Memento Mori

For some reason, the word ‘solicitor’ set fire to Sister Burstead. That one word did the trick. You could evidently threaten the doctor, the matron, or your relations, and she would merely stand there glaring angrily with her twitch, she would say no more than, ‘You people don’t know you’re born,’ and, ‘Fire ahead, tell your niece, my dear.’ But the word solicitor fairly turned her, as Granny Barnacle recounted next day, arse over tip. She gripped the bedrail and yelled at Granny Duncan for a long time, it might have been ten minutes. Words, in isolation and grouped in phrases, detached themselves like sparks from the fiery scream proceeding from Sister Burstead’s mouth. ‘Old beast … dirty old beast … food … grumble and grouse … I’ve been on since eight o’clock this morning … I’ve been on and on … work, work, work, day after day, for a lot of useless old, filthy old…’

Sister Burstead went off duty immediately assisted by a nurse. If only, thought Miss Taylor, we could try to be sweet old ladies, she would be all right. It’s because we aren’t sweet old things …

‘Scorpio,’ Granny Valvona had declared four hours later, although like everyone else in the ward she was shaken up. ‘Granny Duncan —Scorpio. You can sail ahead with confidence. The success of another person could affect you closely.’ Granny Valvona put down the paper. ‘You see what I mean?’ she said. ‘The stars never let you down. The success of another person … A remarkable forecast.’

The incident was reported to the matron and the doctor. The former made inquiries next morning of a kind which clearly indicated she was hoping against hope Sister Burstead could be exonerated, for she would be difficult to replace.

The matron bent over Miss Taylor and spoke quietly and exclusively. ‘Sister Burstead is having a rest for a few days. She has been overworking.’

‘Evidently,’ said Miss Taylor, whose head ached horribly.

‘Tell me what you know of the affair. Sister Burstead was provoked, I believe?’

‘Evidently,’ said Miss Taylor, eyeing the bland face above her and desiring it to withdraw.

‘Sister Burstead was cross with Granny Duncan?’ said the matron.

‘She was nothing,’ said Miss Taylor, ‘if not cross. I suggest the sister might be transferred to another ward where there are younger people and the work is lighter.’

‘All the work in this hospital,’ said the matron, ‘is heavy.’

Most of the grannies felt too upset to enjoy the few days’ absence from duty of Sister Burstead, for whenever the general hysteria showed signs of waning, Granny Barnacle applied the bellows: ‘Wait till the winter. When you get pneumonia…

During those days it happened that Granny Trotsky had her second stroke. An aged male cousin was summoned to her bedside, and a screen was put round her bed. He emerged after an hour still wearing the greenish-black hat in which he had arrived, shaking his head and hat, and crying all over his blotchy foreign face.

Granny Barnacle, who was up in her chair that day, called to him, ‘Pssst!’

Obediently he came to her side.

Granny Barnacle flicked her head towards the screened-in bed.

‘She gone?’

‘Nah. She breathe, but not speak.’

‘D’you know who done it?’ said Granny Barnacle. ‘It was the sister that brought it on.’

‘She have no sister. I am next of kin.’

A nurse came and hurried him away.

Granny Barnacle declared once more to the ward, ‘Sister Bastard done for Granny Trotsky.’

‘Ah but Granny, it was her second stroke. There’s always a second, you know.’

‘Sister done it with her bad temper.’

On learning that Sister Burstead had neither been dismissed nor transferred to another ward but was to return on the following day, Granny Barnacle gave notice to the doctor that she refused further treatment, was discharging herself next day, and that she would tell the world why.

‘I know my bloody rights as a patient,’ she said. ‘Don’t think I don’t know the law. And what’s more, I can get the phone number of the newspaper. I only got to ring up and they come along and want to know what’s what.’

‘Take it easy, Granny,’ said the doctor.

‘If Sister Bastard comes back, I go,’ said Granny Barnacle.

‘Where to?’ said the nurse.

Granny Barnacle glared. She felt that the nurse was being sarcastic, must know that she had spent three months in Holloway prison thirty-six years ago, six months twenty-two years ago, and subsequently various months. Granny Barnacle felt the nurse was referring to her record when she said ‘Where to?’ in that voice of hers.

The doctor frowned at the nurse and said to Granny Barnacle,

‘Take it easy, Granny. Your blood pressure isn’t too good this morning. What sort of a night did you have? Pretty restless?’

This speech unnerved Granny Barnacle who had indeed had a bad night.

Granny Trotsky, who had so far recovered that the bedscreen had been removed, had been uttering slobbery mutters. The very sight of Granny Trotsky, the very sound of her trying to talk as she did at this moment, took away Granny Barnacle’s nerve entirely.