Call Me Sister

by Yeadon, Jane

  What happened to Dingwall and Muir of Ord, I wondered. I’d been so busy checking on Meg I hadn’t noticed Charlie clocking up the miles.

  ‘Ten to go,’ he said as we passed through the bonny wee town of Beauly.

  Meanwhile, Meg’s contractions were getting stronger and she was beginning to squirm.

  ‘Feeling sore?’ I asked.

  ‘A bit, but you know, Sister, I’ve been thinking, I’m sort of worried that if we don’t make Raigmore in time and I deliver here they might just tell us to turn around and go home.’ For the first time that we’d met, Meg began to look worried.

  I recalled my early training days. I’d loved accompanying patients in ambulances transferring them from Aberdeen’s Woolmanhill Casualty Department across town to the general hospital. It was really dramatic being in a vehicle that stormed across red traffic lights with lights flashing and siren blaring. Of course, the patient would be ill enough to need more medical attention than the casualty department could offer. However, the journey was long enough to be exciting, yet sufficiently short enough to get the patient in one piece to the right department, and there wasn’t time to be travelsick.

  This journey was unusual in that my patient who, unless you considered pregnancy an illness, was well but wanted to be admitted into hospital.

  I caught a glimpse of a railway line and saw the Beauly Firth on the other side of the road; signs we were getting close to Inverness. Maybe I was going to avoid delivering a baby in a confined space after all. I grew hopeful.

  I said, ‘If Charlie wasn’t belting on I could ask him what happened to the Avoch patient after Ailsa delivered her, but I don’t want to take his concentration off the road. Landing in the ditch isn’t the best place for a confinement.’

  ‘Oh! That was a bad one!’ Meg grabbed my hand. ‘Bloody hell!’

  Strong language was often a sign that labour was moving into the transitional phase – that point before the mother starts to push.

  I’d a quick peek under Meg’s blankets, just in case the baby had arrived and hadn’t thought to mention it. But it was still a bump, with its mother continuing to grind her teeth. However, we were still on the outskirts of Inverness, with all the signs of an imminent delivery increasing.

  ‘Take deep breaths,’ I encouraged. ‘Come on, Meg.’

  ‘I’m not going to push,’ she groaned.

  ‘Oh, really?’

  By this time, I’d resigned myself to this delivery, even got round to marginally looking forward to it. I’d opened the delivery pack, had its contents all ready, and now my patient had opted not to co-operate! She wanted that baby in hospital. I wondered if it was a girl because if she was anything like her mother, it might be a close contest as to who’d decide when and where she’d arrive.

  Charlie, picking up on the drama, put his foot down hard. There was no traffic on the road, whilst the town’s buildings lay in dark silence as if they too were asleep. It must have given their occupants a rude awakening when the flashing lights and siren were turned on.

  A small smile tugged on Meg’s lips until another contraction ruled her body.

  ‘Give me strength!’ she said, her teeth gritted.

  ‘Nearly there!’ cried Charlie, flying the ambulance over the final stretch.

  ‘I’m going to have to push!’ Meg groaned, trapping my hand in a vice-like grip.

  ‘Whatever happens, I can’t think they’ll send you home now,’ I squeaked, beginning to worry that my patient was so set on delivering in hospital she wouldn’t care where it happened. What if she delivered on a trolley on her way to the Labour Ward?

  As we screamed to a halt outside Raigmore’s main entrance, two porters, who must have been manning the corridor, ran out pushing a trolley carrying a couple of wooden poles. They glanced up at Charlie, who shouted out of his window. ‘Right, boys. Labour Ward. Fast!’

  There was a clatter of boots as the men rushed to the ambulance door, threw it open and piled in.

  ‘Here, let me,’ I said, helping them to thread the poles into the stretcher cover Meg had been lying on.

  A porter puff ed out instructions, ‘Easy does it. One, two, and… three!’

  They lifted Meg effortlessly, carried her out of the ambulance and to the accompaniment of her groans, lowered her onto the trolley. Then, they took off, pushing the trolley down the general hospital corridor at such a fast rate I could hardly keep up with them. Carrying Meg’s suitcase didn’t help, and where was my delivery pack? How could I have forgotten it?

  ‘It’s right behind you!’ shouted one of the porters. ‘Just push!’

  ‘What?’ I thought he’d gone mad. Meg’s face was bright red, which could only mean one thing. Her groans funnelled down the corridor like something out of a horror movie.

  ‘No! Pant!’ I shouted.

  The leading porter shoved open the maternity unit doors with his bum. The trolley shot through, with the men now aiming it at the delivery room.

  They’d done this before and the same could be said for the couple of midwives taking over. As if Meg’s arrival was an everyday occurrence, they lifted her onto a delivery table with practised ease.

  ‘Can Sister here deliver me?’ Meg squeezed out the request.

  One of the midwives swept a dismissive gaze at my dishevelled form. ‘Sister, eh?’ She snapped on a pair of rubber gloves as she said, ‘Sorry, she’s left it a bit late. Now, push!’

  ‘That’s four Vass boys now. Quite a handful,’ I said to Charlie, driving back to Fearn. ‘It’s a good thing our patient’s got her stay in hospital.’

  ‘I didn’t want to say it at the time, but Ailsa’s patient wanted to get back home so that’s where we took her. I couldn’t have said whether or not the hospital would have accepted a delivered baby, but were you worried about delivering her?’ Charlie must be tired; he was holding the steering wheel with one finger.

  I saw no reason to lie. ‘Yes, but not as worried as the way you’re driving at the moment.’

  ‘Ah! You girls like a joke. Now that Ailsa one. She can really crack them.’ The thought seemed to brighten him, and he put his hands back on the wheel.

  ‘How come you met her? Avoch’s surely out of your area.’

  ‘I was helping out,’ he explained, ‘but I’m thinking of moving nearer Dingwall. It’s got a bit more life than Tain, and Strathpeff er’s quite near too. Have you ever been to the dances there? They’re great.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. I’ve believe Fergie Alexander plays there sometimes and he’s got a super country dance band.’ I thought for a moment, then remembering Meg’s request to help Charlie pursue his interest, said, ‘Why don’t you ask Ailsa to go with you? I bet she loves that kind of dancing.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that,’ Charlie protested. ‘She’d think me awful cheeky.’

  ‘So?’ I thought about Ailsa with her dancing curls and mischievous grin then said, ‘Look, Charlie, the worst she can do is say no.’

  With a grin not dissimilar to Ailsa’s, he perked up. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘Right enough. Maybe I just will. D’you go to dances much yourself?’

  ‘Yeah, sometimes. But right now I’ll settle for the bright lights of Fearn. Let’s hope we get to see them,’ I said, and, hoping Charlie didn’t follow by example, I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

  21

  29 CASTLE TERRACE

  In her endless quest to modernise our image, Miss Macleod had got us new coats. They mightn’t actually be fashion statements but they were a shade up from navy blue, made in a soft material and had rather classy buttons. The coats’ straight-cut design was kind to any figure, but not mine. My coat was hanging on a peg in my Conon Bridge home and I was in Edinburgh.

  I must have passed that initial period in Ross-shire well enough to be seconded here to do my official district nurse training. I was now living in the heart of the city along with a group of nine other trainees.

  Twenty-nine Castle Terrace was a great address. The building w
ith its high ceilings and elegant proportions must have been intended for grander times. Now it had a more functional role, housing the city’s district nurses’ headquarters, with lecture rooms and student accommodation on other floor levels above. Nursing equipment and uniforms were stored in the basement, where we were now waiting to be kitted out by Miss Cameron, our tutor.

  She pointed to a rack of coats which were like our old Ross-shire gabardine ones, only with a colour so much darker it verged on black. ‘We’ll do these first. They’ll make you conspicuous and immediately recognisable when you’re out and about. Of course, and I don’t suppose I need to tell you, our profession stands for a caring service. A sensible, tidy appearance plays an important role in all of that.’

  Her voice sounded familiar. It must be her Highland accent. As its gentle lilt washed over us, I sensed that shouting wouldn’t be her forte. She’d never get a job as a bingo caller. She was far more suited to dealing with people in such a gentle-shepherding sort of way that it made me want to impress her.

  Nursing was such a hands-on profession that I hoped that, thanks to Sister Shiach, I’d probably manage the practical aspects of the training all right. Theory might be trickier. I’d just have to wait and see. However, I’d already learnt that the other girls on the course were all very friendly. I felt optimistic.

  Spring was in the air despite the searching wind that seemed to be the city’s permanent resident. Compared to my old training school’s Aberdeen grey and granite, Edinburgh seemed sage and green; the days were stretching and even if our coats looked old fashioned we wouldn’t have to wear them when off duty. Then we’d maybe get the time to catch the tail end of the Swinging Sixties. We might be leaving that decade behind but we’d take its music with us. I’d a record of Nina Simone. I loved her voice and had heard she was due to make an appearance soon in the city’s Usher Hall.

  Then too there were great cinemas. I sighed happily. Here I was in an Edinburgh, firmly on the map thanks to The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie film.

  I wondered if Miss Cameron, who wore no make-up, had mousy-brown hair styled in finger waves and wore her navy blue box-pleated skirt nearer her ankles than her knees, had seen it. I rather thought she was more likely to enjoy an evening of psalm singing and was determinedly un-swinging.

  ‘Next one please, girls,’ she called out.

  She was definitely not like Miss Macleod.

  The last time I’d seen her, her skirt was even shorter than when I’d had my interview. She’d swapped her specs for contact lenses and her hairstyle verged on the bouffant. There was gossip about a gentleman’s clothing frequently appearing on her washing line. Rumours grew but she appeared unaware or indifferent to such talk. I wondered what was going on in her life, but only for a moment. I was too excited thinking about my own in bright city lights.

  ‘You’re sure to enjoy yourself in Edinburgh,’ Miss Macleod had said, consulting her perfectly manicured fingernails. ‘It’s a wonderful city. And count yourself lucky. You’re going on the last Queen’s District Nurse Course. If you pass the exam, you’ll be a Queen’s Nurse when you come back.’

  ‘Queen’s Nurse?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied vaguely. ‘Started by Queen Victoria, I believe.’

  Where was the Sister bit, I wondered. I’d only just got used to the title.

  That wasn’t an issue with Miss Cameron, but clothing lengths were.

  ‘Good! Not too short,’ she said, looking at her class, now rigged out as if ready for a funeral. ‘Go ahead and try on a hat. Hopefully the weather’ll be fine.’ She paused for a moment and I brightened. Maybe if the sun shone we could cast off things which suggested a career in the Desert Foreign Legion, but then Miss Cameron finished. ‘And then you won’t need to have their lugs down.’

  I remembered the Ross-shire pillbox hats with affection. They could be set at a jaunty angle. They could even conceal a few hair rollers fitted under them, handy if, after work, the wearer fancied a night out in Strathpeffer and didn’t want to go there with hair hat-flattened. The Edinburgh ones only stayed in one position, were the same colour as our coats and defied any sort of creativity, unless you could do a fancy bow with the ties, there to secure the earflaps to the top of the hat.

  ‘You’ll need one of these.’ Our tutor pointed to a row of Gladstone bags.

  ‘You must keep them spotlessly clean, and don’t forget the cotton linings. They’ve to be taken out, washed and bleached regularly. You can expect spot-checks on your bags.’ She shuddered. ‘The last class kept theirs in a disgraceful condition. I even found a packet of fish in one of them. The student said it was for a patient’s tea.’

  Ignoring our stifled giggles, she warmed to her theme. ‘Well, you know, you’re all qualified registered nurses so you must know the importance of hygiene and cleanliness, even if some of the homes you visit might challenge those standards.’ She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Her voice rang out as if marshalling the troops. ‘But you must, you must, do your best to keep them. Standards now – they’re a must!’

  As if surprised by the strength of her eloquence, she paused, giving one girl the chance to look in one of the bags.

  ‘It’s easy seen these don’t belong to midwives,’ she said. ‘The toenail scissors, tube and enema funnel are giveaways.’

  I wondered if I should mention my recent ambulance trip with Meg Vass but Miss Cameron was ahead of me. ‘With a bit of luck,’ she said, ‘you won’t be called to do any midwifery work on this course. I know a few of you have the qualification, but here you’ll be covering a district which will have its own midwife. You’ll probably not meet her, as she’ll be attached to a GP practice. Referrals for their work come from their doctors and maternity units but our work comes from here.’ She pointed a finger upwards. I thought she meant Heaven, but she was heading back upstairs. ‘Come along,’ she called, ‘I’ll show you. It’s part of Headquarters.’

  There were grey steel case filing cabinets lining one side of an office where a red telephone made a colourful statement on the secretary’s desk. She was just visible behind a huge typewriter with the heavy presence of a steam engine. Momentarily she stopped typing. without the machine’s clatter and ting, the sound of distant buzz of traffic drifted up, reminding us that we were in the centre of a busy city. The building had such a cocoon-like quality it was easy to forget that. Then the telephone rang.

  Miss Cameron said, ‘As you see, our busy secretary deals with calls as well. They’re usually for us from GPs. After she’s taken the details and depending on their urgency, she’ll either give them to whoever’s on call or to the nurse who covers that GP’s area.’ She pointed to the filing cabinets. ‘And these hold the patients’ records. As soon as the nurses come back from their visits, they must fill them in.’

  I thought about Sister Shiach and her minimalistic record keeping. Here, I suspected, a tick wouldn’t suffice.

  ‘Will we be going out on district soon?’ someone asked.

  ‘Yes. After a week, and you’ll have a district nurse with you as well. She’ll check to see you’ll manage all right.’ Miss Cameron glanced at her watch. ‘Good heavens! If we hurry, there’s just enough time before lunch to give out your bus passes and let you know the areas you’ll be covering. We’ll get that done in the classroom.’

  Following her stocky frame, we trooped up another flight of stairs and into a big room, light-filled by huge windows looking out on to Edinburgh castle. It was a stunning view but apparently lost on Miss Cameron.

  Nodding towards it, she said, ‘You know, it’s shocking the things that go on over there!’ Outrage, magnified by her tortoiseshell-framed spectacles, hardened her eyes into blue stones. She pointed towards the castle’s rocky ramparts.

  The class as one turned to follow her gaze then burst out laughing after she conceded, ‘Mind you, you’d need binoculars to see them.’

  She’d sounded horrified, but now she sucked her bottom lip then, supplica
nt-like, bent her head. ‘Ah well, I’ll be talking to you about being non-judgemental and discretion later. Maybe I should start with myself – but,’ she added with a righteous sniff, ‘modern times aren’t always the best.’

  She went back to tutor mode, and dusting the sides of her skirt addressed the class as if about to give a huge honour. ‘Make it a short lunch break because I’ll be showing you how to make Queen’s pokes and we’ll need plenty time for that. I’m looking forward to getting some really professional work done.’

  22

  PAPER CHASE

  We were waiting for Miss Campbell when she came into the classroom, staggering under the weight of a huge pile of Sunday Posts. She thumped them down on a table.

  ‘Oh, I say! Maybe we’re going to get a seminar on The Broons,’ whispered Tina, who was sitting beside me. ‘It might help me with the Scottish dialect.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a problem for you,’ I replied, giving her a friendly nudge. ‘After all, even if you are English, you’ve been a matron in a boys’ school there, and I’d think you could cope with anything, never mind our language.’

  Tina was unique in our group in that she looked great in the uniform. Her slim figure and blonde, petite good looks must have been a challenge to any hormonally-charged boy under her care.

  ‘What made you want to do district nursing?’ I’d asked over the lunch break. ‘It must be a world away from school life with all its lovely holidays.’

  ‘Believe you me,’ she said, wrinkling her nose, ‘they were never long enough. Anyway, I wanted to get back to real life and proper caring.’

  ‘I’m not sure you’ve come to the right place. I hadn’t thought the Sunday Post was a font of medical wisdom.’

  ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong,’ she said. ‘What about the letters sent to the Post’s doctor’s column? I believe they give GPs a clue as to what ailments will be waiting for them on Monday mornings.’ She chuckled then put her hands to her lips as Miss Cameron cleared her throat, a discreet sign she was going to begin.