Silence for the Dead(6)

“I’m here.” A woman’s low tenor voice came from the doorway behind us, and I moved aside. A second girl came into the room, this one tall, her shoulders wide, her hair mousy brown, her face doughy and slack. She regarded Nurse Fellows with naked hostility from behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. “Who’s this, then?”

Nurse Fellows’s lips pursed even thinner. “This is Nurse Weekes, who starts today.”

“Is it?” The big girl swung a look at me. “Will she last longer than the last one, then?”

“That was unfortunate,” said Nurse Fellows. “Matron has taken it under advisement.”

Now the look swung back to Nurse Fellows. “Will she take it under advisement that Martha and I have been doing double duty for four days?”

“Nina,” said the girl on the bed weakly.

Nurse Fellows’s returning stare was icy. “Matron is well aware of the staffing levels here, I assure you. That is why we have a replacement. The two of you will have to train her, as I am far too busy. I expect you to teach her properly.” She turned to me. “I’ll get you one of the uniforms from the cupboard. I’ll remind you that you are expected to wear your uniform at all times.” She darted a glare at Nurse Beachcombe, who was still sitting shoeless on the bed. “Even during breaks. I’ll see the three of you in fifteen minutes.”

“Where does she get off?” grumbled Nurse Shouldice after Nurse Fellows had gone.

“It was only my shoes,” Nurse Beachcombe said uncertainly as she scooted off her bed. “I’d no idea it was against regulations.”

“Of course not,” the bigger girl replied. “Too busy? Too busy doing what, I’d like to know.”

I stared at the heaping pile of cloth Nurse Fellows had deposited on the bed. The outfit looked ridiculously complicated. “I’ll never get into all this,” I said.

Nurse Beachcombe slid her shoes on and stood next to me. “It isn’t so hard. I’ll help.” She assisted me out of my blouse and skirt and gave me a shy smile. “I’m Martha,” she said to me, “and this is Nina. Where are you from?”

“London,” I said. “And I’m Kitty.”

“I like that name,” said Martha. “I’ve only been to London once myself, and wasn’t it wonderful! You see, this is rather simple—underskirt, skirt, then blouse and collar. The apron goes on last.”

“So you’re the new girl,” said Nina. She was watching me with a wariness I couldn’t quite fathom, as if she thought I’d steal her valuables, whatever they might be. “You’ve already met Boney, I see.”

“Boney?” I frowned as Martha helped me with the skirt, trying to place the reference. “You mean Napoléon?”

“Oh, you’re an educated one, then.” This was said with disdain. “Yes, our little dictator. That’s what we call her, though not to her face, of course. Matron’s pet, she is, don’t you think?”

“I’ve no idea.” Without knowing the lay of the land, I wasn’t about to insult another girl behind her back—even if she was obviously Matron’s pet. “I’m not educated,” I said. “I just read books.”

“Well, there won’t be any time for that here.” Nina’s glasses glinted in the waning light from the windows. “You’ll be worked off your feet. Six o’clock we’re up, and on duty at seven. You’re on duty until nine thirty, lights out at ten. Then it starts all over again.”

“Nina’s engaged,” said Martha. “To a man named Roland. He’s coming to collect her next month. Isn’t that romantic?”

“Martha, hush,” said Nina, though she couldn’t quite keep the superiority from her voice. “We’ve only just met her.”

“Well, she’s one of us now, and shouldn’t she know? I think it’s so exciting. I had a boy back in Glenley Crewe, but I had to come here for work, and he married someone else. Do you have a fellow, Kitty?”

In every group of girls I’d ever encountered—girls working together on a factory shift, girls living together in boardinghouses—the girl who was engaged had the highest status. It was probably the reason Boney, so fond of her superiority, disliked Nina so much. I would have to tread carefully. “No, I don’t.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. You shouldn’t have trouble with the men here—they’re not a bother in that way. Some of them don’t much know what’s going on, really, so they don’t get any ideas.”

“Ideas?” I tried to button the detachable collar with fingers that were suddenly cold and clumsy. “What do you mean?”

“For goodness’ sake, Martha,” Nina chided. “They’re patients. And madmen.”

Martha shrugged. “It doesn’t mean they can’t get ideas, does it? That’s all I was saying. There, now you fit right in.”

I stared down at myself. My long, slim serge skirt and serviceable blouse were gone, replaced by layers under a full apron that nearly brushed the floor. There had been grumblings that hems six inches from the ground were too short to be proper on a girl, part of the immorality we girls had learned during the war, though the grumblings never discouraged us from wearing the shortest hems we could find. Now I’d gone back in time, like a woman in an old photograph, one of those stiff biddies with sour expressions. The blouse’s shawl collar sat heavy on my shoulders, and the long, puffed sleeves ended past my wrists and halfway up my hands. How was I supposed to work in this?