To Sark and Beyond

By Christine Davies Curtis

In ‘To Sark and Beyond’ Chris Davies Curtis has combined her three previous books, ‘So You Want to Live on Sark,’ ‘From a Feudal Isle to Aotearoa,’ and ‘From Queen’s Nurse to Godzone.’ Starting dramatically with her experiences as a district nurse in London in the early 1960s, where she visits her patients by bicycle, we then move to Sark. In this tiny feudal British Channel Island, she and husband Ken open a guest house and develop a smallholding with 200 hens, goats, bees and the donkey, Pedro. They have to learn to milk: grade and sell eggs: extract honey and drive a donkey cart. As Chris is also the Island Nurse, we meet many of her patients and share in sad and happy occasions. After a tragic accident, when she nearly lost her son Roy, they decided to explore New Zealand. There are many interesting stories about experiences on the ship on the way out, and the ports of call. Arriving in Auckland Chris gets a job as Matron of a small hospital for a while, and the three Davies then bought a Bedford van and toured ‘Godzone’ for two years. When they ran out of money, they worked in a motel in the South Island of New Zealand, driving guests to picnics by horse and carriage. They fell in love with this beautiful country and emigrated in 1976. The final part of this entertaining book describes Chris’ experiences as a District Nurse in a large rural area, just north of Auckland where she was the only nurse and was on 24 hour call.
The whole book is full of illustrations drawn by the author, and many black and white photographs.
People have said ‘I just had to read to the end: I couldn’t put them down.’ Now everything is under one cover and in chronological order with a few additions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Davies Curtis
• Release date: Jul 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311495068

Christine Davies Curtis

Chris Davies Curtis now lives in the north of Auckland, in Whangaparaoa, Auckland, New Zealand to be near son Roy and family. Much of her very adventurous life has been spent as a community nurse, in London, the tiny feudal Island of Sark in the British Channel Isles, and New Zealand. She also ran a guest house and smallholding in Sark and toured New Zealand for two years in a Bedford van. She has travelled extensively, and now is writing about her experiences, self-illustrating her books.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

‘In here, deary; oo is it?’

‘Queen’s District nurse.’

The patient was enormous, half sitting, half lying in a filthy chair, legs propped on a wooden box.

‘Sorry, can’t get up. It’s me legs, yer see. An’ ‘ow is the dear Lady, then?’

I had become used to people asking after our Queen Elizabeth’s health and had to disillusion patients by explaining that I had not just come hotfoot from Buckingham Palace.

I looked with horror at the swollen, weeping legs. Ulcers encircled each leg almost from knee to ankle, with dirty dressings draped around. There was a strong smell of urine, and I realised part of the moisture was from external contamination.

‘I can’t get down yer see; I catches me legs.’

I did the best I could and hoped I had made things a little more comfortable, but it was a little like trying to treat a gaping wound with a sticking plaster. I knew next day the situation would be as bad and nurses would be calling for years, never seeing any improvement. However Mrs Betts enjoyed the visits, and I was able to spend a little time chatting but I drew the line at a cup of tea.

Accepting refreshment was always a difficult situation. The basic hygiene so often was just that; very basic. Several of the houses had no running water, just a communal tap. Water had to be collected from a standpipe nearby for everything so its use was often minimal. It was difficult to refuse the odd cup of tea, especially when the patient had been looking forward to a daily visit from someone from the ‘outside world’, often the only visitor of the day. I had heard about the sociability of the East End, but this area of London was different.

The population was not static, with comings and goings, and neighbours seldom communicating. By the time I had qualified as a Queens Institute District Nurse in 1963, husband Ken and I had lived in our flat for several years and had never seen the people in the house on one side, though we did become friendly with the others.

Many of my patients lived alone, so getting into the house was often a problem if they had no neighbours with a key. Those that were on daily long-term visits often gave one to the district nursing headquarters. Woe betide the nurse who forgot to collect a key at the beginning of her visits. It meant a long cycle back to the rooms to collect it.

I remember one lady I had to visit for the first time gave instructions that the nurse was to put her hand through the letter box and locate the string that was hanging inside, with the key attached and pull it through to open the door. What she omitted to say was that she had a large dog with her in the house.

Each time I opened the letterbox flap and started to put my hand through, the dog started to bark and I could feel his hot breath. After several attempts I was becoming frustrated and angry: I had a lot of visits that day.

I do not normally swear but in desperation shouted through the open letter box; ‘Oh b….ger off you stupid dog!’ He yelped and shot off under the patient’s bed, refusing to move until I left. After that we understood each other.

London in the early 60s still had many tenement buildings. Flats on the three or four stories led onto an open landing exposed to the elements and with a communal lavatory, usually overflowing, at each end. Lifts seldom worked and often smelled as if used as a toilet. Stairs were dark and echoing, but we nurses never felt threatened or in danger, even during evening visits. There was still, then, respect for the medical profession.

Some houses we visited in London had been large family homes in Victorian times: now divided into apartment and bedsitting rooms, or ‘bedsits’. These consisted of a single room which doubled as bedroom and sitting room often with a corner screened off as a kitchen. No microwaves in those days: a cooker and sink if you were lucky, but more likely a gas ring and jug and bowl. Toilets were shared and possibly a general bathroom with gas geyser to heat the water and a slot meter to give a few inches of tepid water for a bath. Occasionally there might be a house phone in the entrance hall, but usually you had to look for a public call box that worked. Most of them did, too, as vandalism was not a big issue, and in those days you never knew when a public phone would be needed.

Many of these houses were owned by immigrants, and they overfilled them with their relatives. I used to wonder how they ever survived, packed two and three families to a bedsit. Attending to their medical needs was a permanent problem, and privacy non-existent. Most of these people were not well off and sometimes in the colder weather stayed huddled in bed to keep warm.

One day I had to give an injection to an old lady I had not visited before. I prepared the syringe and called over to the bed, ‘Mrs Popolous, just stick your leg out of the bed, no need to come out in the cold.’ I duly gave the injection, but as I turned round to pack my things away, two more heads appeared from the mound of bedclothes. I hoped I had given it to the right patient!

I discovered that nursing patients in their own homes was a far cry from the sanitised hospital conditions I had recently left after passing my State Registration Exams. I had always wanted to nurse in the community and as soon as I could after my general nursing training, took the Queens Institute of District Nursing course in London where I had moved after I married. It had been an intensive four months, and after an exam we were let loose on the unsuspecting public. For a while I was under the supervision of a senior nurse but as staff was short, soon had my own district in Finsbury Park, North London, not far from Holloway where we had a flat.

Each day I had to cycle a mile or so to the headquarters in Tollington Park and service my bag, pick up a clean apron, and have my daily patient allocation. In the evening another ride back to write up notes, clean the bag and put in a new linen liner and leave it ready for the next day. Those were the days before pre-packaged dressings and sterilised instruments and syringes. We each had our own instruments and boilable syringes and needles. Needles were used again and again until they became blunt, or a hook formed at the tip. The trick was to run the tip over a piece of cotton-wool, and if it snagged a thread, it was decided to pension it off.

Dressings and cotton-wool balls were prepared and sterilised in metal biscuit tins in the oven. Instruments were boiled at each patient’s house. A pan of boiling water, with a cup and saucer for lotion and dressings, was waiting at the patient’s house. As the nurse arrived, she put her instruments or syringe into the pan and let them boil for five minutes, then drained the water away. By the time the patient was ready, instruments were usually cooled sufficiently to handle, though we all learned to harden our fingers, and for years afterwards I could hold hot dishes and plates when others burned themselves.

My area was quite large, and patients were often difficult to locate as it was a heavily populated part of London. There were many immigrants, mainly from the West Indies and Cyprus, particularly the Turkish part. At that time there was friction between the Turkish and Greeks living in Cypress and much of the discord was brought with the immigrating families. I had dealings mainly with groups of Turkish families and always found them pleasant and very hospitable; too much so when I had a lot of visits. It was hard to refuse the sweet, strong Turkish coffee accompanied by syrupy, sesame seeded pastries. I watched with interest the ritualistic preparation in copper, long-handled pans while I was attending to my patient. I also watched my expanding waistline.

I often found it difficult to communicate with the women who were usually kept away from Western influences and were not allowed to learn English. I had to use an interpreter, who was often a young schoolboy. As some of the treatment was relating to female problems, situations could get a little embarrassing for all concerned.

I had, of course had similar problems in my training in Birmingham, but now I was on my own, and nursing in a patient’s home.

‘Remember’, we were told by the district nurse tutor, ‘you are a guest in your patient’s home. You have no divine right to be there and you must always respect your patient’s belongings and way of life.’

CHAPTER 2

Over the years that I was a district nurse in London, some of the patients became friends. Daily visits and intimate care made for a unique relationship with them.

One such was old Mrs Pettigrew. At 90 she still had an acute interest in anything I would care to talk about. Blind and a survivor of bowel cancer, she was unable to care for the colostomy that had been necessary to save her life. This unpleasant artificial bowel opening in the lower abdomen had to have a bag attached and changed on a daily basis; a totally impossible activity for the old lady. The problem was that she sometimes did try to change it, or on occasion it leaked: often there was an unpleasant mess to clear up and sometimes her hands showed the evidence. Fortunately she had indoor plumbing and an old stone sink, although her toilet was outside. She managed well in her three-roomed downstairs flat, and knew where everything was. I had to make sure I did not move anything from its accustomed place.

I tried to allow a longer visit than the usual fifteen minutes as I needed tact to make the old, sensitive lady comfortable. So we chatted while I gave treatment. She told me of her life as a teacher, and she was in turn interested in my recent marriage, my brilliant brother David at Cambridge University, and my parents recently moved to Sudbury in Suffolk.

One day when I arrived, she was excited.

‘Guess what, Nurse Chrissie,’ she exclaimed as I walked in the door, ‘the local social workers think I need a holiday and I am off next week to a rest home in Brighton for a week. I haven’t a thing to wear!’

We spent extra time sorting through her clothes, most of which were good quality and just needed a wash and iron. I promised to do that for her and we spent an exciting week planning her first holiday in years.

While she was away I missed my regular visits and was pleased when Betty Pettigrew returned, although I knew part of the plan was to try and introduce the idea of a rest home on a permanent basis.

The old lady was quiet while I attended to her needs, and as we sat down for a cup of tea I asked her how she had enjoyed herself.

‘Well, dear, it was very nice, but I prefer my own home.’ She smiled a little to herself. ‘Mind you it had its moments; there was a lovely man there that was very friendly: he asked me to marry him.’

I looked at the old lady in surprise. ‘Well, and did you accept?’

‘Oh no, dear, he was far too young. He was only 75!’

For the rest of the day this returned to give me great amusement, and I was secretly relieved that I would not be losing one of my special patients just yet.

I tried not to have favourites, but I found the old man who lived in the flat above Mrs Pettigrew difficult and taciturn. I only had to visit him on one occasion, and he would not let me into the bedroom. I had a small dressing to do and so agreed to stay in the kitchen.

Some months afterwards I learned he had been admitted into an old people’s home and a social worker arrived to sort out his belongings. I was attending to Betty Pettigrew when the social worker whom I knew, came rushing downstairs.

‘Quick, Chris come upstairs; I need your help!’

Bemused I followed her into the bedroom. There was money everywhere; spilling from drawers; sticking out of a vase and even peeping from under the mattress.

‘What on earth. . .?’

‘Well he had social security extra payments as we thought he needed the money: apparently he did not!’

We counted over 400 pounds: a small fortune in those days. I could not help but wonder at a system that had apparently not checked on a person’s needs. We bundled up the notes and the social worker went off in her little car and I continued with my rounds on my bicycle. I did not envy her driving around London, except in the winter and when it was raining.

Our uniform consisted of a pillbox-type hat with the ‘Queens’ badge, and a heavy navy-blue coat for the winter. Dresses were blue with a detachable starched collar and starched white apron that was folded into our visiting bag while travelling and buttoned onto our uniforms when treating a patient. We had waterproof capes with hoods in wet weather. I used to wear thick black bloomers underneath my skirt; it got pretty chilly cycling around. In the really bad weather I walked everywhere. Some of the nurses walked all the time, but I enjoyed cycling and was used to holidays with my husband Ken, touring around England by bike.

Ken and I had met on a youth hostel pony trekking holiday in Devon during my first year of training. There had been eight of us: two men and six girls and we soon got on friendly terms. Ken was older than the rest of us and seemed to me to be a man of the world. He was quite serious but I did get him to join in some of the fun. I was not too kind at first and teased him about his riding. His horse was called Satan, but there was little fire in his soul. Poor Ken was always a hill behind trying to urge his steed to a faster gait.

Once he became so annoyed with me that he shut me in a broom cupboard. I enjoyed the physical contact of the ensuing tussle and it was at that point I realised I was seriously attracted to him as I wished he had joined me. Ken must have felt some attraction too, as he kept in contact although I was in Birmingham training to be a nurse and he was in London working for an advertising firm.

For three years we met when we could and it was obvious that he was serious but I would not commit myself until I had finished my training, but as soon as my final results were out Ken gave me an ultimatum. I had been helping him with a badminton youth club he ran in a rough part of North London. In a quiet moment he suddenly turned to me and said, ‘Well, it is decision time, either we get engaged, or it is all off!’

Many of my friends had been getting married: I was tired after the nursing training, and I thought I was in love with this man. So I said, ‘O.K let’s get engaged on Valentine’s day.’ So we did: not the most romantic proposal, but neither was Ken.

We married at a local church with my brother as best man and my parents travelling down to London. The youth club gave us a triumphal arch of badminton rackets. It was certainly a novelty.

Ken’s father was a builder-decorator and had a house in Holloway, not far from the prison, which he had renovated into flats. He let us have one, and then offered us the whole house to buy from him at a no-interest rate. We were both working, so jumped at the chance. It was a lovely terraced house, with a small garden at the back. An older couple lived in the bottom flat, consisting of a kitchen, lounge and bedroom, a washroom and an outside toilet. There was also a basement room that had been used as coal storage, and Ken and I converted it eventually into a study. It was always pretty cold and dark, and neither of us used it, but it was good for storage.

We shared the front door and entrance lobby with our tenants and a steep flight of lino-covered stairs led to the first half-floor where we had our kitchen and bathroom. The bathroom was shared with old Miss Dobbs who had a bedsit at the top of the house. She was a deaf but very chatty lady and had a habit of popping into the kitchen without knocking when she knew I was home. Until one day when I was doing the washing.

I had a modern washing machine from Ken as a wedding present. It had twin tubs: one for washing and the other for rinsing and spin drying. The spin dryer had a hole in the lid and the idea was to attach a hose to the tap and let the other end rest in the hole to spray water into the revolving clothes. It was important not to put the hose too far in, as the end could be tangled in the clothes, the tap end whipped off and the hose whirled round the kitchen spraying water in all directions. This happened one eventful afternoon, just as Miss Dobbs opened the kitchen door. She retreated dripping, and ever after knocked on the door before being invited in.

The rest of the house consisted of a fair-sized bedroom and large lounge up another flight of stairs with Miss Dobb’s room above our bedroom and a spare room above our lounge. There was a lot of decorating to do, but we were both practical and found time between our jobs and running the youth club.

Ken had started the youth club long before I knew him. It was loosely connected with the local Anglican Church where we had been married, but it was not compulsory for the young people to attend services. Most of the youngsters were from the poorer areas around and it was designed to keep them off the streets. It was mainly to encourage badminton playing, and indeed it was where I learned a sport I grew to love and play quite well.

There was a social side too, and we hit on the idea of night hikes in the summer. A week or two before Midsummer Day Ken and I would ride our bikes down a canal path and out to the Epping Forest. We planned to take the club members on a walk over fields and through hedges till we reached an area called Box Hill where we would be able to see the sunrise.

On the right weekend we set off with most of the club members by bus and then foot on the route we had planned. Many of the youngsters had never been out of London and it was a delight to watch their faces as they heard the birds and looked at the trees and meadows. Towards sunset we settled down with flasks of soup and sandwiches and slept a little. By five am, it was beginning to get light and everyone was roused to watch the sun rise and listen to the dawn chorus.

On the whole I think it was enjoyed, if only as a novel experience, though one youngster summed it up by his comment. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do with all that space.’

Another annual club social was a bonfire night party to commemorate Guy Fawkes’ abortive effort to burn the British Parliament in the seventeenth century. All over Britain bonfires were lit and fireworks set off on November 5th each year. In London there were less open spaces to build a bonfire, but not to be outdone some of our club members decided the partially flat roof of our hall was ideal. Fortunately Ken decided to check on the premises in case a stray firework landed near.

‘That looks like a fire,’ Ken exclaimed, and sure enough we discovered a bonfire had just been lit. Fortunately it was only a small fire and soon extinguished to the cries of ‘spoilsport.’ Ken suggested we have a proper celebration on a nearby piece of waste land. So began our yearly bonfire with potatoes roast in the fire and hot soup that I made and brought in cans on an old pram.

CHAPTER 3

Gradually the strangeness of marriage was diluted by familiarity and delight in my nursing profession. I found people fascinating and where but their own environment to study them? During my training in large hospitals I was frustrated by the artificiality of their care in an institution. Early on I had noticed how many patients responded to their visitors and could not wait to be home again. I also noted the different attitudes of some patients. There certainly was a difference in the recovery of the ‘cup half empty’ ones to those that had a positive attitude. Much later, when I became interested in complementary medicine and Homeopathy in particular, I realised how accurate my first observations were.

Nursing people in their own homes was a revelation. Looking past the difficult sanitary arrangements I saw how people made the best of the situation. After all everyone was in the same boat. The bugs and bacteria had not learned to be resistant: children played in the mud and did not get ill: boiling instruments and baking dressings sterilized sufficiently, and any bugs in the home belonged there, where the residents had developed their own resistance. It was very rare for wounds to become infected.

Much of my work was social, though there were of course social workers but they were thin on the ground. We nurses who visited frequently often had a pulse on the home environment. Sometimes it was difficult not to become too involved.

It was nearing Christmas of my first year and I had a young single parent family in my care. Sadly Josie had cancer and it was unlikely that she would see another year. She was always cheerful and cared for her six-year old daughter Suzie, and four-year old son Paul with all the little energy she had. They lived in a tiny bedsit right at the top of a house, with the kitchen just on the landing. It was always spotless, but as the festive season approached Josie became more and more withdrawn. Finally I tackled her, and she admitted that she did not know how to give her children a special Christmas, as she knew it may be her last.

‘The trouble is, Chris, I just don’t have the energy to shop and cook the dinner, or get presents, even if I had the money.’

I thought for a while and then had an idea. ‘Just leave it with me.’

Next Club day I told the young people about my problem. ‘That’s O.K Mrs Chris,’ several of them exclaimed; ‘We’ll sort it.’ And they did. A whip-round collected enough to buy a few presents. The social department had offered to buy a chicken and I had a spare pudding as I usually made mine.

On Christmas Day we went late in the morning and cooked the Christmas Lunch. Ken and I were due at his parents for an evening meal so it fitted in well. It was wonderful to see the children’s faces as they unwrapped their presents and we left the young family as they settled to their meal.

I had several days leave, so it was a week before I called to see Josie again. I was surprised that she had not been on my visiting list, but assumed someone else had been calling in my absence. I dropped in anyway, but as I walked up the stairs it was strangely silent.

‘They’ve gone’ called the woman in the flat below, poking her head out of her door as she heard my footsteps.

‘Oh, dear, where have they gone?’

‘She collapsed and she went off to hospital; kids have gone into care.’

I felt my eyes prickle as I quickly let myself out of the house. I knew I should not get involved, but how could you give care without compassion. I had to learn the hard way the optimum balance of care and disassociation. It took many years, and twelve years later, as a rural district nurse in New Zealand, on 24-hour call it became essential.

I was beginning to find, after a few years in London that I missed the countryside where I had spent most of my life before I took up nursing. For the time being Ken and I continued our city life, taking Youth Hostel holidays cycling and hitch-hiking round Britain, as we both loved the countryside. We had discovered the tiny Feudal Island of Sark in the British Channel Islands, having spent our honeymoon there, and we decided to have a longer holiday on Sark in 1965. It was to be a momentous time in our lives.

CHAPTER 4

Ken and I had long talked of a family business, ‘but not a guest house . . . unless it was on Sark!’ I used to say, thinking that possibility was safely remote. I loved people: as a District Nurse I had to: I also loved cooking, but housework and cleaning left me cold. We decided to spend part of our holiday looking at available properties and consider what sort of business might be possible.

‘Just to see what prices they sell at,’ we both agreed.

There were few officially, but as with any small community word travelled and we soon had quite a list of places to visit. With only 500 permanent residents this tiny Island measured just three miles by one and a half miles. The terrain was quite varied. On first sight from the sea the high cliffs of the Island plateau gave a barren and windswept appearance, but as soon as the steep hill was reached from the harbour there was an altogether different aspect. A road wound up one of several wooded valleys that were tucked away from the strong winds. Wild flowers peppered slopes under sycamore, ash and alder trees. On the top of the Island elm trees bent together to meet over the dirt roads, making leafy tunnels in summer. Roads were bordered by waist high banks, covered with wild flowers.

Every field, wood, valley and cliff of this unique Feudal State was owned by someone. The division of the Island’s varied acres went back 400 years to the time of Elizabeth 1st. The Queen decreed that there must be at least forty families resident at all times.

The Island had at that time been divided into forty ‘Tenements’ or freeholds, each having both good farm land and a piece of cliff or ‘Cotils’. Those freeholds as planned by the first ‘Seigneur’ or ruler, Helier de Carteret in 1565, still existed. Holdings could not be split by law. As they were often several acres, with one or two houses on them, prices were well out of most people’s reach. So the problem of housing was usually solved by taking a long lease at ground rent, and building a new house. These would be more within our pocket, had we been looking for a property, but there was none available.

Gradually the magic of the Island wove its spell, and before long we found ourselves seriously thinking of leaving London and moving to Sark. We followed any lead. There was the old farm house that we felt had possibilities, until we found a stream running under the kitchen floor and there was the lovely, but isolated and finally too expensive, converted barracks.

A visit to a local character who knew most of the Island’s business was an idea recommended to us. He was a retired accountant and the room he showed us into was piled from floor to ceiling with ledgers and papers. Sweeping clear areas for us to sit, he produced huge tumblers of potent homemade wine. ‘If you see a place you like, knock on the door and ask if they would like to sell.’ He took a swig from his tumbler, while I made a tentative sip at mine, nearly choking.

‘Now there is a nice place in the north of the Island. Made of stone and has a lovely garden,’ he grinned at us. ‘Make a nice big guest house. There’s only an old lady living in it.’ Our hopes rose for a moment, and then we realised he was talking about the ‘Seigneurie’; the home of the legendary ‘Dame of Sark’ and current ruler of the Island.

Finally we decided to go ahead with a property in one of the wooded valleys, which still had part of an ancient monastery in its garden. The only drawback being that it was on an annual rent. Having done our homework and realising we could afford this cottage, it only remained to see the owner who had been away.

‘Sorry,’ he said, but did not look it. ‘No way will I let it be used for P.G’s; even less will I let it be used to house old people brought into the island for the purpose!’

This last shot floored me, until I realised the power and inaccuracy of local gossip. Knowing I was a nurse, it was assumed I was opening an old people’s home.

All our eggs having been completely shattered, and with just two days to go of our holiday, we decided to look at a property called ‘Camp Farm.’ This was an unusual freehold, in that it was a small two acre holding, but was not one of the Tenements. Some time in the distant past it had been split from the main holding.

The bungalow was solid and built of cedar shingles just after the Second World War by the couple who were now selling. Locals assured us that it had been run as a guest house in the past, but it looked so small.

As we approached, there was a golden glow on