The Nightingale Girls - By Donna Douglas Page 0,54

work lists for that day. ‘It’s Christmas Day, and these men are away from their loved ones, lonely and in pain. We must be professional and put aside our own feelings. Try to make the day as pleasant for them and for ourselves as possible.’

‘Yes, Sister,’ they chorused.

‘Hollins, I want you to perform last offices.’

Hollins looked up sharply. ‘But Sister—’

‘I don’t believe I asked for a debate, Hollins.’ She shot the student a sharp, silencing look.

‘Are you sure I shouldn’t do it, Sister?’ Mary Lund asked as the girls headed for the sluice. ‘He’s only a young man, not much older than they are . . .’

‘They are nurses, Lund. They must learn to do their duty whatever the circumstances.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘It’s a hard lesson, Lund, but this is a hard profession. The sooner they realise that, the better.’ Especially Hollins, she thought. If she put as much care and thought into her work as she did into flirting with the young doctors, she might even manage to pass her state exams.

Mary Lund lowered her eyes. ‘Yes, Sister.’

Sister Holmes went to her office and closed the door. Sitting down at her desk, she loosened the strings of her starched bonnet from under her chin and massaged her pounding temples. Less than half an hour into her duty and she was already exhausted. She had no idea how she was ever going to get through the next twelve hours, let alone stay cheerful for the patients.

All her strength had been spent on her mother. She had been awake most of the night, in and out of bed, pacing the floor of her bedroom, wandering on the landing, searching for her dead husband. She had fought as her daughter tried to comfort her.

‘Who are you? I don’t know you. Get out!’ she’d screamed.

‘Shhh, Mother. It’s me, Miranda.’

‘You’re not Miranda.’ The old woman shrank away from her, her face contorted with horror. ‘Miranda is at school. You’re not my daughter!’

And then she had had to calm and coax and whisper to her, until the moment came when her mother finally remembered again. It saddened her so much to see the confusion and panic in her face as she realised that more than twenty years had somehow slipped by, and she was no longer Elise Pallister, the beautiful and celebrated stage actress, but an old, sick woman whose husband was dead and whose daughter was a grown woman she barely recognised.

Miranda had put her mother back to bed and rocked her like a child until finally she fell asleep just before dawn. Then she had left her in the care of their housekeeper Mrs Jarvis and come on duty.

It was almost a relief to step inside the gates of the Nightingale, where she could cease to be Miranda Pallister with all her worries and heartache and become Sister Holmes instead. Here, on the ward, she could impose order. She had patients to care for, and nurses who needed her calm authority. For a few hours at least, she had the perfect excuse to switch off and forget all about what was happening at home.

Except she never did. The sadness and anxiety were always there, tugging at the corners of her mind.

A soft tap on the door disturbed her thoughts.

‘Sister?’ Staff Nurse Lund called. ‘Mr Hopkins is here to take Mr Oliver away. Shall I deal with it?’

‘I’m just coming.’ Sister Holmes quickly rearranged her cap, fastening the strings with shaking fingers. She gave herself a careful once over in the looking glass to make sure she looked as immaculate as ever. Her nurses and patients expected nothing less than perfection from her.

As she practised a smile at her reflection, she remembered how she used to watch with fascination as her mother put on her make-up, sitting at her dressing table surrounded by powder and paint.

‘You have to put on a face for your public, darling,’ she’d always said.

Sister Holmes adjusted her cap and went out to meet her public.

Helen couldn’t stop thinking about Mr Oliver as she did TPRs. She couldn’t begin to imagine how his family would feel, waking up on Christmas morning to the news that their son was dead. And what about his girlfriend, that poor girl who had sat so devotedly at his bedside, stroking his hand and telling him she loved him?

And the fact that it happened on Christmas Day, a day that was supposed to be so full of hope and expectation, just made it seem even more cruel