evening, Dr Richardson.’
‘Have you been here long?’
‘Since lunchtime.’
‘Any problems?’
‘Isobelle Stevens was a bit restless earlier, but she seems to have settled down now.’
‘Did you make a note on her chart?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Her tone was indignant. A moment later her cheeks were burning with shame.
I touched her arm and said, ‘It’s all right, Mary – really. You must be tired.’
One of the patients spoke in her sleep: ‘Don’t! Don’t! Please . . . no.’
Mary and I looked at each other – but made no comment.
I did my usual circuit of the beds, examining the charts, registering medication levels, and I made a mental note of who was due to receive ECT the next day: Celia Jones, a middle-aged woman with short curly hair and a round face. Her eyes were rapidly oscillating from side to side beneath closed lids – a reliable indication that she was dreaming. As I was preparing to make my departure one of the nightingales arrived to relieve Mary Williams. Consequently, the trainee and I left the sleep room together.
Even though I had indicated that Mary should go first, her deferential nature made her fall in behind me. We were about halfway up the stairs when I heard her gasp: a sudden, sharp intake of breath. I stopped and turned around. Mary was looking back down the stairs, her right hand raised and covering the nape of her neck.
‘Mary?’ I enquired.
When our eyes met I saw that her pillbox hat was tilted at an angle.
‘I’m sorry, Dr Richardson.’ She glanced towards the sleep room again and stammered a few words that I did not hear properly. Even in the weak light that reached us from the vestibule, I could see that she was confused.
‘Mary,’ I pressed, ‘whatever is the matter?’
Her mouth worked silently, opening and closing without producing words, until she finally managed to blurt out: ‘My ankle. I twisted my ankle.’ She doubled over and probed the joint.
‘Here,’ I said, offering her my arm, ‘let me give you some support?’
She ignored my solicitation and made a great show of testing the foot with her weight. ‘It’s all right – I think. Yes. Yes. It’s fine.’
‘Perhaps I should take a look?’
‘No. Honestly – it’s nothing.’ She tried to smile. ‘I was being stupid . . .’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you’re quite sure?’
‘I am,’ she answered firmly. ‘Quite sure.’
We completed our ascent and as soon as we were in the vestibule Mary said, ‘Goodnight.’ She let herself out by the front door and locked it behind her. Although she was a local girl, she had been allocated a room (like the other nurses) in the converted stable building. Given that she had not troubled to collect a coat before leaving, I assumed that this must be her destination. I listened to the sound of her step receding into the night. There was nothing about its determined regularity that suggested a ‘twisted ankle’. The rhythm faded away into silence, a silence that yawned and gaped and felt deep enough to produce a sensation not unlike vertigo. Yet, I kept on listening. I don’t know what I was listening for – but I kept on listening.
5
The following week I saw a great deal of Jane Turner, during which time my feelings for her began to grow stronger. Her absence became increasingly associated with a dull longing. There were, however, some hopeful indications that she might feel the same way. She was always cheerful in my presence and had a tendency to stand so close I could smell her perfume. In spite of all this, I had very real doubts about the wisdom of initiating a relationship with a colleague. If things didn’t work out, or, even worse, turned sour, life might become very complicated.
I was sitting with Jane and Lillian in the dining room and it transpired that they planned to visit Southwold at the weekend. ‘The weather forecast is very good,’ said Jane. ‘It’ll probably be our last chance to enjoy some sunshine
‘Have you been here long?’
‘Since lunchtime.’
‘Any problems?’
‘Isobelle Stevens was a bit restless earlier, but she seems to have settled down now.’
‘Did you make a note on her chart?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Her tone was indignant. A moment later her cheeks were burning with shame.
I touched her arm and said, ‘It’s all right, Mary – really. You must be tired.’
One of the patients spoke in her sleep: ‘Don’t! Don’t! Please . . . no.’
Mary and I looked at each other – but made no comment.
I did my usual circuit of the beds, examining the charts, registering medication levels, and I made a mental note of who was due to receive ECT the next day: Celia Jones, a middle-aged woman with short curly hair and a round face. Her eyes were rapidly oscillating from side to side beneath closed lids – a reliable indication that she was dreaming. As I was preparing to make my departure one of the nightingales arrived to relieve Mary Williams. Consequently, the trainee and I left the sleep room together.
Even though I had indicated that Mary should go first, her deferential nature made her fall in behind me. We were about halfway up the stairs when I heard her gasp: a sudden, sharp intake of breath. I stopped and turned around. Mary was looking back down the stairs, her right hand raised and covering the nape of her neck.
‘Mary?’ I enquired.
When our eyes met I saw that her pillbox hat was tilted at an angle.
‘I’m sorry, Dr Richardson.’ She glanced towards the sleep room again and stammered a few words that I did not hear properly. Even in the weak light that reached us from the vestibule, I could see that she was confused.
‘Mary,’ I pressed, ‘whatever is the matter?’
Her mouth worked silently, opening and closing without producing words, until she finally managed to blurt out: ‘My ankle. I twisted my ankle.’ She doubled over and probed the joint.
‘Here,’ I said, offering her my arm, ‘let me give you some support?’
She ignored my solicitation and made a great show of testing the foot with her weight. ‘It’s all right – I think. Yes. Yes. It’s fine.’
‘Perhaps I should take a look?’
‘No. Honestly – it’s nothing.’ She tried to smile. ‘I was being stupid . . .’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you’re quite sure?’
‘I am,’ she answered firmly. ‘Quite sure.’
We completed our ascent and as soon as we were in the vestibule Mary said, ‘Goodnight.’ She let herself out by the front door and locked it behind her. Although she was a local girl, she had been allocated a room (like the other nurses) in the converted stable building. Given that she had not troubled to collect a coat before leaving, I assumed that this must be her destination. I listened to the sound of her step receding into the night. There was nothing about its determined regularity that suggested a ‘twisted ankle’. The rhythm faded away into silence, a silence that yawned and gaped and felt deep enough to produce a sensation not unlike vertigo. Yet, I kept on listening. I don’t know what I was listening for – but I kept on listening.
5
The following week I saw a great deal of Jane Turner, during which time my feelings for her began to grow stronger. Her absence became increasingly associated with a dull longing. There were, however, some hopeful indications that she might feel the same way. She was always cheerful in my presence and had a tendency to stand so close I could smell her perfume. In spite of all this, I had very real doubts about the wisdom of initiating a relationship with a colleague. If things didn’t work out, or, even worse, turned sour, life might become very complicated.
I was sitting with Jane and Lillian in the dining room and it transpired that they planned to visit Southwold at the weekend. ‘The weather forecast is very good,’ said Jane. ‘It’ll probably be our last chance to enjoy some sunshine
Similar Books
