Rose was surprised out of her usual challenging, defensive mood and, if she only knew it, was for a moment at her likeable best. ‘I can’t believe it’s all happening,’ she confessed excitedly. ‘I pinch myself sometimes. It’s as if, suddenly, I’m looking over my own shoulder and I see myself practising medicine. I see someone look at me and take courage from my presence . . .’ She stopped and blushed furiously. ‘I’m sorry.’
Lucy felt a stirring of genuine liking. ‘No, it’s like that for me too; it has to be, hasn’t it, or it makes everything else, the . . . little sacrifices . . . meaningless.’
Rose looked at her as if she could not see what sacrifices a woman like Lucille Graham could possibly have made. Perhaps she’s right, thought Lucy. Perhaps I have made no sacrifices. Marriage, children, Kier? Did I really want them? Do I still?
‘Tell me about the graduation, Doctor Nesbitt. I believe it is to be quite splendid?’
‘I will find it difficult to be the centre of all eyes, Doctor Graham,’ answered Rose truthfully. ‘A new hood has had to be designed. It is to be magenta silk lined with white satin. The department has paid for it – two pounds ten shillings, can you believe! And so they would like it back for the museum.’ She laughed at the carefulness of the department.
Lucy laughed with her and then spoke seriously. ‘You have made a mark on the world, doctor.’
‘I never meant to . . . make a mark. I wanted to make a difference . . . to the poor, to my own people . . .’ Perhaps she could talk to this elegant, sophisticated woman who never in her life had had to wonder if there would be food on the table, who certainly never had to save for a year for the ten pounds needed to pay for the degree.
‘And Mr Anderson-Howard is to host a dinner-party at the Faculty Club?’
She had to explain. ‘He is a good friend, Doctor Graham, so unfailingly kind.’ She could not add, ‘It’s no more than that. I do not want more, I fear more, and he is still confused by you, by the hold your shared memories have over him.’
Perhaps that was not true, completely true, either. The two women sat in nervous silence and, at last, the ceremonies began and they were able to stop thinking, analysing, and to give themselves up to the speeches, the rhetoric, the music, and then the interminable luncheon with more speeches washed down by, to Lucy if not to Rose, indifferent wines.
Lucy left before coffee was served. ‘I was unable to get a locum and have had to delay my hospital visits, and then there is my evening surgery.’ She held out her hand, now encased in the softest of soft grey leathers to match her exquisitely cut, deceptively simple gown. ‘I have enjoyed today, Doctor Nesbitt, and look forward to – what would Kier say? – cheering wildly at your graduation?’
Rose watched her go, saw the heads bow as she passed, the lanes of frock-coated barrel-chested men separate to make passage for her, respect and admiration in their eyes.
She did not ask and I could not say, but I must, I must if I am to have a chance of staying here.
For the truth was that the men who controlled the hospitals, the practices, were no more amenable to Rose Nesbitt, MD, than they had been to Rose Nesbitt, MB, Ch.B Rose, who was about to leave her two-year secondment, had received but two offers of employment. The first was in Rhodesia and the second was in Australia.
‘I suppose they are desperate in those countries and will take anything with a qualification,’ Kier had said when Rose laughingly told him of her predicament, and she had laughed at his confusion.
‘I know, I know you did not mean that I am better than nothing but, Kier, it is so bizarre. I had thought, in all modesty, that all doors would fly open before me at the end of this two years, but we are still as locked in the Dark Ages as ever we were. The very hospital where I lecture and do my research says there is no place for me in its wards. I am even unwanted in Gynaecology, my speciality. I have written to every authority in the country and even the inhabitants of the remote isles, it seems, would prefer to die rather than to be treated by a woman.’
‘You must speak to Lucy, or let me. She needs a junior desperately.’
She leaned closer to him, and he was aware as always of the slight scent of Erasmic Violet soap that she used, and which he was still able to contrast with that faint musty smell that used to hang on her clothes. This new pleasing scent always made him feel protective.
‘Don’t, please, Kier. I couldn’t bear it. Doctor Graham hasn’t asked me to work with her; she must know I will soon be free.’
‘But Lucy wouldn’t intrude. She will have assumed you are ploughing your way through offers. You must let her know you are available. There’s been so much on her mind this past year.’
Rose thought of Donaldina, whom she had managed to avoid but whom she still expected to pop up suddenly one day to burst her carefully blown-up little bubble. Perhaps it would be good to go to Rhodesia, not Australia where she might encounter Murray, or worse still Nancy, and be made aware again that her career had stolen Nancy’s future.
‘They say Africa is very hot, and I do like the sun.’
‘No.’ He was quite adamant and she was surprised at the violence of his reaction. ‘You can’t go to Africa. My God, I’ve been there. It’s no place for a white woman, and especially a beautiful young one on her own.’
Rose blushed. Beautiful, he thought her beautiful. No, Doctor Graham was beautiful with the kind of looks that stay. She herself was pretty, like an advertisement for soap, all curls and innocence, and neither would last.
‘I won’t be on my own, Kier. It’s a hospital. There are Catholic nuns and priests and at least one grizzled old doctor . . . and his wife.’
‘Sounds a heaven on earth,’ he said drily. ‘Look, can we make a pact? I’ll have this little party for you when you’re capped and if Lucy hasn’t spoken to you before then, you must ask her for at least a temporary contract, you know, to see if you would rub along together. I can’t see that you couldn’t. She’s the dearest thing and as hard-working as you could like. You’d make a perfect partnership. She hates Gynae and you loathe Surgery. Do you know she’s talking about putting her name down for a motor-car? The electric tram is a boon, but a car! There was a fellow had a little two-seater in 1899, used to watch him tootle down Reform Street. I’d have given my commission for that car. But anyway, Lucy needs a car. She can’t be in two places at once, but a car would make it almost possible. She needs an automobile, but more than that she needs a junior and you are ideal. Will you speak to her?’
Rose thought carefully. Yes, to work for Doctor Graham would be the ideal solution. She could take care of the poorer end of the practice while Lucy dealt with the malingerers among the idle rich, but Lucy hadn’t asked her and probably wouldn’t ask. She doesn’t like me. Oh, Kier, you poor fool. She’ll hate us both if you ask her.
‘I may approach Doctor Graham if I have received no other offers, but you must promise that you won’t ask.’
He had promised and he kept his promise, but Lucy would have had to be extremely stupid not to be aware of the seeds he was planting.
*
Lucy sat whenever she had a chance to sit and watched the white blossoms drift down from the gean trees outside on the pavements. They were glorious, beautiful trees. In spring they were a mass of flurry, as Donald had called the cherry blossom, in summer they were cool and green, in autumn again they were spectacularly beautiful in their crimson and yellow gowns, and in winter they held their naked branches up against the bleak sky like some examples of primitive sculpture.
Dr Nesbitt, I find I need a junior.
Doctor Nesbitt, if you have not yet accepted an offer, I wonder if you would care to work for me.
She had to hire a junior. Perhaps it should be a man? Many of her patients’ husbands, fathers, sons, still preferred a male practitioner. There were several capable boys graduating this summer. Hire one, check that he could handle the practice and then a three-month holiday; Italy, the Gulf of the P
oets . . . You’re daydreaming, Lucy. Your practice is ninety-nine per cent female. You will lose them all if you hire a boy and then go off for a . . . she had been about to say ‘jaunt’ but that was still too painful a word to use. Hire the little Rose and earn Kier’s undying gratitude.
‘Most men marry for security, for children . . .’ The words came back to her and angrily she pushed them away.
‘If you love, when you love, really love, then nothing will stop you from marrying, not all the patients in the world.’
Who had said that? When? Oh, it was nothing. She would sleep on the problem. It really was the only thing to do.
14
Dundee, 1907
IT WAS SURPRISINGLY easy to sleep once the decision had been made. Lucy had lain, gritting her teeth, demanding that sleep come. She had a long day ahead; consulting hours, home visits, hospital visits, the paper to prepare on the health of working-class children in the local schools, and Rose . . . oh, yes, Rose. Doctor Nesbitt had said that she might call in, that she had something she wanted to discuss. Lucy knew the subject of the discussion. She had to be fully rested and alert to deal with Rose; not only Rose’s life but Lucy’s own future hinged on what she said to her. She had no real choice, only one decision could be made. Lucy made it and was asleep before she even had time to feel satified with herself.
Was there even a dent made in her pillow by the time Isa was there with her morning tea?
‘It’s half-past five and you said not to let you lie a minute longer,’ said Isa, plumping up the pillows behind her mistress.
‘Oh, I’ve just closed my eyes,’ groaned Lucy. ‘How do you always wake so fresh, Isa?’
‘Sleep’s a matter of a clear conscience,’ said Isa, pouring the tea. ‘You were an awfie time walking up and down afore you put your head on the pillow.’
If she hoped that her mistress would allow her into the causes of her insomnia she was disappointed.
‘I’ll be down in a minute, Isa. I have a visit to make to the Infirmary before my morning surgery.’
‘You’ll be the better for a boiled egg. That gives you three minutes from the time I get down the stair.’
Lucy smiled to herself. ‘Oh, Isa, live for ever, and keep me sane with your boiled eggs,’ she whispered to herself as she scurried around. ‘I should definitely cut you off,’ she told her hair as it defiantly swirled around her head, pushing the hairpins out as if the hair and the pins had lives over which they alone were in control, but at last she saw reflected in the mirror, Lucille Graham, MB, CM. If the eyes were not quite so sparkling as usual and the face was perhaps a little paler, no one would notice. Dr Graham was in control.
It was two-thirty before she had time to stop again.
‘You look tired out,’ scolded Isa. ‘You’ll have chicken soup; it’s always good for whatever ails you, except lack of sleep. Come on, Miss Lucy. There’s time before your evening surgery, and you’ll do your patients no good if you faint from lack of nourishment.’
Lucy was sitting in solitary state at the top of her mother’s cherished Jacobean dining-room table when she heard the front door-bell and Isa’s voice as she muttered about the utter selfishness of those folk who would not leave a poor overworked woman to get a bite to eat. Lucy smiled and finished her soup.
‘It’s Doctor Nesbitt, Miss Lucy.’ Isa was at the door, half in, half out.
‘I was expecting her, Isa.’ True enough. Rose had had to come, but she had thought tonight, surely, after her lectures.
‘I’ve put her, them, in the morning room, doctor.’
Alarmed, Lucy half rose from the table. Isa only called her doctor when there were patients within hearing or if she was seriously disturbed. ‘What is it, Isa? Has Doctor Nesbitt brought a patient, a slum child to dirty your chairs? You will have to learn to . . .’
‘Mr Kier’s with her.’
Kier! Lucy’s heart rose. How lovely! It had been an exhausting day; it was only half over but seeing Kier, letting him hear her decision, that would be a joy.
She hurried past Isa and went to the small morning room. She had time to wonder at the beauty of the blossoming gean tree as it filled the window.
‘Kier, my dear, how nice of you to bring Rose.’ She went to him, her hands outstretched in welcome.
‘Lucy.’ He grasped her hands and held her there at arm’s length. ‘Lucy,’ he said again.
Lucy turned to Rose. How delicate she was, how dainty. Rose had moved to the window and now stood, haloed by white blossom – an indescribably lovely picture. Lucy looked down at her plain black gown and contrasted it with Rose’s pink silk. She wished she had tidied her hair.
Rose made as if to speak, but Kier caught her hand and at the look in his eyes, the smile on his face, Lucy sighed. A medical fact, dear Doctor Graham. When you are about to receive bad news your blood does indeed run cold,’ she told herself.
‘I’ll tell her, Rose; it’s only right. Lucy, my dear, I found I could not bear the thought of Rose leaving us for the vast uncharted wastes of Rhodesia. This morning she has done me the great honour of promising to become my wife.’
It does indeed feel like a sharp blow. Words hurt; they cut deeply, cleanly. Lucy heard herself utter all the right things, was aware that she was doing all the right things.
‘You must come back for champagne, after my evening surgery. I do insist. You see, you now have two things to celebrate. I had planned to offer you a place here, Rose. I need a second good doctor. For Isa’s sake if not for mine, you must accept, unless of course your . . . husband would not wish his wife to practise after the wedding.’
Was there a slight look of guilt on the achingly young, lovely, face? It was fleeting, a trick of the light perhaps, as it played among the cherry blossoms.
‘Heavens, I thought only to keep Rose from emigration. What do you think, darling? Shall you accept? Shall I become a patient? And which of my two favourite doctors shall attend to my every ache and pain?’
‘I have nursed you enough, malingerer.’ Lucy was almost able to speak normally. ‘When is the wedding to be, Rose? Your family . . . ?’
‘My poor Rose is quite alone in the world, Lucy. It was the typhoid epidemic that took your parents, wasn’t it, darling?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘My mother, as you well know, Lucy, will be only too delighted to have me married as quickly as possible.’ He looked at Rose. ‘You don’t intend to keep me waiting long, do you, my dear?’ He turned again to Lucy. ‘I shall take her over on the first train. Picture my mother’s face, Lucy, when this time I tell her that her dinner guest will stay for ever.’
‘After the wedding, Kier dear,’ said Rose, a little archly. ‘Do you mean it, Doctor Graham, Lucy? Do you want me?’
‘There is more than enough work in Dundee for the two of us, Rose.’ She could not lie in reply to the second part of the question, but Rose seemed happy enough with her answer. ‘And I have promised Isa a holiday. We have lost so much this past year . . .’
‘Then I accept and thank you.’
Lucy shook hands with her new partner and all the time her mind raced. ‘Could she not have acknowledged our losses? No, Lucy, be kind; she’s young and in love and she has just become engaged to be married.’ At last, at last they were gone and there was Isa to tell her that her first patient had arrived, had been there for some time in fact. It was Mrs Brady, wife of a local councillor, and as usual she was worried about the condition of her heart. Lucy examined the woman, her face showing no distaste at the smell of unwashed flesh that fled from the tight encasings once Mrs Brady had been persuaded to – modestly – remove the top of her dress.
‘Eat less and get a little exercise.’ Lucy almost heard herself say the words. The practice had grown a thousandfold since Mrs MacDonald and Mrs Dryden had taken up the new young lady doctor. Now there was more money to enable Lucy to practise in a less salubrious area of the city where the women desperately needed medical attention. Rose w
ould enjoy that part of the practice, the Hilltown, the back streets of central Dundee. Lucy smiled at Mrs Brady, whose money made a partner possible.
‘Your heart’s sound as a bell, Mrs Brady,’ she said and saw the disappointment on the fat face. ‘I expect you are allowing yourself to worry too much about your family.’ She coated the bitter pill of truth with sugar. ‘I’ll give you a little something to steady your nerves.’
The woman sighed with gratitude and relief. ‘Thank you, Doctor Graham, I knew I could rely on you.’
Lucy showed her out, thinking, Be kind, Lucy, be kind. Perhaps there is some dark reason why she haunts your surgery.
The afternoon wore into evening, and still they came, and her mind had to deal with real people and real illness, but at last they were gone and she had to go upstairs and dress – to please Isa – for dinner. She had to sit at the table and toy with her glass of wine and face the fact that Kier would never sit at the end of it as her husband and now that it was too late, now that he had promised to marry someone else, Rose, she had to admit that always, always, every day of her life there had been the belief that one day, some day when she had achieved what she needed to achieve, when she had done what needed to be done for her own fulfilment as a woman, as a doctor, he would be there, smiling at her, holding out his arms to her, and she would run into them and . . .
Isa heard the crash of the door and her steps as she fled upstairs.
‘Ach, have a bit greet, lassie, and maybe you’ll learn what every fisherman kens. There’s far better fish still in the sea than ever came out of it.’
*
Lucy had herself well in hand when Isa brought the early-morning tea next morning. She had cried – but more, she admitted, for the end of a dream than because her heart was broken. She had cried too because now there was no one in the world to whom she could tell her tale of woe. She could hardly tell Kier how she felt, if she could indeed work out exactly how she felt herself, and Sir John was dead, and Kier’s defection had brought that appalling tragedy back. Sir John had gone from his ‘jaunt’ to the deep South on a ‘jaunt’ to the Rocky Mountain region of the western states. His last letter postmarked Portland, Oregon, April 10th 1906, had spoken of the majesty of the country, and had said that:
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