Nurses: Claire and Jan

by Bette Paul

It was the question of Patrick. She’d never looked forward to going home with much enthusiasm, but now that Patrick was going to be there, she really dreaded it. Night after night she lay staring up at her ceiling thinking of ways to put him off: a ’flu epidemic, perhaps? Or particularly bad weather? But she was such a bad liar he’d never believe her. Just as no one believed she wanted to get rid of her charming, attractive friend. Especially Jan. And thereby hung another problem.

  Everyone, with the possible exception of Jan, had been delighted to hear that Patrick’s firm would sponsor their tal­ent competition. And everyone, probably including Jan, assumed that Patrick had fixed it for the sake of Claire. So now Jan was avoiding her and Patrick was prepar­ing to move in on the family. It was all very well doing a favour for friends, Claire reflected unhappily, but they would never know what it cost her.

  “I told him to ring and discuss the details with you,” Claire told Katie over tea and toast in the kitchen one afternoon.

  “Why me?” Katie asked, trying not to look delighted.

  “You know just what we need.” In fact, it had occurred to Claire that this was one way of distancing herself from Patrick. She didn’t like the way her name kept being coupled with his.

  “Well, I’m always pleased to chat up a dishy Irishman,” Katie grinned.

  “He’s not Irish,” said Claire irritably. “He’s English.”

  “Of course. Your English cousin, is he?” Katie grinned. “Does that mean he’s available?”

  “How should I know?” asked Claire dismissively. “You’ll have to check that out for yourself.” She stood up and began to collect their dishes.

  “Thanks, I’ll do that,” said Katie. She looked at her watch. “Oh, damn! Can’t stay to help – got a meeting.” She made a dash for the door and bumped into Jan. “Hi – and ‘bye!” she called. “See you, Jan!”

  Claire looked across the room to see Jan just about to leave. She tried frantically to think of something to say – something witty and light-hearted, to make him laugh, break the ice that seemed to have formed between them. But even as she opened her mouth he turned at the door and was gone.

  She went back to her room and opened her biology book, though it was useless trying to make sense of it through tears. Claire sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Damn! She’d never remember all this new terminology without Jan to help her. And they were supposed to be performing one of Kathleen Brogan’s songs at the talent competition, but he was never around when she wanted to rehearse. He wasn’t even around when she needed help with revision, although he knew exams were only days away now.

  She slapped her book shut. No use trying to revise when her thoughts were whirling. Maybe her mind would work better tomorrow.

  Claire took her books along to Gynaecology next day and tried to revise during her coffee break in the staff room. Which was where Ahmed Durahni caught up with her.

  “So this is where you hide out,” he teased. “I haven’t had a decent cup of coffee since you left A & E.”

  “I don’t believe you,” laughed Claire. “I’ll bet you’ve got teams of nurses plying you with coffee day and night.”

  Dr Durahni shook his beautiful head. “I’d rather have one coffee a day from your fair hand than a dozen from anyone else,” he declared.

  “And they say it’s the Irish who talk blarney!” Claire laughed.

  “ ‘Blarney’ now, is it?” he said, copying her accent perfectly. “Well, and you’ll be knowing all about that then, won’t you?”

  “Just at this moment I don’t feel I know much about anything,” said Claire, looking gloomily down at her file full of notes.

  “I’m sure you do. Tell you what,” Dr Durahni took the file and settled down beside her, “you go and get me a coffee and I’ll help you revise. Deal?”

  “You really are incorrigible,” laughed Claire, “but I need all the help I can get with these next exams. One cup of coffee is a small price to pay.”

  They sat sipping their coffee, Ahmed asking questions and Claire stumbling through answers – but getting them right nevertheless – until their coffee break was over.

  “Thank you, Ahmed,” she said, taking back the file and getting up to go back on duty. “That’s been a great help. I feel more confident than I have for weeks.”

  “No problem, Claire; you’ll be all right. Just relax.” He smiled up at her. “You’re going to the Charity Night Disco?”

  “I . . . er . . . yes, I am.”

  “With someone?”

  Claire hesitated. “Well, yes,” she admit­ted, and she blushed.

  “Ah! The romantic violinist, yes?”

  “No.” Claire felt her face getting hotter and hotter.

  “No?” Ahmed feigned amazement. “What a sly puss you are, little Irish girl. Who is this lucky fellow, bringing you to the ball?”

  “It’s only a staff disco,” she corrected him. The formal ball had been last summer, she thought sadly, and Jan Buczowski had been her partner. “And he’s just a friend of mine.”

  “Well, I hope your friend will spare you for a dance with me.”

  “I shall dance with whom I please,” said Claire rather primly.

  “Then I shall have to join the queue, madame,” Ahmed teased.

  “Not you, Ahmed – you’re always at the head of the queue.” Claire laughed and glanced at her watch. “And I’ll be at the head of the queue for failures if I don’t get back to Gynae right away.”

  She sped back along the corridor still smiling, buoyed up by Ahmed’s obvious interest in her. It was really quite flattering to have two offers for her favours even if neither was the one she wanted. If only Jan had Ahmed’s easy charm, she thought, or even Patrick’s irritating forcefulness, she might get somewhere with him.

  Things had been so different last summer. She’d helped Jan with his English, he’d helped her with her notes, and they’d sung and played and laughed and worked together – even danced half the night at St Ag’s Centenary Ball. And now they rarely met and barely spoke.

  “Why has it all gone wrong?” she mur­mured to herself.

  “What’s all wrong?” asked Nurse Doughty, looking up from the files she was sorting. “Your love-life, is it?”

  “Chance would be a fine thing,” Claire said, trying to strike a light-hearted note. “Who’s got time for a love-life in this place?” And she felt her face grow hot with blushes.

  She was used to being teased about boyfriends, by both patients and staff; she usually rode it with a bright smile and a bit of a joke, but today it didn’t seem very funny.

  Fortunately Nurse Doughty hadn’t noticed her blushes.

  “I’ll tell you something that’s all wrong,” she said, slapping another file down on the counter. “This charity do – that’s all wrong.”

  Claire looked up in surprise; she’d assumed everyone was in favour of the great fundraising effort; after all, it was an annual event at St Ag’s.

  “Don’t you think it’s a good idea to raise funds for charity?” she asked.

  “Depends what you mean by charity,” Nurse Doughty frowned. “Begins at home, to my way of thinking.”

  Ah, that was it! Claire recognized the argument; Katie was always going on about the controversy surrounding the distri bution of funds raised at the Charity Day.

  “But surely the whole point of Charity Day is that it raises funds for others, not the hospital? St Agatha’s Fund for the Needy, isn’t it?”

  “And who’s more needy than the patients in this hospital?” asked Nurse Doughty, glaring out at the almost empty ward.

  “Well, taking a world view, many thou­sands of people,” said Claire. And she thought about Jan’s people living in cellars without mains water, fresh food, even dress­ings for their wounds.

  “Huh – ‘world view’ indeed – flipping foreigners!” Nurse Doughty was saying. “Get things right at home first is what I say, then the rest will fall into place.”

  C
laire stared at her. “What did you say?” she asked sharply.

  Nurse Doughty looked stricken.

  “Oh! I didn’t mean you, Claire – I mean, I never think of you as a foreigner. . .”

  But Claire just gave her a brilliant smile. “Thanks, Margaret,” she said. “Neither do I. But you’ve just helped me make a decision.”

  “Ah, is that what you were muttering about?” Nurse Doughty smiled. “Can’t decide between two of them – home or away, is it?” She waved a waggish finger. “Take my advice, stick to your own kind.”

  Claire was about to contradict her, then she suddenly realized Jan was her own kind: musician, outsider, foreigner, all set to travel the world. Patrick might be part-Irishman, a Geary, even, but that was the only thing they had in common.

  Yet he’d insinuated himself into her social life, taken over her emotions and thoughts, and was even planning to enter her home life. All in all, she suddenly realized, Patrick Geary was playing far too large a part in her life at present. Just as Jan appeared to have walked right out of it.

  “You’re right, Margaret,” she agreed. “I’ll stick to my own kind and to hell with the others!”

  Of course, it was all easier said than done, as Nurse Doughty herself would have said. Claire sat in her room, notepad open in front of her, reading her plan of action.

  1. Patrick – staff disco.

  2. Half-term – Donegal, and Patrick again.

  3. Jan – how do we stand?

  This last was so painful that she covered it with her hand and turned her eyes back to number one.

  “Get rid of Patrick at the staff disco,” she read aloud.

  Yes, but how? she asked herself. Katie had already reported that his firm had offered several really generous prizes for the talent competition, so Patrick would probably want to be in on the whole evening. Claire groaned.

  But not necessarily as her partner. Claire suddenly sat up very straight as she remembered Katie’s laughing assurance that she’d chat up any charming Irishman. Well, what better opportunity than this? So far as she knew, Katie had no partner for the dance. Nick Bone might have been, but he was DJ for the evening. Which left Katie available, as she herself would have put it. Furthermore, she knew several senior managers, sat on committees with them, was always ready with a caustic comment about them; she’d be delighted to introduce Patrick to them. Two of a kind, they were, always go-getting; Patrick for himself, Katie for her causes. They’d have a great time together, Claire decided. And she was going to organize it. She drew a large, dark tick at the end of Number One.

  Not that it was accomplished, she reminded herself. But she had a feeling Katie would be only too happy to help her out.

  Number Two was more daunting. Patrick had obviously become a favourite with Mammy and she might well insist on his presence at half-term. He’d been so sure of his welcome when he’d told her of the invitation, but had he been telling her the truth? There was only one way to find out. Claire closed her notepad and went down to the telephone.

  “Da, how are you?”

  “Claire! Ach, there’s a wonderful surprise. It’s not often you get around to ringing your poor old da.”

  Claire winced at the truth of this.

  “Well, I’m a busy student nurse, you know,” she excused herself.

  “And whose fault is that?” asked Da, only half teasing.

  “Mine, all mine,” laughed Claire. She’d already decided to keep things light. “And are you very busy just now?” she asked.

  “No, the weekend shoots is all we’re doing right now, thank goodness. You are coming over for half-term, aren’t you?”

  “I hope so. I really want to, but. . .” Claire hesitated. “Did Mammy mention anyone else in the family joining us?”

  “Well, there’ll be Uncle Bernard and all his brood, Granda, of course, and some few of the Donovans for Sunday lunch.”

  Claire smiled to herself; “some few” in Da’s parlance meant a couple of dozen assorted brothers, sisters and cousins.

  “No Gearys?” she asked innocently.

  “Why on earth would there be Gearys this time of year? They think we live under six feet of snow all winter and our roads are impassable, thank the Lord!”

  For a moment Claire thought she was home and dry; if Da didn’t even know Patrick was invited, it ought to be quite easy to stop the visit.

  But then Da went on, “Anyway, you’ll be needing the rest at home by now. I hear you’ve been working very hard this term, weekends and all.”

  And Claire’s heart sank. “You hear that, do you? Who from?” she asked sharply.

  “Oh, that young lad of Liam’s. Your Mammy took quite a fancy to him. He rings us now and then.”

  I’ll bet he does, thought Claire. With tales of what I’m doing.

  “Patrick says he’s invited over for the weekend,” she said.

  “Is he? That’ll be your mammy’s idea – company for you, I suppose.”

  “I don’t want company, Da – not Patrick’s company. I’d like it to be just family, you know.” This was a stroke of pure genius, an appeal to Da’s sentimental attachment to family values.

  “Well, it’s good to know you still appre­ciate us, Claire,” he said. She could almost see his wide smile, his moist eyes. “But Patrick’s family too.”

  “Distant,” she reminded him. Not distant enough, she added to herself.

  “Yes, well; your Mammy’s lot have never been as close as we are,” Da conceded. “The Gearys were very hard on his father. Maybe Mammy wants to make it up to him.”

  “Well, if she’s determined to have him over for that weekend, I’ll make my own arrangements.” Claire was quite breathless at her own daring. What other arrangements could she possibly make?

  “Well now, Claire, sure it’s not like you to talk like that.” Da was obviously taken by surprise. “Has the boy been upsetting you?”

  Now that she’d got started, Claire sud­denly felt quite strong. “He’s only been see­ing me so that he could report back to you, hasn’t he?”

  There was a pause. “I wouldn’t put it exact ly like that, Claire,” Da said cautiously.

  “I would,” Claire retorted. And she knew it was now-or-never time. “But there’s one little incident he hasn’t reported back to

  you.”

  “What? What’s that?”

  “Oh, it’s too complicated now. I’ll tell you all about it when – if – I come home.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if’?”

  “Only that I’m not coming if Patrick Geary’s there. Tell Mammy ‘hello’ from me, will you?”

  And she put down the phone.

  Chapter 11

  “That’s that, then.” Nurse Doughty looked around Hartington Ward with marked satisfaction. “I like to see it all fettled out.”

  Claire wasn’t quite sure what “fettled out” meant, but Gynae certainly looked bare and silent and deserted.

  “Like a ghost town,” she said. “You must be feeling sad?”

  “Not for long,” Nurse Doughty spoke briskly. “Over at Tissington we’ll be rushed off our feet.”

  “And I’ll be sitting back in lectures,” groaned Claire.

  “Exams first,” Nurse Doughty reminded her. “Best get on with a bit of revision; there’s nothing more to do here.” And she bustled off as if to set a good example.

  Claire paused to cast a final look around Hartington Ward. Maybe if she’d left a busy department still working at full pressure, she’d have been quite glad of the break. But to leave Gynae hushed and silent, devoid of patients, felt like leaving a sinking ship. Sadly, she made her way to the office for the last time.

  “Finished already, Claire?” Sister Lawrence looked up from the screen of her computer. “I expect you’ll want to get on with last-minute revision; you can go any time you want to.”

  Claire hesitated. “I . . . er, brought a little treat for you all. Thanks to everyone who helped me through the course
.” She put a long, gold-wrapped box on Sister’s desk.

  “Well, thank you, Claire! How very kind.” Sister picked up the box automatically, then, catching a glimpse of the label, looked up. “You shouldn’t have gone to all this expense,” she said, a trifle disapproving.

  “Well, actually my da sent them,” Claire admitted. He’d sent them to her as a sort of apology, she knew, but she couldn’t face eating them.

  Sister Lawrence looked over the box of handmade chocolates at Claire.

  “Well, that’s a very kind gesture. Your father must be pleased that you’ve been such a success here.”

  “He’ll certainly be surprised,” said Claire truthfully. “This is my first success since I started training.”

  “But not, I trust, the last.” Sister Lawrence looked serious. “I’ve seen a change in you since you started in this department, Claire. You have more sense of purpose, more determination.” She leaned forward, look­ing straight into Claire’s eyes. “You are one of the few students I’ve met with a real sense of vocation. You keep at it, Claire. We’ll make a Nightingale nurse of you yet.”

  Claire looked at her in amazement. Nightingale medals were awarded only to the most promising nurses in the year. She’d never considered herself in that league. Had Sister Lawrence not seen her previous exam grades?

  As if she’d read her thoughts, the Sister went on, “I know you find the college course quite difficult, Claire, but take heart – the best nursing skills can’t be measured by examinations.” She smiled and put the chocolates down on her desk. “Goodbye, Claire – and thank your father for this lovely gift.”

  “I will,” Claire said, promising herself that she would tell Da what she’d done with his chocolates; one more little home truth with which to face up to him. “Good luck with the reorganization, Sister – and thanks!”

  The days immediately before exams were left free for private study. But Claire had reached the point in her revision where she felt she couldn’t cram one more fact into her over-loaded brain. She paused at the library door, then turned away. Maybe she’d feel more like it later. And anyway, Katie had ordered her to some meeting or other in the Medics’ Mess just along the corridor. Claire had protested that she had work to do, but now, feeling aimless and vaguely depressed, she was only too glad to put it off for a while.