Nightingales Under the Mistletoe (3 page)

‘Oh, yes, it's always brown, unless you run the taps for ages and ages,' Daisy replied cheerfully. ‘I think it's rust in the pipes, or something.'

‘Shouldn't Sister get someone to look at it?'

‘Oh, she's tried. But finding a decent plumber is nigh on impossible since they've all been called up. We just have to put up with it.'

Jess eyed the mucky brown water dubiously. It didn't look at all safe. ‘What about when you want to make a hot drink for the patients?'

‘Sister says it's all right as long as we boil it properly. And if it tastes foul most of the patients are too ill to complain anyway!' She gave Jess an apologetic smile. ‘I daresay it's not what you're used to in London, is it?'

Jess thought about working in the bombed-out hospital, sweeping fallen masonry from the floors every morning and boiling instruments for hours over spirit stoves when the power went off. Once she'd even assisted with an operation by shining a torch over the surgeon's shoulder.

‘I dunno about that,' she said. ‘We had to make do in our own way.'

‘I'd love to go to London,' Daisy said, unfolding another towel. ‘I suppose you'll find it all very dull down here. All we get are old ladies with diabetes, heart problems and bronchitis.'

Jess went off to the prep room. It was a tiny space lined with shelves and glass-fronted cupboards containing a variety of preparations in jars and bottles. Two other cupboards were filled with equipment and dressings. In front of her was a counter with a sink and a stove top.

Jess found a pan in the cupboard, filled it with water and set it on the stove. As she went to pick up the sack of linseed from the floor, a scurrying motion caught her eye.

‘Bloody mouse!' She went to catch it but it had already disappeared down a hole in the skirting board.

‘I know. They're everywhere unfortunately,' sighed Daisy Maynard behind her. ‘But they're not nearly as bad as the rats.'

‘Rats?' Jess swung round in horror.

‘Not many,' Daisy assured her hastily. ‘And we hardly ever see them up here. They're mainly in the Fever Wards,' she said, as if that would make Jess feel better.

She examined the nibbled corner of the hessian sack and hoped she'd never see the damage a rat could do.

As she set about weighing out the linseed into a bag and boiling it up, Daisy stood in the doorway and chatted. Jess found out she was twenty-one years old, her parents were dead and she lived with her brothers and sisters. One of her brothers was in the army, and her elder sister was a housemaid at Billinghurst Manor. They lived in one of the workers' cottages on the castle estate.

She also found out that Sister Allen was bitter because her naval officer boyfriend had jilted her, and the previous staff nurse on Female Medical had had to leave quickly for ‘family reasons'.

‘And we all know what that means, don't we?' Daisy gave her a sidelong look.

‘Do we?'

‘You know!' Daisy mimed a pregnancy bump on the front of her apron. ‘Although frankly, I'm amazed she managed to get into trouble since there are no men in the village any more. Not a single one. Not one you'd want to be seen with anyway. If you want to find a decent one, you have to go all the way in to Tunbridge Wells, and there's only one bus a day there and back.' She sighed again. Jess strained the bag from the boiling water, then held up the pan. ‘I'll take this through for you, shall I?' she said, before Daisy could say any more. She'd already made up her mind that Daisy Maynard was a terrible gossip, and Jess had a feeling it wouldn't be long before she herself was being discussed around the hospital.

Eventually, Jess managed to escape Daisy's chatter long enough to get some jobs done. She made and straightened beds, cleaned false teeth, combed hair, sponged faces and applied liberal amounts of methylated spirit to backs and shoulders.

And then it was time for the doctor's round. Jess had pulled down her sleeves and was fastening on her starched cuffs as she joined Daisy and Sister Allen at the doors outside the ward.

‘Really, Jago, your appearance is very sloppy,' Sister Allen hissed. ‘I don't know what kind of standards you had in London, but it really won't do here. Make sure you're properly presented in future.'

‘Yes, Sister.' Jess looked down at herself. She couldn't see anything wrong with her appearance, but she knew better than to contradict a ward sister.

The next moment the doctors came striding up the corridor. There were two housemen, both young men in their twenties, one dark and good-looking, the other gawky and bespectacled with untidy brown hair. Jess instantly recognised the awkward one as the young man who had nearly knocked her down on his bicycle that morning.

If he recognised her he didn't show it. His serious gaze skimmed straight over her towards Sister Allen.

‘Dr Drake,' Daisy whispered. Her downturned mouth told Jess all she needed to know. ‘And the handsome one is Dr French.'

Dr French was much more friendly. He greeted Sister Allen and Daisy, then turned to Jess.

‘And who have we here?' he said, his eyes twinkling. His dark hair was swept off his high, noble brow and his upper lip was outlined with a thin moustache, making him look like Errol Flynn.

Jess cleared her throat nervously. ‘Er – Jago, sir.'

‘It's very nice to meet you, Nurse Jago.' His charming manners confused her. The last time a doctor had spoken to her directly was when Mr Prentiss, the Nightingale's Ear, Nose and Throat consultant, had lambasted her for handing him the wrong forceps.

Dr Drake gave an impatient sigh. ‘May we get on?' he said. ‘We have a great many patients to see.'

‘Yes, yes of course. We all know you're a very busy man, Dr Drake.' Dr French pulled a mocking face at the nurses behind his fellow houseman's back. ‘Lead on, Sister. After you, Dr Drake.'

They couldn't have been more different, Jess thought. Dr Drake was whip thin and radiated impatience, while Dr French preferred to take his time. He would stop to chat to each patient in turn, holding their hands and offering them cigarettes. The women swooned as if he was a visiting movie star.

All the while, Dr Drake would sigh and fidget at the end of the bed. Jess could see a pulse beating rapidly in his neck.

‘Does Dr French always take so long to do his rounds?' she asked Daisy.

‘It depends. Sometimes it takes even longer. Except when Dr Drake is doing the rounds, and then it's over in five minutes. But Dr French is much more patient, which is why everyone adores him. He is divine, isn't he?' she sighed.

‘If you like that kind of thing.' Jess glanced at her watch. It was almost time for lunch, and they weren't nearly ready. Once again, she desperately missed the city, where people didn't know each other's business. Where there were proper routines and things were done with speed and efficiency, and taps didn't belch out rusty water.

She didn't think she would ever get used to country life.

‘
WHAT DO YOU
think you're doing?'

If the girl hadn't been so young and pretty, Stan Salter of the RAF Works Squadron might not have given her the time of day. He'd already got it in the ear from the CO for not getting the job done quickly enough. Added to which it was freezing cold and he wanted to finish work before his fingers dropped off.

But he'd always had a weakness for blondes, and this one was a real peach.

He allowed his gaze to travel the length of her body, from her polished riding boots to the fair curls that framed her face. She reminded Stan of a china doll, with those wide blue eyes and perfect Cupid's bow lips. He'd bet she had a beautiful smile.

But she wasn't smiling now as she stood a few feet away from him, holding on to her horse's bridle. The other hand twitched a riding crop against her slim thigh.

Not that Stan was afraid. His RAF overalls gave him a feeling of power, as well as making him attractive to women in a way he never was in civvies. ‘I'm measuring up,' he told her. ‘What does it look like?'

‘Why?'

He leaned against the tree trunk and took a packet of Craven ‘A's out of his pocket. Since he'd stopped work anyway, he might as well enjoy himself. ‘It's got to come down to make way for the airfield.'

‘What airfield?'

‘You ask a lot of questions, don't you?' He lit his cigarette, cupping his hand around the end to shield it from the cutting November wind. ‘The one they're building on this land.'

‘Since when are they building an airfield?'

‘Since the RAF requisitioned that big house over there.' He nodded towards the manor house that could just be seen beyond the trees. ‘By this time next month, this whole area is going to be full of aircraft hangars and runways. Reckon you'll have to find somewhere else to ride your horse then, eh?'

‘We'll have to see about that, won't we?' The young woman scowled.

‘Oh, don't be like that, sweetheart. Look on the bright side. In a few weeks this place will be swarming with RAF boys. You'll enjoy that, won't you?'

The girl frowned. ‘I don't think I will,' she said.

‘You mean to tell me you wouldn't fancy a pilot for a boyfriend?'

Her horse shied a little. As the young woman went to steady it, Stan caught the flash of gold on her left hand. Typical, he thought. The pretty ones were always taken.

But that didn't mean anything these days. With so many men away fighting, their lonely wives often enjoyed a bit of company.

‘You play your cards right and I could get you an invitation to the big house,' he said. ‘They're going to be having a high old time up there, I expect. Parties and dances and all sorts. We RAF boys know how to have a good time.'

‘Do you indeed?' The girl turned away and swung herself up into the saddle in one nimble movement. ‘Well, it's very kind of you, but I don't think I'm going to need any invitations to that house from you.'

‘Oh?' Stan took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘And what makes you say that?'

‘Because it's my house,' the girl said over her shoulder, as she dug her heels into her horse's flanks and galloped off into the trees.

Mr Rodgers the land agent was in the estate office just behind the stable yard. He jumped up from behind his desk when Millie strode in.

‘Lady Amelia! I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you—'

‘What's all this about the RAF taking over my house?' Millie interrupted him.

Colour rose in his face. ‘Ah.'

‘Well? Is it true?'

He cleared his throat. ‘I'm afraid it is, my lady. The letter came three days ago.'

Millie stared at him, astonished. ‘Why didn't you tell me about it immediately?'

‘I – I didn't want to worry you.'

‘Worry me?' she echoed in disbelief. ‘I'm not a child, Mr Rodgers! Would you have kept this news from my father?'

‘No, of course not. But—'

You're not your father.
The words hung unspoken in the air between them.

Millie forced herself to stay calm. ‘When were you going to tell me?' she asked. ‘Or did you think I wouldn't notice when the RAF moved in to my house?'

Mr Rodgers stared down at the papers on his desk. ‘I was trying to sort something out,' he said quietly. ‘I hoped it wouldn't come to anything …'

‘And in the meantime you decided to keep me in the dark,' Millie said. ‘You had no right to do that, Mr Rodgers. I am responsible for Billinghurst now, and you cannot make decisions without consulting me.'

‘I apologise, my lady. I – I was only trying to help.'

Seeing Mr Rodgers's hangdog expression, Millie was instantly sorry she'd snapped at him. She had come to rely on her land agent in the six months since her father had died. She knew nothing about estate management and Mr Rodgers had been the voice of experience, offering her sound advice and guiding her gently but patiently when she had been too dazed by grief to make a single decision.

It couldn't have been easy for him either, she reflected. He had been her father's land agent for as long as Millie could remember. It must have been difficult for him to suddenly find himself taking orders from a young woman he'd known since she was a little girl.

‘So what exactly is going to happen?' she asked quietly.

‘According to the letter I received, the RAF wants the land at the south-east corner of the park for an airfield.'

‘I know,' Millie said. ‘They've already started measuring it up.'

Mr Rodgers winced. ‘I'm sorry, my lady.'

‘It doesn't matter now,' Millie said. ‘Go on – what else do they want?'

‘Perhaps it's best if you read their letter?' Mr Rodgers handed it over.

Millie scanned the letter, barely taking in the details, discussion over a fair rent, etc. All she could see was that the RAF and Royal Canadian Air Force planned to take over her house as an officers' billet and training centre for a bomber squadron.

At least they weren't fighter pilots, Millie thought. She wasn't sure she could bear the sight of Spitfires from her window. Not after what had happened to Seb.

‘As I said, I'm trying to prevent it,' Mr Rodgers said. ‘I've been writing letters, making telephone calls …'

‘Why would you want to prevent it?' Millie asked, passing the letter back to him.

He looked perplexed. ‘Pardon me, my lady, but I assumed … I didn't think you'd want to have your home taken away from you?'

‘Billinghurst Manor is a big place, Mr Rodgers. I'm sure we can find room for a few RAF officers.'

‘But the RAF, my lady? Surely under the circumstances—'

‘There is a war on, Mr Rodgers, and we all have to play our part,' Millie interrupted him before he could mention Seb's name. ‘I would have liked to be informed, that's all. Does my grandmother know about this?'