Scared about her old man too ‒ but it was the hospital sights and the hospital smells that made it worse. First time she’d been in a civvy hospital she said. She didn’t know how lucky she was, here tonight, not last night. No room for the armchair in the flat last night. Place had been like Oxford Circus in the rush hour, with the sweating, shirt-sleeved students coming and going with the filled and empty stretchers they had to carry from the lift. Casualty had needed every available stretcher-trolley in the hospital and could only spare two for each lift. There was just room for two, and four students jammed against the walls, in Wally’s lift. Every time it came up it had to be sent straight down again. The students toting the stretcher poles on one shoulder and empty canvas stretcher slung over the other, had to go down by the stairs. The relatives had to use the stairs. They had started appearing in the flat at about this time, and though they kept coming and going, for the rest of the night there seemed to be a permanent little group by the fire and sand buckets. All of them had been covered in dust and all their haggard faces had worn the same desperate, urgent expressions, and their voices had the same desperate urgency when they all said the same words, ‘Nurse, we’re looking for ‒’ and after the name, ‘Have you got him?’
Nurse Carter returned to the quiet flat. ‘I’ll see how he is and tell Dean. She’ll have to come out to listen to the ’phone.’
Mrs Browne made a vague gesture of rising but, immediately she was alone, slumped back in the chair. Every line of her stout body and podgy face was dragged downwards by defeat. For the first time in her life she felt beaten, ashamed. That gel Smith must’ve heard. She hadn’t said anything, or looked as if she’d heard, but she had kept popping in to take his pulse, fiddle with the blood transfusion, check the gauge on the oxygen cylinder standing sentry behind his bed. She must’ve heard. He went on and on. Must’ve. She’d report it, of course. Too clever by half to imagine he was just woffling. Anyway, her duty to report it. Gel had to do her duty. Duty.
Mrs Browne’s face suddenly crumpled. She covered it with her hands just in time. She had heard someone on the stairs. But she had controlled her emotions for half a century, and as she regularly remarked, old habits died hard. She had straightened her back and dug in her chins when Jason limped round the screen.
‘You’re having a long night, Mrs Browne. How’s the Major?’
‘Kipping nicely again when I left him just now.’ She rose to her feet straight-backed, her handbag at attention by her side. ‘Took a peek at that lad in 30. Looked tickety-boo now you’ve hoicked out his appendix.’
‘Mr MacDonald operated,’ corrected Jason wearily. ‘I only assisted.’
‘Still have to come up for a look-see?’
‘And do his notes.’
‘Lashings of bumf.’
‘Lashings.’
‘Bad as the Army,’ she consoled him. She could see he was very down in the dumps. No fun for a lad his age being cooped up in a civvy hospital when all he wanted was to get into uniform and have a crack at Jerry. She remembered the war. ‘Not a cheep out of friend Jerry for hours.’
Jason glanced from her ravaged face to the floor. ‘Maybe the war’s over.’
‘Think they’ve forgotten to give us the gen? Wouldn’t put it past them.’
Nurse Dean bustled out clutching the ward log book to her beautiful bosom. She had been writing the opening of her detailed night report on Jarvis’s locker. ‘If you’ve come for Mr Gill, Mr Jason, he’s round, asleep, hasn’t been sick, dressing intact.’
‘Right. I’ll look at him.’ Jason nodded to Mrs Browne and limped into the ward. He nearly knocked over Nurse Carter coming out. He stepped aside and looked through her. She glanced over her shoulder and frowned at his back. Who the hell did he think he was? Mack?
Nurse Dean was reassuring Mrs Browne, ‘Hasn’t stirred since you left. Sleeping really well now, isn’t he, Carter?’
‘Yes, nurse. Flat out,’ she added kindly to Mrs Browne.
Nurse Dean was offended by the unprofessional expression but noticed it seemed to relieve Mrs Browne. Carter, she recalled, was actually rather good at handling relatives. She always seemed to know what to say to them even if they were ‒ well ‒ common. She supposed it was all those jumble sales, bring-and-buys, church fêtes and things. ‘When you get back, Carter, take a few more minutes off, then relieve Nurse Smith for her meal.’
Mrs Browne might be defeated but she was still willing to go through enemy lines and the basement alone. ‘No need for an escort party, nurse. One can find one’s own way down.’
‘Thank you, but I’m afraid you must be escorted at night. Hospital rule.’
‘Rules made to be obeyed. Good gel. Many thanks. Don’t forget ‒ anytime ‒ just shout.’
‘I hope we don’t have to do that again tonight. I hope you get some sleep, but if you wake early, do come back whenever you wish. We start work at four but we don’t have the main lights on till five.’
Mrs Browne bowed graciously and on the stairs asked, ‘What did she mean “start work”?’
‘Washings and dressings. We’ve only got nine men in Wally’s tonight who can wash themselves. We always start with the illest patients as they never mind how early they’re washed and have their beds made up fresh. Takes about twenty minutes each, unless a man’s in a plaster. That takes longer as he’s heavier.’
‘Do they get to sleep after?’
‘Oh yes. Usually the best sleep of their nights. I don’t know why, but there’s something about the dawn that makes them all relax and sleep. No, not that way, this.’ They turned into the main ground floor corridor and walked on chatting amicably of trivialities.
Nurse Dean folded aside the screen to expose the ward, sat at the table to continue her report, took out her pen but did not immediately uncap it. She gazed into the ward and for at least a minute neither saw, heard, nor smelt it. All she saw was MacDonald’s face in her mind when she told him. He listened in silence, looking at her, and stayed silent when she finished. Eventually, ‘Thank you’, was all he said. Then he had gone straight to look at Mr Gill.
She blinked and saw her ward. I mustn’t think about him now, she thought, I simply mustn’t ‒ I simply haven’t time. She didn’t have to tell herself not to think of Mrs MacDonald. She never thought of the patients once they were dead. Thinking would only make her unhappy and couldn’t do them any good and besides, her job was with the living. She uncapped her pen and the telephone rang.
The Senior Night Sister wanted to know if Mrs Browne had left and the latest reports on the Major, Briggs and Mr Gill. ‘I’m much relieved Briggs’s heart appears to be tolerating that second increased injection rather more satisfactorily than the first, nurse. Wasn’t too happy about his having it so soon. But as he’s now sleeping well I’ve no doubt you were right to give it. Mr MacDonald knows his drugs and his patients. Poor Mr MacDonald.’ The severe voice softened. ‘Such a grievous shock. Has he been up to see Mr Gill?’
‘Not yet, Sister. I presume he’ll then go off for the rest of the night?’
‘No, nurse. Mr MacDonald has insisted that he remains on-call until nine in the morning. He’s taking the day off tomorrow to go down to Kent, but intends to return in time for his night rounds.’
Nurse Dean’s face coloured with indignation but there was no colour in her voice. ‘I hope this quiet lasts, Sister.’
‘Don’t we all! Thank you, Nurse Dean.’ The Night Sister replaced the receiver of Matron’s private telephone and sipped tea from one of Matron’s fluted china cups.
The Matron’s private office was a smallish, elegant room lined with bookshelves, carpeted and curtained in silver grey. The curtains, long and velvet, by day and night hid the blind windows. The Matron’s rosewood desk faced the open door to a larger outer office fitted with four desks. This was the domain of the Office Sisters by day and Assistant Night Sisters by night. Only one of the latter was now present. She was a staff nurse from the same training set as
Nurses Dean and Smith, a particular friend of Nurse Dean and temporarily promoted Acting-Assistant. She was seated at the desk nearest the open door copying into the Matron’s Hospital Log, from the figures in the stack of ward reports collected from all the night seniors on the two a.m. round, the total hospital bedstate for the last twenty-four hours.
The Night Sister addressed her conversationally, ‘I’m not surprised Mr MacDonald’s staying on. He knows how sudden staff changes upset patients and staff.’ She took another sip of tea. ‘Naturally, a dreadful shock, but he’s not a man to go to pieces. He won’t let this affect his work and having to work will undoubtedly help him. Of course he knows that too. In his shoes, I almost certainly wouldn’t go off. Would you, nurse?’
‘To be honest, Sister, I don’t know.’
‘I do,’ retorted the Night Sister briskly. ‘If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be my Acting-Assistant. Don’t look embarrassed, nurse, I’m not paying you a compliment, I’m merely stating a fact based on my observations of your character. Personal disasters, no matter how disturbing, don’t alter the character. All the effect they have is to turn the individual concerned into a caricature of his or her normal self. Illness does the same ‒ so does fatigue ‒ and obviously the effects of both are more noticeable at night. Surely you’ve observed how the night caricatures the patients and to a not much lesser extent, the staff?’
The Acting-Assistant paused for thought. ‘It’s often struck me it’s much easier to see the patients for the people they are underneath, in darkness than daylight. I just haven’t thought of applying that to the staff.’
‘You’re new to administration, nurse. You’ll learn. Darkness is singularly illuminating. It’s not only the sick whose defences are lowered in the small hours. That occurs to the whole human race. And as the defences go down, the character is more exposed. The brave become braver, the sensible more sensible, the weak weaker ‒ and where the staff are concerned, the silly little dunderheads of both sexes who shouldn’t have chosen their professions in the first place, are exposed for the incompetent individuals they are fundamentally.’ The Night Sister’s defences were lowered so she smiled a thin grey smile. ‘As you weren’t with us before the war and so many of our housemen vanish into the Forces after the first six months, you won’t remember how often it was that a young houseman’s application to remain on the resident staff a further six months used to be rejected. You must have noticed how, even now, not all that infrequently, some junior disappears to some smaller hospital to complete her training or the Women’s Services, after her first spell of night-duty?’
Her junior smiled, ‘Oh yes, Sister.’ She hesitated, then decided to risk it, ‘Sister, I hope you don’t mind my asking this, but do you have to make official reports on the housemen?’
‘I don’t mind your asking within the walls of these offices, nurse. Yes. I make my reports to Matron and she advances my views to the appropriate quarters. I’m asked to keep in mind the manner in which a young houseman comports himself on duty at night, whether he is able to work well with the nursing staff, responds favourably and swiftly when called-up to see patients after he’s retired to bed and so on. I’m glad to say I very seldom have to make an adverse report and particularly not recently. Our present junior residents, whether or not they know it and I suspect they do, have most literally been hand-picked. We simply haven’t time to break in the stupid or the lazy ‒ whether doctor or nurse. Every teaching hospital attracts numbers of both, as we both know, but we don’t have them here in London now. Wouldn’t be fair to the patients or the rest of the staff. Matron picks you nurses with great care, even ‒ no ‒ especially the juniors. As you know, they all have to be over twenty-one. Matron has refused to allow minors to work in London since the country hospital opened in ’41. They have also to have proven themselves reliable night juniors in the country ‒ again as so often there is no time to give them the constant supervision we normally insist our junior nurses receive. And they must’ ‒ she added thoughtfully ‒ ‘have mental and physical stamina. In fact, nurse, when I’m asked what I consider the most useful quality for any of us on night-duty here, my answer is, bluntly ‒ stamina.’
The Acting-Assistant thought of Nurse Smith. ‘I know what you mean, Sister.’
The Night Sister thought of Nurse Dean. ‘Anyone can rise to an isolated occasion. But to do so as a matter of routine, that takes stamina. Nevertheless, I wish I could have spared Nurse Dean from having to break the tragic news to Mr MacDonald.’ She didn’t notice the glance her junior shot at her, as she was delicately breaking the sweet biscuit on her fluted plate. She chose a piece with great care. ‘She told me she would have rung first to consult my wishes, had Mr Jason not been present when the news came through and that poor man Briggs not needed urgent attention. They were still with him when Mr MacDonald walked in. The switchboard had told him an outside call had come through to Walter Walters for him. Nurse Dean had no alternative to telling him at once, since it was already known to the house-surgeon. I have no doubt she used her habitual tact and discretion. Such a sensible reliable girl ‒ an excellent nurse ‒ which, of course, is why she has her present ward. But very disturbing for a senior to have to give news of that nature to the Senior Surgical Officer. I yield to none in my opinion of Mr MacDonald’s professional capabilities, but I can’t pretend he’s always the easiest of men to deal with. Nurse Dean has never mentioned this to me, but I’ve sometimes had the impression that she finds him a trifle difficult to handle. Of course. I could be wrong,’ she added in a tone that left no doubt of the reverse.
The Acting-Assistant gazed down at the hospital log. ‘Quite honestly, Sister,’ she said honestly, ‘I couldn’t say.’
The Night Sister sighed. ‘Poor Mrs MacDonald. Tragic. Such a pleasant young woman, I always used to think when they were first married. Such a pity they’ve seen so little of each other recently, though that’s been the lot of thousands of married couples in this war. But a happy marriage can sustain months ‒ years ‒ of absence and I’ve always thought they must be most happily married. However, I must admit I thought her most ill-advised to come to London yesterday. Little did I know! Tch, tch, tch.’ She clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘Poor Mr MacDonald. I fear he’ll miss her sadly.’
‘Yes, Sister,’ her junior agreed, not wholly dishonestly. She only knew MacDonald professionally, but she had known Nurse Dean for over four years and she knew her very well.
Nurse Dean looked up as Jason sat heavily beside her. ‘Finished, Mr Jason?’
‘When I’ve written up Gill’s op. notes. I couldn’t do them in the theatre as your junior nicked them before I’d the chance.’
‘Sister Theatre told the porters he was ready to come back and she’s not allowed to return without the patient’s notes.’ She read his writing over his shoulder. ‘You won’t forget to leave us a quarter of morphia in hand? He’ll need it before morning.’
He frowned, ‘Do I usually forget?’
‘You’re a bit tired.’
‘I’ve only been up since Mack chucked me out of bed in short order at five to six yesterday morning ‒ oh, hell!’ His nib was leaking. He reached for blotting paper. ‘I’m glad Briggs is still well under. Browne looks almost human. I gather he was a bit maniacal earlier.’
‘A bit.’ She ruled a red line under a drugs entry in her report. ‘We got his wife up. She soothed him rather well. Actually, she was rather splendid. She sat on his locker playing patience. You wouldn’t have thought she was worried.’ Jason glanced at her without comment. ‘I think it was jolly splendid of her to rush straight up here tonight.’
He said drily, ‘What would the Colonel say if she didn’t rally to the flag? England expects ‒’
‘Nelson, Mr Jason, was addressing the Navy not the Army.’
‘Rule Britannia.’ He drew an outsize illustration of an appendix and shaded in the adhesions. ‘Mack tell you about our WREN in Rachel?’
She stiffened. ‘Yes
. How’s she doing?’
‘Just lovely.’ His drawl was bleak with despair. ‘Her heart’s going lubb-dupp, lubb-dupp, lubb-bloody-dupp.’
She stared into the ward. ‘Briggs’s heart has picked up.’
‘A fair treat.’ He filled in an outsize balloon note and sat back. ‘I see you’ve now got him on a ten-minute pulse chart.’
‘I suggested that to Nurse Smith as I thought we should watch his heart very closely. Do you mind?’
‘God, no. We don’t want the poor chap going peacefully into failure without our putting up the fight of our lives to save his life. That’s why we’re here, nurse. And God help suffering humanity.’
She looked at him impatiently. ‘If you’ve finished, Mr Jason, why don’t you go to bed?’
‘I’m going soon as I’ve got the strength to get out of this chair.’ He yawned. ‘I suppose you’ve heard Mack’s staying on?’
She stood up and her knuckles whitened on the back of the chair and her quiet voice was uncharacteristically unsteady. ‘He should have gone straight off after that appendix. I can understand his feeling he must do it as Gill’s a student, but he should’ve gone straight off after. One of the surgical pundits should’ve come in to take over. It’s ‒ it’s monstrous making him stay on. Downright inhuman.’
He shook his head. ‘No one’s making him stay. The SMO and Night Sister suggested hollering for a surgical pundit. They’d have got one like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Top brass would’ve been killed in the rush. Type of drama pundits love ‒ dine out for weeks on how they held the fort. Worth at least two chapters in their memoirs. Mack wasn’t having any. He’s refused to hand over till nine.’
Nurse Dean’s eyes were bright with suppressed anger. ‘They shouldn’t have let him refuse!’
‘Have you ever tried to stop Mack doing what he wants ‒ as you were!’ Suddenly euphoric with fatigue, Jason grinned at his slip and her primly outraged reaction. ‘He’s taking tomorrow off.’
One Night in London: a hospital in wartime (The Jason Trilogy Book 1) Page 9
