‘It’s been a long time since I ate Disney food, Bridget,’ George said. ‘And as for Christmas, for heaven’s sake, you don’t have to —’
‘It’s all arranged,’ Bridget said seriously. ‘We talked to the butcher in the market there and made an order for a dear little turkey, and we’ve organized to get all the vegetables and everything else. Even the cranberries. One of the stores had them in jars, just like home, would you believe. It’s going to be great. Better than a hotel any day.’
‘I’m sure,’ George said, surrendering, knowing it would be a waste of energy to argue. ‘I hope you haven’t ordered too much. There’ll only be the three of us, after all.’
‘Not three, darling,’ Bridget trilled. ‘Four!’
‘Oh?’ George lifted her head from the little pile of mail that had been waiting for her, her finger halted in mid-slit of an envelope that looked horribly like one from the taxman. ‘How d’you reckon that?’
‘Well, he was so kind to us, taking us out and all, I just had to do something. I said to Vanny, shall we take him out too, and she said she thought that would be a bit — well, too much, you know? And then she said she knew he had no family, since she’d asked him all about his folks, and there you are!’
‘Bridget,’ George said, her heart sliding down her ribs. ‘What have you done?’
‘Why, I sent a nice invitation to Gus today, to spend Christmas Day with us. I handed it in to the police station — the address was in the phone book — and I’m sure he’ll get it safe and sound. If not, well, we can call him. You have the number, I imagine? I do so hope he’ll come. I have a feeling he will, though.’
‘Do you know, Bridget,’ George said after thinking for a little while, trying to decide what she should do about this, if anything, and failing to reach a conclusion. ‘Do you know, I rather think so too.’
She enjoyed the yams with marshmallow more than she had thought she would. Maybe Christmas wouldn’t be so bad after all.
17
Mixing detection with running a busy Path. Department, George told herself at ten to one the following Monday, was the perfect way to drive yourself crazy.
All the morning she’d been working at full throttle, dealing with the routine jobs and a prolonged series of complicated telephone discussions with Harold Constant at the coroner’s office about a case over which she would have to be in court early in the New Year, as well as fitting in a PM on an old man who’d keeled over dead in the middle of Leman Street, and all the time she’d been itching to get over to Barrie Ward to talk to Prudence Jennings. She could have talked to her on the phone, it was true, but she was unwilling to do that. There was so much more to be learned from people than just the words they used; their behaviour when they were asked questions, the expressions on their faces as they did it, the way they moved, all of it was relevant. And that wasn’t available on a phone.
As the morning had worn on however, it had got easier. Sheila was in a particularly co-operative mood and Jerry and the rest of the senior staff followed her lead.
‘Christmas,’ Jerry said virtuously when George murmured something oblique about how surprisingly agreeable everyone was being this morning. ‘Season of goodwill and all that crap to all men.’ He’d snickered then. ‘And pressies. I’m expecting something really smashing from you, Dr B., after the way I’ve worked so hard all this year. If you let me down, who knows what sort of mood I’ll be in come the New Year?’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ George said. ‘When do I get the time to go shopping?’
‘Try the off licence,’ Sheila said acidly. ‘Give him a bottle or two of whisky, and he’ll follow you anywhere.’
George, who had already decided to present her staff with bottles of good port and small Stilton cheeses from Marks and Sparks as Christmas presents, pretended not to have heard that and decided to make the best of her opportunities.
‘Well, since you’re all feeling so benevolent,’ she said, ‘I’ll disappear for a while. I have things to do, and if I make an effort I can be back here by three in time for that PM. If I’m a few minutes late, make nice noises at whoever comes from the coroner’s office, Sheila, will you? I’ve already asked Danny to see to it he gives them tea and biscuits.’
‘Yuk,’ Sheila said. ‘How anyone can sit down there in among all those corpses and slurp tea is beyond me. OK, Dr B. We’ll hold the fort.’ And she put on her long-suffering look as George headed for the door.
She went straight to the Paediatric Department. There were other places she wanted to visit to do some questioning, but it was important to get Prudence Jennings sorted out first. She rehearsed inside her head the questions she would ask as she went scurrying through the Disney corridor and on into the main play area of Barrie, threading her way through clusters of mothers and children who were everywhere. Outpatient Clinic morning, she decided, and hoped that Prue wouldn’t be too bogged down in work to spare her some time.
Sister Collinson was in the middle of the room and the tangle of toys and floor cushions, arguing passionately with a small bony woman who had four small children, all of whom looked to be well under six, clustered round her. The two women were almost nose to nose as they hissed and spat their rage at each other and the children watched wide-eyed, as indeed did several other mothers who clearly found the whole exchange highly entertaining.
Philip Goss was standing alongside them with a pile of notes under his arm and it was he who sorted the matter out. He moved smoothly in beside Sister Collinson and said something to the woman which made her jerk her head back and look at him, and then down at one of the children.
He was the smallest, a snotty-nosed child of about two, and he had both hands held to his mouth, chewing something with great concentration. His mother yelped and pulled it away from him. The child began to wail at the top of his voice; the mother shrieked and hurled the thing she’d grabbed from him at Sister Collinson — it was a large plastic syringe — who received it in her eye, and then scooped up the child to slap him hard and bawl that he was a dirty little tyke what ought to know better. The child immediately screamed like a steam engine and Sister Collinson fled, clearly intending to do something about her eye. Philip Goss said something else to the mother who, now thoroughly flustered, headed for the door with her other three children running behind her like demented ducklings and, pushing George out of the way, went. Much to everyone’s relief.
There was no more to watch so the room emptied fairly rapidly of the rest of the mothers and children. George stood to one side as they made their way out, glad she hadn’t been able to get here till the end of the OP session. To have walked in earlier would have been a total waste of time.
Philip Goss was tidying up with swift economical movements, stacking notes on the desk, sweeping abandoned playthings and comics into boxes and neat piles respectively, and straightening rugs and floor cushions so that in a matter of a few moments, it seemed, the big space was tranquil again.
George came further into the room and shook her head at him in admiration. ‘Is it always like that here? How do you stand it?’
‘Oh, good morning, Dr Barnabas! Yes, pretty well. But we get them through fairly quickly, as long as the doctors don’t mess about too much. And as long as Sister Collinson doesn’t get the bit between her teeth.’ He sighed and shook out the last of the cushions before setting it neatly in place. ‘She’ll never learn not to nag Mrs Proudie. That woman gets excited and demands the moon and the stars, but it’s easy to distract her, fortunately.’ And he smiled, a small close-lipped lifting of the corners of his mouth, plainly pleased with himself.
George set her head on one side and looked at him sharply. ‘You could have taken that syringe from the child without any fuss from his mother, couldn’t you?’ she said.
He laughed. ‘You noticed? Well, I had to stop them somehow, didn’t I? It was worth letting poor old Wayne get clobbered by his mum to stop her bawling at Sister, don’t you think? Once you deflect Mrs P.
she usually forgets what it was she was mad about in the first place.’ He shook his head. ‘Pity Sister got the thing in her eye, mind you. Still, it’ll give her something to complain about to everyone this afternoon. She’ll like that.’
‘You’re a bit of a villain, I suspect, Philip Goss.’ George was beginning to enjoy this young man’s refreshing style. ‘Like to get your own way.’
‘Doesn’t everyone? It’s not difficult, you know. A bit of a tweak here, a word in an ear there, and it’s amazing what you can achieve. Can I achieve anything for you now?’ He gazed at her with his eyebrows raised, looking like a very intelligent robin.
‘Hmm,’ George said. ‘Now it’s my turn to do things your way, is it? OK. I want to talk to Dr Jennings. Is she about?’
‘She was. Should have been here till one, in case of any last minute GP referrals. We have this walk-in facility here for under-fourteens, between nine and one every morning. But she asked Alan Prior to hold the fort for her.’
‘Who?’ George’s brow wrinkled. She didn’t know anyone of that name at Old East.
‘Locum,’ Philip said. ‘Brought in to cover for — well, after that business with Dr Rajabani.’
George made a face. ‘Yes. Stupid of me, I should have realized … well, does he know where she went? I really do need a word with her.’
‘Ask him.’ Philip had turned his head to look over his shoulder at the big double doors that led into the main part of the ward. ‘Alan, here’s Dr Barnabas wanting to talk to Dr Jennings.’
He was, George decided, the most traditionally good-looking man she’d ever seen. Tall, blond, with a lick of glossy hair slipping over a wide forehead and very blue eyes. There was a cleft in the chin and a wide smile produced even deeper clefts in his cheeks. He was, George thought, tailor-made to set half the female hearts in the hospital fluttering and the rest pretending theirs weren’t too, and she sighed at the thought. Men who looked like 1950s advertisements for chewing gum or Coca Cola were, in her estimation, totally uninteresting, and it annoyed her that so many silly girls disagreed with her views; but she made herself smile at him in as friendly a way as she could.
‘Prue? She went off a little early for lunch. Had to deal with something at her bank, she said. Can I help you? Not that I really know what’s going on here yet. If you need something important, then you’ll have to ask Phil, he’s the one who really runs this ward.’
Philip chuckled and made for the desk so that he could start to put away the notes and rest of the impedimenta of the morning’s outpatient session. As he passed Alan his hand touched the sleeve of his white coat, and Alan’s hand came up and touched his bare arm where it was downy with dark hair under the short sleeve of his nurse’s uniform. It was as though they’d whispered to each other, and George thought with a little stir of surprise: The girls might get into a flutter over this one but it won’t get them anywhere if they do, and then was annoyed with herself for being surprised. It wasn’t unusual that people were gay in hospital circles, any more than it was anywhere else.
‘Did she say when she’d be back?’ she asked as Philip set to work at the desk. Alan shook his head.
‘I didn’t ask. But we’ve a ward round at three. Dr Kydd’s teaching and —’
George said, ‘Damn!’ loudly. ‘I’ve got a PM then. Well, will you tell her I wanted a word? Maybe I can come back later. Around six or so, if she’s still here.’
‘I’ll get her to let you know,’ Philip called from the desk. She thanked him and turned to go, but on an impulse of curiosity as the door swung closed behind her she glanced back through the central glass panel.
Alan Prior had gone over to the desk and was standing leaning over it, his head close to Philip’s, and they were both laughing in that easy intimate way that lovers do. She nodded her head in self-satisfaction at this confirmation of her diagnosis and then went. It would have to be tonight for Prudence. Right now there were other questions to be asked elsewhere.
She thought about going to the canteen where most people would be at this time of the day and then opted to try a visit to Maternity. It had been quite a long time now since that note had been written and attached to the request form for the PM on baby Popodopoulos, but all the same someone had written it, and someone there might remember something about it if she asked again.
The central corridor of the unit was busy with food trolleys and strolling mothers wrapped in lacy quilted dressing gowns that made them look like galleons on the high seas, and she nodded in friendly response to the frequent ‘Hello, doctor!’ greetings that her white coat earned her as she made her way down the length of it.
There was a totally different atmosphere in Matty, she decided, from any other ward at Old East. Here the patients weren’t ill; they were often wildly excited or deeply depressed and sometimes in severe pain but however you looked at it, they were well women. And the babies too, generally speaking, were in good health. So there was much less of the undertow of fear and gloom that could pervade other wards where people were wrestling with diseases that at the very least hampered their lives and at worst might be threatening them. She enjoyed the ambiaence of Matty and let her shoulders relax a little.
There was no one in the main office and she went down the corridor to peep in through the labour ward door to see if there was someone there she could talk to, but the room was bustling and everyone’s attention was obviously fixed on the patient in there. About to deliver, probably, George decided and turned away, disappointed. She’d chosen a bad time to try to do any questioning about a note written more than two weeks ago and long since forgotten by everyone, anyway. Her foray from her own department had been a total waste of time. She had garnered no information for Gus at all. In future, she thought a little dispiritedly, maybe I’d better stick to my last and let him do his job on his own.
She went back down the corridor but as she passed the office door again looked in, almost as an automatic act, and this time there was someone in there. A tall thin girl with a lot of crimped blonde hair springing around her shoulders, wearing a minute scrap of skirt and a tight breast-revealing sweater over long black leggings, had her head bent over the filing cabinet in the corner. George went in quietly and said, ‘Hello!’
At the sound of her voice the girl jumped as though she’d been bitten, yelping as she turned a long face towards George, a face which despite the lavish amount of make-up on it was clearly an unhappy one. The rather long uneven nose showed pink beneath the thick beige powder, and the eyes were red rimmed with recently shed tears as well as heavily darkened with a black pencil. She stood there staring at George with brimming eyes and shaking hands, and George, all compunction, came and took her by the elbow.
‘Oh, honey, I didn’t mean to make you jump like that. I’m so sorry if I scared you.’
The girl shook her head miserably, and continued to stare at George, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘I’m sorry to get so — I mean, I’m not usually — It’s just that it’s all so — Ooh, I’m sorry. ‘S’all right, really it is …’ She sniffed lusciously and dug one hand down her jumper between her magnificent breasts to pull out a grubby handkerchief to blow her nose and dab at her eyes. Even in her distress she remembered her make-up and was careful not to smudge it.
‘Whatever’s the matter, kiddo?’ George was full of sympathy now. She took the girl’s hand and led her over to the chair beside the cluttered desk in the corner. The girl didn’t resist but went with her, her whole body sagging in a posture of utter dejection. George pushed back the typewriter that stood at the front of the desk to accommodate her own bottom and perched on it so that she could look down at the girl in the chair. She was now frankly crying hard, sniffing into her handkerchief.
‘You’d better tell me about it,’ George said as the girl made no effort to speak. The girl lifted her head and looked up with a face so woebegone it was almost funny, but there was no doubt that the misery was real. George reached forwards and touched the girl�
��s shoulder, which made her face crumple even more.
‘Try not to cry, kid,’ George said hastily. ‘Or at least, not right now. Tell me what the problem is instead. If I can help …’
The girl shook her head. ‘I just can’t seem to get over it,’ she said. Her voice was thick and husky at the same time. ‘I mean, it wasn’t like it had been for a long time, you know what I mean? Only about a month, if that, but he was sorta nice, friendly like, and o’ course — though my mum didn’t think much of it all and I didn’t dare tell my dad, the way he is about coloureds — like my sister said he was a doctor, after all. But it isn’t that. It’s just that — oh, it’s all so …’ And she shook her head miserably and wept more than ever.
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ George said carefully, though she was beginning to think she might have an inkling. ‘Can you tell me a little more clearly?’
‘It wasn’t like it wasn’t serious,’ the girl said piteously. ‘Even if it was only a few weeks. He said as he liked me more’n any girl he’d ever bin with — and like I said, it was the first time I’d bin with — I mean, Gary, he worked down in the electrician’s shop but — well, he was different.’
‘Who was different, honey?’ George said a little more firmly. ‘Who are we talking about?’
The girl sniffed, gulped and swallowed. ‘My boyfriend, Harry. Him what got killed. He was my boyfriend and I didn’t think I’d ever be so upset about anything the way I am about him. Oh dear …’ And she curled up so that her arms were across her knees, buried her head in them and gave herself to a veritable storm of weeping.
18
Second Opinion Page 18
