‘I saw him around as a student. You knew him, then?’
‘No. He’d qualified by the time I left the Medical School for the wards. How’d you get on with him?’
Again I was honest. ‘I wouldn’t like to say, yet.’
‘You’ve not been back long enough, that’s for sure. And I’ve been sitting on my backside too long.’ He got up. ‘Is this lodger you’ve to consider in the waiting-room? Should I look in on my way out? What’d you say his name was?’
‘George Henry Duggan. Could you? He is pretty strung-up.’
‘Wouldn’t he be, the poor man? I’ll chat him up.’
The house-physician had offered to make soothing noises. The Night Superintendent had thought ‘perhaps, a few sympathetic words, Staff Nurse …?’ The pathologist on call for that night in the Wing’s In-Patients Lab gave George Duggan an amiable wave every time he passed the waiting-room doorway to collect the drop of blood necessary from Mr Worstley for his clotting-time check. Parsons had offered and made him a non-stop assortment of hot drinks.
After Dr Cousins had left the ward, George Duggan came slowly up the corridor to the desk. ‘Status quo unchanged, I gather?’
‘Yes.’ I saw his face tighten. ‘That’s not such a bad sign as it might appear at this stage. On the contrary.’
‘That’s what everyone says.’ He was mesmerised by the live monitor. ‘Do they ‒ do you ‒ mean it? Or is that all part of the let’s-soothe-the-ignorant-layman technique?’
The central heating had made him take off his leather jacket. He had better shoulders than I had expected and though so long and thin, gangling didn’t apply. He knew what to do with his hands and feet, he moved with a natural grace and if he didn’t see Apollo in the mirror every time he shaved, he saw a face most women would find interesting and some, very much so. When he forgot his anti-medical chip, his face was gentle and sensitive.
‘I’ll not pretend it isn’t meant to soothe, Mr Duggan, but if it wasn’t true we’d all choose another set of words. We have our faults, but I don’t think they include the raising of false hopes.’
‘Expect you’re right,’ he said as people do when convinced of the reverse. ‘Do you sit watching this electronic box of tricks all night?’
‘When I’m not with the patients or taking round Night Super or the residents I’m supposed to stay within sight of these buttons.’ I explained the nurse-call system mainly to get his eyes away from that monitor.
He was looking round. ‘What’s this gauge?’
‘Normal oxygen. The one on the right is pressurised oxygen, then CO2. The one at the end is the sucker. All four are laid on in pipes to every bed and can be controlled from the bed. These are the master-controls.’
‘This little lot must cost a bomb.’ He leant against the desk. ‘Am I in your light here?’
‘Only literally. Can you move a bit left? Thanks. I want to watch that monitor too.’
‘This do?’
‘Fine, thanks. But, Mr Duggan, why don’t you sit down? Not that I don’t understand how you must be feeling right now, but strain exhausts physically as well as mentally. Why not rest your feet?’
‘You understand?’ The query was more sad than ironical, but the irony was there. ‘See here,’ he went on, ‘I know I was bloody rude earlier and I don’t want to be that again. I can see you’re all falling over backwards to make the lad feel at home ‒ and I’ll admit that was the last thing I’ve expected after all one hears about hospital red-tape and so forth. Are all hospitals as chummy as this one?’
‘I’ve only worked in this one. It’s a cherished Martha’s tradition that Martha’s looks after its own, which obviously includes patients and their relatives. I think that goes back to the original vows of the monastic order that first founded the Hospice of St Martha’s. “For ye sick, ye needie, and ye wearie traveller”.’
‘Where’s it say that?’ His eyes were moving up and down with the moving graph.
‘Doesn’t any longer. It was written above the old main entrance in Block Two. The bulldozers have been busy.’
‘But the melody lingers on? Hence all the understanding patter even though we all know none of you can understand as this is just another job to you.’ He sat down. ‘You’re sure I’m not keeping you from yours?’
‘Quite.’ I watched the panel and waited.
‘I feel I must talk or fall apart. I mean talk. Not small-talk or sympathetic syrup.’ He folded his arms and breathed deeply. ‘I’ve never wished myself married before. I do now. It’s the loneliness that gets one in the stomach whilst the anxiety gets one in the heart.’
I was very sorry for him and as he’d said, he’d had enough syrup. ‘There’s good as well as bad in your being single now.’
‘How do you make that one out?’ He actually looked away from the monitor.
‘Though no wife means no shoulder for you tonight, it also means there’s no-one to be hurt by seeing you hurt and consequently increasing your hurt.’
‘That’s sound reasoning.’ His eyes appraised me keenly. ‘Your husband teach you logic? Or do they give you courses here? You didn’t learn that at school. Private boarding, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. How on earth do you know that?’ I was fascinated. ‘And you’re right. No logic at school.’
‘I’ve been teaching ten years. It generally takes me less than ten minutes to place anyone’s educational background from primary upwards. You have courses here? Then it was your husband. Where’d he go? From looking at his choice of a wife I’d say public school and possibly redbrick but more probably Oxbridge.’
My reply produced a derisive grin. ‘What use has he made of the most expensive education this country can provide? You’ll have to forgive my not adding the best, but education happens to be my trade.’
I could have hedged. I didn’t think that the right therapy for him. Or for Marcy. ‘I hope it helped him enjoy his life. It wasn’t a matter we ever discussed, could be as we hadn’t much time. We’d been married just over a year when he died in a car crash a couple of weeks after Marcy was born.’
His face twisted in a grimace. ‘Christ, I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’d no idea, but that’s no excuse for asking leading questions. I am so sorry.’
I could see that. ‘I’m sorry I’ve done this to you.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘no. You did the right thing. It helps. And it explains why I felt I could talk to you ‒ and why you work nights. I’ve been thinking your husband must either be sick or crazy. I know where I’d keep the wife if I’d one that looks like you. How does this job work out for the kid?’
We talked about Marcy, Mrs Shanklin, his job at the school, and then he began talking about himself.
His mother had moved in with the Worstleys when he was four. She was Mr Worstley’s only sister. His father had died in a Japanese prison camp. He said he didn’t remember his father and had never missed him. ‘Uncle Albert was always there.’ His mother had remarried a few years ago, and as he didn’t like his step-father, he didn’t see much of her now. He didn’t appear to mind. He said there was no shortage of brass and his mother seemed very happy. ‘She’ll be upset about Uncle Albert. I don’t know what my Aunt Clara’ll do if he goes. Come to that, don’t know what I’ll ‒’ He broke off. ‘What does one do?’
‘Survive. Not necessarily well, but well enough.’
‘That takes guts. Not sure I’ve got ’em.’ I said nothing. He was now talking things out with himself. He was still at it when Parsons came out of the pantry a few minutes later. We seemed to have been talking hours but I had been keeping an eye on the wall clock and time for my next ward round. He had only been with me fifteen minutes.
Parsons reached the desk. ‘Mr Duggan’s scrambled eggs are ready. Shall I bring the tray here, or take it to the waiting-room?’
He gaped at her, blankly. ‘Scrambled eggs? At midnight?’
Parsons’ decorative exterior concealed, amongst other qualities, a firm
maternal streak. ‘Now, Mr Duggan, you mayn’t feel hungry, but you should force yourself to eat. I’m sure you’d no supper before you arrived. Right? Or do you just detest scrambled eggs? I love ’em myself, but I know they make some people want to throw up. How about fried ‒ boiled ‒ or an omelette?’ She misunderstood his appalled silence. ‘If you’re worried about the waste of eggs, don’t, because Staff and I’ll eat your scrambled in our sandwiches for tea and we’ve got masses. We’re always loaded with eggs. I think Sister must have a chum on the Egg Marketing Board. What’s it to be?’
‘Anything. Just anything, Nurse Parsons. Thanks.’
I said, ‘As it’s time I went round again, perhaps in the waiting-room?’ I waited till Parsons was back in the pantry. ‘I should have warned you food would appear at midnight and afternoon tea around 4 a.m. Don’t eat if it’ll choke you, though Parsons is right. You should eat if you can as it will help, if only by stepping up your blood-sugar. Even without the extra demands anxiety is now making on yours, it’ll shortly take the normal pre-dawn dive.’
‘That’s the physical reason behind all that blurb about life flickering dangerously in the small hours?’ I nodded. ‘What does Uncle Albert get? Tabulated scrambled eggs?’
‘Soluble glucose. That’s the infusion he’s having into a vein in his right ankle. You must’ve seen it?’
‘I didn’t take it in. I didn’t take much in. I can’t bear to see him as he is now. Yet I can’t bear to leave him in case he asks for me. That make any sense at all?’
‘Oh, yes.’ I watched Parsons take his tray into the waiting-room. ‘Go and eat, Mr Duggan. They’ll be even more choking, cold.’
The ghost of a smile filtered through his haggard face. ‘And when they ask me, “What did you do, lad, whilst your Uncle Albert dwelt in the valley of the shadow of death?” I’ll say, “Noshed scrambled eggs,” and they’ll think me a cold-hearted sod, but they’ll never believe me.’
‘They’ll believe you if they know anything about hospitals. Come rain, shine, joy, sorrow, come death itself, hospital routine goes on, unchanged. Here it’s the night junior’s routine work to produce a light meal at midnight for any temporarily resident relative.’
‘To qualify for temporary residence and free nosh ‒ the Dangerously Ill List?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what’s the senior night nurse’s routine? To care for the soul whilst her junior cares for the body? Right?’
‘Roughly.’
‘I’m not complaining. Mind if I ask you, is your name Mary?’ I shook my head. ‘It should be,’ he said very quietly, ‘it should be.’
I didn’t answer and for a few seconds we looked at each other. I did not watch him walk away. It was a long time since I had recognised that look in a man’s eyes, and the recognition had shaken me more than I cared to admit to myself, much less show. I was glad to have to go round and without wishing my patients disturbed nights, I hoped just one would need me. Not one patient did. The sub-acutes and convalescents were flat out and snoring and grunting in chorus. Mr Worstley had not stirred since my last round and his breathing was regular as the lighted graph on his bedside monitor.
Jolly was still sitting on his locker-seat. Momentarily, I thought she was asleep. Then I saw her eyes were far too tightly shut. She nearly hit the ceiling when I touched her shoulder. ‘I wasn’t asleep, Staff!’ She followed me to the open doorway and we stopped just inside the screen. ‘Just resting my eyes.’
‘Relax, Jolly. I saw that.’ I had a good look at her. She was now more pale grey than pale. I touched her forehead with the back of one hand. If anything, she was sub-normal. ‘Got a crashing headache?’
She nodded and wished she hadn’t. ‘Just one of my migraines, Staff. I get ’em, occasionally. It’ll wear off.’
‘That depends when it started and how long yours last.’
The answers were that evening and thirty hours.
I said, ‘Poor kid. You’ll have to go off, of course. I’ll ring the Office and report you sick. Don’t look so worried. I’ll be enchanted to do some real nursing for once. This ward’s so quiet tonight I’m beginning to feel I’m taking my pay under false pretences.’
‘It’s not that, Staff ‒’ She seemed reluctant to go on.
‘What’s the problem, love?’
‘Well, either you’ve forgotten, Staff, or perhaps it was different on nights in your day, but ‒ no-one now gets taken off nights for a headache.’
‘A migraine’s no ordinary headache.’ As I spoke, I remembered. ‘Still the same, eh? If it’s not something tangible like a sore throat or a septic finger, you either have to pass out cold, or have a temp over one hundred and one.’
‘Actually, one hundred’s enough now.’
‘There’s progress for you, Jolly.’ The poor girl was now flinching at the corridor light. ‘This is sheer nonsense. You aren’t fit to carry on. I’ll ring the Office and tell ’em so.’
‘No, please!’ She was really perturbed. ‘The best it’ll produce’ll be a couple of anti-headaches tabs plus the usual spiel on psychosomatic ailments, and quite frankly, at the worst could do me some harm. I mean ‒ might as well say it ‒ as I’m a fourth year, obviously I know your name’s good as a hot-line to Matron. If the Office hear I’ve been bleating to you, if someone doesn’t add a little footnote somewhere on my confidential report, the sun won’t rise tomorrow.’
I saw her angle and that she must be feeling like death to have let it out. So even the student-nurses were convinced I’d a hot-line to Matron? I studied Mr Worstley. Too bad I couldn’t use it now. For the moment Mr Worstley was doing nicely, but that could alter by the next moment. Jolly’s having nursed him so efficiently despite her migraine did not surprise me at all. I knew if necessary, she could continue to do that for the rest of the night. A Martha’s general training was sometimes compared with the one received by the Brigade of Guards. In the P.T.S., Sister P.T.S. actually spelt it out for each new set of student-nurses. ‘There will be occasions, Nurses, when you will feel your very thorough training is turning you into nursing machines. You will not be far wrong and when the day or night comes, as come it will, when you are too tired, too rushed, or too distressed by some personal problem to think clearly, your ingrained training will automatically force you to work efficiently. Any nurse should be able to work well under normal conditions; the really well-trained nurse works as well, whatever the conditions. If by your fourth years you have not acquired the latter ability, then I regret to say you will no longer be members of St Martha’s Nurses’ Training School.’
In training I had accepted that without question. I could still see its virtues. Invaluable to have a staff trained to rise to occasions ‒ but why force up the pressure on an unnecessary occasion? Parsons and I were having the easiest night we had had since my return. Joel wouldn’t object if I took over Mr Worstley ‒ Joel! My brain gave one of those near-audible clicks. ‘Jolly, how’d the Office react if Dr Kirby happened to notice you’re looking ill and said you must go off?’
She almost smiled. ‘Perhaps no more than two Night Asses’d be killed in the rush to get up to Nightingale and plug in an electric blanket for me. But why should he? You’re not going to tell him?’ She was perturbed again. ‘Perhaps you haven’t heard, but he and Sister Brecklehurst ‒’
‘I’ve heard. Don’t worry. I promise I’ll give the impression you’re blood sister to that crazy Spartan lad who let the wolf chew him for kicks. Not so way-out, either. I wish I’d rumbled this sooner.’
‘Hasn’t been too bad till now. Having to watch a mini-monitor always hurts my eyes without a migraine. Staff, can you swing this?’
‘I’ll try.’ Since I had this reputation for string-pulling, why not give joy all round by living up to it? ‘Just do me a favour. Should the S.M.R., W. ask how you feel on his round, be honest, not brave. And remember, you didn’t bleat to me, I dragged it out of you. Now let’s pray he isn’t late for his round ‒ here he is! S
omeone up there loves us!’
Joel closed the opaque door as I moved from the sheltering screen. We met at the desk. ‘I saw you leaving Worstley. He’s not proving problematical, I hope?’
‘No, he’s very quiet.’ I gave him the latest details.
‘Good.’ He considered me, thoughtfully. ‘Any of my other patients sprung a problem?’
‘All sleeping very well.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He went on looking at me, but not as George Duggan had just done. Yet because of George Duggan, Joel’s I-am-made-of-solid-and-you-of-transparent-wood expression suddenly ceased to irritate me. By reminding me of long-ignored instincts, George had brushed-up my self-confidence. In turn, and inevitably, that had knocked away a goodly part of the large chip I only now realised I’d been carrying since I got back into uniform. The combined process resulted in my seeing Jolly’s problem for the minor and easily soluble one it was, providing one chucked out a few nonsensical ethics.
I said, ‘I do have a small problem.’
‘Obviously. Well?’
I told him as much of the truth as was safe for Jolly’s future career. ‘I do appreciate,’ I added, ‘sick staff are supposed to report via the usual channels to the S.M.O.’
‘That’s right. You’re being highly unethical and so will I if I start diagnosing nurses’ ailments. Dr Bush has very strong views on ethics and so have the Office Sisters. And a right load of bull it all is. Of course, if I should happen to produce another of my inspired examples of spot diagnosing, and should then happen to mention it to the Night Super, whom I am expecting to ring me here at any moment, no-one could crab.’
‘Will you do that?’
‘I’ll answer that when I’ve had a good look at the girl.’ He smiled a small, reluctant smile. ‘You may have me up against the wall, Mrs H, but you’re not getting me to stick my neck out until I’m ready.’
Half an hour later Jolly was in bed in Nightingale Ward and I was sitting on the locker-seat in William Small Ward Three.
The Healing Time Page 6
