“Sister Conceptua, find Dr Bateman and tell him to go to examining room four,” the nun said, beckoning Grace along a short corridor and around a corner to a door on the right.
The room held a metal bed, a chair and a nightstand but nothing else apart from a window with a white blind half pulled down.
“Place her here.” The nun drew back the cover on the bed. “Would you wait in the hall until the Doctor has examined her?”
“But I want to stay with her!” Mary pleaded.
“Let them do what they have to. We won’t be far away.” Grace wrapped an arm around her and guided her back into the hall just as a man in a white coat eased past them into the room. Without acknowledging them he walked straight to the bed.
“I'll come and take your details in a moment,” the nun said, ushering them outside.
“What's wrong with her?” Mary sobbed onto Grace's shoulder as they returned to the main hallway where the desk stood. “How did she become so ill this fast?”
“I'm not sure, but she's where she needs to be. The doctor will look after her.”
“I didn't know what to do.” Mary slumped onto the bench. “One minute she was walking along beside me and the next-” She broke off to submit to another burst of distressed sobbing.
“You said she had a sore throat?” Grace eased down beside her.
“Not much of one. She was more lethargic than usual and complained of a headache. It didn't occur to me it could be anything this bad. Oh, Grace, what do you think is wrong?”
“I don't know,” Grace lied. “We'll have to wait for the doctor.” She had seen Isla’s symptoms before but hoped she was wrong.
“Andrew!” Mary’s eyes flew open and she grabbed Grace’s arm, so tightly she winced. “I must tell him. He'll want to be here.”
“Of course he will. Is he anywhere near a telephone do you know?”
Mary nodded. “He's at home. The nuns will know how to reach him.”
Grace approached the desk, where a third nun now sat, this one in the pinafore and white half veil which denoted her as a novice. She gave Isla's name and Mary's, then requested the nun telephone Andrew Jardine and ask him to come to the hospital straight away.
As time passed, Mary grew more restless, no longer accepting Grace's assurances that the doctor knew what he was doing. She questioned every nun who walked by but received the same answer.
“The doctor will be with you when he has completed his examination.”
Finally, a white-coated figure walked slowly towards them, his expression unreadable, giving no clue as to whether his conclusion was good or bad. “Mrs Jardine?” He looked from Grace to Mary and back again.
“I'm Mrs Jardine.” Mary rose to her feet and hiccoughed, her face tear-streaked and puffy.
“I'm Dr Bateman. I’ve examined your daughter.” He turned watery blue eyes on Grace in enquiry. “Might I ask who you are?”
“I'm a friend who happened to be there when Isla collapsed,” Grace said.
“I would prefer to discuss this with members of the family only,” the doctor said gravely.
“Never mind that,” Mary snapped. “I want her here. What's wrong with my child?”
“Ah, I see.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “The situation as it now stands, is that a false membrane composed of bacilli and dead cells has formed in the child's throat. Combined with the already swollen tissues underneath, her airway is becoming obstructed.”
“What does that mean?” Mary turned anguished eyes on Grace. “What’s he saying, Grace?”
“He means Isla has diphtheria, Mary.” Grace tightened her hold on Mary’s shoulders, the doctor’s next words lost in Mary's wail of anguish.
“What are you going to do?” Grace asked him. The diagnosis came as no surprise. Isla’s swollen neck and her rasping breaths were symptoms she had seen before.
“I need to intubate her.”
“What? But that's a horrible procedure,” Grace said. “Especially for a child.”
A ten-year-old neighbor of the MacKinnons in Hampstead had been intubated in London Hospital. His father always maintained that the hard rubber tube inserted into the child’s throat had caused his death.
“I'm aware of that. But if I don't, the child could suffocate.”
“You can't let her die!” Mary cried. “You can't.”
“Is there no other way?” Grace asked.
“There is one.” Dr Bateman didn’t sound confident. “An antitoxin is available with which we’ve had some success in the past, but it’s far from proven.”
“It's worth a try, isn't it?” Grace said. “Intubation is a temporary solution but isn't a cure. You simply put that tube into the throat and wait?”
“It's not quite as simple as that, but in effect-” He left the sentence hanging.
“What do you think, Mary?” Grace asked.
“I don't know what to do.” Mary slumped back onto the bench where she rocked back and forward her clenched fists held to her mouth “Where's Andrew? I want to hear what he thinks.”
Just then the main doors flew open with a bang and Andrew strode into the hall, his face a picture of angry concern. He halted beside the doctor, his gaze going from Mary to Grace.
“Grace? What are you doing here?” For a moment, Grace thought he was about to embrace her, but at the last second, he dropped his hands to his sides. “Did Mary call you?”
“No, I -” Grace began but Mary cut her off.
“Isla collapsed in the street and Grace helped me bring her here. She's been wonderful. I don't know what I would have done without her.”
“What happened? Where's Isla?” he asked of the silent doctor.
“She's being well taken care of,” Dr Bateman replied. “If I might talk to you privately, Mr Jardine.” He drew Andrew to one side where the two men conducted an intense, low conversation.
“What are they saying?” Mary asked.
“I cannot hear them. Whatever it is, they don't think we deserve to be included in the discussion. Mary? Has Isla been at school this week?”
“No, as I said, she had a slight sore throat, so I kept her at home.” Mary stared up at her from red rimmed eyes.
“For how long?”
“Two days maybe. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. I wondered how long she’s been unwell.” Grace knew the disease to be highly contagious and perhaps Isla’s school friends were also at risk. The incubation period before symptoms showed was about four or five days. Hopefully she might no longer be infectious.
“What is this antitoxin the doctor mentioned?” Mary asked in a whisper.
“It's a medicine, but as far as I know it's quite new and has only been in use a few years.”
“What kind of medicine?” Mary sat rigid, small lines of tension on her forehead.
“I read about it in a magazine on the ship coming over.” The article had fascinated her at the time and she searched her memory for details. “As I understand it, diseases like diphtheria are being injected into horses. This stimulates an immune response in the white blood cells producing an antitoxin to fight the infection.”
“They give diphtheria to horses?” Mary's eyes widened.
“Only in small enough doses so as not to harm them. They harvest the antitoxin that forms in their blood and inject it into people who have the disease. It helps the body fight the infection.”
“I don't understand any of what you just said.” Mary dragged a handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt and blew her nose noisily. “Will it make Isla better?”
“It might, if given in time and in the right dose.”
“And if it doesn't?”
Grace sighed. “I'm sorry, Mary I don't know exactly how it works. I'm not a doctor.” She looked up to see Andrew approach them, his face grim.
“What's happening, Andrew?” Mary pleaded.
“Bateman is going to consult with a colleague to obtain another opinion. I don't think he should intubate Isla
unless it's absolutely necessary.”
Grace released a relieved breath, but said nothing, aware she was hardly qualified to give any opinion. Whatever they chose as a treatment for Isla was entirely his and Mary's decision.
“What about this antitoxin Grace told me about?” Mary asked.
He shot a wary look at Grace. “That isn't an option. Four years ago, in St Louis, Missouri, ten out of eleven children died from contaminated diphtheria antitoxin.”
“That was an isolated incident,” Grace interjected, unable to help herself. “The article I read said the antitoxin was contaminated because the horse from which the toxin was derived had tetanus.”
“What's to say there aren't other, similar incidences?” He pinched the bridge of his nose as if in thought. “No,” he said after a few long seconds. “It's too experimental. I don't think we can take the risk.”
“Mary? What do you say?” Grace asked.
“What if we make the wrong decision which harms her?” Mary shook her head hard, sending her hair into disarray. “No, I can’t. Andrew must decide.”
“If you do nothing, both of you will harm her,” Grace whispered, reminding herself yet again that this wasn't her daughter. If she persuaded them against their instincts, Isla might still die and would either of them be able to forgive her?
While they were debating, Dr Bateman returned. “My colleague has no more experience of the antitoxin than I. Our opinions as to its effectiveness are in conflict. I’m afraid the decision is yours.”
“Where would we get this antitoxin?” Andrew asked.
“We have some serum on hand in our pharmacy. I’m sure you are aware we have several cases of this disease every year. Children are especially susceptible.”
“Andrew, what shall we do?” Mary asked. “Should we let them use it on Isla?”
His eyes reflected his worry, but Grace could see he had yet to make a decision.
“I would urge you to hurry, Mr Jardine,” Dr Bateman said. “Whichever form it takes, Isla needs treatment.”
“What do you think, Grace?” Andrew asked.
She met his steady gaze, her mouth working but no words came for a moment. “I-I can't decide for you. My only experience of this situation was one where intubation was traumatic for the patient and did not help at all. In fact, it made things worse. The antitoxin might not work, but it gives her a chance. I would think a chance, no matter how small, is worth taking.” He was about to speak but she cut across him. “But she isn't my child. Don't take my word unless you are certain you are prepared to accept whatever the consequences are.”
“I understand.” Andrew eased onto the bench. “Mary?” he said, his voice soft. “Do you want them to give her the antitoxin?”
“I don't know what to do for the best.” Mary's voice hitched. “All I want is for Isla to be home and healthy again.”
Andrew sighed, his gaze lifting to the doctor’s face. “Give her the antitoxin.”
Dr Bateman nodded, and without a word hurried back down the hallway.
“Suppose she dies?” Mary expressed Grace's own thought.
“Then everyone concerned will have done all they could.” Andrew's gaze met Grace's over Mary's bent head, in their blue depths a heartfelt plea mixed with hope and something else. Acceptance? Forgiveness? Whatever it was she couldn’t look away while Mary sobbed quietly on Andrew's shoulder.
Chapter 21
His hands in his pockets, Andrew paced the floor, pausing occasionally to scuff at a loose tile with his shoe like an impatient schoolboy.
Mary huddled on the bench, her hand clasped firmly in Grace's, from which she appeared to take some comfort.
No one spoke, the tense silence broken only by the relentless tick of the clock on the wall. Grey garbed nuns glided through the hall at intervals, each one treated to an anticipatory glance, only for them to disappear again without a word.
Just when Grace felt they could not stand much more, the now familiar click of Dr Bateman's shoes on the tiled floor heralded his appearance long before he reached them.
Grace studied his approach, but his leisurely stride and bland expression betrayed nothing of what was going on in his head.
“We've given Isla the antitoxin,” he said, halting in front Andrew. “Although the outcome is by no means certain, she's doesn't appear to be getting any worse.”
“But will she recover?” Andrew asked.
“It's too soon to tell, I'm afraid. We shall have to wait and see.”
A nun gently called the doctor’s name. He raised his hands in a gesture of apology before hurrying back the way he came.
“How can he not tell?” Mary clenched her fists in her lap. “He's the doctor.”
“Mary, you're exhausted.” Andrew rubbed the back of her neck. “The carriage is still outside. Why don't you go home and get some sleep?”
“I want to be here for Isla, but I’m so tired.”
“Perhaps there’s somewhere here she could lie down for a while?” Grace suggested.
“I’ll ask the staff.” Andrew rose and approached the desk where he conducted a brief conversation with a gentle faced nun.
“Would you stay, Grace?” Mary pleaded. She looked to where Andrew approached them and lowered her voice adding, “Andrew doesn't handle this kind of thing very well. He hates to feel useless.”
“Of course, I'll stay if that’s what you want.”
“Please, I would welcome it too,” he added, joining them. “And Mary, the sister says there’s a room down the hall you could use.”
“That’s kind of them.” Mary dragged herself to her feet and smoothed down her crumpled dress. “If you hear anything, you must wake me.”
“I promise.” Andrew encircled her tenderly with his arm and escorted her along the corridor after the nun.
When he returned, he took a seat further along the bench, leaving the space where Mary sat to gape between them like a chasm.
Grace clasped her hands in her lap and sent wishes for Isla’s recovery to whatever deity looked down sympathetically on sick children, while sneaking swift looks at Andrew. He sat with his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the wall. He’d loosened his collar, revealing an expanse of throat, his lips moving silently in either a prayer or a curse, she could not tell.
The silence expanded, making her feel they were in a church rather than a hospital, accentuated by the soft footfalls of the nuns in their grey habits and white wimples.
“I forgot to thank you for being so kind to Mary.” Andrew broke the silence, his head turned away from her.
“I just happened to be there. I couldn't leave them.”
“Even so.” He pushed away from the wall and twisted to face her. “It’s kind of you to keep vigil like this. You barely know Mary, or Isla.”
“Who wouldn’t feel compassion for a child in peril?” She glanced at the clock. “I should have been at the hotel ages ago.” She twisted the straps of her bag in her fingers. “Do you suppose the nuns would let me telephone them to explain?”
“Of course. I'll arrange it.” As if glad of something to do, he strode to the desk and made the request.
The nun called Sister Conceptua showed Grace to a wall mounted telephone, where after a wait for the exchange to put her through to the Grace and Favor, she explained to Aoife what had happened. 'You stay as long as you have to,” Aoife's voice crackled down the line.
“Everything all right?” Andrew asked when she returned.
“Aoife is confident they can manage without me for a night, and she says everyone sends their best wishes to Isla.”
“That's kind of them.” He eased forward, his forearms resting on his splayed knees. “This is awkward, isn't it?” He skewed his gaze sideways at her.
“A little. Perhaps it might help to talk about something to distract us. It will help make the time go faster.”
“You could be right.” He pushed himself upright. “What do you suggest?”
�
��Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” she said gently. “We discussed so many things on the SS Elizabeth, including my reasons for leaving London. But I know nothing about your life or family. What were your parents like?”
“My father had a tougher upbringing than I did. Days when there wasn’t enough food or warmth, which meant he dragged himself up by his bootstraps. When he reached a level of society he felt was more acceptable than the one he came from, he married a woman who already belonged to it to secure his right to be there.”
“You didn't get along with your father?”
“That obvious, eh?” he chuckled. “He was one of those men who thought a son should be strong, unsentimental and ruthless. Like him. He bred silver foxes when I was a boy which was a steady but not very lucrative business in those days. I used to play with the pups and it broke my heart when he killed them. I always felt when it came to the slaughter, he would always choose the one I liked the best.”
“Didn’t you like all the cubs?” Grace recalled trying to choose from a litter of kittens, unable to favor one over the others. Not that her sensibilities mattered, as McKinnon hated cats and had ordered them all destroyed.
“I suppose I did.” He shrugged. “But at the time, I believed he did it on purpose. I couldn’t bear to be around when it happened and would make sure I was as far away as possible. I would wander back at dusk and pretend the fox had simply run away so it wouldn’t hurt as much.”
“Did that help?” Grace’s chest tightened with sympathy for the boy Andrew’s pain.
“No.” His slow smile appeared, turning her insides to water. “Then he would taunt me, say I was spineless and didn’t understand the way of the world. That I should toughen up and be a man.”
“Is the ability to kill beautiful animals without feeling anything the mark of a man?”
“In his mind, yes. I could never do it. Have you ever seen a silver fox?” He braced a hand on his thigh and turned towards her.
Grace shook her head.
“Beautiful creatures and if you gain their trust, they are almost tame. Almost but not quite. Some are completely black except for a splash of white on the tail, some are bluish-grey with coppery lights, their pelts are thick and unusually silky to the touch, bred to remove all traces of brown. They’re a lot like dogs in some ways, in that they respond to affection and have unique characters. The vixens are good mothers and if they lose a cub will become distressed until they are reunited. My father disregards all that and sees them as a commodity. He thinks me weak to attribute them with feelings.”
Envy the Wind Page 23