Shadows of the Workhouse

night, attracted by the heat, and it was impossible to get rid of them. Only with the demolition of the Canada Buildings, a few years later, were the bugs destroyed.
    I stood there, rooted to the spot, my eyes darting around me to other areas of the room, feeling these vile creatures were everywhere. I imagined I was itching. My mind flitted to a horrible incident during my training when an old gypsy woman had been admitted to the ward on which I worked. She was gnarled and weather-beaten, and her long grey-black hair was matted and unwashed. On the third morning after her admission, the white pillow was entirely black, and we found it to be literally covered with fleas. Thousands of them had hatched from the eggs in her hair, due to the warmth of the hospital ward. I was one of the young nurses who was told to clean her up. She was aggressively resistant, and the fleas were hopping everywhere. It took days to get rid of them, and to rid ourselves of fleas. No wonder I began itching all over when I saw the bugs!
    Mr Collett could see neither the bugs on the wall nor the expression on my face, which was just as well. He rose, smiling, and held out his hand to say goodbye. With great difficulty I controlled myself and said goodbye, with renewed thanks for a lovely evening.
    Outside, I shuddered, as much from shock as from the cold air after the warm room. I got on my bike and rode back to Nonnatus House. A hot bath was the only thing on my mind.

THE RECRUITING SERGEANT

    Bugs crept and crawled through my dreams during half the night and seriously disturbed my sleep. I dreamed of a huge scaly creature that got bigger and bigger. It was poised to jump on me. It opened its horrible jaws and let out a ferocious “Aaaarrrgh”. I awoke with a scream. It was the alarm clock. Shaken and trembling, I looked fearfully around the walls. No bugs. I pulled back the curtains and examined the whole room. None. “I can’t go back there,” I thought, “it’s too horrible.”
    At breakfast, pale and heavy-eyed, I picked at my cornflakes in the big kitchen where we ate our breakfast at the large pine table.
    “What the hell’s the matter with you?” said Trixie, sharply. “I thought you had been to see an old man of nearly eighty last night. Or did we get it wrong? Is he nearly eighteen?”
    “Oh shut up, you cynical cat,” I muttered crossly, and told the girls about the bugs. They gasped with horror and Trixie, being the most affected, threatened to strangle me if I said another word. Cynthia gazed at me in sympathy, and Chummy said: “Great Jehosaphat! How perfectly ghastly. What did you do, actually?”
    A suppressed sound came from somewhere in the region of the boiler. It was a kind of gurgling, a spluttering, like a valve leaking. We had forgotten Fred, the boiler man and odd-job man for the convent, who was crouched on the floor among the ashes. The splutterings became louder and more frequent, ending in a long-drawn-out wheeze. I could see that Fred understood and sympathised with my experience. But did he? He took a deep breath, threw back his head, and bellowed with laughter. His eyes watered. He coughed, and the fag shot off his lower lip to a distance of three or four feet. His skinny body fell forward onto his knees, and he shook with laughter. He took a grimy handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
    “You girls’ll be the death of me, you will. Cor bli’! I’ll shi’ me breeks if you goes on like vis. You wai’ till I tells ve ol’ girl. She’ll pee ’er drawers, she will. Likes a good laugh, she do, bu’ can never ’old ’er water, poor soul.”
    I was deeply offended. This was not a suitable reaction to my experience.
    Fred saw my expression, and went off into another paroxysm of wheezing and coughing. “Who’ a lo’ o’ fuss abou’ a few bugs!” he exclaimed when he could speak.
    “There weren’t a few, there were thousands,” I said indignantly.
    “Great Jehosaphat! How perfectly ghastly . Tell me, what did you do, actually?” he said wickedly, mimicking Chummy’s plummy accent. She coloured deeply, and looked uncomfortable. Most of the Cockneys made fun of Chummy’s accent, but Fred had not done so before. She was hurt, and I was cross with Fred on her account.
    “I didn’t do anything,” I said sharply. “It’s none of your business anyway, and I assure you it was perfectly ghastly, so there.”
    He curled up again in another paroxysm of laughter.