The Nightingale Girls - By Donna Douglas Page 0,142
said, ‘Her mother should have been informed, at the very least.’
‘That busybody!’ Florence shook her head. ‘She has her nose stuck into our business far too much as it is.’
‘This hospital is her business,’ Veronica insisted stubbornly. ‘And Helen is her daughter. She has a right to know if the girl is in moral danger . . .’
‘Good heavens, Veronica, you make this place sound like Sodom and Gomorrah!’ Florence stared at her, her eyes narrowing. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of informing Mrs Tremayne yourself?’
‘I think I would want to know, if it were my daughter.’
‘And I think such decisions are best left to Matron. Don’t you agree, Agatha?’
‘I think Veronica must do as her conscience dictates,’ the Home Sister said primly, leaning forward with great effort to offer a biscuit to Sparky.
‘As long as it is her conscience speaking, and not a desire to score points at Matron’s expense? Because such a situation could backfire very badly indeed.’
Veronica was silent, concentrating on her stitching. She could feel Florence’s eyes fixed on her, but refused to meet her gaze.
Florence was wrong, she told herself, this had nothing to do with Matron. Helen Tremayne was an excellent nurse with a bright future ahead of her. It was for the girl’s sake that she had to speak up.
Mrs Tremayne would expect nothing less from her.
Chapter Forty-Six
FOUNDER’S DAY DAWNED bright and clear, as if Mrs Tremayne had organised the weather as well as the event itself. She stood in the centre of the courtyard, dressed in all her finery, greeting the guests as they arrived. Music from a string quartet mingled with the chink of china and muted murmurs of polite conversation.
Millie watched them arrive from the window of Holmes Ward. She was sad to miss the fun but their leave had been cancelled because they were far too busy. They had had several emergency admissions over the past few days, and there were extra beds arranged down the middle of the ward. On top of it all, their senior had gone down with glandular fever and there was no one to cover for her.
Not that that had stopped Sister Holmes and Staff Nurse Lund from sloping off to join the party. ‘I am trusting you and Doyle to look after the ward while we’re away,’ Sister instructed them. ‘You know where we are if there are any emergencies, although hopefully you should be able to manage.’ She sent Millie a severe look. ‘Please try not to lose any patients while we are away.’
‘It’s not fair,’ Millie complained to Dora when they had gone. ‘Now I know how Cinderella felt when she wasn’t allowed to go to the ball.’
‘No point moaning about it,’ Dora shrugged. ‘It’s your turn to change Mr Abbott’s dressing, by the way.’
Millie pulled a face. ‘Do I have to?’ She was rather afraid of Mr Abbott. He had been admitted the previous day with a mysterious leg wound. Rumour had it he was a notorious East End villain who had been shot by a rival gangster. Rumour also had it that the police were keeping guard outside the hospital to make sure he didn’t escape.
Sister Holmes had warned them to ignore the gossip. ‘It really should not concern us who or what he is,’ she told them firmly. ‘As far as we are concerned, he is just another patient who needs our care and attention.’
Mr Abbott, for his part, gave nothing away. He was polite and appreciative of the care he was given. But his craggy, scarred face still gave Millie the shivers.
‘I’ll swop with you, if you like?’ Dora offered. She had been in a very good mood since her stepfather had been discharged a week earlier. It must be the relief that he was fully recovered, Millie thought.
‘No, it’s all right. I mustn’t shirk my responsibilities.’
Be professional, she told herself as she washed her hands and took the sterilised swabs and dressings out of the drum. Remember, he’s just another patient.
Mr Abbott was sitting up in bed, reading Sporting Life.
‘All right, Nurse?’ he greeted her cheerfully. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Abbott.’ Millie desperately tried not to make eye contact as she carefully removed the dressing from his wound.
‘Quite a to-do outside today. What’s that all about, then?’
‘It’s Founder’s Day. They’re having a garden party in the courtyard.’ She examined the wound. It seemed to be healing nicely.
‘Are you not invited, then?’
‘I’m afraid not. We’re far too busy. Sister and Staff have gone, though.’