"Bad luck about Brenton, isn't it?"
Felicity nodded assent. "Yes, I'm terribly sorry."
Philip Elver leaned closer in order to make himself heard above the other voices. "I hear MacFarlayne's taking over the ward ... you know MacFarlayne, they say he's good, but somehow I've got used to Brenton."
"I'll miss Brenton too," Felicity found herself admitting.
"I thought all you nurses loathed the man." Philip Elver, young, clean-shaved, with an eager, rather boyish manner, looked with some surprise at Felicity. "I've never heard one of you speak a good word of him yet. We chaps like working with him, he is always very decent to us and goes to a lot of trouble to explain and help."
"I say, Felicity," Diana called out over the heads of the gathering. "Is that Philip there with you? Listen, both of you. Bill Newlyn says that film, 'Sweet Understanding,' has been generally released and is on at the Ritz this week, how about you two coming along tonight?"
"How about it, Felicity?" Philip Elver queried. "I'm free if you can make it."
"I expect I can, anyway I'll try." Felicity rose from her cramped position. "I must get back to the ward now, Sister is in enough of a flap already, if I'm not ready for the round, she'll have kittens!"
"All right ... front gate, eight sharp!" The instructions followed Felicity as she elbowed her way through the crowded room and hurried along the corridor to the lift.
The suppressed air of excitement in John Mason Ward proclaimed that the news of Guy Brenton's accident was no longer a secret; as she passed the rows of beds several of the patients called out kind enquiries, they seemed to have all the details even to the fact that she had just returned from attending the theatre. It always was like that, any news in hospital seemed to spread like wildfire. Sister Robinson, a worried frown between her brows, hurried forward to meet her.
"Everything go all right?" Without awaiting an answer she continued: "The dear lad is nicely tucked up in bed. O'Brien will keep alert for any signs of returning consciousness, meanwhile we'd better get set for Mr. MacFarlayne's round, we mustn't forget anything, at least let's make a good impression."
As Felicity followed the deputy surgeon round the ward she couldn't help feeling that, Sister's careful and elaborate preparations had been somewhat wasted, for he appeared completely indifferent to the many small details about which Brenton was invariably so meticulous. A probe not quite right, still that didn't matter he'd make do, he assured them with a beaming smile, he'd have preferred longer forceps, but there, he explained, he'd manage all right. All very easy, Felicity assured herself, but with no feeling of satisfaction. Subconsciously she realized that it might all be too easy, that Brenton's exacting demands were after all a spur and had supplied the very impetus good nursing needed.
Felicity was glad when the monotonous round ended. Sister, on the contrary, appeared wholly satisfied with the morning's effort, believing, Felicity felt sure, that the ward's efficiency had impressed the surgeon, without realizing that he would have been equally, pleased with far less effort.
Over lunch in the nurses' dining hall, Felicity was so bombarded with questions that she was glad to hurry through her meal and escape. Then, remembering that it was Sister's half-day, she reported for duty in good time, only to find Sister already impatiently awaiting her.
"I'm going off now, mustn't be late, I've managed to get two 'complimentaries' for the matinee at the Royal." She bustled round her office collecting together a few oddments. "Mr. Brenton is coming round, I've just left his room, pulse not too good." She paused, then added: "Now let me think, there was something else I wanted to tell you ... oh, yes, I remember, John Briggs, poor lamb, he is complaining dreadfully of that plaster."
"Yes, I know, I am going to cut down a bit, I didn't get a chance this morning."
"But you can't do that, not without mentioning it to Mr. MacFarlayne," Sister protested.
"Mr. Brenton gave me permission yesterday-"
"But Mr. MacFarlayne said nothing this morning, absolutely nothing," Sister broke in, an anxious furrow creasing her forehead.
"I can't see that matters," Felicity answered quietly, but she was aware of a rising tide of anger. "If Mr. MacFarlayne overlooked the matter there is still no reason why I should disregard Mr. Brenton's direct wishes in his absence; I know it's my duty to carry them out."
"Briggs is certainly complaining a lot," Sister demurred with obvious weakening.
Felicity seized on the. moment. "Then I'd better get along to him at once, then I'll be free to attend Mr. Brenton as soon as he needs me." Without awaiting further argument she slipped from the office.
Some time later when Felicity was in attendance beside Guy Brenton's bed, she began to see signs of returning consciousness. Sister was right, the pulse was weak and irregular. Removing her fingers from his wrist she laid his hand gently back on the covers. How strong and sensitive those hands were, yet how helpless they had become. Felicity, momentarily filled with inexplicable pain, stared unseeingly out of the curtained window. Supposing that right hand was never the same again, supposing Guy Brenton never regained his faultless dexterity? It couldn't be, she told herself firmly, while she anxiously tried to recall every detail of that morning in the theatre. Had those lacerations cut through any vital tendon? Could there be any resultant stiffening of wrist or finger? As if by some magnetism she felt her gaze drawn down to her patient, somehow she knew that those penetrating brown eyes had opened, that consciousness had returned. Involuntarily she felt her muscles stiffen as she leaned towards him.
"Alaine? Alaine, is she all right?" The words were little above a whisper as they forced their way between his dry lips.
"Your fiancée ... yes, she is unhurt." Felicity spoke with gentle reassurance. "Please don't try to speak ... or move," she added hastily as in an effort to raise his head a low groan escaped him.
"I'd like a drink." The words were more firmly spoken and as Felicity turned to prepare the drink she was uncomfortably aware that his eyes were following her as she moved across the small room.
"Thank you." He spoke briefly as, back at his bedside with the cup, Felicity gently slipped a supporting arm beneath her patient's head.
It seemed like a dead weight as she cradled his head against her arm and held the cup carefully to his lips. There was an odd sense of unreality to Felicity in the whole thing, this prosaic action had suddenly become something strange and curiously moving, mere routine had assumed an unreasonable importance. Firmly she thrust back the disturbing thought but she found her eyes scanning the strained expression on Brenton's drawn features and had to control an irresistible urge to smooth back the dark hair rumpled by long contact with the pillows.
"That's better, thanks," Brenton murmured as she eased him gently back. He appeared to make an effort to concentrate before continuing. "I'm trying b remember ... last night, wasn't it? ... the car? ... my arm is hurt, what happened ... tell me all you know!"
"Not very much," Felicity smiled gently. "It was certainly a car accident, I don't know any details. Why worry now, try and get some rest."
Ignoring the suggestion and frowning in perplexity he went on. "My arm, what is wrong with it?" His lips twisted into a ghost of that familiar ironic smile. "I imagine you have some vague idea of your patient's case."
Felicity was grateful for the half-light which hid her quick flush. "There were some jagged cuts and a fracture of the forearm. Mr. MacFarlayne operated, I think he was quite satisfied with the result."
"The surgeon usually is satisfied, he does his best, poor devil, but what about the patient? Shall I be satisfied?" There was an intensity of underlying meaning in the question and for a brief moment Felicity was obsessed with her own earlier, doubts. Thrusting back her misgivings, she replied reassuringly.
"I am sure you will be perfectly all right. Now please rest."
Disregarding her injunction, Guy Brenton lowered his gaze to the shapeless mass of bandage and plaster at his side and with his other hand touched the inert fingers which alone protruded from the plaster enveloping the damaged arm. Summoning to her aid that firm yet kindly manner which years of nursing had taught her, she spoke again.