Nightingale (7 page)

He stopped a pair of bearers. ‘I need that stretcher.' The Indian men looked at him, dark-eyed and unsure. ‘There are others up at the clearing station,' he assured. ‘Nurse Nightingale insisted I get this man onto the hospital ship immediately.'

At the mention of her name the men's stance changed. The eldest of the two gestured that he could have their stretcher. ‘Here, sir,' he said, politely.

Jamie had never been called sir in his life. He grinned. ‘Thanks, mate. Here, what's your name?' he asked the distressed soldier.

‘John Firle. This is my brother, Ronnie. I can't let him die. If I queue up back there, he'll be dead before they see us.'

‘I know, I know, mate. Put him on here and we'll get him some help straightaway, all right?'

Firle looked at him as though he was a heavenly apparition but Jamie knew the real angel waited aboard the
Gascon
.

With Ronnie slipping out of consciousness and John begging him to hold on, Jamie led them to the gatekeeper. Before the man could even ask, Jamie took control, yelling above the bawl of the monocle-wearing Lieutenant Commander Edward Cater, who was on a loudspeaker directing operations of ships and barges from the pier.

‘I was told to bring this man immediately on board.'

‘But you're hit. Don't you want to get seen to at the clearing station?' The man frowned at the blood dripping from Jamie's fingers. He shifted his gaze to John Firle and the wound at his leg. ‘So should he. You both look pretty bad.'

‘That's the point. Me and Firle were told to get help at the hospital as well as this bloke.' He tipped his head towards the younger Firle but didn't name him or the supervisor might smell the lie. ‘This way, if we're well enough to carry the badly injured, it doesn't tie up the stretcher-bearers who are needed back there urgently. The doctor wants to clear the dead to the cemetery – he just hasn't got enough help.'

The creases in the man's forehead deepened. ‘And who gave you orders again?'

Jamie played his ace. ‘Nurse Claire Nightingale insisted I do so immediately.'

The man's face relaxed. Even his tone changed. ‘Righto. Go ahead, you blokes,' he said. ‘You should just make the next barge leaving for the hospital. Once there it will be a queue of hours for someone like you who isn't urgent. Don't say you weren't warned.'

Jamie nodded his thanks and without saying a word moved the stretcher forward, holding his breath for fear of being stopped. He led the Firle brothers onto the flat-bottomed boat, laying Ronnie down on its base among the other stretcher cases, hoping none of the clinging mule dung he spied would infect the groaning youngster. Then he pushed the protesting John Firle to the front of the barge where the walking wounded seemed to be positioning themselves.

They were the last on. The barge pushed off from the cove just minutes later, towed away by a small steamboat whose fumes caught in his throat. Nevertheless the pungent smell was welcome for the invisible message it carried that they were moving away from hell.

Back onboard, Claire headed to theatre and attended to one helpless case after another. In four hours they had amputated one limb, patched up three serious head wounds, cleaned out shell fragments and sewn up holes on so many men she'd lost count. And through all the gruesome tasks it was the face of Jamie Wren that haunted her.

‘. . . very quiet today, Nurse Nightingale,' the surgeon said.

She turned back from the medications shelf. ‘Forgive me, doctor.'

‘Doesn't do any good to go ashore,' he murmured. ‘I did the same in my first week. All it achieved was make me question the purpose of my being here, our whole reason for bothering to patch these poor blighters up if the best we can do is send them home forever changed, or send them back out to be killed or maimed. War . . .?' He shook his head to say he had no answer for it.

‘Big questions,' she said.

‘Best not asked sometimes.'

Claire dug up a smile aimed at deflecting him; he was an older, avuncular man whom everyone respected. Nevertheless, Claire didn't want to tell him she wasn't exploring philosophical conundrums of the universe but instead was mooning around in her thoughts about the effect that a single soldier's sorrow had had on her psyche. Nor did she want to explain her newly developed anxiety for his safety, or her memory of the way his glance had tripped something in her heart.

As she returned to her task she wondered again whether Trooper Wren had got his wound seen to. Infection was rife on the ridges . . . it wouldn't take much – his grubby uniform alone after being buried in that putrid, germ-infested grime was sufficient to make him sicken within hours.

She cleared her throat. ‘We're low on chloroform,' she said, realising she needed to get some air. She'd been cooped up in theatre for six hours without so much as a sip of water.

As if on cue, Matron glided into the theatre and cast her eye at the two assisting nurses.

‘Both of you go and have a cup of tea, please, perhaps even some porridge. Changeover is arriving in moments. Nurse Nightingale, you look ready to drop. Sit on a deckchair for fifteen minutes away from all the patients. It will feel like a week. I need everyone at their stations and with high energy for the voyage tonight. The captain has advised that it won't be smooth sailing . . . and you know what that means.'

Claire did. It meant tying unconscious and even semi-conscious patients to their cots as a minimum precaution. If the cramped, smelly, irritable conditions felt impossible now, once the ship began heaving through high waves, it made even simple tasks such as changing a dressing feel impossible.

‘Go,' Matron said to the nurses.

Claire nodded. ‘Five minutes, Matron.'

‘I said fifteen. And have some sweet tea.'

Claire pulled off her dirty theatre apron and stepped out into the corridor where a queue of men waited silently, some slumped on the floor, others leaning against the walls. There was nowhere else for them to wait.

‘I'll be back in a jiffy,' she said to them as one. She skipped through and up a set of stairs to the next deck, her shoes squeaking on the iron. The air became immediately fresher and she moved straight to the supplies room where she found a clean apron and tied it on, adding to its pockets the necessary tools and bandages and dressings that were handy to have on her.

‘Fancy a cuppa?' said a familiar voice. Rosie's sweet, smiling face appeared around the door, red curls still making a dash for freedom. ‘I'm making one for some of the lads.'

‘Oh, you're a treasure, Rosie. I'm just going to take some fresh air. Two minutes, I promise.'

Rosie grinned. ‘Go. You look pale.'

Claire ascended to the deck where the small, intense world of Anzac Cove seemed unnaturally quiet. She moved away from the immediate loading area.

‘What's going on?' she asked one of the doctors at the rail.

‘They're telling us there's talk of an armistice.'

She looked back at him, perplexed. ‘Really?'

‘It's probably why there's not a lot of firing at the moment – everyone's waiting to see if it goes ahead.'

‘Why now?'

‘The Turks lost thousands of men the other day. Terrible scenes, apparently. All those corpses and this heat – it's a dangerous mix.'

‘And what, they're going to call a truce so —?'

‘So they can clear the dead, yes,' he said, dragging in a lungful of tobacco from the tiny stub of a cigarette he had left between his fingers. ‘Strange to have it so quiet, isn't it?'

She blew out a short gust of despair. ‘How ironic.'

‘I know. Listen, Claire, when we get into Cairo next, are you due any leave?'

She lifted a shoulder. ‘Yes, probably.' She looked away from him, knowing what was coming, and was already formulating an excuse.

‘How about —' he began.

‘Nurse Nightingale!'

They both turned at the voice.

Were the gods toying with her? ‘Jamie,' she murmured and felt a ridiculous surge of pleasure and intense relief to see the smiling, bleeding Anzac waving to her from the other side of the deck.

The doctor turned back to her. ‘You know him?'

She was sure she was grinning like a loon. ‘Er . . . yes, our families know each other,' she said, hardly daring to believe such a whopping lie had slipped out with ease. ‘I thought he'd died,' she added, hoping it explained her happiness. She moved away from the rail, crossing the deck towards Jamie before she could get herself in any deeper.

Wren approached, still smiling crookedly.

‘You took my advice,' she said, beaming.

He nodded. ‘Can't gallop a horse properly or bowl an off spin without my arm.'

‘How's your hearing, by the way? You were obviously close to the explosion.'

‘Bit dulled but I was lucky to be thrown clear. It will pass.'

She nodded. ‘All right, then. Shall we see to your arm?'

He looked back over his shoulder at the line of shuffling men who were being gradually moved below deck.

‘It's fine. Follow me.' She led Jamie down a different set of stairs and another two flights to a ward that was near enough silent. ‘Most in here won't live out the voyage,' she whispered. Claire nodded at the nurse on duty. ‘I can keep an eye on things here. Go have a breather.'

‘Really?'

‘Tell Rosie I don't mind cold tea. I'll pick it up in a few minutes. I'm just going to dress this man's wound.'

Her fellow nurse blinked in slight confusion but Claire was counting on her being too weary to argue that this was not the normal way of things.

‘This is Jamie Wren. Can't believe it – our families knew each other when we were children,' she said.

The nurse, as she presumed, was not interested and turned to leave. ‘All quiet for now but fifth cot along, he's struggling. His name's Colin.'

They heard her footsteps retreat.

‘Why did you lie?' he asked.

She needed a moment to work out why too. ‘Sit down. Let's get that jacket off.' As she helped him, she explained. ‘It was easier than admitting why I was breaking all the rules.'

‘You didn't have to —'

‘I know,' she said. ‘I wanted to.' She cleared her throat. ‘Right, I can't look at your face all filthy like that. Just let me gather up some stuff.'

She pulled a tray over towards her and moved around the supplies area, reaching for various items and pouring a tiny amount of water into a kidney bowl.

Rosie arrived unexpectedly, holding out a tin mug of tea. ‘I knew you wouldn't go back and fetch it,' she said but her gaze cut to Claire's patient and her light green eyes glinted with mischief. ‘Well, hello, handsome,' she said, turning on her most radiant smile. ‘Aren't you the chosen one?'

‘Our families —' Claire began.

‘I heard.' Rosie smiled with intrigue. ‘You'll have to tell me more later. Drink it, Claire,' she urged. ‘Promise to look me up when the war's over,' she threw at Jamie before turning to leave.

‘Thanks, Rosie,' Claire called, but as soon as her friend was halfway down the corridor, she pushed it at Jamie. ‘Here, you drink it.' She watched him stare at it like she was holding out a tray of gold rather than a chipped enamel mug of muddy tea. ‘I can make another one,' she insisted.

He took it, swallowed greedily and her heart broke a fraction more for him and all the parched men out there.

‘It's got sugar,' he murmured with disbelief.

She wanted to ruffle his hair at his simple, boyish pleasure. Claire moistened a rag and began wiping away the mud on Jamie's oval face and watched as a golden-tanned complexion began to appear, with stubble that seemed neither dark nor blond around a right-angled jaw that led her to a neat chin; it hinted at a dimple, which had likely been more pronounced in childhood. She cleaned his cheeks and found a pair of intriguing creases running the length of each and she imagined how they deepened when he smiled. Claire continued, moving to the nose that was arrow-straight before she wiped away the grime from the two tiny furrows between his dark eyebrows. She worked on, cleaning away the dirt as best she could, following his hairline, which had grown over with flops of soft brown hair the colour of roasted chestnuts. And those eyes that watched her so intently were the same shade as the sweet nut's leaves. It prompted thoughts of the copse at the end of her English garden.

‘I love English woodland,' she remarked, realising she had been holding her breath. He smiled to reveal even white teeth that emerged beneath widely defined lips. ‘There, now I know who I'm talking to.'

‘English woodland?'

She shrugged. ‘Childhood memories. I spent my early years in Berkshire.'

‘What happened next? I mean, after Berkshire?'

‘My mother died young, then my father soldiered in Africa so I was sent to Sydney to stay with friends but only for just over a year. Dad joined me, met someone and we lived in Tasmania when they married.' Her expression clouded. ‘I travelled back to England, turned eighteen on the ship, did my nurse's training, worked for a couple of years, ran away to war.' It sounded so dry and clinical.

‘Didn't get on with the new wife?' Trooper Wren cut across.

She raised an eyebrow at his intuition. ‘I was not mature enough, I suppose, to accept that my father could love anyone else but me. However, in my defence, she was equally one-eyed and I was clearly an encumbrance in her life. It was easier all round once he passed away.' She returned to brighter thoughts. ‘Yes, your colouring reminds me of the woodland we used to enjoy wonderful picnics in when I was a child.'

‘I'm glad. You sound like you were happy then.' He sipped from his mug. ‘Almost as happy as I feel now, taking afternoon tea with you.'

Claire laughed. ‘Let's have a look at this wound. I told you it's going to need sutures. But it's also going to hurt while I clean it out.'

He shrugged. ‘Anything for Farina's First XI.'

‘Farina?'

‘South Australia's far mid-north. Grazing country. Have you heard of the Flinders Ranges?'

‘Of course. Never seen them, though.'

‘I'd like to show you one day.' He sighed at her surprised smile. ‘In summer purple hills stretch over endlessly dry, copper-coloured earth, or golden plains of wheat so bright it hurts your eyes. But when the rains come, the world turns green overnight and wildflowers shoot up at the first drench and paint the landscape with lilac and yellow, whole meadows of searing red.' His voice had taken on a faraway quality, and when he returned to the ward full of sleeping men where they sat, he shrugged. ‘Makes you want to write about it.'

‘You should,' she urged, delighted by his vivid description. ‘You've made me want to see it for myself now. Are you a shearer?'

He grinned and she found his amusement disarming. It felt like each time he smiled, he stripped away another layer of her.

‘My family are landowners in the region – it's a distant spot. There are four of us sons. Dad wouldn't let Hugh or Robert go to war – they're both needed on the farm. And my mother refused young John, even though he wanted to run away with me.'

‘But they let you go?'

She saw the tightening around his generous mouth and the lines on his cheeks shifted. Those would deepen as he aged – and they would suit him, if he lived long enough. ‘I'm twenty-seven. I guess you could say I'm the middle son. My father fought in the Boer War. He agreed that the Wrens should do their part in this one. But don't read them wrong. We're a close family in our own way. I reckon Mum will still be setting a table for six and demanding Dad check the mail for my letters even when she knows there won't be one.'

‘Sounds like you all love each other,' she admitted, wishing she could wrap herself in a similar cocoon of affection even for a day or two. ‘So, let's start cleaning this wound out. Tell me about them . . . your family. Tell me about your father.'

She watched his expression cloud slightly. ‘He's a tricky person to explain because he's not easy to get to know.'

‘You've been with him all your life.'

‘Dad's a closed book. He refuses to be read.'

She smiled at that. ‘My dad was the opposite – he was so affectionate and he'd get excited over the smallest stuff. I miss that in my life. I think I've become introverted because he's not around.' She nodded at the mug. ‘Drink your tea. The sugar will help. I'm sure your father worries in his quiet hours about you over here. He's been to war, you say, so he knows what you're facing, understands the dangers.'

‘Mum says his distant air is a product of his upbringing. He was an orphan, raised on hundreds of acres by mainly shearers, no other children, no women, and then thrown into Adelaide at seven to be watched over by maiden aunts who gave little love but plenty of criticism. Mum always reminds me that I should hold some pity for him because he really does do his best by us all.'