“Where did you go for your walk, Aunty Cathy?”
“To the old graveyard, Elvie.”
“Oh, yes. It’s not used now.”
“There was one inscription, quite simple. All it said was Susan Malcolm, 1932.”
Elvira paused in her smearing of jam and bread. “Susan Malcolm,” she said, “yes, I remember...”
Cathy waited for more, but none came.
Only the children came, busy and boisterous, making questions an impossibility.
Cathy put the subject out of her mind. There was no use pursuing it. However, she knew now what had become of Susan, Jeremy’s sister. She had died at the age of nine.
CHAPTER NINE
The infinite quiet she had found in Burnley Hills’s God’s Acre was the last quiet Cathy knew for several weeks. They were tormented weeks, and another night like the night of the crisis Cathy never wanted to experience again. Afterward, she looked back and shivered. A month after, she looked back and held Christabel very close.
From the beginning to the end she blamed only herself. She was busy, but she still should have read the signs before it was too late. She should have anticipated danger. She should have been more careful before her party left England. She should have insisted on a double check. She should have done a dozen things she didn’t do.
The trouble, so far as she could recall, began on the morning of Elvira’s day off. Otherwise she might have been less hurried and have noticed earlier, seen the first indications pointing like arrows to the path a child was about to pass.
To make it more difficult, David Kennedy was away on welfare work, and she was lending an eye to the boys, helping their cook, as well as Mrs. Ferguson, to cope with the large winter appetites.
Avery had complained of a sore throat. She was not an over-robust child and regularly went through a procession of slight chills, bilious upsets and mild rashes to which such types are prone.
Cathy was not worried. She knew Avery. All the same, she took no risk. She looked down the little girl’s mouth, decided on a gargle before bedtime, and placated the child with a teaspoon of honey and lemon.
“My froat’s sore, too,” clamored Christabel.
“Then you, too, can have honey and lemon.”
That was Christabel’s first and last complaint. She was a tough little puppet, as resilient as a young sapling, and it never occurred to Cathy that her cry of “sore throat” sprang from anything but a childish determination to share what Avery was getting—particularly anything as sweet as honey.
Even if it had occurred to her, she still might have hesitated. There was no use denying the fact that she was prone to spoil Christabel. There was something about the mischievous baby that caught at her heart. Love is unbidden, she had thought many times with a sense of guilt. Here is Denise craving affection, and I cannot bestow it. Here is Christabel, self-reliant, independent, and I love her as though she were my own.
She was determined others should not know it, however, and any sweets of life that did come the two babies’ way went to Avery before Christabel. “Avery is older; Avery is not so strong as you,” she would tell the smallest member of Little Families. She told Christabel this when she complained mildly that Avery was getting a bigger spoonful of honey and lemon than she was.
“Avery’s sick, Christabel, you’re not.” She went firmly back to the kitchen with the cup and spoon.
Christabel, who had known no illness and to whom life held unending fascination, dismissed the matter as casually as had her housemother. She was making a dam in her end of the sandpit, and a prickly throat and a tender spot at the side of her neck were not going to prevent her from making it the best dam in the world—better, anyway, than Avery’s.
Cathy was too busy to notice she did not eat her tea. If she had, she still might not have worried. Christabel had been hauled out of the apple box many times, and she had a winning way with the boys’ cook. Cathy had caught her often creeping out of the other building with a large doorstep of bread and jam. Also, small girls are mimics. If Avery, always a pernickety feeder, had pushed hers feverishly aside, it was probable that Christabel would do likewise.
Only this time it was different. This time it was Christabel, not Avery, who was ill, and Cathy did not see it. What was more, she was very ill. She was at the dread threshold of diphtheria.
After their baths the children were tucked into bed. Avery was still whimpering and absorbing Cathy’s attention. She rubbed the little chest with oil, pulled up the blankets, gave her a final tuck, then put out the light. As she passed Christabel’s crib she bent over and kissed her baby. The child was already asleep, but she noticed, not with concern, that her forehead was hot. Probably been having high jinks in her bath, she though indulgently.
She went downstairs and sat by the fire a while and did some darning. Then she decided on, an early night herself and went up to bed.
She listened at each dormitory for the even breathing and was turning into her own room when some sixth sense urged her to look at Christabel again.
There was still nothing to alarm her unduly. The child was restless and flushed, but nothing else. Cathy went to bed.
At midnight Christabel started coughing. It was a croupy little cough, and when Cathy went in and spoke to her the child’s voice was hoarse.
“Let Aunty Cathy see your throat, honey.”
“Sore froat.”
It was red, but there was no sign of membrane. It looked like a simple tonsilitis to Cathy, and after some thought she bundled Christabel up and took her into her own room.
Christabel slept, though restlessly, throughout the night, and in the morning she appeared a little brighter. Cathy made her comfortable and went down to get the girls away to school.
When she came back the child was asleep again and a little cooler. It is only tonsilitis, she thought once more. It couldn’t be anything else. She had checked with Janet. The girl had reported that they had all had diphtheria injections in London.
“When the inflammation is over we’ll have to have her tonsils attended to,” said Cathy to Elvira.
“Shouldn’t we call Dr. Jerry now?”
Cathy paused. She was remembering that only a few days ago she had called in Dr. Malcolm for Leila’s injuries. It had not been essential, and although he had not said so, she had felt almost as embarrassed as Leila when he had replaced the child’s small pants and declared oversolemnly, “You’ll live, young lady.”
She felt it was an onus on herself not to phone him unless it was absolutely necessary. Did Christabel’s tonsils make it necessary? She looked again. There were yellow patches on them and on the soft palate, but that was the course of tonsilitis, and she felt she knew how to treat it just as well as Dr. Malcolm. She sprayed the little throat, supported Christabel while she sniffed up some menthol and balsam, then seeing she was drowsy, left her to sleep again.
The afternoon crowded in on her. David was away for a few days, so she had to superintend the boys as well as her own family at play hour. Avery, too, had cut her finger. Denise had a quarrel with another girl. Two of the boys, sailing bark ships on the pool that held only rainwater now until it was warm enough to swim again, fell in.
By then it was time for tea. “Only half solids for Christabel, Fergie,” Cathy called, buttering slabs of bread and piling them on plates.
She took the tray upstairs, and at the door she knew that Christabel would not manage even that nourishment. She was in a spasm of coughing, and her lips and ears and fingertips had a curious blueness.
In a second Cathy had the little mouth open and was staring down the throat with horrified eyes. Hard membrane extended viciously into the larynx. The pulse was feeble. The child was manifestly ill.
No time for quiet now, only the need for help as quickly as it could be summoned.
“Elvie...” she called.
Elvira caught the note in her voice and was up in a flash.
“The doctor, quickly, Elvira.”
Elvira looked at Christabel, stifled a cry, gasped, “At once, Aunty Cathy,” and ran out.
When she came back Cathy said, “Watch her,” and went down and phoned the office again.
The housekeeper answered. She said that doctor was getting out his car. “Make sure there is a lancet,” said Cathy distinctly, “a tracheotomy tube, a dilator, you know the rest...” She remembered Elvira had told her that Mrs. Williams had once been the district nurse.
“I understand perfectly, Miss Trent. Leave it to me. I’ll pack them myself so it won’t waste time. Don’t worry.”
The next ten minutes seemed like so many hours.
Then the car pulled up, Elvira opened the door, and Jeremy Malcolm came running up the steps.
“What is it?”
Cathy stood aside and he made a quick examination.
“Laryngeal diphtheria. But how?”
She spread her palms. “The membrane is blocking the windpipe. She is scarcely breathing.”
“What temperature?”
“103. The pulse is thin. I can hardly count it.”
He stood a long moment regarding Christabel. Whatever he was thinking he gave no indication, but she knew what it must be. He must be asking himself how any woman could have let a child become as sick as this.
Desperately, Cathy suggested, “Can I call an infection hospital?”
“She’d never get there.”
“Then you must do it yourself, Dr. Malcolm.” She spoke coolly and remained just as cool as he wheeled around on her.
“Do what? And what do you know about it?”
“A tracheotomy. Mrs. Williams included everything that was needed. I’ll disinfect the lancets at once.” She turned away.
He seemed about to speak, but changed his mind.
“Christabel is ready?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“No time for anaesthetic ... you understand that?”
“I understand.”
“Take the head and arms. Can Elvira be depended upon?”
“Yes, Dr. Malcolm.”
“Get her to steady the legs.”
Cathy handed him the lancets in a white basin. He saw she had provided gauze and swabs.
Elvira was in position now, pale but determined. He knew he could rely on the woman.
“Ready,” said Cathy.
He took his time, then made a deliberate incision in the child’s throat. The blood oozed out, and he swabbed and cut deeper. The child was unconscious now. He put down the lancet and with his fingers parted the tissues.
“Pulse?” he asked sharply.
“Failing.”
He took the lancet again and cut a second time, and as the trachea was exposed he slit it deftly and immediately there was a rush of free air to fill the choked small lungs.
He slipped in the tube, then stitched up the wound and bound it so that the orifice of the tube protruded.
Cathy was wiping away the blood. Then she pillowed Christabel’s head so that she was well supported, put in another hot water bottle, and tucked her in firmly.
Her eyes sought the doctor’s.
“She’ll do,” he said briefly.
Elvira gasped, “Can I go outside a moment,” and without waiting fled.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ‘special’ this case, Miss Trent,” said Jeremy Malcolm, “for tonight anyway. As soon as we can we’ll have her moved.”
Cathy nodded and waited. She waited for the questions she knew must come. She waited for the abuse.
They stood in silence until Elvira was sufficiently recovered to return to the bedside.
“Can I watch, please?” The voice was eager.
“Yes, Elvira. She’ll be all right so long as the tube remains strictly in its position. You understand?”
“Yes, Dr. Jerry. I’d like to watch. I must watch. I feel if I make the coffee I’d let everything drop. Aunty Cathy can do that.” Jeremy followed Cathy down the steps. “I’ll stay the night,” he said.
“No need to. I think I can cope now.”
“I’ll stay the night.”
She turned on him, one hand on the banister. “You don’t trust me, do you?” she asked desolately.
“I trust no one who makes a habit of lies.”
She had not expected that answer. She had expected his anger because she had not summoned him earlier. She frowned, and he explained as they walked toward the kitchen.
“You told me you were not a trained nurse.”
“Neither am I.”
“That is a lie. Nobody but a trained nurse could have anticipated as you anticipated this evening. You rang Mrs. Williams and told her what to include. You had everything in readiness. You knew what had to be done. Why are you evading the truth like this?”
“I am not. I spoke the truth. I was nursing, but I did not finish my diploma. When I left St. Cloud I was still a trainee.”
“So.” His eyebrow had risen derisively. “You make a thick line of difference between a nurse and a diplomaed nurse.”
“Authorities make a thick line, too,” she reminded him. She was putting the ground coffee into a jug.
“How far had you gone?”
She paused and pretended to be watching the kettle.
“How far, Nurse Trent?”
“I was up to my finals; only at the last I didn’t ... I didn’t write.”
“Why?”
She hated him now. She hated him for plunging a knife, even as he had plunged it into that little throat, into her own unhealed wound.
“Why?” he persisted.
She wouldn’t tell him. It was none of his business. She turned her back on the man, assuming concern for the coffee, but abruptly, almost brutally he turned her around.
“Some man, I presume. Some misguided love affair.” His tone was caustic.
Her chin went up proudly. “You’re right, Dr. Malcolm. It was for love. It was for love of my father. He was killed in a car accident. My mother was with him, and she was killed, too. It was a love affair, as you just said. I loved them both dearly.”
Now he would apologize, and she hoped it would hurt him as it had hurt her to tell him the truth.
He did not apologize. He said, “How long did this happen before your final?”
“I was just going into the examination room when I heard.”
“And you didn’t write.”
“I told you.”
“That was a mistake.” He said it quite coolly. He took the kettle from her and brewed the coffee.
Cathy looked at him a long while. “You are very hard,” she said at length.
“No, I am practical. Will you take this coffee up to Elvira, or shall I?”
“I shall send Elvira down and watch myself.”
“No such thing. Elvira can do the first shift, you the next, and I’ll stay till morning.”
“Please yourself, Dr. Malcolm, but I’ll watch now.”
“You’ll take Elvira’s coffee up and come straight down again. I have a few words to say to you. ”
“I know what they are. You are going to ask how Christabel got as bad as this, and why I never noticed. I can give you an answer now, Dr. Malcolm. I don’t know how it happened. I just don’t know.”
“The coffee,” said Dr. Malcolm, “is getting cold.” He pushed the tray at her and went as far as the steps.
“Explain to Elvira that she is to remain until relieved, then come straight back again. Understand?”
“I...”
“If you don’t, I’ll drag you down. Now hurry.” He gave her a little push that set the cup rattling. With an effort Cathy steadied it before it slopped over, and hurried up the steps.
She told Elvira what the doctor had said, and Elvira nodded calmly.
“I want to stay, Aunty Cathy. It’s all I can do.” Her eyes followed Cathy with admiration. She is applauding me, Cathy shivered. She is applauding me instead of censuring me, which is all I deserve.
She went down the
stairs again.
He had poured the coffee and raided the biscuit tin.
“Well, shoot,” he invited.
“What do you mean?”
“You want to get it off your chest, don’t you? The repercussions, the wailing, the would-to-God-I-had, all that.”
Cathy said quietly, “I have no excuses; as I just told you, Christabel’s crisis was on me before I realized it. That is all I can say.”
Her eyes were downcast. When he did not answer she forced herself to look up. Instead of accusation, she saw sympathy and understanding. It was such unmistakable understanding that she gasped.
“You little fool,” he said, “I’m not blaming you. I’ve had these cases before. They’re sudden death.”
Cathy said, “This one almost was.”
“Yes. The thing I can’t understand is how she missed immunization.”
“Did she miss it? Isn’t there a chance she still could have contracted the germ afterward?”
“So slender it is no chance at all. Did you have time to check with any of the other girls?”
“Yes. Janet. She said they had all been immunized.”
She was thoughtful a while. “Christabel joined Little Families later than the rest,” she said slowly. “She came to the preembarkation home about the same time as I did, and that was only a month before we sailed.”
“So there might have been a slipup?”
“Yes.”
“We won’t take any risk. Tomorrow we’ll think about some booster injections for all the kiddies. Anyone else looking poorly?”
“Avery. But I examined her throat very carefully. I am sure it was only her usual chill.”
“After this evening’s performance I’ll take your word for that, Nurse Trent.”
“Besides giving me a few words of your own?”
He looked at her sharply. “Expecting them, aren’t you? Yes, I have a few words, but not the sort you anticipate. For instance, I am brushing aside everything that led up to Christabel’s sickness; I have had too much experience in these unfortunate incidents not to appreciate how horribly, how terrifyingly easily they can occur.”
Cathy drew a deep breath of relief.
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