An Unsuitable Mother

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘And what about you, Nurse Spottiswood?’

  Nell snapped back to attention. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Her face like a cold summer’s day, Sister Barber gave an exasperated sigh and brandished a packet of cigarettes at her. ‘You will address me as “Sister”! I asked, do you smoke?’

  ‘Oh, I won’t at the moment, thank you, Sister.’

  The freckled face closed its eyes in lamentation of this gauche response. ‘I wasn’t offering you one! I was trying to ascertain if you smoked! For those of you who do, there will definitely be none of that in uniform!’

  Why then, Nell wondered, did Sister herself have cigarettes in the pocket of her own blue dress? As if the other had read her mind, there came a warning that forbade her even to think of offering defiance. ‘The last thing a sick person needs is for his nurse to smell like a chimney!’

  Unhappy that the pair of them had got off on the wrong foot, Nell tried to buck up her ideas, as she and the others were sent to a depot to collect said uniform.

  Upon receipt, and out of earshot of Sister, Nell made salty judgement on the unattractive dress. It was much more basic than those worn by the aristocratic Ashton girls, with no separate white collar but a cutaway one of the same fabric as the dress, no long sleeves with white cuffs like theirs, but puffed short ones, and there could be no mistaking her for a ‘real’ nurse with the large letters NA emblazoned on her breast. And instead of a neat little organdie cap like Matron’s, or a voluminous starched one with wings to either side like Sister’s, the nursing auxiliaries’ headgear was little more than a white triangle tied at the back. ‘How unflattering,’ scoffed Nell. ‘Like a peasant’s scarf! Still, I suppose we should think ourselves lucky we’re not made to wear black stockings.’

  ‘It’s not a fashion parade,’ sniped Avril Joyson. ‘We’re here to help the war effort. And I’m not surprised you got taken to task in those high heels.’

  But as the one with the goldfish pout minced out of earshot, the trustworthy Beata Kilmaster smiled back at Nell and admitted, ‘I’d love to be able to wear those, but I always have to wear sensible shoes with this leg.’ Nell’s eyes went straight to the other’s distended ankle. ‘And whatever type of shoes that one wore, she’d still be a pain in the arse – pardon my French.’ Beata chuckled in afterthought of the French nurse.

  Nell giggled, and knew immediately that despite the age gap they would be firm friends. ‘I only meant about the uniform, when you’re built like I am, you need all the attractive camouflage you can get. I feel like a bag of spuds!’

  But there was no time for any more banter, for they had been instructed to return immediately to the train. Once there, enveloped in aprons and armed with mops, buckets of water, soap and scrubbing brushes, the squad was set to work, men on the outside, females within. Nell threw herself into this wholeheartedly, imagining what her parents would say if they could see their daughter on her hands and knees. However, there could be no quibble about social division, because, to her pleasure and respect, the well-bred girls mucked in quite enthusiastically alongside everyone else.

  It was obvious, though, that contrary to Avril Joyson painting herself as the dedicated nurse, she deemed these elements of the job beneath her, and it had not escaped Nell’s sharp eye that she had quickly volunteered for the easier task of wiping down the walls – meaning she did not acquire a crick in her neck from having to wash the ceiling, nor sore knees for scrubbing the floor, as Nell herself was suffering.

  None the less, working her way along the wagon, with only a piece of sacking to cushion her kneecaps from the hard planking, the youngest one amongst them put in vigorous effort, moving her scrubbing brush back and forth along the dusty grooves, constantly scouring her knuckles and sending them redder and redder, yelping at splinters as she sweated and scrubbed alongside Beata Kilmaster. Her own joints being so punished, Nell marvelled at how poor Beata coped so well with her swollen leg. Casting a glance sideways now, as she uncoiled her aching spine, she noted that Beata’s shoulders were trembling. About to touch her in concern, she then realised that her friend was shaking with mirth, and, grinning along with her, she asked, ‘What on earth’s tickled you?’

  ‘It’s ironic,’ Beata arched her own back to relieve it, ‘you come and be a nurse to save you from skivvying, and what do you end up doing? Skivvying!’

  Nell shared her merriment, but wasn’t certain that she understood. ‘Do you mean you were a domestic servant?’

  ‘Aye, for fifteen blasted years,’ declared Beata. ‘More if you count the unpaid ones.’

  Nell frowned, but was too polite to ask how old the other was. All the same, she calculated that if Beata had been working for fifteen years that would make her around thirty. Realising that she was staring, she said quickly, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think you were –’

  ‘That old!’ Beata gave her chesty chuckle and finished Nell’s sentence. ‘It’s all right, I know I must seem ancient to a young lass like you.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Nell struggled to explain, her scrubbing brush dripping as it paused idle in mid-air. ‘It’s just that you don’t talk down to me, as most of your generation would.’ Her smile said how much she appreciated this.

  The other rejoined with her affable air, ‘I hate being patronised meself, so I never do it to others, no matter what age.’

  Nell cast an impish glance to where Nurse Green and her snowy-haired mother worked side by side, and whispered to Beata, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but Mrs Green looks, well, a bit like Methuselah’s wife!’

  Beata shared her mischievous laughter. ‘Her daughter’s about fifteen years older than me, so missus must be at least sixty-five. She’ll get the elbow if they find out.’ Though how she had managed to slip through with her grandmotherly looks was inexplicable to both. ‘It’ll be a shame, though, she’s a damned good worker. She’d make three of Oh-be-Joyful.’

  Guessing that she meant Avril Joyson, Nell rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, I noticed she was swift to volunteer for the easier bits. I wonder which of us will be first for the chop. Sister doesn’t seem to like me very much.’

  ‘She’s all right, she’s just strict,’ advised Beata. ‘I’ve had much worse task mistresses in my time – mindst, I think she’ll be getting rid of poor Frenchy before very long if her mangled English doesn’t improve.’

  Nell agreed with a laugh. ‘It’s a shame, she seems so nice. We’ll have to help her.’

  ‘You might be able to. I don’t know any proper French. I don’t know how she and Green got through the interview. I had a stinker.’

  Nell then pointed out an anomaly. ‘When I went for interview, they said we shouldn’t have any domestic duties – at least that was the impression I was given.’

  Beata confirmed this, but made a cynical addition. ‘I’ve learned never to take an employer on trust.’

  Nell pulled a face. ‘I brought a notebook to write down everything I’m taught, as a reminder, but I won’t forget this in a hurry.’ She winced at the gritty block in her hand. ‘Gosh, this blue-mottled soap’s taken the skin off my hands.’

  ‘At least there won’t be any germs left.’ Beata’s application was that of an expert.

  Nell glanced at her partner’s leg and, with their characters being so harmonious, decided to risk an impertinent question. ‘I don’t mean to be nosey, but what’s the matter with your leg? It looks very painful.’

  ‘Lymphatic oedema,’ supplied Beata, still working whilst Nell paused. ‘They don’t really know what causes it. I’ve had it since I was about ten. The doctor said then it was either heart or kidneys so I was probably a gonner. But I’m still here, so I reckon it’s not so life-threatening.’ Her grin belied how awful it had been to have such a threat hanging over her for years, until a more competent physician had taken charge. ‘It just swells up from time to time. Bit of a nuisance, but there’s plenty worse off.’

  Nell guessed that her new friend was in more dis comfort than she let on,
and admired her stoicism. ‘You don’t complain much, do you?’

  ‘Oh, I have me moments,’ smiled Beata.

  Nell was curious to know more. ‘It must have been hard, being in service.’

  ‘Not so different from this,’ revealed Beata. ‘As far as the hierarchy goes, anyway. I was always at the bottom of the ladder.’

  Nell breathed a realisation. ‘So that’s how you knew to open the door for Matron …’

  ‘Quit slacking, nurses!’ called Sister, interrupting her own task, her ire mainly for Nell. ‘I hope you’re not going to be a troublemaker, Spottiswood.’

  ‘It was my fault, Sister,’ admitted Beata. ‘I was just explaining to Nell –’

  ‘If she requires an explanation regarding anything to do with nursing – which is all you should be discussing – then she must come and ask me! And you can dispense with the Christian names, from now on it’s surnames only.’

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ replied both subserviently, and launched back into their scrubbing.

  But Nell was to protest when the gorgon was out of earshot, ‘We’ve both got such long names – and it sounds so unfriendly, doesn’t it? Do you think she’d mind if we shorten them?’

  ‘Spotty and Killie – I don’t think it’d inspire much confidence in our nursing skills, do you?’ grinned Beata, causing Nell to laugh too. At any event, these names were how they were to address each other from then on.

  At the end of a very long day of hard labour, Beata’s leg blown up like a sausage and Nell’s knuckles red and bleeding and still embedded with the odd splinter, the nurses were allowed to go home at five, with the promise from Sister that there was plenty more work and longer hours to come.

  ‘So what are you going to be doing tonight?’ enquired Beata, as the pair of them limped their way from the noisy railway sidings into an equally grimy road. ‘If you’ve any energy left, that is. Have you got a boy to take you out?’

  Nell ceased picking at her ragged fingernails, to cast a secretive smile at her much shorter companion. ‘As a matter of fact I have – but I’m only telling you and no one else. My parents would kill me.’ The twelve-year age gap was as nothing in this quickly established friendship, at least as far as Nell was concerned. ‘But I won’t be seeing him for a while, he’s been sent to London.’

  ‘You’ll be like me, then,’ Beata smiled up at her, ‘just sitting with your feet up by the wireless.’

  At this point a small group of their colleagues caught them up. Having overheard the last statement, the more forthright of the upper-class twins said gaily, ‘No, we can’t have that! We’ve just been discussing starting up a band with those Sally Army chaps – a modern one, I mean, not banging the tambourine or anything! Can either of you sing? We’re going into town for dinner and to discuss names, come and join us.’

  Nell observed that Avril Joyson had tagged on to the Ashton twins, seeming to enjoy the reflected status. The last thing she desired was that one’s company, and neither, apparently, did her companion.

  ‘Sounds fun,’ replied Beata, ‘but I can’t sing for toffee. I’ll be glad to come and applaud, but tonight I just want to get home, have a cup of tea, and rest my barking dogs.’

  ‘Me too,’ smiled Nell, affecting to collapse.

  ‘Killjoys!’ Lavinia’s plummy voice denounced them, but its owner was only joking, as she further scolded Nell. ‘Especially you – why, you’re barely out of school, you shouldn’t be such a fuddy-duddy!’

  If only you knew, thought Nell, with a mind to her passionate weekend with Billy, but told her accuser, ‘I’ve just managed to get back in my parents’ good books. I daren’t risk upsetting them. I can’t really sing either.’

  ‘Why, you are no use to anyone, Spottiswood!’ Her detractor aped Sister Barber’s strict tone. ‘You should jolly well show more enthusiasm – can’t you even help us out with a name at least?’

  Recalling Sister’s earlier admonition, Nell was swift to come up with one. ‘How about the Bedpan Swingsters?’

  ‘That’s perfect!’ Lavinia and Penelope fell against each other in mirth, and with even Joyson agreeing that this was a great idea, there was much good humour as they parted.

  The last to break up, Beata enquired if Nell would be catching her bus from the railway station just around the corner. But Nell had other plans. With no opportunity to pick up Billy’s letter at lunchtime, she had been forced to wait until now. It would mean travelling out of her way, but she would never sleep without reading his latest words. Feeling safe in confiding all of this to her new friend, she gushed, ‘See you tomorrow!’ then went to collect the prized letter and read it on the bus home.

  ‘Ooh, here comes Nurse Spottiswood in her new uniform!’ remarked her mother when Nell finally got in, her father having arrived just before her.

  ‘Looking very pleased with herself as well.’ After drying his hands, Wilfred took his place at the table, Nell doing the same.

  ‘She must have had as good a day as I have,’ surmised her rather frazzled but cheerful mother, placing a meal in front of both before serving herself. ‘The washing dried in no time in this sunshine, and I managed to get every bit folded and ready for ironing tomorrow.’ This accounted for the cheery mood, thought Nell, politely attending whilst her mother wittered on. ‘So if I can make an early start before it gets too hot, then I can devote the afternoon to fruit-picking,’ finished Thelma.

  Father came alert at the thought of his territory being invaded. ‘Er, I’ll tell you when you can pick it, thank you very much!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean from your domain, dear.’ Though fruit trees grew in abundance in the Spottiswood back garden, Thelma would never dream of touching them without her husband’s permission. ‘No, I just mean those brambles by the railway – that’s if anyone hasn’t beaten me to it.’

  Father looked duly appeased. ‘Oh, well that’s all right then. I just didn’t want you giving our best quality stuff to the WVS. I’ve negotiated a decent price for it with a couple of greengrocers, you see – you can take all you need for ourselves of course.’ He set into his meal, a good portion of it being consumed before either parent thought to ask about Nell’s new job.

  ‘So what type of girls are you working with?’ enquired her mother.

  ‘They’re mostly very nice.’ Nell lifted her attention from her plate, and proceeded to tell her parents a little about each fellow nurse, hoping to titillate them with her impression of the French one, though they did not guffaw as much as Billy would have.

  ‘So you think you’ll enjoy this nursing lark?’ smiled her father.

  ‘I’m sure of it!’ When I get a chance, came Nell’s grim thought, not revealing that her entire day had been taken up with scrubbing floors and getting splinters in her hands and her nails torn to the quick. ‘It’s hard, but worthwhile.’

  But she did make it known how tired it had made her, and, after listening to the wireless for news of how the Battle of Britain had gone that day, she was to linger only for another ninety minutes or so with her parents, enjoying a serial, then some music, whilst helping to make firelighters from compressed newspaper. By eight o’clock she was on her way to bed with a cup of cocoa, secretly to prop up the photograph of her beloved – whose laughing face looked on whilst she read his letter again – and to compose another to him, relating in brief the events of the day, picking out things that might amuse him, and ending with the usual sentiment of how much she missed and loved him. Then, within five minutes of kissing his photograph, and hiding this and the envelope under her pillow ready to be posted in the morning, she fell asleep.

  The transformation of the rolling stock took a couple more days, during which all the recruits twiddled with each others’ surnames so as to make their address less harsh. There was not much one could do with some of the names, but in addition to Killie and Spotty, Nurse French was now Frenchy and Avril Joyson was Joy – but this was a mischievously ironic title. Sister made no complaint as long as they di
d their work.

  Only after the wagons had been thoroughly cleaned and polished from top to bottom, and were fully kitted out, were the volunteers to learn anything related to actual nursing. First, there was to be a fortnight of lectures and training at a hospital. Though continuing to miss Billy dreadfully, Nell was intelligent enough to realise there was no point in moping, and so welcomed this opportunity to throw herself into learning her job, and thus be equipped with fresh material for her nightly penning. Even before this, Billy had seemed to enjoy all her mundane details. Now, though, she would have much more interesting news for him, which was good for her too, for this nightly ritual certainly helped to ease the emptiness – though, oh, how she yearned for him.

  The County Hospital was in Monkgate, only an extra stop on the bus then a few minutes’ walk under two ancient Bars. Beyond its Viking gates and medieval dog-leg alleys, York’s suburbs had begun to encroach on one village after another, but inside its compact walls nothing was far away, and you could get from one side to the other in less than half an hour. There had been no need for Nell to rise early, yet she had. Thankful that the manual part was over, she rolled up at the hospital that morning raring to fill the pages of her notebook, as did her colleagues.

  All were in for a shock. After their matron on the trains being so decent, her counterpart at the hospital was quite the opposite, making her feelings clear upon meeting the auxiliaries. Whilst Sister Barber had made it plain that she did not appreciate having amateurs foisted upon her, this woman was downright insulting.

  ‘I gather that one or two of you will be applying to have your names included on the national register. Those I shall be addressing later. As to those others of more restricted intellect, I shall attempt to convey this as simply as possible. I do not, and never shall, subscribe to quackery, and will not permit it in this hospital. I may have been coerced by the powers-that-be into accepting recruits who are totally inadequate for the task, but that does not mean I will subject my patients to abuse by persons who are only fit for domestic service, factory or shop work …’