Margaret made no comment. She pushed aside the curtain which cut off Matron’s tiny cubicle from the open ward and let it fall back behind her.
‘Peter’s gone,’ she said.
Matron - an elderly woman, neat in a long blue dress with stiffly starched cuffs and cap - nodded gravely.
‘Ten minutes ago,’ she said. ‘I’ll have Jamie up from below to fetch him in a moment or two. But we’ve had an emergency here. Young Kelly’s leg. Gangrene, I’m afraid. He’s too ill to move. St Bartholomew’s have sent a surgeon to amputate. I want to be free when he’s finished, so I’m hoping none of them will notice Peter for a moment.’
The operation explained the atmosphere. All the children were terrified of being ‘cut’. It happened here only in the gravest emergencies, but whenever a surgeon was seen to arrive, a tension grew like the feeling in a prison on execution day. The young patients themselves fought against the anaesthetic as fiercely as they would have sought to evade the knife, and even the noisiest of the other children were silenced by the sound of the screaming. Jamie, too, who was called upon to hold the child down until the chloroform had taken effect, was upset by this duty. He loved children, and wished to be kind to them. His limited intelligence could not comprehend that a child must be restrained and hurt for his own good. Jamie did whatever he was told, but he was not happy about it.
As Margaret turned to hang up her cloak, the curtain was pulled aside again. The stranger who came in - a man of about thirty - was almost as tall as Jamie. He had thick fair hair and troubled blue eyes in a strong and handsome face.
The overwhelming impression of the young surgeon was one of bulk, for in addition to his height he was broad-shouldered and solidly built. Margaret stepped back as though only some such movement would enable them all to breathe in Matron’s tiny cubicle. Even then they were so close that she could see the fresh blood which stained his frock coat: the sawdust which clung to his boots was coloured in the same manner.
‘I’ve had to take the leg off above the knee, Matron,’ he said. ‘And even now …’ He shrugged his shoulders compassionately. ‘I don’t give much for his chances, I’m afraid. You’d better get his mother here.’
‘No family,’ said Matron. ‘He’s been working as a crossing-sweeper and living rough. That’s how he came to be walking round with a rusty nail stuck in his foot for the best part of eight days.’
‘Mm. Well, keep him warm. Hot drinks as often as he can take them. If you’ve a drop of brandy to spare, that would be his best medicine. He won’t feel the pain for a few hours. I’ll come back this evening to see how he’s getting on.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Matron. ‘We’re very much obliged to you, I’m sure.’
He stepped backwards, raising one hand above his head to move the blanket aside. As he did so, he glanced at Margaret for the first time. It seemed to her that what he saw disturbed him, for he frowned slightly to himself and stood for a moment without moving as though holding a pose for a photograph. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. Whatever was puzzling him was not worth the time he would need to unravel it. He ducked under the beam and within a second could be heard clattering down the ladder, with a thud as he jumped the last few feet.
Margaret stared at the place where he had stood. If he had gone straight out without pausing, it would never have occurred to her that she had seen him somewhere before. But his moment of puzzlement had proved infectious. His face was somehow familiar, but she could not remember any occasion on which they could have met. Clearly he had had the same difficulty. Perhaps his name would give a clue.
‘Who was the surgeon?’ she asked Matron.
‘Come to think, he never gave me his name,’ said Matron, unconcerned. ‘When he arrived, he said that his Resident Surgeon had asked him to come, and where was the boy? I was too glad to see him to be bothered about introductions.’
A hysterical shout came from the other side of the partition.
‘’E’s croaked. Matron, come ‘ere. Peter’s croaked.’
‘This is going to be a bad day,’ said Matron. ‘When I saw young Kelly this morning I thought we were starting with the worst, but now I’ve got that feeling in my bones that there’s more to come. A bad day.’
She hurried out of the cubicle. Margaret heard her voice - an artificial sharpness to it - ordering Mickey to get back in his bed and Johnny to stop making that terrible noise. Jamie was called for and came heavily up the ladder, still disturbed by the operation. From the other direction a young nurse came hurrying to help. Margaret watched the activity through a gap in the curtain, but thought it best to keep out of the way. Unlike Matron, she had no gloomy feelings about the day. Her brief exchange of glances with the surgeon had aroused her interest. His appearance was attractive. Whoever he was, she would like him to notice her.
It could easily be arranged, she thought. He had promised to return in the evening. If she were to stay a little later than usual, she could ask him to discuss the effects of the operation with her.
This plan was foiled, unintentionally, by Matron. The Sick Children’s Hospital undertook no night casualty work; and because there was no lighting in the long ward except for the lamps carried by the nurses, the in-patients were settled to sleep as soon as darkness fell. On this particular evening that moment arrived early, for the first of the autumn’s sea fogs came swirling up the river to be trapped beneath the pall of smoke which at this season thatched the roof of London’s atmosphere. Margaret had written up her notes for the day slowly and painstakingly but by six o’clock it was clear that there was nothing more for her to do at the hospital. Dr Ferguson had left long before, and Matron frowned to herself as the thick yellow fog blanketed the building more closely.
‘You should be on your way, Miss L.’ Like everyone else, Matron used the initial as though it were Margaret’s full name. ‘In half an hour it won’t be safe to walk through the streets. Jamie had better go with you to the station.’
‘No, thank you, Matron. That won’t be necessary.’ Even at the best of times Jamie had always to be given a note in his pocket to state his destination, ready for the moment when he lost himself. He would never find his way back to the hospital in the fog. But Margaret realized the wisdom of Matron’s advice. Besides, in such weather it was likely that the surgeon would cancel his journey, so that any further procrastination would be for nothing.
She clutched her cloak tightly about her while she climbed down the ladder to the ground floor and called a cheerful goodnight to Jamie. He was stumbling about in the shadows, groaning to himself, and did not answer her as she stepped briskly out. The fog was not yet dense, but swirled up the street in tall columns, like ghosts walking. At one moment she could see the buildings across the way clearly: then they were gone, and with them went all sound. Even her own footsteps were muffled when she reluctantly began to move away.
Twice she thought she heard a horse approaching: twice she stopped to listen and told herself she was imagining the sound. On the second occasion the pause was longer, for it was necessary to deliver a short lecture to herself. What did she think she was doing, loitering like a shopgirl? Was she trying to force herself on the attention of a busy professional man who had no reason to give her a second glance? Margaret felt bewildered by her own behaviour. She was twenty-five years old and dedicated to the calling she had chosen. She had loved a man once and would never love another. Her life as a doctor lay clear ahead. How could she have allowed a brief glimpse of a stranger to complicate her feelings? She resolved to put him out of her mind at once.
With this settled, she took at least two brisk steps before finding another excuse to pause. The fog, settling more thickly, had trapped the black smoke which rose from a million chimneys and filled the lower air with grit. Margaret began to cough as the irritation, more smoky than she ever remembered it before, reached her throat. She untied her scarf and wound it round her mouth to act as a mask. While she was doing so, she hea
rd the sound of a horse’s hooves and the rattling of wheels.
This time there could be no mistake, but the perverse acoustics created by the fog made it impossible to tell the direction of the carriage. She turned to look back, and caught her breath in horror at what she saw. As the yellow fog eddied and briefly rose along the river bank, it revealed glimpses of a bright orange flame through the doorway she had recently left. The children’s hospital was on fire.
2
Fire! The word alone inspires fear, but even the fearful may see rescue as more necessary than escape. Appalled by the danger to the children in the hospital, there was a second in which Margaret was too shocked to move. Then, without even looking to see whether the road was clear, she picked up her skirts and began to run back as fast as she could. She had covered only a few yards when the shoulder of a horse sent her flying. So hard was the blow that it knocked her clear of the hooves. She heard the cabbie swearing as he pulled up, and heard too the footsteps of the passenger who jumped out of the cab and ran towards her.
It was the young surgeon. He helped her gently to her feet. While her swimming head was steadying itself she saw that he recognized her.
‘You shouldn’t be out on foot on a night like this,’ he scolded. ‘Wait for me in the cab. I shan’t be long.’
Margaret shook her head. Either from shock or as a result of her fall she was too winded to speak. The hospital had become invisible again behind a curtain of fog, so without considering what he would think of her behaviour, she took hold of the surgeon’s arm and pulled him towards it.
Only a few steps, and the reason for her urgency was all too apparent. Black smoke poured out of the ground-floor doorway as though it were a factory chimney. Margaret guessed that oil from the lamps must have caught fire. The dampness of the wood at that level might prevent the fire itself from spreading, but even smoke would be a danger to the sick children above. She pulled her scarf more tightly over her mouth and nose as she ran.
Jamie was lying on the ground just inside the door. His forehead was bleeding and it was easy enough to see that he must have hit one of the hanging lamps hard enough to dislodge it. He was too heavy for Margaret to move. She left her companion to drag him out to the open air while she herself ran with smarting eyes to where the ladder should be.
Unlike the wooden walls of the warehouse, the ladder was new and dry. Its feet were standing in a pool of burning oil and the lower rungs were already on fire. Margaret had only her head and shoulders through the trapdoor when she felt the support slipping away from her feet. She flung herself forward and managed to pull herself on to the floor of the ward.
Most of the children were coughing, and the babies were crying; but there was no movement in the long room, no feeling of panic. The two night nurses must have assumed that the thickening of the atmosphere was caused by the fog. They had hung a blanket across the opening in the wall which led to the hoist platform of the old warehouse, and were cheerfully chatting to Matron at the far end of the ward over a cup of tea.
As Margaret straightened herself she heard the cabhorse cantering away; she hoped desperately that the cabbie would summon a fire engine quickly. A shout came from below.
‘Where are you?’
The ladder’s gone,’ she shouted back. ‘Go round beneath the hoist.’
Startled by the exchange, Matron came hurrying down the ward. She smelt the smoke as she approached and her eyes widened with alarm.
It was impossible to estimate how great the danger was. Dampness was a friend, but draught an enemy which might prove more powerful. The hospital was almost full, so that there were more than a hundred children at risk. With as few words as possible, the four women set to work to clear the ward. The least ill of the children were taken from their beds so that their mattresses could be thrown down to the ground. Then one of the nurses climbed up on to the hoist platform and lay flat, with Matron anxiously clutching her ankles. She lowered the other nurse until her feet almost touched the ground. The young surgeon, frustrated by his inability to reach the upper storey, was on hand to catch her. Now there was someone to care for the children as they joined her.
The young patients followed by the same route. Cradles were flung out first, and then the babies lowered in slings made from blankets. It was tempting to hurry, but dangerous. Matron, supervising the first few drops, made the nurse wait each time until the sling had ceased to swing, so that it would fall safely into the surgeon’s arms. Margaret, meanwhile, was busy in the ward.
By now all the children who could walk were crowded below the opening high in the wall. They were too frightened to jostle, but all of them were coughing and most were crying. Margaret lifted each in turn up to Matron, hurrying away in between to carry one of the more helpless children nearer. She took a moment to throw a mattress over the open trapdoor in the hope of reducing the smoke. But the floorboards were badly fitting and full of knotholes. With every moment that passed the air became thicker and more choking. There was no piped water on this floor, so Margaret soaked her scarf in the nurses’ kettle for a mask, and set the eldest children to tear up a sheet and dip the strips for the others to use as they waited.
It was a time for instant decisions. Chest cases must go quickly: broken bones were best left till last, in the hope that a ladder would arrive in time. Long after she had reached the point of exhaustion Margaret worked on, choosing and carrying and lifting, her eyes streaming and her head swimming. She could not see what was happening in the street, and she could hear nothing but the sounds of coughing and crying and the quick gasps – not yet quite screams – as the children began to panic. Not even the clanging of the fire brigade’s great brass bell penetrated the fog outside and the confusion within: not even the crashing of ladders against the side of the platform. When the first two firemen appeared in the opening and jumped down into the ward, it came as a surprise as well as an overwhelming relief.
They were followed by the young surgeon. He stood for a moment on the platform, looking round, and then ran across to Margaret’s side.
‘Are you all right?’
Margaret nodded and allowed him to take from her arms the little girl she was holding. But she knew that it would be fatal to relax her efforts. One by one the wooden pillars which supported the floor were collapsing and the planks nearest to the trapdoor were already smouldering. It could only be a matter of moments before this drier wood began to blaze. Revitalized by companionship, she worked even faster than before.
Two ladders now were propped against the outside platform, so that while one fireman carried a young patient down one side, a second could be seen climbing up the other. Matron and the second nurse had been sent down to the street with armfuls of scarlet blankets snatched off the beds to protect the children already rescued against the weather. To them, safe from the fire, the rescue had become an excitement.
Inside the ward it was different. Margaret had been frightened on the children’s behalf ever since the fire started, but on her own account had been conscious only of discomfort and tiredness. Now she became apprehensive for her own safety. She could hear the roaring of flames below one end of the ward, and the air was as hot as a baker’s oven. Once she had to stop and stamp on the smouldering hem of her skirt before it flared up. To move away from the comparative safety of the opening towards one of the further beds required more courage each time. Yet the surgeon was not hesitating, nor were the firemen. Margaret forced herself to keep going.
At long last the ward was empty. One of the firemen pulled her on to the platform and steadied her as she staggered. The surgeon, just about to follow, suddenly stopped.
‘The lad I operated on this morning. Is he out?’
Margaret caught her breath in horror. To minimize the disturbance to him, young Kelly had been left at the far end of the ward, in the cubicle which had served as an emergency operating theatre. She pointed, unable to speak, and the surgeon vanished into the smoke. He was gone only for a moment,
but to Margaret it seemed a lifetime. She held her breath until he reappeared, and it was as though the world stood still. She could hear no sound, see no movement. All she could do was to lean against the wall, exhausted and wait.
When he returned he was walking more slowly, looking grimly down at the boy he carried in his arms. Margaret signed for him to go first down the ladder, since she herself felt unable to move. One of the firemen, realizing that she was at the point of collapse, lifted her over his shoulder and carried her down. She was too tired even to think how undignified this was.
Once on the pavement outside, she sat down regardless of the dirt, for her legs would not support her. Fog and smoke combined to make the rest of the world invisible, but there was a great deal of noise. She could hear water hissing from hoses, axes chopping at wood, flames crackling as they devoured the building, children crying, onlookers shouting. And, nearer at hand, the surgeon talking to Matron.
‘Any casualties?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Matron. ‘The weakest, as you would expect. Three of the babies, one asthma case and one haemorrhage.’
‘And the boy with gangrene, I’m sorry to say. Still, that might have happened in any case. Oh, and the big man I found below. It looked as though he’d knocked himself unconscious. He was badly burned before I got to him.’
‘Poor Jamie!’ sighed Matron. There was a moment’s silence. ‘I felt it was going to be a bad day. But not as bad as this.’ She sighed again, and then spoke with a little of her old briskness. ‘Well, I must find somewhere for these children to sleep. I’ve sent messages to their families. As many as possible will have to go home for the night. It won’t be good for them, but what else can I do?’
‘I told my cabbie to come back for me after he’d raised the firemen,’ said the surgeon. ‘I’ll call in at Bart’s on my way back and get them to send you some help. The Registrar’s a friend of mine. If he hasn’t got room for all the children himself, he’ll send messengers and find out who can take them.’ He paused. ‘The young woman,’ he said. ‘She was here when I came this morning. Who is she?’
The Lorimer Line Page 25