The Ladies of Missalonghi (24 page)

“You’ve given these four girls absolutely no kind of help or support, Gertie, and it has to stop,” Liam said, his softly lilting voice steely, foreign. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself! When one of the old-style nurses starts here, she’s taken into the West End fold, overwhelmed with advice and many kindnesses. Whereas these four young women have no one to turn to at all. I don’t care how new you were to your own job when they started, you had a duty to them that you shamelessly ignored because their presence upset the West End majority. D’you think I’ve forgotten how much you grizzled to me during your first week at the thought that you were going to be lumbered with the new trainees after all? Here it is, the middle of July, and you’ve acted as if they don’t exist. You saddled them with a quarter of a dilapidated house, gave that fat and lazy crawler Marje Bainbridge charge of them, and rewarded her with
half
of the same house!” His eyes had gone the same dark grey as a stormy sea, and pinned her contemptuously.

“Your new-style trainees are even more tired than they should be,” he went on. “Their accommodation is pure Frank Campbell — hard chairs and two-foot-three beds, a kitchen they’re forbidden to use. By the sheerest accident their house is on the steam line, so at least they’ve been warm, but they have to chop wood and feed it to their boiler to have hot water, and that’s unconscionable! Hear me?
Criminal!
In spite of their privileges they’ve been brought up to think of themselves with humility — it’s just your good luck that their mother is a selfish bitch.”

He leaned forward to put the palms of his hands flat on her immaculate desk, and glared at her. “I’m off to see Frank Campbell next, but I’m warning you, Gertie, that I expect your wholehearted support in this. Since the girls are required to live in, they will each have a bedroom. You will provide a common room with easy chairs, and desks and bookshelves for studying. The kitchen will be at their command for light meals as well as liquids, and see they have an ice chest before spring. Get off your pampered bottom and see to their welfare! Use Marje Bainbridge as a chaperone, by all means, but not in the lap of luxury. I hear that there will be money to build a new home for nurses, but until it’s finished, I want my trainees adequately accommodated.”

Gertrude Newdigate had listened, but wasn’t prepared to take the blame for Frank Campbell’s parsimony. “Fight your own battles with that awful man!” she said coldly. “My hands are tied.”

“Rot! I’ve known you for twenty years, and you don’t scare me. Nor does Frank. Gertie,
think
! Those four young women are so good, that’s the real tragedy of it! Why on earth are you risking four potential matrons just to please a gang of petty West End nurses who don’t know sodium from potassium? Who wouldn’t know a Latin or a Greek medical root if it bit them on the bum? Devote your energy with the West Enders to convincing them that in future Medicine will demand educated nurses, so look to their daughters. Don’t be so in tune with yesterday!”

Her natural detachment was returning; she could see what Liam meant, though she hadn’t intended it to happen. The trouble was that she was too new to Corunda Base, and hadn’t understood how dismal the quality of West End nursing was when it came to science and theory. Still, she had one dagger she could slip in.

“How is your wife?” she asked sweetly.

He didn’t bite, he spurned the bait. “Philandering, quite as usual. Some things never change.”

“You should divorce her.”

“Why? I’ve no mind to take another wife.”

The Latimer girls loved Dr. Liam Finucan, a solitary ray of light in a densely black tunnel. Having discovered how bright and well prepared they were, he applied himself with vigour and enthusiasm to the task of tutoring them, thrilled to find that their knowledge of mathematics and physical phenomena enabled them to understand things like the gas laws and electricity already. They were as competent as men in the early years of a medical degree. When it came to subjects new and strange, they seized upon knowledge eagerly. Even Grace, he was learning, had more than enough brains to cope with the theory; what slowed her down was lack of true interest. To Matron he had said “four matrons”, but three was more correct. Whatever Grace burned for, it was not to become a registered nurse.

His favourite among the four was Tufts, whom he always called Heather. Edda was the more gifted and intelligent, but the pathologist in Liam admired order, method, logic, and in those areas Tufts reigned supreme. Edda was the flashy surgeon, Tufts was the plodding pathologist, no doubt about it. His liking for her was reciprocated; neither the monocled handsomeness of the surgeon Max Herzen nor the bubbling charm of the senior obstetrician Ned Mason held anything like as much attraction for Tufts as Dr. Finucan did, with his white-winged black hair, long and finely featured face, ship’s grey-blue eyes. Not that the unromantic Tufts mooned over Dr. Finucan, or dreamed of him when asleep; simply, she liked him enormously as a person and loved being in his company. Understanding her nature, her sisters never made the mistake of teasing her about men, especially Dr. Liam Finucan. Though nothing about her was nunlike, Tufts did bear some resemblance to a monk.

The fire Liam lit under Matron was a little like a torch, in that Matron lit a fire under Sister Bainbridge, who kindled one under the leader of the West End nurses, Lena Corrigan, and she felt the flames enough to set the whole West End nursing coterie ablaze. The after-burns went on for weeks.

Suddenly the nurses’ house was opened up and ruthlessly scoured: the four girls each had a private bedroom; four easy chairs and desk sets appeared in a common room, which even held a wireless set; the kitchen could be used for light meals; there were two bathrooms, and hot water was laid on at the bottom of a hastily dug trench. Harry the porter picked up their uniforms for laundering every single day, and the kitchen cupboards held hard biscuits, tins of jam, bottles of sauce, plenty of tea, Camp Essence of Coffee & Chicory, cocoa powder, saline powder for cool drinks, and blackcurrant cordial. All of which paled before the vision of the ice chest, big enough to hold a large block of ice and keep the eggs, bacon, butter and sausages cool.

“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” said Grace with a sigh.

Out of the blue, totally unexpected, Sister Bainbridge was moved to a small house next door on the same ramp. But before she went she introduced the girls to the magic of Epsom salts; dissolved in hot water in a tub or basin, they cured aching bodies and aching feet. How had they ever survived without the bliss of Epsom salts?

“It’s my turn to die and go to heaven,” said Edda. “My feet are human again.”

And though the West End nurses took many months to admit that the stuck-up new-style trainees were every bit as good at old-style care as they were themselves, the malice died out of West End persecution. What was the use of malice, when its targets always managed to survive it?

“It dates back to the middle of July,” said Edda as September expired in a tossing yellow sea of daffodils. “
Someone
had the kindness to intervene — but who?”

Their guesses were many, and varied from Deputy Matron Anne Harding to the least offensive West Ender, Nurse Nancy Wilson; but no one, even Tufts, suspected the hand of Dr. Liam Finucan. Who sat back contentedly and watched his four protegées flourish in this happier, more rewarding atmosphere.

“The Great War brought many advances in surgery,” he said in his soft voice to his class of four, “but did far less for physical medicine. The great killers are still killing in huge numbers — pneumonia, heart disease and vascular disease. You young women represent the greatest advance in pneumonia treatment in the history of the world to date.” His brows flew up, his eyes danced. “What? Can’t see it? Because, ladies, the Powers-That-Be now understand that a properly trained and educated nurse tackles the nursing of pneumonia
intelligently
. Grounded in anatomy and physiology, she doesn’t limit her care to emptying the patient’s sputum mug, bed pan and urine bottle, and making his bed. No, she badgers him into constantly exercising even when confined to his bed, she makes him believe he can get better, she explains to him in simple language what the doctors never do — the nature of his ailment — and she never leaves him alone to languish like a stuffed dummy without attention, no matter how busy she is. Only one thing saves the pneumonia patient — relentless, informed nursing care.”

They listened avidly, and assimilated what Liam Finucan was not allowed to say: that only knowledge of the underlying science could push a nurse to the extra work Liam Finucan’s kind of care demanded.

“It’s what’s wrong with the West Enders,” Edda said to her sisters over sausage sandwiches in their warm kitchen. “They live at home, have all those cares and worries on their shoulders as well as here, can hardly read or write beyond the basics, and know only what medicine they can pick up on the wards. Some of them are very good nurses, but to most of them it’s just a job. If a pneumonia case needs pummelling, moving around, to be forced to cough, and have his bed changed, it depends on how busy the nurses are, what the Sister-in-Charge is like, and which West Enders are on duty. There’s no underlying foundation of knowledge.”

Grace sniffled. “That’s not likely to happen to us,” she said mournfully. “My head aches from all the terms and diseases.”

“Go on, Grace, your head aches because it’s got something to do with itself apart from swooning over Rudolph Valentino.”

“I love the tuition,” said Tufts, nose in
Gray’s Anatomy
.

“If you drip sausage fat on that page, Tufty, you’ll be in hot water,” said Edda, face menacing.

“When have I ever lost a drop of sausage fat?”

Their instruction went on; Dr. Finucan never flagged.

“There are no medicines or pharmaceutical techniques worth a pinch of pepper,” he said, “for any of the major killers. We know what germs are and can destroy them in our surroundings, but not once they’re inside our bodies. A bacillus infecting tissue, like pneumonia in the lungs, is untreatable. We can look at the thing under a microscope, but nothing we can administer by mouth or skin or hypodermic injection can kill it.”

For some reason his eyes went to Tufts — a perfect matron!

“As I am Corunda’s Coroner, I conduct autopsies, which are surgical dissections of the dead. The other name for autopsy is post mortem. You’ll learn your anatomy and physiology standing around the morgue table. If the dead person is an itinerant without family or friends, I’ll carve the corpse minutely to show a particular system — lymphatic, vascular, digestive, for example. We’ll have to hope that I get enough indigents, but usually I do.”

He gazed at them sternly. “Remember this, nurses, always! Our subject under the knife is one of God’s creatures, no matter how humble. What you see, what you hear, what you touch and handle is, or was, a living human being and a part of God’s grand scheme, whatever that may be. Everyone is worthy of respect, including after death. Nurse Latimer, you must remember that the patient’s wishes count as well as your own. Nurse Treadby, that not all children are angels in character or inclination, Nurse Scobie, that there are times when your most cherished systems will not work, and Nurse Faulding, that even the foulest mess a patient can produce has its place in God’s plan.” He grinned. “No, I am not religious like your father, ladies, for the God I speak of is the sum-total of everything that was, or is, or will be.”

A fine man, was Edda’s verdict, echoed by Tufts; to Kitty he was a little bit of a spoilsport, but to Grace he was the Voice of Doom reiterating the background chorus of her nursing life — messes, messes, and more messes.

Of one thing they were very glad: though Matron, Dr. Campbell and Dr. Finucan knew they were twinned sisters, no one else did. A whole world existed between St. Mark’s Rectory and Corunda Base Hospital.

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Author’s Note

For the information of readers who notice that Missalonghi is spelled with an “a” rather than the “o” now commonly accepted as correct, in Australia at the time this story takes place, the old-fashioned “a” was more usual.

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