‘Do! Then the four of us can have a ball!’ She refilled her cup. ‘The golden boy does seem gone on you. How do you really feel about him?’
‘I dunno.’ I thought it over. ‘Yes, I do! I feel good!’
I went on feeling good for the rest of that night, and was still on top of the world when I got on duty next morning, but then my new job was so interesting, as well as so demanding, that I forgot Nick’s existence. Mrs. Bird, in Room Three, was due for a major abdominal operation during the morning. Mr. Sands, in Five, was in his thirty-fifth day of unconsciousness after a head injury, and was to have his temperature artificially lowered still further, which would entail his being specialled constantly all day; the patient in Ten was returning to a general ward, and a new man, Mr. Elkroyd, was coming in to take his place. Of my seven other patients five were on the D.I.L., and one of those five was unlikely to live more than a few hours. She had had a pulmonary embolus just before breakfast, and when I saw her her pulse was untakeable. Up to last night she had been doing quite well. As she was a Roman Catholic, before I did anything else I had to contact Father Gough, the R.C. chaplain.
‘Miss Miles, Nurse? You don’t tell me! The poor girl was up and walking when I saw her yesterday.’
‘I know, Father. This happened as she was getting back to bed for breakfast. She was going back to a general ward tomorrow. I’m sorry, but she’s not at all well now.’
He had worked in Barny’s for years. He knew I was telling him Miss Miles was dying. ‘I will be over to see her this instant, Nurse.’
The telephone rang directly I put it down. The caller was Mr. Turner’s registrar. Mr. Turner was the abdominal surgeon who was going to operate on Mrs. Bird. ‘She’s to have blood and a drip before we have her down, Nurse. I’m coming up now with a houseman.’
My team-leader was a fourth-year. She took over Miss Miles as I had to attend to Mrs. Bird.
Mrs. Bird was fifty-five and so thin that her bones looked too big for her. She was a widow with two married sons. She had returned to full-time teaching four years ago after her youngest son’s marriage. She had carcinoma of the stomach.
Her subject and hobby was history. Her pet period, the Norman Conquest. While I helped the registrar set up the drip, and my third-year helped the houseman with the transfusion that was to be inserted in her other ankle, she gave us a blow-by-blow account of the battle of Hastings. ‘Harold would have won without doubt had he had a trained army. But’ ‒ her gesture had both sets of apparatus swaying ‒ ‘though his men fought as men only fight for their homeland, there was no discipline. And William was the real soldier.’
Outside her room, when the drip and transfusion were running well, the houseman said he was now a walking mine of information on the Normans. ‘I couldn’t get any history out of the old girl until I’d agreed William Rufus was a much maligned man. The poor old bag’s a nut!’
The registrar was more experienced. ‘Only a superficial nut, chum. She’s got guts. She knows what’s going on all right.’
I asked, ‘What’s your prognosis, Mr. Romford?’ He looked at the closed door, shrugged. ‘She’s left it pretty late. I can’t stick my neck out. I do know, in her shoes, I wouldn’t want to waste breath talking about the future, either.’
When the men had removed their gowns and themselves the third-year asked, ‘Do you think she really does know, Nurse Rowe? She’s never said anything about it to me.’
‘Nor to me, but she’s an intelligent woman. She’s probably too intelligent to have looked up her symptoms in some medical textbook, but you’ve only got to open a paper or turn on the telly these days to have the works about carcinoma thrust down your throat. She knows.’ I thought a moment. ‘She doesn’t strike me as scared. I wish I knew her better. You think she’s scared?’
‘Surely she must be.’
We had to leave it there as we had a lot to do. Miss Miles, in an oxygen tent, went into a coma that was as deep as Frank Sands’s. Mr. Jenkins, in Room Two, another lung carcinoma, had to have a shorter tracheotomy tube inserted, and Brown-plus-E arrived with his registrars and housemen ‒ he had two of each ‒ to see Frank Sands. My team-leader gave Mrs. Bird her premedication with a second-year as witness. When I got back to Mrs. Bird she was growing drowsy.
I took her pulse, checked the drip and transfusion. ‘Comfortable, dear?’
She had known so much pain for so long that her face was now normally tense. It was beginning to relax. ‘Very comfortable, thank you, Nurse. Having a busy morning?’
‘Fairly busy.’ With some patients that question would have meant, can’t you stay with me? I did not get that impression from her. I felt she was not only happy to be alone, but wanted me to go. I did not want to disturb her, but she was worrying me. I asked about Harold Godwin. ‘You make him sound a most interesting character, Mrs. Bird. How can you square his being such an upright citizen with his backing out of his promise to William?’
She was drowsy, but her eyes were shrewd. ‘Poor Nurse! How I must have bored you all with my stories!’
‘You haven’t bored us at all! Honestly! You tell them so well.’ I tried another angle. ‘Did you tell them to your sons when they were small? I’ll bet they shone at history at school.’
‘They did well. Naturally I had taught them a fair amount. They seemed to like my history bedtime stories.’ She looked at the vacolitre of blood as if it was a long way away. ‘They are good boys. They’ve married good girls. They’ll be all right.’ She sighed deeply as the drug took a stronger hold. ‘I’m glad this didn’t have to happen until now. It doesn’t matter now. They’ll be all right.’
It was then I knew why she worried me. She was not frightened, but, what was far more dangerous, she was resigned to dying.
‘You’ve no grandchildren yet? What fun you’ll have when they arrive! They’ll love your stories, too.’
She said slowly, ‘I would have liked grandchildren. I am sorry to miss them.’
The injection was knocking away the barriers of her resistance. It was not going to knock her right out, but it was going to put her into a light sleep. There was no time left for choosing tactful words.
‘You’re not going to miss them, Mrs. Bird. You’ll be a new woman after this operation. You wait and see.’
Her smile was sleepy and indulgent. As if I was a nice child. ‘I’m too tired, Nurse.’
‘That’s your injection.’
She actually laughed. Weakly, but it was a laugh. ‘Oh, no, my dear. It isn’t that kind of tiredness. It isn’t all the pain. That was just the finishing touch. I’ve been tired for years. As tired as only someone who has done the job of being both parents for twenty years could understand.’ She paused, but I kept quiet intentionally, and after a few seconds she went on, ‘My husband was a farmer. He was a good man, but he wasn’t a good farmer. He was thirty-two when he was killed by an overturning tractor. Everything had to be sold, and when everything had been paid there was twenty-six pounds left.’
‘Did you go back to teaching then?’
‘No. I couldn’t earn enough for the three of us at it in those days. We moved into the village, and I worked first for our local doctor. Then I taught myself shorthand and typing and did extra work for anyone who needed a part time secretary. Later I did part-time teaching and had pupils in the evening.’
I said, ‘You must have been so lonely.’
‘My dear, there was no time to feel lonely ‒ at least, not in the day. The nights were bad ‒ and the coldness of a double bed alone. But I got round that by using the night. I did all our cooking, cleaning, and washing at night. I got so used to being up when the world was asleep, the night became my friend instead of my enemy. And I had streaks of great good luck. We all kept healthy. Somehow, and looking back I’m not sure how, we always managed to have our own home, even if it was just a couple of rooms. We had a lot of fun. I got used to living with a pile of bills, and I learnt never to think about the future, much less let it w
orry me. Life is so much more simple when you only live one day at a time. And the boys were so good. Of course, they had their moody days. So did I. But they never gave me any trouble. People used to say, “How can you manage teenage boys alone? A woman?” I don’t know how I managed. I just did. People kept saying, “You ought to marry again.” I would like to have done ‒ and I was quite good-looking ‒ but I never had time. And though the boys missed their father, they would have hated any other man who tried to take his place as my husband. Children’ ‒ her voice was fading ‒ ‘can grow as possessive about a parent as a parent about children. They had lost so much. They needed all I could give them, and they’ve more than given me it all back. They’ll be all right,’ she said for the third time.
I said, ‘My dear, you can’t be sure your job’s done. They may well still need you to fight for them, and that’s why you must still fight for yourself.’ I heard the door open and ignored it. ‘I’d say your job is nothing like finished yet. Think of those grandchildren you are bound to have. Grandmothers are probably more important now than they were. I know that from my own family. My sister and sister-in-law both have babies. They couldn’t begin to cope without the grannies. They’d be lost if they couldn’t shout for Grandmother when someone gets flu or they have another baby. Who can afford nannies? And think of all your stories,’ I insisted. ‘You shouldn’t keep them to yourself. I know you teach, but couldn’t you also write some of them? A children’s book, perhaps. It would be something to do while you are getting over your operation.’
‘Funny you should say that. That’s something I’ve always wanted to do.’ Her eyes closed. ‘No time.’
‘There will be time after your operation.’
I did not think she had heard. Then she said, without opening her eyes, ‘Might be amusing … amusing … I’ll have to think about it … later.’
Sister had been standing just inside the door. She came forward, put a hand on Mrs. Bird’s forehead, checked the drip and transfusion, looked at me without any expression in her eyes above her mask, and went out again. I had no idea whether she approved or was annoyed by my ignoring her presence at that particular moment. I did not wish to offend her, but, as I would not have interrupted my conversation even had I been convinced she was fuming with impatience behind me, I did not let the matter bother me. I was far too bothered about Mrs. Bird.
The third-year came into stay with Mrs. Bird until the theatre trolley arrived. Sister was waiting for me in the corridor. ‘Miss Miles has died without regaining consciousness, Nurse Rowe. Mr. Elkroyd has arrived in Room Ten from Henry Ward.’
‘Thank you Sister.’ I looked from one closed door to another as I took off my gown and hung it on the senior nurse’s peg outside Mrs. Bird’s room. ‘I’m very sorry about Miss Miles. She was far too young to die.’
She said unemotionally, ‘A pulmonary embolus is no respecter of age.’
‘No, Sister.’ Her reserve chilled me. But Miss Miles was my first death in her ward, and there was a question I had to ask. ‘Sister, do you like me to do Last Offices with one of my juniors?’
‘I would prefer you to leave that to your team-leader. As the most senior nurse in your team, your work is with the living who still need you.’
Of course she was right. It was just her way of putting it that jarred. ‘Yes, Sister. I’ll see to Mr. Elkroyd.’ I stood aside for her to walk on to her duty-room.
She did not move. ‘I will suggest to Mrs. Bird’s sons that they encourage their mother to follow your advice in her convalescence. Your idea could be excellent occupational therapy for her.’ She looked at the name-card in her hand that she had already removed from Miss Miles’s door. ‘A pity. She was a nice woman. Mr. Bunney will be distressed.’ And then, just as I had decided she was human, she added, ‘This will affect his statistics.’
She walked on. Addy appeared beside me as I washed my hands at one of the corridor sinks. ‘Sorry about that girl. Sister’s just told me.’
I said bitterly, ‘She also tell you it’s such a pity as it’ll upset old Bunney’s statistics?’
‘She did. Don’t take it too hard. It’s not her fault she can’t unbend. I often feel she’d like to, but is afraid that would be unprofessional. She’s scared stiff of being that. She’s going to prove she’s the best sister ever ‒ if it kills her! She’ll go to the stake rather than admit that, or how much she must have hated being the most senior staff nurse bar none in Barny’s, while girls years junior to her turned into sisters, but it must have rankled.’
‘Why did Matron wait so long? It’s not as if Wardell isn’t efficient, plus, plus, plus ‒ damn her!’
‘Do you need to ask? Now?’ It seemed she thought I did. ‘Any sister running a normal general ward needs a strong streak of the common touch. Here what we mainly need is a good administrator. Which is what we’ve got. At times I feel quite sorry for her.’
‘You’re a lot nicer than me. What I feel for her right now is not sorry!’ I dried my hands, put on a clean gown, and went in to meet Mr. Elkroyd.
Chapter Four
DINNER WITH NICK
Mr. Elkroyd looked round his room with a deliberation that could have been a natural characteristic, but could also have been one of the symptoms that brought him into the Observation Ward. ‘What’s this, then? Private patient, am I?’
He had been in Henry three weeks. I said, ‘Didn’t Sister Henry explain all our beds in this ward are in separate rooms, and why we are all dressed up like this?’
‘Oh, aye.’ He looked me over just as he had done his room. ‘I thought as you’d have me in a cubicle. Not all this class.’
‘All our rooms are identical. They are rather nice.’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Mr. Elkroyd.
He was a fairish young man, well built, and with a square face. His blue eyes reminded me of Nick and instantly disposed me to like him.
I said, ‘I expect Mr. Browne thought you might enjoy a little quiet as you have these headaches.’ He said nothing. ‘I hope you don’t mind being alone?’
‘Have to put up with it, won’t I, then?’
He was a bricklayer. He worked for a large firm of building contractors in Liverpool, and after having an unblemished work record for years had begun having a series of minor accidents at work in the last few months. The firm’s doctor was an old Barny’s man. He had examined Tom Elkroyd and then written to Mr. Browne.
I asked, ‘Have you been to London before, Mr. Elkroyd?’
‘Nah. I’d not have come such for this lot but for my Betty,’ he added, not rudely, but just stating a fact. ‘She’s a mind of her own, has my Betty. Aye. That’ll be her with kids.’
I admired the coloured photograph of his wife and four children on his bed-table. ‘Your wife is very pretty.’
‘She’s all right, then.’
I asked about his headaches. He said they could be worse. His notes said they were getting worse.
One of my team juniors had been unpacking his belongings. She stopped by me later as I was re-reading his notes in the corridor.
‘He looks so fit. Nurse. Why are they wasting one of our beds on him?’
‘Mr. Browne must think he needs the bed.’
‘Does that mean he’s got a head tumour?’
‘I don’t know. He hasn’t been diagnosed yet.’
‘Wouldn’t they have spotted that in Henry? They’ve had three weeks.’
‘Some aren’t as easy to spot as others.’
She was only a second-year and very shaken over Miss Miles, so I did not choose that moment to enlarge on the dangers of deep-seated cranial growths. They were very present in my mind as I hung up the notes. Tom Elkroyd was a young man, a husband and father. Brown-plus-E seldom, if ever, was wrong about a patient.
Mrs. Bird’s sons moved into our flat that day. When she returned from the theatre and came round they took it in turns to spend the next five days and nights sitting by her bed, looking like spare housemen in their
gowns, caps, and masks. They behaved so sensibly we forgot they were there. Their mother was aware of the fact, and most of the time one or other of them was holding her hand.
Her operation had been even more extensive than anticipated. Mr. Turner, a naturally gloomy man, shook his head every time he looked at her notes. His registrar, Mr. Romford, drew me some private pictures on the back of an envelope. ‘We hacked out the whole stomach and a good six inches of this.’ He shaded the area. ‘She’s got a massive growth. How she walked around with that thing inside her, only God knows.’
‘No wonder she had all that pain, poor dear.’ I studied his illustration. ‘You joined up here to here?’
‘Yep. The boss did a very neat end-to-end anastomosis. If it holds ‒’
‘You think it’ll give?’
He shrugged. ‘You should have seen the stuff we had to work on. Wasn’t much to play with.’
‘And if it does hold?’
‘She may have a few more years. We couldn’t find any secondaries, but with the thing that size …’ He left his sentence unfinished.
I had a date with Nick that night. I told him about Tom Elkroyd, but I was too worried over Mrs. Bird to discuss her with anyone outside of Observation. It was now her fourth post-op day. The first five after her specific operation were always crucial. We had given her constant transfusions of whole blood. I had left her looking yellow and shrunken and more like eighty-five than fifty-five, with Bill Romford about to give her another transfusion. For a short while after she would be less yellow, and then, on past showing, she would look shrivelled and yellow again. It was not the yellow of jaundice; it was not caused by the transfusions themselves, which could happen; and, though countless tests were being made, there was nothing anyone could yet find wrong with her liver or gall-bladder. Another pathologist had arrived to take another drop of her blood before Bill Romford gave her that transfusion as I was going off duty. I had to leave her, but even though I had this date with Nick, if I could have stayed on, I would have done so.
A House for Sister Mary Page 6