Again I stuck to the truth. ‘There were a lot of people there, the lights were lousy and it was very late. What’s Dr Hawkins doing in Martha’s?’
‘Visiting my Mr Farler, of course. She’s got a few days off and if all’s well when he has his plaster changed tomorrow, once the walking plaster dries she’s driving him up. As she said, he can have his physiotherapy as well up there as down here. Pretty, sensible girl. We had a nice chat. I quite took to her and, from the speed with which she removed herself from S.W.2 when I ushered in the dashing Mr Cameron, I’m sure she shares my view that he’s just a little too smooth to be true. You mustn’t mind my saying this,’ she added as people invariably do before saying something the listener can’t avoid minding like hell, ‘but I think you should watch it with him. Obviously, he’s only got one thought in his mind, and you’re bound to be sex-starved. I suppose I am too, only I’ve never had the time to let it bother me.’
I loved my friends. Elspeth thought I should fall into Alistair’s arms with glad cries. Jilly wanted me to rush out and buy a chastity belt.
I stifled the urge to promise her I’d have cold baths.
‘Your spot diagnosis on Alistair’s right off, Jilly. He’s not randy. All that’s thrown you are his impeccable olde-worlde manners ‒ and a hell of a nice change they make after some others!’
‘I knew this would happen!’
I had had enough. ‘Unfortunately, nothing did. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you in the picture. Thanks for letting him in. ’Night.’
The wine had been very good, so it was not till I rang off that I realized Ruth couldn’t have told Jilly George had driven me down, or she’d have added that bleat. I wondered why Alistair hadn’t mentioned Ruth was in London, then remembered I wasn’t alone in preferring to avoid irritating subjects. It did seem a little odd he hadn’t said George was leaving hospital so shortly ‒ unless that was another of the many things George hadn’t told him. Yet if not, why not? No time? Probably.
My mind drifted on to the fresh problem of how, if he was going to be in Edinburgh, George would do this portrait. Though I now knew he could work from memory, I thought it unlikely he knew my face well enough for that until it suddenly dawned on me that had I been able to draw, at any time since Spain, I could have drawn his face.
That jolted me into doing something I never did alone.
I poured myself a large sherry and drank it fast.
Chapter Six
The Brigadier died in his sleep that night. On Monday his still empty cubicle nagged like a missing tooth. ‘We tried to get him back. Not a ‒’ Dr Jones hesitated ‒‘not a hope.’
I was too saddened to notice the epithet he had left out. ‘I’ve read the P.M. report. Nothing could’ve saved him after one that size.’ I thought of the Brig’s face on Friday evening. ‘I think he had a hunch and was glad.’
‘L.B. thinks the same. Seen him this morning?’
‘No. He hasn’t been in yet.’
Dr Jones looked at me in a peculiar way. ‘Of course, you’ve been off. Nice week-end?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Many friends in London?’
I nodded absently, my mind on the Brig. ‘I wish we could’ve saved him.’
Joe was writing on my other side. ‘Neither fancy gadgets, good medicine, good nursing, nor anything else can save the ones determined to opt out. Luckily for us ninety-nine point nine per cent hang on like leeches beyond all reasonable hope. Hope. The last thing to die. Once that’s gone, order the wreath.’
I thought aloud. ‘The Brig ordered his before they wheeled him in here.’
‘That’s a fact.’ grunted Joe.
‘One suddenly feels singularly inadequate.’ Dr Jones went to check Mrs Oliver’s pacer looking as unusually uncertain as he had sounded.
‘Our boy wonder’s growing up, Joe.’
‘Time he shed his milk teeth. Sister tell you Mrs Brig took it hard?’
‘Yes. The poor woman really hadn’t taken it in.’
‘Nope. Not one word any of us said to her. Spend years keeping up appearances, pretending not to see ‒’ he blotted a page ‒ ‘and unless you’re very intelligent, you’ll end up not seeing. If you are very intelligent, in that set up, chances are you’ll end up in the divorce courts, or a mental hospital, or with carcinoma or a coronary. Take your pick!’ He closed the notes with a snap. ‘There’s a bit more I haven’t had time to tell Sister. He didn’t leave a will, the lot’s in his name and not even a joint account.’
‘Oh, no! Has she any money of her own?’
‘L.B. says not. She’ll get some kind of pension and eventually the rest’ll be sorted out, but this’ll make her immediate problems that much more difficult.’
‘Much. He told me their house was small with a large garden. After Dave, the solicitor said it would have been much more complicated had he anything to leave. He hadn’t. He never made one. Too superstitious.’ He was looking at me in a peculiar way. ‘Something wrong with my face or cap?’
‘Nope. It’s just that I’ve never heard you mention Dave before. I didn’t know he was superstitious, but I never really knew him. Just saw him around. Was the Brig superstitious?’
‘He once told me he wasn’t and never bothered with mascots in the last World War, Korea, and I forget where else. He was so sweet, but ‒ hell ‒ though they didn’t get on, they’d been married ages, she’s fifty plus and for all her C.O.’s Lady, stiff-upper-lip-chaps and jolly-hockey-sticks exterior, probably hasn’t the faintest idea how to cope with the business side after years of having the Army look after things for her. Being a widow’s tough enough when you’re young, but it must be sheer hell when it suddenly hits you in middle age and you’ve no kids.’
‘The public at large would put that the other way round, Anne.’
I turned momentarily to him from the monitors. ‘The public at large, Joe, hasn’t been widowed young. Having been, it’s the older ones I feel most sorry for. I wish the Brig hadn’t done this. It was so unkind.’
‘Kindness’, he said dryly, ‘is not a common male virtue. If it were, the armament industry would go out of business, for a start.’ He glanced back at the picture of Richard now fixed to the wall above the X-ray screens. ‘Thank God someone from this bloody Unit has done well.’
He was the first person I heard comment on that picture. From then on hardly a day went by without someone, and it was usually a patient’s relative, referring to it. ‘That child came in as a blue baby? Doesn’t seem possible. Wonderful what hospitals can do these days.’
Mrs Oliver was doing well enough to be worrying about her pupils. ‘I’ve tried to persuade them I’m human, but few children ever seriously believe the Head can be. Seeing the Head go down in the middle of announcing New Every Morning will have had much the effect of the roof falling in on them.’ She was a plump, round-faced woman with short straight brown hair and very attractive brown eyes. ‘Early teenagers react to shock in strange ways. Some go back to bed-wetting, some explode into vandalism, others experiment sexually and a few get pregnant.’
‘Has your deputy told them the truth?’
‘Yes, but they probably didn’t believe him though he’s first-class. He only joined us last term. Children, Staff Nurse, whatever their backgrounds, are fundamentally very conservative.’ She smiled deprecatingly. ‘My two didn’t mind my teaching until I got my present job. They nearly died of shame. Mum a head teacher. That’s a man’s job, they insisted, because the head in their primary school is a man.’
‘Poor Mrs Oliver! But your husband’s obviously very proud of you.’
‘He’s a generous man, a far better teacher than I am, but no good at administration. We’re very lucky. I wish all my children could have the same luck, though that’s hardly possible. So many problematical backgrounds. So we try to make the school the one secure element in their young lives. I’ve now been there as long as the most senior children. I’ve never even had a cold. Then this. Worries m
e.’
I said slowly, ‘You have a head boy or head girl?’
‘Both.’
‘Would it help if they came to see you here? Then told the school on their own?’
Her face brightened. ‘They’ll always believe each other rather than us. Yes. But I’m only allowed to see my husband.’
‘I’ll ask Dr Mathers how he thinks Dr Lincoln Browne will view it. Now ‒ just another little prick in your arm. That’s it. Sleep well.’
Joe and Dr Lincoln Browne came in together about thirty minutes later. ‘Head boy and girl? H’m.’ L.B. studied her monitor. ‘I’m not too keen on youngsters in an intensive care unit. Traumatic experience for kids. Worrying her, is it? That’s not good. Right. Fix it, Joe, but, Mrs D., make sure all the other doors are screened whilst the kids are here.’
A letter from George and postcard from Alistair were waiting when I got back that night. Alistair had enjoyed our date, looked forward to the next and the weather in Brussels was a crime against humanity. George had promised Richard the picture by his birthday at the end of March. He hoped this was all right by me. When he got back to have his plaster off he’d like a couple of sittings which shouldn’t take long and he could manage the rest alone, he hoped. He would ring me about this, later, hoped I was well and was mine sincerely, George Farler.
I hadn’t seen his writing before. I compared his forward-slanting, slightly medically illegible lettering with Alistair’s neat italic script and wondered how much their differing hands owed to personal characteristics and how much to the simple fact that George had had an English and Alistair a Scottish education. One thing both writers had in common. Neither gave any personal news of himself. Putting them away I thought of that letter to George that had come back undelivered and discovered with a kind of astonished joy that the memory not only didn’t make me wince, but I didn’t feel guilty because I hadn’t.
It was an extraordinary moment and not unlike suddenly surfacing after swimming too long underwater without a snorkel. For a few seconds, literally, I had to breathe more deeply. Then I changed quickly and took myself to a concert at the Festival Hall I had earlier decided I wanted to hear but hadn’t the energy for the rush it would involve. The main works, the Eroica and then Beethoven’s Seventh, were the two I rated the world’s most perfect music. Both were superbly performed that night and the glorious fourth movement of the Seventh carried me straight up to the stars and kept me there when I got home. I thought of George’s ‘instant euphoria’ and felt sad for the purists who said one shouldn’t listen to music with one’s emotions. I felt they missed out on so much as they sat there mentally following the score with academic detachment and their stolid hearts beating a nice regular lubb-dupp.
Mr Taylor had a stolid heart. Though older than Mr Renner, being in better physical shape, his was the much better progress. Mrs Taylor and her knitting had become permanent fixtures in his cubicle. The Taylor daughters were baby-sitting for each other on alternate days to leave the other free to help in the shop. ‘Takes the weight off their dad’s mind.’ said Mrs Taylor. ‘He likes to see me near him, but he’d fret over the business if the girls weren’t keeping an eye on young Linda. She’s a good enough girl, but only eighteen and ‒ well ‒ you wouldn’t expect her head not to be full of boys, would you?’
Mr Delahay was using our rest-room as an extension of his office. In his intervals from paperwork and soothing his boss, once Mr Renner picked up enough to talk business ‒ which was roughly from the moment he returned to consciousness ‒ Mr Delahay haunted our corridor, as an elderly, anxious ghost. The stream of Press and other inquiries had been dammed for us by the hospital secretary’s daily bulletins on Mr Renner. ‘The old boy fancies himself on telly,’ said Joe. ‘See him poncing away last night? No ‒ you couldn’t ‒ your late week.’
Shirley was on the 3 p.m. to midnight with me. Some nights later I got back from nine o’clock supper to find her draped over the desk looking downright tragic. The live monitors were fine. I asked if she’d had another row with Paul?
‘We made it up again this morning.’ She sighed. ‘It’s that poor little man. He hasn’t gone for dinner like he said. I tried to push him off when he came out for a breather just now. He looks ghastly, but I couldn’t get him out. Adamant. He says now he won’t bother with dinner as he’s not hungry and our Clive B. may wake up and need him. Huh! He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t need intensive care himself soon.’
‘I know. Hang on at the desk.’ I checked through the unscreened doors, went into Mrs Oliver’s to tell Mary Richardson I was back, and then to the rest-room. ‘Still at it, Mr Delahay?’ I asked unnecessarily.
He had the room to himself and rose wearily from the note-strewn table. ‘I have kind of a lot to get through tonight, Staff Nurse.’
I ignored the hint and sat on the arm of a chair to get him off his feet. ‘What with having to cope with the Renner Corporation, the City, Wall Street, and the Gnomes of Whatsit, Mr Delahay, I’m sure you have. Did you have more than your usual sandwich and glass of milk for lunch?’
He sat down. ‘I work the better for a light meal. I’m not hungry. I guess I’ll eat later.’
‘If you’re not too tired to bother. And if you’ll forgive me, you are very tired and need at least one proper meal a day.’
He smiled slightly. ‘You surely sound like Mrs Delahay.’
I smiled back. ‘She sees you eat regular meals?’
‘She surely does.’
‘She must be missing you.’
He nodded. ‘After thirty-four years, you kind of miss each other. Ordinarily, Mrs Delahay has accompanied me on business trips since our boys were in college. The three are now married, so she has plenty of free time. She did not come along with us to London as we were only scheduled to be here the four days.’
‘Couldn’t she fly over and join you?’
‘I would first have to consult with Mr Renner on that and, as of now, he has enough problems.’
‘Won’t he have even more if you get ill? And if you keep up this pace, you will.’
It took another five minutes of my best nanny-knows-best approach before he began packing his brief-case. ‘Staff Nurse, you surely remind me of Mrs Delahay.
Mr Dorland is one very fortunate young man. Is he a doctor in Martha’s?’
I shook my head, smiling. I’d had enough practice. ‘I’ll ring down for your taxi.’
He had been gone about an hour and Mr Renner hadn’t woken when Joe, Andy Norris and two Heart-Lung men came in together. The latter were Dr Francis, an anaesthetist, and Charlie Lloyd. Both towered over Joe and Andy. For some strange reason and despite staff changes, our Heart-Lung residents were invariably big men. No female surgeons or anaesthetists had yet been appointed to that Unit, though they were permitted in it as post-grads. The official explanation for this was reputed to be based on consideration for the less muscularly powerful female body. Women, said Martha’s Establishment, would be over-exhausted by the hours of standing required by the team during cardiac operations. This concern, amongst other reactions, never failed to reduce to hysterical laughter every Sister Theatre and theatre staff nurse in the hospital.
Charlie Lloyd had a long, straight, dark forelock, jutting chin and rumbling Welsh voice. ‘We’d like a look at Mrs Kenny, Staff. We’ll not wake her. Just a look before starting on her notes and plates out here.’
Mrs Kenny was the new patient in C.3 and shortly due to move upstairs for surgery. I went in with them. Shirley and Mary Richardson were on the desk. When we got out, Mary was with Mr Renner and Shirley again looking tragic. Again, the monitors were fine.
‘Clive B. playing up?’ I asked quietly as the men moved behind the desk to the X-ray screens.
‘Raising hell.’
Joe overheard. ‘Why this latest bout of haemadementia?’
‘He wants his Mr Delahay, Dr Mathers.’
‘If he ever had a mum,’ observed Andy, ‘which I doubt, she took away hi
s rattle too soon.’
I said, ‘I took this one away. Do you want me for anything else, gentlemen?’
Charlie Lloyd grinned. ‘Regrettably, Staff, as I’m here professionally, the answer has to be no. Of course, should you care to step outside and repeat the question ‒’
‘This is what comes of admitting hot-blooded surgeons to the calm of Coronary Care. You’ll be safer taming the tycoon,’ said Joe, ‘seeing he is bedridden. I’ll stand by with anti-tetanus serum.’
Mr Renner raised his massive head from the pillow and glared when I replaced Mary. His colour was much better, he now only had two chins, and the pouches beneath his small, computer-intelligent eyes, were beginning to subside. ‘Nurse Dorland all I require is Mr Delahay. Call the hotel and get him right back.’
I leant on his footrail. ‘There’s something I should explain first.’
‘Uh-huh?’
I told him the truth.
He watched me in silence so keenly that I could almost see the computer’s little lights and figures flickering over at high speed.
I smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry if this has annoyed you.’
‘You do not look sorry, Staff Nurse.’ He had a rasping, still slightly breathless drawl. ‘You look like you feel real pleased with yourself.’
That would have shaken me had I not nursed him at his illest. ‘Sorry about that, but I’m sure you’re right. Somehow I can never do my nanny-knows-best bit without oozing a revolting smugness.’
‘I am unacquainted with your terminology. I would be glad to have you define “nanny-knows-best”. ’
I did so, and added, ‘Obviously, it irritates you. It would me. Some patients, possibly the majority, rather like it.’
‘Is that so?’ The computer programmed that one. ‘Yes. Yes. I can appreciate that attitude.’ He looked at the door. ‘Busy out there?’
‘Fairly.’
Silent Song Page 11