A Surgical Affair (7 page)

“See you in the morning,” he said dreamily.

At
she was getting into bed, Diana stepped on something hard on the carpet. Looking down she saw it was the champagne bottle cork. She picked it up and put it away in the drawer of the table. “I’ll always keep that, whatever happens,” she thought. Lying in the silent darkness, it comforted her to be near Mark. Diana imagined how pleasant it would be to spend the rest of her life at Mansion House Hospital, working for Mr. Cole, with Mark Royston as her registrar.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Three weeks passed, weeks that drew Diana and Mark together. They were often in the theater for an emergency operation before the early morning sun had risen. Or, in the middle of the night, awakened from a sleep not two hours old, they were treating the broken, mutilated leg of a boy, another victim of the motorcycle. During the day there were hernias to repair, cancerous growths to remove, appendixes to take out, more varicose veins to strip off and always fractures to set.

Each week Diana learned more, and Mark had to explain less. In the theater, she was able to anticipate his next move and knew he could rely upon her to assist him well. She copied the way he examined the patients and made the diagnosis. It always followed the same pattern and soon became a habit with her. The trust and confidence Mark inspired in his patients was soon shared by Diana.

Together so much, they came to know one another well, and jokes and secrets were shared. If one of them was tired or sad, the other would always notice. When a patient died, sometimes after they had struggled for weeks to save her, both of them, without speaking of it, understood the intense disappointment, sadness and frustration, which the other was feeling.

Diana hoped tha
t
nobody was aware of this bond that had grown between them, that to everybody in the hospital they were Mark Royston and Diana Field, registrar and houseman, conscientious, hard-working.

But she wasn’t sure. Perhaps Sister Baker had seen the color appear in her cheeks when a remark, was made about Mark?

Things were different, though, when they were all off duty.
Diana would often see Mark, changed into his gray suit, run downstairs two steps at a time and disappear into the night.

Maybe he went to see Alec Neal? “He’s a surgical registrar like me,” Mark once told Diana, “but he lives outside his hospital, in an apartment in Hampstead. We talk for hours
... a
bout work, jobs, the future. I’ll always be grateful to him. He helped me when I was working for the Fellowship. We went over old exam papers together, and he cooked my meals. I couldn’t afford to have them at a restaurant.”

Sometimes Mark would visit Denise. There might be a dinner party at her Chelsea apartment. She invited models, photographers, all her friends connected with the glossy magazines, and they sat on the floor to eat her special Chinese dishes. Mark had to admit to Diana that she could cook “swell.”

Denise would sit in the middle of the room, probably dressed in tight velvet trousers and her favorite red satin blouse and dominate the conversation. He never left before two or three in the morning; and Diana usually knew when Denise had one of her parties—because Mark didn’t come down to breakfast the next day.

Diana was not really interested in this other life of Mark’s. He often told her about it, and she would listen quietly, but she cared more for the Mark she knew, the man she worked with and understood. Perhaps she was afraid to know too much about him in case the picture was spoiled, like finding a hideous monster on the other side of the moon.

Diana was surprised and excited one day to receive an invitation from Mr. Cole to dinner at his home, more so because Mark had been asked as well.

“Aren’t we honored, Sister!” Diana said, as the three of them met in the ward office on the appointed day.

“But I’m going too.” replied Sister. “I’m asked regularly every year. Mr. Cole’s thank-you offering to me—for services rendered.”

“Very nice, too,” Mark said.

“What’s his wife like?”

“Dictatorial, but extremely kind. Sounds impossible, doesn’t it? But you’ll see what I mean when you meet her.”

“Can’t say I’m looking forward to this dinner. I’ll probably say all the wrong things and lose my chance of a good reference at the end of the year. Anyway, I’ll give you both a lift,” Mark told them.

Sister raised her eyebrows. “A car, Mr. Royston? Have you been left some money?”

“No such luck. A friend lends me one, from
times to
time.” Mark was gazing out of the window.

“You seem to have very obliging friends,” remarked Sister drily, looking enquiringly at Diana.

“It’s the thin edge of the wedge,” he murmured. “Sooner or later—you have to do something in return.”

“Do you?” Diana asked flatly. “There are some people who manage to get through life always taking and never giving.”

Mark turned around and looked sadly at her. “Yeah, but I guess they’re not the happy ones.” He walked to the door. “We must be getting up to the theater, Diana. We’ll meet you in the front hall, six-thirty. Okay, Sister?”

“I’ll be there.”

It was a short operating list that aftern
o
on, and afterward Diana had time for a hot, leisurely bath before changing for dinner. She wished that she was being taken out by Mark, just the two of them, to dinner at an expensive restaurant, and then to seats in the dress circle at Covent Garden. She had never had this feeling before and was glad he couldn’t read her thoughts. He would probably leave the hospital on the spot if he suspected his house surgeon wanted to go out with him.

“Things must stay as they are,” Diana decided, as she brushed her hair vigorously. “It’s better that way. It must be strictly a surgical affair, as Mark once said.”

She could hear “What is this thing called love?” come from Mark’s room. “Denise is different,” she told herself. “She’s playing a game with him, which she enjoys. She must know she’s being hurt, but doesn’t seem to mind. Her tantrums on the telephone, her screams of “Never leave me!” are all a part of the act, forgotten 24 hours later, so Mark said.”

When he came to call for her she had left her door ajar, so he knocked twice and pushed it open. She was standing at the mirror wearing her high-necked white cotton dress. She knew the tight-fitting bodice outlined her figure, and the flared skirt and black pumps gave her an extremely youthful appearance.

Without looking around, she said, “I’m ready,” because in some strange, unaccountable way, Diana was overcome by shyness.

Mark stood in the doorway, and she could feel him gazing in admiration. He gave a long low whistle. “You look very pretty," he told her quietly.

She smiled happily and knew that she did.

Collecting her jacket from the chair, Diana walked out of the door, and Mark followed, saying, “What a perfume!” She realized that was the second time he had noticed her perfume and thought how ironic it was
... Richard’s Christmas present, another of his lavish gifts to her, presented with such flourish—what a success it was having!

Mark and Diana went downstairs in silence. She was excitedly aware that this was their first outing together and felt very conscious of every remark they made. She was completely content to be with Mark; the whole evening ahead of them.

“You sit in front with me, Sister, and direct me, or I’ll lose the way among all these country lanes,” said Mark, as they all climbed into the shining blue Cadillac that looked like a huge metal monster, glistening in the half-light of dusk.

Diana settled into the leopard-skin covering on the back seat. There was a faint smell of perfume in the car, different from her own. She wondered what she was like, this woman Mark must know so well and yet cared for so little. “Perhaps owners look like their cars, as well as their dogs?” thought Diana, with a smile. “In that case, she must be smooth, sleek and sophisticated.”

Ten minutes later they drew up at a large country house standing back from the road. Mr. Cole appeared at the doorway to welcome them. In the hall was Mrs. Cole; a tall, gray-haired woman, wearing a smart blue dress, and with pince-nez perched on the end of her nose. Towering over her husband, she greeted them effusively.

“Good evening! How nice to see you all!
... I know Sister. Without her Charity Ward would fall to bits. Ha! Ha! And Dr. Field, how do you do? I hope my husband isn’t making you work too hard? Ha! Ha!
... and Dr. Royston, I’ve heard such a lot of nice things about you, I can’t wait to have a long talk with you about Australia.”

Mrs. Cole ushered her guests into the large drawing room, decorated with her husband’s hunting trophies and tastefully furnished with genuine antique pieces.

Sipping the sherry she had been given, Diana listened to them all discussing the bazaar, which Mrs. Cole was organizing, for the Friends of Mansion House Hospital. She remembered Sister Baker telling her, “Mr. Cole’s wife used to be his Theater Sister, years ago, when he was first a consultant. I’ve heard that she was rather quiet and submissive in those days.
”

“The years have certainly changed all that,” Diana thought. “Mr. Cole is the quiet one now—in his home, that is.”

“My probl
e
m is,” declared Mrs. Cole, “who can I invite to open the bazaar? I mean, should it be an actor, or a politician—or a comedian?”

She looked around at them all, a perplexed expression on her face. Then, as various suggestions were put forward, the maid announced that dinner was served. Mr. Cole looked distinctly relieved; Diana had the feeling it was because his wife had talked of nothing but the bazaar for the last two months.

Melon was followed by fresh salmon, caught by Mr. Cole the previous day on his brother’s estate.

“Do you eat much salmon in Australia, Mark?” Mr. Cole asked affably. Diana had never heard him call Mark by his Christian name before.

“Now and then, if you know where to catch it sir.”

“I want to go there before I get too old. It must be good to live in a young, growing country.”

“Even so,
l
ots of us come over here, to learn from you,” Mark reminded him, scraping his, plate clean.

“But out there you’ve got an incentive to work hard, to build and create something. That’s so important
...
Have some more wine?”

Lemon
soufflé
and cheese and biscuits followed; then Mrs. Cole led Sister and Diana back to the drawing room, leaving the men to smoke cigars over their brandy. She went out to see to the coffee, and Diana, feeling full of the contentment that comes after an excellent meal in pleasant company, relaxed in the armchair.

“You’re quiet tonight, Sister. Not your usual bright self.”

There was a moment’s silence; then Sister heaved a deep sigh. “Perhaps I am,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. I suppose I’d better tell you why.” Diana waited, wondering. “You—you know that pain I sometimes have—?”

“Yes?”

“The results of Mr. Cole’s investigations came back today.”

“Well?” Diana was leaning forward expectantly.

Sister looked at her calmly, blinking through her spectacles. The room suddenly seemed very quiet. “He says there’s a swelling in the aorta. He’ll have to operate.”

Diana gazed thoughtfully into the fire. So that was it. An aortic aneurysm. For a moment she forgot Sister, her friend, was sitting opposite her, and automatically started to recall all the symptoms, and match them with the final diagnosis. Of course, everything fitted perfectly. And the treatment? Diana knew that without an operation, the abnormal part of the aorta could break open at any time, and the main artery supplying the lower part of the body would be out of action. It would be like the bursting of a dam, fatal within minutes.

Before Diana had fully realized the significance of Sister’s words, Mrs. Cole came in with the coffee tray, and the conversation turned to the proposed building of a swimming pool at the hospital.

The rest of the evening passed quickly. Mark looked more relaxed and seemed to enjoy talking with Mr. Cole about their surgical experiences, in America. Diana was happy to be away from the hospital, to see Mark in a different setting; not always in his white coat, or rubber gloves and mask. It was, she thought, an unnatural existence. No dances or tennis-club parties or outings to the theater for them, as other couples enjoy, as she and Richard had known.

When they left the house, it was dark and raining hard. The three of them waved to Mr. Cole as the car went down the drive.

“That was a lovely evening,” said Sister, settling back in her seat beside Mark. “And isn’t it a glorious house?”

“You can say that again. There aren’t any old houses like that at home,” Mark replied.

“And the meal was delicious,” added Diana contentedly, from the back seat.

They were driving along one of the narrow, twisting country lanes that led toward the hospital. Although the car had powerful headlights, the rain beating on the road and onto the windows gave a dazzling effect. It was Sister who first saw the man step into the lane from the left.