I wrote to tell Phil, posted it in time to catch the Sunday-afternoon post, took an evening train back to London after an early supper at home. I was in no mood for sociable reunions with the girls.
Home Sister’s secretary showed me to my temporary room; and waited while I tried on the uniform I was being loaned until my own arrived from the annexe. Being in such an exalted establishment, my next-door-room neighbours did not come in for a gossip, and I had a cast-iron excuse for not ringing my set with the glad news that I was back among them. The telephone in that particular floor stood outside the senior Sister Tutor’s room.
As I was the only staff nurse at that time in the Sisters’ Home, and the sisters had their own breakfast at eight, whereas staff nurses ate with the nurses-in-training from seven to seven-thirty, there was no getting-up bell. I overslept, and woke just in time to throw on my borrowed uniform, race over the road and into the dining-room three minutes before Night Sister rose to say a final grace.
My set choked over their last cups of tea. ‘Kirsty! Where’ve you sprung from?’
‘The Sisters’ Home. Tell you all later, girls. I must have at least one cup of tea ‒ oh, no! She’s standing up!’
Two staff nurses worked in Casualty. My opposite number was a hefty young woman in the late twenties. Her name was Nurse Laxton, she was four years my senior in hospital time, and although we knew each other by sight, we had never exchanged three non-shop words. We did not that morning. ‘Sister Casualty will be on early, Francis. She wants you on the surgical side. Will you check the drums?’ She surveyed the dispensary book with a resigned expression. ‘How our Cas juniors manage to use up so much ether daily is beyond me.’
Casualty Hall began to fill with patients soon after eight despite the appointments system. So many ‘casual casualties’ brought themselves up that by nine, when the Casualty Officers arrived for routine duty, there were only a few empty seats left in the department.
Sister Casualty told me I was replacing Staff Nurse Mayhew, but did not explain where she had gone. ‘Nurse Laxton told you I wanted you on the surgical side? Good. Room 17 for you this morning. Minor female surgery. You remember the routine? Good. The dressers will be in to help you shortly. Now, then, who is your Casualty Officer?’ She consulted the long list containing the names of the sixty-odd residents on the Simeon’s proper staff. ‘It should be Mr Bartney ‒ but his finger has not yet healed. It will be Mr Leonard all to-day.’
Room 17 was the largest dressing-room in Casualty. The bench against the wall was lined with ladies removing old bandages and swapping the most gruesome hospital horror stories. ‘He said he’d never seen a kidney like it! I tell you, dear ‒ it had just crumbled away. “Mrs Hill,” he says to me, “I don’t know how you’ve stood the pain. A heroine ‒ that’s what you are.” He was a lovely young gentleman that Mr Carter-Smith. You been under Mr Carter-Smith, dear? Your kidney bad? Never mind, dear, you got two, that’s what I always say ‒’
The dressing-chairs by the trolleys were filled; two ladies in wheel-chairs sat by the sinks soaking injured feet in antiseptic solution.
The third-year nurse who had been sorting the patients gave me her list, the room log-book, and two piles of Casualty cards. ‘Old customers on the right, new on the left.’
The four students who were to act as dressers came in, rolled up their shirt-sleeves, fixed their ties inside their shirts, fished disposable masks from the glass jar by the door, and came over to me, hitching them on. ‘Where do we start, Nurse?’
Mr Leonard ambled in. He was built on the same lines as the Druro brothers, but lacked their grace. A pleasant young man, he always reminded me of an amiable baby elephant. ‘’Morning, ladies!’ He nodded to me. ‘Annexe to the rescue, again, eh, Nurse Francis?’
He was a great friend of Arthur Jennings, had come down to the annexe on Boxing Day. ‘Yes, indeed, Mr Leonard.’
‘Ah, well ‒ down to work.’ He washed his hands. ‘Who’s first?’
He was an efficient C.O. He never seemed to hurry, but he got through an incredible amount of work in a very short time, and yet was always very thorough. ‘We’ll need a picture of this lady’s ankle, please, Nurse. X-ray in chair.’ He handed me a card, moved on. ‘Hmm. I’m afraid you’ll have to have some stitches in this, my dear. Mind stitches? No? Good girl. Nurse.’ Another card came my way.
The dressers were busy with stitching-trays, wheeling patients off to X-ray, the Senior Casualty Officer’s room, the patients’ canteen for a reviving cuppa after stitches.
‘Nurse ‒ I’ve got to get back to me baby by ten. Could the doctor see me now?’
‘Nurse’ ‒ Mr Leonard thrust another card at me ‒ ‘this lady must see the Senior Surgical Officer. I think she may have to come in. Will you fix?’
‘Nurse, do we have any Spencer Wells in this joint?’ demanded a student. ‘How can I set a tray with just this lot?’
‘Please dear’ ‒ an elderly lady beckoned from the room doorway ‒ ‘I’ve got a letter from my doctor. Do I come in here?’
I dealt with each request as fast as I could. The waiting ladies shook their heads at each other, agreed you needed four pairs of hands and eyes to be a nurse, and rather me than them. ‘Mind you, dear, you got to be born to it. It’s a vocation, that’s what.’
I gave Sister Casualty the message about the S.S.O. She sighed. ‘If she has to come in she’ll have to go into the Private Wing. All the general surgical ward beds are full. All right, Nurse. Get back to your room.’
I noticed the hall clock on my way back. Five past ten. The Professor should just be starting his teaching round in Mark. Johnny, if he was back ‒ and I guessed he was, since the annexe could not spare registrars for more than a weekend ‒ should have finished his first round.
The hall was crowded. I felt quite agonizingly lonely. Then Mr Leonard called from 17’s doorway. ‘This lady, Mrs Bloom’ ‒ he came out to me and lowered his voice ‒ ‘ought to see a cardiologist. Her pulse is doing the oddest things. I don’t want to scare her. Can I leave her to you?’
I sent a message to Sister, had a little talk to Mrs Bloom, promised another lady she would certainly be home to cook her man’s dinner, organized a porter as escort for another X-ray case, brought in two ladies from the hall to take the empty places on the bench.
Mr Leonard washed his hands again. ‘Nice and quiet for a Monday,’ he remarked placidly. ‘And the next?’
The morning flew by, and, apart from that moment of loneliness, there was no time to think of anything but the job. I was used to working fast in Mark, but the pace necessary for what Mr Leonard called a nice, quiet Monday morning in Casualty left me as breathless as a first-year junior.
Our room and our benches in the hall were cleared by twelve. Sister Casualty was very pleased. ‘Mr Leonard and Nurse Francis, will you go and finish off in 21 while Mr Dodd and Nurse Laxton go to lunch.’
21, minor male surgical, was 17’s opposite number. Mr Leonard was examining the last of the remaining patients when a man in workman’s overalls limped in, sat down.
‘The Sister said to come in here.’ He pushed his cap back on his head and produced a pipe. ‘Any objections, Nurse?’
‘None, for myself. But we use a lot of ether in here. I’m afraid ‒ no smoking.’
‘Wouldn’t like to start no explosion, Nurse.’ He put away his pipe. ‘Knocking things down is more my line. Working on a job for you now, I am.’
‘The Medical School Wing?’ I copied his name from the Casualty card to the log-book.
‘That’s right. Me mate dropped his hod on me foot. Cor! Better not tell you what I called him!’
I smiled. ‘Better not, indeed. Good ‒ here’s the doctor.’
Sister sent me to second lunch at twelve-thirty. Our dining-room was beyond the foot of the Surgical Block stairs. As I walked by I made myself utterly miserable by thinking back to Saturday morning, and just what I had said and how Johnny had looked.
I
was so sunk in gloom that I ignored the oncoming posse of white coats, and when their ranks split to let me through I did not even bother to murmur ‘thank you’. The only man in a white coat I wanted to look at or talk to was miles away.
They had gone on before I realized someone had wished me a good-morning. I recognized the voice in retrospect. I felt as if I had had an electric shock.
I spun round. It was Johnny. There was no mistaking the typical Druro walk, and David did not yet wear long white coats. He had walked right up to and by me without my seeing him at all.
Ann Farwood, one of my set, was at lunch. ‘Kirsty, why didn’t you come and see us last night?’
I explained I was living it up among the sisters. ‘Can you see me having a girlish goss outside Sister Tute’s room?’
‘My God! No!’ She laughed with me. ‘This place must seem like an annexe of the annexe with so many of you up here to-day.’
‘I’ve just seen Johnny Druro. Sonia and Paul Brewster still here?’
‘Still here and needed. Have you heard the S.S.O. has been running a temperature all morning? And Hugh Eccles, Charlie Gill, and Simon Thomas. That’s nine residents down with ’flu ‒ seven of them surgeons, and not including Richard Bartney, because he’s not actually warded.’
‘I didn’t realize so many had been hit.’
‘My dear, the men are just going down like that. We nurses are tougher ‒ but creeping up. Six warded to this lunchtime. Ginny Mayhew springing that acute appendix yesterday morning must have seemed the last straw to Matron. By the grace of God the annexe is quiet, and so she’s been able to draw on you lot.’
‘Yes. It’s just as well it is quiet.’ It seemed Johnny was not the only person who went round mentally maligning innocent individuals. ‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’
I was off from two until five. My luggage and a note from Home Sister were in my loaned room. ‘Please only unpack essentials. Nurse Mayhew’s room in the Staff Nurses’ Home will be ready for you in the morning.’
Simeon’s proper was a very big place. The main ground-floor corridor was half a mile long. There were literally miles of other corridors. The theatre clock was the far end, from Casualty and what was left of the Medical School. I did not catch a glimpse of Sonia, Aline Sands, Richard, or David during that day. But Casualty was like Piccadilly Circus in more ways than one. Sooner or later everyone in the hospital, particularly the residents, walked through it.
When I went back on duty, Johnny, Sister Casualty, and another surgical registrar called George Halliday were talking together outside the Ophthalmic department. If Johnny saw me he gave no sign.
The hall was empty compared to that morning, but still moderately busy. About an hour later when we were really quiet Paul Brewster came through, saw me outside 17, and wove his way through the empty benches.
‘Hail to a fellow-exile! Missing the fine, sweet scent of pines?’
‘I’ll say. How’s the theatre, Paul?’
‘Do you mind, Kirsty! Kindly remember you are back in the old firm! Theatre, indeed! St Simeon’s Hospital, London, has five splendid theatres ‒ and the whole ruddy lot are working.’
I apologised. ‘Anyone else got ’flu?’
‘Not since the S.S.O. collapsed with splendid drama and a temp of one hundred and four outside the Dean’s Office this morning. You should have seen it! Johnny Druro and George Halliday lugged him along to the lift and then up to Simeon between them. George says he’s thinking of doing a daily ‘bring out your dead’ round of all staff quarters. Save a lot of time.’
‘It might at that.’ Simeon and Nightingale were the wards reserved for sick male and female staff respectively. ‘Simeon and Nightingale’ll soon be the busiest places in the hospital.’
‘Is that so? If you want to know what work is ‒ take a butcher’s along at the theatre block.’
I smiled. ‘Then forgive my asking, but what are you doing in Cas, Paul?’
‘Just a simple refugee from the knife. Why did I take up medicine?’
‘It’s a vocation, Mr Brewster. That’s what. According to the ladies in 17 this morning.’
‘Nice to know that.’ He smiled, pottered off.
Sister came out of her office. ‘Did Mr Brewster want anything, or was he just passing through?’
‘Just passing, Sister.’
She was tall as Sonia, young, with very good eyes. ‘As I thought. I’ve tried but never succeeded in stopping our young men using my department as a short cut. Between ourselves,’ she went on with a smile, ‘I wouldn’t mind if they were not at all so large, and apparently getting larger. We haven’t one dresser this week who is not outsized. Have you noticed?’
I said, ‘I hadn’t. I do, now you mention it. They are all huge ‒ and so are the residents.’
She said it had only occurred to her while talking to Mr Bernard Kidd recently. ‘He is my height, and I had never thought him particularly small in the past, then I observed he was being dwarfed by his registrar, houseman, and students. Matron tells me our nurses are very much taller than they used to be. You are clearly the exception to prove the rule, Nurse Francis.’ She looked me over and grinned. ‘What could be described as a trim little creature, Nurse! How tall are you?’
‘Five-three, Sister. I just made the minimum height.’
I had grown so accustomed to working with the formidable Sister Mark that I had forgotten what fun it could be to work with a human, modern young Sister.
Sister Casualty talked as if we were contemporaries ‒ which was true ‒ and, although there was no question about who was in charge, she was not only ready to unbend with her staff nurses, it never occurred to her to do anything else. She told me all about Ginny’s appendix, the S.S.O.’s collapse, and the latest admissions to Nightingale. ‘Ten nurses now, and Mr Halliday was just saying he thought Miss Spender, the J.O.H.P. (Junior Obstetrical House Physician), looked very flushed. I expect she’ll be the next victim, poor girl.’ She looked round the hall. ‘As we are so quiet, let us leave Mr Leonard and the dressers to their own devices and get our week’s rota work organized.’ She produced a slip of paper from her bib. ‘First I must tell you to ignore the present surgeons’ on-call-list. There has been a complete reshuffle. Mr Halliday is now acting S.S.O.; Mr Druro steps into his shoes as S.S.R. (Senior Surgical Registrar); Mr Ellis remains as S.C.O. (Senior Casualty Officer); Mr Dulain ‒’ She paused, tilted her head. ‘That thunder?’
‘Sounded like it.’ I looked at the window. It was dark outside, but the stars were clear. ‘Doesn’t look or feel thundery.’
There was a second rumble. Sister frowned. ‘That reminds me of something ‒ I know ‒ the war. Of course! It must be part of the old wing coming down. They are doing overtime on it, using floodlights. Let’s get into my office and get down to our rota.’
But before we could get down to anything the emergency light over her office door, which could only be switched on from Matron’s or the head porter’s office, flashed scarlet.
She raced to her office telephone with me at her heels. ‘Sister Casualty speaking.’ She looked at me. ‘Yes, Matron?’
Dawkins, the head porter, Mr Leonard, the dressers, and Nurse Margeson, the Casualty third-year, came in quickly while Sister was listening to Matron. Directly she put down the receiver Dawkins said, ‘I’ve flashed the theatres, Sister, and sent out a Casualty Scarlet. Mr Halliday’s already rung me. He’s on his way to the wing. Mr Druro’s to come down here.’
‘Good.’ Sister turned to us. ‘That was part of the old wing coming down, but not intentionally. Some unsuspected extra flaw in the foundations has caused a part to collapse too soon ‒ on the men working inside. Three workmen have already been brought out and will arrive here very shortly. Two, and possibly three, are still inside. Ah ‒ here’s Mr Ellis.’ She waited for the S.C.O. to join us. ‘You’ve heard?’
‘Only the Casualty Scarlet on my walkie-talkie, Sister.’
The Casualty Scarlet was the
Simeon’s signal for a major emergency in Cas. It was sent out by the head porter on the hospital transmitter, picked up by the small torch-like receivers all our residents carried in their coat breast pockets. When they heard that specific signal every resident not actually engaged on work that could not be left made for Casualty.
Sister repeated herself swiftly, picked up the special first-aid box always kept ready for such an emergency. I unlocked the drug cupboard while she was talking, handed Mr Ellis the small case containing hypodermic syringes, morphia, coramine, and adrenalin.
Sister told me to take over while she went with Mr Ellis to see what could be done outside.
The S.C.O. nodded at Mr Leonard. ‘Deal with this end.’
‘Right, sir.’ Mr Leonard reached out and grabbed two dressers who were about to disappear with the others. ‘Oh, no, you don’t. You’re on Cas this week. Remember? You stay with Uncle.’ Nurse Margeson was looking upset. ‘I wish we didn’t have to hang around, Nurse Francis.’
‘I know. But those three should be here any minute. Will you go and get on with the routine as fast ‒ as you were ‒ ordinary patient.’ An elderly man had limped through the entrance swing-doors. ‘21 by the look of him. Mr Leonard’s on. Will you cope, Margeson? And where’s that first-year?’ I swung round, searching for nurses. ‘Nurse ‒ and you, Nurse’ ‒ the second-year was behind her ‒ ‘come here, please.’
A girl with a cut wrist came in after the elderly man, and directly behind her a distraught young mother with a beaming small boy who had swallowed a shilling.
Mr Leonard came out of 21. ‘Ingrowing toenail. Been that way the last fifty years at a guess. Still, he had better hang around for the S.C.O. I did suggest he came back. He didn’t fancy it.’
He looked at his watch. ‘What the devil are they doing with those three chaps?’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe they’ve sent them straight to the wards. What’s also puzzling me is where have all our residents got to. No one seems to have heard that Cas Scarlet.’
He said they were probably all down the other end trying to win themselves George Medals. ‘Who do I have to see now?’
Flowers from the Doctor Page 15
