1950 Love is the Drug

Any combination of words can have different connotations for different people. The description 'no-nonsense', when applied to a person, may be interpreted as 'straight forward' by one reader and as 'unromantic'' by another. I am sure that many of you will have your own definition. This only serves to reinforce my point.

Everybody in the Dorset village of Upper Slingsford agreed that Doctor Andrew Craddock was 'no-nonsense'.

Dr Craddock never contemplated such things, he was too busy getting on with it.

Born at the turn of the century to a village doctor and his wife, Andrew Craddock went on to study medicine at the Glasgow Royal Infirmary. After graduating he worked at the same hospital. Having seen for himself the worst that poverty and deprivation could do to a body, he was a life-long socialist. Not a political socialist, more of a practical socialist.

At a time when the quality of medical care that a person received was largely dependent upon their ability to pay, Andrew gave up his free time to work in a charity clinic. He wasn't sentimental about it; he was 'no-nonsense'.

When the war broke out in 1939 he joined the Royal Army Medical Corps. He was eventually posted to North Africa where he saw for himself what war and sand could do to a body. On three occasions he came very close to being a casualty of war himself.

His conscience often pricked him when, after the war, he had opted for a quieter life as a village General Practitioner. I am sure that none of us would hold that decision against him.

Up to this point Andrew hadn't married. He had nothing against women, in fact he felt that they were probably God's greatest creation. The problem was that every woman that he met these days was a patient and, as you know, the General Medical Council were rather opposed to doctors marrying their patients.

On the contrary, many female patients, both married and single, felt that Dr Craddock was fair game. Over the years he had lost count of the number of ladies who had presented with mystery illnesses that required them to undress and have their private parts examined. When he enquired, "Does it hurt when I touch here?" their usual response was often something like, "not as much as it did."

Other ladies would ask if their husband's bedroom peculiarities were 'normal'. His response was always the same. He couldn't say what was normal or even legal; he could only judge if it would do them any harm or not.

He took these things in good part and always remained very professional.

With male patients, he was far more no-nonsense. The men liked it when he encouraged them not to use euphemisms. He, himself, was brought up in a Dorset village so he knew the dialect word for every aspect of the human condition. If a fellow had achy knackers, he preferred that they said so.

As you would expect, from a man of principle, he gave nothing less than his all in the service of the people of Upper Slingsford. He provided the best care to both rich and poor alike, regardless of what they paid. Nobody was more pleased than Dr Craddock when, in 1948, universal health care was introduced. Not only did it mean that he got remunerated for every patient on his books but that every person that had refused to accept treatment that they couldn't pay for, now sought the healthcare they needed.

Previously, Doctor Andrew Craddock had been a no-nonsense one-man band. He took care of the practice's administration, updating patient records as he went along. Every morning he would open the doors to his waiting room, patients would simply wander in and sit until he called, "Who's next?"

By this time everybody had discussed everybody else's ailments and those that the consensus deemed required urgent treatment were given the instruction, "You'd better go next dear."

The good doctor took telephone calls in the middle of consultations. The patient didn't seem to mind being left with themselves in a state of undress while Dr Craddock ascertained if the caller should come into surgery or if the doctor needed to make a home visit.

Home visits were conducted in the afternoon.

With the advert of the National Health Service, it soon became clear to Andrew that his old ways wouldn't suit the new ways. More patients meant more work. Not just medical but administrative. If the Ministry of Health were paying they wanted forms filled in.

Did he need a practice nurse or a receptionist? Or both?

Dr Craddock was finding that there were too many patients still sitting in his waiting room at the end of his morning surgery. This delayed his home visits.

There were now too many home visits, most of which were given over to minor ailments that a nurse could take care of. What he needed was an appointment system for the mornings and a nurse to help with the afternoons.

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Born some ten years after Andrew, to a village doctor and his wife in rural Cornwall, Sister Celeste Lanyon had trained at the Bristol Royal Infirmary. When she first announced that this was to be her chosen vocation her father was horrified. Emptying bedpans and wiping up vomit was not the path that he had planned for his only child.

Doctor Lanyon had spent years ingratiating himself with the great and the good of Cornish society. He had several eligible young men from good families lined up as potential husbands for Celeste.

He argued with her. He implored her to change her mind. She would have none of it. And at last he did the stupidest thing that a parent could do, he gave his teenage daughter an ultimatum.

Celeste Lanyon left Cornwall and never crossed the River Tamar again.

The newly employed Student Nurse Lanyon worked hard. She did the most menial of tasks willingly. Her studies proved difficult but she didn't allow this to put her off. There was far more work than there were nurses to do it. This wasn't helped by the fact that any nurse who wanted to marry usually had to leave the profession.

For Celeste it was her chosen path and she didn't complain.

Nursing was a world of conflicting morals. The people who sat on the committees and subcommittees or the charitable trusts upheld the strictest of conduct codes. Pregnancy meant the end of an otherwise unblemished career.

On the other hand, the people who actually ran the hospitals were far more no-nonsense in their approach. They knew that young nurses were put in difficult situations on a daily basis.

Student Nurse Lanyon was fortunate to have one such practical no-nonsense woman in charge of her training.

Sister Hastings-Smith was seated at her desk in the corner late one evening when she spotted Celeste approaching. "You look a little flushed, my dear. Is there a problem?" she asked, in her rather plumby home counties accent.

"Well, I am not sure if it's a problem or not.

"Every time I get near Mr Turvey, he gets an erection. It's not a situation that we've covered in training," replied Celeste.

Her mentor smiled.

"Well, the received wisdom on these things is to give it a hard slap. But my experience is that that doesn't solve the problem. It just excites them more.

"They end up wanking in the bed leaving you to clear up the mess.

"Now, I am only going to show you this once. After that you have to find your own method. If you tell another soul, I will deny it.

"Fetch a hot damp flannel and follow me," instructed Sister Hastings-Smith.

She strode to the bed at the corner of the ward and picked up the clipboard that was hanging at the bottom. The overhead lamp shone down dimly.

"Still awake, are we Mr Turvey?"

"Yes Sister. Can't you give me something to help me get off," replied the patient, suggestively.

"Two broken legs, must have been quite a fall.

"I just need to check that your circulation is OK. It can be an issue in this sort of case.

"Student Nurse Lanyon, the screens please."

Celeste did as she was told.

The Sister yanked down the man's pyjama trousers. She touched his right leg just above the knee completely ignoring his bone hard erection.

She did the same to the other leg.

"Student Nurse Lanyon, would you kindly cup Mr Turvey's testicles? Let me know if they feel cold at any point."

Sister dipped her fingers into a jar of cream that was on the bedside cabinet and rubbed it into the palm of her right hand. She held out her left hand towards Celeste who dropped the still warm damp flannel onto it.

Skillfully, the senior nurse wrapped her fingers around the shaft of young Mr Turvey's penis and pulled it upright.

"You will observe, Student Nurse Lanyon, that the blood supply appears to be as it should be."

She moved the penis back and forth and then side to side, rather like an aeroplane's joystick.

"You will notice how the scrotum increases in temperature as I perform this manoeuvre. Why do you think that is?"

Celeste thought for a moment and then said, "Friction?"

"That is certainly a factor but increased blood flow will also play its part."

She moved her right hand up and down the penis shaft several times.

"Once again, friction will come into play here but now there will be mental factors too."

At the very moment that Sister Hastings-Smith felt the penis twitch, she engulfed it with the flannel. Using both hands, she held it firmly in place until the patient's body finally stopped jerking. She then used the flannel to ensure that all of the bodily fluid was cleaned up.

"There, that should help you sleep, Mr Turvy," the sister said as she handed Celeste the flannel and marched back to her desk.

"Aren't you afraid that he will try that trick every night? asked Celeste when she had a chance to speak to Sister Hastings-Smith.

"Not really, Sister Hughes starts her week of nights tomorrow. I am told that when she slaps a cock, it doesn't get up off the canvas for quite awhile," laughed the sister.

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Once she had signed the register as a fully qualified nurse she felt like there was nothing she would rather do in the world. The feeling of being in control when she stood opposite a young doctor (and sometimes a not so young doctor) and shook her head to save him from making a fatal mistake couldn't be bettered.

Her hard work and dedication was rewarded and by the time that the Second World War broke out she was a Ward Sister herself.

On the night of Sunday November 24th 1940, Celeste was off duty when the first bombs landed on Bristol. She quickly dressed and made her way to the Royal Infirmary. That night made her question so much of her life. She realised that there was such a fine line between living and not living. Not just life and death but giving up your life for others and having a life of your own.

The next night she dressed up, went out, got drunk and lost her virginity to a sailor. Within ten minutes an American G.I. had helped it stay lost.

On every free night after that she did something similar. She gave no less to her vocation but she made sure that she gave something to herself as well. Celeste didn't give any thought to getting pregnant until it didn't happen. The way that the Luftwaffe was pounding Bristol she just had a vague feeling that she would be dead long before there would be any consequences to her actions.

Once she believed she was in more imminent danger of being blown up than knocked up, Sister Celeste Lanyon got herself fucked at every possible opportunity. She did this for the simple reason that she loved it.

In Bristol, in wartime, there was no lack of backstreet boozers with endless numbers of seedy men who were willing to buy a girl a drink and even more willing to take her out the back and shag her. Usually, one pub was sufficient but occasionally Celeste had to pick her way through the blackout to find what she needed. Some nights it was two but if she'd had a bad week she needed more. In certain respects she was quite conservative, she didn't want to be kissed or fingered, she didn't want to suck or tug, she simply wanted to be bent over and fucked frantically. It made her feel alive amongst so much dying and injury.

How she survived the war, she didn't know. The hospital had been bombed several times while she was on duty. The front of one pub had taken a direct hit just as she was being fucked in the back yard.

By 1945 Celeste had strong words with herself. She couldn't carry on like this, she was thirty-five. She needed to grow up and be more sophisticated.

She forwent the sleazy backstreet pubs. Once or twice a month Celeste visited hotel bars. Not the top class ones but the more middling variety. Those frequented by travelling salesmen and the like. She would end up in their room or the back of their car. A more leisurely type of fucking. More grown up and sophisticated but less fun, Celeste thought.

She did try the Grand Hotel once. She chatted to a gent but as soon as he realised she didn't want money he felt that he had to seduce her. Not what Celeste wanted at all.

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What made her do it that night?

Celeste had always kept her career and her 'hobby' miles apart.

She was on the Night Shift. She should have had a Staff Nurse and a Student Nurse with her, but they had both reported-in sick. Sister Lanyon was unperturbed, with her experience she could take care of things single-handedly but it was a strain.

Personnel shortages weren't uncommon these days. The new National Health Service was wonderful but it had rather created an unprecedented demand. Nurses were being imported from all over the world. Most of them were highly efficient but there just wasn't enough of them.

Celeste occasionally felt that it may be time for a change of career. She could step up for a shift or two but these days it was often a week or more.

Earlier in the evening she had been speaking with the young man in Bed Two. He had broken his leg playing Rugby Football. He was a bit down in the dumps. He was due to play in one of the trial games for the England team and the injury had set this back.

Growing up in Cornwall, Celeste knew that Rugby Union Footballers weren't allowed to be paid for playing so his injury would probably mean that his day job could be in jeopardy too.

Late that evening as she was doing her ward round, she noticed that the young chap was still awake.

As Sister Lanyon approached the bed, he tried to hide something under the blankets. Celeste smiled to herself.

"No need to hide it. Boys will be boys. Let me have a look," she said thinking that she may need to fetch the hot flannel.

As she pulled back the cover she was amazed. It was quite the most magnificent penis she had ever seen. Not massive but beautifully proportioned with a glorious head.

Celeste pulled the screens into place and prepared the flannel.

Then lust overtook her. It had been a while since she had engaged in her 'hobby', she had been working extra shifts.

Without thinking, Celeste lifted her starched apron and the skirt of her navy blue uniform and taking great care not to ladder her new black nylons she climbed into the bed and squatted over the patient. She pulled her knickers to one side and located his helmet which she guided into her warm wet vagina. Gently, Celeste rode him. Not for long. The fit young man exploded into her as she put her hand over his mouth to prevent him crying out.

Skillfully, she dismounted. Celeste smoothed down her uniform and made good use of the warm flannel to clean up. She was Sister Lanyon once more.

As the screens were being removed a soft voice said, "Free prescriptions are one thing but that really puts the service in the NHS, Sister."

Shocked, Celeste realised that her lustful indiscretion had been watched. Standing to one side was Mr Angus McLeash, consultant orthopaedic surgeon.

Trying to retain her composure, Celeste asked, "What brings you onto My ward at this time of night?"

"Oh, I've not long come out of emergency surgery. While I was waiting for my driver to turn up I thought I'd see how you were coping alone.

"Rather well, I'd say.

"Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me. Although this will be a problem," Mr McLeash said, gripping the bulge in his trousers.

He pointed towards the Sister's desk.

"If you wouldn't mind bending over that, Sister," he asked.

With as much dignity as she could muster, she did as he said. Despite his assurances there was no doubt that he had the upper hand.

With the touch of a surgeon, Mr McLeash neatly folded her skirt up over Celeste's back. He lowered her drawers over her stockings and dropped them onto her shoes.

Celeste was annoyed that she'd allowed herself to be so stupid but she knew that she was still sexually excited. As well as this conflict, she was also praying that most of her patients were now asleep. The thought of eight pairs of eyes watching her being humped from behind, was both stimulating and embarrassing at the same time.

The orthopaedic surgeon slipped easily into her previously lubricated vagina. He obviously had enough knowledge of gynaecology to allow her to settle onto his cock before beginning his thrusting.

And then thrust he did.

Hard and long.

He slapped Sister Celeste Lanyon hard on her buttock with an almighty crack. A ploy only intended to wake her patients and increase her humiliation, thought Celeste.

"Good God, I'm fucking my Sister," cried the doctor as he ejaculated.

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For a week the atmosphere was tense between them.

Celeste knew that if beans were spilled, the Hospital Governors would believe Mr McLeash's version of events. Mr McLeash knew that if the cat escaped from the bag, Mrs McLeash would believe Celeste's version. It didn't make for a harmonious working relationship.

Eventually, the surgeon said, "Sister, could you spare me a few minutes in my consulting room?"

Once alone he continued, "I am so sorry, we both allowed our lust to get the better of us.

"It is clear that we need to take some action to resolve the situation."

"What do you propose?" asked Celeste, feeling that he may genuinely be remorseful.

"Well, it's a bit radical but a chap that I was at Glasgow with has a practice in a small village down by the South Coast.

"He is looking for an experienced nurse who is not ignorant of the ways of the world. From what he tells me, you would be perfect."

Celeste was incandescent, "So, your plan is to get rid of me onto some cronie of yours."

"No, no, far from it. I honestly thought that you may like it," said McLeash, somewhat taken aback by her outburst.

"Please believe me, I have your interest at heart.

"You have nothing to lose by hearing what he has to offer, do you?"

"What does he have to offer?" asked Celeste, cynically.

"I'm not sure exactly. He says that he could come up to Bristol on Saturday next. I believe that you are not working then. He would like to buy you luncheon and explain exactly what was involved.

"It would commit you to nothing," said Mr McLeash.

"I suppose that you could be right," conceded Celeste.

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From the very first moment that Adrew saw Celeste seated in the restaurant he was smitten.

She fitted exactly his image of an ideal woman. Dark hair, dark eyes and the curvaceous figure that only comes with full maturity. She oozed physicality in the way that some Cornish women do.

When she smiled he was lost.

"Pleased to meet you," he said, extending his hand.

As Celeste shook it she replied, "Likewise but I hope that I am not wasting your time."

"To be honest Angus McLeash has bet me ten pounds that you won't take the job. I am not building my hopes up as the old skinflint only ever backs certainties," laughed Andrew.