Our Country Nurse: Can East End Nurse Sarah find a new life caring for babies in the country?. Sarah Beeson
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.
‘Are you taking the mickey, Nurse?’ asked Mrs Kettel with raised eyebrows.
‘How else can we ensure we get the most accurate weight?’
‘But what if they widdle or worse in the scales?’ she enquired.
‘It’s not the end of the world if they do. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of experience with that sort of thing. It’s not something that would put you off your stride, is it?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Kettel. ‘I’ve seen it all, Nurse.’
‘Perfect. Keep some cleaning things near to hand so you can clean up easily. We wouldn’t want the mothers to be embarrassed, would we?’
‘Oh no. Most natural thing in the world, Nurse. You leave it to us,’ she assured me.
‘Excellent, thank you.’
I was determined to say hello to every parent who came to clinic at the very least. When I wasn’t chatting to a mother I was on my feet to greet them as they came past Mrs Martha Bunyard and co. But to my surprise the ladies seemed to have taken to their new roles. If appearances were anything to go by then they were having a jolly time greeting mothers, peeking at the babies and getting a little bit of village gossip.
‘How’s it going?’ I breezily asked Mrs Martha Bunyard.
‘Very well, Nurse,’ answered Miss Elena Moon before she could get a word in. ‘We think it’s much better this way, don’t we, Doris?’
‘Oh, yes,’ added Mrs Doris Bowyer. ‘Helps the shy ones come out of themselves a bit. Sometimes you could barely get a hello out of some of the girls and now they’re right jawsy.’
‘Yes, I don’t know why we didn’t do it like this before,’ finished Miss Moon.
Mrs Martha Bunyard scowled at her friends’ new-found enthusiasm.
‘That’s very good.’ I grinned. ‘So, let’s check. You greet them, especially taking a bit of time with newcomers to explain they can come and get the baby weighed and talk to me about anything.’
‘Yes, yes, yes, Nurse. We’ve been sending you over a steady stream, haven’t we?’ barked Mrs Martha Bunyard.
‘Yes. Very well organised,’ I praised. ‘And you are recording all the names in the book as they arrive, giving out the clinic cards and adding in any missing information like date of birth or their address?’
‘All in hand, Nurse. You leave it to us,’ Mrs Martha Bunyard said firmly.
‘Excellent, thank you,’ I acknowledged before returning to see how the new system for weighing was progressing.
‘It really is much better like this, Martha,’ I heard Miss Moon whisper. ‘I don’t know why we didn’t do it like this years ago.’
By Friday morning I’d completed my second week in Totley and lived to tell the tale. In the last 10 days I’d done two baby clinics, 10 primary visits, four follow-up visits, one elderly referral, three call-outs, 15 hearing tests, one school visit complete with extracting a child’s head from the school railings and assisted in what I hoped would be my last ever labour. Hermione had told me they were breaking me in gently. It was with great enthusiasm that I now knocked on the peeling red front door of a crumbling cottage to make the primary visit to Mrs Susan Bunyard, whose baby I’d helped deliver not two weeks before. The house stood in the middle of a row of 10 workers’ houses opposite the brewery. When the door opened I felt a wave of disappointment when the crabby clinic volunteer Mrs Martha Bunyard, the dreaded mother-in-law no doubt, opened the front door.
‘She’s using the outdoor convenience, Nurse,’ she told me. ‘Come through. My daughter and my husband’s elder sister have come to have a hold of baby Sharon. I ask you, what sort of name is Sharon? First-born girls in the Bunyard family have always been called Constance, isn’t that right?’
The visitors nodded in agreement – I later discovered they were both called Constance. The in-laws were seated on a squat battered brown sofa facing the small open fireplace in front of which was a zinc bathtub. The room was absolutely stifling with a roaring fire lit to heat up the bathwater for when Alan Bunyard returned after a day’s graft at the brewery. Baby Sharon looked helpless in the enormous lap of her great-aunt Constance, the poor child making a low continual whimpering noise that they all ignored. I could see through to a small kitchen with an old sink, a single cupboard and an ancient stove. There was no preparation space except for a minuscule flap-down storage unit and a rickety wooden table pushed up against the kitchen wall.
The back door opened and in walked Susan Bunyard. She went directly to the kitchen sink; the plumbing loudly whined into life as she turned on the single tap and washed her hands in a thundering, spluttering stream of cold water with a bar of Camay soap and splashed her face. Hearing her baby’s cries she marched into the cramped front room with a face like thunder and snatched back her child as tea cups were being passed over the infant’s head. Baby Sharon, clearly relieved to be returned to her mother, who had after all only popped to the outside lavatory, instantly stopped crying and buried her face in her mum’s neck. Mrs Bunyard noticed me standing uncomfortably in the corner.
‘Oh my, I didn’t see you there, Nurse. Nice to see you again,’ she greeted me warmly.
‘The baby is a right moaning Minnie,’ Great-aunt Constance informed her loudly. ‘You’re spoiling her. She’s full of windgines. If I’ve