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

by Lucilla Andrews

  It was so quiet in the annex that often the only sound floating over Nurse Blake’s lowered head was the soft hiss of the oxygen cylinders. Then, the murmurs.

  ‘New cylinder here please, Mr Burt. This one’s running low.’

  ‘Coming up, Sister.’

  ‘Doctor, this chap needs an airway down stat. He’s inhaled so much blood and vomit he’ll asphyxiate before we get his clothes clear.’

  ‘Very good, Mr MacDonald … ah … yes … in.’

  ‘Could you look at this chap’s leg, sir? His trousers were so caked wasn’t till we cut ’em off that the outline of this femur showed.’

  ‘No use wasting time trying to get a needle into these collapsed veins. Have to cut down and get in a cannula.’ (A fragile narrow glass tube used in place of a transfusion needle.) ‘Where’s the cut-down setting?’

  ‘In the right sealed tin on that trolley up left, Mr Hodges.’ Again and again, ‘Radiographer. Picture of this, please …’ And, ‘We got enough blood, doctor?’

  ‘Enough, pro tem.’

  And later, ‘I’ve only four more pints in this girl’s group, Sister. How much more’ll she need?’

  ‘Six, maybe eight. Blood coming?’

  ‘Here shortly. Police fast cars are bringing replacements from Banks all over the county.’

  ‘Can I have two pints for this chap, doctor?’

  ‘Directly, Rolls.’

  Blood, thought Nurse Blake, looking at her hands and wondering how she would ever eat with them again. She seemed to have spent a lifetime cutting off clothes soaked in blood. Soaked, caked, sticky, matted with dust and that foul hay. She didn’t think she would ever again be able to look at a haystack or be rid of the sickly-sour smell clinging to the back of her nose and throat despite her mask and the ether, spirit and anaesthetic fumes driving the nocturnal insects back from the annex to circle giddily the corridor, lodge and entrance lights.

  She hadn’t noticed Sister Jason and Mr MacDonald had vanished until they came back together and she saw the blank glance they exchanged before Sister squeezed to her side. ‘Could you manage without nurse for a few minutes, Mr Hodges?’

  ‘If I must, Sister. Take her.’

  ‘Wash your hands and join me in the yard, nurse.’

  When she hurried outside, Nurse Blake kept her eyes averted from the couple on the bench. She had just looked at Shirley Sanders and didn’t dare trust her eyes above her mask. The couple didn’t notice her. Their gaze was fixed on the white screens.

  An ambulance was parked right forward and out of sight from the entrance with its outer lights off, and lightened interior opened towards the garden. Nurse Blake saw the outlines of the two capless ambulance men waiting with Sister and Henry, and of the wholly shrouded figures on the two stretcher-trolleys. Her mouth went dry. ‘Morgue, Sister?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, nurse. B.I.D.’ (Brought In Dead.) Catherine drew her a little away and the three silent men gazed in the opposite direction. ‘They were the couple in the car with the blowout. The shaft of the steering wheel got his heart and when she went through the windscreen ‒’ Catherine’s lowered voice paused briefly ‘it took off her face. Sorry. Only fair to warn you what to expect before you have to look before you sign in the morgue. Mr MacDonald thinks both died instantly. At least saved them from being smothered by hay before they could be got out. Henry has their names on the forms. Keep them strictly inter-senior staff pro tem. A few newspaper reporters have turned up, but neither the cops nor hospital want these names released till the relatives have been told. Not traced yet. Okay?’ Nurse Blake nodded numbly. ‘Sorry you’ve got to do this, Blake, but Martin can’t leave Shirley and I must get the theatre in action. Dr Edgehurst’s giving the coach-driver his pre-med now.’ Nurse Blake said numbly, ‘That’s all right, Sister. Only ‒ can I ask ‒ Shirley? If she can take an op. ‒ can she do?’

  Catherine hesitated. This poor kid was only a kid. But that wasn’t how she was behaving or working. She wanted and had a right to the truth. ‘We don’t know yet. We just know without an op. she hasn’t a chance and that even if she can be got strong enough to reach the table, it’ll still be the hell of a risk. Mr MacDonald is willing to take it, if the parents consent.’

  ‘They ‒ they know this?’

  ‘Most. Not all, yet. Mr MacDonald’ll explain the lot to them before he operates ‒ if he can ‒ and he’s told Matron, Night Super and Martin, no one’s to offer them the consent form to sign until after he’s explained.’ She touched the girl’s arm. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me, Sister.’

  Catherine nodded and watched the little procession moving silently away round the back of the old house before streaking down to the theatre. She was remembering the moment in her own third-year when she had thanked a Sister for much the same reason and had then realized, as Blake just now, that she had finally bridged the great inter-hospital gap between those too inexperienced or immature to be trusted with the weight of the whole truth, and those on whom every hospital depended to carry not merely the whole truth, but the full weight of the hospital.

  It was when she was swiftly replacing her cap with a turban in the theatre changing-room that she belatedly remembered how once and very briefly, in her second year, MacDonald had bridged that gap with her when he told her, as one responsible professional to another, how her friend Nurse Smith had died that night in Wally’s. She remembered the utter desolation in his exhausted face. She had just seen that same desolation in his eyes when he looked at her in the deathly silence of the lighted interior of the ambulance. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Jason,’ he said, before he jumped out and held out a hand to help her down.

  Quickly she splashed her face in cold water before tying on a green theatre mask. Three certain ops. on the list and possibly, four. Please God, let it be four ‒ please let us save her and ‒ please ‒ let Mark be asleep.

  Not a flicker of emotion appeared on the Night Superintendent’s fleshy face with the jowls sagging with fatigue, whilst she listened to the Matron’s voice over the telephone in the corridor of Men’s Surgical. Sister Men’s Surgical stood with her, her stern tired face watching her transformed ward. All the beds on the right side were filled with tonight’s admissions; the three newly post-operative men were in 18, 19, and 20 with side-curtains half-drawn, green shades over their bed-head lights, green rubber masks on their faces, blood transfusions running in, and the foot of their slanting beds on the highest blocks. Messrs Barnes and Ellis now in 3 and 4, slept as deeply as David Hartley, Mr Parsons and every other man on the left side. In general, Sister Men’s Surgical deeply disapproved of strong sedatives. Tonight they had been necessary. This accident had upset her remaining ‘old’ patients for more than the usual reasons; it had happened to visitors to Oakden. Mr Parsons had spoken for all his fellow Oakden men in the ward, ‘Not right this, Sister, not right. They come down to enjoy their holidays. Don’t bear thinking what they’ll reckon to Oakden after this. And on Fair night. Not right.’ He jerked a weary thumb at Bed 5. ‘Leastways, he got his up top the Down and seems nicely as you’d reckon this soon. Doing all right is he, Sister?’

  ‘Satisfactorily, Mr Parsons. How’s that leg?’

  ‘Not say I can’t feel it. Got to expect that. I’m not having sleeping tablets ‒’

  ‘No, Mr Parsons. You need something stronger on your first post-op night as you know very well. Your arm please ‒ rubbish, of course you need it ‒ just a little prick ‒ there ‒ and don’t tell me you felt that as I know you didn’t …’

  Her ward looked as a ward should again, decided Sister Men’s Surgical. Not before time. Nearly two. When Matron had last looked in she had said she must take the morning off. Sister Men’s Surgical had replied that with every respect that was nonsense and she would be on as usual at eight. She had just had to be equally firm now. She would go off, she said, once her last theatre patient was safely round from his anaesthetic and not before. She had won both points as she had kno
wn she would. Men’s Surgical was her ward. In her place, Matron and the Night Superintendent would have done the same and they all knew it.

  ‘Much obliged, Matron.’ The Night Superintendent hung up and turned slowly. ‘Mr MacDonald’s just talked to the parents. Matron’s got them along in the Ass. Mat’s office. She’ll keep them there till lass is out of theatre. Father’s signed the consent. Mr MacDonald’s gone to tell Cas. He’ll do her in about twenty minutes. Dr Smythe and Staff Martin’ll go through theatre with her. Dr Edgehurst’ll get her well under in Cas. before move.’

  Sister Men’s Surgical’s expression grew sterner. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t lose her on the table.’

  ‘Happen he’s hoping that too, Sister.’ The Night Superintendent looked at the pantry door. ‘Could you spare Nurse Geraghty and pot of tea and cups for theatre staff? If she can get it along sharp and leave tray in theatre office, they’ll have the time and could do with a cup.’

  ‘Of course, Sister.’

  ‘Many thanks, Sister. I’ll just look in next door and tell night senior. No rush needed. Bed’s been ready over the hour.’

  Sister Men’s Surgical put her head round the pantry door, instructed Nurse Geraghty and ducked back to assuage her curiosity. ‘Quiet in there, Sister?’

  The Night Superintendent nodded phlegmatically. ‘I sent Miss Dean off when I did my round there before here. All settled well and ward neat as if ready for doctor’s morning round.’ She paused. Sister Men’s Surgical waited, expectantly. ‘Right young madam that lass, but she knows how to work and have her juniors work. I’d not care to be one of her pros, but her patients’ll have nowt to complain of. Done a right job next door tonight, and didn’t fancy it overmuch when I said time to go. But if the Sanders lass comes from theatre it’ll be not for an hour or more and then Nurse Blake’ll special her for rest of night. Young Blake’s shaping nicely. More use than most staff nurses already, as I’ve told Matron. I’ll send her to her meal soon as Cas. is empty and cleared. She’ll need the time off her feet as she’ll likely not be off them again tonight.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Sunday morning now. One thing. Roads’ll stay empty till light. I’ll be off, Sister. If you’ve gone before I’m back, many thanks. I’ll see myself out.’

  She saw Ruth’s figure gliding slowly, gracefully by the lighted theatre as she crossed to Women’s Surgical. She was not surprised. That young madam would have needed time to give a full handing-over report to night senior, and no matter how unwillingly, had obeyed the Night Superintendent’s order. She was a well-trained outsider and such lasses knew when they were wanted and when not. The Night Superintendent was grateful to her and to see her go. Hospital was settling again and she wanted her hospital to herself. She moved on to the next ward and sighed thankfully at the well-ordered quiet that awaited her.

  Ruth glided slowly on through Casualty, noticed the bench was empty, that two of Mrs Ford’s back tapes had come undone, that the screened annex was still crowded. She wanted to raise herself on tiptoe to look over the screen but resisted the desire; to have done so would have been bad etiquette. She had had a stronger struggle when the Night Superintendent thanked her and told her to go off. She wanted to stay with her patients till morning; it had taken only a few minutes before she thought of them as ‘her’ patients, and not much longer for the women in the ward to recognize this. ‘Lovely Sister,’ they told each other and their visitors next day. ‘Ever so kind, but quick ‒ greased lightning. And nothing too much trouble, you could tell. From London, seemly. Shame we not got her here.’

  The front hall was empty, Matron’s Office empty and open, and the door of the Assistant Matron’s office closed. From the rim of light under the door, it was occupied. She shook her head slightly at the sight of the closed office door. Always a bad sign. Poor parents, but no use getting too upset as there was nothing she could do for them. She wished she could, but this wasn’t her hospital.

  She went quietly into Matron’s office, laid on the desk the neatly folded gown, cap and sister’s belt, helped herself to a sheet on the memo pad, took from her handbag the fountain pen that she always carried with her hospital badge and surgical scissors, wrote neatly, ‘One surgical gown, sister’s cap and belt, returned with thanks, R. Dean, SRN, SCM,’ and fixed it to the blue belt with a paperclip before letting herself quietly out of the unlocked front door and down the marble steps. She was sorry not to have said goodnight to Matron, purely as that was etiquette. It never occurred to her that the Matron might want to thank her. The Night Superintendent had already said all Ruth considered necessary, and in any event she never expected to be thanked for nursing. It was rather like being thanked for breathing.

  The theatre corridor was silent when Nurse Geraghty importantly carried in a heavy tea-tray. She paused, cast disappointed glances at the clean floor and orderly lines of reserve cylinders. No blood, no dust, not so much as the one piece of hay. And there was everyone saying the theatre must be having a terrible time and needing tea when she’d not been off her feet the once or had the time for more than the one glass of milk or two or three seeing it was stacking the fridge and none of the patients wanting late night drinks at all. She carried the tray in, deposited it on the flat desk in the empty office and returned to press her round face to one glass porthole. No mess in there at all. Only the two nurses and Sister Jason doing the normal re-setting.

  The green masked figure wearing rubber gloves to sponge the white metal table with carbolic solution noticed the face at the porthole. She quickly opened a slit in the double-doors. ‘What the hell do you want, Geraghty?’

  Nurse Geraghty looked hurt. She couldn’t recognize the masked face. ‘It’s a message and tea I’ve brought from the Night Superintendent herself and it’s in the office and I’m to be saying will you please all have some and ‒’

  ‘Thanks ‒’ the theatre nurse waved her off and let the doors close themselves. ‘Sister Jason. Night Super’s sent us tea. In the office now.’

  ‘God bless the Night Superintendent.’ Catherine looked up from the mass of newly-rinsed instruments she was stacking in a sterilizing tray. ‘Go and grab a cup soon as you’ve finished that table.’ She glanced at the theatre clock, turned to the second nurse finishing re-stacking the largest bowl sterilizer. ‘And you, nurse. Shove down that lid and have it now. If any men are still around, tell them tea’s up.’

  ‘What about you, Sister?’

  ‘I’ll get my instruments in, carry on in here and nip out when you girls get back.’

  The surgeons’ and anaesthetic rooms were empty before and after the nurses had their tea. They rushed back into the theatre proper. ‘All the men have disappeared, Sister. Cas.?’ Catherine nodded gravely. ‘You don’t think there’s another hold-up?’

  ‘I think they’d have let us know. But ‒ mayn’t have had time.’ Catherine looked around. The very little that remained to be prepared would take no more than five minutes once the sterilizers had boiled their appointed time. ‘Until told otherwise, we go ahead.’

  ‘Do go and have your cuppa, Sister.’

  Catherine had another look at the clock. ‘Okay.’

  In the office and before she sat down, she poured tea with one hand and lifted the receiver with the other. ‘Sister Jason, theatre, Mrs Ford. I don’t want a call, I want to ask you something. Got a minute?’

  ‘Oh yes, Sister dear. Board’s quietened lovely now, but, my, what a time! What can I do for you, dear?’

  ‘Who’s in Cas. now?’

  ‘Behind the screens, Sister? Oh, all! Dr Smythe and Mr Hodges and Mr MacDonald and the old Doctor and Mr Rolls and Staff Martin and Nurse Blake and the Super’s just gone by and she stopped for a word just before you called to say as she sent you your tea. You had yours yet, dear? You drink it, dear. You need it ‒ hold on a tick, Sister dear ‒ oh yes, here’s Henry back from his boilers and now he’s gone behind. The girl will be along theatre soon by the looks.’ Mrs Ford had just pulled out the theatre plug when
MacDonald, still in his green theatre clothes with his green cap on the back of his black head slid from behind the screens and strode out of Casualty. Mrs Ford put out then moved back her hand. From the look on his face she didn’t know what to think. He’s gone to theatre. Best leave him to tell her.

  Catherine had just sat down and raised the cup to her lips when she heard the quick footsteps in the corridor. She put down the cup before MacDonald was in the doorway. ‘Op. Off?’

  ‘No.’ He didn’t look at her. He fixed his gaze on some point in the middle air. ‘The physicians want a bit more time with her in Cas. before they bring her along and straight onto the table. You’ll know I’ve seen her parents.’

  ‘Matron rang.’ She didn’t say more. Matron, and his face, told her all she needed to know about that interview. He looked years older than when he had left after the last op. His eyes were dark shadows in his pale face, his expression almost frighteningly hard. It didn’t frighten her. She had seen it too often before dangerous ops. It was one of the outer symptoms of his absolute mental concentration on the work he was about to do. That fixed stare was another. She knew he hadn’t noticed the tea-tray, and didn’t break his concentration by pouring him a cup. In a few seconds he would start talking. After, he would absently drink some tea.

  ‘Sister, this is what I intend doing ‒ Christ!’ The telephone was ringing. ‘Cas.?’ he demanded in another voice.

  She had grabbed the receiver, ‘Sister Jason, Mrs Ford. Cas.?’