Presently the great man nodded, and one of the doctors moved away and pressed a bell. An anaesthetist came in and got busy with the little fellow. Evidently, from his simple equipment, Jason was only to sleep for as long as it took the men to examine him. Frances supposed the new cast would be dealt with under later anaesthetic. She watched as the boy drifted off, and then the skilled fingers of Mr. Gildthorpe and his team probed, searched, flexed, folded, manipulated. So adept they were, so certain as to what they sought, it was all over almost in minutes. Jason was fluttering sleepy eyelids and Mr. Gildthorpe was nodding for Frances to take over.
There was nothing for her actually to do; it had been only a short unconsciousness and Jason obviously felt no faintness or nausea. Indeed, Frances doubted if he even knew he had been ‘under’. Burn had supplied him with a sketch book while he couldn’t use his leg for drawing, and he began filling up the pages, quite oblivious of the fact that now only Frances was by his side.
The men were away a long time. Frances, feeding Jason, for lunch had come in, and finding time to take a few bites herself, wondered if the length of time was good or bad. It seemed bad to her. It seemed another east for Jason, perhaps a still larger one. Poor little boy, when would it end?
Then the doctors came back, this time with a radiologist and an X-ray technician, and plates were taken under Mr. Gildthorpe’s direction. Then the men went out again.
Noon grew into afternoon. Jason dozed, sketched, wrote and, when an ice-cream came in, ate. Frances sat with him all the time. Then, watching the fan of Jason’s lashes fluttering drowsily up, then down, but finally staying down, and feeling rather sleepy herself, suddenly Frances was wide awake.
The doctors ... and Burn ... were back in the room. Behind the sea of kindly but unrevealing medical faces one face stood out because of its smiling eyes. Smiling at her. Burn. Burn smiling, looking at Jason, then looking at Frances. And smiling.
‘He’s ’ she barely breathed.
‘Yes, Nurse.’ It was Mr. Gildthorpe. ‘This time he stops out. There’s a lot to be done, of course ... a lot of water under a bridge ... but ... The great man stooped over Jason who now, too, was awake. ‘How would you like to be the fastest boy in the world?’ he asked.
‘On a horse? On Candy?’
‘Why not? But only a little at a time, remember, too much and you’ll be back in a cast again. Though from what I hear, young man, you didn’t mind that once Nurse here introduced plaster writing. Did you ever hear such a thing’ ... to his fellow medicos ... ‘writing on a nice clean leg!’
Jason watching him and only half believing said, ‘You really mean I’m not going back?’
‘I really mean it. Unless’... a smile ... ‘you’d sooner your cast again instead of that drawing block.’
‘Oh no, thank you, oh no.’ Jason looked down on his leg. ‘No plaster!’ he echoed. ‘The same as everyone else!’
‘So long as you do as Nurse tells you,’ added Mr. Gildthorpe. He turned to Frances and said, ‘Perhaps we could talk now while Jason is still bedazzled and has someone to watch over that happy state of mind, as he looks as bedazzled himself.’ He nodded at Burn who was sitting on the bed now and saying man-boy ... and father-son? ... things to the wide-eyed child.
‘No more plaster!’ Jason was still echoing.
Frances found herself in an ante-room with Mr. Gildthorpe.
‘I’ve already spoken with Doctor Muir,’ Mr. Gildthorpe said, ‘though there was little to say, really. He seems a very informed and practical man.’
‘Oh, he is! I worked with him at Brentwood, and he is all that and more.’ Frances flushed, aware that she was speaking out of turn; one did not give one’s opinion to great men like this man.
But like all great men there was simplicity and kindliness there, also humour.
‘Exactly,’ said Mr. Gildthorpe, ‘what he said of you, Nurse. No need for me to repeat the usual injunctions, I have no doubt you know quite as well as I do the after-treatment in a case like this.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘There are, of course, some things you will be unable to do for the patient, assistance that Jason must have to assure his complete recovery. I refer now to massage, electrotherapy, prescribed exercises. You understand, of course?’
‘Yes, sir, physiotherapy, but I don’t think the local hospital has a therapist.’
‘Even if it did it would not suffice. I want Jason continually given this prescribed therapy in the next few weeks. In which case I have recommended Mr. West to take back a therapist with him to assure that no time is lost.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Frances could not have said why she suddenly felt unnecessary, redundant ... left out. Every nurse knew the limits of her service. Every nurse knew the need for physiotherapy.
The great man was looking at her almost gently if only she had glanced up. No doubt he read the little disappointment and sympathised with her.
‘You,’ he said, ‘will be playing a very big part in nursing the boy. You also teach him, Mr. West has told me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re an intelligent young lady.—Intelligent enough to realise that all hands must help?’
‘Of course,’ Frances said firmly. And meant it.— Only, she thought a little wistfully, he won’t be just mine any more, that darling little fellow whom I’ve come to love so much. Burn West’s sonno will be shared by someone else ... more than shared, since physios, I remember, become very dear, very near. Close.
‘Good afternoon, Nurse.’ She became aware that the great man was leaving, and she put out her hand to his extended one.
When he had gone she stood at the window a moment, ashamed of her little sense of pique. I’ve worked so hard on Jason, she was thinking, I’ve broken down his reserve, his—his ‘nothing’, I’ve brought him to a nearly normal little boy, and now… now...
‘Tears of joy, Nurse, I sincerely hope?’ Burn West had entered silently. He stood at the other end of the window considering her.
The ‘Nurse’ that he had addressed her by irritated Frances.
‘Is one joyful,’ she said quite irrationally, but somehow unable to stop herself, ‘at being pushed out?’
‘By what?’
‘There’s going to be a physio. Mr. Gildthorpe has ordered one.’
‘As a matter of interest he didn’t, not originally. I did. But he did concur.’
‘You—you wanted one?’
‘Certainly. Jason’s after-treatment entails much more than you can give.’
The words were said barely, more barely than Burn West intended, but her crumpled little face had surprised and upset him, and man-like he could only think of one reaction: a harshness to hide his deep emotion.
‘Thank you.’ Her tears were gone now, she was mistress of herself again. ‘Are you sure I’m needed at all? After all, Jason receives his real education by correspondence, and everyone knows a physiotherapist can take over most of the requirements of nursing, but a nurse can’t take over physiotherapy.’
‘Getting sorry for yourself now?’
‘Certainly not, but I do like to know where I stand.’
‘Then know that you stand where your contract tells you, and that is in my employ for the next month at least. That surprises you, doesn’t it? Like many of your type you never read the small print.’
‘If you’d like to get out of it—’ she said coolly.
‘I wouldn’t like. I’m perfectly satisfied with your teaching and your nursing.’
‘But nothing else?’
There was a silence, and then he said deliberately, ‘No, Miss Peters, I am not satisfied with anything else.’
‘Then—’
‘But until this stint of therapy is finished and Jason is normal again, I want you around—if nothing else to aid the therapist. It’s a very demanding post, isn’t it, often it requires a helping hand.’
‘Yes,’ Frances admitted, ‘the manipulations demand considerable energy, but then
a man can naturally call upon greater strength.’
He looked at her coolly. Then, because they were in a verandah-type annexe, he reached for his smokes. She watched as he moulded, rolled and lit.
‘But I,’ he said at last, ‘will be employing a woman.’ The match had ignited and in the blue weave of smoke he looked at her obliquely. ‘Does that disappoint you?’
‘Of course not. Why should it?’ As he did not answer, she retaliated, ‘Does another woman at West of the River please you?’
‘You’re ahead of yourself. How can I say that until I’ve seen her?’ He exhaled lazily. ‘Which I shall do now,’ he added. ‘They were sending for her as I came out. Shall we meet Jason’s new Girl Friday together?’ He actually extended his arm.
Angry ... and angry with herself for being angry ... Frances pushed past him and went back to the room. But she got no further than the door.
A very lovely dark-haired young woman was seated on the table with Jason, her arm around him, and he was actually ... that cool little frog of a boy ... leaning his frail weight on her.
‘Oh, hullo, France,’ he greeted casually, ‘this is Jenny. Jenny gave me my tea. You’ ... accusingly ... ‘weren’t there.’
‘I’m sorry, darling, I’ll do it next time.’
‘No, I like it from Jenny. She tells good stories, much better stories than yours, France.’
‘I’m glad of that, Jason.’
‘I’m glad, too, because I knew your stories and I don’t know Jenny’s. Tell me again, Jenny, tell me about the boy you once had who—’ His eager little voice rambled on.
But Frances did not hear about the boy. By that time she was out in the garden and quite ridiculously angry. It was only the patient who mattered. How often had she known and practised that? Yet here she was resenting this charming young woman who already, it seemed, had done remarkable things for Jason West.
I’m jealous, she knew. All nurses feel as I am feeling when someone takes over where they have to leave off. I’m jealous because I’ve come to love that stubborn little fellow. Jealous because ... Halfway between a bed of poppies and a strip of awn Frances stopped abruptly. No, she denied. No. But it was true ... though never again must she admit it to herself. I’m jealous because someone else is taking over—Burn West’s son.
But in the weeks that followed, for it was almost a month before Frances with Jenny, Jason and Mrs. Campbell returned to West of the River, Frances’ shamed jealousy, though it still persisted, was pushed to the background by Frances’ instinctive friendship with the charming girl. Even more than friendship, Frances had to admit, almost an affection. You just couldn’t help liking Jennifer. No wonder Jason had taken to her at once. No wonder his father—
How far had that instinctive friendship gone before Burn had preceded them to West of the River? Frances sometimes thought. She only knew that Jenny and Burn spent much time together, though that, of course, could have been put down to their mutual interest: Jason. But Jason was also Scott’s interest, but apart from the liaison only to be expected between a medico and a physiotherapist Frances believed there was little else.
Scott, she could also see, was unmistakably unhappy. It grieved Frances. He was too fine a man for what showed now in his kind honest eyes. It did not need any word from the doctor to tell Frances that things ... his own things, not Jason’s ... were not going well with him.
But when he came the night before he returned to Mirramunna he told her himself.
‘You’re going back, Scott?’ she asked.
‘My hospital leave is up. Even if it were not, what’s the use?’
‘Hasn’t it gone right between you and Pamela?’
‘I haven’t seen Pamela.’
‘But...’ Frances was silent. She had imagined that on every occasion Scott had been away he had been with this girl he had told her about.
‘I haven’t seen her,’ Scott now repeated himself wretchedly. ‘I’ve stood at the Meldrum Clinic a hundred times ... she worked as her father’s secretary before ... but she can’t be there now. I even waited on the other side of the road to her home in the hope of seeing her, but she never came.’ His voice trailed dully away.
‘But, Scott, you could ask ... surely you could ask...’
‘Go to the reception desk and blurt “Where’s Pamela?” No, I couldn’t, Fran. I told you before there was nothing between us. We’d barely spoken together.’
‘But it was enough for you, wasn’t it, Scott?’ Frances’ voice was gentle.
‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘But what do I know of her feelings, if any, except something I probably only imagined anyway because I so desperately wanted it there? I know nothing, Fran. I knew nothing. And I’ll never know anything because she’s gone—overseas, perhaps, or in some flat of her own. How could I barge in and ask: “Where is Pamela? I must know because—” ’
‘Because I love her,’ finished Frances for the doctor. ‘Yes. How could I ask that?’
‘There are other approaches.’
‘Look, Fran, Mr. Meldrum made me this offer. I accepted it, then later, because of Pamela, because I didn’t feel free, feel right for Pamela until I was clear with you, I turned it down. How do you think he would feel about me now?’
Frances nodded.
‘Then what are your plans, Scott?’
‘I’ll finish my term at Mirramunna, and after that, I don’t know where I’ll go.’ He sounded despondent.
Frances knew he was despondent. Instinctively she went across to him and pulled his head down on her shoulder. He let her do it, though she knew that it afforded him little comfort. Poor Scott!
‘Now that’s what I call a farewell!’ Burn West drawled from the door. ‘I only trust I’ll be afforded a similar adieu when I also leave a week from now. Sorry I can’t take you down, Doctor’ ... to Scott now ... ‘but I still have some affairs to wind up.’
As Scott dismissed the apology, Burn went on to say smoothly that he had not intended to interrupt anything but that he came with a message from Mrs. Campbell. Tea was served.
‘The cup that cheers,’ he said suavely. ‘Look at the cheerful faces!’
Frances, angry for Scott who was anything but cheerful and angrier still for herself because she knew what Burn was thinking about the little scene he had walked into, brushed past the man and into the room where already Jenny was taking tea, and Jason, without the fuss Frances always encountered, milk.
Talk was general as they all ate and drank. Scott told Jennifer he was returning to Mirramunna in the morning and the physiotherapist nodded back at him. ‘Then I’ll be seeing you there, Doctor.’
Frances gave a little start which she hoped she concealed by pretending to retrieve a fallen table napkin. She had not anticipated Jenny going, too, to the Riverina, though she should have expected it after what the specialist had said. As she might have known, Burn read through her quick evasion. His narrowed eyes bantered hers as he said, ‘Quite a medical staff for the sonno—one doctor, one physiotherapist, one nurse!’
Parents would be better, Frances thought futilely, a mother for Jason as well as a father. Also a father who is a father, not just someone who, though he addresses his son as sonno, to the boy is never Father or Dad but Burn.
She let the talk drift around her, then, when the men had gone out, Mrs. Campbell gone back to her kitchen, she asked Jenny, who was rising with the obvious intention of a therapy session with Jason and Jason not objecting because it was Jenny, if she could help.
Certainly,’ beamed Jenny. ‘Right now Jason and I are working on some lazy muscles, aren’t we, sonno?’
... Sonno! Frances found herself resenting ... ‘While I check Jason’s associated reactions you can watch his localised muscle-work.’
But when she stood beside the little boy with Jennifer, Frances was so absorbed that she forgot her resentment.
‘Weak muscles,’ demonstrated Jenny, ‘can only be strengthened by voluntary action against maximum resistance, s
ince this both static and active muscle work is essential.’ She demonstrated, Jason showing a little pain which the physio told France was because pain will nearly always affect voluntary movement since the patient is not really willing to move a painful area.
‘But he’s a good boy for his Jenny,’ she; praised sincerely, and Jason looked adoringly at her.
‘I can’t understand it,’ Frances said as they gave Jason a break at his beloved window. ‘In a few days you’ve got from him more than I ever could.’
‘Physiotherapy goes beyond the treatment of injury by the use of exercise, massage, mechanical and electrical forces, it entails a knowledge of the mind as well.’ There was a pause, then Jenny said, ‘Besides that I—’ Then she stopped.
Frances waited for her to begin again. She wanted to hear what it was besides knowledge of human problems that gave Jenny her advantage.
But Jenny was beginning manipulations again, and Frances was called upon to make herself a kind of bar against which Jason could firm and then limber himself. He cried out a few times, and Jenny explained that it was an inflammation in a nerve sheath.
‘He’s going wonderfully,’ she praised. ‘He’s my brave boy.’ Not a brave boy, not even our brave boy. My brave boy. Frances felt the resentment again, not helped by the pleasure of achievement in Jason’s pale little face.
Scott left the next morning, and on her first free period Frances went to the Meldrum Clinic. She had planned what she was going to say. Once she got past the receptionist she was not so sure of herself, but she would leave that to come instinctively.
As it happened nothing came instinctively, or had need to. Within several minutes Frances was back on the street again. She had implied to the girl at the desk that she was an old school friend of Pamela’s, now looking her up.
‘Then I can’t help you,’ regretted the receptionist. ‘Knowing her, you’ll know how impetuous she is. She’s gone off leaving no address. Her father is furious, of course, but not surprised. That’s Pamela! If you care to leave an address if she does breeze in ...’
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