Sarah looked at the older woman Mhairi had indicated, sitting in the corner, sipping from a mug. From the smell of it, she was drinking something other than tea.

Gertie announced that she had to be getting back on the ward.

‘I hope you’re not after her for work,’ she said, brushing past. ‘You’d be wiser inviting the devil himself into your house.’

‘Or your bed,’ said another voice, to further giggling.

Sarah drew closer to the woman in the corner.

‘You’re Nora? You were Mary’s friend?’

Nora’s face became pinched. ‘No, I damn well wasn’t. None of them believe me, and yet still they have their sport.’ She looked past Sarah to address the others. ‘Can’t have it both ways. Can’t say it didn’t happen and then call me names like it did.’

‘Believed you about what?’ Sarah asked softly.

Nora waved a dismissive arm. ‘I’ll not throw myself open to anyone else’s ridicule.’

Sarah cast an eye around the gathering, clearly a harsh jury of Nora’s peers. She remembered from the schoolyard how people sought any kind of weapon they could use against you: something you said, something you did, something you wore. Making up a story and pretending they all believed it. Pretending not to believe your own story just so that they could call you a liar for telling it. Most people quickly learned not to draw attention to themselves, for fear of supplying ammunition.

Sarah spoke loud enough for all to hear.

‘It strikes me that if you were willing to tell me this story, then that would be proof enough that it must be true. For why would you subject yourself to further scorn if it were a lie?’

Nora appeared to draw some promise of vindication from this logic. She paused for a moment, staring into her cup. Then she spoke slowly, quietly, as though telling her story required effort.

‘It happened when I was here as a patient. I had to have treatment for a problem,’ she said. She nodded at her lap. ‘Down below.’

She paused again and looked at Sarah to ascertain whether she understood. It was an ongoing source of bemusement to Sarah that most people lacked the rudimentary vocabulary necessary to accurately describe their own anatomy, or if they did know the correct terms, were disinclined to use them.

‘There is no need to be delicate about it,’ Sarah told her. ‘I work for Dr Simpson, the obstetrician.’

‘I had a cancerous ulcer,’ Nora clarified. ‘It was treated with silver nitrate. The night after it was done, I was suffering dreadfully. The pain was terrible. Mary Dempster was the night nurse. She gave me some medicine to drink. I took it, but she kept coming back and bade me drink more. Said it would put an end to my suffering.’

‘Can you tell me what the medicine was?’