by Jane Yeadon
I ducked, relieved mightily when, with the careless ease of a tennis player, Cynthia reached out and caught both objects. In a leisurely way she stood up then, holding them like objets d’art, she moved to the front to face the class.
‘Perhaps it’s best I sit, then you’ll all see better and you, Professor, might like to take a seat with the rest of the class. Oh thank you, Miss Harvey, but don’t you want your seat?’
‘No thanks. I’ll go and sit at the back. I’ll get a really good view there.’ Miss Harvey sounded amused whilst the Professor, looking surprised, took Cynthia’s place, frowning whilst she calmly laid the head and pelvis on her estuary of a lap.
‘Understanding the mechanism of labour is relatively easy,’ she began. ‘It just takes a little application coupled with simplicity of expression.’ She cleared her throat, then in a precise but lucid way she repeated the Professor’s lecture, only this time she had everybody’s attention.
We craned forward, hanging on her every word. Cynthia was making this a lot clearer – even fun. The doll’s head looked as if it had more life in it than some of my Nursery tinies as, responding to its puppet master’s hands, it cheerily popped through the positions the Professor had made so sleep-inducing. Even the pelvis with its bony structure seemed polished and keen to star.
‘And that of course as we all know is the very best position for the baby’s head before delivery,’ said Cynthia as she finished. ‘See? Left occipito anterior – or as we would probably say, L.O.A.’ She swept the doll’s head through the pelvis with a flourish and stood up. ‘And it’s what we all want as caring professionals,’ she said, looking straight at the Professor, ‘for our patients. Now has anybody any questions?’
Miss Harvey, looking pleased, came to the front putting her hands together as if in applause and at last awarding Cynthia her full title. ‘I must say, I think Nurse Brown-Smythe has done a good summingup job. Maybe she could become our next lecturer. That would certainly free your valuable time up wouldn’t it, Professor?’
The Professor took off his spectacles, breathed on them, cleaned them, replaced them then, clearing his throat, stood up.
‘Well, she’s certainly covered most points,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I just hope everybody was listening.’ He was obviously still nursing a vendetta and, deprived of a victim, he looked round, letting his gaze fall on me. ‘So maybe we should put it to the test again.’ Behind the rimless specs, his eyes gleamed as if they too had been polished. ‘You’ll have no excuse for getting the mechanism of labour wrong now, so why not give us another quick run-through?’
My heart sank. Nobody could repeat Cynthia’s slick performance. Anyway, my brain had relocated to my foot where there was far more activity. Flustered, I stood up. Then did what only could be done under such a trial of strength – fainted.
21
CARE ON THE HOME FRONT
When I came to, I was being wheeled along the corridor in a chair helmed by Miss Harvey and pushed by Seonaid. Unsure if my grogginess was due to the relief of a rapid exit or the pain from a very angry foot, I discovered we were heading for the staff sick bay. Recovery became an imperative.
Fully conscious now I said, ‘I’m fine – just a little light-headed. I skipped breakfast – honestly.’
‘Rubbish!’ Miss Harvey fingered her pelican badge. The gleaming emblem under her collar was a hard-won symbol of excellence from an Edinburgh training school. The badge showed a bird feeding its young. Known to do so from their own blood, the badge illustrated an act representing charity and self-sacrifice.
Miss Harvey had apparently found an authoritative, no-nonsense approach as effective. ‘By the look of that toe joint, you’ve got gout and the best cure for that is bed, so let’s get you into one.’
She was leading at such a brisk pace Seonaid’s feet were moving into a speed I’d have loved to have managed.
‘Gout!’ Surely that was the fate of choleric-hued colonels paying for a life of excess. What a humiliation.
‘Nurse Brown-Smythe’s phoned Ward Sister to let her know you’re coming.’ Plainly, Cynthia was still in Miss Harvey’s favour.
Gloom descended. We were all now going to have to cope with the prospect of Cynthia’s new status as ‘person in charge’. Doubtless she’d have diagnosed the bunion. I bet she’d wrenched off the shoe which now lay in my lap. Maybe I should be grateful I hadn’t had a heart attack. I wouldn’t put it past Cynthia to go for glory in open-heart surgery. Still, she hadn’t put out the Belisha beacon flashing at the end of my leg.
‘Mother of God but it’s hard keeping up with that woman,’ muttered Seonaid, breaking into a trot. ‘So where have you been doing this high living?’
‘All along the Falls, of course. I just wish I was there instead of here, and at the rate we’re going I’ll be lucky to arrive in one bit. Mind that corner! I’m going to tell Raymond you’re an even worse driver than he is.’
‘Ah, sure, and I could give him a lesson or two. Look we’re nearly there.’ We’d left the maternity hospital and arrived at a small outbuilding. It was tucked behind the District block, probably strategically hidden since a designated place for sick members of staff mightn’t be the best advertisement for hospital care.
Marie was hovering outside. ‘You’ll be needing this.’ Her eyes brimmed concern as she handed over a bag of belongings out of which stuck a Bible. Putting her hand to her mouth, and well out of Miss Harvey’s earshot, she whispered, ‘I’ve only packed the essentials. I’ll take other things to you later. Now would you like me to phone your parents?’
‘No thanks. I’m going to be fine. I’ll be back with you in no time.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that.’ A small, brisk Sister in a pristinely white coat had appeared. Her name tag said she was Sister Ann, which might have intended informality, except that from her cap to her white shoes, she was squeaky clean.
‘Come away!’ It was like being addressed by a scrubbed-up surgeon.
She grimaced as Seonaid, bumping me up the steps, aimed for the door. In a proprietary way, she grabbed the wheelchair. ‘Here, let me take that chair before you make my patient a road traffic accident. Then she might have to go to the big boys in Casualty and, Miss Harvey, I expect you need to get back to your class even though your colleague on the phone said not to hurry. Who was that, by the way? I didn’t recognise the voice but she sounded very confident.’
‘Oh she’s that alright,’ Miss Harvey sighed, ‘but she’s only a student, like these two. Anyway, we’d better get back before I lose my job.’
‘Sounds a nightmare,’ murmured Sister, now bowling me along a corridor off which were side rooms where, presumably, staff members were kept in splendid isolation – or perhaps splendid staff members had privacy.
‘So you trained in Aberdeen then?’
I nodded, expecting the usual response but got a break.
‘That’s where the typhoid was,’ she mused. ‘Read all about it in the paper. People dying all over the place.’
I was too busy clinging on to protest it wasn’t the case. Aberdeen’s medical staff had dealt well with their patients who’d all recovered from what was an acutely infectious disease. But Sister Ann was concentrating all her energy on whisking her fare into a small surgery with shelves full of bottles filled with brightly-coloured lotions.
‘You’ll know about barrier nursing I suppose? Handy knowledge to have for keeping down infection so,’ she clicked her teeth thoughtfully , ‘just in case there’s more to that bunion than meets the eye, we’ll just confine you to your room.’ She donned a mask then, swivelling on her heel, ran busy little fingers over the bottles, as if about to make a spell. ‘So there’ll be no roaming about.’
She waved a cautionary finger. ‘Now let’s see what we can do here. Ha! This looks good.’ She picked up a small stainless-steel bowl then poured from a bottle marked ‘Red Lotion’ some liquid, its colour even brighter than my bunion which was by now radiating heat wave
s.
She shook a white swab from a packet into the pot and watched as it turned pink. ‘Ah! Soaking nicely! Now, stick out that leg and we’ll put this on that red light area and see what happens.’ She fished the swab out with forceps then brushed it over my foot with artistic dexterity.
The ‘Red Lotion’ had an immediate effect. The infection in my toe joint tried to fight back, but succumbing to the liquid’s soothing quality, settled for a gentle throb. There was just enough power left to register its presence. Already and miraculously my big toe, its swollen joint throwing it off course, began to consider realigning itself with its companions.
I eyed Sister Ann with great respect. ‘It feels better already. That’s good stuff you’ve got there. Maybe I should drink it as well.’
‘Better not – it’s got arsenic in it. Now let’s get you into bed and we’ll get your temperature taken. You look a bit flushed to me.’
That was the trouble with nurses looking after nurses, I mused as I was tipped into bed – you couldn’t be sure when they were joking. On the one hand, I’d been made to feel better but, on the other, worse because of the arsenic and the typhoid remark. Still, if it meant I’d have a nice bright room, then even if the bedclothes had a thing like a rat cage taking their weight, it wasn’t all bad news. It might be a bit chilly about the feet but maybe the draught would lower my temperature and lying down was infinitely preferable to a stumble through the mechanism of labour.
Sister Ann advanced with a form and a thermometer, the latter of which she stuck in my mouth.
‘I’ve got most of your details, but I don’t seem to have your religion .’
‘Hmm, arrgh.’
‘Really? I’m a minister’s wife myself. Good to see the faith being kept in far-flung shores.’ You’d have thought she was referring to the mission fields.
She tapped her teeth with her biro. ‘And nice that you’re not with that Paisley lot and their preaching hatred. And sure, they’d take money off a beggar so they would.’
I tried to tell her I wasn’t anything, but by the time she took off her mask and removed the thermometer, it was too late. The form had disappeared and she had the look of someone with other pressing matters. She cleared her throat and leant forward, looking so serious I wondered if she was going to admit she was a closet Catholic or I was due an amputation.
‘Haggis.’
‘Haggis?’
She blushed, concentrating on a finger straightening the counterpane . ‘Is it true you can only get them in Scotland?’
I chuckled. After her crack about typhoid Sister Ann deserved a leg pull. ‘Yes. We’re very proud of our natural species.’
‘And they can only go round hills?’
‘Definitely, it’s the two left legs shorter than the front ones that does it. Heaven knows how they ever get caught as they only go out at night.’
She was enthralled. ‘I’ve seen pictures of haggis, but they look kind of bald.’
I was beginning to enjoy myself. ‘That’s because they lose their hair in the chase. It’s the fright that does it.’
‘Well I wouldn’t be wanting to meet one out in the dark. Would they bite?’
‘Only if you shine a torch on them.’
‘There’d be no danger of that.’ She spoke sharply as if already practising how she’d handle peril. ‘Anyway, I’m never going to Scotland. Now why don’t you get some sleep?’
I must have taken Sister Ann’s advice. When I awoke it was dark. There were no lights anywhere. I must have slept for ever. Certain proof of a life threatening illness? A now-diminished foot throb from the bottom of the bed might have suggested I was returning to health, but then I heard whispers surrounding the bed. Hallucinations surely.
Then, accompanied by a sharp poke, came the smell of fish and chips and Seonaid’s very real voice. ‘Are ye awake there? Look, we’ve brought you some tayties.’ She banged on the light.
‘Oh turn it off!’ Like a child making itself invisible, Marie threw her hands over her eyes. ‘We’re not supposed to be here. We’ll get in awful trouble if anyone finds us. It’s so late and all.’
‘Nobody’s minding the place. We sailed in, cool as a breeze, and sure, Jane’s not that important,’ Seonaid said, rustling in the chip bag. ‘Here, have one.’ She was wearing a hat knitted for her by a grateful patient who’d used extra wool to add on long lugs. They made her look as if she’d pigtails.
Eyeing the rapidly-diminishing pile of chips I took one and waved it in the direction of my feet. ‘This is for you, Little Pigs.’
‘I don’t think wee piggies like chips,’ said Marie doubtfully.
‘Well some do,’ I said, eyeing Seonaid.
‘I’d say she’s more like a milkmaid?’ Marie meant it kindly, watching Seonaid pulling on her plaits as if tugging teats, ‘but we need to be heading off now. We only came to see you’re alright.’ Already she was heading for the door.
‘And at least we’ve established you are, with appetite fully recovered ,’ Seonaid observed, savouring the last chip. ‘And even cheeky about pigs and OK, Marie, maybe we should be going. We’ll tell the others you’re definitely on the mend and likely to be back on duty soon.’ She tapped my foot lightly.
Pleased that it didn’t scream I said, ‘Sister Ann’s done a wonderful job but I’m not that keen to go back to the hothouse. It didn’t do my bunion any good.’
‘Ah, but you’re not going back to the Nursery. We’re all going on night duty. You’ll be in Pussy MacNutt’s ward. She’s a doll but whatever you do, don’t cross Sally.’
‘Sally?’
‘She’s the ward maid. Sour! Drives a trolley like a tank. You need to watch she doesn’t run over that foot of yours.’
‘And Pussy?’
‘Ah, sure and you’ll find out soon enough,’ said Seonaid, and then they were gone, Marie’s squeaks and Seonaid’s pattering footstep fading into the distance like the sound of mice behind the wainscot.
Sister Ann came in the following day, made straight for my foot, looked at it then, seeming pleased, said, ‘Well now, Nurse Macpherson, that’s looking better, another couple of days bed rest and you’ll be back to pounding the wards – good as new.’
‘Um, Sister – about haggis …’
22
POST-NATAL BLUES
When I’d made that visit to Denise in the post-natal ward Sister MacNutt must have been off duty. She’d have been hard to miss, being very tall, wearing huge white shoes and the letterbox-red Sister’s uniform. Her arms were so long she could easily handle a dozen babies in one go.
With a recent experience making feet of special interest, I found Pussy’s particularly fascinating. They were huge. Not only did they help her cover the ground fast but they were surprisingly soft-footed. They earned her the Pussy title even if cats don’t wear bifocal specs.
Along with Mrs Blair, my auxiliary partner for the night, we waited in the corridor outside Pussy’s office. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, she was there.
She glanced over the top of her glasses then down at a baby swinging in the crook of her arm. ‘And see, Little Connor, if it’s not night staff! Is it that time already? We’ll just give you to your mother, shall we? Goodness knows, she needs the practice.’ She disappeared into Denise’s old room where her soothing tones had an instant effect on a disgruntled patient. The baby, less impressed, started wailing.
Mrs Blair had the hardened expression of an experienced night worker faced with a rookie. After tonight, she’d be due time off so she wouldn’t have very long to knock this one into shape. Knitting needles sticking out of her bag suggested multi-tasking but hopefully not including cattle prodding.
‘By the time that woman’s ready to be a mammy, her baby’ll be ready for school.’ Mrs Blair cast her eyes heavenward. ‘It’s a good thing she’s in a room on her own, she’s so anxious with that baby she’d put the other mothers in the same state as herself.’ Her rosebud mouth tightened.
‘
So what about that racket?’ I asked, pointing to a nearby door, behind which noise of crockery came crashing as if thrown from a distance. ‘That’s not very reassuring for anybody. It sounds as if somebody ’s going into battle.’
‘Ach, they’re used to that one alright. It’s only Sally with the nighttime drinks. Mind out! Here she comes.’
A ward maid, grim in intent and purpose, flung the door open and approached with a trolley. Now, picking up speed, surging forward and firing on all cylinders she passed us, looking straight ahead with the concentration of a night train driver. In her wake, a smell of bleach hung as unpleasantly as that of exhaust fumes.
Impressed at how nimbly the middle-aged Mrs Blair had leapt to safety, I’d followed to watch. The drinks trolley, chattering like a noisy meeting, reached a crescendo whilst driven through the main ward’s swing doors as if they didn’t exist.
‘Tay, Missus?’
‘You’ll have heard Sally?’ asked Pussy with a faint smile. Without the baby, her arms dangled like badly-hung washing until she tucked them in tidy loops under her armpits. ‘She likes to get the drinks out and in before she goes off duty. She’s very particular about her kitchen. Doesn’t really like anybody else in it. And of course Matron’s very strict about that sort of thing too.’ She unfurled an arm to let it wander octopus-like to scratch her nose. ‘No patients allowed, of course. Hygiene’s so important, though I don’t suppose I need to tell you that.’
‘Sally’ll just have to suffer me,’ Mrs Blair sniffed. ‘How does she think I can get the water to heat up the babbies’ bottles?’ She nodded into the nursery where three babies lay in cots numbered rather than named. ‘And I suppose I’ll be the one feeding these.’
I was curious about this trio. They lay so still I hoped they were alright and, since they were the only ones there, wondered why they weren’t with their mothers. Mrs Blair continued, ‘Oh well I suppose The Illigits will be leaving soon.’ Which, even if it was an unfortunate way of putting it, saved me asking.
