Nightingales on Call (7 page)

Dora folded her arms and frowned at the boy. She could smell the dirt and stale sweat on his clothes from the other side of the room. And she had no idea whether that matted mop of hair of his was fair or brown.

‘When was that? King George’s Coronation?’

Archie Duggins glared back at her. He was ten years old and had been admitted to the ward with pleurisy. He was doing his best to put on a confident front, but under the bravado Dora could see the fear in his grubby face.

But that didn’t stop him resisting their attempts to clean him up.

‘Come on, let’s get you bathed and into your pyjamas,’ Dora coaxed. ‘The sooner we get you into bed, the sooner we can start getting you better. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

Archie warily eyed the steam rising from the bathtub. ‘I s’pose so,’ he mumbled.

‘Good boy. Now let’s get those clothes off you.’

She made a move towards him but he jerked away out of reach. Poorly or not, he was still as slippery as an eel. ‘I will not! Not with you watching.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Lucy sighed from the doorway. ‘We’ve seen it all before.’

‘Not mine, you ain’t!’

Dora struggled not to smile. ‘How about if we look the other way while you get in?’ she suggested.

Archie considered it. ‘All right,’ he agreed at last. ‘But you’ve got to stand over there in the corner and promise not to look?’

‘Now you listen here—’ Lucy started to say, but Dora shook her head.

‘Let’s just humour him, shall we?’

Lucy’s expression was truculent as she stood with Dora in the corner. ‘I’m far too busy to play these games,’ she muttered, looking at her watch.

‘If you can think of another way to get him into that bath, then please—’ The sound of skittering footsteps behind them made Dora swing round. Archie was running for the door.

‘Oi! Get back here!’ Dora threw herself at him, grabbing him around the legs just as he got the door open. Pain shot through her shoulder as she hit the hard tiled floor, but she clung on grimly, Archie struggling in her arms.

‘Let me go!’ He kicked out at her, catching her in the shins.

‘Not likely!’ She looked at Lucy, still standing in the corner. ‘You could lend a hand,’ she hissed.

‘I’m not touching
that
,’ Lucy shuddered.

‘Then at least stand by the door and make sure he doesn’t escape again.’ Dora struggled to her feet, still holding on to Archie. ‘Look here, young man, you ain’t leaving this room until you’ve had a wash. So you might as well just let us get on with it, all right?’

Archie shot her a baleful look, but he must have realised she meant business because he stopped wriggling. ‘All right,’ he grunted.

The boy’s clothes were scarcely more than layers of dirty rags. Underneath them, his malnourished little body was grey with dirt and covered in livid sores. Even Dora had to hold her breath as she helped him into the bath. Lucy hung back, not even trying to hide her disgust.

‘How did he ever get into such a filthy state?’ she muttered.

Archie shot her a look. ‘I can hear you, y’know!’

‘I’m surprised, the state of your ears,’ Dora said, setting about him with a flannel. ‘And you can stop using language like that, young man,’ she added, as Archie mumbled a curse under his breath. ‘Unless you want me to wash your mouth out with this?’ She brandished the carbolic soap.

‘I don’t know why these people have so many children, if they can’t look after them,’ Lucy went on. ‘It’s utterly revolting, the way they breed like sewer rats.’

‘Who are you calling a sewer rat?’ Archie said.

‘Take no notice, love,’ Dora whispered as she scrubbed the dirt out of his hair. She knew the unkind comment was aimed as much at her as it was at Archie.

He was a lot quicker hopping out of the bath than he was getting in. Dora wrapped his shivering, skinny body in a warm towel.

‘There, doesn’t that feel better?’ she asked. Archie didn’t reply. He stood there, submitting to her ministrations in offended silence.

‘Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?’ Lucy snapped at him. ‘Aren’t you going to say thank you?’

Archie stuck his tongue out at her. Dora smiled to herself as she reached over to the radiator for the pyjamas Sister Parry had found for him. Sister kept a stock of donated nightclothes in the linen cupboard and handed them out to children whose own clothes were too dirty or unfit to be worn.

‘If you ask me, your mate’s the one who needs to have her mouth washed out with soap!’ Archie said, when Lucy went off to find a pro to clean the bathroom.

I can’t argue with you there, Dora thought, but all she commented was, ‘She’s not from round here. She doesn’t understand people like us.’

Archie regarded her with sharp-eyed interest. ‘Are you from round here then?’

Dora nodded. ‘Griffin Street, the other side of the park. How about you?’

‘Wicker’s Yard.’

‘You might know my mum’s cousin Ivy then? She lives near there. Got a son about your age – Freddie Jackson?’

His face brightened. ‘He’s in my class at school.’

After that Dora seemed to win his trust. Archie explained that his mother was a widow with six children, and he was the eldest.

‘That sounds like my family,’ she said. ‘Except I’m not the eldest. I’ve got an older brother, Peter. He works as a porter here.’

By the time she’d got him into his pyjamas, Archie was looking a lot brighter. Until they came out of the bathroom and found Sister Parry waiting for them, arms folded. Lucy was with her. She reminded Dora of Sister Sutton’s terrier Sparky, the way she stuck so closely to her mistress’ heels.

‘There you are, Nurse. What on earth took you so long?’

Dora shot a glance at Lucy. ‘Sorry, Sister.’

She tensed, waiting for the inevitable telling off.

‘Well, I must say, he’s looking a lot better than he was when he came in.’ Sister Parry made a grab for Archie and examined behind his ears, holding him fast as he tried to squirm away. ‘Oh, do keep still!’ she barked. ‘I hope we’re not going to have any trouble with you, young man?’

She turned to Lucy. ‘Put this patient to bed, and make sure he’s comfortable,’ she ordered. ‘Mr Hobbs will be up to see him shortly. Nurse Lane?’ Her voice sharpened. ‘Are you listening to me?’

But Lucy wasn’t listening. Her horrified gaze was fixed on Dora. ‘Please, Sister . . . I think Doyle’s caught something . . .’

Dora looked down, and let out a scream. Her snowy apron bib was covered in reddish-brown dots. And they were crawling in a steady line up towards her chin.

‘Lice! Just what we need.’ Sister Parry tutted impatiently. ‘You’ll have to go to the Porters’ Lodge and ask Mr Hopkins to fumigate your clothes.’ She turned to Lucy. ‘Go and get Doyle a fresh uniform to put on. Really, Nurse, you should have been more careful.’

‘I was completely mortified,’ Dora told Millie later as they sat in their room, trying to study. ‘Can you imagine, having to wash yourself down with disinfectant in the Porters’ Lodge? Not to mention having to listen to Mr Hopkins lecturing me because he’s got better things to do with his time than fumigate nurses’ uniforms.’

‘I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you,’ Millie soothed her. ‘It happens to everyone sooner or later. The perils of being a nurse in the East End, I’m afraid.’

‘Lane didn’t make it any better,’ Dora said. ‘I swear she was laughing at me behind Sister’s back.’

‘Oh, take no notice of her,’ Millie said. ‘You know what a cat she is. Anyway, at least you know now how to deal with a case of pediculosis of clothing, which is one of the questions in this book.’ She consulted her nursing manual. ‘Now, describe the preparation of a surgical fomentation.’

‘That’s easy,’ Dora replied. ‘A surgical fomentation is to be placed over a wound, so it must be prepared with every aseptic precaution. The fomentation is boiled in a steriliser for five minutes, then wrung dry and handed in the wringer to the dresser. Boracic lint should be used, or other antiseptics may be added to the boiling water.’

‘Such as?’

‘Carbolic acid one in eighty, perchloride of mercury one in two thousand, lysol half a drachm to the pint, or eusol equal quantities.’ Dora pulled a face at her. ‘You see? You can’t catch me out. Now it’s my turn.’ She flicked over the pages of her book. ‘What is the difference in sputum between the early and late stages of phthisis?’

‘Well, I know in the later stages it becomes nummular,’ Millie said. ‘But in the early stages . . . is it tinged with blood?’

‘It can be,’ Dora quoted. ‘But it’s generally greenish-yellow.’

‘I get confused with so many different samples.’ Millie put down her book. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I’m bothering, since I’m getting married straight after the exams anyway. What’s the point of storing up all this information if I’m never going to be able to use it?’

Dora caught a wistful expression on her face. ‘You do want to get married, don’t you?’ she asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ Millie said. ‘I adore Sebastian, and I can’t wait to marry him. But sometimes I wish I’d been allowed to find out what life was like as a proper Staff Nurse. You know, just for a few months.’

Poor Millie, Dora thought. Most girls would have envied her privileged position. Millie, or Lady Amelia Benedict to give her her full title, was the daughter of an earl. She had grown up living with her widowed father and her grandmother in a castle in the heart of the Kent countryside. But Millie had turned her back on her privileged debutante’s life to train as a nurse, much to her grandmother the Dowager Countess’ horror.

‘Couldn’t you put the wedding off for a few months?’ Dora suggested.

Millie laughed. ‘Grandmother would have apoplexy! She’s been desperate for this day to come for so long, I don’t think she could stand to wait any longer.’ She shook her head. ‘Poor Granny! All her friend’s granddaughters are safely married off, and some have already had their first child. I’m a terrible embarrassment to her as it is. And she’s also terrified that Papa will die before I manage to produce a suitable heir for the estate. And then we’ll all have to squash into the Dower House, which will be utterly horrifying for her.’

Dora stared at her in wonder. Millie was so matter-of-fact about it, but her future had been set in stone from the moment she was born. If she didn’t marry and produce a son, her father’s estate would pass to the next male in line, an obscure cousin in Northumberland.

Fortunately for everyone, Millie had fallen in love with Lord Sebastian Rushton, the youngest son of a duke, just in time. But Dora wondered what the reaction of her friend’s family would have been if Millie had decided to stay single and continue with her nursing.

She and Dora were so different it was a marvel that they had become such firm friends. But after three years of sharing a room, laughing and crying together and helping each other through all kinds of sorrows, Dora couldn’t imagine life without her now.

They had grown so close that Millie had even asked her to be a bridesmaid at the wedding. Although how an East End girl from the back streets of Bethnal Green would manage at a posh society do, Dora had no idea.

‘Anyway, we must press on,’ Millie said briskly, picking up her book. ‘We still have to get you through this exam, don’t we? I expect to see you in the blue dress of a staff nurse by Christmas.’

It was on the tip of Dora’s tongue to say that she could be married herself by then. Ever since Nick told her there might be a chance of him getting his divorce more quickly, she had been desperate to share her exciting news. But she’d kept silent. She couldn’t trust anyone with such a secret. And besides, she could still hardly believe it was true. She wouldn’t allow herself to put any faith in it until she saw the divorce papers in Nick’s hand.

Millie was in the middle of a complicated question about Fowler’s position when there was a knock on the door and Jess the maid staggered in under the weight of an armful of bedding. The top of her dark head was barely visible over the pile of blankets and pillows.

‘What’s this?’ Millie asked, putting down her book.

‘Sister Sutton told me to bring it up.’

Dora looked at Millie. ‘We must be getting a room mate at last.’

‘Gosh, how exciting!’ Millie’s eyes shone. ‘Do you think it’s one of the new students?’

Dora stood up as Jess lurched across the room towards her. ‘Here, let me help you with that.’

‘Thank you, Miss.’

‘You can leave the bedding, if you like. We’ll make up the bed, won’t we, Benedict?’

‘Of course,’ Millie said, standing up.

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t.’ Jess looked from one to the other, her face full of concern. ‘Sister Sutton might not like it.’

‘I’m sure we can make a bed to Sister Sutton’s satisfaction by now.’ Dora smiled at the frightened girl.

‘Even me,’ Millie added cheerfully. ‘Well, most of the time anyway.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Doyle. Mind your own business and let the maid do her job!’ said a sharp voice from the doorway.

Dora looked up. Lucy Lane stood there, a deep scowl on her face.

‘Why don’t
you
mind your own business?’ Dora snapped back.

Lucy’s scowl deepened. ‘It is my business,’ she said. ‘Didn’t Sister Sutton tell you? I’m going to be sharing this room from now on!’

JESS GAVE THE
skirting board a final polish, then straightened up and massaged her aching back while she admired her handiwork. It was after two and she had been up since before dawn, turning mattresses, making up beds, cleaning out cupboards and making sure everything was in order for when the new students arrived later that day.

Now she had turned her attention to the seniors’ rooms. The students were supposed to keep their own accommodation tidy, but the rooms were rarely cleaned to Sister Sutton’s satisfaction, and Jess felt so sorry for the poor, exhausted girls coming home to stripped beds and a tongue lashing from the Home Sister that she had taken to cleaning them herself.

She threw open the small skylight window and shook her duster out. It seemed strange to see the third bed in the attic room made up at last. She wondered how the two girls were getting on with their new room mate. The ginger-haired one hadn’t looked too happy about it, and Jess didn’t blame her. She could never forget how that sharp-faced girl Lucy Lane had snubbed her so rudely on the day she’d come for her interview.