The Nightingale Girls - By Donna Douglas Page 0,30

the world. ‘Of course you’ll get in, you silly girl,’ she’d said. ‘I’ll see to that.’

And she had. Helen had sat mute during the interview as her mother made all kinds of promises on her behalf to be a good, upright, moral character. She sang her daughter’s praises so highly Helen almost didn’t recognise herself. She certainly didn’t sound like the same girl her mother was always criticising for being lazy, untidy or walking with hunched shoulders.

Her interview had happened before the old Matron left, which was just as well as Helen suspected that her mother didn’t have a great deal of time for the new one. She had been most put out when the rest of the Board of Trustees had overruled her and appointed Miss Fox. Helen wasn’t sure her mother would ever be able to forgive them or the new Matron for it.

But the old one had been cut from the same cloth as Constance Tremayne. Together they had shaken their heads and tutted over the dreadful state of young women these days, and Constance Tremayne had assured Matron that her daughter wasn’t like that at all, that she was an upright, God-fearing young woman who went to church every Sunday, worked hard at her school studies and had no social life at all.

When the interview was over Matron had said, ‘Well, Mrs Tremayne, I hope Helen becomes as excellent a nurse as her mother obviously was.’

And Constance Tremayne had simpered and preened and thanked her for her time. And then she had dragged Helen to Bentalls in Kingston and kitted her out with stout black shoes, a watch with a second timer, and half a dozen sets of dreadful combinations which she insisted Helen should wear even though she loathed the very sight of them.

She didn’t think she would ever be as good a nurse as her mother had been. Constance Tremayne was a woman of such energy and high moral character, her daughter was only ever going to be a disappointment by comparison.

From far away came the faint rumble of thunder. Helen looked up at the pewter-coloured sky, still dark and heavy with clouds. It was nearly seven o’clock on what promised to be a damp, grey November Sunday morning.

She wondered whether it was raining over in Richmond, and whether anyone would venture to church for her father’s service. She hated to think of him working so hard on his sermon and no one being there to appreciate it.

‘Helen, wait!’ She glanced over her shoulder at the young man hurrying towards her, his white coat flapping.

She suppressed a sigh of irritation as he fell into stride beside her. She was tall but he stood half a head above her, all lanky angles, his dark hair sticking up in untidy tufts, defying his attempts to comb it.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said.

‘What do you want, William?’

He looked hurt. ‘Can’t a chap show an interest in his sister without having an ulterior motive?’

‘Not in your case.’

Fat drops of rain began to spatter down on the cobbles. Helen quickened her pace but William pulled her into the shelter of the trees in the centre of the courtyard.

‘I can’t stand here, I’ll be late,’ she protested.

‘You’re not due on the ward for another ten minutes.’

‘We’re not supposed to talk to men.’

‘I’m your brother, I don’t count. Anyway, I want to ask you a favour.’

A couple of other nurses had also taken shelter under the plane trees. Helen pretended not to notice as her brother gave them an appreciative once over. She tapped her foot and peered up at the sky. Another couple of minutes and she ran the risk of being late. What would Sister Holmes say then?

William, on the other hand, seemed in no hurry to go anywhere. He stood there whistling, his hands in the pockets of his white coat, unconcerned by the needs of his waiting patients. Such was the life of a senior houseman, Helen thought.

‘Heard from Mother?’ he asked.

‘I had a letter yesterday.’

He grinned. ‘Let me guess. Several pages of closely written script, warning you against everything from fraternising with medical students to not wearing your combinations?’

‘It’s not funny. Anyway, you’re the one she should have her eye on, not me. Why don’t you ever get letters from her?’

‘I do get letters from her. All the time. But I can’t help it if I’m too busy saving lives to answer them, can I?’ His expression of mock innocence made Helen smile in spite