“Come to a p.m. with me,” he said. “Then you’d better go up and tell Sister the news. She’s waiting to hear what happened. She’s feeling great because Cole’s just told her she can leave and go home to convalesce.”
“That’s wonderful!”
They started walking slowly toward the Pathology Department.
Diana went on, “When Dr. Barker asked me what I’ll do at the end of the year, I said, ‘Surgery, sir,’ and he frowned and said, ‘I’ll change all that nonsense.’ ”
“But you can’t be a physician.” Mark exclaimed in horror. “You’re a born surgeon! Look at the way you tie knots.” They laughed, and Diana thought. “I feel so happy. Mark doesn’t know I’ve been dreading the possibility of having to leave the hospital ... to leave him. Now I know that for six more months I’ll be able to see him, talk to him, even though we aren’t working together. That’s all I want.”
“Success does you good,” he told her, grinning. “No wonder Barker took you on. That blue outfit makes you look just right. Not too severe, but efficient—and attractive.”
Diana knew that Hamish Scott, the young registrar on her new team wasn’t resident in the hospital and was doing research in the biochemistry laboratory most of the day.
As if he had read her thoughts, Mark then said, “You won’t be seeing much of Scott.” Had she detected a note of satisfaction in his voice? “It’ll be Barker who calls you on the phone now. He’ll be teaching you, discussing the patients with you. In fact, he’ll have you with him nearly all the time.”
“Do you know,” Diana said jokingly, “I think you’re just a little bit jealous?”
But she hadn’t expected him to reply in a rather sad voice, “Maybe I am, Diana.”
As they stepped into the post-mortem room, Diana decided not to comfort Mark by reminding him that Dr. Barker was 56, gray-haired, plump, and the father of four children.
“I’ll let him worry a bit,” she thought happily.
Then they watched the dissection being made on the corpse of Mrs. Elsie Charlton, aged 71.
The pathologist glanced up at them. “Cancer of the stomach, which spread to the liver, bones and brain.”
Mrs. Charlton, the patient from Charity Ward who had taken four years to do it, had died at last.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Diana went to stay with her parents for a week. Her father, after 40 years as a G.P. in London, had retired to a cottage by the sea, in his native North Wales.
She would spend most of the day in her bathing suit, lying on a rug in the garden, or swimming in the sea. In the evenings, the three of them always had a large dinner and sat on the veranda, talking over their coffee, until the mist came down from the mountains.
“I’ll bring the tea out in a few minutes.” Mrs. Field called down from the bedroom window, one afternoon.
Diana took off her sun glasses and looked up from her novel. “Right. I’ll put out the table.”
She was finding it good to be home. The peace and fresh air of the country, her mother’s delicious cooking, and three nights of uninterrupted sleep, had made her feel a different person. Diana stood up and stretched. “It’s odd,” she thought, “how some people don’t seem to need sunshine. It brings me to life. Without it, I feel pale and cold and only half alive. Now my body has a tan, I feel fit for anything.”
They laid the table under the chestnut tree, and relaxed in deck chairs. Mrs. Field, a tall, gray-haired woman, with the same intelligent, kind face as Diana, poured the tea. Her husband was, as usual, out fishing.
“Your letters make Mr. Cole sound a bit of a dragon, darling,” she said smiling.
“He’s not so bad, now he’s used to me,” Diana replied, through a mouthful of toasted scone.
“And what about your registrar, Mark somebody? You wrote so much about him when you first went there, and then we heard nothing. You still like him, don’t you?”
Diana was conscious of the keen gaze of her mother, who was always clever at detecting the most subtle changes of expression on her daughter’s face.
“I—um—he’s all right. The same as ever,” Diana murmured, hastily taking a piece of home-made lemon sponge.
“I’m glad you get on well. Let me see, he’s not married, is he?” Diana knew her mother was trying to sound casual, trying to conceal the curiosity she felt. “After all,” she always told Diana, “it’s only natural for me to be interested in your friends, particularly the male ones.”
“His wife died. Besides, he’s not my registrar any more. I’m working for Dr. Barker now.”
Diana hoped that her tone implied that there was nothing more to be said on the subject and that her mother wouldn’t pursue it.
She always had the feeling that her mother would somehow disapprove of her whole relationship with Mark. It wasn’t simple and straightforward. And Mrs. Field hated complications. The fact that Mark had been married before, unhappily too; that he was an Australian, that he seemed afraid to marry again—for Mrs. Field all these things would be insoluble problems.
Fortunately her mother began talking about the new people next door; so Diana found herself remembering her last few days at Mansion House Hospital.
After her final operation with Mark, a routine one on the thyroid gland, she had met his new house surgeon, an earnest-looking young man, and felt relieved that he was not a girl. She said goodbye to Mark in the common-room on the day she left for her holiday. Four other people were in the room, so it had been a quick, formal parting. The end all came very suddenly. And she knew that nothing would be quite the same when they met again.
Her mother interrupted Diana’s thoughts. “You’d better change darling. Richard will be here soon.”
Diana sighed. She’d completely forgotten he was coming.” “I don’t feel in the least like seeing Richard. I’ve reached a most exciting part in the novel I’m reading. It’s about a girl who—”
“When he phoned you were having your bath, he seemed so anxious to see you. I thought you’d like him to stay for a few days, you usually do.” Mrs. Field looked puzzled.
“I know—usually I do,” Diana agreed.
“It must be a bit dull for you, with only your old parents to talk to, and the few people we meet in the village. Richard happened to have a few days off.”
They started to clear away the tea things. “Perhaps I’m just feeling tired after the hospital work,” suggested Diana, knowing she could not really deceive herself or her mother.
“Yes, that must be it. Richard is such a nice boy, and he seems so fond of you.”
Diana smiled. The number of times she had heard her mother say that! Her parents took it for granted that one day she would marry Richard. Every time he came to stay in Wales or Diana spent a weekend at his home, Mrs. Field would make some remark about how well suited they were, how their backgrounds were alike, what a brilliant future he had as a lawyer.
Richard arrived in high spirits, and the sun had bronzed his usually pale but handsome face. He was the same age as Diana with brown hair and an athletic body. Diana welcomed him without her usual warmth, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Well, Di?” he asked, as they went for a stroll before dinner. “How are you finding life as a doctor? Realized you’ve bitten off more than you can chew yet?”
How she wished he would not call her Di!
“No, Richard. I’m enjoying every minute of it. Especially the time in the theater.”
“The drama of scalpel meeting flesh, eh? The fascination will pass off eventually, mark my words.”
“You never did think I’d pass the exams and qualify, did you?”
“No. Frankly I never thought you were cut out for that sort of life, and I still don’t. You’re not tough enough, Di. I know you. I’ve known you for years now. You like literature, music, the theater. You aren’t the type to be messing about—”
“Messing about! I’m not messing about!” Diana was glaring at him furiously. “It’s usefu
l work, surgery, and it’s something I think I can do fairly well. How would you suggest I earn my living?”
He stopped and gripped her arm tightly, gazing into her eyes. “Marry me,” he said urgently. “Marry me and let’s settle down in our own home. I’ll look after you. I’m doing well in my firm, and eventually I’ll be a partner. Where can all this hospital work lead you, anyway? Doesn’t it mean years and years more training, if you want to get to the top?”
“Oh, Richard,” said Diana despairingly. “We always end up arguing about this. You don’t understand what it would mean to me if I had to give up years of work, to throw it away. And if we married, you wouldn’t want me to go on practising, even if I were a G.P.”
“No. I’d want you as my wife and the mother of our children.”
Diana looked at him sympathetically. “I know, Richard. And because I’m so—so fond of you, I could never be a doctor without knowing that you were encouraging me, that you were behind me. I couldn’t do it alone.”
“Diana, please try to see how I feel. Try to understand that I want you all to myself, not rushing out of the house at all hours of the day and night, at the beck and call of your patients.”
He had given her a straight choice: marriage or her career. An ultimatum.
“Richard, I want some time to think this all out.” She put her hand gently on his arm. “Dear Richard. I’ve said that before, haven’t I? You’ve been so patient with me. You’re always there, waiting, and I keep asking you to wait a little longer.”
“I’ll wait,” he said firmly, “because I love you, Di.”
“I think,” said Diana slowly, twisting a piece of grass around her finger, “that it won’t be very much longer now. I have a feeling that by the end of the year—you’ll know where we stand.” The end of the year. What had made her say that? She would be finishing her resident appointments at the hospital then, but something else, some premonition, told her she would be able to make a decision about Richard.
And the sun was setting, making a silhouette of the mountains and trees, as they walked slowly back to the cottage. Soft, hot sand under his back, sun over his head, and Denise, in a distractingly brief bikini, lying beside, him.
Diana shut her eyes and heaved a long sigh. She couldn’t help it. This picture of Mark in the South of France kept coming into her mind.
“You’re jealous,” she told herself firmly. “Miserably jealous.” Then Mrs. Field came out into the garden and gave Diana an envelope.
It was blue; there was a French stamp on it. The neat handwriting belonged to Mark. It had been sent on to her from the hospital.
Diana gazed at it for a moment. Then, her heart beating faster, she tore it open and began to read.
Cap d’Antibes Monday
Chère Diana,
I’m writing this on a balcony of the villa where I’m staying. Occasionally I look up and gaze across the calm, dazzling water at the scorched coastline in the distance. The garden is full of the most exotic flowers; I can smell them from here.
Every day, before lunch, I go for a swim. I go out to a raft and sunbathe on it. Then I swim slowly back, thinking of the two-hour-long meal, with the best wines, which we’ll have on the shaded veranda downstairs. Quite a change from hospital food. After tea, Denise’s father, a retired oil company director, an amiable sort of fellow, may take us all out in his speedboat. Then change for dinner, another large, leisurely meal, and off to the Casino, or to a hotel for dancing.
It’s a great life, but a very lazy one—and fattening. I’ll not be sorry to start work. Even this sort of existence can be boring, after a time. (A good thing Denise will be staying on here after I leave. I can borrow her Cadillac when I return!)
I think about you a lot and wonder what you’re doing. I’m not looking forward to that new house surgeon. It’ll be like breaking in a new horse, teaching my little tricks all over again.
Au revoir,
Mark.
Diana read the letter three times, until she knew it by heart. Then she put it back in the envelope and lay down on the grass. She repeated over and over to herself, “I think about you a lot and wonder what you’re doing.”
Three days later, Diana heard from Sister Baker.
The Marine Guest House, Cliff Walk, Eastbourne.
Dear Dr. Field,
I’ve just come back from a walk. It’s been cloudy all day, but the sun is trying to come through. I hope that the red sky means we’ll have a fine day tomorrow.
The guest house is all right. “Three minutes’ walk from the sea, television in the lounge, no dogs or children.” But the guests! There isn’t one under 70! Sitting on the pier in the morning, listening to the band in the park in the afternoon, and walking along the beach, that’s about all anybody does here.
Not like those holidays I had with Cousin Fay and Kate Harvey! I’ll never forget the time we were completely lost in Venice and nobody we met could speak English. And the night in Paris, when we drank so much wine, and the three of us just couldn’t stop laughing!
Perhaps I’m missing the hospital? Always plenty to do there, no time to be lonely, and I enjoy a joke with Dr. Royston, a gossip with Sister Burns. I’ll be glad to get back. I’ve read three novels and finished off a scarf I’m knitting for Cousin Fay. I’m just not used to sitting about doing nothing.
I thought of sending you one of those naughty colored postcards, but perhaps they’re not respectable enough for Mansion House! I’d love to hear from you, Dr. Field, if you can spare a moment, particularly about all the hospital news you hear when you get back. I expect you feel better for a rest at home and are ready for your new job. I’m sure you’ll enjoy working for Dr. Barker. He’s very nice.
Kind regard,
Nancy Baker.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The loud, shrill ringing of the telephone by her bed broke into Diana’s heavy sleep. She groped for the receiver, her eyes shut.
“I’m putting you through to the Nurses’ Home, Dr. Field,” said the switchboard man who worked the night shift.
The Nurses’ Home? Diana sleepily wondered whether some mistake had been made and prepared to be very annoyed with him.
“Sister Cooper here, Dr. Field. Will you come immediately, please. One of the nurses is seriously ill.” She spoke quickly, softly.
Then Diana remembered. As house physician on duty at night, it was her job to look after sick nurses. She found the bedside light and switched it on.
“As soon as I can, Sister. Where is she?”
“Room Four. Third floor. Hurry, please,” and Sister Cooper hang up.
Diana yawned, then got out of bed and looked at her watch. Four-twenty a.m. She put on a cotton dress, ran a comb through her hair and slipped on the first pair of shoes she could find. Grabbing her white coat from the back of the door, she left the room, stethoscope dangling from her pocket.
For the second time that night, Diana walked along the silent, empty corridors. Three hours before, she had been called to her ward. Mr. Ernest Stokes, a fat, red-faced man of 62—occupation, grave-digger—was having his second heart attack in five days. She had given him two injections immediately into a vein, and gradually his breathing became easier, the pain more bearable.
Diana reached the Nurses’ Home and took the elevator up to the third floor. She recognized the two Night Sisters standing outside Room Four. They both looked anxiously at her.
“I hope it’s not too late,” one of them said quietly, as Diana quickly opened the door and went in.
A nurse in blue striped uniform lay on the bed, her long black hair spread out on the pillow, the young face ashen white, pale lips slightly apart, eyes closed. Straightaway, Diana realized with horror that it was Nurse Edmonds. Then she told herself that she was confronted with an unconscious patient. That was all that mattered.
Sister Cooper was talking. “Nurse Baldwin, who has the room next door, heard her walking around half the night, so she came in to see what was the matt
er—and found Nurse Edmonds like this. We’ve tried to rouse her. It’s impossible.”
Diana looked around the tiny room. It contained the usual paraphernalia of a girl’s bed-sitter—portable radio, photographs of all the family, a pile of books and magazines, a packet of detergent on the dressing table.
“We found two empty aspirin bottles on the floor by the bed,” Sister told her, as though reading her thoughts.
Aspirin poisoning. Quickly, calmly, Diana recalled all the steps in its treatment, learned as a routine many months ago and put away in the back of her mind. At last, here was an opportunity to use the knowledge.
She and Sister Cooper worked hard for the next half hour. Eventually Nurse Edmonds lay in Diana’s ward, sleeping soundly and out of danger.
There was nothing more to do. In a few hours’ time everybody on the hospital staff would know about it. It was difficult to keep this sort of thing quiet. People who had never known Nurse Edmonds would be wondering what she was like and why she had done it. Others, who knew her, would either say how cheerful and happy she always seemed, or that she was reserved, serious, just the sort to try to commit suicide.
Diana walked slowly back to her room. The sky was already a light blue. It was going to be another gloriously hot day. Her stomach was feeling empty, her legs were weak and aching. She hoped there would be bacon and eggs for breakfast and that the telephone would be silent during the remainder of the night.
When, she reached the door of her room, Diana didn’t open it, but stood looking down the corridor, at the four doors farther along. Nurse Edmonds had been to one of those rooms on the night they had bumped into each other. Diana couldn’t help feeling there was some connection between that visit and her attempted suicide.
A Surgical Affair Page 9