A Nightingale Christmas Wish (12 page)

Finally, he finished dictating his letter, and Effie signed it for him. ‘Shall I add a few kisses?’ she suggested.

Adam sent her a withering look. ‘Certainly not,’ he said.

‘Why not? I think it’s nice.’

‘Yes, well, that says a lot about you, doesn’t it? Just put it in the envelope and seal it up. You will make sure it’s posted?’ he said.

‘I’ll put a stamp on it and post it myself,’ Effie promised.

‘Thank you.’ As she walked away, he called out, ‘And don’t even think about drawing hearts on the envelope.’

‘Spoilsport!’ Effie looked back at him over her shoulder. He was half smiling.

The following Sunday afternoon, Frannie was at the final rehearsal for the Christmas show. She sat at her table in front of the makeshift stage, and wondered how many more times she could listen to the sisters’ choir warbling their way through ‘Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind’. She was beginning to hear it in her sleep now, complete with Sister Wren’s excruciating flat soprano.

And as if that wasn’t enough to give her a headache, Mr Hopkins the Head Porter was making a terrible fuss about the lighting for the stage.

‘I don’t think it’s safe, Sister, I really don’t,’ he said. He stood over Frannie, a dapper little Welshman, his bushy grey moustache bristling with indignation. ‘I mean, what if someone trips over it? They could have the whole lot down. And then you only have to have it catch the curtain and . . .’ He broke off, miming a complete catastrophe. ‘A deathtrap,’ he concluded finally.

‘So you’ve said, Mr Hopkins. Several times.’

‘Yes, but I don’t think you realise the seriousness of the situation, Sister. And there’s talk of the medical students lighting matches on stage, too. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what I think of that?’

‘I’m sure you don’t, Mr Hopkins.’

But he did anyway. Frannie propped her elbows on the table and buried her head in her hands and prayed for someone, anyone, to rescue her.

And then someone did.

‘Sister?’

She looked up sharply. There, towering behind Mr Hopkins, was John Campbell.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’ he said.

‘No! No, not at all.’ Frannie turned to the Head Porter. ‘Would you excuse us for a moment, please, Mr Hopkins?’

As he strode off to bully the porters who were rigging up the curtains, Frannie smiled with relief at John. ‘That was a very timely interruption,’ she said. ‘You saved me from another lecture from our Head Porter on why the whole production is going to go up in flames.’

‘And is it?’ John said.

‘At the moment, I don’t think I really care.’

He smiled. ‘Oh, dear, is it that bad?’

‘Not exactly,’ she said ruefully. ‘I think I’ve just been through it all too many times. I stopped laughing at the medical students’ comedy sketch about a week ago.’ She looked up at him. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t come here to listen to me going on. What can I do for you?’

‘I wanted to thank you.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Persuading Adam to talk to me. We actually exchanged a few words this afternoon.’

‘Really?’

John nodded. ‘It might not have seemed like much to anyone else, but it’s the closest we’ve come to a conversation in years.’

‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘Although I can’t imagine why you’re thanking me.’

‘My son has barely spoken to me in five years, and suddenly he’s making small talk. You must have had something to do with it.’

‘Or perhaps he’s finally come to his senses?’

‘Perhaps,’ John said. ‘Either that or someone blackmailed him with the promise of a letter?’

Frannie looked up at him sharply. ‘He told you that?’

‘He was most put out about it. But I’m very grateful.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Their eyes met and held for a moment. He didn’t seem to want to leave, and Frannie realised she was in no hurry for him to go either.

‘So this is your Christmas Show?’ he asked, looking at the stage. ‘I didn’t realise it was such a big production.’

‘It isn’t, really. Everyone puts a little act together to entertain the staff, patients and their families on Christmas Day. It’s all rather amateur, but people seem to enjoy it.’ A thought suddenly struck her. ‘You should come and see it,’ she said, ‘if you’re not doing anything else, that is?’

He smiled. It was a genuine smile this time, warming his green eyes. ‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of spending Christmas Day alone at my club. It would be nice to have something to look forward to.’

‘Then we’d love to see you,’ Frannie said. She looked into his face and realised that she meant it, too.

THEY WERE COMING
to the end of the Christmas Eve shift when the news came in.

It had been a busy day. Saturdays always brought their fair share of accidents and brawls, but it was much worse on Christmas Eve. Helen felt as if she’d spent the whole day patching up black eyes and broken ribs, tending to cuts and bruises, cleaning up vomit and even breaking up a fight between two drunks in the Casualty hall.

As nine o’clock approached, she was dead on her feet. She could see her own exhaustion reflected in the grey faces of the student nurses as they trudged around, cleaning and tidying and readying the department for the arrival of the night staff.

Dr McKay seemed just as worn out. Dr Adler had taken the day off, so his colleague had been coping alone with the steady stream of casualties.

Dr Ross the night relief doctor turned up while Helen was giving report to the student nurses on night duty. He was still in evening dress and in a bad mood.

‘I had to leave an excellent party,’ he grumbled, pulling off his bow tie. ‘I hope tonight is worth it.’

‘I’ll be sure to pray for a catastrophe for you,’ Dr McKay said drily. Helen smiled before she remembered herself and pressed her lips together. It wouldn’t do to show any emotion in front of Dr McKay.

No sooner had he said the words than the telephone rang.

Dr Ross burst out laughing. ‘How bizarre! Looks as if your prayers have been answered.’

‘You answer it,’ Penny Willard told the night student. ‘I’m not getting involved, I’ve got a date. It’s probably just another silly, drunken fight anyway.’

The student answered the telephone. As Helen fiddled with the fastening on her cloak, she saw the girl’s expression change, her face draining of colour. Helen glanced at Dr McKay. He was watching the student keenly too.

Moving as one, they both crossed to the desk just as the student put down the receiver.

‘Well?’ Helen said.

‘There’s a fire at the Mission Hall on Hetton Road.’ The girl spoke quietly and calmly, but shock was written all over her face. ‘They were having a party for the local children.’

‘Dear God,’ Dr Ross muttered under his breath.

‘Casualties?’ Dr McKay asked.

The student nodded her head. ‘They don’t know how many. They’re still trying to bring the fire under control. But the ambulances are bringing in the ones who’ve managed to get out, and then they’ll start looking for the others . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

Without thinking, Helen started to unfasten her cloak, then realised Dr McKay was taking off his coat too.

‘What are you doing?’ Dr Ross looked from one to the other of them.

‘What does it look like?’ Dr McKay said. ‘I’m not going to abandon you with all this happening.’

‘I’m sure I can manage.’ Dr Ross said defensively. ‘I don’t need—’

‘Don’t be a fool, man!’ Dr McKay snapped, shrugging on his white coat. ‘Any minute now, dozens of wounded and dying could be coming through those doors, and you’re going to need all the help you can get. So swallow that pride of yours and let’s get on with it, shall we?’

Helen turned to her nurses. They were already taking off their cloaks, looks of grim resignation on their ashen faces. Only Penny Willard stood defiant, her navy cloak still wrapped around her shoulders.

‘I can’t stay,’ she insisted. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting Joe.’

‘You heard what Dr McKay said. We could have dozens of casualties coming in.’

‘But this is important!’

‘More important than saving lives?’

Penny’s voice was choked. ‘You don’t understand. Joe will be so upset. I can’t disappoint him—’

But Helen wasn’t listening. She had already picked up the telephone to ring Theatre for extra help.

‘When the casualties come in, they’ll need to be processed and assessed as soon as possible,’ she told the students. ‘There’s a risk of shock, so they must be kept warm. Kowalski and French, go and round up as many blankets as you can from the wards, and start to prepare hot-water bottles.’

‘What about me? What do you want me to do?’ Helen turned to see Penny Willard had taken off her cloak and was now standing with the other nurses.

Helen acknowledged her with a grateful nod. ‘Thank you, Nurse Willard,’ she said. ‘You can start to prepare the tannic-acid compresses, and make sure we have enough saline drips set up.’ Helen looked around. ‘The consulting rooms might not be enough to cope with all the injuries, so we’ll need to set up extra beds in here,’ she said. ‘Perkins, you can make a start on that.’

‘Yes, Sister.’

‘Good Lord, you make it sound like the field hospital at Scutari!’ Dr Ross laughed nervously. ‘Honestly, Sister, there’s no need to frighten the poor girls. How many casualties do you think there’ll be?’

As if in answer to his question, the stillness of the night was suddenly shattered by the harsh clamour of alarm bells, as three ambulances screeched to a halt outside the double doors.

Helen looked at Dr Ross. ‘I think we’re about to find out.’

The next hour was a blur. Flanked by a string of porters with stretchers and trolleys, Helen waited, shivering with cold and apprehension, as the ambulance men flung open the doors.

At first the injuries were minor. Smelling of smoke, their eyes terrified white orbs in blackened faces, they coughed and choked and clutched burned hands and wrists.

But then the more serious casualties started to arrive, screaming in agony, reeking of burned flesh. Men, women, children, clothes stuck to them like blackened skin, hair, lips and eyelids missing, seared, blistering skin stretched over bone. Beside her, Penny retched and swayed on her feet and Helen put out a hand to steady her.

There were over fifty casualties that night. Helen hurried to and fro, assessing them as they came off the ambulance, sending them for treatment by nurses or doctors depending on the extent of their injuries. Others, who had already died in the ambulance, were sent to the mortuary. At some point the Night Sister Miss Tanner appeared and Helen left her in charge of the ambulances while she went to help the nurses in the Casualty hall.

As she’d predicted, there were not enough consulting rooms to cope with the demand, so she and the nurses moved between makeshift beds, keeping patients warm with blankets and hot-water bottles, setting up drips, giving morphia injections, cutting and soaking off clothing where they could, splinting limbs and applying tannic-acid compresses to raw, blistered flesh.

Matron arrived and Helen was so preoccupied she didn’t even notice her at first, almost pushing past her in her rush to get to the next stretcher.

‘I came to see if I could help, but you seem to be coping, Sister,’ she said.

Helen wanted to laugh. She might seem as if she was coping, but inside she was teetering on the verge of hysterical terror. Couldn’t Matron see the chaos that surrounded her, stretchers and trolleys flying here and there, nurses hurrying past, patients’ screams filling the air?

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Matron asked.

‘You could make tea for the families?’ Helen said without thinking. ‘We’ve left them out in the courtyard because there’s no room for them in here, and I’m worried they’ll freeze.’

For a brief moment Matron stared at her, and Helen realised what she’d done. Then Miss Fox nodded and said, ‘I’ll have them moved to the dining room straight away.’

‘Thank you, Matron.’

‘Not at all, Sister Dawson. Keep up the good work.’

And then she was gone. Helen paused for a moment, wondering if she had really just ordered Matron to put the kettle on. But before she could think about it, one of the students called out,

‘Sister! Sister, come quickly, I don’t know what to do!’

Helen rushed over to where French, one of the students, was kneeling beside a little girl.

‘I thought she was doing all right, but her breathing is erratic,’ she said.

‘Let me see.’ The child, a tiny thing of about six, didn’t seem badly injured, just a slight burn across her hands. But Helen could hear the fearful croaking whoop as she fought for breath, her little ribcage rising and falling under her scorched pink party dress. Beneath the black smoke smuts, her translucent skin had taken on a bluish tinge.

Helen looked up just as Dr Ross swept past, on his way back to the consulting rooms. ‘Doctor?’ she called after him. ‘Doctor, this child needs to be seen.’

Dr Ross retraced his steps and stood over them. ‘She seems all right to me. No obvious sign of injury.’

‘She’s having trouble breathing. I think the smoke has got into her lungs.’

‘I’ll see her in a moment,’ he said. ‘When I’ve dealt with my other patients.’

‘Doctor, please, she’s suffocating!’ Helen called out, but Dr Ross was already walking away.

‘Not now, Sister,’ he threw over his shoulder.

Helen looked at Nurse French. Then she gathered the child up and carried her across the Casualty hall to Dr Ross’s consulting room. The child lay in her arms, as light and limp as a rag doll.

She pushed open the door to the consulting room. Dr Ross looked up with a frown as he stood poised to give an injection to a man with a burn the length of his arm.

‘Doctor, you’ve got to see to this child,’ demanded Helen.

‘I told you, I will when I’ve finished with this patient.’

‘Now, Doctor!’

Dr Ross pulled himself up to his full height and looked as if he was about to let fly, but the patient sitting in front of him broke in quickly.

‘It’s all right, Doctor,’ he said. ‘You see to the kiddie, I can wait.’