It would have to happen, he thought bitterly, on a night when Emilio was out with his lady-love. Emilio and his precious motor-boat should have been here; it was, strictly speaking, for Emilio to give authority for this emergency operation. But he had no intention of letting the boy die while they waited for any authority at all.
He showed Nicole the instruments he wanted sterilised in one of the big kettles while he gave Pietro the injection; there was no time now to think of anything but practical details. He supervised her scrubbing-up before and after she had gowned him and tied his mask, and after that he forgot her as a person altogether; she was simply a pair of hands holding a powerful torch where he wanted it, passing instruments to him as he asked for them. He did not look at the blue eyes, tragic and absorbed above the white mask, or notice that the torchlight wavered a little at first, then steadied. He did talk a little, explaining what he was doing, to help her keep going.
"This is a jagged fracture. I shall remove the pieces of bone that are pressing on the brain, but I shall have to make the opening a little larger—so. That is to make sure that no fragment of bone is left inside, and it will make the union of the new bone graft easier. Swab—swab—"
He preferred to work without gloves. Now he was so absorbed in the familiar task that he forgot Nicole altogether. There was the exposed brain pulsing beneath his gentle, probing fingers; a human life literally in his hands. The breathing of the girl standing so close to him became inaudible, her face as white as the gown she wore, and in the background old Lucia stoked the stove as she had been bidden—-to make the kitchen warmer, to keep the water boiling—before dropping on her knees to say her rosary. The tiny clatter of instruments and the gentle clicking of the rosary beads were the only sounds audible beside the difficult, changing breathing of the unconscious boy.
"Take his pulse-count, please."
Working against time, fighting his old enemy—death. It was a familiar race for Jonathan, and infinitely worth while, especially in the case of a child. Once the wound was clean and the boy's breathing easier, he straightened for a moment, the sweat running down his forehead, before beginning the difficult, delicate job of cutting the bone plate to fit the aperture exactly. Nicole, without being told, reached up and wiped his forehead, just as his theatre nurses did, but he was too busy to realise it. The small bone plate, though real bone, would be a foreign body in the boy's skull; it must be fitted exactly, neither too tight, so that it was pushed out, nor too loose for the living bone to knit with it.
He remembered Nicole suddenly. "Can't leave him with a hole in his head," he said cheerfully, "and his own bone will make calcerous matter, knit this up round the edges gradually, and he'll be as good as new."
It was a vague explanation to quiet the anxiety in her eyes, but she was grateful for it.
"He will live?" she whispered behind the mask, afraid even to ask the question after what she had just seen done to her poor Pietro.
"I hope so. Can't you hear his breathing? It's already more normal."
Jonathan did not talk for a long time after that. The job of inserting the new plate finished, he cleaned the scalp and stitched it neatly over the wound. Then, swabbed, there was only a bald patch where he had cut away the thick, black hair, and Pietro stirred a little.
"Another injection—the small hypodermic. He must stay absolutely quiet. Then we can put him to bed, carefully—"
Over at the sink again for scrubbing-up, Jonathan noticed Lucia still on her knees. He patted her shoulder, smiling, when he had dried his hands. "You prayed while I worked, and now the good God will do the rest. Pietro is young and strong and healthy, soon he will be running about again," he said slowly and carefully. To his embarrassment old Lucia seized his hand and kissed it, the tears running down her seamed face.
"Grazie, signore! Deo gratias!"
Jonathan had seen that look of love and gratitude on the faces of the parents of his child patients before. He smiled again and pressed the old hands holding his own. "We must get him into bed for a good long sleep now."
Nicole ran before him to turn on the lights, and he carried the boy very carefully up the uneven stairs, along the ups and downs of the winding passage, into his bedroom.
"Take the sheets and the pillow away; I'll lay him flat, in blankets. Ah, Lucia has produced the hot water bottles, that's good."
In a few minutes Pietro was comfortably asleep, the colour returning to his olive skin, and only a small lamp left burning on the bedside table. In the stillness he heard the soft chug-chug of the motor-boat returning, and Jonathan's expression was grim. He took a pad and pencil from his pocket and scribbled rapidly.
"Tell young Lothario he can take this straight over to the hospital. He must give it to the resident surgeon personally—and I shall want a couple of nurses from tomorrow morning—no, this morning. I shall stay with Pietro until another doctor has seen him and the day-nurse installed."
"But you have done everything!" she whispered. "You're very tired—"
"Yes." Now he realised how deathly tired he was. It was late, after midnight, and the strain of working in poor conditions had been added to the tremendous responsibility. "But I shall stay with him, nevertheless. You don't understand, Nicole. Tonight I have operated without the consent of Emilio, without the approval of the doctors in Lugano. They may be very angry with me. It was an emergency and I had to do what I thought best, but it's all very unorthodox."
They were still in their gowns, though they had removed the masks. Nicole was standing very close to him, the note in her hand, and suddenly she reached up and drew his head down to her, kissing him soundly on the lips and holding him tight with both her arms. He found himself holding her, too, and for an instant his lips touched her fair hair.
"You have saved his life, so what does it matter what they think in Lugano?" she whispered passionately. "And I thank you, Jonathan! Le bon Dieu must have sent you to us!" and she turned and ran swiftly from the darkened room, running to intercept Emilio and give him the message. Jonathan only glimpsed the brightness of tears in her eyes as she turned away from his arms. He sat down beside Pietro, holding the little boy's thin brown wrist lightly between his fingers, counting the steadier, stronger pulse beats with a great thankfulness in his heart.
"I could nurse Pietro," Nicole said, with the crossness of fatigue and reaction. Emilio. a strangely subdued and pale Emilio, had listened with bent head to Nicki's story of his young brother's accident. He had insisted on peeping at the unconscious boy before going on his errand to Lugano. He had wrung Jonathan's hand silently, when the surgeon indicated that no noise was to be made.
"Sleep is very important to him now," he said in a low voice.
"Si, si. ... A thousand pardons, Jonathan, for not being here—and a thousand thanks for what you have done this night!" the young man had whispered emotionally, with the tears streaming down his handsome face. They were an emotional lot, these Italians, Jonathan thought; Nicole, with her half French, half English blood, was capable of great feeling, too, but she was much more useful in a crisis ... He said firmly but not unkindly, "You get over to the hospital with that message, Emilio, or I shall get into trouble with the authorities."
"O.K., I fly!" Smiling now, Emilio gave one last look at his brother and sped away, wiping his handsome nose on the back of his brown hand. Nicole smiled at Jonathan in quick understanding of his feelings.
"Englishmen do not cry, n'est-ce pas?"
"Not very easily," he answered quietly, "but I have seen Englishmen weep, and it is a terrible thing."
She nodded, and he saw that there were great black smudges under her eyes. "All the same, Emilio loves his brother—he would die for him if necessary. It does not mean, because he shows his feelings easily, that he has no deep heart, too ... and I think he is very ashamed because he was not here tonight."
"That's ridiculous. How could he know that the young monkey was going out? Where does he go, by the way?"
"Fishing." There was a tender, amused light in Nicole's blue eyes. "We wouldn't take him because we were going to stay out later last night, so he borrows Giovanni's boat and goes down the other way, by himself. . . . He's a great fisherman, Pietro, and he thinks he's a man ..."
At the moment Pietro looked very much a small boy, lying there so still and defenceless. Jonathan looked across him to the girl who sat on the other side of the bed. He knew that ordinary low-toned conversation would not disturb the boy, but he had been afraid that Emilio would embrace him, disturb him emotionally. The surgeon said gently, "We will take him with us next time. No more fishing until Pietro can come as well."
"That will make him get well quicker than anything." Nicki thanked him with her eyes. Jonathan told her to go to bed, and she answered crossly, "I could nurse Pietro; there was no need to bring over women from the hospital."
"Of course you could." Jonathan rose and crossed the room to pull the tired girl gently to her feet. "You have done splendidly, Nicki! But I think you've done enough ... and thank you, my dear, for your help." He saw the mutiny in her eyes and added quickly, "You don't under-stand the red tape, darling. I've done something very unorthodox tonight. From now on Pietro will be in the care of the local doctor and surgeon, and the trained nurses—"
"Pph! No doctor could do more for him than you have done, and these nurses will not do more for Pietro than I could do! I know he'll ask for me as soon as he wakes."
He was amused and touched to know that she could be jealous—but he kept his amusement well hidden. "Well, he will not wake for a long time, I hope, and his convalescence will be a slow, tedious business. There'll be plenty of time for you to help him, my dear child. Now go and tell Lucia to go to bed, and pop off yourself. Emilio will bring these people in and I'll sit with Pietro."
"I must clear up the kitchen first, and I will make us all some fresh coffee. If you are staying up you must have something to eat and drink—"
"Very well, Maman!" He could not help teasing her a little. "But please be very, very careful with my instruments—especially the sharp ones and the small ones."
"I haven't cut myself or dropped anything yet!" she retorted with a hint of her old spirit, and whisked out of the sick-room. In spite of her tiredness, her feet touched the old worn stairs very lightly and her heart was singing. Pietro, poor bambino, what a price he had nearly paid for his innocent mischief! Pietro was going to live. And She had not fainted down there, though once or twice she had felt very sick—and Jonathan had praised her. Just now he had even called her "darling," and that for an Englishman meant that he loved her a little... though she realised he still thought of her as a child and it had probably slipped out in the fatigue of the night ... yet after tonight he would know that she was not entirely a child, to be petted and teased and soon forgotten ...
She found Lucia scrubbing the kitchen table free of its sinister stains. "Dio mio!" she exclaimed. "How can such a little one lose that much blood and live?"
"He will live. Jonathan says he will live. But he will have to be good and quiet for a long time. He says also that you are to go to bed, my old one, and sleep soundly without fear." Nicole hugged the old woman's thin shoulders, taking the scrubbing brush from her. "Off with you, or no one will be up to give these nurses their breakfast later on!"
Lucia surrendered, grunting in her weariness. "Ah, well, it is late indeed for one my age to be about. The Good God must have sent this Englishman here at such a time."
For a moment Nicole's face was transfigured by tenderness. "Of course He did! Tomorrow you can see Père Angelo and have a Mass said in thanksgiving. Now go—"
The old woman patted the girl's cheek with a work-roughened, skinny hand. "You are a good child, Nicki. Maria will be looking down and blessing you for this night's work. Sleep well when you have finished here, little one."
"Buona notte—cara Lucia."
The big kitchen seemed very empty and silent after the old woman had slowly climbed the stairs. Nicole flinched a little from the instruments she had promised to clean, and scolded herself for being squeamish now that it was all over. She cleansed and boiled and dried the instruments with scrupulous care, guessing that Jonathan would examine them later with critical eyes. These delicate knives end probes and forceps and saws were the tools of his trade, the magnificent trade of saving human life. Nicole made her work in the silent kitchen her own small prayer of gratitude, to God and to the good man God had sent them in their crisis.
When all was ship-shape she carried the tray of steaming coffee and crisp rolls and butter up to Jonathan. He was sitting very still with his eyes closed, but he was not asleep; he opened them at once when she came in.
She waited while he ate and drank ravenously. "I didn't realise I was so hungry. Lord—this tastes good!" he said simply by way of thanks. "You have some, Nicki-and then you must go to bed."
She did not want to leave him. Tonight they had shared so much; the peaceful hours of fishing, the quiet good talk afterwards by the kitchen stove; the little joke about Emilio and Francesca; the terrible operation to Pietro, and now this quiet vigil by the sleeping boy. But Nicki found her lashes sticking together over her tired eyes, and Jonathan's hands—warm, strong hands—pulling her to her feet again.
"Good night, bless you; go and sleep for ten hours. We'll manage," he said, and gave her forehead a light kiss. "You've been wonderfully brave, little one."
"Good night, Jonathan—"
This time she did not kiss him back, but as she went tiredly along to her own room she put her hand up to her forehead, as if his tender salute had left some imprint there, and she fell asleep with a tiny smile on her lips.
No one but Jonathan heard the arrival of Pegasus with the surgeon and nurses from Lugano, and they were installed without noise and fuss. Jonathan found that the coffee and rolls had worked wonders for him, in fact he was wide awake enough to discuss the operation at some length with the Swiss surgeon, who fortunately spoke excellent English.
"Congratulations, Mr. Grant. Of course I have heard of your work; we could not have had a better man. But if you agree I would like to send for Adler—he is at Zurich now—to have a look at your patient."
"By all means," Jonathan agreed affably, but he was thinking, now the circus will start. My holiday is over!
CHAPTER FOUR
"HE IS a famous man, your surgeon." Old Lucia smacked her lips with satisfaction, peering over Bianca's shoulder at the local paper. "Why did you not tell me we had such an honoured guest at our albergo?"
"Because I didn't know," Nicole almost snapped, stir-ring the custard she was making for Pietro. The child was on a special diet, very light; no Italian cooking with oils or wines, and Nicole had fought the nurses for the privilege of cooking for the invalid. "Lucia will leave the albergo if strangers come into her kitchen!" she had threatened, and the German-Swiss nurses—capable, stolid nurses—had succumbed to her ruling. It was Nicole who did all the cooking for the sick-room, Nicole who carried up and down the big copper cans of hot water for the bed-bathing, Nicole who sat quietly reading when he was allowed to have any visitors at all. As she had prophesied, Pietro had demanded her presence as soon as he was fully conscious, some days after his accident. And rather than frustrate the boy, Jonathan had decreed that she could sit with him by the hour, and read quietly to him when he was awake, to discourage him from moving at all.
"It's all here," Bianca cried excitedly. "All the papers are full of it! At school they are always talking about it. Look—there's a new photograph of Pietro, and a big, huge one of Jonathan!"
Nicole moved the custard to one side of the stove and looked, albeit reluctantly, at the severe studio portrait of Jonathan. She said angrily, "They must have sent to England for that! I heard him telling the reporter to go to... that he would not supply any details of the operation, or photographs for the press!"
"Oh, they can get these things of celebrities through the world press associations," Emilio sa
id knowledgeably.
"I gave the reporter the one of Pietro, at school—it was one I took last summer," Bianca said smugly.
Nicole flicked her cheek with sharp fingers. "Then you had no business to interfere!" she cried furiously. "Did I not tell you—Jonathan asked that nothing, nothing should be said to the press? The doctors are the only people who have to know all the details, and they are satisfied."
"More than satisfied," Emilio added. "Listen to this: 'Jonathan Grant, the famous surgeon, recently returned from voluntary service with an American field hospital in Vietnam, was fortunately staying as a guest at the Albergo Fionetti last week when Pietro Fionetti suffered a severe fracture of the skull—'."
"Stop it!" Nicole shouted, banging the newspaper out of his hand. "You make me sick, all of you! As if it is not enough to save Pietro's life, without having to endure this bêtise from the press—and all of you, adding to it!"
She stopped abruptly, realising that they were all staring at her in various attitudes of perplexity—Lucia with a garlic in her hand, Emilio perched on a corner of the big table, Bianca with several papers spread above her homework books, her mouth hanging open.
Bianca recovered first. "I don't know why you are grumbling," she said petulantly. "They've put in all about you, too—you're quite a heroine!" The girl surveyed her friend with her dark head on one side, her eyes mischievous. "I think you would look wonderful in a nurse's uniform, Nicki!"
"Well, they have no photograph of me, with or without a uniform."
"I thought you were good friends, you and Jonathan," Lucia grumbled, as she rubbed her clove round the salad bowl.
Dorothy Quentin - The Inn by the Lake Page 8