Читать книгу Our Country Nurse: Can East End Nurse Sarah find a new life caring for babies in the country? - Sarah Beeson, Amy Beeson - Страница 13

After my run-in with the baby-clinic volunteers I didn’t show my face at the Totley Mums and Toddlers group until the end of September. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was coming in and taking over everything and thought I knew it all – because most of the time it felt like I knew barely anything at all. Hospital life had been simpler, the lines distinct. I had been a nurse with a very clear purpose in a strict hierarchy. Yes, I might have found myself in hot water with Sister or Matron on occasion, but here, well, it was like trying to get your head round all the intricacies of a long-running show like The Archers after listening for only a week or two; you didn’t know who was who and you felt like you were constantly stumbling across intrigues and old family feuds. Nothing was clear-cut anymore – community practice in an area like Totley was a constant overlapping of never-ending stories and problems and history that I couldn’t possibly ever know. Eight hundred families and up – how was I ever to get them all straight in my head? Added to which I’d not been able to see Mrs Susan Bunyard and baby Sharon. Every time I went she was out. I was concerned I’d done something wrong and she was avoiding me.

It had reached a point where if I didn’t pop into Mums and Toddlers rather than looking interfering it might appear that I couldn’t care less, and didn’t think it worth my time. I determined I would try not to get in the way or hinder the natural chat that occurs between mothers with children the same age. I would try and show them I was there should they ever want me – ‘Why would they want you?’ piped up the unhelpful voice in my head. On the way to the Village Hall I passed the baker’s and was surprised to see Hermione Drummond through the window, chatting animatedly to two men. I caught her eye and she waved me in enthusiastically, her strings of glass beads jostling as her arms moved back and forth excitedly.

‘Miss Hill, have you tried a Totley freshly baked bun with a sausage from Treetops Farm?’ she enquired the second I stepped over the threshold. ‘They are devilishly scrumptious,’ she informed me, taking a big bite. The baker behind the counter in his white apron looked thrilled as he watched Hermione eat with rapture.

‘I haven’t had one yet,’ I replied.

‘One more please, Bob,’ Hermione called to the baker, who jumped to her command. ‘I don’t want you thinking I normally slope off, Miss Hill, but I’ve a case conference at 11 o’clock and it’s likely to go on for hours and I stupidly skipped breakfast.’ Her eyes turned back to the men. ‘So, I thought I’d have an illicit banger butty,’ she hooted, her voice chiming like a cathedral bell. ‘And who should I find truanting but a schoolmaster and a Man of the Cloth,’ she teased, giving the older of the two men a pat on the shoulder.

‘Miss Hill, have you met Mr Hopkins, the headmaster at St Agatha’s, and the Reverend Nicholas Shepherd, our dashing new vicar?’

‘We haven’t,’ responded the older man. ‘Dylan Hopkins. Pleasure to meet our new school nurse. I think you spoke to my deputy when you popped into the school, Miss Hill,’ he said, grinning and firmly shaking my hand. ‘Miss Drummond is right, I am a fugitive from playground duty but Father Nick and I are discussing the school trip to Canterbury Cathedral this Saturday. We are trying to form a plan of action for volunteers. Miss Drummond, I believe you have already thrown your hat into the ring?’

Hermione sucked on a buttery finger. ‘Oh, yes, count me in, for better or for worse.’ Her brown eyes were brilliant with mischief as she held me in her gaze and suggested, ‘And I’m sure Miss Hill would only be too happy to help?’, taking another mouthful of her sandwich.

I gulped. Suddenly Mr Hopkins and the Reverend Shepherd seemed to be closing in on me in the confines of the village bakery. I hadn’t really noticed the rector properly until now, all eyes being on Hermione. The preacher had dark wavy hair, curling in thick glossy ringlets over his collar; surely his hair was a bit too long for a Man of the Cloth? And despite the dog collar he was rather cool in a white and brown checked sports jacket teamed with fawn slacks. He had huge dark eyes and eyelashes so long they looked fake.

‘That would help get us out of a huge hole if you could face the pilgrimage,’ added Mr Hopkins. ‘Wouldn’t it, Reverend Shepherd?’

‘Right on,’ replied the cool country parson, his eyes still fixed on me. I tried not to squirm under the gaze of this tower of a man.

‘I’d be happy to help,’ I replied over-brightly.

‘Excellent,’ Mr Hopkins said, clapping his hands together. ‘I’ll leave Miss Drummond to fill you in on the details. Father Nick and I have to get back for morning assembly.’

They stepped out of the cramped bakery, their illicit baked goods in hand. The Reverend turned back to look at me from the narrow doorway; he blocked the light and the sunlight formed a ring round his black mop of hair.

‘See you Saturday,’ he crooned.

Then they left. I was glad. Hermione passed me my sausage sandwich.

‘Hasn’t he got heavenly eyelashes?’ said Hermione smoothly.

‘The Headmaster?’ I spluttered.

Hermione sighed. ‘No. Mr Hopkins isn’t the overpowering good-looking type. More of a slow burn.’

I didn’t reply but nibbled my sandwich. Oh, it was delicious. Say what you like about Joe Rudcliff, he obviously produced good porkers. My trip to the bakery must have been divine intervention as I remembered if there is one thing I’ve learnt about mums’ groups, it is that delectable cake and a decent cup of coffee are the cornerstone of a successful morning meeting. I immediately invested in a large carrot cake. Next time I’d go one better and bake it myself with a recipe for apple cake from the Friends of the Earth cookbook, my newlywed friend Fiona Flemming had sent me as a moving-in present. I could use the honey from Clem’s bees, I mused, momentarily distracted by thoughts of bucolic country living, the humming of bees and dishy clergymen.

Mums and toddlers was already under way when I arrived with my baked goods. A young woman about my age, wearing an emerald green shirt tucked into the same colour flared trousers with a thin white belt round her waist, and a green and white striped headscarf covering thick dark blonde curls, sat cross-legged in a circle with the other mums and children, leading the singing.

One, two, three, four, five,

Once I caught a fish alive,

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten,

Then I let it go again.

About half the mothers joined in, mainly the ones with a single toddler in their laps. The other half were in little huddles, gossiping, some with children hanging off their arms, whining for attention, while other toddlers were taking the opportunity to get into cupboards, hide under tables, squabble over toys or have a sulk in a corner.

Why did you let it go?

Because it bit my finger so.

Which finger did it bite?

This little finger on the right.

The group leader finished, with the few mums who remained in the circle snapping and kissing the fingers of their offspring and tickling them as they lay giggling and kicking in their laps.

‘Please help yourself to squash and biscuits,’ announced the group leader as she finished, her eyes already roving the room. There was no child in her lap. I went forward with my carrot cake and tried to put aside my immediate horror that they were serving the children squash. They’ll be whizzing around like spinning tops in no time, I thought.

I introduced myself. ‘Hello, I’m Sarah Hill, the new health visitor.’

‘Oh, we know who you are, Nurse,’ called one of the mums in the circle as she bounced a bonny baby on her knee. Her little girl was about a year old with mustard-coloured corduroy dungarees and a multi-coloured star T-shirt, and I could make out a sizeable bump under her the mum’s loose denim shirt.

I smiled. The mums exchanged not unfriendly glances. ‘I wanted to drop off a cake for the group,’ I explained, thrusting forward my goodwill offering.

‘Ooh, what is it?’ asked the expectant mum, putting her toddling little one down to explore.

‘It’s a carrot cake,’ I explained.

‘Not had that before but we’ll give it a whirl. I am eating for two after all,’ she remarked cheerily, taking the carrot cake off my hands. ‘Miss Elena, would you do the honours please?’ she asked an older lady, who I recognised as one of my kinder helpers at the baby clinic.

‘With pleasure,’ answered Miss Elena Moon, fresh from the kitchen carrying a tray of cups, which she handed out with care to the mums.

I smiled at the group leader but she was still distracted. ‘Aunty Elena, have you seen Dean?’ she asked.

‘No, dear, I haven’t,’ answered Miss Moon. ‘He did pop into the kitchen a little while ago for a biscuit but I haven’t seen him since.’

‘Would you like me to help look for him?’ I asked.

‘Please. I’m probably just panicking. But he won’t sit still and join in with the singing. He takes himself off,’ she explained, her eyes still anxiously scanning the room.

‘What does he look like?’

‘Oh, sorry. I’m Yvonne. Yvonne Underdown. His name’s Dean. He’s three. Curly light brown hair and he’s wearing blue jeans and a red T-shirt.’

Our somewhat half-hearted small search party spread out peeking under tables and rifling through cupboards but there was no sign of him.

‘I hope he hasn’t wandered out onto the road,’ said Mrs Underdown, her voice high and breathless.

‘She’s always getting herself in a lather,’ hissed the pregnant mum to a friend, a bit too loudly to be classed as a whisper.

‘I’ll check the kitchen again,’ I suggested.

I stood and surveyed the unloved kitchen. All outdated cupboards almost off their hinges and piles of plastic cups and plates in the huge stainless steel skin waiting to be washed. There was definitely a banging noise coming from somewhere. I opened the lower cupboards one by one until I found a boy in blue jeans and a red T-shirt, but I couldn’t be sure of the colour of his hair as he had a saucepan stuck firmly over the top of his head.

‘Found him, Mrs Underdown,’ I called as I gently lifted the boy out of the cupboard.

Mrs Underdown rushed in and let out a huge sigh of relief quickly followed by shouting. ‘Dean, you tiresome child! You know you’re not to wander off and now look at you. You wait till your father gets home, you little horror.’

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ gasped Miss Moon. ‘What shall we do? We’ll have to take him to hospital and get the doctor to saw it off.’

Dean let out a wail and started hitting the pan with his fists.

‘No need for that,’ I said calmly. ‘Can you find me some cooking oil please, Miss Moon.’ The dutiful great-aunt raided every kitchen cupboard until she returned with an old bottle of vegetable cooking oil in her trembling hand. I addressed the saucepan head. ‘Hello, Dean. I’m a nurse. I want you to hold still while I put some oil into the saucepan to get your head free. It won’t hurt but it will feel a bit sticky,’ I told him.

And a minute or two later a curly-haired, rather oily little boy’s face appeared. His nose was a bit squashed but he looked perfectly fine. I rubbed his head with a tea towel.

‘Look at the state of you,’ cried Mrs Underdown as she hugged him to her chest, getting oil all over her clothes. ‘Home now. You’re going straight in the bath.’

‘Not my fault. Soldier told me to,’ he whined as his mother tucked him under her arm and strode out of the kitchen.

‘Stop making up silly stories,’ she scolded him. As she reached the doorway she turned and tried to compose herself. ‘I’m sorry, Nurse. It’s not usually like this.’

‘Happy to help,’ I replied, washing my hands in the sink.

‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Underdown as she turned on her heel and stormed off, her Aunty Elena following behind her in a complete tizzy.

‘That boy’s a bit soft,’ said the pregnant mum who’d been eager to try my carrot cake. ‘No wonder Yvonne’s flustered. She’s got a boy talking to himself in corners like a loony and a husband that’s not far off his dotage.’

I turned to her and said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Oh, yes. I’m Jackie Bowyer and that one’s Stacy,’ she indicated to her infant. ‘We’re neighbours sort of. My husband, Trev, keeps the garage opposite your digs. We live over the shop so to speak.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Bowyer. When’s the baby due?’

She now took a big bite of the carrot cake. ‘November. Gosh, this is tasty, Nurse. Much nicer than Miss Elena’s dry old fruit cake,’ she said, giggling. ‘Here, girls, try a piece,’ she called to the other mums handing the plates around as a group of mothers descended upon us, feeding themselves with one hand and crumbling bits of cake and popping it into the eager mouths of their tots.

‘Do you serve cake at the baby clinic too?’ asked Mrs Bowyer with a wry smile as she scooped up her baby, who was rooting through the contents of her large fuchsia shoulder bag and chewing the edge of a packet of Benson & Hedges. ‘Oi, Stacy, you’ll get them all soggy,’ chided her mother, wiping the drool-covered pack on her jeans before she pocketed them. I really hoped she wasn’t smoking during her pregnancy.

The door opened and in lumbered Mrs Bourne with little girls in tow.

‘Sorry we’re late. Have we missed the singing again?’ she asked wearily.

‘Don’t worry, you’ve made it for the most important bit. The nurse brought some cake,’ answered Mrs Bowyer.

‘That’s music to my ears. Run off and play, you two,’ she told her children, planting glittering lipstick-smeared kisses on their foreheads before flopping down into a chair. ‘Nice to see you again, Nurse,’ she said, multi-tasking as she massaged her own pregnant belly with one hand and gobbled some cake with the other. ‘You’ve been the talk of the village,’ she told me through a mouthful of crumbs.

‘Have I?’ I asked, trying to sound amused but feeling suddenly anxious.

‘I should cocoa,’ said Mrs Bowyer, laughing. ‘Trev’s mum kept him chatting at the garage till past supper time, telling him all the juicy details after you trounced old Mother Bunyard.’

‘How old is baby Stacy?’ I asked, trying to change the subject.

‘Are you kidding me?’ continued Mrs Bowyer, undeterred. ‘My mother-in-law is Doris Bowyer. Her and Miss Loopy Loo Elena have been under the thumb of Martha Bunyard for years, though in truth Doris is no better than she ought to be. And then you come along, same age as all of us, your first month in the village and it’s a bloody revolution.’

‘That’s a huge exaggeration,’ I said, trying to laugh it off.

‘Don’t be modest, Nurse. I can tell you’re not going to be snooty like some of them. I think you should stick to your guns – don’t let them old biddies rule the roost.’

‘She’s quite right, Nurse,’ said Mrs Bourne softly. ‘They needed taking down a peg or two. Would it be greedy to have a tiny bit more cake?’

‘With pleasure,’ I said, giving her another slice. ‘I could make some apple cake another time.’

‘You can come again,’ said Mrs Bowyer, winking. She looked at her watch, ‘Gosh, it’s nearly 12. Better get back to do the lunch or Trev the Rev will be giving me my marching orders,’ she said with a chuckle, retrieving Stacy from the corner where she’d dragged her mother’s handbag and emptied out lipstick, face powder, loose change and tampons. Mrs Bowyer shook her head and started putting her paraphernalia back in the bag. ‘Oh no! My pill’s gone. Stacy, what have you done?’ she cried, opening up her child’s mouth with a finger. ‘Nurse, Nurse. I think she’s gobbled my pill.’

‘Contraceptive pill?’

‘Yes. What’ll happen to her?’

‘She should be fine. But let’s ask the doctor to check her out. He’ll probably tell you to keep a close eye on her for 24 hours.’

She nodded. ‘You must think we’re a right load of Calamity Janes,’ she said without her usual giggle, her forehead furrowed.

‘Not in the least,’ I said. ‘Come over to clinic with me now and we’ll call the doctor and get him to see Stacy straight away.’

‘Thanks, Nurse. Whatever they say, I like you,’ Mrs Bowyer assured me.

‘You’re not still taking your contraceptive pill are you, Mrs Bowyer?’

‘No, I haven’t got round to chucking ’em away from before we started trying for Stacy,’ she laughed. ‘Mind I wish I had been taking them, though now this one is on the way, it’ll be very welcome.’