unwilling to attract the Head Matron’s attention.
Not that she had done anything wrong, but Mrs. Mothershead, who delighted, it seemed, in finding fault with the younger nurses, had a specially hawklike eye for Nora.
Nora often thought this strange, as she knew, without conceit, that she had been the best student in Mrs. Mothershead’s class during her probationary year. It was usually Nora who produced the right answer first, Nora who grasped a difficult concept the most easily, and Nora’s hands which were the most quick and deft in demonstrating how to change a dressing or staunch a flow of blood. Then there had been the curious words uttered by Mr. Carr-Gomm when she received her certificate.
“Congratulations on becoming fully qualified, Nurse Ireland,” he had said, giving her his most delightful smile. “Mrs. Mothershead thinks very highly of you—er—very highly indeed. We’re glad you’re going to remain on the staff of the London Hospital.”
If Mrs. Mothershead thought so highly of her, Nora thought resentfully, as she clattered along with the cart and tried to control the yearning of her stomach for breakfast, it was a wonder that she always seemed to be ready to pick on her. She would have been amazedhad she heard Mrs. Mothershead’s comments only the night before the certificates were given out.
“Too pretty,” the Head Matron had said crossly. “Too pretty by far to be a nurse. She’ll not last.”
“But we have to give her the certificate,” Carr-Gomm had protested. “You’ve said yourself she is the best.”
“Oh give her the certificate by all means. She’s earned it. But she’ll not last. If I had my way, girls who looked like that would be weeded out at the selection stage.”
“That would be very hard on the patients, Mrs. Mothershead,” Carr-Gomm ventured. But his smile faltered and died under Mrs. Mothershead’s virtuous stare.
It was not that Nora was a great beauty; rather that she had soft brown eyes, a neat, well-sculpted face, and a perfect complexion. True, her features were rather on the blunt side. She had yearned for delicate features ever since she had been a small child and planned how she would go on the stage and sweep the world with her beauty. But she had had to settle for being merely pretty and becoming a nurse, which was the job pressed on her by her father, a Methodist lay preacher, who had dreaded the thought of his daughter becoming “an actress and a wanton” as he was used to put it.
Safely past the ward door now Nora decided she could relax a little. At the top of the stairs she stopped to rub her back. The cart was built at just the level that meant you had to lean uncomfortably to push it. Just as she was about to go on something caught her eye. From here she had a perfect view down the stairs and into the hall to the entrance, and of the two figures who were coming through it. One she recognized at once as Dr. Treves, but the other one held her riveted.
She couldn’t see what was underneath the enveloping cloak and grey flannel mask that hid the whole face and head. But whatever it was seemed to behaving a lot of trouble. It was moving slowly and wheezing desperately with every step. The two moved toward the bottom of the stairs and began to climb them laboriously, Treves’ strong right arm supporting the other figure. Nora shrugged and passed on into the kitchen.
She gasped at the heat as soon as the door closed behind her. The kitchen nurses were absorbed with a grey mush that they were ladeling into bowls. Nora remembered the rich creamy porridge her mother used to make and felt faint. She yearned for breakfast, but when it came it would be this stuff.
A nurse pulled the cart of empty trays away from her and signaled her to wait. Gasping from the heat Nora thrust her head out of the door into the corridor. After the steam and cacophony of the kitchen it seemed a haven of peace. She could just see Treves and the shrouded figure at
Not that she had done anything wrong, but Mrs. Mothershead, who delighted, it seemed, in finding fault with the younger nurses, had a specially hawklike eye for Nora.
Nora often thought this strange, as she knew, without conceit, that she had been the best student in Mrs. Mothershead’s class during her probationary year. It was usually Nora who produced the right answer first, Nora who grasped a difficult concept the most easily, and Nora’s hands which were the most quick and deft in demonstrating how to change a dressing or staunch a flow of blood. Then there had been the curious words uttered by Mr. Carr-Gomm when she received her certificate.
“Congratulations on becoming fully qualified, Nurse Ireland,” he had said, giving her his most delightful smile. “Mrs. Mothershead thinks very highly of you—er—very highly indeed. We’re glad you’re going to remain on the staff of the London Hospital.”
If Mrs. Mothershead thought so highly of her, Nora thought resentfully, as she clattered along with the cart and tried to control the yearning of her stomach for breakfast, it was a wonder that she always seemed to be ready to pick on her. She would have been amazedhad she heard Mrs. Mothershead’s comments only the night before the certificates were given out.
“Too pretty,” the Head Matron had said crossly. “Too pretty by far to be a nurse. She’ll not last.”
“But we have to give her the certificate,” Carr-Gomm had protested. “You’ve said yourself she is the best.”
“Oh give her the certificate by all means. She’s earned it. But she’ll not last. If I had my way, girls who looked like that would be weeded out at the selection stage.”
“That would be very hard on the patients, Mrs. Mothershead,” Carr-Gomm ventured. But his smile faltered and died under Mrs. Mothershead’s virtuous stare.
It was not that Nora was a great beauty; rather that she had soft brown eyes, a neat, well-sculpted face, and a perfect complexion. True, her features were rather on the blunt side. She had yearned for delicate features ever since she had been a small child and planned how she would go on the stage and sweep the world with her beauty. But she had had to settle for being merely pretty and becoming a nurse, which was the job pressed on her by her father, a Methodist lay preacher, who had dreaded the thought of his daughter becoming “an actress and a wanton” as he was used to put it.
Safely past the ward door now Nora decided she could relax a little. At the top of the stairs she stopped to rub her back. The cart was built at just the level that meant you had to lean uncomfortably to push it. Just as she was about to go on something caught her eye. From here she had a perfect view down the stairs and into the hall to the entrance, and of the two figures who were coming through it. One she recognized at once as Dr. Treves, but the other one held her riveted.
She couldn’t see what was underneath the enveloping cloak and grey flannel mask that hid the whole face and head. But whatever it was seemed to behaving a lot of trouble. It was moving slowly and wheezing desperately with every step. The two moved toward the bottom of the stairs and began to climb them laboriously, Treves’ strong right arm supporting the other figure. Nora shrugged and passed on into the kitchen.
She gasped at the heat as soon as the door closed behind her. The kitchen nurses were absorbed with a grey mush that they were ladeling into bowls. Nora remembered the rich creamy porridge her mother used to make and felt faint. She yearned for breakfast, but when it came it would be this stuff.
A nurse pulled the cart of empty trays away from her and signaled her to wait. Gasping from the heat Nora thrust her head out of the door into the corridor. After the steam and cacophony of the kitchen it seemed a haven of peace. She could just see Treves and the shrouded figure at
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