Читать книгу An Unsuitable Mother - Sheelagh Kelly - Страница 8
ОглавлениеThe next day it was boring old work as usual. Nell was thankful that there would soon be a new career to take her mind off things. But there was a week to get through before then.
How time crawled. It felt like a year had gone past and it was still only Monday teatime. Ever despondent over Billy’s departure, Nell sat at the table, nibbling on the home-grown salad, trying to take her mind off him by watching her parents, wondering what was going through their minds as they ate in silence – had it been just herself and Billy at the table she was sure they would have never stopped chattering. Drat! There she was, thinking of him again already.
Only the clicking of Father’s false teeth was annoying enough to lure her mind away. Mr Spottiswood had developed the ability to clean the underside of his artificial palette without removing the dentures. Using his tongue to whip any debris from beneath, he rolled the clackers from cheek to cheek and around his entire mouth, giving them a thorough vacuum before fitting them back into place again. Why did he persist in doing that, as if it were some sort of art form? Skilful it might be, but the way it warped his face, the dentures jutting forth as if to pop from his mouth at any minute and making him look like a camel, and that awful clickety-clacking they made, it was so uncouth. Did he assume he was being discreet in not actually removing his teeth, or did he just not care?
Nell’s eyes flickered to her mother, who found it as irritating as she did, she could tell that by the slight flare to her nostrils. Yet her mother never dared criticise him, even when he did it at someone else’s house. Poor Mother, dying to be considered as a pillar of the community due to her prominent role with the WVS, purchasing its uniform so she could stand out from lesser women, yet brought down to earth by a husband who did not know how to eat in polite company. And that was not all. Mother had tried to allude that it was not the done thing to sit at the table in one’s shirt sleeves, but there was Father, lord of the manor, with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Nell could not say she blamed him in this heat, but it obviously grated on Mother. How awful to feel that way about someone you were married to: wanting to change them. Nell couldn’t ever envisage being annoyed by anything Billy did. She loved the way he walked and talked and ate, the way his giggles shook his entire body – he was a proper giggler, her Bill – all his little fads, such as picking the strands of orange peel out of the marmalade before spreading it on his toast …
Trying not to sigh, she crunched the last radish on her plate, laid down her cutlery, and attempted to make conversation.
‘One of the girls at work said they found a German parachute in the field at the back of their house after the other night’s raid.’
‘And would she know what a German parachute looked like if it fell on her?’ enquired her father in a supercilious tone. ‘No. You want to tell her to watch it, or she’ll find herself locked up for spouting such rubbish.’
‘It’ll be fifth columnists who’ve planted it,’ explained her mother. ‘Don’t let it frighten you, dear.’
Nell gave a nod and fell silent again. Then, when her parents had also finished, she helped her mother to clear the table, whilst Father seated himself in his armchair with the evening newspaper.
Her mind far away, wondering whether Billy had reached London yet, she was helping her mother to wash the pots when a disgusted exclamation drew both women’s curiosity, and they wandered back to the sitting room.
‘What is it, dear?’ Thelma asked her husband, tea towel still in hand.
Nell’s father regarded her for a moment, the expression on his face turning from annoyance to disgust, as he announced in a tart and slightly melodramatic voice. ‘I was going to ask what you enjoyed best about your weekend in Scarborough, but I won’t trouble you now, for it’s quite evident!’ And he bequeathed the newspaper, suitably folded to display a laughing photograph of a group of young people in swimming costumes, with Nell at their centre, under the banner: Girl with the most sunburnt back.
Nell’s heart leaped as her father stabbed a finger at the dark-haired man beside her in the photograph and mouthed sarcasm. ‘One didn’t imagine your friend Barbara to be so hirsute!’
Her frowning mother snatched up the press and exclaimed, ‘Why, that’s Billy!’
Wilfred turned on her. ‘You knew what she was up to?’
‘No! But I know him – he was at Ronald’s party.’ And his wife joined the attack on Nell, saying, ‘Someone had better explain themselves!’
Nell twisted her fingers as she fought to deliver an explanation. ‘I didn’t enter the competition. The photographer just snapped –’
‘That is not what we’re objecting to, and you know it!’ interrupted her mother. ‘You didn’t think to mention there’d be chaps amongst the group! Did you arrange this at the party, invite Billy along?’
‘No!’
‘Look at him with his arm around you,’ stuttered her father, ‘and you with barely a stitch on!’
‘I’d never have let you pack your bathing costume had I known!’ railed Thelma. ‘You let me assume it was an all-girl group – although those other young ladies leave much to be desired!’
To Nell’s astonishment, she realised then that her mother was under the misapprehension that the strangers in the photograph were part of the fictitious Barbara’s group. This being so, things were not half as bad as they could have been. ‘It was all girls!’ she strove to convince her parents. ‘We bumped into Billy by accident and he tagged along.’
‘To ruin our daughter’s reputation!’ Wilfred was livid with Nell. ‘What have we done to deserve this? There’s our Ronald, doing his bit for King and country, his parents proud as punch, showing off the photo of him that appeared in the church magazine, and what sort of pictorial keepsake do we get of our child? This decadent rubbish!’ He slapped the newspaper onto the hearth. ‘That’s only fit for lighting the fire!’
‘I’m ever so sorry,’ Nell gushed earnestly to both, ‘but it’s this war! No one can afford to be serious all the time. Everyone has to grab their chance of having fu—’
‘Don’t blame Mr Hitler for your behaviour!’ interrupted her father. ‘Fun? Huh! The war seems to have become an excuse for all manner of immorality under the guise of fun!’
‘Quite!’ his wife agreed ‘She’s becoming far too wayward for my liking.’
Nell bit her lip. Thank heaven that neither of them had guessed that she had gone away with Billy alone, and even worse had shared a bed with him. Never in their wildest nightmares could they have conceived such a thing of their well-raised daughter.
‘Well, there’ll be no more! I’m going to write to this Barbara’s parents!’ babbled Thelma, hurrying to a bureau and taking out a writing pad and fountain pen. ‘Here, you can jot down their full address!’
Nell hovered between panic and impatience. ‘It’s hardly their fault, I was the one who was snapped by the photographer! I didn’t even enter the blasted competition.’
‘And you can dispense with that language!’ Her father pointed a warning finger that came dangerously close to her face. ‘Apologise to your mother!’ And after Nell had shown contrition, he added, ‘What she said is right, the girl’s parents are obviously lax and need to be reminded that they had someone else’s daughter in their care!’
‘It wasn’t their fault!’ protested Nell again, but more politely. ‘They had as much idea as I did that I was even being photographed!’
‘That’s hardly relevant,’ barked Wilfred. ‘And stop arguing!’ His scowl served to terminate any further protest. ‘For God’s sake, girl, you seem to have forgotten there’s a war on, that men are out there fighting for their lives whilst you’re acting like some –’ He broke off with a growl of exasperation.
Don’t you think I’m aware there’s a war on? railed Nell silently. That I might never see my darling boy again? That all this kidding about of which you so disapprove is just a front to make everyone feel better? But she didn’t say it, for she had been raised to respect her parents.
‘And as for this chap!’ continued her father, seizing the newspaper again and rapping the photograph of Billy with the back of his hand as if wanting to punch the man himself. ‘If I catch him pawing you again I’ll be writing to his commanding officer!’
‘She won’t be seeing him again!’ pitched in her mother.
‘I shan’t,’ mumbled Nell, eyes to the carpet. ‘He’s left York.’
‘Good – and I forbid you to write to him!’ shrilled Thelma. ‘We’ll be checking all your letters!’
‘Right, get to your room!’ came the abrupt command from her father. ‘And stay there for the rest of the night.’
Packed off in disgrace, Nell flung herself onto her bed, lashing out at the mattress in frustration. These stupid bloody people, why could she not have been adopted by someone at least able to understand? They had no perception of her whatsoever. Dealing the mattress a last punch, she rolled into a sitting position and balanced angrily on the edge of the bed, glaring at herself in the dressing-table mirror.
Then, after a moment or two, she conjured up Billy’s laughing face, made believe that he was looking back at her, teasing the bad temper from her with one of his jokes, and it forced her to blurt out a laugh – laugh, then cry, that she missed him so much already, and he had only been gone twenty-four hours. Face crumpling, and tears bulging over her lower lashes, she jumped up, snatched a brush and ran it viciously through her dark hair numerous times, to try to prevent herself from breaking down completely.
Well, her parents might think they had covered everything, but the letters wouldn’t be coming here. In defiance, she hauled a stool up to her dressing table, and proceeded to write to her beloved, telling him what had just occurred. ‘But you needn’t worry,’ she assured Billy. ‘Nothing and nobody will ever stop me loving you …’
Once the envelope was firmly adhered, and its flap marked with ‘SWALK’ before it was concealed in her pocket for tomorrow’s post, Nell dragged the stool up to her open window, to take solace in the goings-on of the avenue, waving over her sill to the new people, whom she had yet to meet, and chatting to various neighbours until the light began to fade.
Words were terse and far between at the breakfast table the next day. Outwardly cowed, but secretly smug at having the letter to Billy in her pocket, Nell left at the usual time and posted it on her way to work. She was also to slip into the press office during her lunch hour and order two copies of the damning photograph – not purely from any sense of mischief, though certainly this was a bonus – mainly because she did not have any visual record of herself and Billy together, and it was such a good one. The prints would be ready to collect by the end of the week.
Despite having this to look forward to, though, she was, if anything, even more subdued upon coming home that Tuesday evening, for her visit to Billy’s former billet had been fruitless, no letter arriving from his hand.
Still, the fact that she appeared so passive did go someway to healing the rift with her parents. And after all, it was early days, Billy had only been gone forty-eight hours. Undaunted, yet missing him dreadfully, Nell had no need to be ordered to her room that night, but went willingly, pulling her stool to the dressing table and pouring out her heart.
And to her joy, the next day her visit to his digs was to be rewarded by an envelope which sported the endearment ‘ITALY’ – I trust and love you.
Treasuring his letter, and the one which came two days later, she was to read them again and again throughout that week. And also to pore over that memorable photograph, a copy of which was swiftly despatched to Bill, who had said how much he would value it. Thus Nell was to keep herself happily occupied, whilst waiting for her new position to commence.
Finally, the important day came. Instructed to report at eight a.m. to the railway sidings in Leeman Road – which, being at the far side of the network of lines, involved a journey by bus to the station, and then a short walk – Nell arrived in good time, though she was to find two others had beaten her to it. She offered a friendly hello, but being taller and much younger than both, and sticking out like a sore thumb, she felt too self-conscious to say any more for the time being.
The first response was to come from a stocky woman with bobbed auburn hair and a quiet, but mature and amicable way about her, whose smile and the shrewd twinkling glint in her blue eyes more than made up for any plainness. ‘I’m Beata Kilmaster,’ she began, in a soft Yorkshire accent. ‘Are you for the ambulance train as well?’
Before Nell could reply, the third in the group butted in knowledgeably, ‘We’re not meant to call it that, it’s a Casualty Evacuation Train, they’re totally different things.’
‘That’s me told then,’ said Beata, with an arch expression at Nell.
Liking her at once, Nell was now assigned leave to introduce herself. Having done this, she turned expectantly to the self-appointed oracle, whose response was concise.
‘Avril Joyson.’
Nell gave her a nod and a smile, but the latter was secretly for Bill, whom she imagined would have had fun describing this one. Avril’s face was that of a goldfish, cheeks sucked in as if blowing bubbles, and protuberant blue eyes that lacked either warmth or animation. Her tied-back hair was extremely thick and coarse, the colour of hay, and with a tight natural wave. Nell had to bite her lip to prevent herself from bursting out laughing – a goldfish with a thatched roof, Billy would probably have it.
Based only on looks, she much preferred the former woman, who, with her fresh complexion and russet hair, was more like a trusty Cox’s Pippin, and with whom she felt immediately at ease. ‘I wonder which one’s ours?’ She glanced around at the collection of locomotives that chugged and steamed around them, filling the air with their sulphurous hiss. Her query was mainly addressed to Beata, for Avril seemed to be more intent on scrutinising her than the trains.
‘Well there’s one thing, you won’t have any problem hefting patients about. Tall, aren’t you?’
Embarrassed, Nell turned to the speaker, who was looking her up and down quite shamelessly, and tried to shrug off the accusation. ‘Well, taller than average, I suppose …’
‘I can’t think why you’d want to make yourself even loftier with those high heels.’ Avril continued to criticise. ‘And they won’t like that lipstick.’
Already unsure of herself, Nell’s heart sank. Thank goodness she had one person who appeared to like her, as Beata smiled in rebuttal:
‘I don’t suppose the patients will care much, so long as we look after them.’
Thankfully there was someone else for Avril to look at soon, for at short intervals, the rest of the crew began to turn up: a portly mother and daughter duo named Green; a vivacious French woman, coincidentally bearing the surname of French, who could barely make herself understood; two more women of Beata’s age; and seven men.
‘Gosh, they’ve already got their uniforms,’ whispered Nell, as two very aristocratic-looking girls made a tardy appearance. ‘They look rather grand, don’t they?’
But it turned out that the pair had few airs and graces, and from their chummy introduction it appeared they would be more than willing to muck in, even if they were hoping to qualify as state-registered nurses and not mere auxiliaries. One might have guessed from their mannerisms that Lavinia and Penelope Ashton were sisters, but never twins, marvelled Nell, for the first was dark of countenance, the other fair and blue-eyed, the only similarities their height and their wavy hair. During a brief chat with the rest – not instigated by Nell, but by the thoroughbred girls – she discovered that the men were Salvation Army bandsmen, who were to act as stretcher-bearers. All except Avril were very pleasant, decided Nell, as she smiled and shook hands with each in turn. There was no chance to discover much more about her fellow volunteers, for preceding Matron Lennox, Sister Barber came on the scene then, a pretty, delicate-boned woman with fair hair and a heavily freckled face, who grudged them a smile before warning them to pay close attention to what their superior had to say.
Despite the clanking activity from the railway that went on around them, all became attentive to matron, who was starched in dress though not in manner, with pleasant, rather birdlike, features. It was an old-fashioned face, kind, her hair parted in the middle before disappearing under the neat little white cap, conjuring for Nell the spectre of Florence Nightingale.
Upon ascertaining everyone’s name, Matron Lennox was not to mince her own introduction. ‘No woman should offer herself as a nurse unless she is prepared for hard work, self-denial, and to take her share of occupations that are repugnant to every refined and sensitive being.’ Hands clasped before her, her periwinkle-blue eyes rested briefly but effectively on each and every female, allowing her sermon to permeate those ignorant minds. ‘Whether it be your intent to fulfil a lifetime vocation, or whether your services were offered purely from a view of public-spiritedness and only for the duration of the war, the attributes you will need to fulfil your role shall be the same. To whit: –’
To whoo! Nell looked at her feet to stop herself giggling.
– presence of mind, gentleness, accuracy, memory, observation and forethought. No matter what rank you are to achieve, these are essential to the wellbeing of your patients. You may find the way ahead severely taxing, and be especially overwhelmed during your initial introduction to the wards, and fear that there is far too much to learn. But you will not be expected to know everything at once, and, in possession of those qualities, in no time at all you will reach a standard where you can rightly be proud of your title.’ She finished on a smile, then briefly turned away. ‘Very well, Sister, let us show them what they’re in for!’
There followed a procession to the designated train, where Matron was to come to an abrupt halt.
Sister’s eyes penetrated the nearest recruit, who happened to be Nell. But before the latter could grasp her meaning, Beata had stepped forth and opened the door of the van for their superior.
Crushed by naivety, and wondering how Beata could have interpreted Sister’s mute instruction, Nell kept her head down as Matron ushered her group of nurses aboard one of the converted railway wagons, and proceeded to lecture them on what was required.
‘As you can see, even though the workmen have done their part, it is somewhat in the raw.’ Her declaration was unnecessary, for amongst a liberal sprinkling of sawdust were relics of its previous cargo: a wizened carrot and a shrivelled cabbage leaf. Matron began a slow tour, tapping the partitions that separated the ‘wards’ from the rest of the wagon. ‘This will eventually be the doctor’s office, this one for myself, this for the sister, and this is the nurses’ mess.’ She showed them how the stretchers would be installed in racks, one above the other. ‘But before any equipment is installed it will need to be cleaned from top to bottom, and for this it will be all hands to the pumps – so, as I announced earlier, I hope none of you is afraid of hard work. If you are then you’re in the wrong profession.’ She eyed them all with a face that was stern yet fair, as if allowing them this last-minute chance to withdraw.
At Sister’s prompting glare, Nell reacted a few seconds after everyone else. ‘Yes, Matron.’
‘Very well, I shall close by issuing a warm welcome to all, and leave you in Sister’s capable hands!’ And with this she departed.
With their superior gone, Sister Barber then proceeded to give her new nurses all the do’s and don’ts. And the don’ts seemed to be mostly for Nell’s benefit. ‘You’ll be expected to turn up in more sensible footwear tomorrow, Miss Spottiswood, and without lipstick!’
Nell’s humiliation was amplified by Avril Joyson’s told-you-so look, as Sister continued, ‘You won’t feel half so glamorous when you’re swinging the bedpans!’
Initially deceived by the warm smile of welcome and the freckled angelic face with its baby-blue eyes, Nell was quickly learning that this one would brook no nonsense. If Matron was Florence Nightingale, this was Florence Vulture.
‘For those of you who have been nurturing some romantic notion, let me make it plain that you are here under sufferance, and in the most fundamental capacity. Although you may be credited with the title “Nurse”, make no mistake, it is an honorary one. You are here as helpers. Some of you may go on to achieve distinction,’ her eyes flickered briefly to the Ashton girls, before settling on Nell, ‘others are merely here for the duration. But you are all starting out on the same footing, and there will be no lording it over others. I am here to see that you do not kill anyone. We must all of us make the best of it. But let it be known that I cannot abide giddiness or laziness. Neither will be tolerated.’
Having imprinted these opinions on them, Sister Barber began to interview them one by one. On discovering that the Frenchwoman had barely a word of English, she tutted in dismay to herself. ‘What on earth have they landed me with?’
‘Pardon?’ The French woman cocked her ear.
Sister mouthed loudly at her, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Zey send me!’ came the strangled response. ‘I nurse.’
‘But in England – why are you in England?’
‘Ah, mon mari.’ Mrs French groped for words. ‘’E Anglais!’
Sister heaved a sigh. ‘Good Lord, I’ll warrant you can barely count to ten …’
‘Mais oui!’ The other’s face brightened, and she proceeded to count aloud with pride, ‘Wan, doo, tree, four, fahve, sees, sevahn, ate, nahn –’
‘Yes, thank you!’ Sister held up her hand with a look of defeat, and moved on to the next in line. But she was to emit more frustration on encountering Nurse Green the elder, whose hair was snow-white and whose glasses were as thick as jam-jar bottoms. ‘Dare one enquire how old you are? No, please don’t tell me,’ she uttered quickly, ‘I’d rather not know.’ Her expression declared what a bunch of misfits she had been landed with, as she proceeded to interrogate the next.
With one ear to the conversation, Nell was making examinations of her own. First, Beata – was that swollen ankle as painful as it looked? Those plummy girls, who had arrived already in attractive uniform, how would they cope with all the unpalatable things that would be required of them? And Avril Joyson – she had obviously taken against Nell for the crime of being too tall; would she continue to be so obnoxious? What had made her so? But in the midst of trying to fathom Avril’s hostility, her reverie was to be interrupted.
‘And what about you, Nurse Spottiswood?’
Nell snapped back to attention. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Her face like a cold summer’s day, Sister Barber gave an exasperated sigh and brandished a packet of cigarettes at her. ‘You will address me as “Sister”! I asked, do you smoke?’
‘Oh, I won’t at the moment, thank you, Sister.’
The freckled face closed its eyes in lamentation of this gauche response. ‘I wasn’t offering you one! I was trying to ascertain if you smoked! For those of you who do, there will definitely be none of that in uniform!’
Why then, Nell wondered, did Sister herself have cigarettes in the pocket of her own blue dress? As if the other had read her mind, there came a warning that forbade her even to think of offering defiance. ‘The last thing a sick person needs is for his nurse to smell like a chimney!’
Unhappy that the pair of them had got off on the wrong foot, Nell tried to buck up her ideas, as she and the others were sent to a depot to collect said uniform.
Upon receipt, and out of earshot of Sister, Nell made salty judgement on the unattractive dress. It was much more basic than those worn by the aristocratic Ashton girls, with no separate white collar but a cutaway one of the same fabric as the dress, no long sleeves with white cuffs like theirs, but puffed short ones, and there could be no mistaking her for a ‘real’ nurse with the large letters NA emblazoned on her breast. And instead of a neat little organdie cap like Matron’s, or a voluminous starched one with wings to either side like Sister’s, the nursing auxiliaries’ headgear was little more than a white triangle tied at the back. ‘How unflattering,’ scoffed Nell. ‘Like a peasant’s scarf! Still, I suppose we should think ourselves lucky we’re not made to wear black stockings.’
‘It’s not a fashion parade,’ sniped Avril Joyson. ‘We’re here to help the war effort. And I’m not surprised you got taken to task in those high heels.’
But as the one with the goldfish pout minced out of earshot, the trustworthy Beata Kilmaster smiled back at Nell and admitted, ‘I’d love to be able to wear those, but I always have to wear sensible shoes with this leg.’ Nell’s eyes went straight to the other’s distended ankle. ‘And whatever type of shoes that one wore, she’d still be a pain in the arse – pardon my French.’ Beata chuckled in afterthought of the French nurse.
Nell giggled, and knew immediately that despite the age gap they would be firm friends. ‘I only meant about the uniform, when you’re built like I am, you need all the attractive camouflage you can get. I feel like a bag of spuds!’
But there was no time for any more banter, for they had been instructed to return immediately to the train. Once there, enveloped in aprons and armed with mops, buckets of water, soap and scrubbing brushes, the squad was set to work, men on the outside, females within. Nell threw herself into this wholeheartedly, imagining what her parents would say if they could see their daughter on her hands and knees. However, there could be no quibble about social division, because, to her pleasure and respect, the well-bred girls mucked in quite enthusiastically alongside everyone else.
It was obvious, though, that contrary to Avril Joyson painting herself as the dedicated nurse, she deemed these elements of the job beneath her, and it had not escaped Nell’s sharp eye that she had quickly volunteered for the easier task of wiping down the walls – meaning she did not acquire a crick in her neck from having to wash the ceiling, nor sore knees for scrubbing the floor, as Nell herself was suffering.
None the less, working her way along the wagon, with only a piece of sacking to cushion her kneecaps from the hard planking, the youngest one amongst them put in vigorous effort, moving her scrubbing brush back and forth along the dusty grooves, constantly scouring her knuckles and sending them redder and redder, yelping at splinters as she sweated and scrubbed alongside Beata Kilmaster. Her own joints being so punished, Nell marvelled at how poor Beata coped so well with her swollen leg. Casting a glance sideways now, as she uncoiled her aching spine, she noted that Beata’s shoulders were trembling. About to touch her in concern, she then realised that her friend was shaking with mirth, and, grinning along with her, she asked, ‘What on earth’s tickled you?’
‘It’s ironic,’ Beata arched her own back to relieve it, ‘you come and be a nurse to save you from skivvying, and what do you end up doing? Skivvying!’
Nell shared her merriment, but wasn’t certain that she understood. ‘Do you mean you were a domestic servant?’
‘Aye, for fifteen blasted years,’ declared Beata. ‘More if you count the unpaid ones.’
Nell frowned, but was too polite to ask how old the other was. All the same, she calculated that if Beata had been working for fifteen years that would make her around thirty. Realising that she was staring, she said quickly, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think you were –’
‘That old!’ Beata gave her chesty chuckle and finished Nell’s sentence. ‘It’s all right, I know I must seem ancient to a young lass like you.’
‘Oh, no!’ Nell struggled to explain, her scrubbing brush dripping as it paused idle in mid-air. ‘It’s just that you don’t talk down to me, as most of your generation would.’ Her smile said how much she appreciated this.
The other rejoined with her affable air, ‘I hate being patronised meself, so I never do it to others, no matter what age.’
Nell cast an impish glance to where Nurse Green and her snowy-haired mother worked side by side, and whispered to Beata, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but Mrs Green looks, well, a bit like Methuselah’s wife!’
Beata shared her mischievous laughter. ‘Her daughter’s about fifteen years older than me, so missus must be at least sixty-five. She’ll get the elbow if they find out.’ Though how she had managed to slip through with her grandmotherly looks was inexplicable to both. ‘It’ll be a shame, though, she’s a damned good worker. She’d make three of Oh-be-Joyful.’
Guessing that she meant Avril Joyson, Nell rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, I noticed she was swift to volunteer for the easier bits. I wonder which of us will be first for the chop. Sister doesn’t seem to like me very much.’
‘She’s all right, she’s just strict,’ advised Beata. ‘I’ve had much worse task mistresses in my time – mindst, I think she’ll be getting rid of poor Frenchy before very long if her mangled English doesn’t improve.’
Nell agreed with a laugh. ‘It’s a shame, she seems so nice. We’ll have to help her.’
‘You might be able to. I don’t know any proper French. I don’t know how she and Green got through the interview. I had a stinker.’
Nell then pointed out an anomaly. ‘When I went for interview, they said we shouldn’t have any domestic duties – at least that was the impression I was given.’
Beata confirmed this, but made a cynical addition. ‘I’ve learned never to take an employer on trust.’
Nell pulled a face. ‘I brought a notebook to write down everything I’m taught, as a reminder, but I won’t forget this in a hurry.’ She winced at the gritty block in her hand. ‘Gosh, this blue-mottled soap’s taken the skin off my hands.’
‘At least there won’t be any germs left.’ Beata’s application was that of an expert.
Nell glanced at her partner’s leg and, with their characters being so harmonious, decided to risk an impertinent question. ‘I don’t mean to be nosey, but what’s the matter with your leg? It looks very painful.’
‘Lymphatic oedema,’ supplied Beata, still working whilst Nell paused. ‘They don’t really know what causes it. I’ve had it since I was about ten. The doctor said then it was either heart or kidneys so I was probably a gonner. But I’m still here, so I reckon it’s not so life-threatening.’ Her grin belied how awful it had been to have such a threat hanging over her for years, until a more competent physician had taken charge. ‘It just swells up from time to time. Bit of a nuisance, but there’s plenty worse off.’
Nell guessed that her new friend was in more dis comfort than she let on, and admired her stoicism. ‘You don’t complain much, do you?’
‘Oh, I have me moments,’ smiled Beata.
Nell was curious to know more. ‘It must have been hard, being in service.’
‘Not so different from this,’ revealed Beata. ‘As far as the hierarchy goes, anyway. I was always at the bottom of the ladder.’
Nell breathed a realisation. ‘So that’s how you knew to open the door for Matron …’
‘Quit slacking, nurses!’ called Sister, interrupting her own task, her ire mainly for Nell. ‘I hope you’re not going to be a troublemaker, Spottiswood.’
‘It was my fault, Sister,’ admitted Beata. ‘I was just explaining to Nell –’
‘If she requires an explanation regarding anything to do with nursing – which is all you should be discussing – then she must come and ask me! And you can dispense with the Christian names, from now on it’s surnames only.’
‘Yes, Sister,’ replied both subserviently, and launched back into their scrubbing.
But Nell was to protest when the gorgon was out of earshot, ‘We’ve both got such long names – and it sounds so unfriendly, doesn’t it? Do you think she’d mind if we shorten them?’
‘Spotty and Killie – I don’t think it’d inspire much confidence in our nursing skills, do you?’ grinned Beata, causing Nell to laugh too. At any event, these names were how they were to address each other from then on.
At the end of a very long day of hard labour, Beata’s leg blown up like a sausage and Nell’s knuckles red and bleeding and still embedded with the odd splinter, the nurses were allowed to go home at five, with the promise from Sister that there was plenty more work and longer hours to come.
‘So what are you going to be doing tonight?’ enquired Beata, as the pair of them limped their way from the noisy railway sidings into an equally grimy road. ‘If you’ve any energy left, that is. Have you got a boy to take you out?’
Nell ceased picking at her ragged fingernails, to cast a secretive smile at her much shorter companion. ‘As a matter of fact I have – but I’m only telling you and no one else. My parents would kill me.’ The twelve-year age gap was as nothing in this quickly established friendship, at least as far as Nell was concerned. ‘But I won’t be seeing him for a while, he’s been sent to London.’
‘You’ll be like me, then,’ Beata smiled up at her, ‘just sitting with your feet up by the wireless.’
At this point a small group of their colleagues caught them up. Having overheard the last statement, the more forthright of the upper-class twins said gaily, ‘No, we can’t have that! We’ve just been discussing starting up a band with those Sally Army chaps – a modern one, I mean, not banging the tambourine or anything! Can either of you sing? We’re going into town for dinner and to discuss names, come and join us.’
Nell observed that Avril Joyson had tagged on to the Ashton twins, seeming to enjoy the reflected status. The last thing she desired was that one’s company, and neither, apparently, did her companion.
‘Sounds fun,’ replied Beata, ‘but I can’t sing for toffee. I’ll be glad to come and applaud, but tonight I just want to get home, have a cup of tea, and rest my barking dogs.’
‘Me too,’ smiled Nell, affecting to collapse.
‘Killjoys!’ Lavinia’s plummy voice denounced them, but its owner was only joking, as she further scolded Nell. ‘Especially you – why, you’re barely out of school, you shouldn’t be such a fuddy-duddy!’
If only you knew, thought Nell, with a mind to her passionate weekend with Billy, but told her accuser, ‘I’ve just managed to get back in my parents’ good books. I daren’t risk upsetting them. I can’t really sing either.’
‘Why, you are no use to anyone, Spottiswood!’ Her detractor aped Sister Barber’s strict tone. ‘You should jolly well show more enthusiasm – can’t you even help us out with a name at least?’
Recalling Sister’s earlier admonition, Nell was swift to come up with one. ‘How about the Bedpan Swingsters?’
‘That’s perfect!’ Lavinia and Penelope fell against each other in mirth, and with even Joyson agreeing that this was a great idea, there was much good humour as they parted.
The last to break up, Beata enquired if Nell would be catching her bus from the railway station just around the corner. But Nell had other plans. With no opportunity to pick up Billy’s letter at lunchtime, she had been forced to wait until now. It would mean travelling out of her way, but she would never sleep without reading his latest words. Feeling safe in confiding all of this to her new friend, she gushed, ‘See you tomorrow!’ then went to collect the prized letter and read it on the bus home.
‘Ooh, here comes Nurse Spottiswood in her new uniform!’ remarked her mother when Nell finally got in, her father having arrived just before her.
‘Looking very pleased with herself as well.’ After drying his hands, Wilfred took his place at the table, Nell doing the same.
‘She must have had as good a day as I have,’ surmised her rather frazzled but cheerful mother, placing a meal in front of both before serving herself. ‘The washing dried in no time in this sunshine, and I managed to get every bit folded and ready for ironing tomorrow.’ This accounted for the cheery mood, thought Nell, politely attending whilst her mother wittered on. ‘So if I can make an early start before it gets too hot, then I can devote the afternoon to fruit-picking,’ finished Thelma.
Father came alert at the thought of his territory being invaded. ‘Er, I’ll tell you when you can pick it, thank you very much!’
‘Oh, I don’t mean from your domain, dear.’ Though fruit trees grew in abundance in the Spottiswood back garden, Thelma would never dream of touching them without her husband’s permission. ‘No, I just mean those brambles by the railway – that’s if anyone hasn’t beaten me to it.’
Father looked duly appeased. ‘Oh, well that’s all right then. I just didn’t want you giving our best quality stuff to the WVS. I’ve negotiated a decent price for it with a couple of greengrocers, you see – you can take all you need for ourselves of course.’ He set into his meal, a good portion of it being consumed before either parent thought to ask about Nell’s new job.
‘So what type of girls are you working with?’ enquired her mother.
‘They’re mostly very nice.’ Nell lifted her attention from her plate, and proceeded to tell her parents a little about each fellow nurse, hoping to titillate them with her impression of the French one, though they did not guffaw as much as Billy would have.
‘So you think you’ll enjoy this nursing lark?’ smiled her father.
‘I’m sure of it!’ When I get a chance, came Nell’s grim thought, not revealing that her entire day had been taken up with scrubbing floors and getting splinters in her hands and her nails torn to the quick. ‘It’s hard, but worthwhile.’
But she did make it known how tired it had made her, and, after listening to the wireless for news of how the Battle of Britain had gone that day, she was to linger only for another ninety minutes or so with her parents, enjoying a serial, then some music, whilst helping to make firelighters from compressed newspaper. By eight o’clock she was on her way to bed with a cup of cocoa, secretly to prop up the photograph of her beloved – whose laughing face looked on whilst she read his letter again – and to compose another to him, relating in brief the events of the day, picking out things that might amuse him, and ending with the usual sentiment of how much she missed and loved him. Then, within five minutes of kissing his photograph, and hiding this and the envelope under her pillow ready to be posted in the morning, she fell asleep.
The transformation of the rolling stock took a couple more days, during which all the recruits twiddled with each others’ surnames so as to make their address less harsh. There was not much one could do with some of the names, but in addition to Killie and Spotty, Nurse French was now Frenchy and Avril Joyson was Joy – but this was a mischievously ironic title. Sister made no complaint as long as they did their work.
Only after the wagons had been thoroughly cleaned and polished from top to bottom, and were fully kitted out, were the volunteers to learn anything related to actual nursing. First, there was to be a fortnight of lectures and training at a hospital. Though continuing to miss Billy dreadfully, Nell was intelligent enough to realise there was no point in moping, and so welcomed this opportunity to throw herself into learning her job, and thus be equipped with fresh material for her nightly penning. Even before this, Billy had seemed to enjoy all her mundane details. Now, though, she would have much more interesting news for him, which was good for her too, for this nightly ritual certainly helped to ease the emptiness – though, oh, how she yearned for him.
The County Hospital was in Monkgate, only an extra stop on the bus then a few minutes’ walk under two ancient Bars. Beyond its Viking gates and medieval dog-leg alleys, York’s suburbs had begun to encroach on one village after another, but inside its compact walls nothing was far away, and you could get from one side to the other in less than half an hour. There had been no need for Nell to rise early, yet she had. Thankful that the manual part was over, she rolled up at the hospital that morning raring to fill the pages of her notebook, as did her colleagues.
All were in for a shock. After their matron on the trains being so decent, her counterpart at the hospital was quite the opposite, making her feelings clear upon meeting the auxiliaries. Whilst Sister Barber had made it plain that she did not appreciate having amateurs foisted upon her, this woman was downright insulting.
‘I gather that one or two of you will be applying to have your names included on the national register. Those I shall be addressing later. As to those others of more restricted intellect, I shall attempt to convey this as simply as possible. I do not, and never shall, subscribe to quackery, and will not permit it in this hospital. I may have been coerced by the powers-that-be into accepting recruits who are totally inadequate for the task, but that does not mean I will subject my patients to abuse by persons who are only fit for domestic service, factory or shop work …’
Flushed with indignation, Nell shifted uncomfortably in her new sensible shoes, as Matron proceeded with her waspish rendition.
‘You might flatter yourselves that you are nurses – indeed, others might address you by such a term. I shall not. In these times of emergency the word has gained inflated value. If you were worthy of the title, you would have made the grade for it, whatever the effort. The qualifying examinations are prepared on a minimum curriculum, and if you cannot attain this simple standard, then your intellect is exceedingly limited.’
Nell could not help but emit a gasp. The matron’s cold gaze rested upon her for a few seconds, though her lecture was to remain universal.
‘Be that as it may, you should all be able to hold one rule in your minds. And it is a vital rule. Whilst you are in this hospital, never, I repeat never, presume to undertake actions that are beyond your capabilities. You may watch qualified nurses at their work, some of you might learn from them … as to the rest of you … I myself will attempt to inculcate the rudimentary syllabus.’ A heavy sigh insinuated just how tiresome this would be. The way she looked down her nose and stared into each and every face was extremely unnerving. No one deserved such discrimination, the friends agreed later, once out of range of this termagant; even the normally docile Nurse French pouring forth a string of Gallic invective, after Nell had translated the gist for her.
‘I’ve never been so insulted,’ breathed a distempered Nell to the others. ‘And I’m not stupid! I went to grammar school.’
‘So would I have done, if we’d had any spare cash for the uniform,’ muttered an equally incensed Beata. ‘I passed the scholarship.’
‘Same here!’ lobbed Green the younger. ‘What about you, Joy, did you pass?’
‘Yes!’ Joyson was eager not to be judged a dunce, though the way her eyes flickered told that she was lying, which made Nell feel a twinge of sympathy. Having got to know her, she had learned that, apart from the vice of laziness and her blunt opinions, there was no real malice to Avril.
‘And so did me mam, didn’t you, Mam?’ finished Green junior.
Similarly nettled as the younger ones, Mrs Green’s white head gave a nod of confirmation. ‘My poor dad could hardly scrape the funds to feed us all, let alone for school books and pencils.’
‘Well that’s just it!’ objected Nell. ‘I don’t think Matron’s exceptionally bright if she couldn’t even make any allowance for those of us who are unable to afford the exams. I’ve never been spoken to like that in my entire life – why, it’s as if she regards us as scum!’
And, indeed, this was further exemplified at midday, for they were forbidden to eat in the dining hall – even though it was raining – and had to huddle under the bicycle shelter, with no means of alleviating their aching feet – though this was not to be endured for very long. ‘Dinner-hour’ being a luxury of the past, after wolfing down their lunches in fifteen minutes it was back to the grind.
During that most testing of fortnights, they were required to learn all the names of poisonous gases that might be used by the Germans, and to avoid these themselves by deploying their respirators in seconds. This latter seemed to be the sole functional thing they were allowed to do, for only those who were full probationers had any actual contact with the patients. But even in practising on each other, the auxiliaries were constantly reminded that they were the poor relations.
Or not so poor, as one of the ‘real’ nurses was quick to accuse. ‘I think it’s a disgrace that you’re earning so much without a single qualification! We all had to spend years passing exams and paying our dues, and you swan in earning more than probationers – and no cleaning to do!’
‘You could have fooled me,’ muttered Beata, which is what young Nell would have said if she had not been so overwhelmed by the amount of antagonism.
All this being so, having made their protest, the trained nurses chose to tolerate the auxiliaries, and were kind enough to teach by example the various aspects of their work. Along with asepsis and antisepsis, and the precautions to obtain these, came methods of resuscitation, including those which took place in the casualty department. For some reason matron had not objected to these ignorant individuals coming along there, nor to the operating theatre. Nell thought perhaps she knew why: Matron hoped they would take fright at the horrible injuries, and thus she could be rid of them. Determined not to give this awful woman the satisfaction, she steeled herself not to faint at the bloody scalpels and bone saws, and was quite delighted that her friends managed to do the same – although all were very pale when they emerged. But these ordeals seemed to have no purpose other than for Matron’s gratification, for in the main it was one lecture after another, and a lot of scribbling in notebooks.
After being previously lauded for her skills at first aid, Nell had to relearn almost everything she had been taught, any polite query seen as insubordination and earning a severe dressing-down. She certainly knew her place now, and that was as a slave to the authorities, for they demanded to know her every whereabouts – even after working hours, when she was expected to keep her superiors informed of her movements so that they could contact her in an emergency. ‘It’s worse than being at home,’ spluttered Nell, only half joking. ‘At least my parents allow me freedom to visit the lavatory!’
As a matter of fact, Thelma and Wilfred had been persuaded to allow a little more than that lately. The incident in Scarborough forgiven, if not completely forgotten, their daughter had been allotted leave to go and watch the newly formed Bedpan Swingsters perform on an evening. Had they known the chosen venue was a pub, undoubtedly they would have been less lenient. Not about to enlighten them, Nell kept a ready cache of peppermints to disguise the combination of stout and cigarettes that were consumed during the lively performance. Everyone agreed that it was such a delight to let one’s hair down after Matron’s authoritarian regime and obvious detestation of them.
The latter continuing unabated, it was a very long fortnight at the County Hospital – and to exacerbate Nell’s misery, during that period there came news that the Germans had finally bombed London itself, in broad daylight. How she was to fret until Billy’s letter arrived to assure her he was safe! Though her relief over this was to be somewhat short-lived, for that daring attack was only the beginning of a murderous blitz on the capital, and every night after this, as Nell perused her darling’s latest letter before going to sleep, she was to dread it would be his last.
There was to be some respite on the work front, however, when the fortnight at the County Hospital came to an end and the recruits moved on to the Infirmary. This was only a short walk along the same route until the road diverged, yet miles removed in style from the handsome redbrick building of their previous post, the institutional block straddled between the brown River Foss and the cocoa works, both of which could be smelled on the air. Here they hoped to gain practical experience with the elderly. It came as something of a damp squib, though, to learn that this was the type of patient on whom they would be concentrating: hardly the romantic ideal some of them had treasured.
‘It used to be the old workhouse till they changed the name,’ whispered Beata, upon catching Nell’s look of shock at some of the inmates they encountered on their way along the drab corridors that hummed of stale cabbage and decaying humanity.
Nell was glad to be taken under the elder’s wing, for she felt very nervous under the vacant, sometimes malevolent, gaze of those whiskery old men with crumpled shirt collars and crumpled faces, grease-stained ties and baggy suits. But she tried not to show it, deporting herself with dignity as exemplified by Sister Barber, for she wanted to appear as mature as the rest. Did nothing faze those Ashton girls?
Apparently it did bother Joyson, though. ‘I don’t really mind,’ she began, her expression telling, ‘but I’d rather feel I was doing something for the lads who are defending us.’
‘Some of these old chaps would have been soldiers once,’ Beata told her.
‘Maybe in the Crimean War,’ scoffed Joyson, nose in the air as she bustled along, trying to act the professional. ‘I doubt they’d know one end of a Spitfire from the other.’
‘And do you?’ came Lavinia Ashton’s forthright demand.
Joyson grew shirty. ‘I’m just saying what a great job the RAF boys have done, and I’d like to pay them back, that’s all.’
The others shared a look here. They were well-acquainted with Joyson’s penchant for airmen, having seen her flirting with squadrons of them around the bars.
‘God knows we need them after that mess at Dunkirk,’ she added, being immediately heckled for such a defeatist attitude.
Too fixed on her surroundings, Nell had not really been listening to Joyson’s moaning, but this had her full attention. ‘I admire the RAF too,’ she shot back. ‘But everyone’s doing their part!’ She envisaged poor Bill as he lay on that beach under fire, pictured him now as wave after wave of the Luftwaffe pummelled his home town, night after night, thousands of people killed and injured …
Perceiving her fears, Beata tried to dispel them, though in doing so she addressed everyone. ‘Did you hear on the wireless last night, a hundred and eighty-five German planes shot down over London – in a single day! We’ve certainly got ’em on the run …’
But Nell was to remain apprehensive as the group made their way past vast dormitories of chronic infirm and the mentally ill, to rendezvous with the master and matron, wondering just how bad the superintendent of such an institution might be.
Surprisingly, and to everyone’s great relief. Miss Fosdyke turned out to be as pleasant and fair-minded as their own matron on the trains, having the knack of not speaking down to them whilst retaining her own authority. There would be nothing to fear from this one, felt Nell, looking back into the kind, reassuring and ladylike face, which was directed at each girl in turn, not addressing them en masse, but asking each individual why they had not applied to go on the register – leaving aside the Ashton twins, who had.
When it came to Nell’s turn, she replied that it was purely the expense that was prohibitive. ‘I should hate for it to be a hardship on my parents,’ she told Matron respectfully. ‘But, like everyone here, I just wanted to do my bit for the war.’
As usual there was some difficulty in ascertaining Nurse French’s thoughts and feelings, but the others, who had by now achieved a certain camaraderie, helped by explaining to Matron what Nell had recently discovered for them: that Frenchy was in fact a fully qualified nurse in her own country, and it was only her inability to grasp the language that was the barrier – and only then the speaking of it, for she understood instructions well enough. Considering that as an auxiliary she would not be entrusted with drugs, and that her manner was kind and caring, her mode of communication was of little handicap.
Matron accepted all of their answers without criticism – and was even complimentary. ‘I can tell you are all intelligent women. Perhaps once you are acclimatised you will decide to make that extra sacrifice to attain registered status. In any event, we are very glad to have you all here, short as your stay might be. The care of the chronic sick and elderly is a greatly neglected field, but it is very rewarding.’
They were to find that hers was a different persona altogether than Matron Lennox’s quiet way, more outgoing and amusing, as she shepherded the group on a brief tour of the infirmary. ‘And it will be brief, I’m afraid,’ she informed her entourage. ‘Our peripatetic MO is due to arrive for his rounds at any moment.’ Even so, she did appear to have sufficient time to introduce the recruits to others along her nimble way, not merely staff but inmates.
‘This is one of our longest serving residents – I do beg your pardon for walking on your nice clean floor, Blanche,’ she said, as politely as to an equal, whilst steering her party around the elderly woman in the shapeless cotton frock and long bloomers, who was on her hands and knees scrubbing the corridor and mumbling to herself.
The old girl lifted a beautiless, wart-bedecked face, appearing not to notice the rest of her audience, but smiling brightly at the one who had spoken. ‘You’re all right, miss!’ Then immediately going back to scrubbing the floor, jabbering to herself as the group moved on. ‘Late, late, always late, never did a day’s work in your life, not worth a candle …’
Her mumbling was fading into the distance, Matron explaining that Blanche had been born here, when she interrupted herself to accost another. ‘One moment, Cissie Flowerdew! I can see you, trying to slope off.’
Mop and bucket in hands, about to run, her victim wheeled around to portray the aura of a simpleton, the face framed in cropped brown hair held with a grip at either temple, and her lumpish torso clad in a similar shapeless blue frock to the last woman. Then Cissie came hurrying up with a repentant smile, her head cocked to one side, as she gave an answer that was well-rehearsed. ‘I wouldn’t know him again, Matron! He had his hat pulled down over his eyes and –’
‘– a long black coat to his ankles!’ finished Matron Fosdyke with grim amusement. ‘My word, this chap does seem to be a regular suitor, doesn’t he?’ Turning to the recruits, she offered an explanation, whilst encompassing the inmate in her reply. ‘Sister tells me that Cissie is expecting another happy event in the new year, isn’t that so, Cissie?’
‘Aye, Matron.’ There was no further attempt at guile.
Shaking her bonneted head, Matron issued a benign smile. ‘We’ll say no more about it for the moment. You may go back to work now.’
‘Baby number four,’ she explained to her party when the offender had clomped away. ‘Cissie works as one of our ward maids, she’s been with us for twenty years, entered when she was pregnant with her first child – someone took advantage of her when she was little more than a child herself, and it was deemed safer to keep her here for her own protection. How wrong we were! Every now and again she manages to give us the slip, and every time the same excuse: “Ah wouldn’t recognise ’im again, nurse,’ e ’ad ’is ’at pulled down over ’is eyes an’ a long black coat to ’is ankles!”’ The group broke into a unified smile, much disarmed by Matron’s feigned Yorkshire accent.
‘Every one of the children has a different father, though,’ Matron added, in her clipped fashion. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to work that out when you see them. They remain with us until they’re old enough to enter the orphanage. You’ll probably meet her last one in the nursery ward – right, onwards!’
Nell exchanged glances with Beata as the group surged off again, one of them hopping rapidly ahead each time they reached a door, and opening it for their leader to go sailing through. It was apparent that, despite her hearty kindness towards the inmates, Matron would condone no slapdash behaviour from those who should know better. For her arrival on each ward was met with much deference, and even when her eyes and mouth showed satisfaction, no one dared put aside their awe until she had gone.
Nell was by now feeling overwhelmed, and not a little dispirited, for not only did many of the occupants wear the identical and uninspiring uniform, but a similar expression. Even those not confined to bed could hardly be termed mobile, the odd one or two shuffling like tortoises from one end of the ward to the other, the rest seated on uncomfortable chairs. All wore the same look of resignation, as though condemned to a dungeon, their skin wrinkled and papery and slightly yellow, like plants deprived of sunlight. How bored the poor things must be, sympathised Nell, with only a square of sky to view, no pictures on the walls, not even a splash of colour to cheer them, just polished floors, crisp white linen, and endless rows of beautifully made beds.
Yet not all was gloom, for some of the old people still had their wits about them, and engaged the visitors in a few moments of playful chat. Then, after racing around in Matron’s slipstream for a while, Nell and the other auxiliaries were to receive the honour of shadowing the visiting MO on his rounds. And even if forced to stand to the rear of those more worthy, they were to pick up much information, though some of it amusingly suspect.
‘And how is Mrs Grant this morning?’ enquired the eminent man, upon his satellites being gathered around the current bed.
Its elderly occupant leaned forward and summoned him with a bony finger, as if to pour some confidence into his ear. ‘The city walls are made of shit.’
‘Really? They’ve stood up to it well,’ replied the doctor, without batting so much as an eyelid, whilst Nell and her friends tried not to choke on their mirth.
There were to be many such opportunities for amusement during that tour, some grossly embarrassing ones too, and some so intensely sad they made Nell want to cry, and to wonder if she was really cut out for such a commitment.
She was to pose this question to herself again later, when she and her fellows were handed to the care of their very own Sister Barber, under whose judicial eye they were to endure ward training. Many of the duties they had done before, such as bed-making, which was terribly frustrating when one wanted to get to grips with the real job. But as it seemed to be paramount on the list of rules, or at least as important as hand-washing, Nell proceeded to do as she was told. She must have done something right, for after first making up empty beds, she and the others were allowed to make one with someone in it. After showing her pupils the correct way to roll an infirm patient from side to side, to check for signs of pressure, and how to sponge the person down, Sister divided them into pairs, and instructed each to follow her example.
Nell would much rather have been paired with Beata than Joyson to undertake the blanket bathing of Mrs Wrigley, but without a choice in the matter she was determined to shine. Thankfully the elderly lady was compliance itself, and not one of those who screamed blue murder like the poor Ashton girls had been landed with. But despite her ruttly chest, Mrs Wrigley raised not a grumble, as she was manhandled about the mattress and generally used as a practice dummy. Thankful for this cooperation, Nell voiced appreciation to Mrs Wrigley whilst trying not to make her cough worse, wondering throughout if Sister would admonish her for gossiping. But Sister appeared to be content to let them go about this in their own way for a while, and a lot less keen on pointing out their faults at every turn, as she had done at first introduction two weeks ago. Though coming to know her so well, Nell had the suspicion that this was just a ruse, and that Sister was merely saving all her complaints for later. Thus attuned, she determined to rob her of any chance to grumble.
Sister had other ideas. Gathering everyone around the bed that Nell and Joyson had just stripped and changed between them, after first excusing herself to the patient, she prowled the scene, checking that all castors were turned inward, the corners of the sheets were all neatly tucked in, the top one was folded over the counterpane to the regulation measurement, and the dirty linen had been deposited in the bin. Finding no fault with any of these, she then canvassed the group. ‘Do all of you consider that Mrs Wrigley has been satisfactorily provided for?’
Feeling nervous as her peers ran their eyes over her work, Nell was relieved that none of them spotted anything wrong.
‘Nothing wrong at all?’ queried Sister. ‘Then where is Mrs Wrigley to deposit her sputum – on the floor? This is not a saloon bar!’
Additionally reminded by the old lady’s chest noises, Nell realised with dismay. ‘Sorry, Sister, I took the cup away to wash it and forgot to fetch it back. I’ll go –’
‘It’s no good remembering it later! Mind to the task, Nurse, anticipate your patient’s every requirement! If they should have to ask for anything then we are not doing our job.’
‘Yes, Sister …’ After paying such care to the handling of the old lady, and feeling proud of her efforts, Nell felt slightly less so now.
Sister Barber then turned her attention to the lower bedding, again excusing herself to Mrs Wrigley as she pulled aside the covers to emit a sound of accusation. ‘This draw sheet is not taut enough! A few shuffles from Mrs Wrigley and it will form rucks!’ She was levelling her criticism at Nell again. ‘And what do rucks make?’
‘Bedsores, Sister!’ came the unified chant.
‘And a bedsore is to be regarded as an abomination – there will be none on my ward!’
Nell’s lips parted to object, and she waited for Joyson to admit that she had been the one responsible for not tucking her side in properly, whilst Nell had been more focused on the patient. But the real culprit merely gazed straight ahead and let her take the blame, as sister emoted, ‘This is sheer laziness! Do it again, properly!’
‘Just my luck to get partnered with her,’ muttered Nell from the side of her mouth to her friend Beata, as the group was dispersed to other tasks. Having tried to discern over the past few weeks if there was more to Joyson than met the eye, she had soon discovered that there wasn’t. She was as shallow and lazy as first impressions had implied. No matter that they enjoyed friendlier relations now, she would always let you down. ‘The treacherous cat. I get into enough trouble without taking the blame for Joyson too.’
But despite that telling off, Nell was to learn a great deal that morning, Sister proving to be very informative as she instructed her pupils in the accurate taking of temperature, pulse and respiration; the cleaning and sterilisation of appliances and instruments; what to observe in a patient’s posture, appetite, evacuations, colour of face, pain, effect of medicines; how different ailments required different management – heart and chest patients being propped up with pillows, others laid flat – and so on, these things being scribbled down in notebooks – for it was impossible to remember them all – and taking them right up to dinnertime.
Though not banned from eating inside this hospital, the recruits had already taken the contingency of bringing sandwiches, and now chose to eat these in the fresh air. At least it was fine, and there was a much nicer outlook here on the bench of a small nearby park – if a little chilly, for it was now well into September.
‘Golly, it’s a real eye-opener, isn’t it?’ exclaimed Penelope Ashton. ‘Some of the old girls are fun, though, with the things they say!’
‘Oh, and what do you make of Ciss?’ interjected Lavinia. ‘Four babies, how scandalous!’
‘It’s a blasted disgrace,’ declared Joyson, opening her sandwiches. ‘Allowing her to have one after the other like that! They should have her sterilised.’
Unsure as to her own stance, Nell looked to Beata, predicting a kinder opinion.
But, ‘It’s the poor little kids I feel sorry for,’ said her auburn-haired friend, for once unable to defend the indefensible. ‘There’s enough illegitimate babies being produced in the so-called normal world, what with lasses throwing themselves at soldiers, without having to put up with it in there too. I’d keep her locked up permanently if it were up to me. It makes me boiling mad.’
‘La pauvre imbecile,’ murmured a dissident voice from further along the bench.
‘Well, you’d expect that from her,’ muttered Joyson under her breath. ‘The French are always at it.’
Nell was examining her sandwiches without much enthusiasm, when she noticed her mentor frown and hold the miniature suitcase containing her own lunch to her ear.
‘What’s up, Killie?’
‘I’m sure I can hear – why, it’s like scratching.’ Looking puzzled, Beata opened the case in cautious fashion, to reveal a seething mass of ants. With a yell of disgust, she threw it to the ground, the ants in a panic as they continued to swarm over the jam sandwiches.
‘Well, that’s my dinner down the swanny,’ came her dismal utterance.
‘No it isn’t, you can share mine!’ Nell offered them brightly.
‘Nay, I’m not depriving you,’ Beata tried to refuse.
But Nell exerted friendly pressure. ‘Honestly, there are too many here for me. They’re meat paste. I don’t even feel like eating any of them, the stench in there has made me feel so queasy.’
‘Oui it eez very, er, pongy,’ agreed Madame, pinching her nose and making the others laugh with affection.
Despite her own geniality, Nell’s face remained wan, and it seemed all she could do to nibble on her sandwich. ‘I swear I’ve not felt right since I entered that blessed place.’
Grateful to be fed, Beata shifted from one plump buttock to the other. ‘I wonder when those luncheon vouchers will make an appearance.’ They had been promised some at the outset.
‘To be honest,’ said Joyson, viewing her own sandwich distastefully, ‘I couldn’t even stomach roast beef and Yorkshire pud, having seen the dirty habits of those old folk.’
Nell’s face buckled in laughter. ‘Yes, did you see what that old chap did with his business?’
‘Ah, non!’ Frenchy begged her not to elaborate.
‘They can’t help it.’ Beata assumed her usual virtuous character, addressing herself mainly to Nell. ‘You’ll be old yourself one day. Just thank your lucky stars your family isn’t impoverished and you won’t end up in here. It’s not very nice having to put your nearest and dearest into an institution.’
Nell looked chastened. ‘Is someone you know in the Infirmary?’ she tendered.
‘My Aunt Lizzie. She went senile, started being a hazard to herself, so we had no choice …’
Having contributed to the mockery, Nell felt ashamed and silly, and innocent. ‘Of course, I’m sorry if we offended you, Killie. My grandmother went a similar way, but we were able to nurse her at home.’
‘Then she was lucky,’ announced Beata, taking another bite of her sandwich.
Nell nodded thoughtfully over her own abandoned lunch. ‘I’d never imagined there were people so unfortunate until today.’
‘Aye, well, it’s one thing to be forced to end your days in the Infirmary, another to have been born there, like Cissie’s children. I don’t know which is worse. But you can’t allow your feelings to show in our job. If we treat them all with equal respect, then at least we can leave them with a bit of dignity. I always put meself in their position – the old folk, not the unmarried mothers,’ she added hastily with a chuckle, then was serious again. ‘I just think how I’d like to be treated. You know how you were mentioning the other week about not talking down to people just because they’re younger than you – I hate people who treat the elderly like little children.’ As Joyson rose to wander about the grounds to enjoy a crafty cigarette, Beata leaned towards Nell and muttered pungently, ‘She’s a bugger for doing that, I’ve noticed – pardon my cursing,’ she added at Nell’s sparkle. ‘It just makes me mad.’
‘You’re very wise,’ admired Nell. ‘I think if I stick by you I won’t go far wrong.’
Whilst the others went for a stroll around the compact gardens, she was to remain with Beata, who was obviously keen to rest her leg.
Having had her earlier questions answered as to the cause of Beata’s swollen ankle, and many more personal ones besides during their three weeks together, Nell decided to chance another.
‘I noticed when Matron asked us why we only wanted to be auxiliaries, you gave a similar answer to mine …’
‘That I was too skint to go on the register?’ Beata nodded. ‘Well, I could hardly tell her the real reason.’
Insatiably curious, Nell sat up. ‘What was that?’
‘I wanted to join the WAAF but they wouldn’t have me – I failed the medical.’
‘Why, you surprise me! I think you’ll make an exemplary nurse.’
Beata shook her head in self-doubt. ‘I fought against it for years, and now look where I am.’
‘But why?’ pressed Nell.
‘You’re a nosey little bugger, aren’t you?’ But when Beata turned to her, the small blue eyes were twinkling.
‘Sorry.’ Nell formed a regretful smile. ‘It’s just that I’m interested in other people’s lives – especially people I like.’
‘Well,’ her friend looked upon her warmly as she explained, ‘I can’t think it’ll be all that scintillating, but if you really want to know …’ And she proceeded to reveal how, throughout her life, from the age of ten, she had always seemed to be nursing one relative or another. ‘Whenever anybody fell ill, it was always, “Send for our Beat”. I got a bit sick of it at times, you know …’
Nell commiserated. ‘But still, it’s a shame you couldn’t afford to go on the register and be a proper nurse.’
‘Oh, I daresay I could’ve done the same as one of my sisters. She put herself into domestic service so’s to be able to save up for her true vocation. My money always seemed to be frittered away – anyway, what constitutes a proper nurse? I might not have the right qualifications, the right uniform, but nobody could care more about a patient’s welfare than I do – and I reckon you’re the same type, that’s why you’re still here after seeing all those poor demented souls in there.’ Her auburn head made a gesture at the Infirmary.
Pleased to be so well regarded, Nell thought she now saw the reason for Beata’s unmarried state at such ripe age: she had been too busy caring for others to make a life for herself. But she did not press for verification, for it was a question too far, and much too personal, and she had no wish to point out that that was where she and her friend differed.
So, lifting her face to the sun, she closed her eyes, daydreaming of Billy, enjoying this moment of peace after the chaos of the former workhouse, only the drone of a Halifax bomber interrupting the quiet.
Finally, though, Beata glanced down at the case that had contained her lunch, and saw that the ants had completely left it, though she dealt it a final bash just to make sure. ‘We’d better get back to work, else Matron’ll have ants in her pants.’
Nodding, her young companion rose, and, along with the rest of the group, strolled back to the Infirmary, looking forward to the afternoon.
