For King and Country (6 page)

‘All right, Nurse, this is Captain Smith. He’s had his appendix out. People usually feel very sick after the anaesthetic, so that’s the reason for the Rhyle’s tube,
passed down their noses, you know. And if they’re not vomiting, they can have half an ounce of water down it, and if they keep that down, they can have a bit more later on, and then more the
next time, if they’re still keeping it down. Captain Smith’s only just had his Rhyle’s tube taken out. He might get a slice of toast soon, if he’s lucky.’ She smiled
at the Captain, amazed to discover how much she herself had learned.

They were moving on to the next patient when the porter, a taciturn Belgian refugee of about forty, came rattling down the ward with the theatre trolley for Lieutenant Maxfield. Dunkley helped
to stretcher him onto it and picked up his notes, ready to accompany him. ‘You know how to make the bed, Nurse Wilde. Bedding turned up and into the middle so that we can lift it easily when
we bring him back on the stretcher.’

Sally nodded, and looked towards the trolley. She would have wished Maxfield good luck, but he’d turned his face away.

First into the sitting room that lunchtime, Sally heard a frantic fluttering. A tiny bird had flown in under the sash, and was battering itself against the windowpane. She went
to catch it but it fluttered away and found refuge behind a pile of books. Drat it; the cat had got in as well and was creeping towards the shelf, stalking the poor wild thing. The cat leaped up to
the shelf, and began to claw at the space behind the books.

‘No!’ Sally was beside her in half a dozen strides. She swiftly put the cat down, then drew out the books until she could see the bird sitting with eyes wild and beak wide open,
gasping with terror. She felt its bony legs and claws, felt its palpitating fear as she took it quickly and gently in her cupped hands and carried it to the open window, with the thwarted cat
mewing and complaining at her ankles. A pretty, tiny bird, some sort of finch, it flew upwards in its haste to get away and hit the wall opposite, where it clung with wings outstretched, flattened
against the bricks, for a full minute. She marvelled at the way it kept its grip on the brickwork for so long before gliding to the ground and, hoping the poor thing wouldn’t die of its
ordeal, she watched it, sitting motionless on the paving stones. It stirred, and a minute later she saw it soaring skyward.

She felt very satisfied with herself. That was her good deed for the day, and now her friends were thronging into the room, chattering and laughing and making a beeline for the tea trolley.

‘Wilde! What are you doing, woolgathering? Sure, and I thought you’d have poured us a cup of tea!’

‘Sorry! Just coming.’

Curran was already pouring. ‘Will you look at this girl, with a ward full of handsome fellows making eyes at her – she even forgets the tea. It’s turned her head
entirely!’

Sally laughed at the expression on Curran’s face. She was cheerful company, as were most of the probationers, and Sally was never so happy than when joking and clowning with them. Whatever
disasters might have happened on the wards, once shared they always shrank in size until they could be laughed away. None of the officers had made eyes at her, and the theatre cases had been too
wrapped up in their own concerns to bother making eyes at anybody, but she didn’t mind playing up to Curran.

‘It couldn’t make up for the row I got from Sister, though, when Dunkley told her I’d forgotten to clean the sputum mugs. But she didn’t tell me to, so it must have been
her that forgot.’

‘That bitch of hell! Sure and could she not have given you a row herself, without running with tales?’ said Curran. Armstrong and the others chorused sympathy, and the conversation
moved on to other topics.

But Curran’s face remained a mixture of outrage and glee. She was bursting with something, and when Sally got up early to get back to a busy ward, she followed her.

‘So now I’ll tell you something about that young madam, that’ll make you laugh,’ she said, as they raced along the corridor. ‘But don’t let on who it was,
because I wasn’t supposed to hear!’ Curran looked swiftly round, and dropped her voice. ‘Nobody’s supposed to know – but she’s been seen coming out of the
doctor’s residence! And
very
late at night! The hypocrite! The shameless young . . .! Now what do you think she’s getting up to, and what might happen if Matron gets to know?
You could have a fine revenge there.’

Sally’s eyes widened and she let out a long, low whistle. This was a crime of such magnitude it took her breath away. A sacking offence. A never-live-it-down, unforgettable, irredeemable
error that would ruin Dunkley’s career and reputation for ever and ever. She hoped, for Dunkley’s sake, that Matron would never hear of it.

N
urse Dunkley had just come back from theatre when the summons came. She was wanted in Matron’s office. She left the ward, white but with her
shoulders back and her head up, braced for what was to come. Sally never expected to see her again.

A couple of hours later Sally helped the porter lift a lieutenant with a belly wound back into bed. They removed the poles from the stretcher and, careful of his wound, Sally gently eased him
onto one side, and then the other, to push and pull the canvass out from under him. ‘All right, Lieutenant? You’re back in the ward, safe and sound,’ she told him. He opened a
groggy, bloodshot eye and lifted his hand to his nose, to finger the Rhyle’s tube. There would be no food for this fellow for a long while.

One patient back and the trolley stood ready for David Jones, the twenty-four-year-old with the fractured femur who was next to go down. Sister called her. ‘You can go with him, Wilde.
Stay with him until they’ve wheeled him into theatre, and come straight back.’

‘Yes, Sister.’

The porter was already dragging Jones feet first out of the ward, and Sally ran to catch the end of the trolley, meeting as she did, a pair of big, brown, fearful eyes that put her in mind of a
calf being led off to slaughter. She put a reassuring hand on Lieutenant Jones’ arm.

‘Will you hold my hand, Nurse?’

She laughed, thinking he was joking, but he wasn’t. Well, there’d be no harm in it, she supposed, and gave him her hand. The porter was doing all the pulling, and it wasn’t
difficult to keep the trolley steady with her other one.

‘I’m an awful coward, aren’t I? But I’m dreading it, and dreading waking up after it. I’d rather die than lose my leg. God gave me two legs, and I want to take two
to my grave.’

She gave his hand a squeeze. ‘You’re not a coward, but there’s no infection, so I wouldn’t worry about losing your leg.’

‘My name’s David. I’m not a proper officer, you know. I joined as a private and worked my way up from the ranks. I’ve only been a second lieutenant a week.’

She watched them wheel him into theatre then raced back to the ward, hoping she’d been some use to him. Everybody said you always remember the patients you admit yourself. Sally
hadn’t admitted David Jones, but she wouldn’t forget him if she lived to be a hundred.

His bed had been rigged up with a confusing array of beam and bars and pulleys and weights resembling some medieval instrument of torture. Three hours later they lifted
Lieutenant Jones back into it complete with Rhyle’s tube in his nostril, and splint on his leg. With a worried frown Sister set about the task of attaching his leg to the weights.
‘Watch me. You might have to do the next one,’ she told Sally. ‘His leg’s in a Thomas’ splint, and the weights keep the bone pulled straight so it’ll set
properly. He’ll be able to pull himself up with that monkey bar above him – when he comes round, that is.’

Staff Nurse Dunkley returned just as they were finishing the task, and not exactly as might have been expected. Not the slightest bit abashed, she fairly waltzed into the ward and her chin was
even further up than when she’d left. Sister’s face was a study, a mixture of deep disapproval, and absolute relief.

‘Staff Nurse Dunkley reporting back on duty, Sister,’ she trilled, and although she kept her face straight, Sally knew that on the inside, she was laughing.

Half a dozen probationers squeezed into Sally’s room that night, all privy to the secret of Dunkley’s disgrace, all striking poses of outraged virtue while eager
for every salacious detail.

‘And her professing to be such a
lady
! I’ve seen ladies like her walking the streets.’

‘She’s got no shame, that is a certainty.’

‘What I want to know is, how did she get away with it?’

Curran gave a delighted chuckle. ‘Sure, and you never will know, because
you’re
not girls for listening behind doors.’

‘And you are! Curran, you know something! Come on, spill the beans.’

‘Ach, you’re worse than I am; you’re nothing but a lot of old scandalmongers, so you are. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, but I’ll tell you anyway. Matron gave
Dunkley her marching orders, and sent her to pack . . .’

‘How can she have?’ Sally protested. ‘She came back to the ward, and worked the rest of the shift.’

‘She did so. And if I hadn’t had to go back to the nurses’ home to change my apron because I had it covered in sick, we’d never have known why.’

‘Why, then? Come on, Curran, spit it out!’ Armstrong urged.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, and isn’t that what I keep trying to do, only you keep interrupting! And hadn’t I just got inside my room when poor old Matron came puffing and panting
along, chasing down the corridor after Dunkley? “Wait a moment Nurse Dunkley,” says she, “Come back to my office and we’ll discuss the matter further.” And Dunkley
stopped and full of impudence, the young divill says: “But Matron, what can there be to discuss? You’ve believed a lot of malicious gossip, and you’ve dismissed me.” Then
Matron says: “I’m willing to reconsider,” and Dunkley says: “Reconsider? This wouldn’t be anything to do with a
certain substantial subscriber
, would
it?” and Matron said they wouldn’t go into that, but she could stay. But that wasn’t enough for Dunkley, insolent young pup that she is! She said she wasn’t going to stay
anywhere where she was believed to be an immoral person, and she’d tell her grandfather how she’d been treated and see what he thought about it, and in the end, I felt sorry for Matron.
She had to
beg
the bitch to stay.’

‘The cheek!’

‘So it turns out that because her grandfather’s rolling in it and he gives a bit to the hospital, she’s got away with it!’

‘Aye, the powers that be can turn a blind eye when they want, when money’s involved, like. It makes you sick.’

‘One law for the haves, and another for the have-nots.’

‘As it was and ever shall be, world without end, amen. Oh, my word, if it had been any of us, we’d have been thrown out quicker than you can say knife. That’s Matron’s
idea of justice, I suppose. It’s disgusting,’

‘That’s a lot of people’s idea of justice. Money talks.’

‘But what else could she have done?’ Sally asked. ‘If he took all his money away from the hospital, there might not be enough to pay all the wages, and there’d be a lot
of patients couldn’t get treatment, and that wouldn’t be justice, either.’ And remembering Sister’s relief when Dunkley returned, she added, ‘And she’s still an
efficient nurse.’

‘She’s a slut.’

‘And a hypocrite. It’s an outrage.’

‘There’s another outrage, an’ all. One none of you lot seem to have thought about,’ said Sally.

All eyes were upon her. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s this. We’re all crying for her blood, but she could never have gone there if Dr Campbell hadn’t asked her, could she now? So he’s just as much to blame as she
is, but there’s nobody screaming for a pound of his flesh, or talking about sacking him!’

‘But he’s a man!’

‘He’s a
doctor
!’

Sally’s eyes widened and she gave an emphatic nod. ‘Aye, he is! That’s where the outrage comes in. The difference we make between them. She’s a slut, but nobody says a
wrong word about him. And I bet he’ll be back on the wards tomorrow, twinkling his blue eyes at us all after nearly getting her the sack, and everybody’ll still think he’s
wonderful.’

There was a pause, then Armstrong said, ‘My word, she’s right. You’re absolutely right, Wilde.’

‘Aye. Tell me the old, old story.’

‘Men have always got away with it, so they have,’ said Curran, her expression suddenly gloomy, ‘and I suppose they’ll get away with a lot more, now they’re all
dead.’

‘Even so,’ someone muttered, ‘she’s still a slut. And a hypocrite.’

A week after his operation Maxfield was still sleeping badly, according to the night report. News from home might buck him up, put him on the road to recovery, Sally thought,
as she handed him his letter. ‘I think that’s the first one you’ve had since you’ve been here, isn’t it, Lieutenant Maxfield?’ But instead of the pleasure
she’d anticipated, she saw pure shock on his face and his hand shook a little as he took it from her.

She passed on, to dish out the rest of the post, and was at the bed opposite when she chanced to glance up at him. He was looking at his letter and laughing, silent laughter, with shoulders
shaking, and tears running from his exposed eye. The sight was so strange and so irresistible that the patients and ward staff watching him began to grin. Sally was smiling with the rest when he
put a hand to his brow, and the merriment on the ward petered out into silence and eyes were averted at the appalling, embarrassing sight of a grown man, a
Lieutenant
, crying like a
baby.

Sally was going to get the screens to shield him from the gaze of the ward, when from the corner of her eye she saw David Jones, struggling for breath, just as she’d seen an asthma patient
on her first ward. Maxfield was forgotten.

‘David!’ She dashed towards him, calling to Crump, urging her to fetch Sister.

‘Oh,’ he gasped and clutched at his chest, and she was in turmoil, wondering whether she should leave him as he was, or lay him flat, or whether propping him up with more pillows
might help him breathe better. She was thankful to see Sister Davies’ splayed feet striding determinedly down the ward with the probationer trotting behind. Lieutenant Jones began to
cough.