The Nightingale Girls - By Donna Douglas Page 0,43

her face, flooding up from her neck to her hairline.

‘Go to your rooms, you’re making the place look untidy,’ Sister Sutton dismissed them.

They filed past her. None of them dared to mention that it was their day off, to do with as they please. For once Millie was grateful to see the bullying Home Sister. From the way Dora and Lucy had been looking at each other, she was worried a fight was about to break out.

‘Take no notice of Lane, she’s just a cat,’ she warned Dora as they went back to their room.

‘I don’t care about her,’ Dora said defiantly. But Millie could tell from the dejected droop of her mouth that Lucy’s spiteful barb had hit home.

She knew Dora wouldn’t forget it, either. There was unfinished business between her and Lucy. And next time Sister Sutton might not be there to stop it.

Chapter Thirteen

IT WAS THE week before Christmas, and many of the patients on Holmes were getting ready to go home. It was the consultant’s policy to send as many men as possible back to their families, to give them and the medical staff a chance to enjoy a good Christmas.

There was a definite festive atmosphere in the air. The long, cavernous ward had been brightened up with streamers, paper chains and sprigs of holly. A couple of the nurses had optimistically stuck some mistletoe over the doors, too, but Sister Holmes had ordered it to be taken down in case it gave patients the wrong idea.

That afternoon, once visiting time was over, the porters would bring in the tree and the nurses would decorate it.

‘But I don’t want any mess in the ward,’ Sister Holmes warned them all severely. ‘The first sign of a dropped needle and that tree goes out, Christmas or no Christmas.’

Helen hummed to herself as she went about her tasks. She enjoyed Christmas at the Nightingale. Everyone was in such good spirits. Even the patients were happy, laughing and joking amongst themselves. Fortunately, they were all on the mend and there had been no dramatic admissions over the past week, apart from Mr O’Sullivan and his internal haemorrhoids. But a week after surgery, even he was feeling better.

Charlie Denton was improving, too. His wound had healed up nicely and his splints and supporting pillows had been taken away. Now all he needed was regular massage and movement to keep his leg muscles working before his temporary prosthetic was fitted. With any luck he would be back on his feet by the New Year.

Helen watched him as he helped Mr Stannard with his crossword.

‘I wonder if she’ll turn up today?’ Amy Hollins voiced the thought that had been going through Helen’s mind at that exact moment.

Charlie Denton’s fiancée Sally had been in to visit him once in the five weeks he’d been in hospital. Helen had taken an instant dislike to the brassy-looking blonde who’d spent ten minutes admiring herself in her compact mirror before announcing she had to go and catch her bus.

Every week Charlie looked for her, and every week there was another excuse for her not coming. One week her mum was poorly, the next she had to go and see her sister in Clacton. He tried to hide his disappointment as best he could, but Helen could see the light fading from his eyes when the doors opened and she wasn’t there.

Bitterness had got the better of him the previous week, when another visiting time was almost over and there was still no sign of his fiancée.

‘I know it’s tough for my Sal, having to see me like this,’ he’d said to Helen. ‘But all the same, you’d think she’d make the effort for my sake, wouldn’t you? I mean, look at Percy over there.’ He’d nodded towards Mr Oliver, who had been moved to the main ward now he was beginning to recover from his head injury. He sat propped up against the pillows, staring glassily into space, almost unaware of the pretty dark-haired girl who sat at his bedside, tenderly stroking his face. ‘His girl comes in to see him every visiting time, even though he doesn’t know she’s there half the time. And I reckon she’d come every day if she could. They say head injuries change people, don’t they? Make them moody, like? That poor girl doesn’t even know if he’s going to be the same bloke when he gets out of here. And yet she still comes, still loves him with all her