Clifford Brown was one of these old injuries. He was a small ten-year-old who had fallen from a ruined building on a bomb site two years ago. He had fallen on his head and had been dangerously ill in Christian for several months when he was first admitted. He had been home two or three times and then returned to Christian for varying periods; the last of these coincided with my time there as a relief night senior this previous spring.
Technically he was too old for a children’s ward. Eight was the usual age limit, but since he was a special case he had been nursed in the small room which lay off the main ward. He slept badly and was much disturbed by headaches; consequently he was a law unto himself, and when he did get to sleep was never woken for anything. Meals, teaching rounds, washing, and so on were arranged to suit him, and not the other way around. For some reason he slept best in the day-time, and generally ate his meals with us at night.
He loved being read to and above all he loved poems. Whenever we were quiet we read to him in turns during the night, and when we were not quiet ‒ which was more often than not ‒ I used to lift him out of bed, wrap him in a blanket, and carry him back to the centre table in the ward, from where I could keep an eye on the other children, write the night reports, and read or recite to him in the intervals. He and I passed a good many hours this way, while I whispered the King’s Breakfast or the saga of King John who was not a good man. I often wondered how none of these ever penetrated to my night reports. Clifford had a passion for those two above all others, with the Hunting of the Snark as a runner-up.
His mother pushed forward his wheelchair that afternoon and smiled with relief when she recognised me. ‘Ever so grateful it’s you, Nurse Snow. I was just wondering how I was going to manage. My man’s on nights and I had to leave the baby with me neighbour. My man said as he’d get his own tea and for me not to worry if Cliff and me was kept, but I know he won’t wake until the last second ‒ gets that tired, he does ‒ and it worries me, him going off without a proper meal.’ She asked if she could leave Cliff with me and come back for him later. ‘You’ll be all right with Nurse Snow, won’t you, duck?’
Cliff lowered one near-transparent, blue-veined eyelid knowingly.
‘Hi-ya, Nurse ‒ know any more of them stories?’ Then with an adult look he nodded to his mother. ‘I’ll be O.K., Mum. Don’t you worry.’
I did not care for the expression on his face. It was too wise. Not precocious, but unnaturally wise. No small boy should have that much wisdom.
‘Of course I’ll look after him, Mrs Brown. How’s he been?’
He had only been sent home because there was nothing more the hospital could do for him. He would have to come in again soon. His mother brought him out to Out-Patients weekly, and every week she drew me aside and whispered as she did now, ‘He does look a mite better, don’t you think, duck? His dad was saying this morning as he’s got quite a nice little colour these days. You see it too, don’t you, Nurse?’
Every week I had lied. I lied again today. He seemed to me to be fading weekly. His parents adored him and would have given their right hands for him, but it needed more than that to stop the tumour that was growing in his brain as a result of that accident.
Clifford looked at me reassuringly. ‘I’m O.K., Nurse.’
‘Just a fraud, Cliff?’
‘That’s right, Snow White.’ And again that strange adult expression flickered over his face. I think he knew what was happening; he never mentioned being well, going back to school, flying a jet, letting off an H-bomb, or any of the other topics our small boys discussed. Even his semi-tough ‘Hi-ya’ was an act assumed for his mother’s benefit.
‘Before you go, Mrs Brown,’ I said, ‘I’ll ask Mr Dexter if he wants to see you today. If he doesn’t, any time you come back for Cliff will suit me, and if he does, we can work out roughly when that’ll be, and that will be easier for you.’
‘Ta, duck,’ she said gratefully, ‘I’d be ever so obliged. But I don’t want to interrupt the doctor.’
‘He won’t mind.’ I left her and walked quickly to the office as John opened the door, and ushered out his patient and attendant Mama.
‘Next please, Nurse.’
A strong-jawed lady rose like a jack-in-the-box from the front bench and hauled her little daughter up after her. ‘In you go, Marigold ‒ just where the doctor is. And don’t be frightened of him, dear. Mother’s here!’
I nipped between her and John. ‘Just a moment, please. I would like a word with the doctor.’
John said, ‘Yes, Nurse?’
The lady interposed her large self between us. ‘Now see here, young woman: it’s my daughter’s turn next, and don’t you forget it.’
‘I won’t be a minute,’ I apologised; ‘do you mind waiting just a few seconds more?’
She tapped her foot impatiently and said she didn’t know she was sure, and I was afraid we were in for a scene. The other mothers watched with interest, and the children squirmed with pleasure. Behind them I saw the tired, embarrassed face of Mrs Brown.
‘My turn,’ said Marigold’s mama.
Marigold wailed suddenly, ‘Ain’t I going to see the Doctor, Mum?’
John tweaked one of her hair-ribbons. ‘I thought you were supposed to be scared of me, chum?’ he said gently, then he smiled at her irate mother. ‘It’s so good of you to be so understanding,’ he said; ‘it helps us so much. Thank you.’
To my surprise and relief she subsided on to the bench and settled her skirt. ‘That’s all right, Doctor,’ she said mildly, then turned on poor Marigold. ‘Sit down, love! Can’t you see the Doctor’s busy?’
He held open the door. ‘After you, Nurse.’
He shut the door and leant his broad back against it, shutting out the patients. He was still smiling. He rubbed his jaw. ‘That was a close thing,’ he murmured. ‘Now ‒ what’s up?’
‘Mrs Brown. Clifford’s Mum.’ I explained the domestic complications. ‘Will you want to see her today?’
‘How’s he looking?’
‘Not good.’
‘I see.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better see her. Say an hour from now? She doesn’t live far, does she?’
‘Two roads away.’
He nodded. ‘Right. We’ll make it then definitely, and if I haven’t reached him you’ll have to slide her in under the counter. I won’t have that poor woman kept hanging round, so when she gets back come and haul me out, no matter what I’m doing. Right?’
‘Yes, Mr Dexter.’
He smiled faintly. ‘If anyone is after your blood because of it, let me know.’
I was not clear if he was referring to mutinous patients or Sister. I said, ‘Yes, Mr Dexter, thank you.’
I wanted to get back to Mrs Brown but he was still against the door. ‘I suppose Cliff hasn’t got one of his headaches again, has he?’
‘Not by the look of him.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s something.’ He moved and opened the door. ‘Now let’s have the tough lady on the front bench.’
He came out with me and waved at Mrs Brown. ‘See you later, Mrs Brown. Nurse will explain. But don’t kill yourself getting back. We’ll be here and we’ll keep an eye on Cliff.’ He held out a hand to Marigold. ‘Come on, young Marigold. How’s that middle of yours behaving?’ Marigold said her scar was ever such a lovely line, Doctor, and went with him, followed by her graciously smiling mother.
The clinic settled down; the children moved along the benches; Cliff told me confidentially that his dad was working nights to get the extra money to buy a television set.
‘Dad reckons as how a telly is what I need to give me something to do of an evening when I’m not sleeping.’
‘That’s kind of him, Cliff. You’ll enjoy a telly.’
He looked at his thin hands. ‘It’ll be ever so nice, I’m sure, Nurse,’ he said politely.
I knew him well from that spell of nights; I knew that something was wrong now and was fairly sure what it was. I t
ook one of his hands absently. He was as undemonstrative as any other normal boy of his age, but there are times when it is normal to want to hold on to somebody. I said, ‘Do you miss your dad a lot now he’s working nights?’
His hand stirred in mine, but he made no attempt to move it away.
‘Bit,’ he admitted.
‘Would you rather he went back to days and got you that telly later?’
He tilted his face to look at me. His face was very white apart from the two patches of unnatural colour on his cheekbones, the colour which made his parents so pathetically pleased.
‘It’s not as I wouldn’t like to have one, Snowy ‒ it’d be nice for me mum now she can’t never get out of an evening with Dad like what she used to ‒ but I don’t see as how I’d look at it much. I keep getting me headaches, and I don’t think I’ll have much time for watching the telly, see.’
I said quietly, ‘Why won’t you have much time, Cliff?’
He was thoughtful. ‘It’s this way,’ he said at last, ‘I’m always in an’ out of this place. Fat lot of good it’ll do me when I’m up in that Christian ward again, and Dad’s gone to all this trouble to get a telly back home.’
‘Your mother said your headaches were getting better, Cliff. Are they?’
He gripped my hand and grinned sheepishly. ‘I has to say that, Snowy. You know what Mums are! Talk about panic!’
I smiled at him. ‘I do indeed. My mum used to create all winter because I always got my feet wet. According to her I was bound to be ill for life ‒ but I never ever caught cold. And look at me now ‒ a fine figure of a nurse who’s not missed more than three days in all my training ‒ and that was due to a septic finger.’
He wanted to know all about my finger; whether I had had the nail or all five nails pulled off; what sort of a drain had been used?
‘Through and through, Snowy?’
He was quite disappointed when I explained it was only a simple whitlow. Like all old patients of any age he was very knowledgeable about hospital life and his conversation was strewn with pseudo-medical jargon.
Every few minutes or so I left him to see to the queue, but the clinic was running itself well that afternoon, and my ministrations were unnecessary. However, Sister liked to see her nurses nipping smartly round their waiting patients with lists, pencils, and harassed expressions, so every so often I nipped. As luck would have it, this was never when she was passing the room. Each time she went by I was back by Cliff’s chair, apparently gossiping aimlessly.
A short while before his mother was due to return I asked if he would like me to say anything to her about his dad going back to day-work.
‘I’m sure he’ll like to hear that you miss him in the evenings.’ He looked concerned.
‘I wouldn’t want to upset him, Snowy. He’s that set on getting that telly for me.’
‘Shall I just mention it to your mum? She’ll know what to do and she’ll like to know how you feel. It’s not,’ I added, ‘that I want to turn into a grown-up and tell on you ‒ but I think she should know.’
‘Garn,’ he grinned scornfully, ‘you couldn’t turn into a blooming grown-up, Snowy. You ain’t old enough!’
‘Of course I am, you disrespectful brat! I’d have you know I’m a State Registered Nurse AND twenty-two years old. Any minute now and I’ll have white hair.’
‘Nurse Snow!’
Sister was standing beside me. She said would I please come into the corridor? I followed her meekly, then waited while her eyes swept over me from the tip of my cap to my shoes.
‘Nurse, you will kindly behave in a more dignified fashion when on duty in my department. What did you imagine you were doing? Telling a patient your age!’
‘But, Sister ‒ I was only joking with Cliff‒’
She said she did not mind to whom I was talking, and I certainly had no business to be joking on duty in her department.
‘You are running a clinic, Nurse. Not a children’s party.’
I said yes, Sister, sorry, Sister, and she repeated what she had said, and asked if I would be good enough to bear that in mind while I was on duty. For once she forgot to echo ‘in my department.’
There was nothing in the room that needed my attention, but I walked round, and the children shifted under my gaze. I even brooded by the glass wall of the office. My burst of superfluous efficiency must have annoyed John as much as it did me. He came to the door.
‘Wanting something, Nurse Snow?’
‘No, thank you. I was just checking my list.’
‘What’s wrong with it? Are you running late?’
‘No, Mr Dexter.’
He looked as if he thought I had gone quietly mad, and went back to his patient.
Cliff moved restlessly in his chair and touched his neck. I went back to him. ‘In a draught, duckie? Or your head playing up?’
‘It gets a bit tired like,’ he admitted, ‘sort of aches most of the time, only sometimes it seems more. Wish I could take it off and put it down somewhere.’
‘I wish you could,’ I said soberly. ‘Shall I’ ‒ I glanced at the door; Sister was out of sight ‒ ‘shall I tell you a story?’
‘What’ll she say?’ He jerked his head downward and winced.
‘Sister won’t mind,’ I lied cheerfully; ‘what’s it to be?’
‘Give us the Snark.’
We had the Snark. Then the Walrus and the Carpenter; Old Father William; then back to the Snark.
His head drooped. ‘I got a boojam in my head, I reckon.’
I altered his cushions, his position, but he could not get comfortable. He moved his head as if it was literally too heavy for him. At last, with the room nearly empty, I said, ‘Like to sit on my lap like you used to? You could generally get comfortable that way.’
He said simply, ‘Can I?’ and I lifted him out of his chair.
I sat down on the back bench. Nurses do not sit down in hospital, but there were extraneous circumstances that caused this rule to be broken in the wards, and I did not see that that should not also apply to O.P.s. He settled on my lap and, as I had hoped, was shortly asleep. He was not heavy. He had probably always been slight, now he was the size of a frail child of six.
The few remaining mothers smiled sympathetically and tiptoed up with their cards and stray questions. They kept their children quiet. ‘There now,’ they whispered, ‘don’t you go waking up that poor little boy. You sit still, duck, and I’ll buy you an ice for your tea.’
There were three children still to be seen before the queue reached Cliff, when Sister shot back into the room.
‘Nurse Snow ‒ what do you think you are doing? Put that child back in his chair at once!’ She made no attempt to lower her voice, and that was her mistake. The mothers bristled with indignation, and the office door opened.
John said evenly, ‘Did you want me, Sister?’ He walked across to us. ‘I’m glad,’ he murmured, ‘that chap’s got off. Hang on to him until I’m ready, Nurse Snow.’
I was quite amused at the sight of Sister hastily recomposing her features. She achieved a smile. ‘I was just inquiring how your clinic was progressing, Mr Dexter?’ She was obviously not aware, since she had never been a nurse in O.P.s, that the glass wall of the office was not sound-proof. John said the clinic was going along all right, thank you, Sister, and went back to his office.
Sister left us alone. The mother nearest to me smiled encouragingly, although her face was still red with indignation. When her infant had been seen she came over. ‘Don’t you take no notice of the likes of her, dear. Red tape ‒ that’s all as matters to some! Call themselves nurses! I dunno.’ She looked down at Cliff, who was still happily sleeping, and shook her head. ‘The poor little mite, I seen him up afore. Is he going to ‒’ I shook my head in warning, and she swallowed her last word. ‘What’s his name, dear? I’d like to know. I’d like to say a little prayer for him. My own done so well ‒ I like to help another.’
‘Clifford,’ I said s
oftly.
She nodded, ‘Ta, dear.’ Her eyes narrowed with compassion, ‘Seems a shame ‒ to see a kid like that.’
Mrs Brown returned and sat silently beside me. A few seconds later she whispered, ‘Shall I hold him, duck?’
‘No, thanks. I’m fine, and the doctor will be ready for you ‒ he is now.’ John beckoned to her from the office door, and she tiptoed towards him, lifting her feet high in her anxiety to make no noise. Cliff did not wake. He was having a sedative mixture four-hourly, and when he managed to get to sleep the medicine kept him asleep for a couple of hours. He did not stir when they came out of the office and back to the bench on which I sat.
Mrs Brown said, ‘I’ll put him in the chair, Nurse.’
John said, ‘I’ll do that,’ and lifted the sleeping child from my lap. He stood, holding Cliff, waiting for me to straighten the chair cushions. I stood up and stretched my stiff arms.
Mrs Brown pushed forward the chair. ‘It’s ever so good of you, Nurse, to have held him all that time.’
John said, not disparagingly, ‘I expect Nurse was very glad of an opportunity to sit down.’
‘I was indeed.’ I had had no opportunity yet to talk to Mrs Brown about that television set. I said, ‘Before you go, Mrs Brown, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.’ I had plumped the cushions. ‘Ready, Mr Dexter.’
He sat down on the bench with Cliff still in his arms. The boy’s head flopped weakly against his chest.
‘Why don’t you two go into the office, Nurse? I’ll hang on to this chap.’ He smiled at Mrs Brown. ‘I’m one person who is not in a hurry.’
It was just after four; he was due in the theatre at half-past. There was no hurry, if he missed tea. I thanked him and took Mrs Brown back to the office.
I asked her to sit down, pulled a chair close to her, and when we were both seated I said I hoped she would not mind my interfering, but I thought there was something she and her husband might like to know.
‘Cliff knows I’m going to tell you, and we thought we’d leave it to you.’ I told her about the night-work.
The Quiet Wards Page 19
