The Healing Time

by Lucilla Andrews

  ‘I fear not.’

  She seemed more worried than I had ever known her. ‘I’m sorry, Sister. Anything I can do?’

  ‘That’s kind, but I much doubt it.’ She smiled wryly. ‘My problem is this; at this precise moment I’ve two brothers bedded down on my living-room floor and one on the sofa. My wee flat is hospital property. I’m permitted to entertain friends and relations but only as overnight guests. I can’t accommodate the three laddies indefinitely, but the needle in the haystack’s an easy chore when compared to finding digs in London students can afford and also ‒ which must be admitted ‒ a sufficiently tolerant landlady to accept said students.’

  An obvious suggestion occurred to me. I did not voice it yet as she so clearly wanted to unbutton and I wanted to know a little more about her brothers before involving Ann. ‘Your brothers need tolerating, Sister? Why? Just a question of too much hair?’

  ‘Not only too much but red! And the twins with full beards and Angus with one of those tatty fringes round his chin. Their clothes are no help, since they all regard the wearing of a suit as sheer heresy, and though they can talk normal English, it pleases them to sound as if straight down from the Gorbals. Most potential landladies take one look and slam the door! Their last turned them out in short order yesterday!’

  ‘Any special reason, Sister? L.S.D.? Pot? Women? Or just pop?’

  It was the last. ‘To be fair, she’d warned them often enough she’d not have their group rehearsals in her house. She was away from home the night before last and they decided to chance it. They kept it up till three.’ Boys will be boys, was now written all over her. ‘Their landlady returned yesterday morning to complaints from all the other tenants, the neighbours, and the police. They were out by lunch! They only called in here later to tell me, if you please, they’d given my address for their post and would be living in their aged Mini until they could find more digs! In this cold, damp weather! As you’ll imagine, I’d to put a stop to that!’

  I could imagine she would, if not yet very clearly why. That could have been because I was feeling rather less than charitable about student folly that morning and I wasn’t the sister of young brothers.

  ‘How old are they, Sister?’

  ‘Hamish and Dougal are twenty-two and wee Angus but twenty. Mere laddies.’

  Both our ward housemen were twenty-three. I doubted she’d ever excuse them as mere laddies. I found this contrast between her shrewd, balanced, and impeccably fair professional attitude and her big-sisterly indulgence fascinating. ‘Have you many brothers?’

  ‘Five and all younger than myself. The two oldest are married. One has settled near our parents in Glasgow and the other lives in Perth. Our mother’s English. It was a great relief to her and my father when first the twins and then Angus were accepted by London University. They knew I’d be keeping my eye on them. And beneath all the hair,’ she added with a downright maternal smile, ‘they’re nice, harmless laddies.’

  I hoped she was right, but since it would be mainly Ann’s problem decided to put it to her first.

  Ann was enthusiastic, David the reverse. ‘How will the young idiots ever learn to stop playing the fool if their sister doesn’t allow them to take the consequences of their folly?’

  ‘David, don’t be so Victorian! Were you never a young idiot? And we can use their money.’

  ‘If they pay up.’

  ‘If I don’t get it in advance,’ retorted Ann, ‘they don’t get our rooms.’

  ‘If that’s what you want, have ’em. But keep those three hirsute Caledonian anarchists out of range of my study, or I’ll be down to Trafalgar Square myself with a bloody great placard demanding the repeal of the Act of Union!’

  I said, ‘As they’re bound to be Scottish Nats the new lodgers’ll be right there with you.’

  ‘By God! Was it to save this shower that I sweated out my National Service behind a dustbin lid in Cyprus?’ David stomped off to his study and slammed the door.

  Ann placidly poured me a cup of tea. ‘All that’s really eating him is Chap Eight. He’s dropped his hero down an old mine-shaft and doesn’t know how to get him up again. He nearly threw me out of bed this morning when I said why not drop the heroine down as well and have a lovely sexy scene in all that black mud. The villain’s got her tied up in his private helicopter ‒ that’s why he shoved the hero down the mine before taking off.’

  ‘Where’s the villain taking the girl?’

  ‘David doesn’t know that either. Shall I ring this Maggie MacDonald on-duty? Will she mind?’

  The urge to sleep was making me hazy. ‘If she doesn’t grab you with both hands, I’m Aunt Clara.’

  ‘Who’s Aunt Clara?’

  I had no energy for another attack on George’s potential as a future husband. ‘The wife of one of our patients. Now I think of it,’ I reflected off the top of my head, ‘she and MacDonald have quite a lot in common.’

  Negotiations were opened and closed before I woke to collect Marcy from school that afternoon. At breakfast next morning David lugubriously informed Marcy it was the day for all good Englishmen to lock up their wives and daughters. He looked out of the window. ‘Angels and ministers of grace, defend us! The clans have risen and what’s more, they’ve brought their bagpipes!’ He grabbed his tea and a piece of toast and locked himself in his study for the rest of the morning.

  The very old scarlet Mini drawn up outside was loaded in and out with suitcases, books, guitars, and a set of drums in addition to the bagpipes.

  Ann said quickly, ‘It’s a very big house and I’m putting ’em right at the top. I’ve warned them if they disturb your sleep or David’s work, not only will they go straight out, but David’ll chuck their instruments out after them from the top window. I gave the impression that after David, John Knox would’ve seemed a pushover for Mary Stuart. I think that got through the hair.’

  Marcy had lugged a chair to the window and was standing on it, entranced. The shaggy trio in violent sweaters and drainpipes looked round. ‘Hi, Curly!’

  ‘Hi, MacDonalds!’ she yelled back.

  That morning for Marcy was better than any turn on the telly. She sat with Dusty in our living-room doorway and watched every suitcase, record-player, stack of books, and musical instrument being heaved up the three flights to the top. She advised them to take off their shoes. ‘Then Uncle David won’t be cross.’

  One of the full-beards asked, ‘Is it right your uncle’s a fierce man?’

  There were still times when Ann and I forgot how much a small child can absorb from adults. ‘Aunty Ann says after Uncle David, John Knox would’ve seemed a pushover for Mary Stuart.’

  ‘Is that a fact, Curly?’ There was a brief, respectful silence. ‘You’re a bright lassie to know such long words.’

  ‘I know lots of words and some Mummy says I mustn’t say. Like the sixpenny word.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ three voices demanded.

  I appeared in the doorway. ‘A damn cost a halfpenny. Hallo! I’m Pippa Holtsmoor, Marcy’s mum.’

  They introduced themselves and shook hands all round. They had good handshakes, nice voices and ‒ which neither the Clintons nor I had expected ‒ very good manners. I could identify Angus from his fringe-beard but never tell the twins apart. Marcy had no such difficulty. I asked how she managed it and she gave me the look of an intelligent child dealing with a sub-intelligent parent. ‘Hamish looks like Hamish and Dougal looks like Dougal. And Dougal says he’ll teach me to play the pipes. Hamish says Dougal’s a grand man on the pipes.’

  God help Uncle David.

  Marcy was playing in the back area with Dusty that afternoon when I answered a ring on the front-door bell. It was Maggie MacDonald wearing a raincoat and head-scarf over her sister’s dress. She had come to thank me in person for setting the wheels in motion and to see if her brothers needed any help with their unpacking. From the look in her eye she was going to check up on damp beds and dry rot as well. I offered h
er tea. ‘I’ve just made it. Or do you want to go straight up?’

  ‘I’d love a cup if you’ve one going.’

  I ushered her into our living-room, then pushed open the window overlooking the back yard. ‘Tea’s ready, darling. Come in and wash.’

  ‘Dusty’s lost her ball, Mummy. Can I find it first?’

  ‘If you don’t take too long.’ I closed the window and turned to find my guest giving the room, the family photographs, and particularly the painting of Holtsmoor House on one wall, a very thorough appraisal. She made the right polite comments on Marcy, then got back to the painting. ‘Most impressive. Should I know it?’

  ‘It’s not that old or stately. Built by Claud Holtsmoor, my grandfather-in-law. Holtsmoor Lab ‒ oh, no!’ Marcy had fallen flat on the gravel and before she had breath to wail, Dusty started yapping with anxiety. ‘Excuse me, Sister ‒’ I ran through the hall, out of the back door. ‘Back, Dusty! I know it wasn’t your fault ‒ relax ‒ let me see, darling.’ I sat on the gravel with Marcy on my knees. ‘Poor old thing! Your hands and knees are messy. Never mind. Soon wash off.’

  Her grazes were more dirt than damage, and when the former had been washed clean I bandaged them temporarily more to soothe her ego than anything else. Marcy enjoyed a bandaged limb, and the bigger the bandage the better.

  Maggie MacDonald had watched my first-aid technique with an expression that made me very conscious of her profession. She drew me aside when the job was done. ‘I don’t want to worry you, but you’ll not have forgotten there’s bound to have been garden soil mixed up with that gravel?’

  She didn’t worry me. She just froze my spine. ‘Tetanus? But she had ATS when she’d her all-in-one in her first year. When we lived on the farm, she was always knocking bits off her knees. She’s never had a booster ATS. You think she should?’

  ‘There’s invariably the risk with garden soil. It needs no more than a wee scratch to penetrate the bloodstream.’

  My mouth had gone dry. ‘We’re both on a local G.P.s books. I’ve not had to use him yet ‒ touch wood ‒ and I can hardly call him round for this. I’ll take her to his surgery this evening.’

  ‘Bother with waiting for a surgery with Martha’s round the corner? Take her straight up to Cas. Or if the ethical position is worrying you, would you like me to ring the Office for you first?’

  I hadn’t and didn’t intend wasting one thought on ethics. I was thinking of the many kids I had seen in my Cas days carried in screaming with terror. That I had seen far many more saunter in as if they owned the joint made no more impression on me now than did the fact that of all the thousands of cuts and grazes I had seen in training, I had only known two patients go on to develop tetanus. Admittedly, one only has to see tetanus once to remember what it looks like.

  ‘Thanks, Sister. Would you? The phone’s in the hall.’ She went upstairs after making the call. Having heard one side of her conversation with the Assistant Matron, I began explaining the situation tactfully to Marcy.

  She swallowed half a jam sandwich and beamed. ‘I’m going to Your Hospital to be mended? Can we go now? And can I tell Mrs Shanklin on Monday? Lyn Evans told her when she cut her hand and she only had to go to the doctor to be mended. Not to a proper hospital like yours!’

  Maggie had returned with Hamish jingling car keys. ‘He’ll run us there in the Mini.’ She put her hand on my arm and lowered her voice. ‘I think you’re very wise. What are a couple of injections compared with tetanus?’

  She was perfectly right. The drive took around four minutes from door to door. I spent a private four hours seeing Marcy in tetanic spasm.

  Hamish said he would wait for us. Maggie pushed open the great glass swing doors and Marcy ambled in ahead surveying the Wing Casualty Department with the assurance of a visiting matron.

  Maggie advanced on the fourth-year strolling towards us. ‘No doubt the Office has informed you Mrs Holtsmoor is bringing in her little girl!’

  The poor girl was a stranger to me and had clearly initially failed to recognise a senior sister in that headscarf and drab raincoat. Her perfunctory manner fell off with an almost audible crash. ‘I’m so sorry, Sister MacDonald! I’m afraid my senior hasn’t told me ‒ just back from tea ‒ please sit down and you too, Mrs Holtsmoor, and you, dear! I’ll get my Staff Nurse!’ She shot me an agonised glance to apologise for the factual lack of a red carpet and fled.

  The Staff Nurse appeared as quickly. She introduced herself as Nurse Drummond and begged our pardons for keeping us waiting. She wore the fixed smile of the well-trained nurse when dealing with that nightmare of all nurses, the V.I.P. parent who not only has the Office’s blessing and interest, but is a trained nurse. (Medically qualified parents were less nightmarish to nurses. Nursing technique being considered by nurses a subject on which only nurses are qualified to judge.)

  ‘My junior is just letting Dr Kirby know you’re here.’

  ‘Why Dr Kirby?’ demanded Maggie awefully. ‘Why not the Paediatric Registrar on call?’

  ‘I’m afraid Dr Pethick has had to go out for an hour. His house-physician is on, but I thought ‒ under the circumstances ‒ I should inform Dr Kirby.’

  That appeased Maggie’s sense of correctness. She said she could see we were in good hands and took herself off as Joel stepped out of the lift.

  I said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you like this.’

  ‘No bother, Mrs Holtsmoor.’ He smiled politely and stooped to talk to Marcy. ‘Hallo. I’m Dr Kirby. What’s your name?’

  ‘Marcia Helen Phillippa Holtsmoor. But I’m called Marcy.’

  ‘Then that’s what I’ll call you, Marcy. And what’ve you been doing to yourself under all these fine bandages?’

  ‘Dusty,’ replied Marcy patiently, ‘lost her ball.’

  Chapter Nine

  GEORGE COMES TO TEA

  The décor of the children’s room was vintage Disney. The rabbits, bears, and ducks painted on the bright blue rounded walls wore coy expressions and even the large rocking-horse had overlong eyelashes.

  Marcy approved vastly. ‘I like Your Hospital, Mummy! It is pretty!’

  Nurse Drummond opened the doll’s house. ‘Come and look at this, Marcy.’

  Joel came over to my chair. ‘As those grazes are superficial I don’t want to give her the straight toxin. I’d like her to have the first shot of the absorbed ATS now, plus another of penicillin. She allergic to penicillin?’

  ‘I don’t know as she’s never had it.’ I reached for the nearest wood. ‘She never needed it.’

  ‘She looks a very healthy kid. She looks’ ‒ he hesitated, then smiled, ‘congratulations!’

  I was as surprised as pleased. ‘Thanks.’

  He watched Marcy. ‘You don’t mind her having two shots now?’

  ‘No, but does she really need penicillin?’

  ‘Probably not, but since there’s a possibility she might as all gravel’s filthy, I’d like her to have it to cover any immediate sepsis. Then bring her back in between six to twelve weeks for the second absorbed ATS. You’ll sign the consent forms first?’

  ‘Sure. Would you like me to tell her about the injections?’

  His smile was now reminding me of Nurse Drummond’s. ‘I think we can manage, thanks. Would you like to wait in the hall?’

  That reminded me of the countless times I had said that to other over-anxious mums. ‘I’ll go if you’d prefer it, but I’d rather stay quiet.’

  He said not unkindly, ‘Please yourself, though it’ll probably upset you far more than it does her.’

  It did. I winced twice. Marcy was so interested in the long, involved story he told her about a mythical delinquent infant called Basil, that both injections were over before she had time to appreciate they were coming.

  ‘Tell me again, please! Did Basil really truly scream and shout?’

  ‘Roared like a bull, then chucked all the dolls out of the doll’s house.’

  ‘Didn’t you want to clobber him?
’

  ‘Didn’t I just! I’m not allowed to.’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Marcy, disappointed.

  ‘Against my union rules, dearie.’ He ruffled her curls. ‘Or don’t you know what a union is?’

  She startled me by nodding violently. ‘Hamish and Dougal and Angus belong to a union. They told me! They said they were going to tell their union gentleman about the lady who wouldn’t let them live in her house but they don’t think they will now ’cause they like living in our house. Did you know they’re living in our house?’

  ’Frankly,’ said Joel gravely, ‘no. Should I know Hamish, Angus, and ‒ who was the other?’

  ‘Dougal. He’s going to teach me the pipes.’

  ‘Bagpipes?’ Joel glanced at me. ‘That should be interesting.’

  Marcy said, ‘They belong to the lady who came to tea. The lady who said I must come to Mummy’s Hospital to be mended.”

  ‘Sister MacDonald? The pipes belong to her.’

  ‘Oh, no! Hamish, Dougal, and Angus. They’re her brothers. And do you know, they come from Scotland. They told me!’

  Joel said, ‘I rather thought they might.’ He brought her over to me. ‘All in one piece. How’s Mum?’

  ‘Very grateful, Doctor,’ I said truthfully. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘All part of the service, Mrs Holtsmoor. I don’t expect she’ll have any trouble after this, but should I be wrong, or you think I’m wrong, don’t hesitate to bring her straight back. You know we can’t get out, but we’re always here. Don’t forget, back for that second ATS.’

  ‘When?’ Marcy was eager. ‘Can I come back tomorrow?’

  I had not seen his eyes dance like that since my return. ‘If ever I saw a born old hospital hand, Marcy, you’re one! Not tomorrow. Another day.’

  In the Mini to Hamish and later to David and Ann, Marcy held the floor on her hospital experience. She labelled Joel, My Doctor with Black Hair.

  David was in a good humour. He had solved the problem of Chap Eight and discovered Hamish was reading physics and consequently capable of repairing a fuse that evening without, as David himself generally did, blowing every other fuse in the house. ‘What’s the name of Marcy’s pin-up?’ he asked later.