Doctor Fane (hiatus)

The New Nurse V.

The next morning, Celia woke early and went for an inquisitive wander about the hospital and grounds. She discovered much to please her and a little to concern. The architect (for the building was new) had done a very neat job of laying things out, with two wings stretching east and west connected by a square central block, but he had neglected to consider the impracticality of carrying chloroformed patients from the surgery on the ground floor to the wards on the first. On the other hand, the surgery itself was beautifully designed with every contraption of electricity and angled windows to flood it with light on even the foggiest of Yorkshire mornings, and the wards, stretching the length of each wing, were perfectly arranged for ventilation with high, pitched ceilings and pairs of tall, cross-facing windows half-open at the top to let in the gorse-scented morning air.

Efforts had been made to lend to the hospital a feeling of homey comfort. There were pictures, prints, rugs, and bowls of flowers everywhere, even in the wards. Of course it did the patients good to have something cheerful to look at, Celia thought, but it also meant a great deal of dusting for someone, and she hoped that someone would not be her.

At a quarter-to-eight, she met Matron Howard in the women's ward and Matron gave her a brief tour and explained to her the use of some of the various logbooks and cupboards and hospital customs. It turned out that Celia did not have to do the dusting: that fell to the housemaid. There was even a man-of-all-work, Matron explained, Tom the cook's husband, who assisted with the carrying of patients up and down stairs.

"Now, your patients," Matron said when Celia was finished looking over the women's lavatories. "You've only two and a baby today. We'll start with Mrs Pearson in bed three."

Mrs Pearson was a stout woman of about forty-five, sitting up in bed with no appearance of ill-health about her person except for a disagreeable scowl.

"Ah'm right clemmed," she said in a Yorkshire accent so broad Celia could hardly decipher the syllables. "Ah getten nowt fer us breatfast."

"You cannot eat before surgery," Matron said, apparently with no difficulty in understanding. "But we'll give you a nice dinner afterwards. Now, this is your new nurse, Miss Barnes. She's going to look after you today."

Mrs Pearson pursed her lips. "She's a scraggy one. What's a spuggy-legged lass to kna 'bout owt."

Celia could not translate but sensed it was not a compliment. She tried to sound sympathetic. "You must be dreadfully hungry, Mrs Pearson," she said, "but if you eat before surgery you'll be very sick."

"Ah kna that," Mrs Pearson said scornfully. "Ah'm not a claht-'ead."

Celia gave up on making a friend of her. She took down the clipboard of patient records from the wall above Mrs Pearson's bed and scanned it. Despite her appearance of good health, Mrs Pearson was suffering from a large tumour and required an ovariotomy to remove it. A square, forward-slanting hand listed the diet and hygiene preparations required for the surgery.

"And I'll have to give you an enema," Celia said. "Mrs Pearson, this is going to be a bad day, but at the end of it I promise you will feel much better." If she wasn't dying. An ovariotomy was one of the most dangerous operations, and Celia well knew it, but she dared not let Mrs Pearson sense her apprehension.

Mrs Pearson let out a gust of air through her nostrils. "It doesn't 'urt sa bad. I'd waga t'unger's wahr."

Celia blinked.

Thankfully, Matron understood. "It is the doctor's wager that matters, Mrs Pearson."

Celia hung the clipboard back on its nail. "You may have two ounces of water. I will get it in just a moment."