do-gooder,’ sneered Mrs Wimble. I didn’t know what to say. ‘Well, as you’ve come uninvited, I suggest you do some good and put the kettle on,’ she told me.
Once I’d done what passed for washing-up in this house I was able to present Mrs Wimble with a cup of tea – the milk of which had come direct from her own troublesome nanny goat.
‘Not having a brew?’ she enquired as she took a sip, her piercing grey eyes fixed on me.
‘I had one before I left, thank you,’ I excused.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Sarah Hill, the new health visitor.’
‘Health visitor indeed. Busybody more like it,’ she barked. ‘Hmm. Did you say that senile Dr Drake sent you?’
‘He did.’
‘Was he on this plane or a higher one when he saw fit to poke his beaky nose into my business?’ I smiled to myself but I didn’t say anything. ‘There is something in that meditating lark, I suppose,’ continued Mrs Wimble through loud slurps of tea. ‘Though I prefer to look to Mother Nature for my remedies.’
‘Are you a herbalist?’ I enquired.
‘Do you take me for a broomstick rider?’ Mrs Wimble snapped. ‘My late husband and I were both botanists.’
‘Really? I loved Botany at school,’ I replied enthusiastically.
‘Did you indeed?’ she cackled. ‘All right, Nurse. I’ll let you give me the once-over if you can tell me what tree is used to make aspirin.’
I thought back to my tutorials and the piles of open medical books in the reading room of Hackney Nurses’ Home and flipped the pages through in my mind’s eye until I saw the right one as if it was there in front of me.
‘I seem to recall the acetyl ester of salicylic acid was originally isolated from the bark of a tree,’ I answered.
The left side of Mrs Wimble’s mouth turned up in a lopsided half-smile. ‘Ah, but which tree?’
I pictured the drive through her woods trying to recall the texture of the barks. ‘The willow tree,’ I ventured timidly.
Mrs Wimble didn’t tell me if I’d answered her questions correctly. Instead the old lady changed the subject.
‘Did you meet Gray, my gander?’ she enquired, putting her tea on a side table with a collection of knitting needles. I nodded. ‘He saw off that ditsy blonde district nurse last week,’ she crowed.
‘Nurse Bates?’ I enquired.
‘Friend of yours?’
‘I haven’t met her yet. This is my second week in Totley.’
‘Don’t bother. A girl like that is more interested in polishing nails than trimming them. Wouldn’t let her over the threshold let alone let her get her scalpel near my feet.’
I wondered if I’d answered her botany question correctly and decided to try my luck. ‘Would you like me to take a look at your feet, Mrs Wimble?’
‘If you must,’ she replied huffily.
I pulled off her muddy Wellington boots and holey socks. Her feet were dry and sore, her toenails yellow and curling over the edges of her toes. Thick blue veins ran up her legs. She turned her gaze to the window and grumbled before closing her eyes; she couldn’t be bothered with me anymore.
I fetched my medical bag and a bowl of warm soapy water. She slept or pretended to nap as I wordlessly bathed her toes, soles, heels and ankles and then trimmed her toenails the best I could. Finally, I rubbed some ointment into her legs and feet and left them elevated on a footstool to dry before I slipped away. My time here had expired for the day, but I would be back. Mrs Wimble had worked her spell on me – I wanted to know more about this intriguing old lady. Somehow, I don’t know how, I’d momentarily broken through the impenetrable barrier she’d built around Peasblossom and her solitary life. There wasn’t much she’d let me do, but I was determined to do what I could.
Tuesday afternoon I was back in my broom cupboard before Totley baby clinic. Thanks to Flo I’d opened up with a new set of keys and Mrs Martha Bunyard was none the wiser.
Mrs King appeared. ‘Hello, I popped in to see how you are, Miss Hill.’
‘They haven’t brought anyone through to see me yet.’
‘Oh, I see. What are you going to do?’
I noticed one intrepid mum with beautifully waved long auburn hair, who wore a flowing maxi maternity dress in a striped pattern of burnt orange and toffee with a pair of smartly turned-out little girls clutching each of her hands, make her way up to Mrs Martha Bunyard’s coven.
‘I’d like to see the health visitor please,’ she requested politely but firmly.
‘You don’t really want to pester the new health visitor before she knows what’s what. She’s terribly busy. Tell me, what’s niggling you?’
I was almost on the verge of saying quite rudely that it was no trouble at all and I’d like to be a hundred times busier when Mrs King stepped in with cheerful calm and said to the pregnant mum, ‘Ah, Mrs Bourne. This is Miss Hill, your new health visitor – aren’t you lucky?’ before slipping away again.
‘Follow me, Mrs Bourne,’ I said calmly but I felt as green as grass. ‘Let’s find a quiet corner to talk in.’
Mrs Bourne sighed with relief. I turned round the table I’d spotted the day before and put chairs on either side and found a few toys for her children to play with from the toy box to allow us a few minutes of uninterrupted conversation.
After chatting about potty training for about 15 minutes the elegant Mrs Bourne left the clinic with a mutually agreed approach. I’d suggested we catch up in two weeks to see how things were going. Mrs Bourne already had a really good idea of what to do and needed only a few more suggestions and reassurance she was on the right track. It made my blood boil to think that mothers had been turned away from getting a service they had a right to by busybody ladies of the parish. What if they’d had a serious problem, what if it was a matter of life and death? With no medical background who were they to decide who got a service and who didn’t? Never mind waiting, I threw caution to the wind and decided with youthful vigour that it was going to be my way or the highway.
Having seen my first client of the afternoon I felt emboldened that she was not going to be the last and returned to Mrs Martha Bunyard and her tea party. I heard her friend Mrs Doris Bowyer muttering, ‘Who does think she is? She’s just a slip of a girl. I’ve been lending a helping hand at this clinic for the last 20 years. If it’s good enough …’ her voiced trailed away as the third volunteer, Miss Elena Moon, shushed her as they saw me approaching.
‘Ladies, I wanted to say thank you so much for giving up your time to help at clinic today and for showing me the ropes last week.’ Miss Moon muttered ‘You’re welcome’ but
