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

by Lucilla Andrews

  ‘No, Sister dear ‒ for you, personal ‒ I’m sorry to bother you but it’s the Night Superintendent from the San. and she says she must speak to you personal and ‒’

  ‘Put her through please, Mrs Ford.’

  The sudden dreadful calm in Catherine’s voice penetrated MacDonald’s concentration more acutely than the telephone bell. His eyes jerked towards her. She had pulled down her mask to drink her tea and he saw her face turn waxen. He heard the distant voice in the receiver and Catherine’s quiet interpolations above the sudden thudding in his eardrums. ‘Thank you, Sister … yes … thank God it was in his sleep … yes, he did enjoy today … yes, thank you all very much … yes, I’ll be up tomorrow … yes, very nasty but I’m so thankful he slept through it … yes, still quite busy … please thank his nurses ‒ and ‒ and thank you very much.’ Her hand shook. She couldn’t put the receiver down properly. He took it gently from her hand, replaced it, and stood by her looking down at her lowered head. He put a hand on her shoulder and removed it immediately she looked up, her lashes wet and great eyes black with grief. She said, ‘You’ve got to tell me. She’ll be here soon. Go on.’

  He shook his head. His face stripped of the hardness was raw with pain, compassion and vulnerability. ‘My ‒ my dear girl, you can’t be expected to take ‒’

  She said mechanically, ‘I’ve got to. So have you. He’ll ‒ he’ll understand. Start again, please. Please?’

  He gazed at her as if he hadn’t heard. Then he inclined his head, stared at his feet and for a few moments breathed hard. ‘Yes. Of course. Right. This is what I intend doing …’

  Mrs Ford still in tears kept her back to the figures slowly escorting the single stretcher-trolley from the annex. Once all were outside, she mopped her eyes and rang the Night Superintendent. ‘I thought it best be you, Sister, seeing I’m nights and you’re nights …’

  ‘You did rightly, Mrs Ford. She’s my Night Sister. It’ll be no surprise to poor lass but she’ll take it right hard none the less. I’ll have word with Matron. You’ll oblige me by saying nowt to owt till I give word. Sister Jason’ll not want talk. Sanders lass gone to theatre now? Right then. Have to wait to see what’s best for more than the one. Many thanks, Mrs Ford.’

  In a sluice in Oakden Sanatorium the Sugar Plum wept on the shoulder of her friend Teresa. ‘I thought he was having such a lovely sleep ‒ I kept going in to him and it was only after I noticed he wasn’t moving that I touched him and he didn’t move and he always does ‒ and he was so sweet and I’ll never have another patient like him ‒ and he was much sweeter than David who’s just a wolf though he is a dreamboat ‒ and Dr Jason said he was no oil painting ‒ and I thought he was having such a lovely sleep ‒ oh Teresa ‒ oh Teresa ‒ why did he have to die? Why did he have to die?’

  The grandfather clock chimed four when MacDonald in another green theatre outfit walked heavily into the Assistant Matron’s office. Mr and Mrs Sanders in armchairs on either side of the Matron at her desk, sat very still, not daring to look at each other or away from the haggard blue-chinned face.

  MacDonald said gently, ‘As I promised, I’m here to tell you your daughter has come through her operation and is now in a bed in Women’s Surgical. If you wish to see her now, you may do so. I’d prefer you only to stay a few minutes. She is a very ill girl and won’t be able to recognize you yet and needs absolute quiet.’

  It took them time. Mrs Sanders recovered her voice first. ‘Doctor ‒’ her voice broke, ‘she can be all right?’

  He looked at her. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s too early for me to be able to answer that yet. What I can say is, that if all goes as we hope and no later complications occur ‒ and they may well not ‒ then you should have her home to convalesce in four to five weeks. I must repeat, tonight she is a very ill girl, but safely over one very worrying period.’

  They couldn’t talk. They grabbed his hand in turn, and after a little, he bowed slightly to Matron and walked heavily back to the theatre.

  ‘Where’s Sister Jason, nurse?’

  The theatre nurse looked up with puzzled eyes. ‘She’s gone into the office for something, Mr MacDonald. She didn’t say why. She’s closed the door.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He let the double doors fall shut, looked at the closed office door for some seconds, then turned away and went into the surgeons’ room to get changed.

  Chapter Nine

  They sat on the broad flat top of the seawall watching the pebbles being dragged down by the backwash then flung back in a cloud of spray by the next incoming wave. The growling grey sea was only a little lighter than the overcast sky; the beach was empty of all but the gulls lining the breakwaters; the chilly, salty wind and the early afternoon light suited November rather than early July 1952. They were dressed for November. Catherine in a thick duffle-coat over a navy jersey dress; MacDonald wore the raincoat that had already withstood a year of Scottish rain over tweeds. The wind brushed off Catherine’s hood, raised her short hair in wings above her face, stood MacDonald’s on end, and exposed the new streaks of grey amongst the black.

  They had driven from Arumchester between fields of still uncut half-flattened hay, or where it had been cut, with the geometrically arranged bales still waiting to dry. The wheat and barley were still green. The clover was more than ready for cutting. ‘Snag about clover,’ said Catherine, ‘is that here they grow it for the seeds. If you cut it and have to keep turning it to dry, the seeds fall out and the crop’s valueless. A farmer who came into Cas. with a gashed hand one night last week told me he’d cut his too soon and had earlier that day had to fight a bonfire and watch five hundred pounds go up in smoke. I tried to cheer him by saying, as his main crop’s apples, this looks like being a bumper year. He wasn’t having any. “Not bumper, Sister, glut. Won’t be able to give ’em away.” ’

  MacDonald’s smile was pleasant and guarded. ‘Poor chap. How’d he gash his hand?’

  ‘Sharpening his scythe. There’s an orgy of hedging and ditching going on as they can’t get on with the harvest. Lethal instruments, scythes. They’re always coming in with gashes. He should do all right. We gave him the usual shots and our new houseman put in eight quite respectable stitches with a lot of advice from our new R.A. (Resident Anaesthetist). Being great buddies, it wasn’t resented.’

  ‘Either any real use?’

  She smiled quickly. ‘Henry says he’s had worse shipmates. Green as they come being both straight from Benedict’s and not yet out of shock from having to use the kind of equipment they date with leeches. I think they’ll be okay once they’ve outgrown their God’s-gift-to-modern-medicine-and-the-nursing-profession syndrome.’

  ‘There’s always been a lot of that about. How’s Henry?’

  ‘Muttering darkly about asking for his cards, but otherwise in fine form. He doesn’t hold with the forthcoming re-shuffle in our Group.’ She glanced at him. ‘Ruth mention it to you in London last week?’

  ‘Briefly.’ He slowed at a crossroads. ‘I never got down to the marsh. Which way?’

  ‘First right then almost at once, right again, and once over the flat bit beyond the wooden bridge, watch it as there are seven sharp bends in a row.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He glanced at her before turning. ‘Clearly, you know your road.’

  ‘This bit. I began discovering the marsh last autumn. I don’t think there’s a lane I haven’t biked now. The lanes are much nicer on a bike, though I’m not so sure about your tyres. Perhaps we should cut across to the main sea road.’

  ‘No. I’ll see quite enough of main roads on my return to Edinburgh tomorrow. I like lanes ‒ when not choked with snow as last time.’

  They had last met in the week between Christmas and New Year. He had driven down from London on the second day of her nights off and taken her out to lunch. He had never told what had brought him south and she hadn’t asked. On this occasion she had heard some weeks ago from Ruth, now Assistant Matron of Martha’s, that MacDonald would be in Lo
ndon all last week. ‘Coming down to examine for FRCS. His Fellowship is English, of course,’ said Ruth, ‘and everyone says he’s doing very well up there, which doesn’t surprise me at all, though why he had to go …’

  Doing very well. Sure. Anything he did, he did very well, and what that did to him was his affair. It always had been so, recalled Catherine, and she had always thought of him as indestructible, until she saw him again today. Eight years since they’d first met. And for so many of those years, just like everyone else ‒ thank God, here’s Mack. Whether he’s in one of his bloody-minded moods, or looks like an old man ‒ he’ll keep going and know what to do. Don’t know how the man does it. Downright a-human, but he always comes.

  Always. When needed. When not, he disappeared. Did he look like this after Christmas? If he did, she thought, either I didn’t see it or don’t remember. I should’ve remembered. Please God, forgive me. I should’ve remembered.

  She didn’t see him or his car parked with the boot open outside the Gordons’ house, until he stepped into the near-empty high street, steadied the bicycle for her to get off, and without saying anything tied it in his boot. She wore the blue seersucker because it was her only dress in the hospital. She never wore her uniform dress in the San., to avoid the danger of cross-infection to her own patients. She changed that morning as mechanically as she had finished her night’s work, but varied her habitual behaviour in one respect. She had redone her hair in the french-knot.

  Neither had spoken when he drew up at the glass front entrance. Then he said, ‘I’ll wait in any event, Mrs Jason. Would you like me to come in with you, or not?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said with the same terrible calm that was mirrored in her white face and darkly shadowed eyes. She was out of the car before he had time to open her door. MacDonald saw a grey-haired man with glasses, holding open the glass front door, and waited until the two had left the hall to go in and ask the elderly portress if he could ring The Garden. She recognized him from yesterday and pushed forward the lodge telephone with the eagerness of one consumed with curiosity.

  ‘Sad night all round it’s been, sir!’

  ‘Quite busy.’

  She glanced at his face and kept silent. One of the hard ones, she could tell. Some were. Just routine like, they took it.

  In the surgeons’ room, Dr Edgehurst adjusted his pince-nez for a closer peer at MacDonald’s face. ‘Highly regrettable, but only to be expected. Great pity. Great waste. Nice youngster. Nice pair of youngsters. Only wonder is that the poor young fellow managed to live well over a year beyond the life-expectancy given his wife by some of the best chest men in this country. Naturally, you’ve been aware of this. Not Martha’s fault. Nothing more Martha’s or any hospital could do for him. Needed the bed for those they could still help. Had to send him down here to die. Wife had to know. Trained. Seen all his X-rays, knew the right questions to ask, what she was seeing. Skinner told me when he first saw her up at the San she knew as much about her husband’s lungs as himself. Not the boy. Never told him. Great burden for the girl to carry, but too much for the youngster to bear. Jollied him along. Only thing to do. Distressing ‒ and for you, I daresay. Your sometime house-surgeon, eh? You’ll be here for-er-yes-oh yes. Hmm. Help her somewhat. One needs old friends at such times ‒ as you’ll be aware having lost your own wife. Most distressing. Nonetheless, that Sanders child should do. Night could’ve proved a deal worse. In his sleep. Kindest way. There it is. These things must happen. No more to be said.’

  Joe Rolls’ abrupt voice was on the line, ‘All quiet here or I’d have rung you, sir.’

  ‘So I presumed. However ‒’ and after some pertinent questions on last night’s admissions, MacDonald added, ‘I’m at the San and intend driving Mrs Jason back to the vicarage. I’ll be in when I’m done.’ He rang off.

  Joe grimaced, hung up the dining room receiver and returned to his solitary, unwanted, breakfast. Felt just like one of the staff had died, he decided. That always had the whole bloody hospital in mourning. No one liked losing a patient but one had to expect that. When it was one of the staff ‒ Christ ‒ straight under the belt. Still, bit of a break old MacD. was doing his ex-boss’s stuff. Bosses were expected to rally round when this happened, and to give the bastards their due they always did. He’d felt an absolute heel when he’d seen Mrs J. getting on her bike in the yard when he went through Cas. to look at The Garden wards before breakfast. Usually, when she was off up the hill he yelled ‘Hi!’ or ‘Sleep well!’ or ‘Cheers to the ever-loving!’ or some such tripe. This morning he’d pretended he hadn’t seen her. Hadn’t known what to say. Never knew what to say.

  Rum thought that he’d never again see her taking off for that bloody hill. She’d become part of Oakden scenery. Nothing to keep her in Oakden now ‒ Christ! Nor The Garden! And she was the bloody joint’s secret weapon at night. How in hell was he going to stand any more weekends like this one? It was all bloody fine for old Smythe last night to keep on beefing about an exceptional event ‒ so what was Easter? And Whitsun? And how about August Bank Holiday? And the weekends between? Maybe ‒ maybe Aggie had it right. Maybe the only answer was ‒ out. Hell! He didn’t want to bloody emigrate ‒ leave his folks ‒ girlfriend ‒ but he couldn’t take much more of this racket ‒ who was it the other day that said Canada was shouting for British medics? Atlantic wasn’t all that wide … maybe after his deferred National Service …

  Mrs Weston answered MacDonald’s ring on her front door and her sharp eyes immediately recognized the implication of the neatly wrapped package the size and shape of a shoebox under his arm, before he explained his errand. She blinked briskly. ‘She’s sewing in the back garden. If you wish I’ll tell her you’ve called and will give her ‒’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ll do this. I know the way. May I go round?’

  ‘If you would, Mr MacDonald. Thank you.’

  He bowed slightly and walked off round the house. She waited till he disappeared then returned to Mrs Edgehurst in the drawing-room. They were having morning coffee in there instead of as normally in the kitchen, because all the windows were open. ‘William has the most maddening habit of being right, but on this occasion I’m thankful. The Lord indeed tempered the wind to the shorn lamb by sending that nice, sensible, man down here last weekend, making it possible for Alex to return and leave Mr MacDonald free to help her through all the dreadful formalities that have to be attended to. Naturally, had he not been here, William would’ve done everything, but though we like to think of her as one of our family, no use pretending we are, or are really old friends. She needs someone who knows what must be done and doesn’t have to bother her with questions. No father or father-in-law living, never had a brother. Only male relative in this country is the husband of the elder sister now in the nursing home awaiting her second baby. The husband’s only a curate, her mother’s looking after the three-year-old grandson ‒ they’ve arranged for friends to have the boy whilst they are here tomorrow but daren’t stay more than one night. Poor Mrs Carter was most upset when she rang, but Catherine insisted her mother must stay with the child who’s missing his own mother.’

  ‘Had Dr Jason no family of his own?’

  ‘Of course he had, Beryl. I’ve told you. A sister married to some man farming in Kenya, a younger brother working for some oil company in Texas and like Catherine’s younger sister Frances, married to an American. Frances has rung Catherine three times from Washington. I think those two were especially close as children. Met her husband over here in the war. Wretched war! Destroyed or split up so many families. Too far for flying back but cables and flowers are arriving. Some comfort but not much.’

  ‘Pity she hasn’t had time to make more friends in Oakden.’

  Mrs Weston gave her old friend a sharp look. ‘For the last year she’s only had time for her husband and her work. I think she may’ve made a few. We’ll see tomorrow.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Mrs Edgehurst was dubious. She shared certain
views with Iris Gordon and her mother. ‘How long is Mr MacDonald staying with the Gordons?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow.’

  ‘And Catherine?’

  ‘I’ve no idea and no intention of enquiring. As far as William and I are concerned, the longer the better and I’m sure The Garden feel the same. She’ll need time. Grief needs time. Time heals, but it takes time. This is her only home now and ‒’

  ‘Maud. It’s been that for the last year.’

  ‘Oh no, Beryl,’ Mrs Weston retorted briskly. ‘He was her home and she was his. She knows that now.’

  Catherine sat in a deckchair under the screening oaks, her back to the house, the white blouse she was making untouched in her lap. She turned her head at the sound of footsteps on the paved path round the house, smiled with her lips at MacDonald crossing the overgrown lawn but her blank eyes were mesmerized by the package under one of his arms. He laid it gently in her lap. They both knew it contained Mark’s signet ring, glasses, and binoculars that had had to await sterilization before she could have them. She had given his few remaining personal possessions to the San.

  She said unsteadily, ‘Thanks for bringing them. I ‒ I had to have them but ‒’ her hands tightened on the package, ‘I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to open this.’

  ‘Don’t, until you’re ready. You’ll know when. I’ve checked. All intact.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She averted her head. ‘Do sit down ‒ there’s another chair somewhere ‒’

  ‘Not just now, Mrs Jason. I’ll away ‒’

  ‘No, please.’ She had to look at him with wet eyes. ‘Not just because I’ve not thanked you properly ‒’

  ‘That’s unnecessary.’

  ‘It isn’t, but I want your advice. Have you got a minute?’

  He sat down on the grass. ‘What is it?’ he asked very kindly.

  She looked into his face and saw the kindness and nothing else. ‘I don’t know what to do. I’ve always had a special monthly contract as ‒ well ‒ Matron’s been so understanding. I can’t expect her ‒ I mean, she’s bound to want a proper one or two-year contract and so will anywhere else and ‒ and I don’t want to sign anything and I don’t know what to do. I ‒ I ‒’ she had to stop for thought. It was useless. She couldn’t think. ‘I’ve always known what I must do but ‒ now ‒ I don’t.’