Our Country Nurse: Can East End Nurse Sarah find a new life caring for babies in the country?

‘I haven’t met her yet. This is my second week in Totley.’

‘Don’t bother. A girl like that is more interested in polishing nails than trimming them. Wouldn’t let her over the threshold let alone let her get her scalpel near my feet.’

I wondered if I’d answered her botany question correctly and decided to try my luck. ‘Would you like me to take a look at your feet, Mrs Wimble?’

‘If you must,’ she replied huffily.

I pulled off her muddy Wellington boots and holey socks. Her feet were dry and sore, her toenails yellow and curling over the edges of her toes. Thick blue veins ran up her legs. She turned her gaze to the window and grumbled before closing her eyes; she couldn’t be bothered with me anymore.

I fetched my medical bag and a bowl of warm soapy water. She slept or pretended to nap as I wordlessly bathed her toes, soles, heels and ankles and then trimmed her toenails the best I could. Finally, I rubbed some ointment into her legs and feet and left them elevated on a footstool to dry before I slipped away. My time here had expired for the day, but I would be back. Mrs Wimble had worked her spell on me – I wanted to know more about this intriguing old lady. Somehow, I don’t know how, I’d momentarily broken through the impenetrable barrier she’d built around Peasblossom and her solitary life. There wasn’t much she’d let me do, but I was determined to do what I could.

5 (#u959107b8-efc0-5076-8968-f3d8b15b50c2)

Tuesday afternoon I was back in my broom cupboard before Totley baby clinic. Thanks to Flo I’d opened up with a new set of keys and Mrs Martha Bunyard was none the wiser.

Mrs King appeared. ‘Hello, I popped in to see how you are, Miss Hill.’

‘They haven’t brought anyone through to see me yet.’

‘Oh, I see. What are you going to do?’

I noticed one intrepid mum with beautifully waved long auburn hair, who wore a flowing maxi maternity dress in a striped pattern of burnt orange and toffee with a pair of smartly turned-out little girls clutching each of her hands, make her way up to Mrs Martha Bunyard’s coven.

‘I’d like to see the health visitor please,’ she requested politely but firmly.

‘You don’t really want to pester the new health visitor before she knows what’s what. She’s terribly busy. Tell me, what’s niggling you?’

I was almost on the verge of saying quite rudely that it was no trouble at all and I’d like to be a hundred times busier when Mrs King stepped in with cheerful calm and said to the pregnant mum, ‘Ah, Mrs Bourne. This is Miss Hill, your new health visitor – aren’t you lucky?’ before slipping away again.

‘Follow me, Mrs Bourne,’ I said calmly but I felt as green as grass. ‘Let’s find a quiet corner to talk in.’

Mrs Bourne sighed with relief. I turned round the table I’d spotted the day before and put chairs on either side and found a few toys for her children to play with from the toy box to allow us a few minutes of uninterrupted conversation.

After chatting about potty training for about 15 minutes the elegant Mrs Bourne left the clinic with a mutually agreed approach. I’d suggested we catch up in two weeks to see how things were going. Mrs Bourne already had a really good idea of what to do and needed only a few more suggestions and reassurance she was on the right track. It made my blood boil to think that mothers had been turned away from getting a service they had a right to by busybody ladies of the parish. What if they’d had a serious problem, what if it was a matter of life and death? With no medical background who were they to decide who got a service and who didn’t? Never mind waiting, I threw caution to the wind and decided with youthful vigour that it was going to be my way or the highway.

Having seen my first client of the afternoon I felt emboldened that she was not going to be the last and returned to Mrs Martha Bunyard and her tea party. I heard her friend Mrs Doris Bowyer muttering, ‘Who does think she is? She’s just a slip of a girl. I’ve been lending a helping hand at this clinic for the last 20 years. If it’s good enough …’ her voiced trailed away as the third volunteer, Miss Elena Moon, shushed her as they saw me approaching.

‘Ladies, I wanted to say thank you so much for giving up your time to help at clinic today and for showing me the ropes last week.’ Miss Moon muttered ‘You’re welcome’ but the rest remained tight-lipped. ‘Mrs Bunyard,’ I continued, locking eyes with this woman who must have only been in her late fifties but to me seemed like Methuselah. ‘I think you would be the perfect person to greet and welcome the mothers when they arrive and locate their records for them to give to me.’

‘What, trust mothers with their own records?’ she said in horror.

‘Yes, they can keep hold of them and give in their card when they get their baby weighed, or to me when we do checks and then return it to you before they leave,’ I told her.

‘Well, I never …’

‘You must know practically every mother and baby in the village,’ I suggested.

‘I certainly do,’ confirmed Mrs Martha Bunyard.

‘You will be the face of Totley Clinic – the first point of contact. I would like every mother who comes through these doors to get a warm welcome.’

‘Well, I’m sure I can rise to the task, Nurse,’ she snapped.

‘Perfect,’ I enthused. ‘Please do ask every mother if they would like to see me. Clinic is much more than getting a baby weighed, don’t you think?’

I knew she didn’t think that in the slightest but, who knows, in time maybe even Methuselah would come round. I was going to keep a careful eye on Mrs Martha Bunyard and her friends to see how they spoke to the mothers. It was our clients who were the most important people at clinic, not the health visitor and not the ladies who volunteered.

‘Mrs Bowyer,’ I began, ‘Perhaps you could run a little refreshment station for me,’ I asked. ‘I’m sure you must have lots of catering experience. Keeping our hard-working volunteers, mothers and their little ones hydrated is vital, don’t you think?’

‘Certainly, Nurse. I’ll ask Mrs Farthing if I can use the kitchen.’

‘What a good suggestion, thank you.’

And she too scuttled off to take up her new role with a few mutterings and sly glances in my direction.

‘Now, Miss Moon, would you mind setting up a play area for me, to help keep the toddlers amused?’

‘I will, Nurse,’ she replied gently. ‘I know exactly where the toy box and the play mats are. I often help my niece at Mums and Toddlers on a Wednesday.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, beaming. ‘I’d like the mothers to have the opportunity to sit down for a rest and a chat with each other as much as anything – it is after all their baby clinic. And please do encourage the mums to come and talk to me about anything. Nothing is too much trouble. I won’t be in the consulting room from now on – I’ll be at my table over there, so any parent can see me if they want to,’ I told them.

Ten minutes later the ladies of the parish were all busy with their new roles. I noticed the timid little lady who was employed to sell the tins of baby milk doing a steady trade with barely a word spoken. Now, then, how to tackle the volunteers who weighed the babies? With my usual gusto I charged over to wrestle with my next problem.

‘Hello, I’m Sarah Hill. Mrs Kettel, isn’t it? How’s the weighing going today?’

‘Very well, thank you, Nurse. I’ve weighed half a dozen babies already.’

‘That’s great. I wanted to ask your opinion on something.’

‘Go ahead, Nurse. I’ve been weighing babies at this clinic for the last eight years. I’m a dabster at it,’ said Mrs Kettel proudly.

‘Goodness me, what a long time. Do you think the clothes on the baby enable you to note down the most accurate weight?’

‘It depends, Nurse. In the winter the woollens certainly weigh more,’ said Mrs Kettel thoughtfully. ‘Not to mention when they do their business in their nappies.’

‘Yes, I imagine that makes quite a difference,’ I said.

‘I should cocoa,’ said Mrs Kettel with a chuckle.

‘What do you think we can do to get the most accurate weight?’ I asked.

‘Not much you can do, Nurse, except weigh them burr,’ Mrs Kettel said warily.

‘Burr?’ I enquired.

‘Starkers, Nurse. In the all-together,’ mocked Mrs Kettel.

‘Ah, well, we understand each other perfectly then,’ I replied. ‘Please, set up three or four changing tables with a few of those plastic bowls for the babies’ clothes to go in when they’re burr,’ I suggested with a glint in my eye, pointing to the unused equipment.