The Liverpool Nightingales

  Kate Eastham

  * * *

  THE LIVERPOOL NIGHTINGALES

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Follow Penguin

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THE LIVERPOOL NIGHTINGALES

  Kate Eastham trained as a nurse and midwife on the Nightingale wards of Preston Royal Infirmary. She has well over thirty years’ experience working in hospital, residential and hospice care. Born and bred in Lancashire, she is married with three grown-up children and one grandchild. Always reading, she gained a degree in English Literature and was inspired to write after researching the history of nursing and of her own family, with its roots in Liverpool, northern mill towns and rural Lancashire. The Liverpool Nightingales is her second novel.

  By the same author

  Miss Nightingale’s Nurses

  Nightingale nurse Miss Mary Merryweather was the first superintendent of the Liverpool Nurses’ Home and Training School. She went on to become an early suffragist and member of the Ladies National Association for the Repeal of the Contagious Diseases Acts, which united women from all over the country in opposition to the forcible examination and treatment of women suspected of being infected with venereal disease. Her sister, Miss Elizabeth Merryweather, worked with her in Liverpool as an assistant superintendent and the story goes that one of the sisters was never seen without her bonnet and the other never without her gloves. They were known as ‘Bonnet’ and ‘Gloves’; one was very stern and the other gentle and kind.

  Prologue

  ‘… plans for a School and Home for Nurses in Liverpool … appeared to me so well considered & laid out – they appeared to me so much needed, not only in Liverpool but in all the earth.’

  Florence Nightingale

  Liverpool, 1 May 1863

  Ada Houston stood shivering in her light-grey uniform and starched cap. She hadn’t thought to wear a shawl, though she should have known better. She’d lived in this city her whole life and she was aware how quickly the weather could change. Even though it was late spring there was still a cold breeze off the river and she could feel it seeping into her bones. Miss Mary Merryweather had been wiser, however. She was wearing a bonnet and a thick cloak, and her sister had donned the same, plus a pair of leather gloves. The ward Sisters, too, were all wrapped up warm in their shawls. Only Ada was left shivering. It was her own fault: she’d been trying to get through the mound of paperwork that had been left on her desk and she’d rushed out, afraid of being late. Ada was newly appointed to the role of assistant superintendent and hadn’t quite got the measure of it yet. But she soon would; she would have to.

  She looked over to the doctors standing in line to her right in front of the steps leading up to the main entrance of the Nurses’ Home and Training School, the new building that was just about to be officially opened by Mr William Rathbone, patron of the city and the hospital. Next to the doctors, the Mayor of Liverpool stood to attention as Mr Rathbone stepped forward to say a few words. As he opened his mouth to speak the wind gusted more strongly and the bunting that had been hastily draped above the door came untied at one end and started to flap around him. The man was not deterred by it one bit and he continued with his speech.

  Ada was trying not to look too carefully at the people that had gathered before them, a fair crowd standing in front of the building and spreading out on to the street. She knew that her best friend, Mary, was there – she had exchanged a smile with her – and she had also seen her brother, Frank, his eyes shining with pride. But then she’d caught sight of another person, someone that she had only ever seen once or twice but never spoken to, and with whom she definitely did not want to make eye contact. It was the woman who’d turned out to be her half-sister, Stella, standing there as brazen as you like with a bright-yellow ribbon in her hair, her hands on her hips and a shawl loosely wrapped around her shoulders covering a low-cut gown.

  It was not that Ada had any objection to Stella’s line of work, she simply had no interest in getting to know someone who had been part of her father’s other family. She had never met her father, Francis, and she vowed that she never would. All she knew was that he had never shown any care for her or Frank, even after their mother died giving birth to her. Not until her brother was a grown man himself, and willing to be led astray, did his father make any contact with him and that had turned out to be a disaster. Ada wanted nothing to do with Francis or his wife, Marie, and although Frank kept telling her that Stella just wanted to be friends she wanted nothing to do with her either.

  Mr Rathbone continued to speak as the bunting lashed around him. He was expressing a debt of gratitude to Florence Nightingale for her abundant advice with regard to the design and the dimensions of the building, even, apparently down to the floor tiles, the special cement, the number of windows and the type of stove. There was no denying that the woman was a genius and it was sad that her health had been so poor since she’d returned from the Crimea that it was out of the question for her to travel to Liverpool for the opening. Ada would never forget the two times – first in Scutari and then at the hospital in Balaklava – that she had met Miss Nightingale. The intensity of her gaze and the intelligence of the woman had left a lasting impression. Alongside Mary Seacole, Miss Nightingale had been Ada’s inspiration for continuing her own work after the Crimean War ended. She still found it hard to believe that it was almost eight years since she had started nursing, having set out alone from Liverpool, a young woman searching for her brother. That same young woman who was now standing here amongst the great and the good of the city, cold and shivering, at the opening of a new building.

  The wind was now billowing the skirts of the nurses and trying to remove Mr Rathbone’s hat as he continued to thank Mr Horner, the architect of the building, for his fine work in making Miss Nightingale’s ideas a reality. Ada could smell the varnish that was barely dry on the solid front door and she knew that she was already in love with the building: the galleried landings, the stone stairs that led up to two floors, and the skylight in the roof. It was light and airy in there, somewhere to find inspiration and also respite from the busy work of the hospital. She knew already that generations of nurses would live and learn and play out their own dramas within those walls.

  Ada was really shivering now and fighting against the wind to keep her starched cap on her head but she continued to stand resolute with the rest of the nurses. She did hope, however, that Mr Rathbone would bring his speech to a close soon. Even Miss Mary Merryweather, in her thick cloak, was beginning to look cold, and the sky had just turned slate grey. There would be rain soon, a heavy downpour by the look of it.

  Just as Ada thought it, the first big spots of rain fell. Mr Rathbone speeded up a bit and then he was thanking the people of Liverpool for attending the opening, but just as he was suggesting that the staff and patrons reconvene inside the building, the heavens opened and rain came at them almost horizontally. The dignitaries and the doctors ran up the stone steps and into the building with their jackets flapping around them, closely followed by the nurses holding on to their starched caps with one hand and trying to restrain their billowing skirts with the other. Who
knew what had happened to the people outside, including Ada’s family? She could only hope they would quickly find shelter.

  Once inside the building Ada felt a moment of pure giddiness overtake her as she stood dripping wet over Miss Nightingale’s Minton floor tiles with the rest of the group. She had to work hard to stop herself from laughing out loud when she saw Mr Rathbone and the Mayor drying their bewhiskered faces with large handkerchiefs, and Miss Elizabeth Merryweather seemed completely unaware that she had a large dewdrop at the end of her nose. In the end, just to get back some control, Ada had to suggest that she give a guided tour of the school to anyone who hadn’t already seen the wonders of the building. She was very proud indeed to show people around and to be able to tell them that it was the second Nightingale school to be built in the whole of the land. The first was, of course, at St Thomas’s in London, which had been sponsored by the Nightingale Fund. This new building, planned so meticulously and built with such care, had been funded by William Rathbone and other Liverpool patrons and it belonged to their city. It was the Royal Infirmary’s own Nurses’ Home and Training School.

  1

  ‘A nurse should be … punctual to a second, and orderly to a hair … Quiet yet quick; quick without hurry; gentle without slowness; discreet without self importance, no gossip.’

  Florence Nightingale

  Liverpool, 1870

  As Maud Linklater threw a dustsheet over a dining table in one of the grand houses in a newly respectable area of the city of Liverpool, she caught a glimpse of movement in the large, gold-framed mirror that hung above the fireplace. Startled, she glanced up from her work and for a moment, she almost didn’t recognize the woman that she saw in the reflection. Her face was quite long and with her dark hair pulled back under her maid’s cap she was all face and forehead. Maud thought that if it hadn’t been for her big, dark eyes there would have been no saving grace at all for a young woman with such a long, mournful face.

  She had a plain face, that’s what she’d always been told by her grandmother. But there was something indefinably attractive about Maud – some light in her eyes, the way she held herself – that could only be seen in a flash. No one, least of all Maud, had any idea of what she might be capable of yet.

  Maud always worked hard and she never usually gave herself time to dawdle. It was definitely not in her nature to daydream or gaze at herself in a mirror; not like some of the maids in the house who were forever looking at their own faces on any reflective surface, even the backs of the best spoons. Maud saw her reflection only in a flash and then got straight back to the task in hand. The polished wood of the dining table was quite an expanse and it would take two large dustsheets to protect it completely. Maud made sure that all of it was covered and then went around pushing each chair under in turn to make sure that the yellow silk damask of the seat covers was tucked away under the table.

  Without breaking her stride she went over to the side table where some porcelain figures stood, which needed protecting with a special light cloth. This was the one place that Maud always allowed herself a few moments simply to stand there just looking. One of her favourite figures was of a boy in a bright-blue suit holding a little dog; another was an image of the nurse Florence Nightingale, the Lady with the Lamp, standing next to a wounded soldier with his arm in a sling. Maud loved this piece in particular and made sure that she gave it extra care. And before she covered the figures she always kissed the tip of her finger and placed it on the head of the wounded soldier, Florence Nightingale and the little boy, each in turn. She had started out years ago just with the wounded soldier but then she hadn’t felt able to leave the other two out so she now gave each one of them her special token. Then, ever so carefully, she pulled the light cloth over the side table, making sure that not one speck of soot would fall on to her favourite pieces.

  The Persian rug was next. As she was pulling the thick cover over it she heard the tell-tale swish of a heavy wool skirt and the jingle of keys that signalled the arrival of the housekeeper, Miss Fairchild, in the room.

  ‘Well done, Maud,’ said Miss Fairchild, looking around with her eyes narrowed. ‘I can always rely on you to get the job done without any messing or frivolity.’

  Maud gave her a smile and nodded, grateful for the housekeeper’s approval, although for some reason she felt a heaviness inside of her body, as if she were old and tired beyond her twenty-three years. She was glad to know that her work was of the best quality – of course she was – but sometimes she found herself wishing that she could, just occasionally, break away from the fastidious nature at the core of her being, which kept her always correct and always in order. Just sometimes she wished that she could make herself be a little bit frivolous. But she found it impossible. She was Maud and that was that.

  When Miss Fairchild had gone, she looked around the room again, checking that all was in order, and then she walked over to the large window that looked out to the street. She gazed up to the sky and saw the blue of a clear sunny day, and for the first time in her ten years of service at the big house she felt as if the world outside that dining-room window was calling to her, trying to draw her away from her safe household routines.

  The days were busy here and very long. Sometimes it was growing dark outside before she’d even had a chance to look out through the window or stand at the back door for a breath of air. She was locked into the rhythm of the house and the family that lived there and there didn’t seem to be any way of escape.

  Most of the staff talked about finding other work outside the house, and in the last few years Maud had been wondering if she should look for something else too. For a start, she wasn’t bound to stay in Liverpool. She had no family – her mother and grandmother were both long gone – and beyond one of the footmen who had shown her some unwanted attention years ago there had been no suitors. She knew that it was unlikely that she would ever marry and she also knew that if she didn’t make a change soon in another ten years’ time she would be just like Miss Fairchild: sleeping alone in a narrow bed every night wearing a starched nightcap, with the keys to every room in the house on her belt but nowhere to call her own home.

  As Maud stood staring out of the window she saw a familiar dark figure rounding the corner at the far side of the square. It was the chimney sweep, black with soot, and silhouetted against the clean, white stucco of the houses. She could see that he was looking up at the chimney of the house across the square as he walked. Then he stopped and swung round impatiently to face a much smaller figure struggling to cover the distance between them. At last the small figure, clearly a child, stood before him. The man bent from the waist, spoke some words and then clipped the child, a small boy, hard around the back of the head, knocking his cap to the ground.

  Maud gasped and felt the dislike she had for the man swell within her. She continued to watch, making sure that he did not raise a hand to the boy again. If he had done so, she would have been straight out of that front door and across the square.

  She continued to watch, feeling the tension in her body, as the man adjusted his grip on the bag and black brushes that he carried on his shoulder before continuing his advance towards them. Then her heart melted a little as she saw the small boy grab his cap up from the ground and move as fast as he could on his short legs, trying to catch the man up, though the large brush that he carried dragged him down and Maud knew that he didn’t stand a chance of catching the man, who was striding ahead. As she stood she balled her right hand into a fist, willing the small boy to keep going but also readying herself to step outside the door and protect him if the need arose.

  She held her breath as she saw the man stop again just before he turned down the alley at the side of the big house, the one that led to the tradesmen’s entrance.

  ‘No donkey today, Mr Greer.’

  ‘Do you see a donkey?’ replied the man, turning to face the head groom, who had just stepped out of the stable to lean on his shovel.

  ‘Not
one with four legs,’ said the groom, laughing too loud at his own joke.

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Greer, before hawking up a large gobbet of black phlegm and spitting it at the groom’s feet.

  He turned and walked up to the back door, his thin shoulders held square and his left hand grinding at the blackened handles of the brushes he carried. He knocked with more vigour than was required, sensing the groom’s eyes still burning into his back.

  As soon as the heavy door started to open he announced himself in a loud voice, ‘William Greer, master sweep.’

  ‘Hello, Bill,’ said the kitchen maid, drawing back the door to its widest extent to allow him to enter with his bag of soot and sweeping brushes. She was just about to close the door when Greer held up a hand and asked her to wait for his new climbing boy to enter.

  ‘Bit slow this one,’ he said. ‘Needs training up.’

  Aware of the sweep’s arrival, Miss Fairchild had joined Maud in the dining room and they were ready and waiting as the man and his boy entered the room. Maud heard Miss Fairchild take a sharp intake of breath when she saw the boy.

  ‘I see you have a new climbing boy, Mr Greer,’ she said.

  ‘I do indeed, Miss Fairchild. This fine lad is fresh from the workhouse only last week,’ said Greer, doffing his cap and baring his teeth in a smile. Yellow, broken teeth almost white against the black of his skin.

  ‘Isn’t he a bit young, a bit small for the job?’

  ‘Definitely not, Miss Fairchild. The lad is a full eight years of age, and being small, see, is a real advantage for his line of work.’

  ‘But he is so thin, Mr Greer; he looks so weak.’

  ‘Well, the lad must have worms or summat. He’s clearing a big bowl of porridge twice a day. Eating us out of ’ouse and ’ome he is at present. And besides, no one wants a fat climbing boy, do they now? The buggers just get stuck.’