A Nurse's Duty

by Maggie Hope

  ‘Look at me, Mammy.’

  Brian was sitting in the bath making bubbles with his hands and squeezing the slippery soap until it shot out against the side of the bath with a satisfying thud. Jennie began to cry, competing for her mother’s attention, and automatically Karen wrapped the towel round her and cuddled her and Jennie quietened.

  Then Patrick was there, filling the doorway and looking across the room at her, swaying a little on his feet. Even across the room, Karen could smell the whiskey on his breath. Where had he got the money for whiskey? He had only twopence for the yeast when he went out.

  Her attention was distracted when Brian stood up in the water with the soap clutched in his hands and a wide grin splitting his face.

  ‘Daddy! Daddy, look,’ he shouted, and squeezed the soap. It flew across the room to whack Patrick on the chest and bounce to the floor where it slid under the table, leaving a slippery trail.

  ‘Brian!’ snapped Karen and the boy’s lower lip stuck out, quivering. ‘Now don’t start crying. Here, take the towel and dry yourself.’ She pulled a towel from the brass line underneath the mantel shelf and gave it to him.

  ‘Never mind, son,’ said Patrick, his words slurring into each other.

  ‘I’ll get it for you.’ He squatted down on his hunkers and reached under the table for the soap and promptly fell over, sprawling on the floor. Brian stared, forgetting his feelings were hurt.

  ‘Come on, Brian,’ said Karen. ‘I want you dry and in your nightshirt and up the stairs in five minutes, do you hear me?’

  ‘There’s no clock, how can I tell when it’s five minutes?’ asked Brian. But he stepped out of the bath after glancing at his mother’s set face and hurriedly dried himself and pulled on his nightshirt. Patrick had raised himself to his hands and knees and was crawling backwards from under the table. He got to his feet, his face red with the exertion, and sat down heavily on the settee. He and Karen still had not exchanged a word.

  She took the children off to bed and hurried them through their prayers then came down and began clearing away. She emptied the bath water and hung the bath up on the scullery wall and put the towels over the rail to dry. Patrick was sitting watching her sombrely and she realized he was not so drunk as not to know what was going on.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Have you got the yeast? A fine time of the day this is to have to start baking bread.’ She turned away from him, biting her lip, knowing she sounded shrewish but unable to help herself. Oh, why couldn’t they be happy now that the biggest threat had gone from their lives?

  ‘I forgot to get the yeast,’ he admitted.

  Karen whirled on him. ‘You forgot? How could you forget?’

  ‘I’ve been working, a day’s casual at the station. If I hadn’t gone as soon as I heard I would have missed it,’ he defended himself. ‘I’m sorry about the yeast, Karen, but I’ll go back tomorrow, we’ll have soda bread till then.’

  ‘The carrier will be here tomorrow, there’ll be no excuse for you going down the pub again,’ she said. ‘Well, let’s see the money you earned today, there’s nothing else to pay the carrier.’

  Patrick fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and brought out five pennies and placed them carefully on the table. He looked at them for a moment and then searched through the rest of his pockets. In his trousers he found a halfpenny and solemnly added it to the pennies.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Karen. She stared at the coppers, despair making her voice harsh. ‘You must have some more, how much did they pay you?’

  ‘I had to have a bite of dinner, didn’t I?’

  ‘A bite of dinner? A bite of dinner? You’ve been in the Moor Hen, that’s where you’ve been, supping whiskey, do you think I can’t smell it on you? You’re drunk, man, and me without a shilling to buy in supplies. Patrick, Patrick, how could you do it?’

  ‘Shut your mouth, woman!’ Rising to his feet he glared at her. ‘Sit down and shut up.’

  Karen stood her ground. Angry tears started to her eyes and she brushed them away impatiently. ‘I won’t shut up, why should I? What’s the matter with you, Patrick? Just when we have a chance to start again after all the trouble, you go off drinking. By, it’s a good job Gran isn’t here to see you coming in drunk, I can tell you. When I think –’

  Whatever Karen was going to say she thought was knocked out of her head as Patrick lifted his hand to her and slapped her so hard she fell across the table and the jug of water toppled on to its side and the water ran off on to the flags beneath. She lay there for a few seconds, half on and half off the table, more stunned by the fact that he had hit her than by the actual blow, before sinking on a chair. Unbelieving, she put a hand up to her face which was still stinging from the slap. She moved the hand round to the side of her head where it had hit the water jug and felt the bump rising under her hair. And then she looked up at Patrick and they stared at each other as though they were strangers.

  ‘Maybe that will shut you up,’ he said. ‘It’s about time I showed you who’s master in this house.’

  Karen watched, in something of a daze, as he walked out of the room to the stairs, stumbling only once against the door frame. After a moment she rose and looked critically in the over-mantel mirror. Her face was red down the left side but she thought it wouldn’t bruise. She let her hair down and brushed it to that side, wincing as the bristles caught the bump on her head. Then she sat down in the rocking chair, laid her head back on the cushion and closed her eyes.

  ‘Are you all right, missus?’

  Nick’s voice startled Karen and she jumped to her feet, feeling dizzy. He was standing right next to her and he put out his good hand to steady her. ‘Eeh, I’m sorry, missus, I didn’t mean –’

  ‘It’s nothing, I was just dreaming. I couldn’t think who it was for a minute,’ she said, putting a hand up to her face. But Nick didn’t notice, he was looking at the water on the floor and the turned over jug on the table.

  ‘Something knocked the jug over?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I did, I was going to wipe it up …’ She picked it up and went into the scullery and refilled it from the pail. ‘I’ll just wipe up the mess and then I’ll make your cocoa.’

  ‘Patrick gone to bed then?’

  Her hand stilled momentarily as she reached for the floor cloth. ‘Yes. Yes, he has. He was tired, he’s had a day’s labouring in Stanhope.’

  ‘What’s that mark on your face?’ Nick asked suddenly.

  ‘Nothing, it’s nothing. I … I started to clean up before but I banged my face on the side of the table.’

  She mopped up the water and made him a cup of cocoa, holding her head down and allowing her hair to fall forward and shield her face. But Nick had accepted her explanation and said no more. When he had drunk his cocoa he too went to bed.

  Karen sat for a while before the fire, trying to sort out her chaotic thoughts, not wanting to go up to the bedroom and get into the bed she shared with Patrick. But weariness overcame her and she drifted off into sleep, heavy and dreamless.

  It was the cold which woke her. The fire had dropped down to a white ash, and the lamp had gone out. The air in the kitchen was icy and she was shivering uncontrollably. She reached up to the mantel shelf and felt for the candlestick and matches. Soon the small flame lit up the blackness and she crept upstairs.

  Patrick was asleep, lying on his back in the middle of the bed, snoring gently. There was still a smell of whiskey about him, hanging stale and sickly on the air. Karen undressed and pulled on her flannel nightgown, snuffing the candle before climbing in beside him, careful not to touch him with her cold flesh, hoping she would not disturb him. She couldn’t bear to talk to him, not yet, not until the morning at least. He grunted and turned over on his side away from her and she held her breath but after a few seconds his rhythmic breathing recommenced. Gradually, her shaking limbs stilled and the warmth of the bed crept through her. She lay quietly, her mind going over the events of the evening.

  No man had ever slapped he
r before, not even Dave at his nastiest, not even her father. Oh, Da had kept a leather strap with two tails in the kitchen drawer all through her childhood and that of her sisters and brother. But she couldn’t remember that he had ever used it, not even on Joe at his naughtiest.

  Of course, it was the drink that made Patrick do it, she told herself, and was reminded of the sermons she had heard her father preach about the evils of the demon drink. But that didn’t make it any easier to bear, oh no, it didn’t. But Patrick drank because he felt trapped into poverty, that was it. If they had just a little more money he wouldn’t need the whiskey, he would be happy with her and the bairns, they could get back to the way they had been in the years before Dave came back.

  I could work, she thought. I am a trained nurse, I could get work in Stanhope. I could even be a district nurse, the dale could do with its own district nurse. Then we wouldn’t be dependent on Patrick getting work on the roads or burning lime. He’s not fit for such hard labour, that’s the trouble. I will see about it tomorrow, I will.

  ‘I’m going down to Stanhope to see about getting some nursing work,’ Karen said at breakfast. They were sitting round the table eating soda bread spread with a thin smear of butter and a good dollop of treacle.

  She had waited until Nick went out to see to the hens before saying it. Patrick sat opposite her, steadily eating and Jennie was licking the treacle off her bread. Brian gazed at her over his cup, looking worried.

  ‘What about us? Who’ll make our tea?’ he asked.

  Karen smiled. ‘Don’t worry, pet, you’ll still get your tea.’

  Patrick put down his piece of bread and looked fully at her for the first time that morning. He had already been gone when she woke, and when he came in for the meal with Nick he had said nothing to her.

  ‘You’re doing nothing of the kind,’ he said now calmly, not raising his voice at all. ‘Your work is here, looking after the children.’

  ‘We need the money, Patrick.’

  He pushed back his chair and stalked to the door before turning back to her.

  ‘You can put the idea out of your head, Karen. I’m telling you so and you can just make up your mind to it. Now, I’m going out to the sheep, I’ll be back at dinnertime.’

  Karen watched him go through the scullery window, his tall figure passing out through the gate and round the path by the rowan tree to the sheep fold, and her face was set. He could say what he liked, she thought. If she once had a job and was bringing in a little each week, he would realise that it was for the best.

  Turning back to the children, she said, ‘Come on, Jennie, I’ll wash your face. We’re going to take Brian to school and then we’re going to see Granda.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  KAREN TRAVELLED TO Bishop Auckland on the bus. It was cheaper than the train though the journey was longer. The basket of eggs she had at first intended to give to Kezia, she managed to sell to a small grocery store in Stanhope. She regretted having nothing to take for her sister but she needed the one and sixpence she was paid for the eggs for fares.

  Bishop Auckland marketplace was quiet for all it was eleven in the morning. There were few customers about. She took Jennie’s hand and crossed over to the bus for Morton Main, stepping round piles of dirty, melting snow and lifting the little girl high over puddles, making a game of it. Karen’s own feet were wet and cold even crossing the few yards between the buses for the soles of her boots were well past the time they should have gone to the cobblers to be renewed.

  The bus was empty but for the driver and conductor; evidently no one wanted to go out to the villages.

  ‘Nice break in the weather,’ commented the conductor as he took her penny ha’penny and gave Jennie the ticket. Karen nodded agreement.

  ‘You’re not very busy today,’ she observed, for something to say.

  ‘Aye, well, it’s Tuesday. Things are different on Thursdays when the market’s going. Not much like, not now half the pits are idle or working part-time.’

  As they wended their way round the small pit villages, most of them with the winding gear in the pit yards still and quiet and the coke ovens cold, Karen was struck with guilt. She hadn’t realized just how bad things were, she had been so full of her own problems. She hadn’t even brought the eggs. Perhaps she could have done with only selling half of them, then she would have had some to give to Kezia who surely must need it judging by the poverty she saw all around. Everything and everybody, from the apathetic children playing in the streets to the men sitting on their hunkers on the corners, watching idly as the bus went by, told the same story. No work, no money. And Morton Main was no different, she noted as the bus drove up to Chapel Row. Except that the pit wheel was turning. At least Morton Main colliery was working.

  ‘Luke’s at work, thank the Lord. Three-day week but better than nothing,’ said Kezia after the sisters had greeted each other and Kezia had exclaimed at how fast Jennie was growing. Her own children were in school. ‘There’s no work for young Luke though.’ She sighed and lowered her voice. ‘He’s talking about going away, tramping round the country looking for work. Some of his friends are going and I’m worried to death. Don’t say anything to Da though. He’s not well.’

  Da was sitting hunched over the fire and Karen was shocked by his appearance. He seemed to have sunk in on himself somehow, his broad shoulders shrivelled and his face grey and lined. His mouth hung permanently open with the effort of drawing breath. It was miner’s lung, Karen recognized his disease immediately. Poor man, she thought, even as she smiled and went forward to kiss him on the cheek.

  ‘Hallo, Da,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ve brought Jennie to see you.’ ‘By, it’s grand to see you both an’ all,’ he said, his words breathy and laboured through the mucus which bubbled up into his throat. ‘But mebbe you should have waited till the weather got a bit warmer before venturing all this way.’

  ‘We came on the bus, Da, it was no trouble,’ replied Karen. She watched him covertly as Kezia filled the kettle for tea and buttered lardy cakes. There was an air of defeat about him even worse than the last time she had seen him and her heart ached. It was Jennie who brought a little life back to his eyes. She went up to him and laid her hand on his arm.

  ‘Granda, are we going to Lizzie’s shop for a sherbet dab?’ she asked.

  ‘Jennie! I’ve told you it’s rude to ask for things. And Granda hasn’t got the money to spare to buy sherbet dabs,’ Karen admonished. But he was fishing in his waistcoat pocket with two fingers. Bringing out a penny, he held it up.

  ‘Nay, lass,’ he said. ‘The day hasn’t come yet when I couldn’t buy my grandbairns a bit of a treat.’

  ‘That’s his baccy money,’ said Kezia after he and Jennie went off hand in hand to the shop. ‘He’ll do without his smoke now until pension day, but don’t let on I told you.’

  Karen drank her tea, oversweet because it had condensed milk in it as it was cheaper than fresh. The sisters chatted about this and that and then Karen came to her main reason for coming to Morton Main.

  ‘Is Robert Richardson still the doctor?’

  Kezia looked surprised. ‘Why, yes, he is. And a godsend he is an’ all. He’s grand with the bairns, never grumbles when he’s called out during the night. Not like that last doctor we had. Do you remember when he told Mam to go to the West Coast for a holiday? No idea, that man, no idea at all what it was like for pit folk, even though he lived among them. Now Doctor Richardson – well, let’s just say Africa’s loss was our gain.’

  ‘Would you mind if I just slipped along to see him? I mean, give an eye to Jennie for me, I won’t be long.’

  ‘There’s nothing the matter, is there?’ Kezia looked keenly at her.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ said Karen. ‘I’ll tell you later. I thought I might catch him still in his surgery just now.’

  As she had judged, Robert was still in his surgery. There was only one patient left to go to him and Jimmy the dispenser was busy fill
ing up bottles of ‘tonic’ from a large demi-john in his tiny cubicle off the waiting room. He poked his head round the door and surveyed Karen.

  ‘You’re a bit late for surgery, aren’t you?’ he asked testily. ‘Mebbe you’d better come back at six the night. The doctor’s got enough on now, it’s time he was out on his rounds.’

  ‘I’m not here as a patient,’ she said.

  The dispenser came fully out of his cubicle, medicine bottle in one hand and funnel in the other. ‘Then what …’ he began when the surgery door opened and the patient came out, followed closely by Robert.

  ‘Jimmy,’ he began to say when he saw Karen and abruptly stopped speaking.

  ‘Hallo, Robert.’

  The words fell into a small silence broken only by the ring of the patient’s hob-nailed boots as he walked out of the waiting room and down the yard.

  Jimmy looked curiously from her to Robert who was standing perfectly still, his face expressionless. ‘I’ve got the list for the rounds,’ the dispenser said.

  Robert moved then, standing aside to usher Karen into the consulting room. ‘Just hold on to it for the moment, please, Jimmy,’ he said and Karen walked in front of him. He closed the door behind them both. ‘Sit down,’ he commanded and she took the chair placed by his desk for patients and he sat down at his desk.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked formally.

  ‘Nothing … I mean, I’m not here to consult you professionally.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  Karen stared at his handsome face, noting the slight lines round his mouth and on his brow. His hair was grey at the temples, the once clear-cut line of his jaw softened. Robert looked his age and more, she thought abstractedly. How old was he? Forty? He lifted an eyebrow, waiting for her to answer and she pulled her thoughts together.

  ‘How are you, Robert? Kezia has told me how good you are to the folk here, how everyone likes you –’