Final Year

by Claire Rayner

  “Oh, we are,” I said hastily. I didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken. The warm and intimate atmosphere of a little while ago had gone, and I felt that Peter had withdrawn somehow. I felt cold. “We are, Peter,” I said again, earnestly. “It’s just that - well, Dickon is a friend of mine - “

  He covered my hands warmly with his own. “Dear, loyal little Avril,” he said caressingly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease you about your friends, should I? Forgive me.”

  His eyes held mine, almost hypnotically. “Darling,” he said, and his voice was deep and strong. “Let’s not sit here any more. Let’s go out to the car. I can think of much better things to do than talk.”

  I smiled tremulously and nodded. As he paid the bill, I felt my body begin to tremble, I so much wanted to be in his arms again, to feel his hard body close to mine, his kisses on my mouth. The intensity of my longing almost frightened me.

  He drove silently for a while, the big sodium lights on the highway swooping towards us and passing us in a regular pattern that added to my sense of being mesmerized. Then, suddenly, he swerved the car off into a side road, unlit and with inky shadows under the big trees that overhung it.

  When he turned the engine off, the silence pressed down on me like a weight, until I felt I could hardly breathe. The wine began to swirl in my head giddily, and for a moment, I wanted to get out of the car and run, wildly, anywhere.

  But then he took hold of me, roughly, and started to kiss me as I had never been kissed before. My mouth felt bruised, and my ribs ached under his hard grip.

  It was as though I were in a fast river, trying to swim against the current, as though there was an undertow trying to pull me down, down, to nothingness. I was swept away by the violent tide of feeling that rose in me, that obliterated all thought except those of the moment. I was lost in the surge of new sensations, and I responded with all the power I had in me.

  And then I got frightened. His hands were caressing me urgently, without tenderness, and he was whispering words I hardly heard. But I understood. He wanted so much more than kisses, so much more than I could possibly -

  “Peter,” I gasped, trying to make him hear me through his shoulder. I was pressed so hard against him, I could barely speak. “Peter - don’t please - Peter,” I was almost crying. I was so desperately confused. Part of me was almost sick with terror, while part of me wanted him to go on. My head spun with the effort of trying to think straight.

  I put both my hands against his chest and pushed hard. He sat back, his usually sleek hair standing up in ruffled points that looked faintly ludicrous.

  His voice was brusque. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m sorry - I feel a little - ill.” I started to gabble. “It must have been that long case we had this afternoon - they used ether - and there was a lot of it about - I must have absorbed quite a lot. And the wine - I’m sorry - sorry.”

  He smoothed his hair with one hand. “Of course,” he said crisply. “I wasn’t thinking. You’ve only just come back from sick leave, and you must be tired. We’ll go back.”

  He started the car and swung it out and back on to the highway. I looked surreptitiously at his profile, sharp-cut in the glare of the big lights, at the firm mouth, at the jut of his jaw.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, timidly, even while I wondered why I should be apologizing. He had been violent, and he had frightened me badly. Shouldn’t he be apologizing?

  As though he read my thoughts, he smiled at me, turning his eyes briefly away from the road.

  “I’m the one who should say sorry, darling,” he said. “I upset you. But it wasn’t all my fault. You shouldn’t be so exciting.”

  “Am I exciting?”

  “Of course you are. You have a lovely face, and a body that’s all grace. You’re a beautiful creature, Avril.”

  My fear dissolved. No one, not even Dickon when he had proposed, had ever said anything like that.

  “Thank you,” I said softly. Then I snuggled down inside the collar of my big coat, and watched the road slide by, dreamily happy to be beside him.

  When we got back to the hospital, he parked the car, and then turned to me, his arm draped negligently over the steering wheel.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening, sweetheart,” he said. “And forgive me for frightening you. But as I said, you shouldn’t be so lovely.”

  “You say the sweetest things,” I murmured, with a bad imitation of a coy young thing. “And thank you, Peter. It was good to be with you again.”

  He grinned, his teeth gleaming whitely in the light from the casualty porter’s lodge. “You say the sweetest things, too,” he mocked gently.

  He kissed me, gently this time. “You must go to bed, Avril. You’ve had a long day, and you’re only just well again. Sleep well, sweetheart.”

  “Shall I see you again soon?” I asked shamelessly. I loved him too much to care about the conventions about who asked who for a date.

  “I’m afraid I can’t this week, darling,” he said regretfully. “I’ve put in for a senior job - had you heard? - and I’ve got to do a bit of hobnobbing. You know how it is.”

  I nodded, trying to hide my disappointment.

  “Of course, Peter. I know how it is. And I do wish you all the very best of luck. When will you know?”

  “Not for a week or so yet. I should get it. There isn’t much real competition, but you never know. It isn’t only merit that decides these things. Your face has to fit.”

  “It’s all wrong.” I was angry. “People shouldn’t have to - to - make up to people for things like that.”

  He laughed. “Darling, I couldn’t agree with you more! But that’s the way the world wags. Medicine is a rat race just like anything else. And between ourselves, I’m rather good at smoothing the race in social ways. So I don’t mind very much.” He touched my face tenderly. “We’ll go out again as soon as I can manage it, Avril. Friday, perhaps. Will you be off?”

  “I have a long weekend. Evening Friday, and a day off Saturday and Sunday. Lovely.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be having alternate weekends off after that?”

  “Mmm. I’m acting staff nurse now. I alternate with Sister.”

  He leaned across me and opened the door.

  “Then perhaps we can think of something special to do with one of those weekends, what say you?”

  I got out of the car, and he came round to stand close beside me.

  “What sort of something special?” I asked.

  He put his hands behind my back, and I leaned back in the circle of his arms and looked up at him.

  “Oh,” he said gaily, kissing the tip of my nose, “the coast maybe? Would you like that?”

  “I’d love it.”

  “Then we will. Good night, funny little Avril.”

  “Good night,” I whispered. Then I put my arms round his neck, and pulled his head down to mine, and kissed him. “Good night,” I said again. “Dear Peter.” And then I ran away across the garden to the Nurses’ home.

  Chick was lying sprawled on her front on my bed when I let myself into my room. Her feet swung high behind her, her battered old mules hanging on to her toes by a miracle. Her hair was pinned up into rollers, and her face shone greasily with my best cold cream. I could smell it as I came in.

  She flapped an abstracted hand at me as I flopped into a chair.

  “Hi, hon. I’m designing a house. Joe says maybe we could afford to have one built if we saved hard enough. Some little town way out in Northern Ontario. That’s what we want,” and she started to sing, “Just Joey and me, and baby makes at least half a dozen - “

  I laughed. “Chick, you are a nut. Give yourself a chance - one thing at a time. Get married first, and think about the children later!”

  She rolled over on her back, linking her hands behind her head.

  “Oh, Avril, won’t it be glorious? Can’t you just see it? Me in a frilly pinny, with a nursery full of gorgeous infants th
e image of my ugly old Joe, God help them, cooking tasty little messes while I wait for my lord and master. I’ll have a kitchen with yellow gingham curtains, and a mushroom coloured dining room and a frilly pink bedroom, and a black and white bathroom, and a living room full of books and big armchairs,” she sighed gustily. “Won’t it be blissful?”

  I tried to imagine myself in a little house somewhere, waiting for Peter to come home, but somehow I couldn’t. That wasn’t Peter’s setting. He’d want an elegant London flat at a fashionable address, with an elegant and fashionable wife to match, someone who could look cool and soignée at the head of a dinner table full of important people. Was that me? Peter had said I was lovely-graceful. Maybe I was, then. I wanted to be just what he wanted me to be. No, no little house for Peter. That was more Dickon’s cup of tea. Peter and I, I told myself dreamily, we’d be different. I lost myself in a reverie about life with Peter.

  Chick’s voice shattered it, “You’ve got feathers round your mouth.”

  “Eh?” I put my hand up, feeling the slight bruising Peter’s kisses had left there.

  “You look like the cat that got the canary. Pleased with yourself,” Chick translated. “How come?”

  “I’ve been out with Peter,” I said, trying to be nonchalant.

  “Oh.” Her voice was flat. “Have fun?”

  “Yes.” In spite of myself, my voice sounded doubtful.

  Chick sat up and looked searchingly at me. “Did he get fresh?” she asked baldly.

  “Do you have to be so crude?” I said crossly, starting to undress.

  “Then he did.” She came over to where I stood by my wardrobe, putting my dress on its hanger. “Look, hon., I know you get mad when I interfere, but are you sure Peter Chester is a right guy? I mean - is he the sort to get serious about? He could hurt you, you know. His type does.”

  I turned on her furiously. “Chick McLean! Ever since I first met Peter, you’ve been making digs about him. What’s the matter? What have you got against him?”

  “Nothing concrete, I suppose.” Chick’s face was ludicrous in its anxiety. “I just don’t trust him. There’s something about him. And there’s that other girl - what about her? How do you know he isn’t just stringing you along? He strikes me as the type that would make a big rush for a girl, then drop her when he got bored. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you, Avril. You’re so vulnerable.”

  “I am nothing of the sort,” I said coldly. “I’m well able to take care of myself, thank you! And stop calling Peter a type. He isn’t just a type. He’s a real person - an individual. You can’t just put people into compartments like that! As for that girl-I know all about her. He’s told me. He’s put in for a better job, so he’s got to hobnob a bit. That’s all there is to it.”

  Chick raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “But why is it the people he hobnobs with are so young and pretty? Dumb, I grant you - I’ve talked to her, and she’s the stupidest thing outside a birdcage - but very attractive. And I just don’t see that going around with her can have much effect on this job he’s after. She’s some big nob’s spoiled daughter, I admit, but she isn’t on any selection committees. So why?”

  “Oh, you just don’t understand,” I snapped, “and I’m tired.” I turned down my bedclothes, making the action as pointed as I could. “Do you mind?”

  “O.K. I can tell when I’ve gone too far. ‘Night Avril. Sleep well. And when you’ve simmered down a bit, think about what I’ve said. See you at breakfast.”

  “See you at breakfast.” The response was automatic, because I was thoroughly annoyed with her. I tried hard not to think about what she had said. But I couldn’t help it.

  Was Peter stringing me along, as Chick suggested? She had no axe to grind, after all. She had always been a good friend. Yet surely, I argued at the window shining dully across the room, Peter must care for me a little? He would never behave as he did if he didn’t care for me. Would he? But there wasn’t any answer from the window.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The next week was hectic. We were busy on the theatres - busier than we had been for a long time. Sister pushed me ahead until I was scrubbing for an enormous variety of cases - everything from a straightforward appendix to a caesarian section. I hadn’t realized how much information and theatre technique I had absorbed when I had worked on theatre in my second year, but obviously, it had been a lot.

  Theatre work really suited me, I decided. I enjoyed the detailed precision of preparing for a case, revelled in the challenge of anticipating the surgeon’s needs during an operation - I even enjoyed the background work. The hours of drum packing, needle cleaning, dressing making, thread winding and the rest didn’t bother me in the least, although it was a side of theatre work most of the others hated.

  I used the time when my hands were busy on these routine tasks to revise, mentally, all the work for the exams. Matron had said I should use it to “reassess” myself, but somehow, that was a difficult thing to do. I knew that I had been selfish in many ways, that I had been unkind to Joanna, and even to patients at times, but having admitted this, and honestly tried to alter myself (as I truly had), I didn’t see what further reappraisal was possible.

  After all, I told myself, as I packed a glove drum one evening, the business about Joanna had worked out quite well in the end, in spite of what I had done. She had settled down well at the convalescent branch. I knew this from Chick, who had seen her one afternoon when she had gone there to escort a patient from one of the wards. Joanna would be able to do her State exams which was all she had ever really cared about. If she passed - and I sincerely hoped she would - she would still be able to take the job that would give her brother a place at that special school she wanted for him. Matron had seemed sure enough on that score.

  I blew into a glove to make sure it had no holes in it, and let my thoughts slide back to Peter, as they always did, sooner or later. I hadn’t seen him since our last date. Whenever he had been operating, I had either been off duty, or working in the main theatre while he was in the second one. He had said we might go out on Friday, I remembered. But this was Thursday, and he hadn’t phoned, or left a note for me.

  I sighed a little as I closed the drum and heaved it on to the top of the pile of finished ones, ready for the autoclave porter’s trolley. I could spend my weekend off in swotting, I supposed, for the exams that were to start on Monday, but the prospect didn’t appeal. I had already covered the syllabus pretty thoroughly, and there honestly didn’t seem to be anything left to check up on that I didn’t really know thoroughly. Which may sound conceited, but it was the truth.

  I looked up at the big clock in the ante room. Another half an hour, and I’d be off duty. Sister had an evening, leaving me on call with Nurse Davies.

  I went all round the suite, checking that everything was done. The two huge theatres looked strangely peaceful, almost beautiful, in their cool green cleanliness, I thought, as I switched off the lights and plunged them into darkness. In the anaesthetic rooms the Boyles’ machines stood neatly arranged for the next morning’s lists.

  Young Davies was just finishing checking that the huge water sterilizers were full when I went into the sterilizing room. She grinned cheerfully as she dried her hands, and rubbed cream into them, for theatre can play havoc with your hands if you don’t take care of them.

  “Here’s hoping no one springs anything on us tonight,” she said. “Me for a hot bath and early to bed.”

  “Me too,” I agreed. “I’ve checked with the wards. There’s nothing in that might break, that’s one comfort. Not even on the Matty block. So keep your fingers crossed. Have you done the dispensary list?”

  “And the dry dressing list, and the stationary order, and the biscuit and tea and coffee requisition,” she said, checking each item off on her fingers. “Couldn’t be more up-to-date - I feel dripping with virtue. The Blunderbuss won’t be able to find a single thing to grouse about in the morning, I promise.”

  “Oh, S
ister’s not so bad,” I said. “Not when you get used to her ways. Look, you might as well go. I’ll lock up.”

  “With pleasure!” Davies made for the cloakroom with alacrity. “See you in the morning - “

  The phone rang shrilly in Sister’s office. Davies groaned.

  “Hell, hell and damn,” she said resignedly. “I should have known we couldn’t expect to get away with it,” and she turned back into the sterilizing room.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” I called back over my shoulder as I ran to answer the phone. But she was right.

  There had been a traffic accident almost outside the hospital gates. A young man, not wearing a crash helmet - when will they learn? - had got a severely fractured skull.

  “He’ll need a decompression, Nurse,” Casualty Sister’s voice was brisk. “Mr Chester will do it. How soon can you be ready?”

  “Half an hour, Sister?” I said, mentally working out the instruments I would need. A brain operation! I had never taken one before. I felt a little sick as I put the phone back on its rest and hurried out to the sterilizing room.

  I told Davies what was in store, and she whistled softly. “Sister’s in her room, Nurse Gardner,” she volunteered. “She’ll come back if you ask her.”

  I bit my lip. I should tell her about this, even if she was off duty, I knew. A brain job is tricky, and I wouldn’t be blamed if I asked her to come back. But if I did, it would mean that she would send me off, and I’d have to take her turn on call the following night.

  I thought rapidly. Peter was to do this case, and afterwards, perhaps we would have a chance to talk to each other - perhaps he would ask me out the following night. So I would want my evening off, and anyway, I wanted to take this case for him. I had never scrubbed for him before, and now the chance to do so had come my way, I didn’t want to miss it.