A vase full of red roses on the locker of my golden lady wafted out perfume so sweet it would have masked any less pleasant smell

The Serial: A Rowan Tree In My Garden Day 48

Then I saw the portico where I had said goodbye to Ralph. The first rays of sun climbing silently over the hills settled on its old stonework. My eyes filled with tears.

Thoughts became overwhelmed with sadness but there was a happiness there also. Ralph had taught me so much and, what was it my mother had often quoted: “It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

All romantic thoughts were brought hastily to an end when the first male voice asked for a urinal. The morning had begun.

Soon there was a trolley rattling with teacups and men woken up far before most of them wanted to be.

Then there was the delivery of basins for washing for those who were unable to get up and there were always one or two who needed help.

By the time that was done it was the handing out of breakfasts, followed by the ward maids coming on duty and the ritual of pulling out the beds. Afterwards, it was the bed making in tandem with my senior.

I used to sing while doing this task, some of the lovely songs of the time – Some Enchanted Evening, Cruising Down the River, Mona Lisa, Too Young and so many others. I certainly was no great singer but, just the same, most of the men seemed to like it.

Young woman

Esther’s name for me, Polly, had quickly been taken hold of by both patients and nurses and in Ward Eight, while I was there, I became Polly the singing nurse.

After nights off, coming back into the ward some of the men would say: “Where have you been? We missed our singing nurse.”

By the end of September I was off night duty. In many ways I had enjoyed it. I had survived the first year of my training and was now out of pink and into striped uniform.

On day duty again I was sent to Ward Four, a busy gynaecological ward, which I found interesting.

Patients with all kinds of women’s complaints came into the ward but the ones I remember most clearly were those having had a miscarriage or hoping for an abortion, of which there were quite a few.

One evening, a young woman was admitted. She was black in colour. I thought she must be of African origin but, no, I was told she was Scottish but she had been to a back street abortionist who had treated her with a preparation of Lysol which had caused her to turn black. The poor women died.

Not long afterwards another woman was admitted. She looked healthy enough and was at the beginning of a pregnancy.

For some reason I happened to be in the doctor`s room when the lady doctor in charge was debating what to do about her.

She was speaking as much to herself as to me. “Oh dear,” she said, “this ‘lady of the night’ has been in once or twice before. In fact, she is a regular attender.

“I’ve done it before; given her an abortion; unnecessary on health grounds, she’s perfectly fit! I really, really shouldn’t but if I don’t what will she do?

“She’ll go to a back street abortionist, as sure as fate and you know what can happen.

“Remember that poor woman who came in not so long ago?”

Beautiful

I learned later that although doctors did everything in their power to avoid agreeing to unnecessary abortion, it was left a little to their discretion whether they did or not as the law in Scotland was somewhat different to that of England, enabling them to have a bit more leeway.

One evening, just before I went off duty, a most beautiful woman was admitted.

Even although she was in great pain, her features, her golden hair and her bronzed skin impressed me.

She had just returned from a holiday in Spain which, in those days of restricted travel, seemed to be an exotic, unreachable place to get to.

By the time I came on duty in the morning she had been operated on and was sitting up in bed having a cup of tea, a golden and dejected lady.

She had come in with an ectopic gestation, which is when a baby starts to develop in a fallopian tube rather than in the womb and has to be removed.

She was told it would in no way stop her from having another baby and her spirits recovered.

Intrigued by her looks and lifestyle, whenever it was possible, I got into conversation with her.

I was feeling rather dispirited myself. I hadn’t quite recovered from being on night duty.

Ward Eight had been a very busy ward and night duty entailed long hours, plus the fact I always had problems with sleeping in the daytime.

Pale and with lanky, mousy brown hair, I felt decidedly lacklustre and I still lived in fear of doing something wrong and getting reprimanded for it.

One day I said to her: “How I wish I looked like you.” She smiled and replied: “Well, do something about it.

“My hair is helped by something out of a bottle and I have been in the sun. If you really want something you will get it.”

Her remark lightened my spirits. Yes, I could do something about it.

I felt better and all of a sudden I noticed the wonderful autumn colours of the changing trees beyond the high windows and the ward, for me, had taken on a new look.

Homely feel

I noticed the long oblongs of sunlight slanting across the highly polished floor and the sun shining through the few bottles of blood that, here and there, hung from drip stands.

The deep orange of marigolds and the many coloured asters in vases on lockers and window sills took away, to a degree, the clinical look of the ward giving it a more homely feel.

A vase full of red roses on the locker of my golden lady wafted out perfume so sweet that it would have masked any less pleasant smell.

White coverlets on the neatly made beds, ready for the doctors’ round, were in sharp contrast to the dark wooden floor.

There was muted talk from the patients, some of whom had fallen asleep again.

On the whole it was a happy ward of mostly youngish women who would recover from their complaints and we, the nurses among others, were helping them to do just that. It was a good feeling. I knew, at that moment, that what I most wanted to do was to finish my training as a nurse and get my State Registered Nurse certificate but there was no reason why I couldn’t try to improve how I looked as well.