The Lady and the Lamp Page 2

  It was snug inside the carriage. They all sat upon padded leather bench seats, facing each other. Florence smiled kindly.

  Then the horses set off and the carriage jumped to life and rumbled along the road.

  They were off!

  ‘This is our hotel,’ said Florence as the carriage pulled up.

  Carly looked out the window at yet another row of grey stone buildings, five or six storeys high. A sign above the door said: ‘The Burlington Hotel’.

  ‘Hotel?’ Carly asked, confused. ‘Don’t you live in London?’

  ‘Only during the spring,’ Parthenope replied. ‘Most of the time we live at one of our other two estates.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Dora. ‘You have two different homes ... and you also spend a whole season every year in a hotel in London?’

  ‘Our father is very rich,’ Florence’s sister said with a satisfied grin.

  ‘Gosh,’ said Dora.

  Carly studied Parthenope again. She looked rich, Carly decided – and haughty. Her dress was made of silk and lace, and her hair was piled up in a fancy arrangement that could only have been done by a maid.

  Florence was scowling again. ‘Being rich is nothing to be proud of, Parthe,’ she snapped.

  Florence’s sister shrugged and rolled her eyes. ‘Florence would rather we lived in the gutter.’

  ‘I would not,’ Florence said. ‘I don’t think anyone should live in the gutter. I just can’t enjoy all these silly parties while so many people are living in poverty and dying of starvation and disease!’

  ‘Stop arguing, girls, or I will have one of my fainting fits,’ said Mrs Nightingale.

  They stepped out of the carriage and Mrs Nightingale led the way up the stairs of the hotel into a shiny lobby, away from the stink of the London air.

  Carly, Dora and Simone followed the Nightingales up a winding staircase to their apartment, which seemed to take up a whole floor of the hotel. Florence took them into a large living room with high ceilings, huge windows, lots of expensive-looking furniture, and a grand piano in the corner.

  Carly sat on a long velvet lounge chair between Dora and Simone. Mrs Nightingale rang a bell and a maid bustled in with cups of tea. Carly sipped. It was nice but a bit weird to be fussed over by a maid.

  ‘Play for us, Florence,’ Mrs Nightingale said.

  Florence groaned. ‘Oh mother, you know I’m a terrible pianist.’

  ‘Then you must practise.’

  Florence stood and stomped to the piano. She opened the lid, bent over the keys and belted out some notes. Carly flinched; the racket was awful.

  Parthenope put her hands over her ears. ‘You’re doing that on purpose,’ she said.

  ‘Fine,’ Florence retorted, standing again and shutting the piano lid. She flounced across the room to her father, who was reading a newspaper at the table. ‘Father,’ she begged. ‘Let’s look at some numbers.’

  Mr Nightingale folded his newspaper, smiled, and patted the seat beside him. Florence sat.

  ‘Mr Nightingale,’ Florence’s mother whined as Florence opened a book on the table. ‘You know how I feel about mathematics! It’s not proper for a young lady.’

  ‘I like maths,’ Carly said. It was more or less true. She was good at maths. Maths was fine, but it wasn’t something she would normally do for fun. But she was already getting bored with sitting on the lounge, sipping tea and struggling to make polite conversation. Besides, Mrs Nightingale was getting on her nerves. So she got up and sat with Florence and her father, who sat at the table with books and papers scrawled with numbers and diagrams spread out before them.

  ‘Hey,’ said Carly, picking up a drawing of a circle divided into parts like a pizza. ‘Is that a pie graph?’ She had just learned about pie graphs at school.

  ‘I call it a “Coxcomb Chart”,’ Florence said.

  ‘It’s a new idea I’m still working on.’

  ‘Have you heard of Sudoku?’ Carly asked.

  ‘Of course she hasn’t,’ Simone snapped.

  At the sound of Simone’s voice, Florence looked up. ‘Oh, I forgot!’ she said. ‘Your cough. I was going to look into it ... but it seems you’re already better.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  Parthenope groaned dramatically. ‘Why must you always play the nurse, Florence?’ she cried.

  Florence rose from her chair and planted her hands on her hips. ‘I’m not “playing”!’ she retorted. ‘I am a nurse!’

  ‘A few months of training in Europe and she thinks she’s an expert,’ Parthenope said to the girls.

  ‘She is an expert,’ said Simone. Everyone looked at her in astonishment. Simone blushed. ‘Err ... well, I’m sure she will be.’

  ‘Thank you, Simone,’ Florence said. ‘Mother, please! You know I can’t stand this life of endless parties and idleness ...’

  ‘What’s wrong with parties?’ Dora asked.

  Florence ignored her. ‘I have to be a nurse. I have to work. Please let me!’

  ‘It’s not respectable for a lady!’ Mrs Nightingale wailed.

  ‘My mother’s a nurse,’ Carly said, feeling insulted on her mother’s behalf, but no one heard her.

  Florence and her mother and sister were standing now, shouting and waving their arms around. Mr Nightingale was quietly backing out the door.

  ‘God called me to nursing!’ Florence shouted.

  ‘What nonsense!’ her mother cried.

  Florence clutched at her head. ‘I feel so trapped! To be a woman is to live in a prison! I feel that my life is worth nothing!’

  Parthenope was sobbing. ‘You’ll bring shame upon the family!’

  ‘Shame!’ Florence shouted. ‘What is shameful about helping the poor? All I want to do is to work in a hospital and care for the sick—’

  ‘A hospital!’ Mrs Nightingale squealed as if someone was stamping on her big toe, and then she slapped a hand to her forehead, staggered to a lounge chair and fell gracefully into a faint upon it, laying her head neatly upon the cushions as she landed. Parthenope followed suit, swaying a little before buckling carefully onto a soft, well-padded armchair.

  Florence huffed angrily and turned to Carly. ‘Quick, pass me that bottle.’

  There was a glass bottle on the dresser with a label that said: ‘Smelling Salts’. Carly picked it up and handed it to Florence, who uncorked the lid and waved it under her mother’s nose. Mrs Nightingale’s eyelids fluttered open and

  she lifted her head with a great wailing sigh. Florence repeated the process with her sister, who also came back to life with a sniff of the bottle.

  ‘I don’t care what you say,’ Florence said quietly, when her mother and sister were sitting up again and weeping into their handkerchiefs. ‘I’m going to take the job that’s been offered to me. I’m going to work at the Hospital for Gentlewomen – and you can’t stop me!’

  ‘Waaa-aaa-aaaahhh!’ Mrs Nightingale and Parthenope broke out into a fresh round of wailing.

  Florence looked at Carly, Dora and Simone in despair. ‘Sorry, but would you mind giving us some privacy for a minute?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Dora replied quickly, glancing with relief at Carly and Simone. ‘Excuse us.’

  The girls hurried out of the living room into the hallway, shutting the door behind them.

  ‘This place is insane,’ Dora said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Agreed!’ said Carly.

  Simone hesitated. ‘But—’

  ‘We’re going!’ Carly insisted, grasping her shawl. ‘Ready?’

  Simone slowly nodded.

  She looked miserable, but Carly wasn’t interested in her problems right now. She wanted to get out of that room of angry women. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘One, two, three!’ She whipped off the shawl, and everything went black.

  ‘There you are!’ Bianca’s shrill voice pierced the haze.

  Carly opened her eyes. For a moment she was confused. Where are we? They were standing in a vast, lush garden, next to a
fountain. Beyond the burbling of water they could hear the whoosh of traffic. Simone was wearing skinny jeans and a t-shirt, and Dora was in her usual floral top, skirt and ankle boots. There was not a bonnet in sight.

  Bianca was charging towards them as fast as her two-inch heels would carry her across the soft lawn – which is to say, not very fast. She kept sinking into the grass and stumbling.

  ‘We’re in Hyde Park,’ Simone said, shaking her head as if to clear it out. ‘Just down the road from our flat.’

  Dora sucked in a deep, loud breath, and then sighed. ‘Aaahhh, smell that fresh London air!’

  Simone grinned. ‘I never thought I’d hear anyone say that.’

  ‘That was an awful stink,’ Carly said.

  Before anyone could answer, Bianca was upon them.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she shrieked. ‘I’ve been looking for you for twenty minutes. My shoes are ruined!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Simone, who didn’t seem sorry at all. ‘We got bored waiting for you to get off the phone, so I thought I’d show my friends the sights.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get home, quick smart.

  Your parents are on their way.’

  ‘What?’ Simone stopped dead and opened her eyes wide. ‘My parents are coming home?’

  ‘Your mother sprained her ankle at the party.

  Too much dancing. Come on, hurry up.’

  They followed Bianca out of the park, across the busy road and around the block to Simone’s flat.

  Simone was silent, her eyes on the pavement.

  Bianca ushered them into the lobby, where the taxi driver had left their luggage. Bianca didn’t offer to help carry their bags, so the girls lugged them across the shiny floor to the lift. Bianca pressed the button and they got in silently. It seemed that both Bianca and Simone were in bad moods.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Dora whispered to Simone as the lift pinged and they hauled their bags out. ‘Aren’t you glad your parents are coming home?’

  ‘They’re not coming home to see me,’ Simone muttered. ‘They’re only coming because of Mum’s stupid ankle.’

  Dora put her free arm around Simone’s shoulder. To Carly’s surprise, Simone let her keep it there.

  Bianca let them into the flat and then clattered off to the kitchen to make herself coffee. Carly gazed about in wonder. After Florence Nightingale’s hotel room — which didn’t really count – this was the poshest apartment she’d ever seen. The lounge room was enormous and had huge windows that took in the view of the park. The flat was all white and modern, with fancy ceilings, polished floorboards, and plush cushions and rugs all around.

  ‘This is beautiful!’ Carly said.

  Simone shrugged. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  Carly and Dora glanced at each other in surprise. This holiday wasn’t turning out as they had expected.

  Carly felt torn. Part of her wanted to explore this beautiful flat, wander the streets, stay up chatting with Dora about the flight and Florence Nightingale and the adventures they would have ... but another part told her to stick with Simone. It’s weird, she thought. We’re not even friends — not really. But it seemed that Simone was miserable and lonely, in spite of her riches, and Carly didn’t like to see anyone sad. So she smiled and said, ‘I’m tired too,’ and followed Simone into the bedroom.

  Like everything else in this apartment, the room was large and pretty. There were three beds, all piled with pillows. The girls showered, got into their pyjamas and snuggled into their beds.

  I am tired, Carly realised. Exhausted!

  But before she closed her eyes, Dora asked, ‘Who was Florence Nightingale?’

  ‘Oh, you’re such an idiot,’ Simone replied.

  Carly smiled in the darkness; this was the Simone she knew!

  ‘Everyone knows who Florence Nightingale was. They call her “the mother of modern nursing”,’ Simone said.

  Carly heard the front door rattle and then there were voices, male and female. Simone’s parents!

  Simone heard it too. ‘You can meet them in the morning,’ she said.

  Carly closed her eyes.

  ‘That’s right!’ she heard Dora say as she drifted off to sleep. ‘I remember! They also call her “The lady with the lamp”...’

  A door slammed and Carly woke with a start.

  Then she saw Simone frowning down at her, arms crossed, and she remembered where she was. London!

  ‘Get up,’ Simone ordered. ‘Hurry. Breakfast’s ready and we’ve got to get going.’

  ‘Going where?’ Carly asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. Dora was still asleep in the bed across the room, snoring softly. Simone was already dressed.

  ‘Out,’ said Simone.

  Carly struggled out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She staggered across to Dora’s bed and shook her friend awake. Dora snorted and squinted up at Carly. Carly handed Dora her glasses.

  They followed Simone out to the dining room, where the smell of bacon greeted them. A bearded man smiled at them.

  ‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘You must be Simone’s friends, Carla and Donna.’

  ‘Carly and Dora,’ Simone said with a roll of the eyes.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said, ignoring Simone. ‘I’m Simone’s father.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Shaw,’ Carly and Dora chanted. Then they turned to the woman who was sitting at the table with a bandaged foot propped up on a chair. ‘Hello, Mrs Shaw,’ said Carly.

  ‘Hello, dears,’ the lady replied. She was

  very pretty and well dressed – all made up and stylish, in spite of the sprained ankle.

  ‘Eat up,’ Mr Shaw said, planting plates of bacon and eggs on the table. ‘Sorry girls, but we’ve got to get going early.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Carly asked through a mouthful of bacon.

  Simone shot her a cranky look. ‘We have to go to Dad’s work. Mum can’t do anything today because of her ankle. And Dad’s too important to give up work for the day, so he thinks it will be “fun” if we go to work with him.’

  ‘There’s no need for that attitude,’ Simone’s father said smoothly. ‘It’s only for an hour or so. We’ll go across London Bridge to get there – you’ll like that, won’t you, girls? And then I’ll take the afternoon off for sightseeing.’

  Simone shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

  They ate breakfast quickly and went down in the lift to the street, where Mr Shaw’s car was parked. The girls sat in the back and they set off. It was early morning and the air was still thin and sharp. The sky was the palest blue Carly had ever seen; it was a long way from the vivid blue of the skies over Carly’s Queensland farm, but she tried not to think about that. She didn’t want to spoil her holiday with homesickness.

  It was a long, slow drive to Mr Shaw’s office. He was a manager of some kind at the Port of London. Simone didn’t know exactly what his job was, but she thought he must be very important, because he was always at work. She said it with a sneer in her voice.

  Carly and Dora pressed their faces against their windows in wonder as they drove over the famous London Bridge, gasping as they passed under the great stone towers and across the Thames River. Carly felt as if she was in a fairytale.

  An hour later, they finally arrived.

  ‘Here we are,’ Mr Shaw said. ‘I won’t be long. Have a look around.’

  ‘Welcome to London,’ Simone said sarcastically as her father disappeared. Then she sighed. ‘We can walk along the road to the shops, if you like. Got to kill the time somehow.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Dora.

  They walked along the road towards the river.

  The excitement of the day before crept up on Carly again. All around she saw narrow, stony streets lined with three-storey brick buildings and quaint, old-fashioned shopfronts. They were still in the twenty-first century, but there were hints of the past everywhere around her.

  They found a path that ran alongside the river and walked al
ong it to look at the view. They saw jetties jutting out from the banks and boats chugging up and down. They walked onto a jetty and leaned on the railing.

  ‘Dad will be ages,’ Simone said. She turned to Carly and Dora with a sly smile. They knew what she was thinking before she said it. ‘Want to go back?’

  ‘Heck, yes,’ said Dora.

  They reached into their bags. Carly and Dora pulled out their shawls, and Simone took out her lace ribbon, and on the count of three, they flung them on and tumbled back into the past.

  Oh, the stink! There it was again! Only this time it was a hundred times worse.

  ‘It’s the river,’ Simone said, pinching her nose. ‘The smell’s coming from the Thames.’

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ said Dora. Then she leaned over the railing and spewed about a gallon of half-digested bacon and eggs into the Thames.

  ‘Great,’ said Simone. ‘That’s just made it SO much worse.’

  ‘As if that’s possible,’ Carly said. She was feeling a little queasy herself.

  ‘Dear girl,’ a sweet voice came from behind them. ‘Are you all right?’

  A lady in a dark grey dress pushed between them and bent over Dora, who was still gagging and spitting into the river.

  Eventually Dora sniffed, wiped her mouth and raised her eyes. ‘Florence!’ she cried.

  ‘Dora!’ said Florence. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a small bottle. She uncorked it and held it under Dora’s nose. ‘Here, try this. It will disguise the smell of the river.’

  Dora sniffed greedily.

  Carly was impressed that she could breathe so deeply in a corset – for they were all, of course, in their olden-day gowns once again.

  ‘Why does it smell so bad?’ Dora asked.

  ‘It’s the sewage. London’s getting so crowded these days, and the sewage pours into the river faster than the Thames can wash it away.’