PERHAPS because she had looked forward to it with such apprehension Fay was surprised to find how happy she was in her new work. She had always found theatre work interesting, and since Sister Miles was only too ready to delegate responsibility if she could find anyone to take it, Fay found herself completely in control of Theatre Two. She had a good team of nurses and soon had things running as she wanted them, and was repaid by the appreciation of the surgeons. Adam Barton, who had taken Mr. Snow's place, was highly commendatory. He was a breezy Canadian and it was largely due to his bonhomie that the slight sense of strain which Fay had felt at having to work in such close collaboration with Mark soon disappeared.
It was of course part of her job as Theatre Sister to see that her trolley contained everything the surgeon could possibly want and to put the required instruments into his hand. It was always a help if she could anticipate the spoken word and have the instrument to hand before it was asked for. With no one did she find this so easy as with Mark. Whether they liked it or not, they were the perfect team at the operating table.
Mark knew it too, and sometimes when things had gone well he would turn to her and say, "We made a pretty good job of that, didn't we, Sister?"
And because behind the theatre gowns and masks everything became impersonal, she could accept his praise and share in the joy of achievement—and still assure herself that she was not allowing herself to get too fond of Mark.
Sister Miles had told her months before that Mark Osborne was one of St. Edith's finest surgeons, and now she knew the truth of that for herself. From her vantage point of watchful passivity she could assess the work of the various surgeons. Some of them had very great names indeed, but none of them was better at his job than Mark, even though he was a young man yet with his name still to make, and still awaiting that coveted Fellowship.
On the day they brought Mr. Oliver to the theatre his skill was put to the test.
Before she had gone on duty that day Fay had been up to Stanhope to have a word with Mr. Oliver and to wish him well. She found the old man as sweet-tempered as ever, but she had been struck by the deterioration in his condition. She knew that they had had to postpone his operation because of his congested chest condition, but he looked so poorly that the thought had crossed her mind as to whether they had put it off too long.
"I just looked in to see how you were feeling, Mr. Oliver —this is your big day, isn't it?" she had greeted him, trying not to let him see how shocked she was at his appearance and the dread yellowness of his colour.
"Now isn't that just like you, my dear? Now you have made it my big day indeed," he beamed at her. "Mr. Osborne was in first thing and there was a letter from Geoff—have you heard from him lately, Sister?"
"A batch of manuscript arrived yesterday," she told him, "but I haven't had time to read it yet."
"He says he's been getting on with it like a house on fire. I do hope you'll be able to approve it—he sets g
reat store by what you tell him!
"
"Well, I hope I'm not misleading him, but I think he has a great future before him—"
"Let's hope it is the future he wants!" Mr. Oliver twinkled at her. Even with his operation only a few hours away the old man was still more interested in other people than in himself.
"Well, I'll be seeing you later," Fay told him when her few moments' chat were up. "And I'll come and see you again tomorrow some time."
"My dear, you're very good to an old man—all of you. Especially you and Geoff and Mr. Osborne. I wish he were doing my operation—I'd feel happy to be in his hands."
"You'll be in very good hands, don't worry."
The theatre staff were all ready and waiting for the surgeons in good time. Fay always liked things that way—she only wished that Mr. Barton, who was operating that morning, felt the same about things. He usually arrived at the eleventh hour apologising profusely and breathing hard as though he had literally had to run through the hospital corridors in order to get there at all.
Today was no exception—he was in fact a few moments late and burst through the swing doors with a rather tightlipped Mark at his heels, protesting violently about traffic hold-ups. Shorty followed them in and winked broadly at Fay.
"Morning, Sister—morning, all," the surgeon grinned round irrepressibly. "Patient ready? Give them the first buzz, then."
The patient was still in the anteroom where the first anaesthesia was given. In a moment he would be wheeled into the theatre and the serious work of the morning would begin.
While a nurse secured the tapes of his gown Mr. Barton studied the notes of his first case. "Let's see, Sister—this is your friend the old man for the colostomy, isn't it? Is Fellowes happy about him?"
"Not terribly," Mark answered for the anaesthetist, who would come in with the patient. "He doesn't want us to be too long. The chest condition didn't quite clear, sir."
"Ah yes. Well, wheel him in."
Silence fell over the theatre once the patient was on the table. Barton at work was a very different person and he became taciturn in the extreme when he was working. Mark was assisting, Shorty held a watching brief and they both stood on the opposite side of the table from Fay and the surgeon.
She was ready and waiting with the instruments he would need and felt again the tingling sensation of alertness which always sustained her through the longest operating sessions. She handed him the instrument he needed for the first incision and he bent over the table.
Barton's head and shoulders blocked Fay's view for the moment and it was only from the expression in Mark's dark eyes and the unnatural stillness in the theatre that she realised all was not well. The anaesthetist's pump sounded too loud and only emphasised the other silences.
For a moment Mark's eyes left the patient and flickered on to Fay's face. Once again she saw that look of compassion, and she had the odd feeling that it was for her and not for old Mr. Oliver.
Fay could guess what had happened. Opening up had disclosed some further trouble, some growth which was inoperable. In the theatre she was usually divorced from her ordinary human feelings of tenderness, of pain or suffering, but this morning that verdict cut her to the heart. She had become so fond of the genial old gentleman who had never once complained and who never failed in kindliness.
She heard Barton's mutttered, clipped words, "Better close him up. Nothing we can do. Shaw, will you—"
But before Shorty could step forward to take his place and receive the necessary needle and nylon from her Mark had started to speak. His voice was low and urgent and he seemed to be arguing some point with Barton. She could not hear what Mark was saying, but he seemed to be pleading. "We could bypass—it has been done, sir." He was looking at his chief, Fay saw, with a burning intensity.
"Not on a man of his age or with a similar chest condition—"
"No, but it's worth a try—it would give
him a chance—" "What a chance !
We'd be working to a hairsbreadth—I wouldn't care to risk it. Better close him up."
The last
word was Barton's, but Fay sa
w that he did not move away to make room for Shorty to do his work. Instead he called to the anaesthetist, "How's he doing, Fellowes?"
"All right—so far." The reply sounded a little ominous. Then Barton spoke again. "All right, Osborne—if you think you can do it. Take over—I'll assist."
The whole theatre seemed suddenly to be galvanised into new life as the two men changed places. Without having time to think Fay knew instinctively that she would never
again witness any skill greater than this. Automatically her hands anticipated his every need as Mark, working against time, never made the slightest sign that he knew that a man's life was in his hands and that his safety margin was no more than a hairsbreadth.
The moments seemed agonisingly long and every second Fay expected to hear the dread word from the anaesthetist that time was running out. But it did not come, and Mark, working with uncanny speed and precision, at last straight-ended his back. "That'll do, I think, sir. Shall we close him up?"
"Congratulations, Osborne. I've never seen a finer job than that. Close up, Shaw."
A great sigh of relief seemed to go up from the whole theatre personnel, for the tension which invades a theatre on occasions such as this was almost a tangible thing and infected everyone down to the most junior nurse. All that modern medical skill could achieve had been done for Mr. Oliver. The human element—the will to live—would play the largest part in his recovery from now on.
Mark turned to Fay. He had taken off his mask and without it he looked tired and strained. "I was glad to have you here, Sister, but I wish you were still on Stanhope."
"Why?" she asked him, completely taken by surprise.
"Because then I could be sure that you wouldn't let him slip through our fingers."
"Oh, he won't," she assured him. "Sister Rainbow will see to that. He'll live to thank you for what you've done for him."
Mark's eyes went suddenly sombre. "I wonder if he will," he stopped in the middle of peeling off his gloves. "I wonder if it was the kindest thing to do."
She knew what he meant. "Yes, I'm sure it was," she assured him. "Mr. Oliver loves life. He's old, but not tired or defeated. He'll live to bless you."
"I hope so," Mark replied, and then drifted away and the morning's work went on.
Fay was right about Herbert Oliver. It was only a few days before he was smiling and murmuring his thanks to his
doctors and nurses—and to Mark in particular; for the drama of the theatre had, in hospital manner, soon spread to all departments and Mr. Oliver had heard it all.
As her duty times permitted Fay took to going across to Stanhope most days to have a chat with Mr. Oliver as he climbed slowly up the long hill to recovery. She found that Sister Rainbow welcomed her visits, and the two of them became fast friends.
As for Mr. Oliver, once he was off the seriously ill list Fay never saw him anything but content and with a smile for everyone. He bore the inevitable pain and discomfort with cheerful fortitude and never a complaint. He did not have many visitors and since Geoff had gone he was alone a good deal. He spent a good bit of the time dozing, and read The Times or listened to the radio, and faced with equanimity the fact that recovery was going to be a slow business for him.
"Never mind," he would say, "with any luck I should be able to go to my villa next spring. And that," he confided, "is something I never really expected to do again. But I hope that in the meantime some of you, my good friends, will go and keep an eye on it for me. Pietro is a good fellow, and his wife the most excellent of women, but I think a little interest occasionally keeps them up to the mark, eh, Sister?"
"I'm sure it does," Fay agreed, "and one of these days I'll take you up on that. Sometimes when I go off duty dog-tired I dream of lying in the sun in the garden of your villa and just lazing and lazing all day."
"I'm afraid you work too hard, my dear." The old man looked at her with concern. "I don't know what we should all do without you ministering angels, but you know I feel it's all wrong that you should be spending your time on us old crocks when you ought to be thinking about a husband and babies."
Fay looked at him solemnly for a moment, and then with a little gurgle of laughter as she remembered some of the conversations which went on in the nurses' quarters. "You'd be surprised if you could know some of the things nurses do think and talk about," she teased him. "But I'm not going to tell you—you're too young!"
Fay usually managed her visits so that they did not run
foul of doctors' rounds, but one morning she had just let herself into the side ward when the door opened and Mark appeared. Since he had neither Shorty nor Sister or her staff nurse with him this appeared to be an informal visit and not part of his regular round. Nevertheless, Fay turned to the door. "I'll come back later," she promised the patient.
But Mark stopped her. "Please don't go, Sister. I only just want to know what this old rascal's been up to. How's that pain you mentioned?"
Mr. Oliver contrived to look like a guilty small boy. "It's gone—quite gone. I think it was my own fault," he confessed. "I shouldn't have had that peach—"
"From the villa?" Mark queried, and Mr. Oliver nodded. "They were delicious," Fay, who had had her share, explained. "We all made pigs of ourselves."
"And why wasn't I given any?" Mark asked with affected hurt in his voice.
"Because you didn't come and see me on Tuesday," the old man explained. "Pietro had packed the peaches too ripe, or else they'd been too long in transit. They wouldn't keep, so they had to be eaten up. That's right, isn't it, Sister?"
"Umm. They were gorgeous," Fay agreed, "but they wouldn't have kept another day."
"I'll forgive you," Mark smiled, "but don't do it again—give yourself indigestion, I mean."
"I won't," the old man promised. "I tell you what I had this morning that'll interest you two." He fished under his paper and produced an envelope. "A letter from young Wentworth. He says he's doing very well and getting about all over the place on his sticks. Did you hear from him too, Sister?"