The Children of Lovely Lane

by Nadine Dorries

  ‘The longest five minutes ever,’ said Mr Trimble to Beth, who had stopped at the end of his bed to check his charts. ‘I swear to God, when the big finger on that clock gets to five to seven, it takes a rest. It does, you know. You watch.’

  ‘Ah, well, I think it does that at twenty-five past eight as well, five minutes before I am due to go back to Lovely Lane and put my feet up,’ said Beth. ‘You haven’t got long now, Mr Trimble, see, it’s just moved. Only four minutes left.’

  It was the same every day. Visitors would be arriving in less than five minutes and Sister Crawford would not let a single one through the door until every corner of the ward was spotless. She was far from idle with her threats and patients and nurses alike felt tense and nervous as the minutes ticked by. The patients feared Sister’s pre-visitor inspection as much as the nurses. Concern that she might find something untoward caused everyone to hold their breath as she walked up and then back down the ward. If just one locker top was untidy, one jug of water unfilled, one urine bottle not emptied, one dirty ashtray not replaced, she would make all the visitors wait, herded like cattle outside the ward doors as they watched their precious sixty minutes tick by.

  ‘Here she comes,’ said Beth to Mr Trimble as, through the glass screen, she saw Sister leave her desk and stride purposefully out on to the ward to begin her inspection.

  Mr Trimble gave a sharp whistle through his teeth. ‘She doesn’t look like she’s in a good mood, does she? Eh, look, see that big hooter pressed up against the window on the ward doors, that’s John’s wife. First through, she is, every night. He says it’s because she misses nagging him and can’t wait to get to his bed to give him his full hour’s worth. She’s always hopping mad if visiting is cut short and he must be the only man on the ward to breathe a sigh of relief if it is.’

  Beth stifled a giggle.

  They both looked down towards John’s bed. Seeming to guess that he had their attention, he glanced at them and grinned, nodding at the clock. ‘It’ll be late tonight,’ he mouthed and winked.

  Betty Hutch, the ward domestic on duty that night, had spotted a dirty ashtray on the last locker that Sister was yet to reach and was hurriedly removing the offending object and replacing it with a clean one from her trolley. Seeing Sister Crawford heading in her direction, she almost dropped the dirty ashtray as she hurriedly made the exchange. Kicking the brake off the trolley wheel, she pushed the squeaky contraption hurriedly towards the ward doors.

  ‘You will be home tomorrow, Mr Trimble. You won’t have to go through any more of this,’ said Beth as she filled in his intake and output chart. ‘Is that your fourth jug of water today?’

  ‘No, it’s my twentieth.’

  ‘What?’ asked Beth, her brow furrowed.

  ‘What does it matter, Nurse Harper? I’m going home tomorrow. There will be no one filling in any charts for me there, I can tell you.’

  Beth marked his fluids correctly and as she placed the chart back on the end of his bed, said, ‘You must be sick of it, having been in here for so long.’

  ‘I’ve forgotten what home looks like. Came in here in ’51, I did. They collapsed my left lung twice, you know. It’s going to be very strange. Was trying to remember what pattern the wallpaper is in the parlour, and, do you know, even though I put it up, I can’t. Isn’t that a funny thing? I can’t complain though. I’m one of the lucky ones – I’m going home. The doctor thought I would never recover. The new streptomycin, that made all the difference.’

  ‘For you and a lot of people,’ said Beth. ‘The difference on the children’s ward is unbelievable, even just in the past year. They have three TB cases up there now and they all tested clear in such a short space of time. Everyone is talking about it.’

  Beth had lost count of how many tales of success on children’s Dana had brought back to Lovely Lane. She was secretly jealous that she hadn’t been placed on children’s. She relished the prospect of the responsibility. ‘Those of us who were interested were told we could go up to the children’s wards and study the notes. One little girl, she responded within twenty-four hours. It’s just incredible. An exciting time to be a nurse.’

  They both looked down the ward as they heard John shouting to Betty Hutch as she made her way to open the doors. ‘Take your time, Betty. No hurry.’

  His comment was met by an avalanche of jeers from the men who were eagerly awaiting their visitors. The tension had been broken and the clock hand was now very nearly on the hour.

  One of the braver men looked as though, if it hadn’t been for the catheter bottle at the side of his bed and the drip stand anchoring him down, he would have dived across and opened the doors himself. ‘Come on, Sister Crawford,’ he pleaded. ‘Give us poor fellas a break. I’ve run out of ciggies. Me missus is out there with me supplies. You know how strict you are about ringing the bell at eight.’

  Sister Crawford looked as though she might have been about to object. Instead, she walked over to the highly polished table that ran down the centre of the ward and slowly picked up the brass hand-bell. All eyes upon her, she said, ‘Mrs Hutch, unlock the doors.’

  Betty pushed her trolley to the side of the wall and slammed on the brake. She opened first one ward door and then the next and then stood to the side as though on parade. Before her, like a delivery of mannequins waiting to be arranged in a shop window, stood the visitors. They dared not cross the line into the ward until they knew it was safe to do so. The ward was silent, the visitors’ faces keen with anticipation. Sister Crawford walked to the table, raised the brass bell by its wooden handle and rang four times.

  Clutching various bouquets of flowers, the visitors flooded into the ward like a brightly coloured tide. It surged in with force, then dwindled to a trickle as visitors peeled off to the bedsides of their loved ones.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, has anyone seen the probationer, Nurse Moran?’ Sister Crawford said, heading straight towards Beth. They were words she had become heartily sick of uttering.

  ‘I haven’t. Sorry, Sister.’

  The telephone in the office began to ring.

  ‘I shall have to answer that. If you see her, send her straight to me.’ Sister Crawford strode back down the ward and Beth instantly pitied Bridget Moran, who was most definitely about to become the recipient of Sister’s wrath.

  ‘Blimey, you were saved by the bell there, Nurse Harper,’ said Mr Trimble. ‘You must have nine lives. She was about to tear you off a strip. As if it’s your fault that daft girl has gone missing again.’

  ‘I will come back soon,’ said Beth, ‘and help pack your case ready for home in the morning. As soon as Doctor gives you the free pass on the ward round tomorrow, you can be ready for the off.’

  ‘Bless you, you’re an angel. Look, here’s the wife. I’m going to get out of bed and take her down the dayroom. Sister Crawford has made me lie still here for three days, just in case I relapsed. I’m feeling rebellious.’

  Beth walked across to the other side of the ward to her friend and housemate at Lovely Lane, Victoria, who was stuffing pillows into cases.

  ‘Where’s the probationer?’ Beth whispered as she picked up the last pillow and case.

  ‘Time for a quick cuppa in the kitchen,’ said Victoria, ignoring her question. ‘Visitors are here, we can ease up for a minute. Betty is putting the kettle on and she’s got some biscuits.’

  Visiting was always a good time to catch a sneaky cuppa, but both Beth and Victoria knew it would be only a matter of minutes before a visitor came looking for one of them.

  ‘You know something, don’t you?’ Beth said to Victoria. ‘Avoiding the question will get you nowhere with me. Where is Nurse Moran, have you seen her? What have you done with her?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything, but I do know where she is. One of the doctors asked her to help him put up a drip. She was so excited to be asked and then he sent her down to the stores for a long stand.’

  ‘Oh, the poor girl,’ said Beth. ‘How
many times must Jake have had a probationer turn up and ask him for one of those!’

  ‘I know, but she has been gone a very long time. One of us had better sneak down and rescue her if she isn’t back up soon.’

  ‘I’m going to pack up Mr Trimble’s belongings after visiting,’ said Beth. ‘He is finally on his way home tomorrow. Must be wonderful to be TB-free. The poor man was on the isolation ward for over a year. He’s breathing like a good ’un now.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like, stuck on the ward for so long,’ said Victoria. ‘He must have forgotten what his kids look like. He told me Sister Crawford let them come to the ward door at Christmas and wave to him. Seems a bit mean when his sputum samples were clear by then. At least we get to go back to Lovely Lane each night.’

  Victoria thumped the last pillow and smoothed the cover into place, then they headed towards the kitchen. Betty Hutch would have the tea waiting for them and Beth’s mouth was watering at the prospect of a gypsy cream to have with it.

  ‘I’ve just seen Dana and Teddy disappearing into town,’ said Beth. ‘The lucky pair. I wish I was taller, didn’t wear glasses and was prettier. Just about everything I’m not, really. I never thought I would be one to want a boyfriend. Always thought it would be a single life for me, but do you know what, I’m actually jealous of you both.’

  ‘Don’t feel bad about that, we should all be jealous of Dana. She doesn’t know it yet, but Teddy has booked them both into a gorgeous hotel in the Lake District. He’s going to surprise her tonight over supper, the lucky girl.’

  ‘Has he booked separate rooms?’ Beth asked, then blushed furiously, embarrassed at having even asked the question.

  ‘Oh, Beth, not you too. No, of course he hasn’t. Sweetie, the war is over. Life is changing. The world is moving on.’

  ‘Not that fast, it isn’t, Nurse Baker. And anyway, what about, you know... What if she got pregnant?’ There was an urgency to Beth’s whispered words. ‘Everyone knows that pregnancy for an unmarried woman means the end of just about everything. Life. Job. Reputation. And a big hello to a future of grind and poverty. Dana is Irish, for God’s sake. Surely she must understand what that means.’

  Victoria rolled her eyes and bit into her biscuit. But Beth wasn’t finished.

  ‘Believe me, Victoria, some single girls who get pregnant in Ireland are never heard of again. The priests rule with the hand of God. Dana doesn’t want to risk that, especially not where she comes from. It’s even worse in the west of Ireland. It’s OK for you, Victoria. You have money behind you. But what the hell would Dana do? Who is to say Teddy would stand by her?’

  Before she could say any more she was interrupted by Mr Trimble and his wife, who waved to her as they passed the kitchen door on their way to the dayroom.

  ‘I’ll just have a quick word with his wife. Back in a moment,’ she said to Victoria.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Trimble, are you looking forward to having him home?’

  Mrs Trimble was fastening the waist cord on her husband’s dressing gown. ‘We’re off for a ciggie, Nurse,’ she said. ‘I don’t think the kids are going to sleep tonight. Beside themselves, they are, that their dad is coming home. I’m just worried he will get exhausted because, honest to God, before he’s even had his dinner, half of the street will be in to see him.’

  Beth looked anxiously towards the kitchen door. Her tea was calling.

  ‘My next-door neighbour, she’s making a cake tonight with me mam while I’m here, and the kids are decorating the house and everything.’

  ‘It’s like when I came back from the war, Nurse! I’ll have to act all surprised, won’t I, love?’ Mr Trimble looked at his wife and Beth noticed the affection that passed between the two of them. ‘Do you know what I’m looking forward to the most? A bit of the old exercise. I’ve barely moved in more than two years. And me mother-in-law’s rock cakes. Now, I must have been sick, because no well man would say he was looking forward to that, would he, Nurse?’

  ‘Mr Trimble, are you sure you should be smoking?’ said Beth as his wife took his cigarettes out of his dressing-gown pocket. ‘Really, give yourself a chance. Doctor has told you, and you read it in the papers yourself, that a senior committee looking into this thinks that there may be a link between smoking and chest problems like yours.’

  ‘Oh, I will, Nurse. But, you know, it said they only think that. Don’t have any actual proof, do they? If we did what everyone thinks, we’d tie ourselves up in knots, wouldn’t we? No, I’m sorry, Nurse Harper, but I won’t believe a word that committee says until the papers say that they can prove beyond all reasonable doubt that smoking is detrimental. They must be wrong. The ciggies keep it all loose and coming up. I cough better with them. It’s terrible without. Me chest gets all tight. I’d be as sick as a dog without these ciggies. And what you don’t know is that Doctor gave me the wink and told me I’d be fine. Jesus, the man smokes thirty a day himself.’

  Beth shook her head. It was true that the committee didn’t have any proof and that the report in the papers had been shot down in flames. Most notably by the nurses who smoked at Lovely Lane.

  She didn’t have time to respond as Sister Crawford finished her phone call and rushed out of the office. ‘Nurses!’ she called down the ward.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Beth as Sister’s voice rang out.

  Victoria shot out of the kitchen with a guilty look in her eyes and biscuit crumbs on her lips.

  ‘Ward eight is full. We have an emergency on the way, nurses.’

  ‘But we aren’t on take, Sister Crawford,’ stammered Victoria, already sensing that their eight-thirty home-time was in danger of being missed.

  ‘No, I am well aware of that. Ward eight is on take, but as I have just explained, they are full. Would you like me to suggest to Matron that you now assume responsibility for bed allocation, Nurse Baker?’

  ‘Er... no, Sister. Sorry, Sister.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear it. Please prepare bed one nearest to the office. It’s an oesophageal varices and it’s a bad one. This will take both of you. Has Nurse Moran not arrived back yet? Where on earth is she?’ Sister saw the glance that passed between Beth and Victoria and the penny dropped. ‘Oh, seriously, not another one? Do those doctors not realize how much they inconvenience the ward when they pick on probationers? This is not the time to have a nurse missing.’

  They were saved yet again by the ring of the office telephone piercing the air.

  Victoria and Beth set about their tasks. The atmosphere on the ward had changed, from tea and biscuits to saving lives. Victoria flew as fast as she could to the linen room.

  Within minutes, Jake arrived through the door of the ward, pushing a trolley. Victoria had washed the rubber mattress with diluted Dettol and dried it down and it took her and Beth less than two minutes to make up the bed.

  ‘I’ll see to the patient, you see to his wife,’ Beth said to Victoria as she nodded to a woman standing looking nervous at the door to the ward.

  Victoria raised her eyebrows. Victoria was a competent nurse at exactly the same level as Beth and yet bossy Beth always took charge. Before she could argue, Beth had sprung into action. She met the trolley and picked up the notes from the end.

  ‘This is Mr O’Leary, Nurse Harper,’ said Jake.

  ‘Lovely. Thank you,’ said Beth. Then she whispered under her breath, ‘Sister is going mad looking for Nurse Moran, is she in the stores?’

  ‘She was,’ said Jake. ‘I completely forgot about her. Casualty is mad busy and when I got back for me break, she was still stood there. Honest to God, the lads are still laughing.’

  Beth shook her head in dismay.

  ‘Can you manage the poles with me?’ asked Jake. ‘Dessie is busy.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Beth.

  ‘Right, you get to the bottom then.’

  Jake stood at the head of the bed and Beth at the bottom and together they lifted the wooden poles that were slotted through t
he canvas sheet on the casualty trolley and transferred Mr O’Leary to the bed.

  Beth rushed to one side of the bed. ‘Just going to roll you over to face me, Mr O’Leary,’ she said.

  Jake gently rolled him over and as he did so, gathered the canvas sheet into a thin roll along the length of Mr O’Leary’s body. ‘Now back to me, old fella,’ he said as they rolled Mr O’Leary back across the small bump to face Jake.

  Beth whipped away the canvas roll with a flourish. ‘There you go,’ she said as she handed it to Jake. Then she pulled the bed covers neatly over Mr O’Leary and tucked them in around the sides.

  ‘I’m putting the cot sides up on this one,’ she said to Jake with a wink. They could both smell the alcohol fumes.

  ‘Are you comfortable there, Mr O’Leary?’ she asked.

  ‘My name is Seamus O’Leary, Nurse,’ he said. ‘Seamus from Cork, pleased to meet ye.’

  Beth could tell he had struggled to speak. ‘You sound like you’ve been having a tipple, Mr O’Leary,’ she said. ‘Did you come here straight from the pub?’

  ‘Holy Mother of God, how did you know that? Did you hear that?’ he said to Jake as he turned his head towards him. ‘This nurse, she has a gift. She knows where I’ve come from and I haven’t said a word to her yet. Now is that not just remarkable?’

  Beth read his notes quickly as he spoke. He had vomited blood twice during the day and the doctor had written in the notes that he had oesophageal varices.

  ‘I’m off,’ said Jake. ‘Casualty is mad busy, Dessie will be looking for me.’

  ‘How’s Martha?’ asked Victoria, who had arrived back at the bed.

  ‘She’s just fine, Nurse Baker. Not long to go now and I’ll be dashing in here meself.’

  As Jake left, Victoria turned her attention to Mr O’Leary. ‘Hello,’ she said as she placed her hand gently on his arm.