by Jane Yeadon
‘We can’t fail this. I couldn’t stand repeating another month of sitting in a lecture theatre hearing doctors droning on. Speak about being bored to death!’ Maisie slapped down her textbook, her hand searching in the digestive biscuit packet beside her. ‘At least the nursing tutors kept us awake. Who’d have thought there were others as good as Jonesie and Mrs Low and that learning to set a trolley for a lumber puncture would be such an inspiration?’
Flames danced in the fireplace. I was lost in a reverie wondering where the year had gone.
‘You’re thinking about eating that last biscuit.’
‘No, I’m not. I was just thinking how depressingly relevant the lecture on varicose veins was.’
‘Well, I suppose sitting down for a month will have given them a rest.’ Maisie made the ultimate sacrifice. ‘Come on, Jane, take the biscuit and just think of the ignominy of failure and Rosie in a purple belt.’
With incentives like that, we couldn’t, mustn’t, and didn’t, fail.
In triumph I rang home with the good news.
Mum sounded pleased. ‘We’ve been more worried about the typhoid business. The papers made it sound like the plague, but there’s you getting through it as well as passing another milestone. Good girl!’ Then unable to resist it, ‘We never had such good news when you were at school.’
To celebrate I bought an apple-green velvet dress with a price tag so large I could have worn it instead, and some might have preferred it if I had. With the city banning public gatherings and the Palace Ballroom dances cancelled, medical parties were the only social outlets.
Unfortunately, I’d been asked at the clinic to take the occasional walk well away from it. ‘We’re frightened you might recognise the person coming in,’ the technicians had explained. Swapping curiosity about clients for distrust and remembering Matron’s morality lecture, I wasn’t keen on anybody in the medical profession getting close.
In a bid to cover suspicion with sophistication, I practised smoking in front of a long mirror.
‘You just look silly,’ said Maisie. ‘Have you seen yourself?’
Still, I persevered whilst the purple belt comforted. It meant I must know something and surely entitled me to lord it over any grey ones. However, my next move was to Casualty where lack of accommodation in Woolmanhill meant there weren’t any.
I began to worry about running the department. I was, after all, a very new purple belt, but as soon as I passed through that busy main door Mr Morgan, the charge nurse, put me straight.
He was bald with compensatory bushy outcrops covering his ears, a luxuriant moustache and an easy air of command over the exciting world that, in earlier days, I’d believed was everyday hospital life. With a nice line in music, he would sing in a pleasant tenor to divert the afflicted from the copious blood, vomit, broken bones, buckets and basins that were the everyday ingredients of this busy place. Ambulances, their blue lights flashing and horns blaring, were forever screeching to the main entrance, and always there was Mr Morgan or his staff who would restore calm from chaos, and knew when to despatch the most dire emergencies back into the ambulances and onward to Foresterhill.
Sometimes I’d get to be the accompanying nurse and felt guilty that flashing through red traffic lights at break-neck speed made my pulse race with excitement on a par with that of a patient in a serious condition.
Meanwhile, Mr Morgan would be in full voice. ‘A wandering minstrel I,’ he would warble, then, just as his patients were leaving, restored and smart in neat herring boned bandages, he’d despatch them with another refrain, ‘A thing of shreds and patches –’
‘Can I get a shot?’ I asked one day, as he was set to treat a patient’s sprained ankle.
‘I’d rather he did it.’ Uneasy in these surroundings and suspicious of my interest, the old man nodded at Mr Morgan, whilst his hand beat its own trembling rhythm.
‘I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor,’ sang the resident vocalist, ‘the lassie has to learn, otherwise, she’ll never learn.’ He handed over the bandage, still crooning, ‘and I polished up the handle.’
The patient looked doubtful. ‘I think it’s getting better.’ He struggled up, his face bright red with the exertion, then fell back in his chair, the air whistling in his lungs and making him gasp. ‘Well, ok then, but only if you don’t start that confounded racket again.’ Mr Morgan looked hurt and stroked his moustache as if to comfort it.
I advanced, crepe bandage in hand and wound, like carding wool, a yard of it round the purpling foot.
‘You’re trying to mummify me,’ grumbled the patient, ‘and how’m I going to get my sock on?’
‘I’ll flipe it for you. See?’ I turned the rancid article half inside out.
A gold tooth gleamed as the old man relaxed. ‘I hivna heard that word since ah wis a loon.’ He leant forward in a matey way. ‘Ye must be gey auld fashioned.’
‘Jist a country quine,’ I said, feeding the sock over his toes and stretching it so that it covered the bandaging. ‘Look! It’ll act as a compress too.’
‘Take a pair of sparkling eyes,’ burst out Mr Morgan, helping him to his feet and out the door.
I improved so much at bandaging that the arrival of the tubular bandage with its neat, bombproof way of application was a great blow. Maybe I could shine at reception skills.
‘That’s me off for my lunch break,’ Miss Lettuce and Yoghurt announced, coming from behind her glass screen where, in her secretarial capacity, she recorded everybody’s particulars. ‘Somebody will have to take my place.’
‘Let me,’ I said and put my cap aside. I had neither her figure nor face, but once ensconced I found it easy to find out the necessary details.
‘Married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Age and occupation please.’
‘Why do you need to know that?’
‘Just curious.’
A young man, immaculate in a better-living sort of way, approached. Even the hanky wrapped round one hand was spotless. Carefully, he wiped the ledge before laying down his injury.
I took his particulars.
‘I’m a missionary,’ he said by way of occupation. ‘Praise the Lord!’ His look was fanatical as he raised his good hand in jubilation, its descent, however, hampered by the counter. There was a painful sounding crack.
‘And your employer would be,’ I bent over the admission form, ‘God, I suppose – one d or two?’
My customer was shocked. Reviewing his status, he checked the hanky, waving it like a health warning, and seeming surprised his hand was still attached. Then he checked the palm of the other and noticed it now had a red mark. As if in revelation, his brow cleared, his face lit up and he exclaimed, ‘Stigmata! Excuse me, Sister, I’m in the wrong place for I have much work to do. This is a calling and I must share it with true believers.’ He left in such a rapid burst of Hallelujahs even Mr Morgan couldn’t join in.
‘Fancy him thinking I’m a Sister.’ Charmed, and adjusting my friendly mode to efficient mode, I got ready for the next patient.
‘Name please,’ a pen was poised. This beat bandaging, no matter how simple that had become.
A small man, dungareed to the hilt, gave a coy smile, then transferred his gaze to everywhere but my helpful self.
‘Name please.’ I didn’t want to shout but maybe he was deaf. A queue of ailments was beginning to form behind him. Somebody nudged him.
‘Ah’m cried Cherlie,’ at length he conceded.
‘I have to know your full name,’ I pointed out irritably.
‘Ma freens a’ ca’ me Cherlie – an’ if it’s gud eneuch fur them, it’s surely guid eneuch fur you.’ He wasn’t giving an inch.
The receptionist returned and resumed normal service.
‘Name please.’
‘Charlie Broon – spelt wi’ a w,’ the little rat said, then, leaning over, whispered, ‘Yon maidie wis affa personal.’
‘Whit maidie?’ she asked, dropping her p
lums.
‘Yon ane afore ye – it’s surely nane o’ her business asking sic stuff. She’s jist a wee maidie.’
Mr Morgan now extended his repertoire to include ‘Charlie is my darling’ to much accompanying thigh slapping and common hilarity. I hoped, since Matron was famous for everything but humour, that this wasn’t going to be warbled into my ward report. With a bit of luck it’d be forgotten and, tiring of its regular jingle and with some relief, I was eventually able to say, ‘You’ll have to change that tune ‘cause I’ve been put on night duty.’
‘So fare ye well,’ came a staff chorus in dubious harmony.
Night staff cover was a doctor, staff nurse, student nurse and porter. As the door to the main entrance was locked at night, he was armed with a big stick – a useful diagnostic tool if anybody rang the bell.
Although accident pile-ups, mugging victims and the odd little headache made the place hectic at times, there were quiet spells which were supposed to be spent cleaning out sterilisers in the clinics, and tidying up after day staff.
Whilst the doctor grabbed sleep when he could, Staff Nurse did jigsaws kept for the entertainment of children in the warmest waiting room, the porter dozed peacefully at the admission entrance and I loitered through the other rooms carelessly dusting and letting sterilisers overflow.
The old building creaked in a friendly way and must have had some healing ghosts because the long dark corridors felt welcoming and safe. Even if the night sounds of motor and human traffic were muffled through the thick walls here, it felt right at the heart of a happening city.
Policemen, often responding to traffic accidents with casualties, brought an unruffled manner to any crisis, whilst we were handy for making them tea.
‘Does that whistle work?’ I asked a constable who, attacked by a sudden bout of thirst, had dropped by.
‘Certainly.’ He handed it over.
‘Help ma Bob! What did you do that for?’ he wept after I gave it a disbelieving blow.
Several of his colleagues came rushing in, leaving a bewildered porter gazing at the entrance door now hanging on one hinge.
‘Now then, now then, what’s going on here?’ they demanded conventionally, opening their notebooks and searching for their pencils.
My policeman blushed as if caught in a compromising situation whilst Staff Nurse was sufficiently taken up with her puzzle to wonder if anybody had seen any missing pieces – and she didn’t mean the door.
Then one of the hospital residents, celebrating his stag party and spying it was open, decided the casualty department was the hottest spot in town.
‘Come on, chaps! This’ll be fun,’ he encouraged his entourage.
‘I’m off,’ said Staff Nurse, under-whelmed at an invasion of happy revellers and no blood. ‘Just see if you can get rid of them, there’s someone there I can’t stand.’
‘You’ve always been far too aloof,’ shouted Staff Nurse’s least favourite person, and pounced on her as she was trying to fit into the brush cupboard. As it was full of cleaning equipment, I was surprised she even knew it was there.
‘Get lost,’ she said and shoved. Unfortunately, her strength matched her reluctance and he staggered back. His foot landed on a brush, making the handle swing forward to whack him on the back of the head. In a daze, he stumbled forward and hit his forehead on the side of the door. Blood began to flow.
‘Tsk tsk!’ said Staff Nurse. ‘I suppose I’ll have to get Doc up now. Blast!’
‘Amazing how when it’s their own blood it’s a different matter. Still, I think a couple of stitches should fix it,’ she advised him remorsefully, then with a bigger regret, ‘and I can’t find the local anaesthetic, you’ll just have to do it without.’
The doctor, none too pleased at having been roused from his sleep, did just that whilst most of the party, sensing trouble, disappeared.
‘Two stitches? I can only get in one – so, let’s see …’ with care, he snipped.
‘Hey! You just cut me!’ roared the patient, recovering sobriety.
‘Yes, Staff said you’d need at least two.’ The resident was anxious to clear himself.
‘You certainly know how to make chaps welcome,’ said the patient, ‘but maybe I should go before I really get hurt.’ He nodded at the bridegroom, now his only companion, ‘And you can point him in the direction of home when he wakes up. I’m blowed if I’m carrying him. Not with the injury I didn’t have before I came here.’ As he left, the place fell silent with our remaining guest dozing in the waiting area and clutching a fire extinguisher as if it were his bride.
‘I think we should take that off him,’ said the porter. ‘Oh my Lord!’
The bridegroom had slid off his chair – the emergency knob struck the ground – there was foam everywhere and our only patient had just disappeared.
‘There’s nothing like a white wedding,’ said that unflappable Staff Nurse, ‘but I suppose we’ll have to get him out of there, then we’ll have to hose him down.’ The idea seemed to please her. ‘That should wake him up – better than a gastric lavage anyway.’
‘Yeah, that should work. I don’t particularly want to see the contents of a washed out stomach and see, after he’s gone, let’s barricade the door and put off the outside light, it seems to be attracting trouble,’ said that caring doctor.
31
A GRIM NIGHT
‘Did you know our names are up on the notice boards again?’ Maisie was persevering with her new contact lenses, so maybe the red eyes didn’t mean bad news. ‘You’re an extra and I’m off to the Eye Ward – suitable, eh?’ She blinked hard.
Recently Mrs Ronce had been praising the past glories of Beth and Sally’s cleaning skills and now it was getting harder to ignore the scrubbing noises coming from the bathroom and coinciding with our homecoming.
‘Maybe she’s ill.’ Maisie’s hearing was obviously affected by her sight.
I sighed. Being an extra didn’t mean sitting in a tidy corner knitting. Instead, it was the huge anxiety of being sent anywhere an extra hand was needed to deal with big trouble in an unknown ward, with strange patients in uncertain circumstances.
Suddenly, cleaning seemed a simple and rewarding task.
‘I think I’ll do a wee hygiene turn.’
‘That’ll be a relief,’ Maisie laughed coarsely as she dabbed her eyes and I went to help Mrs Ronce before going on duty.
Those halcyon and exciting days in Casualty were lost and I was now back in Foresterhill. The uncertainty of where I was to be working made me anxious and irritable. Sitting waiting in the dining room for roll call, I fretted, envying Jo’s serenity as she glided off to the Intensive Care Unit.
‘Have you noticed that even the back of Jo’s shoes sparkle?’ Maisie was full of admiration.
‘Not as shiny as our bath now is and I think your contact lenses must be rose tinted.’ I was sour.
Maisie snapped, ‘What’s wrong with you, Jane? You’re like a bear with a sore head; you’d think you’d to carry all the cares of the universe.’
‘I hate being on extra – you haven’t a clue where you’re going to be sent and if it’s a strange ward, you never know where anything’s kept either.’
‘Bet you’ll have to “special” Mrs Joy tonight.’
‘My oh my, Maisie! You really do cheer a girl.’
‘Nurse Macpherson, to special Mrs Joy in the kidney unit.’ The charge nurse sang out as if it was a conspiracy.
To ‘special’ was to care for a seriously ill patient all the time. For some, this was the most rewarding aspect of nursing, but I didn’t relish the prospect of having to be fully functioning with a brain at low ebb and little likelihood of back-up support for any emergency.
‘Good luck.’ Maisie was so cheerfully set for a night of knitting in a ward noted for the encouragement of lying very still and eye rest, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d time for putting back in her rollers.
In no hurry, I made my way to the kidn
ey unit. I could see that an emergency was in full swing with sisters dashing about after doctors pushing impressively complicated-looking machines. Staff nurses flashed past with handfuls of syringes. I was beginning to think my humble presence was a pleasant mistake when a doctor yelled at me, ‘Get Tacky!’
‘Who’s Tacky?’ I asked a nurse.
‘One of the doctors,’ she rushed past.
‘Dr Tacky,’ I called and yet another white coat appeared.
He gave a funny look whilst I pointed to the room where there was so much activity. I presumed this was Tacky for he disappeared into the chaos within.
‘That’s an odd name for a doctor,’ I said to a ward maid, who was leaning on a brush watching the action with leisurely interest.
‘Hey! That’s not his name,’ she laughed, ‘that’s only what his nearest and dearest call him.’
Great way to start, I thought, making a timid appearance in the unit.
There was just enough time to register the minuteness of the room and the patient when a sister grabbed me in a thankful way.
‘Ah! Night staff!’
You might have thought I was manna from heaven.
She reeled off a list so full of technicality it was like a foreign language. I just concentrated on looking intelligent.
‘Yes. I think I’ve got that,’ I lied in plain English.
Thanks to hospital talk about Mrs Joy, I already knew she was a new, very ill mother, whose kidneys weren’t functioning, making her blood toxic. Student nurses all had an especial concern for young patients, probably because we could relate to them. Tonight, it felt as if the onus for Mrs Joy’s care rested on my shoulders.
‘Her heart is considerably weakened,’ Sister added as an afterthought.
Oh God! More bad news for Mrs Joy.
Cardiac massage was in progress, bringing with it a tension-packed concentration directed on a pitiful thread of life. Surgeons tersely spat orders to subordinates who obeyed with the manufactured efficiency of the desperate calm. As the only available nurse, I was shoved into the middle of the team, whilst Sister, worn and worried, collected her day staff.