‘Yes. Yes, I think I am.’
I said, thinking aloud, ‘Richard must understand that.’
‘What the devil has that got to do with Richard?’ She sighed wearily. ‘My God, Jo! You’re not still trying to marry me off to him, are you? Haven’t you yet realized ‒ can’t you see ‒ I could no more marry Richard Leland than you could marry ‒ what’s his name? That gangling child you introduced me to in the canteen?’
‘Charlie Peters. But ‒’
‘But, NOTHING! Enough’s a bloody enough! I’m sorry, darling, but I’m far too worried about John Francis to have any patience left for your infantile attempts to find me a husband! When I want one I’ll find one for myself, thank you very much! At present I’m just not interested! All I’m interested in is ‒’ She paused abruptly. ‘I want to get John Francis well,’ she added in a small, tight voice. ‘Do you see what I mean?’
I saw exactly what she meant. To give myself time to get my mental breath I asked if Corporal Wix knew Bill had gone.
‘I had to tell him. He said, “Not worth his father’s little finger he isn’t, ma’am, and never were”.’
‘You could let him break it to the General?’
‘That wouldn’t be fair. Anyway, I think he’d rather hear it from me.’
‘As you are both parents of sons?’
‘Yes.’
‘That must make quite a bond between you.’
‘Yes.’ She flicked back the neatly folded corners of her apron skirt and stood up. ‘I must get back. I’ll be so late for lunch.’
‘Before you go, if all goes well, how much longer will you be here?’
‘Three to four weeks. He won’t need me his last few days ‒ if all goes well.’
‘It will! Everyone says his op was a great success!’ She leant against the door and grimaced queerly.
‘As far as the op went, yes, I suppose it was a great success. But successful surgery doesn’t automatically mean a successful recovery. These first five days’ll be crucial; the first fourteen, not much better. After the fourteenth ‒ we’ll see. How I’ll last out I don’t know. As I said, I’m getting too old for this job. Up to now I’ve been able to carry any professional strain. Now, suddenly, the weight seems to be forcing me into the ground.’
I said carefully, ‘I don’t believe this has anything to do with your age, and I don’t believe the strain’s only professional. I do believe that if General Francis is as much in love with you as you are with him you can stop worrying. He won’t die on you.’
She went white. ‘Jo, forgive my reminding you of your own mistake, but it seems I must. Let me also remind you I’ve been nursing on and off for nineteen years. I’m a long way from being an impulsive, impressionable girl. And John Francis is no weak, frightened boy. So will you kindly forget what you have just said and never repeat it to me, or anyone else, again!’ She sounded and looked nothing like my Aunt Margaret and exactly like a Benedict’s senior sister, and the starch in her skirts crackled as she swept out of my room, closing the door quietly after her. But she had not denied my real charge, and we both knew it. She had always disliked lying to those she loved as much as she disliked hurting them. Her senior-sister act was good, but, as I knew her so well, it was not quite good enough.
She must have hated hurting Richard. I saw now very clearly that she had had no alternative to doing that, but the thought of his hurt cut me like a physical pain. If I had needed to find out how important he had become to me I found out then. It was some time before I could think of anything else.
If only he could have been spared this hurt I would have been simply delighted. Though General Francis was on the D.I.L., London was filled with healthy people who had once been on our D.I.L. He had a long way to go, but he was on the way. Yet though I liked him and he had so many good qualities as well as material advantages, how she could prefer him or any man on earth to Richard was beyond me.
For once, I was delighted it was Thursday and Richard’s free evening. I prayed nothing caused Mr Waring to call him to the Unit between three and five-thirty that afternoon. Mr Tomlin would be on from then until eleven, when Richard returned for what was officially and euphemistically described as ‘the S.S.O.’s final round before retiring’. That left me only one more hour on duty to worry over before my day and a half off. Saturday afternoon and the future, I would face on Saturday afternoon. I could not face seeing Richard again just yet, and seeing that same hurt in his eyes.
The Unit was moderately busy when I arrived on duty. I watched the clock and breathed out at five-thirty. At five to six a maintenance mechanic was wheeled in from a local factory. He had been on the shift that worked from 4 P.M. to midnight. An ammonia explosion in the refrigerating plant had started a fire. He had been on the spot and helped put out the fire, burning his chest and hands badly in the process.
I was working with Mr Waring.
‘Get the lodge to get hold of the S.S.O., Nurse Dungarvan,’ he muttered, once the saline drip was running well into the anaesthetized mechanic. ‘This chap’ll have to come in.’
‘Excuse me, but don’t you mean Mr Tomlin? It’s Thursday.’
‘No, lass. If I’d meant Mr Tomlin I’d have said Mr Tomlin. But he’s off this evening, and the S.S.O.’s on. Make it snappy,’ he added amiably.
When I returned from phoning, de Wint had sent Daisy to take my place in the Burns Room. She wanted me in the C.T. ‘Another motor-cyclist’s on the way. The ambulance men have just called back to say they’ve found a diabetic’s card on him, so he may be in coma because he’s got a head injury, or he may have a head injury because he went into a coma first. Set for intravenous insulin and/or glucose.’
We were very busy before I went off. Richard was in, constantly. I was aware of that even though we were so busy.
I had never been so glad to leave Benedict’s and London as next morning. My interview with the solicitor in Downshurst took much longer than I expected. He stood me lunch, then I spent the entire afternoon and half the evening at a very bad, very long movie. I caught the seven-thirty bus out to the cottage. It was quite dark when the bus dropped me at the top of the lane. There was a stiff breeze and the country darkness was a blanket at first, after the street and building lights in London, and then, as my eyes grew accustomed to it, I could see fairly well. The lights were on in the farm, half a mile from the cottage, and they were the only lights apart from the stars that kept appearing and disappearing behind the scurrying clouds. The darkness and the isolation suited my mood. After night-duty being alone in the dark never had bothered me, and as I let myself in to the cottage I decided to ring Mr Sims at the farm in case Margaret had forgotten to let him know I was arriving today, and not on Wednesday. It was a point I had forgotten to check with her, and if he saw lights and had not been warned he would probably call to investigate. I did not want any visitors. I wanted to be alone. Loneliness was so much more bearable when one was alone.
I turned on all the downstairs lights. I had just gone upstairs when I heard a car draw up outside, a car-door slam, and steps. ‘God damn all helpful neighbours!’ I cursed to the spare bedroom, and went down as there was a knock on the door.
As the cottage was isolated, I put on the chain before opening the door, although I was pretty certain who was calling. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Sims ‒’ My voice stopped abruptly as I opened the door. The hall light slanted out, illuminating the man outside. ‘Oh! Oh!’ I swallowed. ‘It’s you, Mr Leland.’ My voice sounded as strange as I felt. For the first time ever my imagination failed me. All I could think was, it’s Friday. He was never off on Friday evenings.
‘May I come in, please?’
I removed the chain and held open the door like a zombie. He came in, closed the door for me, then looked round the hall. His face was taut and curiously expressionless. I was dimly aware I had seen him look like this before, but too astounded to bother placing where or when. I was also too occupied in trying to control the wh
ite-hot wave of happiness that threatened to overwhelm me. God knew why he had come, but just to have him with me alone was enough to carry me to the stars.
He said, ‘I’m afraid you must be rather surprised to see me?’
‘Yes.’ I smiled foolishly. ‘It’s Friday.’
‘Mr Tomlin and I have switched round this week.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. You were on last night.’
‘Yes. Can we go into the sitting-room? Then I’ll explain why I’ve called.’
‘Yes, do come in.’ I led him in. ‘Would you like some tea? Or coffee? I expect Margaret’s left some. I haven’t yet had time to look.’
‘I think tea would be a good idea.’ He spoke very deliberately, as if the choice of beverage was of immense importance. ‘Want any help?’
‘No, thank you, Mr Leland.’
‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘Please do.’ He was patting himself. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t any cigarettes as I don’t smoke,’ I apologized.
‘I’ve got some somewhere, thanks.’ He produced a packet and matches. ‘You’re sensible not to start. I wish I hadn’t. I’m always advising the patients against it, and trusting they don’t smell the tobacco on me. I’ll have to cut it right out one of these days. I smoke far too many.’
‘Couldn’t you just cut down?’
He shook his head. ‘I haven’t the right temperament. I can practise abstinence, not moderation.’ He lit one. ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t like some help with the tea?’
I took the hint and went into the kitchen. When I carried the tea-tray back to the sitting-room he was standing by the fireplace looking at Margaret’s wedding photograph.
He turned from it at once, to accept his cup. ‘Thanks. Won’t you sit down?’
I sat on the edge of the sofa. ‘Won’t you?’
He put his tea on the mantelpiece. ‘If you don’t mind, I would rather say what I have to say on my feet. Let me tell you first, that it in no way concerns your immediate family.’
Suddenly I remembered where and when I had seen him look as he had in the hall. It had been when he walked down the Unit corridor before facing the waiting relatives in Mr Waring’s office. I jumped up. ‘Bad news?’
‘Yes,’ he said simply, and his eyes were compassionate. ‘Sit down again. I’ll tell you.’
‘Not the family?’
‘No. Two of your friends.’ He came closer and stood in front of me. Then, gently and without wrapping the truth in a cocoon of unnecessary words, he told me Bill and Aline had been killed outright when their car ran off a Spanish road and hit a tree in the early hours of that morning. The news had first reached Benedict’s at lunchtime, via the Spanish police. During the afternoon Matron had had a cable from Aline’s parents. He said, ‘From the report there doesn’t seem to be any reason for the accident. The road was empty. The night was fine, and there was a good moon. There was nothing wrong with his tyres, but apparently he ran straight at that tree for about ninety feet, which should have given him time to pull out. I can only guess he had been driving too long, and perhaps drinking a little too much, and dropped off.’ He took an unopened half-bottle of whisky from his pocket, opened it, and added some to my tea. ‘Have this.’ Stunned, I obeyed mechanically.
‘Aline and Bill? Dead?’ I muttered. ‘Aline and Bill? Dead, now? But they only got engaged on Wednesday. They ‒ dead?’
He sat by me on the sofa, switching sideways and leaning against the arm as he faced me. ‘I’m very sorry. Yes. They are dead. As they were killed instantly, at least they knew nothing about it.’ He hesitated. ‘I didn’t know they were engaged, though I had heard that was in the air. Matron doesn’t know. She told me she had no idea what Nurse Ash was doing in that car. She thought her in Majorca on sick-leave.’
I could not bear to take any of this in yet. I knew I would have to shortly. As talking might help postpone the inevitable, I talked. I told him how I had written to Bill, and Aline, and all Bill had said to me in that telephone conversation. ‘They met in Marcus. He followed her out to Majorca.’
‘I know.’
‘How? Tom Lofthouse?’
He shook his head. ‘I know she won’t mind my telling you. Maggie, here, last Sunday. I had asked if she knew how we could get hold of him. She knew he was in Majorca, but not his address, as his father always gave Wix his letters to post. I got that out of Wix on my return, and wrote to Bill that night. I had intended following it up with a cable. His arrived first. When he himself arrived on Tuesday he told me he’d not yet had my letter.’
‘So you wanted him back, officially?’
‘Obviously. We’d have liked him back some time ago, but his father refused to allow us to send for either son, as he was within his rights to do, so we had to respect his wishes. That is, we had to do that until the question of his next-of-kin’s rights arose. If we are given a next-of-kin, and know we are about to do an op that’ll slap a patient on to the D.I.L., then, whether the patient likes it or not, in Benedict’s we have to put his next-of-kin in the picture. That’s a Benedict’s rule. But we don’t have to tell the patient. I didn’t tell John Francis I had written.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Maggie didn’t tell me you’d written to Bill. Nor did he.’
‘I meant to tell Margaret. I forgot. I expect he forgot to tell you. Did he tell his father?’
‘I didn’t get the impression he had from John Francis. He seemed to think Bill had heard about his coming op indirectly from some of his various contacts in Benedict’s. I gather Bill was a great sender of postcards.’
‘Yes.’
He looked at me keenly. ‘His father was touched and pleased by his return. I could be wrong, but I’m convinced he had no idea anyone had actually sent for his son.’
The whisky was removing some of the anaesthetizing effects of shock. I wished I had not drunk the stuff. ‘I had to spell it out loud and clear. Having specialed him, I knew the only way in which to get any action out of him was to give him the whole works. I did that.’ I paused. ‘And kicked off what ended early this morning.’
‘Jo, skip the dramatics.’ He was stern, but not unkind. ‘This is too serious for that. Yes. It was your letter that brought him back, but almost certainly only thirty-six hours earlier than mine would have done. Once back, I’m quite certain that in the event the final pattern would not have varied in one iota from that which now obtains.’
I wanted to believe him. If not, that letter was going to haunt me for the rest of my life. ‘How can you possibly be certain? You can only guess.’
‘I’m not giving you a guess. I’m giving you my considered opinion.’
‘But you can only have reached it by guessing.’
‘My dear girl,’ he retorted still more sternly, ‘I know you’re shocked and distressed, but that doesn’t provide you with an excuse for talking childish rubbish. I’m a surgeon, not a physician. A physician may be able to get away with, and even have a talent for, inspired guesswork. Surgeons deal in facts. They have to, as you are very well aware, since ultimately surgeons have to translate their opinions into actions. You don’t rely on an inspired guess when you pick up a knife and cut into a human being. You have to be bloody sure of your facts before you even reach for that knife. As, again, you well know!’
‘Yes, but, I still don’t see ‒’
‘You will. Listen. I based my opinion on two main facts. One, Bill Francis’s character. Two, a fact I’ve observed about human nature in general. I’ll explain that first, as it may make it easier for you to follow me.’ He stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. ‘Have you never noticed that every adult has his, or her, specific pattern of behaviour, and that when confronted with any acute physical or emotional crisis, that pattern instantly manifests and repeats itself?’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t follow.’
‘Then let’s use you as an illustration. When you are suddenly faced with a crisis you instantly react with speed, common sense, and efficiency. Remember that road a
ccident? That ether fire? Innumerable recent occasions in the Unit?’ He waited until I nodded. ‘Each time you repeat your own specific pattern, and each time wait until it’s all over for the shock to hit you. Each time, between crises, you return to your other established pattern. You are gay, kind, sensitive, sometimes foolish, occasionally bloody childish. With me now?’
‘Yes,’ I said flatly. ‘Go on, please.’
‘When Bill Francis met a crisis his immediate reaction was to try and pretend it hadn’t happened. That’s why he walked round with pneumonia for twenty-four hours rather than see a doctor who might frighten him with the truth.
‘That’s why, when he first heard his father was in the Wing, he instantly persuaded himself it was for a rest-cure. His father! The man who, he had himself told us, disliked hospitals, doctors, and making any fuss over his own health. Was John Francis the man to meekly take a rest-cure? Is Benedict’s a convalescent home? Bill knew his father and, having been one of our patients, Benedict’s. He knew the facts, but refused to face them. When forced to return and forced to face up to them he was emotionally incapable of carrying the burden. He could no longer pretend his father wasn’t gravely ill, so he got round it by pretending he was thinking only of his father’s good, and that the best thing he could do for his father was to leave him in our hands.’ He walked over to the mantelpiece and frowned at the floor. ‘As the emotionally immature can persuade themselves into believing anything that suits them, he probably believed he was doing the best thing. Undoubtedly that must have seemed best for himself. Once he got right away, collected his girlfriend and his car, he wouldn’t have to think about what was going on in Benedict’s.’ He looked up sombrely. ‘One can alter circumstances, not a man’s character. In nearly every event it’s the character that shapes the circumstance. Yet, though I knew that perfectly well, I used every argument short of brute force to try and get him to stay in the Wing on Wednesday night. I didn’t get anywhere.’
Hospital Circles Page 19
