“Three months ago, I’d have felt naked without lipstick,” she said to Sister Williams.
“We aren’t allowed to use cosmetics in my profession,” Sister Williams replied, “but of course, if one is doing private work, it’s different. I always think a good appearance is a great help to a woman.”
Mona could not help smiling. Sister Williams was extremely unprepossessing. She had homely features and lank dark hair, and yet she took an immense amount of trouble over herself in contrast to Mona, who always seemed to get dishevelled when she was working. Sister William’s caps and aprons were as spotless at the end of the day as they had been when she put them on in the morning.
Although Mona had a real affection for Matron it was difficult to like Sister Williams. Gladys summed up the general feeling about her very aptly.
“Her asks for this, her asks for that, but her never thinks of fetching it for herself.”
But nothing really mattered except the children. When Mona was feeling particularly lonely or miserable she would go into the big playroom on the first floor, and picking up the nearest toddler, hold him closely in her arms. There was something satisfying and comforting in the soft warmth of a baby and Mona’s misery was lighted and gradually dispersed by the contact.
Her favourite amongst all the children was little Peter. “Peterkin”, she called him, and he reminded her in many ways of Gerry Archer. He was small, chubby and fair, and although he was only just two, was beginning to talk quite a lot. The first night he had arrived he had cried bitterly for his mother saying.
“Mum … Mum…” over and over again. His mother had been killed a few days earlier.
The wireless that night had reported,
“A lone enemy aircraft crossed the East Coast early this afternoon. Some bombs were dropped and there were a few casualties.”
Peter’s mother was one of the few. His father was serving in the Army and he had come down once to see Peterkin. Mona had wondered what sort of life there would be for father and son when the war was over with no woman to make a home for them.
But Peterkin’s tragedy was one of many. There was hardly a child whose family had not suffered in some way throughout the war. Yet when their bereaved relatives came to visit them, Mona was struck by their bravery and courage, and the way they were ready to carry on, somehow to create a new life for those who remained.
It was a cry from Peterkin that arrested her now just as she was going upstairs to tidy the playroom. She hurried into the garden.
“What’s the matter?” she asked one of the older children.
“Don’t know,” was the reply. “Peter keeps crying. ’Spect he’s got tummy-ache.”
He was standing by himself weeping bitterly, the tears running down his plump cheeks. Mona caught him up in her arms.
“What’s the matter, darling?” she questioned.
He buried his face against her shoulder and then she saw the spots behind his ear and on his neck. She carried him into the house and, pulling up his blue woollen jumper, looked at his chest. There was no doubt about it. Peterkin had chicken pox.
Sister Williams was out and Matron had been on night duty so Mona decided not to disturb her. Taking Peterkin upstairs, she put him into her own bed, then she rang up the doctor.
“I’ll come out this afternoon,” he promised. “No, there’s no need to isolate him. If they’ve been playing about all the morning, the others are sure to get it, but don’t worry, it’s a very mild child’s illness and they had all better catch it and get it over.”
‘It’s easy for him to say that,’ Mona thought as she put down the receiver, ‘he hasn’t got to nurse them.’
She was determined that Peterkin should sleep with her that night. If he felt ill, she would be there beside him. She moved a cot up to her room.
He seemed happier and less inclined to weep. She gave him some books to play with and having lit the fire went downstairs to see if Matron was awake. She was, and Mona told her what she had done.
“I thought you’d want me to tell the doctor,” she said, a little anxiously in case Matron should think her officious.
“Quite right,” was the answer, “but there’s nothing he can do. ‘Just put the child to bed and keep him warm,’ is what he’ll say.”
“Now we’ve got to wait three weeks before we’re out of quarantine,” Mona said. “I had it at school and I remember what a boring illness it is, it seems to go on forever.”
Matron agreed. “I think it gives me an excuse to write to Miss Marchant and say we really must have someone else to help us.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Gladys is getting more careless every day,” Matron went on. “What do you think I found she’d done last night?”
“Something silly, I suppose?”
“She’d put all the clothes that had to be aired in front of the kitchen fire and built it half up the chimney. When I pointed out how dangerous it might be, she said that it saved her relighting it in the morning. I ask you! what can you do with a girl like that?”
“Nothing,” Mona said, “but don’t lose her. We shall need all the help we can get if half the children have to be kept in bed.”
Matron sighed. “Oh, for the good old days in hospital when things ran smoothly! But I’m not complaining. You’ve been wonderful, Lady Carsdale. I can’t think what I’d have done without you.”
“I feel as proud of your saying that as if you’d given me a medal,” Mona replied.
Then running downstairs, she went to fetch the children in from the garden and get them ready for lunch.
It was about three in the morning when she woke up with the uneasy feeling that something was wrong. Her first thought was that of Peterkin but as she bent over his cot, she found that he was fast asleep, his curly head buried comfortably in the pillows, a small fist nestling under his chin.
She listened, but she could hear nothing and yet the idea persisted that something had awakened her. Quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping child, she put on her dressing gown and bedroom slippers and opened the door of her room. Still there was no sound.
Unwilling to think that her instinct had betrayed her, she went softly downstairs. She peeped into the big dormitory on the first floor. The children were asleep and so was Sister Williams, who was on night duty. She was snoring rhythmically through her slightly aquiline nose, her feet on a stool in front of her, a warm rug tucked round her knees. Mona did not disturb her.
‘I’m imagining things,’ she concluded, and then as she turned to go upstairs, she smelt smoke. It was only faint but, as she opened the heavy baize door that divided the hall from the kitchen quarters, a great cloud of it rushed out, almost overpowering her.
‘This is Glady’s doing,’ she thought, as she fought her way, choking and spluttering, towards the kitchen, but it was impossible for her to reach it. As she went down the stone passage the smoke thickened and she could hear the crackle of flames.
