Authors: Elizabeth Gilzean
“I
’
ll leave the fan on until I come back from supper—it will help to dry things up. Thanks a lot for your help, Nurse Jenkins. I expect Mary Ward wants some more tapes sewn on. I wonder if the laundry people have shares in a tape firm—they pull enough off.”
Sally rang through to the switchboard. “Staff Nurse Conway going to supper.”
“Right you are, Staff Nurse. Not a whisper of anything for you. All
’
s
peaceful ...
touch wood.”
Sally replaced the receiver. It sounded as if she would have her supper at leisure tonight. The switchboard was the main hub of the hospital, especially at night, and the operator always knew around which corner Night Sister or the R.S.O. or one
’
s best friend had just disappeared. No doubt it helped him to keep awake, but his quick eye was also very useful when someone was wanted in a hurry and seconds could count.
Sally walked slowly down the stairs, her rubber heels making a subdued sound on the marble treads. How quiet the corridors were, with only an occasional echo from the wards as a nurse bustled to deal with some patient. The dimmed lights, the brighter circle by the night nurse
’
s table, the feeling of tense watchfulness, the impression left by patients lying awake or only half asleep—their touch with the everyday world submerged, yet not broken by sedatives—made Sally aware of the difference between day duty and night duty. She didn
’
t know quite why, but once the initial rebellion against night duty was over, she always enjoyed it. Theater night duty was usually short, but would it be this time? George Brown could have been wrong—rumor didn
’
t always run out to be certainty. St. Bride
’
s was a hospital that adapted quickly to new trends. Still, could it survive this innovation to be brought in by an American surgeon, however good he was?
Sally walked into the small dining room used by the night staff. It didn
’
t take the sudden lull in conversation at the staff nurses
’
table to tell her that
this
rumor had traveled ahead of her. She was deluged by questions.
“What
’
s this we hear about a trip to America for a certain staff nurse ... you know who?”
“What
’
s he like, Sally?”
It was only Night Sister
’
s arrival in the dining room that gave Sally long enough to slip into her place.
“Ssh!
She
wasn
’
t very pleased. For the love of Mike keep your voices down and I
’
ll tell you in a minute,” Sally pleaded.
There was a murmur of laughter as they gave in to her request, but the peace didn
’
t last long. Night Sister was called away to the phone and the clamor began again.
Sally held up a hand for silence. “All right, I
’
ll tell you, but stop asking questions. He
’
s tall and good-looking. He
’
s got blue eyes—the kind that are cold and look right through you. He
’
s got a funny way of speaking—not really American, but sort of clipped and twangy. His name is John B. Tremayne, but what the B stands for I don
’
t know. He
’
s going to be here for a year and he
’
s going to operate
at night
.”
Sally had silence now, a stunned silence that lasted for all of two minutes.
Then the protests began.
“Who does he think he is? The professors will never allow it!” “He sounds awfully conceited to me, not our kind at all.” “Just wait until Theater Super hears! What
’
s the betting she resigns on the spot?”
“No such luck,” a voice broke in. “It would take more than a conceited doctor to retire
her
!”
“Who
’
s going to be the mug who takes his lists? What
’
s his special line?”
Sally gestured for silence again. “I see that I
’
ll be going back without a single mouthful of supper! I
’
ll answer this lot and then you
’
ll have to find out for yourselves. He
’
s alleged to be a big shot in his own line, which happens to be orthopedics. I can
’
t make up my mind whether he
’
s conceited or shy. I think conceited, but I could be wrong. The profs have already said yes, and I haven
’
t a clue as to what Theater Super said about it. I can guess—
plenty
! I
don
’
t know who will take his lists.”
Sally began her meal hastily before her colleagues could overwhelm her again. What a pity Night Sister hadn
’
t taken him around the wards as well and then the burden would have been shared. She was finding it a doubtful honor. Possibly if this American surgeon had come to the theater under any other circumstances she might be taking it as casually as her friends. But she couldn
’
t forget how her voice must have rung
out ...
he must have heard
every
word, “
Just let me meet John B. Tremayne and
I
’
ll ask him for that ticket to the States. See if I don
’
t
!”
Never had she blotted her copybook so thoroughly in advance! If he had shown any signs of a sense of humor it might have helped.
One of the more senior staff nurses was speaking. “Sally, you
’
re the most likely candidate.”
“For what?” Sally was only too sure of what the answer would be.
“Tremayne
’
s lists, of course. No one else has had the orthopedic experience you
’
ve had except Theater Super, and I don
’
t see her doing night work.”
“But I
’
m due off nights in a week
’
s time, and Theater Super made enough fuss about having to do one of the day orthopedic sessions as it was. They
’
re bound to get someone in to take him,” Sally put in hopefully.
“Not on your life! Just mention night session and any self-respecting theater staff nurse would run like mad. You
’
re for it—but you could always refuse, and Dr. Tremayne would take himself elsewhere.”
Sally found herself considering her answer with unusual care. “I could, but perhaps it would be rather mean. It wouldn
’
t give a very good impression of St. Bride
’
s, or of England for that matter.” There was restiveness among the group around the table. “Well, if that
’
s the way you feel. I
’
d call it sucking up,” said one disgruntled voice.
“Sally
’
s right. Up St. Bride
’
s! We might even get a mention in the
American Medical Journal
.”
She herself brought the discussion to a close. “Let
’
s skip it. We don
’
t know for sure what
’
s happening. He may have brought his own theater nurse for all we know. Anything else happening tonight?”
The casualty staff nurse groaned. “We
’
re getting a new house surgeon. It
’
s a woman, and she
’
s going to be shared between Casualty and Ward Three until Brian Johnston comes back from his study course.”
“What
’
s her name?”
“What
’
s she like?”
Sally listened this time and wondered why George hadn
’
t told her.
“Claris Stornoway, and according to my cousin, who worked with her at her last hospital, she
’
s a menace in more ways than one. She doesn
’
t like work and she loves men and she thinks a medical
career is a steppingstone to better things. Marriage to an up-and-coming consultant is the main plank of her platform.”
“How old is this ... bewitcher, and what is she like? In looks, I mean.”
“Late twenties, and according to my cousin who fancies himself as a judge, she has the right statistics and the right looks. But seriously, I believe she has reddish-gold hair, greeny-hazel eyes and the usual etceteras.”
“Nurses, isn
’
t it time you went back to your wards?” Night Sister
’
s voice penetrated the conversation.
Six pairs of eyes glanced up at the clock and then at Night Sister.
“Yes, Sister. Sorry, Sister.”
Chairs scraped back and they collected their capes and walked toward the door. Already their thoughts had sped ahead of them back to their wards, back to Casualty, back to Theater. Had anything happened? Had their juniors managed to cope? Another seven hours to get through and yet not enough time to do all that had to be done. So many bed baths to be done before day staff came on ... so many dressings ... pre-operative preps for the early patients on the theater lists ... injections, medicines, cups of
tea ...
so many miles of steps to be taken on feet that were already weary. They could just about manage to finish in time—if nothing happened.
Sally got back to the operating theater. All was
quiet ...
no notes on the desk. She picked up the telephone.
“Staff Nurse Conway back from supper.” She allowed a decent pause to intervene. “Anything cooking, Switchboard?”
There was a lengthy interval and she guessed he was phoning around to key points to make sure.
“Nothing cooking, Staff Nurse. I had the night porter bring up the drum trolley and your extra laundry.”
Sally stifled a sigh. “Thanks, Switchboard.” She hung up.
For a nurse on day duty, checking the surgical laundry for holes, tears, missing tapes and so on was a restful respite from the rush of being in the theater itself. But at night it was just one more painstaking job that needed extra concentration, that lulled one dangerously close to the edge of sleep. Sally walked along the corridor to the nurses
’
room. The stack of empty drums warned her that she had better try to pack as many as possible or there would be a panic on—not enough gowns for the afternoon lists, no more large sterile towels.
Six a.m. Time to turn on the bowl sterilizers ... time to check the instrument sets for the first cases of the day and to make sure that some house surgeon hadn
’
t been up yet again to alter the lists on Theater Super
’
s desk ... time to put out the surgeons
’
clothes, see that their vests had buttons, that their trousers had buttons
...
Had she switched on the fans, turned on the radiators, reset the thermostats, double-checked the sterilizers to make sure that none was faulty, none needed refilling, none was boiling over?
At last the worst of the donkey work was done. She could now take the freshly copied-out lists down to the assistant matron
’
s office, tell the night porter that the second load of drums were ready for sterilizing, and snatch a cup of tea with her friend on Ward Three before climbing back up the stairs.
She reached the top landing as the elevator doors opened and George Brown stepped out. He yawned and didn
’
t bother to lift his hand to hide it.
“
‘
Morning, Sally. I suppose you
’
ve had a quiet night, lucky thing! Wish I could say the same. Someone held out false hopes and told me I was having a junior for Casualty. I
’
d have gone to bed early if I
’
d known I wasn
’
t going to see it again—bed, I mean.”
Sally grinned sympathetically at him. “Tell your Aunt Sally and you
’
ll feel better.”
He pretended to be hurt. “Aunt Sally indeed! You know I never think of you as that. Oh, if only—”
“George! Don
’
t! It
’
s too early in the morning or something. I may not have had any more cases, but let me tell you that I have folded laundry for, and packed, at least twenty drums. And not only that, but I
’
ve done gloves for six glove drums and patched at least four pairs of size eight gloves as worn by one George Brown who
will
test the sharpness of his suture needles on the thumbs of his gloves!”