Nurse Errant

by Lucilla Andrews

  ‘Must I?’ Angela Gerrard had a pleasant voice. ‘I’d much rather come with you two.’

  ‘And nothing would give us greater pleasure, but it can’t be done tonight. Old Michael has work to do, and I have to get home to take that call from my boss in town. I’ll be back later.’ The vicarage front door closed; evidently she had gone in. I was still hesitating, wondering if to call to them or not, when again Paddy’s voice prevented me.

  ‘For God’s sake, Mike, let’s make tracks fast. If Lesley finishes practising before we’re away it’ll be the end.’

  Mike said reluctantly. ‘I take it you know what you’re doing? Lesley’s all right. She won’t hold it against you.’

  ‘I’m not hanging around to find out if she does or not. Altruism is a fine thing, but no man with any sense’ll hitch his wagon to that particular star. Man, let’s go!’

  Chapter Eight

  PADDY MAKES A MISTAKE

  The aisles and rows of benches were darkened. One light shone over the pulpit, another high above the chancel rail.

  ‘Quiet, please, everybody!’ The vicar’s head came round the organ screen as the murmur of voices faded. ‘First chords, now, Nurse.’ He disappeared. ‘Monica, will you read Mrs Buddy’s part until she arrives.’

  ‘ “Watchman!” ’ demanded Mrs Carter sternly, ‘ “Watchman, what of the night?” ’

  ‘ “The night is far spent and all is dark …” ’

  I held my hands in my lap, listening and remembering how dark it had seemed when Mike’s car vanished. The stars had still been there. I had not seen them.

  Someone tugged my sleeve. ‘You can look if you like, Nurse.’ Lindy’s face was close to mine. ‘If you peep through that slit there, you can see it all. Mrs Jefferson,’ she hissed, ‘always watches.’

  ‘Hallo. Thanks.’ I peered through the slit to please her.

  She pressed her face to another convenient crack. ‘Mr Arbuthnot is always the Watchman. Dave Hassell’s John the Baptist. You know Dave, Nurse’ ‒ she was back in my ear ‒ ‘the one what works on the railways. Dad says he has to be John the Baptist ’cause he’s ever so thin and looks like he never ate nothing but locusts and wild honey, neither. But the vicar, he said as it’s ’cause Dave’s got a real lovely voice for speaking.’

  The tall, dark-haired youth under the pulpit light had his grandfather’s fine-drawn face. He was a little older than Dickie. His speaking voice with its slow marsh drawl was exquisite. I would have enjoyed it more had I not been reminded of Paddy.

  In the interval caused by the arrival of the spotlight, I asked Lindy what part she played.

  She beamed with pride. ‘This year I’m big enough to be a Little Angel. I used to be only one of the Children of Jerusalem. Billy’s a Child. Children,’ she added with contempt, ‘are too young to come to late rehearsals. Mrs Carter asked Mum special if I could be a Little Angel and come tonight. Mum said I could as it’s so near Christmas.’

  ‘Lindy, how splendid! What are you going to wear?’

  ‘Nurse, real smashing things! A long white dress with lots and lots of silver things all over it ‒ and a silver band round my head ‒ and my hair all down ‒ and I’m going to carry a candle what’s lighted proper.’

  ‘You will look fine. Do you all act in this play?’

  She said they sort of grew up in it. ‘Like Dave Hassell. He did used to be a Child, then a Small Shepherd, then a Big Shepherd, and now as he speaks lovely he’s the What-you-call-it in the Wilderness.’

  ‘The Voice?’

  She nodded approvingly. ‘That’s right, Nurse, Jonny Mercer and Paul Withers have moved up from Children this year same as me. They’re Small Shepherds. And next year our twins are going to be Children.’

  There was a scuffle behind us. Five small girls had arrived. ‘More Little Angels? Want to watch?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, please, Nurse,’ they chorused.

  We huddled round the slits while the vicar regrouped his actors. ‘General, shall we try your legionaries in single file?’

  ‘Battle order, eh, Vicar?’ bellowed an unmistakably military voice. ‘Right you are, men! You heard the vicar!’

  Lindy explained. ‘General Donovan-Somers is always the Centurion. That’s him up front. And that’s George Mercer and Will Arbuthnot just after him. They been doing their National Service, and the vicar said as he thought they’d be smashing Roman soldiers and not just shepherds as they’d know how to march real smart.’ She was briefly silent, then, ‘It’ll be the shepherds next. You best be ready for While shepherds watched.’

  Ten minutes later, she nudged me again. ‘We three Kings, Nurse.’

  Mrs Carter moved from her prompter’s chair when the kings were in place. ‘Gervase, that spotlight’s wrong. More left. That’s better.’

  A new light, more brilliant than previously, illuminated the pulpit.

  ‘Gabriel,’ breathed Lindy, ‘Jennie Ebony. She’ll wear a special gold dress. It’s Mrs Carter’s, and ever so fine.’

  Mrs Carter came round to us. ‘Get ready, Little Angels. Take your candles ‒ no ‒ not lighted tonight. Go in slowly, one behind the other, the way I showed you.’

  Lindy caught my eye. ‘It came upon the midnight clear,’ she whispered, then slid into position behind Jacqueline Arbuthnot.

  They were all in their school clothes. Lindy had lost one of her pig-tail bows; Jacqueline’s blazer was streaked with the dust she had removed to improve her peep-hole in the very old screen; Rosemary Hassell’s tie was under one ear; and as the three other children had been sharing the same peep-hole and shoving each other’s heads aside for the last half-hour, they looked as if they had not used a hairbrush in years. Yet, when they carefully circled round the grouped players, with their unlit candles held high and baby-faces solemn with excitement, they looked exactly like little angels.

  Ken Mathers left for London by ambulance early next morning. I wanted to see him off, so I started my round at the wrong end. Mrs Siddons went up with him. She wanted to see him safe in his new hospital, and then to have an afternoon looking at the shops and Christmas decorations before taking the last train home.

  Mrs Croxley, one of the other coastguard wives, was one of my ante-natal mothers. It was not my day for seeing her, but her time was near, she was having her sixth baby, so I looked in to see how she was. Dr Bowers and I had tried to persuade her to have the child in hospital, since the complications of childbirth can increase when a woman has already borne five children. She had been adamant. ‘I like having me babies at home, Nurse. I wouldn’t feel right going off leaving my Donald and the kids. And they’re all that pleased about the new one.’

  I found her repainting her much-used pram. She said she felt well in herself, if a little tired. ‘You do get tired times when the baby’s near, Nurse.’ She stood up carefully. ‘It’s worth it. I miss not having a baby round the house now the others are at school all day. Place seems shocking empty.’

  Later, she wanted to see me to my car. I said I did not think she should. ‘There’s a gale blowing up and it’s very slippery.’ She looked through her front-room window at the great grey white-flecked waves rolling in.

  ‘My Donald said this morning there’d be rough weather coming. Least it means no mist. You’ll be glad, eh, Nurse? Don’t reckon you’ve forgot our last.’

  ‘No, indeed.’ I hoped my smile did not look as artificial as it felt.

  The wind screamed round the car on the open range, behind the wind the sea hammered urgently, demanding its lost entry. The sea-wall had been newly strengthened. It was solid concrete, and at every few hundred yards there were high mounds of sandbags waiting as a precaution. I had started out an hour early. I had a little time still in hand. Without stopping to analyse my motive ‒ not that it needed much ‒ I made a detour round the far side of the lighthouse, stopped the car in Red Rose Lane, and walked over to look out on the Stepping Stones.

  The tide was in and high. The flooded dykes had spilled
over. All but a few yards of the path winding round and between the dykes was covered. The wind flicked up miniature waves on the flooded dykes, flattened the few visible rushes, and thrust open the tight faces of the carpets of sea-pinks on the rocks above the water-line.

  The net-house we had used was the only building in sight. It looked old as eternity and far smaller than I had imagined. The rough-stone walls seemed to have grown from the one solid patch of ground on which it stood; they were firm against the wind and flying spray. It was again in use as a shelter. The doorway was filled with sea-birds standing in packed rows, gazing out at the weather.

  Something Paddy said that night floated through my mind like an echo of a half-forgotten song. ‘Stop looking back, darling. Always a big mistake. Get’s one nothing but a stiff neck.’

  I went back to the car.

  My district stopped being busy that morning, even though it was an injection day. One of the points district work had in common with hospital nursing was the inexplicable way in which all my patients were very sick or badly injured together, and all convalesced at the same time. In hospital, all the wards are simultaneously hectic or slack. No one can ever properly explain why. It’s just a fact. I did not wish an epidemic of emergencies to break out on the marsh, but I would then have definitely preferred a rush. Peaceful drives from one injection or convalescent patient to another left far too much time for thought. Thought and Paddy were at present synonymous terms to me. I kept turning over his remarks outside the vicarage. I did not want to do that. I gave myself a stern warning about behaving like a love-sick teenager, and tried to pretend it was a huge joke. That did not work, either.

  I drove past Mike’s car in our village on my way back for lunch. He turned and drove up to our cottage.

  ‘I can’t come in, Lesley, thanks. I just wanted to tell you I’ve fixed things with Bowers. You’ll note I’m taking your advice?’

  I said I was delighted and asked if he had seen Ann.

  ‘With luck I’ll get over to the County this afternoon. Bowers is standing in for me until five. You’ll be over?’

  ‘I hope so. Don’t forget it’s not a visiting day. You’ll have to pull a string with the Ward Sister.’

  He smiled slightly. ‘That I’ve done.’

  ‘Have you, now? Nice work, Mike.’

  ‘I’ve wasted a hell of a lot of time. I don’t want to waste more.’ He got back into his car. ‘I hear you did your stuff on the organ last night. Sorry I couldn’t get in to listen. I was tied up with a patient.’

  I appreciated his tact. His acting surprised me. I would not have thought he could do it so well. He had managed to sound sincere. I murmured something trite about a G.P. working nonstop even on a day off, and asked if he had enjoyed his visit to Albion.

  ‘Frankly, no.’ He fiddled with the gears. ‘The business I went to do had to be done. Wasn’t much fun.’

  That made me curious, but as he patently did not want to discuss the matter, I let it be. ‘Mrs Graves decide to take the house with bay windows?’

  He gazed at me blankly. ‘House? Oh, God, yes. I’d forgotten. I’m not sure. Paddy’ll tell you when he gets back from town.’

  ‘He’s in London? I didn’t know he was going up.’

  ‘You know what he’s like for dashing off at a tangent.’ He smiled again. ‘He mayn’t be away long. I must be going, or Mrs Grimmond’ll look sad because I’m late for lunch.’

  I did not get to see Ann that day. Just as I was about to leave, Mr Buckley rang. ‘Nurse, can you come along to the farm? John Gould, one of my hands, has cut himself on the electric saw.’

  ‘Badly?’ I ran mentally through our G.P.s. If Dr Bowers was standing in for Mike he would be at afternoon surgery in the next village. That left Dr Carruthers for emergency calls. ‘Like me to let Dr Carruthers know as well?’

  ‘It’s not enough to get him over, Nurse. But for Rosie Jones, I wouldn’t be bothering you. I’d strap the boy up and send him to afternoon surgery in my van. Unfortunately young Rosie is one of those girls who turns into a jelly at the sight of an accident. She’s fainting all over the place, my wife’s away for the day, and I really would be grateful if you’d provide a womanly touch.’

  ‘I’ll be along, Mr Buckley.’

  The sleeve of John Gould’s leather jacket had saved him from a bad injury. The long cut in the fleshy part of his right arm should be fine after stitching. I bandaged and fixed a sling on that arm, then dealt with Rosie’s attack of the vapours.

  Mr Buckley gave me the freedom of his wife’s kitchen. ‘These things have to happen when we’re in the midst of turkey plucking. How is that child?’ he asked, looking in as I was refilling a kettle.

  ‘I’ve given her sal volatile and tea. She’s still a bit shaken. Is John her young man?’

  ‘M’wife say so. Why?’

  ‘Just that she seemed unmoved by the turkey slaughtering. She’s been giving me the details. But she’s genuinely off-colour now.’

  Mr Buckley bore no resemblance to my pre-district nursing picture of a farmer. He was a neat, brisk man with a military carriage and thin intellectual face. ‘That means you think she ought to have the afternoon off. John with her.’ He smiled grimly. ‘You win, Nurse.’

  ‘I’m sorry this should happen at plucking time. How’s your wrist? Mrs Carter told me about it.’

  ‘Last time I remembered it, it was hurting like the devil. Being the boss, I’m just using it. Thanks for coming along.’

  Rosie lived a few cottages down from the hall that was used for afternoon surgery in our next village. She stayed in the car when I took John Gould into the waiting-room. I went in to Dr Bowers as soon as the next patient came out.

  ‘I’ll have him in now, Nurse.’ Dr Bowers washed his hands. ‘The others won’t mind queue-jumping. They’ve all worked on the land at some time. Then I’ll run him back to his mother later. And you’ll see to Rosie?’ He set a hypodermic tray. ‘By the way, glad the news of your sister is good. Seems I put my foot in things the other day. You’ll have to forgive me.’

  ‘I will, Doctor.’

  He smiled over his glasses, boomed that from now on discretion would be his middle name. Then stopped smiling. ‘I was sorry to hear Hilton Blake’s verdict from Ellis. I was hoping he’d attempt something. Well, there it is. Most unfortunate. Now ‒ let’s have that John Gould.’

  I returned to Rosie feeling very puzzled. I did not know what Bowers was talking about, and, as the nurse, I ought to know. And who was this Hilton Blake? Apart from clearly being someone Mike had called in for consultation. Blake? I could not place him, yet the name was vaguely familiar.

  I asked Rosie.

  She shook her head. ‘Mum may know. Or Gran. Gran’s got a head for names.’

  Neither Mrs Jones was able to help. I turned the name over and over as I drove off. It niggled the way names do when you cannot place them. It was useless. I could not put a mental finger on the right spot.

  I gave up when I noticed the time. With luck I could get to Ann. Luck was not with me. Ten minutes later I had a puncture.

  Hilton Blake slipped from my mind until I was in bed that night. I was awake because the thoughts I had refused to think all day had come at me in a rush. It was while I was wondering about Paddy in London that I suddenly realised why I knew Hilton Blake’s name.

  He was the ophthalmic surgeon who had given a demonstration in our eye theatre when I was a third-year. What was the op? Cataract? Glaucoma? Corneal graft?

  I could not remember. I did recollect the small, square man with rimless glasses and slightly rasping voice.

  I thought back to Bowers’s remark. If he was hoping, why wasn’t I hoping too? Why hadn’t Mike mentioned calling him in? Mike was a great man for talking shop. There was probably a simple explanation, yet it was odd.

  I saw Ann early the following afternoon. She was much better. We had a long talk about her accident.

  ‘Lesley,’ she asked a little later. ‘A
re you being worked off your feet? You look as if you need this bed more than me.’

  As the only way to reassure her was to tell her the truth, I did. ‘Paddy? Darling, you’re not serious?’

  ‘My dear, I wish I wasn’t. Hold it ‒ here’s Mike. Keep it to yourself, Annie.’

  Mike joined us. ‘Having a busman’s holiday, too, Lesley?’

  ‘That’s right.’ I stood up. ‘I must go now as I’ve promised Mrs Carter I’ll look in on the Fair. You can have my chair.’

  ‘My dear girl, I don’t want to drive you away.’

  I explained I genuinely had to go. ‘Before I do, tell me something. Dr Bowers said you called in Hilton Blake for some verdict. That is the eye man?’

  He nodded absently. ‘I’ve a patient I’m a bit worried about.’

  ‘You got him down here?’

  ‘Uh-huh. He’s got a weekend cottage on the marsh.’ He turned to Ann. ‘Sorry about this shop.’

  I refused to take that hint. ‘All the same, you must have been more than a bit worried to get hold of one of the best eye men in England.’

  ‘Blake was handy.’

  ‘Who’s the patient? Anyone I know?’

  He considered me reflectively. ‘I don’t believe you know him at all.’

  ‘What’s the trouble?’

  He glanced meaningly at Ann, muttered a diagnosis under his breath that made me wince inwardly. He moved closer to Ann’s bed. ‘How’s the head?’

  I did not disturb him again. That diagnosis explained his reticence in front of Ann. And why he had called in Hilton Blake. We had had many patients with that condition in the eye ward at our hospital. Surgery had saved the sight of roughly a third; the others, like his patient, were inoperable.