Not Once But Twice

Christina went into the first of these now, to greet the old man sitting up in bed, glasses askew on his beak of a nose, reading The Times. He looked up as she went in and without saying good morning began a forceful summing up of what the government should do immediately. Christina listened quietly, her intelligent face very calm while she looked him over. He had been in hospital for more than a week with cardiac asthma and wasn’t improving. It was a pity that he had no family to bother about him; his wife had died years ago and his two sons were both abroad and not in the least interested. She had tried once to get him transferred to the Private Wing, but he had objected so strongly that she had given it up; she supposed she would have him for a very long time, giving extra work to her nurses, wanting things they hadn’t got, demanding attention while he read out long articles from The Times when there were a thousand and one jobs waiting to be done…

‘I expect you’re right,’ she commented. ‘These people can be so exasperating, can’t they? Here are several letters for you, I daresay they’ll make pleasanter reading.’ She added: ‘How do you feel today?’

‘Not bad—couldn’t sleep, though.’

She nodded. ‘I’ll get your pills changed. You shall have a good night tonight, Colonel.’ She smiled and slipped from the room and into the next one. The young man with the headache was there. She saw that he looked ill and strained and when she spoke to him he answered drowsily. Not so good, she decided; the sooner Dr Fisher saw him the better. His pulse was too slow and although he hadn’t been vomiting since his admission less than two days ago, she was prepared to bet her month’s money on a cerebral tumour. He was due for X-ray that morning, but he wasn’t fit to move. He’d been admitted for observation and it had been decided to give him a day’s bed rest before starting on a number of tests, and although she had suggested an X-ray when he was admitted, Dr Fisher, who knew everything, had told her importantly that rest was far more important. Well, he had better think again, she thought as she whipped back into the office and asked the lodge to get him urgently.

He was inclined to be ill-tempered when he turned up ten minutes later. He had been up several times during the night and after a far too brief nap was about to sit down to a hearty breakfast, and instead of that here he was facing a calm-eyed young woman, telling him without heat to do something quickly. ‘And I do mean quickly,’ said Christina, not losing one ounce of her habitual serenity. ‘Dr Robinson will be here at eleven o’clock and if he finds Mr Tate like this heaven knows what he’ll do to you.’ She urged him towards the bed, saying softly: ‘It’s just my guess, but do you suppose it could be a cerebral tumour?’

John Fisher didn’t much like Christina. He respected her judgment, admired her cool which she never seemed to lose, and agreed with everyone else that she was a thoroughly splendid nurse as well as a loyal friend; perhaps it was because of these that he adopted a cocksure attitude towards her and why he said now: ‘I’ve thought that all along. Get him to X-Ray at once, will you, and let me have his notes.’

She did both, forbearing to mention that beyond the bare fact of Mr Tate’s admission there was precious little else written up. When she came back presently from seeing the patient safely to X-Ray, it was to find that Dr Fisher had filled a page with meticulous observations and added a query cerebral tumour at the end.

She finished her round after that before getting down to the task of having the ward ready for Dr Robinson, who had a fiend’s temper concealed behind his urbane appearance. But the round went off very well. Dr Robinson had most of the beds and behaved rather as though he had all of them, making a kind of royal progress down the ward. But nothing could fault his manner towards his patients; he was pleasant, reassuring and listened patiently while they talked. Some of them rambled on at length, telling him things they had told him on the previous round, but he never said so. Christina rather liked him; his temper didn’t worry her very much and since he had discovered that she wasn’t in the least afraid of him, he seldom vented it upon her, and if he sometimes flew into a rage with one of her nurses, then she stood up for her with a cool determination which he had found difficult to dispose of. On the whole, the two of them got on very well. He was on the point of leaving the ward when he turned suddenly and addressed her. ‘I suppose it was you who diagnosed Mr Tate for us, Sister?’

Her grey eyes were very clear. ‘Dr Fisher was concerned about him,’ she told him quietly. ‘He told me when he came to examine him early this morning that he had suspected a cerebral tumour, sir.’

Dr Robinson nodded, swivelling his eyes behind their glasses to look at Dr Fisher, as red as a turkey-cock.

‘That’s what I thought you’d say. Well, he’s got a chance now he’s transferred to the surgical side. Thanks to you,’ he added sotto voce.

The day was uneventful after that. Christina went down to her dinner presently, sharing a table with several of her friends, talking shop interlarded with clothes, boy-friends and holidays. Everyone seemed to be going abroad. She looked round her quite nonplussed when someone asked her where she was going for her winter leave.

She said slowly: ‘Well, I don’t know—I hadn’t given it a thought. I expect George Henry will want to stay at home, and I might go down to Somerset. It’s nice at this time of year, though I’ve no holidays until the beginning of October.’

She thought about it once or twice during the afternoon. It would be fun to go away, abroad, perhaps, even Scotland or Wales. Perhaps she could persuade George Henry to come with her, she was sure he hadn’t made any plans.

She couldn’t have been more mistaken. They had had their supper and for once he had followed her into their small sitting room instead of going to his study and it seemed an opportunity to bring the matter up, but before she could start he said with unusual brusqueness: ‘Chrissy, I want to talk to you… I’ve been meaning to tell you for a week or two, but somehow…I’m going to get married.’

He paused to look at her and was reassured to see that she was looking at him with a serene face. The light was dim, so he couldn’t see how pale she had gone.

‘You know her—Hilary Woods. We’ve had an understanding for some time now and last week we decided to marry as soon as possible. There’s no point in waiting—she’ll give up her job, of course, and live here.’

Christina had the extraordinary feeling that she was having a dream. The room didn’t seem quite real, nor did George Henry, talking away so earnestly about getting married—and to Hilary Woods, a social worker with a puffed-up sense of her own importance. She knew, without her brother saying a word, that she would have to leave before Hilary put a foot over the doorstep. She said in her calm way: ‘George Henry, how super for you! I’m so glad—Hilary will make you a splendid wife and she’ll be so understanding.’

George Henry eyed her carefully. ‘Then you don’t mind? I’ve been worried—you know, wondering if you’d mind—I mean, finding somewhere else to live. Hilary said you’d be able to get a room at St Athud’s without any trouble at all. I daresay you’d like it better— you’d be independent and have a great deal more time for your own amusement.’

Briefly, she wondered what she would do with all the extra time. Perhaps it would be better if she could find a bedsitter or a tiny flat, but there would be lonely meals to eat and no one to talk to. She wasn’t going to feel sorry for herself but facts would have to be faced.

‘Well, of course I can—the Sisters’ rooms are pretty good, you know, and I can take up tennis again and I’ve always wanted to join the Social Club.’ She uttered the thumping lie without blinking and saw George Henry relax. ‘When are you thinking of getting married?’ she asked.

‘Well, actually, in a month’s time. We’ve already been about the licence. It’s to be a quiet affair—just a few friends and Hilary’s parents. You’ll come, of course, Chrissy.’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world! I’ll go and see someone about getting a room. Hilary will want to make some changes here, I expect, and it’ll be much easier if I’m not here.’

‘We don’t want to turn you out.’

‘You’re not, my dear, and I’m delighted for you both—when you see Hilary tell her that, won’t you? I wouldn’t like her to be worried on my account.’ Christina got up and went to look out of the window into the dull street beyond, suddenly filled with the crazy desire to leave it all; go somewhere far away, start again in another job, perhaps meet someone who would want to marry her—someone like Adam ter Brandt.

She went the next day to ask about living in. There was a room free, she was told, and she went to look at it. It was nicely furnished in an impersonal way with a view over the streets around the hospital, but the idea of living there, probably for years, appalled her. It was sheer good luck that at dinner time Linda Soames, one of the Accident Room Sisters, announced that she was leaving in a month’s time and did anyone want to take over her bedsitter. ‘It’s five minutes’ quick walk from here,’ she observed, ‘and on the top floor. The street’s fairly quiet and there’s a kind of kitchen in a cupboard and you share the bathroom.’

When Christina said that she was interested, the entire table turned to stare at her.

‘But you live with your brother,’ exclaimed Beryl. ‘Has he sold the practice, then?’

‘No, he’s getting married.’

‘But, Chrissy…’ someone started, and then stopped as she went on:

‘I’m so glad, I was beginning to think that he was a confirmed bachelor.’

There was a little silence until someone else said: ‘Who’s the lucky girl?’

‘Hilary Woods—she’s a social worker.’ She added: ‘Ideal for a doctor’s wife.’

She told herself that several times during the next day or two. Hilary came to dinner and Christina didn’t allow herself to be annoyed at any of the remarks that young lady made. It was obvious that George Henry was very much in love and if he was happy that was more important than anything else. She listened with composure while Hilary made suggestions about her future, giving advice where none was sought, and to give her her due, unaware that she was being unspeakably bossy. Christina replied suitably to all the sensible suggestions put to her and offered no information, nor did she show her annoyance when Hilary criticised the way in which the beef had been cooked, the arrangement of the furniture in the sitting-room and the cheerful clutter of ornaments scattered round it. The latter Christina intended to remove when she left; most of them were hers, anyway, treasures from a happy childhood and bits and pieces which had belonged to her mother. As to the tables and chairs, Hilary was welcome to do what she liked with them, and that went for the beef too. She endured another half an hour of patronage while they washed up and then went thankfully to her room, on the plea that she had a long day before her.

Carole had gone off sick the evening before and the only way to get round that was to do an eight-till-eight herself; there was no one available to take over from her if she went off duty, and she didn’t really mind. All the same, she was tired when she got home just before nine o’clock to find a note from George Henry saying that he had taken Hilary out to dinner. Christina went into the kitchen and looked in the fridge. She couldn’t face the beef, not after Hilary’s expert criticism. An egg, she supposed, and some toast. The front door bell rang as she was getting out the bread and she went to answer it—if it was a patient they would have to telephone Dr Howes who shared emergency calls with George Henry, after eight o’clock.

Adam ter Brandt was on the doorstep. In one smooth movement he had kissed her surprised face, come inside and shut the door behind him.

‘Hullo,’ he said with a devastating charm which left her speechless. ‘Is George Henry in?’ And when she shook her head, ‘Good—pleased to see me? Where is he? On a case?’

She found her voice and she hoped it sounded as cool and matter-of-fact as usual. ‘He’s gone out to dinner with his fiancée.’

He pulled a face which made him look more devastating than ever.

‘Going to marry? What about you?’ He grinned at her. ‘You’ll never stay here as an uneasy third, will you?’

‘Certainly not. I shall go into the Nurses’ Home at the hospital or find a bedsitter.’

His blue eyes smiled into hers. ‘But you don’t want to, do you? Tell you what—let’s go and have dinner somewhere and you shall tell me all about it?’

‘I was just going to…’ she began feebly, aware that she was ready to fly out of the door at that very moment.

‘Never mind that. Get a jacket and powder your nose—we’ll go now.’

He drove a rather showy Mercedes Benz 450SL, and he drove fast, but Christina didn’t mind. She was blissfully happy; Adam had turned up again, quite miraculously, and for the moment the future didn’t matter a row of pins.

But in the little Greek restaurant, over kebab and a bottle of wine, she found herself telling him everything, something which astonished her, for she hadn’t confided in anyone, not even her closest friends, for years. She ended abruptly saying in a shamed voice: ‘I’m sorry, Adam, I’ve been boring on, why on earth didn’t you stop me?’

‘I didn’t want to. Besides, I’ve just had a perfectly splendid idea. How about coming to Holland and working for six months or a year?’

‘Me? But I can’t speak a word of Dutch!’

‘That won’t matter—you will be given a crash course. Do you speak any languages at all?’

‘Not fluently. I did French and German for A levels…’