A Weekend in The Garden (The Jason Trilogy Book 2)

by Lucilla Andrews

  ‘Didn’t want her family traced?’

  ‘She didn’t say, but that’s the guess. She said girlfriend had heard from someone that Arumchester had a good hospital so they decided she’d better come down. Girlfriend couldn’t take her to the coach station as she had to get to her job. She felt too groggy to see straight and got on the wrong coach.’

  ‘Give girlfriend’s name?’

  She shook her head. ‘No names, no addresses, no who, or where, and no mention of the baby’s father. Sensible and brave kid he said, with enough nous to shove the word “amnesia” down everyone’s throat. Poor girl.’

  ‘Yep. Bloody tough break.’ He hitched down his glasses to look at her closely. ‘But bloody lucky she hit Oakden today. From all you’ve said, I’d guess Alex Gordon would have done much the same, but (a) he’s not in Mack’s class, and (b) he’d have had to tread more lightly in his own Group. He’d have had to shout to Arumchester for Whatshisname ‒ the gynae pundit.’

  ‘Shouting wouldn’t have helped. He’s off this weekend. He’s got a registrar who’ll be on but he couldn’t have left his hospital just for one patient. He’ll have wards of them as it’s the weekend. The General only has two surgical registrars, one on general and orthopods, the other gynae and midder. They stand-in for each other at weekends and cope with Cas.’ She thought a moment. ‘Yes. Dead lucky she struck Mack. Like those two last nights.’ She smiled slightly. ‘I sense via Joe Rolls that The Garden’s still not sure what’s hit it. Of course, being a locum, Mack can get away with it.’

  He grinned, ‘Sweetheart, the bastard would’ve done the same whether locum or permanent fixture and Martha’s top brass still have the scars to prove it. God help the Scots. Little do they know what’s coming to them when their wandering laddie returns to his homeland. If they did, they’d be raising the clans right now. Poor little Garden.’ He pushed up his glasses to gaze out of his open wall. The foot of his bed was still drawn up to the edge and below the spilling greenish-brown turf, the toy houses, church, hospital, still crowded be-flagged and buntinged Green and the miles of orchards, hop gardens, corn, hay, clover and barley fields had a three-dimensional clarity even to his eyes. The sun was just hovering over the top of Oakden Down; the heat haze had gone; the evening mist that rose from the marsh on warm summer evenings like the white ghost of the lost sea, had not yet arrived; the whole landscape was bathed in a soft golden light and the whole serene sky shot with gold and pink. He sighed pleasurably. ‘The Garden’s living up to its name this evening. Coming from Sussex, goes against the grain, but I have to admit in this light Kent takes the hell of a lot of beating.’

  ‘Mark, darling, are you running a temp.?’

  ‘Tell it not in Gath, my love. Sussex and Kent loathe each other’s guts if not quite as much as we both loathe the bloody Frogs, but, hell ‒ I’m broad-minded. Anyway ‒’ he turned to her with sudden excitement, ‘I’ve got a bit of news for you. This morning before Ruthie showed up creating like nobody’s business about MY cousin ‒’

  ‘I thought he was doing all right?’

  ‘Quiet, girl! He is. What’s narking her is the blanket fluff under the bed. She wants Mack to shift coz to Martha’s but she’s up a gum tree if he’s doing all right. Half the country’s yelling for beds in teaching hospitals. Mack won’t fill one in Wally’s unnecessarily, but as I was trying to say ‒ before she arrived old Skinner stopped in for a natter. You know he’s warned me I’ll have to keep out of big cities for more than a few years when they let me out?’ She nodded, smiling brilliantly. ‘Well ‒ er ‒ I asked him what he thought were my chances of getting into a practice down here. He’s offered to put out feelers and later, pull strings. How about it?’

  ‘Oh my darling.’ Her eyes were wet and shining. ‘Wow! How glorious!’

  ‘You honestly mean that?’ He couldn’t quite hide the anxiety behind the excitement in his intelligent, vulnerable eyes.

  ‘Do I mean it? Mark Jason, I love you like hell, but there are times when I could bloody shake you! You know I like Oakden! I like the idea so much ‒ I bloody love it so much ‒ so help me ‒ I’ll wear a headscarf tied backwards and ask Iris Gordon round to my coffee mornings! Could woman do more for her man?’

  His face was translucent with happiness. ‘No. Oh no, my lovely love,’ he said in a different voice and gently stroked her hair with his free hand. ‘Right. That’s settled.’ He sighed contentedly and suddenly sleepily. ‘I didn’t tell Ruthie. I wanted you to be first. I’ll tell Mack when he comes up.’

  ‘You must.’ She stood up. ‘Let me have my hand a moment, duckie, I want to do your pillows. They’re lumpy.’

  He held up an instinctive warning hand. ‘They’re fine.’

  ‘Phooey.’ She caught his hand and laid it gently on the bed. ‘Don’t be so damned fussy about your bugs. You know they don’t like me. I had such an almighty reaction when they gave me my first test in Martha’s in ’48 and again when I started here that no one’s ever dared give me a second.’ Carefully she sat him forward, and held him with one arm whilst she dealt with his pillows. ‘Back ‒ and don’t tell me that’s not more comfortable or I’ll smother you with the top pillow.’

  He touched his forehead with one forefinger, ‘Ta, Sister, ever so comfy, Sister, lovely girls all you nurses, don’t know what we’d do without you.’ He blew her a kiss. ‘That’s another on the slate.’

  She blew one back and stroked back his forelock. ‘Time I cut this for you again. I’ll bring up my scissors tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s a date.’ He had seen her covert glance at her watch. ‘Time to go?’ He looked at his own watch. ‘God, yes. Eight already. Watch out on that damned hill.’

  ‘Sure. You won’t forget to tell Sugar Plum to ring me from you.’

  ‘I won’t. I’ve worked it out. I’ve just forgotten to ask you to bring up your copy of Trevelyan’s English Social History as mine went the way of all flesh in its last stoving.’

  ‘It did?’

  ‘Search me. Gone somewhere. I think it got left behind in the C.U. (Chest Unit). Only struck me this morning after you’d gone that I hadn’t seen it since I moved in here. It was Mack’s metamorphosis as your locum that reminded me. It was one of the books he gave me. Remember how he kept ambling up to the C.U. with half his library under his arm and swearing blind he’d done with the lot and didn’t give a damn if they got fried to a crisp in the stove after I’d done with ’em?’

  ‘So he did. I’d forgotten.’

  His eyes caressed her. ‘You weren’t often around when he looked in, sweetie, and had one or two other things on your mind. If you see him again tonight and I don’t, thank him from me for running you up. I’ll tell you now, I was wishing like hell you’d show up.’ He stifled a contented yawn. ‘If I didn’t know Sugar Plum, I’d be in a sweat about how to keep awake till she comes on. No problem. One has to be anaesthetized to miss her first night drinks round. “Hot milk, cold milk, malted milk or cocoa, Dr Jason? Wakey, wakey! It’ll help you sleep!” ’

  She laughed with him. ‘Sleep well, my darling.’

  ‘Sure as hell I will tonight.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Hope you don’t have to work too hard.’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. Oakden’ll be recovering from the Fair and though the holiday season’s started the visitors down here now are either middle-aged with kids left home, or aged. Neither lot live it up late at night and all the hot blooded young farm workers will be too whacked hay-making as long as the light lasts to be fit to do more than fall into bed with the thought of up at the crack again tomorrow.’ She looked at the hill road. ‘Not much traffic now. People just down for the weekend have already arrived. We may get a few in from beach night picnics but it’s not as hot as last night, and the sea’ll still be very cold.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ He dropped her hand. ‘Thanks for coming, Cath.’

  ‘I wanted to and loved it.’ She paused, smiling. ‘Something else I must get myself. White-rimmed
dark glasses. No doctor’s wife in Oakden would be seen dead without a pair in summer. And do you think a headscarf the colour of your pyjamas would suit me?’

  ‘Anything’ll suit you. Crimson is just me,’ he flicked his nails on his jacket, ‘but I prefer blue on you.’

  ‘Typical Englishman. You all equate blue with pretty.’

  ‘No equation necessary where my wife is concerned. Q.E.D.’

  She blushed exquisitely, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Anytime.’ He blew her another kiss. ‘See you in the morning.’

  ‘You will.’ She returned the kiss. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers,’ he said and their eyes continued their unspoken conversation until she had backed through his corridor door. She always left him by that door. It was quicker, she said.

  As always, the inner corridor and front hall were empty of all but one of the two elderly portresses. Both were addicted to knitting and had been years in their jobs. Neither raised their heads to look at Catherine as she shot by, or called ‘’Night, Mrs Jason,’ until her back was to them.

  ‘Goodnight,’ Catherine responded as always without looking round.

  Chapter Seven

  Mrs Ford in a voluminous clean white surgical gown that was tied down the back and reached to within a couple of inches of her newly-whitened plimsolls, greeted Catherine’s arrival up the front stairs with the air of an affronted matron. ‘I just been all round Maria, Sister dear. All doing nicely but, my! Talk about a full house! Not the one Private or Amenity empty but that poor young Mrs Jones in 3 is ever so much more comfortable from the jab the Night Superintendent give her and with the oxygen off and the saline’s running in proper. I’ve been popping in and out between the drinks. Only fancied the sip of milk but the rest all having a nice cup of tea though I’d a spot of bother first with that Mrs Rogers in 1.’

  Catherine looked at the expression on the podgy, doughy face beneath the massive coronet of iron-grey plaits and damned Mrs Rogers in Room 1. Trust her to upset even their best night orderly. ‘I’m afraid she can be a bit difficult.’

  ‘And that’s no lie, Sister dear. “Call this a hospital?” she says when I go in, “Call this a hospital? Hospitals have nurses. You’re no nurse you’re just an orderly. Why isn’t my nurse bringing me my night drink?” So you know what I says, Sister?’ Catherine held her mental breath and shook her head.

  ‘ “Well,” I says, “if you don’t want no night drink from me you do without. No skin off my nose and no sense your ringing that bell for the nurse to come running as there’s only the pair tonight same as always and tonight they got patients up here what are proper ill, not taking no rest-cures. Convalescent you are, the Night Superintendent says when she fetched me up to lend the Maria night nurses a hand and seeing as all the other convalescents fancies a nice cup of tea I just brewed-up fresh and though I says it myself there’s not many as makes a better pot of tea and I got the urn back on for seconds which is more than the nurses’ll have time to fetch round. If you wants to do without, I’m not worrying as there’ll be more for the others.” “You’re impertinent, you are,” she says. “I’ll report you to Night Sisters,” she says. “You do that,” I says, but I leaves her a cup of tea and of course she drunk it. I thought I’d best report myself the first, Sister dear.’

  Catherine contained her urge to give three loud cheers for Mrs Ford by reminding herself of her job. She knew her reaction would appal every Martha’s sister she had encountered, and have the lot insisting Miss Nightingale was turning in her grave. She didn’t believe that last. Miss Nightingale had been a practical, realistic, genius with little sympathy for the hypochondria of her mother and sister. Mrs Ford was a hard-working, kindly woman with no medical knowledge but plenty of common sense. She could recognize physical illness, and when all that outwardly ailed a patient was an over-indulgent husband and enough money to allow ample leisure for the enjoyment of imaginary physical ailments. In the last year alone Mrs Rogers had been three times in Maria, first for observation of her ‘palpitations’ (diagnosed as simple tachycardia), then for a query gastric or duodenal ulcer, (both proved non-existent by extensive tests), and three weeks ago she had come in for a ‘rest-cure’. Catherine thought Mrs Rogers needed psychiatric help, but not a general hospital bed. She had been due to go home last week, then made such a scene when her husband told her he had had her bedroom re-decorated in pale blue instead of eau-de-nil, that he had prevailed on her consultant to keep her in until the room was re-painted and the smell of paint had evaporated. Neither Dr Smythe nor MacDonald would have been able to alter that specific consultant’s decision.

  Catherine said soothingly, ‘Thanks for telling me, Mrs Ford, but don’t let it or Mrs Rogers get you down. I’ll mention this to Night Superintendent, but I know she’ll understand. Just occasionally we all strike a difficult patient. Only very occasionally.’ She smiled. ‘So far in just over nine years’ nursing I’ve met four. And that includes Mrs Rogers.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ Mrs Ford was smiling. She should’ve known Sister Jason would understand. Lovely Sister she was, always with that nice smile and quiet voice though there was no monkeying around with her when she wanted something done and it had to be done proper. But then Sister Jason was a proper lady and proper ladies never put on airs unlike some Mrs Ford could name not far off from that gallery. ‘Ah well. Same as I tell my daughter, got to take the rough with the smooth. And how’s the doctor keeping, Sister dear?’

  ‘Getting along nicely, thanks.’

  ‘That’s lovely. Soon have him out and that’ll be the day, eh? Must’ve made a nice treat for the doctor having his gentleman friend run you and your bike up this evening. Spotted you driving up the high street on my way to the Fair. I’d promised that Mrs Weston I’d try and look in on the Mothers’ stall for the last hour ‒ not that there was much left but the rock buns by then and Mrs Weston bought the lot same as always for after choir practice Wednesdays. Proper rocks they’ll be by then and after laying out in the sun all afternoon but the choir got good young stomachs. Eat anything, they will. Ever so well the Fair done. We’ll be getting that television set, Sister ‒ sure to, Mrs Edgehurst was saying afore she and the old doctor went along to the vicarage for a bite of supper with the vicar and his good lady. It was Mrs Edgehurst as told Mrs Weston and me that the new surgeon was a gentleman friend of your hubby. Worked together up London in the war, seemly.’

  ‘Yes.’ Catherine was amused but unsurprised by these revelations. Oakden’s grapevine was nearly as good as The Garden’s and that beat radar. She hadn’t interrupted as Mrs Ford loved chatting and needed the safety-valve after Mrs Rogers. But though the hospital had quietened remarkably, if not unusually after a hectic spell, it was getting on for ten and she had still to do her full round in Maria. The Night Superintendent was doing the first rounds of the garden wards and had come up earlier only to see the girl in 3. ‘Are the nurses this end, Mrs Ford?’

  ‘Oh no, dear. Both are down in 11 settling that poor soul Mrs Newenden. Want me to fetch the senior?’

  ‘Just let her know I’m here and to join me when she’s ready, please. I’ll start this end.’

  Mrs Ford nodded importantly. The nurses would need to take their time with that poor soul riddled with the rheumatoid arthritis, stiff as a board and not a joint that wasn’t agony. In Mrs Ford’s medical terminology patients were ‘riddled’ with their respective diseases and every degree of pain was ‘agony’. In Mrs Newenden’s case, Mrs Ford was not exaggerating. ‘You leave it to me, Sister dear.’ She scampered off on her flat rubbered feet with her gown floating out behind her and disappeared down the narrow corridor that ran off from the gallery and twisted and turned between the rabbit-warren of sickrooms, ward outhouses, the single lift well and the old narrow back stairs that ran on up to the Path. Lab. and down to the old kitchen corridor.

  Maria Ward had long been the Private Floor when the NHS re-named it in memory of the late Mrs Samuel Garden, divided it
into six Private and six Amenity rooms, but left unchanged the custom of staffing the wards as if it were a general ward. Since Oakden in general shared both Mr Parsons’ dislike of paying twice and that of the overwhelming majority of general ward patients to being warded alone, few local patients availed themselves of the opportunity of paying the extra £4 a week necessary for a NHS Amenity bed. Nearly always in Maria these were filled by medical patients needing the kind of quiet that was unobtainable elsewhere in The Garden where none of the general wards had side-wards. The fact that Maria had only twelve beds might have seemed to imply to those without personal experience of nursing in such an assorted, strung-out ward with the added complication of combining Private and NHS patients, that it was a light ward. That it was so often the reverse was one reason why Catherine had tactfully prompted the Night Superintendent into going straight to Room 3 after the handing-over report and suggested Mrs Ford be loaned to Maria for as much of tonight as possible.

  The Assistant Matron had handed over the hospital with a martyred air. ‘A very trying day that seems to have ended well. And everyone seems to have enjoyed the Fair. So fortunate. However, one bit of good news. Mr MacDonald was in half-an-hour ago for another look at girl ‒’ she consulted the name Sister Maria had written in capitals, ‘Mrs Jones. Sister Maria feels the “Mrs” is necessary though she is being warded alone. We have to think of all our young nurses.’ The thought occasioned a deep sigh. ‘So distressing. But Mr MacDonald was more satisfied and considers there is no need for a night special.’

  ‘As well,’ put in the Night Superintendent, ‘seeing we’ve none to spare. I’m not moving Nurse Blake from Casualty on a Saturday night nor wasting time facing what I’ll have to do if she’s needed there and in theatre till I have to. We’ll manage.’

  ‘Mr MacDonald was sure you would, Sister,’ allowed the Assistant Matron graciously.