It Won't Hurt a Bit

by Jane Yeadon

  ‘I think it means she’ll steal the show.’ Isobel was cynical.

  ‘You alright these days, Iso?’ I asked.

  ‘Apart from getting involved with you lot, yeah – why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Just wondered, that’s all. I haven’t seen you for ages. What about coming down to visit us. Tell us about any new romances.’

  Isobel sounded bored. ‘I’ve had enough of blokes. They get all serious about themselves. They don’t seem to think a nursing career’s worth considering. Why can’t they just be friends?’ Sighing, she wandered off as if the world had become very complicated.

  The following day, patients intrigued by pantomime news asked about Kitty’s part in it. I wasn’t able to help and when they asked her, she just looked inscrutable and swung her stethoscope with such a majorette-like twirl they had to duck.

  Rehearsals got underway and Rosie surprised us with a sweet soprano, attracting the admiration of some male nurses Kitty had coerced into helping.

  ‘There’s no point in them falling at her feet. She’s got a boyfriend at home. He must be mad.’ Maisie sounded surprised and with renewed diligence, went off to undermine those golden notes with her tuneless undertow.

  ‘There’s a grave danger those two will kill each other,’ I said to Kitty during one particularly fraught rehearsal when Maisie finally knocked Rosie off her singing perch.

  Kitty was taken aback and protested, ‘But conflict like that’s necessary in good drama – they’re merely suffering for the sake of art. They’re horrid little bugs. You’d expect them to act like that.’

  I thought of my own role as the slimy fawning one and felt uncomfortable that it was so easy.

  Harmony was more evident in the ‘Sisters’ routine, a clever parody with Isobel, Charles and Hazel a slick trio. The wardrobe mistress, pinched from the hospital linen store, simply swapped a lifetime of skills battling with nurses to lower hem lines, to providing mini-style sister uniforms that showed Charles’s knees to best advantage.

  ‘What about a bosom, Mabel?’ he asked.

  Silently, she handed him two balloons.

  ‘So what kind of costume will you be wearing?’ a patient asked one day when I was recounting some panto tales.

  ‘Green tights and a tunic.’

  ‘Gosh! That’s brave,’ she said and held onto her stitch line before sharing the joke with her neighbour. ‘Wait till our visitors come – they’ll have a right laugh. We’ll all be coming to it. Not long now.’ The words fluted down the corridor and reminded us of how little time we had left. Even Kitty was beginning to get a twitch, and a visit from Matron, reminding her that she held responsibility for student nurses who should be spending every off-duty minute in study, didn’t help.

  ‘I’m going to cancel this – it’s never going to work,’ she said in an uncharacteristic fit of ill temper, after a rehearsal of muffed lines, shaky props and nervous hysteria. ‘It’s just not worth the anxiety.’

  Jo scurried past clutching the tape recorder.

  ‘I think I’ve broken it,’ she said.

  ‘Then you’ll have to do the sound effects yourself,’ snapped Kitty, definitely wobbling.

  ‘How will I do the sound of a lavatory chain pulling?’ Jo worried over a key feature in one of our scenes.

  Maisie gave an accurate raspberry.

  ‘That will do!’ Kitty shouted. ‘Right! That’s it. I’ve had enough.’ She swished her tail and put her head in her hands. ‘I can’t do this.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Kitty, let’s cut out the drama – please.’ Charles exuded calm. ‘Everybody’s doing their best, so why don’t we all have a break and a ciggie?’

  Surrounded by our concern and his words, Kitty brightened. ‘You’re right. I don’t usually smoke but these are exceptional times, and if you lot fail your finals, remember it’s not my fault.’

  Had she been in a more positive frame of mind, she would have seen there was progress with Sheila and her team transforming the barn-like Nurses’ Home hall into a credible theatre. The new Home Sister lost some of her formidability by helping rig up curtains before returning to her stance guarding the stairs leading to the bedrooms. ‘Anybody could get up there,’ she said with her arms folded, large feet planted at quarter to three.

  ‘What does Kitty think about these?’ Isobel nodded at the backdrop of rural scenes, which had well-upholstered cherubs, with the faces of some hospital familiars, frolicking amongst silver clouds.

  ‘She said she thocht they were a bittie pink for the North-east,’ said Sheila, looking out some blue and carefully adding those rude little flourishes in which she excelled.

  The big night came. There had been a state of High Alert in the ward with a queue of candlewick-clad patients readying for the evening from early in the morning: and there they now were, complete with family and friends, cramming into an already-full hall and easily distinguished by their banter and, ‘Already we’re in stitches,’ a catchy little number they’d been perfecting all day.

  ‘I can see Matron. She’s right in the front row. Look!’ Rosie was peering unprofessionally through the curtains.

  Sure enough, there she was, so unrecognisable in mufti and smiles that Sheila’s pinkest cherub, frolicking behind its medals, looked more like the original.

  ‘For the love of Mike, Rosie, come on, we’re needed back-stage.’ Maisie collared her.

  ‘You’re so bossy,’ said Rosie and bounced off, allowing Kitty to signal the curtains to be raised.

  ‘Right, everybody, let’s go.’

  The pantomime got underway. Matron was reported to have laughed at the right moments; the audience was sympathetic. The scenery was standing the test and Jo’s sound effects were on cue. Charles brought the house down by bursting one bosom and running agitatedly after the other when it escaped. Meanwhile, Isobel, with Hazel, proving a full post-operative recovery, high-kicked him back to the limelight, completing the number to rapturous applause. Rosie and Maisie brought an unsurprisingly authentic but well-received hatred to the plot whilst the patients from my ward, perhaps remembering who was likely to be taking out their stitches, loudly applauded the sly fly bug.

  ‘I saw your ladies giving you a really big cheer,’ Jo observed, holding the sound box as if it were treasure.

  ‘One tries one’s best,’ I tried for nonchalance, ‘but now our part’s over and still I don’t know how the show’s going to finish. I can’t remember it being discussed.’

  There was a heightened buzz as we moved on to the pantomime’s last scene. Not even the last waltz at the nurses’ dances had this level of anticipation.

  Our own parts completed, we stepped back. The lights dimmed, allowing silence to take the stage.

  Then, and to an audience more accustomed to fishnets draped round Aberdeen harbour, the appearance of one wrapped round a shapely leg insinuating its way through the curtains was well received. At the same time, a saxophone held one note. A spotlight shone on the snaking appearance. Assured of everyone’s attention, the other leg made a glittering appearance. Who would have thought prune-faced Mabel was such a dab hand at sequins?

  Matron cleared her throat as a dancer in a sly smile came through the curtains, completing a routine that would have put the slinkiest feline to shame. The sequins moved and glittered, the figure leapt and twirled, the saxophone whispered and moaned. The audience held its breath.

  Then, finally and in a gravity-defying leap, the performance was completed. Helped by flying heels and shooting stars, the dancer disappeared back through the curtains.

  The applause was thunderous. It had been some pantomime. A line of candlewick stood up, the better to shout approval and an encore.

  So, Kitty – well it had to be – took her curtain call, executing a curtsey which put the fishnets further to the test. Then she beckoned to the saxophonist.

  Elegant in a black evening suit, a distinguished-looking musician stepped forward to take his bow.

  ‘Good G
od!’ exclaimed Maisie.

  ‘No,’ twinkled Rosie, that stickler for accuracy, ‘it’s Charles.’

  37

  FUTURE PROSPECTS

  Miss Jones was in the P.T.S. classroom and making the introduction.

  ‘Today, Nurse Macpherson has kindly given up some of her studying time to talk to you about the training here. As she’s going to be sitting her finals soon, she’s in an excellent position to tell you about it.’

  Who’d have thought it!

  ‘Your hair’s fine but why do you think you were asked?’ Sprawling in an enviably relaxed way on our sofa, Maisie had been puzzled. She waved away the cloud of hair spray created in my stressed pre-talk preparations.

  ‘I dunno. She spoke to me after the pantomime. Maybe it was my stage presence.’ I felt my stomach clench. ‘No that was a joke, but at least I’d a script then. This is a different kettle of fish, especially as I’m not even sure what she wants me to say.’

  ‘Remember, we’d a blue belt who came and spoke to us when we were in P.T.S.,’ Maisie idly filed her nails, ‘and I don’t remember what she said, so it obviously wasn’t particularly memorable, but maybe you could tell them what you’re going to be able to do because of the training. Aim for your future as well as theirs.’

  I said Miss Jones might not like to hear that I wanted to get as far away from hospital starch as possible. The nurse’s cottage in the gloaming, dispensing healing homilies, seemed as good an idea now as had the life-saving, parties and city life of which I had dreamt at the beginning of my career; but maybe the classroom wasn’t the place to say so.

  ‘If you want to do district you’ll need to do your midwifery as well.’

  She eased off the sofa and picked up a form from the mantelpiece. ‘Look, I’ve got an application for Edinburgh. After our finals and all being well,’ she waved crossed fingers, ‘I might go there. They say Edinburgh’s fun and if I’m going to the missionary fields I’d need that qualification.’

  ‘Missionary! Maisie – you must be joking.’

  She went pink. ‘Well if all else fails, though maybe I’ll stay on. I’ve been asked to be a staff nurse in the medical ward I’m in just now. I could do with the money and it’d give me some experience.’

  I wondered why it was that my most interesting conversations with my flatmate were just as I was leaving the house, but in the meantime, I had to speak in a classroom before a critical audience.

  ‘It’s hard to believe that three years ago, I was sitting listening to someone like me, and I just wish I’d paid more attention.’ The class laughed dutifully whilst I looked round the room feeling an unexpected affection for it and the tutors who had striven to teach us so much. ‘But I came here not knowing anything other than that I wanted to be a nurse and now that dream’s about to be put to the test. You’re about to embark on that same adventure. Treat it like that and expect a rollercoaster. You’ll be getting a first-hand knowledge of crisis, the wonder of life, the fortunes of people and of course, don’t forget death.’

  Miss Jones didn’t look too happy at that but I was on such an evangelical roll, I wished I’d brought a baton and the words of ‘Jerusalem’. ‘Sad – but that’s reality – so there’ll be times when you wonder if you should just chuck it all. Then again, if you stay the course, you’ll learn how to deal with the scariest of scenarios, help people at their weakest times and even be able, at the end of it all, to pass the ultimate test as I’ve just done,’ I caught someone smothering a yawn and with a sudden admiration for Miss Jones’ ability to hold her audience, wrapped it up, ‘by giving a talk about nurse training in front of a new P.T.S.’

  Then Miss Jones asked if anybody had any questions and a hand shot up.

  ‘What will you do if you fail?’

  There was a mischievous glint in the eyes of the questioner. I hoped the battle-hardening training wouldn’t make her lose that sparkle.

  ‘I’d have to re-sit,’ I said, appalled at the concept, and went home to do some studying and tell Maisie that whilst my future might not lie in public speaking, staff-nurse pink might suit her better than being a missionary.

  38

  CHRISTMAS IN THE WORK HOUSE

  Christmas preparations were getting underway in my new orthopaedic ward. Sister dispensed with the formalities of introduction. ‘Ah! A blue belt. Go and fix up a bed for traction will you?’

  Somewhere was a recollection that traction was a form of torture dreamt up by someone who had no intention of ever personally trying it out. The theory was that, by clever use of weights and pulleys secured to the body on a Principle of Moments basis, you could realign bone structure into a properly healing position.

  I’d seen patients attached to these devices and doubted the strategy as I fixed an iron beam to the bed beside Mrs Jones, who’d been stuck in hospital for ages with a fractured femur. Confined to bed, she’d become the complete authority on all ward, not to mention world, matters, but unlike Mrs Spence and Mrs Fotheringham, my Ian Charles pals, it hadn’t made her any sweeter.

  ‘You’re new aren’t you?’ she asked, checking the faded stoat plait hanging over her shoulder. She was old with a creaky voice and a face corrugated in disapproval.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  A weight fell to the floor with a Big Ben clang.

  ‘I thought so.’ She pulled at a bed jacket as battle worn as Miss Kerr’s dressing gown and settled back, pleased to have live entertainment.

  Even though a guardian angel, disguised as a friendly auxiliary, quietly and competently managed the operation, it still looked like an incomplete Meccano set.

  ‘Very good.’ Mrs Jones sounded disappointed.

  Mrs Jack, for whom the apparatus was being constructed, lay on a trolley nearby. Grey-faced, anxious and prepared for theatre, she eyed the construction doubtfully. ‘It’s like the scaffolding that fell on me,’ she said.

  ‘It’s for you when you come back,’ Mrs Jones crowed.

  Tidying away, the auxiliary muttered, ‘What a pain she is. If we got to choose our patients she wouldn’t be here, but she’s a widow with no family and doesn’t get many visitors. It’s a shame really, and with Christmas so near she’s going to get even worse. She sees the black side of everything. It’s already making her even more crotchety.’

  It might be hard to divert Mrs Jones, and a pity her thigh bone was taking ages to heal, but I was cross when Mrs Jack burst into tears. She too was old and in particular pain.

  I gave the beam a good thump, making the weights swing. ‘Look, safe as houses. It’ll be fine – we’ve done loads, honestly.’ Mrs Jack watched as if hypnotised.

  Sister came along and dumped an armload of tinsel on a table in the middle of the ward.

  ‘That looks great. Now I’d like you to get on with the decorations.’

  The ward was full of old women whose brittle bones had broken in a second but were now taking months to heal. They were delighted to have their dreary routines changed and, supposing there was communal deafness, shouted their advice.

  Very shortly there was bedlam as Mrs Jones fought her corner. ‘Put the tree beside me,’ she shouted, ‘I could do with the company.’

  ‘I think it should be at the top of the ward,’ said Sister, ‘then everybody will see it.’

  ‘Oh well, if you can’t take advice, see if I care. I’ll have a bedpan instead.’

  The staff and those patients who were able to get up enjoyed the gaiety and cheer of the decorating. Outside, the sky was leaden with the first few flakes of snow idling past the ward windows. I wondered if Staffie in Theatre had noticed and still been excited by them. I was there when she saw snow for the first time. It’d made her clap her hands and scream, an unexpected and unwelcome action in the middle of an operation and I remembered an uncharitable delight that she’d been shouted at for a change.

  Here, the ward was turning into Aladdin’s cave. Now, the tree, impressively huge, stood at the ward entrance, laden with parcels and bright wi
th fairy lights. Streamers lowered the ceiling in a cheerful way whilst brightly-coloured baubles reflected the soft lights of the Chinese lanterns hanging over each patient’s bed.

  ‘That’s Mrs Jack back from theatre and coming round. Mind you, she may think she’s in a different ward,’ Sister sighed with pleasure as she folded plump arms over her ample self and surveyed her charges, ‘and I suppose it’s good she’s beside Mrs Jones, she’ll be the first to report any problems.’

  Christmas Day came with excitement running fever-high and an orthopaedic consultant dressed as Santa. After a sherry sojourn in Sister’s office, he made a cheery ward round, kissing startled but delighted patients with an enthusiasm surprising in such a normally gruff man.

  ‘See what I’ve been given.’ Mrs Jones stroked a new bed jacket, her fingers lingering on the satin ribbon. ‘Betty Jack’s daughter brought it in and’ – she stuck an emaciated leg out from under the cover – ‘look! The plaster’s off. The best Christmas present in the world.’ Happiness smoothed the corrugated iron of a face, framed with hair washed and stoat free, into soft waves.

  Already she was moving around her bed without moaning. She even sounded like a different woman. ‘Would you just look at that!’

  Seizing a lull in activities, Sister was dancing a light-footed sword dance to everybody’s astonishment, especially hers.

  ‘I’ll do that soon,’ vowed Mrs Jones, ‘won’t I, Betty?’ But Mrs Jack couldn’t answer since she was weeping blissfully through the carol singing. The weights swung as if in harmony.

  ‘Merry Christmas, darling!’ The consultant dried her tears with a large hanky, harrumphed, then headed back into the office from which sounds of merriment ensued for the rest of my shift.

  Going home, I thought it had been my best Christmas in hospital and was especially pleased that Mrs Jack seemed to be surviving all that surrounding hardware with Mrs Jones helping her in any way she could.

  I let myself into the house where Mrs Ronce was carrying a shovel with its one lump of coal.