Nurse Lang (10 page)

“I wish I could have done more for him,” she said impulsively. “He’s responded marvellously, after all.”

“Philip’s all right,” he said. “He’s made up his mind to accept the inevitable, I think.”

They spoke of Sir Archibald and the many great feats of surgery he had performed during a long and useful lifetime, and Moira noticed how completely Grant was able to let himself relax in Elizabeth’s presence. If she felt envy it was momentary, because all that Elizabeth was able to give was essential to him just now. He lay back in one of the deep armchairs flanking the fireplace with his eyes closed. Elizabeth’s wrought-iron standard lamp shedding a gentle light on to his thick dark hair, his long legs thrust out before him to the heat of the brightly-burning logs, and suddenly Moira knew that Elizabeth had so much, after all.

Grant rose to his feet reluctantly, at last, looking down at them with a rueful smile.

“It’s no use,” he said. “This sort of thing always comes to an end! That’s what I meant about perfection. We feel it for a moment and then it disappears before reality.” He looked directly at Moira. “Shall we go?”

“See you tomorrow!” Elizabeth called as he let in his clutch. “Don’t worry about emergencies, Grant. I’ve told Matron to put them through here to me.”

How thoughtful she was and how grateful Grant must be for her friendship, Moira thought as they drove away. He did not say so, but once she caught a glimpse of his profile in the light of a street lamp as they passed it and he was smiling.

“I’m not taking you in to Philip to-night,” he said as he drove round the hospital wall. “He’s had something to make him sleep, and it should have taken effect by now.”

“He will think I have neglected him,” Moira said.

“I told him it was better as it was, and he knows he will see you to-morrow.”

They drove on in silence, their thoughts on Philip and all that lay ahead, and when they reached the Priory and drove across the park they could see the lights from the uncurtained windows sparkling in the darkness between the trees. The great crystal chandeliers which Moira had admired so much when she had first seen them reflected back their own brilliance in a myriad pin-points of iridescent light under which Serena was still entertaining her guests, and Moira knew that she would be furious with Grant for making work an excuse for his absence.

It had been curiously inconsiderate of Serena to have arranged a dinner-party at all so shortly before her cousin’s operation, but somehow Moira knew that Serena did not consider Philip at all important. It was Grant for whom she catered, Grant who was her whole concern.

Grant put his car in the garage. Originally it had been part of the old stable buildings and was well away from the house itself, and she thought that he felt relief at the fact tonight.

“I’m going to be inconsiderate enough to slip in by the side door,” he remarked as they made their way through the shrubbery. “I don’t think I feel up to facing Serena’s guests tonight.”

“Do you mind if I am inconsiderate with you?” she asked with a half smile. “I feel tired for the first time in weeks, and I would like to be up early in the morning.”

They had reached the side door and were standing in the deep shadow of the house while he searched for his keys, and suddenly the world seemed very still—tensed, waiting. She drew in a small, quivering breath and he turned to look down at her as he pushed the door open. The light from behind him slanted on to her face and he tilted her chin up so that she was forced to meet his eyes.

“You’re not to worry about Philip,” he said firmly. “It’s got to come all right.”

Behind the determination in his voice there had been tenderness, and suddenly she found it more difficult to bear than his former indifference.

“You can make it come right,” she said in a stifled whisper. “Only you can do that!”

It was a wild, rash statement to make, but it had been driven from her by something stronger than her own reasoning. She knew that he must not refute it, and she ran from him along the lighted passageway before he had time to answer her.

CHAPTER NINE

It was eight o’clock on the Monday morning before Moira awoke to a sense of impending disaster, and the thought of Philip, crystallising in her mind, made her jump out of bed immediately.

At quarter to nine she went to receive her instructions for the day from Sister Gilmour, discovering with relief that she was to assist Ursula Jackson again.

The smiling little technician was easy to work with, but the hour between nine and ten o’clock seemed endless. She tried not to imagine the preparations which would be going on in the operating theatre and Philip lying waiting in the small ward whose windows looked out to the Priory trees, and then she thought of Grant and his consultation with Sir Archibald during these last few minutes before they walked down the white tiled corridor and through the swing doors into the ante-room.

The room in which she was working overlooked the main car-park and each new car that drew up under the windows made her pulses race to a quickened tempo, and she found herself watching for Sir Archibald’s appearance as if even a glimpse of him would help to steady her quivering nerves. When she saw him, at last, Grant was with him. Sir Archibald had obviously travelled down from London by train and Grant had gone to meet him at the station.

“Do you think you could manage the next patient on your own?” Ursula asked, coming forward with a green report card in her hand. “There’s very little, really. Just a heart check and a report to Doctor Hillier, afterwards.”

Moira nodded, trying to tear her thoughts away from Grant and Sir Archibald and Philip and the events of the next two hours.

“I’ll—do my best.”

“I shall be next door,” Ursula added, giving her a quick look. “Ask if you’re not quite sure about anything.”

The door behind her opened as she was adjusting the bandage on her patient’s arm and Elizabeth looked in.

“I wondered where you were,” she said. “Everything set over on the other side,” she added, holding Moira’s eyes in a long steady look. “Grant asked me to find you and tell you so.”

With that, and a few cheerful words to the man in the chair, she went out, and Moira turned back to her work with renewed faith in her heart. People like Elizabeth were the cornerposts of courage, she thought, and without them the world would surely be a poorer place.

Swiftly she completed her task, testing the straps and the voltage and setting the machine in motion, but it all seemed to be happening in another existence while time ticked inexorably away.

When the print was ready she took her patient to Elizabeth’s waiting room, but there was no hope of a word with Elizabeth herself. It was one of the busiest mornings of the week in their department and when she went back to her own room she found another patient waiting. The lists seemed longer this morning, the crowd of people waiting in the hall outside more restless than usual, a reflection, perhaps, of her own anxious state. She felt that she could not concentrate on what she was doing, but knew that she must.

Her eyes went to the clock and she saw that it was twenty minutes past one. Philip had been under the anaesthetic for two and a half hours.

It seemed, after that, that her waiting would never end. She found herself listening for Elizabeth’s step in the corridor, but in the end it was Grant who came to her.

“Philip—?”

Her lips had framed the word but no sound came from them, yet it seemed that she had shouted Philip’s name across a vast, resounding void. Grant reached her side in two swift strides.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Philip will live.”

She swayed where she stood, conscious of overwhelming reaction, of a sudden weakness in her legs and the foolish desire to cry, although no tears would come, and suddenly, comfortingly, Grant’s arms were around her and he was pressing her head against his shoulder.

“It’s all right,” he repeated, his voice harsh and edged with repression. “Waiting is always the worst part. I had no idea that you cared quite so much.”

When the door opened and Elizabeth looked in they were still standing there. Grant stiffened, sensing her presence even before he released Moira and turned to face her.

“Philip is out of the anaesthetic,” he said briefly. “Will you come up and see him later on?”

She nodded, trying to read the riddle of his set, closed face, and Moira moved towards the door.

“Could we—go together?” she asked.

In that moment it would have been impossible for her to ask anything more of Grant, and so she had appealed to Elizabeth. She had taken all of Grant’s strength and compassion in the first shock of meeting and now he looked drained and tired. It seemed that the operation had been a bigger ordeal for him that he had expected, and she thought of Philip with pity and a rapidly-beating heart. He would still be in the first stages of returning consciousness and probably Grant would want to see him first, but suddenly the ordeal of going to Philip, of standing beside his bed and trying to smile reassuringly into his eyes—grey eyes that were so like and yet so unlike Grant’s—seemed beyond her power to accomplish. She needed help and the sort of courage which Elizabeth could give. She felt again that rush of weakening resolve which had precipitated her into Grant’s arms, and following close on its heels came an overwhelming sense of dismay. In an hour of need she had only thrust another burden upon his already overburdened shoulders. He had responded to her weakness when he should have found her strong, lending her comfort when all that he must have felt was surely impatience.

She braced her shoulders against the need for normality. “It’s almost two o’clock,” she said without looking again in his direction. “Miss Jackson will be waiting for her first patient.”

When she had left it the silence in the room deepened. Elizabeth, who had long since learned the art of composure, stood waiting in a shaft of sunlight for Grant to speak. He stood with his back to her for a moment, looking out across the busy car-park to the terraced gardens beyond.

“There was more difficulty than we thought,” he said at last in a voice that sounded dead. “The response was—disappointing.”

Elizabeth stared at him as if she had not fully comprehended all that he had said.

“What does Sir Archibald feel?” she asked at last.

“He won’t commit himself at this stage, of course.” His eyes were tortured as he looked back at her. “It means time—uncertainty—setback, perhaps, and in the end, even defeat.”

She stood appalled by this thing which had seemed so certain only a few brief hours ago. She had never had any doubt about Philip’s complete recovery. It had to happen—for Grant’s sake. That was how she had looked at it all along, and now Grant was telling her that they were practically back where they were, perhaps farther back than that, even.

“When will Sir Archibald be able to tell?” she asked stiffly, because she could not really trust her voice.

“I don’t think anyone can say,” Grant’s face took on a defiant look. “Surgery is sometimes like that. One can do the job up to a point, and no more. Nature has to work the remainder of the cure, if there’s to be one. In Philip’s case there has been a deterioration of the muscles and a breakdown of tissue which we didn’t expect.”

“You don’t want Moira to be told?” she guessed.

He shook his head.

“It would not serve any useful purpose to tell her at this stage,” he said wearily.

“Perhaps it would be best not to put a double strain on her,” Elizabeth agreed.

Grant seemed not to have heard, and she went from the room, passing him with a brief, warm handclasp on his arm which conveyed more than any words could have done her understanding and her sympathy.

It was after six o’clock before she went with Moira to Philip’s bedside and even then they were only admitted for a few minutes. Philip lay asleep, pale and very straight-looking on the narrow hospital bed, and they stood in silence looking down at the young face wiped clean of dissatisfaction and bitterness, the fair hair above the high forehead still damp and. matted from exhaustion.

Moira’s lips were trembling as they walked away, and even Elizabeth found little to say before they reached the hall.

“Would you like to come back with me to the flat?” she asked. “Grant mentioned that he would be running Sir Archibald down to the station after dinner, and then I suppose he’ll be coming back for another look at Phil.”

The thought of being left alone with Serena proved too much for Moira.

“I don’t know why you should be so kind,” she said, following Elizabeth out to her car.

“Sometimes one can only do things by proxy,” Elizabeth returned smilingly. “I think Grant would like to feel that you are being taken care of for an hour or two.”

They made their meal together, setting it out on a tray and carrying it through to the sitting-room to eat it over the fire. The weather was not quite warm enough to dispense with a fire, Elizabeth declared, pulling up her chair.

Inevitably they spoke of Philip.

“How long will it be, do you think, before he is really well again?” Moira asked. “Until he is able to walk again, I mean.”

“It’s difficult to say.” Elizabeth had found herself faced with situations like this before, but never in such a personal way. “You know—I’m sure you don’t expect anything spectacular in the way of a cure.”

“No,” Moira agreed. “Grant didn’t promise anything like that, but I thought, perhaps—”

“That I, as a doctor, might be able to give you some idea?” Elizabeth hesitated, struggling with a moment of indecision, and then she said firmly: “My dear, we have to trust Grant.”

“I know!” Moira pressed her hands tightly together in a small gesture of supplication. “Please understand that I do trust him, but—sometimes it is difficult to know what he is thinking, and he might feel that—that I couldn’t face up to failure in this. He’s so fond of Philip. He would want to do everything for him for the best.”

“It’s because he is so fond of Phil that we’ve got to help,” Elizabeth said slowly. “I’ve known Grant for a long time, and Phil, too. Once, not so long ago, they were devoted to each other.”

The words fell into a deep silence and somewhere out in the stillness of the evening a clock struck seven. Moira counted the strokes, feeling as if they marked some sort of milestone along the way she must take. “That was—before Kerry came into their lives,” she said.

Elizabeth looked up at her.

“Grant parted them,” she said slowly, “but not for himself. You know that, Moira, though he has never spoken about it. Whatever happened, he didn’t take Kerry away from Phil. Grant wouldn’t do a thing like that, even although he had loved Kerry to distraction.” Elizabeth’s voice wavered and her steady gaze fell. “Perhaps he was in love with her. I can’t tell you that, because no one would ever know with Grant, but what I am trying to say is that he didn’t step in to outdo his brother, to steal Kerry’s affection once he knew she belonged to Phil.” A deep, soul-searing envy of Elizabeth engulfed Moira for a moment as she said:

“I’ve always felt Kerry like an unhappy influence at the Priory. She is still there, Elizabeth, haunting the place, making it impossible for Grant to forget, and perhaps Philip finds it hard to forget, too.”

“Philip’s attitude was understandable at first,” Elizabeth said. “He had loved Kerry and he was mad with jealousy and grief. He blamed Grant freely for everything that happened, but no one will ever convince me that Grant was really to blame. The accident was perhaps the cruellest solution possible,” she added grimly.

“But—surely it had nothing to do with their quarrel?” Moira whispered.

“No. It was just one of these things that happen, I think. Kerry was driving away from the Priory when she died, having given Philip up—for Grant, some people said, but I don’t believe it. That was the story you heard, I dare say.”

“It was the impression I received.” Moira’s heart seemed to be beating somewhere near her throat so that it was difficult to speak coherently. “It is the impression that Serena fosters at the Priory all the time.”

“Serena has her own reasons for that,” Elizabeth answered contemptuously. “She wishes to remain undisputed mistress of the Priory and she wouldn’t do that if Grant married. Even if Philip marries,” she added dryly.

Grant had evidently not taken Elizabeth into his confidence either, and somehow the engagement didn’t seem so very real just now. There were so many other things to think about.