It's yourself!

lt’s

yourself!

an eventful career in nursing

by Susan Potter

It’s Yourself!

by Susan Potter

It’s Yourself!

by Susan Potter

Edited by Chris Newton

MEMOIRS Cirencester

Published by Memoirs

Memoirs Books 25 Market Place, Cirencester, Gloucestershire, GL7 2NX info@memoirsbooks.co.uk www.memoirsbooks.co.uk Copyright ŠSusan Potter, May 2011 First published in England, May 2011

ISBN 978-1-908223-07-4

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of Memoirs.

Printed in England

Contents

CHAPTER 1

A country childhood

Page 1

CHAPTER 2

School and Scotland

Page 17

CHAPTER 3

On the wards

Page 32

CHAPTER 4

Signing up for the QAs

Page 44

CHAPTER 5

A regular commission

Page 59

CHAPTER 6

A hospice for children

Page 77

CHAPTER 7

Return to Tighnabruaich

Page 84

CHAPTER 8

A fresh start

Page 93

Chapter 1

A country childhood

It is always interesting to hear about people’s first childhood memories.

They are frequently happy, sometimes sad, sometimes amusing.

Mine is of being scolded for naughtiness. It happened because I was sitting in a toy car in the garden, and the seat was very wet. I didn’t even notice it, but my mother certainly did. She was furious!

I didn’t see myself as a naughty child, but I got into trouble frequently, so I suppose I must have been. It always led to argument and rebellion, followed inevitably by punishment, as was usual in those days.

I was born, three weeks late, on 6 December 1945 in Chelmsford, Essex.

Apparently my father insisted on making my mother wait while he shaved before he took her to the nursing home. I was born shortly after we arrived, weighing eight pounds twelve ounces. I had masses of dark hair, and they decided to call me Susan Fiona.

I have an older brother, David Henry, who was born on 21 June 1944 in Colchester. My father had been on active service and was not able to see his firstborn for a couple of weeks. David was blond and weighed in at nine pounds four ounces. When he was nine months old he became very ill with gastroenteritis and had to be treated in Colchester Hospital.

To rewind a little, my mother, Nancy Irene Walden, was born on 15 April, 1920. She had spent her childhood in Chelmsford and Writtle. For a while she lived with an aunt and uncle, until a bomb destroyed the family home.

Before she met my father she had been engaged to another man.

Apparently the poor man was so upset at losing her that he emigrated to Canada.

My father, Douglas Henry Potter, was born on 27 April, 1915, the only

1

Chapter 1 child of relatively elderly parents; my paternal grandmother, Alice Maud, née Dutton, was 35 when he was born and she died in February 1946, at the age of 67, when I was only a few weeks old. She collapsed in a shop in Chelmsford and died on the spot from a heart attack. I still have the purse she was using at the time.

My paternal grandfather, Henry Potter, was born in 1858. He was married three times and widowed twice. His first wife, Harriet, née Frost, died in 1880, the same year they were married, after giving birth to their first child, Agnes Harriet. Henry was only 22. Two years later he married Maria French, a widower 10 years older who had three children of her own. Maria and Henry had two daughters who died young – Edith Maud, born 1983, died 1895, and Edith Beatrice, born 1886, died 1891. Maria died in 1912, and Henry went on to marry Alice, my grandmother, in 1914.

When Henry died in 1927, aged 68, my father was only 12 years old, so dad had lost both his parents by the time he was 31. My father took on the firm of Henry Potter, the family building firm my grandfather had founded towards the end of the 19th century.

My parents married in wartime, on 24 October 1942 at Writtle Church.

Until I was five years old we lived at 32 Roxwell Road, Chelmsford.

Apparently I was terrified of dogs, and screamed every time one appeared.

My father’s way of dealing with this was to get a dachshund, whom we called Fay, and shut me in a room with the poor dog, who must have been far more nervous than I was. Later I learned to love dogs, although since that episode I have never been keen on dachshunds.

When I was just four and a quarter I started at St Cedd’s School in Maltese Road, a PNEU school (Parents’ National Education Union), where my first teacher was Miss Derbyshire. We had to begin and end every day by reciting the letters of the alphabet which extended around the walls of the classroom.

At first I would travel to and from school in a basket on the front of my

2

Chapter 1 mother’s bicycle. The metal frame dug into my back, and by the time we had covered the two-mile journey it had become very painful.

I was a very faddy eater as a little girl. Perhaps that’s why, in the firstday photos, my legs look like sticks. I soon caught measles and became very unwell. I clearly remember the doctor visiting me at home. To shine some light down my throat he lit a match. I was terrified by the flame so close to my mouth, but when I screamed I was simply told off for being naughty.

Once I recovered, my appetite improved enormously. I have been trying to catch measles again ever since!

We would often go to Point Clear, on the Essex coast, for days out and at weekends. Here my parents had a little retreat which they called the hut, a small, flimsy building with an Elsan toilet outside at the back.

Horrible!

David and I shared a room with bunk beds. The sea was right in front of us, at the bottom of a flight of concrete steps. My father had a small clinker-built dinghy which he named Susan, and I learned to row her when I was very young.

The journey to Point Clear from Chelmsford always seemed endless.

I wasn’t car-sick, but I couldn’t keep still, and I do remember how it tried my mother’s patience.

One day my father and I went to Point Clear alone in one of the small lorries he used for work and we stopped at a village shop to buy a snack.

He sent me in to buy a Kit Kat chocolate biscuit. The lady serving me kept giving me a tin of Kit-e-Kat cat food. It took me several attempts to make her understand me.

When I was five we moved to a house called West Bowers Hall in Woodham Walter, Essex. It was a wonderful home and I have always held very fond memories of the six years we lived there.

The house was a Tudor building with later additions. It still had the original front door, thick and heavy with a carved design. Inside, many of

3

Chapter 1 the floors were irregular and uneven. I loved all the history and enjoyed imagining the people who might once have lived there and the things they did.

All our water came from a well which was covered by a large, heavy stone. The water was pumped into the house electrically.

In recent years I have managed to find out more about who lived in the house by studying old census details. In the 1800s there were as many as 14 people living there at a time, from three families, most of them farmers and farm bailiffs. After 1900 a retired merchant seaman, Captain Chilton Mewburn, lived there with his daughter Fanny.

At West Bowers Hall I was able to enjoy total freedom, and I loved the country life. David and I spent long and happy days on the farm next door, West Bowers Farm, which was owned by Mr and Mrs Howe. I would ride round there on my tricycle – there was very little traffic.

I always wore dungarees and jerseys knitted by Nan; dresses were only for special occasions. My mother spent many hours smocking a dress for me, completing it with hand stitching, without a machine. It was white and beautiful and, of course, I have kept it.

From my bedroom I could watch all the activity on the farm, especially the cows going in and out of the milking shed. I would hang out of the window and hold on to some wire netting attached to the roof. One day I was spotted doing this, so metal bars were put over the window to stop me from falling out. They are there to this day.

At the entrance to the farm was a knobbly old tree. One day David decided to climb it. After he had climbed a short way up he got stuck and couldn’t get down, so Mr Howe had to come to the rescue.

Mr Howe had one of the first telephones, which was fascinating. I had an open fire in my bedroom, and this would be lit if one of us was ill. I remember lying in bed there with mumps - my father pushed my bed next to the window so that I could see out. Our doctor, Dr Kerr, brought me some ice cream. He was a family friend who lived at The Old Rodney in

4

Chapter 1 Little Baddow.

Another clear memory is of being woken to be put on the cold china potty when my parents went to bed. Apparently I was slow at “going through the night”.

I have always been very nervous of going to the dentist, and I’m sure it started when I was held in the dentist’s chair as a young child. Mr Russell’s nurses and my mother would hold a limb each while I struggled to escape.

The garden was large, and enclosed by a high brick wall. A stream ran through it, and there was an artificial pond beside the drive with a plug in the bottom which allowed it to be emptied. There was also a very old mulberry tree. The house had old greenhouses heated by a solid fuel fire which piped hot water around them to provide warmth for the plants.

There was also a big vegetable patch with a watercress pond. My mother and her younger sister, my Aunt Sheila, picked a great deal of watercress, which they would take to a greengrocer’s in Chelmsford. One year the proceeds went to buy me a beautiful grey Silver Cross doll’s pram for my birthday. I loved it – in fact I still have it. The hood is in poor condition, but otherwise it has worn very well.

I had a favourite doll called Elizabeth, with a soft body and a hard head.

I used to bath her every day, with the result that her skin eventually perished and her stuffing started to come out. My mother said she would have to be thrown out, which upset me a great deal. It upset me even more when she suggested we keep her head, which, being hard, had not perished.

The thought of Elizabeth’s disembodied head staring at me was more than I could bear, so she had to go.

I was an avid reader. One of the books I had enjoyed was A Very Big Secret by Enid Blyton. I was entranced by this story. A young girl takes her doll’s pram to the woods with a doll inside it. She leaves the pram while she goes off to play and when she returns, instead of her doll, she finds a real baby. The times I took my pram to the woods in the hope of

5

Chapter 1 finding that Elizabeth had been replaced by a real baby! It never happened, of course. But I still have the book.

After Elizabeth I had a black doll, a walkie-talkie doll whom I named Lulu. I loved her too, but she seemed very hard to the touch after Elizabeth. I still have Lulu as well - she sits in a new Millennium Edition Silver Cross doll’s pram which I bought in 2000, because my first doll’s pram was then 50 years old. I wrote to Silver Cross and sent them a photo of my original pram, hoping for a price reduction! They didn’t knock any money off, but they did let me pay in three instalments.

I was born with a lot of hair and had plaits before I was two. I liked my plaits, but hair washing was a constant battle. My mother used to bribe me with a penny to make me co-operate. I said I would do so if she kept the soap out of my eyes, but the battles continued until, when I was about six, I was told my hair was going to be cut short, so the shampooing would become much easier.

I went to the hairdresser’s quite happily, but was distraught when they didn’t even bother to loosen my hair. The scissors chopped my plaits clean off and they fell on the floor with their red ribbons still attached. It was like a bereavement. I felt very shocked.

Fay the dachsund came with us to West Bowers. I don’t remember her dying but I do recall being told she had “milk fever” and her puppies had all died. She had got caught on the wrought iron gates one day and the spikes had gone into her body. She had to go around with a bandage round her tummy.

My mother tolerated dogs rather than liking them, but my father was now keen to have a boxer, a breed that was just becoming popular. It wasn’t long before a beautiful red boxer puppy arrived, and we called her Bella. So began my lifetime love of the breed.

Bella was a wonderful dog. In fact she was a little too wonderful for some - she was full of enthusiasm and knocked several of our relatives over.

6

Chapter 1 She knocked me over too, when, for some reason, I was carrying a brick.

The fall gave me a twisted knee, which has given me problems ever since.

But she was a lovely companion and later, when my sister had arrived, she used to lie by her pram and keep watch.

Unfortunately she quickly got car-sick when we drove anywhere, so we had to leave her at home. One day we got home to find she had pulled down every curtain she could!

Bella would drink huge quantities of water from a young age and empty her water bowl in one go. This didn’t seem normal, so I was instructed to obtain a urine sample for the vet to test. For this I used a china soup tureen. Getting the sample was easy enough and I was pleased with my skill.

I wasn’t so pleased when they told me what was wrong with Bella and why she was drinking so much - she had cancer of the pancreas. I was in the bath one evening when my father came home to say she had had to be put to sleep, and explained what that meant. I was terribly upset.

I had a friend called Paul who lived about a mile away. His family had a chow called Cheung. Paul and Cheung used to call and we would go to the woods together, but it wasn’t the same without Bella.

I fell into the garden pond, of course - twice. Both times I was sitting on the stepping stones leading to it, fishing with an improvised bamboo cane and a piece of string. As I threw the string in, I somehow managed to somersault in myself. Very muddy water, very wet, dirty girl, very cross mother! “You are the cross I have to bear” she would say to me.

When my mother was angry about something I’d done she would chase me and try to hit me with a cut-down walking stick, but I could run faster than her, so she rarely made contact. My father would hit me on the backs of the legs with a bamboo cane – again, never the other two. It raised terrible, painful weals. I still have the walking stick, although in her later years my mother wanted me to throw it out.

7

Chapter 1 David was of a different temperament and was much better behaved.

He never seemed to get into any trouble and the schoolteachers liked him.

I can only remember one occasion when he was naughty. I don’t recall what he had done, but I do remember him being carried upstairs, my aunt holding his legs, my mother his arms, and deposited in his bedroom. He was shouting and yelling at them, which for David was unheard of. I watched in amazement. Next, he started throwing things out of his window. Finally, he even managed to push the mattress out. After that my mother went in to him and the noise stopped at last.

David had attacks of asthma quite frequently and severely, particularly if he had been in contact with horses. Dr Kerr recommended that he should go to a school near the sea, which meant a boarding school. So, at the age of eight, he became a boarder at Eastbourne College.

The list of things he had to take was unbelievable. My father challenged him with it. “There are five different brushes on the list” he said. “Can you guess what they all are?” It took him ages to get them all - hair, nail, clothes, shoe, tooth.

My mother didn’t want David to go away. She cried a great deal at the beginning of every term and during term as well. At the start of each term his godfather, Uncle Dick (Richard Oswald Seal), would give him £1 pocket money. That seemed a lot of money and I thought it most unfair, especially as he also took a lot of sweets and cake as ‘tuck’.

Every Sunday I had to write to him and my letter would be included in an envelope with letters from my parents. My father and I would then walk to the post box, a round journey of about four miles, to catch the Sunday post.

It seemed very strange without David, as we had always done so many things together. There was only 17 months between us and I can’t remember any arguing or fighting between us.

Once, before he went off to school, he laid a treasure trail and

8

Chapter 1 challenged me to find all the clues around the house and garden. I remember some of them were quite hard and I would have to write and ask him for a hint. By the time I got the answer in his letter another couple of weeks had gone by. It took nearly the whole term to reach the treasure - and I can’t even remember what it was!

Aunt Sheila came to live with us at West Bowers. We put her on the top floor, which was very spacious, with sitting room, dining room, two bedrooms and a kitchen. A door on the first-floor landing opened to reveal a staircase leading to the second floor. Next to the door was a bathroom with huge linen cupboards fitted with glass doors.

I was one of Sheila’s bridesmaids – the only time I have been a bridesmaid - when she got married at Writtle Church on 19 May 1951, to Pete, Maurice Peter Ward. She was a young bride as her 20th birthday was not till the following June 21 – the same birthday as David. Sheila made her own wedding dress and the three bridesmaids’ dresses, with floral details of fresh violets. She was a very skilled needlewoman and made dresses, suits and many other things, all without paper patterns.

I became very close to Sheila. She and Pete were always youthful and full of fun. They lived on the top floor for a couple of years until their first son, Steven James, was born on October 1 1953. My father and Pete drove to work in Chelmsford together every day, although they worked at different places, Pete at County Hall and my father at the family building firm.

When I returned from school each day Sheila would be giving Steven his six o’clock feed – it was all four-hourly breast feeding in those days.

Sometimes we would have a drawing competition, making a list of things that had be included in the picture, such as a tree or a house. When Pete arrived home he had to give our efforts marks out of 10. I didn’t share Sheila’s artistic and creative ability, so I can’t remember ever winning!

When Steven was a few months old, Sheila and Pete moved back to

9

Chapter 1 Chelmsford. I missed them after they went.

We acquired a canary called Dickie - my father’s idea, I’m sure. We had to cover his cage every night and clean it out, a job I didn’t like. My father would trim Dickie’s claws when they got too long, and we would buy him a cuttlefish as a treat. If it was a nice day we used to put his cage outside, and one day it blew over. Poor Dickie must have had a scare, but he was not hurt.

My father was a keen gardener and grew grapes in the greenhouse - he would bring me a little bunch when I went to bed. My grandfather, Mum’s father, used to come and help regularly. Born on 9 October 1894, his full name was Frederick James Walden. He had worked on the land before becoming a traction engine driver. His mother, Elizabeth, had died from tuberculosis in 1910, when she was only 32 and he was 15. He had two younger sisters, Agnes Myra, born in 1901, and Ella Elizabeth, born 1905.

Grandad served in the Royal Engineers during the 1914-1918 war. He was involved in the trench warfare in France, and his experiences affected him for the rest of his life. He became a Jehovah’s Witness, and refused to celebrate Christmas. He would bring his bible and tell me when the world was going to end, thumping the table in emotion. I was more intrigued by this than frightened.

After Nan, Louisa Mabel Walden, died in 1970 at the age of 76, Grandad developed Alzheimer’s disease. He started wandering the roads and getting lost, so we would need to go and fetch him from various houses where he had knocked on the door. Eventually he could no longer recognise any of his family and had to go into Hospital in Colchester. The last time I visited him there he kept shouting “Duck, the shells are coming!”. It was all very sad. He died in 1978.

My father would drive me to school each day, but we would often be late. I received “late points” for this, but he didn’t seem to mind. The

10

Chapter 1 headmistress, Miss Ticken Smith, was very intimidating and severe. I was reprimanded time and again for being late, although she knew I depended on my father’s punctuality. I would arrive to find the whole school in the hall having assembly, and have to wait in the empty classroom until they were finished.

I remember the day my father decided to test the capacity of the reserve petrol tank in the car. He waited till we ran out of petrol on the way to school, then switched to the reserve. Unfortunately it lasted only a very short time, so I had a lengthy walk to school and got there even later than usual.

I was punished more than once for talking, as well as for lateness. I would be made to stand in the corner of a class of much older children, and once I had to write out “I must not talk in class” 250 times. I tried to do it in my bedroom so my parents wouldn’t know, but they realised what was going on because it was unusual for me to stay upstairs for so long.

When I joined the Brownies, the other girls used my long hair to practise their plaiting skills. I also had ballet classes, but I was not really the dancing type. I lost a ballet pump out of my satchel one day and got into serious trouble.

After school I would either come home with my father, which meant walking to his office about a mile across town, or catch a bus to Little Baddow. The buses ran every hour and I would get off at the last stop, a pub called the General’s Arms.

My mother was often late coming to meet me from the bus and I would have to start walking home. In winter it was very creepy as the trees would be making strange noises around me in the darkness.

One night my father and I were driving home in the dark along Riffhams Lane, Danbury, when we saw a man leap off the road and into a ditch. When we got home we heard that the notorious thief and jailbreaker Alfie Hinds had escaped from Chelmsford Prison, and we felt sure it must have been him we’d seen. My father phoned the police.

11

Chapter 1 Then a week or so later, I was walking in the fields nearby and came across a man sleeping on the ground. He looked very unkempt, and I thought it must be Hinds. I crept away in terror and rushed home to tell my mother.

Hinds got away on that occasion, as on several others. He fled to Ireland and lived there for two years trading as a used car dealer.

Eventually he was arrested there after being stopped for driving an unregistered car, but he continued to lead the police a merry dance for years and eventually became a celebrity for his one-man campaign against the English legal system.

My father’s war service had not begun until 1942 as he had been in a reserved occupation, as a builder. After serving in the Territorials he was stationed at a place called Tighnabruaich, a village on the Kyles of Bute in Argyll, with the RASC (Royal Army Service Corps), 933 Company and 626 Company, which was responsible for land, coastal and lake transport, air despatch, supply of food, water, fuel, and stores. He took part in the D-Day landings in 1944. It was through the Army that he met my mother – he was introduced to her by her brother Derek, a paratrooper.

While he was stationed in Tighnabruaich my father was billeted in Wellpark House, a boarding house owned by Donald and Winnie Beaton and run by Winnie and her sister Peggy. Their father had been a naval captain, Captain Turner, and they had spent their childhood at Ngara, a turretted house on the road to Caladh. My father’s time at Tighnabruaich gave him a love of the area, so we would spend every summer holiday there, staying at Wellpark House. Ever since those days, Tighnabruaich and West Bowers Hall have been the two places that have been most comforting to me.

We would all pile into the car for the two-day, 500-mile journey from Essex to Argyll. There were no motorways then, of course. We would follow the Great North Road to the border, then strike out west towards

12

Chapter 1 Glasgow and take the only road to the village, a twisty, single-track road around Loch Fyne.

I shared my parents’ bedroom, while David had his own little room with a rooflight. Meal times were very strict, and each meal was announced by the clanging of an enormous gong. Every day at lunch we had milk pudding, rice, tapioca or semolina.

I don’t recall the notorious Scottish midges from those days but I do remember rain, sometimes every day, and my mother’s despair at trying to keep us quiet in Wellpark. My father would hire a dinghy from the boatyard and we would row over to Bute or down to Loch Riddon.

At St Cedd’s I had made friends with a girl called Theodora, who lived in a Tudor farm house at Roxwell, about four miles the other side of Chelmsford. We used to stay with each other, although I always felt very homesick, even when she was staying with me and we slept in the spare room!

When I stayed at Theodora’s her mother would pour washing powder into our bath and we would have a riotous time playing with the bubbles.

We would sleep together in one large bed.

Like me Theodora was allowed a lot of freedom, so from the age of seven we would roam together around the footpaths and fields. I would catch the bus back to Chelmsford at the end of my stay, but we would be talking so much that I missed the bus on several occasions. This was quite a problem as the buses did not run very often in such a rural area.

Theodora had a horse, a strawberry roan. One day she took me to meet it. Theodora’s mother was with us. We went into the field and started walking towards the horse when it suddenly ran towards us and started chasing me around the field. I reached a hedge and found myself trapped.

The horse reared up on its back legs above me, neighing loudly, its front legs pawing the air inches from my face. I began screaming with terror.

Theodora’s mother managed to grab the horse, allowing me to run to

13

Chapter 1 the gate and escape. She laughed at my terror, which made me feel even worse. I didn’t think it at all comical, it had been a very frightening event.

In fact it put me off horses for life. I have never been able to trust them and fail to see how a bridle and bit could possibly control such a large and powerful animal.

At this time we were keeping budgerigars in an aviary in the garden.

It had started when I was given two of the birds by Mr Waite, who lived in a farm cottage next door. The two budgies had quickly increased to 20, in all colours. It was my job to care for them, feed them, clean them out and refresh their water.

I did not much like having them swoop around me while I saw to their needs. The aviary had an outer door and an inner door, so that if any of the birds escaped through the inner door, the outer one would keep them from flying away.

One summer school holiday, David, who was then 10 years old, had two of his friends to stay. They all quickly turned wild, running around the garden with a chopper playing Cowboys and Indians. They were not made to wash up, set the table or do anything domestic, which I thought very unfair. My mother belonged to the era when men were waited upon; my father would wash up just once a year, on Christmas Day. As I went into the aviary to feed the birds, David and his friends crept up behind me and locked me in, then stood outside making faces and taunting me as only boys can do. I was really cross, which made them even worse, and got quite upset with all the birds around me.

I was trapped in there for over an hour before my mother arrived home to let me out. She laughed - just like Theodora’s mother. Even though the boys were guests, I felt there should have been some kind of reprimand.

14

Chapter 2

School and Scotland

In the garden at West Bowers my father had built a summer house, with a verandah and diamond-paned windows. Inside was a long seat which you could use as a bunk bed and a small, round, formica-topped table, which I have to this day. The summer house was secluded and wonderful for imaginative play, and I loved it.

One day when I was eight and David was home on holiday, my father said he wanted to talk to us both in the summer house. He sat us down and told us that Mum was going to have a baby. For some reason we thought this funny and couldn’t stop laughing - not the reaction he expected, I’m sure. It wasn’t until much later that I found out that my mother had suffered two miscarriages after my birth, so it was no laughing matter for her.

One morning that autumn – it was October 18 - my father took me to school as usual, but said I was to catch the bus home and go to tea with the Kerrs. This I did. Tea was poached eggs on toast. As I was the guest and one of the eggs was double yolked, it was given to me. Unfortunately I have never enjoyed the slippery texture of eggs, so it was not quite the treat the Kerrs imagined and I found it quite a struggle to swallow it.

Dr Kerr took me home in his Land Rover. When we arrived my father opened the front door and said “Have you told her?”

“Told me what?” I replied. “You’ve got a new baby sister” he said.

I raced upstairs to find a nurse bathing our new baby in the washbasin.

She was kicking her legs and quite bloody, and I remember thinking she must be trying to walk.

She was eight weeks premature and very tiny. Dr Kerr had told my parents he didn’t think she would survive. We never knew her birth weight.

15

Chapter 2 I was thrilled to have a real baby in the family. We decided to call her Elizabeth Anne, so she even shared her name with my first doll – I suppose in a sense my doll really had been replaced by a baby, just as in the Enid Blyton story.

Thanks to frequent breast feeds, she thrived. She did become very jaundiced, and for this reason my mother was advised not to have her vaccinated.

The morning after Elizabeth arrived, my father came into school to tell my teacher that I had a new baby sister. I was tremendously excited about her arrival, yet no-one at the school said a word about it.

Elizabeth was a very placid baby. She never crawled, and did not start to walk until she was nearly two. Instead she would sit on a tray, stick her legs out in front and pull herself along.

My father was an enthusiastic sailor and we had a succession of boats moored on the River Blackwater at Heybridge, near Maldon. The first was Emdon, a cabin cruiser. We would motor down the river and stay on her for a night or two. David and I were small enough to share one of the two bunks. One night his toenail gave me a painful scratch down my back.

After Emdon came Islander, then Four Winds. These boats had sails, so we could go farther afield. My mother disliked being on the water, so she would only come if we were going for a day cruise.

We belonged to Blackwater Sailing Club and I became a cadet member.

Each year I would stay for Cadet Week, when we had sailing races, received instruction and heard talks on nautical matters. As a young cadet I was not too closely involved in the social side. We catered for ourselves and I remember a week of eating nothing but cheese and Madeira cake. There was a girls’ room and a boys’ room and we slept on camp beds.

The River Blackwater is tidal and has a couple of islands, Northey and Osea. Northey Island was opposite the sailing club, so several of us decided to walk over to it at low tide. We didn’t think about tidal currents,

16

Chapter 2 or how deep it might get. We must all have been 11 or 12 years old.

Off we went through the thick mud for which Maldon is renowned, laughing and joking, excited about our adventure. It was a horrible feeling to plod through the swirling water, not knowing what we might tread on.

I thought of wrecks, and worse.

Spurred on by the more foolhardy among us, we finally reached Northey Island to find, unsurprisingly, that it was exactly like the side we’d come from and every bit as muddy. Of course, the only way back was the way we had come. We just prayed that it would still only reach our chests.

We felt unidentified things brushing past our bare legs - fish, eels, pieces of flotsam? We knew not. We didn’t want to know. The tide had turned and the currents were sweeping the other way. The water level was slowly rising. No-one was laughing and joking now.

We managed to get back safely enough, but we met a furious reception – deservedly so after such a foolish prank. My father gave me a really hard time over it.

For about an hour around low tide, Osea Island could be reached by a causeway. We would sail there, drop anchor offshore and row to the beach for swimming and picnics.

In 1957 they began building Bradwell Power Station on the Dengie Peninsula at the mouth of the Blackwater, and we watched it taking shape in the distance. Cargo ships would deliver goods to Maldon and I was fascinated by their names, the details of their home ports and the plimsoll lines painted along their sides.

The top floor of West Bowers was now occupied by a woman called Elizabeth Annie Yell, (née Curteis), born in 1895. She had lost her husband, a farmer who had been 30 years older than her. She had no other relatives. The Howes at West Bowers Farm were old friends of hers and had asked my father if we would mind Mrs Yell living on the top floor.

It seemed she was in a precarious financial situation and about to be made homeless.

17

Chapter 2 Mrs Yell didn’t need anyone else to look after her. She brought her own feather bed - I had never seen one before - and her black dog, Bobby, who had lost one of his back legs. She would take Elizabeth out in her pram for walks along the lanes, Bobby hopping along at her side.

I think staying with us was one of the happier times in Mrs Yell’s life.

Wherever we were living after that, we would invite her to spend Christmas Day with us. We always watched the Queen’s speech together and as soon as the National Anthem came on, she would get to her feet and stand ramrod-straight until it ended.

When she died in 1974 and I was helping my mother clear her flat, we found a peculiar object wrapped in tissue paper. It was white and paper thin, and we realised it must be the caul she had said her husband had been born in. A caul is the embryonic sac, which usually ruptures before a baby is born. It is rare for a baby to be born in its caul, and there’s a lot of superstition about it.

After Elizabeth arrived I started going on holiday to Scotland alone.

David would stay with schoolfriends, while Elizabeth was too young for the long car journey to Argyll, so she stayed at home with my parents.

My father would put me on the sleeper train in London and I would stay awake nearly all night, peeping out under the window blind to see where we were. “Uncle” Donald was supposed to meet me under the clock on Glasgow station at seven o’clock, but he was always late. We then travelled by train to Greenock and boarded a steamer for Tighnabruaich.

We would have breakfast on the steamer, and then it was a short walk from the pier to Wellpark.

I was always thrilled to be back in Tighnabruaich, although at first I would feel horribly homesick. I slept in a little bedroom over the back stairs and helped “Auntie” Winnie to make the beds and do all kinds of other little jobs. I also used to go for walks on my own.

Uncle Donald had a nursery garden and grew all sorts of vegetables

18

Chapter 2 and flowers. Many of the flowers would be picked and sent off on the morning steamer to be sold in Glasgow. There were some exciting trips with him in the van, which was a travelling shop. He drove around all the surrounding farms and homes, and I would help him by weighing out the vegetables.

We always made plenty of stops along the way for tea. I enjoyed the home baking but not the tea, a drink I have never liked. At home I drank water, and when coffee became available - instant or Camp liquid - I turned to that.

One of our favourite stops was to see Daisy White and her shepherd husband on the track to Ostal Bay. Drum Farm, at Kilfinan, was rather less fun, as I found the collie sheepdogs very frightening. Uncle Donald kept the Tighnabruaich Fire Engine at Wellpark and I enjoyed a couple of journeys in this , though not to actual fires!

The days passed quickly until it was time to catch the steamer home and watch the Kyles of Bute slip out of sight again over the horizon. Then Uncle Donald would put me back on the night train from Glasgow to London, and the next morning I would be back home at West Bowers Hall.

Donald came to see us once at Woodham Walter and took me to London for the day. He would crack jokes to everyone we met, but not many people could understand his accent. We had a wonderful lunch at the Trocadero in Piccadilly Circus, and he bought me an ornament of a boxer puppy, which I have on display to this day.

Another time Donald and Winnie both came to stay, which was quite an event as Winnie had never been known to leave Wellpark. We went into London to see My Fair Lady on the stage.

When I was 12 my father decided it was time to move, to a house he was designing himself. He had bought a plot of land in Little Baddow, the village a couple of miles away where the bus stopped, and was building a Colt bungalow there, made of cedar wood. The land was surrounded by

19

Chapter 2 an area of National Trust land known as Blake’s Wood. He decided to call the house Little Bowers.

I loved West Bowers and was not at all keen to move. The house was advertised for sale in Country Life magazine, and one day when I was at home on my own a couple called and asked if they could look round. I showed them round the house, and they liked it so much that they decided to buy it. They were Frank and Patricia Herrmann. Frank was an author and a prominent publisher who worked with some of our most famous writers, including T S Eliot, Evelyn Waugh, Ermest Shepard, Beatrix Potter and Mrs Beeton. He later wrote about the visit in his book Low Profile, which also features a good photograph of the house.

My school reports were always peppered with comments such as “could do better”, “careless” or “needs to concentrate”, so it was gratifying to pass the eleven-plus exam. I had spent far too many lessons facing the corner of the classroom to have any regrets about leaving St Cedd’s.

I started at Chelmsford County High School for Girls in September 1957, and found the days here shorter and far more enjoyable. The fact that you had to move around to different classrooms and have chemistry lessons in a laboratory with Bunsen burners made it all so much more interesting. There were two sittings for lunch, and whether you ate the food or not didn’t seem to matter. At St Cedd’s you were made to sit at the table until you had swallowed or choked on every lumpy bit. At midmorning break you could buy a currant bun for a penny. Milk, thank goodness, was no longer compulsory.

I now travelled home on the bus. It was an hourly service and the earliest one I could catch was the 4.45 from the bus station, although school finished at 3.30. I became friends with a girl called Jane, who was five days younger than me and also lived in little Baddow, and we would pass the time waiting for the bus by going to the public library to start our homework.

Before starting senior school every child had to have a medical exam, and our parents were given a booklet on the “facts of life”. There was no discussion about this with my mother. Fortunately I already knew the 20

Chapter 2 basics of reproduction from a friend who had horses. She had asked me one day if I knew how they kissed. I didn’t like horses and had no idea, but she soon filled me in on all the pertinent details, for both horses and humans.

My medical exam had shown that there was something wrong with my shoulders and I had to go for “remedial exercises” every week at school. I don’t know what was wrong - it didn’t stop me from doing anything.

By the time we had left West Bowers, Elizabeth had started walking at last. David stayed at Eastbourne College until he left school. It was a sad day to leave West Bowers for school for the last time, knowing that at home time I would be heading for Little Bowers instead.

My father and I returned that evening to say goodbye to the empty house we had left behind. It was then he told me that it was supposed to be haunted by the ghost of a woman in white, flowing clothing. He said he had never told me about her before because he thought I would be frightened. I had never experienced anything paranormal, however.

It took a while to get used to living in a modern house, with no stairs to climb at bedtime.

From the age of 14, on Saturdays and in the school holidays, I worked at Little Baddow Post Office and Village Stores. Mr and Mrs Armstrong, who owned the shop, were very kind to me. I enjoyed slicing bacon and cutting cheese with the wire. I had trouble telling the difference between turnips and swedes, so I used to put little notes in the sacks to remind me which was which. My pay was three shillings an hour, so I had 21 shillings each Saturday. I was expected to buy all my toiletries and everyday items out of this.

Elizabeth started school at Elm Green, which was next door to Little Bowers, and the headmistress, Mrs Tubbs, was our neighbour, so there were no long journeys to school for her.

Up in Scotland Uncle Donald had retired from his nursery, although Auntie Winnie continued to run the boarding house. This enabled my

21

Chapter 2 father to buy Wellpark Cottage, where the gardener had lived, and the magnificent greenhouses were demolished. In 1958 my father and his workmen refurbished the cottage, so from then on we were able to stay there. Little did I know that 47 years on I would be living in the exact spot where the greenhouses had stood.

This made things much easier for my mother, but we would still go to Wellpark every evening for a cup of tea (I would drink something else, of course) and some of Winnie’s home baking. Donald would put his slippered feet so close to the electric fire that you could smell burning.

My father was the churchwarden at Woodham Walter Church, so Sunday mornings meant church. St Michael the Archangel, built in 1563, was one of only six churches built during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I and the only Elizabethan church in Essex. Its age and small size made it intensely atmospheric. During the sermon my imagination would wander to thoughts of all that had happened over the centuries within those ancient stone walls.

The organist was an elderly lady, Miss Croxon, who had been a music teacher at Felixstowe College. The organ was very old and unreliable and there were usually no more than a dozen people in the congregation, so singing hymns was not very uplifting.

The oak screens and panel which lined the chancel had been carved

by Chilton Mewburn, a retired merchant seaman who is recorded in the 1901 and 1911 census as living at West Bowers Hall. They were a memorial to his wife, Emily, who died in 1894.

On Sunday afternoons in winter I played hockey for the local mixed team. This wasn’t so much because I enjoyed the sport as because of a male player who happened to be blonde, funny and very handsome! In fine weather I would often play tennis at Little Baddow Tennis Club with Jane. We also played badminton with her parents at her home. Jane was much better at sport than I was.

One day my father arrived home with a lovely little boxer puppy,

22

Chapter 2 brindled black and tan. Her kennel name was Inverary Shottish, so we called her Tishy. My mother decreed that she had to sleep outside, so the garden shed was converted to a kennel and run.

I thought that was an awful thing to do to the poor little dog. Tishy would spend long days shut in her run waiting for me to come home from school and take her for a walk in the nearby woods. She would also go for long walks with me and Jane. At least she was allowed to spend the evenings indoors with us.

My mother was constantly forgetting to buy food for Tishy, so I would buy her tins of Chappie at the Post Office on Saturdays and always made sure I had a few tins of it in my bedroom.

Tishy was a typical lively, good-natured boxer. The milkman had a three-wheeled electric vehicle and however hard we tried to stop her she insisted on chasing the front wheel as he rode along. She lived to be 15, a great age for a boxer, but only in her old age did she enjoy the comfort of living in the kitchen.

I was now beginning to think about my future career. Ever since I had reached the age of 12 I had wanted to be a sick children’s nurse, so my father wrote to the Hospital for Sick Children at Great Ormond Street and got a prospectus. I knew, therefore, that I would need at least three O Levels, Maths, English and a science subject, to get an interview.

I took my O levels in 1962, and the results arrived in the post while we were staying at Wellpark Cottage. I remember sitting in the garden and opening the envelope. I had passed five - English Language , English Literature, History, Geography and Biology.

However I had (unsurprisingly) failed Maths, a combination of arithmetic, geometry and algebra - I didn’t like geometry, which never made sense to me.

I stayed on in the Lower Sixth to retake Maths, and also studied Human Biology and German. I managed to pass Human Biology, but I failed Maths again - twice. Unfortunately Maths was a requirement for

23

Chapter 2 Great Ormond Street, and you were not allowed to sit a subject more than three times.

This was something of a crisis. I rang Great Ormond Street and was told that if I passed the RSA (Royal Society of Arts) arithmetic exam, that would be acceptable. I was allowed to sit the exam at the local technical college, and to my great relief, I passed - with credit! I knew it was the geometry that had got in my way before. The way now seemed clear for me to embark on a nursing career.

24

Chapter 3

On the wards

By the time I was ready to fly the nest, David had left home to start an apprenticeship and college training for the building industry - he wanted to join the family firm of Henry Potter. Because my father had been only 12 when his father had died, the firm had been managed by someone else, a man called William Sharp, until my father came of age. It had since grown considerably and had been doing well.

Unfortunately, in 1963, the good years had ended with a bang, as a direct result of the severe winter of 1962-63. When a building job was contracted a time scale was laid down, with penalty payments to be made in the event of late completion. That freezing winter, Henry Potter’s was building a large secondary school. The long weeks of sub-zero weather delayed the completion to such an extent that the firm never recovered financially, and in 1967 my father had to put it into voluntary liquidation.

This was a very difficult time. In an effort to raise funds my father sold Little Bowers and then his boat, and in 1966 we moved to a house which incorporated his offices and builder’s yard in the centre of Chelmsford.

In fact this was the house he had been born in, Fairfield, 15 Fairfield Road.

I celebrated my 21st birthday here, although there wasn’t much else to celebrate.

My father tried to run the business in a much smaller way, but did not succeed and in 1967 we had to move again, to a semi-detached house in Roxwell Avenue, Chelmsford. David then relaunched the company under a slightly different name.

Elizabeth started at Rainsford Secondary School, but she was unhappy there. She was constantly bullied, pushed and poked by the other girls.

Academically she found things difficult, but her personality shone through

25

Chapter 3 the difficult times. On Saturdays she worked at Woods, the bakers.

My father was very affected by all these developments. His personality became unstable and he would display a frightening temper, throwing plates of food at the wall and hitting me and my mother, though he never struck Elizabeth. His behaviour was understandable, but very disturbing.

I resolved never again to lose my own temper in anger. In general I have succeeded, although I would come close to losing control sometimes when my mother was less than tactful.

I began my nurse training on 30 December 1963, with all this going on at home. My parents took me to The Princess Royal Nursing Home at 37, Guilford Street. All the parents stayed to tea, where Matron welcomed us by saying we would be the first set to undertake a four-year training for both the Sick Children and General Nurse Register. Up to this point we had expected to be at Great Ormond Street for only three years, so this was an unexpected development.

Our Matron, Miss Kirby, was a traditional figure with a splendid bust and frilly lace cap tied beneath the chin with strings. We soon found she could be quite intimidating.

Parents were asked to leave, and we were given our syllabus for our first three months, which would be spent in PTS - Preliminary Training School.

We started the next day, although we did not receive our uniforms for a couple more weeks.

We spent our days in the School of Nursing, next door to the hospital.

It was all so new and there was so much to remember. The nurses’ home looked right into the hospital and seemed hot and noisy. During sleepless nights I would look out to see the silhouetted figures of the nurses and children and wonder if I had made the right decision.

But it was far too late for second thoughts. Our days were spent learning how to make different kinds of beds, how to fill various hot water bottles (some of them were huge), how to bandage and how to do many other practical tasks. We had to learn human anatomy, the names of all

26

Chapter 3 the bones and muscles, what they did, how everything worked.

One day we returned to our rooms to find uniforms on our beds. Now we had to learn how to wear the pink-and-white striped dress properly with the starched collar that rubbed your neck raw, how to fix the cap and apron. We wore black tights and black K Skip shoes. Over it all we wore a traditional cape, which made us look and feel like real nurses.

The three months quickly passed and we settled into groups of friends.

I was able to go home regularly, but many of the set lived too far away for that.

On completion of PTS at the end of March 1964 we had a week’s holiday. The day I went home, Mr and Mrs Armstrong at the Post Office were in a serious car accident.

Mrs Armstrong had been sitting in the front bucket seat, which had propelled her into the windscreen. She was very seriously injured. I visited her in Chelmsford Hospital to find her lying there with a tracheotomy and very ill. I spent the week helping Mr Armstrong in the Post Office.

The next week, back at Great Ormond Street, my father came to see me to tell me that Mrs Armstrong had died. Men, even fathers, were not allowed upstairs, so he had to break the news in the entrance hall to the Nurses’ Home. I was very upset. It was the first time someone close to me had died.

The Armstrongs had one son, an only child, who had married an Australian, so Mr Armstrong emigrated to live with them there.

At last the day came when we started on the wards. It was terrifying!

My first ward was a medical ward where the children tended to stay for quite a while. This enabled us to get to know them and their families well.

There was free visiting and parents’ accommodation was provided in the hospital, very forward-thinking for 1964.

The hospital motto was “Children First and Always”, and that’s just how it was. The welfare of the young patient always came first, in every way.

27

Chapter 3 I enjoyed the basic nursing care and was not nervous about bathing and feeding babies because of my experience with Elizabeth and Sheila’s boys, my cousins. I found the sick children very frightening, but we had to display an attitude of calm and capability to the parents, whatever we felt inside.

Sister, ably assisted by a staff nurse, reigned over all that took place on the ward. She approached me one day and told me I was going to give an injection - my first! She had selected a nine-month old baby for my first jab. I felt so nervous - a little baby, a tiny leg.

I produced my “yellow book”, my record of all we had been taught.

There were two columns, one to be signed by a senior nurse when we had been taught or shown a procedure, the other when we had done the task proficiently. The book had to be on your person at all times, ready for signatures.

Sister Weller surprised me by telling me that my middle name, Fiona, was the same as hers. This seemed far too personal a comment for a Sister to make to the most junior of student nurses, and I felt really flustered!

Fortunately the injection went well, the poor baby did not cry very much and my heart rate gradually subsided.

Every three months we moved to another ward. This was always another step into the unknown, with new Sisters and Staff Nurses. We did three months of night duty, eight on and four off, and were accommodated at Rosslyn Lodge in Hampstead, where it was quieter.

On night duty the junior nurse was responsible for making sure there were adequate supplies of gauze swabs and cotton-wool balls. A roll of gauze was wound round a cardboard template, cut into squares and then folded three times in each direction. Cotton wool was pulled off a roll and made into balls, which were then prepared for sterilisation. Each ward had a treatment room with a steam steriliser and cheatles - large forceps used to remove sterilised dishes and instruments required for dressings.

Cheatles were not easy to handle with steam billowing out of the steriliser.

28

Chapter 3 When we were busy it was hard to keep replenishing stocks. If you fell behind you would be told about it in no uncertain terms by the junior who took over from you.

We all spent two weeks in the milk kitchen, where feeds were made up to be sent to the wards labelled for the individual baby. National Dried Milk was the usual milk powder used. I did not enjoy my fortnight. The Sister was very stern and made us dry the rubber bands when the feeds had all been made, which I thought was a pointless task.

We had to arrive in time to get gowned up, including head covering, by the time the shift started. We then had a 15-minute coffee break and a 45-minute lunch break. Fifteen minutes was not long enough to take all the protective clothing off, get to the nurses’ home for coffee and be back in the milk kitchen all gowned up again, so all you could do was grab a cold drink.

The hospital had a country branch, Tadworth Court in Tadworth, Surrey. I spent three months there, and enjoyed being in a rural setting again. Our accommodation was a one-mile walk from the village.

Morning duty started at 7 am, so it was a very early start. Some of the more affluent students bought bikes, but I wasn’t one of them.

After 21 months at Great Ormond Street we were sent to various hospitals for our general training. Each set of students was split into three groups for different locations, and you had to go where you were told. I was sent to The London Hospital in Whitechapel, later to be known as The Royal London Hospital.

We stayed in the Edith Cavell Nurses’ Home, which was grim. There were no washbasins in the rooms. Instead, at the end of the corridor was a room full of basins with a part curtain round each to give some rudimentary privacy. The hospital was bigger than Great Ormond Street and initially rather confusing. Second-year nurses were called belts and third years were known as strings. We kept our own pink and white uniforms.

29

Chapter 3 I started on a male genito-urinary ward. What a shock! Every patient seemed to have a urinary catheter, and it was the nurse’s duty to perform a catheter toilet on each patient every four hours, washing and cleansing the pertinent part. The ward was one of the original open wards looking on to Whitechapel High Street, and Sister had a desk on a raised platform so that she could survey all that was going on.

Every morning Sister would arrive on the ward at 8 am and say prayers.

The nurses knelt in a group in the middle of the ward while she read the London Hospital prayer from a small board which looked like a fan.

Whitechapel was a rough and unruly area. The back streets and the markets were interesting enough, but full of rogues.

We had a half day off each week, followed by a day off, then a morning off. One week I returned home on my morning off to find that my father was asleep and my mother could not waken him. He had taken an overdose of sleeping tablets. It was all very frightening. An ambulance took him to Casualty in Chelmsford, where he started to come round, and I went back on duty in the afternoon. My father stayed in hospital and eventually had ECT treatment, but I could never be sure he wouldn’t do the same thing again. He would never say why he had felt the need to try to end it all; I can only assume it was depression brought on by the failure of the business.

We took a combined four-year course, spending two years and nine months studying the care of sick children, three months’ obstetrics and just a year on adult nursing. It usually took three years’ training in adult nursing care to qualify for state registration, so our course was considerably condensed and demanded a great deal of study.

We were given a lot of responsibility too. On nights we would be in charge of a ward, with a night sister in overall charge of four wards.

Nursing adults was certainly different, and much harder physically. I lost a stone in weight during my time at the London. This was quite an achievement from someone who never usually manages to lose an ounce!

30

Chapter 3 Although I gained experience on both male and female wards, I much preferred paediatric nursing.

The next three months were spent at Forest Gate Maternity Hospital, to gain obstetric experience. This meant yet another nurses’ home. Forest Gate had been a prisoner-of-war camp before it was converted into a maternity hospital, and consisted of two long buildings. There were rigorous cleaning régimes, particularly in the delivery rooms.

We accompanied a midwife on home visits, riding bicycles, and each of us was expected at some point to deliver a baby. I was very worried about this as I found great difficulty hearing the foetal heart and working out how the baby was lying - the head and the bottom felt the same to me.

The day came when Sister told me I was to deliver the woman who was in the delivery room. I was overcome with nerves. Sister would be present all the time.

Late on in the delivery we realised that this would not be a normal head-first delivery but a face presentation. This is relatively unusual and can be dangerous for both mother and baby. Sister quickly pushed me aside and kept saying we had to do something “quick as lightning”, but I couldn’t quite work out what.

Out the baby came at last, fit and well, as was the mother. It was a great relief. The part I enjoyed most of all was taking the newborns, guessing their weight and putting them on the scales. I loved all the new babies and thought what miracles they were.

One day while I was on night duty I was trying to get to sleep when I heard something rustling in my bedside locker. Inside it was a box of Milk Tray chocolates which I had been given. I opened the locker door and to my absolute horror, there was a mouse eating my chocolates. I have an intense fear of mice, so this was a horrible shock. I slammed the door shut and raced out to find someone, anyone, to remove the chocolates and the mouse. No more sleep that day!

31

Chapter 3 At last we sat our final examination to become RGNs, Registered General Nurses. There was a morning and afternoon examination, including practical examinations. It all seemed very difficult. It was a long and tiring day. To signify our competence we had to produce our yellow books with all columns filled in.

At the start of our training we had been given a programme which detailed where we would be working and when, and when our holidays would be. At the end of the Forest Gate experience we had two weeks’ holiday, and I decided to spend a week in Yugoslavia with a friend, Maggie.

Two staff nurses from the London Hospital were planning a cycling trip on a tandem through Europe, so we arranged to meet at Pulaj, where our package trip was based.

The holiday was quite a basic one, but this was the first time I had flown, so it was all very exciting. We were on our own, independent and free – wonderful! I had once been to Austria on a school skiing trip, but we had travelled by coach and train.

It seemed like a miracle when, in the middle of our week, our two friends arrived, safe and sound after their long journey from England. We spent a couple of days together before they set off again.

On our return it was back for our fourth and final year at Great Ormond Street. Three years earlier our set had started with more than 40 students. 12 had left during preliminary training and others gradually followed, so by the time we started our fourth year in 1967 there were fewer than 20 of us left.

We all managed to gain our State Registration, which was a big boost.

I was now entitled to be called Nurse Potter.

We were allowed to “live out” during our final year, which offered great freedom after the restraints of a nurses’ home. Five of us shared a mews flat in Portman Close, off Portman Square, for six months. One bedroom had twin beds and one had bunks, while a bedsettee provided the other berth. We could not afford bus fares so we walked to work, which took

32

Chapter 3 about 30 minutes. After tiring days we often caught a bus back.

Fortunately the conductor would often refuse to take our money, declaring that nurses could travel free. This made a big difference to our budget!

On one occasion we were walking to work in our navy macs, but without our berets, when we bumped into Matron herself. She wanted to know where our berets were, and told us to report to her later. She stared at us with piercing eyes and told us we had disgraced our hospital by appearing improperly dressed. How strict discipline was in the 1960s!

During our final year we acted as Staff Nurses, which carried considerable responsibility. I had not so far worked in an operating theatre, so I was sent to the cardiothoracic theatre for experience. I hated theatre work. When I started my training and used to accompany children into theatre for tonsillectomies, chloroform masks were still being used.

The cardiothoracic theatre was modern and new. The cardiac theatre had tubes full of blood and pumps keeping the little patients alive. I dreaded being asked to hand the surgeon a particular instrument, because it was so difficult to identify the right one among the many similar devices, and surgeons could be such fierce personalities. If a surgeon dropped something I had to grovel among all the white boots on the floor looking for it. No, I did not enjoy theatres!

I worked on the cardiac ward, which was very frightening – the little patients were so frail and often appeared an alarming shade of blue.

Sometimes we had to ‘special’ a child – give one-to-one nursing for a very sick child after an operation. You couldn’t leave the child’s side for the duration of your shift, which on night duty would be 12 hours. Specialling was complex – there were so many signs to be alert to, and such a tiny child on the bed. You also had to give reassurance to the worried parents.

I recall bathing a little girl the morning before she was to have heart surgery. She was nine months old and very thin. I was as gentle as I could be, speaking quietly to her as I soaped her. She watched me all the time,

33

Chapter 3 but never smiled. I wrapped her up snugly and left her lying there, still watching me with those big eyes.

Later that day I learned that she had not survived her operation. Her eyes had been so knowing.

The Burns Unit was another very challenging place to work. The smell of the burned flesh was dreadful. Some of the children were horribly burned and the treatment they needed was extremely painful. Memories like that stay with you.

At last my four years of training drew to completion. Only 11 of the original 40 students remained to sit the examinations to become State Registered Sick Children’s Nurses, but we all passed. It had been a thorough, excellent training, although it was tough on both the senses and the mind and called for reserves of stamina you didn’t know you had. We learned a great deal about teamwork, caring and duty. Always the patients’ needs were paramount.

I found I needed my arithmetic after all. Medicine rounds involved calculating dosages from standard-strength medicines, whether for injection or by mouth. There were no individual bottles. You did the calculations on the inside bottom hem of your apron, and it was always checked by two nurses.

I left Great Ormond Street in early February 1968, fully qualified as a Registered Sick Children’s Nurse and a Registered General Nurse. It was time to embark on the next chapter of my life.

34

Chapter 4

Signing up for the QAs

Towards the end of my training at Great Ormond Street I was asked to “staff” (work as a staff nurse) on a couple of wards. However, the situation at home was upsetting me a great deal and I wanted to help my parents financially. In 1967, my last year of training, my salary had been thirteen shillings and fourpence a month, so I felt there was room for a little improvement!

That winter time the Nursing Times was running advertisements for the QAs - the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps, the nursing branch of the British Army. The salary was much higher than that of a staff nurse at Great Ormond Street. I decided to apply.

The interview was held at the Ministry of Defence offices, and I was asked to wait in a very comfortable room where the settees were so soft that by the time I was called through I had almost nodded off to sleep – I had been on nights. I was asked various questions and told them that I was keen to continue nursing children. I was asked if I was skilled at flower arranging, which I thought an odd question. I told them I was not, as there seemed no point in being dishonest!

I went to sleep on the bus home. It was surprising how one learned to sleep through the noises, sirens and constant bustle of London.

I was the last in our set to complete our training, as I had sick leave to make up. Every June I would go down with tonsillitis, and have to be treated with penicillin. Because the stuff was rather thick it had to be injected with a large-bore needle, which was very painful.

We had given our flat up at the end of the year, so my last few weeks were spent living back at Guilford Street. One morning a letter came from the QAs. I had got the job! I had been granted a two-year short service

35

Chapter 4 commission and was instructed to report to Aldershot on 26 February.

Once again, it was wintry weather. I used my free travel permit to travel to Aldershot by train. I was wearing a pair of smart red leather boots.

The QA Training Centre was a new building on the outskirts of Aldershot, set in peaceful grounds full of rhododendrons, next to the garrison church. The centre had been built on the site of the Royal Pavilion, where Queen Victoria used to stay when reviewing her troops.

It had opened in 1887, her Silver Jubilee year. Prince Albert had designed the grounds to include every species of rhododendron which could thrive in the British climate.

I did not imagine we would be asked to sign on the dotted line until we had completed the three weeks of basic training. I didn’t realise that just by reporting for duty I had committed myself to a two-year commission!

However, two years did not seem all that long after my four years of nursing training.

I was now Lieutenant Potter, and I had entered a very different world.

We were gathered together and given a comprehensive talk about what the next three weeks would hold. We were told what was acceptable dress in the Officers’ Mess and what wasn’t. Jeans were not acceptable. Nor were boots, so my lovely red boots had to be taken off.

At this time the Army Nurse Training School was training both student and pupil nurses to qualify as State Registered or State Enrolled Nurses.

We were measured for uniforms, which included tropical wear and dress kit for formal regimental dinners.

Over the next three weeks we learned to march, parade and drill. I found that I was completely unco-ordinated. We were briefed on military law, the different regiments and the rank structures in the armed forces.

We were instructed in military etiquette, which included how to handle different foods - for example, bananas had to be eaten with a fruit knife and fork, fingers could be used only for peeling!

36

Chapter 4 The basic training was an eye-opener. It was intensive, yet enjoyable.

We quickly adopted a spirit of camaraderie and loyalty to our corps and our fellow officers and learned to take responsibility for the welfare of junior ranks.

Within the grounds of the Training Centre was the QA Regimental Museum, which was fascinating. It housed photographs, articles and artefacts dating back to Florence Nightingale, and I found it both interesting and inspiring.

Towards the end of the three weeks we were each told which military hospital we were being posted to. I was to go to the children’s ward at the Cambridge Military Hospital in Aldershot. With considerable trepidation I pressed and starched my uniform and presented myself for duty.

It was a busy children’s ward occupying both sides of the main hospital corridor, which was a quarter of a mile long. The Officers’ Mess, Gun Hill Mess, was at the far end of the hospital.

There was a lot to learn, including countless acronyms and abbreviations, but everyone was very friendly. That first day I was left in charge throughout the afternoon and felt very nervous. Apparently, if you were concerned about the condition of a child, you had to phone for something called the OMO. I thought that was a washing powder until it was explained to me that the letters stood for Orderly Medical Officer, the on-call doctor.

One of the paediatricians, whose name was Campbell, sat writing at his desk all afternoon. I was very grateful at the time. It wasn’t until many weeks later that I realised he had done this deliberately, so he was there to help if I didn’t know what to do. Campbell was a lovely man. He met his wife, a Staff Nurse called Pat, at Great Ormond Street, over the cot of a child, who was bleeding following a tonsillectomy. How romantic!

I quickly settled to the military life and soon made new friends. We all took our turn at being Orderly Officer, which entailed staying in the Mess all evening and overnight to answer the phone or door. This was to deal

37

Chapter 4 with any emergencies and ensure the security of the Mess.

Late one night, just as I was locking the Mess doors, one of the most senior Majors came downstairs wearing a long fur coat. She gave it a twirl.

“Look at my lovely coat” she said. She was wearing nothing underneath it! I managed to persuade her to go back upstairs.

The Matron and the Commanding Officer would visit each ward weekly for a ward round. Matron, or her deputy, would do a less formal round every day. The Sister in charge of the ward would be required to put on her tippet and cuffs to escort them round. She would be expected to give them each patient’s name, age and diagnosis, treatment to date and regiment or corps they belonged to, or that of their husband or father if the patient was a dependant.

My QA salary enabled me to provide some financial help back home.

I was also able to buy my first car, a racing green 1935 Austin Ruby which cost me £35. The registration number was ARO 141, so I called it Aro. I would drive it from Aldershot to Chelmsford through central London, including Park Lane, which took about three hours. To avoid traffic jams on the north circular road, I would leave at 4 am.

I really enjoyed driving that car. You had to crank the engine to start it, so things could get embarrassing if it stalled at traffic lights – no sooner would I get Aro started and climb back into the driving seat than the lights would turn red again. I also had to work the windscreen wiper by hand, so when it was raining I would drive along with one hand on the wheel and one on the wiper.

There was another awkward episode when I lost power while overtaking a bus and had to draw back and grind to a halt. I found I had run out of petrol, which was puzzling as I had only just filled the tank. It turned out that the rubber tubing between the petrol cap and tank had perished and the fuel had all leaked away.

In September 1968, my brother David married his GIRL FRIEND,

38

Chapter 4 Linda at Woodham Walter Church, with a reception in Chelmsford. They had first met at a youth club in Great Baddow at one of its Saturday night hops. Linda and a friend were dancing together and David and a friend decided to split them up, each asking the other “which one will you have?”

David got Linda, and that’s how it all started. They had stayed together ever since, so their decision to tie the knot was hardly a surprise.

When David bought the engagement ring, he showed it to me as soon as he got home (in those days you were supposed to keep it a secret from your fiancée until you popped the question) and I felt very honoured.

Though I was happy at Aldershot, I was beginning to think about the future. Some Nursing Officers were spending their entire two-year commission at Aldershot. This did not seem very exciting to me, so I applied to extend my commission to four years.

Shortly afterwards I was posted to Rinteln in Germany. I flew from Brize Norton to Hanover in February 1969, arriving in thick snow. A Land Rover collected me and delivered me to the British Military Hospital, about an hour’s drive south. The snow was waist deep apart from the cleared path, and it was very cold.

Rinteln is a small town on the River Weser. The hospital was based in a wartime German Army barracks and the children’s ward was a separate single-storey building next to some playing fields which doubled as the helicopter landing site. Green woodpeckers were as common as sparrows, and the rural views were enjoyable and relaxing.

I had studied German at school for a year and found it much easier than French. I was now able to use some of it, though with limited success.

I had only been at Rinteln three months when I was told I was being posted to Singapore. I had to buy an atlas to check exactly where Singapore was. It seemed so far away. I had mixed feelings about going so far. I get homesick very easily and have often had to conquer my feelings.

Just before I left for Singapore, I spent a few days in Tighnabruaich

39

Chapter 4 with my father and Rebecca, my goddaughter. Rebecca had a brother, Jonathan, but her mother had endured repeated miscarriages before Rebecca was born in 1965. I was at great Ormond Street when I heard such happy news, a perfect little girl. I saw Rebecca as often as I could and really enjoyed getting to know her. We would go to the ballet and to Whipsnade Zoo. I took one of her ballet pumps with me to Singapore as a keepsake. Her mother Mary was to die of cancer when Rebecca was only 16 - so very sad.

The evening before I left for Singapore my mother made a casserole, but she dropped the china dish just before it could be served. We managed to scoop the casserole up and plate it, but I found myself biting on a large chunk of china. My mother had never enjoyed cooking and often said she wished someone would invent a pill you could swallow instead of a meal.

That wasn’t the worst meal I remember her serving. Once we had a lamb’s heart which she dished up on the plate just as it was, with all the arteries and valves intact. It slithered around the plate in a grotesque fashion, ghastly to cut into, horrid to eat. But at that time you ate what you were given or had to face it again for the next meal.

The RAF flight from Brize Norton to Singapore took 24 hours, with a stop at Gan. The seats all faced to the rear, which was considered to be safer in a crash.

When I got out of the aircraft at Gan I thought I must be standing in the plane’s exhaust, the heat and humidity were so high. At first a tropical storm prevented us from landing in Singapore, so we had to spend an hour circling Changi airport, which made me feel quite sick. When at last we landed I could hardly stand upright.

Some friends I had known in Aldershot were waiting to meet me, and I soon felt a great deal better. It was late evening, so I was shown straight to my room in the Mess.

The open windows had slats and no glass, and there was a ceiling fan and a mosquito net over the bed. The whine and buzz of insects was

40

Chapter 4 deafening, the heat shocking and the smell of the pillows horrid. Later I learned that this was because of the humidity, but that first night I thought they were dirty and slept without them.

For the first year I used only a top sheet in bed. By my second year I had got used to the heat and bought a cotton blanket. I still have it, as it reminds me of those nights. Huge atlas moths would flap around the room. The sound of “chitchats� - little lizards that crawled up walls and ceilings, making a loud repetitive sound - was so loud that I kept thinking someone was knocking on the door, and calling them to come in. The mosquito net could not keep all the wildlife out and you would wake with an eye swollen and shut from a bite. Sometimes torrential tropical rain with terrifying thunder and lightning would keep you awake.

The 70-bed children’s ward had no air conditioning either, just ceiling fans. We nursed the children of military and civilian families, so we had a multi-national clientele. Alongside the Brits we routinely cared for Australian, Nepalese, Malay, Indian and Chinese children. It was very enjoyable, although there were always some very sick children on the ward.

One of the most satisfying duties was nursing tiny premature babies who depended on incubators. The atmosphere was moist and warm, just like an incubator, and even tiny babies of three pounds or so thrived.

Parents could see and hold them so much more easily, which was good both for them and the baby.

Local civilian staff worked alongside us as nurses and ward assistants or interpreters. The Sister would serve up meals and ensure each child was fed according to his or her national diet, but the food was a constant puzzle to me because I had great difficulty in telling the difference between Malay, Chinese and Indian food. We gave the little ones congee - mashed up food for weaning. Chips were popular with all nationalities! Even the tiny children could use chopsticks with great expertise.

All the staff shared regular night shifts. At Rinteln, night duty had

41

Chapter 4 been 14 nights on and seven off, but in Singapore it was a little easier, with 10 on and seven off. The Sisters would meet up for their meal on the maternity ward, as midwives were required to stay close by. The children’s ward was on the ground floor, and had open balconies on two sides, which could be quite creepy at night with the cicadas and various other crawling and flying beasties.

It was quite a trek along the deserted ground floor corridor and up the stairs to the maternity ward, so I used to carry a syringe of gentian violet ready to spray at anyone who might try to attack me. I thought it would at least mark them!

I worked in Singapore for two years. No-one had their own car or phone and there were none of the cheap flights we see today, so we were pretty much stranded - but we didn’t feel that way. There was always so much to explore. You made friends and socialised with whoever happened to be off duty at the same time as you. We wrote letters home, and counted the days to the replies.

Sometimes on nights off, a group of us would hire a car and set off to explore Malaysia. Port Dickson on the west coast was a favourite place.

Another time we drove all the way up the east coast to Kota Bharu on the border with Thailand. The roads were fairly good, though the bridges were made of wooden slats and the road sign for “danger” was a skull and crossbones, which was slightly alarming. You would pass rubber plantations and buffalos pulling carts, and see banana “orchards” and the beginnings of the palm oil plantations. We stayed in Government resthouses with basic beds and basic cleanliness.

On one of these trips I shared a room with a midwife called Pauline, a Catholic midwife who had a large family, one brother being a priest. I learned a lot about the Roman Catholic faith and she taught me the words and music of the song Michael row the boat ashore.

Another friend was Jenny, also a midwife, who was a day older than

42

Chapter 4 me. We spent an unforgettable weekend on an uninhabited island off the east coast, near Mersing. We went there with an anaesthetist called Helen, who had a VW Beetle – as a doctor she had more money than we did!

We drove to Mersing, hired a boatman to take us out to the island and asked him to come back for us in two days. But as we watched his boat disappear, it dawned us that we were completely marooned, with no means of contacting the rest of the world. If anything happened to our boatman, no-one would know where we were.

We made camp and put up our Igloo tent. We had brought drinking water and sausages, and we cooked them on the beach. We swam naked in the crystal-clear ocean. It was a fantastic feeling. While we were exploring, Jenny’s glasses fell off and went down a crack in the rocks - they are probably still there. Her eyesight was poor, so she was totally lost without them.

Two days later we were all frantically scanning the horizon for our fisherman and his boat. At last it chugged into view. What a relief! We could now relax and agree that it had been a great weekend.

Jenny was later posted to Nepal, where she met John, who became her husband. I am godmother to Joanna Katherine, their second daughter, born in 1975 on Jenny’s 30th birthday. Jo now has three boys of her own.

When we weren’t working we would relax at Singapore Swimming Club, a short (if hot) walk from the Mess. The pool was filled with seawater and it was wonderfully warm.

Working days were long and hard in the unrelenting heat, but the teamwork made the days constructive and satisfying. The care of the children and their families was always uppermost in everyone’s minds.

I can still remember many of my little patients. Sometimes there was no happy ending. I particularly recall a brother and sister, the only children of an older couple, dying within days of each other of a cardiac virus. How sorry I felt for them, how awful it was to have to tell them that

43

Chapter 4 they had not survived. I thought how different their lives would have been if only they had not been posted to Singapore.

Fortunately there were many much happier days when really sick children recovered and were able to go home. There was Emma, a baby with severe problems. I still hear from her parents each Christmas - they always send a card to tell me how she is. Now Emma is a mum herself.

How good it is to receive that Christmas card!

Christmas can be a difficult time when you are far away from your family, whatever your circumstances. I spent two of them in Singapore.

We decorated the ward with a large nativity scene at the entrance to remind everyone entering the ward of the real meaning of Christmas. We made big woolly sheep by sticking cotton wool on to pieces of card, and made the figures of Mary, Joseph, the Wise Men and the shepherds. There were plenty of dolls to place in the crib!

We appreciated that not all the staff and families were Christian, but back then you could still make a display of Christianity without being accused of prejudice.

On Christmas Day our paediatrician carved the turkey and we all sat down to enjoy it together. The families of the sick children were all invited, as well as all the staff who were off duty or working in the offices, so they were away from home on Christmas Day. Children who could not get out of bed had their beds or cots pulled into the dining area of the ward. It really was our family day.

Every afternoon in Singapore we seemed to get torrential rain. When it stopped, everything would be steaming. The streets were lined with monsoon drains, open drains six to eight feet wide, and during a downpour the water carried all kinds of waste and rubbish along. There was a food shop called Cold Storage which was one of very few with air conditioning, and we would go in there and look around just to get cool.

There were memorable visits to orchid gardens and to The Gap, a cool spot on the west coast of the island which had a military base where you

44

Chapter 4 could enjoy a delicious banana split and a refreshing gin and tonic. The Beating of the Retreat would take place here, and the dusk atmosphere, the lights on the sea and the sound of the pipers would create great nostalgia.

On several occasions I went birdwatching in the Malaysian jungle with Tim, one of the doctors. We would catch tiny birds in special nets, weigh them and record the details before releasing them again. I wasn’t too competent at holding the birds, as I was afraid of squeezing them too tightly.

Driving back after one trip in Tim’s car – also a VW Beetle - I found a leech attached to my back. Removing it produced a lot of blood, as leeches inject anticoagulant into their victims. The Beetle had white seats, so there was a terrible mess.

On Remembrance Day , there would be a dawn service at Kranji War Memorial, for all the serving personnel in Singapore. The memorial is engraved with the names of more than 24,000 servicemen and women who were killed in Singapore during the Second World War. Many of them have no known graves. The graves which are there are all beautifully kept, and I found it sobering to read the inscriptions and realise how many had died so young and so far from home.

It did not seem very long since the war had ended 24 years earlier.

There had been dreadful savagery and the Japanese had even bayoneted and killed staff and patients in the hospital. Prisoners of all nationalities in Changi Prison had endured terrible torture and deprivation. I cannot imagine how people found the will and fortitude to survive it all. How fortunate and spoilt we all were to be free and safe in that area of the world, just a couple of short decades later.

While I was out in Singapore my father wrote to say that my Nan, my maternal grandmother, had died, of cancer. She left us on March 27 1970, aged 76. Linda was due to give birth the following August and Nan had

45

Chapter 4 been very much looking forward to the baby’s arrival. When I was born and Nan first saw me she declared “Look at those legs! She will be a nurse!” Unfortunately I did not inherit my mother’s slim legs and ankles - that was my brother’s good fortune, wasted on a boy!

In late July 1970 I was told that there was a telegram waiting for me at the Post Office. The Post Office was actually no more than a cupboard you used to send and receive mail via the BFPS, the British Forces Postal Service. It did not open until eleven o’clock, so there was an anxious wait as telegrams could equally well bring bad news as good.

This one was most definitely good news. It was from my brother David, and read: “Twin boys arrived 29 July, 5-4, 5-0, unalike. All well. Writing.

Love David.”

This was amazing news – twins had not been expected. They were a month early. David was in such a state that he was caught driving through a red light, but on hearing his news the police released him without charge.

When the first baby had appeared the staff had had no idea there was another to follow – this was before the days of ultrasound scans. You can imagine the surprise when another one popped out. Poor Linda was very shocked. Linda and David decided to call them Duncan Henry and Stuart Henry Searle.

I was very upset to think how long I would have to wait to see my little nephews, but there was no way I could get back to the UK for some time.

David did send lots of photos, and I sent clothes for the twins from the Chinese emporiums.

I think just about everyone, on the ward and in the Mess, knew that I had become an auntie to twin boys. Very soon after that Rolf Harris’s song Two Little Boys hit the charts – it couldn’t have been more appropriate, and people would start singing it as soon as I appeared.

How thrilled Nan would have been to hold her twin great grandsons.

There had been twins in her family and she had always hoped for another pair.

46

Chapter 4 As things turned out it would not be too long before I would be able to spend plenty of time with my new nephews. Service in Singapore was about to come an end – not just for me but for everyone working in the British Military Hospitals in Malaysia. It was time to be homeward bound once more.

47

Chapter 5

A regular commission

In 1971 the Army began to withdraw from the Far East, and all the British Military Hospitals in the region had to close. The Singapore BMH was the last of them and I was one of the last Nursing Officers to leave, in September that year.

It was hard to see the “closed” sign that went up at the entrance to the hospital on August 30 1971 and to pack up the ward, see and hear it empty, and find the Mess almost deserted. Our Matron, Colonel Marsden, was as kind as she was efficient, and she used the little remaining cash in the Mess fund to give each Nursing Officer a pewter dish with their name and the date of their service on it.

I had a final haircut at Madame Po’s and a last evening out with Tim, who was being posted to Hong Kong, where he was to meet his future wife, an air hostess. There was a final Paludrine anti-malarial tablet to take from the Mess dining room. They were kept in a large dish on the table and you were expected to dose yourself daily. Failure to do so was a chargeable offence, as was getting sunburn!

My last breakfast in Singapore was a stiff gin and tonic. Finally I headed for the air base and boarded an RAF plane for the long flight to Brize Norton.

My father met me at the airfield. How cold it was, even in August!

And how short my hair felt. But it was wonderful to be home again after two years of thinking about it. To see, touch and hug my parents and sister soon made my two years in the tropics shrink away into the past.

I couldn’t wait to see my nephews, so as soon as I had dumped my cases we all went off to see them. They were now 13 months old and wearing Viyella nighties, ready for bed – there were no Babygros back then. They were beautiful, very alike but not identical - I could see the small

48

Chapter 5 differences. They were not shy of meeting a new face and I felt a rapport with them which has never changed in the 40 years since.

I have always thought pregnancy a wonderful time – you wait nine months and a tiny human being appears. You always pray that the development is normal, though we have no right to expect perfection.

Although I had missed their christening, I had been invited to be their godmother, and later their legal guardian, should anything happen to David and Linda.

We spent many happy hours and days together. When the twins were 18 months old I looked after them for a week. Duncan had become a headbanger and his cot would shuffle its way around the bedroom every night.

The house was at the bottom of a mile-long hill, so pushing the twin pushchair to the top to buy an ice cream at the village post office was quite a feat.

On one of our visits to Colchester Zoo, the windscreen broke. It went with such a crack that I thought we had been shot at. We carried on of course, enjoying our day and our picnic.

Gradually I got used to the cold climate of home, cooked some Malay and Chinese food for the family and luxuriated in a cosy duvet again. We all went to Tighnabruaich for a couple of weeks, and it was wonderful to be back at Wellpark Cottage. Whenever I have tough times or visits to the dentist - anything I would rather not be facing - I picture the view down the Kyles of Bute to Arran. Once I have transported myself there, I am calm again.

After my return home I was due six weeks off as accumulated and disembarkation leave. Then it was back to Aldershot for my next posting.

I had received my third pip while serving in Singapore, and was now a Captain. I needed to think once again about my future career, as my fouryear short service commission was nearly completed.

I had thoroughly enjoyed the experiences and responsibilities during my time in the QAs. Days were always varied and busy, colleagues were

49

Chapter 5 dedicated and professional, friends were real friends. So I took the plunge and applied for a Regular Commission. This meant I was committing myself to serve at least 12 more years.

My Commission was granted, so I knew exactly where I stood!

I was now required to attend various military courses - the Junior Officers’ Course and later on the Senior Officers’ Course. There was even an Accounts Course.

We all had to take it in turns to run the various aspects of the Mess.

Now I knew why I had been asked about flower arranging! At various times I became Wines Member, Mess Member and Accounts Member. If there were no volunteers for a position, a name was proposed and seconded.

The Wines Member had to check the spirit levels in the bar, order drink supplies, restock the bar and prepare the monthly bar bills. The Mess Member planned the daily menus, working to a budget and liaising with the cook. I had been Mess Member at Rinteln, where I had found my German was nothing like good enough to communicate properly with the cook.

The Accounts Member’s job was the worst. You had to enter all purchases and expenditure for the Mess in the correct way and balanced the books monthly, then prepare the figures for audit. How I hated that job.

I was now Sister in charge of all the paediatric units I was posted to, responsible for the safe, efficient and correct care of all the patients, the welfare of their parents and the welfare and training of all staff on the unit.

There were only a limited number of paediatricians in the R.A.M.C. (Royal Army Medical Corps), so it was highly likely that wherever you were posted, you would know the people on the medical team.

Once again, I was walking up and down that long corridor at the Cambridge Military Hospital in Aldershot. All Sisters joined the night

50

Chapter 5 duty roster, but now I would be Night Sister for the whole hospital - rather daunting, as adult patients seemed so big! Now it was my turn to be taken round the beds by a ward nurse on the nightly rounds.

I was on night duty one year, on my birthday as it happened, when I was told that a very sick child was being brought to the Casualty Department, which was at the far end of the hospital from the children’s ward. I hurried along the corridor to meet the patient, a little girl of three.

She was suffering from croup, a severe constriction of the airways caused by an infection. She was in a desperate state and despite all our efforts we were unable to save her. She died almost immediately. It was extremely upsetting.

Her parents arrived within minutes. They had left their daughter with a regular babysitter to go out for the evening, and when they had last seen her she had been perfectly healthy. They were, understandably, terribly shocked. No words can suffice at times like these. Now, every birthday, I think of that little girl.

In 1973 I was posted to the Royal Herbert Hospital in Woolwich. This was an area of London I didn’t know, and I enjoyed exploring around Blackheath and Shooter’s Hill. The Officers’ Mess was on one side of Shooter’s Hill Road and the hospital on the other. As this was a busy commuter route, crossing between the two could be hazardous.

The hospital was an old and historic building with no dedicated children’s ward. Sick children of military personnel were admitted to local civilian hospitals, but plans were being made to turn an unused ground floor ward into a children’s ward. This was my work, besides working on a male medical ward. Give me child patients any day!

It was easy to get home to Chelmsford from there, so I was able to see and enjoy my godchildren a great deal. Once a month a group of us would drive into town to enjoy an evening of ballet at Sadlers Wells. I became quite confident at driving around places which I had previously seen only from a bus. I found a parking bay outside St Martin’s in the Fields which

51

Chapter 5 always seemed to be free and my car, an old Vauxhall, was always still there on our return.

I was working at Woolwich with a friend from Singapore, Mary, who was a very strict and competent theatre sister. That September of 1975 we decided to drive up to Tighnabruaich for a couple of weeks, and my parents planned to join us. We had previously gone on a skiing holiday in Austria but my finances were not up to a repeat performance of that, so we decided on Scotland.

We covered the 500-plus miles in the day, me driving, and went straight to bed on arrival. The next morning I was awoken by a loud knocking on the back door, followed by even louder taps on the kitchen window. It was Uncle Donald, very agitated. He said there was an urgent phone call for me up at Wellpark.

They were serving breakfast when I got there, and Auntie Winnie was busy carrying the food through the butler’s pantry, where the phone was, to her guests.

It was David on the other end. He told me that just before midnight our father had died, of a heart attack.

He had suffered angina for several years and had had a serious attack of it during the evening, so my mother had called the GP. My father had died as the doctor was injecting medication. He was only 60 years old.

The ambulance had already been called, so they were able to take my father’s body away. As it happened one of the ambulancemen was the son of Ada ,who had been my father’s nursemaid in infancy.

I was very shocked. All I could think about was that it was the day they should have been driving up to join us. At least the heart attack had not happened while my father was driving.

Mary and I packed up all our things again and drove straight back to Essex. There I found Elizabeth in a very tearful state. She was only 20 and very close to Dad. My mother had taken some sleeping tablets and

52

Chapter 5 was fast asleep in bed, so I could not talk to her.

The next week was so long, so strange. Life had changed utterly, for all of us.

I decided I would go and see my father at the undertaker’s, as I had not seen him for a couple of weeks before his death. I did not tell anyone I was going.

The worst part was seeing the frozen state he was in, and the icy last kiss. I did not regret going to say goodbye to him, but when I arrived home in floods of tears, Elizabeth knew immediately where I had been.

We managed to struggle through the funeral at Woodham Walter Church. I picked rosebuds from the garden and put one in each of the windows. Only men were allowed to attend the cremation, which seemed archaic.

My father had stated that if he died in Scotland he wished to be buried there, and that if he died elsewhere he should be cremated and his ashes buried in Scotland. In fact, his ashes were interred in the grave of his parents, Henry and Alice Potter, in Chelmsford. As his last wish was disregarded, I have taken steps to make sure that I at least will be buried where I want to be buried, Millhouse cemetery near Tighnabruaich. I have even chosen my plot. It was very odd to meet the council staff and watch them unroll a calico plan of the graveyard and tell me which spaces were free!

More sadness followed. I returned to Woolwich and just a week later I was on duty as Orderly Officer when a phone call came to tell me that Sheila’s husband Pete had been killed in an accident. Poor Pete had been up on a first-floor flat roof at home, doing some repair work in new bifocals. He had missed his footing coming down the ladder and fell. He injured the back of his head so severely that he died within a few hours.

He was 51. It was a dreadful shock.

So my mother and her sister had been widowed within three weeks of

53

Chapter 5 each other. Sheila was only 44 and their sons, my cousins, were barely out of boyhood – Steve was 21, Nick 18 and Chris 15.

That wasn’t the end of it. In January 1977, my sister-in-law Linda’s father Dennis was walking along a pavement with a colleague, in Chelmsford, when a drunk driver mounted the pavement and killed him.

He was 65.

In 1975 I found myself posted back to Rinteln, which proved therapeutic after the sadness of my father’s death and the loss of Pete. I was now a Major, so I was entitled to take a flat in a block of six which had wonderful views over the Weser valley. A large south-facing balcony allowed me to grow herbs, tomatoes and peppers, and a compact kitchenette enabled me to entertain friends and medical colleagues. It was a 15-minute walk to the hospital, so I bought one of those cheap shopping bikes with little wheels. I enjoyed whizzing downhill to work on it, but it was hard work pedalling back.

Elizabeth came to stay sometimes, as did my mother and David and his family. The boys stayed with me in the flat and we all had a good time.

We had a scare one day when five-year-old Duncan nearly killed himself. There was an outdoor play area in some woods nearby, with a rope pulley system attached to two trees - you hold on to a board and ride from one end to the other. Duncan let go in the middle. He hit the ground hard and winded himself so badly we thought he was never going to breathe in again. He can still remember it.

Once again we enjoyed family Christmas lunches in Rinteln. On Christmas Eve we would tour the wards singing carols, the nurses wearing their capes with the red lining to the outside.

The Australian Army Nursing Corps and the QAs ran an exchange scheme, in which two nursing officers from their respective corps would change places for a year. One day an Australian Nurse Tutor called Ros arrived. A few weeks later she learned that her father back in Sydney had

54

Chapter 5 died suddenly. She decided not to go back for his funeral, and feeling considerable empathy, I spent some time with her. So began a good friendship, as we shared a fascination for Australian history and geography.

I visited Ros, her family and friends three times and managed to see large parts of Sydney, the Blue Mountains and Canberra. I found it all most interesting, particularly the interior, which had only relatively recently been explored. Ros’s ancestors had been free settlers. Her surname was Smith and her grandmother had been the original producer of the Granny Smith apple – or at least, so she said!

Rinteln was in the midst of fertile fruit-growing country, and I would cycle along the roads buying cherries in their paper cones, enjoying the fruit and spitting the pips out as I rode along. Simple pleasures!

While I was there we were told that the Queen was to visit Sennelager as part of her Silver Jubilee celebrations, to review her troops. The date would be July 7 1977. I was selected to be presented to her. Washrooms were simple canvas sheets obscuring the necessary, so I chuckled to myself when I saw the braided caps of two very senior officers using the facilities, only a small piece of canvas preserving their modesty.

As I stood in line waiting for the Queen’s entourage a tank thundered by, stirring up clouds of dust. Of course, it settled all over me. I had time to do no more than try to wipe my face before she appeared. It had been stressed to me that I was not to speak until spoken to, and I must curtsey first.

I was waiting for so long for Her Majesty to speak to me that I thought I had got something wrong. In fact, the officer escorting her had forgotten my name. At last she said “Good afternoon” and I hastily curtsied and gave her a stupid grin. Apparently this scene appeared on the nine o’clock TV news, but none of my family were watching!

Every year we held a big exercise designed to test our performance in the event of an evacuation of casualties from Rinteln. This meant we had to move the children’s ward in its entirety to the female ward. What a task!

55

Chapter 5 Cots, beds, equipment, toys, linen - everything had to be moved. And when the exercise was over, it all had to be carried back again.

One morning I was asked to report to Matron’s Office. Off I trotted, quite unconcerned as I knew she could want me for all kinds of trivial reasons.

But there was nothing trivial about this. I was to be posted – to the worst of all places, in my mind at least, the QA Training Centre back in Aldershot. For the next two years I was to take charge of the Student Officers’ Basic Training Course, those three weeks where newlycommissioned nurses were initiated into army life.

The thought appalled me. I said I wished to refuse the posting order, as I did not wish to move from paediatrics or nursing.

Matron appeared flustered. Her Officers did not refuse postings, she protested. I was sent away for 24 hours to think about it. I realised I was going to have to go, but I most certainly did not want to.

Sadly, I left Rinteln, put away my nursing uniform and pressed and aired my No 2 uniform - grey suit and tie, stiff cap. Luckily, after 10 years, it still fitted, though it felt far from comfortable.

I tried not to arrive with a bad grace, but the Commanding Officer knew perfectly well that I did not want to be there. The Training Centre seemed so small after hospital work. No-one was on night duty, so you did not have to creep around the Mess. You worked from 8.30 to 5, with three out of four weekends off. Orderly officer duties here were for weekends as well as weekdays.

I was full of apprehension, and dreaded each new intake. I did not feel I had the knowledge or expertise to instruct nurses in military discipline, behaviour and standards. Some new officers were older, as the QAs accepted trained nurses to the age of 38. Some were scatty, others were full of themselves.

I would greet each nurse individually, trying to be welcoming, before we all gathered for tea and an address from the CO. I made sure they all

56

Chapter 5 realised that, unless they left before midnight, they were now in the Army, for whatever duration they had applied for. I did not want them waiting until the end of the three weeks, as I had, to sign up. I thought this might seem a little brutal, but they all said in future discussions that it was better for honesty at the start.

The course had changed little since 1968. Military law had been updated in some areas, and so had the nurse training programmes. Drill was unchanged, but now there was a passing-out parade to which family and friends were invited.

There were lectures on nuclear warfare and visits to the QA and other military museums. At the end of each course there was a church service in the garrison church before the Sisters left to go to their first postings.

One of the student officers was a Registered Sick Children’s Nurse called Fiona. When we next met up in Hong Kong she was terribly homesick, and we became friends. We now live within a few miles of each other in Scotland and we’re still great friends.

I decided that to fill some of the long evenings I would study evening classes at Farnham. I started with Scottish dancing and guitar. I had always wanted to strum a guitar, and felt it looked easy. I had never learned to read music, so I was at an immediate disadvantage- I could not get the right note at the start of each class, which was embarrassing. I kept going for a year and then gave up, having made so little progress.

I found Scottish dancing enjoyable, but very tough on the leg muscles.

I had attended Scottish dancing classes in Chelmsford on Saturday mornings between the ages of seven and 10 years, so at least I could recall the basics. How much easier it is with young legs!

I did not undertake any evening classes during my second winter, I was a little more used to the different life.

On January 18 1978 there came happy news from Elizabeth and David when their son Christopher James was born. This time I was able to see the new baby without delay, and I saw him again often as he grew. He was

57

Chapter 5 a lovely little red-haired boy, though a poor feeder and never hungry.

The top brass from the MoD would visit the Training Centre regularly.

I always took the opportunity to say how much I wanted to go back to nursing sick children, and that a posting to Hong Kong would suit me very well. Finally one wonderful day, that’s exactly what I got. At last I could begin to count off the days until I could put that no. 2 suit back in the wardrobe.

I flew out to Hong Kong in September 1979, and as a Major I was entitled to travel first class. What luxury! I was loath to leave my family, but at least I expected this to be my last overseas posting. The plane flew in over the high-rise landscape of Kowloon and touched down at Kai Tak, where the runway ends at the sea – it was a nerve-wracking landing.

BMH Hong Kong was housed in a tower block built after the war. The Mess was a similar tower, connected to the hospital by a corridor. You were allowed two days to acclimatise, then it was off to work.

Hong Kong was much noisier than Singapore, and the city was on the go round the clock. The Mess was close to the main railway line to China, and there were frequent trains, usually laden with pigs and very smelly.

People always seemed to be spitting, so you never knew what might land on you as you were walking along. Hong Kong was more seasonal than Singapore, and it could feel cold, damp and foggy. In season we had typhoons.

The children’s ward was up on the eighth floor and it was air conditioned, which made working life very much more comfortable than it had been in Singapore. Children of many different nationalities were admitted, along with Vietnamese refugees, the “Boat People” as everyone knew them.

We also had a commitment to the Hong Kong government to admit five children a day from their own hospitals; these children were always Chinese. They were usually jaundiced newborns who were being treated

58

Chapter 5 with phototherapy. I felt for the parents, as most of them spoke no English and suddenly they found themselves plunged into a foreign environment with all the worry of a sick new baby. The average birth weight of a Chinese baby was only five pounds, so they all looked tiny. With their jaundiced colouring and furry little heads they reminded me of peaches.

I thought they were all beautiful.

The Vietnamese children were all very sick and malnourished, and many were suffering from TB. Their long journeys, their confinement and their living conditions in Hong Kong were not conducive to good health. I remember one tiny, skinny little girl, not yet two years old, who was admitted with severe breathing difficulties. We managed to withdraw more than two litres of fluid from her chest, and it was heartening to see her rapid improvement.

The Nepalese babies were always bonny. Their mothers gave them excellent love and care and their fathers also played a major role in their upbringing. Breast feeding was the norm, and every time a baby opened its eyes it seemed to be offered a feed, so these Gurkha babies were plump and happy.

I helped Roger, one of the paediatricians, to carry out a survey of all the Gurkha children under six years old in the colony. This involved measuring their height, weight, and skin fold thickness and taking bloods from the children, with the agreement of their mothers. They each got a sweet afterwards!

The Gurkha children’s reaction to the taking of blood was amazing. It was rare for a child to protest; if they made a fuss, there was a stern rebuke from Mum and the child’s obedience was instant. It was obvious, even at such a young age, that they were as brave as their fathers were reputed to be.

One Gurkha family had a profound effect on me. Late one afternoon, we admitted a little girl called Anita. She had been riding in the basket

59

Chapter 5 on her father’s bike when he had swerved, she had toppled out and struck her head on the kerb. She had severe head injuries and was unconscious.

She died within the hour, and her parents were distraught. Her mother was rocking her constantly, begging her to wake up. We left them grieving for as long as we could, but the time came when we had to move her to the mortuary. The parents had their interpreter, friends and officers with them.

I accompanied the parents to the mortuary, as the mother would not leave her daughter. She was clinging to the little girl’s body, hysterical with grief. It was dreadfully upsetting.

I knew that in the Nepalese culture, bodies remained with the family until they were cremated. These families had flown into Hong Kong from homes in the hills with no electricity, running water or vehicles. It was a total life change for them, and they had such courage and fortitude. I have never forgotten little Anita.

Our Christmases in Hong Kong were again like a family Christmas back home. Our Chinese families appeared quite mystified but politely joined in the celebrations. Richard, one of our trainee paediatricians, dressed up as Father Christmas, while the CO checked the decorations in each ward to decide which was the best. Richard wore his pyjamas and dressing gown (he was a conservative man!) and we stuck a cotton wool beard on his face. He sat snoozing in a chair next to a cardboard chimney.

He became increasingly hot and had nearly expired by the time the CO arrived and we could pull off his beard!

The garrison swimming pool was a hot 20-minute walk away, but very relaxing once you got there. On days off we would often go to Stonecutters’ Island, a small island with a saltwater swimming pool belonging to the Navy. Regular naval boats would take you over and fetch you and there were naval personnel stationed on the island. On one occasion I canoed right round the island, feeling very small next to all the large cargo vessels. Another idea which had not been properly thought through!

60

Chapter 5 Groups of us would also hire junks for the day, and enjoy the cool breezes and the peace as we were motored around the coast by the Chinese boatman.

One of our civilian Sisters on the ward, Tonie, became pregnant, after years of trying, while on holiday in Russia with her schoolteacher husband.

A little girl, Rebecca, duly arrived, apparently without effort. She became my second goddaughter to be called Rebecca.

When Prince Charles married Lady Diana Spencer in July 1981, a group of us piled into Tonie’s flat to watch the ceremony on their television. We were all very patriotically dressed in red, white and blue.

The BMH in Nepal was at a town called Dharan. I had always hoped to work there, but you were required to be either a theatre sister or a midwife to take your turn on call. I was neither, so I tried to think of another way of getting there.

Then Tonie told me that a school party was going on a trek to the Annapurna base camp and were looking for medical cover. I discovered that it was the German Swiss International School on Hong Kong Island, and they were going for about 10 days over Easter, 1981. I met up with the young teacher organising the trip, who said it would not be strenuous and that as long as I could walk without problems I could join them.

In order to get the time off I first had to do a week of night duty. It was uneventful until 6 am on the last night, when a patient on the female medical ward was found dead. She had hanged herself from a curtain rail.

As soon as I got off duty, I made my way to Kai Tak airport to meet the party. There were 10 students aged 15-16 years and nine teachers, the oldest being the headmaster, who was 50. How old they all seemed – I was still only 34. It immediately became apparent that their mother tongue was German, of which I knew only the basics.

That was the start of a real challenge for me. We flew to Khatmandu, then on to Pokara, then started walking – or rather, climbing. Day after

61

Chapter 5 day we had to negotiate cliff-edge paths, steep steps, rickety rope bridges.

I was always last to arrive for the lunch break. I would be stopped each day by local people begging me to treat them for burns, infected wounds, injuries. I could do so little. At least the school party stayed healthy.

The day before we were due to reach Annapurna base camp, we were hit by an avalanche. It was terrifying. First there came a thunderous roar, then great slabs of ice and snow came hurtling down on us. Amazingly, no one was hurt. I was right at the back, as usual, so I saw it all happen.

That night we had to camp just beyond the avalanche. To maintain body heat we wore all the clothes we possessed and slept four in a tent, instead of the usual two.

The next day we had to climb back over the avalanche to safety. No sooner had we managed that than I looked at my hand and saw a leech on it.

There were, of course, no phones, no contact with the outside world.

In a crisis a porter would have to run for two days to get help.

To celebrate our survival, the porters bought a goat. It followed us all day on a rope, bleating pathetically. How naive I was - that evening they cut its throat in front of us and the bleating gradually died away as the poor creature slowly bled to death. Everything was put in the cookpot feet, head, offal.

The next night some chickens met a similar fate. Their heads were chopped off, and they continued walking around until they expired.

Gruesome. I couldn’t stomach these meals, so I managed to lose 10 pounds in the 10 days.

Sleeping bags were communal, you pulled one out each night from the pile. You washed when you got to a river. I had a hard job to keep going.

It was not exactly a walk in the country. It was a huge relief to get back to Hong Kong, to a warm bath and a proper bed.

While I was working in Hong Kong I could not help reflecting that a noisy, busy children’s ward was not the right place for children who are

62

Chapter 5 really sick. Terminally-ill children and their parents needed a quieter environment, where staff had time to reassure and listen - a place where, if their beloved child died, the parents and family could stay and still be together until the final goodbye.

Then in the Nursing Times one day I found an article about Helen House in Oxford, the first children’s hospice to open in the UK. It was offering just the kind of children’s care I had been thinking about. I resolved to visit when I was back in the UK, to find out more.

Then I developed appendicitis. I was recovering in the hospital a couple of days after the operation when we were hit by a typhoon. I was lying in bed in my room listening to the noise of the gathering storm when suddenly my balcony door flew open. The door to the ward slammed and ceiling tiles were blasted up into the roof. Papers were flying everywhere.

No-one could get in to reach me because the pressure of the wind was holding the ward door tight shut.

I struggled out of bed and managed to close the balcony door, which released the pressure on the other door. It might have been funny, except that all the activity opened up the wound from the operation, so my convalescence was considerably extended!

When friends left at the end of their posting, we had a novel way of seeing them off at the airport. We would mix a quantity of gin and tonic and pour it into water bottles, then take our bottles along to the airport, stick in a straw and drink a toast to the one who was departing.

Eventually, in September 1981, it was my turn. Excited at the prospect of seeing home again, I said farewell to my friends and took off. The lights and bustle of Hong Kong were behind me at last.

While I was away my first niece had been born, to Elizabeth and David.

Lucy Anne arrived on November 2 1979. I was looking forward enormously to meeting her and to seeing all the other little ones. Lucy became my third goddaughter.

David, Duncan and Stuart met me on arrival and the boys rushed through the barrier as I appeared. It was a wonderful reunion and a very foggy drive home.

63

Chapter 5 It was wonderful to be enjoying fresh air and gardens again, to be back with family and friends. Elizabeth and I even took Lucy and Christopher swimming in the sea near Clacton. The water seemed freezing cold after the tropical warmth I had become used to.

My next posting was back to Rinteln. It was good to return to a familiar place. I was living in the same flat and found we still had the same ward cleaner, Trudy. It was as if I had never been away. I bought another second-hand bike and was soon enjoying the cherries and strawberries again.

I discovered that the Army had introduced a new Basic Fitness Test.

Every year each serving soldier or officer had to complete a 1_ mile run within a specific time, according to age. The times were very demanding.

Alternatively you could do a step test - a set number of step-ups within a certain time.

I could not do either – in fact when I tackled the run I wound up with a stress fracture in my leg. I am no athlete and have never been happy with anything faster than walking. Persistent failure would have meant medical downgrading, and I didn’t want that either as I considered myself fit enough.

That was when I realised that I would not be able to stay on the wards and carry on doing practical nursing much longer. There was talk of management and senior administrative positions, but I could not see much job satisfaction there. I decided that on completion of my 16 years’ service, I would leave the QAs. I’ve always been a natural hoarder and did not like repeatedly having to pack up my worldly goods to go off to another posting. I felt it was time to put down roots. I wanted a garden, and I was keen to have a dog specifically, a boxer.

I visited Helen House to meet Sister Frances, and was deeply impressed by what I learned and saw. The sick children and their families were

64

Chapter 5 surrounded by peace and competent care, yet the place was alive with laughter and happy noises. Activities were diverse and the age and conditions of the young people were varied. My visit confirmed what I had felt since nursing in Hong Kong, particularly after the sad experience of Anita – I wanted somehow to try to set up a children’s hospice in my own area. I felt there was an urgent need for the kind of care such a place could provide.

So after 16 happy years, it was time to say farewell to the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps. On completion of my service in February 1984, I became Major Potter (retired). I headed back home to Essex, and to an interesting – if uncertain - future.

65

Chapter 6

A hospice for children

My first priority on leaving the QAs in 1984 was to find a job. I couldn’t manage without an income, so I joined the British Nursing Association, the big UK agency, to get some short-term agency work, and began studying the Situations Vacant pages of the Nursing Times each week.

Most of the BNA work was in establishments for geriatrics (we’re now allowed to call them that now, of course). I often found this upsetting.

These older patients were often not cared for as they should have been and the nursing staff tended to be offhand. Some of the patients were in so much pain – or so were far gone with dementia - that they would even try to bite you when you tended to them.

I did spend two very enjoyable weeks looking after a newborn boy and his mother in Suffolk. I would push the baby out every day in his large, traditional Silver Cross pram.

I was not so happy when one day I was asked to accompany the family to London for the baby to have a ritual circumcision. I had not appreciated that he would be held down and circumcised without any form of sedation or pain relief. If I had realised what was involved I would have given him a dose of analgesia before we left. His cries were dreadful and his little face was pouring with sweat. His father said prayers as the procedure took place, while the female relatives waited in another room.

I asked if we could stop at a chemist on the return journey so that I could buy some liquid paracetamol for him. His father would not let me do this, as the pain was supposed to be part of the ritual and he would soon get over it. Once we were home, I managed to settle him and the

66

Chapter 6 wound had healed cleanly by the time I left the family.

Another case was a retired GP suffering from dementia. He lived in his own home in a Suffolk village. I tried to make his days interesting, taking him out in the car and talking generally. One evening he came downstairs naked, and asked me if I would marry him!

On my return home I at first stayed with my mother in Chelmsford, but I now wanted to find somewhere of my own. One morning I visited Thaxted in north Essex with Linda, my sister-in-law. When we were out walking we passed a little house with a “For Sale” sign. It was the end cottage of a row of five, Mill Row, on a footpath that led to the windmill.

The agents had a branch in Thaxted, so Linda and I arranged to be shown round that morning.

“Corners” was just what I wanted, so I took out a mortgage and bought it for £18,000. The house had been built in the late 1800s of traditional wattle and daub with a plaster exterior. Downstairs there was one room, a small kitchen and an added-on lean-to bathroom. The stairs led out of the living room to a “landing bedroom” and a second bedroom.

Three months before my father died, I had purchased my parents’ house in Roxwell Avenue, Chelmsford, to ease his financial commitments.

This proved to be a fortunate move as it gave my mother a home after his death, which was not provided for in his will. I had, therefore, been paying a mortgage since 1975, and now had to find the money for another.

Before I could move in to Corners I had to get the lean-to bathroom replaced by a small two-storey extension, enlarging the living room downstairs as well as providing a new bathroom upstairs. It needed a new roof as well - you could see the sky through the gaps in the old one.

My uncle and godfather, Derek, was an architect, so I asked him to draw up the plans. An established building firm in Thaxted did the work, which all went smoothly, if slowly. I had good neighbours on either side, and apart from drunks occasionally sitting on my outside window ledges,

67

Chapter 6 thoroughly enjoyed living in my first home.

The garden was long and narrow with an old stone building at the bottom. The house looked over the church burial ground, which was always colourful with flowers and beautiful blossom trees in the spring.

I spent several strange nights in a sleeping bag at the cottage while the work was done. Sometimes Duncan and Stuart, now in their teens, would stay with me and we would all watch television on a tiny four-inch screen.

When you walked out of the door at the back you were immediately among the fields, so walks were most enjoyable. We would see kingfishers whizzing along the stream and water voles nesting in the banks.

Finally I managed to get a job – a very interesting one. It was the post of Matron Manager at Bourn Hall Fertility Clinic, near Cambridge, and I started there in July, 1984. This was a very new field for me, as it would have been for most people, and the work was quite different from anything I had done before. It was some time before I could work there with confidence. I had to study the various hormones and the many drugs involved in fertility treatment and spend several days in the operating theatre, where eggs were obtained from women receiving treatment. There was no blood this time!

The clinic had been founded by Patrick Steptoe and Professor Robert Edwards, and they still ran it together. Both these men had very high profiles as they had pioneered the science of in vitro fertilisation and been responsible for the world’s first ‘test-tube baby’, Louise Brown, in 1978, which had made news around the world.

Neither man was straightforward to deal with, as you might expect with such prominent figures. Mr Steptoe had a stainless steel replica of a hip joint on his desk, given to him when he had had a hip replacement. If he was displeased with you, he would jab you with the sharp end of it.

The previous Matron had also been Mr Steptoe’s theatre sister in Oldham, and he had not taken well to her retirement. He could be very

68

Chapter 6 sarcastic and short tempered, but he did have a very caring side. He did not show it very often, except when he was talking about his wife, to whom he was devoted.

I moved into Corners shortly after starting at Bourn Hall. There was a 30-mile commute to work each way, but I enjoyed the drive.

Now I had a home, a garden and a job. It was time to think about my next two objectives – to investigate the possibility of setting up a children’s hospice, and (a slightly simpler challenge), to get a boxer puppy.

I started with the puppy. My office at Bourn Hall was in a refurbished stable block, up some stairs and well away from the patients or the clinic.

I approached Mr Steptoe to ask if he would allow me to bring a dog to work, promising him that it would be kept confined. To my surprise, he agreed.

The husband of one of my friends at Bourn Hall was a vet who happened to have a boxer, and knew another owner whose bitch had just had a litter. I visited them when they were four weeks old, in April 1985, and found them quite beautiful. I chose a dark brindle bitch and decided to call her Bessie.

I collected Bessie when she was eight weeks old and took her to the vet on the way home for her first check-up. She was a very good puppy, easy to house train, quiet but friendly. Even my mother was smitten!

I put Bessie in a dog crate I had prepared in my office and fetched Mr Steptoe to show him. Bessie slept throughout this initial meeting, so it could not have gone better. Bourn Hall was set in a large acreage of grounds, so I was able to exercise Bessie regularly. She never barked.

Within a couple of weeks, I was walking back to the car with Bessie one day when I bumped into Professor Edwards. He wanted to know what I was doing with a dog. I explained that I had Mr Steptoe’s permission to keep it there. Professor Edwards said I did not have his, and I was not to bring the dog to work again.

69

Chapter 6 I felt like handing in my notice on the spot. I managed to make my head rule, but from then on Bessie had to stay in the car. I was able to park under the trees for shade, but I felt it was a poor life for her.

When Bessie was five months old I was unwrapping a chocolate bar one day when I realised that she had not heard the sound. She awoke only when the smell of the chocolate reached her. I experimented by making various noises behind her, and it became clear that she had little if any hearing – no wonder she had not woken when Mr Steptoe had seen her.

The vet sent us to the Vets’ School at Cambridge, where she was given hearing tests through headphones and they traced her brain activity.

I was told that Bessie was completely deaf. Apparently deafness is not so unusual in white dogs and cats, but it is very unusual in coloured dogs.

A white dog in Bessie’s litter had been tested for deafness and found to be fine.

The vet asked me if I wanted Bessie put down, but of course that was out of the question. I had already got her to sit, and loved her. The vet said he would contact a boxer breeder he knew, to see if she could help me with training.

That was how I met Meurig and Ronnie (Veronica), a retired GP and his wife who lived in a delightful thatched cottage a few miles west of Cambridge. Their garden was extensive, and included a badger sett.

Ronnie had bred boxers and had won the boxer class at Crufts one year.

For the next 12 years I was to visit Ronnie and Meurig every Thursday afternoon. The training sessions became social occasions. Ronnie was a wonderful cook and each Thursday there would be a delicious cake to cut into. I continue to phone Ronnie every Thursday evening after I left Essex.

Meurig died in 2002 after 61 years of marriage. He was admitted to hospital but I was able to drive down and collect him so that he could go home, where he died shortly after.

At first the dog training did not go too well, but Ronnie was very disciplined – she even gave us homework. In fact, looking back now, Bessie was the easiest of my boxers to train. I think her lack of hearing prevented

70

Chapter 6 her from being distracted by noise.

Ronnie taught me how to use hand signals and sign language. I would get Bessie’s attention by waving a large white handkerchief, then make her sit, lie down, stay, come, go left, go right. I found I could let her off on walks without worrying, as she would keep looking at me for instruction.

Meanwhile I was trying to get other people interested in joining me in establishing a children’s hospice. I researched the numbers of terminallyill children and children with severe genetic disease in Essex and the neighbouring counties. Facts and figures were quite difficult to ascertain, as many of the genetic diseases did not have a name. Since then research in identifying the rarer conditions has progressed a great deal.

I was able to list and table the number of deaths in different age groups.

It was not always recorded where these deaths had occurred, whether home or hospital. I obtained information from various charitable groups, such as Action for Sick Children, to identify parents’ difficulties and needs.

I approached the health authorities covering these counties, and they all said that they would use such a hospice but would not fund it. Helen House, which I returned to on several occasions, had been paid for by the Roman Catholic Church.

I went to my solicitor in Cambridge, Chris Wingfield, and asked his advice about the best way of raising funds. Chris listened to what I had to say and took my plans seriously. He could clearly see the need for the hospice I was describing.

Even better news followed. Chris was about to become Chair of his Rotary Club. He promised to make my hospice project his chosen charity, and launch an appeal to raise funds to set it up! It was a wonderful feeling to walk out of his office full of hope that sick children could at last be given the help they so badly needed.

One of Chris’s fellow members was a surveyor, and he knew of an old rectory which had come on to the market in the village of Milton on the outskirts of Cambridge. This promised to give us the site we needed. The vicar had moved into a newly-built rectory next door, and he was very keen

71

Chapter 6 for the old buildings and their spacious grounds to be used in a constructive way.

After so much frustration and disappointment, progress seemed now to be going apace. The Diocese agreed to delay the sale of The Old Rectory until funds were available for our plan.

We launched the Children’s Haven Appeal in 1986. Our hospice was to be known as the Children’s Hospice for the Eastern Region.

I continued working at Bourn Hall while we drew up our plans. I kept the Trustees of Bourn Hall aware of my intentions. Volunteers and groups were tireless in their fund raising. Parents made contact, asking when we planned to open.

The Hospice Trustees had promised to employ me as Hospice Manager once we had raised a substantial level of funding. We reached this point in the autumn of 1987, and that November I left Bourn Hall and started working at the Hospice. My salary was less than half of what it had been at Bourn Hall, but what mattered was that my hospice was at last becoming a reality.

The next 18 months were spent briefing architects and builders, talking to health authorities, keeping in touch with families who had asked for help and ensuring that the hospice was acceptable for registration by the local Health Authority. Of course there was no way I could have done this on my own. The Board of Trustees were always helpful and we held regular meetings. They also gave secretarial help – I had a calm, lovely and unflappable secretary called Judy. The Royal Engineers, based at nearby Waterbeach, built the approach road to motorway standard as a training exercise.

It was a busy and fulfilling time, though there were frustrations as well.

Not everyone accepted the need for the hospice - even some of the paediatricians and health workers were unconvinced.

Bessie came with me to the hospice each day, and she now had a much better life. She was friendly and gentle to all, and would lie down anywhere, preferably in the sun.

72

Chapter 6 Then in late 1988, when I was busy with all the planning and starting to organise staff recruitment, I started to suffer episodes of severe abdominal pain. For a while I ignored them, as I was never ill and not a person who frequented GP surgeries. However the day came when I had to admit that something was badly wrong and I would have to do something about it.

I soon found myself in Addenbrooke’s Hospital, where I was told that I needed surgery for a bowel problem. I was very nervous. It had all happened so quickly. I was told that they would not have to had to move so fast if I had only listened to my body and gone to the GP sooner!

I was wheeled into the operating theatre with a large cross marked on my abdomen where a colostomy would be sited if needed. As I came round from the anaesthetic, my first act was to grope around to see if a colostomy had been formed but there were so many dressings I couldn’t tell.

I was very relieved to be told that although 18 inches of bowel had been removed, the surgeon had managed to sew the ends of what was left together. Apparently I had a combination of a diverticular abscess, hence the pain, and some “cancerous tissue that was contained”. It was all a bit of a shock, but I recovered reasonably quickly and returned to work.

I rather hoped that I would not be able to absorb all my food now, and could keep a little thinner! Unfortunately I was disappointed. The section of bowel I had lost was there to absorb water and fluids - nutrients were dealt with farther up, and this part was still intact!

The hospice buildings were now complete and furnished. Staff were appointed and in-service training was organised. We visited families at home and invited them to come and see us at Milton.

The Children’s Hospice for the Eastern Region opened to children in the spring of 1989.

Initially we were able to accommodate four children and their families, but this number grew to eight beds after a few years, when our funding was more established.

73

Chapter 6 Though everyone was delighted with the hospice, we didn’t get off to a very good start. On the first day, a Saturday, we were hit by a thunderstorm which cut off the power for two hours. This did not seem a very auspicious sign! We had asked about the need for a generator, but had been told that it wouldn’t be needed. We soon forgot that advice and purchased one.

The Chairman of the Trustees had written to Buckingham Palace to ask if a member of the Royal Family could officially open the hospice. One day we received a letter to say that Princess Diana would visit us to undertake this duty on August 1st.

You can imagine the surprise and excitement that greeted this news.

We had a great deal to plan and organise, and everything had to meet royal protocol. This meant preparing a list of all the children, families and staff that the Princess might meet, together with the medical details of the children. Of course, permission from parents was obtained first. A cloakroom had to be made available for the Princess.

Cambridge Police had to liaise with Palace security to ensure her safety, and sniffer dogs visited early on the morning of the visit. We had to design and order the commemorative wall plaque and fit blue velvet curtains which could be relied upon to draw back properly when HRH pulled the cord. Buffet food had to be organised for the lunch following her departure. Official guests had to be invited, such as the Lord Lieutenant of Cambridge. We tried to keep all the Friends of the Hospice informed and to generally make everyone feel part of the special day .

When we rehearsed 11-year-old Helen, who was to present the Princess with a bouquet, her mother suggested a dummy run, with me acting as the Princess. It didn’t work – I wasn’t the real Princess, so Helen refused to present the bouquet to me!

I was given the private telephone number of Princess Diana’s Lady in Waiting, Anne Beckwith Smith. I was always rather flustered when the phone was answered with a voice saying “Buckingham Palace”.

74

Chapter 6 August 1 was a perfect day in every way, and the sun shone throughout.

It was the second time I had met royalty in the line of duty, and this time the encounter was rather longer. Princess Diana stayed with us for two hours. I escorted her around the hospice, where she met the families, some of them in the privacy of their rooms with no one else present. It was a very special day for them and for Helen, who presented the bouquet.

I was very impressed by the Princess’s knowledge; she had obviously taken the trouble to study the notes I had sent about the families who were staying. She was unhurried, thoughtful, attentive and kind.

She looked very attractive in a red suit. At one point she sat on a bed and found she had powder on the seat of her skirt, which she asked us to brush off!

Bessie followed the Princess and the official party decorated with an appropriately patriotic collar made of red, white and blue ribbon. My friend Tricia held her lead. I had first met Tricia when Bessie had been a puppy and I had entered her into Thaxted dog show. She ran a boarding kennels nearby and was judging the show. She placed Bessie first in in the “Dog I would most like to take home� class.

Tricia raised a very considerable sum of money for the hospice through bridge drives and other innovative ways. She has been a true friend for more than 25 years.

For all of us at the hospice, it was a day we would remember for the rest of our lives. We gave the Princess two sweatshirts printed with the hospice logo for William and Harry, who were then seven and four years old. To our delight, we were to see the young princes wearing them at a later event.

Life returned to normal, or at least as normal as one could expect.

Thanks to a generous donation from Children In Need we were able to build a hydrotherapy pool, and we developed other services as funds allowed. They included a home nursing service for some young patients who needed it, a dedicated member of staff to provide support for the

75

Chapter 6 siblings of sick children and the purchase of musical instruments for music therapy.

Each family’s situation was different, but always there was sadness and grief, which revealed itself in many ways. We were there to support people on many different levels. We listened and shared, not only in their sadness but in the many moments of joy and happiness that came between the tears. We all learned to try to take life one day at a time and to appreciate what you have, rather than dwelling on what might have been.

One of the children had a granny of 94 who visited us every week for lunch and a chat. She had already lost two of her grandchildren from the same genetic disease. A loyal volunteer looked after our garden, but we did not find out for a long time that he had lost a daughter from leukaemia 20 years earlier.

We asked our neighbours in, partly to allay their concerns that staff and visitors would be looking into their back gardens.

That first December we took all the children who could enjoy it ,to buy a big artificial Christmas tree. We planned to redecorate it each year. We arranged presents on the floor under the tree, but we forgot that we had underfloor heating and that some of the packages contained chocolates… they made quite a mess!

Ours was the fourth children’s hospice to open in the UK and the first in the eastern region; it has since been followed by others. There was a proven need for more, but the problem of course was money. Adult hospices were allocated a degree of funding from health authorities, but this did not extend to children. We did however have well-organised “Friends of the Hospice” groups throughout our area, and were much indebted to their hard work and the imaginative ways they found to raise money for us.

As more hospices opened an Association of Children’s Hospices was formed, and we would meet on a regular basis at the various hospices to discuss and share many topics.

76

Chapter 6 Increasingly I found I was being invited to give talks, both to raise awareness of the need for children’s hospices and to explain what we were aiming to achieve. I never felt comfortable speaking to groups of more than a few people. I would feel acutely anxious, and worry that I wouldn’t be able to get my words out.

I was asked to speak to a large gathering at the Colchester Oyster Feast, and couldn’t really enjoy the meal, so nervous was I at the thought of the speech I would have to deliver after it. One year I flew to Sydney to present a paper entitled “staff support” at an international conference to mark the opening of the second children’s hospice in Australia. But I never did get used to public speaking.

Bessie was a calm honorary member of the hospice “family” and would accompany the children on walks. She appreciated the underfloor heating.

It was fascinating to watch children use sign language to her, and her obedient response delighted them. One mother wanted Bessie to follow her up the aisle when she renewed her wedding vows, but I felt I had to draw a line to this!

In 1995, when Bessie was 10, she began to develop a weakness in her back legs. I knew the time was coming when I would need to make the hard decision that most pet owners face eventually. Of course I never lost sight of the fact that she was a dog, not a child, but it was dreadful when the fateful day came and I had to take her on that last final visit to the vet.

I had always imagined I would be spending the rest of my working life at the hospice, but as time passed my work there began to change. As the hospice grew, we were saddled by more and more regulations. The Health Authority wasn’t sure what to call us, so we were registered as a nursing home, with all the attendant rules and regulations. Less and less of my time and energy was being spent in looking after sick children and more and more in management and administration.

One day in July 1997 as I was reading the Nursing Times, I was amazed to see the name Tighnabruaich leap out at me. A community nurse

77

Chapter 6 vacancy was being advertised in the area. I thought this was one I just had to apply for. I had always hoped to retire to the village, and this was an opportunity that might never be repeated.

I was now in my fifties, had no District Nurse training and of course I was not a Scot, so I didn’t think I had much chance. Nevertheless I put in an application, and was invited for interview. I drove there and back in 48 hours on my days off, so no suspicions would be aroused at the hospice.

The interview was friendly, but I had great difficulty understanding the accent of one panel member. When I was asked a question about ulcers I spoke at some length about stomach ulcers, before realising too late that she had been asking about leg ulcers. I did not feel hopeful of success, and mentioned the interview to no one.

I was amazed and delighted when they offered me the position. I was required to give three months’ notice to the Hospice Trustees, and they were very surprised at my decision to leave. However, I felt that in the 10 years I had been there I had taken it from small beginnings to a healthy, established institution. No one is indispensable. I knew it would grow and flourish very well without me.

It was hard to explain to Ronnie and Meurig why I was moving. They had become close friends and had lived in the same house for 47 years. I knew I would miss them as much as my immediate family.

Now I had to sell my house and find somewhere to live in Tighnabruaich. I had to pack up, never an easy task for me being such a hoarder, and say farewell to many friends. Yet I never wavered. This was a wonderful chance to live and work in a place I loved, a place where I had always felt at home.

My mother was still in reasonable health. Since 1985 she had been living in Thaxted, where she appreciated living in a smaller house in a smaller community. She could walk to the village shops and attend Lunch Club at the Day Centre.

So that autumn I sold my house, put the contents in storage and made

78

Chapter 6 the final preparations for the move. I moved in with my mother for the final two weeks before hitting the familiar road north, to begin yet another new life.

79

Chapter 7

Return to Tighnabruaich There was a great deal to organise in the three short months before I was to leave the hospice, and England, for the last time. First, I needed to find somewhere to live in Tighnabruaich. My new home would have to be secure, and it would need a garden.

That wasn’t just for my sake. I had now acquired a white boxer, Sally, from Boxer Rescue. Her previous owner had to go into long-term hospital care and Sally was thought to be about three years old when she came into my care. She was extremely thin. I soon learned that she was an accomplished escape artist - she jumped out of an open window at the hospice to chase a muntjac deer she had spotted. She could squeeze through the smallest of gaps in the garden fence - not like Bessie!

I found that only three properties were on the market in Tighnabruaich, and only one was within my budget. It was a bungalow called Tighsamhraidh, which means ‘summer house’. I drove the 500 miles from Essex (yet again) to view it.

It was worth the trip - Tighsamhraidh was perfect. It was spacious and modern, having been built around 1970, and was in a secluded spot along a back road, on a hillside facing the sea.

Fortunately my house in Thaxted sold without delay, allowing me to go ahead with an offer for Tighsamhraidh. It was accepted, and everything progressed smoothly. I arranged for a deer fence to be erected all round the garden, both to keep the deer out and Sally in.

We had sold Wellpark Cottage in 1979. My mother did not want to keep going back to Scotland and the upkeep was too great a burden. David and Linda had bought a second home there in 1988, Brackenbank, very close to the cottage, and they were staying there as often as possible, so I would have regular company. My intention was to stay at Brackenbank

80

Chapter 7 until the removal was completed and I could move in to my new house.

The lane up to Tighsamhraidh was narrow and steep, and I was careful to explain this to the people at the removal firm in Saffron Walden. I gave them photographs, gradients and measurements and warned them that I thought a standard removal van would have difficulty getting up it. No problem, they said. Relax, it will all be fine. It was all very good-natured.

On October 18 we had a family celebration for Elizabeth’s 43rd birthday, and the following day I drove north. My car was packed to the roof and Sally had to perch on her bean bag, unable to stand up. It was a strange feeling to think that I was driving to a new home and a new life in another country.

I arrived to find that my concerns about the move had been all too well founded. The removal van had been quite unable to get up the hilly little road to Tighsamhraidh. It had had to reverse back down and park in the village car park, while the crew spent the night in my new house. I was not impressed.

I suggested that we should contact a removal firm in Dunoon, the nearest town, as they might have a smaller lorry more suited to the terrain.

After many phone calls to the “boss” in Saffron Walden as to who was going to pay (certainly not me, when I had given adequate warning of the difficulty) a smaller removal van arrived with a cheerful crew of Scotsmen.

The day was spent transferring all my worldly goods from the big van and shuttling them up to my house in stages on the smaller one.

By the time the move was done and I was finally installed in Tighsamhraidh the locals had all had a grandstand view of this operation, and it was to provide a talking point with everyone I met for weeks afterwards!

I was due to start work on November 1, so I had a week or so to get settled. I was now a Staff Nurse, on an even lower salary than at the Hospice, but you couldn’t put a price on the pleasure of living in

81

Chapter 7 Tighnabruaich. It was wonderful to be called “Nurse Potter” again.

I worked with another nurse, Jane, a triple duty sister - midwife, health visitor and general nurse – and together we looked after an area of 120 square miles, all of it very rural. At weekends and bank holidays we also covered the adjoining district of Strachur to the north, so we travelled many miles. Once a month we got together with Evie, the triple-duty sister based in Strachur, to arrange the next off-duty period. We would meet in a little hotel and chat over soup, sandwiches or chips.

Jane and I were based in the GP’s surgery in Tighnabruaich, where David Lockie was the GP and his wife Margaret the receptionist and dispenser. We had a part-time receptionist, Evelyn, and an Associate GP, Rosemary.

So began a very happy and fulfilling few years. Each morning I would buy a roll and a pancake at the village shop and arrange my day around the necessary visits. Some days were very long and I had to drive a considerable distance. There was no such thing as overtime - you kept going until the work was done. Sally accompanied me in the car each day, and was no trouble.

One day not long after I started my new job, I had parked in a layby to eat my morning pancake and was admiring the magnificent view when a van drew up. It was a mobile farrier. Up trotted a lady on a horse to meet him, and I watched as the animal was shod. Where else, I reflected, could you watch such a thing while eating your morning snack (or rather ‘piece’ as they say in Scotland) in a layby?

We held weekly child health clinics, so I was still in touch with younger patients. One new baby was discharged home weighing just five pounds, and I thought how lovely it was to see such a tiny baby again.

The work was very varied. We nursed dying people at home, if that was what they wished, with many dressings and weekly baths. You often had to be a contortionist to manoeuvre your patient round the confines

82

Chapter 7 of a little domestic bathroom and safely in and out of a relaxing bath.

Some patients were heavy, and there was no room to use a hoist. It could be exhausting, and painful – sometimes I would even take paracetamol first. Occasionally Jane would come with me, but mostly I saw the patients alone.

In 2001 I saw a competition advertised in Nursing Times, and as there was a rather attractive first prize of £500 I decided to have a go. You were challenged to write a description of what modern nursing is all about. I submitted a short piece describing how I had helped a family when Dad was dying, how I had done my best to help him to slip away with peace and dignity and to give his wife, son and daughter the right kind of advice, help and “tea and sympathy” through it all.

I was thrilled to get a letter telling me I had won the first prize! I spent the money on a tour of the Hebrides with Fiona.

One thing which surprised me about Scotland was the strength of antiEnglish feeling .It seemed pointless to me, yet I found it appeared to continue unthinkingly from generation to generation.

Two patients in particular, both alcoholics, would always give me a hard time because I was English. I soon gave up trying to reason with them and would go in and out of their homes as quickly and as politely as I could. Unfortunately, they both needed three visits a week! On leaving I would come out into the fresh air and take a large, grateful breath.

Fortunately these two, one of them a man, the other a woman, were the exception. The great majority of patients across the wide area I covered were friendly and welcoming. It was a pleasure to be invited into their homes and to try to help them. It was always fascinating to learn what they did and what part they played in the life of Argyll.

At first I thought I would never remember all the names, many of which seemed to be very similar. Jane reminded me that nearly everyone was related! It was particularly common to find that fathers and sons had the same first and second names.

83

Chapter 7 One elderly lady whom I visited regularly would always welcome me in by saying “It’s yourself!” I thought this a lovely term, which is why I have chosen it for the title of my book.

I drove down to Essex regularly to visit my mother, and occasionally she would visit me in Tighnabruaich. She would fly to Prestwick, where I would meet her. Elizabeth, who now lived near Colchester, was in daily touch with her.

At the age of 73, my mother had been diagnosed as diabetic. She managed to stay in good health well enough, until she had a series of falls.

She fractured a hip in 1997 and her nose in 1999. That last fall took her confidence away and she became wary of going far from home, though she still came to Tighnabruaich that Christmas and stayed for the Millennium.

Gradually, Mum began to feel it was time to give up her own home and move in with me at Tighnabruaich. My home was warm and comfortable and she now found she enjoyed the peaceful surroundings and scenery more than she had in earlier years.

Understandably Elizabeth was very upset to think that Mum would be so far away, and my mother would certainly miss seeing her grandchildren.

We decided it was all for the best, however, as she was becoming more and more frail and increasingly worried about the challenges of living alone.

So in 2000 we sold the house in Thaxted and packed Mum’s furniture into a hire van. Elizabeth and Phil drove the van up to Tighnabruaich, while Mum came with me in my car.

This was not an easy time. We unloaded the furniture and tried to organise it so that she would feel at home. Unlike me, my mother had always thrown out anything that she considered surplus to requirements, so she soon got herself organised. When my father had died in 1975, she burned all the letters he had written to her during the war, as well as those my father had written to his mother from Brentwood School. I didn’t know what she was doing at the time, so I was too late to retrieve anything.

84

Chapter 7 She also destroyed all the letters I sent her while I was in Singapore.

We settled in together, but life had become very different for both of us. I would take her out for walks and drives and she was able to join in some of the local groups, although she was never very keen. Having never enjoyed cooking, she was glad that she didn’t have to do it any more!

A shock was in store. Soon after my mother moved in, my colleague Jane found a painless lump near her waist. She had recently returned from a camping holiday which had involved a lot of cycling, so she thought it might be a muscular problem. It wasn’t – it was cancer. She never returned to work. Poor Jane died at home six horribly short weeks later, on October 14 2001, in her early sixties.

It was the saddest of times. Jane was so very brave and uncomplaining despite the rapid deterioration and the increasing, severe pain. She asked me to read a particular poem at her funeral. Of course I was glad to honour her request, but I found it dreadfully hard to do.

At the time Jane first became ill, David Lockie decided to retire. Our new GP started work at the beginning of November 2001. For nine months I covered the nursing work in the district on my own.

The new doctor was a very different kettle of fish. He had moved from another part of the region following some difficult family issues which had meant he had to leave the area. It had all been in the press. Nevertheless we made up our minds not to prejudge the man, but to take him as we found him.

The new doctor immediately demanded change. He didn’t want nursing staff to be based in the surgery and he didn’t want Evelyn, the receptionist, who had been working there for more than 20 years. Within a month the associate GP, Rosemary, had departed and our receptionist had been replaced - by the new doctor’s own partner! Understandably, patients were bewildered.

This was the start of a very unhappy time. I tried to continue my patient care and keep out of the way, but I was soon in the firing line. The

85

Chapter 7 GP and his partner expected me to go on working out of hours and would contact me to tell me to visit a patient who had called in with an emergency. This I refused to do, as I considered it beyond my remit, and not in the patient’s best interest – they were requesting a Doctor to visit.

Their response was highly aggressive, and on one occasion his fist was raised in front of my face - most alarming.

Several times I contacted my manager about these problems, to be told that the doctor was “not well”. His partner, in her capacity as receptionist, eventually told me I could no longer be on the practice patients’ list as the GP would not treat his own staff.

I had no option but to contact the Health Authority and ask where else I could go for treatment. I was assigned to a practice near Dunoon another single-practice surgery, but much more patient-friendly.

Working days were becoming unbearable and I felt so threatened that I actually kept a poker by my front door. Finally I consulted the Royal College of Nursing and was in the process of arranging a tribunal for bullying and harassment when, once again, I experienced severe stomach pains. Remembering my previous experience I visited my own GP - and was admitted straight into hospital from the surgery.

So in July 2002 I found myself in the Royal Inverclyde Hospital with another diverticular abscess. This time, thankfully, I didn’t need surgery.

But the illness and convalescence gave me time to reflect and think. I realised that my health was paramount and that there was little point in trying to look after my patients in the best way with no support, and with all the continuing unpleasantness. I was told by both my GP and the physicians that the likely cause of the abscess was stress. They were aware of the situation in Tighnabruaich from talking to their patients and colleagues.

I loved my work as a community nurse, but the situation was just too dire to continue. I decided to go off sick, with the full support of my own GP, until my notice of employment was completed. It was a sad end to 40

86

Chapter 7 years of nursing. I had worked with many different temperaments and nationalities during this time, with no problems whatsoever.

Life would never be quite the same again.

87

Chapter 8

A fresh start

During the dark months after I left the community nursing service, I was able to take great strength and comfort from the natural beauty around me. The constantly varying light, colours, shadows and reflections on the water and the hills were a solace I could turn to at my darkest moments. The peace of the natural world reminded me of the important things in life. I thought of my father, who must have drawn comfort from these same scenes when he was up here serving during the war. It all helped me to rise above my current situation, to appreciate what I had.

In 2004 Elizabeth and Phil joined me in Scotland, moving to an older property six miles away. Phil had always wanted to live in Scotland, having driven around the country in a Mini on several occasions during his bachelor days. Elizabeth was missing Mum. She had worked for the Royal Mail as a postwoman on a bike for 17 years in the Kelvedon area of Essex.

Two of their three children were now in their twenties and independent, while Rachael was 19 and at Leeds University.

It was lovely to have them so close and to see them regularly, but as it turned out Elizabeth found it impossible to settle properly in Scotland; she didn’t like being so far away from her children. So for poor Phil, it was a choice of move back to England or get divorced!

Just under a year after they arrived in Tighnabruaich, they called one day to tell me that they were leaving the next week. Elizabeth had found a housekeeping and gardening position with accommodation in Essex, advertised in The Lady magazine.

I was now 58 and two years away from receiving my state pension, so I still needed an income. However the Health Authority had said, without my asking, that I would receive a full pension to reflect seven years’

88

Chapter 8 employment up to the retiring age of 60. I had only completed five years, so I considered this an indication of a degree of guilt on their behalf.

The need to care for my mother imposed limits on the amount and type of work I could now do. However, I now read in Nursing Times that the Office of National Statistics was about to begin its periodic health survey in Scotland and trained nurses were required. The task was to take health-related measurements of all the individuals in households in certain postcode areas, the households being picked at random and with their consent. We had to measure height, weight and arm circumference in children and height, weight, blood pressure, ECG and lung capacity in adults, plus blood samples from all those over 11 years. There were also a variety of health related questions. All the results would be entered on to a computer programme.

So I acquired yet another new job title - Health Survey Nurse. I attended a two-day induction programme in Glasgow, where I asked to be allowed to cover a rural area - I don’t mind single-track roads but am hopeless at parking in small spaces!

For the next 13 months I travelled Skye, Aberdeenshire, Sutherland, Dumfriesshire, Invernessshire, Argyll and areas near the English border, plus the outer areas of Glasgow, such as Gourock and Greenock, for the ONS. It was a wonderful way to see the country, especially as all my petrol was paid for! I was allowed £25 a day for accommodation and living expenses, which was not quite enough, as prices in the Highlands are always higher than elsewhere, so I had to pay part of the cost myself.

Sally came with me of course, so I needed pet-friendly accommodation.

I stayed in self-catering establishments of varying degrees of comfort and warmth. I found myself sharing some of them with mice, which I didn’t enjoy quite so much!

I planned all my visits as efficiently as I could to give the ONS value for money, staying away for up to a week at a time but usually two or three days. Every day I had to ensure my mother ate regularly and appropriately

89

Chapter 8 for her diabetes, so I would prepare meals for her before leaving. She had only to defrost and reheat them. I had a Rayburn, so she didn’t have to worry about turning on or lighting a cooker.

I managed to get Social Services to visit each day to make sure she was well. I tried to phone her daily, but she was becoming quite deaf and it was hard to get her to understand what I was saying. She loathed wearing her hearing aid and would take it out the minute I left!

On one visit to Skye I took Mum with me. It was lambing time, and we stayed in a farm cottage and watched the tiny newborns jumping and bleating. We crossed the Skye bridge, stopping at the memorial to the Commandos at Spean Bridge.

It had been many years since Mum had last driven through the formidable landscape of Glen Coe. Luckily the weather was bright, not dark and threatening as she remembered it. As we were returning on the Armidale-Mallaig ferry, the captain pointed out a whale - a wonderful sight, which thrilled my mother.

While all this was going on, I found that Sally had developed a brain tumour. The loss of balance she suffered was so sudden and serious that this time the awful visit to the vet happened dreadfully quickly. So I lost her in 2004.

Once the health survey was completed in early 2005, I looked forward to a break from work. Fortunately I always had plenty of interests to occupy me, but after a few quiet months without a dog I felt that I would really like one more boxer, preferably a healthy, hearing puppy whose birth date I knew.

While working in the Borders I would often drive across the River Tweed. One day it occurred to me that Tweed would make a good name for a dog – short and non-human. So I had a name – all I needed was a boxer to go with it.

I found a long-standing breeder, an old friend of Ronnie’s, who lived south of Glasgow. A litter arrived in October 2004 and I visited them when

90

Chapter 8 the pups were four weeks old. They were round and gorgeous. I chose a gleaming dark brindle pup who looked just right for the name, and three weeks later, Phil and Elizabeth went with me to collect her. It was rather early at seven weeks, but the breeder knew I was used to boxers.

Tweed was full of bounce, but she settled at home quickly and never appeared to miss her mother or litter mates. She was bold, hungry and alert to everything. I had been sent home with fresh tripe to feed her on, but I could not face it. I eat very little red meat and could not handle the feel or smell of tripe.

I expected 2005 to be an uneventful year for once, but that all changed when my brother David, who was staying at Brackenbank for a week with Linda, called to say that a bungalow had come up for sale half a mile away, on Shore Road, and he thought it would be ideal for me. I replied that I was very happy living where I was and had no plans to move again, but he wasn’t deterred. He pointed out that Shore Road was much flatter and easier to negotiate than the hilly, potholed road where I was living. It would also be easier for Mum. The bungalow, which was called Auchenheath, stood on the site of the old greenhouses which had been tended by “Uncle” Donald Beaton all those years before, and was right next to Wellpark Cottage. The elderly couple who had bought it from us back in 1979 were still living there.

My brother urged me to think about it, so although my heart was telling me to stay where I was, I knew I needed to consider the matter rationally.

Auchenheath had been built in the late 1960s. It stood between Wellpark House and Wellpark Cottage and faced south, with a wonderful view across to Bute and Arran. David and Sally Kibble, who lived at Wellpark House, had bought the bungalow to establish some boundaries and their intention was to refurbish and resell it. However Sally had suffered a recurrence of an earlier cancer, and they now needed to concentrate their energies on her treatment.

91

Chapter 8 I did not feel at all like another move, but I also realised that there was a great deal of sense in the idea of moving to a more convenient location half a mile down the hill. So I took David’s advice and went ahead.

I didn’t much like the name Auchenheath, which I thought sounded bleak and guttural. I knew there had been a vineyard nearby in the late 1800s, so I looked up the Gaelic for vine and found it was fionan, so I decided to call the house Tighna Fionan, or “house of the vine”.

The bungalow was a shell with no bathroom fittings, a hole where the fireplace had been and various wall partitions removed, but structurally it was very sound. Its unfinished condition gave me the opportunity to plan the interior just as I wanted it. I knew I would miss the constant warmth of a Rayburn in the often damp Argyll climate, so I decided to have one fitted at Tighna Fionan. I would once again need a deer fence .

At first there was little interest in Tighsamhraidh, but fortunately David and Sally agreed to hold on to the bungalow for me until I could find a buyer. I gave it three months, then changed estate agents. Within a fortnight, they found me buyers - Mike and Nan Smith.

The packing began. Again. I would get up at 4 am to pack as many boxes as I could before both Tweed and my mother woke up and started trailing me round the narrow path between the boxes.

The move went ahead that September, 2005. Unfortunately Elizabeth and Phil were leaving a week before the move, so they couldn’t be there to help me on the day. I summoned my little removal van from Dunoon, which made countless journeys up and down the hill with all our possessions. The bungalow was considerably smaller than Tighsamhraidh, so we ended up with boxes stacked high in every room.

It was a lovely September day and the view over to Bute and Arran was at its best. As the lorry left for the last time, my mother quickly brought me back to earth by pointing out that she had not had a hot meal all day.

It took a long time to get fully unpacked and organised, if indeed I ever

92

Chapter 8 did. I could not use any loft space, which was probably a good thing.

That December I celebrated my 60th birthday. I couldn’t believe I could be so old! I celebrated by having a swing erected in the garden, positioned so that I could sit on it facing south to Arran. I find swinging a wonderful way to relax.

I dug out a pond in a position where I could sit inside and watch the birds bathing at the edge. I planted hedging and climbing roses around the deer fence, and watched the roe and red deer pruning them from the other side. I took Tweed to puppy training classes in Dunoon, which she loved. She was always so pleased to see anyone and everyone.

The days became a little more settled. My mother went down to stay with Elizabeth a few times, and we would arrange wheelchairs at both ends.

My twin nephew Stuart had married Elaine in 2003 and they were living in Naas in County Kildare, which was Elaine’s home. On March 4 2006 their first child, David Thomas Henry, was born. I travelled over to see him, and several times I looked after him while his parents were away.

When little David was christened in August 2006, I drove over while my mother, who had been staying with Elizabeth, flew there with her from Essex. Two days later I met Elizabeth, Phil and my mother at Scotch Corner to drive Mum home to Tighnabruaich.

Elizabeth was worried about my mother, and she certainly did not appear well. I took her to the GP the following morning, where she was found to have an extremely high blood sugar level - the upper acceptable level in a diabetic is 10, but hers was right up at 32.

She then told us she had been having chest pains and they carried out an ECG, which showed evidence of a recent heart attack. Straight away I drove her to the Royal Inverclyde Hospital, where she was admitted to the Coronary Care Unit. It was upsetting to have to leave her there, her small frame so helpless in the midst of so many tubes, wired to screens and with an oxygen mask on her face.

She stayed in hospital for 14 days, and I took the ferry to the mainland

93

Chapter 8 to visit her on most of them. Finally I was told I could take her home, though she would need insulin injections and heart medication and her prognosis was poor. We didn’t tell her that a large area of heart muscle had been destroyed, and her life expectancy was about three months.

Elizabeth was devastated to realise that Mum had been living with her without telling her about the chest pain. David found it hard to believe the cardiologist’s view that she had only about three months to live.

I wanted my mother to feel she was slowly improving, and tried to tempt her to eat small, nourishing meals, but she had no appetite and was breathless at the slightest exertion. She did not want to see anyone. She was content just to sit by the window and look at the view. I would leave her for no longer than the 20 minutes it took to drive to the village to collect a newspaper and pick up any shopping we needed.

On the evening of Sunday September 3 she managed to enjoy a small portion of fish pie. I put her to bed as usual and said goodnight. “I hope I feel better tomorrow” she said.

The following morning I went into her room with her usual seven o’clock cup of tea to find that she had died during the night. I touched her face. It felt warm, and I estimated that she must have gone about an hour before. She looked asleep, natural and at peace.

It was as gentle and peaceful an end as you could wish for, but I was very shocked. I had seen death and sadness so many times, but this was my mother and she had lived for only two more weeks, not the predicted three months. I realised that feeling this way was irrational of course - it is always foolish to make predictions of life expectations.

I took a photograph so that I could reassure Elizabeth and David that she had died peacefully, and then I phoned them. I could not get any words out at first, but they guessed quickly enough what had happened when they heard my sobs. I phoned the GP and the funeral director, but told them we wanted to keep her at home until that evening.

94

Chapter 8 Elizabeth was flying up from Stansted to Glasgow on the first plane she could catch. I covered my mother’s face with one of her favourite lacy handkerchiefs, opened the windows, drew the curtains and locked the back door. Then I drove to Glasgow airport to meet Elizabeth. It all seemed quite unreal.

In Scotland funerals are usually held with the minimum delay, and we arranged it at our village church for that Friday. She was to be cremated, and her ashes interred with a thanksgiving service at Woodham Walter, as Mum had requested. She did not want to be in the grave at Chelmsford which held my father’s ashes.

My mother had been living with me for six years, so as 2006 drew to a close I faced a time of adjustment. In 2007 my friend Fiona, whom I had first met in the QAs and worked with in Hong Kong, finally moved to Scotland from Derbyshire. She had wanted to live in Scotland for some time as her father was Scottish – he was a retired GP. She bought a house on the Isle of Bute, a short drive and a five-minute ferry crossing from Tighnabruaich.

We enjoyed a week touring the Hebrides, or the Western Isles as they are more commonly known today. We still meet up most weeks, and it’s good to have an old friend close by. Naturally we spend a lot of our time talking about days gone by.

The natural beauty of Tighnabruaich is a constant source of joy. I watch a great variety of birds, on the water and in the garden. I have got to know the cry of the buzzard, the conversational chatter of the eider duck and the hoot of the tawny owl, though I rarely see them. I am always on the lookout for eagles and have been rewarded twice with glimpses, both times while gardening. The sparrowhawk is not quite such a welcome visitor – they seem to have no predators and are becoming widespread.

Their eyes are as piercing as their talons, and they show no fear. One visits my garden daily, swooping, gliding over hedges and sending the little birds into a clamour of fear.

95

Chapter 8 When I first moved to Tighna Fionan in 2005 there were no sparrows, but now they are frequent visitors. I regularly see chaffinches, greenfinches, siskins, blackbirds, thrushes, robins, dunnocks, woodpeckers, goldfinches, blue tits, great tits and coal tits, and in summer long-tailed tits strut around. In the winter they will descend in flocks on to the feeders. During severe cold spells, corn buntings occasionally visit.

Bats will fly around one’s head at dusk, which can be a little alarming.

Red squirrels were daily visitors at my previous home, and I still occasionally see them at my nut feeder. Once I saw a pine marten close to the shore.

I have planted a wide variety of fruit trees and bushes - apple, greengage, plum, quince, blueberry and raspberry, as well as redcurrants, blackcurrants and white currants. I grow strawberries in bags, and there’s a rhubarb patch. In my vegetable plot I grow peas and various beans. I have heather and pulmonaria for the bees to feed on – they have been scarce, but I was pleased to see a reasonable number in the garden last year. In summer there is a colourful variety of butterflies.

The pond I dug has become a constant source of interest. The amount of frogspawn increases yearly, and I have seen sizeable frogs in action.

Even when the spawn is frozen it seems to survive - IVF frogs!

I regularly see a pair of newts, and wonder if they are the same ones. I found I had rather too many dragonfly larvae, very ugly things which apparently take two years to develop and become dragonflies. They were eating all the young tadpoles, so I removed as many of them as I could to another watery place. There are slow worms in the garden, but they are secretive and rarely seen.

One summer I was visited daily by a baby rabbit which must have wandered away from its family. It grew so fat on my plants and vegetables than in the end I bought a humane rabbit trap, and was astonished when it actually worked. I had planned to put the trap in the car and drive to a

96

Chapter 8 hillside far away to “relocate” it. When I picked up the trap, which was like a long cage, the rabbit scurried around in fear. It was understandably terrified of me, and I was scared that it might escape, so I’m afraid I chickened out and phoned a friend, John, a retired policeman, who came and did the deed for me.

That wasn’t the only time John came to my rescue. One evening as I was leaving the bathroom, I noticed something glittering under the radiator opposite. I thought I must have dropped something, and bent down to see what it was. Horrors! I found myself staring into the beady eyes of a mouse, the one creature of which I am truly terrified. I was rooted to the spot in fear.

I shut Tweed (who was oblivious to what was going on) in the sitting room and closed all the bedroom doors so that the mouse was contained.

It was 9 pm and it didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Perhaps it had taken poison? I phoned John, who quickly dispatched the little creature with his truncheon.

The dolphins and porpoises which can be seen swimming off the shore are a much more noble sight. One year a basking shark was spotted in Loch Fyne, off Strachur. It stayed for a couple of weeks. It was huge – they are the biggest fish in the ocean, apart from the whale shark – and made an amazing sight.

In the garden, I enjoy the strong scents of the roses and lavender bushes which greet me when I arrive home. In early summer there’s the heady scent of honeysuckle, and in the colder months the winter honeysuckle makes up for the lack of other flowers.

The scent of mingled wood and coal smoke pervades Tighnabruaich throughout the year, a subtle backdrop to the seasonal scents of gorse and wild flowers. In the winter months the smell of the sea and the seaweed come through strongly. Rather less poetically, when I’m in Bute across the water I often notice the smell of muck-spreading.

I love to see the Waverley, the historic paddle steamer, when she calls

97

Chapter 8 at the pier in the summer. You hear the swish of the paddles before you see the ship itself. It is a majestic scene.

I go walking regularly, and get quite out of breath on the hillier routes, but it keeps me fit – I hope! I usually walk alone, as I prefer not to meet too many people when I’m out walking. I like to listen to the stillness and stop, wonder and stare, whenever I wish and for as long as I want.

I do still feel the wanderlust sometimes. In 2008 Fiona and I decided that it would be a good idea to return to the Far East for a trip down Memory Lane. Fiona had never worked in Singapore, but I had fond memories of the area.

The stumbling block, as usual, was money. Fiona was still nursing and getting a regular income, but I would need time to save. I investigated the likely cost of air fares and hotels. We made tentative plans to make the trip in 2010, which would be 30 years after we had been in Hong Kong and 40 years after my time in Singapore.

Not many jobs come up in the village, but in early 2009 I heard that they needed an extra pair of hands down at Susie’s Tea Room. Susie’s caters for coach parties as well as day trippers and locals, with seating for 100 people, and it has outdoor seats which enables guests to look straight down the Kyles, so it can be very popular in summer. They agreed to take me on for three afternoons a week at the statutory minimum wage.

I didn’t get off to a good start - within minutes of arriving on my first day I had a most embarrassing nose bleed. But I was soon working much more than three afternoons a week, as there was only Amy, the owner, and her elderly mother as staff and they began to get busy. It was extremely hard work, particularly when three coaches arrived together and you had to make 50 toasties as fast as possible (the machine would only do four at a time), plus paninis, rolls and so on. Customers would argue about who should be served next, and it got very hot in the kitchen. I began to wonder if it was worth it.

I decided to put all my earnings from the tea room into premium bonds

98

Chapter 8 so that I could not easily spend it. Naturally I also hoped for a big win.

Over the seven months I worked at Susie’s I managed to save enough for the basic cost of the holiday – which shows how many hours I must have worked! - and collected three wins of £25.

Meanwhile I made several trips to Ireland to look after David and his brother Dylan, Dylan Aidan Henry, born August 24 2009. They also came to stay with me, and when Dylan was still only 11 months old he spent two weeks with me on his own. He was an absolute joy to look after, always happy and chatty. He ate well, slept well and was a great little companion.

Thanks to Duncan and Harriet I also now had two grandnieces, Jemima Elizabeth(August 30 2000) and Amelia Emma(April 11 2002).

Later, on March 14 2010, Rachael and Ali gave me my third grandnephew, Charlie.

After much planning, Fiona and I flew to Hong Kong on October 25 2010. Our trip proved to be well worth the hard work. We spent six nights in Hong Kong, followed by five nights in Singapore. It was all I had hoped for, and the flights, the hotels and the sights were fabulous. We didn’t once eat European food.

We managed to use the public transport eventually, and we visited the sites of the old British Military Hospitals. The Hong Kong BMH was long gone, replaced by a huge block of apartments, but Singapore is still in use as a Government hospital and we were warmly welcomed at the reception desk.

We visited Kranji War Memorial and Changi Prison and Museum in Singapore, which we found, as before, very humbling. We even braved the Singapore Flyer, the tallest ferris wheel in the world.

Hong Kong had changed a great deal. There were many new buildings and much land reclamation going on, but at least it was also much cleaner, and there was hardly any of the spitting I remembered! The Star Ferry continued unchanged and we revisited the Peak and Stanley Market, managing to travel, as we had 30 years before, on the top front of a double

99

Chapter 8 decker. It was a thoroughly scary journey.

We flew home to typical Scottish November weather, but it was good to be back again all the same.

Since then, life has continued to tick quietly on. I appreciate every day of life in Tighnabruaich. I still marvel to think that it is now more than 60 years since I first came to this place, and to think how Uncle Donald’s greenhouses once stood on this spot.

I have no big plans for the future. I find that you don’t need to plan to have adventures happen to you, and going to the dentist can be a big enough adventure on its own these days. You go for a check up and come out having had a tooth extracted! And there’s always the chance of a win on the lottery…

I hope to maintain my good health so that I can go on living here, in my idyll, as long as possible. I can always use an electric scooter to get to the village! I hope I never lose my independence, as I don’t think I would make a very gracious patient. And I hope I will always be aware of the needs of others, both near by and far away .

I feel most fortunate.

100

Henry Potter

Alice Maud Dutton (Potter)

Agnes, Henry and Alice Potter with young Douglad Henry)

Douglas Henry Potter with Ada Boyce, his nursemaid

Douglas Henry Potter

Nancy Irene Walden, born 15.4.1920

postcard 2

Douglas Henry Potter aged 12, 1932

Nancy Walden, Southend, 1929

Postcard 1

St Marys Cathedral chelmsford

My parents' wedding, 1942

Me, my father, mother and David with Elizabeth at her christening

with David at my christening, April 28 1946

With Mum at Point Clear, 1946

Studio portrait, 1950

With Fay, 1948

Me in 1948

1950, aged four and a half

West Bowers Hall

apology letter to mum, 1953

West Bowers Hall

West Bowers 1955

??????????????????

??????????????????

Elizabeth's christening, December 12 1954

Derek, Nancy and Sheila, around 1940 Betty

First day at St Cedd's, May 1950

Speech and Drama certificate, 1953

Elizabeth with dolls

Bridesmaid at Sheila and Pete's wedding, May 1951

At BMH Singapore, 1971

Final year nursing student at Great Ormond Street, 1967

My RGN exam paper

telegram about the birth of Stuart and Duncan

Stuart and Duncan, 1974, Tighnabruaich

on an elephant

Singapore 1979 - British, Vietnamese, Australian, Chines

in Nepal

with the QAs

With Princess Diana at the official opening of the hospital

Ronnie & Meurig

Frank Herrman

sea pinks Loch Sheen

David and his godfather, Richard Oswald Seal, 1991

Duncan and Stuart with 'train' cake made by Elizabeth

photographed for Nursing Times

Text

Text

Text

Text

Jemima and Amelia

Susan Potter knew as a little girl that she wanted to be a children’s nurse. Thirty years later, after working in hospitals in the UK, Germany and the Far East, she crowned an eventful nursing career by founding a hospice for sick children, entirely from her own initiative.

“It’s Yourself!” is Susan’s story, from her earliest childhood years divided between holidays in Scotland and her rural home in Essex to the challenges and excitement of an international nursing career. It relates the story of how she trained as young nurse at Great Ormond Street and went on to join Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps, serving at military hospitals in Germany, Singapore and Hong Kong. There are chapters about her work with the renowned in-vitro fertilisation pioneers Patrick Steptoe and Robert Edwards at Bourne Hall Fertility Clinic, and her greatest professional achievement – raising the funding and public support necessary to open a new hospice for sick children for the eastern region.

The final chapters tell of her move to her beloved Scotland and her experiences as a community nurse before she was finally able to retire and live next door to the holiday home where she had stayed as a child more than half a century earlier.

it’s

Yourself!

Published by Memoirs 25 Market Place, Cirencester Gloucestershire GL7 2NX Tel: 01285 640485 Email: info@memoirsbooks.co.uk www.memoirsbooks.co.uk