MURIEL SAT NERVOUSLY awaiting her turn to be interviewed by the lady superintendent in charge of Sir Patrick Dun’s Nursing School. Miss Haughton had a formidable reputation and was said to be ruthless in weeding out those she considered unsuitable to train as probationers in the hospital.
This interview was hugely important to Muriel – she had her heart set on becoming a nurse. She was growing tired of assisting Mother with her church work, and was bored attending the rounds of teas, lunches, balls and other engagements that filled an unmarried young lady’s social calendar. She had always considered nursing a fine profession and now that she was twenty-one she was finally old enough to apply for the nursing school here at Sir Patrick Dun’s.
Suddenly the heavy wooden door opened and a tall girl emerged, looking red-faced and flustered. Muriel wished she could ask her about the interview, but suddenly her own name was called.
Miss Haughton sat upright at a big mahogany desk in front of a bookcase lined with an array of medical texts. She was smaller than Muriel had expected. On the far wall was a plaque from Guy’s Hospital in London where she had trained.
‘So you want to be a nurse?’ she began, her bright eyes inquisitive.
‘Yes,’ stammered Muriel. ‘I’ve wanted to train as a nurse for years. I—’
‘Do tell me why,’ said the other woman firmly. ‘It is the obvious question, given the long hours and punishing work most of my nurses must learn to accept.’
Muriel had planned to say that she would find nursing patients both interesting and rewarding, but instead, strangely, she found herself talking about Gerald.
‘My brother died when I was only sixteen,’ she said slowly, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘The doctor told us that he had a brain infection. It was hopeless, although everyone did everything they could to try to save him. Nothing could be done. He was well one day and dying a day later … how could that be?’
The other woman leaned forward slightly in her chair, listening.
‘I sat with him, cared for him and helped my mother to nurse him, and even right up to the end I talked to him all the time, for I knew he would be scared.’
‘Could he hear you?’ Miss Haughton asked gently.
‘I’m not sure. They said he was unconscious near the end, but I kept talking as I didn’t want Gerald to be afraid. He died at home.’
‘So, you have seen death.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, looking down at the floor, trying to control her voice and emotions.
‘No easy thing, no matter how often we see it.’
Nodding in agreement, Muriel took a sharp breath.
‘Now, Miss Gifford, please tell me about your schooling and exam results.’
Muriel found herself wishing she had applied herself better during her time at Alexandra College, but the other woman seemed satisfied with her answers.
‘I see you have provided references of your character and also the necessary medical and dental certificates fully signed by your own physician and dentist. We must ensure our probationers are healthy enough to work on the wards looking after sick patients, which is demanding to say the least. You haven’t had any back problems, have you?’
‘No,’ she replied, looking Miss Haughton straight in the eye.
‘Also, our probationers must pass an English exam, which we will arrange for you to take at the Technical School for Nurses within the next two weeks. Have you any questions, Miss Gifford?’
‘I just wondered how soon I would be working on the wards.’ Muriel stopped suddenly, realizing that she sounded presumptuous. ‘What I mean is, if I am considered at all suitable …’
She saw Miss Haughton stiffen.
‘All our probationers are on a three-month trial and must attend the hospital’s preliminary training school for six weeks’ instruction before they are admitted to the wards. Our probationers also attend lectures at the Dublin Metropolitan Technical School for Nurses. Have you any more questions?’
‘No, thank you, Miss Haughton.’ Muriel’s mouth felt horribly dry.
Suddenly the older woman closed the paper folder in front of her. The interview was at an end.
‘Miss Gifford, once we know the results of your English exam you will receive a letter confirming whether or not you have been accepted as a probationer here at Sir Patrick Dun’s. All decisions are final. There is no appeal process.’
‘I understand,’ Muriel said, pushing back her chair and standing up. ‘Thank you, Miss Haughton.’
Walking along Grand Canal Street she felt almost dizzy with relief that the ordeal was over and hoped fervently that she had met Miss Haughton’s stringent criteria.
Muriel was overjoyed when the official letter arrived from Sir Patrick Dun’s Hospital offering her a place as probationer nurse.
‘You will make a wonderful nurse,’ Nellie congratulated her warmly. ‘They are lucky to get you.’
Mother pursed her lips when Muriel showed her the letter. She and Father both tried to dissuade her from accepting the position, saying that nursing was too onerous a career for a bright, intelligent young woman of means.
‘My three sisters were wedded to their nursing careers and where did it get them?’ Mother proclaimed disapprovingly. ‘Spinsters, with no time for suitors or husbands.’
‘Nursing is important work,’ Father reminded her gently, ‘and Muriel is not like your sisters.’
‘You are over twenty-one, Muriel,’ Mother finally conceded, ‘and if this is what you want there is little your father and I can do to stop you.’
‘Mother, can’t you be happy for me, please?’
‘I am, dear, and naturally very proud that you are accepted by one of Dublin’s foremost hospitals, but—’
‘Please Mother – no buts!’
Father, despite his reservations, generously agreed to pay the hospital’s £25 enrolment fee and also to provide the money necessary for Muriel’s indoor and outdoor nurse’s uniforms.
‘You’ll probably meet a handsome doctor and fall madly in love,’ Sidney sighed enviously.
‘I will be far too busy working on the wards for something like that to happen,’ she retorted primly. ‘Nursing is very hard work.’
Her youngest sister could be annoying at times. Set on becoming a journalist, Sidney was already secretly submitting articles to a number of papers, some of which Mother and Father would certainly never approve of, including Mr Griffith’s Sinn Fein paper, which Claude called a Fenian rag.
‘Talk about surprising the mater and pater,’ joked Gabriel when he heard Muriel’s news. ‘You’re a beauty and they probably both thought they would have you married off to one of Claude’s boring rich legal friends by now!’
‘Don’t be such a tease,’ Muriel begged her brother. ‘I am doing exactly what I want to do.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Poor Mother.’