Open Writing

In an English military hospital during World War I, a young subaltern of the South Wales Borderers Regiment was recovering from serious wounds received in France. He regarded the rather melancholy sight of his empty beer bottle and condemned the strict, parsimonious ruling of the Matron that each man was to be allowed only one bottle of beer a day — and extra duties for any nurse who dared to disobey.

At that moment, the Matron herself (in a uniform so starched that it seemed to crackle with every movement, to the extent that one expected sparks to fly out of it), steamed through the ward like a dreadnought, attended by a flotilla escort of sisters and nurses in line astern, each positioned according to her rank and seniority and all weaving and bobbing along in her wake as she snapped out her high-priestess criticisms and imperious orders.

The young subaltern's interest switched at once, not to the Matron but to one particularly pretty nurse with a trim figure, lovely smile and soft, blue eyes that sent his usually calm pulse into tachycardiac symptoms.

The Matron stopped at his bed, while her piercing, beady eyes, set above her large, hooked nose, surveyed him and his surroundings with obvious distaste, then she barked at the pretty nurse, very sternly,

"Nurse Everard! What, pray tell me, is that empty beer bottle doing there? Clear it away at once! One bottle per day per patient only, remember, and on no account may empty beer bottles be left about, even for a minute."

Nurse Everard approached the young Lieutenant, gave him a brief glance with smiling eyes and took away the evidence of her heinous crime and neglected duties.

Nurse Connie Everard had to admit to herself that there was something about the young Lieutenant, causing her interest in him to exceed by far the permitted Nurse-Patient professional relationship. She realised only too well, in her innermost, exciting thoughts, that she liked the square cut of his firm jaw, his fine physique, the steady yet inoffensive, gaze of his eyes with their constant twinkle of good humour as they followed her every movement, and she was fascinated by the slight hint of a soft, Oxfordshire brogue in his speech.

It was a few minutes after the Matron's inspection that Nurse Everard returned to the Lieutenant, carrying another bottle of beer in her hand and asked, "Lieutenant, I was wondering, would you like to have another bottle of beer, by any chance?"

"Chance?" he queried, "chance? You are certainly the one taking a chance, Nurse, but since the crime has been done, yes, thank you, indeed I would." Then, realising only too well the chastisement she would receive should the Matron find out, he added, "But what about the Matron?"

Nurse Everard gave a quick, captivating smile and then, straight-faced, replied, "How very kind of you, Lieutenant, to think about the Matron, but she is not being deprived; she does not drink beer, only gin."

He took the bottle of beer gratefully and laughingly added, "And a fair helping of medicinal brandy too, I'll wager."

He loved the beer and later confessed that he loved her too; she, in her turn, made the same confession. They were married on her eighteenth birthday.

After demobilisation the young couple were extremely poor but, filled with drive and energy, he obtained an ex-serviceman's grant and studied medicine, the second love of his life. He established a surgery which grew into a large and successful practice.

In 1920, their son, Tom, was born — and that is the story of the Nurse and the Lieutenant. Well, not quite, because in 1925 their second son, John, arrived, or, 'Shun', as he was nicknamed in the family.

This, now, is Shun's story.

Acknowledgement - 'Sir Andrew Judde' by H.S. Vere Hodge (For the historical information on Tonbridge School.)