It Won't Hurt a Bit (22 page)

Suddenly, my acquired skill was becoming as elusive as dreams. Despite sentinel Rosie’s best efforts, small sounds escaped, amplified in the long darkened corridors and waking me with curiosity about them. Somewhere we could forget work, get to sleep and escape from the impersonality of a huge, terribly clean and highly polished establishment was appealing, despite Sister Cameron doing her best with cheerful briskness and a care she tried hard to conceal.

Mrs Ronce weighed the hammer thoughtfully. ‘I don’t really need lodgers you know. I just like young company and I could get that in the pub.’

I was crushed. I thought she’d have jumped at the privilege. It was a job scouting about for selling points but then one of the cats came in and wound himself round my leg. I picked him up. ‘My friend Maisie comes from Peterhead,’ I stroked his head, ‘and she could bring you fish from the market.’

Mrs Ronce laughed. ‘Ok Janey, let’s give it a go. I hope she’s good at crosswords.’

‘She should be, she knows her Bible.’

Delighted, I went back to the home to tell Maisie.

We’d been having fun. Beatlemania had hit town with the
Hard Day’s Night
record giving a more exciting meaning to the darkness hours. We went to a dance where Isobel met a new boyfriend who made her laugh. Maisie meanwhile set about loosening more than the corsetry of Aberdeen’s social scene. Maybe that accounted for her red eyes.

‘It’s these contact lenses – I’m sure they’ll be fine in a year.’ Maisie blinked hard into her bedroom mirror. ‘I’m going to dye my eyelashes next. How did you get on with Mrs Ronce?’

‘We can move in anytime but have you a fish-proof suitcase?’

‘How soon can we move?’ Maisie was already rifling through her wardrobe. ‘Let’s go and ask Sister Cameron.’

She was in her office.

‘Your compulsory year’s up at the end of next week,’ she said after a diary was consulted. ‘You can leave when you like after that.’ She put our names down against a date with an exclamation mark making it official. ‘Next year when I retire, I’ll have my own but and ben.’ She looked out of the window with a dreamy expression, as if already glimpsing hills and glens.

Even though we had the time to sort our possessions, the flit was a series of full suitcases and bags trudged down the stairs and crammed into a taxi.

‘You could have used the lift,’ said that mischievous home sister in her Highland way, putting her hands behind her back to oversee better, ‘but you’ve managed fine, by Jove yes!’ Strains of a Gaelic farewell came from behind the door she had closed on us.

Another milestone.

‘My lassie wants to be a nurse but I’ve told her it’s hard, hard work,’ said the driver, squeezing in. His tone inferred that he’d rather she took to the tidiness of the Aberdeen streets.

We did not look back, probably because we couldn’t.

Mrs Ronce had been looking for us. As soon as the taxi drew up, she was out and, with an imperious gesture, stopped an oncoming bus. ‘Come in, come in.’ Her welcome was warm. ‘My, but you’ve plenty stuff! Look, Pussies, there must be something here for you too.’

The cats pulled up their chairs to watch as, in front of an irate bus driver, we disembarked. Under pressure from his steady horn blast, the taxi driver became so agitated he started helping.

‘Speak about making an entrance.’ Maisie grabbed an armload of stuff and aimed for the door. ‘I’ll die of affront if anybody in that bus recognises us. Mind out, cats.’ She staggered into the house, dropping something small and frilly as she went.

‘If it was all that size,’ the taxi driver grumped, ‘I wouldn’t be holding up the traffic.’

But at last we were unloaded. Mrs Ronce waved on the bus whilst the driver made a gesture making her slam shut the door.

‘Common!’ she snorted.

‘Starters.’ Maisie handed over a brown packet from her handbag before negotiating stairs so narrow, and with a load so cumbersome, she went as if blind.

‘Fish!’ Pleased, our landlady clasped her hands round it, then, heavily escorted, disappeared into the kitchen.

She’d lit a big fire in the sitting room a floor above hers. In many ways it was a miracle. I’d envied Beth and Sally this snug little room with its faded, creaking, saggy yet comfortable furniture. And now it was ours, along with bedrooms each overlooking the garden, a tangled green world of long grass, overgrown shrubs and trees hung with ivy. Beside an abandoned garden rake was a brush, which Mrs Ronce said was handy for sweeping back small boys who, during the apple season, would climb over the walls to get them.

‘Silly little blighters. These apples are so sour, I’ve a good mind to make them eat at least one and then they’d really know about belly ache.’ The thought seemed to please her and suggest care best confined to a hospital far from here.

With basics bought and our unpacking done, we celebrated with cocoa and toasted Mrs Ronce who, surprised by the concept, excused herself on account of a pressing drinks and Scrabble date.

‘This is the life,’ sighed Maisie, happily kicking off her shoes and sprawling on the couch.

We stared into the flames, soothed by their flickering movement. Outside, the rain pattered friendly noises on the small windowpanes. We pulled the dusty red velvet curtains to shut in a world where the fire cast moving pictures on the walls.

With the occasional bus rattling past and its own individual creaks and groans, there were more noises in that little room than were ever heard in the top floor of the Nurses’ Home, but we both dozed off and when we woke, had the virtuous feeling of sleep perfected.

It was odd coming on duty from a different direction. Even the dining hall seemed a cheerier place.

‘Crikey! You’re looking fresh,’ observed Jo, sinking her chin onto her hands as we waited for the roll call. ‘The sooner I move out, the better. I’m going to have a word with Sister Cameron as well. I got hungry the other day and went to make myself some toast and she leapt out of a cupboard accusing me of boiling eggs in the kettle. I’m really sick of being treated like a kid.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I hate to admit this, and even though I wasn’t going to, I’ve had to resort to sleeping tablets.’

‘And much good it’s done you,’ chirruped Rosie. ‘You look like death warmed up, but listen girls! I’ve got good news.’ She patted the table with her hands, then, beaming with the air of an angel bestowing favours, said, ‘We’re all coming back on day duty and into Block. Fancy! We’ll have every weekend off for the next four weeks and not have to run after anybody, whilst sitting down in the lecture theatre during the week. It looks like we’re all going to be back on days and just like a big happy family.’

Isobel waited until we were on duty sorting the drinks trolley in the kitchen. Softening the clatter by laying the thick white cups out as if they were bone china, she sighed. ‘I didn’t want to hurt Rosie’s feelings. She’s got such a kind heart and given me so many tips from her Granny’s precious sleep remedies it’s a wonder I’m not comatose, but now, just as I’m beginning to feel alive again and getting the hang of night duty with its lovely time off, it’s all change.’

She loaded her trolley with enough sugar to turn the ward hypergly-caemic and put her diabetic patient over the edge, then, trundling out, groaned, ‘Is that not sod’s law?’

Nurse Green was of the same mind. ‘Just when I got you trained,’ she complained. ‘I was even beginning to think you could see there were more important things to do than having straight bed wheels.’

I took that as a compliment and in a bid to continue the goodwill, wished her luck for her finals.

She got a sheet of paper and holding a pencil over it said, ‘Right! You do the injections whilst I make up a new list of duties for the next junior. I’ve just thought of a few more things to add to it.’

Typhoid had come to town. It came in a box of corned beef tins from Argentina and brought screaming, doom-laden headlines about Aberdeen to papers as far away as America. They were as dramatic as they were inaccurate. Still, it was a nasty outbreak and even if the Aberdonians weren’t lying heaped high and dead in Union Street and were instead treating the situation with their customary phlegm, the disease was going to need some clever medicine and a lot of nursing staff to contain.

Matron and Dr MacQueen, the medical officer of health, took centre stage in the lecture theatre where, as predicted by Rosie, we were very comfortably sitting.

Dr MacQueen came straight to the point. ‘Well, Nurses, today we are in a very grave situation. Typhoid is a killer unless it’s dealt with immediately and by professionals. It’s seldom in recent years that we have had to deal with anything so infectious.’ He cleared his throat and looked about, which was unnecessary; he had all our attention. ‘As a direct result of typhoid, patients have swinging temperatures and will rapidly lose fluids, I’m sure you know what I mean.’ He had the dismal look of a plumber with a small washer confronting major leaks. ‘We will be dealing with many acute cases who will have to be monitored very carefully. Fluids need to be replaced very quickly and of course the patients will need barrier nursing,’ he looked around, ‘which of course you will know all about.’

Matron interpreting to cover some blanks looks, said smoothly, ‘Of course. All our students have had a grounding in its importance, and know how easily contamination is spread unless protective clothing, masks and gloves are worn at all times, not to mention hand washing. Very like theatre work in fact.’

Dr MacQueen returned to his theme. ‘We are going to need all members of staff to help contain the infection, which is why I have come to explain that we will be cancelling your Block until such time as we have stamped out this contagious disease.’

Matron, with a sheet of paper in her hand and a business-like air far removed from her usual twitter, took over. ‘Dr MacQueen has kindly arranged for you to be included in the staff immunisation programme afterwards and whilst I realise we are asking you all to put your studies on hold, I know you are capable of great sacrifices and will be only too happy to help wherever you can. I don’t imagine anybody has any further questions?’

Unless they want their heads examined, I thought, not liking the idea of being at the wrong end of a needle but flattered that we suddenly had become a vital part of a professional team. Matron, meanwhile, began to read from her paper, ensuring complete attention. Ward changes were important and this one especially so. This called for professionals. Didn’t Dr MacQueen say so himself? I hoped I’d rise to the occasion.

‘Nurse Macpherson, please report to the Special Clinic.’ She gave me a keen glance as if conferring an honour.

‘Special Clinic?’ Goodness! That sounded important. I felt especially privileged until, waiting in the queue for my jab, I asked Maisie what it actually was.

‘Venereal Disease.’ She said it so loudly, nearby people started listening. ‘I worked with a nurse who was there. She said it’s definitely different and she’d some stories I know your folk wouldn’t appreciate. Personally, I’m glad it’s not me that’s going,’ she twitched her nose, ‘try telling folk at the Palace dances that’s where you work. Barrier nursing it ain’t.’

I nearly asked for my arm back but already the injection was in my system, shortly after to give me such a temperature I had to be thankful that the clinic didn’t need me immediately.

Woolmanhill was a centrally located antiquated building in town. It used to be the Infirmary but was now the Casualty Department with Outpatient Clinics nearby.

The Special Clinic was sited discreetly over the road and handily placed for the street punters who could have found themselves in the Leg Ulcer Clinic had they not been acquainted with this less exciting place.

It had the avuncular ease of an old gun dogs’ retreat, occupied by two bloodhound technicians, their sagging eye bags reflecting a world-weary tolerance. In charge was an elderly springer spaniel doctor in leather patches, who waved a welcome whilst putting put down his paper to have a better look.

‘We thought you were business.’ The technicians looked disappointed. ‘We don’t actually need a nurse, you know. There’s not an awful lot of work. Patients are just examined, tests carried out, there’s the occasional injection to give and of course, you’ll be needed to chaperone the female patients when they are being examined.’

I thought it was a bit late for that but didn’t get the impression they needed a witty newcomer.

‘Make yourself at home.’ They waved their newspapers towards the waiting room.

‘What should I do?’

‘You could give the trolleys and instruments a dust.’ They relocated to the columns of the sports section where an occasional outbreak of animation indicated serious discussion of the city football team’s fortunes.

There was a grubby instruction card of duties under the bread bin in the kitchen and I carried it with me as I explored. The small print was the most interesting bit.

‘There is no special time during the day for patients to come. They will be seen as they appear. They must be treated like other patients. Remember! Sexually transmitted diseases can happen to anyone.’ The card was so grimy it carried its own health risk.

Disappointed at the lack of custom, I performed my cleaning duties desultorily.

A bell rang. Ah! Somebody!

Before I could unroll the welcome mat, the team swooped upon an anxious-looking man and bore him off to an examination room.

I dithered outside, anxious not to seem curious and dying to know what was happening. The card had instructed discretion – hard, when there wasn’t even a keyhole.

‘Thanks very much,’ the patient said as he came out, scuttled past my discreet presence and then disappeared.

‘See, we didn’t need you, did we?’ the technicians jeered.

‘True – what did you do to him?’

‘We took some samples and gave him a jag.’

‘A jag?’

‘Penicillin of course.’

‘I could’ve done that.’

‘He said he didn’t want to drop his trousers in front of you, but we’ve taken a special sample for the microscope, thought you might like to see it. Come on.’