Nurses: Claire and Jan

by Bette Paul

  “I won’t forget, Aunt Tess,” he promised.

  He stood and gazed after his aunt with that same intense, almost calcu­lating expression. A Geary expression, Claire thought. Cousin Patrick was obvi­ously closer to at least one of his new rela­tions than he realized.

  She stood up. “I’d better go and listen to everyone’s forebodings,” she said. “You’d think I was off back to a mission in darkest somewhere instead of just being a student nurse in Brassington.”

  He was very tall and had to lean towards her to touch her cheek. “Brassington can be darkest somewhere,” he said. “I’ll ring you.”

  Mammy was “not too well” next morning, so Da drove Claire to the airport. There were hold-ups into the city but, as always, the airport was well organized and efficient. Claire was glad they were rather late for check-in; less time for farewells, no time for recriminations.

  “ ’Bye, Da,” she said, hugging him hard, trying to ignore the tears that were already on his cheeks.

  “ ’Bye, Claire, me love. Take care of yourself. Come back as soon as you can – I’ll always send you the fare, you know.” He sniffed hard and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

  “I know, Da, but I must get stuck into the work. I don’t find it easy, you know. . .”

  “But you never give up, do you?” Claire couldn’t tell whether his tone was accusing or admiring.

  He chucked her under the chin and kissed the end of her nose. “ ’Bye, love! Gate Seven, is it? God bless!”

  Claire felt him watching her all the way into Departures. She turned to wave and felt an almost uncontrollable urge to run back to him, cling to him, tell him he was right, that she wanted to stay at home. He stood quite still, seemingly waiting for her.

  She turned and walked swiftly through the lounge and down the corridor to Gate Seven, feeling the invisible cord between herself and her father stretching out behind her, pulling her back. But by the time she was settling into her seat on the plane, the cord had snapped.

  Chapter 2

  The first few hours at Kelham House were filled with breathless reunions – and a sumptuous buffet provided by the Leonmohr Hotel.

  “Home from home,” Claire’s neighbour, Katie Harding, teased, as the kitchen filled with the scent of warm soda-bread.

  “Better – much better,” grinned Jan Buczowski, spreading thick layers of Irish butter with a happy disregard for cholesterol. He was a refugee from central Europe, still relishing all the food he’d missed throughout one horrendous winter.

  Claire smiled at him fondly, delighted to be doing something for him for a change; he’d helped her so much last term. “I’ll put all the stuff in the fridge and cupboards and from now on you can help yourselves,” she said. “I came here to do nursing, not catering.”

  The others laughed at her joke, but Claire was serious. She’d been a little disappointed in the College of Nursing at first; it was too much like school. By the end of the summer session she had folders full of notes, several assignments and a few exam results that were better than she’d hoped for, thanks to Jan’s coaching. But she hadn’t even set foot in a real hospital ward; her placements had been Out-patients and Ante-natal. This term, though, she’d drawn the Big One – Accident and Emergency – and she could hardly wait!

  On the following Monday she was so eager to get started on the “real” work that she was up and uniformed even before early breakfast. For the fifth time she removed her cap and pinned back her hair more securely. Perhaps her mother had been right after all, she thought, pulling a stray tendril from her collar. Maybe she should have had it cut and styled before trying to fit this stiff little hat on.

  Her hair was very dark, almost black against her white complexion and the crisp white cap. She twisted the curling ends all together now in a bunch on top of her head and secured them with a rubber band. She clipped the cap around the bundle, and tested its security by shaking her head vigorously once or twice. There! That was holding – apart from the occasional frond that insisted on bobbing over. Well, maybe things would be so busy today nobody would have time to notice her.

  She wrapped her cloak tight round herself and made her way across the Kelham courtyard up to St Ag’s. No college today, she thought, with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. Accident and Emergency had to be more interesting than lectures and videos.

  “Nurse Donovan, your cap’s not straight and your hair is loose.” Sister Banks frowned as she passed on her way to her office.

  Claire frowned too; in spite of all her efforts, the edifice on top of her head had lasted about two hours. And they hadn’t even had an emergency yet; just a trail of bumps and bruises and the occasional weekend sports injury. Claire had done nothing but file notes and make the staff’s coffee. Catering again, she smiled grimly. And now she was being told off for being untidy!

  What on earth did it matter? she asked herself. What if there was a real emer­gency – a big pile-up on the M6? Would a tilted cap and a couple of stray curls prevent her from being a good nurse?

  “Cheer up! Sister’s always a bit tense when it’s quiet,” Ben Morrison, the Charge Nurse, told her. “She’s a stickler for discipline; runs the place like an army – which, in a way, it is.”

  “How do you mean?” Claire asked. They were going off duty to take their coffee break in the staff room.

  “Well, even when there’s no war, an army keeps on training, just to be in tip-top condition and ready for anything.”

  “What’s that to do with my cap?” Claire tugged irritably at the offending article; cap, grips, hair and all came tumbling down over her collar.

  Ben regarded her gravely. “Well, partly it’s a matter of reflexes. If we’re trained to obey automatically in day-to-day routine, when it comes to an emergency we all know where we stand – no question. See?”

  Claire nodded and tugged her hair back tigh­tly with one hand. “I suppose so,” she said. “But I don’t feel as if I’m training for anything.”

  “Oh, yes, you are,” smiled Ben. “Make no mistake, Sister Banks never misses an opportunity for a bit of training.”

  “A bit of criticism more like,” said Claire. She groped around on the table for her elastic band.

  “May I make a suggestion – about your hair?” Ben asked.

  Claire frowned. “Not if you’re going to tell me to get it cut.”

  “No, there’s no need. If you pulled your hair back like it is now, into one of those crinkly ponytail bands, your cap would sit easily on the top of your head.”

  “But wouldn’t Sister Banks object to the band?”

  “Not if you got one in blue and gold – St Ag’s colours, you know. Lots of the girls have them; I think they get them off the market in Brassington.”

  “Right, I’ll get a couple tomorrow. Thanks, Ben – that’s a brilliant suggestion.”

  “Oh, I’m full of them!” he smiled. “And I have another.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll make us a coffee while you fix your hair again. Right?”

  “Right!” Claire nodded happily. It was nice to have someone else do the “catering” for a change.

  In the cloakroom she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and anchored it with the rubber band. Sure enough, the cap sat on the top of her somewhat flattened head now. A couple of grips and there it was: complete and straight and disciplined.

  “Reporting for duty, saah!” She marched up to Ben, saluted and clicked her heels smartly.

  “What is this?” An amused voice came from the other end of the room. “A new breed of robot student nurses?”

  Claire turned and looked into a pair of shining dark eyes, set in a face as smooth and brown as milk-chocolate.

  “I’ve heard you’re a stickler for discipline, Ben, but I didn’t know you’d started your own private army.” He laughed softly, lifting beautifully-shaped eyebrows.

  Ben laughed too. “Get along with you, Ahmed. You’re only jealous because we get the
pick of the students, like Claire Donovan here.”

  The man rose. He was wearing a white coat, unusually pristine and crisp, over a well-cut suit of palest beige. He didn’t look as if he’d been anywhere near a patient that day.

  “Ahmed Durahni,” he said. “Always delighted to meet the pick of the new students.” And he smiled some more.

  Claire tried not to goggle at this beautiful creature; it was her convent training rather than Sister Banks’s that reminded her how to behave.

  She held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, er. . .”

  “Dr Durahni,” he said, enclosing her hand in both of his. “My friends call me Ahmed.” He bowed slightly over her hand, then looked up into her face, his eyes shining with good humour and mischief.

  “I’m pleased to meet you . . . Ahmed,” said Claire, a little breathlessly.

  Dr Durahni stood only just as tall as she was. He smiled into her eyes. “And what’s that beautiful accent, then?”

  Claire winced; her accent always came out when she was tense. “I’m from County Donegal,” she said, in very standard English.

  “Well, and isn’t that some sort of coinci­dence, now?” He caught some sort of Irish accent remarkable accurately. “My mother’s family has a bit of land thereabouts.”

  “Really?” Claire felt a little uneasy; she’d listened to her father’s views about foreigners buying up huge tracts of Donegal for the hunting. Germans, Japanese – all the big corporations were into it. And now, apparently, the Middle East was coming to Ireland. “You’ll find it a cold and wild place,” she told Ahmed.

  “Oh, I never go there,” he said. “Brassington’s wild enough for me.”

  “Rubbish. Brassington’s only wild when you’re around,” said Ben. “Quiet little backwater, we are.”

  He handed Claire a mug of coffee.

  “Come on, drink up. If we don’t want any more criticism from Sister Banks we’d better get a move on.”

  “And I too must depart,” Dr Durahni said. “I have to demonstrate an ENT examination to the consultant. Wish me luck!”

  “You don’t need it; you have all the luck,” said Ben.

  And as they walked back to A & E, he told Claire about the wealthy, intelligent, handsome Ahmed and his string of adoring student nurses.

  “Not so popular with the doctors, though,” he observed. “Not even the females.”

  Claire couldn’t imagine Ahmed being unpopular with any female. “Why is that?” she asked.

  Ben shrugged. “Bit too charming for some,” he said. “Be warned!”

  Sister Banks’s eyes registered approval at Claire’s new hairstyle and the day moved on apace from then. A cluster of children with sports injuries, a distressed old lady who’d fallen in the street, a young builder with a badly crushed thumb. . . These kept Claire busy, soothing, mopping, cleaning, form-filling, trekking off to X-ray. By the end of the day she was exhausted.

  “Well, you seem to have survived,” Sister Banks said. “Mind you, it hasn’t been a very busy day.”

  Ben winked at Claire. “She’s a dab hand with the dressings,” he told Sister Banks.

  It was true. Claire had always been neat and nimble-fingered, and she’d taken a first aid course at school. He mother had encouraged her at first; it would be useful to have someone qualified on the hotel staff. But Claire had grown more and more interested in the first aid and less and less keen on the running of the hotel. That was when she’d realized she wanted to be a nurse.

  And today had confirmed her decision. She smiled at Sister Banks.

  “Thank you for putting up with me,” she said. “I’ve enjoyed every minute of my ward duty.”

  “Good.” Sister Banks smiled back at her, then bent to take something from her desk drawer. “Here you are,” she said, offering it to Claire. “It might help with that unruly hair of yours.”

  She handed her a blue and gold ponytail ribbon.

  And now the weeks took on a pattern: the interest and excitement of the first three days carried Claire through the lectures, demonstrations, films and seminars that followed. And at least she began to make sense of some of the academic work, after her observations in A & E. Even so, she knew that this was always going to be her weakness; no matter how carefully she took notes, how well she arranged her files, how often she read her text books, she was sure she’d forget it all as soon as she turned her attention elsewhere.

  “And what’ll happen when we have the next exams?” she asked Katie Harding.

  But Katie just laughed. “You did all right last term, Claire; don’t worry. If you want something to worry about try Charity Day. I’ve got to come up with a few ideas for fund-raising before the next committee.”

  That was just like Katie. Claire some­times wondered why she’d ever come into nursing; she was much more interested in committee meetings and organizing events. And much cleverer than she was, sighed Claire. Katie never seemed to worry about college work.

  * * *

  Claire sat at the desk in her room, turning the pages of her anatomy file, trying to memorize each label on each diagram. She heard the phone ringing down the corridor, but she didn’t move. It wouldn’t be Da, not at this time in the evening; he’d be busy in the restaurant.

  “Claire . . . telephone!” Nikki Browne banged on her door.

  Startled, Claire jumped up. “Who is it?” she asked.

  Nikki smiled. “A man – not your father, though.” Nikki’s room was next to the phone; she’d taken many calls from the ever-vigilant Mr Donovan.

  Who else could be ringing her? Claire wondered as she went to the phone booth.

  “Hello? Claire Donovan speaking.”

  “Of course it is. I’d know that voice anywhere! And how are you, Claire Donovan? All settled in?”

  It was Cousin Patrick.

  “Oh, hello, Patrick. You’re back at home, then?”

  “Home? What’s that?” Patrick laughed. “No, I’m in Brassington. I said I’d be ringing you one of these days.”

  “So you did.” Claire waited. “Are you here on business?” she asked.

  But Patrick was evasive. “Sort of,” he said, “but I’ve come to see you too. Take you out, show you the town.”

  “Well, thanks, but I’ve got a lot of work on. . .”

  “Saturday – you don’t work Saturday.”

  “No, but. . .” She was hoping that Jan would ask her out on Saturday night. All summer she’d been looking forward to being with Jan again, but so far he hadn’t suggested anything. Even so, she wanted to keep Saturday free, just in case.

  “No buts. I’ll pick you up at seven – all right?” Cousin Patrick said.

  Well, it was good to hear his voice, Claire had to admit. And she was sure he’d be fun to go out with, even if he did bear the disadvantage of being almost family. For some reason she was reminded of her mother, smiling up at him at the farewell party, their two profiles matching, their expressions so alike. Now why should she suddenly think of that?

  “Now, you’re at Kelham House, first right after the main entrance to Brassington General. Am I right?”

  “You are.” He seemed to know a lot about St Ag’s, she reflected. “You can park at the front. Ring the bell and I’ll be right down,” she told him.

  “Right. Seven o’clock. ‘Bye now!”

  “’Bye now!”

  She put the phone down and walked thoughtfully back to her room. As she’d never met Cousin Patrick before her farewell party, it would be like going out on a date with a stranger. And she remembered how he’d looked then: tall and lanky, with the light-brown hair and sharp blue eyes of a Dublin horse-dealer. Even his complexion looked weathered, though she assumed he worked in some office or other.

  Well, maybe it was all for the best, she decided. Jan Buczowski didn’t seem too keen to ask her out, and, if he ever did, she’d tell him she already had a date. That might even get him interested in her again. Jan needn’t know the date was only with a se
cond cousin.

  Chapter 3

  Patrick Geary certainly knew his way around Brassington, Claire noted. He’d been brought up in London, she knew, but judging from the smiles of recognition that greeted him in the restaurant he must have been to Brassington pretty often. From the cloakroom attendant to the head waiter, people greeted him warmly and gave him good service. Claire knew enough about the business to recognize that he was a well-respected, regular client.

  “Do you come here often?” she joked, as they settled at their table.

  “Only when business brings me up here,” he replied.

  “And what business is that, exactly?”

  “Your kind of business, almost.” He mocked her serious tone. “I represent one of the largest suppliers of sterile materials in the country; Brassington Royal Hospital Trust is about to become one of my clients – I hope. Now –” He forestalled any further discussion of his job by scanning the huge menu. “The speciality is fish and seafood,” he said. “They have a lot of it flown over from Ireland.”

  The fame was justified. Claire, raised on tales of badly cooked, poor quality English food, was surprised by the crisp vegetables, the juicy flakes of Dover sole, and the creamy, dreamy lemon soufflé. She guessed the cost of it all would be more of a shock than a surprise and she felt a little uneasy.

  “Always pay your way,” Da told her. “Then you owe nobody anything. You’re your own man.”

  “Woman,” Mammy never failed to correct him.

  That was easy at home; if she went out with a boy she always made it plain she’d pay her share. After all, she was better off than most of her friends. But this was different; for one thing, even with Da’s allowance added to her nursing bursary, she couldn’t afford a place like this. And for another – well, he was a cousin, almost family. So it was all right to let him pay. Wasn’t it?

  He scarcely looked at the bill, then put it down with his credit card on top. No room for argument.

  “So what would you like to do now?” he asked. “You don’t have to go back yet, surely?”