"Then there's Dr. Nash—a good surgeon, but not the manner of Mr. Snow. Never will have, and so he doesn't inspire the same confidence, though he's probably as good if not better with the knife."
"And neither of them have any funniosities?" Fay queried.
"No—both of them very easy to work with," Staff replied, though it was obvious that there was something else she was bursting to say and that the query had come as an interruption. Fay let her have her head.
"Mr. Osborne, now—our young Registrar. He's the man for my money. A real boyo—you mark my words, Sister dear, in a few years he'll be the top of the tree. Lovely work he does—and so neat. Just waiting for his Fellowship
now—once he's got that he'll be away from St. Edith'smore's the pity."
Staff's eulogy of her idol went on for quite a time, and would have gone on longer if Fay had not shown signs of a desire that they should both get on with their work. That brought Kate Moore, with a twinkle in her eye, to her final quip. "But now, Sister dear, don't you be getting any notions into that pretty head of yours—for he's married, is our Mr. Osborne, well and truly married, with the two most desirable children you've ever cast eyes upon."
"Yes, thank you, Staff—I know that. I've seen their photographs."
"Then you'll be knowing they're the spit and image of him with those great dark eyes—"
Fay soon learned how to control Staff's garrulity, as she learned, too, how to control her feelings about Mark. His daily visits to the ward soon ceased to trouble her at all. Indeed, she began to enjoy them, for working with him was a pleasure. He was always so willing to explain his side of a case and so ready to listen when, on behalf of the patient, she put the other side of the picture. He was, she found, intensely interested in his patients as people—they were always so much more than just cases to him, and she was reminded once again of the thought she had had about him at Beechcroft—he had that rare gift of compassion.
It was just as she was going off duty at the end of a tiring
day that the telephone in her office rang with that particutlarly insistent ring which, even before she answered it, Fay knew it meant trouble.
It was the Sister from the accident wing—Sister Evans.
"Sister Gabriel? This is Accident here. We've got a car smash case here—multiple fractures right leg, smashed pelvis, concussion and suspected rupture of spleen. Mr. Osborne has
just phoned through to say he's not sending the patient back
here but wants you to admit him to Stanhope. Mr. Osborne is coming over with the trolley almost at once and asks if you will prepare to receive the patient and if possible remain on duty yourself."
The request was unusual, but Fay did not take time to consider that—she was too busy preparing to receive the
unexpected patient. Since the opening of the accident wing these sudden requests for beds in the general wards were infrequent, but Fay had an empty bed and she hurried now to get it prepared. It was just approaching the hour for the change-over from day to night shift, and also supper time for some of the nurses, so that staff was at its lowest ebb and she had to do most of the work herself.
Nevertheless she was at the ward door waiting for the trolley when it was wheeled out of the lift.
The progress of the trolley from the lift was unusually slow, and when Fay saw the reason—the drip stand with its inverted bottle of blood still attached to the patient's arm—she did not need any further evidence of the severity of the case. Mark, still in his theatre gown and mask, walked beside the trolley, his hand on the man's pulse. He looked so white and tired that the thought crossed Fay's mind that he seemed in need of a transfusion himself. Later she learned that he had been operating for three hours in the most exacting circumstances of multiple injuries and a race against time.
Very carefully the porters under Mark's supervision lifted the patient on to the bed and the coverings were replaced. Mark checked the needle in the vein. "Keep the blood going until B.P.'s up to normal—if you can get it up. He's AB—would have to be one of the rarer groups, of course, but the lab have four more bottles in stock and we've sent to the pool for replacements. Don't increase the rate unless you have to. Can you hang on until Night Sister gets round—she may be late, because there's another casualty from the same smash on the women's side."
"I'll stay until I c
an hand over to her," Fay promised quietly.
With a quick movement Mark removed his mask and smiled at her. It made him look so much more himself that Fay's heart gave a sickening little lurch.
"Thanks, Sister," he said, and then with a glance at the patient and a tightening of his lips he went on, "Some drunken fool who got off scot free ran into him broadside on, it seems. Doesn't it make you sick that a young life can be jeopardised by sheer, selfish irresponsibility?"
For the first time
Fay
looked closely at the patient's face
and an involuntary little "Oh!" escaped her. She felt Mark's glance shift to her quickly.
"Know him?" he asked laconically.
"No—not exactly," Fay explained, studying the handsome young face under its swathe of bandages, "but I've seen him down at the skating club—he's very good."
"Well, poor devil, he'll never skate again." Mark spoke through compressed lips.
"Is he badly hurt?" Fay asked. "I haven't had a chance to see the notes yet."
"About as bad as he can be," came the bitter-sounding reply. "We've done what we could, but it's too early yet to assess his chances. There's a metal splinter in his head that we've not been able to tackle yet. Don't know how deep it is —a lot will depend on that. Sir Brian will be coming over in the morning—in the meantime we've got to do our darnedest to keep him alive."
Silence fell for a few seconds as they stood on either side of that inert figure in the bed. Mark's ravaged face was bent on his patient, but Fay's eyes were on the surgeon.
"Fellowes was the anaesthetist," Mark said at last. "He'll be over in a few minutes to have a look at him, and we'll both be on call if we're needed. Goodnight, Sister."
"Goodnight," she answered quietly, and hoped that she had not actually spoken the last word of the salutation aloud. But his name echoed in her heart.
It was late by the time Fay reached the Sisters' dining room that night, and a very indifferent meal awaited her. However, she was too tired to care what she was eating and enjoyed most the cup of coffee which finished the meal. While she was still drinking it one of the Theatre Sisters came in. "Hullo, Gabriel—how's the accident case? You've got him on Stanhope, I hear."
"Not in very good shape," Fay told her, "but just about holding his own."
"I never want to see another afternoon like this one's been. What on earth's this supposed to be?" Sister Miles was referring to the congealed mess on her plate. "Not shepherd's pie again?"
" 'Fraid so. There was a roast, but it didn't last long. Have you had a rough time in theatre today, then?"
"I'll say we have ! Didn't you hear about it?"
"Only that you'd had two cases from the same car crash."
"That's only the beginning," Sister Miles attacked her meal grimly. "Haven't you heard about Mr. Snow's collapse?"
"No !" Fay paused with her cup half way to her lips. "Mr. Snow? What happened?"
"Well, we were dealing with the man—they'd taken the girl into the other theatre and were getting her cleaned up a bit, but the man couldn't wait, they said. And he was a mess, I can tell you. Fortunately Snow was still here—and we were all on our toes. He decided to tackle the pelvis first—the head plates hadn't come through so we didn't know how bad that was. Snow had just got going when all of a sudden he stopped with the knife in his hand. Osborne was the other side of the table, and he looked up at the pause, and suddenly yelled at me 'Grab him!' "
Fay, who had done a good stint of theatre work at the Commemoration Hospital, could well imagine just what sort of panic must have supervened under the tense efficiency which characterised a theatre when an unplanned operation was in progress. All the housemen crowding to see what the first incision would reveal and the younger nurses tense as they always were at first—fearful lest the patient should die on the table. "Go on," she implored as Miles stopped for a mouthful of food. "What did you do?"
"What could I do?" the other Sister replied laconically "I did as I was told and grabbed Snow round the middle. Fortunately he's a small man and I'm pretty hefty, so I managed to stop him falling forward across the table, but he let the knife slip and it punctured the skin on the patient's diaphragm—"
"What on earth—! Had he fainted or something?"
"Or something, I should think. Looked more like a slight seizure to me. The housemen got him out and I suppose the physicians took care of him. And Osborne took charge of the operation—he looked a bit shaken too, I thought, but he worked like an angel. If that young man survives he'll have Mark Osbome to thank for it."
"What about Mr. Snow?" Fay asked. "Has he ever done anything like that before?"
"No, but he's had us all a bit worried more than once," Sister Miles confessed. "He's getting old, you know—I should think this will just about finish him as a surgeon."
"It will be hard for him to give up," Fay said sympathetically, but Sister Miles cut her short, sensibly, but rather callously, Fay thought.
"Surgery's a job where you can't afford to get old," she philosophised. "You've got to be a hundred per cent fit or else you're out. He's had a good innings. Time he made way for a younger man," she chatted on, tucking into her unappetising meal. "Shouldn't be surprised if this isn't young Osborne's chance."
"Mr. Osborne? But he hasn't got his Fellowship yet, has he?"
"No—but he would have had it if he hadn't dashed off to rescue his grandmother or some such relative who'd had a slight stroke in Italy a few months back just as he was due for his finals. But there's no doubt about his getting his Fellowship and the Board wouldn't let that stand in the way. I bet they'll jump at the chance of giving him a Junior Consultancy and tying him down to St. Edith's for a bit longer. Of course—" Sister Miles finished her meal and her interest in the subject at the same time, "of course if young what's-his-name survives it'll be another feather in Osborne's cap, for he was as nasty a mess as I've seen—so it's up to you, Gabriel!"
It was no more than hospital gossip perhaps, the sort of conversation which was bandied about the nurses' common rooms and dining rooms from time to time without much real foundation. But Sister Miles did have a great-uncle who was on the Board, Fay had heard, so perhaps she did know what she was talking about.
At any rate, when she went on duty the next morning, and, according to custom, looked first at the night report sheet, her eyes flew to the bottom name instead of the top. Geoffrey Wentworth ... condition maintained.
She went into the ward and paid her first call at the bed of last night's emergency admission. Night Sister, she thought,
had been perhaps a little over-cautious in her report. The young man looked a better colour than he had done last night, although the drip was still up. But his breathing was less shallow and there seemed to be a stronger pulse under her fingers.
She was just about to leave the bedside when the patient opened his eyes. They were grey eyes, and just then very puzzled grey eyes.
Then it seemed as though he caught sight of Fay, and after a moment in which the puzzlement in his eyes turned to complete bewilderment and then satisfaction, Geoffrey Wentworth smiled, and then a faint whisper came from his lips. "Always—wanted to know you—" he whispered. "—Never thought I would—you a nurse?"
Fay bent down to catch the faint words and now she patted his hand. "That's right, Mr. Wentworth. You're in hospital—had a bit of an accident in your car. But we'll soon have you right again—nothing for you to worry about. Just rest all you can."
She had been so delighted at the improvement in her patient's condition that she had not noted the shadow which had fallen across the bed as someone came between it and the window on the far side. She looked up to see Mark Osborne standing there and looking—not at the patient as she might have expected—but at her.
"Good morning, Mr. Osborne," she was crisply professional in a moment. "There seems to be some improvement, I think, sir."
He nodded, a little impatiently, she thought. "So I see. Speech clear—how about his eyes—was he focusing?"
"Yes, very well."
"Good, looks as though that splinter must be quite superficial, then. We shall know more when Sir Brian's seen him. How's the blood pressure?"
"Coming on nicely," Fay told him, and produced the relative charts.
Mark nodded. "We'll pull him through," he said.
They did pull Geoffrey Wentworth through, but it was a long haul and even after the worst was over there were repeated visits to the theatre, necessary because the bone of his
right leg, which had been exposed, had become infected and twice had to be chipped, so that although his other injuries were a remarkable testimony to the surgeon's skill Geoffrey Wentworth had to face a long spell of hospitalisation.