She moved restlessly. “Will I wake up, love? Will I?”
I leaned over her. “Of course you will. We’ve got nowhere to store people who don’t wake up, so you’ll have to, won’t you?”
She giggled at my weak joke. “That’s right, lovey. Can’t make the place untidy can we? That’d never do - “
As I watched the Pentothal in Joe’s big syringe diminish as it ran into the woman’s vein, standing blue and knotted at her elbow, and felt her grip on my fingers slacken and finally fall, I thought about Matron talking about kindness. Dimly, I felt that the silly little conversation I had had with this now unconscious woman was the sort of thing that she had meant. It had certainly meant more to the patient than all the careful thought that had gone into the preparation of the tray that held the Pentothal Joe was now using. And, for the first time, it meant more to me, too.
I had an evening off, and I was more than ready for it when six o’clock came. As I left the theatre, thinking longingly of a really hot bath, Sister called to me from her office.
“Gardner!”
“Yes, Sister?” I had escaped her eagle eye all day. Had she spotted something wrong now, something that would make me late going off duty?
“You are entitled to a day off this week, I believe? You were due for nights off this weekend, I understand.”
I nodded. “Yes, Sister, I’ve made arrangements for Saturday.”
“Pity about that. I can’t spare you on Saturday, I’m afraid. Sorry, but there it is. You must take tomorrow. Goodnight, Nurse.”
I was thunderstruck. It hadn’t occurred to me to doubt that I could have my day off on Saturday. There weren’t any routine lists at the weekends, I knew.
“But Sister - “ I began.
She raised her eyebrows at me in chilly disapproval.
“I’ve made arrangements,” I finished lamely.
“Then you must unmake them, mustn’t you?” Her voice was clipped and unfriendly. “We are working on Saturday, and I need you. And work comes before the nurses’ social commitments, as far as I am concerned. So you will take tomorrow as your day off, please. Good night, Nurse,” and she returned to her writing as though I wasn’t there.
I was seething when I got to my room. It was bad enough to lose the date I had been looking forward to so eagerly, but to be treated in this high-handed fashion was infuriating. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
I phoned over to the doctors’ common room. It was Dickon who answered, his voice sounding tired and dispirited. Should I ask for Peter? I didn’t know what to do - there wasn’t any doubt that Dickon would recognize my voice.
“Hello, Dickon,” I said, after a fractional pause.
“Avril!” He sounded pleased. “I’ve been trying to see you all day. I heard the news this morning - and Joe told me you were back on days. Damn’ theatre’s been like Paddy’s market. I haven’t had a chance to get past the dragon.”
I laughed. I could imagine Dickon skulking round the theatre door. Any doctor who hadn’t any business in the theatre got short shrift from Sister, and Dickon’s chief hadn’t been working that day.
“I’m awfully glad things tunred out as they did, Avril,” Dickon’s voice clacked tinnily from the phone. “How are you feeling now?”
“Oh, fine. And you?”
“I’d be better for a sight of you. When are you off?”
“I’ve got an evening. But -”
“But?”
“It’s been a long day, Dickon.” I just didn’t want to see him. And anyway, I was hoping Peter would be free.
There was silence for a moment. Then a sharply indrawn breath. “I see. Then you didn’t phone me here to speak to me.”
“What makes you think that?” I laughed.
“Because you only ever phone me when you’re off duty unexpectedly and you feel like going out. Calling just for a chat is more my line, isn’t it? Q.E.D., you didn’t phone here to speak to me.“
I was cross, but I still didn’t want to hurt Dickon. “Don’t be so daft,” I said. “I only meant that - that I didn’t want to go far, because I was tired. Coffee locally, perhaps?” I hated myself for lying to him, even if the lie was only a matter of evasion.
“If that’s what you’d like. But you don’t have to.” He sounded unconvinced.
“Look, Dickon. I’m not in the mood for being soothing. Do you or do you not want to go out for some coffee? Because if you don’t -”
“We always seem to niggle at each other these days, don’t we?” Dickon said. “Why, Avril?”
“My dear, don’t exaggerate!”
“I’m not. It’s quite true. Ever since I was fool enough to propose to you. I was a fool, wasn’t I?”
“You ask some impossible questions -”
“That’s no answer. Was I a fool? Or may I -” he broke off. Then he said softly, “Damn. Look, I can’t talk now. See you at the Nurses’ home at eight, O.K.?”
“Yes,” I said. “See you then,” and hung up.
I stood in the little phone box for a moment, relieved that someone else had come into the common room and stopped Dickon from proposing again - something he was obviously working up to. But how was I to stop him if we had coffee together?
I bathed and dressed in a temper. I wanted to speak to Peter about Saturday, and I had no idea where he was. And I was in no mood to see Dickon just now, either.
It was with enormous relief that I saw Chick in the hall when I came down just before eight. I had forgotten that she had nights off, and I greeted her so joyfully that she raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“Theatre must agree with you!” she said.
“So so. How are you, Chick? Sleep well?”
“Don’t ask silly questions. Whenever did night nurses sleep well?”
“Never mind, old thing. It’ll soon be over. What are you doing tonight?”
“Not a flaming thing. Ain’t it a shame? No one loves me - no date, no nuffin’!” she said cheerfully, obviously quite happy about it.
Dickon put his head round the big entrance door.
“Hello, Chick!” he said gaily. “How’s my favourite night nurse?” His voice softened as he looked at me. “Hello, Avril.”
“Hello, Dickon!” I said brightly, almost feverishly. “Dickon, Chick’s all on her todd, and she’s got nights off, too. Let’s all have coffee together, what say you?”
“Of course!” His voice was hearty. Too hearty. “Lovely idea. Come on, Chick.”
She tried to get out of it. She knew as well as I did that Dickon wanted a tête-à-tête with me, but I didn’t give either of them a chance. I swept them both out to Dickon’s battered old car, talking nineteen to the dozen. We drove off into the High Street, neither of them saying very much. I talked about everything - even the weather, at one point.
Dickon drove past the coffee house we usually went to - a quiet dimly lit one, that was never very crowded. He parked, instead, outside a garishly lit and noisy establishment that was full of teenagers and odd types in peculiar clothes.
As we drank our coffee and ate pastries, I talked on. Dickon and Chick gave up even pretending to join in. They just sat in glum silence listening to my desperate babbling.
I was still in full flood when a hand fell on my shoulder.
“Hello, Avril. Bartlett. Nurse McLean. How is the hospital managing to run with all of you away?”
It was Peter, and my heart lurched as I looked up at him.
“Hello,” I said, controlling my voice carefully.
Dickon stood up, his face grim. “Evening, Chester. Do join us - or aren’t you alone?”
“Thanks - I’d love to. Yes, I’m alone.” Peter sat down, hitching his chair close to mine. “I hardly know a soul in this neighbourhood yet. Just the doctors - and a few of the nurses,” and he smiled down at me, his eyes glinting wickedly.
Chick spoke suddenly. “Really? I thought I saw you talking to a very attractive girl in the canteen this morning. Sh
e didn’t look like one of the staff.”
Peter grimaced at me, assuming a long-suffering look. “‘What great ones do, the less will prattle of’?” he quoted softly. “Eh, Avril?” Then he turned to Chick, one eyebrow raised insultingly.
“Observant of you,” he drawled. “She was an old friend who happened to be visiting me. She has just gone back to the country. Her name is Dorothy, and she is the daughter of my old chief. He asked me to look after her, as he had a busy day on, and to see her off on her train this evening. She spent the afternoon shopping. Now, what else can I tell you about her? She’s nineteen -”
“It doesn’t matter.” Chick was scarlet with embarrassment. “I’m not really interested.”
“Forgive me. I thought you were,” Peter said smoothly.
I felt dreadful. There was no need for Peter to be so rude to Chick. Her question had been blunt, and not particularly polite, but even so -
Peter seemed to sense he had stepped over the mark. Dickon was glowering, but before he could open his mouth, Peter leaned over impulsively, and covered Chick’s hand with his own.
“My dear, I beg your pardon. That was appallingly rude of me. Do forgive me.” He looked round at us, a rueful grin on his face. “I’ve had one hell of a day. That girl is the dimmest thing on two feet, and she’s nearly driven me to distraction. She’s one of those debby types - you know?” He started to imitate the strangled Mayfair accent.
“‘Daddy says shopping’s an awful bore, but I like it frightfully, don’t you, Petey? Oh, just look at the divine little dress - and only forty guineas! Isn’t it too, too utterly ducky, Petey?’“ He shook himself. “One hell of a way to spend a half day off - and I’d been so pleased to get a buckshee half day, too!”
The tension relaxed a little, though Dickon still looked rather sulky, but Chick looked less bothered. It was hard to resist Peter’s charm, and after all, Chick had rather invited that outburst.
We sat there for another hour, Peter entertaining us with accounts of his medical school days. I laughed a lot. He had a gift for mimicry that was irresistible, and the stories he told were funny in their own right. After a while, Chick started to cap his stories with some of her own, from her years at the University of Toronto. Altogether, I was enjoying myself.
Suddenly, Dickon stood up. “Sorry to break up the party,” he said abruptly, “but I’ve got to get back.”
I stood up too. “I suppose it is getting late, Dickon,” I smiled at him. “And I am rather tired.” I didn’t want the evening to end, but Dickon had brought me, and I felt in honour bound to go back with him.
The others rose too, and Peter helped Chick into her coat.
“Time we all got back,” he said. “My car’s outside. Who’s for a lift?”
“Thanks all the same,” Dickon said quickly, “I’ve got mine too.”
Chick looked sharply at him. Then she turned to Peter.
“It’s a small car, is Dickon’s,” she said gaily. “And while it’ll take three, I’m a bit hefty for it. I’ll take you up on that offer, Mr Chester.”
“By all means.” Peter was smooth. “Lead the way, Bartlett.”
I was annoyed with Chick, to say the least. She could have got into Dickon’s car comfortably, but she had made up her mind to throw Dickon and me together. There was nothing I could do about it, but I settled myself in Dickon’s car sulkily for all that. “Nice girl, your friend Chick,” Dickon said as he turned the ignition key. “I -”
Peter’s car drew up alongside, and he put his head through the open window.
“I’ll see you in the common room, Bartlett,” he called. “But I’d better say good night to you now, Avril. I’ll be back before you, I dare say.” Peter’s car was a handsome thing, obviously capable of much greater speed than Dickon’s. “See you Saturday, Avril. ‘Night!” and the car swept off, the tail lights diminishing with insulting speed.
“Got a date with him?” Dickon asked casually, as the little car followed, heaving and rattling like an old man.
“I did have,” I said miserably, “but my duty has been changed.” Then I caught my breath as I looked covertly at Dickon’s profile staring at the road ahead. I hadn’t meant to be so honest, but he had asked the question so offhandedly he had caught me off my guard.
“Oh, hard luck!” He sounded genuinely sympathetic, and I peered at him in surprise. Up to now, Dickon had reacted sharply to any suggestion of a relationship between Peter and myself.
“Yes,” I said uncertainly. “Sister says we’re going to be busy on Saturday.”
“Mmm. I know.”
I wondered how he knew, but I didn’t feel like asking him. He seemed like a stranger, suddenly, not a bit like the old Dickon who had been part of the fabric of my life for so long. So we finished the journey in silence.
The car turned into the hospital gates, and Dickon parked in the usual place before leaning over to open the door.
“Nice evening, wasn’t it?” he said conversationally. “Well, ‘night, Avril. See you in the slaughter house. Our list in the morning. Thank the good Lord it’s my half day.”
Almost without thinking, I said, “It’s my day off.”
“Lucky girl! Enjoy it!” and then he locked the car, and loped off towards the doctors’ common room, leaving me to find my own way back to the home, something he had never done before in all the time I had known him. He turned and waved briefly before he disappeared into the building, and I waved back, automatically.
I was thoroughly confused. He had never behaved like this before, and to have changed so suddenly was out of character. Dickon the steady. Dickon Always-the-Same! And I wasn’t sure that I liked the change, even though it might mean life would be a little less complicated in the future.
Then, as I made my solitary way back to my room, across the tree-murmuring garden, I remembered that I still hadn’t told Peter our Saturday had to be off. Which was at least one complication I still had to face.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I spent my day off alone, washing my hair, catching up with my mending, and dealing with all the tedious little jobs that had accumulated over the past weeks. It was a dull day, but I needed the rest. Yet even as I told myself this, I couldn’t help wondering how Dickon was spending his half day. Ever since the start of our friendship, we had taken it for granted that we would spend our spare time together, and it wasn’t very often that our half day and day off coincided as it had today.
The silly thing was, I didn’t want to go out with Dickon, I was afraid he would get personal again, afraid he might propose again, and that was the last thing I wanted. But at the same time, I was piqued that he hadn’t given me the opportunity to say I didn’t want to go out. “Typical feminine logic,” I told myself wryly. “Want it all ways, we do.”
I didn’t try to phone Peter to tell him our Saturday date was off. For one thing, I wasn’t sure where I could find him, and for another, I didn’t want to risk getting Dickon at the other end of the phone, as I had last night. So I wrote a note. It wasn’t easy to write. I wanted to say I was disappointed, but I didn’t want to seem too eager for another date. So I just explained what had happened, and said I hoped to see him in the theatre some time. As I sealed the envelope, I hoped ardently that Peter would make another date the next time we met, and that he wouldn’t lose interest in me in the meantime.
I went on duty on Saturday morning feeling thoroughly irritable. It’s always maddening to have your off duty changed unexpectedly, and it’s more than maddening to come on duty on the day that should have been your day off. However, it was a fait accompli, so I started work in the anaesthetic room as philosophically as I could, doing my best to ignore the bright spring sunshine glinting on the chrome and porcelain fittings, trying not to think about how nice it would have been to go to the country with Peter.
I soon discovered why we were working that day. Dickon’s chief was to perform a kidney transplant, one of the more complicated operations. The boy who
needed the transplant was about thirteen, and the healthy kidney was to be donated by his older brother. This meant that two operations had to be performed simultaneously. The older boy was in the second theatre, and the younger, ill boy, in the main one.
Sister sent me to help in the main theatre as soon as I had prepared the anaesthetic room. The boy was already there, dozing fitfully on the narrow table, a scared ward nurse beside him.
She watched me moving about the theatre with awe, obviously impressed by the sight of a theatre nurse. It’s odd how nurses who have never worked in the theatres look up to those who are there. I remembered my own fears, when, as a junior nurse, I had had to escort a patient to the theatre, and how god-like the theatre staff had seemed, walking about in that terrifying place so nonchalantly. Yet, once you are used to it, theatre is much like the wards, except that the patients are all unconscious. There is a routine of work to be done, and to be done thoroughly, just as there is in a ward.
The big kidney machine stood beside the table, an alarming looking object, with its tubes and dials. It was this that was helping to keep the boy alive. He had been born with one faulty kidney, I saw from his notes, and now his remaining healthy one was beginning to fail. The machine acted in its place, blood from one of his arteries being fed into it, filtered of all the toxins and waste products that could poison him, and returned to a vein. It would still be needed, even after the operation, while the new kidney “took” - if it ever did - and gradually assumed the functions of the machine.
I knew the boy’s chances were pretty slim. Sometimes, the body refuses to accept a grafted piece of tissue, a fact that makes skin grafting difficult, if the person needing the graft is unable to provide enough of his own skin from other parts of his body. If this boy’s body rejected the kidney that was to be put into it this morning, then he would die.
I looked at the young face on the narrow operating table, and wondered if he knew how ill he was. And I felt ashamed to have been annoyed at losing my day off, so unimportant a thing when set against this boy’s life, and I was glad to be on duty. I knew my contribution this morning would be small - I was just one of the team, and an insignificant member at that - but I was somehow grateful for the opportunity to be making it.
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