Nurses: Claire and Jan

by Bette Paul

  We are short of everything – bandages, bedding, drugs, electricity, heating, food, clothing. . . Fortunately there is plenty of clean, fresh water, though it has to be brought up to the hospital in casks. I never thought to see your father driving a donkey up a mountainside!

  I leave him to continue our story and send you my love, as always, dear, dear Jan. I am so proud and pleased that you have at last turned to medicine for your career. Perhaps this wretched war will have ended by the time you qualify as a doctor.

  Mama

  Jan sat at his desk, his mother’s letter in his hand, though he stared blindly at the wall in front of him. He could see her now, tugging that stray strand of hair that always escaped from behind her ear, frowning slightly as she concentrated on a sick child or her notes. Funny – he couldn’t imagine her without her white coat. Even through his tears, Jan smiled as he glanced once more at her letter; how typical that her first message for over a year should be concerned with medical details! Dear Mama, he thought, I wonder whether you’ve taken your white coat up to Vlada with you?

  Sighing deeply, he turned to the next letter.

  My dear son,

  So – you have taken that longed-for trip to England without me after all! You remember how we dreamed of it one day, when the barriers were down? Well, they’re down now and all the violent feelings, so long suppressed, are let loose. I can see no end to this war; there are too many private battles, too many personal revenges. Would you believe that they have taken all our papers, our passports, everything? So now we belong nowhere.

  But perhaps it is good that we can start all over again from nothing. After all, that is what you are doing in England. I can only suppose you found the vocation for nursing while you were working in the hospital at Czerny. Well, you must do as you think fit, my boy. But if you wish to continue with your scientific studies, the University of Brassington has a fine reputation. Unfortunately we cannot offer you any financial help – we have not drawn a salary for over a year now and our little savings are dwindling daily.

  Meanwhile the worst of the fighting is moving southwards and we are settling into the life of peasants. Luckily Granya still has her horticultural gift – we are rich in vegetables at least. I have two new careers now – both, of course, unpaid: headmaster of the local school and mayor of the district. And, you know, I am enjoying them both. I feel quite guilty when I thank the war for releasing me from the tedium of government committees.

  And so the tides of war wash us clean of ambition; to survive is enough just now. When we meet again – as I trust we shall – we will see great changes in each other, my son, but my love for you remains as deep and constant as ever.

  Your

  Pappy

  Now Jan gave up any pretence of holding back the tears. He admired and respected his mother, was even a little afraid of her, but he’d always loved his father deeply and his letter moved him in a way his mother’s never could.

  Oh, Pappy! Jan thought, between sniffs and sobs. If you could see me now – a cracked-up student nurse, too miserable to think about a new career, too much of a coward, to return home to you. . .

  He went over to the washbasin and sluiced away the tears. Granya’s letter was brief, he noted with relief.

  My dear Janni,

  Serena Robinson brought us the best news ever. I knew in my heart that you were safe, but to know where you live and what you are doing, that is so much better. Now we can all talk of you and be happy with you.

  But this war might go on for many years and I shall not. We must meet again very soon. I hear the coastal resorts are opening up again now and the tourists are being allowed in. You must come to one of the holiday resorts and then we can all meet again. I need a change of scene!

  However you fix it, please come once more to your dear, dear,

  Granya

  Jan shook his head and smiled at this letter. His parents sent their love and advice, but Granya asked him to come back. Well, she had brought him up while his parents got on with their careers and she still thought of him as “Little Janni”, bless her! He sat for a moment, feeling a great surge of love and warmth spread through him; now he knew they were safe he could get on with his life. And perhaps next year he might do as Granya asked, who knows?

  But first he had to go and thank Barbara – and her mother; they had been so kind to arrange all this. He picked up the letters and found himself humming happily as he went down the corridor to the kitchen.

  A figure was bent over the sink, silhouetted in the orange light from the car park below. Overtaken by a sudden joyful, grateful urge, he pulled her arm and began to dance round the table with her.

  “Oh, thanks to you, Mrs Robinson. . .” he sang, misquoting the song he’d heard Barbara sing so often. “Janni loves you more than he can say. Yeah, yeah, yeah. . .”

  He stopped suddenly as he realized his dancing partner was not Barbara Robinson.

  It was Claire Donovan.

  And she was a marvel. She sat Jan down at the kitchen table, filled up the big red pot with strong tea, fetched his pills, and sat in silence whilst he sipped tea and gazed at the letters spread before him as if drinking them too.

  Claire tipped out two pills from the bottle and handed them to him.

  “Oh, yes, thanks.” Without looking at her he swallowed the pills, took another drink, and sighed deeply.

  “I am so sorry,” he said. “I have not always been right to you.”

  “I’m thinking perhaps we haven’t been right for each other just lately,” Claire said softly. “But I hope we are still friends?”

  Jan took her hand, almost formally. “Very best friends,” he said solemnly.

  “Friends enough to share your news?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said, handing the letters to her.

  She shook her head. “I can’t read your language,” she protested.

  “Oh, I am so stupid!” Jan struck his forehead. “I will translate.”

  “Wait!” Claire held up a hand. “I think the others are coming up now.” She smiled and looked steadily at Jan as the sound of footsteps and excited chatter drew closer. “Could you bear to share them with us all?”

  “You have all shared so much with me – food, money, clothes – you even shared your family, Claire. Now, everyone can share my joy.” He looked up at her and smiled. “Call them in!”

  It wasn’t a glamorous celebration. In deference to Jan’s drug regime and his reluctance to go out for a drink, Claire made fresh tea, Katie cut the last of the parkin, Nick made “odds-and-sods” sandwiches and Barbara emptied out the contents of the cookie tin.

  Jan sat at the head of the kitchen table basking in the warmth of their friendship and feeling, for the first time, that he belonged here with them. The thought gave him courage.

  “Now I will translate my letters,” he announced.

  They all sat very quiet while he read to them in a low, husky voice that just about managed not to crack. When he finished there was a pause whilst noses were blown and eyes wiped.

  “Oh, Jan – I’m so glad my ma brought those letters back with her,” said Barbara.

  “I must write and thank her,” Jan said. “She is a brave and wonderful lady.”

  “Brave and wonderful, yes,” Barbara laughed. “But she’s no lady – just an ordinary working nurse.”

  “A saint!” Jan exclaimed. “I saw the work the Adventists did in Czerny.”

  “Yeah, well, according to Ma, there’s plenty left to do.” Barbara turned to the others. “They’re hoping to do another run before Christmas if they can get enough money together.”

  “Hey! We could help with that,” Katie said eagerly. “We’re good fundraisers.” That was true: the Kelhamites had already had great success in fundraising both for St Ag’s and for local charities.

  “Do you not think people are a bit sick of giving us money?” Claire asked.

  “And they’re never very keen when there’s no local an
gle,” Nikki pointed out.

  Barbara shrugged. “Don’t you worry,” she said. “They’ll manage something. The Adventists’ motto is ‘The Lord will provide’.”

  “Well, I wish He would provide me with a ticket home,” murmured Jan. “Just to see Granya once more. . .”

  There was a pause. Five pairs of eyes turned to the head of the table; thoughtful, pensive, calculating eyes.

  “That’s it!” cried Katie. “You are the local angle!”

  “What?” Jan was startled.

  “We raise funds for the Christmas convoy – and send you along with them!”

  Jan stared at her, aghast. “I can’t go back to Czerny,” he said.

  “Neither can they,” Barbara told him. “It’s too dangerous now. Ma says they’re planning to drive up into the mountains where the refugee camps are.”

  “Vlada,” murmured Jan. “Granya’s farm.” And for a moment he smelt the sweet, sickly scent of the cow barns and heard the wind sighing like the sea through the pines.

  He stood up, lifting his mug high. “We will drink to Mrs Robinson’s Christmas Convoy!” he declared. “And to the champion fundraisers – The Six!”

  After the joys of celebrating – even with tea – Jan had the best night’s sleep in months and found himself late for duty the next morning. Well, at least it wasn’t a running morning, he consoled himself as he made his way across the hospital grounds. With any luck he could get himself installed in front of the computer and spend a quiet morning updating Nurse Hawley’s drug lists.

  But he’d reckoned without Karen. She was sitting waiting for him in the foyer, all set up in her wheelchair.

  “You’re late,” she accused. “I’ve been waiting for you to come and push me across to breakfast.”

  “You never eat breakfast,” Jan protested. “I’ll get you coffee and toast from the kitchen here.”

  “Like hell!” Karen glared all round. “I’m pig-sick of being cooped up in here. I need a change of scene.”

  “A change of scene” – the very words Granya had used, the words she always used when she took Jan off to the farm for the summer. “The country food and fresh air will do us both good.” Jan smiled; he could hear Granya’s voice now, as if she was standing right there. . .

  “. . .do you good,” Karen was saying. “Are you listening to me, Jan?”

  “No – sorry – what?” Jan stuttered.

  “I told you that Dr Hammond would do you good, didn’t I?” she repeated. “Still taking the pills, are you?”

  Jan nodded. “I am feeling better,” he admitted. But he knew that wasn’t just the pills. Since yesterday he’d felt more secure, more rooted in the world, even though his family was still far away.

  “Yeah, he’s great, is Dr Hammond.” Karen backed the chair off and looked hard at Jan. “Says I’ll be able to leave before Christmas,” she announced casually.

  “Leave? You mean . . . go home?”

  Karen shrugged. “Half-way,” she said.

  “Half-way home?” Jan was puzzled. “Where is that?”

  She laughed. “Not far away,” she said. “It’s a half-way home, as in half-way to getting better. A room in a house with somebody in charge in case you need help.”

  Jan looked at her thoughtfully. “We shall miss you, Karen,” he said.

  “Oh, no, you won’t. I’ll be back most days – Dr Hammond’s clinic, therapy sessions – then there’s my plaster to come off, followed by loads of physio. I’ll be around a while yet.” She looked at Jan, almost hopefully.

  “I’m glad,” he said.

  “Glad enough to push me over to breakfast?” Karen grinned.

  Jan hesitated, thinking of the queues, the clatter and the chatter in the cafeteria at that hour, and the sheer physical effort of shoving the wheelchair across to the main building.

  “Come on!” Karen commanded, letting off the brake. “I’m ready!”

  And perhaps I ought to be ready, Jan told himself. I’ll have to face the chatter and clatter of crowds when we’re fundraising. And I’ll have to be really fit to travel on the Christmas convoy. He moved behind Karen and grasped the handle of the wheelchair.

  “Right!” he said. “Two all-day breakfasts, here we come!”

  He set off across the foyer, through the glass door, out along the terrace and up the road at such a speed that Karen laughed and squealed and screamed all the way to the main entrance of St Ag’s.

  Epilogue

  “All right at the back there?” the van driver called. “All done.” Jan slammed the double doors, turned the key, and made his way back up to the cab.

  “Ready for the off?” The driver turned on the ignition.

  Jan swung himself into the seat alongside the driver, clipped the belt on and settled back. “I’m ready, Serena,” he said.

  “Well, you can settle in for a long run,” said Serena Robinson – driver just then, not midwife. “Apart from the break on the cross-channel ferry, you’ll be living in that seat for three days.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Jan, grinning happily down at the traffic already jamming the suburbs in the weak dawn light.

  “You can relax until we get over the last border,” Serena promised. “I can manage a bit of French and Italian myself, but I’m certainly glad to let you take over with the Serbo-Croat.”

  Jan smiled. “Oh, it will be easy for me,” he assured her. The easiest part of the whole business, he reflected; there had been so many obstacles to overcome.

  In the first place, he was on placement at the Mental Health Unit until mid-December. Secondly, although his recovery was steady, it was slow; the panic attacks still hit him if he was over-tired and the depression was always there when he first woke. So even if the Kelhamites raised the funds for the Christmas convoy, Jan always had doubts as to whether they’d take a mental wreck along.

  Serena Robinson, apparently, had no such doubts. Indeed, she made it a condition of accepting the funds. And Sister Thomas arranged his sick leave, Geoff Huckthwaite filled in a glowing placement report so that he wouldn’t have to repeat the missing two weeks, and Claire’s father sent a fantastically generous cheque, together with a vanload of canned food, which he claimed was what Jan would have eaten over Christmas in Ireland.

  So many people had given so generously, Jan reflected. It was as if they felt responsible for the mad things that were happening in his country. A year ago, when he’d first arrived in England, he’d felt he belonged nowhere, to no one. Now, it seemed, he belonged all over the place, to everyone.

  And in the frantic weeks of fund-raising he was “all over the place”. The Kelhamites ran folk evenings in the Medics’ Mess, the hospital authorities allowed appeal days around the wards, which Nick publicized on the hospital radio, the children in Paediatrics ransacked toy cupboards and bookshelves, the women in Obstetrics offered excess baby clothes, hundreds of hospital visitors emptied their pockets and purses into Nikki’s big red appeal buckets, and Jan even found enough courage to speak out in public.

  Katie fixed an interview on local radio for Jan, then took him by the hand and made sure he went through with it. Well, it was only five minutes on a Tuesday afternoon and hardly anyone would be listening, he thought. Then he discovered that Karen had taped the programme and was hiring it out at a pound a time! “Every little helps,” she’d said, grinning like a little cat.

  And every little had certainly helped. Here he was, part of a three-vehicle convoy filled with supplies – and Christmas presents – for the refugees back home.

  Jan Buczowski tapped his fingers on the dashboard, rhythmically, 6/8 time, and hummed an old Slavonic tune that Granya used to sing to him.

  “That’s nice,” Serena Robinson nodded her head in time to the music. “What is it?”

  “A song for a special feast day,” Jan explained. “Granya used to sing it at the dark end of winter, just as spring began.”

  Serena Robinson smiled. “Very apt,” she said.


  “Apt? What is that?” Jan reached in his pocket for his notebook.

  “Suitable,” Serena explained. “A suitable song for coming out of the dark days into the light.” She smiled at him briefly, knowingly. “What’s it called?” she asked.

  Jan grinned and answered her in Serbo-Croat.

  “Don’t be daft, Jan,” Serena laughed. “Tell me in English.”

  Jan thought for a moment, searching for the most apt words. Then a wide grin spread across his face. “Saint Agatha’s Blessing,” he said.