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

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

About Sarah Beeson

About Amy Beeson

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

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26

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29

Acknowledgements

Also by Sarah Beeson

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

About the Publisher

About Sarah Beeson

In 1969 17-year-old Sarah Beeson – then Sarah Hill – arrived in Hackney in the East End of London to begin her nursing career. Six years later she went into health visiting, practising for over 35 years in Kent and Staffordshire, building up a lifetime’s expertise and stories through working with babies and families.

In 1998 Sarah received the Queen’s Institute for Nursing Award. In 2006 she was awarded an MBE for Services to Children and Families by Queen Elizabeth II.

She later married and became Sarah Beeson. Now she divides her time between Staffordshire and London.

About Amy Beeson

Amy Beeson spent her childhood in rural Staffordshire. She is a writer of fiction and non-fiction, a scriptwriter and copywriter, and runs Wordsby, a branding and communications business. Amy studied English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia, followed by an MA in Writing and Performance for Theatre, Film and Television at the University of York. She has won prizes for poetry, has had several plays performed and was a young playwright at the Birmingham Rep where she met her husband, writer Takbir Uddin. They now live in London with their daughter, Ava.

1

The early autumn sun made my eyelids flutter as my brand new green Mini sped round a sharp bend at which was yet another signpost promising that the village of Totley lay a short distance ahead of me. It seemed complicit with every twist and turn of the Kent countryside to keep the hilltop village from my eagerly searching eyes. It teased me, revealing woods, then a flash of a farm at the end of a long muddy road, and the odd white weather-boarded cottage tucked away in the brambles at the edge of a copse. I was starting to feel like the place I was searching for didn’t really exist; adding to my apprehension that the whole thing was a misunderstanding and when I arrived they’d tell me there had been an error and I hadn’t got the job at all. After all who’d want a twenty-something health visitor straight out of training?

The road was never straight for more than a minute. I’d driven all the way from my parents’ new townhouse in Staffordshire and I was desperate to be in my first home – just me, no brothers and sisters or flatmates – just me for the very first time in my life. To my great relief the raw countryside eventually gave way to high wooden gates that exposed only the numerous chimneys belonging to the big houses of the county set. And at long last a sign which read ‘Welcome to Totley’. I sighed; it was beautiful and quiet and so different from the streets of Hackney – it was like arriving in another world, as my eyes delighted in the beautiful stone walls nestling cottages with bow windows and front doors separated from the pavement by only narrow porches. I felt my spirits lift and drummed along to the beat of ‘Higher and Higher’ by Jackie Wilson on the car radio.

The steeple of St Agatha’s Church peeked out almost reticently from behind aged yew trees. As I cruised past the church a cacophony of bells rang out proudly from the belfry giving my arrival in the village a dreamlike feel. The heavy oak doors opened and wedding guests poured into the churchyard, idly nestling amongst the neglected gravestones having a quick solitary smoke or chatting in clusters of acquaintances. I looked on and smiled as the bride and groom surrounded by their closest family and friends were photographed by a man in a grey flannel suit with long sandy hair, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he forced elderly aunts in floral A-line dresses elbow to elbow with young groomsmen in stripy ill-fitting suits with yellow carnations in their buttonholes. The bride was radiant in a wide-brimmed floppy white hat and an empire-line scooped neck gown. Her dress billowed out in the breeze as she tightly held onto a small bouquet of indistinguishable pink flowers. Her bridesmaids enthusiastically tossed confetti over the happy couple, their shallow long-handled wicker baskets hung over their arms like handbags filled with yellow carnations.

I came to a crossroads and glanced down at the directions I’d scribbled when the superintendent health visitor telephoned to offer me the job:

Ivy Cottage Clinic, Main Road.

Ask Mrs Florence Farthing for keys. Next door at Primrose Cottage.

Main Road appeared to be the road I was on. I continued ahead and found myself in the epicentre of Totley. A row of cream cottages with brightly painted front doors faced the Village Hall and Totley Garage amongst a parade of small shops and businesses. A pair of black boots stuck out from under a Rover at the garage and multi-coloured bunting fluttered in the wind at the Village Hall, which was no doubt the venue for the wedding reception. I pulled up on the street outside the pale-blue door of Ivy Cottage at the end of the terrace. A shiny plaque told me unmistakably that it was ‘Totley Clinic’ – I was finally home.

I turned off the engine and jumped out of my newly acquired Mini, issued to me by ‘the County’ as one of the perks of the job. I’d stuffed my little car to the gunnels with the bric-à-brac and kitchenware I’d acquired during my time as a nurse in a shared flat on Balls Pond Road in London’s East End; it was tilting precariously to one side. I was rather looking forward to having my own kitchen and not having to do someone else’s washing-up before I could start preparing my own meal. I frowned at my school trunk which had been inexpertly strapped to the roof of my Mini by my younger brother Stephen – it was looking more dilapidated than ever. My initials ‘SH’ were very faded and scratched – maybe this wasn’t the best first impression to give the village of their new health visitor. You must try and look older and more respectable, I scolded myself, now regretting wearing a pair of denim shorts and a white peasant blouse with delicately embroidered blue flowers to drive down in, but it was such a warm day.

Suddenly, I was worried about my appearance and took my compact out from my large brown leather handbag and inspected my face. I cleaned my black-rimmed glasses with a tissue and popped them back primly on the end of my pale-skinned nose. I bit my lips and pinched my cheeks to give myself a hint of colour and rapidly ran my fingers through my tangle of long dark hair. Futilely I attempted to pull at the edges of my shorts towards my bare knees and cast a withering look at my raffia platform sandals looking mockingly up at me.

Taking a deep breath I knocked on the bright-yellow door of Mrs Farthing at Primrose Cottage. There was no answer. I tried again and waited a few minutes but nothing. I tried my own front door but it was locked. I could feel panic rising within me – what if there really had been a mistake and no one was expecting me at all?

My anxiety was broken by the sound of a squeak and a clanging of metal, shortly followed by the appearance of an old man with a crinkled tanned face and salt and pepper hair making his wobbly way down the street on a boneshaker of a bicycle. He was whistling to himself, completely unperturbed by the inharmonious clatter and whining of his transportation. He was balancing metal buckets on each side of the handlebars and a ladder was resting lengthways across his lap. When he saw me dawdling on the pavement outside the row of cottages his face lit up and crumpled even further at the eyes and mouth.

‘Hello there, Nurse,’ he called cheerily. ‘She’ll be out the back. We couldn’t stand waiting indoors, not on such a beauty of a day.’

I smiled but didn’t know what to say. Was this Mr Farthing?

He hopped nimbly off his bicycle and opened the door to the side passage. ‘Follow me, Nurse,’ he instructed as he took the metal buckets filled with chicken feed with him down the narrow dark tunnel. Obediently I followed. As he emerged ahead of me into the sunlight he called, ‘Flo, the Nurse is here. She’s arrived!’

Flo Farthing had the same tanned skin as her husband, her greying dark hair swept neatly up into a bun. She was deftly picking tomatoes from a vine, standing completely at ease in a garden filled with bed upon bed of flowers, fruit and vegetables. It’s like Mr McGregor’s garden, I thought pleasantly – any minute now I will see a fat little brown rabbit popping out from a watering can. There were mature fruit trees at the back and I was sure there was a goat grazing on a stretch of pasture that ran along the end of the lane. Mrs Farthing was neat as a new pin and wore a white fitted knee-length shirt dress with green leaves and vines on it. She was diminutive and comfortingly plump, her arms and legs muscular and bronzed from a life lived outdoors. When she saw me her face lit up and she hurried towards us, hens half-flapping away at her feet, eager to get to the metal buckets of feed Mr Farthing was carrying.

I stretched out my hand and introduced myself, ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Farthing. I’m Sarah Hill, the new health visitor.’

‘Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Nurse,’ she gushed. ‘But we’ll have none of this Mr and Mrs Farthing business. I’m Flo and he’s Clem. You follow me – I’ll take you up to the flat and get the kettle on. As you know, Clem and I are the caretakers for the clinic. I keep it spick and span and look after you ladies, and Clem does any odd jobs that need doing. We’ve given your flat a good set-to this morning, haven’t we, Clem?’

Clem nodded in accordance with his wife and tossed a handful of feed to the clucking hens. ‘I’m going to check on Bessie.’

I looked enquiringly. ‘The pig,’ explained Flo. ‘An Essex we got from Joe Rudcliff at Treetops Farm for fattening. And right soft Clem is about it too. Calls it Queen Bess for crying out loud.’ Clem said nothing and hurried away to the pig sty at the back of their cottage garden. ‘You mark my words, Clement Farthing, come Easter that porker will do very nicely indeed.’ Flo’s words disappeared on the cool early autumn breeze. She rearranged her face from scolding to motherly and said encouragingly, ‘Follow me, dear. We’ll pop in through the back gate.’

‘You have a beautiful garden,’ I said admiringly.

She beamed with pride. ‘We’ve been here over 40 years. Since the day we were married.’

Flo expertly picked her way through poultry, garden produce and tools to the back lane, where the goat was thoughtfully chewing on someone else’s washing line. I thought of all my belongings left unattended on the street and felt uneasy. It seemed funny to be going in through the back door.

‘I think I better go back to my car and get the boxes to carry up to the flat first,’ I suggested weakly.

‘No need for that. Clem will do it. You don’t need to lift a finger. Give me your car keys, Nurse.’

I reluctantly pulled out my precious keys from the pocket of my denim shorts. ‘CLEM-eennntt,’ called Flo loudly. Clem popped his head up over the garden fence. Flo chucked the keys at him without saying a word and he gave a little half-salute and scuttled off to do her bidding.

A few yards down the lane was a tatty-looking gate that stood between two enormous blackberry bushes, with a rusty catch on it. Flo struggled to open the rusty catch and gave the gate a good kick; in response it opened with a shrill squeak.

‘I’ll get Clem to oil that tonight,’ she said more to herself than to me. ‘This is the garden. You go into the clinic through the front door of the cottage. You see there’s a side passage next to that little car park – well, that’ll bring you from the street right to your garden. The stairs are at the back to give you a little bit of privacy.’

She tutted as we walked down the long narrow plot, past the ancient apple, pear and cherry trees, neglected vegetable patches and an abandoned greenhouse. I looked at my garden longingly. It had so much potential. This was good earth. I could save a fortune if I got it going again.

‘I hope you don’t think Clem and I have been neglecting our duties,’ whispered Flo. ‘Only Nurse Hunter, who was the old district nurse who lived in the cottage until three months back, wouldn’t touch the garden. Wouldn’t let us lend a hand neither. She let it go to wrack and ruin. It’s criminal.’

‘Oh, dear. I like gardening. Perhaps you and Clem could help me restore it to its former glory, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Would you like that, Nurse?’ I nodded enthusiastically. ‘It would be an absolute pleasure. I’ve got a good feeling about you,’ she whispered conspiratorially, nudging me gently in the ribs.

‘Didn’t the new district nurse want the cottage?’ I asked as Flo rummaged in her pockets for the keys.

‘Oh, that one. She’s not much older than you and she likes a good time. No, Nurse Bates didn’t want to be in Totley. She turned down Ivy Cottage and opted for the bright lights of Maidstone. Wants to be near all them discotheques and swanky restaurants if you ask me.’

I quite liked the sound of Nurse Bates already. I was only in my mid-twenties; maybe I should have opted for nightlife over country life too. I’d been so thrilled to be offered the job and the flat that I hadn’t really thought about how much I was giving up by moving to the sticks. Oh well, too late now, I said to myself. And I really was quite excited about my garden. I’d done plenty of going out during my Hackney days – it was time to be grown-up off-duty as well as on, I resolved.

‘If you don’t mind me saying, Nurse, you’re the youngest health visitor I’ve seen – by a long way.’

I smiled. I didn’t say actually the youngest in the country by all accounts.

Flo produced the keys and held them up to my face. ‘Want to open the door to your new home?’ she asked with a twinkle in her grey eyes. I eagerly took them off her and rattled the heavy old key in the archaic lock. Flo ceremoniously pushed open the pale-blue door with a flourish and stepped back to let me cross the threshold to my new home.

I ran up the narrow staircase, my hand running up the wooden bannisters newly painted in creamy yellow. They led straight into the kitchen and living area. It was large and bright with a window seat overlooking Main Road. It was, as Flo had said, spick and span, though a little old fashioned with frilly floral curtain covered cupboards and a beautiful old butler sink sparklingly clean. Two faded chintz armchairs were arranged neatly opposite a matching sofa and a pale-blue Formica table stood in the kitchen surrounded by bright-yellow dining chairs. On it was a box of fruit and vegetables, some milk, eggs, a loaf of bread, a packet of tea and a fruit cake next to a little vase of roses.

‘Did you get these for me, Flo?’ I asked, looking through the box of goodies.

‘It’s a little something to get you started,’ she clucked.

‘Thank you so much, that’s incredibly kind. Let me give you some money for it,’ I insisted, reaching for my purse. I was grateful for their kindness and generosity and they didn’t even know me.

‘Put your money away, Nurse. It’s all from our garden anyway and I made the bread and the cake as today’s one of my baking days, and the milk is from the cow I keep at my sister’s. So, it didn’t cost nothing.’ Flo quickly changed the subject. ‘There’s a double bedroom at the back overlooking the garden,’ she continued with the guided tour. ‘The bathroom is through there and you’ll find a little storage cupboard with a hoover and brushes in it at the end of the corridor.’

‘It’s lovely,’ I enthused as I peeked out of the window onto the street below. Flo perched next to me on the window seat. The wedding party was now strewn around the lawn of the Village Hall. There were children running around, men drinking beer and women in floppy hats sipping wine in the sunshine. The bride and groom were greeting people as they walked past them into the hall.

‘I’ll have to pop over to the church soon and help the vicar tidy up – he’s not married yet, bless him and he doesn’t know a cornflower from a poppy,’ Flo told me.

‘I hope you didn’t miss the wedding on my account?’ I asked.

‘No, wasn’t invited,’ she sniffed sharply. ‘His family’s no better than they ought to be. Him, his brothers, his dad and his uncles all work up at the brewery and I would think they drink as much as they brew; no wonder the old place is on its way out. And she’s not been in the village five minutes and her family very much keeps themselves to themselves. They’re not even from Kent! Came from some town in Essex by all accounts. And you don’t have to be a nurse to see you’ll be visiting that girl sooner rather than later,’ remarked Flo with a knowing nod.

I can’t say I was salivating with the imparting of so much village gossip. I felt another short pang for city life and the anonymity of it all. Totley had looked idyllic as I drove through, but clearly life was going to be rather more sedate from now on. I sighed to myself.

The bride and groom eventually disappeared into the Village Hall after greeting the last of their guests. Flo left me to explore the rest of the flat on my own. I could hear the singing of the kettle as she prepared a little tea party to celebrate my arrival. I heard heavy footsteps running up the stairs. When I returned to the kitchen Clem was panting with his hands on his old knees as he tried to catch his breath.

‘Clem, where’s the nurse’s belongings? What have you been doing, you old fool?’ scolded Flo.

‘Come quick, Nurse. Village Hall. The bride – she’s not well,’ puffed Clem.

I’d barely been there half an hour and was already summoned to my first medical emergency. Was this what life as a village health visitor was going to be like? I thought it would be dull compared with hospital life. How wrong I was and how glad I was to be given the wrong first impression of Totley.

Clem led me at a gallop across the street to the Village Hall. The groom and his mates had already opened a huge barrel of scrumpy and were freely pouring it into tankards from the makeshift bar. Young girls danced around their handbags in the small square of dance floor. The speakers pumped out KC and the Sunshine Band’s ‘Get Down Tonight’. It wasn’t even five o’clock but the tranquil scene of a quiet country wedding had been transformed into a rowdy gathering of half-cut young locals. At this stage in the proceedings the youthful wedding guests were still divided into male and female, while the older crowd looked on from the sidelines – safe from speculation and free to observe in a straight row of chairs against the walls of the hall. They sat either still, their knees together sipping sherry in between tuts and the sucking in of teeth, or attempted to lounge on the uncomfortable-looking red plastic chairs while watching the heady scene wistfully, wishing they could join in with the youngsters.

Flo was hot on our heels. When we reached the back of the hall Clem stopped abruptly at the side door.

‘We’ll take it from here, Clem,’ Flo instructed, stepping forward and relieving him of duty.

As soon as he was given a reprieve Clem scurried off back to his garden and Bessie his beloved pig. I wished I could go with him.

‘What is the medical emergency?’ I asked Flo under my breath.

‘I would have thought that was obvious. She’s having a baby.’

‘Who?’

‘The bride.’

‘Have you called the midwife?’

‘Yes, but she’s in Malling, it’ll take her at least half an hour to get here.’

Oh help, I thought. I’m not a midwife, I’m a health visitor and only just. Every baby I’ve delivered was during my obstetrics training in a hospital! I took a deep breath – I needed to take charge of the situation. This was nothing I couldn’t handle. Pull yourself together, Sarah, I scolded myself. How far on can the girl be? First babies take hours and she’s probably in first-stage labour or maybe even a false alarm brought on by the excitement of the wedding. Don’t let your nerves get the better of you.

‘Right, I’ll take it from here,’ I told Flo. ‘Well done for calling the midwife but can you call an ambulance too. We don’t want any surprises, do we?’

‘Just as you say, Nurse. Give me a whistle if you need anything. I’ve got the keys to the clinic. I can pop in and get whatever you want until the midwife or the ambulance get here.’

‘Some surgical rubber gloves and towels would be good for a start. Do you know what a foetal stethoscope is?’

‘I certainly do,’ Flo replied a little curtly.

‘Excellent, well one of those too if you would,’ I said with a broad smile. Flo was pacified.

‘Righto, Nurse,’ she replied, hurrying back to the clinic, glad to be of use and in the thick of it.

When I opened the door to the small cramped side room I did not find what I had been expecting; I’d imagined a slightly pink-faced bride pacing around with early labour pains. No, instead I found a frightened young woman with her dress half off, squatting between two red plastic chairs, using the seats as arm supports. An even younger bridesmaid still in her fresh buttercup gown looked pale-faced as she watched from behind the panting newlywed, whose previously neat bridal hair-do was now a tangled mess around her hot red face, her make-up smudged around her overly bright eyes.

‘Hello. I’m Sarah Hill, the new health visitor,’ I explained quickly and calmly, closing the door behind me.

‘Thank God, you’ve come, Nurse. Susie Smith, I mean Bunyard. Mrs Susan Bunyard,’ said the bride, panting.

‘The midwife is on her way, Mrs Bunyard. But if you could put up with me until she gets here, I think we’ll be able to manage between us.’ She smiled briefly and then closed her eyes in preparation for the next contraction. ‘When did you first start to experience labour pains?’ I asked.

Susan Bunyard tried to answer me but she couldn’t catch her breath. I turned my gaze towards the nervous-looking bridesmaid and smiled. The poor child couldn’t have been more than 13, and she looked terrified. ‘I’m Lisa. Susie’s sister,’ she squeaked.

‘Right, Lisa. Could you go and find me a jug of water, some glasses and ice if you can,’ I told her.

The girl nodded and ran out of the room, glad to be away. Flo popped her head round the door and gave me the requested equipment then tactfully retreated.

Now it was just us, I repeated my question to the expectant mother. ‘When did you start to experience labour pains, Mrs Bunyard?’

‘My waters broke before I put my dress on to go to church to get wed,’ she said, panting, followed by a howl as she experienced a deep long contraction. I held her hand and waited for the wave of pain to be over.

‘Do you mind if I take a look and see how the baby is doing?’ I asked.

‘Help yourself, Nurse,’ she said breathlessly.

I gathered up some cushions for her to rest on the floor to give her tired arms and legs a break. Her head flopped down as she tucked herself up into a ball. I pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and scooted round to examine her.

‘How many hours ago did your waters break?’

‘It’s only been three hours. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want any delay, any excuse to postpone it. His lot would love that! I didn’t want this baby born out of wedlock,’ she whimpered. I could hear her breath shuddering out of her as she waited for the next contraction to come, and she didn’t get to rest for long because a minute later she was gritting her teeth again.

‘You’re quite far on,’ I said gently.

‘I know, I know,’ wailed the poor girl.

Lisa returned with the jugs of water and ice, and then scuttled off again.

‘Do you think you could drink a little water?’ I asked. She nodded and I held the glass as she took shallow sips.

‘How many weeks along are you?’ I asked.

‘Not long enough. New Year’s Eve it was. I met Aly hop picking last autumn and we got along. I knew he’d taken a shine to me. Made me promise to come to the New Year’s Eve party they were having at the Brewery and, well, here we are.’

I smiled and counted in my head. ‘You’re 36 weeks?’ I estimated. She nodded.

I hope the ambulance gets a wriggle on, I thought. Early baby coming this fast, they’d definitely need to go to Maidstone Hospital to be checked out. Steady now, Sarah, I told myself. Don’t alarm her. All the possible scenarios of what could be happening were playing through my head and some of them were not good.

‘The baby’s almost here, isn’t it?’ she cried.

‘Not long now,’ I said softly as I held her hand.

‘Oh, I can feel another contraction coming, it’s a big one.’ She gripped my arms as she raised herself to squat again between the two chairs and I mirrored her, doing my best to keep her safe and supported.

‘Whatever happens, don’t let them take the baby away, please,’ she begged.

Then to my everlasting relief, the midwife appeared just in the nick of time.

‘Evening, my sweetness. How far along are we then?’ she asked, smiling broadly, with two dimples in her round black cheeks.

In that moment the community midwife, Ernestine Higgins, looked like an angel to me – her curvaceous figure in the doorway surrounded by a glow of light coming from the disco, crowned in her pillbox navy hat on top of her wavy bobbed black hair that had one perfect streak of white in it from the left side of her temple that ran all the way down to the back of her neck. Her navy uniform was perfectly pressed with a white starched Peter Pan collar and a thick blue belt held in place by a shiny silver buckle. The Angel Gabriel in that moment wouldn’t have been a more welcome sight. The midwife shut the door and muffled the sounds of the Bay City Rollers coming from the hall.

‘I’m very glad to see you, Nurse,’ I told her. ‘Contractions are only about a minute apart now. Mrs Bunyard’s water broke only three hours ago.’

‘I see. I’ve not seen you before have I, Mrs Bunyard?’ enquired Nurse Higgins.

‘No, I’m from Essex,’ replied Mrs Bunyard. ‘Or I was until today.’

‘And is this your first baby?’ asked Nurse Higgins but she didn’t get a reply as Mrs Bunyard had another contraction. ‘Hand me some gloves please, Nurse. Let the dog see the rabbit.’ The midwife assessed the situation quickly and then picked up one of the freshly laundered towels Flo had brought over from the clinic. ‘Looks like we have everything we need,’ she said cheerfully. ‘How are your fielding skills, Nurse?’ she asked as she handed me the towel.

Her deep-brown eyes were staring intently at Mrs Bunyard’s other end. I caught her eye and she nodded in confirmation.

‘It’s time, my sweetness,’ she told Mrs Bunyard. ‘The head is almost through. Next time you feel a contraction coming I want you to push into your bottom and let’s get this baby out.’ She’d barely got her sentence out when Mrs Bunyard screwed up her eyes and started to push. ‘Quick, catch, Nurse,’ called the midwife to me and there was a gush and the baby popped out. I hadn’t been expecting to be holding a beautiful newborn baby in my arms on my first day in Totley, but I couldn’t help but feel blessed as this tiny new life let out her first lusty cries.

‘She’s a wee one but there’s nothing wrong with her lungs, is there?’ I told Mrs Bunyard as, mesmerised, she watched her child with tears rolling down her cheeks.

Nurse Higgins sprang into action taking out all her equipment from her bag as we worked together silently and companionably, cutting the little one’s cord and clearing the baby’s passages. I was relieved all seemed to be well and that I hadn’t forgotten my obstetrics training.

‘Excellent work, ladies,’ Nurse Higgins said as I placed the baby gently into the new mother’s arms for the first time.

‘Glad you were here … Nurse?’

‘Hill,’ I replied. ‘I’m the new health visitor.’

‘I see,’ replied the midwife. ‘Good catch, by the way. Have you thought about joining the village cricket team?’ She laughed. ‘My husband’s on the committee and they’re always looking for someone in the slips.’

2

I tipped my half-eaten piece of toast into the bin and put my plate, cup and saucer into the sink with a rattle. Again I glanced up at the square orange clock on the wall of my kitchen; I could have sworn it was ticking more slowly than usual – how was it still only eight o’clock in the morning? I wasn’t due to start at the clinic till nine; would it be bad form to be there before everyone else on my first day or show how committed I was? Come on, Sarah, no time like the present, I told myself, and decided the best option would be to locate my desk and find my way around the clinic unobserved so I wouldn’t lose the whole of Monday morning working out where everything was and feeling like a postulant. Before I left I inspected myself once more in the long mirror at the top of the stairs to check I was presentable. Was my chosen ensemble of a square-necked sky-blue dress a couple of inches above the knee teamed with a cream wide-collared blouse covered in cornflowers professional enough? My shoes were smart at least thanks to my mum buying me a pair of tan-coloured pumps for a big do at Dad’s work over the summer.

Pushing my black-rimmed spectacles firmly onto my nose I thought how much older I looked than on my first day as a trainee nurse, but did I really know enough to be let loose on the mothers and babies of Kent? I dearly hoped so. I thought wistfully of Daddy Davis, the charge nurse at Hackney, who’d insisted I always wear my glasses and what Sister Nivern, the harridan in charge of Infants Ward, would say to my loose, long dark hair, free from pins and tightly wound buns. Funny how health visitors were in mufti but midwives and district nurses still had their uniforms and were recognisable in the community. When you thought about it, a health visitor on your doorstep could be anyone; the Avon lady or a well-meaning caller from the Women’s Institute perhaps – but maybe that was the point?

At the front door of the clinic I rooted around in my brown leather shoulder bag for the key Flo had given me and was alarmed to discover the door was already open. I remembered in Hackney my mentor Miss Knox telling me how often the clinic there was broken into by gangs and addicts searching for drugs – but surely this wasn’t the case in Totley? I crept down the chequered tiled entrance hall cursing the resounding click of my heels. Filled with uncertainty I put my hand on the handle of the first door. ‘Consultation Room’ was engraved on a brass sign but this door was locked. Past this was the large empty room that was used for the clinic. Grey plastic chairs were stacked against the wall behind a low table adorned with neatly piled copies of Woman’s Own and Horse & Hound. A small wooden desk was pushed up against the wall and above it a poster advertising tins of baby milk. Beside it stood a couple of comfortable chairs, a set of scales, and a stack of plastic bowls and tissues on the changing tables. I pushed open another door but it was only stairs leading down to the dark cellar that served as the clinic’s storeroom and I didn’t fancy investigating any further down there. When I poked my head round the doors to the loo and the small kitchen a strong smell of bleach wafted at me from each. I noted that though these facilities were a bit tired and dated, like my little flat, Flo certainly kept them gleaming and in good order.

Finally, I came to the ‘Health Visitors’ Office’ at the bottom of the corridor. The door was ajar. I peeped round the edge of the door and observed there was a desk in each of the four corners of the room and at the tidiest desk nearest the picture window sat a woman writing with a slim silver pen. A perfect line of glass vases of different shapes and sizes in pink, blue, green and yellow glass were beautifully arranged on the window sill. The coloured glass reflected the morning sunshine in a brilliant rainbow across the room. A large emerald and sapphire coloured speckled vase filled with white roses and blue and lilac freesias sat on her desk next to a collection of decorative silver photo frames. The elegant woman was wearing tortoise-shell spectacles on a gold chain round her neck, a perfectly pressed moss-green linen skirt and jacket and a violet blouse. Several rows of pea-green glass beads hung loosely round her neck as well as a gold oval-shaped locket. She was not young and must have been in her mid-forties; to me, she was the epitome of sophistication and style and not what I had expected of a country health visitor in the least. I hovered in the doorway for a few seconds watching her before she realised I was there. I couldn’t help but feel a little tatty by comparison and missed the reassurance of my nurse’s uniform. I nervously rocked onto the outer edges of my feet, scuffing my new shoes until a few moments later she sensed my presence. In one swift movement she immediately got to her feet while simultaneously pushing her reading glasses on top of her shiny black cropped hair to get a better look at me.

‘Ah, Miss Hill, we’re so glad you’ve come to join us,’ she said warmly as she quickly walked over and ushered me in. ‘Let me show you your desk. I’m Hermione Drummond.’

‘It’s lovely to meet you, errr’ – was she a Miss or a Mrs? Oh, help, I couldn’t very well call her ‘Nurse’.

She immediately saw my dilemma, ‘Miss Drummond. Unmarried, thank heavens,’ she told me with a chuckle.

The door was nudged open with a bump and another very lofty woman stood in the doorway dressed in a burgundy polo-necked jumper and a pale-grey and brown zig-zag-patterned long skirt and cardigan. Her wavy grey hair was scooped up in large combs at the sides of her head. Unlike Miss Drummond who had a slightly bohemian air, this health visitor wore no jewellery except a gold wedding band and a three-stoned diamond ring, but she was just as smart and graceful.

I wondered if excellent deportment had been a prerequisite to health-visitor training in days gone by. Both my new colleagues were tall and filled with quiet confidence – at a little over five foot I couldn’t help but feel that I didn’t quite measure up in more ways than one. Stand up straight, Sarah, I told myself, stretching myself out a little more and trying to look at ease in my new surroundings. In Hackney I could be nose to chest with an outright East End gangster and not turn a hair and yet here I was inwardly quivering like a school girl. Get a grip, I told myself, as I forced my nerves down and returned their friendly smiles with a big grin of appreciation at this amiable welcome.

‘Ah, Mrs King. You’ll see our newest addition, Miss Hill, is with us bright and early,’ Miss Drummond informed her.

Mrs King placed the wooden tray she’d been carrying onto her desk. I noted the hand-embroidered tray cloth with delicate lace edges, all laid out with a white china tea service patterned with bright green hens and foliage. Standards were clearly very high at Totley Clinic; no upturned tea chest and illicit stash of shop-bought biscuits for them.

‘I had a feeling we’d see you sooner rather than later, Miss Hill,’ proclaimed Mrs King with a smile. ‘Hence the extra cup and saucer this morning,’ she explained as she poured out the tea. There was also a stack of delicious-looking shortbread on the tray, which made my depleted appetite suddenly reappear.

‘Shortbread?’ she enquired. ‘I made it yesterday evening while dinner was in the oven,’ she told me, offering me the plate.

‘Really! I had a Vesta curry on a tray in front of the telly and watched Upstairs, Downstairs,’ I replied, astonished, and helping myself to a piece. Sarah, why did you say that, I scolded myself, shoving the shortbread into my mouth to stopper it. Homemade shortbread – my, it was so good.

‘Oh yes, that James Bellamy is quite a dish, isn’t he?’ said Miss Drummond with a smile. ‘Etty went to bed early and I had the place to myself. Just me, Upstairs, Downstairs and a large gin and tonic – one of life’s lovely moments.’

‘Yes, it was a good one,’ agreed Mrs King. ‘Even the boys watched it with Jack and me – but I don’t think they’d admit it to their school friends. Then they both disappeared and camped out in the summer house all night again. I could hear Led Zeppelin drifting across the lawn until well after midnight; good job we don’t have any neighbours at our place but I don’t know what the hens think of it. Jack had to threaten to chuck a bucket of water over the pair of them to get them out of their sleeping bags and on time for the school bus this morning,’ she said with a laugh.

‘You’ve got two boys?’ I asked.

‘And a girl, Harriet, but she’s at Glasgow now doing History,’ answered Mrs King. ‘But David and John are 15 and 17 and can let themselves in after school now, which is fine as long as the cupboards are well stocked. Teenage boys never stop eating.’

Three children, a husband and livestock to take care of and she works and finds a spare minute to make homemade delicacies – was she superhuman?

‘Sit yourself down, Miss Hill,’ instructed Miss Drummond, showing me my very own desk in the corner nearest the door.

I’d never had my own desk before and here I was at a little after eight o’clock in the morning on my very first day as a health visitor sitting in a rather swish swivel chair in front of my desk drinking tea and eating homemade shortbread. It was all I could do not to swirl around and around in excitement. My eyes devoured my new office space – I’d been provided with a blotter and a wicker filing tray. Brand new pens and notepads were all laid out for me, on top of which was a set of keys for my drawers. I reached into my bag and pulled out the green leather mug and letter opener I’d commandeered from my dad’s desk and popped them in pride of place. I suddenly felt a little wave of importance and pleasure under-laced by the feeling I was playing at being a grown-up, with my new Mini and Ivy Cottage – what had I done to deserve any of it? I looked at my white telephone and thought any minute now there will be that call when they tell you it’s all been a terrible mistake and they don’t want you after all – that none of this is yours. But thankfully the phone didn’t ring. Enjoy the moment, I told myself.

‘Now you have your Mini. Did they give you a log book?’ enquired Miss Drummond. I nodded. ‘Good, good. Don’t forget to keep your petrol receipts and mileage up to date or dear Miss Presnell will want to know why. Have you met our manager yet?’

‘No,’ I replied.

‘She’s not a bad sort. Miss Presnell doesn’t bother us much does she, Mrs King?’ called out Miss Drummond without pausing for a response. ‘And she doesn’t take too much nonsense from the top brass. Though to be honest she only comes out to the sticks on high days and holidays,’ she added with a laugh. I saw Mrs King smile and arch an eyebrow at our colleague’s account of our superior officer.

‘And at 70 new pence to the gallon it’s not a bad deal,’ continued Miss Drummond. ‘Where did you train?’

‘Hackney,’ I answered.

‘Ooh, I like a girl who’s trained at a proper hospital. I started out in the Wirral and then New York before I came to the Garden of England.’

‘My parents lived in Sevenoaks for a few years and I went to school near Sunridge for a while.’

‘You’re practically a local then. You’ll know your russet from your cox,’ she chortled.

‘We haven’t got anything too gruelling for your first day. Miss Drummond and I have hearing tests at nine o’clock and I’m sorry that we’ll be out for most of the day. We’ve got a list of your patch and a big map of the area ready, you can reconnoitre the district a bit before you hit the road,’ explained Mrs King, handing me over a folder.

I eagerly opened the huge map and saw the wide expanse of countryside. ‘You’ll be doing Totley, the outskirts of Malling, The Meadows and the surrounding areas. At the moment that’s about 800 babies and children under five plus the elderly visits we undertake.’

I looked up at her eyes wide. ‘Eight hundred,’ I repeated.

‘And counting,’ she smiled, ‘not forgetting visits to the elderly to keep an eye on their general health. You’re also the school nurse for St Agatha’s and the Meadows Infant and Junior Schools. There’s a weekly clinic in Totley but luckily for you there’s only a monthly clinic run with the GP in The Meadows and at the RAF.’

‘That’s very fortunate,’ I uttered. Eight hundred children, I thought. Eight hundred! But secretly I couldn’t wait to get started. I wanted to know each one of them right now.

‘So, you sit tight for today and answer the phone. You need only go out if there’s an emergency,’ added Miss Drummond. ‘You’ve got your first clinic for Totley tomorrow afternoon, Mums and Toddlers on Wednesday and RAF clinic on Thursday – best you gen up on those. We’ll let you loose on some clients in the middle of the week; there are a few referrals from Dr Drake, our Totley GP, to work through. His scrawls take a fair bit of deciphering, so do ask if you have any questions. All the client records for your patch are in these boxes if you need to look anything up,’ she told me, tapping the two wooden index boxes already on my desk.

‘Righto,’ I replied. My fingers itching to get to work on the doctor’s referrals and plan my week.

‘And if you get a spare few minutes at lunchtime maybe toddle down to St Agatha’s Primary to introduce yourself. Mr Hopkins the headmaster is very nice and Reverend Shepherd generally pops in to have lunch with the children on a Monday. It’s all rather jolly,’ Miss Drummond informed me as she gathered up her bag.

‘Enjoy your first day,’ added Mrs King. ‘We’ll try and pop in again in a few hours and see how you are doing. I’m sure Flo will be clucking around you anyhow.’

I’d been advised to stay put and settle in slowly and yet there I was barely an hour later lost in the Kent countryside with my sparkling Mini not just covered in mud but stuck in it. Only 20 minutes 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 and stick to two or three cups of tea or coffee a day, as the caffeine can make the baby restless. If you have a nice milky malted drink before bedtime it might help him doze off a little easier.’

‘Right. I hadn’t thought of that. I was drinking all that tea and coffee to help me stay awake – I didn’t realise it would have the same effect on him.’

‘Not to worry. I can’t think straight in the morning until I’ve had a cup of tea and I don’t have a newborn baby keeping me up.’

‘Or a husband snoring in your ear when the baby goes down and you get a chance for forty winks?’ she said, giggling.

‘No,’ I agreed, with a chuckle. ‘Fortunately not. Do you think Mr Rudcliff could help with the housework and cooking a bit?’ I suggested.

She looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘No, Nurse. He’s a male chauvinist pig farmer,’ and we both burst out laughing for at least a minute.

‘Do you have any family nearby who could help?’ I asked.

‘My mum’s in Cheltenham. I don’t like to bother her.’

‘Has she offered to help?’

‘Lots of times but I don’t want her to think I can’t cope. I want her to be proud of me; she always had everything immaculate when I was little and look at this place!’ she said, casting her eyes round the farmhouse kitchen in dismay.

‘Housework always needs doing. I don’t see the harm in letting things slide for a little while.’

‘Oh! My mother-in-law said you’d be coming to see I kept the place clean and tidy or you’d report me.’

‘Not at all,’ I told her. ‘Are your husband’s family able to lend a hand?’

‘His parents live in the bungalow. Did you see it on your way in?’

‘Yes, up on the mound?’

‘Ghastly, isn’t it? I wouldn’t ask his mother to help me in a month of Sundays. She’d love nothing better than to get back into the farmhouse kitchen and shove me out. I won’t have it,’ she told me, getting quite worked up. Baby Craig started crying again.

‘I’ve only just fed him. Really I have,’ she said, her voice fading and her eyes glazing over.

‘Long babies can be difficult to feed,’ I explained.

‘Can they?’

‘Yes, and he was 10 pounds and six ounces when he was born and I can see from his discharge papers he’s nearly made his birth weight up already. That means you’re doing a fantastic job,’ I soothed.

‘I’m finding him a bit heavy. He’s only two weeks old and he’s already a handful – how am I going to cope?’ she asked as tears started to trickle down her freckled cheeks and her narrow shoulders shook as she took short intakes of breath. ‘I feel so lost sometimes. One minute I’m looking at him and my heart is fit to burst, I love him so much. But there are times in the middle of the night when I feel utterly alone. Joe’s snoring, none the wiser, the baby won’t go down in his crib and I’m so tired I can barely see straight. I swear I’ve seen the sunrise every morning since Craig was born.’ I sat by her side and listened, nodding and acknowledging her feelings. ‘Why did no one tell me it would be this hard? I don’t recognise myself at the moment and Joe’s life carries on exactly the same.’

‘Let’s look at one thing at a time. You’re doing really well, Mrs Rudcliff, you really are. What do you think could be better?’

‘The feeding. He’s so heavy, and he pounds on me with his fist and thrashes about and leaves me aching. I dread it, I really do, and it’s not getting any easier. I’m not fit to be his mother.’

‘You are a splendid mother. Do you think an unfit mother would care this much?’

She gave me a little shy smile. ‘I suppose that’s right. You’d know, Nurse.’

An hour later Craig was sleeping peacefully, we’d discussed feeding, sleeping and nappies, and Mrs Rudcliff was calmer but I was still worried about her health. She needed a bit of looking after. The kitchen door swung open and Joe Rudcliff appeared. A burly man and at over six feet his head practically scraped the ceiling as he came in. Silently he pulled off his muddy boots and went to wash his hands and face in the kitchen sink. He didn’t say a word or even show the slightest awareness there was a stranger, me, in his house.

‘What’s for lunch?’ he asked his wife, his back to us as he gazed out of the kitchen window onto his empire.

‘I’ve made mackerel pâté and freshly baked bread.’

‘Again?’

She nodded.

‘I’ll be half-starved in a month if you carry on this way,’ he informed her, taking a huge hunk of bread from the kitchen table and spreading it liberally with the delicious looking pâté. He stomped off, followed a minute later by the sound of the radio blaring from the sitting room.

‘I’m going to go now if there isn’t anything else?’ I asked. But Mrs Rudcliff didn’t reply. ‘While the baby’s asleep eat up some of that scrumptious pâté and then get your head down for a bit if you can.’

‘Would you like some?’

‘No, thank you. You eat it all up while you can.’

‘I will, Nurse,’ she said. A tone of defiance creeping into her voice. ‘But before that I’m going to telephone my mother and see if she can come for a bit.’

‘I think that’s an excellent idea, Mrs Rudcliff. I’ll call in next week and see how you are but do telephone me at the clinic if you need anything.’

As I made my way back down the path to my abandoned Mini I turned and saw Mrs Rudcliff in the window with a telephone in her hand. I grinned. Good for you, I thought. My first visit as a health visitor had been a good one but what did the other 799 and counting have in store?

When I returned to see Mrs Rudcliff at Treetops Farm the following week I fully prepared for the ascent in a pair of newly acquired black Wellington boots purchased at a smart little shop in Canterbury. I’d christened them on my second Sunday in Kent, digging over my small vegetable patch after borrowing a fork and spade from Clem. It would be a while before I could sow anything but at least I’d made a start – I was well on my way to becoming a country nurse, or so I thought.