Nurses: Claire and Jan

by Bette Paul

  Once there, Karen suddenly changed; she stood stiffly in a corner at the top of the steps and refused to go through the door.

  “I can’t go in,” she whispered.

  “But you said you wanted to come over to the café,” said Jan. “And if we don’t hurry, the toast will be off.” He put out a hand to her and for a moment she stood, staring at it as if she’d never seen a hand before.

  “What’s that for?” she demanded.

  “To help you through the door,” Jan said. “Remember how you helped me this morning? ‘Once you’ve cackled the door,’ you said, ‘everything’s easy’. . .”

  Karen looked up at him through narrowed eyes. Then breathing hard, as if back from a run, she pulled herself upright.

  “Tackled” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “The word’s tackled, not cackled.” She looked at him severely, like a very strict teacher.

  But Jan’s mistake seemed to have revived her; she took his hand and allowed him to lead her through the swing doors. He could feel her trembling right from her fingertips, just like some of the casualties back home – uninjured but shocked. So Jan did as he would have done there: he grasped Karen’s upper arm, pulled her close and began speaking gently and softly into her ear as he guided her across the crowded entrance.

  “Nearly there now, Karen. Just a bit further – steady – past the news shop – turn right here – soon be eating your tea and toast. Look, it’s just over there!”

  He looked up as he said that, just in time to see Claire Donovan coming out of the café, waving, smiling, moving quickly towards him. Suddenly conscious that he was holding Karen very close, he let go of her arm. Immediately she was off across the hall.

  Avoiding Claire’s welcoming smile, he pushed through the crowd. “Karen!” he called. “Karen, come back!”

  He scanned the entrance eagerly, but saw only the puzzled hurt in Claire Donovan’s eyes.

  Chapter 4

  With a muttered apology, Jan rushed on into the café. But a quick scan of the queue showed him that Karen had given up the idea of toast and coffee. He turned to leave and saw Claire standing just where he’d pushed past her. Jan groaned; he’d have to pass her again, and he could hardly ignore her this time.

  “Claire! Sorry, I have no time – I’m with a patient. Did you see her? A small blonde girl in black – leather jacket, boots?”

  “Yes, I did see her,” Claire said. “With you,” she added pointedly.

  “I’m bringing her to the clinic,” Jan explained. “But she’s gone a runner.” He looked wildly all round once more.

  “Done a runner,” Claire corrected. She looked at him closely. “You are all right, aren’t you, Jan?”

  He shook her off. “Of course I’m not all right. What if I’ve lost a patient?”

  “Calm down, Jan.” Claire put a hand on his arm. “She’s probably only slipped off for a quick smoke.”

  Jan shook off the hand. “Did you see her go?” he asked impatiently.

  “Yes, she went that way.” Claire pointed down the main corridor. “See you this evening?” she called as Jan rushed off. Well, at least he didn’t have to reply, he thought.

  The corridor was wide, high and dim – part of the Nightingale building – and at that time of day it was seething with people. Jan nipped in and out, edging this person aside, dodging a wheelchair, overtaking a trolley, passing porters, patients and probably distinguished consultants for all he knew.

  All he did know was that he couldn’t see Karen. Inwardly cursing – in his own language – he lifted up his head to peer above the crowd but he knew it was hopeless; she was so small she would be quite hidden among all those people. At the junction that marked the start of the modern extension, he paused and mopped his face. Sweating! His hand was shaking too, and he suddenly felt quite dizzy. Damn! This was not the time, not the place. . . He stepped back into a quiet side corridor, leaned against the wall and rubbed his damp hands down his tunic.

  He was suddenly reminded of Geoff Huckthwaite’s stained tracksuit top. And of his words: “She’s a dab hand at going missing.” Well, whatever a “dab hand” meant, Karen certainly was one; she’d got away from him easily enough. Jan took a deep, shaky breath and tried to gather his thoughts into some coherent plan.

  Suddenly he knew what to do; he’d go to Dr Hammond’s clinic and report her missing. Yes, that was it; let someone else take the responsibility. He was here to train as a nurse, not a nursemaid. He stepped out into the concourse again and looked round for some signs. Now, where did Dr Hammond have his clinic?

  Damn! He should have checked with Geoff before setting off. Or even with Karen, though he doubted whether she’d have told him the truth. In spite of his irritation, he smiled. That girl reminded him of some of the young soldiers at home, so certain and full of themselves – bravado they called it – and then suddenly, for no obvious reason, crumbling, just as she had at the main entrance. It had always embarrassed Jan back home; soldiers – even sixteen-year-old soldiers – should be cold and hard, not shivering in corners or quietly weeping.

  But Karen hadn’t wept, he remembered. She’d just stopped, as if paralysed, unable to get through the door. Yet even now she was on the run, probably enjoying all the trouble she was causing him. Well, he wasn’t going to give her that satisfaction. Mobilized by the thought, he pushed his way across to the reception desk. There were the usual long queues but Jan’s white coat had a magical effect; people stepped back to let him through.

  “Where is Dr Hammond’s clinic?” he asked the duty clerk.

  “Hammond? Psychiatric?” The clerk took his eyes off the computer screen for a moment then paused, examining Jan’s tense face curiously. Jan was irritated. Surely the clerk didn’t think that he had an appointment with Dr Hammond?

  “I have a message,” he lied. And he pointed to his name-badge.

  “Oh, right. Best take the lift. It’s the tenth floor, Tower Block; you’ll see the signs up there.”

  “Thanks!” Jan’s heart sank. Across the lobby he could see small knots of people waiting for the lifts. More delay, more time for Karen to get wherever she was going. Well, wherever she was, she wouldn’t be waiting for a lift, he suddenly realized. Anyone who panicked like she did in the crowded entrance wouldn’t be happy squashed into a small space with a crowd of people. Claustrophobia, they called it. Jan remembered making a note of the word only a few weeks ago. Remembered, too, being shut into small spaces with the stench of unwashed patients, lamp-oil, dust and crude disinfectant in the hospital back home. He’d put his notebook away quickly then, shutting out the word and the memories.

  And he shut them out now as he made his way to the Tower Block stairs. He knew them well; last term he’d been in Cytology on the fifth floor, and he’d run up the stairs every morning. Just for the exercise, he’d told himself, and anyway, there were always queues for the lifts.

  He ran up the concrete steps now, flight after flight, sweating again and breathless, but somehow healthily, not sickened and dizzy as he had been a few minutes earlier. Maybe Geoff Huckthwaite’s recipe for a healthy mind and body had some truth in it after all, he thought. Maybe he should take up running, or work out in the gym this winter, instead of going for walks with Claire. Jan sighed; it would be-difficult to persuade Claire that he was doing it for his health and not just to avoid her. Not just, he repeated, and his feet drummed out the words as he plodded upwards – not just, not just. . .

  Suddenly, on the landing of the eighth floor, he stopped. He could hear the steady plock, plock of rubber boots on the steps further up and a slight clink of metal, like the sounds of zips and rings on a biker’s boots. Jan slowed down and moved quietly from step to step, trying to breathe steadily without panting. It wouldn’t do for Karen to think she was being followed by a heavy-breather!

  He caught up with her between the ninth and tenth floor, but only because she was sitting on the bottom step of the final flight, leg
s sprawled in front of her, cigarette on, for all the world as if she was relaxing on the sofa at home.

  “Thought it’d be you,” she said, blowing smoke at him. “Took your time.”

  “Karen!” Jan leaned against the balustrade, panting. “Put that cigarette out. You must know there is rule. . .”

  “Oh, there’s always a rule,” said Karen. She took a deep drag on the cigarette. “But we’re not bothering anybody here, are we? Want one?” She offered a crumpled pack to Jan.

  He shook his head. In his country, before their war, most people smoked quite heavily, himself included. Even during the dark, half-starved, wartime days, people somehow managed to smoke something. Cigarettes became currency; you could even buy food with them. So it had been a shock to discover that many places in England did not allow smoking, like St Ag’s. The whole of the hospital and the grounds were non­smoking areas – Kelham House too. And the cost of English cigarettes came as a shock too, so Jan had no alternative but to give up the habit which had sustained him through many appalling battles and raids. Now he barely remembered the taste and found it easy to refuse.

  “Come on,” he said. “Put that out and let’s get up this last flight.”

  To his surprise she crushed out the stub on the floor – amongst several others, he noted with amusement. Even in a non-smoking hospital, the dedicated puffers – many of them medical staff – would find a little haven.

  “Race you!” said Karen, setting off upstairs at a good pace.

  But Jan’s legs were longer, and his determination to keep her in sight was stronger. He leapt upstairs two at a time and almost pushed her through the door into the tenth floor.

  Karen gripped his hand, as if he were the unwilling patient and she was in charge, and led him along a thickly carpeted corridor with doors at either side, like a hotel. Eventually it opened out to a lounge area, with a small desk at which sat an elegant older woman, working on the inevitable computer.

  “Hi, Mrs Bradley!” Karen greeted her. “I’ve brought you a new one. Dr Hammond’ll love him – he’s a nutter!” And she laughed – a little too loudly, a little too much.

  Jan blushed.

  “Oh, don’t mind Karen,” Mrs Bradley reassured him, though she carefully checked his badge as she spoke. “Full of jokes and merry quips, aren’t you, dear?”

  As if she’d cleaned it off with a damp cloth, Karen’s smile disappeared. “Sometimes,” she muttered. Letting go of Jan’s hand, she flopped down in a corner – on the carpet, not a seat – and curled herself up, head down, knees up.

  Ignoring Karen, Mrs Bradley nodded brightly at Jan. “Dr Hammond is running late,” she said. “If you’d like to take a seat. . .” She leaned over the desk. “And keep an eye on her,” she whispered.

  So Jan sat beside the huddled figure of Karen, watching, waiting, thinking. . .

  The last time he’d seen someone curled up like that had been a year ago. They’d been clearing the rubble from the hospital entrance so that ambulances could get through. Not a job for nursing staff, Jan would have been quick to point out at St Ag’s, but back home you took on each and any job as you were needed. And it was almost a pleasant change from working inside the hospital, juggling drips and drugs and dressings and never having enough of any of them. Outdoors, in the crisp, clear air, with the light shimmering off the snowy mountains, Jan had relaxed, heaving great stones to one side, feeling, for once, fit and strong.

  Until he shifted a pile of loose rubble with his shovel and saw the body, curled tightly, quite intact, no apparent injury, no blood, no broken bones – nothing to account for the screams of horror which seemed to come from nowhere, until he realized they came from himself. . .

  Shaking himself free of the memory he saw Karen, sitting upright now, staring at him.

  “You all right?” she asked in her husky voice.

  Jan nodded – it was all he could do; his mouth was dry, his ears filled with pounding, his eyes staring into blackness, his hands shaking so much he couldn’t even get them into his pockets to hide them.

  “You don’t look it,” observed Karen. “Mrs Bradley, this new one’s having an attack. Got any tranks?” Through the pounding and the mists, Jan was aware of her shrill laughter. Aware, too, of Mrs Bradley, bending over him, speaking low.

  “Just sit still, Student Nurse Buczowski. Take a few deep breaths. . .” She moved out of his limited vision then and he felt his hand being gripped.

  “Tell you what,” Karen said, squeezing hard, “you can go in my place to see Dr Hammond. Honest, he’s good.”

  In her place! The shock of it actually seemed to help for a moment. Did she really think he needed to see her psychiatrist – therapist – whatever he was? Jan breathed deeply and shook his head, though he soon gave that up when the world whirled round him.

  “Karen?” A gentle voice called from the door. “Are you ready? Lovely to see you looking so smart. . .”

  Jan saw a short man emerge from one of the rooms off the lounge. He felt Karen stiffen and now she was gripping his hands for her own comfort, not his.

  “Right,” she said flatly. “Just doing a bit of therapizing on my nurse.” She turned to Jan. “Be all right, will you?” And, as he nodded, she stuck her head in the air and tramped over to the open door.

  Mrs Bradley appeared, carrying a mug of coffee.

  “Here you are, Student Nurse Buczowski. Sit back and sip this – it’s very sweet.”

  It was! Jan took a wobbly, tentative sip and winced. He was often disparaging of the sweet, milky concoction which passed for coffee in England, but he found himself reluctantly relishing this stuff.

  “There! You’re looking better already,” said the observant Mrs Bradley. “Gave you a shock, did she, our Karen?” She looked at him curiously. “You did well getting her here – I’d given her up. She’s a naughty girl, that one.” But she smiled almost affectionately at the thought. “And I expect you started off this morning without breakfast, late, rushing around?”

  Jan nodded, too exhausted to correct her errors. And anyway, they might not be errors. OK, so he’d had a good breakfast, but maybe that was the trouble – rushing up ten flights of stairs on top of a heavy meal? Yes, that surely was what had knocked him out. He took a gulp of coffee.

  Mrs Bradley nodded. “You youngsters don’t realize what a strain nursing is. You must keep yourself fit if you’re to help other people get better.” She moved back to her desk. “Now, I’ll ring Geoff Huckthwaite and tell him you’re going off. . .”

  “No!” Jan leapt to his feet, recklessly spilling coffee. “No, I shall take Karen back home. . .”

  “Home?” Mrs Bradley looked startled.

  “Back to the home,” he corrected himself. “I’ll talk with Geoff then, please?” He turned his most charming smile on to her, not realizing how dark were his eyes and the patches beneath, how ghastly white his face. “See, I’ll drink up my coffee and feel fine.” He sat down and drained the remainder of the coffee.

  “Well, if you’re sure. . .” Mrs Bradley’s hand hovered over the telephone.

  “I am sure,” said Jan. And, as if to prove it, he picked up a magazine from the table and made a pretence of reading. “I will wait,” he said, frowning at the words which danced up and down on the page in front of his eyes, but seeing only the body huddled under the pile of rubble.

  Chapter 5

  He didn’t talk with Geoff, though – not about feeling ill. On the way back to Mental Health Karen had been very subdued, disappearing to her room as soon as they arrived, without even a wave or a word of thanks. Geoff had been busy in the office so Nurse Hawley had introduced herself and taken Jan off to the pharmacy to show him the drug regimes they used.

  That was more like real nursing! Jan forgot all about his morning’s troubles, impressed Nurse Hawley by producing his ever-ready notebook, and spent the rest of the morning helping her to check the stock in the drug cupboards. It was the kind of meticulous, well-defined task
he found so satisfying. By lunchtime he was quite recovered – there was no need to mention anything to Geoff Huckthwaite.

  “Everything all right with Karen?” he’d asked Jan over lunch in the cafeteria.

  “Gave me the slip in here,” Jan admitted. He decided he’d better be honest about that. “But I caught up with her – smoking on the stairs.” He grinned, as if the nightmare chase had been merely a game. “Mrs Bradley says she’s a naughty girl.”

  Geoff snorted. “Eeh, that Dr Hammond! He thinks they’re all just naughty girls and boys. Give ’em plenty to do and a bit of dope to keep them happy, that’s his remedy.”

  “Does it work?” Jan asked.

  Geoff Huckthwaite shook his head. “Nothing works,” he said. “Not on its own.”

  “But you have all those drugs. . .” Jan had been amazed at the number and variety of pills he’d seen that morning; In Cytology he’d soon become accustomed to learning complex drug regimes but he’d thought Mental Health would be all chat and therapy, not pills.

  “Oh, drugs. . .” Geoff pronged a huge piece of sausage on to his fork and looked at it gloomily. “They have their place, of course, but they’re no substitute for a bit of TLC and discipline.” He chewed thoughtfully. “And even then we’re often too late.”

  “This TLC, it is electric?” Jan asked. He’d heard of such treatments back in his own country before the war. One of his aunts had been ill after her daughter died, and there had been talk of some electrical treatment to make her better again. “But how can a few electrical impulses make up for the loss of a child?” Jan’s mother had asked. And his father had smiled sadly and shaken his head.

  As Geoff Huckthwaite was doing right now. “Tender Loving Care,” he was saying.

  “Pardon?” Jan automatically felt in his pocket for his notebook.

  “Nay, put that away,” said Geoff. “This isn’t a bit of your medical jargon. TLC – tender loving care – the most important method of treating any ailment from eczema to schizophrenia. Pills alone can’t cure and, frankly, neither can hospital. There’s no prescription for peace of mind, tha knows.”