Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Donna Douglas
Title Page
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Copyright
The Nightingale Girls
The Nightingale Sisters
The Nightingale Nurses
Nightingales on Call
A Nightingale Christmas Wish
Nightingales at War
Nightingales Under the Mistletoe
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Epub ISBN: 9781473517301
Version 1.0
Published by Arrow Books 2016
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Copyright © Donna Douglas, 2016
Donna Douglas has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Arrow Books
Arrow Books
The Random House Group Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA
www.penguin.co.uk
Arrow Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099599593
Tackling a book about district nursing in the 1920s was something new for me, so I’m grateful for the help I’ve received along the way. Special thanks goes to Matthew Bradby of the Queen’s Nursing Institute for all his assistance and for allowing me access to the archive of Queen’s Nurse magazine, which I found extremely helpful in piecing together the day-to-day life of a district nurse. If you’re interested in the history of district nursing, I would definitely recommend a visit to the QNI website: www.qni.org.uk.
Thanks also go to my agent, Caroline Sheldon, and to the terrific team at Arrow – my editor Jenny Geras, Kate Raybould, Millie Seaward, and not forgetting the amazing sales team, especially Chris Turner and Aslan Byrne.
Finally, thanks as ever to my husband Ken for his endless patience and good cheer as our lives descend into chaos close to deadline. And to my daughter Harriet for reading all the chapters hot off the press and giving her disarmingly honest opinion. I may not always like it, but she’s nearly always right.
Dedicated to the memory of Digby Clark
The District Nursing Superintendent was late for their meeting.
Agnes Sheridan sat straight-backed on a chair outside Miss Gale’s office, her feet tucked underneath to stop them from tapping impatiently on the tiled floor. On the other side of the hall, a large grandfather clock ponderously marked the passing minutes, reminding her how long she had been kept waiting.
It was really too bad, she thought. She had arrived precisely on time for their meeting at three o’clock, and had even gone to the trouble of taking a taxi she could ill afford from the station, just so she wouldn’t be late.
The skinny little maid appeared from the kitchen and scuttled towards her, head down, eyes averted. She never said a word, but had been patrolling the passageway at regular intervals ever since she’d opened the door to Agnes.
As the girl slid past, Agnes cleared her throat and said, ‘Excuse me. Do you know how much longer Miss Gale might be?’
The maid froze, her eyes bulging in her thin face. She looked like a terrified rabbit.
‘She’s gone to see t’Miners’ Welfare,’ she mumbled in a broad Yorkshire accent.
‘You’ve already told me that.’ Agnes did her best to be patient. ‘I just wondered how long—’
‘I’ve summat on the stove,’ the maid blurted out. And then she was gone, darting back the way she’d come, tripping over her own feet in her rush to get away.
‘Well, that’s nice, I must say!’ Agnes muttered as the kitchen door slammed shut at the far end of the passageway. She had come all the way from Manchester, and hadn’t even been offered a cup of tea.
She looked around, trying to get the measure of her surroundings. The passageway where she sat was long and narrow, with steps leading down to the kitchen at the far end. At the other, sunlight streamed through the stained-glass window above the front door, scattering brilliant diamonds of colour on the tiled floor. In front of Agnes was a door with an engraved brass plate reading ‘Susan Gale – District Nursing Superintendent’. There were other doors leading off from the hallway too. One of them stood open, and through the doorway Agnes could see settees and chairs arranged around a fireplace, with bookshelves to either side and a piano in the corner. The nurses’ common room, she imagined.
There was a telephone on a small stand beside the front door, with a message book open beside it. Further along, the faded wallpaper was covered by a large noticeboard, to which various lists and rotas had been pinned. Below that was a set of a dozen pigeon holes, mostly empty but a few stuffed with uncollected post.
Agnes took some comfort from the familiarity of the scene. It reminded her of the nurses’ home at the hospital in London where she’d trained. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so different after all, she thought.
A crash came from beyond the kitchen door, shattering the silence and making Agnes jump to her feet. She was just wondering if she should investigate when a door closed on the floor above her and she heard the stomp of heavy footsteps.
Agnes looked up to see a woman coming down the stairs towards her. She was in her mid-forties, solid rather than fat, her large body enclosed in a fitted dark blue coat. Wisps of greying hair escaped from under her neat hat.
Before she could speak, there was another crash from the kitchen, followed by loud cursing. Agnes flinched but the woman barely seemed to notice.
‘Pay no attention,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s always the same when Dottie’s cooking. I s’pose you’re the new nurse? Miss Gale said you’d be coming today.’
Agnes straightened her shoulders. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m Agnes Sheridan.’
‘Agnes, eh? Does everyone call you Aggie?’
Agnes winced. ‘I prefer Agnes, if you don’t mind,’ she said.
‘Do you now?’ The other woman looked her up and down, an amused twinkle in her beady dark eyes. ‘Well, Agnes, or whatever you want to call yourself, I’m Bess Bradshaw, the Assistant Superintendent. Miss Gale says I’m to take charge of you while she’s away. So you’d best come with me.’
She led the way down the passage and pushed open a door marked ‘District Room’. Agnes followed her into a large, sunny room lined with cupboards and shelves containing various items of medical equipment. She looked around, taking it all in.
‘This is where we keep our supplies,’ Bess Bradshaw answered the question before Agnes had a chance to ask it. She picked up a large black leather Gladstone bag, set it on the wooden counter and undid the clasp. ‘Each time you go out on your rounds, you’ll need to check your bag to make sure you’ve everything you need.’ Her Yorkshire accent wasn’t as broad as the maid’s, but it was definitely there.
As Agnes watched her holding up a bottle to the light to check its contents, realisation slowly dawned.
‘Surely we’re not going out to see a patient now?’ she asked.
Bess looked at Agnes, the same mocking twinkle as before in her eyes. ‘Where did you think we were going, down the park to feed t’ducks? Pass me the boracic powder, will you? It’s up there, on the top shelf.’
Agnes reached for the glass bottle and put it in Bess’ outstretched hand, her mind racing.
This wasn’t right. At her old hospital a new staff nurse would have to undergo a thorough interview with Matron and be fitted for her uniform before she was allowed anywhere near the wards. And yet here Agnes was, barely over the doorstep before she was being let loose on the patients. It seemed a very haphazard way of going about things.
Was this what district nursing was all about? she wondered.
‘Shouldn’t I wait for the Superintendent?’ she ventured.
‘The Superintendent is in Wakefield, having a meeting with the Miners’ Welfare Committee. She’ll not be back while teatime, and I daresay she won’t be in any mood to see you when she does get back. Miners’ Welfare always puts her in a bad mood.’ Bess Bradshaw checked another bottle, then put it back. ‘And I’m to look after you, and I’ve got a call to make, so you’ll have to come with me.’
‘But—’
‘You’ve come here to train as a Queen’s Nurse, haven’t you?’ Bess cut her off.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Well, there’s no time like the present to start, is there?’
Agnes looked down at herself. ‘But I haven’t even got a uniform.’
‘Oh, stop fretting, lass! It’s a willing pair of hands I’m after, not a starched collar. Now, frame yourself and let’s get going.’
Perhaps this isn’t such a bad thing, Agnes tried to tell herself as she followed the Assistant Superintendent out of the house. Bess Bradshaw was quite right. She had come to train as a district nurse, and the sooner she got started, the better.
After all, she reasoned, it wasn’t as if working on the district was likely to be too difficult. She was a qualified nurse from one of the best hospitals in the country. She could certainly manage to give a few bed baths and change dressings.
But her nerve almost failed when Bess disappeared around the side of the house, only to emerge a moment later wheeling two bicycles. She propped one against the wall and nodded towards it. ‘There you are, lass. Your chariot awaits.’
Agnes stared, appalled. ‘You want me to ride that?’
‘Well, you could walk, but it’ll take you a fair while.’ Bess was already walking away, wheeling her bicycle up the front path. She stopped at the gate and looked back over her shoulder. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’ve never ridden one before?’
‘Well, yes, but …’ Agnes examined it suspiciously. The bike must have been at least thirty years old, a real old boneshaker, rusting and ramshackle.
‘Then get on it and start pedalling! There’s work to be done.’
It was a long time since Agnes had ridden a bicycle, and then it had been along leafy country lanes with her brother and sister when they were children. Nothing had prepared her for the narrow streets of Leeds. She clung on grimly as her bicycle juddered over the cobbles, convinced it was going to break apart at any moment. She could feel her hat slipping down over one eye, but she didn’t dare let go of the handlebars to straighten it.
She tried to keep the Assistant Superintendent’s broad backside in sight, while at the same time dodging the carts that seemed to swerve towards them out of nowhere. With everything else going on around her, it was impossible for Agnes to get her bearings. They seemed to be going south, but nowhere near the wide, busy thoroughfare lined with smart-looking shops that she had glimpsed from the taxi window. The streets Bess Bradshaw led her down were mean and dismal, with scruffy little corner shops on the end of each terrace. There was a poulterer’s, a gentlemen’s hairdressers, a dusty-looking tailor’s workshop, as well as a shop advertising ‘Marine Goods’ that seemed to be filled with nothing more than junk.
As the streets grew narrower, Agnes could feel her spirits starting to fail her. She followed Bess Bradshaw across Hope Street – a misnomer if ever Agnes had seen one – and plunged into a dark warren of alleyways and yards, the houses packed so closely together there was scarcely any daylight to be seen.
A group of women stood on the corner. They nodded briefly to Bess as she passed, then turned blank, hostile stares to Agnes. She could feel their eyes following her as she pedalled harder to catch up with the Assistant Superintendent.
‘Where are we?’ Agnes called out to her.
‘Quarry Hill. It’s one of the poorest areas of the city. The council keep trying to pull it down but the locals don’t want to go.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Because it’s their home.’
Bess turned sharply and led the way down a dirty, narrow alley. As they passed along, Agnes glimpsed various openings in the high wall, leading to what seemed to be tiny yards, each crammed with a haphazard arrangement of terraced houses. The pungent smell of sewage mingled with dirt and stale sweat and factory smoke, which hung in the still warmth of the late-summer air.
Agnes shuddered. ‘I don’t know how they bear it,’ she muttered. She risked lifting a hand to brush away a fly that buzzed around her face, then grabbed the handlebars again as the bicycle veered sideways into the wall.
Bess sent her a mocking look. ‘Don’t you have poor people in London?’
Agnes didn’t reply. Of course she knew all about poverty. She had trained at the Nightingale Hospital in Bethnal Green, one of the poorest areas of the city. But by the time the local people were admitted to hospital, they had generally been scrubbed clean and deloused, their filthy clothes sent off to the incinerator. Agnes had never had to visit the patients in their homes or witness their poverty at such close quarters.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ Bess said. ‘Although I daresay some of the sights you’ll see on your rounds will make your hair curl.’
Agnes pulled herself together. She knew she was making a bad impression, and she didn’t want the Assistant Superintendent to think she couldn’t manage.
‘I’m sure it won’t be that bad,’ she said bracingly. ‘Besides, I’ve been well trained. I think I can cope with anything.’
‘You think so, do you?’
‘Of course,’ Agnes declared, then added, ‘The Nightingale is one of the best teaching hospitals in the country.’
She hadn’t meant to sound arrogant. But as soon as she saw Bess Bradshaw’s frown she knew she’d said the wrong thing.
‘Is that right? Happen you think you could teach us a thing or two, in that case?’ she said, with a disparaging sniff.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ Agnes murmured. But Bess had already cycled off ahead and she had no choice but to follow lamely behind. This wasn’t what she’d been hoping for. District nursing was supposed to be a new start for her, and she had already managed to upset the Assistant Superintendent.
But deep down Agnes still had a sneaking feeling she probably could teach the other nurses a thing or two. After all, district nursing couldn’t possibly be as difficult as working on a ward. Changing dressings and giving baths was the kind of work probationer nurses did at the Nightingale. It was hardly what Agnes would call proper nursing.
Although she was probably better off keeping those opinions to herself, she realised.
Bess took a sharp turn left into a yard. ‘Right, here we are.’ She swung herself off her bicycle and propped it against the whitewashed wall of an outside privy. ‘We’ll walk through from here.’
Agnes dismounted gingerly and stood for a moment, waiting to recover her balance. ‘What shall I do with the bicycle?’ she asked.
‘Oh, we just leave them anywhere.’
‘Will they be safe?’
Bess sent her an almost pitying look. ‘Of course they’ll be safe. No one round here would steal a district nurse’s bicycle.’ She retrieved her Gladstone bag from the front basket. ‘Now come on.’
‘Who are we going to see?’ Agnes asked, following her through a tiny gap between two buildings.
‘A lass called Maisie Warren. She’s not been well all throughout her pregnancy, and since she’s got no family around her, I’ve been calling in every week or so to keep an eye on her …’
Bess went on talking, but Agnes had ceased to listen. All she could hear was the blood thrumming in her ears.
Pregnant. Why did that have to be her first case?
She wanted to turn and run, but Bess had already ducked under a drooping line of grubby washing and was heading for a back door. The paint was peeling off it, exposing bare, rotten wood beneath. The sour odour of urine hung in the air from the outhouses across the yard.
A filthy-looking child sat on the doorstep, prodding at a crack in the concrete with a twig. She was no more than five years old, her feet bare and ingrained with dirt. From behind her, inside the house, came the sound of a baby screaming.
‘Hello, pet,’ Bess greeted her. ‘I’ve come to see your mum.’
‘She’s asleep,’ the girl replied, not looking up. ‘Mrs Pilcher says she’s poorly, and I’m not to bother her till she wakes up.’
‘Mrs Pilcher?’ Agnes saw Bess stiffen, her hand on the doorlatch. ‘Has she been to see your mum, love?’
The girl nodded, still poking at the crack. Inside the house, the baby’s cries grew more insistent. ‘She told me to wait out here. But our Ronnie’s been making such a racket.’ She looked up for the first time, gazing at them with round, solemn eyes in a grimy face. She was the grubbiest child Agnes had ever seen. ‘Shall I go and see to him? I didn’t like to disturb Mum, not after Mrs Pilcher told me not to.’
‘Why don’t you let me see to him, love?’ Bess replied. Her voice was bright, but Agnes could see her smile was stretched a little too wide. ‘You wait out here a bit longer, and I’ll make sure your brother’s all right.’
‘What about Mum? Mrs Pilcher said—’
‘Oh, I’m sure she won’t mind. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse. Now you be a good girl and wait out here.’
The little girl stuck out her chin. ‘I am a good girl. Mrs Pilcher told me so. She gave me a toffee.’
‘That’s nice, love,’ Bess replied absently, her hand already lifting the latch. The door stuck, and she leaned her shoulder against it to shift it open. ‘Give us a hand’ she hissed to Agnes, who quickly stepped forward to help. They pushed hard until the door finally gave.
Inside the cottage was in darkness, all the curtains pulled closed. Even though it was a warm September afternoon, a fire blazed in the grate. Agnes was nearly knocked sideways by the sweltering heat, as well as the sickening stench of decay, sour sweat and general filth. She put her hand over her mouth quickly as she felt the bile rising in her throat.
A screaming toddler waddled towards them out of the gloom, naked but for a grey, sodden nappy hanging low between his legs. He stretched out his arms imploringly to Agnes, his tearful face contorted.
‘Well, don’t just stand there. Can’t you see the poor mite wants to be picked up?’ Bess said.
Agnes reached down reluctantly and scooped him up, holding him at arm’s length. The reek of ammonia from his urine-soaked nappy made her eyes water.
‘What shall I do with him?’ she asked through clenched lips.
‘Use your common sense, girl,’ Bess snapped, dumping her bag on the kitchen table. There was a strained edge to her voice that Agnes hadn’t heard before. ‘Now, let’s get these curtains open, so we can see what we’re doing.’
Bess pulled back the thin curtains, but scant light came through the grimy glass. ‘Maisie?’ she called out. ‘Are you about, love?’
Agnes looked around. The single room seemed to be a kitchen and living room combined. A heavy black cooking range was built around the fire, with a stone sink on the opposite wall, under the window. A scrubbed table and chairs and a small, threadbare armchair filled the rest of the room. A door on the other side led to what Agnes guessed must be the bedroom.
‘Who’s Mrs Pilcher?’ she asked.
‘You don’t want to know,’ Bess said grimly. ‘But if she’s been sniffing around … Maisie?’ she called out again. ‘It’s the district nurse, pet. Just come to make sure you’re all right.’
She headed for the bedroom door, leaving Agnes still dangling the baby at arm’s length. At least he’d stopped crying for the moment, and was staring at her with wide, wet eyes full of curiosity. Twin trickles of mucous ran from his tiny button nose.
She was looking around for somewhere to settle him when Bess reappeared, her face white.
‘Miss Sheridan?’ Agnes took one look at the Assistant Superintendent’s expression and quickly dumped the baby on the rag rug in front of the fire. Ignoring his screams of outrage, she hurried towards the bedroom.
‘No, don’t go in—’ Bess tried to block her way but the metallic stench of blood had already filled Agnes’ nose and throat. Over Bess’ shoulder she saw a young woman lying on the bed, livid white against a tangle of blood-soaked sheets. Agnes reeled back, putting her hand up as if to ward off the dreadful sight.
‘You asked about Mrs Pilcher.’ Bess’ voice was low and matter-of-fact. ‘Well, this is her handiwork.’
‘Is … is she …?’
‘She’s dead, poor lass.’ Bess shook her head. ‘You’d best go and fetch the doctor,’ she said. ‘The surgery is on Vicar Lane, just down from the District House. Go by Templar Street, it’ll be quicker … Miss Sheridan? Agnes? Are you listening?’
Bess’ voice seemed to come from the end of a long tunnel. Tiny black dots danced before Agnes’ eyes. She clutched at the doorframe for support as she felt her knees buckle beneath her. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was the woman’s glazed, dead stare.
A pair of hands closed firmly on her shoulders, propelling her away from the scene. Agnes tried to take a step but her legs wouldn’t hold her. The last thing she heard was Bess Bradshaw saying her name as she slithered gracefully to the floor.
She opened her eyes a moment later, to find herself slumped in the threadbare armchair with the Assistant Superintendent leaning over her, wafting a bottle of sal volatile under her nose. Bess Bradshaw’s beady eyes were mocking.
‘Do you still think you can cope with anything, Miss Sheridan?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry you had such an unsettling experience on your first day, Miss Sheridan.’
The Superintendent, Miss Gale, was at least more sympathetic than her assistant when Agnes met her on their return to the district nurses’ house.
In fact, Susan Gale couldn’t have been more different from Bess Bradshaw. She was in her fifties, and as delicate and fine-boned as the Assistant Superintendent was broad. She reminded Agnes of a little bird, perched behind her desk, with her bright dark eyes and beaked nose.
Agnes approved of her instantly. Miss Gale was neat and orderly, exactly the kind of nurse Agnes was used to, unlike rough and ready Bess.
Hot colour flooded Agnes’ face at the memory of Bess waving a bottle of sal volatile under her nose.
‘Call yourself a nurse?’ she’d mocked. ‘Much use you’re going to be, if you keep fainting at the sight of blood!’
But Agnes couldn’t help it. Even now, she could feel the oppressive heat of that room, and the smell so thick she could almost taste it on the back of her throat. And all the time the desperate, relentless wail of a motherless baby coming from the other room …
‘Nevertheless,’ Agnes snapped back to reality at the sound of Miss Gale’s voice, ‘this is the sort of thing you should expect as a district nurse. You must be prepared for anything.’
‘Yes, Miss Gale,’ Agnes murmured. ‘I will be, I assure you.’
The Superintendent looked at her shrewdly from across the desk. ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘At any rate, you’ll have a month to make up your mind whether or not you are suited to district nursing. You will be on an initial four weeks’ probation period, during which time you will undertake a period of study, as well as accompanying one of our experienced district nurses on her rounds. Should you pass the probation period, you will spend a further five months going out on the district on your own, with only occasional supervision. Do you think you will be able to manage that?’
Agnes pressed her lips together. Of course she could manage! At the Nightingale, she had been trained to deal with all kinds of emergencies. Today had just been a shock to her, that was all.
But she was careful not to let her feelings show in front of the Superintendent. She had already offended Bess Brad-shaw with one careless remark. ‘I’m sure I’ll learn a great deal, Miss Gale,’ Agnes said humbly.
‘That’s the spirit!’ The Superintendent smiled at her. ‘Now, go up to your room and unpack. I’m sure you’d like to refresh yourself after your long day. Tea is at five o’clock. We gather together in the dining room, so you’ll be able to meet the other nurses then. Dottie?’ she called out.
The door opened and there was the scrawny little maid who had given Agnes such a peculiar welcome earlier. Never had anyone lived up to their name so well, Agnes thought. She did look decidedly dotty, with her starched cap perched lopsided on her colourless flat hair. The apron she wore seemed to engulf her, skimming her ankles, the ties wrapped at least twice around her narrow waist.
‘Ah, Dottie. This is Miss Sheridan, who will be joining us. She will be in room three, with Polly Malone. You remember, I asked you to put her suitcase up there earlier? Will you show her the way, please?’
Dottie kept shooting Agnes sideways glances as she led the way up the stairs. But Agnes was too busy listening to Bess Bradshaw’s voice coming from the common room below her.
‘Went as white as a sheet, she did,’ she was saying. ‘Honestly, you’ve never seen anything like it. Next thing she’s fainted dead away.’
‘You can’t blame her,’ another woman’s voice said. ‘I don’t know how I would have managed if I’d been faced with something like that, especially on my first day. I hope you didn’t frighten her off.’
‘Happen I did,’ Bess said.
‘Oh, don’t say that! We need more girls in district nursing. Miss Gale will have a fit if you scare this one away. Especially as her mother is a friend of hers.’
‘I don’t know if we need girls like her,’ Bess Bradshaw said. ‘Between you and me, I don’t think she’s got the heart for this kind of work. If I know anything, she’ll be gone by the end of the month.’
That’s where you’re wrong, Agnes thought. She couldn’t leave, no matter how much she might want to. She had nowhere else to go.
Dottie led her along the landing and opened the door to a bedroom. It was large and sunny, decorated with flower-sprigged wallpaper. The window had a view over a large back garden with a riot of shrubs, trees and slightly overgrown grass.
There were single beds on opposite sides of the room, one chest of drawers and two bedside cabinets.
‘You’ll sleep there.’ Dottie pointed to the bed on the side farthest from the window. Having imparted this information, she turned and abruptly left, slamming the door behind her.
What an odd girl, Agnes thought as she listened to the maid thumping down the stairs.
But at least the room was pleasant, she thought as she lifted her suitcase on to the bed. Her bedroom at St Jude’s in Manchester had been scarcely more than a cell, with a horsehair mattress, thin grey blankets, and walls decorated with a large wooden cross and framed Bible quotations worked in needlepoint, reminding them all that they were sinners in God’s eyes.
She shuddered at the memory. She hadn’t been sorry to leave that place, any more than Matron had been sorry to see her go.
Agnes set about unpacking her suitcase. It was difficult to find space, since her room mate’s belongings seemed to be everywhere. A silver-backed brush and mirror, hair curlers, a bottle of scent and various items of make-up littered the top of the chest of drawers, along with a couple of textbooks and a copy of Picturegoer magazine. There was a lipstick and a powder compact on the bedside cupboard, next to a framed photograph of a handsome, grinning young man.
It was lucky she hadn’t brought much with her, Agnes thought as she cleared a small space in the wardrobe for her few items of clothing. She had left most of her belongings behind at St Jude’s, along with her old life.
But she hadn’t left her photographs behind, and she was thankful for that as she took out her favourite and gazed at it, losing herself for a moment in the warm memory.
It had been taken when she was ten years old. There were her parents, and her sister Vanessa, just fifteen and already blooming into a beautiful young woman. As usual, her sister was at their mother’s side, both of them slim, fair and elegant, like two peas in a pod. Agnes was more like her father, with her chestnut hair and bright brown eyes. He stood with one arm around her shoulders, smiling into the camera. Dr Charles Sheridan, respected GP. Handsome and confident, he had always been Agnes’ hero.
And there, in the middle of them all, was her darling brother Peter. Seventeen years old, posing with his cricket bat as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Who could ever have imagined that two years later the Great War would take him away from them? Or that the same war would destroy her father’s indomitable spirit, so that even now, seven years after the Armistice, he was still haunted by dreadful nightmares?
Poor Daddy, Agnes thought. She loved her father, doted on him as much as Vanessa did their mother. After Peter was killed, Agnes had done her best to make up for the loss of her brother. She had been son and daughter to her father. Always a tomboy, she had thrown herself into her brother’s favourite pursuits, playing cricket and fishing in the lake for hours to keep her father company. She had even tried to fulfil his ambition for Peter by becoming a doctor. Her mother would never have allowed Agnes to study medicine, of course, but nursing was the next best thing.
Charles Sheridan had been so proud of her when she’d qualified. She could remember the day she’d collected her medal, seeing his beaming face in the crowd. He smiled so seldom, it had warmed her heart to see it. She was the best student in her year, and she’d done it for him, to make him proud.
Agnes put up her hand, as if she could feel his arm slipping from around her shoulders. She desperately wanted to grab it back, to feel the protective weight of it one last time, reassuring her that all would be well. But it was gone, and she knew it would be a long time before she felt that reassurance again.
She finished unpacking, and then quickly wrote a note to her mother, letting her know she had arrived safely. She wasn’t sure if she would read it, but it comforted Agnes to write it anyway.
As she pulled the last envelope out of her notecase, another photograph fell out and fluttered to the ground. Agnes bent to pick it up without thinking, and a tremor of shock ran through her at the unexpected sight of herself holding hands with Daniel.
She must have taken it with her when she went to St Jude’s, she thought. Or perhaps she had slipped it into her notecase the day she had written to him to end their engagement. It seemed strange to think that he had been with her for the past six months and she hadn’t even known.
Perhaps it was better that way, she thought. Otherwise she might have weakened towards him. There were so many times over the past few months when she had longed to see his face and hear his voice again. It was difficult to stay strong when she was so dreadfully unhappy.
Agnes stuffed the photograph into her bedside drawer and slammed it shut. She knew she should throw it away, but even now she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
She retrieved her toiletries bag, changed into her dressing gown and went off to the bathroom to wash off the stink of Quarry Hill, which still hung about her in a sour cloud. She would have to burn her clothes, she thought. She didn’t think she could bear to wear them again, no matter how well they were washed.
The bathroom was large and she filled the tub up to the brim with water, adding a handful of Epsom salts she found on the shelf. Then she undressed and got into the bath, enjoying the luxurious feel of the warm water soothing her travel-weary limbs.
As she lay in there, in the distance she heard the front door opening and the sound of voices in the hall below. The first of the district nurses must be returning from their duties, she thought. Agnes wondered briefly about getting out of the bath and going downstairs, but couldn’t bring herself to leave the warm, enveloping embrace of the water. She felt safe there. While she was lying there, with the water lapping around her chin and ears, no one could reach her or hurt her. She could put off facing the world. And besides, she was so tired, her heavy eyelids didn’t seem to want to open …
A sharp knock on the door jolted her awake. On the other side of the door a cross voice said, ‘I say, are you going to be all day?’
Agnes jerked upright, water splashing over the sides of the tub on to the linoleum floor. ‘Hello?’ she called out, startled.
‘Are you coming out?’ the cross voice demanded. ‘Only it’s nearly teatime and other people need to use the bathroom, you know.’
‘Oh! I’m sorry.’ Agnes quickly got out of the bath and pulled her dressing gown around herself. She opened the door, to be greeted by a young woman of about her own age. She was small and plain, with muddy brown hair and snapping grey eyes under heavy brows.
‘I’m sorry,’ Agnes repeated, still fumbling with the ties of her dressing gown. ‘I didn’t realise I’d been in the bath so long. I – I must have fallen asleep …’
‘I hope you haven’t used all the hot water?’ the girl said, brushing past her. ‘Oh, I see you have. And what’s all this mess?’ She looked accusingly at the puddles of water on the floor.
‘I’ll clean it up—’ Agnes started to say, but the girl waved her away.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘Just go away, will you? I barely have enough time as it is.’
She slammed the door in Agnes’ face, leaving her standing on the landing, staring in dismay.
Shaken, she returned to her room, and changed quickly into the uniform that had been provided for her. The plain blue dress was similar to the one she had worn at the Nightingale, but it had been so long since she’d worn it, everything seemed unfamiliar to her.
She was still fumbling with the studs on her starched collar when the door flew open and another young woman came in, pulling off her hat.
She stopped short when she saw Agnes. ‘Oh, hello,’ she greeted her. ‘You must be my new room mate?’
Agnes nodded. ‘I’m Agnes Sheridan.’ She looked around. ‘I hope you don’t mind, I had to move a few of your things to make room for mine …’
‘Oh, don’t worry about it. I would have moved them myself if I’d known you were coming today.’ The newcomer picked up an armful of belongings and tipped them into her bedside drawer. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very tidy at the best of times, and I’ve got even worse since the last girl left.’ She looked to be in her mid-twenties, perhaps a couple of years older than Agnes, tall and slender with fashionably shingled blonde hair framing a delicate, pretty face. Her accent was gentle, but unmistakably local. ‘I’m Polly, by the way. Polly Malone. Have you been here long?’
‘I arrived a couple of hours ago.’
‘I suppose you’ll just be getting used to the place, then. Don’t worry, you’ll settle in quickly.’ Polly sat down on the bed and pulled off her shoes. ‘Have you met Phil yet?’
‘Phil?’
‘Philippa Fletcher. Except everyone calls her Phil. She’s the other trainee. About this height, brown hair, grey eyes. Usually in a bad temper about something.’
‘Ah.’ Agnes nodded. ‘Yes, I think I have met her.’
Polly smiled. ‘Oh dear! I can see you have. Don’t worry, her bark is far worse than her bite. She’s a sweetie once you get to know her.’
‘We didn’t get off to a very good start,’ Agnes said ruefully. ‘I stole all her bathwater.’
‘No wonder she was cross, then. Phil and Miss Templeton cover one of the rural areas, out towards Wakefield,’ Polly explained. ‘They have to travel miles and miles on their bikes, and poor Phil so looks forward to her relaxing soak when she comes home. Don’t look so stricken, you weren’t to know!’ She smiled at Agnes. ‘You’ll get used to everyone and their little ways soon, I’m sure.’
I wouldn’t bet on it, Agnes thought, fiddling with her collar buttons. ‘How long have you been here?’ she asked.
‘Just a month. I finished my probation last week, so I’m making calls on my own now.’ Polly fluffed up her blonde hair and reached for her lipstick. ‘Have they told you which nurse you’ll be paired up with?’ she asked, catching Agnes’ eye in the mirror.
‘Not yet.’
‘Oh, well, with any luck you’ll get someone nice. Most of the district nurses here are delightful, with a couple of exceptions.’ She grimaced at her reflection as she painted on a perfect pink Cupid’s bow.
A picture of Bess Bradshaw came into Agnes’ mind. If any of the district nurses were nice, she certainly hadn’t met them yet.
A bell rang downstairs. ‘Teatime,’ Polly declared, pressing her lips together and putting the gold cap back on her lipstick. ‘Now you can meet everyone.’
The other nurses were already seated around the table, but the hum of conversation stopped the moment Agnes walked in. Her stomach sank at the sight of so many curious faces turned towards her.
‘Ah, Miss Sheridan,’ Miss Gale greeted her. She looked even tinier beside Bess Bradshaw, who sat next to her. ‘Do come and join us. Everyone, this is our latest recruit, Agnes Sheridan.’
‘But she doesn’t like to be called Aggie,’ Bess Bradshaw put in, a hint of mockery in her voice.
There was a low murmur of greetings around the table from the other women. Agnes tried to take in their names as Miss Gale introduced them all – Miss Templeton, Miss Goode, Miss Jarvis, Miss McLeod, Miss Hook – ‘And of course, you already know Mrs Bradshaw,’ Miss Gale finished, with a glance to the woman at her side.
‘Oh yes, we know each other all right!’ Bess said.
Agnes couldn’t look at the other nurses as she took her place at the table between Polly and Miss Hook. The women’s expressions were bland, but she knew what they were really thinking behind those polite smiles. Bess Brad-shaw would have told them all about their dismal visit to Quarry Hill, and how the new girl had made a fool of herself.
‘And this is Miss Fletcher, one of your fellow trainees,’ Miss Gale went on. ‘I daresay she will help you to settle in.’
The cross-looking girl scowled back at her from the far end of the table. If their earlier encounter was anything to go by, Agnes didn’t think Phil Fletcher was going to offer much help at all.
Dottie had set out a delicious-looking tea, with plates piled high with sandwiches, cakes and scones with jam. It was a long time since Agnes had seen such a spread. At St Jude’s meals had been very Spartan affairs, eaten in silence at a long table in the chilly refectory, with the Matron watching over them all. Here, laughter and chatter flowed as plates were passed around the table, and cups filled with tea from the big brown china pot.
Of course, the nurses all wanted to know about Agnes. She braced herself against the barrage of questions. Where was she from? Did she have any family? What had made her decide on district nursing?
‘I hear you trained in London?’ Miss Goode spoke up. She was younger than most of the other nurses, in her late twenties, and looked as if she lived up to her name with her pleasant face, shiny pink cheeks, fluffy golden hair and wide blue eyes. Angelic goodness seemed to shine out of her.
Agnes nodded. ‘At the Nightingale Hospital.’
‘So you’re a Nightingale girl, are you?’ Miss MacLeod, a brisk Scot, nodded her approval. ‘It’s a very fine establishment, so I understand. We can expect great things of you, Miss Sheridan.’
Agnes heard Bess’ muffled snort from the other side of the table and blushed furiously.
‘I have a friend at the Nightingale,’ Miss Goode said. ‘Miriam Trott and I trained together, but she has just been appointed a ward sister there. You must know her?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ Agnes said quietly.
‘But you must,’ Miss Goode insisted. ‘She has been there at least six months. She is on one of the female wards. Gynae, I think …’
‘I left the Nightingale six months ago,’ Agnes said.
‘Oh? And where have you been since?’ Miss McLeod wanted to know.
Agnes stared down at the crumbs on her plate. ‘St Jude’s,’ she said in a low voice. She could feel her face flaming.
Miss McLeod frowned. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of it.’
‘It’s a maternity home. In Manchester.’
‘I suppose you went there to do your midwifery?’ Polly said excitedly. ‘Lucky you. I can’t wait to do mine.’
Bess gave another derisive snort. ‘You’ve got to finish your training here first,’ she said, helping herself to a scone.
An uncomfortable silence followed. Agnes looked up, her own embarrassment forgotten. There was something going on, but she wasn’t quite sure what.
‘And so she will, in a few months,’ said Miss Jarvis, giving Polly an encouraging smile. She was in her forties, tall and angular. But her soft voice and warm smile transformed her gaunt features.
‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ Bess muttered. ‘And I see you’re wearing make-up again?’ she added. ‘How many times have you been told about that?’
Now it was Polly’s turn to stare down at her plate. The poor girl looked crushed. ‘I am off duty,’ she murmured.
‘You’re still wearing your uniform.’ Bess pointed the end of a butter knife towards her. ‘I’m warning you, if I see you wearing it again I’ll drag you to that bathroom and scrub it off your face myself!’
A slight frost seemed to descend over the tea table, and the conversation suddenly became stilted and self-conscious. Miss Hook lifted the mood slightly by reciting an amusing poem she intended to submit to the Queen’s Nurse magazine. But as the other nurses listened, Agnes was still painfully aware of Polly sitting silently beside her.
Only Bess Bradshaw seemed unconcerned as she spooned jam on to another scone and stuffed it into her mouth. She really was an unpleasant woman, Agnes thought.
It was almost a relief when tea was over and they could all disperse. A couple of the nurses went off to the common room, while others returned to their rooms. Agnes approached Polly as she was heading towards the stairs.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ Polly replied, but her smile was brittle.
‘Take no notice of Mrs Bradshaw. She’s a horrible woman,’ Agnes said.
Polly stopped on the stairs. ‘What makes you say that?’ she asked.
As they returned to their room, Agnes explained what had happened earlier that day. Polly listened sympathetically.
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she said when Agnes had finished. ‘What an awful thing to happen on your first day.’
‘Mrs Bradshaw didn’t make it any better,’ Agnes said. ‘ “Call yourself a nurse, Miss Sheridan?” ’ she mimicked the Assistant Superintendent’s Yorkshire accent.
Polly smiled. ‘That sounds just like her. And you’re right, she can be very unkind sometimes.’
‘Well, I’ve made up my mind I’m not going to pay any attention to her,’ Agnes declared. ‘And I don’t think you should either.’
‘That might be more difficult for me than it is for you.’
‘Why?’
Polly’s smile grew sad. ‘Because she’s my mother,’ she said.
‘You didn’t have to humiliate poor Polly like that,’ Ellen Jarvis said as they left the dining room together.
Bess had been expecting her to say something. Ellen was always sticking up for Polly. ‘I were only speaking the truth,’ she insisted. ‘You know what she’s like. Never sticks at owt.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘She didn’t stick to her nurse’s training first time round, did she?’
‘Yes, but she went back to the hospital and got her qualification in the end. That can’t have been easy for her. And she’s doing very well with her district nursing.’
‘She’s only been training for a month! And you heard her, she’s already going on about midwifery.’ Bess shook her head. ‘As I said, that girl never sticks at owt.’
‘Well, I think she’s showing a great deal of character, under the circumstances.’
Bess understood what she meant, but chose to ignore it. It was all very well for Ellen to lecture her, but she wasn’t Polly’s mother. She hadn’t been through all the heartache that Bess had.
And even though they had been good friends for many years, sometimes Bess found Ellen Jarvis a bit too saintly.
‘Time will tell,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about my daughter. What do you make of the new lass?’
‘Miss Sheridan? She seems all right to me. Very quiet, but I suppose she’s just shy.’
‘I think she’s hiding summat.’
Ellen laughed. ‘Oh, Bess! How can you say that? You hardly know the girl. Besides, Miss Gale has vouched for her. She and Miss Sheridan’s mother were old school friends, I believe.’
‘I know, but there’s summat about her I can’t put my finger on.’
‘I might have known you’d be suspicious!’
‘That’s as may be,’ Bess said. ‘But I’m going to ask Miss Gale if I can go on t’district with her.’
‘Haven’t you done enough? You’ve already frightened the girl out of her wits today. You don’t want to scare her off completely.’
‘She shouldn’t be a district nurse in the first place if she’s that easily scared. No, I’m going to find out exactly how well trained our hoity-toity Miss Sheridan really is.’
Ellen looked at her friend thoughtfully. ‘You really have taken against her, haven’t you?’
‘As I said, there’s summat about her I can’t put my finger on,’ Bess said. ‘But if Agnes Sheridan has a secret then I mean to find out what it is!’
‘Butchered,’ Lil Fairbrass said. ‘That’s what I heard, at any rate.’
Christine Fairbrass sat at the kitchen table, trying to fathom a difficult algebraic equation while her mother huddled on the other side of the room by the range, talking to their next-door neighbour Rene Wells in hushed whispers. Christine knew she wasn’t supposed to be listening, least of all understanding what they were discussing, but it had been all over Quarry Hill by the time she got home from school. By teatime, everyone knew how poor Maisie Warren had been found dead by the district nurse, with her poor little bairns sobbing next to her.