Shadows of the Workhouse

by Jennifer Worth

Life turns on little things. The momentous events in history can leave us untouched, while small events may shape our destinies.

Health is the greatest of God’s gifts, but we take it for granted; yet it hangs on a thread as fine as a spider’s web and the tiniest thing can make it snap, leaving the strongest of us helpless in an instant.

If there is one thing that a dying person needs more than relief from pain, it is love.

More than anything else a dying person needs to have someone with them. This used to be recognised in hospitals, and when I trained, no one ever died alone. However busy the wards, or however short of staff, a nurse was always assigned to sit with a dying person to hold their hand, stroke their forehead, whisper a few words. Peace and quietness, even reverence for the dying, were expected and assured.

“Women had no voice in any matter. It had been the same for centuries. That is what we fought for.” Her eyes flashed and she banged the desk. “Independence for women. Freedom from male dominance.”

I’ve no time for suffragettes. They made the biggest mistake in history. They went for equality. They should have gone for power!”

Men are brutes at heart, and without the civilising influence of women they quickly revert to savagery.

With exquisite irony, in today’s permissive society, when anything goes and nurses can do whatever they like sexually, the uniform has changed beyond all recognition, and the average nurse now looks like a sack of potatoes tied in the middle, often wearing trousers rather than sexy black stockings.

“You know the secret of life, my dear, because you know how to love.”