The next morning, Celia woke early and went for an inquisitive wander about the hospital and grounds. She discovered much to please her and a little to concern. The architect (for the building was new) had done a very neat job of laying things out, with two wings stretching east and west connected by a square central block, but he had neglected to consider the impracticality of carrying chloroformed patients from the surgery on the ground floor to the wards on the first. On the other hand, the surgery itself was beautifully designed with every contraption of electricity and angled windows to flood it with light on even the foggiest of Yorkshire mornings, and the wards, stretching the length of each wing, were perfectly arranged for ventilation with high, pitched ceilings and pairs of tall, cross-facing windows half-open at the top to let in the gorse-scented morning air.
Efforts had been made to lend to the hospital a feeling of homey comfort. There were pictures, prints, rugs, and bowls of flowers everywhere, even in the wards. Of course it did the patients good to have something cheerful to look at, Celia thought, but it also meant a great deal of dusting for someone, and she hoped that someone would not be her.
At a quarter-to-eight, she met Matron Howard in the women's ward and Matron gave her a brief tour and explained to her the use of some of the various logbooks and cupboards and hospital customs. It turned out that Celia did not have to do the dusting: that fell to the housemaid. There was even a man-of-all-work, Matron explained, Tom the cook's husband, who assisted with the carrying of patients up and down stairs.
"Now, your patients," Matron said when Celia was finished looking over the women's lavatories. "You've only two and a baby today. We'll start with Mrs Pearson in bed three."
Mrs Pearson was a stout woman of about forty-five, sitting up in bed with no appearance of ill-health about her person except for a disagreeable scowl.
"Ah'm right clemmed," she said in a Yorkshire accent so broad Celia could hardly decipher the syllables. "Ah getten nowt fer us breatfast."
"You cannot eat before surgery," Matron said, apparently with no difficulty in understanding. "But we'll give you a nice dinner afterwards. Now, this is your new nurse, Miss Barnes. She's going to look after you today."
Mrs Pearson pursed her lips. "She's a scraggy one. What's a spuggy-legged lass to kna 'bout owt."
Celia could not translate but sensed it was not a compliment. She tried to sound sympathetic. "You must be dreadfully hungry, Mrs Pearson," she said, "but if you eat before surgery you'll be very sick."
"Ah kna that," Mrs Pearson said scornfully. "Ah'm not a claht-'ead."
Celia gave up on making a friend of her. She took down the clipboard of patient records from the wall above Mrs Pearson's bed and scanned it. Despite her appearance of good health, Mrs Pearson was suffering from a large tumour and required an ovariotomy to remove it. A square, forward-slanting hand listed the diet and hygiene preparations required for the surgery.
"And I'll have to give you an enema," Celia said. "Mrs Pearson, this is going to be a bad day, but at the end of it I promise you will feel much better." If she wasn't dying. An ovariotomy was one of the most dangerous operations, and Celia well knew it, but she dared not let Mrs Pearson sense her apprehension.
Mrs Pearson let out a gust of air through her nostrils. "It doesn't 'urt sa bad. I'd waga t'unger's wahr."
Celia blinked.
Thankfully, Matron understood. "It is the doctor's wager that matters, Mrs Pearson."
Celia hung the clipboard back on its nail. "You may have two ounces of water. I will get it in just a moment."
Mrs Pearson sank grumbling against her pillows. Celia thought she had managed her first patient rather well. Perhaps today she would manage to undo the damage of last night's tears.
They moved on to the other occupied bed, where a woman of about thirty-five lay with a newborn sleeping in her arms. She glanced up uninterestedly as they approached.
"I'm your new nurse, Celia Barnes. Good morning, Mrs..." Celia reached for the clipboard above the bed. "...Shaw." Third child, with the last two breech births and one stillborn, confined in hospital as a precaution, delivered with assistance two nights ago. Mother recovering, infant healthy. Both to be monitored. "How do you feel today?"
"Oh, alright," Mrs Shaw said, in an accent much more intelligible than Mrs Pearson's.
Celia ran her eyes keenly over the pale, tired face. "Feeling the cold this morning?"
Mrs Shaw raised one shoulder in a shrug. "Not so bad."
"And how'd you find breakfast?" Celia looked for a tray but found it had already been taken away. "Eat well?"
"Et it all," Mrs Shaw said indifferently.
Perhaps she was only weary. Her baby at the least looked very well, pink-cheeked and pink-lipped and tiny body swelling in and out with deep breaths.
"I'll be looking in on you again later," Celia said. "Ring your bell if you need anything."
Mrs Shaw nodded and slipped further against her pillows. Celia and Matron Howard went back to the nurse's desk. Celia was rather hoping she had impressed, but Matron Howard's face was impossible to read.
"It's a large hospital for so small a village and so rural an area," Celia said. "The facilities are very good."
Matron did not seem to see the compliment in it. "We're the only hospital for miles," she said. "We serve dozens of villages, scores of farmers and their families, even a mine owner and his labourers. The accidents alone would keep us in business. We've got two in the men's ward now. A compound fracture of the tibia and fibula, and a burnt arm. That's why I gave you the women's ward today. Start you off with light work." Matron pulled out her pocket watch and checked it. "Speaking of, isn't it time for that enema?"
Mrs Pearson was none too pleased to discover what an enema was. She protested so much that by the time Celia had her back in bed with a draw sheet and mackintosh under her, it was ten o'clock and the doctors had arrived for their rounds. Doctor Fane looked very serious and severe in his white coat. The other doctor with him had a calmer presence. He was middle-aged, rather short and round, and the moment he saw Celia he smiled and offered her his hand.
"Reginald Culpepper," he said. "Glad to meet you at last. We've been short-handed these past weeks."
"Celia Barnes." She was relieved to find her voice did not quaver with nerves. "I'll do my best. We've met already, Doctor Fane."
Doctor Fane grunted and strode past her to Mrs Shaw's bed. Culpepper raised his eyebrows.
"He's like that," he said. "Not much bedside manner."
Celia's mind instantly went to the cheeky print above Zelda's bed and she bit back a smile. "No, really?"
"How are you finding it here? Comfortable? Good? Get on with Matron?"
"It seems a nice hospital. Very new, very clean. Well-designed."
"It's not bad. What was the New Hospital like?" Culpepper grinned. "I hear they have women doctors. What's that like? Are they any good?"
It was too many questions for Celia, and that was a question she did not like. "Excuse me, Doctor. I must see to my patients."
She turned away and crossed the ward to where Doctor Fane was just leaving Mrs Shaw's bedside.
"These are your patients as well as mine," he said. "You must attend my rounds with me."
"I apologize," Celia said. There was no point saying that Doctor Fane had moved away without speaking a word to her, nor that Culpepper had engaged her. She trotted after him as he strode towards Mrs Pearson. "Um. This morning I thought Mrs Shaw seemed listless. Do you think perhaps she's developing puerperal fever? It's the third day after birth. This is about when it shows."
Doctor Fane stopped and turned to pin her down with a cold glare. "It is not your job to think, Nurse Barnes."
Celia had faced that attitude before. "Of course, Doctor."
"Mrs Shaw is often listless," Doctor Fane continued in a low voice. "A history of melancholia."
"It was not on her record."
"Nor is the hammertoe for which I treated her last year. Would you like to know her full history, Nurse Barnes, or would you like to know your instructions?"
Celia hated sarcasm. She would rather blunt cruelty than intimation. Doubt cut her deep. She shook her head. "I'm sorry. Instructions, Doctor."
"The infant presents no concerns. Mrs Shaw is still uncomfortable and in pain from giving birth. She may have no morphia but a little aspirin powder dissolved in warm water if she wishes. No stimulants. I do not anticipate puerperal fever, but check her temperature every four hours. Keep her dressings clean and dry."
Celia did not need to be told to keep dressings clean and dry. "Of course, Doctor. Mrs Pearson, then?"
Some doctors liked to smile at their patients, but evidently Fane did not. He said a curt good morning to Mrs Pearson and glanced at her notes.
"That chuffy lass put milk up us bottom," Mrs Pearson complained. "Quite t'wrong place fer it, Doc. Ah'd lief 'ave drunk it."
"You can't drink milk," Fane said. "If you have anything but water, there can be no surgery. And no more than four ounces of water an hour."
"I kna that." Mrs Pearson looked disgusted. "I were jus' chelpin'."
Fane hung the notes back and turned to Celia. "Alright, she's set for surgery at twelve-thirty. As it will be your first time assisting me, Doctor Culpepper and Matron Howard will be observing. Immediately pre-surgery, you'll take her to relieve herself, give her a quick hot bath, and flush her rectum with brandy."
"I already gave her an enema."
"Yes. And you'll flush her with brandy too." Fane narrowed his grey eyes at Celia. "I take every precaution in my surgery. Ten percent of ovariotomies are fatal. If you're lucky, it's haemorrhage. If you're not — and most people aren't — it's peritonitis. That's a slow, painful way to die. Have you ever nursed a patient with peritonitis? Yes, I see by your expression you have. Now you know why you will flush Mrs Pearson with brandy."
Last night, Celia had charitably assumed that Doctor Fane had made a bad first impression. Now she saw that he had, in fact, made a much better impression than he deserved. She bit back the indignation that rose over her; he was not the first obnoxious doctor she had had to work with. "I will do exactly as you say, Doctor."
Fane walked away. "I'll see you in surgery, Mrs Pearson."
Mrs Pearson was white-faced and wide-eyed. "Aye, Doctor."
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A/N: In recent months, I've been thinking about where this story is going, and I've got some idea of it now. It's probably going to be somewhat episodic, and more historical fiction than historical romance (though there will be romance of course). The reason is, I keep discovering little things in my research that I want to write about. In fact, 90% of the editing I did with this chapter was pruning back the historical information to let the story shine through. I'm guessing readers don't actually need to know how the roofing arrangement of a two-storey hospital affects the plumbing of the toilets... But I know.