Tender Nurse

Tender Nurse

Hilda Nickson

First published in 1957

Harlequin edition published

July, 1963.

Reprinted 1973

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Authore and all the incidents are pure invention.

WORLD COPYRIGHT BY HILDA NICKSON

Printed in Canada

FEELING almost as stiff with fright as her apron was with starch, Andrea stood in the doorway of the ward trying desperately to overcome a sudden sense of panic, and an overwhelming desire to turn and run—away from this strange, new world to Godfrey, who was waiting to give her love and the security of marriage.

She forced herself to look down the long stretch of ward with its shining paint work, gleaming white tiles, polished, wood floor and the row of tidy beds down each side. To Andrea, each neat, white counterpaned bed held a frighteningly unknown personality. These were not cold, inanimate objects on which one could tap out words, erase errors and send for a mechanic if the machine went wrong. These were warm, live beings, sick people about whom she knew almost nothing. For though she had done her preliminary training, that was a vastly different thing from facing a ward full of people.

But she mustn’t panic now. She must forget her own feelings; she was here to ease pain and suffering, to learn healing.

In the adjoining “duty room,” the nurses laughed and chatted before plunging into the day's work.

“Come along, Nurse Grey,” one of them said to her as they emerged. “Off with your cuffs. You can't work with your sleeves down.”

She did as she was told and followed the other nurses into the ward, her feeling of panic over. Soon, the frightening person in each bed became a human being, friendly but dependant upon her; someone who needed his wash, his breakfast, help in sitting up, his pillows shaking and a hundred and one other attentions.

By nine o’clock, the time at which she used to arrive at the office, two incredible hours hard work had been done. Andrea couldn’t help wondering what they did with the rest of the day. She had never realized that so much work could be done in so short a time.

She was washing her hands in the sterilizing room—and wondering inconsequently what Godfrey would be doing just now, when the Staff Nurse came in.

“Nurse Grey, you’re to go to coffee break now, and be back prompt at nine thirty. You’d better change your apron——”

Andrea looked down at her white starched apron, clean on that morning. The Staff Nurse went on: “Mr. Graham, the Senior surgeon, is doing a full round of the ward this morning and you’re to attend him along with Sister and me.”

“Very well, Nurse.”

Mr. Graham. Ever since she had entered the hospital yesterday evening, it had been Mr. Graham. In the nurses’ sitting room and at dinner, it had been Mr. Graham. She had seemed to hear of nothing else but this Mr. Graham.

He was new to the hospital, coming to them from London and had many new ideas. One of these was a theory that new nurses should be put on to the surgical wards for a brief spell as soon as possible. Andrea, along with several others had been fortunate, it seemed.

“You’re lucky, Grey,” said Rita Wainwright, a particularly glamorous looking nurse, her cap set on the back of her blonde hair. “Me—I’ve been on medical, orthopaedic, Gynae, anywhere and everywhere except on a surgical or in Theatre.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Rita,” someone said. “You haven't been in the place all that long and Mr. Graham wasn’t here when you came from the training school.”

Rita sighed. “Too true. All I know is, there’s a dance on Friday and as a rule, the Senior Surgeon makes a point of dancing at least once with his own nurses.”

“Well this one may not do.”

Andrea had made a non commital reply to Rita's comments. She might perhaps have answered that she had come to the “Royal” to take her training as a nurse, not to get a husband, which would have been true, however priggish it would have sounded.

Dear Godfrey. He had tried so hard to persuade her against taking up nursing. They had passed the hospital when out for a walk one evening. He had looked at the great iron gate barring the long drive, and beyond to the tall, rather austere hospital buildings.

“It looks like a prison,” he fretted. “I’ve an awful feeling that if you go there, things will never be quite the same with us again. You’ll become so engrossed in your work, you won’t have time for me. Whatever put such an idea into your head? After all, you’re older than most nurses who start training and you have a good position at the office.”

She had laughed gently. “Darling, don’t be so gloomy and pessimistic about it all. We shall see each other often. The off duty time is arranged well ahead so that we can make our own arrangements—and I’m still only twenty one. You know that I’ve always wanted to be a nurse, and when my mother was ill and I saw the hospital nurses could do things for her that I couldn’t—well, I finally made up my mind. And now that mother has gone——”

A tear quivered on her long, dark lashes and Godfrey put his arm round her tenderly.

“Darling, I know. That’s why I want us to be married— so that I can take care of you. If you go through this thing it will be at least four years before you’ll be free. Please, Andrea, change your mind about it.”

“I can’t, Godfrey, I can’t Please try to understand. The time will soon pass, really. Then we will think of marriage——”

Dear Godfrey. She knew that she meant everything to him and hated to hurt him. Yet the powerful compulsion she had about becoming a nurse was one far exceeding her love for Godfrey, and which she could not explain even to herself.

As she combed her hair and tidied herself ready for returning to the ward, Andrea found herself thinking again of all the talk of the surgeon, Dr. Graham. She had been told that she must remember to call him
Mr.
Graham. A surgeon, it appeared, was given the title of
Mister
, not Doctor. Whether this put them above the rank of an ordinary medical man, Andrea didn’t yet know. Personally she felt that the title “Doctor” had that same romantic sound as “Nurse.” She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to change either name. Altogether, she began to feel almost a dislike for this man, if only for the fact of his immense popularity. Strangely enough, Andrea often reacted that way about men who were very much sought after or admired. In her experience such men often held the idea that every girl was theirs for the lift of a finger. And Mr. Graham was voted the most handsome man in the hospital. Tall, with dark hair and beautiful white teeth. Very distinguished looking. He sounds almost like a film star, Andrea thought to herself.

“But he’s a devil in the theatre,” said the nurse who described him. “Woe betide the nurse who drops anything or miscounts the swabs or gives him a blunt needle. Of course, he’s clever——”

It had been the same on the ward during the hectic scurry of work.

Mr. Graham won't allow this. Mr. Graham doesn’t like that; Mr. Graham says this, Mr. Graham says the other. The whole ward had been in a flutter. By nine- thirty every patient was sitting neatly up—or lying neatly down as the case might be—in their tightly tucked-in beds. The ward had been swept and dusted, the flowers arranged and the bed-side lockers polished. Andrea would not have been surprised if a row of heralds had been  arrayed on either side of the ward door ready to play a fanfare of trumpets on his arrival.

She hurried back to the ward. Sister and Staff Nurse were in the duty room having a last minute consultation and the rest of the nurses had gone to coffee break.

A patient called out and Andrea went swiftly to the bedside.

“Yes—did you want something?” she asked gently, her warm brown eyes softening.

“A drink of water please, Nurse.”

She picked up the man’s feeding cup and was about to slip her hand under his pillow to raise his head when another voice called her.

Andrea turned. Two doctors wearing long white coats stood in the doorway. Behind them, Staff Nurse gesticulated to her wildly. But as the surgeons moved toward the first bed to begin the round, Andrea saw the patient moisten his dry lips.

Surely her duty to the patients came first. There was no other nurse in the ward, the rest of them would not be back until ten o’clock. She couldn't leave the man in need of a drink at that time. Quickly, she bent over him, and slipping her hand once more under his pillow, raised his head and put the feeding cup to his lips. He drank thirstily.

“Thanks, Nurse,” he whispered.

The Staff Nurse came to her side, a look of exasperation on her face.

“All right,
Florence Nightingale
,” she muttered angrily. “Now for the love of heaven go and put that screen at the door and pick up those case cards.”

Andrea went to do as she was told. Sister and the two surgeons were still at the foot of the first bed. She felt three pairs of eyes upon her as she wheeled the screen across the door and picked up the case cards.

Sister eyed her severely. Her expression clearly said: “I will not reprimand you now—in front of the doctors, but you will hear from me later——”

The younger of the two men, one of Mr. Graham's assistants, a good looking young man with a stock of unruly red hair and a group of freckles on the bridge of his nose, was plainly amused, though Andrea could not think why.

The other was gazing at her with a pair of deep set, grey eyes, his thick, dark brows raised in a sort of mild surprise. As Andrea looked at him, his eyebrows resumed their normal position, and such a penetrating, calculating look came into his eyes, that Andrea felt her cheeks growing hot and her heart beat quicken uncomfortably.

He spoke in a low, cultured voice. “A real nurse,” he said. “One who puts her patients first.” Then his eyes narrowed and he added: “Even if she has to keep four other people and a whole ward full of patients waiting.”

AT LAST the incredible day was over. Andrea escaped to her room and flung herself on her bed to rest her aching limbs before changing into her outdoor clothes. During the lunch hour she had rung Godfrey as she had promised and told him that she would be off duty at six o’clock. He had arranged to call for her in his ancient Ford car.

“I don't suppose you’ll feel like walking or dancing after being on your feet all day,” he said feelingly.

She laughed. “I certainly seem to have walked a good few miles one way and another.”

“Oh, Andrea——”

“Don’t worry, my dear. I shall survive,” she had assured him. “See you just after six.”

She glanced at the small travelling clock her office friends had presented her with. She was already ten minutes late. Quickly she finished dressing, pulled on her warm tweed coat and picked up her gloves and bag.

Outside, the cool air of early April was refreshing. Andrea held up her face to the breeze and shook her dark hair as if to give it freedom to blow in the wind after being held all day within the confines of her starched cap.

She walked quickly down the drive, aware, as she went, of a feeling of something vaguely disturbing; a feeling that she had had all day—ever since the incident on the ward this morning, her first encounter with Mr. Graham. She had thought that his first remark, “A real nurse, one who puts her patients first,” had been one of genuine praise. But her cheeks flamed again as his mocking words, “We’ll start the round,
if Nurse is ready
,” echoed in her brain.

But apart from this, there was something else—something she could not quite define which was disturbing her. It went deeper than mere anger, or resentment. More even than disdain for someone who, in her opinion allowed and encouraged everyone to pander to him. It was rather an annoyance with herself that the deep grey eyes had held her for a brief moment in their spell. In her was a strong streak of pride, inherited from her mother, and not for a single moment would she have admitted to herself, even if she had realized it, that she had in that moment begun to fall in love with Martin Graham. She would have scorned the very thought of what she would have called joining in the queue for any man, still less being one of a crowd of worshippers at this particular shrine.