‘Stick the kettle on, Alex, I’m gasping for a cuppa.’
I hear Becky call, and the slam of the door, thud of her bag full of papers on the dresser, clatter of her keys landing in the dish she keeps beside the half-dead geranium that’s keeling over on a stand in the hall.
Jess got back from a weekend in Bournemouth an hour or so ago. I was sleeping off a night shift when I heard her coming upstairs and the sound of the shower turning on. It’s nice that she’s back. I don’t know why, but I like it when everyone’s here. I fill the kettle and put it on to boil, absent-mindedly picking up some dishes from the draining board and stacking them on the shelf. The dishwasher’s on the blink again – I got home at half ten this morning to find it had sicked up grey water all over the floor, and I stood for about five night-shift-fuzzy minutes trying to decide if the right thing to do would be to a) pretend I hadn’t seen it and leave it for someone else to deal with or b) unload the half-washed dishes and stack them up by the sink. In the end, I’d given a fairly hefty sigh then got on with it. Meanwhile, someone else had clearly washed them and left them to dry – most likely Rob. He was a stickler for a tidy kitchen.
With the dishes sorted and the surfaces wiped, I sit down at the kitchen table with a couple of pieces of toast. I’m so tired I feel like I’ve got jet lag, only without the exotic holiday to show for it. And with tiredness comes all the feelings I try to keep squashed down with work and the gym and all the other stuff people do to get a handle on emotional crap. I feel a bit shit that I haven’t been able to make it back down to Kent for Mother’s Day today, because I worked a late shift yesterday and I’ve got an assignment due next week that I’ve barely started, so I blew way more money than I can afford sending Mum a massive bunch of flowers. And then I went for a run, even though I was completely knackered. It helped, a bit. Not as much as the delicious three hours of sleep I’ve just had, mind you.
The guilt’s worse now that Dad’s gone, of course. My big sister Mel’s in finance, and she’s working in New York on secondment, which is a pretty reasonable excuse not to be able to make it, but it feels a bit crap to be an hour away on the train and stuck here in London because I’ve got an assignment to get done and I’ve worked a weekend shift. It’s weird. I knew that we’d be thrown straight into placements in our first year, but I thought there’d be a bit more time to – I dunno. Breathe, maybe?
Nursing’s way more all-consuming than law. I can’t help thinking of all the friends who took the piss when I told them I was leaving. They thought I couldn’t hack the pace at work, but the irony is nursing is way more pressurised than anything I experienced in law. If I’m not writing essays or studying for never-ending maths tests for medication dosage formulas, I’m cramming in a couple of agency shifts to get a bit of extra money coming in. Thank God for Becky – if she hadn’t offered me a room in this place, I’d have spent every last penny on rent before I’d reached the end of my first year. As it is, money’s tight. Rob’s promised to give us another lesson in baking our own bread one day this week – he’s got a couple of days off, and nothing to do in them, he says – so perhaps I can save some money by making all my own sandwiches from scratch.
‘Look what I’ve got.’ Becky appears in the kitchen, wearing a fluffy cat onesie. I assume she’s been upstairs to change in record time, rather than going to Costco wearing it.
Jess appears moments after. She looks tired as well – it’s like we’ve all got sleeping sickness. She puts a hand to her mouth, suppressing a massive yawn.
‘Cock Soup?’ I say, peering at the sachet Becky’s holding. She snorts with laughter.
‘It was on special offer. I got loads of noodles, too. We can split the cost.’
‘Soup, made from cocks,’ I say slowly.
Becky starts laughing. ‘I like a nice cock in my soup,’ she manages.
I don’t know why, but for some reason Becky goes into hysterics and it’s contagious. It’s a good five minutes before we stop laughing, and my stomach muscles are killing me.
‘I am not eating that,’ Jess says, wiping her eyes.
‘It’s good for you. Packed with—’ Becky turns the pack over and scans the ingredients ‘—monosodium glutamate and chicken flavouring. Mmm.’
‘I’d rather starve,’ Jess says.
‘You’re going to have to, unless you’ve got any other plans for making the rest of your crappy paycheque stretch.’ Becky throws her a packet.
‘I bet it’s not that bad. Try it. Delicious salty goodness.’
‘Don’t start that again.’
Emma comes in at that point. She’s looking pissed off about something, and she doesn’t stay in the kitchen long before heading upstairs telling us she’s going to have a bath. I hang around, watching as Becky checks the kitchen cupboards for signs of the mouse, even though I know I should go upstairs and get to work on the assignment that’s due next week. In the end, I compromise and get my laptop and my notes and take them into the sitting room where Rob’s watching the Arsenal match.
‘They’re playing like shit, man,’ he says, offering me a beer.
‘I shouldn’t, I’ve got work to do,’ I say, shaking my head, but he gives me a sceptical look and extends his arm a bit further, waggling the bottle under my nose.
‘Go on, then. You’ve twisted my arm.’
Predictably I end up spending more time watching the match than I do on the assignment. Rob’s easy company, which helps. He’s not one of those blokes who watches the football and screams at the TV – probably because it’s not his team playing (he’s a Liverpool supporter), but also because he’s pretty laid-back by nature, as I’m discovering now we’re spending more time together. His odd hours and mine seem to overlap, so we’re spending more time than I expected just hanging out, cooking and watching television.
‘How’s it going?’ He indicates the printouts and the laptop, now sitting on the coffee table.
‘Good,’ I say.
‘You’re not missing the legal stuff?’
‘God, no.’ I shake my head vigorously.
‘I reckon when you start a career as an adult, you’ve got more of an idea what you’re getting yourself into,’ he says, in his gruff Glaswegian burr. ‘I used to work in construction management,’ he continues.
‘Really?’ I ask, trying not to sound surprised. He doesn’t really look the type.
‘Aye. Gave it all up and went back to college when I was about the same age you are now. Everyone thought I was off my head.’
‘And no regrets?’
He gives a deep laugh. ‘I wouldnae mind doing a few less split shifts, but they come wi’ the job. I bet you’d no’ say no to a nine to five nursing job if one came up when you graduated.’
‘They’re rarer than hen’s teeth,’ I say.
‘Aye, exactly. But you wouldn’t give it up, would you?’
I shake my head again. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Weird, isn’t it? I guess that’s why they talk about vocations. You must’ve been born to it and it just took a while to find out.’
I think about the nurses in the hospital when Dad was sick, and the palliative care nurses in the day hospice in his final days: their kindness and the way they always seemed to hold it together no matter what was going on.
I recall a recent shift when I’d had a really hard night working as an HCA on a geriatric ward, doing a bit of agency work, and I’d been covered from head to toe in – well, let’s just say I pretty much had to hose myself down afterwards. One of the nurses had got wind of the fact that I was a career changer and she’d been pretty catty about it. I’d been given all the crappy jobs – literally – but there was no way I was being accused of being ‘too posh to wash’ by the others on shift. So, I rolled up my sleeves and got on with it. By the end of the evening, the entire ward had been given a personal hygiene wash – head to toe, and everything else in between – and the sarky nurse had buttoned it.
Rob’s right. Placements are long, the essays are never-ending, but I still don’t regret it one bit.
Becky pops her head round the door. She’s all dressed up, and tells us she’s off to meet some friends from work. The fact that it’s a Sunday night means nothing to her – she’s always up for a night out. I pick up my assignment and head upstairs, saying goodnight to Rob, quietly convinced that I’ve done the right thing. It’s a good feeling.