by Ann Jennings
“Don’t run, nurse,” snapped Abigail, only too aware of the audience of anxious relatives. “You know you must never run on the ward.”
She rose quickly, excusing herself to the relatives in a calm voice, although her thoughts were racing ahead, sifting through all the possible disasters. “What is it?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“She’s not breathing properly!” gasped Ann, panic rising in her voice. “I think she’s dying!”
“Not if I can help it,” rejoined Abigail grimly, pushing open the door to Mary’s room. One glimpse was enough to tell her something was terribly wrong.
“Call the crash team,” she said without hesitation. Mary’s pulse was weak and fluttering, her breathing laboured, and Abigail noted peripheral cyanosis. She knew the girl was about to arrest any moment—but why? Why? Then she noticed Mary’s fingers, feebly plucking at the dressing covering the site of the operation, and Greg’s words came back to Abigail with harrowing clarity “My main concern is that oedema will develop.” Suddenly she knew Greg’s fear had been realised, and there was only one solution—the tracheostomy would have to be reopen quickly.
“The crash team are in Casualty with a coronary case,” said Ann, putting down the telephone.
“Tell Switch to get the other team and also to page Mr. Lincoln, urgently. Then come and help me,” said Abigail, running from Mary’s room to the utility room, her previous admonition about running forgotten. There were times when a nurse had to run, and this was one of them. So she ran, unmindful of the puzzled stares of the remaining visitors as they wended their way from the ward. She grabbed the trolley which stood equipped, ready for such emergencies, and wheeled it into Mary’s room.
There was still no sign of a doctor. “Where are they?” Abigail asked Ann, who was standing looking panic-stricken, wringing her hands.
“They’re on their way,” she said, her voice trembling.
“We can’t wait,” said Abigail tersely, her mind racing ahead, planning each move she was about to make with meticulous detail. She looked at Ann. “Just give me what I ask for, and everything will be all right.” She spoke calmly and quietly, knowing what she had to do. She nodded towards the piped oxygen supply by the side of the bed.
“Have the oxygen ready, and give it to me the moment I ask for it, and pass me this tube when I give the word.”
She handed Ann a tracheostomy tube and leaned over Mary. Please let me be doing the right thing, she prayed silently, cold beads of perspiration breaking out on her brow. Then taking a deep breath she started carefully to snip open the sutures that were keeping the tracheostomy closed. The senior house officer, Dr. Singh, came in.
“What—?” he began.
“Oedema in the larynx,” said Abigail briefly, snipping away at the sutures. “Do you want to take over?”
“No,” he said quickly, “don’t stop now.”
So Abigail carried on, knowing there was not a minute to be lost, although it was as much as she could do to keep her hands steady. Only when the airway had been opened, the tracheostomy tube inserted, and life-giving pure oxygen was flowing into Mary’s lungs, did she stand back.
“You saved her life,” said Dr. Singh in an awed voice, standing by Mary feeling her pulse and noting the colour of her face, which was rapidly improving.
Suddenly the enormity of what she had done, and what could have gone wrong, struck Abigail; at that point the crash team burst into the room, closely followed by Greg.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, marching up to Mary’s bedside.
“Staff Nurse Pointer seems to have made us all redundant,” said the anaesthetist, busily checking the oxygen flow to the now peaceful Mary, as Dr. Singh filled him in on the details.
Startled, Greg flashed Abigail a questioning look, but she was incapable of answering, the full horror of what might of happened overwhelming her.
“Take Staff and get her some strong coffee,” he ordered brusquely, nodding his head towards Ann.
The young auxiliary touched Abigail’s arm, and on legs that could scarcely function properly, she walked silently out of the room, hoping that Greg wouldn’t be angry because she had gone ahead and re-opened the tracheostomy. The tone of his voice had been very abrupt. Perhaps she should have waited for the medical team to arrive.
Once outside Mary’s room, she became aware of the excited buzz of conversation throughout the ward area, and realised all the other patients must be wondering what was going on.
She took a deep breath. It was ridiculous to tremble now it was all over. “I’ll get myself a coffee,” she told Ann. “You go and do a routine ward check. If anyone asks what’s been going on, just say there was a slight problem, but all is now well.”
Ann pulled a face. “A bit of an understatement!” But she knew well enough that it was essential not to worry the other patients.
Once in the ward kitchen, Abigail made a coffee automatically, pondering over the events of a short while ago. She was sure she had done the right thing, but Greg Lincoln hadn’t exactly congratulated her, she remembered with a little pang.
“I’ve come to thank you,” Greg’s deep voice cut through her thoughts, almost as if he knew her doubts, “and to congratulate you on your expertise.”
“Congratulate me…?” stammered Abigail.
“Yes. If you hadn’t made the correct diagnosis and responded immediately, Mary Mulligan would no longer be with us.”
Inexplicably Abigail’s eyes filled with tears, and the hand that held the coffee cup trembled violently. “I knew I daren’t wait for you to arrive,” she whispered in a barely audible voice.
The coffee cup was promptly taken from her, and suddenly Greg’s arms were around her, holding her comfortingly. “Why is it women always cry when things go right?” he asked whimsically.
Abigail raised her eyes, tears trembling on the edges of her long lashes, “I don’t know, I…” His lips came down on hers, in a gentle, softly reassuring kiss.
“All I can say,” he murmured, “is that you’ll be wasted in Saudi Arabia. We need you here.” Then as suddenly as he had taken her in his arms, he released her, and left the kitchen.
Slowly Abigail raised her hands and touched her lips. Did he mean the hospital needed her, or did he mean that he needed her too? She wished she knew.
When she eventually arrived back at the cottage that night, it was about ten, but in spite of being tired she decided to finish her unpacking. She was still too het up to sleep, so she reasoned she might as well do something useful.
The presents and souvenirs she had bought were unwrapped, and she found herself reliving the moment she had purchased each one. She could almost smell the dry dusty smell of the heat around the villa, always mixed with the smell of the wild rosemary which grew in profusion on the hillsides of Umbria. Smiling at the memory, she wondered what Greg’s parents were doing; probably sitting outside under the stars, with a glass of wine, she decided enviously. Then she began to wonder why Greg had bought the villa and the land, when he would be returning to America the following year. He would hardly ever have time to go there himself. But perhaps he would settle in England, and not go back, and maybe it was possible that something could come of their relationship, maybe…
She shook her head. Stop daydreaming, she told herself firmly. Just because he kissed you by way of saying thank you, it doesn’t mean that he likes you. He’s probably still feeling sorry for you, poor little Staff Nurse Pointer, ditched by her fiancé for a better catch!
Walking across the bedroom, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Pale tawny golden hair, grey eyes fringed with dark lashes. Quite a nice face, she thought dispassionately, but not exciting. Not the sort of girl a clever, ambitious man like Greg Lincoln would want to settle down with. He’d flirted with her, that was true, but only when she was safely engaged. Ever since she’d be
en free he’d shown no interest whatsoever! It’s because I’m not exciting, she thought with a sudden surge of irritation at herself. I’m not witty, or ambitious, I’m ordinary, just plain ordinary.
She glowered in the mirror, “You are dull, dull, dull,” she said, challenging her reflection to contradict her.
The telephone ringing in the hall brought a welcome interruption to her relentless and unflattering self-analysis; hastily she hurried down the stairs to answer it.
“Abigail!” It was Greg, and her heart gave a sudden gigantic flip, as she remembered his kiss of not so long ago. Although why she should remember such a brief, passionless kiss was beyond reason.
However, the memory made her feel suddenly shy, and she answered rather abruptly, “Yes?”
He hesitated a moment, as if put off by her abruptness, then said, “I rang to tell you Mary Mulligan is one hundred per cent better. I’ve talked to her, and she’s resigned to the fact of living with her trachy for some time to come.”
“Oh, I’m glad she’s OK.” There was a long pause, Abigail couldn’t think of anything to say.
Then Greg suddenly said, “I took some letters down to the post room.”
“And?” She didn’t get the connection.
“I saw a handwritten envelope, your handwriting to…”
“Oh!” now Abigail knew what was coming, “you mean the one to the Middle Eastern Agency.”
“It’s a stupid idea, don’t go ahead with it.”
“Are you telling me, or just giving me advice?” she asked, a hint of irony in her voice. Why was it men always thought they knew best! “Because as I told you before, I shall do whatever I think fit.”
“I know you will,” Greg’s tone was definitely cool, “I was merely voicing an opinion. For your own good.”
“Thank you, but keep it to yourself.” Abigail could hardly recognise her own voice, it sounded so hard and distant. “I really don’t feel in the slightest bit like taking advice from anyone.”
“Of course,” Greg’s voice sounded equally hard and uncompromising, “I quite understand.” The line went dead and Abigail was left standing in the hall, miserably clutching the receiver to her chest.
Why had she been so stupidly pigheaded? That had been a heaven-sent opportunity to talk, to get to know Greg better, to continue the fragile threads of their relationship, and maybe to clear up some misunderstandings. But all she had done was to make matters worse! Slamming the phone back in its cradle, she sighed. She felt exhausted now, and depressed, and it didn’t help knowing that she had been less than reasonable!
Dispiritedly she went back upstairs and finished the unpacking. This time she didn’t dawdle, didn’t waste time on memories; even so, it was very late by the time she had finished.
The rain was still pouring down heavily outside, and only served to add to her gloom. It made her even more uncomfortably aware that she would have to do something about the roof soon. Pouring herself a glass of red wine from a bottle given her by Greg’s father, she took the wine and some cheese and biscuits to the lounge. The light from the fringed lamp by the stone fireplace cast a warm glow over the room as she sat lost in thought. Greg’s words came back to her: “The cottage is only bricks and mortar, nothing can destroy your memories.”
In spite of giving Greg an impression to the contrary, she knew what she had to do; she must sell the cottage. Somebody would buy it who could afford the upkeep, and they would love it as much as she did. Surprisingly, once she had made the decision she felt much better. Where she would live, and what she would do in the future, she pushed to the back of her mind. Let the future take care of itself, she thought bravely.
Chapter Twelve
Before she went on duty the following morning, Abigail rang the Estate Agent and made an appointment to see him in her lunch hour; she did it early just to make certain she didn’t get cold feet and back down on her resolve of the night before.
Of course, the ward was buzzing with the story of her dramatic action of the previous night, and as soon as she appeared Sister Collins sent Abigail in to see Mary.
“You are one visitor she will definitely want to see,” she said, smiling broadly.
Mary was sitting up in bed, looking healthily pink. She smiled, then pulling a rueful face pointed to her trachy.
“You’ll have it closed later,” Abigail comforted her; it was obviously a little bit too soon.
Mary nodded and squeezed Abigail’s hand, while her eyes said thank you. Abigail smiled back down at her, a warm glow of satisfaction spreading through her; it was a good feeling to know that Mary was alive, and that she had helped. Special moments like this make everything worthwhile, she thought as she left to carry on with the more mundane aspects of the morning’s work.
It was a busy morning, quite a few new admissions, and when lunchtime came she was in such a hurry to keep her appointment with the Estate Agent that she didn’t notice Greg come on to the ward as she went flying off in the opposite direction. She had confided in Sister Collins about selling the cottage, asking if she could take her lunch hour between twelve and one.
The Estate Agent assured her that selling the cottage would not be difficult. “A lot of people from London are buying these cottages as weekend retreats, he told her.
“But I don’t want it to be a weekend retreat,” protested Abigail, “I want it to be someone’s home.”
The Estate Agent looked at her in surprise. “You want the money, don’t you?” he asked, “You’ll have to take whoever offers the best price.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Abigail agreed reluctantly, privately making up her mind to put off any would-be buyers she didn’t like the look of.
She also managed to squeeze in a visit to the Residence Officer of the hospital, during her lunch hour. He was very helpful. She could have a hospital room if the cottage was sold quickly and she needed temporary accommodation while looking for somewhere else. What to do with all the furniture was another problem, and one she shelved for the time being.
The rest of the afternoon didn’t allow her to worry about her actions. Dr. Singh, their efficient Senior House Officer, had started his holiday, and they had a locum, a tall, gangling fellow, who took everything at one pace, dead slow! You’re not going to go down well with your consultant, thought Abigail as she tried to impress upon him that there was some urgency about clerking in the patients!
Because of his lethargy, it was well past her off-duty time before she finished, and then on impulse she went round to the children’s section, wanting to see how her charges of the painting session were faring.
She arrived on the section to find Sister Moon at her desk, looking very drawn and sad, not at all like her usual cheerful self.
“What is it?” asked Abigail.
Sister Moon’s eyes were full of tears, a fact which was very noticeable as she wore thick glasses which had the effect of magnifying her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said quickly, and bending down fished a tissue out of the drawer and wiped her eyes. “Not the way for a Sister to behave,” she added, trying to smile.
“I’m sorry,” said Abigail. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” replied Sister Moon, not bothering to hide the bitterness in her voice, “there’s nothing you can do, nothing even Mr. Lincoln can do. It’s so unfair—their only child too.”
“Who?”
“Timmy Smith.”
“I remember him,” said Abigail, a feeling of apprehension sweeping over her, “a lovely little boy, a real charmer.”
“Yes, that’s him,” said Sister Moon dully, “Mr. Lincoln did a biopsy this morning, and the result has just come back. Cancer of the larynx.”
Abigail drew in her breath sharply. “But he’s so young!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t think children…”
“It’s rare,” said Sister Moon, “b
ut when it happens it’s fast growing, and he has the most malignant type possible.” She wiped her streaming eyes again. “Mr. Lincoln is with the parents now. He has to tell them there’s nothing anyone can do.”
Abigail felt a cold, hard lump in her throat. “How awful!” she whispered. It made all her problems seem silly and frivolous. She couldn’t think of anything worse than to be told your child was going to die. She turned and walked away. There was nothing she could do, and her heart went out the parents of Timmy and to Greg, the bearer of such tragic news.
It was a subdued Abigail who went home. The sale of the cottage seemed unimportant. It’s true, she thought, looking around at the living room; it is only bricks and mortar, people are much more important.
Halfway through her preparations for supper, there was a knock on the door. Startled, she went to answer it. She wasn’t expecting anyone, but thought maybe it was Lynne. But it wasn’t Lynne, it was Greg, standing in the small brick porch, his huge frame filling up every available inch of space.
“Can I come in?” he asked without preamble.
For an answer Abigail swung the front door open wide and he walked past her without a word through into the lounge. Taking off his jacket, he threw it across one of the chairs, then sank into the deeply cushioned settee. Strain and sorrow were etched deeply into his face, giving him a vulnerable look. His dark eyes were dull, and full of pain.
Without speaking Abigail went into the kitchen and poured him a glass of wine. Taking it through into the lounge, she placed it in his hand.
Wearily Greg raised his eyes to hers. “I could do with something stronger than this,” he said, looking at the red wine.
Impulsively Abigail sat down beside him and touched his arm. “Drink it,” she said. “It’s your father’s wine, perhaps some of the Italian sunshine will seep into your heart.”
He gave a short laugh. “What an incurably romantic thing to say!” he said. “It’s the kind of remark my mother would come out with.” Then he continued sombrely, “I understand from Sister Moon that you came round to the children’s section this evening.”