“DISTRICT NURSE”

Manawatu Times, Volume 63, Issue 106, 7 May 1938, Page 7

“DISTRICT NURSE”

(By FAITH BALDWIN)

But the next day Ellen did not hear from Frank, nor the next, nor the next. Meanwhile she learned that the man who had used Bartlett’s name was a book-keeper named Nelson, employed by Smith, Lambert, Mason and Co., a firm with offices in the same building as Bartlett and on the same floor. Nelson explained to Ellen that he gave Gladys the first name that popped into his head. He saw Bartlett’s name on the door every day and when the door of the room in which he worked was open, he faced it. Explaining his possession of Bartlett’B business card, he said Bartlett was the personal attorney of Mr. Lambert, and one day left his card on Lambert’s desk. For no particular reason, Nelson picked it up and put it in his pocket, and when he met Gladys and wished to pose as a “big shot,” produced Bartlett’s card. That was all; he had forgotten about it. Nelson said he was married and the father of three little children, but had been separated from his wife for some time. The evening of the day Ellen took Gladys to the hospital, the Adams telephone rang. She was tired; she’d told Jim she was too tired to go out. But it would be like him to call up and see if she would change her mind. “Ellen?” asked Bartlett, over the wire. No, she was not too tired to see him. He came that night, within the hour. He wouldn’t stay long, he said; it was, more or less, business. Coral managed things; she took her mother off into the bedroom and shut the dor, to discuss the furniture of the new flat. Ho was friendly enough, restrained. The estrangement was still there. He came to the point at once. It was about Bill. Bill hadn’t shown up with his last report card, and he had learned that Bill had returned to his old habit of playing hookey. Would Ellen see what she could do? She had always had a great influence over him. Ellen said she would. “You’ll look after him, I know,” he said. Then the door closed after him. Was Bill only an excuse ... why hadn’t she helped Frank . . . made it easier for him . . ? She stood staring at the door. Why didn’t she call out to him . . you don’t love me any more . . you haven’t, really, forgiven me. Or had he forgiven i. . • come to tell her so? Or, in forgiving. ceased to really care for her . . ? That happened sometimes. W r hat had she said to Pete ... in love there Isn’t any such word as forgiveness. Her mother came out of the bedroom. She asked brightly, “Have you invited Mr. Bartlett . . . ?” She stopped and looked around. She stated, with blank astonishment, “Why, he’s gone!” 'Tw, he’s gone,” said Ellen dully. “Did you ask him for Christmas?” No, she had not asked him, Ellen told her; she had forgotten. She walked past her mother and Carol and into the larger bedroom. She shut the door. Nancy was out. She was alone, in the familiar room. She lay down on the bed, her hands clasped behind her head. If she could cry, she thought, she would feel better. That chapter was closed. Gladys and Nelson, who had wanted to be a big shot • . . and Frank. But life went on. Christmas came, and went. There were flowers from Frank; a brief friendly card. He would be south, he •wrote, with friends. That was all. Flowers fade. Jim came with his aunt in the evening to see the tree. He had gifts for them all. There was perfume for Nancy and Coral; there was a lavender shawl for Mrs. Adams. “Am I such an old woman?” she asked with amusement; “but thank you, Jimmy, it is lovely.” It was, they assured her, and so becoming. There was also a ring . . for Ellen. He’d given her other things. Now, he took the little box from his pocket. They were standing alone together, by the lighted tree; the windows with their wreaths of green gave back a reflection, green and red and white ... “If you’d wear it . . . ?” he asked. But she shook her head. No, she

Instalment 25.

would not wear it. He should not have bought it. “It will keep,” he said, as cheerfully as he could, and put it back in his pocket. “It will have to keep. You’ll like it, some day.” She thought, no. She thought, it might be easier to give in, he loves me, I’m. really fond of him, he’s cared for me all these years; every one would be happy about it, especially mother; it might be easier to surrender, to take second best . . . But she knew she wouldn’t. She had something to sustain her, after all. Sho had her work. That mattered, most. It would have to matter most now. She’d make it matter. Christmas was over. The bread-lines increased. The lines before the registry offices waited patiently, in sleet and snow and rain, hour by hour. There were appeals, there w T ere speeches, there was misery, there was suffering. This was an enormous country; it was a rich country. But the suffering went on. There was babies barely able to walk, dragging home crude wagons filled with sticks of wood. There were ambulances at people’s doors, stretchers, neighbours saying pneumonia . . . ? Pete was desperate, overworked. “There isn’t,” he said on his rare hours off, “any end to this, the sickness from worry, from fear, from undernourishment . . # ” Ellen went into unheated rooms, the families huddled together; into houses where a single oil stove smoked. Ellen reported worthy cases to the gas company. The gas company saw that their service was not discontinued. Ellen tramped to the charity bureaus; Ellen reported cases, not of disease, but of starvation, which is worse than a disease. It was a New Year. It would be a better year, they said. She saw courage, in the bleeding raw. She saw a seventeen-year-old girl supporting a jobless father and brother, and a mother on 16 dollars a week. She saw her, half delirious, lying on the bed she shared with her mother. “I’ve gotta go to work, I’ve gotta.” Ellen saw a family die, leaving two; a girl of ID, a boy of 12. “I have to look after the kid,” said the girl, coughing. “I can’t afford to stay out, sick.” All this and more. If she saw mistery, if she saw tragedy, she saw gallantry. She saw the will to carry on, she saw the sacrifice and the stubbornness and the amaing fortitude of the human heart ... She thought, what can I do, what can a thousand liko me do, with our two hands apiece and our few hours in a day? Not much, but it counted, it had to count. Every life saved, every job found, every family encouraged, every child given the treatment he or she needed, every lesson taught. It all counted. She thought of herself, for the first time, as an unknown soldier in a small army, an army that wouldn’t . . . that couldn’t give up, an army whose battles were unceasing, who had to go on . . . “You’re killing yourself,” said Pete. “Not me,” said Ellen and laughed at him. And then, one night, a ring at the door bell. She was alone with her mother. She went to the door, sick with hope, with fear that her hope was unfounded. A very bitter night. And Bill, standing there, pulling off his cap with the warm ear-tabs; Bill in the horsehide coat and sweater and the sturdy, scuffed shoes and woollen socks. “It’s me,” said Bill. “Say, Mis’ Ellen, the baby’s awful sick and Ma can’t get a doctor. I thought maybe Mrs. Adams asked, “Why didn’t you telephone the office, Bill?” “It only just happened,” explained Bill, “and I sez to my old—l mean, my Ma, I says, Mis’ Ellen’ll come. He’s chokin’,” said Bill simply. Ellen went to the ’phone and called Dr. Travers. He was out. She left an urgent message for him, and got on her Bill’s, so they took a cab at the corner, things. It was something of a walk to “This is a swell cab,” said Bill politely, “but it ain’t as nice as Frank’s . They reached Bill’s house; he lived

up three flights, in fairly large, fairly comfortable rooms. His mother, as redheaded as Bill, had the baby in her arms. “lb’s his throat she said. “Croup like, but I never seen it so bad, no, not when Bill had it, when he was little.’’ Ellen looked at the baby. There were things to do and do fast. The first thing was to get Bill away, to isolate the gasping, choking child as soon as possible; to give an einetic; to improvise a croup kettle; to make compresses . b . If it were membranous croup She worked rapidly, surely. The baby’s mother helped her; not a woman to go to pieces, Mrs. Maloney. Bill and his father and Bill’s little sister were banished. The tea-kettle steamed. There were certnfh remedies in Ellen’s black bag. If only Dr. Travers would hurry . . . Now and then Ellen asked a question. No, the baby hadn’t had diphtheria. Yes, Bill had had it, and the little girl, several years before . . . The funny little tike with the topknot of red hear was breathing a little more easily now. “God and His saints be praised,” said Mrs. Maloney. Ellen echoed her, silently, as she heard the heavy quick steps on the stairs . . . It was membranous croup. She had done what she could; she had been prepared to do more; if necessary, if Travers hadn’t come. But he did come. And Mrs. Maloney held the lamp steady while he and Ellen did the things i~at were urgent and swift and delicate and sure. And presently the little boy slept . . . And a long time afterwards, when directions had been lift, and a nurse called, and everything attended to, Travers drove her home. She was desperately tired; and yet her heart was very light. It was all so terribly worth while, no matter how tired you were, how discouraged, no matter if the hours came when it seemed a Herculean task, no end to it, no proper beginning, and not much progress. Travers was talking about Pete, “He’s the man for the job,” he said. “I had hopes of Mel . . _ but Mel’s different. Pete knows those people, he loves them in his hard-boiled way, we ’re going to have a grand fight . . . and when I have to lay down the old arms, so to speak, he’ll go on with it. That means a lot. He’ll never be rich, I suppose,” said Travers, with a chuckle, “but, boy, he’ll bo rewarded! He won’t realise that till he’s as old as I am.” Ellen went into the apartment. Her mother had made up the bed for her. "Don’t come near me,” said Ellen, ‘T’ve scrubbed up as best I can, but it wasn’t enough.” She took off her clothes, dropped them in a solution, bathed herself, scrubbed, washed her hair. “Ellen,” said her mother, “you’ll never get to bed ...” “There’s the electric heater,” said Ellen yawning, “I’ll forego the luxury of hand-drjing it, for once.” And the very next night, Bill came again. bii liOMiiuued,'