Tread Softly, Nurse Page 4

  “Yes, sir.” The girl looked embarrassed. “Just, ‘Is Gilda all right?’ sir.”

  “And you replied...?”

  He grunted. Then he turned to Fenella. “He’s not to be told anything about her, anything, you understand? I’ll talk to him myself, when he’s fit to listen.” His face was dark with anger.

  “Very good, sir.”

  She followed him out, and when she had closed the door she looked up at him and ventured: “Miss Seymour said he meant to kill them both. I think they quarrelled. She said...”

  “The sooner you forget what she said, the better.” He flung off towards the theatre again, to change his clothes, but because he had not dismissed her she stayed beside him until they reached the double doors. There he halted, rubbed his cheek, and turned to her again. “Don’t you see, girl, what a patient says to us under stress must be sacred. We musn’t involve ourselves in the issue if the police come here enquiring and so on. It’s ... it’s a terrible betrayal to...”

  “But, sir, it was you I was telling—not the police!”

  “You musn’t even tell me. I don’t want to know. Besides, I ...” His voice trailed away.

  And then his mouth softened, and his dark lashes flickered for a moment before he turned into the theatre doorway. Turning, he touched her shoulder lightly. “Good night, F. Scott,” he said.

  It seemed, all night, as though he had pinned a brilliant flower on the blue stuff of her uniform; as though everyone else must see it, and recognise it as the imprint of his fingers.

  CHAPTER III

  THE hospital was vaguely unsettled next evening, and there was a quality of diffused irritation in the atmosphere. It might, Fenella thought, be the cumulative effect of the tired scuffing of Nurse Dennis’s back-to-duty feet, Mair Lewis’s impatience with Nurse Minner’s single-speed progress and her infinite capacity for taking three aimless journeys to perform the work of one planned one, and the fact that Sister Barclay was going about with a headache, determinedly suffering. On the other hand it might be merely her own tiredness.

  When Mair hurried into the kitchen for the fourth time, while she was filling Mr. Parsley’s hot water bottle, and sighed sharply with exasperation, she looked up.

  “What’s the matter? Are you hung up? Anything I can do?”

  Mair glowered, and tapped her small foot restlessly. “It’s too bad. How much longer is he going to be?”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you imagine would be stuck in Gilda Seymour’s room for nearly an hour? The great man himself. Her own doctor had her dressing down just as we came on duty and I’m still waiting to go in and do it again. I took the tray in an hour ago, and he came and shooed me out. And he’s still there.”

  Fenella smoothed the air out of the bottle, flat on the table, and screwed the stopper home. “How is she?”

  “Not bad. Miserable, though.” Mair went over to the mirror and perked up her cap, pulling out the newly starched bows of her strings to frame her small chin. “But I don’t think it’s over her leg so much as that wretched Stephen. How’s he?”

  “Gloomy. Worried about her, I suppose. He asks a lot of questions—it isn’t easy to be noncommittal.”

  “I wonder if Sir David’s been to see him yet?”

  Fenella shook her head. “Not since we came on duty, at any rate. He may have seen him during the day, of course.”

  “Not he.” Mair peered out through the door, looked in both directions, and came in again. “He doesn’t spend much time here in daylight—too busy in Birmingham. And I know he’s been at some conference at the University all day today, giving a paper on radiation syndrome.” She reached up for one of the patients’ teapots. “I can just as well make the tea as hang about waiting for him, while Minner finishes the ward. She’s a slowcoach, that girl!”

  Fenella paused in the doorway. “I’ll go and finish my p.p.s.,” she said, “and then I can give you a hand with Gilda, if you like.”

  “Yes, do that small thing, there’s a dear. Minner has about as much idea of handling her as Matron’s cat.” She ran hot water into the pot to warm it. As she tipped it into the sink she flashed a small, sidelong smile at Fenella. “Sorry. I’ve got a little black dog on my shoulder tonight. Take no notice. It’s just one of those things. I do so hate being held up.”

  Fenella smiled back. “It’s all right. I’ll see you when I’ve finished. Any message for Mr. Parsley?”

  “Yes. Tell him I still haven’t had that proposal he promised me.”

  “I will.”

  But she forgot the message before she reached Ward 5. At the crossways where the central corridor intersected those from the wards she encountered David. He was coming slowly towards her with his head down and his hands sunk deeply in the pockets of his long white coat, and only jerked up his head when her feet came into his field of vision.

  “Good evening, Nurse,” he said soberly. His face was serious, and he was looking down at the hot water bottle in her hand as though he had never seen one before. “I’ll come along and see Ames in a minute or two—but don’t come in. I’d like him to myself.”

  “Very well, sir. He seems pretty sensible tonight—not much headache. How is Miss Seymour?”

  He moved his shoulders in a dissatisfied way and took a hand out of his pocket to run his fingers through his thick hair. “It’s tough for her. Dancing has been her life since she was so big.” He planted his hand briefly at the level of his hip. “Ever since she was a child. And now she can’t adjust.”

  “Have you told her, sir?”

  He shook his head, “No, not in so many words. But I haven’t reassured her, either. And that’s what they notice, you see.”

  His grey eyes looked full into hers for a second, and there was a strange look of bewilderment in them. “I find it difficult to dissemble. About anything. You, as a woman, probably don’t think it difficult at all.”

  He began to move away, slowly, as if he were not sure whether to turn round and follow her back to the wards. “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  Fenella stood still watching him, and then doubled back towards the kitchen. “I’ll tell Nurse Lewis you’ve finished in Two, sir. She’s waiting to do Miss Seymour’s dressing.”

  He waved her back. “It’s done,” he told her shortly. “What does she think? Did she imagine I was paying a social call?”

  Mr. Parsley was already asleep when Fenella slipped the hot water bottle between his blankets. There was a note on his locker addressed with a flourish to “Nurse Scott”, and she took it out into the corridor to read, instead of turning up the dimmed lights of the private ward.

  In the little man’s meticulous copperplate handwriting it said: “For a quiet night avoid crossing the path of Aries subjects, who are temporarily afflicted by Saturn.” She smiled, and tucked the note into her pocket, wondering idly what Aries subjects she was likely to come in contact with during the night. Mair had admitted to being damned in Mr. Parsley’s eyes ever since he had found out that her birthday was in November; Micky’s was July; and neither the easy-going Dennis, nor Nurse Minner with her sluggish ways, could possibly qualify.

  She went slowly across to Ward 2, trying to remember what she had read about April-born people in magazine astrology features. Weren’t they supposed to be determined men of action, fiery when crossed? She reminded herself to look at one of Mr. Parsley’s books in the morning.

  Mair was already in Gilda Seymour’s room, beginning to strip the bedclothes on to a chair at the foot of the bed. Together she and Fenella held the top blanket in position and rolled down the sheet underneath it.

  Gilda’s smooth, fair hair was glossy, and the muddy tangles were gone. Her blue eyes were dark in her pale oval face. Fenella noted again what regular features most ballet dancers seemed to have—was it, she wondered, some ramification of their perfect physical balance, their symmetrical development from an early age? She smiled down at Gilda as she looked up wordlessly.

 
“You’re looking a lot better, Miss Seymour. I hope you’re more comfortable now?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Gilda sighed. “But what is the use of it all? What future is there? I know I can’t dance any more.”

  Mair rolled her over towards Fenella and began to gather up the slack of the drawsheet. “Who says so? Now, back to me, that’s right.” She held Gilda firmly by the hips. “Who says you can’t?”

  Gilda waited until she was over on her back again, and they were spreading the sheet. “It’s just the way he looks. Sir David. As if there were something he couldn’t bear to tell me, that I had to work it out for myself.” Her thick lashes fluttered, and they could see that tears were ready to rise.

  “I wouldn’t go crossing that bridge yet,” Mair told her gently. “It’s early days. He’s made a wonderful job of your leg, you know.” She lifted the edge of the sheet and loosened it under the cradle, and Fenella noticed the beautifully neat bandage, with its parallel reverse turns, and the careful pad of cotton wool to comfort the heel where it chafed on the hard mattress.

  Gilda turned her face away. “If only I could see Stephen...” she began.

  “I could give him a message,” Fenella suggested, as she supported the fair head while Mair plumped up the crushed pillows. “What would you like me to tell him?”

  “Tell him...” Gilda plucked nervously at the sheet, and hesitated. “Tell him I wish he had succeeded.”

  Mair frowned faintly. “Succeeded? In what?”

  “I know what she means,” Fenella murmured quickly. Then she turned back to Gilda. “I’m not going to tell him anything so unkind, Miss Seymour. You know you don’t really mean it. I think I’d better just say you sent your love, don’t you?” She tucked in the top blanket. “He isn’t feeling up to much, you know. He needs cheering up as much as you do. And—well, I think he’s very upset about what happened.”

  Gilda fell silent, and closed her eyes. Mair dimmed the light, and Fenella took up the tray. When they wished her “good night” she didn’t answer. And then, as they went over to the door, there was a tap on it from outside.

  David stood there. “Is Nurse Scott...” he began, and then stopped as he saw her.

  Gilda, hearing his voice, rolled her head to look at him, and held out a small white hand. “David!” she said. “You haven’t said good night to me yet.” Quick color flared to his cheekbones, as he strode across to the bed. She held his wrist and shook it lightly. “Good night, darling,” she whispered. “And don’t worry about me too much.”

  Fenella and Mair made their escape as quickly as they could— but not before they had seen him lean down to drop a light kiss on Gilda’s smooth forehead, and say, “Good night, my dear. Sleep well.”

  A moment later, as Fenella came back from the female ward bathroom after putting the tray away, she saw him march purposefully into Ward 4. She turned to follow him, and then remembered that he had said he wanted to be alone with Stephen Ames. She went along to the kitchen instead, to join the two juniors at tea.

  But only Micky was there, sitting on the table with his feet up on a chair, drinking from Sister Barclay’s best china. She frowned at him. “If Night Sister sees you using that cup there’ll be ructions,” she told him. “She’ll be wanting it herself in a few minutes, anyway.”

  He shook his head. “She won’t. She said I was to tell you that she’d gone to lie down. Got migraine, or something. Anyhow, I don’t suppose you’ll miss her. Beats me what she reckons to do all night.”

  “She does a round every two hours, and all the charting, and the reports, and a lot of the treatments, and answers the phone enquiries. And if we get busy she helps—and she does quite a lot in the children’s ward. Besides, it’s a comfort to have someone to pass responsibility to sometimes.”

  Micky shook his head at her. “What a confession!” he reproached her. “I thought nurses were supposed to carry a night sister’s thingummy in their knapsacks. I don’t see Mair needing anyone to take the can back for her. Only too glad to go her own way, and heaven help anyone who doesn’t like it, if you ask me.”

  And then Mair was there. She flopped down in the chair and held out her hand wearily. “Pour me some, Mick, there’s the boy.”

  He jumped down and found her a cup and saucer. “So you do have a use for me, after all? That’s a nice change.” As he took the tea over to her he halted and cocked his head, listening. “Do you hear what I hear?”

  Both girls turned towards the door, their ears alert. Even at that distance they could hear raised voices in Ward 4. Fenella jumped to her feet.

  “Watch it, Fenny,” Micky warned her. “If his nibs is in one of his moods, best keep out of the way.”

  Suddenly she was indignant. “Nobody is going to make that noise in any ward of mine,” she protested. “Not Sir David Anderson, or anyone else.” She hurried out.

  Come back, Scott,” Mair called after her anxiously. “You don’t know what you’re up against. I’d keep clear, if I were you.”

  Fenella looked back over her shoulder. “I’m going into Ward Four,” she said obstinately. “So don’t try to stop me.”

  “All right. On your own head be it,” Mair sighed. “But tread softly with him. And for Pete’s sake don’t go dropping anything. That would put the lid on it.”

  They came to the door with their cups in their hands to watch her go, like spectators pausing to watch yet another quick defeat in a contest whose best entrants have already been seen.

  She paused outside Ward 4. In the dimness of the medical ward she could see several heads turned inquisitively towards the door. She could hear Stephen saying something quietly, and she bent her head near to the door panel, her hand raised ready to knock, waiting for a gap in the conversation.

  “What do you take me for?” he finished.

  “For precisely what you are—an irresponsible young fool. Criminally irresponsible, in my opinion.” David, his voice taut and penetrating, sounded like a stranger.

  She rapped sharply, and went in. The two men stared at her, discomfited. She looked across at Stephen, white-faced and tired, and her pity gave her the courage to speak.

  “Sir—may I see you outside for a moment, please?”

  “I am engaged with Mr. Ames, Nurse.” He folded his arms and waited for her to go out again, his eyebrows a black bar across his face, and his mouth grim.

  Fenella drew a deep breath and clenched her hands tightly behind her back. She could hardly go back to Mair and Michael and admit herself beaten. Shakily, but determinedly, she said: “I must ask you to come now, sir, straight away.”

  Without a word he whipped round and went out to wait for her in the corridor. When she had shut the door she went on holding the handle behind her, afraid to look up at him. When she did, his eyes were blazing.

  “Well?” he rapped out harshly.

  “I’m responsible for this patient, sir. I won’t—I can’t allow him to be disturbed.”

  “You what? You—can’t—allow...” He was glaring.

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you realise that...” He stopped, at a loss for words, and she took the opportunity.

  “Sir, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude or interfering. But I have to. You know I have to. Report me if you must—but this is my patient. I must put him first, and I’m not concerned with anything else.”

  He let out his pent-up breath in a long shuddering sigh. In the next second his face seemed to crumple and reform in front of her eyes, like a transforming dissolve in a cinema film. The fury in his eyes had all gone, there was nothing left of it. All she could read in his troubled expression was unhappy confusion. And then he had gone quickly and quietly, his long smooth strides taking him away from her before she could say anything more.

  She stood there, quivering, for a moment before she could bring herself to go back to Stephen Ames. When she did turn round at last she found herself still gripping the door handle with stiff, painful fingers.

 
; Stephen was lying face downwards, burrowing at the pillows and beating gently on the mattress with one fist. He lay still when she went in, and she touched the back of his neck gently. “How do you feel, Mr. Ames?”

  He shook his head. Then, in a muffled voice, he said: “Call me Steve.”

  “All right—Steve. How do you feel now, Steve?”

  “Cheap.” He still refused to look at her.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” She stroked the back of his head lightly, trying to relieve the tension of his neck muscles. “I’ll bring you one. And a couple of tablets. Shall I?”

  He nodded into the pillow and put up his hand to grope blindly for hers. “Thanks.”

  She put her fingers under his hot forehead and lifted his face away while she turned the pillow to its cool side. “I won’t be very long. Relax, and forget it.”

  In the hall Mair and Micky stood together looking out dazedly into the darkness outside the glass panel of the front door. “That’s the Chief, that was,” said Micky. They turned to her and stared at her as though she had come back from the dead.

  Mair came up to her and patted her arms and thighs, and waggled her chin from side to side. “You mean to say you’re all in one piece? I can’t believe it. We expected you to come flying back by return of post. What happened? He went through here like a thunder clap.”

  “Nothing. I fetched him out of Ward 4, that’s all.”

  Mickey grunted. “You did?”

  “Well—I had to.”

  The other two looked at one another and nodded solemnly. “She had to,” said Mair. “Can you believe your ears?” She shook her head admiringly. “I hand it to you, Scott, I underestimated you. I wouldn’t have dared to go in at all. And I certainly wouldn’t have been able to get him out.”

  “What did you do?” Micky wanted to know. “Stun him with a bed-block? Or was it just the power of the human eye?”

  “Silly.” Fenella went into the kitchen to make Steve’s tea, and they followed her, still incredulous. “I asked him to come out, and he did. That’s all.”