The Gemel Ring. Betty Neels
reached St Simon’s Hospital in time to join her friends in the Sisters’ sitting-room for an early tea. They hailed her with pleasure and a spate of questions about her holiday, brought her up to date with the hospital news and settled down to drink their tea and eat as much bread and butter and jam as time allowed.
“Did anything exciting happen, Charity?” Nancy Benson wanted to know as she got up to fill her cup.
Charity sat down on the arm of the chair. “No—at least, not exciting, exactly; a man fainted while we were waiting to cross one of the ferries—an American, Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek…” There was a shriek of laughter. “Yes, I know it’s a gorgeous name, isn’t it—I couldn’t believe my ears.”
“I suppose you did your Florence Nightingale act?” a small girl remarked, “or was there a doctor around?”
Charity, a little belatedly, discovered that she didn’t want to tell anyone about the doctor. She said briskly: “Oh, yes—someone or other came along, and the American was taken to a hotel to rest. It wasn’t in the least exciting. Tell me, how is our Alice doing with Mr Wright?”
“Our Alice” was Accident Room Sister, a quiet retiring girl in her early thirties. Her younger colleagues had despaired of her seeming content to remain single, and when Mr Wright, the assistant radiologist, equally quiet and retiring, had shown interest in her, they had combined in a conspiracy to bring them together as often as possible. Her inquiry was met with a triumphant cry of: “They’re engaged—isn’t it marvellous? After all our hard work and patience.”
“I wonder who’ll be next?” asked Nancy, and looked at Charity, who said instantly and strongly: “Don’t look at me—I’ve no one in mind,” which wasn’t quite true, but how could one be serious about a man one had glimpsed for the briefest moment of time and would never see again?
They dispersed very soon after that, most of them to go back on to their wards, the lucky ones off duty to change for an evening out, and Charity to her room to unpack and get ready for the morning.
She had only been away a fortnight, but there were a number of new patients, although old Mr Grey, who had been in the ward for some time, was still there, as were Mr Timms and Charlie Green. During her absence, she noticed, they had contrived to get moved into the four-bedded, partitioned area at the top of the ward where doubtless they were continuing their cosy little card parties whenever it was possible to get someone to push their beds together. There was a fourth man there, and she passed from her patients’ glad cries of welcome to his bed—a small, cherubic-faced elderly man, recovering from a not too serious operation, and, as Charlie was quick to tell her, a tip-top rummy player. She smiled at them in a motherly fashion, begged them to be good boys and went on down the ward.
The patients here were all new, so she began the task of getting to know them—twenty-odd men who had been admitted during her fortnight’s absence—supported after a while by her staff nurse, Lacey Bell, who presently, at Charity’s invitation, followed her into her office, where they drank their coffee together while Lacey added a few details about the patients—details best left unsaid in the ward. She was a good nurse, thought Charity, listening to her astute summing-up of the cases, and one day she would make a good Sister—perhaps she already had aspirations to step into her own shoes. Charity was very well aware that the hospital expected her to marry Clive Barton.
She gathered her scattered thoughts together and said cheerfully: “Thanks, Lacey, you’ve done a good job while I’ve been away.” She smiled at the girl opposite her. “How about a weekend off? I’m sure you’ve some overtime to work off.”
Her staff nurse looked pleased. “Lovely, thank you, Sister, if you’re sure it’s OK.” She got up. “I’ll just go and make sure the ward’s straight, shall I?”
Charity nodded. “Do—I’ll flip through these notes, and mind you’re at hand during Mr Howard’s round, I may need a reminder.”
She had never needed a reminder yet, thought Lacey as she swung down the ward once more. Sister Dawson might be one of the most eye-catching girls at St Simon’s, she was also one of the brainiest; she had never been known to forget anything; she learned new techniques within minutes and she had been the Gold Medallist of her year—a sufficiency of talents to swell her pretty head, and yet they hadn’t; she never mentioned her medal, nor for that matter had she ever been heard to tell anyone that she had the Advanced Driver’s Certificate, could speak fluent French and passable German, even if with a strong English accent; that she swam like a fish and played a first-class game of tennis, and had received more proposals of marriage than any other female in the hospital.
She deserved better than Clive Barton, mused her faithful staff nurse, plumping up pillows and straightening counterpanes while she kept a stern eye on the student nurses. Clive was all right, but Charity Dawson needed someone even cleverer than she was and with a brain just that much quicker; someone to be the boss, however gently he did it. Lacey, reviewing the eligible males to hand, couldn’t discover one who might do. It vexed her so that she spoke rather more sharply than she had intended to Mr Grey, and then had to tell him she hadn’t meant a word of it.
Charity, left alone, started on the notes, she read them fast and carefully and when she was half way through them, got up to peer at herself in the small mirror behind her desk. She was by no means vain, but no ward Sister would wish to do a round with one of the consultant surgeons, with her pleated muslin cap at an incorrect angle; she adjusted her headgear minutely, wrinkled her nose at her reflection, and sat down again. She was studying the last of the notes when Clive Barton came in.
Charity raised her green eyes for a moment and smiled. “Hi,” she said briefly, “I shan’t be a tick—there’s some cool coffee on the tray and a mug behind you.”
She bent her head again while her companion did as she had suggested and then took the chair opposite her. He was a middle-sized young man, with a pleasant face and pale hair already receding a little. He looked to be a mild man too, but Charity knew that there was a good deal of determination behind his placid features. Clive wanted to get to the top—to become a consultant—he had been a registrar for several years now and was liked and respected by the consultants he worked for. Sooner or later one of them would retire, and he, if he was lucky, would have a chance of stepping into his shoes. He sat quietly now, admiring Charity; he was almost in love with her, he certainly liked her enormously and she would make him a splendid wife. Besides, she was known to all the consultants and a great many of the local GP’s and they liked her, a fact which would be of considerable help to him. She was certainly a good-looker, although he had sometimes wished that she weren’t so clever. Not that she ever paraded the fact; there was no need, it was so obvious, and he had never quite liked her hair, it was so vivid, and somehow the simple knot she wore above her slender neck made it all the more so. A vague longing to change her into someone smaller and meeker and less spectacular entered his head, to be instantly dismissed as treason; Charity was a darling girl; he made the thought positive by asking: “How about coming out this evening? I’m sick of canteen food.”
She slapped the notes tidily together and smiled across the desk at him. “I’d love to—how I loathe coming back—it seems worse than usual.”
“Meet anyone interesting?” he asked her idly, and because she sensed that he didn’t really want to know, she was able to say composedly: “Father’s friends.” Her ear had caught the sound of feet. “Here’s Mr Howard.”
The round went off well; Mr Howard was in good spirits, which meant, naturally enough, that those who accompanied him were in good spirits too, even though they were forced to listen to his often-told jokes, but better that than the sharp questions he fired at them; medical students who so often regrettably gave the wrong answers.
There were no operations that day; the routine of dressings, getting patients up who didn’t want to get up, and keeping in bed those who were determined to get out of it, conducting Miss Evans, the Principal Nursing Officer, round the ward, dealing with various house-men, physiotherapists, visitors and those of her staff who wanted her private ear for some reason or other, kept Charity busy until she went