The Nightingale Nurses (7 page)

The four squat red-brick blocks of flats formed a square, their walkways facing inward to overlook a small patch of green in the centre. Beyond the flats lay the rooftops of Bethnal Green, and beyond that the dock cranes that lined the Thames, reaching high into the sky. The air was filled with the acrid smells of the glue factory and belching chimney smoke. But below children played in the spring sunshine, chasing each other among the blossom-filled trees.

My kid will play down there one day. Nick couldn’t keep a smile off his face as he thought about this.

It had been a shock when Ruby first told him she was expecting. But now he’d had time to get used to the idea, he realised he was looking forward to being a father.

And he was going to be the best father he could be. His son or daughter would want for nothing he could provide. He would see they were the best-dressed, the best-fed, the best-loved kid that ever grew up in the East End.

They would certainly have a better upbringing than he’d had, stuck with a drunk mother who had no time for her kids and a father who liked to teach his sons a lesson with the buckle end of his belt when he’d had a skin full.

Nick’s hands balled into fists. It was a beating from Reg Riley that had left Danny the way he was, brain-damaged and helpless when he was just a child of twelve. Nick was still tormented by nightmares of seeing his brother smashed to a pulp and lying close to death in a pool of blood. He’d given his father a taste of his own medicine that night. Reg Riley had been so frightened of his sixteen-year-old son’s rage that he’d packed his bags and disappeared.

But his old man had taught him a lesson, if only he’d known it. Nick would never lay a hand on his own kid, no matter what.

THE OPERATING THEATRE
was deep in the bowels of the hospital, a silent tomb of gleaming steel and glaring lights. The hissing, steaming autoclave and the heating pipes running along the thick stone walls made it almost too hot to bear, and Helen could feel perspiration trickling down inside her dress as she counted out the swabs for the next operation. She was glad they had lighter uniforms to put on for surgery, even though it meant changing in and out of her usual calico-lined uniform several times a day.

The next operation of the day was a perforated ulcer, and she carefully consulted the heavy ledger to check which instruments Mr Latimer preferred. As she laid them on the trolley, she remembered the mnemonic she had read in her textbook the previous night – knife, fork and spoon. Scalpel first, then forceps, then scissors. They looked so perfect and orderly, gleaming in neat rows on the trolley. Helen stood for a moment, gazing at her handiwork.

‘Very nice, Nurse, I’m sure. Perhaps you should hang it in a gallery where we can all admire it?’

She swung around at the sound of Sister Theatre’s voice. Miss Feehan was in her early-thirties and a typical Irish beauty, with her glossy black hair, milky skin and brilliant emerald eyes. But behind that sweet face lurked the heart of a monster. And Miss Feehan’s biting sarcasm seemed to cut even deeper when delivered in her lilting Irish accent.

‘You do realise that if those sterilised instruments are exposed to the air for too long they’ll be no use to anyone?’ she snapped. ‘Cover them with a cloth quickly, girl, or they’ll all have to go back in the steriliser. And then you’ll have to explain to Mr Latimer why his operations are being held up.’

‘Yes, Sister. Sorry, Sister.’ Helen bobbed a quick apology and hurried off to find a sterilised cloth.

She was surprised to find her brother William scrubbing up at the metal sink. He was chatting amiably to Dr Little, one of the junior anaesthetists. He reminded Helen of a cherub in a Renaissance painting, with his round pink face and fair curls that almost reached the collar of his surgical gown.

They both turned to look at her when she walked in.

‘Ah, here she is now,’ William said. ‘You’ll have to watch yourself, old chap, my sister is a stickler for doing things properly. Helen, have you met my friend Alec? Alec Little, this is my sister Helen.’

‘I’ve seen you in Theatre, but we haven’t spoken.’ Dr Little flushed a deeper shade of rose pink.

‘What are you doing here?’ Helen blurted out. Nurses were forbidden to speak to doctors unless asked a direct question, but somehow her older brother didn’t count. ‘You’re not with Mr Latimer.’

Junior doctors were arranged in groups, or firms, around one particular consultant or department. William was with Mr Cooper, the Chief Consultant in Gynae.

‘So I am, but I have been selected to assist the great man today, as has Alec here. It’s the most enormous honour for us, as you can imagine.’ William’s brown eyes glinted with amusement in his solemn face. ‘Apparently we couldn’t possibly call ourselves surgeons if we haven’t witnessed the extraordinary talent of Mr Latimer. Isn’t that right, Alec?’

‘I thought you were here because Mr Cooper was busy with private patients all morning, and you had nothing else to do?’ his friend replied in a deadpan voice.

Helen shook her head. ‘You’d better not lark about during this operation,’ she warned. ‘I think you’ll find Mr Latimer isn’t as forgiving as Mr Cooper. He doesn’t even like a sound while he’s operating.’

‘So we’ve heard,’ William said. ‘But I daresay you’ll keep us on the straight and narrow, Sis!’

‘I won’t be allowed anywhere near you. I’ll be next door, up to my elbows in steam and soapy water.’

No sooner had the unconscious patient been wheeled into Theatre than Mr Latimer made his perfectly timed appearance. He swept in to scrub up, flanked by a line of white-faced medical students. Helen was used to doctors being treated like gods, but Mr Latimer truly seemed to be one. His fearsome presence filled the room as he towered over his minions, all blazing amber eyes and a leonine mane of russet waves. His Theatre nurse fluttered around him like a handmaiden, helping him into his gown and fastening the ties while he stood in the centre of the room with arms outstretched. Helen almost expected the sound of a heavenly choir to fill the theatre.

She glanced across the room at William. She couldn’t see his face behind his surgical mask, but the mischievous crinkling of his brown eyes told her he was thinking exactly the same as she was.

Once the operation was underway, Helen was banished to the sluice to wash and sterilise instruments from an earlier procedure.

Wielding the Cheatle’s forceps, she reached into the steamy interior of the autoclave and pulled out a large metal tray. As she lifted it out, a cloud of scalding steam made her lose her grip on the forceps for a split second. She felt the tray start to slide and desperately tried to stop it. But it was too late. She could only watch helplessly as, in terrible slow motion, it slid from the forceps and crashed to the ground.

The sound was like the crash of a hundred cymbals, shattering the silence. A second later the door flew open and Miss Feehan appeared in the doorway, quivering with fury.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she hissed.

‘Sorry, Sister.’ Helen couldn’t meet her eye as she retrieved the tray.

‘It’s not me you should be apologising to, is it?’ Miss Feehan’s eyes blazed. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, girl. Put that tray back in the autoclave and resterilise it. And then you must apologise to Mr Latimer. He is most upset.’

‘Yes, Sister.’

All faces turned to her when she stepped into the operating theatre. William regarded her with silent sympathy over his face mask.

Mr Latimer stared at her, forceps poised, but didn’t speak.

Helen cleared her throat. ‘Mr Latimer, I just wanted to say how sorry I am that I disturbed your operation.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet it still seemed to ring around the hushed theatre.

Mr Latimer said nothing. Helen squirmed as his amber gaze moved slowly down to her feet and back up to her face. Then, finally, he spoke.

‘Go away,’ he said.

She didn’t need to be told twice. She backed out of the room, closing the door behind her, and fled back to the sluice.

I won’t cry, she told herself over and over again, trying to blink back the tears of humiliation that prickled at the backs of her eyes. Hot soapy water scalded her arms as she plunged them in, but she was too mortified to care. Any minute she expected Miss Feehan to barge in and send her to Matron.

Luckily there were only two other procedures on Mr Latimer’s list for that day. By four o’clock he had gone, and surgery had finished.

Helen was still at the sink, scrubbing blood from the joint of a pair of surgical scissors, when William and Alec came to find her.

‘You mustn’t take it to heart,’ William said. ‘It was an accident. They happen to everyone.’

‘Not to me.’ Helen held the scissors up to her eyes, examining them for imaginary specks. ‘What kind of a nurse am I if I can’t even sterilise an instrument properly?’

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You only dropped a tray. It’s not as if a patient died, or anything.’

‘Shall I let you into a little secret?’ Alec said. Helen looked over her shoulder at him.

‘What?’

‘First you have to promise not to breathe a word. Not to anyone.’ She and William looked at each other, then both nodded. ‘Do you know why Latimer insists on total silence while he operates?’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s terrified of losing his concentration and making a mistake.’ Alec glanced around him, as if to make sure no one was listening. ‘Years ago, when he was first starting out, he left a swab inside a patient.’

‘No!’

‘That’s what I heard. It didn’t come to light until afterwards, when they were checking the swabs and realised one was missing.’

‘What happened?’

‘They had to open the patient up again to find it. There was a big fuss, of course, and Mr Latimer came within a whisker of being struck off. Ever since, he’s been absolutely fanatical about no one uttering a sound while he’s working.’

Helen looked at William. He seemed as surprised by the story as she was.

‘Do you see what I’m saying to you?’ Alec said. ‘Everyone makes mistakes. Even someone as great as Mr Latimer.’

Helen smiled shakily. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That does make me feel better.’

‘I’ll tell you what would make you feel even better,’ William said. ‘Let Alec and me take you out for a drink this evening.’

Helen shook her head. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to study.’

William rolled his eyes. ‘You work too hard.’

‘And you don’t work hard enough!’

‘True. But don’t tell Mother that, will you?’

‘She wouldn’t believe me anyway. You know you can do no wrong in her eyes.’

‘This is true.’ William sighed dramatically. ‘Oh, well, if we can’t persuade you to join us, we’ll just have to go and celebrate by ourselves, won’t we, Alec?’

‘What are you celebrating?’ Helen frowned.

‘Surviving a session with Mr Latimer. I don’t know about you, Dr Little, but I’m not in any hurry to repeat the experience.’

‘Definitely not.’ Alec shook his head.

‘You’re lucky,’ Helen sighed. ‘I have to face him again in three days’ time. Even sooner if he’s called to an emergency case.’ She was already dreading it.

‘You’ll be all right, Sis.’ William put his arm round her. ‘And a word of advice,’ he added. ‘If you clean those scissors any more you’ll wear them away!’

By six o’clock, she had finished sterilising, drying and polishing the instruments, and put them all away for the following day. She scrubbed the operating theatre until the white-tiled walls gleamed under the harsh glare of the overhead lights. Then she changed out of her uniform, wiped her shoes over with carbolic, switched off the lights and left.

Theatre was an eerily silent place to be when everyone had gone home. All the doors were locked, and the only way out was up the steep back staircase. Helen hurried along the passageway, her footsteps muffled by the thick stone walls. She was far too sensible to believe all the silly stories the other nurses told about the ghost of a former Theatre Sister who was supposed to haunt the place, but the darkness and the soft scuttle of the cockroaches coming out of their hiding places still made her heart race against her ribs.

She had almost reached the top of the back stairs when she heard the sound of breathing coming from above her. She paused, listening. Someone was standing in the shadows at the top of the stairs, waiting . . .

‘Hello?’ She called, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. ‘Is anyone there?’

She jumped as a heavy door banged shut above her. Whoever it was had gone.

Helen laughed shakily at her own foolishness. It was probably just a porter, or one of the cleaners. She had spent far too much time listening to Millie Benedict telling ghost stories after lights out, she decided.

But as she reached the top of the stairs, a curious scent caught her attention and made her stop again. She paused, sniffing the air. Was it her imagination or was that the scent of roses?

‘
GO ON, WHAT
happened then?’

Millie heard the voices as she opened the door to the sluice. Amy Hollins and another third-year, Sheila Walsh, were leaning against the sink, gossiping. They fell silent when Millie walked in.

‘What do you want?’ Amy demanded.

‘Sister sent me to make an ice bag for the patient in bed ten.’

‘Well, you’d better get on with it, hadn’t you? And hurry up. We don’t need Staff snooping around in here, wondering where you are.’

Millie felt two pairs of hostile eyes following her as she slid the block of ice into a sacking bag and started to chip away at it. They were silent for a moment, then Sheila said, ‘Take no notice of her. Go on.’

‘Well, he took me for dinner at the Savoy, and then we drank endless champagne cocktails in Harry’s Bar . . .’

‘You’re so lucky,’ Sheila sighed. ‘My boyfriend can barely afford Lyons Corner House!’

‘You’re right, he does rather spoil me.’ Amy simpered. ‘He says nothing is too good for me.’

‘So when are we going to meet this wonderful man of yours?’

‘I’m not sure. He’s a very private person.’