Once inside the nurseries she had little time to think of him. The Bruiser was not only to be bathed and fed, he had to be dressed.
“Dressed, Sister Helen You mean, of course, his nightie—”
“Pilchers, petticoat, dress, jacket, bonnet, what-have-you,” said Sister. “He’s going home, my dear.”
“Home?”
“Where else? He’s not advanced yet for college, and I do believe home is the usual place.”
“But is he big enough?”
“Five and a quarter pounds, and that’s more than lots of normal term babies. Do you expect us to keep him till he’s ready to vote?”
“I only hope we’re doing the right thing,” said Jessa, looking down on what she considered in her newness here was a very small babe indeed.
“Since when has a trainee of two days’ experience known more than Professor Gink?” returned the Sister not unkindly.
“Did the Professor say he was to go?”
“It’s one of his net theories. The best equipped hospital in the world is not as good as the poorest home, in his belief. As soon as they reach five pounds, so long as there are no complications, he likes a child under his own roof tree. Nurse Jess.
“The child needs it, too. Don’t think for one minute that these babies are being hoodwinked. They know we’re only playing a part, that we are only poor substitutes at the best.
“Then there’s the mother. Try to feel with her the frustration she’s been suffering. A mother in word only. Now at last comes her big chance.”
Jessa finished Bruiser’s bath accompanied by Bruiser’s usual howls and started Bruiser’s bottle accompanied by Bruiser’s usual purrs.
“Has Professor Gink done his rounds yet?”
“Bless you, he doesn’t work to a schedule, he just flies in and flies out. At the moment he has flown to another state.”
“Another state?”
“South Australia cabled for his opinion. Next week it might be Queensland, over to New Zealand, anywhere. He is not actually attached to Belinda, he’s just very interested in it. In a way it’s his baby.” At that pun Sister Helen laughed.
Jessa felt the spectacles in her pocket. “Is he usually long away?” she asked.
Sister Helen, diapering Madeleine, sighed, “Those lashes of hers ought to be cut, they’re absurdly fabulous—no, not long, not long anywhere, he’s too much in demand.”
“It—it must be hard for his wife.” Jessa was aware that her heart was thumping oddly.
“No wife; never even looked like marriage—bur I suppose it will come in time. A doctor should be a family man, I think. But the girl would have to be somebody special, wouldn’t she? Something like him—dedicated.”
“Yes ... dedicated...” agreed Jessa, and all at once she was remembering that that was how she had always thought of Margaret... dedicated.
And as suddenly she was remembering last night and Margaret’s shining eyes.
They would be a good pair, a marvellous pair, she thought excitedly. Between them they could achieve so much of what is really worthwhile.
Jessa took away the empty bottle, put Bruiser down in his crib and went to the nursery locker for his suitcase of clothes.
I must do my best, she was thinking earnestly, to bring them together; I have no “dedication” like Margaret, only a “thing” about nursing, but I can still dedicate myself to that special purpose, the purpose of merging two dedicated people for the betterment of a cause.
She took out a case from the T. shelf. Bruiser’s name was David Talbot. If somewhere deep within her there was a queer feeling of inexplicable regret it was vague and very small.
The case was placed on the nursery table. Because a baby’s trousseau is always irresistible, everyone flocked around to see.
Miracles of soft garments were withdrawn from tissue paper. Even the little under-vests were rose-embroidered. Sister Judith gave a snort.
“When I was at Brennan Maternity,” she said, “we’d give a list to prospective mothers. Four singlets, six nightgowns, one shawl—but do you think they would?”
“No, dozens of everything, most of them absurdly superfluous, and every garment cluttered with rosebuds or forget-me-nots. Rosebuds on our Bruiser, the very idea!”
“He mightn’t be a Bruiser to his mother,” suggested someone.
“I expect so,” agreed Sister Judith with a smile. “I expect too, she’ll be like all prem mums and say, ‘Oh dear, isn’t he terribly small!’ ”
“The trouble is,” put in Sister Helen wisely, “they will compare them to the baby at the back, or the baby next door. A prem baby should only, in growth, be compared to itself.”
The Bruiser yawned widely as though bored with their talk, and Sister Helen went on.
“One thing I do know, and that is that his bonnet won’t fit. They never do. Try it, Nurse Jess.”
Jessa put it on, an absurd little frilly be-ribboned halo, and it fell at once round his ears.
As they all laughed Sister Helen produced a plain helmet with workmanlike ribbons. “For all his five pounds, four ounces, he’s still small. The rest of him can be bundled up to fit, but you can’t bundle up a bonnet. I wish mothers would realize that all babies’ heads and particularly prems’ heads are very tiny.”
“Do you always keep bonnets in stock?” asked Jessa curiously, putting the Bruiser into bootees.
Sister Helen looked a little embarrassed. “I’m a poor donothinger,” she admitted. “When I’m off duty or resting or visiting, I work at these sort of things.”
The Bruiser was finished at last, and Jessa was permitted to take him round for his farewells.
“I suppose the next time I’ll see you, young man, will be in the boxing stadium,” said Sister Helen.
Jessa had a vision of Sister sitting ringside and still fashioning bonnets.
“Do you go to prize-fights, Sister Helen?”
“It’s not a habit of mine, but I’ll remember to attend Mr. David Talbot’s in another twenty years.”
Mrs. Talbot did just as she was expected. She took one look at her son and gasped nervously, “He’s terribly small.”
“Five and a quarter pounds, Mrs. Talbot, that’s more than lots of normal term babies. You’ve been thinking of the baby at the back of you or the baby next door.”
“Two doors up,” admitted Mrs. Talbot glumly, “born a month after but twice the size of him.”
“That’s how you mustn’t compare,” advised Jessa with borrowed wisdom. “You must only compare him to himself.”
“Is—is he hard to handle?”
Jessa could answer that one unaided. She had had a lot to do with the Bruiser, and with each handling she had become more adept. “A piece of cake,” she said.
She added. “Don’t let him bully you. He’s tough, Mrs. Talbot. Here we call him the Bruiser. He’s going to be a prize-fighter.”
“The Bruiser! My David! My delicate little Davey! Of all the names!” Mrs. Talbot added determinedly, “And he’s going to be a bank manager, Nurse.”
Jessa tried to see the tiny boy with Mrs. Talbot’s eyes, remembering, when first she had arrived here, how she had misjudged the size of the Bouncer, the size of all the babes. It was odd how the longer you attended them the less wee they appeared.
“Well, good luck, anyway, David,” she wished. She pressed a kiss on the small forehead.
“I shall return the bonnet,” Mrs. Talbot looked disapprovingly on Sister Helen’s serviceable contribution.
“It really doesn’t matter.”
“I shall return it,” said Mrs. Talbot, and Jessa knew she just couldn’t get home quick enough to substitute a confection of ribbon and lace.
The Bouncer left them as well that afternoon, but any ideas that they were to be without a he-man in their midst was instantly dispelled with the emergency arrival of a young fellow called Jones. He was only three and three-quarter pounds, but that included a pugilistic look in his eye. When he thrust o
ut a little left arm he earned at once the title of Southpaw.
For several days Jessa carried around Professor Gink’s glasses. Although in her mind she had officially established Margaret as his future mate both in dedication—and, if Fate permitted, in marriage—it seemed somehow to be her right to substitute, for the Professor, at the Perfesser’s crib. She went along every morning and again every night. She knew she had grown to love the little lost boy.
A week had gone past since her inception at Belinda’s. She and Margaret had worn every colour now, some twice.
Another week went past, a third. When the month was up and three new graduates accepted, they felt they were almost old hands. Particularly since, unlike Great Southern, there was no telling how long they had been here, or how senior they were, by any difference of cap.
Letters had come from home keeping Jessa in touch with Crescent Island’s latest tourist progress. It wasn’t like the spoken word, though, in which case, when Barry rang the common-room one evening, she promised eagerly to meet him on her afternoon off before she started Nights.
They found it would coincide with his week-end stay in Sydney. The Matthew Flinders 3 was still functioning, but at any time now Ba foresaw his final trip.
“You said that when you fetched me over,” Jessa reminded him.
“I’m saying it again now. I can hear the crack of doom.”
To Jessa’s disappointment Ba as usual insisted on meeting her in the Gardens. How many times at G.S., rebelling with every step, had she met him there? Other girls went to fashionable restaurants for dinners very different from hospital beef, greens and potatoes, to coffee bars for cups of espresso coffee and exciting patisseries, to hotel lounges for cocktails with remarkable names. But Jessa met Ba at the Botanical Gardens Wishing Tree, where fable had it that if you walked round thrice your wish would come true, and where every time Ba said, “Shall we test the fable,
Jessamine?” and where every time she would refuse, knowing what he would wish and how different it would be from hers. She would always like Barry, but love him? No.
After that they would stroll through the Japanese garden, past the artificial lakes with the sky and clouds imprisoned in them, then round the promontory to Mrs. Macquarie’s Chair.
Here, in a tiny bitten-in beach, they would settle under Ba’s favourite Moreton Bay fig tree, and he would produce sandwiches in a packet or buns in a bag.
The trouble with Barry was that everything always had to resemble the island. It was very like the island round at Mrs. Macquarie’s, the blue harbour, the green foreshore, the little boats, the crested waves.
She had said this to him once and he had retorted, “And the trouble with you, Jessa, is that you like people, not places. Crescent Island means only your mother and father to you, not a lagoon, a jetty, a reef, a long white beach.”
He had forgotten to include Lopi. Coming in to her room now to get ready for her afternoon off with Barry, Jessa looked at the crater and said, “Hi, Lopi.”
It was nice, astonishingly enough, to get into a dark suit instead of a pastel colour. She chose yellow gloves to brighten that deep pine green wool and put on a pair of pigskin flats.
Ba was at the Wishing Tree before her.
“Shall we?”
“No.”
He was not offended, he had expected it.
“Guess what I brought to eat.”
“That’s easy, sandwiches, buns or pies.”
“No, pawpaw. Your mother sent it.”
“How is she?”
“Getting excited about the tourist invasion. So is all the island.”
They crossed the bridge over the lake and the black swans and blue tern hurried across to investigate. Jessa watched them, then pointed to the reflected sky. “They’re gliding on a cloud.”
They came down to the stone wall and stood a while looking at the harbour.
“Tell me everything,” urged Jessa.
Barry shrugged. “Not much yet, really, we’re still on the verge of things. Builders are in and the inn is having a facelift. There are going to be five wings eventually and the present erection will be the pivot. I told your father he should call the pub the Star, not the Jessamine any more.” Ba’s voice was bitter.
“There’s been lots of enquiries already for accommodation,” he went on. “The tourist bloke has suggested turtle races on the beach, and all that sort of stuff. Vanda has the job of hostess, seeing you won’t do your daughterly duty—”
“I am doing something much worthier,” put in Jessa proudly.
“Yes, keeping well away,” gloomed Ba.
They began walking round to Mrs. Macquarie’s Chair. “If you feel like that about the change in Crescent, it’s a wonder you don’t keep away, too,” observed Jess.
“I can’t. I can’t ever. Even if they make a Honolulu of it, it’s home. It’s different with you, Jess, you’re all for people, not places, as I said before. And that’s why I don’t understand—” He stopped abruptly.
“Understand what?”
“Babies. You’re mad on them, otherwise you wouldn’t be at Belinda, and if you’re mad on them why not some of your own?”
“Is this a proposal?”
“Sort of.”
Impulsively she tucked her arm in his. Dear persistent Ba, she was terribly fond of him really.
“I told you before, two reds sizzle.”
“And I told you before, I don’t care if they explode.” They laughed at that, finding presently to their satisfaction that their bench beneath the Moreton Bay fig was unoccupied. Ba got out the pawpaw and began to peel. “Your turn to talk,” he said.
She told him about her work...the coloured uniforms, the smallness of the patients, the tags they gave them, Margaret—Professor Gink.
“Funny name,” said Barry of the latter. “Wouldn’t care about it myself.”
“No,” agreed Jessa, but in her heart she planned with dedication, “But Margaret will.”
“When is your leave, Jess?” asked Barry. “The folk want to see you, and if you don’t make it soon you’ll have to pay the Bureau your fare, not me.”
“I had no intention of paying you; Margaret hadn’t either.”
“Hi, what’s this? I don’t run a bulk island transport for free.”
“Not bulk, Ba, just the two of us. We get our first break from Belinda in ten days’ time. I’ve mentioned it to Margaret and she’d love it if the Matthew Flinders is not off the run by then, can we come?”
“I suppose so,” grumbled Barry, “but I don’t see why you can’t pay your way.”
“Ask the Hospital; we’re still trainees.”
“I’ll book it.to your Dad, then. Looks like he’s going to finish up a plutocrat, anyway.” Again Barry looked bitter.
“Will you lose much when you work for the Tourist Bureau?” enquired Jessa.
“I’ll gain, I never made a great deal on the run. But it was mine, the same as Dad’s was Dad’s, Granddad’s likewise. And that’s payment on its own.”
“You’ll sell Matthew Flinders?”
Ba groaned and answered, “Postpone the bitter day.”
They lapsed into silence awhile. Barry broke it.
“Funny to think of Mrs. Macquarie sitting here all those years ago,” he said thoughtfully.
“Watching for ships from England ... homesick ...” nodded Jessa.
“I’d be homesick,” preferred Barry. He looked hopefully at Jessa, saw no agreement, and shrugged.
“People, not places,” he remarked once again of her, “and before all varieties of people, babies, and that—”
Jessa cut in and finished for him, “That’s what you can’t understand. Don’t start it all again.”
She glanced at her watch. “Matron Martha won’t understand either if I walk in late. Particularly on my first helping of Nights. I’d better get moving, young Barry. Thanks for the afternoon. Expect two passengers on Wednesday week’s out flight.”
�
��If I am still operating “
“You say that every time. Dear little ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”
They put the paper bag in the tidy, said goodbye to Mrs. Macquarie, climbed the hill above Woolloomooloo and crossed the Domain to Jessa’s bus.
She was not late, but she only just had time to get into her uniform and run. She scurried down to her ward and began the night feeds.
Sister Valerie worked with her.
“V.I.P. party visited this afternoon, Nurse Jess. Doctor Elizabeth, a new and very lucrative patron, and Professor Gink.”
“Oh—he’s back?”
“Back and departed again. He took a look at his Master X, then flew off to Tasmania, I believe.”
“Will he be long?”
Sister Valerie said, “Russell, will you take your food properly?” To Jessa she replied, “I don’t know. Quite likely he will.”
When Jessa went up to her room she looked at the spectacles again. All this time wasted, she thought. I could have had them properly mended.
Being on Nights had its advantages. One could shop—and transact business—during the day. The next morning before she went to bed Jessa took the glasses round to an optician.
“They’re rather battered, miss,” said the attendant dubiously. “If I fix the wing like you ask it will probably weaken the rest of the frame,”
Nurse Jess Page 5
