It Won't Hurt a Bit (13 page)

‘Yes, Mrs Low.’

‘Well, at least after this exam you’ll be out in the wards and looking after real people.’ Douglas hunched his shoulders against an east wind accompanying us on our walk along Aberdeen beach. ‘Honestly, Jane, I can’t think what possessed us to come here today. It’s freezing.’ He looked out at the waves, grey as granite, hitting the sand in a monotonous thump, and shivered. ‘Just listen to that. They even sound mean. You wouldn’t think it was summer. Let’s go back to the café.’

‘I need to clear my head – it’s so full of anatomy, I doubt I’d make sensible conversation.’

I didn’t want to swap the wide space and absence of people for a greasy shelter. Of course, the warmth of thermal underwear helped, but the blue look of Douglas hinted that without the polythene, he hadn’t the same protection.

‘Maybe you’re feeling the cold because you’re just out of hospital.’

‘And maybe I don’t want to be back in again with hypothermia.’ The wind whipped his hair across his face as if teasing him, but he was unamused. Then, face brightening, he caught my hand. ‘I know! There’s a pipe band playing in Union Street Gardens today. Why don’t we go and listen. At least we’d be warmer.’ He searched my face eagerly but I liked it here. It suited my mood. It was where I thought I could put my world and the prospect of the end of P.T.S. exam in perspective.

‘You go, Douglas. Look, I’m sorry, but I’m probably better on my own. I really need to shift the “facts, facts” tutor drone to somewhere else in my brain and then I can deal with the worry of failing and having to go back home without so much as seeing one patient, apart from yourself.’

‘And maybe I don’t count,’ Douglas managed, despite the teeth chatter.

The sound of the waves was dismal. A herring gull strutted past, his yellow beak a cruel hook and the brightest colour on the beach.

‘And I didn’t realise you were such a senseless worrier.’ Douglas held up his hand to stop denial. ‘Of course you’ll pass, but if walking on a beach in Arctic conditions on your own helps, then I’ll leave you to it.’ With that he turned, and muttered, ‘And that’s a fact,’ before hurrying away.

My returned hand was the only bit of me that felt cold. I was sorry he’d find a skirling pipe band a better option and that I couldn’t explain how this place with its raw power might disentangle my mind, but the long walk to the other end beckoned. I put my hand in my pocket and headed there, enjoying the way the wind robbed me of all thought except breathing.

Eventually the sky began to clear so that a small patch of blue showed. The wind dropped and, as if on cue, the waves grew quieter and made a hushing companion as I walked beside them. I’d begun to perk up and hoped that Douglas was at least feeling warmer. The three-month haul in P.T.S. was coming to an end. Our amateur dramatics had made us realise we would never progress if we didn’t take study seriously, a fact we had at last accepted.

There was a telephone kiosk at the end of the beach. I should call home. My father answered and sounded so pleased, warmth reached down the phone. ‘You seem grand. How’s things?’

‘Fine, Dad. Just fine,’ and funnily enough I wasn’t lying. ‘I’m down at the beach at the moment – it’s really wild but bonny. I thought I needed a break from the studies.’

‘Quite right. Want to speak to your Ma?’

‘No, but tell her the big exam’s tomorrow and I’ll call after it.’

‘Good luck then. I’d better go. We’ve got Maudie calving.’

I put the phone down and thought as the sun broke out that I was in a good enough place, better than Maudie anyway.

But where was Douglas?

Back in the Home, Maisie asked the same thing but I couldn’t tell her. Searching for him, I had gone to the Union Street Gardens but got an overdose of piping laments instead.

‘He’ll have gone back to his digs. Maybe you’ve inspired him to study.’ Maisie, pulling her dressing gown closer and hugging her head to her shoulders in an impression of cosy talk, continued, ‘And after tomorrow, we’ll all be fine, just as long as we remember it’s of paramount importance to stick to the facts, facts, facts.’

Sitting our exam in that dull classroom with its posters portraying everything helpful but what was asked, we bent our heads, aware of the mechanics that drove that movement.

Thanks to Miss Jones, we now knew there was a life of such complexity under our skin, we could only trust that our brains conformed and transmitted the right facts to paper.

On and on we wrote, drew precise anatomical diagrams and described in clinical terms the importance of caring in a professional way. When at last the bell rang, Mrs Low gathered in our papers with such big capable hands, I suddenly thought that behind a wet facecloth, they could make a bed bath swift if not unpleasant. Maybe her brand of care was best confined to the classroom.

‘We’ll have these corrected for tomorrow, and in the meantime, and after Matron’s visit, you’ll be measured for your uniforms so that they’ll be ready by the end of the week when, hopefully,’ she pointed to the papers, ‘you will all be ready to go into the wards. And now we’ve asked Matron to come along and give her customary end of P.T.S. lecture.’

Impresario-like, she opened the door to Matron, who sailed in as if on wheels. Plainly in a hurry, she took the floor in a running movement then, braking, checking her cap had survived the speed, stopped. Breathless, she faced the class.

‘After today, Nurses, your tutors,’ she ducked her head and sent a vague smile in their direction, ‘will be finding out how much knowledge you’ve retained – that’s their job, and it’s mine as Matron to remind you that each and every one of you is going to be a representative of a profession which cannot afford anything but the highest standards of behaviour.’ She stopped for a moment as if to contemplate a fine view or catch breath, then continued, ‘And not only at work. I have had,’ the medals jangled, her voice moved into a squeak, ‘tears in my office, because some nurses have not taken anything seriously. Nor have they put a value on themselves.’ She mine-swept her gaze round the room before letting it fall upon Mrs Low who was nodding so much her head should have fallen off. ‘As a matter of fact, and it grieves me to tell you this, I’ve had to let such girls go because very soon they would be facing the consequences of irresponsibility.’

A bee droned by, the bravest bee in Aberdeen but now sensibly escaping through an open window. Mrs Low looked at her feet, Miss Jones at her fingernails. We moved uneasily. She couldn’t possibly be speaking about pregnancy could she? Blimey! If this was a centre for caring, what was happening in the back streets?

In silence, we watched those fingers butterfly play as she went on, ‘Nursing work is so physical, pregnancy is not an option, and anyone in that condition could do irreparable harm, not only to herself but the child as well. And then of course she will have the responsibility to look after it – a full and lifetime commitment.’ Her tone was final. ‘I can’t imagine anyone here has a problem with this? No? Very good then and whilst we’re on the subject of suitable behaviour I’m aware of the present fashion of wearing frills rather than skirts and whilst I have no jurisdiction over what you wear off duty, your uniforms must conceal the popliteal space at all times.’

Mission completed, Matron left with a hasty if regal nod, voice squeak and finger twiddle, whilst we were sent to be measured for our uniforms, where we tried to redefine popliteal to a thin-lipped seamstress.

We were in the dining room and filling up on stodge prompted by tape measure readings just recorded and surely too generous.

‘Has anybody seen Morag?’ I asked.

‘She said she was going to her room and not to wait for her,’ said Jo. ‘I thought she looked a bit upset after that talk by Matron but presumed she’d turn up later on. I didn’t see her getting measured – did anybody else?’

‘No.’ Maisie, carefully arranging a token green on the last of her macaroni and cheese rissole, shovelled it down, then jumped up saying, ‘I hope she’s alright. You know how serious she gets about everything. I thought for a moment she was going to take on Matron about that pregnancy stuff. Honestly, the way that woman spoke, I’m surprised we weren’t fitted for chastity belts as well. You’d think we weren’t capable of looking after ourselves never mind others. This is the sixties for God’s sake! Come on, Jane, let’s see if she’s alright.’

At the Home entrance, Sister Cameron pounced. She seemed unusually pleased to see us. ‘Ah! You two, I’ve just had a word with Nurse Munro and she says she’s leaving. Something about Matron’s talk being the last straw.’ Behind the round specs, her eyes were anxious. ‘Now get up these stairs quickly and stop her doing anything silly. I’m counting on you, mind. Tell her I’m expecting her to show Highland grit,’ her voice floated after us.

‘Oh for goodness sake, Morag. Open up!’ Maisie’s knock and voice were demanding.

Reluctantly, Morag opened the door. Apart from the photo of her boyfriend rustically smouldering by her bedside, Morag’s room had always looked half dead and now, with only a waste paper bin stuffed with screwed-up papers and a small suitcase facing the door, it was as empty as if she’d already gone.

‘Don’t try and make me stay. Lord knows Sister Cameron’s done her best. And for that of it, so’ve the tutors.’ Morag had been crying, but despite the blotches she sounded determined. ‘When you went to get measured I told them so. They tried to dissuade me but I’m going and that’s that.’ Never had she sounded so positive.

Despite being impressed that anybody would face up to Miss Jones and survive, I said, ‘Morag you’re the best nurse in the class. It’ll be a real waste if you go and surely you’ve not come all this way just to chuck it in because a silly old wifie’s got a bee in her bonnet about pregnancy.’ A thought suddenly occurred, ‘You’re not –?’

‘No, I’m not,’ snapped Morag. ‘I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while now but if I was actually pregnant, I’d have been bundled out the back door at the first missed period and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

For Morag, this was quite radical stuff. Maybe she was more interesting than the strait-laced exterior suggested. Who knows, she might have been about to admit to the joys of a previous life as a stripper in Tain, but the sound of running footsteps followed by a hail of door knocks interrupted. It was the rest of the group, headed by Rosie.

Racing in and seeing the suitcase, she started to dance up and down as if about to take flight. ‘You’re all packed! You can’t really be serious, Morag.’ Turning to the others, she cried, ‘You’re not allowing this surely? I can’t believe you’re letting this happen.’

‘Nor me,’ Maisie said agreeing for once. ‘It’s such a waste. Matron’s heartless and this place stinks.’ She shook her head as if to get rid of flies. ‘We should all be walking out.’

‘Dinna be daft,’ said Sheila. She ambled over to the window, breathed on it then drew a face on the glass with a frilly halo on top, a sad mouth under. ‘Matron jist minds me on yon gossipy wifies wi’ their hats, hivvin’ tea in Watt an’ Grants in Union Street, but nay a’body’s like her. I dinna see Miss Jones there somehow an’ she’s jist as important. Ye shid jist bide an’ gie it a chance. Ye hivna even met ony patients yet!’

Morag sounded fierce: ‘But have you not noticed, nobody really discusses patients’ feelings inside.’ Dramatically she beat her chest. ‘Not even Mrs Low. Oh we explain alright and observe – my God! How I’ve observed – and do you know what? What I’ve actually observed is that nobody seems aware that patients have lives outwith hospital and how they might feel about things going on at home which might be relevant to their recovery. Now that can’t be right.’ As if giving up, she dropped her shoulders, managing a watery smile. ‘Anyway, you girls need to stay and train and learn to be Matrons yourselves.’ She picked up a small piece of fluff off the floor, threw it in the bin and looked round the room in a final way. ‘And maybe by the time you do, times will have changed and if not, then you could do something about it.’

‘And what about you?’ Isobel looked depressed. ‘What’ll you say to your parents?’

Morag smoothed her skirt, dabbed her eyes with a folded hanky and looked down at her sensible shoes. ‘They never thought I’d make it. Thought I was too soft – and how right they were, but just maybe in the head. So I’ll probably finish that typing course I was doing in Inverness. It’s nearer home and the boyfriend.’ There was a hint of mischief in her smile. ‘Who knows, he might even make an honest woman of me. I’ll certainly try and avoid the perils of becoming an unmarried mother.’

‘Well then, we’ll come and see you to the train. At least we’ve got the afternoon off so our blessed tutors can mark our papers.’ Hazel went to pick up the suitcase. ‘Though in your case they’ll probably keep yours and frame it. Come on! Let’s get you past Sister Cameron. After all the bother you’ve caused we wouldn’t really want you murdered. Not really.’

After today and with our exam results announced, we would know whether or not we were to join Morag and head for the hills. It was our last P.T.S. day and already our tutors were lined up with the air of generals about to despatch final orders. We tramped into the classroom and sat down in silence.

If they’d any apprehension about meeting a group upset by the loss of one of its members, our tutors hid it well; then Miss Jones swung into action. In another time I bet she’d have relished gladiatorial sport. She looked about, seeming to enjoy our fear, then taking her time, drilled out, ‘We have your papers here – and …’ she tapped them in a final way and looked about as if enjoying an audience’s complete attention.

Time stood still. Just in case I might shortly need the skill again, my hand gripped my pen with the same grasp needed for a mop. The class held its breath. Seldom had Miss Jones so transfixed us. Then, allowing a pleased if surprised smile to escape, she said, ‘We are pleased to tell you that you have all passed.’

Mrs Low’s beam engulfed the classroom in sunshine whilst the sigh flooding the classroom should have made the building collapse.