The Nurses of Steeple Street Read online

  Christine watched her mother gather the child into her big, comforting arms, whispering quietly to her. Whether they could afford it or not, she already knew little Ronnie Warren and his sister wouldn’t be turned away from Lil Fairbrass’ house. She might have had a reputation in Quarry Hill for being tough, but Christine knew underneath it all her mother had a heart of gold.

  She picked up her pencil and went back to her books. She knew Lil would have to know about Oliver one day. But not today.

  Chapter Four

  A box sat on the table in front of Polly, containing the needle and everything else she needed. Young Alec Jennings waited expectantly on the settee, sleeve rolled up, his mother perched anxiously at his side as usual. All Polly had to do was to give him the injection.

  And yet somehow she couldn’t make herself pick up the needle. Even looking at it made her scalp prickle with perspiration under her cap.

  You’ve done this before, she told herself. Every morning for the past week she had come to give Alec his insulin before he had his breakfast. She had done it so many times she barely thought about it.

  But not this morning. This morning Polly was a bag of nerves, because her mother was watching her.

  Miss Jarvis had tried to protest when Bess announced she would be coming to assess Polly on her round.

  ‘But she’s only been on her own for a week,’ Polly had heard Miss Jarvis saying in the district room the previous evening. ‘Surely it wouldn’t hurt to leave it for a few days, give her a chance to settle in?’

  ‘No, it has to be tomorrow,’ Bess replied. ‘I’ll be taking the new girl out on my rounds after that, so I won’t have time to carry out any inspections.’

  ‘Then can’t you at least make it later in the day?’ Miss Jarvis pleaded. ‘You know what a difficult patient Alec Jennings can be. I find him and his mother trying enough, so it’s hardly fair on Polly—’

  ‘I suppose you’d rather I wasted my time watching her give someone a bed bath?’ Bess had snapped. ‘No, Ellen, it won’t do any of us any good to give her an easy time.’

  No one could ever accuse her mother of doing that, Polly thought as she read through the doctor’s notes again. Her mother wanted her to fail, it was that simple. She had chosen to come and watch Polly give the Jennings boy his insulin injection because she knew that, he was bound make a fuss and then she could tell her daughter off for getting it wrong.

  Polly could feel her palms growing clammy and wished she could rush off to the kitchen and wash her hands again. But Alec was already shifting impatiently in his seat. Another moment and he would start to cry, then all would be lost.

  She carefully laid paper over the table and set out the contents of the box. She opened the jar containing the syringe. Mrs Jennings had already boiled some water, which Polly used to clean an egg cup before filling it with cooled boiled water from a bottle kept in the box.

  All the time, she could feel her mother’s gaze fixed on her, watching every move she made, ready to pounce on the slightest mistake. She could also feel Miss Jarvis watching her, willing her on. And then there was Mrs Jennings, her arm wrapped tightly around her son’s shoulders, biting her lip and on the verge of tears in case Polly hurt her little boy.

  As usual, Mrs Jennings’ nerves were passed straight on to Alec. His round face was drained of colour, freckles standing out against his milk-white skin.

  I know how he feels, Polly thought. It was all she could do to stop her hands from shaking as she swabbed the rubber cap of the insulin bottle, syringed boiled water through the sharper of the two needles, then laid it on a clean swab. Then she did the same with the blunter of the needles, and used it to draw up the required dose of the insulin.

  Alec was already whimpering by the time she’d put on the other needle, in horrified anticipation of what she was about to do. He always made a fuss. His mother wasn’t helping matters, clutching her son’s other arm with a white-knuckled hand.

  Polly glanced sideways. Her own mother was leaning avidly forward, eyes fixed on Polly’s hands, waiting for her to make a mistake. The moment Alec let out the slightest yelp, she would pounce and accuse her of being clumsy.

  Polly looked back at the boy. He was watching her with a wide, fearful gaze, his copy of Comic Cuts abandoned on his lap. Suddenly inspiration struck Polly. She lowered the needle and said, ‘Do you like comics, Alec?’

  The question took him by surprise. He frowned at her, screwing up his freckled nose. ‘What?’

  ‘I prefer a longer read myself,’ she said, quickly dabbing his arm with methylated spirit. ‘Sexton Blake is my favourite.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘I like Sexton Blake too.’

  ‘Have you read Ill-Gotten Gains?’

  ‘Yes, but I preferred The Yellow Tiger. Wu Ling and Baron De Beauremon are better villains than Count Carlac and Professor Kew.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’ Polly stepped back, the needle in her hand. ‘There. All done.’

  Alec stared at the pinprick in his arm, then up at her in astonishment. ‘Have you done it?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ his mother said.

  Polly nodded. ‘And it didn’t hurt at all, did it?’

  Alec stared at her, mute with disappointment and betrayal that he’d missed his daily chance to make a fuss. Polly had a feeling she wouldn’t be allowed to get away with the same trick twice. But it didn’t matter. He could scream the house down tomorrow morning if he liked, as long as her mother wasn’t there to see it.

  Mrs Jennings was overcome with relief. ‘That was wonderful!’ she said. ‘I’ve never known him to be so quiet. You’re a marvel, nurse, you really are.’

  Polly glanced at her mother. Typically, Bess had turned away and was busy scribbling notes in her book.

  ‘He’ll need something to eat soon,’ was all she said.

  ‘I’ve got some nice bacon and eggs for my brave little soldier.’ Mrs Jennings pinched her son’s cheek.

  Her mother didn’t speak again as Polly cleaned up, put everything away in the box, burned the swabs and wrote down the dosage carefully on the message paper for the doctor. As they left the Jenningses’ house, Bess barely nodded at them before going off to collect her bicycle.

  ‘Would it kill her to offer a word of praise, do you think?’ Polly remarked when she’d gone.

  ‘It’s just her way. You mustn’t take any notice,’ Miss Jarvis said.

  Polly watched her mother’s broad figure trundling down the road in the direction of Steeple Street. She couldn’t get away fast enough. ‘I bet she would have had something to say if I’d got anything wrong. She must be utterly furious that she doesn’t have anything to complain about.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  Polly turned on Miss Jarvis. ‘Stop defending her. You know as well I do what Ma’s like. She’s much harder on me than she is on anyone else.’

  ‘Perhaps she doesn’t want to be seen to be giving you any special treatment, as you’re her daughter?’

  Polly laughed. ‘Special treatment? I don’t think anyone could accuse my mother of that!’ She shook her head. ‘She hates me, doesn’t she? I don’t think she’s ever going to forgive me for what I did.’

  ‘She will, pet. Give it time.’

  ‘It’s been two years now. How much longer is she going to go on punishing me? Doesn’t she think I’ve suffered enough?’ Her voice wobbled.

  Miss Jarvis laid her hand on Polly’s arm. ‘She isn’t trying to punish you. But she was very hurt by what happened …’

  ‘She was hurt?’ Polly echoed incredulously. ‘What about what I went through?’

  ‘I know,’ Ellen Jarvis said soothingly. ‘But you’ve got to try to see this from her point of view. She had such high hopes for you when you started your nursing …’

  ‘That’s it exactly!’ Polly cried. ‘It’s always about her and what she wants, never about me. The only way I can ever win her approval is if I do exactly as she says.’

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p; The one time in her life when Polly had felt even remotely close to her mother was when she had first applied to Leeds General Infirmary for her nursing training. She could remember her mother’s excitement when the letter came, offering her a place. Bess had actually put her arms around Polly and hugged her, for the first time since she was a small child. It was a fleeting moment, but Polly still comforted herself with the memory.

  Perhaps there might have been more moments like it, if Frank hadn’t come along.

  ‘Time is a great healer,’ Miss Jarvis said.

  ‘I’m not bothered anyway,’ Polly declared. ‘If that’s the way my mother wants it to be, then I don’t care.’

  Miss Jarvis smiled. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Then you’re as stubborn as she is!’ Miss Jarvis declared. ‘Honestly, you’re more alike than you think. And one day I’m going to bang your silly heads together and make you realise that!’

  Ellen Jarvis might be a very kind woman and an excellent district nurse, but she had no idea what she was talking about, Polly thought later as she continued her rounds alone. She and her mother weren’t at all alike, and never had been.

  If she resembled anyone, Polly was like her father. They even looked alike, both tall and fair-haired. They both liked to laugh, and they had both suffered from her mother’s oppressive moods.

  Polly had been a daddy’s girl from the moment she was born. All her earliest and fondest memories were of her father. Albert Bradshaw was a giant of a man, physically as well as in character. He could fill a room just by walking into it. As a small child, Polly remembered climbing on to a chair every teatime to look out of the kitchen window for him coming home from work, her nose pressed up against the glass until she saw him walking down the road from the brickworks with the other men, swinging his snap tin. She could pick out Albert easily with his burnished gold hair and bushy whiskers, his towering height setting him above the crowd.

  But more often than not she would hear him before she saw him. Albert loved life, and his bellowing laughter would ring down the street long before he strode into view. When she heard him, Polly would clap her hands with joy, while her mother would roll her eyes and mutter, ‘I’m glad someone’s got something to laugh about.’

  Polly would clamber down from her chair so she could be waiting by the back door for her dad to walk in. The first thing he would do was to sweep her into his arms, high into the air while she screamed with excitement. And then her mother would ruin it all with a muttered, ‘Put her down before you drop her.’

  Her mother always spoiled their games with her stern voice and permanent scowl. Her father rarely laughed when Bess was around.

  And then, when Polly was thirteen, Albert Bradshaw went off with his pals from the brickworks to join the war in France. Within three months he was dead, leaving Polly with a huge hole in her life and only her grim-faced mother to fill it.

  The next few years had been dreadfully unhappy. Polly was desperate for comfort and reassurance, but her mother couldn’t seem to give it. Polly understood she was preoccupied with trying to make ends meet, but couldn’t help feeling that Bess’ need to work was an excuse because she didn’t know how to comfort her daughter.

  And Polly was still looking for that comfort now.

  She had lied to Miss Jarvis when she’d said she didn’t care. That was why she had come back to train as a district nurse. Deep down, she still loved her mother and dearly wanted to be close to her.

  And one day, Polly told herself, her mother might want to be close to her too.

  Chapter Five

  ‘The most important part of a district nurse’s equipment is her bag. It must remain here, in the district room, at all times unless you are out on your rounds. It will be inspected regularly, so it must be kept clean and in good order …’

  Agnes discreetly checked her watch as Bess Bradshaw droned on. It was already half-past nine, and according to the list they should have been on their way to see their first patient by now. All the other district nurses had long since gone, coming into the district room after breakfast to pack their bags before setting off on their rounds. A few of them had sent Agnes amused glances as she stood there, listening to the Assistant Superintendent’s lecture and trying not to fall asleep on her feet.

  They had already covered the contents of the store cupboard and shelves in minute detail, including the cleansing and proper storage of loan articles. Then Bess had proceeded to explain every scrap of paperwork, from the index cards and nurse’s casebook to the daily visit book and the time book.

  Agnes could barely suppress her impatience. But Bess seemed in no hurry as she talked on and on.

  ‘As you can see, each bag has a removable linen lining, which must be changed every week. The lining must then be washed, boiled and ironed, ready for use again …’

  It wasn’t as if Agnes hadn’t heard it before. Miss Gale had gone through exactly the same thing with her the day before. But that didn’t seem to stop Bess Bradshaw.

  ‘And then there is the separate pocket here, which is attached over the handle of the bag like so …’ she demonstrated, hooking the handles of the pocket over. ‘This should contain a nailbrush and scissors, soap and hand towel. It’s most important that you wash your hands before removing any items from the bag …’

  Agnes could feel a yawn coming, and tried to shield it with the back of her hand.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Sheridan. Am I boring you?’ Bess snapped.

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Bradshaw,’ Agnes replied. ‘But I can assure you, I already know all about the importance of hygiene and cleanliness from my work on the wards.’

  ‘I see.’ Bess stiffened, and once again Agnes knew she’d said the wrong thing. ‘Well, you’re very full of yourself, aren’t you? I hope you’ll be able to climb off your high horse long enough to learn something while you’re with me.’ She picked up her bag. ‘Now, come on. We’re already late as it is.’

  Agnes followed her, still smarting from the Assistant Superintendent’s criticism. Was she really full of herself? She didn’t mean to be. But if she was going to get on here, she would have to learn to keep quiet, she decided. Especially when she was around Bess Bradshaw.

  She remembered the warning Polly had given her as they prepared for bed the previous night.

  ‘She’s going to try to provoke you,’ she’d said, as they brushed their teeth in the bathroom. ‘Believe me, she’d like nothing more than to rush back to Miss Gale and report that you’re rude, arrogant and impossible to work with. You must try very hard not to give her anything to complain about, no matter how hard she tries to get under your skin.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Agnes promised.

  Polly looked sceptical. ‘Are you sure? She can be very difficult.’

  ‘I can be very patient when I want to be.’

  ‘Good.’ Polly smiled at her. ‘Because we’ve precious few nurses around here as it is, and I don’t want to see you out on your ear.’

  Agnes had studied her room mate’s reflection in the mirror, still barely able to believe that she and Bess were related. They didn’t even look alike. Polly was so tall and fair, while Bess was round, dark and solid.

  And seeing them together … After just a couple of communal meals around the dining table, Agnes had come to realise that the awkwardness on that first evening wasn’t unusual. Every day, Polly and her mother scarcely made it through breakfast or tea without sniping at each other. Polly generally tried to give as good as she got, but it was Bess who usually had the last word, putting her daughter in her place with a scathing comment that left them all feeling embarrassed for the poor student.

  ‘Why don’t you get on?’ Agnes asked the question that had been troubling her since the day she’d arrived.

  The toothbrush stilled in Polly’s hand for a moment. Then she said, ‘I’m surprised no one has told you.’

  ‘I haven’t asked them. I don’t like gossip.�
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  Polly didn’t speak while she rinsed out her mouth. Then she said, ‘I fell in love with the wrong person.’

  ‘Really?’ Agnes was intrigued. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like gossip?’ Polly was smiling, but her face had taken on a closed look, and Agnes sensed this was something the other girl didn’t like to talk about.

  Agnes had all but forgotten their conversation by the following morning as she followed Bess to Quarry Hill by bicycle. It took all Agnes’ concentration to stop herself from falling off. Overnight, one of the old bicycle’s wheels had developed a worrying wobble, and wouldn’t turn in the right direction unless Agnes leaned all her weight to one side and risked toppling over.

  Bess, of course, was oblivious to her struggles as she cycled ahead, puffing like a steam train. She moved fast for a big woman, and it was all Agnes could do to keep up with her.

  She tried to keep in mind everything Bess had told her about the way they ordered their calls. Diabetics requiring injections were first on the list, followed by complicated midwifery and maternity cases, then new patients, surgical cases requiring dressing changes, and finally the infectious patients. Chronics, casual calls and blanket baths were fitted in as convenient, late in the morning or in the early part of the evening round.

  Their first call was to Mr Willis, who needed his leg ulcer dressed.

  It’s my first proper day on the district, Agnes thought, her legs pumping the pedals. This is where it all begins. But as they headed into Quarry Hill, and the streets began to narrow into the familiar rundown terraces and alleyways, she had a sudden, horrible vision of Maisie Warren’s cottage and the grisly sight that had met them there two days earlier. She had barely slept for the past two nights for thinking about it. She only hoped there would be no more nasty surprises waiting for them in Quarry Hill.

  The Willis family lived not far from where poor Maisie Warren had met her tragic end. Agnes kept her face averted as they passed the opening to the alley that led down to her cottage, hoping they wouldn’t have to go down it. But fortunately Bess trundled past, then turned sharp right, through a narrow entrance and down another dark alley. There was a patch of daylight at the far end, which opened into a yard just like the one where Maisie had lived. This, too, was a small, cobbled area with a couple of brick-built outside privies. Flies buzzed around the overflowing dustbins, whose ripe stench filled the air.