Dora dropped her gaze to stare at the herringbone pattern of the polished parquet. She wanted to tell this woman how she took care of her younger brother and sisters, and had even helped bring the youngest, Little Alfie, into the world two years ago. She wanted to explain how she’d nursed Nanna Winnie through a bad bout of bronchitis last winter when everyone thought she’d had it for sure.
Most of all, she wanted to talk about Maggie, her beautiful sister, who’d died when Dora was twelve years old. She’d sat beside her bed for three days, watching her slip away. It was Maggie’s death more than anything that had made her want to become a nurse and to stop other families suffering the way hers had.
But her mother didn’t like them talking about their personal business to anyone. And it probably wasn’t the clever answer Matron was looking for anyway.
‘Nothing,’ she said, defeated. ‘I’m nothing special.’ Just plain Dora Doyle, the ginger-haired girl from Griffin Street.
She wasn’t even special in her family. Peter was the eldest, Little Alfie the youngest. Josie was the prettiest and Bea the naughtiest. And then there was Dora, stuck in the middle.
‘I see.’ Matron paused. She seemed almost disappointed, Dora thought. ‘Well, in that case, I don’t think there’s much more to say.’ She began gathering up her notes. ‘We will write to you and let you know our decision in due course. Thank you, Miss Doyle . . .’
Dora felt a surge of panic. She’d let herself down. She could feel the moment ebbing away, and with it all her hopes. She would never wear the red-lined cloak and walk with pride like those other girls. It would be back to the machines at Gold’s Garments for her until her eyes went or her fingers became so bent with rheumatism she couldn’t work any more.
Esther Gold’s words came back to her. What have you got to lose?
‘Give me a chance,’ she blurted out.
Matron looked askance at her. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Dora could feel her face flaming to the roots of her hair, but she had to speak up. ‘I know I don’t have as much proper schooling as the other girls, but I’ll work really hard, I promise.’ The words were falling over themselves as she tried to get them out before she lost her nerve.
‘Really, Miss Doyle, I hardly think—’
‘You won’t regret it, I swear. I’ll be the best nurse this place has ever seen. Just give me the chance. Please?’ she begged.
Matron’s brows lifted towards the starched edge of her headdress. ‘And if I don’t?’
‘I’ll apply again, here or somewhere else. And I’ll keep on applying until someone says yes,’ Dora declared defiantly. ‘I’ll be a nurse one day. And I’ll be a good one, too.’
Matron stared at her so hard Dora felt her heart sink to her borrowed shoes.
‘Thank you, Miss Doyle,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve heard enough.’
Matron Kathleen Fox watched from the window as Dora Doyle hurried across the courtyard towards the gates, head down, hands thrust into her pockets. The poor girl couldn’t get away fast enough.
‘Well?’ she asked Miss Hanley. ‘What did you think?’
‘I’m sure it’s not my place to say, Matron.’
Kathleen smiled to herself. Her Assistant Matron’s mouth was puckering with the effort of not voicing her opinion. Veronica Hanley was a tall, broad-shouldered woman, strong-featured, with sensibly short greying hair, large hands and a deep, booming voice. ‘Manly Hanley’ Kathleen had overheard some of the younger nurses calling her. She had just turned fifty, a good ten years older than Kathleen herself, and had been at the Nightingale since she was a pro. She struck terror into the hearts of all the nurses, including the sisters. Even Kathleen sometimes had to remind herself who was in charge.
‘All the same, I would value your opinion,’ she said.
‘Her shoes were scuffed, there was a hole in her stocking and a button coming loose on her coat,’ Miss Hanley said without hesitation.
‘I’ll admit she was hardly promising.’
‘She could barely string two words together.’
‘That’s quite true.’
Matron was used to interviewing girls who couldn’t wait to gush about their talents, their dedication to nursing and their admiration for Florence Nightingale. But Dora Doyle had just sat there, staring out from under that explosion of frizzy red hair like a trapped rabbit.
And yet there was something about her, a spark of determination in those green eyes, that made Matron think she had real potential.