There was a man, a tall thin man with very dark hair, standing with his back to her and his head almost inside one of the cabinets, and she moved quickly across the room towards him.
“Señor! - what do you want? ah - ” she struggled for a moment and then said loudly and slowly “Qué quiere usted? Qué hace usted aquî?”
“What am I doing here?” he said in slightly accented but very perfect English. “I am looking for something for this - ” and he held out his hand towards her. It was bloody and automatically she put her own hand forwards to turn it palm downwards so that the blood did not drip on the floor.
“Come and sit down,” she said crisply. “I’ll see to it at once.”
Obediently he sat in the chair, and watched her as she moved swiftly to the wash basin in the corner to scrub her hands before putting his hand on to a clean towel which she took from a metal drum of sterile dressings. She was aware of his eyes on her, and in her own turn took stock of him.
He had very dark eyes under straight silky black eyebrows, and a pale skin that slid into violet coloured shadows above his cheekbones and at his temples. Most startling of all was the neat beard which covered the point of his chin and upper lip, sweeping up his cheeks to stop in a crisp line across them. It was startlingly silver on each side, only the very middle of it being as black as his hair, and it gave him a look that was slightly sardonic and yet weary.
She worked quickly, bringing a tray with a bowl of cleansing lotion and swabs and dressings, grateful she had had at least some time to find out where everything was. She would have felt a particular chagrin if she had shown herself in this odd man’s eyes to be anything but fully competent, a response in herself which she found a little irritating.
It was a very ugly gash, running across the back of his hand in a ragged line and she looked at it with a faint frown.
“How did you do it?”
He shrugged. “I broke a glass. The edge - ”
“A broken glass? On the back of your hand?”
“It was with the back of my hand that I broke it,” he said calmly, lifting his heavy lids to look at her. “Like so - ” and he moved his hand swiftly and it was as though she had seen the accident happen.
“I see! Was the glass clean or dirty?”
“Quite clean. It contained brandy. It was therefore virtually free of germs, yes? The spirit will have acted as an antiseptic.”
“Hmm. Up to a point, maybe,” she said. “I still think you should have some antibiotic on it, to be on the safe side. And I think you should have a few stitches in this, too. We’ll have to find out about getting you to a doctor - ”
“Can’t you stitch it?” he was still looking at her with his heavy-lidded direct gaze, leaning back now in total relaxation in the chair. “I have not the time for going to doctors. You do it?”
“I?” she frowned. “Well, I’m quite capable, of course. I was a theatre sister before coming here, and I’ve done a good deal of this sort of work. But you - surely you’d prefer a doctor?”
“I’ve already told you I want you to do it.” He dropped his eyes to look consideringly at his hand, still oozing blood across the knuckles, and he flexed his long fingers a little cautiously. “If you don’t do it, it won’t be done at all,” he said then, and he looked up, smiling slightly. She realized almost with a shock that this was the first time his facial expression had changed since she had spoken to him.
“Very well, then,” she said, making up her mind quickly. She had no doubts at all about her ability to make a good job of the suturing, and there was no sense in standing here arguing. So she covered the wound with a clean dressing, and moving with all the crispness of long experience began to prepare needles and nylon sutures and a syringe of local anaesthetic.
He said nothing at all as she worked, and the only sounds in the room were the clatter of her instruments as she slid them into the sterilizer and the hiss of the steam as she operated it. He made no sound either when she gave him the local anaesthetic, sliding the point of the needle into his skin at several points along the rim of the wound until it was surrounded with minute swellings where the liquid had collected.
“I’ll not hurt you now - ” she murmured as she started the suturing, carefully matching the edges at the centre of the wound to get as good a cosmetic result as possible. She had always taken a certain pride in her ability to suture a wound not merely adequately but in such a way that only the most minimal of scars remained; several of the Royal’s surgeons had made a practice of relinquishing their place to her to do the surface stitching after operations.
As old Sir Jeffrey had said “Where’s the sense in my standing here struggling with a needle and thread in my great paws when here at my side stands a nimble fingered lass who’s been wielding such articles all her life?” and he had winked at her and she had smiled back, for there was a special bond between the very old Scottish surgeon and the rather young Scottish sister.
Now, as she worked, she felt a moment of very poignant homesickness. She was back in her familiar operating theatre with the familiar sounds of the great traffic-heavy road leading down to London docks just outside and the great sprawling mass of buildings that was the old Royal -
But she wasn’t; she was in a Spanish holiday resort with the Mediterranean lapping outside her windows, rather than the muddy old Thames, and her patient was a disconcertingly silent man with a very elegantly cut suit and well manicured hands who was, she knew, staring at her bent head as she worked. She straightened her back as she finished and stood looking down at her handiwork, at the neatly curving row of seven stitches.
“Hmmph!” she grunted softly. “That’ll heal very nicely, as long as you don’t go slashing away at any more glasses. I’ll give you some antibiotic powder on it to be on the safe side and a firm dressing. You’ll please not go using it too much now - no soaking it in water or whatever. You’ll have to get someone else to shave you and wash you, I daresay - but I’ve no doubt someone can arrange that - ” she smiled at him then. “They certainly seem willing to arrange things very well, don’t they?”
“Do they? Who are they?”
“The management! I’ve the distinct impression that nothing’s too much trouble for them! Are you not comfortable here yourself?” she began to apply a bandage with swift neat turns of her wrist.
“Oh, very comfortable. I’m glad to find you have so high an opinion of the Cadiz. Now we must wait and see if the Cadiz will have as high an opinion of you.”
“Indeed we must!” she said sharply, a little nettled. “I hope you are reasonably satisfied with the treatment you’ve had!”
“Oh, indeed I’m reasonably satisfied!” he said, pulling his shirt cuff down and flicking a scrap of lint from it with a fastidious gesture.
He stood up then, and looked at her with the same unsmiling consideration, and then sketched a faint bow, which was so supercilious in its lightness that she found herself reddening with embarrassment.
“Good afternoon, señorita, and - Gracias.”
“You are very welcome, Señor,” she said, and knew her voice was crackling with dislike and didn’t care. How dared he be so offhand with her! Irritation seethed under the surface as she stared at him and he stared back with his silky eyebrows slightly raised. “You will please return tomorrow morning for fresh dressings, and each day thereafter until I can remove the stitches in five days’ time. Good afternoon to you!”
He turned and went to the door, and he had his hand on the knob before she remembered, and annoyed with herself, had to call him back.
“Señor! I’ll need to keep a record of your care. Would you tell me your name and room number, if you please.”
Moving quickly, with her head held high, she swept into her small office and returned with a pen and the record book in her hands, and he was still standing at the open door when she came back.
“My name? Sebastian Garcia, Señorita Cameron. My room number I think you will not require. Good
afternoon,” and he turned and went, closing the door softly behind him and leaving her standing with her cheeks scarlet with a mixture of embarrassment and anger.
4
At seven thirty, as the light in the sky over the Bay began to thicken a little and a chill air came to curl the leaves on the potted plants on the balconies, the phone on her desk shrilled and she jumped so much that her hand shook a little as she answered it.
“Hello? er - Digame?”
“Señorita Cameron?” the voice at the other end was breathless and soft and she had to strain a little to hear it. “This is Consuelo - I am the secretary of Señor Garcia. I have for you some messages and information. I am to ask you to come to the office of Señor Garcia to collect it. But I bring it to you if you prefer.”
“Not at all,” Isabel said crisply. “I am only too happy to obey Señor Garcia’s calls! Where is the office?”
“It is on the main foyer floor, to the far side. The door is a mirror, but the desk porter will show you. Gracias, Señorita!”
She locked all the cabinets in the surgical room with great care, and after a moment’s thought locked the outer door of the clinic too, tucking the keys into her belt again with a slightly malicious satisfaction; he wouldn’t be able to go prowling around her surgery while she was responsible for it, managing director or not! And then realized how silly she was being, for there were almost certainly additional sets of keys for every part of the hotel.
The foyer was busy when she reached it, with several guests lounging about and chattering, and there were groups of them sitting hunched over card tables set up by the windows, from which the blue curtains were now drawn to show a clear view of the Bay and the far shore on which a few lights were beginning to wink and sparkle.
Some of the people stared at her with a coolly arrogant curiosity which far from embarrassing her, as she might have expected it to, had the effect of putting her on her mettle and she walked quickly across the marble floor, very aware of the crisp look of her uniform and her pretty cap, and grateful to the little shop assistant who had insisted she buy white tights and shoes for she knew they showed off her long legs to advantage. “They may be rich, these people,” she thought “but I’m as good as they any day!” and then amused at this very Scottish piece of independent thinking relaxed enough to smile widely at a small child who came skittering across the floor to stare up at her in frank curiosity.
“Who are you?” he demanded in a high clear treble that made several of the card players look up in annoyance.
“I’m Sister Cameron. And who are you?”
“My name’s Fred. I’m an actor astronaut and I’m going to have a kangaroo farm in Australia when I’m not going to the moon.”
“Fred? That is a remarkably interesting name for someone like you. You look like a Fred,” Isabel said gravely. “And the best sort of actor astronaut kangaroo farmers are always called Fred.”
He beamed at her, a huge smile that revealed a large gap in his front teeth. “I thought you looked sensible. Not like her!” He jerked his head sideways and she followed his indication to see a fragile looking girl with very fair hair falling in a great sheet over her shoulders and wearing a slender well-fitting leopard-skin patterned catsuit. She was talking very animatedly to the man beside her; a square set grey-headed man with a cigar firmly clamped between his teeth and his eyes half closed against the clouds of smoke he was emitting. The girl turned her head to look about her as Isabel saw her, clearly searching for somebody.
“She thinks my name’s Daniel,” Fred said disgustedly.
“Danny!” the girl had a soft voice but it reached clearly across the crowded foyer. “Come here, darling - it’s time for bed soon - ”
“See what I mean?” the child said with even more disgust in his voice. “Danny! When anyone could see I’m a Fred! Mothers!” and he slouched away across the floor, presenting a back view of short denim trousers that had parted company at the waist from the vivid yellow shirt he wore, and socks that were so wrinkled over his ankles that his shoes were almost invisible. Isabel caught the fair girl’s eye and smiled but she seemed not to notice and turned back to chatter again to the man beside her, apparently quite forgetting that she had mentioned the child’s bedtime.
Isabel found the office without too much difficulty though its door was neatly hidden as part of a wall of mirrors. Consuelo proved to be a statuesque girl with dark hair worn in classic Spanish fashion in wings over each temple, and a knot at the nape of the neck, but a friendly manner that had nothing of the equally classic Spanish haughtiness about it.
“How is life in London now?” she asked eagerly. “I miss it so much - Carnaby Street, and the Kings Road and all the wonderful life - I was au pair for two years you know? In Hampstead. I was very happy - ”
The messages that she had to deliver, once she stopped - reluctantly - her chatter about the London she remembered, were detailed and specific.
“Señor Garcia says first he has no further need to arrange a special meeting with you. You will understand, he says, why this is so,” Consuelo cocked an eye at her. “The injury - this was your doing, hmm?”
“Not the injury,” Isabel said dryly. “Just the repair of it.”
“Ha - perdone - of course - but you knew I meant that, yes?”
“I knew,” Isabel smiled. “Not to worry. So no further need for a meeting! Well, I’ll have to see him every day for a few days, whether he likes it or no, and that’s all about it!”
Consuelo smiled too. “If he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t come. It is clear you do not yet understand our Señor Garcia. He is a very - strong - man. Hmm?”
“And I’m no’ precisely a softie mysel’,” Isabel said sharply and then stopped. When the accent of her child-hood suddenly made itself as clear as that it meant that she was more bothered than she knew, and she was surprised at herself. But then she relaxed a little. She had been anxious about meeting her new boss anyway, there had been a hectic day behind her, what with the journey and her arrival and all that emotional upheaval, and to have to stitch a nasty wound in a hurry only to find that her patient was the boss she had been so nervous about meeting - it was no wonder the whole business had got under her skin so much. She’d really have to learn to be a little less edgy, she told herself.
“And here is a detailed list of your daily duties. I typed it very quickly - I hope it is all understandable for you?” Consuelo said anxiously.
“Oh, it’s fine, just fine,” Isabel said, a little abstractedly for she was reading it carefully. Her day was to start at eight-thirty sharp, with her attendance at the clinic until one. Thereafter she was free until four p.m. unless special calls were made upon her in emergencies. She would hold another clinic session until six-thirty, and was then free again, unless there were emergencies. As part of her clinic sessions she was to see the staff, those who were ill and those who were in need of special treatment recommended by their doctors, but which could be done during working hours. She was to wear her uniform only during clinic sessions, and never after seven-thirty at night, certainly, for Señor Garcia wished always to see such members of the staff as used the hotel’s public rooms looking as well dressed as befitted the quality of the establishment.
This particular phrase first made Isabel snort with amusement at its pomposity and then rapidly review in her mind’s eye the clothes she had brought with her. There were two or three suitable outfits, but clearly she’d have to spend some of her first salary cheque on a few more. “If I want to use the public rooms, that is,” she said aloud a little sharply.
“If you - you do not wish to use the hotel in the evenings? What then will you do, Señorita? The Cadiz, it is one of the most fashionable hotels in Palma, in all the Island, indeed! It is a privilege that Señor Garcia gives his top staff, that we can sit in the bar and the lounges, and talk with such guests as wish to talk, and to dance and swim in the pool! There are no other hotel owners I know of who do such for their se
nior staff. This is why so many people they want to work here! Always we have the best staff, the most superb of everybody, because it is so good to work here!”
Consuelo looked really upset, and Isabel touched her hand and smiled at her. It wasn’t fair to vent some of her own irritation with the supercilious man she was working for on this girl who also worked for him, and patently liked him very much. Isabel thought with a sudden insight - he can’t be that bad if his secretary is so attached to him.
“Of course I appreciate the chance to use the hotel as though I were a guest - and thank you for typing it all so nicely for me,” she looked down at the papers in her hand. “Is that all?”
“There is another page,” Consuelo said, and showed her, and Isabel read on. On Sundays there were to be no clinics; only if there were emergencies would she be needed but on Saturdays she was to remain in the clinic throughout the midday break, since many guests departed and others arrived on this day, and she would be needed to care for those who had been in any way disturbed by the journey, or who required medicines before embarking on their journey home.
She had to admit that the duties were far from arduous, and that considerable thought had gone into making her work as easy as possible; the equipment provided in the clinic showed that. But there was a chilliness about the wording of the paper in her hands, and impulsively she said: “Did Señor Garcia write this himself, Consuelo? I mean, did he tell you what to say, and let you put it in your own words?”
“Oh, no,” Consuelo was shocked, “Of course he dictated it! For Señor Garcia you do not alter one word, one comma! It is well done, yes? He speaks so many languages, and all with such perfection!” She shook her head and grimaced her admiration. “It is very remarkable.”
Nurse in the Sun Page 4
