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…
She shook her head. Stop daydreaming, she told herself firmly. Just because he kissed you by way of saying thank you, it doesn’t mean that he likes you. He’s probably still feeling sorry for you, poor little Staff Nurse Pointer, ditched by her fiancé for a better catch!
Walking across the bedroom, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Pale tawny golden hair, grey eyes fringed with dark lashes. Quite a nice face, she thought dispassionately, but not exciting. Not the sort of girl a clever, ambitious man like Greg Lincoln would want to settle down with. He’d flirted with her, that was true, but only when she was safely engaged. Ever since she’d been free he’d shown no interest whatsoever! It’s because I’m not exciting, she thought with a sudden surge of irritation at herself. I’m not witty, or ambitious, I’m ordinary, just plain ordinary.
She glowered in the mirror, “You are dull, dull, dull,” she said, challenging her reflection to contradict her.
The telephone ringing in the hall brought a welcome interruption to her relentless and unflattering self-analysis; hastily she hurried down the stairs to answer it.
“Abigail!” It was Greg, and her heart gave a sudden gigantic flip, as she remembered his kiss of not so long ago. Although why she should remember such a brief, passionless kiss was beyond reason.
However, the memory made her feel suddenly shy, and she answered rather abruptly, “Yes?”
He hesitated a moment, as if put off by her abruptness, then said, “I rang to tell you Mary Mulligan is one hundred per cent better. I’ve talked to her, and she’s resigned to the fact of living with her trachy for some time to come.”
“Oh, I’m glad she’s OK.” There was a long pause, Abigail couldn’t think of anything to say.
Then Greg suddenly said, “I took some letters down to the post room.”
“And?” She didn’t get the connection.
“I saw a handwritten envelope, your handwriting to…”
“Oh!” now Abigail knew what was coming, “you mean the one to the Middle Eastern Agency.”
“It’s a stupid idea, don’t go ahead with it.”
“Are you telling me, or just giving me advice?” she asked, a hint of irony in her voice. Why was it men always thought they knew best! “Because as I told you before, I shall do whatever I think fit.”
“I know you will,” Greg’s tone was definitely cool, “I was merely voicing an opinion. For your own good.”
“Thank you, but keep it to yourself.” Abigail could hardly recognise her own voice, it sounded so hard and distant. “I really don’t feel in the slightest bit like taking advice from anyone.”
“Of course,” Greg’s voice sounded equally hard and uncompromising, “I quite understand.” The line went dead and Abigail was left standing in the hall, miserably clutching the receiver to her chest.
Why had she been so stupidly pigheaded? That had been a heaven-sent opportunity to talk, to get to know Greg better, to continue the fragile threads of their relationship, and maybe to clear up some misunderstandings. But all she had done was to make matters worse! Slamming the phone back in its cradle, she sighed. She felt exhausted now, and depressed, and it didn’t help knowing that she had been less than reasonable!
Dispiritedly she went back upstairs and finished the unpacking. This time she didn’t dawdle, didn’t waste time on memories; even so, it was very late by the time she had finished.
The rain was still pouring down heavily outside, and only served to add to her gloom. It made her even more uncomfortably aware that she would have to do something about the roof soon. Pouring herself a glass of red wine from a bottle given her by Greg’s father, she took the wine and some cheese and biscuits to the lounge. The light from the fringed lamp by the stone fireplace cast a warm glow over the room as she sat lost in thought. Greg’s words came back to her: “The cottage is only bricks and mortar, nothing can destroy your memories.”
In spite of giving Greg an impression to the contrary, she knew what she had to do; she must sell the cottage. Somebody would buy it who could afford the upkeep, and they would love it as much as she did. Surprisingly, once she had made the decision she felt much better. Where she would live, and what she would do in the future, she pushed to the back of her mind. Let the future take care of itself, she thought bravely.