by A. J. Cronin
CHAPTER 14
Anne went on duty with a rankling sense of injustice. And there, in the ward, as though to add to her discomfiture, she found Doctor Caley.
The interne was in a most bumptious mood of self-satisfaction, which Anne now knew always boded ill for her. He was a nobody, George Caley, who had somehow got himself through the medical schools and was now engaged to the daughter of a local doctor. Upon his marriage, he would drop into a lucrative partnership with his father-in-law. It was a lucky stroke for Caley. In consequence he lived in a perpetual state of exhilaration at his own cleverness. Anyone refusing to subscribe to such exhilaration became instinctively his enemy. That was why he detested Anne.
“Nurse Lee,” he began, “I have just found this book by the bedside of Number 19 in the women’s ward.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she said guardedly. “I gave her the book.”
“Yet you knew that my orders were that Number 19 was not to read. She’s very weak, and it exhausts her.”
“She is weak, Doctor.” Anne kept her voice reasonable with a great effort. “She’s dying, isn’t she? Reading is the only thing that helps her to forget her pain. She begged me to let her have the book.”
“I don’t care whether she begged or whether she didn’t. I tell you it’s bad for her. I’ve given my orders. If I find them disobeyed again, I’ll report you to Dr. Sinclair instantly.
Anne was too wise to give the slightest sign of indignation. “Very well, Doctor Caley.”
Disappointed, he eyed her, searching for a chance to establish his authority further. Then he gave out a final order: “Don’t forget to give that phlebitis case in Number 15 his mesonyl. Give him five grains at nine o’clock.”
Anne stared at him. He had overshot his mark at last, delivered himself, in his ignorance, into her hands.
“Five grains?” she asked.
“That’s what I said. Five grains.”
She was silent, merely allowing her expression to show her unmistakable derision. He had begun to turn away, but that look of open contempt held him. There was a pause.
Then she said, “The maximum dose of mesonyl is one-half grain.”
He flushed to the roots of his hair and tried stupidly to bluster. “What are you talking about? I don’t believe you’ve even heard of mesonyl.”
“I have heard of it.” She smiled at him sweetly, pityingly. “And five grains would kill any man.”
“Why—” he spluttered.
She went on, devastating him with facts. “Furthermore, Dr. Sinclair ordered only a quarter grain. If you don’t believe me, look at Number 15’s chart. Dr. Sinclair wrote it there himself.”
He was speechless now, and she took her final toll of him.
“You wouldn’t wish me to give Number 15 a fatal dose—even if it was your orders. Would you, sir?”
Into that final “sir” she threw a diabolic irony. The droop of his shoulders as he slunk through the door was worth all the injustice, all the malice and petty spitefulness that she had suffered, and might still suffer, at his hands.
CHAPTER 15
The arrival of Lucy’s letter and the incident with Caley had banished from Anne’s mind all thought of the operation on Matthew Bowley, together with the part which she had played in it. But on Friday afternoon of that same week, Sister Gilson, coming from the ward telephone, remarked to Anne in a voice of mild congratulation:
“You’re to go to the private room in B. Mr. Bowley wishes to see you.”
The ward sister, previously hampered by a long succession of inexperienced nurses, had found in Anne someone who had lightened her burden beyond words. And she cherished her accordingly.
“Don’t look so startled,” Sister Gilson smiled. “It can’t be anything unpleasant.”
It was, however, with some perplexity that Anne obeyed the summons. Matthew Bowley had been to her no more than a subject upon the operating table. What he would be like in reality she could not guess. She knocked at the door of his room with a queer trepidation.
A voice bade her enter.
The room itself was sufficiently striking—luxury and profusion grafted upon the bare drabness of the hospital, with flowers everywhere, a radio by the bed, and a great basket of luscious fruit on the table. Yet Anne found Matt Bowley himself still more arresting. He was blunt, heavy, about forty, with a rugged, astute, good-natured face—a face that somehow looked as though it had been knocked about a great deal yet survived to assume the power and polish given by great wealth. Bowley gave Anne a firm hail-fellow-well-met clasp. Studying her from beneath his bushy brows, he smiled slowly and said:
“Well, Nurse, I’m going out tomorrow. But I couldn’t leave without havin’ a look at your face—and a pretty one it is, too.”
Anne felt herself blushing. But Bowley only laughed more heartily, went on with a sly suggestion of conspiracy.
“I’m tellin’ no tales out of school, Nurse. But a little bird whispered something in my ear. And I don’t mind informing you that Matt Bowley’s likely to be of more use without a swab of cotton waste sewed up inside him. Eh, Nurse, what do you think?”
Anne’s eyes twinkled. “I’m inclined to agree, Mr. Bowley.”
He patted her hand in a friendly fashion. “Quite right, my dear. I can see you have sense as well as beauty. And that’s a mighty fine combination in a woman.”
It was impossible to take offense at his tone, so subtly did he imply a blunt and friendly interest. He went on:
“And it’s an even finer combination in a nurse! You see, my dear, if a man has got to be ill, or if he has illness in his home, it does him good to see a smart lass about the sickroom, instead of some long-faced female.”
Here the little clock at his elbow struck three soft strokes. He sighed regretfully and relinquished her hand with a final pat.
“Well, my dear, I could go on talking to you all afternoon. But I’ve got a couple of lawyers coming right away. Scoundrels, both of them.” Ruefully he indicated the enormous pile of correspondence on the counterpane.
“But never fear, Nurse, we’ll meet again. I’m not one that forgets a good turn. And in the meantime I want you to take this—just a souvenir of that missing swab.” Smiling, he picked up a neatly wrapped package from his bedside table and handed it to her. “Now not a word, not one single word. You can thank me some other time. Just run away now and be good!”
Anne left the room with a warm sensation round her heart. It was good to be appreciated. Only Dr. Prescott could have told Bowley about the swab. Conquered by curiosity, she stopped in the corridor and unwrapped the package. The present was a beautiful fitted handbag. Delighted, she unfastened the clasp and opened the inner compartment. Then her satisfaction faded. In the little coin purse was a ten-pound note. Somehow it cheapened the service she had rendered him, made her feel like a servant given a tip. She must, simply must, give it back to him.
She was about to reenter the room when a step in the corridor caused her to turn round. Coming toward her was Dr. Prescott. She felt painfully conscious of the bag and the banknote in her hand.
It may have been Prescott’s uncanny intuition, or possible foreknowledge that Bowley had meant to make her this gift. At any rate, he took in the situation in a quiet comprehensive glance. “Bowley’s generosity is always embarrassing,” he said. “I find it so when he offers me my fee.”
Though that simple phrase put the whole thing right, she still hesitated. She stammered, “Really, Dr. Prescott, I don’t like taking this money.”
“Nonsense! The laborer is worthy of his hire—especially when it comes to checking swabs. Even the best doctor in the world is quite helpless without capable nurses. So many people don’t appreciate that fact. If I can help you in any way, I shall be pleased to do so. There is a summer class in advanced nursing you might care to attend. I’ll send you some textbooks. I want to encourage keenness at Hepperton.”
Anne returned to Ward C greatly heartened by this encounter. T
here was some quality in Prescott that braced and stimulated her. But she had difficulty in making herself accept the ten-pound note.
After much consideration she decided to use the money to buy a silver salver as a wedding present for Lucy and Joe.
CHAPTER 16
The quality of the food in the nurses’ mess hall steadily grew worse. Nora, Anne, and Glennie, with Nurse Dow and Nurse Todd, two hardy spirits who had recently attached themselves to Anne, and a number of other girls who represented the most intelligent nurses in the home met one day to decide upon the most effective way of making a protest.
“We’ve got to do something about it,” declared Nurse Dow. “If we don’t, there’s going to be a thundering tragedy.”
“But what can we do about it?” demanded Nurse Todd with a hopeless gesture.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Nora with violent emphasis. “We’ll shame them into feeding us. I’ve had the idea in my head for the last few days. Now listen. We’ve got to stop eating their food. And eat our own instead. Tomorrow we’ll eat no lunch, not a scrap, and then at half-past one we’ll walk out to Gibb’s store, buy biscuits and cheese and bananas, and come back and eat them in the yard under Matron’s window. There’s no law against that to my knowledge. And if we do it every day for a week, we’re bound to make the old bruiser sit up and take notice.”
Nora’s proposal was received with acclamation. But Anne knew that the scheme had little chance of success. She had a sudden impulse to take the matter to Dr. Prescott. But she told herself that she barely knew him, that he would perhaps resent her approach, and that in any case it was not his place to interfere. She understood well enough, however, that since the fault lay entirely with the system, the only way to effect a genuine and lasting reform was by taking the matter beyond the matron to the highest court of appeal.
There were nine of the rebels, all told. The following day at lunchtime, when the meal was placed before them, they simply left it untouched. No one took much notice. Sister Lucas, who was supposed to pay a visit of inspection to the refectory, did not appear.
At half-past one, the nine nurses went over to Gibb’s, the small general store situated opposite the main hospital gates, and made their purchases—biscuits, chocolate, and fruit. They returned munching openly, completing their alfresco meal in the courtyard directly beneath the matron’s sitting room. They did not exactly create a sensation. But Nurse Todd remarked:
“Anyhow, this is better than we could have done inside.”
Nora thoughtfully left a banana skin on the matron’s window sill.
Though there was little enough to show for the start of the campaign, they had been observed nonetheless, and the following day’s lunch brought definite results. Sister Lucas was in the refectory at one o’clock sharp, and when the nine refused to touch their portions, she scrutinized them with suspicion and severity.
“Why aren’t you eating?” she asked Nora sharply.
“I’m not hungry, Sister.”
“What nonsense is this?” said the Sister in a tone of outraged authority. “It’s perfectly good food.”
“How do you know, Sister?” Glennie interposed drily. “It isn’t on your menu. You Sisters get very different food from this.”
Sister Lucas reddened. “No impertinence, please. If you don’t eat your lunches, I’ll report you to Matron.”
“Are we breaking any rules by not feeling hungry?” Anne asked innocently.
There was secret jubilation among the group as the Sister lost countenance, turned, and walked away. Afterward, when they had foraged for provisions at the little store, Nora left two banana skins on the matron’s window sill.
The following day and the day after passed without official intervention, authority plainly hoping the insurrection would die a natural death. But the rebels had sworn never to strike their flag. And so, on Friday, the refectory was startled by the appearance of Matron herself.
She came in abruptly, a small dominant figure in her shining purple uniform and flowing, immaculate headdress. Her face was expressionless, her lips pursed, her hands folded before her. She walked slowly down the room in an aura of unnatural silence. The nine trembled, yet held staunchly together as she stopped and surveyed their un-touched plates.
There was an even deeper silence, not the clatter of a plate or the chink of a fork in that usually noisy room as the matron turned to Anne.
“Don’t you wish any fish?”
Anne rose respectfully. “No, Matron.”
“Why not?”
At the question a preliminary shiver went down the table. To reply rudely, to condemn directly the cooking or the food, would be to invite disaster and probably would mean dismissal.
But Anne was suddenly inspired. “Because I enjoy what I buy outside.”
It was the perfect answer, and afterward they hugged Anne for it. The matron stood nonplussed. She had been prepared for insolence and had meant to deal with it. This courteous innuendo took the wind completely from her sails, but she did not lose face, as Sister Lucas had done. She gave Anne a long, hard stare, completed her circuit of the table, and silently went out.
Most of the group felt that victory was theirs.
“We’ve got her on the run,” Nora exclaimed. “She’ll have to do something now.”
Anne shook her head significantly, ominously. “I’m afraid she will.”
And Anne, alas, was right. Next morning a notice was pasted on the board: “Nurses are prohibited from leaving the hospital grounds between the hours of twelve and two. No foodstuffs are to be brought into the hospital by any nurse without special permit. Elizabeth East.”
Nora turned from the board with a crestfallen face.
“Well,” she remarked sheepishly to the others, “it looks as though we must die or swallow their vile food.”
They swallowed it.
CHAPTER 17
Strangely enough, Anne’s weekend of leave was not delayed because of her participation in the short-lived hunger strike. Matron East was not deliberately unjust, but her difficulties at Hepperton were enormous; she was continually being badgered by the committee, and a blustering policy seemed to her the only apt one. Still, she knew the value of a good nurse. For that reason alone she did not want to overpenalize Nurse Lee. And so, toward the beginning of May, a memorandum arrived for Anne, granting her the promised leave.
It was a lovely day when she took her seat in the London train, thrilling to the knowledge that she was so soon to see her sister again. Friday afternoon until Monday morning—what a long holiday it seemed!
As the train pounded through the sunshine she felt it good to be alive. She had made many friends in these last weeks, and despite the exactions and hardships of Hepperton she was conscious that she was making progress in her work. For the past two weeks she had been deputizing in Dr. Prescott’s operating theatre. It was always a stimulus, a great incentive to watch his marvelous technique, especially when he dealt with those cases that were his specialty, lesions of the central nervous system and the brain. Often she would find herself thinking of him, recollecting some particularly delicate touch, the swift, deft wielding of an instrument as he traced the infinitesimal line between life and death.
Lucy did not meet Anne at Euston, but Anne found the correct bus and was soon in Elthreda Avenue, Muswell Hill. Her heart was beating quickly as she raced up the front steps of Number 7. She rang the bell, then gave a joyful cry as Lucy appeared behind the smart maid who opened the door. The next instant the two sisters were in each other’s arms.
Anne felt as though she could never again let Lucy go, but at last she forced herself to sit down, to talk calmly, and to listen. Lucy certainly had much to tell her. She was perhaps a little plumper than before, and she looked very smart. She was proud of her new house, her new shiny furniture, her new frilly-aproned maid, and naturally she was anxious to display them.
CHAPTER 18
Ensconced in her little drawi
ng room behind the tray which was immediately brought in, she gave Anne tea, using her best china. She talked of her new neighbors—“really nice people”—of the new plays and pictures she had seen. But she could not rest till she had taken her sister round, made her examine everything from the quality of the bed linen to the cut of her latest evening gown. Anne might have smiled if she had not loved Lucy so much. Lucy seemed bent on proudly exhibiting how much matrimony had done for her.
“It’s all very wonderful, my dear,” Anne finally declared, slipping her arm round her sister’s waist. “I’m so terribly, terribly glad you’re happy. Joe must be doing famously to give you such a lovely home.”
Lucy nodded knowingly. “We’re in on a pretty good thing, Anne. Transport, Limited—I think I told you about it. Joe’s gone in with Ted Grein—Ted’s such a gentleman—in a real big motor-bus company—you know, long-distance road travel between London and Bristol and Cardiff and Manchester. There’s an idea now!” She paused dramatically at the mention of the northern city. “I’ll send you back to Manchester in one of our coaches. No need to use the grubby old railway with Transport, Limited on the map. It’s the coming concern. Ted’s had it going a couple of years. It was such a chance for Joe to put his money in it. There’s wads and wads to be made, Anne. Your little sister’s going to be rich.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of Joe himself. Back from business, he came in with his old, awkward air, greeted Anne with a diffident yet spontaneous warmth. Seeing him thus, Anne was a little startled at the change in him. Perhaps it was his dark business clothes; yet he seemed pale and high strung, with a furrow between his brows which had not been there before.
“You’re bringing us a real breath of the north, Anne.” He laughed shortly. “I don’t mind telling you I could do with a spot of that air myself.”
“What nonsense, Joe!” Lucy said rather impatiently.
Joe answered: “Nonsense or not, lass, that’s how I feel. I’d give a pound note to be out on the Harbor Road—just for five minutes, in my overalls, getting in the front seat of my old sedan.”
