Consulting Surgeon (9 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

ONCE URSULA had picked up the threads of the progress made by her various patients during her absence and had become thoroughly conversant with the details of the newcomers, she became caught up once more into the steady routine of the ward which, by its very regularity, made the days fly.

Matthew Lingard visited his patients on most days when he was not operating, and even then, Night Sister said, he would come at night to see any case giving anxiety. Unlike Mr. Rabillies, whose private life had had to be regarded as sacrosanct, Matthew had made it clear from the outset that the house-men were to call him if they were in doubt, no matter what the hour. This made for the approval and confidence of the resident medical staff, especially as he rarely meted blame for the false alarms which inevitably occurred from time to time.

The patients on Christian Shere ward continued to approve of him, and even Ursula was aware that the smarting antagonism he could arouse in her mattered less on the ward than anywhere else. In fact—since the incident at Sarah Caspar’s bedside—by some unspoken understanding between them they did not betray that it existed. Sometimes, working in complete harmony of partnership with him or under his direction, she could assure herself that it did not, and that, though he did not need her friendship, at least she had not incurred his enmity. And if there were times when not to be his enemy seemed a negative, thankless state, there were others when merely to work with him held an almost tangible contentment. And wasn’t that all she could look for from their relationship? Not for her the gentle understanding he had for Mrs. Damon or for Averil; certainly not for her the amused tolerance which Coralie might have roused in him; for her, only their common interest in their work. She wished that
always
it could seem enough.

She was particularly intrigued by the interest which, from the start, he took in Miss Calcum’s case. Miss Calcum, spare, sour-faced and ceaselessly critical, was in hospital for spinal pains of which she complained a great deal but which so far had resisted treatment though they continued to keep her bedridden.

Matthew, Ursula noticed, did not give much time to the physical examinations which Miss Calcum expected, and had come to regard as her right. Instead he would sit down at her bedside to ask her questions which were seemingly irrelevant, but which were designed to lead her to tell him something of her outside interests, though they succeeded in betraying little but that, beyond herself, she had none.

Apparently she had no one who cared for her or for whom she cared. She had no visitors and despised the other patients’ pathetically eager dependence on theirs. She affected to have no faith at all in doctors or nurses, but she stayed on in hospital, always ready to talk about herself, yet never ready to extend so much as a passing interest to the people about her. Consequently, neither her fellow patients nor the nurses liked her, and even Ursula had, sometimes been driven to sharp rebuke of her querulous selfishness.

She was obviously flattered by being subjected to the new surgeon’s probing questions, even if they had small bearing upon those
agonizing
pains in her back which she endured with a patience and a resignation which had hitherto gone unrecognized, or so she considered. And when Matthew sat down at her bedside for a chat she would draw herself up straight and stiff against her pillows, her eyes bright and her tongue eager. Here was someone for whom she was in the centre of the stage. She would make the most of the experience, for clearly he regarded hers as a
most
interesting case.

One day, after such a session, Matthew returned to Ursula’s office and, in the course of their usual discussion of treatments, asked abruptly: “I suppose you realize what I’m driving at with the woman in number eight bed—Miss Calcum?”

“Not really, though I’ve wondered,” Ursula admitted. “She has been a problem ever since she was admitted. As you know, her condition has defied X-rays and radiant heat and injections, and when Mr. Rabillies felt particularly baffled he would declare that there was nothing in the world wrong with her, and would threaten to discharge her then and there. But the fact remains, doesn’t it, that she
is
frequently in pain, even without apparent cause?”

“Oh, yes. She is in pain—no doubt of that. Otherwise I shouldn’t be trying so hard to discover the cause. You see, I had to ask myself: ‘If it’s nothing operable and responds to no clinical treatment, what
is
the cause?’ And I believe I may be on to it now.”

“Why, what do you think it can be?”

“She is lonely.”

“
Lonely
?” Ursula’s echo was incredulous. “But surely that couldn’t—?”

“Believe me, the research I have done assures me that an acute mental state can, and often does, bring on physical symptoms that may last as long, and cause as much suffering, as a traceable condition can do. The physical state is liable to give trouble as long as the mental state goes unattended. And that, I am becoming convinced, is Miss Calcum’s case.”

“But lonely? Surely she is not!” protested Ursula again. “Why, she never stops boasting of her independence of other people—of how little she needs them in
her
life!”

“I think,” said Matthew thoughtfully, “that that attitude may be a protective armor that she has had to forge for herself, and I doubt whether, by now, she could break out of it even if she wanted to. But while it—and the cause of it—lasts, so may her symptoms of pain. That’s how I judge it.”

“If you are right, it would be very interesting—if it weren’t also very sad,” said Ursula, realizing that his intuition had shown her most difficult patient in a new light.

The look he gave her was straight and unwavering. “It is sad,” he agreed gravely. “As I see it, somewhere along her way Miss Calcum turned her back upon love—the love of her kind or of an individual, it doesn’t signify—and thereafter turned all that wasting affection inward upon herself. And here, upon Christian Shere ward, you have the result—a woman, not yet middle-aged, for whom pain has come to be her wistful bid for the attention and sympathy which she pretends to scorn. It’s not a cheerful outlook for her, is it?”

In a tight, choked voice Ursula said: “I think you may be too hard upon her. It could be that—love turned its back upon her.”

He shrugged. “Even so—and if she allowed the experience to destroy every other emotional outlet for her—I should still blame her for rolling herself into a hard chrysalis of retreat because of it. Surely, Sister, if you and I learn nothing else from our profession, we learn that we must not allow life to die upon a single disaster if we can put up any sort of fight against it? And people must learn that same lesson in their own lives. After all, other warmths will glow if one keeps one’s hands outstretched. And who, relighting a fire in the morning, blames it for dying overnight?”

Somehow, behind the low intensity of his tone rang a conviction which she could have allowed herself to believe he thought it important to convey to her. But because along that way lay only an unrewarding speculation as to what it could be, she would not let herself hope it. Instead she asked as briskly as possible! “Would you, in the light of all this, recommend any different treatment for Miss Calcum, Mr. Lingard?”

“I think not.” His tone was now as crisp and businesslike as hers. “Our line should be to draw her out as I have tried to do, to continue with the sedatives as she needs them—and to watch for results.”

Ursula permitted herself a rueful smile. “She won’t like that. She believes she should be operated upon.”

“And our failure to operate is a reflection upon our skill, no doubt? Well, that’s as may be. I want to keep her on the ward for a while yet.”

“She is not really ‘surgical’ of course,” murmured Ursula doubtfully.

“Strictly speaking, no. But as a guinea-pig for my theory, and perhaps for her complete recovery, I mean to keep her here under my eye for a time. Besides, now that I have explained matters to you I have confidence in the special care you will give to her case. And now, you have your number five coming in to the Theatre tomorrow I think ...?” Once more they were upon their professional footing. Or was it an illusion that even momentarily they had ever left it?

As she looked forward to her off-duty periods Ursula realized that this summer she was likely to have more engagements than time to fulfil them—which was unfamiliar enough to be quite exciting.

Soon after her return to hospital she had received a charming note from Mrs. Damon urging her to go to Shere Court whenever she was free; Ned, with the rest of his scientific convention, came down to Sheremouth shortly afterwards, and Mrs. Craig and Coralie were due.

Upon the day of their arrival she got evening leave and went down to the Grand Hotel to have dinner with them.

Mrs. Craig, who was not easy to please in such matters, expressed herself delighted with the rooms they had been given and seemed reasonably satisfied with the promise afforded by those of her fellow guests who were scattered about the vast, ornate lounge when they went there after dinner to take their coffee.

Ursula’s own opinion was that she herself would find the somewhat garish splendor of the place a little overwhelming. But she was amused to notice that Coralie, who loved to appear completely sophisticated, was revelling in the prospect of making new, exciting friends and was probably already wondering how many people were saying to each other: “Who
are
those charming newcomers? We really ought to try to get to know them.”

She hoped that Coralie might have forgotten Matthew Lingard, but in this she was disappointed, for Coralie’s first eager questions included his name.

“What really happened at Shere Court—you never told us?” she demanded.

So Ursula told her briefly, only to find herself inundated by another wave of questions—an envious: “Now that you are back in hospital, I suppose you see Mr. Lingard every day?”; a faintly suspicious: “Why should he have asked you to stay on after Mrs. Foster Damon arrived?”; and a femininely curious: “What is she like? Is she marvellously sun-tanned and has she got lovely clothes?”—all of which Ursula meant to try to answer faithfully when, lifting her eyes towards the door, she saw that Coralie would need no answer to, at least, her last question.

For in the wide doorway, with the tall form of Matthew Lingard behind her, stood Averil Damon. Both were in day clothes, Averil in an exquisitely cut black suit which marked her mourning, but hatless, so that the soft if unnecessary lighting caught the sheen of her hair and emphasized its great twisted knot as a continuation of the purity of the line of her profile.

Watching her, Ursula had a single ungenerous thought—
She is making an entrance
—realizing for the first time that she knew just what the phrase meant and that only someone with as strong a sense of the dramatic as Averil Damon possessed could make so important a thing of mere entry into a room. Other people, thought Ursula ruefully, just opened a door and walked in. But Averil’s very stillness upon the threshold seemed to put to use both her audience and even the man behind her, in order to make her pause there a completely theatrical moment.

Ursula looked quickly at Coralie, to see that she too had recognized Matthew, and to spare a glancing pity for the girl’s undisguised dismay at sight of Averil’s exotic beauty. When Matthew looked across, saw Mrs. Craig and touched Averil upon the arm, saying something to her, it was clear that Coralie had already guessed who his companion was and that in preparing to meet Averil she was having a struggle between fascination and reluctance.

Matthew made the introductions and asked Mrs. Craig’s permission to join her party for coffee. He and Averil had been dining together, and he mentioned that he was staying at the Grand himself until he could find a suitable home in or near Sheremouth.

At this Averil threw in lazily! “There’s no reason on earth, Matthew, why you shouldn’t stay on at Shere Court until you find it. Lucy has told you so often enough, surely?”

“She has. But she also happens to understand that I shouldn’t care to take permanent advantage of her hospitality,” he replied.

“And you wouldn’t care—or would you?—that
I
should appreciate your being there? I’m pretty lonely.” Beneath her sweeping lashes Averil’s eyes challenged him, while Coralie watched in envious silence, promising herself long practice of a lifting glance of equally glamorous appeal.

Matthew’s reply to the question was discouraging. “I should care,” he said, “if I thought that my sleeping at Shere Court could be of any real comfort to you. But I happen to be more or less permanently at the end of a telephone line, and that scarcely makes for really satisfactory companionship or real helpfulness.”

Averil shrugged. “I’ve always said that you take yourself too seriously,” she protested. And with a little air of dismissing him from her attention for the time being she turned a flattering interest upon Coralie, whose response was immediate and eager.

Ursula heard Matthew addressing her. “You haven’t been yet to see my aunt again?” he asked.

“No, and I’m afraid my next off-duty is booked up too. Ned—Professor Primrose, that is, who met me at Waterloo the day you gave me a lift—is coming to a convention and naturally wants to see something of us while he is here—”

“ ‘Of us’?” The echo was a quotation of her own words. “Of you and Coralie, or of your stepmother too?”

“Well, perhaps I meant ‘of me’.” Ursula was hating the flush that accompanied the admission. “We have been good friends ever since my father, who was also a scientist, died. They were colleagues, and afterwards Ned didn’t lose sight of us.”

“Of course. I remember now. At Mrs. Grazebrook’s party Coralie mentioned that he was devoted to you. Naturally you have long-standing obligations and inclinations there, but I’d still be very grateful if you could find time to look Aunt Lucy up before long. She has spoken so often about wanting to see you again.”

“I have written to her, and I shan’t fail to see her as soon as I can possibly manage it,” promised Ursula, meaning it.

Meanwhile a kind of brittle friendship was being hatched between Coralie and Averil. On Averil’s side it was patronizing to the younger girl’s frank admiration; on Coralie’s, wary but fascinated. By the time the conversation again became general Coralie had accepted a
carte blanche
invitation to go to Shere Court whenever she pleased; she and Averil were meeting for coffee the next morning, and Mrs. Craig, smiling and nodding approval, was clearly pleased with the development.