by Carol Smith
• • •
Beth wanted to go on her own.
“No trouble,” she said. “It’s no worse than checking into a hotel or health farm, which is the way I intend to treat it. Time for a nice long rest and to catch up on my reading. Time to lose a few pounds, if I’m lucky.”
But Imogen, for once, was unusually clingy and teary and followed her around like a much younger child.
“Don’t worry, lovie,” said Beth kindly, giving her a hug. “It really isn’t any big deal, just one of those routine things. I wouldn’t know anything about it if it weren’t for that dratted smear test.”
“Just as well you had it,” sniffed Deirdre dourly from across the kitchen where she was scouring saucepans. “It doesn’t do to let these things drag on. You never know where they may lead.”
That made Imogen laugh, and she and her mother swapped secret grins. Trust old Deirdre always to take the gloomiest view.
“Besides,” said Beth, “you’ve got your dad. It’s an excellent opportunity for you to spend more time with him away from your clucking mother. Think about that lovely house and all those things he showered you with at Christmas. I’m almost jealous. If I had the choice of St. Anthony’s or Ripplevale Grove, I know which one I’d choose. He’ll spoil you rotten while I’m in there suffering, and you’ll be unlivable-with by the time I come home.”
“You said it wasn’t serious.”
“Nor is it. I lied.”
“Dad says I can help him backstage,” said Imogen, brightening. “That girl we met, the photographer who’s always hanging around, she trained as a dancer before she took pictures. Dad says I can get some career tips from her.”
Oh Lord. But Beth had the sense not to interfere. Now was not the time to be arguing about her twelve-year-old daughter’s future. She had years to go yet before it was necessary to make a decision and she would undoubtedly change her mind several times before then.
“Actually,” said Imogen, lowering her voice confidentially, “I think she’s sweet on Dad but he denies it. She’s certainly there a lot and never takes her eyes off him.”
Beth snorted with laughter.
“And much good may it do her.”
But she did feel a fleeting pang, remembering. Thank God all that was over, long ago. She did miss Oliver, who was on an extended tour of the Far East for the bank, but the Oliver pain had nothing to do with the Gus pain—softer, less cutting, altogether more sophisticated. Miss Oliver she might, but she was also grateful he would not be around to see her at her direst, in a hospital ward without the benefit of makeup, with her stomach all cut to shreds. With luck, by the time he returned she should be up and about again, all stitched up and as good as new, ready to leap back into his arms. And at least, through fighting for her cause, she’d still have all her working bits.
In the end they put the answering machine on and all three went to the hospital. The first week of January was never that busy and there wasn’t a lot Deirdre couldn’t handle on her own. She was big on drudgery, less hot on responsibility. That was the secret of their successful team, what made it work. Deirdre insisted on carrying the overnight bag and Imogen lent Beth her teddy bear, in case she got lonely at night.
They arrived at Florence Ward, as directed, and found a cheery, glass-walled room with one patient already tucked up in bed and a second bed clearly in use, though currently unoccupied. A pretty nurse with a friendly smile checked Beth in, then led her to a bed next to the one by the window where a beautiful black-haired woman sat listlessly leafing through a magazine.
Beth stowed her few possessions in the bedside cupboard. She didn’t need much here, just socks and a T-shirt borrowed from Gus (she normally slept naked), a few pairs of pants, and her washing kit. And a thin toweling dressing gown for going to the bathroom. Plus a pile of new paperbacks, a box of tissues, a great big pot of Clinique moisturizer—her single indulgence—and a pad and pencil for making lists, one of her pet neuroses.
“Well, you never know,” she said. “I might be struck by inspiration while I’m lying here and come up with a revolutionary new menu or something.”
From the next bed, Vivienne watched with lackluster eyes as this vibrant, energetic woman organized her space, all the while chattering gaily to the dumpy older woman and the slim, coltish teenager who was arranging a teddy bear on the pillow. Beth wore denim leggings and a man’s white shirt, long enough to cover her middle which was not as flat as it might have been. Her sleeves were rolled up to reveal capable arms and her short brown hair curled naturally above frank gray eyes and the friendliest of smiles. Clearly a nice woman, with the sort of life Vivienne had grown to envy. Overweight but relaxed about it, overflowing with laughter and incident and friendship, which was evidenced by this send-off committee.
“Better get going,” said Beth once she was sorted. “I’m supposed to hop into bed like a good girl and wait for the doctor to visit.”
She hugged Imogen hard, then pecked Deirdre on the cheek and waved them both away.
“Don’t bother coming tomorrow,” she said. “If the op’s in the morning, I’ll be out of it for hours. And don’t worry about a thing, Deirdre. I’ll be home again fighting fit before you can say marzipan.”
Then she smiled ruefully at Vivienne and slipped out of her clothes and into her T-shirt without even bothering to draw the curtains.
Vivienne was still feeling miffed. She had arrived two hours ago and they had made a fuss when she asked for somewhere to hang her fur coat. The single bedside cupboard was not nearly spacious enough for her things, so she’d had to leave most of them in her suitcase and stick it out of the way under the bed. The nurse had had the impertinence to suggest that she send the coat home with one of her visitors but when Vivienne had explained she was expecting none, they had made arrangements to have it stored in the hospital safe. But she could tell they weren’t pleased. Nor did they approve of the diamond bracelet she had forgotten to remove, or the quantity of makeup she’d brought which would not fit into her drawer.
Now she was marooned in bed waiting for a visit from the anesthetist and regretting already that she hadn’t availed herself of Mr. Armenian’s offer and gone into the Princess Grace, where at least she would have been properly treated. But then she remembered the bill and her anxiety that Oliver should never find out the truth. Better to stick it out, now that she was here. At least it was only for ten days or so; she would just have to chalk it up to experience.
She was luckily having a bath by the time Duncan Ross appeared, supporting Catherine, otherwise she would have died of shock and that would have been that. The nurse ran forward to draw the curtains round the cubicle and he swung Catherine onto the bed as easily as if she were a rag doll. As she knelt to help slide off her shoes, she noticed the care with which he lifted the stick-like ankles and laid her feet tenderly on a pillow at the foot of the bed. He treated Catherine as delicately as if she were a frightened bird, smoothing the hair from her forehead and talking to her softly as she cowered against his shoulder.
“She’s pretty sick,” Duncan explained. “She’s collapsed a couple of times in the surgery before, so this time I thought I’d bring her straight here.”
He stood looking down at her with incredible gentleness, his blue eyes troubled. It was typical of that ghastly mother that she’d let him take all responsibility, hadn’t even wanted to come to the hospital. Not well enough, she’d said but he knew she was bluffing. He recognized a hypochondriac when he saw one—and also the cause of all poor Catherine’s problems.
“Are you a doctor?”
“No, a vet,” Duncan explained. “But when it’s a question of basics, like life and death, there’s not a lot of difference.”
He had a few more muted words with Catherine, who was clearly very distressed, then handed her over to the care of the nurses and prepared to leave.
“Look after her,” he said, “and I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Lucky woman, thou
ght Polly, the nurse, watching him stride away.
The next patient was brought up from Casualty, where she’d been having the stitches removed from a serious cut. Since things were relatively slack at this time of year and she’d already been admitted as a patient, the doctor had checked her into the gynecological department as an in-patient. She was the healthiest-looking sick person Polly had ever encountered and she beamed a happy smile at everyone in the ward as she dumped her shabby knapsack on the allocated bed as if she were in a youth hostel and helped herself to tea from the trolley.
“G’day,” she said, strolling over to talk to Beth. “Sally Brown. This looks like fun. How’re you doing, mate?”
Actually, it did look all right to Sally, better than she had expected. Clean white walls with big, bright windows, only six beds, and a bustle of busy nurses always on the trot, fetching and carrying and generally making things hum. All right for a few days’ break and all with the compliments of the wonderful NHS. Sally wasn’t complaining. She intended to make the best of it and it certainly beat having to work.
The empty bed in the corner was obviously in use and at six o’clock two porters wheeled the incumbent back from theater and the nurses closed the curtains while they rolled her off the trolley and back into the bed. She looked a sad little thing when they opened the curtains again, lying there on the starched white sheet, as thin as a ferret with a chalk-white face. She had beautiful hair, even though it was scraped back off her face beneath a hospital cap, for hygiene’s sake. But her face was thin and undernourished, with a beaky nose. She was American, apparently, and had collapsed on a railway station with a burst appendix.
Good God, thought Beth, watching her from across the room. It’s that funny little photographer friend of Gus’s. The one that’s got the hots for him. How amazing! Wait till Imogen comes in, she’ll bust a gut. Better warn Gus to duck.
Then Beth realized it couldn’t have been fun, and on New Year’s Eve, too. When she’d revived a bit, she’d go across and talk to her. They were all in this together, after all, and Georgy could probably use a friendly face. When Georgy did finally come round, though, Sally got there first.
“Hi, there,” she said, plonking herself amiably on the foot of the bed. “How’s it going? You look real crook. Anything I can do?”
Her voice was warm and friendly, as honeyed as the hair that cascaded over her shoulders, and Beth felt all the better just for watching her. The American stared at Sally for a moment, as if trying to gather her wits, and the saucer in her hand shook so much she had to put it down.
“I feel ghastly,” she complained. “Like I want to throw up all the time. And the nightmare I had while I was under—real spooky, real bad.”
All of a sudden her pinched white face puckered up and she began to cry. She hadn’t noticed Beth watching from across the room. Sally moved impulsively closer and cradled her head on her denimed shoulder. Despite urgings from the nurses, she had not yet changed out of her street clothes.
“Hush now, it can’t be that bad. You’ve been through the worst, it’ll all be better now.”
Georgy fumbled for a tissue and blew her nose loudly. Crying had not improved her looks, but her eyes, now they were open, were truly beautiful.
“It’s not the operation. You don’t understand.”
She began to bawl, her mouth open like a child’s showing her tonsils, tears dribbling down her chin.
“What, then?”
Sally bent to listen, full of compassion, drawing her close. What a nice person, thought Beth, totally absorbed in the touching little scene. The nurse, Polly, at the other end of the ward, paused in what she was doing, afraid she was going to lose control completely. But the other girl seemed more than able to cope.
“Tell me, what is it?”
“He’s . . . it’s . . .” She almost choked in her grief. “It’s just too awful. I can’t tell you. I just don’t want to go on living.”
“Come on now, it can’t be that bad.”
“It is. It’s worse.”
Oh Lord, thought Beth, vanishing into her book.
Chapter Thirteen
They took the sad woman down to surgery at five-thirty, and the whole ward watched her go. Two porters came and gently rolled her onto a trolley, fragile in her white hospital gown, her hair scraped back beneath a gauze cap.
“Poor thing, she looked dead scared,” said Beth, comfortable now in her narrow bed, propped up against the pillows with Imogen’s teddy bear and making the best of it. One finger marked her place in Noel Coward’s Diaries and her reading glasses were sliding down her nose.
“I hope it’s nothing serious. She looked awful when she first came in.”
“I rather think I know her,” contributed the dark-haired beauty in the next bed, worriedly working at her nails with an emery board.
Beth turned to her; this was her chance. They had not really spoken till now and she was dying to find out more about this mysterious woman who looked as if she’d got off at the wrong floor.
“She’s the receptionist at the vet’s,” the woman went on. “At least, I think she is. Quite honestly, she looks so sick I can’t be sure.”
Beth took a good long look at her while her head was bent over her nails. She was stylish and elegant and obviously not happy here, though she didn’t look as though she were particularly ill. She was a year or two older than Beth but in splendid shape. Her negligee was definitely Paris while the hair and nails shrieked Bond Street. How interesting, Beth thought, a first-class passenger traveling steerage. Probably down on her luck, poor thing, and finding it hard to adjust. At least Beth had never had that problem. What you saw was what you got; she was only glad she had bothered to keep up buying her stamps.
Sally Brown was still up and about and dressed, though the nurse had asked her more than once to settle down and get into bed. She came over now and plonked herself at the foot of Beth’s bed.
“Hi there, how’s it going?” She was Australian or something. She was brown and glowing and looked the picture of health and the smile was infectious. Beth closed her book and settled down for a good old gossip. This was more like it. She’d come here for a rest-cure herself and intended to enjoy every minute of it. She thought of poor, doleful Deirdre, valiantly holding the fort back home, and her feeling of well-being increased. Now she came to think of it, it was ages since she’d last had a break. The punters would just have to manage without her for a while. She meant to make the most of it here, at least while she still felt well enough. Sally was a welcome diversion.
“We were just discussing old Flossy over there, going off to surgery looking like death. This lady,” indicating Vivienne, “says she knows her.”
“Well, I’m not quite sure,” said Vivienne nervously, working on her cuticles now and clearly getting rattled. She wished they’d leave her alone and not try to include her in their mindless conversation. The whole point of being here at all was to keep it private. She wanted to stay anonymous and not get involved with these two busybodies, no matter how nice they seemed.
“Last week when I saw her she seemed quite well, but now she looks as though she’s falling apart,” Vivienne explained. With luck they’d grow tired of the topic and she’d be left in peace.
Sally agreed. “Looked pretty crook to me. Maybe that’s why she’s in here.”
Beth laughed. “So what are you doing here, may I ask? You look as fit as a flea to me. Skiving off work, I bet.”
Beth liked this young woman instinctively. She was warm and cheerful and lacking in malice. That was the thing with these Antipodeans, they were certainly full of get-up-and-go.
“Oh, no reason, really,” Sally laughed. “I came in for an emergency”—she showed Beth her hand, now covered with a layer of sticking plaster—“and thought I’d get myself sorted out while I was passing through because they say your health service is so good.”
“And so inexpensive?”
“That too.” Sally gri
nned beguilingly, not at all fazed. Beth laughed. Sally might be freeloading but at least she was straight about it. Not like the buttoned-up creature next door who had now drawn the sheet up to her chin and was hiding behind the latest issue of Tatler. Beth leaned across the narrow gap between their beds and patted her arm.
“Come on, now,” she said softly, “we’re all in the same boat. Tell us about yourself. What’s your problem and why are you here?”
Sally leaned closer too, keen to hear every detail, but Vivienne was not in the mood. She wished they’d go away and leave her alone. Suddenly she longed for the privacy of the London Clinic or the Princess Grace. If she wasn’t very careful, her business would soon be all over the hospital and her secrecy blown.
“It’s nothing serious,” she said stiffly. “Just a little tidying up and I’ll be out of here.”
And at that moment the anesthetist arrived for a consultation and drew the curtains around her bed.
“Saved by the bell,” said Sally, helping herself to Beth’s grapes.
• • •
They came to fetch Vivienne at seven. She looked terrified, poor thing, so Beth pushed back the covers and moved over to sit on her bed.
“Please don’t worry,” she urged her. “I’m told there’s really nothing to it and I know you’ll feel heaps better once it’s over.”
Vivienne stared back with baleful eyes. They had changed her out of her expensive finery and into a hospital gown and the nurse was hovering ready with her premed injection. Even wearing a hospital cap she looked remarkable. Her bone structure was flawless and her unmade-up skin like that of a twenty-year-old. Beth was impressed.