Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie DixonЧитать онлайн книгу.
up towards the ceiling and sighs. “No matter. The golden days are past. We must be thankful for what we can get.”
“Amen,” I don’t know why I say it. It is just that she drones on in such a way as that I imagine I must be in church.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Granted.”
“What?! !”
“I mean, granted, Matron.”
Matron shudders and her moustache quivers as if a strong wind has just run through it. “I have a horrible suspicion that you are trying to mock me, Miss – er Dixon.”
“Oh no, Matron.” What is the old bag on about?
“Tell me, Miss Dixon.” Crackle, crackle goes Matron’s uniform. “Does your family have a nursing background?”
“I think my father had his tonsils out.”
“No, Miss Dixon.” Something seems to be causing Matron pain. Maybe her cap is on too tight. “What I meant was do you have any relations who have worked in the medical profession?”
“My Aunt Gladys used to work in Boots during the war.”
Matron’s eyes are now tightly closed. “Fascinating. It says on your curriculum vitae that you have one ‘A’ level. What is that?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Matron. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what ‘A’ level you’ve got?”
“Oh, I see. I thought you meant what does curriculum vimto mean. I’ve got geography.”
“Geography.” Matron shrugs. “It could have been woodwork, I suppose.”
“Not really,” I say, hoping I don’t appear too pushy. “We didn’t do woodwork after ‘O’ levels.”
Matron closes her eyes again. “Of course.” She shudders and then addresses me in a firm brisk voice. “Now, Miss Dixon, I don’t have to tell you that nursing is a hard, arduous profession. You have to dig deep and conscientiously to find jewels. Many girls—” she shakes her head sadly “—just can’t take it.” She looks at me expectantly and I can see that she is hoping that I will speak up and show her that I am not the wilting type.
“I know what I’m letting myself in for,” I say.
Matron nods. “Sometimes it’s a good idea if a gel faces up to the facts right at the onset and realises that she isn’t cut out for the life. Long hours … mental and physical strain … the requirement to study while you work… .” Her voice dies away and she smiles sympathetically. It is the first time I can remember her smiling.
“That’s what everybody says to me,” I tell her.
“Y-e-s.” Matron speaks slowly and thoughtfully. “That’s never worried you? I mean, you think you would be able to cope all right?”
“I’m no stranger to stress,” I tell her. “I used to work on the check-out at Tescos. Of course it was Saturdays only because—”
“We have what we call a four weeks trial period at Queen Adelaide’s.” Matron obviously takes in what you say to her very quickly. “It’s a safety precaution on both sides. During that time a nurse is able to see if she likes the life and—” Matron pauses dramatically “—we are able to see if we like her. Should we find that we are suited to each other, training proceeds, with preliminary examinations after one year and the majority of our gels becoming fully qualified State Registered Nurses after three years.”
I give her my cool, efficient nod and tuck my blouse back into the top of my skirt—ooh! I would like to take away that old man’s false teeth and feed him toast. Matron crackles and gives me another smile. “You’re not intimidated?”
I think hard for a minute and then shake my head. “I don’t think so. I’ve had a polio jab, though.”
Poor Matron. There is no doubt that she is in pain. Probably some tummy upset due to all the strains and stresses of the job. “We will be writing to you in due course. Thank you for coming to see me and for expressing your willingness to indulge in life’s noblest work.”
For a moment I think she is going to stand up but she just crackles and goes back to signing papers. The interview is presumably over. Short and sweet. It could have been worse. I win another brisk nod when I fall over a chair and then hobble out into the corridor. There is no sign of Mr Arkwright but I go down by the stairs, just in case.
I will always remember the day the letter arrived saying that I have been accepted for training at Queen Adelaide’s because it coincided with the headlines in the paper reading “Shortage of Nurses reaches epidemic proportions.”
“What’s that bit underlined in red?” says Dad, who is studying every word of the letter as if he cannot believe his eyes.
“That’s the safe period, Dad.”
“The safe period!?”
“A trial period while we see if we’re suited to each other,” I explain.
Dad looks less worried. “I was going to say, I’m not all that struck on safe periods.” He looks at Mum in a funny way. Mum avoids his eyes.
“That’s wonderful news, dear,” she says. “Queen Adelaide’s is a lovely hospital. I remember my Aunty Maud dying there. It was the happiest time of her life.”
Dad looks me up and down and a worried expression slowly spreads across his face. “You look after what you’ve got,” he says.
Dad need not worry. I have no intention of allowing my new found freedom to tempt me into loose habits. His belief that I have low moral standards must come from some Freudian backwater of the mind up which I would not like to propel myself without a paddle.
It has always been my intention to present my future husband with the precious gift of my virginity upon our wedding day. An old fashioned idea, you may think, but one that I take very seriously. Perhaps I hear you say: Yes, but what about Geoffrey and the ton-up boys? Well, I don’t think anything really happened with Geoffrey. Certainly, I can’t remember it and that is what it is all about, isn’t it? I mean, virginity is a state of mind, isn’t it? Take the ton-up boys who took me, for example. I suppose that technically they all had sexual intercourse with me but it was completely against my will. While the thick banks of muscle were thudding against my quivering pelvis my eyes were tightly closed. You can’t say, that in a situation like that, I lost my virginity. I was just moving it swiftly to one side in order to save my sister from the horrible experience and my mother from the shame.
Not, of course, that I am a prude. I have indulged in my share of heavy petting. In fact, I think that Dad’s attitude to me may have been shaped by the time he found me in the front room with Terry Miller. I was much younger then and at the age when you do things without really thinking, or rather, you do things because you think everyone else is doing them. I was amazed the way Dad flew off the handle. He would still have thrown Terry’s Y-fronts on the fire if the poor bloke had been wearing them.
What disturbs me most is my capacity to arouse strong sexual feelings in the most unlikely people. A few more patients like Mr Arkwright and things could be very embarrassing. I can’t understand what it is about me. I am just a normal 38-22-36 inch blonde, five foot eight-and-a-half inches tall. I don’t receive a lot of letters of complaint about my body but I am not that different to other girls. It must be some kind of chemistry. I am like a piece of litmus paper. When certain men look at me they start to turn red.
My farewell to Mum, Dad and Natalie is spared from becoming too emotional an occasion by the discovery of Mum’s rhubarb on top of the kitchen cupboard shortly before I leave. In the five weeks that it has been there it