The First Year

by Lucilla Andrews

  I looked over her head at the hospital. ‘If I ever get into it, yes, I do. But there’s an exam to be got through first.’

  She said she would keep her fingers crossed for me. ‘I expect you’ll be all right, duck. Expect I’ll be seeing you in Margaret one of these fine days.’

  ‘Are you in Margaret? Have you been in long? How are you getting on?’

  She said she was getting on lovely, real lovely. ‘I comes into Margaret twice a year, like. For me treatment. Takes about two weeks, then I goes home again. I’m due back just after Christmas, the doctor was telling me this morning; so perhaps I’ll see you next time I’m in.’

  I smiled at her pleasant, homely old face. ‘I hope so, too. Thank you.’

  ‘So just you ask after Mrs Jannings next time you are in Margaret. All know Mrs Jannings in Margaret, they do,’ she added proudly. ‘And what might be your name, duck?’

  ‘Rose Standing.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s ever such a nice name, duck; but, if you’ll not mind my saying so, you didn’t ought to have told me your name was Rose. That’s not proper, duck. You should just say Nurse Standing, or you’ll have the Sister carrying on at you.’

  I thanked her again. ‘So I should. Oh, dear. That’s the sort of thing I forget.’

  ‘Never you mind, duck.’ She took up her knitting. ‘You’ll learn in time. Ta-ta for now, Nurse ‒ and good luck for your exam.’

  I wished her good luck, and said I hoped we’d meet in Margaret, then wondered if I ought to wish her back in hospital. However, she seemed to think I had said the right thing, as she beamed, gave me a friendly wave, and went on with her knitting.

  I trundled on. Despite Sister P.T.S.’s perpetual disapproval of my conduct and the presence of Mrs Clark to remind me of my carelessness, I felt very happy. I thought about Mrs Jannings and how friendly she had been; I hoped the other patients with whom I came into contact would be equally approachable; it had never occurred to me before that nursing, as well as being hard work and interesting, might be fun too. But a ward filled, or even sprinkled, with Mrs Jannings’s could hardly fail to be anything else.

  I crossed the rest of the park while I thought this out, pushed the chair over Casualty yard, read a sign that said ‘Main Dispensary,’ and turned left. The Dispensary was still open, and a number of people carrying medicine bottles and pill-boxes came down the steps from the department as I went by. Those close to the bottom step kindly waited to let me precede them with my wheel-chair. I felt very guilty at being given this priority with my present cargo, since the out-patients must almost certainly be in far more of a hurry than I was; but I did not like to stop and explain, so I pushed on as quickly as I dared, smiling and bowing slightly as I did so, and now feeling exactly like Royalty, since the people anxious to go up the steps were also waiting for me, and I was bowing to left and right.

  The Medical School looked closed for the day. I was relieved about that. I knew no students there, but, like all new pros. at St Martin’s, I had already been told of their hair-raising habits. I did not doubt that under present circumstances I was a moving target for any student wit or rag; as the School was shut, and there was now no hurry, I slowed down, dawdled along the concrete path beside the building, enjoying the sunshine before I vanished into the basement.

  The small side turning was easy to find. The ground there sloped gently downward. I guessed that this was to facilitate the wheeling of chairs, oxygen cylinders, and stretchers into the basement, then felt very smug about my knowledge of hospital life. It was dark in that alley after the sunshine outside, but once my eyes grew accustomed to the dimmer light I saw that the long, straight, scrubbed-stone corridor was empty. The slope was also sharper than I had thought, and the chair was running of its own accord. I held it back for a few feet, then, without conscious thought, I put one of my feet on the back rung as Josephine had warned me not to do. My weight provided the added impetus that made the chair quite unmanageable. I had either to hang on and let it take me or let it go. I thought quickly, no good nurse would abandon her patient even if made of wood and papier mâché ‒ lifted my other foot from the ground, and hung on. The chair carrying Mrs Clark and myself shot down that sloping corridor as if it was jet-propelled. It was an exhilarating sensation, and, as there was no one about to object, I enjoyed it immensely. I went on enjoying it until we reached the end of the corridor and I found it was not the end but only a sharp corner. Round that corner the ground sloped upward; at the end of the up-gradient the chair came to an abrupt stop. Mrs Clark pitched forward in her seat, and I pitched forward over her head. Neither of us was hurt, because we both fell soft. We fell soft, because by then we had run into a little group of men in white coats, and they broke our fall.

  There was absolute silence as, with the help of one of the men, I got unsteadily on to my feet.

  I said breathlessly, ‘I am so sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt you.’ I bent forward to look at Mrs Clark, whom the other men had lifted back into her chair. ‘Oh, dear! Do you suppose her other leg’s come off this time?’

  The large man with the serious face who had stood me rather grimly on my feet moved me aside as he bent over the chair. Someone behind me made an odd sound that seemed to be a cross between a grunt and a cough. The large man touched Mrs Clark’s shoulder. ‘Her other ‒ Nurse, what do you mean? And what were you doing pushing a patient ‒’ he broke off as he recognized my ‘patient’.

  ‘Good God. It’s Mrs Clark.’ He patted her head as if they were old pals. ‘Haven’t seen you for a long time.’ Then he looked back at me, and his attitude changed. ‘Are you from the P.T.S., Nurse?’ he asked severely.

  I said weakly, ‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ and forgot to add, Doctor.

  His eyes rested on my face. His expression reminded me of the one Sister P.T.S. always wore when she looked at me. ‘Were you ‒ a nurse in St Martin’s uniform ‒ scooting on a chair in the hospital building?’

  I felt about two inches high and six years old. I also felt my face growing red. ‘I was taking Mrs Clark to the carpenters’ shop.’

  ‘At that speed? And scooting, weren’t you?’

  I clutched my hands behind my back. ‘Yes, I was. I’m sorry.’

  He looked me up and down. ‘You know this is not the type of behaviour we expect from our nurses?’

  I said yes. Then, as the fact that he was wearing a long white coat eventually penetrated through my shocked senses, I added helpfully, ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  I had said the wrong thing. ‘I’m a surgeon,’ he replied curtly. ‘Surgeons are called Mister.’

  I knew quite well that he meant Mr So-and-So, but was far too rattled to be coherent about anything. I said, ‘Yes, Mister.’

  ‘The name is Waring.’ He turned from me to Mrs Clark. ‘Why is she going to the carpenter? I’ve never heard of her being hospitalized before. And what was that you mentioned about her other leg? Has she broken something?’

  There was nothing for it, so I showed him her damaged knee. The other men had melted into the shadows against the wall; I knew they were still there, because I could hear their careful breathing; none of them had spoken a word.

  The surgeon who said he was Mr Waring tucked the blanket back into position. ‘How did that get broken?’

  I said, ‘She fell out of bed.’

  ‘A dummy? How?’

  I swallowed. ‘I was blanket-bathing her. I pushed her out.’

  He said, ‘Oh!’ and smoothed his hair. His hair was very fair; so fair that in the artificial light that lit the second corridor I thought it to be white. He looked down at his feet and told his feet that nursing was an occupation for adults, and that young women who proposed taking it up as a career would be well advised to grow up before they entered the hospital. Then he turned and walked away down the corridor.

  The three men by the wall came to life. They looked younger than the fair man, and they wore short white coats. One of them, a tall, very dark young man, with an
attractive voice, asked if I was hurt. ‘Quite an impact you made just then, Nurse. No fractures? Not even a laceration?’ He wagged his head. ‘How about acute shock setting in?’ He glanced at his companions. ‘But I must say it makes a change, eh, chaps? Been mown down by many things in my day, but never before by a P.T.S. pro. pushing a dolly.’

  His colleagues agreed that there was never a dull moment at Martin’s.

  I was too concerned to be amused and, since they seemed more human than the man who had just left, I asked anxiously, ‘Is he very angry?’

  They exchanged glances.

  ‘It’s this way,’ explained the dark one; ‘our nurses don’t make a sort of habit of scooting round the basement ‒ pity, I agree ‒ but there you are. And if they did,’ he shrugged, ‘well, it’s the sort of racket a chap in his position would have to create about. Must take a serious view if you’re an S.S.O. A chap has to be on the ball all the time. Bad for discipline and moral fibre and what-not, if not.’

  I closed my eyes in despair. This was worse than I thought. I opened my eyes again. ‘Is he very important? And are you important too?’

  They guffawed. ‘We, dear Nurse,’ replied the dark man, jerking his thumb downward, ‘are less than the dust. Student men. The scum of the hospital earth.’

  But Angela had told us that students never wore white coats, and that was how you could tell a doctor from a student. ‘You’re wearing white coats.’

  He flicked at his cuff. ‘Senior students attending P.M. demonstrations, for the use of. But note the length of the jacket, Nurse.’ He held his pockets out from his body. ‘Behold. And therein lies the secret of identification. Students ‒ to here. Housemen have sort of reach-me-downs to the hips; and the big bosses, the senior residents, wear them right down between the knee and the ankle.’

  I felt sick. ‘That Mr Waring? His was long?’ They nodded like three mandarins. ‘So he is important?’ They nodded again. ‘And you said he was S. ‒ something? What’s that?’

  They all fell on their knees. ‘The Senior Surgical Officer.’ They bent forward and swept the floor with their foreheads. ‘The big white boss of resident surgery,’ they chorused in mock deference, ‘ace high.’ They salaamed for a third time, then stood up.

  ‘Of ‒ the whole hospital?’ I gasped.

  ‘Have a heart, love,’ said the talkative student kindly, brushing the dust from his knees, ‘Martin’s is a biggish place. It’s got around twelve hundred beds. Say half of those are surgical. Jake Waring is boss of the surgical side.’ They fell on their knees again, and when they were on their feet the dark man went on brushing his legs absently. ‘But don’t get the wrong idea, Nurse. Even if Jake is only boss of half the hospital that’s still not as easy a job as falling off a log or’ ‒ he grinned at Mrs Clark ‒ ‘being pitched out of a chair. A chap not only has to be a Master of Surgery to hold it down; he also has to be a cut above every other surgical character in his era to be chosen. There are other hospitals, I believe?’

  He looked at his friends, who murmured that they had also heard tell of other places. ‘Of no account, naturally.’

  ‘Of no account,’ he agreed, ‘to any Martin’s man. Which whittles the thing down a lot; only one Martin’s, and every surgeon at Martin’s wants the job which at present is held by our golden boy. So, for your further information, Nurse, the chap you just bunged in the small of the back with yon dolly is Mr John Arthur Kevin Edward Waring, M.Ch., F.R.C.S., S.S.O. at St Martin’s Hospital, London, known to one and all, for obvious reasons, as Jake ‒ only not to his face unless you mix in exalted circles.’

  I felt not only sick, but dizzy, after all those letters. ‘Do you think he’ll report me? To Sister P.T.S.? Or ‒ Matron?’ I shuddered. ‘Is there anything I can do to improve the set-up? Apologize or something?’

  The smallest man, who had up to now only spoken in chorus, suggested I resign instantly. ‘Much simpler than being chucked out. More dignified. A woman should always be dignified.’

  The third man mildly remarked that there was always the river. ‘Quite handy. Not half a mile off. Only problem there is that the water will be so cold when we have to dive in and rescue you. I hate bathing at the end of the season. No, skip the river.’ He brightened. ‘I’ve got it. You go into a decent decline, Nurse. Pine away ‒ take the green sickness. And when they ask you what ails you, before you turn your face to the wall for the last time, say you can’t forget the shame of ploughing the S.S.O. down. Pro. bites Dust after making Pundit bite Dust.’ He beamed at us. ‘How’s that for a coroner’s headline?’

  ‘Lousy,’ replied the dark student. ‘Now, you listen to Uncle, love,’ he told me, ‘and ignore these two heartless characters. I’ll give you some words of wisdom. Never believe a word any student man ever tells you. Don’t get in a state over this; it’ll just make a good story ‒ nothing worse. Jake’s said all he’s going to say. He may tear a character into little pieces himself when roused, but he never delegates the tearing. As far as he’s concerned, the subject’ll be closed ‒ providing you don’t make a come-back with another cracked dolly. And, since we can’t offer you any more constructive advice, we can at least shove this character Clark along to the carpenter for you. So shall we get cracking?’

  When I had returned the empty wheel-chair safely to the P.T.S. changing-room I went up to Josephine’s room. Angela was there too. ‘How did you get on, Rose? All serene?’

  ‘Very,’ I said grimly, and told them what had happened. Angela shouted with laughter, but Josephine was upset.

  ‘Rose, how could you be so daft? And what a pity you didn’t just run into those three students. Then no one would have heard about it.’

  Angela stopped laughing. ‘That shows how little you know about hospitals, Josephine. Everyone,’ she assured us, ‘knows everything about everyone else in a hospital. Everything gets round. The grapevine works like radar. You can’t keep a thing dark.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ I stared at her. ‘You aren’t telling me Sister P.T.S.’ll hear?’

  ‘As you’re in the P.T.S., she’ll be the first person.’

  Josephine looked even more shocked than I felt. I said, ‘Well, girls, this is it. Write and tell me how you get on as nurses. I certainly won’t be here to see. I’ll be out by the morning after this.’

  I was not out by morning, although when Sister sent for me after Prayers I almost wished that I was. But Sister had only sent for me to tell me that the carpenter had told her that Mrs Clark was not seriously damaged and could be repaired easily. ‘I am sure it relieves your mind, Nurse, to know you have done no irreparable damage?’

  I said it did, and thanked her very much.

  ‘The carpenter is sending her back with one of his staff, so you need not go and fetch her.’ She looked at me calmly. ‘We would not wish to run any more risks with our oldest and most valued dummy, so possibly that arrangement will be for the best.’ Then, without any change in her voice or expression, she asked me if I had hurt myself when I inadvertently collided with Mr Waring.

  I started. ‘Er ‒ no, Sister. Thank you.’

  She said she was glad to hear it. ‘That corridor can be difficult to manoeuvre with a heavy chair.’ She inclined her head. ‘That was all I had to say to you, Nurse.’

  In the classroom the girls were waiting for me. ‘Was she furious? What did she say? Have you got to go to Matron?’

  I waved them down. ‘Relax. No panic. She only wanted to know if ‒’ Then Sister’s voice from the doorway cut me short.

  ‘Nurse Standing, do you propose to deliver the lecture this morning? Or will you be good enough to take your place at your desk and allow me to discuss the Central Nervous System? Thank you.’

  That last week flashed by. We practised bandaging on each other, feverishly; made endless beds in which we took turns to act as live patients; washed each other’s heads in bed; read numberless books on anatomy, physiology, general nursing; chanted the names of the bones and muscles in every corner
of the P.T.S. and its grounds; drew weird charts of the circulation of the blood and even weirder ones of the lymphatic system. And then there was no time to read another page or roll another bandage. The first day of our final P.T.S. exam arrived, and by to-morrow evening we would know if we had passed into the hospital or whether we were not considered suitable candidates to become first-year students at Martin’s.

  The written examination, we all agreed, was bad enough; the prospect of the practical and viva-voce examinations was worse. With pale, set faces, spotless aprons and caps, clean dresses, and shining shoes, we waited outside the closed door of the classroom on that second morning. The examiners were Matron, the present Senior Sister Tutor to the hospital, Sister Martha, the senior ward sister, and two retired Sister P.T.S.s.

  Angela lowered what morale we had by saying, ‘When I was part-timing the girls all said the viva and practical were what really mattered. It just hangs on to-day. That’s why they line up this bunch of experts.’

  Josephine nudged me. ‘How do you feel, Rose?’

  I said, ‘I still feel sick.’

  One of the junior Sister Tutors who had come to help Sister P.T.S. for the day overheard me. She stopped by us and smiled. ‘I actually was sick, Nurse ‒ but I got through. If you try to remember what Sister has taught you, you will too. Sister P.T.S. is a wonderful teacher.’

  ‘She may be,’ I whispered to the other two when that Sister Tutor had gone, ‘but I can’t remember a thing. My mind’s gone blank. And I bet I get Mrs Clark.’

  I could have wept with relief, when as I stood before her table Matron said, ‘Nurse Standing, will you please blanket-bath Lady Smith? I will watch you from here.’

  Lady Smith stared at me with round, blank brown eyes and behaved beautifully. I did spill a little water on the floor, but none on the bed. I quickly hitched the locker forward with one foot and hoped that would cover the slight mess. The bedclothes remained neatly as I placed them, and when I rolled Lady Smith, decorously covered by a blanket, from side to side she never shifted an inch of her own accord.