I touched the ring in my bib pocket. I did not know if it had any right to be there. It was there because I could not bear to be without it ‒ until I knew beyond all doubt that I had to. ‘When did Joe say that?’
‘Last evening. On my way to supper.’
There was a sealed envelope in Joe’s handwriting waiting for me on the desk in the theatre duty-room. As S.S.O. he had duplicate keys to all our theatres. He must have put it there during the night or early this morning. Habit as much as apprehension for its contents made me hesitate to open it. I knew Sister Theatre would not really object to my using her duty-room to read it ‒ and then I remembered. No one could object to my reading my own letter in my own duty-room. It was a queer sensation.
It was not a proper letter. It was just a few lines signed with an initial. It ran:
‘I would like to finish that interrupted conversation some time to-day, if possible. I cannot get out until the week-end, but if I can manage it, will ask Bill Swan to stand in for an hour or so to-night. Possibly around nine. I hope you will be able to manage this.’
There was no ‘love’, not even a ‘yours’. Just ‘J.’ And then a one-line afterthought: ‘Good luck, Maggie.’
I was still looking at those last three words when Sandra tapped on the open door. ‘May I take the dispensary order book’ ‒ she hesitated deliberately ‒ ‘Sister?’
‘Do.’ I was too preoccupied with my private life to waste time or energy worrying about her tone or the way she was looking at my belt. ‘By the way, Matron wants to see you at eight-thirty this morning. As you guessed, I’m temporarily in charge.’
‘Only temporarily? So your leaving date hasn’t been altered?’
‘Just postponed six months.’
‘That all?’
I nodded as if life was a song. ‘Now I had better get down to the day’s lists.’
She did not move. ‘I knew there was something I had to tell you about last night. That medical case was in Joe de Winter’s car. The porter told me when he brought back the keys. The world’s quite a small place, isn’t it?’
‘Very. Particularly the medical world.’ I sat down at the desk. ‘I’ve just remembered it’s stores-replacement morning. I’ve got to fill in that miserable form in triplicate before I do anything else.’
‘I suppose I’d better get the dispensary done.’
‘Yes,’ I said, and this time she moved off.
I had just finished my forms when Bachelor appeared in the doorway. ‘Nurse Lindsay ‒ I’m so sorry!’ She smiled attractively. ‘I mean, Sister. Sorry to disturb you, but do you know how many size-eight glove-tins we had ready last night?’
‘Three. I saw them on the shelf in the autoclave-room. Why?’
She said she had thought we had three tins when we went off last night, but there were none this morning. ‘There was a note on the shelf from the Orthopaedic Theatre. They ran out during the night, came up and borrowed two tins of eights. See? It doesn’t explain the third.’
I looked at the note. ‘Unless that figure’s a three and not a two. If it is a three I’m going to make one big fuss. I don’t mind our helping them over a crisis, but it isn’t fair to clean us out. We’ll need some eights for the list this morning.’
I reached for the telephone on the desk. The line to the Orthopaedic Theatre was out of order. I asked Bachelor to slip downstairs to them. ‘Sister is having a day off. Staff Nurse Watt is in charge.’ Ellen Watt was one of my original set of nurses, and my greatest friend amongst the girls. ‘Would you tell Nurse Watt the truth, ask if we can have a return of one sterile tin of eights at once, please. And you might also ask her from me how many large-fisted surgeons they had up in the night. Three tins each holding a dozen pairs take a lot of using.’
‘That’s what I thought, Sister!’
Mr Partridge, our consultant gynaecologist, operated in our theatre on two mornings a week. He was a square, gentle man, with a bumbling voice and the charming manners of every gynaecologist ‒ or, come to that, obstetrician ‒ with whom I ever worked. Not unreasonably, since we had ample warning of all his cases and requirements, he always insisted everything should be ready for him. His registrar and houseman took eights in gloves. If he arrived for his list this morning and found we had run out of his assistants’ correct size he would be very annoyed, and rightly.
Bachelor returned with two tins. ‘Nurse Watt says she’s very sorry these had not been returned as soon as she arrived on this morning. The Staff Nurse on call last night says she only took the two.’
‘That’s fine. And where’s our third?’
Sandra came in. ‘May I go along to Matron?’
‘Of course. But first …’ I asked her about the tins.
She could not explain why one was missing. ‘I know I sterilized three dozen eights and left the tins on the shelf to cool. They were there when we went off.’ She studied her hands. ‘I didn’t lock up. I don’t have any keys, not being a sister.’
Bachelor went off to check again after Sandra had gone, without discovering the missing tin. I returned to my administrative work.
‘And what price glory now?’ Mark filled the doorway. ‘How does it feel to be sitting there thinking, my Unit ‒ my office ‒ my desk?’
I smiled slightly. ‘My headache, Doctor! Something we can do for you?’
‘Not one thing. I just looked in to wish you the best of British luck in your fine new job, and to hand on some news you’ll be wanting to hear.’
I braced myself. ‘What news?’
‘What else but the latest on the man Worth and his wife? Not to mention the twins. Making steady progress, the lot of them. Can you imagine, four of one family, and all in Barny’s at the same time! A record, no less.’ He turned to go, turned back. ‘That was a good job your revered ever-loving did last night.’
‘Yes. It was. Does Mr Worth know?’
‘He does that. Joe was up in Henry Carter early, to explain why he’s got not one but two fine rows of clips holding him together. Devil of a shock for a man to wake up and wonder if our surgeons thought they’d find his appendix under his heart. No end bad for morale.’
‘I believe you. How did he take it?’
‘Quietly. An intelligent man, that. I’ll tell you this’ ‒ he grinned with pleasure ‒ ‘you know those twins? Know what the poor little devils are going to be called if their old man has his way? Joe and George. And God help the general surgeons when the midwifery boys get to hear of it! They’ll be out for more blood than the little lot that made a shambles of your theatre last night!’
It was Thursday, the one day on which we had no official General Surgical list. Most Thursdays we had a steady stream of General Surgical emergencies to compensate. None came to us that day. That afternoon was quiet for the first time in weeks, and we were able to get ahead with extra chores like marking, glove-mending, and turning out cupboards.
The missing tin of gloves turned up amongst those waiting to be autoclaved. The seal was broken, but all twelve pairs were intact. None of the nurses could explain this.
Sandra blamed the new junior. ‘The girl’s hopelessly absent-minded, Maggie ‒ so sorry ‒ Sister. I know it’s none of my business, as Admin problems aren’t the concern of a mere staff nurse, but, frankly, I should get rid of her fast.’
I did not want to turn the chip on her shoulder into a boulder, so I answered mildly, ‘Alcott’s not all that hopeless. She may forget things ‒ who didn’t as a junior? But she is very willing, and always admits her mistakes. She may have got muddled over the tins, but she says she didn’t touch them. I can’t see I’ve got any grounds for doubting her.’
‘Which means you doubt me! Why not go straight ahead and ask Matron to transfer me? That’s what you really want, isn’t it?’ she insisted, as people do, through lack of imagination, intelligence, or both, when assuming that any person whom they dislike must share their own standards of behaviour, thoughts, and motives.
I would
have preferred not to sound like a sister on my first day in the job, but had nursed long enough to see the future dangers if I now sounded like anything else.
‘If I ever do want that I shall go straight to Matron. Admin problems, as you’ve just reminded me, are my concern. Now. About teas. Will you go down to yours now and take Bachelor with you, please.’
She opened her mouth as if to explode again, then swallowed. ‘Yes, Sister.’
Alone, I thanked heaven for our mutual training. Barny’s nurses had ingrained in them the fact that authority must be respected no matter how much it might also be disliked or resented. My belt had won that round for me. But I was very much more shaken than last night by the strength of Sandra’s dislike of me. I had thought we got along fairly well. Fairly well! She loathed my guts.
When I returned from my tea Sandra was checking stores. ‘The S.S.O. came in, Sister. He wanted you. He’ll be back, or ring.’
‘Thanks.’ Formality was my defence in more ways than one. ‘A case?’
‘He didn’t say.’
The telephone on my desk rang as I was counting sets of scalpel-blades. I seized it. ‘General Surgical Theatre.’
‘Maggie ‒ Ellen here. I haven’t had a moment to ring you before ‒ oh ‒ can you hold on?’
‘Sure.’ I left the receiver tucked between my neck and right shoulder and went on counting blades. Then I heard a faint voice and held the receiver closer. ‘Ellen?’
No one answered. There was a series of clicks in the background, then a woman’s voice talking: ‘I have to tell you I think you’re wrong. You should tell her the truth. She has a right to it.’
It was obviously a crossed line. I was about to put down the receiver when Joe’s voice froze me physically. ‘I’m doing this my way. And I know what I’m doing.’
‘If that’s how you feel I’ll say no more. Will I see you the usual time to-morrow?’
‘If you are sure it’s all right for you, Frances.’
‘My dear man, what a silly question!’
I put down the receiver then. I was still gripping it on the rest when the bell rang again. I had to answer it. That was my job. ‘General Surgical Theatre. Sister speaking.’
‘Sister, de Winter here. I’m up in Obstetrics. Does that time I suggested suit you?’
His formal manner could just mean he was not alone. He had not been formal two minutes ago. It was a defence for him too. I said, ‘I’m not sure yet. Something may come in.’
‘In which case I’ll probably be busy too. If you can get off, could you manage it? Please?’
I felt hollow with misery. I had to believe my ears. But I loved him. I could not turn off that love like a tap. ‘If I’m free ‒ yes.’
‘Thank you.’ He rang off.
Ellen Watt rang again a few seconds later. ‘Sorry about that, Maggie. Now, about those gloves …’
I listened to her apology without really hearing anything until she asked how I was enjoying life amongst the upper classes. ‘Taking a bit of getting used to?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, it is.’
Chapter Three
AN ENGAGEMENT ENDS
The Senior Medical and Surgical Officers at Barny’s, being top residents, had their own private sitting-rooms. The remaining sixty-odd assorted registrars and housemen had to share three large communal sitting-rooms. There was no official division of those rooms, but an old unwritten law reserved one for the senior registrars, one for the middle grades, and the last for the most newly qualified house-physicians and -surgeons. These rooms were all on the top floor of the Doctors’ House, a neat wedge of a building standing at right angles to the Medical School and way off from all the main blocks.
The latter was a mixed blessing. It did give the residents a chance to feel they were getting right away from the wards, but as they were constantly being called back on the job it made a lot of extra walking. I had never noticed how much extra until that night.
Joe called for me at my Home, and we walked back to the Doctors’ House in silence. We seemed to be walking for hours.
The hospital had provided the main furniture in his room. It was good, solid, and dull. His piano, radiogram, dozens of records, hundreds of books, and a few pictures transformed the place into an extension of his personality. Music was his great passion and safety-valve. He was a very good amateur pianist, and in moments of stress took to the nearest piano where another man might have taken to a double whisky. As S.S.O. in a large, constantly busy hospital, alcohol was out, for obvious reasons, while he was in residence. Our top residents were on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, apart from their alternate week-ends off and holidays, throughout the two years of their appointments.
I had loved that room. Our residents were allowed to entertain female guests in their sitting-rooms until 11 p.m., and I had spent hours up there with Joe talking over our future, theatre shop, hospital gossip, or just listening while he played the piano or to his records. Yet that night when we finally arrived I had to brace myself to go in.
We talked about the weather, Miss Davis, my predecessor’s new job, who was going to win the next election.
Suddenly I could tolerate no more small talk. I sat in one of his armchairs, folded my hands in my lap, and asked what he had meant about us getting unfixed.
He had on his white coat, because though off temporarily he was as always on call. He put his hands in the pockets. ‘You want it just like that, Maggie?’
‘Please.’
A muscle twitched high in his cheek. Otherwise his face was expressionless. ‘Right. I’m sorry about this, Maggie. Would you mind if we ended our engagement? I can’t marry you. I’m sorry,’ he said again, ‘but that’s the score.’
It was only what I had expected. But how it hurt!
‘Then, of course, our engagement’s off.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘I mind like hell. But I’m not crazy enough to want to marry a man who doesn’t want to marry me.’
He sat on the arm of a chair, offered me a cigarette, and when I refused lit one himself, watching me over the flame of the match. ‘I ‒ I have to thank you. I don’t know the right words.’
I said flatly, ‘I shouldn’t bother looking for them. Just tell me something. Why haven’t you asked me this before?’ He stiffened perceptibly. ‘Or is this a spur-of-the-moment decision?’
‘No. It came to a head last night because of that business in the theatre.’
‘But you’ve wanted us to break off for some time?’
He met my eyes and nodded.
I had thought nothing more could hurt me. I discovered I had been wrong about that, as so many other things. ‘How long, Joe?’
He folded one arm on the other. The knuckles on his exposed hand were white. ‘There are times when the calendar and the clock don’t make sense. This is one of them.’
‘I see.’ I unpinned the ring from my bib pocket. ‘Then there’s no more to be said. Here. This is yours.’
He said quickly, ‘I’d like you to keep that. Please.’
‘No, thank you.’ I flicked down the corners of my apron (I was on call too), and stood up. I walked over, stood in front of him. ‘I don’t want it.’
He took it from me then, held it in his open palm, looked at it as if it was the first ring he had ever seen and he found it clinically interesting.
‘I’m sorry about all this, Maggie. You probably won’t believe this ‒ and there’s no reason why you should on present showing ‒ but I hate hurting you.’
He did not have to tell me that. It was in his face. He was a good doctor as well as a talented surgeon. All good doctors detest hurting people. That being one of the points that sets them apart from the other sort.
‘I believe you. I’m sorry about this too.’ I went back to my chair. ‘I only wish I had known the set-up before I spoke to Matron last night. Sandra Brown is a trifle temperamental, but she’s very efficient. She could have managed my job
. Now I’ll have to stick it for six months, as I’ve promised that. I like keeping my promises. Once the six months are over I’ve finished with Barny’s.’
‘No.’ He got to his feet. ‘You can’t do that, Maggie. You must stay on. I know I’ve no right to ask you anything now, but I wish you would.’
‘You want me to stay on?’
That astonished me more than anything else that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. He could fall out of love with me, fall in love with another girl, and still be the intelligent, sensitive man I had always believed him! Broken engagements did occur; people could not stay in love to order; but no really intelligent or sensitive man could pretend it was going to be tolerable for us to go on working together indefinitely.
He said, ‘I want you to stay on as Sister General Theatre for the whole two years if Miss Davis isn’t fit, which I’m afraid is possible. Good theatre sisters are precious. You could be very good, Maggie.’ Briefly he looked and sounded his old self. ‘I’m fond of our theatre, Maggie. When I leave Barny’s I’ll like to think it’s in your hands.’
‘Leave Barny’s? Joe!’ I gasped. ‘What the devil are you talking about?’
‘Something else I’ve got to tell you to-night. I’ve decided to resign.’ He went over to the piano, put my ring on the top, sat down, raised the lid. ‘I had a talk with old Robbie this evening. He’s going to get the Board to accept my resignation at their next meeting.’
‘You’re resigning?’ I echoed. ‘And Robbie’s letting you go?’ He nodded, and began softly to play one of Chopin’s slower waltzes. I moved to his side. ‘Joe? Why? Because of me? Because of my new job?’ The expression that flickered through his eyes before he could control it answered me better than words. ‘It is!’ And I was so concerned by this new turn of events that I forgot everything else. ‘Joe, this is absurd. If anyone has to leave it must be me. Sandra will have to take over. She can do it ‒ and she’ll love it. I’ll see Matron tomorrow, tell her the truth. She’s an understanding woman. It’ll make sense to her.’
The New Sister Theatre Page 4