Doctor's Orders (20 page)

The pile of newly starched and pressed uniforms yielded items that would fit both Anthea and Diana, and they dressed in their little room, which, with its wooden walls, wooden furniture, and simplest fittings, was, according to Anthea, just like a packing case. There were two simple, narrow beds of the same light-colored wood, with a thin strip of carpet between them; two narrow wooden cupboards for their clothes, a small table before the window—a window which would, in bright weather, give them a magnificent panorama of snow-capped mountains, but which now looked out over swirling cloud which made Anthea shiver.

“My goodness,” she said, “this is going to be awful. Look how miserable and depressing it is.”

“You aren’t going to have time to notice that,” said Diana. “You will be so busy you will forget where you are.”

“I must say you look stunning in that uniform, Diana. Very smart, and very fetching.”

“Well, I just thought how pretty you look in yours—but not a bit efficient. You look like a musical-comedy nurse—I think it’s the hair. What can we do with it?”

“It’s going to stay as it is. If they don’t like it, I shan’t bother to stop and help them. Nothing will induce me to wear a bun.”

The picture of Anthea with a bun made Diana laugh again.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s see what Matron says.”

Matron said nothing. She was glad to get help; and she did not expect any great help from Anthea. It was Diana who was going to be really useful, but if Anthea could soothe some of the bored and fretful children, watch some of the others who needed watching, it would at least relieve the more efficient nurses.

So they started their work, and Diana was immediately caught up in the swing of it. She did not obtrude herself at all. She did exactly as she was told, and did not mind being told by the junior nurses. She washed children, made their beds with hospital corners, took temperatures, gave medicines, carried meals to children and carried them away again. Anthea was useful in persuading the children to eat, when they could not, but it was felt necessary that they should try. She was so pretty, so different from the other nurses with her flowing pale gold hair, that often she was successful when the other nurses were not. She also looked after the children who were out of their beds, had not got influenza, but had to conform as usual to rules and regulations; sitting with them at meal times, getting them to their wards and into their beds at the right times; trying to cope with their problems. Because she had been in need of care and attention herself, Matron saw that she was not overtired. She put her to sit in the ward where the very sick children were, and where her only duty was to go round every few minutes watching them, to report to somebody
e
lse anything at all unusual.

This was a strain for Anthea, this sitting still here. More of a strain than the work. She had a comfortable chair; she could read; she had a shaded lamp
beside her chair; but the sick children worried her. She went round often, watching them anxiously, and was haunted by their suffering. She flew to them at the first whimper, comforting them, smiling at them, giving them sips of water.

For once in her life, she received no special attention. The uniform, although it looked different when
she
wore it, was still enough to give her a certain anonymity. The staff were all too busy to give attention to anybody other than a patient. She was one of a crowd, for once, completely submerged. And she did not mind.

She was so tired at night that she slept right through until morning; when Diana always managed to have a cup of tea ready for her at her bedside. Diana had usually been up already, for some time, working. Diana seemed to thrive on the work; she looked very much more sparkling and attractive here than at the Morgenberg. Dead keen, thought Anthea. She likes being of service, I believe. She could not know that Diana regarded herself as working her passage, proving, in this interlude, that she was a useful person to be employed here throughout the winter.

Leon had gone back to Paris. He had come to say goodbye to them, and had promised to come back for a weekend when their work here was finished, and they would be ready for a little light relief. He had raised his eyebrows at the sight of Anthea in uniform but had said nothing. Dr. Frederic was often with them. He had all his usual work to attend to, but he came when the last appointment for the day had been kept, so that the early evening was usually his time of arrival; and Diana supposed he had his evening meal when he finally reached home again somewhere about eleven o’clock. He rarely had time to talk to her, but he always paused with a smile and a few words, reassuring himself that neither she nor Anthea was feeling too much strain. Diana noticed that, although he had pressed herself and Anthea into service, the co-opted nieces of his cook and others helpers, he had not succeeded in getting Antoinette here. Perhaps Antoinette’s cool loveliness, which he had already decided did not show to its best advantage here, would be more hindrance than help. Or perhaps he preferred to keep her away from this maelstrom of activity, to have something in his life that was not connected with his work, a cool loveliness which would be all his when he could turn to it.

When Matron urgently needed somebody to do night duty, Diana volunteered for it. She had never done night duty, and wanted to try it. So she and Anthea began a Box-and-Cox arrangement in their room; when one was going on duty, the other was going to bed, and they crept around not to disturb each other. But Diana could see that Anthea was getting tired, and, in view of her recent trouble, decided that she ought to stop working now. She would speak to Matron about it.

She had been on night duty for some nights then; and although she was getting used to it, and liked the work, she still had the greatest difficulty in keeping awake. She sat in the long ward, her light shaded, her ears open for the first sound, and longed and longed to go to sleep. When she felt sleep overtaking her, she would get up, make a round
of the ward, studying the children; then go out into the kitchen, perhaps meeting Maria, the other night nurse, for a few minutes of conversation. Then, feeling more awake, she would go back to the ward, to the dimness and the shaded light and the little moans and coughs and occasional cries for herself. It was a strange, half-lit time, a reality that seemed unreal, a reality that brought into her mind forcibly all the other hospitals where nurses sat in silent guard over the sick. And when morning came, and light crept into the rooms, and children woke one after the other, and voices began to talk, and the cheerful bustle of washing and bed-making began all over again, then the shadows of the night and the thoughts that had occupied her mind vanished completely, seemed more unreal than ever.

On this particular night, when she was beginning to be concerned about Anthea, she seemed more than usually tired. She had been twice round the ward to watch the sleeping children. Little Karli was troubled by a cough; he woke again and again, and she gave him a drink and soothed him, and he was soon off to sleep again. The night was cold; snow fell often up here on the mountain, and the chill crept into the rooms at night, in spite of the central heating. She wore a warm cloak round her shoulders, as she sat there making up her report.

A light step sounded behind her. She turned at once, expecting Maria, who had perhaps made some coffee. One or other of them made it every night, carrying some to her fellow nurse. It was not Maria, however, who stood beside her, but Dr. Frederic, looming tall in the dim light. He looked down at her, noticing the pretty hair under the small cap, the sleep-filled eyes, the tired droop of the shoulders.

“So you are on night duty?” he said.

“As you see. What are
you
doing here?”

“I am watching the little Neuffert boy. It is tonight that decides for the child.”

“Ah,” said Diana. Everybody loved the little Neuffert boy, but none of them could stop him becoming thinner and paler every day. In spite of his illness, he was merry and mischievous; but now he was laid low, and their hopes for him grew less and less.

“If you had some coffee,” said the doctor, “it would help you to keep awake.”

“I will come and make some.”

“I have made some already, and taken Nurse Duval hers. I must go back there in a few minutes. Come with me to fetch the coffee.”

They walked together along the corridor to the bright kitchen, where he had already arranged the tray with cups and croissants heavily buttered. He took the coffee from the stove and put it on its stand on the tray.

“Here?” he asked, “or in the ward?”

“I think it should be in the ward,” she said, so he carried the tray and put it on her long desk. He brought a chair for himself and Diana poured the coffee. All the children were sleeping. Dr. Frederic looked at her report, nodded and dismissed it. He helped himself to the croissants.

“I am starved,” he said.

“Didn’t you have dinner?” she asked.

“No. But Matron supplied me with sandwiches.
_;
But this time of the night always makes me hungry. Come along. Eat.”

They ate together, and drank the very hot coffee, and felt revived. They spoke softly and made as little movement as possible; and Diana, felt, more than ever, the strangeness of the night.

“You are very tired,” said the doctor.

“At this time of the night—which makes you hungry—I get desperately tired. It goes off again.
”

“You must have a long rest after this.”

“Why? The other nurses cannot have a long rest.”

“But they are used to the work and you are not.”

“That reminds me—about Anthea. I think she has done enough, Dr. Frederic.
She
looks tired, too.”

“Ah yes. Any work is new to Anthea.”

“It isn’t only the work. I think the—atmosphere
—
is a strain. An eye-opener. She isn’t used to watching illness.”

“No. She must not overdo it. She can leave here whenever you and she think fit, naturally.”

“I think she should go now. But I don’t see any point in going back to the Morgenberg now. They can send on our things. She could go back to London, but then I ought to go back with her, and I am not ready to go yet.”

“You want to stay here?”

“Yes. At least until Matron has her staff back to full strength. Perhaps Anthea could go to an hotel here.”

“Better still—she can come to my house, and I will be able to see that she is all right.”

“That would be good of you.”

“Very well, it shall be arranged. She can come down tomorrow—you can tell her when she wakes. ... it will fit very well. Leon is coming back for a few days, and will stay with me; and they can entertain each other.”

“Anthea
will like that. More coffee?”

“Yes. Thank you. I ought to go back to little Neuffert—though Nurse Duval will call me at once if it is necessary.”

“Dr. Frederic.”

“Yes, Diana?”

“Do you remember my saying that I would like to work here?”

“Yes, I remember quite well.”

“You said that you would see to it yourself.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Have you done anything about it?”

“No, not yet.”

“Oh, but, you know, time is getting short. Anthea is to go home so soon, and I have only to accompany her to London, and then I am free. And I must have a job.”

“So soon?”

“Oh, I don’t mean I haven’t a penny. I can live for a while; but I would like it to be settled. I do not want to be idle for long.”

“You could do with a rest.”

“No. I have had plenty of rest, all the summer. Being companion to Anthea was not such an arduous job after all.”

“Very well, then. I will see to it.”

“Perhaps you would rather I spoke to Matron? There is really no need to bother you; she has been able to see for herself what I can do.”

“No,” he said quickly. “Do not do that. I would rather see to it myself. Leave it to me.”

“Of course,” said Diana, puzzled by his vehemence. “If you think it better.”

They were silent for a while; then he rose to his feet, and prepared to take the tray.

“I will take it back,” said Diana, smiling up at him.

“Thank you,” he said. He looked down at her, and then round at the beds holding the sleeping children. “Does it not seem strange to you,” he asked, “to be up here in the mountains, with snow falling all round you, watching these children in the middle of the night? Does it not seem strange to
y
ou, a Londoner, to be called by children’s voices in a strange language?”

“No,” she said. “Not really. I feel so comfortable doing it, so right, so happy, actually, in spite of the illnesses, that it isn’t strange under the surface.”

“I must go and look at the boy,” he said. “You must come down when Leon is here, Diana, and have dinner with us all. I shall expect Anthea tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He put his hand over hers in a brief gesture of parting.

“
What a nice person you are,” he said, and with a smile at her, went quietly out of the ward to see the
little Neuffert boy.

She sat quite still, warmed by his praise. No, it was not praise. It was nothing like that. It was liking. Warm, genuine liking. She could feel it flowing over her. And it made her so happy that, for a while, she did not remember Antoinette, or the fact that he had told her he had made up his mind to be married. She simply enjoyed feeling that there was a bond between them, a bond of liking; for she could have said to him, as he had said to her: “Oh, what a
nice
person you are,” and it would have been an understatement.

She did not feel tired for the rest of the night. She knew he was in the building and she knew of the mutual liking that flowed between them. She went about her work light-hearted, light-footed; and when morning came, and the children woke,
she
greeted them with a happy smile, bright words; making their beds, washing their hands and faces, taking their temperatures, sharing their little jokes, condoling with their little pains. When she went to her room, she was thoroughly tired, but thoroughly happy. Anthea was getting up.

“I brought you some piping hot coffee and some buttered croissants,” said Diana.

“Oh, I’m so tired,” yawned Anthea.

“Then get back to bed. Go on, Doctor's orders. And have your coffee in bed. Yes, I really mean it. Dr. Frederic thinks you have had enough, and you are to stop work.”

Anthea rolled back into bed, and allowed Anthea to bring her the coffee and croissants.

“Oh, lovely,” she said. “I really do ache all over.”

“And you are to go and stay at the doctor
’
s house for a while, until I am ready to take you back to London.”

“I’m not going to London. I’m going to spend a few days in Paris.”

“Well, perhaps you’ve deserved them. You can wait at the doctor’s house until I am ready to take you to Paris.”

“And when will that be?”

“When Matron has her full staff back. It shouldn’t be more than a few days. Besides, why go to Paris? Leon d’Avenay is coming here to spend a few days with the doctor.”

“Really?” asked Anthea, her eyes shining.

“Really.”

“Good. He’s grand fun. But what about the Morgenberg? Our things are there.”

“They can send them on. You can do that, Anthea; ring them up today, and ask them to send everything on to us.”

“Well, I’m not very good on the telephone in this country, but I’ll do what I can.”

“Good. Well, I’m for bed. I expect you’ll be gone before I wake, Anthea, so goodbye, be a good girl, and I’ll see you when I come to dinner at the doctor’s house.”

“Goodbye,” said Anthea, watching Diana getting into bed. “I’ll try not to talk to you. And don’t go and fall a victim yourself, will you?”

“What to?” asked Diana sleepily.

“Well, I meant the flu,” said Anthea. “Is there anything else?”

She heard Diana laugh a little. Diana was thinking: Oh yes, there is something else, and I’ve been a willing and helpless victim for a long time.