The Mersey Daughter (Empire Street #3)(35)

She stopped by one of the beds. ‘How are you feeling today, Mr Pryce?’ She positioned herself where the elderly man could see her, as he was unable to turn his head. He’d taken a bad blow to the forehead and had been confused for days, believing she was his daughter and that he was back in Cardiff, where he’d grown up.

‘Sister.’ He gave a weak smile and his eyes crinkled at the sight of her.

Rita bent forward and gave his chilly hand a squeeze. ‘That’s right, Mr Pryce. Any better today? Do you recognise where you are now?’

The old man coughed but when he spoke he seemed perfectly lucid. ‘Hospital, Sister. Stands to reason. You there in your uniform. Where else would I be? Unless I’ve died and gone to Heaven and the angels are all done up like nurses.’ He laughed at his own weak joke and began to cough again.

Rita was pleased to find him so improved. ‘You could do a lot worse,’ she said, mock sternly. ‘Here, let me give you some water.’

Mr Pryce shuffled so that he could sit up and gratefully slurped from the glass Rita held for him. ‘Thank you.’ He blinked slowly. ‘Sister, has my daughter been in? I don’t rightly remember but I don’t think I’ve seen her. She’ll be worried about me, she will.’

Rita tried not to grimace. As far as she knew, there had been no visitors for the confused old fellow. That could mean that he and his family didn’t get on but, judging from the way he spoke, she didn’t think that was the case here. Or, which wouldn’t be uncommon, his family had been caught up in the bombings, and were themselves too injured to come – or worse. She couldn’t let that suspicion show on her face, though. Bad enough to have to break the news if they had confirmation. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I’ve only just started my shift. I could check with the nurses from this morning if you like.’

The old man turned his rheumy eyes to hers, moving slowly so as not to dislodge the bandage on his head. ‘If you could, Sister. I don’t want to be no trouble, but I’d be ever so grateful.’

‘Of course.’ Rita squeezed his wrinkled hand once more and stood up properly, setting down the glass of water where he could see it and reach it. As she made to go, there was a flurry of activity at the door of the ward. One of her more officious colleagues was trying to prevent a younger woman from coming through.

‘I must ask you to respect the regulations,’ the nurse was barking. ‘You may see for yourself, visiting hours are clearly displayed in the entrance. You must not disturb the patients outside those times.’

Rita hurried across the well-mopped floor. ‘What’s the problem here, Nurse Maxted?’ She knew she must nip any trouble in the bud. The wounded and sick in this ward needed all the rest they could get, and any unexpected noise would upset them.

The younger woman pulled her threadbare jacket more tightly around her body, as if she was cold, but she looked to be in no mood to cave in. ‘I believe my father might be here,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’ve come all the way from Wavertree. One of the porters said as it might be him. I’ve been all over looking for him; haven’t seen him since the beginning of the month. We’re beside ourselves with worry. I’ve got to know if he’s here.’

Nurse Maxted drew herself up to her full height, and she made an imposing figure. Not many people had the nerve to say no to her. Rita knew she had a quick decision to make. Either she let her colleague quote chapter and verse, which might result in a scene, or she could intervene and sort this out herself. While she didn’t really have the time, it might be the quickest thing to do in the long run.

‘I’ll see to this, Nurse,’ she said firmly. ‘You will be needed back on your ward.’

Maxted looked as if she would argue, but even she didn’t dare contradict the word of her direct superior. She gave Rita a glance that spoke volumes but merely said, ‘Very well, Sister,’ and swept out, stately as a galleon.

Rita faced the anxious young woman. She could see now that she likely hadn’t slept properly for days, although she’d made the effort to appear respectable, with her hair in a tight knot and matching belt and handbag, neither of which were new. Her eyes were full of exhaustion, and apprehension. ‘So, Miss …’

‘Goulden. Eileen Goulden. I’m looking for my father.’ She took out a handkerchief from her patch pocket and began to twist it. ‘I am sorry to land on you this way, but it’s like I said, we’ve been searching for him for days, and when my neighbour’s son said he thought he’d seen his name on a list up here … well, I came as soon as I could. I didn’t wait to read your visiting hours.’

‘I’m not sure we have a Mr Goulden,’ Rita said, trying to estimate the woman’s age. Older than herself, she guessed. So her father might be anything from fifty onwards, maybe—

‘Oh no, his name isn’t Goulden.’ The woman interrupted her train of thought. ‘Sorry, I should have said, that’s my married name. He’s called Pryce. Ernest Pryce.’ Her tired eyes were at once full of hope and brimming with tears. Rita could see she was not far from collapse. ‘Have you got him here? Or … don’t tell me, he’s not died here, has he? We just don’t know.’

Rita reached across to the sturdy oak desk that stood at the centre of the ward, between the two rows of beds. Quickly she scanned the notes and checked old Mr Pryce’s name. There it was. Ernest. Next of kin – an address in Wavertree. Bingo.