by Jane Yeadon
I was right to wonder and wrong in the other decision, for when I returned, the screens were round Mr Tully’s bed, with Charles in a dead faint under it and a dead Mr Tully on top. ‘I’ve just arrived and this is what I found,’ a flustered Night Sister explained, her torch making shaky arcs over their faces. ‘I can’t imagine what’s happened but I’ll have to phone the resident to ask him to confirm there’s a death, whilst you see if you can revive Charles.’ Giving instructions seemed to perk her up. ‘And then of course you’ll need to assemble the final offices trolley.’
Diagnosis of death apparently beyond the remit of nursing staff, she went to make her call whilst I whispered a message to Charles: ‘I’ll have to give you the kiss of life.’ It was enough to galvanise him back to reality.
He came to and stood up, swaying enough for a whiff of Mr Tully’s oxygen – I was sure he wouldn’t grudge it. Then, casting an anxious look over the corpse and crossing his arms as if warding off evil, Charles said in a relieved way, ‘Oh, thank God, he’s still dead.’
‘What!?’ Sister was back. She searchlit the auxiliary with a still-quivering torch.
For a ward normally full of patients lining up for a tea round, it was remarkable how well they were pretending to sleep. The whole place was silent apart from Charles, who hurried to explain, ‘Yeah, soon after Nurse Macpherson left, I thought there was something missing and it was Mr Tully’s breathing, so I took a look and saw he was dead.’
‘Nurse!’ barked Sister. ‘You mean you couldn’t feel his pulse?’
Charles shrugged. ‘Um – well – I noticed he was very still. As I was looking, I knocked his paper off the locker and went to pick it up, but Mr Tully’s hand flopped over and hit me on the head. I thought he’d come back to take me with him. It gave me an awful start – I nearly died as well.’ Charles put his hand to his brow and staggered a bit. ‘This oxygen isn’t much good. Don’t you treat shock with brandy, Sister?’
There were some more theatrical effects before Sister relented and gave him a small tot. ‘I think you can manage now, but you’ll have to wait for the resident.’ She was in tutting mode. ‘My My! But this is a busy night. I wonder where the name Tully comes from. Not Banchory anyway.’ She looked at the ward. ‘You’d better put him in the side ward and not disturb the others; it’s good it’s so quiet.’
In the poor light she looked like a tired auntie but I chanced my luck.
‘Before you go, Sister, and I know we’re not supposed to ask, but can I ask how my friend in the I.C. is?’ I couldn’t have been more humble.
‘No, you can’t ask. It would be highly unprofessional of me to tell you she’s on the mend,’ she replied and tiptoed away as if her presence might attract more work.
We moved Mr Tully in time for the ward resident to come, place a stethoscope on his chest, pronounce him dead, then leave and allow us to do one last service for our patient.
‘I could do this myself, you’re due a break,’ I said, wheeling through the final offices trolley.
Paying no attention, Charles spoke to Mr Tully. ‘You did tell me you were sick to death of struggling for breath all the time and no matter whether you were in bed or up, you were never comfortable and you’d reached the stage that after years of never feeling well, you wanted out of it. And now you are, so the only thing left for me to do is to make sure Nurse Macpherson does the job properly.’ He took a face flannel from Mr Tully’s sponge bag and handed it to me.
Touched by his words, I set about the task whilst Charles chatted as if he and Mr Tully were mates in a quiet pub. I’d dressed dead bodies before but never in such a personal atmosphere.
When the job was almost finished, Charles decided to help. ‘I think she’s having a wee problem with your shroud. You’d think she was tying a parcel. Here, let me.’ He took the long straggly ties and made them into perfect bows. ‘There! That’s the best we can do.’ He stood back to admire his handiwork.
Less impressed by what was now presented as an impersonal bundle, and preferring to remember Mr Tully as a stoical hero, I said, ‘Come on, Charles, you need some food. I don’t want you fainting again and if you don’t go now, the dining room will be closed. I’ll go and phone the porters to come and take the body.’
‘I’m sure I’ll get something, but I see the mortuary trolley’s been left on our floor.’ Charles upturned his huge hands. ‘Just call me Atlas! Why don’t I take him down with me when I’m going? You tell them I’ll meet them on the ground floor – it’ll save them a bit of hassle.’
I remembered the vagaries of a single-handed trolley from our P.T.S. days. ‘Will you manage just yourself?’
‘Of course!’ Charles was already and assuredly steering this one to the side of the bed. Once the body was transferred, we shut the lid, which gave such a clang it could have wakened the hospital. I was glad to see Charles set off with it, even if it was at a rate unbefitting a hearse.
The phone call made, I was back into the ward and about to do a head count when Charles was back – and in a hurry. ‘You forgot to label him. Quick! I’ve left him in the lift.’ He grabbed the slips I scribbled on and was gone leaving me to wonder how long it would be before somebody clever asked whether the running footsteps meant haemorrhage or cardiac arrest.
Again Charles was back and in a froth of anxiety. ‘He’s gone!’
‘I know that – but what are you doing here?’
Charles beckoned me out to the corridor so that he could shout, ‘No! What I meant is that somebody’s pressed the lift button and released the lift from our floor.’
For a moment I thought I had drifted off and was having a nightmare, and part of it was the sound of a lift door opening with the approaching sound of screeching wheels accompanied by trotting footsteps. I clutched my heart. Had Mr Tully miraculously returned?
‘Nurse Macpherson!’
This was worse than a bad dream. I had never seen Night Sister so stressed and out of breath, nor a trolley so expertly driven. At that turn of speed, Banchory should know it had a rally driving expert.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’
I took the plunge – after all, what had I to lose apart from my dreams? And was nursing worth all this anyway?
‘It’s all my fault. I should have left the porters to do their job but I thought I’d save them a trip.’ It was hard avoiding hysterics. ‘And I forgot to label Mr Tully and I forgot to put the lift on hold and …’ Appalled by how things must look, I threw caution to the winds blurting, ‘I’ll work my shift until you get a replacement.’
Charles swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. ‘Actually Sister, I don’t think you should blame Nurse Macpherson. The truth is, it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have left him in the lift, but I didn’t think there was any risk of anybody else using it since staff’s not supposed to use it unless it’s an emergency.’
Both careers at stake, we hung our heads whilst, in the distance, the early sounds of morning stole upon us, with the cries of oystercatchers trawling far away conveyed by a wind surely from Siberia. Amazing how you could hear them when Aberdeen’s beach was so far away. Soon, I thought, I might be hearing similar dawn sounds, but more permanently at home. What a long way to come to develop hearing skills but lose patients!
‘It’s not a competition,’ said Sister irritably, ‘and stop that silly talk about replacement. It’s just lucky for you it was me who found him. I thought for a moment he must be on tour. Still, and I want you to understand this even if you know nothing else,’ her voice went up a pitch, ‘patients are not to be left lying about like lost luggage – dead or alive – so go and phone the porters now and let them do a job that they at least know how to do properly and don’t you dare let that trolley out of your sight until they come for it. Understand?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘Right.’ She stomped off.
‘That was close,’ said Charles dropping his shoulders and stretching his neck. He drilled his eyes at the tr
olley and after a full second said, ‘Heck! This is more boring than watching paint dry. Tell me about your time in the Ian Charles and when you found yon awful wifie under the bed. Now that sounds really exciting.’
36
A PROPER PERFORMANCE
Sister Catto headed the gynaecology ward. She was also a cat. It didn’t need to stretch the imagination of a newly-qualified, blue-belted, final-year student – yes, folks, another miracle – to figure out that one. Of course, the nickname Kitty helped, but the slanting green eyes, round face and pointy ears sticking through short jet-black hair clinched it.
I was discussing my new ward with Maisie, celebrating a day off, ironing in the kitchen.
‘You’ll like her. Remember, that was my first ward. She treats everybody the same and it’s a happy place.’ She looked down at an orange feline, fresh from chewing a sad little pelt and now insinuating his body round her legs. ‘But she’s from the caring side of your family-cat – quite a different branch.’ She pointed the iron at the clock. ‘But if you’re not out of here in the next five minutes, Janey Mac, you might find Kitty has claws too.’
I took the lift to the hospital top floor.
Well out of earshot of the rest of the hospital, it overlooked the whole of the city. Far below, gulls wheeled and turned. For a moment I thought I heard their cries but then realised they were the sounds of laughter coming from the ward.
‘Ah! And here’s our new nurse.’ Kitty’s face split into a welcoming smile as she came along the corridor heading an assorted team of medics and nurses, ‘and she’s just in time for the round.’ She turned as another burst of laughter split the air. ‘Come on! If we’re quick, they’ll share that one with us.’
I wasn’t used to being so included. Usually all but the most senior staff members would be hidden away and work held in a state of suspended animation until a round was over. Going on this one felt like a goodwill tour.
We gathered round the first bed.
The gynaecologist twinkled at the patient over his half specs. ‘Good Morning, care to share the joke?’
‘You’re too young,’ replied the patient, giving a wriggle of pleasure and pulling her nylon bed jacket about her as if to contain her mirth.
‘Pity,’ said the gynaecologist. After a few small pleasantries, then a big discussion about her operation, he said, ‘I think we should have a look at your stitches.’
‘If that’s ok with you and you don’t mind an audience?’ Kitty interrupted, leaning casually on an over-bed table at the end of the bed and resting her foot on its bar.
‘Aye. I’ll take the tickets, Sister, you take the money.’
‘In that case, we’ll need these.’ Kitty dimpled and stood back to let the other medics pull the curtains.
‘Could I sit up now?’ asked the patient after her scar line had been admired.
‘Certainly,’ said Kitty, ‘these nice strong doctors will be only too happy to help you.’ She waved her hand at the assembled white coats. ‘And be sure and tell this lot what your worries are because they’re the ones paid to have the answers, unless of course you want a private word, in which case just tip me the wink and we’ll organise that for later.’ She moved to the next bed.
Once every patient had been given the proper attention and every question the appropriate respect, the round was over, allowing the patients to settle in a ward that ran like clockwork. There were some squalls but only amongst the most competitive of patients reliving the biggest and bloodiest of operation tales. No wonder Kitty was respected and people loved working here.
‘Well, how did it go?’ Maisie, ironing piled virtuously high, enquired. ‘Or need I ask?’
‘It’s great and not only that, she’s wondering if our group would like to take part in her pantomime. Apparently our P.T.S. dramatics have gone down in the annals and she thinks the patients need something to think about other than their battle scars.’ I scratched my head and wondered, ‘Why does everyone associate us with drama?’
‘Why indeed,’ agreed Maisie. ‘Would there be a singing part? I’ve given up on talking blues – couldn’t get the rhythm somehow.’
By good luck we were all now back on day duty in Foresterhill, so it was easy to catch up with everybody. Persuading them to sign up, however, was another matter, so I approached Hazel since she had the kudos of a recovery bordering on the miraculous.
‘Don’t you think I’ve had enough excitement lately?’ It must be all that new blood coursing through her veins, but between that and her blue belt, she had the manner of a general, gracious in victory. ‘Anyway, I only associate with winners so who’d you like me to ask?’
‘Maybe you could have a word with Jo and Isobel. I think they’d trust you more than me anyway. Rosie’s already spoken to Sheila and she’s going to help with the scenery.’
‘Fantastic! And what about our practical nurse of the year?’
‘She wants a singing part.’
‘No!’ Hazel’s hand flew to her mouth, probably to hold back the scream. Still, she wore the thoughtful look of one already mustering her troops. ‘It’ll be great to do something altogether – should be a larf.’
I wondered how she’d persuade Isobel.
‘No problem! She’s at a loose end since breaking up with the latest bloke.’
‘Is she ok?’
Hazel narrowed her eyes. ‘Well, you know Iso – if she’d a broken heart you’d only know about it if you were at her funeral.’
But Isobel sounded fine when we gathered outside Kitty’s office. ‘I hope we’re doing the right thing here. I’ve suddenly got a dose of the jitters. Still, it stops life from being dull and it’s worth it if it means we can have something that takes our minds off blue-belt responsibility.’
Rosie was in a chirpy mood. ‘Isn’t it good that I managed to get Sheila on board? Now we’ve only to have Jo and we’ll all be together again and having fun. Hey look! There she is. Come on, Jo,’ Rosie’s hands beckoned, ‘Quickly, now!’
Sheila laughed in that lovely comforting way that reminded me of hot chocolate. ‘Some things dinnae change. Come on or we’ll get a row.’
‘And here’s the rest of the team.’ Kitty came to the door and waved us in. Weaving around some other budding thespians, she levered herself onto a desk, stretching her cat suit enough to inspire awe. After introductions, she went on, ‘And thanks for coming, good of you to give your time. I’ve got the scripts here,’ she waved a sheaf of papers, ‘so please have a quick read and then we can discuss the parts. And just before anyone starts slagging off the author,’ she considered the floor for a moment, ‘I think it’s only fair to tell you, it’s me what writ it.’ Only the swinging legs betrayed a playwright’s anxiety.
‘Great,’ breathed Isobel. ‘Just the place for professional suicide.’
We exchanged glances. I thought about my ward report and prayed for a good read.
Eventually, Isobel put down her script. ‘It’s great and I like the idea of a pantomime with germ-laden bugs against the universe,’ she spoke as if she too had felt the winds of adversity, ‘and it should be great fun, but I’m not sure where I’d fit in.’
Kitty sized her up. ‘I need three tall people to do “Sisters,” you know, the one the Beverley Sisters made famous. You and Hazel are a perfect height.’
‘I knew it’d come in handy sometime, and you’re obviously not fussed about our voices.’ Hazel observed.
Kitty laughed. ‘Charles’s going to be the third sister. Need I say more? But we’ll need other singers for the bug parts.’
Maisie drew breath whilst Rosie’s hand shot up, probably to gag her.
‘Ah! A volunteer. Splendid.’
‘Er – well, no – actually,’ Rosie stuttered, bouncing up and down as if about to take off.
‘You don’t have to do it well. Bugs ain’t toonful. Just as long as you’re bold with it and can hit the occasional note.’
‘That’s you,’ jeered Maisie. ‘The bol
d bit anyway.’
‘You seem to know each other pretty well,’ Kitty observed. ‘I think you’ll make a good team with one other person. What about you, Jane?’
Already overwhelmed by the informality, I said, ‘Is this for the other bug? It’s quite a big role.’
‘Yes. I need a threesome of nasty little bugs with carrying voices.’
‘Sounds the very part for you.’ Since signing up with Isobel, Hazel couldn’t have been more helpful.
‘Ah’ll be happy prop building and painting,’ Sheila offered. ‘Ah’ve got a few ideas already.’
Kitty gave her a long look. ‘Could you paint a celestial scene?’
Sheila’s smile was angelic. ‘Ah’m better at little devils but Ah’ll try. Ah’ll need folk wi’ muscles though.’ A spokesman from a group of burlies Kitty must have found in weight-lifting classes flexed his pectorals. ‘We’ll help – we’re keen to see a real artist at work.’
Sheila, looking pleased, gathered a group and started a conversation so technical that paint was never mentioned.
‘I’m not wonderful on machines but I can just about work a tape recorder, would that be enough for sounds?’ Jo stepped forward.
‘Yeah. Great.’ Kitty, wildly confident, handed her a small box. Rather doubtfully, Jo went off to twiddle knobs in a corner.
Kitty continued, ‘I’ve arranged with Home Sister for us to rehearse in the Home sitting room, so I reckon we need to meet there in a week and by that time, you’ll all have had a chance to get an idea of how you want to play it. Now, any questions?’
‘Have you got a part?’ a sly voice asked.
Kitty twitched her nose and all but checked her whiskers.
‘My part’s not yet in the script but, like you, I’ll be working on it. I’ll have enough to do backstage. It’ll probably be at the end and only be a cameo part.’
‘What’s that?’ whispered Rosie as we drifted out.
