Annie Groves - Wartime for the District Nurses

She was on her way to see a three-year-old boy who not only had measles but had developed the complication of pneumonia as well. He was a very sick child, and Edith’s heart ached for him and his mother. She had not yet met the father, who was out working all hours at one of the local factories which had changed from producing pencils to munitions. He must have been earning a decent wage as the house was in a reasonable condition compared to many she visited, and yet it was barely big enough for the family, which numbered five children altogether.

Edith knocked smartly at the door, which must have been painted fairly recently, as it was nowhere near as chipped as its neighbours. Mrs Bell opened up at once, and ushered Edith inside. ‘I’m terribly glad to see you, nurse. Vinny’s been all hot and he can’t sleep, poor little mite.’ She turned to another child right behind her. ‘Out you go, Freda, you know you’re to keep out of nurse’s way and not go near any of her things. We don’t want you down with it as well. One’s enough, one’s more than enough.’ The woman sounded at the end of her tether.

Freda, who looked about six, regarded Edith with big, curious eyes. ‘Is me brother goin’ ter die, miss?’ she asked.

Edith crouched down to the girl’s level and met her gaze. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ she said cheerfully. ‘We’re going to look after him and see that he has the best possible chance of getting better. So you can do your bit by making sure you’re quiet when you go past his door and letting him rest.’

‘All right, miss.’ The little girl seemed reassured. ‘He’s got my bedroom, though. I want it back.’

‘Freda!’ cried the mother. ‘You know it’s because it’s the smallest room, and Vinny can’t share with the boys if he’s so sick. You’ll just have to put up with it. He needs it more than you do.’

Edith smiled, feeling sorry for the little girl. It wasn’t her fault that she had been turfed out of her room. ‘When he’s properly better you can go back to how it was before,’ she assured her. The girl nodded solemnly and ran into the kitchen.

‘Nurse, I’m so sorry,’ gasped the mother, stricken. ‘You’ll think we brung them up with no manners.’

Edith began to climb the stairs towards the back bedroom on the topmost floor. ‘Not a bit, Mrs Bell. Sometimes we forget how the other children are affected if one of the family is sick. They can be frightened and don’t know what to do to make it better. Sometimes they think it’s their fault.’ She paused. ‘All you can do is keep telling them everyone’s doing their best and they aren’t to blame one way or the other.’

‘You’re very kind, nurse,’ Mrs Bell replied, sounding unconvinced. She and Edith paused on the top landing outside the bedroom door. As quietly as she could, Edith took off her coat, nurse’s cap and apron and hung them over the banister. From her bag she took out an overall and handkerchief to wear over her hair, along with everything she would need to treat the little boy. They had to minimise all risk of contamination, even though it meant carrying around extra items and added to the length of the visit.

Mrs Bell had queried why this was necessary to start with, but Edith promised her it was set down in the strict guidelines for such a case. She also required a bowl of disinfectant and a nailbrush to be left outside the bedroom door so that she, Mrs Bell or the doctor when he came could ensure their hands were clean going in and going out. Mrs Bell had protested. ‘Where can I put that without the other kids knocking it over? This ain’t a hospital where you can see what’s going on. The older boys sleep in that room opposite, and they’ll stick their noses into everything.’

Edith had looked around and noticed a small bookshelf at her head height; she was on the short side. ‘That might do,’ she said.

Mrs Bell had tutted. ‘We ain’t got many books and, those we have, the little darlings scribble all over, so we put our good ones up there. I’ll have to put them in me and Terry’s room, otherwise they’ll draw animals all over the pages.’ She removed the precious copies of Pears’ Cyclopaedia , the Bible and the Children’s Everything Within .

Now Edith carefully reached for the bowl, standing on tiptoe, making sure not to dislodge the envelope she had to leave for the doctor containing the patient’s report and chart. Grimly she thought that the people who devised the guidelines might have meant well but they hadn’t reckoned on big families living in confined spaces. And this was one of the luckier households.

Finally they were ready to go into the little bedroom. It was warm inside, but Mrs Bell had left the window open as instructed, so that what passed for fresh air around Dalston could freely circulate. On the narrow bed under a threadbare candlewick bedspread lay a little boy, propped on pillows and scarcely making a sound. Edith gently crouched beside him. ‘How are you feeling, Vinny?’ she asked.

‘Hot,’ he whispered.

Edith turned to Mrs Bell, lingering in the doorway. ‘Could you fetch him a glass of cold water?’ she asked, reaching for the tray set on the battered dressing table. All the crockery and cutlery that Vinny used had to be kept separate, so as not to infect the rest of the family, although that presented another hurdle for his mother.

Glad to be of use, Mrs Bell set off back downstairs, and Edith could properly assess her patient without causing his anxious parent even more worry. As she would with every case, she took his temperature, pulse and respiration, and noted them for comparison later. ‘Oh, you are a spotty boy,’ she said softly. ‘How am I going to recognise you when you’re better, eh? You’ll look so different.’ The little boy tried to smile but he was clearly too exhausted.

Edith shut the window and then set about sponging him down, noting that his spots were actually fading slightly. Perhaps he was turning the corner. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked encouragingly. ‘Maybe Mummy can bring you some beef tea.’ But he shook his head.

She went on to check his eyes and ears in case of any extra complications. ‘And have you had a pain in your tummy?’ she wondered, knowing that any disturbances of that kind could indicate still further problems. Wearily he shook his head once more, and turned his face into the pillow.

Edith swiftly finished her work and was just opening the window again when Mrs Bell returned, glass in hand. She had put on the flannel overall that Edith had lent her so that her own housecoat wouldn’t spread infection throughout the rest of the home. ‘See if you can get him to drink it,’ Edith urged. ‘He might still be off his food but he’s got to keep up his fluid intake. That’s more important than getting him to eat anything. Maybe some thin soup, when his appetite returns.’

Mrs Bell sat on the bed and looked at her boy with exhausted, concerned affection. ‘He’s a good little chap usually. Loves his pie and mash.’

Edith smiled. ‘It might be a while before he manages any pie. Mash would be good though, with beef gravy if there’s any going. But whatever you do, don’t let anyone else eat his leftovers or they might still catch this and we don’t want that.’

Mrs Bell’s shoulders slumped. ‘That’s easier said than done. We can’t afford to waste food. There’s too many mouths to feed and that’s a fact.’

Edith nodded in acknowledgement. The guidelines insisted that a patient’s leftover meals should be burnt or flushed down the lavatory, which was fine if you had a bathroom upstairs, but far from easy if not. Again the rules were hard to apply in circumstances such as these. ‘Just do your best,’ she said encouragingly. ‘You’ve managed very well so far. Having a mother who is prepared to go to all these lengths makes a great difference – you’d be surprised. I know all these rules seem silly, but they work. I do believe he might be on the mend.’