Ruby Chadwick

by Ruby Chadwick (retail) (epub)

  The feeling of lethargy momentarily left Bernard. Yes, he kept abreast of current affairs. He prided himself on his knowledge of world events, and yes, he had heard of Lister and read about his amazing techniques. He had also read that until very recently, although surgeons were grateful for the invention of chloroform, the majority of London’s doctors and surgeons had ridiculed and scorned his revolutionary methods, even though their Scottish counterparts had been using them successfully for years. At any other time Bernard would have taken great pleasure in demonstrating his knowledge to the man sitting before him, but not now.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve no doubt that he is a great man. It’s a pity he hasn’t applied his brilliant mind to the curing of disease rather than the simpler method of removing it.’ Bernard’s voice was bitter. ‘Perhaps you would like to inform my ten-year-old daughter how lucky she is to have had her accident in such an enlightened age?’

  Mr Davis looked at Dr Benson, then back to Bernard. He could feel the anger, sense the grief that was consuming the man sitting dejectedly in the chair facing him. His keen eyes took in the clenched white fists that Bernard held on his knees, and knew the man was near breaking-point. ‘Mr Chadwick, I suggest that you sign the form, say goodnight to Ruby and then go home to your wife. I intend to operate at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. It means having to rearrange my schedule, but I’m fully prepared to do so on your daughter’s behalf.’

  ‘That’s good of you,’ said Bernard dully.

  Knowing that any further conversation would be futile, Mr Davis once more pushed the offending piece of paper across the desk. Bernard stared at it while both men held their breath, then slowly released it as he picked up a pen and carelessly scrawled his name at the bottom of the form before flinging the pen down with such force it rebounded off the desk and onto the polished floor.

  Without a word, Mr Davis leant over and retrieved the pen, placing it back in its rightful place on the table before saying, ‘Would you like to say goodnight to your daughter? I think it would be best to get her settled. Obviously I shall give her something to make her sleep, so you need have no worries about her lying awake in torment and distress all night.’

  Bernard scraped back his chair and walked towards the door without answering. The time for words was long past. He was about to wrench open the door when Mr Davis spoke again.

  ‘We are very proud here at Guy’s, Mr Chadwick. I know there are many hospitals in London where I wouldn’t send a sick animal for treatment, let alone a loved one, so whatever you may have heard about the medical profession, please believe me when I say that I and the rest of my staff will do everything in our power to comfort and reassure Ruby and will try to the best of our ability to ease her suffering, both in mind and body.’

  Anxious to leave before he broke down, Bernard gave a curt nod, then swiftly left the room.

  * * *

  ‘Now listen to me, Ruby. I have to go home and tell your mother what has happened. You know how she worries. And what about the boys? They will be anxious too.’

  ‘But, Father, I don’t like it here. I’m frightened! Please take me home? My leg feels much better now, honest it does! Please, Father, take me home! Don’t leave me here!’

  Gently disentangling his hand, Bernard looked to the Sister for help. Taking her cue from the beseeching look in the smartly dressed man’s eyes, Sister Anne broke into the conversation. She had witnessed this painful scene so many times, but it never got any easier. ‘Now, then, Ruby, let your father go. The doctor will be here soon to give you something to stop your leg hurting and to make you sleep, and when you wake up, your mother will be here.’

  Tearing his eyes away from Ruby’s terrified face, Bernard got unsteadily to his feet. His forehead broke out into a sweat and the floor seemed to come up and smack him right between the eyes. Shaking his head helplessly, he stumbled from the bedside and staggered drunkenly down the ward with Ruby’s screams ringing in his ears.

  ‘No, Father, don’t go! Oh, please don’t leave me here. I’ll be good, I promise. Father, Father, oh please!’

  He was at the entrance to the ward now, the tears spilling down his white shirt. He heard a last agonised cry behind him.

  ‘Father! Father, come back! Come back, Dad! Dad…’

  ‘Oy, look where you’re going, mate! You nearly ran me over. You drunk or summink?’

  * * *

  Bernard sat up sharply, his hands tightening on the slack reins, his mumbled apology lost above the noise coming from behind the brightly lit windows of the King’s Arms. Pulling the horses to an abrupt stop, he sat for a moment longer, then brought the whip down lightly on the horses’ backs, guiding them towards the stables at the back of the pub. Jumping down from the wooden seat, he caught hold of their bridles and led them into the straw-covered stalls before sinking wearily to the ground. He wished now he had accepted William’s offer to come home with him to break the news to Daisy. After he had left the hospital, with the concerned doctor by his side, he had slunk down in the corner of the plush carriage, staring through the small window into the dark. No words had been spoken until they had arrived back at his father’s house, where William had broached the subject of accompanying him home, but Bernard had been in no mood for company. He hadn’t even bothered to enter the house to see his father, merely shrugging off William’s offer of help and ignoring the doctor’s genuine concern. He could hardly wait for the servants to saddle up his horses so that he could be gone.

  The sounds of nearby drunken laughter brought his head up slowly. He must go in to Daisy. She would have heard the horses enter the yard and would be waiting for him… for them. And still he sat, outwardly calm, his mind seething with suppressed anger, until the soft nuzzling of a horse’s face against his own brought him back to reality. Raising his red-rimmed eyes, he gazed at the cause of his misery. Still calm, he gently released Nobby from the shafts of the carriage, ignoring Lady, who stood waiting patiently for her turn. Free of his shackles, Nobby trotted off to the bale of hay in the corner of his stall. The soft whinny behind him caused Bernard to clench his fists, then, as if touching something loathsome, he began to free Lady from the carriage. The anger was burning fiercely now, he could feel it travelling through his body from the tightening of his stomach to the red mist that slowly dropped over his eyes. He grabbed the whip he had earlier thrown down onto the straw, then, looking into the soft trusting brown eyes only inches from his face, he brought his arm up high in the air.

  * * *

  At the sound of the horses entering the yard, Daisy’s head came up from her sewing, her face relaxing into a smile of relief. Thank God they were home! Turning to where the two boys sat at the kitchen table listlessly playing with their red and blue soldiers, she said lightly, ‘There, you see, they’re home. I told you not to worry, didn’t I?’ Her voice trembled slightly as she laid her sewing down and got to her feet. ‘Now, put those toys away. I don’t want any arguments when Ruby comes in, for you know she doesn’t like you playing with her soldiers,’ she said, indicating the line of red soldiers that George was lining up for combat.

  ‘That’s not fair, Mother! She always has the English soldiers. Me and Bertie always have to play with the French soldiers, and they always lose!’

  But Daisy was already at the kitchen door, now wide open, as she anxiously scanned the dark alley towards the stables. Why were they taking so long to come in? She knew Bernard had to untether the horses and settle them down for the night, but where was Ruby? She shivered in the cold night air and hugged herself to try to get some warmth into her body.

  ‘Shall I go and see what’s keeping them, Mother?’ Bertie stood beside her, his face mirroring her concern.

  Daisy nodded, but before he could move, they both jumped as the shrill scream rent the air. ‘Oh my God!’ Clutching her throat, she stood transfixed, the sound of the horse’s agony cutting through her brain. Suddenly she knew. Knew what had happened to make them so late, knew for certain that R
uby wasn’t in the stable with Bernard, and knew with sickening certainty what was happening in the stables. Picking up her skirt, she ran towards the sounds of the screams with Bertie close behind. Pulling the door wide, she looked into the gloom and put her hand out to stop Bertie from coming any nearer. ‘Go and get Jack. Quickly, now!’

  Bertie looked at his mother, his eyes wide with fright, and then at another piercing scream he screwed up his eyes as if in pain and ran hell for leather towards the pub. ‘Jack! Jack, come quickly! Something awful’s happening. Mother says to come quickly!’

  Jack and Lily looked at Bertie in amazement, his body trembling, his head barely reaching the top of the bar counter.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong? ’Ere, turn the noise down, you lot! The little lad’s in trouble and I can’t ’ear what ’e’s saying. Come on, shut yer noise!’Jack bellowed, his voice cutting through the laughter and singing.

  Heads began to turn towards the smartly dressed young boy, his face red from running, his eyes staring from his head in fright and anxiety. The noise abated as the customers, sensing a drama unfolding, craned their necks to see what was going on.

  ‘That’s better,’ Jack shouted into the now quietened room. ‘Now then, me lad, what seems to be the trouble?’ Bertie was saved from answering as Lady’s terrified screams carried through to the packed bar. ‘Bloody ’ell! What was that?’

  ‘It’s Father, Jack! He’s hurting one of the horses. Oh, come and help! Please!’ His errand completed, Bertie turned and began to force his way back through the crowd, his young mind in a turmoil. He had just told a room full of strangers that his father was hurting a helpless animal, but it was true – he had seen him beating Lady before Daisy had pushed him away.

  ‘Stay here, Lily. I’d better see what’s going on,’ Jack ordered, his face worried. As he raced from the pub he was aware of a handful of men following him and was grateful for the company. He didn’t fancy tackling the Guv’nor on his own, whatever the reason.

  Within seconds, the men were standing in front of the open stable doors, and what they saw made them stop dead in their tracks. The woman and young boy were struggling with the tall man whom most of the men present recognised as the toffee-nosed owner of the pub they had just left. But this man before them bore no resemblance to the publican who stood behind the bar, serving them drinks as if he were doing them a favour. None of Bernard’s customers had any love for him, and the anger they had felt over the years now boiled over at the sight of the helpless horse now lying still on the dirty straw, its body covered in blood. As one man they burst into the stable, gently pulling Daisy and Bertie to one side, prising their hands from Bernard’s arms as he continued to beat the unconscious horse.

  ‘Bastard!’ spat one of the men as he grabbed the whip from Bernard.

  The man’s action sounded like a signal, and the rest of them poured into the stall, punching and kicking at Bernard as he cowered against the wall. Offering no sign of resistance, his eyes clouded, he looked from one angry face to another before sliding down the wall while the blows continued to rain down upon him.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it! Leave him alone!’ Daisy’s voice was joined to Bertie’s as they rushed to his aid. Shielding his body with their own, they glared up at the men through tear-filled eyes. ‘Get out!’ she screamed at them. ‘Get out, or I’ll set the constables on you! You’ve nearly killed him! There was no need, no need…’ Her voice broke off into sobs as the men, quiet now, shambled back from the three people lying huddled together on the floor. One by one they backed away until only Jack and the man who had wrenched the whip from Bernard’s hand remained.

  ‘No need, missus,’ the man said angrily. ‘No need, you say? What about that poor beast lying there beaten half to death? Your husband got what he deserved – a taste of his own medicine – and if you ask me, it’s been long overdue!’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Daisy sobbed brokenly. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘No, I reckon you’re right there, missus. I don’t understand. If you want to tell the constables, well, Jack here knows where to find me.’ So saying, the man turned sharply on his heel and disappeared into the night.

  ‘Come on, Mrs Chadwick, let’s get the Guv’nor into the house.’ Jack was kneeling by their side, his big red face displaying mixed signs of bewilderment and worry. He didn’t like the Guv’nor, but would never have thought him a cruel man, not this kind of cruelty, anyway. Reaching out, he helped Daisy to her feet, then with her assistance managed to get Bernard standing, his face still bearing a look of puzzlement. With Daisy and Jack on either side of him, he stumbled into the dark night towards the house.

  Left alone, Bertie dropped to his knees beside the now still horse. His eyes were blind with tears as he gently put his arms round the bloodied body. ‘Why, Father? Why did you do it? Lady never hurt anybody,’ he sobbed wildly, his body shaking with emotion and fear, and then his eyes widened as comprehension dawned upon him. ‘Ruby?’Jumping quickly to his feet, he desperately scanned the empty space. ‘Ruby, where are you?’

  * * *

  Miles away in a darkened ward, the night sister looked down at the sleeping man sprawled in the uncomfortable chair beside the narrow bed. Tentatively she reached out a hand and touched his shoulder.

  ‘Mr Davis, sir?’

  The surgeon jumped, startled from his light sleep.

  ‘You should get some proper rest, sir. You’ve a long day tomorrow.’ She spoke in a hushed, almost apologetic tone.

  ‘Yes, you’re quite right, Sister, I have a long day tomorrow. Thank you.’ The words were kind but dismissive and the sister took the hint, creeping back silently into the dark.

  Looking down at the sleeping child, Mr Davis gently stroked her soft cheek, feeling the dried tears that lay upon it.

  ‘And how will you face tomorrow, you poor little mite? Sleep soundly, Ruby, and pray to your God for strength to see you through the rest of your life.’

  Chapter Nine

  The small group of students made their way across the hospital courtyard, their cumbersome textbooks hugged closely to their chests. As they reached the dark green door that led to the operating theatre, they were joined by four of their colleagues. Pairing off, they climbed the stairs, the older, more experienced, ones deep in conversation while the younger few chattered excitedly, their voices high and over-bright as they tried to disguise their nervousness at the prospect of witnessing their first operation. Upon entering the theatre, the young men became separated as they pushed and shoved through the throng of students already present, each one desperately trying to get the best possible position in the already overcrowded gallery.

  The theatre had a semi-circular floor, on which stood a small operating table screwed down by angle irons. The table was covered with a blanket, over which lay a large sheet of brown oilcloth. Placed at the foot of the table was a wooden box filled with sawdust, its purpose to catch the rivulets of blood that ran off the oilcloth during the operation. Another table stood nearby, the rows of instruments laid neatly out in readiness for the surgeon of the day. Against the wall in the far corner was a small basin, about the size of a large soup-plate, in which the surgeons washed their hands after operating. Some of the younger surgeons, like Mr Davis, took the trouble to wash before operating as well. Above the basin hung a board bearing the inscription: ‘Miseratione non mercede’ (From compassion, not for gain). Alongside the basin was a row of pegs bearing the operating frock-coats, stiff and stinking with pus and blood. Next to these hung three grocers’ bib-and-aprons, fashioned of non-absorbent material, for the more advanced surgeons.

  The operating floor was separated by a partition from the rising stand places. The first two rows of benches were reserved for the surgeons, dressers and assistants. Behind the second partition stood the students, packed like herrings in a barrel, but not nearly as quiet, as those behind continually pressed forward to get a glimpse of what was going on. The semi-circular standings rose
in tiers that nearly reached the large skylight which lighted the theatre.

  The babble suddenly ceased as the door to the left of the theatre opened to admit Mr Davis and his assistants, followed closely by two porters carrying a small child on a stretcher. While the porters placed the patient on the operating table, Mr Davis and his assistants donned the bib-and-aprons. Ignoring the gasps of sympathy that came from the student gallery at the sight of the auburn-haired girl lying still and vulnerable, they proceeded to wash their hands.

  ‘Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?’ Mr Davis was forced to raise his voice to make himself heard as the voices grew louder in the stands. ‘Thank you,’ he said more quietly, as the noise abated. ‘The patient is ten years of age. She received a severe blow to her left leg some three weeks ago, but was brought into the hospital only yesterday. Upon examining her, I discovered she had a very high temperature and was feeling generally unwell. Further examination of the leg showed an area of swelling that was hot and tender to the touch; the said area was also dripping pus. This observation led me to believe that bacteria had settled in the wound, causing dead tissue and inflammation. My diagnosis is a condition called osteomyelitis, and unless immediate surgery is carried out, infection will set in, causing blood poisoning. In short, gentlemen, unless I amputate the infected leg, she will undoubtably die.’

  He paused to let the students digest this information before continuing. ‘One of my assistants will hold the leg above the knee, the other will hold the foot below the calf. I shall then use a curved knife designed to permit an incision called the “Tour de Maitre”. This is a movement by which a rapid circular division of skin and muscle can be made. I shall then use the saw to complete the amputation.’