“Yes, sir,” she said, and she watched for a moment while Jeremy was wheeled away to the room which had been assigned to him.
Every instinct prompted Alma to go too—to hold his hand—to do whatever she could to convey comfort to him deep down in those strange layers of unconsciousness. But she had her own work to do. Instruments had to be cleaned and sterilized, equipment checked and put away, clearing up supervised. For tomorrow was another day.
The hand which she had raised in an instinctive gesture of something like caress dropped to her side once more. But not before Maxwell Perring’s bright eyes had noted the movement.
“You were worried about him for a moment, weren’t you?” he said quizzically, as he washed his hands at the sink.
“Yes—I was worried.”
“So was I,” confessed the surgeon with a little grimace.
“You didn’t seem so, sir.”
“Well, hardly.” He raised his strongly marked eyebrows, and smiled slightly, as though he found her remark almost amusingly naive. “You’re not quite used to theatre work again yet Sister.”
“It isn’t that, sir. I—know him.”
“Personally, you mean?” He looked curiously at her, and she found his keen glance rather difficult to meet.
“Yes. I didn’t realize who he was until he was on the table.”
“I’m sorry. It must have been a shock for you.”
“Yes. Except that I knew he was in the best hands possible,” Alma said simply.
“Thank you, Sister. You realize, of course, that your friend is still very seriously ill?”
“Yes, sir. Does Nurse Grayce know about it? I mean, was she still with him when it happened?”
“Geraldine?” Maxwell Perring looked astonished. “What has she got to do with it?”
“She knows him too, sir. I—I think they were out together this evening,” Alma said, and in spite of all her efforts at self-control, what little color she had left drained away from her cheeks.
“I—see,” he said slowly, and she wondered for an uneasy moment just how much he did see.
“Do you know how and when the accident happened, sir?” Alma glanced away quickly, her uneasiness expressed in the slight nervous movement of her hands.
“The porter says he saw a man run across from this side of the road, apparently towards his car, parked on the other side. A motor-bike came round the corner, caught him and flung him some distance, and I gather he cracked his skull against the curb.”
“Then he had probably just—just said goodnight to Nurse Grayce, and she went straight in, without knowing what happened. She either ran up the stairs or found the lift waiting and had gone up a second before the accident occurred.”
Alma spoke softly, half to herself, and almost as though she were describing a scene she had actually witnessed.
“That’s about the measure of it,” Maxwell Perring agreed. “And, in that case”—he looked straight at her—“Geraldine doesn’t know yet what happened.”
“No.”
“I think—I’m afraid, Sister, you’re going to have to tell her.”
“Now, do you mean?” Alma recoiled slightly at the idea of further nerve-strain.
“Either now or, if she is asleep and you think it best not to disturb her, some time tomorrow morning before she goes on duty. I don’t know”—he rubbed his chin meditatively—“exactly how well she knows this young man. Do you?”
“Quite well, I believe,” Alma said without apparent emotion. But, even in that moment, she registered the fact that Geraldine had evidently said nothing to her family about any engagement. “Well enough to have something of a shock when she hears the news. Particularly as she had so recently been with him.”
“Well, I leave it to you.” She saw suddenly that he too was tired after the strain of that late emergency.
“Yes, sir,” she said automatically, for it simply was not in her to reject a task delegated by any surgeon for whom she worked.
“Thank you. Goodnight, Sister.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
He was gone. And, as soon as the final clearing up in the theatre was complete, she was going to have to tackle the problem of Geraldine on her own.
“You look tired, Sister.” Staff Nurse sounded sympathetic. “But you have reason to. It’s been a hectic first day.”
“Never mind. It’s nearly over now.” Alma smiled faintly.
“Well, at least bed will seem remarkably like heaven when we get there,” declared Staff Nurse cheerfully, as they left the theatre together.
“I could leave it until the morning,” thought Alma, on the way up in the lift. She glanced at her watch, which said ten minutes to one, and at that moment the lift stopped at the third floor, to allow her companion to get out.
“I thought it was much later!” Alma exclaimed.
“Later? I call this late enough.” Staff Nurse laughed, as she pushed back the lift door. “Goodnight, Sister. Or, rather, good morning.”
“Goodnight,” Alma said. Then the gate slid to again and the lift went on to the top floor, to deposit her in the corridor which contained her own door—and that of Geraldine Grayce.
Even when she left the lift, Alma still had not made up her mind what she was going to do. She hesitated before Geraldine’s door, as she had hesitated much earlier that evening before another door. Then she heard the sound of something being dropped inside the room and, realizing that the occupant must be awake, she summoned her resolution and knocked.
“Hello?” called a rather surprised voice. “Come in.
So Alma opened the door and entered, most horribly and acutely conscious of the circumstances in which she and Geraldine had last faced each other.
“Oh, it’s you.” The other girl was lying back in bed, having apparently just retrieved the book which Alma had heard fall.
“Yes. I hesitated about disturbing you so late, but I heard a sound as I passed and realized you must be awake.”
“You’re awfully clever at hearing—and seeing—things, aren’t you?”
The tone of the voice was so quiet that it was a moment before Alma savored the full insolence of the words. When she did, she could not control the wave of color which she felt sweeping into her face.
“That’s a singularly tasteless and uncalled-for remark,” she said, with a sort of cold composure which surprised herself. “But I don’t want to offer reproofs at this particular moment. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
“Bad news?” The other girl drew the covers up to her chin and stared at Alma over them, her eyes wide and dark with a mixture of alarm and dislike. “What do you mean?”
“Jeremy”—she actually got out his name without a tremor—“had an accident as he was leaving the nursing home tonight—”
“What sort of an accident?”
“He was knocked down by a motor-cyclist.”
“But that must be hours ago! Why wasn’t I told? You had no right to keep that from me! If you had any decency—”
“That will do!” Alma spoke with a cold authority which cut off Geraldine’s angry, frightened exclamations as though with a knife. “You’re being told now. The first moment I could get away to tell you. He was operated on immediately—”
“O-operated on?”
“—By Mr. Perring, who probably saved his life. But he is still very seriously ill.”
“Where is he?”
Downstairs. In Room Fourteen, I believe. But he is still unconscious, of course.”
“I must go to him!” The other girl sprang out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. A singularly glamorous-looking, multi-colored affair which—Alma could not help noticing, even in that moment—suited her superbly.
“I don’t think you’ll be allowed to do that.” Alma’s voice was quiet and not unkindly, for she could guess, none better, at Geraldine’s distress. “Everything possible has been done. The only thing now is that he should be kept completely quiet.”
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br /> “But he might recover consciousness and—and want me.”
The half-defiant, half-pathetic assertion administered one of the sharpest stabs Alma had ever known. That anyone other than herself should feel confident that Jeremy would want her hurt quite unbearably. But somehow she managed to hide the fact and say calmly,
“It’s most unlikely. And, as I don’t need to tell you, he’s in first-class care.”
“Who has charge of him?” Geraldine paused in the act of twisting up her long dark hair.
“Sister Evans.”
“O-oh—her.” The other girl’s hands fell to her sides again. “No, she wouldn’t let me see him. She wouldn’t break any rule. She wouldn’t even bend it.” And she looked disconsolate, so that, in some odd way, Alma felt impelled to console her rival.
“Try not to worry too much tonight,” she said, in the impersonal but kindly tones of the efficient Theatre Sister. “Tomorrow I’m sure you will be able to see him. Particularly if you explain that he is—your fiancé.”
For a moment Geraldine’s long lashes flickered and then came down over her eyes in that curious, secret way.
“I don’t specially want to—to enlarge on that here.” She spoke almost sullenly. “And I’ll thank you not to either.”
“I shouldn’t dream of it,” Alma replied coldly. “You seem to have a very odd idea of my likely behavior. And, incidentally,” she added, as sudden boldness came to her, “I gather that you’ve chosen to put the most extraordinary interpretation on the fact that I glanced over the banisters when you and Jeremy happened to be coming up the stairs at my flat.”
Geraldine didn’t answer at first, and Alma saw that a certain degree of doubt had entered her mind, even though she still refused to look up.
“It seemed an exceptionally well-chosen moment for a coincidence,” she muttered at last.
“It’s not unusual to look down one’s own staircase when one hears the voices of people ascending,” Alma replied drily. “But I don’t want to stress the matter now. You’ve had a shock and are under a strain. I am quite willing to forget that you spoke to me in an unfortunate manner. Only”—she paused, and that air of quiet authority invested her again—“it must not happen again. Goodnight, Nurse.”
“Goodnight, Sister.” If Geraldine were a trifle subdued she concealed the fact behind a slightly blank expression.
Alma went out of the room, closing the door behind her, and at last she was free to seek the sanctuary of her own room.
It seemed hours and hours since she had left it, at the earnest behest of little Nurse Spurling, and so much had happened in between that it was hard to assess how much life had changed.
Once more, in the most incredible way, Jeremy and she were under the same roof. To some extent that seemed the most important change which had taken place. He was here again—within reach at any time.
At least, in a manner of speaking. As Theatre Sister, she had not, of course, the right to go running in and out of patients’ rooms. She would have to find some reason for going in to see him. Just as Geraldine would. Or was Geraldine more fortunately placed, as a member of the ordinary nursing staff? Room Fourteen might well be within her area of duty.
Alma found she disliked this idea profoundly. But it was too late to start tormenting herself about future possibilities. If she were to be fit for her work next day, she must go to bed and to sleep at once. And so used was Alma to disciplining herself in this way that, even on this night of nights, she managed not to lie awake longer than ten minutes.
The next day was not so busy as her first one. But there was very little time for private interests, and not until the evening did Alma find a legitimate opportunity for enquiring about Jeremy.
Sister Evans—that redoubtable pillar of the nursing profession who did not believe in either breaking or bending rules—had just come on duty, and she looked surprised when Alma came to ask after the patient in Room Fourteen.
“He seems quite popular with the staff,” she commented a trifle acidly. “You’re the second one that’s come to enquire in the last ten minutes.”
“I expect that was Nurse Grayce,” Alma replied calmly. “We both happen to know him.”
“Is that so? Why couldn’t she tell me that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. She’s young and not very good at expressing herself, I daresay.” Once more she wondered why it should fall to her lot to smooth her rival’s path. “She may even be a little self-conscious about her connection with Mr. Perring and be leaning over backwards not to seem to impose on that.”
“Not she,” retorted Sister Evans, who prided herself on belonging to the old school”, and obviously conceded Alma a certain measure of respect only because of her position as Theatre Sister. “Nurse Grayce never worried about imposing on anything or anyone.”
“Well, at least it was natural for her to enquire about her friend or acquaintance or whatever he is.” She made that sound commendably casual. “And now”—Alma smiled winningly—“I’m enquiring too. How is Mr. Truscott?”
“Still unconscious.”
“Still!” She tried not to show the personal, painful quality of her alarm, but she could not have succeeded very well because Sister Evans said, in a gruffly reassuring sort of way,
“It’s not unusual in a case like this, as you know.”
“No, perhaps not. But—” She stopped helplessly.
“I know. It’s different when it’s someone that matters to you personally.” Sister Evans sighed unexpectedly and, still more unexpectedly, patted Alma’s arm.
“Thank you. He was—is, I mean—rather a good friend,” Alma felt bound to explain, though she wondered if she were committing herself too far in saying even this.
“I know what it’s like.” The older woman nodded. “I’m a widow, you know. And my husband died after a very similar sort of accident.”
“Oh, I’m so very sorry! But—but Jeremy isn’t going to die.” It was an assertion, more than a question.
“We’ll hope not. Not if we can help it, anyway.”
“May I go in and see him?”
“I don’t see why not. Nurse Grayce has been in,” replied the other woman. But whether with a touch of cynicism or merely as a statement of her idea of fair shares for all, Alma was not sure.
She went quietly into the room and across to the bed where Jeremy lay—so still that a dreadful fear invaded her for a moment, until she noticed the very gentle rise and fall of his breathing.
Against the white of the bandages, his face showed grey and leaden, and there was something strangely boyish and defenceless about him as he lay there.
Alma felt her heart go out to him in loving pity and forgiveness. He might have treated her badly, played with her affections, put her aside for someone else. But—he was Jeremy, and she could not judge him harshly in that moment.
For quite a long while she stood looking down at him, her thoughts full of those lovely times when they had shared so much together and, as she thought, looked forward to such a wonderful future. Perhaps she had assumed too much. Perhaps—
And at that moment Jeremy opened his eyes and stared up at her. At first his expression was blank and puzzled. Then, slowly, it cleared and a very faint smile touched his pale lips.
“Hello—Alma—darling—” he said, slowly and weakly.
“Hello.” She hardly dared to breathe, but she too forced a smile to her rather unsteady lips.
“You’ve been—away—a long time.”
“But I’m back now,” she said, gently and reassuringly.
“Yes. You’re back—now.” And he smiled again, that faint curiously satisfied smile, and the heavy lids came down over his eyes once more.
She stood there still, not daring to ask herself what his words had meant. People often said the strangest and most irrelevant things when they first drifted back from unconsciousness. But—he had known her. He had called her by her name, and added the heart-warming word “darling”.
And, if that last stumbling sentence meant anything, it meant that he was aware of having missed her—sometime, somehow.
“Oh—” With a soft exclamation of something between joy and anguish, Alma pressed her hands to her lips.
Had half her doubts and suspicions been unfounded? Had she mistaken a purely temporary defection for a complete change of heart? Or was it just that, floating somewhere between past and present, he had instinctively recalled a vanished mood which had once meant a great deal to him?
Tom by conflicting emotions, Alma tur ted away at last and slipped out of the room—to find Sister Evans, standing by one of the windows in the corridor, studying a junior nurse’s report which appeared to give her little satisfaction.
She glanced up as Alma came abreast of her.
“Well? How did he seem to you?”
“He—he spoke to me!” Alma simply could not control the lilt in her voice, and she knew that her eyes were shining in a way quite unsuitable to the mood of a conscientious theatre sister, with an academic interest in one of the patients.
“He spoke? He’s not supposed to talk,” Sister Evans said severely. “What did he say?”
“He said ‘Hello ’ ”
“Come, that wasn’t excessive,” conceded Sister Evans, and her mouth twitched slightly, although she had not a highly developed sense of humor. “And he spoke my name.”
“Oh—he knew you?” The other nurse looked interested. “That’s good. Sometimes, after an injury like that, they’re completely blank. Or blank about whole chunks of their previous experience. But he quite definitely knew you?”
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