"Six o’clock Nurse," the maid shouted, using a master key to open each bedroom door down the length of the corridor. If we were roused at six in the morning, at what hour were the maids called?

I sat to wash, putting off the moment when tired legs and feet must support a weary body. Breakfast in the dining room was at six thirty, late attendance marked by Sister Tutor. It was a substantial meal collected at the hatch opening onto the kitchen and eaten at a polished refectory table seating a dozen or so nurses, the Staff nurses emphasising rank by sitting at a table together.

At the start of each three-monthly rota, Sister Tutor read out the name of each nurse assigned to a particular ward.

"Nurse Brown to Surgical Men’s, Nurse Davies to Medical Women’s, Nurse Jackson to Maternity... and remember if you are not happy there it is only for three months," she concluded, anticipating complaints.

The day staff was headed by Ward Sister who, like a woman married to her work, dropped her surname, taking the name of her ward, Sister Moore remaining a permanency.

Directly under her was a Staff nurse, nearing completion of three years training, but not having yet sat the State Registered examination. On graduating she would look for a post in another hospital, hoping to return to her alma mater should a vacancy occur. Except for Agency nurses employed on Private wards or Maternity, the hospital was staffed by nurses in training, studying in their spare time, guided by permanent ward sisters and administrative staff. A second year nurse, a probationer, and a ward maid completed the personnel, able to call on porters at any time.

Having no office, Sister Moore sat at a desk in the centre of the long ward, making out duty notes, laundry lists and bed numbers, ordering diets and writing reports. Her first task was taking the night nurse’s written report on the condition of each patient.

Lined by tall windows on two sides, the walls were gloss painted, dark green below a tide mark of black, cream above, Leading off the wall opposite the row of windows overlooking the square was a modernised kitchen, the wall telephone installed in the entry space.

Further along, with beds between, an extension housed a modernised bathroom, toilets for the patients, and a toilet for the staff, where nurses went for a quick smoke. The modernised sluice, the narrow window overlooking Gray’s Inn Road, tiled with a tiled floor, contained a deep sink and draining board. The bedpan steriliser, chromium plated and built in to the wall, disposed of the contents automatically. The surface of the enamel had been removed by the strong spirits of lemon used for cleaning, dire warnings being issued to us on safety, not to splash the eyes.

The ward floor was of wood strip, polished daily by the little Welsh maid, an economic refugee from a mining village, wielding a heavily weighted ‘bumper’ to spread the liquid polish, the handle taller than the teenage girl.

The uniform, of a pink print dress, white apron, the straps slipping off skinny shoulders, was not unlike the nurses, a mob cap askew of her head, dark hair poking out under the frill.

Once a year, when the ward was closed for spring cleaning, strong men scraped off layers of caked polish and dirt. Daily, an odd-job man polished the brass swan neck taps of the wash basin, the handles on the wide door, and the brass binding on the large central table, its top ceramic tiled in green. Medicines and drugs, stored in cupboards lining the short end of the ward, were dispensed by Sister or Staff, who alone held a key.

Sheets, pillow slips and draw sheets were changed daily, the top sheet turned back at the foot, to be reversed at the evening bed-making, to present a clean surface. The dirty linen was collected in wicker baskets, moved on castors, collected by porters.

The top sheet must be folded back to a depth between the elbow and the finger tips; pillow slip ends faced away from the ward door, and the white, self-patterned Alhambra quilt smoothed on with its pattern facing towards the bed end. The large castors on the black iron bedsteads were all to point firmly inwards.

Tight hospital corners flexed the arches of the feet of patients who spent many weeks in bed, lying on a rubber draw sheet covered by a long draw sheet, pulled through if stained. At night the many folds of the heavy quilt added weight on the trapped feet of the patients, most of whom sat on a rubber ring protected by a pillow case and blown up, against rules, from oxygen points provided at the head of every bed.

First thing in the morning the beds were pulled away from the wall for a ward maid to sweep, my task being to clean each marble-topped locker, wash the fruit bowl and position the vase of flowers.

"My baby," a cheerful Cockney woman said, patting her abdomen swollen by a cancerous pancreas, her complexion jaundiced, recognising from my accent that I was not a Londoner. I told her I came from Plymouth.

"Haven’t you got anything better to do than gossip, Nurse?" Sister Moore snapped. I took solace in the kitchen where the first brew-up of tea had been made, to lay up the three-tiered tea trolley for the patients ‘elevenses’ of milk or cocoa, served at nine thirty.

Time then to go to the Nurses Home in relays, to change from yesterday’s apron into a clean one, and take our elevenses of bread and jam, leftover puddings of bread and butter or apple tart left out for us to help ourselves.

Matron inspected daily between 10:00 a.m. and noon, stopping to talk individually to each patient, known to her by name, three hundred patients being the hospital’s total capacity.

Less to be dreaded was the visit of the Houseman, usually a female, feminine in a long white coat worn over a dress, distinguished from the students who wore short white coats, creeping in at any time, fearful of Sister Moore’s tongue but grateful for her advice.

The Consultant’s round was held weekly (any ‘up’ patients tidied away in bed,) accompanied by the senior registrar and a ‘school’ of medical students, Sister Moore and ‘Staff’ who carried a clipboard on which to note down instructions, the patients’ notes laid out at the foot of the bed.

The patient answered if spoken to, always addressed by name and usually kindly, and might be examined by any number of medical students, permission taken for granted.

To a harried probationer, it was a relief to leave the ward on errands to the Pharmacy, a department located in the basement beneath the front square, carrying back the daily order of medicines in a large, compartmented wicker basket. Or accompanying a patient to x-ray or electrocardiogram, the wheelchair pushed by a porter wearing the uniform long khaki coloured storeman’s coat, flapping below the knees.

Specimens intended for the Pathology department meant a walk over the rooftops along a wooden duckboard to a glass-roofed building in the skies.

The patients’ lunch was served at twelve o’clock, delivered in a heat-proof trolley by a porter and served by Sister or Staff. It was expected of every nurse that she knew each of the twenty patients by name and their medical condition, special diets being closely observed... salt free... gastric.... fat free... diabetic... grumbled over by the recipient. Those on a normal diet had minced meat, carrot or cabbage and a mound of mashed potato, with milk pudding or plum duff and custard to follow. it was rumoured that rabbit replaced the chicken ordered for special diets. Fried fish and chips was served every Friday, with steamed fish for the ‘diets.’

Our lunch was taken in relays, the ward being closed for a bedpan round, modesty defended by a screen pulled across the ward door. Cuffs were taken off for bedpan delivery, the receptacle covered by a cloth. Outside these set times, a request for a ‘pan’ would be passed down from ‘Staff’ to second-year nurse to the pro, who carried screens to be placed around the bed.

Blanket baths followed in the early afternoon, a time to talk to patients, behind the bed screens, the bedclothes folded tidily on a chair at the foot, the patient cleansed, soothed, refreshed, cosseted with talcum powder.

Tea was served at three o’clock, prepared and served alone by the probationer laying up the trolley with thick white cups and plates, the brown enamel teapot provided with a handle near the spout to balance the weight, opposite a sturdy handle.

Sensing that her newest probationer would be cutting the loaf across, steadying the square pan shape against her chest, Sister Moore would come into the kitchen to set the bread on the board to be sliced downwards, the interruption causing the butter cut up on a plate placed under the lighted grill to melt into a yellow puddle, forming hard flakes on cooling.

‘Late again,’ was her expression, glancing up at the wall clock as the flustered nurse wheeled in the tea trolley. Much welcomed by the patients, who supplemented their stale bread with cakes and biscuits brought in by relatives and shared out.

Time off was two hours for all staff, taken either in the morning, when lectures might interfere, or the afternoon, with a six o’clock break before the one day off a week, the time table drawn up weekly, liable to revision at short notice.

The moral blackmail of a patient pleading, "Post a letter for us, Nurse?" meant changing from uniform to mufti or, risking detection, to wear a coat over.

"You might be taken for one of the maids," was Home Sister’s admonition on catching me.

The patients’ supper was served at six o’clock, the last meal of the day and always the same: a salad prepared on the ward served with a chunk of cheese and mounds of bread and margarine, a hot milky drink handed around in the evening.

Sundays, for staff and patients alike, was marked by a currant bun for tea. Patients had fruit, bottled fruit drinks and jam brought in by visitors, a strict eye kept on restricted diets.

The last task of the day, after bed-making, ‘backs,’ cleaning of the kitchen and sluice, was taking out flowers and potted plants, which, it was thought, gave off poisonous carbon monoxide during the night. Heavy boards were laid across the bath taking the vases and tubs, making of the bathroom an exotic florist’s, rich with scent and colour.

Shortly before going off duty, and with our cuffs on, we gathered around Ward Sister, kneeling to say prayers.

‘Amen’ from staff and patients. On one occasion, Sister Moore, having mislaid her cuffs, asked to borrow mine. I hid my hands behind my back, stifling an uneasy feeling that I might yet be admonished by her.

Off duty, at eight thirty, we returned to the brightly-lit hallway of the Nurses Home, able to use first names and not surnames as demanded on duty, the atmosphere that of the playground with children let out of school. I went first to the cubby-hole office, hoping for a letter from home. The old-fashioned lift clanked its way upwards or frequently was out of order, meaning a walk up several flights of stairs.

The dining room was comforting, with the smell of food, a meal served by the maids, at table. Screams and an outburst in Welsh greeted an accident in loading the dish-washing machine. With shrieking feet cosseted off the floor on the cross beams of the table, one’s ear was pricked for gossip.

‘Clancy’ on ‘Annie Zung’ had not come back from off-duty that morning. She’d cleared her room, going with a whimper and not the bang of rebellion.

In the hall were tickets on offer for free shows, theatres ‘wall-papering’ failing performances but enabling me, at eighteen, to catch up with Peter Pan, or attend opera at Saddler’s Wells, a bus ride away, casting a professional eye over Madame Butterfly’s ‘baby.’

The monthly pay-day, held in the chairman’s chambers, was presided over by a stern-faced Assistant Matron taking the opportunity to cast a sharp eye over our hair, nails, uniform and the possession of a fountain pen, an article passed from one to another whilst waiting outside the closed ornate doorway, needed to sign for our salary in a heavy ledger. We left our ward in relays to change into a clean apron for this ceremony, time wasted as with the punishment for breaking a thermometer, being ordered to appear before Matron in a clean pinny, kept waiting outside her door, sitting on a narrow bench, and fined three pence.

Lectures became advanced, sometimes delivered by a surgeon or a physician on his speciality, held after supper or in duty time, to the annoyance of Sister Moore.

Like any teacher, Sister Tutor, by a raised brow or a pursed mouth, showed her disapproval if a student, passed on from primary school, revealed an ignorance of the basics: preparing a post-operative bed, laying up a post-tonsillectomy tray, preparing a dressing trolley. The knowledge of practical work was picked up mostly on the wards, taught by one’s peers. I found theory increasingly difficult, just opening a textbook sending me to sleep in off-duty, and writing up lectures a chore, cutting into one’s free time.

Once monthly, having signed a request list, breakfast was served in our room. At all times it was a strict rule to sign Out and, if coming in late, to obtain a written late pass from Home Sister.

It was considered a social failing to dine in, wearing mufti, on one’s day off. I walked. Everywhere. Cutting through Bedford Square, Great Ormond Street, passing the Children’s Hospital where, it was rumoured, all the nursing staff were daughters of top-ranking medical men, to come out in Tottenham Court Road.

I disdained the National Gallery for its preponderance of religious paintings, and St. Paul’s Cathedral for its monuments to warlords. My meal was a currant bun and a cup of tea at an ABC cafe.

One Saturday fog wrapped up the city, a sulphurous yellow substance reducing vision to a few feet, conductors walking in front of their buses. I was homesick. Fog was a damp white mist, hiding Drake’s Island, but clean. I longed for my mother, my sister and my home.

Easter was marked by my sister sending a carton containing three coats, packed up by a cousin in the Outerwear department of a Plymouth store. I chose a tweed in blue and white, jigger shaped, returning the two rejected wrapped in layers of tissue paper. My mother and sister made up the monthly pound, by postal orders sent in response to pleas, or when no letter arrived, rightly supposing I had not even the money for a stamp. For most girls, from middle-class homes, living within distance, the monthly stipend was pocket money.

With Home Sister having a master key, daily inspection of our rooms could result in her stripping a bed not properly made. The trick was to snuggle in and out without disturbance. Any cause for complaint was followed up by a personal visit... "The state of your hairbrush, nurse. Clean the brush with the comb, the comb with the brush." This was the authoritarian who had pursued me down the corridor calling out "Nurse, your hair," for, shoulder length, curling, the pinned cap bobbing on top, my brown hair had irritated her. Trendy nurses made up their caps to sit, like skull caps, on the back of the head.

Caps, we were informed, were worn to stop the spread of head lice from patient to nurse. When visiting a patient at home, an experience only likely for maternity nurses on the District, we must spread newspaper over the table and chair, and never on any account sit down. On arriving back at the Nurses’ Home we must strip in the bathroom, holding one’s clothing over the water for fleas to involuntarily jump in.

Our uniforms were laundered weekly in the hospital laundry, free of charge, a facility for personal laundry being provided in the basement room, the key kept by Home Sister who recorded the borrower’s name in a book, clocked in on its return; an elaborate system which did little to stop pilfering. The ‘smalls’ were washed in wooden sinks and hung up to dry on overhead lines.

We carried a bunch of keys for drawers, locker, wardrobe and our room, in a capacious pocket.

Three sitting rooms were provided on the ground floor of the nurses home, the probationers’ furnished with Rexine upholstered fireside chairs standing on polished brown linoleum. ‘Second year nurses and Staff’ was softened by cretonne chair covers and a scattering of rugs, but the Sister’s room triumphed in a carpet, loose covered settees and chairs, and vases of flowers.

Most of the junior staff used the Games room in the basement, noisy with a wireless set, a wind-up gramophone and a Ping-Pong table.

Inventory Day was a diversion, for every ward or clinic must put on display the articles of equipment on the written list, set out on trestle tables with the embroidered or stamped ward motif clearly visible. As Matron started her inspection on the top floor, it was possible for the ward below to make up shortages, the articles swinging in a basket from an open window, for Matron to count the teaspoons a second time. With this ploy ward sisters, the staff regarded as martinets, showed themselves to be the girls, in the twenties, they really were.

At the end of the three months, Sister Tutor explained that, whilst it was the policy of the hospital not to put probationers on night duty before their first year was up, there was a staff shortage which obliged them to break this practice Those allocated to night duty would have that day off, coming on duty the same night, with breakfast at seven thirty p.m.