Apparently it did bother Joyson, though. ‘I don’t really mind,’ she began, her expression telling, ‘but I’d rather feel I was doing something for the lads who are defending us.’
‘Some of these old chaps would have been soldiers once,’ Beata told her.
‘Maybe in the Crimean War,’ scoffed Joyson, nose in the air as she bustled along, trying to act the professional. ‘I doubt they’d know one end of a Spitfire from the other.’
‘And do you?’ came Lavinia Ashton’s forthright demand.
Joyson grew shirty. ‘I’m just saying what a great job the RAF boys have done, and I’d like to pay them back, that’s all.’
The others shared a look here. They were well-acquainted with Joyson’s penchant for airmen, having seen her flirting with squadrons of them around the bars.
‘God knows we need them after that mess at Dunkirk,’ she added, being immediately heckled for such a defeatist attitude.
Too fixed on her surroundings, Nell had not really been listening to Joyson’s moaning, but this had her full attention. ‘I admire the RAF too,’ she shot back. ‘But everyone’s doing their part!’ She envisaged poor Bill as he lay on that beach under fire, pictured him now as wave after wave of the Luftwaffe pummelled his home town, night after night, thousands of people killed and injured …
Perceiving her fears, Beata tried to dispel them, though in doing so she addressed everyone. ‘Did you hear on the wireless last night, a hundred and eighty-five German planes shot down over London – in a single day! We’ve certainly got ’em on the run …’
But Nell was to remain apprehensive as the group made their way past vast dormitories of chronic infirm and the mentally ill, to rendezvous with the master and matron, wondering just how bad the superintendent of such an institution might be.
Surprisingly, and to everyone’s great relief. Miss Fosdyke turned out to be as pleasant and fair-minded as their own matron on the trains, having the knack of not speaking down to them whilst retaining her own authority. There would be nothing to fear from this one, felt Nell, looking back into the kind, reassuring and ladylike face, which was directed at each girl in turn, not addressing them en masse, but asking each individual why they had not applied to go on the register – leaving aside the Ashton twins, who had.
When it came to Nell’s turn, she replied that it was purely the expense that was prohibitive. ‘I should hate for it to be a hardship on my parents,’ she told Matron respectfully. ‘But, like everyone here, I just wanted to do my bit for the war.’
As usual there was some difficulty in ascertaining Nurse French’s thoughts and feelings, but the others, who had by now achieved a certain camaraderie, helped by explaining to Matron what Nell had recently discovered for them: that Frenchy was in fact a fully qualified nurse in her own country, and it was only her inability to grasp the language that was the barrier – and only then the speaking of it, for she understood instructions well enough. Considering that as an auxiliary she would not be entrusted with drugs, and that her manner was kind and caring, her mode of communication was of little handicap.
Matron accepted all of their answers without criticism – and was even complimentary. ‘I can tell you are all intelligent women. Perhaps once you are acclimatised you will decide to make that extra sacrifice to attain registered status. In any event, we are very glad to have you all here, short as your stay might be. The care of the chronic sick and elderly is a greatly neglected field, but it is very rewarding.’
They were to find that hers was a different persona altogether than Matron Lennox’s quiet way, more outgoing and amusing, as she shepherded the group on a brief tour of the infirmary. ‘And it will be brief, I’m afraid,’ she informed her entourage. ‘Our peripatetic MO is due to arrive for his rounds at any moment.’ Even so, she did appear to have sufficient time to introduce the recruits to others along her nimble way, not merely staff but inmates.
‘This is one of our longest serving residents – I do beg your pardon for walking on your nice clean floor, Blanche,’ she said, as politely as to an equal, whilst steering her party around the elderly woman in the shapeless cotton frock and long bloomers, who was on her hands and knees scrubbing the corridor and mumbling to herself.
The old girl lifted a beautiless, wart-bedecked face, appearing not to notice the rest of her audience, but smiling brightly at the one who had spoken. ‘You’re all right, miss!’ Then immediately going back to scrubbing the floor, jabbering to herself as the group moved on. ‘Late, late, always late, never did a day’s work in your life, not worth a candle …’
Her mumbling was fading into the distance, Matron explaining that Blanche had been born here, when she interrupted herself to accost another. ‘One moment, Cissie Flowerdew! I can see you, trying to slope off.’
Mop and bucket in hands, about to run, her victim wheeled around to portray the aura of a simpleton, the face framed in cropped brown hair held with a grip at either temple, and her lumpish torso clad in a similar shapeless blue frock to the last woman. Then Cissie came hurrying up with a repentant smile, her head cocked to one side, as she gave an answer that was well-rehearsed. ‘I wouldn’t know him again, Matron! He had his hat pulled down over his eyes and –’
‘– a long black coat to his ankles!’ finished Matron Fosdyke with grim amusement. ‘My word, this chap does seem to be a regular suitor, doesn’t he?’ Turning to the recruits, she offered an explanation, whilst encompassing the inmate in her reply. ‘Sister tells me that Cissie is expecting another happy event in the new year, isn’t that so, Cissie?’
‘Aye, Matron.’ There was no further attempt at guile.
Shaking her bonneted head, Matron issued a benign smile. ‘We’ll say no more about it for the moment. You may go back to work now.’
‘Baby number four,’ she explained to her party when the offender had clomped away. ‘Cissie works as one of our ward maids, she’s been with us for twenty years, entered when she was pregnant with her first child – someone took advantage of her when she was little more than a child herself, and it was deemed safer to keep her here for her own protection. How wrong we were! Every now and again she manages to give us the slip, and every time the same excuse: “Ah wouldn’t recognise ’im again, nurse,’ e ’ad ’is ’at pulled down over ’is eyes an’ a long black coat to ’is ankles!”’ The group broke into a unified smile, much disarmed by Matron’s feigned Yorkshire accent.
‘Every one of the children has a different father, though,’ Matron added, in her clipped fashion. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to work that out when you see them. They remain with us until they’re old enough to enter the orphanage. You’ll probably meet her last one in the nursery ward – right, onwards!’
Nell exchanged glances with Beata as the group surged off again, one of them hopping rapidly ahead each time they reached a door, and opening it for their leader to go sailing through. It was apparent that, despite her hearty kindness towards the inmates, Matron would condone no slapdash behaviour from those who should know better. For her arrival on each ward was met with much deference, and even when her eyes and mouth showed satisfaction, no one dared put aside their awe until she had gone.
Nell was by now feeling overwhelmed, and not a little dispirited, for not only did many of the occupants wear the identical and uninspiring uniform, but a similar expression. Even those not confined to bed could hardly be termed mobile, the odd one or two shuffling like tortoises from one end of the ward to the other, the rest seated on uncomfortable chairs. All wore the same look of resignation, as though condemned to a dungeon, their skin wrinkled and papery and slightly yellow, like plants deprived of sunlight. How bored the poor things must be, sympathised Nell, with only a square of sky to view, no pictures on the walls, not even a splash of colour to cheer them, just polished floors, crisp white linen, and endless rows of beautifully made beds.
Yet not all was gloom, for some of the old people still had their wits about them,