CHAPTER XV
MARGARET and Jessa began work together the next morning. By some coincidence the colours of their uniforms were the same colours they had chosen for their inauguration. Jessa recalled that silly habit of hers of rhyming, and how she had coupled pink with Gink. All that, of course, had been before she had discovered whom Professor Gink was. As she ate her breakfast she thought to herself, “Did I really exist prior to the Professor? Sometimes I feel I only started to live when I met him.”
As though caught out in a secret disloyalty to Meggy, she tucked her arm in hers as they climbed the stairs to Three Ward. Margaret gave back her sweet serene smile.
The companionship of the moment was spoiled somewhat by the discovery that a staff of three was to manage Three Ward and that Nurse Gwen comprised the third. The fact that Nurse Gwen was about as enthusiastic over the roster as Jessa was did not improve matters. As usual it fell to Margaret to provide the balm. She smiled to Gwen and said, “How nice to have you.”
Jessa said, “Humph.”
Nurse Gwen said nothing at all.
Gainsborough was introduced. He was asleep, but kindly obliged by waking up long enough for Jessa to be shown his blue, blue eyes. Jessa was enchanted and hovered delightedly over him until brought back to earth by an irate Nurse Gwen.
“Really, Nurse, there is enough work in this ward for six, let alone only two.”
“Two?”
“Myself and Nurse Margaret.”
“Oh,” said Jessa.
She felt that in Nurse Gwen’s plaice she would have hesitated to criticize a senior, but Nurse Gwen was very sure of herself, she had trained in a very exclusive and expensive private hospital, and it had succeeded in giving her some very definite ideas.
Margaret, hoping to spread more balm, said pleasantly, “I think we must forgive her, Nurse Gwen. Gainsborough is a darling, isn’t he?”
“The infant’s name is John Shaw,” said Nurse Gwen bleakly, and then, unable to keep her beliefs to herself and hoping to find a sympathetic listener in Margaret, “His father is an umbrella mender. Really, I don’t think Matron Martha should.”
“Should what?” asked Margaret mildly, beginning to take the labelled bottles out of the sterilizer.
“Mix the infants. You see that Quentin infant “
“You mean young Slapsie,” put in Jessa knowledgeably, for the baby indicated was obviously a fitting successor to Bruiser, Bouncer and Southpaw, so had been promptly and aptly named.
Margaret said amicably, “Gerald Quentin, Nurse Gwen.” Nurse Gwen who had raised her brows at Jessa now nodded to Margaret.
“His father,” she said importantly, “is a judge.”
“So what?” put in Jessa, but Nurse Gwen ignored her completely.
“At the Carabelle Garden Infirmary,” she said, “that couldn’t have happened.”
Margaret, seeing Jessa open her mouth to deliver another impertinence, intervened hurriedly, “Of course, I recall now, you trained at Carabelle, Nurse Gwen.”
“I was the only trainee. They don’t do it as a rule. Just accept one or so like colleges accept bursars. Naturally, as with a bursar, you have to convince them first you have the ability.”
“Didn’t any others apply, or what?” asked Jess pertly.
Margaret said hurriedly again, “It must have been very nice at Carabelle.”
“Oh, it was, Nurse Margaret.” Gwen sighed. “You should have seen the names on the register. All social folk. And their visitors!” Another sigh.
Jessa picked up Gainsborough to oil and lanolin him. She sang softly, but not so softly that Nurse Gwen could not hear, the Umbrella Song.
However, for all her snobbishness Nurse Gwen was a good worker. By the time Matron Martha came round for inspection the three had got down to it and cleared up all their tasks. The babies were washed, fed, diapered, cribbed, special treatments given, the ward tidied, little outstanding jobs like sewing, filing, bringing records up to date completed even to satisfy Matron’s demands.
There was a fairly constant stream of visitors during the afternoon. With these Jessa felt that Great Southern emerged with more to its credit than Carabelle. Poor Nurse Gwen simply could not help herself being influenced by a name, a profession, a background. When these did not suit her she found it impossible to unbend.
She was not unkind, but she stood stiffly by the crib and answered questions very briefly.
Margaret, as always, was sweet and helpful, and Jessa, of course, was borne along on her own bubbling enthusiasm.
“Are you Mr. Montrose? Then you’ve come to see Hoppo. Hop-o-my-thumb we call him, but actually compared to some of our really tinies, he’s a monster. Wake up, Hoppo, here’s your dad.”
She assured Mrs. Smyth that her Janice Elissa was a regular plum pudding, and as such would be as easy to manipulate when she got her home as a piece of cake.
Nurse Gwen, conducting Mr. Felix to see small Leonard Oswald, looked aghast, but Mrs. Smyth looked considerably cheered instead and laughed.
“Yes, I have got my bill of fare mixed,” admitted Jessa.
She adored this part of her job. She loved assuring nervous parents that the future handling of their tiny babies would not be the nightmare they anticipated.
“I tell you,” she impressed upon them, “they’re tough.”
“I do think,” said Nurse Gwen during a lull, “that you could use the word robust, Nurse.”
“Do you, Nurse?” grinned back Jessa.
After the tea break Sister Valerie tapped on the glass window and beckoned Jessa into the corridor. “Man to see you,” she smiled.
Jessa thought at one of the Professor. How often had she met him in the long corridor? But of course the Professor had no need to have someone tap on a window. He had an Open Sesame here at Belinda. When she came out she could see no man, only a smiling and somehow familiar woman holding a large and bouncing baby.
“You don’t remember me,” said the woman, “and I certainly can’t blame you for not remembering David.”
“David...” said Jessa slowly, thoughtfully. “You don’t mean—why, you don’t mean the Bruiser?” She clapped her hand over her mouth. Mrs. Talbot had taken exception to that, she recalled.
But Mrs. Talbot was all smiles now. “You have to live and learn,” she admitted ruefully. “Look at the size of him, and he’s such a bully.”
“Didn’t I warn you?” laughed Jessa, gazing at the big boy with admiration. “Didn’t I say he’d order you about.”
“He would if I’d let him. You know I can’t imagine he’s the same baby. It’s miraculous the way they pick up. When I think of him in that funny little cap the sister put on him “
Jessa said loyally, “I bet it was the only one that fitted.” Mrs. Talbot said, rather ashamed, “Yes, it was.”
“I just thought I’d bring Davey in for you to see,” went on Mrs. Talbot, ‘and at the same time offer my services for the Fete. You saved my baby here for me, Nurse, and I feel it’s the least I can do. Anyway, I’m so enthusiastic over Belinda I’d even put David on show if you like with a sandwich board round him saying ‘WHAT BELINDA MADE OF ME.’ ”
“Fete?” questioned Jessa.
“And, of course,” babbled Mrs. Talbot busily, “if I can get someone to baby-sit we’ll attend the Ball as well. My dress doesn’t need much alteration, just requires to be let out here and there. I’m almost back to my old SW, Nurse. In any case we’ll buy a ticket. It’s only when things hit home to you that you realize what good works are done. A year ago I mightn’t have felt like this, but now...” She gave her baby a proud hug.
At last she went, Jessa no more wiser over the Fete and Ball, but much wiser over David’s height, weight, appetite, his ability to clutch at a rattle, kick his plump little legs.
“Did you know these festivities were afoot?” she asked of Margaret.
“Certainly, Jessa, didn’t you? But then, of course, you’ve been busy on night roster. It’s
splashed all over the notice-board. As regards the Fete, we’re all to be allotted a task.”
“What kind of task?” asked Jessa, taking up a bottle and dropper to feed Hoppo, who, in spite of her assurances to Mr. Montrose, his dad, was still a very tiny prem and only fed by drops. She hoped she would not be expected to dress dolls or make golliwogs out of old black stockings. She had never been clever with her hands.
“There’s lots of jobs to be filled,” assured Margaret, “the same as at any bazaar. Hoop-la attendant, Magic Well Director, assistant at the lemonade stall, waitress at the afternoon tea, or simply collecting the entrance money at the gate or handing over the ammunition for the Aunt Sally.”
“And the Ball?”
“We’ll know about that later. It comes after the Fete. In fact, I believe it’s a sort of climax.” Margaret looked down on Gainsborough whom she was feeding, and coaxed, “Honey, do eat up big and grow a strong man for your dad.”
“Is that dad the umbrella man or the judge?” Jessa could not resist, one sharp eye on Nurse Gwen.
As they went down to tea Margaret drew Jessa’s attention to the notices announcing the Fete, and also announcing that Matron Martha would be allotting all staff not engaged that day on ward duty a task.
There was also a new notice, Margaret discovered, demanding staff’s presence to a Fete meeting in the second hall at seven sharp.
The girls ate their meal with much speculative chatter, feeling rather excited at this diversion in their usual routine.
“Where is the Fete held, Meg?”
“Why, outside, of course.” Margaret waved her arm to the lawns, which, Jessa suddenly noticed, were looking particularly trim. Probably old Bill had been giving the grass extra attention in preparation for the big event.
“And the Ball?” she enquired.
“I don’t know, but I expect we’ll soon discover.”
At five to seven they joined the crowd making their way down to the second hall.
Jessa remembered the first time the pair of them had walked shyly along the passage. It had been, she recalled, with heightened colour, to attend a lecture by a certain Professor Gink. She remembered how, because they were new and did not want to intrude, they had chosen seats at the back. But now they were old hands—even if Nurse Gwen could not bring herself to allot them their rightful respect.
They crowded as near to the front as possible, as everyone else did. There was to be no formality, it appeared, for Matron Martha was already there and studying a long list. She waved them to be seated at once. “I’ve a lot to arrange,” she said.
Presently she rapped for silence, then announced sadly, “As I said last year, as I say every year, it seems a great pity to me that a place like the Lady Belinda should have need to seek for more funds. Yet unhappily this is so. We have a Government subsidy, and public support is good, but we still have not enough; with babies there is never enough.
“In which case we must make enough, and the only way we can do it is the way most public institutions do it, or endeavor to do it, by raising money through a Ball and a Fete.
“More of the Ball later. As you know, it is rather in the manner of a celebration But the Fete, as far as staff is concerned, is plain hard work.
“I have a list here of assignments. Some of you who were with us last year and proved your worth, monetarily anyway, on a particular stall have been re-allotted that stall. As for the rest of you, I have assigned positions which I consider you are best able to fill.
“If you will file up after I finish what I want to say, and after you have asked any questions you wish, I shall tell you your fate.”
Everyone giggled at the play on words, and Matron Martha permitted a small smile.
Nurse Dorothy asked about ward duty that day. “Whoever is rostered will work as usual, that is the only fair method. It is also,” added Matron feelingly, “quite often the best of the stick. A Fete is by no means a rest on a feather bed, and take my word.” She sighed.
Sister Judith suggested that the roster be announced soon so that the staff would know what was expected of them.
“I have it now,” nodded Matron Martha. “The Fete being a very strenuous occasion, I have reserved its working activities mainly for the nurses, nurses presumably being younger ‘so more energetic. However, as even with all its wearying properties it can still be quite entertaining, the house staff will be larger than usual to enable individuals to an hour’s break from the wards for afternoon tea and”—she smiled—“for spending their money.”
One of the juniors asked whether they were to attend the stalls in their uniforms.
“No,” said Matron Martha, “uniforms are for wards. You can wear what you think fit. Obviously, a lemonade attendant would do better in something washable.” She added feelingly, “I served on that counter once. Also, waitresses would need a pinafore.”
Everyone giggled again.
“But not,” said Matron, “a bibbed one embroidered L. B. Now any more queries?”
“The Ball, Matron Martha?”
“It will be held on the Saturday following the Fete. We have been kindly invited to hold it in the community hall of our neighbouring St. Hilda’s.” Matron looked round. “The halls here are not big enough.”
“Will those of us who are rostered that evening of the Ball work as usual?”
“No, a Ball is a different matter, I think. It is a matter of personal inclination. I believe you can scheme out among yourselves who and who will not attend. In this instance, though I frown upon it on other instances, I will not mind interchange of duty hours to suit each individual. I, of course, must attend.”
Jessa looked at her speculatively. “Yes,” she thought, “and very grand you will look, too, Matron Martha, with your fine upstanding deep bosom in—now, let me see...yes, black lace.”
Almost as though she had heard her, Matron Martha finished humorously, “I must give my yearly airing to my black lace.”
She finished, “Any more questions?”
There were none. The staff consulted a list as to who were working in the wards on the afternoon of the Fete, and those selected to work for the Fete lined up at Matron’s desk.
Jessa was behind Margaret, who was behind Nurse Gwen. She heard Nurse Gwen assigned to the Afternoon Tea, which apparently pleased her. No doubt, thought Jessa, she is seeing little tables of elegantly-gowned society people eating thin sandwiches and button scones and being photographed for the Sunday press. Perhaps she is even seeing a shot of herself serving them. Oh, yes, the Afternoon Tea will suit our Carabelle grad.
“I think,” Matron Martha was saying to Margaret, “the Wishing Well would suit you admirably. It can be quite an irritating business—small children, you know, they take a tiresome time to fish out what they want—but you have always appeared to me to have the gift of patience.”
“Thank you, Matron Martha.”
Having commended once, Matron Martha became businesslike again.
“Next,” she snapped.
Jessa stepped up.
“Oh—” said Matron, and looked down on her list, up again, down again. “I’ve something special for you, Nurse Jess.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I suppose on your home island, your Crescent I believe it’s called—”
“Yes, Matron Martha.”
“I suppose you meet up with a lot of fable and superstition, that sort of thing.”
“What do you mean, Matron’ Martha?”
“I mean I need someone with imagination—if not so much imagination as coming from an unusual background like yours.”
Jessa had a jumbled vision of a stall with island oddities on it ... tribal warfare weapons ... beads ... grass skirts ... that sort of thing, which on their strictly sub-tropical isle simply did not exist.
Then she thought with agitation, “Perhaps she has a sort of Honolulu idea of Crescent and will expect me to demonstrate the hula or something like that. If only she knew how diff
erent it all is!”
But Matron Martha was saying, “Not quite the usual fortune-teller, Nurse Jess, I mean those ones with crystal balls or tea leaves or cards, but sand, I thought, a tray of sand, and you could have them, your patrons I mean, trail a finger through the sand and then read their fate through the lines imprinted, or rather pretend to, at five shillings a go. Fortune-telling can be a very profitable stall.”
“Oh, Matron Martha, I couldn’t.”
Matron Martha looked at her with candid eyes.
“It’s hard, I admit, Nurse Jess, but I really believe you could. I’ll leave everything to you, the arrangement, the manner you foretell, what you will wear... in this case I think perhaps a little island touch might not be amiss. But discreetly, of course.” Matron must be thinking of those hula skirts again.
Before Jessa could protest once more she snapped, “Next, please—Oh, you, Nurse Dorothy. You look a jolly person, how would you like the Aunt Sally “
Jessa found herself hustled out of the queue.
Margaret appeared as satisfied with her Wishing Well assignment as Nurse Gwen with her Afternoon Tea.
“I’ll enclose the gifts in attractive wrapping,” she decided. “They look much more interesting than in plain brown paper. What did you get, Jessamine?”
“Fortune-teller. I believe Matron Martha must believe every Pacific island is a hot spot for magic.”
“Well, isn’t it? I mean there is something magic at Crescent, isn’t there?” For a moment Margaret’s eyes dreamed.
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