by Sue Reid
Monday 30 October
We’re going to throw a party for the officers. A bossy VAD’s formed a committee to take charge of the arrangements. Bunty’s joined it and tonight she dragged me along to a meeting. I discovered that I’d already been allocated a task – to organize the dance music. “It’s because you’re so musical,” I was told.
“What?” I exclaimed. Musical is one thing I’m not! And then, out of the corner of my eye I could see that Bunty was splitting her sides. She’s been pulling their legs. Bunty’s such a tease! I don’t know if she’s heard from her Lieutenant yet, but I think she must have, for she seems much more cheerful now.
The meeting had just ended when Molly stomped in, face nearly brushing the floor.
“I’m spending the next two weeks typing up forms and medical notes in the office,” she declared crossly.
I’d hate to do that job. Luckily, I won’t be. I can’t type.
Wednesday 8 November
I got another letter from Giles today. It was another blow-by-blow account of what he’s doing at his training school. It was pretty dull, though some of the flying does sound very exciting – spins and rolls and things like that. He’s hoping to become a Spitfire pilot.
I don’t know why he thinks I’d be interested in all that technical stuff. I’m much more interested in how he feels about me – and again there was nothing at all in his letter about that. Honestly, you’d think the wretched planes mattered more to him.
I told Bunty that I’d had another letter from Giles. She told me she was relieved. I could tell what she’d been thinking – that sometimes pilots are killed in training. I know that, of course. I just try not to think about it.
Spent the rest of the evening knitting “comforts” for the troops. Marjorie and Molly are knitting scarves. Molly’s is already as big as she is! My effort’s no better. It’s supposed to be a balaclava “helmet”. We’ve been told to leave only very small holes for the eyes. My holes seem to get bigger by the day and it’s all sort of bobbly. I feel sorry for the soldier who gets it. I don’t think he’ll find it very comforting.
Thursday 9 November
At supper this evening Molly told me that Jean Mason has got herself transferred – to the Surgical ward. Molly said that she went up to Matron – Matron! – and actually asked for the transfer. I gaped at her. I’d never dare to be as bold as that.
“She thinks she needs the experience,” Molly added.
Poor Molly! She loathes her new job. Our MO’s handwriting is the worst, she said. And practically everything has to be typed in triplicate.
She says the MOs hardly ever say a word to her – even when Matron isn’t around to check up on them. Already she’s desperate to return to the wards.
Sunday 12 November
There’s a stack of books on the box by Jean’s bed. I’d always assumed they were nursing manuals, but this evening I took a closer look at them. I hadn’t meant to be nosy, but I just couldn’t help it – the cover of the one on top had caught my eye. It wasn’t a nursing manual, it was a book on anatomy. Old, too. Well-thumbed. The sort of book a medical student would study – not a VAD. I knew I shouldn’t, but I had a quick peep inside. It looked very complicated. Why, I wondered, did Jean need to know all this stuff? And then I remembered what Molly had told me – about Jean asking Matron if she could transfer to the Surgical ward. I’d always thought there was a bit of a mystery about Jean Mason – and now I felt sure I was right.
There was a name on the book’s inside cover. Alastair Mason. The ink had faded so I knew that it must have been written a long time ago. Who was Alastair Mason? I wondered. Was he her father? Was he a doctor?
Suddenly I felt disgusted with myself. What did I think I was doing – prying into matters that weren’t anything to do with me? Already I’d found out more than I had any right to know.
Jean came in later and settled down on her bed. I watched as she leaned across and picked up one of the books off the box. Suddenly out it came: “Do you want to be a doctor?” Just like that.
Jean just looked at me. “Yes,” she said at last, quietly.
“That’s marvellous,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll be a very good one,” I prattled on, without thinking what I was saying. Jean was silent. Her face looked even paler than usual. “It’s all right for you,” her eyes seemed to say.
I stopped. I felt bewildered.
“My father was a doctor,” she said abruptly. “I wanted to be one too – always did – but then he died and. . .” She stopped suddenly and looked away.
Slowly I began to piece it all together. All the little things that hadn’t made any sense. Like why she’d been upset about our pay and why she’s always so reluctant to take even a biscuit from me. She can’t share back. She’s poor. And worst of all, there wasn’t the money to pay for her training.
I felt so sorry for her. I leaned across and touched her hand. Jean smiled tiredly at me. “It’s all right,” she said.
It wasn’t.
Not everyone is as lucky as me. I can’t imagine what it must be like not to be able to do something you really want – just because there’s no money. Poor Jean. Sometimes life can be so unfair.
I smiled back at her. I’m going to make a real effort to be a friend to Jean – if she’ll let me.
Monday 13 November
Molly reported back to Ward B today.
“Missed this, did you?” I murmured to her while we were doing the bumpering this morning.
“Anything’s better than working in the office,” she said vehemently, forgetting that we were in the middle of the ward. “Oops,” she said, clapping a hand to her mouth and looking around nervously in case Sister had heard. The patients giggled.
After we’d finished bumpering, Nurse Winter talked me though a dressing she was doing. On a medical ward they’re usually for chest ailments – no nasty wounds to clean. She told me about the first time she saw a dressing being changed on a surgical ward. “I nearly fainted clean away,” she laughed. When she says things like that, I’m so relieved that I don’t work on a surgical ward.
Sunday 19 November
Arrangements for our party are going swimmingly. All the officers from miles around are coming – so the rumour goes. I hope it’s wrong. We’ve booked the upstairs room at The George. It’s a large room, but even there we’d never fit them all in.
Monday 20 November
At breakfast today we learned that three soldiers from the British Expeditionary Force arrived on the ward last night. I was in a huge panic as I pushed open the ward doors. What if one of them was Peter? How would I cope? Visions of horrible illnesses kept flashing through my mind. I told myself I was just being silly. But what awful things do our soldiers pick up, squelching about in the French mud?
The men seemed quite cheerful when I took round their milk puddings later on. (And – huge relief! – Peter wasn’t one of them.) They told me that they’re jolly relieved to be back in Blighty, and to be cared for in a proper hospital. All three of them have bad tummy upsets. I’m not surprised that tummy bugs are rife amongst the men out in France. It can’t be easy feeding an army in the field. Our cooks find it hard enough in the hospital kitchen!
Like Peter, these lads are serving in the Infantry but none of them are from his unit. They’ve quite put our other patients’ noses out of joint. We stare at them in awe. They’re our first casualties from the Front in France and I think they’re enjoying all the fuss. Of course, none of them has seen any action yet.
Tuesday 21 November
Private Abbott, one of our new patients, was awfully sick this morning. His pale face looked up at me as I mopped up around him. “I’m sorry, miss,” he said. I smiled brightly at him. I’d only just finished when I noticed that his face was looking a bit green again. Round went the screens, off came the sheets and this time I had to give him a proper was
h. As I did this I noticed that he seemed awfully hot. I went to fetch Sister.
“I think Private Abbott’s feverish,” I told her. She came over to the bed and took out her thermometer. She started to shake it but suddenly she stopped and handed it to me.
“You do it, Nurse Langley,” she said. I popped the thermometer into the Private’s mouth. I was right – he did have a temperature. 100 degrees. I pulled the blanket down to the bottom of the bed to help cool him. When I looked up I saw that Sister was regarding me thoughtfully.
Our poor Private was still unwell this afternoon. He couldn’t keep anything down. I’d just finished mopping up again when Sister’s head popped round my shoulder.
“Oh, Nurse, could you do the patients’ TPRs for me?”
I looked up at her, cloth in hand. I felt dizzy. I was being asked to do the TPRs. Proper nursing at last. And this was only the beginning. . .
Sister’s voice broke into my dream. “The TPRs, please, Nurse Langley!” she said, her old irritable self again.
I didn’t hesitate any longer. I was terrified she’d change her mind. I went round that ward, thermometer in hand, feeling so proud. After nearly three months here I actually think Sister’s beginning to trust me.
Saturday 25 November
I’m writing this tucked under the bedcovers. It’s icy in our room. Anne writes that it’s unutterably freezing up in Leeds.
It was the VADs’ party tonight. Terrific success, so the officers said. And we had gone to a lot of trouble – decorated the room with streamers and danced to music by Henry Hall and Glen Miller.
Jean Mason came too! I’d bullied her into it – and I’m really glad I did. She looked so happy, a huge beam on her face as she was swung round the dance floor. She looked pretty, too – a bit of colour in her clever face.
After we’d got back, Molly went to fetch cocoa and we chewed over the evening together – all of us, even Jean. We squeezed up together on the beds.
“Why are we whispering?” Bunty said suddenly, quite loudly. “We’re not keeping anyone awake.”
We were in our tiny room.
Suddenly there was a creak outside the door.
“Madam on patrol,” Bunty murmured in a loud whisper. We all shut up at once, and then I heard someone giggle as though she couldn’t help herself. It was Jean!
“Who were you dancing with?” Bunty said boldly to Jean, when the creaking had stopped. “He looked nice.”
I heard another giggle. It was Jean again.
“Which one do you mean?” she managed to get out through her giggles.
I began to giggle too – helplessly.
“You’re hopeless, you two,” said Bunty. I couldn’t see her face in the dark, but I could sense that she was smiling.
It was nice. I wouldn’t say that Jean’s absolutely one of the gang now, but I do like her and I can tell that the others are warming to her, too.
It was very late when the girls crept back to the dorm. Jean was already fast asleep on top of her bed. I pulled the blankets up over her. As for me, it’s a jolly good thing I don’t have to get up at six. From tomorrow I’m on nights. No more Sister Rook. Bliss!
Monday 27 November
Night duty on Ward B is hard work because there’s just one Sister and two VADs on duty – Molly and me. Between us we have to do everything.
We reported for duty, sharp at eight. The day staff had already put up the blackout boards and only a thin light filtered into the ward from Sister’s office.
When I arrived she was still closeted with Sister Rook. After Sister Rook had finished handing over, the Night Sister – that’s Sister Adams – called us in. I saw a dark head bent over the desk next to her. As we entered, a chair swivelled round and a man looked up and smiled, stretching out long legs. It was the duty MO. His face looked oddly familiar.
And then I remembered. Of course! Private Johnson and the thermometer! I went pink, but I think the MO had forgotten, because he just smiled at me.
Sister Adams has three wards to look after. “So you’ll be on your toes,” she told us, nodding at Molly and myself. Our most important job, she said, was to keep a watchful eye on the patients. “After you’ve done the TPRs, don’t disturb them again.” If we had a problem, she said, we were to go straight to her. “If you can’t find me, speak to Lieutenant Venables.”
I blushed again, thinking about that thermometer, and looked down at my feet.
Sister Adams went round the ward with us, handing out the medicines, while we did the TPRs. Private Abbott smiled sleepily at me as I popped a thermometer into his mouth. He’s much better, and I think he’ll be going back to France soon, poor boy.
Then Sister was off to the next ward and we were on our own.
We had a whole pile of dressings to make up. In the next hour I think I must have made enough cotton-wool swabs and gauze dressings to supply a regiment. My fingers grew heavy as one by one I packed the dressings into a dressing drum.
At midnight Sister popped into the ward again and we were allowed a short break. I had a bite to eat in the kitchen. Bliss to sit down and rest my aching feet. Then I got up and toured the ward again.
The hours from two to four were the worst of all. I could feel sleepiness creep up my arms and legs. Up and down I walked, up and down, back and forth, willing myself to stay awake. The patients were all fast asleep. How I wished it was me asleep in bed!
At four one of our patients woke up and asked for a cup of tea. After I’d checked his temperature, I took one over to him. He smiled at me as he drank it.
“Missed this in France,” he said, smacking his lips.
Molly got us a mug each and I took one into Lieutenant Venables and Sister in the office. It was truly horrible – bright orange – but by then I think we’d have drunk anything.
At half past seven the day staff came on duty. Was I pleased to see them!
“How do you like working on nights?” Molly asked me as we walked slowly down the corridor and up the stairs.
“Ask me when I’ve woken up,” I told her.
Then I did what I’d been longing to do – fell into bed and slept.
Friday 1 December
It was well into the afternoon when I woke today. I begged some food from the nice VAD cook in the kitchen, and then I wrapped up well and went outside. But as soon as I pushed open the door, an icy wind hurled itself at me, so I quickly went back inside again. Polished the buttons on my greatcoat and then I brushed my shoes ready for Parade on Sunday. At five Jean came in and curled up on her bed with a book. It was one of her medical books, I saw. She looked very studious – head down, bedclothes heaped round her shoulders. I didn’t want to disturb her so I crept out again and went down to the games room. Played ping-pong for hours. I was wearing my greatcoat, but I still won all the games!
This evening I heard that the Russian army has bombed Helsinki, the capital of Finland. I don’t feel at all like playing ping-pong now and yet I know we must do our best to carry on as normal. It’s one way we can stand up to the enemy.
I feel so sorry for the Finns. I can’t imagine how we’d feel if London was bombed. The news has come as a shock to all of us here.
Sunday 3 December
This morning, after only three hours’ sleep, I had to get up and go on Parade. A Very Important Person was paying us a visit. Before I went down I got out my measuring tape and made sure that Jean’s dress was the regulation 12 inches from the ground and her apron 2 inches from the hem of her skirt. Then she did the same for me. I was very sleepy still, and couldn’t help grumbling as I got dressed.
We stood outside the hospital, all neatly lined up in rows, in our nurses’ uniforms. A beastly wind whipped up, and even the trees were shivering as it swept through them – and us. The Commandant marched up to inspect us, accompanied by the Very Important Person.
&nb
sp; They were both wearing greatcoats, hats on too. It’s all right for them, I found myself thinking resentfully. By the time they’d passed by me, the smile had practically frozen on my face and my hands were as blue as my dress.
Afterwards, there was a big race for the electric fire in the VADs’ mess. Me, I leaped up the stairs as fast as I could, flung off my uniform and crawled back under the bedclothes. I was still fast asleep when Jean woke me again at lunchtime.
Tuesday 5 December
Lieutenant Venables was on duty again last night. He’s not like the other doctors I’ve worked with here. He’s friendly and he always smiles at me and Molly, though he’s careful not to talk to us when Sister’s around. He confided to me that he’s never forgotten Private Johnson and the thermometer. It was his first day at the hospital, he said. It was a most valuable lesson. I bet he got well and truly teased for it.
Anyway, I was just thinking how nice he was when Molly whispered, “What do you think of Lieutenant Venables?”
We were having an early morning cup of tea.
“He seems nice,” I said.
He looks a bit like Giles, I found myself thinking suddenly. Or does he? I’ve been finding it harder and harder to remember what Giles looks like.
