The Nightingale Girls by Donna Douglas Page A

November wind howled, hurling rain like pebbles against the window.
    And yet she couldn’t forget about it.
    ‘I suppose this is something to do with our new Matron?’ Florence Parker regarded her shrewdly over the rim of her spectacles. ‘Come along, my dear, you may as well spit it out. What has she done now?’
    Veronica pressed her lips tightly together in an effort not to speak. It wasn’t her way to whinge and complain. Her father would never have tolerated it. Even when her mother died in India while she was away at boarding school, she wasn’t allowed to shed any tears.
    ‘We’ll have no weeping and wailing in front of the servants,’ her father had declared briskly, as they followed the funeral cortège under the baking Bombay sun.
    But this wasn’t complaining for the sake of it, she decided.
    ‘She has done away with the bath book,’ she said.
    Silence fell. Veronica waited for an explosion of outrage from the other sisters.
    ‘Is that all?’ Florence said, returning to her stitching. ‘Really, Veronica, from the way you were talking, I thought it must be something truly serious.’
    ‘But this
is
serious.’ Veronica stared at her in disbelief. How could she not see how serious it was? For as long as she could remember, each ward had kept a detailed ledger recording when each patient was given a bath. It was an absolute cornerstone of care on the wards, enshrined in many years of tradition. The very idea of getting rid of it was sacrilege.
    ‘Well, I can’t see the harm in it,’ Florence said. ‘I must say, I’m surprised we still have them at all. I’ve always thought it was a rather silly system, and such a waste of time. Surely a sister should know if one of her patients hasn’t had a bath in three days? It’s a poor show on her if she doesn’t.’
    ‘But . . . but . . .’ Veronica’s mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. For someone who had trained at the very nursing school that Florence Nightingale had set up at St Thomas’ Hospital, and who had even met Miss Nightingale herself, Sister Parker took a rather surprising attitude towards standards, she decided.
    ‘Well, I agree with you, Veronica. It’s an absolute disgrace,’ Agatha Sutton declared, her chins wobbling as she cut herself another slice of seed cake. ‘It’s the way we’ve always done things here, and Miss Fox should respect that.’
    ‘Exactly.’ Veronica nodded in agreement, trying not to notice that Agatha was dropping crumbs all over her sewing.
    ‘There’s nothing wrong with change, Agatha. If weinsisted on continuing to do things the way we’d always done them, then we would still be sawing off people’s legs without anaesthetic, and drilling holes in their heads to let out the bad humours,’ Florence Parker put in.
    ‘That isn’t the same thing at all,’ Agatha Sutton exclaimed crossly.
    ‘Isn’t it? The world is changing, whether we like it or not. We need to embrace the new ways, or get left behind. Not all change is bad, you know.’
    ‘Well, I don’t hold with any of it.’
    Veronica Hanley fixed her gaze on the mantelpiece as the sisters bickered. A stuffed magpie trapped under a glass dome stared glassily back at her. Agatha had a mania for knick-knacks. Every table and inch of sideboard seemed to be crammed with china ornaments, glass paperweights, toby jugs, and a curious creature made from polished shells, with ‘A Gift from Hastings’ printed on it.
    It was all far too sentimental for her taste. She had no time for fanciful gew-gaws. As the daughter of a British army officer, travelling from one continent to the other, she had learnt early on not to become too attached to anything.
    ‘I think it can only lead to laziness,’ Agatha declared.
    ‘I agree,’ Veronica said firmly. ‘And I’m sure Mrs Tremayne will feel the same way when I tell her about it.’
    Florence Parker put down her sewing and looked up sharply. ‘You’re going to tell Mrs Tremayne?’
    ‘Why