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

by Lucilla Andrews

  She sighed again, took a long look down the hill and shook her head. Always happening in summer. So few drivers ever seemed to realize that hay could be so dangerous.

  Chapter Eight

  Trouble with changes no telling what else they’d change, ruminated Henry, whisking past the lighted theatre department the empty stretcher-trolley on which he had just delivered a crate of saline drip-infusion bottles to Women’s Surgical. Seen a packet change since The Change, he had, but never afore the Matron step off the Liberty Boat and come back aboard of a night, nor a Sister from out the Group working in a ward she’d not set foot in previous, wearing a surgical gown, blue Sister’s belt and cap loaned by the Matron and a bronze medal same as Sister Jason’s where she’d put her ribbons. Oppo of Sister Jason’s, seemly. Men’s Surgical Sister up St Martha’s London, the Matron told him private, staying the night with Mrs Gordon over the road, offered to help out and seeing as she got a relative in their Men’s, not right for her to work there even if Sister Men’s not come back aboard and with Sister Women’s off home for the weekend best for her to lend a hand amongst the women. Not so much lending a hand as took over the ship, he reckoned. He was glad he’d never had her for Master of Arms, but he’d not say she wasn’t doing a proper job nor needed. No empty beds in Women’s when the night begun and the seven now off to The General and all but the one bed now took up with the new lot. The seven transfers been chosen as least ill women best fitted for the drive that had to be the long way round the foot of Oakden Down till the hillroad was unblocked.

  Still working on that, they were. The firemen, the cops, the farmers with their tractors and the lads from the Working Club done what they could, but what was needed was the heavy lifting gear that had come from Arumchester. None in Oakden, nor needed till they opened the new bypass and what good was that now with the hillroad cut off, eh? Old days, coaches used to give the hill a miss seeing the gradient was sharpish and the old road to Arumchester up top no quicker than the long way round.

  Not that the coach driver was at fault. Kept her in low gear and well aft of the hay-lorry. Stood to reason he would, like anyone as used his loaf. No matter how proper the job of lashing the bales, even on a flat stretch a high load always had a bit of a swell up top and if that hay come down on you it could do the job same as a load of dry cement. But that poor silly basket in the big saloon driving his missus back from the sea has to nip fast by the coach, nip in too close to the hay, and has his blowout just as he pulls out to nip on ahead. Skids broadside smack into the lorry’s cab, and the lorry driver tries to pull off the road and the swerve sets his load swaying and over he goes on the saloon. The coach driver tries to get her quick off the road and up the side, but it’s too steep and down she goes and she’s over on her side clean across the road afore the two cars coming up aft can pull up and in they goes and all so spliced and covered with the bales shooting all over that no telling who’s where. And afore, he, Henry, has time to get rid of his fag, cops are on the blower saying they’ve signalled the fire brigade and wanting ambulances from all over.

  Ambulances come from all over, but most had to take their time what with the cops diverting all traffic down at the roundabout and up top. Only the two from The Garden and one from Wilverden much use first. Had to ferry the lot to The Garden seeing the old folk down Wilverden not got no resident doctor nor a proper Casualty and theatre like The Garden. When the other ambulances begun filling the yard, Mr MacDonald and young Rolls done the job with their blue pencils and the patients ticked for transfer in both Garden wards been packed and waiting. Their stretcher-trolleys gone up and down the ramp so fast it was a wonder the wheels didn’t smoke. And every time they returned with an empty, young Albert Burt kept on moaning as more than the one night porter was needed regular. Henry could’ve told him that and that if he didn’t fancy night work he should’ve saved hisself the trouble of turning up on watch unasked. Thought you’d need the extra hand, he said. Henry’d not say Albert Burt was in the wrong, but where was the night when he didn’t need more than the two?

  He had reached Casualty. He eased his trolley into the only empty space that was against a wall between a line of reserve oxygen cylinders and the opened plaster-room door. The slit of a room was crowded with people sitting in wheelchairs or on pillows on the benches against the walls. It was very warm in there, but all the sitters were huddled in an assortment of old red Army, and grey Casualty blankets, or in layers of the multicoloured crochet blankets that were in part a wartime legacy of gifts from the British Red Cross Society, St John Ambulance Brigade and the Women’s Voluntary Services, and in part post-war gifts from The Friends of The Garden whose more elderly members worked as incessantly on the crochet squares as the theatre and Casualty nurses on glove mending. The bright colours contrasted garishly with the stunned greyish faces, and the hair thick with road dust and tangled with oil and the omnipresent pieces of hay. The air in the room was heavy with dust and smelt of sweat, road dirt, hay, plaster, the fumes of ether, surgical spirit, and temporary anaesthetics floating from the screened-off treatment annex, and human fear. The stone floor that an hour ago had been clean and smelt of carbolic, was as strewn with dirty hay, Henry observed, as the floor of a Dutch barn in winter. Temporarily, the plaster-room was the ‘minors’ room ‒ i.e. for the moderately shocked, but otherwise uninjured, and not requiring admission to beds ‒ in the charge of one of the day medical staff nurses, and present particular responsibility of Dr Smythe.

  A middle-aged man and woman sat alone on the bench opposite the lodge. Neither had been physically involved in the crash; they had been offered armchairs in the Assistant Matron’s empty office but insisted they preferred that bench. They held mugs of untouched tea in their hands and were equally oblivious to the sympathetic glances Mrs Ford at the night switchboard was casting them over her white gowned shoulders, or Henry’s wooden glances from the plaster-room doorway.

  First to get here, Henry thought. There’ll be others. Seventeen got to stay in, but as most on their holidays be most like morning or later afore their relatives are on that bench and then not for long as they’ll be taken to the wards. He glanced into the plaster-room then back at the waiting couple. The Change it might be, but it’d not never change that lot back there sitting thinking ‘Never reckoned this could happen to me’ same as they always had and they’d not change the look in a mum and dad’s face when they knew one of their own was hurt bad. No telling they’d be able to get their daughter to theatre, that Staff Martin had told him, private. Too weak to risk it yet. Anaesthetic could finish her.

  Shame, brooded Henry, shame. Only a slip of an Arumchester girl doing a holiday job for the private coach company. Telling them bits of history so some of them passengers was saying. Ever so interesting she made it, they said. Henry had helped lift her in and seen the label pinned to her outer blanket. One of the GPs that fetched themselves out to the crash had written in capitals heavily underlined MULT/INJ/INT/HGE. (Multiple Injuries Internal Haemorrhage.) And another hand in smaller capitals, SHIRLEY SANDERS, 19, C.C. employee, single.

  ‘Henry.’ The medical staff nurse beckoned him to a youngish woman in a wheelchair. ‘This lady is now well enough to go over to rest in Mrs Gordon’s. Chair back as usual, please.’

  ‘Aye, aye, nurse.’ He smiled at the youngish woman. ‘Just a short trip round the lighthouse, miss. You’ll be best over the road. More room and a nice cup of tea waiting.’

  Aggie Martin, wearing clean uniform, a clean cap behind the tidy layers of upstanding peroxide curls and an ambivalent expression, arrived in Casualty before the first ambulance returned from the hillroad. ‘Right then, Blake. Gasworks let you know I’m taking over with you assisting?’

  Nurse Blake’s mask didn’t conceal the indignation in her hazel eyes, nor flushed forehead. ‘Just rung,’ she flung over her shoulder without interrupting the additional emergency settings she was preparing.

  ‘Nice to be wanted.’ Aggie belligerently
propped her knuckles on her hips. ‘Nothing I like more than a spot of unpaid overtime on a Saturday night.’

  ‘You didn’t have to volunteer!’

  ‘Volunteer? Don’t make me laugh. You, you and you! Four settings’ll not be enough.’ She raced for the oxygen reserves and expertly tilted onto its back wheels and swooshed into place a heavy cylinder. ‘Set stand-byes for the lot.’

  Nurse Blake scowled at the fourth blood transfusion trolley she was propelling into position. Flaming cheek! She was the Cas. night nurse and she’d had the first police message. ‘The police said two stretchers and six sitting in the first ambulance.’

  ‘That’s just starters! How about afters? They’ve not said yet how many as they don’t bloody know.’

  ‘They think about fifty, nurses.’ Catherine swept in through the swing-door pocketing her starched cuffs, rolling up her sleeves. ‘That’s third-hand. We’ve just had it in the office from Mr MacDonald who had it from the cop clearing the road outside here. Could be right. The Grammar School bus holds thirty-two plus driver and that’s the one that’s gone over. On private hire as it’s half-term. One of three on some tour. The other two are still stuck our side of the roundabout. Apparently the high street’s jammed from here upwards with the backlog, they’re putting up diversions, but at the moment only letting through fire engines and ambulances. Mr MacDonald wanted to drive up but was told they’ve already got GPs on the site and he’d be wiser to stay this end.’ She looked from one to the other, sensing the electric atmosphere. ‘From the rest he heard, the majority seem more shocked than injured, but some of the injured are bound to be in a bad way. The drivers and any up front in coach or cars must be very smashed about. Mr Rolls has asked the pathologists and radiographers on call and stand-by to come in, Dr Smythe’s already here, Mr Hodges on his way from Arumchester. We can’t borrow from The General as they’re having their own Saturday night rush with only one surgical registrar on and no house-surgeon as he’s off this weekend to relieve here next.’ She glanced around as Mrs Ford scampered into the lodge. ‘Henry, could you nip round the hospital and bring back here every wheelchair? Keep an eye on the yard. You should just have time.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Sister.’

  ‘Thanks. Staff, will you and Nurse Blake turn the plaster-room into a ‘minors’ room. We must keep this annex for the really injured. Get in those benches outside X-ray and Dispensary, shove them against the walls, pile them with uncovered pillows and have a stack of blankets ready on the plaster-table.’ She unhooked two from the collection of keys attached to a long chain safety-pinned inside one of her dress pockets. ‘Hang onto these, Staff, and if I’m not around when you go off, leave them with Nurse Blake. Attic old blanket and pillow stores. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, Sister. You’ll be in theatre?’

  ‘Most probably ‒ after they’ve all come in.’ She looked at the younger girl. ‘I’m exceedingly sorry, but I can’t have you to “dirty”. You’re too valuable in here. Staff is going to need you plus, and vice versa. Once the surgeons, Dr Edgehurst and I are tied-up in the theatre, you’re going to have to manage between you with the patients waiting for ops. You’ll have Dr Smythe and Mr Hodges, but only you two know where everything is. You must both stick in this annex. A day med. staff nurse is coming on to cope with the minors and leave you two free for the majors. The Night Super will be running the rest of the hospital. Matron’s come on to act as general liaison ‒ as she puts it ‒ the right word is dogsbody. If I’m in the theatre, any odd problem, refer straight to Matron. Any surgical, to Sister Men’s Surgical. She’s on her way to her ward now. Normal hospital problems to the Night Super. This is an official order from the Super.’ Again she looked straight at Nurse Blake. ‘I’ll tell you something wild horses won’t drag out of Staff Martin ‒ every member of the day staff in the Home tonight has offered to come back on including Home Sister and of course, the Assistant Matron. Matron’s had to refuse all but a hand-picked few seniors. She can’t staff this hospital tomorrow with an entire day staff at the end of what could be a twenty hour shift. If you two’ll now get busy on the plaster-room. I’ll set the theatre to boil and re-join you.’

  Nurse Blake, glancing accusingly at the red-faced Aggie, demanded, ‘Who’ll “dirty” for you, Sister?’

  ‘Two day theatre third-years’ll take all night calls. Can’t use the staff nurses with Sister Theatre away till tomorrow night. Theatre mayn’t be needed tomorrow, but who’ll bet on it? Get cracking, girls.’ Catherine hurried away towards the theatre and forced herself not to turn her head towards Oakden Down. She daren’t think of Mark watching through his binoculars or what he might be seeing. With a conscious effort she concentrated on the absurdity that was the one certainty in hospital life; the mutual loathing of day and night staff to seeing each other simultaneously on-duty. It was a loathing entirely unconnected with the cause of the situation. She thought of the Night Superintendent’s expression when she put down the telephone and announced in a voice of doom, ‘As if we’ve not enough on plate without this, lass! Matron’s coming back on!’

  Iris Gordon in the french blue artificial silk with a deep heart-shaped neckline that she had changed into for supper and everyone said was frightfully chic, perched girlishly on one brocade arm of the sofa of her four-piece suite and surveyed her crowded drawing-room with an artificial smile. One had simply had to show the flag and horse over and tell Matron that positively anyone who wanted a breather and a cuppa whilst waiting to be collected by relatives, or one of the voluntary ‘hospital car’ owner-drivers, was frightfully welcome. Naturally being a senior consultant’s wife and with poor darling Alex away one simply had to do one’s bit ‒ but oh, gosh golly! One was frightfully sorry for them but they were so tripper-ish ‒ and face it ‒ so frightfully common. They would keep calling her ‘Mrs’ and ‘dear’ and ‘love’ ‒ in her own drawing-room! And talk about talk! One simply couldn’t get a word in ‒ they were just nattering on and on about the accident. One supposed it must be reaction and all that sort of thing and hoped it helped the poor things but it was raa-ather a bind. As for the washing-up! Positively non-stop. One honestly didn’t know how dear old Nanny would’ve coped if Mrs Weston hadn’t turned up with Mrs Edgehurst and three of the Mothers’ Union after calling at the hospital and being told by Matron she was sure Mrs Gordon would welcome some assistance. Of course, Iris had seen at a glance the three Mothers would feel much more at home in the kitchen and taken them in to help Nanny. And when she got back to the drawing-room, it was a bit thick! There was Mrs Weston presiding over the tea-pot! One could only suppose vicars’ wives spent so much time bossing parishioners that they simply forgot what simply wasn’t done. Mrs Weston had even had the nerve to suggest Iris hand round the rock cakes she’d brought. Actually, they were raa-ather decent cakes, though obviously made with powdered eggs. And, at least, Mrs Weston did know how to talk to these people.

  Mrs Edgehurst never knew how to talk even to well ‒ our sort. She either held forth delivering a lecture, or sat around looking a pain in the neck. All she had said to Iris was that personally, she blamed Aneurin Bevan. What that drip of a Welshman or whatever he was had to do with a hay-lorry overturning on their hill, Iris couldn’t imagine. She hadn’t said so. That would have meant a lecture and she positively couldn’t stand another. Not after Ruth! Talk about a boo-boo when it had seemed a wizo wheeze to ask Ruth to stay for the night! Iris was most frightfully sorry but if anyone ever again mentioned St Martha’s hospital to her she would simply have to scream. At supper, she’d raa-ather suspected poor dear George felt the same. Barely opened his mouth until Ruth started binding about his getting weaving if he wasn’t to leave it too late to visit Dr Jason. ‘I’ve decided it’s a wee bit late for tonight,’ he said, and given her an odd sort of look that had kept her quiet for five blessed minutes.

  The last thing Iris ever wished to be was selfish, and she was frightfully sorry for all these trippers and knew they couldn’t actually he
lp the hideous mess of dust and bits of hay on the furniture and carpet, but it was rather a relief that this had got Ruth out of her hair for the odd hour. Poor Ruth. Who’d have thought she’d turn into such a wet? Positively dripping! Thank goodness Matron had allowed her to do the odd little job over in The Garden and that she had decided to drive to Arumchester directly after lunch tomorrow and then straight back to London. Darling mummy, of course, had been an absolute brick. She’d even interrupted her bridge ‒ well, actually she’d been dummy at the time ‒ to ring and say how proud she was of her little girl and that she must be frightfully exhausted after such a day! Mummy could say that again! Iris simply hadn’t dared tell her they were still coming over in positive droves and poor old Nanny was being the most frightful bind about their tea rations running out and there not being any left for tomorrow. What, as Iris said, did that matter at a time like this? One simply had to make sacrifices ‒ and anyway, one much preferred coffee.

  In the treatment alcove the stretcher-trolleys were so close that the figures working around them had to move sideways. Sometimes the figures worked in pairs; Catherine with MacDonald; Aggie with Joe Rolls; Nurse Blake, initially with Dr Smythe on the least injured as the cardiologist had to keep disappearing to the plaster-room, and then with Mr Hodges. Sometimes four or all six worked round one stretcher, then split up into the old pairs. And throughout, the two pathologists, two radiographers, Mr Burt, Henry, came and went; bearing wet X-ray plates; vacolitres of blood; replacing oxygen cylinders, removing and replacing figures on stretchers.

  Dr Edgehurst moving stiffly from patient to patient was relieved to see young Hodges free Smythe. Dr Edgehurst needed assistance and that fellow Smythe knew his anaesthetics. Sound cardiologist and sound physician, for all he was a pompous fellow. No time for pomposity tonight. They had begun to appreciate in the last war that anaesthesia was useful for this type of major first-aid; Dr Edgehurst shouldn’t wonder if the time would come when it would be regarded as an essential therapeutic element. Nasty business this, though the only wonder was that more had not been seriously injured in view of the numbers involved. Nevertheless, most regrettable. All these good folk just enjoying a pleasant drive on a pleasant evening. There it was.