Diana had mimicked Sister Robinson’s high-pitched manner so well that Felicity found herself forced to join in her friend’s laughter. “She just couldn’t!” she exclaimed. “You know, last night when she gave the old man in number three his injection, she tackled him like a kid, spoke of a ‘teeny weeny’ prick, I thought the old chap would have a stroke!” Her tone became more serious. “She is a good sort, anyway, easy to work with; luckily she doesn’t do much actual nursing, she’d get on any patient’s nerves. I expect with Brenton she’ll only superintend and fuss around a bit.”
“That’s just it!” Diana spoke forcefully, compelling her friend’s attention from the mirror where she had returned to fix her white starched cap. “Don’t you realize that as Senior the actual job will probably fall on you. Imagine it if you can, nursing Brenton, why, the very idea is surely a nightmare!”
Felicity swung round from the mirror, an expression of wry amusement on her face. “Heavens above! I hadn’t thought of that!”
“Well, you have now!” Diana replied with her customary calm. “Can you imagine it? He is difficult enough to please when he is fit, can you think what he’ll be like ill? He’ll be ticking you off and criticizing everything you do. Heaven help you!”
Felicity relaxed as she turned back to the mirror and arranged the small tendrils of hair which peeped from beneath her cap. Just enough to be becoming but not enough to attract Sister’s notice. “Perhaps it would be as bad as you think ... maybe he will be moved to another ward. Oh, I don’t know, but it’s no use worrying before we really know.” Felicity spoke with considerably more confidence than she was feeling.
“There is another thing, I really must tell you”—Diana broke off to glance at Felicity’s bedside clock—“yes ... we’ve just a moment, then we’ll have to rush. She leaned forward in her seat and continued in almost conspiratorial tones. “You know how reticent Brenton has always been about his personal affairs, none of the staff appear to know anything about him. Well, it seems he is engaged to be married, at least Miss Kent said his fiancée was in the car with him, she was brought along to Out Patients last night with Brenton; she was discharged O.K., only, a few scratches. Molly Kent says she is a smasher—mink coat type and terribly smart. Seems like our friend Brenton is a good picker although the contemptuous indifference with which he treats us poor nurses made me think that the weaker sex was entirely beneath his notice!”
“Maybe we lack glamour,” Felicity suggested, but her thoughts were preoccupied by the news of the accident and the fact that Guy Brenton should be engaged. Some girl then must have found a different and sympathetic side to his nature; she felt intrigued to know what kind of girl this was who had managed to pierce that apparently impenetrable armour.
“Lack glamour!” Diana echoed derisively. “Some may, but I know plenty who don’t.” She glanced meaningly at her friend, then added. “Come on, hurry up, we must get down to breakfast.”
As the two girls threaded their way between the long tables already set for the morning meal, Felicity’s thoughts were still in a turmoil. The whole tale of the accident and its outcome still seemed unreal and from the quiet demeanour of the few nurses scattered in various groups at the tables, it was obvious that Diana was right and the news was not as yet generally known. She swallowed her food hurriedly, then rising from the table pushed back her chair. “I’ll be getting along, I may see you later. I believe we’ve got a couple of ‘op’ cases this morning so I expect I’ll be bringing them down.”
“Well, slip into Theatre Sister’s office for some coffee at eleven, I shall expect to hear all the latest then.”
With a murmured promise, Felicity walked across the expanse of the dining hall and let the glass doors swing shut behind her. She nodded a mechanical greeting to the nurses who passed her as she made her way down the long corridors leading to John Mason Ward. Glancing at the electric clock on the wall she hurried her steps, it was getting late and she had wanted particularly to be in good time this morning, there were so many odd jobs to see to. Yesterday’s emergency must have that extension adjusted, there was John Brigg’s plaster to be cut ... and oh, yes, number three must have his dressing changed before Brenton’s round at ten. She mentally enumerated the items, then stopped with a smothered gasp. Guy Brenton wouldn’t be making his round at ten! The thought was incredibly disturbing, some other surgeon would no doubt take his place but the idea gave no actual sense of compensation.
From her position outside the Sister’s office, Felicity could see one or two probationers on duty; the cleaners too, were already on the ward. Night staff had gone and the day’s work was beginning. Turning the handle of the door, Felicity entered Sister’s office, it was always her first job of the morning to see that everything was in order on Sister’s desk and that, no message demanded immediate attention. She removed a vase of drooping flowers and filed away a few X-rays left from the previous evening’s round, then tore the top leaf from the almanac. As she screwed the slip of paper in her hand, she glanced at the date on the calendar—April first; it was as if her heart had missed a beat, relief flooded her whole being. It was a joke, of course it was a joke, she had been thoroughly fooled, that’s all there was to it!
Anxious to stifle a last lingering doubt Felicity flicked through the Night Sister’s report, then suddenly stopped as the entry lay exposed. ‘John Briggs, restless, morphia at three a.m.’ Her eyes travelled down the list. ‘At 3.15 Mr. Guy Brenton admitted to Private Cubicle. Multiple injuries.’ Felicity closed the book and stared down unseeingly at the dingy cardboard cover upon which her hands still rested. So it was true. A wave of disappointment enveloped her, then, conscious of Sister’s approaching footsteps, Felicity placed the report book tidily in its place and stood back to await her entry.
CHAPTER THREE
Sister Robinson was a woman of uncertain age. She had a pleasant manner and was generally considered by the nurses to be easy to work for, understanding and helpful, her staff liked her and consequently gave their best. No one knew quite how long she had been nursing but at some period of her career she had been attached to a children’s hospital; for that particular work her temperament must have been ideal and many were left wondering why she had ever made the change. Mannerisms, no doubt dating from that period, had persisted through the years, with the result that to Sister Robinson every patient was a child and should be cajoled and generally treated as such; the effect was unfortunate, especially on an adult, male ward. She appeared entirely unaware of the titters and smothered laughter which followed her round the ward, perhaps it didn’t matter, it was good-natured laughter and no patient or staff bore her any real ill will.
Her whole appearance this morning gave away her suppressed excitement as she entered the office and closed the door carefully behind her. As she seated herself at her desk, her expression was tense and a wisp of her greying hair, usually so neatly hidden, had escaped from beneath her white frilled cap.
“Nurse Dene ... before you go on the ward, I’ve something to tell you,” she began fussily.
Considering it wise not to betray any previous knowledge, Felicity listened to Sister’s tale without interruption. It was largely what Diana had already told her; her friend’s information had apparently been entirely correct.
“You see, Nurse, we must do some thinking—some organizing, Mr. Brenton must have every attention. It means rearranging the work, you are my Senior, I shall want all the help you can give me.”
“Of course,” Felicity murmured, then went on, “what do you suggest, Sister?”
“We are terribly short-staffed as it is—” Sister Robinson frowned as she considered the problem, then went on, “I think you ought to take on the nursing, I mean as ‘Special’. I don’t want Mr. Brenton to have half a dozen different nurses attending him, you know how upsetting to a patient that can be. We are a male nurse short as it is, but Mr. O’Brien must find time to assist you.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Now, do you th
ink you’ll be able to manage?”
“Yes, that will be all right, Sister.” Felicity’s lips curved into a smile as she added: “I don’t think that Mr. Brenton will be a very easy patient, do you?”
“No, dear, I don’t.” With that happy air of friendliness which she could always adopt when occasion demanded, Sister Robinson returned Felicity’s smile. “I fancy he’ll be very trying, but there, the poor laddie, we won’t have to mind that!”
Felicity choked back a groan. ‘Poor laddie!’ How awful! How could Sister refer to Guy Brenton like that. It was typical of the way her mind worked; fit and well, he had been the all-important Honorary Surgeon, the most respected of persons; as a patient He immediately became in her mind nothing but an ailing child. Felicity could only pray that at least in his presence Sister would make a supreme effort to smother that maternal feeling. “I expect we’ll manage,” Felicity commented briefly.
“Now for this morning’s arrangements,” Sister Robinson went on briskly. “Mr. MacFarlayne from the Memorial Hospital it attending Mr. Brenton—and incidentally will take over the ward during his illness. He wants the case in the theatre at nine, he is setting and plastering the arm and further X-rays will be taken in the theatre. See to the preparations for taking the patient down. Mr. MacFarlayne will do the ward round as soon as he has finished operating.”
A few minutes later, Felicity with some trepidation entered the small private room at the end of the ward, but Guy Brenton was still in a semi-conscious condition and was certainly not aware of anything going on around him. It was an odd sensation for Felicity to look down on those immobile features. She felt that it was the first time she had seen Guy Brenton properly, certainly the first time she had really studied his face; she had merely accepted the impression that he was attractive without the temerity—or perhaps the opportunity—to consider him at leisure. Although the lips were drained of colour, his skin appeared tanned against the dead white of the pillow, and his dark hair, usually so carefully brushed back, had fallen across his forehead. Although the lids were lowered, Felicity could picture the deep brown eyes which could be so scathing in their glance and the firm, mobile lips which rarely smiled, yet when they did so changed the whole expression of his face. A streak of light through the half-drawn curtains outlined the strong contour of chin and jaw which in their stillness could have been carved of stone. With an instinctive gesture, Felicity smoothed back the hair from the high forehead with gentle fingers, but as he stirred uneasily beneath her touch, she quickly dropped her hand, and with an almost furtive movement hid it palm upward behind her back. What had possessed her to do that? Angry with herself, she turned away and busied herself preparing the pre-anaesthetic injection. Why on earth should she have felt so guilty about a simple and quite natural impulse, she chided herself, a sympathetic touch of her fingers which she had bestowed upon her patients more times than she could number. After all, this man was her patient and she’d got to make up her mind to treat him as she would any other, it was absurd to get herself all tied up in emotional knots.
With the Irishman O’Brien’s help, Guy Brenton’s inert body was lifted to the trolley and wheeled to the theatre. The routine was familiar, Felicity had done it all so many times before. Diana Weste, Staff Theatre Nurse, had never dashed out quite so quickly to assist to wheel a stretcher into the anaesthetic room, she usually left that to a more junior nurse, but today no one was allowed to forestall her.
“Well?” she stooped to whisper to her friend. “What’s happening ... are you to nurse him ... are they getting him moved? Go on, tell me? How did old Robinson take it? Is she in a flap ... the story soon got round hospital, everyone knows now, even Theatre Sister is as rattled as if she were preparing to receive royalty!” Diana glanced down at Guy Brenton’s unconscious form. “Goodness, he’s handsome, nicer asleep than awake, I wouldn’t mind finding that sort of face on my pillow!”
“Don’t be silly,” Felicity urged. “There isn’t anything to tell you, besides we can’t talk now, but as far as I know he is in Mason for keeps and I’m in charge.”
Accustomed to the sight of Guy Brenton’s tall, upright figure, Mr. MacFarlayne, wrapped round in a white gown which gaped badly at the back fastenings, looked grotesquely short and plump. His round, florid face as yet unmasked, had a cheerful smile as ‘he entered with Sister at his side. His easy manner both with Theatre Sister and the students gathered round, showed that he would be popular on any ward: to work for him would present no problems. Unconsciously Felicity lowered her eyes to the still figure on the trolley; how hard, working for Brenton had been, only her pride and determination had saved her many a heartache over his complete indifference to her feelings, and she had been luckier than most and she’d known many a pro leave the ward in tears. She stifled a sigh, he might have been difficult, but she unashamedly admitted to herself that it had all been worth while, it had been exciting tempering her steel against his, she’d miss him terribly, and MacFarlayne with his bland smile and easy manner left her completely unmoved.
The atmosphere beneath the wide arc lamps felt more suffocating than usual, and it seemed to Felicity that the operation was endless. There were one or two ugly lacerations to stitch on the upper arm, and the lower arm to be set in plaster. MacFarlayne was reputed to be good, but Felicity was certain that Brenton would have finished the job in half the time.
With a sense of utter relief she watched the surgeon remove his gloves and turn from the table; so it was over at last. She felt completely exhausted, why, she couldn’t imagine, she had stood at many a longer session than that.
“Come and have a coffee. O’Brien has come down for the trolley and one of our nurses will help him back with it MacFarlayne won’t be going up to Mason s yet, Sister is giving him a coffee, so you’ve got time,” Diana urged. “Come on, it’s all ready, we’ll ring the ward and tell them you’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Felicity felt too tired to protest and allowed Diana to lead her into her own little sanctum next to Theatre Sister’s room, which, as Staff Nurse, Diana had managed to wangle for her own use. Diana always managed to wangle things, both scruples and rules went to the wind if she could add in any way to her personal comfort. Felicity looked round the tiny room appreciatively. “You are lucky to have a corner to hide yourself in.”
“Don’t you believe it! The hide-out was discovered pretty quickly. Just look what’s coming in.”
As Diana spoke half a dozen or more students were already crowding into the restricted space, clamouring for coffee. Diana had, it appeared, been well prepared and in a moment they were sitting, standing or leaning as space allowed, but all enjoying hot, strong coffee. Philip Elver, Brenton’s houseman, had been squeezed up close to Felicity in the crush and now seated himself on the arm of the chair she had been lucky enough to annex.
“Bad luck about Brenton, isn’t it?”
Felicity nodded assent. “Yes, I’m terribly sorry.”
Philip Elver leaned closer in order to make himself heard above the other voices. “I hear MacFarlayne’s taking over the ward ... you know MacFarlayne, they say he’s good, but somehow I’ve got used to Brenton.”
“I’ll miss Brenton too,” Felicity found herself admitting.
“I thought all you nurses loathed the man.” Philip Elver, young, clean-shaved, with an eager, rather boyish manner, looked with some surprise at Felicity. “I’ve never heard one of you speak a good word of him yet. We chaps like working with him, he is always very decent to us and goes to a lot of trouble to explain and help.”
“I say, Felicity,” Diana called out over the heads of the gathering. “Is that Philip there with you? Listen, both of you. Bill Newlyn says that film, ‘Sweet Understanding,’ has been generally released and is on at the Ritz this week, how about you two coming along tonight?”
“How about it, Felicity?” Philip Elver queried. “I’m free if you can make it.”
“I expect I can, anyway I’ll try.” Fel
icity rose from her cramped position. “I must get back to the ward now, Sister is in enough of a flap already, if I’m not ready for the round, she’ll have kittens!”
“All right ... front gate, eight sharp!” The instructions followed Felicity as she elbowed her way through the crowded room and hurried along the corridor to the lift.
The suppressed air of excitement in John Mason Ward proclaimed that the news of Guy Brenton’s accident was no longer a secret; as she passed the rows of beds several of the patients called out kind enquiries, they seemed to have all the details even to the fact that she had just returned from attending the theatre. It always was like that, any news in hospital seemed to spread like wildfire. Sister Robinson, a worried frown between her brows, hurried forward to meet her.
“Everything go all right?” Without awaiting an answer she continued: “The dear lad is nicely tucked up in bed. O’Brien will keep alert for any signs of returning consciousness, meanwhile we’d better get set for Mr. MacFarlayne’s round, we mustn’t forget anything, at least let’s make a good impression.”
As Felicity followed the deputy surgeon round the ward she couldn’t help feeling that, Sister’s careful and elaborate preparations had been somewhat wasted, for he appeared completely indifferent to the many small details about which Brenton was invariably so meticulous. A probe not quite right, still that didn’t matter he’d make do, he assured them with a beaming smile, he’d have preferred longer forceps, but there, he explained, he’d manage all right. All very easy, Felicity assured herself, but with no feeling of satisfaction. Subconsciously she realized that it might all be too easy, that Brenton’s exacting demands were after all a spur and had supplied the very impetus good nursing needed.
Ring for the Nurse Page 3
