The Secret Armour

by Lucilla Andrews

  I said, ‘Why?’

  He looked as surprised as if I had hit him in the face. ‘I think I owe you an explanation, Maggie.’

  ‘I don’t see that you do.’

  He said, ‘I would like to talk to you, Maggie.’

  I knew I should have had more sense and more willpower. It was difficult for me to have any will-power when I was talking to David. Last evening was not yet twenty-four hours away, and I was never good about changes. ‘I’ll have to dress,’ I said weakly.

  He nodded. ‘I don’t mind waiting.’

  Over dinner David said, ‘I never meant to hurt you, my dear. I never meant any of this to happen.’

  ‘You don’t have to apologize, David. Truly you don’t. Patients often say more than they mean when they are ill.’

  He jumped at this. ‘You didn’t take me seriously, then?’ An idiotic grin was fixed on my face. ‘Would it have been fair to have done so?’

  For the first time this evening he smiled properly; a gay, quick smile that lit his whole face. My bones felt as if they had turned to water, but I sat there like the Cheshire Cat. I had everything under control. I was Maggie, one of the original women of Sparta. I had to remind myself of this; it was the only thing to stop me weeping all over the dinner-table.

  ‘How like you, Maggie, to think of me first.’

  ‘To be honest, I wasn’t only thinking of you. And how about Clare?’ I added quickly. ‘The girl you were engaged to at the time? Or are you still engaged to her?’ His eyes moved from my face.

  ‘In a way I suppose I am.’

  ‘I don’t follow you, David. Are you or aren’t you?’

  ‘Dear me, Maggie, I had no idea you were so dogmatic.’

  ‘Am I being dogmatic? I wouldn’t know. I’m not very bright about these things. I lack understanding ‒ as Sister Tutor would say.’

  ‘You may do that,’ he agreed, ‘but you don’t lack subtlety.’

  ‘Nonsense, David. That’s never been my strong point.’ My laugh was almost genuine.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, my dear,’ he said lightly. ‘You’ve strung me along quite neatly for most of the past year.’

  I had never thought it possible for me to be angry with him. Even last night, anger had not come into things. Now I was flaming. ‘I have strung you?’

  He smiled. ‘Well, my dear, I’m still here.’

  That was when it all fell into place, and at last I understood. David was one of those people who are incapable of accepting the responsibility for their own actions.

  His behaviour in hospital, his making love to me then, was written off as the effect of illness. His note when he left, and the letter I received on my holiday, were my fault. If I had not led him on ‒ and possibly he thought I had ‒ I had certainly shown willing. Last night could be explained away along the same lines: I was to blame, because I brought Rose. Rose was at fault for being Rose. David, according to his own code, was blameless. What was a man supposed to do when confronted by an outstandingly beautiful girl?

  If he had loved me at all I could have borne and loved his weakness. Physically he was infinitely stronger than I, but there his strength ended. I should have been glad to give him any strength I had, if he had wanted it. He did not want it. He wanted nothing from me but my occasional presence when there was no one better around; and my verbal assurance that he had not a thing for which to reproach himself.

  My anger died as quickly as it had flared. I felt dry and tired. ‘I’m very glad to see you’re still here,’ I said, ‘and I shall always be glad to see you. I like meeting old patients.’

  Incredibly, he frowned. ‘Oh, Maggie. No more than that?’

  He was quite unable to talk to any young woman without flirting. It meant nothing to him; it was a form of small-talk. So, in a way, I thought, his ideas are right. The way I feel is my own fault. I should never have taken him seriously.

  ‘That’s enough from me, David,’ I said, I hoped ‒ but very much doubted ‒ gaily. I sat back. ‘Thank you for a lovely dinner,’ I continued. ‘I ought to get back if you don’t mind. I haven’t got late leave.’

  ‘Surely nine is very early to have to be in?’

  ‘Not when you start work at seven-thirty, my dear David,’ I said, ‘and remember, last night was very late.’

  ‘Anything you say, Maggie.’

  On the way home in the taxi he kissed me several times. I thought, He would kiss in taxis; he would also feel I had had a meal under false pretences if I tried to stop him. I didn’t.

  Even without late leave I did not really have to be in before eleven. But I could not stand the strain much longer, and I wanted to be in before the girls came off and discovered I was out. I knew I would tell Alice all about it soon, and perhaps Rose as well, one of these fine days; but to-night it was my own private pain, and I could not bear to be touched, even by kindness.

  I was in the bath when I heard their voices in the corridor.

  ‘Maggie!’ called Rose. ‘Want some tea? Alice is making some.’

  ‘I’ll be out in ten minutes,’ I shouted. ‘Save me a cup, there’s a honey.’

  When I joined them Rose had her shoes off and was rubbing her ankles. ‘My feet are worse now than when I was a pro,’ she said.

  Alice blamed the stone floor in Casualty Hall.

  ‘But the rooms are rubbered,’ I said.

  ‘You girls do all your running across the Hall, Maggie.’

  ‘That’s true.’ I was glad to talk shop. ‘What was this evening like, Rose?’

  Rose yawned and stretched herself. ‘Sheer murder,’ she said simply. ‘All the same, I rather like Cas. It ain’t dull.’

  ‘Me too,’ I agreed. Casualty was the one place in which I had worked since I left Willy B. where there was not one moment in my working day to spare for thoughts of David. In whichever wards I worked there were odd half-hours ‒ making dressings, tidying cupboards ‒ when my hands were employed by the hospital, but my mind was my own. Casualty assumed possession of both, all the time. I was grateful that now I was working there and nowhere else.

  Alice said, ‘You look whacked, Maggie. Did you have a bad day?’

  Rose said, ‘George told me you were very shaken by that poor devil who got in the way of that boiler. I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Did George know how he got on in the theatre?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said seriously, ‘not too bad,’ and we all touched wood. ‘For the time being, anyway. The S.S.O. was fairly cheerful about him to-night. They got on to him so quickly that he says the prognosis is pretty good. And, of course, his eyes are all right ‒ which is a mercy and a miracle. God knows how they are, but they are.’

  Alice shuddered. ‘Remember that girl in Catherine, Maggie?’

  I nodded. Rose asked what happened to her eventually. I looked at Alice and Alice looked at me. I said, ‘She died. A few days later. She got over the op, then she came to properly, and began to worry about what she was going to look like. She couldn’t take it, poor kid.’

  ‘I remember you telling me, now,’ said Rose. She sighed. ‘I dunno. Can you blame her?’

  Alice and I said, no.

  ‘Tell you who was terribly upset about it,’ said Alice, ‘and that was Alistair Corford. Shook him up a lot. He has bad luck. He always gets the faces. Not that he can’t cope ‒ our Mr C. is a damn’ fine surgeon. I’d as soon have him take a knife to me as any of the consultants.’

  ‘Alistair’s a good man,’ said Rose thoughtfully; ‘I like him. Rather odd really, those two brothers being so different. And talking of Corfords, I saw that brother again to-night as I was coming off. He said he was going to visit dear Alistair.’

  I said nothing.

  Alice said, ‘Casualty’s like Piccadilly Circus. If you wait there long enough you see every one you know.’ She went on to tell us all the coincidental meetings she had had in Piccadilly; she was doing her best to get Rose off the subject of David, but Rose was too tired to follow more t
han one train of thought at a time.

  ‘Mind you, that brother is attractive. Good man on a party.’

  We were silent, waiting for Rose to go on. She did not.

  I asked, ‘Is that all you thought of him?’

  She rubbed her eyes. ‘Well, there’s really not much more to him than that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Alice.

  Rose sat up. ‘What I say. Good party man. Good company. Good manners. Clearly labelled “Not to be taken seriously”.’

  ‘But, Rose’ ‒ I had to say it ‒ ‘he thought you were wonderful. We all saw that ‒ even Alistair.’ I told her what Alistair had said.

  She shook her head and laughed. ‘Then Alistair was clean up the pole, or has more of brother David in him than I thought! My dear Maggie, how do you manage to stay so dumb? You are getting a big girl now, twenty-one and all! It’s high time you learnt a thing or two about men. So listen to Auntie Rose.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Never, never believe a word the David Corfords you meet tell you. They mean what they say ‒ which is why they are so dangerous, and such fun ‒ but they only mean it at the particular moment. Last night, for some obscure reason, David decided I was the love of his life. It wasn’t hurting anyone, so I played up. But I’ll bet my bottom dollar that, despite what he said, when I saw him to-night he was on his way to, or from, a date with another girl.’

  Alice said quietly, ‘Advice from Auntie Rose indeed. I need a ciga after all that worldly wisdom. Catch, Maggie!’

  I caught the packet gratefully. ‘Thanks.’

  Alice did not look at me, but I saw the kindness in the curve of her face as she turned to light one for Rose.

  Chapter Twelve

  CASUALTY WITH GEORGE ‒ AND DAVID

  The benches in Casualty went on being filled, the red cards went on crashing the queues, the porters wheeled in their non-stop stream of stretchers and wheel-chairs, the ubiquitous policemen took notes, and I spent over half my days collecting and distributing Insurance Certificates.

  One Tuesday afternoon Dickie Peters mopped his shining forehead. ‘My tie feels like a rope of lead,’ he groaned. ‘Isn’t there a single healthy person in London?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Mr Peters.’ I handed him a batch of forms to sign. ‘I’ve only been in Cas. three months. We can’t have seen more than six million people in that time. Which means there is still the other half to come.’

  He sighed and checked through the forms. ‘They’ll come. They’ll come. They’ll drop things on their feet, or cut off their hands, or take a swig from the iodine bottle because they thought it looked ever such a pretty colour, Doctor ‒ doesn’t matter what ‒ but they’ll come. Don’t misunderstand me, Nurse Howard, my work is my all, and God help suffering humanity. But just once in a while I wish they’d lay off ‒ or pick on another hospital.’ He frowned horribly at the form in his hand.

  ‘Who am I supposed to notify about what?’

  ‘That’s Jennings. The boy with scabies. He came up with a cut cheek.’

  ‘I know. Chap who’d been fighting. Right.’ He scribbled, then looked up again. ‘Or do you suppose there aren’t any other hospitals in London?’

  I took the forms. ‘Thanks. I’ve heard of one or two hospitals ‒ maybe the patients don’t know about ’em?’

  ‘Let’s start a campaign,’ said Dickie fiercely; ‘lets boost ’em! Hurrah for Thomas’s, Guy’s, and Bart’s and down with Benedict’s.’ He glanced up at the clock over the door. ‘Do you think I dare nip down to the canteen for a cup of tea? Sister Cas. hauled me out of lunch before I had time for any coffee.’

  I put my head out of the doorway and counted. ‘You’ve still got eighteen to see, and most of them have been here since two themselves, poor things. I hate to say it, but I think you should clear them first.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you’re right, Nurse. In any case, Sister Cas. would cut me in little pieces and throw me to the patients if I dared vanish for three minutes. Nevertheless,’ he smiled, ‘how I wish I had the courage to flout that woman.’

  I said, ‘Another Notification Form, please. Are you a man or a mouse, Mr Peters?’

  ‘Which one is this ‒ let me guess ‒ Bilston, J. ‒ chap who thought he’d slipped a cartilage, right?’ I nodded. ‘Scabies? Right? Here you are, Nurse Howard. And the answer to your question is mouse.’ He walked back to the dressing-chairs and stood over a black-haired boy who was peering anxiously at his bandaged hand. ‘What can I do for you, son?’

  Mr Hurst, now senior dresser, was directing traffic in the doorway. ‘Another stretcher coming our way, Nurse Howard.’

  I followed him and Busey behind the screen, I looked at the man. ‘Has Sister seen this man, Busey? He’s unconscious.’

  Busey grinned. ‘Don’t think she’d care to see this one, Nurse.’

  ‘Busey, of course she must! He’s unconscious.’

  Mr Hurst’s smile was as broad as Busey’s. ‘It’s refreshing to meet such innocence in a third-year,’ he murmured, ‘but what’s wrong with your olfactory nerve, Nurse Howard?’

  I leant over the man, and was nearly knocked out myself by the beer fumes.

  ‘Dead drunk,’ said Busey gloomily. ‘Came in from the pub opposite. The landlord bunged him across the road. Said he didn’t want him cluttering up the place after closing time, but, as this bloke’s a good lad an’ all, the landlord didn’t want him to be picked up as drunk and disorderly, so could we lend him a stretcher, like?’

  Dickie came round the screen. ‘One for me, Busey?’ Busey repeated what he had just said, Dickie examined the man, and agreed with the porter’s diagnosis. ‘He might as well sleep it off here. You keep an eye on him, Hurst ‒ there’s no need to bother Nurse Howard.’

  Mr Hurst, still smiling widely, said he would do that.

  ‘You can laugh,’ I said, ‘but this is the first drunk I’ve ever seen. How was I to recognize it?’

  ‘If it comes to that,’ he said, ‘this is the first drunk I’ve seen ‒ in the hospital. We live a sheltered life in Benedict’s, Nurse Howard. The seamy side of life is not for such as us.’ As I went back to my benches I thought that there was a certain amount of truth in what he had said. Academically we might be said to see life in the raw. In actual fact we were far to busy to take in much of what we saw; and we were always spectators, whether watching or working for the patients. We were not partakers in either their pain or their problems. And we, the nurses in training, were so hedged in by rules, restrictions, and the eternal race against the clock, that there was no time to take in any more than Sister Tutor’s last lecture and what the specific Sister under whom you were nursing told you to do next.

  This was hardly an excuse for the way I had made a fool of myself over David, but perhaps it was some part of the explanation.

  Sister Casualty sailed into my room. Tentatively, I told her about the drunk. I expected an explosion, but all she said was, ‘He may as well stay in here. Move him into the bathroom if you need the space. We have enough stretchers to spare, and the police are quite overworked as it is. We may as well help them where we can.’

  She told Dickie to go to tea. ‘You can’t have eaten much lunch, Mr Peters,’ she said accusingly; ‘you were only gone for ten minutes. Mr Hartigan has finished in 27. He can take over in here.’ She swung round to me again. ‘I’m going to tea myself, Nurse Howard. As my Staff Nurse is off duty I want you to take my place in the Hall and be in charge of Casualty until I return. Mr Hurst can manage in here with the other dresser, and you can keep an eye on the women in 27, as Nurse Barnaby will be at tea.’

  I said, ‘Yes, Sister.’

  ‘Can you manage that, Mr Hurst?’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’ Mr Hurst copied my tone. Sister was feeling human that afternoon. She could not have failed to notice his mimicry, but she ignored it.

  George walked slowly across the hall, and Dickie straightened his tie.

  ‘Going up in the worl
d is our Nurse Howard,’ he informed the room. ‘When do we start calling you Sister, Nurse?’

  ‘If it comes to that, Doctor,’ said Mr Hurst plaintively, ‘when do you start calling me Nurse?’

  The patients on the benches grinned. The nicest thing about Casualty was the patients. They joined in everything, sympathizing when we were hard-pressed, enthusing when we were pleased. Their patience was phenomenal, their grumbling never serious, they queued endlessly, took their turns calmly, helped each other with their bandages, or with terrifying advice ‒ which was usually that you had to be worse before you were better and the last chap I saw with a leg like that was gone overnight ‒ advice which they received as good-humouredly as they did everything else. And all the while they kept up a running commentary of wisecracks, and encouragement to the staff. They realized that we were all working as fast as we could, that Sister had method in her tough manner, and the atmosphere was most literally that of one big happy family.

  The stream was slowing down; the East End was packing up and going home to tea, to fish and chips, to the local palais de danse, to the movies. That leg, that finger, the old trouble in the back, or the new trouble in the knee could wait until to-morrow.

  Busey came out from the porter’s lodge.

  ‘You all right, Nurse?’

  ‘I think so, thanks, Busey. It’s quieter now, and nothing untoward has come in. But stick around and tell me if I go wrong.’

  I had barely spoken the words when a girl about my own age rushed up to me and caught hold of my arm.

  ‘I ‒ I wants to see a lady doctor, dear.’

  I said, ‘Yes, of course. But can’t I help you first? What’s the trouble?’ Her hair was very blonde, but the roots were dark. She was a pretty girl under all that make-up, and her eyes were frightened. Her hand still gripped my arm.

  ‘I wants to see a lady doctor,’ she said desperately.

  Busey behind me said quietly, ‘Shall I call one of the probationers for you, Nurse? She’ll take the lady along to Maria.’