Never the Time and the Place

He laughed. ‘Jo, you’re not yourself this evening, what on earth’s got into you. Why should I want to wear myself out when I can drop into a comfortable country practice with my father?’

She abandoned the egg on toast. She was appalled to hear herself say, ‘Malcolm, I don’t want to get married.’

He finished his mouthful before he replied. ‘Rubbish, Jo. You’re just tired—you don’t know what you are saying.’

She said doggedly, ‘But I do. I—I’ve felt uncertain for a week or two but I thought—well, I thought I’d get over it, but I haven’t, Malcolm. I’d make you a bad wife—there are all sorts of reasons—living so far away and being so near your parents. Your mother doesn’t like me much, you know that; she thinks I’m too keen on clothes and don’t know enough about keeping house, and I want to do more than just be a housewife—and I’m not sure that I love you enough, Malcolm.’ She paused and went on bravely. ‘I’m not even sure if you love me enough. You see, I think, perhaps you’re mistaken in me—I don’t like being told what to do and being taken for granted. Why do I have to eat steak when we go out just because you think I want to? Can’t you see that if you expect me to eat steak because you order it for me, you’ll expect me to do everything else you think is good for me.’

Malcolm gave an indulgent laugh, which infuriated her. ‘You are just being silly, Jo. Good Lord, we’re to be married in a couple of months, you can’t break everything off now.’

‘You mean to tell me that you think we should go ahead with the wedding even when I know in my heart that I don’t want to marry you?’

He shrugged. ‘You’ll feel differently in the morning. Besides, what will everyone say…’

‘They’d say a lot more if I ran away after we were married.’

‘You don’t mean that. Why do women have to exaggerate so?’

She saw that she wasn’t going to get through his smugness. She said soberly, ‘I’m not exaggerating, Malcolm, I mean every word.’ And she took the ring off her finger and pushed it across the table towards him. ‘Please will you take me back to St Michael’s.’

He picked up the ring and put it in his pocket. ‘If that’s how you feel, the quicker we part company the better. You’re not the girl I thought you were.’

She agreed sadly, ‘You’ll meet some girl who’ll make you happy, Malcolm. I’m very sorry, but it’s far better to part than to be unhappy for the rest of our lives.’

He muttered something, and because she was a kindhearted girl and blamed herself she was honest and said so, to be brought up short by his, ‘Oh save that, I’m beginning to think that once I’ve got over the awkwardness of it all, it’ll be a good thing.’

He paid the bill and they went out to the car and got in without speaking. They still hadn’t said a word when he drew up at the Hospital entrance.

Josephine opened her door. ‘Well, goodbye, Malcolm— I’m sorry…’

He presented an unmoved profile to her. ‘I doubt that,’ he told her, and caught the door and slammed it shut and drove away without another word.

She stood for a moment watching the tail lights receding and then pushed the glass swing doors open. Mr van Tacx was standing just inside, barring her path.

‘Hullo,’ he observed ‘had a tiff?’

It was a bit too much; Josephine lifted a pale face to his, blinking back tears. ‘What do you know about tiffs?’ she asked him bitterly and sped past him, intent on getting to her room so that she could have a really good cry.

It was a good thing that most of her friends were out for the evening or had retired to their beds. She lay in a very hot bath, crying her eyes out, and then as red as a lobster and quite worn out, got into her bed. She had expected to stay awake all night, but she fell asleep at once and didn’t wake until she was called in the morning. Nothing could disguise her swollen eyelids or her still pink nose; she did the best she could with make-up and was grateful when her friends said nothing at breakfast even though they cast covert glances at her.

It was perhaps a good thing that her day turned out to be so busy that she had no time to spare for herself; there was no sign of Mr van Tacx, which considering his nasty remark on the previous evening, was a good thing, but Matt did a round, pronounced himself satisfied, declared himself delighted that Mrs Prosser would be leaving them in the morning and had a cup of coffee before he went away again. But not before he had stopped on his way out of the ward to speak to Joan. Josephine, coming out of her office behind him, saw Joan’s pink face and her smile; whatever the girl said, she couldn’t hide the pleasure at whatever Matt was saying. Bereft of her own romance, Josephine was delighted to see another blossoming under her nose. Matt was quiet and solid and nothing much to look at, but he was a clever surgeon; Joan would suit him admirably. Josephine went on down the ward, already busy with plans to arrange the off duty so that Joan would be free when Matt had his half days.

The next day they admitted three patients for operations on the morrow; Mrs Prior, a timid little lady with an over-bearing husband who button-holed Josephine and demanded to know just exactly what was to be done to his wife. She asked him mildly if his own doctor hadn’t already explained it to him.

‘’Corse ’e ’as. But ’oo’s ter believe ’im, eh? The missus ain’t all that ill, and ’oo’s ter look after me?’

‘You?’ said Josephine gently. ‘Most husbands manage very well. I’ll get one of the surgeons to see you if you like. Your wife will have her operation in the morning and you can phone about one o’clock and come round in the evening and talk to someone about her.’

She was glad to see him go and she suspected that his wife, meek though she was, was just as glad. The other two ladies were easier to deal with; both married and middle aged with worried husbands anxious to do the right thing. She put their minds at rest and when they had gone went along to have a little chat with the three women. Mr Bull had fallen into the habit of letting her describe their operations to his patients; most of them wanted to know exactly what would be done and more importantly, if it was going to hurt. Josephine reassured them, gave them a clear idea of what the surgeon intended doing and suggested that they should get themselves unpacked, bathed and into bed, ready for the House Surgeon to examine them. He was new to the team, enthusiastic about his work and tended to frighten the patients by his sheer earnestness. Josephine took care to be with him so that she could tone down some of his more frank remarks. Frankness, she felt, should be left to the registrar, or better still, the consultant gynaecologist.

The next morning, being theatre day, was busy, but after the trauma of getting Mrs Prosser away Josephine welcomed the business with relief. Dr Macauley, the anaesthetist, had seen the patients on the previous evening and now they lay in their beds, looking strangely alike in their white theatre gowns and caps. Mrs Prior was to go first, Josephine drew up the pre-med, and went along to Mrs Prior, lying meekly, waiting uncomplainingly for whatever was about to happen to her. She slowed her steps as the ward door at the far end opened and Mr van Tacx came unhurriedly in. He was dressed impeccably, the very picture of a successful consultant in his dark grey suit and subdued tie and he brought with him a distinct air of assurance and at the same time a feeling of ordinariness so that the three ladies, waiting, outwardly calm and inwardly wishing with all their hearts that they might jump out of their beds and go home, were instantly put at rest. His ‘good morning, Sister,’ was uttered in the casual tones of one greeting the milkman on his round and when he sat down on the end of Mrs Prior’s bed, she gave him a look which Josephine could only describe to herself as adoring.

He talked to each one of them in turn, in a calm, pleasant voice which she could only admire. The thought crossed her mind that if she had to have an operation at any time, then Mr van Tacx would do very nicely for the surgeon. The three ladies obviously felt the same way, for they smiled and nodded and Mrs Prior hardly noticed when she slid the premed into her arm.

Josephine took them to the theatre, leaving Joan in charge, something she had started when she had taken over the ward, for she had discovered soon enough that the patients, semi-conscious as they were, were wheeled away with quieter minds if they knew that she was with them. Once in the anaesthetic room and the patient out cold within seconds of the anaesthetist’s skilful insertion of the needle, she handed over to a Senior Student Nurse.

She felt regret at having to do this, she would dearly have loved to have watched Mr van Tacx operating. She went back to the ward and set about the daily routine until they phoned from the Recovery Room to say that Mrs Prior was ready to be fetched and would she send up the next case please.

She whisked the next lady up to the anaesthetic room; a placid person, already half asleep and uncaring, and then went to supervise the return of Mrs Prior.

Mrs Prior seemed to have shrunk, her small pale face smaller and paler than ever. Josephine received her instructions from Fiona, the Recovery Room Sister, nodded briskly and saw her safely back to the ward and into her bed, detailing a Student Nurse to take fifteen minute observations and report if she was worried. ‘And you nip off to dinner,’ she told Joan, ‘and take Nurse Thursby and Nurse Williams with you, there’s still Mrs Gregory to go up but she’s a straightforward Colpol—and Mrs Clark shouldn’t take more than an hour. With luck we’ll be clear by five o’clock…’

‘Your dinner, Sister?’

‘Oh, I’ll have a sandwich and a pot of tea later on.’

The day wore on, Mrs Clark came back, smiled vaguely at Josephine as she gave her an injection and she went peacefully to sleep, leaving her free to do a round of her patients and check Mrs Prior once more. There was a little colour in her cheeks now and Josephine checked the blood transfusion and cast an eye over the nurse’s observation board. Joan was back by now with the two nurses, and Josephine sent the Senior Student Nurse to her dinner; she would have to wait for her own pot of tea; Mrs Gregory had been gone for some time and she must be on the ward when she came back.

They rang shortly afterwards and she went along to collect her patient; ‘straightforward,’ whispered Fiona, ‘and what a duck Mr van Tacx was to work for. Lucky you,’ she added and winked over her mask.

‘That’s as maybe,’ hissed Josephine peevishly, ‘I want a meal—I missed coffee and it’s gone two o’clock.’

‘We stopped for coffee after Mrs Prior,’ said Fiona smugly, ‘and I managed a sandwich before Mrs Gregory.’

Josephine was getting that lady settled in her bed and giving instructions to Nurse Thursby at the same time. A good little nurse, reliable but uncertain of herself. She listened now, repeating Josephine’s instructions rather apprehensively.

‘And don’t be scared,’ begged Josephine, ‘the bell’s there, I or Staff will come at once and in any case I’ll be popping in and out to see how things are.’

She became aware that Nurse Thursby’s eye had strayed to a spot behind her and looked over her shoulder. Mr van Tacx was there, immaculate again just as though he hadn’t spent the morning in theatre gear and rubber boots. Indeed, he had all the appearance of a prosperous stockbroker or something executive in the city, accustomed to a pen in his hand and not the scalpel. He nodded to Josephine, smiled at Nurse Thursby and bent over his patient, who opened her eyes blearily and closed them again.

‘She’s had her morphia?’

‘Not yet, sir,’ Josephine’s voice was quiet but it had a faint edge. ‘Mrs Gregory has just returned to the ward and been put to bed.’

He nodded again. ‘The other two?’

Josephine went with him to Mrs Clark, still peacefully sleeping and then to Mrs Prior. He stood for a minute looking at her, read her chart, took her pulse and held the curtain aside for Josephine to go past him.

‘Your office, Sister?’

She led the way, pausing to tell Joan to give Mrs Gregory her injection. Despite her busy day she looked serene and very beautiful, even if a little untidy about the head.

In the office she sat down behind her desk and Mr van Tacx sat down cautiously in the canvas chair which sagged and creaked under his weight.

‘Could we have a pot of tea?’ he enquired. ‘It’s rather late for lunch and I have a teaching round in half an hour.’

She beamed at him. ‘I’m so glad you’ve asked. I missed coffee and dinner, too. Just a sec.’

She left him sitting and crossed the landing to the kitchen where Mrs Cross, the ward orderly, was getting the tea trolley ready for the patients’ teas. She looked up as Josephine went in and left the trolley to turn the gas up under the kettle. ‘Not ’ad yer dinner,’ she said accusingly, ‘I can ’ear yer stomach rumbling from ’ere. Tea and a sandwich or two—you go back ter the office and I’ll bring it.’