by Janet Tanner
‘Oh, my God!’ Elise said, turning white.
‘He caught it lucky.’ The older man jerked his head in the direction of the treatment room. ‘But he’s still in a bad way, I should say.’
The two men nodded agreement, their grim faces confirming the seriousness of John Grimly’s injuries.
Elise turned to Carter. The sickness was back now, not just in her stomach but a creeping malady chilling her whole body.
When he had been forever following her John Grimly had irritated her unbearably, but now, knowing he was lying critically ill, she felt oddly responsible for him. A few moments ago she had hoped never to have to nurse another wounded man as long as she lived; now she said: ‘Can I go in and help?’
‘Best not. Dr Walker’s got trained help in there. You go and get yourself a drink of something and have a bit of a break from this place.’
Despite his fierce features, Carter had kind eyes. The expression in them now did more to convince her than any harsh words. She was in no fit state to carry on just now and he knew it.
But I should be! she thought. If I can’t support and comfort someone I know, then what good am I?
‘Go and get a drink and then come back,’ Carter continued. ‘Maybe we’ll have a better idea by then how he is.’
She nodded mutely. This time she did not stop outside the hospital ward. As the door closed behind her it was like a weight lifting off her shoulders. She went up the companion way, drawing in deep breaths of the fresh air that was filtering down. It was so good to be able to breathe in and not be contaminated by the smell of blood, scorched flesh and disinfectant! The odours still clung faintly to her hair, it was true, but compared with the choking, nauseating odour in the hospital, it was nothing. And to hear the hum of the ship’s engines rather than the men’s groans – that was a freedom which lifted her until the tiredness fell away.
The ship was now coasting slowly away from the debris of the wreck, while look-outs with binoculars combed the sea to make sure no survivor remained clinging helplessly to some piece of wreckage. But there was a total emptiness about the blue: no more boats; no more survivors.
And no raider. With a sense of shock, she realised she had not thought about it for hours. Well, if it had intended to move in and strike, it surely would have done so by now.
She made her way to the Mess Room then, but in the doorway she hesitated. It was crowded with men, all restless because they were not used to having to take a back seat when there was action. She was suddenly acutely aware of the state she was in – both her cream dress and her white coat were stained just as Surgeon Lt. Walker’s had been – and aware too that just now she did not want to talk to anyone who had not shared her experience in the hospital.
Besides … I can’t sit up here and drink gin with John Grimly down there in a bad way, she thought. Whatever Carter said, there might be something I could do.
She turned and retraced her steps. As she went back into the hospital the smells hit her all over again, but this time she accepted them. The first person she saw was Joyce Lindsell, as tired and dishevelled as she was herself; good intentions forgotten, she said defensively, ‘They sent me off to get a stiff gin, but I couldn’t face the crush in the Mess Room.’
Joyce’s mouth twisted slightly, a weak parody of her old hostility. ‘No?’
‘No! I could use a drink, but I didn’t want to talk about what we’ve been doing down here.’
In the doorway of the galley Joyce turned, looking over her shoulder. ‘I’ve just made some tea if you want it.’ Her tone was as defensive as Elise’s had been, as if she expected to be slapped down.
‘Thanks.’
In the galley they avoided one another’s eyes, still awkward, still unsure of one another, yet for the first time meeting on the same footing.
Joyce, her back to Elise, spooned sugar into a mug before stirring it and passing it to her. Elise took it without protest; she did not like sugar in her tea but she had no intention of saying so and risking Joyce’s antagonism again. Besides, tired and thirsty as she was, she thought any beverage, however sickly, would slip down and be welcome.
She gulped gratefully at the tea but as it reached her empty, smell-filled stomach she gagged, nauseated. In panic she dumped the mug and pressed her hand to her mouth. The sickness was rising in her again, a revolt against the strong tannin, and the sugar was cloying on her tongue and the roof of her mouth.
‘Hey – you all right?’
Gradually the sickness subsided and her stomach fell into place again. Without removing her hand, she nodded.
‘Sorry. There’s nothing wrong with your tea. It’s me …’
‘I know how you feel.’ Joyce was not looking at her. ‘For God’s sake don’t throw up or I shall throw up with you.’
The vision of the two of them vomiting in the galley appealed unexpectedly to Elise’s sense of humour and suddenly, without really knowing why, she was laughing, a chortle that was midway to being a sob. Her hand still pressed to her mouth, she laughed, her body folding painfully against the white galley worktop, and Joyce laughed with her.
‘Oh God, what a life!’
‘When I volunteered I never expected a day like today. And it’s thanks to you I’m here. I would never have thought of it. Why on earth did you?’ But there was no rancour in the remark.
The galley door opened and Carter looked in.
‘Oh – it’s you two. I wondered what the heck was going on.’
The sight of him sobered Elise and all at once she remembered John Grimly.
‘Is there any news?’
‘About your young Army Captain? He’s in a bad way, I’m afraid. They’re doing what they can for him, but …’ His rubbery mouth clamped into an expressive grimace and he moved his head slowly from side to side.
‘You don’t mean …’ she choked on the words. ‘Isn’t he going to be all right?’
Carter’s head moved imperceptibly from left to right and back again.
‘Hard to tell with internal injuries, and that’s his main trouble. Mr Walker’s operating now. He’ll do his best – but all the same I wouldn’t hold out much hope.’
‘Oh God!’ Elise bent her head, biting on her lips. Then she looked up again, speaking to Carter. ‘I should like to stay. When he comes out of the operating theatre he’ll need someone to be with him until the anaesthetic wears off, won’t he? I should like it to be me.’
Carter’s eyes on her face were shrewd. ‘ Something to you, is he?’
‘No.’ There was no way she could explain that such a short time ago she had cursed him for a nuisance, told him in no uncertain terms to leave her alone. But she was remembering too clearly all the same; remembering the stricken look of him before he turned away, all fierce pride; remembering the sudden collapse and the pathetic figure she had left on deck that night.
I put him through hell, she thought. I didn’t mean to; I just wanted him to leave me alone. But for some reason I touched on a raw nerve and it hurt him so much.
‘No – he’s nothing to me in the way you mean,’ she said. ‘But I did know him quite well and I would like it to be me.’
‘All right.’ Carter rubbed his lantern jaw with large, squat fingers. ‘I’ll tell the doctor when he’s finished operating and see what he says. All right?’
‘Fine. How long?’
His expression stopped her in mid-sentence. ‘I couldn’t say. As
long as it takes.
’
As long as it takes – and longer, or so it seemed to Elise. When
the tea was finished Joyce left her. ‘Do you mind if I go?’ she asked
and Elise shook her head. There was no reason for her to stay
now, but Elise was touched all the same that she should have asked.
Others came and went in the galley, but for the most part they were too tired to talk and Elise waited, conscious of every passing minute though her watch had long since stopped and she had no
way of counting time. She stood, leaning against the work surface; she sat on a high-backed stool; she paced. And after a while she made and risked drinking another pot of tea. Less strong and without sugar, it did not rake her stomach and revolt her mouth this time and actually refreshed her.
Finally, when she had almost decided everyone had forgotten she was there at all, the door opened and Surgeon Lt. Walker came in.
‘Mrs Sanderson. Carter told me you were here.’
‘How is he?’
‘It’s serious. I’ve done what I can, but … Miracles do sometimes happen, it’s true. However, after two years of seeing healthy young men die, I just don’t believe in them any more.’
His weary defeatism transmitted itself to her. ‘You don’t hold out much hope?’
‘We shall have to wait and see.’ He moved abruptly. ‘Now, Carter said you had asked especially if you could continue to nurse him.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re not emotionally involved?’
‘Not in the way you mean. I just know him quite well.’
‘Don’t we all,’ Frank Walker said dryly. ‘All right; you can sit with him. I shall be sending in a trained assistant from time to time to do the necessary medical checks, but if he recovers consciousness it would be comforting to see someone he knows – particularly a woman. My men are all good nurses, but they lack that essential something a male patient looks for! And they’re not as pretty, either!’ he added as an afterthought.
‘Can I go in now?’
‘Yes. Gown up and get yourself a mask. You’ll find him in the end Recovery Room.’
Though she had been unable to erase from her mind the image of John Grimly when he had been brought in, seeing him now she was struck afresh with the sense of shock.
If he had been drained of colour before, now he was totally ashen, his face greyish above the white theatre gown, his slick black hair hidden beneath a white cap.
She entered the Recovery Room quietly – as if to make a sound might disturb him from his sleep – and took the chair beside his bed that had been vacated by an orderly. Then she sat watching him and waiting for the first small sign of returning consciousness. In itself, she supposed, it would mean nothing if the internal injuries were as serious as Frank Walker had said. But it seemed, all the same, a step away from death towards living.
He looked so young lying there – too young to be at war and much too young to be dying.
Looking at his still, white face she saw him as he had been – rosy, enthusiastic, a young man almost born out of his time. He should have been a crusader, she thought, recalling the joking suggestion made by one of his brother officers on their first night out from Suez.
But that was just the tragedy of him now. If he died it would be a total waste, because he would die without ever firing a shot or seeing any active service.
There was a sick irony about it, which oddly did not surprise her. It was so like John Grimly to have been so keen to help – and then to have ended up complicating matters by swelling the numbers of those wounded himself.
At regular intervals Carter came in to check on the patient’s pulse and blood pressure. ‘He’ll come round soon now if he’s going to come round at all,’ he said on one occasion, but to Elise the young man looked as deeply unconscious as ever, and it was still a shock to her when he began to stir, his face and body moving in sudden sharp spasms like a sleeper in a nightmare.
At the first signs she got up in a hurry to call Carter, but he was assisting with an emergency – one of the survivors had gone into sudden shock – and told her shortly that he would be in as soon as he had a moment and not before.
Angry at the sharpness of his tongue and feeling pretty foolish for bothering him, she went back into the cubicle. But as the next spasm came she leaned forward, watching it flicker over Grimly’s smooth face, taking the soft, smooth hand in hers and leaning close to try to catch the first incoherent words.
‘Nuisance … me … leave … leave it …!’
His body twisted and writhed and she eased him back, pulling the sheet straight around him.
‘It’s all right, John. Just lie still. Very still.’
Muttering a little, he drifted off, but it was not long before he was stirring again, whimpering and writhing; as the anaesthetic wore off, there were periods of two or three minutes at a time when he seemed quite lucid and almost normal.
Except for his obvious distress, that is. He was in pain, Elise knew, and she thought that if Carter did not return soon she would have to go and look for him and risk the sharpness of his tongue. But it was not only the physical discomfort that was disturbing John Grimly.
‘What use am I? What bloody use am I?’ The words were stringing together now to make sense.
‘Don’t be so silly! You were doing your best to help. It wasn’t your fault the rope gave.’ She tucked his hand beneath the sheet but his fingers gripped at hers with a desperate urgency which reminded her sickeningly of her mother when she lay dying.
‘It had to be me, didn’t it?’ He was answering and not answering, clear and lucid yet seemingly lost in some trance world of his own. ‘What have they done to me? Do you know?’
‘They’ve operated – the doctor will explain when he comes.’
But he was not listening. ‘Why does it always have to be me? Bloody useless, making a fool of myself …’
‘You’re not to say that, do you hear me? It’s not true. You’re a really good soldier. Now I shall fetch the doctor …’ She tried to extricate her fingers, but he held them fast.
‘No – don’t go! Don’t leave me!’
‘But, John …’
The blue eyes, dilated and muddy, looked directly up into hers. ‘Stay! I’m so glad it’s you!’
There was a hard lump in her throat and tears ached in her eyes.
‘John – I’ll fetch someone and then I’ll be back …’
But he had drifted back to drugged sleep as suddenly and completely as he had lifted from it, still holding her hand in his.
Undecided, she sat beside the bed. Intuition was telling her to fetch Carter or Frank Walker, but with John Grimly apparently sleeping peacefully once more there seemed to be no excuse for bothering them. Weary as she was, sitting here somehow eased her sense of guilt over the way she had spoken to him that night on deck – and she felt that she might be helping him by being here. He had pursued her and here she was; perhaps in his muzzy state it would seem to him that at least he was not a complete failure.
A gurgling sound, loud in the silent room, returned Elise to full awareness. Her eyes snapped round to see Grimly arching wildly beneath the sheets. His head was thrown back, eyes wide open, and a startled expression had con-toned his face to complete blankness.
She was on her feet in one movement, leaning across him.
‘John …’
But his eyes were glazed and unseeing.
She levered herself away from the bed, almost tripping in her haste, and tore open the Recovery Room door. There was no one to be seen and the main ward was in soft half-light. Distraught as she was, she controlled the urge to call out for Surgeon Lt. Walker, Carter, or for anyone who would know what to do.
Down the dim ward she half ran; at the end a solid figure materialised, blocking her path and catching at her arm.
‘All right – all right! Where’s the fire?’
‘Captain Grimly’s worse. Can you come?’
‘How bad is he?’
‘Very bad, I think he’s dying!’
The man’s reaction was so immediate that Elise wondered afterwards if he had been detailed to keep a close eye on John Grimly.
‘I’ll go to him. You get the doctor – he’s having a breather in his office.’
The Surgeon Lt. had undone his collar and was leaning forward in his chair gently massaging the back of his neck when Elise burst in on him. He swore softly, but his reaction was as immediate as the Ward Master’s had been. Pus
hing his feet into his shoes and fastening his collar as he went, he strode down the ward towards the Recovery Room.
The harsh gasping sound came out to reach them, but although Elise felt her pulse quicken with dread her feet moved the faster to keep up with Frank Walker.
In the Recovery Room the Ward Master bent over John Grimly, his bulk obscuring the young soldier from Elise’s view. She hung back in the doorway, not wanting to hamper the expertise of the professionals by getting in the way, yet anxious to be on hand to do anything she could to help.
John Grimly was dying. Without any medical knowledge herself, she knew it. He was dying and there was nothing she could do but stand by helplessly and watch it happen. She closed the door, inching in along the wall until she could see without hindering as the Surgeon Lt. and the Ward Master worked on their patient. But she knew as she watched that it was useless and when at last the unearthly falsetto groaning weakened and ceased and the two men straightened up, her own breath came out in a long shuddering sigh.
Dead. All that youth and vigour and eagerness. All those hopes and fears, all that patriotism and suppressed anxiety. He would never again irritate anyone with his wearisome fervour; never again click his heels to her or anyone else in salute; never greet her with his perfunctory
‘Ma’am!’ He would never apologise or weep for his own inadequacies.
The tears were thick in her throat and she ached with them. She pushed herself away from the wall and crossed to the bed, looking down at him. In death his face was as young and defenceless as it had been while he was unconscious. All agony and suffering had gone; the only expression on the smooth waxy face was one of faint surprise. She leaned over, touching the ridiculous white theatre cap.
‘Can I …?’
The Surgeon Lt. straightened, looking at her. His tiredness had returned with a rush. For all his cynicism he did not like losing a patient, especially one as young as Captain Grimly. There would be letters to write now, for he always took it upon himself to write personally to the next-of-kin of any man who died in his hospital or on his operating table; and for this one, more than some, he felt totally responsible.
