Call Me Sister (18 page)

The picture faded as reality kicked in and I snapped, ‘You must be joking. No bloke would be allowed past the front door.’

‘You could easily smuggle me in. For goodness’ sake, where’s your spirit of adventure, Janie?’ He laughed in the infectious way I usually found endearing, but not this time.

‘I’d get fired if you were caught,’ I retorted, ‘if our tutor didn’t die of heart failure first.’

He shrugged, then said, ‘Oh well, I know you and if you’ve made up your mind, there’s nothing I can say to get you to change it.’ He jingled change in his pocket and looked worried. ‘And as that’s the case, I’d best get back to Glasgow. I can’t afford to stay the night.’ Glancing at his watch, he grumped, ‘So if I go now, I suppose I’ll get a bus.’

I didn’t stop him. Now, standing waiting for my own bus to come along, I wished that I had, or at least that we’d parted on better terms.

I got back to the more immediate present. I was beginning to think I’d never get to Mrs Henderson. I understood from the nursing notes that she’d had a stroke several years ago which had left her bed-bound with a left-sided paralysis. Her epileptic daughter who’d cared for her had suddenly died. Since then, the district nursing service had given general nursing care, with the recent notes describing a simple service of helping her to keep clean, comfortable and well enough to stay at home.

I didn’t recall mention of a home help and wondered if she had one. At this rate, she might be thinking she hadn’t a nurse either. I fretted, hardly believing it when a bus did eventually pull up.

As I boarded it I gave the street name to the conductor and asked him to let me know when we were there. He laughed and said, ‘I’ll give you a shout, pal, but if you don’t mind me saying so, district nurses usually know where they’re going.’ Grinning, he returned my bus pass.

What a fine thing this is, I thought, putting it back in my pocket. It was like having freedom of the city. Maybe there was something to be said about public transport after all. I was glad I hadn’t taken my car. Even in the Sixties, Edinburgh’s parking was a problem.

*  *  *

My district, with its poorly-curtained, grime-stained tenements, was a long way from Princes Street and a gentrification which would transform it in the future. A horse-drawn milk float would be a rare sight nowadays, but nobody thought much about it then. The fine white one standing outside Mrs Henderson’s address was a regular, with a milkman already lifting out two bottles of milk from their crate. He handed them to me. ‘Would you take that in to Mrs Henderson? She’s in the basement. You’ll save me the steps and my legs.’

With a twinkle, he nodded at mine then spoke to the horse, ‘Very nice but you’ll notice she’s no sugar for you – not even polio ones.’ He stroked the horse’s nose. ‘And they call it a caring profession!’

He made me laugh as I went down the dark stone stairs, footsteps clattering. A dank smell lingered, whilst something soft brushed over my foot. It might have been a rat, and the woman with her rodent-like features who answered the door could have been a relation.

‘It’s just the nurse,’ she called over her shoulder. Then, addressing me directly, she said, ‘Come on in. I’m Hilda, the home help.’ Patting her headsquare bristling with rollers underneath, she led me into an ill-lit room dominated by a large bed and radiogram.

A small fire sulked in a tiled fireplace. Hilda, moving on thin, scampering legs, went to the highly polished coalscuttle. Ignoring its shovel, she lifted out a lump of coal and threw it on the fire. That would explain her grimed hands, but I wasn’t sure about the mark on her arm. It was more like a bruise and I only saw it because she’d pulled up her sleeve. She hauled it back down, looking cross, aware of my glance.

‘So you’re our new student.’ A voice came from the bed I’d thought unoccupied. A thin veined hand came out from under colourless felted blankets and fingers twiddled in welcome.

‘Hilda’ll get you the basin.’ The woman in the bed seemed lost and helpless in the vastness of that bed but her voice was strong, with a warmth as if a chuckle ran through it.

‘Whoops!’

Hilda had bent over the tiny form and with practised ease, punching feather pillows into supportive submission, brought Mrs Henderson up to eye level. She had a pale face, pointed chin, scanty grey locks, bright enquiring eyes and looked like a friendly wizard – but maybe not a very good one. The muscle contractures pulling her leg and arm into the frozen foetal position of her left side made it look as if she’d been in the middle of a spell that had gone wrong.

‘There! Won’t be a minute.’ Hilda sped off, her high heels clicking on the brown linoleum floor.

She was fast. I’d no sooner swapped my coat for the uniform-protecting plastic apron hanging shroud-like at the back of the bedroom door than she’d returned. With the important bearing of someone carrying state jewels, she carried a threadbare towel, face flannel and an enamel basin with green soap floating in it.

‘Whatever you do, remember you’re a guest in every patient’s house and that’s a privilege. I know it can be difficult but accept whatever’s available and don’t ask too many questions.’ I knew from my experience with Jock and Willie that these words didn’t always apply, but now as both Sister Shiach and Miss Cameron’s words came back, I obeyed them to the letter. Under Hilda’s watchful eye, I carefully set about my task.

‘You’re doing fine,’ she said as I coaxed a lather from the soap and tried to ease the flannel under the armpit of my patient’s paralysed arm.

‘The nurses always have a job with this,’ Mrs Henderson said, nodding at her arm as if it didn’t belong to her. ‘Of course, some are better than others.’ Judgement lay there, so it might not be the time to say the soap was the kind my granny used to wash her woollens and greasy marks off the floor. Anyway, my patient’s skin looked wonderful, and I said so.

Mrs Henderson beamed, laughter lines lighting her face. ‘Aye, if I was in hospital the starchy sheets would have finished me. I’d have had bedsores by the dozen.’ She stretched out her working hand and saluted Hilda. ‘She’s my saviour.’

‘Ach! Away with you. You’re always saying that,’ said Hilda. ‘You know fine it’s my job.’ She searched in her crossover pinny for a hanky, trumpeting into it so loudly the sound bounced off the distempered walls.

‘D’you ever get out of bed, Mrs Henderson?’ I asked.

The question wouldn’t be asked today, since few patients are left bed-bound, helping to avoid the contractures which so limited my patient. But in those long-ago training days, it was considered okay for patients to stay in bed. With only the occasional outing to the commode beside it, I thought Mrs Henderson must find it a long day.

‘No, no!’ She chuckled. ‘There’s Hilda, and my son comes home at dinner time, then the twins are here after school.’

‘Twins?’

Identical girls with neatly plaited hair and wearing immaculate school uniforms beamed out from a framed photograph sitting on the ancient music machine. As a piece of furniture it had all the attractive qualities of a coffin.

‘Orphans,’ Mrs Henderson was off-hand. ‘Now that my daughter’s away, Hilda, my son and I bring them up.’ A grin flashed across her thin face. ‘And one thing they can depend on is that their Gran’s always at home for them.’

‘Yes. Keep them in order, you do,’ Hilda put in. ‘They don’t get out of the house until you’ve had a good look to see if they’re tidy and done their homework.’

I was full of admiration. ‘Seems to me you hardly need a nurse.’

‘Well you girls need to get your training,’ said my patient, ‘and I always look forward to your Miss Cameron’s visit. She’ll be coming with you for your final exam. We always have a great catch-up.’ She drew a deep breath and twiddled with the sheet hem-end. ‘I’m always teasing her about getting a man.’

Hilda took a duster from her overall pocket and flicked it in the direction of the radiogram.

‘I think she’s a bit of a nosey parker,’ she said with a sniff. ‘Why doesn’t she mind her own business and stay back at base? I’m sure we could test you girls ourselves.’

I wondered about Hilda’s bruise. It was neither the time nor place to inquire about it.

As I headed for my next patient, the words came floating back. ‘Don’t ask too many questions.’ I’d have to wait until I got back to Castle Terrace.

I wasn’t due back at Castle Terrace until lunchtime, and despite the late start, I had got through the morning’s work with some spare time left. Grabbing a moment of freedom, I caught the first bus coming my way. The conductor didn’t ask where I was going, which was just as well. If I’d said I was having a little jaunt, he might have put in a complaint about bus pass abuse to Miss Cameron.

The top of the double decker gave a great view as we rattled over cobbled streets where wall plaques on buildings with crow-step gables testified to Edinburgh’s colourful historical past. The Brutalist features of the present Sixties buildings made more futuristic statements. Passing those concrete cold angular blocks, I wondered would they someday merit plaques and would time ever mellow such harsh lines.

I thought about one of my patients, who lived in a flat on the top floor of a high rise. He seemed lonely and isolated but perhaps he kept himself away from people because he’d TB and had grown used to the initial-prescribed quarantine time. He was thin to the point of emaciation. A needle going into so little flesh must be painful.

‘Streptomycin’s not the best injection in the world,’ I’d said. ‘I’m sorry this injection’s too big to go into your arm and has to go into your hip.’

I supposed that being subjected to that, as well as having to lower your trousers in front of someone much, much younger, could be unnerving, but he had a stoical calm and a gentle dignity.

‘I know, and it’s no bother. It’s how the other nurses have done it. They jabs are to be given long-term and I’ve got used to them,’ he said. Looking out of the un-curtained window, he pulled his trousers back up again. ‘You did fine.’

He didn’t invite conversation so I left him, feeling that I’d abandoned him in a barren little room under a cloud of personal sadness and that I’d been unable to think of a way to change it. Edinburgh life was exciting, but remembering Miss Caird, my Raigmore lady, I realised people could as easily isolate themselves in a city as in a Highland glen.

I was so wrapped in thought I hadn’t noticed there were no other passengers left in the bus and when it stopped, the driver switched off the engine. I hurried downstairs as the conductor took off his cap and threw it onto a seat.

‘We’re not going any further,’ he announced.

‘Gosh! That was quick,’ I said, not bargaining on arriving at the bus depot. ‘I hadn’t noticed where we were. I should’ve got out at the last stop.’

I leapt down the bus steps, and assuming the walk of a very busy important person, hurried away. With a bit of luck, and out of depot sight, I’d get the next bus back into town.

I’d to wait longer than I’d hoped. Now, breathlessly, I tumbled into the office. The other girls were already there and, watched over by Miss Cameron, writing up their case notes. She glanced up. ‘Ah!’ she said, ‘we were beginning to think you were lost. No problems, I hope?’

I searched for my pen and pulled out Mrs Henderson’s notes from the filing cabinet. ‘Some poor connections, I’m afraid, but I think I’m getting the hang of things.’

‘How did you get on there?’ Miss Cameron stood at my shoulder.

I told her what I thought was relevant, then, suspecting the next bit mightn’t be so welcome, lowered my voice. ‘I noticed Hilda had a bruise on her arm and am sure she didn’t want me to see it.’

The tutor’s shoulders drooped and she sighed. ‘She and Mrs Henderson make a great team and it works both ways.’ She dropped her voice into a whisper, ‘But as for bruises, Hilda hates when I ask her how she is. Reckons I’m prying. But you know, I think that strangely enough, the Hendersons’ house is something of a refuge for her. Weekends especially.’

Despite the pain flickering across her homely face, I could tell by her tone of voice that the subject was closed. Scotland would have to wait some more years before domestic abuse was sufficiently recognised to establish Womens’ Refuges, but in 1969 Mrs Henderson was doing her supportive bit.

Meanwhile, Miss Cameron was moving on. ‘So what about Miss Crawford? You know she’s an old matron?’ She widened her eyes and looked innocent.

Did I know! Not half! But much as I wanted to, I didn’t say, ‘I reckon that old biddy’s a chancer.’ I thought about an old, fat, cross-faced woman sprawled in a high bed in a stiflingly hot room, alone but for the company of a pug dog whom I’d had to wash around. Unlike Miss Forbes, who desperately wanted to be up and coping independently in Muir of Ord, Miss Crawford had retired to her bed and by all accounts was refusing to leave it.

When I’d visited her, she’d immediately set the tone. ‘Nurses nowadays have no idea of how to set about proper bed bathing. You’re new, but I don’t suppose you’ll be any different.’

When I brought a basin of water and put it on her bedside table, she stuck an index finger into it. ‘Told you! You plainly haven’t used a thermometer. That’s so hot you’ll scald me. What’d you say, Bobo?’ She caressed the head of the dog curled up beside her.

At least there was one bed occupant who seemed friendly. He got up, moved his body as if in welcome, then, snuffling cosily, settled back down again whilst I went off to look for face flannels. I could only find one.

When I got back to my patient I held it up, saying, ‘The water should be fine now, and is this your face cloth?’ I was surprised that someone from the Old School hadn’t half a dozen and that this one should smell so vile.

‘Of course,’ she said, screwing up her eyes to squint at it. ‘What else would it be, you stupid girl?’

In full non-judgemental mode, I carried on, concentrating on a fair acreage of flesh but missing out her face since the pug was happily doing it instead.

‘Thanks, Bobo,’ she said, looking better pleased than when I suggested it was time to wash her bottom.