Читать книгу Philomena's Miracle - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 8

OF COURSE, Philomena overslept; she didn’t doze off until the early hours of the morning and although she heard the night nurse’s thump on her door, she turned right over and went to sleep again. The subdued thunder of nurses’ feet and the banging of doors brought her awake again, and by dint of bundling her hair up anyway and doing nothing at all to her face, she managed to get down to the breakfast table in time to swallow a cup of tea and gobble bread and butter and marmalade before making for Men’s Surgical. Sister had her days off, which made them short-handed for a start, and as well as that, there was a theatre list. Philomena took the report from the Night Staff Nurse, scanned the notes of the two new admissions since she had gone off duty, and plunged into the ward, to be instantly swallowed up in its routine. Drips to check, dressings to do, theatre preps, blood pressures—she didn’t do them all, of course, but she had to check that they were being done. She was glad when she could escape to the office and drink her coffee, and even that precious five minutes was blighted by a telephone call from the second part-time staff nurse to say that her youngest had the measles and she wouldn’t be coming in that afternoon. A sad blow for Philomena, for the other part-timer was on holiday, so it would mean that she would have to stay on duty all day and the next day as well, unless the Office sent someone to relieve her. But nobody suggested that when she telephoned the Office, only a harassed voice wanted to know if she thought she could manage. She replied that yes, she could and wondered fleetingly what would have been said if she had declared flatly that no, she couldn’t.

The Registrar, Toby Brown, came in then, so that she had no time to feel sorry for herself; they did a round of the ward and she pointed out a little worriedly that Commander Frost didn’t seem so well. He was naturally peppery, they both knew that, but now he seemed strangely subdued.

‘Are the X-rays back?’ asked Philomena. ‘I wonder what they found? He’s having trouble with his breathing…’

‘The chief’s got them—said he’d meet me here presently—they’re not too good, I gather.’ He gave her a brief glance. ‘I say, Philly, you look like a wet week and I’ve quite forgotten to congratulate you—sorry. You deserved it, nice, hard-working girl that you are.’

She was digesting this sincere but not too flattering remark when Mr Dale arrived and she hurried to meet him. Her step faltered only very slightly when she saw that Doctor van der Tacx was with him. She had thought about him quite a lot since the night before, but somehow she hadn’t expected to see him again. Mr Dale muttered something and glanced at them both, and the Dutch doctor said at once: ‘We’ve met already,’ and smiled at her, then transferred his attention to Mr Dale again. Toby joined them then and they all went off to take a look at Commander Frost. After they had examined him, Mr Dale said: ‘All right, Staff Nurse, we shall just have a little chat—there’s no need for you to wait.’

Her ‘Very well, sir,’ was brisk as she made herself scarce, but his words sounded an ominous note in her ears; little chats usually meant bad news delivered in a carefully wrapped up way so as not to alarm the patient, but she doubted very much if the Commander would stand for that. And she was right, for doing a dressing on the other side of the ward presently, she could hear the old gentleman voicing his opinion about something or other in no uncertain manner, followed by Mr Dale’s surprisingly conciliatory voice and the deeper murmur of the Dutch doctor. Presently they came from behind the curtains and in answer to Mr Dale’s demand for her presence, Philomena handed over to the nurse assisting her, and led the three men into the office.

‘Operating this afternoon, Philly,’ said Mr Dale, who had called her Philly unofficially for years. ‘Commander Frost—hasn’t a chance unless I do, and not much of a one then. Better than lingering on, though. Bronchus quite useless on the right side and the left rapidly worsening.’ He looked round him and enquired: ‘Coffee?’

She whisked out of the little room, put her head round the kitchen door with an urgent message for a tray of coffee, and went back, while Mr Dale continued, just as though he had never interrupted himself: ‘He’ll be last on the list—what have I got?’

She told him. It wasn’t a long list, luckily; the Commander would go to theatre at four o’clock. ‘There’s just one thing,’ went on Mr Dale, ‘he refuses to go anywhere but here afterwards. You’ll have to fix that…off duty then?’

‘No,’ said Philomena in a carefully cheerful voice, ‘I shall be here.’

‘Good—he’d like you to be there with him. Stretch a point for once and stay on for a while, will you? There won’t be much to do—usual recovery stuff. Got enough nurses?’

‘I daresay the night staff will be on by the time he’s recovered,’ she pointed out sensibly.

The coffee arrived just then and she said quietly: ‘Unless you want me for anything else, sir, would you excuse me? Dinners…’

‘Of course.’ And as she reached the door which Doctor van der Tacx was holding open for her, ‘Philly, the Commander hasn’t a chance, you know, but he wants me to operate.’

She said ‘Yes, sir, I understand,’ and slipped past Doctor van der Tacx with no more than the briefest of glances.

She took the old man to theatre herself, holding the thin bony hand in hers as she walked beside the trolley, and when, in the anaesthetic room, he said in the commanding voice the pre-med hadn’t quite dimmed: ‘You will be with me when I wake, Philly,’ she said in her calm way: ‘Yes, I’ll be there, Commander.’ He had never called her Philly before.

The anaesthetist came in then; Doctor van der Tacx. She supposed that she should have felt surprise, but he seemed to be popping up all over the place, and besides, she was worrying about the Commander.

He came back from the recovery room just after seven o’clock, looking like a bad reprint of himself, and the nurse who had accompanied him handed Philomena the chart with a small expressive shrug. As she helped Philomena with the tubes and drips and all the paraphernalia attached to him, she remarked: ‘He’s not round, Philly. Mr Dale said he was to be returned to you before he regained consciousness; the rest’s as well as can be expected. Mr Dale’s been in to see him; he’s coming here presently. Who’s the anaesthetist? A super heart-throb, even Sister smiled at him.’

Philomena was frowning over Mr Dale’s frightful writing on the chart. ‘Oh, he’s a friend or something…I say, is this a two or a three? Why didn’t someone teach Mr Dale to write?’

The nurse went and Philomena hurried back to the Commander, sat down by the bed and began to fill in the last of the day report. The ward was quiet now, the other operation cases were sleeping, the patients who had been allowed up were being got back into their beds, she could hear their cheerful talk among themselves and the quieter voices of the nurses. The men were a little subdued, though; the Commander had been in the ward for a long time and they all liked the peppery old man.

He hadn’t roused when the night staff came on duty. Philomena left a nurse with him and whisked into the office to give the report, and that done: ‘I’m going to stay with Commander Frost for a bit,’ she explained to Mary Blake who was taking over from her. ‘I promised I would.’

Mary was pinning the drug keys to her starched front. ‘OK, Philly—shall I let Night Sister know?’

But there was no need of that. Miss Cook, the Night Superintendent, already knew, for the telephone rang at that moment and her unhurried voice informed Mary that she had been informed of the Commander’s operation and that Staff Nurse Parsons was to remain as long as she thought fit.

‘Well, I never!’ declared Philly. ‘Fancy him remembering to let her know…’

‘He didn’t—Doctor van someone or other did—he anaesthetised, didn’t he? I met Jill as I was coming on duty and she said the whole theatre had fallen for him.’

Philomena sped back down the ward, whispered a goodnight to the nurse who had been relieving her and bent over her patient; he was about to wake up, her experienced eye told her, and a moment later he opened his eyes, focussed them on her and demanded in a thread of a voice why they didn’t get on with it.

‘They have,’ she told him serenely. ‘It’s all done and over and you’re in your own bed again. All you have to do is to lie quiet and do what we ask of you.’

He gave a weak snort. ‘What’s the time?’

‘Evening. Are you in any pain, Commander Frost?’

He shook his head. ‘Can’t feel a thing—feel most peculiar, too.’

‘One always does. Will you close your eyes and sleep for a little while?’

‘You’ll be here?’

‘Yes—not all night, of course, but for a while yet.’

He nodded. ‘Just like my Lucy,’ he muttered, and closed his eyes.

Mr Dale came half an hour later and Doctor van der Tacx with him. They looked at Philomena’s carefully maintained observation chart, took a pulse she hadn’t been able to get for several minutes, asked a few complicated questions of her in quiet voices and bent over their patient. Presently they straightened up again and Mr Dale said in a perfectly ordinary voice: ‘You’ll be here for a while, Philly? I’ll speak to someone and see if I can get a nurse to take over presently until you come back on duty in the morning.’

They were all watching their patient, aware that although his eyes were shut, he could hear them quite well. ‘That suits me very well, sir,’ said Philomena matter-of-factly. ‘Is there anything special for the morning?’

A question Mr Dale answered rather more elaborately than he needed to; they all knew that Commander Frost wasn’t going to be there in the morning, and when he had finished and wished her goodnight he said goodnight to his patient too, adding that he would see him in the morning when he would probably be feeling a good deal better.

After the two men had gone, Philomena sat down again and took the Commander’s hand in hers, and he opened his eyes and smiled at her and then winked. She winked back. ‘You old fraud,’ she said, ‘you were listening. Listeners never hear any good of themselves.’

He gave a tiny cackle of laughter. ‘Only when they’re meant to. Don’t let my hand go, Philly.’

And she didn’t, she held it, feeling the warmth leaving it as he slipped deeper and deeper into unconsciousness, until she knew that it didn’t matter any more whether she held it or not.

It was almost eleven o’clock when she finally left the ward; she had done what she had to do in a composed manner, bidden the night staff goodbye and left quietly. Only when she was in the dim silent passage and going down the staircase did the tears begin to fall. By the time she had reached the ground floor and the empty echoing entrance hall she was sobbing silently in real earnest, impatiently smearing the tears over her tired cheeks as she went. At least it was so late that there would be no one about.

She was wrong of course. She hadn’t seen him standing quietly at the side of the bottom step of the staircase; she walked right into him and only then stopped to lift a woebegone face and say: ‘Oh, so sorry,’ and then: ‘Oh, it’s you…’

‘Yes. When did you last eat?’

It seemed a strange question, coming out of the blue like that, but she answered obediently: ‘I had a cup of tea…’

‘I said eat, Philly.’

‘Well…’ She sucked in her breath like a child and thought. ‘I couldn’t go to dinner—I couldn’t leave the ward, you see, no trained staff…and at supper time I— I was with the Commander.’ Two large tears rolled down her cheeks and she added: ‘So sorry,’ and wiped them away with the back of her hand.

His ‘Come along,’ was firm and kindly and she made no protest as they went through the main door. His car was close by, he opened the door and stuffed her gently into the seat, then got in beside her and drove out into the almost deserted streets. He didn’t go far; the neighbourhood was a shabby one, full of Victorian houses converted into flats and bedsitters, with a pub on every corner and a fish and chip shop every few hundred yards. He pulled up outside one of these and turned to look at her. ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten something,’ he said placidly, ‘and you can have it here.’

She spoke in a tired little voice. ‘You’re very kind, but I don’t think I could manage…’

She felt his arm, large and comforting, gently drawing her head down on to his shoulder. ‘There, there, my pretty,’ he said in a comforting voice, and she thought: He must be blind or hasn’t looked at me; she was only too well aware that when she cried she looked a quite pitiful object, with a red nose, puffy eyelids and an unhappy tendency to hiccough. Her giggle was watery. ‘I’m not, you know—I look an absolute fright when I howl.’

He took her chin in one hand and turned her face deliberately to the light. ‘A pretty face is a poor substitute for compassion and loving kindness—you’ll do very well as you are.’ He took his arm away and opened the door. ‘I’ll only be a few minutes.’

He was back in less than that, two newspaper-wrapped, fragrant-smelling parcels balanced in one hand. In the car once more, he unwrapped one and set it carefully on her lap. ‘I’m not quite sure which fish it is, but chips are chips anywhere in the world. Eat up, there’s a good girl.’ He unwrapped his own supper, and the sight of him, sitting back comfortably eating it with his fingers as though he did it every day of his life, somehow made everything seem normal again. Philomena tried a chip and found it good. Before long she had polished off her impromptu supper and her white face wasn’t white any more, even though it was still blotchy from her crying.

The doctor ate the last chip and licked a large finger. ‘It was better this way, you know,’ he remarked. ‘The Commander would have lived for only a short time without operation and so deeply drugged that he wouldn’t have known what was happening. When that was pointed out to him he swore some very naval oaths and insisted upon operation. I think he was right, too.’ He took the empty paper from her lap and rolled it up neatly. ‘He liked you, Philomena.’

She felt much better; it was a relief to talk too. ‘Yes, I think he did. My father was a bit peppery too…’

She found herself talking, still sad about the Commander, but able to talk about him, and presently she was telling the doctor about her father too. She hadn’t talked about him for a long time; her stepmother and sisters spoke of him seldom, not because they hadn’t loved him in their own fashion, but because his death had spoiled the pleasant tenor of their lives. The doctor listened, interpolating a remark now and again as though he were interested, and gradually she began to feel better, almost cheerful again. It was the fish and chip shop shutting its doors which roused her to think of the time, and when she saw that it was midnight she gave a gasp of horror. ‘The time! Why didn’t you say something—you must be longing for your bed instead of sitting here listening to me boring on about someone you never met…’

‘I’ve not been bored and I’m certainly not tired, indeed I’ve enjoyed your company.’

‘You couldn’t have,’ burst out Philomena. ‘Just look at me!’

Which he did, taking his time about it. ‘I’m looking,’ he said at length, ‘and I like what I see.’

She could think of nothing to say to that as he started the car and drove back to the hospital, saying nothing much himself. He wished her a quiet goodnight at its entrance and made no reference to meeting her again. As she got ready for bed she thought it very unlikely that she would see him—he had been more than kind for the second time within a week, but circumstances had made their meetings inevitable, although it struck her now that he might have been waiting for her as she had gone off duty that evening. She dismissed the idea, though; after all, he was presumably working in the hospital for a short time—probably with Mr Dale. They seemed to know each other very well, and what was more likely than that they should meet occasionally?

Contrary to her expectations, she slept immediately her head touched the pillow.

She saw nothing of him the next day, although one of her friends, the theatre staff nurse, assured her that he was anaesthetising for Mr Dale again, and on the next day he had gone.

A week later she went home—it was Chloe’s birthday; she was to have a party, a big one to celebrate the fact that she was eighteen. Philomena had a long weekend for it and had bought a new dress; cream silk with a high neck and long sleeves and a full skirt. It was trimmed with narrow lace and was, she considered, exactly right for the occasion; Chloe and Miriam would look enchanting in whatever they wore; they always did, and she knew that it would be quite impossible to rival them; she wouldn’t have dreamed of doing so, anyway. She put on her nicely cut grey flannel suit, tossed her raincoat over her arm, picked up her overnight bag, and took a taxi to the station.

There was no one to meet her at Wareham station, although she had telephoned the day before to say that she was coming, so she took a taxi to the charming Georgian house by the river. There was no one home, only Molly, the housekeeper, who had been with them for such a long time that Philomena couldn’t remember life without her. She came from the kitchen as she went in, wiping her hands on a towel, her nice wrinkled face beaming with pleasure.

‘Miss Philly, how lovely to see you—the Missus and Miss Chloe and Miss Miriam have gone over to Bournemouth to get something or other—they said you wouldn’t mind getting yourself here. They’ll be back by teatime.’ She glanced at Philomena’s disappointed face. ‘So you’ve passed those exams of yours, you clever girl. How proud your dad would have been of you—just as I am, Miss Philly.’ She took the bag from Philomena’s hand. ‘I’ve a nice little lunch all ready for you—you just come into the kitchen and eat it, there’s a good girl.’

It was a very nice lunch and Molly was interested in her hospital life; she stood at the other end of the big kitchen table, making pastry and plying Philomena with questions, so that very shortly Philomena began to feel a good deal more cheerful, and presently, when she had unpacked in her pretty bedroom overlooking the river, she went downstairs and strolled through the garden to the water’s edge until Molly called her in for tea, and soon after that her stepmother and sisters came home. They embraced her warmly, all talking at once about the party, and swept her upstairs to admire their dresses, and it wasn’t until they were going to their rooms to tidy themselves for dinner that her stepmother observed carelessly: ‘Did you pass your exams, Philly? I do hope so—so boring for you, darling, I can’t think why you want to stay at that horrid hospital. Which reminds me, Nicholas Pierce and his wife have asked us all to lunch tomorrow—so convenient, because we shall have enough to do with the party without feeding ourselves. We’re to meet them at the Priory Hotel at half past twelve. I hope you’ve got something smart to wear?’

‘My suit—there’s that silk blouse I left at home—I could wear that with it…no hat.’

Her stepmother glanced at Philomena’s neat head of hair. ‘No? Well, dear, I don’t suppose it makes much difference. The suit’s all right.’ She smiled, already thinking about something else. ‘See you downstairs, Philly.’

The evening passed quickly. There were last-minute plans to make, local gossip to mull over, the question as to whether Chloe should have her curly dark hair dressed in a different style discussed at length. They were on their way to bed when her stepmother remembered to ask Philomena again: ‘Did you pass, darling? Not that it matters I expect.’

Philomena paused on the stairs. ‘Yes, Mother, I passed.’ She didn’t add that it had mattered very much.

‘I suppose everyone celebrated?’ asked Chloe.

‘Yes,’ said Philomena, ‘it’s customary.’

‘How nice,’ remarked Mrs Parsons a little vaguely. ‘I expect you have lots of friends. No one special, I suppose?’

Philomena had a sudden vivid memory of a large, fair man with kind blue eyes. She said, ‘No,’ feeling regret as she said it.

She was up early; it had tacitly been agreed for some time now that as she rose early at the hospital, she should do the same at home, and while her stepmother and sisters had trays taken to their rooms by a hard-working Molly, she had formed the habit of eating her own breakfast with the housekeeper in the kitchen. And Molly, who found this unfair, made it up to her by dishing up a splendid meal of eggs and bacon, marmalade and toast and all the coffee she cared to drink, besides which she saw to it that Philomena had a newspaper to read while she ate. Usually she didn’t have much to say, but this morning, with the party looming, they talked. Miriam had a new boy-friend, a young man whom Molly described severely as nothing but a playboy: ‘Loaded with money,’ she added with a snort, ‘and spends it all on himself.’ She sniffed with disapproval. ‘Them as ’as money should know how to use it.’ She slapped the toast rack down with something of a thump. ‘Miss Miriam’s fair set on ’im—and so’s yer ma.’ She poured more coffee for Philomena. ‘And Miss Chloe, eighteen today, and just thrown over another young man—she’s begun too early if you ask me.’

Philomena buttered more toast and spread it with Molly’s homemade marmalade. ‘Well, you know, girls seem to grow up more quickly nowadays,’ she observed with all the wisdom of twenty-three years, ‘and perhaps this boy-friend of Miriam’s really loves her—after all, if he’s all that rich he’s got to lavish his money on someone other than himself.’

The housekeeper regarded her with loving scorn. ‘The trouble is with you, Miss Philly, you’re too nice—just like yer own ma—she weren’t no beauty, just like you, but nice enough to eat.’

And Philomena, recognising this as a great compliment from one who seldom uttered them, thanked her, adding a hug and a kiss on an elderly cheek by way of extras.

She spent the morning arranging the flowers, because she was good at it and as her stepmother pointed out, it was such a waste of money to employ someone to do it when Philly was so conveniently home, and then there were last-minute errands to run, the telephone to answer, and the buffet supper, a labour of love on Molly’s part, to check. The drinks Mrs Parsons had left to Mr Pierce; he would bring them round after they had all lunched at the Priory. ‘And for heaven’s sake hurry up and get dressed,’ begged Mrs Parsons, quite unmindful that until that moment Philly hadn’t had a moment to herself. ‘I want you to go on ahead, darling, and pop into Mr Timms’ and make sure he sends the icecream.’ She added: ‘We’ll meet you at the hotel.’

So Philomena dressed, far too quickly so that her face had less attention than usual and her hair was screwed back in a rather careless knot, and hurried round to Mr Timms’, who was inclined to be hurt at the very idea of Mrs Parsons thinking that he might forget such an important order. Philomena said all she should have and, with time to spare, went straight to the hotel.

The Pierces weren’t there yet, of course; Mr Gee, the owner, met her in the entrance and when they had passed the time of day, suggested that she might like to stroll through the gardens and take a look at the river. So she did that, wandering round the side of the lovely old building, with its small arched doorways and courtyards and coming eventually to the gardens. It was a bright day with a blue sky from which the sun shone without much warmth, and the gardens looked beautiful; tulips and late daffodils and hyacinths jostled for a place among the shrubs. Philomena took the narrow path which bordered the grounds and came to the river. There were no boats out, it was too early in the year still, but the swans were gliding along the further bank and the water looked clear and very clean. She was contemplating the scene when Doctor van der Tacx said ‘Hullo,’ from somewhere behind her and she spun round, green eyes wide in a plain face rendered more plain than it need have been by reason of the chilly little wind coming off the water. ‘It’s you!’ she exclaimed idiotically, and failed to see the amused gleam in his eyes.

‘In person.’ He went on smoothly: ‘Some friends told me what a very pleasant place this was for a few days’ peace and quiet; I arrived only a few minutes ago and happened to see you crossing the garden.’ His smile was charming and she found herself smiling back at him. ‘Of course, you live here…’

She nodded. ‘Yes—just down the river a little way—we’re here for lunch with friends of my stepmother’s.’ She glanced at her watch and felt reluctance to go. ‘They’ll be here—I came on early, I had a message to deliver.’

He turned away from the river. ‘We’ll walk back together. Have you a long holiday?’

‘A long weekend. Have you been here before?’

He shook his head. ‘I seldom get further afield than London, I’m afraid, but it just so happens that I had a few days to spare.’ He glanced at her. ‘Is this a celebration lunch?’

It was silly to feel hurt still; she said cheerfully: ‘Oh, no—it’s my youngest stepsister’s birthday.’ She had expected him to wish her goodbye when they reached the hotel again; they had walked round to the newer side of the old place, Regency and charming with its wide windows and doors and borders of spring flowers. They went in through the open drawing room door together and found her stepmother and sisters and Mr and Mrs Pierce standing there, watching them from the French window, and Philomena, who had been enjoying herself more than she could have supposed in the doctor’s company, took a sideways look at his face and felt her pleasure ebb; he had caught sight of Chloe and Miriam and was reacting just as all the other men, old and young, did. And she couldn’t blame him; they looked quite lovely; their vivid, dark beauty set off exactly by the clothes they were wearing, their lovely faces delicately made up. She felt a thrill of pride at the sight of them, mixed with regret that she couldn’t, just for a day, be as breathtakingly lovely.

It was her stepmother who spoke first. ‘Darling, we wondered where you were—we were getting quite anxious.’ An absurd remark considering she had herself told Philomena to meet them there at the hotel, but nicely calculated, thought Philomena, to give a motherly and loving impression. And I’m growing to be pretty mean, she told herself, and smiled with extra warmth to make up for it.

‘Sorry, dears—I went down to have a look at the river. I met Doctor van der Tacx there—he’s been at Faith’s. Mother…’ She made the introductions with an unconscious charm and felt wry amusement at Chloe’s and Miriam’s instant reactions. They were used to men finding them attractive and normally they didn’t pay much attention to them, accepting their admiration as their due, but in the doctor they saw someone rather different. Any girl would be more than delighted to have him dancing attendance. Philomena, exchanging small talk with Mr and Mrs Pierce, heard Miriam inviting him to the party and Chloe chiming in asking him to join them at lunch.

She supposed it was mean of her to be pleased when he declined lunch, even a drink, pleading a previous engagement, but her pleasure was short-lived because her stepmother added her own persuasive voice to Miriam’s and before he left them he had promised to come to the party that evening. His goodbyes were made a few minutes later. His manners were nice, thought Philomena, although he might have offered her rather more than the casual nod he gave her. Although, come to think of it, why should he when Chloe and Miriam were there to distract him from anyone and anything else?

During lunch she was questioned a good deal about him in a good-natured fashion. ‘Did he know that you were here?’ asked Chloe.

Philomena shook her head. ‘No, it was pure chance—someone told him the Priory was a splendid place to stay at and so he came here.’

‘And of course,’ remarked her stepmother with unintentional cruelty, ‘you wouldn’t have known him very well at Faith’s, would you? You’re hardly his kind of girl.’

A home truth which needed to be swallowed with as good a grace as she could manage. It was Mrs Pierce who changed the conversation to the all-important one of the party, and Mr Pierce who asked the attentive manager to bring another bottle of claret, both of which actions helped Philomena considerably in the regaining of her usual calm.