by Jane Yeadon
At the Home entrance, Sister Cameron pounced. She seemed unusually pleased to see us. ‘Ah! You two, I’ve just had a word with Nurse Munro and she says she’s leaving. Something about Matron’s talk being the last straw.’ Behind the round specs, her eyes were anxious. ‘Now get up these stairs quickly and stop her doing anything silly. I’m counting on you, mind. Tell her I’m expecting her to show Highland grit,’ her voice floated after us.
‘Oh for goodness sake, Morag. Open up!’ Maisie’s knock and voice were demanding.
Reluctantly, Morag opened the door. Apart from the photo of her boyfriend rustically smouldering by her bedside, Morag’s room had always looked half dead and now, with only a waste paper bin stuffed with screwed-up papers and a small suitcase facing the door, it was as empty as if she’d already gone.
‘Don’t try and make me stay. Lord knows Sister Cameron’s done her best. And for that of it, so’ve the tutors.’ Morag had been crying, but despite the blotches she sounded determined. ‘When you went to get measured I told them so. They tried to dissuade me but I’m going and that’s that.’ Never had she sounded so positive.
Despite being impressed that anybody would face up to Miss Jones and survive, I said, ‘Morag you’re the best nurse in the class. It’ll be a real waste if you go and surely you’ve not come all this way just to chuck it in because a silly old wifie’s got a bee in her bonnet about pregnancy.’ A thought suddenly occurred, ‘You’re not –?’
‘No, I’m not,’ snapped Morag. ‘I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while now but if I was actually pregnant, I’d have been bundled out the back door at the first missed period and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’
For Morag, this was quite radical stuff. Maybe she was more interesting than the strait-laced exterior suggested. Who knows, she might have been about to admit to the joys of a previous life as a stripper in Tain, but the sound of running footsteps followed by a hail of door knocks interrupted. It was the rest of the group, headed by Rosie.
Racing in and seeing the suitcase, she started to dance up and down as if about to take flight. ‘You’re all packed! You can’t really be serious, Morag.’ Turning to the others, she cried, ‘You’re not allowing this surely? I can’t believe you’re letting this happen.’
‘Nor me,’ Maisie said agreeing for once. ‘It’s such a waste. Matron’s heartless and this place stinks.’ She shook her head as if to get rid of flies. ‘We should all be walking out.’
‘Dinna be daft,’ said Sheila. She ambled over to the window, breathed on it then drew a face on the glass with a frilly halo on top, a sad mouth under. ‘Matron jist minds me on yon gossipy wifies wi’ their hats, hivvin’ tea in Watt an’ Grants in Union Street, but nay a’body’s like her. I dinna see Miss Jones there somehow an’ she’s jist as important. Ye shid jist bide an’ gie it a chance. Ye hivna even met ony patients yet!’
Morag sounded fierce: ‘But have you not noticed, nobody really discusses patients’ feelings inside.’ Dramatically she beat her chest. ‘Not even Mrs Low. Oh we explain alright and observe – my God! How I’ve observed – and do you know what? What I’ve actually observed is that nobody seems aware that patients have lives outwith hospital and how they might feel about things going on at home which might be relevant to their recovery. Now that can’t be right.’ As if giving up, she dropped her shoulders, managing a watery smile. ‘Anyway, you girls need to stay and train and learn to be Matrons yourselves.’ She picked up a small piece of fluff off the floor, threw it in the bin and looked round the room in a final way. ‘And maybe by the time you do, times will have changed and if not, then you could do something about it.’
‘And what about you?’ Isobel looked depressed. ‘What’ll you say to your parents?’
Morag smoothed her skirt, dabbed her eyes with a folded hanky and looked down at her sensible shoes. ‘They never thought I’d make it. Thought I was too soft – and how right they were, but just maybe in the head. So I’ll probably finish that typing course I was doing in Inverness. It’s nearer home and the boyfriend.’ There was a hint of mischief in her smile. ‘Who knows, he might even make an honest woman of me. I’ll certainly try and avoid the perils of becoming an unmarried mother.’
‘Well then, we’ll come and see you to the train. At least we’ve got the afternoon off so our blessed tutors can mark our papers.’ Hazel went to pick up the suitcase. ‘Though in your case they’ll probably keep yours and frame it. Come on! Let’s get you past Sister Cameron. After all the bother you’ve caused we wouldn’t really want you murdered. Not really.’
18
ON OUR WAY
After today and with our exam results announced, we would know whether or not we were to join Morag and head for the hills. It was our last P.T.S. day and already our tutors were lined up with the air of generals about to despatch final orders. We tramped into the classroom and sat down in silence.
If they’d any apprehension about meeting a group upset by the loss of one of its members, our tutors hid it well; then Miss Jones swung into action. In another time I bet she’d have relished gladiatorial sport. She looked about, seeming to enjoy our fear, then taking her time, drilled out, ‘We have your papers here – and …’ she tapped them in a final way and looked about as if enjoying an audience’s complete attention.
Time stood still. Just in case I might shortly need the skill again, my hand gripped my pen with the same grasp needed for a mop. The class held its breath. Seldom had Miss Jones so transfixed us. Then, allowing a pleased if surprised smile to escape, she said, ‘We are pleased to tell you that you have all passed.’
Mrs Low’s beam engulfed the classroom in sunshine whilst the sigh flooding the classroom should have made the building collapse.
‘Well done, Nurses. You’re on your way.’ Miss Jones cleared her throat and dropped her voice, ‘We’re sorry Morag chose to leave. She’d have made a fine nurse.’
Mrs Low looked stricken whilst Miss Jones’s tone was as genuine as it was unexpected, but it was sad that the use of her first name separated Morag from the group and formalised her departure.
I was torn between exasperation that she hadn’t stayed the course and relief at the exam results, whilst the memory of Sister Cameron’s words still lingered.
‘She can’t be a real Highlander,’ she’d said. ‘Now you’ll have to prove normal ones are worth the effort.’
What’s normal, I wondered. Certainly not what’s going to happen here in a minute and courtesy of our group.
‘Right! Let’s move onto these papers.’ The tutors started to hand them out. ‘The results were good, but there are some misconceptions, particularly about the femur – Mrs Low, would you mind?’ She nodded to Skellie’s house.
Isobel and I exchanged glances whilst Rosie searched for her hanky.
Mrs Low swung open the door. There was a pause. Then, instead of Skellie, a long-dead nurse swung before us. The silence was profound and even though I knew it was the skeleton dressed in uniform, he still looked scary. Mrs Low gave an impressive leap and Miss Jones took a step back, whilst those in the class who weren’t in the know screamed.
We’d become slick at treating faints and were eager to demonstrate, but disappointingly nobody collapsed. We must all be growing battle hardened. Instead, Miss Jones picked up a ruler and tapped the apron with its ‘Nursing can damage your health’ notice written in Sheila’s perfect copperplate. ‘So can tutoring,’ she murmured. ‘Now, about the femur –’
‘Fancy Old Jonesie having a human side, and with a sense of humour too,’ said Maisie as we walked out of the classroom at the end of the day, ‘but that Morag business has put me off and I don’t even feel like celebrating. What about you, Jane?’
‘Stunned.’
‘Me too.’ Rosie turned briskly on our group. ‘I know! Why don’t we phone her, see if she got home alright. Then we can tell her about Skellie.’ She held up an index finger straight out of Miss Jones’s personal developme
nt book. ‘That’ll cheer her up. Now! Come along, everyone.’
Reaching the telephone booths, she fledgling-flapped her arms over her pockets. ‘Has anyone any money?’
‘Yup.’ Hazel slapped a handful of change on the shelf. ‘And look, Jane, there’s a note here for you.’
The booths were festooned with notes for people who hadn’t been there to take their call by people who had.
I read the note: ‘Would Jane Macpherson please phone Douglas.’ It had a number and a yesterday time. Blast! I got so few calls I hadn’t bothered to check.
‘Ooh,’ cooed Maisie. ‘Now there’s a cause for celebration.’
‘Ssh!’ Rosie waved her finger, fresh from dialling. ‘Morag?’
We grouped round and heard that soft voice reassuring her that all was well.
‘We’d a right laugh with Skellie. You’d have died laughing. It might even have cheered you up,’ Rosie, that mistress of tact, ignored Maisie screwing up her face and held the phone tighter, ‘and Jonesie even said she was sorry you’d left.’ Rosie could apparently think of no higher praise. Then whatever Morag said pleased her and brought the dimples out. ‘She’s going to finish that course in Inverness and her boyfriend’s delighted she’s going to be near,’ she relayed, twirling the telephone flex round her fingers so much she was now having to stand on her tip toes to reach the cradle, ‘and she sounds happy. Different girl.’
‘Well, Dr Rosie, that’s fine,’ Maisie reached for the phone, ‘but maybe we could have a word too.’
But our captain said we all had to dash, said goodbye on our behalf and hung up.
‘Rosie!’
‘I didn’t want to use all Hazel’s money. You can phone her yourselves with your own money,’ Rosie retorted, scooping up the change and slapping it into Hazel’s hand. ‘Now what about that celebration?’
A cleaner came pail-clanking down the stairs, muttering about a dismal job mopping up talcum powder dredged bathrooms, and though I was still mixed up about Morag and a hospital’s apparent indifference to its staff, I was relieved I wasn’t going back to cleaning – yet. Success needed to be marked in some way, but not in the present company. Maisie and I crept away.
‘Rosie is that bossy, I could scream,’ Maisie grimaced as she vented her frustration on her bedroom door handle making the door fly open.
‘Yeah – but she has moved us out of the doldrums,’ I clutched my bit of paper, trying to memorise the number, ‘and she’s put me in the mood for catching up with Douglas. What were you thinking of doing yourself?’
‘I think I’ll go and catch a bus tae Inverurie,’ said Maisie with a sly grin. ‘Sheila and I have plans for the weekend and after that, Jane, we’ll be out in the world of reality.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it.’
I went to make my phone call.
‘You’ve just missed Douglas,’ his landlady said, ‘but I’ll tell him you called.’
There was a better result with my mother accepting a reverse charge call home.
‘Jane! How lovely to hear from you. We’ve been thinking such a lot about you and wondering how you got on.’
Bob was barking in the background and my mother sounded so cheerful, a wave of homesickness washed over me, making my good news sound wobbly.
‘That’s marvellous, but are you alright? What about coming home for the weekend? We’re dying to see you. We’ll stand you the fare.’ I could tell she was smiling.
‘Right, Mum.’ I was suddenly decisive. ‘I’ll just do that. I’m longing to see you too.’
As soon as I hung up, the phone started ringing again. Despite an uncharitable wish to leave it, I lifted it.
‘Douglas!’
‘Jane! That’s a stroke of luck,’ he sounded frustrated. ‘I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for ages. I’d to nip back to the digs for a second so I knew if I was quick, I’d catch you. How’s things?’
‘I passed.’
‘I knew you would.’ Douglas was dismissive, as if it were pre-ordained, then he rushed on, ‘Look – I’m in a bit of a hurry but there’s a folk concert on tonight. D’you fancy coming?’
A group of nurses passed in a chattering group. I waited to let them pass. The phone suddenly felt heavy. ‘Douglas, I’m sorry, I’m set up to go home.’
‘But there’ll be other times.’
‘I know. It’s just that they so seldom put on any pressure – and they’re paying the fare.’
‘Oh well, I can tell you’ve made up your mind. Another time, maybe. I need to dash now but will you phone me when you come back? At least someone answers the phone here.’ Douglas’s voice grew fainter, as if he was already gone.
‘Yes, Douglas.’ I put the phone down slowly, wishing he’d sounded more pleased I’d passed and less casual that I couldn’t make that date.
19
IN THE WARDS
‘I wonder if the girls are as busy on their hems as us,’ said Maisie, squinting in her efforts to thread a needle. ‘They’ll be settling into their Nurses’ Home. Apparently it’s really modern, even if Woodend Hospital’s supposed to be ancient.’
During our training we would be sent to various hospitals, most of which had their own nurses’ homes. Woodend, regarded apparently and somewhat scathingly as the last outpost of the hospital empire, was on the outskirts of Aberdeen. It was a smaller, if more rural version of Foresterhill, and Jo, Sheila and Rosie had gone there.
We were in Maisie’s room and taking up hems on the uniforms waiting for us in well-organised bundles on our return from the weekend.
‘Everybody does it,’ said Hazel. ‘Honestly, the sewing department must have served time making tents. I could have broken my neck wearing something that trailed the ground. Look! I’ve had to take my hem up by a mile.’ She held a dress against her. An optimist would have said it just covered her knees.
‘Yes, but I saw one nurse the other day wearing a thing like a pelmet,’ Maisie said with admiration. ‘Good for her but it might get draughty round corners. I was surprised she was allowed to operate if you get my drift. Ouch!’ She sucked a newly-pricked finger. ‘Blast! I’ve marked an apron.’
‘That wouldn’t look good first thing arriving on the ward,’ Isobel chuckled, ‘but never mind, we’ve been given plenty.’ She nodded at Maisie’s pile of all-enveloping aprons that had a white boiled-in-bleach brilliance and conveyed a promise of cleanliness and starchy purpose. ‘We only wear them in the wards and they look easy enough to put on, though I can’t say the same about the caps.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve tried putting mine on but my hair hates it and tries to shove it off. Nightmare! I’ve had to buy two cards of kirby grips to anchor it.’
Coloured belts marked the different training years, the first being the same sober grey as the dress, the second was purple and even if the final year blue seemed an eternity away, at least we were heading in that direction. We sewed on, then, final alterations completed, we tried on the new clothes and saw strangers.
In the morning, torn between the excitement and fear of finally arriving in the wards, I suddenly wished we were back in the classroom. At least there we knew where the challenges lay. Oddly, we might even miss them, but having readied us for this moment, Miss Jones and Mrs Low were already turning to a new P.T.S. intake and Hazel and I were heading for the surgical unit.
‘Trust you to get the cushy number. I’ll be dishing out the bedpans whilst you’ll only have bottles to think about. Men’s plumbing arrangements are definitely better designed for hospitals.’ Hazel sounded genuinely envious as we parted at the common corridor. ‘I’m really nervous about this, aren’t you?’ She re-secured her cap, straightened her dress, sighed, then sprang away, showing confidence and the backs of her knees with every bounding step.
I put on my apron in a small cloakroom, then went and hovered at the entrance of a ward so full of bed-ridden patients, there didn’t seem room for any more. There were even beds down the middle into which countless trolley-borne casualt
ies moaning and spluttering under masks, tubes and bed clothes were being transferred.
I’d have been first in the bunker if I’d known war had been declared and thought Douglas, with his C.N.D. contacts, might have warned me. In the classroom, the lecture on nuclear war had suggested little hope for survivors, but in the absence of complete wipe-out and with people still breathing, I realised this was just an ordinary war and Ward Eight, its field hospital.
‘Take care,’ cried a student nurse directing a travelling bed near the entrance.
‘Mind out!’ called porters, heads down and arms full out as they sped out of the ward, their trolleys laden with rigid cargo.
‘Can’t stop!’ shouted a harassed-looking staff nurse. ‘Just try and make yourself useful or see if you can find Sister.’ She bent over a form huddled in his bed. ‘Come on, Mr Sim, you’ve had your operation. Can you hear me?’ she tapped his cheek in a brisk way and seemed happy when he moaned.
In a stationary bed, a knight in a suit of shining purple threshed. It was difficult to make out his face, what with the stubble, crust and swollen eyes, but neither his tongue nor his vocal chords were affected and he was chanting in the same medieval tongue my father used before he got the hang of making silage.
Watching over and on high from a pile of air cushions was his neighbour, an old-looking little man so ethereal in appearance, he could have been a ghost.
‘Excuse me, Nursie. I think Alex’s needing medicine,’ he piped in a clear boy’s voice. ‘His burns are awful sore and that blue stuff’s not helping.’
He was looking at me with such urgent appeal, I forgot anxiety and promised to find someone – anyone – if he’d hang on a minute.
‘That’s what they all say,’ he said, turning an anxious gaze back at Alex.
