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

‘You don’t think she’s underweight? Honestly she doesn’t cry that much.’

As the baby came off the breast all satisfied and sleepy I had a quick hold, while Mrs Bunyard ate her cake. I took the opportunity to give her a full MOT, discreetly checking everything was as it should be – she was perfect.

‘She seems just right to me.’

‘I know what his lot think, that I’m no good. That I should give the baby to them. Well, no one is taking this baby off me; I’d die first than let them take her away. They won’t take her away, will they, Nurse?’

‘No one is going to take your baby away – please don’t worry about that.’

‘They try and make out that she never stops crying but it’s not true. I think she cries sometimes because she wants her mum, or because everything is a bit new and she wants a bit of comfort – I know how she feels.’

‘That sounds right to me. You know your baby best, Mrs Bunyard. You really are doing a splendid job.’

Susan Bunyard grinned and took the baby to a large wicker crib and popped her daughter down for a nap.

‘She’s kept me up a lot in the night, though. Are you sure she’s getting enough milk?’

‘Are you getting lots of wet and dirty nappies?’ I asked.

‘There’s an endless stream,’ she laughed. ‘Her poo’s all yellow, though.’

‘Yes, that’s how it should be. How she’s sleeping during the day?’

‘She’s an angel in the day. When will you come back, Nurse?’

‘End of next week if it suits you?’

‘Yes, that would be great. And hopefully the Wicked Witch of the West won’t be here,’ she whispered.

‘Do you want to lie down flat and I’ll take a look at your tummy?’ I asked her.

As I pressed down on her belly she gazed up at the cracks in the low ceiling above the marital bed and said in a whisper almost more to herself than to me, ‘I’d never change having Sharon. But I’m not sure if I did the right thing marrying Aly.’

‘It’s normal to feel worried and a bit overwhelmed at times,’ I tried to reassure her.

There was a long pause. ‘Nurse, if I tell you something, will you keep it a secret?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely,’ I replied.

She opened her mouth but no words came out. I waited.

‘It’s about Aly, he doesn’t …’ But before she could finish telling me the door to the narrow staircase opened and Alan Bunyard called up.

‘I took an early lunch break. I couldn’t wait to see my girls,’ he cried as he bound up the rickety stairs.

Mrs Bunyard instantly brightened and rushed to her makeshift dressing table to brush her hair back into place.

‘Don’t mind me, Nurse. I’m being silly,’ she told me as her husband reached the top but she didn’t look me in the eye again.

Mr Bunyard rushed in and picked up the slumbering baby without a thought of how long she may have been sleeping – not long at all as it happened. I packed up my things; the visit was now over. We all have secrets, that’s normal, and Mrs Bunyard wasn’t under any obligation to tell her secret but since I first laid eyes on this young woman, who was only 19, I couldn’t help but notice she didn’t have the bloom of a new bride and mother. She was troubled; something was not what it seemed. ‘I can’t put my finger on it,’ I mused as I left the Bunyard household.

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

After my run-in with the baby-clinic volunteers I didn’t show my face at the Totley Mums and Toddlers group until the end of September. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was coming in and taking over everything and thought I knew it all – because most of the time it felt like I knew barely anything at all. Hospital life had been simpler, the lines distinct. I had been a nurse with a very clear purpose in a strict hierarchy. Yes, I might have found myself in hot water with Sister or Matron on occasion, but here, well, it was like trying to get your head round all the intricacies of a long-running show like The Archers after listening for only a week or two; you didn’t know who was who and you felt like you were constantly stumbling across intrigues and old family feuds. Nothing was clear-cut anymore – community practice in an area like Totley was a constant overlapping of never-ending stories and problems and history that I couldn’t possibly ever know. Eight hundred families and up – how was I ever to get them all straight in my head? Added to which I’d not been able to see Mrs Susan Bunyard and baby Sharon. Every time I went she was out. I was concerned I’d done something wrong and she was avoiding me.

It had reached a point where if I didn’t pop into Mums and Toddlers rather than looking interfering it might appear that I couldn’t care less, and didn’t think it worth my time. I determined I would try not to get in the way or hinder the natural chat that occurs between mothers with children the same age. I would try and show them I was there should they ever want me – ‘Why would they want you?’ piped up the unhelpful voice in my head. On the way to the Village Hall I passed the baker’s and was surprised to see Hermione Drummond through the window, chatting animatedly to two men. I caught her eye and she waved me in enthusiastically, her strings of glass beads jostling as her arms moved back and forth excitedly.

‘Miss Hill, have you tried a Totley freshly baked bun with a sausage from Treetops Farm?’ she enquired the second I stepped over the threshold. ‘They are devilishly scrumptious,’ she informed me, taking a big bite. The baker behind the counter in his white apron looked thrilled as he watched Hermione eat with rapture.

‘I haven’t had one yet,’ I replied.

‘One more please, Bob,’ Hermione called to the baker, who jumped to her command. ‘I don’t want you thinking I normally slope off, Miss Hill, but I’ve a case conference at 11 o’clock and it’s likely to go on for hours and I stupidly skipped breakfast.’ Her eyes turned back to the men. ‘So, I thought I’d have an illicit banger butty,’ she hooted, her voice chiming like a cathedral bell. ‘And who should I find truanting but a schoolmaster and a Man of the Cloth,’ she teased, giving the older of the two men a pat on the shoulder.

‘Miss Hill, have you met Mr Hopkins, the headmaster at St Agatha’s, and the Reverend Nicholas Shepherd, our dashing new vicar?’

‘We haven’t,’ responded the older man. ‘Dylan Hopkins. Pleasure to meet our new school nurse. I think you spoke to my deputy when you popped into the school, Miss Hill,’ he said, grinning and firmly shaking my hand. ‘Miss Drummond is right, I am a fugitive from playground duty but Father Nick and I are discussing the school trip to Canterbury Cathedral this Saturday. We are trying to form a plan of action for volunteers. Miss Drummond, I believe you have already thrown your hat into the ring?’

Hermione sucked on a buttery finger. ‘Oh, yes, count me in, for better or for worse.’ Her brown eyes were brilliant with mischief as she held me in her gaze and suggested, ‘And I’m sure Miss Hill would only be too happy to help?’, taking another mouthful of her sandwich.

I gulped. Suddenly Mr Hopkins and the Reverend Shepherd seemed to be closing in on me in the confines of the village bakery. I hadn’t really noticed the rector properly until now, all eyes being on Hermione. The preacher had dark wavy hair, curling in thick glossy ringlets over his collar; surely his hair was a bit too long for a Man of the Cloth? And despite the dog collar he was rather cool in a white and brown checked sports jacket teamed with fawn slacks. He had huge dark eyes and eyelashes so long they looked fake.

‘That would help get us out of a huge hole if you could face the pilgrimage,’ added Mr Hopkins. ‘Wouldn’t it, Reverend Shepherd?’

‘Right on,’ replied the cool country parson, his eyes still fixed on me. I tried not to squirm under the gaze of this tower of a man.

‘I’d be happy to help,’ I replied over-brightly.

‘Excellent,’ Mr Hopkins said, clapping his hands together. ‘I’ll leave Miss Drummond to fill you in on the details. Father Nick and I have to get back for morning assembly.’

They stepped out of the cramped bakery, their illicit baked goods in hand. The Reverend turned back to look at me from the narrow doorway; he blocked the light and the sunlight formed a ring round his black mop of hair.

‘See you Saturday,’ he crooned.

Then they left. I was glad. Hermione passed me my sausage sandwich.

‘Hasn’t he got heavenly eyelashes?’ said Hermione smoothly.

‘The Headmaster?’ I spluttered.

Hermione sighed. ‘No. Mr Hopkins isn’t the overpowering good-looking type. More of a slow burn.’

I didn’t reply but nibbled my sandwich. Oh, it was delicious. Say what you like about Joe Rudcliff, he obviously produced good porkers. My trip to the bakery must have been divine intervention as I remembered if there is one thing I’ve learnt about mums’ groups, it is that delectable cake and a decent cup of coffee are the cornerstone of a successful morning meeting. I immediately invested in a large carrot cake. Next time I’d go one better and bake it myself with a recipe for apple cake from the Friends of the Earth cookbook, my newlywed friend Fiona Flemming had sent me as a moving-in present. I could use the honey from Clem’s bees, I mused, momentarily distracted by thoughts of bucolic country living, the humming of bees and dishy clergymen.

Mums and toddlers was already under way when I arrived with my baked goods. A young woman about my age, wearing an emerald green shirt tucked into the same colour flared trousers with a thin white belt round her waist, and a green and white striped headscarf covering thick dark blonde curls, sat cross-legged in a circle with the other mums and children, leading the singing.

One, two, three, four, five,

Once I caught a fish alive,