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CHAPTER TWO
THE MORNING WAS dark and dreary and suited Eleanor’s mood very well as she got into her uniform and, looking the very epitome of neatness and calm efficiency, went down to breakfast, a meal eaten in a hurry by reason of the amount of conversation crammed in by herself and friends while they drank tea and bolted toast and marmalade.
She climbed the stairs to Women’s Medical, trying to get used to being back on the ward once more, while her pretty nose registered the fact that the patients had had fish for breakfast and that someone had been too lavish with the floor polish—the two smells didn’t go well together. Someone, too, would have to repair the window ledge outside the ward door, and it was obvious that no one had bothered to water the dreadful potted plant which lived on it. Eleanor pushed the swing doors open and went straight to her little office, where Staff Nurse Jill Pitts would be waiting with the two night nurses.
The report took longer than usual; it always did on her first day back, even if she had been away for a short time; new patients, new treatments, Path Lab reports, news of old patients—it was all of fifteen minutes before she sent the night nurses to their breakfast, left Jill to see that the nurses were starting on their various jobs, and set off on her round. She spent some time with her first three patients, for they were elderly and ill, and for some weeks now they had all been battling to keep them alive; she assured herself that they were holding their own and passed on to the fourth bed; Mrs McFinn, a large, comfortable lady with a beaming smile and a regrettable shortness of breath due to asthma, a condition which didn’t prevent her wheezing out a little chat with Eleanor, and her neighbour, puffing and panting her way through emphysema with unending courage and good humour, wanted to chat too. She indulged them both; they were such dears, but so for that matter were almost all the patients in the ward.
She spent a few minutes with each of them in turn, summing up their condition while she lent a friendly ear and a smile; only as she reached the top of the ward did she allow a small sigh to escape her. Miss Tremble, next in line, was a cross the entire staff, medical and nursing, bore with fortitude, even if a good deal of grumbling went on about her in private. She was a thin, acidulated woman in her sixties, a diabetic which it seemed impossible to stabilize however the doctors tried. Painstakingly dieted and injected until the required balance had been reached, she would be sent home, only to be borne back in again sooner or later in yet another diabetic coma, a condition which she never ceased to blame upon the hospital staff. She had been in again for two weeks now, and on the one occasion during that period when it had been considered safe to send her home again to her downtrodden sister, she had gone into a coma again as she was actually on the point of departure, and it was all very well for Sir Arthur Minch, the consultant physician in charge of her case, to carry on about it; as Eleanor had pointed out to him in a reasonable manner, one simply didn’t turn one’s back on hyperglycaemia, even when it was about to leave the ward; she had put the patient back to bed again and allowed the great man to natter on about wanting the bed for an urgent case. He had frowned and tutted and in the end had agreed with her; she had known that he would, anyway.
She took up her position now at the side of Miss Tremble’s bed and prepared to listen to its occupant’s long list of complaints; she had heard them many times before, and would most likely hear them many more times in the future. She put on her listening face and thought about Fulk, wondering where he was and why he had come to Edinburgh. She would have liked to have asked him, only she had hesitated; he had a nasty caustic tongue, she remembered it vividly when he had stayed with them all those years ago, and she had no doubt that he still possessed it. She could only guess—he could of course be visiting friends, or perhaps he had come over to consult with a colleague; he might even have a patient… She frowned and Miss Tremble said irritably: ‘I’m glad to see that you are annoyed, Sister—it is disgraceful that I had to have Bovril on two successive evenings when my appetite needs tempting.’
Eleanor made a soothing reply, extolled the virtues of the despised beverage, assured Miss Tremble that something different would be offered her for her supper that evening, and moved on to the next bed, but even when she had completed her round and was back in her office, immersed in forms, charts and the answering of the constantly ringing telephone she was still wondering about Fulk.
But presently she gave herself a mental shake; she would never know anyway. Thinking about him was a complete waste of time, especially with Sir Arthur due to do his round at ten o’clock. She pushed the papers to one side with a touch of impatience; they would have to wait until she had checked the ward and made sure that everything was exactly as it should be for one of the major events in the ward’s week.
She ran the ward well; the patients were ready with five minutes to spare and the nurses were going, two by two, to their coffee break. Eleanor, longing for a cup herself, but having to wait for it until Sir Arthur should be finished, was in the ward, with the faithful Jill beside her and Mrs MacDonnell, the part-time staff nurse, hovering discreetly with a student nurse close by to fetch and carry. She knew Sir Arthur’s ways well by now; he would walk into the ward at ten o’clock precisely with his registrar, his house doctor and such students as had the honour of accompanying him that morning. Eleanor, with brothers of her own, felt a sisterly concern for the shy ones, whose wits invariably deserted them the moment they entered the ward, and she had formed the habit of stationing herself where she might prompt those rendered dumb by apprehension when their chief chose to fire a question at them. She had become something of an expert at mouthing clues helpful enough to start the hapless recipient of Sir Arthur’s attention on the path of a right answer. Perhaps one day she would be caught red-handed, but in the meantime she continued to pass on vital snippets to any number of grateful young gentlemen.
The clock across the square had begun its sonorous rendering of the hour when the ward doors swung open just as usual and the senior Medical Consultant, his posse of attendants hard on his heels, came in—only it wasn’t quite as usual; Fulk van Hensum was walking beside him, not the Fulk of the last day or so, going fishing with Henry in an outsize sweater and rubber boots, or playing Canasta with the family after supper or goodnaturedly helping Margaret with her decimals. This was a side of him which she hadn’t seen before; he looked older for a start, and if anything, handsomer in a distinguished way, and his face wore the expression she had seen so often on a doctor’s face; calm and kind and totally unflappable—and a little remote. He was also impeccably turned out, his grey suit tailored to perfection, his tie an elegant under-statement. She advanced to meet them, very composed, acknowledging Sir Arthur’s stately greeting with just the right degree of warmth and turning a frosty eye on Fulk, who met it blandly with the faintest of smiles and an equally bland: ‘Good morning, Eleanor, how nice to be able to surprise you twice in only a few days.’
She looked down her nose at him. ‘Good morning, Doctor van Hensum,’ she greeted him repressively, and didn’t smile. He might have told her; there had been no reason at all why he shouldn’t have done so. She almost choked when he went on coolly: ‘Yes, I could have told you, couldn’t I? But you never asked me.’
Sir Arthur glanced at Eleanor. ‘Know each other, do you?’ he wanted to know genially.
Before she could answer, Fulk observed pleasantly: ‘Oh, yes—for many years. Eleanor was almost five when we first met.’ СКАЧАТЬ