As Elly entered, the chatter died and thirty-seven pairs of eyes focused on her. For this occasion she wore her best woollen gown in midnight blue, severely cut and edged with simple braid, which she hoped gave an impression of style and dignity. Her matching bonnet framed her face charmingly, she knew, and made a good substitute for the braided coronet she could no longer display. It took more than seven months to regrow hair which had, in places, been cut within two inches of the scalp. Vanity aside, she needed all the ammunition she could produce for this encounter.
Searching the room for a friendly face her gaze skimmed over Doctor Hugh Houston, but he glanced quickly away. Doctor Phineas Gault, on the other hand, pinned her with a dagger glare, his discontented mouth primmed and ready to accuse. Her skin prickled as she felt again the peculiar sensation of being watched with special attention. Was it the same man, the owner of the brown eyes in a face she couldn’t remember, somewhere in the crowd? But there was no time to search for him. Already the meeting had been called to order by the President. Elly took the chair held ready for her, and proceedings commenced.
Mr Deas Thomson cleared his throat. ‘As Chairman of this special gathering I have to announce that it has been convened at the request of several members following a most scandalous and scurrilous report on this hospital printed recently in The Empire newspaper. There is also the matter of a complaint against the Matron, Miss Ballard, put forward by one of our Medical Officers, Surgeon Phineas Gault. In the first matter, since it is known that Miss Ballard conducted a certain journalist through the hospital with a view to commenting upon its standards, I believe we should ask her for an explanation.’
Elly rose. ‘Gentlemen, I am perfectly prepared to explain, and to apologise for the extreme attitude adopted by Mr J.G. Patterson of The Empire. I have here a letter of apology addressed to the Board and signed by him.’ She handed this to the Secretary before continuing.
‘It’s true that I took the opportunity to show him certain deficiencies in the building and facilities well known to you all and which have been the subject of petition from me for the past three months. I believe that, as a member of the public who support this Infirmary and Dispensary, he had a right to know the truth and to request the help of others who might be interested in improving our conditions. He did not have the right to criticize my staff in such unbridled language, nor to impugn the work of this Board of Directors. I specifically asked him not to do so and, at the time, made clear to him that I wished only to excite public interest, not to lay blame on anyone. Unfortunately, he paid no attention to my wishes, with the result that unnecessary offence has been given. The initial fault was mine, and I apologise most sincerely.’ She sat down to hide her trembling knees.
Mr Deas Thomson regarded her sternly. ‘Your apology is noted, Matron. Nevertheless you should be aware of having far superseded your role. Regrettably, your forwardness has only succeeded in bringing the hospital you purport to care for so devotedly into disrepute, not to mention the men who serve this institution without favour or reward.’
Elly bowed her head in apparent remorse, but she felt only contempt. Where was the ‘service’ by a group of men who met simply to hear themselves talk and who never by any mischance did anything to overcome the huge problems she had listed for them? As for favour and reward, their names gained the lustre of benevolence without a finger being raised.
‘If I might speak, Mr Chairman?’
The voice, rich in timbre, carried through the room. Elly turned quickly to see a man of middle height but great presence rise from a back corner. Beardless, although with a luxurious moustache, his face was lined about the temples and mouth to show at least forty years of living. He had a broad, high forehead, strong straight nose and black hair curling thickly. His dark gaze had a compelling quality that she immediately recognised and had been so conscious of at her first Board Meeting. This was the anonymous surveillance she’d experienced as strongly as a physical contact. Feeling the strength of this man’s personality, she was strangely heartened. He would help her. She knew it.
The President inclined his head. ‘We should be glad of your views, Mr Cornwallis.’
Cornwallis bowed and produced a folded paper from his jacket. ‘I have here a copy of the article in question, and with the greatest respect, would point out to my fellow members of the Board of Directors that there is not one untruth to be found in it. The writer has not misrepresented the hospital in any way. I have made it my business to delve into his accusations and can only say that “disgrace” is almost too mild a word to apply to conditions obtaining in the main buildings and ancillary structures.’
Protest rippled through the room but died as Cornwallis held up his hand. ‘Bear with me, I beg. You know my reputation. I am not easily bamboozled or misled. Yet, to my shame, I have continued unaware of these deplorable conditions for months. This lady’s courage and determination were needed to bring them to public notice, for which I believe she should be, not censured, but thanked.’
Tears of gratitude stung beneath Elly’s lids. She had a champion at last – someone who believed in her work and wanted to help. She smiled and saw an answering faint curve of his lips as he continued.
‘There are vile legions of insects which crawl nightly from the woodwork. There are open drains and cesspits harbouring vermin, and there is a shortage of water. I have seen these things myself. I cannot speak for the staff or the situation in the wards. However, drunkenness is scarcely an unknown problem in the Colony, and not generally restricted to those in otherwise good health. Nor do I think we should expect perfection in the untrained. In short, gentlemen, I believe we should support our new Matron in her efforts to improve the lot of her patients and suggest we vote a sum immediately towards this.’
To Elly, falling back in her seat and viewing him through a haze of gratitude and relief, he appeared almost a mythical figure, Saint George without his armour, facing the dragon Board for her. The members, however, were clearly divided on his views. When the voices rose to something suspiciously like an uproar the President/ Chairman rapped on the table for attention.
‘Gentlemen. Let us have silence, if you please. Is there anyone else who would like to speak on this matter before a decision is made?’
Several gentlemen had plenty to say, although not always to the point; but at length it was agreed that J.G.’s letter of apology should be given to the Sydney Herald for publication (which would lower his crest, thought Elly) and the Matron admonished not to speak about hospital affairs to outsiders, especially not to journalists. In exchange, the Board promised to vote money for improvements and to discuss the provision of extra staff.
The Chairman then referred to the second item on the agenda: Doctor Phineas Gault’s complaint that the Matron had asserted herself over him and tried to introduce her own measures into the operating theatre.
‘What have you to say to this, Matron?’
‘A good deal.’ Elly girded herself. ‘The members of the Board have seen from my application details that I was trained by an eminent physician and surgeon, my father, Doctor Robert Ballard, of Edinburgh, Paris and Vienna. He was not only highly esteemed in his profession, but he actually taught in the great hospitals and, after migrating to the Colonies, kept to the forefront of medical science through medical publications and through his correspondence with overseas colleagues.’
She turned to survey the row of house physicians and surgeons and the district physicians, all eyeing her with hostility. ‘You medical gentlemen no doubt do the same, through the medium of journals and papers. And of course you will have heard of one of the greatest advances in medical history, the ability to anaesthetise a patient with ether and do away with the pain of surgery.’
Gault’s unhealthy face turned bright red, while his confreres tried to appear knowledgeable but unimpressed.
Elly’s voice gained an edge. ‘When I made my suggestion, Doctor Gault was good enough to inform me that he regarded this
idea as “radical nonsense”, although I explained how I had assisted my father in the use of ether many times with excellent results. My father never lost a patient through post-operative shock.’
Several of the faces in the crowd grew thoughtful, but the medical men preserved features of stone.
It was too innovative for them, Elly thought. They didn’t know about it and they didn’t want to know.
Nevertheless she went on. ‘As long ago as 1845 a dentist named Morton was invited by the eminent senior surgeon at the Massachusetts General Hospital, Doctor John Collins Warren, to try to anaesthetise a patient about to undergo surgery for a tumour of the jaw. He used ether, gentlemen, and the patient slept through the twenty-five minute procedure and woke saying he had noticed only a scratching sensation along his jaw. This case was written up in the Boston Medical and Surgical Journal two months later and the news circulated that a new era had dawned in surgery. The new method has been tested and adopted in London, France, Germany, all over Europe. Yet for some reason it has not reached the Colonies.’
Utter rubbish.’ Gault could contain himself no longer. ‘I’ve never heard of Doctor Robert Ballard. Nor have I seen any evidence to prove this so-called anaesthetic does what is claimed. The woman’s story of dentists and American surgeons is pure fabrication.’
‘Hear, hear,’ another doctor chimed in. ‘Whatever experiments may be carried out in Europe, I have yet to be convinced that there is anything in such an extraordinary notion.’
‘Have you tried it?’ Elly flashed back.
The man shook his head. ‘Madam, if I tried every new idea hailed as the latest medical miracle my patients would require a lifetime of treatment, provided none of these experimental notions killed them. Only twenty-five years ago everyone was mad for Broussais’ treatment, based on his belief that all disease could be traced back to inflammation of the gastro-intestinal tract. This should be attacked with leeches, he said, and what happened? Within five years forty-three million leeches had been imported into France, a great many patients had died of excessive bleeding, and more for lack of proper treatment. No, I have no use for fads.’
‘Nor I,’ agreed another, older man, who rose to bow to Elly. ‘Matron, do you realise there are close to forty different schools of thought into which medical theory has been divided? Meta-physicians, Iatrochemists, Experimental Physiologists, Gastricists, Infarct-Men, Homeopathists, Hydropathists, Phrenologists… The list goes on. Each of these schools has its own explanation for sickness and its own favoured methods of treatment – some most curious, most completely ineffectual. As my colleague said, we have not the time to try a fraction of these, nor the will to experiment on our patients.’ He sat down to a patter of applause.
Elly refused to be moved. ‘I agree, many ideas turn out to be worthless, but if we cease to try new methods we stagnate. Medicine is a science and cannot stand still. How many of you doctors would do without the stethoscope, now that it has proved to be such a valuable diagnostic tool?’
The first doctor nodded. ‘We are not as hidebound as you may think, Matron. But we must be sure there is no danger before we adopt something as revolutionary as an inhaled anaesthetic. The recommendation of nitrous oxide for this purpose, for instance, has proved a costly failure. Not realising how greatly the substance increases the force of circulation, I tried it on a patient in surgery who subsequently bled to death. This so-called “‘laughing gas” has since been rightly relegated to the area of a parlour trick and sideshow for the credulous.’
Elly began to feel helpless. The opposition was too logical, too afraid to step outside certain safe boundaries. Most of them were thinking of the welfare of their patients, and she couldn’t argue with that – except that she knew, absolutely and positively knew that the greatest boon to those very patients waited in the wings for a chance to demonstrate its worth, and was being denied that chance.
She rose again, slowly, placing her hands on the table for support and leaning earnestly towards the ring of surrounding faces. ‘Please listen to me,’ she begged. Forget I’m a woman and a mere lowly nurse. If this information came to you from an impeccable source, from a famous and skilled surgeon, would you not be impressed? Think of the little boy who died last night because his heart could not stand the shock of agonising surgery. Wouldn’t it be worth the risk of trying this new treatment?’ She saw the answer in their impatient expressions, and despaired.
‘My dear young woman, miracles only occur in Holy Writ.’
The speaker was another doctor, a district surgeon attached to the Board. ‘I’ve no doubt you have the best of intentions but you really cannot try to teach professional men their jobs. The child’s death was regrettable but unavoidable, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s not all she did,’ shouted Gault, practically foaming at the mouth. ‘She tried to get me to wash my hands in some foul-smelling solution before I operated. Me, a man with twelve years’ experience in the theatre. She treated me like a child.’
Elly marshalled her wits. ‘Surely some of you have heard of antisepsis, of the work of Doctor Ignace Semmelweis at the Vienna Medical School?’ She saw only blank faces. ‘Oh, God, how can I convince you? Look, Dr. Semmelweis proved that the simple measure of washing the hands in chlorine solution until the skin was slippery prevented the transmission of contagious disease from one patient to another, from a cadaver after dissection to a woman in childbirth. He saved the lives of hundreds of women with this discovery. My father learned of it through correspondence with a colleague who taught with Doctor Semmelweis, and he himself practised antisepsis with amazing results. He taught me to clean all instruments, furniture, swabs, needles and thread, and in particular, the hands which would touch the operating field.’
Gault stood up and shouted, ‘Poppycock! Lunacy! We all know that septic infection is a miasmic contagion borne on the air.’
Deas Thomson ordered him to sit down, then said to Elly, ‘What you are telling us is theory. Both this Doctor Semmelweis and your father had a theory in which they believed. Where is the proof? What has been published?’
Elly looked at him hopelessly. It was true. She had only her father’s word and her own experience to offer. It wasn’t enough.
Cornwallis’ smooth voice flowed from the corner of the room. ‘It would appear Matron Ballard has once again intervened in the interests of a patient. Whether or not this was warranted is a matter for the Board to decide. I cannot agree that offering a surgeon the opportunity to wash hands no doubt filthy from the dissection room is an insult. Again, the offer of a new, if peculiar technique in the interests of a patient’s safety can scarcely be seen as interference. Doctor Gault remained within his rights to refuse the offer. However, his deliberate umbrage does him no credit. Miss Ballard, I should like to offer my personal apology for the slur cast upon you by Doctor Gault’s intemperate reaction.’
Elly bowed slightly and sat down again, her head whirling. What was happening here? Was she being censured or praised? Was the Board about to dismiss her or Gault?
Why hadn’t he told them she’d genuinely insulted him? Or would his dignity not permit others to know he’d been called a butcher?
Heads came together and a further buzz of conversation broke out, which continued until Deas Thomson brought the room to order once again.
He addressed Elly coolly, but kindly. ‘Matron Ballard, my colleagues and I have reached the conclusion that you are not to be censured in this matter.’ He broke off to deliver a warning look to Gault, already half-way to his feet. ‘However, we require you not to bring any further innovations to the operating theatre, and to comply at all times with the wishes of the surgeon in charge. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly clear.’ The words stuck in Elly’s throat, but she got them out.
‘Very well. At the next monthly meeting the Board of Directors will decide upon extra funds to be allocated and their future use. Your advice will be invaluable, and we should like you to draw up a lis
t of the most urgent repairs and necessities.’
‘Thank you, sir. I am grateful.’
He nodded. ‘The meeting is now adjourned. Miss Ballard. Gentlemen.’
Everyone rose and Elly headed blindly for the door, more than anxious to escape. A hand clasped her elbow and Cornwallis’ voice said in her ear, ‘Allow me to assist you out into the air. I’m not surprised you find it oppressive in here.’
Her feet seemed to glide above the floor as they traversed the corridor, descended the front steps and moved out through the gate into Macquarie Street.
Here she collected herself, saying ‘I can’t leave now. I have duties...’
‘The Board adjourned earlier than was expected. Whoever you left in charge is still there. You can be spared for a few minutes longer.’
Persuaded by a voice with the consistency of honey, Elly allowed herself to be led down the street towards Hyde Park, and there, in the shade of a young Moreton Bay fig tree she found herself seated beside the man who had championed her so strongly.
‘Mr Cornwallis, I’m very grateful for your support.’ Meeting the warm, dark eyes she realised they were only one striking feature of a face with the impressive mien of a statesman, or counsellor. A noble face, she thought, denoting the kindness and love of justice behind the physical facade.
‘There is no need for gratitude. You had no one else to speak for you, and those dolts would never have thought to investigate beyond their own prejudices if I had not pointed out the obvious. I abhor stupidity.’ His smile seemed to envelop her.
‘Nevertheless, I thank you. And my patients will have cause to do so if the Board can bring itself to actually disgorge some money. It’s a dear wish of mine to see each patient in a bed of her own, not forced to share with at least one other. And those cess pits. Oh, don’t let me start. I’d be boring you here forever.’
A HAZARD OF HEARTS Page 15