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wytchcroft) wrote2009-03-26 08:28 pm
tilly and the nursery - concluded
Margaret Hambling, Matron Margaret Hambling rather, had a good head for time, a natural instinct that years of work and responsibility had honed to a point. Nevertheless, on the Monday that Cromwell House was to formally open its new Nursery department, she found herself looking at her watch constantly – the one betrayal of the nerves she was feeling, knowing as she did just how important this was for the Hospital.
She thought of young Matilda Watkins, the girl had an important speech to make – unusually so for a Nurse – and Hambling hoped that it would pass without incident, no stammering or forgetting the words that she and the girl had rehearsed many times now and on many occasions. Hambling had no doubt that the dear girl had done so in the dorm too with her room-mate Hester or some other friend. But today was the day. She glanced at her watch yet again. And so far it was going like, well, clockwork.
“Who is making that racket?” She spoke by instinct as soon as the noise level of the children around her rose to a certain degree. The children had moved across, some on crutches hopped, those in bed leant up and forward as best they could – all wanted to peer through the windows.
“And what is capturing your attention so?” the Matron demanded.
“Please Miss,” spoke up one lad, Terrence, if she remembered aright, not a Londoner in fact, Kent maybe by his accent, "Please Miss, they be launching the Kites!” His fevered dark eyes were ablaze with excitement.
“Are they now?” Hambling’s voice had become stern only in teasing now. “Well we’d best see for ourselves eh? “ And she allowed herself to peer through the glass with the rest.
…………………………………….
Sometime later and outside once more, Tilly, (who knew she should be hurrying,) watched the Kites gaily flapping and gliding up on the current from the warm breeze. They had been hung with decorative threads and tassels – but their purpose was much more utilitarian, Tilly knew, it was these kites that allowed the newsmen to transmit their pictures all the way from the Hospital to the Alexandra Palace. Quite how – well that was science… which might just as well have been magic for all she knew.
Oh but pictures… moving pictures…
The young nurse gulped, knowing that she would soon be one of those very pictures… well it made a girl nervous, as if her usual responsibilities weren’t enough!
Still, duty was duty and so she did hurry a little now, across the square of grass, along the tidy path and towards the assembly room.
…………….
Charlie Pike’s response to the kites had been somewhat different. “Bastard Picture men,” he had muttered. They would put a hardworking man like himself out of a job one of these days, damn them, damn Stephen Gray and damn Ben Franklin too! He scowled. Still, he was on the inside and the picture men would have to be content with what they could get – they wouldn’t be able to go inside, they couldn’t interview the important parties here, Charlie could, oh yes indeed.
The elite of London’s Medical world were gathered now inside the assembly room of Cromwell house, a smallish hall (smelling more of polish than the usual Hospital vinegar and white wash) that served a general purpose for the school, which Cromwell House was along with its medical services.
It was bare, although seats and tables had been placed in it, apart from the wide curtains upon the stage that were a majestic purple. Beside the heavy drapes was a large portrait of the Queen, looking, as she was want to do, a little stern but alert and intelligent, just the ticket for over seeing rowdy orphans and sick children.
Children however were neither seen nor heard, not today – not now at any rate. Later they would be lined up in the garden, politely put on parade – and their photographs taken, perhaps by the picture men as well, but for now they had been gathered up and were ensconced somewhere in the East wing.
Watching the bustle of gowns and listening only idly to the small-talk (none directed at him of course!) Charlie spied his target, an unprepossessing young man with sandy hair, as politely as he could Charlie hailed him. “Dennis McKay? I believe you promised me an interview.”
The man blinked. “I did? An Interview? Oh, oh – right yes, well, can’t it wait a bit – I have a lot of technical – you know duties and what not, I only came in to grab a word with the Director.”
“Yes, I gather you have the ear of the great man, that’s very impressive.”
Dennis was flattered – but not stupid. He could tell where this was going, where the journalist was trying to lead him at any rate. “Not now, really please…”
“But Mr McKay,” Pike would never let go that easily, “you are the unsung hero here today – if it weren’t for your, uh, technical skills, then none of us would be here.”
“Oh the Hospital would have found somebody, I’m sure of that.” Dennis was looking around rather desperately now.
“A unique inventor such as you” Charlie continued implacably, “I doubt that.”
Oh the man was simply too much! “I’m dreadfully sorry, afterwards, I promise!” And Dennis broke away – almost running to where the Director and the Mayor could be seen hobnobbing.
Charlie Pike glared openly at the man’s back.
………………
Tilly knew the words by heart, she did, she did, and even if she stood a little terrified, even if she couldn’t look a single one of the group in the eye, she could still speak, she could do that, and do it right, for the Hospital, for Hambling, the children – and herself. Clearing her throat, she began.
“I never knew my Mother. Being an orphan I was raised in the workhouse, by the kindness of Gentlemen like yourselves… and I must say, that like every Britisher born, I do HAVE a Mother,” here she nodded patriotically towards the Royal portrait, and somebody yelled “well said!” That nearly threw Tilly off her stride, but she carried on.
“All the same, to be an orphan, well it can be awful cruel at times - and to know that by coming here I’m not just helping a few other strays, or the newborn, into the world… to know that this is start of something – to know that no child will ever feel the loss of a parent – well, proud seems too small a word, but proud it is, and proud is what I am. I hope Sirs, that you will, after today, feel just as proud.”
The truth of her feelings was plain in every impassioned word, as the men applauded, Hambling bent forward and whispered, “Jolly good Tilly!” causing a blush of deep and happy crimson.
“Oh Mrs Hambling,” Tilly burst out, “this is the happiest day of my life!”
“Very good Nurse,” Hambling said formally as The Chief Surgeon himself scowled in their direction, “and perhaps it’s time for you to share some of that with he children, yes? Break out the cake and pop, there’s a good girl, now run along.”
Still visibly swelling with feeling, Tilly scampered away and off to the pantry.
Over the next few minutes, Hambling was forced to endure an interminable series of speeches and introductions until finally the Mayor was shown the cord and the Hospital Director applauded in person. This was to be the great moment.
“It is my honour to declare the new unit at Cromwell House officially open!”
And so saying, the Mayor pulled back the curtain by tugging at the decorative cord. There was a thick window which bounced back the light as it was revealed, a large window, big as an aquarium. “Please,” said the Director, looking justly proud, “do have a look.”
The small crowd of onlookers push forward as a man. Peering through they could see the children’s’ beds, the silver and dun of their metallic fixtures, and they could see the children too, of variable ages, from infant to toddler. Most were asleep but some were stirring as if the act of pulling the curtain had woken them. The beds were arranged in a semi-circular grouping and seemed themselves to be set before another great window. The mouths of the young could be seen opening and closing in a soundless wail.
“I say,” the Mayor raised his stick to point; “Hungry little chaps are they?”
“Perhaps they want their mother?”
The Director seized on this remark. “Exactly so! And who are we to deny them?” Pulling a small cylinder out from the wall near the draw-string, he held up what was clearly a speaking-tube, blew into its brass tip and said, “Fetch mother will you?” Releasing the tube snapped it back into the wall.
There was a pause, the curiosity of the crowd, their expectancy made the atmosphere oddly tense.
Without warning the interior window seemed to glow, there was a swirl of light upon, casting the children into shadows, to silhouettes. And then there was mother, her beatific face, deep eyed and calmly smiling, displayed upon what was clearly a view screen and not a window at all.
“Good heavens, it’s a picture-glass!”
The Director waved a hand, almost like a circus master. “Yes,” he announced, "it is indeed a picture-glass and there is mother upon it, and she will always be, ever ready, ever attentive –an no child here will feel the loss of a mother again!"
There was an awed gasp and then enthusiastic round of applause.
“I am reliably informed,” the Director continued, “that very soon there will be picture-glasses in almost half the homes of London – just think, Mother could be seen on every one!”
“Tremendous!”
“And this is merely the beginning, as well as this we can broadcast educational and morally uplifting programmes, all sorts of useful things, a veritable school by screen!”
The crows watched as an attentive child reached out a tiny arm to wave at the screen, to reach for that angelic face.
“We call this ‘Watch with Mother’” said the Director, the flickering glow of the screen picked out the wide eyed child and the smile on their face.
……………………
“I thought that went rather well,” the Mayor allowed himself a tone of satisfaction, a good deed done, a worthy goal achieved.
The men had gathered in the drawing room adjacent to the Hospital meeting room for a cigar and glass of port. There had been many murmured ‘cheers!’, “well done-s”, “congratulations” and “to the Director!”
Bowing slightly now, the director waved an airy hand towards the sandy haired fellow. “Oh, credit where credit’s due,” he said, “and without Dennis, none of this would have been possible.”
There was yet another wave of polite clapping, and a chorus of “How’s it done Dennis! Yes, tell us! Smoke and Mirrors I assume?”
Dennis bowed quickly. “No, no –not smoke and mirrors” he laughed, “more like a barrel of recording wire, some sticking plaster – and a willing model of course!”
“Where did you find her then, Soho? Hyde Park?”
Fortunately, there was a small interruption then as a member of the catering staff wheeled in a trolley with a choice of refreshments, sandwiches, a deep flan, a large cake, a decanter of port, and a large pot of tea. With a curtsey the servant was gone. Dennis was the nearest to the trolley and he looked up smiling, “Shall I be Mother?” he quipped.
There was an appreciative chuckle from the assembled men. Sir Reginald Splendour himself called out, “You should be careful Dennis, it might start rubbing off on you, you’ll wanting the job of wet-nurse next!”
Dennis grinned.
“It takes a special kind of man to be Mother,” said the Director, “I think we all owe Dennis a great deal.”
There was a final round of applause.
“I’ve heard it said that behind every great man is a great woman…”
“Good Heavens!”
“Well, I think we can all be reassured that behind our great Mother – is Dennis.”
And a final warm burst of laughter and then a voice called out, “Mr McKay, I believe you owe me an interview.”
Dennis raised a hand to his brow and looked across to the Director.
“Oh why not,” said the Mayor as the Director was about to shake his head. “Give the lad his scoop, what?”
“His SNOOP, you mean!” Reginald Splendour made sure everyone heard that.
But Pike could care less – he had his story, yes a scoop, two in fact, if you counted the remark he’d overheard earlier about Plantagenet – and Charlie certainly did - and he was getting his interview, and that meant the day was finally his.
the end
thanks to charley_girl for insp.
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Need more time, however to sit down and read this carefully. All three parts of it. Especially when the story is marked by the tag "alt-history".
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but if you doo want a read then the other alt stories are either shorter and probably more to your taste (?)
http://wytchcroft.livejournal.com/tag/the+interview
http://wytchcroft.livejournal.com/tag/the+face+behind+the+glass
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dont know
it's like a movie (oh moving pivtures...) - I wish I could see that movies... so tense so clear
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and you know, it's a big relief because, yes, the end...
everyone is very happy - but it is a SAD ending really, just the characters don't see this, or their crazy attitudes too!
thanks again for such a nice comment:)
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Well done!
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and it's very kind of you to have trawled through all 3 parts :))
it was very interesting to me, reading the history of nursing, especially children's hospitals, and the individuals (such as Blackwell) or events like the strikes in the colonies that lead to such basic things as Nursing as taught and paid profession, and so recently! Shocking really.
i do think if the Victorians had had, say, the technology of the 30s or 1950s they would gladly gone down the routes of robotic rote-learning and mechanical child rearing etc, many sci-fi notions quickly rejected post WW2 would actually have appealed to them i think.
anyway, now i've made you read even MORE of my waffle! LOL!
thanks again :)))
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You, my friend, are indeed a novelist -- you should publish. Your eye for detail and your flourish with conversation are exceptional. :)
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THANK YOU!
but 'thank you' is meant, truly, so perhaps there are no other words needed :)))
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