She became aware of James Corton’s steady gaze on her and broke off. She had been chattering about last night’s party and how dull it had been, and she had probably repeated herself several times; now she smiled at him rather ruefully.
‘Hell, you must think I’m really crazy,’ she said. ‘I make a pest of myself pushing in and then talk your ears off. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, not at all, not at all,’ he said.
She looked at him with sympathy. He was sweating slightly, a faint mist of dampness glowing across his rather narrow forehead and darkening the roots of his fair hair. He had lashes and brows of the same lightness which gave him a sandy look, but he seemed agreeable enough. About thirty, she hazarded, and still low on the ladder to success in his career.
‘So tell me,’ she said, making an effort not to look over her shoulder and to stop thinking about her confusion regarding Zack. ‘How’s life in the Gas Fight And Choke Company?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He looked startled.
‘Hey, don’t tell me I get to explain an English joke to an English person! Someone told me when I first came to work here. There used to be a company in London selling gas and coke and so forth called the Gaslight and Coke Company. Like, sixty years ago or more? And anaesthetists came to be called Gas Fight and Choke people. I thought all anaesthetics people knew that.’
He went a sudden scarlet, the colour leaping across his face so fast that she could see it happen, and the sweating increased; with his rather protuberant greenish eyes, she thought, he looks like a freshly boiled kitten. ‘I suppose I’d heard it and forgotten,’ he mumbled.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said kindly. ‘Anyway, it’s a very old joke and perhaps it just doesn’t mean anything to younger people in the field. So, do you like anaesthetics?’
‘Er, well, yes,’ he said and she stifled a tinge of irritation. Talking to this chap was like walking over a ploughed field in high-heeled pumps. ‘I mean, it’s the speciality I’ve chosen.’
‘Ah? Then you’re staying in it? I mean, you don’t see this as a step on the way to something else?’
‘Like what?’ He looked genuinely puzzled and she explained patiently.
‘The pain people — the consultants who run pain clinics and deal with intractable pain problems as well as terminal pain — aren’t they always anaesthetists?’
To her relief he became a little more animated. ‘Not all of them. There’re neurologists in it as well. And some pharmacologists, of course. There was an interesting paper on the use of sodium channel blockers in the alleviation of chronic pain in one of the journals recently …’ And he began to talk earnestly about the article, as though, George found herself thinking in some amusement, he’d learned it by heart in order to impress his superiors. He was after all a very junior gasman, which would account for some of his tension as he talked to her. She sometimes forgot how intimidating a junior could find a consultant, even one as relaxed and as easy to talk to as she knew herself to be. It was rare that she stood on her dignity or reminded anyone of her status; but he was new of course and wouldn’t really know that.
She went to some pains now to make him more comfortable. She questioned him on the research he was talking about and though he seemed able to do little more than quote the article he’d read back at her, he was clearly interested. So she shifted her tack; got down to talking personalities. Might make him more comfortable, she thought.
‘How do you get on with the rest of your firm?’ she asked. ‘They seem a pleasant crew.’ It was a clear invitation to gossip.
He didn’t accept it. ‘Oh, everyone’s very nice,’ he said a touch woodenly. ‘Most helpful.’
‘Good.’ She smiled brightly. ‘And the surgeons, too? I’ve heard that Le Queux can be a right bastard in the theatre.’ It was what some of her stiffer colleagues would label a ‘poor show’, she knew, to encourage junior staff to speak slightingly of their seniors, but why shouldn’t they? Everyone else did. ‘And Mayer-France.’
Corton primmed his lips a little. ‘They’re fine,’ he said, looking down at his plate. He’d eaten very little of his schoolboy lunch, she noted, and bent her own head to eat in order to encourage him. This was really getting to be more than a little effortful, she thought a touch irritably. Damn Zack Zacharius! And knowing that it was unfair to blame him for her present situation didn’t make her feel any better.
‘I — er — don’t work much with the consultants,’ Corton said then, seeming aware of her irritation. ‘I mean, Miss Dannay does most of their lists so I hardly know them. I usually look after the registrars’ lists and, of course, routine obstetrics. And Dr Zacharius and stuff like that.’
She lifted her head, a forkful of cole-slaw arrested halfway to her mouth. ‘Oh?’
He seemed to relax a little at her interest. ‘Mmm. They won’t let me do the really complicated stuff for a while yet, will they? I’d like to work on cardiological anaesthetics really. It was because of — of my father, who had a cardiac condition, that — well, anyway, he wanted me to go into medicine and anaesthetics seemed — and then of course when he had to have his operation and he died they said it was as much the anaesthetic as the surgery that — so I thought then I’d like to learn cardiac anaesthesia.’
‘I’m sorry to hear of your father,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s often the case that it’s a family experience that shapes up your own view of your career.’
She remembered with sudden painful clarity her own mother, oblivious of who she was or why she was and probably even where she was, over there at home three thousand miles away in Buffalo, in the care of her old friend Bridget Connor, and wanted to weep. Her Alzheimer’s disease had never made George want to work with the demented, but it certainly made her interested in the condition.
She reached across the table now and touched Corton’s hand. ‘It’s not unusual. I’m sure you’ll get there, with such an — example.’
He flashed a smile at her, which made him look even younger, if that were possible. ‘Thanks. But it’ll take a long time for me to be able to do that. So much to learn.’ He slid into silence and she returned to her own plate. After a while she spoke with studied casualness.
‘So you do obstetrics and — who else was it, Dr Zacharius? But I thought he was a researcher? How come he works with an anaesthetist?’
‘Oh, it’s for his experiments.’ Corton put down his fork and leaned forward with some eagerness. ‘He’s looking for a therapy for some of the degenerative neurological conditions you see, like motor-neurone disease and Parkinson’s. Even posttraumatic nerve injuries. Paraplegics and so on.’
Again he sounded as though he were quoting and she looked at him consideringly. Had he too found Zack an attractive and powerful personality? Was that the cause of his shyness with her, a need that responded to men rather than women? It would explain a good deal, she thought. It also made her feel rather foolish, the way she had felt at school when she discovered that another girl had a crush on the football hero she had picked out for herself.
‘So, what experiments does he do?’ She shouldn’t be asking that, she thought then. I have to keep Zack at a distance, not make enquiries about his work. But if I don’t, how can I talk to him about it when I next see him? But I’m not going to see him again. Am I? ‘That use anaesthetics, that is. I’d imagined his research was all linked with drugs.’
‘Oh, not at all.’ Corton was well away now. ‘He’s been trying different sorts of implants to the brain, you see. Sometimes he uses drugs, but mostly he uses tissue.’ He stopped suddenly and seemed to draw back. ‘But you’d better ask him about that. I can’t really explain.’
‘Too complicated?’ she said, not wanting to stop the discussion. This time he seemed to flare up with anger.
‘No!’ He said it so loudly someone at an adjoining table looked over with vague interest. Corton leaned forward to speak more confidentially. ‘Not at all. I understand perfectly well what he’s doing.
Dr Zacharius said I was a great help to him. That I — I had some useful ideas and insights. It’s just that — well, it’s his research. I shouldn’t really be talking about it.’ He looked at his watch with a rather exaggerated air of hurry. ‘I have to be on my way. I have a list at two-thirty.’ He looked rather pleased with himself suddenly. ‘Yes, a list.’ He caught her gaze and seemed to anticipate the question. ‘Only varicose veins, worse luck. Still, they have to be done even if they’re not very exciting.’ He stood up. ‘You won’t mind if I go, then? You said you were in a hurry yourself.’
Remembering her lie for the first time she felt her face redden a little. ‘Umm,’ she said. ‘Yes. Must be on my way. Thanks for being so accommodating.’
‘Thank you for my lunch,’ he said and hesitated. ‘And — er —’ He seemed to seize up and she raised her brows at him curiously.
‘Yes?’
‘I just wanted to say that — that I really shouldn’t have said anything about Dr Zacharius and what he’s doing. I mean, I don’t know all about it, and I’m sure he wouldn’t like to think I talked about him, you know.’
‘It’s only about his work,’ she said gently, wanting to reassure him. ‘It’s not personal or anything important.’ But he shook his head vigorously.
‘But what can be more important than a person’s work? It wouldn’t be so bad to talk about him privately, if you see what I mean, but his work … that’s different.’
She found herself warming to him. ‘I guess you’re right. There are people in this place who prefer personal gossip over all other kinds — I’m not averse to a bit of it myself. But you’re right. Work is too important to gossip over. We all talk too much about others as it is.’
‘I’m sure if you ask Dr Zacharius he’ll tell you.’ He sounded eager now. ‘Do ask him.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said dryly. ‘Enjoy your varicose veins.’
He seemed to perk up. ‘Oh, I shall. I always do. Enjoy what I’m doing, I mean. It feels so — so special to be able to do it. Er — so long.’
‘So long,’ she said and let him go, amused. And then was less amused as she thought of how old he’d made her feel.
She sighed and got to her feet as she drained her tepid coffee to the dregs. She’d make a better cup when she got back to the lab, she promised herself. There was work to be done and she really couldn’t waste any more time thinking about her own affairs like this.
She had reached the doorway and was almost through it when Zack caught up with her. ‘Sorted out your anaesthetic problem?’ he said in her ear. ‘Though quite what pathology has to do with the gasmen I’m not quite sure.’
‘I’m thinking about doing some work on blood gases,’ she snapped, grateful for yet another lie that slid so easily from her lips. It was one of her major gifts, inventing useful fibs in a hurry, and this was one of her better ones. ‘Who else should I ask but an anaesthetist?’
He fell into step beside her and she could do nothing to detach herself from him, apart from speeding up her own stride, which she did. He seemed not to notice.
‘One of the senior people who know more about what they’re doing,’ he said, amusement in his tone. ‘Like Heather Dannay. Or David Denton. Why that little mouse of a houseman? I have to hold his hand all the time.’
She looked at him briefly. ‘He said he worked with you.’ She couldn’t stop her curiosity from bubbling up. ‘How is it you need a gasman?’
‘I’m trying implants for various forms of neurological damage,’ he said. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’
‘He mentioned it.’
‘He usually does.’ He laughed. ‘He seems rather proud of working with me. It makes a change from mucking about with epidurals in obstetrics and those eternal minor ops lists he gets lumbered with.’
‘Hmm,’ was all she said, and hurried on, but still he had no trouble in keeping up with her.
‘Are you trying to avoid me, George?’ he said rather plaintively after a moment. ‘You go and busy yourself with one of the duller junior doctors on the staff rather than share lunch with me, you’re going like the clappers now to get rid of me — why? What have I done? I thought we were friends.’
She opened her mouth to reply, not at all sure what she was going to say. But she didn’t have to. They were by now crossing the courtyard, and someone was calling her name loudly from Ward Block B, where the surgical wards, including ENT, were.
Gratefully she turned her head to see Jerry Swann running along the walkway to catch up with her. She had never before been so glad to see him and she greeted him with the widest of smiles.
‘Hi, Jerry! What’s up? Something urgent in the mortuary?’ He shook his head, looking at her portentously. She had never seen him so pregnant with news, she thought. ‘What is it, for heaven’s sake? You look as though someone pinched your winning lottery ticket!’
He shook his head. ‘My dear!’ he said dramatically. ‘I’ve just come from seeing Sheila. And the poor creature’s been as sick as a dog, chucking up like fury, and Sister there thinks it was something she got from some chocolates that you — that were sent to her from the department. I mean, poisoned chocolates, would you believe!’
6
George didn’t know how she reached the ENT Ward. She just found herself sitting there in Sister’s office, looking at the box of chocolate liqueurs on the desk, and trying to think clearly. Once she had seen Sheila with her own eyes, she had felt better; not that the poor woman wasn’t ill. She was. She lay in bed with an IV line up and her head turned to one side on her pillow, her eyes only partially closed — a particularly unnerving feature — but breathing with what appeared to be reasonable regularity.
‘She’s all right, doctor.’ Sister Chaplin, a tall red-headed woman in her forties with a pleasant manner that was very reassuring, had put a hand on her shoulder. ‘She’s going to do, you know.’
‘Do?’
‘Be all right. Get better. She’ll do.’
‘Oh. I — But I don’t understand. What happened? And how did you know it was the chocolate that was the cause?’
‘That was sheer luck,’ Sister Chaplin said and then, as Sheila stirred and opened her eyes a little more, leaned over the bed and touched the hand on the counterpane. Sheila subsided and went back to sleep. ‘She’s pretty knocked out,’ Sister said. ‘She had intravenous diazepam to deal with the convulsions she started to have and she won’t wake for a while. Stay with her, nurse, and if you’re at all worried, use the alarm.’ She peered at the monitor that was bleeping softly beside the bed. ‘Her pulse rate has settled well, and her BP’s about right.’
‘Shouldn’t she be in Intensive Care?’ George asked and Sister Chaplin lifted her brows.
‘No beds available. And she’s fine here with us. I can handle a monitor or two, you know. Don’t you think so?’
‘I’m sorry,’ George said quickly. ‘Of course. It was just that I’m so shocked and so worried about her —’
‘It’s understandable.’ Sister led the way to the door. ‘Come to the office and we’ll talk there.’
So now she sat at Sister’s desk, looking down at the box of chocolates, feeling cold with terror. Jerry had managed to tell her, as she ran — and now she did begin to recall the headlong dash that had brought her here to the ward — that Sheila had been poisoned with what they thought was nicotine and that she had taken it in a chocolate liqueur. And here they were on the desk. She put out one finger to touch the box, but stopped before she reached it and pulled her hand back.
‘It was these chocolates, Sister?’
‘Yes.’ Sister Chaplin looked at them soberly. ‘I brought them in here at once. I — um —’ She lifted her head and looked at George very directly. ‘I was wearing a pair of rubber gloves when I picked them up.’
‘Rubber gloves?’ George said a little dully and felt colder still.
‘I assumed they were evidence,’ Sister said evenly. ‘I imagine you’d know more about that th
an I would.’
There was a silence and then Jerry spoke. George jumped. She’d forgotten he was there.
‘The card’s on the outside, Dr B.,’ he said. ‘Stuck on with Sellotape.’
She turned her head and stared at him. ‘What card?’
‘You’d better look.’ He was very serious now and she frowned, feeling remote from what was going on. What was happening here? She knew in an intellectual way it was something of great importance to her personally and yet she was detached and cool as though none of it really mattered.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pen. With the tip of it she flipped over the lid of the box to see the outside. There, as Jerry had said, was a card stuck on by one corner with a piece of Sellotape. She twisted her head to read it. To help you feel better as soon as possible, it said in neatly typed letters. From Dr B. and all in the lab. And there was an inky squiggle that made George’s eyebrows contract. It looked very like her own initials that she sometimes put at the end of office memos.
‘Who sent this?’ she asked, looking at Jerry.
‘Well, we assumed you did,’ he said after a moment.
There was another silence. George sat and stared at the box, her mind quite blank.
‘It was as well it worked out as it did.’ Sister Chaplin began to speak easily, as relaxed as though they were having a perfectly normal conversation about the weather or something equally innocuous. ‘I had gone into her little side room, after she’d had her lunch, and was chatting to her. She was getting on very well — her throat was still a bit sore from the smoke she’d inhaled in the fire, but her respirations were clearing nicely. Mr Selby had said she could go home tomorrow. The box arrived — it was wrapped in coloured paper. I have it here.’ She looked to the table on the far side of the office and indeed there was a sheet of torn bright red and blue wrapping paper. ‘I brought that in afterwards, too. I only touched the corner. Anyway, she offered me one and I said I wouldn’t as I hadn’t been to lunch yet, and she said come in after I get back and have one then. She said she loved chocolate liqueurs and that you knew that and that was probably why you’d sent them. To —’ She coughed. ‘To make amends for the way you’d been treating her.’
Fourth Attempt Page 6
