NO TIME FOR REVENGE

It was twenty-four years since she had seen it but it looked exactly the same…creepy. An old double bricked manor house converted into a convalescent home, but instead of promoting good health, there was something sinister about Chadwick. Even now, Moira could feel the chilling tentacles of despair, of fear and repressed emotion, even from the comparative safety of the road. The climbing roses once a feature of beauty now a tangled mess hiding cracks, insects and most likely vermin. It was a sad reflection of a bygone era; of wealth and socialising, of balls and the hunt, of arranged marriages to arranged funerals. It stood wearing, so it seemed, a mantle of shame.  Moira O’Hara could not quite erase her memories. 

Childhood:

Moira was pensive. She dreamed of being free of sore throats once her tonsils were removed; indeed, a straight forward operation could be done at home if the kitchen table were cleaned and the surrounds were of surgical standards of the day. She was five years old she needed the security of home to recover and she thought of all the treats her Mam promised. Yet she heard Mam and Dad listen to the doctor about another place she could be sent to if the unthinkable happened and emergencies or unforeseen happenings occurred. It preyed on the little girl’s mind, making her throat hurt all the more, even though Dad told her she would be fine and he would be there, wouldn’t he? No one would hurt his little girl and get away with it.

Yet, things went horribly wrong, at home and whilst still under anaesthetic she was bundled into an ambulance to the only facility that could help; that being Chadwick. The young surgeon could not find what was preventing him from getting the job done.  Staying there at Chadwick, meant that Mam nor Dad would not be able to see her every day, also it meant no school friends could visit. Mam rustled up a few of Moira’s things including her doll and her books, trying hard to stem the tears. Dad sat as though in a dream. What could he do for their only child? They sat with her in the ambulance in silence.

Moira was rushed into theatre and a long wait for her parents began. Sitting in a cold corridor, with nothing to do but think their own thoughts or pray to a God who seemed so far from them, did not really while the hours away. Meanwhile, the child was choking, and one young nurse was watching, acting instinctively. As though thinking aloud, she said

“Why don’t you find a way of rubbing her gut and see if something dislodges?” it was bold and out of place and quite audacious, particularly in the eyes of Sister Proud.

“Dr Shanks does not need your advice, Nurse O’Donnell.” stern words from the sister, yet the suggestion was accepted.

“We could indeed try, Nurse,”  replied Dr Shanks as he gently rubbed Moira’s tummy, only to discover a small fragment of something unidentifiable almost flew off the child’s mouth. It could have so easily choked her. Moira’s breathing slowed, and the tonsils now considerably more swollen than before, were removed. Mary O’Hara’s prayers were answered but there were still the medical nightmares ahead, the blame game in an era where compensation was never spoken about, far less offered.

 During her recovery, meals were sent, which were neither appetising nor appropriate for a tonsillectomy, yet Moira was force-fed and rarely kept the food down. When she refused to eat, she was smacked by the Sister. Neither the Sister nor Moira were aware that Dr Shanks was watching one particular day. Tempted though he was to go to the child, protocol dictated he kept away but he decided to arrive early the following morning around breakfast. He watched from a distance as once again Moira’s request to skip a meal was refused. How could any child whose tonsils were removed even under normal circumstances possibly face burnt toast?

The sharp clip-clop of a visitors’ footsteps stopped the Sister in her tracks, but against a specialist, her authority waned.

“Hello, young Moira. Why are you not having breakfast?” Shanks asked a simple question but understood why the child was reluctant.

“My throat is still sore,” Moira whispered

“Would you mind if I had a look? Sister would you stand by please.” He checked and indicated to the Sister she was to stay longer.

“Ah your throat is still rough Moira, how about something soft for you to eat?”

Moira nodded “Do you have a banana?”  she asked shyly. Shanks turned to the Sister

“Do we have a banana Sister?” she did not answer, preferring instead to glare at him as though to say “This is highly irregular.”   Dr Shanks calmly said “could you step this way please Sister Proud?” he motioned her towards an empty room where they could still observe the patients without being heard.

“Sister I saw you smack this young girl last night for refusing to eat her meal. You will never touch any patient in that manner again certainly not my patient. Now go to my office, retrieve the bananas I have at my desk, take one or two, arrange for them to be mashed in a bowl and bring them to Moira with a glass of milk. Meanwhile, this child is going home to her parents even if I have to drive her there myself, today. This hospital is no place for a troubled five-year-old, let her Mum comfort her.”   

Fortunately, Moira did get over her ordeal, and despite it decided to be a nurse. She was not at all pleased to discover that Chadwick was a training hospital and she was to be sent there. Deciding to grin and bear the consequences Moira entered the building. It had not changed It still stank of boiled cabbage, stale urine and mice. Sister Proud was still there; her hair a little less shiny, her temper a little more peppery, and she had no tolerance for student nurses who did not do as they were told when they were told.

She looked at Moira wondering why the young woman looked so familiar, but it did not matter. Although others got their fair share Moira was singled out for extra duty, the most menial or unpleasant tasks, and wherever possible a bawling out. Much to Sister Proud’s chagrin the young nurse did not respond angrily.

One night towards the end of her shift, Moira was tidying the ward amid attending to her patients. Suddenly she could smell smoke. Torn between her need to stay with the patients and her need to satisfy her curiosity, Moira followed her nose. The outside laundry was ablaze and there was someone lying close by, affected by the smoke.  Seeing who it was Moira dragged the body to safety by which time several other staff members joined her. Sister Proud came to realise what had happened Moira clasped her hand; the animosity had gone. As a reward, she was moved on to another hospital.

Now approaching the age of forty Moira O’Hara Smythe took stock of her past She could have died at five years old or become bitter over her treatment as a student nurse. She could have had a chip on her shoulder as the old Sister did, instead, she learned to take the rough with the smooth. Life was a gift and in living it there was no time for revenge. She smiled thinking “and that was all that mattered.”