The Edge of Winter. Бетти Нилс

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      She had been on duty barely an hour the next morning when they were all startled by an explosion, its repercussions rumbling on and on, so that even the solidly built Accident Room shook a little.

      ‘A bomb,’ said Araminta, busy at her desk, and left her papers to hurry into the department. It wasn’t the first time; they all knew what to do, they were ready by the time James Hickory reached them with the news that they would be receiving the casualties. Such patients as there were were moved to one end of the receiving area with a borrowed houseman to look after them. Araminta sent a student nurse to look after him and went to answer the telephone. There would be twenty odd casualties, said an urgent voice, mostly glass wounds, but there were still some people trapped.

      She relayed the information to James, telephoned for another houseman and went to cast a trained eye over the preparations. There would be more nurses coming within a few minutes and probably Debby, who wasn’t on duty, but would return if she were near enough. Araminta took off her cuffs, rolled up her sleeves and went to meet the first ambulance, its sing-song wail reaching a crescendo as it stopped before the open doors.

      There were two stretcher cases; the other two, both men, were walking, helped by the ambulance men. They were covered in dust and nasty little cuts from flying glass and wore the look of men who had been severely shocked. Araminta consigned them to Mrs Pink and turned her attention to the stretcher cases. They were both unconscious, badly cut about the head and face, and one of them had an arm in a rough sling. She set to work on them, with calm speed, following James’ careful instructions; they had barely dealt with them and sent them up to waiting theatre, before the second ambulance arrived.

      After that, time didn’t matter. They kept steadily on, coping with the stream of patients, seeing that the very ill ones had priority, and Araminta had the added task of seeing that her team of nurses, now swollen by extra help sent from the wards, were deployed to their best advantage. It was fortunate that a number of the victims were only slightly injured, so that after having cuts stitched, bruises treated and a hot drink, they were able to be sent to their homes. But that still left a hard core of badly injured, and some of them she could see wouldn’t be fit to be moved for a little while yet; not only were they badly injured, they were filthy dirty, with hair full of glass splinters and torn clothes which had to be carefully cut away so that they might be examined for the minute but dangerous wounds made by metal splinters and slivers of glass and wood. She was cutting away the hair from a scalp wound when another ambulance arrived and within seconds the ambulance men were coming through the door with the stretcher between them, not waiting for the porters’ help. Araminta knew both the men well; solid, reliable, not easily put out, but they looked worried enough now. She handed her scissors to the student nurse who was helping her and hurried across the littered department, sweeping a trolley along with her.

      ‘I take it it’s urgent, George?’ She eyed the grey face above the blanket.

      ‘Just got ’im out, they ’ave, Sister—lorst a leg. There’ll be a copper along with details—’e’s in a bad way.’

      She looked around her. Everyone was busy; a houseman was disappearing through a door carrying a child, the nurses were stretched to their limit, James and the house physician who had come to give a hand were bending over an elderly woman, who, not seriously hurt when she was admitted, had collapsed with a coronary. Someone would have to come. The ambulance men slid the stretcher on to the trolley and swung it into an empty bay and she lifted the blanket.

      The patient, if he were to be saved, would need a blood transfusion before anything else. Araminta bade the ambulance men goodbye and picked up one of the small glass tubes lying ready on the dressing trolley; at least she could get a specimen of blood while she waited for a doctor. She was putting the cork back in when she was addressed from behind.

      It was the senior consultant surgeon, Sir Donald Short.

      ‘Ah, Sister, you appear to need help.’ She had never been so thankful to hear his rather gruff voice. ‘Perhaps we could give a hand.’ He had come round the foot of the trolley and was already taking off his jacket. ‘I see you have taken some blood—good. Run along to the Path Lab and get it cross-matched—and look sharp about it.’ He lifted the blanket in his turn. ‘We must do what we can for this poor fellow.’

      Araminta didn’t stop to speak. There was no need to detail the man’s injuries; she turned round to do as she had been told and found her way blocked by Sir Donald’s companion—Doctor van Sibbelt, no less. The interesting and strangely disturbing fact registered itself upon her busy mind to be dismissed immediately; there were other, more important matters on hand.

      By the time she got back with the two vacoliters of blood, the two men were hard at work with artery forceps, tying off carefully as they went. Sir Donald barely glanced at her, and Doctor van Sibbelt didn’t look up at all.

      ‘Get that up, Sister,’ the consultant commanded. ‘Crispin, see if you can find a vein in that arm—we’ll run in the first liter as fast as we can and follow it with the second before we take him to theatre.’ He paused for only a moment. ‘Finished, Sister? Get hold of main theatre and tell them I want it ready in five minutes.’

      He watched his companion slide the canulla into a limp vein. ‘Crispin, will you give the anaesthetic? It’ll relieve the pressure on the other theatres.’ He added sharply: ‘We need more blood, Sister.’

      ‘It’s on its way, sir,’ Araminta was unflurried, ‘and I’ll see that it goes to theatre.’

      ‘Good girl—let me have a pad here, then. Poor devil!’

      Araminta took a blood pressure which only just registered. The face on the pillow was grey with shock; it could have belonged to an old man, although it was a mere lad lying there. She pitied him with all her warm heart but there was no time for pity; efficiency and gentleness and speed—above all, speed, came first. She could pity him later.

      She sped away to telephone theatre, and saw as she went that the place was at last almost empty—there were still three or four patients waiting to be warded, and a handful of slightly injured people waiting to have stitches and anti-tetanus injections. She had a quick word with Mrs Pink and Staff Nurse Getty, then flew back to escort her patient to theatre. Sir Donald, Doctor van Sibbelt and their patient had already gone; she cleared up the mess in the bay and turned her attention to helping James. And after that there was the business of clearing up—they were quick at that, but it took time; everything had to be exactly as it was, ready for any kind of emergency once more.

      The morning had gone. It was long past the nurses’ dinner time, she sent them in ones and twos for their belated meal, and when Staff got back, retired to her office, where old Betsy, the department maid, had taken a tray of coffee and sandwiches. She lingered now, to receive praise from Araminta for the useful part she had played in the morning’s work.

      ‘Cups o’tea,’ she declared contemptuously, ‘and collecting up the dirties—that ain’t much, Sister. Not when I seen you and the nurses covered in blood, mopping up and bandaging and giving them nasty jabs.’

      She spoke with some relish, for although she was a dear old thing, devoted to Araminta, zealous in her cleaning operations round the department and with a heart of gold, she enjoyed any dramatic occasion.

      ‘Go on with you, Betsy,’ said Araminta. ‘You know as well as I do that hot tea is one of the quickest ways of helping someone who’s had a shock to feel normal again—why, if you hadn’t been there with your urn, we should have had twice as much work.’

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