An Unsuitable Mother

by Sheelagh Kelly

And, told that they could, she subsequently vanished, leaving her nurses to share a look of comic unease.

  It was customary for them to stay with their patients during the sirens – though both young women realised this was no ordinary alarm, for, accompanying the growl of enemy aircraft, there were shrieks of high explosives pulverising the city, and causing many of the dementia patients to quail in terror like little children. Along with her friend, Nell immediately set about reassuring them – often having to restrain the more violent – going from bed to bed, helping to insert earplugs, stroking papery old hands, as much to remind herself to stay calm as for their benefit, whilst ever conscious that this building too might soon come under attack. And she thanked God for the serene presence of her friend, for she could never have coped without such example.

  One of the patients began to fit, meaning Nell must leave her favourite whom she had just been soothing. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can, Connie, don’t you worry now.’ Gentle of word and manner, retaining that calm collected-ness that was expected in the face of danger, Nell tucked the bony little arms under the covers and made sure she had sufficiently reassured the old lady. Only then did she dart off to attend the afflicted one, having to stoop over the low bed in order to control the thrashing, and suffering a wrenched back in the process.

  ‘Can I have a pan?’ came the frail request from further along the rank of beds.

  ‘Be right with you, Mrs Turner,’ reassured Nell, and as soon as she was able she supplied it.

  By this time her colleagues in residence had started to pour in from the nurses’ home, some to tend the casualties who had begun to appear at the first-aid station, others to assist with the patients. With Mrs Gledhill sitting bolt upright and singing at the top of her voice – ‘Onward Christian So-oldiers, marching as to war!’ – Nell and Beata were most glad of the help. Even gladder when Matron came back.

  ‘With the Cross of Je-sus, going on before!’

  ‘Shall we evacuate them now, Matron?’ A young nurse prepared to move Mrs Gledhill’s bed along with its singing occupant.

  ‘Going on be-fore!’

  ‘No, just move the beds as far away as you can from the windows. It’s safer to keep them where they are, there are incendiaries dropping all over the place – Nurse Kilmaster, Nurse Spottiswood, take a bucket of sand between you and help put them out!’

  Nell and Beata hurried to comply, whilst Matron, with her enviably cool and authoritative manner, remained to conduct affairs and to soothe the frightened patients, going from ward to ward and checking that her nurses were managing. Some of the bedridden quaked in terror and incomprehension, many just looked confused, whilst others seemed to revel in the entertainment. Luckily, many of the more awkward residents had already been given a sleeping draught and slumbered on throughout. Matron now decided to dose the lot of them. ‘Fetch the bromide,’ she told a staff nurse. ‘Then perhaps we can lay a few of them under their beds for shelter – now, which of you ladies would like a nice cup of cocoa?’ she asked brightly of the patients.

  Meanwhile, Nell and Beata had taken hold of a bucket of sand between them – it was too heavy for one – and now clanked awkwardly down a fire escape, leaving a trail of grit as they went, for with Nell much taller than her friend the bucket was constantly tilting – occasionally barking the tender flesh of Beata’s leg too, for which Nell hastily atoned.

  ‘S’all right, love – God, we’re like Wilson, Keppel and Betty,’ puffed Beata at the sound of grating underfoot. ‘Doing a bloody sand dance!’

  Nell wondered how her friend could always summon a joke, but grimly agreed. ‘By the time we get down there’ll be more in my shoes than in the bucket – oh, damn that sodding Hitler and his barbarians!’

  Fortunately, when they did get down to the yard, others were dealing with the incendiaries, a fire warden putting his stirrup pump to efficient use, whilst a night watchman ran about sprinkling sand. Nevertheless, the latter was glad to relieve the nurses of their bucket, for another basket of bombs had burst overhead.

  ‘Oh, look at the candelabra!’ Hitherto, the only light had been that of a benevolent moon, but now the sky over York was further illuminated by an eerie halo of magnesium. Eyes to the heavens, Nell searched beyond the bank of cloud for a glimpse of the enemy – twenty, thirty or more, judging by the noise, the throb of their engines travelling right through her body – and for a moment she and her friend were in awe of the spectacle, the beams of searchlights zigzagging from one side of the city to the other, the showers of sparks like shooting stars, the pretty chandelier flares that turned night into day, the incendiaries plummeting to earth, plop, plop, plopping onto the roofs of surrounding buildings and setting them alight.

  She shivered, and not simply because of the cold, a prickle of fear causing her hair to stand on end as her imagination ran riot, for the night vibrated with Heinkels, the screech of high explosive, the shattering of glass, and the frantic clanging of fire engines. Shaken from her trance, she yelled across the yard to the watchman, ‘Will you be all right on your own? We’ll have to see to our patients.’

  ‘Aye, you go, Nurse!’ he threw back. ‘But I’d appreciate another bucket of sand if you can manage it!’

  Promising to supply one right away, she bounded back up the outer staircase nimble of foot, Beata with her swollen leg plodding heavily behind, the pair of them grabbing another bucket of sand between them and turning about. A puffy-eyed Sister Barber had also defied the bombs to come and help, but now, catching sight of her nurses about to exit, she broke away from her own orchestrations to summon them, and naturally they were forced to attend.

  ‘It’s pretty bad out there, Sister,’ panted a round-eyed Nell. ‘The watchman needs –’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve no wish to hold you up, Spotty!’ Sister seemed unfazed. ‘But take off your white aprons in case one of those blasted Germans should see it flapping and use it as a target.’ She was not being ridiculous, for now, added to the throb of Heinkels and the thuds of their highly explosive cargo, came the determined whine of a dive bomber, and the sporadic rattle of machine-gun fire.

  ‘And remember, Nurses!’ Having shed their aprons, Nell and Beata had been about to go, but the commanding voice had their heads whipping round again to meet Sister’s sincere and level gaze. ‘If it comes to it, look after yourselves first. These people have had their lives.’

  With an appreciative nod, sand grating underfoot. Nell and Beata careered for the fire escape with their consignment. The sky now bore flagrant reflection of ancient monuments in extremis. With a mind as to human life rather than historic loss, down the precarious outer staircase clanked Nell and Beata, to the continual rumble of bombardment, the hiss of shrapnel, the choking stench of bonfires and the deadly rat-tat-tat.

  ‘Flippin’ heck,’ joked the watchman, reaching for the bucket of sand. ‘I thought you’d gone to Scarborough for it!’ And he relieved them of their heavy bucket then dashed away.

  Turning tail herself, Beata afterwards, Nell glanced up to see a Junkers, which looked to her like some kind of evil dragonfly dipping over a pond, as it banked into another whining dive upon the old city. This was no time to stand and stare. Leaving others in charge of the yard, it was back to their patients.

  The bromide had begun to work, though the scene was still hectic as nurses were summoned from one bed to another. Especially so in the nursery, everyone trying not to make the babies any more frightened than they already were by the tremendous bangs that were coming from outside. Having managed to pacify a company of wriggling infants until their own sleeping draught took hold, trying not to think too much of her own baby out there somewhere, Nell finished her lullaby and placed the latest drowsy babe into his cot, then answered the request for assistance at the first-aid post.

  There, aghast at the horrific injuries she saw, she was briefly to recall her own childish wish to witness war’s excitement. Having seen it now, milling around her in all its bloody insanity, s
he prayed never to experience war again.

  Throughout those wee dangerous hours, the Luftwaffe continued to blitz the city – no air crews at close hand to fend them off, and no ack-ack – the sound and density of explosions coming perilously close to the hospital where Nell and her fellow nurses, doctors and ambulance crews worked valiantly through the busiest, longest night of their lives, as men and women with blackened faces ferried stretcher after stretcher into the first-aid post that was woefully ill-equipped to deal with them, tempers fraying, nerves jangling, weariness threatening to overwhelm all. And then at long last someone rushed in and announced excitedly: ‘A Hurricane got one of them!’

  And after that things began steadily to improve. Though the all-clear did not sound until dawn, by then pulses had begun to return to normal, and nurses to the nurses’ home, leaving a bone-weary Nell and Beata to express their private thanks to God that the hospital had not received a hit, then to limp about the mundane business of trying to rouse the patients, to make the beds, to measure out doses of castor oil, and to lug their churns of porridge and tea from the kitchen to the wards.

  In between all this, there was the night report to be written out, and checks to be made to see if there were any incendiaries left undetected that might yet send the whole building up. A tally must be done of residents too. And it was at this point that someone asked, ‘Have either of you seen Cissie? We can’t find her anywhere.’

  Shaking her head, and rather regretting this, for its interior felt as though it contained a whole corps of drummers, Nell exchanged a worried glance with Beata, and issued genuine sentiment. ‘I pray to God she didn’t manage to slip out last night …’ It still irked her that the unmarried mother of four had been granted more access to her babies than had she, but Nell’s ire was redirected at those in authority, for she was able now to understand Cissie’s maternal instinct to keep on replacing the babies that had been taken away. ‘I’d rather she comes back pregnant than be flattened by a bomb.’

  But there was no time to search with so many more to attend. Thankfully, in this they were to be assisted, most of the day staff arriving earlier than usual, and all of a pother, telling of the devastation they had witnessed in town.

  ‘What about the Minster?’ was the first query on the night staff’s lips.

  ‘Completely missed it, thank God! They got the Guildhall, though, the swines! Completely gutted it is …’

  Avril Joyson was amongst these informants, and though none too pleased at being relegated to the old people’s section, after giving a brief report of the damage she was to roll up her sleeves and ask, ‘Right, how can I help you, girls?’

  Soot had settled upon the crockery, necessitating a rapid rinse before food could be dished out, the top layer of the butter too having to be skimmed. Involved in this task, Nell and Beata looked appreciative, the latter saying, ‘Thanks, Joy, you can hand out the false teeth if you like.’

  And though this was not what Joy might have had in mind, she went off to do their bidding, before going on to start her own shift.

  Despite the bromide, most of the patients were now wide awake, and some ready to complain about their breakfast as usual.

  ‘Nurse,’ came a tremulous objection, ‘somebody’s stolen me butter off me bread and replaced it wi’ Vaseline!’

  ‘Never mind, it’ll slip down better,’ said a heavy-eyed Nell under her breath, for the amusement of Beata, this complainant being an inveterate one. But to the patient she was bright and cooperative. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Bryant, I’ll exchange it for you!’ And the slice of bread and butter was quickly replaced.

  ‘Bugger me,’ muttered Beata as they came to another bed, ‘you can tell Joy handed out the false teeth. Poor Mrs West looks like an old ewe.’

  Nell heaved a sigh over such insensitivity – not to mention the amount of extra work this would mean for themselves, for the correct teeth had now to be found. Gently prising the overlarge dentures from the old lady’s jaws, she muttered her opinion on Joyson. ‘The lazy devil, she must have just stood at the end of the ward and hurled them out willy-nilly, couldn’t wait to rush off to her soldiers. How many are wearing the wrong ones?’ But, running her experienced eye over the rest of the ward, it seemed that most did have their correct dentures, and there were only Mrs West’s to find, and at last she was able to point these out. ‘I think that might be them, don’t you?’ And both gave a chuckle, for an equally waggish Mrs Collins was trying to catch their eyes by holding up the dentures she had been given, and snapping them open and shut like castanets.

  With a swift rinse of the false teeth, and much good humour, breakfast was eventually served; though the time when the exhausted nurses could go home to their beds was a long way off yet, for there were scores of helpless to spoonfeed, a painstaking process at the best of times.

  Finally, though, the patients’ crockery was cleared away, their care handed to others, and the night staff allowed to sit down to the meal that was normally laid on for them. Nell could never get used to having dinner when her body said she should be eating breakfast, and vice versa, but that was the way for those on night shift. After ingesting as much as she could of the lentil soup and suet pudding, she put on her coat and, with Beata hobbling alongside, processed along the corridor, where old Blanche was already on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor, and muttering to herself as usual.

  ‘Never did a day’s work in your life, no good to anybody – morning, Nurse!’ she broke off, and cocked her head up to return Nell’s subdued greeting, then went straight back to her task and her persistent jabbering as the nurses went on their way.

  Then, ‘Oh, thank God!’ Just before reaching the end of the corridor, Nell suddenly caught sight of Cissie creeping in from her nocturnal escapade, black as a chimney sweep, but otherwise unscathed. And to the recipient’s consternation she was to throw her arms round her and give her a hug. ‘Ciss, where have you been?’ came the mild recrimination. ‘We’ve been so worried about you – don’t tell me,’ she gave a sideways grin at Beata, ‘there was a man in a long coat!’

  Relieved at such clemency, the dirty, witless face cracked a beam. ‘Aye – but you don’t have to worry, Nurse,’ cause he’s promised we’re going to have a big white weddin’, and I’m havin’ this lovely dress, and a carriage, and all the trimmin’s!’

  ‘Well, I do hope that Killie and I are to be bridesmaids?’ Nell was surprised to find herself genuinely moved by the safe arrival of this habitual nuisance.

  ‘Ooh, yes, o’ course!’ vouched Cissie. ‘I’ll go and choose t’stuff for your frocks right away.’ She made as if to go, then stopped dead. ‘What colour would you like?’

  ‘Mauve for me,’ replied a tired but smiling Beata, limping on.

  ‘And pink for me,’ requested Nell, and with a tender rub of Cissie’s arm she confirmed how glad she was to see her unhurt, before she and Beata finally went their own separate ways.

  Devastation, the day staff had said. But no words could aptly describe the havoc that Nell was to encounter for herself as she moved towards town. The entire city of York was girdled in a haze of smoke, mingled with the sickly sweet odour of burning sugar from a ravaged warehouse. Yet even through this ghostly veil could still be seen the horrors. At every place she was to encounter blackened faces, streaked with the same exhaustion that she herself had accumulated over those last dreadful hours – and their work was not yet over, for thick fire hoses still enlaced the flooded roads, toilworn firemen still balanced precariously atop long ladders, fighting to douse the glowing roof timbers of ancient buildings, whilst wardens restored order to the streets below.

  Nell’s pace faltered. In the normal course of events, she would only have to travel a short distance to reach Walmgate, at the far end of which lay her digs. On this smoky, throat-scouring morn, however, a growing unease forced her upon a different route, to check first that her parents were safe. Thelma’s exposure had only served to make things worse between the thre
e, but they were still her mother and father, and it was only respectful to ensure they were unharmed.

  So, fatigued or not, Nell was to plod instead towards the centre of town, in the hope of catching a bus. Crunching her way through broken glass, splinters and shrapnel, past schoolboys rummaging for trophies amongst the spent cartridge cases and burnt-out fins of incendiaries, she could feel the heat from the smouldering hulks of once gracious buildings. Centuries of history reduced in one malicious act to skeletal ruins. Only by some miracle had the Minster remained untouched, thrusting its way through that pall of smoke towards the heavens, to Nell a symbol of all that was noble and defiant. But oh, the damage to ordinary folk … the homes completely demolished.

  However shocking, however apoplectic it made her, Nell had been prepared for the wrecked buildings, even for the bodies, for she had dealt with plenty of them over the past twenty months. But until this morning bodies had always come neatly laid in hospital beds, not mangled beyond recognition, not indistinguishable from rubble, not skewered with metal rods, not one piece here and another there to be quickly concealed under red blankets. At one such shambles, half a dozen starlings were busy gobbling tiny remnants of flesh from the pavement. Sickened, and weary beyond words, she groped in her pocket for the last of the two cigarettes given to her the previous night by the soldier.

  ‘Oy, don’t light that up here, you clot!’ Face crusted with dirt, the female warden who had yelled at her was quick to recant, upon gauging a similar exhaustion to her own. ‘Sorry, Nurse, but there’s a bit of gas still hanging around, I wouldn’t like you to go up in flames.’

  Nell apologised too, and finding there were only dead matches in the box anyway, she wandered off to buy some – though it was probably not safe to light up anywhere.

  Remarkably, between the burnt-out shells of offices and stores, there were shops open, their proprietors having swept the debris from the pavement before erecting a defiant placard ‘Business As Usual’. Nell selected one of them and entered to the comforting sound of the wireless. The girl who had been listening to it, aged about fifteen, came forth to serve her, her attitude surprisingly cheerful. ‘Well, we can’t let them beat us, can we?’ she chirped upon handing over the matches.