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

by Jane Grant

  I hurried out after her and prepared a tray with coffee and biscuits, with which I tottered into the surgeons’ room. There were about eight men there, and they were all sitting round looking the picture of gloom and dejection.

  I smiled round the group brightly, but received no response to my ‘Good morning,’ except for a few mutters. As I came out wondering what was wrong, I bumped into the houseman. He was a bright young man, an erstwhile boyfriend of Mary’s.

  ‘Hullo, Brian! What’s happened to them all?’

  ‘You may well ask! Oh my head,’ he groaned. ‘My poor little head!’

  ‘What’s the matter with your head?’

  ‘Jane, how can you look so disgustingly healthy?’

  ‘Well, what’s happened? Are they all bankrupt or something?’

  ‘If they’re not they ought to be,’ he said feelingly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you, my child,’ he said with an effort. ‘It appears that Calhoun is very very anxious to foster Anglo-American relations, so with the help of a few bottles of hooch he started fostering last night.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ A slow light began to dawn.

  ‘Well, you see, it transpires that the Yanks feel the same way.

  ‘Yes?’ I said encouragingly.

  ‘Well, that’s it. About twelve o’clock I was involved in a long argument about whose whisky was best, with a bloke from Georgia. Couldn’t understand him terribly well,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Kept saying “you all”. Anyway, we decided the best way to find out was to try some American stuff –’ he shuddered slightly at the thought. ‘It tasted exactly like methylated spirit. So then we had to go back to Scotch.’ He shook his head. ‘The strange thing is it didn’t touch Calhoun and he feels fine this morning. But I must say,’ he concluded frankly, ‘I wish I was dead.’

  I laughed heartlessly. ‘Serves you jolly well right.’

  ‘Oh that man should put an enemy in his mouth –’ quoted Brian and stumbled into the theatre.

  ‘I think they’re not – er – very well this morning. Sister,’ I began tactfully. ‘They’ve all got hangovers.’

  ‘I expect so,’ she replied bluntly, and went to get some sterile water.

  About a quarter of an hour later, they began to come in; short and tall, plump and thin, some with glasses, some without; and they all looked equally ghastly, pasty faced with dark rings under their eyes.

  The only one who seemed in the best of health was Calhoun.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he began cheerfully, ‘I take about two hours to do this operation, so make yourselves comfortable.’

  They wilted visibly at his loud voice, and possibly at the thought of standing for two hours round an operation table in the heat.

  ‘Well, I’ll get scrubbed up now,’ Calhoun went on happily, and disappeared. When he re-entered, there was a crash in the direction of the sterilising room. Sister Brooke’s distraught voice was heard: ‘What did you do that for, Nurse?’

  There was an indistinct muttering.

  ‘I don’t care if you have just come on duty, Nurse. You must ask. Look what you’ve done! You’ve just de-sterilised that tray of instruments!’

  After further muttering had been heard, Sister Brooke burst out of the small door that led to the sterilising room.

  ‘Do you know,’ she exclaimed angrily, ‘that cretinous child has just de-sterilised a complete set of instruments!’

  I made a sympathetic face and tut-tutted. Kind looked apprehensive. ‘She’s off,’ she murmured, as Brooke flew to the other side of the theatre.

  ‘Is this your bowl of water, Nurse?’ she asked.

  Kind nodded dumbly.

  ‘It’s completely unsterile!’ said Brooke wrathfully. ‘Nurse Whitely has just dragged the tape of her gown over the side of the bowl.’

  Kind closed her eyes. I hurriedly left to get a new, sterile bowl.

  ‘Not those forceps, Nurse!’ I heard a bellow in my ear. ‘Those are unsterile!’

  I dropped them like hot cakes, wincing. Sister shot off to the outside of the sterilising room.

  There was another bellow.

  ‘Nurse Foster! Why did you let the coffee boil dry?’

  This statement, heard throughout the theatre, was the first announcement of tragedy that brought any reaction. All the visitors looked exceedingly glum.

  ‘I don’t know, you girls!’ said Brooke as she rushed in again to see if anything had been de-sterilised in her absence.

  Her piercing voice seemed to go through the visitors’ heads like a whiplash; they regarded her with hunted expressions and watched her every movement as she flew round the theatre clucking.

  Brian looked at her sourly, with dim eyes. As she disappeared once more into the sterilising room he enquired of me: ‘Why doesn’t she go and swim the Hellespont?’

  A few minutes of peace followed. The operation proceeded and we all watched and breathed normally. Then suddenly a terrific roar of wrath shook the walls of the theatre. The anaesthetist shut his eyes and said piously: ‘It’s the Judgement Day.’

  Everyone else shuddered.

  ‘Nurse!’ said the well known terrible voice, ‘You’ve just de-sterilised three trolleys!’

  The door opened, and Brooke came in.

  ‘Has everyone gone mad?’ she asked of the theatre in general.

  We looked at her dumbly.

  ‘I’ve just laid three trolleys, and that child came in and put a jug on one, and cleared away the other two!’

  Calhoun looked up, blankly uninterested in everything except the job in hand. The visitors made no movement, except one who wearily passed a hand over his aching brow. I could not help it – I giggled.

  Brooke looked at me sharply, and I hastily tried to change the giggle to a cough, but the damage was done. The anaesthetist started to snigger, and soon there was a general ripple of laughter.

  Brooke looked dumbfounded, and then she too allowed a smile to come on to her face.

  After this, the operation proceeded normally. The tiny instruments were passed into the ear; the delicate tissues sewn in place with the minute needles and finest thread. I could not see any of the operation, because from time to time the visitors stirred themselves to go and have a look, before they tottered back to their stools, and tried not to look too longingly at the door from behind which was being prepared the life-saving coffee.

  I was just trying to look intelligent and fight off my growing lethargy, when the anaesthetist came up behind me.

  ‘I say, old thing, just keep an eye on the patient for me, will you? I want to ring up my stockbroker.’

  I looked at him dumbly.

  ‘Just see the old black bag pops in and out. I want to sell some shares.’

  I was glad at any rate to sit down on his stool. I watched the breathing with my eyes glued to the anaesthetic machine.

  After a few minutes he came back.

  ‘The blighter says they’ve gone down twopence,’ he said grumpily.

  I got up from his stool, while he had a look at the patient.

  ‘Oh, that’s fine, old thing,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I think I’ll just go and have a drag.’ So saying he disappeared again.

  This time it was ten minutes before he reappeared.

  ‘Albert has just given me a tip for the 2.30,’ he said by way of explanation, before he again vanished. Albert was the porter, and he rejoiced in horse-racing.

  Sister Brooke came in. ‘Oh,’ she said knowingly, when she saw me sitting nervously by the machine. ‘You got caught by Mr Stowe-Anthony, did you? What’s he backing?’

  ‘Something in the 2.30,’ I replied.

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘he won’t be long I daresay,’ and so saying she left the theatre again.

  Mr Calhoun, now more relaxed, was talking to a bored Brian about butterflies. ‘When I was in Rhodesia,’ he said casually, ‘I added considerably to my collection. Lovely stuff,’ he added, turning his pale eyes towards B
rian, who stood holding the end of a tiny sucker. ‘The natives used to think I’d gone mad when I made off into the jungle with nothing but a butterfly net.’

  ‘Amazing, sir,’ said Brian solemnly.

  The whole thing began to take on the appearance of a comic opera. An anaesthetist and porter who backed horses, a sister who swam, a surgeon who collected butterflies. And now one of the visitors was having difficulty in keeping his eyes open; he was being supported by two of his colleagues, one of whom was surreptitiously pinching his arm.

  ‘Now,’ said Calhoun, ‘this is the bit I’d like you to see. I put the graft – so – and sew it into place with this needle, then –’

  Brooke’s head was round the door again. ‘Coffee is ready,’ she announced.

  There was a polite but definite edging towards the door. Calhoun, realising the general desire for learning was as nothing to the strength of their primeval yearning towards coffee, politely dismissed them.

  Brian turned towards me to rinse his hands, as Calhoun turned away to his trolley. ‘What’s your hobby?’ Brian enquired.

  ‘I skin crocodiles,’ I replied gravely.

  ‘Ah good,’ said Brian unctuously. ‘I’m so glad to have met you.’

  After what seemed a long time, the visitors trailed back and Mr Calhoun completed the operation.

  The patient was bandaged, and was taken out of the theatre by Whitely, who mercifully kept her knowledge of a mastoid bandage to herself.

  ‘What a queer old bird!’ I commented to Kind as we began to clear up. ‘Does he really collect butterflies?’

  She looked surprised. ‘What’s queer about that?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, doesn’t it seem a little odd?’ I suggested politely.

  ‘Why?’ she said firmly. ‘I collect beetles.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘So you see,’ I complained bitterly to Mary that evening, ‘the whole boiling lot are cuckoo. I’m the only normal one there.’

  ‘So it would appear,’ said Mary thoughtfully. ‘Why beetles, though?’ she added with a puzzled face.

  ‘Well, it seems her old man is a botanical lecturer or something, and she just follows in his footsteps.’

  ‘Blowed if I’d follow beetles,’ said Mary defiantly.

  ‘Or me.’

  Mary sipped her tea reflectively.

  ‘We had such a nice old girl in today,’ she said. ‘She had burns on her leg. She was a honey. She said to Peter Wright would he think it a good idea if she made her will out now she was going to have an operation, because she had one or two things she hadn’t tied up. He was terribly offended, and said he didn’t think that would be necessary in rather a cold voice. So she said soothingly she knew how good he was etc., but she’d read where accidents happened and so forth. And in the end she got her lawyer down and everything. There was such a flap because you know we’re not supposed to witness wills and things.’

  ‘Why was there all this fuss? Couldn’t you talk her out of it?’

  ‘No, I jolly well couldn’t,’ said Mary. ‘She was as obstinate as a mule, but very nice about it all.’

  ‘How badly was she burnt?’

  ‘Well, quite badly. But she said it was her fault. She always puts on the electric fire to dress by, and she slipped and caught her nightie in it. Well, she was very fond of reading, and she remembered what she’d read –’

  ‘She must have been fond of reading to think of it at that moment –’

  ‘I’ll say. She’d read somewhere that the best thing to do was to roll yourself in a carpet when you were on fire. But her bedroom carpet was new, so she beetled off into the sitting-room and rolled in that one.’

  ‘How practical can you get?’ I asked.

  There was a little silence, and then I said as casually as I could: ‘Seen anything of Mike lately?’

  Mary looked at me warily, and started to play with her teacup.

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a strained voice. ‘I’m going to the theatre with him next Wednesday.’

  ‘So you’re going out with him,’ I said distantly.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she said defiantly. ‘What’s more, if he asks me out again, I’ll go with him again.’

  ‘Mary,’ I began, ‘don’t you think now, while you’re able to, you should back out? Honestly, it doesn’t worry me, but if Phyllis is keen on him –’

  ‘Phyllis!’ Mary snorted. ‘Phyllis, who has everyone in the hospital eating out of her hand! Why does she pick on Mike?’

  ‘She got there first,’ I said reasonably.

  ‘I don’t care,’ Mary cried. ‘I love him, and if he wants to see me I'm not going to refuse.’

  ‘OK. If that’s the way you want it. But don’t you think you ought to tell her or at least hint at it.’

  ‘All’s fair –’ said Mary guiltily.

  I sighed and changed the subject.

  The next day was Mr Burt’s operating list. Sister Brooke became a different woman, for in addition to her favourite surgeon, she had the felicity of Charles flirting outrageously with her.

  When Mr Burt had finished the bigger cases, he asked Charles if he would do two tonsils for him, as he had a luncheon appointment. Charles assented joyfully. His face fell, however, when Mr Burt added: ‘I’ll get Lawson to look in at you.’

  Lawson was Burt’s registrar, who had a list in the afternoon.

  ‘I shouldn’t bother if I were you,’ said Charles airily.

  ‘How many tonsillectomies have you seen?’ asked Mr Burt.

  ‘Oh, quite a few,’ replied Charles, avoiding his eye and looking at the ceiling of the theatre.

  ‘But how many?’ pursued Burt relentlessly.

  ‘Er – six,’ admitted Charles.

  ‘And how many have you done?’

  ‘Er – two,’ said Charles in a small voice.

  ‘H’mm,’ said Burt reflectively. ‘It will sound well in Court, won’t it? “And how many tonsils have you taken out, Mr Betterton, before this lot on the deceased?” I think I’ll stay,’ he added.

  By the end of the week I began to enjoy the work. I got on well with Sister Brooke, and as Kind said feelingly, that was half the battle.

  The following week we had just finished our Wednesday list when Sister called me to her office. She hated Wednesdays as they were what she called scrappy days, with the tail end of the three Senior Consultants’ lists coming in in dribs and drabs.

  ‘Nurse, would you be quite happy if I went off duty?’ she asked.

  Normally, either she or Kind were on duty in the evening in case of emergencies.

  ‘Oh yes, Sister,’ I answered truthfully, reflecting that there was only the clearing up to do.

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind, Nurse, only I want to get some practice before the Championships.’

  I looked at her questioningly. ‘Swimming,’ she murmured, looking rather embarrassed.

  ‘Oh,’ I said understandingly. ‘Of course, yes.’

  Brooke was looking hard at me to see if I was mocking her. ‘Well, I’ve rung up Sister Trevelyan, and she is in for me, so I’ll slip off then, Nurse,’ she said briskly.

  She whisked up her cape and the next moment was gone. I felt rather pleased. I looked down the passage to make sure she was out of sight, and then I sat down at the desk and scowled at the door experimentally. It felt rather satisfying. I scowled a bit more and looked through the papers on the desk.

  There was a movement outside the door. I sighed. Never a moment’s peace for us high-ups!

  The door opened, and in walked Sister Brooke. My scowl changed rather swiftly to a sheepish smile.

  ‘I forgot my cuffs,’ she said. Looking surprised, she added, ‘I think the book work should be up to date.’

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ I said scrambling up from the table, knocking over a pile of papers in my anxiety. ‘I was – er – just seeing what it felt like sitting here,’ I added lamely.

  To my astonishment she laughed. ‘I did that once and was caught by Ma
tron,’ she said, and shrugging her shoulders into her cape, went out again.

  I began frantically to gather up the papers, and returned to my more degrading job of putting new wire in the tonsil snares.

  The telephone rang.

  ‘ENT Staff Nurse speaking,’ I said pompously.

  ‘Staff, this is Mr Lawson,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘I’ve an emergency mastoid to do.’

  I swallowed nervously. ‘When?’ I asked in a small voice, hoping against hope it would come after eight, and so go to the main theatre, for the night staff.

  ‘Let’s see – it’s six now. In about half an hour, will that do?’

  I thought sickly, me and my big mouth. Why did I let Sister go off?

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said tremulously. ‘Will you arrange an anaesthetist?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s all laid on. I think the boy’s got a brain abscess,’ he added. ‘His name’s Roger Bull, on Mark, aged twelve. All right?’

  ‘Er – yes, sir,’ I said in a small voice. ‘Oh, by the way, sir, it’s Staff Nurse Grant, not Kind.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said the disembodied voice. ‘How do you do?’ And then I heard the receiver put down.

  I had only come across Mr Lawson once, and he had a reputation for having a vile temper. It was said of him that he once threw a pair of mastoid retractors through a theatre window. But I tried to think this story was a libel, and set myself to prepare for the case.

  I got Whitely to help me prepare the theatre, saying to myself that anyway I had seen the operation once. Trying to look on the bright side of things, I remembered that I had Sister Trevelyan to appeal to, and I rang her up.

  ‘Sister,’ I squeaked, ‘we’ve got a mastoid coming in.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘That’s nice for you.’

  I was rather annoyed at her taking it so casually. ‘Well, I’ve only seen one,’ I explained, anxious to justify myself.

  ‘That’s all right. Grant. They’re easy. I’ll come and look you up in half an hour. Who’s doing it?’

  ‘Mr Lawson,’ I said. I added, hoping that my voice didn’t betray my trepidation, ‘I haven’t worked for him before.’

  ‘Oh? Oh, all right,’ answered Sister, seeing the point at once. ‘I’ll be right over.’