She picked up the offending article and thrust it at Christine vigorously. There was nothing Christine could do but take it from her and make her escape. She had not made a very good start in theater, one way or another. She was simply mortified about the incident, and what sort of person she must appear, not only in Sister Kelly’s eyes, but in John Taylor’s! Anyone who would put down a tea-cup without a saucer on the pages of a book, was a pretty detestable sort of person.
It nagged her, too, what Sister had hinted about her conduct with surgeons. This applies as much to you as anyone. Nurse Swenwick had seen John’s hand on her shoulder, had overheard the conversation between Robert and herself.
At the first opportunity she tackled Nurse Swenwick. “Nurse, I strongly suspect you of telling tales to Sister. Is that right?”
Nurse Swenwick gave her an insolent stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. In any case, if there were no tales to tell, I couldn’t tell them, could I?”
“There were none to tell, Nurse. It’s what you make of things. If I were you, I’d stop such despicable tricks. You’ll earn yourself a bad reputation.”
“Like yours?”
Christine took a deep breath. “That will do, Nurse. There’s one other thing I want to ask you about. I left a book of Sister’s on the desk yesterday afternoon. Somebody put a cup of tea down on it and left a horrible stain—as well as turning down the corners. Deliberately, I suspect. Was it you?”
In Nurse Swenwick’s place, Christine herself would have colored to the roots of her hair if anyone had so accused her in such a direct way. But not this girl. She gave a scornful smile.
“You can’t pin that on me. It could have been the night staff. You shouldn’t leave other people’s property lying about, should you?”
Christine could have smacked the girl. She turned away before she gave way to the temptation. Later, she questioned Nurse Adcock, but though she was not rude she could throw no light on the subject. Christine felt the only thing she could do was try to live it down and replace the book with a new one.
She was off duty that week from Thursday evening to Sunday morning. It was odd how, since she had stopped seeing Robert, these longer periods of off-duty stretched before her rather emptily. It was strange, too, not to be filling every available moment in study for her finals. One moment, it seemed, life was happy and hectic and time flew with never enough in which to do everything. The next, life was empty except in patches. One was busy, yet time dragged.
Thursday morning was busy enough. Dr. Brady was operating. Before lunch he did a nephrectomy and a prostatectomy. Knowing his reputation and having seen his behavior in theater, Christine geared herself for his rudeness. The nephrectomy was a fairly long operation requiring a great many instruments. Nurse Larcham acted as instrument nurse while Christine busied herself with lotions and sutures.
The urologist was a huge man with fine hair, thinning on top. In his loose theater gown he looked larger than ever. He came to the operating table looking like a walking tent.
He stood for a moment pulling on his gloves. Then he glanced sharply around, his eyes lighting on Christine.
“Well,” he boomed, “and who have we got here?”
“It’s Staff Nurse Townsend, sir,” Nurse Larcham informed him in a sweet, silky voice.
Christine gave her a puzzled look. Why the special voice? Was she trying to placate him in advance? Normally, unless the surgeon said good morning to her, Christine would have kept silent. But somehow she felt the need to neutralize Larcham’s sugary sweetness.
“Good morning, Dr. Brady,” she said in a matter-of-fact, rather bold voice.
He stared, but made no answer. Suddenly Christine didn’t care. He could be as rude as he liked. She knew she would just keep calm. Nurse Larcham gave her a hostile look. It was surprising how expressive eyes could be over the gauze theater masks. Christine was astonished, too, at the way Larcham fawned upon the surgeon throughout the entire operation. Was it merely to placate him? Christine found it nauseating.
She did her duty at the suture trolley, and all went well until ligatures for the kidney pedicle were required. Christine passed over a number two catgut, the size normally used for this purpose, having also number three in readiness in case he asked for it.
For a moment she thought it was all right. He made as if to use it, then suddenly he flung it over his shoulder.
“Damn and blast it, woman, give me number three!”
Christine stood stock still, but only for a second. Then she said in a calm, clear voice, “Number three catgut, sir.”
If he usually used number three why had Larcham not briefed her? But that did not excuse the surgeon’s rudeness.
The assistant surgeon gave her a surprised glance mingled with amusement, so did the anesthetist. Dr. Brady did not lift his eyes, but his silence was sufficient to tell those around the table that Christine’s coolness had had an effect on him. Nurse Larcham was quite obviously annoyed. When she made coffee for the urologist and his assistant Christine was not invited to have a cup. Instead, Nurse Larcham muttered, “All right, Townsend, since you’re so clever, get ready for the prostatectomy—and heaven help you!”
“You mean you want me to take it?”
“Yes, And don’t expect any help from me.”
Christine reflected with some regret that she seemed to be getting on the wrong side of everyone in theater. She had never worked with Nurse Larcham before, but obviously her sweet face did not match up with her nature. Christine supervised the clearing up of theater.
When Dr. Brady came to the table he gave her a penetrating look, but said nothing. Christine concentrated with all her might. She had learned the procedure off by heart and did not intend to be caught out if she could help it. Nurse Larcham stood by, but did not scrub up to take charge of the suture trolley. Supra-pubic prostatectomy did not take more than an hour to perform and was not as major an operation as a nephrectomy. Nevertheless, it was complicated enough.
Where different sizes of equipment might be used such as sutures or catheters, Christine offered the surgeon both, which left him nothing to complain about. The operation was concluded without him losing his temper.
This fact, however, did not improve Nurse Larcham’s temper, and during the afternoon when John was operating Christine was kept busy with anesthetics and generally running around fetching and carrying. Nurse Larcham apparently kept her sweetness for the surgeons, and Christine caught her several times looking coyly at John. She reflected that he did not appear to dislike Larcham’s particular kind of charm.
He was in the office with Nurse Larcham when Christine went in to announce that she was going off duty. She guessed the two would be having tea. Any other staff nurse would have included her colleague as a matter of course, but not, apparently, Nurse Larcham.
Doreen Larcham smiled sweetly at Christine. “Well, enjoy your days off. Sorry you can’t stop for tea, but knowing you I expect you’ve got a date.”
Christine made no answer to this odd assumption. John, a cup of tea in his hand, was glancing at a patient’s case card. He looked up swiftly, but whether he would have spoken to Christine, she couldn’t say. Doreen spoke to him, and feeling excluded, Christine went out.
After the incident of the book, she wouldn’t have been surprised if John had made some excuse to put off their date. She had not come out of that very well, and imagined him to be quite a fastidious person. But he phoned her the next day and said he would call for her at seven.
She dressed for the evening with no great anticipation. She liked him, of course, but her heart ached for Robert. Almost every dress in her wardrobe reminded her of him, being bought for some special outing or occasion and with a desire to please him. In the end she chose a simple gray flannel dress, one that Rob had not particularly cared for.
“It’s a bit plain, darling, isn’t it? I like you best in colors.” She could hear him saying it as she smoothed the dress over her hips. Perhaps, she thoug
ht, looking critically at her fair hair and her eyes—gray, she supposed, with green and blue flecks in them—she did look better in brighter colors. But there was no time to change again now, and a few minutes later she ran out as she heard John’s car.
He didn’t talk very much on the way to town. Once or twice Christine glanced at his profile and noticed his lean jaw, the fine light brown hair. He was a quiet, almost shy person, but there was a dignity and strength about him. He turned to smile at her once and their eyes met for a brief moment. He had nice eyes, Christine decided—brown and kindly. And suddenly she wanted to explain about Sister’s book, to have him assure her that he didn’t believe she could do a thing like that.
When they took their seats in the theater he dropped a box of chocolates on her lap.
“ Just in case you get hungry,” he said, then added, “By the way, you look charming in that gray dress. I overheard two of the girls on Nightingale saying that gray was all the rage in Paris. Is that so?”
Christine smiled. “I don’t really know.”
“No? Then I suppose it shows what excellent taste you have. I think you have, in any case.”
“Then I’m glad I chose to wear it.”
It was a quietly happy evening. The show was of the lightest kind, but good, and afterward they had supper at a nearby restaurant. They talked about the town and its amenities and John asked what the surrounding country was like.
“I haven’t really explored much of it yet,” he said. “I’m not over-fond of motoring alone. Perhaps you’ll come with me some time.”
“If you want me to, of course I will.”
He gave her a look of mild inquiry. “I want you to, very much, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked you. What makes you think otherwise?”
She cast her eyes down. “Well, there was that business about Sister Kelly’s book. You haven’t mentioned it at all.”
He smiled and raised his eyebrows a little. “I didn’t think it worth mentioning. Obviously you knew nothing about the state of the book.”
“That’s true. All the same, I feel pretty bad about it. The book was my responsibility, and I did forget to take it home with me.” “Nine times out of ten, it would have been perfectly safe where it was,” John said kindly. Then, in an even gentler tone, “You haven’t had a very good time of it lately, have you, Christine?”
Suddenly her eyes grew bright with tears. She smiled tremulously.
“They say troubles never come singly, and I think it’s true. Mine began when...”
She broke off. It was tempting to open out. John was so kind and understanding, but she couldn’t trespass on his good nature.
He smiled gently. “Talk if you feel like it, Christine. It usually helps.”
She blinked back her tears and sat for a moment in contemplation.
“Come to think of it, it’s difficult to know, sometimes, where things do begin to go wrong. I thought they began for me the night Sandra Dutton was admitted to Cavell. But it may have been long before that in actual fact.”
“Sandra was a patient, then?”
Christine nodded. “A sweet girl, really. And so utterly feminine. I think there must be something wrong with me.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“It’s only natural, I suppose, that most men prefer a woman who is soft and gentle ... alluring.”
John eyed her thoughtfully. “There are some who like a woman with spirit and find only the woman they love alluring. The ideal woman, of course, is a delightful mixture of them all—gentle and sweet, courageous and spirited, and feminine enough to make her very desirable.”
She gazed at him, her own affairs forgotten for the moment.
“Is that your ideal, John?”
He nodded. “Rather hard to find, but...”
There he broke off. What had he been going to say? Christine wondered. Had he once found his ideal and lost her? Or—she thought of Nurse Larcham. She was the only one in the hospital whom Christine felt fitted his description.
“I don’t think I have an ideal,” she said sadly. “Rob and I just fell in love, and that’s all there was to it. John, do you think it’s possible to—to lose a person’s love by—by stalling him—if you know what I mean?”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “That’s a very difficult question to answer, Christine. I don’t want to say anything that will hurt you. It is possible, I suppose, but love isn’t lost as easily as all that, you know.”
Her heart lifted. “Oh, John! Do you really believe that?”
He looked at her face, now shining with a new hope.
“It must be so,” he said quietly. “You still love Robert, don’t you? And that in spite of anything he might have done.”
“Yes.”
The conversation flagged a little then, and they gave their attention to the delicious veal pie and salad the waiter had brought. She reflected that John was an idealist. If he loved a woman, no other, no matter how appealing, would ever attract him in the way Sandra had attracted Robert. But it was Robert she loved and would always love.
But the hope John had given her was short-lived. As she and John were leaving the restaurant they came face to face with Robert and Sandra just entering.
“Well, well!”
Robert looked from one to the other, surprise and faint resentment showing in his face. “Good evening,” John said politely.
Sandra’s blue eyes slid over Christine and came to rest approvingly on John.
“How are you, Sandra?” asked Christine. “I thought you were coming back next week.”
“I’m back at work next week, but I wanted to have the weekend—”
John cut in on what she had been going to say. “Well, if you’ll excuse us, Christine and I are just going.” He took her arm purposefully and led her outside. “You can take it from me, Christine,” he said, “he isn’t all that smitten with her, and she knows it.”
Christine warmed toward him. “John, you really are nice.” He made no answer to that. He kept his hand under arm, and she was acutely aware of his touch, of his masculinity and his gentleness. All at once she knew without doubt that this man would always be her friend, no matter where she might be. If she were ever in trouble, if she should ever need .him, he would be there at her side.
He stopped the car outside her home and turned and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Well, goodnight, Christine. It’s been a very pleasant evening. Perhaps we’ll do it again some time.”
“Lovely.”
He didn’t prolong the conversation. He got out and opened the door for her, then drove away.
As she settled off to sleep she thought about Rob, and smiled in the darkness as she remembered his resentment, even annoyance, at seeing her with John. Was there something in what John had said? That Robert wasn’t so very smitten with Sandra, after all? The thought sent her to sleep very happy indeed.
Happily, too, during the next few weeks it seemed that John was being proved absolutely right. At least, Rob took every opportunity he could to see Christine and talk to her, quite apart from his normal visits to theater when he was required to give the odd anesthetic. It was almost as good as the old days when he had first been attracted to her. Spring was gradually merging into summer and the hours of daylight becoming longer, and one evening as she was walking down the drive to catch the bus home Rob caught up with her in his car.
“Hello, Chris,” he cried joyfully. “Can I run you home?”
Her face lit with a smile. “Well, that’s where I’m going. Sure it won’t be out of your way?”
For answer he opened the door. “In you get.” He started off again and gave a sideways glance. “This is like old times, isn’t it?”
“Not so very old, Rob. Seeing much of Sandra, these days?”
He shrugged. “On and off. What about you? Taylor still first favorite?”
“I don’t know about “first favorite.” I do know that he’s a very good friend.”
> He laughed. “You’re just good friends, eh? I seem to have heard that somewhere before, too.”
Christine writhed a little. What were they doing, making such stupid conversation? If he still loved her why didn’t he just say so? She toyed with the idea of asking him straight out about his feelings toward her. He seemed to be “pursuing” her, yet made no attempt to talk things over sensibly.
But she sat silent. It was better not to force the issue. So often she had to remind herself that the direct approach, the way of saying things straight out, of saying what one thought even to the point of being blunt, really was a Yorkshire attribute. Not everyone either understood it or appreciated it. In any case, it was right that Robert should be the first to bring up the subject of their feelings for each other—at any rate, his own feelings. She wondered, fleetingly, whether it was marriage Robert shirked.
She caught another sideways glance from him. “Taylor’s a bit of a dark horse, you know. I saw him and Nurse Larcham out the other day."
Chris was a little surprised to hear this, yet she told herself it wasn’t really surprising. Nurse Larcham could well fit into John’s idea of an ideal woman.
“Well, there’s no harm in that, is there?” she answered Robert. “As far as I know he’s perfectly at liberty to take out who he pleases. A man has got to have some company.”
“How right you are.”
Robert said no more until he stopped the car outside her house, then, one arm leaning on the wheel, he turned in his seat and looked at her, his eyes ranging over her face.
“I’ve missed you, Chris.”
“Have you?”
He gave one of his one-sided, whimsical smiles she knew so well. “I suppose it’s no use asking you to see me again?”
Her heart gave a sudden leap of joy. “Why—why should you suppose that?”
“I don’t know. Would you? We did agree to be friends, but I thought you were still angry with me. Then when I saw you with Taylor...”
Christine gave him a puzzled look. What was he trying to say? What kind of relationship did he really want?
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Robert, but do I take it that you’d like to see me again, but you still want to take Sandra out when you feel like it? In other words, you want to freelance, is that it?”
The Gentle Surgeon Page 7