by A. J. Cronin
Lucy flushed and said sharply, “Do you want to be a mechanic all your life?”
“I am a mechanic,” Joe answered with a sudden moodiness in his voice. “And a darned good one, if you want to know.”
It seemed as if a quarrel were about to break. But Lucy with an effort suppressed her temper.
“Well, anyhow, run upstairs and change, Joe. We’ve got to be ready before seven.”
He stared at her restively. “What!” he expostulated. “Are we going out again?”
“Yes, we’re going to the theatre.” Lucy’s lips drew together. “We must give Anne a good time.”
Again that note of friction was in the air. It caused Anne a queer discomfort. She said quickly:
“But honestly, I’d far rather stay in and have a real long talk with you both. That’s what I came for.”
“We’re going to the theatre,” Lucy said with unmistakable emphasis. And the look in her eye told Joe that he had better drop the argument and hurry up and change.
It was a silly musical comedy that they saw. Anne hated it, and Lucy was too busy pointing out celebrities to give it much attention. Paradoxically, Joe enjoyed it. He offset his tiredness by frequent visits to the bar, and by the end of the evening was incoherently hilarious.
Next morning, Saturday, Lucy relentlessly pursued her program, dragging Anne around the shops, through the hustle and bustle of Oxford Street. It seemed to Anne that marriage had made Lucy harder, vaguely feverish in her activities. The thought depressed her. That night they went to dinner at the Vladimir, a restaurant in Regent Street, Mr. Grein, Joe’s partner, honoring them by making the party four.
CHAPTER 19
From the beginning, from his first engaging remark—”You nurses see a bit of life, I’ll bet”—Anne hated Grein with a silent yet lively hatred. Dark, suave, and stoutish, Ted Grein wore his double-breasted dinner jacket with conscious elegance. His manners were effusive, his “my dears” frequent, his smiling eye evasive. Though he was Joe’s guest, he ordered the dinner and the wine. As Lucy admiringly declared: “Ted knows his way about. Ted would be the life and soul of any party.” Much liquor was drunk by Joe and Ted, and though Ted retained his air of polished breeding, Joe, when he paid the bill, was almost fit to be put to bed.
Sunday was a better day. Lucy was too exhausted to stir and made no complaint when Joe, slightly puffy-eyed, appeared in shirtsleeves. Soon they were all three talking of the old days in Shereford. Lucy’s laugh rang out spontaneously.
It was the maid’s afternoon off, and Joe, still in slippers and shirtsleeves, insisted on preparing a real high tea—delicious ham and eggs—in the best North Country style. Anne for the first time had the hope that Joe and Lucy were not really changed, that their marriage would settle down eventually to a success.
But at eight o’clock that evening she had to go. The weekend had passed in a flash. Yet she was due in Ward C at ten o’clock on Monday morning; there was no escape. Nor was there any escape from the insistence of Joe and Lucy that she forsake the train and travel north in the night coach of Transport, Limited.
“But I’ve got my return railway ticket,” Anne protested.
“Collect on it at Manchester,” Lucy said promptly. “We’re offering you a free ride, my pet. We’ll take it as a personal insult if you don’t accept.”
And so they escorted her to Trafalgar Square, where shortly before eight o’clock the blue-and-yellow bus slid alongside the curb.
“What a grand coach!” Anne exclaimed. “No wonder you’re proud of her.”
“Yes, she’s not bad,” Joe answered, with a critical eye for the bus. “She’s reconditioned, of course—cost a mint of money. That’s the trouble with these damned things. Next year’s model puts them out-of-date.” He went round and had a word with the driver, a sharp-faced young fellow in a white coat and peaked cap, then returned, in extreme satisfaction, glancing at his wristwatch.
“Hop up now, Anne. It’s time you were away. There’s a full load tonight—thirty passengers—good business! There’s nothing makes us autobus magnates weep like an empty coach.”
Anne kissed Lucy, wrung Joe’s hand, and mounted the steps. While they waved to her from the pavement, the horn sounded, and the night bus moved off.
CHAPTER 20
Darkness had already fallen when they reached the suburbs of the city and took the Barnet bypass for the Great North Road. The bus was fast and comfortable, though Anne, upright in her padded chair, had a momentary regret, which she quickly dismissed, for her third-class railway berth. There she might have stretched her legs and slept. Here it was possible only to nod and doze a bit.
At ten o’clock they drew up for coffee and sandwiches at a roadhouse near Stevenage. Though it was raining slightly, with a raw mist, nearly all the passengers got out—decent middle-class people. One woman, Anne observed, had three little girls with her. Then off they went again.
Anne drowsed intermittently, shaken a little by the movement of the coach. The night passed. Toward five o’clock she sat up, determined to freshen herself, glad to be near the end of the journey. They were due in Manchester at six.
Rubbing the mist from her window, she looked out. It was not yet light, but she could see that it was raining heavily. Gazing sideways and ahead, she saw the road as a darkly glistening channel along which the tires traveled with an insistent, swishing sound. Occasionally the heavy shapes of trucks lumbered past.
Anne opened her bag and took out a bottle of eau de Cologne. She had begun absently to rub her brow and temples when suddenly, without the slightest warning, the bus braked hard and swerved. For perhaps fifty yards the heavy vehicle skidded helplessly. Anne had one instant in which to comprehend that the driver had lost control. Then, before she could cry out, the coach lurched off the greasy road and plunged down the thirty-foot bank. A large elm tree was in the way. There came a sickening sound of breaking glass and bending metal, the roar of the engine racing free, and a loud explosion. The bus turned over on its back. A spurt of flame came from the half-buried bonnet on which, upended, a wheel was still spinning senselessly.
Though she nearly fainted, Anne did not lose consciousness. She felt the initial shock of impact as the bus hit the tree. Her right shoulder went completely numb, and under a shatter of glass, blood came running into her mouth. Once again she nearly swooned, but the screams of a woman beside her did more than anything to pull her back from oblivion. She thought dazedly: “I must get out of this. I must help these people; it’s my duty.”
With a painful effort she squeezed herself out of her seat and clambered toward the twisted upper side of the wreckage. Finding a shattered window, she crawled through and slid down the body of the coach. She fell on her hands and knees on the sodden grass. Beside her, sitting dazedly pressing his forehead, was the driver of the bus.
“Are you hurt?” she asked him hurriedly.
“I don’t know.” His words came stupidly. “I was flung out. It wasn’t my fault. It was the brakes. They locked on me. I tried—”
“Never mind that now. Help me get the injured out, or they’ll burn to death.”
Women inside were screaming frantically. She gave him a hand, assisted him to his feet. Flames leaped round the front part of the vehicle. The smell of hot metal and burning paintwork fell acridly upon the air.
“The emergency door’s at the back,” he stammered.
“Quick, then, quick!” she shouted.
Together they pulled with all their strength upon the door. It seemed buckled. But at last it gave, and immediately another man jumped, almost fell out on top of them.
“Thank God,” he gasped. “I thought I was trapped. It was jammed.”
“Help us,” Anne said. “Get the others out.”
She climbed back into the coach with the two men, and they began to bring out the injured. Almost at once she saw how serious the disaster had been. Many of the people were unconscious, and they were nearly all stretcher cases—frac
tured limbs, lacerated muscles, smashed heads.
CHAPTER 21
It was terrible in the pouring rain, the darkness lit only by the spreading flames. And it was difficult beyond all Anne’s experience. Yet she set her teeth, called all her faculties, all her skill, to aid her. One by one the injured were laid upon a sloping bank under the shelter of a neighboring tree. A hysterical woman ran off shrieking. “Thank heaven she’s not hurt,” thought Anne. And let her go. Next, however, was a little girl, pallid as death, almost bloodless. Hemorrhage, Anne realized—the medial artery, too. In a flash she tore off her scarf, firmly tourniqueted the torn arm. Then came an old man, moaning with agony, his hand smashed to pulp. As the driver helped him out, he turned to Anne.
“That’s all, miss, that’s all of them.” Then he collapsed, quietly and undramatically, at Anne’s feet.
At that moment an early milk truck came clattering along and drew up with a jerk in the road opposite. Frantically Anne hailed its driver, a farm lad of only seventeen, whom the terror and unexpectedness of the scene rendered almost half-witted.
“How far are we from Manchester?”
“Just about fifteen miles,” he stammered.”
“Is there a doctor near?”
“Ay, at the village, three miles back, there’s Dr. Hay.”
Anne caught hold of his arm. “Listen to me. Drive as fast as you can to the village. Fetch Dr. Hay and telephone for ambulances.” A sudden inspiration struck her—there were cases here that could never survive ambulance transport. “And ring Dr. Prescott in Manchester; his number is Park 4300. Ask him to come here at once.” The boy started to go, but she held him back. “Just one thing more. Is there a house near here?”
“There’s Rodney Farm. It’s a mile up that lane.” He pointed across a belt of trees. “It’s the farm where I work.”
She nodded, and with a final exhortation she sped him on his errand. Then she swung round to one of the less injured men.
“Go to the farm. Tell them what’s happened. Bring blankets, splints, hot-water bottles, and hot drinks. Rouse up all the people you can find. Have them bring some kind of stretchers. Take the doors off their hinges, bring gates, anything. And hurry. For God’s sake, hurry.”
“I’ll hurry, miss.” He ran off in the rain.
Anne, left alone, gave her attention, desperately, to her patients. A number of the more gravely injured had now recovered consciousness and were groaning pitifully. On her knees on the wet grass Anne did her best to make them comfortable. Soaking her handkerchief in rain water, she wiped the blood from many faces, sought carefully for signs of further bleeding. Badly hurt though many were, death had not yet laid its hand upon this shattered, mutilated band. If only they could all pull through, Anne thought lightheadedly; if only she could help to bring about such a miracle!
Shouts and footsteps roused her. She saw figures approaching through the half-light of the dawn—the farmer and two of his men, together with her messenger. They brought improvised stretchers, whisky, and blankets.
Anne thought as rapidly as her flagging brain allowed. It was imperative to get the worst cases out of the cold and the wet immediately. Perhaps she was exceeding her duty. She did not care. She knew the dangers of shock. She ordered these four cases to be removed by stretcher to the farm.
It was well that she did so. The driver of the milk truck did not return for another twenty minutes, and even then he brought no doctor with him.
“Dr. Hay—he’s at a case,” the lad announced. “But they’ve gone to fetch him. And Dr. Prescott—he’s comin’—I rang him up myself.”
“And the ambulances?”
“They’ll be on their way, miss. They’re coming from the Southern Hospital.”
CHAPTER 22
But another twenty minutes dragged past before the ambulances reached the spot. Two came, accompanied by a bustling young interne. And then as Anne prepared stumblingly to tell what she had done, another car dashed up. She could have cried with sheer relief. The driver of the car was Dr. Prescott.
He jumped out, wearing a heavy coat over a sweater and flannel trousers—signs of his hurried dressing. If he was surprised to see her there, he gave no evidence of it. Cold and impersonal as though he were making the round of his own well-ordered ward, he listened, eyes remote, head slightly on one side, to what she told him.
When she had finished, he turned decisively to the interne. “You can deal with these cases here, Doctor. Get them away as quickly as you can. I’m going on to the farm with Nurse Lee. When Dr. Hay arrives, send him after me.”
In three minutes he and Anne were at the farm, where in the great kitchen, stretched upon mattresses on the floor before the fire, were the four dangerously injured victims of the crash.
Wasting no words, Dr. Prescott went down and made a swift examination of each. It was amazing how his presence, his frigid detachment, quelled the turmoil in the crowded kitchen, quieted even the farmer’s stout wife, who had a moment ago been shrill in her agitation.
Prescott stood erect again, his eye compassing the stout wooden table, the north window through which the March morning light now penetrated, the big kettle steaming on the stove. He said:
“I want the table moved to the window. I want hot water, plenty of hot water, and towels. Then I want this room cleared of everybody.” And, in an undertone to Anne: “Three of these cases cannot be moved in their present state. I am going to operate.”
Her heart bounded at this confirmation of her judgment. She said nothing. She was, indeed, so near collapse that her dry lips refused to move. She went immediately to the car, brought in his two bags, and began to prepare for operation.
CHAPTER 23
What happened afterward was, for Anne, a kind of fantasy, hazy and intangible, a dim nightmare in which she saw herself as from a long way off, a strange automaton acting with predestined skill. She was aware of Dr. Prescott grimly beginning his work; of the arrival of Dr. Hay, a mousy little man with glasses, who immediately took from her hand the anesthetic mask; of her own rapid reflex actions, handing, holding, cutting, anticipating every movement of the surgeon by a split fraction of a second.
Beads of sweat stood out on Dr. Prescott’s face. How clever he was in using the delicate apparatus. How clever her own hands were, helping his, while her body floated ethereally about the silent, stagnant room. Strangely, the last case was on the table. She was still there, assisting at the amputation of the pulped and useless forearm, clipping the artery forceps, threading the sutures, watching the final stitch go in.
It was over, everything, at last. As she stood, incredulous, by the table, she had a sudden glimpse in the cheap mirror on the wall of her own face, big-eyed and drawn, a thick smear of blood across one cheek. She felt that if she did not get out, she would collapse. Prescott’s gaze was upon her. How humiliating it would be to give such an exhibition of weakness before him! She mumbled, “I must get some air.” Somehow she made her way out of the room.
It was exquisite to feel the cool wind on her brow. She scarcely heard, could not answer, the questions that were put to her. Someone gave her a chair and a glass of water. The rain had stopped, the sun was shining. In the distance she heard the faint sound of a factory whistle.
Weakly, she realized that it was noon.
Presently Dr. Prescott came out. He spent a few minutes talking to several newspapermen. He watched the waiting ambulance drive off. Then he came toward her.
“I’m going to take you back, Nurse Lee. I’ve no desire to see another casualty added to the list.”
He drove slowly, silently. Seated beside him, eyes closed, the flow of air incredibly refreshing to her numb face, Anne was grateful for his consideration. It gave her time to recover before reaching the hospital. She hoped that Matron would not ask her to take duty immediately.
But when they entered the city and Anne opened her eyes, she saw they were not heading straight for Hepperton. Even before her quick glance of inquiry r
eached out to him he read her thought. He said abruptly:
“I am taking you to my house. You must rest a little and have some food before returning to the hospital. Besides—there is that wound on your face.”
She answered doubtfully, “I was supposed to be in the ward by ten o’clock.”
He actually laughed. That laugh showed his strong white teeth, changed the whole complexion of his dark face, making it frank and boyish. But it was gone instantly. He said curtly, as if regretting his condescension, “Don’t be foolish, please!” And turned the car into Royal Terrace.
This was a quiet row of tall and sun-bleached dwellings, away from traffic, rich in dignity and tradition. Near the middle of the long Georgian façade he drew up and helped her from her seat. He took his key from his pocket, ran up the steps, and admitted her to his home.
“Lie down.” He indicated a couch with a nod. “I’m going to get you a glass of sherry. You look as if you needed it.”
He went out of the room and in a moment came back with a decanter and two glasses. Pouring her some wine, he watched her sip it, then filled a glass for himself.
“I can do with this, too,” he said, studying the color of the wine. “It was no joke, five hours in that steaming kitchen. But it was worth it. Those cases will pull through now. And otherwise I wouldn’t have given twopence for their chances.” He looked at her fixedly. “I’m profoundly grateful to you, Nurse—in a way you probably don’t realize—for your cooperation—your foresight, skill, and courage.”
He paused, as if considering whether or not he should disclose his meaning. Then, taking a sudden decision, he went on. “What we did this morning is going to have tremendous publicity. Possibly you’ll believe me when you see the evening papers. I don’t want you to misunderstand me. But I want that publicity badly. I don’t want it in the cheap personal sense. I want it for my life’s work, for the clinic I’m trying to persuade them to give me. The sensation—if I may use a disagreeable word—of our morning’s work will do more to persuade the people I’ve been hammering at, especially my friend Matt Bowley, than a million ordinary operations in a million ordinary operating theatres.”
