Free It Won't Hurt a Bit by Jane Yeadon

go back now I’ll get a chance to catch up.’
    I said, ‘Notes? Crikey! I was so taken aback by her introductory spiel I never thought to put anything down. Let’s have a shufti at what you’ve written.’
    We sped back and were surprised to find that the sun had broken out with Miss Jones replaced by a tutor who sounded genuinely welcoming. ‘Ah! There you are, Nurses, come and take your seats please. Have you had a nice break?’ She had grey curly hair, a motherly way and a smile like the stir mark left on thick custard.
    ‘I’m Mrs Low and delighted to be your practical work instructor. I know we are going to enjoy these three months together and that you will leave here able to take your places as caring representatives of this P.T.S. That is of paramount importance.’ She clasped her comfortable bosom and looked upward with such sincerity she should have been accompanied by a burst from a heavenly choir.
    ‘Now our first practical lesson is,’ her inhalation could have hoovered up the dust particles dancing round her halo, ‘how to properly fill a hot water bottle. Yes! A hot water bottle! It is of paramount importance,’ a waggish finger waved, ‘that we learn to do the simple things well. We can then proceed. We shall do this in the practical procedure room. If you would follow me please.’
    ‘This is heavy stuff,’ grumbled Jo, as we cheeped light discontent in the tutor’s comfortable wake. ‘My brain’s going to burst with the challenge. Still, she’s a friendly old soul. I wouldn’t like to upset her.’
    The other classroom was large, light and full of draughts, with a life-size doll in a state of advanced decline in the hospital bed placed centre stage. There were cupboards, sinks and enough trolleys to mobilise the entire caring concept. For the patient’s view, long poorly-fitted windows gave out onto seagulls tap dancing for worms on an unbroken length of stunted anaemic-looking grass. Somewhere in the distance, the city grumbled, its moans carried by a chilly wind through the windows and demanding a presence in the room. It wasn’t the best prospect for a patient exposed to the care of a novice army.
    Mrs Low gathered us round the bed.
    ‘I want you to pay close attention to my technique. It is of paramount importance,’ Maisie dug me in the ribs, ‘that you tell the patient what you are about to do, otherwise they can get an awful fright. I know this personally.’ She put her hand on her heart and rolled her eyes with the drama of a prima donna. ‘You see, Nurses, I was once a patient and had to have my appendix out. As soon as I was admitted, a nurse came to my bedside with a razor. In my anxious state I thought she was going to do the operation right there and then.’ She winced at the recall, then, ‘You see, Nurses, she didn’t explain .’
    ‘So what did she want to do?’ asked Isobel.
    Mrs Low’s look was as sharp as the alleged razor, but Isobel’s look of dedicated interest sent the tutor on a mission to explain about cleanliness and how being shaved from stem to stern guaranteed hygiene for an operation.
    ‘And six months stubbly discomfort,’ murmured Isobel, lips fixed and looking dreamy.
    Still, Mrs Low’s lecture was long enough to stop anyone wanting to hear more. There were no further questions.
    Our tutor now advanced upon the dummy, face aglow and arms outstretched.
    ‘Good Morning, Mrs Brown. I hear your hot water bottle’s cold. Now I know it’s not easy for you to move, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just get it out for you. I think it’s under the bedclothes somewhere.’
    We watched, becoming interested, as she prepared to climb aboard whilst Rosie went red and searched for her hanky.
    Mrs Brown, plainly overcome by the exertions of her carer foraging, clucking and explaining, flopped drunkenly to the side.
    Jo frowned at Rosie who was having some difficulty in breathing. Meanwhile, the rest of us were mesmerised by the sight of Mrs Low’s