My tummy was churning. Mum rang again, and knocked loudly at the door too.
‘Mum!’ I said in agony. ‘They’ll be cross!’
‘
I’m
cross, hanging about here in the cold before they’ll deign to let us in. You’ve got a serious illness. It’s not good for you.’ She knocked again – and the door opened at last.
Another nurse stood there, in an even stranger white hat with wings. It looked as if a starched seagull had landed on her head.
‘What on earth do you want?’ she said. Her voice was starched too, cold and crisp.
‘I should have thought it was blooming obvious,’ said Mum fiercely. ‘My poor little Elsie has got TB and we’ve travelled for hours and hours to get here. She’s an urgent case – the doctor says she’s to be hospitalized straight away.’
‘Did he not tell you our admission hours?’ she said.
‘I don’t give a fig about your admission hours,’ said Mum. ‘We got here as soon as we could. Now, will you kindly tuck my little girl up in bed where she belongs. Call yourself a nurse!’
‘I’m not a nurse, I’m the Sister here – and I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head,’ she said, but she stood aside and beckoned us in.
There was more green and cream paint, more polished floor. She turned right and we followed. She opened a door into a smaller whitewashed room with a sign saying BLYTON WARD , with two rows of beds.
‘Oh my God,’ said Mum.
I clasped her hand tightly. I almost snapped her fingers off. The children were nearly all buckled into weird pulleys and splints so that they couldn’t move. Two were flat on their backs with their legs held apart in frames. One boy was encased in plaster like a rigid little snowman.
‘What are you
doing
to them?’ asked Mum.
‘We have to immobilize their affected joints,’ said the Sister.
‘You’re not doing that to my Elsie!’
‘We will proceed as we see fit to make the child better,’ the Sister told her. ‘We shall keep her under observation for a day or two while the doctors assess her. You can visit her on Saturdays and Sundays between two and four. I’m afraid we can’t have any visiting whatsoever at any other time. Now, come with me into my office so we can start your paperwork.’
‘It’s like a torture chamber in here – the poor little mites,’ said Mum, still staring around.
‘Keep your voice
down
– I don’t want you upsetting my patients!’ said the Sister. ‘Come with me!’
I stumbled along between Mum and the Sister, peering back fearfully at a boy in the middle of the row, trussed up and tied down in a terrifying steel frame. He was lying so still and looked so waxily pale I wondered if he was actually dead, but then he crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at me.
‘Will they strap me down too, Mum?’ I whispered, tugging at her arm.
‘Not if I can help it,’ she said – but she didn’t sound too sure.
I SAT ON Mum’s lap while the Sister filled in all the forms. I looked around all the shelves and worktops in her room, but I couldn’t see a jar of Smarties anywhere. I was trying so hard not to cry that my throat felt as if it were stoppered with cotton wool, so maybe I wouldn’t have been able to swallow one anyway.
‘Elsie Kettle,’ said the Sister, printing pains-takingly. ‘And
your
full name, Mrs Kettle?’
‘I’m Sheila Alice.’
‘And Mr Kettle?’
‘There isn’t one.’
The Sister sniffed. ‘Can I have the name of Elsie’s father, please?’
‘It’s none of your business,’ said Mum. ‘We don’t have any contact with him.’
‘Nevertheless, I need his full name and address for the sake of our records.’
‘Well, you’ll know more than me if you put his name and address down. I think his name’s Frankie something but I haven’t got a clue where he lives. I met him at a party in Fulham – and never saw him again,’ said Mum.
I was momentarily distracted from my terror. I wriggled on Mum’s lap excitedly. My dad
‘Mum!’ I said in agony. ‘They’ll be cross!’
‘
I’m
cross, hanging about here in the cold before they’ll deign to let us in. You’ve got a serious illness. It’s not good for you.’ She knocked again – and the door opened at last.
Another nurse stood there, in an even stranger white hat with wings. It looked as if a starched seagull had landed on her head.
‘What on earth do you want?’ she said. Her voice was starched too, cold and crisp.
‘I should have thought it was blooming obvious,’ said Mum fiercely. ‘My poor little Elsie has got TB and we’ve travelled for hours and hours to get here. She’s an urgent case – the doctor says she’s to be hospitalized straight away.’
‘Did he not tell you our admission hours?’ she said.
‘I don’t give a fig about your admission hours,’ said Mum. ‘We got here as soon as we could. Now, will you kindly tuck my little girl up in bed where she belongs. Call yourself a nurse!’
‘I’m not a nurse, I’m the Sister here – and I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head,’ she said, but she stood aside and beckoned us in.
There was more green and cream paint, more polished floor. She turned right and we followed. She opened a door into a smaller whitewashed room with a sign saying BLYTON WARD , with two rows of beds.
‘Oh my God,’ said Mum.
I clasped her hand tightly. I almost snapped her fingers off. The children were nearly all buckled into weird pulleys and splints so that they couldn’t move. Two were flat on their backs with their legs held apart in frames. One boy was encased in plaster like a rigid little snowman.
‘What are you
doing
to them?’ asked Mum.
‘We have to immobilize their affected joints,’ said the Sister.
‘You’re not doing that to my Elsie!’
‘We will proceed as we see fit to make the child better,’ the Sister told her. ‘We shall keep her under observation for a day or two while the doctors assess her. You can visit her on Saturdays and Sundays between two and four. I’m afraid we can’t have any visiting whatsoever at any other time. Now, come with me into my office so we can start your paperwork.’
‘It’s like a torture chamber in here – the poor little mites,’ said Mum, still staring around.
‘Keep your voice
down
– I don’t want you upsetting my patients!’ said the Sister. ‘Come with me!’
I stumbled along between Mum and the Sister, peering back fearfully at a boy in the middle of the row, trussed up and tied down in a terrifying steel frame. He was lying so still and looked so waxily pale I wondered if he was actually dead, but then he crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at me.
‘Will they strap me down too, Mum?’ I whispered, tugging at her arm.
‘Not if I can help it,’ she said – but she didn’t sound too sure.
I SAT ON Mum’s lap while the Sister filled in all the forms. I looked around all the shelves and worktops in her room, but I couldn’t see a jar of Smarties anywhere. I was trying so hard not to cry that my throat felt as if it were stoppered with cotton wool, so maybe I wouldn’t have been able to swallow one anyway.
‘Elsie Kettle,’ said the Sister, printing pains-takingly. ‘And
your
full name, Mrs Kettle?’
‘I’m Sheila Alice.’
‘And Mr Kettle?’
‘There isn’t one.’
The Sister sniffed. ‘Can I have the name of Elsie’s father, please?’
‘It’s none of your business,’ said Mum. ‘We don’t have any contact with him.’
‘Nevertheless, I need his full name and address for the sake of our records.’
‘Well, you’ll know more than me if you put his name and address down. I think his name’s Frankie something but I haven’t got a clue where he lives. I met him at a party in Fulham – and never saw him again,’ said Mum.
I was momentarily distracted from my terror. I wriggled on Mum’s lap excitedly. My dad
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