His hands and the girl were drenched in petrol. She was tallish and fairly slim, but too stunned to move herself. ‘Never mind, duckie,’ I said, ‘I’ll carry you.’ I hadn’t used a fireman’s lift since I was a child. She was heavy, but it was easier than I expected.
Joss had laid the old man on the opposite grass verge before I got there. ‘Stay with ’em. I’ll get the driver.’ He vanished again.
I was straightening from depositing the girl, when an elderly lady suddenly appeared from nowhere beside me. She held two rugs. ‘Will these help?’ she asked unsteadily.
‘Thanks.’ I covered both figures. ‘Were you in the mini? Where’s it gone?’
‘My husband’s gone for help ‒ I insisted ‒ he’s nearly eighty ‒ can I help?’
‘Could you hold the girl’s hand? She’s conscious ‒ and for God’s sake, don’t smoke! Spilt petrol.’ I ran back across the road.
Joss had the driver’s head and shoulders out. He was roughly Peter’s size, a dead weight, and Joss’s face was streaming with sweat. ‘I said I’d manage! Get out! That engine smells hotter than hell!’
‘Don’t be such a ruddy hero!’ I grabbed the man’s legs. ‘I’ve got him. Move!’
‘Why do you have to be such a bloody-minded little bitch?’
I didn’t answer as I needed my breath.
We had just put down the driver when the old man came round, tried to sit up and fell back with a whimper of pain. As Joss crouched by him, I remembered his medical bag. It was still lying on the grass by the silver car. I had gone before Joss saw me. ‘Leave that!’ He bellowed. ‘Come back!’
I had the case and was running back when, it seemed to me simultaneously, the hill exploded and Joss pulled me down with a rugger tackle. When he hauled us both up, the grass around was on fire, the car was hidden in a sheet of flame, the back of his jacket, hem of my skirt, and some of my hair-ends were singed. The case had been jammed between us when we went down and was intact.
The elderly lady was sitting on the grass, looking as stunned as the girl. ‘You should’ve left it ‒ you should’ve left it ‒ where’s my husband ‒ these poor souls need a doctor ‒ oh, dear ‒ I’m too old for this.’
Joss had his jacket off and was kneeling by the old man. I jerked my head his way as I had one hand on the girl’s and the other on the driver’s pulse. ‘He’s a doctor.’
She was too shaken to believe me until she saw Joss take his spare stethoscope out of his bag.
The driver looked in his late thirties. He was still unconscious. There was an ugly bump and a quite deep but already clotted gash high on his forehead. I could not find any other visible injuries, but did not attempt to move him at all. His pulse was good. ‘Bleeding?’ asked Joss without looking round.
I knelt by him. ‘No. From his pulse more like concussion than a fracture.’
‘Hope you’re right. Don’t touch him more. Girl?’
‘Just shock, I’d say.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He pulled the wrapping off a syringe. ‘This poor old boy’s got a bump at the base I don’t like. His left tib and fib’s snapped and I suspect his femur.’ He frowned at the fine-boned too blue face under the heavy white hair. ‘His heart isn’t liking this at all. I don’t like pumping stuff in in the dark, but if the ambulance takes much longer ‒ what do you think?’
I took the old man’s pulse. Or rather, I tried to take it. ‘Joss, you must. He’s going.’
‘Yep. I know.’ He looked round at the empty road, then took the necessary phial from his bag. ‘Hell of a way from Asden,’ he said as he gave the injection.
The old man sighed deeply, once, then again, and then his breathing altered to that deeper rhythm. Joss and I breathed out with our hands on wrists thin as paper. ‘That’s better, Doctor,’ I said, and we both smiled.
The elderly lady was watching. ‘He really is a doctor. A real doctor.’
I went back to the other two. ‘Yes.’
‘And you? Another doctor?’
‘Trained nurse.’
The girl had opened her eyes again. She had short, thick, light brown hair and a sensible face. I explained for the third time what was happening. This time she understood and tried to smile. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
The driver had not stirred and his heart was magnificent. I returned to Joss and told him.
‘That’s a break.’ He sat back on his heels watching the thin, closed, old face and the slight rise and fall of the rug over the man’s chest. He looked very tall and had wide shoulders, but being so thin his body was barely visible under the rug. ‘His shape’s helping him, but his age isn’t.’ Joss looked at me. His face was filthy and the cleared patches round his eyes and mouth stood out, whitely. ‘If he has to hang on much longer without oxygen ‒’ he looked over my head. ‘God bless all ambulance crews!’
So many times, so many patients, so many relatives, had said, ‘I don’t mind telling you, Nurse, when I saw that ambulance draw up outside, I could’ve wept with relief.’ If I hadn’t known precisely what they meant before, I did then.
A police car and motor-cyclist arrived with the ambulance. A second police car and the white mini followed a few minutes later.
The elderly lady and her older husband were a Mr and Mrs Frayling and lived in Asden. They sat together on the grass watching the stretchers being lifted out and into the ambulances. They did not talk. They just watched.
Joss beckoned me from the ambulance. He was going with them to Asden General Hospital. ‘You’ll bring the car for me?’
‘Sure.’
The policeman who had taken our names and addresses came up to say they would be in touch with Joss later about his statement.
‘Right. Cathy ‒’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t push the car or yourself.’ He mopped his forehead with the back of his wrist and left another white streak as the ambulance man shut the doors.
I watched it disappear, then looked over at the still smouldering wreck. And then I had to sit down, fast.
Chapter Eight
The occupants of the silver car were Norwegian tourists. The old man was a retired marine biologist, a Professor Ulvik. The girl was his daughter, Nina, the driver her husband, Arne Alesund. They all lived in Bergen.
‘She’ll be out tomorrow.’ Joss took the motorway turning from the roundabout. ‘Alesund probably in forty-eight hours. He was round before I left. No sign of any fracture in his first pictures.’
‘Pity that car hadn’t belts on the back seat.’
‘Yep. It was the roof that clobbered Alesund.’ He shook his head at his thoughts. ‘They’ve got the old boy in their pint-sized I.C. He didn’t look too good when they let me look in again on my way out.’
‘Think he’ll do?’
He shrugged unhappily. ‘The Night Super seemed an intelligent and efficient woman. The one registrar apparently running the whole bloody shop tonight seemed to know his stuff, though his English wasn’t half as good as the Alesunds’. They’ve one hundred and ten beds, and according to the Night Super without the ’flu bug hitting them as hard as us, they’ve a chronic staff shortage. The junior night sister running I.C. impressed me, but she only had a couple of teenage kids to help her. I’m dead sure they’ll all do their best, and their best can’t be bad as Asden General has a very good reputation. But as nursing a patient with intensive care takes several pairs of skilled hands, it won’t be their fault if sometimes their best just isn’t bloody good enough. We think we have staff problems! Huh!’ He was silent. Then he said, ‘I felt an utter bastard walking out, just now.’
‘Joss. You had to.’
‘I know my medical something ethics! That doesn’t mean I’ve to love them, or myself!’
I looked at his tense profile. He had had a wash and his hair was neat, but I found his appearance as disturbing as that early morning in the office. The crash had given me more than a physical jolt. ‘Go ahead and hate yourself, but don’t expect me to join th
e hate-in.’
We were in the slow lane. He checked in the mirror then slowed more. ‘Why the other cheek?’
‘I have this weakness for living. If you hadn’t flung me clear, quite probably I’d now be dead. And as I doubt I could’ve lugged those men out alone ‒ and anyway wouldn’t have been there alone ‒ but for you, those three’d be dead. Would you fancy ending up burnt to a crisp?’
He shuddered. ‘Lay off! My stomach’s not strong enough!’ He smiled faintly, reluctantly. ‘This mean the war’s over?’
‘Until the next one.’
His smile deepened. ‘You had me worried. For an ugly moment I thought I must’ve clobbered your head when I brought you down. Were you hurt?’
‘Don’t think so. I don’t remember. Hey ‒ something else I’ve forgotten! Your date!’
‘Taken care of. I rang from the hospital. That reminds me ‒’ but he stopped as if he had suddenly decided not to share whatever he had remembered. His ‘What did you say the old girl’s name was?’ was an obvious after-thought.
‘Frayling. Husband’s a retired bank manager,’ I added absently, wondering what he wouldn’t tell me.
‘Retired, where?’
‘Asden. She told the cops you ought to get a medal.’
‘Not you?’
‘Well, yes.’
He was amused. ‘This togetherness does something deep down to a guy.’ We had gone another five miles in silence before he asked abruptly, ‘Do you think he’ll do?’
I thought of the old man’s face as he lay on the grass after that injection. ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
That took more time. He didn’t hurry me. ‘I don’t know. Could be wishful thinking, but I don’t think it is. Sort of in my bones. You know?’
‘Yes. I hope to God you’re right. He looked a nice old boy. At his age, he’d want to die in his own home.’
‘How about your bones?’
‘Go along with yours, but my judgement doesn’t. Only one bright spot there; I know I’m too emotionally involved for a balanced judgement.’ He smiled at me as we stopped before another roundabout. ‘You used to call them your inkstinks when you always won pinning on that repulsive pig’s tail.’
‘By cheating. I used to squint under the blindfold.’
We continued swapping childhood horror-stories till we crossed the river. ‘Second or third left from here, Cathy?’
‘Third, and last house but one on the right.’
When he drew up, as our relationship had taken a great leap backwards I asked him up for coffee and to meet Roxanne. ‘Our landlady doesn’t object this side of midnight.’
‘So Peter says.’ He seemed to be having a problem making up his mind. ‘Yes ‒ I’d like to see Roxanne. I gather she’s worth looking at. What’ll she be doing home on a Saturday night?’
‘She has a date with a camera outside the Tate Gallery at six tomorrow morning.’
‘That figures.’
‘It does?’ We were out of the car. ‘Hasn’t got through to Peter in years.’
‘Simple soul, Peter, but a decent bloke.’ My real brother couldn’t have sounded more fraternal.
‘Even Homer sometimes nods. Will Roxanne be entertaining?’
I unlocked the front door. ‘Doubt it. Why?’
He closed the door first. ‘Just remembered something I’ve been meaning to tell you all afternoon. The bug’s taken a new lease in the Orthopod Unit. The wandering boy’s wanted back from tomorrow afternoon. John Carr’s staying in the A.U. till Stan Lawson gets back at the end of the week.’
I turned from the stairs and faced him very slowly. ‘I’ve never worked with John Carr.’
He was looking at his feet. ‘He was J.A.O. a couple of years back, I think.’
‘Yes. Just before I got there. Do you mind?’
He looked up. ‘Why should I? I crossed the river to be Hoadley East’s registrar.’
‘So you did.’ I had to look away as he was watching me too closely. ‘One of these fine days I may even reach Luke. Let’s get on up.’ I went ahead up the stairs and quickly. I felt as if I had suddenly lost one of my limbs.
Mr Carr was good at the job and pleasant to work with. I did not suspect till his last night that neither of us had enjoyed the week. ‘I never knew how I lasted out as J.A.O., Sister. This factory-belt isn’t for me. No time to know the patients, follow them through, even remember their names. I’m not surprised Desmond’s pleased as hell to be back amongst his orthopods. I can’t imagine how Lawson enjoys it ‒ but even he got pneumonia, and Miss Butler got glandular.’ He gave me a clinical glance. ‘You going to last? You’re looking damned peaky tonight.’
That took care of what remained of my morale. ‘Just ready for my long weekend, Mr Carr.’
I rang the Night Super at Asden General again before going off. We were now chums. Professor Ulvik had been moved yesterday to a general ward. Mrs Alesund was staying in an Asden hotel to be near him, and her husband had had to return to his job and the three children they had left with his parents in Norway. ‘He’s beginning to pick up nicely, but not too nicely.’ The Night Super’s West Indian voice had an attractive lilt. ‘As I’ve just told Mr Desmond, I think we can all be very pleased with ourselves. He is seventy-six.’
I thought of ringing Joss, thought again, and told Dolly as we locked up. She had heard of the crash from George Charlesworth, before I arrived on duty on Sunday morning. On Tuesday, I had heard from Peter that the police had proved the steering column of the car had snapped before it burnt. On Wednesday, thanks to Mrs Frayling, the Asden Gazette made its weekly appearance with a front-page story that included potted biographies of my father, the Vicar, Joss and myself, and an interview with the head teacher of Asden Grammar School. ‘Catherine was a reliable and popular prefect and a valued member of our First Hockey Eleven.’
My copy from Mrs Desmond arrived on Friday. Dave Palmer had one on Thursday from grandparents living near Asden. Had Joss not already made it public property, the grapevine would have had the hottest story in weeks. In the event, aside from being wished a good game of hockey by the A.U. staff every time I went off duty, being old history it caused no comment.
From Dolly and via a friend she had staffing in Florence, the A.U. knew of every visit Joss paid Miss Butler, how often he sent her flowers ‒ and the variety, his choice of soothing books, and the size and price of the boxes of Edinburgh rock on her bedtable, the sweet being one for which she appeared to have an insatiable taste. When Dolly announced Joss was taking her home next weekend before she flew to Malta for a minimum of two months sick leave, Dave Palmer suggested we must, but must, have a whip round for the wedding present. ‘And shouldn’t we spare a few teensy-weensy new pence towards the wreath for the many ever-so-dear girlish hopes those wedding bells’ll kill stone dead? But woe!’
That night, after I had given her the latest on Professor Ulvik, we found Dave’s watch on a shelf in the plaster room. George Charlesworth was on call. Dolly said he was bound to waylay her on her way out and she would give him the watch for Dave. ‘A nice child, Dave, but it’s time he grew up.’
I was curious. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Sister, dear Sister! Malta’s a long way off. Our Mr D. is dead sexy, dead human and so are les girls.’
I smiled over-brightly. ‘You don’t reckon much to fidelity!’
‘No.’ Her smooth, chubby, dolly-face both hardened and saddened. ‘Nor would you, if your dad had walked out on your mum when you were seven, just because the child he’d given her turned out to be a hydrocephalic.’
We were alone in the department. I leant against the plaster table, appalled. ‘Dolly, I didn’t know ‒’
She shook her head, but she didn’t hear me. She stared at the blank X-ray screen and the pictures she saw evoked a blazing bitterness in her huge eyes. ‘He was a cute baby. He smiled and smiled, but he could never sit up. He died when he was three. My mum’s never got over him, or my father. She�
��s loved the selfish sod. God knows how ‒ but women are such bloody fools!’ She paused and I kept quiet, partly as I was too moved, partly as she needed to say more. ‘Women are so brainwashed into a fear of insecurity, they swallow all that blurb about love and marriage being the only answer, whole. Then they discover marriage is the second biggest con-trick ever pulled on women. Maternity has first place.’ She faced me. ‘My mum was twenty-seven when she was lumbered with the baby and me. She’d no training and couldn’t leave us to get one. Dear old dad paid maintenance just often enough to keep him out of jug. Not that Mum would’ve put him there. I would! She’s forty-two now and looks sixty.’
‘Dolly,’ I said, ‘to say I’m sorry is almost an insult. I just wish I’d known ‒’
‘Apart from Miss Evans, you’re only the second person I’ve told in Martha’s. The other ‒ guess who ‒’ she smiled very faintly ‘‒ our Mr D. My father rang one night we were doing notes late. The switchboard meant to be helpful and put him through. He started creating when I wouldn’t talk to him. Mr D. fixed him. I’d had to tell him a little. Then I told him the lot. He was perfectly sweet. Know what he said?’
‘Tell me.’
She blushed. ‘This’ll sound rather awful, but he said he thought this probably explained why I was such an outstandingly good accident nurse.’
‘I think he’s right on both counts.’ I was nearly as appalled by my own blindness. Neither in Albert nor here had it ever struck me she had one serious personal problem. ‘I’ll tell you something I shouldn’t. Miss Evans and Miss Mackenzie want you in Butler’s job when she finishes her contract. Like it?’
Her face lit up. ‘Give my soul for it!’ The light went out. ‘Think Mr D.’ll have told Butler? Men blab worse than girls when they think they’re in love. George tells me everything ‒ silly yobbo!’
‘I don’t think Joss will.’ I reminded her how long I had known him. ‘Even as a boy he knew how to keep his mouth shut and all the Desmonds have a very kind streak. Incidentally,’ I added slowly, ‘so has George Charlesworth. He’s a gentle, steady lad. I now understand you’re dead scared of getting involved, but do me a favour. Give him ‒ and yourself ‒ time. Just time. Don’t push him out of your life too fast. Take ten years. I’ll bet George is still waiting.’
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