Amy (2 page)

Next day she took the train from Bromley Station, paying her one and ninepence at the ticket office. She stared out of the window as they passed through the fields, and then the suburbs, into London. They must take me, she thought desperately. I must get in.

There were several women waiting. There were two older women, wearing the careful clothes of those who had to work hard for their living. They looked calm and capable – cooks and cleaners, she supposed. There were a few girls chatting and giggling as if they thought the whole thing was a bit of a lark. They are far too young, Amy thought. They wouldn’t last a week. There was one girl who looked different, older than the others, more mature. She had flaming red hair under her hat and was wearing the purple, white and green badge of the suffragists. She’d be good value, Amy thought, brave anyway, not easily intimidated.

She fought down the fear that the doctor interviewing might know who she was, but it seemed unlikely. She had given a different name, and there were more than 500 women doctors in Britain now.

The women went in one by one and came out again, some of the girls looking petulant and disappointed. The girl with the red hair caught her eye and smiled and then went in herself, her hair shining like a beacon. She came out again, looking pleased.

Amy was the last. There were two women behind the desk. One of them was slender, with a thin, capable face, her grey hair in a tight bun. ‘I am Dr Hanfield,’ she said. ‘I will be heading the surgical department, and this is our matron.’

They both questioned her. No, she was not married and had no dependents. No, she had no experience as an orderly, which was true. At least, it wasn’t a lie. Yes, she had experience in running a house and caring for her father. She knew how to organize, to take responsibility.

Dr Hanfield smiled at her. ‘We would be glad to take you, Miss Osborne but we are leaving very soon. Can you be ready in two weeks?’

Amy nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sure I could.’

‘We’re nearly ready to go,’ Dr Hanfield said. ‘It was obvious to me that there was going to be a war. We will be working for the French Red Cross, seeing that the British Army won’t take women doctors.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sorry it’s such short notice. Unfortunately a few applicants cancelled at the last moment.’

‘I can be ready,’ Amy said.

‘Go to Gamages for your uniform and ward dresses,’ Matron said. ‘I’ll send you the arrangements and your tickets.’

Amy thanked them and left the room. The redheaded girl was still there.

‘Did you get in?’ she asked, her eyes bright.

‘Yes, I did.’ Amy smiled with relief.

The girl held out her hand. ‘I’m Helen,’ she said. ‘I got in too.’

‘Amy.’ They shook hands.

Helen fingered her badge. ‘Something real to do at last,’ she said. ‘Deeds, not words. That’s our motto. See you soon then, Amy.’ She almost danced out of the door.

Amy smiled. Deeds, not words, at last.

She waited for her father that evening, dreading telling him,
knowing
what his reaction would be.

He came in, looking tired and drawn. ‘Any news?’ he said.

‘Not from the General Medical Council, Father,’ she said. ‘If that’s
what you mean.’

She sat down on her mother’s old chair and watched her father as he raised his head and looked around the room, stopping here and there to look at little things that were precious to him – things that her mother had left behind. He paused at a china cherub that her mother had bought on their honeymoon, at a tapestry fire screen that her mother had worked herself, and then at her mother’s photograph placed carefully and alone on a side table. The room still had a Victorian air, too cluttered for Amy’s taste, but the taste had been her mother’s, and her father would never change it. It kept her alive for him. He had said so often, ‘She would have been so proud of you Amy. I wish so much that she could have seen you qualify.’

It seemed to be the right moment to tell him of her decision, if any moment was right. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘there’s one thing that we haven’t talked about – this terrible war. My problems hardly seem important, except that I could have helped so much more.’

His face became even more agonized. ‘I know,’ he said bitterly. ‘Half the boys in the sixth form have left and enlisted. Young Frensham says he’s going to join the Flying Corps. I can’t bear to think of them….’

She sat beside him again. ‘There’s something I want to tell you, Father.’ He raised his eyes to hers. ‘You must go on teaching, and you must keep this house safe because it’s our home and I shall want to come back to it whenever I can.’

He was quickly alert. He looked almost frightened, ‘What do you mean – to come back to? Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to France.’

He opened his mouth to protest, but she went on, ‘I’ve found out that there are a few British women surgeons going out to form surgical units. I’m going as a medical orderly.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘No, you can’t. It will be too dangerous. You are too young to…. You are too young. Why can’t you do it here in England?’

She got up and stood beside the window, looking out into the street. A young man walked by, wearing khaki. He was walking proudly, very straight. As he got closer and passed the house she saw how young he looked – just a boy.

‘Because,’ she said, ‘because the War Office in its wisdom has turned down the services of women surgeons. Can you believe that? They can’t have their soldiers’ lives saved by mere women, can they? Or
perhaps they think we’d all have hysterics and run away. So the women are going to France to work for the French Red Cross.’ The young man walked out of sight. ‘And there are boys out there much younger than I am who are suffering and dying.’

She came back to sit beside him. He said nothing for a while, his face white and stricken.

‘How can you?’ he said eventually. ‘Won’t they know who you are?’

‘They won’t know my face. They’ll know my name, that’s all. So I’ll change it. I’ll use another name. The war is the only thing that anyone is thinking about. They won’t think about me.’

He was still now, resigned. She’s made up her mind, he thought. Nothing will change her when she’s made up her mind.

‘I don’t suppose that I can say anything that will stop you?’

‘No, Father. I’m sorry.’

‘What will I tell people? What shall I say?’

‘There’s no need to say anything. No need to tell anyone what’s happened. Just say that I’ve gone to France.’

‘And what name will you use?’

She smiled. ‘My mother’s maiden name, of course: I’ll be Amy Osborne.’

His eyes filled with tears. She’s going out to die, he thought. She’s going to go into danger, deliberately. He looked around the room again. He could see a young girl at the table by the window, sitting upright, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hand. Her quick eyes were on her book, studying, always studying the science that he taught her. And now it had come to this. His tears began to fall. Perhaps he had been wrong to so encourage her – such a quick, such a purposeful mind. But she was all he had. They spent so much of their time together. How could he not transfer to her his own passion for the growing, expanding, thrilling science that filled his own mind? I blame myself, he thought. I blame myself. He took out his handkerchief to wipe his face.

‘Father, don’t. I’ll be all right, really I will. I’ll be careful. You know me.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I do know you.’ His look was clear: hopelessness and fear.

She knew what he was thinking. ‘You’re so wrong,’ she said. ‘I have every intention of coming through it, hale and hearty. I’ll be back,
you’ll see. And Father’ – he seemed to be waiting for the next blow – ‘I’m going to get it back. I’m going to clear my name and get myself back on the Register without any marks against me. I don’t know how, but I’m going to do it.’

How was she going to do it? That night she lay in bed, restless and unsleeping. Was there anything that she could have done, anything that she could have said? She relived that last time over and over again.

She and the theatre sister spread the sterile sheets over the patient on the operating table. There was always some apprehension – taking out an inflamed appendix was not a procedure to be taken lightly. Opening the abdomen at all was a risk, but she had done the operation twice now, and both her patients had survived. She had been able to remove the appendix before it burst, spreading infection into the abdomen, causing peritonitis and almost inevitable death.

The theatre nurse switched on the big overhead light, the
anaesthetist
adjusted the cylinders on his machine, the young student who was to assist her took up his position across the table.

She knew when Sir William Bulford entered the theatre. She could tell by the change in the atmosphere, the straightening of backs, the slight intake of breaths. She could tell by the way her hair rose on the back of her neck, under her cap. He had every right to be there. As senior surgeon he could do what he wished, watch what he wished. It was his right, his privilege, his duty. The knowledge made a little bile rise in her throat. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him put on his gown and gloves. He came to stand beside her.

‘Good morning, Dr Richmond,’ he said.

She made no reply. She thrust out her elbow to spread the last
sterile
sheet and he moved away a little.

‘He’s asleep,’ the anaesthetist said. ‘You can start now.’

On the right side of the abdomen she located McBurney’s Point, the junction of the lower and middle third of a line from the anterior
superior
iliac spine to the umbilicus, under which she might expect to find the appendix. She held out her hand for sister to give her a scalpel, and it rested familiarly in her palm.

She took a breath, then she cut through the skin, clipping off and tying the bleeding points. Then through the muscles – the external oblique, the internal oblique, the transverse. She placed a retractor for
the student to hold open the incision.

Beneath the muscles the peritoneum glistened whitely – the
protective
covering of the abdominal organs. Once through this the die was cast. She must find the appendix and remove it – remove it without damage, without allowing any of the killing pus to escape into the abdomen to cause peritonitis, septicaemia and death. It was infection that killed – infection about which they could do very little, once it had taken hold. These were the invisible murderers – the staphylococci and the streptococci and all the others. It all depended on the strength of the patient – and the skill of the surgeon.

She raised a small pinch of the peritoneum, careful not to pick up the bowel beneath, and then she cut through, opening the abdomen. She gave a small sigh of relief. There was no stench of corruption, just a faint smell not unlike fresh meat. The bowel lay exposed, and by good chance the appendix lay in full view, the swollen red infected tip clearly visible.

Now that she was inside the abdomen she must be quick and
accurate
. She could not move away. With a sick feeling of expectation fulfilled she felt Sir William Bulford move beside her so that his thigh was against hers. She clipped off the base of the appendix.

‘That appears to be a fairly easy one,’ he said. He turned slightly, so that the front of his body was against her now, rubbing against her thigh.

She had to ignore him, to concentrate. She removed the appendix, dropping it into the dish that sister offered. She tied off the stump and buried it with a purse-string suture. She checked the rest of the abdomen and all seemed well. She made to take the threaded needle from Sister’s hand, but Bulford put out his hand and stopped her.

‘I’ll close up,’ he said.

She looked round at him. He was looking down at her, a look of bland innocence.

‘That’s not necessary,’ she began, but he took the suture from Sister.

‘You look tired,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you didn’t sleep well last night.’

She didn’t move.

‘There is no need to stay, Miss Richmond,’ he said. ‘I can manage without you. I should go and get some rest if I were you.’

It was an order – there was no doubt about that. She left the theatre, helplessly fuming, and went into the female changing-room. She took
off her theatre clothes, putting on her skirt and blouse and lacing up her boots. Anger made her breathless. The man was appalling, brutish. His red, florid face and thick fingers filled her with the utmost
repulsion
.

She sat on a stool and leant against the wall. Perhaps he was a good surgeon, but she was no longer sure even about that. He was too set in his ways – too resistant to change. He made no secret of his violent opposition to women doctors, especially to women surgeons, but when she was appointed he had been narrowly over-ridden by the Board of Governors. He was clever, though, and ruthless. But even then she hadn’t imagined what he would do.

The next day her patient had a slight but worrying temperature. She arrived to find that Bulford had asked for the dressing to be taken down.

‘Miss Richmond,’ he said. ‘I see that you forgot to put in a drain yesterday. Surely you know how important that is. How else is any fluid or pus to escape?’

She opened her mouth in shock, but he forestalled her.

‘I cannot tolerate this,’ he said. ‘It isn’t the first time. If you are too busy gadding about at night to get your proper rest you shouldn’t be doing surgery.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ she said. ‘You closed up this patient yourself. You made me leave the theatre.’

He frowned. ‘You really cannot try to make me responsible for your mistakes,’ he said. ‘I have had to put them right too often.’ He walked away from her and into Sister’s office, and she followed him.

She remembered her helpless fury. ‘That is a complete lie,’ she said. ‘How dare you say that in front of the patient and the nursing staff. You know it isn’t true. All my patients have recovered well – and without your help. As for gadding about! I usually spend my evenings
studying
– the latest methods, in case you haven’t heard of that.’ She
shouldn’t
have said that, she knew it now. It could only have made things worse. He was white with anger.