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"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."
