She hesitated for a moment to catch her breath. The lights still burned in the corridor although the sun had risen hours ago. Not that she could see any of it, only dismal grey rain clouds that shone wanly through the high corridor windows.
Breathing easier, she stared at the top half of the office door. Her heart was pounding so fast she could hear the rush of blood drumming in her ears. She waited, counting slowly to ten. One … two … three …
The door opened.
‘I thought I heard someone. Come in, Powell.’
Straightening her back, Bethan walked in. The office was warm and cramped, its painted walls running with condensation between the book-lined shelves.
‘Sit down.’
Two upright chairs were set in front of the desk. Bethan took the one nearest the fire. A few moments’ later she regretted her choice. This fire, unlike every other in the hospital, burned with a resolute, radiant cheerfulness that scorched her legs.
‘Right, Powell, let’s see what we have here.’ Matron eased her bulk into the comfortable, padded chair behind her desk and thumbed methodically through the pile of papers before her, leaving Bethan free to study the room and fall prey to every spectre of failure that rose from the depths of her imagination.
Alice George was far too intimidating a figure to acquire a nickname. No one in the hospital from the ward maids and porters to the senior doctors referred to her as anything other than “Matron”. She ran the wards and supervised her sisters with a rod of iron that was as even-handed and fair as it was inflexible.
Rules were her lifeblood. It was rumoured that she’d been seen reciting hospital regulations during a service in St John’s church instead of the Lord’s Prayer, and no one, least of all Bethan, had thought to question the story’s veracity.
The unkind described Matron as fat; the kind, plump. She was a short, dark woman, with beady black eyes that overlooked nothing.
Every speck of dust in awkward corners and every trivial misdemeanour committed by probationers and domestics came under her scrutiny. Laura had been called up before her more times than she cared to remember.
Bethan, with her more careful ways and healthier respect for authority, had never been in her office before now.
‘You know why I sent for you, Powell?’
Bethan slid nervously forward to the edge of her chair. ‘The results of my final nursing examination?’ she enquired hopefully.
Matron smiled in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but the gesture was wasted on Bethan. ‘You’ve passed, Powell. With distinction. Your name came top of your year.’
Bethan slumped in her chair. She’d passed. She’d really passed!
‘I’ve recommended you for midwifery training.’
‘Pardon, Matron?'
‘I’ve recommended you for midwifery training. It means another full year’s study and I warn you now, the examination for the midwifery certificate is not an easy one. But there’s a shortage of good midwives, and I believe you have the makings of a very good one indeed. Afterwards, may I suggest you complete the six months’ public health course? That will qualify you to work as a health visitor. God only knows,’ Matron added irreverently, ‘there’s an even greater shortage of those, particularly in this area.’
‘The midwifery certificate.’ As the words sank in so did their significance. Another full year on Squeers’ ward.
‘I know another year of study is an unappealing prospect, Nurse Powell …’
“Nurse Powell.” Someone in authority, someone other than the patients had actually said it …
‘But you will be on full pay while you train. Thirty-five shillings a week and a further five shillings when you qualify. You don’t have to make your decision now.’ Matron rose majestically and walked out from behind her desk. ‘Think it over and when you come to a decision make an appointment to see me. But remember,’ she cautioned, ‘you haven’t much time. The list of candidates has to be in by the end of the month. Should your decision be a positive one, the board would want to offer you a contract. One year initially.’
‘Yes, Matron. Thank you very much, Matron.’ Bethan struggled to regain her composure.
‘Is there anything you want to ask me?’ Matron enquired.
‘I can’t think of anything. Thank you.’ Bethan fumbled her way to the door. If she trained as a midwife, the board would offer her a contract - on Squeers’ ward! But if she passed it would mean two pounds a week. Two pounds!
She turned back as she reached the door.
‘I don’t need to think it over, Matron,’ she said quietly. ‘I’d like to put my name down for the course.’
‘Good,’ Matron beamed in approbation. ‘It will be hard. Studying as well as working full-time. But I think you’ll find it rewarding, and you’ve already proved that you have the aptitude. When you return to your ward ask Ronconi to come here.’
Dismissed, Bethan returned to the ward at a much slower pace than she’d left it.
She walked round a squad of young men sweeping the outside paths without really seeing them. Stepping over two unmarrieds who were scrubbing the corridor, she pushed open the double doors and entered the nursery where the babies were beginning to whimper. The twelve o’clock feeding time was still three-quarters of an hour away. It was just as well that the ward was virtually soundproof; another half an hour and the din would be unbearable.
‘Sister said would you please go to the delivery room the moment you get in,’ one of the ward maids ventured shyly as Bethan passed the table where the babies were changed.
Bethan tickled the squalling baby in the maid’s hands, before moving on.
Laura was taking the mother’s temperatures.
‘I’ll finish that,’ Bethan offered, washing her hands at one of the sinks, ‘Matron wants to see you.’
‘I’ll have to finish it,’ Laura moaned, ‘you’re wanted in the delivery room. Well?’ she demanded.
‘I’ve passed.’
‘Knew you would,’ Laura crowed. ‘Go on, you’d better get into the delivery room before sister has your guts for garters.’
‘I’ll take over, Ronconi.’ Staff Nurse Evans offered as she came into the ward from her tea break. ‘Congratulations, Nurse Powell, I heard about your distinction. Top of the year isn’t bad,’ she winked.
‘Typical,’ Laura griped with a grin on her face. ‘Leaving nothing for the rest of us to do.’
‘Going to study for your midwifery?’ Nurse Evans asked.
‘Yes,’ Bethan stammered, ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘You won’t catch me doing any more studying,’ Laura said emphatically.
‘You haven’t been offered the chance yet,’ Nurse Evans laughed. ‘Go on off with you, Ronconi, you too, Nurse Powell.’
Laura suddenly realised that she was on the brink of moving up from the ranks of the unqualified. She was leaving the ward as Ronconi, but she could return as Nurse. It felt good, very good indeed.
‘You’d best gown and mask up before you go into the delivery room,’ Nurse Evans warned Bethan. ‘Looks like a difficult one.’
When Bethan finally entered, she found Sister Church, Nurse Williams, the other staff nurse on the ward, and a doctor huddled around the bed.
‘Powell, at last’ Sister glared at Bethan above her mask.
‘Sorry, sister, I was with Matron.’
‘So I’ve been given to understand. Well, if you’d be kind enough to assist Doctor John and Nurse Williams here, I can get on with my other duties.’
Bethan took sister’s place alongside the bed. Maisie was lying on her back, her eyes rolling in agony, and even Bethan’s comparatively inexperienced eye could see that something was seriously wrong.
‘Chloroform, Nurse Williams,’ Dr John ordered.
His voice didn’t sound right to Bethan. She looked at his eyes, all that could be seen above the mask, and he nodded to her.
‘Nice to be working with you, Nurse Powell’
Flu
stered, she looked away. One of the first lessons she’d learned was that doctors never talked to nurses. They were incomparably above and beyond the nursing staff in every hospital hierarchy.
Besides, this Dr John was most definitely not the Dr John she knew. This Dr John was taller, broader and, judging by his voice, a good deal younger than the tall, thin, grey-haired man who visited the ward three mornings a week and sent Dr Lewis out on his emergencies.
Uncertain whether to reply or not she looked down at the bed, where Maisie had caught hold of her hand.
‘Bethan, is that you?’ Maisie squeezed her hand forcefully.
‘You know the patient, Nurse?’ The doctor’s voice was soft, carefully modulated for a sickroom.
‘We were at school together,’ Maisie gasped.
‘Old friends are the best, Maisie. That was quick, Nurse Williams,’ he said pleasantly as she returned with the chloroform, mask and bottle. ‘Right, Maisie, we’re going to put you to sleep for a while, and when you wake up the pain will have gone. Keep hold of Nurse Powell’s hand …’
‘Bethan,’ Maisie pleaded plaintively.
‘Right, Bethan’s hand.’ His eyes wrinkled in amusement.
‘Congratulations, Nurse Powell,’ Nurse Williams clamped the mask over Maisie’s face. ‘Top of the year and a distinction, I hear.’
Bethan mumbled a reply as the doctor prepared the chloroform drops. It would take her a while to get used to this camaraderie from senior staff, particularly if compliments were going to be offered over patients’ heads.
‘Well done, Nurse Powell,’ Dr John congratulated enthusiastically. ‘I had no idea I was working with such nursing talent. Now, if you could take over from Nurse Williams and steady the mask with your free hand?’
‘Yes, Doctor.’ Bethan took the mask and pressed it gently over Maisie’s nose. The girl’s eyes rounded in fear. ‘Don’t worry, Maisie,’ she murmured, ‘you’ll be fine. A few moments and it will all be over.’
Maisie clawed at the mask with her free hand. To Bethan’s embarrassment the doctor placed his hand firmly over hers, then slowly, drop by drop, he poured the chloroform. Maisie’s eyes clouded, and her hands fell limply on to the bed. Nurse Williams moved quickly. She hauled back the sheet and strapped Maisie’s legs into the stirrups while the doctor scrubbed his hands and picked up the forceps.
‘This is going to be tricky. I’d be grateful if you could try to hold the patient still.’
Bethan clamped her hands on Maisie’s shoulders. She looked down and watched as the doctor extracted one tiny wrinkled leg, then another. An interminable wait followed during which she found it difficult to breathe. The cap covering the doctor’s forehead moistened with sweat despite the chill in the room.
Maisie moaned, a low bestial cry, as he worked frantically to free the tiny body imprisoned within her. Then suddenly, without any further drama, he lifted his hands. In them was the small, waxy, silent white form of a baby.
‘Nurse?’ he demanded urgently.
Nurse Williams took the child, leaving him free to cut the cord. The moment he severed it, she forced her fingers into the baby’s mouth, and turned it upside down. Nothing! The doctor tore the gloves from his hands and held the chid by its heels, hitting it lightly on the back with his free hand.
A thin, weak wail filled the room. Bethan breathed again. She’d assisted at too many stillbirths to take life for granted.
‘It’s a girl.’ The doctor wrapped her gently in the coarse towel that Nurse Williams handed him. ‘A little small, but all there,’ he announced cheerfully.
‘I’ll take her to the nursery,’ the staff nurse volunteered.
‘And when you’ve deposited her there, have a well-earned rest. Nurse Powell and I can wrap up here.’
‘Can you?’ the staff nurse asked eagerly. She hadn’t had a break since she’d entered the ward at six-thirty, and the thought of putting her feet up, even for ten minutes, seemed like heaven.
‘Of course we can, and Nurse?’
‘Yes, Doctor?’ She hesitated in the doorway.
‘Thank you for your help.’
The staff nurse positively purred at the unaccustomed praise.
Slightly embarrassed Bethan turned her attention to Maisie. Dr John pulled down his mask. When Bethan glanced up, he was leaning against the wall, his head in his hands. He saw her looking at him and shook his head.
‘I hate the touch and go ones,’ he said drily. ‘Six years as a medical student and I’m still not used to death.’
‘Then you’ve only just qualified?’ Bethan asked, without stopping to think that she was talking to a doctor.
‘Last summer. This is my first job. I’m assisting my father.’
‘Doctor John?’ she blurted out.
‘You’ve worked out the family connection?’
She tried, and failed, to think of a witty retort. She’d never been one for spontaneous repartee, not like Laura.
Maisie moaned again.
He moved over to the bed and checked her pulse. ‘The lady’s waking up. Let’s hope there’ll be no more complications.’
The next hour was a busy one, and Bethan learned that young Dr John was nothing if not thorough. He didn’t leave the ward until Maisie had regained consciousness, and she still had to wash, change and make Maisie as comfortable as a patient who has just given birth can be made.
Even awake, the girl seemed to be in a stupor. Bethan chatted as she worked telling her that she had a lovely little girl, and that she’d be seeing her soon, but she failed to elicit a response. Undeterred, she persisted talking about the child.
‘She’s small but all right, and with care, she won’t be small for long.’
‘Am I going back to the unmarrieds ward?’ Maisie whispered finally.
‘Not just yet,’ Bethan replied calmly. ‘You’ll be with us for at least ten days. I’ll be passing your house tonight. Do you want me to call in …’
‘No!’
That single word said everything. Bethan finished doing what she had to in silence. As soon as Maisie was ready for the ward, she called one of the maids and told her to summon a porter. By the time Maisie was safely bedded down in a side ward away from the “respectable” married patients, it was three-thirty in the afternoon and Bethan was free to take her lunch break.
She went to the ward kitchen, hoping to find fresh pies and pasties cadged from the Hopkin Morgan van that delivered to the main kitchen.
She was disappointed. There was a quarter-full tray of stale iced buns and a pot of stewed tea. Nothing more. She couldn’t do much about the buns but she drained the tea down the sink, tipped the leaves in the waste bucket and started again.
‘Laura did well then?’
‘She did?’ Bethan looked up from the gas that she was trying to light, and saw Glan Richards the ward porter, who also happened to be her next door neighbour.
‘She got a distinction. Of course she couldn’t make it top of the year like you …’
Bethan switched off the gas that was refusing to light, tore a piece off a bun and threw it at him. It hit his nose, fell into the kettle and blossomed over the surface of the water.
‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ she complained, emptying and rinsing out the kettle.
‘What I made you do? You just wait until tonight.’ He tried to grab her by the waist but, too quick for him, she ducked and moved away. ‘You are going to the hospital ball aren’t you?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean I want to see you there,’ she said tartly, sticking her tongue out at him.
Glan smiled a winning smile that he practised in front of the mirror every night. ‘Why fight me, Beth?’ He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘You know you can’t resist me.’
She tried the gas again. This time it caught and she dropped the taper she was holding into the sink, but not before it singed the tips of her fingers.
‘Resist you! Times like this I could quite cheerfully br
ain you,’
she exclaimed feelingly, brushing his hand off her.
Glan’s smile never wavered. He took her outburst in good humour. He was used to being put down by the Powells, especially Bethan whom he’d known since their mutual school days in Maesycoed Infants. Above medium height with well-developed muscles, brown curly hair and pleasant open features; he was fairly good-looking and proudly aware of the fact.
He lived at home with his mother and his father, a bullying collier who tried to dominate every single aspect of his timid wife and children’s lives, which was why Glan was the only one left at home. But even Mr Richards’ senior had failed to prevent Glan from growing a moustache and fancying himself as a second John Gilbert; a fantasy founded in a surfeit of Hollywood films viewed from the bug run in the White Palace.
‘Come on, Beth,’ Glan crooned in what he imagined to be a seductive manner. ‘Walk home from the ball with me tonight and I’ll show you the moon as you’ve never seen it before.’
‘I’d rather give the ball a miss.’
‘You can’t miss the ball. Rumour has it you’re going to be the guest of honour.’
‘Laura!’ Bethan reached past Glan and hugged her friend. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Of course I couldn’t do as well as you …’
‘No one could,’ Glan echoed.
‘Is that tea you’re having because if it is, I’ll have a cup?’ Laura pushed Glan aside and sat on one of the hard wooden chairs that were ranged opposite the sink. ‘Qualified nurses can demand to be put on early tea,’ she winked at Glan.
‘I’m on late lunch,’ Bethan griped.
‘Poor you. Have you seen the new doctor?’
‘I have,’ Bethan concurred, her mouth full of stale bun.
‘Isn’t he wonderful?’
‘If you like the smarmy kind.’
‘Smarmy!’ Laura exclaimed indignantly. ‘Smarmy! Bethan, you’re the limit. He looks like Ronald Colman and has the manners of the Prince of Wales.’ The kettle boiled, and she tipped hot water into the teapot to warm it. ‘He can carry me off any time he likes.’
Pontypridd 01 - Hearts of Gold Page 6
