More From A Nurse's Life: More drama, love and laughter from a 1950s nurse (Nurse Jane Grant Book 2)

by Jane Grant

  Poor Phyllis! She’ll never change, I thought. It’s clever of Mike to keep her guessing; she’ll really get worried and think one of her fish has escaped the net. And so, half laughing, and half sympathising with her, I went back to the theatre.

  It was the Cortisone Clinic this afternoon, when the wretched patients who suffered from rheumatism and arthritis hobbled in to the theatre to have their injections and then hobbled out again.

  The doctor in charge was a cheerful elderly man called Ferguson, who was just the type of surgeon to have after the nerve-shattering morning.

  ‘Hullo Staff,’ he said breezily, as he strolled into the theatre. ‘I hear you’ve had big stuff here this morning.’

  ‘If you haven’t heard,’ I said tartly, ‘you’re the only person in the hospital who hasn’t.’

  ‘Ha ha!’ he said jovially, ‘like that is it? Well, one doesn’t like to be left out of things, does one? I remember when I was a houseman I was with a chap called Collins, ENT bod, you may have heard of him. Very good. Well, we used to do clinics of these sinuses and antrums and so on every day – none of this General anaesthetics business then, you know – just whip in the old trocar and out again. Well, I remember the first one I ever did. Gosh! I was nervous. I put the trocar into this chap’s sinus, syringed it, and his eye dropped out! I don’t think I’ve ever felt so bad in my whole life.’

  He wriggled uneasily in the office chair at the recollection.

  ‘Well, of course, it turned out to be a false eye, but I didn’t get over it for ages, and do you know’ – he leaned forward in his chair to impress his point on me – ‘do you know, up to six months afterwards the other blokes would come up and ask me if I’d washed any good eyes out lately! Talk of the hospital for months. But then one of the Sisters ran off with a porter, so I was knocked out of the headlines,’ he added regretfully.

  I knew he was trying to cheer me up and felt grateful to him.

  ‘You know,’ he said kindly, as he stood up, ‘you do some awfully silly things when you’re young. But when you’re older you don’t really regret them, because it all adds up to experience.’

  I smiled at him, and knew he understood exactly how I felt.

  ‘Well, let’s to the slaughterhouse,’ he added. ‘Come on, Sweeney Todd.’

  We went in to the theatre. The first patient was a girl of sixteen who had arthritis on both knees. Dr Ferguson gently put some local anaesthetic in before he withdrew the extra fluid.

  ‘How are you getting on, Diana?’ he asked.

  The girl obviously knew and trusted him. ‘Oh Doctor,’ she exclaimed, ‘my friend’s teaching me how to dance, and I can do a waltz smashing. Is it all right?’ she added in sudden alarm.

  He regarded her humorously. ‘And if it isn’t?’ he enquired.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ faltered the girl. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind,’ she added frankly.

  ‘No, I don’t, me dear. But don’t overwork the poor old knees will you? I mean, give them as much rest as possible. It doesn’t do to go rocking and rolling every night.’

  She nodded happily, and the next moment was wincing as the cortisone was injected into her painful joints. ‘No, doctor, of course. I’ll take care. See you next month,’ she called, as she hobbled out on her bandaged legs.

  ‘Poor child,’ said Ferguson, looking after her. ‘She’ll never be able to dance really.’

  He looked sad. ‘If only there was something one could do for these people. I get so frustrated sometimes seeing them come back month after month after month.’

  He gave a nervous laugh, as if half-ashamed of his outburst.

  There was a delay over the next patient who had missed the ambulance and was arriving ten minutes late, and settling himself on the table, he filled in the time by telling me a long story about the first dance he ever went to.

  ‘I was very keen on a girl who used to do modelling – this was pre-war mark, you know,’ he added, ‘and I was a brand-new student. Well, she talked me in to going with her to some dance she was going to enter for a Beauty Queen. I was bucked, I got my father’s car, and a new suit, the lot. When I got there, I happened to meet an old school friend, and we started talking about the good old days over a few whiskeys. I may say I wasn’t used to whiskey, and I’ve never tasted whiskey like that before or since – boy – it went straight to my head. Well, when the girlfriend came back from the competition – she won incidentally – I got up to ask her to dance and fell flat on my face! Had to be carried from the floor. Mind you,’ he added, ‘I was grateful afterwards, because it so happened that I couldn’t dance a step.’

  While I laughed, I thought what a wonderful doctor Ferguson was. He had that gift of a true doctor, to make everyone feel better, and I found that I was already trying to recall with difficulty my ideas about giving in my notice.

  The next patient came down with the porter. She was a fat old lady who rejoiced in the name of Jane Russell. She hadn’t a tooth in her head, and she was persistently and steadfastly cheerful in the face of a crippling and painful disease.

  ‘Wotcher, doctor, ’ow’s yerself,’ she cried, as she waddled in and wriggled onto the table. ‘’Ere luv, ’old me sticks.’ She handed me her two worn walking sticks. ‘Cor luv us, I didn’t 'arf tell that driver wot for. Clean forgot me, ’e did. I laid into ’im I can tell you. ’Ere doc, me right knee’s something chronic these last two or free days. Well, up ’e comes and says, come on muvver. And I said to ’im. I’ll give you muvver, ’ere, ’oo d’you think you’re talkin’ to? I’m Mrs Russell, me boy and don’t you forget it.’

  Dr Ferguson laughed at her, and looking at her plump legs said reprovingly, ‘You’ve been at the beer again, Jane.’

  ‘Aw jest a pint of stout larst fing at night, Doc. ’Elps me sleep, you know. Sometimes the pain –’

  ‘Now, now, now,’ he cut in. ‘It’s no use you trying to enlist my sympathy. If you put on weight your knees will hurt more, and you’ll put on weight if you go on boozing.’

  ‘Awl, right, Doc – ’alf a pint then?’ She looked up at him wheedlingly, her mouth a toothless void as she smiled.

  When she saw his expression weaken, she exclaimed, ‘Lord luv yer, Doc!’

  He started to clean her skin, ruefully shaking his head. When she had waddled out he said: ‘There is one of the few remaining Britishers, the type that stood by Henry V at Agincourt. If she didn’t scrub floors for her living she wouldn’t have rheumatic knees, and if she didn’t scrub floors, she couldn’t live.’

  The two biopsies took little time, and I felt sorry when the session came to an end.

  ‘Will you have a cup of tea, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘Love to, Staff.’

  We walked to the office. When I opened the door, Phil was sitting at the desk, his dark head bent over the Off Duty List.

  He looked up as we stood by the door, and smiled. My heart did a neat somersault, and I looked instinctively at Dr Ferguson. He raised his eyebrows slightly, gave a slight shrug, then turned and went to the Surgeons’ Changing-room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Hullo, Jane, how are you now?’ said Phil easily.

  He settled back in the chair and looked at me rather mockingly.

  ‘What were all those guffaws of laughter I heard?’ he asked. ‘Fergie telling his usual anecdotes?’

  ‘He was telling some stories,’ I admitted stiffly.

  ‘Gosh, I used to get so bored with them in his clinic.’ He yawned at the remembrance of them. ‘Silly old buffer.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘I think he’s rather amusing.’

  ‘So did I the first twenty times,’ said Phil nastily.

  ‘I suppose you didn’t come here just to attack Fergie?’ I said coldly, walking over to the kettle.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘The tea’s made.’

  His air of confidence and suavity annoyed me, and made it possible for me to resist his charm. I sat down faci
ng him over the desk and asked bluntly: ‘What do you want?’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t look as though you’re going to a funeral. I only want you to have coffee with me tonight.’

  ‘I don’t like coffee,’ I said.

  ‘Well, tea, then. Beer? Lemonade? Anything?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ I knew I had to make a stand now. My heart was imploring me to give in, but because for the first time I was seeing him as others saw him, I had enough resolution to say no, and mean it.

  He saw the struggle between my will and my inclination, and his true nature showed through the veneer of solicitude and thoughtfulness.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You know you want to.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘You’re wrong this time.’

  He seemed disconcerted, aware that he had made his play of masterfulness just a little too soon. Just as he was about to speak again, Dr Ferguson went past the door.

  ‘Oh, Dr Ferguson,’ I called, ‘won’t you have a cup of tea. It’s all ready.’

  He stopped, a refusal already on his lips, then he saw my face and said, ‘Well – er – yes. I think I will.’

  Phil showed his annoyance as I got up to get another cup. The party was uncomfortable and formal, but at least with a third party I was free from Phil’s broadsides to my morale.

  ‘Well, I must be off,’ said Dr Ferguson after one long silence. He rose to go, and I got up too.

  ‘Yes, I must do some work.’

  I followed him out of the office, went into the theatre and started clearing up.

  In a moment I was aware that Phil was standing behind me.

  ‘Jane – I’m sorry I said those things about Fergie. I didn’t really mean them. I’m not in a very good mood – I had rather a trying afternoon.’

  For the first time in my dealings with him I felt like laughing at him. He was being so obvious in his tactics. First the strong-arm man, now the pathetic type.

  ‘Look, Phil,’ I said firmly, putting down the specimens I had in my hand. ‘I don’t want to go out with you, not now or again. I see now it isn’t any good, it will only lead to a lot of upset and misery. Your type and mine don’t mix.’

  He blenched a little. ‘What do you mean, my type?’ he asked angrily.

  ‘If you don’t know what type you are by now, I’m sorry for you.’

  ‘I like that! You stand me up –’

  ‘I don’t want to enter into a slanging match. So please go away and leave me alone.’

  I went to resume sorting out specimens, my heart beating wildly, but he stood in my way.

  ‘Jane,’ he said pleadingly, ‘come out just once tonight, for old times’ sake.’

  ‘What old times’ sake?’ I asked coldly, but I could feel a small piece of my wall of defence crumbling.

  He stood very close to me.

  ‘Nine o’clock?’

  ‘No,’ I said in a small voice.

  ‘Just once?’ he asked.

  I think I should have given in, only at that moment the main door opened and in walked Dr Ferguson.

  ‘Oh Staff – did I leave my spectacles behind?’

  Phil gave an exasperated sigh, and turning walked out. Dr Ferguson stood aside to let him by. After a moment I went to the Surgeons’ Room. The glasses lay on a chair; I picked them up and took them to Fergie.

  ‘Thank you, dear, thank you. Blind as a bat without them.’

  He stood still for a minute, rubbing his chin, then he looked up at me quickly, his blue eyes twinkling.

  ‘Did you send him packing?’

  I nodded gloomily.

  ‘Good – h’mm – very good girl.’

  He left the theatre, and I gave myself up to a mixed series of emotions.

  When I went off in the evening I sat down and wrote a long letter to Phyllis. She would have known how to deal with Phil – she would have had him grovelling in a week. Still, I thought, rather pleased with myself, I haven’t done so badly, not at all badly, in fact.

  Next day was spent in moving the Children’s Theatre extra equipment down to Minor Ops. Sister Trevelyan was off duty, so I spent all my time trying to sort out the extra linen into drums, and in finding small crevices of space for the instruments. Sister had left a list of what had to go into the sets and what was required in each drum.

  On Sunday, Sister Wright came down to see how all the changes were getting on.

  ‘I’ll ask Hill to do an extra autoclave for you, Nurse,’ she said, as she saw the enormous pile of drums in the packing room. ‘Are these all for Mr Mitchell’s session tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ I said proudly. ‘He’s doing two appendices and one hernia.’

  She smiled at my air of consequence.

  ‘Well, it is big stuff for the little theatre, isn’t it?’ she said kindly. ‘Have you ever seen an appendix taken out?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I replied blandly. ‘When I was in training I went over to the main theatres one night.’

  ‘I see. How long ago was that?’

  ‘Oh – er – about two years.’ My self-confidence began to waver slightly.

  ‘But you’ve never seen one since?’

  ‘Er – no, Sister.’

  ‘Well, Nurse,’ she considered for a moment. ‘I think you have done enough minor operations to know the procedure for a bigger case. I’d like you to take Mr Mitchell’s list in the morning.’

  This exceeded my wildest hopes.

  ‘Oh yes – please, Sister,’ I said eagerly.

  ‘Good. We’ll go over the operational procedure now.’

  She went into her office, and I followed meekly.

  Though my manner to Sister was humble, inwardly I was filled with pride and excitement. Mr Mitchell and appendices seemed to be the very Mecca of my existence. How I would brag to Mary! I had actually scrubbed for an appendix! How impressed she would be when I told her how I held the scissors, and how I handed the instruments to Mr Mitchell in the right order, and how I had kept my head when he asked for a suture! Yes, Grant was entering big-time surgery!

  ‘It never ceases to surprise me,’ said Sister, looking at my faraway expression, ‘how pleased nurses are when they start to scrub, and then within weeks, how completely they take it in their stride. You will be bored with this type of surgery in two months,’ she said shrewdly.

  ‘No, I won’t,’ I replied definitely. And I was right, for although in time to come I would lose that first glow of excitement and anticipation, I never really lost the thrill of operations. Sister sat down behind the desk and got a piece of scrap paper on which she started to make a diagram.

  ‘They make a paramedian incision here,’ she started.

  She went on to explain the type of sutures they would use, and at what stage, and as she proceeded with her instructions, my excitement veered to alarm. Suppose I forgot what he wanted at the most vital stage? What if I should lose my head and have hysterics? It was difficult to analyse my feelings later, but I wanted so much to do well, and was so afraid I wouldn’t, that by the time she had finished, I had worked myself up into a terrible state.

  When Sister left the office I read up all the surgery books I could find, until hernial sacs and small intestines swam together in my mind.

  But when I went off in the evening I felt I had to tell someone of my triumph. Straker was on my corridor, but to go and tell her gravely that I was scrubbing for an appendix would not impress her at all, because she was a hardened campaigner of chests and hearts. O’Connor might be rather awed, but then she wouldn’t show it, and I felt as though I wanted someone to fall over with the shock.

  At last I hit on a solution. I would telephone my home. Any news of the hospital always impressed them, and they still thought of me as the original Florence Nightingale. So collecting all my spare change, I rang up.

  My father answered.

  ‘Hullo, Dad. I’m scrubbing for an appendix.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. There was a pause. ‘Do you want to speak to Mummy?�
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  ‘Er – yes – please,’ I said rather deflated.

  He called to my mother, then said abruptly, ‘When is this – tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow,’ I told him eagerly. ‘Don’t you think it’s good?’

  ‘Good? Well, I suppose it’s just as well,’ he replied.

  There was a muttering at the other end, as my mother joined him.

  ‘Hullo, darling,’ she said in her sweet voice. ‘I shouldn’t worry. You have such good surgeons at St Bernard’s, don’t you? How long will it take?’

  ‘Oh, about an hour,’ I said, not wanting to lay it on too thickly.

  ‘Would you like us to come and see you? What time are visiting hours?’

  ‘Visiting hours!’ I exclaimed. ‘Do you mean when am I off?’

  ‘No. What times can we come and see you?’

  ‘But I’ll be home at the weekend!’

  ‘The weekend? Isn’t that rather soon?’ said my mother alarmed.

  ‘Soon? It’s my usual time.’

  ‘They get you up so much earlier these days.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I exploded.

  ‘Aren’t you having your appendix out?’

  This strange conversation began to mean something to me at last. ‘No, I’m not,’ I said crossly. ‘I’m scrubbing for one.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said mildly, ‘I’m so glad it isn’t you.’

  ‘No, you see. I get all scrubbed up and assist the surgeon.’

  At last I began to get the right reaction. ‘Oh darling!’ she exclaimed. ‘How grand! Will you be all right?’

  This was balm to my rather sensitive pride.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said airily. ‘The surgeon bods are often a bit ratty, but I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Oh good,’ she said. There were further mutterings at the other end while she explained the situation to my father. There was a giggle from my mother, and she said, ‘Colin says will you save it for him. He’s never seen one.’ (Colin was my young brother.)