The Twisted Root Read online

  Two nurses passed them, faces flushed with exertion, sleeves hitched up.

  Hester opened her mouth to protest, but he continued, raising his voice very slightly to override her. "I am perfectly aware of Miss Nightingale’s fund for training young women," he said loudly. "But I must inform you, madam, that only three surgeons and two physicians are to be found among its supporters. That, surely, is an unfailing mark of the regard in which it is held by professional men who are the most highly qualified and experienced in the country. Now, Mrs. Monk"—he pronounced her name with satisfaction at having remembered it—"I trust you will turn your considerable energies towards the true welfare of both the nurses here and the patients, and attend to their cleanliness, their sobriety and their obedience to do what they are commanded, both punctually and exactly. Good day." And without waiting for her reply, which he seemingly took for granted in the affirmative, he strode away purposefully towards the operating theater, satisfied he had dealt with the subject finally.

  Hester was too furious to speak for the first few moments, then, when she could have spoken, no words seemed adequate to express her disgust. She marched in the opposite direction, towards the physicians’ waiting room.

  There she found Cleo talking to an old man who was obviously frightened and doing his best to conceal it. He had several open ulcers on both his legs which must have been acutely painful and looked as if they had been there for some time. He smiled at Cleo, but his hands were clenched till his knuckles were white and he sat rigidly upright.

  "You need them dressed regularly," Cleo said gently. "Gotta keep them clean or they’ll never heal up. I’ll do it for you, if you come here and ask for me."

  "I can’t come ’ere every day," he answered, his voice polite but with absolute certainty. "In’t possible, miss."

  "Isn’t it, now." She regarded him thoughtfully, looking down at the worn boots and threadbare jacket. "Well, I suppose I’ll have to come to you, then. How far, is it?"

  "An’ why would you be doing that?" he asked dubiously.

  " Because those sores aren’t going to get any better otherwise," she replied tartly.

  "I in’t askin’ no favors," he said, bristling. "I don’t want no nurse woman comin’ into my ’ouse! Wot’ll the neighbors think o’ me?"

  Cleo winced. "That you’re damn lucky at your age to be pulling a nice-looking woman like me!" she snapped back at him.

  He smiled in spite of himself. "But yer can’t come, all the same."

  She looked down at him patiently. "Call yourself a soldier, and can’t take orders from someone who knows better than you do—and make no mistake, I’m your sergeant w’en it comes ter them sores."

  He drew in his breath, then let it out again without answering.

  "Well?" Cleo demanded. "You going to tell me where you live, or waste me time having to find out?"

  "Church Row," he said reluctantly.

  "And I’m going to walk up and down the whole lot asking for you, am I?" Cleo said with raised eyebrows.

  "Number twenty-one."

  "Good! Like drawin’ teeth, it is!"

  He was not sure whether she was joking or not. He smiled uncertainly.

  She smiled back at him, then saw Hester and came over to her, trying to look as if she were not out of composure.

  "I’m not going to do it in hospital time," she said in a whisper. "Poor old soul fought at Waterloo, he did, an’ look at the state of him." Her expression darkened, and she forgot the appropriate deference to a social superior. Anger filled her eyes. "All for soldiers, we was, when we thought them French was gonna invade us and we could lose. Now, forty-five years on, we forgotten all about how fit we was, and who wants to care for some old man with sores all over his legs who’s got no money an’ talks about wars we don’t know nothing about?"

  Hester thought vividly of the men she had known in Scutari and Sebastopol, and the surgeons’ tents after that chaotic charge at Balaclava. They had been so young, and in such terrible pain. It was their ashen faces that had filled her dreams the previous night. She could see them sharp in her mind’s eye. Those that had survived would be old men in forty years’ time. Would people remember them then? Or would a new generation be accustomed to peace, and resentful and bored by old soldiers who carried the scars and the pain of old wars?

  "See that he’s cared for," Hester said quietly. "That’s what matters. Do it whenever you wish."

  Cleo stared back at her, eyes widening a little, uncertain for a moment whether to believe her. They barely knew each other. Here they had one purpose, but they went home to different worlds.

  "Those debts cannot ever be understood," Hester answered her. "Let alone paid."

  Cleo stood still.

  "I was at Scutari," Hester explained.

  "Oh ..." It was just a single word, less than a word, but there was understanding in it, and profound respect. Cleo nodded a little and went to the next patient.

  Hester left the room again. She was in no mood now to see that moral standards were observed or that any nurse was clean, neat, punctual and sober.

  As she went back along the corridor she was passed by a nurse arriving with her shawl still on.

  "You’re late!" Hester said tartly. "Don’t do it again!"

  The woman was startled. "No, miss," she said obediently, and hurried on, head down, pulling off the shawl as she went.

  Just outside the apothecary’s room, Hester passed a young medical student, unshaven and with his jacket flapping open.

  "You are untidy, sir," she said with equal tartness. "How do you expect your patients to have confidence in you when you look as if you had slept in your clothes and come in with the first post? If you aspire to be a gentleman, then you had better look like one!"

  He was so startled he did not reply to her, but stood motionless as she swept past him and on to the surgeons’ waiting room.

  She spent the morning attempting to comfort and hearten the men and women awaiting care. She had not forgotten Florence Nightingale’s stricture that the mental pain of a patient could be at least equal to the physical and that it was a good nurse’s task to dispel doubt and lift spirits wherever possible. A cheerful countenance was invaluable, as were pleasant conversation and a willingness to listen with sympathy and optimism.

  At the end of the morning Hester sat down at the staff dining room table with gratitude for an hour’s respite. Within fifteen minutes Callandra joined her. For once her hair was safely secured within its pins and her skirt and well-tailored jacket matched each other. Only her expression spoiled the effect. She looked deeply unhappy.

  "What is it?" Hester asked as soon as Callandra had made herself reasonably comfortable in the hard-backed chair but had not yet begun her slice of veal pie, which seemed to hold little interest for her.

  "There is more medicine gone," Callandra said so quietly she was barely audible. "There is no possible doubt. I hate to think that anyone is systematically stealing the amounts we are dealing with, but there can be no other explanation." Her face tightened, her lips in a thin line. "Just think what Thorpe will make of it, apart from anything else."

  "I’ve already had words with him this morning," Hester replied, ignoring her own plate of cold mutton and new potatoes. "He was quoting Mr. South at me. I didn’t even have a chance to reply to him, not that I had anything to say. Now I want to ask him if we couldn’t make some sort of particular provision for the men who fought for us in the past and who are now old and ill."

  Callandra frowned. "What sort of provision?"

  "I don’t know." Hester grimaced. "I suppose this is not a fortunate time to suggest we provide their medicine and bandages from the hospital budget?"

  "We already do," Callandra said with surprise.

  "Only if they come here," Hester pointed out. "Some of them can’t come every day. They are too old or ill, or lame, to use an omnibus. And a hansom costs far too much, even if they could climb into one of them."

  "Who
could give them medicines at home?" Callandra asked, curiosity and the beginning of understanding in her eyes. "Us," Hester replied instantly. "It wouldn’t need a doctor, only a nurse with experience and confidence—someone trained."

  "And trustworthy," Callandra added purposefully.

  Hester sighed. The specter of the stolen medicines would not leave. They could not keep the knowledge of it from Fermin Thorpe much longer. It was ugly, dishonest, an abuse of every kind of trust, both of the establishment of the hospital and of the other nurses, who would all be branded with the same stigma of thieving. It was also a breach of honor towards the patients for whom the medicines were intended.

  "It’s a circular argument, isn’t it?" she said with a thread of despair. "Until we get trained women who are dedicated to an honorable calling and are treated with respect and properly rewarded, we won’t be able to stop this sort of thing happening all the time. And as long as it does, people, especially those like Thorpe—and that seems to be most of the medical establishment—will treat nurses as the worst class of housemaid."

  Callandra pulled her mouth into a grimace of disgust. "I don’t know any housemaid who wouldn’t take that as an insult—possibly even give notice—if you compared her with a nurse."

  "Which is a complete summary of what we are fighting," Hester replied, taking half a potato and a nice piece of cold mutton.

  "The Nightingale School is just about to open." Callandra made a visible effort to look more hopeful. "But I believe they had great trouble finding suitable applicants. A very high moral standard is required, and total dedication, of course. The rules are almost as strict as a nunnery."

  "They don’t call them ’sisters’ for nothing," Hester answered with a flash of humor.

  But there were other issues pressing on her mind. She had thought again of Sergeant Robb’s grandfather sitting alone, unable to care for himself, dependent upon Robb to take time from his work. It must be a burden of fear and obligation to him.

  And how many other old men were there, ill and poor now, who were victims of wars the young did not remember? And old women, too, perhaps widows of men who had not come home, or those who were unmarried because the men who would have been their husbands were dead?

  She leaned a little over the table. "Would it not be possible to create a body of some sort who could visit those people ... at least see to the more obvious troubles, advise when a doctor was needed ..."

  The look in Callandra’s face stopped her.

  "You are dreaming, my dear," she said gently. "We have not even achieved proper nurses for the poor law infirmaries attached to the workhouses, and you want to have nurses to visit the poor in their homes? You are fifty years before your time. But it’s a good dream."

  "What about some form of infirmary especially for men who have lost their health fighting our wars?" Hester asked. "Isn’t that something at least honor demands, if nothing else?"

  "If honor got all it demanded this would be a very different world." Callandra ate the last of her pie. "Perhaps enlightened self-interest might have a greater chance of success."

  "How?" Hester asked instantly.

  Callandra looked at her. "The best nursing reforms so far have been within army hospitals, due almost entirely to Miss Nightingale’s work." She was thinking as she spoke, her brow furrowed. "New buildings have been designed with cleaner water, better ventilation and far less crowded wards ..."

  "I know." Hester disregarded her plate, waiting the suggestion which would link the two.

  "I am sure Mr. Thorpe would like to be thought of as enlightened ..." Callandra continued.

  Hester grimaced but did not interrupt again.

  "... without taking any real risks," Callandra concluded. "A poor law infirmary for old soldiers would seem a good compromise."

  "Of course it would. Except that it would have to be called something else. A good many soldiers would rather die than be seen as accepting parish charity. And they shouldn’t have to. We owe them that much at least." She pushed her chair back and stood up. "But I shall be very tactful when I speak to Mr. Thorpe."

  "Hester!" Callandra called after her urgently, but Hester was already at the door, and if she heard her, she showed no sign of it. A moment later Callandra was staring at the empty room.

  "Impossible," Thorpe said without hesitation. "Quite out of the question. There are workhouses to care for the indigent—"

  "I am not talking about the indigent, Mr. Thorpe." Hester kept her voice level, but it required effort. "I am thinking of men who obtained their injuries or damage to their health fighting in the Peninsula War or at great battles like Quatre Bras or Waterloo ..."

  He frowned. "Quatre Bras? What are you talking about?" he asked impatiently.

  "It was immediately before Waterloo," she explained, knowing she sounded patronizing. "It was not a matter of fighting to extend the Empire then; we were fighting to save ourselves from invasion and becoming a subject people."

  "I do not require a history lesson, Mrs. Monk," he said irritably. "They did their duty, as we all do. I am sure that, for a young woman, there is a certain glamour attached to the uniform, and one makes heroes of them—"

  "No one makes a hero of someone else, Mr. Thorpe," she corrected him. "I am concerned with the injured and ill who need our help and, I believe, have a right to expect it. I am sure that as a patriot and a Christian, you will agree with that."

  A variety of emotions flickered across his face, conflicting with each other, but he would not deny her assessment of him, even if he suspected it contained a powerful element of sarcasm.

  "Of course," he agreed reluctantly. "I shall take it under advisement. I am sure it is something we would all wish to do, if it should prove possible." His face set in a mask of finality. He would no longer argue with her, he would simply lie. Certainly, he would consider it—indefinitely.

  She knew she was beaten, at least in this skirmish. As many times as she came to him he would smile, agree with her, and say he was exploring avenues of possibility. And she would never prove him wrong. She had an overwhelming insight into the obstruction faced by Florence Nightingale and why she had taken to her bed with exhaustion, fever, difficulties of the digestion, and such a fire of the mind as to consume the strength of her body.

  Hester smiled back at Fermin Thorpe. "I am sure you will succeed," she lied as well. "A man who is skilled enough to run a hospital the size of this one so very well will be able to exert the right influence and put forward all the moral and social arguments to persuade others of the rightness of such a cause. If you could not, then you would hardly be the man for Hampstead ... would you?" She would not have dared say such a thing were she dependent upon his goodwill for earning a roof over her head—but she was not! She was a married woman with a husband to provide for her. She was here as a lady volunteer—like Callandra—not a paid worker. It was a wonderful feeling, almost euphoric. She was free to battle him unhampered ... as she most certainly would.

  The flush in his cheeks deepened. "I am glad you appreciate my position, Mrs. Monk," he said with a tight jaw. "I have not always been so certain that you were fully mindful that I do indeed run this hospital."

  "I am sorry for that," she answered. "One has but to look around one to see the standard of efficiency."

  He blinked, aware of the double meaning implied. His tone was infinitely condescending. "I am sure you are a good-hearted woman, but I fear your lack of understanding of finance hampers your judgment as to what is possible. For instance, the cost of medicines is far greater than you probably appreciate, and we are unfortunate in suffering a considerable degree of pilfering from morally unworthy staff." He opened his eyes very wide. "If you were to direct your attentions towards the honesty and sobriety of the nurses here, we would lose far less, and consequently then have more to give to the sick who rely upon us. Turn your energies towards that, Mrs. Monk, and you will do the greatest service. Honesty! That will save the sick from their diseases and
the morally destitute from the wages of sin, both spiritual and temporal." He smiled. He was well satisfied with that.

  Hester made a tactical retreat before he could further pursue the question of missing medicines.

  She had already made up her mind to call upon old Mr. Robb to see if there was anything she could do to help him. She could not forget Monk’s description of his distress, and that was at least one thing she could accomplish regardless of Fermin Thorpe’s power.

  It was a fine summer afternoon, and not a long walk to the street where Monk had said Robb lived. She did not know the number, but only one enquiry was necessary to discover the answer.

  The houses were all clean and shabby, some with whited steps, others merely well swept. She debated whether to knock or not. From what Monk had said, the old man could not rise to answer, and yet to walk in unannounced was a terrible intrusion into the privacy of a man too ill to defend even his own small space.

  She settled for standing in the doorway and calling out his name. She waited a few moments in silence, then called again.

  "Who is it?" The voice was a deep, soft rumble.

  "My name is Hester ... Monk." She had so very nearly said "Latterly." She was not used to her new name yet. "My husband called on you the other day." She must not make him feel pitied, a suitable case for charity. It would be so easy to do with a careless phrase. "He spoke of you so well, I wished to call upon you myself."

  "Your husband? I don’t remember ..." He started to cough, and it became worse so quickly that she abandoned polite-ness, pushed the door open and went in.