by Jane Grant
One of the patients was in the practical joke trick trade, and he sprinkled the nurses with stink scent, put a toy spider on Sister’s desk, and stuck a false pool of ink on his temperature chart. Practical jokes became the order of the day. After eating his Christmas dinner, Alec complained of violent pain, and getting back to bed began to roll about in agony, and call for a bed pan. Sister, feeling the day’s goodwill, brought it herself, excusing the junior nurse. When she went to collect the bed pan she could hardly lift it, but not wishing to alarm Alec, whom she thought must be genuinely ill, she picked it up with both hands and tottered out to the sluice. There she found two bricks in it, neatly wrapped in Christmas paper. This joke had such a success with the little ‘blue baby’ boy, that he laughed himself breathless, and was pushed off into a side ward to rest. Missing the Bean Pole later, I found him sitting beside Peter’s bed, deep in Teddy Bear’s Annual.
In the afternoon Charles appeared in the ward, and called me aside. Alec joined us; we had a hasty consultation, and I went to get them what they wanted.
Ten minutes later they appeared from the bathroom dressed in nurses’ uniform. My dresses proved lamentably short, and Alec had torn the sleeve of one trying to get his plaster cast through it. Their caps, which were tied on with string, were very troublesome and kept coming off. But they insisted on giving the suppers out, talking in falsetto voices.
They then proceeded to make Fred’s bed, exchanging wild tales of the nurses’ dance the night before and telling each other what they wore and who they danced with.
Having by now collected an audience of the entire ward, they proceeded to discuss their affairs of the heart.
‘Don’t you think?’ said Charles squealing excitedly, ‘that the new houseman is just gorgeous?’
‘Such a poppet,’ said Alec.
‘He always lets me make his cold cocoa for him!’
‘And we have such fun in the linen cupboard!’
Fred at this point pinched Alec, and he minced away squeaking, ‘Don’t you dare touch me! I’ll report you to Matey!’
Charles was laughing so much that he backed on to the bar where he demanded a drink. The Registrar, presiding as barman in a white apron and chef’s cap, winked at the audience and handed Charles one of the dummy pints. Charles took a colossal mouthful, swallowed and began to cough.
‘Bronchial spasm, old man?’ inquired the Registrar.
Later on, Alec asked Sister’s permission to take Fred round the other wards. We put him in a wheeled chair, and Alec pushed this down the ward with his one good arm.
They reached the door, and neither of them could open it. With only one arm in action, Alec could not hold the door open and push the chair through, and Fred did not have the strength to move the door at all. They looked blankly at each other; for a moment they both looked frightened.
Charles quickly stepped forward and held the door open. ‘Some of you louts are born with two left hands,’ he said with scorn, and they both grinned.
As they went off Fred could be heard to complain, ‘Why can’t you drive straight, you clot! Nearly had me down the stairs.’
‘Get stuffed!’ was the only reply.
When all the excitement was over, Charles and I were in the kitchen having a final cup of coffee. He began to demonstrate a long and elaborate joke with a matchbox. The matchbox, he explained, was an airstrip. A match circled round the matchbox asking permission to land, and was told it could land on Runway Number One. Charles then stuck the match in one corner of the matchbox, and went on to land a second plane on Runway Number Two, and stick another match in the opposite corner beside the first match. I was then instructed to hold the ends of the matches with the matchbox attached to them.
By this time I knew from Charles’s manner that he had something on his mind. At such moments his fooling was always particularly noisy and prolonged. Still I had to laugh when, after telling a third Pilot to land, he changed to the pilot’s voice, and said solemnly: ‘All right, old man. Zoom, zoom. But will you get that clot with the wheelbarrow off the runway first!’
While I was still laughing, Charles said with no change of tone: ‘I heard from Michael the other day.’
This brought my laughter to an abrupt end. ‘Oh! What did he say?’
Charles, examining his matchbox, went on: ‘He’s got a better job at a hospital for tropical diseases. Cape Town or somewhere. They obviously think a lot of him. He’ll go far, that old wombat. Is there any more coffee?’
Chapter Thirty-three
There was to be a hospital dance on New Year’s Eve, and we decided to make up a party. I was to go with Charles, Mary with Ginger, and Phyllis with a student called David.
Dances are held periodically in the Nurses’ Home. Folding doors between the Nurses’ and the Staff Nurses’ sitting-rooms open up to make one large room. One dance is always held on Boxing Night, and another on New Year’s Eve.
Such dances are exceedingly formal. Everyone is on their best behaviour, but in spite of this, no risks are taken, and the Assistant Matron spends a dull evening practically glued to the foot of the stairs, barring the way to the bedrooms.
All the older Sisters come without partners, and Matron is partnered by the Superintendent, who is elderly and bald. Arriving at the dance, nurses introduce their partners to Matron; to each man she gives a polite smile, and a ‘Delighted to see you’.
David, Phyllis’s partner, was rather an outspoken Australian. As we stood for a moment after the introductions were over, Matron, afraid that we did not know what to do, said gushingly: ‘Won’t yon have something to eat ‒ or something?’
‘Or something, please,’ said David.
Phyllis hurried him away.
Halfway through the evening he asked her to point out her ward sister. Phyllis indicated an elderly woman dressed in mauve, sitting next to another elderly woman.
‘Right.’ David got up, walked over to the Sister and calmly asked for the pleasure of the next waltz. Somewhat taken aback, she rose and started to dance with him.
‘You’re certainly lucky in having Phyllis to work for you, Sister,’ he began. ‘A real good nurse.’
‘Phyllis?’ inquired the Sister, bewildered.
He went on to explain what Phyllis looked like, and how she had told him she so much enjoyed working on Sister’s ward. At the end of the dance he asked her to come and join our party. She said how nice of him, and he brought her over to us. We all sat out the next dance, each trying to contribute something to a halting conversation. The music began again, and Charles gallantly got up and offered his services. Sister danced off with him, while David explained to Phyllis: ‘This’ll get you in well with the old girl.’
Phyllis protested: ‘You just can’t do that kind of thing!’
David, brushing aside the ridiculous etiquette of the old country, retorted: ‘Why not? She’s lapping it up.’
They went off to dance, and I waited, while Charles made grotesque faces at me over Sister’s shoulder every time they passed.
He brought Sister back to our corner and we all sat down again. During the next two dances David had her laughing heartily at several risqué anecdotes, while we sat rigid with horror. A waltz began, and David and Charles looked accusingly at Ginger. Mary gave him a surreptitious kick.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked mildly.
‘Nothing,’ said Mary turning red.
‘Oh ‒ Oh-h,’ said Ginger. ‘Would you like to dance, Sister?’ he said hastily.
As we passed David on the floor: ‘Your turn next, old man,’ said Charles. ‘You got us in. You get us out.’
At the end of the dance we said good night to the men and went off and congregated in my room. Our set were distributed all along our corridor, and Phyllis said: ‘It seems a shame that they should waste these first few hours of the New Year. Let’s go and wish them a happy one.’
So the three of us, still in evening dress, started off by calling on Pat. She had just c
ome in from a night out with a medico, and joined the party. We went down the length of the corridor opening every door, turning on every light, and wishing everyone a happy New Year. Strangely, they did not seem particularly grateful.
Chapter Thirty-four
Our Hospital Finals approached, and everyone told us with glee that these exams, set by St. Bernard’s, were far worse than the ordinary State Exam. This made our anticipation of them no happier, and the exams themselves were an alarming ordeal.
Sunk in the depths of gloom afterwards, we sat round and tried to discuss what we would do if we had to give up nursing. Because we had rather reluctantly come to the conclusion that we liked it.
‘I shall go into my father’s office,’ said Pat gloomily. ‘It’s what I’ve been avoiding ever since I left school.’
‘I shall go abroad ‒ to a leper colony,’ I said. ‘I shall feel like a leper anyway.’
Just then Phyllis appeared, and we sprang to our feet as she had gone to see if the list was posted.
‘Cheer up, mugs,’ she said. ‘You’re all still nurses.’
After this, the time went rapidly to our State Finals, which seemed something of an anticlimax. The weeks following the exam dragged slowly along, but having frightened ourselves so thoroughly over the Hospital exams, the subject for discussion was now, what should we do if we passed, rather than what we should do if we failed?
We should have to complete the rest of our four years’ contract at St. Bernard’s, but after that, the
four of us decided, we would do our Midwifery Course together at a famous Maternity Hospital.
Six weeks after the State Exam, we were in the Nurses’ sitting-room. We had just heard the results of the exam. Only two people had failed, and they weren’t us. But I was not even thinking what a relief it was, because in the copy of St. Bernard’s Diary someone had brought in, I had read:
‘Scott ‒ Wallace. At St. Faith’s Church, Colefort, Gavin Scott, M.B., B.S., to Joyce Wallace, S.R.N.’
‘Well ‒ the best of luck to them,’ I said with an attempt at heartiness that I felt was a miserable failure.
No one seemed to hear. ‘We can write off for our midder now,’ said Pat.
Mary looked a trifle embarrassed. ‘Well, actually, I don’t know if I shall be coming,’ she said.
‘What d’you mean?’ Phyllis asked indignantly.
‘I think ‒ I may be getting married.’
‘Oh, no!’ I said. ‘Not you, too!’
The others chimed in, first with complaints and then with congratulations.
‘You old slug!’ said Phyllis. ‘Fancy creeping up on us!’
‘You might have given us some warning,’ I said.
‘Oh, come off it, Jane,’ said Pat. ‘They’ve been warning us long enough.’
We adjourned to the canteen, and we three treated Mary to tea and chocolate biscuits in celebration.
‘I hope Ginger doesn’t have any perforated D.U.s in his practice,’ said Phyllis.
‘That and putting up drips,’ said Pat. ‘Neither of them improve his temper.’
I reminded Mary of that awful night in our second year. We were laughing when the porter came into the room.
‘Nurse Grant?’
I leapt to my feet.
‘You’re wanted on the phone.’
‘Who on earth,’ I said, ‘can be phoning me?’
‘Make it snappy,’ said Phyllis. ‘We’re on duty in five minutes.’
I went to the telephone box and picked up the receiver. A male voice said, ‘Hullo, Jane!’ It was Keith, and he was coming down to London that week-end.
When I came out of the box, I found the others had gone on, so I followed them out of the Nurses’ Home and across the park to the ward.
What should I be doing this time next year, I thought? Should I be in the middle of a hectically busy midwifery course. Or ‒ what?
Marriage or nursing? Which of the two paths was it to be? Whichever path I took, and however happy I might be in it, I knew I should sometimes, with longing and suppressed regret, wish I had taken the other.
Preview chapter: More from a Nurse’s Life
Chapter 1
Mary and I looked gloomily out of my room window on to the blackened buildings of St Bernard’s. We both felt very depressed. Our love lives had gone astray, and we were soon to leave the rambling old hospital that had been our home for four of the most formative years of our lives.
‘I suppose we’ll have to do midder,’ I said uncertainly.
‘Of course,’ said Mary with a sigh. ‘You know what the old sausage said. “No nurse’s training is complete without midwifery”, etc., etc.’
‘But what I feel is – I have no urge to do it – I mean little black bags and storks don’t ring any bell with me.’
Mary nodded in sympathy. We then fortified ourselves with a cup of rather stale tea out of a very dilapidated teapot that had survived four years of hard wear, not to speak of all its miles of travelling on the tops of bucket bags from room to room and floor to floor of the Nurses’ Home, as our status had changed from First to Second Year Student, and from Third Year to State Registered. During the whole of its career the poor thing had been rinsed out but never dried up, as somehow we never acquired a tea towel.
‘I wish we could get staff jobs and stay here,’ I said hopefully.
‘What an optimist!’ said Mary.
We were silent, ruminating over the shortage of staff jobs for deserving applicants, and the vexed problem of leaving.
We were interrupted by Phyllis, a small girl who somehow gave the impression of being equal to any situation.
‘Guess what,’ she cried, bursting into my room full of good humour, ‘you remember Michael Hall? He’s a real smasher – just got the kids’ house job?’
We nodded wearily.
‘He’s asked me to a gorgeous dinner and dance! His old man’s a stockbroker or something, and it’s one of those City dos. I’ll have to get a new dress.’
‘What’s wrong with the pink creation?’ asked Mary. ‘You’ve only worn it once.’
‘Oh, that great ox Leslie trod on it about four times at the Rugger Ball. Look – can one of you lend me some wherewithal?’
‘You ought to confine yourself to undersized jockeys,’ I said severely. ‘Someone your size simply should not go dancing with the Hospital Hooker.’
‘I’ve seen a gorgeous fluffy thing in Madame Lucille’s for fifteen quid,’ went on Phyllis unabashed.
‘When is this do?’ I asked, resigning myself. My eyes fell on my handbag apprehensively.
‘Next weekend.’
I sighed. ‘I can let you have four I suppose.’
‘Me too,’ said Mary. She added regretfully, ‘We haven’t anybody to do ourselves up for.’
‘But wait a minute – isn’t next weekend your weekend on?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Phyllis gaily, ‘but I think I can wheedle round Thompson – I think –’ she added uncertainly.
‘Thompson never lets anyone have anything,’ I said, firmly putting the notes back in my bag.
‘I'd better find out. I’ll go and beard the lion now.’ Phyllis marched resolutely towards the door.
‘She’ll get it,’ sighed Mary. ‘She always gets it. She’s just made that way, that’s all.’
‘I hope,’ I said reflectively, ‘I do hope this isn’t going to lead to anything. More than just a dance, I mean. Remember the trouble we had consoling Les? And then there was that myopic angry young man who kept waylaying you and asking where she was.’
Phyllis was one of the hospital’s most inveterate flirts. There was scarcely an eligible bachelor in the place who had not succumbed to her charms at some time or another. The trouble was that when these flirtations were ended – and they ended at an alarming rate – the boyfriends would come to us for comfort and try to get us to put in a good word for them with Phyllis.
We were just regaling ourselves with some of the choi
cer incidents of Phyllis’s love life when she burst in again.
‘It was all too easy, my dear.’ She laughed, ‘I told Tommers he was the only man in my life blah blah blah and she fell for it. Even offered to lend me some dough for the dress!’
‘Phyllis, you are quite, quite shameless! With you leaving in a month you have the sauce to say he’s the only man in your life! You! You of all people!’
‘I know, ducky. But thanks for the assistance, and I’ll bring back some scoff for you.’
‘No,’ said Mary firmly. ‘If you do we’ll only have to shell out for a new evening bag.’
The last time Phyllis had gone to a cocktail party she had kind-heartedly brought us back some shrimps in aspic. Unfortunately she hadn’t wrapped them up properly and a very nice evening bag had to be discarded because it made her smell like a fishwife. This she said was all right while she was going out with a Cornishman, but wasn’t any good for the neurological registrar with an acute sense of smell.
The next morning I was giving out some drugs in the Female Medical Ward I was working on, when one of the Assistant Matrons came in to do a ward round.
Miss Marsh was a tall austere woman who looked like one of the types who have been groomed for matronship since birth. She was, however, surprisingly human, and had a keen sense of humour.
She looked quickly round the ward, and as no outstanding criticism presented itself, she applied herself to me.
