May’s two previous spells of night duty had been in the cooler weather, when there had at least been the compensation of snuggling up in bed on a cold morning with a hot water bottle. Now she found it difficult to go to bed on a hot summer day; even when, in desperation she took off her nightdress and lay naked under the sheet with the window wide open, she still felt suffocated by the muffling heat. On the other hand, she was spared the sweating daytime toil on the wards, with the high collar gripping her neck and her black stockings clinging stickily to her legs. Then, even the special lightweight hunting corsets of silk elastic seemed to drag on her hips like chainmail.
At night there was a freshness in the air, never found by day in the East End. Also, Abraham Ward had a balcony, where the dirty linen basket was kept, so there were brief, reviving moments to be snatched there in the course of the night – but only brief, since the medical wards of Abraham and the smaller Sarah were both very heavy. Many of the patients were struggling for breath, or lying still, not making even the smallest of movements, staring at the nurses with wide, fever-bright eyes. And always there were men muttering strings of meaningless words, voices rising and falling in the far-off wanderings of delirium. They could be eerie wards at night, and May was often grateful for the never-ceasing summer hum of the city around her.
Yet as she walked through the big ward doors at nine o’clock each night, basket of provisions on one arm and swinging the bag containing her soft shoes in her hand, she felt a surge of satisfaction and pride: in fifteen minutes the wards would be hers. Sister Abraham and the two Staff Nurses would give their reports and depart, and she would be left in total control of sixty lives, and deaths, for ten long hours.
May knew by now that Matron’s choices were not, as they had at first seemed, made in a random and unpredictable fashion. She had been chosen for this position because she was deemed capable of filling it: only a few third year nurses supervised double wards. Wright, the pro deputed to Sarah was a competent second year – without her May’s nights would have been frantic indeed. Fitton, a first year, who was her own pro on Abraham was far less satisfactory.
Fitton was a late entrant to nursing. May guessed she was well over thirty, and knew she had spent some years as a school teacher. But her motives for making the change remained a mystery, since Fitton said little over their evening meals together, other than the occasional reluctant admission of tiredness. This May could recognise for herself, since the woman’s aching feet and swollen ankles were revealed in her shuffling walk. May, remembering her own time of trial on nights in the hell of Isaiah, did her best to hearten Fitton, and gave such advice as she could; but the junior nurse was so much older than May herself, and was so reserved, that she felt self-conscious about instructing her, and so confined herself to practical demonstrations and supervision. These were certainly needed, since Fitton was slow and awkward with the patients. May often had to conceal her irritation at her subordinate’s clumsiness, and remind herself that at least she was not careless and slapdash like some new pros.
If Fitton was silent and humourless then Wright, whenever May dashed through the connecting corridor to help and to supervise, had a ready smile and a quick response. Night duty seemed to leave Wright unmarked, and she often bubbled over with some small incident which had tickled her imagination. May suspected that her colleague’s light-heartedness owed something to the preference which one of the house physicians showed for drinking his cocoa on Sarah Ward. However, May did not see herself as one of Matron’s spies: on the contrary, she made a point of escorting Night Sister through the connecting corridor with an over-loud swing of the door. This brought Wright pink-cheeked from the ward, where often a cadaverous figure could be seen earnestly studying a temperature chart at the far end. May could afford to be tolerant: she knew Wright was too good a nurse to neglect her patients – indeed, May thought to herself, it would appear that her personal attractions were enhancing their medical care, since Charles Wilson spent so much time on Sarah Ward.
The spell of hot weather finally broke, and a cooling breeze blew in from the river, followed by rain, so that May felt fresher than she had done for weeks as she pushed open the doors of Abraham that night. Sister was grave.
‘I’m afraid three of the pneumonias are near their crises, Nurse Winton. They will need constant watching, and we have a new admission, the patient at the far end on the right. The police brought him in this morning; they found him in a collapsed state under the railway arches. I don’t know what to make of him, and nor does Dr Wilson. He may be a case of DTs, but he seems quiet enough at the moment. Sometimes these big men have no resistance.’
‘Do we know his name, Sister?’
‘No, not yet. No one has enquired of him, and his clothes suggested a casual labourer – perhaps he should have gone to the workhouse infirmary.’ Sister gave the rest of her report and left.
May was kept busy with her pneumonias, grouped together in the middle of the ward near the night table; she was only able to make quick dashes to inspect the other patients. On one of these she noticed that Connor, a nephritis, was becoming distressed, and she had to call out Charles Wilson and set up a bronchitis tent around the bed. As the long spouted kettle hissed gently she was thankful for the cooler weather.
The regular ward routine was left largely to Fitton, who dragged herself uncomplainingly to sluice and linen room and then to the kitchen, to cook their midnight meal. Fitton was quite a good cook, whatever her other short-comings, and May sat down at the central table with anticipation, but there was no time to savour her food tonight. Within minutes she was up again, and while on her feet she decided to make a quick dash to Sarah. Fortunately things were quieter there, and Wright cheerfully offered to cut and butter Abraham’s breakfast bread as well as her own.
Fitton started to get up when May returned, but May, noting the dark circles round the older woman’s eyes, signalled her back to her chair, and told her she must take the full half-hour.
‘There’s no need for both of us to be up – I’ll ask you to relieve me later, thanks.’
May knew she wouldn’t, but she didn’t want to hurt Fitton’s pride, since that seemed to be all that was keeping the other nurse going. Fitton slumped back without a word, and sat hunched over the table, chewing very slowly, as though the meal were sawdust instead of nicely scrambled eggs.
By five to five, two of the pneumonias were clearly holding their own, and May was bending over the third, her finger on his thready pulse, when she heard a choking cry from the far end of the ward. She glanced up sharply and at that moment the anonymous patient in the last bed reared up. May began moving swiftly forward, but Fitton, coming through the balcony door with the soiled linen bucket was there before her. She put a restraining hand on the man’s shoulder and in an instant he lunged forward, flung himself out of the bed and sank his fingers straight into Fitton’s throat. In front of May’s horrified gaze he swept her off the floor and began shaking her from side to side like a rag doll. Fitton’s mouth opened wide in a soundless scream and May was running – running as she had never run before. She swept a lotion trolley to one side with a crash, and was aware of several pairs of startled eyes staring from the beds – but she knew the men were too ill to give any help. Then she was there, and had flung herself on the man, dragging his arms back by brute force. Fitton fell against the bed and now May, in her turn, was fighting. He went for her throat – she felt the balls of his thumbs pressing – and for one dizzying instant she thought she had lost. But May was bigger and stronger than Fitton, and more determined. She wrenched with all the strength of her arms and managed to pull his hands away for a moment. And in that moment, out of the corner of her eye, May saw Fitton bend forward and sink her teeth into the man’s calf. He squealed, a loud angry note, then suddenly shook May off and began to lurch down the ward. For one insane second May wanted to laugh at the sheer burlesque of the episode, but deadly seriousness returned as the man began to gather speed and May remembered the madness in his eyes and the helpless patients all around her. She forced her shaking limbs into activity and began to run again. The man was ignoring the patients, most of them incredibly still asleep, and was heading for the door – but it was the door in the side of the ward, the door which led to Sarah. May’s mind screamed as she thought of that ward full of bedridden women, with only Wright’s small form to protect them. She threw herself after him and reached the corridor only feet behind him. Then, suddenly, tiny Wright was there, her mouth a round ‘oh’ of surprise as she stared at the intruder; she was clasping a loaf to her bosom, but in the other hand glinted the sharp steel of the bread knife. The man saw it, skidded to a halt, turned on his heel, cannoned into May behind him, threw her against the passage wall and began to run back to Abraham. May pulled herself up again, turned to Wright and cried, ‘The bell, press the bell!’
She just had time to see Wright’s nod of comprehension before she was off again, gasping, bruised and panting, but still running. Below Abraham was Elizabeth Ward, and this thought lent wings to her feet. But the man did not pause; nightshirt flapping in the wind he was outside, and heading for the main entrance. Now May began to have fears for his safety: he seemed blind and deaf, and impervious to the sharp gravel under his bare feet. Had Wright reached the emergency bell in time, the bell which rang in the porter’s lodge? Only seconds had passed, but it seemed to May as if she had been running in this mad flight for an eternity. Then he was past the porter’s lodge, with the porter only just behind him – but behind him. May slowed down, her heart thudding against her ribs – at least he was away from the hospital, with its burden of vulnerable patients.
Then she heard a high-pitched, keening scream, the clanking hiss of a tram abruptly stopping, and the screech of iron-shod wheels and hooves striking cobbles. The shouts which followed told her the rest of the story, and as she walked out onto the Dock Road she felt the bitter taste of failure rise into her mouth.
Matron came to the ward half an hour later. Her face, beneath its immaculate headdress was set and grim.
‘Your patient was killed, Nurse Winton.’ Her voice was stern.
May bent her head. ‘I’m sorry, Matron.’
‘Why did you not ring the emergency bell at once? You know that is the correct procedure.’
May looked at the bell, winking malevolently at her from the first of the centre pillars. Her brain was dull and her arms and legs leaden with shock and fatigue. Should she have gone to the bell first? But if she had done, what of Fitton, who was even now attending to a patient down the ward, shaken and bruised, but undeniably alive? Yet she should have rung the bell. She felt too exhausted to even try and defend herself. Her throat was on fire where the man had gripped her neck and the right side of her body ached where he had flung her against the corridor wall.
Matron waited, but May only repeated, ‘I’m sorry, Matron.’
The older woman’s voice was icy. ‘There will have to be an inquest. I will call in the House Governor this morning, and we shall have to consider your position, Nurse Winton.’ Her skirts rustled as she swept through the door May held open for her.
Fitton came up for instructions. ‘What did Matron say?’ Her voice was hoarse and barely audible.
‘She is sending for the House Governor. I should have rung the bell, first.’
Fitton swallowed painfully. ‘But you didn’t have time!’
May shook her head. ‘I should have made time. It was my fault. A patient was killed, and it was my fault.’ She felt utterly defeated.
Fitton gripped her arm and pointed to the bell. ‘Where were you standing when he attacked me?’ Her rasping voice was urgent, but May was beyond rational thought.
She gestured to the middle bed. ‘I was beside Harris.’
Fitton was reduced to a croak by now. ‘But Winton, if you’d gone to…’
There was a stifled cry from the other side of the ward and May shook off Fitton’s restraining hand and walked mechanically to the patient.
‘Are you in pain, Mr Eli?’ Her own voice, she noticed without surprise, sounded almost as strained and odd as Fitton’s.
The morning round of washings and temperatures passed in a daze. Fat, jolly Sister Abraham came on early, with the day nurses, her face unusually serious. Matron had obviously spoken to her and she made no comment as May faltered over her report when she reached the far bed. May hoped she saw a gleam of sympathy in her eyes. Wright was pale and subdued; as they left the ward she put her arm round May’s waist and gave her a quick hug, but neither she nor Fitton spoke as they went down the stairs together. Fitton walked painfully, as usual, but May noticed that her face was not collapsed, as it generally was in the mornings; her mouth was set in a determined line, though May knew that underneath the concealing collar her neck must be even more bruised and painful than May’s own.
As they neared the dining room May turned away from the other two.
‘I’m not going to breakfast.’ Wright made a quick protest but May ignored it. She had broken such a major rule this morning that a minor infringement seemed immaterial. Had Ellen been there she might have gone, but Ellen was on days and so already on duty, and Ada too. There was no one else in the hospital May felt able to face this morning.
She fetched her cloak and bonnet from her room and left the Nurses’s Home. But in the courtyard she turned away from the main entrance. She could not bear to see again the place where the body, tossed aside by the tram and broken by the dray, had lain amidst the inevitable small crowd of sightseers. She slipped out through the side entrance, used by the tradesmen’s vans, and into the quiet street of small, dark terraces. On the pavement outside the walls she hesitated, then drew a difficult breath into her parched throat and began to walk northwards. There was only one place she could go to this morning, and only one person she could talk to.
The church spire came in sight first and May fixed her eye on it as though it were a talisman. What if he were not there? But she thrust the thought from her – he had to be there. She pushed open the Vicarage gate and aimed for the front door like a hunter making for its stable after too long a day in the field. It was the maid who came to the door. She looked startled when she saw May, but May was past caring.
‘Yes, Miss?’
May’s lips moved, but no sound came out. She stood in the doorway, swaying with exhaustion – she had got here, but now her mind was a blank. She stared at the maid, who spoke again, louder, and looked more and more puzzled. Then a voice called from inside, ‘Who is it, Bessie? What’s the matter?’
May’s frozen limbs unlocked and she pushed past the bewildered maid and headed for the voice. Walter Lisle stood at the top of the stairs, with a shaving brush in his hand and his face half-covered with lather. May grasped the newel post and gazed up at him, wordlessly. He looked down at her for a moment, then was galvanised into action and sprang down the stairs two at a time. As he arrived in the hall May collapsed into his arms and sobbed and sobbed against his neck. She had a confused sensation of the soap on his chin damp on her forehead, then she heard him say: ‘Open the study door, Bessie – and take this damn brush off me.’
She felt one of his arms tighten around her shoulders and the other reach behind her knees and he had swung her up and was carrying her through a nearby doorway. He put her down gently and she was half-sitting, half-lying on a leather covered sofa. He stood over her in his shirt sleeves.
‘What’s the matter, May? What’s happened?’
But May could only shudder and gulp convulsively. As she moved, her stiff collar chafed unbearably and she wrenched it off. He stared at her neck.
‘Who did that to you?’ His voice was furious.
May shook her head. ‘No one, he’s dead – it was a patient, a delirious patient – I tried to catch him, and he’s dead. He died in the Dock Road because I didn’t ring the bell. It’s my fault, Walter – I killed a patient.’ She gazed despairingly up at him.
He said grimly, ‘It looks to me as if he pretty nearly killed you first, May.’
May shook her head painfully and said, ‘You should have seen Fitton, hers are worse.’ Then she began to weep again, hopelessly.
She heard Walter go to the door and speak to the hovering maid. The maid went away and he came back and looked down at her again. Then suddenly he bent over her, picked her up again and sat down on the sofa with May on his lap. He held her tightly, cradling her head against his shoulder. May continued to sob. The maid came back; her voice was low and concerned.
‘Here are the handkerchiefs, Sir, and the arnica. Shall I put it on?’
‘No thank you, Bessie, I can manage. Would you ask Cook to put back breakfast? That will be all.’
The door closed and May sobbed on. Walter untied her bonnet and pulled it off, then he began to pat her on the back while he spoke to her gently. May felt her shudders become weaker and finally stop under the influence of his soothing voice, though she had no idea what he was saying. Eventually she pulled her head away from his shoulder, took a deep breath and sniffed. He pushed a large handkerchief into her hand and she blew her nose, then he wiped her face with another. She noticed the damp patch on his shoulder and said, low-voiced, ‘I’m afraid I’ve made your shirt wet.’
‘It doesn’t matter, May.’ He reached for a small bottle beside him. ‘I’m going to put something on those bruises.’ She sat obediently still while he dabbed the cold lotion on her neck. ‘Are those the only ones?’
May managed a watery smile. ‘I’m afraid the others are where you can’t put anything on them, Mr Lisle.’ Then she remembered the thud as she hit the wall and the squeal of the tram, and began to cry again, but more softly this time. And as she cried she felt her head droop and her lids close; so she surrendered to sleep.