Nightingale (23 page)

‘Yes, but —'

‘I will give you this book on one condition.'

‘Go on.'

‘That you return it to the Turkish family.'

She opened her mouth but couldn't think of anything to say initially. They stared at one another awkwardly. It had not occurred to her to take on such an adventure alone . . . was it her place? But even as she thought this, the answer came back that it didn't matter who returned the book, so long as it was given back to Açar Shahin's family.

‘I mean it. If you really want to honour the dead as you claim, then honour your nursing friend who kept it safe for you, honour your fiancé who promised to be caretaker of this book for its owner,' he said, waving it before her, ‘and honour unreservedly the dead owner's wishes for this book. Nobility takes deeds. I took action that hurt me deeply but prevented pain for others. So take the book back to Turkey or don't take it from me at all. If it's going to gather dust among your lace underwear, it might as well gather dust in my desk.' Bernard's eyes blazed with the fervour of his challenge.

‘You may not keep it, Bernard,' she said in what sounded just short of a growl. Claire took a breath and said in a milder tone, ‘I know Leo gave it to you but Jamie gave it to me first. It's my only connection to him.'

He glared at her.

‘But I will return it. I shall go to Istanbul.' She was giving voice to a promise that her mind could barely keep up with, but her heart took over – the pact was made between Jamie and Shahin and she and Bernard and even Leo were irrelevant to that equation. She aired this thought.

‘Nonsense! All that matters is that the book is returned. Your Turk will lie easy in his grave and your fiancé, if he's alive, will surely admire your pluck. Are you plucky, Miss Nightingale, or just clucky?'

Claire felt her lids narrow and she was sure she was giving Jenkins a look of pure scorn.

‘Ah, I feel your rage like a scald, Miss Nightingale,' he mocked. ‘Can I get you a cooling drink? I know I need one.' He walked over to the cabinet and poured himself another small tot.

‘A water, please,' she said and could hear the strain in her voice.

He poured her a small glass of water from the jug he kept near the whisky to dilute it. He returned and handed her the glass. ‘Shall we or shall we not drink to Istanbul?'

Istanbul!
Was she mad, agreeing to such a dare? Claire's acceptance of the challenge blazed back through her eyes like mica glittering from the hard countenance of bedrock. ‘
Serefe!
' she growled.

‘Indeed, cheers, Miss Nightingale,' he said clinking his squat, crystal glass against her thin beaker. It made a dull sound of celebration as he held out the prayer book to her. ‘Take it.'

Claire stared at it for several seconds. Finally she took it, privately rejoicing at the feel of the vellum once more against her skin. ‘Thank you, Mr Jenkins.'

Relief, like an explosion of radiant light, pulsed through her. She was back on course, one step closer to her purpose. Another obstacle to Jamie felt as though it had been conquered and as daring as it was, she couldn't deny that the hum of fresh energy was not all anger or even relief but a new sense of purpose, of adventure, even.

She was surprised at being able to dig up a smile.

‘When will you go?' Bernard asked.

She finished her water, handed him back the glass. ‘As fast as I can. I might have mentioned that I have a date in April to keep.'

‘Oh, what a cunning girl you are. Bravo, Miss Nightingale, bravo. I hope you will write and tell me how it all turns out. I have a vested interest in this prayer book, after all.'

‘I will. When were you last in Egypt?'

‘As a young man. Too long ago. Would you like to see the house, Miss Nightingale?'

She nodded. ‘I have a few minutes before I must leave for my train. But only if you'll call me Claire.'

‘Then please call me Bernard,' he replied and for the first time since they'd met, his expression cleared. ‘Oh, and by the way, can you enlighten me as to who those people are in the photo? They don't look a bit Turkish.'

‘What photo?' she frowned.

‘May I?' She handed him the prayer book and he opened the back flyleaf from where a tiny photograph fell out into his hand.

Claire gasped. ‘I had no idea that was there!'

He stared at her quizzically. ‘Surely you looked at the book when it was given to you?'

‘Not really,' she admitted. ‘We were on the ward in Cairo, Jamie was finally conscious and I didn't want to even think about the wretched book then. All I cared about was making the most of our hours together. I put it in my bag, haven't really thought about it properly again until two days ago when it suddenly became important again.' They'd both been staring at the tiny photo as she spoke and now her voice shook slightly. ‘This is Jamie's family,' she said with certainty, regarding the tall, striking woman leaning against a verandah post. The house itself was lost as the camera had tried to capture the people in close up but the image was grainy nonetheless. The woman was laughing, dark head tilted, caught in a moment of delight. Claire touched the woman. ‘His mother,' she whispered, in awe of seeing his family captured in the surrounds that she suspected Jamie loved as much as he loved her; not that she could see much but it was as though she could suddenly feel the dry heat of the desert winds and taste the eucalypt on the air. A boy sat cross-legged on the steps with a grin that was heartbreakingly reminiscent of Jamie. Features were smudged on the two other men, presumably his elder brothers, who leaned over the railing near their mother, and she sensed that their relaxed poses in white collarless shirts with their sleeves rolled up included big smiles.

But it was to the serious expression of the older man in the photograph that her attention was called. He was formally attired in a dark three-piece suit, a small terrier at one side and a black-and-white sheepdog by his feet, looking up at the man rather than the camera. The man stood straight-backed, arms crossed, a bushy moustache covering his mouth, looking solemnly at the lens. He was tall, angular but although features were lost again there was a mesmerising quality to his grave expression. She remembered how Jamie had spoken almost reverently about his father.

Bernard flipped the photo over and Claire felt her heart speed to see an inscription in spindly script of dark ink.

Son . . . we miss you, especially your beautiful mother. Be safe.

Claire began to cry silently. Now she knew exactly what her pathway was.

A hand squeezed her shoulder gently in comfort and she was touched by the show of affection from a person who minutes earlier had felt like an enemy. ‘Do you know them?'

She shook her head. ‘No, but I wrote recently to his parents care of a place called Farina in South Australia where Jamie comes from. The postmaster can hardly not know a family of Wrens, and even if they've never heard of me I don't care, we have Jamie in common.' She returned the photo to the back of the book, convinced that Jamie had to be alive and April couldn't come quickly enough.

‘Yourself? All the way to
Constantinople
?' Eugenie exclaimed. Claire was back from Brighton and wheeling her friend around the pathways of her beloved garden. ‘Is travel to Turkey possible yet?'

‘It is possible. We call it Istanbul, by the way.'

‘Oh, I prefer the romance of the name the Roman imperialists gave it. So tell me how you've made this happen.'

‘The British hospital in the capital is seeking nursing staff. Not many people want to be on the move yet – most of the nurses are only now just getting demobbed. I was fortunate to get repatriated so quickly.'

‘Yes, I meant to ask how that came about.'

She shrugged. ‘I put my hand up to escort some soldiers home, all of them blind, several needing round-the-clock nursing. The bonus was that I got back to Britain sooner than most. Anyway, I suspect the hospital in Istanbul will be happy to take me on for a short period . . . a month, six weeks, perhaps.'

‘That's quite an adventure you have planned there. And you think Jamie will approve? I mean, he won't mind you carrying out that task alone?'

Claire explained about Bernard's coercion. ‘I wouldn't have Shahin's book if I didn't agree, so I don't have a choice. Jamie will have to understand that I was put on the spot and had to make a decision. I need to believe he'll be gladdened to know the prayer book is delivered and that the promise to his friend fulfilled.'

‘Will you contact the Turk's family?'

‘I'll write to them immediately. The young man died in May 1915 and, given how I feel about Jamie, I know they will likely want to learn every scrap of information about their boy.'

‘Plus it's warmer than here,' Eugenie remarked with a grin. ‘It is a gallant act, Claire. You honour Jamie and the Turkish family through it. Nobody loses, everyone gains, especially you.'

‘Now I just have to make sure I have the means to —'

‘Claire dear, I have all the means in the world but just not the strength or I'd come with you!' At Claire's instant shaking of her head, Eugenie's expression became dismissive. ‘What else can an old woman like me do with her money? I have no family left and I could never have children. I'm already near enough blackmailing a grumbling family solicitor who clearly feels uncomfortable that I plan to bequeath much of my wealth to charitable pursuits. Might as well do some good for others,' she said, with a birdlike wave of a hand that had become so thin it was clawlike. ‘I've led a selfishly indulgent life. And in death I plan to share it.'

‘That's wonderful, Eugenie.'

‘Staring at death sharpens one's grasp of reality and there are a lot of homeless, helpless people after the war. I have no use for it. I'm going to fund an orphanage and I hope to fund a new clinic too but it's a beginning. And I have lots of cottages that sprawl across the land and I'd like to make those available to women and children whose men haven't come home.'

Claire shook her head. ‘You make me feel useless.'

‘Good! Then agree to run the clinic for me.'

‘What? No, I can't do that. Jamie and I are planning a life in Australia!'

Her friend hid it well but Claire saw the disappointment flash in Eugenie's eyes before she blinked it away. ‘All right, but you can help get it set up, perhaps work out how to structure the clinic, think about how to staff it . . .' Claire stared at her with a slightly incredulous expression. ‘I am serious, Claire. Now that you've walked back into my life, I shan't let you go without winning your word that you'll help continue something that's important. Radlett is an affluent area mainly owned by a handful of rich families but there are places just beyond here that are surely desperately crying out for medical and nursing assistance.' Again, she didn't wait for Claire's response. ‘You need not answer yet because if you would, I'd be most grateful if you'd consider staying close long enough to see me through to the end.'

Claire baulked. ‘Let me think on this,' she appealed.

Eugenie smiled. ‘Of course. So, what about the travel into Constantinople?'

‘I read only yesterday that there are warships gathering again in the waters as the Allies plan to occupy the city.'

‘Well, we shall know soon enough with the Paris Peace Conference only days away. Anyway, you can take the train from Paris all the way through and with my money you can make plans immediately. Out of the war something good can come and enemies need not remain enemies if people like you make these gracious acts. Say yes. I can call my tour agent today and make arrangements, and as you agree, also say yes to the other business. Don't let them drag me off to die in a hospital, Claire. I promise to be swift and off your hands and conscience before midsummer – how's that? I want to die here, surrounded by Egypt and knowing Edward is waiting for me. Now, lose that expression and agree to give me a good send-off with affection and laughter.'

Claire took a deep breath, suddenly deeply aware of a sense of excitement and purpose. ‘Yes to everything, including nursing you,' she replied. ‘I cannot refuse.'

Reveille sounded and the walking wounded, awaiting repatriation, began the amble to the mess hall.

‘Can't wait for my first cuppa on Australian soil again, Matron,' a fellow on crutches remarked, arriving to deliver her a written message. ‘My lieutenant asked me to bring this to you. I can't believe we've finally got orders.'

‘Thank you. Well, I will certainly miss your cheerful smile, Frank.' The stout woman in crisp whites grinned at him from a dimpled face.

‘You know we all love you, Matron. You're not at all like the other starchy heads of wards I've come across before. You've been very kind to all of us, so I don't want you to take it the wrong way when I ask if you have any idea of when we'll be on our way?'

She handed him a small jar of bright yellow flowers. ‘The new date is second half of March. Not long now. Six weeks, maybe. Give those to Hugo Pickford, would you? I picked them for him this morning. I thought they might cheer him while he gets used to losing his eye. Tell him they're called Coltfoot.'

‘You see, no one like you, Matron.' Frank winked but then grew more serious as his gaze slid to a man in a wheelchair near the window. ‘What about blokes like him?' he said, nodding towards the staring patient, his gaze unfocused, features slackened.

‘We're still hoping for news of who he is. He seemed to get separated from his unit. I'm glad to say I've got my way to repatriate him through England because he needs surgery.'

‘No, send the lad home for it. Every bloke wants to get back.'

‘We could, of course. But I happen to know the long journey back to Australia might add unnecessary risk. That arm is severely damaged, one leg badly crushed. Horse and camel, as I understood it, fell on him as he was trying to pull a fellow soldier to safety. The information is sketchy at best. And he has no identification tags. We know he belongs to the 3rd Regiment so we're making all enquiries but everything is very slow at present. I think he'll be gone from here in the next day or two, though, before word gets through.'

‘Has he spoken?'

She shook her head. ‘Not yet. A close explosion can do that, though. We call it neurasthenia, or shellshock – although around here that seems to apply to everything from being stunned by an explosion and losing hearing and so on to malingering. The impact can put men into a stupor for weeks until their minds clear the fog. They can't hear properly and the disorientation lingers. He'll get there with the right care and understanding. Anyway, thanks for delivering this, Frank.'

‘How's your leg, Matron? I forget you got injured too.'

‘Oh, I'm fine. It gets a bit stiff but nothing that a good rubdown with liniment can't improve.' His expression told her he suspected she was fibbing. ‘You go off and get yourself fed.'

‘Righto, Matron,' he said, whistling as he turned.

She spared a few moments to limp over to the injured fellow. ‘Afternoon, Trooper.'

He registered her arrival with nothing more than a blink.

‘I know it's all confusing in your mind right now but it will clear. You'll be going to Dartford Hospital in England the day after tomorrow. They'll provide the post-op care you're going to need on that arm. But I'd love it if you could smile for me before you go.' Matron beamed him a smile, searching his green-eyed stare that was hunting memories elsewhere, she suspected, as she uncurled his fingers to reveal a shiny piece of metal. ‘Still holding that, eh? That's good. It connects you to where you belong, I'm sure. Keep holding it, Trooper, and come back to us soon.'

She sighed, squeezed his uninjured shoulder and hoped with all her heart that someone was looking for this handsome young Australian . . . or at least waiting for him.

________

It was mid-February before Claire left London bound for the Taksim Hospital in Istanbul, which the British had taken over. It was clearly difficult for the former German hospital to find nursing staff willing to be on the move again so soon after the horrors of the war, so her offer to work for a month was quickly taken up. Nevertheless, she was determined to travel independently of the military and once her train ticket was booked it suddenly felt right to be on this journey and she felt glad to be focused on nursing again.

She had visited Eugenie once more before leaving so that she could thank her again for this opportunity and promised to telegram as soon as she had arrived. They'd agreed she would offer the cottage that her aunt bequeathed her for rental soon after her return and Claire would move into Eugenie's house at Radlett. ‘For as long as required,' Eugenie had said, with a knowing twinkle in her eye.

And now here Claire sat on the newly reinstated Orient Express train bound for the exotic city of Constantinople, stopping in Vienna, Budapest and Bucharest. She smiled at the older man seated opposite, whom she was sharing a table with for dining. They'd sat in a companionable silence over breakfast while he read the paper and she again scanned the letter she had received back from Turkey a week ago. In it, Rifki Shahin had expressed his surprise at hearing from her and especially regarding her visit to Istanbul, as he called it. Without referring to his son's death, or much else from her letter, he agreed to meet with her in the French military occupied zone:
You might find it easier than I to move freely between the occupied zones
. He had added that the university where he taught was in the old city known as Sultanahmet, where the palace and playground of the famed Ottoman royals had been.

It was polite but terse with no indication of his grief or any glimpse into his life. Eugenie had been right: this felt like an adventure and for all the right reasons. Preparing for this brief posting meant she had barely dwelt on Jamie Wren and her preoccupation suddenly prompted a strange pang of guilt.

She blinked. ‘Pardon me?' Had her dining companion spoken? Beyond good manners of a cursory salutation, their gazes had barely met. In fact they'd both read their respective books over the first night's dinner and avoided any threat of conversation.

His perfectly trimmed white moustache twitched. ‘I said that I recognised that stationery.' He nodded at the letter in her hand. ‘Forgive me, I'm not prying,' he coughed. ‘Are you visiting the university too?'

She smiled. ‘Er, no, actually I'm on a brief posting to the British hospital. I'm a nurse. But someone I am hoping to meet is a tutor there.'

‘Oh? I'm travelling there to give a lecture in physics.'

She shrugged. ‘He doesn't tell me which campus he works from.'

‘I'm guessing you've not been to Constantinople before.'

‘You guess right, Mr . . .?'

‘Professor Leavers.'

‘Claire Nightingale,' she said, holding out a hand in proper greeting.

‘Rather lovely name you have. Most appropriate for a nurse, although I'm sure that's not the first time you've heard that jest?'

She grinned and shook her head. ‘Should I be calling it Istanbul or Constantinople? It's all rather confusing.'

‘Not nearly as confusing as it will be once we get there and encounter a city being supervised by three nations. Can't wait for everyone to leave it and let life return to normal. The Turkish prefer Istanbul – many just call it the old way of Stamboul, but I think we British, never ones to let go of tradition, keep to the old city of Constantine. Is your friend a modernist?'

‘I have no idea, Professor Leavers.' At his quizzical expression she gave him an abridged version of her mission.

‘Well, I admire your pluck. I lost a son in the Dardanelles campaign but I bear the Turkish no malice. They lost twice as many of their young braves. It was a hopeless, ill-conceived plan and the more people like you and me try and mend broken threads, the faster everyone's lives can resume.'

The food arrived. Even on rations the dining carriage was managing to serve up exemplary dishes.

‘Dover sole in lemon butter: I dare admit this looks better than back home in my memories.' He chuckled. ‘
Bon appetit
.'

‘
Merci
,' she said, smiling.

‘Are you not sharing your compartment with someone?'

‘I was expecting to, but whoever had booked hasn't turned up.'

‘Good grief, the whole sleeper to yourself, eh? That's a stroke of luck. I'm sharing with a dreadful snorer and someone who likes to talk a great deal. Forgive me, I pretended I knew you and used you as an excuse to sit here.'

She laughed. ‘You're forgiven. How did you know I would not become a terrible burden of small talk for you?'

‘It crossed my mind, but you carried a book and I had to trust that you were more interested in reading than chatting up an old codger.'

‘I've barely read a word of my book, to tell the truth.'

He told her about the various stops they'd make and how long they'd linger at each, apologising for potentially boring her, which she denied vehemently.

‘Are you staying long in Constantinople?' she enquired. ‘Actually, I think I'm going to stick with Istanbul and be modern.' She grinned.

He shook his head as he ate. ‘A few days. The university provides lodgings. Does the hospital look after you?'

She nodded. ‘I've no idea but after the Western Front, nothing much intimidates me.'

‘My word, you're a brave one.'

She shrugged.

‘Well, do explore the old city if you're permitted. The Byzantine architecture is breathtaking. Stay veiled, though your uniform should take care of that.' He pointed to his head. ‘It's all about the hair and shoulders.'

She nodded, understanding.

‘Turkey may be relatively liberal but Western women are rarely seen out and about without close escort. I have no doubt you'll be able to move freely around the various Allied supervised zones, and from what I hear life in the old city hasn't changed much. If you need any help, you can contact me at the university.'

‘That's extremely kind of you, Professor.'

‘What's your tutor's name, by the way?'

She glanced at the letter, making sure she got the pronunciation correct. ‘Shahin.'

He gave a small shake of his head. ‘Rings no bells but perhaps our paths might cross. Well,' he said, dabbing his mouth with great care to clean his moustache. ‘Forgive me for deserting you, but I'm preparing for my lectures and I must steal my quiet time while I can.'

‘Of course,' she nodded, as she put her silver cutlery together on the plate. ‘Your company has been delightful, thank you.'

‘My son wouldn't have been a whole lot older than you when he joined up. He wasn't married either,' he said, glancing at her left hand. ‘If he had been, I'd like to think it would have been to a young woman as wholly independent yet as feminine and lovely as yourself.'

Claire felt sure she blushed brightly.

‘You'll enjoy the romantic alpine scenery, particularly through the forests and Carpathian mountains after passing through Transylvania. And if that doesn't capture your imagination, then I suspect crossing the mighty Danube and moving through the lush valleys of Bulgaria surely will. Certainly better than if you were sailing back to Turkey, I'm sure.'

She nodded, not really wanting to remember all those crossings between Greece, Egypt and Anzac Cove, but knowing her heart was never going to let her forget them because somewhere in that triangle was Jamie Wren.

________

The matron welcomed her warmly onto the ward that was full of light from the tall, wide chamber and abundance of windows. Despite the exotic plants she could see beyond the glass and the welcome, soft breeze. Like every other hospital she'd ever worked in the smell of antiseptic was overwhelming – even reassuring – but more comforting was the discovery that her patients were not hovering between life and death. There were no screams of pain, or tears of misery.

‘No shrapnel to dig out, no bullet wounds to suture, no limbs to amputate, but there is Spanish flu here,' Matron added, her smile faltering. ‘All the usual precautions are necessary. Beyond that it's the common or garden array of ailments, from sore throats and fevers to gonorrhea.'

Claire lifted an eyebrow and grinned, certain she already liked this towering, bespectacled matron with a no-nonsense, direct way about her. ‘Thank you for my room. It's lovely and airy.'

‘Good. I appreciate any nurse prepared to leave home again so soon. You're happy doing the morning shift?'

‘Whatever suits the team, Matron.'

‘Excellent. Well, you're on at six and from one you're free. You understand how the city is being policed by Britain, France and Italy?'

Claire nodded.

‘Just carry your ID papers and you're free to move around the three zones.'

‘Thank you. I am hoping to meet one of the professors at the university.'

‘Oh? That's fast work,' she remarked.

‘I met him on the train coming over. Promised we'd take tea together.'

Matron regarded her with interest.

‘He's old enough to be my grandfather!'

‘Good for you. Well, the university is in the Fatih area, near the very grand and beautiful Blue Mosque in Sultanahmet – you can't miss it and it's an easy walk, especially at this time of the year. You can take the ferry across from Taksim and walk up from the harbour. You'll enjoy it but while our women enjoy certain freedoms, Claire, just bear in mind that Turkish women do not. I have given all my girls the same talk – please respect the Turkish ways.'

‘I understand. I've no intention of being abroad alone very often, Matron.'

‘Good. And if you are alone, I want you in uniform and veiled at all times. I also suggest you carry your cape that covers your arms, and keep your hands crossed within as best you can.'