Rebel Sisters (9 page)

‘Each and every one of you sitting here in front of me has the potential to leave your mark on the world of art,' he said, staring down at them. ‘Many of our alumni have attained great success in their chosen field. Perhaps some of you in time will join that august list of Slade artists.'

Grace could see he held everyone rapt, each student determined that they would be the one on that list.

Glancing around at her fellow students, she couldn't help but notice they were for the most part female, with only a handful of men in the large group of about ninety assembled together.

‘Where are all the men?' wondered Alice Evans, the pretty Welsh girl beside her.

‘Studying law or medicine,' whispered a dark-haired American girl on the other side, ‘but I promise there are plenty of them about.'

Alice introduced her sister, also called Grace, who had fair hair and looked nothing like Alice except for the same colour eyes.

‘Can you believe it, there are three of us with the same first name,' she said, concerned. ‘I do hope the lecturers don't get us all mixed up.'

‘Hopefully not,' Grace reassured her, knowing full well that her red hair, height and colouring meant that people generally tended to recognize and remember her – besides which, she was Irish and there seemed to be only one other Irish student in her year, a thoughtful young woman with an elegant style who introduced herself as Mary Lane.

‘Are you any relation to Hugh and Ambrose and Eustace Lane?' Grace enquired.

‘We are cousins actually,' Mary confirmed. ‘Our families had houses practically beside each other in Cork. Do you know them?'

‘Ambrose and Eustace were friends of my late brother, Gerald. They used to come and stay in our house in Dublin.'

Mary was older than Grace and was staying in a hotel in Montague Street, near the British Museum.

‘It's very quiet and not very fancy, but it will do for the present.'

The days were packed with lectures as well as with painting and drawing classes. Professor Brown took them for composition every month, choosing all kinds of subjects. Grace found the classes on perspective with Mr Thomson difficult.

‘Try to do exactly what he does,' urged her friends Minnie and Alice. ‘Draw exactly what he tells you.'

Grace tried, but once again made a mess of it, crumpling up her work and beginning again.

Mr MacColl took them for art history. With his strong Scottish accent and passion for art, he seemed to have a rare ability to make every painting they studied and every artist of the past interesting.

‘I do adore his lectures,' enthused Theodora as they all scribbled notes madly.

There were also lectures on architecture, archaeology and Egyptology, which Grace found fascinating.

Working in the large upstairs studio, she always found it hard to believe that thirty students could all paint, draw or sketch the same object or subject or landscape and yet every piece would be entirely different in its interpretation.

‘That's style,' Mr Steer encouraged them. ‘I never want to see two pieces the exact same in this studio.'

Grace was enjoying herself so much that the weeks flew by. True to his word, her brother kept in touch with her, treating her to lunch or dinner; he also brought her along to a meeting of some Gaelic League friends, where he introduced her to a pretty young woman named Sylvia Dryhurst, who had also attended the Slade and was a talented poet and writer.

‘You and Ernest share such a strong resemblance. I suppose you must get fed up with people mentioning it.'

‘It's because most of our family are blessed or cursed with the same red hair!' laughed Grace.

She discovered that Sylvia's mother, Nora, was Irish too and was a well-known journalist. Sylvia was following in her footsteps, and she was engaged to a tall, serious young journalist, Robert Lynd, who hailed from Belfast. Along with Ernest, Sylvia kindly introduced her to many of her artist friends.

Grace's friend Theodora told Grace and the others of a large meeting of ‘the Suffragettes' that was to be held near their college. ‘Oh, do let's all go and support them,' she urged the group of friends.

Grace, Alice and many of their fellow students listened as the suffragettes passionately outlined their campaign for justice and for the right of women to be allowed to vote in elections. Undeterred by being arrested, they often attracted attention for their cause through what was considered violent and unladylike behaviour, which they believed was justified. Grace and her friends joined in the lively discussion and became determined to support the suffragette movement and their growing campaign.

As they left the building a crowd of men on the steps heckled and jeered at them, which only served to make Grace even more resolved to fight for the rights which men enjoyed but which had been denied to women.

With invitations to art exhibitions, supper parties, the theatre and concerts, there was little occasion for Grace ever to feel bored or homesick. She was relishing every minute of her time at the Slade and week by week she could see her work improving as she developed a style of her own.

IN OCTOBER MURIEL
joined the other sixteen probationers starting at Sir Patrick Dun's Hospital. Miss Haughton, the lady superintendent, was there to greet them and inspect their uniforms.

‘Your uniforms must be always spick and span, starched and clean. No trace of lipstick, face powder or rouge is permitted, and hair must be pinned up neatly under your nurse's veil to avoid risk of infection.'

She spent almost an hour going through rules and regulations.

‘This is far worse than school,' whispered a probationer named Hannah Woods loudly under her breath.

For the first six weeks they were not let near the wards and had to learn the basics, from how to make a bed, clean and disinfect a ward or room, to how to prepare good, nutritious invalid food for patients – scrambled eggs, lamb's liver, poached chicken or fish, beef tea, chicken soup, blancmange and a disgusting dish called tripe. Muriel dearly wished she had paid some attention to Essie's cookery over the years and made a secret vow to get Nellie to help her learn to cook. She was pretty useless, and the smell of offal made her feel sick. Many of her fellow probationers were well used to bedmaking and cleaning and Muriel realized just how cosseted and spoilt she was.

‘Miss Gifford, surely you know how to turn a neat corner in a bed!'

‘Miss Gifford, don't you know how to clean tiles?'

‘Miss Gifford, you must learn how to carry and empty a full bedpan properly.'

Hannah grimaced and held her nose, which made Muriel get a fit of the giggles. She was glad that she wasn't the only one as she and a few other trainees struggled to learn the basics and overcome their prejudices.

When it came, the first day on the ward was a shock. In the long, high-ceilinged rooms filled with sick people, the air at times was fetid despite the smell of disinfectant, the beds in neat rows rarely empty unless someone was in theatre or having treatment. A girl named Adele nearly burst into tears when one of the nurses asked her to give a bedbath to Mr Lonergan, an elderly patient recuperating after surgery.

‘I've never seen a man down there … like that …' she cringed.

Muriel thanked heaven for having six brothers, as the basics of male anatomy were something she couldn't avoid as she was growing up.

‘I'll help you,' she offered, trying to disguise her own embarrassment.

Alongside basic ward work, lectures on anatomy, physiology, hygiene, and surgical and medical nursing were held in the Dublin Metropolitan Technical School for Nurses. The training was exhausting; Muriel was on her feet for so long every day that her legs and feet ached. But her focus was on her patients, the sick, the invalids, the dying.

Sir Patrick Dun's was a busy hospital with a fine reputation for surgery under professor of surgery Edward Hallaran Bennett and surgeons like Sir Charles Bell and Edward Taylor. Mr Woods was the head of the ear, nose and throat department, while Sir John Banks, Dr Mallet and Dr Smith were in the medical department. There was so much to learn and try to understand, and as a probationer Muriel was always conscious of being on the lowest rung of the medical ladder.

‘We are all a team,' Dr Watson would remind them. ‘Everyone has to learn.'

Muriel liked being part of a team and developed a close friendship with her fellow probationers, all bound by a sense of camaraderie and duty to help each other no matter how awful things were on the ward. The junior doctors floated around the wards too, regularly flirting with the girls and asking them to attend the medical college and hospital socials with them. Muriel and one of the young doctors, Andrew Richardson, invariably ended up sitting talking or even dancing together and he invited her to accompany him to the hospital's annual ball.

‘He likes you!' warned Hannah, who was attending the event with one of his friends.

Muriel blushed – she was beginning to feel the same about him. On the rare occasions they were ever alone, they mostly talked about the hospital and work, but she supposed that was because they were both kept so busy.

She always seemed to be at someone's beck and call. Making beds, dealing with people who were very sick, running fevers and needing total care. Often her work was menial – emptying urine bottles and bedpans, cleaning up, changing sheets and bathing patients. There was little dignity for those who were ill and she often had to mask her own reactions and dismay.

‘Nurse, can you get me something for the pain, please?' pleaded an elderly woman, who had a racking cough. ‘I can't stick it no more.'

Muriel, unsure of what to do, approached a doctor who was standing in the corridor writing notes on a chart.

‘Please, doctor, Mrs Scott is in a lot of pain. Could you give her something to help as she—'

The doctor kept writing and ignored her. Maybe he hadn't heard her. She began again.

‘Miss?' He raised his eyebrows. He had a round face with a florid complexion and pale, almost grey, eyes.

‘Gifford.'

‘I suggest you talk to the nurse on the ward if there is a problem with a patient,' he said pompously. ‘I have rounds with Sir Charles and am too busy.'

‘Yes, doctor,' she apologized, delighted to escape from him. She would find Nurse Roberts and ask her to take a look at Margaret Scott.

‘Mrs Scott has had her dose of morphine,' sighed the older nurse impatiently. ‘She will have to last out until she is due her next dose.'

‘Even though she is in so much pain?'

‘Yes, Miss Gifford. You must realize that we are nurses and doctors here, not miracle-workers. Mrs Scott is fatally ill and there is nothing any of us can do about it.'

Muriel felt overwhelmed. She was powerless, and worse still she had to tell poor Margaret that she would have to wait hours for her next dose of medicine.

The old woman said nothing, tears running down her face. Pulling up a chair, Muriel sat down beside her bed, holding her hand until her patient, who was struggling to breathe, fell asleep.

‘Miss Gifford, might I remind you that there are other patients who are in need of your attention,' interrupted the ward sister crossly. ‘Mrs Power is still waiting for a commode.'

‘I'll fetch it,' she said, standing up. There was no point arguing with her superior. But she knew in her heart that she had done the right thing in staying with the old lady.

Good nursing, to her mind, should always centre on caring for the needs of the sick and the elderly, her patients.

IN JANUARY THEIR
class at the Slade studied anatomy. Grace felt queasy as she contemplated the tall skeleton placed in front of them, with its skull and gaping bare eye sockets, nose and mouth.

‘Professor Thane must have borrowed him from the medical school,' whispered Minnie.

‘Look at the arms and shoulders, ladies, please. Do you notice the joints of the elbows and the knees and the hips and spine? You must study these well so that, if you ever hope to, you can accurately re-create and paint the human form.'

Grace sketched it all quickly on her pad, taking great care over the sockets and joints and where bones met. The human skeleton was a miracle when you imagined flesh, muscle, tissue and veins covering it. Every Monday and Thursday afternoon Professor Thane also used live models to demonstrate the movement and shape of bones, joints and muscles, often marking muscle in colour on the skin of whoever was modelling for them.

Grace had returned home with Ernest to see her family at Christmas. Nellie, Muriel and Sidney interrogated her about her exploits in London and wanted to know if there were any romances, of which so far there were unfortunately none.

While in Dublin she attended the opening of art dealer Hugh Lane's Municipal Gallery in Harcourt Street, which housed some of his fine collection of French Impressionists, though his intention was to build a much larger gallery in the city to house his growing collection of modern art. Grace was entranced by this new style of painting, which somehow managed to capture the quality of light in a way artists hadn't done before and which gloriously demonstrated a new, unique interpretation of a subject – ‘the artist's impression', as Hugh Lane called it.

She experimented back in London, painting in this style briefly, but soon realized that she far preferred to work in a medium that involved strong, broad lines with definition and simple colour, for drawing gave her the greatest pleasure. She once again found herself doing quick sketches of her lecturers and fellow students, and in only a few strokes of black ink seemed to be able to capture their personality and physical traits. Professor Tonks, who taught figure drawing and painting, was very encouraging as he studied an ink portrait that she'd done of Professor Brown and some of their other lecturers.