It Won't Hurt a Bit (27 page)

In the evening, we all met outside the I.C. unit.

‘Well it’s great to see everybody. I was beginning to think you’d left the planet, Sheila, but it’s a pity we’ve to meet here,’ said Isobel. With her black hair in a frizzy halo and her scarlet mini, she looked exotic enough to change the surroundings into a place more colourful, but Jo just shivered.

Rosie, a whirr of organisation, rounded us up. ‘Now mind, we’ve not to let Hazel see we’re worried about her and I’m not sure we’ll all get in, but if we do, nobody’s to hog the conversation.’ She cocked an eye at Maisie. ‘Now, Jo, you’ve worked here and know the staff – they’re bound to like you – so you go in first.’

‘Speak about damned with faint praise,’ Jo muttered as she was pushed through the swing doors with Rosie at the rear, urging us forward.

A ward sister met us and looked stern until, recognising Jo, she smiled.

‘Come back for more punishment?’

Jo explained about Hazel and that we only wanted a few minutes with her and that her health was our every consideration.

‘Ours too but alright,’ Sister was dubious. ‘Of course, you know she’s had a rotten time but I’m trusting you not to upset her and know you won’t let me down.’ She looked at the rest of us as if this might not apply, then added, ‘but you’ll have to be quick, mind.’

‘Thanks, Sister.’ Rosie resumed leadership whilst we trooped behind.

On the locker in Hazel’s room was one red rose, identical in colour to the blood dripping into her arm in the otherwise clinically white, windowless space. It bore out Jo’s description of an alien planet with Hazel its sole occupant, pale, but bravely waggling her fingers.

‘Goodness! I must be ill!’

‘No. We just reckoned you were researching life on the other side and might have some info of paramount importance to pass on, but this is a bit extreme isn’t it? I never thought you were that dedicated.’ Isobel draped herself on an oxygen cylinder whilst Sheila pulled up a chair and, with the care and bright attention of a clocking hen, laid a hand on the cover pane. ‘Hey, Hazel, is’t nay aboot time ye were oot o’ that bed? My bairns are fleein’ aboot the ward five minutes after getting oot their appendix.’

Unable to do much else, Hazel rolled her eyes. ‘Bully for them!’

‘Look, I got everybody here,’ boasted Rosie. ‘I thought it’d cheer you up and Sheila’s right, it’s high time you were back and working in the chest ward. You’ll be able to tell the patients how much worse you’d have been if you’d smoked.’

Hazel’s cough commanded a minute of respectful silence whilst Maisie, settling for non-verbal communication, made wound-protecting gestures with the bright smile of someone playing charades.

‘That must be really painful,’ offered Jo, ‘but I expect you’re on antibiotics, so you’ll be better in no time.’ She spoke with such authority I nearly stood to attention. ‘But this is the gloomiest ward in the block.’ She gestured at the surroundings and wrinkled her nose. ‘I’d have thought you could’ve chosen a better place to spend your time.’

‘But at least you can ask for the Suggestion Book. That usually guarantees great attention,’ I said, knowing it was used more to register complaints.

Hazel lay there, exhausted, but with a faint smile playing about her bleached lips. ‘No, but I’m thinking of it. I’m going to suggest they’ve a rotten system for filtering out unwanted visitors.’

‘So, how’s your friend now?’ I was back on duty with Charles and we’d settled the patients. Speedy had been discharged so I almost felt relaxed.

‘Think she’s on the mend. We got a bit of cheek – always a good sign.’

Charles gave a complacent smile. ‘It’s all in the stars. I knew she would be alright, but you wouldn’t believe me.’ He pointed to a patient whose bed was at the ward entrance, never a healthy sign if you were the occupant. ‘She’s not like Mr Tully. He’s been in and out of this ward so many times, he’s just like an old friend. But with his bad heart, he’s really got something to complain about.’

I looked at my patient, who was searching for air in quiet gasps, and deliberated. ‘Do I dare leave him in your hands whilst I get a bite to eat? He is poorly but no worse than before. Tell you what, I’ll grab a quick meal break and be back before Sister’s ward round.’

Charles opened one eye by way of reassurance and I rushed off for a quick glimpse of the dining room, bolted a meal and hurried back, wondering if I was really up to being a senior and whether I should have left Charles in command.

I was right to wonder and wrong in the other decision, for when I returned, the screens were round Mr Tully’s bed, with Charles in a dead faint under it and a dead Mr Tully on top. ‘I’ve just arrived and this is what I found,’ a flustered Night Sister explained, her torch making shaky arcs over their faces. ‘I can’t imagine what’s happened but I’ll have to phone the resident to ask him to confirm there’s a death, whilst you see if you can revive Charles.’ Giving instructions seemed to perk her up. ‘And then of course you’ll need to assemble the final offices trolley.’

Diagnosis of death apparently beyond the remit of nursing staff, she went to make her call whilst I whispered a message to Charles: ‘I’ll have to give you the kiss of life.’ It was enough to galvanise him back to reality.

He came to and stood up, swaying enough for a whiff of Mr Tully’s oxygen – I was sure he wouldn’t grudge it. Then, casting an anxious look over the corpse and crossing his arms as if warding off evil, Charles said in a relieved way, ‘Oh, thank God, he’s still dead.’

‘What!?’ Sister was back. She searchlit the auxiliary with a still-quivering torch.

For a ward normally full of patients lining up for a tea round, it was remarkable how well they were pretending to sleep. The whole place was silent apart from Charles, who hurried to explain, ‘Yeah, soon after Nurse Macpherson left, I thought there was something missing and it was Mr Tully’s breathing, so I took a look and saw he was dead.’

‘Nurse!’ barked Sister. ‘You mean you couldn’t feel his pulse?’

Charles shrugged. ‘Um – well – I noticed he was very still. As I was looking, I knocked his paper off the locker and went to pick it up, but Mr Tully’s hand flopped over and hit me on the head. I thought he’d come back to take me with him. It gave me an awful start – I nearly died as well.’ Charles put his hand to his brow and staggered a bit. ‘This oxygen isn’t much good. Don’t you treat shock with brandy, Sister?’

There were some more theatrical effects before Sister relented and gave him a small tot. ‘I think you can manage now, but you’ll have to wait for the resident.’ She was in tutting mode. ‘My My! But this is a busy night. I wonder where the name Tully comes from. Not Banchory anyway.’ She looked at the ward. ‘You’d better put him in the side ward and not disturb the others; it’s good it’s so quiet.’

In the poor light she looked like a tired auntie but I chanced my luck.

‘Before you go, Sister, and I know we’re not supposed to ask, but can I ask how my friend in the I.C. is?’ I couldn’t have been more humble.

‘No, you can’t ask. It would be highly unprofessional of me to tell you she’s on the mend,’ she replied and tiptoed away as if her presence might attract more work.

We moved Mr Tully in time for the ward resident to come, place a stethoscope on his chest, pronounce him dead, then leave and allow us to do one last service for our patient.

‘I could do this myself, you’re due a break,’ I said, wheeling through the final offices trolley.

Paying no attention, Charles spoke to Mr Tully. ‘You did tell me you were sick to death of struggling for breath all the time and no matter whether you were in bed or up, you were never comfortable and you’d reached the stage that after years of never feeling well, you wanted out of it. And now you are, so the only thing left for me to do is to make sure Nurse Macpherson does the job properly.’ He took a face flannel from Mr Tully’s sponge bag and handed it to me.

Touched by his words, I set about the task whilst Charles chatted as if he and Mr Tully were mates in a quiet pub. I’d dressed dead bodies before but never in such a personal atmosphere.

When the job was almost finished, Charles decided to help. ‘I think she’s having a wee problem with your shroud. You’d think she was tying a parcel. Here, let me.’ He took the long straggly ties and made them into perfect bows. ‘There! That’s the best we can do.’ He stood back to admire his handiwork.

Less impressed by what was now presented as an impersonal bundle, and preferring to remember Mr Tully as a stoical hero, I said, ‘Come on, Charles, you need some food. I don’t want you fainting again and if you don’t go now, the dining room will be closed. I’ll go and phone the porters to come and take the body.’

‘I’m sure I’ll get something, but I see the mortuary trolley’s been left on our floor.’ Charles upturned his huge hands. ‘Just call me Atlas! Why don’t I take him down with me when I’m going? You tell them I’ll meet them on the ground floor – it’ll save them a bit of hassle.’

I remembered the vagaries of a single-handed trolley from our P.T.S. days. ‘Will you manage just yourself?’

‘Of course!’ Charles was already and assuredly steering this one to the side of the bed. Once the body was transferred, we shut the lid, which gave such a clang it could have wakened the hospital. I was glad to see Charles set off with it, even if it was at a rate unbefitting a hearse.

The phone call made, I was back into the ward and about to do a head count when Charles was back – and in a hurry. ‘You forgot to label him. Quick! I’ve left him in the lift.’ He grabbed the slips I scribbled on and was gone leaving me to wonder how long it would be before somebody clever asked whether the running footsteps meant haemorrhage or cardiac arrest.

Again Charles was back and in a froth of anxiety. ‘He’s gone!’

‘I know that – but what are you doing here?’

Charles beckoned me out to the corridor so that he could shout, ‘No! What I meant is that somebody’s pressed the lift button and released the lift from our floor.’

For a moment I thought I had drifted off and was having a nightmare, and part of it was the sound of a lift door opening with the approaching sound of screeching wheels accompanied by trotting footsteps. I clutched my heart. Had Mr Tully miraculously returned?

‘Nurse Macpherson!’

This was worse than a bad dream. I had never seen Night Sister so stressed and out of breath, nor a trolley so expertly driven. At that turn of speed, Banchory should know it had a rally driving expert.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’

I took the plunge – after all, what had I to lose apart from my dreams? And was nursing worth all this anyway?

‘It’s all my fault. I should have left the porters to do their job but I thought I’d save them a trip.’ It was hard avoiding hysterics. ‘And I forgot to label Mr Tully and I forgot to put the lift on hold and …’ Appalled by how things must look, I threw caution to the winds blurting, ‘I’ll work my shift until you get a replacement.’

Charles swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. ‘Actually Sister, I don’t think you should blame Nurse Macpherson. The truth is, it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have left him in the lift, but I didn’t think there was any risk of anybody else using it since staff’s not supposed to use it unless it’s an emergency.’

Both careers at stake, we hung our heads whilst, in the distance, the early sounds of morning stole upon us, with the cries of oystercatchers trawling far away conveyed by a wind surely from Siberia. Amazing how you could hear them when Aberdeen’s beach was so far away. Soon, I thought, I might be hearing similar dawn sounds, but more permanently at home. What a long way to come to develop hearing skills but lose patients!

‘It’s not a competition,’ said Sister irritably, ‘and stop that silly talk about replacement. It’s just lucky for you it was me who found him. I thought for a moment he must be on tour. Still, and I want you to understand this even if you know nothing else,’ her voice went up a pitch, ‘patients are not to be left lying about like lost luggage – dead or alive – so go and phone the porters now and let them do a job that they at least know how to do properly and don’t you dare let that trolley out of your sight until they come for it. Understand?’

‘Yes, Sister.’

‘Right.’ She stomped off.

‘That was close,’ said Charles dropping his shoulders and stretching his neck. He drilled his eyes at the trolley and after a full second said, ‘Heck! This is more boring than watching paint dry. Tell me about your time in the Ian Charles and when you found yon awful wifie under the bed. Now that sounds really exciting.’

Sister Catto headed the gynaecology ward. She was also a cat. It didn’t need to stretch the imagination of a newly-qualified, blue-belted, final-year student – yes, folks, another miracle – to figure out that one. Of course, the nickname Kitty helped, but the slanting green eyes, round face and pointy ears sticking through short jet-black hair clinched it.

I was discussing my new ward with Maisie, celebrating a day off, ironing in the kitchen.

‘You’ll like her. Remember, that was my first ward. She treats everybody the same and it’s a happy place.’ She looked down at an orange feline, fresh from chewing a sad little pelt and now insinuating his body round her legs. ‘But she’s from the caring side of your family-cat – quite a different branch.’ She pointed the iron at the clock. ‘But if you’re not out of here in the next five minutes, Janey Mac, you might find Kitty has claws too.’

I took the lift to the hospital top floor.

Well out of earshot of the rest of the hospital, it overlooked the whole of the city. Far below, gulls wheeled and turned. For a moment I thought I heard their cries but then realised they were the sounds of laughter coming from the ward.

‘Ah! And here’s our new nurse.’ Kitty’s face split into a welcoming smile as she came along the corridor heading an assorted team of medics and nurses, ‘and she’s just in time for the round.’ She turned as another burst of laughter split the air. ‘Come on! If we’re quick, they’ll share that one with us.’