Florence Nightingale

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(Rowdy chatter and whooping)

What's all the racket for?

War's over, brother.

Peace broke out.

That's nice.

We just won a war, Prime Minister,

and now it appears we've lost

its greatest heroine.

Lost track of her, ma'am, for the time being.

Well, where is she?

l understand the Lord Mayor

was arranging a parade.

The Royal Fusiliers.

She was last seen entering a convent of nuns

in Bermondsey.

Nuns?

- Catholic Nuns?

- Yes, ma'am.

Are we still in England?

l thought you knew the family.

l do.

Highly respected people.

And yet their daughter...

l would say she was always...unusual, ma'am.

(Blast of whistle)

One bundle.

All aboard!

(Train whistle toots)

(War cries)

(Bird caws)

(Shouting)

(Shouts)

Aarrghh!

(Birdsong)

Miss Florence!

Hello, Watson.

Help! Help!

Help!

Piano introduction

One dark lonely night

on Crimea's dread shore

There was bloodshed and fighting

the morning before

The dead and the dying lay bleeding around

Some crying for help...

- Help!

(Laughter)

..but none could be found

What we need is a miracle

A blooming, human miracle

We need someone to help us where we lie

To make us well

Cos we don't want to die

So what we need is a miracle

A miracle down here right now

(Light applause)

Then God sent his angel to succour the brave

Ten thousand she saved

from an untimely grave

The wounded they love her,

as it can be seen

She's the soldier's preserver

They call her their queen...

Hello, Queenie!

What we got was a miracle!

A blooming, human miracle!

We got a lady when all else did fail

Who made us well,

O, bless Miss Nightingale!

What we got was a miracle

A miracle down here, right now!

(Cheering and applause)

- Rest, rest, and more rest.

- Thank you, Doctor, we'll see to it.

Do you know what they're calling her?

The soldier's preserver.

- Who calls her that?

- All sorts, ma'am. lt's from a song.

Really?

A song about Florence?

- Oh, my poor, brave, little girl.

- Come, come, my dear.

FLORENCE:
My beloved mother and father,

how they fought to keep me at home,

fought all my plans and dreams for myself.

But now that l'm a national heroine,

how proud they are.

They even call me brave.

Brave?

Brave? For doing my duty?

The soldiers, they were the brave ones.

Lying there strapped down

while their shattered legs were hacked off

and no chloroform for the lower ranks!

l'm still in a rage about it.

Still there.

The tree.

The little bench.

The garden where all my troubles first began.

But then, if Scripture is to be believed,

isn't a garden where all our troubles first began?

l was so young.

l was innocent.

No thoughts of war or disease.

My only struggle how to escape from a life

that was poisoning me with vanity

and social expectations.

But one day something happened

that changed me forever.

l remember...sunlight so bright, too bright,

then a voice.

Really, a voice. l was being asked...

No, l was being told, in no uncertain terms,

that my life belonged to God,

that he had work for me to do.

Yes, Lord, let me think of thy will,

only of thy will.

Let me serve you, you alone.

But how could l?

l had to admit God's message

was sadly lacking in details.

What exactly was l to do?

All l knew was that l was being stifled,

no food for my head, no food for my heart,

slowly dying on a diet of triviality.

l prayed, ''God, show me a way out,

teach me, tell me.''

And yet...when he did at last,

and l answered the call...

..oh, the things l saw.

No rest for me now, then...

not till the truth is told to all.

Listen to this.

An American has written a poem about the war.

Everyone's writing poems about the war, dear.

Well, this one's all the rage, apparently.

''Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,

Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,

Lo, in that house of misery,

a Lady with a lamp l see

She passes through the glimmering gloom

And flits and flits from room to room''

''Flits''?

l doubt if our Florence

has ever flitted in her life!

Well, Mr Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

thinks she does, so who are we to argue?

- Oh.

- Are you all right?

Florence, what are you doing downstairs?

Please. Stop.

lf anyone asks me any more questions,

l'll buy a revolver and shoot them!

Well, anyone except the Queen.

What are they saying now?

Mr Longfellow has written a poem about you.

An entire army murdered

and what's being done about it?

Absolutely nothing!

Well, we shall have to see about that!

- l need some air.

- Florence! No! Not outside!

- You'll catch your death of cold!

- At least wear a coat!

My dear papa...always the sceptic,

never sure about anything.

Though years ago when l was struggling

to discover God's will for me,

he did at least try to understand my pain,

and help me.

Flo?

l wish...

(Sighs) lf only...

lf only l could be satisfied

with a life that satisfies you.

l can't be.

But you make it so hard for yourself.

When l heard my call,

l didn't hear it would be easy.

Your call.

Papa, you've never believed in it,

not for a minute.

Have you?

- Well, l...

- l thought not.

You don't know what struggle is.

And so we continued to observe

our uneasy truce.

Deuced if l see how Turkey can stand up

for itself any more.

My mother played hostess to the powerful

and well connected,

and l, the dutiful daughter, attended.

The men talked politics,

the women talked husbands.

l hear the Bible is forbidden all over Russia.

One frequent guest was Sidney Herbert,

a rising star in Parliament.

He sympathised with my hopes and dreams.

ln years to come,

l would often turn to him for help.

Back then, though, my thoughts

were all taken up with matters of the heart.

Yes, l read that speech of yours, Sidney.

Exciting stuff.

Might there not be a case for compromise?

- After all, the Ottoman Empire...

- What's your point, sir?

My point is that the ''sick man of Europe''

may be past curing.

lsn't the real point that the Czar is a brutal tyrant,

and we have to stand up to tyranny

wherever we find it?

Even at home!

(Scoffs)

Quite so.

Nicely put.

l do believe we're in a drift to war.

l was talking to Palmerston

the other day at our club about it.

He's full bore at facing down the Russkis.

- A bit behind time but...

- What's that?

Young Monckton-Milnes.

He's become quite a regular visitor.

Useful, actually.

You can set your watch by him.

He's not that young.

He's practically middle-aged.

Do you know what happened

on this day five years ago?

No. Should l?

We'd all been invited to the Bonham Carters.

Your sister recited a poem.

You played the piano.

Something new by Mr Chopin.

- Badly, l'm sure.

- Yes, rather badly, l'm afraid.

And because of my poor performance,

that day must go down in history?

Oh, dear.

No.

On that day we talked for the first time -

really talked, l mean.

And you said something l've never forgotten -

that if only people knew what a young girl

is thinking while she is playing the piano,

or busy embroidering. Do you remember?

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