It Won't Hurt a Bit (11 page)

I was just about to retrieve the dictionary when Maisie came back sounding worried.

‘She’s not in her room. Sister Cameron says she decided at the last minute to go home. Blast! I wish we’d persuaded her to come with us.’ She looked at her watch. ‘There’s no trains on a Sunday so we’ll just have to wait till tomorrow morning. I just hope she does come back.’

‘So do I. She’s our shining hope in the class. Knows all the answers and keeps Jonesie from going into meltdown. Och, Maisie, I’m sure she’ll turn up. She’s a hardy Highlander after all.’ I wished I sounded more convincing.

We were curious about Jo.

Last week we had nosily watched as, shoehorned into trousers, she piled her long hair under a crash helmet every night and headed off into an exciting world with her biker bloke. She never talked about him but he made her happy, evidenced by her silence and smug face – even on a Monday.

‘Good morning, Jo. Nice weekend?’

‘Very nice. And you?’

‘Come on, folks, Miss Jones’s waiting for us,’ Rosie cried.

We’d only been here for a week but already Rosie was well on the way to splendour; but not perhaps, this morning.

Miss Jones presided at the blackboard, arms folded and grim faced. There was a pile of papers on a desk in front of her. They looked like our exam results, as much a matter of concern as the two empty desks.

‘Sheila as well?’ I muttered, feeling a need for that friendly presence.

‘Quiet!’ yelled our tutor. She picked up the papers and shook them at us. Covered in red marks, they looked as if they’d measles and the way she held them suggested something even more unpleasant. ‘I have spent the better part of my weekend correcting these,’ she crashed them back on the desk, ‘and what a waste of my time that was. So, will you now please come and collect them.’

There were two papers left, one of which was blemish free. I bet it belonged to Morag, presumably absconded to Tain, which suddenly held a great appeal.

‘Very disappointing.’ Miss Jones, having no problem with voice projection, sought to better it as she pulled her shoulders back, drew breath and jutted her chin. ‘Considering the amount of information given last week, I am amazed how little has come back. The kidney description deserves far more than what you’ve given me. Frankly, Nurses – and enjoy the title for it may be short-lived – you will all have to do much better than the rubbish I’ve had to wade through.’ She finger-jabbed the air. ‘Remember, your time here is short and we expect you to make the most of it.’

I was gutted. I thought I’d done a fair job and had been sure my little plumber analogy would charm. However, the ‘facts not fiction’ scrawled over my paper said otherwise.

‘When your kidney knowledge wasn’t minimal it was inaccurate, and as for your diagrams … Well! Words fail me.’

At last! Something in common, but not for long. ‘Remember what I told you about your weekly tests?’ Miss Jones picked up speed again. ‘Well, this is a poor beginning isn’t it?’

Mrs Low appeared, sparing us the indignity of a reply. We bucked up. Surely she brought good news, but she spoke with such sorrow it moved Miss Jones’s tirade into happiness zone.

It had started to rain and water tracked down the windows like the tears Mrs Low was apparently fighting.

‘Last week,’ she began, her chin wobbling, ‘I was sure I’d managed to convey the necessity of precision, a step-by-step description of a professionally-achieved procedure,’ her sigh was immense, ‘but I fear I have failed.’

She handed us our papers with the solemnity of an undertaker. ‘I am so very, very sorry that something of such paramount importance was ignored. Some of you seemed to think that such a simple procedure could be dealt with in a very careless manner, whilst others treated it so light-heartedly, I found more than one joke in it!’ She was scandalised. ‘Were I to follow some of these details, poor Mrs Brown would be either scalded, drowned or suing the hospital for lack of proper care.’ She crunched a hanky, then, dabbing her brow with it, gazed upon the weeping window as if it were a happier prospect. ‘Read my remarks, then I suggest you go, have your coffee break and think about whether or not you’re really serious about this great profession I, for one, am honoured to represent.’

We dragged ourselves out to gather in a shocked little group. The coffee tasted bitter.

‘I think that pair go a bit over the top,’ Isobel at length remarked, ‘and I think Miss Jones must have a bit of kidney trouble herself; she drinks an awful lot of water and have you seen her ankles?’ She stretched out her own perfectly shaped ones, which cheered no one but herself. ‘I hope it’s not going to be like this all the way. I’m sure old Florence wasn’t half as fussy.’ She caught Rosie’s worried look and added, ‘I don’t think we’ll ever get out of this classroom. Think of the disgrace – the only P.T.S. stuck here for years on end.’

Chewing mechanically and thinking deeply, we swallowed the plain biscuits and coffee, as free and attractive to nursing staff as the hospital’s Government Property toilet paper.

‘And on top of all that,’ cried Rosie, ‘we’ve lost Sheila and Morag as well. What do you think’s happened to them? Where could they be?’

‘Probably having a fine old time at home.’ Hazel was gloomy. ‘Honestly, you do wonder how anybody manages to get through all this and qualify. Maybe those two had the right idea and jumped before being pushed. That is except for Morag, and she’s not even here.’

‘Hey, quines,’ the voice from the door was as welcome as it was unexpected. ‘The Inverurie bus wis late. Hiv ah missed much?’

I said, ‘No, Sheila, but we’re down to the last biscuit. Looking on the bright side, I suppose that one good thing about Morag not being here is you’d have had to share it with her.’

‘Somebody mention my name?’ asked Morag, stepping out from behind. ‘I was on the same bus that Sheila got on at Inverurie. Haven’t you girls heard that troubles don’t come singly?’

‘That sounded like a joke,’ said Hazel. ‘Quick! Let’s get you back into the classroom before you change your mind about training.’ She threw her arm forward. ‘Lead on, Morag Macduff!’

With Rosie chirping brightly in the rear, we trudged after Morag, hoping that the sight of her would give us all a break.

‘Cheer up! It’ll get better,’ a passing nurse called as she swung out the door, an enviable skip in her step.

And she was right. As the weeks passed, and even if Morag persevered with pessimism, we began to make progress, gradually recognising that our tutors were there to help even if their teaching methods seemed peculiarly based on the inanimate qualities of a big doll, a skeleton and a drawerful of butcher’s offal.

One day Miss Jones said, ‘Nurse Macpherson, come out here and describe the humerus.’ She stepped back smartly as I leapt to the floor, grabbing a ruler and advancing upon Skellie.

‘There’s nothing funny about the humerus,’ I said, giving the old bone a good whack.

‘Facts, Nurse. Facts.’

But I hadn’t spent all night mugging this up to be so interrupted. I held up the ruler as if it were a baton and continued, ‘It is the longest bone of the upper limb. It presents as –’ I was just getting into my stride when Miss Jones checked her watch.

‘Well now, it’s time for Mrs Low. Thank you, Nurse Macpherson. We’ll hear the rest of the lecture from someone else tomorrow.’

A snigger swept the class but I didn’t care. The humerus and I were good pals and I knew how it worked.

Today was remarkable. Even Mrs Low seemed pleased.

‘Do you know I really do think this group has made great strides. I like the thoughtful way you’ve been dealing with Mrs Brown and what’s more, some kind nurse has actually stitched her arm back on again. She’s really looking ever so much better. Whoever did that, thank you.’

She put her hands together in a prayerful way and looked around the class but nobody was admitting to this outbreak of compassion, though I suspected Hazel. With her eye for labour saving, she resented time spent sweeping up stuffing after our caring forays in the practical classroom. And her father was a surgeon, so she’s plenty access to needles and thread.

Wearing my own particular brand of care, I went to visit Douglas, now in hospital.

He was in bed but despite the carbolic surroundings his cheerfulness was undimmed whilst he laid down a betting slip to give me a warmer welcome. Sunshine spilled over the long ward.

‘The nurses are great. I’m thinking of asking if I can stay on for another week. My skin’s clearing, I haven’t got half the discomfort or itch, there’s telly, I’ve made some good mates and all I have to worry about is what’s for tea – and that’s always great too.’ Apparently pleased with his lot, and beaming at a passing, teeth-grindingly pretty nurse, he lay back on the pillows. As he moved his legs, they rustled.

Apart from sounds, rather than signs, of treatment, none of this tied in with my idea of a hospital patient racked with pain or discomfort and I wondered what would have been Mrs Low’s take.

‘Observation is a key skill,’ she’d said. ‘Nursing skill’s incomplete without it.’

But we’d had no set of rules for patient visitor behaviour and I didn’t want to look or ask too much in case Douglas got coy. Anyway, his legs were under the bedclothes and apparently in good enough order, if noisy.

Was it time for a cool hand on a fevered brow then? If I’d thought, I’d not have worn the wool mittens. Compared to that annoying nurse I felt like a woolly mammoth.

‘How did you manage to get in?’ Douglas asked, looking round at a ward of patients who, having no visitors themselves, were interested in his.

‘It’s one of the perks of the trade.’

I should have shouted, it would have saved everybody lugging in, so it wasn’t the best time then, even if I had the courage, to ask discreet questions.

‘Do you see that bonny nurse? She puts cream all over his legs, takes ages to do it, then wraps him up in a polythene bag. It’s a wonder he doesn’t slip off the bed,’ Douglas’s neighbour was keen to inform. He poked around in his locker and tossed over an intellectual magazine; you could tell by the cover. ‘Just returning your mag, Doug.’ He settled back, pleased to have contributed so richly.

‘Don’t mind him.’ Douglas laughed. ‘He’s only jealous I’ve got a bonny visitor.’

Between hearing about Douglas’s treatment and reading up about it, I wondered if this might be the time to add to it, but mid neighbour and the rustles, I still wasn’t quite ready to get that personal.

‘What are these two so engrossed in?’ shouted a patient across from us.

‘Can you believe? Politics! It’s riveting stuff apparently. Cor! They must be stuck for something to say.’

Douglas told me he’d been on a C.N.D. march and how important it was we banned the bomb.

I could have told him how certain members of nursing staff went nuclear quite frequently but he’d become serious. Actually, our class had had a lecture on what we should do in the event of a nuclear war and we were so scared we’d all wanted to run home. Since this didn’t put any of us in a good light, I kept quiet whilst the rest of the ward lost interest and normal shouting was resumed.

‘They might get sore throats as well,’ I suggested at length.

‘They’d certainly prefer it.’ Douglas’s tone was sombre as he nodded at a patient with a face that looked as if it had been scorched. ‘That chap’s been in for skin grafts but they’re not taking. He’s been here for ages, poor guy.’ Then he brightened. ‘You’ll come back soon won’t you? It’s great having a visitor and I think we can talk about anything, and’ – there was a busy rustle as he stretched his legs and put his hand out – ‘I’ve been telling everybody what fun you are. Cuddly too.’

‘Give us a twirl, Doll,’ shouted the neighbour, proving that whatever problem he had, his ears were fine.

On my way out the pretty nurse said, ‘We’ve heard a lot about you from Dougie and what a laugh you are. I expect he’s told you about the new stuff we’re trying. It seems to be helping; you’ll have seen how well he’s looking.’

‘Yes, he smells like a newly tarred road,’ I said, keen to put her off, and supposing a carbolic derivative was the main ingredient of Douglas’s embalming ointment and rather wishing she wasn’t so nice and I wasn’t such a laugh.

I’d a pang leaving Douglas but when I got back to the Home I was caught up by our group dashing in and out of Maisie’s room in a state of excitement and undress.

‘Why is our mature and thoughtful group playing ghosties?’ I asked Hazel, who was shroud-winding a sheet round Rosie.

‘We’ve had such an overdose of Miss Jones today, we’ve prescribed ourselves some fun therapy. Hold still, Rosie.’ She dredged her with talc. ‘Look! Now you’ve grey hair, a sure sign of wisdom – and where’s the raspberry jam? You’ll need that for blood.’

‘Just the thing for caring specialists.’ Jo was painting fangs on Isobel. She stepped back to admire her handiwork. ‘We need somebody to do blood-curdling yells.’ She looked speculatively at Maisie. ‘You could do that, I think you’ve got the voice.’

‘Great to be so valued, and I suppose the same applies to my room. Look at that talc. It’s everywhere, and where’s Morag?’

‘Phoning home or head under the blankets. It’s why we’re in your room. If she’d got wind of this lark she might have tried to dissuade us,’ said Jo. ‘Honestly, she takes life far too seriously. She’ll have a nervous breakdown if she doesn’t start to relax. Anyway, you lot. Come on! What’s it to be. Victim finders or outriders? Choose your title. Now, girls, are we ready?’

Support team at the ready, Rosie and Isobel set off, so realistic even I got a chill as they moved silent and phantom-like along the corridor.

Some very satisfactory screams and the occasional dead faint with Sims’ position trialled encouraged us to go global and stalk any old corridor, spurred on by the time and signs that the Night Staff was not moribund, and thus fair game.

‘I think it’s time for a break,’ said Hazel at length. ‘It’s the stress build up.’

‘And I fancy a cup of tea. My voice is hurting,’ said Maisie.

‘Too right.’ Rosie couldn’t resist it.