A Surgical Affair

by Shirley Summerskill

  Diana pondered: “The two doors at the far end; one leads up to the roof, the other into the tiny kitchen, where the maids prepare the early morning cups of tea. But those other two doors? Whose are they?”

  Her curiosity aroused, she walked toward them. On the first door was a label, an untidy scrawl, in red ink. “Bill Evans.” She thought, “How clearly the character of some people shows in their handwriting.” The next door had a neat label in copper-plate handwriting: “Dr. Pallie.”

  Arriving back at her own room, Diana glanced at Mark’s door. In the excitement of the night she hadn’t thought of him; she had even forgotten he was coming back from France in a few days’ time. And now she had to face once more the possibility that Nurse Edmonds was visiting Mark that night. But this time she couldn’t dismiss it from her thoughts so easily.

  Diana fell into an uneasy sleep, three names, Mark—Evans— Pallie; Mark—Evans—Pallie, racing around in her mind. And she kept seeing the white face of Nurse Edmonds, with its half-open mouth.

  “I’ve heard she was attacked by a large man with a black beard,” announced Tony Spring, as several of the resident doctors stood around the bar in the common-room that evening.

  “It was ordinary, straightforward attempted suicide,” somebody declared authoritatively.

  “Perhaps she was worrying too much about exams,” Mike Simons suggested, pouring himself another sherry.

  “Or maybe was crossed in love.” It was Dr. Pallie who spoke. Nobody had noticed him, sitting alone at the other end of the room, flicking through a magazine.

  “Well, she’s a pretty little thing,” Tony Spring admitted. The conversation was always relaxed and uninhibited at the bar before dinner. Usually it was about cars or work, or just gossip about hospital staff. The consultants and most of the registrars had gone home. Only the resident doctors were there, and for them it was the best time of the day. The patients were having supper or seeing visitors; with any luck, the buzzers in the white coats would be silent for an hour.

  “I’ve got a pathetic girl up in my ward,” remarked Malcolm Smith, “talking of pathetic girls. She was all ready to emigrate with her husband and kids—to Canada. They’d sold their house and furniture, and then, at their medical examinations, she was found to have a T.B. patch on her lung.” He lit a cigarette and slowly blew the smoke out through his nose. “So now they’re all left without a home and the husband with no job.”

  “And little prospect of ever getting to Canada,” put in Diana, who was sitting on one of the high stools, resting her back against the wall.

  “I’m thinking of going out there, when I’m married and I’ve saved enough,” said Tony Spring. “There are some pretty good jobs to be had, if you’ve the right experience.”

  “Have you ever been there?” Malcolm Smith asked him. “Because it’s mad to sell up and emigrate where you’ve never set eyes on a place. My brother did that. He spent a year in South Africa, then couldn’t stand it any more, came back, and had to start all over again from scratch, building up his practice as an architect.”

  Then Diana remembered Mark, as he sat on the sofa in her room, the night of her birthday. He had said, “If I ever marry again, she’ll have to be Australian. Any other girl would probably start grumbling about the food or the heat or the people, as soon as she stepped off the boat.”

  “You’re right,” she agreed reluctantly, nodding at Malcolm Smith. “It would be like putting all your savings into a practice in the Highlands of Scotland, without seeing what it’s like first.”

  “But some of these jobs abroad—gosh, they’re so tempting!” went on Tony Spring. “They give you an enormous house, pay the fare, hardly any income tax, long holidays—”

  “Sun and blue skies,” Diana added.

  “Mosquitoes, diarrhea, and The Times a week late!” Malcolm Smith reminded them dryly.

  They all laughed, and then the conversation returned to Nurse Edmonds, but Diana didn’t want to think about her.

  “I’m going to eat,” she said quietly, edging her way through the crowd of people.

  It was a hot, still evening, and as she toyed with her ham and salad in the dining room, she watched the visitors pouring out through the front gate and wending their way home.

  “I want to forget all about Nurse Edmonds,” Diana thought. “But it’s not going to be easy. Not until I know why she tried to kill herself.”

  Three days later, Diana joined Sister Baker in the office of the new private patients’ ward (Women’s Surgical).

  “Congratulations—on your promotion.” Diana said, smiling happily. “It is a promotion, isn’t it? Only a Sister with 14 years’ experience would be asked to run this special ward.”

  Sister Baker put down her pen and shrugged. “I suppose it is, but the ward isn’t really open yet, not officially until next year. There are only a dozen patients and one nurse, at the moment. But I’m glad to be idle for once. I think Mr. Cole recommended me for this ward because he knows Charity must be the busiest place in the hospital.”

  Diana looked intently at Sister sitting proudly at her shining new desk and was relieved to see how well she looked.

  “I see they’re advertising for a new Matron. Why not try for it, Sister? Baker for Matron! I’ll be your campaign manager.”

  “Not for me. I’m quite happy here, in my quiet new ward.”

  Diana sank into the large armchair. “How’s the cottage going?”

  “They’re decorating it now, and with luck I should be moving in January. I’ve started choosing carpets and curtains, but there’s all the furniture to buy, and I don’t want to rush everything.”

  “You should still take things quietly for a bit,” Diana agreed. There was a moment’s silence, as Diana played with her stethoscope, then she looked up. “Sister, can I ask you something?”

  “You can always ask, Dr. Field.”

  “Well, it’s this.” Diana was aware of Sister’s keen gaze fixed on her, missing nothing, the same way her mother looked at her. “You know all this business about Nurse Edmonds?”

  “Yes, she was working on my ward for three months.”

  “Do you know why she did it? Why she wanted to kill herself? I know she was my patient, but she would never tell me her reason for taking those tablets.”

  Sister sighed. “I don’t see what harm there is in telling you. It’s common knowledge in the Nurses’ Home.” Diana could feel herself becoming very hot. She waited, sitting quite still, for Sister to continue. “It seems that she had been very friendly with one of the doctors here, not openly, of course. They had agreed to get married, but then he suddenly told her it was all off, didn’t give a reason. She took the whole thing far more seriously than he did. That’s all I know. Anyway, she’s gone home to her parents. I doubt if she’ll come back here again.”

  They looked at each other.

  “I wonder who the doctor was, Sister?” asked Diana quietly.

  Sister peered over her spectacles. “Yes, I wonder.”

  They sat in silence, both with the same unspoken thought, the same fear, that it might have been Mark.

  Diana stood up. “I must get on. There are three patients being admitted to my ward after tea, and I’ve some progress notes to write. I’ll drop in again, when I’m passing by.”

  Sister saw her to the door saying, “Oh, I meant to tell you. I had a card from Dr. Royston yesterday. He seems to be having a wonderful time.”

  “Yes, he does,” Diana agreed, trying to keep any emotion out of her voice.

  She went up to her ward, knowing that only by involving herself in other people’s problems would she stop dwelling on her own.

  Mr. Patrick Reilly, a small, red-faced man, a 39 year old advertising executive, beckoned her as she walked by his bed.

  “I just wanted to know something, Dr. Field. This new drug you’re giving me to bring down my blood pressure—how long does it take to act?”

  “A few days, maybe more. Try to be pati
ent, Mr. Reilly.”

  “There’s not much improvement yet, is there?”

  “How do you know?”

  “I study the chart at the end of my bed every night. The pressure isn’t dropping at all. I’ve compared mine with Mr. Craine’s opposite, and Mr. Ashton’s down at the end. Theirs are dropping, but mine isn’t.”

  “Mr. Reilly,” Diana said sharply, “you really shouldn’t do that. Those notes are for the doctors and nurses. Anyway, if you worry about it so much, that could stop your blood pressure from falling. I’ll have all the charts kept in Sister’s office in future.”

  She had not meant to lose her temper with the poor man, who after all only wanted to be out of hospital, back at his job and with his family. But Diana knew that the events of the last few days and the nagging fear at the back of her mind, were making her irritable and on edge.

  She met Tony Spring leaving the ward.

  “This is away from your department, Tony. Come to see how we’re all managing without you?”

  Diana grinned.

  “I’m not on duty. I just popped in to see old Mr. Bates. I sent him up from Casualty, remember?”

  “Oh, he’s fine now. The pneumonia has completely cleared.” “Well done!” He patted her on the shoulder, as they walked out through the swing door. “Have you heard the latest news from the hospital grapevine?”

  “I never seem to hear as much gossip as you do, Tony.”

  “Well, it’s this—all in the strictest confidence, of course.” He looked at her questioningly.

  She smiled. “Of course.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry. I couldn’t stand the chap myself.”

  “Who?”

  “Bill Evans. He’s left. Packed his bags and gone! And that's not all.” Tony Spring lowered his voice, as they passed a group of nurses on the staircase. “I hear it’s all to do with Nurse Edmonds. Apparently they were having an affair. Her mother found out about it and told Matron. Nurse Edmonds was madly in love with Evans. I can’t think why, a most unprepossessing fellow. Anyway, he didn’t take it very seriously and led her on, just for the fun of it. Then, when she started talking about marriage, he told her it was all over between them, and she took the tablets.” Tony paused for breath. “The Hospital Management Committee obviously gave Evans a strong hint that he should leave.”

  They had arrived at the dining room.

  Diana spoke at last. But her feeling of relief was so great that all she could bring herself to say was, “Let’s go and have some tea.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Diana found a deck chair on the hospital roof, arranged with the nurses in the theater to signal out of the window if the switchboard needed her, and abandoned herself to the hot sun.

  A gentle breeze was blowing through her hair, caressing her face; all the tension of the last few terrible days was leaving her. The immense relief, after hearing the news about Evans, was equalled only by a longing for Mark, greater than she had ever known.

  She felt ashamed of herself for ever suspecting that Nurse Edmonds had been visiting Mark’s room and realized how perfectly everything she knew and thought about Bill Evans fitted in with Tony Spring’s story.

  Nobody else was on the hard concrete roof, which burned Diana’s feet if she took off her sandals. The breeze almost drowned the roar of the traffic far below. She could see for miles—villages, towns and fields, all burning in the mid-day sun.

  Diana began to hum the tune of Manhattan, they had danced to. All the time she was getting hotter and could feel the sun burning her fair skin.

  “He’ll be looking so brown when he comes back, he must find me brown, too,” she thought.

  Then tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Her whole body yearned for Mark to be with her in that glorious sunshine. He was returning from France that day; she didn’t know what time. She imagined him suddenly appearing on the roof; or would she see him first at lunch time, in the dining room? Would he have changed? All those weeks spent with Denise—he must have become fond of her.

  Diana wiped away the tears, in case somebody was watching from one of the windows overlooking the roof. She thought: “One thing’s sure, as Mark would say. This can’t go on. This desire, which is eating me up; this pain; it must end or it must lead somewhere. It can’t always be like this.”

  At last, weak from the heat, she walked slowly back to her room, collected her white coat, and went downstairs in search of a long, cool drink.

  Turning into the corridor leading to the common-room, Diana found herself face to face with Mark.

  “Hello! You’re back.” She suddenly felt overcome with shyness and could think of nothing more interesting to say.

  He was smiling at her, looking sunburned and slightly fatter in the face.

  “Diana! Hello! Gosh, it’s hot here. I needn’t have bothered to go away.”

  “You had a good time?”

  “Fabulous! Sun, food and wine!”

  She smiled. “And you spent all your money.”

  “Most of it. I even bought a present for my two-year-old niece—a miniature cotton bikini. It’s cute.”

  It was almost as if he had never been away.

  “Everything’s much the same here, except Miss Harvey and Dr. Pallie are married—and Sister’s settled into her new ward.”

  Mark was looking keenly at her. “You’re fatter!” he grinned.

  “I'm not!” she protested, but knew in her heart that he was right. The hard, interesting work at the hospital had increased her appetite.

  He grinned. “It doesn’t matter, I’m glad you enjoy your food. I can’t stand a girl who picks at a meal just because of her figure—specially when I’m paying for it.”

  “You’ve put on a bit of weight, too,” she told him.

  “I’ll soon get back to my normal shape after a few days here. How’s Dr. Barker?”

  “Oh, not bad. Different from you.”

  “How—different?”

  “Well, he’s terribly serious and correct. He never makes jokes, and he always calls me Dr. Field, never Diana.”

  Mark smiled. “You’ll have to make him more human.”

  Diana felt so happy to see him that she could hardly think of anything to say.

  “I’m terribly thirsty,” she told him at last, turning toward the common-room. “I simply must have an orange pop.”

  Then he rested his hand firmly on her shoulder. “It’s good to see you again,” Mark said softly.

  She smiled. “It’s nice to have you back.”

  And she knew that nothing had changed. Everything was going to be just the same. It would need more than a holiday abroad and her change of job to separate them.

  Diana took a novel up to the roof on her next afternoon off duty. The deck chair had disappeared, so she sat on her rug, resting her back against the wall.

  A strong, warm wind fluttered the pages of her book, and she did not hear Mark approaching.

  “I heard from Sister Baker that you haunt this roof. Mind if I join you?” He was standing in front of her, smiling.

  Diana peered over her sun glasses. “You’re dressed for the occasion, too.”

  Wearing shorts and sandals, and no shirt, he lay down on the rug beside her, his back to the sun.

  “Mmm,” Mark sighed, “this is good. Why don’t you take something off?”

  “Because there’s a wind. It has to be absolutely boiling before I’ll change my cotton dress for a bathing suit!”

  “Pity,” he murmured, and shut his eyes.

  Diana did not want to read any more. It was enough to be near Mark, not talking, simply being together. Up there in the wind, it was as if they were alone on a mountain, and the traffic below, the patients in the wards, Denise, Richard, did not exist. There was only that moment, and time had stopped.

  She gazed at his soft black hair, his smooth cheek, the lithe body. She wanted to remember everything about that afternoon in the sun, because it was making her so com
pletely happy. Then she felt drowsy, so she slid down and lay on her side, facing him. Her eyes closed.

  They slept on the rug until a cloud covered the sun, the shadow and the coolness waking them up.

  “Your hair looks different,” Mark told her.

  Diana looked into his brown eyes, smiling. “I’ve tied it back in a bow.”

  Then he sighed contentedly. “I’d like tea to be served up here.”

  “I’m glad it’s not. Nobody else has thought of coming to the roof—except us.”

  “I’m thirsty. Let’s go in.”

  After dinner that evening it rained. Summer was coming to an end.

  Diana tried to sort out the heap of papers and letters on her desk, a job she was usually too tired or too busy to tackle. But she had the evening off; there was nothing else to do. The rain beating on the windows, her body still burning from the sun, she felt restless, lonely, hot; the depression that comes with a storm.

  She discovered a medical journal that Mark had lent her a few months before and remembered him saying he wanted it back.

  Diana stood outside his door and listened carefully, but heard only the rain and distant thunder. She knocked twice, and Mark called, “Come in!”

  He was lying on the sofa, writing, and Diana hesitated. “I thought you would be out, as you’re off duty today. I couldn’t hear any music, or talking—”

  “It’s raining, so I’m staying in. I’m writing to my mother. I can never think of anything to say unless I concentrate hard for a few hours.” He was grinning.

  “I only wanted to bring back your journal.”

  Mark leaped up and closed the door. “Come in! Be my guest, let’s play some records. You’ve only heard them through the door.”

  So Diana sat in the armchair and listened to Beethoven and opera, jazz and dance music, until the room was almost dark.

  She remembered that Richard never liked listening to music; he preferred the ballet or a play, where there was something to watch. He became bored and restless whenever Diana put on a record. “Perhaps he lacked imagination,” she thought. “What was it Shakespeare wrote? The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.”