“I’m very grateful, sir.”
“You’ll probably be taking a holiday when you finish, as a house physician. If you decide you’d like to come back here, I for one would recommend you for a casualty job. From what I hear, most of my colleagues would do the same. But if you prefer to have experience at another hospital, I’ll be pleased to give you a good reference.”
“Thank you very much!”
He smiled. “I teased you a bit at first. I was rather fierce, I suppose. I always am when a house surgeon starts working for me. But you held your own, and I noticed you were always in Charity when I dropped in there, and in the theater when I went up there!”
Diana laughed. “Maybe that was coincidence?”
Mr. Cole shook his head. “Mark Royston gave me good reports of you. And another thing, I was impressed when you knew the hemoglobin figure of every patient brought into the theater—without looking up their notes. Most important not to operate on an anemic patient.”
Then he left the room.
“It was you who told me to memorize those hemoglobin figures,” Diana reminded Mark, as she finished telling him about her talk with Mr. Cole.
“And it paid off!” he said, grinning. “Your future’s assured.”
“You’re not teasing me, are you?” she asked anxiously.
Mark’s face was serious now. “No, I’m not teasing you. I agree with everything Cole said.”
They were sitting alone in the library, where Diana had found Mark gazing through the window at the tumbling, whirling snowflakes.
“I’ve come to a decision,” Diana told him.
“I know,” he said quietly, looking keenly at her. “I recognize that ‘I’ve come to a decision’ expression on your face. It was there when you broke up with Richard.”
“I know it sounds silly, but I suppose Mr. Cole inspired me. I needed somebody to—well—light the spark, and now I’m all set to be a surgeon.”
“I always remember the first time I was given a scalpel to use in the theater,” Mark told her, smiling. “They’d only let me use the other instruments before—retractors, artery forceps, scissors, but never the scalpel. It was a symbol really, it meant they trusted me. I think that was when I really decided to go on with surgery.”
Diana wished that time would stay still, that Boxing Day would never come, and she could sit watching the snow with Mark forever.
She felt his hand on her arm and quickly drew away. If he touched her she knew she would weaken; in a moment her career would seem unimportant, her emotions would take over and leave her only a hopeless, agonizing love.
Mark smiled ruefully, as a ‘bleep-bleep’ sound came from the pocket of his white coat.
“Saved by the bell. That’s the theater wanting me, for a perforated duodenal ulcer.” He stood up, and strolled toward the door. “See you at the party?”
“Yes,” Diana said, almost to herself, as the door shut behind him. “See you at the party.”
Diana could never really decide if the doctors enjoyed their Christmas Eve party or not. As somebody put it, “We’re all thrown together, with nothing in common except a medical qualification, and expected to talk about everything else in the world except our work! If it wasn’t for the free drink, I’d die of boredom.”
Sister Baker was one of the first to arrive, wearing her red velvet dress. The consultants’ wives all wore their smartest party dresses, and Mrs. Cole was resplendent in navy blue satin and an ermine stole. Diana noticed that even Dr. Pallie threw his inhibitions to the winds and put on his yellow waistcoat.
Everybody seemed to enjoy themselves, anyway. Mr. Cole waltzed enthusiastically with Diana, Sister Baker did a rumba with Dr. Pallie, and even Dr. Barker was seen laughing uproariously, toward the end of the evening.
Mark and Diana, dancing with their heads close together, did not talk much. She was remembering their first dance at Tony Spring’s party. It seemed so long ago now. When he held her close she had drawn away because people were looking. Now, it didn’t seem to matter.
“I’d like to give you my records, and the record player,” Mark told Diana, on Christmas morning. “I want them to have a good home, with somebody who will look after them. I can’t take everything with me to Australia.”
“Somehow,” she said slowly, “there doesn’t seem any need for us to give each other presents.”
He nodded. “I know what you mean. We’ve had each other this Christmas.”
“You’ve given me so much already—not things but memories. They’re more precious. Nothing destroys them.”
They gave Sister Baker a set of gardening tools. “I’m moving into the cottage on January the fifth,” she told them excitedly. “Dr. Royston will have to come back from Australia for the party I’ll be giving.”
Diana worked hard all day and managed not to think too much about the next day.
Mrs. Cole, swathed in a fox fur, came along to carve the turkey in Charity Ward, and presented every patient with a small gift, beautifully wrapped.
And so, quickly, inevitably, Boxing Day arrived.
Diana, who had been with Mark so long, could not really believe the time had come for them to part.
Mark phoned her in the ward.
“The taxi’s here. Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t see me off?” he suggested.
“He’s right,” she thought. “It would be painful and useless. There’s nothing left for us to say to each other.”
And Diana tried to imagine how he looked, all ready to go, in his gray suit, but she could not see his face, the expression in his eyes.
“I must look at him once more,” she decided, “and always remember him as he is today.”
“I’ll come,” she told him quietly. “I want to.”
Mark watched her as she walked slowly across the hall toward him. She knew her face was pale and her lips were parted in a brave attempt to smile.
“We must be mad,” he said quietly to her. “We’re behaving like two characters in some melodramatic novel. “They parted bravely, silently ... there were no recriminations, there was no looking back...”
But when Diana stood close to Mark and looked into his eyes, it was all too much for her. Unable to bear it any longer, she kissed him lightly on the cheek, said softly, “Goodbye, Mark,” and ran across the hall, out of sight.
She went straight to her ward, to work, not to think of him; it was the only thing to do.
In the days that followed, Diana had nobody to share her secrets, and she did not laugh much. Life was suddenly empty and dull. She wanted to find Mark reading a newspaper in the common-room, his legs crossed, and frowning a little, with his hand over his mouth; or to meet him unexpectedly, strolling along the corridor, the collar of his white coat turned up. And when she played his records, tears came into her eyes. Soon she would sob uncontrollably, his name on her lips.
But as the days passed, she could not cry any more, there were no more tears to be shed. All that was left were sweet memories, and a terrible, aching loneliness.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On New Year’s Eve the snow melted, but it was a cold, raw day. Diana was in her ward office after tea, reading some reports on investigations from the path lab; harmless, rather dull-looking pieces of paper, covered with figures or technical jargon that could mean a sentence of death for a patient.
The phone rang.
“Dr. Field speaking.”
“Good afternoon, Doctor. This is Sister in Casualty. We’ve just admitted Sister Baker. Mr. Cole wants her sent straight up to Charity Ward.”
“Sister Baker? Going back to Charity Ward?” Diana repeated, bewildered, confused. “She was cured, we cured her! There must be some mistake!” her thoughts cried out.
“She’s had a sudden relapse. Mr. Cole asked me to let you know, as you looked after her when she had the operation.”
Diana’s mouth had become dry, her body very weak.
But at last she managed to reply softly,
“Thank you, Sister.” She went straight up to Charity Ward and found the porters wheeling in Sister Baker on a trolley. She leaned over the white, perspiring face.
Sister looked up and smiled. “Hello, Diana.” It had always been “Dr. Field” before, never “Diana.” “How are you? And how’s Dr. Royston?”
“We’re—both well.”
“How silly of me to be back here. Charity can’t get rid of me for long, can it? I seem to belong here!”
“We’ll soon have you better, Sister.” Diana’s voice was choked, the words came slowly, she could think of nothing to say.
“I was choosing my new car. I collapsed in the shop—”
“Don’t tire yourself by talking now. I’ll come and see you later.” The trolley moved on.
For Diana at that moment, life had no meaning and no purpose. She thought; “We are here to grasp what happiness we can, to suffer, and to die.”
In the common-room she found Tony Spring. He was rolling up the carpet.
“May as well see in the New Year properly,” he said, noticing her in the doorway. “Malcolm Smith is organizing the drinks, and we can use the music on my tape recorder. Think you’ll be able to get away?”
“I’ll try. Anyway, it’s a good idea,” Diana agreed, forcing herself to sound cheerful. At the moment she welcomed anything to stop herself thinking of Sister, lying in Charity Ward. “I’ve a few glasses in my room you can have.”
“Thanks. Some of the nurses will be coming down from the theater.”
Diana picked up the evening newspaper.
A small paragraph at the bottom of the page caught her eye. “The Sydney Star sails from Southampton to Australia on her maiden voyage in two months’ time.”
She wondered if Mark would be aboard and was seized with loneliness and longing for him.
“I keep thinking of that rose garden,” Sister Baker sighed. “I’m hot, and everything looks fuzzy ... Is that the garden I used to play in? Yes, that’s the same rose garden. Herefordshire, in the summer. White butterflies, sunshine, and peace. Always peace. Mother, in her sun hat, walking among the red roses. How beautiful she was! I wish we could be there now. But I feel too tired. I’ll go when I’m strong. How awful to be so weak. I don’t think I could even sing. Where’s my strength? I must try to sing ... No, I can’t. Not a note. I must be terribly weak. And only a few weeks ago I sang in the hospital show! What could have happened? ... There’s no pain. I’m just so hot and tired. Mr. Cole will put it right. When he came in just now, he said, ‘Don’t worry, Sister.’ So it couldn’t be very bad...
Diana mopped Sister’s forehead with a damp towel. “Charles. Charles Buchan. I wonder where he is. I haven’t thought about him for so long. I suppose he’s married now, with a family...
“I wonder if I’m going to die? It’s not so bad really, dying. Why are people afraid of it? They spend all their lives worrying about trivial things, but when they’re ill all they care about is staying I alive. That’s all that matters then!
“I feel so tired, I don’t care any more, I can’t fight any more. If there’s another life after this one, it’ll be nice to see my parents again...”
She closed her eyes and slept.
Diana was sitting beside Sister’s bed. She had just met Mr. Cole in the corridor, and now she knew for certain what had happened; before it had only been a fear, a possible explanation.
“It must have cut out,” he told her. “A chance in 100.”
The graft had loosened, the edges had separated, the dam had burst open. Inside her body, Sister was bleeding to death.
Diana watched the pale, gasping face and remembered the long night she spent at Sister’s side after the operation; measuring her blood pressure, giving injections, watching, waiting. Mark had phoned her from his room, to find out how everything was going—a voice of help during that quiet, lonely vigil. Sister had opened her eyes and was gazing at Diana.
“I can’t see you very well without my glasses, Dr. Field,” she whispered. “Is that a party dress under your white coat?”
“Yes. We’re seeing in the New Year down in the common-room.”
“How long have we to go?”
Diana looked at her watch. “Only 15 minutes.”
They stopped talking, while a nurse measured the blood pressure in Sister’s right arm.
When she had gone, Sister said, “I want you to pick some flowers from my garden.”
Diana smiled. “You pick them for me, when you’re up. The tulips will be out soon. The cottage will look lovely then—”
“No, roses, not tulips. Flowers from the rose garden. The garden in—in Herefordshire.”
Diana nodded, fighting to keep back the tears filling her eyes. “You and Dr. Royston,” Sister went on slowly. “What happened? I told him he should marry you.”
“I’ll try to explain, and I think you’ll understand. You see—” Diana broke off. She gazed in front of her.
The sheets had stopped moving up and down, Sister’s mouth was quite still, and her eyes were shut. There was silence.
Mr. Cole’s house surgeon came into the room. Diana stood up, her eyes fixed on Sister’s still, white face.
“Has she gone?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, just now.”
She went on looking at the face for a few minutes, willing it to come to life again, then turned and left the room.
Diana was not crying now. She only felt numb and cold. There was no sorrow or pity in her heart.
She could never remember clearly what happened afterwards; she was too dazed.
There had been a lot of people in the common-room, the chimes of Big Ben were striking midnight over the radio, everybody joined hands and sang:
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?”
“A Happy New Year!” they were all saying. Tony Spring was kissing her on the cheek, Mike Simons thrust a drink into her hand.
“A chance in 100,” Mr. Cole had said.
Laughing, joking, singing. Everyone was happy.
It was going to be a Happy New Year, they said.
The next morning, Diana was examining a patient admitted to her ward with severe anemia. She had stepped back from the bed to pick up some notes from the table, when she was suddenly overcome by dizziness.
She felt terribly hot. Distant, unintelligible voices were talking to her. Yellow spots were circling around and around. Diana knew she would faint if she didn’t sit down.
Then she felt a hand under her elbow, an arm around her waist, leading her into the office, helping her into a chair. And suddenly, everything was back to normal; she could hear properly, see everybody.
Diana sighed wearily. “How stupid of me! I’m just tired, I suppose. I was called to the ward twice during the night, so I didn’t have much sleep.”
“And the round with Dr. Barker lasted much longer than usual,” added the nurse, who was handing her a glass of water. “Here, drink this and you’ll feel better.”
“A good thing Dr. Barker wasn’t there to see me faint.” Diana said ruefully.
“What a way to start the New Year!” she thought, sipping the cool water. “A year of disturbed nights, at the beck and call of my buzzer all day, and Sister’s death—they’ve all caught up on me. I’m weakening.”
Diana knew that unless she was fit, she was no use to her patients or herself. Memories of her illness flooded back—the hot, sleepless nights; constant pain in the chest and coughing; weeks of convalescence at home in Wales to regain the strength to start working. She could not go through all that again. It had been a nightmare.
“I must think about leaving here,” Diana decided. “I’ve been so busy, I’d almost forgotten that I can be ill, the same as anybody else. I always tell the patients to take things easy. Well, that’s what I must do myself. This has been a warning, and the next time it might be too late.”
She stood up. “I’m all right now, Nurse, thank you. It won�
��t happen again.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I never knew Nan to complain about her own misfortunes, she always seemed to be so busy worrying about other people’s.”
Miss Harvey began her tribute to her friend with these words, at the memorial service held in the hospital chapel.
This was a favorite place of Diana’s. She loved its simple oaken pews, the beautiful carved altar, the figure of St. Francis in the stained glass window. She would often go there to find peace and quiet at the end of a busy day.
But now the chapel was full. Patients and staff had come from all over the hospital to remember Sister Baker—everybody from Dan, the chief porter, to Sister Burns, from Men’s Medical; they had all known her kindness, good humor, devotion to her work.
As Mr. Cole read the lesson, “O Lord, We beseech thee to comfort those that mourn,” Diana remembered him saying to her, “you must use all your skill, every talent and ounce of energy in your body.” Well, he had done that, he must not blame himself. This operation had failed, but others like it were to follow and they would succeed. This was only the beginning.
The Chairman of the Governors paid tribute to Sister’s work at the hospital. Then he announced that the new private patients’ surgical ward, which she would have been in charge of was to be named Baker Ward. Diana knew how thrilled Sister would have been to receive this tremendous honor.
The organist was playing “Jesu, joy of man’s desiring,” a favorite tune of Sister’s, as they all filed quietly out of the chapel. As Diana walked by the masses of flowers on the steps leading to the altar, the label attached to a vase of yellow tulips attracted her attention. The writing on it seemed familiar, so she stooped down to read it.
“To Sister Baker, a very dear friend and colleague. Mark Royston.”
Mr. Cole must have written to Mark about Sister’s death, as he said he would. And Diana felt that, in some strange way, the three of them had come together again, that “even in death we are not divided.”
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