West End Nurse

  WEST END NURSE

  Lucy Agnes Hancock

  She loved it all—loved going among the poor derelicts of “The Patch” helping where she could, scolding, encouraging, heartening and often healing. Yes, these were the people that need help, Mary Bradford believed with all the young strength of her convictions. That was the reasons she had decided to become a Public Health Nurse and that the faith that enabled her to stand day after day the arduous work, the disappointments, the failures, the opposition of selfishness and greed.

  Her heart was torn by the suffering, her faith shaken by the cold, scientific attitude of young Doctor Timothy Rutledge, who had been put in charge of the district. He scoffed at her “sentimentality,” the help she brought to her patients beyond the routing of her duty. She hated his impersonal attitude and she thought she hated him. Their daily contacts produced antagonism and disputes. She would not give up her conviction that a nurse was more than just a person to minister to physical needs.

  But Tim Rutledge had to admit she was a good nurse, and when high drama brought her into danger, he followed grimly until, together, they fought an incipient epidemic, stamped it out and with it, the festering civic sore of the slums. Then even Tim got “sentimental.”

  To

  Virginia Simons

  WHO LIKES MY STORIES

  CHAPTER 1

  The March sky was leaden without a single break. The sun seemed to have set—permanently. Rain slanted viciously, driven by a cold wind straight from Medicine Hat. It shrieked wildly as it buffeted trees and pedestrians alike.

  Mary Bradford drove her small, shabby coupe into the garage at the Center and got out wearily, slamming the door with unnecessary violence. It had been a hard day—disheartening and unsatisfactory. She should have grown used to hardship and discouragement after three years ministering to the needs of her district; but somehow she hadn’t. Perhaps the weather had something to do with it for today was one of the few times she wanted to quit her job. For one thing, spring was late. Winter had long outstayed its welcome, if indeed the West End ever welcomed it. Flu was rife—pneumonia running a close second. Hospitals were full, nurses scarce and—there was a new doctor assigned to the West End—one of those smart young moderns having no patience with shiftlessness and very little with there’s-nothing-to-be done, why worry? we’ll-just-have-to-make-the-best-of-it poverty and there was little else but poverty in the West End.

  Just why had the Department sent Doctor Rutledge to her district, anyway? Why hadn’t they let elderly, fatherly, sympathetic Doctor Thompson stay on?

  She opened the heavy door of the severe, red brick building and hurried down the long corridor to the room at the end where her desk was located, and sank wearily into a chair. Gosh, but she was tired! She was late as usual. It was long past five and everyone else had gone. The place was deserted, even the janitor seemed to have finished cleaning. She reached for a report blank and wrote steadily for a few minutes. Old Mrs. Fornesi was very bad indeed—Mary doubted if she would survive this latest attack. She had hated leaving her. Her elderly husband was so entirely helpless and while the neighbors were eager—altogether too eager, Mary felt—to help, they seemed only to confuse and distract him the more. Sometimes she had been impatient with him and was sorry afterward. Doctor Know-it-all never ceased being exasperated with him. Why didn’t he get a job somewhere? He wasn’t crippled or blind or anything. But just the same Mary felt a great sympathy for him as she did for all inadequate souls. What was to become of him? Doctor Rutledge suggested the County Home and no doubt that was where he would land; but Mary had been in and out of the little apartment for three years and knew what a tragedy the breaking up of it would be. The two were so devoted. Mrs. Fornesi treated him more like a child than a husband and the man ate it up. Now he appeared completely lost.

  She tore her thoughts away from the subject and went on with her report. Little Angela Garbinsky was definitely better—at least one bright spot in the dark sky. Jean Poussin’s condition remained the same. Mary doubted if he wanted to recover. Life had disappointed him—treated him roughly and now in his early thirties, he was tired of it. His young wife did little but weep and complain and long for her beloved France. It was quite useless to tell her the France she once knew no longer existed. She cried that she hated this country where the climate and people were cold, where the food wasn’t fit to eat and where a girl could get no work no matter how hard she tried, all because she knew so little of the heathenish language and barbaric ways. She and Jean had come to America some six years before and Mary couldn’t understand why, if Jean could learn English, Marie couldn’t. She had always understood the French were a thrifty lot—not easily discouraged. She still believed it. Marie must be an anachronism. The fact annoyed Doctor Rutledge who had little use for anyone who not only persisted in discouragement but seemed to revel in it.

  And if there was one kind of public health doctor who got under Mary Bradford’s skin it was one born with a silver spoon in his mouth. How could he realize what it was to go to bed hungry—to wake up in the morning to despair and utter defeat? To be in an alien land on a cold, wet March morning and know there wasn’t a crumb of food in the place or a cent with which to buy any? Mary could sympathize with Marie even while the girl exasperated her. She had obtained three jobs for her within the last two months but Marie had lost them as fast as she landed them. No one wanted a perpetual whiner about, no matter how good a worker. If she would only be cheerful—put on an act if necessary. French girls were supposed to be fine actresses. Yeah! And another thing, Marie refused to have anything to do with her neighbors who accused her of being stuck-up. And why should she be, for Pete’s sake? Why should anyone be for that matter?

  “Oh, dear,” Mary sighed, “I don’t know what is to become of her if Jean dies and it looks now as if he certainly would. I wish Doctor Know-it-all would help. I’ve hinted and hinted, but he fails to understand—or pretends to.”

  She must forget the Poussins and go on with her report. The girls would think there had been an accident. She sat for a moment, elbow on desk, chin in her cupped hand and stared into space. Just why did she persist in sticking to this job? Was it because of her overwhelming feeling of sympathy—of a desire to help? She could do so little—just one small nurse. Why did the Board of Health allow conditions such as existed in parts of the West End to continue? Why didn’t some civic-minded or philanthropic person or club do something? Doctor Thompson had tried and been replaced by Doctor Rutledge who just didn’t care. Darn him! Just now she was ready to quit—chuck the whole thing and go into private nursing. There was money in private work, especially if one could land a job with a wealthy patient—an invalid or near-invalid. Fun, too, if the patient wasn’t too crabby.

  A door opened and footsteps hurried down the big room to pause beside her desk. Mary refused to look up. Probably Doctor Rutledge with more advice and subtle criticism of her methods. How she disliked that man!

  “Oh, hello, Mary Bradford! You still here?”

  Mary swung around. It wasn’t Rutledge, thank goodness! “Hello, Doctor Seymour. I’m just leaving. Is it still raining?” she asked superfluously, ignoring the streaming windows.

  “No. Now it’s pouring. If you’re ready to leave I’ll run you home. I just came in to—to—” he stammered and Mary wondered if he was looking for someone. Well, he needn’t feel so embarrassed. She had no idea which of the girls he might be rushing just now. Internes were notoriously fickle—a new girl each week.

  “That’s sweet of you, Tony,” she said, getting to her feet and picking up her report. “I’ll just slip this into the chief’s basket and be right with you.”

  It was almost dark—even the street lights looked dim and uncertain. Cars slithered along the wet pavement, the tires making a sucking sound. Pedestrians hunched beneath swaying umbrellas, ignoring puddles and little rivers through which they sloshed. Mary shivered.

  “Sprig—beautiful sprig!”

  sang Tony Seymour.

  “What is so grad as a day in sprig?”

  “I’m glad someone’s feeling cheerful,” Mary said as she ducked into the car standing at the curb.

  “Why not?” the young man asked as he edged the mud-spattered coupe into the line of traffic. He began to sing softly in his really fine tenor:

  “ ‘Oh, there’s sunshine, blessed sunshine,

  While the peaceful, happy moments roll;

  When Mary shows her lovely face,

  There’s sunshine in my soul.’ ”

  “I learned it somewhat differently,” Mary told him. “Did you go to Sunday School, Doctor? In a village church?”

  “Sure,” he replied. “I went every Sunday. Our teacher was so pretty I was her most devoted pupil—never missed a Sunday—well, hardly ever. Yes,” he went on whimsically, “I attribute my present excellent morals to my youthful devotion to Sunday School—only we called it Sabbath School in our town.”

  “So did we. That is, the older generation did. We kids called it Sunday School and went because we had to, I’m afraid. Just as soon as we were old enough to rebel, our church attendance was confined to morning service, Christian Endeavor and evening service where we met our boy friends and later rode or walked—sauntered home to raid the ice box and pantry of the remains of Sunday dinner. There were no movies in our village—aren’t yet.”

  “Them were the days!” sighed Tony sentimentally. “Boy friends,” he mused. “You must have acquired the habit in your cradle, Mary. How old
were you when you entered training? Seventeen?”

  “Eighteen. A girl has beaus earlier in small towns. They don’t always mean anything, though. Mine didn’t. My sister Betsy married hers—a boy she had gone with from infancy—almost. A fine chap, too.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Jim bought the hardware store in the next block to my father’s grocery. He and Bets live next door to us. All my family live close by. I’m the one who strayed from the fold. Sometimes—today—I want to go back—”

  “Michigan? Don’t. The East is the place for you—and me.” He grinned down at her. “Ioway’s grand, Mary; but I like New York State. I want to settle here—maybe on New York’s East Side in settlement work—if I’m not drafted.”

  “What’s the matter with Astonia’s West End? I wish you could have been with me today. I’ve never put in such a day. ‘Little Geneva’ is a hotbed of flu and possible smoldering intrigue. ‘The Patch’ has four cases of pneumonia and seven or eight of flu not to mention black eyes, bruises, wrenched backs, colds and the other ailments they harbor down there. We could use two nurses and a brace of doctors—besides what we have. Why not come over and help us, Tony?”

  “Don’t think I wouldn’t jump at the chance to work with you, Mary,” the young man said fervently. “I even broached the subject to the chief but he told me Doctor Rutledge was entirely competent to handle anything that might develop in the West End. I guess he’s right at that. Tim’s a swell doctor—none better. The West End’s darned lucky to have him.”

  “Sez you!” Mary jeered and bit her lip, instantly regretting her outburst.

  Tony Seymour’s eyes left the streaming road for a brief moment to stare in amazement at the girl beside him. “Wh-what did you say?” he asked.

  “I found Doctor Thompson much easier to work with, Tony,” Mary explained. “Doctor Rutledge is too young—too unsympathetic—well—he hasn’t the patience of his predecessor. And in this job patience is something one has to have in abundance. Patience and understanding—the ability to put oneself in the other fellow’s place.”

  “Don’t you like Tim, Mary?” the young interne asked wonderingly. “He’s a right guy—”

  “Of course he is,” Mary agreed. “I have nothing against Doctor Rutledge—that is,” she qualified, “not much. We don’t see eye to eye in some things but of course that is nothing against him.”

  “Do you know, Mary,” Tony said, his voice confidentially low, “I’m sort of relieved to hear you say that. I’ve been unhappily laboring under the impression you might fall hard for him. He’s just about everything a gal could want, isn’t he? Young, handsome, clever, wealthy. Decent, too. His slight limp sort of becomes him—adds glamor to the general set-up. I don’t see why you don’t care for him.”

  “Do you have to see?” Mary asked rather shortly.

  “We-ll, no-o,” Tony replied; “but just the same—”

  “Skip it,” Mary yawned. “I’m tired. Don’t let’s argue. Let’s just slosh along through the rain until we reach the apartment then you come up and have dinner with us. I don’t know what’s for dinner—maybe just delicatessen fare. It’s Gert’s week to get the meals and Gert’s no cook. However, there’ll be good coffee, no doubt some more or less sprightly conversation and a fire in the living-room grate that you will probably have the privilege of making. As for me—I’m going to relax and listen. I’m bone weary, Tony.”

  “It’s the weather, dear heart,” the young man said. “And I don’t think I shall accept your urgent invitation to dine and build a fire tonight. I have a notion Gert won’t be pleased to see me. We had a run-in this afternoon—oh, just a telephone confab about a patient her boss turned over to us. She chose to be snooty about it and I told her to go jump in the lake.” He laughed. “Was she hot and bothered! Boy, oh boy!”

  “Gert’s a peach, Tony,” Mary defended. “Why do you delight in riding her? She’s beautiful and clever and—”

  “Fancies herself and her judgment. You can’t tell me anything about Gert Drummond, my lamb. She’s got you and Bea Chase buffaloed not to mention the old goat she works for. Works—ha—that’s a laugh. That gal never did a scrap of work in her life. I’m about fed up with the way they slough their nonproductive patients off on us. Sure, Gert’s beautiful and I’ll tell the world she’s clever—clever enough to pull the wool over all your eyes.”

  “Me-ow!”

  “Me-ow, yourself,” the young interne said hotly, as he drew up before the apartment house where Mary and two other nurses lived. “How about a movie tonight, beautiful? You’re always talking about enjoying a walk in the rain. Now’s your chance. Come on. Let’s go over to the neighborhood theater and watch some of our fellow humans make monkeys of themselves. What say?”

  Mary shook her head regretfully. This was the third time he had invited her to go out with him and she had never once accepted. But tonight she was too tired—too depressed. “Some other time, Tony,” she murmured as he helped her from the car. “Don’t stand there—you’ll get soaked. Come in for a minute—why don’t you?”

  “You always put me off,” Tony said aggrievedly. “Why? Is there anything wrong with me? Or is it you just don’t like my company?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mary told him. “Of course I like you—I’m really very fond of you; but you always seem to ask me for dates when I’m not in the mood.”

  There was the sound of a window being raised and someone yelled: “Hi, you two! Don’t you know it’s pouring? Come on in for Pete’s sake. Dinner’s ready and we’re having steak and mushrooms.” Down went the window with a bang. Tony took Mary’s elbow and propelled her up the short walk to the high, old-fashioned stone stoop; but he didn’t mount the steps with her.

  “Let me know when you’re in the mood, darling,” he said as he left her. His voice was ironic and Mary wondered if she had offended him. But how? She had said she was fond of him, hadn’t she? What more could he expect?

  She mounted the two flights of stairs to the apartment with feet that grew heavier with each step. She would ask for a vacation early this year and go home. And she would sleep the clock around twice. She knew she had never been so absolutely worn out in her whole life. She blamed Doctor Rutledge for it and yet she could not put a finger on one single act of his that was either unprofessional or unethical. But the man was cold—unfeeling. “Bloodless!” she said aloud as she entered the little foyer and hung up her damp coat and hat before going into the apartment. The smell of broiling steak and hot coffee quickened her movements and she threw open the door of the living room with a flourish.

  “Um’mm!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “Who got big hearted tonight—or does this mean another tuck in the long-suffering budget?”

  “It’s Gert’s treat, Mary,” Beatrice announced from the sofa where she was lying full length, while Gertrude Drummond moved about the table, an I-hate-doing-this-but-I-know-I-have-to expression on her lovely face. “Um’mm! Smell, Mary. It’s a good inch thick and the mushrooms are the little button kind you like. What happened to Tony Seymour?”

  “I hope you didn’t invite him to dinner, Mary,” Gertrude said, pausing in the laying of silver. “That lad gets in my hair. Imagine him telling me to go jump in the lake!”

  Beatrice giggled. “He did? Brave lad! But why, Gert?”

  “Oh, it was over some little wizened creature without two dimes to rub together who fancies himself with a high-priced heart condition. Really it was nothing that any good doctor couldn’t handle perfectly. I did the kindest thing I could—sent him to the clinic. Doctor Ingram is bothered to death with that sort of thing. He just hasn’t the time for them—”

  “Don’t make me laugh,” Mary said shortly as she crossed the long room to her own private sanctum. “You mean he doesn’t care to treat the hoi polloi. He’s in the business for the money and, possibly, the prestige.”