The Healing Time

by Lucilla Andrews

  I had tried to shout him down. We had both been too angry to care when the fish-and-chip man left his frying to cheer us both on.

  ‘So you love him and Love Conquers All? Very touching, Cinderella. But let us call a bloody spade a bloody spade. When Cinderella collected her prince it must’ve crossed even her teensy-weensy mind that the odd golden coach and a future crown went with the deal.’

  Spluttering with rage I’d insisted I’d marry Marcus were he dead broke.

  ‘If you’re daft enough to think he’d marry you or any other girl without all that lovely lolly to cushion him from life’s cruel blows, then you rate all that’s coming to you! You may blether on about money not mattering ‒ he won’t. None know the value of money better than the born rich. Haven’t you caught on to that yet? God Almighty! Which world do you live in, Pip? So he wants you? So what’s so special about that? I want you but even if I’d his lolly, I wouldn’t want to bloody buy you!’

  A small fascinated crowd had by then gathered round us. We didn’t care about them either. Being both rip-roaring extroverts equally out of control it would not have withered us overmuch had we conducted that row on the platform of a packed Albert Hall. I advised him to grow up and learn the difference between love and lust.

  ‘Stuff that, Pip! You don’t know the meaning of the word love. Don’t let it throw you. It doesn’t have to figure in the vocabulary of a scheming little gold-digging bitch and you can take that from me!’

  ‘Joel Kirby, you are a maligning sod and I’ve taken all I ever intend to take from you!’ As I had spoken, I had chucked my untouched packet of fish and chips at him. It hit him in the face, the paper split and the contents cascaded over his head and shoulders. I was dimly aware of a man saying, ‘You can’t say as you didn’t ask your bird for that, boy!’

  I had rushed alone back to Martha’s shaking with fury and self-disgust at losing control. I had never mentioned that row to anyone. Later during my short remaining time in Martha’s, when Joel and I had had to pass each other in the hospital we had looked the other way. As he had then been a paediatric houseman and I was in Albert, we had not had to meet on-duty. We hadn’t exchanged another word since I left him on the Embankment and it was years since I had given him, or the occasion, one thought. I had had other things on my mind, and as can happen with people and events one prefers not to remember and can afford to forget, my subconscious had provided me with a handy amnesial blank.

  Long ago, our psychiatric lecturer said, ‘Any unexpected traumatic experience and total recall can occur’ ‒ he snapped his fingers ‒ ‘like that.’

  Just like that. Recalling, I gaped like a zombie.

  ‘No, Mrs Holtsmoor, your eyes don’t need testing. Hallo to you. And like they say ‒ small world.’

  ‘Yes.’ I swallowed again. ‘Hallo, Joel. I didn’t know you were still here.’

  ‘No reason why you should. You’ve been gone a long time.’ His voice was as deep as I remembered but his affected drawl was new. ‘Matron tells me you’ve a charming little daughter. She well?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ If he could be civilised, so could I. ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘No complaints, thanks.’ He studied me, his hands in his white coat pockets. ‘I was sorry about your husband. I didn’t write as I felt that specific letter was best left unwritten.’

  ‘I guessed that,’ I lied for civility’s sake. I hadn’t even noticed he hadn’t written at the time. ‘Thanks for explaining.’

  ‘Not at all. As you may or may not recall, I’ve always had a weakness for clarifying situations.’ He reached for the report book. ‘How are all my medical patients?’

  I had been too shaken to bother with placing him professionally. ‘You’re S.M.R., W.?’ My voice lifted slightly, not with incredulity, though that was how it sounded, but because I’d instantly realised how this was going to affect my working life.

  He flushed. ‘Life’s as loaded with unpleasant little surprises as I am with clichés. Yes. I’m S.M.R., W.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you. How are they all?’

  As our sixteen medical patients were doing and sleeping so well, my report was brief. ‘Matron said this ward would be quiet,’ I added, ‘but I didn’t expect it this quiet.’

  He closed the report book with a snap. ‘You’ve forgotten a packet about hospital life if you’re ready to pass judgement on a ward after the first half of your first night. Admittedly, six years is no mean break and according to Matron you’ve not nursed since training.’

  ‘No.’ I guessed Matron had discussed me with him before offering me this job. As far as I knew, all nursing appointments still remained her sole prerogative, but in my training it had been common knowledge that Matron never appointed sisters or staff nurses without first sounding the senior residents concerned. That was one reason why the nursing and medical sides had worked in such amiable accord since she took over. It was not her fault that on this occasion I would have preferred her to show less consideration for the medical staff. I wondered how much she’d told him. ‘As I expect you know, Matron thought this specific ward would ‒ well ‒ suit me.’

  ‘You think it will?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Because you want a nice little sinecure with every week-end free? Then what happens if it ceases to be a sinecure? Will it still suit you? And will you suit the ward?’

  ‘Again, I hope so.’

  ‘So does Matron. Let’s hope you’re both right.’ He leant against the edge of the desk and folded his arms. ‘Tonight this ward is as quiet as the morgue. It may be as quiet tomorrow, next week, next month. But as every pundit in the hospital keeps handing us acute patients since we’ve the best equipment for dealing with ’em, no acute bed in this whole bloody Wing is ever empty for more than a few hours. And it’s mid-winter. So all we’ll need is one nastier than usual little ’flu bug, or one extra hard frost to ice up the roads, to have every medical and surgical acute ward using this place as an overspill. It’s improbable that should happen by tomorrow night, but by no means impossible. If it should happen ‒ what’ll you do?’

  I said evenly, ‘I may have had time off, but I did have a full four-year training.’

  ‘Obviously, or you wouldn’t be here now. Yet even with that training,’ he drawled, ‘and without any disrespect to Matron, one can’t help wondering just why you really are here?’

  ‘Matron said she could always use trained night nurses.’

  ‘I believe there’s a constant shortage in the old blocks. But since there’s not a staff nurse in those blocks who hasn’t joined the queue every time there’s been a Wing vacancy, I can’t say we’ve found the shortage of trained nurses a problem here. I hope you’ll forgive me if I do say that even the most junior staff nurse in that queue has, at this moment, far more technical experience than yourself.’

  ‘Inevitably, as I’m six years out of date.’ He was silent. ‘May I ask you something?’

  He met my eyes. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Do the girls share your view that I’ve jumped the queue?’

  ‘Having once been one of the girls, surely you can answer that for yourself, Mrs Holtsmoor?’

  ‘Yes.’ I flushed. ‘I’m sorry about this, though I don’t see what else I can do about it. I took the job when it was offered, since, as I’ve said, it suited me.’

  ‘There again, one can’t help wondering why? One knows the world has its quota of working mothers, but presumably those with very young children have to work, or else they’d stay home looking after the kids.’

  His drawl was irritating me as much as his attitude. Clearly Matron, as I had expected, had maintained her habitual absolute discretion over her nurses’ personal problems. I was very grateful. On present showing Joel had already had an acute attack of the condition my training era diagnosed as the R.L.G.A.s. Right Little God Almighties. I’d be damned before I added to his conceit with any hard-luck story.

  ‘A
re you married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Possibly you’ll be able to solve that particular problem when you are.’

  ‘Possibly, if not probably. Not that that has any bearing on the subject of your suitability for this job. If I seem to be labouring the point, I’m sorry, but it’s a subject on which I happen to have rather strong views. That’s not only because I’ve never cared for nepotism. But the overall responsibility for this Wing goes with my job.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’ Not only an acute attack of R.L.G.A.s, but pompous as hell. I was beginning to feel much better about that packet of fish and chips.

  ‘Then I hope you’ll also appreciate the advice I’m about to give you. It’s this; scrub the sinecure angle, contact the Superintendent of Nursing Studies, get her to give you a booklist and some private classes and do your homework.’

  ‘Contact ‒ whom?’

  ‘Oh, you’d have known her as Senior Sister Tutor. Same classroom. Get on to her, and get on, more than sharpish. It’ll give you something to do on the days when you aren’t working and may even help you hold down this job ‒ though I doubt you’ll want it long.’

  If I said anything, I’d say too much, so I stayed quiet. I just looked at him and thought, you smug ‒ and for all your medical qualifications ‒ you stupid, sheltered man! What do you, in this splendid, medical ivory tower, really know of life as people have to live it outside? What do you know of rents, electricity bills, ruined harvests, and shoes outgrown whilst good as new? What do you know of death, when it’s not draped neatly beneath the official ‘terminal stage’ or the unofficial ‘croaked’? Has it ever occurred to you that death can mean a perpetual empty chair? Or the black agony of turning in the night, half-dreaming and then finding oneself awake and alone? That you know none of this isn’t your fault and is your good luck ‒ and you don’t know that either! You’re so dumb, you seriously think I’m doing this for kicks!

  ‘Well? Going to take my advice?’

  I wanted that job. If necessary, I’d eat out of his hand. ‘Yes. Thanks for giving it.’

  Chapter Three

  A WELCOME FROM THE ESTABLISHMENT

  Marcy’s school was about ten minutes’ walk from No. 111 Anchor Lane. It was a newish building of vast proportions. It needed to be. Every school morning and afternoon the hordes of children swamped the playgrounds, every surrounding pavement, every zebra crossing like some savagely euphoric invading army of midgets.

  At first the numbers had appalled me. How could my precious country-raised one-and-only survive in this urban infant jungle, much less learn anything? I watched covertly and anxiously for signs of strain until Ann said if anyone was going to crack it was going to be her watching me. ‘What can be wrong with a kid who eats well, sleeps well, and is a chubby bundle of cheerful energy? Relax, girl ‒ and if you want to let off maternal steam, slap some more paint on the second-floor landing for me.’

  Sometimes when the midget army was battened down behind the massive plate-glass windows, I exchanged notes with other ferrying mothers. ‘Her first term, dear? Only the one? Reckon she’s more used to it by now than you, eh? Loves it, does she? There! Same as my two! Seems they mostly do these days. Different, that’s what schools are! Not that there’s some as don’t play up, but there’s always the ones as play up.’

  Having the normal small child’s chameleon instincts and quick ear, Marcy had acquired two voices before I started work. Occasionally, she slipped up and used her school voice at home.

  One Friday morning at the end of my first month she was in very good form, having just gained her first merit star for some drawing. ‘Old Ma Shanklin was dead chuffed and she says I can stick it on meself after me name’s been read out in Assembly.’

  ‘My name, darling,’ I corrected now automatically.

  ‘Oh, no, Mummy!’ She switched voices. ‘Not yours, mine! Mrs Shanklin says so! It’ll be Silver as I’m a Mixed Infant, but when I’m a proper Junior it’ll be Gold!’

  Mrs Shanklin was Marcy’s form-mistress, chum, and oracle. She was a plump woman with a pleasant, intelligent face, an inculcatedly authoritative manner, and a passion for dogs. Dusty generally accompanied us on the lead. Thanks to Dusty I learnt a good deal about Marcy’s classroom life.

  That Friday morning after Marcy had vanished, and Mrs Shanklin and Dusty had both finished making like they had just returned from years at opposite ends of South America, Mrs Shanklin mentioned Marcy’s star. ‘I’ll not pretend the child’s a budding artist, but she deserved the award for the real concentration she applied to her picture. Not only her picture. That child can concentrate very well. She’s a sensible little thing. Both feet on the ground. Does she get that from you?’

  I was oozing maternal pride, but honest.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re being too modest,’ she retorted with the calm assurance of a woman accustomed to having her views accepted as fixed laws by small children.

  I watched her solid, tweedy back as she went on into the playground and thought back to my own immaturity up to Marcus’s death. I had drifted through life like a sleepwalker, and if I had stopped believing in fairies, I had been ready to swallow anything else. And that included my own inability to take on and beat the world. I had taken on and enjoyed a Martha’s training. After that, what outside could frighten me? Like Joel now, I had then thought the world began and ended in Martha’s. Hospitals are packed with human problems in which the staff do become involved. One has to get outside a hospital to appreciate that second-hand problems, like second-hand clothes, come off easily.

  Dusty had waited long enough. She twisted free from her lead and streaked across the playground in search of Marcy. The uproar was ear-splitting. ‘There goes Spotty! Does Spotty want to come to Assembly? Oh, Sir’s got Spotty! Please, Sir, does Spotty have to go? Please, Sir ‒ can Spotty ‒ oh ‒ Sir ‒ why not?’

  ‘Sir’ was a tall, thin, fair man in a leather jacket with a pile of exercise books under one arm and Dusty’s lead in hand. Dusty wore her angel-dog expression. ‘Yours?’

  ‘Thank you, yes. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t holding her tightly enough and she charged after my daughter.’

  ‘I’ll see you out.’ He brushed aside children like flies. ‘Which is your daughter? One of mine?’

  ‘Mrs Shanklin’s. Marcy Holtsmoor.’

  ‘One of the very little things.’ He had a shy, rather attractive smile and blue eyes. ‘Mine are the nines to elevens and as they’ll probably start taking each other and my classroom apart if I don’t get in to them ‒ good morning, Mrs Holtsmoor.’

  ‘Good morning and thanks, again, Mr ‒ sorry?’

  ‘Duggan.’ He patted Dusty, said it was always nice to meet one of our parents, and removed himself.

  I walked home with Dusty, thinking what a break it was to meet people who saw me only as a parent.

  Joel’s reaction my first night had proved far more general than I would have expected, but for that first night. I was now accustomed to, ‘Yes, I’d heard you’d got a Wing job. H’mm. Of course, you did marry a Holtsmoor.’ There was a variation; ‘I suppose it’s as good a way of getting another husband as any but isn’t it a bit rugged on us working girls, your nabbing a Wing job?’

  Though loath to admit it to myself ‒ and it was not a subject I had discussed even with my cousins ‒ having been forewarned had at least prevented my being flattened by some unexpected bitchiness. Time would remove the novelty of my reappearance and until enough had gone by to do the job I was spending the minimum length at night meals, avoiding Martha’s by day, and going to and fro at night and in the early morning by the less frequented parts. This was no problem as the Wing stood so far from the old blocks. Once on-duty, Joel remained the one member of my former circle with whom I came into regular contact. Sister William and Mary was only a couple of years my senior, but she had trained at Benedict’s across the river, and only came to Martha’s eighteen months ago as a junio
r sister. She was a quiet and very professional young Scotswoman who never discussed any but ward matters with her nurses. Linda Parsons was too junior and too nice to have any axe to grind. Joel was another matter, but since I had to endure him, on-duty I did everything he said, and off-duty I managed fairly successfully not to think of him. One of the few advantages of having big problems is the fact that they do provide a standard against which the lesser problems show up in their right proportions.

  I had taken his advice. Miss Dawes, the Superintendent of Nursing Studies and one-time Senior Sister Tutor, was keeping me so well supplied with textbooks that I had read more in the last month than in the whole of my last student year before State and Hospital Finals. I now had a standing date with Miss Dawes on Monday evenings before I went on. We met in her classroom. I handed back last week’s books, collected the next’s, and asked her to explain anything I couldn’t work out for myself. I hadn’t much cared for her when I was training, but I was now growing quite attached to the old girl. Being a good teacher she enjoyed teaching. I had been surprised and in an odd way slightly ashamed to discover how much I was enjoying the necessity to use my brain academically again.

  When I got in, Ann said Miss Dawes had rung me just after I left. ‘She’s got a meeting this coming Monday and can’t see you then, but she can make this morning at ten if you can. She said not to bother to ring back as she’s got to be in her classroom. I said I was pretty sure you’d be back this morning as you wouldn’t want to get behind with your homework.’ She noticed my expression. ‘Have I said the wrong thing?’

  ‘No.’

  Ann was a practical, warm-hearted, slightly sensitive woman with a knack of reaching the right conclusion via the wrong premises. ‘Didn’t I say going back would raise too many old ghosts for you?’

  ‘You did.’ I didn’t explain it was the present living and not the dead past I wanted to avoid, as she wouldn’t have understood. Ann saw people and situations as she thought they ought to be, which was seldom what they actually were. Having married at twenty and very happily despite her childless state, her ideas had remained stationary from her wedding day. No mixture of motives or shades of grey figured in those ideas. If I now appeared reluctant to face Martha’s in mid-morning, the cause could only be my grief for Marcus. ‘But nice of the old girl to ring. I’ll go along now.’