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A Diary Without Dates: Chapter 2, part 1
A Diary Without Chapter 2, part 1 (in First World War Centenary Prose Collection Vol. II )
II
INSIDE THE GLASS DOORS
My feet ache, ache, ache...!
End of the first day.
Life in a ward is all scurry and rush. I don't reflect; I'm putting on
my cap anyhow, and my hands are going to the dogs.
I shall never get to understand Sisters; they are so strange, so tricky,
uncertain as collies. Deep down they have an ineradicable that
any visitor, any one in an old musquash coat, in a high-boned collar, in
a spotted veil tied up at the sides, any one with whom one shakes hands
or takes tea, is more important than the most charming patient (except,
of course, a warded M.O.).
For this reason the "mouths" of the pillow-cases are all turned to face
up the ward, away from the door.
I think plants in a ward are a barbarism, for as they are always
arranged on the table by the door, it is again obvious that they are
intended only to minister to the eye of the visitor, that race of gods.
In our ward there are eighteen fern-pots, some in copper, some in pink
china, three in mauve paper, and one hanging basket of ferns. All of
these have to be taken out on the landing at night and in again in the
morning, and they have to be soaked under the tap.
The Sisters' minds are as yet too difficult for me, but in the minds of
the V.A.D.'s I see certain salient features. I see already manifested in
them the ardent longing to be alike. I know and remember this longing;
it was present through all my early years in a large boarding-school;
but there it was naturally corrected by the changes of growth and the
inexpertness of youth. Here I see for the first time grown women trying
with all the concentration of their fuller
II
INSIDE THE GLASS DOORS
My feet ache, ache, ache...!
End of the first day.
Life in a ward is all scurry and rush. I don't reflect; I'm putting on
my cap anyhow, and my hands are going to the dogs.
I shall never get to understand Sisters; they are so strange, so tricky,
uncertain as collies. Deep down they have an ineradicable that
any visitor, any one in an old musquash coat, in a high-boned collar, in
a spotted veil tied up at the sides, any one with whom one shakes hands
or takes tea, is more important than the most charming patient (except,
of course, a warded M.O.).
For this reason the "mouths" of the pillow-cases are all turned to face
up the ward, away from the door.
I think plants in a ward are a barbarism, for as they are always
arranged on the table by the door, it is again obvious that they are
intended only to minister to the eye of the visitor, that race of gods.
In our ward there are eighteen fern-pots, some in copper, some in pink
china, three in mauve paper, and one hanging basket of ferns. All of
these have to be taken out on the landing at night and in again in the
morning, and they have to be soaked under the tap.
The Sisters' minds are as yet too difficult for me, but in the minds of
the V.A.D.'s I see certain salient features. I see already manifested in
them the ardent longing to be alike. I know and remember this longing;
it was present through all my early years in a large boarding-school;
but there it was naturally corrected by the changes of growth and the
inexpertness of youth. Here I see for the first time grown women trying
with all the concentration of their fuller
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Published January 1, 2019
About the author
Enid Bagnold
67 books34 followersBritish writer of novels and plays, best known for National Velvet and The Chalk Garden.
For more information, please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enid_Bag...
For more information, please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enid_Bag...
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