Matron looked up, her pinched face framed by white linen. ‘It all makes for rather depressing reading, doesn’t it, Nurse?’

‘I can do better,’ Dulcie said. ‘If you just give me a chance to prove myself?’

‘You have had ample opportunity to do that, Nurse. And you have failed every time.’ Matron closed the ledger and put it back in her desk drawer. ‘May I ask why you are so determined to work on Wilson ward?’

Dulcie lowered her gaze and tried to look suitably humble.

‘I believe men’s minds can be broken just as badly as their bodies,’ she said. ‘I am interested in helping them to heal.’

Risking a quick glance, she saw Matron’s expression soften, and was glad she had listened for once when Grace Duffield was explaining it to Eliza Parrish on the ward earlier.

‘Very well,’ Matron said at last. ‘I will give you a chance to prove yourself, Nurse Moore.’ Then, before Dulcie could respond, added, ‘But not on Wilson ward. Not yet, anyway. I want you to demonstrate to me that you can show compassion to all our patients before I agree to your moving.’

Dulcie frowned. ‘And how long will that take, Matron?’

Matron’s gaze was every bit as unforgiving as the November frost outside. ‘That really depends on you, Nurse Moore, don’t you think?’

‘“That really depends on you, Nurse Moore,”’ Dulcie mimicked to Grace later on as she watched her scrubbing a mackintosh sheet. ‘Honestly, she was so high-handed, I’m surprised I didn’t walk out.’

‘That wouldn’t have done you a lot of good,’ Grace pointed out mildly.

‘It could be weeks or months before I’m finally transferred to Wilson,’ Dulcie went on, ignoring her. ‘Some other girl is bound to have snapped up Dr Logan by then. It’s so unfair!’

‘You’ll just have to do as she says then, won’t you?’

Dulcie sighed. ‘That’s easier said than done, isn’t it? Especially with Sister on at me all the time for the slightest thing, just waiting to write my name in those wretched ward reports of hers.’ She still burned with indignation, thinking about how Matron had produced those pages so smugly, reading each damning line aloud. How Dulcie would love to throw that wretched book in the stoke hole! ‘Anyway, I daresay whatever I did, I could never become as perfect as those paragons they’ll have on Wilson ward.’

Grace, who was trying to manoeuvre the mackintosh over the rack to dry, suddenly lost her grip. The sheet flapped like a wild, wet sail, showering Dulcie in soapy water.

‘Watch it!’ she cried out.

‘Sorry.’ Grace wrapped her arms around the sheet, manhandling it over the rack.

‘I should think so.’ Dulcie brushed at the wet spots on the bib of her apron. ‘Do you know who’s going to be working there?’

‘Where?’

‘Wilson ward!’ Dulcie stared at her, exasperated. Really, Duffield could be very obtuse sometimes. ‘Come on, you must have heard some gossip?’

‘No.’

The mackintosh slithered off the rack, soaking Grace’s apron.