“Then you’ll probably be fine at home until you’re quite fit for duty again. Take things easy, and watch the dressings, and you can come back in a week or so, I dare say. We’ll send you in a hospital car, so you’ll have no problems about transport. Can they look after you at home?”
“I think so. Marjorie’ll moan a bit, but she always does, so that won’t matter. She’ll take care of me.”
Sister Fraser looked at me sharply. “Marjorie?”
“Our housekeeper,” I explained.
“Have you no mother, Nurse Gardner?”
Usually, I resent questions like this, but Sister’s question was so obviously kindly in its intention, I didn’t really mind answering her.
“She died some time ago. My two sisters and my father live at home, and Marjorie lives in, so we manage.”
Sister Fraser tutted a little. “A great pity, lass. You’ll probably find you’re needing a mother more now than you ever did as a bairn.”
I didn’t answer, because I felt the ready tears of convalescence rising in my throat. I did indeed need a mother just now. Someone who would help me sort out my problems about Peter and Dickon. But there was only Susan and Claire, and somehow, I couldn’t imagine either of them being much help.
The R.M.O. confirmed what Sister Fraser had said, when he came over to see me soon after.
“Keep off your feet at first, then gradually start to use them more and more. You know yourself what to do, don’t you? Ask your family doctor to see you, and all being well, you’d better report back for duty in a fortnight. All right?”
I spent the morning composing two very difficult letters, and one easy one, which I wrote first. It was to Chick, asking her to come down to see me on her next off duty. Then I wrote to Peter. I made six attempts before I finally sealed the envelope.
“Dear Peter: The R.M.O. has sent me home to convalesce, which is very nice except that it means I shan’t see you for a while. Perhaps you’d care to drive down one afternoon? We can offer a nice line in homemade scones and jam, not to say some clean country air! It was sweet of you to visit me last night. Yours, Avril.”
It was a stupid letter, but it was still better than the five previous attempts. Dickon’s letter was the hardest of all to write. Without knowing whether he had, in fact, come to my room the night before, it was difficult to decide just what to say. So I contented myself with thanking him for the chocolates and books, and saying I was going home. It was a brief and stilted letter, but I hoped Dickon wouldn’t notice that.
So, shortly after lunch, I found myself in a hospital car, heading south out of London towards the small Kentish town where I had grown up. As it purred on its way, I stared out of the window at London sliding past, and wondered what I would do at home for two weeks. My father wouldn’t even notice I was there, and Claire and Susan, if they were at home themselves at all, would be much too busy about their own ploys to pay much attention to me.
Then I remembered that the final exams would be starting in good earnest by the time I got back to the hospital. So I could spend the time studying. My spirits lifted a little. The exams had figured large on my horizon for nearly three years, and now, at last, the end was in view. After all that had happened lately, it was a comfort to think again about the possibility of getting the Gold Medal. Somehow I felt that that would sort out all my problems for me. Once I had achieved that ambition, everything else, Peter, Dickon - would fall into place. I reached for my big handbag. I had tucked a copy of Surgery for Nurses into it, and now was as good a time to start as any.
I put my head down and started on the chapter dealing with haemorrhage. And soon everything else receded into the background.
CHAPTER NINE
“My dear Avril,
“Some people have all the luck! Why can’t I have an accident and spend two weeks in the balmy air of Kent, instead of having to sweat it out here at the Royal? Still, it must be horrid to have phenol burns, so perhaps I am better off, at that.
“Bless you for the invitation, old thing, but no can do. And when I tell you why, you will chortle more than somewhat. I’ve got me a Man! All my own! No kidding. Can you imagine it? Chubby Chick, the girl who used to help everyone else get ready for their dates, and then spend her evenings off curled up with an improving book. I ask you - what sort of a life is that for a nice girl like me? The ridiculous thing is, this blissful state of affairs could have started ages ago. It seems I have been admired from afar, as it were. Do you want to hear all about it? Try and stop me!
“It was like this. The change list went up last week and I was down for OPD days. I thought that was fine, except that it was a waste to put me there - lots of the others would give their eyeteeth for every evening off, and weekends off into the bargain. I was in the anaesthetic room, saying as much to Jenny O’Malley. She tootled off somewhere after that and Joe Smallwood came in, looking a bit silly, and blushing like a schoolgirl. So I asked - Why the rosy cheeks? He said - looking sillier than I would have thought possible in such a big chap - that he’d been outside the door by the instrument cupboard, and he’d heard what I said. And would I - much gulping here - care to spend some of those evenings off with him? Well, naturally I said I would, because I’ve always had a soft spot for the daft old thing, as you know. [I didn’t, I thought ruefully as I turned the page. Unobservant as usual.] Well, we went out every evening last week. Nowhere special - coffee, walks in the park, an evening at a film - and lordy! how we talked!
“Joe says he’s always wanted to ask me out, but he thought I wouldn’t like him enough. He says he’s a dull stick (which he isn’t, believe me) and I always seemed so gay. I told him that gaiety only hid a yearning feminine heart and all that, and that I was really quite different.
“The upshot of it all is, he’s asked me to marry him! I know it sounds crazy, but as Joe says, we’ve been looking at each other for nearly a year now, and we’ve wasted enough time, so how about it? I’m walking around on little pink clouds these days, and Joe swears I’ll pip the finals if I don’t come down soon. He’s just as bad, bless him. Last Friday, Jenny says, he was anaesthetizing for Sir Jeffrey, because the other bloke had ‘flu, and he sat at the top of the table staring into space like a zombie. Sir Jeffrey said, in that chilly voice of his, ‘Mr Smallwood! If the patient can stay awake, surely you can?’ Jenny says that wasn’t fair, because the patient was fine, and well under. Anyway, Joe came to with a jerk, and said, ‘What’s that, darling?’ Even old Sir J. laughed, Jenny says.
“Ain’t love grand? We’re going home to Canada at the end of the year, because Joe says he wants to live there, and I’m longing to go back - so everything in the garden is just lovely. I can’t really believe that so much can happen in so short a time.
“What other news? Not much, really. The place is sizzling with gossip about young Barlow and the way she quit, of course. There’s a new Casualty officer, and there was a party in the common room to welcome him. We nearly couldn’t go, because Joe was on call, but Dickon stood in for him, so we could. The new boy is rather nice - very young and very newly qualified, and so eager! Peter Chester was there, squiring that girl I saw him with once before - d’you remember how Chester wiped my eye when I mentioned her that night? Rumour has it that he’s applying for an assistant consultantship at his old training school, and that his old chief is sponsoring him for it. I suppose that’s why he sees so much of this girl - she’s the chiefs daughter, and it never hurts to be diplomatic in these things, Joe says. I dare say that’s why he goes around with her - applying a little social lubricant, in the Peter Chester way.
“I haven’t seen much of Dickon, I’m afraid. He’s been such a dear. Joe told him about me, so Dickon’s been taking all Joe’s nights on call, as well as his own. Joe says he’s a damned good anaesthetist, as well as a good surgeon.
“Reading back, this letter is all Joe says, isn’t it? Never mind. Put it down to love’s young dream, Whoopee!
“To come down wi
th a nasty bump, we’ve had a few test papers on old exam questions, to prepare us, as the Pawn puts it, for the Moment of Truth. I’m enclosing them. I have not the least doubt that you are already burning the midnight oil over your books, so you might find these useful.
“Come back soon, ducky. I’m longing for a really cosy gossip. It’ll make a lovely change to tell you all about what my date said to me, instead of trying to persuade you to tell me what your date said - not that you were ever easy to persuade. You won’t find me backward in coming forward with information, I promise - or is that a threat? Like the time I was moaning to Joe about being so plump? Do you know what he said? He said not to worry - he loved every acre of me! Wasn’t that sweet? I do love that great goop. All the best, Avril, honey. Get well quickly. Yours, all of a twitter - Chick.”
I was smiling as I put the bulky sheets back in the envelope. It was wonderful to think of Joe and Chick being engaged. I had always thought Chick was cut out to make some man a marvellous wife, and I was delighted someone else thought so too. Joe Smallwood was just the man for her, too. I was ashamed I had never noticed Chick’s “soft spot” for him. My best friend, too!
Then I picked up the other envelope that Marjorie had brought up with my breakfast tray. I had taken one look at the writing on the envelope, and my heart had leapt. I had only ever seen it before on patients’ notes, but I knew it was Peter’s. So I had saved it, like a child keeping the nicest sweet to the last.
Before slitting the white envelope, I leaned back on my pillows and looked around the room, thinking. I hardly saw the familiar furniture, the old stuffed toys, the shabby nursery curtains that had been part of my childhood. I was thinking about Peter, and the girl he had taken to the party. Was it just social lubrication because he wanted a better post? In one way I hoped so, but in another, I was doubtful.
I know quite well that in medicine, just as in any other profession, people who want to get to the top have to pull a few strings. But it was something I had never really liked to think about. I tried to imagine what I would do if I had to go out with a particular man if I was to be sure of getting the medal I wanted. But it was difficult. I didn’t think I would be able to, but then, I argued, it’s different for a girl. A man calls the tune, as it were. If he is just being social, he doesn’t have to be - affectionate. But a girl might find herself pushed into a position where she would have to show affection, if she went out with a man just for what she could get out of him in the way of help in a career.
“So don’t be silly,” I told myself firmly, as I opened Peter’s letter. “He does care - he would never behave as he does if he didn’t care for me. So this girl doesn’t mean a thing. He’ll probably explain in his letter.”
It was a short letter. He apologized for not having written sooner, but the hospital had been exceptionally busy, and he’d been too tired to do anything but fall into bed when he got off duty.
“But it’s been a long week, my dear. I’ve missed you. I hope you’ve missed me? I wish I could take you up on that Kentish air and scones and jam, but I can’t, I’m afraid. Most of all, I wish I could be back with you in that little room of yours in the Sick Bay, just as it was the night I was there with you before. It was fun, wasn’t it? Come back soon. The place isn’t the same without your trim figure bustling about, and Bartlett glowering along behind you! Yours, Peter.”
No mention of the girl at all. I smoothed the single sheet of thick white paper, and bit my lip. Then I laughed. “Of course there isn’t,” I murmured. “She just isn’t important enough to be worth writing about, that’s all. But he misses me. That’s the important thing.”
I wished, a little confusedly, that he hadn’t called our evening in the Sick Bay “fun”, and that he hadn’t made that gibe at Dickon. But it was true. Dickon did glower.
Susan put her head round my door.
“Morning, Tiddles. How’s things?”
I made a face at her. “Don’t call me that, Susan,” I said. “It was all right when I was ten or so, but it’s a silly name for a woman of twenty-one.”
Susan came and sat on my bed, and folded her hands neatly on her lap.
“I’m sorry, Avril. I just forget, I suppose. I still think of you as my baby sister.”
“Well, I’m not a baby any more,” I said pettishly, as I swung my feet carefully to the floor. “I’m nearly a trained nurse, remember, and you can’t be a baby to be that.”
Susan bent to pick up the sheets of exam papers Chick had sent me, that had fallen to the floor when I got out of bed.
She didn’t answer me for a moment, then she said, “I say, Avril, what are these?”
“Exam papers, of course. Chick sent them for me to try. The finals start soon.” I washed myself at the little basin in the corner of my room. “Why?”
Susan read on. Then she looked up at me, surprise on her face. “You have to do papers like this?”
“I said so, didn’t I?” I said, cross at the way she seemed to go on about them. “What’s so odd about that?”
“But I had no idea! I thought you learned things like - oh, bread poultices and so on. I never thought you had to do stuff like this. It’s positively alarming!” She looked down at the paper in her hand. “I mean, take this one about electro encephalograms. Sounds more like the sort of thing a doctor would know about, doesn’t it? What is an electro encephalogram?”
I told her, briefly and succinctly, while she stared at me with something akin to awe in her face.
When I’d finished, she said, “Avril, I owe you an apology. When you told us you wanted to be a nurse, I thought it was because - well, because you just weren’t bright enough to go on to University as Claire and I did. I was wrong - we both were. I’m sorry.”
She held out her hands to me, and I went over to her, feeling suddenly shy.
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I want the Gold Medal - “
“The Gold Medal? What’s that?”
I crimsoned. “It’s - it’s what you get if you come out well in the exams. You have to get over ninety per cent in all your papers, and Matron has to award you the same marks on your ward work. It’s quite something to get,” I finished lamely.
“It must be!” Susan loked at the questions again. “You must be terrific to get ninety per cent on stuff like this.”
“Oh, well,” I muttered.
“Don’t be so modest, my dear! Are you really likely to get the medal?”
“Well - I did ninety per cent in all the prelim papers. And I’ve swotted hard. So I might.”
I didn’t want to talk about it. Only Peter knew about my ambition. I had never told my sisters about it, even though I wanted it to show them I was as bright as they were. And I hadn’t intended to tell them about it now. I had always dreamed of the day I could come home and tell them about it. I had imagined their faces, and the respect they would feel - the respect I had always wanted from them, but never had. It was silly, I realized now. If Susan hadn’t happened to see that paper this morning, even getting the medal wouldn’t have impressed them. Not if they thought nursing theory was just bread poultices.
Susan was speaking again. “You know what, Avril? If you get that medal, we’ll have a Grad Party for you. I don’t suppose you remember mine and Claire’s - “
I laughed suddenly. Not remember? As if I could ever forget. I sat down on the rumpled bed beside Susan.
“You wore a green dress,” I said dreamily. “And you had a white flower in it. The house was full of people, and you all danced and laughed a lot, and you had ice cream for supper. I sat on the top of the stairs in my pyjamas and watched you all, and Mummy found me there. I asked what it was, and she said you had a Ph.D., just as Claire had an M.A., and it was your Grad Party. It was beautiful - “
“You were only nine,” Susan said, her voice remote and quiet. “It was the year before mother died. I was twenty-one and Claire was twenty-two. You were such a solemn little thing, with your huge brown eyes and you
r thick fair pigtails. So much the baby - “
“But I remember it. I promised myself I would have a green net dress, just like yours, and a party with ice cream too. But then Mummy died. So that was that.” I got up from the bed and started to dress.
“It needn’t be.” Susan stood up too, and held me at arm’s length, her eyes sparkling as she looked at me. “You shall have your party, I promise - a Gold Medal party. Never mind about Father. I’ll explain to him.”
“I mightn’t get it,” I said, alarmed. “I never meant to mention it, in case I don’t - “
“You will, never fear. The women in our family are noted for their brains. When I think you could have gone to University like us, I could - “ She stopped suddenly.
“Tiddles, why didn’t you? I mean, if you wanted a Grad Party? I don’t understand.”
I stood still, a sweater in my hand. “Why? It’s a bit difficult to explain - “
“Try. I’d like to know.”
“It - it was before Mummy died. She said once I should try not to lock myself away from life in books, as you two had. She said she wanted to think of me doing something - more valuable with real people - “ I was floundering. “She said she wanted to think that one day she would have grandchildren - “
Susan stood very erect and quiet.
“She was wiser than we knew,” she said, after a long pause. “Father always said she was just a silly feminine woman, and we were to be proof that women could use their brains. But Mother knew all the time.” She came and put her hands on my shoulders.
“Don’t be like us, Avril,” she said urgently. “Claire and me. Both too busy with our careers to spare the time for other people. And now we’re both over thirty, and I don’t suppose we’ll ever marry. Mother was right - ours is a sterile sort of life. She’d be so happy about you. Working with people, but still using your mind. I’m glad you’re a nurse. Really I am.”
“I am too, most of the time,” I said, essaying a grin.
Final Year Page 12
