by Betty Neels
She thought about him—when did she not?—on her way back to St Judd’s that evening; he hadn’t written, but she hadn’t expected him to. She knew enough about members of the medical profession to realise that letter-writing came very far down on the list of their personal activities. He could have telephoned, but there again, he hadn’t struck her as a man to talk trivialities into a telephone; she fancied he used that instrument as a means to an end and not for pleasure. That left little choice, in fact, only one—to return as he had said he would. But perhaps he hadn’t meant what he had said. She was aware that this idea did him less than justice, but on the face of things it could be possible. Rather irritably, because she could feel a headache coming on, she decided not to think about him any more, then perhaps, in time, she might forget him.
She was mortified and disturbed to find that this undoubtedly sensible course of action wasn’t as easy as she had supposed. She hadn’t known that loving someone could absorb so much of her being. She struggled to obliterate him under a variety of activities; the cinema whenever her friends were free to go with her, table tennis—which she loathed—several quite unnecessary shopping expeditions to Regent Street, which had proved expensive and not very successful, and of course a stern application to work which delighted the Old Crow and badly disconcerted the nurses on the ward, for although she was a splendid worker anyway, always willing to roll up her sleeves and tackle any job which needed doing, she had begun, over the last few days, to show an alarming tendency to go around looking for work. Even the Major noticed it and reproved her in no uncertain terms. ‘There’s no need to go around looking for jobs, girl,’ he observed testily. ‘Most of the time you’re run off your feet—besides, it’s very disturbing.’
Victoria begged his pardon quite humbly; she had had no idea that she had been quite so zealous. She would have to watch it or she would develop into another Sister Crow. She closed her beautiful eyes for a second, visualising herself in her navy uniform and frilled cap, sitting in the office, ordering staff nurse to go and count the laundry. It seemed so improbable that she laughed and the Major rumbled. ‘That’s better—more like you.’
Even Johnny noticed the difference in her and asked in a brotherly fashion what was eating her. ‘Not yourself, are you, old girl?’ he observed. ‘Nothing but frowns and thoughts far away—I might just as well not do a round.’
She turned on him. ‘That’s not fair! I’ve not forgotten anything to do with the patients, have I? Or have I?’ she added weakly.
‘No, ducky, nor are you likely to, only you’re a bit down in the mouth, aren’t you?’
Jeremy Blake, back from leave, noticed too, although his remarks weren’t so kind. ‘A little sour this morning, Staff,’ he enquired. ‘Too many late nights perhaps—oh, I forgot, it’s more likely to be a lack of them, isn’t it?’ He smiled. ‘Or am I guessing wrong?’
‘Guess what you like,’ said Victoria coldly, ‘I couldn’t care less.’
He had smiled again, a mean little smile which hardly curved his lips, and gone away, leaving her indignant.
It was Wednesday evening when the overdose came in, an hour or so before the night nurses were due on. It had been a busy day; Sister Crow had gone off duty at five o’clock, there was a student nurse on days off and the part-time nurse who helped out in the evenings had telephoned to say that she couldn’t come. Victoria was left with Nurse Miller, a second-year student nurse, and Nurse Bentley, just out of preliminary training school, and, a timid girl by nature, still inclined to become petrified when addressed by any of her seniors. Victoria, struggling to get the medicine round done before suppers came up to the ward, as well as innumerable injections, felt impatience welling up within her even while she preserved her usual calm, quiet front towards her two helpers as well as the patients. She was dealing with suppers when she had the message about the overdose and dispatched Nurse Miller to get a bed ready and everything necessary for the putting up of a drip. He was far gone, a cheerful voice informed her from the Accident Room, and although the overdose was of cannabis, it was thought that he might have taken something else besides, but they wouldn’t know for certain until the Path Lab had done its bit.
The patient was a well-built young man of nineteen or so, deeply unconscious and already, Victoria was thankful to see, on a drip. She saw him put into bed by the porters and then went to meet Johnny as he came through the ward doors. ‘This one’s a bit of a puzzle,’ he said worriedly. ‘He’s taken something else—probably the hard stuff.’ He glanced round the ward. ‘A bit thin on the ground, aren’t you?’
Victoria explained about the part-time nurse not coming and Nurse Bentley, who had retired to the sluice, apparently under the impression that out of sight would be out of mind. ‘You need a male nurse,’ said Johnny. ‘Any chance of getting one—this character might cut up rough.’
Victoria considered. ‘No—there’ll be two or three on for night duty, but Mr Cox and Mr Williams are both off. I saw them at tea.’
‘Keep an eye on him, anyway, Victoria.’ Johnny spoke in such a fatherly tone that she giggled and then said soberly: ‘Yes, I will—and I’ll ring the office and see if I can get someone else up here.’ She glanced at him. ‘Will you be handy if I need anything for him?’
‘In the common room—and I’ll pop up from time to time, but he looks pretty deep at the moment. Put him on a fifteen-minute pulse and pupil reaction, will you.’
She nodded. ‘Yes—Nurse Miller can do that while Bentley gets the ward straight—thank heaven it’s not visitors this evening.’
They took a final look at the boy and went back into the office, where Johnny wrote up the charts she had ready for him, and then went off, down the corridor, whistling cheerfully.
There was too much for her to do for any hope of going to supper; she sent Nurse Bentley and, when she came back, Nurse Miller. The boy was still quiet and although he was still unconscious, everything seemed satisfactory. Victoria and Nurse Bentley went round the ward, tidying the beds and making ready for the night, and presently when these chores were done, she sent the nurse to filling water jugs while she fetched the Kardex from the office and began to write it up at the boy’s bedside.
She was perhaps halfway through it when Nurse Bentley came to tell her that the Major, was, as usual, being difficult about being got into bed. Victoria sighed, for she was tired and dispirited and the Major was a handful she didn’t feel able to cope with. Nevertheless, she put down the Kardex, instructed Nurse Bentley to stay by the boy’s bed, and walked up the ward.
The Major was determined to be nasty; it took a few minutes of her persuasive cajoling to get him out of his dressing gown and sitting on the side of his bed. She had just achieved this happy state of affairs when she heard Nurse Bentley’s voice, high with fear, calling her. The Major, to his disgust, was left where he was and Victoria hurried down the ward. The boy was coming to; he had an arm round poor little Bentley, whose appearance reminded Victoria forcibly of a rabbit in the clutches of a boa-constrictor. ‘Get help,’ she said rapidly, unwrapping the petrified girl. ‘Telephone the lodge, say it’s urgent.’ She warded off a flying arm, only to be caught up by his other hand. This, she thought bitterly, would happen, and so much for the office and their promise of speedy help.
The other arm came up and clamped her round the waist and she disentangled herself with difficulty. While she was doing it the boy opened his eyes and despite her good sense and sound training she shuddered at their blind, mad stare. She loosened his arm at last and said with all the calm she could muster: ‘Lie still and try to keep quiet.’ She was unprepared for the sudden lunge he made; it brought him out of bed, and although she was a strong girl, not easily frightened, she knew that she would be powerless to hold him. All the same, she warded him off and even managed to pin one arm to his side.
‘And now, back into bed,’ she said with firm authority. ‘You’re disturbing the other patients.’
He spoke then,
not loudly—if he had, some of the nearer patients, shut off by the cubicle curtains, might have heard him and shouted for help—but in a harsh whisper, using language which Victoria, used as she was to the sometimes rough language from some of the men who came into the ward, could only guess at. But whatever he was saying, it was obvious that he was in a nasty mood. She made the mistake of slackening her hold on his arm for a split second and in the next moment he had her by the throat.
Even if she had wanted to scream—and how could she with old Mr Parker dying in the next bed?—she had no breath to do so. She gathered her strength and fought back more or less silently, sure that help was on the way.
Help had been delayed, though. Nurse Bentley, shaking with fright and aware that this was something the training school hadn’t given her any lectures about, dialled the telephone with fingers which shook so much that she got the wrong number the first time, and when she did get it right, there was no answer. She stood listening to the faint burr-burr at the other end, willing someone to answer and put an end to her dilemma. Tears which she was quite unable to prevent filled her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She was on the point of throwing the receiver on the desk, running out of the hospital and going home and never coming back again, when Doctor van Schuylen spoke from the doorway.
‘Hullo, Nurse—in trouble? Can I help?’
She didn’t know him from Adam, but he was a man and large and presumably a match for the patient. ‘Oh, do hurry,’ she gasped, ‘he’ll kill her!’ A vague fragment of some half-forgotten lecture filtered through her muddled head—‘Always give a clear and concise report whatever the circumstances, Nurse’—‘Staff,’ she almost wailed at him, ‘in the ward—there’s a drug overdose—first bed inside…’
He had gone. She picked up the receiver and in a quavering voice besought the porter who answered to send help.
Victoria fought steadily to remove her patient’s hands from her throat; part of her mind told her that she had only to hold out for a very short time, but even as her mind registered this heartening fact, his grip tightened and she found herself fighting for breath. She became aware that her heartbeats sounded very loudly in her ears, her eyes ached, so did her arms. The beat changed to a steady drumming and she closed her eyes because they hurt her, then a moment later opened them again because the hands had gone from her throat, leaving her gasping for air.
‘Get down on the ground, my darling,’ said Alexander in a cool, no-nonsense voice, ‘and breathe.’
She did as she was bid—indeed, her legs wouldn’t support her any way; they folded up obligingly under her, and she lay, drawing painful little breaths, aware of the doctor’s nicely polished shoes within an inch of her face and taking great comfort from them. There seemed to be a great deal of scuffling going on, but she really didn’t care; just to lie and breathe was nice. Presently she became aware of more feet and then of Nurse Bentley, dripping tears on to her face and whispering: ‘Oh, she’s dead, she’s dead!’ She tried to contradict this ridiculous statement and found that not only was her throat extremely painful but that she couldn’t speak, either. A funny little croak escaped her lips, but before she could try to improve upon it, she was scooped up into Alexander’s arms and carried out of the ward, along the corridor and down the stairs and into the Accident Room, where he laid her carefully on one of the couches. She wanted to say ‘Don’t go’, but the words wouldn’t come; it was a relief when he took one of her hands in his and smiled down at her with such tenderness that her heart, which had steadied nicely in the past few minutes, began to thump again.
‘I won’t leave you, dear girl,’ he assured her. ‘You’ll be all right presently.’
Victoria felt safe and secure. She smiled at him with something of an effort and closed her eyes. Incredibly, she dozed off.
CHAPTER FIVE
VICTORIA was aware, during the next hour or so, of things being done to her. The welcome whiff of oxygen they gave her did much to restore her, but the examination of her sore and swollen throat was something she found difficult to put up with; her eyes ached too, and her arms. She frowned faintly at Sir Keith, who to her surprise was bending over her, feeling her arms and murmuring: ‘No fractures, I fancy.’
Of course there were no fractures; if she had had a voice she would have told him that she was made of good strong Parsons flesh and bone which didn’t fracture easily. He examined her eyes as well and then smiled down at her, his long, thoughtful face somehow very reassuring.
‘Not much damage,’ he told her. ‘Bed is what you need, young woman, and something for that throat.’
He turned away and she heard him muttering away to someone she couldn’t see but guessed was Alexander. A moment later she heard his voice.
‘You’re going to be warded for a day or two, Vicky. No damage, but you’re going to have a sore throat. I’ll come and see you tomorrow.’ He squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘Have a good sleep and don’t worry.’
She stared up at his face above hers. His voice had been placid and untroubled, but his eyes were full of loving concern.
She slept badly because her throat hurt her, but towards morning, after she had managed to swallow some tea, she dropped off, to wake after an hour or two to find that her throat was a little better and that she could whisper in a hoarse croak. She tried to sit up and winced at the ache in her arms.
‘Bruised,’ Sick Bay Sister told her. ‘Black and blue you’re going to be, my girl, from your waist to your shoulders—and your neck. We’ve got something to help your throat—Nurse will be in presently to see to you and then we’ll pretty you up a bit.’
She was as good as her word. Victoria made a sketchy breakfast of a cup of painfully swallowed Horlicks, was bathed, attired in one of her own nighties, her hair brushed and tied back, and sat up in bed. An inhalation had eased her throat, lotion had soothed her bruises and she felt almost herself. She eased herself back on her pillows and closed her eyes—a little nap would be delightful. When she opened them again Alexander was sitting by the bed, reading the Telegraph. There was a vase filled to overflowing with red roses on the table beside her bed and a pile of books beside it.
He put the paper down. ‘Feeling better?’ he wanted to know, and when Victoria whispered yes in a hoarse little voice, nodded in a satisfied way and leaned forward to take her hand in his.
‘Why are you here?’ she managed.
‘I came to take you out to dinner,’ he explained, and made it sound as though he had popped in from next door instead of crossing the North Sea. ‘I had a day to spare and it’s more than a week since I saw you—besides, I felt like a trip over here.’
He spoke so casually that she turned her head to look at him, and saw then that his look wasn’t in the least casual. His blue eyes caught and held hers. ‘My darling, don’t ever let that happen again,’ he said quietly. ‘I have never been so afraid.’ He leaned over a little further and kissed her forehead. ‘Thank heaven Sir Keith was in the hospital.’
‘The boy?’
‘Transferred last night.’
‘Poor little Bentley…’
‘Yes, the child was upset, although Sister Crow told me with some asperity this morning that she’s considered something of a personality by the rest of her set—I can just imagine the tale she had to tell.’
Victoria began to laugh and then stopped because it hurt too much. She waved her free hand at the roses and books. ‘You? Thank you, Alexander.’
‘You shall have the moon and the stars if you want them,’ he assured her gravely, and she went slowly pink under his stare. He studied her at his leisure, and when the pink had faded went on more briskly: ‘I telephoned your parents and told them not to worry and that there was no need for them to come to London. You’ll have to go away for a few days before you go back on the ward, but we’ll think about that later. Now I must go, but I’m coming back later on.’
He kissed the hand he was holding, put it tidily back on the bedcover and we
nt away.
He was back after tea, and Victoria, who had sustained visits from Matron, the Old Crow, various of her friends and Johnny, not to mention Sir Keith—but not, to her relief, Doctor Blake—turned a weary face to the door as he came in, so that he said at once: ‘You’re tired—I shan’t stay above a moment or so. You’re longing to sleep, aren’t you?’
She smiled at him. ‘Yes,’ she croaked, ‘but I’d rather talk to you.’
Alexander stood at the foot of the bed, his face calm. ‘How nice,’ he said placidly, ‘but not now. Listen—I met Mrs Johnson this afternoon as I was leaving the hospital— I overheard her asking for you at the porter’s lodge. I had no idea that she was Mr Givaude’s sister, but she so obviously knew you well that it seemed a good idea to speak to her. You’re to go there and stay for a few days as soon as you’re fit to leave here. She insists upon it, and she’s coming to see you tomorrow.’
Victoria smiled again. ‘I shall love that.’ She paused and studied his quiet face. ‘You’re going away again, aren’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, my darling—work, you understand. I’m a slave to it.’ He came round the bed and bent to kiss her gently. ‘I shall be back, Vicky, and next time I hope we can have that dinner date.’
It was three days before they allowed her to leave the hospital to go and stay with Mrs Johnson, and even then her neck was all colours of the rainbow, so that although the weather was quite warm she was forced to wear a high-necked, long-sleeved dress, and even that wasn’t enough and she found it necessary to drape a scarf around her throat as well where the green and purple fingermarks were still very much in evidence. But she had got her voice back and although her throat was still sore she found it possible to talk and eat in fair comfort.