‘Then she was lucky,’ announced Beata, taking another bite of her sandwich.
Nell nodded thoughtfully over her own abandoned lunch. ‘I’d never imagined there were people so unfortunate until today.’
‘Aye, well, it’s one thing to be forced to end your days in the Infirmary, another to have been born there, like Cissie’s children. I don’t know which is worse. But you can’t allow your feelings to show in our job. If we treat them all with equal respect, then at least we can leave them with a bit of dignity. I always put meself in their position – the old folk, not the unmarried mothers,’ she added hastily with a chuckle, then was serious again. ‘I just think how I’d like to be treated. You know how you were mentioning the other week about not talking down to people just because they’re younger than you – I hate people who treat the elderly like little children.’ As Joyson rose to wander about the grounds to enjoy a crafty cigarette, Beata leaned towards Nell and muttered pungently, ‘She’s a bugger for doing that, I’ve noticed – pardon my cursing,’ she added at Nell’s sparkle. ‘It just makes me mad.’
‘You’re very wise,’ admired Nell. ‘I think if I stick by you I won’t go far wrong.’
Whilst the others went for a stroll around the compact gardens, she was to remain with Beata, who was obviously keen to rest her leg.
Having had her earlier questions answered as to the cause of Beata’s swollen ankle, and many more personal ones besides during their three weeks together, Nell decided to chance another.
‘I noticed when Matron asked us why we only wanted to be auxiliaries, you gave a similar answer to mine …’
‘That I was too skint to go on the register?’ Beata nodded. ‘Well, I could hardly tell her the real reason.’
Insatiably curious, Nell sat up. ‘What was that?’
‘I wanted to join the WAAF but they wouldn’t have me – I failed the medical.’
‘Why, you surprise me! I think you’ll make an exemplary nurse.’
Beata shook her head in self-doubt. ‘I fought against it for years, and now look where I am.’
‘But why?’ pressed Nell.
‘You’re a nosey little bugger, aren’t you?’ But when Beata turned to her, the small blue eyes were twinkling.
‘Sorry.’ Nell formed a regretful smile. ‘It’s just that I’m interested in other people’s lives – especially people I like.’
‘Well,’ her friend looked upon her warmly as she explained, ‘I can’t think it’ll be all that scintillating, but if you really want to know …’ And she proceeded to reveal how, throughout her life, from the age of ten, she had always seemed to be nursing one relative or another. ‘Whenever anybody fell ill, it was always, “Send for our Beat”. I got a bit sick of it at times, you know …’
Nell commiserated. ‘But still, it’s a shame you couldn’t afford to go on the register and be a proper nurse.’
‘Oh, I daresay I could’ve done the same as one of my sisters. She put herself into domestic service so’s to be able to save up for her true vocation. My money always seemed to be frittered away – anyway, what constitutes a proper nurse? I might not have the right qualifications, the right uniform, but nobody could care more about a patient’s welfare than I do – and I reckon you’re the same type, that’s why you’re still here after seeing all those poor demented souls in there.’ Her auburn head made a gesture at the Infirmary.
Pleased to be so well regarded, Nell thought she now saw the reason for Beata’s unmarried state at such ripe age: she had been too busy caring for others to make a life for herself. But she did not press for verification, for it was a question too far, and much too personal, and she had no wish to point out that that was where she and her friend differed.
So, lifting her face to the sun, she closed her eyes, daydreaming of Billy, enjoying this moment of peace after the chaos of the former workhouse, only the drone of a Halifax bomber interrupting the quiet.
Finally, though, Beata glanced down at the case that had contained her lunch, and saw that the ants had completely left it, though she dealt it a final bash just to make sure. ‘We’d better get back to work, else Matron’ll have ants in her pants.’
Nodding, her young companion rose, and, along with the rest of the group, strolled back to the Infirmary, looking forward to the afternoon.
They were to see many more ants during the next few weeks, for the old workhouse was infested with them. It was as well that Nell soon grew too familiar with this small army for them to bother her, and similarly those old men who had so frightened her at first, for it appeared that she would be there much longer than anyone had expected. The casualty evacuation trains might all be ready, with beds made up and their crews fit for action with a mound of surgical dressings at hand, but there seemed little urgency to call upon their newly acquired skills.
Though these were still very modest, the probationers and auxiliaries were gleaning more knowledge by the day, being permitted to witness the work of experienced nurses, and to practise, practise, practise those things that would be expected to be second nature to them in weeks to come: the insertion of catheters, the administration of enemas and medicines, giving injections – though only the Ashton sisters were allowed to have a go at the latter – meting out food and stimulants, dressing wounds, making a poultice, and even helping to lay out the dead. Nell had already changed her mind about going back to clerical work after the war, having decided that this would make for a much fuller and more satisfying career one day.
For now, though, she and her fellows were still mainly confined to the routine of changing filthy bedding, washing backs, handing out false teeth, trying to interpret the barely intelligible language of the stroke patients, and listening to old people’s objections over the food they had been given. Some might consider it drudgery, but Nell had made it her mission to get to know all the patients, to take an interest in their personalities and not just their ailments, and to converse with them as one might a peer, as she clipped their toenails and attended their bodily functions. Ditto the permanent residents, such as Cissie Flowerdew, whose situation had intrigued her so much that she had secretly delved into dusty ledgers to find out more about her. Sadly they had little else to tell about this poor simple woman, other than the entry ‘imbecile’ beside her name, and the date of entry. Yet by bothering to pause and chat with the subject herself, a persistent Nell had discovered that Cissie’s hopes and dreams were not dissimilar to her own.
‘I’m going to have a big white wedding!’ a pregnant Cissie delighted in telling the listener. ‘He’s coming back to collect me any day – do you want to be my bridesmaid, Nurse? I’ll need lots of bridesmaids.’
And instead of tittering, Nell felt quite sad that Cissie would never realise those dreams, and had answered kindly that she would regard it an honour. Any banter that might be exchanged was not at the expense of the victim, and any amusement lacked malice. On the contrary, she found herself looking forward to her next day, when she could give Cissie the length of gay ribbon she had decided would cheer her up. Indeed, there were to be many yards of ribbon handed out to brighten the other old ladies’ drab lives, which used up most of Nell’s pocket money, but was considered well-spent.
If there were any elements of this institution that Nell abhorred – apart from death, of course – it would be Ward Three, which housed the mentally deranged who could be violent, though none towards her so far, and the ward devoted to venereal disease. Just to find herself amongst such degraded individuals for the first time was sufficient ordeal. But horror was to be