Sun and Candlelight

It was late, but not as late as all that; the night staff were still settling patients for the night; Alethea recognised the familiar sounds as they crossed the hall and started down a long corridor running towards the rear of the hospital; the soft hurried tread of the nurses, the squeak of trolley wheels, the telephone, the vague subdued murmur of a great many people as ward doors opened and closed. She turned a corner, Mr van Diederijk hard on her heels, and felt his hand close on her arm at the same moment as she saw Nick coming along the corridor towards them. He was still in his dinner jacket, strolling along, a cigarette in his mouth. He looked as though he hadn’t a care in the world until he caught sight of them. He paused then and for one moment Alethea thought that he was going to turn round and go back the way he had come. But he thought better of it, hurrying past them as though he had something urgent to do, glancing angrily at her as he went.

‘Your companion of this evening?’ asked Mr van Diederijk mildly.

Alethea said yes in a miserable little voice. For a split second she had hoped that Nick would stop; she conceded that to apologise before a complete stranger would be a great test of his feelings for her, but it seemed that she wasn’t worth it. Her companion’s voice was very comforting. ‘In that case how fortunate that I happened to be with you.’

She saw at once what he meant. If Nick had seen her creeping back on her own her mortification would have been complete, as it was he had been left to wonder just how she had replaced him so quickly…

At the narrow door set in the wall at the end of the corridor she put out a hand. ‘You’ve been very kind, I can’t thank you enough. And please give me your address so that I can send you a cheque in the morning.’

He went on holding her hand in an absentminded fashion. ‘Ah, yes—I’ll leave it at the porter’s lodge as I go, shall I?’ His smile was very kind. ‘I’m glad that I could be of service—such a small thing, really, you know. And don’t worry; these little differences are bound to crop up; they seem terrible at the time, but probably by the morning he’ll be on his knees to you.’

She gave him an earnest look. ‘Oh, do you really think so? But he did say…’

‘People say the strangest things at times,’ he pointed out in his placid way so that she felt instantly lulled into a more cheerful state of mind. He opened the door then and held it while she went through. Alethea bade him a final, rather shy goodnight and went down the badly lighted covered passage to the Nurses’ Home door, not looking back.

She hadn’t expected to sleep, but she did, although she shed a few tears first, but Mr van Diederijk’s certainty that Nick would come to his senses in the morning had taken a firm hold on her unhappy mind. When Nick had apologised and everything was as it had been, she would tell him about it, and she must write a little note with the cheque, too, because Mr van Diederijk deserved all the thanks he would get. If she saw Nick first, he might want to add a letter of his own as well as his cheque. She nodded her head into the pillow and closed her eyes; everything was going to be fine in the morning.

It was nothing of the sort. She overslept for a start and flew down to her breakfast, neat as a pin in her uniform and little white cap but with no make-up on at all and her hair caught up in a bun from which curly ends were already popping out. But in a way it was a good thing because there was no time for any of her friends to ask questions about her evening out. She gulped down her tea, bit into as much toast as she could manage, and went on duty.

The Orthopaedic wing was on the top floor at the back of the hospital, its windows overlooked a network of dull streets lined with brick villas long since divided into flats or let out as bedsitters. Alethea often wished that the unit could have been at the front of the hospital which overlooked a busy city street beyond its narrow forecourt, for at least the buses gave a spot of vivid colour to the view. She walked briskly into her office, consoling herself with the thought that if she hung out of its window she could just see Big Ben.

The night staff nurse was waiting for her, as was her day staff nurse and such of the nurses who could be spared to listen to the report—rather a lengthy one as it happened, for there had been admissions during the night; two young boys who had collided with each other, the one in a souped-up sports car, the other on a motorbike. Both were badly injured, one already back from theatre and the second due to go for surgery in the next ten minutes or so.

Alethea received this news with her usual serenity, together with the information that old Mr Briggs had taken a turn for the worse, Mr Cord’s left leg, encased in plaster, presented all the signs of restriction to its circulation and would need to be dealt with pretty smartly, and last but not least, the part-time staff nurse who should have been coming on duty that morning had telephoned to say that her small boy had the measles.

‘Things could have been worse,’ remarked Alethea philosophically to Sue Phipps, her staff nurse, and ten minutes later wished the remark unsaid when the telephone rang to say that there was a compound fracture of tib and fib coming up and that the Orthopaedic Registrar would see it right away. Alethea, giving competent instructions as to the patient’s reception, found time to wonder what Nick would say when he saw her. Would he ignore her, treat her as though they hadn’t quarrelled or behave like a man wishing to apologise? She hoped it would be the latter and while she superintended the conveyance of the new boy to theatre, a small part of her mind was deploring the fact that she had had no time to do anything at all to her face. There was no time now, of course; no sooner had he been borne away than the latest patient was wheeled in. He had already been dealt with in the Accident Department, but only his leather jacket and jeans had been removed, together with his boots. Alethea, helped by the most junior of her nurses, was prising off the rest of his garments when Nick arrived. He didn’t wish her good morning, only demanded her services in a curt voice and then wanted to know in an angry way why the patient wasn’t already undressed.

‘Because he’s just this minute arrived,’ Alethea pointed out sensibly, ‘and he’s not in a condition to have his clothes whipped off. His BP’s down and his pulse is rapid—a hundred and twenty. His left pupil isn’t reacting to light.’ She spoke in her usual quiet voice and pleasant manner while her heart raced and thumped and her knees shook; Nick might have treated her abominably, but she was still in love with him. It remained to be seen if he felt the same about her; at the moment it was impossible to tell, he was being terse, almost rude, but perhaps he was worried about his patient.

The examination took a long time and in the end Sir Walter Tring, the orthopaedic consultant, joined them as he was on his way to theatre. The leg, he observed brusquely, was a mess, it would need pinning and plating, provided they could find all the fragments of bone. ‘Wiring, too,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘We’d better have him up after the lad who’s in theatre now.’ He looked across at Alethea. ‘Keep you busy, don’t we, Sister?’

She said ‘Yes, sir,’ cheerfully, and asked at what time the patient was to go for operation. The boy was unconscious still and there was a drip already up and as far as she could see, most of the cleaning up would have to be done in theatre. ‘Put him on quarter hour observations, Sister,’ Sir Walter ordered. ‘I should think in about an hour’s time, but I’ll be down again.’ He glanced at Nick. ‘Penrose, check on that first boy we saw to earlier on, will you, and let me know his condition. I shall want you back here in about half an hour.’

He wandered off, not looking at all hurried—indeed, thought Alethea, watching him trundle through the ward doors, he looked like some nice easy-going elderly gentleman on his way to the lending library or a quiet game of bowls. Very deceptive; he could rage like a lion when peeved and wield the tools of his profession with an expertise which could shame a man half his age. He terrified her nurses too, but she herself was made of sterner stuff; she took no notice at all when he bit her head off for something or other which nearly always had nothing to do with her, and accepted his apology afterwards in the spirit in which it was given. They were great friends; completely impersonal, very professional towards each other while sharing a mutual regard.

Nick Penrose was writing up the boy’s notes, not looking at her at all; she might not have been there. A little spark of temper flared in her, refusing to be doused by her love; he was behaving as though she had been at fault, not he. She felt a little sick, knowing that if he were to ask her to marry him she would say yes, despite the fact that tucked away right at the back of her mind there was the certainty that she would never forgive herself if she did.

He went presently, without saying a word and she set about the business of preparing the patient for theatre with the help of a student nurse and then made a hasty round of the ward. There was the boy in theatre, and the boy who had been admitted with him was as well as could be expected, but old Mr Briggs was another cup of tea. She pulled the screens round his bed and sat down, just as though she had all the time in the world, and talked to him; his wife would have to be telephoned straight away because he wasn’t going to last the day. She left him presently, sent one of the nurses to make him comfortable and keep an eye on him, and telephoned Mrs Briggs before going to look at Mr Cord’s leg. And that plaster would have to come off, she decided silently, looking at the purple foot beneath it. She went away to telephone the houseman, told Staff to get the cutters and shears ready and everything needed to replaster the limb, and glanced at the clock. The half an hour was up, had been ten minutes ago; she hurried down the ward once more, still contriving to look unhurried, and cast an eye over the boy. There was no change in his condition, so she sent the nurse to get her coffee so that she would be able to take him to theatre, and checked his pulse. She was charting it when Nick returned, took the chart from her without speaking and bent over the boy. He straightened almost at once.

‘Who was that lazy-looking type you were with last night?’ he wanted to know.

She hadn’t expected him to ask, not now when they were so busy. She said shortly: ‘Someone who very kindly saw me back—you owe him for the bill—he paid it.’

He stared at her with angry eyes. ‘If you imagine I’m going to pay for your dinner, you’re mistaken—and you found someone easily enough to pick you up, didn’t you?’

‘Hardly that,’ said Mr van Diederijk. He had come quietly through the curtains and was standing just behind them both. ‘I don’t make a habit of picking up young women, nor, for that matter, do I leave them to pay for their own dinner.’ His voice was quiet, but—there was a sharp edge to it so that Alethea judged it prudent not to say anything at all and Nick, trying to bluster his way out of an awkward situation, said too quickly: ‘This is hardly the time or the place…’

‘Too true, I’m glad you realise that,’ agreed Mr van Diederijk equably.

‘Who are you?’ began Nick, and stopped as Sir Walter slid his bulk round the curtains in his turn.

‘My dear chap,’ he boomed cheerfully, ‘nice of you to come along. This leg—if you can call it that at the moment—it seems to me that you’re just the man to consult. A classic example of the kind of thing you excel in, I believe—wiring, I should imagine, and then intensive osteopathy to the femur to prevent muscle contraction—am I right?’

The question was rhetorical; Sir Walter was very well aware that he was right. Alethea said nothing, Nick muttered some answer or other and Mr van Diederijk agreed placidly.

‘Yes, well, in that case, since we are agreed and you happen to be here I’d be delighted to have the benefit of your skill. A pity that you and that brother of yours don’t have a clinic over here, but I daresay you get all the work you can cope with.’

‘Indeed, we do. I shall be delighted to give any assistance I can.’

‘Good, good. Sister, we’ll have him in theatre in half an hour, please. Have you written him up, Penrose? Yes? Very well, check on that boy I’ve just done in theatre, will you—and I shall want you for this case. Sister, is there anything worrying you or can you cope?’

‘Mr Cord’s plaster has had to come off—it’s being replastered now—I got Mr Timms to see to it. Mr Briggs is… I’ve sent for his wife. The boy you operated upon during the night is satisfactory—there’s nothing else, sir.’

‘Good girl. Lean heavily on Timms if you need help and if that’s not enough, give the theatre a ring.’

‘Yes, sir. Would you like coffee?’

‘Yes. Mr van Diederijk will too, won’t you, Sarre?’

The big man inclined his head gravely. ‘We are not delaying Sister?’

‘Me?’ she smiled at him, forgetting her rather pale unmade-up face and screwed-up hair. ‘No, not at all. Mary, our ward maid, will have the tray ready, she’s marvellous.’

She led the way down the ward and into her office, saw the two gentlemen served and then excused herself. The boy had to be got ready for theatre and over and above that, the routine work of the ward mustn’t be halted.

When she went back to her office presently for an identity bracelet the two men had gone and presently the porters came and Alethea, sending her most senior student nurse with him, despatched the patient to theatre, before turning her attention to the work waiting for her. She had the time now to wonder at the sudden and unexpected appearance of Doctor van Diederijk; had he taken up an appointment at Theobald’s? She frowned and shook her head as she adjusted the weights on Tommy Lister’s pinned and plated leg, suspended from its Balkan Beam. No; she would certainly have heard about that, and yet he knew Sir Walter. Staying with him, perhaps? Over in England for some seminar or other? Now she considered the matter, he looked well-established, as it were, self-assured in a quiet way, and wearing the beautifully tailored garments which proclaimed taste and money, however discreetly. Perhaps he was someone important in his own country—and hadn’t Sir Walter said something about a clinic and a brother? She let out a great sigh of frustrated curiosity and Tommy, who had been watching her face, asked: “Ere, Sister, wot’s got inter yer? Yer look real narked.’

‘Me? Go on with you, Tommy. Who’s coming to see you this afternoon?’

‘Me mum. When am I goin’ ’ome, then, Sister?’

‘Not just yet—I can’t bear to part with you.’ She laughed at him then, patted his thin shoulder, told him to be a good boy, and went on her way. He shouldn’t have been in the ward at all, but Children’s was full, as usual, and there was no point in trying to move him there even if there was a bed free, the business of moving him and his paraphernalia would have been just too much. Besides, the men liked him, he had a sharp cockney wit and he was always cheerful.

The day wore on. The boys who had been admitted during the night were picking up slowly; the patient of that morning had come back from ITU only half an hour since, still poorly, and his mother, fortified with cups of tea in Alethea’s office, had been able to sit with him for a few minutes. The boy had made a brave show for that short time before, his anxious parent gone, Alethea gave him an injection to send him back into the sleep he needed so badly.

The ward was settling down into its early evening routine and she was due off duty when Nick came again. He had been down already to check Sir Walter’s patients, but beyond giving him any information he had asked for, they had nothing to say to each other, but this time, after a quick look at his charges, he didn’t leave the ward but followed her into the office where she was writing the bare bones of the report, so that Sue, due on in ten minutes or so, would have a little more time to get finished before the night staff appeared. She sat down at her desk and picked up her pen and gave him an enquiring look.

He hadn’t bothered to shut the door and he was in a bad temper. ‘Look here,’ he began, ‘I still want to know how you came to pick up that fellow.’

She eyed him calmly although her heart was thumping enough to choke her, and despised herself for longing for him to smile just once and say that everything was all right again, that he hadn’t meant a word he had said…

‘I didn’t. He saw you leave and I suppose he guessed that I might not have had enough to pay the bill—and I hadn’t—you might have thought of that. I don’t know what I should have done if he hadn’t helped me.’ She paused. ‘Nick—do we have to quarrel…’ She hadn’t meant her voice to sound so anxious; she caught at the tatters of her pride and was glad of it when he snapped: ‘Quarrel? I’m not quarrelling, I’ve other things to do than waste time on a prissy girl like you…’

‘I cannot agree wholly with you,’ remarked Mr van Diederijk from the open door. ‘Indeed, if there were the time, I would suggest most strongly that you should eat your words, but it is true that you are wasting your time, Mr—er—Penrose; they are looking for you in the Accident Room, I believe.’ He glanced at Nick’s bleep which he had switched off and now switched on again with a muttered grumble, not looking at anyone. And when he turned to go out of the door, Mr van Diederijk made no effort to move. ‘A quick apology to Sister?’ he suggested with a smile which Alethea, watching fascinated, could only describe as sunny, and Nick, furious, turned again and mumbled something at her before brushing past the other man. When he had gone there was silence for a few moments; Alethea was fighting to regain her calm and her companion seemed happy enough just to stand there, looking at the various notices pinned on the walls.

Presently Mr van Diederijk asked gently: ‘Off duty, Sister?’

She wanted to pick up her pen, but her hand was shaking. All the same she achieved a very creditable: ‘In about ten minutes or so, sir.’