One Night in London: a hospital in wartime (The Jason Trilogy Book 1)

by Lucilla Andrews

  Mrs Browne was sitting less than two feet from Nigel Gill’s bed and the screen outlined her bulk. He didn’t notice her. He didn’t notice that last explosion hadn’t scared him. He felt too sick and sore to notice anything but his stomach. He fingered himself gingerly; tight as a drum, but thank God it couldn’t be his appendix as the worst pain was on the wrong side. Must be the beer. He wondered if he should tell the nurses, but the nice little mouse had vanished, the snappy blonde piece was with the poor old chap with all the tubes on his right and anyway she was only a junior and wouldn’t know anything, and the bossy one with the legs was horsing round sounding off like a ward sister. He longed for the mouse to come back. She had been rather sweet when she kept taking his pulse. She had made his pillows feel much more comfortable and told him she had once cracked four ribs falling off a horse and her plaster had itched like mad. She had told him a good way to get to sleep was to start counting backwards from five hundred. Worked for him. He’d been flat out until that damned awful row, but whilst he had been counting he’d heard her talking to the chap in 29. Poor old chap kept mumbling about his old woman and mixing her up with the mouse. ‘You shouldn’t come … I told you to stay down Guildford with the kids and your mum ‒’

  ‘Your wife has stayed in Guildford, Briggs. I’m not your wife. I’m your night nurse.’

  ‘You are? … Do I know you, nurse?’

  ‘No, dear. I’m new to Wally’s tonight. Wally’s is the name of this ward. Do you remember that?’

  ‘Oh yes, nurse … I remember old Wally’s … Many’s the time I’ve been in old Wally’s peacetime with my gastric stomach … What’s your name, nurse?’

  ‘Easy to remember. Nurse Smith.’

  ‘I’ll remember, nurse … Nurse Smith?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘So it is, nurse … thought you was the wife.’

  ‘The injection’s made you a bit muddled.’

  ‘So it has, nurse, but done it good.’

  ‘Quite gone now?’

  ‘Just ‒ just what you might call an echo, nurse … What was the name again, nurse? … Nurse Smith … oh yes … you new here, nurse?’

  George Mercer was annoyed with Jerry. Just having his best bit of kip since Dora. Proper knockouts the tablets once they got stuck in. He hoped they’d get stuck in again. Depended on Jerry, seemly. One thing, something not to have to worry more for Dora. Worried cruel for her he had in the camp what with her being new to the village and having no kids. No use pretending, his mum and Dora never had seen eye to eye. Rum do. There was that poor old bloke next door worrying cruel at his missus not staying evacuated at her mum’s down Guildford. Didn’t like to lean over and tell him as there weren’t no telling. Back in the unit he’d been real made up when Dora’s letter come saying she’d done like he said and gone back to her old aunty in Canterbury. Never reckoned Jerry got his eye on Canterbury. One-third of the old city gone in one night. And Dora and her old aunty. Rum do. He was the one that went for a soldier and he was the one that come back home.

  Bert Harper raised himself higher, took an appraising glance at his near neighbours, a firm hold on his stomach and leaned to the right. Young Joe Panetti’s olive-skinned face was greenish and his halo of black curls damp. ‘Bit too close for me that one, son. Woke me sweating like a pig. I don’t mind telling you straight. I can’t be doing with them doodles. Different mind with the old HEs and the like ‒ well, I mean, knew what was what then, didn’t you? Knew old Jerry was sitting up there bunging ’em down and taking his chances on the ack-ack, not sitting on his backside over along them bleeding Frogs just pressing a button like. Reckon it nearly blew you out of your plasters, eh, son? Bedsocks off again, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He winked. ‘Have to be getting that young Nurse Carter to shove ’em back on, won’t you? But you wait till she’s fetched us our cuppas. Makes a smashing cuppa, she does.’

  Joe Panetti raised his head to wink back. ‘That ain’t all what’s smashing about Nurse Carter, Mister. Cor!’

  Murphy twisted his head over his shoulder to call, ‘Will you be watching your lip, man, when you’re talking of ‒’

  ‘Gentlemen, sorry!’ Nurse Dean swayed swiftly, gracefully, up the ward, a finger to her lips. ‘Please, not across, just quietly to your neighbours, if you don’t mind. The patients behind screens aren’t feeling too well and are trying to sleep.’

  The heads nodded understandingly and turned to watch her sway away. Murphy and Joe Panetti, the two youngest patients, wolf-whistled soundlessly.

  ‘Watch it, lads,’ cautioned Bert Harper in his stage whisper. ‘You want to mind, like we used to say in the Army last do. It’s not the old NCOs you got to watch out for, it’s the young ’uns out for their promotion. A good old ’un may close the other eye, times. A good young ’un won’t never and what’s more got eyes the back of his napper.’

  Jason helped Nurse Smith to her feet and returned her cap. ‘Take it easy. That one sounded to me as if it exploded in the air,’ he lied. ‘Quite a few do now.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She re-pinned her cap with still trembling hands. ‘Straight?’

  ‘Yep. You know,’ he said gently, ‘you should’ve told them. You should go off sick. Nothing to feel guilty about, but you shouldn’t be on.’ He used a foot to heave the armchair out of sight from the ward. ‘Sit on the arm, take a breather, and think. I’ll back you up, for what it’s worth. You shouldn’t be working here.’

  She sat on the arm and gazed at him. ‘I thought I could cope. I must somehow. I ‒ I ‒ can’t go sick. Nothing wrong with me except bloody funk.’ She saw he was about to protest. ‘Please ‒ don’t say anything to anyone ‒ please ‒ I’ll manage somehow.’

  ‘Brandy is no good. Depressant, not a stimulant,’ he reminded her under his breath.

  She had leapt up. ‘Oh my God, you smelt it?’

  He nodded, glanced at the ward and without moving his lips, warned, ‘Hold it, Dean.’

  Nurse Dean swept up. ‘Smith, that penicillin’s due now. You know it doesn’t work properly unless it’s given on time. You can get the injections round much more quickly with the lights on. Take in the hypo tray and start scrubbing. I’ll bring the rest.’ She handed her the hypodermic tray. ‘Smith! Wakey, wakey! Get weaving.’

  Jason glanced from one girl to the other. Nurse Smith hitched up her mask and held his glance in urgent appeal. He hesitated, shrugged and went back to the table and his notes, looking very worried.

  George Mercer watched Nurse Smith deposit the tray on the stock cupboard, turn on the long-handled taps with her elbows, and soap her forearms and hands. She was putting him in mind of Nobby again ‒ and Dora. Couldn’t see Dora sideways neither. One good breath, my girl, he used to say, and you’d be out the window. He watched that pretty little Nurse Carter slip out from the poor old bloke’s screens, stop to have a word with her mate and nip off like the Sister was after her. The other one turned off the taps, dried her hands, smartish, and nipped in next door. He heard her gentle, ‘Coming on again, Briggs? No, dear, don’t try and tell me. I know.’ That’s right, thought George Mercer, she knows. Hear it. Same as with Nobby. Some knows and some don’t. That fat old Eytie MO had been one as did. ‘Your hands and arms, Sergeant, will soon be good. Good hands and arms are very important to a man. Important now you think this. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I think you were not always a soldier, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What was your work before the war?’

  ‘Shepherd, sir. Worked with sheep since I was a lad. I’m glad the arms and hands’ll do. Need ’em with sheep, lambing-time, shearing, dipping ‒ all the time got to use your arms and hands.’

  ‘And where you watch your sheep are many hills?’

  ‘Oh no, sir, not where I come from. Down Romney Marsh, sir ‒ Kent that’ll be ‒ real flat down the Marsh it is. Best sheep in England we grow down the Marsh, real good grazing land, sir, but got to be drained
regular, mind, and parts can get too wet for the sheep in winter. Sheep don’t like their feet wet. Get foot-rot easy. We shifts ours to the low hills back where the old coastline used to be for the winter. Only low hills, sir. More humps than hills you might say.’

  ‘I did not know sheep do not like wet feet. And for moving your sheep ‒ much walking ‒ running?’

  ‘On your feet all the time, sir, but you don’t want to run. Sheep don’t like to see a man running. Frets ’em. Sheep fret real easy. Best let the dogs do the running. A man needs to go slow with sheep. That’s why you need a good dog. Some’ll like the pair. Me, I just like the one good dog. But ‒ er ‒ you’ve not come to talk about sheep, have you sir? You’ve come to tell me about my foot.’

  ‘I regret, yes, Sergeant, but it was important for me and for you, to know if you can work at your work again with another foot. You understand?’

  George Mercer’s mouth had gone as dry as the sand he had almost forgotten. ‘Yessir.’

  ‘That foot is bad. If I do not remove quick, I must remove all your leg. If I remove now, I think I save your leg. But you must understand that I have no anaesthesia to give you. I have none. I can obtain none.’ The fat, untidy shoulders had shrugged tragically. ‘I can use only what I have. You understand?’ George Mercer and all the men in that camp hospital had understood. They had seen it. They knew all that Italian surgeon had for anaesthetics were ice and cotton wool. Ice to freeze the limb, cotton wool to pack the patient’s mouth to stop him biting off his tongue and stifle his screams.

  Didn’t do to brood. George Mercer looked away from his bandaged left arm and hand, mopped his forehead with the right sleeve of his hospital nightgown and turned to Bert Harper. ‘Wouldn’t mind a nice cuppa,’ he said.

  The small sealed bottles of penicillin crystals and the rubber-capped bottles of the dispensary-prepared sterile water in which the crystals had to be dissolved immediately before each intra-muscular injection, were kept in the kitchen fridge. Martha’s had begun using penicillin a few months ago, initially only in crystal form; but shortly after as a bright yellow powder also, that was only applied directly to wounds, and particularly to those that had to be left open to the air, as it had now been discovered that wounds that could be left exposed usually healed more quickly. Penicillin was a bit of a bind, reflected Nurse Dean, as she collected what was necessary from the fridge, since it turned the patients into human pin-cushions and took such ages to make up freshly every four hours, but worth it. She remembered how the old sulphonamides had taken days to bring down a temperature and weeks, if not months, to remove pus from wounds. When penicillin suited a patient ‒ and it seemed to suit nearly all ‒ it did the first in hours and the second in days.

  Nurse Carter rushed in looking worried. ‘Briggs is still awfully upset, nurse. I’ve told Smith.’

  ‘Nurse Smith,’ corrected Nurse Dean mechanically. ‘Thanks. Pity. I do hope it’s only a temporary spasm. It’s much too soon for him to have another shot. Tea all round except for Briggs, Mr Gill and the Major, but give his wife a cup. Big trolley. In and out fast as you can, get the main lights off and collect up the cups on a tray.’

  Seven Wally’s patients were on four-hourly penicillin that night and it was a hospital rule that penicillin be administered as were drugs on the Dangerous Drug List. Every injection required a donor and a witness, and when given by nurses, one had to be a senior. Before any injection was given, both had to check together at the bedside the respective patient’s prescription sheet to ensure the dose had not been altered or written off; the dose had to be made up and given in each other’s presence. It was the witness’s responsibility to write in advance in the Penicillin or Dangerous Drug Book the patient’s name, the dose, the date, and leave blank the space headed ‘Time Given’. Once given, both had to sign this together, and the witness add the exact time. Donor and witness were held equally responsible for any mistakes, as Sister Preliminary Training School repeatedly instilled into each new entry of pupils. ‘You may consider the procedure I have just outlined time-consuming, nurses, but when you are ward seniors you will find this takes up far less time, and far less disturbing, than having to attend an inquest and explain to the coroner your criminal carelessness in making a drug mistake. There is no excuse for a drug mistake. All are caused by carelessness on the part of one or more responsible for administering the dose that killed the patient. Consequently, I must warn you again, if you make one Dangerous Drug mistake, it will be the end of your St Martha’s career. But if you obey your training to the letter, no matter how busy, tired, anxious you may be, you will never make a drug mistake. Any nurse can work well under easy circumstances. A good nurse works well under all circumstances. Good nurses, nurses, never make drug mistakes.’

  ‘Have you got the Penicillin Book under your notes, Mr Jason?’

  Jason paused in drawing pictures of a hip in various stages of disarticulation to raise the Major’s operation notes. ‘No.’

  ‘Where has it got to?’ Nurse Dean grabbed the ringing telephone with one hand and continued her search with the other. ‘Walter Walters Ward, Nurse Dean ‒’ the receiver crackled violently and somewhere a tinny female voice was talking inaudibly. ‘Sorry, caller, I’m afraid I can’t hear you. If you can hear me, you’re through to St Martha’s Hospital, London ‒’

  ‘I just told her, nurse,’ put in the operator’s voice. ‘Outside call for the SSO. He’s just left Rachel, not reached William Harvey. I thought he might’ve come back to Wally’s.’

  ‘No.’ Nurse Dean had stiffened involuntarily. ‘Mrs MacDonald?’

  Jason glanced up.

  ‘Couldn’t say I’m sure, nurse ‒ that’s more like it. Try again, caller,’ he encouraged.

  ‘St Martha’s Hospital?’ The tinny voice was clearer. ‘This is the Night Sister in Hurstden Emergency Services Hospital, Kent, speaking. I wish to speak to your Senior Surgical Officer, Mr MacDonald ‒ I’m afraid I’ve not been given his initials. Is he available?’

  ‘Can you deal with it, Nurse Dean? I’ll try and find him but I got calls coming in all over my board.’

  ‘All right, switchboard.’ Nurse Dean sounded calm, and heard her own pulse. Though not imaginative she had enough experience to know that any call from any hospital in the middle of the night was almost invariably bad news. She explained the situation to the unknown Night Sister. Jason stopped drawing to listen openly.

  ‘You’re the night staff nurse in charge of one of Mr MacDonald’s wards, Staff?’

  Nurse Dean didn’t hesitate. This was no time to mention Jarvis. ‘Yes, Sister.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I’ll have to leave the message with you. I don’t like doing this, but I can’t wait any longer. We’re very short-staffed, we’ve just had twenty-one in from our last incident and I have to go. You’d better write this down. Ready?’

  Nurse Dean reached for the memo pad and the pen Jason was holding out. ‘Yes, Sister?’ Jason watched her face and instinctively rose.

  ‘Oh no ‒’ she breathed, ‘oh, no.’

  Just for a moment Jason thought she was going to burst into tears. Then she had herself in control and wrote quickly in her round, neat, schoolgirl script. He stared in a horror that increased with each added word and through the drumming in his own ears heard her quiet, controlled voice fading, returning, fading, like a voice on a badly tuned wireless ‘… yes, Sister … no, Sister … all four in the Morrison, Sister … children safe with neighbours, Sister … yes, always so helpful, Sister … parents admitted with shock but should be discharged, mané, Sister … under the stairs, Sister … killed outright, Sister … near Tonbridge, Sister … yes, I’ve got that, Sister.’

  At the other end of the line the Night Sister nodded approvingly. Martha’s was a bit lah-de-dah for her taste, but she’d always said Martha’s nurses knew how to work. And how to take disturbing messages without unnecessary dramatics. ‘You’ll ask Mr MacDonald to ring me as soon as convenient and he can get a
line through? I’m afraid he may have some difficulty as so many lines round us have just come down. Offer my condolences, of course. Your name and ward please for my records? Staff Nurse Dean, Walter Walters Ward. Thank you, Staff. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Sister.’ Like an automaton, she put down the receiver, flicked out her watch, noted the time on the memo pad. ‘That penicillin’s five minutes late. Where is that book?’

  Jason stared at her in disbelief. ‘Mack told me she’d gone down to Kent for the night.’ His voice shook. ‘Christ, what luck ‒ what bloody awful luck.’

  Nurse Dean made no comment. Her training and entire upbringing had polarized her mind on the penicillin. ‘Where’s that book? We can’t give the penicillin without it and it’s overdue ‒ ah ‒’ she lunged under his chair for the red-backed exercise book that had slipped unnoticed onto the floor. ‘Good.’

  Jason went on staring at her incredulously. ‘Why wasn’t she in the Morrison? I couldn’t catch that bit.’

  She was listing the seven names. He had to repeat himself. She said, as if repeating a lesson, ‘She didn’t think it hygienic to sleep all squashed together. She insisted on a mattress under the stairs.’

  ‘How did it get the house? Mack said it was some farm way out of a village.’

  ‘One the RAF shot down landed on the house. The Morrison held. Let’s have that blotch.’

  He handed her the blotting paper automatically. ‘Want me to tell him? I ‒ I will.’

  Momentarily she wavered. Then she shook her head. ‘No. I must. I’m in charge here. I took the message. My responsibility.’ She hesitated again. ‘I’ll have to tell Night Sister ‒’

  ‘Not before Mack knows.’ He dropped his hand onto the telephone. ‘I’ll get the switchboard to get him here.’