Call Me Sister

by Yeadon, Jane

  ‘You’re going to find newspapers really useful when you’re out on district and, no, they’re not for reading on the bus.’ She blinked in surprise at the class’s ripple of laughter then, looking pleased, continued, ‘I’m going to show you how to make a bag from this.’ She held up a Post and waved it like a banner. ‘It’ll be something you can put soiled dressings in before you dispose of them. As most of your patients will have coal fires, you’ll be able to immediately burn them. It’s a proper hygienic method of disposal.’

  She beckoned to us with a plump finger. ‘It’s probably easier if you come up to the table and see how it’s done.’

  Obediently, we surrounded her. We craned forward with the attention of origami enthusiasts as she spread out two sheets of paper, smoothed, folded, creased and tucked with the expertise and speed of someone with an ironing fetish.

  ‘There! A Queen’s poke. See how easy it is!’ She held up the finished article.

  The Sunday Post papers had been transformed into a sturdy bag. It had a certain charm and definite usefulness. It stood on its own, had a wide mouth, a flat base. It even had a lid. Had it not been made of paper it could have made a handy saucepan.

  ‘Now it’s your turn,’ said Miss Cameron. ‘Let’s see what you can do.’

  As we set to, she adjusted her spectacles and, assuming an air of academic interest, ambled to the window.

  ‘If she’s looking for trouble,’ muttered Tina, ‘she should check up on her class.’ But our tutor was lost in her observational station. She seemed deaf to the sound of tearing paper, didn’t see screwed up balls of paper aimed into the wastepaper basket or paper darts made efficiently but in a spirit of frustration. But at length, she turned round.

  The jumble of shredded paper lying on the table wouldn’t have been what she expected.

  ‘Oh dear, it’s not usually a problem,’ she sighed. Then, reluctantly leaving her post, she came back to the table and took us slowly and with great patience through the process again. And again.

  Finally, we managed to get it. Hiding newsprint-blackened fingers behind our backs and standing as proudly as successful bakers, we lined up behind a row of perfectly made Queen’s pokes.

  ‘At last!’ said our tutor, touching them in a light-fingered gesture of approval. ‘Well done. I know you’re going to find these handy. Now, has anybody any questions?’

  ‘Em, Miss Cameron,’ said Tina, ‘why are they called Queen’s pokes?’

  Miss Cameron looked surprised and a bit discomfited. ‘I’m not really sure,’ she said. ‘Nobody’s seen a reason to ask before.’

  There was something endearingly innocent about our tutor. I thought that if Miss Macleod had been asked and didn’t know, she’d just have spun a yarn.

  She seemed a long way away then and two weeks later, so did Dingwall.

  For a start, I wouldn’t have had to rely on public transport. Here, where people filled the pavements, the morning traffic growled along Princes Street as if complaining at its slow progress. I was waiting for a bus, and with none in sight, began to worry that I was going to be late for my first patient on my own – not an auspicious start.

  I wondered how the rest of the class was managing. After our first week with Miss Cameron, we’d spent the next one shadowing a district nurse. We must have done all right because we were now, complete with bus passes, street maps and a list of patients’ names and addresses, all out on our own rounds.

  ‘Check the nursing notes beforehand. Then you’ll get an idea of what to expect and what needs to be done,’ said Miss Cameron, looking at us over the top of her spectacles. ‘And, Nurse Macpherson, your first patient is Mrs Henderson. There’s quite a lot to read about her in the notes because she’s been on our list for so long. You’ll not manage to read everything about her, so just give the recent notes a scan to grasp the essentials. You can catch up with her full history afterwards.’

  It had taken me longer to decipher the handwritten notes than I’d planned. Now, still with no bus in sight, I tried not to panic that I might have wasted time. I gazed skyward. High above and dominating the skyscape, the castle glowered down, making my thoughts drift back to the weekend.

  David, my old school pal, had come through from his work in Glasgow and we’d gone to see round the ancient fortress. There Edinburgh’s history reached up and enfolded us, whilst we fell into the familiar ways of a friendship moving towards something far more interesting.

  The signs were there as, hand in hand, we strolled towards the Castle Gardens. Their winding paths took us through a park where rabbits scampered through trees and weed-filled long grass. Lacking the manicured perfection of the Princes Street Gardens, the park had instead a rustic charm. But no seats.

  ‘This’ll have to do.’ David took off his jacket, and after spreading it on the ground, sat down. Patting a space left on it, he said, ‘Lovely view from here.’

  ‘Some view!’ I said, joining him and squinting up at the sky. ‘One minute I’m looking down on the Scott Monument and the next I can only see clouds. Ow!’ I shot back into the standing position. ‘I’ve been stung.’

  Too late I saw a nettle patch, small enough to be inconspicuous but big enough to cause my sudden levitation. I rubbed my leg, beginning to regret that I was wearing that killer mini-skirt I’d broken the bank to buy. ‘You must have seen them,’ I yelped.

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact I didn’t but, och, you’ll be fine,’ he said, then laughed and lay back, cushioning his head with his hands. The sun beat down, a cloud drifted past and he closed his eyes. ‘Go and see if you can find a docken. They’re supposed to be good for stings.’

  ‘It’s just as well you’re not the nurse,’ I said and made to go and look for one, when he caught my ankle.

  ‘Gotcha!’

  I crashed down. It was a soft landing but not from David’s point of view.

  ‘You nearly flattened me,’ he gasped. ‘Get off !’

  ‘That’s not very chivalrous.’ I got up once more. ‘So where’s a nice knight in shining armour when you need one, pray?’

  ‘Here!’ he wheezed.

  At last, strategically avoiding the nettles, I made a final descent.

  With his eyes full of mischief and his arms stretched out, David cried out in best Glasgow, ‘And she’s going down for the third time!’

  A startled blackbird that’d been eyeing us with keen interest flew from a nearby tree, leaving us in a pleasant silence. Momentarily I wondered if Miss Cameron was scanning the horizon, then forgot.

  A little later we grew cold. Clouds began to gather in a way that threatened rain. Shivering, David got up and put his jacket back on. ‘I know,’ he said as if suddenly struck by a monumentally clever plan, ‘why don’t we go back to your place? I fancy a wee lie down. I’d a really early start to get here.’

  I stared at him. ‘You mean, back at the home?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not?’

  I brushed grass off my skirt to give myself a bit of time to think, whilst imagining the conversation. ‘Ooh, hello, Miss Cameron,’ I’d say, dead casual. ‘Look! I found this nice young man in my bedroom. Seems a decent sort of chap. He wants to stay the night. I know it’s only a single bed, but I’m happy to share.’ Then I’d nudge her in the ribs and say in a jokey way she was bound to find irresistible, ‘We Highlanders know a thing or two about hospitality, don’t we?’

  The picture faded as reality kicked in and I snapped, ‘You must be joking. No bloke would be allowed past the front door.’

  ‘You could easily smuggle me in. For goodness’ sake, where’s your spirit of adventure, Janie?’ He laughed in the infectious way I usually found endearing, but not this time.

  ‘I’d get fired if you were caught,’ I retorted, ‘if our tutor didn’t die of heart failure first.’

  He shrugged, then said, ‘Oh well, I know you and if you’ve made up your mind, there’s nothing I can say to get you to change it.’ He jingled change in his pocket and looked wor
ried. ‘And as that’s the case, I’d best get back to Glasgow. I can’t afford to stay the night.’ Glancing at his watch, he grumped, ‘So if I go now, I suppose I’ll get a bus.’

  I didn’t stop him. Now, standing waiting for my own bus to come along, I wished that I had, or at least that we’d parted on better terms.

  23

  HILDA SHOWS HOW

  I got back to the more immediate present. I was beginning to think I’d never get to Mrs Henderson. I understood from the nursing notes that she’d had a stroke several years ago which had left her bed-bound with a left-sided paralysis. Her epileptic daughter who’d cared for her had suddenly died. Since then, the district nursing service had given general nursing care, with the recent notes describing a simple service of helping her to keep clean, comfortable and well enough to stay at home.

  I didn’t recall mention of a home help and wondered if she had one. At this rate, she might be thinking she hadn’t a nurse either. I fretted, hardly believing it when a bus did eventually pull up.

  As I boarded it I gave the street name to the conductor and asked him to let me know when we were there. He laughed and said, ‘I’ll give you a shout, pal, but if you don’t mind me saying so, district nurses usually know where they’re going.’ Grinning, he returned my bus pass.

  What a fine thing this is, I thought, putting it back in my pocket. It was like having freedom of the city. Maybe there was something to be said about public transport after all. I was glad I hadn’t taken my car. Even in the Sixties, Edinburgh’s parking was a problem.

  * * *

  My district, with its poorly-curtained, grime-stained tenements, was a long way from Princes Street and a gentrification which would transform it in the future. A horse-drawn milk float would be a rare sight nowadays, but nobody thought much about it then. The fine white one standing outside Mrs Henderson’s address was a regular, with a milkman already lifting out two bottles of milk from their crate. He handed them to me. ‘Would you take that in to Mrs Henderson? She’s in the basement. You’ll save me the steps and my legs.’

  With a twinkle, he nodded at mine then spoke to the horse, ‘Very nice but you’ll notice she’s no sugar for you – not even polio ones.’ He stroked the horse’s nose. ‘And they call it a caring profession!’

  He made me laugh as I went down the dark stone stairs, footsteps clattering. A dank smell lingered, whilst something soft brushed over my foot. It might have been a rat, and the woman with her rodent-like features who answered the door could have been a relation.

  ‘It’s just the nurse,’ she called over her shoulder. Then, addressing me directly, she said, ‘Come on in. I’m Hilda, the home help.’ Patting her headsquare bristling with rollers underneath, she led me into an ill-lit room dominated by a large bed and radiogram.

  A small fire sulked in a tiled fireplace. Hilda, moving on thin, scampering legs, went to the highly polished coalscuttle. Ignoring its shovel, she lifted out a lump of coal and threw it on the fire. That would explain her grimed hands, but I wasn’t sure about the mark on her arm. It was more like a bruise and I only saw it because she’d pulled up her sleeve. She hauled it back down, looking cross, aware of my glance.

  ‘So you’re our new student.’ A voice came from the bed I’d thought unoccupied. A thin veined hand came out from under colourless felted blankets and fingers twiddled in welcome.

  ‘Hilda’ll get you the basin.’ The woman in the bed seemed lost and helpless in the vastness of that bed but her voice was strong, with a warmth as if a chuckle ran through it.

  ‘Whoops!’

  Hilda had bent over the tiny form and with practised ease, punching feather pillows into supportive submission, brought Mrs Henderson up to eye level. She had a pale face, pointed chin, scanty grey locks, bright enquiring eyes and looked like a friendly wizard – but maybe not a very good one. The muscle contractures pulling her leg and arm into the frozen foetal position of her left side made it look as if she’d been in the middle of a spell that had gone wrong.

  ‘There! Won’t be a minute.’ Hilda sped off, her high heels clicking on the brown linoleum floor.

  She was fast. I’d no sooner swapped my coat for the uniform-protecting plastic apron hanging shroud-like at the back of the bedroom door than she’d returned. With the important bearing of someone carrying state jewels, she carried a threadbare towel, face flannel and an enamel basin with green soap floating in it.

  ‘Whatever you do, remember you’re a guest in every patient’s house and that’s a privilege. I know it can be difficult but accept whatever’s available and don’t ask too many questions.’ I knew from my experience with Jock and Willie that these words didn’t always apply, but now as both Sister Shiach and Miss Cameron’s words came back, I obeyed them to the letter. Under Hilda’s watchful eye, I carefully set about my task.

  ‘You’re doing fine,’ she said as I coaxed a lather from the soap and tried to ease the flannel under the armpit of my patient’s paralysed arm.

  ‘The nurses always have a job with this,’ Mrs Henderson said, nodding at her arm as if it didn’t belong to her. ‘Of course, some are better than others.’ Judgement lay there, so it might not be the time to say the soap was the kind my granny used to wash her woollens and greasy marks off the floor. Anyway, my patient’s skin looked wonderful, and I said so.

  Mrs Henderson beamed, laughter lines lighting her face. ‘Aye, if I was in hospital the starchy sheets would have finished me. I’d have had bedsores by the dozen.’ She stretched out her working hand and saluted Hilda. ‘She’s my saviour.’

  ‘Ach! Away with you. You’re always saying that,’ said Hilda. ‘You know fine it’s my job.’ She searched in her crossover pinny for a hanky, trumpeting into it so loudly the sound bounced off the distempered walls.

  ‘D’you ever get out of bed, Mrs Henderson?’ I asked.

  The question wouldn’t be asked today, since few patients are left bed-bound, helping to avoid the contractures which so limited my patient. But in those long-ago training days, it was considered okay for patients to stay in bed. With only the occasional outing to the commode beside it, I thought Mrs Henderson must find it a long day.

  ‘No, no!’ She chuckled. ‘There’s Hilda, and my son comes home at dinner time, then the twins are here after school.’

  ‘Twins?’

  Identical girls with neatly plaited hair and wearing immaculate school uniforms beamed out from a framed photograph sitting on the ancient music machine. As a piece of furniture it had all the attractive qualities of a coffin.

  ‘Orphans,’ Mrs Henderson was off-hand. ‘Now that my daughter’s away, Hilda, my son and I bring them up.’ A grin flashed across her thin face. ‘And one thing they can depend on is that their Gran’s always at home for them.’

  ‘Yes. Keep them in order, you do,’ Hilda put in. ‘They don’t get out of the house until you’ve had a good look to see if they’re tidy and done their homework.’

  I was full of admiration. ‘Seems to me you hardly need a nurse.’

  ‘Well you girls need to get your training,’ said my patient, ‘and I always look forward to your Miss Cameron’s visit. She’ll be coming with you for your final exam. We always have a great catch-up.’ She drew a deep breath and twiddled with the sheet hem-end. ‘I’m always teasing her about getting a man.’

  Hilda took a duster from her overall pocket and flicked it in the direction of the radiogram.

  ‘I think she’s a bit of a nosey parker,’ she said with a sniff. ‘Why doesn’t she mind her own business and stay back at base? I’m sure we could test you girls ourselves.’

  I wondered about Hilda’s bruise. It was neither the time nor place to inquire about it.

  As I headed for my next patient, the words came floating back. ‘Don’t ask too many questions.’ I’d have to wait until I got back to Castle Terrace.

  24

  IT TAKES ALL SORTS

  I wasn’t due back at Castle Terrace until lunchtime, and des
pite the late start, I had got through the morning’s work with some spare time left. Grabbing a moment of freedom, I caught the first bus coming my way. The conductor didn’t ask where I was going, which was just as well. If I’d said I was having a little jaunt, he might have put in a complaint about bus pass abuse to Miss Cameron.

  The top of the double decker gave a great view as we rattled over cobbled streets where wall plaques on buildings with crow-step gables testified to Edinburgh’s colourful historical past. The Brutalist features of the present Sixties buildings made more futuristic statements. Passing those concrete cold angular blocks, I wondered would they someday merit plaques and would time ever mellow such harsh lines.

  I thought about one of my patients, who lived in a flat on the top floor of a high rise. He seemed lonely and isolated but perhaps he kept himself away from people because he’d TB and had grown used to the initial-prescribed quarantine time. He was thin to the point of emaciation. A needle going into so little flesh must be painful.

  ‘Streptomycin’s not the best injection in the world,’ I’d said. ‘I’m sorry this injection’s too big to go into your arm and has to go into your hip.’

  I supposed that being subjected to that, as well as having to lower your trousers in front of someone much, much younger, could be unnerving, but he had a stoical calm and a gentle dignity.

  ‘I know, and it’s no bother. It’s how the other nurses have done it. They jabs are to be given long-term and I’ve got used to them,’ he said. Looking out of the un-curtained window, he pulled his trousers back up again. ‘You did fine.’

  He didn’t invite conversation so I left him, feeling that I’d abandoned him in a barren little room under a cloud of personal sadness and that I’d been unable to think of a way to change it. Edinburgh life was exciting, but remembering Miss Caird, my Raigmore lady, I realised people could as easily isolate themselves in a city as in a Highland glen.

  I was so wrapped in thought I hadn’t noticed there were no other passengers left in the bus and when it stopped, the driver switched off the engine. I hurried downstairs as the conductor took off his cap and threw it onto a seat.