wards. Sanitary conditions had a long way to go and antibiotics hadn’t even been discovered yet.
Despite all of that, Guy’s was impressive. At least a dozen interconnected buildings sat behind a huge expanse of lawn and a forbidding, spiked iron gate. Inside it was cavernous and dark and overflowing with patients. It took them quite a while to find the wing that held patients with head injuries. When they saw men shuffling down the corridors in white gowns with huge bandage turbans on their heads, they knew they’d come to the right place.
It was more than a little horrifying, but Elizabeth managed to concentrate on the mission, on why they’d come. Somewhere in this enormous place was Evan Eldridge and they were there to bring him home. After a few inquiries, they were finally directed to an office in the Southwark Wing and any dreams of walking out the door with Evan today were immediately dashed. Present or past, red tape was red tape, and apparently, the English took great comfort in the structure it provided.
“We’re here to see a patient. An older man about six feet, silver hair?” Elizabeth asked the duty nurse.
The woman didn’t look up from her paperwork. “Name?”
“He has a head injury, I’m not sure he remembers it,” Elizabeth said.
“Name?”
“Evan Eldridge.”
The nurse flipped through the pages of a large ledger, made a short notation and then held up a clipboard with a raft of papers. “Fill these out.”
“He is here then?” She’d been so afraid that his memory was completely lost. It was wonderful news if he remembered his name.
The nurse nodded and held out the clipboard.
“Thank you.”
She and Simon sat in the waiting room and filled out form after form. After returning those to the nurse, they were told the paperwork would have to be reviewed by his doctor and the Consultant, who was apparently the big cheese. If they were lucky, they might get to see Evan tomorrow, but there weren’t any guarantees.
Impatient and worried that they wouldn’t meet their deadline, the eclipse that would take them home was just a few days away, Simon insisted on seeing the Consultant. Twenty minutes later a small round man with small round glasses agreed to see them.
His office looked like a filing cabinet had exploded. Stacks of folders and papers covered nearly every inch of available floor and desk space. He waved them in and moved stacks of papers that covered the guest chairs.
“Please,” he said gesturing toward two old wooden chairs. “You’ll have to forgive the state of things. The filing room caught fire and these are the refugees.”
“It’s quite all right,” Simon said as they took their seats. “Thank you for seeing us, Doctor…”
“Newman. I’m not sure I’ll be of much help. The administration is rather firm on release policies.”
“I understand, but we’re under a bit of a timeline. We have return tickets on a clipper to the United States next week and, as you can imagine, they’re rather difficult to come by.”
“I should imagine.” Dr. Newman dug through a pile of folders. “Eldridge, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Evan Eldridge.”
The doctor skimmed the file. “Hmm. Head injury, intermittent memory loss. I…oh. I see he’s been assigned to Doctor Webber. I can’t do anything without his approval, you understand.”
“Is it possible we could speak with Doctor Webber?”
“He’s a slippery one,” Newman said with a frown. “But we’ll give it a go.”
He picked up the large black handset from the Dictaphone on his desk and pressed down a lever. “Mrs. Wilson, would you see if you can locate Doctor Webber? I have a couple who…Yes? Oh, would you ask him to step in?” He hung up the phone and grinned. “You’re in luck. Usually have a devil of a time getting a hold of him, but he’s just gone past. I’d offer you some tea, but I’m afraid we’re fresh out at the moment.”
“That’s all right,”
Despite all of that, Guy’s was impressive. At least a dozen interconnected buildings sat behind a huge expanse of lawn and a forbidding, spiked iron gate. Inside it was cavernous and dark and overflowing with patients. It took them quite a while to find the wing that held patients with head injuries. When they saw men shuffling down the corridors in white gowns with huge bandage turbans on their heads, they knew they’d come to the right place.
It was more than a little horrifying, but Elizabeth managed to concentrate on the mission, on why they’d come. Somewhere in this enormous place was Evan Eldridge and they were there to bring him home. After a few inquiries, they were finally directed to an office in the Southwark Wing and any dreams of walking out the door with Evan today were immediately dashed. Present or past, red tape was red tape, and apparently, the English took great comfort in the structure it provided.
“We’re here to see a patient. An older man about six feet, silver hair?” Elizabeth asked the duty nurse.
The woman didn’t look up from her paperwork. “Name?”
“He has a head injury, I’m not sure he remembers it,” Elizabeth said.
“Name?”
“Evan Eldridge.”
The nurse flipped through the pages of a large ledger, made a short notation and then held up a clipboard with a raft of papers. “Fill these out.”
“He is here then?” She’d been so afraid that his memory was completely lost. It was wonderful news if he remembered his name.
The nurse nodded and held out the clipboard.
“Thank you.”
She and Simon sat in the waiting room and filled out form after form. After returning those to the nurse, they were told the paperwork would have to be reviewed by his doctor and the Consultant, who was apparently the big cheese. If they were lucky, they might get to see Evan tomorrow, but there weren’t any guarantees.
Impatient and worried that they wouldn’t meet their deadline, the eclipse that would take them home was just a few days away, Simon insisted on seeing the Consultant. Twenty minutes later a small round man with small round glasses agreed to see them.
His office looked like a filing cabinet had exploded. Stacks of folders and papers covered nearly every inch of available floor and desk space. He waved them in and moved stacks of papers that covered the guest chairs.
“Please,” he said gesturing toward two old wooden chairs. “You’ll have to forgive the state of things. The filing room caught fire and these are the refugees.”
“It’s quite all right,” Simon said as they took their seats. “Thank you for seeing us, Doctor…”
“Newman. I’m not sure I’ll be of much help. The administration is rather firm on release policies.”
“I understand, but we’re under a bit of a timeline. We have return tickets on a clipper to the United States next week and, as you can imagine, they’re rather difficult to come by.”
“I should imagine.” Dr. Newman dug through a pile of folders. “Eldridge, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Evan Eldridge.”
The doctor skimmed the file. “Hmm. Head injury, intermittent memory loss. I…oh. I see he’s been assigned to Doctor Webber. I can’t do anything without his approval, you understand.”
“Is it possible we could speak with Doctor Webber?”
“He’s a slippery one,” Newman said with a frown. “But we’ll give it a go.”
He picked up the large black handset from the Dictaphone on his desk and pressed down a lever. “Mrs. Wilson, would you see if you can locate Doctor Webber? I have a couple who…Yes? Oh, would you ask him to step in?” He hung up the phone and grinned. “You’re in luck. Usually have a devil of a time getting a hold of him, but he’s just gone past. I’d offer you some tea, but I’m afraid we’re fresh out at the moment.”
“That’s all right,”
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