She had blazed a trail for other women. Ten more girls had since studied at the Nightingale, but so far as Grace was concerned, Kate Carlyle was the bravest of them all.

‘Did Sergeant Trevelyan’s wound look all right to you?’ Dulcie changed the subject.

Grace frowned. ‘Yes, why?’

‘I don’t know … I just thought it looked a bit – inflamed.’

Grace was surprised Dulcie could tell, from the wary distance she had kept. ‘Do you think so?’

Dulcie nodded. ‘Perhaps we should get the doctor to look at it.’

‘I’ll mention it to Dr Carlyle when she does her rounds later.’

‘Dr Wallace is the surgical registrar. Surely he should be the one to look at it?’

Grace glared at her friend. Dulcie’s innocent tone did not fool her for a minute.

‘If you think I’m going to summon Dr Wallace just so you can flirt with him again, you’ve got another think coming!’ she said.

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t you?’

For the past three weeks, Grace had watched Dulcie shamelessly throwing herself at Roger Wallace. Fortunately he seemed more bemused by the situation than anything else, but poor Sylvia Saunders was taking it rather badly.

‘I was just concerned about a patient, that’s all,’ Dulcie said. ‘But if you don’t think it’s worth mentioning to a doctor …’

‘I’ll talk to Dr Carlyle,’ Grace said firmly.

Dulcie was still sulking as they approached their final patients.

The two young men had arrived in the same ambulance just before Grace went off duty the previous night; a head wound who was able to walk on crutches, the other man on a stretcher.

The stretcher case still looked pale and terrified, but his friend with the head wound had cheered up immensely. He sat up in bed, a broad grin on his face as they approached.

‘Here, Gordon lad, look what we’ve got here,’ he called out to his friend in a broad cockney accent. ‘Two lovely ladies. One for each of us, eh? You can have the tall one, though. No offence, miss,’ he said to Grace. ‘But I’m a bit on the short side myself, and I can’t have my girlfriend towering over me, can I?’

‘I quite understand, Corporal –’ Grace consulted his notes ‘– Sallis.’

‘Albert, please. But you can call me Albie, love.’ The young man winked at Dulcie.

‘And you can call me Nurse!’ she snapped back.

‘Ooh, get her! Your pal’s not very friendly, is she?’ Albie Sallis pulled a face. He was a stocky boy, nineteen years old according to his notes, with a freckled face and a squashed pug nose. The close-cropped hair around his bandaged wound was coppery red. ‘Don’t suppose you’ll give me a kiss, either?’

‘Certainly not!’ Dulcie looked so indignant, Grace almost laughed.

She knew very well that Dulcie didn’t mind giving a soldier the odd peck on the cheek if she liked the look of him. Poor Albie had obviously got on the wrong side of her.