‘Me too,’ said Beth. She also rose from her squatting position, retrieved her bucket, walked over to the long flat ceramic sink and began to tip the dirty water away, being careful not to splash any on the rubber apron she was wearing over her uniform. ‘It is funny to think that not that long ago Teddy was being operated on in the theatre which has closed down, isn’t it?’
Pammy was looking out through the crack at the bottom of the slightly open frosted-glass window. She saw a long black car cruise to a halt before the row of waiting porter’s lads. ‘Quick, here he comes. The MP. Would you get a load of that fancy car. Right, quick, put the buckets away and let’s take our places.’
*
Removing their rubber aprons, Beth and Pammy adjusted their hair and caps and made their way into the main theatre, just as Matron and Sister Haycock walked in through the door.
Matron turned round with a gasp of ‘Good Lord, he’s early,’ and raced back down the stairs.
Pammy noticed a smile pass between two of the board members already standing waiting inside the main theatre. Her Scouse instinct told her that something was not quite right. The taller of the two men was doing all the talking. His hair was slicked back and his shoes were gleaming. It was clear he was ex-army and from the top ranks of the officer class. His whole manner screamed ‘major’. Dr Gaskell had been talking to him but left him abruptly to rush down the stairs after Matron.
Pammy took up her position as had been drilled into her a hundred times. She tilted her head ever so slightly to one side to hear the discussion taking place between the two men.
‘His office called my secretary,’ the major was saying, ‘and told her he had been invited. I thought, darn and blast the woman. We want this rat-infested heap bulldozed and a smart new central hospital built instead. It used to be a workhouse, after all, and something to do with the slave trade before that. Not a part of our history this city is proud of. There are more cleared bombsites in the city centre than we could poke a stick at. We have to mark out our patch now. Matron is up to something, mark my words. We need to be one step ahead, and Gaskell, he’s past it now. A good man, the best doctor, but time for him to hang up his boots and let the younger generation take over, don’t you think, what?’
What on earth are they talking about, wondered Pammy. She tried to catch Biddy’s eye but was unsuccessful as Biddy tried to make herself scarce and head towards the boardroom, where she was due to serve the tea, but even Pammy noticed Biddy had stopped, dead still. She had heard him too.
The shorter man was now responding. ‘It’s on the table for government funding. The MP is supportive of the idea of a bespoke brand-new hospital, although he has a soft spot for St Angelus because his own mother was once operated on here. He keeps wavering. Anyway, my secretary, she’s an absolute whizz, she contacted his office and gave them a different time, to catch old Matron off guard. I got Gaskell to come early so that I could have a word with him. By God, he’s a difficult nut to crack, but I think we could, with a bit of persuasion, get him onside. Who do we know who’s a member of the golf club at Gateacre? Because that’s the place to work on him, not here.’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ said the taller man. ‘I’ll get that organized. We will approach him from all sides. A bit of a pincer movement, what. He won’t know what’s hit him. Offer him a position, do it on the golf course, naturally, not in writing. And then, when the deed is done and we’ve got the government to sanction building the new hospital and bulldozing St Angelus, withdraw the offer. Happens all the time. Needs to be done. In Liverpool’s best interests.’
The smaller man raised one eyebrow. ‘You know, it could always be sold off as a building. Used as a school or a factory. A sad waste of money and effort, though, opening this new theatre. It won’t be in operation for long, hopefully.’
The men ceased talking and silence fell as they all heard the clippety-clop of footsteps mounting the stairs. Matron had decided to begin her tour in the central theatre. From there they would proceed along the upstairs corridor to the boardroom, where a feast had been laid out on the polished table.
Pammy finally caught Biddy’s eye and a message passed from one to the other. But Pammy was unsure of what it was. Instinctively, she inclined her head and swivelled her eyes towards the two men. Biddy gave her an almost imperceptible nod and the faintest smile lifted the corners of Pammy’s mouth as she strained her ears. She knew exactly what it was Biddy wanted her to do.
‘Ah, good morning, everyone.’ The MP had almost burst into the theatre and now took in the assembled company.
Matron began her introductions. Pammy and Beth were the last in the line-up. ‘Good morning, everyone. May I introduce Mr Maximillian Marcus, our local MP and the minister for health.’
Everyone began to applaud, although Pammy was not quite sure why. He was yet to say anything. They had been given explicit instructions to clap at the end of his speech, not at the beginning. They had also been told during the rehearsal the previous day that Mr Marcus might ask any one of them a question during the round of introductions and that it was important that there were representatives present from every side of hospital life. Once again, Emily Haycock had picked out her favourites to represent the student nurses. After the introductions had been made, Mr Marcus would be shown round the theatre suite and then he would address the gathered crowd before he retired to the boardroom for tea with Dr Gaskell, the board members and some of the consultants.
Pammy’s mouth dried as he approached her and she prayed to God that he wouldn’t ask her a question. It was a prayer in vain.
‘And, this is Nurse Tanner. She is from Liverpool and her family are your constituents, I believe.’ Matron beamed and Pammy gulped.
For a second, she almost panicked and she wondered, should she curtsey or something, had anyone else? And then, noticing the change in Matron’s expression, which was clearly asking, have you lost your tongue, girl, Pammy blurted out, ‘Er, hello, sir,’ and she bent forwards in the most ridiculous manner and dropped an impromptu curtsey as she shook his hand.
Mr Marcus grinned benevolently. It was a reaction he was used to. ‘Ah, my constituents? Tell me, where do your parents live and do you live in at the Lovely Lane home?’
Pammy did the honours and dived in. ‘Oh, I do, sir. And my family, we are from Arthur Street.’ She was nervous she had spoken out of turn, said too much, but when she turned to Matron, she was encouraged by a big smile.
‘Ah, Arthur Street.’ Mr Marcus also gave her a big smile. ‘And tell me, do you enjoy working at St Angelus? Which wards have you worked on so far?’
‘Well, my favourite ward, sir, was ward one, female surgical. I really enjoyed working with the ladies and it was very rewarding to see them get better – well, most of them – and return home to their families.’
The MP’s face softened. ‘That is wonderful to hear. That really is.’
Now there’s a surprise, thought Pammy. He is actually really nice.
‘My own mother was a patient on ward one,’ Mr Marcus said. ‘Before the war. My father’s friend, the best man at his wedding, actually, was the surgeon. Mr Williamson. She was under him.’
‘Before Nurse Tanner’s time,’ interjected Matron. ‘Mr Williamson was an excellent surgeon. But then so are all our doctors and consultants. We demand nothing but the highest standard here.’
‘Oh, indeed, Matron. My mother cannot say enough good things about St Angelus. And about you too, Matron. She told me over breakfast only this morning, when I mentioned that I was on my way to see you, how all the nurses used to tremble with fear when your ward rounds approached. She also has the greatest regard for Sister Crawford, who if I am not mistaken, is still terrifying probationer nurses.’
‘She is sir, every day. We are all scared to death of her,’ Pammy blurted out.
Matron almost had to stop herself from expiring with glee. This could not be going any better than if she had written a script. He had also not let th
e cat out of the bag, which was that his mother and Matron’s late mother had been lifelong friends.
‘And Matron. Nothing’s changed then, we are still terrified of Matron, sir, it’s just how it is,’ Pammy spoke again and then immediately wished she hadn’t as she caught a glance from Matron which clearly said, Enough thank you.
As they were speaking, Beth noticed from the corner of her eye that Oliver Gaskell had stepped through the double swing doors. Bryan Delaney then slipped in behind him, laid a covered enamel tray down on the table and backed out without being seen by anyone but her. She also noticed how Oliver Gaskell had let the swing door bang back on Bryan, almost knocking the tray out of his hand. But none of that mattered – not his arrogance or his bad manners. Just to be breathing the same air as him, in the same room, made her pulse quicken and her face flush with heat. But Beth was nobody’s fool. Before he had even spotted her, she had turned her face towards the MP, who was beaming at her in a very odd way. She realized that she had missed his question, having been so determined not to look at Oliver Gaskell.
He asked again. ‘And you, Nurse, what is your favourite ward?’
This time, Beth didn’t have time to answer.
Everyone froze in horror as the light on the board lit up and the buzzer began to sound.
Sister Pokey didn’t waste a second. ‘Out, everyone!’ she shouted. ‘That is the new emergency call board.’
The wall-mounted telephone began to ring and as Beth was the nearest, she was there as quick as a flash, at the side of the phone, slightly unsure how to pick it up as she had never seen a wall-mounted phone before. Putting the handset to her ear, she said nervously, ‘Hello, Nurse Harper speaking. Theatre.’
A confident voice came back down the line towards her. The words were chilling. ‘Hello, Nurse Harper, it’s Doreen in casualty. We have a post-partum haemorrhage in casualty, really bad. The houseman is rather anxious and wants her in theatre. He is with the patient, said to tell you he has packed her as tightly as he can with gauze wick and dressings, but it isn’t working. He needs Mr Gaskell to operate and try and cauterize the bleeding. He thinks she may need an emergency hysterectomy. We are just trying to locate Dr Gaskell senior to tell him we need the theatres.’
‘Oh, he’s here,’ Beth blurted out. ‘Just hold on, please, I will fetch him. They are both here.’
As Beth turned around, Sister Pokey was behind her. ‘It is my job to answer the telephone, Nurse Harper. I am Theatre Sister, this is my domain. However, thank you. I was rather obstructed.’
Beth looked round to see the last of the backs leaving through the main doors and out on to the corridor, being shepherded by Matron. Dessie had appeared and was holding open the doors for Biddy, who was exiting with a trolley.
‘It’s a post-partum haemorrhage,’ Beth said to Sister Pokey. ‘They are sending her straight up. Doreen wants to speak to Mr Gaskell.’
Oliver Gaskell had made to leave by the stairs, too impatient to wait for the dignitaries to file out at their own pace despite Matron trying desperately to hurry them along.
Sister Pokey was never going to allow a simple admission, albeit one that was life-threatening, to derail her. ‘Mr Gaskell,’ she shouted. Shouting along with running was expressly forbidden except in the case of a haemorrhage and that was exactly what this was. ‘We have an emergency PPH on the way up. Nurse Harper, we need to lay out the instruments, autoclaving towels, gowns, swabs, gloves, wellingtons and masks. Dressing packs, Harrison curved-lip forceps, three buckets, sterilizing tablets, Spencer Well’s, boiling water, stirrups, speculums – all three, to be safe – Hartmann’s solution and blood. We need blood… I will lay the operating equipment myself.’
Sister Pokey barked out her instructions and for a moment Beth froze. She felt fear grip her from the nape of her neck to her toes and she couldn’t move.
‘Yes, Sister.’ She heard the words ring out in military fashion, but she hadn’t spoken, it was Pammy, who had come up behind her and was none too gracefully prodding Beth in the back.
‘Yes, Sister,’ said Beth.
But Sister Pokey wasn’t really listening. She was almost running alongside Oliver Gaskell to the theatre door to greet Dessie and Nurse Makebee from casualty, who were pushing a trolley. A sheet covered the trolley and Beth saw that blood had dripped along the floor in its wake.
‘How old?’ she heard Oliver Gaskell ask Nurse Makebee.
‘Thirty-six, Mr Gaskell. She’s an elderly primigravida. First husband died in the war. New marriage, husband is waiting downstairs. She tried to deliver a ten-pound baby at home, but her husband could see that things weren’t going well and brought her in here in the side-car on his motorbike. The houseman used forceps in casualty, there was just no time to get her on to the ward. It was all pretty brutal. The houseman is on his way up to assist, sent me on ahead. He is just helping the husband. The poor man fainted flat out, smacked his skull on the radiator and has a head injury. Said he hadn’t seen so much blood since ’41…’
‘Right, let’s get to work.’ Oliver Gaskell was efficient and focused as he pulled back the covers on the trolley. ‘No point in removing the packing until we have her on the table. It isn’t doing much, but it is definitely doing something. Buying us a few minutes at the very least. Hurry! We need blood. Nurse, run – and I mean run – and fetch the emergency blood from path lab. Now! Do you know where it’s kept, if there’s no one there?’
‘Yes, Mr Gaskell. On the bottom shelf in the big fridge just as you go in through the door. I’ve fetched it before.’
Without another word, Nurse Makebee turned on her heel and ran towards the stairs. But she had no need to run any further as the houseman raced through the door carrying three bottles of blood in his arms. ‘It’s cold,’ he said. ‘Too cold.’
‘Let me worry about that,’ Oliver Gaskell replied tersely. ‘Too cold is infinitely better than none at all.’
Trolleys rolled, oxygen bottles were wheeled into place, the anaesthetist arrived and everyone swung into action. The atmosphere was quite different from on the wards, Beth thought. It almost felt as if it wasn’t really an emergency at all. Everything was so deathly quiet. No background chatter from thirty other patients. No nurses talking, trolleys trundling, curtains swiftly being pulled across. No domestics cleaning, bedpans clanging, phones ringing or visitors arriving.
The quiet was broken only by the sound of the anaesthetist shouting, ‘God, where is the Pentothal kept? Oxygen, ET tube. Has this flow meter been tested?’ He flicked a flow meter on the top of a blue gas bottle and Beth flinched. She had no idea what the answers were. ‘Help me, I don’t know where anything is in here. Has anyone tested the cylinders yet? Is there any Entonox? I went to the old theatres by mistake.’ He seemed agitated.
Beth reached out, grabbed hold of the anaesthetics trolley she had practised loading and unloading earlier and kicked on the brake. She pushed the new chrome-and-green-leather stool towards the anaesthetist.
‘Thank you,’ he said as, without looking at her, he began pulling open the drawers and taking out the glass syringes, needles and glass phials. ‘Where are the theatre nurses?’ he asked as he began to draw up a syringe.
Beth picked up the tape, cut off three lengths and stuck them to the rail of the trolley for him to use.
‘Thank you very much, Nurse,’ he said and cast a quick glance around the theatre.
Beth swallowed hard before she spoke. ‘I think the regular theatre nurses were given the day off after working so hard emptying out the old theatres.’
‘Marvellous,’ said the anaesthetist. ‘Bloody marvellous. I hope you are up to it then, Nurse…’ He dipped his head and over the top of his glasses glanced at her name badge. ‘…Harper.’ Then he turned his attention back to the trolley and snapped the glass tops off three small bottles.
Oliver Gaskell was on his way into the scrub room and Beth could sense that at the mention of her name he had turned his head. The door to the r
oom banged. The anaesthetist looked over at it and whispered to her, ‘No time for me to scrub up, I’m afraid. We don’t have long enough.’
Silence fell again and Sister Pokey barked out an order. It didn’t go unnoticed by Beth or Pammy that she was as white as a sheet. It had been Sister Pokey’s idea to let her precious theatre nurses have the extra day off as a reward.
‘Nurse Harper, into the scrub room with Mr Gaskell. Help him with his gown and mask and make sure he has a towel and that his rubber apron is well tied at the back.’
Beth stared at Sister Pokey. She couldn’t.
‘Go, now!’ Sister Pokey shouted.
She had no choice. She had to enter the scrub room. The taps were running and water was splashing all over the steamed- up mirror and the tiles as she walked in.
‘Gown,’ was the only thing he said, but his eyes were fixed on her in the mirror as she crossed the floor.
She took a deep breath, lifted her gaze and stared back. She knew where the gowns were, she had folded them and stacked them herself. ‘Size?’ It was a necessary question. She should have put a ‘Mr Gaskell’ and a ‘please’ on the end, but she felt that the familiarity and open appraisal of his stare had removed the need to follow convention. She just hoped he didn’t think it had been her decision to help him in the scrub room.
‘Large. Please.’
Beth thanked God she could reach the gowns. Putting her hand straight on a large size, she ripped open the autoclave paper and held the pack out for him to remove the gown with his sterile hands.
‘You have no time to scrub up, but you will need to assist,’ he said. ‘Unless Sister Pokey is doing it. Just wash your hands in the chlorhexidine, very quickly. We only have a few minutes.’
Beth didn’t reply but hurriedly washed her hands. As he turned towards her, she took the towel he held out and wiped them dry.
The Mother's Of Lovely Lane Page 15
