That evening as I was about to go off-duty he asked me if I had been nursing long.
‘You wear a different uniform, Nurse Anthony.’
I explained I came from Gregory’s and I still wore my own uniform.
‘You seem different,’ he said, ‘you’re very quiet. Is that because you come from St Gregory’s, or are you naturally silent?’
I looked at him for a minute, wondering if he could stand the truth. He looked singularly unprepossessing in bed, but I hate to think what I would look like if I had nothing to eat or drink but milk for five days. I remembered his plays. They always made me laugh. I chanced it.
‘I’m not naturally silent,’ I said, ‘but I heard before you came in that you disliked all nurses at sight and were inclined to be maniacal with talkative young women.
‘Also,’ I added, as he seemed about to speak, ‘I have no desire to go on the stage or the movies.’
Mr Franklin sat upright in bed, his mouth open. Then he lay back on his pillows and shook with laughter.
‘It’s not them talking I minded,’ he said when he recovered his breath; ‘it’s that they would call me “we” and talk baby-talk. Then the Nanny-knows-best line. The only way to stop the spate was to growl. They wouldn’t understand anything else!’
He drank some of his milk. ‘And what’s this about not wanting to be in pictures? Of course you want to be in pictures. All normal, healthy, young women want to be in pictures.’
‘Then I’m abnormal and unhealthy,’ I said firmly. ‘But I don’t want to be in pictures!’
‘Prefer nursing?’ he said curiously.
I nodded, ‘Why not? It’s my job.’
‘I see.’ He looked at me in silence for a few minutes. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said slowly, ‘you’re good at it. Not like the others.’
‘I’m well trained ‒ that gives one a terrific start. It’s luck in a way, striking a good hospital as a training school.’
‘There’s a bit more to it than that,’ said Mr Franklin. ‘It’s there in your face.’ He smiled. ‘Actually, Nurse, are you sure you wouldn’t like to be in pictures? I think your face should photograph very well. It’s unusual.’
I laughed. ‘Thank you, no.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I expect you are wise. I don’t know that you look strong enough, either. That’s a funny thing to say to one’s nurse, but you don’t, you know. Do they work you hard here?’
‘Not at all,’ I said honestly, ‘that’s the truth. I don’t work enough, that’s probably what’s wrong with me.’
I was a little bored with my health. Every person I met lately offered me a chair or an arm depending on their sex. I wanted to get off the subject so I asked him about his work.
‘I saw your last film, Mr Franklin. Did you go to Africa with them when it was made? Or once you’ve written the scenario do you wash your hands of the whole affair?’
My last day at The Havenne was a Friday. Mr Franklin was leaving himself that morning. We shook hands in the Floor corridor, waiting for the lift.
‘Good-bye, Nurse Anthony ‒ and thank you very much.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you: if I get ill again ‒ is it possible to reach you when I leave here?’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure that I’m being ethical. But if you are really stuck for a nurse, if I wasn’t free myself I expect I could raise another old Gregorian. We are all much the same.’
‘I would rather have you,’ he said, ‘but if you can guarantee she won’t speak in the plural or sound like the Listen with Mother programme, I would be most grateful. And if you ever change your mind about the motion-picture industry. Nurse Anthony’ ‒ he smiled ‒ ‘let me know.’
After lunch the girls gave a little party for me in the Floor sitting-room.
Honest to God they said, they were sorry I was leaving; that I wasn’t at all bad when they got to know me, not at all.
‘Sit down, Anthony,’ said Nurse Haddy.
‘Take your weight off your feet,’ said Nurse Shanahan from her seat in the most comfortable chair, ‘and have a good cup of tea and a slice of cake the way you like it!’
As on my first morning a bell rang. As on my first morning I had no patients. As on my first morning Nurse Shanahan, her cheeks still fearfully dyed, said, ‘Let the b‒s wait.’
Sister called me into her duty-room later. She said she did not like to lose me, but thought that I should go.
‘Ee, lass! There’s nowt for thee here.’
She asked what I was going to do next. I accepted yet another cup of tea.
‘Truthfully, Sister,’ I said, ‘I have no idea. I’ve enough money to last a couple of months without working. I can always get a temporary private job. I’ll probably go back to Gregory’s, but just at the moment I don’t feel like selling myself into any form of contracted slavery. I would rather freelance.’
Sister nodded. ‘Take a good rest, lass. You look dead tired; feel all right?’
‘Quite, thank you.’ Fatigue, in hospital circles at least, is no illness.
Sister said that I might as well run along now, have my tea and go off duty.
‘Take care of yourself, lass. Let’s know ’ow ye get on.’
I was sorry to leave Sister, but about everything else that day I felt happier than I had in weeks. To be clear of the nursing-home! The feeling that I had survived two months without Richard and the future must be easier than the past. Even the very insecurity of my working life was exciting. I had always had everything so organized; the blankness was exhilarating.
I could not possibly face any more tea, but I went down to the dining-room and had a rather gloomy farewell session with Miss Trant.
‘Don’t fritter too long, Miss Anthony. Be sensible. Safe. Go back.’
Just before I finally left The Havenne Beth telephoned from Gregory’s.
‘Joa ‒ I’ve changed week-ends. So I’m off now. I’m going up to the family. All right? Finished up? ’Bye, dear ‒ see you on Monday night.’
My legs felt like lead when I reached the fifth floor of our flat in Water Street. Inside I was light and dancing. I emptied half a bottle of bath-salts into the bath and soaked. I lay and admired my feet; I had painted my toe-nails scarlet in token of my temporary freedom from the life of a working girl. The hot water was soothing to my shoulder, which now hurt all the time. Afterwards I carried my supper into the sitting-room, switched on all the bars of the electric fire, and pushed up the sofa. It was a long time since I had had an evening to myself, and I felt very happy to be alone. Beth never bothered me, but we had been over-haunted by Allan and Marcus lately, and I by the ghost of Richard. It was a nice change not to have to talk or listen. I thought I might think about my future. I decided not to worry, that I could always marry Allan. I knew I never would, but it sounded soothing.
I fell asleep after supper, lying on the sofa. When I woke, I had cramp in my shoulder. The clock on the mantelpiece said half-past nine, so I decided to go to bed. I sat up and stretched. My mouth and chin felt wet. I realized I must have been dribbling and thought how revolting I must look. My tongue tasted salt. Then it was that I realized what I was tasting. I put my handkerchief to my lips. I was not at all surprised to see the handkerchief was red when I took it away. All that surprised me was the quantity. There was a lot of blood about. And it was bright. I knew the thing to do was to lie flat for a while and not to panic. I wished I had some ice. There was no refrigerator in the flat, so that was a pretty purposeless wish. To cheer myself up I decided I never had had much faith in ice for controlling a haemorrhage.
I lay there, quiet, for some time. I swallowed a lot, spluttered a bit, and after a while it stopped. It struck me that perhaps this was just a warning, and the real thing was coming later. It works that way sometimes. It was that thought that made me start to panic.
My legs shook as badly as my hands when I carried the telephone from the corridor into my bedroom. I knew the flex just reac
hed to my bed. I lay down, then wondered whom to ring.
Aunt Monica was still somewhere in Scotland, Beth in Hereford. Richard too far away. Allan inaccessible in Gregory’s. A personal call to a member of the Staff in any large general hospital takes hours. I wanted someone quickly and I had precious little energy left with which to get them.
Then I remembered the number of Marcus’s flat. I lay back on the pillows with relief as I heard his voice.
‘Marcus,’ I said, and to my surprise my voice sounded normal, ‘Marcus, this is Joanna. Please come. I’m spitting bright blood. And ‒ I’m frightened.’
He said nothing for a few seconds, and I was afraid we had been cut off.
‘All right, love,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ll be round like the wind. Marcus Stag Ormorod. Don’t worry. I’ll bring one of the lads and a loaded syringe. Don’t worry,’ he said again. ‘I expect it’s only a loose tooth.’
I said I expected it was, too. I put down the receiver and lay back to wait. I knew quite well what the trouble was. I thought it was nice of him not to say I told you so.
Chapter Twelve
A Bed on the Balcony
The smoke from the tall chimney of the bottle factory drifted across the sky above my bed, showering black spots on the blue-and-white check cloth that covered my blankets and top sheet. The stone pillar against which my bed had been pushed was engrained with soot. When I tilted my head backward I could see the pillar easily, as I was still only allowed one pillow, the day was warm for November, but nowhere in England can you keep anything more than fairly warm if you have to lie in the open air, even in bed with three hot-water bottles tucked round you.
The balcony was wide. There was room for several other beds, although usually I was out alone. I liked it out there. I liked the smoking chimney, the noise of the traffic and the smell of exhaust that rose up from the road. I liked the feeling that London was going on all around me.
The Professor had just been out to see me. He had said I was getting along nicely, and if I went on that way in a couple of weeks I could have another pillow and wash my own face. He also said I could feed myself for one meal a day.
I was pleased about this. The Ward Sister was delighted. She was an old friend of mine, who had been a staff-nurse in what was now her own ward when I was a junior-probationer six years back. When she had been made a Sister I worked six months as her staff-nurse before going down to Elmhall and midwifery.
The Ward was a women’s medical ward. It was called Catherine Ward. The hospital was St Gregory’s, London.
I still felt very odd, being back on the other side, a patient where I had been a nurse. Everyone was especially kind to me as an old member of the Staff. It is a tradition at Gregory’s that only the best is good enough for Old Gregorians. The nurses ran round in circles to show that they knew their part. People had gone on running round me in circles from the time I phoned for Marcus to come to the flat that last evening in August. It seemed a hundred years ago but was only three months back.
Marcus had arrived and bullied the caretaker into letting him into our flat before I would have thought he had had time to get his car out of the garage. He brought a man called John Fernie with him. John Fernie was the Resident Medical Officer at Gregory’s and easily the best man under the circumstances, since he was the physician by whom I, or any other medical case, would have had to be examined before being admitted to Gregory’s, no matter who had sent me up. That was one of the rules of the hospital. Another was that no resident doctor is allowed to go out of the hospital to see a case. I was too dazed then to work out how Marcus, a student, had managed to pull that particular string. I found out later that they were brothers-in-law. Mrs Fernie was Marcus’s elder sister.
Dr Fernie took a look round, asked a few questions, listened in to my chest, and gave me an injection of morphia, after which I became pleasantly uninterested in my affairs. Marcus wandered about the room and packed some things for me while Dr Fernie sat on the edge of my bed and did a lot of telephoning.
The only questions Marcus asked me were where Beth was and the address my Aunt Monica was staying at in Scotland, where she had been for a couple of weeks.
Then some men arrived with a stretcher. Marcus let them in, and Dr Fernie said he thought I had better come into Gregory’s.
‘Just for a night or so, Miss Anthony ‒ as you are on your own here. Be easier to keep an eye on you.’
He might have added, ‘In case you have another haemorrhage.’ I knew that was in his mind. It was certainly in mine.
Marcus hesitated in the doorway, then came up to the bedside, his voice carefully casual.
‘Be fun, darling ‒ Allan Kinnoch will be no end bucked.’
‘Just as you say,’ I said. The morphia had done something to my voice. It sounded oddly in the quiet room. I did not mind going into hospital. On the whole I was probably relieved, although I was past the emotional stage and drifting in a plane where all problems were superficial.
The stretcher-bearers in the corridor sounded worried, ‘Them stairs are cruel, Doctor. Wicked to get a stretcher down that way. Better to carry the young lady.’
‘John,’ I heard Marcus say, ‘John, take this case for me. I’ll take her ‒ I’m the biggest.’
They wrapped me carefully in the grey ambulance blankets. Marcus carried me in his arms down the five flights of stairs to the waiting ambulance. His shoulder muffled the occasional clatter of the stretcher poles as they hit the iron banisters. Their feet made no noise. The ambulance men and John Fernie were used to walking lightly. As Marcus held me, I thought in an off-hand manner that I was glad I had sent for him. Marcus would always be good at doing things on the spur of the moment, without deliberating or looking too far ahead. People who live lightly on the surface of life can move fast. When I am spitting blood, I find it reassuring to have people around who are quick workers.
The nurses in Catherine Ward moved fast enough that night. Just after midnight I started off again. I was suddenly surrounded by quiet kindly voices. ‘Don’t worry about the pillow and your top sheet, Miss Anthony ‒ we’ll change it in no time. Just lie still. Dr Fernie will be here in a minute.’
Someone gave me some ice, ‘Suck this, dear.’
A man’s voice asked me to turn my arm over, ‘Just a little prick, m’dear.’
Night Sister appeared beside me. Her cuffs off, her sleeves rolled up above her elbows. I saw her and knew then that I was very ill. Nothing short of a German blitzkrieg permits St Gregory’s Night Sister to expose her forearms. Dr Fernie came and set up a blood transfusion. He used a vein in my right ankle.
I watched them, grouped at the foot of my bed, drenched in the red-green light around us. The red light came from the reflection of the screens around my bed, the green was the shade over my reading-lamp.
A fire burned in my ankle as the knife cut down to the vein. I thought I must remember to tell them some time that that local anaesthetic does not work at all.
John Fernie and his Medical Registrar were fiddling with instruments, gut, and needles. Night Sister stood like a statue, her arm uplifted, holding the bottle of blood. Then Allan’s face was there, anxious, white, behind John Fernie’s shoulder. Allan looked over to me, and I smiled. He must have thought I was asleep or unconscious. He seemed shocked. It was a few moments before he remembered to smile back. Then he came round to the head of the bed and bent down.
‘How goes it, Joanna?’ he whispered.
‘Bloody weak,’ I said, ‘otherwise fine. Bloody seems the operative word where I’m concerned tonight.’
His hand gripped suddenly on mine. He still smiled but he did not answer me. Unconsciously he shook his head slightly.
It was his handclasp and the horrified expression he was trying so desperately to keep from his face that really woke me, at least temporarily, from my opium dreams. I looked at the carefully non-committal expressions of the two physicians and Night Sister, at the controlled eyes of the Se
nior Night Nurse who stood on the other side of the bed, her hand permanently on my left wrist, and above all at Allan, old Honesty himself who was incapable of pretence. I recognized all this for what it was.
The professional attitude to the presence of death.
Well, well, I thought. Well, well.
I was sorry for them all. If I had had the energy, I should have told them not to worry. The pearly gates might be ajar, but they were not opening yet, for me. Death. The old man with the scythe wasn’t around.
Like most nurses, I had seen Death. Not the person dying, but Death walking in a ward. Death standing behind a bed ‒ or waiting, watching, in an open doorway. That’s the time it’s worrying, you don’t know for whom it is Death waits. I looked carefully round my bedside, in case I was mistaken. There was no one about but nurses and doctors. I hadn’t the energy to tell them not to worry. They’ll find out, I thought. They’ll find out.
The dope was working now, and I could feel myself floating over my own head. I hung on to Allan’s hand to keep down on the bed. I fell asleep holding his hand.
Every now and then I woke up and watched different people ‒ Night Sister, Dr Fernie, the head Night Nurse ‒ fingering the rubber tubing of the transfusion set, altering the metal clamps, changing the rate of the drops in the drip connexion, changing the bottles of blood. I counted three pints going in.
Dr Fernie came up alongside me, blew up the air-tight bandage of the blood-pressure machine, looking pleasantly blank as he read the result on the mercury.
‘All right, Miss Anthony? Good. You’re doing fine.’ His voice was polished, professional, and charming. He moved quietly back to the darkened ward that lay beyond my red screens. He was good to me, that man. He never left Catherine Ward all that night.
I had so often seen all this from the other end that at times I was muddled. I found myself counting the drops of blood in the drip connexion, irritated that I could not see them clearly; I stood by my own bed and looked down on myself; then I was in bed, watching the white lace bow tilting under the Night Sister’s chin as she inclined her head to listen to a whispered question from Allan. I saw her shake her head.
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