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

by Jane Grant

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I’ll take you through McKie’s land. I know him well, he let’s me shoot there, and we’ll drive the long way home.’

  Sally stirred restlessly in the back of the car, I patted her consolingly on the head. Colin had already turned off down the road that led to one of the local farmer’s land, and I saved my breath for later objections.

  We came to a gate marked ‘Private’ and I was forcibly ejected from the car to open it, with bellowed instructions on how to close it carefully coming through the car windows from Colin.

  I reflected sadly on the fact that brothers treated one as an equal, not as a delicate flower to be nurtured and cosseted. When I got back to the car, after mentally cursing high heels on ploughed tracks, I found that Colin had moved over to my seat, and expected me to take the driver’s.

  ‘Look, Colin –’ I expostulated.

  ‘Now, this is the gear lever. You start in first.’

  I twiddled with it experimentally.

  ‘Now bring your clutch up. No, silly, that’s the brake.’

  ‘Why doesn’t it start?’

  ‘Because,’ was Colin’s cutting reply, ‘you haven’t got it switched on.’

  I turned on the switch and pulled the knob marked W.

  ‘That,’ said Colin with a voice laden with sarcasm, ‘is the windscreen wiper, and in case you hadn’t noticed it, it isn’t raining. Try S for starter.’

  I grinned weakly. ‘Well, it’s all this night duty,’ I said by way of excuse. I pulled the right knob and to both our astonishments, the car shot forward with a furious roar, throwing us back in our seats, and it wasn’t until Colin had told me the pedal I had my foot on wasn’t the clutch but the accelerator, that we realised there was another car coming straight at us.

  There was a shriek of brakes, with Colin jamming his foot down on mine and whirling the steering wheel round in my hands. We drew to a halt, and Colin was mopping his brow and telling me what a complete and utter cretin I was, when the owner of the other car jumped out and came glaring to the window.

  Seeing it was Colin, he uttered one short pungent word: ‘You!’ he said with a wealth of feeling. He paused to try and think of something really biting and to the point. ‘If I see that old heap of junk of yours here again, I’ll – I’ll – run it off the road,’ he concluded rather tamely.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured. ‘It was my fault really. Have we damaged your car at all?’ My voice ended in a squeak.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, seeing me for the first time. ‘But it’s no fault of yours if you haven’t,’ he added crossly.

  ‘Well, you see,’ I went on, rather encouraged by the fact that he hadn’t yet dragged Colin out of the car by the scruff of his neck and knocked him down. ‘You see, my brother wanted to teach me to drive.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a sister,’ said the young man to Colin.

  ‘One doesn’t broadcast the fact,’ said Colin dryly.

  ‘Colin, you’re hopeless,’ was the reply, and the rather handsome young farmer turned his back on us, jumped into his own car, reversed a few yards, and then shot past us with a quick smile.

  ‘Who’s he?’ I asked eagerly.

  ‘Jane, you’re the stupidest creature imaginable!’ exploded Colin. ‘That was Donald McKie of all people!’

  ‘He’s got lovely blue eyes,’ I said enthusiastically.

  ‘Oh, you women are all the same. He has lovely game on his land and that’s the last I’ll see of it thanks to you.’

  ‘Oh, Colin, I’m sorry. Shall I ring him up and offer to pay damages?’

  ‘You’ll not do anything of the kind,’ said Colin in horror. ‘You’ll be going out with him next. Sisters!’ he added bitterly.

  Pushing me out of the driver’s seat he took my place, I walked round the car and got in, and was driven home in silence.

  In the afternoon I went to bed to try and sleep off some of the night’s work and the morning’s excitement, but it was a long time before I could stop thinking about tall young men with fair hair and blue eyes and an open look about their faces. What a contrast between that type and men like Charles and Philip and one or two others I had been mildly keen on! I slept at last, only to be awakened by Sally continuing her washing where she had left off at the station.

  ‘Colin,’ I muttered, ‘take this wretched dog away or I’ll brain you.’

  ‘Guess what,’ replied Colin unmoved, ‘we’ve got an invitation.’

  I re-opened my eyes. ‘What sort?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘Rhona McKie rang up and said would we like to go to Scottish dancing.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, still half asleep.

  ‘Oh, it’s a local do every fortnight. Quite ghastly. Jumping around and shouting Hoy!’

  ‘Sounds grisly.’

  ‘Oh, it is. I said we couldn’t go. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Who’s Rhona what’s-her-name?’ I enquired, turning over.

  ‘Donald’s sister. Quite a nice kid really.’

  ‘Did you say Donald’s sister?’ I exclaimed, sitting up quickly.

  ‘That’s right. Don’t get in a state. I said we couldn’t go.’

  ‘Well!’ I exclaimed indignantly, ‘you might have asked me first!’

  ‘I did. You said you didn’t want to go.’

  ‘Well, I’ve changed my mind,’ I said quickly. ‘Listen – ring up and say it was a mistake. Say you want to go now – we want to go,’ I corrected hastily.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Colin. ‘I’ve just said we couldn’t go.’

  ‘Say you mistook the day and we’d love to go now thank you.’

  ‘Oh hell, I can’t –’

  ‘Look, Colin,’ I said earnestly, ‘I drove your silly old car for you. You can come dancing with me.’

  He sighed. ‘OK. But for heaven’s sake don’t go and put your foot in it with Donald again. Keep out of his way.’ He disappeared, but returned shortly afterwards to say there was no reply to his call.

  I got up, all thought of sleep banished. At my insistence Colin rang up twice more, but could still get no answer. At eight o’clock when I urged him to try just once more, he announced that it was too late anyway, as the dancing would have started.

  I sat down gloomily with a book, resigning myself to a quiet evening at home, and bewailing lost opportunities. I was in the middle of a prolonged moan to my mother about younger brothers, their general insensitivity and lack of tact, when a car drew up outside.

  My mother went to the door, and reappeared with Donald and a girl with a marked resemblance to him.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said politely. ‘This is my sister Rhona. Are you two ready?’

  I blinked. ‘We won’t keep you a moment,’ I said hurriedly, and half dragging the astonished Colin out of his chair, we disappeared upstairs.

  We were ready to go in a very few minutes, and were ushered to the car, where I sat in front with Donald, and Colin behind with Rhona.

  The Village Hall was full of healthy-looking local people, most of whom I knew from my childhood. As we entered, the Master of Ceremonies, a local farmer, was announcing grandly: ‘Form your sets for an Eightsome Reel!’

  I was about to explain weakly that I didn’t know how this was done, when Donald rushed off and reappeared with two more couples. In a moment I found myself whirled round in a circle to the accompaniment of a loud gramophone record, and whoops from all the young men. I twirled round dizzily, strong arms gripping me, turning me and pushing me on to the next one. Then someone leapt into the middle of the ring. More turning and whirling. Then I was pushed into the middle, after which the appalling truth began to penetrate my stunned brain that this barbaric ritual was to be repeated six times, although I was already utterly exhausted. Round and round we turned, yelling, slipping and gasping, until at long last amid a final fury of whirling, it was over.

  Drawing my panting mouth into the semblance of a happy smile, I mana
ged to say ‘That was lovely’, only to be told for my pains that that was just a warm-up, and ‘The Dashing White Sergeant’ would really get me into the spirit of things.

  I began to look longingly at the little wooden chairs dotted round the wall, but every time I started to hobble towards one, the wretched Master of Ceremonies would announce another dance.

  Eventually there seemed to be no other dances left to dance. I felt no surprise, considering that we must have cavorted through every gymnastic exercise in the human repertoire and a good many in a well-trained ape’s as well.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ asked Donald, as we walked to the car.

  ‘Charming,’ I said politely.

  ‘That’s good. There’s another on Saturday night. Would you care to come?’ he asked, looking intently at the car wheels.

  Why do people have good manners! I thought bitterly. Why don’t people just say what they think and feel? Could I now tell him that nothing short of a ring through my nose would lead me to another of these annihilating gatherings? But I knew as I looked at his shy face offering me an outing that I could not refuse – nor was it entirely good manners that prevented me.

  Instead I gulped and said, ‘How lovely! Thank you very much.’

  The next day Phyllis rang me up.

  ‘Hullo, honey,’ she said brightly. ‘I rang up Sister Blythe –’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘She said you were on nights off. How about a nice breath of sea air?’

  ‘Oh, Phyllis, I can’t,’ I expostulated. ‘I’m – I’m busy. I hope,’ I added tentatively.

  ‘Please, Jane!’ she said in a small voice. ‘I’m miserable.’

  ‘When are you off?’ I asked resignedly.

  ‘Sunday.’

  I sighed. ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘Oh, good! You can catch the 10.15 from Victoria. I’ll meet you this end.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ was my ironic reply.

  Conscious of my aching arms and legs, I went into the town by bus to do some shopping for my mother. As good luck would have it, I bumped into Donald, and over a formal coffee he asked me to go to a film with him that evening.

  My week’s holiday seemed to go in a flash. I was even able to confront the Saturday dance with some degree of enthusiasm as I was going with Donald.

  In the car on the way home I sighed heavily. ‘My holiday has gone awfully quickly,’ I said sadly.

  ‘Is it over?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m going to see a friend tomorrow, then back to town.’ I waited for a comment, but none came.

  ‘It has been a lovely week. Thank you very much,’ I added.

  ‘We must go out again some time,’ he said rather stiffly, and with that we parted.

  I felt squashed and depressed. Later in bed I thought of all the bright witty things I could have said that would have induced him to ask me out again. But it was too late.

  The next day I said goodbye quietly to my family and set off to see Phyllis. Not for the first time I thought sadly: ‘All one ever does in nursing is say goodbye to people.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  When I arrived at the station, Phyllis was waiting impatiently. She seemed quite normal as she berated me for being late, but she looked rather pale and tired.

  ‘It’s no good thinking anything will be open,’ she said, as I looked into some shop windows on the way out of the station. ‘All you can get here is candy floss and a stick of rock on Sundays.’

  ‘Sounds like home,’ I said. ‘Except there’s no candy floss, come to think of it, no rock either.’

  We eventually caught a bus after waiting a quarter of an hour, and as we climbed aboard and flopped down, we both looked the picture of misery. The wait had not improved either of our tempers, and somehow the little seaside place was the acme of all that was depressing, with the grimy windows of the shops, with hats with ‘Kiss-me-quick’ on, and coloured postcards; and the grim-looking boarding-houses.

  ‘Is it beginning to get you down?’ Phyllis asked sympathetically looking into my face. ‘It always does things to me on Sunday. Don’t think you’re getting manic. Everyone is the same.’

  We got to the hospital at last, and went straight to Phyllis’s room, which was situated in the Home at the back of the main buildings. As we passed the ward windows, Phyllis’s arm nearly came out of its socket, as she waved at all the patients.

  ‘See that old girl?’ she said, ‘In that window there? Remind me and I’ll tell you all about her later. See the young one next to her?’

  I identified the two patients as a grey-haired woman with a worried face, and a young, sad-looking girl next to her.

  ‘The old girl’s Mrs Betts. The young one’s Rosa. She, my child, is an outstanding example of what men can do towards ruining your life. Take warning.’

  For the first time there was a note of bitterness in her voice. I looked at her quickly.

  ‘No, wait,’ she said. ‘Wait till we’re in my room with tea and cigarettes. Then we can thrash the whole thing out.’

  She whistled tunelessly till we got to her room; then, after plonking me on the bed, went out with a battered teapot, still whistling. She re-entered with a steaming teapot and a half bottle of rather dubious looking milk, silently poured the tea out, one lot in a tooth-mug and the other in a glass, and handed me a cigarette. She lit one herself, inhaled deeply, and looking up at the ceiling with smoke coming out of her nostrils, said quietly: ‘It’s all over, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said gently, waiting to see her reaction before I made any comment.

  ‘What do you think of it all?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry of course,’ I said, groping in my mind for something more constructive to say.

  ‘Sorry – ha – that’s rich!’ She leapt up from her chair, and began pacing up and down the little room. ‘Sorry – that’s what he said. I could have killed him.’

  ‘Phyllis –’ I began, ‘don’t take it like this –’

  She interrupted. ‘Yes, Jane.’ She stopped walking and stared at me. ‘I could quite happily have killed him, and Mary too.’

  ‘You’re being unreasonable –’

  ‘All right. I’m unreasonable.’ She resumed her pacing. ‘I like being unreasonable.’

  I opened my mouth to speak. ‘It’s all right, Jane,’ she said. ‘Save your breath. You’re going to say I’ll get over it. Of course I will, but right now it hurts like hell. I only hope he makes her as unhappy as he’s made me.’

  I sighed. ‘Anyone would think it was deliberate,’ I said rather crossly. ‘And as if you’d never –’

  ‘I know. As if I’d never ditched anybody. And as if one boyfriend would make any difference to little old Casanova me! Well, it’s true, of course. It’s all true. But it doesn’t make any difference. I still hate all men and I never want to see either Mike or Mary again.’

  She stopped walking and sat down heavily, as if deflated after her sudden burst of emotion. ‘Oh, Jane, I’m so miserable,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘I’m so ruddy miserable I want to die.’

  The tears came then, and they relaxed her taut body and released her pent-up feelings. After a while she stopped and looking at me with a grin on her blotchy face, said in a wobbly tone, ‘Coo – I feel ever so much better. Honestly I do.’

  We both started to laugh, but the laugh ended awkwardly, a silence descended, and we sat looking doubtfully at each other.

  I tried to start a new topic. ‘Who were those two women you pointed out to me?’

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ said Phyllis, seeming to cheer up and become enthusiastic. ‘They’re really my two favourites. They’re absolute honeys. Mrs Betts – she’s the old girl, she’s about forty-three I think –’

  ‘That’s a bit old to be producing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s her first. But the tragedy is they think it’s a Mongol.’

  ‘Oh no, Phyllis. How awful!’ A shiver of horror passed over me.

  ‘It’s
not certain, of course. I’ve got a sort of faint hope, but the percentage of Mongols in older women is high, especially if it’s the first.’

  ‘Oh what a shame!’

  ‘And she wanted a baby so badly. They’ve always wanted children, and they’ve been married twenty years.’

  ‘It seems too cruel. Does she know yet?’

  ‘I think she guesses something is wrong. When I went in last night before my day off – I always go and say goodnight to them – she was weeping buckets over the babe. Jolly nearly had me in tears too.’

  There was a pause. ‘I gather you like it better here now than you did?’ I suggested.

  ‘Jane,’ said Phyllis earnestly, ‘I love it. Honestly it’s really got hold of me. I couldn’t do anything else now for any reason, not any other sort of life or any other sort of nursing.’

  ‘The last time I heard, you hated every second of midder. If you never saw another baby again it would be too soon. You’re not pulling my leg, are you?’ I added suspiciously.

  ‘No, honestly,’ she said. ‘Once you’re used to it – used to being treated as a hundred per cent moron and used to the bad food and the worse pay – then it suddenly gets hold of you. It seems a creation every time a baby is delivered.’

  ‘I suppose it either gets you or it doesn’t,’ I said, rather embarrassed.

  ‘You’re right there. It’s really bitten me now,’ Phyllis meditated.

  ‘You’re sure you’re not just making this do,’ I suggested. ‘Because Mike’s fallen through.’

  ‘All right,’ she said snappily, ‘you can think that if you like. It isn’t so, of course. But go ahead and think it.’

  ‘I’m sorry – only Phyllis you used to keep saying how you hated midwifery. Now I suppose you’ll go on and do Part Two.’

  ‘You bet I will. What’s more, I shall get a job afterwards in a midder hospital.’

  ‘Well,’ I said half convinced. ‘I suppose you really do mean it.’

  There was a short silence. Phyllis broke it by saying: ‘I did hate it all at first, Jane. In hospital one gets all the sordid cases, girls who aren’t married, and mothers of nine, and none of them want the babies. But I don’t know – it gets you somehow.’