Wish with the Candles

by Betty Neels

  It was obvious to her the next morning that Justin didn’t share her doubts. He greeted her with detached friendliness, no more, and although she coloured faintly at the sight of him she answered his good morning in a sensible voice, aware of the tumult beneath her ribs and determined not to show it.

  ‘Sleep well?’ he wanted to know as he took his place at the sink beside her and started to scrub up, and when she nodded, went on, ‘So did I—we should do that more often. When is your next evening off?’

  ‘This evening,’ said Emma quickly before she could have second thoughts.

  ‘Good, keep it free for us, Emma.’ He smiled at her and said in a low voice, ‘Very well,’ and rinsed off carefully and went through to the theatre.

  It was a busy day, but a pleasant one, too. Emma watched the professor at work, wondering how she would feel when he had gone, and put the twinge of pain under her belt down to this miserable thought. But the twinge came again, several times, and even the delectable thought that she would be with him again in a few hours didn’t dispel it. She ate no dinner, but after several cups of tea she felt better and went back to the afternoon’s list, telling herself that she would be more careful what she ate in future; perhaps the sandwiches they had eaten hadn’t been quite fresh—she dismissed the idea at once. There had been nothing wrong with them at all, perhaps it was just excitement. But by the end of the list the vague feeling of discomfort had returned and didn’t go away again, and when the professor and Little Willy left the theatre she went after them, and Justin, aware that she had followed him, stopped on his way down the corridor. ‘I’ll catch up with you in a minute or so,’ he told Will easily, and walked back to meet her and then stood, relaxed and calm, waiting for her to speak.

  ‘I think,’ began Emma, a little wanly, ‘if you don’t mind, I won’t come out this evening. I—I think I must have eaten something that didn’t quite agree…’ She gave him a beseeching look and despite the fact that she wasn’t feeling too good, her heart leapt at the concern in his eyes.

  ‘My dear girl, why didn’t you say so earlier? Staff could have scrubbed for you. Are you sure that’s all it is?’ And when she nodded he smiled and said, ‘Of course I mind, Emma. I was looking forward to being with you. Go off duty as soon as you can and go to bed. Is there someone to bring you some supper?’

  Emma, in a little voice which sounded relieved, said, ‘Oh, yes, thank you.’ The thought of supper was nauseating, but it was kind of him to think of it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she added.

  He said nothing to this, but gave her an avuncular pat on the shoulder.

  ‘Don’t come on in the morning if you don’t feel like it,’ he admonished her as he turned on his heel and strode off to where Will was patiently waiting.

  Emma felt quite well again in the morning although she had wakened once or twice in the night, feeling queasy, and she had had no appetite for her breakfast. She was in the office making out the next day’s theatre list when the professor, much earlier than usual, stalked in.

  ‘Better?’ he asked. He studied her narrowly. ‘I can’t see much wrong with you.’

  Emma smiled up at him. ‘I feel fine. I can’t think what came over me.’

  She watched the green eyes narrow. ‘The cold wind of caution, perhaps?’ His voice was silky, and she faltered, ‘What—what do you mean?’ while she sought for the right words and failed to find them. She was still cudgelling her brains when Little Willy walked in and put an end to any chance she had of succeeding. She wished him good morning and went quite unnecessarily to the linen cupboard to count the towels, a prey to a variety of thoughts, none of them pleasant.

  There was a lobectomy, a second stage thoracoplasty and a couple of bronchoscopies on the morning’s list; routine stuff, reflected Emma, wondering why everything seemed such an effort. She found it difficult to respond to the professor’s tranquil voice and even then impossible to offer more than monosyllabic replies, and when they paused for coffee she sat in the office listening to the three men talking and taking no part in their conversation herself. She drank her coffee without any pleasure, left them to their second cups and went along to scrub once more, followed, after a very few minutes, by the professor. He made no attempt to scrub, however, but leaned against the tiled wall, watching her.

  ‘Sulking, Emma?’ he inquired, and his smile mocked her. It hurt her too, but she couldn’t summon up the spirit to contradict him. She murmured, ‘No, oh, no,’ and escaped to the theatre.

  When the list was finished and the men had gone, Emma went along to the office, thankful that Staff was there to clear up. She sat down feeling listless and debating whether to ask Staff to stay on and take the case that afternoon. But it was hardly fair to change her off duty at a moment’s notice and probably, thought Emma hardily, she herself would feel well again presently. But when it was time to go to dinner she stayed where she was drinking the tea the theatre maid had brought her and nibbling dry biscuits which revived her to such an extent that she was able to tell herself that whatever it was had been unimportant and transitory.

  There was only the one case that afternoon, but a difficult one; an oesophagectomy which would require all the professor’s skill as well as the cooperation of his helpers. Feeling almost lighthearted because she felt so much better, Emma went along to the theatre to make sure that everything was perfection and then scrubbed up before the men arrived, determined to have no conversation with Justin for the time being. She was in theatre, quite ready, when Mr Bone came in with his patient and the porters and by the time Justin, with Will and Peter tailing him, came in, she was entrenched securely behind her trolleys with everything ready for them, and beyond exchanging their usual pleasant ‘Good afternoon,’ there was no need to speak.

  The case was half done when the pain began; a dull ache at first which she was able to ignore, but which increased with the slow minutes until it was almost past bearing. Emma worked mechanically, handing instruments with perfect timing; counting swabs with her usual care; rearranging instruments; threading needles, intent on hanging on until the end of the case. Any commotion which might disturb the surgeon’s work could spoil the whole tricky operation—not that the professor was likely to lose his head in any circumstances, of that she was reasonably sure, but she didn’t dare take the risk of getting the part-time staff nurse to scrub for her with all the consequences of a change-over, however smooth. Besides, she thought uneasily, Staff Betts hadn’t taken an oesophagectomy before, she might get some of the instruments wrong and hinder the professor’s concentration.

  She saw with relief that he was beginning the deep suturing and handed the needleholder with its needle threaded and then clung to the trolley before her, feeling the sweat beading her forehead, doggedly watching the professor sewing precisely and all too slowly. Even when he had finished this there would be a minute or two while he checked his needlework and she must be ready to anticipate anything he might need at a moment’s notice. At last he handed her back the needleholder so that she could remove the needle and put the holder in the bowl of saline on the trolley’s shelf, aware that the pain had got out of hand; she would have to give in to it. She glanced at the clock; if she could hold out for another ten minutes that would see the crucial part of the operation over. She handed the probe he asked for with a hand that shook, something which he saw at once, for he paused for a split second and gave her a sharp glance. Emma looked back at him, that portion of her face which was visible a pale green, her eyes huge with pain. He said softly—urgently, ‘Emma,’ and bent to his work even as he was speaking with unhurried command.

  ‘Staff Nurse, scrub and take over from Sister. Nurse Jessop, come behind Sister and stand so that she can lean back on you if she must, and if she faints for God’s sake keep her away from the trolleys and us.’

  He put down the probe and picked up some gut and started tying off.

  ‘Peter, take over whatever Staff was doing. Tom’—this to the technician—’go and te
lephone Mr Phillips and don’t come back until you’ve got him. Get him to come here at once if he can manage that. It’s urgent, Sister is ill!’ He gave Emma another searching glance between tying off. ‘Look sharp, man!’

  He went on working then, without visible haste or worry, not looking at Emma at all, and she watched through a mist of pain as Will took off the retractors and the professor began to stitch the muscle sheath.

  ‘Can you stick it, Emma?’ his voice was very gentle. ‘Just a minute more.’

  The pain had receded. She said in an almost controlled voice, ‘Yes, it’s not too bad,’ and then closed her eyes in relief as Betts insinuated herself beside her with an encouraging, ‘OK, Sister, I’ll be all right.’ Emma nodded and began to speak and then as the pain twisted through her again, the words turned to a small sobbing moan.

  They were putting in the skin sutures now, working fast, one at each end of the wound. Emma, leaning against Jessop’s firm support, kept her eyes on the professor’s hands, her teeth clenched against the next scream bubbling in her throat. It was only seconds, but it seemed like as many hours when he said, ‘Right, Will, take over,’ and backed away from the table, pulling off his gloves as he walked behind the trolleys and scooped Emma up. ‘Open the door, there’s a good girl,’ he said to Jessop, and lifted Emma clear, slowly and carefully so that nothing was touched. She felt his arms holding her close as he carried her out of the theatre and laid her on the anaesthetic room trolley. She felt his fingers too, cool and firm, as he took off her theatre cap and mask to expose her pallid face and Jessop, without being told, was cutting the tapes of her gown. Light-headed with pain, Emma mumbled, ‘Sister Cox wouldn’t like that, Nurse,’ and Jessop said comfortably, ‘Don’t you worry, Sister, I’ll take care of everything,’ and Emma felt a small thrill of satisfaction mixed in with the pain because Jessop was behaving very well in an emergency. She opened her eyes and saw Justin’s face above her and whispered, ‘I told you she would be a good nurse,’ and then because she felt so ill, closed them again.

  Mr Phillips came then. Emma lay quietly under his gentle searching hands until the pain got worse again and she heard her own voice, very high and strained, beseeching someone to do something, and then, ‘I’m going to be sick,’ she said urgently.

  It was Justin who held the bowl and then took her hand and held it while Jessop wiped her face. ‘Dear Emma,’ he said, and his voice sounded as calm and placid as it always did and for some reason that made her feel quite safe. ‘You’re going to have something now,’ and as he spoke she felt the thin prick of a needle in her arm and in a blessedly short time the pain had melted away and presently she floated away into a quiet limbo of her own, not bothering to think any more, but still aware of Justin’s hand holding hers in a firm, sure grip.

  The next few hours were a timeless stretch in which she was vaguely conscious of being lifted and undressed, and voices which she was too weary to recognize came and went over her head. One of them asked her to sign a consent form and another one told her that she was going to have her appendix out and she murmured politely, not caring in the least. Only after a little while she felt less happy because Justin’s hand wasn’t there any longer, and though she longed to ask where he had gone, she couldn’t summon the energy to speak, and by and by, when they took her to theatre, it was Mr Phillips’ face which floated above her when she opened her eyes, although the last thought she had in her head before she dropped off under the anaesthetist’s skilful needle was of Justin.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EMMA, working her way through layers of sleep-filled mist, heard Justin’s voice before she opened her eyes, and it sounded reassuringly unworried. It was a pity that whatever he was saying made nonsense in her still bemused mind, but all the same, she forced her eyes open only to discover that the face looking down at her wasn’t Justin at all, but Mr Phillips’ craggy visage. It grew large and then receded in the mist and she opened her mouth to tell him how funny he looked, then had no idea what it was she had been going to say, and in the same instant was once more enveloped in sleep.

  The second time she woke up she knew where she was—Nurses’ Sick Bay, off Women’s Surgical, and Ann, her friend and Night Sister on the surgical side, was taking her pulse. Emma said in a woolly voice, because her tongue was still far too large for her mouth, ‘Hullo, Ann,’ and then, ‘He’s gone.’

  Ann seemed to understand. ‘Only just—he went to fetch your mother and they both went about half an hour ago. He’s taken her to a hotel for the night.’

  ‘Night?’ asked Emma, faintly puzzled as to the passage of time but prepared to believe anything Ann said. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Almost half past two. Go to sleep, Emma, everything’s fine, you’ll feel as fit as a flea in the morning.’

  Upon which sound but inelegant advice Emma closed her eyes obediently and slept.

  Her mother was there when she awakened for the third time, sitting by the bed with the Daily Telegraph on her lap but not reading it. Emma felt quite clear in her head, surprisingly hungry and only a little sore. She moved cautiously, found that the soreness was only a little worse when she did and said, ‘Hullo, Mother.’

  Mrs Hastings got out of her chair and embraced her with warm caution.

  ‘Darling—there you are again, how lovely! Everyone told me you were perfectly all right, but you seemed a long way away, if you know what I mean. So very quiet, not at all like you.’ She smiled her relief and went and sat down again. ‘Does it hurt, darling—it must have been awful. Justin told me you were so brave.’

  ‘When did Justin…?’ began Emma, when her mother interrupted her with, ‘I’m to ring the bell as soon as you wake, so I’d better do that, hadn’t I? They said I could come back presently.’ She kissed Emma again and went to the door, and as she went out Brenda, another of Emma’s friends and Sister of Women’s Surgical, came in. Brenda was tall, dark and beautiful, very good at her job, oblivious of her good looks and perfectly happy with her life. The story went that she had been dated at some time or other by every presentable man within a ten-mile radius of the hospital, and Emma, watching her as she walked towards the bed, decided that it was probably an understatement.

  ‘Why aren’t you married?’ she asked as Brenda came to a halt by the bed.

  Brenda’s lovely face split into a grin. ‘Hey, you’re supposed to murmur “Where am I?” or moan gently about the pain, not put searching questions about my love life!’ She whipped back the bedclothes and went on, ‘If you must know, I’m having great fun as I am, thank you. Besides, there’s that corny old type, a girlhood sweetheart, obligingly waiting until I want to settle down.’

  She cast an expert eye over the small neat scar and remarked comfortably, ‘That won’t notice in six weeks or so—nice tidy job old Phillips does. Like a cup of tea? Nurse shall bring you one, then you’ll be sat out, my girl, and like it.’

  ‘It’s the spoiling I’ve been looking forward to,’ murmured Emma. ‘Why’s Mother here?’

  ‘Professor Teylingen fetched her.’ She rolled her expressive dark eyes at Emma. ‘That car of his must travel—he was there and back almost before old Phillips could lift his scalpel. Came and looked at you the minute you were out of theatre, too.’

  ‘Oh?’ Emma’s voice was carefully expressionless. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Operating, of course. It’s gone ten o’clock, ducky, you’ve been snoring your head off all night.’

  To which unkind remark Emma reacted naturally enough with, ‘Do I look awful?’

  Her handsome friend regarded her with a kindly eye. ‘No, not in the least—a little like a mouse that’s under the weather, perhaps—but mice are rather sweet.’

  Emma sighed. Anyone could be rather sweet; a term applied to any age group from a day-old baby to an old lady of ninety. It would be wonderful to be pallidly beautiful with great blue eyes full of suffering and everyone falling over themselves to do things for you…

  ‘Up
sy-daisy,’ said Brenda cheerfully, and sat her up in bed. ‘Here’s your tea—Nurse, put that bowl where Sister can reach it, just in case she needs it—the first cup of tea doesn’t always stay down, you know. Ring when you’ve finished it, Emma, and one of the nurses will give you a bedbath, then we’ll get you into a chair—can’t have you lying around in bed, you know. You’ll want some nighties—I’ll send a nurse over to your room to get some.’

  Emma sipped the tea with caution. ‘Please—top drawer of the dressing table—two pink ones and there’s one with blue daisies, and a dressing gown behind the door—the pink one with the ruffle.’

  ‘Sounds nice,’ commented Brenda. ‘Can Nurse get in?’

  ‘My uniform pocket; my keys,’ said Emma, suddenly overcome by a great longing to go to sleep again.

  She awoke half an hour later, much refreshed by her brief nap, to find her mother there. Mrs Hastings smiled at her happily and said:

  ‘Brenda told me to let you sleep—what a nice girl she is, and so pretty too. I must go again, darling, so that you can be bathed and got up, but I’ll be back this afternoon. I’m not going home until Justin has finished his list.’

  Emma nodded. ‘That’s nice. Poor Mother, what a rotten time you’ve had, sitting there while I snore my head off.’ She gave her parent an affectionate glance, thinking at the same time that she wasn’t likely to see Justin. She frowned, trying to remember what was down for the day, and when she did, decided that he would be kept busy until five o’clock at least, perhaps later than that, and if he was going to take her mother home, by the time he returned, she herself would be in bed and asleep. She said, ‘It was decent of Justin to fetch you, darling—thank you for coming.’