Nurse Trent's Children (15 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As the day wore on, C
athy found herself becoming progressively more and more nervous for the night that lay ahead, her first lesson, the things she felt sure she had forgotten, the doctor’s censure—Dr. Malcolm himself.

A dozen times she ran upstairs to make sure she had put
o
ut her manuals and had included an exercise book for notes. When she sharpened her pencil a third time Elvira commented dryly, “There soon won’t be any pencil left.”

It seemed no time before the girls were home from school again, the play period supervised, dinner served, Children bathed and put to bed.

“This is it,” accepted Cathy grimly, and she pushed her things into her briefcase and went down the stairs.

The weight of the briefcase under her arm made her think of training days in England. How often had she run across to a lecture, legs in their black stockings, hurrying because she was late as usual, cap bouncing on her head. How she had envied the nurses in their crimson capes. Once she had said to Judith, “It’s worth the drudge just to wear a cape.”

“Little Red Riding Hood had one,” grumbled Judith, “and with much less trouble.”

“But look what happened to her.”

“Nothing to what will happen to us when we don’t pass.”

“You mean
if
we
don’t, and I can’t believe that. We’ll all come through with flying colors. Florence Nightingales every one of us.”

As she pulled on an unheroic navy jacket instead of the heroic crimson cape, Cathy wondered what Helen and Judy were doing now. Standing alone in the lobby, she felt suddenly small and homesick. She had half a mind to turn back, climb the stairs, and go to bed. In bed one could try to rid oneself of all the desolation that sometimes came crowding relentlessly; then in the morning, drained of useless regret, face a brave new day. She hesitated, tempted, but the crimson cape triumphed. With her chin high she went out to meet her fate.

David was waiting for her. “I’m walking over with you.”

“There’s no need really.”

“I think there is. It’s quite dark. Besides, I have a letter to mail.”

“I’ll be a few hours, David. You mustn’t wait for me.”

“I’m only delivering the goods, Cathy. I’ll leave the returning to the doc.”

They fell in step together and were soon discussing their old topics—everything to do with Little Families, of course.
They talked easily and companionably, and Cathy was glad he had been waiting. She had now no time to become nervous again, for before she knew it they were at the office gate.

David did not linger. “Good luck, Nurse Trent,” he encouraged and was gone.

Cathy went down the path, but before she could press the bell the door opened.

“Doctor’s expecting you. Office hours are over. Go right ahead,” beamed Mrs. Williams.

Dr. Malcolm was adjusting the curtains as she entered. His hand dropped to his side and he came to his desk, waving her to the other smaller table.

“Sit down, Miss Trent. Enjoy your ‘soothing’ walk?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I see now why you were so anxious for the exercise. I should think he would make a very soothing companion,”

Cathy answered obscurely, “Very.”

“A pity though, you did not tell me your real reason for refusing my offer of transport at the first.”

“I did.”

The doctor did not comment. He merely raised one supercilious brow and, nettled, Cathy broke into stumbling explanation.

“I met him by accident. David had a letter to mail. We walked down together. Why do you always have to probe like this?”

Barely concealing a yawn, Dr. Malcolm said, “Please take out your books, Miss Trent.”

Cathy obeyed, annoyed with him for having baited her, annoyed with herself for having bitten.

He leafed over her
Modern Nursing Procedure
and suddenly shot out a question.

Still upset with herself, she could not answer.

He turned another page and asked a second question.

This time she did not know and told him so.

A third question she made a guess at and failed.

“So,” he said judiciously and turned too obviously to the beginning of the book.

“Perhaps you can remember a little elementary stuff. Ward management, for instance. How would you clean a patient’s locker?”

Red with indignation, Cathy remained silent.

“Come, Miss Trent, I’m waiting. How would you clean a patient’s locker?”

Resentfully she answered because she knew he would insist on it, the first page of her old manual rising before her, “The outside is washed with hot soapy water, the drawer is removed and scrubbed, the inside of the cupboard is scrubbed and left open to dry.” She raised mutinous eyes to hi
m.

“Pray proceed.”

“But
...
”

“Proceed.”

“Fresh paper is placed in the drawer and cupboard. Metal tops are polished with mineral turpentine or methylated spirit.”

“Good, in fact,
very
good. A pass in Stage 1, Nurse Cathy.” Cathy flung down the pencil with which she had been playing nervously as she stumbled out her answer. She moved to rise.

“Sit down, Miss Trent, and please compose yourself. The first essential of a nurse is a calm, sweet and pliable nature.”

“We are not expected to be angels.”

Again the soaring brow. “Who spoke of angels in the same breath as Catherine Trent? Enough of this—” as she went to rise again “—and enough of this elementary stuff, too. You must know more than patients’ lockers. What are the requirements for an antipyretic pack?”

She remembered it at once and told him clearly and concisely. “How would you reckon the amount of drug to give a child over two years and under twelve? You may demonstrate that one on paper.”

S
he wrote it down and handed it to him.

That took considerably longer than the other questions. She thought she handled it all right.

He did not commend her.
C
athy had the feeling he never would.

More questions and answers followed, and he corrected and explained in one or two places where she had gone wrong. Then, leaning forward, he flung out his arm and said unexpectedly, “My pulse, please.”

She took it tremblingly and consulted her watch.

In her agitation she held her thumb instead of her three fingers there at first, and only caught her own beat. Then she calmed down and noted the rate, rhythm, volume and tension. She told him and let his wrist go.

“It took you longer than it should, and you don’t throw the patients’ wrists away when you have finished. Would you say I was normal?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“The artery felt round, smooth, firm and elastic. The intervals between the beats were equal in length and force.”

“In other words, you would not say I was suffering from any emotion?”

“No, Dr. Malcolm.”

He looked at her oddly a long moment, then he closed the books and got up from his desk.

“Strange,” he said.

She did not question this, but sat silent as he went to the door and called, “Now, please, Mrs. Williams.”

He came back. “Mrs. Williams is making coffee. Class is over. Please relax.”

“There is no need for you to give me coffee.”

“On the contrary, I consider it a duty, as it is a ward nurse’s duty to offer it to the visiting surgeon.”

She sat ill at ease, and noting it, he said, “You don’t seem happy. Could it be that Mr. Kennedy is waiting outside to take you back? By all means let us have him with us. It is too cold to stand at the gate.”

He had risen, and she said quickly, “He is not waiting. He said
...
” Her
v
oice trailed off.

“Yes? What did he say, Miss Trent?”

“That he was only delivering the goods,” she returned unwillingly.

“And I am to return them? I suppose I must if that is the arrangement.”

“I can walk.” Her reply was spirited.

“Of course. You walked over. ” He glanced across at her.

Then footsteps sounded in the hall, and he called, “Come in, Mrs.
Williams
. You know our housemother. Put the tray there. Miss Trent will pour.”

Cathy did and did it badly. Her fingers were trembling, and she had never felt less like displaying social grace.

“Hands like white moths fluttering over teacups,” murmured Dr. Malcolm. “That’s a favorite
cliché
of the novelists, isn’t it?”

“Mine are brown moths,” she said unevenly.

He put down his cup and took her hand in his and examined it. He saw the short, square-cut, workaday nails, the pricks the needle had made in her index finger because she did not wear a thimble, the little scratches a woman gathers in her daily trivial round. Suddenly he wanted to kiss it. He wanted to lift it to his lips and press a kiss in the rather lined little hollow.
Loving, capable, tender little hands,
he thought,
dedicated to the service of others.

He raised his eyes and met her startled blue ones. He let the hand go and said gently, “Yes, brown moths. You need some bleaching lotion. You also need a thimble.”

“I’ve finished my coffee. May I wash the cups?”

“You are not at Redgates now. You are my guest.”

“I thought I was your pupil.”

“I am corrected. Pupil it is. Would you like some more questions, or are you ready for home?”

“I’m a little tired. I think this is enough for one night.”

“It is for you to say. If you are weary I gather you would prefer to ride...?”

“That would put you to trouble.”

“No more than walking. I’ll get out the car.”

“It doesn’t matter. I mean, if you’ve garaged it, we’ll walk.”

“My dear Miss Trent, one is as much trouble as the other. The only trouble is waiting for you to make up your mind.”

She said coolly, thinking this would be the quicker way to be rid of him, “I’d sooner drive.”

He shot her an enigmatic look. She could not have guessed what it meant.

“Drive it is then. Put on your coat and we’ll go out by the office door.”

It was a clear winter’s night. Overhead the sky was garlanded
with stars. Underfoot the earth was crisp and cold. In the morning there would be a frost.

He insisted on tucking her in, although she protested she would be home in five minutes.

“That depends on whether we go straight there.”

“Of course we go straight there.”

He did not reply. He concentrated on the road, and presently he turned sharply through the familiar cherry gates and drove her right up to the girls’ door.

“Thank you,
Dr. Malcolm.”

“My pleasure, Miss Trent.”

As she fumbled with the latch he called softly, “So endeth the first lesson.”

The second lesson came and went, the third, fourth and fifth. She was accustomed to him as a teacher now. He was a hard but thorough teacher. She knew she was receiving a sound training. She was becoming confident of her knowledge. Instantly, as though sensing her feeling of superiority, he undermined her self
-
satisfaction by shooting new questions obviously designed to confuse and bewilder her.

“That’s not in the manual.”

“Neither is a patient in a manual. You can’t do everything
by the book, Trent. Use your common sense.
Think
.”

He had an uncomplaining Mrs. Williams in, and Cathy had to arrange her in given postures.

“Fowler’s position, nurse.”

“Semiprone, Aunty Cathy.”

“How would you place Mrs. Williams if I ordered left lateral, Miss Trent?”

As she obeyed him he made sarcastic comments on behalf of the “patient.”

“The pillow is supposed to go
under
her head, not suffocate her.”

“What do you intend doing with this right arm? Amputate it for a neater presentation to the operating surgeon?”

“Good Lord, Trent, you can’t leave a leg swinging like that.”

He was a believer in complete transcription of a difficult text to impress the contents on the mind.

One evening he set Cathy to copy out in tedious longhand, “Skin tests used in the diagnosis of disease” while he took
a
flying visit to Gullybank to check up on a pneumonia patient.

The room was warm, the fire bright; from Mrs. Williams’s quarters the sweet refrain of a Strauss waltz came dreamily over the radio.

“Procedure,” wrote Cathy. “The ampule is swabbed with spirits, allowed to dry, the dressing towel is arrayed under the forearm
...
”
She looked into the fire.

It has been a particularly busy day. There had been a board meeting. It had not been one of those board meetings when you went three times over everything in case of dust, when you helped Mrs. Ferguson to make special cakes (in short, Mrs. Dubois had phoned that she would not attend), but it had been a tiring time for all that. Miss Marriott had brought a sample camphor bag and had stood discussing it until Cathy had felt as limp as the little sample bag herself.

Then later there had been trouble with Rita. Old Mr. Jeffreys was on holiday, and his grandson had taken over. Cathy did not mind Rita talking to young Jim. She believed in encouraging it. But Rita followed him, stopped him from his digging, thrust herself upon him. She even walked to the gate with him when it was his time to leave work. When she returned the family was at dinner, and though Cathy would have postponed any comments of her own until they had more privacy, the girls were not so discreet.

“Here comes Mrs. Jeffreys, Mrs.
Jim
Jeffreys.”

“When are you getting married, Rita?”

“Isn’t love grand!”

Rita, who; had sat down, rose, her cheeks flaming. “I hate you all, you horrible prying little beasts.”

“Rita, dear
...
” protested Cathy.

“You, too. I know what you’re thinking.”

“Sit down and eat your meal, Rita.”

“I won’t. I’m not hungry. I’m going to bed.”

Cathy let her go, indicating to the children with a shake of her head that there must be no more comments.

As soon as the meal was finished she ran upstairs.

“Rita!
”
she called at the door of the dormitory for the bigger girls.

Rita did not answer.

“Rita, honey!”

Rita breathed deeply and evenly, too deeply and evenly. She was pretending sleep.

With a sigh Cathy left her. Perhaps night would bridge what words could not. Anyway, she had no time for suasion now. She had to leave for her lesson.

The
fire gleamed red.
Cathy’s eyes blurred. She saw Miss Marriott, camphor bags, Jim and Rita all mixed up together. Her pencil dropped. Her head drooped. Unlike Rita, there was no pretense. She slept.

When she awoke she was on the couch and there was a blanket over her. She glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight. She gasped.

Immediately the man sitting by the fire got up.

“It’s late,” she said, appalled.

“Not all that late.”

“I must have fallen asleep.”

“You did.”

“How ... how did I get here?”

“I carried you, of course. A desk is not the most comfortable place for a rest.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know what must have come over me. What did you think?”

“What did I think?” He stood looking down on her, his eyes unrevealing.

“I’m afraid I did very little of the transcription
...
You see, it was board meeting today
...
Then Rita was difficult
... and
...”

Suddenly she saw he was not listening. He took a step forward and lifted her bodily in his arms. “Come, little one,” he said.

With infinite gentleness he carried her out to the car. He put her carefully in. Then he went around to the driver’s seat,
s
tarted the engine and was soon speeding expertly and smoothly to the other side of Burnley Hills.

W
hen they reached the door of Redgates he was out in a flash and catching her up again.

Quietly he lifted the latch and quietly he bore her upstairs.

He put her down on the threshold of her room. “Good night,” he said softly.

Cathy said good-night but still stood there. Perhaps it was her drowsiness that held her waiting, as Christabel might have waited, for his kiss.

He glanced sharply down, took in the drowsy childish expectancy, and said a little thickly, “You’re asleep,” and gave her a gentle push inside. Then he left.

But sleep had left her now. She stood in her room wide awake and wondering.

Wondering what that strange expression on his face ha
d
meant when he had put her on her feet and she had looked up, childishly expectant.

Wondering why she was standing here now, a little deflated, oddly disappointed.

She knew she would not s
l
eep for hours. She took the transcription.
“Procedure. The ampule is swabbed with spirits
...
”

She worked into the small hours, trying to forget those dark unrevealing eyes, that proud head, those arms that lifted and bore so easily
...

It was late when she fell into bed.

Dr. Malcolm telephoned her on the afternoon of her next lesson.

“Come early,” he ordered peremptorily.

“I shall if I can make it.”

He had hung up. That was typical of him, she thought with a grimace. He pulled the strings and the puppet obeyed. “Whistle and I’ll come to you, my lad,” was the only tune he would have her sing. Nonetheless, she complied. She knew she had to.

When she arrived at the office, her transcription imprinted on both her exercise book and her memory, Dr. Malcolm was awaiting her.

“Don’t open your satchel. Leave it on the table and we’ll pick it up when we come home.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are no patients tonight. I thought we would take the opportunity of visiting Christabel.”

Cathy had already gone several times with David. The child was happily ensconced in the hospital, but that was typical of Christabel. She would have settled herself anywhere.

On her previous visits Cathy had been greeted noisily, asked many questions about Avery and whether she was digging in her end of the sandpit, finally farewelled with a few wistful tears.

Tonight there was only a casual greeting and no tears at all. A younger girl than Christabel had been admitted. Irene was small and plump and only just three, and not at all averse to being “mothered.”

“Darling, look who has come to see you—Dr. Jerry.”

“ ’Lo, Jerry. This is my own baby. Its name is Rene.”

Avery sends her love. She is not digging in your end of the pit,”

“Let me tuck you in, Rene. There, darling. There, my pet.”

They lingered for a while, Christabel eventually forgetting them entirely. A nurse said, “I don’t know what will happen if Irene is sent home. Christabel is devoted to that baby. She’s a real little mother.”

“
What about
our
baby?” asked Cathy. “When is she coming home?”

“Quite soon, I should think. Look at her neck. Scarcely a mark. The tracheotomy has left hardly any scar.”

They wandered away from the wide veranda from which they had talked to Christabel through antiseptic gauze and made their way back to the car.

The hospital lay on a headland overlooking the sea. The ceaseless pattern of the Pacific Ocean came clearly to their ear, crash of breaker, swirl of wave, withdrawal of water, then the rhythm all over again. There was a pleasant tang of salt and seaweed.