Nightingale Read Free Page A

sinking behind the Great Pyramid of Cheops. Claire recalled in vivid clarity how, in the diffused half-light of that golden-pink evening, she had allowed one of the turban-headed donkey boys to assist her onto the saddle of his patient beast before guiding her to the opulent Shepheard’s Hotel. Sunset cocktails had been flowing and she could remember the frisson in the air of imminent departure for most of the men present. Even now Claire could stretch her thoughts and almost taste the cooling hum of infused fresh mint tea that she’d sipped on the terrace behind the wrought-iron balustrade overlooking the frenetic activity of Ibrahim Pasha Street. And if she reached for the happy memory far enough, she knew she could reconstruct the feel of the famous hotel’s wicker armchairs pressing against her grey nursing uniform and hear the echoes of laughter bouncing off the stucco façade as she and Rosie were entertained by some officers from the 3rd Light Horse Regiment.
    So handsome in their dress khakis, they were surely the smartest of all the Australian divisions with those tall boots and spiral strap leggings and spurs. One of the men had allowed her to try on his slouch hat, making sure it sat on her head in true, rakish light horsemen style. Three finger spaces above the left ear, two finger spaces above the left eye and a finger space above the right eye. ‘There,’ he’d said, having adjusted it perfectly, his tanned face stretching into an appreciative grin. ‘Now despite the fact that you’re a gorgeous blonde who is surely going to give men in the trenches unhelpful daydreams, you’re now an honorary member.’ Its ostentatious but nonetheless striking white emu plumage at the back had danced in the soft Cairo breeze of a mild night that teetered, in late April, with the promise of summer around the corner.
    Though the hotel was built in Opera Square and on the pulse of the city’s heartland, Claire had decided it was spiritually a world away from the ramshackle cluster of brothels, restaurants, cafés and cinemas that cluttered around it, luring soldiers with coin to spend and an itch to scratch. Despite all the warnings from their troop leaders about the dangers of fraternising with the local women of the Wazzir district – or ‘Wozza’, as the Aussies called it – she had noticed that the streets were thick with Australians, New Zealanders and British keen to escape into someone’s arms – or fists – for a happy distraction.
    She could picture the donkeys queued up kerbside, vying for space with fruit sellers or men who’d trained their monkeys to hop onto willing shoulders for an unusual photograph, which of course Rosie had to have to send home. Jugglers, card sharps, nut sellers, trick cyclists and gambling touts – even women selling themselves from balconies desperately tried to catch the attention of fit young men on leave with mainly one thing on their minds. That all felt like a century ago – a different world . . . another lifetime almost.
    Matron arrived by her side and the aromatic memory of mint tea faded.
    â€˜Is there any triage occurring down there?’ Claire asked, nodding at the beach.
    â€˜Think you could do better in that hell?’
    â€˜It wasn’t a criticism, Matron. I’m sorry, I —’
    â€˜And mine wasn’t a serious question. I feel as helpless as you do.’
    Claire gave a sad smile. ‘I would like to try, though.’
    Matron blinked slowly. ‘We don’t put women ashore.’
    â€˜Think of me as another soldier. Better, think of me as an extension of you, Matron. I know you could make a difference down there and I also suspect you’d love to get a better idea of what’s happening too.’
    Matron’s eyes smiled, although her mouth forbade the warmth to touch its tightly pinched line.
    â€˜Let me try,’ Claire pleaded.