Major Surgery

by Lola Keeley

  That’s Veronica’s excuse for being a little dazed while she pores over her tablet, leaning against the nurses’ station. It’s a ground zero for all information that flows into the department, and for the gossip along with it. There’s something going on with one of the agency nurses and that orderly who always lingers too long around Veronica for her liking.

  Before she can overhear much of interest, there’s some jostling at her elbow. She recognises that faint perfume, almost a cologne really.

  “Well hello, Major,” Veronica says without looking up. Her new article is in the British Medical Journal, and she just wants to scan it to make sure nothing crucial has been edited. They really can be the worst kind of sticklers, stripping every last vestige of personality from the words.

  “Have you seen this form I’m supposed to have signed?” Cassie asks. She’s been in a visible mood for days. Workwise she’s been busier than ever with surgeries, working long hours to operate on as many people as possible. They all seem to have hung in there, which will go some way to easing Cassie’s guilt.

  Still, juniors are running scared and registrars are looking over their shoulders. The Morbidity & Mortality conference had been brutal, a room full of indifferent men offering useless suggestions of how they’d have operated differently.

  “Had to come in on my bloody day off because Travers left me more voicemails than I could listen to,” Cassie continues, having rifled through a pile of papers on the nurses’ desk.

  When Veronica looks up, sarcastic rejoinder ready and waiting, the words die on her tongue.

  No scrubs today, oh no. No messy blonde waves falling in a sort of bob. If Veronica hadn’t just heard that slightly raspy voice for herself, she would have assumed this was another person entirely. If she’d been concerned about finding Cassie attractive in her usual workwear, there’s a whole new crisis at seeing her in what Veronica assumes is a dress military uniform.

  The black tunic is spotless, the maroon sash at the waist almost swashbuckling set against the gold braiding at the shoulders. White gloves are off, half-tucked into that sash that serves as a belt. Coupled with the A-line skirt, the terribly shiny shoes, and the hat tucked under one arm, it’s really a lot to take in.

  Cassie’s cheeks are pink from rushing, and although her hair is pinned back, strands are already escaping. Would that be points off on parade ground inspection? Do medical officers have to go through that rigmarole? Veronica finds herself brimming with questions.

  Until, of course, she remembers the reason for the purported day off and the formal dress.

  Get it together, woman.

  “You should tell him that no one checks voicemail anymore,” Veronica says, nudging Cassie towards the clipboard that needs a signature from all department heads before lunch. “You look very smart.”

  Cassie shoots her a sideways glare, suspicious. “I could have worn service dress, but brown doesn’t feel right for a funeral. The rest of his regiment agreed.”

  “Quite suitable for a hero’s send-off,” Veronica offers. “I suppose you know some of them? A few familiar faces?”

  A blank look in return. “Oh no.” Cassie looks back at the form. “Our paths never crossed, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not exactly a social occasion.”

  Veronica considers the day ahead. Most of it to be trapped at her desk or stuck in God knows which meeting it is this afternoon that’s swallowing a huge red chunk of her calendar. She looks down at her fuchsia-coloured skirt. That won’t do at all.

  “Listen, give me five minutes.”

  “For what?”

  “Five minutes. Wait here.”

  If Veronica has learned anything in the past couple of months, it’s that the quickest way to handle Cassie is with action, not words. Darting into her office, she surveys the dry-cleaning bags hanging on the back of the door. Perfect—a black blazer and trousers. Not quite a suit, but close enough. With the pale grey blouse she’s already wearing, it almost looks like she planned to crash a funeral all along.

  A quick reapplication of lipstick, a brush through her hair, and Veronica is ready to accompany Cassie. Assuming she hasn’t bolted in the meantime. Heading back onto the ward, Veronica can’t deny she’s pleased that Cassie is still there. Even if she is checking her watch with tangible impatience. No doubt one of those shiny shoes will be tapping.

  “Well, come on then,” Veronica says, chancing her luck a bit further. “We don’t want to be late.”

  “You… We… Wait, what?”

  “We’ll just hop in a cab, I think. No one wants to be bothered with the Tube on days like this. You have…everything?”

  “But—”

  “Come along, Major. Really, I thought your sort were all about punctuality.”

  It works. It actually works. Veronica sets the pace in her heels, and Cassie strides right along with her. They head out onto Praed Street, a passing black taxi with its light on sparing them the short walk to the Paddington station rank. Only when they’re pulling out onto the Edgware Road does Cassie finally find her voice.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I assume you’re finding a way to take it as an insult,” Veronica answers. “That I somehow think you’re not up to this, probably because of last week. Well, before you go assuming the worst, that has nothing to do with it.”

  “No? Why, then?” Cassie sits stiffly on the backseat beside her, catching the driver’s eye in the mirror more than once.

  Veronica wonders if his curiosity will get the better of him before they reach their destination.

  “Respect,” she says.

  It’s as simple as that. For the soldier whose death resulted directly from his act of decency. For Cassie, who carries burdens that no one seems to know much about. For all the people like them, who’ll visit war zones and face threats that Veronica knows she would never dare to. Maybe, just in some small way, for her long-departed father, and his love of all things historical and military. No matter how he railed against the colonial forces and their oppression. She almost smiles at the thought.

  “That’s hard to argue with.”

  “I’m sure some of the nurses would have come too,” Veronica adds. “Are you handling all of this yourself?”

  “We have—that is, there’s a department in the Armed Forces. Just for this kind of thing. Mostly they deal with overseas, bringing everyone back for their families. But Steven was only in the process of leaving. No little red book yet. He’s not officially discharged. I just signed the forms and helped with the formalities.”

  “Makes you think,” Veronica says as they roll to a stop at the traffic lights. “There but for the grace of whatever. Who’d really miss you when you’re gone, that sort of thing.”

  “Well, I’d say that’s obvious for you. You have a son, for starters. An ex-wife who’s probably still at least a little bit in love with you, if she has any sense.”

  “You’d make her laugh with that.”

  “Still. Beats my scattered cousins and army mates. Enough for a small buffet, maybe. The half-brother I’ve met a handful of times.” Cassie’s actually ticking them off on her fingers. “Maybe if I stick around here long enough, some staff will come out of politeness.”

  “Hitting the pity drum a little hard, aren’t we?”

  Cassie shrugs, looks out the window.

  “I have my sister,” Veronica starts making her own list. “We see each other for lunch when we absolutely can’t avoid it any longer. She moved to Miami, and God knows I won’t go there if I can avoid it.” That gets a snort out of Cassie. “Cousins, yes. I do the rounds on the big holidays, but it’s hard to get enthused when you’re an atheist.”

  “Your family are Hindu?”

  “On my dad’s side, yes. My mum’s were devout Christians. That’s what she was always running away from. I suppose I get the aversi
on from her. I don’t hear from them much. I suppose I stand out too much in a group shot.”

  “You wouldn’t think that still matters,” Cassie says with a sigh. They’re making good time along the Westway now, central London soon giving way to the endless suburbs. “It reminds me I should have made more effort with Jan’s family. I promised at the funeral that we’d stay in touch, but I went back to Germany the next day. Somehow the letters don’t just write themselves.”

  The driver interrupts then. Maybe the conversation is too maudlin for him.

  “Excuse me, but you’re in the army?”

  “I used to be,” Cassie answers. “Army medic. Just off to a funeral.”

  “Ah. I figured with the Kensal Green address and all. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Cassie sits back further in her seat, fist clenching and unclenching.

  Veronica strikes up conversation about the traffic to prevent any further questions, the risk of any sore spots being prodded.

  She’s running out of small talk when they reach the crematorium. There’s not much traffic around as Veronica hands over a twenty and tells him to keep the change. They step out onto the pavement, no one else nearby.

  Cassie puts her hat and gloves on with practiced ease, opening the simple black holdall she’s carrying, pulling a slender sword with its own belt from it, and fixing it around her waist with the sash.

  “I hope that’s ceremonial,” Veronica says. “I didn’t come prepared for a swordfight.”

  “It is.” Cassie sees a man in the everyday brown uniform lurking in the reception area and leads Veronica over to him.

  He meets her halfway. “You must be Major Taylor. We spoke on the phone,” he says.

  Veronica leaves them to their introductions after her own brief round of polite handshakes, before the army chaplain calls them into what Veronica would instinctively call a chapel. Rather, it’s a multi-faith space, bright and welcoming. Rows of benches, a presentation sort of area at the front. Instead of a screen and a projector, there’s a coffin on its stand, draped in a Union flag and a bouquet of half-closed lilies.

  She waits for Cassie to enter, gauging her reaction. When she doesn’t seem to get any more upset, Veronica leads them to an empty bench on the left-hand side.

  Slowly other people filter in, most of them men. Someone Cassie greets as “Lieutenant Commander” shakes both their hands, and there are nods of acknowledgment for Cassie from most people who enter. Whether it’s rank or they know how she took responsibility for their fallen brother, Veronica isn’t sure.

  Steven’s heroic story had made the national and local news, partly because London news is always treated as national, and partly because of the pure tragedy of it all. Veronica saw mention of it in the Metro, caught a few words about it on the evening news, too. It’s right, that his sacrifice should be noted. There’s at least one set of reporter and photographer in attendance, but Veronica hasn’t looked around to see if any more have joined. Some police have joined the mourners, and Veronica recognises the paramedics who brought the sergeant in—Alan and one of the newer recruits.

  The service is simple but incredibly moving. A Bible reading, a rendition of Abide with Me, and some stirring words from an officer and a fellow soldier in turn. Cassie sits ramrod straight throughout, hands clasped in her lap. When the senior officer mentions the exemplary care at St Sophia’s, Veronica lays her hand on Cassie’s forearm. Not a flicker this time.

  Out of habit, she looks away as the coffin recedes behind the curtain. Not seeing it won’t make it any less real, but Veronica can’t seem to help it. She’s surprised to feel Cassie’s hand on hers, a brief squeeze of reassurance through those stiff white gloves.

  The single bugle from the back of the room startles them both, and honestly it’s a little loud for the space. Still, everyone stands for the solemn notes of The Last Post, offering salutes while Veronica clasps her hands behind her back.

  When it’s all over, she waits to the side while Cassie says her solemn good-byes and accepts a final round of thanks.

  “I don’t know about you,” Veronica says, squinting in the mid-afternoon sunshine. “But I could go for a bloody big drink right about now.”

  “Lead on,” Cassie agrees. “And Veronica?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you. Again. That’s becoming a bit of a habit.” Cassie looks like she’s about to apologise, so Veronica simply cuts her off.

  “I’d say any time, but you know what my schedule’s like. Still, whenever I can, should you need a shoulder, et cetera.”

  She doesn’t see the kiss coming. Cassie is quick on her feet, and they’re not terribly far apart to begin with, but even so the darting press of lips against Veronica’s cheek catches her off guard.

  “Tube’s just over there,” Cassie says, pointing in the direction while studiously avoiding eye contact. “Let’s go get that drink.”

  Chapter 14

  “You know, I’m sick of everywhere around work,” Veronica announces once they’re safely on the Bakerloo line. “Did you want to change first? I can’t think being in bars in uniform always goes over well.”

  “No, not everyone is glad to see us. I could do without an undergraduate’s lecture on the ethics of war today, that’s for sure.” Cassie isn’t kidding. It’s not as bad now, but on her first couple of trips back from Basra and Helmand, the anti-war sentiment had been running high, looking for any outlet. She doesn’t always agree with the reasons for war, but she’s always felt the duty to care for the young men and women risking their lives.

  “Well, there’s always my local? If you can stand Maida Vale—I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Suits me, though. And I can grab you a top or something, though you’re quite a bit fitter than I am.”

  If Cassie believed it were possible, she’d accuse Veronica of nervous babbling. As it is, Cassie almost swallows her tongue at the unexpected compliment. “I actually have jeans and a T-shirt in here.” She gestures to her trusty holdall, hat and sword already returned to storage. “So the nearest place to do a quick change would be great, yeah.”

  “It was a lovely service, I thought.”

  If Veronica is resorting to cliché, Cassie is going to give her a break from having to make conversation. She nods, but doesn’t say anything to keep the chat going.

  They only have to travel a handful of stops. Cassie keeps an eye on the map to chart their progress. Maybe she should blow it off and head for Paddington. Get back to Swindon and get some proper sleep after last night’s tossing and turning. Not that she ever sleeps well in the house. It feels far too much like a mausoleum for that kind of relaxation.

  Maida Vale isn’t exactly what Cassie’s expecting. Not that she knows what she’s expecting really. The exit is on a corner, one of those retro Tube stations that looks as if it’s been there since the trains were first put on the tracks. The deep red tiling on the outside walls seems polished, though surely it can’t be. There’s a miniature high street in one direction, a car-lined residential cutting across it.

  “I actually live over there,” Veronica says, gesturing to the cars and the modest townhouses behind them. “Angela and I got in just before prices got ridiculous. But the real haven is around this way.”

  One thing surprising Cassie is how she barely gets a passing glance. They really weren’t kidding about how unshockable Londoners can be.

  “Good, won’t be the first time I’ve changed in a pub toilet. But I must insist that dinner’s on me.”

  “Chivalry? I think that uniform goes to your head, you know. You might regret that once you see my bar tab.”

  “I think I can take it,” Cassie says, taking in the antiques shops—more than one, naturally—and the local branches of a bank or two, side by side with newsagents plastered in Oyster card logos and posters for shows that even she knows a
ren’t running anymore. “NHS wages might not be the top of the tree, but it’s a nice step up from the army.”

  God, Cassie squirms even talking about money. Growing up with almost none, it wasn’t until she joined the army that Cassie really had money of her own. Cassie doesn’t have the first clue how to go about selling it, what it will mean to have that money along with her new salary to put towards a home of her own. Her first permanent one, after all this time.

  The other officers teased her about it. They used army loans to get good mortgages on properties in sleepy villages close to their home bases, but she’d been based out of Germany more than anywhere at home. With Jan, they’d only just gotten to the ‘when we finally go home’ talk before everything went wrong. Now in her late thirties, Cassie finds herself faltering at things she would have dealt with in her early twenties, a generation before.

  If this is how it feels to put down roots, it’s fucking terrifying. People like Veronica make it look so easy, the natural progression of things. Maybe Cassie should be asking for advice, but there’s already been so much help with work, with settling in.

  The pub is exactly the kind of upmarket gastro place that Cassie expects, and being right about that relaxes her in an odd way. “Mine’s whatever beer looks coldest,” she says over her shoulder while heading to the loos.

  That bravado doesn’t survive the quick look in the unflattering mirrors once she’s changed. The fit of the jeans is flattering at least, but the T-shirt has done a few too many runs in the laundry, its RAMC logo faded against the olive green. Her tiny ponytail, held in with clips behind her ears, is all coming loose. Cassie shakes it out, running her hands through it, still wet from washing her hands.

  Almost presentable. She’s quick but careful with folding her uniform, the shoes not quite going with the pale blue skinny jeans. The test, the one she doesn’t realise she’s issuing, comes when she strolls back out to join Veronica at a booth in the corner. The lighting is almost romantic, and the beer glass is tall and twisty, condensation running down it like an invitation. She hasn’t been this thirsty outside of an arid desert.