Ring O' Roses

by Lucilla Andrews

  Roxanne was stretched on the sofa with her eyes shut. ‘Cathy, I’m terribly sorry. Just because my party was a drag was no reason for busting up yours ‒’

  ‘Don’t be a moron, Roxanne ‒’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody charitable!’ She sat up. ‘Think I don’t know why Peter was in such a filthy temper when we walked in? Think Joss didn’t catch on? Long before Peter spelt it out?’

  I said, ‘No. We weren’t. We haven’t. We won’t.’

  She went scarlet. ‘For God’s sake! Which century do you think I’m living in?’

  I had never known her so angry. I was so fascinated, I forgot my own. ‘I’ll tell you what you interrupted ‒’

  ‘Thanks, but I can go to an X movie ‒’

  ‘This one kicks off with two Finnish sex-maniacs in wheelchairs ‒’ I smiled at her expression. ‘True. Listen.’ And when I finished, ‘Don’t ask me why Peter took your turning up with Joss as a slur to his virility. Could be Joss makes him feel inferior, but I’m not asking. I like my beautiful relationship with Peter and asking dodgy questions is the second best way of killing any beautiful relationship stone cold dead. Do you want the bath first?’

  ‘No.’ She had stopped looking angry and in self-defence had fallen into one of her professional poses. We privately called this one ‘Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen but stick around, buster, and you’ll find out.’ I did not say so, now. ‘Cathy ‒’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This ‒ umm ‒ Martha’s Foundation Ball in September. Hasn’t Peter asked you?’

  ‘Yes. Joss ‒ you?’

  “Yes. When he drove me back. Think we’ll ‒ umm ‒ join up?’

  ‘And which century do you think you’re living in, Roxanne?’

  I did not discuss that evening with her again, or with Peter in the A.U. It was getting on for three weeks before I next saw Joss and by then I had other things on my mind.

  The temperature had returned to normal for late summer and as August ended our admission rate rose to its normal Bank Holiday climax. In one of the three momentary lulls we had that Monday, Dave Palmer said he didn’t think he would ever be able to eat food his hands had touched again. ‘But useless, utterly useless, to tell me I’ve been wearing gloves. They reek of blood, positively reek!’ He groaned at another red flash. ‘Dear lemmings. Go home.’

  ‘Brace up, lad,’ said Stan. ‘Holocaust season closes after today till Christmas. Well, Sister?’

  I read aloud Nurse Hedges’ memo sheet. ‘Six. Two adults, four children. One family. Estate car …’

  Five minutes later Hedges was back. ‘Both sets of parents of that honeymoon couple are here, Sister.’

  ‘Waiting-room and tea, Nurse. Mr Lawson’ll see them soon as he’s free.’

  Another memo sheet. ‘Elderly pedestrian. Male. Knocked down by van. Multiple injuries. Name, address, unknown.’

  Message after message. Accident-trolley after accident-trolley. The same anguished mutters, the same whimpers of pain, the same sickly sour smell of fresh-spilled blood. Relative after relative, sitting in rows in our waiting-room in the same incongruously garish holiday clothes, with the same stunned expressions on their faces.

  The estate car had belts fitted to the front and back seats. The youngest child had been in a safety-harness and the other three wearing their belts. The parents had left theirs undone. The father had been doing around seventy when he had a front off-side blow-out. Both parents were sent to I.C. on the Dangerously Ill List. The children were shocked and cut by flying glass, but none seriously.

  The youngest had come off best as she had been asleep. She was four, very chubby and articulate, and her name was Jeanie. The precautionary X-ray showed her skull to be so perfect and intact that George Charlesworth breathed in sharply as it was illuminated on the X-ray screen. ‘My God,’ he muttered to Stan. ‘Come and look at this.’

  Jeanie looked seriously at the two men, then plucked my gown sleeve. ‘Is that really him?’ she whispered.

  I bent over her. ‘Sorry, lovey, I don’t understand. Really who?’

  Her round baby face was alight with excitement. ‘God. That tall gentleman with the glasses. That’s what the small gentleman with the glasses called him. I didn’t know God wore glasses though I know He wears a long white dress as I’ve seen pictures of him.’ Stan had overheard and moved to her other side. ‘Please, are you God?’

  Stan flushed to the roots of his short hair. ‘No, love, sorry. I’m just same as your Daddy, only I’m a doctor. Know what a doctor is?’

  ‘Doctors mend people. Mummy told me.’ She gave George Charlesworth an accusing glare. ‘Why did that small gentleman with the glasses call you God?’

  George Charlesworth was pink. Stan answered for him. ‘He wasn’t really talking to me, Jeanie. He was ‒ he was sort of saying a little prayer.’

  With the total unselfconsciousness of the very young, she flattened her fat little hands together under her chin. ‘Like “Gentle Jesus meek and mild”?’

  For a moment the two men and I were silent.

  ‘That’s right, love,’ said Stan. ‘Like that.’

  On that same table, that morning, the three of us had stood and watched a slightly older child die.

  Later, Stan said, ‘I wish I could have the buggers here.’

  I was punch-drunk from the day. ‘Which buggers, Stan?’

  ‘The buggers who were in too much of a hurry to get to the sea ‒ to Auntie May’s ‒ to the pub ‒ the best picnic spot. I wish I had them here. And you know what I’d do?’ I shook my head at his tired, grim face. ‘I’d not take ’em to I.C., the kids’ wards, the bloody shambles the girls are now turning back into a clean Receiving Room. I’d not bother showing ’em the relatives, or let ’em listen to that “We never thought this could happen to us, Doctor!” I’ve had over and over all day. None of that!’ His voice shook with the dreadful anger of a peaceable man. ‘I’d just take the buggers to the morgue. I’d stand ’em there, a bit, to listen to the ticking of the fridges. Then I’d pull out just the one shelf. The one with that little lad with half his head missing. And I’d say, “Take a look, mates. You’ve got the time. Saved it on the roads today, didn’t you? And this is what those few minutes bloody cost. Take a good look. Then off home and sleep easy”.’

  I did not say anything. I left him in the office and went along to the relatives’ waiting-room. It had finally emptied, the tea-urn was only lukewarm, but there was enough left for one cup. I took it back, put it by him and sat down again. After he had drunk the tea we did the notes.

  Chapter Ten

  I had a letter from Mrs Alesund next day and we met for lunch in the following week. She was waiting in the foyer, but I did not immediately recognize her as the young woman in a tan jersey suit and tan velvet beret. She was amused. ‘My face is clean!’

  ‘Mine, too, but you recognized me.’

  She had unusually wide-set eyes with an even more unusual quality of innocence in their expression. ‘Miss Maitland, Arne and I have three children. Our boy is eight, our girls seven and five. I shall never forget either your face or Mr Desmond’s. Now, sherry?’ Her fluent English was only slightly accented. ‘Or something else?’

  I had rather dreaded that lunch, having recently discovered how uncomfortable a burden was gratitude. I was now finding it as hard to dismiss Joss as not worth bothering over, as to meet him without feeling irritated and vaguely guilty, because I probably owed him my life. I had expected much the same reaction to myself from my hostess. It was not all that uncommon in patients after a successful recovery from a dangerous illness. My father had said that was because few people cared to recall their black periods or those connected with them. ‘It is so much easier to be a generous giver. To be a generous taker requires real, and rare, generosity of spirit.’

  Mrs Alesund possessed it. Her friendliness was uneffusive, but she made it very plain she was my friend for life. She talked as an old friend, of her family, and father.
He was now up on crutches and hoping to leave hospital, shortly. ‘He’s so enjoyed his regular visits from Mr and Mrs Frayling, and the Vicar and Mrs Desmond. With the Vicar he’s got on very well as both men are scholars and served in your Royal Navy during the last World War.’

  ‘I knew the Vicar had been a Naval padre.’ I did not add that the rest was news to me.

  ‘An interesting and amusing man. Coffee?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She had not mentioned Joss again. I did, and learnt he had driven her over to tea at the vicarage on his half-day last week.

  ‘It was a lovely afternoon and we had tea on the lawn. It was a very pleasant and very English occasion.’

  ‘With wasps in the raspberry jam and suicidal flies in your tea?’

  She laughed. ‘Having lived next door for so long, those wasps will be your old friends. I had hoped young Mr Desmond could join us today, but unfortunately he’s working. Of course, you’ll know that.’

  ‘No.’ I explained our different jobs.

  She seemed surprised. ‘Not your young man?’

  I smiled. ‘Boy next door.’

  She agreed that was often an insuperable barrier later and asked if I had ever visited Norway. ‘You must! It is a beautiful country. Do you ski?’

  ‘I did some in Canada. I loved it, though I’m no good as I started too old. Your children ski?’

  ‘Indeed! Norwegians are on skis as soon as they can walk. You must spend a winter holiday with us sometime. When do you next have a holiday?’

  I took her invitation as a charming gesture, but not to be taken seriously. ‘Thanks, I’d love to.’ I went on to tell her my immediate future remained problematical owing to Butler’s health. Miss Evans had said I must have two weeks off before the end of the year, possibly late October or early November and would that suit me? Since the last thing I presently wanted was the thinking-time a holiday would provide, I said, very well, thank you. Miss Evans had then given me a long look and asked how many days off I had owing. My answer evoked a deep sigh. ‘Not blaming you, my dear. I haven’t a sister who escaped the ’flu who doesn’t now need a rest-cure. Now, let me see ‒’ she studied a rota. ‘Yes. By the last weekend of this month, Nurse Chalmers’ll be back ‒ her father’s much better ‒ and Nurse Jones from her holiday. Take from Thursday to Tuesday, inclusive.’

  Mrs Alesund asked if I would spend my break at the vicarage. I said I thought not as there was so much I wanted to do in London. We agreed London was a fascinating city, though the traffic was terrifying. She was returning to Asden that afternoon and to Norway tomorrow. Before I left, she asked me to call her Nina. ‘I think of you as Cathy, having heard your old friends use the name so often. I won’t say goodbye, as we will meet again. Till then.’

  I wrote that off as another charming gesture. I said as much to Joss when I met him by chance on my nightly visit to the Office with the A.U. report that evening. He was in a hurry, too. He said I could be right, that he had been sorry to miss our lunch but I knew how it was. I said I did and we went our separate ways. When I looked back he had disappeared.

  ‘You’re very grave, Sister. Disturbing evening?’

  ‘Er ‒ no, Miss Evans. Quite quiet.’

  Back in the Receiving Room, one of the medic students was trying to unload the last four unsold ball tickets in his book. ‘Best knees-up of the year status-wise! Come on, Mr Lawson! Make the in scene!’

  ‘Dance, lad? Me? When I’ve flat feet and am tone deaf? What are you trying to do? Deprive me at a stroke of my job and my lovely wife? Take a look at next week’s off-duty rota on that board! Mr Charlesworth’s just told you he’s got his tickets. How long’d I draw my pay if I left the shop to run itself? And how’d I persuade my wife not to fulfil her promise to divorce me if I risk crippling her on a dance floor the once more? Away, wretched youth! Flog ’em elsewhere!’ He glanced at the lights. ‘Thought this peace was too good. And the next one is ‒ Sister?’

  Nurse Black was ‘lights and messages’. We were patientless, so she read aloud: ‘Youth, name, address, unknown. Minor burns, shock, semi-drowned. Clothes set alight when removing paint from house-boat with blow-lamp. Jumped in river, can’t swim. River police witnessed event, bringing him in.’

  ‘Makes a change.’ Stan washed his hands. ‘If there’s one thing I like, it’s a bit of variety.’

  Peter waved off the ticket-seller like a fly. ‘If you ask me, the chap was flogging tickets. My blow-lamp still handy, Sister?’

  ‘On the anaesthetic machine in C2, Dr Anthony.’ There was a roar of laughter as the medic in question glanced into C2 instinctively. ‘It’s all right, Mr Dennis. Dr Anthony only chucks medics in the river when there’s no R in the month.’

  ‘Only snag there, I can never remember the date.’ Peter smiled at me over his mask as the red light reappeared. ‘We’re in business again.’

  The youth was a Barry Steven Thomas. He was twenty, very skinny, with long, dank, dark hair and a sharp-featured, intelligent face. He worked in a television-cum-radio shop and though semi-conscious on admission, responded so well that initially he refused to be admitted to a ward.

  ‘Only got me clobber burnt and a bit of a soaking, didn’t I, then? Said yourselves I been dead lucky only to get them small burns. You’ve fixed me. I’m not stopping.’

  Stan had called in a thoracic registrar as some water had penetrated Barry’s lungs. The registrar said we’d feel much happier if he would come in for a day or two. ‘The Thames isn’t precisely crystal clear.’

  ‘Can’t be that mucky, Doc, seeing as the fish come back.’

  I said, ‘You just don’t fancy hospitals, Barry?’

  ‘S’not that, darlin’.’ He grimaced to himself. ‘I’m not fussy, but it’s this bird, see? Always meet her down the disco Wednesdays, don’t I? Go right spare she will, if she reckons I’ve turned her in. Have to get meself a new bird, won’t I? Don’t want no new bird. Proper little darlin’, she is. I’m getting out of here, see?’

  I said, ‘Wouldn’t your bird understand if we got a message to her? What’s her name? And the disco? Better still, know the number?’

  He gave all three. Peter joined us as I was noting the lot on the upturned hem of my gown. Barry said I’d best ask for Big Sid. ‘He’s all right, is Big Sid. He’ll not reckon her name, just say as she’s the small blonde job, third table back, right. He’ll fetch her, you tell her and I’ll sign in.’ He winked at the two men. ‘Sister’s a proper little darlin’, ain’t she, then?’

  Joss stopped by my table in the canteen next day. Peter was in the queue for our coffee. Joss had had a letter from Ruth and she sent me her love. ‘She feels marriage is an institution with a great future.’

  ‘I’ve heard it well spoken of.’

  His smile wasn’t fraternal, it was downright avuncular. ‘Hence the successful Lonely Hearts’ Bureau Doug Pearson says you’re running in the A.U.?’

  Doug was the thoracic registrar. ‘All part of the N.H.S.’ Since we were so nauseatingly chummy, I asked about the holiday he was starting some time next week. ‘Foreign parts?’

  ‘I think so, though it’s not quite settled.’ He looked ostentatiously at the canteen clock as Peter approached with two cups of coffee. ‘If that’s right, I’m late. Hi, Pete ‒ see you, Cathy!’

  Roxanne was booked to make a television commercial in Venice two days after the ball. At the moment, she was doing so well professionally that we barely saw each other. ‘Always the same,’ she said. ‘Either every fashion editor in London wants you at once, or no one remembers your name.’

  She was reorganizing the two-foot-long carpet-bag she used for her modelling gear some nights later when I got back by taxi at eleven. ‘Peter on call?’

  ‘No. Something late he wanted to see on telly.’ I sat on her bed. ‘Where’s tomorrow’s?’

  ‘Brighton, at eight-thirty.’ She muttered to herself as she repacked. ‘Shoes ‒ light ‒ dark ‒ high ‒ flat ‒ boots ‒ where the hell are my
boots?’ I picked them off the floor. ‘Thanks. Joss rang me just now to fix up times for Friday. Going to Malta, he said. Isn’t that where his regular woman is?’

  ‘Yes. What about sandals?’

  ‘God, yes!’ She dived into her shoe-rack. ‘Tights. Tights ‒ plain ‒ coloured ‒ body stockings ‒ socks ‒ strapless bras ‒ bra slips ‒’ she looked up. ‘These taxis must be costing you a fortune.’

  ‘They are. If you keep on working at this rate, I shall end up bankrupt.’

  ‘Thought you said he was watching telly?’

  ‘Every man needs a hobby, dear.’

  She smiled slightly as she intoned over her hair accessories. ‘Wigs ‒ hair pieces ‒ heated rollers ‒ spray ‒ where’s my blasted setting lotion?’ I was sitting on it. ‘The client wants a simple day dress, possibly striped. I’ve got in one striped horizontal, one vertical, one floral, three plain coloureds. Think that’s enough?’

  ‘I’d say.’ I waited a moment. ‘Did you know you make him feel inferior?’

  ‘Me and Joss?’

  ‘Yes. In different ways.’

  She flung herself into the pose we called ‘One step nearer, Mr Hands, and I’ll blow your brains out.’

  ‘He knows there’s a difference?’

  I said soberly, ‘I think he’s serious, Roxanne. I’ve never thought so before, but I do now. Of course, I could be wrong.’ She said nothing. ‘Decided you’re not interested?’

  ‘Decided I need time to think. I was so sure eventually you two would drift into marriage. I can now see that’s not on, but ‒’ she zipped up the bag ‘‒ nor is my chucking away good lolly I can only earn for a year or two more, to boost any man’s ego. And even when the public get sick of my face, as they will, I’ll never settle for being the doctor’s wife. I’ll turn agent and I’ll make a lot of lolly. I like lolly and I like working. How about his ego, then?’

  I thought it over and had to be honest. ‘I think it might work providing you were hellish tactful. Is he worth it, to you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve got to think.’

  I said, ‘He’s only soft-centred. He’s not all mushy.’