Night Sisters

‘We hope so. The Medical team admitted her, anyway.’

‘Let’s hope it stays quiet.’ I finished adjusting my cap and stepped back to admire the result; then turned and grinned at her.

‘You’re settling back into the routine, then?’ Her own smile was fond. ‘But then you’ve always been able to adapt. Some people your age would find being on permanent nights just impossible to adjust to. But you love it, don’t you?’

It was true: as I said, the atmosphere grows on you. Maybe most women my age would prefer the more ordered social life of a day job; but not having a partner or any family commitments made this option just as easy for me. Unsocial hours make for good rates of pay; and besides, the social life in this town is practically non-existent anyway.

I adjusted the fob-watch pinned over my breast, and she glanced down at hers. ‘Parker’s doing handover tonight …’ – I placed the face, nodded – ‘Apparently she still remembers you telling her to get her hair off her collar on her first night down here …’

I remembered it too: she’d seemed quite nonplussed, getting that attitude off a girl only three years older than she was. ‘It was rather a heavy shift,’ I pointed out, defensively.

Judith’s smile widened. ‘Well it did the trick, anyway. And niggles aside, she’s turning into a damned good Casualty nurse. She’s got another block of nights coming up next month; you can really start polishing her up then.’

I nodded again – and realized how good it felt, being treated as a fellow-professional by the nurse I most respected; sharing together in the development of our staff. She was right, Staff Nurse Joanna Parker was going to go far. I hoped I’d be able to bring out the best in her along the way.

Nice to be back, Judith.

Karen came in at that point, already in uniform apart from her cap and belt. We all said our hellos, and Judith left us to finish getting ready, as the clock eased round to the start of one more working night.

The department was still fairly busy, and Joanna had perched herself on the doctors’ desk by Cubicles to give report; I was sure Judith wouldn’t have approved, but she was behind a curtain helping with somebody’s dressing. Me, I didn’t mind. I’d done the same often enough.

‘Right,’ she said, glancing down her page of notes; her stethoscope still slung around her neck. ‘One RTA in Short Stay for overnight obs; Darren Allen, age 24, query concussion. Bloke with a gashed leg in Cubicle Four …’ And so on down the list: those patients in their various stages of treatment, and those who’d been clerked-in but had yet to see the doctor. The last couple of hours seemed to have been heavier than Judith had let on, but Joanna seemed to have come through it all cheerfully enough. No tinge of tiredness in her fresh, freckle-dusted face, and her voice was bright and lively.

She was wearing her mousy hair well off her collar, too.

‘… Query pneumothorax in Six, Mrs Jean Fowler, 51 …’ And Mike and a couple of students stepped aside to let the Medical Houseman get at the X-ray viewing box, slapping the black film up under the clip. The white, eerie glow lit up the image, outlining the shadowy lungs. One was obviously distorted. One more bed filled; or were they full up already, and phoning around? From the grimness on the doctor’s face as he studied the X-ray, I guessed it might well be the latter.

That might make for some fun later on, if they started backing up into here.

I looked back to Joanna as she finished. A routine workload, then; nothing dramatic. Nothing life-threatening. Mike, Karen and the rest had taken down what notes they’d needed, and began dispersing with a general murmur of thanks. I thanked her too – with a compliment that brought a pleased little smile – and went to get the drug keys off Judith. ‘I’ll leave things in your capable hands, then,’ she said as she handed them over; then gave an exaggerated sigh, and smiled afresh. ‘Right: time to see if Jack read the instructions right, or if he’s burned his supper again. At least the traffic should be better than it was this afternoon …’

We said goodbye; and as she went on down towards the changing room, her parting shot was Have a nice night.

She really meant it, too – which just goes to show how worthless good wishes sometimes are.

We had a fairly steady throughput of patients – all walking wounded – to start with; but by half-past midnight things had quietened down considerably – so much so that I reckoned we could take our staggered meal-breaks up in the canteen (sometimes when it’s busy we have to send someone up with a trolley, and we eat off our knees down here in the duty room). It was getting on for one when my turn came round. I unclipped the bunch of ward keys – the true symbol of authority – from the safety pin on my lapel and passed them to Mike, and Karen and I went up together. I was still carrying the departmental bleep, tucked away under my cardi: any crises and I’d be right down again.

Half of the canteen was in darkness; the rest was bright, and fairly busy, with nurses filtering down from the various wards, and a huddle of porters round one of the window tables. Despite the mediocrity of the food, the place always gave me a strangely upbeat feel: an island of light at the very heart of the dark and dormant hospital. Karen and I loaded up our trays and joined the queue; I was first past the till, and nodded towards the table by the Coke machine, where Anne O’Brien from ENT was already tucking in.

She looked up, smiling, as we joined her. ‘Hiya. Quiet tonight?’

‘Apart from the twenty-eight-car pile-up,’ I said airily. ‘We’re putting a brave face on it.’

Karen unclipped her belt with a grateful little sigh, tucking the ends into the pockets of her dress. ‘How’s the curry?’ she asked, studying her plate without enthusiasm.

‘About two spoonfuls short of critical mass.’ Annie wrinkled her nose in a mischievous grin, and set about raking up another forkful. She was halfway through eating it when her eyes suddenly widened, and she leaned forward with a (slightly muffled) exclamation of interest. ‘Hey, is that the ring, then?’

Karen glanced down at the gold circle with its small, bright diamond, fastened to her dress with the clip of her fob-watch so as to leave her hands clear for work. Her smile was tinged with the hint of a blush.

‘Yeah. He gave it to me tonight – just before I came in to work. Can’t wait to wear it proper …’

Staff Nurse Karen Kane: three years younger than me, and very much in love. It wasn’t surprising, she was attractive enough, in a bright-eyed, slightly nervous-looking way. She’d been seeing Steve, her bloke, for nearly a year now, and he’d finally popped the question a week ago. Not surprisingly she was over the moon about that – though she hadn’t let such distractions affect her professionalism, and remained as clear-headed and competent as ever. A good nurse and a good friend, and I enjoyed working with her on both counts. I didn’t get the chance as often as I’d have liked, because she was normally on Days, with stints of Nights according to the department’s internal rota. But with the purchase of a house now looming, she’d been working extra nights in anticipation of the mortgage.

‘Named the day yet?’ Anne asked; but before Karen could answer, the bleep on my belt went off with a rapid staccato of pips, and we all tensed. Cardiac arrest group alert: with a forkful of chips poised halfway to my mouth I waited for the voice-over.

The message came crackling over the channel a moment later: ‘Cardiac arrest, Coronary Care … .’ It repeated four times, but we were already relaxing, the instinctive surge of adrenaline thinning out. Not one of ours, not this time … One of the porters at the window table had got the call too, on the cardiac bleep, and left at a sprint, ready to assist upstairs.

Karen glanced after him, then back at me. She shrugged.

‘Anyone notice what was for pudding?’ Anne asked.

‘Fruit pie.’

‘Meaning rhubarb?’

‘Usually.’ I grimaced. ‘Among other things.’

She decided to risk it anyway, and while she was paying, the two of us moved on to speculate whether Staff Nurse Mike Shannon was likely to get off with Staff Nurse Brenda Griffiths. Karen doubted it, but on balance I reckoned they’d go well together; apart from anything else, Mike was Irish and Bren was Welsh, so there might at least be an element of Celtic solidarity there. Mike was in his thirties, energetic and cheerful, his rather boyish good looks tempered by the premature grey in his dark hair and beard. Brenda was more Karen’s age, very demure and quiet-spoken; but her smile was as spontaneous as sunshine, and it rarely failed to lift our spirits.

‘So when are we going to get you fixed up, then?’ Karen wanted to know, an impish little sparkle in her eyes. ‘No eligible young medics around? How about that Dr Wright?’

I grinned. ‘I don’t think so, somehow. He’s a nice bloke, but …’

But I’m not ready to get hitched yet, Kaz. Still too restless …

Break was over all too soon. Finishing our cigarettes (you’d be surprised how many nurses smoke), we said goodbye to Anne, picked up our bags and made our unhurried way back downstairs to the department. The waiting area was still nearly empty – just a couple of people slouched in the chairs, and a girl standing over by the drinks machine, head down as if counting her last pennies. Apart from a long brown scarf and gloves, she was dressed, rather scruffily, in black from the boots up: tight jeans, long threadbare coat and a flat-brimmed cowboy hat. The Gypsy Goth look, I decided. My cursory glance took in the fact that her dark hair was cropped close to her skull, with a single braid curling down below her collar. And even indoors, in the dark small hours of a winter’s morning, she was wearing shades.

I assumed she’d been clerked-in, but checked with Mike anyway as I retrieved my keys. He raised his eyebrows.

‘Far as I know we’ve just got two blokes waiting – a cut hand and a sprained wrist; plus the guy with Graham in Suturing now …’

I glanced down the corridor towards the suturing room. ‘What happened to him?’

‘Argument in a nightclub – Ramon’s, I think; it usually is. Some charmer smashed a glass in his face.’

‘Bad?’

‘Pretty superficial – more blood than damage. But he’ll need a good few stitches.’

And Dr Graham Hancock doing the needlework. Lucky man. Graham was one of our less charming doctors, short on patience and especially surly in the small hours. ‘Who’s helping him? Helen?’

He nodded. ‘Good practice for her: how to put up with an SHO who reckons he needs his beauty sleep.’

I smiled at that. ‘How about the sprained wrist: he been X-rayed yet?’

‘They should be about ready for him now. Shall I … ?’

‘I’ll take him round if you like.’ This from Karen, just back from locking her bag away. She still wore her blue cardigan: it was at least one size too large, giving her a slightly forlorn look.