The Nurses of Steeple Street Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Donna Douglas

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Welcome to the district nurses’ home on Steeple Street, where everyone has a secret

  Ambitious young nurse Agnes Sheridan had a promising future ahead of her until a tragic mistake brought all her dreams crashing down and cost her the love and respect of everyone around her.

  Now she has come to Leeds for a fresh start as a trainee district nurse. But Agnes finds herself facing unexpected challenges as she is assigned to Quarry Hill, one of the city’s most notorious slums.

  Before she can redeem herself in the eyes of her family, she must first win the trust and respect of her patients and fellow nurses.

  Does Agnes have what it takes to stay the distance? Or will the tragedy of her past catch up with her?

  About the Author

  Donna Douglas lives in York with her husband and daughter. Besides writing novels, she is also a very well-respected freelance journalist and has written many features for the Daily Mail.

  Also by Donna Douglas

  The Nightingale series

  The Nightingale Girls

  The Nightingale Sisters

  The Nightingale Nurses

  Nightingales on Call

  A Nightingale Christmas Wish

  Nightingales at War

  Nightingales Under the Mistletoe

  Acknowledgements

  Tackling a book about district nursing in the 1920s was something new for me, so I’m grateful for the help I’ve received along the way. Special thanks goes to Matthew Bradby of the Queen’s Nursing Institute for all his assistance and for allowing me access to the archive of Queen’s Nurse magazine, which I found extremely helpful in piecing together the day-to-day life of a district nurse. If you’re interested in the history of district nursing, I would definitely recommend a visit to the QNI website: www.qni.org.uk.

  Thanks also go to my agent, Caroline Sheldon, and to the terrific team at Arrow – my editor Jenny Geras, Kate Raybould, Millie Seaward, and not forgetting the amazing sales team, especially Chris Turner and Aslan Byrne.

  Finally, thanks as ever to my husband Ken for his endless patience and good cheer as our lives descend into chaos close to deadline. And to my daughter Harriet for reading all the chapters hot off the press and giving her disarmingly honest opinion. I may not always like it, but she’s nearly always right.

  Dedicated to the memory of Digby Clark

  Chapter One

  The District Nursing Superintendent was late for their meeting.

  Agnes Sheridan sat straight-backed on a chair outside Miss Gale’s office, her feet tucked underneath to stop them from tapping impatiently on the tiled floor. On the other side of the hall, a large grandfather clock ponderously marked the passing minutes, reminding her how long she had been kept waiting.

  It was really too bad, she thought. She had arrived precisely on time for their meeting at three o’clock, and had even gone to the trouble of taking a taxi she could ill afford from the station, just so she wouldn’t be late.

  The skinny little maid appeared from the kitchen and scuttled towards her, head down, eyes averted. She never said a word, but had been patrolling the passageway at regular intervals ever since she’d opened the door to Agnes.

  As the girl slid past, Agnes cleared her throat and said, ‘Excuse me. Do you know how much longer Miss Gale might be?’

  The maid froze, her eyes bulging in her thin face. She looked like a terrified rabbit.

  ‘She’s gone to see t’Miners’ Welfare,’ she mumbled in a broad Yorkshire accent.

  ‘You’ve already told me that.’ Agnes did her best to be patient. ‘I just wondered how long—’

  ‘I’ve summat on the stove,’ the maid blurted out. And then she was gone, darting back the way she’d come, tripping over her own feet in her rush to get away.

  ‘Well, that’s nice, I must say!’ Agnes muttered as the kitchen door slammed shut at the far end of the passageway. She had come all the way from Manchester, and hadn’t even been offered a cup of tea.

  She looked around, trying to get the measure of her surroundings. The passageway where she sat was long and narrow, with steps leading down to the kitchen at the far end. At the other, sunlight streamed through the stained-glass window above the front door, scattering brilliant diamonds of colour on the tiled floor. In front of Agnes was a door with an engraved brass plate reading ‘Susan Gale – District Nursing Superintendent’. There were other doors leading off from the hallway too. One of them stood open, and through the doorway Agnes could see settees and chairs arranged around a fireplace, with bookshelves to either side and a piano in the corner. The nurses’ common room, she imagined.

  There was a telephone on a small stand beside the front door, with a message book open beside it. Further along, the faded wallpaper was covered by a large noticeboard, to which various lists and rotas had been pinned. Below that was a set of a dozen pigeon holes, mostly empty but a few stuffed with uncollected post.

  Agnes took some comfort from the familiarity of the scene. It reminded her of the nurses’ home at the hospital in London where she’d trained. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so different after all, she thought.

  A crash came from beyond the kitchen door, shattering the silence and making Agnes jump to her feet. She was just wondering if she should investigate when a door closed on the floor above her and she heard the stomp of heavy footsteps.

  Agnes looked up to see a woman coming down the stairs towards her. She was in her mid-forties, solid rather than fat, her large body enclosed in a fitted dark blue coat. Wisps of greying hair escaped from under her neat hat.

  Before she could speak, there was another crash from the kitchen, followed by loud cursing. Agnes flinched but the woman barely seemed to notice.

  ‘Pay no attention,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s always the same when Dottie’s cooking. I s’pose you’re the new nurse? Miss Gale said you’d be coming today.’

  Agnes straightened he
r shoulders. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m Agnes Sheridan.’

  ‘Agnes, eh? Does everyone call you Aggie?’

  Agnes winced. ‘I prefer Agnes, if you don’t mind,’ she said.

  ‘Do you now?’ The other woman looked her up and down, an amused twinkle in her beady dark eyes. ‘Well, Agnes, or whatever you want to call yourself, I’m Bess Bradshaw, the Assistant Superintendent. Miss Gale says I’m to take charge of you while she’s away. So you’d best come with me.’

  She led the way down the passage and pushed open a door marked ‘District Room’. Agnes followed her into a large, sunny room lined with cupboards and shelves containing various items of medical equipment. She looked around, taking it all in.

  ‘This is where we keep our supplies,’ Bess Bradshaw answered the question before Agnes had a chance to ask it. She picked up a large black leather Gladstone bag, set it on the wooden counter and undid the clasp. ‘Each time you go out on your rounds, you’ll need to check your bag to make sure you’ve everything you need.’ Her Yorkshire accent wasn’t as broad as the maid’s, but it was definitely there.

  As Agnes watched her holding up a bottle to the light to check its contents, realisation slowly dawned.

  ‘Surely we’re not going out to see a patient now?’ she asked.

  Bess looked at Agnes, the same mocking twinkle as before in her eyes. ‘Where did you think we were going, down the park to feed t’ducks? Pass me the boracic powder, will you? It’s up there, on the top shelf.’

  Agnes reached for the glass bottle and put it in Bess’ outstretched hand, her mind racing.

  This wasn’t right. At her old hospital a new staff nurse would have to undergo a thorough interview with Matron and be fitted for her uniform before she was allowed anywhere near the wards. And yet here Agnes was, barely over the doorstep before she was being let loose on the patients. It seemed a very haphazard way of going about things.

  Was this what district nursing was all about? she wondered.

  ‘Shouldn’t I wait for the Superintendent?’ she ventured.

  ‘The Superintendent is in Wakefield, having a meeting with the Miners’ Welfare Committee. She’ll not be back while teatime, and I daresay she won’t be in any mood to see you when she does get back. Miners’ Welfare always puts her in a bad mood.’ Bess Bradshaw checked another bottle, then put it back. ‘And I’m to look after you, and I’ve got a call to make, so you’ll have to come with me.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You’ve come here to train as a Queen’s Nurse, haven’t you?’ Bess cut her off.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Well, there’s no time like the present to start, is there?’

  Agnes looked down at herself. ‘But I haven’t even got a uniform.’

  ‘Oh, stop fretting, lass! It’s a willing pair of hands I’m after, not a starched collar. Now, frame yourself and let’s get going.’

  Perhaps this isn’t such a bad thing, Agnes tried to tell herself as she followed the Assistant Superintendent out of the house. Bess Bradshaw was quite right. She had come to train as a district nurse, and the sooner she got started, the better.

  After all, she reasoned, it wasn’t as if working on the district was likely to be too difficult. She was a qualified nurse from one of the best hospitals in the country. She could certainly manage to give a few bed baths and change dressings.

  But her nerve almost failed when Bess disappeared around the side of the house, only to emerge a moment later wheeling two bicycles. She propped one against the wall and nodded towards it. ‘There you are, lass. Your chariot awaits.’

  Agnes stared, appalled. ‘You want me to ride that?’

  ‘Well, you could walk, but it’ll take you a fair while.’ Bess was already walking away, wheeling her bicycle up the front path. She stopped at the gate and looked back over her shoulder. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’ve never ridden one before?’

  ‘Well, yes, but …’ Agnes examined it suspiciously. The bike must have been at least thirty years old, a real old boneshaker, rusting and ramshackle.

  ‘Then get on it and start pedalling! There’s work to be done.’

  It was a long time since Agnes had ridden a bicycle, and then it had been along leafy country lanes with her brother and sister when they were children. Nothing had prepared her for the narrow streets of Leeds. She clung on grimly as her bicycle juddered over the cobbles, convinced it was going to break apart at any moment. She could feel her hat slipping down over one eye, but she didn’t dare let go of the handlebars to straighten it.

  She tried to keep the Assistant Superintendent’s broad backside in sight, while at the same time dodging the carts that seemed to swerve towards them out of nowhere. With everything else going on around her, it was impossible for Agnes to get her bearings. They seemed to be going south, but nowhere near the wide, busy thoroughfare lined with smart-looking shops that she had glimpsed from the taxi window. The streets Bess Bradshaw led her down were mean and dismal, with scruffy little corner shops on the end of each terrace. There was a poulterer’s, a gentlemen’s hairdressers, a dusty-looking tailor’s workshop, as well as a shop advertising ‘Marine Goods’ that seemed to be filled with nothing more than junk.

  As the streets grew narrower, Agnes could feel her spirits starting to fail her. She followed Bess Bradshaw across Hope Street – a misnomer if ever Agnes had seen one – and plunged into a dark warren of alleyways and yards, the houses packed so closely together there was scarcely any daylight to be seen.

  A group of women stood on the corner. They nodded briefly to Bess as she passed, then turned blank, hostile stares to Agnes. She could feel their eyes following her as she pedalled harder to catch up with the Assistant Superintendent.

  ‘Where are we?’ Agnes called out to her.

  ‘Quarry Hill. It’s one of the poorest areas of the city. The council keep trying to pull it down but the locals don’t want to go.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘Because it’s their home.’

  Bess turned sharply and led the way down a dirty, narrow alley. As they passed along, Agnes glimpsed various openings in the high wall, leading to what seemed to be tiny yards, each crammed with a haphazard arrangement of terraced houses. The pungent smell of sewage mingled with dirt and stale sweat and factory smoke, which hung in the still warmth of the late-summer air.

  Agnes shuddered. ‘I don’t know how they bear it,’ she muttered. She risked lifting a hand to brush away a fly that buzzed around her face, then grabbed the handlebars again as the bicycle veered sideways into the wall.

  Bess sent her a mocking look. ‘Don’t you have poor people in London?’

  Agnes didn’t reply. Of course she knew all about poverty. She had trained at the Nightingale Hospital in Bethnal Green, one of the poorest areas of the city. But by the time the local people were admitted to hospital, they had generally been scrubbed clean and deloused, their filthy clothes sent off to the incinerator. Agnes had never had to visit the patients in their homes or witness their poverty at such close quarters.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Bess said. ‘Although I daresay some of the sights you’ll see on your rounds will make your hair curl.’

  Agnes pulled herself together. She knew she was making a bad impression, and she didn’t want the Assistant Superintendent to think she couldn’t manage.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t be that bad,’ she said bracingly. ‘Besides, I’ve been well trained. I think I can cope with anything.’

  ‘You think so, do you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Agnes declared, then added, ‘The Nightingale is one of the best teaching hospitals in the country.’

  She hadn’t meant to sound arrogant. But as soon as she saw Bess Bradshaw’s frown she knew she’d said the wrong thing.

  ‘Is that right? Happen you think you could teach us a thing or two, in that case?’ she said, with a disparaging sniff.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Agnes murmure
d. But Bess had already cycled off ahead and she had no choice but to follow lamely behind. This wasn’t what she’d been hoping for. District nursing was supposed to be a new start for her, and she had already managed to upset the Assistant Superintendent.

  But deep down Agnes still had a sneaking feeling she probably could teach the other nurses a thing or two. After all, district nursing couldn’t possibly be as difficult as working on a ward. Changing dressings and giving baths was the kind of work probationer nurses did at the Nightingale. It was hardly what Agnes would call proper nursing.

  Although she was probably better off keeping those opinions to herself, she realised.

  Bess took a sharp turn left into a yard. ‘Right, here we are.’ She swung herself off her bicycle and propped it against the whitewashed wall of an outside privy. ‘We’ll walk through from here.’

  Agnes dismounted gingerly and stood for a moment, waiting to recover her balance. ‘What shall I do with the bicycle?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, we just leave them anywhere.’

  ‘Will they be safe?’

  Bess sent her an almost pitying look. ‘Of course they’ll be safe. No one round here would steal a district nurse’s bicycle.’ She retrieved her Gladstone bag from the front basket. ‘Now come on.’

  ‘Who are we going to see?’ Agnes asked, following her through a tiny gap between two buildings.

  ‘A lass called Maisie Warren. She’s not been well all throughout her pregnancy, and since she’s got no family around her, I’ve been calling in every week or so to keep an eye on her …’

  Bess went on talking, but Agnes had ceased to listen. All she could hear was the blood thrumming in her ears.

  Pregnant. Why did that have to be her first case?

  She wanted to turn and run, but Bess had already ducked under a drooping line of grubby washing and was heading for a back door. The paint was peeling off it, exposing bare, rotten wood beneath. The sour odour of urine hung in the air from the outhouses across the yard.

  A filthy-looking child sat on the doorstep, prodding at a crack in the concrete with a twig. She was no more than five years old, her feet bare and ingrained with dirt. From behind her, inside the house, came the sound of a baby screaming.