Shadows of the Workhouse

nowhere to sit down. I had to hold Mr Collett’s pipe and matches whilst he cut up the tobacco. He filled the pipe and lit it, and, with a satisfied sigh, exhaled clouds of thick smoke. “Luxury,” he murmured, “sheer luxury.”
    I noticed the way he was standing. It was not good. He was shuffling from one leg to the other, and taking a few steps backwards and forwards. I didn’t like the signs. People with leg ulcers can usually walk, but standing still in one place is nearly impossible for them. I asked him how his legs were, and who was treating them.
    “Well, I can do it myself.”
    “Yes, but do you?”
    “Now and again, lass, now and again.”
    “How often? Every day?”
    “Well, not quite every day; but enough, quite enough.”
    “Do the staff renew the dressings?”
    “They looked at them when I first came here, but I don’t recall since.”
    I was silent. Two months, no trained person dressing the ulcers or supervising his treatment. It was not good enough. I said, “I would like to have a look at them.”
    “Another time. Another time. I’m enjoying the fresh air, and the pipe, and, above all, your company. I know you’ll have to go soon and I don’t want to spoil it. You can look at my legs another day.”
    He was right. The time was drawing near to 4 p.m., and my evening visits. I could not linger, so I kissed him tenderly, and left him with his pipe, and a rare smile on his face.

THE LAST POST

    Something told me that Mr Collett did not have long to live. I was anxious about his legs, but apart from that I could see that he would never adapt to the communal life of St Mark’s. Sister Julienne had been quite right, I discovered. The unpleasant surroundings meant nothing to him at all. The tiny bed in a dormitory with about seventy other men was quite acceptable. In fact, he described himself as “Very comfortable. Doing nicely. They are very good to us here.” So if he had no complaints about the conditions, I realised that I should not. His trouble was chronic loneliness, and the inability to adjust to change.
    On two occasions when I visited I asked to see his legs, but he prevaricated, making different excuses each time, and I didn’t think I could force the issue. The next occasion when I called he was not at his usual table. The man who generally sat opposite him pointed to the dormitory and said, “He ain’t got up today.”
    I went to the dormitory, and in the fifteenth bed on the right Mr Collett lay motionless. I looked at him for a long time from the doorway, hating myself for hating the smell, and for not wanting to approach the bed. A sort of dread had entered my heart, and I wanted to turn and run.
    He moved and coughed slightly, and this set me in action. I went up to his bed, kissed him, and whispered, “It’s me. Are you all right? It’s not like you to stop in bed.”
    He took my hands and kissed them, and murmured that he would be all right by and by.
    I sat beside him, not talking, squeezing his hand from time to time, thinking, If he stays here, not moving, for several days he will get pneumonia, and that will be it. Pneumonia is the old man’s friend, they say. A quiet and peaceful end. I hope he goes that way in his sleep. What greater blessing can we ask at the end of life?
    Then it occurred to me that, whilst he was lying in bed, it would be easy to look at his legs, so I asked him if I could. He neither agreed nor disagreed, but seemed indifferent.
    I pulled the blankets away from the foot of the bed, and the stench of decaying flesh rose to greet me. A rough, fluid-sodden bandage covered each leg, and I unwound them with difficulty. I had no surgical forceps, or scissors, and had to do it with my fingers. The bandages looked as though they had not been changed for a fortnight, and were stuck to the flesh underneath. As I tried to ease them away I thought I might be hurting him, but he did not move, nor show any sign of pain or distress.
    At last the wounds were fully exposed. I had to grip the iron bedstead, and call upon all my nurse’s training of discipline and self-control to avoid crying out. From the knee to the ankle there was no skin at all, just livid, suppurating flesh, oozing pus and blood. Daylight was fading fast, and the dim electric-light bulb hanging from the ceiling was no great help, but I thought I could see traces of black around the edge of the wound. I looked down at his feet. The toes looked greyish and swollen, one or two of