The Night Nurse

The ward is dark. The ward is still. The rain is on the window sill. And Grace, the night nurse, starts her round in shoes that hardly make a sound.

She’s done this now for twenty years, the nights, and what a night nurse hears, and knows the creak of every floor, and every hinge on every door.

Bed one is Arthur, eighty-three, who’s had his op, and had his tea, and sleeps with one arm off the bed. She lifts it back. He turns his head.

Bed two is June, who cannot sleep, who counts the ceiling tiles, not sheep, and Grace says, “Tea?” and June says, “Please, and something for my aching knees.”

Bed three is Kit, who’s twenty-one, who broke his leg, and found it fun to tell them how, and now, at last, he’s sleeping, and he’s sleeping fast.

One trainer’s lying on the floor. She puts it by the other, more from habit than from need, and he says, “Ta,” asleep, and doesn’t see.

Bed four is empty, made, and tight, in case of someone in the night. She smooths it anyway. It’s kind to beds, she thinks. And beds don’t mind.

Bed five is Frank, who talks all day, and now has nothing left to say, and snores a small and steady snore, and Grace has heard that snore before.

Bed six is Olive, ninety-two, who had a fall, and who’s come through, and who is scared, a bit, at night, and asks if Grace can leave the light.

So Grace leaves on the little light, the one that’s more a glow than bright, and Olive sees it, so she knows that Grace is near, and off she goes.

And then the desk, and then the chart, and then the tea, which is an art, the making of, at half past three, and Grace is very good at tea.

She sits. She sips. The rain goes on. The night is halfway. Half is gone. The corridor is dim and long. The boiler hums a boiler song.

A buzzer goes. It’s June, awake, who wants, she says, for goodness’ sake, just someone near. Grace says, “I know.” And sits. And doesn’t have to go.

They talk of nothing. Talk of rain. Of June’s old dog. Of trains. Of Spain, where June went once, and burnt her nose, and June’s voice slows, and June’s eyes close.

And Grace stays on a minute more, then takes the cup, and, by the door, she stops. She listens. There is not a sound but breathing. That’s the lot.

The rain gets softer. Then it stops. A gutter drips. A last few drops. The clouds pull back. A slice of moon looks in, and lights a bedside spoon.

Grace does the round again at four. Bed one: the arm is off once more. She lifts it back. He turns his head. He’s fine. He’s warm. He’s still in bed.

Bed two: asleep, and sleeping deep. Bed three: still snoring, in a heap. Bed four: still made. Bed five: still Frank, still snoring, like a leaky tank.

Bed six is Olive, and she’s fine, and sleeping, and the light’s a line across her blanket, thin and gold. Grace leaves it on, as she was told.

And then the desk, and then the chair, and Grace sits down, and Grace sits there, and writes the notes, and outside, grey begins to be the start of day.

The birds begin. One bird. Then two. The corridor goes pale and blue. A trolley somewhere. Then, at six, the day staff come, with coats and clicks

of heels, and, low, the things they say, and Grace hands over to the day, and says, “All quiet,” which is true, and finds her coat, and then she’s through.

And Arthur sleeps, and June, and Kit, and Frank, and Olive, all of it, and bed four’s empty, made, and neat, and Grace goes out into the street.

The rain has stopped. The air is new. She walks. She’ll sleep by nine, till two. And on the ward, in every bed, they’re sleeping still, the way she said.