by Bette Paul
He strode along St Ag’s drive, battling with the wind and his bad temper. He had to admit there was no reason for him to object to the placement except his own vague unease, and he wasn’t going to admit that to anyone. He kicked up a mound of leaves and watched them scatter in the wind. Like all my plans, he thought bitterly.
Jan had many reservations about the training at St Ag’s, not least because he had never intended to become a nurse. When he was air-lifted out of the battered hospital back home, he was working as a medic, as were many students who did not choose to join in the fighting. So when he arrived in England, the refugee authorities arranged for him to train at St Ag’s. By the time Jan understood what was happening, it was too late to go back. And anyway, back to what? To where? Without his place at the hospital he’d doubtless be hanging round the huts on the ex-airfield which had become home to so many of his countrymen and women. At least he was comfortably housed, fed and, more important, kept usefully busy at St Ag’s.
Until now, anyway. Jan stood in the hospital grounds in the wind and the rain, glaring at the bright lights of the huge building ahead. All those patients, all that medical work, all those drugs and lab tests, X-rays and CAT scans, all that exciting, scientific research, all that knowledge – and he had to end up in Mental Health!
He turned and peered through the driving rain across the grounds to the Mental Health department. No bright lights there, merely the spherical lamps outlining the patio which surrounded the low, stone-faced building. From where Jan stood it looked more like an outsize Japanese pagoda than a hospital department. Willows wept in the cobbled courtyard, water bubbled through coloured pebbles, and, from the hole in the centre of a huge millstone, a fountain burst, swivelled off-course just then by the wind. “Beautiful” and “peaceful”, Nikki Browne had called it. Which it was, but it didn’t look the least bit like a hospital to Jan. More like a holiday lodge up in the mountains back home, he thought. And what sort of medical treatments could be done in a hotel?
As he stared gloomily through the darkness, he saw someone slide a glass door back and step out on to the patio, standing, as he was doing, alone in the darkness and the pouring rain. He was wearing a tracksuit – Jan could just glimpse the white flashings on the jacket and trainers. Now, was he staff or was he a patient? wondered Jan.
But there was no way of telling.
Chapter 3
He was no happier about his placement next day. It was a soft, bright morning, almost summery, and even Jan had to admire the russet brick building glowing in the sunshine, surrounded by trees shedding red, brown and yellow leaves like coloured flakes. Compared with the hotchpotch of architectural styles that made up the main hospital – the Gothic splendour and inconvenience of the old Nightingale wing, the glassy tower of the main hospital block, and the scattered “temporary” buildings between – the Mental Health building was a little palace.
A Japanese palace, Jan reflected, as he searched for the main entrance. The glass sides of the octagonal building came down to ground level, but were heavily curtained and had no apparent door handles. He prowled along the terrace, feeling more and more uneasy as he peered into what could, after all, be people’s bedrooms. What if someone drew back the curtains just as he was peering in? Jan winced at the thought and moved swiftly round a corner.
And here he found a small sign with “Entrance” beautifully painted in gold on a black wooden board with a long golden arrow pointing the way. Feeling rather like the poor son in a fairy tale, questing his way into the princess’s castle, Jan followed the direction of the arrow.
And, lo and behold, a door! It was exactly like the rest of the glass panels except that it did have a handle – a gift from a fairy godmother. Jan smiled at his fanciful thought and tried the handle, pushing, pulling, and pushing again. Well, he’d failed the test; he was obviously not going to get the princess! Giving up the fairy-tale approach, he rattled the handle irritably, to no effect.
“Press and slide,” said a light, husky voice behind him.
Jan turned and looked out over the terrace but saw no one. Was he hearing voices now? For a moment he was tempted to cross his fingers, superstitiously, as his grandmother had taught him.
“Press the hand-grip and then slide the door back,” the voice said slowly in a flat northern accent. Nothing ethereal about that, Jan decided.
He looked down and saw the girl below him, sitting on one of the steps that led up to the entrance. Crumpled tracksuit, muddy trainers, off-white flashings, short, sweat-streaked blonde hair. Obviously not a fairytale princess, but what was she? Staff or patient? Jan couldn’t make up his mind and dared not ask.
“Come on, I’ll do it.” She got up, gently pushed him aside and slid the door smoothly back, gesturing for him to enter.
“Student Nurse Jan Buczowski,” she said, peering up to read the name badge on his pocket as he passed. “Well, Jan, once you’ve tackled that door everything’s easy,” she told him.
She certainly had an air of authority, Jan reflected, in spite of the informal dress. Maybe she was a member of the nursing staff; probably been out for her morning run before going on duty. Smiling, he turned to introduce himself, but she’d disappeared. Only a door swinging softly to the left of the hall showed where she’d gone. Like the Good Fairy in a children’s story, thought Jan.
He looked around; this was obviously the reception area, except there was no one to receive him. Humming nervously to himself, he moved across to a noticeboard and began to read. Even there he couldn’t make out the distinction between staff information and that aimed at patients. Courses on stress management, yoga, hypnotherapy and drug abuse overlapped with information about helplines, outings and discos. So who was this information for? Jan wondered.
As if in answer, the door crashed open and half a dozen tracksuited people scrambled in and stood panting by the entrance, not speaking. One by one, as they recovered their breath, they filtered off left and right through the swing doors. Except for one short, heavy man, whose sweat-stained tracksuit top showed that either he was terribly unfit or he was terribly fit and had just been on a very long run.
“Hey up, lad! What are you wanting?” he asked in a husky voice with a broad local accent.
“Ah – I – er – I – Jan Buczowski.” Jan touched his badge, said his name and bowed slightly. Well, at last someone seemed prepared to receive him. He smiled expectantly.
But apparently the man was not expecting him. “You what?” he asked.
Jan took a deep breath. “I am Student Nurse Jan Buczowski,” he said. “I am sent on placement to this department.”
“Well, blow me down!” Without embarrassment, the short man stripped off his sweaty sweatshirt, screwed it up and rubbed vaguely under his arms with it.
“Fancy you being our student!” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Jan coldly.
The man walked over to the desk, his ancient trainers flip-flapping on the floor as he walked. He sat down behind the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a clipboard with several papers fastened to it.
“Aye, here it is – Week Seven, Student Placement.” He frowned down at the top page thoughtfully. “Oh, I see now. . .”
Jan’s heart leapt. There was some mistake; he was not expected. He could go back to Sister Thomas and tell her there was no placement in Mental Health. . .
“Ah well, Jan,” said the man. He pronounced the name with a hard J, English-fashion. “You see, I thought you were Janet, or Janice, or Jane, I suppose. Any road up, I thought you were a lass.” He looked up at Jan, eyes spilling over with humour. “It’s your name, sithee – Jan. . .” He laughed.
“Please – my name?” Jan was puzzled and disappointed. Obviously if they’d got his name they were expecting him. The placement was on. But why did this man think his name was so funny? “It is not funny,” said Jan firmly.
“No – you’re right, lad, it’s not funny in itself. It’s just that I was expectin
g one of the little lasses from the nurse’s home, like.”
He chuckled again, then stood up, holding out a well-worn hand. “Geoff Huckthwaite. Pleased to meet you, er, Jan.”
Automatically, Jan took the proffered hand, wincing as the strong grasp enveloped his own. “Jan Buczowski. Please to meet you.” Though he felt far from pleased now he knew his placement was fixed.
“Right then, Yan.” This time Charge Nurse Huckthwaite got it right. “Come and sit you down while I make meself decent.”
So Jan found himself sitting in a small lounge with instructions to make two mugs of coffee – “two sugars in the panda mug” – in the little kitchen beyond, while Charge Nurse Huckthwaite – how on earth was he going to spell that in his reports? Jan wondered – went off to shower and change.
He didn’t change much; Jan was surprised when he appeared once more in fresh sweatshirt and jeans. No white tunic, no blue tabs, no indication whatsoever that he was a Senior Charge Nurse, except for the usual name-badge worn by all staff, whatever their rank.
“Thanks, Jan.” Geoff – he told Jan to call him that – picked up the mug with pandas on it. “I’m glad to see you can make yourself at home.”
“Make yourself at home” was a phrase Jan had heard often since coming to England.
At first it puzzled him, later it irritated him greatly. After all, he’d explained to Claire only that weekend, if you were at home you had no need to make yourself at home, and if you weren’t, you couldn’t. She had smiled at him and apologized for her over-hospitable relatives, making him feel more than usually guilty.
He winced at the memory and hastily glanced round at the room: television in the corner, shelves stacked with paperbacks and magazines, half a dozen low chairs and a couple of coffee tables. Plants on the window-sill, brass urn filled with dried grasses in the fireplace.
“It is like a home,” he said.
But Geoff didn’t looked pleased. “Not a home,” he said. “More a home from home, if you see what I mean.”
Jan didn’t. “Is your coffee all right?” he asked, to cover his ignorance.
“Champion!” Geoff took a long draught from the panda mug and nodded.
Jan reached into his pocket for the notebook. “Champ-i-on,” he muttered. “How do you spell?”
Geoff looked puzzled for a moment, then amused. “Ah, I see. Learning English as well as nursing, are you?”
Jan nodded. “All times when I hear new word, I write it down,” he said.
“Every time,” Geoff corrected.
Jan nodded. “Every time,” he repeated.
Geoff gave a roar of laughter. “You’ll have a rare old collection by the time you’re done here,” he said.
“Why is that?”
Geoff shrugged his huge shoulders. “Well, we’re very informal here, as you might have noticed.”
Jan nodded sternly.
“And sometimes, with our sort of patient, things get on top of them and they have to let fly. Are you with me?”
Another nod. Another frown.
Geoff cocked an amused eye at Jan’s serious face. “So the language, d’you see, gets a bit ripe.” He laughed softly.
“Ripe. . .” Jan repeated slowly. He was thinking hard. “Strong language, mayhaps?”
“Aye, just a bit.” Geoff shook his head, though he still smiled broadly. “Only to be expected,” he said. “After all, it’s home from home here.”
“What is this ‘home from a home’?” Jan felt confident enough to ask now.
“Like being at home. Like you in the Nurses’ Home. Which one are you in?”
“Kelham House.”
“Aye. Well, that’s what I mean. You have a little room, a little home of your own, away from all the hassles and cares of your studies, don’t you?”
Jan nodded. “I am lucky,” he said. People were always telling him that, and as far as accommodation was concerned, he had to agree with them.
“Yes, well, so are my folk here.” Charge Nurse Huckthwaite plonked his mug on the table. “I’ll show you around; you’ll see what I mean.”
The rest of the morning was a blur of names, smiles, blank looks, surly glares and occasional handshakes. And what with Geoff’s strong accent and his habit of referring to everyone by their first name, and the fact that the only white coat in the whole building seemed to be his own, Jan still couldn’t work out who were staff and who were patients.
It was so much more difficult than being in a traditional ward. There, the first thing he did was to make a mental map of the beds and the names of the patients in them. Here, there was no chance of that; there wasn’t a ward in sight – nor even a single bed.
Until Charge Nurse Huckthwaite found an unoccupied bedroom to show him. It was neatly furnished, in a style similar to Jan’s room back at Kelham’s. As they stood looking in at the door, Geoff explained that Jan must never enter anyone’s room without knocking.
“We don’t have locks, you see, for security reasons.” He looked hard at Jan, to see whether he understood. “In case anyone’s in danger and we need to get in.”
“Ah,” said Jan, eagerly. “In case of fire.”
“Well, among other things.” Geoff hesitated, then obviously decided against going any further with that subject. “Any road up,” he went on, “to give people their privacy, we have a rule about not entering their rooms without being invited. Right?”
“Right.” Jan made a mental note of Rule Number One: do not enter patients’ rooms without knocking. He looked around the corridors. “But where are all the patients?” he asked.
“Good point.” Geoff grinned. “Some of them will have gone across to clinics, others will be in occupational therapy, and some will be back in bed unless I go and rouse them. Come on!”
So Jan spent the next few minutes knocking loudly on doors while Geoff popped his head round the doors with a cheery greeting and a reminder of some appointment or other. Eventually they reached the last door before reception.
“Karen? Karen, come on now; you know Dr Hammond’s clinic’s at ten. Get your glad rags on and trot on over. Shall I send our new student in to help you?” He winked broadly at Jan. “Jan here –” he went back to saying the “J” as in Janet – “Jan’ll be glad to give you a hand. . .”
“I’ll bet he will!” The door opened quickly and Jan saw the small blonde girl who’d let him in. She was wrapped in a white towelling robe and rubbing her wet hair.
“Hi, Jan!” she said. “What’s a nice boy like you doing with a dirty old man like Geoff?”
Jan blushed but Geoff merely laughed. “How did you know Jan was a lad?” he asked her.
“We’ve met,” she said. “Don’t think you know everything that goes on here, Geoff Huckthwaite.” She threw Jan a bright smile. “I’ll go straight over,” she said, and closed the door.
“Met our Karen then, have you?” Geoff asked as they made their way across reception to the office.
Still blushing, Jan nodded. “She let me in this morning,” he said. “Before you came back from your run.”
“The little madam took a short cut and was back before us.” But Geoff smiled almost fondly at the thought. “A month ago she couldn’t get out of bed of a morning; now she’s out running three times a week.”
“Why?” Jan repeated.
“Why?” Geoff repeated incredulously. “Hast never heard of a healthy mind in a healthy body, lad?”
That phrase again! Jan nodded. “But this department is for the mind only, isn’t it?”
Geoff nodded. “Aye, well, Clinical Depression is very debilitating, you know; low energy levels, disturbed sleep patterns – some people can’t sleep at night so they tend to doze on and off all day. And when they first arrive we let ’em, but later we try to get them moving, just a bit at first; in the gym, out for walks, swimming – whatever they can face. It’s the only bit of control they have over their lives, some of them.”
“And this makes them well again?�
� Jan couldn’t keep the scorn out of his voice. If the only thing these patients needed was a bit of exercise, what kind of nursing was he going to learn? Gymnastics and jogging?
Geoff looked up at him shrewdly. “Of course, they need a lot more besides,” he said. “Therapy, counselling, yoga, relaxation – pills even. Depends on the patient, and which psychiatrist takes the case.”
They were back in the office now, and as soon as Geoff sat down, the phone started ringing.
“Tell you what, Jan.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Just go and make sure Karen gets to Dr Hammond’s clinic, will you? She’s a dab hand at going missing.”
Grimly, Jan strode back to Karen’s room. So, his first assignment was escort duty! he thought. More like being a policeman than a nurse!
He knocked on the door and waited to be invited in. But when Karen appeared, she was dressed – black sweater, black leggings, biker boots, leather jacket – and apparently ready to go out.
“I might have known he’d send you back to check up on me.” She glared up at him.
“No, I am here to escort you,” said Jan, bowing slightly and smiling down at her, conscious of trying hard to charm the girl – something that gave him no trouble at all, usually.
But Karen didn’t smile back; she just shrugged. “Please yourself,” she said. “But I’m not going to Hammond’s Horrors until I’ve had my coffee. Right?”
“Right,” Jan agreed. “I will make you one right now.”
“No, hang about – I go to the caff; they’ll do me some toast. Hammond’s bound to ask what I’ve eaten. Come on!” And slamming the door, she led him back to reception. This time, he slid the outer door open easily and stood back to let her through.
“Quick learner, aren’t you?” she said coldly. But she allowed him to catch up with her and together they walked quickly across the dewy-damp grass towards the main building.