A Match For Sister Maggy

‘There must be something wrong.’ Maggy spoke gently; the woman was so obviously terrified—of the dentist perhaps? ‘Supposing we get you X-rayed just to make sure before you go home?’

She was rewarded by another look of venom. ‘I refuse. My teeth are sound.’

Maggy ignored the look. ‘I’ll talk to your husband when he comes this evening; perhaps he can persuade you.’

Sir Charles had moved on, but stopped and listened to what Maggy had to say. When she had finished he nodded, and said,

‘Dr Payne can sign an X-ray form, Sister. Probably she’ll be better without her teeth—she’s an unhealthy woman and I should suppose she’ll need surgical treatment for that ulcer…’

They became immersed in the diabetic coma in the next bed, and in the ensuing calculations of insulin units, blood sugar tests, urine tests and a great many instructions concerning the intravenous drip, Madame Riveau’s strange behaviour was forgotten, and when much later Maggy remembered it, she decided she must have imagined the woman’s fear and anger.

She was due off duty at six o’clock. She gave the report to Staff Nurse and then waited for the visitors to arrive. She had two days off, and she wanted to see Monsieur Riveau, and get the question of his wife’s teeth settled. She felt the usual thrill of distaste as she approached the bed. The two men were seated on either side of it; neither got up as she approached, but watched her with thinly veiled hostility. She wasted no time, but explained her errand and stood waiting for a reply. The men looked at her without speaking, their faces expressionless, and yet she had a prickle of fear so real that she put her hand up to the back of her neck to brush it away. At length the elder man said, ‘No X-ray, no dentist for my wife. She refuses.’

‘There’s no pain involved,’ Maggy replied doggedly. ‘Her jaws are swollen; her teeth may be infected and it may make the ulcer worse.’ He said ‘No’ in an ugly voice, and she damped down her temper and persevered in a reasonable way, struggling with her French.

‘The teeth are probably decayed; she will be better without them.’ She managed to smile at the unfriendly faces. ‘It’s very likely that in time they will make her condition worse.’

Their silence was worse than speech—chilling and unfriendly and completely uncooperative. She could feel their dislike of her pressing against her like a tangible thing. She gave herself a mental shake, asked them to reconsider their decision, and said goodnight. Her words fell into silence like stones, and as she walked away, she could feel their eyes on her back; it was a most unpleasant sensation.

Maggy spent her two days off with a former nurse who had trained with her and then left to get married. She came back to St Ethelburga’s refreshed in mind if not in body, and with a strong desire to get married and have a husband and children of her own. She thought this unlikely. She had never met a man she wished to marry; but as if to give the lie to these thoughts, a picture of Dr Doelsma, very clear and accurate down to the last detail, came into her mind’s eye. She shook her head, reducing his image to fragments and said something in the Gaelic tongue with such force that Sister Beecham, sitting opposite her in the sitting room, put down her knitting and looked at her.

‘I don’t know what it meant, Maggy MacFergus, but it sounded as though it was a good thing I didn’t, and if you are going to make the tea—I’ll not have milk; I’m dieting.’

Maggy got up obediently. Sister Beecham had been at St Ethelburga’s for so long that her word was law to any Sister under forty, and Maggy was only twenty-four.

As she crossed the landing the next morning, she sensed an air of suppressed excitement, although there was no one to be seen. Staff was waiting for her in her office, standing by the well-polished desk, adorned by a vase of flowers. Funeral flowers, delivered at regular intervals to the wards and hailed as a mixed blessing by the unfortunate junior nurse whose lot it was to disentangle them from their wire supports and turn the anchors and wreaths into vases of normal-looking flowers. Maggy noted with relief that Nurse had achieved a very normal-looking bunch. She detested them, but had never had the heart to say so; she guessed that some nurse had taken a lot of trouble to please her. She exchanged good mornings with Staff Nurse Williams, and thought for the hundredth time what a pretty creature she was—small and blonde and blue-eyed—everything Maggy was not and wished to be. She had discovered long ago that there were few advantages in being six feet tall. It was, for a start, impossible to be fragile or clinging; it was taken for granted that she would undertake tasks that smaller women could be helpless about, and there was always the problem of dancing partners.

Staff’s eyes were sparkling; she appeared to be labouring under some emotion. Maggy sat down, saying nothing. Whatever it was could come after the report. It took fifteen minutes or so, each patient discussed treatment checked, notes made. She came to the end of the page in the report book, and, she thought, the end of the report, but Staff said in a voice of suppressed excitement, ‘There’s another patient, Sister. Over the page—She’s a Private; in Sep.’

Maggy turned the page and the name leapt out at her. Mevrouw Van Beijen Doelsma: Coronary thrombosis. Her heart gave a lurch, but she turned no more than a faintly interested face to Williams.

‘Sister, it’s Dr Doelsma’s mother—she’s over here on holiday with Sir Charles.’ Maggy nodded, remembering her conversation with him a few days ago. ‘And he’s been over to see her. He flew over…’

Maggy interrupted her firmly. ‘When did the patient come in? Is she being specialled?’

‘During the first night of your days off, Sister, and she’s being specialled, though they’re very short of nurses. Dr Doelsma…’

‘How bad?’ asked Maggy, forestalling what she felt sure was going to be a rhapsody with Dr Doelsma as the main theme.

Williams returned obediently to her report.

‘Not too bad, Sister, and beginning to improve.’ She went on to give a detailed account of treatment, drugs and nursing care, for she was devoted to Sister MacFergus, who was strict, kind, fair to the nurses, and had never been known to shirk the day’s work; indeed, she could, if called upon, work for two—something she in fact frequently did. Williams finished her report; she had given it exactly as Sister liked it, and she hoped she was going to be asked about Dr Doelsma.

Maggy waved a capable well-kept hand at the chair. ‘Sit down, Staff. Spare me two minutes and tell me all about it.’

Williams drew a long breath. ‘Oh, Sister, he’s smashing! He came ever so early, about eight o’clock—he flew over and stayed all day, and Sir Charles was here, of course, and they were in there hours, I was with them. He’s got a gorgeous smile, and he’s so tall. He went back last night. What a pity you missed him, Sister.’

Maggy smiled. ‘It sounds to me, Staff, as if he had all the help and attention he needed, I suppose you’re the most envied girl in the hospital?’

Williams nodded with satisfaction. ‘Yes, everyone’s green with envy.’ She gazed out of the window. ‘He wore the loveliest waistcoat,’ she said.

Maggy got up, telling herself that she had not the least desire to discuss the doctor’s waistcoats. ‘Williams, what about your faithful Jim?’

The other girl sighed. ‘I know, Sister, but Dr Doelsma’s like someone out of a dream—the sort of man you always want to meet, and never do. If he comes again, Sister, you’ll see what I mean.’

Maggy saw exactly what she meant. ‘I’m going to do my round,’ she said firmly. She went to Sep last. Mevrouw Doelsma looked very small lying there in bed. Despite her grey pallor, Maggy could see that she was a most attractive woman, with white hair, excellently cut. Her eyes were closed, and Maggy stood with the charts, studying them, and listening to the nurse’s report. Everything looked satisfactory. She sent the nurse to go and get her coffee, and turned back to the bed. Her patient’s eyes were open and upon her. She smiled, but before she could say anything, Mevrouw Doelsma spoke.

‘Maggy? I’m so glad. Charles said you would get me well.’

‘Yes, of course, Mevrouw Doelsma, we’ll have you well again very soon.’

The little lady smiled. ‘Paul was cross because you weren’t here. He had to go back.’

A faint colour stole into Maggy’s cheeks at the mention of his name, but she told herself that he was probably annoyed because the Ward Sister wasn’t on duty night and day. There were quite a few doctors who regarded nurses as machines who could work twenty-four hours a day. The door opened and Sir Charles Warren came in. He nodded in the direction of the bed and said. ‘Hullo, Henrietta.’ Then he turned to Maggy. ‘There you are. Pity you weren’t here when Mevrouw Doelsma came in. Nice little staff nurse you’ve got; you’ve trained her well, but she’s not a patch on you. Still, you’re here now. I’ll have a look at the patient and we’ll do an ECG and then we can have a chat.’

Half an hour later he followed Maggy into her office, accepted a cup of coffee, drank it scalding hot and demanded another. Maggy poured it out and put in his usual four lumps of sugar.

‘You’ll get an ulcer, Sir Charles,’ she said severely.

He agreed comfortably. ‘Now, Mevrouw Doelsma. She should do. I think. Had a nasty coronary, but it seems to be settling. There’s always the chance of another one, though. Let me know at once, Maggy. You know what to do until I arrive.’ He got to his feet. ‘I must go.’ He gave a friendly smile, and made for the door which Maggy was holding open for him. ‘Glad it’s you looking after her, Sister. Couldn’t wish for anyone better. If anyone pulls her through it’ll be you.’ He nodded in a satisfied way and went.

The rest of the day was busy. Maggy found to her annoyance that Madame Riveau had still refused to have her X-rays. She would have liked to have seen her husband during the evening visiting hours, but there was no nurse available for specialling after six o’clock, so she left Staff in charge of the ward, and went into Sep herself. It was ten o’clock before she could be relieved by a night nurse.

Mevrouw Doelsma was an excellent patient, and had gone quietly to sleep. Maggy thought she had a good chance of recovery.

Williams wasn’t on duty until one o’clock, so that Maggy had a very busy morning. She was glad to go off duty after dinner, although she knew she would have to come back early. There was a nurse off sick, and extra beds up and down the centre of the ward. But she didn’t mind hard work. The ward was straight by seven o’clock, and she sent Williams and a junior nurse to supper. It was visiting time; the patients were occupied with their visitors. Maggy sat in Sep with the door open, so that she could see down the ward, and watch Mevrouw Doelsma at the same time; she was awake and lying quietly.

The restlessness came on suddenly. Maggy put down the report book and got to the bed as Mevrouw Doelsma gave a couple of painful gasps, went livid, and lapsed into unconsciousness. Maggy turned on the oxygen, and strapped the nasal catheter in position, then drew up and gave an injection of morphia. Only then did she press the button which would turn on the red light above the door of Sep. There was little hope of a nurse back from supper; there was a full five minutes to go, but someone might see it and come to investigate. She could feel no pulse under her steady fingers; she adjusted the BP armband on the flaccid arm, but could get no sound through the stethoscope; with it still swinging around her neck, she turned to draw the heparin and mephine.

She knew exactly what to do, and did it with calm speed, reflecting that it would have been easier with two. She had the syringe in hand when Dr Doelsma walked in. Without a word she handed it to him, and held the limp arm rigid so that he could inject the blood vessel in the elbow. ‘Heparin,’ she said. ‘I gave morphia’—she glanced at the clock—‘two minutes ago. The mephine is drawn up.’

He nodded, jabbed the needle in, took the mephine from her and gave that too.

She gave him the stethoscope and said quietly, ‘I’ll ring Sir Charles.’ She sent her urgent message, and went back to find the doctor sitting on the edge of the bed, his mother’s hand in his.

Mevrouw Doelsma still looked very ill, but they could see now that she wasn’t going to die. Maggy wrote up the charts; Sir Charles would expect them accurate and ready for him. Dr Doelsma was using the stethoscope again; he took it off and handed it to Maggy. This time it recorded something—a poor something, but obviously the drugs were having effect. They agreed their reading, and smiled at each other; she could see how anxious his eyes were. They both stood looking down at the face on the pillow between them. It held some semblance of life again, and as they watched, the eyelids fluttered and his mother’s eyes opened. She looked at her son and then at Maggy, and a tiny smile came and went, but as she was about to speak he gave her hand a warning squeeze.

‘Don’t talk, Mama, everything’s all right. You shall have your say presently.’

She smiled again before she closed her eyes again. They stood on either side of her, patiently waiting. There was nothing very much to do now, except regular and frequent pulse and BP checks. By the time Sir Charles arrived, it was normal. He looked at the charts while he listened to Maggy’s concise, brief report. He nodded at Dr Doelsma. ‘Not much for me to do, eh, Paul? Lucky you turned up when you did.’ He spent a little time examining his patient and said, ‘She’ll do, thanks to you, Paul.’

The other man shook his head. ‘It is Sister MacFergus whom we must both thank. She did everything necessary in the most competent manner.’

Sir Charles smiled at Maggy. ‘Yes, she always does. A most reliable girl.’

The two men stood looking at her; it was a relief to find Staff Nurse at her elbow.

‘Shall I clear up here, Sister? Nurse Sims has got the ward straight—the night staff are on.’