From January 1953, I worked in the male ward in Frere Hospital under Sister Lewis. All professional nurses are called “sister”. I knew I was good at my job – well organised, responsible and confident.     I had received good reports during training, and was determined    to maintain the high standards I had set myself in my first job as a professional nurse.

I succeeded in this goal. Not once was I called to the matron’s office to defend my poor performance. The first and last time I was asked to explain myself was after the protest in November 1952, when those of us who had volunteered in casualty were asked to write reports about what had happened. I had commented in the report on the harsh treatment some of the other staff members gave patients and was ordered to rewrite it, which I did. In hindsight, I should have been more concerned at the fact that they did not give me the original report back.

Later, I went to the matron’s office to plead for my requests to be considered. I had asked for a weekend off but Sister Lewis had turned me down repeatedly. It was my understanding that all newly trained nurses were entitled to a permanent position within six months of employment, motivated by good performance; to ask for a day off or a month off for annual leave as needed, and to be asked to be put on night duty when it was not their turn, if there was an acceptable reason. These benefits were given to us in writing; what wasn’t on paper was that they applied only to white nurses.

The first time I approached the matron’s office directly with my request, the assistant matron was the only one on duty. She settled the matter quickly by accepting both my requests. I was very thankful. The second time I approached the matron’s office directly, the matron herself was there. She refused to overturn the ward sister’s decision, saying I had no right to undermine Sister Lewis’s authority.

After some months, it was my turn to be on night duty. I was pleased to finally be on this rotation because it was quieter than day duty. By now I suspected I was pregnant again, and welcomed the opportunity to rest.

On weekends, the sister in charge on night duty would sometimes ask me to escort her on her ward rounds, which took her down some deserted and dimly lit corridors. Normally, she would have been escorted by the night porter, but this was the weekend and there were no porters on duty.

I admit, I was curious to see what was happening on the “European” side of the hospital, as it was called in those days. I was always happy to oblige.

The first thing that struck me on these walks was the neatness in the passages and on entering the wards. There were chairs for patients and visitors to sit on and even a few pictures on the walls. On our side the wide corridors were very messy, littered with trolleys, wheelchairs, linen carriers and even oxygen cylinders, because there was no storage space for them. Visitors had to stand against the wall if they wanted to speak to a staff member.

One night, I caught a glimpse of the children’s play area and was very impressed by what I saw. There were toys and books and lovely children’s pictures hanging on the walls. The playroom on our side was disappointing by comparison. Boxes were piled one on top of the other. A few balls were scattered around with some half-torn newspapers.

I decided to dress up the playroom during my spare time. I shared my idea with some of my colleagues, asking if any of them were interested in helping. They all were. In a short space of time, that room was transformed into something beautiful. The children’s ward staff was delighted and wrote to the night sister-in-charge to thank her. The night sister-in-charge forwarded the report to the matron, out of pride, I suspect. A few days later the matron issued a circular: “In future, if the night nurses have nothing to do, they should be taken off night duty instead of wasting their time.”

My colleagues now regretted helping me. I felt guilty for getting them involved. I wrote an apology to the matron, letting her know that I had been the “ringleader”. But I couldn’t stop myself from adding, “We provided children with a sound base from which to develop their lives, like all other children in this same hospital.”

Shortly after this, I gave Sister Lewis a letter from the doctor to let her know I was pregnant. I was only five months along, but knew that the central office would need a long notice to accommodate my absence on the roster. Sister Lewis took my letter to matron’s office herself. All was quiet. Then, two months later, I received a notice that, although I had been working as a professional nurse for more than 15 months, I was not entitled to maternity leave as I was in a “contract position”.

I went to the matron’s office to appeal against the decision. I knocked, went inside and introduced myself. Before I could say anything, she snapped, “If I was you, I would forget about fighting this and just go. If you want to influence others so badly, perhaps you should have become a teacher.”

I was astounded. Before I could say anything she told me to shut the door behind me. I left.