by Hilary Neal
“What on earth for?”
“Well—that business with old Joe, last night. I did miss it, you know. And he knew I had—Anderson. He isn’t as gullible as all that. But it was nice of you to cover up for me; and quick of you to spot it, too.” He nodded ahead of the car. “Know what this is?”
“Calthorpe Road. The Harley Street of Birmingham, so they say.”
“Correct. And do you know who’s moving in? Bought himself a whole house, where everyone else is glad to rent one room and a share of a nurse.”
Few people she knew could have afforded to buy in such an exclusive district. She caught her breath. “Not—not Sir David?”
“Down in one! Why, did he tell you?”
She shook her head and her smile faded. “No. Is he giving up the Bishopsbury house, then?”
“I suppose so. He’s been wanting to get a house out here for ages. But they’re hardly ever available. He’ll have had to pay the earth. They seem to run in medical families or get bought up by syndicates of chaps. He was born in the one at Bishopsbury, you know. So he may keep it on out of sentiment—that’s if he has any sentiment, which I doubt. But all the furniture and stuff is coming out here, I believe.”
“I didn’t think anyone lived here.” She looked at the cool pale stucco houses, with their wrought iron gates, and their dignified Regency and Georgian frontages, their neat net curtains, and discreet brass plates worn smooth with polishing.
“They don’t. But he wants to. It’s handy for all the hospitals. And very toney.”
They drove slowly past the long rows of specialists’ consulting rooms, and then, round the curve of the road, she saw a familiar-looking grey saloon standing in one of the drives. Micky was looking ahead on the opposite side, and she said nothing. But when they turned round at the next traffic island she looked for it again. It had gone, and the white four-square house looked deserted.
This time Micky slowed up. “Ah, there it is. That’s the Chiefs new place. The one with the shell-shaped porch. Very sumptuous, isn’t it?”
So this was where he had brought Mair this evening. Instead of looking at Micky’s new car, she had been admiring David’s new house. She, at all events, appeared to have heard all about it.
Thinking aloud, she said: “It’s like being on a bus and wanting to change over all the hats to go with the coats.”
“What do you mean?” Micky was a simple soul. “What is?”
“Oh—people. You can always pair them off better yourself, can’t you? I mean—don’t you sometimes wish you could swop them about, like chessmen?”
Micky shook his head. “No. It’s the illogicality of things that makes them interesting. I’d rather sit back and watch, rather than interfere.”
“Then I wonder why you wanted to be a doctor?”
He drew the car up outside a quiet grey hotel. “You know,” he said, as though it had never occurred to him to consider the question before, “I really don’t know. I honestly don’t. Except that I can’t think of another single thing I’d want to do. Why did you take up nursing, if it comes to that?”
“Not for any of the reasons girls have at school, anyway. You know—pretty uniforms, hundreds of handsome distinguished doctors waiting to marry you. All that. I suppose it just happened to me because it had to. I wouldn’t want to change ... What’s this place?”
“It looks rather grand.” She eyed the columned portico doubtfully.
“Well, I don’t take my girls to fish and chip shops. Besides, it’s a celebration—or had you forgotten?”
“Of course.” She patted the cream upholstery approvingly. “A christening party.” When she had untied her scarf and smoothed her soft hair they climbed out of the little car and went through the dim palm-fringed hall into the panelled dining room looking on to the road. The head waiter led them to a window table.
“Just in time, sir. I was tempted to let it go.”
“A good thing you didn’t, Philip. We’re hungry. Did someone else want it, then?”
“Yes, sir,” he murmured, sliding his eyes sideways. “The gentleman in the corner, with the dark young lady.”
Micky didn’t bother to look, but Fenella did, because she knew what she was looking for. And a split second before she actually saw the two dark heads close together over the menu she knew that they were Mair’s and David’s. The waiter pulled out the chair with its back to them, and suddenly she couldn’t bear it for Micky any more than for herself. “Micky,” she said quickly, “will you change places with me and let me sit there?”
He got up obligingly. “Sure. What’s the matter—a draught, or something?”
“That’s it,” she said. “Geese walking over my grave.” She sat down facing the corner table. “You won’t feel it, in your tweed jacket.”
“All the same if I do, I expect. How we men have to suffer!” He beckoned the waiter, and smiled across at her. “Is there anything you can’t eat? No? Then we’ll let him choose himself. That way we’ll get the best of the menu.”
“Yes, let’s. And then everything will be a surprise." She wriggled childishly on her chair. “It’s much more fun not to know what’s coming. That’s what I hate about hospital meals—Monday, cold meat; Tuesday, shepherd’s pie, and so on. The only surprises we ever get are caterpillars in the cabbage.” She was talking wildly, waiting for the moment when he might glance round and say miserably: “Mair’s over there.” It never came. Right through the meal he was content to divide his attention between her and the little red car outside. She was glad to encourage his chatter. It helped her to restrain herself from letting her eyes stray over his shoulder. She smiled at him over her coffee cup. “Now I see why it had to be a window table.”
“Naturally. How could I take my eyes off her, when she’s so new? That would be too much to ask!”
You know, Micky, I sometimes wonder whether men ever think as much of women as they do of their other girl-friends—their cars, their dogs, their boats...”
“Not likely! Cars and dogs are more reliable, to begin with. And they stay put, or go where you tell them to, and they don’t go haring off looking for new owners, either.” Then he looked, round for the waiter, and his gaze was going across to the corner table. He swallowed. “Too true,” he said slowly. “You can rely on a car.” He crumbled the last of his bread. “We’d better be going, hadn’t we? I don’t want to make you late.”
Somehow she got out of the room without looking at that other table.
Micky drove in silence, and once they were clear of the city he swung over to the left, on to the bypass, and began to accelerate. His lower lip jutted mulishly.
“Micky—are you watching those revs?”
“Don’t nag, Fenny. I know what I’m doing.” He eased his right foot down a little further. “Don’t you turn into a back seat driver.”
She wished she could ask him to stop to put up the windscreen. The fine grit from the new road surface was stinging her cheeks. She heard it rattling on his glasses, too. And then he dragged them off impatiently, and the breath hissed between his teeth as the next gust of grains caught his eyes. The car lurched sickeningly and squealed to a stop with two wheels on the kerb.
“Micky!”
“Sorry. Got something in my eyes. Gosh, it hurts! See if you can find it, there’s a good girl.”
She found the piece of grit eventually, after she had rolled his eyelid back over a match stalk, and flicked it clear with a pointed fold of his clean handkerchief. “There. And now perhaps we can have the windscreen up?”
By the time he had fiddled with that, and they were back on the road, they had lost a quarter of an hour. They lost another ten minutes waiting for petrol behind a garrulous driver who kept the pump boy talking until Micky irritably sounded his horn, and then decided to have his tires checked. The boy was apologetic, and filled the tank as quickly as he could, but they could no longer make up the lost time and it was twenty minutes to nine when they ran into the hospital car
park.
Just after ten minutes, Fenella, her uniform hastily dragged on, hurried along to the wards, fastening her belt as she went. Nurse Dennis, with her cap awry, met her at the crossways. “Goodness, Staff! Where on earth have you been? I’m up to my neck in it already. And Sir David’s tearing his hair out by the roots!”
“Where is he?”
“In Ward Four. With Mr. Ames.”
Fenella stared at her as she walked on. “Mr. Ames? But he’s all right.”
“He was. He’s in a coma now.”
“How on earth...? He was to have seen Miss Seymour this morning. I wonder if he did?”
“I shouldn’t think so, Staff. He’s been on an hourly pulse chart since soon after we went off this morning. I must dash. Will you go in to Four?”
Her lips cold, Fenella tidied herself with trembling fingers and hurried into Stephen’s room. David, his face dark, stood beside the bed scribbling on the case-papers, and Dr. Millichamp, a young local assistant who was evidently standing in for Micky, was watching him nervously.
When she went to stand at the foot of the bed David kept on writing, tight-lipped, for several seconds before he looked up. When he did his eyes raked her coldly.
“So you are on duty, Nurse Scott? Better late than never, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I was delayed.”
“That I can well believe.” He handed her the chart board. “He’ll have to have an intravenous glucose and saline. Set for it, will you? Dr. Millichamp and I will put it up.”
“Yes. What’s happened to him, sir?”
He shrugged. “Some delayed shock effects. I can’t find any specific intracranial pressure symptoms. He’ll have to be specialled tonight. We don’t want him getting out of bed.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll speak to Nurse Lewis. She’s in charge while Sister’s off.”
“I’ll speak to her myself, thank you, Nurse. You will need to be catching up with your work, I expect, as you were late coming on duty.”
He marched out, and little Dr. Millichamp trotted after him, grimacing ruefully at Fenella as he went. She tucked the blanket's round Stephen, who lay breathing slowly, his eyes closed and his face pale, and fixed the emergency rails to the side of the bed before she left him to set the intravenous trolley and get the drip-stand.
When she took the things back to Ward 4, Mair was there with Dr. Millichamp. “It’s marvellous, Tiny,” she was saying. “I’m terribly lucky.” And then she looked across at Fenella, and stopped, but her eyes were very bright, and there was a strange excitement about her. “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been on duty for ages.”
Fenella was tempted to say: “You had a better driver.” Instead she said: “Sorry. I got held up. How much glucose shall I make up?”
“Oh, bring plenty.” Mair glanced at the charts. “He’ll probably keep him on it all night, if I know him.”
If she knew him, Fenella thought. There didn’t seem to be much doubt about that. She moved Stephen’s locker while she fixed the drip-stand to the head of the bed, and when Dr. Millichamp had trotted out again she said tentatively, “A pity you didn’t see Micky tonight. He wanted to show you his new toy.”
“I had something more...” She looked up. “New toy?”
“A car?” Mair’s cheeks were pink, and her eyes flicked wide. “So that’s how ... so that’s it?”
Fenella pulled the trolley up close to the bed, and moved the locker back into its place. “Of course,” she said slowly, “it doesn’t quite measure up to a Bentley. But it really is a beauty. He’s terribly proud of it.”
“The Bentley saloon isn’t exactly the point,” Mair told her sharply. She looked suddenly unhappy and withdrawn. “Did—did Micky mind very much?”
“About your going out with someone else? Well, of course. Didn’t you expect him to?”
“I don’t know.” Mair rolled up her sleeves and began to scrub her hands fiercely at the corner sink. “I’m ... I can’t help it. Whatever he thinks, I know what I’m doing.”
“I wish I did.” Fenella turned on her heel and hurried out to make up the drip solution before David and Dr. Millichamp came to begin the administration. She was angry with Mair, with David, with Micky, and with herself. Most of all with herself.
In the sterilising room Nurse Greatrex was hastily setting a dressing tray. “I shall never finish tonight,” she grumbled. “There’s that Gilda Seymour in tears, and Minner with toothache, and now, if you please, Sir David’s told Lewis I’m to go and special your man Ames.”
“You? Why? I thought he’d expect me to do it. He’s my patient, after all.” Fenella measured concentrated saline into her glass jug and went over to the boiler for sterile water.
Greatrex shrugged. “Your name’s mud, Staff, dear. No marks for you where Sir David’s concerned, I gather.”
“But why?”
“I wouldn’t know. Because you were late on, for one thing, I imagine. Not that it’s any business of his. He came storming in, muttering about pleasure coming before duty, and people being irresponsible and so on, before you were even late. Where were you anyway?”
“He ... he knew where I was. Being brought home by Dr. West, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh?” Nurse Greatrex’s big blue eyes widened. “So that’s how the wind blows, I see.”
Fenella sighed impatiently. “You don’t see, Nurse. Dr. West is a very old friend of mine. He took me to...”
“I didn’t mean that, Staff.” Greatrex took her tray and went out humming to herself, her pleasant open face screwed up into what was evidently meant as an enigmatic smile.
When Fenella had taken the drip solution along to Mair, who accepted it in silence, she looked in at Mr. Parsley. He was pale, but sleeping peacefully, and when she had dimmed the light she crossed over to Gilda Seymour’s room.
The dancer lay pouting moodily, and playing with the bell cord. She opened her blue eyes wide'. “Oh, Nurse! What’s wrong with my Stephen? Nobody will tell me anything.”
“He’s had a bit of a setback. He was evidently more shocked than we thought. But don’t worry.”
“David promised I should see him today. But I didn’t. And I haven’t seen David, either.”
“And you won’t, for a while. He’s busy with Stephen. Now, are you comfortable?” She rearranged Gilda’s pillows.
Gilda nodded wearily. “I suppose so. Nurse Greatrex tucked me up very early, very briskly, and I haven’t had a drink yet. I thought you were supposed to look after me?”
“I am. But I was late coming on duty, and then Sir David had a job for me.”
Gilda looked up at her sidelong, and smiled oddly. “You—you’re very fond of him, aren’t you? Are you in love with him?”
The question came like a blow over the heart. Fenella drew in her breath quickly. “Of course not,” she protested a shade too readily. “I admire him, of course, but...”
Gilda’s little croaking laugh stopped her. “You don’t have to act with me-, Nurse Scott,” she said. “Especially where David is concerned. I’m only thinking—it’s all going to be very difficult for you. I wonder whether he’s noticed it himself—that’s all.”
Fenella’s cheeks flamed. “I’ll get your drink,” she said shortly. She picked up Stephen’s roses and took them out of the ward with her.
Out in the corridor David confronted her on his way to Ward 4. “Is Miss Seymour asleep?” he asked stiffly.
“Not yet, sir. I’m just getting her a hot drink.”
He nodded, and walked round her to go into the room. Her arm tingled from the rough kiss of his sleeve as he brushed past her. She heard Gilda greet him with her husky “David darling!” before he clicked the door shut.
The front door bell had rung twice before she gathered her wits to answer it. When she did there was an ambulance waiting with three men needing immediate first aid for burns after an accident at the electricity sub-station.
She was glad to be occupied in atten
ding to them. Fishing out sterile gauze from the Casualty drum, she hoped that when the ambulance had taken them on to beds in the accident hospital in Birmingham, more casualties would arrive to take their places. To be busy was sometimes the only cure for confusion of the spirit.
When they had gone, and she had tidied Casualty after them, she went back to Ward 5 to see whether Bernard Parsley was yet awake, or if he needed her.
He wasn’t, and he didn’t. He would never need her again. While she had been working Mr. Parsley had slipped away as undemandingly as he had lived, and there was a peaceful smile on his face.
She straightened his small limbs, and folded his hands gently before she went to fetch Dr. Millichamp, and with her eyes wet turned to find David at her elbow.
“Gone?”
She nodded wordlessly, and when he had felt for Bernard Parsley’s pulse and heartbeat in vain, she drew up the sheet over the still face.
David looked down at her. “Death is sometimes merciful,” he said quietly. “He had no sort of future, you know.”
“No? But I thought...” She put her head back and blinked her eyes clear.
He shook his head and sighed. “We all hoped. But when we opened up yesterday ... He would not have had very long—and he might have died in great pain. He didn’t. Be thankful for that.”
“He was a nice man.”
“I know.”
She followed him out of the room and closed the door. David hesitated, lingering almost certainly. “I must go to Ames.”
She followed him out of the room and closed the door. “ Ames.”
“Yes, sir—I couldn’t help being late—there was—”
And then he touched her hand. “Fenella, please. You make me feel unkind. I don’t mean to be.”
She met his eyes, and saw the concern in them. “You were angry with me.”
“Angry, yes. Not with you. Never with you, Fenella, you don’t understand...”
And then he had gone next door to Ward 4, and she was left with the warm place on her hand where his fingers had rested. She put that hand against her cheek, as a child might, and—remembering Gilda Seymour waiting for her drink, walked slowly, with sudden contentment, along to the ward kitchen.