Nightingales at War (19 page)

‘Nonsense, we’d love to have her. And I’m sure she can’t be any more trouble than our two!’ he said.

‘You don’t know her,’ Aunt Freda said darkly. ‘She has sin in her soul.’

Eve’s cheeks burned with shame, but Reverend Stanton didn’t seem troubled by her aunt’s comment. ‘Then what better place to live than with a man of God?’ he said blandly.

Even Aunt Freda couldn’t argue with that. Although from the look on her face, she would have dearly loved to try.

AFTER NEARLY A
week of bombing day and night, Jennifer was simply too tired to be afraid any longer. Nights spent on the ward and days spent in the nurses’ basement shelter, listening to the explosions and the rapid, noisy retort of the ack-ack guns had taken their toll on her, leaving her exhausted and bad-tempered.

But most of all, it was the state of her hair that troubled her. She refused to be seen in public in her curlers, which meant that every time the air-raid siren sounded, she had to remove them all before she could go to the shelter. Then, when the All Clear came, she had to put them in again before she could get some much-needed sleep. Sometimes it happened two or three times during a daylight raid, which meant she was awake more often than she was asleep. And even then the results of her efforts were disappointing. For once she was glad of the ugly starched cap she had to wear, because at least it covered her limp and lacklustre waves.

Luckily they didn’t have too many patients to look after. The morning after the first big raid, a fleet of Green Line buses had arrived to ferry the bomb casualties down to the safety of the sector hospital in Kent. The patients who were left behind were moved down to the basement. The low-ceilinged warren of cellar wards might have been cramped and dark, but it was a lot easier staying down here than transporting the patients and their beds in the lift every time the siren sounded.

She was giving Philip Chandler his cocoa last thing at night when he broke the news that he, too, had been given his marching orders for the following day.

‘They’ve found me a place down in Sussex that specialises in plastic surgery,’ he said. ‘Apparently they can do wonders.’

‘They’ll turn you into a film star,’ Jennifer said.

He grimaced. ‘Boris Karloff, perhaps.’

‘You’re not that bad.’

‘Aren’t I? I’ll have to take your word for it.’

Jennifer carefully held the spout of the feeding cup to his damaged mouth. ‘Have the doctors said when you might get your sight back?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘No one seems to know. I suppose it’s a blessing in disguise. If I could see myself in a mirror the shock would probably kill me!’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry I never got to see you, though. I would have liked to know if you look like I imagine you.’

Jennifer smiled, intrigued. ‘And how do you imagine me?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Medium height,’ he said at last. ‘Slim. Blue eyes. Dark curly hair, not too long. Small turned-up nose, pointed chin.’

Jennifer laughed. ‘Goodness, you’ve built up quite a picture, haven’t you?’

‘And am I right?’

‘More or less,’ she admitted. ‘Except my eyes are green.’

‘I like green eyes.’

She took the cup away and dabbed his mouth with the linen napkin. She was glad he couldn’t see her blushing.

‘I’ll miss you,’ he said.

‘Go on, you’ll forget all about me when you’ve got all those new nurses to flirt with!’

‘I mean it. I’ll miss our chats every night.’

‘Me too.’ It had become a habit over the past couple of weeks. Once she’d made sure all the other patients were resting comfortably, Jennifer would sit at Philip’s bedside and they would talk until morning. She had started to look forward to it all day, gathering little titbits and stories to tell him. She had never had a man listen to her the way Philip Chandler listened. Most of the men she knew were too interested in showing off.

Even Johnny, she thought. She loved being with him, and she loved being seen in all the fancy nightclubs and restaurants he took her to, but she couldn’t imagine ever talking to him the way she talked to Philip Chandler.

Perhaps it was because she didn’t really think of Philip as a man, she thought. She didn’t feel the need to impress him the way she did other men. Especially Johnny.

‘Anyway,’ she said briskly, folding the napkin in her lap, ‘I’m being moved back to days soon, so we wouldn’t be able to talk for much longer in any case.’

‘Will you write to me?’ Philip asked.

‘I’m not really one for writing letters.’

‘If I write to you, will you read it? Or aren’t you one for reading either?’

She smiled. ‘We’ll see.’ She stood up.

‘Where are you going? Don’t you want to stay and talk?’

‘I thought you might want to get some sleep, if you’re leaving in the morning?’

‘I’ll have plenty of time to sleep when I get there.’ He put out his hand. ‘Stay,’ he said. ‘We’ve only got one more night, and I hardly know anything about you.’

Jennifer laughed. ‘You know everything about me!’

It was true, she realised. She had told him more about herself than she had ever told anyone.

‘Then tell me again,’ he said. ‘Please?’

The following morning the porters brought down a big urn of tea from the dining room, and Jennifer served the breakfasts. There was no kitchen down in the basement, so the men had to make do with bread and jam.

She was in the makeshift preparation area, a small section of brick-lined corridor curtained off from the rest of the ward, when Daisy Bushell came in to start her morning duty. She looked as tired as Jennifer felt, her tin hat perched incongruously on top of her linen cap.

‘What a night,’ she said, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. ‘I didn’t get a wink of sleep with those blessed ack-ack guns firing all night. Honestly, they make more racket than the German bombers!’ She watched Jennifer eking out the margarine, trying to make it stretch to the last slice of bread. ‘Anything I can do to help?’

‘You can spread the jam for me.’ She pushed the plate towards her.

Daisy picked up the knife. ‘Did we get any more patients in during the night?’ she asked.

‘Only three. A chest wound, an amputated leg and an old boy collapsed with chest pains on his way to the air-raid shelter.’

‘That’s not bad.’

‘I know. And they’re all leaving for Kent first thing this morning.’

Daisy dipped her knife in the jam pot and spread it thinly over the bread. ‘They’re not the only ones. What’s this I hear about your airman being transferred?’

Jennifer frowned. ‘He’s not my airman,’ she muttered.

‘That’s not what I heard.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Daisy smiled archly at her. ‘Oh, come on! We all know he’s got a soft spot for you.’

‘So what if he has? I can’t help it, can I?’

‘Rumour has it you have a soft spot for him, too.’

Jennifer put down her knife and turned to face Daisy. ‘It isn’t like that,’ she said quietly.

‘Isn’t it? I’ve heard you spend half the night sitting at his bedside, having cosy chats.’

‘We’re only talking.’

‘I’m sure you are.’ Daisy shrugged. ‘I’m just telling you what I’ve heard, that’s all. Tongues are wagging all over the hospital.’

Jennifer turned cold. ‘What are they saying?’

‘As I said, that you and Mr Chandler are very – fond of each other. Although personally I can’t see the attraction.’ She shuddered delicately. ‘He gives me the creeps.’

‘I’m not attracted to him!’ Jennifer raised her voice in frustration. ‘I just feel sorry for him, that’s all.’

‘If you say so,’ Daisy replied, with an infuriating look on her face. It was all Jennifer could do not to grab her by the tin hat and stick her head in the jam.

Just before she went off duty, Jennifer went to say a final goodbye to Philip Chandler. She took a moment to pinch her cheeks and tease her curls into some kind of shape, even though she knew he couldn’t see her.

He was still in bed, his blue uniform neatly pressed and hanging up beside him. It gave her a pang to see it.

‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ she said.

‘You needn’t have troubled yourself.’

His tone was icy, like nothing she’d heard from him before. Jennifer frowned. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘Not particularly, since you ask. I heard every word you said to your friend earlier on.’

She froze. ‘You know I didn’t mean—’

‘Didn’t you? You sounded as if you meant every word. Unlike when you were talking to me.’ His mouth twisted contemptuously. ‘And all the while I thought we were getting on, you were passing time with me out of pity. Just goes to show what a fool I was, doesn’t it?’

‘I wasn’t—’

‘You know how I feel about being pitied. You know how much I hate it.’

‘But it wasn’t like that . . . I didn’t mean . . .’

‘It’s all right, you don’t have to pretend with me any more. I think we both know where we stand now, don’t we?’

‘At least let me explain,’ she begged.

‘I’d rather you didn’t. In fact, I’d rather we didn’t speak to each other again.’ He shifted against the pillows. ‘I’d like you to leave now, please,’ he said quietly.

Jennifer stood her ground, reluctant to go until she’d said her piece. Except she had no idea what to say.

‘Will you still write to me?’ she asked quietly.

He turned to her, and Jennifer could see the scorn written all over his ruined features.

‘What do you think?’ he said.

THE AIR-RAID
Siren sounded at half past eight in the evening, just as Dora was starting her night duty in Casualty.

It had become a weary routine over the past month. Each bombing raid would bring dozens of casualties, sometimes forty a day, and another fifty during the night. Most of them would be treated and sent home, but the most serious cases would be transferred up to the ward. Dora never knew what was going to greet her when she reported for duty, but it was always a heartbreaking sight.

In spite of all the horrendous injuries she witnessed every day, the bombing had ceased to trouble her. She knew her family would be safe in the shelter, and after four weeks of day and night bombing, she had got used to the sound of the explosions and the sight of baskets of incendiaries falling from the sky, lighting up London. She had even got used to the casualties, although it was their desperate courage, rather than their horrific wounds, that really affected her.

Everyone had a horror story to tell, of friends, neighbours or loved ones lost, of homes and belongings destroyed. But Dora never heard a word of complaint from anyone.

‘We can take it,’ they would say with grim satisfaction. ‘If old Hitler reckons he can beat us with a few bombs, he’s got another think coming!’

As Dora changed into her uniform in the cloakroom, Cissy Baxter the blonde VAD was changing out of hers, ready to go home.

‘I’m supposed to be going to the pictures,’ she said as she shrugged on her coat. ‘I hope they don’t stop the film halfway through and turf us all out like they did last time. It’s not fair when you’ve paid good money for your ticket.’

Dora smiled to herself. Typical, she thought. There were people in Casualty whose homes had been reduced to rubble, and Cissy Baxter was moaning about missing the end of a film!

Once she’d changed into her uniform, Dora and Dev Kowalski filled the stone hot water bottles and put them in the beds in the recovery ward to air the sheets. They had just finished when one of the medical students, Mr Meredith, arrived.

‘What are you doing here?’ Dora asked.

Jack Meredith puffed up his chest. ‘I’m filling in for Dr McKay.’

God help us, she thought. Jack Meredith did his best, but he was very young and didn’t possess an ounce of David McKay’s experience or skill. Dora only hoped they didn’t get too many serious cases in that night, with Mr Meredith holding the fort.

She might not have been looking forward to the night ahead, but Jack obviously was. He paced the Casualty Hall, checking his watch.

‘When do you think it’s all going to get going?’ he asked. ‘They’ve usually started the night strafe by now.’

‘Perhaps they’re going to give us a night off?’ Dora suggested.

‘Do you think so?’ Jack Meredith’s disappointment was almost comical.

‘Tell you what, I’ll make us a cup of tea while we wait for the next bomb to drop,’ Dora offered.

‘And biscuits,’ Jack Meredith called after her. ‘See if they’ve got any biscuits.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Dora smiled and pushed open the kitchen door.

In the kitchen, Helen was still in her uniform, making up an urn of tea.

Dora looked at the watch on her apron bib, then back at her friend. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be off duty by now?’ she asked.

‘I thought I might as well put the kettle on before I go, to save you a job. You’re bound to be needing tea, once the ambulances start to arrive.’

‘I daresay we will, but I’m perfectly capable of making it.’ Dora took her friend’s arm and guided her towards the kitchen door. Helen’s arm felt painfully slender under the thick fabric of her dress. ‘Go on with you. It’s supposed to be your night off.’

‘I know, but I feel so guilty.’ Helen chewed her lip. ‘We’ve been run off our feet for the past week. I should be here to help . . .’

‘You should be resting,’ Dora said firmly. Helen and David McKay had been working night and day for almost a month.

‘But the beds in the recovery area need to be aired . . .’

‘Kowalski and I did it half an hour ago.’

‘And you’ll need to make sure we have enough dressings,’ Helen said. ‘I checked the drums this morning, but I know we got through quite a lot this afternoon . . .’

‘I’ll see to it,’ Dora sighed. ‘For gawd’s sake, anyone would think you didn’t want a night off!’

Helen smiled wearily. ‘David has bought tickets for the theatre,’ she said. ‘But I should think we’ll probably sleep all the way through the performance—’

Before she could finish her sentence, a tremendous crash of what sounded like a thousand windows exploding shook the walls around them and plunged them into darkness.

‘What was that?’ Helen whispered. ‘Have we been hit?’

‘It sounds like it.’

Dora went to open the kitchen door and was immediately lost in a dense, choking cloud of smoke and dust, and the sickening stench of explosive.

It was a night of hell.

By the time the sun came up the following morning, six people had been found dead, buried under the rubble of what had once been the Casualty department.

At ten o’clock, Kathleen Fox had to present her official report to an emergency meeting of the hospital Trustees, and Mr Philips the Clerk of Works.

‘Four of the dead were casualties, brought in following the bombing raids.’ Kathleen recited the words dully as she stood clutching the edge of the table for support. Beneath her calm surface, she fought the desperate urge to curl up in a ball and sob her heart out. ‘There were also two members of staff – a second-year student nurse, Devora Kowalski, and a junior houseman, Mr Jack Meredith.’

A murmur went around the table. Kathleen glanced at James Cooper, sitting opposite her. He looked as shattered as she felt. They had both worked tirelessly all night, helping to pull people from the wreckage. He’d changed into a clean shirt, but his surgeon’s fingers were still rimed with dirt and his jaw was shadowed with stubble.

‘And what about the damage to the building?’ Constance Tremayne, Chairwoman of the Trustees, turned to the Clerk of Works.

Mr Philips consulted his notes. ‘The wreckage from the explosion has buried the transformer room,’ he said. ‘We hope to have enough of the debris moved by this afternoon to repair the DC cable, but in the meantime the building is without any electricity. And of course, there is the problem of the main Casualty Hall being damaged beyond repair.’

‘Quite,’ Mrs Tremayne said. ‘I suppose under the circumstances it would be appropriate to contact the Area Medical Officer and ask him to send any future casualties elsewhere, at least until we can have a new department running. Wouldn’t you agree, Matron?’

Kathleen blinked at Constance Tremayne. She could hear the other woman speaking but somehow the words didn’t make any sense.

‘I’m sorry—’ she started to say, but James Cooper answered for her.

‘I’ve already spoken to him and made the necessary arrangements.’

‘Excellent. Now, I suppose we’ll have to discuss where to situate the temporary Casualty department . . .’

Kathleen allowed the conversation to wash over her, numb with disbelief. Six people had lost their lives, among them a young nurse and a doctor, and Mrs Tremayne was more concerned about when the electricity could be reconnected.

She thought about her meeting with Mr and Mrs Kowalski, first thing that morning. They had come to the hospital because they had wanted to see where their daughter died.

It had been a heartbreaking visit. Mr Kowalski and his wife had sat in her office, glowing with pride as they talked about their daughter.

Kathleen had expected anger and blame. But instead they had thanked her for taking such care of their child. ‘Miss Fox, you gave Devora the chance to do a job she loved, and we will always be grateful for that,’ Mr Kowalski had said, wringing her hand in his.

Afterwards she wished he had raged at her. Rage would have been easier for her to deal with than his humbling gratitude.

The meeting dragged on. Kathleen barely listened to the debate about irregular gas supplies, and the inspection of the chimney above the office block. All she wanted was for it all to be over, so she could creep away and be alone.

Finally, everyone grew tired of listening to themselves speak, and the meeting ended.

As Kathleen moved towards the door, James Cooper appeared at her side.

‘Would you care to have some coffee with me in my office, Matron? I think we have some matters to discuss,’ he said quietly. At the same time, his strong hand closed around her elbow, guiding her gently but firmly towards the door.

She followed him to his office, still numb with shock. Outside the tape-crossed windows, she could hear the sound of the workers shouting to each other as they began clearing away the debris in the yard. Risking a glance out, she glimpsed the horrifying scree heap of blocks of masonry, steel girders and wreckage that had once been the Casualty department. Immediately she thought of poor Nurse Kowalski.

In his office, James ignored the coffee pot and poured her a large brandy.

‘You look as if you need it,’ he said.

Kathleen took a gulp, letting her head relax against the back of the leather wing chair as the fiery warmth spread through her limbs.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

He took the armchair opposite hers and regarded her thoughtfully over the rim of his glass. ‘I have to drive down to Guildford to meet Jack Meredith’s parents this afternoon,’ he said.

‘I’ve already met the Kowalskis. They came to the hospital this morning.’ She took another steadying gulp of brandy.

‘How was it?’

‘As awful as you might expect.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I’m not the one with a daughter lying dead in the hospital mortuary.’ She hadn’t meant to sound so short, but the Trustees meeting had worn away at her reserves of civility.

‘We should be grateful there aren’t more in there, after what happened,’ James Cooper said.

Kathleen stared at him. He was right, she thought. But that was small comfort to her, or the Kowalskis.

She stared down at her hands, her nails broken by her efforts to claw away the fallen rubble.

‘I was so naïve,’ she murmured. ‘I truly didn’t think any harm would come to the hospital. I thought we would be safe.’

‘You weren’t to know. None of us were.’

‘That’s just it. I should have known.’ She put down her glass. ‘I was the one who wanted the Nightingale to stay open,’ she said. ‘Don’t you remember? The Trustees wanted to evacuate when the war started, but I argued that we needed to stay in London.’

‘And it was the right decision.’

‘Is it? Two young people are dead now because of it.’

‘And a lot more might be dead if we’d closed our doors,’ James Cooper said. ‘This hospital has saved hundreds of lives in the past month. Lives that might well have been lost if we hadn’t been open to receive the wounded. And besides, you weren’t the one who dropped that bomb, were you?’ He leaned forward, his eyes holding hers. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Kathleen. You weren’t the only one who decided to keep this hospital open. We all wanted to stay, including Nurse Kowalski and Mr Meredith. Don’t take that burden of guilt on your shoulders, for God’s sake, or it’ll drive you mad.’

Kathleen stared into his steady blue gaze and immediately understood why he was such a good doctor. His deep, soft voice had the power to calm and comfort the most frayed nerves. She sat for a moment, grateful for his quiet strength.

‘Thank you,’ she said finally. She stood up, smoothing down her uniform. ‘I’m sorry, you must think me very foolish.’

‘We are all allowed to be a little foolish, under the circumstances.’

Are we? A mental picture came into her mind from the previous night, of David McKay in evening dress, running towards the wreckage while everyone else was running away, crying out Helen’s name. And then, when she’d appeared, stumbling out of the ruins of the building, the way they’d fallen into each other’s arms, clinging together, so frantic and desperate they no longer cared who saw them.

Kathleen badly wanted to fall into someone’s arms now, to cry for Nurse Kowalski and Jack Meredith and all those other poor souls who had sought refuge in Casualty that night and paid with their lives. She wanted someone to stroke her hair, and hold her, and tell her everything would be all right . . .

‘Everything will be all right,’ James Cooper said.

She stared at him, wondering for a moment if somehow he’d seen into her mind. Or perhaps he was just wishing the same thing, she thought.