A House for Sister Mary

by Lucilla Andrews

  He was getting sulky again. I said quickly. ‘Hang on. I’ve a writing-pad in my case. I thought I might have time to write home.’ I fetched it. ‘This do?’

  ‘Have to. Got a pencil?’

  I only had a pen. He had his own and used it. His calculations soothed him. He said more pleasantly, ‘Looks as if I’m going to have that quiet week-end after all.’

  That gave me another surprise. I had been expecting him to slam out and drive back to town. ‘Nick, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘so am I ‒ that you are such a pig-headed female. But I may as well stay on. I don’t feel like driving back with this headache.’

  ‘Headache?’ He did not go in for ailments. ‘I’m sorry. Taken anything for it?’

  ‘Not bad enough. It’s only the result of this.’ He raised the hair above his right temple and exposed a small bump. ‘I did this when I walked into a cupboard yesterday.’

  I did not touch the bump as that did not seem a good idea. It looked purely superficial. ‘Bad luck. Did you see anyone about it?’

  ‘In Barny’s? God, no! They’d just tell me to take more water with it.’ He picked up the pad. ‘Can I look around upstairs, or will you burst into tears again?’

  Perhaps irrationally, perhaps not, I was now feeling guilty towards him. ‘Go ahead. I’ll make us some tea.’

  ‘A typical nurse’s reaction,’ he said, and went upstairs.

  I did not hurry with the tea. I heard him grumbling to himself above about vandals who called themselves builders, art-masters who called themselves artists, and nurses who called themselves women and behaved as if they were stuffed with straw. After a while he reserved his complaints for builders only.

  He did not come down for about forty minutes. ‘Where’s that tea, love?’

  ‘Coming up.’ I switched on the kettle again. ‘Sorry. It’s gone off the boil.’

  He looked at me crossly, then saw the funny side, and we both laughed. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘you now expect me to stand you dinner at The Swan?’

  ‘Some such notion did cross my mind. I crossed it off again.’

  ‘Hungry? Serve you right!’

  ‘Actually, I’m not. It’s been too hot in town.’ The kettle boiled. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Not now, dear,’ he jeered, then laughed again. ‘I’ll never discover why I put up with you, Anna. We’ll go over and eat later. This tea’ll be just the job for my migraine.’

  The atmosphere was less tense but still had a slight edge. We sat over tea for a long time, talking only occasionally. The silences were not unpleasant, but they were noticeable. With each silence we seemed to slide a little further apart.

  I asked if he often had migraines.

  ‘First I’ve had.’

  ‘How do you know it’s a migraine?’ I yawned, and apologised. ‘The country air.’

  ‘If you had taken my advice and gone to bed early ‒’

  ‘Nick tell me about your migraine! How do you know it’s one?’

  ‘God, you nurses! How? Hell, one of our draughtsmen gets ’em.’ He fingered his right eye as if he had something in it. ‘He told me today he always gets these flashing lights.’

  ‘What flashing lights?’ I stopped feeling sleepy. ‘How long have you had ’em?’

  ‘I dunno. Started yesterday. Quite a firework display. This chap in our office says he gets them in both eyes.’

  ‘You’ve only got them in one? Which one?’

  ‘Right.’ He waved his hand above that eye. ‘Round here.’

  ‘Only lights? Anything else?’

  He hesitated. ‘Well ‒ this’ll sound daft ‒’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I seem to be having a special brand of migraine. I’ve got a sort of shadow. Here.’ He waved his hand as before.

  ‘Only a shadow? Can you see through it?’

  ‘Over the top. It’s rather like a black penny. I think it’s your fault. It’s only come on since you arrived. It seems to be moving up. Does it matter?’

  I did not answer at once. I had to get my mental breath. I had worked four months in an ophthalmic ward in my third year. I recognised his symptoms very well.

  ‘Nick,’ I said evenly, ‘I have to tell you something. Before I do you must promise to sit perfectly still while you listen. That’s important. That black penny does matter. It matters so much that you have got to see a doctor and get to a hospital tonight.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ He would have jumped up had I not leapt from my chair and held him in his by leaning on his shoulders. ‘What is all this?’

  ‘Ever heard of a detached retina?’

  ‘Vaguely. So?’

  I explained what that could entail without yet giving him the whole picture. Then I insisted he moved, without jerking, into the sitting-room and lay down on the still dust-covered sofa. ‘That’s it. Fine. You stay here while I get one of the local G.P.s. I can remember some names from the Mat Unit. Then he’ll get you into Astead General.’

  ‘I am not going into Astead General!’ Again but for my hands on his shoulders he would have bounced up. ‘If I have to go to any hospital I’m going back to Barny’s.’

  ‘My dear, it’s too far ‒’

  ‘I got down in under two hours. I can get back in less now as there’ll be less traffic. By the time you’ve rustled up a local G.P. and he’s rustled up an ambulance ‒ which I won’t take ‒ I could be back in town. If you don’t want me to drive, you drive me.’

  ‘No. It’s too risky. You must see a doctor here.’

  ‘Get one if you want. You’ll be wasting your time.’

  There was no alternative, so I told him all I had left unsaid. It did not upset him as much as I had expected, because he did not believe me. He reminded me I was a nurse, not a doctor, and he had been told all nurses always took the gloomiest view. ‘I am not going to get stuck out of town. I don’t mind seeing a Barny’s man. I know most of them seem to know their jobs. I’m not letting any country G.P. fool around with my eyes.’

  A solution dawned on me. It was not one I cared to use, but it seemed I had no alternative. ‘I’m not taking you back to Barny’s without a doctor’s O.K. for the journey. I may be able to reach one of our men in Astead. If not, it’ll have to be a local man.’

  He caught my wrist. ‘Who is this convenient man in Astead? And why?’

  ‘His name is Robert Gordon. He’s off this week-end and, I’ve heard, visiting Astead. He may be down by now. If he is it’ll be sheer luck, as he is doing Eyes at present. I don’t know if you know him?’ I added, as Robert’s name had not been mentioned between us. ‘He was at Sister Mary’s party.’

  ‘I know Robbie Gordon.’ He smiled wryly. ‘And you are going to summon him to my aid? Here’s a turn-up for the book!’

  I guessed from that he had heard about Robert and Sabby Wardell. I did not dwell on it, having other things on my mind. ‘Promise not to move, Nick? I’ll ring him.’

  I could not find a telephone book so I had to ask Enquiries for Mr. Norris’s number. His housekeeper answered my call.

  ‘Mr. Gordon, miss? Yes, he is here, but Mr. Gordon and his guest have just sat down to dinner with Mr. Norris. My old gentleman does not like having his meals disturbed. Can I take a message and ask Mr. Gordon to ring you back later? No? Oh, dear. Very good, miss. What name, please?’

  I did not have to wait long.

  ‘Well, Anna?’ demanded Robert. ‘What’s this about?’

  I went back to Nick two minutes later. ‘He’s coming.’

  ‘Did he mind being hauled out on his free evening?’

  ‘If he did he didn’t say so.’

  He eyed me speculatively. ‘Not only pigheaded, bloody-minded, and pessimistic, but intrepid. You are quite a girl, darling. Or was Peter Graveny wrong to advise me not to mention Robbie Gordon to you if I wanted to stay in one piece?’

  ‘Peter wasn’t wrong.’ I sat on the edge of the sofa to stop him reaching out for me. ‘You know R
obert well?’

  ‘We’ve met.’ He was smiling. ‘This is getting amusing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your getting him out on a wild-goose chase for me. This I shall enjoy.’

  That made sense, and so did his now having totally persuaded himself I was making an unnecessary fuss. I saw that as I had begun to look on him as a patient, and training forced me to view him academically for the first time. Experience had shown me I could sum up the type of patient a person was going to make within five minutes of meeting them ‒ as patients. It was when people were outside of a hospital that I so often went so wrong in my judgement of them. As we waited for Robert and I listened to Nick knocking down my arguments like a card-house, I realised reluctantly that though he might be an amusing patient so long as all was going well, he would not be a good patient. Being a good patient entailed much more than being polite and helpful to the doctors and nurses. It took strength of character, a capacity for standing pain and the discomforts and inconveniences of illness, a sense of humour, and plain courage. That was a formidable list, yet I had found 90 per cent of the human race to possess the qualities on that list when in a hospital bed. I could count on one hand the really ‘bad’ patients I had come across; the remainder came under the ‘difficult’ heading. Difficult in that context being synonymous with demanding. And that was the kind of patient I suspected Nick would make.

  I did not despise him for this. If anything, it made me more fond of him by making him so helpless. I wanted to hold him in my arms to comfort him like a child. I grew so distressed that I stopped viewing him academically, and, in fact, became so emotionally involved that I nearly succeeded in convincing myself that my months in the eye ward had taught me nothing and I had made the wrong diagnosis ‒ when we heard a car stop outside.

  I went to the window. ‘Can you come round to the back, Robert?’

  Robert came in, apologising for the delay. He had stopped somewhere to borrow an ophthalmoscope.

  Nick said he must apologise for dragging Robert across country just because he was seeing the odd star. ‘Anna’s acting as if I’ve cracked my nut in three places. I tried to stop her bothering you, Rob. No dice. Tough females, these nurses.’

  ‘They get that way,’ agreed Robert. ‘As I’m here, let’s have a look at that bump. Och, yes, it’s only wee. I doubt you’ve cracked your skull even in one place. You’d better have a picture taken some time to make sure.’ He fitted together the ophthalmoscope. ‘May as well check your eyes as well. This’ll not hurt. It’s just a light. Try not to blink.’ He bent over the sofa, then found it easier to kneel. ‘Right.’ He raised one hand behind his head. ‘Watch my hand. Fine. Now, follow it as I move it ‒ no, don’t turn your head. With your eyes. That’s it.’

  ‘Can you see my stars?’ asked Nick cheerfully.

  Robert sat on his heels to reset the instrument.

  ‘I haven’t the gift.’ He copied Nick’s tone, as if this was an amusing diversion on a normal social occasion. Nick had tensed up since Robert arrived. He began to relax. Robert asked for another look at his right eye. ‘Watch my hand again.’ He now kept it still. ‘That black penny’s shifting up, isn’t it?’

  Nick shook a fist at me. ‘Darling, you shouldn’t have handed on that nonsense.’

  ‘Don’t kick about, Nick.’ Robert stood up slowly and began to put away the ophthalmoscope as if he had all eternity at his disposal. ‘Did Anna explain why she called me?’

  ‘Did she not! She’s been blinding me with science! She even wanted to pack me off to Astead General! That’s out for a start!’

  ‘Not if they have a bed ‒ which I expect they will.’ Robert then explained exactly as I had done.

  Nick flushed. ‘You are not serious?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Robert, ‘I am, and this is.’

  ‘Then send me back to Barny’s; I’ll pay for the ambulance ‒ if that’s the rub?’

  ‘Barny’s is too far. You can’t go over the downs with that eye. With the best ambulance in the world there’d be too much movement.’

  ‘You can’t shove me into a hospital against my will!’

  ‘No,’ said Robert, not ungently. ‘No one can do that. You are perfectly entitled to refuse treatment, and you must by now realise the risk you are running. Unless that retina is stitched back soon ‒ and the longer the delay the greater the chances against success ‒ you will lose the sight in that eye. You’ve only got two eyes, man.’ Nick’s flush had gone, and he was very white. ‘I’m sorry to din this in, Nick, but you’ve got to accept it. You must have treatment.’

  ‘Will they ‒ will they know what to do in Astead? Only a little town?’

  ‘With a very good hospital. You’ll be fine there. Their eye specialist is an old Barny’s man. He worked eight years under my present boss, Muir. I’ll get hold of him.’ He lit a cigarette and handed it to Nick. ‘You get on with that.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Nick glared at me accusingly. ‘Women! Why did I have to follow you down here tonight? If I had stayed up I could now be in Barny’s.’

  Robert said, ‘If you had told anyone about your eye. Would you have done that ‒ no, don’t shake your head! No? Then it’s lucky you came after Anna. Now I must ring Marcus Stock. Where’s the phone, Anna?’

  Dr. Stock, the ophthalmic consultant to the Astead Group of Hospitals, arrived twenty minutes later. He lived the other side of Astead, but had been dining with friends nearer Wylden. Robert traced him with his second call. During the interval Robert went over to The Swan for Nick’s suitcase, warned the landlord he was unlikely to use his room, and arranged to have Nick’s car housed in the Wylden garage next day. I was glad to have him see to those things and not to see Nick while I waited with him. I was able to calm him to a certain extent. It was not easy.

  Dr. Stock was a tallish, stout man with thick white hair that made him look older than he must have been to be Mr. Muir’s junior. He looked more like a successful farmer than a doctor. He spoke medical jargon. ‘Right, lad, we’ll patch you up. Just a few stitches in the right place, eh? Nothing to worry about.’ He nodded to Robert, who removed himself to do some more telephoning, and talked to Nick and myself about the weather. ‘Only the fruit farmers are grumbling. Best hay harvest in years. How’s London? Like a furnace, eh?’

  Robert returned to say an ambulance was on the way and a bed waiting in Dr. Stock’s ward in Astead General. Dr. Stock said he would follow the ambulance in his car. Robert offered to come along in the convoy and drive me back. ‘I expect you’ll want to go along in the ambulance, Anna?’

  I was back holding Nick’s hand. He had not let go of me since Robert made his first phone call. ‘Yes, please ‒ if it’s all right with you, Doctor?’

  Dr. Stock had been watching Nick and myself. ‘Forgive me asking, but am I correct in assuming you two are engaged?’

  ‘That’s right, Doctor.’ Nick answered for me, and his handclasp tightened. ‘That make a difference?’

  Dr. Stock said, ‘Well, yes, one could say that. Of course, fiancées do not have the established rights of wives, but one is always prepared to make allowances for them. And though I appreciate your desire to be with Mr. Dexter, Miss Rowe,’ he went on reluctantly, ‘I would rather you remained here. That tablet I gave you to suck a few minutes back will shortly make you rather drowsy, Mr. Dexter. You may be able to get a little nap in the ambulance. The men will look after you well. I would prefer you to be on your own, and will arrange for your fiancée to be allowed to visit you tomorrow. Will that do?’

  ‘You know best, Doctor,’ said Nick. ‘What do you say, darling? Deal?’

  Robert had been studying the fireside wall. He glanced round as Nick waited for my answer. I had no time left for working anything out. I was far too distressed over Nick to think about anything but his need for me. ‘Sure, Nick. Deal.’

  ‘Good,’ said Dr. Stock. ‘Sensible girl.’

  Nick sighed contentedly. ‘Thanks, pal,’ he murmured, so softly
that I doubted anyone but myself heard. Dr. Stock walked over to the window to look out for the ambulance and Robert returned to studying the fireside wall.

  Chapter Seven

  ROBERT MAKES TEA

  The ambulance men were called John and George. They were youngish, muscular, neat, and very kind. They were Astead men and knew Dr. Stock well. When they discovered Robert was in medicine and I was a nurse they made mild little jokes about busman’s holidays, and when Nick was in the ambulance and Dr. Stock in his car George assured me privately I did not have to worry about my young gentleman as John would take care of him lovely and Dr. Stock would do a real good job on his eye. ‘He knows his trade, miss. You’ll see.’

  Dr. Stock overtook the ambulance before it was out of Wylden. I said, ‘It was nice of him to wait with us.’ Robert nodded. ‘How much was off?’

  ‘About half. Marcus Stock should be able to fix it back on.’ He did not add unless the retina was wholly detached by the time Nick reached the theatre, and had deteriorated beyond hope of saving, which could happen very quickly once it was right off, as we both knew that danger, and he was not a man to waste breath underlining accepted facts. I used to find his habit of silence irritating and callous. Previously, when I had a problem, I had wanted to talk about it, to go into every aspect, to scare myself with the worst that could happen, in the hope that the person to whom I was unburdening would be able to produce the right soothing answers to prove I did not have to worry at all. Having been, as I now realised, exceedingly lucky, I had never had to deal with any problems of this present nature. No one close to me had ever been more than mildly ill. I was accustomed to seeing great anxiety for a patient at second-hand, or feeling the kind of anxiety I had for Tom Elkroyd, but nothing had affected me personally as I was now affected by Nick. I felt hollow with anxiety, and the last thing I wanted to do was discuss it. I did not know if Robert realised that or not, but his silence no longer irritated me. It was restful.

  He followed me round to the back and into the kitchen, I assumed to collect his borrowed ophthalmoscope and leave. Instead he looked in the cold teapot, which was still with the other tea things on the table. ‘What’s the tea situation, Anna?’