May refused to believe it. Surely Home Sister would let her go?
By the time she reached Home Sister she was light-headed. A doctor was called, another inspection held, then sentence was passed: ‘Over to the sick bay, at once.’ May tried to speak, but no voice would come. She shook her head and her eyes filled with tears. Dr Calne patted her hand gently.
‘Hospital throat is inevitable, my dear. All you young nurses come down with it at some time, especially after a spell in the septic ward. Don’t worry, we’ll look after you.’
May looked despairingly at Home Sister. There was no trace of sympathy in her face, she said merely, ‘Illness among the nursing staff is always a nuisance, Dr Calne, but fortunately Nurse Winton has just finished her period of night duty, so it’s not too inconvenient.’
May felt the mingled anger and distress well up. She turned her head away as the childish tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks.
As she lay in bed the pain was like sharp knives sawing at her throat. When she was forced to swallow the knives became red-hot. Whenever Nurse Sampson insisted on more drinks, or, ‘A little arrowroot, dear, ever so nourishing,’ the red-hot knives grew larger and larger and slashed across her palate. Nor was her misery confined to this: her neck was swollen and exquisitely tender, the slightest awkwardness on the part of the ham-listed Farrell made her feel like screaming. She lay rigid, afraid to move, listening anxiously to the rhythm of the feet approaching. Farrell’s light pattering steps, a charming sound in themselves, reminiscent of lively ballrooms and country house parties, filled her with dread as she braced herself for the well-meant but clumsy ministrations which would follow. When the tread was that of Sampson’s flat feet, large and dropped at the arches, she relaxed, secure in the knowledge that her aches and pains would be deftly eased, and even, for a moment, charmed away under the influence of Sampson’s warm, reassuring presence.
The doctor and Sister gazed down at her, as she lay hot with fever, her legs shaking uncontrollably. They pursed their lips and looked grave, and May felt the despair of weakness rise in her, and force tears to her eyes, so that she turned her swollen neck painfully away to hide them. But as soon as their measured tread had moved away down the ward, the heavy, padding footfalls were approaching, a gentle hand whisked away her tears and a cool palm rested on her forehead, while the adenoidal, common voice murmured words of comfort.
‘You’re doing very well, Nurse Winton, very well indeed. just stick it out, dear, it’s always darkest before the dawn.’ The commonplace clichés took on the character of inspired prophecies through the medium of Nurse Sampson’s personality.
May remembered how she had winced at the girl’s accent and blowsy looks when she’d met her before in the Nurses’ Sitting Room; now any twinge of shame was swallowed up in the determination that when she got back to the patients she would be a Sampson instead of a Farrell – so much of Sister Simeon’s painstaking teaching now made sense. Such was the power of Nurse Sampson’s faith that in her presence May had no doubts but that she soon would be back on the wards, ill though she knew she was. ‘You’ll be all right, dear, you’re a strong girl,’ were the words she heard, and Sampson was right. The shivering fits and the hot, drenching sweats began to decline, and a week after her arrival in Rachel Ward May found herself waiting impatiently for her dinner, disappointed that it was only rice pudding. Now Sister herself said, ‘Of course, you’ve got a sound constitution Nurse Winton – a severe attack, but we knew we’d soon pull you through.’ But May thought that she hadn’t said it last week, while Nurse Sampson had.
* * *
They sent her home for ten days’ convalescence. Lord Clarence came himself in the brougham, and fidgeted with the window to ensure that not a breath of cold air blew on his daughter. May, swathed in her furs, felt warm and weak and very tired.
She slept all the nights and long into the mornings. Lady Clarence made her round of calls without her. But two days before May was due to return to St Katharine’s her step-mother suggested, tentatively, that May might like to accompany her parents to a squash – ‘Just a small reception, May, your cousins will be there, you will enjoy a little chat with them.’
May did not much want to go, but Lady Clarence had been very kind, and it was unusual to see her tentative; also she knew her step-mother was anxiously awaiting her next letter from Emily, so it seemed needlessly cruel to disappoint her over such a relatively small matter. Her agreement was willingly given.
Fenton dressed her and she was escorted to the coach as though she were a piece of Dresden china. Her father almost carried her up the stairs when they arrived, although she really felt quite well again. Archie was there, and Bertie, and Louise Dumer. May was beginning to enjoy herself when the crowd around her suddenly shifted and parted – and there was Harry Cussons. May gasped, and he was staring straight at her. She smiled at him, and raised her hand – his face was cold and resentful. He turned ostentatiously to the woman at his side and slid his hand possessively up her arm and whispered something in her ear. Della Hindlesham glanced round and stared at May, made a little half bow then turned back to Harry and gave a tiny shrug of her exquisite shoulders. She tapped his cheek with her fan, spoke softly to him, and they both laughed in shared intimacy. It was skilfully done. May felt the burning blush of humiliation rise in her cheeks and the easy tears of convalescence fill her eyes. She would have stood there, exposed, had not Archie put his arm around her waist and guided her into a window recess, shielding her from the curious looks of the crowd with his body.
‘So you did turn him down, then.’
May, unable to speak, just nodded.
‘Grandmamma dropped hints – she was annoyed.’
May shook her head, and felt her control slipping. ‘I wish I hadn’t, now.’
‘Well, it’s no use crying over spilt milk – plenty more fish in the sea, and all that.’
Archie’s attempts at comfort were so like him that May managed a shaky smile, but the tears were still threatening; she looked down and bit her lip. Then another male form appeared beside them, and Archie’s voice was relieved.
‘I say, George old fellow, d’you think you could locate my aunt? Poor old May’s quite done up; been ill, y’know, first day out, and all that.’
‘Of course, I’ll find her at once.’ May recognised Lord Hindlesham’s collected tones.
‘That’ll be all right then, May, we’ll soon have you home.’
In a very short time Lord Hindlesham was back. ‘She was downstairs. She’s sending for the carriage; I told her we’d bring May down.’
Lord Hindlesham forced a pathway through the throng and May followed, grateful for Archie’s arm. Her father came up the stairs to meet them, his face concerned. Lady Clarence’s voice was anxious. ‘I should not have brought you, May. Thank you so much, Lord Hindlesham.’
May’s father reiterated, ‘Thanks, old man – didn’t expect to see you here tonight.’
‘I leave for the Continent in the morning,’ Lord Hindlesham replied. ‘Goodbye, Lady Clarence, Miss Winton. I hope the nursing is not too exhausting.’
May managed a proper smile at last. ‘I’m afraid night duty is, rather. I’m glad my three months of that is over for the year.’
Lord Hindlesham said, ‘It is strange, is it not, that we legislate against women in factories working the night shift, yet expect it of young girls in hospitals – still, I’m sure your friend Miss Carter would be able to explain that!’ He smiled and left them.
Next morning May came down to breakfast late, still shaken by the memory of Harry Cussons’ open resentment. She found Lady Clarence sitting, her toast untouched, with a letter in her hand and a drawn expression on her face. She pulled herself together with a visible effort and turned to May.
‘Are you quite recovered, my dear?’
‘Yes, thank you Step-mamma. Is that a letter from Emily? How is the baby?’
Lady Clarence abruptly thrust the letter into
May’s hands. ‘May, read it, please. Tell me what it means.’
May read the anxious words Emily had carefully penned far away in the heat of India. In her time on night duty, when she had forced her way through volume after volume from the Nurses’ Library, she had learnt a lot. As she read Emily’s account of her son an ominous picture rose up in her mind. She made herself re-read the letter, carefully, conscious of her step-mother’s anxious gaze, then she looked up and said firmly, ‘I think you should go to India, Step-mamma. Emily will be needing you.’
Lady Clarence blinked, her usually impassive face betraying a mixture of emotions.
The door opened and May turned to greet her father. ‘Papa, I think it would be as well if you escorted Step-mamma to India.’
Lord Clarence looked startled, but soon recovered himself. ‘If you say so, my dear.’
Lady Clarence began to protest, but May silenced her with a glance. ‘You could book the tickets today, Papa. You could be there in less than a month.’
Lord Clarence was visibly brightening. ‘Always fancied a tiger shoot, m’dear – splendid idea, why didn’t I think of it myself? I know you’ve been fretting about Emily, Julia my love; we’ll go and see her. You must come too, May.’
May felt a little burst of excitement, and a longing to see Emily, but she resolutely shook her head. Her duty lay elsewhere now.
‘No, Matron is expecting me back. You must both go.’
‘But May, you will have no home while we are away.’ Lady Clarence’s voice was concerned.
‘I shall spend my free time with Grandmamma.’ Her heart sank a little at the thought of whom she might meet in her grandmother’s social circle, but she smiled reassuringly at her step-mother. ‘If our positions were reversed then Emily would be the first to tell you to go, you know that. Of course you must go to her.’
Lady Clarence stood up. ‘Then I will go and speak to Fenton.’ She turned to May and put out her hand. ‘Thank you, my dear.’ She left the room with unusual haste.
As her father displayed his hazy knowledge of Indian geography over his breakfast – ‘Old Tim Schofield said at Simla, or was it Poona? – all those places sound alike – still, I daresay we’ll sort them out when we get there,’ May sat quiet, feeling very alone. Then she took a deep breath, reached for her cup and drank steadily. She had made her bed and now she must lie on it, even though it were narrow and hard and made of iron. Why, this fine Darjeeling seemed positively anaemic after the strong hospital brew – she would soon get used to life in St Katharine’s again.
Chapter Eighteen
On her return May was sent to Naomi, a women’s medical ward. The patients were ill and the nursing heavy, but Sister Naomi was elderly and experienced. Although strict with her nurses she was invariably fair, and she had endless patience with the sick women. Staff Nurse was a good teacher, so May, learning to deal with new problems and to carry out different treatments, felt a sense of discovery, and growing confidence. By the time Lady Clanence’s telegram announced her parents’ safe arrival in India she had settled back into the routine of St Katharine’s. She did not forget Harry Cussons’ snub, but it mattered less to her. After all, he was a man who had spent a lifetime getting exactly what he wanted, and she had had the temerity to refuse him – no wonder he had been angry and resentful.
One fine evening in late spring May and Ellen found themselves at Victoria Station, with three full hours ahead of them before the doors of the Nurses’ Home shut at ten. They had just waved goodbye to Ada, who was one of the lucky probationers whose parents lived near enough to London for her to get home on the evening before her monthly day off and so enjoy a whole twenty-eight hours of family life. The three of them had rushed off duty together and Ada had changed while the other two packed her bag; then they had hurried by train and underground to the terminus of the Brighton Line. Ada, festooned with an assortment of badly-wrapped parcels – it was her twin sisters’ birthday that week – had been bundled onto the Redhill train with seconds to spare, and May and Ellen, pleasantly conscious of having fulfilled their duty as friends, now had the evening in front of them.
‘Where shall we go now, May? It’s a lovely evening.’
May thought for a moment, then suggested, ‘I think we’re quite near St James’ Park – we could walk up past the Palace.’
Ellen was immediately interested. ‘Oh, do let’s – we might see the King and Queen!’
May laughed. ‘I must say, for someone who disapproves of inherited wealth you’re uncommonly interested in royalty and the aristocracy!’
Ellen grinned. ‘Well, you’re all such a novelty to a country bumpkin like me. Come on, let’s go and see what we can.’
As they neared the Palace the traffic began to slow down, then it stopped altogether. Beyond the cursing, swearing cab drivers they saw a long queue of private carriages. As they gazed at them May was transported back in time, to when she and Emily had sat, side by side and still as statues under the watchful eye of Lady Clarence, in just such a queue on just such a fine spring evening. She remembered the endless tiresome hours at the dressmaker, while a tuck had been taken here, or a seam altered there; Bella’s pride as she had carefully lifted the ostrich plumes to set them on their hair – three apiece and stiffly white; the strange sensation of the long unmanageable train fastened to her shoulders, dragging her back as she walked; the slow, stately procession down the stairs to where the servants waited in the hall, whispering in excited admiration. The whole scene was suddenly as bright and vivid before her eyes as though it were only yesterday. How pale and set Emily’s face had been in the carriage – May had begun to feel frightened herself, until she had looked up at her step-mother, so stern and imposing. The sight had given May immediate reassurance: nothing would go wrong because Lady Clarence would not allow it to go wrong. So they had waited in the coach, just as these young girls were waiting, grateful for once for Lady Clarence’s formal conversation and the formidable bearing which had driven away even the curious Cockneys who thronged the streets and pressed their noses against the very windows of the carriage.
‘What’s happening, May? What are they waiting for?’ Ellen’s fingers pressed her arm, and her voice was insistent.
‘It’s a Court. They’re waiting to be presented.’
Ellen’s face was alive with excitement. She tugged at May’s cloak, pulling her along. ‘Do let’s get closer, I want to see.’
Ellen, thin as a lath, pushed and wriggled her way through the crowd. May followed, unresisting. A friendly policeman saw them and cried, ‘Make way there, please, let the nurses through,’ and the crowd parted good-humouredly so that May and Ellen found themselves suddenly at the front, within inches of the rounded hindquarters of a glossy chestnut. They shifted slightly sideways and saw the face of the debutante, a pale blur through the misted glass, surrounded by the billowing white froth of dress and train.
The policeman turned his head. ‘Can you see them, ladies? Take a good look at how the nobs live, while you’ve got the chance. When you’re rushing around with your pills and potions first thing tomorrow they’ll still be lying abed, thinking what a busy time they’ve had this evening!’ He chuckled. ‘But we know better, don’t we? You and me, we have to work for our living.’ Imperturbable, but watchful, he paced off amongst the crowd.
May whispered, ‘I feel rather warm – shall we step back a little, Ellen?’
Ellen obediently stepped back, until they stood alone on the grass, still gazing at the line of carriages, stretching all the way to the Palace gates.
‘What do they do when they get inside, May?’
May said slowly, ‘You sit down on little gold chairs and you wait. It seems to be nothing but waiting, the whole evening. Then, when they tell you to, you have to join another long queue and move forward, oh, so slowly, through endless big rooms until you get to the ballroom – where the lights are dazzling and you want to blink but you know you mustn’t – then suddenly it all goes
deathly quiet and you hear your name, sounding very loud in the silence, as you walk forward. and you realise you’re directly in front of Their Majesties.’ May paused, remembering the total isolation of that moment.
‘Then what do you do, May?’ Ellen prompted.
‘Then you curtsey, once to the King and once to the Queen.’
‘What next?’
‘Nothing, that’s it.’
‘All this, just for a curtsey!’ Ellen’s voice was stunned as she stared at the long procession of carriages, each with its liveried attendants. ‘It’s incredible.’
‘Two curtseys, Ellen,’ May corrected. Then she began to laugh, and Ellen joined her, until they were doubled up and gasping for breath.
Slowly the line crept forward, then stopped again. Ellen, still giggling a little, said, ‘All the same, I’d like to go in, just once, and see it all happening. If only Lord Hindlesham would jump out of a cab and whisk us inside!’
‘He can’t, Ellen, he’s in Italy. My grandmother told me when I had lunch with her last week. He’ll be away the whole of the Season, she said.’
Ellen made no reply, but her expression was questioning, so May explained.
‘His younger daughter married an Italian Duke, or Marchese, or something, and she’s been very homesick, so her father’s gone out there until after the baby is born.’
‘So there will be no dazzling balls at Hindlesham House this year, like the one where you met Mr Cussons?’
May retorted swiftly, ‘Oh, I’m sure there will be! Lady Hindlesham hasn’t gone, she’s in London as usual.’
Ellen sounded surprised. ‘But if her daughter…’
May’s tone was cold. ‘Dear Della would never, but never, miss the Season. Besides, the last thing she wants is to be reminded that her daughters are grown up. Archie had quite a penchant for Helen Hindlesham, the younger girl, and I remember him saying how amusing it was to watch them. Helen is the image of her mother, only twenty years younger, of course, and apparently Della could hardly bear to be seen in the same room as her. Lord Hindlesham’s sister virtually brought the two girls out, with her own three – except for the Presentation, of course, she’d have to do that.’
Mayfair Rebel Page 17
