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 9

I tipped my half-eaten piece of toast into the bin and put my plate, cup and saucer into the sink with a rattle. Again I glanced up at the square orange clock on the wall of my kitchen; I could have sworn it was ticking more slowly than usual – how was it still only eight o’clock in the morning? I wasn’t due to start at the clinic till nine; would it be bad form to be there before everyone else on my first day or show how committed I was? Come on, Sarah, no time like the present, I told myself, and decided the best option would be to locate my desk and find my way around the clinic unobserved so I wouldn’t lose the whole of Monday morning working out where everything was and feeling like a postulant. Before I left I inspected myself once more in the long mirror at the top of the stairs to check I was presentable. Was my chosen ensemble of a square-necked sky-blue dress a couple of inches above the knee teamed with a cream wide-collared blouse covered in cornflowers professional enough? My shoes were smart at least thanks to my mum buying me a pair of tan-coloured pumps for a big do at Dad’s work over the summer.

Pushing my black-rimmed spectacles firmly onto my nose I thought how much older I looked than on my first day as a trainee nurse, but did I really know enough to be let loose on the mothers and babies of Kent? I dearly hoped so. I thought wistfully of Daddy Davis, the charge nurse at Hackney, who’d insisted I always wear my glasses and what Sister Nivern, the harridan in charge of Infants Ward, would say to my loose, long dark hair, free from pins and tightly wound buns. Funny how health visitors were in mufti but midwives and district nurses still had their uniforms and were recognisable in the community. When you thought about it, a health visitor on your doorstep could be anyone; the Avon lady or a well-meaning caller from the Women’s Institute perhaps – but maybe that was the point?

At the front door of the clinic I rooted around in my brown leather shoulder bag for the key Flo had given me and was alarmed to discover the door was already open. I remembered in Hackney my mentor Miss Knox telling me how often the clinic there was broken into by gangs and addicts searching for drugs – but surely this wasn’t the case in Totley? I crept down the chequered tiled entrance hall cursing the resounding click of my heels. Filled with uncertainty I put my hand on the handle of the first door. ‘Consultation Room’ was engraved on a brass sign but this door was locked. Past this was the large empty room that was used for the clinic. Grey plastic chairs were stacked against the wall behind a low table adorned with neatly piled copies of Woman’s Own and Horse & Hound. A small wooden desk was pushed up against the wall and above it a poster advertising tins of baby milk. Beside it stood a couple of comfortable chairs, a set of scales, and a stack of plastic bowls and tissues on the changing tables. I pushed open another door but it was only stairs leading down to the dark cellar that served as the clinic’s storeroom and I didn’t fancy investigating any further down there. When I poked my head round the doors to the loo and the small kitchen a strong smell of bleach wafted at me from each. I noted that though these facilities were a bit tired and dated, like my little flat, Flo certainly kept them gleaming and in good order.

Finally, I came to the ‘Health Visitors’ Office’ at the bottom of the corridor. The door was ajar. I peeped round the edge of the door and observed there was a desk in each of the four corners of the room and at the tidiest desk nearest the picture window sat a woman writing with a slim silver pen. A perfect line of glass vases of different shapes and sizes in pink, blue, green and yellow glass were beautifully arranged on the window sill. The coloured glass reflected the morning sunshine in a brilliant rainbow across the room. A large emerald and sapphire coloured speckled vase filled with white roses and blue and lilac freesias sat on her desk next to a collection of decorative silver photo frames. The elegant woman was wearing tortoise-shell spectacles on a gold chain round her neck, a perfectly pressed moss-green linen skirt and jacket and a violet blouse. Several rows of pea-green glass beads hung loosely round her neck as well as a gold oval-shaped locket. She was not young and must have been in her mid-forties; to me, she was the epitome of sophistication and style and not what I had expected of a country health visitor in the least. I hovered in the doorway for a few seconds watching her before she realised I was there. I couldn’t help but feel a little tatty by comparison and missed the reassurance of my nurse’s uniform. I nervously rocked onto the outer edges of my feet, scuffing my new shoes until a few moments later she sensed my presence. In one swift movement she immediately got to her feet while simultaneously pushing her reading glasses on top of her shiny black cropped hair to get a better look at me.

‘Ah, Miss Hill, we’re so glad you’ve come to join us,’ she said warmly as she quickly walked over and ushered me in. ‘Let me show you your desk. I’m Hermione Drummond.’

‘It’s lovely to meet you, errr’ – was she a Miss or a Mrs? Oh, help, I couldn’t very well call her ‘Nurse’.

She immediately saw my dilemma, ‘Miss Drummond. Unmarried, thank heavens,’ she told me with a chuckle.

The door was nudged open with a bump and another very lofty woman stood in the doorway dressed in a burgundy polo-necked jumper and a pale-grey and brown zig-zag-patterned long skirt and cardigan. Her wavy grey hair was scooped up in large combs at the sides of her head. Unlike Miss Drummond who had a slightly bohemian air, this health visitor wore no jewellery except a gold wedding band and a three-stoned diamond ring, but she was just as smart and graceful.

I wondered if excellent deportment had been a prerequisite to health-visitor training in days gone by. Both my new colleagues were tall and filled with quiet confidence – at a little over five foot I couldn’t help but feel that I didn’t quite measure up in more ways than one. Stand up straight, Sarah, I told myself, stretching myself out a little more and trying to look at ease in my new surroundings. In Hackney I could be nose to chest with an outright East End gangster and not turn a hair and yet here I was inwardly quivering like a school girl. Get a grip, I told myself, as I forced my nerves down and returned their friendly smiles with a big grin of appreciation at this amiable welcome.

‘Ah, Mrs King. You’ll see our newest addition, Miss Hill, is with us bright and early,’ Miss Drummond informed her.

Mrs King placed the wooden tray she’d been carrying onto her desk. I noted the hand-embroidered tray cloth with delicate lace edges, all laid out with a white china tea service patterned with bright green hens and foliage. Standards were clearly very high at Totley Clinic; no upturned tea chest and illicit stash of shop-bought biscuits for them.

‘I had a feeling we’d see you sooner rather than later, Miss Hill,’ proclaimed Mrs King with a smile. ‘Hence the extra cup and saucer this morning,’ she explained as she poured out the tea. There was also a stack of delicious-looking shortbread on the tray, which made my depleted appetite suddenly reappear.

‘Shortbread?’ she enquired. ‘I made it yesterday evening while dinner was in the oven,’ she told me, offering me the plate.

‘Really! I had a Vesta curry on a tray in front of the telly and watched Upstairs, Downstairs,’ I replied, astonished, and helping myself to a piece. Sarah, why did you say that, I scolded myself, shoving the shortbread into my mouth to stopper it. Homemade shortbread – my, it was so good.

‘Oh yes, that James Bellamy is quite a dish, isn’t he?’ said Miss Drummond with a smile. ‘Etty went to bed early and I had the place to myself. Just me, Upstairs, Downstairs and a large gin and tonic – one of life’s lovely moments.’

‘Yes, it was a good one,’ agreed Mrs King. ‘Even the boys watched it with Jack and me – but I don’t think they’d admit it to their school friends. Then they both disappeared and camped out in the summer house all night again. I could hear Led Zeppelin drifting across the lawn until well after midnight; good job we don’t have any neighbours at our place but I don’t know what the hens think of it. Jack had to threaten to chuck a bucket of water over the pair of them to get them out of their sleeping bags and on time for the school bus this morning,’ she said with a laugh.

‘You’ve got two boys?’ I asked.

‘And a girl, Harriet, but she’s at Glasgow now doing History,’ answered Mrs King. ‘But David and John are 15 and 17 and can let themselves in after school now, which is fine as long as the cupboards are well stocked. Teenage boys never stop eating.’

Three children, a husband and livestock to take care of and she works and finds a spare minute to make homemade delicacies – was she superhuman?

‘Sit yourself down, Miss Hill,’ instructed Miss Drummond, showing me my very own desk in the corner nearest the door.

I’d never had my own desk before and here I was at a little after eight o’clock in the morning on my very first day as a health visitor sitting in a rather swish swivel chair in front of my desk drinking tea and eating homemade shortbread. It was all I could do not to swirl around and around in excitement. My eyes devoured my new office space – I’d been provided with a blotter and a wicker filing tray. Brand new pens and notepads were all laid out for me, on top of which was a set of keys for my drawers. I reached into my bag and pulled out the green leather mug and letter opener I’d commandeered from my dad’s desk and popped them in pride of place. I suddenly felt a little wave of importance and pleasure under-laced by the feeling I was playing at being a grown-up, with my new Mini and Ivy Cottage – what had I done to deserve any of it? I looked at my white telephone and thought any minute now there will be that call when they tell you it’s all been a terrible mistake and they don’t want you after all – that none of this is yours. But thankfully the phone didn’t ring. Enjoy the moment, I told myself.

‘Now you have your Mini. Did they give you a log book?’ enquired Miss Drummond. I nodded. ‘Good, good. Don’t forget to keep your petrol receipts and mileage up to date or dear Miss Presnell will want to know why. Have you met our manager yet?’

‘No,’ I replied.

‘She’s not a bad sort. Miss Presnell doesn’t bother us much does she, Mrs King?’ called out Miss Drummond without pausing for a response. ‘And she doesn’t take too much nonsense from the top brass. Though to be honest she only comes out to the sticks on high days and holidays,’ she added with a laugh. I saw Mrs King smile and arch an eyebrow at our colleague’s account of our superior officer.

‘And at 70 new pence to the gallon it’s not a bad deal,’ continued Miss Drummond. ‘Where did you train?’

‘Hackney,’ I answered.

‘Ooh, I like a girl who’s trained at a proper hospital. I started out in the Wirral and then New York before I came to the Garden of England.’

‘My parents lived in Sevenoaks for a few years and I went to school near Sunridge for a while.’

‘You’re practically a local then. You’ll know your russet from your cox,’ she chortled.

‘We haven’t got anything too gruelling for your first day. Miss Drummond and I have hearing tests at nine o’clock and I’m sorry that we’ll be out for most of the day. We’ve got a list of your patch and a big map of the area ready, you can reconnoitre the district a bit before you hit the road,’ explained Mrs King, handing me over a folder.

I eagerly opened the huge map and saw the wide expanse of countryside. ‘You’ll be doing Totley, the outskirts of Malling, The Meadows and the surrounding areas. At the moment that’s about 800 babies and children under five plus the elderly visits we undertake.’

I looked up at her eyes wide. ‘Eight hundred,’ I repeated.

‘And counting,’ she smiled, ‘not forgetting visits to the elderly to keep an eye on their general health. You’re also the school nurse for St Agatha’s and the Meadows Infant and Junior Schools. There’s a weekly clinic in Totley but luckily for you there’s only a monthly clinic run with the GP in The Meadows and at the RAF.’

‘That’s very fortunate,’ I uttered. Eight hundred children, I thought. Eight hundred! But secretly I couldn’t wait to get started. I wanted to know each one of them right now.

‘So, you sit tight for today and answer the phone. You need only go out if there’s an emergency,’ added Miss Drummond. ‘You’ve got your first clinic for Totley tomorrow afternoon, Mums and Toddlers on Wednesday and RAF clinic on Thursday – best you gen up on those. We’ll let you loose on some clients in the middle of the week; there are a few referrals from Dr Drake, our Totley GP, to work through. His scrawls take a fair bit of deciphering, so do ask if you have any questions. All the client records for your patch are in these boxes if you need to look anything up,’ she told me, tapping the two wooden index boxes already on my desk.

‘Righto,’ I replied. My fingers itching to get to work on the doctor’s referrals and plan my week.

‘And if you get a spare few minutes at lunchtime maybe toddle down to St Agatha’s Primary to introduce yourself. Mr Hopkins the headmaster is very nice and Reverend Shepherd generally pops in to have lunch with the children on a Monday. It’s all rather jolly,’ Miss Drummond informed me as she gathered up her bag.

‘Enjoy your first day,’ added Mrs King. ‘We’ll try and pop in again in a few hours and see how you are doing. I’m sure Flo will be clucking around you anyhow.’

I’d been advised to stay put and settle in slowly and yet there I was barely an hour later lost in the Kent countryside with my sparkling Mini not just covered in mud but stuck in it. Only 20 minutes earlier I had been carefully planning out my diary for the week and making well-meant plans when my telephone tingled into life.

‘Hello, Totley Clinic, health visitors,’ I answered.

‘Hello, Nurse?’ whispered a weary voice down the line. I could hear the cries of a fractious baby in the background.

‘Yes,’ I responded calmly.

‘Can you come out, Nurse? I’ve fed and fed him till I’ve not got a drop left. He won’t stop crying, he won’t go to sleep. I don’t know what to do.’

‘What’s your name please?’

‘Mandy Rudcliff.’

‘And what’s your baby’s name and their date of birth please, Mrs Rudcliff?’ I asked, my fingers already lifting the lids on the wooden boxes that contained client records – eager to get to work.

‘Craig Joseph Rudcliff. I had him on 25 August.’

‘Lovely, and what’s your address please?’

‘The Farmhouse, Treetops Farm.’

I quickly leafed through the records until I found a blank card for Craig Joseph Rudcliff; his discharge slip from Nurse Higgins had been attached with a paperclip. His primary visit was due and he was on my patch. Why not kill two birds with one stone, I decided.

‘Would you like me to come out now, Mrs Rudcliff?’

‘Quick as you can please, Nurse. And it’s the farmhouse not the bungalow at Treetops,’ she said wearily and rang off. I decided I better get to her lickety-split.

Obstructed by the quagmire I resolved there was nothing for it but to walk. I could reverse out to get back on the road to Totley but there was no way my Mini was going to make it through all that muck up the path to the farm, which I assumed was at the end of what looked like a never-ending road ascending into the clouds. I picked up my bag and swung open the door of the car and let both my feet go squelch right into the mire. Never mind the stupid map, I thought, the thing I needed right now was a good pair of wellies; from that day forth I kept a pair in the boot.

After I’d spent 10 minutes traipsing through sludge finally a house came into view. The Rudcliffs resided in a large whitewashed four-storey, double-fronted Georgian farmhouse with a patch of oval-shaped lawn serving as a front garden. A fence surrounded the property creating a barrier between Treetops Farmhouse and the gargantuan tin sheds that dominated the landscape. As I trudged nearer to the house the smell coming from the pig sheds and the noise of grunting and squealing swine was overwhelming. I noticed in the distance a newly built bungalow with a neat little garden and a border of rose bushes. It stood on top of a mound like a little castle and looked completely out of place.

I opened the gate to the farmyard and a huge hound came looming at me barking defensively. I quickly retreated and waited on the other side of the fence hoping his master would come and call him off but no one did despite all the growling and snarling from the Alsatian. I’d come this far, I wasn’t going to fall at the last hurdle. ‘Sit,’ I said firmly, staring the animal down. To my surprise the dog obeyed so I sidestepped him and gingerly made my way to the front door and rang the bell, hoping I wouldn’t be left on the doorstep too long in case my new canine friend changed his mind about me.

Mrs Rudcliff flung open the door. She was a slender woman about my height wearing a loose blue-denim shirt and jeans; she had light-brown wavy hair tied up in a ponytail and a smattering of freckles across her nose and pink cheeks. She gave me a weak smile but she looked exhausted – I suspected she was anaemic and in desperate need of sustenance and sleep. In her arms was a very robust and lengthy newborn baby; he must have been at least 10 pounds so no wonder she was finding feeding him a challenge, poor girl.

‘Hello, Mrs Rudcliff?’ I enquired. She nodded. ‘I’m Sarah Hill, the health visitor you spoke to on the telephone.’

‘Come in, Nurse,’ she said. ‘He only stopped crying about five minutes ago.’

I followed her down the dark hallway into the huge square kitchen. An elongated rectangular wooden table stood in its centre. At one end were bowls, spoons, a set of scales and bags of flour, all manner of ingredients, some ramekins and a fresh loaf of bread cooling on a wire rack. At the other end of the table was a heap of crumpled laundry amongst a few folded piles and two ironed shirts on hangers. An ironing board with a half-ironed shirt stood accusingly next to the table and on the floor was a basket filled with wet baby clothes, nappies, blankets and cloth squares, some of which had made it onto a clotheshorse to dry. The large butler sink in front of the kitchen window was sparklingly clean but a mountain of cups, plates and cutlery glared at us, waiting to be washed up. An enormous range stood in the hearth and before it was a button-backed tangerine sofa with an avocado throw hanging over the top.

Mrs Rudcliff looked about her in dismay. ‘It was neat as a new pin a fortnight ago and now as soon as I start one job the baby needs something and nothing gets finished.’

‘That’s how it is for everyone,’ I say softly.

‘Is it?’

‘Oh, yes. Between me and you, if I arrived at a house with a newborn baby that was spotless then I’d be concerned.’

She laughed a little in relief. ‘Sit yourself down, Nurse. I’ll make us some tea.’

‘Would you let me make it? Take the weight off your feet for five minutes,’ I gently suggested.

‘Are you sure?’ I nodded and she flopped onto the sofa and closed her eyes for a few minutes with the baby lying happily across her chest while I put the kettle on. I brought over the tea with a large glass of water and a plate of biscuits I’d seen on the side.

‘Would you let me have a hold of baby Craig?’ I asked as I set down the tea things on a small side table.

‘Be my guest,’ replied Mrs Rudcliff, handing over her whopper of a baby. The tea, water and biscuits had all vanished within minutes and it gave me the chance to give the baby a quick once-over. ‘I’m always hungry at the moment,’ she told me, flicking crumbs off her shirt.

‘It’s the breastfeeding,’ I acknowledged. ‘You need plenty of good food and lots to drink to sustain both you and the baby.’

She sighed. ‘I only get the chance to grab a quick piece of toast these days and a cold cup of tea if I’m lucky. As soon as I put the dinner on the table the baby cries and by the time I come back it’s either stone cold or Joe’s given it to the dog.’

‘I bet you have a job just making the dinner,’ I said, pouring her another cup of tea and refilling the biscuits.

‘I do, I do. I can barely get myself washed and dressed by lunchtime. And the men expect a hot meal at breakfast, lunch and dinner.’

‘It’s you who needs a good dinner three times a day and snacks in between.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Absolutely. Also try and have a glass of water next to you while you’re feeding and have a glass to sip throughout the day and night.’

‘I’ll try. It’s so hard to get everything together when he’s crying for a feed.’

‘I know it seems like a lot but you need all those little drinks and snacks to make the milk. It’ll do him no harm to wait two minutes while you get a cuppa and a snack and pop to the loo. You’ll be able to feed better for it.’

‘I can’t tell you how many times I’m been bursting to go to the loo during a feed. I’ve near wet myself at least twice this morning. I thought it would make me a bad mum if I didn’t run to him straight away. When he cries my heart pounds like crazy.’

‘That’s perfectly normal. You have some basic needs too; it’s not asking much that you get the chance to eat, drink and wash, is it?’

‘I guess not.’

‘Try and stick to two or three cups of tea or coffee a day, as the caffeine can make the baby restless. If you have a nice milky malted drink before bedtime it might help him doze off a little easier.’

‘Right. I hadn’t thought of that. I was drinking all that tea and coffee to help me stay awake – I didn’t realise it would have the same effect on him.’

‘Not to worry. I can’t think straight in the morning until I’ve had a cup of tea and I don’t have a newborn baby keeping me up.’

‘Or a husband snoring in your ear when the baby goes down and you get a chance for forty winks?’ she said, giggling.

‘No,’ I agreed, with a chuckle. ‘Fortunately not. Do you think Mr Rudcliff could help with the housework and cooking a bit?’ I suggested.

She looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘No, Nurse. He’s a male chauvinist pig farmer,’ and we both burst out laughing for at least a minute.

‘Do you have any family nearby who could help?’ I asked.

‘My mum’s in Cheltenham. I don’t like to bother her.’

‘Has she offered to help?’

‘Lots of times but I don’t want her to think I can’t cope. I want her to be proud of me; she always had everything immaculate when I was little and look at this place!’ she said, casting her eyes round the farmhouse kitchen in dismay.

‘Housework always needs doing. I don’t see the harm in letting things slide for a little while.’

‘Oh! My mother-in-law said you’d be coming to see I kept the place clean and tidy or you’d report me.’

‘Not at all,’ I told her. ‘Are your husband’s family able to lend a hand?’

‘His parents live in the bungalow. Did you see it on your way in?’

‘Yes, up on the mound?’

‘Ghastly, isn’t it? I wouldn’t ask his mother to help me in a month of Sundays. She’d love nothing better than to get back into the farmhouse kitchen and shove me out. I won’t have it,’ she told me, getting quite worked up. Baby Craig started crying again.

‘I’ve only just fed him. Really I have,’ she said, her voice fading and her eyes glazing over.

‘Long babies can be difficult to feed,’ I explained.

‘Can they?’

‘Yes, and he was 10 pounds and six ounces when he was born and I can see from his discharge papers he’s nearly made his birth weight up already. That means you’re doing a fantastic job,’ I soothed.

‘I’m finding him a bit heavy. He’s only two weeks old and he’s already a handful – how am I going to cope?’ she asked as tears started to trickle down her freckled cheeks and her narrow shoulders shook as she took short intakes of breath. ‘I feel so lost sometimes. One minute I’m looking at him and my heart is fit to burst, I love him so much. But there are times in the middle of the night when I feel utterly alone. Joe’s snoring, none the wiser, the baby won’t go down in his crib and I’m so tired I can barely see straight. I swear I’ve seen the sunrise every morning since Craig was born.’ I sat by her side and listened, nodding and acknowledging her feelings. ‘Why did no one tell me it would be this hard? I don’t recognise myself at the moment and Joe’s life carries on exactly the same.’

‘Let’s look at one thing at a time. You’re doing really well, Mrs Rudcliff, you really are. What do you think could be better?’

‘The feeding. He’s so heavy, and he pounds on me with his fist and thrashes about and leaves me aching. I dread it, I really do, and it’s not getting any easier. I’m not fit to be his mother.’

‘You are a splendid mother. Do you think an unfit mother would care this much?’

She gave me a little shy smile. ‘I suppose that’s right. You’d know, Nurse.’

An hour later Craig was sleeping peacefully, we’d discussed feeding, sleeping and nappies, and Mrs Rudcliff was calmer but I was still worried about her health. She needed a bit of looking after. The kitchen door swung open and Joe Rudcliff appeared. A burly man and at over six feet his head practically scraped the ceiling as he came in. Silently he pulled off his muddy boots and went to wash his hands and face in the kitchen sink. He didn’t say a word or even show the slightest awareness there was a stranger, me, in his house.

‘What’s for lunch?’ he asked his wife, his back to us as he gazed out of the kitchen window onto his empire.

‘I’ve made mackerel pâté and freshly baked bread.’

‘Again?’

She nodded.

‘I’ll be half-starved in a month if you carry on this way,’ he informed her, taking a huge hunk of bread from the kitchen table and spreading it liberally with the delicious looking pâté. He stomped off, followed a minute later by the sound of the radio blaring from the sitting room.

‘I’m going to go now if there isn’t anything else?’ I asked. But Mrs Rudcliff didn’t reply. ‘While the baby’s asleep eat up some of that scrumptious pâté and then get your head down for a bit if you can.’

‘Would you like some?’

‘No, thank you. You eat it all up while you can.’

‘I will, Nurse,’ she said. A tone of defiance creeping into her voice. ‘But before that I’m going to telephone my mother and see if she can come for a bit.’

‘I think that’s an excellent idea, Mrs Rudcliff. I’ll call in next week and see how you are but do telephone me at the clinic if you need anything.’

As I made my way back down the path to my abandoned Mini I turned and saw Mrs Rudcliff in the window with a telephone in her hand. I grinned. Good for you, I thought. My first visit as a health visitor had been a good one but what did the other 799 and counting have in store?

When I returned to see Mrs Rudcliff at Treetops Farm the following week I fully prepared for the ascent in a pair of newly acquired black Wellington boots purchased at a smart little shop in Canterbury. I’d christened them on my second Sunday in Kent, digging over my small vegetable patch after borrowing a fork and spade from Clem. It would be a while before I could sow anything but at least I’d made a start – I was well on my way to becoming a country nurse, or so I thought.