A Nightingale Christmas Wish 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

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Copyright

  About the Book

  It’s Christmas at the Nightingale Hospital...

  Sister Blake is revisited by a face from the past. Will buried secrets stop her from being happy?

  Lonely Helen Dawson has new responsibilities and trials, but is she looking for love in all the wrong places?

  And Matron puts the Nightingale first, even before her own health. With war looming large, will Matron and the Nightingale survive?

  With new hardships, new loves and new heartbreak, will anyone get their Christmas wish?

  About the Author

  Born and brought up in south London, Donna Douglas now lives in York with her husband. They have a grown-up daughter.

  Also available by Donna Douglas

  The Nightingale Girls

  The Nightingale Sisters

  The Nightingale Nurses

  Nightingales on Call

  A Nightingale Christmas Wish

  Donna Douglas

  Acknowledgements

  It takes a great many people to make the Nightingale books happen, and I’d like to take the opportunity to thank them.

  First of all, I’d like to thank my agent Caroline Sheldon for all her hard work and for putting up with my nonsense with great patience. The same goes for my wonderful editor Jenny Geras. Huge thanks also to the production team who work miracles with extremely short deadlines, especially the lovely Katherine Murphy.

  There’s no point writing a book if no one hears about it, which is why I’m so grateful to my enthusiastic and hard-working publicist Rachel Cain. And there is no point hearing about a book if no one can buy it either. So massive thanks to Andrew Sauerwine and his terrific sales team for working so incredibly hard to get my books on to the shelves. I’m so delighted to have you guys on my side!

  Last, but not least, big thanks to my family and friends. Special thanks to my long-suffering husband Ken, who puts up with my long absences and short-temperedness with a ridiculous amount of patience; and to my daughter Harriet, who reads my work as I write it, and who manages to be both brutal and encouraging at the same time. I love you both and I couldn’t do it without you.

  To my sister Jane

  Chapter One

  ON A FREEZING cold December morning in 1914, seventeen-year-old Frannie Wallace gathered with the rest of her Pennine village on a frosty railway station platform to see their loved ones off to war.

  She barely recognised any of the men in their unfamiliar khaki uniforms, kitbags slung over their shoulders. Fathers, husbands and sons, all hugging their tearful wives and children, smiling as if it didn’t matter.

  ‘Come on now, love. Buck up, it won’t be for long.’

  ‘I’ll be back home by Christmas, you’ll see. Won’t take us long to finish off that Hun!’

  ‘Be sure to write to me when the baby arrives, won’t you?’

  In the middle of the platform stood Matthew, laughing and joking with his pals, their breath curling on the crisp winter air. They’d signed up together, all the boys. It was hard to believe that in a few days the lads Frannie had shared a classroom with would be in France, fighting for their country.

  Especially Matthew. He looked so young and fresh-faced, his dark hair cut short over his ears, stamping his shiny new boots on the ground to keep out the cold. Tears stung Frannie’s eyes but she blinked them away determinedly. She’d promised him she wouldn’t cry.

  Not that his mother and sisters kept their promise. Alice Sinclair was sobbing as she fussed over her son, straightening his collar and smoothing down his tunic.

  Matthew brushed her aside impatiently. ‘Get off, Ma. Do you want the other lads laughing at me?’

  ‘Now, have you got everything?’ Alice said, ignoring him. ‘Did you remember that chocolate I gave you, and those extra socks?’

  ‘Leave him be, Alice,’ Matthew’s father said, his voice hoarse with emotion. ‘If the boy’s old enough to fight a war then he’s old enough to take care of himself!’

  Of course that set his wife off crying again. Frannie couldn’t imagine what Alice would do without her beloved only son. Even her three daughters knew he was the favourite, the one she truly doted on.

  But then everyone doted on Matthew, including Frannie herself.

  She looked around and suddenly noticed John. He stood apart from the others as usual, quiet and watchful. John had come from the local orphanage to work on the Sinclairs’ farm when he was thirteen, and he and Matthew had become good friends. At eighteen years old John was already a tall, strapping man, making the others look even more like boys.

  He had no one to see him off, no one fussing over him. But he stood proud, a look of defiant indifference on his square-jawed face.

  Frannie went over to him. ‘All ready, John?’ She smiled at him.

  He looked round at her, whipping the cap off his cropped dark head. ‘Miss Wallace?’

  ‘Frannie,’ she reminded him. ‘I’m only a schoolmaster’s daughter, you don’t have to address me as if I’m a teacher!’

  She regretted teasing him when she saw the blush creeping up from his collar. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

  Frannie felt so sorry for him, she handed him the bar of Fry’s Chocolate Cream she’d been keeping for Matthew. ‘Here, have this.’

  John looked at it, then back at her. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘What about Matthew?’

  ‘He already has more than enough.’ Frannie glanced down the platform to where her sweetheart was still trying to squirm free from his mother’s embrace. ‘Look after him for me, won’t you?’ The words burst from her, though Frannie
hadn’t intended to say them.

  ‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t get into any mischief, don’t you worry.’

  Frannie smiled ruefully. ‘You’ll have a job doing that! Matthew finds trouble wherever he goes.’ A lump rose in her throat, choking her. Don’t cry, she told herself. Please don’t cry.

  ‘I’ll look after him, I promise,’ John said quietly.

  ‘And mind you look after yourself, too,’ Frannie said, when she’d mastered her emotions enough to speak again.

  John scuffed the frosty ground with the toe of his boot. ‘Doesn’t matter about me,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Yes, it does.’ Frannie felt a sudden surge of pity for the orphanage boy who had no one to care about him. Impulsively she plunged her hand into her pocket and pulled out the only thing of value she had. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to him.

  He stared down at the rough grey stone in his palm. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A pebble I picked up from the top of Kinder Scout. I call it my lucky charm. Perhaps it will bring you luck, too?’

  He didn’t laugh. Matthew would have laughed, which was why Frannie had had second thoughts about giving it to him. She knew he would think her foolish, tell her he didn’t need luck.

  But John looked at her as if she’d just handed him one of the Crown Jewels. His eyes met hers, clear and green.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, tucking it in the top pocket of his tunic. ‘I’ll treasure it always.’

  The train let out a sudden hiss, belching a cloud of steam that shrouded them for a moment. The air was filled with the oily smell of burning coal as the guard blew his whistle.

  ‘All aboard!’

  Suddenly everyone was jostling towards the train. Frannie turned and ran back down the platform, just in time to see Matthew climbing aboard.

  ‘Matthew?’ she cried out, her voice lost in the hubbub. She pushed her way through to the front of the crowd, close to the platform’s edge, lost in the billowing, acrid steam.

  But then to her relief he appeared, hanging out of an open window. ‘There you are!’ He grinned down at her. ‘I thought you’d forgotten about me.’

  ‘How could I?’ As she put up her hands to grasp his, the solitary diamond on her engagement ring caught the weak, wintry sunlight. It still gave her a surprise to see it there, less than a day after Matthew had slid it on to her finger.

  To think yesterday she’d felt like the happiest, luckiest girl in the world. And now . . .

  Panic seized her. ‘I’m frightened, Matthew,’ she whispered. ‘I wish you didn’t have to go.’

  ‘I’ll be home soon enough, you’ll see.’

  Frannie looked up into his smiling face. He was always so sure of himself. Not in an arrogant way, but his bright coppery-brown eyes gleamed with the confidence of someone who had never known a moment’s self-doubt. It was one of the things she loved about him. She wished at that moment she had a shred of his self-assurance to bolster her.

  ‘You will write to me every day, won’t you?’

  ‘Frannie! I’m going over there to fight, not to write love letters!’ He laughed at her stricken expression. ‘Don’t look so worried, Fran. And for God’s sake, smile. I don’t want your long face to be the last thing I see here!’

  ‘Sorry.’ She tried to smile, but her lips were trembling.

  ‘Oh, come here.’ He leaned forward. Trapping her face between his hands, he kissed her long and hard. Frannie heard jeering and cheering around her and pulled away, embarrassed.

  ‘Matthew!’ She blushed to see all the faces around her, watching them.

  ‘I’m allowed, aren’t I? We’re engaged.’ Matthew lifted her hand and kissed the diamond on her ring. ‘Wait for me,’ he said. ‘I promise I’ll come home a hero and then we’ll get married.’

  ‘I don’t want you to come home a hero. Just come home safe.’

  His reply was lost in the shrill blast of the train whistle.

  ‘All aboard!’

  The guard was walking down the platform, waving his flag. Unseen hands dragged Frannie back from the platform’s edge as the train started to inch away.

  As it pulled out, the men all hung out of the windows, waving madly. Frannie caught a glimpse of John. He was sitting down, his face pressed to the glass. As the train rumbled past, he lifted his hand in the slightest of waves.

  Frannie remembered Matthew’s words and smiled until her cheeks ached and the train had disappeared out of sight.

  She was glad she’d done as he asked. Especially when the telegram arrived.

  Chapter Two

  November 1938

  THE YOUNG MEDICAL student made a perfect Assistant Matron.

  It took all Frannie Wallace’s self-control not to smile as he stood before her on the makeshift stage, grey dress skimming his hairy ankles, arms folded across his formidably padded bosom. Under the starched headdress, his frowning expression was exactly like Miss Hanley’s.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Evans, but it really won’t do,’ Frannie managed, when she could finally trust herself to speak.

  Owen Evans looked put out. ‘But, Sister, I’ve gone to so much trouble!’

  ‘Then I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time. I can’t allow you to appear in the Christmas show looking like that.’

  There was a chorus of protest from the other young men gathered around him. Two of them were wearing the striped dresses of student nurses. Frannie shuddered to think how they’d acquired them.

  At the other end of the vast dining room, the other would-be performers were preparing, clutching their sheet music, sliding up and down scales to warm up their voices, or huddled in groups waiting to take their turn on the crudely constructed dais where Frannie sat, directing the proceedings.

  ‘This is supposed to be an entertainment for the patients and their families,’ she reminded the students, raising her voice above the din. ‘I will not allow you to use it as an opportunity to lampoon members of staff. Poor Miss Hanley would be mortified.’

  ‘Miss Hanley?’ Mr Evans did his best to feign innocence. ‘Oh, no, Sister, I don’t know where you got that idea from. I wasn’t making fun of anyone in particular, truly I wasn’t. Really, I’m rather shocked that you should think that this – this gross parody remotely resembles our esteemed Assistant Matron—’

  The other young men chortled. ‘Come on, Sister, be a sport,’ one of them piped up. ‘It’s only a bit of fun, after all.’

  ‘Fun, is it?’ Frannie shot him a chilly glance. ‘I would like to see you having fun at one of the consultants’ expense,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could dress up as Mr Hobbs or Mr Cooper? Or what about Mr Latimer? I’m sure he’d see the funny side.’ The young men shuffled their feet and stared at the floor like naughty schoolboys. ‘I thought as much,’ Frannie said. ‘And yet you find it perfectly acceptable to poke fun at one of the senior nursing staff?’

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Owen Evans whipped off his wig. He knew when he was beaten. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he sighed.

  As they shuffled off the stage, one of the young students grumbled, ‘You might let us have some fun, Sister. After all, we probably won’t even be here next Christmas.’

  ‘That’s true,’ another muttered. ‘I expect we’ll be in a trench somewhere, taking potshots at Germans.’

  A chill brushed the back of Frannie’s neck. ‘Don’t talk like that,’ she said.

  Owen Evans stopped and looked at her. ‘Why not? We all know there’s going to be a war.’

  ‘Everyone except Mr Chamberlain!’ his friend said.

  ‘No one wants to go to war,’ Frannie said quietly. ‘Not after last time.’

  ‘Yes, but we can’t ignore what Hitler’s doing in Europe,’ Owen Evans insisted stubbornly. ‘And it’s not going to stop just because he’s signed a piece of paper.’

  ‘He needs to be taught a lesson,’ another chimed in. ‘You’ve got to stand up for what’s right, haven’t you? If we don’t, it’ll be us next.’
/>   ‘Just let him try!’ Another young man, a thickset chap with a pugnacious face, balled his hands into fists. ‘Give me the chance to go over there. I’ll show those Germans what for!’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Tension made Frannie snap. ‘You think it’s all a big game, don’t you? But war isn’t like a football match. You don’t shake hands and go home when you’ve had enough. Some of you won’t come home at all—’ She stopped talking, suddenly aware of the line of startled faces staring back at her from the makeshift stage. ‘At any rate, things probably won’t come to that,’ she dismissed, shuffling the sheet music on the table in front of her. ‘Now, about your act. If you want to take part in this Christmas show, you will have to come up with another sketch. That one simply won’t do.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’ This time they didn’t argue. They hurried away, whispering among themselves.

  ‘Well, I think you’ve given them something to think about.’

  Frannie looked round to find Kathleen Fox standing behind her.

  ‘Matron! I didn’t hear you come in.’ She started to her feet, but Kathleen waved her back into her seat.

  ‘We’re not on the ward now, Fran,’ she said, smiling.

  Kathleen Fox had been Matron of the Nightingale Hospital for more than four years now. But it was difficult for Frannie to look at her and not see the girl she’d shared a room with while training in Leeds. The girl she had been was still there in the warmth of Kathleen’s grey eyes and the flash of auburn hair under her starched white headdress.

  ‘You mustn’t judge them too harshly, you know,’ she said to her friend. ‘You can’t blame them for not understanding what war is like. They’re just boys, Fran. They can’t take it in.’

  ‘That’s just it, isn’t it? They’re boys. Signing up for a lark. Just like—’ Frannie stopped herself.

  Just like Matthew. And look how that had ended.

  ‘But we know what it’s really like, don’t we?’ Kathleen continued, steadying her voice.

  Like Frannie, Kathleen had worked as a voluntary nurse at a military hospital before they’d started their nurse’s training. Frannie had volunteered as soon as she turned eighteen, so that she could feel closer to Matthew. But by the time she was posted to France, he was already missing, presumed dead.