Nurse, Come You Here!

by Mary J. Macleod

  Nick had become quite the entertainer and had bought a bowler hat for some sketch or joke. The hat was now perched on his head as he bent forwards towards the waiting dog.

  He asked, ‘What do gentlemen do when they meet a lady?’

  Squeak immediately took the brim of the hat in his mouth, whipped it off Nick’s head and placed it on his crossed knee. The dog then sat back, head cocked, looking pleased with himself. He was praised for his efforts and they proceeded to the next trick.

  Watching this little scene involving the bowler hat took me back many years to a time during my nursing training when I had a most eccentric colleague.

  * * *

  It was during my second year of training in a huge West Country hospital that I found myself on three months of night duty with Bernie. A tall, thickset, third-year student nurse about to take her finals, she was easy to work with, if a little vague. Together, with the help of an orderly (an untrained assistant) we coped nightly with a forty-bedded female surgical ward.

  This was 1951. Wards were vast, bleak, bare, but very clean. The elderly iron beds were arranged down the sides of the ward, about fifteen or sixteen on each side, and the ‘overflow’ ten or so were placed in the middle. These poor patients had very little privacy, as they had no wall behind them and were packed so closely together that getting the old-fashioned screens around them for treatments was nearly impossible.

  But the hospital was still in the post-war mode of trying to catch up on all the surgery that had been kept on hold during the days of bomb casualties, maritime disasters, and other war-related emergencies—all at a time when they had had to cope with a much reduced surgical staff. Many surgeons were only now beginning to return from work in the occupied countries, in military hospitals, and in the Far East. On the whole, the patients were amazingly understanding and grateful that they were being attended to at last. We managed as well as we could in the difficult conditions, with far too few staff, rigid discipline, and a working week of seventy-two hours, sometimes more.

  At night, the nurses had a desk with a hooded light in the middle of the ward but fairly near the door. The recent surgical cases or very ill patients were arranged at this end so that we could attend to them or monitor their progress, and, sadly, so that if one of these people should die, it was less distressing for the rest of the ward if we could remove them quickly and quietly, rather than trundling the deceased from one end of the ward to the other. Similarly, those who had been admitted and were awaiting operation or those who were near to discharge, and were therefore not in need of constant surveillance, were arranged at the far end, away from the inevitable hubbub near the door.

  This particular night had already been hectic. Several operations had taken place that day so we had five or six patients needing hourly checks, oxygen, aspirations, dressings, and so on. There had been a road accident in the city and two of the casualties had arrived on our ward. About seven or eight other patients were still critical after surgery some days ago.

  So we were very busy, but during a slight lull, Bernie sent me off to have my ‘lunch’ at about midnight. I trotted off to drink hot tea and eat a hearty meal, leaving Bernie at the desk writing up the report on the new admissions and monitoring the surgical cases. She would have her meal when I returned and, in view of my inexperience, I hoped that she would make it a quick one.

  These arrangements seem haphazard and perhaps unsafe, compared to today’s world of sophisticated monitoring machines, better staffing levels, and smaller wards, but this was the post-war reality of a country trying to deliver a good service with out-of-date equipment, new drugs, hurried social reforms, a sudden influx of young, untried doctors and nurses, and a dozen other problems of which, from our humble positions, we knew nothing.

  I returned to the ward before my allotted half hour because we were so busy. The orderly was clattering about in the ward kitchen and the sluices. I approached the desk and there, with her head pillowed on her arms, was Bernie—sound asleep! I could see at least two drips about to run out and a patient was calling for assistance. I shook Bernie, who jerked her head up, blinked, and said, ‘Whoops!’

  I was her junior so I could say nothing, but I thought quite a lot as we rushed about, renewing drips, dealing with overdue treatments, and taking temperatures. Eventually, Bernie began her overdue ward round while I dealt with some more basic patient needs.

  She had reached the far end of the ward and was flashing her torch briefly over the not-so-ill patients, when she paused beside the bed of a very old lady who was awaiting discharge. A moment passed then Bernie came racing up the ward.

  ‘Quick! Get all the hot water bottles that you can find.’

  I stared at her, but I was used to doing as I was told without knowing why, so I hurried to the linen cupboard and found six bottles, which I took to the kitchen where Bernie was filling both the huge kettles and placing them on the gas cooker.

  She looked at me. ‘Not a word to Night Sister if she comes round. Leave her to me.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ I ventured.

  ‘Old Mrs. Light has died. That’s what happened. I was asleep—didn’t do the midnight round, did I? She’s cold. I can’t report it now. She’s been gone at least two hours.’

  I was appalled and frightened. Frightened for Bernie, but I wondered if I would get blamed too.

  Bernie continued talking while watching the roaring gas as though trying to hurry it up.

  ‘I don’t think there was anything to be done for her—she must have gone in her sleep. What was she in for—I forget.’

  Luckily, I had an odd ability which now came in useful. ‘Florence Light, aged ninety-two, osteoarthritis. Fell at home two days ago. No injuries—only shock. Ambulant. For discharge to convalescent home tomorrow—today now. First hospital admission ever.’

  Bernie looked at me. ‘Gosh. Wish I could remember half that much.’

  Already guessing, I asked, ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘We,’ she emphasised. (So I was going to be implicated.) ‘We are going to warm her up for a while and then I shall report the death at whatever time that will be.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘We’ll just about make it before the day staff comes on. That’s good because you can do Last Offices—better than handing over to them.’

  I was getting more and more frightened, but soon we were creeping quickly down the ward and surreptitiously pushing hot water bottles in among the blankets and some below the mattress. The old lady probably had died in her sleep as she looked very peaceful. I was relieved to see that.

  ‘I’ll pop back to move them now and then,’ said Bernie. ‘Go and see if you can find any more.’

  I have to admit that my worry was for Bernie and myself. I did not think that we had contributed to Mrs. Light’s death. She was old—there were not many nonagenarians in the fifties. She was frail and had had a shock—two shocks—the fall and being admitted to hospital for the only time in her life. We did not have sophisticated means of resuscitation, but even if we had been able to try, a ninety-two-year-old was unlikely to respond, especially as we had no way of knowing exactly when she had died. It was not necessarily during the time that Bernie was asleep. In fact, it was probably before that, maybe just after her previous round, because the old lady was already cold when Bernie found her. So that side of the event was not heavily on our consciences, but I was revolted by what we were doing. But then again, I thought, as I dug out another hot water bottle, it was not going to make any difference to Mrs. Light. Bernie, however, could be thrown out, as sleeping on duty was, understandably, an offence punishable by dismissal. She would not have been allowed to take her finals, due in a week, and would end up with no qualifications and no job.

  I, on the other hand, would not be blamed for not noticing the death, but I would be in trouble for helping to cover it up. But what was the alternative? Run to Night Sister? Tell the Ward Sister when she came on duty? Bernie was a good nurse. Ot
hers before her had fallen asleep on duty, as much due to exhaustion as lack of self-discipline. She had been unfortunate.

  I rushed about finishing all the night tasks and then waking the ‘fit’ patients with a cup of tea. The days began before six in the morning for patients in those days, because so much had to be done by so few staff. From time to time, I saw Bernie wander to Mrs. Light’s bed and eventually she walked up the ward with a bundle of bed linen. The bottles were being removed. Then back she went, trundling two screens which she quietly placed round the old lady’s bed. Various patients appeared to ask her questions and she gently shook her head. She went to the phone in Sister’s office.

  On her return, she came up to me.

  ‘Okay. I have reported the death as taking place at five o’clock. I told Night Sister that she must have popped off in her sleep, so I did not know the exact time. I told her that I was doing the six o’clock round when I found her. Doctor-on-Duty is on his way to confirm death.’ She looked at me. ‘Keep your head … in fact, just keep out of the way.’

  I was only too happy to do just that, but my heart was hammering as the doctor appeared. Suppose he guessed, somehow, that she had been dead for several hours instead of only one?

  Bernie, cool as a cucumber, accompanied him and they disappeared behind the screens. After only a moment, they came out, chatting quietly; the doctor signed various forms at the desk and departed.

  ‘Right,’ said Bernie, ‘you can do Last Offices right away. The day staff are on their way—so get on with it.’ She did not say this in an aggressive manner, but seemed at last to be feeling the strain.

  I had to leave various lesser jobs and I knew that the day staff would grumble later when they found that things like some catheter bags had not been emptied and measured. I quickly gathered all the necessary bathing materials and linens, while Bernie went into the office to give Day Sister the night report. I did not even want to think about that.

  As I pushed the trolley with all the paraphernalia behind the screens, I happened to glance under the bed. On the floor, for all to see, lay one of the hot water bottles! Bernie had missed it. It must have slipped from below the mattress. What should I do?

  Ward Sister would be round in a moment.

  I emptied its contents into the water jug on the locker and pushed the flattened bottle back under the mattress. I would wrap it in the soiled bed linen that I would remove when I had finished my task. All the time I worked, I was aware of that bottle lying beneath the mattress: the mattress that would be removed later for disinfecting—a procedure always followed after a death. At all costs, I must not forget to take it away before the porters came for the deceased.

  At last all was done. I bundled the bottle in among the linen and hurried off to the sluice.

  ‘All done then, Nurse?’

  I jumped as Sister’s voice came from the doorway.

  ‘Yes, Sister. I’m just clearing up. Mrs. Light is ready for removal.’

  ‘Good. You have both been very busy, I believe. Nurse Birkett tells me that you have been invaluable—working very hard.’

  The skin on my back prickled. This was Bernie making sure that I kept quiet by putting in a good word for me, ensuring my gratitude. I thought to myself that she would make either a clever criminal or a good detective. It certainly seemed as though we had got away with it. We went off duty, I to have a much needed sleep and Bernie to start her study leave for her finals.

  It would be nice to say that we met up in mutual relief, but she was two years ahead of me and had her own circle of friends and colleagues, so we did not see each other again. In fact, she seemed to disappear and I sometimes wondered why I did not catch so much as a glimpse of her. But life was full, work was hard, off duty times were fun, and she faded from my world.

  So why did a bowler hat remind me of Bernie?

  It was several years after the Mrs. Light affair, and I was qualified and a staff nurse by then. I was walking in the town one day when I saw Bernie. Was it Bernie? She had always been ‘different,’ but this figure was amazing.

  Striding along in an almost military fashion, pushing a rather old pram containing a fat, sleeping baby, was this outlandish figure in a man’s over-coat which flapped open to reveal baggy dungarees. A pair of workman’s boots with red socks clumped noisily as she walked, and adorning her shaggy head was a bowler hat! She did not see me but I was able to watch her meet up with the man whom I later heard was her husband. He was equally startling. Wearing a cloth cap, a red and white striped scarf over an Air Force blue coat which was so long that it dragged on the ground, he sported a moustache and a huge, bushy beard. This unusual couple greeted each other with a passionate hug. The man picked the baby from the pram, cuddled it for a moment before restoring it to its nest of slightly grubby-looking blankets. He then took over the pram pushing and as they turned, I could see that Bernie was hugely pregnant. They strode off with flat cap and bowler hat close together as they chatted.

  In 1951, girls wore feminine dresses or skirts. Generally, trousers were kept for sport, gardening, country rambling. We were a generation reacting to the austere times of war time clothes rationing. We had small waists, flouncy skirts, shaped coats, and high heels, while nylon stockings were still prized possessions, expensive and difficult to get. We wore pretty hats for shopping and for visiting; we made sure that the seams of our stockings were straight. We prided ourselves on our femininity and prettiness. So Bernie’s outfit was all the more startling when compared with the fashion of the time.

  It seemed that she had left soon after her finals, married her man, and had fallen pregnant almost immediately. He had inherited a lot of money so neither of them worked. They lived in an apartment in his parents’ ancestral home.

  Bernie continued to be seen in the town, usually pregnant and always wearing a bowler hat.

  FIFTEEN

  The Tangled Web

  ‘Indeed, Nurse, I think they are very quiet.’

  ‘Who is very quiet, Sarah?’

  ‘Those two folk in yon caravan thing—in the woods.’

  I was sitting chatting with old Sarah as she pottered about polishing the furniture, the rugs, the cups and saucers, in fact, everything in sight. Whenever I was in her house, I felt that I should keep on the move or I might get polished, too. In her late eighties, Sarah was getting very confused and I kept a close eye on her as she was becoming a danger to herself. Luckily, I had been present a few months ago when she set light to her clothes by standing too near to the fire. No real harm was done except that her only skirt was burnt to nothing. I smiled now as I noticed that she was still wearing the one that I had given her as a replacement at the time. I was about a foot taller than Sarah so it was long and cosy on her and every time I called, she thanked me all over again for ‘the bonny wee skirt.’

  ‘How do you know this, Sarah?’ She never went far beyond her croft house now as she only had chickens to see to. She had decided that milking her cow was too much for her and had given it to Archie to look after so long as he took her some milk every day. Archie was delighted, promptly put the cow to the bull and now had a strong female calf.

  ‘Old Roderick brought me ma goods and he said the car had no moved in days.’

  ‘Perhaps they are great walkers, Sarah, and just leave the car and go off on a ramble?’

  But Sarah had lost interest and was telling me that young Donny the Sheiling had been to see her. Donny had been a recluse, living in the sheiling in the hills behind her croft, and rumour had it that they had been sweethearts at one time. But Donny had been dead for ten years and Sarah’s mind was back in the past.

  ‘He’s comin’ again on the morrow, so I’ll be gettin’ the place cleaned up.’

  ‘The place’ was like a new pin, but cleaning gave Sarah something to do.

  ‘That will be nice, Sarah, but remember that old cow of his often gets out and he has to fetch her back from the moor so don’t be too disappointed if he doesn’t com
e, will you?’

  ‘Aye. ’Tis true. An awkward beast is that one.’

  With the usual thanks for the bonny wee skirt, she waved me off. She had probably forgotten about Donny again by now. A conversation with Sarah always left me wondering if I was getting as mad as she was—talking about a cow that must have been someone’s dinner over twenty years ago!

  What had she been saying? People in the woods? Had Old Roderick really said something about it? Or was this Sarah’s mind wandering again?

  I had other patients to see, but I drove quickly down the little track behind Sarah’s house to see if anything made sense. The caravan was small and rather battered, while the car—a Mercedes—was new and shiny. But just looking at the scene told me nothing. Should I knock, on some pretext? What reason could I give for such an intrusion? Maybe I should see Old Roderick when I got back from duty.

  ‘Aye, Nurse. ’Tis a wee bit worryin’, foreby. I think they have been there some three full days, not countin’ today, y’understand. Naebody seems to have seen them and they havena been to ma wee shop, but I’m not knowing if they might have been to Dalhavaig for the shopping.’ Roderick rubbed his head. ‘Do you think we should be doin’ something, then, Nurse?’

  ‘I just don’t know, Roderick. I’ll have a word with Doctor.’

  ‘Aye. Good idea.’ All the locals had tremendous respect for Doctor Mac: a respect which extended far beyond his medical knowledge. To them, he was the Oracle and the Muses all rolled into one beloved man.

  But before I could speak to Doctor Mac, Postie, calling with the mails, also mentioned the caravan. He reported one of old Martin’s dogs prowling around the van and scrabbling at the door. Martin had called the animal off but had not investigated.

  I was getting really worried now so I decided to ring our policeman, John.

  ‘Hmm. All a bit odd,’ was the reply. ‘I think I might go down there and have a wee look. I would like a witness though, in case I need to get in to the caravan for any reason.’