Book Extracts

Back to Nursing and Fighting the System

After deciding to return to nursing, I discovered the system had no straightforward path for me. I had completed my training but, having failed the written exam, I could neither return as a student nor work as a registered nurse. Refusing to give up, I contacted the General Nursing Council, which reviewed my record and allowed me to register as a State Enrolled Nurse (SEN). I then secured a post on an orthopaedic ward at Wythenshawe Hospital while studying independently to retake my exams.

Throughout my career, my uniforms marked each step of my journey: yellow as a cadet and student, green as a student nurse and later as an SEN, and finally the blue I had worked so hard to earn as a State Registered Nurse. Later, as a ward sister at Stockport Infirmary, I proudly wore a navy-blue uniform—although, by then, the traditional nurse’s hat had disappeared.

Changing direction

After leaving nursing, I decided on a complete change of direction. My first job was as a test shopper, visiting shops to assess customer service and secretly monitor cash handling. My reports uncovered employees who had stolen thousands of pounds, but I soon realised I was uncomfortable acting as a spy and looked for something different.

I then became a nanny for a lord and lady in Herefordshire, caring for their lively four-year-old son, Cosmo. Living on the estate, I worked long hours, often seven days a week, and even helped serve guests at the Hunt Ball before preparing breakfast at dawn. During the power cuts of 1972, I learned to cook on a range cooker and even prepared pheasant for the first time.

Cosmo’s parents struggled to control his behaviour, but with firm boundaries I gradually taught him better manners. He was endlessly mischievous, and one morning I awoke to hear him and his mother shouting. Rushing to investigate, I found them both covered in yoghurt after Cosmo had dropped his spinning top into her breakfast bowl and set it whirling. It was impossible not to laugh.

Marriage

I met my husband, Richard Romain, at Wythenshawe Hospital in the summer of 1974, where I was a nurse in charge of the Accident Department. Focused on my career rather than romance, I jokingly told a patient that I would have dinner with him if he could remember my name after his anaesthetic and find me. To my surprise, he did. The following evening he arrived at my house in a yellow Triumph Spitfire, despite having his arm in a sling and being under strict instructions not to drive. We enjoyed a wonderful meal in Manchester before he suggested a nightclub. When we arrived at the Sands in Stretford, he soon realised I was already well known there as people greeted me with, “Hi Pat. Who’s your new friend?” It was an unforgettable first date and the beginning of our life together.