by Jane Grant
I sent the porter for the patient, and Mr Stowe-Anthony arrived.
‘I say, Staff, have you seen this little brute?’ he asked as he entered the theatre.
‘No. What’s he like?’
‘He’s the original juvenile delinquent,’ he said wrinkling his nose in distaste. ‘I didn’t know they came quite as repulsive as that.’
The patient came in, a small fair-haired boy, pale and aggressive. He was obviously very ill and also very frightened.
‘’Ere, get a load of ’im,’ he said pointing at the anaesthetist. ‘Watcher got that ’at on for, Mister?’ He indicated the theatre cap balanced precariously on Mr Stowe-Anthony’s head.
The anaesthetist decided to ignore this tirade on his appearance and said: ‘Now, Roger, I’m just going to give you a little prick in your arm.’
‘Oh no, you ain’t!’ said Roger firmly.
The anaesthetist was taken aback. ‘It won’t hurt much,’ he said uncertainly.
‘All right, mate, you ’ave it,’ was the unanswerable reply.
‘Me? I don’t need an operation,’ said Stowe-Anthony, making the mistake of entering into a discussion.
‘Well, I don’t want one neither. There’s a smashing programme on telly.’
‘Well, if you have this done, you can get back all the sooner to watch telly, er – can’t you?’
‘I ain’t ’alf got a ’eadache,’ Roger remarked conversationally, ‘keep coming over all sleepy, ain’t it daft?’
‘Well, we’ll make that better,’ I wheedled, hoping to sidetrack him into having the injection. ‘Just let Doctor prick your arm!’
‘No, I ain’t ’aving no pricks. I’ve ’ad ’em before and I come up in a whopping great bruise. ’Urt more’n me ear did.’
At this moment the anaesthetic room door opened.
‘Hullo, Roger,’ said Mr Lawson, ‘aren’t you asleep yet?’
‘No – ’e wants to give me an injection,’ said Roger defensively.
‘So what?’ said Mr Lawson. ‘Would you sooner have a clonk on the head?’
‘I don’t want neither.’
‘Oh well, that’s that,’ said Mr Lawson, walking to the door. ‘I’m not going to waste my time on you. You can go back and tell your mother you were too scared to have an injection.’
Roger hesitated. ‘I ain’t scared,’ he said sulkily.
‘I’ll just go and tell her myself now,’ said Lawson opening the door, as if he had not heard Roger’s protestation.
‘No, wait, Doctor,’ whined Roger.
The writing was on the wall, and I slid quietly away to scrub up.
My trolley was as ready as I knew how when Mr Lawson walked in changed and scrubbed, ready to start the operation.
‘Mr Lawson,’ I began nervously, ‘I’ve never done one of these before. I don’t know if you like anything – er – special.’
He looked cross. ‘Where’s Sister?’ he said irritably.
‘She’s off duty, sir.’
‘And the other Staff Nurse?’
‘She’s off too.’
‘Why do they leave you in charge if you don’t know anything?’ he asked belligerently.
My temper began to rise. ‘Because I’ve got to learn some time,’ I said tartly.
‘Why practise on me?’
‘Why not?’
We stood glaring at each other across the trolley top. Then to my amazement he laughed.
‘Well, let’s start learning,’ he said. ‘Paint!’
He painted and towelled round the swollen ear. ‘Now knife.’
I gave him the scalpel, swabs, artery forceps, diathermy, then there was more cutting. By the time he had reached the bone he had quite recovered his good humour.
‘Well, you’re all right, Staff. I don’t know why you made all this fuss.’
‘It wasn’t me who made the fuss!’ I said quietly.
‘Oh? We’ve got one who answers back, have we?’ said Mr Lawson nodding to the anaesthetist. ‘Well, it makes a change after all the dummies they’ve had here lately, doesn’t it?’
Thank goodness, I thought, I’ve hit the right line of approach! I remembered Trevelyan telling me that ninety per cent of successful theatre work for a nurse depends on her ability to deal with the surgeon. Some surgeons hate to be answered back, it puts them off their stride, because they just want to use the nurse as a whipping post. Others, like Mr Lawson, enjoy a battle of repartee as it seems to keep them on their toes. Then there were the in-betweens, who liked it some days, but were infuriated by it on others. Trevelyan had told me that when you had worked in theatres a bit, you would begin to know by instinct which was which, and the golden rule was, never to lose your temper. I had ignored that rule and still managed to scrape through, so I just stood and prayed that my luck would hold.
Mr Lawson now began to chip the infected bone away, and pus welled out of the air cells.
‘Come on, don’t just stand there!’ he shouted. ‘Pick those chips out. Suck out the pus. I’ll send some of those swabs to pathology, please.’
I fumbled, trying to obey all his commands at once.
He stopped. ‘Look – you’ve only got one pair of hands. Right?’
I nodded.
‘Well – use them properly. Suck with this hand, take the swab with this one – and pick up the chips with your teeth!’
I laughed nervously. ‘Thank you for the advice.’
‘Any time!’ He went on with the operation.
I was trying to clear the trolley a bit when he called out: ‘Come round and see this, me dear.’
He stood to one side while I looked over his shoulder. ‘You see this?’ He pointed to an area of soft tissue between the bone. ‘That’s brain,’ he said softly.
I looked at it fascinated.
‘Well, dura mater,’ he said. ‘Now I’ll just lift this bone up a wee bit.’
Before my horrified eyes I saw the pus come out of the vital centre.
‘There, there,’ he said, ‘just a little one.’ He spoke as though he were consoling the patient. ‘Good job we didn’t allow it to stay overnight, isn’t it, Staff? Goodness knows where it would have got to.’
For the first time I felt bitterly ashamed of my former attitude of annoyance at having to stay for the operation in the evening.
‘Well, we’d better clear out now,’ he said, mopping the area to get it clear. ‘That’s better. Right – I’ll just have a wee piece of catgut, then a drain.’
I gave him some catgut on a small needle.
‘What’s this – rope?’ he exclaimed, looking at it with distaste. ‘I’m not sewing on his head, you know.’
‘It’s two o plain,’ I said defensively.
‘Well, I want three o plain, and less of the backchat.’
I silently prepared another ampoule for his use.
He finished sewing and bandaged the head.
‘Well, that’s that,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Thanks one and all.’
So saying, he marched out of the theatre, and I was left to clear up and take the patient back to the ward.
As I got to the door with the still unconscious boy on the trolley, Sister Trevelyan rushed in, breathless and anxious.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.
‘Great,’ I said.
‘Oh, that’s good,’ she said with relief. ‘I’m so sorry, Sister Wright held me up and I couldn’t get here before. So everything’s all right?’
‘Yes, fine,’ I said brightly. ‘I gave Lawson the wrong catgut but he couldn’t have been nicer.’
‘That's a lie,’ said a voice behind me, and turning I saw Lawson dressed and ready to go out. ‘I was most disagreeable,’ he said.
‘Well, it was a pity about the wrong catgut,’ said Sister Trevelyan.
‘Nonsense,’ he snapped. ‘I shall tell Sister Brooke tomorrow that everything went splendidly. Any further questions you can refer to me.’ He glared belligerently at Trevelyan. ‘Nurse w
as not at fault at all,’ he added.
‘She never said I was,’ I retorted. ‘What are you so snappy about?’
‘Didn’t Sister give you a raspberry?’ he asked, nodding towards poor Trevelyan, who was looking on in deepening amazement.
‘No, she didn’t,’ I said shortly. ‘Sister very kindly came up to see how I had survived your bad temper.’
‘Oh!’ He laughed heartily. ‘I thought you were getting it in the neck. That’s all right then. I can now tell Sister you were lousy and didn’t know a retractor from a hole in the head.’
So saying, he went out.
‘What an extraordinary fellow!’ said Trevelyan, shaking her head as if she had just had a blow on it.
I shrugged. Just at that moment the porter managed to acquire the lift, so I left, holding on to Roger’s chin firmly.
I delivered him to his ward, and returned to the theatre, where I saw to my dismay that it was well past eight o’clock. I sent Whitely off duty and started clearing up as quickly as I could. I was just putting the instruments away when the telephone rang.
Cursing all modern inventions, I picked up the receiver.
‘Jane!’ said a voice breathlessly.
A cold hand seemed to clutch at me – surely it couldn’t be – she wasn’t due in town for days – surely it wasn’t Phyllis? But of course it was.
‘Yes,’ I said cautiously, trying to make up my mind how to deal with this situation.
‘Can I come up and see you?’ said the small voice.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll be over in about ten minutes. Where are you?’
‘I’m in the Nurses’ Home. I heard you were busy so didn’t ring before.’
‘Oh that’s all right,’ I said, frantically searching my mind for what to say. What excuses could I make? How could I avoid her questions.
But I needn’t have bothered, for the next thing she said put an end to all pretences.
‘Jane – where did Mike and Mary go tonight?’
I hesitated. ‘See you later,’ I said, and rang off.
Chapter Eighteen
I went back to the sterilising room and turned on the steriliser, then overcome by gloom, I sat down in the office. What a terrible, terrible mess, I thought, how can people get themselves into such a mess?
How unlucky it was that Phyllis had to come up to St Bernard’s this night of all nights. Why hadn’t she left it till tomorrow? Would she have found out anyway? The question of what to say and what not to say revolved round in my mind until I was dizzy.
Why did Mary want to go out with Mike anyway, I thought? He wasn’t all that attractive. Gradually all my anger turned on to him. How could he behave in this way when he knew Mary and Phyllis were age-old friends? Why should he have put me in such a jam by forcing this situation on to me?
That Mike was just as unhappy about the whole thing as everyone else was did not occur to me then. I was gloomily anticipating my interview with Phyllis when the door burst open and in walked Charles.
‘Jane, my angel! I saw the light on and I thinks to myself thus. Charles (that’s my name) Charles, how would you like to be a real old lad tonight and go and have coffee somewhere? I recoiled at the thought of such a daring exploit – but then my baser self asserted itself so here I am,’ he concluded lamely.
‘Oh, Charles!’ I said weakly, and promptly burst into floods of tears.
Charles looked at me in horror. ‘Well, if you don’t want to you needn’t,’ he said. ‘No need to howl about it.’
‘Don’t want to what?’ I sobbed.
‘Have coffee, you owl.’
‘Oh, you ass,’ I said, torn between laughter and tears, ‘I’d love to, but I can’t, because Mary’s gone out with Mike and Phyllis has come up to town.’
‘Oh yes? Would you mind saying that lot again?’
‘Well,’ I sniffed, ‘Mike is Phyllis’s boyfriend, but he’s taken Mary out tonight, and Phyllis has found out.’
‘Goodness me,’ said Charles in a shocked voice. ‘What will these young things think of next?’
‘But you see,’ I said miserably, ‘I’ve got to go and face Phyllis now and I don’t know what to say.’
‘Yes, I see your point. Well can’t you sneak out the back way,’ he suggested hopefully.
‘Charles,’ I said firmly, ‘do stop being idiotic and say something helpful!’
There was a pause during which we both stared blankly at each other.
‘This Phyllis,’ said Charles at last, ‘she has quite a few irons in the fire, hasn’t she. I mean –’
‘I know what you mean,’ I said acidly.
‘Well – couldn’t we fix her up with someone else, sort of, temporarily of course –’ he added hastily, seeing the disapproving look on my face.
‘Charles,’ I said wearily, ‘you don’t understand. Mike is the only man for her. She won’t look at another. She hasn’t been out with anyone else – at least not seriously –’ I concluded weakly.
Charles leapt at the hint of uncertainty in my voice.
‘Who was the last one?’ he asked quickly.
‘David Anderson,’ I admitted.
‘Well, that’s it. I’ll fix him up for tonight.’
‘But you don’t understand,’ I said, struggling to maintain my view of Phyllis as a one-man girl, ‘that wasn’t a serious thing at all. We only went for a drive in his car.’
‘All the better,’ said Charles. ‘Now just you trot over to the Home and –’
‘The steriliser!’ I exclaimed in horror. ‘I left the steriliser on!’
I pushed past Charles and fled to the sterilising room. There, happily gurgling away to itself was a full steriliser overflowing on to the floor.
This was just too much, and I burst into fresh tears.
‘Now, now,’ said Charles reprovingly, ‘there’s enough water about as it is. I’ll mop up and you go and finish what you want to do.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said with my St Joan-being-burnt-at-the-stake face. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Nonsense,’ was the blighting reply. ‘We’ll never get out tonight.’
Pushing me firmly to one side, he began mopping the floor, whistling ‘A Life on the Ocean Wave’, while I fiddled with the instruments.
At last everything was cleared up, and Charles, taking me firmly in hand, told me not to flap around any more. We locked up the theatre and left. Charles, who was a great favourite in Matron’s office, took the key over, so that I shouldn’t get a raspberry for being late, while I went off to collect Phyllis, having arranged to meet Charles, plus an escort for Phyllis, in half an hour.
I got to my room just as Phyllis was coming out of it.
‘Oh, here you are,’ she said ungraciously. ‘I was just coming to look for you.’
‘The steriliser boiled over,’ I explained wearily.
We went back into my room. Even in my most optimistic mood I should have realised it was not an ideal place for Phyllis to sit brooding, and I was far from my most optimistic mood at that moment.
The room was a small one, looking on to a well, formed by three walls of the Nurses’ Home, and the fourth of the Pathology Block.
I went over to the window and looked out. There was silence for a moment, and then I made a great effort and said brightly: ‘There’s a smasher who comes every afternoon and looks down a microscope over there. I wish he’d look here instead.’
Phyllis said nothing, and realising I had struck a dull note, I sank back into melancholy and looked round the room. How dismal it looked! The furniture was typical, consisting of the wardrobe-cum-dresssing-table which had the peculiarity of all nurses’ wardrobes in that it successfully filled and darkened the room, and at the same time was not long enough to hang up dresses, or wide enough for the drawers to hold one’s possessions. It also had a mirror in which one could see nothing. There was a divan, a cane chair, and an uneasy chair in which Phyllis was sitting, and in the corner a washbasin with a glass shelf above,
holding a sad grey tumbler. The bed was crumpled where I had sat on it in my off duty; a pair of stockings dangled disconsolately on the radiator; some flowers I had bought from a barrow boy had wilted in the enclosed space and the petals had dropped on to the dressing table which was marked with white blotches where water had been spilt. The whole room smelt slightly sooty as a centrally heated one always does in London.
I made another effort at conversation.
‘They say a nurse’s training makes her a good housewife. The question is, if any wife had a room like this in her house, would she keep her husband?’
Phyllis replied in a chilly voice, ‘The question doesn’t affect me anyway.’
This seemed another dead end. As if in sympathy with our mood of depression, the heavens opened and it began to pour with rain; not a clean refreshing rain, just a miserable continual thin downpour.
‘Oh dear!’ was the only comment I could think of. I was getting nowhere, and I had not yet revealed Charles’s plans for the evening.
Phyllis regarded me with red-rimmed eyes. ‘Where did they go?’ she asked bleakly.
‘To a theatre, I think,’ I said, sighing as I removed my cap and scratched absently under my chin where my starched bow chafed.
‘What theatre?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But why – Jane? Why did they?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ I said irritably. ‘Why does anyone do anything? Why ask me?’
She sat silently, looking wounded.
‘Phyllis,’ I said slowly, ‘I know this is a dreadful thing to say, you’ll hate me for saying it. You’ll hate me all the more because you’ll know in your heart it’s true. But Mike is the first man you’ve felt anything for, and just cast your mind back to all the others whose hearts you’ve broken. It’s really a sort of justice.’
To my surprise she did not burst into a hot tirade in her own defence, as she certainly would have done in times past. She just said softly: ‘I know.’
There was a pause. ‘But it doesn’t make it any easier,’ she added. She began to cry, quite noiselessly, but the tears just kept welling up and dropping on to her hands lightly folded in her lap.
This proved too much for me, and I began to sniff.
‘I’m so very very sorry, Phyllis! I hate to see you hurt. I didn’t mean what I said, because you’re too kind to hurt people.’
