A Nightingale Christmas Wish (24 page)

Helen frowned. There was a look in Dora’s eyes, as if she knew something Helen didn’t.

‘What are you saying?’ she asked.

‘It’s none of my business,’ Dora said quickly, going back to her knitting.

‘No, go on. I want to hear what you’ve got to say.’

Dora let her knitting rest in her lap. ‘I just worry that you’re getting too serious about him,’ she said. ‘You said yourself, he’s going to be away for weeks. I’m afraid he might not come back and then you’ll be hurt.’

‘Of course he’ll come back,’ Helen said.

‘Are you sure? You know what they say about sailors having a girl in every port.’

Helen stared at her. ‘Is that all you think I am to him? Just one of his girls?’

‘I don’t know,’ Dora said. ‘I’m just warning you not to get too involved, that’s all. I don’t want you to get hurt again,’ she insisted.

‘Chris won’t hurt me. He loves me,’ Helen declared. ‘And I love him,’ she added.

Their eyes met for a moment, then Dora went back to her knitting. ‘Like I said, it’s none of my business,’ she mumbled.

They were silent for a long time. Helen’s needles clicked furiously, in time with the turmoil inside her head. She was so angry, she could hardly focus on the line of stitches.

How dare Dora be so high-handed! She was implying that Chris was taking Helen for a fool, and that she was pathetic enough to believe he was truly in love with her. Anger burned inside her until she burst out, ‘I don’t know why you can’t just be happy for me!’

‘I am happy for you,’ Dora said gently. ‘I told you, I’m just worried for you, that’s all.’

‘Well, don’t be,’ Helen said. ‘Charlie loves me, I know he does. And I don’t really care what anyone else thinks anyway, because for the first time in ages I’m not sad or lonely any more.’ She stopped talking abruptly, seeing Dora’s expression. ‘What is it?’ she demanded.

‘You called him Charlie,’ her friend said quietly.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You did.’ Dora paused. ‘Are you sure that’s not why you’ve fallen for him . . . because he’s Charlie’s cousin?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Helen said, shifting in her seat. ‘He’s nothing like Charlie.’

‘No,’ said Dora, ‘you’re right. He’s nothing like Charlie.’

Helen’s eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t like him, do you?’ The couple of times they’d met, Christopher had gone out of his way to be friendly, but Dora had been decidedly cool in return.

‘It’s not that. I hardly know him. And neither do you,’ she said. ‘I’m just worried you’ve fallen for him for the wrong reason. Because you’re lonely, and he reminds you of Charlie . . .’

Helen’s hackles rose. ‘Do you think I’m some kind of simpleton, falling for a man because he reminds me of my dead husband?’

Dora blushed. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘But that’s what you just said. You think I’m so desperate and gullible I’d let myself get taken in by the first man who pays me any attention.’ Helen felt her anger rising. ‘Why can’t you be happy that for the first time in years I have someone who cares for me? Or is that something that only happens to the likes of you? Everyone else has someone who loves them, is it so strange I should have someone too?’

‘Of course not. Helen, I didn’t mean . . .’

‘I know what you meant.’ Helen slammed down her knitting and got to her feet.

‘Where are you going? Please don’t leave.’

‘I’ve got to. I won’t stay here and listen to you telling me I don’t know my own mind.’

‘Helen, please. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business, I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘You’re right, you shouldn’t. And in future, I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my business!’

Helen was still simmering when she met Christopher that night.

They walked down to the docks. It seemed eerie there in the darkness, with the skeletons of the towering cranes silhouetted against the night sky, the dark, hulking shapes of the huge vessels on the inky water.

It was a cold, starry night and Chris put his arm around her, pulling her close. But for once the solid warmth of his body pressing against hers failed to reassure Helen.

He turned to her, his handsome profile outlined by the moonlight. ‘What’s wrong? You’ve been in a funny mood all night?’

‘Nothing.’ But she couldn’t force Dora’s warnings from her mind. Was she being foolish? Helen wondered. She had fallen headlong for Christopher, without any thought of where it might lead. Now, as they stood together in the darkness, it began to occur to her that he had another life, one she could never share.

‘Good, because it’s our last night together and I don’t want anything to spoil it.’

Our last night.
It seemed so final when he said that.

‘You’re right,’ Helen said determinedly. If this was to be their last night together, then she wanted to remember and enjoy every minute of it.

‘You see that one?’ Christopher pointed out a particular ship in the distance. ‘That’s the one I’m sailing on. The
Troubadour
, she’s called. In a few days I’ll be in Norway, and then off around to Russia.’ He hugged her closer, so she could feel the steady beat of his heart against hers. ‘It’ll be a lot colder there than it is here, I can tell you.’ He shivered. ‘I won’t know what to do without you to warm me up.’

Perhaps you’ll have someone else in your arms by then.
The wretched thought scratched at Helen’s mind.

‘Will you come back?’ she asked.

‘’Course I will.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Why do you look so worried? You don’t think I’m just going to disappear, do you?’

‘I wasn’t sure,’ she admitted, staring down at the cobbled street. ‘I suppose you must have a girl in every port?’ she echoed Dora’s words.

‘True. But none of them as special as you.’ He laughed, seeing her dismay. ‘I’m having you on, Helen!’

She tried to smile, but her face felt stiff and cold.

He put his finger under her chin, turning her face so that she looked up into his eyes. ‘I wasn’t joking about you being special, though. You are, Helen. You ain’t like any other girl I’ve ever met.’

She felt herself blushing. ‘I’m not special,’ she mumbled.

‘That’s where you’re wrong. I’m lucky to have you.’ His face grew serious. ‘You might be wondering if I’m going to come home, but I’m wondering if you’re going to be snapped up by one of those clever doctors while I’m gone.’

‘Don’t be silly! Of course I won’t be.’

‘Are you sure? I’d hate to come back and find out you’d got someone else.’

She gazed up at him. For once, he seemed deadly serious, his eyes full of intent.

‘I won’t,’ she promised.

‘All the same, I’d like to be certain.’ A strange feeling came over Helen as he released her and took a step back. She already knew what he was going to do before he sank down on one knee on the wet cobbles. ‘Helen, will you marry me?’

She stared at him, shocked laughter bubbling up inside her. ‘I – I don’t know what to say,’ she stammered.

‘You could say yes? And quick as you like, before this wet ground gives me rheumatism!’

Well, Dora, what do you think of that?
Helen thought. She could just imagine her friend’s face when she heard. And she’d thought Chris wasn’t serious!

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.’

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.’