Nance felt as if the year behind her was a ragged landscape of mountains and valleys she’d trudged through, a road with no rests and no glories. She thought, I got through that. I can get through anything.
She wondered what would have happened if her parents had been unadventurous and contented with their lot. She’d have grown up in Gunnedah, left school at fourteen as they had, married a farmer, had six children. Gone to her grave without knowing how to calibrate a pipette. It would have been a happy enough life, but Meg would call it unexamined. Yes, she wanted to meet someone, get married, have children. She wanted to be happy. But she knew now that she wanted something else as well.
Over Christmas she spent one of her two weeks’ annual holiday in Tamworth. The town was quiet. Half the shops were closed. The Cally had a hangdog look. A panel of iron lace had fallen off the verandah and a rusted downpipe had left a long red stain on the side wall. The dining room had an unused musty smell and the laundry was silent. Mrs Chipp was the first to be let go, I bet, Nance thought.
Dolly had become small and sour. She mostly stayed in her room with a headache. Bert tried to be hearty but you could see the cracks. He disappeared for hours at a time. Frank was still out at Uncle Willie’s, working for board and keep. Max had left school when the Depression hit. He was helping out in the Cally now, except no help was needed.
It was Max who told Nance that their father was mixed up with some woman living up on Paradise Street. He’s, you know, head in the sand, Max said. With the Cally going downhill. She’s like an escape for him.
You reckon Mum knows, Nance said.
Reckon she does, Max said.
The woman on Paradise Street made Nance understand her mother for the first time. There’d have been other women, Nance realised now, heaven knew how many. Benni in Temora was one, but every town, every pub, would have had a woman who caught Bert’s eye. It was why Dolly was forever wanting to move. Another town, another hotel. All she could do now was retreat to her room. Perhaps Meg was right about marriage.
Nance leaned on the windowsill of her old room, looking up at the washed-out green of the hill behind the town. There was nothing for her here. Only that failing hotel, the cranky mother, the father muddled up with some other woman. If this had ever been any kind of home for her, it wasn’t one any longer.
In 1931 Nance started second year. That was Materia Medica, the nuts and bolts of being a pharmacist. From the recipe books of the British Pharmacopoeia and Martindale’s, the students learned the exact ingredients, in Latin, of any medicine a doctor might prescribe. The Australian Pharmaceutical Formulary told you exactly how to make it. The students learned about patent medicines, profitable for the pharmacist but mostly alcohol and sugar. How to know when to send the customer to a doctor. When to let them think you were one. The lecturer told them, If a customer comes in and says, Are you Doctor Jones, simply say, My name is Jones.
The male students could see the finish line in sight, their professional lives waiting for them. Every one of them was ready to look a customer in the eye and say, My name is Jones. For the women it was different. They knew that life as a female pharmacist—or pharmaciste, as one of the instructors insisted—was going to be no easier than being a female pharmacy student had been. There’d be customers who wouldn’t believe you were the pharmacist, who’d go elsewhere rather than trust a woman.
Two other women joined Nance and Mavis and Marjorie. Christina had a sad beaten look. It had taken her two years to squeak through Chemistry and Botany. You couldn’t imagine her behind the counter bossing people around. Ada was a friendly Jewish girl who had a knack for thinking up little ditties to remember the hundreds of formulas they had to learn. If you want the bowels to move to please yers, take rhubarb, ginger and both magnesers. See, Nance, Ada said. You’ll never forget that now, as long as you live.
From working in the shop, Nance already knew about macerating and decocting and the rest of it. Compared to first year, Mat Med was easy. But by the end of winter things were catching up with her. Every day it was the same: the big old alarm clock going off at half-past six, the quick wash in the bathroom down the hall, breakfast, the walk to the pharmacy. If Mr Stevens wasn’t there yet, she had to wait outside. A pharmacy couldn’t be open unless the registered pharmacist was on the premises. Unlock the door, go into the smell of the closed-up shop: privy and peppermint, and the ghosts of a hundred thousand prescriptions. By the end of the day all the spirit was leached out of her.
Three weeks before the exams, the minister came from St James, as he did every Sunday, to give communion. As soon as he gave the first blessing Nance could hear what a terrible cold he had. She watched him raise the chalice and take a sip.
Two days later she woke up with a piercing headache. Every joint hurt, her eyes felt loose in their sockets, she shivered and sweated. People came and went, some spoke to her, but she was too sick to care. Meg sat with her and sponged her face. Matron pushed a thermometer under her tongue. A hundred and four! Nance heard her say. Best get the doctor.
A few days later she still had a sore throat and a cough and the world had a grey look, as if her eyes were too tired to see in colour, but the headache was mostly gone and her joints had stopped aching. Matron came again with the thermometer. Back to work tomorrow, Miss Russell, she said, as if promising a treat. In the morning Nance could hardly stand and Meg had to help her button her cardigan. Mr Stevens was shocked when he saw her but he didn’t send her home. Two weeks later she did the exams.
She only got forty-three in Materia Medica. She’d been too sick to study so it was no more than she deserved, but she’d hoped for a miracle. Here she was, failed, along with poor silly Christina, whose eyes were big with tears and whose lip was trembling. She’d only got twenty-two. That was a definite fail. Nance’s mark gave her another chance. She could sit the exam again in March.
She didn’t go home at Christmas. She slept and slept, and when she wasn’t sleeping she studied. Meg sneaked cups of tea and plates of biscuits up to her, though you weren’t allowed to eat or drink in the room. Made the bed for her, did Nance’s laundry for her. This is the darkest hour, Nance dear, she kept saying. Don’t let them beat you.
In February, Meg had to leave. She’d finished her teacher training and they’d sent her to Lawson in the Blue Mountains. Nance kept going with the study. Back from the pharmacy every night, have tea, get out the books. She had the room to herself. The hostel was cheap, but it was too dear for anyone who didn’t have a job. Half the rooms were empty.
At the second attempt she got fifty-eight. That was a credit. She looked at her name on the list but felt nothing, no triumph, no pleasure. Passing was the next thing she’d had to do, and she’d done it. There was no one to celebrate with. She went back to work.
In the third year of the apprenticeship, 1932, there were no more classes, only work in the shop and study for the Pharmacy Board exam at the end of the year. Easier, but lonelier. No one but herself and Mr Stevens all day and into the night. She’d keep the customers talking for the sake of their company.
Then Mr Stevens lost all his money in some wildcat scheme. Came to Nance one day and told her he’d have to sell up. Her first thought was, I’ll be out of a job. Whoever bought the business might not want the bother and expense of an apprentice. Let alone a girl. Now that would be unfair! But Mr Stevens surprised her. He’d only sell to someone who’d keep her on till she got her registration. Only right and just, he said. You’ve been a good little worker, Miss Russell.
The man who bought the business was Charles Gledhill. He didn’t mince words. He’d rather not have an apprentice. The minute she was registered, he was sorry, but she’d have to go. He was a pharmacist himself, but he was studying Medicine, so he put in Mr Bennetts to run the place. Mr Bennetts was a Methodist and the first thing he did was throw out all the FLs. She heard him giving the young men the rounds of the kitchen when they came in and asked for them. Your body is a temple, she heard from the dispensary. Mr Bennetts was a lay preacher and had a carrying sort of voice.