Sold to the Surgeon (16 page)

“Where's your ring?” asked Sue as soon as they had moved away from Mr. Grover.

Abigail groaned, but braced herself. Might as well get it over with, everyone would know soon enough anyway. “I'm no longer engaged,” she answered briefly.

“Oh,” Sue's eyes nearly popped out of her head, “but it was such a lovely ring!”

“It wasn't the ring I didn't like, it was the prospect of marriage.” She didn't mention Penelope Orchard's involvement—time enough for that juicy piece of gossip to be digested later!

“Oh,” said Sue again, dying to ask more questions. But Abigail's expression didn't encourage her, so she had to contain her curiosity and continue with the drug round.

The rest of the morning dragged. The ward was still half empty from the holidays, and Greg didn't put in an appearance as his patients had yet to be admitted. At lunchtime Abigail hurried down to the canteen, hoping that Lynne might be on the same lunch break as herself. She was in luck, Lynne was sitting alone at a table by the window, and grabbing a salad from the cold counter, Abigail joined her friend.

Lynne looked her up and down enviously, “It's disgusting,” she said, “for anyone to be so brown, especially in this weather!” She looked gloomily out of the window, where the rain was still pouring down. “I got your card, by the way—was it really as lovely as you described it?”

“Better,” said Abigail, the blue skies of Italy flashing momentarily before her eyes, banishing the cold grey of the English summer. “You must go to Italy some time.”

“Perhaps I will, soon,” said Lynne, suddenly stretching her left hand towards Abigail. A solitaire diamond sparkled on her ring finger. “We got engaged last weekend,” she breathed. “Derek doesn't want a long engagement, so we're to be married next month, and he says we might go to Italy for our honeymoon.” The information was imparted in Lynne's usual fashion, without a pause for breath.

“Lynne!” Abigail grasped her friend's hand, “I'm so glad.” Then she smiled. “But I'm not exactly surprised, I can recognise true love when I see it.”

Lynne's face clouded over. “I hear via the grapevine that you've broken off your engagement to Rupert.”

“Yes,” said Abigail briefly.

“What went wrong?” asked her friend with genuine concern.

Abigail smiled sadly. Seeing Lynne so happy made her feel even more alone. “It was never really right, Lynne,” she said at last. “I suppose, deep down, I knew that all the time, but I kidded myself.” Then she made a determined effort and smiled cheerfully. “At least we didn't make the mistake of getting married and then finding out.” Then she told Lynne, feeling she had to tell someone, that Rupert had fallen for Penelope Orchard.

“Well, of all the nasty creatures!” exploded Lynne.

“It takes two,” Abigail reminded her.

Lynne looked thoughtful. “On holiday at Greg's villa!” A scheming expression flickered with sudden delight across her face. “Perhaps you and Greg…”

“Forget it,” said Abigail sharply. “I've had quite enough ‘romance' to last me for a while. I am definitely
off
men!”

Lynne tactfully changed the subject. “Your ward busy?”

“Not today, but from tomorrow onwards the workload is going to be very busy, especially for the surgeons. They've called in so many patients it isn't true.”

Lynne laughed. “That makes me even more glad I'm going to marry a radiologist. At least he'll be home sometimes to see his children growing up.” She peered across at Abigail's watch hanging from her uniform pocket. “Heavens, is that the time? I must dash—see you.” Snatching up her tray, she scurried away.

Left on her own, Abigail sat watching the raindrops sliding relentlessly down the windowpane; it really was foul weather, grey and cheerless, not summer at all. Fits my mood, she thought dejectedly.

She walked slowly back to the ward, wishing it was tomorrow when they would be busy; if there was one thing she hated it was inactivity. But as soon as she arrived Sister Collins called her over.

“Staff,” she said, “I've volunteered you to help on the children's section, they're rather busy round there. I hope you don't mind, but as you've not had a lot of experience with children, I thought it would stand you in good stead when you apply for a Sister's post.”

“Why, thank you,” said Abigail, glad to have something positive to do; although as far as helping her with an application for a Sister's post—well, that was another matter. In fact, it was something she hadn't thought of terribly seriously.

As she walked to the children's section she mulled the idea over, but then rejected it. Even a Sister's salary wouldn't be enough to pay for the repairs to the cottage; there was nothing for it but Saudi Arabia. Although in spite of her defiant words to Greg the previous evening, she'd put off handing in her notice that day.

Once she arrived on the children's section, however, her own problems were forgotten. “Thank goodness you've come!” cried Sister Moon when she spied her. “We've got every bed full, and the problem is they're all feeling well!”

That fact was not difficult to deduce, judging from the racket emanating from a room down the corridor.

“Would you believe it, but that's the quiet room!” said Sister Moon, agitatedly pushing back stray strands of hair beneath her cap. “I've had to let them overflow from the activity room.”

Abigail raised her eyebrows. “Sounds as if there's plenty of activity going on in the quiet room,” she observed with a smile.

Sister Moon agreed. “The trouble is our play leader is sick. I need someone to help with their drawing and painting—do you think you can do it?”

“I'll try anything once,” replied Abigail, and set off down the corridor in the direction of the noise.

Surprising even herself, she found it easy to entertain the children. Casting her mind back to her own infant days, she showed them how to cut up potatoes and make potato prints. In no time at all peace reigned, as the children busily printed their potato pictures on large sheets of coloured paper.

“Can we hang them up when they're finished?” demanded one small boy with an attractive husky voice.

“Yes,” said Abigail, hoping Sister Moon wouldn't object to the corridor being festooned with coloured paper.

So intent was she, kneeling on the floor helping a little girl press down her potato firmly, that she didn't hear Sister Moon and Greg Lincoln come in.

“Ah, peace at last! Well done, Nurse Pointer.” At the sound of Sister Moon's voice Abigail turned.

They were standing in the doorway of the quiet room, which by now was living up to its name. Greg was smiling, and involuntarily Abigail found herself smiling back; the dancing light in his sparkling brown eyes was quite infectious.

“You have a blue blob on the end of your nose,” he remarked, adding as Abigail vainly rubbed at it, “Now you've added red—a most becoming combination!”

Greg and Sister Moon left, and Abigail turned back to the children. Her spirits had lifted, and as if to complement her feelings, the rain stopped and the sun came out, its warming rays sloping through the windows of the quiet room. The afternoon had passed by quickly, so absorbed had she been with her work with the children.

“I think we'd better clean these children up and get them back into bed now,” she told the student nurse helping her. “Supper will be coming round soon.”

“Don't forget you said you'd pin up our pictures,” reminded the husky-voiced boy with a disarming smile, whose name Abigail had found out was Timmy Smith.

Good as her word, Abigail clambered on a chair and dutifully pinned up the pictures in the corridor. Then it was a rush, getting the children washed before supper time.

“It's fish fingers tonight,” said Timmy Smith, “my favourite.” He smiled up at her, and Abigail was struck one again by the unselfconscious charm of the little boy.

Making her way down the staircase much later, when she had finally finished, she suddenly realised just how tired she felt. From being bored in the morning, she had been completely absorbed all the afternoon, so it was only now that she felt tired.

“You look weary.” It was Greg, flying down the stairs two at a time. “Did all those children exhaust you?”

“A little,” Abigail admitted, “but I enjoyed myself.”

“I could see that,” he returned drily. “Didn't I tell you I could imagine you surrounded by hordes of children!”

She blushed. “If I ever do have children,” she said lightly, “it will never be that many!”

“Thought any more about Saudi Arabia?” he asked suddenly, changing the subject.

“Yes,” said Abigail.

“Don't rush into anything you might regret…”

“Don't worry,” she interrupted with just a trace of bitterness, “I've learned my lesson. I'm not going to rush into anything.”

“Good,” said Greg briskly, “at least that's an improvement on last night's attitude!” Then he stopped, and leaning forward lightly touched the tip of her nose with his forefinger. “It's still red and blue,” he said with a grin, “did you forget?” Then he carried on his way, down the stairs two at a time, and disappeared through the swing doors at the bottom.

Chapter Eleven

It was well into the next day before Abigail had a spare moment in which to sit down at the nursing station and scan the
Nursing Mirror
for jobs in Saudi Arabia. She still hadn't been able to bring herself to actually hand in her notice, thinking, I'll get some job descriptions first, then give in my notice. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sister Collins approaching, and hastily stuck the journal in the nearest drawer. She could just imagine Sister's horrified reaction if she knew Abigail was even contemplating such a move.

“I'm off to my meeting now,” said Sister Collins, “but I wondered if I could ask you a favour before I go, it's important I get it settled now. Are you doing anything special tonight?”

“No,” said Abigail truthfully, instinctively knowing she was going to be asked to do extra duty.

She was right! “Good,” said Sister Collins, sounding relieved. “I know I always seem to ask you, but you're one of my most reliable girls. Could you work until nine o'clock tonight? I know it means a very long day,” she added hurriedly, “but it's imperative I get someone good for Mary Mulligan, the post-operative laser patient.”

“The girl who's having her trachy closed today?”

“Yes. Mr. Lincoln asked that someone senior keep an eye on her.” Abigail agreed, she knew of the case and had been on duty when Mary had first been brought in earlier in the year as a result of a road traffic accident. The pretty teenager's larynx had been damaged, necessitating a tracheostomy, and now it was to be closed, always a hazardous procedure. Sister Collins went off to her meeting happy in the knowledge that Abigail was staying, and as for herself—well, Abigail thought philosophically, working was better than going home and worrying about the roof! She also decided that procrastination was not the answer, so she penned a letter to a nursing agency which dealt with Middle Eastern jobs, dropping the envelope into the post porter's basket before she had a chance to change her mind.

Once the afternoon theatre patients starting arriving back on the ward from Recovery, all thoughts of Saudi Arabia, and the cottage, were driven from her mind. There was so much to do, and she was hard-pushed to keep pace with everything; she had Sue Parkins and another student nurse on loan, and kept them on the run following her instructions. But although both girls were willing, the bulk of the work fell on Abigail's shoulders, because as students neither of them were qualified to administer the drugs written up by the anaesthetist.

“Would you like me to stay on for a bit?” volunteered Sue, when the time came for her to go off duty.

Abigail smiled gratefully at Sue's generous offer, knowing she had a date that evening with a houseman she had been idolising from afar for weeks. “It will quieten down now,” she replied, “it's only a question of the top-ups. I shall manage. But thanks for the offer.”

“Sure?” asked Sue.

“Quite sure,” said Abigail firmly. “Now off you go, or you'll be late for your date tonight.”

Sue blushed to the roots of her flaming red hair, then shot off down the corridor at express train speed, towards the changing room.

Once Sue had gone, Abigail briefed the new auxiliary, a pleasant willing girl named Ann. They had just finished the drug round for the post-operative patients, checking that the analgesics were working well, and that the patients were pain-free, when Greg strode into the ward.

“Shouldn't you be off duty?” he asked, looking surprised to find Abigail still there.

“We're short-staffed,” she explained. “I'm staying until nine o'clock, mainly for Mary Mulligan's benefit. Sister Clarkson comes on then, so there'll be no problem.”

He seemed relieved. “Good,” he muttered absentmindedly, and went across to Mary's room just opposite the nursing station. He stood, one hand lightly holding the girl's wrist as he felt her pulse. The closure of tracheostomy had to all intents and purposes gone well, but Abigail could see that he was worried.

“She seems to be doing well,” she ventured.

“Yes,” he muttered, but he still looked worried. “Let her have something cold to drink now, I'll be back later to check her out. Keep a very close watch on her breathing.”

“Do you anticipate problems?” asked Abigail quietly, as together they walked away from Mary's room.

He waited until they reached the nursing station before replying, “I wasn't able to laser the closure as well as I would have liked,” he said briefly. “My main concern is that oedema will develop.”

Abigail noticed his face was sallow with concern, taut lines etched deeply into the corners of his mouth. Impulsively she reached out and caught his arm. “Don't worry,” she said, “I'll watch her carefully and call the duty doctor if I'm the slightest bit worried.”

“No,” he snapped, “don't call him, call me. Switch can get me through my radio pager.” He turned abruptly, and walked quickly down the corridor leading away from the ward.

Abigail watched until he was out of sight. He was particularly touchy, even for him, she mused. Then she went back into Mary's room, and was rewarded by a weak smile from the seventeen-year-old. “You can have a cold drink now,” she said, “it will help soothe your throat.”

Mary nodded. “That would be nice,” she whispered hoarsely.

She sipped the ice-cold milk Abigail had prepared gratefully. The hand that held the glass was steady, no sign of tremor, but when she began to swallow Abigail felt a twinge of anxiety. Mary was quite happy, but Abigail noted that the milk seemed to gurgle down rather slowly, rather than slip down easily the way it should have done.

“How does it feel when you're drinking?” she asked in a matter-of-fact voice. The very last thing she wanted was to convey any hint of anxiety to Mary.

“Fine,” whispered Mary, “the milk is lovely.”

Abigail mentally chastised herself for looking for problems where there were none; Greg had made her nervous. She waited until Mary had finished, then twitched the pillows into a more comfortable position and settled her down. She stood and watched as Mary drifted off easily to sleep, then, satisfied that all was well, left her bedside.

The evening shift passed quickly, and Abigail checked on Mary every five to seven minutes, and couldn't help wishing she was out in the main ward instead of in an individual room, even though it was near the nursing station. Give me the old-fashioned wards any time, she thought, when it was possible to see all the patients at a glance from the central desk. Ann went off for her tea break, and returned just as some visiting relatives stopped at the desk to ask Abigail some questions.

“Pop in and check on Mary, will you?” asked Abigail. Five minutes had passed since she herself had checked and all had been well. Ann nodded and disappeared into Mary's room, only to reappear a second later and hurry over to the desk, her face ashen.

“Staff!” she called, rushing to Abigail's side.

“Don't run, nurse,” snapped Abigail, only too aware of the audience of anxious relatives. “You know you must never run on the ward.”

She rose quickly, excusing herself to the relatives in a calm voice, although her thoughts were racing ahead, sifting through all the possible disasters. “What is it?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

“She's not breathing properly!” gasped Ann, panic rising in her voice. “I think she's dying!”

“Not if I can help it,” rejoined Abigail grimly, pushing open the door to Mary's room. One glimpse was enough to tell her something was terribly wrong.

“Call the crash team,” she said without hesitation. Mary's pulse was weak and fluttering, her breathing laboured, and Abigail noted peripheral cyanosis. She knew the girl was about to arrest any moment—but why? Why? Then she noticed Mary's fingers, feebly plucking at the dressing covering the site of the operation, and Greg's words came back to Abigail with harrowing clarity “My main concern is that oedema will develop.” Suddenly she knew Greg's fear had been realised, and there was only one solution—the tracheostomy would have to be reopen quickly.

“The crash team are in Casualty with a coronary case,” said Ann, putting down the telephone.

“Tell Switch to get the other team and also to page Mr. Lincoln, urgently. Then come and help me,” said Abigail, running from Mary's room to the utility room, her previous admonition about running forgotten. There were times when a nurse
had
to run, and this was one of them. So she ran, unmindful of the puzzled stares of the remaining visitors as they wended their way from the ward. She grabbed the trolley which stood equipped, ready for such emergencies, and wheeled it into Mary's room.

There was still no sign of a doctor. “Where are they?” Abigail asked Ann, who was standing looking panic-stricken, wringing her hands.

“They're on their way,” she said, her voice trembling.

“We can't wait,” said Abigail tersely, her mind racing ahead, planning each move she was about to make with meticulous detail. She looked at Ann. “Just give me what I ask for, and everything will be all right.” She spoke calmly and quietly, knowing what she had to do. She nodded towards the piped oxygen supply by the side of the bed.

“Have the oxygen ready, and give it to me the moment I ask for it, and pass me this tube when I give the word.”

She handed Ann a tracheostomy tube and leaned over Mary. Please let me be doing the right thing, she prayed silently, cold beads of perspiration breaking out on her brow. Then taking a deep breath she started carefully to snip open the sutures that were keeping the tracheostomy closed. The senior house officer, Dr. Singh, came in.

“What—?” he began.

“Oedema in the larynx,” said Abigail briefly, snipping away at the sutures. “Do you want to take over?”

“No,” he said quickly, “don't stop now.”

So Abigail carried on, knowing there was not a minute to be lost, although it was as much as she could do to keep her hands steady. Only when the airway had been opened, the tracheostomy tube inserted, and life-giving pure oxygen was flowing into Mary's lungs, did she stand back.

“You saved her life,” said Dr. Singh in an awed voice, standing by Mary feeling her pulse and noting the colour of her face, which was rapidly improving.

Suddenly the enormity of what she had done, and what could have gone wrong, struck Abigail; at that point the crash team burst into the room, closely followed by Greg.

“What's going on?” he demanded, marching up to Mary's bedside.

“Staff Nurse Pointer seems to have made us all redundant,” said the anaesthetist, busily checking the oxygen flow to the now peaceful Mary, as Dr. Singh filled him in on the details.

Startled, Greg flashed Abigail a questioning look, but she was incapable of answering, the full horror of what might of happened overwhelming her.

“Take Staff and get her some strong coffee,” he ordered brusquely, nodding his head towards Ann.

The young auxiliary touched Abigail's arm, and on legs that could scarcely function properly, she walked silently out of the room, hoping that Greg wouldn't be angry because she had gone ahead and re-opened the tracheostomy. The tone of his voice had been very abrupt. Perhaps she should have waited for the medical team to arrive.

Once outside Mary's room, she became aware of the excited buzz of conversation throughout the ward area, and realised all the other patients must be wondering what was going on.

She took a deep breath. It was ridiculous to tremble now it was all over. “I'll get myself a coffee,” she told Ann. “You go and do a routine ward check. If anyone asks what's been going on, just say there was a slight problem, but all is now well.”

Ann pulled a face. “A bit of an understatement!” But she knew well enough that it was essential not to worry the other patients.

Once in the ward kitchen, Abigail made a coffee automatically, pondering over the events of a short while ago. She was sure she had done the right thing, but Greg Lincoln hadn't exactly congratulated her, she remembered with a little pang.

“I've come to thank you,” Greg's deep voice cut through her thoughts, almost as if he knew her doubts, “and to congratulate you on your expertise.”

“Congratulate me…?” stammered Abigail.

“Yes. If you hadn't made the correct diagnosis and responded immediately, Mary Mulligan would no longer be with us.”

Inexplicably Abigail's eyes filled with tears, and the hand that held the coffee cup trembled violently. “I knew I daren't wait for you to arrive,” she whispered in a barely audible voice.

The coffee cup was promptly taken from her, and suddenly Greg's arms were around her, holding her comfortingly. “Why is it women always cry when things go right?” he asked whimsically.

Abigail raised her eyes, tears trembling on the edges of her long lashes, “I don't know, I…” His lips came down on hers, in a gentle, softly reassuring kiss.

“All I can say,” he murmured, “is that you'll be wasted in Saudi Arabia. We need you here.” Then as suddenly as he had taken her in his arms, he released her, and left the kitchen.

Slowly Abigail raised her hands and touched her lips. Did he mean the hospital needed her, or did he mean that he needed her too? She wished she knew.

When she eventually arrived back at the cottage that night, it was about ten, but in spite of being tired she decided to finish her unpacking. She was still too het up to sleep, so she reasoned she might as well do something useful.

The presents and souvenirs she had bought were unwrapped, and she found herself reliving the moment she had purchased each one. She could almost smell the dry dusty smell of the heat around the villa, always mixed with the smell of the wild rosemary which grew in profusion on the hillsides of Umbria. Smiling at the memory, she wondered what Greg's parents were doing; probably sitting outside under the stars, with a glass of wine, she decided enviously. Then she began to wonder why Greg had bought the villa and the land, when he would be returning to America the following year. He would hardly ever have time to go there himself. But perhaps he would settle in England, and not go back, and maybe it was possible that something could come of their relationship, maybe…