Vigil in the Night (4 page)

 
“Don’t lose your nerve, honey. You’ll get used to it.”

 
“I suppose so.” Anne made her tone cheerful. But she had never seen such a wretched room in all her life.

 
“It isn’t the Ritz,” Nora went on. “But you can take it from me it’s about the doggiest suite in this love nest. Who wouldn’t rush to be a nurse with such luxury flung in the very teeth? That not so, Glennie?”

CHAPTER 11

 
The nurse thus addressed had just followed them upstairs and into the room, wearing a long cape and a weary air. She was a big, rawboned, redheaded Scot with chapped hands and a dour and taciturn stare. Shedding her cape, she subsided on her bed, her gaze fixed all the while, not unpleasantly, on Anne.

 
“You two ought to know each other,” Nora went on airily. “This is the new comrade, Glennie. Anne Lee’s the name.”

 
As with Nora, there was something about Glennie—despite her forbidding exterior—which made Anne feel that she had found a friend. Five minutes later when the three girls went down to lunch together, Anne felt herself accepted by the other two.

 
On the threshold of the dining room Glennie paused impressively. “Have ye a good appetite?” she asked Anne gravely.

 
“Why?” Anne replied, unthinkingly.

 
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Glennie with the same gravity. “It’s just that if ye’re not verra hungry, I recommend the roast turkey. Woman, it’s real tasty.”

 
A minute later Anne understood why Nora shrieked with laughter.

 
The nurses’ refectory was a large bare hall with a double row of plain tables at which perhaps forty nurses were already seated. Two elderly maids in pink striped coveralls were noisily handing round the plates.

 
Anne sat down beside her two friends, and in due course food was placed before her. At least Anne could only assume it was food. But it was a pitiful diet for hardworking women. Most of the nurses were making the best of it in an apathetic manner. And Anne, feeling Nora’s quizzical eye upon her, conquered her nausea and did the same.

 
She was due for duty at two o’clock. Whatever had been her appetite for the food, her eagerness for her work was unquestionable. At five minutes to that hour she was in Ward C. And by five minutes past the hour she was fully aware that, no matter if in other respects the hospital was deficient, in its range of cases it surpassed the County a hundredfold. Though she liked all the branches of her profession, she was particularly fond of surgical work, and here in C were at least half a dozen post-operative specials such as she might not have seen at Shereford in twenty years. Not only that. Since today was receiving day, a stream of fresh cases kept pouring into the ward. She set to work joyfully.

CHAPTER 12

 
For over two hours she was gloriously busy with work full of interest and humanity, touching the depths of pain and squalor, the heights of fortitude and skill, compassing the pinnacles and the pits of life.

 
At half-past four, when she was engrossed in redressing a septic sinus case, she was abruptly interrupted. From the end of the ward she heard the peremptory call of “Nurse.” Turning, she observed in the doorway a smartly dressed young man, with perfect creases in his trousers and an equally immaculate parting in his flaxen hair.

 
“Nurse,” he called again in an even louder tone.

 
Anne’s face flushed sharply. She put down her dressings and came slowly down the ward toward him.

 
“Are you quite deaf?” The inquiry was made with supercilious rudeness. “When I sing out for a nurse, I expect her to step on it. You’re new, aren’t you?”

 
“Yes.” Anne confined herself to the monosyllable, though in her indignation she could readily have said more.

 
“Hm!” The exclamation contained a note of mollified conceit. “You probably didn’t realize who I am. Doctor Caley—Doctor George Caley, M.B. I’m the house surgeon here. Next time I come in the ward you stand up and take notice.”

 
If Anne had a fault, it was her pride, and now she lost her temper utterly. “I usually am standing up in the ward,” she said sharply, “and I hope I’m taking notice. But perhaps you would prefer me to salute when you come in.”

 
He reddened, tried to glare her out of countenance, and failed. “Don’t be impertinent,” he said. “You were fiddling about in the ward and paying no attention. If you don’t look out, I’ll report you to the chief and have you flung out.”

 
Anne bit her lip fiercely, restraining herself by a supreme effort. She could not afford to defend herself against this injustice. She dared not, simply dared not, run the risk of losing her job.

 
When he saw that she was silent, he laughed shortly. “That’s taught you something, hasn’t it, Miss Impertinence? And I’ll give you a few more lessons before I’m through. I’ll devote myself pretty thoroughly to teaching you the etiquette of this particular ward. In the meantime pay attention to what I’m saying. Number 5 here is a gastro-enterostomy. He had suspicion of hematemesis this morning, and the chief’s worried about him. I want you to watch him carefully, and if he hemorrhages again, let me know at once. Ring me at the Park Hotel. I’m going out there to tea. Do you understand?”

 
“Yes.” The word was wrenched from her.

 
He stared at her insolently. “Yes, what? Don’t you know that you must address me as ‘sir’?”

 
“Very well, sir,” Anne said in a low, distinct tone.

 
He chuckled, enjoying his triumph; then turning, he swaggered through the swing doors of the ward and was gone.

 
Next day Anne was passed as physically fit by Mr. Sinclair, the chief surgeon of the ward, and thereafter, despite the many discomforts and hardships of the place, she began gradually to find herself. The work continued to be supremely interesting. And she was learning, learning all the time. Mr. Sinclair was an M.S. and a F.R.C.S., and though a dried-up little elderly man—his beard was silver gray—he was still a good surgeon. His main defect was his timidity, which caused him occasionally to send a doubtful case to his colleague Prescott on the adjoining floor. Besides doing her work in the ward, Anne was drafted for occasional duty in the operating amphitheatre, and here she found her greatest joy. Assisting in the operating theatre was in her blood, it brought out the very best of her skill, drew even a grudging word of praise from that bleached automaton, Sister Gilson.

 
Her hours were so long and her work so tiring she had little leisure and small incentive to use it. Escape came in her frequent thoughts of Lucy. She wrote a full and cheerful account of all her doings to her sister. She found, too, in her growing friendship with Nora and Glennie a bulwark against melancholy and a refuge in all her troubles, among which the petty enmity of Doctor Caley was not the least. Yet there were moments when she missed her sister terribly, when she questioned in her loving mind whether Lucy would consent to join her in this enormous barracks of a hospital. It was then she wondered, unhappily, if Hepperton were the right place for her after all. And then, toward the end of her first month, there came an incident which gave her fresh courage and inspiration, which altered the whole complexion of her life.

 
It was Saturday afternoon, her half day off duty. Anne lay in her bed, resting and idly doing her nails, looking forward to an evening of unusual enjoyment. Nora had been given two tickets for the Repertory Theatre—tickets which were sent regularly to the hospital but which rarely fell into other hands than those of the sisters and senior staff. Suddenly Glennie burst into the room.

 
“Gilson wants you,” she shot out, “at once. All hell’s broke loose.”

 
Before Anne could speak, Glennie went on:

 
“No, it’s not trouble, for a wonder. It’s sensation—with a capital
S
. Bowley’s appendix has suddenly talked back to him. Bowley of all people. And Prescott has brought him in here. Can you imagine? Can you beat it? The great Matthew Bowley in the private room in B. What am I talkin’ about—he’ll be in the operating room by now. Special emergency operating staff requisitioned, a flock of them, and you’re honored by being picked. You can have it with my blessing, young woman, and welcome!”

 
With mixed feelings Anne reported to Sister Gilson. Honor or no honor, it was a real injustice that the understaffing of the hospital should entail the canceling of any nurse’s hard-won leisure. But when she reached the operating amphitheatre of B, she lost her grievance in the rush of preparation.

 
Clearly the occasion was deemed of paramount importance. Matron herself was on the scene, ordering furiously, with Sister Gilson, the sister of Ward B, and Prescott’s own operating-assistant sister and four specially selected nurses. Two porters staggered in with fresh oxygen cylinders, the anesthetist was connecting up his tubing. The place boiled with energy, intensifying the inevitable difficulty of getting the theatre going at short notice. But at last it was ready with everyone gloved and gowned.

 
Only then did Doctor Prescott appear. He came in quietly and quickly, without the slightest pretentiousness or fuss, with a curious detachment, an aloofness which seemed to notice nothing yet in reality noticed everything. One swift glance round, and that was all.

 
Though he had been pointed out to her in the distance, Anne had never seen Prescott near at hand. Now at close quarters in the operating theatre she was struck instantly by his poise, the vibrant force of his personality. He was neither broad nor tall, but he had a good supple figure which he held very erect. His features were well chiseled, his expression perpetually calm. His hair was thick and dark, his chin firm, but most striking of all were his reserved yet penetrating eyes of an almost glacial blue.

 
He gave a quiet sign. The patient, already under the influence of the anesthetic, was wheeled in and transferred to the operating table. All that could be seen of the great Matt Bowley, a supine, covered figure, was a section of iodined skin. Prescott at once picked up a knife and made the preliminary incision.

 
Anne was quite hardened to the atmosphere of the operating room. She had seen many operations performed competently by Dr. Hassall at Shereford, operations performed faultlessly by specialists called in to the County. But this was different—this was brilliant, unique, a sheer delight to behold.

 
Holding her breath, she followed each swift sure step. Once when Sister Carr, who was his operating-assistant nurse, handed the wrong instrument, Anne could have cried out at such a lack of understanding. But Prescott merely paused without turning his head, and let the offending bistoury fall to the floor. The faint tinkle of the instrument upon the floor was a sterner rebuke than any torrent of abuse. Then he opened his gloved fingers to receive the forceps he required. He did not once speak. During an operation he insisted upon the minimum of speech. Cold, silent, thought Anne, but oh, what a surgeon! Here was a star that she might follow, a purpose that matched her own.

 
He was almost done now; there remained only the suturing of the abdominal wall, and, once again he paused, awaiting the word which would enable him to proceed. That pause again made Anne wince. Sister Carr, flustered a little out of her normal routine, glanced at the nurse whose duty it was to count the swabs. The nurse hurriedly whispered, “Twenty-four.”

 
Sister Carr, with a movement of her bunchy figure, turned to Prescott. “All correct, sir,” she declared, and handed him a needle.

 
Anne felt herself grow cold inside. This time it was no mere exasperation. She went cold as ice. Though her duty had been only to stand by with the irrigator, she had noted instinctively the most minute detail of the operation. Almost unconsciously she had counted the used swabs. And she had counted, not the full tally of twenty-four, but only twenty-three. One swab was missing!

 
Paralyzed, she watched Prescott insert the first stitch, aware that no one but her had noted the nurse’s mistake; bound by every rule of training and tradition to be silent, yet knowing that she must speak or let the operation come ultimately to disaster. Clenching her hands tightly, she nerved herself to meet the ordeal, trying everything to spare her colleague. She edged forward unobtrusively, barely moved her lips as she whispered:

 
“Nurse. There’s one swab missing.”

 
“Silence,” said Prescott instantly. As he swung round to take the second suture, he sought icily for the offender. Then he paused, his hand arrested, his eyes searching her face. “What was it you said?”

 
Without a drop of color in her cheeks Anne confronted him. “I’m sorry,” she faltered. “There are only twenty-three swabs accounted for.”

 
“Nonsense!” The first exclamation came from the matron, outraged at such audacity. She turned angrily toward Anne.