Eva Moves the Furniture (8 page)

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Authors: Margot Livesey

BOOK: Eva Moves the Furniture
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Between the patients and the nurses, my life in Glasgow was the exact opposite of what it had been at Ballintyre: Every hour was filled with people. It was a rare event when, after an especially arduous day—I had just started as a scrub nurse in the theatre—I found myself walking back to the hostel alone. I was enjoying my brief solitude, pondering whether to stop at the pie shop, when the sirens broke out.
“Bloody nuisance,” Daphne always said at such moments, and I had joined in her grumbling as if the raids were indeed a minor irritation. But in the dark street, I was afraid. One of the day's patients had been a casualty of last night's bombing; most of his stomach was missing. The nearest shelter was several streets away. I took refuge in the doorway of a haberdasher's where Daphne and I had tried in vain to buy elastic the week before.
Almost immediately came the crash of an explosion, followed by the barking of air-raid guns and another much louder bang. A
scorched, acrid smell filled the air. I reached for my gas mask, but the thought of the clammy rubber against my face was repulsive. Trembling, I began to recite:
“Wee, sleekit, cow'rin,' tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!”
On the word
brattle
a bomb fell. For a few seconds the light and noise blew everything away, including fear. The sounds of glass breaking, beams cracking, masonry falling filled the night.
When at last the noise stopped, I raised my head to discover that the dark sky and darker buildings had disappeared. The doorway was completely blocked. I groped my way forward and tugged at whatever my hand encountered. A brick shifted and rubble tumbled down. No one knew I was here; I would never be found. “Help,” I cried. “Help.” But it was hard to believe that anything, even sound, could escape this prison.
I was starting on the poem again when from nearby came a scraping sound. “Hello,” I called. “Is someone there?”
No answer. The scraping continued. To the fear of being buried alive was added a new fear. In the infirmary, rumours circulated about gangs of men who looted during the raids and, it was whispered, interfered with women.
I was wondering whether to risk crying out again, when something grazed my cheek. I screamed. An eerie silence descended.
At last someone spoke. “Don't be afraid.”
Years before, the same voice had said, “What a cosy house.” Now the girl started on the poem's second verse.
“I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union … .”
Somehow there was an opening in the doorway, just large enough for me to squeeze out. In the street two familiar figures were waiting. The light of the fires glinted off the woman's hair. “Are you all right?” she asked.
I nodded, speechless.
The girl began to dust my cape, slapping vigourously at the fabric. I had not seen her since the night she spied on Ian and me beside the river; even in the darkness, I sensed her glee. As she moved on to my skirt the all-clear sounded. I found my voice and announced I was going back to the hostel.
“We'll walk with you,” said the woman.
“There's no need,” I said. “Really.”
But she stepped forward and took one arm, the girl the other. Even through my uniform their hands seemed colder than I remembered. Without a word we headed down the street. At the corner neighbours were passing pails of water towards a blazing shop. A man at the end of the chain spotted me. Our white caps were unmistakable. “Good night, nurse,” he called.
On either side, the companions tightened their grip.
I marked off the stages of my training like the stages in high jumping, and almost in spite of myself I grew competent. Soon I knew what to do in the case of a ruptured ulcer or an asthma attack; I could change a dressing or give a transfusion or hold the hand of a dying man. The air raids had dwindled, horses became common in the city streets, and almost everything was rationed or unavailable. Penicillin, the new miracle drug, appeared. Back in Troon, David and Lily were both absorbed in war work. Too old for uniform, David helped plan manoeuvres for the Home Guard and gave lectures on German strategy. Lily worked at the Station Hotel, now a convalescents' home, as a bookkeeper and tea lady. On one of my monthly visits she had me show her how to tie a sling. The beaches where I had played with the Nicholson children were once more as
Barbara had known them, lined with coils of wire. Only the companions were exempt from the tasks of war.
Since the night of the air raid, I had often met the woman in her old-fashioned clothes, walking down the busy pavements, or the girl loitering outside the hostel. Perhaps I should have been grateful to them, but I soon convinced myself I would have been discovered shortly—the rescue squads were amazingly efficient—and I found their reappearance hard to bear. I had been certain that in coming to Glasgow I was leaving them behind. Now it seemed that all along they had planned to accompany me.
The one saving grace was that they never visited the infirmary. Nonetheless, I worried Daphne might notice the change in me, but, like Isobel, she remained oblivious. What she did notice was my lack of a beau. Arthur and Roy had moved on but the wards were thronged with military personnel, both patients and doctors, and Daphne flitted happily from one romance to the next. After an evening out she would come to my room, cheeks flushed, clothes awry, for cocoa. “Och, we had a grand time,” she would say. When she reproached me for being standoffish, I argued that people were always being transferred. All the more fun, she said.
How could I tell her that I longed to follow her example but, after my evening with Bernard, feared disaster. A senior medical student, Bernard had been assigned to the women's ward soon after I moved there. Tall, with blue eyes and dark hair, he had grown up in Oban and, at moments of excitement, lapsed endearingly into Gaelic. On the ward we started calling out “
Ceud mile fáilte,
” whenever he appeared. I asked about the Highlands, the setting of so many of David's stories, and he told me about a cave on the shores of Loch Fyne where Bonnie Prince Charlie had waited for a boat to
carry him over to France. “He was a brave man,” Bernard said, “to hide in a wee dark hole with a price on his head and nothing but hills and heather for miles around.” Only later when I saw Glenaird, the valley where Barbara had grown up, did I fully appreciate his descriptions of the lonely landscape.
One evening, when we both finished early, Bernard invited me to the cinema. In the Empire the usher led us unhesitatingly to the third back row. Roy had once slipped her a shilling to get seats there; now it seemed she knew already that Bernard and I were a couple. I felt a little knot of excitement. For the last fortnight I'd been noticing his earnest smile. After a decent interval, halfway through a Pathé news report on land girls, Bernard slid his arm around me. And after another, I put my head on his shoulder. Would he take my hand, I wondered.
Within a few minutes, however, I felt an odd prickling sensation, a scratching between my shoulder blades, not unlike what I sometimes felt on the wards when a patient needed me but was too shy to call. Cautiously I raised my head to glance around. The light of the screen showed me only strangers, rows of men and women, their eyes fastened on the pictures or each other. I turned back to Bernard but the prickling persisted; it was hard even to sit still. For a second time I scanned the audience, and only then did I realise who I was looking for. I could not help pulling away, as if the screen demanded my urgent attention.
Bernard was a nice young man. He pretended to cough and released me. The news finished and we both concentrated on the film, something American, the men with short ties and funny accents. Afterwards, walking back to the hostel, I was very animated, commenting on the picture, asking about Bernard's family. His replies
were courteous but brief. “Well, Nurse McEwen,” he said, at the gate of the hostel, “this has been a pleasure.”
“Bernard,” I protested.
From the darkness around us came the muffled sounds of other nurses and their beaux, making the most of the few minutes before curfew. Of course he could not see my expression, but I stared up at Bernard, silent, pleading, until he bent down and, whether by accident or design, planted a kiss on my ear.
In bed that night I berated myself—why let my stupid imagination ruin everything?—and next day on the ward I continued in my emphatic cheerfulness, joking with the patients and the ward maid. A couple of times I caught Bernard eyeing me, but he kept his distance. I was not entirely sorry when a few weeks later he was transferred to Aberdeen.
Other outings followed a similar pattern, and I never knew whether to blame the companions or myself. They did not appear but instead sent themselves into my mind. My sense returned of a hidden deformity which must, at all costs, be concealed; I dreaded that the young men who slid their hands under my coat would somehow discover my shame.
In the midst of these difficulties, my second stint of night duty came as a relief. Daphne claimed the nights were dull, now that the raids had slackened, but I liked the long slow hours. By day the infirmary buzzed with efficiency: birth, life, death—everything kept in its proper place. Whereas under cover of darkness, anything seemed possible. Patients confided in me and I listened, doing my best to offer comfort and conceal amazement. How tangled people's lives were and how many, besides myself, had problems they could hint at only to a stranger.
It was during this time that I had the conversation with Father Wishart about the hospital ghost and what it is that makes the dead walk. I remember on the next occasion when I met the woman, I studied her with special care. It was a rainy afternoon, and I was at the library choosing books for Daphne when she sidled up to suggest a Thomas Hardy novel. I glanced anxiously around—our only witness was an elderly man, drowsing over the paper—and explained that Daphne had asked for Zane Grey.
“Oh, I don't know those. You'll have to tell me about them.”
She was as real to me as she had always been. I saw the pulse beating in her temple, the flicker of those deep grey eyes. She did not seem unhappy, but then she did not seem like a ghost either.
 
 
In 1942, shortly after I passed the dreaded Preliminary exams, the burns unit opened. Modelled on the famous unit at East Grinstead near London, it made the front page of the newspapers: SCOTLAND CAN TREAT BURNS AT LAST. And the following year, soon after I became a fully qualified nurse, Daphne and I volunteered for duty there; she had heard the work was interesting and the hours better than in the main infirmary. Sister MacKenzie, a diminutive, sweet-faced woman with a reputation for discipline, greeted us. “I'll tell you now,” she said, “this kind of nursing isn't for everyone. The patients can be trying, and Dr. Rosenblum”—her eyes seemed to take in every square inch of our aprons—“has very particular standards.”
As we approached the ward, the usual mix of disinfectant and cabbage filled the air, but the noise was extraordinary: music, shouts, the clatter of wheels, a sudden bang, more like a soccer match than a hospital.
“Morning, Sister,” called a man near the door. “Introduce us to the pretty nurses?” Where his nose should have been were two white stumps.
“Now, Archie, behave yourself.”
I kept my eyes fixed on Sister's apron, trying not to see the blurred features and twisted limbs. Some of the men sprouted tubes of flesh from unlikely places: a cheek, a forearm. Later I learned these were the pedicle grafts, known as “dangle 'ums,” and paid them no more heed than their owners; at the time, however, it was all I could do not to run from the ward. And on every side voices catcalled, shouted questions and compliments. These were not patients as I knew them. These were restless, insubordinate pilots, soldiers, men.
Back at the entrance, Sister patted my arm and told Daphne to get me a cup of tea before rounds started. In the nurses' room I sat near an open window while Daphne perched on the sill, chatting about what film to take her mother to and the new underwear at Baker's. Ever since my first evening at the infirmary, I had loved watching her talk. All her features were slightly too large and so vivid that on half a dozen occasions I heard her unjustly reprimanded for wearing makeup. On the wards, patients reached towards her, hoping that her robust good health might be contagious.
“Six coupons for a pair of knickers,” she exclaimed. “Still, I tried on Lydia's and they were grand.”
By the time an orderly came to fetch us, she had jollied me into a semblance of calm. I was able to join the other nurses and medical students around the first bed. From my position at the back the patient was happily hidden, but I had a clear view of the man standing over him. He was as tanned as if he had spent a whole summer on
the beach. Glancing around, he caught my eye and gave a quick smile. One of those older medical students who were showing up more and more as the war dragged on, I thought, and let my gaze slide away. Then he said, “Good morning, everyone,” and I realised this was Dr. Rosenblum.
“We have two choices,” he explained, gesturing towards the patient. “We can continue with the smaller grafts from the thigh, bacon strips, which lower the risk of infection but are often a little patchy. Or we can go for a larger graft, more susceptible to infection but with a better chance of making Phil resemble Valentino.” He verified a couple of points with Sister, then, turning back to the bed, said, “Any thoughts, Philip?”
Beside me, I sensed my own astonishment mirrored in Daphne. For a doctor to consult a nurse was unheard of, let alone a patient. Philip's response was inaudible, but Rosenblum was clearly pleased. “Good man,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We'll start on Tuesday and do our damnedest.”
With the next couple of patients it was just Hello, how's it going? Then we clustered round the bed of another heavily bandaged figure. Brian had crashed his plane last year, the nurse in front of me whispered. Nine days ago they had operated on his wrists to remove scar tissue and apply skin grafts. Today the theatre dressings would be changed and they would see if the grafts had taken. Almost in spite of myself I edged closer. The rowdy patients fell silent. With each layer of acriflavine gauze the staff nurse lifted I could feel the tension rise, until the ward radio—Harry Lauder singing “I'll tak' the high road”—was the only sound. Brian's hands emerged unpromisingly scarlet, curled like chicken's feet.
Dr. Rosenblum bent to examine them, holding each hand in
turn and gently flexing the fingers. “Brian,” he announced, “you'll be playing the piano for Christmas.” And that was when he seized the sister and, to the last bars of Harry Lauder, waltzed her round the ward.
 
 
For the next few days I continued to feel faint whenever I came on duty, but as I got to know the patients I soon learned to overlook their grotesque injuries. Most of them were airmen severely burned about the face and hands. In spite of all official warnings, they persisted in removing their goggles and gloves. “You can't fight the Jerry with gloves on,” one pilot told me. Some of them had been in the unit since the beginning, and it was they who taught me how to identify the different kinds of infection that threatened a graft, how to manipulate dressings and syringe oral stitches.
After my days on the ward, I sometimes found myself in the evenings lingering before the mirror. My face, which I had regarded as such an intimate part of me, seemed different now that I understood how provisional the features were. I could lose my nose or chin, have cheeks framed by the pale skin of my buttocks, a jaw built from a rib bone, a mouth that refused to stay in the centre of my face. Standing there, wiggling my eyebrows, stretching my lips, I wondered would I have been one of those women who stood by their damaged men, recognising the beloved person beneath the disfigurement? Or would I have fled? And of course the question was not always so simple, for some men were vastly altered, not just outwardly but inwardly. Our most difficult patient, a famous fighter pilot, treated everyone, from Samuel to the ward maid, with bitter contempt. After he called me a stupid bitch—I forgot the sugar in
his tea—Sister had the porters wheel him out of the ward. His bed remained in the corridor for a week before he muttered, “Sorry.”
I had been working on the unit for a little over a month when, coming off duty one afternoon, I discovered it had begun to rain. As I hesitated in the doorway, watching the fat drops bounce off the pavement and wishing I had brought an umbrella, the woman joined me. “Wait here,” she said. “It'll ease up soon. And straighten your cap.” Briskly, in her raincoat, she headed down the drive.
I stared after her, twitching my cap into place. She had never appeared at the infirmary before and I was furious at the breach of one more boundary. She was not even a good weather prophet; with each passing minute the rain grew heavier. At last, further delay seemed pointless and I plunged out. I was nearly at the street when a shout came: “Nurse McEwen!”

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