by Ian Wheeler
The 1947 cricket team. Back row from left: J.R.F. Davis; Earl Cecil Thompson; Lionel Carpenter; Lem White; Laurie Blake; ‘Jock’ Oliver; Revd Philip E. Raynor. Middle row, from left: ‘Strad’ Challenor; Roly Abbots; John Talbot; Gerald Woolley. Front: Fred ‘Bud’ Fisher, Arthur ‘Pop’ Swain. Philip Cecil Thompson was a very nice man, but extremely shy. He was a peer of the realm and a patient, possibly a former ‘big shot’ in the diplomatic service. White, Oliver, Challenor and Fisher were part of a group that came to the hospital from Creswell Colliery in Derbyshire. (Spackman collection)
The refurbished cricket pavilion in 2014, with the Recreation Hall beyond. (Author’s collection)
This useful view from about 1927 shows not only the football field beyond the crossroads but also the old cricket field (upper left), the kitchen gardens (upper right), Ferry Cottages and Boshers’ yard on the near side of the road. (Spackman collection)
A staff car park is opposite the Fair Mile Sports and Social Club buildings in this view from around 1991. South Lodge (lower left) was being used as a crèche. Greenhouses, allotments, the tennis court and chapel can be seen. (Spackman collection)
The 1922 BMH football team. Rear, 4th from left, is ‘Pop’ Swain. Front: 1st Archie Barnett; 2nd Jack Lambert; 4th Philip Fox. (The late Gwilym Pryce)
The 1942 squad. ‘Pop’ Swain left in hat. Perce Talbot (stoker) second left in the back row. Jack Andrews is centre in the middle row. (The late Gwilym Pryce)
Fair Mile Hospital Social Club, around 1970. Les Collins is serving and Nick Proudlock is in a check jacket on far right stool. Anne Wood is on a stool and Rose Mundy is right. (Spackman collection)
Fair Mile Hospital FC Upper Thames Inter Hospital League Winners 1971. Back row: C. MacDonald, J. Farrow, P. Hearmon, A. Spackman, R. Wright, A. Vanninetti, C. Daly, M. Farragher. Front row: R. Ballard, M. Neal, W. Salter, R. Williams, A. Diaz. (Spackman collection)
Fair Mile Hospital FC All Champions Cup Winners 1988–89. Back row: K. Taylor, J. Ferguson, R. McLaughlin, W. Glossop, M. Bonner, R. Cox, P. McDonald, N. Voller, M. Rourke. Front row: P. Everley, A. Stacey, A. Stanley, A. Taylor, M. Fox. (Spackman collection)
The Fair Mile Sports and Social Club (FMSSC) was founded in 1963, membership being compulsory for all staff members, who paid a subscription of 6d a week. In 1964 a generous donation from the Friends of the Fair Mile and Hungerford Hospitals enabled the opening of a large, dedicated clubhouse with bars, a function room and billiards rooms. Boshers undertook enlargement of the clubhouse in 1973. The club developed into a solid and ambitious organisation that survived the hospital’s closure and, as related in Chapter 13, now owns the nearby Morning Star public house.
Notes
26 The term ‘inmate’, although tempting, was rarely used.
27 ‘Soft’ is a relative term; this was probably Bronco, also known as ‘rough and shiny’.
28 As the Bungalow (see Chapter 4) did not exist at this time, this would be one of the infirmary wards.
29 These statements are mysterious, since both Female 8 and Male 8 already had verandahs large enough to be seen on maps by 1936.
30 These men were fortunate to have Male 4 to themselves and, to all intents and purposes, their own staff.
31 Sharp-eyed readers will notice that this does not agree with other figures drawn from the same year’s report.
32 Registered Mental Nurse.
33 Pictured in Chapter 3.
10
WORK AND TRAINING
At the time of the asylum’s creation, what we would nowadays call the nursing staff were known as ‘attendants’34. As psychiatric care was a very new discipline, this was initially not a particularly skilled job and training was largely based on experience and the extensive Staff Regulations35, which left few aspects of their lives uncontrolled. Paramount in these provisions was the fundamental duty of care towards patients who could not be held accountable for their words or actions, which had to be matched by a spirit of the greatest forbearance on the part of those caring for them.
It would be unfair to suggest that the job was like being a prison warder but anecdotes reveal that male attendants, who were often ex-servicemen, needed to be physically robust as violent attacks were something of an occupational hazard. Stamina was also necessary since, for both sexes, the hours of work from Monday to Saturday were from 6 a.m. to 8 p.m. including a meal break, relieved to 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. on Sundays. Days off – one per month – started at 10 a.m., so the morning’s chores obviously had to be done before stepping out for a little liberty.
Male attendants with Head Attendant Alfred Lockie presiding. The picture may be from around 1883, when smart uniforms were first issued and moustaches appeared to be obligatory. (Spackman collection)
A group of BMH nurses. Rear left is Violet Newstead (later Perry); Grace Kirk is on the right. Bottom left is Rosalie Sammons, later Brignall. The hanging decorations suggest Christmas. As Grace Kirk was Deputy Charge Nurse from 1919 and her uniform here appears to be that of a nurse, this photo is likely to be pre-1919. (Spackman collection)
Although it is likely that this picture predates her arrival, Nurse Mary Ratcliffe came from the Salop County Asylum as Head Female Nurse in 1909. The title of ‘Housekeeper’ was added to this in 1927, equivalent to Matron. Her departure in 1932 was lamented by the Committee of Visitors. (Spackman collection)
In recompense, male attendants enjoyed a relatively advantageous annual salary of £20, whilst their female counterparts commanded just £17. This can be compared with £70 paid to the Head Male Attendant and the princely sum of £300 enjoyed by the Medical Superintendent. For some, notably the senior officers, there were fringe benefits – listed in staff records as ‘emoluments’ – in the form of accommodation, coal, lighting and produce from the asylum’s farm and gardens.
The first discovered mention of training is from 1887, when Superintendent Douty proposed a series of lectures on nursing. Little more is known until the advent, in 1922, of the Registered Mental Nurse qualification (the point when ‘nurse’ was formally adopted36), which was supported by an exacting training programme that tested nurses’ intelligence, discipline and resilience under pressure. Mary Fairbairn’s experiences (here) do little more than hint at the rigours of three years’ hard work.
Tough Conditions
‘Living in’ is mentioned earlier in this account and it was accepted practice that attendants would live on the asylum premises. Few exceptions were made until about the time of the Second World War. Staff bedrooms were situated on the wards and, considering the long working week and lack of private space, it is no wonder that there were long-term problems with recruiting and retaining good personnel.
Attendants on duty had few comforts although, in December 1886, Acting Superintendent Barron made available a mess room for use by off-duty female night staff, which was much appreciated. The same was to be considered on the Male side. Concessions of this type were well motivated but slow in appearing.
Any liberty would have been cherished but a well-intended note from Superintendent Douty on August 1887 nevertheless questioned the wisdom of allowing too much freedom:
The attention of the Committee is drawn to the evils, sanitary and otherwise, which arise from the short evening leaves (three a week) granted to Attendants in cold wet winter weather. The leave is from 8.30 p.m. to 10 p.m. every other night; and though it may be good in fine warm weather it often has bad results in winter to the health, especially of the female staff.
In July 1910 it was decided that officers and servants would not receive their board and lodging allowance (if granted) while on annual leave, which seems decidedly mean. On a more positive note, their uniform of any but the latest issue would become their property.
The following comment, made in April 1924 by the Commissioners to the Board of Control, serves to illustrate the continual problem of retaining good staff, which plagued successive superintendents and of which they often complained to the Committe
e of Visitors:
The nursing staff continue to work upon the basis of a 66 hour week with two days off duty weekly and an annual leave of three weeks. 40 percent of the male and 25 percent of the female nurses can show more than five years service in the institution.
Female nursing staff in about 1930. Grace Kirk is standing centre, probably as Deputy Head Female Nurse. The severe-looking Matron is Mary Ratcliffe, who departed the BMH in February 1932. To her right is Dr Sidney Holder, First Medical Assistant; then Dr Walter Woolfe Read, Medical Superintendent. (Spackman collection)
Staffing remained a problem in 1932. There were enough men but fifty-nine female nurses left the hospital ten under strength. Some were part-time, others temporary and nurses who had left to marry were being recalled. Significantly, it fell to the Commissioners to suggest, in November 1934, that a nurses’ home be provided to relieve the self-evident pressures of living in. Sadly, there was no real action on this until 1952 (see Chapter 4).
RICHARD VAUGHAN’S ARRIVAL
A respected member of the nursing staff, Richard ‘Dick’ Vaughan gave this account in a Fair Mile Newsletter of 1971, which he edited. Dick tells of starting at the Berkshire Mental Hospital in 1935:
I arrived in Cholsey Station at 4 p.m. About six passengers apart from myself alighted from the train and somehow disappeared before I could ask for directions to the hospital. Seeing a porter bending over a parcels truck I approached him. He looked up. ‘Going up top?’ he asked. The porter sensed that I hadn’t understood so he changed it to ‘Want the big house, mate?’ After informing him that this was so, he gave me the directions and indicated that it was just over a mile. ‘Any chance of a taxi?’ I asked. He replied that he was afraid not – there was only Old Mont who ran a taxi and he was out. After a moment’s thought he remarked ‘You’ll have to UFF IT’. This I gathered meant ‘Hoof it – walk it’ so off I trudged, lugging my case.
Through the iron gates by the porters lodge, I entered the grounds; the perfect lawns contrasting pleasantly with the gravelled surrounds and well laid out flower beds; a creeper flourished over the front of the building and curled away over the roof. All this looked so beautiful and tranquil – I found out that it was just a veneer for a drab and austere interior.
Introducing myself to the Hall Porter37 I was soon in the presence of the Head Attendant38 (the title of ‘Nurse’ came some years later). He was a kindly but gruff man who never used two words where one would suffice. He was well respected by all partly, I think, because he was always fair when dealing with staff problems and partly because he always said what he meant and meant what he said. After a short interview, I signed for a whistle, a bunch of keys and a rule book. It was emphasised that they must be handed in when I left. We then set off for my room. This entailed climbing numerous steps and finally arriving in ‘Top sevens’ now known as Grazeley. He opened the room door and what a depressing sight it was! The contents were:- one iron bedstead complete with rolled up flock mattress, two blankets, two sheets, two pillows and a counterpane all laid out in army fashion and covered in dust which could only have collected in weeks; one washstand with jug and basin; one single wardrobe, the top of which was covered in masses of twigs and other nesting materials used by pigeons. There were droppings everywhere. This was the pigeons’ home and I was the intruder! In addition there was a hard chair and a small carpet on an otherwise uncovered floor to complete the furnishing. The heating was non-existent.
The Head Attendant grunted something about showing me the ward and started to walk away down the stairs, tapping his key on the wall in an irritating fashion as he went. Arriving at the ward door, he opened it. I stepped inside. A voice behind me bellowed ‘Another one for you, Charge!’ The door slammed and he had gone, leaving me under the scrutiny of about forty patients and several staff. I felt like a specimen under a microscope.
The Charge met me, introduced himself and shook hands, then introduced the other three staff. He was a reserved type of man who, one felt, always remained composed in any situation. The three others were very friendly and helpful. One came from the North of England, one from Somerset and the other who, by the fact of being bald, was known as ‘Curly’ and came from London. (For some reason, no local people39 were taken on the nursing staff in those days.)
The Charge Attendant took me to one side to discuss my duties etc. (only the Head Attendant had an office). He informed me that the hours of duty were 66 hours a week including meal times which amounted to 11/2 hours per day, i.e. the first week consisted of five days from 7 a.m. to 8 p.m., and the second week consisted of four days of 7 a.m. to 8 p.m. plus one of 7 a.m. to 10 p.m., which somehow averaged 66 hours per week. The midday meal was a cooked one, taken in the mess room, but all other meals the staff must provide themselves in the ward kitchen from ‘rations’ received every Wednesday afternoon. (No matter how careful one was, the so-called ‘rations’ never lasted more than two days and then one had to buy food.)
A very smartly turned-out Edith Faulkner in about 1936. She married Dick Vaughan, one of the Creswell Colliers, and was known to most as ‘Blossom’. (Val Collett)
Except when relieved, my domain was the ‘gallery’. The patients were discussed and those needing special attention for one reason or another pointed out. I was never to leave that domain for any reason without first obtaining permission from the Charge, nor was I ever to take a patient from there without permission.
It was my duty to see that each patient performed his ablutions every morning and was always tidily dressed before breakfast. The cleaning of the gallery was also one of my duties.
Whilst these instructions were being given I was wondering when he would get around to a cup of tea and something to eat. After much prompting from my stomach I plucked up enough courage to ask. The reply was shattering. There wasn’t any food on the ward and he doubted whether anyone had any tea left. In any case there was nowhere to make it as all ward fires were raked out after 5 p.m. I hinted at the main kitchen but drew a blank; all the kitchen staff usually went home about 5.30 p.m. My disappointment must have registered for, as if to cheer me up, he remarked that I could always obtain bread and cheese at the pub after 8 p.m. Eight o’clock was only an hour away but it seemed ages. In the meantime, one of the staff had made my bed so, on the last stroke of eight, I hurried off to find the pub. Never did a desert traveller display more eagerness to reach an oasis than I did to reach that pub. Nor did the saliva of Pavlov’s dog receive more stimulation from the sound of the bell than mine did at the thought of that bread and cheese!
Returning to the hospital at 10 p.m. (the rule book stated: ‘In your room by 10 p.m. and lights out by 10.20 p.m.’), I went to bed but just couldn’t get off to sleep, it was so cold. Finally, after shivering for hours and in desperation – although I knew it would be frowned upon in the best of circles – I took the solitary carpet from the floor and put it on the bed. This must have done the trick for I was sound asleep when the night roundsman hammered on my door at 6.30 a.m.
Mary Fairbairn was a contemporary of Dick Vaughan; she remembered similar working hours and that breakfast was taken on the ward at 7.00 a.m.
MARY FAIRBAIRN’S TRAINING YEARS
Before psychotropic drugs became available in the 1960s, great mental hospitals such as Fair Mile (formerly Berkshire Mental Hospital) could provide only custodial care for the mentally ill. Because unsedated patients could be combative and violent, the staff were taxed to work compassionately and professionally with them, maintaining general safety while never responding when attacked. British lunacy laws were strict regarding this, and it meant that only special people with high levels of self-control and compassion could meet the challenge of working in the field.
As a training hospital, the BMH was in the forefront of creating such people. Each new class of student nurses was endlessly evaluated to ensure they learned not only hospital practice and bedside techniques, but had the right kind of personality to work with the mentally
ill. The quasi-military discipline to which these students were subject ensured that only the strongest and most suitable would survive three years to earn the title of Registered Mental Nurse.
Mary Fairbairn became one of these trainees in 1935. Her unique and entertaining account of her BMH years and her subsequent career in psychiatric nursing reveals her basic humanity, sparkling sense of humour and love of life. She tells how the students were given responsibility from the first day and held strictly accountable; this was designed to reveal any character weaknesses. Her first assignment was to watch an actively suicidal patient. Uncomfortable as yet in her brand-new uniform, Mary took off her cufflinks while she did some ward sewing. A few moments later, they had disappeared, and the patient was gleefully asking how she was going to tell Sister that the links had been swallowed. The ward sister was stern: ‘Never take your eyes off a patient,’ she told Mary. But she was also pragmatic. The patient got cascara, the links were retrieved and no fuss was made. Part of being a mental nurse, Mary discovered in those early days of learning ward protocols, was learning how to respond to the totally unexpected.
More serious instruction and correction came from the assistant matron. She was known to the students as The Wasp because she tried to catch them out in even the most minor of infractions – such things as incorrect preparation of an enema tray. She had perfected the art of making student nurses feel inadequate. The more serious offences meant dismissal and, more importantly, she had that power. Lesser ones, such as answering back to senior staff – possibly from the fatigue of long days of scrubbing floors, changing bedding, dressing and feeding the patients and working overtime because of staff shortages – saw the offender sent to climb a ladder to scrape pigeon droppings off the hospital cistern. Mary says she went up there at least six times, usually with a patient subject to fits of shaking to hold the ladder. She says she could do very little scraping, so she hung on, reading love letters from a boyfriend she had hardly any time to see.