Nurse Angela

NURSE ANGELA

Hilary Preston

Until recently, Angela had led a relatively quiet life; now, without any warning, her emotions were being taxed to the very limit!

CHAPTER ONE

“
Good evening, Sister.”

“Good evening, Matron.”

Tall and slender in her navy blue dress and starched apron, her shining fair hair half-hidden under her crisp, white cap, Angela stood before Matron’s desk waiting to receive the report. Later, she would take full charge of the hospital for the night.

“Did you sleep well, Sister?” Matron inquired absently as she turned the key of her personal drawer in the large, substantial-looking desk.

“Yes, thank you, Matron,” Angela answered politely.

“Good.” Matron’s eyes dropped to the report on her desk. “Well now, Sister, everyone seems much the same. It’s been a fairly quiet day on the whole. There have been only two admissions: one on women’s medical, the other on the male side. Mrs. Taylor is a heart case. She has come in more for rest than anything. Her husband says she hasn’t had an attack for a long time, so there’s nothing to worry about there. The other admission is a young man with osteomyelitis of the acromion process. His arm was put in an airplane splint this afternoon and he’s comfortable. Dr. LeFeure has seen them both.”

She rose, a short, plump little woman in her middle fifties who, having worked hard in her day, was now taking life as easily as she could in this small, hospital annex.

“You can read the rest for yourself, Sister. I’m going to my little flat for a nice cup of tea.”

When Matron had gone Angela sat down at the desk to read the report in full.

There were only six wards in what was called Kirkwhite Road Annex. For that was just what it was; an annex to the large General Hospital of Lockerfield. When the General was full, patients were admitted straight to Kirkwhite, but more often patients nearing convalescence or requiring long, slow treatment were transferred
and nursed there. The tempo was slower, less dramatic perhaps, but Angela loved it.

She started on her round, beginning with the children’s wards. Most of the children would be asleep—indeed she hoped they all would be—but on the morning round each child would be wide awake demanding her attention.

“Good evening, Nurse Hodgson,” she said to the nurse on Wendy, the name of the little girls’ ward. “All asleep?”

As Angela walked slowly along the rows of beds and cots, her heart contracted with tenderness as she looked at each flushed or pale cheek, innocent mouth, and the young arms flung out in childish abandon on the white embossed counterpanes. In silence Sister and Nurse continued up one side of the ward and down the other pausing near the door at the cot of an eighteen-month-old child.

“Dear little Penny. It’s wonderful to see her getting well again, isn’t it, Nurse?” Angela said softly.

The nurse gave Angela a quick smile before glancing down at the child in the cot.

“Yes, Sister, it is. She had a rough time, poor little mite.”

Angela nodded. At the door she turned. “Well, things are nice and quiet at the moment, Nurse. We must hope it keeps that way.”

At the halfway mark between the two wards she said “thank you” to
Nurse Hodgson and went over to Peter Pan, as the boys’ ward was called.

She rarely lingered on the first round of the night unless any fretful child or dangerously ill patient needed her attention. The nurses were busy with four hourly medicines and treatment, and she did not want to hinder them. Apart from that, she liked to see as many of the patients as possible before they went to sleep. Also, Dr. LeFeure called in the office about ten o’clock and she liked to have the drugs and medicines checked and the round finished by then. On the two o’clock round she could make sure that everyone was sleeping, and on the morning round she could take time to talk to the patients and linger for a while with the children. Dr. LeFeure never did a full round at night but would see any patient she was worried about.

A slight frown settled on her normally smooth brow as she thought of the doctor. She had been the night sister at Kirkwhite Annex for six months and was on no better footing with him now than she had been on her first night of duty. His manner had been more cool and formal than was really necessary as he asked her the usual questions—where she had trained and why she had chosen to do permanent night duty.

“I find night duty suits me,” she had replied briefly.

She always had difficulty opening her heart to strangers. People who liked her said she was reserved; those of less understanding or who were jealous of her good looks and air of good breeding said she was unfriendly. But how could she say to this strange man even though he was a doctor, that she found night duty immeasurably satisfying to her spirit, that she loved the infinite peace and quiet of the night, the wonder of each new dawn, the freshness of the mornings?

To himself, Simon LeFeure thought, “In other words, mind your own business.” Aloud he said, “Some people wouldn’t like the responsibility.”

She replied coolly: “I’m not afraid of responsibility, Doctor. I am fully trained.”

“Of course,” he muttered. Why were these women always so touchy about their training?

Yet in spite of this cool start there had developed between them in the following weeks an easy companionableness springing mainly from a mutual interest in the work, and she had begun to look forward to his visits each night. She discovered that he was interested in the psychology of the sick and the subject intrigued her greatly. Then suddenly his manner changed again and he became formal and reserved once more. Vaguely, she wondered what she had done, if anything, to bring about this change. However, she shrugged and told herself that it did not matter to her. Her thoughts switched to her patients again, sifting out in her mind which matters to draw to his attention. A sleeping pill here, some sudden, unaccountable pain there.

When she reached her' office Simon LeFeure was already waiting for her.

He was standing by the fireplace, tall and lean and astonishingly good-looking. His straight, fair hair gave him a deceptively youthful look that was appealing. Yet something about his gray eyes belied his appearance of youth and revealed disillusionment and suffering.

“Good evening, Sister,” he said in a pleasant voice that held the merest hint of a French accent.

“Good evening, Doctor. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Not at all. I’ve only just this minute arrived. How is everybody?”

“Pretty fair,” she answered, detecting with some surprise a slightly warmer note in his voice. “Mrs. Taylor, one of today’s admissions, seems fairly comfortable, but I’ve made sure that the oxygen apparatus is ready.”

He flashed her a look of approval. “You leave nothing to chance, do you, Sister? According to her history, Mrs. Taylor hasn’t had a heart attack for quite a long time.”

“I don’t take chances with a heart case. I have never forgotten a similar case in my probation days.”

“What happened?”

“It was more a case of what might have happened. One particular night before I went on duty, I had what some people would call a ‘hunch.’”

He looked interested. “Tell me about it.”

“Well, the thought came quite clearly that, the minute I went on duty I should make sure the oxygen apparatus was fixed up. It so happened that a heart case similar to Mrs. Taylor had been admitted that day. No immediate danger of attacks, just a ‘tired heart.’ However, I followed up my hunch and found, rather surprisingly, that the oxygen cylinder was empty. I rang a porter and had a full one brought up. It took him all of five minutes to uncouple the empty cylinder because the union screw was so tight. It was no sooner fixed up than the patient had quite a bad attack. If I hadn’t followed my hunch she might have died.”

He was silent for a moment, then he said, “Hunches are peculiar things. What is your explanation of them?”

She looked at him. “Need one give it a name, Doctor? What is it that gives us a wisdom and insight at times beyond human limits and a patience and courage in times of stress that we didn’t know we were capable of?”

He did not answer. So many conflicting emotions seemed to flicker across his face: hope, mistrust, belief and incredulity and finally, disillusionment. He seemed about to make some further comment; then suddenly it was as if a door had been shut in her face.

He asked abruptly: “How is the osteomyelitis case?”

When he had gone Angela sat down at her desk with a sigh. For a while they had seemed to get on an easy footing again, then down had come the shutter. Perhaps he really considered her his subordinate and did not want to become familiar. But deep in her heart she felt it was something far removed from the trivialities of hospital etiquette that had brought that abrupt change in Simon LeFeure.

Presently, Nurse Hodgson brought in a tray of tea. Angela was just pouring herself a cup when the telephone shrilled on her desk. “Hello, Kirkwhite Annex, Night Sister speaking.”

“Well, hello, Florence Nightingale,” came a cheery voice. “Have you put all your patients to sleep yet?”

Her face brightened into an amused smile. “Roger, you idiot. I haven’t been around and finished them all off if that’s what you mean. What on earth is going on there? I can hear a fearful racket.”

“A few of the gang are here. Sorry you have to be on duty. Debbie looked in, then Tony and Milly turned up. Poor old Pete has been trying to write, but he’s had to give up. We’re all getting together at the Salad Bowl in the morning, just for coffee. Will you be able to join us?”

“I think so. About 11?”

“Yes. See you then
... and don’t be late. ’Bye.”

Laughing softly to herself Angela put the receiver back on its cradle. What a tonic Roger was. He was the very breath of a different world. A commercial artist, easy going and unconventional, he provided the light relief to the serious nature of her own work. He had many drawings of her in his sketchbook. One was an alarming caricature figure of a nurse, a demoniacal smile on her face dosing terror stricken patients with castor oil from an enormous spoon; another was of her saying, “you look much better today” to a hapless, tortured patient, every conceivable part of him tied up in bandages. Yes, Roger was amusing and colorful
... and different from most men she had met. He appealed to her lighter side. Any of her nurses seeing her in his company off duty would scarcely recognize the cool, efficient, and reserved Night Sister. Her colleagues often teased her about Roger. One of them had seen her out with him and ever since, he had been referred to as “Lindsay’s Bluebeard.” For along with his other unconventionalities Roger wore a small beard; red though, not blue.

Angela had tackled him once as to why he had grown it. “Could it be an affectation?” she asked.

“Not a bit of it, darling. In my line of work I’m continually working to the clock: editors, advertising agents wanting drawings quickly. Sometimes I’ve barely time to eat, still less shave. With a beard I can go unshaven without looking stubbly and uncouth.”

Angela put her cloak around her shoulders and went across to the nurses’ residence to lock up, thinking to herself that he didn’t appear to be working to much of a deadline at the moment. Was he always as snowed under with work as he would have her believe?

It was an uneventful night, and after she had given the report to Matron and had breakfast she changed into a light tweed suit of a pretty spring shade and went out.

Her pulses quickened as she stepped out into the glorious spring morning. It was that period in mid-May when nature is at its very best. The leaves of the beech trees flanking the busy main road were still fresh, pale green. Soon the dirt and dust of the traffic and the heat of the summer sun would cause them to become dull and tired-looking, but just now they were as new as a bride’s wedding dress. With a buoyancy she always felt when going out in the morning after a night on duty she walked quickly along toward the center of the town gazing every now and then at the patches of blue sky and the ever-changing formation of the fluffy white clouds. Night duty had its compensations, and this was one of them: being able to enjoy the freshness and beauty of the lovely mornings while others were working.

Lockerfield was a small market town on the edge of the Derbyshire moors. It had no heavy industries, and its atmosphere was clean and fresh in comparison with the large industrial towns. Built on a hill, its narrow streets wound steeply uphill and down with offshoots in the most odd and unexpected places, which had quaint-sounding names such as Packer’s Row, The Shambles, and Potters’ Barn. Equally quaint were its shops and other buildings. Built in the black and white Tudor style, they leaned at all angles in the most intriguing way. Yet in spite of this air of antiquity and quaintness, Lockerfield prided itself on being up to date. Its civic theater was quite famous for its modern plays as well as its Shakespearean season. The clothes in the fashion shops compared favorably with any of those in the larger towns and cities, and its citizens were well accommodated in the way of cinemas, theaters and dancing places.

The Salad Bowl in Knifesmith’s Gate where Angela was meeting Roger and his friends was a typical example of the architecture of the town—its upper frontage seemed to balance precariously on the very thin ledge of its lower story. Inside, the old oak tables and chairs gleamed a welcome and the low raftered ceiling added warmth and friendliness.

Roger and his friends had already arrived and were seated around a large, oval table.

“Ah, here’s Angela,” Roger cried as he caught sight of her. “C’mon along, Nurse, and sit by me.”

“Hello, everyone,” she said smiling as she sat beside Roger. “Isn’t it a lovely morning?”

She received a loud and prolonged yawn in reply, from Milly who was a photographer’s model.

“How on earth you look so fresh and sparkling after being up all night, I don’t know.”

The girl seated on the other side of Roger gave a faint, mocking smile.

“Well,” she drawled. “I expect she sleeps half the night. There’s a nurse on each ward. All the Sister has to do is take an occasional stroll around.”

“Are you going to stand for that, Angela?” asked Peter Marsh who shared an apartment with Roger.

Angela smiled, while Roger pushed back his chair and looked from one girl to the other with interest and amusement.

Angela said good humoredly: “If that’s what Debbie likes to think, I don’t mind. Sometimes it’s a quiet night—we always hope it is for the patients’ sakes. At other times it can be pretty hectic.” She knew that Debbie was jealous of her friendship with Roger, and though jealousy was not one of her own particular vices, Angela could understand it in others. She and Roger had known each other for a long time. They had come from the same village. She had not known that he was in Lockerfield, however, until a few months ago when they had met by accident at an exhibition of drawings and photography. He invited her to lunch and they took a fresh liking to each other. She had quickly sensed that Debbie was jealous, and a hint from Milly had confirmed this. If Roger had shown the slightest preference for Debbie, Angela would immediately have made herself scarce. As it was, Roger seemed to seek her out more and more and their friendship had deepened.

Roger was whispering in her ear. “Ask Peter if he’s had any news of his book.”

Angela’s glance quickened inquiringly. Then she said, smiling across the table: “Any news of the great work, Peter?”

Peter smiled rapturously and pushed a letter over to her. It was a letter of acceptance from a publisher.

“Peter, how wonderful. Congratulations. I’m really glad for you. Are you going to celebrate?”