The Nightingale Nurses Read Online Free PDF Page B

I?’
    ‘No,’ the old man said.
    From somewhere beyond the waiting room came an unearthly howl. Dora jumped, but the nurse did not flinch. Her attention was still fixed on the old man.
    ‘Yes, I have. Don’t you try to get one over on me, my man. I’ve warned you about this before. This is a hospital, not a public dormitory, I will not have members of the public wandering in to have a nap. Now be off with you.’
    ‘But, Nurse—’
    ‘I said, be off with you!’ She lifted him bodily from the seat and propelled him towards the doors. For a small woman, she was surprisingly strong. ‘If you want to sleep it off, try the local library,’ she called, closing the doors firmly on him.
    She turned, saw Dora and her eyes narrowed. Dora flinched, afraid she might be next to be ejected. ‘Are you the new student?’
    ‘Yes, Sister. I’m Doyle.’
    ‘I’m Sister Percival, and I am in charge of this department.’ She rapped out the words like bullets from a machine gun. She was a neat little woman, bristling with energy. Even when she was standing still she seemed to be moving, her fingers drumming, dark eyes darting. ‘Well? Don’t just stand there gawping at me. Get to the Operating Room and assist Dr McKay with his severed arm.’
    Dora looked around her. The waiting room reminded her of a church, long and echoing, with tall windows down one wall and a set of double doors at one end. At the other was a high wooden desk like a pulpit, with a young staff nurse in a blue uniform seated behind it. In between were rows of benches like church pews, empty apart from a woman with a baby in her arms and a man clutching a blood-soaked handkerchief to his temple.
    ‘Sorry, Sister, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do—’
    Another howl ripped through the air.
    ‘Good heavens, don’t you students ever think for yourselves?’ Sister Percival pointed towards a door beyond the counter. ‘Over there, girl, behind the booking-in desk. Now get along with you. We deal with emergencies here, and that means there’s no time for dawdling.’
    Dora went through the door and found herself in a short tiled corridor. Several doors led off it, all bearing the words ‘Consulting Room’ followed by various numbers. At the far end was a door marked ‘Operating Room’. But Dora didn’t need to be told that – the screech coming from the other side of the door told her all she needed to know.
    Dora took a deep breath, pushed open the door and walked in.
    She nearly ran straight out again when she saw what was waiting for her. A man lay on the operating table, roaring and cursing with pain, blood pumping from the yawning gash on his forearm. She caught sight of glistening muscle, sinews and bone, like the diagrams in a textbook brought to life in front of her eyes.
    And so much blood. No textbook could have prepared her for that. It soaked through the towels, shocking scarlet blossoming on the stark white. Thick splashes dripped off the operating table, pooling at the feet of the doctor who stood beside his patient, applying a tourniquet.
    He looked up at her over his spectacles. ‘Ah, Nurse. Could you flush this wound for me, please?’
    Dora rushed to fetch the saline solution, relieved to get away. The last thing she wanted to do was faint on her first day in Casualty.
    The tourniquet stopped the worst of the bleeding, but warm, sticky blood still oozed over her hands as she tried to clean the wound. Dora averted her gaze as nausea rose up in her throat. She felt overpowered by the heat of the room and the sickly smell, like a butcher’s shop on a hot summer’s day.
    The doctor took it all in his stride. ‘I’m Dr McKay, by the way,’ he introduced himself, as if they were guests meeting at a party. He was young, dark and slimly built, with a soft Scottish accent. ‘And you are . . .?’
    Dora regarded him warily over her shoulder. No doctor had ever asked for her name before. ‘Doyle, Sir,’ she