For King and Country (19 page)

‘But they are mine, Doctor, and how else was I going to say it?’

‘As I’ve done now. You should have asked to speak to me privately.’

Wholly unrepentant, she said, ‘I’m sorry, Doctor. But it’s my duty to see that the other children are properly cared for.’

With an air of frosty professionalism, he said, ‘The night staff will be coming on duty shortly, which will solve the problem of the other children. You must apply yourself to nursing the
child you have charge of, and his condition is critical. Keep him under careful observation, Nurse, colour, respirations, pulse, keep the tube clean, and keep a sharp eye out for any bleeding from
the wound. He mustn’t move at all, not even to sit up.’

‘I know that, Doctor,’ she said, well remembering her own sojourn in the City Hospital, though her infection had never been so bad she’d needed a tracheostomy

‘His pulse is irregular. Diphtheria toxins can affect the heart, and we mustn’t put any strain on it. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to special him until a replacement can be
found. Let me know at once if he deteriorates.’

He opened the door, and this time stood back to let her enter before him. Sally stood by while he approached the bed. ‘I’m going now, old chap,’ he told Christopher.
‘You’ll be all right. Nurse Wilde will look after you, and I’ll see you in the morning.’

Mrs Lowery sprang to her feet at his farewell nod to her. ‘And now I’ll just have a private word with you, if you don’t mind, Iain,’ she said, and followed him out.

Sally watched the cubicle door close behind them, and could well imagine what hoity-toity Mrs Lowery’s private word would be. ‘Do you realize, Iain, that that girl is the housemaid
who . . .? Surely you can find someone else to nurse Christopher?’ Or something of the sort, but it seemed they were out of luck – Mrs Lowery and Sally both. It would be a miracle if
anyone else could be found to nurse Christopher. Sally caught his eye and smiled.

‘Sally!’ he mouthed.

‘Hello, Kitten. You won’t be able to talk just yet, but never bother. If you want anything, just wiggle your fingers at me, like this,’ she said, giving him a demonstration.
‘I’ll be watching.’

With drooping eyelids he gave her a feeble smile, copied her wave and, as his mother stepped back into the cubicle, fell asleep.

Of all the women in the world, we must be the two who’d least have chosen to spend a minute together, and here we are, stuck with each other’s company for the whole
night, Sally thought, sitting upright on a straight backed chair whilst Mrs Lowery sat furiously crocheting a doily in the armchair on the other side of the bed, carefully avoiding her eyes.

There was a tap on the door, and Sally opened it. Curran had pulled the screens round the door of the cubicle, and was standing just beyond them. ‘Night Sister says it’s got to be
done,’ she said, ‘and she says you’ve both got to stay in there now. Neither of you must go onto the ward, or near any of the children. She’ll come and have a word with you
as soon as she can. God knows when you’ll get off duty, Wilde, but I’ve put some tea and a sandwich down there for you, just outside the door.’

As Curran retreated down the corridor, Sally picked up the tray and took it into the cubicle. ‘Mrs Lowery? Mrs Lowery – I’ve got you some tea.’

‘Huh?’ Mrs Lowery lifted her head, gave a brief nod, and returned her attention to her crochet work. Sally handed her a cup, but it was ignored, so she put it on the bed table and
lifted the corner of one of the sandwiches. Shipham’s Paste, by the look of it. She sat down to eat, and to drink her tea while keeping one eye on Christopher. Mrs Lowery gave her a mildly
disapproving glance.

‘I’ve had no supper,’ Sally told her, wondering why she felt it necessary to explain, and annoyed at herself for doing so. Not that Mrs Lowery was taking much notice of her. By
the time Sally had finished eating, she’d dropped the doily onto the bed, and lapsed into a doze. Sally put the tray of crockery outside the cubicle, and sat down again to continue her watch
on Christopher. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his mother who, with head back and mouth open, was slumbering, the worst of her woes behind her.

Sally could hardly bear the sight, and turned her chair to get her out of her line of vision. It was impossible. She couldn’t escape the sight of her or the sound of that gentle snoring,
and even if she had been able to avoid seeing her, the thought of Mrs Lowery had taken possession of her mind. She turned to look full at her for an instant thinking:
you’re
the
reason Will went to France. It’s because of your spite I never heard another word from him after he’d been to your house in Darlington. To this day he believes I gave him that white
feather, and that’s your doing. It’s because of
you
that his face is ruined and his mother’s gone into a decline. If he gets court-martialled and shot, if she dies of her
broken heart, it will all be
your fault.
Everything that led up to this horrible, horrible mess was started by
you
, and your malicious feather. A wave of hatred engulfed her as
she watched Mrs Lowery slumber on, oblivious. Overtired and overwrought, she became more and more wakeful, wanting to slap this self-satisfied, self-centred madam awake, wanting to scream,
‘Do you realize what you’ve done, Mrs Lowery? Do you remember the lad you gave the white feather to? Do you remember destroying my chance of a husband, by telling him it was from me? Do
you know he’s the fourth son his mother’s sacrificed to her country, and she’ll be dead herself before long, the way she’s going? Do you think you deserve to keep your own
son, Mrs Lowery, after playing a trick like that?

Was it the fifth or the sixth hour of her watch? Sally hardly knew, but she came to with a jump. ‘Kit!’

His swollen neck was tense, his fists clenched, his face contorted in the struggle for air, and he was thrashing out helplessly with his legs. Sally sprang to her feet in alarm and stood over
him. His eyes as big as saucers and full of terror, were upturned to hers, making her heart beat wildly. The tube must be blocked.

‘What? What?’ Mrs Lowery awoke. ‘What’s the matter?’

Sally peered down the tube, but no, it was clear; it would be useless to remove it. Perhaps it was badly positioned, obstructed somehow by something that had got below it. Sally pulled at it
gently, in the hope that that would improve matters, but the child’s breathing was becoming more and more distressed, with a wheezing stridor when he inhaled.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ his mother shrieked. ‘He can’t breathe! How can that be, with a tube in?’

Sally heard Night Sister’s footsteps in the corridor. ‘Stand in the doorway and call Sister,’ she said. ‘Tell her to fetch Dr Campbell, this minute.’

Mrs Lowery stood in the doorway and shrieked again. At a loss for what else to do, Sally tried artificial respiration, raising the child’s arms over his head, and pressing hard against his
ribs in bringing them down again to the sides, listening to Mrs Lowery’s appeal to Night Sister and then to Night Sister’s rapidly receding footsteps, and praying for Dr Campbell to get
there.

‘Cough, Kitten, cough!’ she urged. He did, and after what seemed an age, Sally caught sight of something appearing at the mouth of the tube. Mrs Lowery came to stand on the other
side of his bed.

‘Pass me that, please,’ Sally said.

‘What?’

‘That crochet hook. Quick.’

With her heart in her mouth Sally gently inserted the hook into the tube, but she was too late. Kit breathed in, and the thing disappeared down the tube again.

‘What are you doing?’ Mrs Lowery cried, but Sally ignored her, watching the hole in Kit’s throat like a cat watching a mouse. He coughed, and there it was again. Quickly,
gently, Sally inserted the point of the crochet hook into the hole and deftly scooped the thing out. Relieved of it, Kit breathed easily and closed his eyes, his face relaxed.

Dr Campbell swept into the cubicle and seeing his cousin, stopped short. ‘I thought there was an emergency!’

‘Oh, Iain, there was,’ said Mrs Lowery, pointing to the object on the sheet, ‘until Nurse got something out of his throat! He seems to be all right now.’ She collapsed
into her chair and hunted in her bag to find a lace handkerchief to dab her brimming eyes and blow her nose.

‘Let me see.’ Dr Campbell took a swab from the tray and used it to pick up the piece of glutinous, grey matter. ‘A typical piece of diphtheria membrane. It must have broken
loose and blocked his airway below the level of the tube. It’s a fine bacteriological specimen, Nurse, but how on earth did you manage to capture it?’

Sally had moistened a swab with surgical spirit, and was cleaning the crochet hook. She held it up for him to see, before returning it to Mrs Lowery.

‘I see. Forceps would have been better.’

‘There were none to hand, Doctor.’

‘Well, no harm done, I suppose.’

‘He looked as if he was going to choke to death,’ Mrs Lowery said, looking at Sally with tears spilling onto her cheeks. ‘Oh, I’m so glad she was here. So thankful Dr
Lowery got her into nursing. It must have been Divine Providence . . .’

The voice trailed off under Sally’s dispassionate gaze and her wry and thoughtful smile. She’d got herself into nursing, so no need for him to take any credit for it – and as
for Mrs Lowery’s thanks, she could keep them. Sally would have liked nothing better than to make her pick up a pen and admit her evil lie about that white feather on paper, in a letter to
Will. But she daren’t; she daren’t so much as mention his name for fear anybody might guess he was still alive. No, as far as the world was concerned, Will Burdett was dead and gone,
and she’d be wise to think of him as dead as well, and dead to her.

At six o’clock, Matron came bustling onto the ward like a woman who means business, announcing that she herself would take over the nursing of the diphtheria case until he was sent to the
City Hospital for Infectious Diseases. She stood outside Kit’s room, holding out a theatre gown. ‘This is to protect the rest of the hospital from you,’ she said.

Sally put her arms in the sleeves, and then turned for Matron to tie the back.

‘Now you go straight to the bathroom in the nurses’ home, and run a hot bath. Then strip to the skin and bundle all your clothes up in the gown. What can’t be sterilized will
have to be burned. Then you have a good scrub and wash your hair before you touch another thing.’

As Matron rolled her sleeves up, Sally did exactly as she’d been told. Dead tired, she walked straight back to the nurses’ home along an empty corridor, touching nothing, remembering
the glad day her mother had arrived at the City Hospital to bring her home. Her joy had been mixed with sorrow at waving goodbye to nurses she’d never see again, but the worst thing was
parting from her rag doll, knowing it would be burned.

She shook her head. Those women had saved her life, and she’d hardly thought of them for years. What a thankless job nursing was at times, but nobody could deny that it was useful and
necessary – and never monotonous.

Heavens above, four o’ clock in the afternoon! She must have slept over seven hours, and she’d meant to be back on the ward for three. They must have been run off
their feet, covering Sister Harding’s absence and hers as well. Sally dressed hurriedly in a freshly laundered uniform and rushed to the ward. She was halfway down the long, main corridor
when the sight of Crump coming out of theatre reminded her of the officers’ ward and Will, and she still hadn’t had time to get a stamp and post that letter for him.

‘All right, Nurse Crump?’ Sally greeted her.

‘Aye, all right where I am. But you’ve had a time of it on the children’s ward, by all accounts. There was a death just before dinner time, so I heard.’

Sally went pale. ‘Not the diphtheria case?’

‘I don’t know. I only heard half the story, but Curran was there when it happened. Awful when it’s a child that . . .’

‘Yes,’ Sally nodded, and hurried off, suddenly feeling a dead weight of shame for fantasizing about Kit’s death in her deep desire to punish Mrs Lowery. And had the poor kid
really died? Poor little Kitten, who’d really loved her when she’d worked for his parents, and who’d looked at her last night with such trusting eyes. Much as she detested his
mother, she’d never meant any harm to him; never could, never would hurt a hair of his head. She moved swiftly towards the ward, her dread increasing with every step that drew her nearer.

‘Sure, and it wasn’t Christopher Lowery. Your diphtheria case was stretchered out with his mammy beside him to the fever hospital not long after we came on duty;
Matron saw to that. Alfie’s gone as well, to the Ponteland Homes.’

Relieved, Sally asked, ‘Who was it, then?’

‘It was Ernest.’ The tears stood bright in Curran’s eyes when she added, ‘The poor little feller was sitting on my knee just before dinner, and he turned his face up to
mine, and he said, “Oh, Nurse, I am poorly,” and the next minute, he died in my arms.’

Sally clasped Curran in her arms. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘oh, I am sorry.’ She felt relieved too, that sorrow was the only thing, pure and clean, unalloyed by guilt.

Dr Campbell was just coming down the stairs leading to the residents’ quarters as Sally was walking along the main corridor that evening. He stopped at the bottom of the
stairs and waited for her. ‘You might like to know how your patient’s getting on since his transfer to the City Hospital, Nurse Wilde.’

‘Yes, Doctor. I would.’

‘Holding his own, so far. His number is 18, if you’d care to watch his progress in the
Evening Chronicle.
’ He handed her the paper.

‘Yes, I will. What puzzles me though, is why his mother brought him all the way to Newcastle. Why did she not let her husband look after him in Darlington? Why did he not go to the fever
hospital there?’

‘She didn’t bring him all the way to Newcastle; she was here already, spending a few days with my mother. They’re sisters.’

‘Ah. I see.’

‘When he became unwell they sent for the doddering old quack they’ve had since childhood, whose opinion they set great store by – or did, before this. The old fool told them it
was nothing more than pharyngitis and it would clear up within a week. They believed him, until they could see the boy was slowly suffocating, and then they telephoned me and came haring up here in
a taxi. You have to admit, I justified their confidence,’ he smiled, preening himself.