by Jane Grant
‘Oh fine,’ I said sarcastically. ‘Why don’t you go on twin dates and get in a queue for the good night kiss?’
This cutting suggestion had no visible effect. I got ready to go to bed, the teapot lying unheeded on the little table, making yet another white mark. When I had got into bed and pulled the clothes away from Phyllis and up to my ears, I heard her say firmly: ‘Let the best man win.’
‘Woman,’ I corrected pedantically.
When I got on duty the next day I found Sister Brooke in a flat spin. I was summoned to her office immediately on arrival.
‘Now, Nurse, what’s all this about?’ she asked bluntly.
I blinked at her uncomprehendingly.
‘You had a case last night,’ she continued impatiently.
‘Oh yes. Mr Lawson did a mastoidectomy on a little boy – an emergency,’ I faltered, seeing her look grim.
‘Why didn’t you attempt to get me or Nurse Kind?’ she asked coldly.
‘I told Sister Trevelyan. I knew you had gone out.’
‘The one evening I slip off,’ she grumbled to herself. She looked at me quickly. ‘I suppose you know Mr Lawson is one of our most difficult surgeons,’ she snapped.
‘He was very nice to me,’ I said a trifle smugly.
‘To you maybe,’ was the grim rejoinder, ‘but it will go straight back to Mr Burt and I shall get a good telling-off.’
I tried to look repentant, but secretly felt rather elated at the thought of being able to cope with such a difficult surgeon.
After Brooke had gone into all the details of the operation with me, exclaimed in horror at my giving the wrong catgut, and scowled when I told her about the anaesthetist having trouble, I was dismissed, and I went straight off and explained the situation to Kind.
‘Actually,’ I said carelessly, ‘he was very nice.’
‘I know,’ said Kind, ‘he always is. There’s nothing wrong with him at all.’ She nodded knowingly towards the office door. ‘She only says that to keep you on your toes.’
Feeling rather deflated and dethroned from my high position of having dealt tactfully with a difficult surgeon, I went back to sorting out instruments, and for the first time since I had got up that morning I had time to think of Charles.
But before I had time for a pang of emotion, Kind came in holding the Scrubbing-up List in her hand.
‘Ho-ho,’ she laughed. ‘You’re starting off today with a bang. A mastoid with Calhoun, two Caldwell Lucs and an SMR with Lawson.’
I wrenched my face into a semblance of a grin.
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘That’s good.’
‘Think so? Calhoun can be an absolute so-and-so.’
For some hours my thoughts were divided between apprehension of disaster in the theatre and depressing forebodings about my love life.
At last eleven o’clock came, and with a sinking feeling I went into the theatre, but to my amazement the mastoidectomy went off like a charm. Somebody had sent Mr Calhoun a rare butterfly from Africa, and he spent the whole period of the operation describing the delicacy of its colour, and the situation of its antennae. Staring at him over the top of my mask, I was so anxious to appear immersed in his conversation that I became incapable of preparing my trolley.
The afternoon, however, was a different kettle of fish. Mr Lawson had had a brush with Sister before coming into the theatre, for, apparently, no other reason than that he had had the temerity to book a case while she was not there. His first case, the Caldwell Luc, was spent grumbling because I hadn’t got the right blade, then because I didn’t hold the cheek retractor properly, then because his gouges were not sharp enough. The operation, which involves a washout of the sinuses, should have been simple enough. But nothing went right, and I felt all fingers and thumbs. But towards the end the anaesthetist came in and gave Mr Lawson a good tip for Cheltenham, and he cheered up slightly.
‘Been busy, Tony?’ he enquired of Mr Stowe-Anthony, who was yawning capaciously over his trolley.
‘Not really,’ was the honest reply. ‘I had a ghastly session with Spinders in X-Ray this morning.’
Mr Spindells was the stomach surgeon who, though extremely pleasant, had a reputation for dithering.
‘Well, what happened?’ asked Lawson. ‘Ah – that’s lovely, Staff. Just hold it there while I take the pack out.’
‘Oh – only every case took about half an hour longer than it should have done. I was longing to get away to ring my broker. When I did get hold of him two of my stocks had dropped.’
‘Bad show. What were you doing in X-Ray?’
‘Oh, the usual stuff. Barium meals and so on, you know. But there was one old boy who nearly drove me crazy – didn’t know he was alive, really. So vague he wasn’t there.’
‘Like Staff,’ suggested Lawson.
‘H’mm – marked resemblance. Well, anyway, he came in for a barium meal, dressed just in his trousers and braces, and when he had drunk the barium, Spinders fixed the machine and said kindly “All right, take your pants down.” There was a pregnant silence and nothing happened – and you know how kind Spinders is to the modest ones – he just repeated “Take your pants down” and when nothing happened again, he nodded at that smashing blonde radiographer –’
‘Judy something,’ said Lawson, rolling his eyes significantly. ‘Lovely creature!’
‘Yes, isn’t she? Well, Spinders looked towards her, and she moved over and turned off the lights. Then he said to the old boy, “All right now, take your pants down.” After another pause, he switched on the lights, and the old boy hadn’t moved. So he goes over and says very nicely: “Listen, my good man. When I tell you to take your pants down, take your pants down.” So this old bod looked up all innocent like and said, “I’m sorry, sir. I thought you was talking to the young lady”.’
Lawson roared with laughter, and I blessed Mr Stowe-Anthony mentally for putting him in a good mood for the rest of the list.
One anecdote leads to another, and Mr Lawson began reminiscing.
‘You know old Don Carter? Well, he used to be a great pal of mine, and when we got house jobs he was Spindells’s houseman. I used to feel sorry for him, you know, he went through a period of not being able to do a thing right.’
I felt extremely sympathetic to the absent Mr Carter, as Lawson continued: ‘I’ll never forget the day Spindells was doing a gastrectomy. You know how beautifully he sews up, using a continuous suture on the anastomosis –’
‘And taking a week about it,’ put in Stowe-Anthony.
‘Well, this particular day had gone fine, and Don really began to get his confidence back, and there was talk of how they’d get off early to lunch, and Spindells was all excited because he thought we’d got a chance in the Rugger Cup. Well, he finished sewing and said to Don, “Cut this, old man” – all careless like. Don did, and it was the wrong side of the knot and the whole anastomosis just went ping-ping-ping, like a stocking running.’
Lawson paused to pick a bone chip out, as we exclaimed in horrified amusement. ‘Well, the worst of it was,’ Lawson went on, ‘Spindells didn’t say a word for about five minutes. Don swore that it was a whole hour. Spindells just looked at him, and no one in the theatre moved. Don said that the runner was in the act of scratching her leg, and she stood transfixed on one leg until Spindells had thought of a suitable name to call him.’
‘And what was the name?’ I asked.
Lawson leant towards me. ‘I’ll whisper it.’ Then he said in a loud stage whisper: ‘Could I have another atraumatic suture.’
The next fortnight of my stay in the ENT theatre was spent scrubbing up for the bigger operations, and worrying and wondering about Charles, with whom I had an occasional coffee, and who had asked me to the next Hospital Ball. I began to settle down in the theatre, and felt genuine regret at the thought that my appointed stay would soon be coming to an end.
When I had been there something over a month, I was summoned to Sister Brooke’s office.
‘Well, Nurse,’ she said briskly, ‘it appears you’ll soon be leaving us.’
‘Oh no, Sister,’ I cried.
‘Well, my dear, the great white chiefs have spoken apparently. Sister Blythe’ – the theatre Superintendent – ‘wants you over on the main block now. I think you may do the Gynie Theatre first, and then move on. Anyway, she wants to see you this morning. Will you go over now?’
‘Oh,’ I said reluctantly, ‘I was going to scrub for Mr Burt’s Tympanoplasty.’
Sister Brooke laughed. ‘Look, my dear, when Sister Blythe sends for you, you don’t say you’re busy or you want to scrub for a case. I should get that well into your head now. It will save a lot of trouble later on!’
I sighed heavily, and walked over to the main theatre. The block consisted of two new large theatres. These had been built after the war to replace the bomb-damaged old ones. This main block was very modern, but the rest of the hospital theatres had dated, as since their erection many modern improvements had come to light.
The swing doors opened into a corridor, from which diverged changing-rooms, outbuildings, cupboards, and Sisters’ offices. Sister Blythe had a large office to herself, while the other Sisters were relegated in a bunch to a smaller room. Further down the corridor were more swing doors, which led in to what was known as the Sanctuary, chiefly because Sister Blythe insisted that no unauthorised person should be allowed inside. This involved a theatre nurse meeting the patients at the Sanctuary door, where the ward nurse was dismissed, instead of as is usual bringing the patient right into the theatre.
This procedure gave the whole place an aura of grandness and inaccessibility, for behind the swing doors marked heavily ‘Private’ lay the two theatres, branching off in a kind of straight V, each with its own Anaesthetic and Sterilising Room.
I was intimidated by the air of formality and impersonal business that seemed to hang about even in the outbuildings. I knocked quietly on the door of the office marked ‘Theatre Superintendent. Private’.
There was no reply. I knocked a bit louder; then, hearing the murmur of voices from behind the door, I decided to wait a bit before I knocked the door down.
O’Connor came marching through the swing doors of the Sanctuary.
‘Hullo, Jane,’ she called loudly and cheerfully.
Shocked at her stentorian tones, I tried to silence her by grimacing at the closed door of the Theatre Superintendent’s office.
‘Oh – you waiting to see the High Priestess?’ enquired Jackie with an expression of distaste.
‘Yes,’ I replied in a semi-whisper.
‘Nice for you. Now where are those many-tailed bandages?’ She disappeared into a room marked ‘Linen’, and I followed.
On one side the wall was covered in shelves, divided into compartments, with each item carefully marked underneath. The linen was folded beautifully with the folded edge neatly facing the outside. The opposite wall was taken up by an enormous table which was covered with empty drums for repacking.
‘What’s it like here?’ I asked in an awed tone.
‘Oh, not too bad,’ said Jackie carelessly. ‘You’ll find it a bit of a difference from Minor Ops though,’ she added alarmingly.
The sound of a door opening made me rush out, before I could get her to elaborate this sinister statement. A man was standing with his back to the Superintendent’s door, wiping his forehead.
‘Phew!’ he said meaningly, as he turned and went out of the main doors.
This unnerved me more than ever, and with a tremendous effort I raised my hand to knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ a voice called sharply, and forcing my trembling fingers round the door knob, I opened the door and slid inside.
Chapter Twenty
When I got my eyes into focus, I saw a little grey-haired woman sitting behind an enormous desk. She had the look of a Nanny, I thought idiotically; a kind round face with soft-looking cheeks and a rather large mouth. Then she looked up and I saw her eyes. They were grey, steady and stubborn. They didn’t look hard exactly, but it took little imagination to know what they would look like if their owner’s will was crossed.
‘Good morning, Nurse,’ she said quietly, with that slight lilt that Irish tongues never lose. ‘You’re Nurse Grant, I believe?’
I gulped and nodded my head at least twice more than was strictly necessary.
‘Sit down,’ she added.
I tried to stop myself nodding again, and to force my tongue into saying something coherent and sensible. But before I could get a remark out she was speaking again.
‘Now, Nurse, I’ve been looking at your reports, and they are good, so far.’
I smirked.
‘Of course you will need more training before you come to work here, and I have put you down to transfer to the Gynaecological Theatre after your Ear, Nose and Throat experience.’
More asinine nodding on my part.
‘Unfortunately, however,’ she continued, and the words struck a cold chill to my heart, ‘unfortunately an emergency has arisen. Nurse Colt’s mother is seriously ill, and she has gone on compassionate leave. So I’m afraid,’ droned on the quiet voice, ‘that I must ask you to take your spell of night duty now.’
So that was it. The big build-up leading to the big let-down.
‘I’m extremely sorry,’ went on the voice, ‘that I haven’t been able to give you more notice, but I’m afraid I must ask you to report to me here at eight o’clock tonight.’
I was so stupefied by this request, and my nerves were in such a state, that I bleakly accepted the nod of dismissal, and it was not until I had got outside that I realised I had not said a word during the entire interview.
I walked out of the swing doors disconsolately, and made my way back to the ENT Theatre. Sister Brooke gave an expert look at my face, and took me into the nurses’ room, where she handed me a large cup of coffee.
She then started off with the inevitable question: ‘What did she want?’
I said unhappily: ‘I’m to go on night duty tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes, tonight.’
‘Oh, it’s too bad,’ said Brooke, genuinely sympathetic. ‘The way people push you around! Weren’t you going to the hop on Friday?’
I nodded. This was the worst aspect of the affair, and I could not trust myself to speak.
‘And it’s your weekend off too! I am sorry.’
‘It is rather a blow,’ I managed to get out.
‘Oh well, anyway, you go off now, my dear. I’m sorry to lose you, but perhaps you’ll come back to me as a senior Staff Nurse.’
She disappeared, leaving me sipping my coffee and staring unseeingly through the window.
This would be the end of my seeing Charles, I thought. Once I’m away from his notice he’ll forget all about me. I couldn’t go out with him tomorrow, and I would soon get out of circulation when it was discovered how inaccessible I was on night duty. Oh well, I thought, I knew it had to come. But it would have been easier if I had had more time to adapt myself to the inevitability of the idea.
At the moment when I was wallowing deepest in self pity, the door opened and Charles came in.
‘Brooke’s just told me,’ he said sympathetically. ‘I’m so sorry, Jane.’
I tried to think of a cheerful and witty remark, but failed dismally. All I managed to say in a hesitant voice was: ‘Charles, you won’t – you won’t go gadding round too much without me, will you? It will only be a couple or three months and – and – I’ll have nights off,’ I added eagerly.
He moved close to me and tilted my chin up with his hand.
‘No, I won’t, Jane,’ he said softly, and gave me a gentle kiss. He went to the door. ‘I’ll come and see you tonight,’ he said with a laugh. ‘See the coffee’s hot.’
He went out, and left me trying hard to bite back my tears.
I said goodbye to Sister Brooke as dismally as if I were going to my execution the next day, and sad
ly left that portion of my training behind me.
I was greeted on the steps of the Nurses’ Home by an irate Home Sister.
‘Really, Grant – if you must move your room, would you give me more warning in future?’ she exploded.
‘Move my room?’ I said incredulously. ‘Oh no, Sister!’
‘Well, you’re going on night duty, child,’ she explained fussily. ‘You can’t expect to stay on the day nurses’ corridor.’
Even this wasn’t a crashing blow; I just felt myself slipping further into the abyss of despair, and could not even rouse myself to make a protest, but when Mary came up during her lunch break to see if I was in my room, I had collected my forces and was just preparing to give her the full brunt of my complaint.
Before I could come out with anything, however, she forestalled me by saying: ‘Honestly, isn’t it the end putting you on night duty? Tonight of all things! And you going to the dance tomorrow! What did Charles say?’
There seemed to be nothing left for me to complain about, but I hastily said in a furious tone: ‘And it’s my weekend –’
Mary however interrupted. ‘And it’s your weekend. I think it’s too bad! I do really.’ She helped herself to one of my cigarettes. ‘Did you refuse?’ she asked.
‘And be labelled –’ I began bitterly.
‘No, I suppose not,’ continued Mary full of righteous indignation. ‘You’d only be put down as uncooperative and there’s nothing worse to have on your report.’
‘Besides which,’ I wailed, ‘Blythe –’
‘Yes, of course, Blythe doesn’t allow anyone to get a word in edgeways. It is the bitter, bitter end,’ she concluded, stubbing her cigarette, or rather my cigarette, out half-smoked.
‘Must you waste my cigarettes –’ I began touchily, but she broke in: ‘Look honey, I must rush and give Wee Willie my report, but I’m off this afternoon and I’ll come and help you move rooms.’
So saying she fled, leaving me grumpily opening and shutting my mouth, cross because Mary hadn’t given me a chance to discharge crossness on her. I started, bad-tempered, to throw things in my case, and my humour was by no means improved when I found after flinging a vase into the middle of my underclothes it was still half full of water.
