oliver isn’t home yet?’ Violet fought down a twinge of anxiety.
‘Not yet. But the buses back from the city have been shocking. They’ve barely been crawling along in this fog. He’ll find his way home soon, I’m sure.’
‘You’re right.’ Violet forced herself to relax. She had spent so many years watching out for her son, keeping him safe, sometimes she forgot he was nearly a grown man, and no longer in need of her protection.
She sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘Have you been baking, Mrs M?’
‘I’ve made a start on the Christmas cake.’
‘It smells delicious.’
‘It will be.’ Mrs Morgan looked proud. ‘Atkins have managed to hold some stock in reserve for their most valued customers, so I’ll be able to make something decent for once, instead of making do with grated carrots and prunes, and pretending it tastes the same. This will be the best Christmas we’ve had in years,’ she beamed.
‘I should think it will,’ Violet agreed. ‘Heavens knows, we’ve waited for it long enough.’
‘You’re right there, ducks. Now, you go in and warm yourself by the fire, and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea. How does that sound?’
The Nightingale Christmas Show Page 7
