somehow.
His passing cast a shadow over the rest of the ward. As the news rippled through the rest of the patients, the men became subdued. There was none of the usual banter and merriment that usually accompanied the early morning routine. Everyone had taken Percy Oliver to their hearts, willing him to get better. Not just because he seemed like a nice lad, but because his miraculous recovery from surgery gave them all hope that they would pull through, too.
The only one who didn’t seem troubled about it was Amy Hollins. She was too preoccupied with what she was going to wear to the Christmas Dance.
‘I don’t know whether to go with the pink or the green,’ she mused. It was unusual for Amy to give her the time of day, so Helen guessed her need to gossip outweighed her aversion. ‘My pink dress is new, but the green one is prettier. Actually, it’s not really green, more a sort of eau de nil . . . what are you wearing?’
‘I’m not going.’ Helen held up a thermometer to check the reading.
‘What a surprise.’ Amy rolled her eyes. ‘I suppose you don’t like dancing, as well as everything else?’
‘I just don’t see the point.’ The truth was, she’d never danced in her life. And she wasn’t about to try it, since her mother had forbidden her to go.
‘I will not have you associated with it,’ she’d declared. ‘It’s a waste of hospital funds, and it encourages over-familiarity among the medical staff.’
Looking at Amy’s expression now, it was clear she was expecting a great deal of overfamiliarity. Indeed, she would probably be bitterly disappointed if it didn’t happen.
‘You’re so wet, Tremayne,’ Amy accused her. ‘But then, I don’t suppose you’re too worried about meeting anyone at the dance, are you? You’ve got your eye on someone else.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh, come on! We all know you fancy Charlie Denton!’
‘I do not!’ Helen could feel the colour rising in her face.
‘Then why are you always hanging around him? “Would you like a tray, Mr Denton? Can I plump up your pillows for you, Mr Denton?”’ she mimicked Helen’s voice.
‘I’m just trying to be a good nurse.’
‘Really? I don’t see you plumping up Mr Boyd’s pillows every five minutes. Oh, no, I forgot. He’s just a smelly old bloke with a prostectomy, not a handsome young man whose fiancée has just left him.’ Amy laughed unkindly. ‘Fancy yourself as her replacement, do you? Reckon you stand a chance with him, just because he’s lost his leg and no one else will have him?’
‘That’s a horrible thing to say.’ Helen hurried to the next bed, keen to put as much distance between herself and Amy Hollins’ smirking face as she could.
It was traditional for the nurses to have their own celebration in Sister’s sitting room on Christmas morning. Sister Holmes served them all coffee and handed out the small gifts she had bought for them all. In spite of their downcast mood, they all oohed and aahed dutifully over their bottles of scent and tins of talc, and Sister Holmes looked just as pleased with the ashtray they’d all clubbed together to buy her. By the time she’d added a dash of weak brandy to their coffee from the bottle she kept in her emergency cupboard, and they’d cracked open the boxes of chocolates and dates given to them by grateful patients, their good humour was almost restored.
When the porters arrived with their Christmas dinner, the men were in good spirits too. For once, anyone who could get out of bed gathered around the table in the centre of the ward to watch Head Porter Edwin Hopkins carve the turkey. He enjoyed the importance of the moment, and insisted on saying a lengthy Grace before starting to carve. Helen was used to prayers before meals at home, but the men started shifting restlessly and clearing their throats, and Sister Holmes sent him a sideways look over her clasped hands
‘Blimey, tell me he’s not a surgeon!’ Mr O’Sullivan joked as Mr Hopkins inexpertly hacked off a wing and served it up on to one of the waiting plates.
As Helen helped pass the plates down the table, she noticed one seat was empty. Charlie Denton was still slumped in bed, staring into space.
She went over to him, smiling brightly. ‘Not joining us, Mr Denton? I thought you’d be keen to try out your new leg?’ He’d been fitted with a temporary prosthetic the day