It Won't Hurt a Bit (28 page)

I wasn’t used to being so included. Usually all but the most senior staff members would be hidden away and work held in a state of suspended animation until a round was over. Going on this one felt like a goodwill tour.

We gathered round the first bed.

The gynaecologist twinkled at the patient over his half specs. ‘Good Morning, care to share the joke?’

‘You’re too young,’ replied the patient, giving a wriggle of pleasure and pulling her nylon bed jacket about her as if to contain her mirth.

‘Pity,’ said the gynaecologist. After a few small pleasantries, then a big discussion about her operation, he said, ‘I think we should have a look at your stitches.’

‘If that’s ok with you and you don’t mind an audience?’ Kitty interrupted, leaning casually on an over-bed table at the end of the bed and resting her foot on its bar.

‘Aye. I’ll take the tickets, Sister, you take the money.’

‘In that case, we’ll need these.’ Kitty dimpled and stood back to let the other medics pull the curtains.

‘Could I sit up now?’ asked the patient after her scar line had been admired.

‘Certainly,’ said Kitty, ‘these nice strong doctors will be only too happy to help you.’ She waved her hand at the assembled white coats. ‘And be sure and tell this lot what your worries are because they’re the ones paid to have the answers, unless of course you want a private word, in which case just tip me the wink and we’ll organise that for later.’ She moved to the next bed.

Once every patient had been given the proper attention and every question the appropriate respect, the round was over, allowing the patients to settle in a ward that ran like clockwork. There were some squalls but only amongst the most competitive of patients reliving the biggest and bloodiest of operation tales. No wonder Kitty was respected and people loved working here.

‘Well, how did it go?’ Maisie, ironing piled virtuously high, enquired. ‘Or need I ask?’

‘It’s great and not only that, she’s wondering if our group would like to take part in her pantomime. Apparently our P.T.S. dramatics have gone down in the annals and she thinks the patients need something to think about other than their battle scars.’ I scratched my head and wondered, ‘Why does everyone associate us with drama?’

‘Why indeed,’ agreed Maisie. ‘Would there be a singing part? I’ve given up on talking blues – couldn’t get the rhythm somehow.’

By good luck we were all now back on day duty in Foresterhill, so it was easy to catch up with everybody. Persuading them to sign up, however, was another matter, so I approached Hazel since she had the kudos of a recovery bordering on the miraculous.

‘Don’t you think I’ve had enough excitement lately?’ It must be all that new blood coursing through her veins, but between that and her blue belt, she had the manner of a general, gracious in victory. ‘Anyway, I only associate with winners so who’d you like me to ask?’

‘Maybe you could have a word with Jo and Isobel. I think they’d trust you more than me anyway. Rosie’s already spoken to Sheila and she’s going to help with the scenery.’

‘Fantastic! And what about our practical nurse of the year?’

‘She wants a singing part.’

‘No!’ Hazel’s hand flew to her mouth, probably to hold back the scream. Still, she wore the thoughtful look of one already mustering her troops. ‘It’ll be great to do something altogether – should be a larf.’

I wondered how she’d persuade Isobel.

‘No problem! She’s at a loose end since breaking up with the latest bloke.’

‘Is she ok?’

Hazel narrowed her eyes. ‘Well, you know Iso – if she’d a broken heart you’d only know about it if you were at her funeral.’

But Isobel sounded fine when we gathered outside Kitty’s office. ‘I hope we’re doing the right thing here. I’ve suddenly got a dose of the jitters. Still, it stops life from being dull and it’s worth it if it means we can have something that takes our minds off blue-belt responsibility.’

Rosie was in a chirpy mood. ‘Isn’t it good that I managed to get Sheila on board? Now we’ve only to have Jo and we’ll all be together again and having fun. Hey look! There she is. Come on, Jo,’ Rosie’s hands beckoned, ‘Quickly, now!’

Sheila laughed in that lovely comforting way that reminded me of hot chocolate. ‘Some things dinnae change. Come on or we’ll get a row.’

‘And here’s the rest of the team.’ Kitty came to the door and waved us in. Weaving around some other budding thespians, she levered herself onto a desk, stretching her cat suit enough to inspire awe. After introductions, she went on, ‘And thanks for coming, good of you to give your time. I’ve got the scripts here,’ she waved a sheaf of papers, ‘so please have a quick read and then we can discuss the parts. And just before anyone starts slagging off the author,’ she considered the floor for a moment, ‘I think it’s only fair to tell you, it’s me what writ it.’ Only the swinging legs betrayed a playwright’s anxiety.

‘Great,’ breathed Isobel. ‘Just the place for professional suicide.’

We exchanged glances. I thought about my ward report and prayed for a good read.

Eventually, Isobel put down her script. ‘It’s great and I like the idea of a pantomime with germ-laden bugs against the universe,’ she spoke as if she too had felt the winds of adversity, ‘and it should be great fun, but I’m not sure where I’d fit in.’

Kitty sized her up. ‘I need three tall people to do “Sisters,” you know, the one the Beverley Sisters made famous. You and Hazel are a perfect height.’

‘I knew it’d come in handy sometime, and you’re obviously not fussed about our voices.’ Hazel observed.

Kitty laughed. ‘Charles’s going to be the third sister. Need I say more? But we’ll need other singers for the bug parts.’

Maisie drew breath whilst Rosie’s hand shot up, probably to gag her.

‘Ah! A volunteer. Splendid.’

‘Er – well, no – actually,’ Rosie stuttered, bouncing up and down as if about to take off.

‘You don’t have to do it well. Bugs ain’t toonful. Just as long as you’re bold with it and can hit the occasional note.’

‘That’s you,’ jeered Maisie. ‘The bold bit anyway.’

‘You seem to know each other pretty well,’ Kitty observed. ‘I think you’ll make a good team with one other person. What about you, Jane?’

Already overwhelmed by the informality, I said, ‘Is this for the other bug? It’s quite a big role.’

‘Yes. I need a threesome of nasty little bugs with carrying voices.’

‘Sounds the very part for you.’ Since signing up with Isobel, Hazel couldn’t have been more helpful.

‘Ah’ll be happy prop building and painting,’ Sheila offered. ‘Ah’ve got a few ideas already.’

Kitty gave her a long look. ‘Could you paint a celestial scene?’

Sheila’s smile was angelic. ‘Ah’m better at little devils but Ah’ll try. Ah’ll need folk wi’ muscles though.’ A spokesman from a group of burlies Kitty must have found in weight-lifting classes flexed his pectorals. ‘We’ll help – we’re keen to see a real artist at work.’

Sheila, looking pleased, gathered a group and started a conversation so technical that paint was never mentioned.

‘I’m not wonderful on machines but I can just about work a tape recorder, would that be enough for sounds?’ Jo stepped forward.

‘Yeah. Great.’ Kitty, wildly confident, handed her a small box. Rather doubtfully, Jo went off to twiddle knobs in a corner.

Kitty continued, ‘I’ve arranged with Home Sister for us to rehearse in the Home sitting room, so I reckon we need to meet there in a week and by that time, you’ll all have had a chance to get an idea of how you want to play it. Now, any questions?’

‘Have you got a part?’ a sly voice asked.

Kitty twitched her nose and all but checked her whiskers.

‘My part’s not yet in the script but, like you, I’ll be working on it. I’ll have enough to do backstage. It’ll probably be at the end and only be a cameo part.’

‘What’s that?’ whispered Rosie as we drifted out.

‘I think it means she’ll steal the show.’ Isobel was cynical.

‘You alright these days, Iso?’ I asked.

‘Apart from getting involved with you lot, yeah – why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Just wondered, that’s all. I haven’t seen you for ages. What about coming down to visit us. Tell us about any new romances.’

Isobel sounded bored. ‘I’ve had enough of blokes. They get all serious about themselves. They don’t seem to think a nursing career’s worth considering. Why can’t they just be friends?’ Sighing, she wandered off as if the world had become very complicated.

The following day, patients intrigued by pantomime news asked about Kitty’s part in it. I wasn’t able to help and when they asked her, she just looked inscrutable and swung her stethoscope with such a majorette-like twirl they had to duck.

Rehearsals got underway and Rosie surprised us with a sweet soprano, attracting the admiration of some male nurses Kitty had coerced into helping.

‘There’s no point in them falling at her feet. She’s got a boyfriend at home. He must be mad.’ Maisie sounded surprised and with renewed diligence, went off to undermine those golden notes with her tuneless undertow.

‘There’s a grave danger those two will kill each other,’ I said to Kitty during one particularly fraught rehearsal when Maisie finally knocked Rosie off her singing perch.

Kitty was taken aback and protested, ‘But conflict like that’s necessary in good drama – they’re merely suffering for the sake of art. They’re horrid little bugs. You’d expect them to act like that.’

I thought of my own role as the slimy fawning one and felt uncomfortable that it was so easy.

Harmony was more evident in the ‘Sisters’ routine, a clever parody with Isobel, Charles and Hazel a slick trio. The wardrobe mistress, pinched from the hospital linen store, simply swapped a lifetime of skills battling with nurses to lower hem lines, to providing mini-style sister uniforms that showed Charles’s knees to best advantage.

‘What about a bosom, Mabel?’ he asked.

Silently, she handed him two balloons.

‘So what kind of costume will you be wearing?’ a patient asked one day when I was recounting some panto tales.

‘Green tights and a tunic.’

‘Gosh! That’s brave,’ she said and held onto her stitch line before sharing the joke with her neighbour. ‘Wait till our visitors come – they’ll have a right laugh. We’ll all be coming to it. Not long now.’ The words fluted down the corridor and reminded us of how little time we had left. Even Kitty was beginning to get a twitch, and a visit from Matron, reminding her that she held responsibility for student nurses who should be spending every off-duty minute in study, didn’t help.

‘I’m going to cancel this – it’s never going to work,’ she said in an uncharacteristic fit of ill temper, after a rehearsal of muffed lines, shaky props and nervous hysteria. ‘It’s just not worth the anxiety.’

Jo scurried past clutching the tape recorder.

‘I think I’ve broken it,’ she said.

‘Then you’ll have to do the sound effects yourself,’ snapped Kitty, definitely wobbling.

‘How will I do the sound of a lavatory chain pulling?’ Jo worried over a key feature in one of our scenes.

Maisie gave an accurate raspberry.

‘That will do!’ Kitty shouted. ‘Right! That’s it. I’ve had enough.’ She swished her tail and put her head in her hands. ‘I can’t do this.’

‘For goodness sake, Kitty, let’s cut out the drama – please.’ Charles exuded calm. ‘Everybody’s doing their best, so why don’t we all have a break and a ciggie?’

Surrounded by our concern and his words, Kitty brightened. ‘You’re right. I don’t usually smoke but these are exceptional times, and if you lot fail your finals, remember it’s not my fault.’

Had she been in a more positive frame of mind, she would have seen there was progress with Sheila and her team transforming the barn-like Nurses’ Home hall into a credible theatre. The new Home Sister lost some of her formidability by helping rig up curtains before returning to her stance guarding the stairs leading to the bedrooms. ‘Anybody could get up there,’ she said with her arms folded, large feet planted at quarter to three.

‘What does Kitty think about these?’ Isobel nodded at the backdrop of rural scenes, which had well-upholstered cherubs, with the faces of some hospital familiars, frolicking amongst silver clouds.

‘She said she thocht they were a bittie pink for the North-east,’ said Sheila, looking out some blue and carefully adding those rude little flourishes in which she excelled.

The big night came. There had been a state of High Alert in the ward with a queue of candlewick-clad patients readying for the evening from early in the morning: and there they now were, complete with family and friends, cramming into an already-full hall and easily distinguished by their banter and, ‘Already we’re in stitches,’ a catchy little number they’d been perfecting all day.

‘I can see Matron. She’s right in the front row. Look!’ Rosie was peering unprofessionally through the curtains.

Sure enough, there she was, so unrecognisable in mufti and smiles that Sheila’s pinkest cherub, frolicking behind its medals, looked more like the original.

‘For the love of Mike, Rosie, come on, we’re needed back-stage.’ Maisie collared her.

‘You’re so bossy,’ said Rosie and bounced off, allowing Kitty to signal the curtains to be raised.

‘Right, everybody, let’s go.’

The pantomime got underway. Matron was reported to have laughed at the right moments; the audience was sympathetic. The scenery was standing the test and Jo’s sound effects were on cue. Charles brought the house down by bursting one bosom and running agitatedly after the other when it escaped. Meanwhile, Isobel, with Hazel, proving a full post-operative recovery, high-kicked him back to the limelight, completing the number to rapturous applause. Rosie and Maisie brought an unsurprisingly authentic but well-received hatred to the plot whilst the patients from my ward, perhaps remembering who was likely to be taking out their stitches, loudly applauded the sly fly bug.

‘I saw your ladies giving you a really big cheer,’ Jo observed, holding the sound box as if it were treasure.

‘One tries one’s best,’ I tried for nonchalance, ‘but now our part’s over and still I don’t know how the show’s going to finish. I can’t remember it being discussed.’