Our Country Nurse: Can East End Nurse Sarah find a new life caring for babies in the country?. Sarah Beeson
earlier I had been carefully planning out my diary for the week and making well-meant plans when my telephone tingled into life.
‘Hello, Totley Clinic, health visitors,’ I answered.
‘Hello, Nurse?’ whispered a weary voice down the line. I could hear the cries of a fractious baby in the background.
‘Yes,’ I responded calmly.
‘Can you come out, Nurse? I’ve fed and fed him till I’ve not got a drop left. He won’t stop crying, he won’t go to sleep. I don’t know what to do.’
‘What’s your name please?’
‘Mandy Rudcliff.’
‘And what’s your baby’s name and their date of birth please, Mrs Rudcliff?’ I asked, my fingers already lifting the lids on the wooden boxes that contained client records – eager to get to work.
‘Craig Joseph Rudcliff. I had him on 25 August.’
‘Lovely, and what’s your address please?’
‘The Farmhouse, Treetops Farm.’
I quickly leafed through the records until I found a blank card for Craig Joseph Rudcliff; his discharge slip from Nurse Higgins had been attached with a paperclip. His primary visit was due and he was on my patch. Why not kill two birds with one stone, I decided.
‘Would you like me to come out now, Mrs Rudcliff?’
‘Quick as you can please, Nurse. And it’s the farmhouse not the bungalow at Treetops,’ she said wearily and rang off. I decided I better get to her lickety-split.
Obstructed by the quagmire I resolved there was nothing for it but to walk. I could reverse out to get back on the road to Totley but there was no way my Mini was going to make it through all that muck up the path to the farm, which I assumed was at the end of what looked like a never-ending road ascending into the clouds. I picked up my bag and swung open the door of the car and let both my feet go squelch right into the mire. Never mind the stupid map, I thought, the thing I needed right now was a good pair of wellies; from that day forth I kept a pair in the boot.
After I’d spent 10 minutes traipsing through sludge finally a house came into view. The Rudcliffs resided in a large whitewashed four-storey, double-fronted Georgian farmhouse with a patch of oval-shaped lawn serving as a front garden. A fence surrounded the property creating a barrier between Treetops Farmhouse and the gargantuan tin sheds that dominated the landscape. As I trudged nearer to the house the smell coming from the pig sheds and the noise of grunting and squealing swine was overwhelming. I noticed in the distance a newly built bungalow with a neat little garden and a border of rose bushes. It stood on top of a mound like a little castle and looked completely out of place.
I opened the gate to the farmyard and a huge hound came looming at me barking defensively. I quickly retreated and waited on the other side of the fence hoping his master would come and call him off but no one did despite all the growling and snarling from the Alsatian. I’d come this far, I wasn’t going to fall at the last hurdle. ‘Sit,’ I said firmly, staring the animal down. To my surprise the dog obeyed so I sidestepped him and gingerly made my way to the front door and rang the bell, hoping I wouldn’t be left on the doorstep too long in case my new canine friend changed his mind about me.
Mrs Rudcliff flung open the door. She was a slender woman about my height wearing a loose blue-denim shirt and jeans; she had light-brown wavy hair tied up in a ponytail and a smattering of freckles across her nose and pink cheeks. She gave me a weak smile but she looked exhausted – I suspected she was anaemic and in desperate need of sustenance and sleep. In her arms was a very robust and lengthy newborn baby; he must have been at least 10 pounds so no wonder she was finding feeding him a challenge, poor girl.
‘Hello, Mrs Rudcliff?’ I enquired. She nodded. ‘I’m Sarah Hill, the health visitor you spoke to on the telephone.’
‘Come in, Nurse,’ she said. ‘He only stopped crying about five minutes ago.’
I followed her down the dark hallway into the huge square kitchen. An elongated rectangular wooden table stood in its centre. At one end were bowls, spoons, a set of scales and bags of flour, all manner of ingredients, some ramekins and a fresh loaf of bread cooling on a wire rack. At the other end of the table was a heap of crumpled laundry amongst a few folded piles and two ironed shirts on hangers. An ironing board with a half-ironed shirt stood accusingly next to the table and on the floor was a basket filled with wet baby clothes, nappies, blankets and cloth squares, some of which had made it onto a clotheshorse to dry. The large butler sink in front of the kitchen window was sparklingly clean but a mountain of cups, plates and cutlery glared at us, waiting to be washed up. An enormous range stood in the hearth and before it was a button-backed tangerine sofa with an avocado throw hanging over the top.
Mrs Rudcliff looked about her in dismay. ‘It was neat as a new pin a fortnight ago and now as soon as I start one job the baby needs something and nothing gets finished.’
‘That’s how it is for everyone,’ I say softly.
‘Is it?’
‘Oh, yes. Between me and you, if I arrived at a house with a newborn baby that was spotless then I’d be concerned.’
She laughed a little in relief. ‘Sit yourself down, Nurse. I’ll make us some tea.’
‘Would you let me make it? Take the weight off your feet for five minutes,’ I gently suggested.
‘Are you sure?’ I nodded and she flopped onto the sofa and closed her eyes for a few minutes with the baby lying happily across her chest while I put the kettle on. I brought over the tea with a large glass of water and a plate of biscuits I’d seen on the side.
‘Would you let me have a hold of baby Craig?’ I asked as I set down the tea things on a small side table.
‘Be my guest,’ replied Mrs Rudcliff, handing over her whopper of a baby. The tea, water and biscuits had all vanished within minutes and it gave me the chance to give the baby a quick once-over. ‘I’m always hungry at the moment,’ she told me, flicking crumbs off her shirt.
‘It’s the breastfeeding,’ I acknowledged. ‘You need plenty of good food and lots to drink to sustain both you and the baby.’
She sighed. ‘I only get the chance to grab a quick piece of toast these days and a cold cup of tea if I’m lucky. As soon as I put the dinner on the table the baby cries and by the time I come back it’s either stone cold or Joe’s given it to the dog.’
‘I bet you have a job just making the dinner,’ I said, pouring her another cup of tea and refilling the biscuits.
‘I do, I do. I can barely get myself washed and dressed by lunchtime. And the men expect a hot meal at breakfast, lunch and dinner.’
‘It’s you who needs a good dinner three times a day and snacks in between.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Absolutely. Also try and have a glass of water next to you while you’re feeding and have a glass to sip throughout the day and night.’
‘I’ll try. It’s so hard to get everything together when he’s crying for a feed.’
‘I know it seems like a lot but you need all those little drinks and snacks to make the milk. It’ll do him no harm to wait two minutes while you get a cuppa and a snack and pop to the loo. You’ll be able to feed better for it.’
‘I can’t tell you how many times I’m been bursting to go to the loo during a feed. I’ve near wet myself at least twice this morning. I thought it would make me a bad mum if I didn’t run to him straight away. When he cries my heart pounds like crazy.’
‘That’s perfectly normal. You have some basic needs too; it’s not asking much that you get the chance to eat, drink and wash, is it?’
‘I guess not.’
‘Try