A Nightingale Christmas Wish (2 page)

‘This is supposed to be an entertainment for the patients and their families,’ she reminded the students, raising her voice above the din. ‘I will not allow you to use it as an opportunity to lampoon members of staff. Poor Miss Hanley would be mortified.’

‘Miss Hanley?’ Mr Evans did his best to feign innocence. ‘Oh, no, Sister, I don’t know where you got that idea from. I wasn’t making fun of anyone in particular, truly I wasn’t. Really, I’m rather shocked that you should think that this – this gross parody remotely resembles our esteemed Assistant Matron—’

The other young men chortled. ‘Come on, Sister, be a sport,’ one of them piped up. ‘It’s only a bit of fun, after all.’

‘Fun, is it?’ Frannie shot him a chilly glance. ‘I would like to see you having fun at one of the consultants’ expense,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could dress up as Mr Hobbs or Mr Cooper? Or what about Mr Latimer? I’m sure
he’d
see the funny side.’ The young men shuffled their feet and stared at the floor like naughty schoolboys. ‘I thought as much,’ Frannie said. ‘And yet you find it perfectly acceptable to poke fun at one of the senior nursing staff?’

There was an uncomfortable silence. Owen Evans whipped off his wig. He knew when he was beaten. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he sighed.

As they shuffled off the stage, one of the young students grumbled, ‘You might let us have some fun, Sister. After all, we probably won’t even be here next Christmas.’

‘That’s true,’ another muttered. ‘I expect we’ll be in a trench somewhere, taking potshots at Germans.’

A chill brushed the back of Frannie’s neck. ‘Don’t talk like that,’ she said.

Owen Evans stopped and looked at her. ‘Why not? We all know there’s going to be a war.’

‘Everyone except Mr Chamberlain!’ his friend said.

‘No one wants to go to war,’ Frannie said quietly. ‘Not after last time.’

‘Yes, but we can’t ignore what Hitler’s doing in Europe,’ Owen Evans insisted stubbornly. ‘And it’s not going to stop just because he’s signed a piece of paper.’

‘He needs to be taught a lesson,’ another chimed in. ‘You’ve got to stand up for what’s right, haven’t you? If we don’t, it’ll be us next.’

‘Just let him try!’ Another young man, a thickset chap with a pugnacious face, balled his hands into fists. ‘Give me the chance to go over there. I’ll show those Germans what for!’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Tension made Frannie snap. ‘You think it’s all a big game, don’t you? But war isn’t like a football match. You don’t shake hands and go home when you’ve had enough. Some of you won’t come home at all—’ She stopped talking, suddenly aware of the line of startled faces staring back at her from the makeshift stage. ‘At any rate, things probably won’t come to that,’ she dismissed, shuffling the sheet music on the table in front of her. ‘Now, about your act. If you want to take part in this Christmas show, you will have to come up with another sketch. That one simply won’t do.’

‘Yes, Sister.’ This time they didn’t argue. They hurried away, whispering among themselves.

‘Well, I think you’ve given them something to think about.’

Frannie looked round to find Kathleen Fox standing behind her.

‘Matron! I didn’t hear you come in.’ She started to her feet, but Kathleen waved her back into her seat.

‘We’re not on the ward now, Fran,’ she said, smiling.

Kathleen Fox had been Matron of the Nightingale Hospital for more than four years now. But it was difficult for Frannie to look at her and not see the girl she’d shared a room with while training in Leeds. The girl she had been was still there in the warmth of Kathleen’s grey eyes and the flash of auburn hair under her starched white headdress.

‘You mustn’t judge them too harshly, you know,’ she said to her friend. ‘You can’t blame them for not understanding what war is like. They’re just boys, Fran. They can’t take it in.’

‘That’s just it, isn’t it? They’re boys. Signing up for a lark. Just like—’ Frannie stopped herself.

Just like Matthew. And look how that had ended.

‘But we know what it’s really like, don’t we?’ Kathleen continued, steadying her voice.

Like Frannie, Kathleen had worked as a voluntary nurse at a military hospital before they’d started their nurse’s training. Frannie had volunteered as soon as she turned eighteen, so that she could feel closer to Matthew. But by the time she was posted to France, he was already missing, presumed dead.

‘All this talk of war is bound to stir up bad memories,’ Kathleen said to her kindly. ‘It’s everywhere you turn, isn’t it?’

Frannie nodded. Owen Evans was right about that, at any rate. The streets were lined with sandbags, and trenches had already been dug in all the parks to shelter people caught in air raids. There was even talk of families being separated and children being sent away from the city.

It was hard to believe that only a few weeks ago the country had rejoiced when the Prime Minister returned from Munich clutching a piece of paper promising peace. That Sunday morning the bells had rung out in churches across the land, and everyone had breathed a sigh of relief that they might not be going to war after all.

But it had soon become clear that whatever Hitler had promised, nothing was going to stand in the way of his ambitions. Gloom and resignation had settled over the country once more. Shortly afterwards, they had lined up to be issued with their gas masks by the council. Frannie’s was still in its cardboard box in her room. She couldn’t bring herself to touch it. Just seeing it on the shelf made her feel ill.

‘I’m sure good sense will prevail eventually,’ Kathleen said.

‘I hope so. I only wish everyone would stop talking about it.’

They were both silent for a moment, lost in their thoughts. Then Kathleen smiled and said, ‘Let’s talk about something more pleasant, shall we? How are arrangements for the concert coming on?’

Frannie grimaced. ‘Much the same as usual, I’m afraid.’

Every year the staff of the Nightingale Hospital put on a Christmas show for the patients and their families. And every year Frannie promised herself she wouldn’t get involved with organising it. But as November rolled around and the festive season approached, she found herself confronted with all those hopeful faces and she couldn’t say no.

Kathleen smiled at her. ‘I’m sure you must secretly enjoy it?’

‘Perhaps I do,’ Frannie agreed ruefully. ‘But not when I have to spend all my time sorting out their squabbles. Not to mention explaining to Sister Wren yet again why she can’t do a duet with Mr Cooper.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Kathleen’s grey eyes lit up with mischief. ‘Perhaps Mr Cooper should just give in gracefully?’

Frannie leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘Between you and me, Mr Cooper has begged not to be put with her. He was very firm on that point.’

‘Poor Sister Wren!’

‘Poor Mr Cooper, you mean!’ The ward sister’s relentless infatuation with the obstetrics consultant had been going on for several years now, even though he was a married man and clearly not interested.

‘Speak of the devil . . .’

Frannie followed Kathleen’s gaze to the far end of the room. Miriam Trott, sister of Wren ward, was making her way towards them, sheet music tucked under her arm. ‘Oh, lord. Don’t leave me,’ begged Frannie. ‘Pretend we have some important ward business to discuss.’

‘I can’t, I’m afraid. I have a meeting with Mrs Tremayne in ten minutes.’

Frannie pulled a face, her own problems instantly forgotten. ‘Oh, dear. What does she want?’

‘Heaven knows. I’m just wondering what she can possibly have found to complain about now.’

‘Perhaps she just wants a chat?’

Kathleen sent her an old-fashioned look. ‘I don’t think so. That woman is the bane of my life. And she’s been even worse since she was made Chairwoman of the Board of Trustees.’

‘You’re more than a match for her.’

‘I hope so. But I’m not really in the mood to do battle at the moment.’

There was something wistful about Kathleen’s expression that made Frannie look twice at her friend. ‘Are you all right, Kath? You look rather tired.’

‘I’m quite all right, thank you.’ Her smile was back in place. ‘I just have better things to do than listen to Mrs Tremayne’s complaints. And speaking of complaints . . .’

Suddenly Miriam Trott was standing beside them. ‘Excuse me, Matron, but might I have a word with Miss Wallace?’ she said, planting herself in front of Frannie and blocking her means of escape.

‘Of course,’ Kathleen said. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

‘No, really, Matron, there’s no need—’ Frannie sent her a silent, imploring look, which she blithely ignored.

‘It’s quite all right, Sister. I must prepare for my meeting.’

And then she was gone. Frannie watched her making her way towards the dining-room doors, pausing here and there to exchange a few words with the nurses who had gathered to rehearse.

‘Miss Wallace?’ Sister Wren’s voice insinuated its way into her thoughts. ‘I wondered if I could talk to you about my music? I have a few ideas for duets. I thought perhaps Mr Cooper and I—’

‘I want to talk to you about the Casualty department.’

Constance Tremayne was not a woman to beat about the bush. She sat on the other side of the desk from Kathleen, hands curled around her handbag. Everything about her was tightly drawn, from her ramrod-straight spine to the dark hair pulled into a severe bun at the nape of her long, thin neck. With her permanently pursed lips, she always put Kathleen in mind of a sucked lemon.

‘What about it?’ she asked. Behind her easy smile she was tensed, waiting for the blow to fall. In the four years she had been Matron of the Nightingale hospital, she had never known Mrs Tremayne come into her office without making a complaint of some kind.

‘I understand Sister Percival is leaving?’

‘That’s right. She’s moving down to Devon to nurse her sick mother.’

‘So you’ll be looking for a replacement. Do you have anyone in mind?’

Kathleen looked into Mrs Tremayne’s inquisitive face and fought the urge to tell her to mind her own business. Be nice, Kath, she warned herself. She knew from experience Constance Tremayne could be dangerous when crossed. ‘I was planning to move one of the other staff nurses. Perhaps Staff Nurse Lund—’

‘Is that wise?’ Constance Tremayne asked. ‘I mean, I’m sure Staff Nurse Lund is a perfectly adequate nurse, but wouldn’t Casualty be better run by someone with Theatre experience? I was talking to Dr McKay the other day, and he told me they are dealing with more and more surgical emergencies these days. Road accidents and so forth. He would very much like to be able to deal with more such emergencies in Casualty, rather than waste valuable time sending them up to Theatre. But for that he would really need a qualified Theatre nurse . . .’

‘I see.’ Kathleen could already tell where this conversation was going, and why Mrs Tremayne had been so keen to see her. The Chairwoman of the Board of Trustees might think she was being clever, but she was as transparent as the cut-glass paperweight on Kathleen’s desk.

‘Of course, as Matron it’s your decision,’ Constance went on. But before Kathleen could draw breath, she added, ‘Although it does occur to me that my daughter Helen might be a suitable candidate. After all, she has two years’ experience in Theatre.’

There it was. Constance Tremayne had shown her hand, and now it was Kathleen’s turn to respond.

‘I agree, Helen is a very accomplished nurse,’ she said. ‘I’ve certainly heard good reports from Sister Theatre. But,’ she added, as the self-satisfied smile widened on Mrs Tremayne’s face, ‘she is still very young. It’s barely two years since she passed her State Final. She needs more experience as a staff nurse before she takes on the role of Sister.’

‘I’m sure Helen would relish the challenge,’ Mrs Tremayne put in swiftly.

I daresay Helen wouldn’t have much choice in the matter, Kathleen thought. She wondered if Constance had troubled herself to ask her daughter’s opinion. In Kathleen’s experience, she seldom did.

She considered the suggestion. She had to admit, Constance Tremayne was right, they would benefit from having an experienced Theatre nurse in Casualty. Kathleen too had spoken to Dr McKay at length, and she knew he had high hopes of adding another operating theatre to the Casualty department.

But she worried for poor Helen. After only two years as a qualified nurse, she might be out of her depth.

As if she sensed Kathleen wavering, Mrs Tremayne pushed on. ‘I must admit, I have a personal reason for suggesting it,’ she said. ‘As you know, the last two years haven’t been easy for my daughter.’

‘Indeed,’ Kathleen agreed. Everyone knew Helen’s tragic story. She had married her sweetheart in a rushed wedding at the hospital, only for him to die two weeks later. Poor Helen was so heartbroken that for a while it seemed she might not even get as far as taking her exams.

Now she appeared to be working well in Theatre, if the reports of her were anything to go by. Kathleen admired the young woman for her determination and courage.

‘I think it would be good for her to take on a new challenge,’ Mrs Tremayne said. ‘She has shut herself away in Theatre for too long.’

Kathleen regarded the other woman across the desk. Perhaps there was a shred of humanity in her after all?

‘I’ll talk to her,’ she promised. ‘We’ll see what she has to say on the matter.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find she’s quite willing,’ Mrs Tremayne dismissed this airily.

Kathleen sighed. Poor Helen. No doubt she would succumb to her mother’s implacable will, as they all did eventually.

After Mrs Tremayne had left, Kathleen watched her from the window of her office. She marched purposefully across the courtyard, rigidly upright, as if even the howling November wind couldn’t bend her. The sky was a leaden yellowish-grey, heavy with the promise of snow. Kathleen shivered in spite of the warmth of the blazing fire in her office. She disliked this time of year: the deadening hand of winter settling on everything, the gusty wind that stripped the trees, leaving them bare and shivering. It felt too much like death for her liking.

ON A SNOWY
Saturday morning in December, Helen Dawson laid flowers on her husband Charlie’s grave. It would have been his twenty-fifth birthday.