An Unsuitable Mother

Nell observed that Avril Joyson had tagged on to the Ashton twins, seeming to enjoy the reflected status. The last thing she desired was that one’s company, and neither, apparently, did her companion.

‘Sounds fun,’ replied Beata, ‘but I can’t sing for toffee. I’ll be glad to come and applaud, but tonight I just want to get home, have a cup of tea, and rest my barking dogs.’

‘Me too,’ smiled Nell, affecting to collapse.

‘Killjoys!’ Lavinia’s plummy voice denounced them, but its owner was only joking, as she further scolded Nell. ‘Especially you – why, you’re barely out of school, you shouldn’t be such a fuddy-duddy!’

If only you knew, thought Nell, with a mind to her passionate weekend with Billy, but told her accuser, ‘I’ve just managed to get back in my parents’ good books. I daren’t risk upsetting them. I can’t really sing either.’

‘Why, you are no use to anyone, Spottiswood!’ Her detractor aped Sister Barber’s strict tone. ‘You should jolly well show more enthusiasm – can’t you even help us out with a name at least?’

Recalling Sister’s earlier admonition, Nell was swift to come up with one. ‘How about the Bedpan Swingsters?’

‘That’s perfect!’ Lavinia and Penelope fell against each other in mirth, and with even Joyson agreeing that this was a great idea, there was much good humour as they parted.

The last to break up, Beata enquired if Nell would be catching her bus from the railway station just around the corner. But Nell had other plans. With no opportunity to pick up Billy’s letter at lunchtime, she had been forced to wait until now. It would mean travelling out of her way, but she would never sleep without reading his latest words. Feeling safe in confiding all of this to her new friend, she gushed, ‘See you tomorrow!’ then went to collect the prized letter and read it on the bus home.

‘Ooh, here comes Nurse Spottiswood in her new uniform!’ remarked her mother when Nell finally got in, her father having arrived just before her.

‘Looking very pleased with herself as well.’ After drying his hands, Wilfred took his place at the table, Nell doing the same.

‘She must have had as good a day as I have,’ surmised her rather frazzled but cheerful mother, placing a meal in front of both before serving herself. ‘The washing dried in no time in this sunshine, and I managed to get every bit folded and ready for ironing tomorrow.’ This accounted for the cheery mood, thought Nell, politely attending whilst her mother wittered on. ‘So if I can make an early start before it gets too hot, then I can devote the afternoon to fruit-picking,’ finished Thelma.

Father came alert at the thought of his territory being invaded. ‘Er, I’ll tell you when you can pick it, thank you very much!’

‘Oh, I don’t mean from your domain, dear.’ Though fruit trees grew in abundance in the Spottiswood back garden, Thelma would never dream of touching them without her husband’s permission. ‘No, I just mean those brambles by the railway – that’s if anyone hasn’t beaten me to it.’

Father looked duly appeased. ‘Oh, well that’s all right then. I just didn’t want you giving our best quality stuff to the WVS. I’ve negotiated a decent price for it with a couple of greengrocers, you see – you can take all you need for ourselves of course.’ He set into his meal, a good portion of it being consumed before either parent thought to ask about Nell’s new job.

‘So what type of girls are you working with?’ enquired her mother.

‘They’re mostly very nice.’ Nell lifted her attention from her plate, and proceeded to tell her parents a little about each fellow nurse, hoping to titillate them with her impression of the French one, though they did not guffaw as much as Billy would have.

‘So you think you’ll enjoy this nursing lark?’ smiled her father.

‘I’m sure of it!’ When I get a chance, came Nell’s grim thought, not revealing that her entire day had been taken up with scrubbing floors and getting splinters in her hands and her nails torn to the quick. ‘It’s hard, but worthwhile.’

But she did make it known how tired it had made her, and, after listening to the wireless for news of how the Battle of Britain had gone that day, she was to linger only for another ninety minutes or so with her parents, enjoying a serial, then some music, whilst helping to make firelighters from compressed newspaper. By eight o’clock she was on her way to bed with a cup of cocoa, secretly to prop up the photograph of her beloved – whose laughing face looked on whilst she read his letter again – and to compose another to him, relating in brief the events of the day, picking out things that might amuse him, and ending with the usual sentiment of how much she missed and loved him. Then, within five minutes of kissing his photograph, and hiding this and the envelope under her pillow ready to be posted in the morning, she fell asleep.

The transformation of the rolling stock took a couple more days, during which all the recruits twiddled with each others’ surnames so as to make their address less harsh. There was not much one could do with some of the names, but in addition to Killie and Spotty, Nurse French was now Frenchy and Avril Joyson was Joy – but this was a mischievously ironic title. Sister made no complaint as long as they did their work.

Only after the wagons had been thoroughly cleaned and polished from top to bottom, and were fully kitted out, were the volunteers to learn anything related to actual nursing. First, there was to be a fortnight of lectures and training at a hospital. Though continuing to miss Billy dreadfully, Nell was intelligent enough to realise there was no point in moping, and so welcomed this opportunity to throw herself into learning her job, and thus be equipped with fresh material for her nightly penning. Even before this, Billy had seemed to enjoy all her mundane details. Now, though, she would have much more interesting news for him, which was good for her too, for this nightly ritual certainly helped to ease the emptiness – though, oh, how she yearned for him.

The County Hospital was in Monkgate, only an extra stop on the bus then a few minutes’ walk under two ancient Bars. Beyond its Viking gates and medieval dog-leg alleys, York’s suburbs had begun to encroach on one village after another, but inside its compact walls nothing was far away, and you could get from one side to the other in less than half an hour. There had been no need for Nell to rise early, yet she had. Thankful that the manual part was over, she rolled up at the hospital that morning raring to fill the pages of her notebook, as did her colleagues.

All were in for a shock. After their matron on the trains being so decent, her counterpart at the hospital was quite the opposite, making her feelings clear upon meeting the auxiliaries. Whilst Sister Barber had made it plain that she did not appreciate having amateurs foisted upon her, this woman was downright insulting.

‘I gather that one or two of you will be applying to have your names included on the national register. Those I shall be addressing later. As to those others of more restricted intellect, I shall attempt to convey this as simply as possible. I do not, and never shall, subscribe to quackery, and will not permit it in this hospital. I may have been coerced by the powers-that-be into accepting recruits who are totally inadequate for the task, but that does not mean I will subject my patients to abuse by persons who are only fit for domestic service, factory or shop work …’

Flushed with indignation, Nell shifted uncomfortably in her new sensible shoes, as Matron proceeded with her waspish rendition.

‘You might flatter yourselves that you are nurses – indeed, others might address you by such a term. I shall not. In these times of emergency the word has gained inflated value. If you were worthy of the title, you would have made the grade for it, whatever the effort. The qualifying examinations are prepared on a minimum curriculum, and if you cannot attain this simple standard, then your intellect is exceedingly limited.’

Nell could not help but emit a gasp. The matron’s cold gaze rested upon her for a few seconds, though her lecture was to remain universal.

‘Be that as it may, you should all be able to hold one rule in your minds. And it is a vital rule. Whilst you are in this hospital, never, I repeat never, presume to undertake actions that are beyond your capabilities. You may watch qualified nurses at their work, some of you might learn from them … as to the rest of you … I myself will attempt to inculcate the rudimentary syllabus.’ A heavy sigh insinuated just how tiresome this would be. The way she looked down her nose and stared into each and every face was extremely unnerving. No one deserved such discrimination, the friends agreed later, once out of range of this termagant; even the normally docile Nurse French pouring forth a string of Gallic invective, after Nell had translated the gist for her.

‘I’ve never been so insulted,’ breathed a distempered Nell to the others. ‘And I’m not stupid! I went to grammar school.’

‘So would I have done, if we’d had any spare cash for the uniform,’ muttered an equally incensed Beata. ‘I passed the scholarship.’

‘Same here!’ lobbed Green the younger. ‘What about you, Joy, did you pass?’

‘Yes!’ Joyson was eager not to be judged a dunce, though the way her eyes flickered told that she was lying, which made Nell feel a twinge of sympathy. Having got to know her, she had learned that, apart from the vice of laziness and her blunt opinions, there was no real malice to Avril.

‘And so did me mam, didn’t you, Mam?’ finished Green junior.

Similarly nettled as the younger ones, Mrs Green’s white head gave a nod of confirmation. ‘My poor dad could hardly scrape the funds to feed us all, let alone for school books and pencils.’

‘Well that’s just it!’ objected Nell. ‘I don’t think Matron’s exceptionally bright if she couldn’t even make any allowance for those of us who are unable to afford the exams. I’ve never been spoken to like that in my entire life – why, it’s as if she regards us as scum!’

And, indeed, this was further exemplified at midday, for they were forbidden to eat in the dining hall – even though it was raining – and had to huddle under the bicycle shelter, with no means of alleviating their aching feet – though this was not to be endured for very long. ‘Dinner-hour’ being a luxury of the past, after wolfing down their lunches in fifteen minutes it was back to the grind.

During that most testing of fortnights, they were required to learn all the names of poisonous gases that might be used by the Germans, and to avoid these themselves by deploying their respirators in seconds. This latter seemed to be the sole functional thing they were allowed to do, for only those who were full probationers had any actual contact with the patients. But even in practising on each other, the auxiliaries were constantly reminded that they were the poor relations.

Or not so poor, as one of the ‘real’ nurses was quick to accuse. ‘I think it’s a disgrace that you’re earning so much without a single qualification! We all had to spend years passing exams and paying our dues, and you swan in earning more than probationers – and no cleaning to do!’

‘You could have fooled me,’ muttered Beata, which is what young Nell would have said if she had not been so overwhelmed by the amount of antagonism.

All this being so, having made their protest, the trained nurses chose to tolerate the auxiliaries, and were kind enough to teach by example the various aspects of their work. Along with asepsis and antisepsis, and the precautions to obtain these, came methods of resuscitation, including those which took place in the casualty department. For some reason matron had not objected to these ignorant individuals coming along there, nor to the operating theatre. Nell thought perhaps she knew why: Matron hoped they would take fright at the horrible injuries, and thus she could be rid of them. Determined not to give this awful woman the satisfaction, she steeled herself not to faint at the bloody scalpels and bone saws, and was quite delighted that her friends managed to do the same – although all were very pale when they emerged. But these ordeals seemed to have no purpose other than for Matron’s gratification, for in the main it was one lecture after another, and a lot of scribbling in notebooks.

After being previously lauded for her skills at first aid, Nell had to relearn almost everything she had been taught, any polite query seen as insubordination and earning a severe dressing-down. She certainly knew her place now, and that was as a slave to the authorities, for they demanded to know her every whereabouts – even after working hours, when she was expected to keep her superiors informed of her movements so that they could contact her in an emergency. ‘It’s worse than being at home,’ spluttered Nell, only half joking. ‘At least my parents allow me freedom to visit the lavatory!’

As a matter of fact, Thelma and Wilfred had been persuaded to allow a little more than that lately. The incident in Scarborough forgiven, if not completely forgotten, their daughter had been allotted leave to go and watch the newly formed Bedpan Swingsters perform on an evening. Had they known the chosen venue was a pub, undoubtedly they would have been less lenient. Not about to enlighten them, Nell kept a ready cache of peppermints to disguise the combination of stout and cigarettes that were consumed during the lively performance. Everyone agreed that it was such a delight to let one’s hair down after Matron’s authoritarian regime and obvious detestation of them.

The latter continuing unabated, it was a very long fortnight at the County Hospital – and to exacerbate Nell’s misery, during that period there came news that the Germans had finally bombed London itself, in broad daylight. How she was to fret until Billy’s letter arrived to assure her he was safe! Though her relief over this was to be somewhat short-lived, for that daring attack was only the beginning of a murderous blitz on the capital, and every night after this, as Nell perused her darling’s latest letter before going to sleep, she was to dread it would be his last.

There was to be some respite on the work front, however, when the fortnight at the County Hospital came to an end and the recruits moved on to the Infirmary. This was only a short walk along the same route until the road diverged, yet miles removed in style from the handsome redbrick building of their previous post, the institutional block straddled between the brown River Foss and the cocoa works, both of which could be smelled on the air. Here they hoped to gain practical experience with the elderly. It came as something of a damp squib, though, to learn that this was the type of patient on whom they would be concentrating: hardly the romantic ideal some of them had treasured.

‘It used to be the old workhouse till they changed the name,’ whispered Beata, upon catching Nell’s look of shock at some of the inmates they encountered on their way along the drab corridors that hummed of stale cabbage and decaying humanity.

Nell was glad to be taken under the elder’s wing, for she felt very nervous under the vacant, sometimes malevolent, gaze of those whiskery old men with crumpled shirt collars and crumpled faces, grease-stained ties and baggy suits. But she tried not to show it, deporting herself with dignity as exemplified by Sister Barber, for she wanted to appear as mature as the rest. Did nothing faze those Ashton girls?

Apparently it did bother Joyson, though. ‘I don’t really mind,’ she began, her expression telling, ‘but I’d rather feel I was doing something for the lads who are defending us.’

‘Some of these old chaps would have been soldiers once,’ Beata told her.

‘Maybe in the Crimean War,’ scoffed Joyson, nose in the air as she bustled along, trying to act the professional. ‘I doubt they’d know one end of a Spitfire from the other.’

‘And do you?’ came Lavinia Ashton’s forthright demand.

Joyson grew shirty. ‘I’m just saying what a great job the RAF boys have done, and I’d like to pay them back, that’s all.’

The others shared a look here. They were well-acquainted with Joyson’s penchant for airmen, having seen her flirting with squadrons of them around the bars.

‘God knows we need them after that mess at Dunkirk,’ she added, being immediately heckled for such a defeatist attitude.

Too fixed on her surroundings, Nell had not really been listening to Joyson’s moaning, but this had her full attention. ‘I admire the RAF too,’ she shot back. ‘But everyone’s doing their part!’ She envisaged poor Bill as he lay on that beach under fire, pictured him now as wave after wave of the Luftwaffe pummelled his home town, night after night, thousands of people killed and injured …

Perceiving her fears, Beata tried to dispel them, though in doing so she addressed everyone. ‘Did you hear on the wireless last night, a hundred and eighty-five German planes shot down over London – in a single day! We’ve certainly got ’em on the run …’

But Nell was to remain apprehensive as the group made their way past vast dormitories of chronic infirm and the mentally ill, to rendezvous with the master and matron, wondering just how bad the superintendent of such an institution might be.

Surprisingly, and to everyone’s great relief. Miss Fosdyke turned out to be as pleasant and fair-minded as their own matron on the trains, having the knack of not speaking down to them whilst retaining her own authority. There would be nothing to fear from this one, felt Nell, looking back into the kind, reassuring and ladylike face, which was directed at each girl in turn, not addressing them en masse, but asking each individual why they had not applied to go on the register – leaving aside the Ashton twins, who had.

When it came to Nell’s turn, she replied that it was purely the expense that was prohibitive. ‘I should hate for it to be a hardship on my parents,’ she told Matron respectfully. ‘But, like everyone here, I just wanted to do my bit for the war.’

As usual there was some difficulty in ascertaining Nurse French’s thoughts and feelings, but the others, who had by now achieved a certain camaraderie, helped by explaining to Matron what Nell had recently discovered for them: that Frenchy was in fact a fully qualified nurse in her own country, and it was only her inability to grasp the language that was the barrier – and only then the speaking of it, for she understood instructions well enough. Considering that as an auxiliary she would not be entrusted with drugs, and that her manner was kind and caring, her mode of communication was of little handicap.

Matron accepted all of their answers without criticism – and was even complimentary. ‘I can tell you are all intelligent women. Perhaps once you are acclimatised you will decide to make that extra sacrifice to attain registered status. In any event, we are very glad to have you all here, short as your stay might be. The care of the chronic sick and elderly is a greatly neglected field, but it is very rewarding.’

They were to find that hers was a different persona altogether than Matron Lennox’s quiet way, more outgoing and amusing, as she shepherded the group on a brief tour of the infirmary. ‘And it will be brief, I’m afraid,’ she informed her entourage. ‘Our peripatetic MO is due to arrive for his rounds at any moment.’ Even so, she did appear to have sufficient time to introduce the recruits to others along her nimble way, not merely staff but inmates.

‘This is one of our longest serving residents – I do beg your pardon for walking on your nice clean floor, Blanche,’ she said, as politely as to an equal, whilst steering her party around the elderly woman in the shapeless cotton frock and long bloomers, who was on her hands and knees scrubbing the corridor and mumbling to herself.

The old girl lifted a beautiless, wart-bedecked face, appearing not to notice the rest of her audience, but smiling brightly at the one who had spoken. ‘You’re all right, miss!’ Then immediately going back to scrubbing the floor, jabbering to herself as the group moved on. ‘Late, late, always late, never did a day’s work in your life, not worth a candle …’

Her mumbling was fading into the distance, Matron explaining that Blanche had been born here, when she interrupted herself to accost another. ‘One moment, Cissie Flowerdew! I can see you, trying to slope off.’

Mop and bucket in hands, about to run, her victim wheeled around to portray the aura of a simpleton, the face framed in cropped brown hair held with a grip at either temple, and her lumpish torso clad in a similar shapeless blue frock to the last woman. Then Cissie came hurrying up with a repentant smile, her head cocked to one side, as she gave an answer that was well-rehearsed. ‘I wouldn’t know him again, Matron! He had his hat pulled down over his eyes and –’

‘– a long black coat to his ankles!’ finished Matron Fosdyke with grim amusement. ‘My word, this chap does seem to be a regular suitor, doesn’t he?’ Turning to the recruits, she offered an explanation, whilst encompassing the inmate in her reply. ‘Sister tells me that Cissie is expecting another happy event in the new year, isn’t that so, Cissie?’

‘Aye, Matron.’ There was no further attempt at guile.

Shaking her bonneted head, Matron issued a benign smile. ‘We’ll say no more about it for the moment. You may go back to work now.’

‘Baby number four,’ she explained to her party when the offender had clomped away. ‘Cissie works as one of our ward maids, she’s been with us for twenty years, entered when she was pregnant with her first child – someone took advantage of her when she was little more than a child herself, and it was deemed safer to keep her here for her own protection. How wrong we were! Every now and again she manages to give us the slip, and every time the same excuse: “Ah wouldn’t recognise ’im again, nurse,’ e ’ad ’is ’at pulled down over ’is eyes an’ a long black coat to ’is ankles!”’ The group broke into a unified smile, much disarmed by Matron’s feigned Yorkshire accent.

‘Every one of the children has a different father, though,’ Matron added, in her clipped fashion. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to work that out when you see them. They remain with us until they’re old enough to enter the orphanage. You’ll probably meet her last one in the nursery ward – right, onwards!’

Nell exchanged glances with Beata as the group surged off again, one of them hopping rapidly ahead each time they reached a door, and opening it for their leader to go sailing through. It was apparent that, despite her hearty kindness towards the inmates, Matron would condone no slapdash behaviour from those who should know better. For her arrival on each ward was met with much deference, and even when her eyes and mouth showed satisfaction, no one dared put aside their awe until she had gone.

Nell was by now feeling overwhelmed, and not a little dispirited, for not only did many of the occupants wear the identical and uninspiring uniform, but a similar expression. Even those not confined to bed could hardly be termed mobile, the odd one or two shuffling like tortoises from one end of the ward to the other, the rest seated on uncomfortable chairs. All wore the same look of resignation, as though condemned to a dungeon, their skin wrinkled and papery and slightly yellow, like plants deprived of sunlight. How bored the poor things must be, sympathised Nell, with only a square of sky to view, no pictures on the walls, not even a splash of colour to cheer them, just polished floors, crisp white linen, and endless rows of beautifully made beds.

Yet not all was gloom, for some of the old people still had their wits about them, and engaged the visitors in a few moments of playful chat. Then, after racing around in Matron’s slipstream for a while, Nell and the other auxiliaries were to receive the honour of shadowing the visiting MO on his rounds. And even if forced to stand to the rear of those more worthy, they were to pick up much information, though some of it amusingly suspect.

‘And how is Mrs Grant this morning?’ enquired the eminent man, upon his satellites being gathered around the current bed.