A Sister's Life: The ups and downs of life as a 1950s Theatre Sister (Nurse Jane Grant Book 3)

by Jane Grant

  ‘Meaning me?’

  ‘Well, I think she included you, but she didn’t mention your name. She started from the office downwards. I tried to laugh it off, and said if she let the office worry her she might as well chuck it in. After all, I said, look what it did to Tyson. That really did it.’

  ‘She’ll end up like Tyson if she’s not careful.’

  ‘I think she thought that’s what I was implying. Eventually I managed to calm her down with a cup of tea, said I knew what a lot she’d got on her plate at the moment.’

  ‘How is her mother?’

  ‘Mr Wynne-Owen came down to look at her. I don’t think he’ll operate. She is improving.’

  ‘I can see it’s a worry for Maitland. Though I don’t see why I should be lumbered with her mother’s digestion.’

  ‘Wait till you’re lumbered with her mother!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Stiffness, soreness and nausea, and at night frightening dreams. Angus had been challenged by some enormous creature looking like King Kong; she and Rhona were clinging to Angus’s arms, begging him to flee. All around is flat bombed desolation and greyness, and Angus will not flee or give in, because of his pride and his manhood.

  Waking in the ward, bathed in sweat, she saw a solid squat figure, outside the opposite window, with waving hair and moving fingers. This, she thought with a relic of her Highland superstition, must be a Witch’s Familiar. But, her educated mind answered, there are no such things. Then, she logically argued with her educated mind, if it isn’t a Witch’s Familiar, what is it? There seemed no other answer.

  In the morning, the threatening figure had become a chair-back inside the window, combined with a bush outside.

  The Surgeons, Sisters, even the nurses, became enemies. She felt no gratitude for their assistance or their ministration. Everything was sick, sick. With the other patients, she was caught up in a vast machine. The earlier period of painful waiting had been preparatory, but now the conveyor belt had carried her inexorably into the heart of the machine, which batted one into shape, crushed, hammered, put in bits, and turned one out eventually ‘weight-bearing’. Or sometimes not.

  She clung only to Angus, whose daily visit was the one bright spot; to sit holding his hand was enough, and if he was a minute or two late she was nearly frantic.

  The miasma even clung around Don and Rhona. She felt that Don was unhappy, and dared not question him about his love affair. And Rhona seemed to have retreated into a world of her own. Asking Angus about them produced no result; he was obviously concealing any fact that might disquiet her.

  Very slowly she returned to a life that was no longer intolerable but merely unpleasant. Chivvied out of bed by Sister, and wheeled into the Day Room, she sat overcome by heat and weariness, listening to the chatter of an elderly compatriot who had sought her out specially because of her Scottish ancestry. The story of the woman’s daughter-in-law was poured out to her.

  ‘I dinna get on with her, that’s the trouble. Not that I’ve anything against the lassie. She’s a guid cook and a splendid manager. She’s not one to throw away the pennies.’ Mrs McGregor leant nearer, and Mrs McKie got a wafting of her cheap talcum powder. ‘But when I go to see her, there’s one thing she’d never do ‒ she’d never sit down and hae a guid talk.’

  How well, thought Mrs McKie, do I understand the puir lassie!

  The physiotherapist, a pretty dark girl, came on her daily round, and started Mrs McKie on exercises as she lay flat on her back. ‘Tighten up now. Straighten. Lift.’

  But this, she thought, is impossible. She struggled and sweated, trembled with effort till tears came into her eyes, trying to lift the heel off the bed. The physiotherapist moved the patient’s arm from the vicinity of her leg with an admonishing smile. ‘No cheating!’

  ‘Cheating?’ said Mrs McKie in amazement. ‘I want to do it, not to pretend to do it.’

  Again she struggled and sobbed. Would the girl never stop demanding the impossible? All she said was, ‘Come on ‒ again. Tighten up. Straighten. Now lift.’

  Exhausted, she longed for the words of release, ‘Now rest.’ For the mortifying fact was that for all her struggling, tears and exhaustion, she could not lift the heel even a fraction off the sheet.

  In the Day Room old Grannie Weedon had reached her Moment of Truth. She was ready to go home, and no one wanted her. ‘She’s going to St Marks ‒ the old people’s ward,’ whispered one of the Junior Nurses. ‘Just as soon as there’s a bed.’

  Sister came into the room to water her cacti, and Grannie tackled her. ‘I wants to go to my son ‒ my George’s.’

  ‘Well, it’s nothing to do with me,’ said Sister, leaning her long body, beautifully shaped even in its uniform, across one of the Grannies to the pots on the windowsill. ‘You’ll have to see your son about it. What ‒ crying? Well, have a good cry. Got a handkerchief?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a shame,’ they all agreed, patients and nurses. But what could be done about it? Grannie Weedon, after a lifetime of work and independence, would have to end up in a crowded geriatric ward, doped to keep her quiet.

  Very different was the prospect of dear old Grannie Rowbotham. Her children were vying with one another as to who should have her.

  ‘I said I was going to Maureen’s, dear.’

  ‘No, Mum,’ said her stalwart son. ‘You come along to ours. We can give you the room downstairs.’

  ‘But what’ll I tell Maureen, dear?’

  ‘I’ll tell Maureen. You can go along to her later on.’

  Mrs McKie began to see colour again, instead of the grey desolation in the half light. Hospitals now encourage colour; not only the walls and doors are in pastel shades, but plastic washbasins and mouth-wash beakers, in chrome stands, are in red and blue and mauve and yellow. The occupational therapists came round, with their baskets full of bright wools. There was a beautiful indifference in the main ward to physical embarrassment. A screen was placed casually across the entrance as the bedpans entered, and on one occasion it trapped two Vampire Blood Takers. They continued their work undismayed as bedpans were whipped in and out, and one of the young men actually used a toilet roll to support part of his apparatus.

  The larger numbers made the atmosphere of the main ward more rough and ready than it had been in the old days of Sister Sadd and the end ward. Sister Cramphorne would never coax a patient to eat, and the food deteriorated rapidly with no one to nag the kitchens. Mrs McKie suffered first from sickness and then from chronic indigestion, as hunger forced her to eat greasy batter, and stale potatoes, and sloppy greens, and tough stringy meat.

  Neither did Sister Cramphorne, strong, efficient and well organized, believe in mitigating ills by medicine. It was a brave patient who asked for medical attention, or even for treatment for constipation or indigestion. If you wanted sleeping tablets, you had first to be deterred by Sister’s arguments against their habit-forming qualities. Young and healthy herself, she did not approve of anyone being old or feeble as well as broken-boned.

  But Mrs McKie was gradually returning to society. She first noticed the new night nurse, with her fair skin and neat figure, calling out ‘Greetings, ladies,’ as she rushed on to the ward. Her warmth and vitality spread a circle around her, and filled at last the whole ward. She chatted and sang as she made beds and rubbed backs, and retailed the news about her latest GI boyfriend.

  ‘Personally,’ said Mrs Berryman, ‘I’m not all that mad on GIs.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not GI mad! I just happen to like GIs that’s all. Let’s face it.’

  ‘It’s all Al this week,’ said the African junior. ‘First thing she goes into the office and puts up Al on the desk. And there Al sits all night!’

  ‘Oh, she’s just jealous!’ Al’s girlfriend nodded her head like a chestnut mare.

  Mrs McKie’s neighbours began to take on reality. The girl on her back, with three children at home and no prospect of going back to them. The Mum on her other side, so cheerful and
communicative about her life, and Mrs Berryman, who was like a bird, adapting herself to pain and captivity with a kind of happiness. She even attracted Sister, who would stand by her bed to discuss a dress illustration, and the nurses seemed to gravitate there, Staff Nurse Copley comparing furnishing and grocery prices, ‘You ought to try Parkinson’s, you get a halfpenny off there’ ‒ and Nurse Mooney telling her about the social club dance; ‘I have never seen such a lot indeed, without their ties and their shirts all open ‒ some even had a cravat. Would ye credit it now?’

  Listening and watching, Mrs McKie began to feel ashamed of herself. One must learn acceptance, of people, of situations, of oneself. To change anything, one must first accept it.

  Kicking and flailing when held aloft in the pincers of fate will get you nowhere.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Marian Copley had given us her address as 10 Manton Gardens, and Teddy assured me that he knew exactly where it was. ‘Past the Capitol and somewhere behind the Civic Centre.’

  We were rather late in starting and it was pouring with rain. There seemed to be an unusual amount of traffic in the city centre. Teddy wanted to stop at the Candy Stripe to buy Marian some chocolates, and he drew up beside the broad expanse of pavement and rushed across it in the rain. I saw him first try the door of the shop and then bang on it.

  Suddenly a policeman appeared at the window of the car. ‘You can’t park here,’ he said coldly.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. He’s just coming.’ I signalled to Teddy, who was now banging on the door of the sweet-shop, looking as if he was going to kick it in at any moment.

  ‘We’ve often stopped here before,’ I said weakly to the policeman.

  ‘Then you’ve been very lucky, madam.’ The policeman pointed to a large ‘No Parking’ sign.

  Teddy, unconscious of the Law, came running back and said crossly; ‘The lazy blighters don’t bother to open the door. All the lights blazing.’ He then caught sight of the policeman who was walking slowly round the front of the car.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Teddy politely, shaking himself like a dog, preparatory to getting into the car.

  ‘Good evening, sir. I notice that your road fund licence is not on display.’

  We both looked quickly at the licence, which was suspended from the windscreen by one plastic thread.

  ‘Oh, I’m very sorry, officer,’ said Teddy, trying to get the plastic to stick.

  ‘Can I see your driving licence, sir?’

  Teddy, still standing in the pouring rain, searched for and found his licence after removing all the papers in his wallet. The policeman, seeing Teddy’s name and medical status, relented. ‘That’s all right, sir. Just remember this has been a no parking area for fifteen months.’

  We drove off feeling small, but before we could reach the turn beyond the Civic Centre, a procession of cars began to cross in front of us on their way to the side entrance of the Centre.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ I said brightly. ‘Today the Mayor is having that reception for the Minister of Something. We ought to have gone down that turning on the other side.’

  ‘Thanks very much for telling me,’ said Teddy. ‘What do you suggest I do now? Reverse back the last quarter of a mile?’

  I shut up, and sat quietly as he fumed while the never-ending procession of cars went by.

  A quarter of an hour later, we had achieved our object of reaching the back of the Civic Centre, and it was only when Teddy had parked at the kerb with a triumphant ‘There!’ that I had the temerity to point at the sign which said ‘Manton Crescent’ instead of ‘Manton Gardens’.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re wrong.’

  ‘Oh, of course if you want to be obstructive,’ he said grasping the point and re-starting the engine.

  The first two people we asked had never heard of Manton Gardens, offering us Roads, Crescents, Places, Villas, etc. At last a helpful citizen pointed out that owing to the road being up in Manton Place, we should have to go back through the town centre.

  We arrived at last, three-quarters of an hour late, and wet through owing to having to walk from the only available parking spot. We were also conscious that we were minus the flowers and chocolates we had meant to bring.

  The door of the upper maisonette was opened by Ken, who looked as usual ineffectual and amiable.

  ‘Do come in. Marian will be here in a minute.’

  Marian rushed out of the kitchen, wiping her hands.

  ‘Oh, I’m glad you’ve come. Ken, take their coats. Get them a drink.’

  We took off our soaking wet raincoats and hung them in the hall. There was obviously nowhere in the pocket handkerchief space to dry them. We began to apologize for our lateness, but Marian had obviously not even realized that we were late. She looked very flushed and began to apologize herself.

  ‘I’m afraid things aren’t ready yet. The electricity’s awful here, isn’t it, Ken?’

  We received this news with gloom, we were both starving.

  ‘No pressure,’ said Ken.

  ‘If we have the fire on in here the hot plate doesn’t work. Ken, do get them a drink.’

  Ken produced a bottle of sweetish sherry, still wrapped in brown paper and obviously bought on his way home from the station.

  ‘What a lovely night for duck-like characters,’ he said humorously, wrestling with the cork.

  ‘You’ve got a very nice flat,’ I said insincerely.

  ‘It is rather nice, isn’t it?’ said Marian.

  She did not seem aware of our obvious lack of enthusiasm. Actually I thought the flat about as dull, colourless and cramped as it could be, and felt it contained all the things I shouldn’t want myself. There was a heavy, square, veneered modern dining-table, laid with mats with cute kittens on them climbing out of boots. There was a shiny sideboard to match; the walls were beige with a dado of flowers and the curtains shiny chintz with trellises running up them.

  ‘Of course you’re lucky to get a flat at all,’ said Teddy, having probably followed my train of thought.

  Ken handed us our sherry, and we all said hollowly, ‘Cheers!’ I noticed a strong smell of burning.

  ‘Oh, my sauce!’ Marian put down her drink and rushed to the kitchen.

  ‘You see why I eat at the office,’ said Ken with heavy humour.

  We sat down. The cushion I sat on was split and feathers flew out. Ken, noticing this, came up with another joke. ‘Pity Marian’s not in the theatre like you two. She’d learn feather-stitching.’

  We forced a laugh, and pleased with this he continued; ‘How is your stitching, old man? Done any fancy work lately?’

  I saw Teddy did not much care for this allusion, and I said quickly, ‘Marian must find it difficult running a home as well as a ward. Angela Cramphorne depends quite a lot on her.’

  ‘Oh there isn’t much to do here,’ said Ken airily. ‘I always make the tea if she’s not in,’ he added with an air of righteousness.

  There was a horrible pause. Teddy said, ‘I’m amazed at the jobs these girls get through. Marian’s terrific on the ward.’

  ‘To hear her tell it, she runs the hospital,’ said Ken.

  Marian came in at that moment with the main dish. Overhearing Ken’s last remark, she said smiling at him; ‘Oh, of course Ken doesn’t know a thing about hospitals.’

  ‘I’m well briefed on Dr Kildare,’ said Ken. ‘Do all your patients fall in love with you?’ he asked Teddy.

  ‘Not all.’

  Ken laughed loudly, Marian brought in plates and vegetables, and we all sat down.

  The fish, expensive sole, was overdone and dry, and the exotic sauce with mushrooms and wine was slightly burnt. Lulled into a sense of security by the mashed potatoes, which were stone cold, I took a mouthful of peas and found than boiling hot.

  The conversation was manfully pulled along in fits and starts. We exhausted the weather, the hospital, the flat, before the fish was eaten, and then the going got rather
heavy. Both Teddy and I showed signs of strain before the trifle appeared. This had obviously needed more time to prepare than it had had. The custard had gone on before the jelly was set, and the blobs of cream had not been whipped for long enough and had sunk into the custard.

  We were relieved when the meal was over, and began to wonder when we could decently go. I offered to help wash up, and after many protestations from Marian, and in spite of beseeching looks from Teddy, I squeezed into the tiny kitchen with her and dried while she washed. She was full of the troubles and joys of housekeeping, and outlined all the improvements she planned to make to the flat.

  Poor Teddy, in the meantime, was being shown volumes of photographs taken by Ken when he and Marian had cycled round the Lake District with a club, which occasion had set them on the road to romance.

  The telephone rang, and I heard Ken go to answer it. I was electrified to hear him say; ‘Jane? Yes, she’s here. And Teddy. OK.’

  I rushed out of the kitchen, ‘Jane, your better half wants you,’ said Ken.

  Surprised and pleased that Don had found my whereabouts, I said, ‘Hullo, Don,’ coyly into the mouthpiece.

  I was nearly blown off the telephone. ‘Jane! What the hell have you done with Rhona?’

  ‘Rhona?’ I said stupidly.

  ‘She went to see Ma at visiting time and hasn’t come back. What’s happened to her?’

  ‘How on earth do I know?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen her, Jane? She hasn’t rung up or anything. Don’t you honestly know where she is?’

  ‘Of course I don’t, Don,’ I said offended. ‘If I did I’d tell you.’

  ‘Well, she must be somewhere. Does Teddy know?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, why should he?’

  ‘Well, ask him, will you?’

  Furious and humiliated, in front of the avidly interested faces of Marian and Ken, I turned to Teddy.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.