Nurse in Love

by Jane Arbor

  She shivered suddenly and Barbara exclaimed: “You’re cold, dear! I should have lit the fire—”

  “I’m not cold,” Kathryn assured her quickly.

  “Then I’ll bring Carol down and get the tea. Victor should be in at any minute now.” She added laughingly: “Do play Snakes and Ladders with Carol, won’t you? It’s her pet craze at the moment, and if I have once more to slide down that revolting reptile that wriggles from the top of the board to the bottom, I shall scream!”

  So Kathryn and Carol settled to their game, Kathryn becoming almost as eager over its fortunes as the child, and finding in their shared laughter a sure, cool retreat from the distaste which Barbara’s news had aroused.

  Just as Barbara brought in the tea the telephone rang.

  “Victor—what do you bet?” she said resignedly, and when she returned from answering it she announced: “It was. And he isn’t—coming home to tea, I mean. He’s giving Cramp Major an hour’s coaching in the Elizabethan dramatists, will have tea in the staffroom and be home later. Oh, and he’s bringing in for a drink someone he’s ‘run up against’—an old pupil, I gather. You know,” she added, pouring tea, “if you put Victor’s ex-pupils end to end they’d reach an incredibly long way. And he seems to remember them all, and to ‘run up against’ more than you’d suppose possible.”

  “I daresay a lot of them look him up, don’t they?” asked Kathryn.

  “Yes, and I’m so glad for him. I’ve sometimes thought that ‘my’ boys, as he calls them, are his compensation now for—other things he’s missed.” Barbara’s glance went momentarily to Carol, and Kathryn sensed that in the child she had found a bracing against her own fruitless memories.

  Barbara said: “Do you know, I think I hear Edward stirring. Do you suppose he could take a little nourishment?”

  “Could he?” Carol sought Kathryn’s professional advice.

  “Oh yes, I should think so.”

  “What could he have?”

  “Well—” Kathryn hesitated, suitable diets for sick toy bears not being within her daily experience, and it was Barbara who came to the rescue, whispering in an aside:

  “You’ll find Edward can take anything that Carol particularly likes—I’d suggest chocolate biscuits myself.”

  So Edward was brought in, wrapped in a piece of blanket and looking interestingly convalescent. And if he wasn’t seen actually to consume chocolate biscuits, at least three disappeared from the dish, no questions being asked by either grown-up.

  Carol was duly bathed and put to bed before Victor Thorley came in, but Kathryn, protesting that she really ought to go, lingered on for a while, hoping to see him before she left.

  At last voices were heard in the hall, and Barbara jumped to her feet to greet her husband as he ushered in his companion.

  Kathryn had risen too, to find to her surprise that, as he towered above Victor stooping to kiss his wife, Adam Brand’s eyes were meeting hers across the room.

  Victor was introducing him to Barbara: “Brand, my dear. You wouldn’t remember him. He was in the Sixth at Repstow during my last year there.”

  Barbara held out her hand. “Yes, Repstow was before my time with Victor, and before he had to give up his job there for something less demanding. His doctors assured him he would find it in day-school work—But what strange illusions doctors suffer from, don’t they? Tell me, Mr.—er—what are you doing now?” Clearly she had not caught her guest’s name. “I’m a doctor.”

  “Oh!” Barbara’s little yelp of dismay at her lack of tact coincided with Victor’s:

  “I should have told you, dear. Brand has just taken up an appointment at the Wardrop—”

  Upon which something seemed to click into place in Barbara’s mind as, with a glance at Kathryn, she extended a hand each to her and to Adam, drawing them together, saying to Adam: “Then you’ll be the Dr. Brand of whom Kathryn has told me? You’ve even met already?”

  “Yes. Sister Clare and I met on the ward for the first time yesterday.” Adam’s smile was polite and his tone studiedly non-committal. But he went drily: “At this point surely someone should remark, ‘It’s a small world, isn’t it?”’

  “Well, so it is!” Barbara defended the platitude gaily as Victor handed drinks. “Haven’t we just proved it—first you and Victor; then your knowing Kathryn!”

  “I deliberately looked your husband up,” remarked Adam, with cool significance.

  “Implying that you’ve had Kathryn thrust upon you?” laughed Barbara. “Come, that’s not very gallant of you, Dr. Brand! I declare I resent it—for Kathryn’s sake!”

  Kathryn flushed, and resented for herself the slight nod of apology which Adam Brand accorded her. He went on to answer a question of Victor’s as to his immediate history before coming to the Wardrop, and as the two men talked she was to realise that his judgment upon her must have been based on what Thelma had told him, as he could not have met Steven in person for a very long time.

  He was telling Victor: “Yes, I decided to specialise in pediatrics as soon as I was qualified. I had some time at Creswell and at Dursington”—mentioning two children’s hospitals—“and more recently I’ve returned from a year in America. I accepted the Wardrop appointment when I returned to England three months ago.”

  “Well, you couldn’t be more fortunate than in having Kathryn as a colleague,” declared Barbara loyally. She hesitated, then said to Victor shyly: “May I tell him about Peter?”

  Victor nodded agreement, and she did so. At the end of the sad little story Adam asked: “And no other children since then?”

  Barbara’s smile was wistful. “None of our own,” she admitted. “Now we make-do at secondhand with Victor’s boys—and, of course Carol.” This time she glanced at Kathryn. “Now I must tell him about Carol, mustn’t I?”

  When she had finished, omitting no detail of the part Kathryn had played, Kathryn rose to go. Adam Brand rose too, offering to give her a lift back to hospital, an offer which she had no choice but to accept, though she did not look forward to the journey.

  Victor said warmly: “You’ll come again to see us Brand?”

  To which Adam’s reply of: “I’d certainly like to, sir,” sounded so nearly boyish that Kathryn glanced at him in surprise. She had not heard that disarming note in his voice before.

  They drove in silence until Adam remarked: “You appear to have played the part of fairy godmother very successfully. Tell me, were you making these plans for your friend and for the child at the time you rejected Carter?”

  “No. Steven had already left England then. Why do you ask?”

  His swift glance was enigmatic. “Perhaps because I hoped that you might have turned Steven down for the sake of some misguided idea of staying in England until these young people were settled and happy.”

  How easy it would be to let him believe that, if it would close the rift between them that was of his making. But Kathryn’s chin went up stubbornly. “It was not like that at all,” she said coldly.

  “No? Then I’m sorry. I hoped I might have stumbled upon a possible reason for your high-handed treatment of a man who loved you.”

  “Why should you trouble to seek excuses for me?”

  Again the oblique glance flashed. Adam said: “Because I prefer to try to think the best of people, even when it is easier to believe the worst. That’s all, I assure you.” With the very coolness and indifference of the words he seemed to set the seal upon their strangerhood.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Thelma Carter was alone in the Social Worker’s office when Adam knocked and entered. She was at a filing-cabinet consulting some records, but turned about and smiled brilliantly at the sight of him.

  “Why, Adam, how nice to see you!”

  He set down his brief-case. “The compliment is returned. But I’m on business bent. Where’s Miss Dale?”

  “She’s with Matron. She may be half an hour or more. Is there anything I can do?”

  “I don�
�t know. It’s possible, if you’ve got access to what I want. There’s a patient of mine—a child named Roger Horrick—whose mother is in difficulty about being able to afford him the care he needs. She is going to have to give up the night work she has been doing, and I’d an idea that she might suit me as a daily woman. I thought of getting Miss Dale to sound her about it, take up her references and so on. I don’t know if that comes within the Social Worker’s province.”

  “If it doesn’t, I’d willingly do it for you,” smiled Thelma. “Horrick—let’s see. Yes, her details are here somewhere.” She found the appropriate record card and in a characteristic gesture smoothed a forefinger over a delicately arched brow as she read it. “I’ll see that she comes for a talk with Miss Dale next time she visits hospital, shall I?”

  “Yes, do that, please. And if it’s outside her scope, may I look to you to follow it up instead and let me know the result?”

  “You know you may.”

  Adam nodded, and was about to go when he was arrested by Thelma’s adding quickly: “Adam—I may call you that, mayn’t I? I always think of you so because of Steven—would you mind if I talked to you—about Steven?”

  “Of course not. Go ahead. Have you heard from him?”

  “I had a letter this morning. He’s back on duty again, but the letter worries me, and I’d be glad if you’d read it.”

  Adam glanced at his watch. “Willingly. But I’m due at my clinic immediately. Perhaps you’d let me take it along, and return it to you on my way to luncheon? Or look here, if you aren’t doing anything this evening, will you dine with me? Bring Steven’s letter and we’ll talk it over. Where do you recommend? It must be somewhere close, in case I’m called out.” They agreed on a Dining Club of which Thelma was a member. Adam promising to call for her at seven, went on his way.

  Over their after-luncheon cup of coffee in the Sisters’ common-room Kathryn found an opportunity to tackle Sister Bridgeworth about Sara.

  Even Sister Bridgeworth’s manner of drinking coffee was swift and expert, as if she had allotted so many minutes and no more to its consumption. Between sips she said: “Yes—Spender. Does as she’s told. Doesn’t want to argue. Doesn’t shirk anything. What’s she complaining about?”

  Kathryn’s eyes twinkled. “She says she doesn’t get enough to do.”

  “Not enough to do! On my ward? Why, even I am run off my feet with work!”

  “You may be. I gather your student nurses are merely frustrated. You do most of their work for them.”

  “But how could I?”

  “The other morning you admitted it,” Kathryn reminded her with a smile. “As for ‘how’—well, I always thought they gave you an option on atomic energy as soon as it was discovered! Come now, Bridgeworth dear, you do like to be in amongst anything that’s going on, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t think I can accept that. Take Nurse Spender now—what has she done this morning?—let’s see. First of all she checked in the clean linen—”

  “She was permitted to count it. You checked it by the book.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “I haven’t seen her. Pure guesswork on my part,” chuckled Kathryn wickedly.

  Sister Bridgeworth shot a suspicious look. “Yes, well—I helped her because I wanted her to get on with cleaning the sterilizer—”

  “Don’t tell me you let her do it alone!”

  “I was showing the other student nurse how to mitre her sheet comers. No idea of it had she got. No idea at all—”

  “Just let Sister Tutor hear you! However, go on.

  “We had an intravenous to do after that,” continued Sister Bridgworth loftily. “And I remember particularly that I asked your Nurse Spender to bring the saline stand.”

  “Who set it up?”

  “We were in a hurry—” At sight of Kathryn’s face Sister Bridgeworth blushed, laughed and gave in. “Honestly, Clare,” she said remorsefully, “I do mean to let them get on with it, but when the work is there to be done, I simply can’t!”

  “You’re unique,” Kathryn consoled her. “But you are a bit of a menace, all the same. For instance, you’ve got young Sara Spender fairly aching to feel her wings, and you just don’t give her a chance. And what do you suppose your methods do for the rest of us when your students are transferred and they’ve been so spoon-fed by you that they can’t do anything for themselves? I say, you don’t mind my bearding you about this, do you?”

  “Of course not. I know it’s a major fault of mine, and I suppose it could rile a youngster who thinks she knows all the answers. I ought to be gagged and bound,” concluded Sister Bridgeworth gloomily.

  “And that, nobody could achieve without your telling them how it should be done and even taking a hand in the process yourself!” teased Kathryn slyly.

  And the discussion closed to the sound of Sister Bridgeworth’s rueful laughter.

  On the children’s ward the afternoon promised to be a quiet one, and Kathryn found that she herself had time to spend with the group of laughing, convalescent youngsters who were playing on the balcony in the autumn sunshine.

  But at about half-past five a call came through from the Casualty Ward. An urgent case of scalding—a little girl of two had dragged a kettle of boiling water over herself—was being sent to the operating theatre immediately and would be sent to the children’s ward after treatment. The house physician on duty should be called and also Dr. Brand. Casualty was sending a nurse with the case to Theatre, but would Sister Clare kindly arrange for one of her own nurses to collect it?

  Swiftly and smoothly the skilled machinery went into action ... Kathryn telephoned for the ward’s houseman, asking him to call Dr. Brand; ordered an operation bed to be prepared, superintended the laying-up of an instrument trolley. A nurse was despatched to the operating theatre, and Kathryn went to offer some guarded reassurance and comfort to the quivering-lipped woman who was shown into the waiting-room on the corridor.

  Time passed. The house physician came to wait with Kathryn, and shortly before seven o’clock Adam arrived. Kathryn was ready to give him such details as she knew, but he cut her short. He had checked with Theatre before coming up to the ward, he said. Then he glanced at his watch and went to the telephone.

  Above the bustle of the arrival of the awaited trolley in the corridor, Kathryn was vaguely aware that she could not help overhearing the brief message—“I shall have to be late for our appointment ... I’m sorry ... No, I can’t say how long I may be...” He rang off abruptly, and by the time the trolley reached the bed made ready for the patient he was at Kathryn’s side.

  His face was very grave as he looked down at the scrap of humanity, swaddled by bandages into a pitiful misshapen bundle. He took a pulse, noted the respirations, spoke to the younger doctor and demanded of Kathryn: “The parents—are they here?”

  “The mother is.”

  “Well, ask her to wait for the time being. See that she’s comfortable until I say she may be called.” In answer to Kathryn’s look of enquiry he added: “I shall stay myself. An hour more or less should tell what hope we have—or if there’s none. Meanwhile, when do you go off, Sister?”

  “I was due off at seven. But I shall not go,” said Kathryn quietly. And when she had sent for screens for the bed she went to the child’s mother. She felt heartsick and frustrated, longing to be doing all the busy, curative things of which the doing might already be too late. But if Adam Brand, with all his skill, could stand by and merely wait, she supposed that she must too.

  Afterwards, when hope and mere waiting had been rewarded by a steadying pulse and a sleep that was natural and no longer a shocked coma, she went back to her office and sat down at her table, her arms outstretched before her, her fingers clasped. When Adam Brand entered she did not look up, and his voice came almost harshly to her ears: “You should go off now, Sister.”

  She looked wearily up at the clock. “Yes, I’m just going. I—had to stay until we knew.” />
  He came across to stand beside her, looking down at her. “Surely you can’t allow yourself to take individual cases so hardly? It’s not a virtue in someone with your weight of responsibility, you know.”

  “Each case is individual in the sadness and the regrets it creates,” she murmured. “The mother of that child—how she blamed herself! And all there was for her to do was wait—as we had to.”

  His hand came down upon her shoulder, its pressure firm and reassuring but surprisingly gentle. “Do you think that that sort of waiting is any easier for me than for you knowing that at such times I’m as powerless and empty-handed as if I were really empty-hearted and did not care?”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  He turned to rest against the table-edge so that he faced her. He said musingly: “You may not believe it, but I’m not completely case-hardened. And with each one I find myself with an old lesson to be learned—again.”

  Kathryn’s glance was an unspoken question.

  “Humility,” he explained briefly. “Nowadays we know so much, and yet there are still limits to what we can use. Nature and Time have to play their part. To-night they were on our side. But even if they hadn’t been, we’d still have no right to despair of their being so in the next case—and the next—and the next. You might find that the thought helps.”

  “I shall, I think. Thank you.” Kathryn stood up, but caught her foot awkwardly and stumbled as she did so. Adam’s hand shot out, catching at her wrist, steadying her.

  “All right?” he queried.

  “Yes, thank you—” She broke off as, after a perfunctory knock, Thelma Carter stood in the open doorway.

  Thelma was hatless, her auburn hair clustering about her head in the latest fashionable short cut; she wore a black trouser suit with scarlet shoes and bag: she nodded briefly to Kathryn, but she addressed Adam Brand.