by Jane Yeadon
‘We’ll see.’
‘Just come this way.’ Between hand-scooping gestures and herding the audience to their seats, Rosie had hit an all-time bustle record. Her cheerful welcome and introduction set a good, if ambitious, tone. I didn’t remember bed-baths or constipation being discussed but maybe, bored with so much of her instructions, I’d tuned out. Full of confidence, Rosie bounced backstage.
‘You should have charged them. You sounded like a compere-cum-ticket-officer.’ Maisie had had time to consider her role and was smarting about her lowly position.
Rosie’s sniff was so profound, it might even have impressed Beth.
Hazel now drew back the screens, their little wheels screaming like those in a car rally. Isobel followed, more Sarah Bernhardt than Dr Finlay, and beckoned to Rosie who, complete with clipboard and eager expression, re-entered.
‘Um, Sister,’ Isobel raised a hand to her forehead – a fine portrayal of an artist in thought. ‘There’s an asthmatic coming in – emergency – can you get things ready? You’ll know what to do. I’ll have to dash now – there’s another emergency coming in.’
She drifted off.
‘Staff Nurse!’ shouted Rosie. Hazel ambled on.
‘There’s an asthmatic coming in. You’ll need to get a bed ready and trolleys, you know – just the usual.’ Her hands waved like small propellers.
Hazel tapped her teeth thoughtfully, checked their stability and giving a very good impression of quiet authority, beckoned Maisie who had started to hum ‘The Red Flag’. Still, she appeared on cue and gave a proper imitation of servility, battening down her curls with such an armoury of hairpins she looked as if she might have a problem understanding life, never mind instructions.
‘Now, Nurse, prepare a bed and set a trolley please. There’s an emergency asthmatic coming in and – look! She’s arrived. My goodness that was quick.’
Sheila’s entrance was made in a high-speed trolley driven by Jo, aiming rather than steering since nobody had thought the role of a porter with transporting expertise relevant.
‘Merciful Heavens! What has she on her face?’ gasped Mrs Low. ‘If that’s gentian violet, she’ll never get it off.’
‘We never thought about makeup,’ said someone in the audience.
‘Maybe just as well,’ said another.
‘I’ll kill that bloomin’ Jane,’ gritted Sheila putting an appalled hand to her face and beginning to breathe in short bursts.
‘Let’s lift the patient altogether now,’ called Rosie, and those who were team players assembled round the patient, astonished by how feather-light she was. As she flew from caring clutches to the far edge of the bed, she was stopped from a crash landing by her own keen instinct for survival and a ‘Mind oot!’ scream.
Apart from reassuring Morag, who was plainly bringing stage fright to a new art form and being banned from action except make-up artist until now, I was ready for a role to be relished. With a busybody walk I got on stage.
‘You’ll mebbe find ma auntie a bittie confused. She’s been affa difficult lately, winna tak her pills, winna stick tae her diet. Ah canna sleep at night fur her coughin’ an’ I’ve a right sair back lookin after her – an’ as for her bowels, weel that’s anither story. Noo whaur’s Sister an’ whaur’s the Complaints Book. I’ve plenty tae pit in it.’
‘Sorry, but you’ll need to wait in the waiting room. We’re far too busy dealing with your aunt just now. You can see how breathless she is.’ Jo appeared at my elbow and gave a discreet shove.
Stopped from getting into full stride, I was offstage quicker than I intended, which was a pity, for being such a caring relative was fun.
Jo now assumed Rosie’s mantle of authority and addressed the air very clearly.
‘Let’s have the oxygen shall we?’
‘Oxygen! What oxygen? Oh! Just a minute.’ Maisie stifled a scream.
Mutterings and curses followed, then an unaccompanied trolley appeared so fast the attached Oxygen marked flag flew from it in a straight line.
‘Where’s a’ the nurses an’ fit kinda corners are these?’ The relative had sneaked back and was pointing to the feeble mitres. ‘In ma young day, beds were made properly. That’s a disgrace, an’ she’ll need mair pillows an’ mind she’s allergic tae feathers.’
‘Check the patient’s pulse.’ Morag must be on the mend for that was her voice even if it was interrupting my observation.
‘An’ dae ye nay think she’s an affa funny colour?’
‘My goodness, that is a difficult relative,’ murmured Mrs Low, sneaking a look at her watch and inflating her chest. Miss Jones seemed to be checking her ankles.
Once more Jo helped a rapid exit.
‘Do not come back on again,’ she murmured, then for the audience’s benefit, ‘And what about a cup of tea, dearie, before you speak to some nice person who could help you,’ adding through gritted teeth, ‘I think an almoner’s available right now.’
‘I think you’re overdoing things,’ whispered Morag, ‘and look at Sheila, Jane, she’s really beginning to look distressed. I’m getting worried about her.’ She pointed, but already Maisie was bearing down on our hapless patient with a trolley heaped high with enough equipment to kit the world. It was crowned with a large but unmistakable enema funnel.
She advanced upon Sheila who had been playing dead with a faraway expression and a blue look not entirely gentian.
‘Can I just explain what I’m going to do to you?’ she asked, squaring her jaw and smiling into Sheila’s face while pushing up her spectacles for a better look.
Suddenly, Miss Jones looked very alert and made to stand up. Sheila, however, proved that one look at the trolley was enough to re-energise her.
‘Ah’m nay comin back here ivver again,’ she gasped. ‘Ah’ll stick tae ma inhaler an’ Inverurie.’ She got out of bed and fled with her bedclothes billowing behind like a storm cloud.
Isobel sauntered on to have the last word. ‘I see our patient has fully recovered. You wouldn’t think a woman that old could move so fast.’ She leant on the trolley, her regal air transforming it into a carriage. ‘Come along, Staff, let’s see if we can get rid of that obnoxious relative. Look, we’ve got a spare bed now. Ready for that emergency I was telling you about.’
Her exit was elegant and ended the performance. Backstage, Morag discouraged us from banging Sheila on the back and suggested that if we left her alone she would breath easier, whilst Rosie drew the final curtain screens and waited for the call.
Outside, the sun suggested spring was well underway and like an old dog warming its bones, the Home seemed to be basking in it. The colour of those dour grey walls softened in the light. A few nurses strolled past without their capes, allowing them individuality and easy strides. There might have been happy chat, but we couldn’t hear them. Anyway, our attention was elsewhere, as with some shoving and pushing we shuffled out to face our audience.
A small outbreak of clapping was stopped by a glare from Miss Jones who, ensuring everybody’s attention, turned to look out the window. Mrs Low followed and for a while they both just stood, watching, whilst small tittering bursts came from the rest of the class.
At last Miss Jones said, ‘Do you see these nurses?’ She pointed to some serious striders. ‘They were also in P.T.S. you know, and I remember some of them had a very light-hearted casual approach indeed. Once they were in the wards, however, that had to change and they had to learn very quickly that hospitals are not places for burlesque.’ She paused whilst Mrs Low nodded her head and looked agonised, then continued, ‘There must be professionals and professionalism at every level and so, nobody, but nobody, gets out of this classroom unless we personally are sure it’s safe for them to do so. At some time you will all be dealing with life-and-death situations and you will all have to learn to recognise the signs. Do you realise your patient was in grave danger of having a real asthmatic attack, brought on by your antics? You could have killed her and as far as we co
uld see, not one of you recognised that – not even Nurse Munro,’ she gave Morag a baleful stare before training it on the class, ‘nor anybody in the audience either. I thought at the very least we could rely on you to be sensible, so frankly that’s very worrying and I think you all should be considering your future prospects here, very, very carefully.’
This was some curtain call. If there was any power in prayer, the floor should have swallowed us, but the only miracle was that Sheila was breathing normally and we hadn’t killed her.
I groaned inwardly. Why was it that a bit of daft jollity always seemed to go wrong?
Miss Jones continued, ‘Of course, there is a place for fun and I must say this group’s got a particular flair for it, but here’s not the place. We really do need some serious application from now on. Have I made myself clear?’
‘Yes, Miss Jones.’
The flat chorus must have touched Mrs Low for she stepped forward and said more cheerfully, ‘I’m sure everybody’s learnt a few things from today’s exercise and using the experience, we’ll see how the other groups fare tomorrow, but in the meantime, I think we’ve had enough of drama.’
Then she got out her ‘Kiss Me Quick’ hat and said, ‘Don’t forget that tomorrow as well, we’ll be having that visit from environmental health, so you can learn all about parasites and ask intelligent questions of the gentleman who is giving up a little of his rodent-roving role to speak to you. It’ll make a nice change, I’m sure.’
‘Yes, Mrs Low.’
16
MOVING ON
‘Well, at least after this exam you’ll be out in the wards and looking after real people.’ Douglas hunched his shoulders against an east wind accompanying us on our walk along Aberdeen beach. ‘Honestly, Jane, I can’t think what possessed us to come here today. It’s freezing.’ He looked out at the waves, grey as granite, hitting the sand in a monotonous thump, and shivered. ‘Just listen to that. They even sound mean. You wouldn’t think it was summer. Let’s go back to the café.’
‘I need to clear my head – it’s so full of anatomy, I doubt I’d make sensible conversation.’
I didn’t want to swap the wide space and absence of people for a greasy shelter. Of course, the warmth of thermal underwear helped, but the blue look of Douglas hinted that without the polythene, he hadn’t the same protection.
‘Maybe you’re feeling the cold because you’re just out of hospital.’
‘And maybe I don’t want to be back in again with hypothermia.’ The wind whipped his hair across his face as if teasing him, but he was unamused. Then, face brightening, he caught my hand. ‘I know! There’s a pipe band playing in Union Street Gardens today. Why don’t we go and listen. At least we’d be warmer.’ He searched my face eagerly but I liked it here. It suited my mood. It was where I thought I could put my world and the prospect of the end of P.T.S. exam in perspective.
‘You go, Douglas. Look, I’m sorry, but I’m probably better on my own. I really need to shift the “facts, facts” tutor drone to somewhere else in my brain and then I can deal with the worry of failing and having to go back home without so much as seeing one patient, apart from yourself.’
‘And maybe I don’t count,’ Douglas managed, despite the teeth chatter.
The sound of the waves was dismal. A herring gull strutted past, his yellow beak a cruel hook and the brightest colour on the beach.
‘And I didn’t realise you were such a senseless worrier.’ Douglas held up his hand to stop denial. ‘Of course you’ll pass, but if walking on a beach in Arctic conditions on your own helps, then I’ll leave you to it.’ With that he turned, and muttered, ‘And that’s a fact,’ before hurrying away.
My returned hand was the only bit of me that felt cold. I was sorry he’d find a skirling pipe band a better option and that I couldn’t explain how this place with its raw power might disentangle my mind, but the long walk to the other end beckoned. I put my hand in my pocket and headed there, enjoying the way the wind robbed me of all thought except breathing.
Eventually the sky began to clear so that a small patch of blue showed. The wind dropped and, as if on cue, the waves grew quieter and made a hushing companion as I walked beside them. I’d begun to perk up and hoped that Douglas was at least feeling warmer. The three-month haul in P.T.S. was coming to an end. Our amateur dramatics had made us realise we would never progress if we didn’t take study seriously, a fact we had at last accepted.
There was a telephone kiosk at the end of the beach. I should call home. My father answered and sounded so pleased, warmth reached down the phone. ‘You seem grand. How’s things?’
‘Fine, Dad. Just fine,’ and funnily enough I wasn’t lying. ‘I’m down at the beach at the moment – it’s really wild but bonny. I thought I needed a break from the studies.’
‘Quite right. Want to speak to your Ma?’
‘No, but tell her the big exam’s tomorrow and I’ll call after it.’
‘Good luck then. I’d better go. We’ve got Maudie calving.’
I put the phone down and thought as the sun broke out that I was in a good enough place, better than Maudie anyway.
But where was Douglas?
Back in the Home, Maisie asked the same thing but I couldn’t tell her. Searching for him, I had gone to the Union Street Gardens but got an overdose of piping laments instead.
‘He’ll have gone back to his digs. Maybe you’ve inspired him to study.’ Maisie, pulling her dressing gown closer and hugging her head to her shoulders in an impression of cosy talk, continued, ‘And after tomorrow, we’ll all be fine, just as long as we remember it’s of paramount importance to stick to the facts, facts, facts.’
Sitting our exam in that dull classroom with its posters portraying everything helpful but what was asked, we bent our heads, aware of the mechanics that drove that movement.
Thanks to Miss Jones, we now knew there was a life of such complexity under our skin, we could only trust that our brains conformed and transmitted the right facts to paper.
On and on we wrote, drew precise anatomical diagrams and described in clinical terms the importance of caring in a professional way. When at last the bell rang, Mrs Low gathered in our papers with such big capable hands, I suddenly thought that behind a wet facecloth, they could make a bed bath swift if not unpleasant. Maybe her brand of care was best confined to the classroom.
‘We’ll have these corrected for tomorrow, and in the meantime, and after Matron’s visit, you’ll be measured for your uniforms so that they’ll be ready by the end of the week when, hopefully,’ she pointed to the papers, ‘you will all be ready to go into the wards. And now we’ve asked Matron to come along and give her customary end of P.T.S. lecture.’
Impresario-like, she opened the door to Matron, who sailed in as if on wheels. Plainly in a hurry, she took the floor in a running movement then, braking, checking her cap had survived the speed, stopped. Breathless, she faced the class.
‘After today, Nurses, your tutors,’ she ducked her head and sent a vague smile in their direction, ‘will be finding out how much knowledge you’ve retained – that’s their job, and it’s mine as Matron to remind you that each and every one of you is going to be a representative of a profession which cannot afford anything but the highest standards of behaviour.’ She stopped for a moment as if to contemplate a fine view or catch breath, then continued, ‘And not only at work. I have had,’ the medals jangled, her voice moved into a squeak, ‘tears in my office, because some nurses have not taken anything seriously. Nor have they put a value on themselves.’ She mine-swept her gaze round the room before letting it fall upon Mrs Low who was nodding so much her head should have fallen off. ‘As a matter of fact, and it grieves me to tell you this, I’ve had to let such girls go because very soon they would be facing the consequences of irresponsibility.’
A bee droned by, the bravest bee in Aberdeen but now sensibly escaping through an open window. Mrs Low looked at her feet, Miss Jones at her fi
ngernails. We moved uneasily. She couldn’t possibly be speaking about pregnancy could she? Blimey! If this was a centre for caring, what was happening in the back streets?
In silence, we watched those fingers butterfly play as she went on, ‘Nursing work is so physical, pregnancy is not an option, and anyone in that condition could do irreparable harm, not only to herself but the child as well. And then of course she will have the responsibility to look after it – a full and lifetime commitment.’ Her tone was final. ‘I can’t imagine anyone here has a problem with this? No? Very good then and whilst we’re on the subject of suitable behaviour I’m aware of the present fashion of wearing frills rather than skirts and whilst I have no jurisdiction over what you wear off duty, your uniforms must conceal the popliteal space at all times.’
Mission completed, Matron left with a hasty if regal nod, voice squeak and finger twiddle, whilst we were sent to be measured for our uniforms, where we tried to redefine popliteal to a thin-lipped seamstress.
17
MORAG MAKES A STAND
We were in the dining room and filling up on stodge prompted by tape measure readings just recorded and surely too generous.
‘Has anybody seen Morag?’ I asked.
‘She said she was going to her room and not to wait for her,’ said Jo. ‘I thought she looked a bit upset after that talk by Matron but presumed she’d turn up later on. I didn’t see her getting measured – did anybody else?’
‘No.’ Maisie, carefully arranging a token green on the last of her macaroni and cheese rissole, shovelled it down, then jumped up saying, ‘I hope she’s alright. You know how serious she gets about everything. I thought for a moment she was going to take on Matron about that pregnancy stuff. Honestly, the way that woman spoke, I’m surprised we weren’t fitted for chastity belts as well. You’d think we weren’t capable of looking after ourselves never mind others. This is the sixties for God’s sake! Come on, Jane, let’s see if she’s alright.’
