Our Country Nurse: Can East End Nurse Sarah find a new life caring for babies in the country?. Sarah Beeson

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СКАЧАТЬ you met Mr Hopkins, the headmaster at St Agatha’s, and the Reverend Nicholas Shepherd, our dashing new vicar?’

      ‘We haven’t,’ responded the older man. ‘Dylan Hopkins. Pleasure to meet our new school nurse. I think you spoke to my deputy when you popped into the school, Miss Hill,’ he said, grinning and firmly shaking my hand. ‘Miss Drummond is right, I am a fugitive from playground duty but Father Nick and I are discussing the school trip to Canterbury Cathedral this Saturday. We are trying to form a plan of action for volunteers. Miss Drummond, I believe you have already thrown your hat into the ring?’

      Hermione sucked on a buttery finger. ‘Oh, yes, count me in, for better or for worse.’ Her brown eyes were brilliant with mischief as she held me in her gaze and suggested, ‘And I’m sure Miss Hill would only be too happy to help?’, taking another mouthful of her sandwich.

      I gulped. Suddenly Mr Hopkins and the Reverend Shepherd seemed to be closing in on me in the confines of the village bakery. I hadn’t really noticed the rector properly until now, all eyes being on Hermione. The preacher had dark wavy hair, curling in thick glossy ringlets over his collar; surely his hair was a bit too long for a Man of the Cloth? And despite the dog collar he was rather cool in a white and brown checked sports jacket teamed with fawn slacks. He had huge dark eyes and eyelashes so long they looked fake.

      ‘That would help get us out of a huge hole if you could face the pilgrimage,’ added Mr Hopkins. ‘Wouldn’t it, Reverend Shepherd?’

      ‘Right on,’ replied the cool country parson, his eyes still fixed on me. I tried not to squirm under the gaze of this tower of a man.

      ‘I’d be happy to help,’ I replied over-brightly.

      ‘Excellent,’ Mr Hopkins said, clapping his hands together. ‘I’ll leave Miss Drummond to fill you in on the details. Father Nick and I have to get back for morning assembly.’

      They stepped out of the cramped bakery, their illicit baked goods in hand. The Reverend turned back to look at me from the narrow doorway; he blocked the light and the sunlight formed a ring round his black mop of hair.

      ‘See you Saturday,’ he crooned.

      Then they left. I was glad. Hermione passed me my sausage sandwich.

      ‘Hasn’t he got heavenly eyelashes?’ said Hermione smoothly.

      ‘The Headmaster?’ I spluttered.

      Hermione sighed. ‘No. Mr Hopkins isn’t the overpowering good-looking type. More of a slow burn.’

      I didn’t reply but nibbled my sandwich. Oh, it was delicious. Say what you like about Joe Rudcliff, he obviously produced good porkers. My trip to the bakery must have been divine intervention as I remembered if there is one thing I’ve learnt about mums’ groups, it is that delectable cake and a decent cup of coffee are the cornerstone of a successful morning meeting. I immediately invested in a large carrot cake. Next time I’d go one better and bake it myself with a recipe for apple cake from the Friends of the Earth cookbook, my newlywed friend Fiona Flemming had sent me as a moving-in present. I could use the honey from Clem’s bees, I mused, momentarily distracted by thoughts of bucolic country living, the humming of bees and dishy clergymen.

      Mums and toddlers was already under way when I arrived with my baked goods. A young woman about my age, wearing an emerald green shirt tucked into the same colour flared trousers with a thin white belt round her waist, and a green and white striped headscarf covering thick dark blonde curls, sat cross-legged in a circle with the other mums and children, leading the singing.

      One, two, three, four, five,

      Once I caught a fish alive,

      Six, seven, eight, nine, ten,

      Then I let it go again.

      About half the mothers joined in, mainly the ones with a single toddler in their laps. The other half were in little huddles, gossiping, some with children hanging off their arms, whining for attention, while other toddlers were taking the opportunity to get into cupboards, hide under tables, squabble over toys or have a sulk in a corner.

      Why did you let it go?

      Because it bit my finger so.

      Which finger did it bite?

      This little finger on the right.

      The group leader finished, with the few mums who remained in the circle snapping and kissing the fingers of their offspring and tickling them as they lay giggling and kicking in their laps.

      ‘Please help yourself to squash and biscuits,’ announced the group leader as she finished, her eyes already roving the room. There was no child in her lap. I went forward with my carrot cake and tried to put aside my immediate horror that they were serving the children squash. They’ll be whizzing around like spinning tops in no time, I thought.

      I introduced myself. ‘Hello, I’m Sarah Hill, the new health visitor.’

      ‘Oh, we know who you are, Nurse,’ called one of the mums in the circle as she bounced a bonny baby on her knee. Her little girl was about a year old with mustard-coloured corduroy dungarees and a multi-coloured star T-shirt, and I could make out a sizeable bump under her the mum’s loose denim shirt.

      I smiled. The mums exchanged not unfriendly glances. ‘I wanted to drop off a cake for the group,’ I explained, thrusting forward my goodwill offering.

      ‘Ooh, what is it?’ asked the expectant mum, putting her toddling little one down to explore.

      ‘It’s a carrot cake,’ I explained.

      ‘Not had that before but we’ll give it a whirl. I am eating for two after all,’ she remarked cheerily, taking the carrot cake off my hands. ‘Miss Elena, would you do the honours please?’ she asked an older lady, who I recognised as one of my kinder helpers at the baby clinic.

      ‘With pleasure,’ answered Miss Elena Moon, fresh from the kitchen carrying a tray of cups, which she handed out with care to the mums.

      I smiled at the group leader but she was still distracted. ‘Aunty Elena, have you seen Dean?’ she asked.

      ‘No, dear, I haven’t,’ answered Miss Moon. ‘He did pop into the kitchen a little while ago for a biscuit but I haven’t seen him since.’

      ‘Would you like me to help look for him?’ I asked.

      ‘Please. I’m probably just panicking. But he won’t sit still and join in with the singing. He takes himself off,’ she explained, her eyes still anxiously scanning the room.

      ‘What does he look like?’

      ‘Oh, sorry. I’m Yvonne. Yvonne Underdown. His name’s Dean. He’s three. Curly light brown hair and he’s wearing blue jeans and a red T-shirt.’

      Our somewhat half-hearted small search party spread out peeking under tables and rifling through cupboards but there was no sign of him.

      ‘I hope he hasn’t wandered out onto the road,’ said Mrs Underdown, her voice high and breathless.

      ‘She’s always getting herself in a lather,’ hissed the pregnant СКАЧАТЬ