Busman's Holiday, page 8
I had thought long enough. I got up, zipped on my kaftan and leant out of my open window watching the sun rise higher.
My room overlooked the quiet square that was still as empty as the narrow, winding streets beyond. Streets lined with black and white half-timbered houses that leaned companionably towards each other over the yellow ribbons of the no-parking lines and the placidly winking traffic lights, as if exchanging ancient, secret, confidences.
A church bell began chiming; then another; and another; and then the great mellow golden voices of the cathedral bells rang out in harmony over the sleeping little city. I remembered David’s description of Arumchester. ‘A small oasis of medieval England … my scene.’
I thought of my own scene in London. Of Martha’s vast concrete and glass wings towering not over, but amongst the towers of office blocks, flats and dock warehouses. I thought of the London traffic thundering past the hospital twenty-four hours a day and how last night I had echoed the plaintive remark of a patient in one of our few soundproofed wards: ‘Sorry, Nurse, but it’s too peaceful for sleep. I need the noise of the traffic to lull me off.’
That patient, as so many in Martha’s, had come from our own London area. As many others came from all over the country and the world, for the specialised treatment a great city hospital can more easily provide.
I looked at the high garden wall of the hospital that edged the right side of the footpath running off from the square. In the last twenty odd years, Arumchester County Hospital had grown from a cottage hospital to being the largest in the county and senior in the local Hospitals’ Group. To Arumchester it remained ‘our hospital’.
I wondered what it would be like to live and work in a place where people lived within walking distance, or a short car or bus ride from their jobs, colleges, schools. Where the local hospital was as much a part of their normal lives as their favourite supermarket, or branch of their bank. Where most of the residents were inter-related by birth or marriage and knew, if only by sight, everyone else.
Last night David had told us how after only a few months in his present job, he could not buy a paper, stamp, or get a hair-cut anywhere in Arumchester without being addressed by name. ‘They say, you’re the Dr. Loftus that saw my Trevor ‒ my grand-daughter Mary ‒ my neighbour’s little Johnny ‒ and I like that!’ He had paused, smiling slightly. ‘I liked and enjoyed my years in London. London’s exciting, brash, dignified, ugly, beautiful, and always ‒ London. Arumchester is England. And that’s where I want to work and live, as Sue, who knows me as well as anyone guessed when she suggested I apply for my post here.’ The sound of a front door closing quietly made me glance down, then back automatically and, again, unnecessarily. David was streaking from his house and the shadow on his chin showed he had not even had time to waste any shaving. His hair was neat, but his tweed jacket, sweater and cords had obviously been pulled on as being far quicker than a suit, collar and tie.
Must be a major emergency to have him out so early, I realised anxiously. No hospital resident would call in a consultant at this hour for anything less. I watched him unlock the side door in the hospital garden wall and then held my mental breath. Once out of public vision behind the wall, he was running flat out towards the hospital. Obviously a patient needed him urgently ‒ and all his patients were children. ‘My infants,’ he called them and always his voice softened as he did.
I waited at the window. Ages. I didn’t see him come back. When I heard Aunt Joey moving, I still breathed as if I had been running. Now I longed for this evening to hear if all was well. After Aunt Joey caught me watching from a front window for the fourth time, I explained why. ‘If he’s free,’ I added, ‘it will almost certainly mean whatever was wrong has been righted. If not, he’ll probably have to call off our date.’
Nicky had joined us to say she was off to meet Charles. ‘Call off our date? He can’t! Charles has promised to take off that ghastly beard for the occasion. If David stands us up,’ she said flippantly, ‘I’ll never forgive him!’
I rounded on her, furiously, ‘Would you forgive him if he didn’t ‒ if he happened to be treating your sick child?’
She gaped. ‘Cool it! I’m sorry, Fran ‒ wasn’t thinking. I just thought you meant he might back down ‒ well … I thought because his Sue fancies another man.’
‘From Davie’s attitude last night,’ said Aunt Joey, ‘he’s very pleased about this engagement. Wouldn’t you agree, Fran?’
I said carefully, ‘He certainly gave that impression.’
Nicky nodded to herself. ‘Like Charles said.’
Aunt Joey and I exchanged glances. As Nicky had returned last night after we had gone to bed, slept through breakfast, and Charles had been with us most of the morning, I’d had no chance to tell her privately of Aunt Joey’s uncannily correct guess that all had not been going as smoothly in David’s private life as I had assumed. ‘What did Charles say, Nicky?’ I queried.
‘That from hearing all about those two, yesterday, he couldn’t figure why, if they were in love, they hadn’t married when David got his job here. It’s a good job, they’re both working in Arumchester, even got a house. Charles said as the answer didn’t add up, the sum must be wrong. Today, he figured why.’
‘Charles,’ said Aunt Joey, ‘is a very astute young man.’
Nicky admitted he wasn’t bad at sums. ‘He did get First Class Honours in Pure and Applied Maths.’
Aunt Joey laughed. ‘Quite good, indeed, dear!’ Her voice turned husky. ‘Goodness, I hope I’m not losing my voice, again. Such a tiresome habit for others.’
‘Such a sure sign of over-tiredness. After lunch,’ I said, ‘you must put your feet up for a good two hours. And I guess I’d better wash my hair.’
‘Then you won’t mind if I vanish to eat with Charles? Have a good rest, both of you!’ insisted Nicky.
After lunch Aunt Joey said she would compromise and make it one hour as now the dining-room floor was dry she wanted to see how the boards responded to polish.
I kept my views on that to myself, and shut myself in the dining-room directly she dozed off in the sitting-room. The floor came up so well, that in my enthusiasm I forgot my hair till nearly tea-time. Aunt Joey was still sleeping, so I went upstairs. My head was in the hand-basin when our front door bell rang unheralded by Psmith’s bark ‒ which showed our caller was the one outsider Psmith had adopted into the household, David.
Aunt Joey had woken and her voice was back to normal. ‘Come in, dear! I’ve had such a refreshing sleep ‒ oh ‒ forgive me ‒ I want to catch the baker’s van!’
I lingered uncertainly for a few seconds, then wrapped my head in a towel and raced down. ‘David, is tonight still on?’
He was back in a professional suit and sprucely groomed. ‘Why?’ His abrupt tone matched mine. ‘Having second thoughts?’
‘No-no, but ‒’ and I dried up. The truth would instantly, and reasonably, give the impression I had been prying on him. ‘Just ‒ er ‒ wondered,’ I invented lamely.
He looked me over. ‘Frankly, honey, but for my noble nature, seeing you looking like a drenched kitten would evoke second thoughts in myself.’ He sighed. ‘Aged, grubby, jeans again! Oh, dear! Hasn’t George ever told you that ‒ just once in a while ‒ it is rather pleasant to see a girl looking like a girl and not a scruffy schoolboy?’
‘Hasn’t ‒ who?’ I spluttered.
‘The fortunate surgeon with whom you’ve this civilised relationship ‒ or ‒’ his eyes were much too keen, ‘isn’t he a surgeon?’
‘No.’ I looked away.
‘His name’s not George?’
‘No.’
‘He’s George to me. Civilised name, George. And as I can be civilised,’ he drawled, ‘may I say I’m most flattered you’ve bothered to wash your hair for me.’
I had been so worried by his early call. I was still worried ‒ and still so sore at heart. ‘Don’t flatter yourself!’ I snapped. ‘I always wash my hair on Thursday!’ I stormed back upstairs, then stayed idiotically glued to the landing listening to him telling Aunt Joey he had booked a table somewhere for four this evening and had a message for her from Helen Vintner.
‘Helen wondered if you would care to go with her to the monthly meeting this coming Monday afternoon, of the voluntary workers’ society that gives us so much invaluable help at the hospital. The shop-on-wheels, visiting patients without relatives or friends, helping the librarians, helping in every way. I thought it might interest you?’
‘Very much! Do thank Mrs. Vintner! Have you her address? I’ll drop her a note.’
‘I’ll make a note of it for you ‒’ there was a slight pause, ‘but I can give her the answer in person as well at this medical dinner tomorrow night. Her illustrious father being one of the guests of honour. All well here? Fine! I must now get off to see the local Medical Officer of Health.’
‘For no serious problem, I hope?’
‘Not at all. Just routine.’
‘Good. And all well with your little patients?’
The water was dripping coldly down my neck, but I had to wait on.
‘No, all’s serene, thanks, though today’s start was quite the reverse. However ‒’ from his voice he was smiling, ‘when I looked in a few minutes ago to check on the chubby toddler who aged more than myself twenty years in the hour between six and seven this morning, he was trying to stand on his head in his cot. But this doctor is still a wreck of his former self.’
‘Poor Davie! May I ask why, or is it a professional confidence?’
‘By now I suspect half Arumchester’s in the picture, and for professional reasons I sincerely hope so as it may just prevent a repetition.’ His serious voice was so totally different to the affected drawl he had used with me, that not for the first time I wondered wildly if it was the same man. ‘This chubby lad is highly active and nineteen months old. Early today whilst his parents were still asleep, he climbed out of his high-barred cot, opened his bedroom door, pottered into the bathroom and found a shining new toy. A razor blade.’ I closed my eyes as Aunt Joey gasped in horror. ‘Yes,’ said David as if she had spoken. ‘Mercifully, his mother woke, sensing something was wrong. In my opinion this must have been precisely as he sliced his fat little wrist, or he wouldn’t be alive now. He’d cut a major artery. But both parents, though acutely distressed, kept their heads magnificently. They used a large handkerchief as a tourniquet, wrapped him in blankets, and in his pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers, the father ran with him to our Accident Department. The Accident Officer on call was up, but the baby needed transfusing as well as stitching, and that involved myself. He had lost too much blood for his age and transfusing a toddler in such circumstances can be rather difficult unless one’s experienced.’
I was holding my breath. Being not only a trained nurse but a theatre staff nurse, I knew ‘rather difficult’ in that context was the understatement of the year.
David went on: ‘Luckily, his was a blood group for which we’ve ample supplies, he tolerated it very well, his cut artery has been repaired, and I’m happy to say he’s doing very nicely. His poor parents are still shocked and remorseful. They won’t leave old razor blades lying about in future. They’re a nice young couple and devoted parents. He’s their first. Pity,’ he added, ‘they had to learn the hard way.’
Aunt Joey voiced my thoughts. ‘Thank Heaven, it wasn’t harder.’
‘I know.’ David’s voice deepened with a mixture of compassion and despair. ‘Unhappily, too often it is. So many utterly devoted parents seem unable to appreciate the average family bathroom can be a veritable death-trap to a small child. It’s not only the obvious danger of the unlocked and easily accessible medicine cupboard that does the damage. Old razor blades, electric razors just waiting to be plugged in and then dangled under a tap or in a basin of water, bottles of disinfectant on the floor waiting to be tasted ‒’
‘Davie, no!’
‘I’m afraid, yes! To taste is a natural instinct in any toddler. I’ve seen the tragic result so often ‒ too often ‒ and every time, every time, Miss Allendale, the heart-broken parents use identical words to me, “Doctor, we never thought this could happen. If only we’d thought”.’
‘You ‒ you have to see the parents.’
‘Of course. My job.’
There was a silence and then they moved out to the front garden. I returned to washing my hair, deeply relieved for that little boy and yet deeply disturbed by my childish show of temper just now. Why did I let David irritate me like this? I genuinely sympathised with his personal problem, liked and respected his professional side. Why couldn’t I remember all that in his presence and forget Bart? Bart had dropped out of my life for months now, and even though he was the only man I had ever loved, now I knew him to be married, I would not cross a room to speak to him. But I would get out of that room as fast as possible ‒ and that was why David upset me. Though sometimes his very strong personality utterly erased my memory of Bart, there were still moments when some phrase, gesture, and most of all glance from David so reminded me of Bart that it took all my self control not to run away.
I knew this was weak and foolish and tried to conquer both with common sense. When getting ready for the evening, I took extra pains with my hair and face and tried to forget how much Bart had liked me in that very dark shade of red, and to ignore the jeering little voice in my mind. ‘Said you looked dreamy in this red, did he? Huh! As every word he ever said to you turned out to be untrue, what makes you think he even meant that?’ I should have remembered common sense rules the head, not the heart.
Aunt Joey beamed on Nicky and myself just as when we were very small and going to a children’s party. ‘How pretty you both look! Fran, that colour is perfect for your dark hair and I love lace! Nicky, your exotic black and gold outfit converts me to evening trouser suits! I feel as proud of my girls as I know their escorts will be!’
‘Hey! Take a look at my new, improved, beardless Charles!’ Nicky dragged Aunt Joey to the window. ‘Walking over with David now ‒ and I’ll bet it’s David’s groovy influence ‒ Charles is wearing a suit, a shirt, a tie!’ Her voice cracked with amazement. ‘I’ve only seen him wearing a tie for exams before. He looks groovy!’
A couple of minutes later Charles blushed like a shy schoolboy. ‘I ‒ er ‒ wondered if you’d want to see my passport before letting me in, Miss Allendale.’
David was wearing another very good dark suit, white silk shirt and a St. Catherine’s Hospital tie. He drew me aside. ‘Could I see your passport, Frances? That is ‒ it is, Frances?’
‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’ He grinned. ‘It’s Frances!’
The restaurant he had chosen had once been the tap-room of an old coaching inn. Horse brass gleamed on oak-panelled walls blackened with age and though it was still very light, there were lighted candles in heavy pewter candlesticks on all the tables. Every table was set individually between shoulder-high wooden partitions with high-backed, cushioned wooden settles to seat two each side.
‘Very nice!’ observed Charles appreciatively. Nicky was tucked between him and the wall and being so much smaller, occupied roughly a third of their seat and huge Charles the rest. On our side, David only took up his allotted half, and though I was rather taller than Nicky, being slimmer, I managed to leave several inches between us. At first, the talk was general, but as the meal progressed, Nicky and Charles were obviously so much in love with life as well as with each other, that the conversation sailed over their enchanted heads.
‘They can’t see us for star-dust.’ David spoke behind the hand holding his wine glass. ‘And as nothin’s more calculated to rub off the dust than silent observers in the front row of the stalls, shouldn’t we talk together?’ I nodded, weakly. He moved a little closer. ‘May I start with something I’ve been wanting to say to you all evening?’ Incredibly, his smile was shy. ‘You look quite dreamy in that specific red. You should always wear it.’
I just had to turn away. ‘Thanks,’ I muttered ungraciously. ‘As that’s taken care of the soft-talk ‒ you ‒ you said yesterday you’d tell me about the time you met my Mr. Blake.’ I glanced at him as he was silent. His smile had vanished and he was studying his wine glass as if he had never seen one before and didn’t like the look of it. ‘That nice elderly man who grows such glorious dahlias now he’s retired and gave me some,’ I prompted.
‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ He still took his time. ‘Nor your telling me he took a bit of a tumble and you gave him a hand up.’
‘Yes. Sort of.’
That evoked the keenest glance I had yet had from him. ‘Hold out on me, if you must, but I should warn you that’s not how Blake tells it. When I ran into him a couple of hours ago, he threw in a falling ash branch and possible fractured skull. Is he wrong?’
I blushed uncomfortably. ‘Well ‒ it might have missed him.’
‘He doesn’t agree. Of course, that’s just his opinion against yours, but ‒ er ‒ I have to say, at the risk of seeming discourteous to my guest, that I back Sir Martin Blake’s opinion and not only as he taught me all the surgery I know.’ My gasp amused him, slightly. ‘I see you know the name.’
I swallowed twice. ‘The Martin Blake?’
‘Yep.’
‘Oh, no!’ I felt weak. ‘Do I know his name? I’m a theatre nurse ‒ do I know my own name? At Martha’s our theatres have used Blake’s Artery Forceps, Blake’s Retractors, Blake’s Incision ‒’ I reeled off other instruments and techniques created by the world-famous general surgeon from St. Catherine’s Hospital. ‘Martin Blake’s a household name in any operating theatre in the English-speaking world. My ‒ my Mr. Blake ‒ Helen Vintner’s father? Your landlord?’
