The Nightingale Girls - By Donna Douglas Page 0,112

up a menu. ‘Now what’s everyone having? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

‘This all looks a lot better than the food we get at Nightingale’s,’ Dora said, perusing the menu.

‘Ugh, don’t remind me.’ Millie pulled a face. ‘How do you think they get their mince that awful grey colour?’

‘Dunno. I reckon they must cook it in the autoclave!’

‘If they cooked it in there at least it would come out hot. The stuff in the dining room is so cold it sticks hard to your plate.’

The nippy approached, looking smartly turned out in her black dress and white cap. ‘What can I get you?’ She smiled brightly at them.

Helen ordered sandwiches and a plate of assorted fancies.

‘I told you I was starving,’ she said, as Helen laughed at her.

Dora took much longer to order, frowning in deep concentration over the menu before closing it up and saying, ‘Just a pot of tea, thank you.’

‘You must have more than that!’ Millie protested.

‘I’m not very hungry.’

‘But we’ve come all this way—’

‘I told you, I’m not hungry.’

Helen caught the obstinate set of Dora’s chin, and realised at once that a pot of tea was all their friend could afford. She also understood that there was no point in offering to pay her share, because Dora was far too proud ever to accept charity, no matter how well meant it was.

They had fun for the rest of the afternoon, laughing and chatting. Helen relaxed so much she was shocked to find a whole twenty minutes went by without her checking her watch. It was such a relief to be able to enjoy eating in a cafe without worrying that her mother was going to pick on a waitress or make a scene.

Millie made them laugh with her stories about what she’d got up to as a debutante.

‘Weren’t you supposed to be chaperoned?’ Helen asked, after she’d finished an outrageous tale about taking a dip in the Serpentine one warm summer’s evening.

‘Oh, yes, but we usually managed to give them the slip.’

‘Sounds like good practice for Nightingale’s!’ Dora said, helping herself to one of the dainty cakes Millie offered her. Helen noticed Millie had pretended to be too full to finish the plate, and told her they would only go to waste otherwise.

‘Yes, it is. Except unlike Nightingale’s we were practically thrown at eligible young men, instead of being kept away from them.’ Millie sighed. ‘But I still managed to avoid getting myself engaged. Now my grandmother thinks I’m on the shelf.’

‘You never know, maybe someone will take pity on you and marry you one day?’ Dora joked, licking icing off her fingers.

‘I hope not! Not for a while anyway. I intend to forget about men and devote myself to nursing for the next three years at least. I mean it,’ she insisted, catching the smile Dora and Helen exchanged. ‘Nearly getting kicked out that last time has made me realise that nursing is really what I want to do.’

‘You said that last time,’ Helen reminded her. ‘Although I must admit, you do seem like a reformed character. You haven’t sneaked in through a window for at least a week.’

‘And I definitely saw you with your nose in a book yesterday,’ Dora put in.

‘You may laugh, but you’ll see. I’m going to be as clever as Lucy Lane.’

‘Oh, no, please!’ Dora laughed. ‘One know-all is enough!’

‘We’ll be the most virtuous room in the whole nurses’ home,’ Millie said. ‘We’ve got no choice really, since none of us has a boyfriend.’ She gazed around the table. ‘Unless anyone’s got one hidden away they’re not telling me about?’

‘No chance,’ said Dora. Helen kept silent.

She stared down at her teacup, but she could feel Millie’s gaze fixed on her. ‘You’ve gone very quiet, Tremayne. You haven’t got an admirer, have you?’

‘Of course she hasn’t,’ Dora answered for her. ‘Leave her alone. You know she’s shy.’

‘Actually,’ Helen found her voice, ‘there is someone . . .’

It was worth breaking her silence just to see the looks of astonishment on their faces.

‘No?’ Millie’s jaw dropped. ‘You are a dark horse, Tremayne. Who is he, this boyfriend of yours? Come on, spill the beans. We’re utterly agog.’

‘He’s not really a boyfriend,’ Helen admitted shyly. ‘He’s just someone I met when I was on Holmes ward.’ Shyness crept over her. ‘He sent flowers and asked me out when he was discharged. He’s written to me a couple of times since then, asking to meet up with me when I’ve finished on