‘Seven-thirty, Nurse.’
Head aching, body heavy and unrested, May dragged herself out of bed and across to the water jug. She pressed damp fingers into her eyes, and then, with slow, clumsy movements, began to dress.
The Christmas period had passed in a daze for May, alternately haunted by Bob Tyrrell’s agonising death and the disturbing scene in the Tunnel Gardens. On Boxing Day ward changes were announced and May was told to come off duty at midday so that she could report to Isaiah Ward that night. She made her farewells to Sister Simeon, moved her belongings to the top floor, reserved for night nurses, then undressed and lay sleepless in bed over the long afternoon.
She had been on night duty for ten days now, and felt as though she had entered another life – a life where the previous comfortable, unthinking acceptance of her body was a barely remembered dream; now every movement demanded a constant exercise of willpower. As she came off duty in the morning she felt like a broken-winded cab horse, which needed whips and curses to goad it into activity. May bitterly recalled her former pride in her strength, her stamina, her ability to sleep deeply and well and rise refreshed and full of energy in the morning. Now, the needs of the institution had caused her to be picked up and turned upside down, and she had to face the humiliating truth that she could not properly function so; only endure, and that with difficulty.
In the morning she felt she might perhaps have been able to collapse into the oblivion which both her mind and body craved; but the system and Home Sister would not allow this. By the time the approved hour came round she was beyond sleep, and could only toss, restless and tormented between brief snatches of unconsciousness, until the maid’s call came, when she dragged herself to her feet to start the whole punishing cycle again.
To compound the nightmare, fog had descended on the city. For five days now the dense, sulphur-yellow cloud had clasped the hospital in its cold, clammy embrace. The noisy Dock traffic was reduced to a mulled, kerb-hugging crawl, and oily brown drops coated and smeared every surface. Inside the wards the weaker patients gasped and choked, slowly losing their unequal fight for breath, while May watched helplessly; and each day the death toll mounted.
Isaiah Ward was in the basement, next to the mortuary. This was the oldest part of the hospital, where the ceilings were low, the windows small and the rooms gloomy even at midday; at night the shadows barely retreated from the flickering light of the oil lamp. Despite the never-ending round of scrubbing and cleaning, the wards here smelt sour and musty, and the ill-ventilated sluice rooms stank. Isaiah was not one single large ward, but a scattered collection of different-sized rooms, so that, despite her inexperience May was often left to govern her own empire, while the senior ruled elsewhere. Her unwilling sway was exercised over cases whose infected wounds stubbornly refused to heal; they had been moved down from other wards to lurk, delirious or despairing, as an evil-smelling decay in the bowels of the hospital. They were not forgotten; Sister Isaiah, round-faced and determinedly optimistic, laboured over them all day, and left May and her colleague a full programme of fomentations to be carried out all through the night: some four-hourly, some two-hourly, a few every hour. And this was as well as the normal routine of giving drinks, washing, turning and preparing for the day staff.
At three in the morning there was a short break; each nurse was allowed to sit down and drink a cup of tea – prepared in their own special pot and drunk from their own, hopefully uncontaminated, crockery. On this night May did not bother with the tea. She decided that the effort of making it would outweigh the reviving effects of the drink. So she simply sat down in the ward and gazed from under heavy lids at her unwelcome kingdom. As she sat there, the air around her began to take on substance and shift unnervingly before her eyes; then she was floating, light-headed, yet weighed down. She felt as if she were about to tip forward off the chair, yet was powerless to stop herself. She tried rubbing her eyes, blinking rapidly, concentrating on her breathing, pinching the pad of her thumb – but it was no use, unconsciousness was overtaking her in irresistible waves. The two lines of white beds danced into the shadows; she was cushioned by the seductiveness of sleep. With a last mighty effort she forced herself to her feet and staggered off down the endless ward. She thrust open the kitchen door and fell against the sink; then she managed to turn on the tap and bend down and push her face into the icy flow. The shock brought her round. Face dripping, she filled the palms of her hands with cold water and lapped it up.
Full consciousness came back, as she stood shivering in the draughty kitchen, cap awry and apron damp. ‘Whatever am I doing here? It’s the middle of the night, I should be in bed, warm and asleep!’ She felt the outrage in her voice as she spoke aloud. Like an exile she remembered other nights when it had been a pleasure to be woken by the cry of a dog fox, for the sheer joy of turning over and snuggling down again into her soft enveloping bed.
A cockroach scuttled out from under the sink and headed busily across to the darkness under the dresser. May lacked the energy even to stamp on it. Rather, she felt a faint sense of relief that some other creature was awake and alert. The cold, the harsh, starched edge of her stiff collar biting into her neck, and the pounding ache beginning to engulf her temples all combined into a feeling of such utter wretchedness as she had never before known. Misery and self-pity washed over her.
She would go, now. She would walk out of the kitchen door, into the passage and through the ward entrance. She would pass along the dark stone corridor, up into the foggy courtyard, and find her way up, up, to her narrow bedroom with its hard bed. There she would throw herself down, shoes and all, and sink into oblivion. And in the morning she would leave; break free from the high prison walls and the filthy streets and the yellow, sulphurous air, and go to crisp, clean, calm Suffolk.
May recognised that she had been defeated. She did not care. One foot had actually been placed in front of the other on the worn linoleum when she heard it: the feeble, whining cry, ‘Nurse’. Deliberately May hunched her shoulder against the direction of the ward, and began to move, crablike, towards freedom. ‘Nurse’, the note was higher, keening now. Dimly there formed in May’s consciousness the sullen awareness that that meant her; there was no other nurse within earshot. Her reason, huddled in the corner of her mind, argued that old Mrs Slinger was safe in bed – if she soiled the linen, what did it matter? Just another set of sheets to keep the fallen girls in the laundry busy. But another, painfully learned response was taking over. Night Sister’s rasping voice echoed in her memory: ‘You will attend to the patient first, Nurse. You are here for her benefit, not she for yours. Go now.’
So, back into the dark, malodorous ward, feet leaden and heart unwilling, May went.
Night duty dragged on interminably. After her crisis May forced herself into a rigid routine: she made herself walk briskly every morning, whatever the weather, and then came back and sat in front of her medical textbooks, compelling herself to concentrate on every word until she had bludgeoned herself into sleep. But it was never more than bare endurance. A moment’s inattention on her part and she knew she would slip back into surrender: she was fighting a war in which the only hope of survival was constant vigilance, and this took a heavy physical toll.
Yet there were some rewards. Gradually she learnt to push out of her mind the despair and hopelessness generated by her basement patients, and to recognise that the few emaciated figures who finally left their beds were a kind of victory.
Her senior nurse was the stolid Grayson, with whom she could at first make no relationship; but slowly she began to respect the woman for her competence and sheer stamina, and she got used to her expressionless face and long silences. Indeed, she grew to understand them after one night, when she had turned to Grayson as they waited for the mortuary trolley and burst out, ‘Don’t you hate this job, sometimes?’
Grayson deliberated, slowly, then said, ‘No.’ Seeing May’s downcast expression she had made an effort to explain. ‘I was brought up in an institution, a school for orphaned clergy daughters. The High Mistress was vicious and spiteful to us, and to the younger teachers. We hated her, and we feared her.’
May waited, half-repelled, half-fascinated, for some ghastly revelation, but none followed. Grayson added simply, ‘You can stand anything, you know, if you have to.’ She went to attend a restless patient. May began to recognise the stolidity as stoicism, and to feel ashamed of her own squeamishness.
Sometimes, when her hands were occupied with a mechanical task, May’s mind would wander and ask the unanswerable question. Would she have refused Harry Cussons so abruptly if she had not been so stunned by Bob Tyrrell’s tragic death? Where would she be now if she had said ‘Yes’? Certainly not in this dark insect-ridden basement, where one had to bang the door as one went into the kitchen, to frighten away lurking rats. Marriage to Harry Cussons would have been an honourable escape; even Matron could scarcely have objected. Nursing seemed to offer little at present. It took all her energies just to keep going; there was no enjoyment in it in Isaiah, and scant satisfaction. He had come to seek her out; he had forgiven her resounding slap and impetuous departure that evening. Dimly, May recognised that she had had reasons for her actions, but the weeks underground were blunting her critical faculties. Like a tongue prodding an aching tooth she tormented herself with visions of being escorted round Harry’s relatives – introduced as his affianced bride – made welcome, as she would have been, being young, of good family, and an heiress too. To be squired by Harry Cussons, debonair and amusing, and to be touched by him! May shied away from the thought, blushing even in the privacy of the damp kitchen, remembering his hand on hers, and the feel of his lips on her wrist.
Perhaps he would not take no for an answer, and would come to find her again – no, May thought of her face in the telltale mirror, eyes dark-shadowed by exhaustion, staring out from under hair that was dull and lifeless, showing all too clearly the ravages wrought by nights – no, not yet, he might disdain her now. But perhaps, later, when London filled up again and the Season began, then she might see him. He would come towards her, his hands held out, his voice warm and alive: ‘Miss Winton, May,’ but beyond this point May could never imagine what would be said, or what would happen. In any case, she was usually interrupted by Grayson’s phlegmatic yet authoritative voice, ‘You must work faster, Winton, we have a lot to get through, tonight.’
It was halfway through March that May realised that the end of her sentence was finally in sight. Her monthly days off could at last be claimed, and she would have three glorious nights in bed – not in the narrow iron bedstead at St Katharine’s but lapped in the luxury of feathers and linen, behind velvet curtains with a crackling fire in the grate, at the Winton’s Town house. Lord and Lady Clarence were coming up ahead of the Season especially so that May could spend the time with them.
The last week, the last night – it had finally come; now May no longer thought of Harry Cussons, she could think of nothing but the rest in front of her for her leaden limbs and heavy head. Then, as she and Grayson sat in the largest ward over their midnight meal May realised that the ache in her neck, with which she had woken, was getting worse. When she tried to swallow the toast rasped her throat, and left it on fire. By the morning she felt burning hot, yet could not stop shivering; the floor seemed to recede and waver as she put her foot on it. She could barely croak and her throat was agonisingly painful. Night Sister looked at her sharply, and when May barely managed to reply to her question she tipped May’s chin up and held her lamp high so that she could look into her mouth. What she saw made her shake her head.
‘You must report sick to Home Sister as soon as you go off, Nurse Winton.’
May squeaked frantically, ‘But I’m going home today, it’s my nights off.’
Night Sister was kind but firm. ‘I’m sorry, Nurse Winton, but you are not going anywhere with a throat like that. You might spread infection.’
May refused to believe it. Surely Home Sister would let her go?
By the time she reached Home Sister she was light-headed. A doctor was called, another inspection held, then sentence was passed: ‘Over to the sick bay, at once.’ May tried to speak, but no voice would come. She shook her head and her eyes filled with tears. Dr Calne patted her hand gently.
‘Hospital throat is inevitable, my dear. All you young nurses come down with it at some time, especially after a spell in the septic ward. Don’t worry, we’ll look after you.’
May looked despairingly at Home Sister. There was no trace of sympathy in her face, she said merely, ‘Illness among the nursing staff is always a nuisance, Dr Calne, but fortunately Nurse Winton has just finished her period of night duty, so it’s not too inconvenient.’
May felt the mingled anger and distress well up. She turned her head away as the childish tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks.
As she lay in bed the pain was like sharp knives sawing at her throat. When she was forced to swallow the knives became red-hot. Whenever Nurse Sampson insisted on more drinks, or, ‘A little arrowroot, dear, ever so nourishing,’ the red-hot knives grew larger and larger and slashed across her palate. Nor was her misery confined to this: her neck was swollen and exquisitely tender, the slightest awkwardness on the part of the ham-listed Farrell made her feel like screaming. She lay rigid, afraid to move, listening anxiously to the rhythm of the feet approaching. Farrell’s light pattering steps, a charming sound in themselves, reminiscent of lively ballrooms and country house parties, filled her with dread as she braced herself for the well-meant but clumsy ministrations which would follow. When the tread was that of Sampson’s flat feet, large and dropped at the arches, she relaxed, secure in the knowledge that her aches and pains would be deftly eased, and even, for a moment, charmed away under the influence of Sampson’s warm, reassuring presence.
The doctor and Sister gazed down at her, as she lay hot with fever, her legs shaking uncontrollably. They pursed their lips and looked grave, and May felt the despair of weakness rise in her, and force tears to her eyes, so that she turned her swollen neck painfully away to hide them. But as soon as their measured tread had moved away down the ward, the heavy, padding footfalls were approaching, a gentle hand whisked away her tears and a cool palm rested on her forehead, while the adenoidal, common voice murmured words of comfort.
‘You’re doing very well, Nurse Winton, very well indeed. just stick it out, dear, it’s always darkest before the dawn.’ The commonplace clichés took on the character of inspired prophecies through the medium of Nurse Sampson’s personality.
May remembered how she had winced at the girl’s accent and blowsy looks when she’d met her before in the Nurses’ Sitting Room; now any twinge of shame was swallowed up in the determination that when she got back to the patients she would be a Sampson instead of a Farrell – so much of Sister Simeon’s painstaking teaching now made sense. Such was the power of Nurse Sampson’s faith that in her presence May had no doubts but that she soon would be back on the wards, ill though she knew she was. ‘You’ll be all right, dear, you’re a strong girl,’ were the words she heard, and Sampson was right. The shivering fits and the hot, drenching sweats began to decline, and a week after her arrival in Rachel Ward May found herself waiting impatiently for her dinner, disappointed that it was only rice pudding. Now Sister herself said, ‘Of course, you’ve got a sound constitution Nurse Winton – a severe attack, but we knew we’d soon pull you through.’ But May thought that she hadn’t said it last week, while Nurse Sampson had.
They sent her home for ten days’ convalescence. Lord Clarence came himself in the brougham, and fidgeted with the window to ensure that not a breath of cold air blew on his daughter. May, swathed in her furs, felt warm and weak and very tired.
She slept all the nights and long into the mornings. Lady Clarence made her round of calls without her. But two days before May was due to return to St Katharine’s her step-mother suggested, tentatively, that May might like to accompany her parents to a squash – ‘Just a small reception, May, your cousins will be there, you will enjoy a little chat with them.’
May did not much want to go, but Lady Clarence had been very kind, and it was unusual to see her tentative; also she knew her step-mother was anxiously awaiting her next letter from Emily, so it seemed needlessly cruel to disappoint her over such a relatively small matter. Her agreement was willingly given.
Fenton dressed her and she was escorted to the coach as though she were a piece of Dresden china. Her father almost carried her up the stairs when they arrived, although she really felt quite well again. Archie was there, and Bertie, and Louise Dumer. May was beginning to enjoy herself when the crowd around her suddenly shifted and parted – and there was Harry Cussons. May gasped, and he was staring straight at her. She smiled at him, and raised her hand – his face was cold and resentful. He turned ostentatiously to the woman at his side and slid his hand possessively up her arm and whispered something in her ear. Della Hindlesham glanced round and stared at May, made a little half bow then turned back to Harry and gave a tiny shrug of her exquisite shoulders. She tapped his cheek with her fan, spoke softly to him, and they both laughed in shared intimacy. It was skilfully done. May felt the burning blush of humiliation rise in her cheeks and the easy tears of convalescence fill her eyes. She would have stood there, exposed, had not Archie put his arm around her waist and guided her into a window recess, shielding her from the curious looks of the crowd with his body.
‘So you did turn him down, then.’
May, unable to speak, just nodded.
‘Grandmamma dropped hints – she was annoyed.’
May shook her head, and felt her control slipping. ‘I wish I hadn’t, now.’
‘Well, it’s no use crying over spilt milk – plenty more fish in the sea, and all that.’
Archie’s attempts at comfort were so like him that May managed a shaky smile, but the tears were still threatening; she looked down and bit her lip. Then another male form appeared beside them, and Archie’s voice was relieved.
‘I say, George old fellow, d’you think you could locate my aunt? Poor old May’s quite done up; been ill, y’know, first day out, and all that.’
‘Of course, I’ll find her at once.’ May recognised Lord Hindlesham’s collected tones.
‘That’ll be all right then, May, we’ll soon have you home.’
In a very short time Lord Hindlesham was back. ‘She was downstairs. She’s sending for the carriage; I told her we’d bring May down.’
Lord Hindlesham forced a pathway through the throng and May followed, grateful for Archie’s arm. Her father came up the stairs to meet them, his face concerned. Lady Clarence’s voice was anxious. ‘I should not have brought you, May. Thank you so much, Lord Hindlesham.’
May’s father reiterated, ‘Thanks, old man – didn’t expect to see you here tonight.’
‘I leave for the Continent in the morning,’ Lord Hindlesham replied. ‘Goodbye, Lady Clarence, Miss Winton. I hope the nursing is not too exhausting.’
May managed a proper smile at last. ‘I’m afraid night duty is, rather. I’m glad my three months of that is over for the year.’
Lord Hindlesham said, ‘It is strange, is it not, that we legislate against women in factories working the night shift, yet expect it of young girls in hospitals – still, I’m sure your friend Miss Carter would be able to explain that!’ He smiled and left them.
Next morning May came down to breakfast late, still shaken by the memory of Harry Cussons’ open resentment. She found Lady Clarence sitting, her toast untouched, with a letter in her hand and a drawn expression on her face. She pulled herself together with a visible effort and turned to May.
‘Are you quite recovered, my dear?’
‘Yes, thank you Step-mamma. Is that a letter from Emily? How is the baby?’
Lady Clarence abruptly thrust the letter into May’s hands. ‘May, read it, please. Tell me what it means.’
May read the anxious words Emily had carefully penned far away in the heat of India. In her time on night duty, when she had forced her way through volume after volume from the Nurses’ Library, she had learnt a lot. As she read Emily’s account of her son an ominous picture rose up in her mind. She made herself re-read the letter, carefully, conscious of her step-mother’s anxious gaze, then she looked up and said firmly, ‘I think you should go to India, Step-mamma. Emily will be needing you.’
Lady Clarence blinked, her usually impassive face betraying a mixture of emotions.
The door opened and May turned to greet her father. ‘Papa, I think it would be as well if you escorted Step-mamma to India.’
Lord Clarence looked startled, but soon recovered himself. ‘If you say so, my dear.’
Lady Clarence began to protest, but May silenced her with a glance. ‘You could book the tickets today, Papa. You could be there in less than a month.’
Lord Clarence was visibly brightening. ‘Always fancied a tiger shoot, m’dear – splendid idea, why didn’t I think of it myself? I know you’ve been fretting about Emily, Julia my love; we’ll go and see her. You must come too, May.’
May felt a little burst of excitement, and a longing to see Emily, but she resolutely shook her head. Her duty lay elsewhere now.
‘No, Matron is expecting me back. You must both go.’
‘But May, you will have no home while we are away.’ Lady Clarence’s voice was concerned.
‘I shall spend my free time with Grandmamma.’ Her heart sank a little at the thought of whom she might meet in her grandmother’s social circle, but she smiled reassuringly at her step-mother. ‘If our positions were reversed then Emily would be the first to tell you to go, you know that. Of course you must go to her.’
Lady Clarence stood up. ‘Then I will go and speak to Fenton.’ She turned to May and put out her hand. ‘Thank you, my dear.’ She left the room with unusual haste.
As her father displayed his hazy knowledge of Indian geography over his breakfast – ‘Old Tim Schofield said at Simla, or was it Poona? – all those places sound alike – still, I daresay we’ll sort them out when we get there,’ May sat quiet, feeling very alone. Then she took a deep breath, reached for her cup and drank steadily. She had made her bed and now she must lie on it, even though it were narrow and hard and made of iron. Why, this fine Darjeeling seemed positively anaemic after the strong hospital brew – she would soon get used to life in St Katharine’s again.