waist, she removed a coarse grey towel, white cotton shift, grey striped flannel dressing gown and a new cake of carbolic soap. When she returned Maisie was sitting, shivering, in the water.
‘They shaved me before I came over,’ Maisie said plaintively.
‘In that case, shout as soon as you’ve finished washing; and I’ll help you out of the bath. I’ll be outside the door.’
‘Thank you.’ Maisie smiled for the first time; grateful for the unaccustomed privacy.
Bethan went to the linen cupboard. A pile of sealed cardboard boxes were stacked close to the fire door. She took the top one and ripped it open; the stench of carbolic sent her reeling. Struggling, she dragged the heavy box to the cupboard and began to stack the tablets of soap, the old ones to the front the new ones at the back.
Squeers could return at any moment and she was a stickler for order, and what she called “stock cycling”. It was understandable in the drug cupboard, but there seemed little point in doing it with soaps and linens.
‘Matron wants to see you.’
Bethan started at the sound of Laura’s voice.
‘You gave me a fright!’
‘Did you hear what I said? Matron wants to see you.’
‘Matron …ʼ The implication of Laura’s words sank in and she dropped the soap.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Laura complained. ‘You’ve dented the soap, and smeared it all over Squeers’ nice clean floor.’ She bent down and scooped up the cakes that were scattered from one end of the corridor to the other.
‘Have you been up?’ Bethan demanded.
‘P comes before R. Remember your alphabet.’
Bethan straightened her veil, and her skirt. ‘How do I look?’
‘Like you’re scared to death. Go quickly, before Squeers comes and finds some excuse to keep you here.’
Bethan scurried out of the door. Fortunately sister was occupied with a patient at the far end of the ward. She left the section and ran through the female exercise yard to the administration block as fast as she decently could, straightening her veil and apron again when she reached Matron’s door.
She hesitated for a moment to catch her breath. The lights still burned in the corridor although the sun had risen hours ago. Not that she could see any of it, only dismal grey rain clouds that shone wanly through the high corridor windows.
Breathing easier, she stared at the top half of the office door. Her heart was pounding so fast she could hear the rush of blood drumming in her ears. She waited, counting slowly to ten. One … two … three …
The door opened.
‘I thought I heard someone. Come in, Powell.’
Straightening her back, Bethan walked in. The office was warm and cramped, its painted walls running with condensation between the book-lined shelves.
‘Sit down.’
Two upright chairs were set in front of the desk. Bethan took the one nearest the fire. A few moments’ later she regretted her choice. This fire, unlike every other in the hospital, burned with a resolute, radiant cheerfulness that scorched her legs.
‘Right, Powell, let’s see what we have here.’ Matron eased her bulk into the comfortable, padded chair behind her desk and thumbed methodically through the pile of papers before her, leaving Bethan free to study the room and fall prey to every spectre of failure that rose from the depths of her imagination.
Alice George was far too intimidating a figure to acquire a nickname. No one in the hospital from the ward maids and porters to the senior doctors referred to her as anything other than “Matron”. She ran the wards and supervised her sisters with a rod of iron that was as even-handed and fair as it was inflexible.
Rules were her lifeblood. It was rumoured that she’d been seen reciting hospital regulations during a service in St John’s church instead of the Lord’s Prayer, and no one, least of all Bethan, had thought to question the story’s veracity.
The unkind described Matron as fat; the kind, plump. She was a
‘They shaved me before I came over,’ Maisie said plaintively.
‘In that case, shout as soon as you’ve finished washing; and I’ll help you out of the bath. I’ll be outside the door.’
‘Thank you.’ Maisie smiled for the first time; grateful for the unaccustomed privacy.
Bethan went to the linen cupboard. A pile of sealed cardboard boxes were stacked close to the fire door. She took the top one and ripped it open; the stench of carbolic sent her reeling. Struggling, she dragged the heavy box to the cupboard and began to stack the tablets of soap, the old ones to the front the new ones at the back.
Squeers could return at any moment and she was a stickler for order, and what she called “stock cycling”. It was understandable in the drug cupboard, but there seemed little point in doing it with soaps and linens.
‘Matron wants to see you.’
Bethan started at the sound of Laura’s voice.
‘You gave me a fright!’
‘Did you hear what I said? Matron wants to see you.’
‘Matron …ʼ The implication of Laura’s words sank in and she dropped the soap.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Laura complained. ‘You’ve dented the soap, and smeared it all over Squeers’ nice clean floor.’ She bent down and scooped up the cakes that were scattered from one end of the corridor to the other.
‘Have you been up?’ Bethan demanded.
‘P comes before R. Remember your alphabet.’
Bethan straightened her veil, and her skirt. ‘How do I look?’
‘Like you’re scared to death. Go quickly, before Squeers comes and finds some excuse to keep you here.’
Bethan scurried out of the door. Fortunately sister was occupied with a patient at the far end of the ward. She left the section and ran through the female exercise yard to the administration block as fast as she decently could, straightening her veil and apron again when she reached Matron’s door.
She hesitated for a moment to catch her breath. The lights still burned in the corridor although the sun had risen hours ago. Not that she could see any of it, only dismal grey rain clouds that shone wanly through the high corridor windows.
Breathing easier, she stared at the top half of the office door. Her heart was pounding so fast she could hear the rush of blood drumming in her ears. She waited, counting slowly to ten. One … two … three …
The door opened.
‘I thought I heard someone. Come in, Powell.’
Straightening her back, Bethan walked in. The office was warm and cramped, its painted walls running with condensation between the book-lined shelves.
‘Sit down.’
Two upright chairs were set in front of the desk. Bethan took the one nearest the fire. A few moments’ later she regretted her choice. This fire, unlike every other in the hospital, burned with a resolute, radiant cheerfulness that scorched her legs.
‘Right, Powell, let’s see what we have here.’ Matron eased her bulk into the comfortable, padded chair behind her desk and thumbed methodically through the pile of papers before her, leaving Bethan free to study the room and fall prey to every spectre of failure that rose from the depths of her imagination.
Alice George was far too intimidating a figure to acquire a nickname. No one in the hospital from the ward maids and porters to the senior doctors referred to her as anything other than “Matron”. She ran the wards and supervised her sisters with a rod of iron that was as even-handed and fair as it was inflexible.
Rules were her lifeblood. It was rumoured that she’d been seen reciting hospital regulations during a service in St John’s church instead of the Lord’s Prayer, and no one, least of all Bethan, had thought to question the story’s veracity.
The unkind described Matron as fat; the kind, plump. She was a
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