I got Delia Garrett’s nightdress on and tied the side tapes, then tucked her back into bed and wrapped her up well against the autumn air whistling in the high window.

I finished stripping Ita Noonan’s mattress. I was relieved that the mackintosh drawsheet had caught all the urine; the cotton sheet and underblanket beneath it were still dry.

What I couldn’t quite put my finger on was whether I wanted a husband. There’d been possibilities along the way, pleasant young men. I couldn’t reproach myself with having thrust opportunities away, but I certainly hadn’t seized them.

Would you be Nurse Power?

I whipped around to see a youngster in civvies in the doorway, brassy hair scraped back and oiled down but a frenzy of curls at the back. Who are you?

Bridie Sweeney.

No title, which told me she wasn’t even a probie. So many young women were being rushed through basic first-aid training these days.

Delia Garrett asked, And what might you be, Miss Sweeney, a volunteer nurse?

The stranger grinned. I’m not any kind of nurse.

Delia Garrett threw up her eyes and went back to her magazine.

Bridie Sweeney turned to me. Sister Luke’s after sending me to lend a hand.

So this was all the night nurse had managed to dig up for me—unqualified; uneducated, by the sounds of her accent; and with a clean, new-hatched look like nothing had ever happened to her. I could have slapped this Bridie Sweeney from sheer disappointment.

I said, The hospital has no funds left for casual staff. I hope Sister Luke told you there’s no pay?

I wasn’t expecting any.

She was the pale, freckle-dusted type of redhead, light blue eyes, brows almost invisible. Something childlike about her translucent ears; the one on the left angled a little forward, as if eager to catch every word. Thin coat, broken-down shoes; on an ordinary day, Matron would never have let her in the door.

Well, I said, I could do with a runner to fetch and carry, so I’m glad you’re here. This is Mrs. Garrett. Mrs. Noonan.

Good day, ladies, Bridie Sweeney said with a bob.

I took a folded apron down from the press.

The volunteer was a scrap and looked even thinner once she’d taken her coat off; she had to wrap the apron’s ties around her waist twice. With frank curiosity, she watched Ita Noonan rocking on the little chair by her cot, wheezing a song. She remarked, I’ve never been in a hospital.

By the way, Miss Sweeney, I assume you’re immune?

The young woman didn’t seem to know the word.

To the flu, the grippe. Since you’ve walked into a fever ward without a mask—

Oh, I’ve had the grippe.

But this year’s one, the bad one, I specified.

Got over it ages ago. Now, what do you want doing, Nurse Power?

It was a relief to be asked that. Let’s start by making up Mrs. Noonan’s bed.

I checked the base layers were all smooth, the wire-spring mattress in its canvas cover sitting just so on the boards, the hair mattress in its cotton one on top. A ruddy tan waterproof mackintosh base fitted tight, then an underblanket, then a sheet.

Aromatic with whiskey fumes, Ita Noonan tried to climb on.

Just another minute, I said as I blocked her gently with my arm.

I got a fresh drawsheet, under and upper sheets, and blankets from the bedding cupboard. I said, We pull every layer smooth and crisp, see, so there’ll be no wrinkles to hurt Mrs. Noonan’s skin.

Bridie Sweeney nodded.

As I helped Ita Noonan in, she heaved a breath and cried, Such malarkey!

The newcomer asked, What is?

I shook my head.

Her face froze. Sorry—am I not allowed to talk to them?

I smiled. I only meant, don’t worry if Mrs. Noonan makes odd remarks. I tapped my scalp and said, A high temperature can rattle the pot.

I wound one shawl around the sick woman’s shoulders and draped another over the back of her head to keep draughts off.

Ita Noonan swatted at the air with her sipping cup. Awful yahoos, left my delph in smithereens!

Did they now? Bridie Sweeney fixed the pillows.

The young woman had a nice bedside manner, I decided; that couldn’t be taught.

I pushed the ball of soiled bedding down into the laundry bucket and jerked my thumb towards the passage. This goes down the chute—the one marked Laundry, not Incinerator.

Bridie Sweeney hurried out with the bucket.

Delia Garrett asked, Did that girl just walk in here off the street?

Well, if Sister Luke recommended her…

A snort.

We’re so short-staffed that I’ll gladly accept any help, Mrs. Garrett.

She muttered into her magazine, I never said you shouldn’t.

When Bridie Sweeney came back in, I took her through the distinctions between various gauze dressings (squares, balls, six-foot strips in tins), flax-tow swabs, single-use cloths, ligatures, and catgut.

The actual guts of cats?

Sheep, actually. I don’t know why it’s called that, I admitted.

She beamed around her. So these ladies are here for you to cure their grippe?

I let out a breath. I only wish I knew how to do that, but there’s no cure as such. The thing has to run its course.

For how long?

Days or weeks. (I was trying not to think of those it killed with little warning, in the street or on their own floorboards.) Or it can linger for months, I admitted. To be perfectly frank, it’s a toss-up. All we can do is keep them warm and rested, fed and watered, so they can put what force they have into beating this flu.

My young helper seemed fascinated. She said under her breath, Why’s Mrs. Noonan that colour?

Ah, here was something simple I could teach. I told her, They go dark in the face if they’re not getting quite enough oxygen into their blood. It’s called cyanosis, after cyan—the shade of blue.

She’s not blue, though, said Bridie Sweeney. More like scarlet.

Well, I said, it starts with a light red you might mistake for a healthy flush. If the patient gets worse, her cheeks go rather mahogany. (I thought of the turning of the leaves in autumn.) In a more severe case, the brown might be followed by lavender in the lips. Cheeks and ears and even fingertips can become quite blue as the patient’s starved of air.

Horrible!

I remembered to turn to the other patient and say, Don’t worry, Mrs. Garrett, you’re not in the least cyanotic.

She gave a little shudder at the idea.

Bridie Sweeney asked, Is blue as far as it goes?

I shook my head. I’ve seen it darken to violet, purple, until they’re quite black in the face.

(Nurse Cavanagh’s fallen Anonymous this morning, as dark as cinders by the time she ran up to him in the street.)

It’s like a secret code, Bridie Sweeney said with pleasure. Red to brown to blue to black.

Actually, in our training, we made…

I wondered if she’d know the word mnemonic. Or alliterative.

…little reminders to commit medical facts to memory, I told her.

Like what?

Well…the four Ts that can cause postpartum haemorrhage—bleeding after birth—are tissue, tone, trauma, thrombocytopenia.

You know an awful lot, Nurse Power.

I gave the young woman a tour of the other shelves and cupboards. If I hand you a metal instrument that’s been used, you can take for granted that I want it sterilised, Miss Sweeney. Lower it into this pot of boiling water with these tongs here and leave it for ten minutes by your watch.