The Nightingale Girls - By Donna Douglas Page 0,36
said a word to any of the other patients.
She wondered if she should mention his fiancée. But as she put his plate of boiled fish and mashed potatoes in front of him, he blurted out, ‘Sally decided not to come. Reckons she just can’t face seeing me in pain like this.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t blame her. I’d be the same if it was her in this hospital bed.’ His eyes grew misty. ‘She’s such a soft-hearted girl, my Sal. She cares too much, you know what I mean?’
Helen knew it was wrong to judge. ‘Judge not lest ye be yourselves judged’, as the Bible said. But she couldn’t help thinking that if her fiancé had just survived a near-fatal accident, wild horses wouldn’t have kept her away from his bedside.
Chapter Eleven
HAVING WORKED ALONGSIDE hospital consultants for twenty years, Kathleen Fox was used to people who thought they were God. But she had never met anyone quite so convinced of her omnipotence as Constance Tremayne.
She reminded Kathleen of a picture she had once seen in a children’s book of the first Pilgrims to cross the Atlantic in The Mayflower. She bristled with righteousness from her tightly wound bun to her functional shoes.
It was eleven o’clock in the morning and Kathleen should have been getting on with her ward rounds, or checking the new duty rotas, or, God forbid, actually dealing with some medical matter. But instead she had been sitting in the Trustees meeting for almost two hours, justifying to this woman in the tiniest detail how she chose to manage her hospital.
First it was a lengthy discussion over the abolition of the ward bath book. And now they were arguing over, of all things, Christmas.
Every Christmas the Nightingale held a small concert for staff and patients. Afterwards, the junior staff were invited to a small supper dance in the dining room, funded by the Trustees in gratitude for their hard work throughout the year.
Kathleen had assumed everyone agreed this was a good idea. Until she saw Mrs Tremayne’s tight-lipped expression.
‘As you all know, I have been of the opinion for some years now that the tradition of the Christmas Dance should cease.’ A faint groan rippled around the table, but Constance Tremayne ploughed on regardless. ‘I hardly feel it is appropriate that the trustees should be spending money that has been entrusted to them for the care of patients on diversions for the staff!’
‘For heaven’s sake, we’re not talking about hiring Billy Cotton!’
Kathleen hadn’t realised she’d spoken aloud until she saw the startled looks on the faces of the other Trustees.
Mrs Tremayne faced her across the table, the light of battle gleaming in her eyes. ‘I beg your pardon, Matron? Did you say something?’
Kathleen glanced around the table. Philip Enright, Chairman of the Trustees, smiled sympathetically back at her. He was head of the local council and a successful businessman with a string of draper’s shops to his name. But faced with Mrs Tremayne with a bee in her bonnet, even he could do no more than shrug his shoulders.
The other trustees were little help either. Reginald Collins had his head down, busily pretending to add up a list of figures. He was an accountant and far too timid ever to challenge the formidable Mrs Tremayne. Lady Fenella Brake, the wife of an elderly peer, was too deaf and too dotty to know what was going on. And Gerald Munroe, the local MP, barely paid any attention during meetings, unless there was a chance of getting his name or his face in the newspapers.
The only person paying attention was the Chief Consultant, James Cooper. He met Kathleen’s eye and gave her an encouraging nod, silently urging her to go on.
‘I agree with you, Mrs Tremayne, patient care should come first,’ she began. ‘But the patients at the Nightingale Hospital are very well cared for, unlike many of the staff. Our nurses in particular work extremely long hours, often in harsh conditions. Surely it wouldn’t harm to reward them with a little entertainment at Christmas time?’
‘Bit of the old festive spirit, what?’ Gerald Munroe put in. Mrs Tremayne silenced him with a withering look.
‘Matron, may I remind you that we are running a hospital, not the Ritz? Yes, perhaps nurses do have to endure a little hardship at times,’ she conceded, ‘but that is no bad thing in my opinion. They should remember that they are also receiving some of the best nursing training in the country, and be grateful for