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

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten,

Then I let it go again.

About half the mothers joined in, mainly the ones with a single toddler in their laps. The other half were in little huddles, gossiping, some with children hanging off their arms, whining for attention, while other toddlers were taking the opportunity to get into cupboards, hide under tables, squabble over toys or have a sulk in a corner.

Why did you let it go?

Because it bit my finger so.

Which finger did it bite?

This little finger on the right.

The group leader finished, with the few mums who remained in the circle snapping and kissing the fingers of their offspring and tickling them as they lay giggling and kicking in their laps.

‘Please help yourself to squash and biscuits,’ announced the group leader as she finished, her eyes already roving the room. There was no child in her lap. I went forward with my carrot cake and tried to put aside my immediate horror that they were serving the children squash. They’ll be whizzing around like spinning tops in no time, I thought.

I introduced myself. ‘Hello, I’m Sarah Hill, the new health visitor.’

‘Oh, we know who you are, Nurse,’ called one of the mums in the circle as she bounced a bonny baby on her knee. Her little girl was about a year old with mustard-coloured corduroy dungarees and a multi-coloured star T-shirt, and I could make out a sizeable bump under her the mum’s loose denim shirt.

I smiled. The mums exchanged not unfriendly glances. ‘I wanted to drop off a cake for the group,’ I explained, thrusting forward my goodwill offering.

‘Ooh, what is it?’ asked the expectant mum, putting her toddling little one down to explore.

‘It’s a carrot cake,’ I explained.

‘Not had that before but we’ll give it a whirl. I am eating for two after all,’ she remarked cheerily, taking the carrot cake off my hands. ‘Miss Elena, would you do the honours please?’ she asked an older lady, who I recognised as one of my kinder helpers at the baby clinic.

‘With pleasure,’ answered Miss Elena Moon, fresh from the kitchen carrying a tray of cups, which she handed out with care to the mums.

I smiled at the group leader but she was still distracted. ‘Aunty Elena, have you seen Dean?’ she asked.

‘No, dear, I haven’t,’ answered Miss Moon. ‘He did pop into the kitchen a little while ago for a biscuit but I haven’t seen him since.’

‘Would you like me to help look for him?’ I asked.

‘Please. I’m probably just panicking. But he won’t sit still and join in with the singing. He takes himself off,’ she explained, her eyes still anxiously scanning the room.

‘What does he look like?’

‘Oh, sorry. I’m Yvonne. Yvonne Underdown. His name’s Dean. He’s three. Curly light brown hair and he’s wearing blue jeans and a red T-shirt.’

Our somewhat half-hearted small search party spread out peeking under tables and rifling through cupboards but there was no sign of him.

‘I hope he hasn’t wandered out onto the road,’ said Mrs Underdown, her voice high and breathless.

‘She’s always getting herself in a lather,’ hissed the pregnant mum to a friend, a bit too loudly to be classed as a whisper.

‘I’ll check the kitchen again,’ I suggested.

I stood and surveyed the unloved kitchen. All outdated cupboards almost off their hinges and piles of plastic cups and plates in the huge stainless steel skin waiting to be washed. There was definitely a banging noise coming from somewhere. I opened the lower cupboards one by one until I found a boy in blue jeans and a red T-shirt, but I couldn’t be sure of the colour of his hair as he had a saucepan stuck firmly over the top of his head.

‘Found him, Mrs Underdown,’ I called as I gently lifted the boy out of the cupboard.

Mrs Underdown rushed in and let out a huge sigh of relief quickly followed by shouting. ‘Dean, you tiresome child! You know you’re not to wander off and now look at you. You wait till your father gets home, you little horror.’

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ gasped Miss Moon. ‘What shall we do? We’ll have to take him to hospital and get the doctor to saw it off.’

Dean let out a wail and started hitting the pan with his fists.

‘No need for that,’ I said calmly. ‘Can you find me some cooking oil please, Miss Moon.’ The dutiful great-aunt raided every kitchen cupboard until she returned with an old bottle of vegetable cooking oil in her trembling hand. I addressed the saucepan head. ‘Hello, Dean. I’m a nurse. I want you to hold still while I put some oil into the saucepan to get your head free. It won’t hurt but it will feel a bit sticky,’ I told him.

And a minute or two later a curly-haired, rather oily little boy’s face appeared. His nose was a bit squashed but he looked perfectly fine. I rubbed his head with a tea towel.

‘Look at the state of you,’ cried Mrs Underdown as she hugged him to her chest, getting oil all over her clothes. ‘Home now. You’re going straight in the bath.’

‘Not my fault. Soldier told me to,’ he whined as his mother tucked him under her arm and strode out of the kitchen.

‘Stop making up silly stories,’ she scolded him. As she reached the doorway she turned and tried to compose herself. ‘I’m sorry, Nurse. It’s not usually like this.’

‘Happy to help,’ I replied, washing my hands in the sink.

‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Underdown as she turned on her heel and stormed off, her Aunty Elena following behind her in a complete tizzy.

‘That boy’s a bit soft,’ said the pregnant mum who’d been eager to try my carrot cake. ‘No wonder Yvonne’s flustered. She’s got a boy talking to himself in corners like a loony and a husband that’s not far off his dotage.’

I turned to her and said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Oh, yes. I’m Jackie Bowyer and that one’s Stacy,’ she indicated to her infant. ‘We’re neighbours sort of. My husband, Trev, keeps the garage opposite your digs. We live over the shop so to speak.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Bowyer. When’s the baby due?’

She now took a big bite of the carrot cake. ‘November. Gosh, this is tasty, Nurse. Much nicer than Miss Elena’s dry old fruit cake,’ she said, giggling. ‘Here, girls, try a piece,’ she called to the other mums handing the plates around as a group of mothers descended upon us, feeding themselves with one hand and crumbling bits of cake and popping it into the eager mouths of their tots.

‘Do you serve cake at the baby clinic too?’ asked Mrs Bowyer with a wry smile as she scooped up her baby, who was rooting through the contents of her large fuchsia shoulder bag and chewing the edge of a packet of Benson & Hedges. ‘Oi, Stacy, you’ll get them all soggy,’ chided her mother, wiping the drool-covered pack on her jeans before she pocketed them. I really hoped she wasn’t smoking during her pregnancy.

The door opened and in lumbered Mrs Bourne with little girls in tow.

‘Sorry we’re late. Have we missed the singing again?’ she asked wearily.

‘Don’t worry, you’ve made it for the most important bit. The nurse brought some cake,’ answered Mrs Bowyer.

‘That’s music to my ears. Run off and play, you two,’ she told her children, planting glittering lipstick-smeared kisses on their foreheads before flopping down into a chair. ‘Nice to see you again, Nurse,’ she said, multi-tasking as she massaged her own pregnant belly with one hand and gobbled some cake with the other. ‘You’ve been the talk of the village,’ she told me through a mouthful of crumbs.

‘Have I?’ I asked, trying to sound amused but feeling suddenly anxious.

‘I should cocoa,’ said Mrs Bowyer, laughing. ‘Trev’s mum kept him chatting at the garage till past supper time, telling him all the juicy details after you trounced old Mother Bunyard.’