alcohol and sugar. How to know when to send the customer to a doctor. When to let them think you were one. The lecturer told them, If a customer comes in and says, Are you Doctor Jones, simply say, My name is Jones.
The male students could see the finish line in sight, their professional lives waiting for them. Every one of them was ready to look a customer in the eye and say, My name is Jones. For the women it was different. They knew that life as a female pharmacist—or pharmaciste, as one of the instructors insisted—was going to be no easier than being a female pharmacy student had been. There’d be customers who wouldn’t believe you were the pharmacist, who’d go elsewhere rather than trust a woman.
Two other women joined Nance and Mavis and Marjorie. Christina had a sad beaten look. It had taken her two years to squeak through Chemistry and Botany. You couldn’t imagine her behind the counter bossing people around. Ada was a friendly Jewish girl who had a knack for thinking up little ditties to remember the hundreds of formulas they had to learn. If you want the bowels to move to please yers, take rhubarb, ginger and both magnesers. See, Nance, Ada said. You’ll never forget that now, as long as you live.
From working in the shop, Nance already knew about macerating and decocting and the rest of it. Compared to first year, Mat Med was easy. But by the end of winter things were catching up with her. Every day it was the same: the big old alarm clock going off at half-past six, the quick wash in the bathroom down the hall, breakfast, the walk to the pharmacy. If Mr Stevens wasn’t there yet, she had to wait outside. A pharmacy couldn’t be open unless the registered pharmacist was on the premises. Unlock the door, go into the smell of the closed-up shop: privy and peppermint, and the ghosts of a hundred thousand prescriptions. By the end of the day all the spirit was leached out of her.
Three weeks before the exams, the minister came from St James, as he did every Sunday, to give communion. As soon as he gave the first blessing Nance could hear what a terrible cold he had. She watched him raise the chalice and take a sip.
Two days later she woke up with a piercing headache. Every joint hurt, her eyes felt loose in their sockets, she shivered and sweated. People came and went, some spoke to her, but she was too sick to care. Meg sat with her and sponged her face. Matron pushed a thermometer under her tongue. A hundred and four! Nance heard her say. Best get the doctor.
A few days later she still had a sore throat and a cough and the world had a grey look, as if her eyes were too tired to see in colour, but the headache was mostly gone and her joints had stopped aching. Matron came again with the thermometer. Back to work tomorrow, Miss Russell, she said, as if promising a treat. In the morning Nance could hardly stand and Meg had to help her button her cardigan. Mr Stevens was shocked when he saw her but he didn’t send her home. Two weeks later she did the exams.
She only got forty-three in Materia Medica. She’d been too sick to study so it was no more than she deserved, but she’d hoped for a miracle. Here she was, failed, along with poor silly Christina, whose eyes were big with tears and whose lip was trembling. She’d only got twenty-two. That was a definite fail. Nance’s mark gave her another chance. She could sit the exam again in March.
She didn’t go home at Christmas. She slept and slept, and when she wasn’t sleeping she studied. Meg sneaked cups of tea and plates of biscuits up to her, though you weren’t allowed to eat or drink in the room. Made the bed for her, did Nance’s laundry for her. This is the darkest hour, Nance dear, she kept saying. Don’t let them beat you.
In February, Meg had to leave. She’d finished her teacher training and they’d sent her to Lawson in the Blue Mountains. Nance kept going with the study. Back from the pharmacy every night, have tea, get out the books. She had the room to herself. The hostel was cheap, but it was too dear for anyone who didn’t have a job. Half the rooms were empty.
At the second attempt she got fifty-eight. That was a credit. She looked at her name on the list but felt nothing, no triumph, no pleasure. Passing was the next thing she’d had to do, and she’d done it. There was no one to celebrate with. She went back to work.
In the third year of the apprenticeship, 1932, there were no more classes, only work in the shop and study for the Pharmacy Board exam at the end of the year. Easier, but lonelier. No one but herself and Mr Stevens all day and into the night. She’d keep the customers talking for the sake of their company.
Then Mr Stevens lost all his money in some wildcat scheme. Came to Nance one day and told her he’d have to sell up. Her first thought was, I’ll be out of a job. Whoever bought the business might not want the bother and expense of an apprentice. Let alone a girl. Now that would be unfair! But Mr Stevens surprised her. He’d only sell to someone who’d keep her on till she got her registration. Only right and just, he said. You’ve been a good little worker, Miss Russell.
The man who bought the business was Charles Gledhill. He didn’t mince words. He’d rather not have an apprentice. The minute she was registered, he was sorry, but she’d have to go. He was a pharmacist himself, but he was studying Medicine, so he put in Mr Bennetts to run the place. Mr Bennetts was a Methodist and the first thing he did was throw out all the FLs. She heard him giving the young men the rounds of the kitchen when they came in and asked for them. Your body is a temple, she heard from the dispensary. Mr Bennetts was a lay preacher and had a carrying sort of voice. She’d hear the shop door ping as some poor boob went out red as a beet.
Mr Gledhill came into the pharmacy every Friday night to go over the books with Mr Bennetts. One night he said, Think you could cook up a kettle on the Bunsen, Miss Russell? Parched for a cuppa. She could see Mr Bennetts was scandalised. Making tea on the dispensing equipment! Mr Gledhill was the boss, though, and in the end Mr Bennetts let himself be persuaded to have a cup too, and then Mr Gledhill brought a cup out to Nance in the shop. Mr Bennetts disapproved of that too and she drank her tea as quickly as she could, but thought, Now there’s a man with a heart.
Charlie Gledhill was a bright quick chunky fellow, only a few years older than Nance. He had a way of looking you in the eyes and listening when you spoke. A self-made man, she got that feeling, with his sights set on a life bigger than the Enmore Pharmacy.
He liked a laugh. Told her one night about the patient who brought in a script for ‘mist. ADT’. It should have been ‘mist. APF’—a mixture made up according to the Australian Pharmaceutical Formulary—so Charlie rang the doctor. Oh, the doctor said, the man’s a malingerer, I meant give him Any Damn Thing!
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