‘Was that just before you came into the Unit? Was that why you looked so ‒ so sort of black?’
‘When I looked in during that brief quiet spell after supper? Yes. I’d just come from talking to him. I looked black?’
‘Yes. Yes.’
‘I felt black. I didn’t realize it showed. I did realize I’d seldom been so bloody sickened by the human race. God knows, by now I should be accustomed to its nastier habits, but every so often, when a son walks out on a father on the D.I.L., a husband on a wife, or vice versa, or a mother on a child, I reach the pitch of thinking that the sooner someone pushes that bloody button the better. I don’t generally stick on that pitch long. It lasted longer than usual that night, as John Francis has become a friend as well as a patient, and, consequently, I was more involved. I’m no more supposed to grow involved in my job than you are in yours, but obviously on occasions it’s impossible to avoid that. I try to avoid that, as it does affect one’s judgement. Without much success,’ he admitted tersely. ‘I attempt to console myself with the reflection that even Homer sometimes nods, but I nod so frequently it’s a wonder my bloody head doesn’t fall off. That nearly happened on Wednesday night. My one consolation then was the thought that John Francis still had Maggie ‒’ He stopped suddenly. ‘You have at last realized that situation?’
‘Since yesterday.’
‘Only then? Of course, you’ve not been seeing them together as I have. I’ve always thought it a good thing. Now it’s not just good, it’s essential. For a very ill and not particularly young man to recover he must have something to live for. Something more than an empty house, no matter how large and well appointed, and a devoted old batman, no matter how faithful. And the fact that Maggie and Dick need him quite as much as he needs them will be an extra shot in the arm. Women talk a great deal about their necessity to feel needed. The same applies to any man who is a man.’ He glanced again at that wedding picture, then sat back on the sofa. ‘You didn’t administer the kick-off. That was done years ago by whoever it was was the main figure in Bill Francis’s early childhood. Probably his mother. There are few more destructive forces in life than an overdose of maternal love. In illness he behaved like a spoilt child, but no child spoils himself. That pneumonia was the catalyst. It changed the course of his life, Aline Ash’s ‒ poor girl ‒ his father’s, and, shortly, unless I’m much mistaken, and I’m sure I’m not, Maggie and young Dick’s. Bad out of good. Good out of bad.’ He rubbed his eyes with both hands, stifling a yawn. ‘I’ve talked far too much, and I’m afraid I’ve been rather rude. I didn’t intend that. I came down as I thought to hear of this quietly might cushion the shock, if not the blow.’ He could not stop yawning. ‘I do beg your pardon.’
There was so much I wanted to say and ask. I only asked if he would like fresh tea.
‘Very much. If it’s not too much trouble?’
‘Not at all.’
I got off the sofa, collected our cups, picked up the tray. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had supper, Mr Leland?’
He was having to blink to keep his eyes open. ‘I’ll get that when I get back.’
I did not press the point. He was now looking even more exhausted than that afternoon in Mr Waring’s office. I left him sitting on the sofa and took the tray out to the kitchen. Little Ben was in my handbag upstairs, so I slowly counted one hundred and twenty seconds. Then I went very quietly back to the sitting-room. As I expected, he was asleep.
Chapter Fourteen
THE SLEEPER WAKES UP
I knew I should wake him. It was nearly half-past nine, and even if he left immediately after having tea he could not be back in Benedict’s until well after eleven.
He had shifted himself in sleep. His head rested against one arm of the sofa, his legs stretched along the seat, and his feet dangled over the edge at the end. He was as far under as that other afternoon, but, being on the sofa, looked so much more comfortable. When he woke he had a two-hour drive and a night’s work ahead. If any food had been kept for him, by the time he got to it it would be uneatable ‒ if he had time to get to it.
I just could not make myself disturb him, yet. I retreated silently to the hall to think things out, and the sight of the hall telephone reminded me of Mr Sims.
I closed the sitting-room door, huddled the telephone and myself in one of Margaret’s old coats, and dialled the farm. Mrs Sims answered.
‘My Harry was just coming over to see why the lights are on, dear. Your auntie told us Wednesday, not Friday. Changed, were you? There, now! Still, makes a nice break, I expect. Your friend bring you down? We noticed his car. Come down after you, did he? That’s nice! Going back, tonight? Well, I expect he thinks it’s worth it, eh, dear?’
When she rang off I replaced the receiver carefully, then sat on the bottom stair staring at the sitting-room door.
As he had swapped evenings with Mr Tomlin and taken out his car, even if no-one but Margaret knew he was here ‒ which was highly probable ‒ the porters would have noticed his car was missing. Paddy and Co. noticed everything. If he was late back they would tell Mr Tomlin he was somewhere on the road. Anyone could be held up on the road. I winced, as my mind shot to Bill and Aline, but for Richard’s sake refused to shelve my train of thought. He might just have had a puncture? Or his battery had failed? That could happen to anyone, even an S.S.O. Mr Tomlin was a very capable deputy. He could carry on as such for an extra couple of hours, and, to give him his due, I was sure he would not mind doing so, particularly if he knew the truth. I thought of the two extra hours Richard had put in last Sunday night and the countless other occasions when he had worked whilst officially off. If he now had an hour’s sleep he would have time to ring Benedict’s from here before eleven to warn Mr Tomlin he would be late back, and to eat a proper meal before he left.
I made up my mind. If he was annoyed with me for letting him sleep I would be sorry for his annoyance, if not the cause.
I moved into the kitchen, helped myself to Margaret’s store of tins, and cooked a casserole hot-pot that would be ready when wanted, but not ruined if it had to sit in a low oven. The mechanical movements of my hands did nothing to soothe the deep sadness that settled over me like a cloak. My thoughts drifted from the struggle to save Bill’s life in Marcus, to his father sitting by his bed, to Aline, the brightest girl in our set heading all our exam results, to General Francis again, this time lying flat in the Wing, waiting hopefully for a message or a visit from the son he did not yet know was dead. Margaret would tell him, I thought, and the thought made my heart lurch against my ribs.
I thought of Margaret, and then Richard. I thought how he had looked and sounded when talking about Margaret’s future. He had been far too tired at that moment to maintain any act. He not only didn’t mind, he was glad.
I sat on the kitchen table and breathed as if I had been running, hard. Then I thought on the reason he had given for coming down here tonight.
It could be sufficient for a kind man who was an old friend of my aunt, who understood how sets felt about each other, and how nurses felt about patients they had once specialed through and off the D.I.L., and who was himself a member of Benedict’s. Today would have been a black day in Benedict’s. All hospitals were forced to accustom themselves to the deaths of patients and a climate of illness and grief, and yet maintain a routine composure. The unexpected death of any member of a hospital staff invariably, and automatically, shattered that composure. Patients died. Not doctors, nurses, or medical students. We were invulnerable ‒ until something like today happened. Benedict’s had a huge nursing staff. There would be hundreds of girls who never knew Aline. There wouldn’t be one who had not some time today thought, God, it could be me. And as most of our men had nurses for girlfriends, at least for the next few days Benedict’s men would drive that much more carefully.
All that could have been sufficient ‒ had I not been over sixty miles from Benedict’s, and had it not been a Friday evening. Everyone’s reserves
were low by then. This last week had been one of the heaviest, surgically, I had so far experienced. What the extra effort had cost him was now plain to anyone who walked into the sitting-room. Out like a light. Yet he’d come.
Up to his final remarks before he dropped off I would have sworn on oath any help he gave me was for Margaret’s sake, whether or not she loved him. He didn’t have to love me for me to be willing to do anything I could to help him.
My mind went back to our first meeting in the subway; to Marcus; to that morning on the bypass and how he had driven me back here to change; to the little chats he used occasionally to have with me in the Hall; and the night General Francis called. Then I went back to tonight.
If not for Margaret, for ‒ me?
Somewhere in my inside a star flared. Then I got it under control. I made myself remember how I had managed to kid myself Bill loved me. I asked myself savagely when I was going to grow up and stop dreaming up fairy-stories with myself as heroine, and was it any wonder he thought me occasionally bloody childish? Had he known me rather better he’d have dropped that ‘occasionally’.
It was time to wake him. I made fresh tea, took it into the sitting-room, set the tray quietly on a small table, then stood by the sofa, studying his unguarded face exactly as on last Friday afternoon in the office.
It cost me a conscious effort not to sit in the space beside his legs, not to touch the very slight wave of red hair above his forehead, not to take in my hands his right hand that lay so limply on the seat. Having to stand primly by last Friday had been bad enough, but at least then I had had my uniform, his white coat, and the facts that we had both been on duty and were in the hospital to add to my defences. Hospital etiquettes and hospital traditions might be throttling, but they did provide a magnificent invisible armour. Then it had been tea-time. Here it was night. Here we were alone together, off duty, miles from Benedict’s in an isolated country cottage. I held my hands behind my back in the approved position for any Benedict’s nurse when about to address her senior. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I’m afraid you must wake up.’
Exactly as last Friday, nothing happened.
I remembered how I had had to shake him, gently, and how he had mistaken me for Margaret, and whilst still too drugged with sleep to control his subconscious had given himself away.
But he wasn’t in love with Margaret. And he wasn’t a man to ‘dearest’ and ‘darling’ even old friends.
Not just one star. A couple more flared. I took a deep, calming breath, gave myself another pep-talk, then shook him gently. That was now not enough. Having slept longer, his sleep was that much deeper. I used both hands on his shoulders and shook him really firmly. ‘I’m sorry, but you must wake up! Come on!’ I patted his face. ‘Time to wake up!’
‘M’mmmm?’ he murmured without opening his eyes and reaching for my hand. Momentarily, he held it against his cheek, then slid my open palm over his mouth and kissed it. ‘Dear Jo.’ He dropped his hand as he went straight back to sleep.
For a few of the most wonderful moments of my life up to then, I did nothing but stand and smile at his sleeping figure. Then I had to remember the time, his job, and the fact that it was possible to be as drunk with fatigue as with alcohol, and that to set too much store by a kiss on the hand from a sleeping man was as foolish as to take seriously a pass made by a drunk, or, again I reminded myself intentionally, a delirious patient. Yet though that impressed my judgement, it had no effect at all on my instincts. In fact, every instinct I possessed was behaving so strangely that it took all my willpower to give him an even more violent shake and not to kiss him.
That did it. He blinked, frowned. ‘My God! I didn’t drop off again?’ He squinted at his watch. ‘This thing right? Why the devil did you let me sleep so long?’ He was as annoyed as I had anticipated. ‘Didn’t you realize the time?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. You looked so tired. Here.’ I handed him a cup of tea into which I had again emptied half the sugar-basin. ‘You’ll feel better after this.’ He had swung his legs to the floor and was sitting on the edge of the seat, rubbing his face. ‘I’m afraid you are going to be very late back. Do you want to ring Benedict’s and warn ’em?’
‘That won’t be necessary, thanks.’ He sipped the tea. ‘God! More syrup! This seems to be getting quite a habit for us both. I do apologize for my appalling manners, but I wish you’d woken me sooner.’ He drank the tea, stood up. ‘Forgive me if I go out to the car. Run out of cigarettes.’ He vanished before I could answer. On his return he went into the kitchen, and I heard a tap running. When he came back his hair was damp and newly combed. ‘No therapy like cold water for removing muzzy edges. Plus strong, sweet tea. I’ve drunk so much of the stuff since I qualified that if I ever need a transfusion and have to be grouped the path lab’ll send down a couple of vacolitres of strong tea. May I help myself to more?’ Again, he did not wait for my answer. ‘I’ve just noticed you’ve been cooking.’
He must also have noticed the two supper-trays I had set and left on the kitchen table to bring in here, later. ‘I thought you might like supper before you left. Can you stay for it? It’s ready when you are.’
‘It’s kind of you’ ‒ he had another look at his watch ‒ ‘but it is getting late.’
‘And you want to be off?’ I had realized this might happen. That did not mean I liked it, but because of his job I understood it. I stood up. ‘If I get yours now and you eat quickly, surely another ten minutes won’t make all that difference?’
He stiffened. I could not conceive why. Then he said, ‘Jo, do you seriously imagine I’m going to leave you here alone tonight after the kind of news I’ve had to bring you?’ He glanced round. ‘I’m not sure I think much of the idea of your staying here alone on the best of nights. This cottage is far too isolated. There’s going to be no question of my leaving you behind on this night. You must come back to Benedict’s with me, as I know your aunt would agree, were she aware of the present circumstances.’
It was ages since he had called Margaret ‘your aunt’ to me. She had been ‘Maggie', as before he fell asleep. It was probably unimportant, yet it puzzled me quite disproportionally. ‘Margaret doesn’t know you’re here then?’
He was chain-smoking again. He shook his head over a lighted match. ‘I didn’t know, when I saw her this afternoon, that I could get the night off.’
‘You’re off all night?’ I demanded.
He straightened his head and shoulders and looked at me with the expression he used on students who rashly stepped a little out of line. ‘Until 9 A.M. tomorrow. Mr Tomlin’s taken tonight for me. I’m taking Sunday night for him, as he wants two nights away this week-end. It’s a matter we’re entitled to arrange between ourselves when it suits us. It so happens this arrangement suits us both.’
‘I see,’ I lied, being too confused to see anything clearly. My confusion was not unpleasant. After nearly three years in Benedict’s I knew these arrangements were permissible and never affected the patients, but as they involved a detailed handing-over report on roughly half the hospital, they were only suddenly arranged for urgent personal reasons. Had that reason just been Mr Tomlin’s, Richard would have taken his Sunday without asking him to do tonight in exchange. I remembered two occasions when Mr Tomlin’s mother had been ill and he had done the two extra nights in double-harness without having even one off himself in return. ‘I wish I’d known you were off, before!’ I exclaimed.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Why?’
‘I needn’t have woken you. You could have had a whole undisturbed night, for once.’ His eyebrows remained up. ‘Look ‒ I know how that would sound to anyone who didn’t know the true set-up, but I do, you do, and I’m sure Margaret wouldn’t object. And she’s my aunt, and this is her cottage, and you are one of her oldest friends.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ There was a touch of grimness in his tone.
Suddenly I realized what I had said and why it had turned him grim. As I co
uld not go back, I went on: ‘Did you guess I wanted to marry you two off?’
‘A blind man could have guessed. So John Francis has finally opened your eyes?’ He was still grim. ‘Right?’
‘No. It was first Margaret, yesterday. Then you, tonight.’ He flushed slightly. Mentally, I held my breath, but he only asked how I had got hold of the impression there had ever been any chance of my plan succeeding.
‘Originally, from you.’
‘Would you care to enlarge on that?’ He might have been asking for a case history. I answered as I would have done in that event. I kept it brief. Even so, it took some time. He listened in silence, and was silent when I finished.
I could not take that silence. ‘Look,’ I said, unnecessarily as his eyes were fixed on my face, ‘I know I’m a moron to get these fixations. I know now that you and Margaret were once the sort of chums I am with Charlie ‒’
‘Charlie ‒?’
‘Charlie Peters. He used to be in the Hall.’
‘The boy with all the hair who runs that unspeakable group and used to follow you round knocking things over?’ He smiled slightly. ‘So he’s Charlie? Carry on.’
‘There’s not much more to say, as I’ve said most of it. Like I said, I see now that you just dropped in down here because you and Margaret like each other, and you probably went fishing with Dickie because you like fishing and Dickie.’
‘That’s true. But I had another reason for accepting John Francis’s invitation. I wanted to get to know him, and his background, better. From the afternoon I brought him here I got the idea that he and Maggie were attracted to each other. As she’s always been as willing to treat me as a spare brother as you’ve been to consider me as a future uncle, I decided on that occasion to avail myself of my adopted rights and, bluntly, vet him. I liked very much what I saw of him in Devon. I like him even more now.’
Hospital Circles Page 20
