Nurses: Claire and Jan

by Bette Paul

  And all through the afternoon, as Jan checked records, typed notices for the board, made tea for everyone, chatted to patients in the lounge, listened to Geoff running through their current work-load and helped Nurse Hawley walk a panic-stricken agoraphobic around the terrace, those words lived on in his mind.

  Peace of mind – peace of anything – was something he’d had very little of in the past two years, he thought. But was he going to find peace amongst the troubled Mental Health patients in St Ag’s?

  At five o’clock he went to the office to check out with Geoff. The door was open and he could see Geoff, sitting pushed back from the desk, looking up at the ceiling, arms loose by his sides, head lolling slightly. Asleep? Jan wondered, somewhat shocked by the idea. What should he do – wake Geoff up or just go quietly off duty without checking? As Jan stood at the door, pondering this dilemma, Geoff suddenly yawned loudly, stretched broadly and shook himself awake. “Knackered,” he said without apology.

  And Jan, remembering Geoff’s return from the early morning run, nodded in agreement.

  “I suppose you’re the same,” Geoff went on. “It’s harder for you.”

  “But I started later,” said Jan.

  “Today you did; tomorrow you can join us on the run. Right?”

  Jan nodded. Well, it would fit in with his resolution to get fit. “You start from here?” he asked.

  “Yes, eight o’clock. Tracksuit and trainers – and something comfortable for the rest of the day; you don’t need that tunic here,” Geoff said.

  Jan thought of the thick, dark blue tracksuit issued by the refugee committee on his arrival in England. No two-tone jacket, no snazzy flashings – just fluffy­lined navy-blue cotton jersey. He’d slept in it on many a bitter cold night in his hut back at the base in Norfolk last winter. But he’d never appeared in public wearing it – yet.

  “Right, I’ll be here at eight,” he told Geoff.

  Geoff stood up. “Off you go, then. Write up your notes – and your new words.” He grinned at Jan. “Knackered’s a useful one.”

  Jan smiled. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I have that already.”

  “Went all right, then, did it?” Nick Bone asked.

  Jan hesitated, then nodded. “All right,” he said doubtfully.

  “But. . .?” Nick urged.

  “But it is not like medical work,” said Jan. “It is like . . . caretaking.”

  “Caretaking?” Nick looked puzzled. “You mean you were emptying the bins, cleaning the building?”

  “No, I mean I was taking care of the patients – just watching them.”

  “Oh!” Nick laughed as he understood him. “Well, I dare say there’s a lot of that to do. I suppose they need company as much as anything.”

  “You mean just sitting with them – that is part of the treatment?”

  “I dunno, but it can’t do much harm, can it?”

  Jan’s face suddenly brightened. “TLC!” he said.

  “What?”

  “It is what Geoff – the Charge Nurse – told me. Tender loving care, he said. . .”

  But Nick wasn’t interested in Geoff’s medical theories.

  “Geoff – is that what you call your Charge Nurse?” he asked.

  “He told me to.”

  Nick frowned. “Never heard of a student on first-name terms with a Charge Nurse; not on the ward, anyway.”

  “But there is no ward – that’s another thing. It is like – well, like living here, I suppose.” Jan gestured round Kelham’s elegant entrance hall. “The patients have their own rooms, a bit like ours, a kitchen, a lounge like our common room; most of them have their own things with them too: radio, small television set, you know. . .”

  “I know,” Nick agreed ironically. “More gear than us nurses.”

  Not more than he had though, reflected Jan. Nick’s room was crammed with all the latest technology – TV, CD, computer, CD-ROM – all bought cheap on trips abroad, he’d told the others.

  “But you see, it’s a ‘home from a home’, Geoff says,” he explained to Nick.

  “Well, I can see why you’re not keen on things there – more like an old folks’ home. Why don’t you take your fiddle and give them a sing-song?”

  “No, tomorrow I must go in my tracksuit and take them for a run.” Jan sighed, thinking once more of that awful garment.

  “Wow! Funny sort of nursing, that is. Can you do it?”

  “Oh, I can do it,” said Jan. “I was thinking of doing some running to get fit this winter, so I don’t mind that.”

  “But. . .?”

  Jan shrugged. “It’s just that I have only a baggy old tracksuit, very heavy and thick. And there is not time to find a new one.” Nor money, he added to himself.

  Nick was looking him up and down thoughtfully.

  “You can take one of mine,” he said.

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that!”

  “Why not? I’m in college all day tomor­row – I shan’t be doing any running. And in any case, the one I’m offering is too long in the legs for me. Come on!”

  They went upstairs to Nick’s room. When he opened the wardrobe, Jan couldn’t stop a sharp gasp.

  “A bit over the top, eh?” said Nick, surveying the dozens of suits, jackets, shirts, sweaters, trousers, ties, the many pairs of shoes. “I’ve let my own place off so I had to clear everything out,” he said apologetically. “Now, where’s that green shell-suit?”

  Blue flashings it had, not white, but it was nevertheless a beautiful suit – and it fitted Jan perfectly.

  “There you are, Student Nurse Buczowski – your new uniform!”

  “Ah, no – I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

  Nick shrugged. “Keep it, old son; I never use it. Too lazy to need a tracksuit – and I’ve got another if ever I should feel the urge to take exercise. Now, what about a drink down in the medics’ bar?”

  Jan looked at the shimmering green nylon slung over his arm. “I’m buying,” he said.

  Luckily, having been in Ireland with Claire’s family for the last few days, Jan had spent very little that week, so he was able to get the first round in. But Nick insisted on buying the next, then a couple of friends of his joined them and someone else bought, and after that, Jan lost count.

  And almost lost his footing as he stumbled up the stairs at Kelham’s. Nick and his friends had gone on to watch a video, but Jan was conscious of having an early start next morning and of being very hungry, so he’d left. There might be the makings of a sandwich in the kitchen, hethought – mayhaps. He giggled at his deliberate mistake, stumbled over the top step and fell in a heap on the landing. He lay for a moment half stunned, then made as if to rise. But he couldn’t; his head was spinning and he was sweating again. And he knew this was not caused by his fall but by the memory of other corridors, other stairs, of pushing crowds, splintering glass, bulging walls. He clung on to the carpet and felt it shift beneath him. Don’t vomit, he told himself as the blackness descended.

  * * *

  “Jan! What are you doing? Are you hurt? Come on, let me help you up. . .” Claire’s soft, sweet voice came from some distance above him. He felt her sit on the step next to him, gather his shoulders, turn him over. “Oh, Jan!” he heard her exclaim. “You’ve been drinking!” And he heard the disappointment in her voice. Quickly sobered, he pushed her away and scrambled to his feet.

  “I’ve been for a drink with Nick,” he mumbled.

  “So I see,” said Claire coldly. “And more than one, I guess.”

  “A few,” Jan admitted. But why should he feel guilty? This was the first night since his student days at home – over a year ago, now – that he’d had more than a couple of lagers, which was probably why they’d affected him so much, he excused himself. Suddenly overcome with weariness, he drooped unsteadily against the wall and yawned widely. “I must sleep,” he announced, making to move past Claire.

  “You must eat,” said Claire firmly. “And I’ll make some coffee. Com
e on.”

  She pushed him towards the kitchen, where he slumped into a chair and propped his heavy head in his hands. Without speaking, Claire made sandwiches and coffee and thrust them across at him.

  “Thank you,” said Jan with as much dignity as he could muster. He chewed at a sandwich hungrily, took a sip of hot coffee and suddenly felt better. “Thanks,” he said again, and he smiled, very slightly, at Claire, who sat opposite, clutching a mug of coffee but not drinking.

  Suddenly aware of her silence, he picked up another sandwich. “This I need,” he said.

  “Need this.” Claire spoke.

  “What?”

  “I need this – or I needed this; that’s the way we say it.”

  “Ah, yes. I need this,” Jan repeated, vaguely feeling for the notebook. Failing to locate it, he gave up and concentrated on eating. When he’d finished the last sandwich, he sat back, mug in hand.

  “You had supper in the cafeteria?” he asked, suddenly conscious that he’d not offered her any of the sandwiches.

  Claire shook her head. “I was waiting,” she said.

  “Waiting?”

  “To have it with you.”

  Jan was horrified. “But we should have shared the sandwiches,” he protested. “I thought you made them for me.”

  “I did,” she said. “I had a snack earlier when I realized you’d gone out.”

  “Oh, good,” he smiled, feeling it wasn’t really good at all, though he couldn’t quite think why.

  “I waited,” Claire said again, very clearly, “because I thought we were going to eat together, either here or over in the cafe – or maybe down at Dukes.”

  Dukes was the local pub, “The Duke of Wellington”, where many of the medics had their suppers whenever funds allowed. Jan’s never did, though he’d often joined the Kelham Six for a drink there.

  “Did we arrange this?” he asked, genuinely puzzled and a little alarmed. Surely his funny turns couldn’t be affecting his memory?

  Claire blushed. “Well, not exactly,” she admitted. “I just assumed. . .”

  Jan stared at her. “Is this what you do in England?” he asked. “Go everywhere together, do everything together, because we are” he gestured vaguely, unable to find a word to describe their relationship – “together?”

  “Of course not!” Claire said fiercely. “It’s just that as we’re not actually together all day, I thought you’d want – I mean – well, for us to meet in the evenings . . . sometimes,” she ended lamely.

  “Sometimes, yes,” Jan agreed. The food was beginning to affect him; all he wanted to do now was to roll into bed and sleep. “But this evening we had no arrangement.”

  “No, we hadn’t,” Claire agreed sadly. “Sorry.”

  Jan tried to work out whether she was sorry they hadn’t arranged to meet or sorry she’d assumed they would eat together. But the effort was too much; he felt utterly exhausted and not a little guilty and he suddenly snapped.

  “So what is this ‘sorry’?” he asked. “It is I who must be sorry. I did not think enough. . .”

  “Enough of me?” she asked, anxiously.

  “No, I mean not enough thinking . . . what is it?” Jan scowled with the effort of fighting off exhaustion and finding the right word. “Thoughtless!” He brought it out triumphantly. “I was thoughtless; I am very sorry.” He gave a great sigh and propped his head up again. “And very tired,” he added. “And tomorrow I must run.”

  “Run?” Claire was startled.

  “We have a morning run. Good therapy, Geoff says. And I must join; it is part of the treatment.”

  “For them or for you?” asked Claire.

  Jan took her amused tone to mean he was forgiven. “For both, I hope,” he said. “I think I need exercise too.”

  “I think you need therapy too,” said Claire, looking straight at him.

  He stood up suddenly, roughly pushing the chair away. “Why do you think this?” he demanded. “You think I am a nutter just because I don’t take you to supper?” He felt himself shaking – with anger, he hoped it was nothing else.

  “No, no,” soothed Claire. “I just mean you are having symptoms of stress; admit it. Good heavens! It would be very strange if you didn’t, after all you’ve been through.”

  “No!” Jan was shouting now, gripping the back of his chair so hard that his knuckles stood out white and bony, and he felt the blood drain from his face. “I have no symptoms, no stress. You think because I have a few drinks I am alco . . . alho . . . alcholic.” The word eluded him.

  “I didn’t say that.” Claire glared at him. “I mean, just look at you – you’re stressed out right now!”

  There was a moment’s pause. They faced each other over the table, dark eyes blazing into grey, both faces white with anger, overlaying other emotions – concern in Claire, fear in Jan.

  Suddenly he spoke. “Stressed? Maybe.” He got the word right for once. “But who is stressing me?” he asked.

  He turned abruptly and left the room.

  Chapter 6

  It was just his luck, it seemed to Jan, that the weather changed overnight. A westerly wind had sprung up, ripping the last of the leaves off the trees and scattering them wildly up into the lowering sky. Rain was already spitting down as he ran across the lawns to the Mental Health building.

  At least he knew the way to get in today. He slid the door open and, closing it, leaned on the glass, breathless already.

  “You’d best dump your bag in the office,” Geoff greeted him. “And lock it after you. Make haste – we’re nearly ready!”

  But when Jan came back he found only four prospective runners.

  “Lazy lot!” said Geoff. He turned to a youngster who was sitting gazing blankly at nothing. “Take a run round, Martin; bash at a few doors.”

  The boy got up, stiff as an old man, and plodded off down the corridor. Jan could hear him knocking and calling. He looked round at the other three members of the party – all men – all ignoring him and each other, standing, leaning, one running gently on the spot, murmuring something to himself. Jan pulled on the zip of Nick’s tracksuit and reflected that he needn’t have bothered to borrow it; no one would have noticed his shabby blue one.

  But suddenly the door burst open and Karen ran in.

  “Good! Just in time,” she said. “Hi, Geoff! Hi, Jan!”

  She jumped up and down, did a few bends and came up looking wonderful, skin glowing, eyes shining, lips smiling.

  “What have you been taking?” Geoff asked suspiciously.

  Karen scowled. “Well, thank you, Nurse Huckthwaite,” she said. “Here I am, full of positive thoughts and natural good humour, all ready to race the lot of you round the track, and all you can do is accuse me of being high!” She put out her tongue at Geoff and blew a very noisy raspberry.

  Jan couldn’t help smiling, though he looked anxiously across at Geoff, who grinned and slapped Karen on the shoulders.

  “OK, I’m sorry. It’s just that we haven’t seen you like this for a week or two.” He glanced at Martin, who had just returned from his recruiting trip and was about to collapse on the sofa again. “No more takers, Martin?” he asked. “Right, let’s be off then!”

  They started slowly, jogging rather than running, in pairs. To his disappointment, Jan found himself bringing up the rear with Martin; Karen had taken the lead with Geoff. Well, at least that saved him having to make conversation, he thought. Martin was obviously on automatic pilot, and running right into the wind was hard going. Jan had assumed he was pretty fit after the hard living of the past year. Certainly he hadn’t an extra ounce of weight, he’d stopped smoking, rarely drank (except for last night, he reminded himself, grimly) and, although he’d done no organized exercise, he was always on the move in and out of the hospital, up and down steps and stairs. . .

  But he’d forgotten how he’d sat over his books and notes and in lectures every day and many nights last half-term. And the Irish hospitality over the ho
liday; he’d been feeling heavier since he got back from Claire’s family. Another pang of guilt hit him when he thought of their kindness and her obvious concern for him.

  No time to brood, however; the track led uphill through the woods and the going was hard. Leaf-mould and mud clung to his trainers and he was tempted to drop out for a moment to clean them off. But Martin pounded on grimly, as if driven by clockwork, and the others were out of sight.

  Geoff had pushed him to the back, with the muttered instruction that Jan should pick up any stragglers. Remembering how easily Karen had escaped him, Jan put on a spurt and pulled alongside Martin. The track had levelled out now, the pace was easy. The rain fell steadily, dripping off the trees into his hair and down his neck. His feet were sodden, the beautiful tracksuit mud-splattered, but Jan felt quite light­hearted. Like Karen had looked before they’d started out, he reflected; a sudden surge of well-being and energy, all stress fallen away. Unconsciously he quickened his pace.

  “Come on, Martin,” he called. “Let’s catch up with the others.”

  He glanced back and saw the boy following, hair plastered flat against his skull, eyes dead, rain streaming down his face. Or was it rain? Something in the boy’s expression made Jan pause. He looked like those young soldiers, down from the mountains, snow-soaked and dazed. . .

  “You all right?” he asked as Martin came up.

  The boy merely gasped for breath – or was he sobbing? Jan didn’t wait to check. After all, what could he do if Martin was weeping? He edged away from the answer to that.

  “How much further?” he asked.

  Martin shook his head hopelessly. He didn’t care, Jan realized. So shut up in his own despair, it didn’t matter to him whether he was out there getting soaking wet or in his room warm and dry – and still depressed.

  I know the feeling, Jan thought. And, shocked by his admission, he stumbled over a tree root and fell. Retreating to his own language, he cursed loudly and scrambled up. Martin never even turned to see what he’d done.