Читать книгу The Gemel Ring - Бетти Нилс - Страница 7

IT WAS A smooth journey, even if crowded, but Charity hardly noticed that; she was immersed in a copy of The Lancet she had borrowed from Mr Howard after she had asked him urgently on the previous afternoon to tell her all he could about her patient’s complaint.

“Oh, so you’re going after all?” he had snorted at her. “I can do better than tell you, there was a first-class article about it in last week’s Lancet.” And he had brought it down to the ward that evening, when he came to do a final check of his patients.

She studied it now, learning it almost word for word, so that later on she would know what everyone was talking about. It was a well-written article, written by a professor at the Utrecht School of Medicine, a certain Everard van Tijlen, a man, she considered, reading it through for the last time, who knew what he was about—a fine decisive style and sound knowledge of the subject. She put it away in her case and went up on deck to watch the flat coast of Belgium creep nearer.

She made good time from Zeebrugge to the Hague; it was only a little after seven o’clock when she drew up smartly before the address she had been given. The block of flats was large and modern and obviously luxurious and in a pleasant part of the city. She wasted no time, but got out, locked the car, went into the foyer and asked to be taken to the fifth floor by the porter.

Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek lived in style, she discovered when his apartment door was opened by a small woman with an unhappy face; the hall was large and square and furnished with taste and there seemed to be passages and doors leading off in all directions. The woman smiled uncertainly.

“Oh, are you the English nurse?”

Charity smiled and said that yes, she was. This, unless she was very much mistaken, was Mr Boekerchek’s wife. “I’m sorry to arrive so late,” she apologised. “If I could just put my car away and get my luggage…”

Her hostess went back to the door where the porter still lingered and spoke to him and then turned to Charity. “If you would let him have the keys,” she suggested, “he’ll put the car away—there’s an underground garage—and bring up your cases,” and when Charity had done this and closed the door the poor lady burst into tears.

“I never thought you’d come,” she sobbed, “and Arthur was so dead set on having you and no one else, and I thought if you wouldn’t come, he’d refuse surgery and then what would happen?”

Charity put an arm round the little lady’s shoulders and led her across the hall to a half-opened door which she hoped was a sitting-room. She was right, it was. She settled Mrs Boekerchek in a chair and sat down close by. “But I am here,” she pointed out cheerfully, “and we’ll have your husband on his feet again in no time at all.”

Her companion sniffed, blew her nose and made a great effort to calm down. “I don’t know what I expected,” she confided, “but you’re quite different, I reckon—no wonder Arthur wouldn’t budge.” She got up quickly. “There, see what an old fool I am—you must be tired to death and I’m wasting your time. There’s a meal for you—I’ll get Nel to serve it…”

Charity had got to her feet too. “That sounds lovely, but could I have five minutes to tidy myself and then go and see Mr Boekerchek? Will his doctor be coming this evening?”

“No—tomorrow morning. He’s to go to Utrecht, you know. The ambulance is coming at nine o’clock to take him to the hospital there—I’ve forgotten its name—Dr Donker said he’d see you before you went.” She was leading the way across the hall again and into one of the passages. “This is your room. I hope you’ll be comfortable—there’s a shower room beyond. Shall I come back for you in a few minutes?” She sounded wistful; Charity guessed that she needed company to take her mind off her husband’s illness.

“Give me ten minutes,” she agreed readily.

The room was luxurious; a pity, thought Charity, tidying herself hastily, that she would only have one night here. After that it would presumably be the Nurses’ Home in Utrecht. She fancied that it might be very like the Home at St Simon’s. She cast a lingering look round the room and turned to smile at Mrs Boekerchek at the door.

Mr Boekerchek certainly looked ill. He was pale and decidedly irritable despite his pleasure at seeing Charity. He had lost a lot of weight too, and confided to her that he was quite unable to work any more and suffered from a depression which was a blight both to himself and his wife.

“Hyperinsulinism, that’s my trouble,” he declared, “that professor what’s-his-name who’s going to carve me up, explained it to me—can’t say I made head or tail of it, though. But I trust him all right—lucky I’d already met him.” He managed a thin smile. “Just as long as you know what he’s talking about, eh? I’m glad they got hold of you. I do declare that I wouldn’t have agreed to surgery unless they had. I’m a daft old man, aren’t I? but thank God, I’m important enough to be humoured.”

Charity stayed with him for the rest of the evening, studying the notes the doctor had left for her before settling him for the night, eating a hasty supper and then going to sit for half an hour with his wife, whom she tried, not very successfully, to comfort before going to her room and bed. It seemed to her that her head had barely touched the pillow before Nel was shaking her awake with a cup of tea on a tray and the news that it was six o’clock, something the city’s carillons let her know, a dozen times over.

Mindful of the doctor’s visit at eight o’clock, she dressed, in uniform this time—and went along to her patient’s room. He had slept well, he told her, and was positively cheerful at the idea of getting things going at last. She helped him wash and shave, made sure that he was comfortable, checked his packed case, and went along to the kitchen. Mrs Boekerchek was up too, fussing round the stolid Nel while she prepared their breakfast. Mr Boekerchek, naturally enough, had very little appetite. Charity saw to his wants first and then made a healthily sustaining meal herself while her companion drank quantities of scalding coffee and jumped up and down like a yo-yo. She wasn’t going to Utrecht with them; Charity was to telephone her later on in the day, and tell her what had been decided, and when the decision to operate had been taken she would go over to the hospital and stay if it were considered necessary.

Charity discussed Mrs Boekerchek’s plans at length and in a cheerful voice and was rewarded by seeing the unhappy little woman’s face brighten. “Wear something pretty when you come,” she advised her, “something your husband likes; it will help him enormously, you know, if he’s feeling weak and ill, to see you looking pretty and nicely dressed—and don’t be upset when you see him after the op. He’ll look very pale and strange and there’ll be tubes and things all over the place—they look dramatic, but he won’t notice them, so don’t you either.”

Her words had the desired effect. Mrs Boekerchek fell to planning various outfits and even pondered the advisability of a visit to the hairdresser. “I have a rinse, you know,” she confided. “It needs to be done every week or so—Arthur is dead set on me not going grey, I reckon.” She eyed Charity’s burnished head with some envy. “Yours is real, I guess,” she asked wistfully.

“Well, yes,” Charity felt almost apologetic about it, “but quite often people think it isn’t.” Her pretty mouth curved in a smile. “Do you mind if I go to my room and make sure everything is ready? We mustn’t keep the ambulance waiting and I’m not certain how long the doctor will take—it’s almost eight o’clock.”

He came a few minutes later, a small dark man with thick glasses and hair brushed carefully over the bald spot on the top of his head. He spoke English with a fluency she instantly envied and plunged at once into instructions, details of his patient’s illness, and dire warnings as to what might go wrong and what she was to do if they did. She listened attentively, collected the necessary papers he had entrusted to her care, wished him goodbye and rejoined her patient. Ten minutes later they were in the ambulance, on their way to Utrecht.

It was a journey of forty miles or so, and since they travelled on the motorway for almost the entire distance and the ambulance was an elegant sleek model built for speed, they were soon on the outskirts of the city, but here their progress slowed considerably, and Charity, bent on keeping her patient’s mind on the normal things of life, encouraged him to describe the city to her, and looked when told to do so through the dark glass windows, trying to identify the various buildings he was telling her about. He had become quite cheerful during their ride together and had told her about his work and his family and home in the USA.

“This country’s OK,” he told her, “but a bit cramped, I guess—why, you can drive from one end to the other in the matter of a few hours, now, back home…” He paused. “I guess it’s OK, though, like I said—nice people, no need to learn the language, and a good thing too, for it’s a tongue-twister, all right. Where are we now?”

Charity had a look. “Going up a narrow lane, walls on either side—the backs of houses I should think. Oh, here’s a gate and a courtyard—I believe it’s the hospital.”

She was right. The ambulance passed the main entrance and drew up before a double swing door. Within minutes Mr Boekerchek was stretched tidily under his blankets on a trolley and they were making their way through the corridors and vast areas filled with crowded benches—Outpatients Charity guessed, and wished that there was more time to look around her. They were in a lift by now, though, on their way up to the sixth floor.

The lift door swung open on to a square hall which opened in its turn into a wide corridor. Someone must have given warning of their arrival, for there was a youngish woman in uniform waiting for them.

She smiled as she shook hands. “Hoofd Zuster Doelsma,” she volunteered. “Charity Dawson,” said Charity, not sure what to call herself, “and this is Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek.”

They proceeded smoothly down the corridor, lined with doors along one side and with great glass windows, giving one an excellent view of the wards beyond them, on the other. Half-way down Zuster Doelsma opened a door, revealing a small bright room with a modicum of furniture and a very up-to-date bed. Piped oxygen, intercom, sucker, intensive care equipment—Charity’s sharp eyes registered their presence with satisfaction; there was everything she might need. There was a small, comfortable chair close to the bed and a compact desk and stool facing it, and cupboards built into one wall; she would examine them presently. Now she turned her attention to settling her patient comfortably in his bed, much cheered by the appearance of a little nurse bearing a tray with two cups of coffee on it. Sipping it together, she and her companion decided that the room was nice, that Zuster Doelsma looked friendly, that the hospital, in fact, was very much like the most modern of American hospitals which Mr Boekerchek could call to mind.

He was in the middle of telling her so when the door opened and the giant from Vlissingen walked in, closely attended by his registrar, a houseman and Zuster Doelsma. Charity stood and stared at him with her mouth open, watching as he went to the bed, shook Mr Boekerchek by the hand, spoke briefly and then turned round to face her. If she had been surprised to see him, he most certainly was not. He gave her a cool nod, offered a firm hand and remarked: “Ah, the English Miss Dawson, come to stay with us for a little while. An opportunity for you to demonstrate your talent for languages; you should acquire a smattering of Dutch during that period.”

She felt her cheeks warm under his quizzical look and checked a childish urge to shout something rude at him. Instead she said in what she hoped was a cool voice: “I think there will be no need of that, Professor, for my Dutch would probably turn out to be as bad as your manners.”

They were standing a little apart from the others; she watched his eyes narrow as a smile touched the corner of his straight mouth. “So we are to cross swords, Miss Dawson?” he wanted to know softly.

“Well, it seems likely,” she told him sturdily, “though not during working hours, naturally.”

His laugh of genuine amusement took her by surprise. “A pity,” he observed, “for we shall have little opportunity of meeting.”

She didn’t answer him, for she was fighting disappointment; she had wanted to meet this man again, even though she had never admitted it even to herself, and now, by some quirk of fate, here he was, and obviously not sharing her feelings, indeed, very much the reverse. She promised herself then and there that she would make him change his opinion of her; and this satisfying thought was interrupted by his:

“You look very pleased with yourself about something. Now, supposing we have a talk with the patient.”

She could see within minutes that here was a man who knew his job. He had a measured way of speaking, although he was never at a loss for a word and he was completely confident in himself and the results of the operation he intended to perform, without being boastful. It was also equally apparent to her that whatever his private feelings were towards herself, he had no intention of allowing them to influence their relationship as surgeon and nurse, for when he had talked to Mr Boekerchek he drew her on one side and his manner when he spoke was pleasantly friendly with no hint of mockery or dislike. “I shall want you in theatre,” he told her. “I shall operate at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon and you will be good enough to adjust your duty hours so that you will be available until midnight of that day. You are conversant with intensive care?”

“Yes, Professor.”

He nodded. “You will be directly responsible to me for all the nursing care of Mr—er—Boekerchek. I know that you will be unable to be here all the time, and a nurse has been seconded to share your duties. But please understand that I shall hold you responsible. I will explain…”

Which he did, and at some length, and she listened carefully, storing away facts and techniques and his way of doing things, because he would expect her to know them all.

“You have nursed these cases before?”

“Two—not recently, though. I read your article in The Lancet.”

There was a brief gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Indeed? I had no idea that The Lancet was read by anyone other than my own profession.”

He was needling her again, but she kept her cool, saying quietly:

“The consultant surgeon for whom I work at St Simon’s lent it to me. I had no idea that it was you…”

“Why should you?” he asked coolly, and turned to go. “You will be in theatre at five to one tomorrow, Sister Dawson.”

She was kept busy for the rest of the day; Mr Boekerchek was to undergo a series of tests, which meant a constant flow of path lab people in and out, And he had to be X-rayed too, an expedition upon which she accompanied him, as well as being seen by various other people connected with his future well-being; the anaesthetist, a youngish man, darkly good-looking and with a charm of manner which Charity was sure must endear him to his patients. He was charming to her too, speaking English, of course, like almost everyone else in the hospital. The professor’s nasty remark had been quite unnecessary and it still rankled; she registered a resolve not to learn or speak a word of Dutch, happily forgetful that she would be the one to suffer from her resolution, not he, and turned to smile at another caller, the professor’s registrar, a short, rather stout young man with a round, cheerful face and a habit of quoting his chief on every possible occasion.

“You will find the operation most interesting,” he assured Charity, standing in the corridor outside her patient’s room. “Professor van Tijlen is outstanding in surgery, you know, and this particular operation is of his own technique—he has done already one dozen and they live yet.”

Charity said tartly: “Marvellous—what else does he specialise in?”

“All illnesses of the stomach and the—the gut.”

“Big deal,” she observed flippantly, and at the look of uncertainty upon her companion’s face hastened to explain: “That’s just an expression in English. It means how—how marvellous.”

Mr van Dungen looked mollified. “He is a wonderful man,” he told her sternly, and then smiled. “You will perhaps call me Dof?”

“Of course. My name’s Charity.” They smiled at each other like old friends and she added: “I say, you’ll help me out if I get in a jam, won’t you?” and had to repeat it all again differently, explaining that getting into a jam didn’t mean quite what it sounded like.

Mrs Boekerchek came over that evening, rather grandly in an Embassy car with a chauffeur who followed her to the door of the patient’s room with a great quantity of flowers and several baskets of fruit which Mr Boekerchek would be unable to eat. Charity soothed his anxious wife and went to fetch Dof van Dungen, whose cheerful manner and sometimes uncertain English might put her patient’s better half at her ease far more than technical details of the operation. It gave her a brief breathing space too, to find Zuster Doelsma; she hadn’t been to the Nurses’ Home yet, a large, gloomy-looking building at the far end of the hospital courtyard. It was a good chance to slip over now, the Dutch girl agreed; she would lend a nurse for a few minutes to show her the way to her room.

“Tomorrow we treat you better, Sister Dawson,” she said kindly. “Today is bad, no time to yourself, for I must ask you to stay on duty until the night nurse comes on, but tomorrow do not come on duty until ten o’clock, so that you will have an hour or two to yourself. I think that Professor van Tijlen told you that he wishes that you stay on duty until midnight; it is better for the patient, you understand? It will be a long day for you, but there is a good nurse to relieve you, and after the first day it will be easier. Now if you wish to go to your room? and when you return we will go to supper together.”

Fair enough, thought Charity, accompanying the little nurse detailed to take her to the Home where she was delighted to find its dull exterior concealed a very modern and bright interior. Her room was on the fourth floor in the Sisters’ wing, an airy, fair-sized room, nicely furnished and with the luxury of a shower concealed in one of its cupboards. The little nurse, whose English was fragmental, having pointed out this amenity with some pride, grinned, said “Dag, Zuster,” and scuttled off, leaving Charity to tidy herself. She would have liked time to unpack, but it seemed she was to have none for the moment; she wasted no time therefore in getting back to the ward, where she found Zuster Doelsma bowed over the Kardex.

“I’ll just go and see Mr Boekerchek,” Charity suggested. “When do you want me back?”

“Supper in ten minutes,” the Dutch girl smiled at her. “That is a funny name which your patient has.”

Charity chuckled. “Yes, I expect his ancestors came from Russia, but the Arthur C. makes it very American, though, doesn’t it?”

Mrs Boekerchek was on the point of leaving. “But I’ll be here tomorrow—about six o’clock, that nice young doctor said.” She looked anxiously at Charity. “You’ll be here, won’t you, honey?”

Charity assured her that she would. “I’m coming on a little later in the morning and I shall stay with Mr Boekerchek until quite late in the evening, and there’s a very good nurse to relieve me at night, so don’t worry, everything will be fine.”

Her companion’s pleasant elderly face crumpled and then straightened itself at the warning: “Now, baby,” from the bed, and Charity turned her back and busied herself with the flowers, thinking that she wouldn’t much like to be addressed as baby, not by anyone—anyone at all; the professor was hardly a man to address anyone endearingly… She checked her galloping thoughts, telling herself that she must be tired indeed to allow such nonsense to creep into her head, and bestirred herself to accompany Mrs Boekerchek to the lift at the end of the corridor, where the little lady clasped both her hands and asked: “It is going to be OK, isn’t it, honey?”

“Of course,” Charity sounded very certain of it. “Professor van Tijlen is just about the best surgeon for this particular operation, you know.”

Her companion nodded. “I’m sure he is—such a dear kind man, too. He came today and explained to me just why he had to operate on Arthur, and when I cried like the old silly I am, he was so comforting. I trust him completely.”

Charity, diverted by her speculations concerning the professor comforting anyone; made haste to answer and was a little surprised to hear herself agreeing wholeheartedly with Mrs Boekerchek, and still more surprised to find that she believed what she was saying, too.

She met a number of the Dutch Sisters at supper; they all spoke English in varying degrees of fluency and she found herself with more invitations to do this, that and the other than she could ever hope to have time for, so that she went back to Mr Boekerchek quite cheered up; even if she wouldn’t have much time to go out, at least the other girls were friendly.

She set about the routine of getting her patient ready for the night and when the night nurse, one Willa Groene, arrived, a sturdy fair-haired girl of about her own age, she relinquished him to her with a relief which, though concealed, was none the less real. It had been a long day—and a surprising one, she reminded herself as she was on the verge of sleep.

Mr Boekerchek wasn’t in a good humour when she reached his room the next morning. His surly “What’s good about it?” in answer to her own greeting told her all she needed to know. His surliness, she had no doubt, hid a nasty attack of nerves; that terrible last-minute rebellion against a fate which had decreed that the only way out was to trust the surgeon. She had encountered it a hundred times: it passed swiftly but she had learned to help it on its way. She began the task of doing just that. There was quite a lot to do before they went to theatre; and she began, with cheerful calm, to do the numerous little jobs which would lead finally to his premed, talking unhurriedly for most of the time, pretending not to notice his silence, and after a while her patience was rewarded; he asked about her room in the Nurses’ Home and was she being well treated?

“Like a queen,” she assured him, and led the conversation cunningly away from hospital. She had succeeded in making him laugh, telling him about the professor’s Lamborghini and her father’s opinion of those who travelled in such splendid cars, when she realized that there was a third person in the room—the professor, filling the doorway with his bulk and looking as though he had been there for some time. He had.

“Your father’s stricture makes me feel every year of my age,” he remarked good-humouredly as he advanced to the bedside. “My only excuse for driving a Lamborghini is that I was given one when I was twenty-one, and twenty years later I haven’t found a car I like better.”

“What about a Chrysler?” asked his patient, quite diverted from his own troubles.

“A good car—but I think that I am now getting too old to change.” He stared at the wall, thinking his own thoughts. “Perhaps—if I were to marry—the Lamborghini is hardly a family car.” His manner changed and he began at once to talk to Mr Boekerchek, to such good effect that that gentleman remained cheerful until the moment he closed his eyes in the peaceful half-sleep induced by the injection Charity had given him.

The theatre, when they reached it, reminded her forcibly of quite another sort of theatre; there was the audience, peering down through the glass above their heads, and the instruments, while not the musical variety, tinkled musically as they were laid out in their proper places. Charity, who had remained with her patient in the anaesthetic room, his hand comfortably fast in hers, took up her position by the anaesthetist and watched Mr Boekerchek’s unconscious form being arranged with due care upon the operating table. This done to Theatre Sister’s satisfaction, a kind of hush fell upon the group of people arranged in a kind of tableau in the centre of the theatre.

Into this hush came Professor van Tijlen, dwarfing everyone present, his mask pulled up over his splendid nose so that only his eyes were visible. He paused by the table, greeted Theatre Sister, said a few words to his registrar, murmured briefly to his houseman, hovering nervously, stared hard at Charity—a stare which she returned in full measure—and turned his attention to his patient.

Charity watched him make a neat paramedian incision and then, stage by stage, demonstrate his actions to his audience. It was a pity that she couldn’t understand a word he said, but she was kept so busy that it didn’t really matter; blood sugar samples had to be taken every fifteen minutes, blood pressures had to be read, and the anaesthetist kept her on her toes with his requirements. But she managed, all the same, to see something of what was going on. The professor was a good surgeon, with no pernickety ways; he was relaxed too, even though his concentration was absolute. There was a little sigh of satisfaction as he found and removed the adenoma which had been the cause of Mr Boekerchek’s illness; he spent some time searching for any more which might be there, with no success—presumably everything was as it should be; he began on his careful needlework and presently, when that was finished, stood back to allow the other two men to finish off the suturing. He left the theatre as the anaesthetist slid a fine tube down Mr Boekerchek’s nostril while Theatre Sister attended to the dressing, and Charity, kept busy with odd jobs, didn’t see him go. For so large a man he moved in a very self-effacing manner.

He turned up again, just as silently, half an hour later, when having got her patient into bed under his space blanket, checked the infusions of blood, dextrose saline and another, special solution, all located in various limbs and all running at a different rate; made sure that the cannula for the taking of blood samples was correctly fixed, and made certain that the blood pressure was being properly monitored, Charity was taking Mr Boekerchek’s pulse.

Beyond giving her a laconic hullo, the professor had nothing to say to her, but bent at once over his patient. It was only when he had satisfied himself that everything was just as it should be that he straightened his long back and came to take the charts from the desk. “You are familiar with the nursing care?” He looked at her, smiling a little. “Am I insulting you? I don’t mean to, but if there is anything you are not quite certain about I shall be glad to help you.”

Very handsomely put, she had to admit. “Thank you—I’m fine at the moment, but I’ll not hesitate to let you or Mr Van Dungen know if I’m worried.”

He nodded. “One of us will be available for the next twenty-four hours. Start aspirating in an hour and a half, if you please, and give water as ordered as soon as the patient is conscious. You will have help as and when you require it, but I must emphasise that you are in charge of the case and are responsible to me and no one else. You understand?”

There was a lot to do during the next few hours, but by the end of that time Charity had the satisfaction of seeing her patient sitting up against his pillows, the blanket discarded, nicely doped and doing exactly as he ought. She had been warned to send a message to the professor when Mrs Boekerchek arrived that evening; he arrived as she entered the room, her face held rigid in a smile which threatened to crack at any moment.

The professor glanced at Charity. “Go and get a cup of coffee,” he told her. “I shall be here for ten minutes or so—stay in the duty room.”

She went thankfully; she had been relieved for fifteen minutes for a hasty meal on a tray in the office, but now she longed for a cup of tea, but coffee it was and better than nothing.

She sat in the austere little room, her shoes kicked off, her cap pushed to the back of her head. There were still several hours to go before she could go off duty, but that didn’t matter; Mr Boekerchek was out of his particular wood provided nothing happened to hinder him. She swallowed a second cup of coffee, straightened her cap, shoved her feet back into their shoes and went back along the corridor.

The professor was ready to leave, taking Mrs Boekerchek with him. She had been crying, for her husband was in no state to warn her not to. The tears started again as she saw Charity, whom she kissed soundly. “I’ll never be able to thank you—you two beautiful people,” she said with a gratitude which wrung Charity’s kind heart, and was borne away by the professor, who, without a word to Charity, closed the door quietly as they went.

He opened it a minute later to say: “I should be obliged if you would come on duty at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. You will be relieved later in the day, but I prefer you to be here while Mr Boekerchek is ill. Naturally any time you have owing to you will be made up.” He turned to go again. “Thank you for your assistance today, Sister Dawson.” His goodnight was an afterthought as he closed the door once more.

He certainly had no intention of sparing her, but she fancied that he didn’t spare himself either where his patients, important or otherwise, were concerned. She dismissed him from her mind and started on her duties once again until she was relieved by the night nurse at midnight. It had been a busy day; as she got wearily into bed she wondered if the professor was still up, making his silent way through the hospital, or whether he too was in bed. She tried to imagine where he lived—probably in one of the old houses they had passed coming to the hospital on the previous day. She began to think about him, yawned, then yawned again, and fell asleep.