bathroom.
Six hours later, Gavin stood up stiffly and surveyed his handiwork. The basin was still cracked, but the bath gleamed white, the chrome on the taps sparkled, the tiles were white once again, and the loo had a new, shiny pine seat courtesy of the nearest DIY store.
The kitchen would have to wait for tomorrow. Stripping off the fetching pink rubber gloves and tossing them in the dangling sink, he put his hands on the small of his back and stretched, groaning. If he was lucky he’d get five hours in bed before he had to start operating. His mouth opened in a jaw-cracking yawn, and, digging in the pocket of his jeans for his car keys, he flicked off the lights, locked the doors and headed back to the hospital.
By the end of the weekend he hoped to have the kitchen sorted out, a coat of paint on the inside of the smaller cottage and something to show a potential lodger—if he could find one …
Laura Bailey approached the surgical ward of the Audley Memorial Hospital with a certain amount of trepidation. She hadn’t worked in a hospital as large as this for three years—three years in which her life had changed irrevocably, leaving her with emotional scars that went so deep that she knew she would never recover.
This job was part of her rehabilitation, returning her to society as a fit and functioning member of the workforce, a separate part of her life from the part that was so battered and torn. She could do the job, she knew she could. It was just meeting her colleagues, fending off their curiosity, that she was dreading. She was early, simply because she had been ready and wanted to get this bit over with.
She entered the ward, noting first the quiet bustle, the steady drone of voices, the laughter of an auxilliary nurse in the distance—health-care assistant, she corrected herself. Things had changed since she had first trained nine years before.
A slim, pretty girl with dark hair and the frilly white cap and royal-blue dress of a nursing sister was walking towards her, deep in conversation with a surgeon. At least, Laura assumed he was a surgeon. He was wearing theatre pyjamas, and a stethoscope was dangling round his neck.
They paused at the desk and turned towards each other, and she could see when the conversation changed from professional to personal. They were laughing together now, the sort of teasing, intimate laughter of lovers, and Laura felt loneliness stab at the constant ache in her heart.
The sister looked up then and saw her, and the smile changed, becoming welcoming and open. She laid her hand on the surgeon’s arm, whispered something that brought a soft chuckle from him, and then left his side to walk towards Laura, her hand outstretched.
‘You must be Laura Bailey. I’m Helen Russell. I’m sorry I wasn’t at your interview, but we were on holiday. Welcome to Piccadilly Circus.’
Laura felt her face thaw and a smile form, warmed by Helen’s friendly greeting. She shook the proffered hand. ‘Piccadilly? It all seems very peaceful,’ she told the sister.
Helen laughed. ‘Don’t count your chickens. I wish I could have rostered you for a Sunday on your first day, because it’s much quieter usually, barring emergencies. The ward is usually at its emptiest until lunchtime, so you can find your way round, and then of course we have several admissions in the afternoon for surgery on the Monday, so you can get to know them right from the start. Still, Wednesday’s not too bad. Some of the Monday lot have gone home and we’ve got another lot in for op today for Oliver and another lot tomorrow for Ross, so you can get to know them before they go up to Theatre. Patients are with us for such a short time these days that if you don’t get in quick you miss them!’
Laura laughed with her, relaxing gradually as she realised that the ward sister, at least, was no threat. The opposite, in fact, her friendly acceptance giving Laura a much-needed boost to her confidence. If she could just avoid the personal comments —
‘We have two consultants attached to the ward, Ross Hamilton and Oliver Henderson. My husband Tom is Ross’s senior registrar—you’ll meet him in a minute; he’s just gone to check a post-op he was worried about. He hasn’t got a junior reg at the moment so he’s having to do a lot of the running around himself until the SHO, Paul Curtis, finds his feet a bit more.’
She gave Laura a thoughtful look. ‘Watch Paul. He’s OK, but check what he does and, if you have any doubts, come and find me. He’s just a bit green yet. Then there’s Sue Radley, Oliver’s SR, and Gavin Jones, his registrar. You’ll like Gavin, he’s fun and very easy to get on with. He did his SHO year here two years ago, and now he’s come back. We’re all very glad to have him. He’s one you won’t have to watch—Oliver thinks he’s brilliant, and coming from Oliver that’s high praise indeed.’
She grinned. ‘That’s it for the medical staff. You’ll soon get used to them all. The nursing staff you’ll meet in a minute when they come for report. I’m just going to do the hand-over with Jean Hobbs and I’ll be with you. Why don’t you wander round the ward and get a feel of the geography for a minute?’
Giving Laura a friendly smile, she turned on her heel, disappearing through a door into a room labelled ‘Sister’s Office’. Left on her own, Laura felt the nerves return again. It was silly. She’d been a staff nurse before, but things had changed.
She had changed. Confidence, particularly self-confidence, wasn’t something she took for granted any more. Smoothing the white dress that felt terrifyingly new, she took a steadying breath and walked down the ward, past the nursing station, looking into the little rooms as she passed. Sluice, bathroom, another sluice, stores, linen, treatment-room, and then a room with eight beds in it and windows round two sides, looking out on to the pretty gardens below. One patient was lying with the early-morning sun on her face and her hand shielding her eyes, and Laura asked her if she would like the blind tilted.
‘Oh, no, dear—I was reading, but the sun’s so lovely and warm now.’ She gave a rusty chuckle. ‘I was just enjoying it, like my old cat. She used to lie in the sun—hated the winter, like me. Oh, I do love to see it shine.’
Laura returned her smile. ‘It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? The summer seems to have been so long coming this year.’
The smile faded a little. ‘Tell you the truth, dear, I didn’t think I’d ever see it, I felt that poorly. I feel much happier now, whatever today brings. I really didn’t want to die in the winter—seems so unfriendly, somehow, having all your friends and relatives standing round in the cold and rain, watching your coffin disappear into a hole! It’s much more cheerful to die in the summer, I always think. There’s something lovely about a summer funeral.’
Laura was stunned. Was she dying? She hadn’t got a clue, not having had access to the notes, and she didn’t quite know how to deal with the elderly lady’s apparent acceptance. What if she was just talking generally? Laura gave her a little smile. ‘A bit like summer weddings,’ she said quietly, watching the woman for any sign of distress, but there was none.
‘Absolutely—the flowers don’t look so silly, for a start. I think I might have a little doze now, dear,’ she said, and her eyes drifted shut, sparing Laura from any further attempts at such a tricky conversation.
She glanced up at the consultant’s name on the head of the bed. Oliver Henderson. So Tom Russell wouldn’t be able to shed any light on the patient. She’d have to wait and ask Helen. It said ‘Nil By Mouth’ next to the consultant’s name, so presumably she was scheduled for operation today. She checked the name on the charts at the end, and saw the woman was called Evelyn Peacey. She would ask about her, just as soon as Helen was free.
She finished her tour of the ward, the three single
