by Jane Grant
‘One of the daily women must have taken it,’ she said.
One night both Brian and Gavin complained bitterly of hunger, as the supper had been uneatable. Betty and I had also begun to get that empty feeling. I had gone through our kitchen and the kitchen next door with a tooth comb, and had found several titbits that would serve as sandwich fillings. There was some chicken that a gastric patient had refused; a couple of eggs presented by another patient; some ham that the ward was having for breakfast, and a bit of the salad left over from supper.
I emerged triumphantly some time afterwards with a great plate of sandwiches, and four mugs of steaming, creamy cocoa. We settled down comfortably at the ward table in front of the fire, screened off to a certain extent from the patients. A third houseman came and joined the party; a heavy, stupid young man called Pat. After his third sandwich he remarked casually: ‘What an old bitch Daisy is!’
‘What’s she done now?’ asked Gavin.
‘She asked me what I was doing coming through to this ward, so of course I told her I had a patient.’
‘Where was she when she asked this?’ I inquired.
‘Oh, next door. She’s on her way here.’
‘She’s what?’ said Brian in a small voice.
‘Oh, she’d nearly reached the end of Jacob when I came in,’ he said.
I picked up the tray and started to run to the kitchen, when I saw Daisy, bearing down on that side. My retreat cut off, I rushed into the urine-testing room, which was at the end of the ward, set down the tray on the table and hastily covered it with a large card spattered with chemicals, which told one how to perform the various tests. I had left the cocoa on the table in my rush, and Gavin and Brian busied themselves in placing the mugs under the table, then lifting the charts so that they could pull the table cover down in front. In the meantime Betty rushed nervously to meet Daisy and if possible to detain her.
Brian swallowed a ham sandwich practically without masticating it at all; Gavin more prudently slipped his egg sandwich into his waistcoat pocket. The greedy Pat had grabbed a handful of sandwiches as I rushed out with the tray, and had just disposed of his last one as Daisy came to the table.
This was now a hive of industry. Gavin was reading notes with a troubled frown; Pat was gazing blankly at a drug sheet and Brian was busily writing up drugs.
Daisy smiled approvingly. Brian, seeing her gaze upon him, jerked his foot out nervously. A mug full of hot syrupy cocoa slowly filled his shoe, but with most noble presence of mind, after an initial jump, he made no attempt to move, and sat smiling fixedly at Daisy.
‘I don’t like the look of that heart case o’ yours in Samuel, Mr. Austin,’ said Daisy.
‘No?’ said Brian with a careless air.
‘Looks to me,’ said Daisy, ‘as though he might be Cheyne-Stokin’.’
‘Really?’ said Brian politely.
Daisy, thinking him obtuse or lazy, spoke more sternly: ‘I was wonderin’ if you were goin’ up there?’ she said.
The only reply to this that Brian could think of was, ‘Were you?’
Daisy frowned. ‘When you’re not busy, of course,’ she said sarcastically.
‘Of course,’ agreed Brian.
Looking darkly at the other two doctors, Daisy departed. We heard her remark to Betty that she didn’t know what young housemen were comin’ to.
She had scarcely passed two beds before Pat said in his deep complaining voice: ‘Where the hell are all the sandwiches?’
We stopped breathing in our anxiety. Could Daisy have heard? Then we heard her ask Betty, as she attended to a rattling window: ‘What did he say, gal?’
Betty replied with great presence of mind: ‘Mr. O’Brien asked where the bandages were kept.’
‘Bandages!’ exclaimed Daisy. ‘Funny thing to ask for.’
Betty guided her farther down the ward, improvising: ‘Oh, I think he hit his knee playing rugger.’
‘He would,’ said Daisy with infinite contempt.
I could now see them reach the bottom of the ward, and to my horror I realized that in my haste I had omitted to close the door of the urine-testing room. It lay wide open in front of Daisy, and she stood and stared at it for what seemed hours.
Suddenly she turned on her heel and said sharply to Betty, ‘Shut that door, gal, can’t you.’
She continued her round. At the end of the ward there was a partitioned corner which was the side ward. Daisy went and looked in at this patient, and while she was in there, hidden from view, a frantic nurse came rushing through the ward white-faced. She was in my set and recognized me.
‘Where’s Daisy? Oh, where’s Daisy?’ she cried, in her anxiety not only using Daisy’s nickname, but speaking in a loud voice instead of the normal night whisper. ‘I must find Daisy,’ she said frantically.
I tried to silence her with a warning glance, but at that moment out sailed Daisy from the side ward, saying calmly: ‘Here I am, gal. What d’you want?’
The girl was too worried to notice her mistake. ‘Amos Ward, Sister. Mr. Hinks has just drunk some Lysol.’
This did not appear to startle Daisy at all. ‘Call yer houseman, gal,’ she said. ‘I’ll be comin’ up.’
The nurse went off immediately, and Daisy walked out of the ward after her, a picture of calm efficiency.
We were at last left in peace. I started to wipe Brian’s shoe, and wrung out his sock and hung it to dry on the wastepaper basket.
Gavin was considering one of his cases. ‘I want to give this liver failure Aureomycin, but Charlie boy won’t agree. I’ll just have to forge his signature, I can see that.’
For the more expensive drugs, the Honorary has to sign the prescription sheet. Gavin, however, determined on treatment that would benefit his patient, began writing experimentally on the blotting-paper, ‘Sir Charles Barton.’
He showed his effort to Brian, who criticized: ‘No, make the ‘C’ small and mean ‒ like he’s going to have to pay for it himself.’
This bit of illicit forgery accomplished, Gavin sank his teeth into one of the rescued sandwiches.
I said, ‘D’you know something? She knows she’s called Daisy.’
Betty said, ‘I swear she knows about the sandwiches, too.’
Gavin exclaimed ‘Oh flipping heck ‒ look what I’ve found?’ And he produced a blackened and squashed egg sandwich from his waistcoat pocket.
Chapter Seventeen
Each year after Christmas the housemen did a play in which, according to custom, they poked fun at the Honoraries. They would make up, cruelly emphasizing any outstanding feature, and build a plot round any peculiarity or strong characteristic of a Consultant.
Mary and I went to the show, which took place in a lecture hall in the medical school. Nurses and students sat in the gallery, while the Honoraries sat with Matron in the stalls.
The hall was packed; a couple of students played a stirring overture on two pianos, and the show began brightly with a sparkling chorus doing the Can-can. The most grotesquely tall and large-footed housemen had been chosen for the chorus; they were dressed in nurses’ uniform with long red pants which showed to great advantage in the high kicks. At least three of these beauties were members of the rugger team, and approached the dance as if it were a scrum.
At the climax of the number, Ginger entered dressed as a fan dancer. He waved two colossal fans in a seductive manner, and wore brief lacy pants and a full brassiere across his broad hairy chest.
The story was of a young wayward houseman, dressed suspiciously like an eminent brain specialist whose name was Cludd. The character was played by Gavin, and in the play he was called Mudd. He falls passionately in love with Ginger, deserting his steady nurse friend who was played by large-footed Brian.
In the first scene Gavin swears he will never look at another medulla oblongata if Ginger will only consent to become his wife. At this point he hurls himself at Ginger and swings on his neck, kicking his heels in the air. An irate Brian c
omes in and finds them; turning to the audience he complains bitterly that ‘he’ll never trust a houseman again.’ This sentiment was greeted with cheers from all the nurses in the gallery.
As the play proceeded there were a number of topical lyrics concerning Honoraries’ latest errors and eccentricities.
In the private block there had lately been a popular film star who had concussion after a car accident. Mr. Cludd had seen him, diagnosed wrongly, and discharged him. After falling about for some weeks, the film star had been seen by another specialist at a rival hospital, who had removed a haemotoma.
The lyric referring to this episode was sung sadly by Gavin, while Charles stood behind him, blowing a balloon harder and harder, till with an enormous pop it exploded, and Gavin reacted with a violent stage start.
‘From making a blomer
About haemotoma
I’ve got in no end of a tease;
The star’s head’s the wrong size
So they’ve sent him to Guy’s,
And I’ll get the heave-ho from St B’s.’
This shrewd hit practically brought the house down.
Charles, now elevated to the position of a houseman, was excellent as his namesake, Sir Charles. He clutched an enormous embroidery frame, and at the crucial points in the play, when Gavin and Brian were quarrelling violently over Ginger, Charles would appear and ask them to look at his nice new design. I saw one or two rather uncomfortable glances from Gavin at a seat in the middle of the front row, where Sir Charles was sitting; but I noticed that the Honorary was not in the least put out, taking the character as a high compliment to his talents, and laughing heartily whenever Charles appeared.
The climax of the play came when Brian, in a frenzy of jealousy, broke Ginger’s fan; and in the final scene the indomitable Ginger appeared, bewitchingly dressed in a plaster cast.
It was over; Mary and I, weak with laughter, looked at each other.
‘Let’s go round and see them,’ said Mary.
We went backstage and found Ginger with his trousers on, but still exposing a hairy chest.
‘Where’s Gavin?’ asked Mary.
‘Oh,’ said Ginger, looking at me and speaking rather off-handedly, ‘he’s gone, I think. Went off with Joyce.’
I made some excuse and stumbled off.
That night in bed I did some hard thinking. I had come off night duty and been sent to another ward, and in the huge world of the hospital, unless Gavin and I sought each other out, it was unlikely that we should meet. I stayed awake most of that night, but by morning I had made up my mind. I could not stop thinking about him. But I could stop seeing him, and I would.
Chapter Eighteen
I had been sent to a gynaecological ward, and next day, tired and depressed, I started work there. Everything seemed unutterably sordid. That morning I was going to do a dressing, and while scrubbing my hands, I hit my finger nail, which was very tender. It had been sore for about a week.
The next day I went home for my day off. My finger was becoming gradually more and more painful. I slept very badly, and in the morning felt very sorry for myself indeed.
That evening my finger had swollen to twice the size of the others, and I still talked weakly about going back that night.
My father took me to the family doctor. He looked at the finger and said, ‘You can’t go back with that.’
I murmured that I must go back on the 9.15 train. He took no notice, but rang up the hospital, and it seemed to me very boldly, asked for Night Sister.
‘I’ve got one of your nurses down here,’ he said in an airy way. ‘She’s got a bad whitlow. I’m keeping her at home tonight, and sending her back in the morning. When she comes back she’ll have to be warded, of course.’
I asked in an awed way what Night Sister had said.
He replied carelessly: ‘Oh, nothing. She thanked me very much.’
The doctor gave me a second tablet. ‘Take this tonight. You look as if you could do with some sleep.’
The effect of this was to make me sleep so soundly I did not wake up till the late morning, and did not arrive back at the hospital till the late afternoon.
I reported to Matron’s Office and was sent to the Nurses’ Sick Bay. The Sick Bay consisted of about ten beds, the Sister in charge sat me down in front of the fire, and I waited for a houseman to come and look at my finger.
A little man came in eventually, and doubtfully regarded the swollen object.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I think I’ll get the Registrar to look at that.’
Seeing my nervous start, he added reassuringly: ‘Oh, it’s all right. He always likes seeing these sort of things, and as he’s in the hospital, I think I may as well call him.’
He disappeared, and I sat down with the other sick nurses to supper. They were mostly minor cases, one with conjunctivitis and another with a carbuncle. My finger was regarded with professional interest; it was very painful, and a red streak was beginning to run up my arm.
After supper, Sister summoned me to the doctors’ room. The houseman had reappeared, bringing with him a most divine apparition. This was Mr. Walter Cheshire; as he looked at my finger, grunting occasionally, I had to admit the fact that really he wasn’t handsome at all. He wore a permanent scowl, his nose was big, and his hair was receding. But he had some noble and indefinable charm that made itself felt. Where it lay was difficult to tell; it was certainly not in his manner or his conversation.
He picked up a pen and prodded my finger in various places. ‘Does this hurt? Or this?’
It all hurt.
‘How long have you had it?’ he asked grumpily.
‘About a week, sir?’ I said meekly.
‘Huh. Why didn’t you come before?’
I kept silent. ‘I suppose you’ve stuffed your guts at supper?’ he inquired.
‘Well, yes, I did actually.’
‘And I suppose you’re under twenty-one?’
‘Well, yes, I am actually.’
Addressing the Sister, Mr. Cheshire said: ‘Ring ’em up and get their consent, will you? We’ll do it tonight.’
I asked meekly what he was going to do. He said, ‘Oh, we’ll cut it open.’
‘But,’ I protested in a small voice, ‘I mean why ‒ have you got to get permission?’
‘To use a general.’
‘A general! Do you have to have a general?’ I asked made bold by alarm. ‘I mean, wouldn’t a local do?’
To this he replied simply, ‘No.’
On reviewing this interview with Mr. Cheshire, I could not understand afterwards just why or how he had made me his slave for life.
I was sent back to the sick bay, where I hung around waiting for my supper to go down. Sister telephoned my parents, not stating the facts quite as baldly as they had been put to her and obtained the required permission for the general anaesthetic.
At about nine o’clock I helped to make my bed up and was given operation socks and gown. With the brusque heartiness I had so often used to others, a junior nurse told me to ‘Put those on and get into bed as quickly as possible.’ I obeyed with a horrible sinking feeling, regretting that I had not shown more sympathy to my patients in the past.
I lay in bed wondering if I should have a reaction to the anaesthetic and die, and what my parents would do in such a case, and whether Gavin would feel a pang of regret, and how Mr. Cheshire’s indefinable charm would go down with the jury. My sombre meditation was interrupted by Sister arriving with the pre-medication. I bared my arm meekly and was given the injection.
Soon my mouth began to feel dry and uncomfortable; my eyes would not focus properly, and I felt vague and drowsy.
An Assistant Matron arrived and inspected my finger.
‘How are you feeling now, dear?’ she asked with an indulgent smile.
‘Very well, Sister,’ I croaked.
She laughed gaily. ‘A-ha! Mouth feeling a bit dry, I expect.’
The sick-bay Sister smiled sycop
hantically. ‘I expect it is,’ she said.
I pretended I felt drowsy, half-closed my eyes and squinted at them.
‘We must leave you to get your rest,’ said the Assistant Matron.
They left me, and I immediately opened my eyes and carried on an animated conversation with the girl in the next bed about what it was like to have a general anaesthetic, and how Mr. Cheshire was such bliss.
Two porters arrived with a stretcher trolley. I was helped on to it, and they wheeled me out of the ward. With Assistant Matron on one side, and the little Sister twittering behind, we sailed down the corridor in a magnificent procession.
‘Oh, I do hope I can stay and see this,’ said Sister. ‘I haven’t seen one of these for ages!’
In the theatre were Mr. Cheshire, an anaesthetist, an assistant surgeon, and two nurses. It seemed a lot of people to deal with one finger, but one was deducted from the total when poor sick-bay Sister, who had longed to see the show, was sent packing. The rest of them lifted me on to the table.
My attention was caught by the row of instruments on the trolley, and I examined them with interest. The Anaesthetist approached and looked at my arm in consternation.
‘Haven’t you got a vein?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I stammered, feeling as if I had laid the trolley wrong. ‘I’ve never had one of these before.’
‘M’m.’ He continued to look for the vein, putting a rubber cuff above my elbow, while my eyes were riveted on the instrument by Mr. Cheshire’s side.
The only comment the gallant Mr. Cheshire made was, ‘Let’s have your hand.’ He began to clean the finger with ether soap.
‘There’s a prick coming,’ warned the Anaesthetist.
Assistant Matron turned my head so that I should not see the instruments, and I was just in the process of telling her I wasn’t frightened, I was just interested, when the next thing I knew I was sitting in my bed in sick bay crying bitterly, and Assistant Matron was saying soothingly, ‘That’s right, get it off your chest.’
She then disappeared. I sat forward to examine my surroundings more closely, because I could not for the moment quite remember where I was.