Sombre-faced he motioned the sisters gently away from the side of the bed. The situation was of course, he murmured, serious. He wasn’t going to insult their intelligence and suggest otherwise. He didn’t like to speculate, but it had looked when she first collapsed, like a grand mal seizure however, if that were the case, he would certainly have expected her to come round by now. It was impossible now to say how long it might be before she returned to full consciousness. But better safe than sorry – round the clock nursing, full range of tests, scans, no stone left unturned. Other possible causes? Well, difficult to hazard a guess at this stage, possibility of a local trauma sustained during the Atkins incident, undetected at the time, subdural haematoma, fatal pressure. Worst case scenario? Well he didn’t want to worry them, but he wouldn’t be doing his job if he wasn’t giving some serious thought to emergency surgery.
The sisters twittered and sobbed, holding on to each other and the Doctor for reassurance, at the same time making a cold assessment of the time they had left. Ruth was convinced he’d go for it tonight, Rachael thought he might wait until morning. Both of them, and these were not women easily shocked at anything human nature threw up, were deeply alarmed at the strength and hunger of Dreck’s determination to get his hands on Glory’s brain. He was literally licking his mental chops at the chance of finding what made it tick and, perhaps, making it tick a whole lot louder in the future. It would also be awfully exciting, he thought if he could at the same time as stimulating her psi abilities, tone down, if not eradicate some of her more annoyingly individual personality traits. If he played his cauterisation tools right, he saw no reason why that shouldn’t be achieved. As he patted and nodded, soothed and sympathised, he was running a pleasing and rapidly unfolding scenario in his head – marathon operation, heroic effort, mopped brow. And the Peacocks, listening, knew they’d underestimated him once and couldn’t afford to make the same mistake twice.
The Doctor felt there was little the sisters could do for Glory that night. He also expressed concern, in view of her somewhat unusual sensitivities, that the agitation of her guardians might reach her and worsen her condition. He thought the best possible thing they could do, would be to head to a nearby hotel for a good night’s sleep. This proposed course of action was greeted with further hysteria by the sisters who swore they wouldn’t dream of moving so much as one step away from Glory’s sick-bed. A compromise was eventually reached in the form of a room for the night at the clinic and they were despatched, meanwhile, on the sturdy arm of Mrs Millsop to the small staff canteen. Despite both sisters dismissing, out of hand, any possibility they might force a crumb between their quivering lips they were, in fact able to put away, if not exactly enjoy, cheese omelette and chips followed by strong coffee and a slice of apple cake – these were after all, people who’d known what it was to go hungry. They were also aware they’d need all the energy and resources they could muster for the coming activities.
Miss Merry, gliding into their small but perfectly adequate clinic room later that evening, to ensure they had everything they needed and to give an update on Glory’s condition – sadly no change – brought them each a mild sleeping pill, compliments of the Doctor. The mild sleeping pills, they clearly read, were in reality strong enough to knock out a couple of good-sized cart horses and put them in la la land for at least twelve solid hours. Miss Merry didn’t seem altogether clear in her mind as to quite how the Doctor planned to explain that one away, maybe he hadn’t given it a lot of thought himself – maybe explanations were beginning to bother him less and less.
The sisters were pathetically grateful for the care and consideration they were receiving telling Miss Merry and each other, several times over, how fortunate it was that if this terrible thing had to happen to Glory, it had happened whilst she was still under the care of the Doctor. And what an exceptional man he was, to even in the midst of this crisis, give thought to their welfare. They were so very thankful for the pills because neither of them had imagined they were going to get one single wink, whereas this way, they’d be out like lights till the morning, by which stage perhaps the dear Doctor would have better news.
By the time Miss Merry popped back an hour later, both women were spark out, snoring in gentle harmony. Miss Merry nodded, satisfied and left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I couldn’t believe that at this point there would be a halt in the story, but Miss Peacock was suddenly getting busy, issuing us all with dark scarves and gloves. Ed had already donned a black knitted hat which, it has to be said, did him no favours, throwing into startling relief his pale complexion, sadly battered nose and stopping just short of his rather large ears. Still, if the aim of the game was to scare the pants of any opposition, they were on to a winner there. She was also handing round a black, viscous slightly gritty substance in a small tin.
“Camouflage?” I asked, half in horror half in amusement, wondering whether I’d also be required to balance some leaf-bedecked branches on my head. Miss Peacock gave me the look reserved by the impatient for the idiotic.
“Hardly, this is for the dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“They may have dogs patrolling and they dislike this smell, keeps them away long enough to let you deal with them. Spread some on your arms and neck.” I glanced around and Ruth nodded encouragingly her neck and wrist, already smeared. I smiled politely and complied. I felt the lunatics were taking over the asylum and I was along for the ride. I could smell though why dogs didn’t like it, I didn’t like it much either.
“Ready?” Miss Peacock eyed the troops and the troops, Glory, Ruth, Ed, Hamlet – who’d already demonstrated his displeasure at how we were all smelling – and me, all nodded back in a business-like way. And one of us – no names, no pack drill but in mitigation, I think a small note of hysteria might have crept in – snapped her a salute. She ignored me and we headed out to the van. We automatically sat in the same formation as before and as we drove through the darkness, they finished for me the final chapters of Glory’s Great Escape.
*
Ruth and Rachael had snored on gently until Miss Merry had gone. They’d gradually felt Glory coming round over the last half hour and even as Miss Merry’s coldly convoluted thought patterns were fading into the middle distance, the sisters were up and padding quietly in her wake.
Since her prompt action, which had undoubtedly saved the day at the time of the hoo ha with Peter, Mrs Millsop had, in the Doctors opinion, got a bit above herself. Nothing he could actually put his finger on, nothing on which he could take her to task, just an old fashioned look here, a frown there, a general air of potential insubordination. He’d decided therefore, in order to avoid any unnecessarily detailed explanations and justifications, it might be better for all concerned if Matron wasn’t actively involved in the evening’s planned emergency op. Accordingly, he’d instructed Miss Merry to slip another of those oh-so-useful sleeping pills into the strong black coffee Mrs Millsop was wont to knock back whenever she came off duty. In her stead, he planned to utilise the two agency nurses on duty that night, neither of whom had worked at the clinic previously and, the Doctor made a mental note, wouldn’t be asked to work there again. Not, he reassured himself, that he was doing anything in any way untoward, just that sometimes people were ultra-critical of forward-thinkers whose lot it was to advance the cause of medical knowledge. After all, he reasoned, what would the future of heart transplant surgery have been, had Christian Barnard, so recently hailed a hero, heeded the nay-sayers?
It was Miss Merry’s task to ensure Glory was up and kicking for her op. She needed to be conscious in order to react to the different brain stimuli. In fact, Glory had been awake for a little while and was being brought up to date on recent and pending events by the cavalry, which was even now, trotting briskly down the corridor, handbags tucked firmly under arms.
Leaning over Glory, to wake her, Miss Merry simply didn’t straighten up again,
just collapsed heavily across the bed with a small exhalation of surprise. Ruth was pleased. She hadn’t taken anybody out in quite a while and of course, it was something you always had to do carefully. Too little pressure and it didn’t work, too much and it worked too well, possibly permanently and whilst Miss M wouldn’t have been Ruth’s number one choice for best friend, she didn’t want the wretched woman on her conscience.
The Doctor meanwhile, stern faced, green-capped, was scrubbing. It was a while since he’d performed surgery but as he flexed his thin, somewhat elongated fingers under the hot water, he didn’t think they’d lost any of their dexterity. He’d always been quietly proud of his hands, inherited from his mother. She’d been rather elongated altogether; a tall, anxious, wraith of a thing – nerves, he was always told, Mother’s nerves aren’t good. Certainly she had a tendency to jump and emit little shrieks of shock at almost everything, which of course didn’t do a great deal for the nerves of those around her either. The young Karl had found that neither sidling into a room softly nor stomping loudly to make sure his mother was aware of his pending arrival, ever did anything to alleviate her start of surprise and severe palpitations whenever she saw him. She always said, one pale elegant hand pressed trembling to her narrow chest, that her heart would be the death of her one day. And indeed it was, although not until her late eighties.
The Doctor didn’t have a great deal of feeling for his late mother, her memory unfailingly evoking a certain jumpiness, but he was grateful for the fingers. He always felt that had he pursued surgery as his speciality, he’d quickly have risen through the ranks – still surgery’s loss was paediatrics’ gain. Hands pleasantly tingling, held upwards and away to avoid contamination, he looked round irritably for the nurse who should be waiting to glove and gown him, a process he particularly enjoyed. He fancied, he had about him, a look of Richard Chamberlain and never more so than when the rubber gloves slapped down tight over his wrists and the green of the gown threw the strong line of his jaw into bold relief. Swearing softly now, he strode to the swing doors opening into the clinic’s small operating theatre. He was incensed to see, that although the operating tray prepared and covered, was in place beside the adjustable, dentist-style chair – the patient had to be upright – and packs of sterile sheeting were ready for draping; of the patient herself there was no sign, nor a nurse to be seen.
This was because both nurses were sitting cross legged on the floor of the sluice room. They were extremely relaxed. The elder of the two, Edna-May Banks had returned to nursing now her kids were older and was peeved to find, that in all the years she’d spent at home, bemoaning an unfulfilled career, she’d somehow managed to overlook what bloody hard work it was. She wondered how she could possibly have forgotten there was always some bossy busy-knickers telling you what to do – medication here Nurse Banks, pressure and pre-meds there Nurse Banks, do a handstand and wiggle your ears Nurse Banks. Also faded in her mind, though of course she hadn’t had the varicose veins pre-kids, was the inordinate amount of time spent rushing around in squeaky-soled shoes on linoleum floors, from which the vibrations went right up the back of your calves, making head and legs ache.
Younger of the two nurses was Phillippa Betts. Phillippa Higginson as was. As was, of just three weeks ago in fact, confirmed by the shiny gold ring on her left hand, marker of her new status and state of happiness. And she was happy, ever so. Big white wedding, no expense spared to the barely concealed envy of her older sister – bridesmaid yet again with still no sign of any action of her own – and a pile of deliciously wrapped and bowed presents. Not to mention, a maisonette, spanking new from top to bottom. Fully fitted formica kitchen, small, but everything in it, full-length orange dralon curtains in the lounge and best of all, pale cream shag pile carpet. There was Tom too, of course. Mind you, in the two weeks since they’d got back from Spain he was always wanting to get busy. You’d think, wouldn’t you, she’d said to her Mum, one married woman to another, enough was enough and sometimes when you got in from work all you actually wanted was a cup of tea and a Maryland Cookie.
Phillipa turned back to Edna-May. They were doing a cat’s cradle with a length of suture thread. They’d several times got it to the stage of its third transformation, but that’s where they lost it and they were having trouble keeping hoots of laughter under control. Miss Peacock had suggested to each of them, a thought planted deep in their minds, that whilst they were fully entitled to sit down for a bit – and where better than the sluice room – it might be advisable if they kept the noise down. She’d suggested the cat’s cradle as a start and then intimated they might enjoy taking out the tight rolls of bandages kept in the supply cupboard, and seeing just how high they could build them, before the pile collapsed. Phillipa and Edna May, were valiantly stifling the giggles but the tangle they made on their next cat’s cradle attempt quite undid them and they were now rolling around the floor, scarlet faced and snorting.
The Doctor was nonplussed to say the least. At first he thought they’d been taken ill, but on further examination they seemed to be laughing. The sight of him in the open door, slack-jawed with hands still held absently out in front of him, was probably amusing. It certainly finished off Phillipa and Edna-May who, in extremis, quite forgot about keeping the sound down.
The Doctor backed hurriedly away. He needed Miss Merry and he needed her now. Whatever was at the bottom of this aberrant behaviour she’d deal with it in her normal competent way, he really couldn’t be expected to have to cope, not when he was about to operate. This thought pulled him back to the matter in hand. Where in hell’s name was the patient? Thoroughly incensed and aware he’d have to re-scrub, he let the sluice room door swing to and strode back across the operating theatre, thumping the empty chair hard as he passed and heading along the corridor to Glory’s room.
Miss Merry may have been thin as a rake, but to Glory lying underneath, the woman felt more like a lawn mower. She was also dribbling unpleasantly on Glory’s hand. Glory lifted her gently, surprised at how much of a mental effort it cost, she must have been pretty deeply unconscious to still feel so woozy, God knows what he’d injected her with. She sent the limp Miss Merry sailing unsteadily across the room to land, as softly as possible, in a corner, tucked neatly next to and partially supported by a drip-stand.
She’d pushed back the bedclothes, a far more gargantuan task than it should have been and was struggling to get out of bed as Ruth and Rachael arrived. Nobody wasted time talking. They’d brought underwear, slacks and a warm jumper and simply slipped these on under and over her nightgown, but their timing was out. They all three became aware at the same instant, of the Doctor heading purposefully towards them. He was keeping himself calm by chanting a meditation mantra, but it wasn’t helping.
They exchanged a few quick thoughts. They’d hoped to get out with as little fuss as possible and no confrontation. There was the window of course but Ruth vetoed that. Did she look, she inquired, like she was built for slipping through windows? The only other door led to the bathroom so, with Glory supported between them, that’s where they headed. There wasn’t a great deal of room in there, but they hoped they wouldn’t be stopping long.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The first thing to meet the Doctor’s eye, when he flung open the door was Glory’s empty bed. The second was the estimable Miss Merry propped, incommunicado, next to the drip-stand. His mind skittered, sought for and failed to find any kind of logical explanation. On top of the nurses’ behaviour it was really all too much.
He automatically bent to feel for a pulse, relieved to feel it strong and regular. He had no personal feelings for her but she was an extremely capable and reliable assistant. He regarded her sagging form with distaste and all three women in the adjoining bathroom, little as they liked the lady, were not sorry she was unconscious. A noise from the corridor outside made him straighten. Silently he moved across the room. He was most uncomfortable with the way things were going, not in their us
ual ordered fashion at all. And, until he had a better grasp of the situation, he had no intention of being caught unawares by any more unpleasant surprises.
Doors to patients’ rooms are hinged to open completely flat against the wall, allowing free entrance and exit for beds. It’s never a good idea to stand behind one. This was something the Doctor should have considered. When the door to Glory’s room burst open, it did so with some considerable force and cracked him soundly on the nose. Reeling from the blow, blood flowing freely through his fingers and seeing a lot of stars, he stumbled forward, to be confronted by an extremely unhappy Mrs Millsop.
As the Doctor had discerned, much as she liked and indeed needed her job, over the last weeks Mrs Millsop, an excellent and ethical nurse, had become subject to increasing concerns about what was going on. She didn’t know all the ins and outs, she did know though that when she’d come across Glory Isaacs doing something fishy with the drugs cabinet, she hadn’t had to think twice where her sympathies lay.
She was a down to earth sort of a woman and didn’t hold with a lot of airy fairy, arty farty theories, but things had been getting uncomfortably tense recently – take that incident with Peter and Glory – maybe mass hysteria, maybe not. In any event she was twitchy and when she’d taken a few gulps of eagerly anticipated coffee and detected an odd, bitter grittiness, she’d laughed at herself but had thrown it down the sink nevertheless and made fresh. Then, she’d found herself unable to keep her eyes open and had nodded off, jerking awake in annoyance because it was a crucial episode of the Forsyte Saga, highlight of the week, and she never ever fell asleep in front of the telly, however tired she might be.
Relatively Strange Page 24