Nurses: Claire and Jan

by Bette Paul

  “Yes. Have you forgotten the Kelhamites’ first meeting about Charity Night? Eleven o’clock in the common room – Katie Harding’s orders.”

  She had forgotten, of course. But there was no point in going to a meeting about future plans if she was leaving right now, was there?

  “You are coming, aren’t you?” Barbara was watching her closely.

  Suddenly Claire threw back the quilt and stood up. “I’ll be there at eleven. See you downstairs.” She paused. “And Barbara. . .”

  “Yes?” Barbara picked up the tray.

  “Thanks for everything, you know.”

  Barbara smiled. “My pleasure,” she said. “You can do the same for me one day.” She turned to let herself out.

  But suddenly the door was flung open and Katie Harding bounced in, shrieking with excitement.

  “They’ve found her! Claire, they’ve found your Lisa Hickling and her baby!” She danced round the tiny room, narrowly avoiding Barbara and her tray, and clutched Claire in a tight, warm hug. “They’re safe, Claire! They’re all right!”

  Barbara closed the door and the three of them sat on the bed while Katie told them how she’d heard the news. She’d been listening to the local radio.

  “Good for contacts, you know, for the Charity publicity,” she explained. “And then suddenly, right in the middle of a great new single, there was a news flash: ‘Missing mother Lisa Hickling and her baby have been found in a squat on the Newtown estate. Police have taken mother and baby into care.’ ” Katie paused. “What does that mean? I thought only kids got taken into care.”

  “She was a kid,” said Claire softly. Tears of relief were streaming down her face, and she was shaking so much the bed shook too.

  “They’ll have taken her to that mother-and-baby unit out at Somersby,” said Barbara. She put an arm around Claire. “You can cry now,” she said. “It’s all over, you see.”

  “You might even have done them a favour,” said Katie practically. “If she hadn’t absconded she might never have got a place in the unit.” She passed a box of tissues over to Claire.

  Claire took one and mopped her eyes, remembering the scene in Sister Banks’s office when she’d last been handed a tissue. She’d felt like a naughty schoolgirl then; now she felt several years older.

  “Well, thanks anyway, Katie,” she said, smiling shakily. “And you, too, Barbara. I feel I can face the day now.”

  Katie jumped up. “Funny you should say that,” she grinned. “Jan and Nick are waiting to hear your marvellous idea about the ceilidh.”

  “My idea?” Claire almost squeaked. “It was all your idea, Katie Harding – and it won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “You need more than one fiddler and a rather feeble folk-singer to get a ceilidh off the ground.”

  “There’s nothing feeble about you when you’re singing, Claire! It’ll be all right, you’ll see!”

  And, once she got there, everything was all right. Claire sang a couple of Kathleen Brogan’s songs unaccompanied at first, then Jan gradually joined in, playing gen­tly, more beautifully than she felt she deserved.

  “Is good,” Jan nodded. “But sad. Are there not happy Irish songs?”

  Claire nodded, smiling. “And some very funny ones too,” she said. “Shall I take you to hear some this evening?” It came out so easily, so naturally, that she didn’t even blush.

  * * *

  And so they took up where they’d finished the previous term, going to the folk club together at weekends and sometimes even on Wednesdays, when Kathleen Brogan always gave them a special welcome, a nod and a smile, and a chat at their table during a break. Jan struck up a friendship with the young fiddler who accompanied her and sometimes played along with him on a borrowed instrument. Sitting at the little red table by the dance floor, Claire watched him playing, often catching a glimpse of tears in his dark eyes.

  “You must teach me some of your music too,” she suggested on their way home one evening.

  But he shook his head. “I don’t want to look back on those times,” he said. “I must go on now, away from those roots. New training, new country – some day.” He smiled and gestured broadly, as if to open up the whole world.

  He wants to get away, thought Claire, just like I do. How odd that the two of us should be singing folk songs rooted in the past, when we’re both planning a future far away from home. And for a moment she indulged in the fancy that they might find a future together in some far-flung country, away from Jan’s painful past and her problematical present.

  For Jan helped her with more than her music; he’d been studying biology at university before civil war struck his country, so his knowledge of anatomy was far ahead of anyone in their year. He taught Claire how to recognize all the bones in the skeleton, with funny little rhymes to help her remember, and skilfully drew her sections of anatomy, specially colour-coded. As the weeks passed she found herself almost enjoying private study periods.

  And back in A & E, she learned to observe procedures carefully and carry out instructions immaculately; she even earned a commendation from Sister Banks.

  There were no repercussions from the Hickling incident. Ben Morrison was espe­cially kind and helpful to her, and always careful to make sure she understood what was going on.

  One way and another she felt her skill and knowledge steadily and surely increasing and, with them, her confidence.

  So that when Da rang she was able to tell him she wouldn’t be home for the weekend leave.

  “It’s so expensive, Da,” she said. “And I’ve got such a lot to do here.”

  “Expense doesn’t matter, you know that,” he told her.

  “Even if I did come over,” she argued, “I’d have to bring some work; I’d be shut up in my room most of the time.”

  Big sigh at the other end. She could almost feel it vibrating through the phone.

  “Ach, well, you know best, my dar­lin’ girl. Sure and your mammy’ll be disappointed.”

  No, you mean you are, thought Claire.

  “Well, I’ll be home for half term, anyways,” she assured her father. “And I’ll make sure I’ve done all my work so’s we can really enjoy ourselves.”

  There was no answer.

  “Well, ‘bye, now,” she said. And she rang off with a feeling of relief – and guilt.

  Chapter 6

  On Saturday morning, Claire sat in the window-seat in the common room at Kelham’s, peering over her biology book at her friends and feeling thankful she’d stayed on. Both Barbara and Nikki had taken advantage of the weekend leave to go home, but Nick, Jan, Katie and Claire were sprawled in front of the television, sipping coffee and pretending not to watch the children’s programmes. Katie occasionally scribbled a note for her next committee meeting, Nick clicked away at a calculator, apparently balancing his budget, and Jan was replacing a string on his violin. It’s like being part of a family, she thought. And she was glad, now, that she’d been firm enough to refuse Da’s offer of a weekend at home.

  Suddenly the peaceful scene was wrecked by a monumental discord from Jan’s fiddle.

  Claire almost jumped through the window, Nick dropped his calculator and Katie’s pencil scrawled a wiggly line right down the page.

  “Just testing,” Jan grinned. “I think to give you all a surprise.”

  “A shock, that’s what you gave us,” grumbled Nick.

  “No, not the music – the idea. I have the idea.”

  “Ah, well now, that is a surprise,” said Katie.

  Jan laughed. “Very funny, Katie Harding, but wait till you hear.”

  “Well, I hope your idea’s better than the chord you just played.”

  “But that is it – to hear some better notes than I played.”

  “Come again?”

  But Claire had already caught up with him. “You mean for us all to go down to the folk club?”

  Jan nodded. “The fiddler from that group, Denis? He gave two tick
ets to me, so we buy only two more, share the cost.”

  “Oh, yes, let’s go!” Claire looked at the other two. “Tonight’s Kathleen Brogan’s last session. It’ll be quite a cheap night out – and a great one, I’m sure.”

  Claire was right – they all had a good time. Even Nick had to admit to the power of Kathleen’s voice, and Katie actually joined in some of the Irish jigs, in a free-style, jiving sort of way. At the end, Jan was invited to play with the band and everyone sang the last lament along with Kathleen, some weeping openly.

  “More tears than the last act of an opera,” Nick commented, as they made their way through the crowd.

  “I expect they were all lamenting their long-lost Irish home in Liverpool,” said a cynical Katie.

  But Claire surreptitiously wiped her face with a damp handkerchief, silently cursing herself for being a sentimental old softie like her father. She looked behind at Jan, who was damp-eyed and silent, lamenting his newly-lost home, miles away from Liverpool, she thought. She longed to grasp his hand, show him she understood, but the crush was too dense and anyway, she doubted whether she’d have the courage. Jan was always friendly, always helpful – and always kept her at arm’s length.

  They emerged into the murky, damp darkness at the corner of the street and Nick offered to go and get the van.

  “No, we stay together.” Jan spoke sharply, with an authority unusual in him. He stood in the hazy lamplight, looking around warily. “It is not a good feeling here.”

  Suddenly Claire remembered Patrick’s warnings about the club: “Sometimes it gets dangerous – violent – fights and all. . .” And even as the thought passed through her head there was an uneasy movement in the crowd, like a wave rolling on to the beach without breaking. Then the wave gathered momentum, as did the noise. Claire couldn’t see what was happening; her view was blocked by people pressing, pushing, suddenly in a hurry to get home.

  Or to get away from the young men who suddenly leapt out of the shadows, jeering, chanting, brandishing football scarves like menacing banners. They advanced in a long, thin line across the street and within a breathing second all hell was let loose. Fists and sticks flailed all round; glasses and bottles flew through the air and crashed against the walls. At first Claire stood on tiptoe, peering upwards, trying to make sense of what was happening, but when a broken bottle whizzed past her left ear and smashed against the wall behind her, she ducked and stayed head down.

  That was worse; she could see nothing, but she heard people screaming and shouting, trying to push their way out of the narrow street. Claire felt her heart thudding, her legs trembling as she was pressed hard back against the wall. She stretched up and looked around for the others. But all she saw was a glimpse of Nick’s blond head carried away above the crowd as if by a stream. There was no sign of Katie or Jan. Swallowing back the panic that was rapidly rising in her, Claire began to shove, push, punch and kick her way out of the crowd.

  Suddenly she heard her name.

  “Claire – this way! Claire!” Jan grabbed her arm and, using his shoulder to brilliant effect, forced a passage through the milling mob and out the other side.

  “Katie – she was pulled away – she’s in there!” Claire looked back at the seething crush. Katie Harding was tough but she was very small. How on earth would she get out? And where had Nick ended up?

  “Is quieter here.” Jan pulled her into a doorway. “You wait – I’ll get Katie.”

  “No, Jan!” she protested. But he was gone.

  Claire stood in the dark doorway, almost paralysed with fright. Patrick had been right about the “funny mixture” of people hereabouts. She had no idea what the fight was about; a couple of local gangs, perhaps, rival football supporters? Or something more sinister?

  The noise seemed to be subsiding now, overtaken by the wail of police sirens.

  Perhaps it would all calm down any minute. Cautiously she peered out.

  And was almost blinded by a brilliant light shining right into the porch.

  “Move on, now; move this way; it’s quite safe.”

  But Claire stood quite still. She knew that voice, remembered the guilt and anxiety she’d felt when last she’d heard it.

  “Sergeant Booth!” she exclaimed.

  “What?” The policewoman shifted the beam up into Claire’s face. “Well, Nurse Donovan, I presume?” She laughed easily, reassuringly. “Lively night at the Irish club, was it? Come on, I’ll see you’re safe.” She took Claire’s arm and led her across the road, which was now blocked by a police car.

  “You certainly find trouble for yourself, don’t you?” she commented cheerfully. “Look, I’ll see if I can persuade a taxi to come down for you. . .”

  “No, I’m with friends – was with friends. We have a van. We got separated.” Claire explained how she was waiting for Jan to get the others out of the mêlée. By the time she finished she was quite tearful. “And now I don’t know where any of them are,” she sniffed. “They’re all lost.”

  “I’ll put out a message about your friends. Come on, get into the car and give us a description. You look as if you could do with a rest.”

  Second time round, Claire was quick and accurate with personal details and the descriptions were soon being broadcast. That finished, she sank into the back of the car and closed her eyes. A mistake, that – she began to tremble so violently that she was afraid the whole car would shake with her. She forced her eyes open and looked out of the window.

  People were passing down the road now, subdued, rather shaken by the sudden erup­tion. Although it had lasted only minutes, it had been quite vicious, violent – and very frightening. Claire shivered again at the thought of it, feeling cold and sick.

  It was all her fault, she decided. She’d persuaded them to come down here. If she’d only gone home the others wouldn’t have come to the club. And where were they now, the others? Even Jan was missing! She pressed her wet face to the window and gazed out.

  Then she saw them coming towards her, ushered by Sergeant Booth. Nick’s head was bent and he was holding a handkerchief to his face. Jan moved stiffly, automatically, his expression blank. And between them they supported Katie, staggering and appar­ently gasping for breath.

  “Here they are, only a little the worse for wear!” announced Sergeant Booth. She opened the door and almost pushed Katie alongside Claire. Then she led Nick to the other side and let him in, opening the front passenger door for Jan. “St Ag’s,” she ordered the driver. “A & E.” She straightened up and grinned at Claire. “It’s all quietening down here now – we’ve got the battling boys themselves shut away. You go and get yourselves checked over now; you’ll be familiar enough with the hospital, no doubt! Oh, and don’t forget your admission slips, will you?” She laughed and signalled to the driver to pull out.

  Numbly, Claire watched her wave them on, standing in the lamplight at the end of the street. Nobody spoke as the car sped through the city. Katie sat doubled over, gasping for breath, and Nick was still mopping his face. In the front seat Jan sat stiff and still. Claire closed her eyes once more, ignoring the slow tears that ran down her cheeks.

  A & E was like a battle station. People stood leaning against the wall, holding emergency dressings to cuts and bruises; others sat in corners, moaning gently to themselves; the lucky ones had seats, where they sat staring blankly ahead, shivering sometimes. Claire looked round, dazed. She couldn’t believe that this was the same cool, calm place where she’d been working all week.

  Katie leaned against the nearest wall, grey and exhausted; Nick stood beside her, still mopping blood, and Jan was totally blank, as if in another world. Claire looked at her friends and wished they’d all gone straight back to Kelham; at least she could have cleaned them up and given them hot drinks. Here she could offer them nothing.

  As she surveyed the frantic scene she realized it was up to her; she was the only one who knew the department, the only one who could do something for her friends. But what?
Neither Sister Banks nor Ben Morrison was on duty that night, she knew. Well, she’d just have to persuade one of the night nurses to help. She stepped out and looked frantically around Reception.

  “Well, it’s our lovely Irish rose! Have they sent for reinforcements?” Dr Durahni sud­denly stepped out of a cubicle. “We need someone with a little more experience, I fear, child,” he smiled, “though the Irish touch might be appreciated.”

  “No, Ahmed – I mean Doctor. I – can you spare a moment?”

  A fine raised eyebrow was the reply.

  “Three of our students – they were hurt in the crowd. . .”

  Dr Durahni didn’t hesitate. He followed Claire across to the corner where she’d left the others. His assessment took only minutes: Nick just needed cleaning up, a dressing on his eye and an X-ray; Katie needed a check-up and a lie-down.

  “And this young man. . .” Ahmed looked closely at Jan, but he just turned away.

  “I am not hurt,” he said brusquely.

  Ahmed turned back to Claire, a question in his eyes.

  “I don’t think he was injured,” she said doubtfully, wondering about Jan’s odd behaviour.

  “Right. Take them to the recovery cubicle – there’s no one in just now. I’ll look in as soon as I can.” Ahmed turned back to Nick. “Claire will clean you up and do your dressings,” he said. “Then you can go over to X-ray; and don’t leave without bringing the results to me.”

  In a daze, Claire led them along a short corridor into the vacant cubicle. She was staggered that Ahmed had entrusted her with a real patient – her first emergency patient and great friend! Well, this time she was determined to get it all quite right.

  She heaved Katie on to the bed, propped her up and took a sick-bowl from a nearby trolley and shoved it on to her lap. Nick was already sitting in the one chair, rather pale and shaky, as if about to faint. Jan just stood, doing nothing, saying nothing, looking dreadful. Claire gave him a push which left him sitting on the end of the bed, closed the curtain, and looked around her.