Suffragette Girl (21 page)

‘Edith Carey and I did our training at the same time,’ Sister Blackstock went on. ‘And we’ve remained friends ever since. In fact,’ she smiled, ‘we’re
hoping to go to France together. She has a couple of professional nurses that want to go too, but you’re the only volunteer that we feel is reaching the required standard. By the end of this
month I hope you’ll get the certificates you need and then—’ Her smile broadened. ‘We’ll be ready when the call comes.’

Florrie was pink with pleasure. ‘Thank you, Sister.’

The woman shrugged. ‘You’ve done well, Maltby. You’ve done everything I’ve asked of you and even more.’ She nodded. ‘Oh yes, I know you covered for one of the
young VADs when she couldn’t cope. Don’t think I don’t know. There’s not much I don’t see.’

‘She suffers terribly each month—’ Florrie tried to explain, but the sister shook her head.

‘Not good enough. It’s not an illness and, if she can’t cope, then she shouldn’t be here. However, she is good most of the time, and I think Matron feels she could be
kept on to work here. But going overseas is out of the question, I’m afraid.’

Florrie was disappointed. She’d become quite friendly with the tiny blonde girl who looked as if a puff of wind would blow her over. But she said nothing. No doubt the sister was
right.

The work on Sister Carey’s surgical ward was more heartbreaking than arduous. Some of the injuries were hideous. There was one poor boy with half his face blown away. Florrie marvelled
that he was still alive and at how cheerful he was. As she’d been warned to do by Sister Blackstock, she looked straight at him and forced herself not to avert her gaze.

‘Got to ’ave another op tomorrow, Nurse,’ he told Florrie, his speech slurred and scarcely recognizable, as one of the professional nurses – Grace Featherstone –
took her round the ward. ‘A ya goin’ to ’old me ’and?’

Grace looked decidedly miffed. ‘She’s not a proper nurse. She’s a VAD. You call her “Maltby”, not “Nurse”.’

Florrie smiled at him and followed Grace as she marched to the next bed. ‘This patient is nil by mouth. He’s due for his operation later today.’

The bedclothes were a mound above the man’s legs. Florrie glanced at his face and saw that there were tears in his eyes. ‘Got to come off – both of ’em. Gangrene, they
reckon.’ He paused a moment and glanced at Nurse Featherstone, before turning back to Florrie and saying deliberately,
‘Nurse.’

Grace Featherstone gave a loud sniff of disapproval.

‘I’m sorry,’ Florrie murmured, then she smiled and nodded at the patient. ‘I’ll see you later then.’

The man returned her steady gaze. ‘I hopes so – Nurse.’

‘So?’ Grace Featherstone asked. She led Florrie back to the small room at the end of the ward where a window looked out over the beds packed closely together. ‘Do you think you
can cope? We can’t do with any hysterics or fainting at the first sight of blood.’

As they entered, Sister Carey looked up from her desk and smiled. She was an older woman – in her forties, Florrie guessed – with brown hair flecked with grey, a wide smile and
gentle brown eyes. ‘I don’t think Miss Maltby is the fainting type.’ Her voice was low and cultured. ‘She’s a suffragette girl.’

Grace stared at her and – to Florrie’s surprise – her mouth actually dropped open. ‘Are you really?’

Florrie nodded. ‘Was. All our activities are suspended because of the war.’

‘Did you ever get arrested? Go to prison?’

‘’Fraid so.’

Reluctant admiration crept into the other girl’s eyes as Sister Carey put in slyly, ‘They tell me she went on hunger strike and had to be force-fed.’

Grace gasped. ‘No!’

‘So, I don’t think, Nurse Featherstone, that our new recruit is going to let the sight of a little blood and gore upset her.’

‘Maybe not, Sister,’ Grace Featherstone was still not quite ready to admit defeat. ‘But that doesn’t make her a good nurse, does it? A
trained
nurse.’

‘True,’ the sister acknowledged. They were talking now as if Florrie were not in the room. ‘But that’s rather up to us, don’t you think?’

‘And what happens after the war, might I ask? These VADs will think themselves proper nurses. They’ll take our jobs, they’ll—’

‘Some might,’ Florrie interrupted them now. ‘But not all of us.’ She grinned saucily as she added, ‘Most of us will want to slip happily back into our cosseted,
privileged lives.’

Sister Carey hid her smile as she added, ‘And you should perhaps know now, Nurse Featherstone, that if Maltby
does
cope well on our ward, Sister Blackstock intends her to come
with us to France.’ Her expression hardened. ‘I hope you will help her over the next few weeks. I’m sure she’ll be an asset to our little party.’ She paused a moment
and then added pointedly, ‘Professional nurse or not.’

Grace turned a faint shade of embarrassed pink. ‘Of course, Sister,’ she murmured, taking the rebuke well, for now there was a new-found respect in her eyes.

The following two weeks were gruelling. If Florrie had thought the work exhausting before, nursing on the soldiers’ ward reached a new level. It wasn’t just the physical weariness;
it was the strain on her emotions that was the hardest. To see such brave young men maimed for life, to hear their tales of the hardships they’d suffered and the pals they’d lost tore
at her heart strings. And worst of all, the man who’d had his legs removed and who’d been her champion died three days after his operation. His heart just gave out after the trauma his
body had suffered.

‘If only,’ she heard one of the surgeons, Dr Johnson, mutter, ‘we could get to them sooner. We could save so many more lives. But by the time they’ve lain for hours on
the battlefield, maybe trapped in No-Man’s-Land or in a stinking shell-hole, been carried to the field hospital where they might receive only minimal medical treatment and finally been put
aboard trains and boats before they reach us – what hope do we have?’

And all the time Florrie couldn’t stop thinking: this could happen to the Hon. Tim, to Gervase or, worst of all, to her little brother.

‘So,’ Augusta regarded her with solemn eyes, ‘you’re really going?’

‘Yes, Gran. I’m going back to London tomorrow.’ Florrie could not hide her excitement. She was home for a flying visit over Easter, but couldn’t wait to get back.
She’d seen Isobel, but both Gervase and the Hon. Tim were away. ‘We cross the Channel next Monday.’

‘The 12th April,’ Augusta murmured. ‘Your grandfather’s birthday.’

Florrie knelt beside her grandmother’s chair. ‘I’d forgotten. Sorry.’

Augusta smiled, but deep in her eyes there was still the sorrow of her loss and now there was a new anxiety. For James and for Florrie.

‘To the Front?’ Augusta asked bluntly. There was no hiding the truth from her.

‘More than likely,’ Florrie replied cheerfully. ‘Sister Blackstock will go where she can be of most use – though we have to go where the Red Cross sends us. And I’m
to go with her, another sister and two nurses –
professional
nurses. Sister Blackstock’s been a brick. She’s helped me get the certificates I need in record time and
thrown all the nursing duties she can at me. We’ve been inoculated, vaccinated – any reason they could think of to stick a needle in us, I think they’ve done. So, we’re
ready to go.’

‘And you’ve coped? With everything?’

Florrie was not a conceited girl, so when she nodded and said, ‘Well, most of the time’, Augusta knew full well that the girl had more than likely tackled every gory task set her
– and done it. This Sister Blackstock, whose name littered Florrie’s conversation, wouldn’t be taking the girl to the battlefields of France with her if she didn’t think she
could cope. Of that, Augusta was sure. And at this moment, she didn’t know whether to be extremely proud of her granddaughter or to wish – secretly – that the girl had failed
dismally. That, at least, would have kept her safely at home. But that was not Augusta’s way.

As if reading some of her grandmother’s thoughts, Florrie said softly, ‘But please, Gran, don’t tell Mother. Let her think I’m at a hospital miles behind the lines
– well away from the danger.’

Augusta smiled wryly. ‘My dear girl, convincing your mother you’ll not be in any danger would be a miracle.’ Her mouth twitched with amusement. ‘But I’ll do my
best.’ She paused and then added imperiously, ‘Write to me, Florrie dear, just as often as you can. And let me know what you need.’

‘I’ve enough clothes and equipment to survive in the wilderness, let alone in a civilized country. D’you know, besides our uniforms, personal under-garments and possessions, we
have to take camping gear.’ She ticked off the items on her fingers. ‘A folding bed and sleeping bag, a camp chair, washstand – all canvas – to say nothing of knife, fork
and spoon, scissors, an enamel mug, towels – oh, all sorts of things. So many I can’t remember them all. Much of it packs into a kit bag. And we’re allowed a trunk and a holdall.
I just don’t know how I’m going to carry it all.’

Augusta chuckled. ‘I’m sure you’ll manage, and it’s wise to take as much as you can with you. The poor French folk—’ She shook her head sadly. ‘They
can’t have much left to give. And if you need anything else when you get out there, be sure to let me know. And not only that; if there are things your patients need, the good Mrs Ponsonby
and I will rally the ladies of the local area. I’m sure you will soon have more socks and balaclavas than you have soldiers to wear them.’

Florrie laughed and then sobered as she added seriously, ‘Try to involve Mother. It might help if she were to feel useful.’

Augusta nodded, but shrugged doubtfully.

‘And James,’ Florrie said softly. It tore at her heart that she hadn’t seen him again before leaving the country. ‘D’you know where he is now?’

Augusta pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘No. We haven’t heard from him for two weeks. Your poor mother is demented with worry, whilst your father—’ She gave a snort
of disgust, but said no more. But she didn’t need to. Florrie understood perfectly. Edgar would be strutting about like a proud peacock, broadcasting to anyone who’d listen that his son
had volunteered.

‘Let me know what’s happening, won’t you? And Gran—’ She fixed the old lady with a stare. ‘I want the truth. Always.’

‘Of course, my dear. Would you expect anything less of me?’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

In a rare moment of pride, Edgar himself drove Florrie to the station. Augusta had said her goodbyes in private and Clara had taken to her bed. So only Edgar stood beside her
on the platform, saw that her luggage was loaded into the guard’s van and then waved her off as the train pulled out of the station.

‘Take care of yourself, my dear. I’m very proud of you. Very proud . . .’ His words were lost amidst the noise of the train and the smoke hid him from her view, but as Florrie
sat down in the carriage, she had a lump in her throat. It was the closest she’d ever felt to her father and the first time she could ever remember him showing such affection to her. But it
still seemed strange to her that the only time Edgar had ever displayed pride in either of his offspring had been when he was waving them off to war.

The Channel crossing was choppy and poor Sister Blackstock was seasick.

‘I didn’t think my first real nursing duty would be for you,’ Florrie teased. ‘You look positively green, Sister.’

Rosemary groaned. ‘Less of your cheek, if you please, Nurse.’

Florrie smiled. It gave her a thrill to hear herself addressed as such. And by Sister Blackstock too – that was a real achievement.

There were fifty medical staff aboard the ship, made up of members of the St John’s Ambulance Brigade and the British Red Cross, to which Sister Blackstock and her nurses were attached.
There were six from the London Hospital: Sisters Blackstock and Carey, Nurses Featherstone and Newton and VAD Maltby. To their surprise the sixth member of their small group was Dr Johnson.

‘Can’t let you ladies go on your own,’ the big man boomed with a hearty laugh. He was tall and broad with a handlebar moustache, and Florrie for one was delighted he was going
with them, though whether they would all be working together remained to be seen.

Thankful to step ashore again, the whole group travelled south from Boulogne for about ten miles to Camiers, a village near the coast. Several camp hospitals had recently been erected behind the
sand dunes. Nearby were base camps, training camps and a machine-gun school. A railway line served them all.

‘Is this it?’ Florrie gazed around her at the rows and rows of tents of all sizes, some as big as marquees.

‘I think so. We’ve to report to a Sister Warren, so if we can find her, we’ll know we’re in the right place,’ Sister Blackstock said and added grimly as she glanced
about her, ‘Though how we’re expected to keep our patients warm and dry in
tents
beats me. And no doubt we’ll be expected to sleep in a tent too.’

She was right. Florrie found herself sharing a bell tent with Grace Featherstone and Hetty Newton. Grace seemed to have accepted Florrie now, but Hetty looked askance at having to share with a
mere VAD. Florrie took no notice and arranged her clothes and few belongings in boxes close to her camp bed. As she unpacked, she realized a little sadly that any friendliness that had existed
between herself and Sister Blackstock might be at an end. Here – more than ever – she suspected that despite her hard-won certificates, she’d be relegated once more to the status
of a skivvy whilst the ‘real’ nurses looked after the patients. But she didn’t mind. She was here in France and ‘doing her bit’.

Sister Mabel Warren, who’d been in France almost from the beginning, greeted their party. Dr Johnson was borne off by another doctor, leaving the sister to show the newcomers round. She
was small and wiry – in her fifties, Florrie guessed – but her sharp grey eyes missed nothing. She rarely smiled and then only at the patients, but her manner was quiet and reassuring,
bringing calm and order to chaos. Though in fear of her displeasure, it seemed that all those under her revered and worshipped her. As for the patients in her care, Florence Nightingale herself
could not have been more loved.