by Jane Grant
She went on to talk about life on the Labour Ward where she was working. The Registrar with his standard joke as he came on his round: ‘How are all the labouring women?’
‘Greeted of course with the standard-titter. And after that there’s always a lot of backchat about, “What does Father think of Baby’s squint? Hair looks like a lavatory brush, doesn’t it?” And the mums go all coy and say, “I don’t care what you say, Doctor, he’s beautiful!” And of course, “You wait, Doctor, till you have one of your own”.’
‘And then there are cries of “Doctor, you are awful”,’ I suggested cynically.
‘Yes, it’s very funny really.’
‘Sounds just too side-splitting,’ I said cuttingly.
‘But you’ve got to see them, Jane. One thing I’ve noticed is that every time you mention a baby to its mother, she always turns to look in the cot to see if it’s still there. And then she puts an arm over the cot, sort of protective. It’s a kind of reflex, rather touching really.’
She went on to tell me about her other favourite patient, Rosa. ‘It’s too dreadful about her, really. Honestly it makes me feel ashamed for the male sex.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, she’s such a sweet kid really. A real honey, and she married this bod last year and about a month before the twins were due the police came after him. Apparently he had neglected to tell her he already had one wife, and when she asked him why, he said he’d forgotten. So here she is with prem twins and she’s had just about every post-natal complication she could have and of course her will to live was down to zero. At first she wouldn’t look at the babes, spent her time weeping and throwing her wedding ring around. So last week I insisted and pushed her along to see them.’
‘What effect did that have?’
‘Well, it’s always supposed to be the acid test. Once these mums see their unwanted babes they exclaim “Isn’t he loverly” and everything in the garden’s rosy – anyway for a bit. But I thought at first I’d dropped a brick, because they looked terrible, scrawny and wizened. However, it seemed to do the trick. Now she’s got out the old knitting needles again and nothing’s too good for them.’
‘And is she getting better?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Now she’s happier her temperature seems to be settling and she’s coming alive again. These post-natal complications are always worse when a woman’s in a disturbed state of mind. So David says.’
‘David!’
‘Yes, David,’ said Phyllis half-defiantly. ‘Didn’t I tell you I’d been seeing him?’
‘David Anderson?’ I asked, wondering if this was some completely new personality.
‘Of course David Anderson, bird-brain. Do you know, Jane,’ she went on, looking at me with an astonished expression, ‘he’s not what I thought. He isn’t pompous. He’s quite a simple soul really.’
‘Really?’ I said with assumed surprise.
‘I tell you one thing that’ll surprise you,’ she went on in a tone of awe, as if she was about to impart one of the seven wonders of the world. ‘He hasn’t even kissed me yet!’
‘Go on!’ I exclaimed. ‘Is he all there?’
‘Oh yes, I think so,’ she said quite seriously. ‘He treats me very nicely and firmly, and never makes a pass. I don’t really know what to think of him.’
We spent the rest of the day chattering about Phyllis’s patients and recalling old times at St Bernard’s, and it wasn’t until I was back on the train to London that I realised I hadn’t told her a word about Donald. Perhaps my maxim to Mary about not saying anything about the man you were really interested in was true.
Chapter Twenty-four
Sister Judgeson on Gynie Theatre was a sweet middle-aged woman with wisdom and kindness written all over her face. She was everything a good sister should be; thoughtful for the patients, considerate of the surgeons, and patient with the nurses.
The head Staff Nurse, Harris, on the other hand was inclined to be quick-tempered, and was very cynical. She was a plain girl, and frustrated, and not being sought after herself, she made her objects of persecution those who were. There was a very pretty junior doing her period of theatre training there; she was a pleasant girl but fatally attractive to the men, and though for her own good she tried to put them off, they began to ask for her as soon as they came into the theatre. She became known as Venus.
After I had been in the theatre about a week, Sister asked me to scrub for a hysterectomy for Mr Carlisle, one of the three consultants that operated there. He was a charming man, due to retire fairly soon, and as I waited nervously by my trolley, he came up and spoke to me.
‘Good morning, Staff,’ he murmured politely. ‘What a lovely day! Much too nice for you girls to be in here, isn’t it?’ He nodded to Harris. ‘Now, let me see, yes – this is Mrs Hiscott, isn’t it? Sweet soul, sweet soul! Such a pity she’s got to have her uterus out, but fibroids, oh dear! So many fibroids. And she did want children. Still, I suppose it’s really for her own good. Let me see now,’ he rambled on, ‘you haven’t scrubbed for me before, have you? Well, I’m sure you’ll do very well, very well indeed. Ah – good morning, Nurse,’ he continued, nodding at Venus. ‘Still as pretty as ever!’
So saying, he caught his registrar by the arm, and still discussing the case, led him into the scrub-up, while the wretched Venus writhed under Harris’s caustic glare.
The hysterectomy went smoothly, but as I walked into the Nurses’ Room to wash after it, I found Venus huddled in a corner sobbing bitterly.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, going to her.
‘Nothing – n-n-nothing at all, really, Staff.’
‘Has Harris been after you,’ I demanded.
She nodded miserably. ‘Honestly, I’m fed up with this. She says I flaunt myself in front of the men, and she called me cheap, and she said if I was a quarter of the nurse I am a flirt I would be the Gold Medallist!’
She broke down again.
‘Oh don’t worry,’ I said placatingly. ‘She doesn’t mean it. She gets rather worried, she has a lot of responsibility, you know.’
‘I don’t care if she does,’ said the girl defiantly. ‘I hate her and she makes my life hell.’
‘It’s no good minding, lots of people will try to do that,’ I said, and left the room to find Harris.
She was in the anaesthetic room, checking the drugs that had been used during the morning. I saw by a particularly disagreeable scowl that she was in even a worse mood than usual.
‘What did you get on to Venus for?’ I asked as casually as possible.
She snorted. ‘If she’d only do her work and stop flirting we’d be able to run this theatre,’ she said nastily.
‘She doesn’t flirt, and you know it.’
‘You wouldn’t know,’ she said bitterly. ‘You’re the same sort yourself.’ She banged the cupboard door and stalked out.
The rest of the week Harris, though charm itself when Sister was on duty, the moment Sister went off started to harry me and Venus like a dog chasing a fox. She had the power to give us all the disagreeable jobs, and to complain that they weren’t done properly; to humiliate us in front of the other nurses and generally to make us as unhappy as possible. At the end of the week our only respite was removed when Sister went on holiday, and Harris was left in charge of the theatre.
On Monday evening, after an exceptionally gruelling day, Mary rang me up. She had answered the telephone for me in the Nurses’ Home from someone called Donald.
‘Who’s he?’ she demanded.
‘Oh, someone I met at home. What did he want?’
‘He wants to take you to a theatre some time. Will you ring him when you’re free.’
My heart bounded, I asked as casually as I could: ‘What did he sound like?’
‘Oh, very abrupt. By the way, Jane, I shan’t be in till late this evening. I’m going to the Festival Hall with Mike.’
‘Have a good time.’
‘How are you? Is Harris
still leading you a dance?’
‘I’ll say. Here she comes.’ I rang off abruptly and promptly got bellowed at for using the telephone on duty.
‘It was Sister Trevelyan,’ I said with cold dignity. ‘She wanted to know what Mr Bell used for sutures in a plastic removal of a mole.’
Harris looked deflated, and I wondered how I could lie so fluently. Was it something to do with the fact that my heart was leaping in the clouds?
‘By the way,’ I added distantly, ‘could you tell me when I can have an evening this week.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Harris crossly. ‘The off duty is all changed.’
‘Very well,’ I said sweetly, ‘I’ll ask Sister Blythe if she can arrange it.’ I started towards the door fully intending to carry out my threat when she called me back and grudgingly let me have Thursday.
She then said crossly: ‘I want the linen sorted for tomorrow and will you try to do it quickly for once – if anything beyond a snail’s pace isn’t more than you can cope with.’
The digs and side remarks were beginning to have less effect on me, and I could receive them all with at least an appearance of equanimity. When I got off duty I rushed over to the Nurses’ Home and rang up Donald.
‘Hullo!’ I cried breathlessly.
‘Good evening,’ he replied formally.
I was rather dashed. ‘Er – I had a message that you had rung up,’ I said in a small voice, thinking there must have been a ghastly mistake.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, as though he had just thought of it. ‘I wondered if you’d like to go to a theatre – if you’re free of course.’
‘Thursday evening,’ I answered promptly.
‘Good. Then I’ll meet you at the hospital, if that’s all right?’
‘Perfectly,’ I replied with enthusiasm.
‘About seven?’
‘Grand!’ I cried happily.
‘Good,’ he said rather distantly. ‘I’ll see you then,’ and we rang off.
He’s very very shy, I thought to myself consolingly – I hope.
I ran off upstairs, glad that Mary was out, so I needn’t face the barrage of inevitable questions.
Thursday seemed quite a normal day. The sun wasn’t shining particularly brightly, no one else was ecstatically happy or seemed to think the day particularly important. But I was walking on air. Even the deflating atmosphere of the theatre was unable to dampen my spirits, and I got told off twice, once in front of the cleaner and once in front of a junior, for singing while I prepared the instruments for the morning’s list.
Harris’s glum stare throughout the morning and afternoon sessions were quite unable to depress me; in fact as the day wore on I became more and more perky, noticing with delight that it had an irritating effect on Harris.
I was just going off to tea, happy in the contemplation that another hour or so would see me getting ready for a different sort of theatre, when the telephone went. It seemed to strike a faintly ominous note at the back of my mind, and when Harris strode through the door looking purposeful I resigned myself to having no tea.
‘That was Mr Carlisle,’ she said. ‘He has a patient dying of cancer and wants to perform a Caesarian section straight away. You can scrub. It will have to be a quick one, because the mother can’t stand much anaesthetic.’
‘Oh dear!’ I cried. ‘How dreadful!’
‘Isn’t it?’ she said. A fleeting expression of pity passed over her face, and for a brief moment we were in sympathy with one another.
‘I’ll get your instruments out,’ she said quickly. ‘You get the trolley ready. Sister Potter is coming up to take the baby. We expect the patient in ten minutes.’
I quickly replaced my theatre cap and hurried into the theatre. Most Caesarian sections are performed at a great speed, usually because they are an emergency measure, and also because the baby should have as little of the anaesthetic as possible. In the theatre the instruments were kept separately and sterile, so that as little time as possible would be wasted in preparation.
Harris and I both flew round getting the trolleys and theatre ready, and within five minutes I was getting scrubbed up for the case. Then I returned to the theatre and set my trolley out, and a few minutes later the patient was wheeled in. She was emaciated and faintly yellow, and had already been anaesthetised.
Then everything seemed to happen at once. Mr Carlisle rushed in gowned and gloved; the Registrar snatched the paint out of my hand spilling it over the trolley and knocking the towels I had prepared out of my grasp. I called for more, but they did not come quickly enough, and Mr Carlisle, normally so kind and gentle but now upset by the type of case, bawled at me: ‘Why don’t you get the trolley ready?’
The Registrar explained, but this only seemed to make matters worse.
‘Knife!’ cried the surgeon, when we got the towels sorted out.
The case was a difficult one, demanding all his skill. I tried to keep my head, but I was flustered and upset over the towels.
‘Where are the retractors, damn you!’ shouted Mr Carlisle.
‘There, sir,’ I said, trying to keep my voice normal.
‘Well – hand them to me, child!’ he cried, and snatched them before I could reach them.
Sister Potter was seemingly occupied in running pointlessly from one side of the theatre to the other, while Harris put me off further by yelling at me to move faster.
After what seemed an eternity, but was in reality three minutes, the baby was freed and handed abruptly over to Sister Potter, who immediately quietened down.
‘Sutures!’ yelled Mr Carlisle. ‘I said sutures!’ he repeated, even as I handed the needle to him.
Within ten minutes the operation was completed. After the patient was wheeled out I stood shaking like a jelly. I had done nothing wrongly, but everyone was so upset by the tragic case that every incident had been blown up to twice its normal size and the whole thing was out of proportion. I felt that if someone else said something to me I should burst into tears. I felt quite incapable of moving or of doing anything for myself, so I stood shaking and nervously wiping my forehead.
Mr Carlisle came out of the scrub-up where he had discarded his gloves and gown. He looked at me sympathetically and said simply: ‘I’m sorry.’
That was the touch too much and I burst into tears. He was immediately overcome by contrition.
‘My dear,’ he said gently, putting his arm round my shoulders, ‘these cases are very tragic and I’m afraid I became a little overwrought. You really did very well, you know.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I spluttered. ‘I got in a state and –’
‘I know, I know,’ he said consolingly. ‘But it’s all over now. At least the baby is all right.’
Just as we were standing like this, Harris re-entered the theatre. Carlisle glanced at her, and patting me on the back, went out.
That Harris was in a state I knew by her flushed face, but I did not know her well enough to realise that she was also in a furious temper.
She confronted me, her eyes narrowed, her hands clenched.
‘I suppose you’re satisfied now,’ she said vitriolically. ‘You made a mess of that, and now you’ve managed to butter up Carlisle. It’s the last case you scrub here, my girl! From now on you’re outside for every session, and I’m going to tell Blythe you’ve been most uncooperative.’
I was staggered. ‘Why – what have I done?’
‘Your whole attitude – couldn’t care less – you have undermined my authority with the juniors, and haven’t attempted to help me in my work in any way at all.’
‘But –’
‘This case too, you made a mess of it from start to finish, and it’ll all come back on me.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said angrily, my overwrought nerves stretched to screaming point. ‘You’re just upset about the whole case in the same way as we all are.’
I looked up at the clock. ‘As I didn’t have my tea break, might I go off now?’ I aske
d with cold fury.
‘No, you may not,’ she retorted through clenched teeth. ‘You can stay on and help me for a change.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, trying to fight down the flood of temper mixed with despair that was beginning to overwhelm me. ‘I’m going out tonight. I’ll come on early if it’s any help, but I’m not staying on late tonight.’
‘That’s what you think!’ she cried. ‘Clear this theatre up!’
‘Look, Harris,’ I said firmly, ‘you’ve made my life hell here – I don’t know what I’ve ever done to you, but I think you’ve just got too much power here and you use it badly. I’m going to see Sister Blythe to ask if I may go if you won’t let me.’
‘All right – go! And I’ll ring her up to tell her you’re coming.’
So saying, she marched out of the theatre, and I rushed to the Nurses’ Room to change and see Sister before too much poison had been laid down.
When I arrived at the main theatres I was overcome by nervousness and remorse. It was a terrible thing to get Harris into a mess with the Superintendent, but at the same time I knew the position was intolerable. Anyway, it was too late now to back down.
I knocked, and after a pause of some seconds that disembodied voice called out sharply: ‘Come in.’
I went in.
‘Nurse Grant,’ said the little woman behind the big desk in an icy voice. ‘Come in. I’ve been expecting you. What right have you to question someone I place in authority over you?’
Her hard stare disconcerted me; my mouth went dry, but I managed to say: ‘I have never questioned her authority, Sister, but Nurse Harris has never liked me and has always pulled my work to pieces.’
‘Did it ever occur to you, Nurse,’ cut in Sister acidly, ‘that your work might not be up to standard?’
I was effectively silenced.
‘This sort of thing won’t do at all, Nurse Grant. Nurse Harris is in charge of the theatre. She has the responsibility and must give the orders.’
‘She wouldn’t let me go off this evening,’ I said weakly.
‘I believe you have left a lot of unfinished work. Theatre nurses should be tidy, you know.’
