‘I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time and kept your two friends out of their sitting-room, but thank you for listening.’
‘Not two ‒ five,’ I corrected absently. ‘The girls from downstairs are up here.’
‘All in the kitchen? They’re very quiet.’
‘That’s because the doors are shut and they’re in the kitchen.’ As he had replaced his glasses and was making civilized small talk, I forced myself into the act and told him about the hall’s acoustics. ‘Did you know they’re so odd?’
‘Now you mention it I recall some tenant ‒’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Central-heating pipes are empty! I expect they carry the sound. I’ll have this looked into.’
If an extraordinary note on which to end, it was no more so than what had gone before. ‘Can that wait till we go?’
‘You’d prefer that?’
‘Much. These last four weeks are going to be sufficiently action-packed without added domestic upheavals. We haven’t nearly finished our book-work or Gemmie’s trousseau, and any time now Catriona and I are going off to get a few days’ special rural experience, as we’ve both worked exclusively in cities. Catriona let you in.’
He nodded. ‘Where do you go?’
‘We haven’t been told yet. This isn’t the routine here, though I think it is in England and Wales. Miss Bruce is fixing it up for us, as we both want to move to rural areas.’
‘Seems a sensible arrangement.’ He moved to the door and waited for me. ‘We’ll probably run into each other before then, but if not, good luck with the exams.’
‘Thank you.’ We were so civilized I wanted to scream. ‘I hope that conjunctivitis clears up soon.’
‘I’m sure it will.’ He opened the door and followed me into the hall. ‘Before I go, Alix,’ he said very slowly and very clearly, ‘I want to ask you to do something for me. Even if you won’t marry me don’t forget I only live one flight up, and if at any time in these next four weeks there’s anything I can do for you, just pick up that ’phone. You do that, and I’ll be very grateful.’ He shoved up his glasses again and tapped his right cheekbone. ‘You may wish to forget I owe you the sight of this eye, but I neither can nor will. I’m sure you understand that.’
I understood so much I was speechless. He thanked me some more, said goodnight, let himself out, went up the stairs, and I went on standing staring at the open front door.
At supper Gemmie said, ‘The only chat now’ll be folks asking if you’re out of your bloody mind turning down all that lovely lolly. Didn’t you even reckon he fancied you?’ I shook my head. ‘Must say you could’ve knocked lot of us down in here with that one feather! And what’s all this you’ve been given us from start about his clobber? He looked right dolly ‒ hey ‒ tell you what I do fancy ‒ his voice. Lovely voice!’
‘Yes, I like his voice, even when he’s being pompous.’ Catriona had been very quiet. ‘I feel rather sorry for Charlie. He not only suffers the crushing disadvantage of being that quaint, olde-worlde creature, a gentleman, but he lacks a Glaswegian accent.’
From scratch I went to flash-point. ‘Don’t be such a bloody hypocrite and a bloody snob, Catriona! I’ve heard Robbie being as pompous in Glaswegian as Charlie in Edinburgh-gentry, Bassy in his cherished London-grammar twinge, or John in Oxbridge English! Ever met the man under forty who doesn’t wallow in pomposity from time to time?’ I turned on Gemmie. ‘Doesn’t Wilf?’
‘Oh, aye. When he gets the chance to open his mouth wide enough.’
I returned to an astonished Catriona. ‘For God’s sake stop trying to make out that Robbie’s my own thing! I like him, but no more want to marry him than I do Charlie! Believe it or not, I came to Edinburgh to get myself a district training and away from a man ‒ not to lumber myself with a husband! But if I had to have one of those two men and they paid the same income-tax, I’d have Charlie! As his ex-girlfriend’s now married, even if he is still in love with her, that problem could be cut down to size. And he’s not carrying a chip big as Edinburgh Castle. Poor old Robbie is, and if you’re the sort of thing up with which he’s had to put, I’m not at all surprised!’ I glared at her. ‘I’m only surprised he manages to be such a good-natured, hard-working sweetie, plus ‒ to use another quaint, olde-worlde expression ‒ so loyal to his old and new pals!’ Our telephone was ringing. ‘If that’s anyone for me say I’m dead!’
‘If it’s not my Wilf the bastard’ll wish he were!’ Gemmie rushed out.
It was Wilf.
Catriona said, ‘The one certain factor in an uncertain world.’
I was back to scratch and thinking my own thoughts. ‘Precisely,’ I said vaguely.
Chapter Thirteen
Bassy had a temporary job as a night porter in one of the hotels. He had worked there as lift porter last summer, so the manager let him keep his beard trimmed to an imperial and his hair to an old-fashioned beatle-cut. This made him look so exactly like any medieval portrait of any young English Crusader that Gemmie offered to embroider the Cross of St George on his sweat-shirt when her wedding-dress was finished.
He stopped in on his way to work the evening she and I were working on it. We were sitting on the sofa draped in clean sheets, with open textbooks and test-papers spread out on the coffee-table in front of us. Catriona was away on her rural crash course.
Bassy sat on the windowsill with his own pile of books. He said he was getting a lot of reading done in the small hours. ‘The manager’s a good guy. He draws the line at his temps bringing in birds, but doesn’t mind the homework when we’re slack. With his staff problem, the poor guy needs us as much as we need him. Seems to me, what it really takes to get into the hotel business this time of the year is an Ucca form. The other guy on shift with me is doing Eng. at Sussex, the second lift-boy’s Maths at Southampton, the wine-waiter’s Mod. Lang at Cambridge, the deputy hotel-porter’s at L.S.E.’ He glanced round. ‘Catriona chez Auntie?’
Gemmie explained. ‘Alix told you Catriona’s decided she fancies that Caithness vacancy?’
‘Yes. Handy for her folks as her home’s in Sutherland.’
‘And how’d you have fancied our Charlie as brother-in-law?’
Bassy shuddered extravagantly. ‘It’s not that I’m prejudiced, Gemmie, or would ever hold the colour of his bank balance against any man, but let’s face facts! If you’d my image, would you like your sister to marry one of “them”?’
After he had gone I tried to get her back to the test-papers. ‘What are the responsibilities of the district sister as teacher?’
‘Shove me those fine scissors! Sister ‒ hey! We pass, and this time next month we’ll be sisters. I’ll be Mrs Wilf ‒ and you could be Mrs Charlie and we could be making you a dress.’
‘In the time we’ve got left? Get thinking, Gem! Responsibilities?’
‘I am thinking.’ She looked upwards. ‘Seen him since?’
‘No.’ I re-threaded my needle with rather more concentration than it required.
‘Two weeks back. Rum do. Responsibilities? I’ll do headings first, then break ’em down. To the patient, the family, disabled patients, home-helps, ancillary workers, students ‒ can you see us teaching students?’
Suddenly it was one o’clock in the morning, but the dress was ready. We packed it between folds of tissue and fell into bed.
In the morning I was off on my own rural project. I only caught my train because of a taxi-driver and a station porter.
I missed the bus I wanted as I could not get across the road in time. A taxi-driver in the wrong lane and going in the wrong direction saw my frantic waves. There was a scream of brakes as he swung round. I shut my eyes waiting for the crash.
‘You’ll be in a hurry, Nurse? Where to?’
‘Waverley, please! I want the seven-fifty!’ I fell into the back. ‘How did you do it? I’ve been dithering for a break in the traffic for ages!’
‘You’ll be from England? Small wonder you couldna cross! A body’s to be
born this side to get away to the other this hour the morn. Seven-fifty? That’s four minutes! I’ll get you there!’ He revved his engine painfully, swerved widely round a bus, and nipped backwards and forwards from lane to lane with superb, if unnerving, precision. By the final swoop down into the station yard my eyes were closed again. He drew up shouting the name of my destination to the air, and at the first sign of a porter said, ‘The Nurse is wanting the seven-fifty! Is it away?’
The porter grabbed my suitcase and nursing-bag and ran for the ticket-office as I paid my taxi. I reached the booth in time to pay for my ticket. ‘After me, Nurse!’ bellowed the porter, charging on. I charged after him up steps, over a bridge, down steps, along yards of platform, then round a curve to another as gates closed and the smallish train was about to pull out. The porter’s stentorian ‘Can you no be holding that for the Nurse!’ worked. Two seconds later he bundled me in at the first carriage door, slung in my possessions, and waved his cap triumphantly. ‘We made it, Nurse!’
‘Bless you and thanks.’ I chucked out two bob, and he fielded it neatly in his cap.
I had the carriage to myself and had barely drawn breath when the guard came along to see if I was all right. ‘The way you took that platform, Nurse, you’ll have no trouble with a three-minute mile! Off to an urgent case?’
‘Just overslept.’ I explained my journey.
He was a short man with thick grey hair and a sensible, fresh-complexioned face. He was from Edinburgh, his wife from Kirkcudbright. His two sons were still at school, and his only daughter had married an Englishman eighteen months ago and lived near Tonbridge. He had taken his wife down to see their daughter last autumn. ‘Beautiful countryside,’ he said, ‘with the fruit then abounding and the leaves turning.’ He was glad I had enjoyed working in Edinburgh, but, though not ashamed to say there was no wee spot in the world to touch it for him, he’d to admit Edinburgh folk were that stiff with strangers. ‘There’s no doubt in my mind we could be more helpful.’
I had the impression only my uniform saved his taking my truthful answer as a send-up. When my shortish journey ended he returned to carry out my bags, shake my hand, wish me well. ‘I’ll be looking out for you on your return, Nurse.’
The sun was shining and a very stiff breeze was blowing over the empty country platform. The little town lay directly ahead between low green hills that reminded me faintly of East Sussex. Then a plump, middle-aged woman in a shapeless uniform coat, battered uniform hat, and carrying an aged handbag large enough to hold a dozen spare nappies, two tins of dried milk, and a pair of bedroom slippers in addition to the usual contents, jog-trotted out of the booking-office.
Walking towards her, for one desperate moment I thought seriously of marrying Charles, Robbie ‒ any man! Any marriage must be preferable to the prospect of my turning into such a tatty old bag in twenty years’ time! I only thought that once ‒ and ever after was deeply ashamed of that once.
She was a Miss Robertson, and she had worked on the district for thirty-three years. Miss Robertson was midwife and health visitor, as well as ‘the Nurse’ to her patients. She had an unpowdered, weather-beaten face, long grey hair skewered into a tight bun with massive hairpins that were constantly falling out, and a voice as soft as Edinburgh rain. She never stopped talking, or, whilst I was with her, working. By nursing standards her official free time and rest days were good, even if one week on her official working rota would probably have every factory and bank throughout the United Kingdom out on strike.
I asked her once, ‘Sister, do you ever take your off-duty?’
‘Lassie, that’ll depend. Have we time now for a wee cup before we start out again?’
Her district covered a considerable area. Daily we drove through miles of gentle green country. If the road ran in the wrong direction sometimes we walked up tracks and over a field to some isolated cottage she called ‘a wee butt and ben’. In actual fact, we didn’t walk: we jog-trotted, as she had worked in a hurry for too many years to slow down even when returning up her own small garden path at the end of the day. We jog-trotted in and out of solid little and not-so-little farmhouses, in and out of the grey boxlike houses on the new estates with their unexpectedly and delightfully gay, bright green, blue, red, and yellow front doors. As in Edinburgh, she nursed the chronic sick of all ages, the accidents, the returns from hospital, but, being also the midwife, a large number of home deliveries. She was the best midwife I had seen anywhere, and the kindest. She said she’d a weakness for bairns and a good cup of tea. The patients loved her. Never, ever, had I drunk so much tea. I once asked how many babies she had delivered.
She laughed. ‘I need my records. I lost count after the first thousand. Look where you will, lassie’ ‒ we were driving out of town ‒ ‘you’ll see my bairns, and many more than a few pushing the prams with my second generation. The lassies in these parts marry young, so it’ll not be long before I’m well into my third. And when I look back to my own student days, times they’ll seem like yesterday, and times a hundred years back.’ She drew up briefly in front of a ‘road closed’ sign. ‘Have they not finished the work yet?’ She hooted to get the attention of the man guiding a reversing steam-roller taking up the entire narrow road. ‘Can you not get that wee monster out the way, Donal?’
Donal and mate obligingly inched the roller aside sufficiently for us to scrape by, and on our return moved the ‘road closed’ sign as well. They replaced it after us. ‘Have you seen true puerperal sepsis, lassie?’
‘Not true, Sister. Only incipient.’
‘Imagine! And thirty-five years back when I took my midwifery as a lassie of twenty-two it was our constant dread. That was before the old M. and B. 693, which you’ll not have used. Have you so much as heard of it?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘Along with Lister’s carbolic spray, I’ve no doubt! Aye, but we thought it wonderful, for all we’d to be that careful our patients took no eggs or onions. It turned them blue.’
‘Truly?’
‘Aye! We’d to watch for that! But then we’d the full range of the sulfa drugs and then penicillin.’ Her voice softened. ‘You’ll take it and the antibiotics for granted, lassie. I was too old when it started for that. The dying I’ve seen turn to the living from that wee drug. Mind, first we could but give it in injection, and each time we’d to make it up fresh from the wee crystals and sterilized water. No disposable syringes then, lassie. We’d to boil the lot, and we all but boiled ourselves! Yet, and heed this well, even before we’d the grand weapons we’ve now to help us fight sepsis we fought it, and well, with just nursing. Many’s the day now we’ll read of a ward here, maybe a hospital there, being closed for sepsis. I’ll tell you this, lassie, in the days when there was no antibiotic shield to protect the nursing few wards were closed for sepsis. We cleaned ‒ aye, maybe too much ‒ we scrubbed, we boiled, and the wee bugs didn’t have a chance! I’d my midwifery training in a large city hospital and large city district in hard times, but I didn’t see the one bairn or the one mother die. I did two years’ midwifery. Mind, I’d not wish to go through that training again. We thought it good to have one day off a week. Many had less. We worked from seven in the morn to nine at night with two hours off in which we’d to have our meals and lectures. And if your bairns came at night ‒ and you’ll recall seventy-five per cent are born at night; ‒ that was your bad luck. Seven next morning you were on.’
‘Sister, how ‒ why ‒ did you stick it?’
She said, ‘I’ve wondered that myself. I think, maybe, as we were too busy to have time to think of anything but the next job. Mind, it wasn’t right to work lassies like that, and it’s no surprise to me there’s now a shortage of nurses. My generation,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘are now the mothers, and some the grandmothers. If you’ve remained in the profession and seen it change ‒ aye, slowly ‒ but it has changed, and for the better for nurses, then maybe had I daughter I’d say, “Aye, lassie, you take up nursing.” Had I left
the profession twenty years or more back’ ‒ she shook her head ‒ ‘and had a daughter with nursing in mind, I’d do my best to talk her into medicine, physiotherapy, or one of the other sidelines. The generation gap’s not so wide as folks make out. Times change, not human nature. The lassie in the new housing estate having her first bairn remains as brave, or as feared, as her mother in the two-up, two-down or her grannie in a wee butt and ben. The first question she’ll ask will be theirs: “Nurse, is the bairn all right?” And then, “Nurse, did you ever see the like of my bonnie bairn?” And hers will be the first voice the bairn heeds, and her ideas will be the first in that bairn’s wee head. Would you have your daughter a nurse?’ She shot the question at me as we drew up outside her house.
‘If she liked working with people and didn’t kid herself she was dedicated or going to spend her life laying cool hands on fevered brows, I’d be all for it.’
‘With a mother a trained nurse, she’ll harbour no romantic illusions about the work. It’s the outsiders that see the romance. We just do the hard work, and if we like the work, we like it fine, or fine enough. But it’s the work that’ll aye keep out the wrong sort. All this fine talk about paying too much money, and you’ll get the wrong type nursing. Lassie! Can you see the wrong type lasting one week in a normal heavy hospital ward? But as you’re here for your own future and not the future of our profession, tell me this, now ‒ you’re away on your own with no ’phone, no sensible body to send for medical aid, and after an apparently normal delivery the mother starts to haemorrhage just as her new-born bairn stops breathing. What would be the first thing you’d do? Don’t think it over, lassie. Tell me! You’ll have no time for stopping to think. Well?’
‘Raise the foot of the mother’s bed as high as possible as fast as possible ‒’ I stopped. ‘The baby?’
She said very seriously, ‘You’ve but one pair of hands. Times, they can do the two jobs, times, one job has to wait. You’ll know your training, you’ll know the established procedure for such emergencies, but when they arise yours will be the responsibility. So be sure you’d make the right choice. You’d save the mother first?’
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