Tender Nurse

by Hilda Nickson

  A delicious meal of chicken salad, followed by fruit and cream was waiting for them at the small country hotel, over which Martin insisted on them having a bottle of wine. It was a most enjoyable meal in every way. George had a fund of stories of his student days which the two girls found highly amusing. Martin prompted and chipped in, adding to the fun.

  “How wonderful for men to be such good friends as you and George,” Andrea said when they were once more in the car. “Did you come to the Royal together?”

  He shook his head. “No. I had no idea George was here when I came. Men don’t always bother to write letters as I believe you girls do—though they still remain friends.”

  The party settled themselves in the box that George’s friend had procured for them and which had an excellent view of the stage. Martin’s eyes rested appreciatively on Andrea as she slipped off the jacket of her Taiho summer dress. The soft, silk-like dress of deep blue with its tracery of flowering cherry complemented her dark beauty.

  “You’re looking very charming,” he whispered as he handed her a programme.

  “Thank you,” she said simply.

  He smiled approval at the graceful way in which she had accepted his compliment. So few women knew how to do just that.

  The orchestra began the overture, and they sat back to listen to the lilting, light-hearted music before the curtain rose on the first act.

  Presently the curtain rose. Andrea watched enchanted and unconsciously leaned forward in her seat in delighted surprise and wonderment. Grown-up fairies were tripping with amazing lightness across the stage. It was completely different from anything she had ever seen, utterly charming and somehow just right. She had seen young children and teen age ballet dancers as fairies, but these were fully grown, even buxom, yet there was not the slightest suspicion of the ludicrous. Martin watched her. What a lovely face she had—and what sheer delight she was to be with.

  She felt his eyes upon her and turned to look at him, a delighted smile on her face.

  “Martin, it’s wonderful!”

  He smiled. “I knew you’d like it.”

  Each act brought fresh delight and Andrea was sorry when the curtain finally fell for the last time.

  “We’ve just time for a coffee,” George said as they left the theatre and led the way to an hotel.

  They were nearing the hospital when Virginia said: “Do you think you’d better put us down outside the gates?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” George answered. “What do you say, Martin?”

  “Good heavens, no,” said Martin.

  Andrea was glad, however, that Johnson and not Wilkins was the gate porter on duty. He did not gossip about who came and went in the hopsital, neither did he encourage others to do so. As George drove the car through the gateway and gave their names, he merely raised his hand in acknowledgement.

  None of the four were aware of the other figure who followed on foot in the wake of the car, and who heard quite distinctly as George spoke their names.

  Chapter Eight

  ANDREA awoke the next morning, the lilting melodies of “Iolanthe” still running hauntingly through her brain. What an absolutely wonderful evening it had been. So gay and enchanting. Her thoughts drifted almost unconsicously to Martin. There had been an indefinable sense of rightness about being with him like that and there had seemed to exist between them an unspoken understanding and kindredness of spirit. Her heart lifted. How lucky she was to be working in such close contact with him. What would be his attitude towards her this morning? Would he talk to her as she fastened his gown—make some mention of their evening together, or would he behave as though it had never been?

  She was taking the catches off the drums when Sister Fisher entered the theatre, a stormy look on her face.

  “Nurse Grey,” she snapped. “You’ve had an easy time so far, dancing around in here. You can go on to anaesthetics, and woe betide you if you break any of those syringes.”

  “Very well, Sister.”

  Smarting from the Theatre Sister’s harsh tones, Andrea went obediently into the anaesthetic room, acutely disappointed at being taken off the job she had come to love and look forward to.

  Julia Fisher followed on her heels. It was Janet Scott’s day off, and Sheila McAllister was adding last minute touches to the stimulant tray on the lower shelf of the anaesthetic trolly.

  “Oh—so you’ve already laid up for anaesthetics have you Nurse?” Julia said. “Well you can leave it now and take over drums and gowns.”

  Sheila gave Andrea a startled glance out of her blue eyes.

  “The stimulant tray just needs——” she began.

  “That will do. Nurse Grey should know by now— teach her to use her eyes. I’ll come and look at that tray later, Nurse, and I hope for your sake that it is complete”

  She strode back into the theatre.

  Andrea felt as though she had been whipped. What had she done to merit Sister’s sudden anger? Surely it wasn’t merely because Martin had spoken to her lately? It had been impossible yesterday for Sister to have heard what he said to her. He had had his back to the main part of the theatre where Sister had been standing and had spoken only in a very low voice.

  Puzzled, Andrea bent down to examine the stimulant tray. Coramine, adrenaline, cotton wool, spirit. Very carefully, she drew up a phial of coramine and stuck a piece of sterile cotton wool on the end of the needle in readiness for an emergency. Yes, everything appeared to be there, except for the feeder of drinking water. She could soon get that. She picked up the feeder and went through to the sterilizing room to fill it from the tap over the sink.

  Martin, just coming into the theatre, gave her a warm smile and bade her “good morning.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Graham,” Andrea responded.

  He passed on. Julia Fisher, who had followed him, turned again to Andrea.

  “Are you only just getting the patient’s drinking water for the trolly? It should have been there long before this. If you don’t improve, Nurse, I shall ask Matron to have you moved.”

  Andrea’s face flooded scarlet. George had just come into the theatre and was scrubbing his hands. He turned his head in surprise as he heard what Sister said.

  Having filled the feeder, Andrea returned to the anaesthetic room. The first patient had just been brought in and Martin was having a word with him. Andrea set the water down on the bottom shelf of the trolly. Julia Fisher bent to examine it, but could find nothing wrong.

  “Did you put clean masks and gowns in here this morning, Nurse?” she demanded next.

  “Er, no, Sister. Nurse McAllister——”

  “Don’t leave other people to do your work, Nurse. See to it at once.”

  “Yes, Sister,” Andrea murmured, feeling completely humiliated and at a loss.

  Martin gave a swift frown. Julia was coming down a trifle heavy this morning.

  Andrea went through to the scrubbing up room.

  “McAllister,” she whispered, “you did put clean masks and gowns out, didn’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  George looked up from scrubbing his hands.

  “What in the world is happening this morning, Andrea?”

  “We’ve been moved around,” she answered hurriedly. “I’m on anaesthetics.”

  “Oh, well—the first one is a spinal.”

  She thanked him and hurried back into the other room. Martin and Sister Fisher were just coming out. From the corner of her eye, Andrea saw Martin give her the barest suggestion of a wink.

  Her heart warmed and her spirits rose again.

  George followed close on her heels to give the first anaesthetic. Andrea lifted the sterile cover from the trolly, then went to the patient and turned him gently on his side,

  George swabbed the man’s lumbar region with spirit and probed gently with his fingers for the intra-vertebrael space.

  “Bend him just a little more, Andrea,” he murmured. “Ah, that’s better.”

&
nbsp; He gave the local anaesthetic following with the larger Imbar puncture needle.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “How are you feeling now?” he asked the patient.

  “My legs are going numb.”

  “Good—that’s fine. Now just relax, old chap, and go to sleep if you can.”

  He turned to Andrea. “The next case is a thyroid. We shall want pentothal—better lay up about 20 cc’s— and don’t forget the tourniquet in case it’s needed. Some patients have shocking veins and this is one of them.”

  “Thanks, doctor,” she whispered gratefully.

  She helped the patient on the operating table and when the operation had started, she wheeled the trolly into the sterilizing room to re-set it for the next case.

  Julia Fisher watched her, her eyes glinting maliciously but for the rest of the morning, she could find no fault.

  This did not prevent her from trying again the next day, however, on which Sir Roland Wall, the ear, nose and throat specialist operated, Martin assisting out of courtesy. Many of the patients were children and they were given mild doses of chloroform and ether. The duration of these operations was so short that Andrea found one case after another in such rapid succession as much as she could cope with. Sister Fisher kept up a continuous stream of orders and instructions coupled with petty fault finding. This and the sickly smell of the anaesthetic combined to give Andrea a violent and splitting headache.

  “This is the last, thank goodness,” George said as they gave an adult patient pentothal for a tonsillectomy. “You look done in, Andrea.”

  “I’ll be all right when I’ve had a cup of tea.”

  He frowned. “It’s too much on this job all day—going at top pressure. You should have had a break a full hour ago.”

  “I’m off duty for the evening in half an hour and it’s my day off tomorrow.”

  They wheeled the patient into the theatre. It was hot and moist and the light of the shadowless lamp suddenly seemed unbearably bright as Andrea helped to lift the patient on to the table. She felt Julia Fisher’s steely eyes upon her, waiting for a chance to lash out again with her tongue.

  The specialist began the operation and Andrea took hold of the anaesthetic trolly to start clearing it away.

  “Never mind that now, Nurse Grey,” came Julia’s acid voice. “Stand by here for a swab count.”

  Obediently Andrea stood a few feet away from the table. Her head throbbed with renewed intensity and she could scarcely see.

  Martin looked at her, a frown on his face. Julia had really hounded the child this last two days. If the specialist had not been here, he would have put a stop to it. Anyway, the day was practically over as far as the ops were concerned. Sir Roland was tying the last stitch.

  Suddenly there was a clatter. Startled, Martin saw Andrea slump to the floor, the swab forceps slipping from her fingers as she fell. Instantly Martin dashed round to the other side of the table and bent over her.

  A look of anger passed over Julia’s face. To what lengths would that girl go to to attract Martin’s attention?

  “Nurse Scott will attend to her, Mr. Graham,” she called out.

  “I’ll attend to her, Sister,” Martin answered firmly. He picked Andrea up in his arms. “Open the door someone.”

  Janet Scott opened the door and Martin carried her round to the sitting room. George picked up the brandy from the stimulant tray and followed him.

  “Is she all right?” he asked as Martin set her gently down in an armhcair.

  “Yes, she’s coming round. It’s infernally hot in there and the poor kid has had no tea.”

  “She’s not used to anaesthetics, either, and Fisher has been in a hell of a temper.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Martin’s voice was serious. Julia ran the theatre with efficiency but she had a harsh tongue and often for some obscure reason, picked out one particular nurse for her venom. He hoped she was not going to start on Andrea.

  She was opening her eyes now. He wiped the perspiration from her brow with his handkerchief. George had poured out a measure of brandy and Martin took it from him.

  “Drink this, Andrea,” he said gently.

  Her fingers shook and he helped her to hold the glass to her lips. Hazily aware that he had used her Christian name, she took a sip of brandy, then looked at him apologetically.

  “I’m awfully sorry.”

  “Sorry? Nonsense, my dear. You couldn’t help it. Come along now, drink up.”

  She put the glass to her lips again. Who had carried her here from the theatre? She had been vaguely aware of being lifted up into someone’s arms. Could it have been Martin?

  “I could do with a drink myself,” George said, eyeing the small medicine bottle. “Do you think the Fish will miss it?”

  “She’ll be round here in a minute, I expect,” Martin warned him. “Sir Roland will have finished by now.”

  Startled, Andrea sat up. “I—I’m all right now,” she murmured. “I’d better get back to the theatre.”

  “You’re off duty now, surely?” George said.

  “But there’s clearing up to do.”

  At that moment, Julia Fisher, accompanied by Sir Rowland, came hurrying in.

  “Staff Nurse will have a cup of tea ready for you in just a few minutes, Sir Rowland,” she was saying in honeyed tones.

  “No hurry, Sister,” came the answer quietly. “Now where’s this poor nurse who passed out, eh?”

  He looked at Andrea kindly. “Well, Nurse? Feeling better now?”

  “Yes, thank you, Sir Rowland. I—I’m sorry I caused such a disturbance.”

  “You did no such thing, child.”

  Julia glared in the background. Who did this girl think she was—the three of them dancing attendance on her?

  Andrea caught a warning look from her and moved toward the door.

  Martin said quickly, but firmly: “Nurse is off duty now, isn’t she, Sister?”

  “Why yes, Mr. Graham. I was going to send her off in any case.” She turned to Andrea. “You can go, Nurse.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  George followed her out. “Get out of your gown, Andrea,” he said. “I’ll come over with you. I could do with some fresh air myself. Besides, I want to call in sickbay. Rita Wainwright was transferred over there this morning.”

  They went out by a side door. “She’s done well, hasn’t she?”

  “Yes. She’s been wonderful.”

  Andrea gave him a surprised look. That was praise indeed.

  “How’s your head now?” George asked.

  “Much better, thanks.”

  “The fresh air I suppose. But you’d better come and see the Home Nurse and get a couple of aspirins, and I’ll give your heart a once over.”

  “Oh, good heavens, there’s no need for that,” she protested, but he wouldn’t listen to her.

  “Nurse Grey passed out in theatre,” he told the House Nurse. “I just want to make sure it’s nothing serious, then I’ll have a word with Nurse Wainwright.”

  He passed his stethoscope over Andrea and was satisfied that there was nothing wrong that a good meal, a couple of aspirins and a cup of tea would not cure.

  “May I go now, doctor?” Andrea asked mischievously.

  “Yes—and have a good sleep in tomorrow before you start gallivanting.”

  “I will.”

  There was always a meal at any time for the theatre staff, and Andrea felt much better for the ham omelette and tea that cook prepared for her.

  She had arranged with Godfrey to stay in that evening to do some studying for her forthcoming examination so that she would be free tomorrow. She stripped off her uniform, feeling desperately tired. She would rest a while before doing her study. She picked up a text book and lay on her bed.

  How wonderful Martin had been to her. She closed her eyes, feeling once more the gentle jog-trot as he carried her in his arms before she had faded out completely. He could just as well have left it to
one of the nurses, or even George to carry her round to the sitting room. But he had carried her there himself, she felt sure of it. He had wiped the perspiration from her face with his own handkerchief with such gentleness.

  The next thing she knew, Virginia was sitting on her bed offering her a cup of tea. Somehow Andrea had managed to get under the bed-clothes, but she couldn’t remember how. She had laid on top, she was sure.

  “What ever time is it?” she asked sleepily.

  “Just turned nine o’clock.”

  Andrea sat up. “But it can’t be—the sun is still shining.”

  Virginia laughed. “My dear child, it’s nine o’clock in the morning. You’ve slept since about seven o’clock last night.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I came in last night at half-eight, and you were sound asleep. I tucked you up and you never even stirred.”

  “Good gracious,” was all Andrea could say.

  Virginia eyed her critically. “George tells me you passed out in theatre yesterday. How are you feeling now?”

  “Oh, I’m all right, really. I suppose I was just tired and the chloroform and ether had given me a headache.”

  “George says Sister was in a bad mood. I wonder——”

  “What?”

  “I’m wondering whether she knows that we went out with George and Martin.”

  Andrea stared at her. “She can’t possibly. We haven’t told a soul. You haven’t heard anybody say anything, have you? Nobody saw us get out of the car—it was dark.”

  “No, I’ve not heard anything. But she may have seen us herself.”

  Andrea set down her empty cup. “It’s not as though Sister gains anything by her attitude. And I feel sure that she has no claim on Martin that would give her the right to be jealous. He always treats her most professionally. I doubt if they’re even friends. Perhaps the time I saw them going to the theatre was the only time they’ve ever been out together.”

  Virginia looked at her keenly, but made no comment. “I must be going back to the ward,” she said. “There’s another cup of tea in the pot, and I’ve put your name down for late breakfast. Have a nice day and give my regards to Godfrey.”

  At five o’clock, Andrea met Godfrey outside the office buildings where he worked.