by Jane Grant
‘And this is Angela Cramphorne.’
We took in Angela. She was young, remarkably young, and strikingly attractive, and she was lounging in her chair with Vogue, smoking a cigarette.
‘Hullo, girls,’ she said easily. ‘Have a cuppa.’ She unwound slowly, showing a slim tall figure, walked over to the trolley parked underneath a large bay window, and handed us tea in pretty painted cups, which made a pleasant contrast to the dreary white we had been used to.
‘Well,’ she said with a significant look, as she gave me my cup. ‘Maitland will be certainly glad to see you. Let’s see when did King make a break for it?’
‘King left on Wednesday,’ said Sister Sadd uncomfortably.
‘And Walters the week before,’ said Angela. She returned to her chair and stared with longing at the photograph of an elegant model posing in sheer-look evening dress.
‘She’s only had a staff nurse there,’ said Sadd. ‘Poor thing, she must be getting desperate.’
‘Do her good,’ said Angela.
We saw Sadd trying to catch her eye, but Angela only smiled and went on; ‘Give her an excuse anyway to run around like a scalded cat. And what do you think, Tyson?’
All this time I had been conscious of Tyson’s eyes, they moved quickly to whoever was talking; though she said nothing she was evidently taking in every word of the conversation. Suddenly I caught her eye, and at once she dropped her eyes to her knitting, clearing her throat nervously. The sudden noise made us all look at her; when she found she was the focus of attention her fingers flew over her needles and her rather nondescript face flushed deeply.
‘I must go.’ Her voice startled me; it was very high-pitched and somehow out of keeping with the rest of her. With quick anxious movements she stuffed her knitting into a bizarre velvet workbag, and avoiding looking at any of us, she fled from the room with her head bowed.
‘Oh dear, we shan’t see her again for a while,’ said Sadd. ‘A pity ‒ she was just getting used to us all. She’s very shy.’ She spoke like an animal trainer who had worked on some wild animal with patience, and who had had all her work undone.
Shortly after this, Sadd and Angela left for their wards, and we were collected by Sister Wood, the ineffectual Assistant Matron. We had heard at St Bernard’s that the office had got so fed up with her incompetence that they had put her out of the way at Fawley Grange. She had a pointed nose and a secretive and shadowy appearance.
‘Well, I expect you would like to look round, Sisters,’ she said, beaming and sidling up to us, while we huddled together protectively. ‘This is the ‒ er sitting-room, oh of course you know that. And you know where your bedrooms are. Well, I’ll show you round the wards.’ She slipped out of the room, and we trailed behind, catching only occasional words of her patter. ‘… must maintain the standard of St Bernard’s ‒ the wards in a straight line ‒ the main glassed-in corridor for easy access ‒ patients sit here or in the Day Rooms ‒ the layout makes it very easy to find your way about.’ At this point she broke off and looked around dismayed. ‘Oh dear, I’ve come the wrong way.’
Retracing our steps, We arrived at last at C2, the Female Medical Ward, where Mary was received cheerfully by Sister Mills.
‘Come on in, me dear. We can use a pair of extra hands. Wednesday, Admission Day, y’know.’
As I followed Wood down the corridor I heard the cheerful voice continuing, ‘That’s right, me dear, hang your cape up there and come into the office.’
For the moment I wished I were Mary. Though I had been hardly aware of it at the time, I had been shaken by the dark hints of Angela, Sister Sadd’s attempts at reassurance, and the frightened scuttling little Sister Tyson. What could be wrong with Maitland? Would it be really impossible for me to get on with her?
We proceeded along the main tiled corridor, glassed-in where it faced the well-kept grounds, and with doors on the left giving on to the wards, many of them left open. At the very end of the building we reached the entrance to Theatre.
The floor of the small entrance hall was covered with chips of plaster; the plaster floor-covering was continued in the room to the right, which was the Surgeon’s sitting-room. To the left was a room with a large autoclave which was buzzing in the sinister way they have; on shelves beside this were rows of shining drums. Ahead was a pair of swing doors with glass portholes; we passed through these into a corridor with the Surgeons’ Changing Room to the right, the Nurses’ Changing Room to the left, and Sister’s Office beyond. At the end of the corridor another set of swing doors led to the Theatres proper.
We entered the sanctum itself. On each side of the corridor were two theatres, divided by a sterilizing room. Each theatre was divided into three; a small Anaesthetic Room, a smaller Scrub-up, and the operating area, the Theatre itself. At the end of the corridor was an enormous sluice, flanked by instrument and linen cupboards. The chips of plaster on the floor of the passage turned into a mass of wet plaster on the floor of the sluice; the harried nurse at work there was literally waist deep in white bespattered macintoshes and whitened green sheets.
Sister Wood’s air was that of a pilgrim to a holy place; her walk was even more self-effacing and her manner even more deprecating than usual; it was as if she feared that if she spoke loudly or trod heavily she would be struck dead for sacrilege. Eventually, however, she plucked up enough courage to accost a passing junior, murmuring the name of Sister Maitland.
The junior stiffened with respect, and the conversation between the two was conducted in awesome whispers.
‘Is Sister about, Nurse?’
‘Yes, Sister. I’ll tell her you’re here.’
‘Oh, don’t bother her if she’s busy.’
‘If you’ll excuse me, Sister, I’ll just tell her.’
‘But she’s not to bother if she’s busy.’
‘Oh yes, Sister, but I’ll tell her.’
The girl hurried off. We stood awkwardly for a moment in this almost cathedral-like atmosphere, until through the doors a face with a mask on suddenly appeared. Short-sighted, wides-paced eyes with a curious artlessness about them, peered at us as if asking, What was the trouble?
A nurse passing with a trolley at that moment, gave a quick glance at the doorway, started, and rattled the trolley.
‘Nurse! Go round the other way with that trolley!’ snapped the face behind the mask, and it was then that I noticed with foreboding the deep incised line between the eyes.
Wood obviously felt out of her depth. She said in a gentle ineffectual voice, ‘Here’s your new Sister, Sister,’ and then at once turned and melted away.
Maitland emerged into the corridor. ‘Oh ‒ you’re Sister Grant. I’m glad. Had a rush today.’
She gave a short, self-conscious laugh that had no amusement in it. ‘Everyone seems to be wanting to do everything at once. I suppose that’s the penalty for having a well-run theatre. They take advantage of you.’
I made sympathetic noises. She continued rather brusquely: ‘Well, Sister, will you start by helping us to clear up? I’ll show you round later.’
‘Where would you like me to start?’
Again Maitland gave her short, hard laugh. ‘Well, the sluice is the usual place, isn’t it, Sister?’
I hesitated. It was not that I minded working in the sluice; actually I was quite glad to have initial duties that I knew I could not mess up. But I knew Maitland’s order had been a deliberate affront.
‘Well, if you wouldn’t mind hurrying up,’ she added, with a look of malicious pleasure. ‘We’re very behind.’
I walked into the sluice without another word, stamping past the surprised Junior. Maitland, I said to myself, had certainly intended me to start at the bottom. She had not asked me for my help which I would have given willingly. She had given me an order to humiliate me and put me in my place from the beginning.
I wrapped a macintosh around my newly acquired blue dress, and vented my spleen on the unlovely job of cleaning macintoshes caked
with white plaster.
With a common bond of adversity uniting us, the Junior and I tackled the Herculean task of keeping pace with two full sessions of plastering. As soon as we diminished one pile of macintoshes, another was flung in by agitated nurses, appearing one after another in the doorway for a brief second, each one seeming to show wilder gestures and increasingly harassed expressions.
I was behind the door hanging up a mound of plastic aprons when yet another pile flew through the open door, landing squelchily on the floor.
‘How’s it going, Lulu?’ called a cheerful and cheeky voice, easily recognizable as that of a hospital porter.
‘Oh, all right,’ replied Lulu guardedly.
‘Doesn’t old Jezebel ever let up then? Oh, blimey, isn’t she in her element today?’
I saw Lulu frown discouragingly, but he went on undeterred. ‘I hear she’s got another mug up here today. Wonder how long she’ll stick it.’
Lulu abandoned any attempt at controlling him. ‘This is Sister Grant, Fred,’ she said feebly, gesturing behind the door.
‘Sorry, love,’ said the porter, vanishing immediately.
Lulu looked at me, perhaps hoping I would elaborate the theme of Jezebel. However, I changed the subject hastily.
‘I wonder how many more cases there are ?’
‘Would you like me to go and find out, Sister?’ asked Lulu eagerly
‘No. Let’s just grin and bear it.’
After another period of intensive scrubbing I asked, ‘Are Wednesdays always like this?’
‘No,’ said Lulu bitterly. ‘They’re worse.’
That seemed the end of that conversation. We continued sloshing and scrubbing in silence. At last I remarked with an attempt at lightening the atmosphere; ‘We could make a mint if we could render this plaster down and use it again.’
The Junior giggled. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if it was icing sugar,’ she suggested.
A slight movement at the door made me look up. Maitland stood there frowning. I was determined not to be intimidated.
‘Yes, wouldn’t it,’ I replied. ‘Don’t you think so, Sister?’
Maitland said abruptly, ‘Weston, go to your tea.’
Lulu jumped. ‘Yes, Sister.’
‘Heavens!’ I said lightly, ‘Have we been here that long?’
‘Go and get your tea, Nurse,’ Maitland said sharply, not looking at me.
The girl made a hurried exit, obviously big with the news of the new Sister’s degradation, which she would spread over the bread and butter and jam.
Maitland turned to me. ‘I don’t usually encourage familiarity with the Juniors,’ she began coldly.
‘In that case,’ I replied, ‘you shouldn’t give me their work to do, should you?’
There was a slight pause. ‘One should always start from the bottom in a new job,’ she said. ‘And if one is too grand to scrub macintoshes one shouldn’t be a nurse.’
Inwardly boiling, I let it go at that.
I couldn’t have felt in a worse mood when I went off duty. My first taste of Maitland had confirmed my worst fears; officious and objectionable without efficiency, I thought. What a prospect!
I got out of my uniform so quickly that I tore the one comfortable collar in a collection of half a dozen, and had to spend half an hour trying to repair the damage. I then tried to repair my self esteem and temper by splashing on my most expensive scent after making up with unusual abandon.
At least, I thought, I can pour out my woes into Don’s sympathetic ear. We were to meet on that, my first evening as a Sister, so that I could tell him all that had occurred and give him my first impressions of my new job.
I hurried out into the courtyard, recklessly having put on my new high-heeled shoes that I knew pinched my left little toe. The colour of them so exactly went with my new bottle green suit that I felt all my efforts at getting myself up would be ruined if I opted for comfort and wore my old down at heel trusties.
I looked anxiously over the collection of cars in the courtyard. I could not see one in the light green colour of Don’s. In my eyes its colour was the only distinguishing feature of it, though I had had the make, the shape of the bonnet, and the number of cylinders (not to mention the number on the number plate) dinned into me often enough.
After ten minutes my irritation that Don wasn’t on time began to give way to slight anxiety, and during the succeeding two hours I went through every stage from indignation to frantic worry. Twice I tried to ring him from the porter’s lodge and could get no reply. I had him killed in a gigantic road crash; coshed by a hold-up bandit; burned alive in a holocaust of the farm buildings after rescuing all the animals; and ‒ illogically ‒ wining and dining with that blonde Ruth somebody who was always at the Young Farmers’ dances and always eyeing him.
After a final trip to the porter’s lodge, I began to doubt that I had got the right day. This was Wednesday ‒ Don always went to some kind of farmers’ meeting on the first Wednesday of the month.
The doubt grew into a certainty. The more I thought of it the more I was sure that his parting words had been ‘See you Thursday.’ I was frozen, starved, haggard with worry, and my left little toe was in agony, and I had no one to blame but myself for my foolishness.
I went into the Sisters’ sitting-room, where I found Mary talking to Angela.
‘Hullo, Jane! What’s happened to Don?’
Angela looked up at me with her large green eyes, a little smile showing at the comers of her mouth. She could not have said more clearly, ‘Oh, so he’s stood you up?’
I said hurriedly; ‘I mixed up the days. It was Thursday.’
‘Well, you told me Wednesday,’ said Mary unhelpfully.
‘It must have been Thursday. He has a meeting on Wednesdays.’ It was most embarrassing to make these excuses in front of Angela, because I was convinced she didn’t believe a word of them.
‘And how did you like dear Sister Maitland?’ she asked. ‘Kind little soul, isn’t she? So helpful.’
‘A Sister in a million,’ I said sardonically. I was not going to discuss Maitland with Angela or anyone else; some inner sense warned me it would be dangerous. I sat down on the sofa, kicked off my shoes and picked up a paper.
‘Mills seems a very nice person,’ said Mary quickly. ‘She’s staying a week to show me round.’
‘Then she’s back to Bernard’s, lucky old toad,’ said Angela. She got up and picked up her bundle of fashion magazines. ‘Well, I’m off to bed. If you’re good girls,’ she added, pausing at the door, ‘you might just see a real man in this place ‒ oh, about once a year. Then it’s a patient. The staff, my dears, are either women haters or they’re soaking wet.’ She waved a hand airily and made her exit.
We looked at each other. ‘Oh!’ Mary exclaimed, ‘if there’s anything I hate, it’s starting somewhere new.’
‘Even a new ward is bad enough,’ I said. ‘New place, new people. And a new sort of job where one is expected to know something.’
‘The trouble is,’ I said, ‘I don’t feel any different from when I was a staff nurse.’
‘Personally,’ said Mary, ‘I don’t feel any different from the day I started nursing.’
‘Isn’t it staggering? I mean I never thought I’d ever finish my training, let alone get to this stage.’
‘The thing that gets me,’ said Mary thoughtfully, ‘is that this is it, kid. This is as high as we go, unless we want to go into administration. That or a Sister Tutor is your lot.’
‘Now I come to think of it,’ I said spitefully, ‘I wouldn’t mind shoving a few kids around. I’m sorry, Nurse, your off duty has been changed. When do you want your leave? Whenever it is you can’t have it.’
We were silent for a while. We both felt in the depths of depression. We had been so elated at being made Sisters, so pleased to be coming to Fawley Grange together. Of course we were both tired after a first harrowing day. But I also felt I had some reason for my depression. I had suffered
Maitland, and hadn’t met Don, but Mary, instead of being the usual pillar of strength and cheer-leader, was evidently thinking the same things that I was thinking. What lay ahead? Was one on the right road at all?
I ducked out of all the disagreeable questions suddenly.
‘I’m going to try and get Don again.’
But there was still no answer from his number. I rang up my home and told them I had arrived, and tried to make up amusing incidents about my first day. I felt I failed lamentably. Then giving up, I returned to Mary, and we went off to bed. As I said good night to her at the door of her room she remarked: ‘Isn’t it rather peculiar that there’s no answer from the farm? Surely one of the McKies would be at home?’ The same thought had already occurred to me, and it kept me awake for some hours.
Chapter Four
I woke next morning feeling unrestored and stale. Determined, however, to put on a brave face, I dressed carefully and was on duty a full ten minutes early. Don was still a worry at the back of my mind, but a worry I could not dwell on in the rush of the morning.
Maitland was already in the office, her rather short-sighted eyes frowning over the operating list.
She looked up at me. ‘They’ve added a pinning,’ she said crossly. ‘As though Thursday isn’t bad enough.’
I thought of saying, ‘It isn’t actually a personal affront to you, you know, that someone has been unlucky enough to fracture their femur.’ However, I remained silent.
‘Two consecutive Orthopaedic days are too much,’ she went on, flinging down the list. ‘I simply haven’t the equipment to deal with them; linen, drums, or anything.’
Yes, this was certainly going to be one of those days, I thought ‒ then amended the thought to ‒ another one of those days. And what, in heaven’s name, could have happened to Don?