Tulips for Augusta

Augusta gave the bib of her apron a twitch. She said mildly, ‘Well, you know, Babs, it never was love’s young dream—we just get on well together.’ She smiled a little ruefully. ‘Look, if you were a struggling houseman with no money and his way to make, would you fall in love with me?’

‘No, I wouldn’t—but there again, I can quite see that someone might. You’re no beauty, Gussie, but you look different. ‘Bye.’

Left to herself, Augusta wasted a few minutes looking at her reflection in the tiny mirror which was all Sister Cutts allowed herself. Babs was right, she was no beauty. She sighed, and went to see what everyone was doing. The work was going smoothly, at least for the nurses, but the ward maid had a great deal to say about the orderly pinching her newest duster when she hadn’t been looking—a trivial matter which took a few minutes to unravel and smooth over by the simple expedient of getting another duster from the cupboard and awarding it to the maid. Augusta was aware that upon Sister’s return she would have to account for its absence from the neat pile so jealously guarded under lock and key. She had learned long ago that Ward Sisters tended to regard their stock of floor polish, Vim, scrubbing brushes, soap and the like as if they were priceless treasures to be kept in safe custody for ever and ever. She thought it possible that they suffered real pain when asked to part with a single one of these items. She shrugged aside the small matter of the duster; doubtless before Sister got back, she would have to raid the cupboard again. Then she began her round of the patients, but she had barely opened Marlene’s door when Matron arrived. She was a small woman, and pretty, with curly hair and blue eyes, and could have been any age between forty and fifty. She looked attractive in uniform and the frilly cap she affected—and at the hospital dances she was positively glamorous. She smiled now and said, ‘Ah, Staff Nurse,’ and Augusta, replying suitably, marvelled that anyone so soft and feminine could be so intimidating, and, when it was required of her, inflexible too—as she had been over the question of Augusta staffing on PP.

‘Just a quick round, Staff Nurse Brown—I’m sure you’re busy.’ And Augusta once more opened the door of Number One, hoping the while that the student nurses hadn’t popped into the sluice for a natter. Matron was wonderful; she cut through the grumbling and complaining about the wrong kind of tea and eggs that were too hard-boiled, and all the other small grievances uttered, with the precise skill of a sharp pair of scissors cutting silk; but to the slightest whim of the really ill she lent an attentive ear, listening with kindness and sympathy and suggesting remedies, conveying to the patient as she did so her complete confidence in Staff Nurse Brown to bring about any change for the good of those she was looking after. The Brigadier was very difficult. Augusta supposed that the depressing-looking female with him was his daughter—it seemed strange that such a vigorous, short-tempered man could be the father of someone so spiritless, but perhaps he had made her so. As they entered he was talking to her in a subdued roar, which changed to a jovial boom when he saw them.

‘Good morning, dear lady.’ This to Matron, and then as his eye fell upon Augusta, ‘And you too, young woman.’ He fixed Matron with a still alert and gallant eye. ‘Of all the nurses here, she’s the only one who knows how to carry on a conversation—understands cricket, too, and makes a good job of my damn foot.’

There was a tiny pause, for everyone in the room knew that on the following morning the Brigadier and his damn foot were to part company for ever in the operating theatre.

Augusta spoke quickly, almost stammering in her sympathy. The Brig was bad-tempered and irascible, but he had the courage of a lion in his eighty-year-old body. She asked inanely, ‘What do you think of the change in the Test team, Brigadier?’ and saw Matron’s glance; perhaps she was making a fool of herself, but could imagine how the old man felt under the façade of ill-humour. He clutched the lifeline of conversation she had offered, and they embarked on five minutes of cricket. Outside the door once more, Matron remarked, ‘Nursing is hard sometimes, is it not, Nurse Brown?’ and smiled rather nicely. Augusta knew what she meant; it wasn’t long hours and tired feet or hurried meals to which she referred, but the hardness of not being able to help.

Lady Belway still had a visitor. Augusta, under cover of Matron’s polite conversation, verified that the shoes really were lizard; she also looked to see if there was an engagement ring, to be thwarted by the fact that there was a ring on every finger.

Of the owner of the Rolls-Royce there was no sign. He must have been earlier and gone again. Augusta experienced a sense of disappointment out of all proportion to the occasion while she listened with half an ear to Lady Belway crossing swords with Matron over the vexed question of the lack of pepper in the cucumber sandwiches she had been offered for the previous day’s tea.

The day passed quickly, divided as it was into segments, each of which was stuffed to capacity with a variety of jobs to be done—and done properly whatever the setbacks and interruptions; and there were many. The girl, after spending most of the morning with Lady Belway, went away just before lunch, and Augusta, helping the old lady back to bed, hoped that she might talk about her visitors, but she was too occupied in complaining about the books which had arrived from Mudies.

Augusta took the Brigadier to Theatre the next morning, because she had promised him that she would. He was more peppery than ever, but she didn’t allow this to make any difference to the steady flow of conversation on her part. Usually patients going to Theatre, unless too ill to care, wanted to talk about trivialities—not so the Brig, who behaved much as though he was preparing for battle—as indeed he was. Even his pre-med did little to dull his sharp old wits, and he was still telling her about the drop in his steel shares as they started off in careful procession down the corridor. Only as they waited for the lift did he catch hold of her hand and ask tersely, ‘I wonder where I shall wake up?’

To which Augusta replied in a deliberately matter-of-fact manner:

‘In your bed, with my gimlet eye upon you.’

He gave a cackle of laughter. ‘Not gimlet—gorgeous!’

They laughed together, and sailed down in the lift, his hand still fast held in her small, comforting one.

Theatre block was on the floor below. They had almost reached its heavy swing doors, when they opened and the man who so occupied her unwilling thoughts came through them. She was surprised to see him there until she remembered that he had probably been to see Mr Weller-Pratt, though it was a strange place to see a consultant surgeon. Still, it was none of her business…but she did feel it was her business when he stopped by the trolley and said cheerfully, ‘Hullo, Brigadier—into the jaws of death, eh?’

She thought the remark in the worst possible taste, but apparently the Brig found it funny, for he chuckled and said hazily:

‘Hullo, my boy—it won’t be for the first time, either.’

Augusta said austerely, ‘The patient is under sedation—kindly leave him quiet.’

But the big man, looming beside her so disturbingly close, made no apology. Instead he said softly, ‘Ah, the guardian angel, of course.’ He grinned at the Brigadier, smiled with great charm into her outraged face, winked, and went on down the corridor, his steps very light for such a large man. And they went through the swing doors then, into the little world of sterile quiet, faintly redolent of anaesthetics; which was the operating theatre.

‘Decent young fellow,’ murmured the Brig as she took away his pillow and started to roll up the sleeve of his theatre gown, ready for the anaesthetist’s needle. She asked, casually, her heart beating a little faster, because she was going to know who the man was at last.

‘Who is he, Brigadier?’

He focused his old eyes upon her and began, in a woolly voice, ‘Godson of an old friend…’ He closed his eyes, and she heaved a resigned sigh as she turned away to get his chart for the theatre nurse. She wasn’t going to find out after all.

She was by the Brigadier’s bedside when he opened his eyes again, and before he had time to become confused, said at once:

‘Hullo there. You’re back in bed—everything’s fine; you can go to sleep.’ She smiled and nodded at him and gave him her hand and was satisfied at the strength of the squeeze he gave it. He had stood the operation very well. Presently she was relieved by another nurse and went along to the dining room for her dinner, but she was late and it had been kept hot for her and tasted of nothing at all. She went back to the ward and made tea, and then, revived, set about the afternoon’s work. The day seemed very long, perhaps because the sun was shining so brightly out of doors and she was imprisoned. She felt a little mean, thinking it; probably the patients felt just as she did, and with far more reason. But they could at least give vent to their discontent—and did. The worst of them was Lady Belway, who refused to be satisfied by anything at all, from the colour of her pills to the arrangement of the vast number of flowers in her room, and it was no use telling her that the staff had too much to do anyway… Augusta had just returned from the old lady’s room for at least the sixth time, and was making a tardy start on the report, when there was a knock on the door. Without looking round, she said in a resigned voice, ‘If that’s the Brig’s drip stopped again…’

She looked over her shoulder and met pale blue eyes. He stood just inside the door, as elegant and self-possessed as always, smiling.

‘What do you want?’ she wanted to know ungraciously, firmly ignoring the rush of excitement at the sight of him.

He came a little further into the room. He was holding the largest bunch of tulips she had ever seen in her life—on his way to visit Lady Belway, no doubt. She glowered at him because she was tired and hungry and her hair needed doing.

He said blandly, ‘You make me feel so welcome. There’s an old song; something about “There is a lady sweet and gentle”—or was it kind? I expect you are too, only I seem to be on the wrong wavelength.’

He laid the tulips in all their profusion on the desk, to blot out the Kardex and charts and laundry lists and forms. ‘These are for you—tulips for Miss Augusta Brown, because the sun has shone all day, and I doubt if she has encountered even one sunbeam.’

He turned on his heel and at the door said over one shoulder:

‘By the way, do your thumbs prick each time we meet? It seems to me that they should.’

He shut the door quietly, leaving her speechless.

The tulips caused a good deal of comment from the night nurses when they came on duty. She explained, with a heightened colour, that one of the patients’ visitors had left them for her, without mentioning who it was—and bore goodnaturedly with a little mild teasing before going off duty clasping their magnificence to her starched bosom.

She was halfway down the stairs when he caught up with her. She had known who it was, if not by the pricking of her thumbs, then by some sixth sense, but she didn’t turn round, indeed, she contemplated breaking into a run, only to discard the idea as being undignified, so he caught up with her easily enough, observing mildly, ‘What—too tired to run away?’

She smiled frostily and answered shortly, ‘No,’ and then remembered that he had, after all, been kind enough to give her the tulips.

‘The flowers are lovely,’ she said in a slightly less frigid voice. ‘It was kind of you.’

They had reached the bottom of the stairs; she added ‘I go this way.’ She smiled a little and turned away, to be instantly caught and held by the large hand on her shoulder and twiddled round to face him again.

‘Since we are saying goodnight—’ he said softly, and bent to kiss her.

She spent a wakeful night, rehearsing the cool manner in which she would greet him when they next met. It was a pity that her lack of sleep was wasted, for he didn’t come. After a week she was forced to admit to herself that the tulips had been in the nature of a farewell gesture, and that he was now probably building bridges or discovering oil wells in some far-flung spot of the globe. That he was no longer in London at least was obvious, because the dark-haired girl still came to visit Lady Belway, and Augusta had seen her leave the hospital, driving herself in a rakish little sports car. On the eighth day, she threw away the last of the tulips, designating, as it were, his memory to the dustbin of her mind. She had plenty of other things to fill it…the Brig, making good progress, was none the less very difficult, especially on the days when the cricketing news wasn’t good. Miss Dawn Dewey, recovered rather reluctantly from her cold, had gone, to be replaced by a minor statesman with tonsilitis…and there had been a fresh batch of T’s and A’s in. Lady Belway, organised at last with a nurse to take her home and stay, was due to go. Augusta had been invited—rather, commanded, to visit her and take tea; something she was loath to do, but perhaps the old lady was lonely, and it would be interesting to see where she lived—somewhere off Knightsbridge, in one of the squares.

She had been surprised one day when the girl had stopped her as she left Lady Belway’s room, and said, ‘It’s silly the way we see each other every day and don’t know each other’s names—at least, I know yours. I’m Susan Belsize—Lady Belway’s niece.’ She put out a hand, and Augusta shook it and said politely and a little absentmindedly, ‘How do you do?’ because she was thinking about Mrs Bewley the alcoholic, who had the first symptoms of pellagra; she was already having nicotine acid, but it obviously wasn’t sufficient…she would have to telephone Dr Watts. She smiled vaguely at Miss Belsize, who, it seemed, wasn’t in a hurry, for she went on, ‘You’ve been very kind to my aunt. I expect you know that she wanted you to go home with her—but Matron said you were indispensable.’ She added with a rather gushing sympathy, ‘You must get so tired, and I’m sure you don’t get much fun.’

Augusta thought she detected pity, and anyway what sort of fun did the girl mean? She said, a little extravagantly, that yes, she had quite a lot of fun, and edged towards the office door. But her companion, with time on her hands, seemed incapable of realising that there were those who worked. She observed archly:

‘Of course, this place is stuffed with doctors, isn’t it?’ She shot a playful look at Augusta. ‘We saw you out the other evening.’

Augusta blinked, trying to think of a mutual social background. Not a bus queue, surely, and certainly not the cheapest seats at the cinema, and the little café where Archie sometimes took her for coffee was hardly the kind of place Miss Belsize would be seen in. She said carefully, ‘Oh? I don’t think…’

‘You were with one of the doctors—I’m sure I’ve seen him around. We passed you both as we were leaving one evening, rather late, but you didn’t see us.’

‘Us,’ thought Augusta, ‘the man with straw-coloured hair.’ She murmured politely, her hand on the office door which she opened an inch or two, and her companion said with animation:

‘You meet so many people, don’t you? But I daresay you forget them…ships that pass in the night and all that stuff.’ She laughed. She had a pleasant laugh.

‘Oh, definitely,’ said Augusta, her mind still on Mrs Bewley. ‘I really must get on…you’ll forgive me if I…?’

Miss Belsize said at once with a genuine concern, ‘Oh, my poor dear, I’m keeping you from your work, aren’t I absolutely beastly?’ She giggled. ‘I expect I shall see you again.’

She floated away down the corridor, leaving a faint delicious whiff of Chanel Number 5 on the air. Augusta gave an appreciative sniff before going to the telephone, and then forgot all about her, for the time being at least.