Yes Sister, No Sister Read online

  JENNIFER CRAIG

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  Published in 2010 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing

  A Random House Group company

  First published in the UK by The Breedon Books Publishing

  Company in 2002

  Copyright © Jennifer Craig 2002, 2006, 2010

  Jennifer Craig has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  This book is dedicated to Registered Nurses everywhere

  This book is a work of non-fiction based on the life, experiences and recollections of the author. In most cases names of people have been changed to protect their privacy. However, it is impossible to conceal that the author’s matrons were Kathleen Raven and Grace Watts, and that her tutors were Mrs B.M. Morley, Miss A.H.K. Bird and Miss Amy Squibbs.

  In my outdoor uniform, February 1953. Cotton dress, starched cap, purple-lined woollen cloak – to be worn in all weathers.

  Preface

  THIS STORY IS based on my experience of training as a nurse at Leeds General Infirmary between 1952 and 1956 and of subsequently working there as a staff nurse, a night sister and a ward sister.

  The events I have described are true. I have tried to give an accurate picture of the nursing procedures we followed at that time before they are lost to history. The pantomimes, surgeons’ behaviour, housemen’s antics and patients are, I hope, faithfully portrayed. The dialogue is, of course, fictitious. I have tried to capture the way people talked rather than give verbatim records.

  To all nurses and doctors who worked at the hospital during the 1950s: I hope you enjoy this account and accept it in the spirit in which it is offered – as a memorial to times we shall never see again. We were great, weren’t we?

  To all nurses and doctors of today: I hope you read this with interest as you discover some of your historical precedents. I trust your work is as interesting for you as it was for us and I hope you are having as much fun as we had.

  To the general reader: I may have given away a few trade secrets of what went on behind the starched uniforms, but only to reveal the essential humour and humanity of a great Yorkshire hospital. You have to remember that the majority of doctors and nurses, who essentially ran the hospital, were under thirty. If their youthful shenanigans shock you, I assure you that their patients always, yes always, came first.

  Chapter 1

  A NURSE AT LAST! I see myself comforting those in pain; soothing fevered brows; saying, ‘There, this will make you feel better’; carefully changing dressings and efficiently plumping pillows so that a patient lies back with a sigh of gratitude.

  Requirements:

  • three pairs of black stockings

  • one pair of flat, black serviceable shoes

  • a selection of safety pins and studs

  • a packet of white kirby grips

  • two plain silver tiepins

  • one pocket watch with a second hand

  • one pair regulation nurses’ scissors

  • five pounds, ten shillings and sixpence for text books

  • six exercise books, pens and pencils

  • two draw-string laundry bags clearly marked with name

  A uniform, piled on my bed, consists of a short-sleeved, purple- and white-check cotton dress with pockets every-where. As well as waist pockets it has breast pockets, plus slots for holding pens and scissors. A separate rigid, round white collar is held on the dress with a safety pin and fastens with a stud at the front. The starched apron has a bib held up by tiepins and a waistband that also fastens with studs. Black stockings and shoes complete the outfit. Stocking seams have to be straight. I twist to check before attaching them to my suspender belt.

  I admire the reflection of a nurse in the mirror. Can this be me? I wish I was tall, slender and glamorous, like the images of young women presented to me in Woman’s Own, but I am not. I look more at home in hiking boots and a rucksack than in a little black dress and pearls. ‘She’s a sturdy lass’ is how I am described.

  I straighten my back, turn from side to side and pirouette. ‘Look at me,’ I want to shout to the world. ‘Look at me. I’m a nurse.’ I re-read my letter of acceptance:

  Dear Miss Ross,

  The Board of Governors of the Leeds General Infirmary is pleased to inform you that you have been accepted as a student nurse in their three year programme leading to State Registration. Please report to 47–49 Hyde Terrace on December 3, 1952 in the afternoon. The uniform you were measured for will be in your room; please put it on when you arrive.

  My long, navy woollen cloak with a purple lining has purple straps that cross at the front and fasten at the back. In it I look exactly like the war posters declaring ‘Your Country Needs You’, which show a nurse in such a cloak. No cap yet. Two oblongs of white cloth, the size of a nappy, starched to the consistency of plywood, lie there on the bed. The mysteries of their construction are yet to be revealed.

  A chain fastens my
brand-new pocket watch into one of my breast pockets and I stick the scissors and a pen in the other. Wearing a short-sleeved cotton dress in winter in an unheated room is like wearing a bathing costume in a windy bus station. Even the cloak does not keep me warm. I put on a cardigan, pick up one white, starched oblong, safety pins and kirby grips and go down the three flights of stairs to the main floor.

  The living room holds a group of girls dressed like me, who huddle around a small coal fire in a large hearth. We sit or stand, looking uncomfortable, not knowing what to say. A girl, who would seem more at home in jodhpurs and a riding hat than she does in her uniform, sits alone on a sofa. She has an aquiline nose, which makes her seem sophisticated, and permanently raised eyebrows that give her a surprised, questioning look. I plonk myself next to her.

  ‘This is as absurd as I thought it was going to be,’ she says. ‘Imagine dressing like this in winter – or in summer for that matter. This collar is already chafing my neck.’ She runs a finger around her collar. ‘What’s your name? I’m Judith Horsfall.’

  ‘Jennifer Ross. Where are you from?’

  ‘A little village called Haxby, not far from York. How about you?’

  ‘My parents live in Bombay and I have just come back from there so I can train here. I wanted to go to London but I have relatives here and my mother wanted me to be near her sisters so they can keep an eye on me.’ I had had quite a battle with my mother over where I would train. I had lost.

  My father was in the army in Burma during the war and away from England for five years. We lived in Leeds. When he returned, a complete stranger to my brother and me, he could not settle in Britain. After a stint in the occupation forces he took a job in India running a service department for a major car sales firm.

  ‘What were you doing before this?’ I ask Judith.

  ‘I did orthopaedic training for a year because you can start when you are 17 and I didn’t know what else to do when I left school. How exciting being in India! What did you do? Did you go to school there?’

  ‘No, I went to Leeds Girls High School and, after School Certificate, I had to wait two years to get into training. So I lived with my parents. They wanted to send me to a finishing school in the Himalayas but when I saw that you had to wear combinations, those all-in-one underwear with a flap for your bottom, I refused absolutely. So I just swam all day for two years, waiting until I was old enough to start training.’

  ‘You might get awfully homesick with your Mum away. You’ll have to come home with me sometimes. That is, if you can put up with my stupid brother!’

  I smile at Judith. She must like me if she asks me home so quickly. ‘I’d love to. But I don’t think I’ll get homesick. I’ve been waiting for this moment for two whole years. What was orthopaedic training like?’

  Before Judith can answer there is a stir at the door as a large woman in a blue, long-sleeved dress, with a mass of frilled starch on her head, walks in. She takes a commanding spot near the fire. An image of my head-mistress at school comes to mind, along with an old feeling that my bowels are dissolving.

  She surveys us for a moment before announcing, ‘I’m Sister Thornton, one of the Home Sisters. Although I will not be living here, I shall be supervising you.’ She catches sight of me and stops talking. ‘What is your name?’ she asks, staring at me.

  ‘Jennifer Ross.’

  ‘Jennifer Ross, Sister. Well, Nurse Ross, you are dressed in the uniform of a nurse from the Leeds General Infirmary. Such a uniform is not worn with a cardigan. Take it off at once.’

  ‘Yes Sister.’ I can feel my face turn red.

  ‘Nor, by the way, is any jewellery or make-up allowed

  when you are in uniform. Now, as I was saying, I am not resident here so one of you must assume responsibility for the behaviour of the group. Who is the eldest?’

  She looks around. No one says anything. ‘How old are you?’ she asks the girl on her right. ‘Go round and state your age.’

  Among the eighteens and nineteens there is suddenly a twenty-seven. We all turn to stare at the elder among us. She is a lively looking girl with freckles and brown eyes with a hint of mischief in them.

  ‘Is there anyone older than twenty-seven?’ Silence. ‘What is your name?’ Sister asks the older nurse.

  ‘Sheila Dawson.’

  ‘Sheila Dawson, Sister.’ She speaks sharply. ‘Well, Nurse Dawson, I am putting you in charge. I will explain what you all have to do and Nurse Dawson will see that you do it.’ Sheila seems as if she is having trouble keeping a straight face.

  ‘As you know, Roundhay Hall is where you will be going through Preliminary Training School and you will be going there each day by bus.’

  She pauses to stare first at one girl and then at another. I am not sure whether we are meant to meet her eyes or whether we are to lower ours in submission.

  ‘Eventually, the PTS will sleep there but the rooms are not ready yet. You will get dinner there each day but you will have breakfast and supper at the Infirmary.’ She stands to attention with her hands in front of her like a fig leaf. ‘You will walk to the Infirmary each morning leaving here at 7am, have breakfast and then be in the bus by 8am so you will be ready to start classes at 8.30am. The bus will take you back to the Infirmary for supper at 6pm. Then you will walk back here.’

  Sister Thornton allows herself to assume an ‘at ease’ position with her hands behind her back, but the change does little to dispel my growing discomfort. ‘As you walk through the streets in uniform, you must behave with decorum as befits a LGI nurse. You will walk in pairs, keep together and talk in subdued tones. There is to be no laughter. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes Sister,’ we chorus.

  ‘We’re in the army now,’ Judith sings under her breath.

  ‘The reasons you chose nursing are many and varied but what you must understand is that we require girls with dedication and strength of character and who can obey orders. Mistakes can cause the death of a patient.’ Sister Thornton looks around at our upturned faces and sighs. ‘Most of you will prove to be unsuitable. I doubt if even half of you will finish training.’

  She looks around again and her eyes light on me. She regards me contemplatively as if thinking that here is one unsuitable girl; anyone who wears a cardigan with her uniform is destined to fail. ‘You must make many sacrifices for your patients and be prepared to make nursing your whole life. If you do not possess these qualities, you will be asked to leave.’

  Am I prepared to make nursing my whole life? I look around me. How many of us are? How many of us will finish? What if I kill someone by doing the wrong thing? I might give the wrong medicine and poison someone, or pull out a tube or … what else could I possibly do wrong that would harm a patient? These ideas had not crossed my mind before and now I am full of misgivings.

  Will I be one of those who gives up, or, perish the thought, be asked to leave? If I am, what will I do instead? At one time I yearned to be a vet but I had been informed that women are not strong enough to be vets. When I said I wanted to be a nurse, my family smiled and told me that it is a wonderful career: I would never be short of a job and the training is ideal preparation for marriage. At school I took the courses listed under ‘Nursing as a Career’, so along with physics and chemistry, I had struggled with Latin.

  Sister Thornton’s voice invades my consciousness. ‘All lights must be out by 10.30pm and the door is to be locked at 10 sharp by Nurse Dawson. There will be no late passes while you are in PTS. Now I will show you how to make a cap. Gather round this table. Can someone please give me their cap?’ Sister Thornton takes one of the proffered white boards and folds it to produce a cap that fits the head above the ears, soars upwards, folds in a neat line and then hangs down at the back.

  ‘There, that’s easy isn’t it?’ she says. ‘The head band is plain but when you have finished your probationary period, and if you succeed, you will be given a cap with the LGI emblem on the band. Now everyone is to make up a ca
p, put it on, and then it will be time for you to walk to the Infirmary for supper.’

  ‘Why do we need to wear uniform if we are only going there for supper, Sister?’ Judith asks. There is silence as Sister Thornton recovers from the question.

  ‘Nurse, you are now a nurse of the Leeds General Infirmary and as such you will appear clean and neat at all times. You will be making your first appearance in the dining room and will be looked at by the rest of the staff. We do not want them to think that this PTS is sloppy, do we?’

  ‘No Sister.’

  ‘I shall leave you now. Make up your caps and then Nurse Dawson will see that you are properly assembled before you walk down the hill to the Infirmary.’

  ‘How will we know where to go, Sister?’ asks Sheila.

  ‘Go in through the front door and ask the hall porter to direct you. I will call in tomorrow evening to see how you are doing.’ She leaves and Sheila flops on a sofa, doubles up her knees and howls with laughter.

  ‘Oh, my God! Me in charge! Wait till my brothers hear about this! Now then you lot, pay attention! Nurse Ross, stand up. Say “Yes Nurse Dawson” when I speak to you and curtsy.’ She stands up to imitate the voice and posture of Sister Thornton.

  ‘Nurse Ross, you are not behaving with decorum. Pulling that face does not befit the uniform of a LGI nurse. We will walk to the Infirmary two by two, by the left, quick march a-n-d left, right, left, ouch!’ Someone has thrown a cushion at her.

  Feeling more cheerful we all make up something that can be called a cap, put them on and hold them in place with white kirby grips. We fetch our cloaks and prepare to leave. It is raining. No one is sure whether an umbrella detracts from the dignity of the uniform so we leave them behind. Our cloak hoods do not fully cover our beautiful starched caps so we arrive for the first time at the Infirmary with pieces of limp cloth hanging from our heads like nun’s veils.

  We enter the front door of the Infirmary. The panelled hall with its marble floor ends in an elegant staircase in the distance. It begins as one wide set of steps that divide into two graciously curved flights leading upwards. The panels of the hall hold boards on which are painted, in gold, the names of the medical consultants and which announce whether they are in the house or not. One board is for physicians with the title of ‘Doctor’ and the other for surgeons with the title of ‘Mister’.