A Hospital Summer

by Lucilla Andrews

I had a third stroke of luck that morning. I was able to hitch a lift in an empty ambulance, and was on the local station platform by five minutes past ten. The R.T.O. looked doubtfully at my warrant. ‘If you are thinking of going through London you had better think again. There’s a four-hour delay on all trains to London. You’ll be wiser to go across country. You’ll have to change’ ‒ he consulted a note-book ‒ ‘three, possibly four, times. It’ll take you five hours ‒ with luck. Be a shockingly boring journey, but the farther west you get the less chance you’ll have of being held up by raids.’

  ‘Then I’ll go west from the start. How long do I have to wait for the first train?’

  ‘That one over there is the one you want. It should have gone half an hour ago, so you may not have too much of a wait here.’ He opened the door of a first-class carriage. ‘This is empty. Hop in.’

  I hesitated. ‘My warrant’s third. Does it matter?’

  His smile was weary. ‘Not in the slightest. This is the last empty carriage. If you had wanted to go via London you would probably have had to ride in the van. There’s a war on, you know.’

  I was too happy and too sleepy to do more than apologize humbly. ‘I’m so sorry. I forgot. Thank you very much.’ I sat contentedly in the comfortable, empty compartment, clutched my suitcase on my lap, and settled down to sleep. Then I realized that I might well sleep through my first change. I was fairly sure I was not going to remain alone in the compartment, so I opened my case, took out an envelope and my pen, wrote in large capitals the name of the station at which I had to get out, added beneath it, ‘Please wake me up,’ and pinned the note to the turned-up brim of my pork-pie cap. I settled down again and was asleep before the train started, or anyone joined me.

  After what seemed like a couple of moments I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘Miss. Miss. Wake up.’ A soldier was bending over me. ‘Was you wanting to get out here?’

  I blinked at him. ‘What? What time is it? It’s still light ‒’

  Then I remembered where I was. ‘Thanks awfully.’ I jumped up and dropped my suitcase. The soldier picked it up and followed me out on to the platform.

  ‘Where you going now, miss?’

  I told him. ‘I hope it’s one of the trains in now. I’ll go and find an R.T.O. and ask.’

  He had spotted a couple of railway policemen. ‘That corporal over there might know, miss. You sure you’re awake? Then I’d best leave you. Going on in the other, I am.’ He vanished before I could thank him for his kindness.

  The railway policeman put me in a third-class carriage. ‘Sorry, miss, no seats left in the first. It’s a bit of a crush in here’ ‒ he scowled at the many occupants of the carriage until they made room for me ‒ ‘but be better than standing.’

  I was pleased to be in a crowd. It would save me writing another label. I asked if anyone was going to my next destination. A faintly gloomy soldier nodded. ‘I’m changing there, miss. Cruel dump it is.’

  I asked if he would mind waking me. He looked even more gloomy. ‘I was thinking of having a kip myself, miss.’

  ‘Then we’ll both kip.’ I took the now crumpled label from my pocket, altered the station name, added, ‘Soldier opposite too, please,’ and pinned it once more to my cap. The men watched me seriously. A man in the far corner said he reckoned that wasn’t a bad plan and wrote a label for himself. He stuck it in his shoulder-strap, then folded his arms and closed his eyes.

  When I arrived at the West Country market town that was my final destination my label had been altered four times and I was feeling very refreshed after nearly five and a half hours’ sleep. I could not understand why I could sleep so well sitting upright in a crowded, moving train, and not at all in my bed in my room, but I did not stop to worry on the subject. I was only too pleased to have had some sleep, and to have arrived with at least four more hours of daylight ahead in which to find somewhere to spend the next two nights. I did not think about seeing Joe in the immediate future at all; I did not dare think about him. I was going to face that problem only when I came to it. First I wanted to wash and tidy myself, have a cup of tea, and then find a room.

  I asked the girl at the railway buffet counter about hotels. ‘Any chance of getting a room?’

  ‘Not a hope, dear,’ she said cheerfully. ‘There’s not a room in the town. Filled with evacuees we are. Everything’s taken.’

  ‘Aren’t there any boarding-houses? Commercial hotels?’ She was shaking her head all the time, so I asked desperately, ‘There must be somewhere I can spend the night? What do I do?’

  She reached for the chained teaspoon. ‘Couldn’t say.’ She had lost interest in my problems. She strolled away, humming A Nightingale sang in Berkeley Square. She hummed flat, killing the pleasant melody.

  I carried my saucerless cup over to one of the tables. Two A.T.S. in uniform smiled at me, so I moved to their table. ‘Can you girls tell me how I can find a room ‒ or even a bed ‒ for a couple of nights?’

  The A.T.S. girls were far more helpful than the buffet lady. ‘Wonder if they’ve got any Salvation Army here? If not, try the Y.W. There must be a Y.W. somewhere. They’ll fix you up with something, as you’re in uniform. The Y.W. are ever so good about fixing us up. They’re clean, too. But you’ll have to be in on time. They don’t like you coming in late.’

  ‘I’ll be in early.’ I swallowed my tea. ‘Thanks, girls. You’ve given me a lot of good ideas. Now I come to think of it, there’s a Y.W. sign up in the Ladies’ Room. I’ll go and look at it for the address.’

  The elderly lady in charge of the small branch of the Young Women’s Christian Association looked harassed by my request. ‘We’ll certainly fit you in, my dear, if you can’t find any other room. You’ll have to share with six others.’

  I smiled. ‘I’ve been used to sharing with twenty. That won’t bother me at all.’ I asked her about Joe’s sanatorium. ‘Do you know how I can get there?’

  She sighed. ‘Oh, dear me. I don’t. It’s a good walk ‒ at least five miles ‒ and the bus only goes out there twice a day now. I doubt whether you’ll be able to get a taxi ‒ even could you afford it. Taxis are very expensive now, and very rare.’

  ‘Five miles.’ I answered her sigh with another. ‘How I wish I had brought my bike. I can’t say I feel much like the walk, but if there is no other way of getting there I’ll have to walk.’

  ‘Have you had a very long journey?’ she asked sympathetically.

  ‘Moderately long. I’m on night duty, which is why I’m not feeling exactly like walking. But I’ve come all this way to visit someone there, and now I’m here I’m going to see him. May I leave my case and have a wash before I go?’

  ‘I’ll just give you a receipt for your case.’ She clucked over her receipt-book. ‘I don’t like your having to walk there and back. Did you say you rode a bicycle? Wait one moment.’ She disappeared into a back room, and came back with another, younger woman. ‘Miss Aspey, this is the young girl who wants to get to the sanatorium. She is coming back here to-night.’

  Miss Aspey was about Mary’s age. She looked me over. ‘You can borrow my bike if you like ‒ so long as you bring it back safely.’

  ‘May I? Thank you so much. I’ll be very careful with it.’

  She grinned. ‘It’s not much of a machine, I’m afraid. It belonged to my mother. But it goes. It’ll be better than walking. Now, do you know how to get to the sanatorium? And have you got permission to visit someone there? They’re fairly sticky about visitors.’

  I said I did not know the way and had not got permission. That snag had not occurred to me. I refused to let it worry me now.

  Miss Aspey said, ‘I suppose the person you are visiting had told them you are coming?’

  ‘Probably,’ I lied. I did not dare admit that I had not warned Joe of my arrival, because I suspected he might refuse to see me. I had concentrated all my energy on getting here. I was going to wait until I reached the sanatorium before I began flapping about what to do
next.

  Chapter Ten

  A HOSPITAL ON A HILL

  The porter in the glass-fronted lodge was polite but firm. ‘It’s not a visiting day, miss. Is Dr Slaney expecting you? I’ve had no message from Sister Franks.’

  ‘He’s not expecting me, but ‒’

  He closed the large admission book in front of him. ‘I can’t let you in without permission, miss. Would you like me to have a word with the ward Sister?’

  I hesitated, then made up my mind. ‘Is Dr MacArthur free?’

  ‘The Superintendent, miss?’ His tone altered slightly. ‘You ‒ would be a friend of the Superintendent, miss?’

  ‘I’m the niece of a friend of his.’ I did not know if this was true or not, as I had not heard from Uncle Michael since that telephone call, but, having decided to use his name, I was determined to plug it. ‘My uncle is a Dr Anthony. Dr M. H. Anthony. Could you ask Dr MacArthur if he could see me?’

  He bounced out of his lodge and asked me to take a seat in the hall. ‘Won’t keep you long, miss, I’m sure.’ He grew more effusive with every passing second. ‘I’ll put a call through to the Superintendent right away. Miss Anthony, is it?’

  ‘No ‒ Miss Dillon. My uncle is Dr Anthony. Thank you.’

  Ten minutes later a small, spare man in a long white coat strolled into the entrance hall. He stopped in front of me. ‘Miss Dillon? I believe you wanted to see me.’

  I stood up. ‘Dr Dennis MacArthur?’ I was surprised to hear my voice sound steady. I felt extremely unsteady.

  He shook his head slightly. ‘No. My name happens to be Desmond. Why? What’s all this about a Dr Aston?’

  I said, ‘Oh, dear. The porter must have misunderstood me. I said Dr Anthony. He’s my uncle. I ‒ er ‒ hoped you would know him.’

  He smoothed his grey, thinning hair. ‘Why?’

  I told him the truth.

  His face gave nothing away as he listened. Then he asked, ‘Why didn’t you let Dr Slaney know you were coming?’

  I met his eyes. ‘I’m not sure that he wants to see me.’

  ‘I see. And you want to see him now?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He looked at his feet. ‘How did you get out here? There’s no bus at this time of the evening.’

  ‘Someone lent me a bicycle.’

  ‘Have you friends in the town?’

  ‘No. A woman at the Y.W. lent it to me.’

  ‘Y.W.C.A.?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He smiled faintly. ‘You said you were on night duty. Did you work last night?’

  ‘Yes.’ I wished he would make up his mind, and stop this cross-examination. If he was not going to let me see Joe this evening I wished he would tell me so at once.

  He was not to be hurried. ‘Have you had any meals to-day?’

  ‘I had breakfast ‒ and some tea at the station.’

  ‘Do they feed you at the Y.W.?’

  ‘I don’t know. I forgot to ask. I don’t think so.’

  He said, ‘I see. Well, Miss Dillon, before I let you see Dr Slaney I want to tell you something. This hospital, and other similar establishments all over the country, is filled to capacity with young men and women who have been as oblivious as you seem to be about the requirements of the human body. Adequate rest and food are not merely the needs of the very young or very old. I do understand that this is a somewhat exceptional circumstance for you, but I make it a point never to allow such behaviour to pass without comment. If you try and run any machine without care it’ll break down; the same applies to the human body. If you are in any doubt about the result of constantly over-working and under-feeding I would advise you to take a look round this hospital. And let me remind you,’ he added soberly, ‘that nine-tenths of my patients are under the age of thirty. Now, you are not to ride back to your Y.W. tonight before you have had a proper dinner here. If you wish to come out to-morrow ‒ yes, you may ‒ you must take your meals with the nurses. I will mention the subject to Matron. The ward Sister will show you where to go. No, don’t thank me, young woman. I’m only doing my job. We do not only aim to cure here; we also aim to prevent.’ He beckoned the porter. ‘Davis, take this lady to see Dr Slaney. Tell Sister Franks that Miss Dillon has my permission.’

  I thanked him warmly, and felt more than a little sick. I followed the porter, wondering if my legs would carry me. My stomach was tying itself in knots, and my mouth was dry, while strange things were happening to my knees.

  A tall, dark-haired woman in a Sister’s blue dress looked at me curiously as she received the Superintendent’s message. ‘I did not know Dr Slaney was expecting a visitor,’ she said, with a strong guttural accent. ‘But if Dr MacArthur gives permission, naturally all is well. You will come with me?’

  The ward was on the ground floor, and the whole of one wall consisted of folding glass screens. I hurried after the ward Sister, who was striding over the polished floor at a tremendous pace, and noticed nothing but that wall of folded screens. I wondered how they managed to black it out at night, or whether they did not bother about black-outs up here. The War seemed to belong to another world; it had no place on this quiet hill. Even below, in the market town, the brief period I had spent looking round the street I wanted had given me the impression that the War was an inconvenience deplored by all, with the possible exception of the shopkeepers, to whom it must have brought extra business. A series of hills separated the town from the sanatorium. I had had to walk uphill a good half of my journey, and been grateful for the respite I got when that borrowed bicycle sailed downhill. My journey had ended on my feet, as the sanatorium was built on the crest of the highest hill. The pine-woods had been cut back to make room for the long, low, sprawling building; the nearest trees seemed to me about five hundred yards from the place, and in the space there was a garden in which most of the flowers were dead.

  The Sister turned right at the end of the ward and strode down a small corridor. ‘The private rooms,’ she announced over her shoulder. She stopped and rapped at a door marked Number 7. She swept open the door without waiting for any answer. ‘Dr Slaney. A visitor.’ She ushered me in, nodded at us both, and with a rustle of her starched skirts swept out.

  The small room was full of air, and, like the long ward, possessed only three, solid walls. The outside glass partition wall was folded right back and the solitary bed occupying that room had been pulled to the edge of the now non-existent wall and faced the hills and the pine-woods. Joe was reading when Sister opened the door. He twisted his head round when she announced that he had a visitor, but did not put down his book. When she left us his head remained twisted round and his expression changed for the third time. His first glance had been only incurious; then he saw me, and for a fleeting moment his whole face was illuminated, as someone had switched on an electric light behind his eyes; almost immediately that light faded; he smiled a polite little smile.

  ‘Well, now,’ said Joe, ‘there can be no doubt about this. Dr Livingstone, I presume?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’ I walked to his bedside. ‘Joe, tell me something. How do they black-out this place? It must be a nightmare to keep all this glass under cover.’

  ‘They’ve got it pretty well taped. If you step back a foot and look up you’ll see the technique. Those rolled blinds look thin, but they’re quite light-proof. And those clips at the sides behind the folding wall hold the sides intact.’

  ‘What happens about air?’ I asked.

  ‘We have to get that through the doors at night. If the night Sister’s in a good mood ‒ and she generally is ‒ we talk her into letting the night nurse remove our bulbs. Then we have our blinds up again. Not that it would make the slightest difference if we left in our bulbs and left up the blinds.’

  I looked at him properly for the first time. I noticed that he was looking much more rested than when we had last been together. I had to look away quickly; he was looking at me, too. ‘Don’t you get any raids?’

  ‘Raids?
You’ve no conception, woman, how dangerous it is up here on these hills. There was a bomb ‒ one bomb, I’m telling you ‒ dropped on a barn in a village fourteen miles from us. Or rather, everyone swears blind it was a bomb, but no one actually heard it fall or go off. So we can’t afford to take chances, living on the front line as we do. And we really go to town on our raid drill. The place bristles with wardens and chaps blowing whistles. It’s big stuff.’ He closed the book that was now lying face down on his bed, smoothed his top sheet, and faced me. ‘And now we’ve had the small talk, let’s get down to it, Clare. Just what do you think you are doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come to see you,’ I replied obviously, and looked round for a chair and to give myself time to think. ‘I can’t get down to brass tacks on my two feet. As there is no chair, what can I sit on? The end of your bed?’

  ‘No.’ He removed some books from the lower shelf of his locker. ‘This thing is a seat.’ He pushed it away from his bed. ‘Why not heave it out into the garden? On the path just there. It’ll be more pleasant. The sun is still warm.’

  I leant on the back of the locker. ‘Joe, I’m going to tell you a story. Once upon a time there was an Acute Medical Block full of soldiers with tubercle. I washed, fed, held those soldiers for two months on days, and one month on nights. They breathed and coughed all over me; generally when I was not wearing a mask. Not once, but many, many times. I must have inhaled millions of their bugs; don’t be so fussy about yours. And stop behaving as if I’m a fragile little flower ‒ and as if you’ve got leprosy. Incidentally, my father used to say that even lepers were not nearly so infectious as people have made out for centuries.’

  He had listened to me with an expressionless face. ‘End of your story, Clare?’ he asked civilly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then take that bastard of a locker out into the garden as I told you and stop arguing. If you don’t I’ll ring for help and say you’re upsetting me. No one’s allowed to upset patients here. This is a civvy hospital. I’ve only to press my bell and they’ll fetch the boss to chuck you out in short order. Our boss is some boss. Old MacArthur scares the living daylights out of all his staff and ’most everyone else.’