It Won't Hurt a Bit (17 page)

Instead, there was Isobel, complete with survival kit and apologising for having to dash but she was beginning to get hungry and she did have a dinner date.

‘Isobel,’ I said, recognising grace.

‘Yes?’

‘Ever thought of taking up nursing?’

‘No. I’d rather be a butcher.’

‘Are you ok?’ Isobel, wearing the concerned look of a nurse on a recruitment drive, was doing a morning check-up.

‘Uh-huh, but I wish I’d paid more attention to that lecture on vermin control. How’d the date go?’

She laughed, avoided the question and held the door open. ‘Come on then. At least you’ve got your sense of humour back. It takes a lot to get you down but I just hope I never get her. She sounds awful. Mind, I’ve got quite enough with my ward sister keeping me stuck in the sluice. She’s a right bitch! Says I’ve got to learn about cleaning first. I’m beginning to wonder what a patient looks like, never mind a clinical instructor.’

That wasn’t my problem. On the ward corridor, mine was waiting for me.

‘Come along – quickly-do,’ the scold-shadowing figure tapped her feet and watch. My heart couldn’t make up its mind whether to sink or burst but then Sister Miller came out of her office interrupting with, ‘I want to see you both.’

The sister tutor bridled at the abrupt tone. ‘We’ve a busy morning, can’t it wait?’

‘No. Now!’

The office was a jumble of cheap furniture, strewn papers and filing cabinets haemorrhaging contents onto the lino floor. The cartoons on the wall could have lightened the atmosphere if Sister Miller hadn’t sat, like a headmistress, behind her desk.

She picked up the Kardex, a bulletin of patients’ progress, and leafed through it until she came to Mr Watt’s details with an attached card.

‘Do you recognise this?’ She took it out and held up the ‘Fluids Only’ notice last seen behind his bed. ‘Do you realise that since your trolley round yesterday, this patient’s been seriously ill?’ She slapped the card on her desk.

I thought about nice Mr Watt with his troubled gaze and nervous tremor. He’d been very anxious before his operation and the major surgery proved his point. I remembered how weakly he’d tried to argue against taking anything and wished I’d had the courage to challenge Sister Gorightly’s bossy ministrations.

‘Will he be alright?’ I asked, worrying a lot about the patient and even more about the resignation letter in my pocket and when I’d be asked for it.

The tutor stuck out her chin, put her hands on the desk and eyeballed her colleague. ‘Surely that’s nothing to do with us, we just followed what was on the notice.’

In silence, Sister Miller turned the card, which now read ‘Nil Orally’.

‘How would we have known that?’ The tone was shrill.

‘He’s had a very bad night. We even thought his sutures might burst with his retching. He should never have had that cup of tea which I believe you insisted he drink.’

‘You can hardly make us responsible for your errors.’ Sister Gorightly’s tone dripped contempt. ‘I can’t believe you’ve allowed out two different notices on one piece of cardboard,’ she wafted a hand at the paper piles and general office muddle, ‘but then, of course, it’s not really surprising considering this and the fact that you don’t allow me access to information. I’ve always had a problem getting it in this ward.’ Her voice had moved up a scale.

Sounds of the ward cranking into its usual frantic pace had begun but, compared to the office, it sounded like a beacon of calm. Sister Miller snapped her pencil in half. Then she stood up and pointed it at Sister Gorightly who stepped right back. I stepped right forward. Was I to witness a stabbing? Much as I might like to see the back of my tormentor, I drew the line at murder.

‘I’ve got a ward to run and not endless hours to do it in. My first concern is for the patients – that’s what I’m here to do. Anyway, any
trained
member of staff should have used their observational skills and seen that this patient was,’ Sister Miller itemised with a nicotine stained finger, ‘newly post-operative, poor in colour, frail in general condition but cogent, and I also understand he insisted he only wanted a sip of water and it was you who made him drink that cup of tea.’

The tutor gave a deep sigh, then, eyes swimming, turned and put a chummy hand on my shoulder. ‘Yes, that’s true, but you have to remember I was keeping an eye on our young friend here.’

‘Don’t you try and blame Nurse Macpherson. I gather that she tried to alert Staff Nurse to her concerns. She’s a good team member, so much so that in fact I will admit her training needs may have been overlooked.’

Gosh! This might be the Aberdeen equivalent of praise but it didn’t impress Sister Gorightly.

‘She’s a long way to go yet. But why don’t we see what Matron has to say.’

Face aflame, she headed for the door until Sister Miller said, ‘That’s a good idea, and I’ll take this shall I?’ She held up the fluid intake chart. ‘I see your signature here.’

Sister Gorightly stopped and went white.

‘But will Mr Watt be alright?’ I persisted, sensing further combat and anxious to escape.

‘Yes, and so will you because I shall personally supervise you and now I think Sister Gorightly has other wards she can attend to,’ some papers were shuffled by way of dismissal, ‘and please close the door. I have a ward to run.’

Dealing with the next emergency of the day, she went to switch on the kettle whilst I flew out in the tail wind of Sister Gorightly’s exit.

‘I can see you’re feeling better,’ Isobel observed as we walked off duty and I recounted my tale. ‘It’s amazing what a difference a day can make, and guess what, good news for me too.’ She squeezed my shoulder. ‘I’ve been allowed out of the sluice. I think James must have had a word with Sister.’

I tossed my letter in a bin, feeling happy and hearing birdsong. ‘What it is to have friends in high places, though my swotty, literary-minded sister would say that’s a cliché.’

‘Even if she spends a lot of time keeping you right,’ Isobel bent an amused glance in my direction, ‘you’re lucky to have one – being an
only
is hard work. Somebody else to annoy the parents would be great.’

She should have been there when I went to visit Beth, thinking she might like to know my career was still on course, but it was clear she wasn’t in the mood for drama and suggested I go and tell Mrs Ronce. ‘She likes your stories. I reckon it’s the blood.’

She was getting as monosyllabic as Mrs Cockburn.

I went and looked hard at my sister’s side.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

‘I was merely looking for a sympathetic ear.’

‘There’s one downstairs,’ Beth said, and with a righteous sniff picked up one of her innumerable textbooks.

At least she was right there for Mrs Ronce really did seem to like hospital tales and the more gore the better.

‘Well! That’s some story and you certainly see life,’ she said at length, menacing the fire with a poker. ‘So how’s the patient now?’

‘One week on and he’s like a new man. He’s even helping with the drinks trolley, says he’s served his apprenticeship.’ It was hard to equate the joking helpful person with that previous shadow connected to livelier looking tubes.

‘And Sister Gorightly?’

‘Gone to Glory I hope.’

Mrs Ronce giggled. ‘And what about the blue knight?’

‘Went home last week.’

‘My word, Jane, despite your best efforts, they all seem to be getting better,’ Mrs Ronce hugged her knees, ‘and how are you managing without your bête noir?’

‘Actually, I think she did me a favour because I’m now being shown how to do things properly and I even get on the occasional doctors’ ward round. Sister Miller may look scatty and smoke like a chimney, but she knows her stuff and is a good teacher.’

I was going to be sorry to leave a place where there was so much action and drama, where people went home feeling better and where, having been released from the sluice, I’d learnt to do more exciting things.

‘Well, here’s to your next triumph. What’s next?’

‘In another week, Jo, a classmate, and I are going to Ward Four, Woodend. It’s geriatric, a different world from surgical and more like somewhere in Grantown I know, so I suppose I should manage it alright.’

‘I think the mannies in Ward Eight’ll miss you, but hearing your stories makes me want to keep well. I’m reaching a dangerous age. Let’s have another medicinal sherry.’

I went to Sister’s office to say this was my last day. She gave a vague smile.

‘Your time here’s not been without incident.’ She rubbed her brow. ‘I must remember to fill in your ward report.’ With the clink of her teacup, she returned to the more pressing chore of ward surgeon hospitality, emptied her ashtray and closed the door.

She didn’t even say goodbye and I had to settle for returning the enthusiastic waves of a ward full of suddenly ambulant patients advanced upon by Mrs Cockburn, now walking well and reunited with her big bowl.

That report would be important. I hoped it wasn’t too inclusive.

Apart from its low-slung, modern-looking Nurses’ Home, Woodend Hospital looked like the Ian Charles but with bigger henhouses and a jumble of prefab buildings clustered round it. Nearby were fields full of cattle and the sound of tractors replaced that of cars. There was a long stately drive to the main entrance where oak double doors with polished brass handles led into the main building, but a stone’s throw away from the Home was the back entrance, which was handier for Jo and me to get to our ward.

‘How d’you like your new bedroom?’ She squinted back. ‘It’s really rustic round here, isn’t it? It must be more your scene than Foresterhill.’

I said I supposed so but I was just getting to enjoy work in Ward Eight when I had to shift not only work, but my room as well.

Jo rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me! Remember, I’d to do it at the end of P.T.S. and even if a van actually shifts our stuff, we’ve to pack it all away in the first place.’ She sighed. ‘And I suppose when this ward stint comes to an end, we’ll be off somewhere else. Makes you realise that settling anywhere’s daft and travelling light makes sense. I’m going to leave most of my stuff at home.’

‘Easier for you than me but I suppose change is supposed to be healthy and we need different experiences. Still, going anywhere new makes me nervous.’

‘Me too,’ Jo had such a capable air she surprised me, ‘but Rosie says the ward’s fine. She even managed to get over her foot phobia; everybody’s so moribund, the only bit of action is their toenail growth, so we’ve just to close our eyes and let the nailbrush do the rest.’

‘I like living dangerously. Anything else?’

‘The ward sister’s lovely but loopy, more interested in racing results than hospital corners but that’s maybe because the patients aren’t moving. She’s very caring; apparently even the goldfish is on oxygen.’

‘And what about the work?’ I recalled Rosie screwing her nose.

‘We’ve to remember the colonic lavage lecture.’

We reached the geriatric floor. It was a world away from surgery, wore a close atmosphere of quiet decay and was small enough for staff to cover both wards. No glittering surgical contraptions invaded and there was no purposeful bustle. Sister Gordon would have had a fit if she had seen the dust on the zimmers parked on the corridor down which the frail pipe of a patient’s demands and the querulous snap of one tiring of another’s company floated ghostlike in the air.

‘Bit gloomy isn’t it?’ Jo whispered. Her knock at the office door seemed very bold.

‘Ah! Lovely!’ Sister looked up from feeding her goldfish. ‘Our new girls, Fishie,’ she beamed and patted the bowl. ‘I’ll be back in a minute after I’ve shown them around. Weren’t we just saying the other day how much our patients love a change of face?’ Pausing for a moment to adjust the oxygen supply, she led the way.

She was small and had the look of a kindly, aged dumpling, but so fit we had to move fast to keep up with a whistle stop tour finishing at the male ward where a ward maid was processing the betting slips of a couple of patients unusual in their alertness. The rest seemed lost, hopefully just in slumber.

‘Meet Shona, our most important member of staff.’

Shona’s quiet smile brought life to the place. ‘Sister’s aye at me tae interest the wifies in ha’en a flutter but ah canna persuade them.’ There was a placid kindness in her tone, a solid measure to her tread.

Sister gave a fat wheeze. ‘Too much excitement maybe.’ She consulted her watch. ‘Gracious! You’ll need to go and place these right now. That race is on soon. Did you get mine?’

‘Aye. Just a sec. I’ll jist water these afore ah go.’ Sticking the slips under one arm, Shona took a glass of water from a patient’s locker and poured it over a pot of plastic flowers. Untroubled, the bed occupant dozed on whilst the ward maid padded off, taking all feeling of action with her until two old men came shuffling out from the toilet shepherded by an auxiliary. We were introduced.

‘Hello, I’m taking Jock and Willie to the Dayroom,’ she explained, steadying their zimmers. ‘They like it fine once they get there.’

The old men passed, muttering maledictions.

‘Are the patients ever taken out, or,’ Jo took in the sombre silent surroundings, ‘are they not well enough?’

Sister patted a patient’s sleeping form and looked surprised, then thoughtful. ‘Now that’s a good point. Certainly some of them could go – it’s just a question of persuasion. Maybe you could coax those two, but as you can see, most of these patients don’t even know they’re here,’ she whispered as we tiptoed out. ‘Mind you, they may well look as if they’re far away but they could easily be hearing us, so please treat them with the respect they’re due.’ She sucked her lip, adding in a pensive way, ‘Of course, it’s as easy to say as it is to forget, especially when you’re busy. Now it must be time for Fishie’s coffee break – yours too.’

She sped back to her office and when we passed, we overheard her confide, ‘Nice girls, Fishie, but I bet they don’t get the boys to go out. Let’s open a book on it.’