A Surgical Affair (14 page)

Two hours later the blood pressure and the pulse rate were normal. Diana took down the empty bottle and put up another lot of blood.

The morning sun was brightening the sky and the day nurses had come on duty. She could hear the tea-trolley going around and the patients talking in the ward.

She walked slowly back to her bedroom. Her watch said six-thirty. Diana smiled with satisfaction as she realized that, because of her, Mark had been able to sleep through the night undisturbed. Mr. Cole had been right. “When to operate?” was a vital question.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

“
Christmas in hospital,” Mark declared in mock disgust as he sliced the stalk off a mushroom, “means kissing all the Sisters, and trying to be happy.”

It was Saturday evening and some of the resident doctors were in the common-room, preparing their own supper of steak, mushrooms, chips and tomatoes. They often did this in the winter to supplement the lettuce and cold ham provided by the hospital. “What’s it like here at Christmas, then?” somebody asked.

“There’s a party on Christmas Eve,” explained Malcolm Smith, who was sitting on the floor, cutting out silver paper stars, that Diana was pasting onto cardboard. “Consultants and secretaries, wives and Sisters, Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all, come to it. Eating and drinking in here, dancing in the dining room.”

“Do not forget the carols. There is a tour of the wards,” put in Dr. Pallie, as he carefully peeled a potato. “It is very pretty to see. The nurses wear red cloaks and carry candles.”

The door opened and Mike Simons came in, holding a record in a glossy cover.

“A present for you all!” he announced, grinning. “Matron stopped me in the passage and gave me this.” He held up the record, and they all stared at it in amazement. “ ‘A little gift for the resident doctors, to liven up your Christmas,’ she said. But look at the title!”

“
Love in the Reeds
.
”
exclaimed Diana.

“And what a picture on the cover!” Mark was standing up to have a closer look.

“Matron must lead a double life,” remarked Dr. Pallie earnestly, amid the laughter.

“We’ve made six stars,” Diana told them all, as she stood up. “Now, somebody hang them around the room to make it look a bit festive, and I’ll start the cooking.”

In the kitchen next to the common-room, Diana was slicing the tomatoes when Mark joined her.

He frowned at the pieces of steak on the table. “Have they been beaten?” he asked. She shook her head. “They should be, if you
want the meal to taste good,” he told her, picking up the rolling pin. Then he threw all his strength into beating the steak.

Diana felt strangely content with Mark in the room. Worries about work and the future suddenly left her. There was only the present, preparing the mixed grill with Mark to help her; and she felt closer to him at the moment than ever before.

After a few minutes Diana was aware of somebody standing in the doorway, so she looked up. And there was Richard.

“What a nice, cosy domestic scene!” he shouted, above the noise.

Diana dropped her kitchen knife in surprise at seeing him. Mark looked around and put down the rolling pin.

She felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair, and couldn’t understand why. “Richard! What are you doing here?”

“That’s not much of a welcome when I’ve come all the way from Colchester to see you!” Richard laughed heartily, completely at ease and sure of himself, amused at her confusion.

Diana saw Mark gazing curiously at the man before him— average height, brown hair, glasses, a smart, expensive-looking pin-striped suit.

“I—I was just so amazed to see you, it was so unexpected.” She was recovering her composure now. “Richard, this is Mark Royston, Mr. Cole’s registrar. This is Richard Carstairs.”

“Hello,” said Mark, shaking hands, making an obvious effort to be friendly.

“How d’you do? Were you the chap in the car accident? Damned bad show, that. Perhaps you’re used to driving on the other side of the road in Australia.” Another hearty laugh.

Mark glared at Richard and turned to Diana.

“Look, if you two want to go somewhere and talk, one of the others can help me fry the steak.”

And so Diana and Richard went up to her room.

“You never told me about these cooking sessions,” Richard said, as soon as the door was shut behind them. “That reminds me of a case I had last week. I must tell you about it.”

He settled himself at one end of the sofa and stretched out his legs. “This client of mine was a cook at the Bull Hotel, and he’d been charged with—”

Richard patted the seat beside him, indicating that she should sit there, and went on talking. Diana knew that once he started to tell her about one of his cases, he wouldn’t stop until he had given every detail.

She took off her white coat, hung it on the back of the door, and sat back beside him. She was not really listening; there was only his voice, talking, talking. It was always the same. He would spare
h
er no lengthy descriptions, no legal technicalities, and if the case had gone to Court all the evidence was detailed. Diana tried to take an interest but somehow, halfway through, she would always lose track of the argument and her thoughts would wander.

Anyway, this gave her a chance to decide how to break the news to him. It was not going to be easy or pleasant telling Richard she didn’t want to see him again, but she had promised to let him know how she felt at the end of the year. This would be a good opportunity.

Suddenly the voice had stopped, and Richard was looking at her indignantly.

“I don’t believe you’ve been listening.” he observed ruefully. “Your thoughts were miles away.”

Diana turned to face him, trying to remain calm, unemotional. “Richard, I want to talk to you.”

For a moment he looked puzzled, and then the color left his cheeks. “You mean—about us?”

“Yes. I’ve made a decision, you see,” she said quietly. Richard did not move; his eyes were fixed on her face.

“I thought of writing to you about it,” Diana went on slowly, her voice shaking slightly, “but that would have been cowardly, wouldn’t it?”

“I’d rather you tell me, whatever it is you have to say,” he said impatiently.

“Well, it’s this.” Diana sighed deeply and started smoothing away the creases in her skirt. “I don’t—I don’t think we should see each other again, You see, I don’t love you, Richard; not enough to marry you. And I know now that I never will.”

“Is there somebody else?” His voice was harsh.

She hesitated for a moment, then replied softly, “No. Nobody else. I suppose this is something I’ve known all along, but I’ve been trying to love you, and it’s just no good. You mustn’t spoil your life waiting for me.”

“And you’ll go on with your work?”

Diana nodded. “I’ll work harder than ever. I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do.” She put a hand gently on his arm. “I hate hurting you like this, Richard, we’ve had some fun together, but I’m sure it’s right to part. You deserve to marry some girl who’s deeply in love with you.”

“I haven’t met anybody else I could think of marrying,” he protested, “and ne
i
ther have you, it seems. Isn’t that ridiculous!” He leaned forward and cupped his face in his hands dejectedly.

They sat in silence, until Diana said quietly, “Some day we’ll both be happy, and then all this will seem very far away and unimportant.”

Richard stood up and walked thoughtfully to the door, tight-lipped, hands plunged in his pockets. So restless, she thought. How different from Mark!

Then he turned and walked back to her.

“I’ll leave you now, Di,” he said at last, “if that’s how you want it. But I still think you’ll grow out of this passion you have for surgery. When you do I’ll be waiting. You know where to find me.”

“
Confident to the last. Sure of me, even when I tell him it’s all over,” thought Diana, as she watched Richard stride away down the corridor.

Mark told Diana later that he would remember that evening for the rest of his life.

He said he usually enjoyed his Saturday night steak, but without her sitting next to him or opposite him, talking, laughing, looking into his eyes, it hadn’t tasted so good.

He tried to read the papers, but all he could see was Richard’s face, laughing at him. He went up to his room and opened a parcel from his mother, her Christmas present, a red cotton shirt.

Mark had thought: “Poor Mother. She’s forgotten we don’t have sun here at Christmas, a sweater would have been a better idea. And what a color! All right for Sydney, but not for the wards of Mansion House Hospital
...
I must write to her, but not tonight. What could I say? I’ve met a girl; she’s beautiful, intelligent, kind, I love her. But I haven’t the guts to marry her.”

After pacing restlessly up and down his room, Mark had gone downstairs again, wishing he had a complicated operation to do—a really difficult pinning of a fractured hip—to take his mind off Diana and Richard, alone in her room. But he was off duty, so he watched television instead.

It was after midnight when he went to the kitchen to make some coffee. He took his cup into the common-room to find Diana, sit
t
ing on the sofa in front of the fire. They were alone.

She looked up as he came in and saw that his face was pale and drawn.

“I had a talk with Richard,” she told him, as he sat down beside her. Mark waited for her to go on, stirring his coffee. “We’re not seeing each other again. It’s all finished between us.”

Diana was looking at him, waiting for him to react to the news, but all he said was, “Shall I get you some coffee?”

She shook her head. She wasn’t hungry or thirsty; just a little bewildered by everything that had happened.

“I don’t know what to say,” Mark said at last, frowning. “In a way, I’m glad, but—”

“It’s all right. You needn’t think it was because of you. It would have happened anyway.”

He sat back and rested his head on the sofa, gazing thoughtfully at her. Diana noticed that he looked much older that night, and very tired. The youthful, untroubled face she had first known was strained and lined.

Then Mark smiled. “My dear, I love you so much. Do you know, I even dream about you? I haven’t dreamed about a girl for years, I thought I was too old for that.”

“When Richard came into the kitchen tonight, I knew then I’d have to stop seeing him. I just didn’t want him there. I was happy with you.”

“That’s how I felt about Denise. She didn’t fit into my life any more.”

Diana sighed contentedly. “I still can’t believe that I’m in love with you. I feel dazed by it all. Do you think I’ll ever get over it?”

“I hope so. You must,” Mark said solemnly. “We are in love, but we must get over it. Mad, isn’t it?”

He put his hand on her arm, and Diana sensed that he was going to say something she didn’t want to hear. So she sat quite still, determined not to cry or behave stupidly.

“Diana, I saw Cole today. I—I told him that I’m leaving on Boxing
D
ay.”

She looked into the fire, her mind in a turmoil, her fingers clenched together. This was the moment she had dreaded. She had often wondered how he would break it to her, what she would feel.

And all Diana could do was repeat weakly, “Boxing Day?”

“I’ve been here nearly a year,” Mark went on. “I’ll go skiing in Austria for a few weeks, then try to find a job—as doctor on one of the ships going home.”

She turned and looked at him. “You’ve arranged everything, haven’t you?”

Then Diana wished she hadn’t sounded so bitter, so accusing. After all, why shouldn’t he make plans? She had always known he would leave in December.

Her words had filled Mark’s face with sadness and bewilderment, like a child who cannot understand why he is being punished.

“Diana, you know how I feel about marrying again. I should never have married Mary. It was a mistake from the beginning; I can’t risk spoiling your life too. You’ll forget me, when I leave here—”

“Don’t apologize. I understand,” she said quietly. “But I’ll never forget you, Mark. You’re a part of me now.”

“Settle down, Diana. Marry a nice, respectable civil servant and have children.”

“Is that what you really think I should do?” she demanded angrily.

Mark looked at her, sadness in his eyes. “No,” he admitted, “you know that’s not what I want. I’m only trying to decide what’s best for you, what will make you happy in the end.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I’ll work something out back home; try and climb my way up the surgical tree.”

“
It’s funny. I’ll never know what becomes of you. When I’m 80, I’ll still be wondering.”

“I’ll write to you.”

“No, don’t!” she cried. “I couldn’t bear that.”

Mark sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. I’m no good at writing letters, anyway.”

“We have until Boxing Day, then?”

He nodded slowly. “Until Boxing Day.”

The clock over the fireplace chimed one o’clock. The fire in the grate was dead.

“It’s getting late,” said Diana quietly, and they walked slowly toward the door.