In 1989, Beryl Mitchell applied for a support worker job at Aberdeen’s Cornhill psychiatric hospital. She figured she’d try it for a week, just to see if she liked it.
It’s fair to say, those seven days went well.
This month, the 82-year-old from Udny Green will hold her retirement party, finally clocking out after an amazing 45 years with the NHS – 36 of them at Cornhill.
Her final shift falls on April 30 – her 83rd birthday – and like nearly all the others, it will be a night shift.
Beryl spent most of her career working through the night, first to accommodate her children, and later simply because it suited her.
“I don’t know how I’ll feel walking out that door for the last time,” she says. “Without my keys, my alarm, my ID badge – it’ll be strange.”
Beryl starts works at Cornhill
Beryl’s NHS journey began in 1980 at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, working in hematology.
Nine years later she moved to Cornhill, where she’s been ever since – most recently as a senior healthcare support worker.
Originally from Inverurie, she raised her children as a single mum and juggled multiple jobs in the early years.
“I was a cleaner in the Villas nightclub [on Crown Street] in the mornings, then at a Chinese restaurant washing dishes, before coming home for a sleep and getting the kids sorted,” she says. “You get the strength from somewhere.”
In those tough early days, she wasn’t looking for a career.
“I just needed money to support my children,” she says. But Cornhill quickly became more than a job. “I used to look forward to going in. I loved it. Even when it was hard.”
Hard is no understatement. Beryl works on Cornhill’s acute ward, where patients can be in severe mental distress.
“You had to be tough – but you had to be soft too. You need to speak calmly, try to connect. It’s about weighing up the situation.”
The night shift could be particularly intense. Police would bring in people in double-handcuffed and hand them over to staff.
But Beryl thrived under pressure.
“I’ve always been fit. I never really exercised but I walk a lot. And even in my 80s, I can still do the job.”
Beryl and Raymond, together at Cornhill
Over the years, she’s seen huge changes – from handwritten notes to computer systems she never quite took to. “Maybe that’s one of the reasons I knew it was time,” she says with a laugh.
But there have been beautiful moments too – like the letters and cards from patients thanking her for making a difference. “That means an awful lot.”
She met her husband Raymond through work, during the days when Kingseat psychiatric hospital near Newmachar was still open.
He was a staff nurse, and they got to know each other during shared shifts. When Kingseat closed in 1994 and Raymond transferred to Cornhill, their chats became more frequent – and slowly, something more.
“We were together for about 25 years before we got married,” Beryl says. “We just knew each other so well by then.”
They tied the knot in Turkey, and to their surprise, friends and neighbours turned up unannounced to celebrate with them. “We had no idea they were coming. It was the most magical thing,” Beryl says.
Not long after, Raymond was diagnosed with throat cancer. Beryl thought she was going to lose him. “It was terrifying. He was so ill, but we were lucky. He pulled through – thanks to amazing care – and he’s now five years in remission.”
Even now, Beryl stays in touch with the consultant who treated him. “I’ll always be grateful. She brought my Raymond back to life.”
A quiet coffee before the shift begins
Even now, Beryl turns up early for her shifts — usually around half past six — slipping into the staffroom for a quick coffee before the night begins.
“It’s different at night,” she says. “Quieter, but more intense. If something kicks off, it’s down to us.”
Over the years, Beryl has worked with countless colleagues — many of them decades younger — and she’s known as someone new staff often shadow on their first shifts.
“They say, ‘Can I follow you and see how you do things?’” she says. “And I always say, ‘Of course.’ I try to make them feel at home.”
The friendships formed on night shift are unlike any others, she says. “You see people at their best and worst, and you’re in it together. You rely on each other.”
Meanwhile, Beryl has seen psychiatric care change a lot over the years.
“There’s more awareness now, more openness, which is good. But in some ways, the job’s got harder. The rise in drug use — it’s heartbreaking. It changes people completely.”
Despite the challenges, she always tried to see the human underneath. “Some people are in such pain. You just try to give them a bit of dignity.”
‘You do what you need to do’
Beryl has no private pension – she left the NHS scheme when her children were young and never rejoined. “That’s one reason I kept working,” she says. “We love our holidays – and they cost money.”
Now she’ll rely on her state pension and Raymond’s to fund their retirement. But slowing down doesn’t mean stopping.
Once she retires, Beryl and Raymond are planning to travel, with trips to Holland, Turkey, Morocco and India already on the cards.
Back in Aberdeen, she’s hoping to volunteer at Mrs Murray’s Dog and Cat Home, helping to foster or care for animals when owners are away.
“We love dogs, but we’re too old now to get one of our own. This would be the next best thing.”
Her three children are grown up now, and she’s proud of the lives they’ve built.
“It wasn’t easy when they were little, but I always tried to keep a roof over their heads,” she says.
“I don’t think they fully realised how much I was juggling back then — the work, the worry, the washing!” she laughs. “But you do what you need to do.”
How Beryl has managed all those Cornhill night shifts
So what’s her secret to sticking with the night shift for 45 years?
“People ask me that all the time,” she says. “But I don’t have one. I just got up and went to work. I didn’t think I was doing anything special.”
And as for what she’ll miss most?
“My colleagues,” she says, without hesitation. “They’ve been fantastic. I’ll miss the laughs. The people.”
She pauses.
“Even now, I’ve got a soft spot for some of the patients. One of them always calls out, ‘Here comes Beryl, Beryl!’ when I come in. I’ll miss that too.”
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