Island Hospital (13 page)

The patient opened drowsy eyes as they approached. “That’s grand stuff you gave me, Doc. Better than a dose of whisky any day. Say, this table of yours is hard. Suppose you keep it this way so you know that your patient is really under the anesthetic when he stops grumbling about it.”

Alan chuckled. “That’s about the size of it, Johnson, old man. I’ve brought Miss Griffiths to hold you
r
hand while I set this arm of yours. It’s going to hurt rather a lot, I’m afraid, but I’ll do my best to make it short and sweet.”

Sheila’s eyes were full of admiration as she watched Alan skilfully manipulate the end of the fracture into place. She winced as Johnson’s fingers bit into her hand. His face drained of color and his lips whitened, but the only sound was his heavy breathing.

“That’s it. Slip a stockinette on for me, Sheila, there’s a good girl.”

She unclasped the clenched fingers and did Alan’s bidding. “Slab first and then the first circular bandage. Swing it over the back of the
hand
...
now if you hold the arm, I’ll finish it off.” Sheila slipped her hands smoothly under the half-completed plaster cast and watched Alan shape it into the correct position. She glanced down at their patient, but his eyes were closed and he was sleeping as peacefully as a child.

Alan grinned at Sheila. “Good old morphia ... saved us a lot of bother.”

“But the actual reduction must have hurt an awful lot,” Sheila objected. She rinsed the plaster off and stared at the fingerprints, blue against the paleness of her hand.

Alan followed the direction of her gaze. “Sorry about that.” He picked up her hand and inspected it gently. “That was my fault. I should have given him the wood to grip.” Before she could stop him, he raised it to his lips. “There, I’ve kissed it all better.”

Sheila, very pink, rescued her hand and looked at it resentfully. It had let her in for something that she hadn’t bargained for.

Alan was completely unrepentant. “Fetch the trolley and I’ll heave him over on to it. I think there’s an empty bed in the end ward. He’ll be better for a good night’s sleep.”

Sheila brought in the trolley and pushed it up against the table. Alan lifted the burly logger as if he was a baby and lowered him gently on to the trolley, but he never stirred.

“When did it happen?” Sheila asked curiously.

“Last night,” Alan said grimly, “and he’s been traveling all day, handling a boat single-handed, to get here. Yet he’s the man Matron would have turned away. It beats me. I suppose it’s a hangover from Doctor Graham’s time, and I don’t imagine for one moment that he knew what was going on. She’ll work like a stevedore when there’s work to be done, and yet there are days when only rows of empty beds neat and tidy will satisfy her. They say it takes all
kinds
...
”

They pushed the trolley into the end ward and Alan once again hefted Johnson over on to the bed. His head lolled against Alan’s arm, but he managed to raise heavy eyelids.

“You sure know how to pick them, Doc,” he muttered and slept again.

Alan laughed. “He’s got something there, you know, Sheila.” He glanced at her flushed cheeks. “Did you know?” His voice was curiously hesitant and unsure.

Sheila summoned her courage and met his eyes. “I’m beginning to know,” she said simply and dropped her gaze.

Mary’s softly padding footsteps came toward them. “Are you coming to supper? Matron says to tell you.”

Alan groaned. “Yes, thank you, Mary. Tell Matron Miss Griffiths and Doctor Greenwood are coming.”

Sheila folded the blankets on the trolley, not daring to look at Alan again. She knew he was standing very close to her and every nerve tingled. His hand came down on her shoulder and with difficulty she suppressed a start.

“Come on, Sheila, we’d better do what the Matron says.” Sheila followed him meekly. Was he aware ... as aware as she ... of the feeling between them that trembled on the brink of awakening? A cold shiver ran down her back. Perhaps it was all her imagination and the only outcome would be a burst of mocking laughter from Alan. She began to realize that she was afraid of Alan ... at least afraid of his scorn.

Clare departed on the morning boat and Harbor Hospital settled into a quieter routine without her disturbing presence. Patients came and patients went. Sheila and Matron shared the calls with a Norwegian nurse who had turned up in reply to
Matron’s advertisement, and everything seemed to run very smoothly.

Sheila found herself spending more of her time with Alan. The Norwegian girl was a good anesthetist in her quiet way, and the three of them would work through the cases. Olga had little to say as her English was limited, but Alan and Sheila made up for her. Once the more serious stage of the operation was over, Alan would relax and start teasing Sheila unmercifully about English methods. She was getting more used to it now and no longer bridled up in quick defence.

“You mean the big chief will have five or
six people scrubbed up with him! I suppose they all take turns tying his knots for him.” Alan lifted his eyebrows in a quizzical gesture above his mask.

Sheila was not to be roused. “They can see better that way,” she retorted. “You can’t see much from the gallery and it’s only one or two of the hospitals that have the money to try out the big TV screens. If they weren’t scrubbed up, the surgeon might brush against them and he’d raise old Harry.” Her eyes softened above the severe line of her mask. “You know perfectly well that in a big case you’d be glad of some extra help.”

Alan nodded. “You’ve got something there. I wouldn’t have to send so many of the more interesting cases to Vancouver.” His eyes became somber.

“Can’t you get an assistant?” Sheila asked earnestly.

Alan shrugged his shoulders. “I believe Matron has someone in mind, but of course the board will have to agree. If you average out the number of patients treated per day over the year they could say we have no grounds for extra help. Statistics don’t take into account the fact that our patients often come in batches or that calls may take us many miles away from the hospital just at a time when a bad accident requires my help.”

Sheila sighed. “I suppose a younger man might object to being cut off from the world so far from ordinary hospital facilities like laboratories and so on.”

Alan pulled off his mask and gloves. “Slap a dressing on, Sheila. And don’t be in such a hurry to relegate me to the ranks of the older men and has-beens.” He ran his fingers in mock anxiety through his crisp red curls. “No gray hairs yet, are there?”

Sheila pretended to be apologetic. “Too bad about your inferiority complex and all that. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

Alan stared at her. “Whew! Listen to the girl, Olga. You would never suspect that she was a meek little English miss who never said boo to a goose not so very long ago.”

Olga smiled heavily. “I do not think I understand. What is this thing you call boo to the goose?”

Alan, laughed heartily. “Never mind, Olga.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Thanks for the anesthetic ... perfect relaxation ... couldn’t ask for more.”

Olga kept her eyes on his face until she was satisfied that he meant he was pleased. “That is good. Please ... I go now?” Alan and Sheila saw the patient back to bed and handed him over to the assistant nurse.

“Come on, Sheila. Someone else can clear up for you. It’s long past lunch time and I could eat two horses. Can you spare me a hand later? I want to get that list of patients finished and then I can take out my area map.”

He smiled at Sheila’s puzzled face. “Didn’t I tell you? If I use colors for numbers ... say blue equals ten patients and green is five and red is fifteen ... then a red, blue and green dot at Fisherman’s Cove means there are 30 probable patients in that particular spot.”

Sheila’s eyes grew warm with admiration. “Alan, you have some wonderful ideas.”

He looked at her sceptically until he saw she meant it. “It’s not so dusty,” he admitted brazenly.

Sheila’s face grew troubled. “Don’t you ever feel that you’re being wasted in a small place like this?”

She jumped back as Alan thrust his face blazing with anger toward her. “Don’t you ever say anything like that to me again! You little fool! Don’t you realize that small places like this need all the help I can give!” He relaxed his threatening attitude a little. “Sorry I blew my top like that ... but I see red when anyone says that to me. Don’t think I’m blowing my own trumpet when I say Mary Harbor needs me and the Harbor Hospital is only part of what I can give. I’d far rather be a big frog in a very small puddle than one of many small frogs in a place like Vancouver
...
and it’s not conceit that makes me say it either. See
...
?”

Sheila had recovered her poise. She laid her hand lightly on Alan’s arm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to tread on your private corn. Do you think we could get our lunch now—I’m awfully hungry.”

Alan laughed. “I’d forgotten about it. Mary will have to make my share three horses now. Come and get it, honey child.” They walked off down the corridor side by side, the big man with his red head turned attentively toward the girl’s fair one. They didn’t notice Matron watching them from her office with a satisfied smile on her face.

Clare came back from her holiday all too soon, alive with vitality and full of gay stories about her doings in the States. She was not alone, but came off the steamer accompanied by a rather serious looking young man whom she introduced to Sheila. “This is George Grainer
...
Sheila Griffiths. Run along, George, Matron will
be waiting to see you.”

Sheila stared after the departing figure, puzzled by his apparently familiar appearance.

Who’s George Grainger?” Clare laughed shortly. “Matron’s son, of course.”

Sheila stared at her and then nodded. “I’d forgotten she had married twice. I suppose Painter was her second husband.”

Clare snorted. “You suppose wrong. Joyce Painter was born a Painter, and she’s not the person to let any man change her mind or her name.” She began to giggle naughtily. “I don’t suppose she’d have had George if she’d known in advance that he wouldn't be a girl.”

Sheila was silent. She was remembering once again that baby head which rested so naturally against the curve of Matron’s arm. She wondered how Jenny was getting on in her single-handed struggle to make a place for her son.

Clare shrugged her shoulders and picked up her cases. “Well, I’d better get myself unpacked. Where’s Alan?”

Sheila looked at her slowly and was conscious of a pang. A pleasant thought-free interlude must now end. “I think he’s in his office.”

Clare’s attention sharpened. “What bee is buzzing in his bonnet now?”

Sheila stifled quick-rising resentment. “Something to do with his area survey, I think,” she said reluctantly.

Clare smiled, not very pleasantly. “How dull! I see where I’ll have to brighten up some of his ideas.” She went away, leaving Sheila seething with an unaccustomed mixture of anger and jealousy that left her weak and trembling. She was only thankful that she was left in peace until she regained her composure.

She sat down in a big chair by the picture window and was pretending to read a magazine when she heard footsteps. It was Matron, accompanied by George Grainger. As Sheila rose to her feet she had difficulty in concealing her amusement at seeing so exact an image of Joyce Painter in the young man by her side.

Matron was very brief. “George, this is our Junior Sister, Miss Griffiths. She will show you around. I have a case to see to.” Sheila almost gawked as the young man said nonchalantly, “Thanks, Joyce, I’ll see you later.”

She had time to compose her face before George crossed to the big window.

“I say, this is some view. Is it always like this?”

Sheila joined him and became very conscious of the admiring gaze of George Grainger. She was beginning to get used to his appearance and noticed with surprise that Matron’s blue eyes had been replaced by dark brown ones that sat strangely beneath a replica of her strong brows.

“Sometimes it changes when there’s a bad nor’easter,” Sheila said rather shyly. “I haven’t been here long enough to see it in all its moods.”

George smiled warmly at her. “I forgot Joyce did tell me you were a newcomer, all the way from England. Funny thing to find a pretty girl like you stuck in this neck of the woods.”

Sheila felt a flash of annoyance. “I did come here to work,” she said rather abruptly.

George’s face became more serious. “So have I, as a matter of fact.”

Sheila showed polite interest. “What’s your job?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I forgot. I don’t suppose Joyce bothered to mention it. I’m doing medical research, and for the moment I’m combining it with the job of giving old Alan here a hand.”

Sheila felt naughty all of a sudden. “Really
...”
was her only reply.

George laughed. “Say it again, do. It takes the English to put full expression into a word like that and make it the perfect squelch.”

Sheila joined in his laughter. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude ... it was just
...”

“...
my stupid take-it-for-granted manner. I know. I’m always getting told off about it.”

Sheila was grateful when the others came in for dinner. She was finding George rather heavy going. Dinner was a lighthearted affair. Clare kept them in fits of laughter over some of her American adventures. Sheila was seated next to George and found herself almost overwhelmed by his attentions. In the rare intervals when he was not talking to her, Sheila stole a look at Alan. On one occasion she was surprised to find him looking very crossly in her direction, but he looked away before she could catch his eye. She smiled to herself, feeling oddly reassured by this evide
n
ce of his jealousy.

She was a little dismayed and even hurt by the way Clare managed to push her on to the outside fringe of things. She wasn’t actually unfriendly, but she always managed to include Sheila as an afterthought and with such an apologetic air that Sheila couldn’t be sure that it was deliberate. Whether by accident or design, Sheila found herself assigned to go with George around the district. It puzzled her a little,
a
s she felt it would have been far better for Alan to show him the ropes. If it hadn’t been for Jim, Sheila felt her ignorance would have been shown up at every turn. George seemed only too pleased to have her company and made his admiration far too obvious for Sheila’s liking. She wouldn’t have minded Alan’s being made just a shade jealous, but this was going too far.

The friendly Alan of the past few weeks had completely vanished. The half-finished map with its bold red, blue, and green dots remained untouched on the wall of his office. A surprisingly moody Alan flung himself into a flurry of work that left everyone, including himself, breathless and irritable. He nagged at the mothers to have their children X-rayed, bullied them into having their courses of inoculations completed, and didn’t let up until the lists of children’s names of those who had been done satisfied even his hunger for perfection.

Sheila wouldn’t have minded all this nor the trips with George quite so much if she hadn’t surprised a too-satisfied look on Clare’s face on one of these occasions. She began to wonder how much of a hand Clare was taking in all these trips. Had she made some excuse for not going so that it was Sheila that went each time.

She waylaid Alan in the corridor and ignored his impatience to be off. “Alan, when are you going to make the trip you mentioned?”