Nurses: Claire's Conquests and Jan's Journey

PIP POLLINGER IN PRINT Pollinger Limited 9 Staple Inn Holborn LONDON WC1V 7QH www.pollingerltd.com First published by Scholastic Ltd 1995, 1996 This large print edition published by Pollinger in Print 2007 Copyright © Bette Paul 1995, 1996 All rights reserved The moral right of the author has been asserted A CIP catalogue record is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-905665-43-3 No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without prior written permission from Pollinger Limited

Chapter 1

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he lashing wind and rain of the previous night had moved away and it was a calm, quiet day outside. Claire lay for a moment looking round her room, unusually tidy, almost bare, in the dim morning light. Most of her clothes were already packed into the huge suitcase which stood, already locked, over by the door. Her hand luggage lay open on the armchair, awaiting last-minute bits and pieces. Last minute – if only it was! If only she could be safely in the plane crossing the Irish Sea to England! She opened the casement window and breathed deeply. The sharp stench of seaweed was softened by the damp, dank scent rising from the earth. Storm over – outside, at least, Claire reflected. But no doubt there’d be a few bumpy moments indoors today. Why was it she could never get away from home without all this hassle? 1

Leaning well out of the casement window, regardless of the dizzying drop below, she watched the sea gently heaving on to the bone-white sand which was bordered by banks of smooth green turf. Who, in their right mind, would want to leave it all? She would; she’d been ready to leave for the past three weeks. Life at the Leonmohr Hotel in high season was anything but a holiday, with Mammy nagging her into family visits and shopping trips and Da pretending he needed her to help him check the wine stocks, walk the grounds, look at the trout ponds. It was surprising how much she missed her nursing colleagues at St Ag’s, as the medical staff still called the new Brassington Royal Hospital. Although she’d known them only a few months, they seemed closer, more important to her than anyone in Donegal. Especially Student Nurse Jan Buczowski. She smiled dreamily at the thought of Jan, who had shared so much of last term with her. He was now spending his holiday with a group of fellow refugees in a camp in the wilds of Norfolk, she remembered, guiltily, whilst she was being cosseted in a luxury hotel. She sighed, partly missing Jan, mainly at the effort needed to get 2

through one more day of hotel – and family – life. A tap on the door reminded her of both. “Come in,” she called, without turning. “Will you be wanting tea now, Claire?” asked Bridie, the chambermaid. “I was just passing with the continental breakfasts and I thought to myself, I did, that it’s the last time you’ll be getting morning tea brought to you now, isn’t it?” “Don’t bother yourself, Bridie.” Claire didn’t turn round. “I’ll be taking a shower in a moment.” “Ach, it’s no trouble at all. If you get yourself into the shower, I’ll bring up your tea. Your mammy’s down there in the kitchen pacing away, you know how she is on a day like this.” “No tea, thank you, Bridie,” Claire said firmly. “Tell Mammy I’ll be down right away.” She moved off into her bathroom, cutting short any further offers. But even over the hiss of the shower she could hear Bridie moving about the room, chatting away as if Claire was in there with her. That damned Blarney stone had something to answer for, she thought, scrubbing viciously. When she heard the bedroom door slam she stood still under the stinging jets, relishing the feeling of being left alone again. 3

Turning off the shower, she hugged herself in one of the three fresh towels on the warm rail – one advantage of living in a hotel – and took another back into her room. She sat by the window, squeezing the long tendrils of her already-curling hair and relishing her last quiet moment of the day. * * * “The Dublin Gearys arrive mid-morning, and then Granda, Uncle Will and Auntie Moira with the cousins from Sligo. And Cousin Patrick flew over yesterday; he’ll cause a stir, I dare say.” Claire’s mother was standing in the middle of the hotel kitchen, ticking off a list. “We’ll be thirty for lunch and most of them still here for afternoon tea.” She moved past the central “island” of hot-plates and gas burners, totally preoccupied with thoughts of food. “Good morning, Mammy,” Claire said loudly “Who’s Cousin Patrick and why will he cause a stir?” Her mother looked over her notes, and over the little half-spectacles she’d taken to recently. “Oh, Claire! Down already – good girl!” she said, either forgetting the questions or ignoring them, Claire noted. “I was thinking of giving Jean-Paul a ring to come up and do your hair this morning.” 4

Claire shook her head, scattering drops on to the stainless steel all round her. “Thanks, Mammy, but it’s all right as it is.” Her mother looked doubtful. “Jean-Paul’s a better hairdresser than anyone you’ll find over there,” she said. “You surely can’t nurse with a mop like that?” Claire sighed. “I keep telling you – we’re just ordinary students most of the time. Uniforms for ward placement, that’s all. And this term I’ll have my St Ag’s cap – I’ll just pin up my hair and fix the cap in front.” Her mother ignored that piece of information. She wasn’t interested in details of hospital life; so far as she was concerned Claire’s nursing was just a rebellious phase and it would pass. “I assume you’re going to get out of your jeans in time for your farewell party?” The tone was amused, teasing, but the question was rhetorical; Mrs Theresa Donovan assumed obedience from staff and family alike. Claire scowled: this lunch wasn’t her farewell party, it was her mother’s. The whole idea of a family party had been her mother’s; she had arranged the menu, brought in the staff, sent out the invitations – even the guest list was filled up 5

with Gearys, members of Mammy’s own family who hardly knew Claire. “I’ll wear a dress and do my hair,” Claire promised. “Don’t wear your blue,” her mother commanded. “You wore it for the summer festival.” Not that anyone noticed, thought Claire wryly. But she mentally ran through the clothes left in her wardrobe and decided on the dark green tartan. “Shall I get us both some breakfast now?” she suggested. “It’s all in the staff dining-room,” her mother answered briefly. “But I must be getting on.” Claire left her mother counting and checking lists and crossed the tiled corridor into a small, bright room with a long wooden table in the middle, bordered by a dozen dining chairs. Only one was occupied. “Morning, Da!” She greeted the big man sitting at the end of the table. “Claire! And how’re you today, my lovely one?” In spite of her forebodings, Claire smiled; no one could help smiling when Gerry Donovan turned on the full blast of his charm. “I’m fine, Da; and you?” He groaned and ran a huge hand through his bristly grey hair. “I’d be feeling better 6

if your mother would let high season fade gracefully away.” She put an arm around his broad shoulders and hugged him. “Never mind, Da,” she said. “Soon be over.” He turned to look up at her, ice-blue eyes troubled. “And that’s no consolation, now, is it? Sooner the party’s over, the sooner you’ll be gone again.” He pressed her hand on his shoulder, holding tight, fixed for a moment. Oh, lord! Tears any minute now; Da was so sentimental! Claire pulled her arm away and moved round the table. Ignoring her father, she took the cereal, fresh fruit salad and cream and reached for the copy of the Irish Times that he appeared to have abandoned. No time for arguments now; no reproaches, no recriminations – well, hardly any. She poured her coffee and settled into the silent meal both she and her father usually enjoyed so much. “Last peaceful minute of the day,” he often said as he pushed his chair away from the table and prepared to start the working day. Today he said more. “Last chance to change your mind, Claire.” He drained his coffee cup. “Why not take a year out and think it over? Go to France or out to the Caribbean.” He had contacts in the 7

hotel trade all over the world – his world. “I mean, it’s not as if you’ve done so well at the nursing, now, is it?” Claire scowled. He was right, of course; even she’d had second thoughts when she’d seen her biology results. But this session would be different, she promised herself. For a start, there was more practical work and longer ward placements. With a bit of luck she’d get a few days a week in a really busy medical ward with the chance of real nursing; better than days in college any time. But there was always Jan to help her with college work. The thought of Jan brought a flush to her face. Claire propped up the newspaper and hid behind it. “Da, we’ve been into all this – now leave it, will you, please?” And she took a huge spoonful of cereal in the hope of preventing further conversation. “Ah,” sighed Da. “You’re a hard woman, Claire Donovan!” She smiled at him. They both knew she was not. That was something else that worried her: according to last term’s reports she was too soft and oversensitive. A bit like her father, really, she suddenly realized. “Mammy’s the hard one,” she reminded him. “Especially on a day like today.” 8

“And don’t I know it!” He rubbed her damp hair affectionately. “I’d better get down to the cellars,” he said. “They’re a hard-drinking lot, those Dubliners!” For some reason that reminded Claire of the question her mother had ignored. “Who is Cousin Patrick?” she asked her father. He scowled. “Well, there’s one that did get away – and a lot of good it’s done him,” he said. “Cousin Patrick ran away?” she asked. “No, not Patrick. It was his father, your Ma’s cousin Liam. Didn’t exactly run, either.” Da stood for a moment gazing into space. “So how did he get away?” asked Claire, intrigued by anyone who’d managed to get away from the tentacles of family life. “Married,” said Da, shortly. “Married? I’d have thought that meant settling down rather than running away.” “Not when you marry an Englishwoman, it doesn’t. Settled over the water, hardly kept in touch; died earlier this year, we heard. I wonder what’s bringing young Patrick over here just now?” “Maybe he’s reversing his family tradition and coming to settle in Ireland,” Claire grinned. 9

Her father’s face clouded again. “He could do worse,” he said. And he turned abruptly and left. Sighing, Claire pushed her breakfast away. She really couldn’t face more than coffee today. “More coffee?” Bridie, now in her tiny black skirt and startling white blouse, sidled her way through the chattering guests and brandished a tall silver pot somewhat dangerously above Claire. “Oh, thanks.” Claire sipped the strong, black, unsweetened coffee. “Just right, Bridie; I’m really ready for this!” She’d hardly tasted her lunch – salmon trout, game pie, baby potatoes, multiple salads – all local produce; all accompanied by “good crack” – loud and uproarious conversation which never flagged in spite of the vast quantities eaten. Bridie waited a moment, then topped up Claire’s half-empty cup and moved off among the guests, quite aware of the stir she caused amongst the assorted Donovans and Gearys. “Rum-looking lot, our family, don’t you think?” A cool English voice interrupted her reflections. Claire looked up at a young man with the sharp, wintry features of her mother’s side of the family. 10

“Patrick,” he announced. “Your long-lost and very distant cousin.” “Ah yes, I’ve been hearing about you, Cousin Patrick,” she smiled. “Nothing bad, I hope?” “Nothing at all, really,” she admitted. “Nobody seems to know much about you.” “Not surprising,” he said. “I hardly know anyone here myself.” “Not even the Dublin folk?” she asked. He shook his head. “No, my father settled in England. He would never come back, not even for holidays. You know how it is.” She didn’t but he obviously wasn’t going to tell her. She knew very little about her mother’s side of the family. Da’s family was all around; he had dozens of relatives in Donegal, always popping in, driving foreign guests in from the airport, sweeping her off to great Donovan gatherings up in the mountains. But the Gearys were Dublin folk, who rarely ventured up to the wilds of the north. And Cousin Patrick wasn’t even a Dubliner; nor was he a first cousin, she realized with interest. He was brought up in England, presumably – heavens, she didn’t even know where! Couldn’t think of a tactful way of asking, either. “So you flew over yesterday,” she said brightly. 11

He nodded. “I had business in Belfast anyway; a mere flip from Brassington airport – but of course you’ll know all about that.” He sat down beside her. “You’ll be flying to and fro like a sea-bird these days.” “But not as often,” said Claire firmly. “Only for holidays.” He caught her drift. “You’re not at all homesick then?” he enquired. “Ach no!” Claire realized her reply was rather too forceful; the Gearys were terrible gossips. “Well, I don’t really have time to brood,” she went on hastily. “I’m on a tight schedule, being a student nurse.” He laughed and turned his cool grey eyes on her. “Oh, I understand,” he assured her. “I’ve always been happiest away from home. Maybe it runs in the family?” “Running away from the family, you mean?” Claire laughed. He joined in her laughter, holding her gaze for a moment, and she noticed the gleam in the pale grey eyes, just like her mother’s, amused but cold. “Well, I’ve done that in my time,” he admitted. “But it’s different now; I’m going to catch up on the family connections I never made.” “You mean the Gearys?” 12

“Well, the Gearys aren’t that keen – except for Aunt Tess. It was good of her to invite me here to meet everyone, wasn’t it?” “Oh, Mammy likes to gather all the family round her,” Claire told him. Privately she wondered why her mother had asked him over after all this time. Presumably as a gesture of reconciliation after his father’s death. Or was it merely to annoy the rest of the Gearys? “You’re training at Brassington Royal, aren’t you?” Patrick interrupted her thoughts. “I’m often up there on business. Maybe we could meet?” Claire blushed. But why? There was surely no harm in meeting up with a cousin – well, second cousin, then. “Maybe we could,” she agreed. “I’ll give you a ring when I’m up there,” he promised. “You’ll be living in?” “Kelham House,” she told him. She was about to give him the telephone number when her mother drifted by. “Patrick Geary, are you dating up with my daughter? You should be after persuading her to stay with the family business, not encouraging her gallivanting over the water.” Mammy had drunk enough wine to make her dangerously amusing, Claire noted. Any 13

moment now the light banter could turn sharp. Patrick seemed to sense this; perhaps it was a Geary trait? “She’ll be safe enough with me, Aunt Tess,” he soothed. “I’ll take good care of her; you can count on that.” “Yes, I’m sure you will.” Claire’s mother smiled at Patrick and put a hand on his arm. “We must have a good talk later when all these people have gone,” she said in an intimate tone. Patrick smiled down at her and nodded. “I’d like that,” he said. In profile they looked remarkably alike, thought Claire. The same pointed nose, high forehead, clear, grey eyes; the same intent expression, as if measuring each other up. . . Suddenly her mother turned. “You should be circulating more, Claire; you’ve not met half your guests.” “I have too, Mammy,” said Claire defensively. “But they’re wanting to catch up on all the family gossip, and after six months away, I don’t know any. They’re better off talking to each other.” Her mother sighed. “Well, heaven knows when we’ll all be together again.” Patrick looked at her and smiled. “Claire’s homecoming perhaps?” he suggested. “I’ll bet you have a right old shindig when she qualifies, Aunt Tess.” 14

Claire felt her mother’s eyes on her, as if she was reading her mind. “I’m not banking on that,” she said flatly, and moved off. “Now, don’t forget our chat, Patrick; we have lots to talk about.” “I won’t forget, Aunt Tess,” he promised. He stood and gazed after his aunt with that same intense, almost calculating expression. A Geary expression, Claire thought. Cousin Patrick was obviously closer to at least one of his new relations than he realized. She stood up. “I’d better go and listen to everyone’s forebodings,” she said. “You’d think I was off back to a mission in darkest somewhere instead of just being a student nurse in Brassington.” He was very tall and had to lean towards her to touch her cheek. “Brassington can be darkest somewhere,” he said. “I’ll ring you.” Mammy was “not too well” next morning, so Da drove Claire to the airport. There were hold-ups into the city but, as always, the airport was well organized and efficient. Claire was glad they were rather late for check-in; less time for farewells, no time for recriminations. “ ’Bye, Da,” she said, hugging him hard, trying to ignore the tears that were already on his cheeks. 15

“ ’Bye, Claire, me love. Take care of yourself. Come back as soon as you can – I’ll always send you the fare, you know.” He sniffed hard and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I know, Da, but I must get stuck into the work. I don’t find it easy, you know. . .” “But you never give up, do you?” Claire couldn’t tell whether his tone was accusing or admiring. He chucked her under the chin and kissed the end of her nose. “ ’Bye, love! Gate Seven, is it? God bless!” Claire felt him watching her all the way into Departures. She turned to wave and felt an almost uncontrollable urge to run back to him, cling to him, tell him he was right, that she wanted to stay at home. He stood quite still, seemingly waiting for her. She turned and walked swiftly through the lounge and down the corridor to Gate Seven, feeling the invisible cord between herself and her father stretching out behind her, pulling her back. But by the time she was settling into her seat on the plane, the cord had snapped.

16

Chapter 2

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he first few hours at Kelham House were filled with breathless reunions – and a sumptuous buffet provided by the Leonmohr Hotel. “Home from home,” Claire’s neighbour, Katie Harding, teased, as the kitchen filled with the scent of warm soda-bread. “Better – much better,” grinned Jan Buczowski, spreading thick layers of Irish butter with a happy disregard for cholesterol. He was a refugee from central Europe, still relishing all the food he’d missed throughout one horrendous winter. Claire smiled at him fondly, delighted to be doing something for him for a change; he’d helped her so much last term. “I’ll put all the stuff in the fridge and cupboards and from now on you can help yourselves,” she said. “I came here to do nursing, not catering.” 17

The others laughed at her joke, but Claire was serious. She’d been a little disappointed in the College of Nursing at first; it was too much like school. By the end of the summer session she had folders full of notes, several assignments and a few exam results that were better than she’d hoped for, thanks to Jan’s coaching. But she hadn’t even set foot in a real hospital ward; her placements had been Out-patients and Ante-natal. This term, though, she’d drawn the Big One – Accident and Emergency – and she could hardly wait! On the following Monday she was so eager to get started on the “real” work that she was up and uniformed even before early breakfast. For the fifth time she removed her cap and pinned back her hair more securely. Perhaps her mother had been right after all, she thought, pulling a stray tendril from her collar. Maybe she should have had it cut and styled before trying to fit this stiff little hat on. Her hair was very dark, almost black against her white complexion and the crisp white cap. She twisted the curling ends all together now in a bunch on top of her head and secured them with a rubber band. She clipped the cap around the bundle, and tested its security by shaking her head vigorously once or twice. There! That was 18

holding – apart from the occasional frond that insisted on bobbing over. Well, maybe things would be so busy today nobody would have time to notice her. She wrapped her cloak tight round herself and made her way across the Kelham courtyard up to St Ag’s. No college today, she thought, with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. Accident and Emergency had to be more interesting than lectures and videos. “Nurse Donovan, your cap’s not straight and your hair is loose.” Sister Banks frowned as she passed on her way to her office. Claire frowned too; in spite of all her efforts, the edifice on top of her head had lasted about two hours. And they hadn’t even had an emergency yet; just a trail of bumps and bruises and the occasional weekend sports injury. Claire had done nothing but file notes and make the staff’s coffee. Catering again, she smiled grimly. And now she was being told off for being untidy! What on earth did it matter? she asked herself. What if there was a real emergency – a big pile-up on the M6? Would a tilted cap and a couple of stray curls prevent her from being a good nurse? “Cheer up! Sister’s always a bit tense when it’s quiet,” Ben Morrison, the Charge 19

Nurse, told her. “She’s a stickler for discipline; runs the place like an army – which, in a way, it is.” “How do you mean?” Claire asked. They were going off duty to take their coffee break in the staff room. “Well, even when there’s no war, an army keeps on training, just to be in tip-top condition and ready for anything.” “What’s that to do with my cap?” Claire tugged irritably at the offending article; cap, grips, hair and all came tumbling down over her collar. Ben regarded her gravely. “Well, partly it’s a matter of reflexes. If we’re trained to obey automatically in day-to-day routine, when it comes to an emergency we all know where we stand – no question. See?” Claire nodded and tugged her hair back tightly with one hand. “I suppose so,” she said. “But I don’t feel as if I’m training for anything.” “Oh, yes, you are,” smiled Ben. “Make no mistake, Sister Banks never misses an opportunity for a bit of training.” “A bit of criticism more like,” said Claire. She groped around on the table for her elastic band. “May I make a suggestion – about your hair?” Ben asked. Claire frowned. “Not if you’re going to tell me to get it cut.” 20

“No, there’s no need. If you pulled your hair back like it is now, into one of those crinkly ponytail bands, your cap would sit easily on the top of your head.” “But wouldn’t Sister Banks object to the band?” “Not if you got one in blue and gold – St Ag’s colours, you know. Lots of the girls have them; I think they get them off the market in Brassington.” “Right, I’ll get a couple tomorrow. Thanks, Ben – that’s a brilliant suggestion.” “Oh, I’m full of them!” he smiled. “And I have another.” “What?” “I’ll make us a coffee while you fix your hair again. Right?” “Right!” Claire nodded happily. It was nice to have someone else do the “catering” for a change. In the cloakroom she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and anchored it with the rubber band. Sure enough, the cap sat on the top of her somewhat flattened head now. A couple of grips and there it was: complete and straight and disciplined. “Reporting for duty, saah!” She marched up to Ben, saluted and clicked her heels smartly. “What is this?” An amused voice came from the other end of the room. “A new breed of robot student nurses?” 21

Claire turned and looked into a pair of shining dark eyes, set in a face as smooth and brown as milk-chocolate. “I’ve heard you’re a stickler for discipline, Ben, but I didn’t know you’d started your own private army.” He laughed softly, lifting beautifully-shaped eyebrows. Ben laughed too. “Get along with you, Ahmed. You’re only jealous because we get the pick of the students, like Claire Donovan here.” The man rose. He was wearing a white coat, unusually pristine and crisp, over a well-cut suit of palest beige. He didn’t look as if he’d been anywhere near a patient that day. “Ahmed Durahni,” he said. “Always delighted to meet the pick of the new students.” And he smiled some more. Claire tried not to goggle at this beautiful creature; it was her convent training rather than Sister Banks’s that reminded her how to behave. She held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, er. . .” “Dr Durahni,” he said, enclosing her hand in both of his. “My friends call me Ahmed.” He bowed slightly over her hand, then looked up into her face, his eyes shining with good humour and mischief. “I’m pleased to meet you . . . Ahmed,” said Claire, a little breathlessly. 22

Dr Durahni stood only just as tall as she was. He smiled into her eyes. “And what’s that beautiful accent, then?” Claire winced; her accent always came out when she was tense. “I’m from County Donegal,” she said, in very standard English. “Well, and isn’t that some sort of coincidence, now?” He caught some sort of Irish accent remarkable accurately. “My mother’s family has a bit of land thereabouts.” “Really?” Claire felt a little uneasy; she’d listened to her father’s views about foreigners buying up huge tracts of Donegal for the hunting. Germans, Japanese – all the big corporations were into it. And now, apparently, the Middle East was coming to Ireland. “You’ll find it a cold and wild place,” she told Ahmed. “Oh, I never go there,” he said. “Brassington’s wild enough for me.” “Rubbish. Brassington’s only wild when you’re around,” said Ben. “Quiet little backwater, we are.” He handed Claire a mug of coffee. “Come on, drink up. If we don’t want any more criticism from Sister Banks we’d better get a move on.” “And I too must depart,” Dr Durahni said. “I have to demonstrate an ENT examination to the consultant. Wish me luck!” 23

“You don’t need it; you have all the luck,” said Ben. And as they walked back to A & E, he told Claire about the wealthy, intelligent, handsome Ahmed and his string of adoring student nurses. “Not so popular with the doctors, though,” he observed. “Not even the females.” Claire couldn’t imagine Ahmed being unpopular with any female. “Why is that?” she asked. Ben shrugged. “Bit too charming for some,” he said. “Be warned!” Sister Banks’s eyes registered approval at Claire’s new hairstyle and the day moved on apace from then. A cluster of children with sports injuries, a distressed old lady who’d fallen in the street, a young builder with a badly crushed thumb. . . These kept Claire busy, soothing, mopping, cleaning, form-filling, trekking off to X-ray. By the end of the day she was exhausted. “Well, you seem to have survived,” Sister Banks said. “Mind you, it hasn’t been a very busy day.” Ben winked at Claire. “She’s a dab hand with the dressings,” he told Sister Banks. It was true. Claire had always been neat and nimble-fingered, and she’d taken a first aid course at school. He mother had encouraged her at first; it would be useful to have 24

someone qualified on the hotel staff. But Claire had grown more and more interested in the first aid and less and less keen on the running of the hotel. That was when she’d realized she wanted to be a nurse. And today had confirmed her decision. She smiled at Sister Banks. “Thank you for putting up with me,” she said. “I’ve enjoyed every minute of my ward duty.” “Good.” Sister Banks smiled back at her, then bent to take something from her desk drawer. “Here you are,” she said, offering it to Claire. “It might help with that unruly hair of yours.” She handed her a blue and gold ponytail ribbon. And now the weeks took on a pattern: the interest and excitement of the first three days carried Claire through the lectures, demonstrations, films and seminars that followed. And at least she began to make sense of some of the academic work, after her observations in A & E. Even so, she knew that this was always going to be her weakness; no matter how carefully she took notes, how well she arranged her files, how often she read her text books, she was sure she’d forget it all as soon as she turned her attention elsewhere. 25

“And what’ll happen when we have the next exams?” she asked Katie Harding. But Katie just laughed. “You did all right last term, Claire; don’t worry. If you want something to worry about try Charity Day. I’ve got to come up with a few ideas for fund-raising before the next committee.” That was just like Katie. Claire sometimes wondered why she’d ever come into nursing; she was much more interested in committee meetings and organizing events. And much cleverer than she was, sighed Claire. Katie never seemed to worry about college work. * * * Claire sat at the desk in her room, turning the pages of her anatomy file, trying to memorize each label on each diagram. She heard the phone ringing down the corridor, but she didn’t move. It wouldn’t be Da, not at this time in the evening; he’d be busy in the restaurant. “Claire . . . telephone!” Nikki Browne banged on her door. Startled, Claire jumped up. “Who is it?” she asked. Nikki smiled. “A man – not your father, though.” Nikki’s room was next to the phone; she’d taken many calls from the ever-vigilant Mr Donovan. Who else could be ringing her? Claire wondered as she went to the phone booth. 26

“Hello? Claire Donovan speaking.” “Of course it is. I’d know that voice anywhere! And how are you, Claire Donovan? All settled in?” It was Cousin Patrick. “Oh, hello, Patrick. You’re back at home, then?” “Home? What’s that?” Patrick laughed. “No, I’m in Brassington. I said I’d be ringing you one of these days.” “So you did.” Claire waited. “Are you here on business?” she asked. But Patrick was evasive. “Sort of,” he said, “but I’ve come to see you too. Take you out, show you the town.” “Well, thanks, but I’ve got a lot of work on. . .” “Saturday – you don’t work Saturday.” “No, but. . .” She was hoping that Jan would ask her out on Saturday night. All summer she’d been looking forward to being with Jan again, but so far he hadn’t suggested anything. Even so, she wanted to keep Saturday free, just in case. “No buts. I’ll pick you up at seven – all right?” Cousin Patrick said. Well, it was good to hear his voice, Claire had to admit. And she was sure he’d be fun to go out with, even if he did bear the disadvantage of being almost family. For some reason she was reminded of her 27

mother, smiling up at him at the farewell party, their two profiles matching, their expressions so alike. Now why should she suddenly think of that? “Now, you’re at Kelham House, first right after the main entrance to Brassington General. Am I right?” “You are.” He seemed to know a lot about St Ag’s, she reflected. “You can park at the front. Ring the bell and I’ll be right down,” she told him. “Right. Seven o’clock. ‘Bye now!” “’Bye now!” She put the phone down and walked thoughtfully back to her room. As she’d never met Cousin Patrick before her farewell party, it would be like going out on a date with a stranger. And she remembered how he’d looked then: tall and lanky, with the light-brown hair and sharp blue eyes of a Dublin horse-dealer. Even his complexion looked weathered, though she assumed he worked in some office or other. Well, maybe it was all for the best, she decided. Jan Buczowski didn’t seem too keen to ask her out, and, if he ever did, she’d tell him she already had a date. That might even get him interested in her again. Jan needn’t know the date was only with a second cousin. 28

Chapter 3

P

atrick Geary certainly knew his way around Brassington, Claire noted. He’d been brought up in London, she knew, but judging from the smiles of recognition that greeted him in the restaurant he must have been to Brassington pretty often. From the cloakroom attendant to the head waiter, people greeted him warmly and gave him good service. Claire knew enough about the business to recognize that he was a wellrespected, regular client. “Do you come here often?” she joked, as they settled at their table. “Only when business brings me up here,” he replied. “And what business is that, exactly?” “Your kind of business, almost.” He mocked her serious tone. “I represent one of the largest suppliers of sterile materials in the country; Brassington Royal Hospital Trust is about to become one of my clients – I 29

hope. Now –” He forestalled any further discussion of his job by scanning the huge menu. “The speciality is fish and seafood,” he said. “They have a lot of it flown over from Ireland.” The fame was justified. Claire, raised on tales of badly cooked, poor quality English food, was surprised by the crisp vegetables, the juicy flakes of Dover sole, and the creamy, dreamy lemon soufflé. She guessed the cost of it all would be more of a shock than a surprise and she felt a little uneasy. “Always pay your way,” Da told her. “Then you owe nobody anything. You’re your own man.” “Woman,” Mammy never failed to correct him. That was easy at home; if she went out with a boy she always made it plain she’d pay her share. After all, she was better off than most of her friends. But this was different; for one thing, even with Da’s allowance added to her nursing bursary, she couldn’t afford a place like this. And for another – well, he was a cousin, almost family. So it was all right to let him pay. Wasn’t it? He scarcely looked at the bill, then put it down with his credit card on top. No room for argument. 30

“So what would you like to do now?” he asked. “You don’t have to go back yet, surely?” Claire laughed. “Oh no, we have our own keys. It’s not like school, you know.” “So I see.” He looked at her appraisingly. She’d slipped off her warm red jacket now, revealing a silk shirt, shot with dark metallic blues and greens which were reflected in her eyes. “You don’t look like a schoolgirl any more.” “You never knew me when I did,” she reminded him, flushing under his gaze. “Ah, but I have photographs of you – all ages and stages.” “Really?” Claire was surprised – and not nicely. Why would his family collect photographs of a distant niece? “I found quite a few family documents amongst Dad’s things. He must have kept them hidden; my mother wanted nothing to do with his family, you know.” She didn’t. She knew nothing about his family except for some vague references to “poor Liam and that English woman” on family occasions, followed by a hint of “the trouble” he’d been in. Maybe that trouble was Patrick? “So you’re picking up the family threads then, are you?” she asked tactfully. “I hadn’t thought of it like that; it was your mother invited me to the party.” 31

“So she did.” That was strange now she came to think about it; Mammy had always been ready to dismiss “poor Liam” as the family failure, so why should she be interested in his son? As if aware of her speculations, Patrick again changed the subject. “So what do you want to do now? Film? Disco? Anything you like.” Claire thought for a moment. “It would be nice to listen to some music,” she said. “Could we go to a folk club?” Patrick looked surprised, and not enthusiastic at her choice. “Any particular one?” he asked. “Well, an Irish club, actually,” Claire admitted. “There’s one quite close – The Harp. Do you know it?” “I do.” Patrick looked at her quizzically. “But I thought you were cutting free of the Irish?” Claire flushed. “Only from the family,” she said. “I love Irish music; I don’t ever want to put that behind me.” “Ah well, if that’s what you want, we’ll go over to The Harp.” He took the credit card slip from the waiter and signed it. “Come on, then; let’s listen to some music.” It was bitterly cold and blowing half a gale but Patrick was reluctant to take the car, muttering something about parking 32

problems and security. He offered to call a taxi, but Claire opted to walk off her dinner, and anyway, she loved the wind. She’d let her hair loose that evening, and all the time they walked it lifted in the wind like some demented halo. She pulled up the collar of her soft cashmere jacket and strode out alongside Patrick. They turned off the main street down several little lanes to a terrace of tall houses, showing dingy white in the lamplight. There was no missing The Harp at the end of the row: the instrument itself, picked out in green neon lights, advertised the club. The faint sound of a fiddle, the sweet-sharp odour of stout, the bibblebabble and laughter took Claire straight back to a summer evening when she and Jan had strolled hand in hand down this same street and discovered the folk club. Once inside, she peered through the smoke in search of an empty table. She had a sudden vision of Jan, as he’d sat last summer, wincing at the bitter taste of stout and trying to think of something polite to say about it. “There’s a table over there.” Patrick’s voice brought her back to the present. “I’ll go get the drinks; what’ll you have?” “Oh, fizzy water – lots of ice and lemon. I’m terribly thirsty.” 33

“Don’t count on the ice or the lemon,” he warned. Claire sat at a little rickety table close to the performance space and dance floor. She shrugged her jacket on to the back of the chair, pushed her wind-blown hair into some sort of shape, and looked around her. The music had stopped now, but a few people were moving around the wooden floor, picking up instruments and adjusting speakers, preparing for the next session. Claire felt a surge of excitement; would they be playing one of the jigs that had so delighted Jan? “Like the music of my home,” he’d told her. “We are both strangers in this country, Claire.” And although she couldn’t agree – she never felt like a stranger in England – Jan’s suggestion had given her a warm glow. And a lasting one, she reflected now. That evening had been the start of something special between Jan and herself, something still undeclared, unresolved. Maybe something that just faded away so far as he was concerned? Claire sighed and pushed the thought away. She watched a woman place a high bar-stool in the middle of the floor and sit on it. Dressed simply in black T-shirt and black cotton skirt, with reddish hair hanging 34

untended down to her shoulders, she might have been a teenager, but a glance at her face proved otherwise: strong cheek bones, pale complexion, and the lines of laughter and experience etched around the fine, dark eyes. Claire felt she had seen the face somewhere before but she couldn’t think where. She recognized the young man who followed her as the leader of an up-andcoming folk-group, Erin. He picked up a fiddle, moved forward, and began to play a strange, wailing solo. The woman sat back on her stool, eyes closed, body swaying slightly, listening intently to the music. She began to hum, softly at first, then louder, clearer, until her voice joined the fiddle in a long, plaintive melody whose lyrics were incomprehensible to most of the audience. Claire recognized the sounds, though not the words – Gaelic. She sat back and felt the mysterious keening eat into her soul, so deep into the music that she barely registered Patrick’s presence as he sat beside her and put their drinks down on the table. No one moved, not even to lift a glass. Then the song reached a painful crescendo and a kind of echo followed it, as people began to hum softly. Claire had never heard 35

the song before, but obviously these folk knew it well. When it ended there was a second’s pause, then a gentle ripple of applause, a few appreciative comments, nods, smiles. “Is that the kind of thing you sing?” asked Patrick. “How did you know I sang?” Claire was unpleasantly surprised. Patrick seemed to know far too much about her. “Oh, I don’t know. Somebody must have mentioned it,” he said vaguely. And then, with an obvious attempt to change the subject, “You speak Irish, then?” “No, I don’t.” Claire spoke abruptly, feeling the need to shake her mind free of Celtic cobwebs. “Well, maybe they’ll sing something a bit more cheerful now,” said Patrick. He was right. The singer went on to a slightly naughty Irish ballad, the fiddler and piper whirled tunes out of the smoky air, then together they led the audience into a collection of rebel songs. Again, Claire noticed how well the audience knew the songs; she herself knew only a couple of them, but by midnight she’d learned several more and was singing along, as Irish as the rest of them. Midnight was closing time, and Claire felt it was time she got back to Kelham House. 36

But just as Patrick stood holding out her coat someone at the bar called him over; he was known even here, apparently. She stood alone for a moment until the singer came down off the stage and spoke to her. “You enjoyed it tonight?” she asked. “Ach, and it was great!” Claire’s accent was stronger now. “I thought I knew a lot of our songs but some of yours were new to me.” “You’re from the west, are you?” Surely her accent wasn’t so pronounced? “I’m from Donegal,” Claire said. “Well, and you have songs in the sea and in the mountains up there,” the woman said. “Come again and I’ll sing them to you.” “Yes, I will.” Claire had a sudden, brilliant idea. She’d ask Jan to come with her. He’d accept an invitation like that, she thought, with only his student ticket to pay for. Jan was terribly poor and far too proud to let her pay for him, but he played the fiddle himself and he loved all kinds of folk music. “I’m here Wednesdays and Saturdays for the next three weeks,” the woman told her. “Kathleen Brogan,” she added, holding out a hand to Claire. “Claire Donovan. I hope we meet again.” “We will, Claire, never fret.” Kathleen looked over to Patrick, now arrived back at 37

Claire’s side. “You’ll be bringing her again, won’t you?” she smiled. Patrick didn’t react. “We must be going,” he said, rather briskly. “Good night.” “Well, a good night to you, sir,” Kathleen said, in mocking tones. “Come back soon, Claire, and I’ll sing you the songs of Donegal.” But before Claire could reply, Patrick took her arm and almost pushed her to the door. They walked quickly through the bitter night, back down the dim alleys to the bright lights of the hotel. “Who is Kathleen Brogan?” asked Claire when they were finally settled in the car. “Why have I never heard of her back home? She’s great!” Patrick shrugged. “Suppose she makes more money over here,” he said. “Folk roots are all very well in songs, but it’s money makes the music in the real world.” The car started up and Patrick pulled off down the brightly lit main street. “Well, now, let’s get you home.” Home, thought Claire, with sleepy satisfaction. My little room in Kelham House, not the Leonmohr Hotel. “Thanks for a lovely evening, Patrick,” she murmured. “Especially the club; I loved that part.” 38

“So I noticed,” he teased. “In spite of your protests about getting away from it all.” “Next time I’m going to take my friend Jan. He loves the jigs and the fiddle music.” “Sure,” Patrick said easily. “I’ll let you know when I’m coming up here again.” “Oh, we’ll probably go next weekend – ow!” Patrick braked suddenly at the lights and Claire was jerked forwards against her safety belt. “Sorry, they changed sooner than I’d expected.” He turned to glance at her. “I don’t think you should go there on your own,” he said. “Why not?” “You’d better wait until I come back,” he said with barely-suppressed irritation. “It’s not the sort of area for you to be walking around alone.” “I won’t be alone; I’ll be with Jan,” she pointed out. “We’ve been before, last summer, several times.” This wasn’t really true; they’d only been twice, but Claire was stung by Patrick’s assumption that he knew better than she did. “Summer’s different,” he said, and Claire opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Arguing with Cousin Patrick about how she should spend her free time was a bit too much like arguing with Da, she decided. 39

Soon Patrick pulled up in Kelham’s car park, switched off the engine and turned to her. Claire suddenly felt apprehensive; would he expect her to kiss him? Well, she could handle that. She put up her face, as for a brotherly (or was it cousinly?) peck. It never came. “Seriously, Claire, you ought not to go wandering about in that district now the nights are drawing in. Your mother would kill me if she thought I’d taken you there.” “Why would she? I’ve been around the folk scene in Donegal for years and she’s never objected to my going into pubs.” “It’s not that. You know as well as I do there’s more dangers than alcohol—” “Oh, the drugs scene, is it?” She laughed. “Come off it, Patrick. I’ll bet there’s more drug abuse in this hospital than at The Harp. We’re warned of it daily.” “That’s different.” He made it sound as if drug abuse were quite respectable in a hospital. “I mean, there’s a funny mix of folk hang about there. Sometimes it gets dangerous – violent – fights and all.” Claire laughed. “You can’t have been around some of the pubs in the aptly named wilds of Ireland,” she said. “I know how to take care of myself.” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “Not in this city,” he said. “You just keep clear of 40

the place until I come up again in a week or two. I’ll take you – and your fiddler friend if you insist, OK?” “OK,” Claire agreed. But she didn’t promise.

41

Chapter 4

W

“

ho was that dishy feller I saw you with last night?” Katie Harding demanded. Claire grinned. “Would you believe my cousin?” “No, I would not.” “Well, he is, sort of.” And before the irrepressible Katie could question her further Claire went on to tell her about the Irish club and the songs Kathleen Brogan had sung. “Hey, why don’t we organize a Kelhamites ceilidh for Charity Night?” said Katie, always eager to snatch at a new idea. She was, of course, on the committee organizing the biggest event of the autumn term – St Ag’s Charity Night, when all kinds of schemes, from a karaoke competition to a midnight disco, were set up to raise funds. “You could take Jan down there and pick up a few ideas.”

42

Claire looked doubtful about both plans. “I’d love to but I’m not sure that Jan would come.” “Why not? I thought you two were good friends.” “I don’t know. He seems a bit distant since we got back.” “Oh, maybe he’s just broke; I know he’s having trouble with the agency that sponsors him. Look, you go ahead and get tickets. Tell him it’s for a good cause. After all, some of the money we raise will buy medical supplies for his country.” “Yes, I’ll do that,” said Claire happily. “Maybe we’ll go down on Wednesday.” But by Wednesday Claire had more to worry about than a new song collection and a date with Jan. It was a frantically busy day on A & E. “Fetch his X-rays.” “Collect her records.” “Get his details.” “Do me a coffee, can you?” “Find a plaster-chair.” “Take him to fracture clinic.” “Make up the dressings stock.” “Do me a coffee, will you?” “Sit with him and watch out for vomiting.” “Rub her hands – they’re frozen.” “Just keep talking to him, calm him down.” 43

“And bring me coffee, please?” This last was from Dr Ahmed Durahni, who was not really due for coffee until his official break. But he turned his shining brown eyes on her, smiled, and Claire melted. She all but ran to the staff kitchen. Mug of steaming coffee in hand, she rushed past Sister Banks’s office just as she was coming out. “We almost had two more casualties on our hands there,” she observed, backing off. “Where are you going with that?” Claire controlled the impulse to tidy her hair and adjust her cap. “Taking it to Dr Durahni,” she said. Sister frowned. “Dr Durahni can take his coffee break in the staff room when there’s time.” “But. . .” Claire looked at the coffee mug, then over to the cubicle where Dr Durahni was examining a patient, then back to Sister Banks. “Take it back to the kitchen,” said the Sister firmly. “And come back quickly. Ben has a job for you.” I’ll bet he has, Claire thought resentfully. And it’ll be filling in a form, going down to X-ray, mopping up the vomit. . . it certainly won’t be nursing a patient. She slopped the wasted coffee down the sink. 44

But she was wrong. She got back to find Ben emerging from Cubicle Five. “Oh, Claire – mother and baby, Cubicle Five. Baby’s peaceful but Mum’s a bit shocked. Stay with her, calm her down, I’ll be back as soon as I’ve helped Ahmed with a suture. . .” Ben swept off down to the end cubicle. At last, a real bit of nursing! Claire swept eagerly into Cubicle Five, beaming brightly, exuding – she hoped – confidence. “Good morning, sorry to keep you waiting. . .” She stopped. The girl – she was only a girl – was sitting by the bed, looking blankly at the still, small baby lying there. “Ah. . . Mrs. . .?” Claire looked around for the blue admission form. “Is she going to be all right?” The girl looked up at Claire, then immediately back to the baby. “I don’t know,” Claire told her honestly. “There’ll be someone round to examine her in a moment.” She still couldn’t see the admission form anywhere. “What’s the matter with the baby?” she asked. It seemed a good idea to get the girl to talk, help her to relax, and at the same time collect some information in case the form had really gone missing. But the girl didn’t seem to have heard her. She just went on staring at the baby, 45

not anxiously or even lovingly, just blankly, as if she hardly recognized it. “What happened?” Claire prompted her gently. The girl took a deep breath and, without taking her eyes off the baby, began to speak. “Nothing. I mean – she fell. I told them – out there. . .” The girl nodded towards the reception area. “I told them that’s all it was, just a fall, only a little one. She’s all right really. . .” And she opened her eyes wide, staring at the child as if willing it to move. But it didn’t, Claire observed. She was standing by the bed, opposite the girl – the mother. Heavens! She was younger than herself, Claire decided; barely out of school. And dressed in denim jacket and T-shirt, though it was a bitterly cold day. Claire shifted her gaze to the baby. Good colour, she noted; breathing steadily – snuffling, rather, as if she had a cold. But no sign of distress. “Did she hit her head?” she asked, hoping she sounded professional. “No, she didn’t!” The girl’s gaze snapped up to Claire. “I’ve told you – I’ve told them out there all about it. How many more times. . .” Her voice rose hysterically. “Where the hell is everybody? Where’s the 46

doctor? That’s who I’ve come to see, not some lousy Irish infant!” So much for calming her down! Claire swallowed her fury and looked frantically round for some way of distracting the young mother. “You’re very cold,” she said. “Can I get you a cup of tea . . . coffee?” Catering again, but at least this time it would be part of the treatment. For a moment she thought the girl was going to start shouting again, tell her where to put her tea and coffee, but suddenly she seemed to lose all her hostility. She sat back in her chair and almost smiled. “Yeah, go on then. Tea, two sugars,” she said, as if doing Claire a favour by accepting the offer. Claire hesitated. She’d been told to stay with the girl but she’d also been told to calm her down, and apparently the mere offer of tea had pacified her. Claire frowned; which was more important – to stay with the girl or to keep her calm? “What’s a matter, Irish? Got no change?” The girl sneered. “Suppose we have to pay for our own, do we?” She didn’t look as though she had the price of a cuppa on her, thought Claire, and she was just going to explain that she could get a free one when she had an idea. Instead 47

of going up to the staff kitchen, she’d get the tea from the vending machine – it was only round the corner from cubicle five; then she’d be on hand if the girl got hysterical again. “No, that’s all right.” She smiled across the recumbent baby. “I’ll be back in a moment with your tea, right?” “Right,” the girl nodded, watching Claire now as intently as she’d watched her baby. “Two sugars – and milk?” “Both – yeah.” Humming a snatch of one of Kathleen Brogan’s songs, Claire popped round to the vending machine, switched to by-pass, which meant there was no need to insert money, pressed the T/M/S button and filled a paper cup with hot tea. This was a nice part of the job, she reflected; making yourself useful, making someone a little happier. . . “Here we are—” she started cheerfully when she reached Cubicle Five. And then stopped. There was no one in Cubicle Five! For a second Claire stood, holding out the tea to the empty chair, on which lay a blue form. She felt merely irritated at first; the girl must have been sitting on the dratted form all the time and even now she’d forgotten to take it with her, wherever she’d gone. Well, the tea could wait, she’d better 48

get that form united with its patient. Claire put the tea down, picked the form up and began to read it. BRASSINGTON GENERAL HOSPITAL – ACCIDENT & EMERGENCY DEPT.

SURNAME – Hickling FORENAMES – Debbie TITLE–Mr Mrs Ms Miss Other AGE – 6 weeks ADDRESS – not known. Mother, Lisa Hickling, “staying with friends”s. COMMENTS – Baby reported to have fallen. Bruises on arms and chest. NAI? No apparent head injury. Weight? Feeding? Child clean but has widespread nappy-rash. Still in last night’s nappy – no apparent replacement.

Claire felt the cold creep up her arms and into her chest. NAI – non-accidental injury! That baby had been hurt by someone – by her hysterical mother? But how could that girl, almost a child herself. . . “Right, Claire. It all seems peaceful in here. . .” Ben Morrison swished the curtain into position and turned to look at the empty bed. “Where are they? Has Sister Banks moved them?” Claire looked startled. “I thought maybe you’d collected them when I went out to get her tea.” 49

Ben stared at her. “You did what?” he asked quietly. “I went to get her some tea – only from the machine. She was shouting – hysterical. I thought it would calm her. . .” Claire paused for breath. She looked at the blue form in her hand then she looked at Ben, with big, scared eyes. “You left an NAI alone with its mother?” he said. “Did you not realize she might have inflicted the injuries?” Claire shook her head. She held out the form in her shaking hand. “This was missing. I mean, I didn’t see it. The girl was sitting on it.” Suddenly Ben moved. “Come on,” he said. “You need to sit down.” He guided her out of the cubicle, across Reception and into the office. “Sit down – and stay in here,” he ordered. Claire sat in Sister’s office, staring blankly at the noticeboards overflowing with lists, timetables, bulletins, phone numbers. . . and seeing nothing. Just like that girl with her baby, she thought. Outside she could hear a lot of movement, footsteps, running even, though that was strictly forbidden. Someone shouted an order – against all rules again. Then the door opened and Sister Banks came in. Claire scrambled to her feet. 50

“No, sit down; you look as if you need to.” Sister Banks sounded almost sympathetic, thought Claire hopefully. “I’m sorry, Sister,” she began. “No, Student Nurse Donovan, don’t say anything until you’ve listened to me.” Sister Banks spoke very quietly, settling herself in the chair opposite, with the desk between them. She looked steadily at Claire all the time she spoke. “What you must realize, Student Nurse, is that you are in no position to take decisions for yourself. Your job is to follow instructions to the very letter. Do–you–under–stand?” This was enunciated slowly and clearly as if to a foreigner – or a child. Claire nodded. Tears spilled down her face. Unaware that she was weeping, she was surprised to observe them dripping on to her hands, tightly clasped in her lap. Sister Banks leaned over and pushed a box of man-sized tissues across the desk. She was obviously prepared for occasions such as this, thought Claire, miserably mopping her face and eyes, blowing her nose and swallowing hard several times. “Have you found her?” she asked. Sister shook her head. “We need your help here, Claire,” she said, her tone slightly softer now that she’d got her message across. “You must have got a good look at 51

the girl, at least. Can you give a description of her to the police?” The police! Claire’s heart jumped. Where she came from the British police were regarded with some suspicion. She swallowed once again. “I think so,” she said, torn between the urge to prove herself useful and her fear of the police. Sister Banks nodded briskly. “Right,” she said. “As soon as you feel ready, I’ll have Sergeant Booth sent in.” She went over to the door. “And Claire?” she hesitated. “Everyone makes mistakes when they’re learning a job, you know. The trouble with our profession is that the mistakes have pretty obvious results, often serious ones. This is why you must never take on any more responsibility than your rank allows – in your case none at all. Understand? Do exactly as you’re asked, no more, no less; then if anything does go wrong, you can’t be held responsible. There’s someone above you, someone qualified, to take the blame.” “So who’s taking it now?” asked Claire, dreading the answer. “Charge Nurse Morrison, of course. He gave you an instruction; he should have made sure you understood fully.” “But that’s not fair – it was my mistake,” said Claire. 52

“It was one which you would not have made had you been fully informed of the case.” “If only the girl hadn’t been sitting on the admission slip I could have read the notes.” “Yes, well, she knew what she was doing even if you didn’t.” Sister Banks smiled grimly. “It seems she’s had plenty of experience of A & E departments.” Claire stared at Sister, the implications of her remark cutting like ice into her brain. “You mean she’s been in before?” “Not here, but to other hospitals.” Sister Banks turned to open the door. “That’s why we have to involve the police.” She paused. “They’re waiting to interview you now, Claire; may I let them in?” Claire nodded blankly. Sister Banks opened the door and looked out. “Right, you can come in now, Sergeant Booth.” Again Claire struggled to her feet but the young policewoman smiled and told her to sit down. “No need for formalities,” she reassured Claire. Claire was less than reassured to see a policeman enter as well. He stood over by the door, notebook in hand. “Right now, Claire, just tell us all you noticed about the girl and the baby.” 53

Sergeant Booth settled herself in Sister Banks’s chair and sat back. Living in a hotel had taught Claire the importance of close observation; it was most important to fit the right name to the right guest; the correct room, meal, newspaper to the correct client. Da was most particular that every visitor was made to feel special – eyeto-eye contact, bright smile, repeated name, appearance committed to memory. Claire had learned the knack of it from an early age. Now she drew a detailed and accurate word portrait of the girl. “Very pale, might have been fair, if her hair had been clean. She was rather scruffy, unwashed rather than dirty, and badly dressed for the weather – just a T-shirt, denim jacket; I couldn’t see whether she had jeans or a skirt. She was big—” “Tall?” “No, big – you know, quite a large build but not fat.” “Any special marks or features?” Claire paused. “Her eyes – they were sort of drawn down at the corners, like Eskimo or Japanese eyes but not so slanting.” She demonstrated with her own eyelids. “Like that; just a bit, but enough to make you look again.” “Well, you’ve been most helpful.” Sergeant Booth stood up, nodding over 54

Claire’s shoulder to the constable. “We’re lucky to have such an observant witness. Thanks to you we’ll pick them up quite soon, I’m sure.” For a moment Claire felt a glow of pride, then she reminded herself that she wouldn’t be needed as a witness if she hadn’t let the girl escape – with the baby she might well have injured! “I hope you find them quickly,” she said. “We’ll do our best, and we’ll be in touch. Thanks for all your help.” They closed the door behind them quietly, as if Claire herself was a patient. She sat there, not knowing quite what to do, certainly not feeling fit enough to go back on duty. But Sister Banks had other ideas. “Claire?” She put her head round the office door. “Could you just rush these X-rays over to Orthopaedics? They’ve taken a patient but forgotten his records.” She held out the documents almost as a peace-offering. Claire took them, blushing and fumbling but brave enough to look right up at Sister Banks. “Do I leave them at Reception or hand them over to someone specific?” she asked. 55

Sister Banks nodded approvingly. “Good girl. Hand them over only to Staff or Sister, then they’re responsible for them, all right?” Claire nodded. “All right, Sister,” she said. “I understand.”

56

Chapter 5

E

veryone was very kind. They treated her, Claire thought gloomily, as if she were ill: quiet voices, gentle manners – even Katie Harding softened her usual peremptory commands. “Why don’t you take Jan down to that Irish club of yours this Saturday?” she suggested. “Take your mind off things.” Katie and Claire were in the same tutorial group and usually took their lunch-breaks together. Claire enjoyed this bit of the day – a laugh, a bit of gossip, and a chance to sort out any bits of work that still puzzled her. But today she could barely summon up the energy to talk. “Go on,” Katie urged her. “You know Jan’s dying to ask you out.” “I know no such thing,” Claire corrected her. “He’s made no attempt to ask me.” 57

“Well, he’s shy; probably waiting for you to suggest something like the folk club. And anyway, it’ll—” “Do me good?” Katie flushed. “Well, it’s no use brooding over that missing girl,” she said, blunt and honest as ever. “I’m not brooding,” said Claire. “I just need to be left alone to get on with my work. I’ve got a lot on at the moment.” “Haven’t we all?” “It’s all right for you; it all comes easy. I have to go over and over everything before it sinks in.” It was true. Claire had found the college work difficult enough last term, but this term it was much more hectic, fitting it in between her hours on the ward. Even so, for the first time she found herself wishing she was in college and not back in A & E, where everyone knew of her mistake. “Look, you’ve shut yourself away with your work every night this week. You need a break,” said Katie. “Why not get out on Saturday?” Claire sighed. “I’ll see how things go,” was all she would promise. If the girl and her baby had not been found by then, she doubted she’d feel like going out – even with Jan. * * * 58

So she shut herself away for the rest of the week, in the library whenever it was open and up in her room when it closed. And to her surprise, even with the worry hanging over her, she began to make progress. Notes and diagrams that had made little sense when she’d filed them last summer now fell into place; she even remembered most of them. All the biology was settling into her mind far more firmly and quickly now that she had some practical experience. Well, that was something to be thankful for, at least. A pity the psychology notes didn’t do the same, she reflected gloomily, then she might have had the sense to stay with Lisa Hickling and baby Debbie all the time. On Saturday she awoke with a sense of foreboding. Three days now since she’d let the girl escape with her baby, and nobody seemed to have seen them. How could they be living, so hidden away? What if the baby was already injured? If she was too hurt to eat she’d never survive a week. Claire pulled the quilt over her head and shut out the world. If I had the energy, she thought, I’d get myself to the airport and on the next plane home. And never come back, was the unspoken thought that hung in her mind. Well, she found college work difficult 59

and made horrendous mistakes on duty. She was obviously not cut out to be a nurse – might as well go home. She could spend an easy year or two helping in the hotel, maybe take a job in an exotic place with one of Da’s many contacts. She was used to hotel life and good at it too. Better to do that than struggle on with the nursing, she decided; at least her parents would be pleased with her. Slowly she lifted her tousled head from under the quilt and looked around the room, making plans to start her packing. Then someone knocked at her door. “Can I come in, Claire?” Barbara’s husky voice came through – as did the aroma of strong, fresh coffee. Barbara was the other “caterer” of the group; spicy soups and vegetable curries were her specialities and, unlike Claire, she always cooked them herself. “Oh, Barbara – come in!” said Claire. Had it been anyone else she might have put them off, but Barbara was very together; she made no demands on anyone, although, being a little older than the others, she was much in demand for advice at times. “Aunty Babs” was Nick Bone’s teasing nickname for her. “I’ve just made coffee,” she announced. “Thought you’d probably opted out of cafeteria breakfast.” 60

Claire nodded. “I wasn’t really hungry, and it’s such a hassle to go over there when we’re not going into college.” “I never get up for breakfast at the weekend.” Barbara put the tray down by Claire’s bed. “Don’t bother getting up; have your coffee in bed, then I can sit in the chair.” She poured coffee for them both, added milk to Claire’s and passed the mug over. “Here, have one of Gran’s cookies; she insisted on making me a tin full and I’ll never get through them.” Claire wasn’t hungry but it seemed churlish to refuse. She nibbled the outsize cookie cautiously, then took a more serious bite. It was good – nutty, crisp and spicy. She finished her first without noticing, then lay back and sipped her coffee, feeling herself coming back to life. “You look better already,” Barbara commented. “Must be the medicinal effect of Grandma’s cookies,” said Claire, smiling weakly. “First smile this week!” Barbara refilled the mugs and handed Claire another cookie. “Well, Grandma was a nurse,” she smiled, “and my mother’s a midwife. Both of them utterly dedicated to the job, perfectionists. You know, Nightingale medal, exams passed with honours, all 61

that stuff.” She paused. “But they had their failures too.” Claire looked deep into her coffee mug as Barbara went on. “I remember Mum coming home late one night all ready to resign. One of ‘her’ babies had died – strangulation by the umbilical cord. She was terribly upset; felt she should have been able to save it or at least warn the mother about the problem, prepare her. She even wrote out her resignation. Then Gran told her to stop playing God and to behave like what she was – just a hard-working professional woman who could only do her best.” Barbara put her hand on Claire’s arm. “In spite of public opinion,” she said gently, “we’re only quite ordinary young women, not angels.” Claire sighed. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “And I know mistakes are made every day, but a baby’s life is at risk because of mine.” Her lips trembled. “I don’t think I can face going back to A & E for another week, not with everyone knowing.” “Well, you could be transferred,” said Barbara. “Could I?” Relief flooded through Claire. Maybe if she could get a new placement on a different ward she’d make a new start. “Do you think that’s what I should do?” 62

Barbara looked serious. “I think if you give up on A & E now, you’ll find it harder to accept mistakes in the future.” “Future? I’m determined never to make a mistake like that ever again!” Claire sat upright, almost spilling her coffee. Barbara laughed. “Oh, Claire, we all make mistakes! Look at me; I made the mistake of thinking accountancy was a good substitute for nursing, wasting four useful training years. But sometimes making a mistake is the only way to grow. ‘Everything’s a learning experience.’ Quote – Emmelia D. Robinson, my gran.” “Sister Banks said something like that,” said Claire. “I expect it’s all written in a senior nurse’s script,” smiled Barbara. “Oh, and talking of scripts, now you’re looking alive again I’ll leave you to get ready.” “Ready?” Claire suddenly remembered about her packing plans. “Yes. Have you forgotten the Kelhamites’ first meeting about Charity Night? Eleven o’clock in the common room – Katie Harding’s orders.” She had forgotten, of course. But there was no point in going to a meeting about future plans if she was leaving right now, was there? “You are coming, aren’t you?” Barbara was watching her closely. 63

Suddenly Claire threw back the quilt and stood up. “I’ll be there at eleven. See you downstairs.” She paused. “And Barbara. . .” “Yes?” Barbara picked up the tray. “Thanks for everything, you know.” Barbara smiled. “My pleasure,” she said. “You can do the same for me one day.” She turned to let herself out. But suddenly the door was flung open and Katie Harding bounced in, shrieking with excitement. “They’ve found her! Claire, they’ve found your Lisa Hickling and her baby!” She danced round the tiny room, narrowly avoiding Barbara and her tray, and clutched Claire in a tight, warm hug. “They’re safe, Claire! They’re all right!” Barbara closed the door and the three of them sat on the bed while Katie told them how she’d heard the news. She’d been listening to the local radio. “Good for contacts, you know, for the Charity publicity,” she explained. “And then suddenly, right in the middle of a great new single, there was a news flash: ‘Missing mother Lisa Hickling and her baby have been found in a squat on the Newtown estate. Police have taken mother and baby into care.’ ” Katie paused. “What does that mean? I thought only kids got taken into care.” 64

“She was a kid,” said Claire softly. Tears of relief were streaming down her face, and she was shaking so much the bed shook too. “They’ll have taken her to that motherand-baby unit out at Somersby,” said Barbara. She put an arm around Claire. “You can cry now,” she said. “It’s all over, you see.” “You might even have done them a favour,” said Katie practically. “If she hadn’t absconded she might never have got a place in the unit.” She passed a box of tissues over to Claire. Claire took one and mopped her eyes, remembering the scene in Sister Banks’s office when she’d last been handed a tissue. She’d felt like a naughty schoolgirl then; now she felt several years older. “Well, thanks anyway, Katie,” she said, smiling shakily. “And you, too, Barbara. I feel I can face the day now.” Katie jumped up. “Funny you should say that,” she grinned. “Jan and Nick are waiting to hear your marvellous idea about the ceilidh.” “My idea?” Claire almost squeaked. “It was all your idea, Katie Harding – and it won’t work.” “Why not?” “You need more than one fiddler and a rather feeble folk-singer to get a ceilidh off the ground.” 65

“There’s nothing feeble about you when you’re singing, Claire! It’ll be all right, you’ll see!” And, once she got there, everything was all right. Claire sang a couple of Kathleen Brogan’s songs unaccompanied at first, then Jan gradually joined in, playing gently, more beautifully than she felt she deserved. “Is good,” Jan nodded. “But sad. Are there not happy Irish songs?” Claire nodded, smiling. “And some very funny ones too,” she said. “Shall I take you to hear some this evening?” It came out so easily, so naturally, that she didn’t even blush. * * * And so they took up where they’d finished the previous term, going to the folk club together at weekends and sometimes even on Wednesdays, when Kathleen Brogan always gave them a special welcome, a nod and a smile, and a chat at their table during a break. Jan struck up a friendship with the young fiddler who accompanied her and sometimes played along with him on a borrowed instrument. Sitting at the little red table by the dance floor, Claire watched him playing, often catching a glimpse of tears in his dark eyes. 66

“You must teach me some of your music too,” she suggested on their way home one evening. But he shook his head. “I don’t want to look back on those times,” he said. “I must go on now, away from those roots. New training, new country – some day.” He smiled and gestured broadly, as if to open up the whole world. He wants to get away, thought Claire, just like I do. How odd that the two of us should be singing folk songs rooted in the past, when we’re both planning a future far away from home. And for a moment she indulged in the fancy that they might find a future together in some far-flung country, away from Jan’s painful past and her problematical present. For Jan helped her with more than her music; he’d been studying biology at university before civil war struck his country, so his knowledge of anatomy was far ahead of anyone in their year. He taught Claire how to recognize all the bones in the skeleton, with funny little rhymes to help her remember, and skilfully drew her sections of anatomy, specially colour-coded. As the weeks passed she found herself almost enjoying private study periods. And back in A & E, she learned to observe procedures carefully and carry out 67

instructions immaculately; she even earned a commendation from Sister Banks. There were no repercussions from the Hickling incident. Ben Morrison was especially kind and helpful to her, and always careful to make sure she understood what was going on. One way and another she felt her skill and knowledge steadily and surely increasing and, with them, her confidence. So that when Da rang she was able to tell him she wouldn’t be home for the weekend leave. “It’s so expensive, Da,” she said. “And I’ve got such a lot to do here.” “Expense doesn’t matter, you know that,” he told her. “Even if I did come over,” she argued, “I’d have to bring some work; I’d be shut up in my room most of the time.” Big sigh at the other end. She could almost feel it vibrating through the phone. “Ach, well, you know best, my darlin’ girl. Sure and your mammy’ll be disappointed.” No, you mean you are, thought Claire. “Well, I’ll be home for half term, anyways,” she assured her father. “And I’ll make sure I’ve done all my work so’s we can really enjoy ourselves.” 68

There was no answer. “Well, ‘bye, now,” she said. And she rang off with a feeling of relief – and guilt.

69

Chapter 6

O

n Saturday morning, Claire sat in the window-seat in the common room at Kelham’s, peering over her biology book at her friends and feeling thankful she’d stayed on. Both Barbara and Nikki had taken advantage of the weekend leave to go home, but Nick, Jan, Katie and Claire were sprawled in front of the television, sipping coffee and pretending not to watch the children’s programmes. Katie occasionally scribbled a note for her next committee meeting, Nick clicked away at a calculator, apparently balancing his budget, and Jan was replacing a string on his violin. It’s like being part of a family, she thought. And she was glad, now, that she’d been firm enough to refuse Da’s offer of a weekend at home. Suddenly the peaceful scene was wrecked by a monumental discord from Jan’s fiddle.

70

Claire almost jumped through the window, Nick dropped his calculator and Katie’s pencil scrawled a wiggly line right down the page. “Just testing,” Jan grinned. “I think to give you all a surprise.” “A shock, that’s what you gave us,” grumbled Nick. “No, not the music – the idea. I have the idea.” “Ah, well now, that is a surprise,” said Katie. Jan laughed. “Very funny, Katie Harding, but wait till you hear.” “Well, I hope your idea’s better than the chord you just played.” “But that is it – to hear some better notes than I played.” “Come again?” But Claire had already caught up with him. “You mean for us all to go down to the folk club?” Jan nodded. “The fiddler from that group, Denis? He gave two tickets to me, so we buy only two more, share the cost.” “Oh, yes, let’s go!” Claire looked at the other two. “Tonight’s Kathleen Brogan’s last session. It’ll be quite a cheap night out – and a great one, I’m sure.” Claire was right – they all had a good time. Even Nick had to admit to the power of 71

Kathleen’s voice, and Katie actually joined in some of the Irish jigs, in a free-style, jiving sort of way. At the end, Jan was invited to play with the band and everyone sang the last lament along with Kathleen, some weeping openly. “More tears than the last act of an opera,” Nick commented, as they made their way through the crowd. “I expect they were all lamenting their long-lost Irish home in Liverpool,” said a cynical Katie. But Claire surreptitiously wiped her face with a damp handkerchief, silently cursing herself for being a sentimental old softie like her father. She looked behind at Jan, who was damp-eyed and silent, lamenting his newly-lost home, miles away from Liverpool, she thought. She longed to grasp his hand, show him she understood, but the crush was too dense and anyway, she doubted whether she’d have the courage. Jan was always friendly, always helpful – and always kept her at arm’s length. They emerged into the murky, damp darkness at the corner of the street and Nick offered to go and get the van. “No, we stay together.” Jan spoke sharply, with an authority unusual in him. He stood in the hazy lamplight, looking around warily. “It is not a good feeling here.” 72

Suddenly Claire remembered Patrick’s warnings about the club: “Sometimes it gets dangerous – violent – fights and all. . .” And even as the thought passed through her head there was an uneasy movement in the crowd, like a wave rolling on to the beach without breaking. Then the wave gathered momentum, as did the noise. Claire couldn’t see what was happening; her view was blocked by people pressing, pushing, suddenly in a hurry to get home. Or to get away from the young men who suddenly leapt out of the shadows, jeering, chanting, brandishing football scarves like menacing banners. They advanced in a long, thin line across the street and within a breathing second all hell was let loose. Fists and sticks flailed all round; glasses and bottles flew through the air and crashed against the walls. At first Claire stood on tiptoe, peering upwards, trying to make sense of what was happening, but when a broken bottle whizzed past her left ear and smashed against the wall behind her, she ducked and stayed head down. That was worse; she could see nothing, but she heard people screaming and shouting, trying to push their way out of the narrow street. Claire felt her heart thudding, her legs trembling as she was pressed hard back against the wall. She 73

stretched up and looked around for the others. But all she saw was a glimpse of Nick’s blond head carried away above the crowd as if by a stream. There was no sign of Katie or Jan. Swallowing back the panic that was rapidly rising in her, Claire began to shove, push, punch and kick her way out of the crowd. Suddenly she heard her name. “Claire – this way! Claire!” Jan grabbed her arm and, using his shoulder to brilliant effect, forced a passage through the milling mob and out the other side. “Katie – she was pulled away – she’s in there!” Claire looked back at the seething crush. Katie Harding was tough but she was very small. How on earth would she get out? And where had Nick ended up? “Is quieter here.” Jan pulled her into a doorway. “You wait – I’ll get Katie.” “No, Jan!” she protested. But he was gone. Claire stood in the dark doorway, almost paralysed with fright. Patrick had been right about the “funny mixture” of people hereabouts. She had no idea what the fight was about; a couple of local gangs, perhaps, rival football supporters? Or something more sinister? The noise seemed to be subsiding now, overtaken by the wail of police sirens. 74

Perhaps it would all calm down any minute. Cautiously she peered out. And was almost blinded by a brilliant light shining right into the porch. “Move on, now; move this way; it’s quite safe.” But Claire stood quite still. She knew that voice, remembered the guilt and anxiety she’d felt when last she’d heard it. “Sergeant Booth!” she exclaimed. “What?” The policewoman shifted the beam up into Claire’s face. “Well, Nurse Donovan, I presume?” She laughed easily, reassuringly. “Lively night at the Irish club, was it? Come on, I’ll see you’re safe.” She took Claire’s arm and led her across the road, which was now blocked by a police car. “You certainly find trouble for yourself, don’t you?” she commented cheerfully. “Look, I’ll see if I can persuade a taxi to come down for you. . .” “No, I’m with friends – was with friends. We have a van. We got separated.” Claire explained how she was waiting for Jan to get the others out of the mêlée. By the time she finished she was quite tearful. “And now I don’t know where any of them are,” she sniffed. “They’re all lost.” “I’ll put out a message about your friends. Come on, get into the car and give 75

us a description. You look as if you could do with a rest.” Second time round, Claire was quick and accurate with personal details and the descriptions were soon being broadcast. That finished, she sank into the back of the car and closed her eyes. A mistake, that – she began to tremble so violently that she was afraid the whole car would shake with her. She forced her eyes open and looked out of the window. People were passing down the road now, subdued, rather shaken by the sudden eruption. Although it had lasted only minutes, it had been quite vicious, violent – and very frightening. Claire shivered again at the thought of it, feeling cold and sick. It was all her fault, she decided. She’d persuaded them to come down here. If she’d only gone home the others wouldn’t have come to the club. And where were they now, the others? Even Jan was missing! She pressed her wet face to the window and gazed out. Then she saw them coming towards her, ushered by Sergeant Booth. Nick’s head was bent and he was holding a handkerchief to his face. Jan moved stiffly, automatically, his expression blank. And between them they supported Katie, staggering and apparently gasping for breath. 76

“Here they are, only a little the worse for wear!” announced Sergeant Booth. She opened the door and almost pushed Katie alongside Claire. Then she led Nick to the other side and let him in, opening the front passenger door for Jan. “St Ag’s,” she ordered the driver. “A & E.” She straightened up and grinned at Claire. “It’s all quietening down here now – we’ve got the battling boys themselves shut away. You go and get yourselves checked over now; you’ll be familiar enough with the hospital, no doubt! Oh, and don’t forget your admission slips, will you?” She laughed and signalled to the driver to pull out. Numbly, Claire watched her wave them on, standing in the lamplight at the end of the street. Nobody spoke as the car sped through the city. Katie sat doubled over, gasping for breath, and Nick was still mopping his face. In the front seat Jan sat stiff and still. Claire closed her eyes once more, ignoring the slow tears that ran down her cheeks. A & E was like a battle station. People stood leaning against the wall, holding emergency dressings to cuts and bruises; others sat in corners, moaning gently to themselves; the lucky ones had seats, where they sat staring blankly ahead, shivering 77

sometimes. Claire looked round, dazed. She couldn’t believe that this was the same cool, calm place where she’d been working all week. Katie leaned against the nearest wall, grey and exhausted; Nick stood beside her, still mopping blood, and Jan was totally blank, as if in another world. Claire looked at her friends and wished they’d all gone straight back to Kelham; at least she could have cleaned them up and given them hot drinks. Here she could offer them nothing. As she surveyed the frantic scene she realized it was up to her; she was the only one who knew the department, the only one who could do something for her friends. But what? Neither Sister Banks nor Ben Morrison was on duty that night, she knew. Well, she’d just have to persuade one of the night nurses to help. She stepped out and looked frantically around Reception. “Well, it’s our lovely Irish rose! Have they sent for reinforcements?” Dr Durahni suddenly stepped out of a cubicle. “We need someone with a little more experience, I fear, child,” he smiled, “though the Irish touch might be appreciated.” “No, Ahmed – I mean Doctor. I – can you spare a moment?” A fine raised eyebrow was the reply. 78

“Three of our students – they were hurt in the crowd. . .” Dr Durahni didn’t hesitate. He followed Claire across to the corner where she’d left the others. His assessment took only minutes: Nick just needed cleaning up, a dressing on his eye and an X-ray; Katie needed a check-up and a lie-down. “And this young man. . .” Ahmed looked closely at Jan, but he just turned away. “I am not hurt,” he said brusquely. Ahmed turned back to Claire, a question in his eyes. “I don’t think he was injured,” she said doubtfully, wondering about Jan’s odd behaviour. “Right. Take them to the recovery cubicle – there’s no one in just now. I’ll look in as soon as I can.” Ahmed turned back to Nick. “Claire will clean you up and do your dressings,” he said. “Then you can go over to X-ray; and don’t leave without bringing the results to me.” In a daze, Claire led them along a short corridor into the vacant cubicle. She was staggered that Ahmed had entrusted her with a real patient – her first emergency patient and great friend! Well, this time she was determined to get it all quite right. She heaved Katie on to the bed, propped her up and took a sick-bowl from a nearby 79

trolley and shoved it on to her lap. Nick was already sitting in the one chair, rather pale and shaky, as if about to faint. Jan just stood, doing nothing, saying nothing, looking dreadful. Claire gave him a push which left him sitting on the end of the bed, closed the curtain, and looked around her. The dressings trolley was in place. She filled a bowl of water, swished in some antiseptic and began to wash Nick’s rapidly swelling face. “I heard you were a dab hand at dressings,” he muttered through bleeding lips. “Shhh!” Claire ordered. “Keep quiet and this won’t take long.” It didn’t. Claire gently mopped the blood off and soon Nick’s wounds were clean and covered and his nose had stopped bleeding. “You might need a stitch or two on that eyebrow,” Claire told him. “I’ve just pulled it together with a butterfly suture for now. Right. Off you go to X-ray. Jan?” She turned to ask Jan to go with Nick, but his eyes were dull, black, blank. “Don’t worry, I can find X-ray all by myself,” Nick smiled. “You’d better look after the other two.” Certainly his colour had come back, Claire noted, and he seemed quite steady. “Right. 80

I’ll catch up with you later – there’s bound to be a hold-up in X-ray.” Claire was bending over Katie when Ahmed looked in. “One down, two to go,” he commented cheerfully. “I saw your other patient on his way to X-ray. Well done, Nurse Donovan!” Katie was already breathing calmly, Claire assured him, and determined to avoid a night in a hospital bed. “Kelham’s is close to the hospital,” she told Ahmed, “and I’ll keep an eye on her all night.” Ahmed looked into Katie’s eyes, felt her neck, checked her pulse and breathing and declared she was fit enough to go back to Kelham’s under Claire’s supervision. “Straight to bed, mind; nothing to eat or drink. And if she starts vomiting again, call Emergency,” he told Claire. “Now, what about this young man. . .” “No!” Jan stood up abruptly. “I was not hurt, not anywhere. I take the girls back, then come for Nick.” Without waiting for Ahmed to agree, Jan lifted a protesting Katie off the bed and pushed his way through the curtain. “Is he all right?” Ahmed asked Claire. She shrugged. “I don’t think he was actually injured,” she said. “But he’s behaving rather oddly.” 81

The doctor sighed. “Well, I haven’t time to deal with trauma right now.” He hesitated. “You put the girl to bed, and when this young man comes back for his friend I’ll give him a quick check-up. Just to make sure.” Claire nodded. “Thank you for seeing us all so soon,” she said. “I feel I should stay on duty here.” Ahmed shook his head. “Not allowed, I’m afraid. Though we could do with another good nurse just now.” Claire followed Jan down the corridors and out across the grounds to Kelham. With Katie protesting loudly all the way and Jan plodding on in grim silence, she wondered just how she would cope when they got in. Well, “another good nurse”, Dr Durahni had called her. And perhaps he wasn’t just exercising his charm this time. Whatever it was, it gave her a glow, a buzz, a surge of energy. Suddenly she ran to overtake Jan and his burden. “I’ll see to Katie once we’ve got her upstairs,” she told him briskly. “You get back to Nick, and get yourself checked over, right?” In the lamplight she saw Jan blink and shake his head rapidly, as if to clear it. “All right, Nurse Donovan,” he smiled. But it was a stiff, rather painful smile. 82

Chapter 7

C

laire slept badly that night. Katie’s floor wasn’t very comfortable, and between waking to check Katie’s breathing, worrying about Jan and Nick, and trying to convert a rather thin duvet into a sleeping bag, she had very little rest. It was quite a relief when Katie began to stir next morning. Claire had slept in tracksuit and socks – ideal for camping out, she’d decided the previous night. Now she moved silently over to the bed. “Katie? Katie, how’re you feeling?” she whispered. “Claire? What are you doing in here?” Katie asked in a cracked, hoarse voice. “Looking after you,” Claire told her. Katie sat up cautiously. “Ooh, my ribs ache!” she rasped hoarsely. “You got a bit battered in the crowd,” Claire explained. “You’re bound to have a few bruises.” 83

“But what’s happened to my voice?” “Ahmed warned me about that. Apparently there’s a bruise right across the front of your neck, probably deep enough to have strained the larynx. It needs rest, so no talking!” “Well, thank you, Nurse Donovan!” Katie managed a grin. “Am I allowed a cup of coffee?” “Only if you drink it silently!” Claire padded off to the kitchen. As she went along the corridor she paused at Jan’s door but decided against knocking; if he was asleep he shouldn’t be disturbed. And the way he’d looked last night, he might even have ended up in bed in St Ag’s. So she went on into the kitchen, which, to her surprise, was already occupied. “Nick, how are you?” she asked, delighted to see that one of the gang had recovered. “All the better for seeing you, Claire.” He grinned painfully through a split upper lip. And she saw he had two black eyes, a battered nose and a cut across one cheek. “Oh, Nick – I’m so sorry,” she wailed. “I should never have taken you down there.” “It wasn’t your fault, Claire,” he assured her. “Though for a quiet convent girl, you certainly know the hot-spots in town!” 84

Claire flushed. “Honestly, it’s not usually like that. I’ve never seen any trouble there before.” “Well, I don’t think it was anything to do with the club, not directly.” “So what started it?” “Oh, gang rivalry, I suppose. Somebody uses the club to pass on drugs, somebody else wants paying for them, you know. . .” “No, I don’t,” said Claire thoughtfully. Patrick had been right, then, about the dangers in the club. “Well, the regular music fans make a good cover.” Nick stirred two mugs of coffee. “And how’s Katie this morning?” “She’ll be better when I take her a drink,” said Claire. “Is one of those for Jan?” He nodded. “We had to wait an hour in X-ray, then Ahmed Durahni wouldn’t let us leave until he’d checked us both. It was four o’clock by the time Jan brought me back. Thought I’d say thank you with coffee.” “Was Jan all right when you got back?” she asked. “Well, I think the whole episode brought back memories he’d rather forget, you know.” Claire nodded. “I thought as much,” she sighed. “I could kick myself for dragging you all into this.” 85

“Nonsense! You mustn’t go taking other people’s responsibilities on to yourself, Claire. We chose to come with you; you didn’t make us – you couldn’t.” He smiled at the idea. “Nobody can make Katie Harding do anything she doesn’t want to.” He quickly made two more coffees and offered them to her. Claire laughed. “Thanks! She’ll be in here bossing us all around again if I don’t get back with the coffee.” “Well, tell her I’ll be in to see her later, but I’ve got to go into town to rescue the van.” “Are you all right to drive?” “Oh, yes – clean bill of health. Could turn out for the Rugby team this afternoon, according to Ahmed. Cheers!” Two down, one to go, thought Claire, remembering Ahmed’s comments the previous night. And if only the one to go was as easy to deal with as the other two! But in spite of her worries, or because of them, she fell fast asleep in front of her revision notes that afternoon, stirring just enough to stagger over to her bed. She slept until dark, wakened only by someone knocking hard on her door. Her first thought was that it was Jan, but an unknown female voice called, “Claire Donovan? You in there? Phone call for you.” 86

“Coming.” Claire roused herself, shook the fug from her heavy head and staggered out to the phone. Bound to be Da, wanting to know what she was doing on her weekend off. Well, she certainly wouldn’t be telling him. But she didn’t have to. “Claire, are you all right?” Patrick Geary! Claire’s heart sank. “Patrick, is that you?” “Yes, of course it is.” He sounded impatient. “I’ve just heard about the riot outside the club last night. You weren’t there, were you?” Claire hesitated. Something about his tone irked her; he was as bad as Da. She was tempted to lie, to tell him she’d been elsewhere. But he’d obviously heard about the riot – heaven knew how – and she couldn’t be sure whether he’d heard any reports about injuries. “Well, yes. I’d just been there with a group of friends,” she said, trying to sound casual, as if facing a street fight were part of the everyday story of nursing folk. “Did you meet any trouble?” he asked sharply. “Oh, there was some hassle as we came away – on the street, you understand, not in the club. The club was terrific, Patrick; Kathleen’s farewell, you know, she’s—” 87

“Yes, but were you all right? How did you get away?” “Oh, er . . . just walked away, you know.” She suddenly decided to tell him the truth – or part of it. “A couple of our party got separated; they were a bit squashed.” Claire crossed her fingers; that wasn’t an out-and-out lie. “So the police—” “The police?” Claire was surprised that Patrick sounded so horrified. This was England; people were fairly relaxed about their police, weren’t they? Twice recently she’d been involved with the police and both times they’d been kind and helpful. “They gave us a lift back to St Ag’s,” she said, more firmly now. “I got my friends into A & E – Accident and Em—” “I know, I know,” he said impatiently. “But you’re all right yourself, then?” “I’ve told you, we’re all of us all right,” she said sharply. No point in sharing her doubts about Jan with Patrick, now, was there? “I told you not to go back there,” Patrick ranted on. “What the hell is your father going to say?” “He’s not going to say anything because I’m not going to tell him.” Claire was really indignant now. “There’s no point in worrying him,” she said defensively. 88

“I did warn you,” he said, not answering her question. “I told you not to go there alone.” “But I wasn’t alone, I was with my friends.” Claire almost shouted down the phone. Really, who did this man think he was – her keeper? She felt a sudden twinge of doubt about Patrick. Taking a deep breath, she went on more steadily. “You know, even if you’d been there you couldn’t have done anything.” “If I’d been there we’d have left long before the fighting broke out.” “But nobody knew it was going to happen.” “Somebody did,” he pointed out. “Somebody waited in the street to start it all off.” “But nobody inside knew—” “Don’t you believe it.” “Well, they didn’t tell us,” she said sulkily. “Of course they didn’t, but I’d have sussed it out.” “Really? How?” “Oh, I have ways of getting to know things.” “Yes, I noticed that,” she said pointedly. And as soon as the words were spoken, her suspicions hardened. Why was Patrick Geary setting himself up as her guide and protector? 89

There was a pause. Claire wondered, without caring a great deal, whether her last remark had upset him. But suddenly he spoke again. “Well, at least there’s no fear of your going there again.” “Why not?” Claire had privately vowed never to go near that area again, but she wasn’t going to have Patrick telling her what to do. “The club’s been closed down.” “But that’s not fair – the street fight was nothing to do with the club.” “Oh, yes, it was, but don’t you worry your little head about it any more, Claire. Now, how about dinner next weekend?” Irritated by his attitude, and by his reference to her “little head”, Claire told him she was too busy. How could she ever have found this patronizing know-all attractive? she asked herself. “Now you surely have a spare hour or two for your long-lost cousin?” he pleaded. “I have not, Patrick. I have a full-time placement and exams coming up. I have to study in all my free time.” “Your Da will be pleased to hear you’re working so hard,” he said. And for a moment she felt a glow of pride. But then he went on, “And your Mammy will be relieved to hear you’re safe and sound.” 90

“What do you mean?” Claire was genuinely puzzled. “I thought we’d agreed not to say anything.” “Actually, we haven’t agreed on anything.” He suddenly sounded very English again, very cool. “That’s one of the things I want to talk to you about when I’m up there again. So – next weekend, I’ll ring you.” The line went dead. Claire put the phone down and stood looking at it thoughtfully. Patrick Geary always left her with a feeling of unease, she reflected; it was part of his mysterious charm. But this time he’d overdone it. There were too many unanswered questions. She’d simply have to see him, talk to him. And yet, for some reason she didn’t want to see him again, felt almost afraid of him. How could he have heard about the incident? Presumably from the news on radio or TV. But surely it would be only local and he wasn’t in Brassington now, was he? Well, where was he? And why all these references to her parents? “Longlost cousin” he called himself; and he’d promised Mammy he’d look after Claire, the first time he met her. Why? She’d survived six months in Brassington without anyone to look after her; why did he suggest the idea to Mammy? 91

Claire had a sudden picture of him at the going-away party, standing at the bar, talking seriously with her father. With Da. What had they been discussing – herself? She felt a sudden chill, as if she were being watched. She ran the rest of the way upstairs, stripped off the crumpled tracksuit and stood under a hot shower for a long time. “Jan – can I come in?” Freshly showered and changed, she was tapping at Jan’s door. “It’s me – Claire. I wondered whether you’d like—” Her voice faded as the door opened and he faced her, pale, tense, with dark patches under his eyes and his nose quite narrow and pinched. He suddenly looked years older. “Claire, thank you for calling,” he said formally. “But there is nothing I need; just to be alone, you understand.” “But Jan—” “Thank you,” he repeated. “And good night.” He closed the door so quickly that Claire was taken by surprise. She stood for a moment wondering what to do. If she knocked again she was sure he would ignore her. Sighing deeply, she returned to her room. Perhaps he knew best how to treat himself, she reasoned. He’d been 92

through experiences the rest of them could only imagine; and even now he was living in a foreign country, with no family (what had happened to them?), few friends, little money – and that charity. Claire’s eyes filled with tears. Best leave him to it; there was little enough she could do for him anyway. So she decided to do something for herself: she went down to see whether Sister Thomas was in her ground-floor flat. It would be as well to check up on her new placement, if only to take her mind off Jan – and off Patrick and his various mysteries. And this time, when she tapped at a door, she was invited in. “Ah, Claire – lovely to see you. Will you have a cup of tea with me?” Claire suddenly realized she hadn’t even been over to the cafeteria for lunch. Sister Thomas had a tea-tray and a plate of small sugary scones on a low table in front of her gas fire. “Please, I’d love a cup of tea,” said Claire. “And a Welsh-cake; I’m sure you have room for one.” Sister Thomas passed the plate over. There was silence for a few minutes, as Claire nibbled the buttered Welsh-cake and sipped her tea. 93

“Anything bothering you?” asked Sister Thomas when she judged Claire was ready to talk. Claire hesitated. There were so many things bothering her just then she hardly knew where to begin. She decided to stick to the business in hand. “I’ve just come to check my placement, make sure I’d got all the details right, you know.” “Let me see . . . Gynaecology for you this session, is it?” said Sister Thomas. “Well, it’ll be a nice change from A & E,” she smiled. “Quite calm and peaceful usually.” “A & E wasn’t as hectic as I’d imagined,” said Claire. “Well, not on weekdays, at any rate.” “I hear it was quite busy last Saturday night, though,” said Sister Thomas. “Everyone recovered now?” Claire nodded. “We were just unfortunate to be caught up in that gang-battle,” she said. “Jan and I have been to that club before and the only violence we saw was in the jigs and reels.” Sister Thomas laughed and offered Claire another Welsh-cake. “And how is the college work going?” she asked, picking up Claire’s hint. Claire groaned. “Slow and hard, that’s how,” she said. 94

“Well, I did notice a distinct improvement in your grades.” “Only until exams,” Claire assured her. “They’ll sink again then.” “No, I don’t think so,” smiled Sister Thomas. “Your course work shows real understanding now. And if you have any problems with revision, you know where to find me.” “Thank you, Sister; it’s good of you. . .” “All part of the Kelham service,” she smiled. “We’re all very pleased with your work on the ward. Keep up with the studying and you’ll be fine, exams and all.” Claire left the flat smiling. It was good to know that Sister Thomas had so much sympathy with her academic struggles. Jan didn’t, it seemed; not at the moment anyway. She was obviously on her own. Well, in that case she’d better tackle the problem on her own. Starting right now, she decided, running back upstairs happily. Time for a couple of hours’ study before supper! She felt even happier next day. Jan put his head round the door of the kitchen, where she was making coffee. His pale face looked livelier, his eyes brighter. “Parcel, Claire – food mayhaps?” he said hopefully. 95

Claire groaned. “Da’s revenge,” she said grimly. “What is this revenge?” “Well, he wanted me to go home for the weekend.” She stopped, realizing how tactless that sounded to someone who had no home, no family to go to. “And you wanted to stay here?” he smiled. Claire nodded. “But it might have been better all round if I’d gone and left you lot to do something else,” she said gloomily. “I seem to have led you into a load of trouble.” “No, Claire.” Jan put down the parcel and took both her hands in his. “You must not blame yourself. I might have went – er, gone – to the club even alone that night. Mayhaps I get hurt more.” “Maybe,” Claire absently corrected him. “But you did get hurt,” she added, holding on to his hands and stepping back to examine his face. “No! Katie and Nick, they were hurt.” “But you were upset.” “What do you mean?” “You weren’t injured but something upset you – in your mind, maybe?” Jan looked down at her, soberly, tenderly. “Memories,” he said. “Now they are gone.” They stood for a moment, looking at each other. Then Claire took a tentative step 96

towards Jan and suddenly they were together, clinging tight, unmoving, unspeaking. She could feel his heartbeat through his sweatshirt, smell the soap as his hands touched her hair. She lifted up her face, waiting for his kiss. The door opened and Barbara swept in. “Street battles on your weekend off? You’re not fit to be let out!” If she’d noticed the embracing couple, she made no comment. “Welcome, Barbara!” said Jan, gravely, dropping his arms from around Claire and stepping away. “Claire has a parcel, and I see you too have a plastic bag. Maybe we have a festival?” “Feast, Jan; that’s the word you want.” Katie came in now, dragging Nikki Browne behind her. “Now, you and Claire can make the coffee while I tell Barbara and Nikki all about the Adventure.” Katie was none the worse for her adventure; indeed she was still full of it. While she regaled Barbara and Nikki with her (slightly exaggerated) version of Saturday night’s events, Jan and Claire opened parcels, made fresh coffee and set out sandwiches and Grandma Robinson’s cookies on the kitchen table. Jan had retreated once more into silence, but this time Claire didn’t mind. She could 97

still feel the pressure of his arms around her, his breath on her cheek. Maybe this time his silence was like hers, she thought; a way of holding on to that last embrace. She listened vaguely to Barbara and Katie swapping inner-city horror stories over the head of wide-eyed Nikki, and watched Jan eating his way through an amazing number of sandwiches and cookies, smiling happily. She’d been right not to go home, she thought. This was where she wanted to be. The euphoria soon faded, of course, but sitting in her room, faced with a heavy pile of revision, Claire suddenly experienced a strong, inward calm she’d never felt before. No matter how hard she was having to struggle, she knew that nursing was right for her. The only problem she had to face now was to make herself right for nursing.

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Chapter 8

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ister Thomas was right: Gynaecology was quite a change from A & E. Claire found it almost restful. “What our ladies need is rest, peace and comfort,” Sister Lawrence explained. “No loud voices, no rushing around, no bossing about. It’s a waiting ward, you see, and whether they’re waiting to recover from surgery or waiting for the arrival of baby, each and every one of my ladies must be kept quiet, calm – and happy, of course.” She beamed at Claire over her huge glasses. Sister Lawrence had a soft, cherubic face which contrasted oddly with her severely cropped grey hair; her gentle voice and sweet smile masked, Claire suspected, a woman of strong convictions and loyalties. She discovered this for herself as the week wore on. Even then she’d come to 99

enjoy Gynaecology more than anything she’d yet encountered in St Ag’s. For one thing, she was learning a lot more than she had done in A & E, where everyone was too busy to do more than throw terse instructions at her. For another, the quiet, gentle atmosphere suited her better. Here she was allowed to accompany Staff Nurse on the drugs round, meticulously ticking off times and dosages as if she were in charge of treatments. She stood at the side of the bed during checkup sessions, even watching the ultrasound or listening to a baby’s heart through the sonicaid, amazed by the wonder of it all. She sometimes sat with a recovering patient, rubbing her hands and feet for comfort, and discovered she had a real knack for back massage. And though she realized that her work was checked and double-checked, she never resented it. Her lesson in A & E stayed with her: she did exactly as she was told, carefully and promptly, and always asked for clarification if she was in any doubt. Soon she was promoted to taking temperatures and checking drips. Claire enjoyed these afternoon tasks, chatting quietly to those patients who were awake, skirting silently round the sleepers, checking the valves on their IV lines. 100

It was during such a round that she came across a young and beautiful girl, all on her own in a side ward. Usually these were kept for pre-op patients waiting to go down to theatre, but this patient was tucked tightly under the white cover, straight and flat, showing no signs of late pregnancy. As she appeared to be sleeping, Claire walked quietly up to her side and examined the line up to the bag hanging on the frame; not dextrose this time, she noted – something new. She’d have to ask about that. She checked the valve, counted the drips for a full minute, and assured herself that everything was in order. She looked again at the sleeping figure in the bed. The girl’s dark hair was pulled back tight, revealing white skin, smooth, unlined, and a sharp, narrow nose. The eyes were closed, but they looked large under thin bluish lids and straight black brows. Claire thought how beautiful she was, even in her sleep. As she watched, the figure shook and shuddered, as if with the final sob after a long fit of weeping, then slept on. Claire checked the drip to make sure the movement hadn’t disturbed it, then left the room. “Ah, Student Nurse Donovan! Can you spare a minute?” It was typical of Sister Lawrence that she phrased the order as 101

a request. “My office, if you would.” She led the way along the corridor to the tiny room. Claire felt a sudden spurt of fear. The last time she’d been in a Sister’s office she’d been in big trouble. What could she have done now? She felt it had something to do with that white, tense figure in the side ward, but she was sure she’d done the right thing there – checked the apparatus, the drug supply, without disturbing the patient. “Would you like to sit down there?” Sister Lawrence asked, as if there were alternatives to the grey plastic chair across from her desk. “Thank you, Sister.” Claire patted her cap nervously, checked it was still in position, and sat back, almost resigned to being in the wrong over something. “You’re Irish, of course,” observed the Sister. Claire nodded, puzzled. What had her nationality to do with anything? “Catholic?” Sister Lawrence glanced at a file which obviously contained Claire’s notes. Claire nodded, cautiously this time. The Donovans were nominally Catholic and she’d been a boarder at a convent school, as were most girls of her class in Donegal, 102

but it was all a matter of tradition rather than conviction. She felt a sudden spasm of panic; perhaps Sister Lawrence was Catholic too, and was going to ask embarrassing questions like when had Claire last been to Mass. When? Well, she’d been once last summer when Aunt Maeve was staying and there was no one free to drive her there, and no doubt she’d be at Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. . . “I wonder if you realize that the patient in Side Ward D is having a termination.” Sister Lawrence spoke in her usual quiet tone. For a moment Claire couldn’t think what the word meant. Her mind raced through the index of her text book: term . . . terminate . . . termination – ah! That was it. That was why she was sitting here being asked about her religion. Termination = abortion = Catholic disapproval. “Does that worry you at all?” Sister Lawrence asked. Claire shook her head. “I’ve just checked the IV and everything seems all right,” she said. “Good, then I’m sure it is all right. You’re a very thorough young lady, Claire, and I think you have a real instinct for this work.” “Thank you, Sister.” Claire beamed. Not only had Sister used her first name, but she’d commended her too! 103

“However, I should have warned you in advance about our new patient, in view of your religion.” Claire blushed. “Well, we’re not exactly a devout family,” she admitted. “You are allowed to opt out of terminations, you know. Anyone can, for any reason. Some nurses opt out just because they find the whole process too upsetting.” Claire frowned thoughtfully. She remembered the twitching, half-sobbing figure in the side ward. “Why is she having a termination?” she asked. “That’s not our concern.” Sister Lawrence suddenly lost her soft, cherubic look and became stern. “Whether the termination is for medical or personal reasons, the patient needs nursing. All you need to ask yourself is whether you’re willing to nurse any patient through a termination. No one thinks the less of you if you don’t feel able to do that.” There was a pause. Claire was thinking of the last time someone had offered an “out”, after she’d let Lisa Hickling escape with her baby from A & E. Well, she’d soldiered on after that and she was really glad she’d done so. She knew she wanted to experience all aspects of nursing, not just those she felt she could bear with. 104

“I’ll stay with it,” she assured the Sister. “You’re quite certain?” Sister Lawrence’s neutral expression never wavered. “I want to be a nurse, not a nun,” said Claire. The Sister nodded, though whether it was in approval or not, Claire couldn’t tell. “Right, you can continue your checks, including the patient’s pulse, temperature and respiration when she wakes up.” SURNAME – Watts FORENAMES – Ruth B. TITLE – Mr Mrs Ms Miss Other AGE – 24 ADDRESS – 15 Govan Road Brassington (temporary) – 28 Perrin Road London SE6 0CL OCCUPATION – Actor

Claire read the sparse notes: fourteen weeks pregnant, intermittent bleeding, frequent vomiting. Sent to Royal Free Hospital, discharged herself, moved north with theatre company tour. Referred by Dr Jeavons, medical officer to Brassington Theatre Royal. Poor woman, Claire thought; no wonder she was twitchy. A couple of months with those symptoms and a tough job as well! Or no job at all; even she knew how competitive the theatre was. She picked up the girl’s wrist and felt her pulse. Well, at least that was steady. 105

The girl stirred. “What are you doing?” she asked in a low, husky voice, her large grey-green eyes staring cat-like up at Claire. “Don’t worry yourself, Ruth; I’m just checking you’re all right.” Ruth Watts frowned. “Is it still going on?” she asked irritably. “You’ll be staying with us overnight at least,” Claire told her. “Will I just check your temperature while you’re awake?” She took the thermometer out of the box at the head of the bed, shook it vigorously, and popped it into Ruth’s mouth. Ruth merely frowned and let her eyelids droop over her grey-green eyes. Claire picked up her wrist and, checking her watch, took a pulse-count again. Pulse – 80 bpm Temp. – 32.7 B.P. – 125/80 She filled in the figures carefully on the chart and looked at the girl, who seemed to be sleeping again. But at that moment she stirred. “Get me something for this damned pain, will you?” Claire shook her head. “I can’t do that,” she said. “I’ll send a nurse to see you.” 106

“What do you mean? Aren’t you a nurse, then?” “Student.” “Student? My God – you mean I’m going through a major crisis in the hands of a student?” Claire blushed. She was glad the girl was in a side ward, and it was tea-time so everyone was chatting happily in the Day Room. “You’re in the care of several highly experienced doctors and nurses,” she reproved her patient. “And they all had to train as I’m doing.” “Not on me, they didn’t. For God’s sake get me somebody who’s qualified, and who can do something about this damned pain!” She sank back, looking suddenly so frail that Claire scuttled off into the main ward to find Nurse Doughty. “Don’t let her upset you,” Nurse Doughty told her. “They sometimes make a right fuss, do terminations; I think perhaps they’re feeling guilty, you know? Never mind, love; I’ll go see to her.” And she waddled off down the ward to “see to” Ruth Watts, leaving Claire feeling rather superfluous and, for some reason, near to tears. She turned into the Day Room, where tea was being passed round. Several 107

women were laughing and joking with the auxiliary and sharing their private supplies of biscuits with her. Claire looked at these ever-hopeful women, some of them undergoing painful and unpleasant treatment in order to get pregnant, others facing real danger when their labour started, holding on to their babies in the face of huge odds. And yet Ruth Watts was obviously all too ready to lose hers. Claire tried to work out how she felt about that. “It’s not our decision,” Sister Lawrence had said. “Our job is to nurse her through a traumatic experience.” Claire sighed. Well, that’s what she’d been trying to do until Ruth Watts had lashed out at her. She looked again at the happy, joking ladies in the Day Room. They didn’t need her either. Suddenly decisive, Claire turned and made for the side ward. Ruth Watts lay staring at the ceiling, tears wetting her cheeks and rolling down her neck, on to the pillow. “Are you still in pain?” Claire asked gently. Ruth nodded. “The nurse gave me a pill, though; it’ll ease off in a few minutes,” she said. And she tried to move her hand to her face to smooth away the tears. 108

“No, let me!” Claire took a tissue from the bedside box and wiped Ruth’s face and neck. “Better?” she asked. Ruth nodded and tried to smile. Claire moved away. “Don’t – please don’t leave me!” Ruth whispered. “I was just going to get a clean cloth and towel to freshen you up,” said Claire. “In the locker,” said Ruth. Claire found a toilet bag, complete with skin fresheners, in the bedside locker. She opened the packet and wiped Ruth’s forehead, her cheeks, her hands, and then dried them with her towel. Ruth sighed. “Thanks,” she said. “You seem to have washed the pain away too.” “That’s the painkillers, not me,” said Claire. She folded the towel and hung it back on the rail behind the locker. “You’re not going?” asked Ruth. “I can’t bear it here all on my own.” “You’re not on your own, you know,” Claire assured her. “Everyone’s keeping an eye on you.” But she saw the panic in Ruth’s eyes. “I’ll stay a while anyway,” she said. “Soon you’ll be off the machine and able to have a warm drink.” She chatted on quietly, holding uth’s hand and stroking it the while. Ruth seemed to doze off. 109

But suddenly her eyes opened wide. “I had to do it, you know,” she said. “I’ve only just got a toe-hold on the ladder, my first real job in two years and then. . . I couldn’t cope. . . I’ve been so sick, nearly lost this job because of missing a rehearsal. . . had to do something. . .” The tears started oozing out of those remarkable eyes again. “Well, you have done something,” said Claire, reaching for another tissue. “It’s done now, almost, and you’ll feel better, stronger and be free to go on with your career.” And she had a sudden vision of Lisa Hickling and her bruised baby. What sort of life could a poor, homeless schoolgirl offer a baby? Maybe she should have decided in favour of a termination? Claire frowned; it was all so difficult. One thing was certain: she’d be listening hard at the lectures on medical ethics next term. She turned to Ruth. “You’ve made your decision,” she told her. “That part’s over. Now rest a while and try to sleep.” She held the girl’s hand, smoothing it, mopping her face with the tissue, and eventually Ruth fell asleep. Sister Lawrence came in and stood silently beside Claire. “It’s half-past five; you were off duty an hour ago.” 110

“She seemed to need someone with her.” “I know,” Sister nodded. “Her counsellor is calling in at six – she’ll sleep till then. Thank you for staying on, Claire; that’s the kind of good nursing we have so little time for nowadays.” She smiled at Claire. “Off you go now.” “See you next week then,” said Claire. “Of course. And Claire – you’re doing very well in this department. I’m really pleased with your work.” “Thank you, Sister.” Claire flew back to Kelham’s on winged feet, oblivious of the rain and rising wind. Ward Sisters were not known for flattery!

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Chapter 9

C

laire was enjoying Gynaecology so much that she almost dreaded her free weekend. Patrick had phoned as promised (threatened?) and she’d reluctantly agreed to go out with him the following Saturday night. Reluctant not only because of Patrick’s insistence, but because she’d not yet told Jan. But Jan was probably not even interested, she reflected sadly. He’d made no attempt to follow up their intimate little scene in the kitchen, and Claire wasn’t at all sure where she stood with him. Had their relationship moved on? Or even back? Pondering these questions, she made her way across to the Medics’ Mess for yet another of Katie’s Charity Night meetings. To her surprise Jan was there, in obvious good form. When she walked into the Medics’ Mess he was demonstrating a wild dance tune to Nikki Browne.

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“You’re not serious?” she was saying. “You mean we’re supposed to stamp our feet, slap our thighs and clap our hands, at that speed?” Jan increased the tempo of the wild tune so that Nikki got all her slaps and taps muddled up and they both ended up almost collapsing with laughter. Claire watched enviously as Jan threw an arm around Nikki and helped her up as she gasped for breath. “A little slower, you think?” he asked. Nikki leaned against him for a moment while she got her breath back. “You’d better stick to accompanying Claire’s songs,” she told him. “Your playing’s too wild for dancing.” Claire moved forward into the room and Jan’s arm dropped from Nikki’s shoulder – guiltily, was it? Oh, stop that, Claire Donovan, she told herself. Why should a casual friendly gesture make him feel guilty? And she couldn’t help the silent answer: possibly because it was more than a friendly gesture. Shaking herself free of such disloyal thoughts, she moved towards the pair. “You feeling better now?” she asked Jan. “Very well, thank you, Claire,” he replied coolly, as if she were just a passer-by enquiring after his health. 113

But then, she comforted herself, Jan’s English often did sound rather formal. “You weren’t hurt in that street fight, were you?” Nikki Browne asked him. “Me? No, I was not hurt, not at all.” He stared at Claire as if challenging her to deny it. She didn’t get the chance anyway; Katie called everyone to attention and outlined her latest ideas. “We’re going to have a talent competition, with each contestant paying to enter,” she explained. “The audience will judge; Nikki’s designing a clapometer, aren’t you, Nikki?” She looked in Nikki’s direction. “Er . . . yes, of course, Katie.” Nikki obviously hadn’t got round to that yet. “Oh, great! What do we win?” asked Barbara, who knew she had a good chance of winning. For once, Katie was stuck for words. “Oh, come on, Katie, we must have a prize,” Barbara told her, “or nobody will bother entering the competition.” “But what can we offer?” asked Katie. “We’re supposed to be raising funds, not giving them away.” “We need a sponsor,” said Nikki Browne. “You know, like theatrical productions have nowadays.” 114

“You mean like ‘Cats’, sponsored by Petafood Inc.,” Barbara suggested brightly. “Or ‘The Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb’, sponsored by Flexibandage,” Katie rejoined. “Johnson’s surgical masks would love to sponsor ‘Phantom of the Opera’,” Nick grinned. “And the Blood Bank could finance a Dracula Spectacular,” added Barbara. And this time everyone joined in the laughter. “It’s not a bad general idea, though,” said Nick Bone. “Why not try some of our suppliers? They get the publicity and we get the prizes.” “OK, but how do we persuade them to sponsor us? They probably get dozens of requests like this every day,” said Katie. “What we need is a personal contact,” suggested Nick. “You know the sort of thing: somebody who knows somebody who’s in the business.” He looked hopefully at Nikki Browne. She shook her head. “The nearest my family comes to medical contacts is me,” she said, “unless you count vets – Daddy owes money to several.” “I don’t think sponsorship by a veterinary firm would improve St Ag’s’ image,” laughed Katie. “Anyone got any serious ideas?” She looked all round, but no one spoke. 115

Claire sat very still, wrestling with her conscience. She knew someone who had the right contacts, but she didn’t want to ask any favours of him. But Katie seemed to have read her thoughts. “What about your dishy Irish guy?” she asked Claire. “Didn’t you say he was something to do with medical supplies?” Claire blushed so hard her face felt as if it was on fire. She could feel Jan watching her and she avoided his eye. Really – how could Katie Harding be so tactless? “You mean my cousin?” she said. “Oh, I shouldn’t think he’d be able to hand out sponsorship money.” “No, but he’ll know someone who can,” said Nick. “Ring him, will you?” Claire felt torn; it seemed a simple enough request, but she didn’t want to ask Patrick for anything. More importantly, she didn’t want Jan to think she was in regular contact with her “dishy Irish guy”. “Well, I think he’s around this area about now. I’ll try to get him.” She swallowed hard and risked a glance in Jan’s direction but he was gloomily pulling a frayed string off his bow. “He usually gets in touch. . .” she ended, lamely. “Right, don’t forget we’re relying on you.” Katie beamed at Claire, totally unaware of 116

the embarrassment she’d caused. “Now that the ceilidh seems to have come to nothing we’re left with the talent competition, some funny team games with water sprays and balloons, Nick’s karaoke and the disco afterwards. I think Kelham’s has done it again – a great little earner for the Charity Night!” Claire watched the group split up and go their various ways. Nikki was already sketching her ideas for the clapometer, Barbara was at the piano, picking out one of her songs, Nick was checking the mixing desk and Jan had been commandeered by Katie to help her build up the stage. Claire took a step towards him, thinking she would help, but he heaved a stage-block on to his shoulder, glowered at her, and walked off. Might as well get back and do some revision, Claire decided gloomily. As usual, exams loomed again. “Put the kettle on, Claire; make the coffee,” Barbara called after her. “We’ll be along soon.” Catering again, Claire muttered to herself. That’s all I seem fit for. And begging favours. But it was Patrick who begged the first favour. He drove her out of Brassington 117

to a country pub, where the food was simple – and inexpensive, she noted with relief. “Look, Patrick, you must let me pay my share, you know,” she said, even before they’d studied the menu. “That’s only fair.” “No, it’s not,” he replied, as she knew he would. “I asked you out – my treat.” “But last time was your treat too,” she protested. “Look, if it makes you uneasy, you can count this as a business dinner,” said Patrick. “I’m going to put it down to expenses.” “But you can’t. I’m not a client of yours.” “No, but you might be – in a way.” “In what way?” Claire was losing her patience. “Could you just talk straight for once now, Patrick? Tell me what you’re getting at?” Patrick smiled his cultivated, enigmatic smile. “Let’s order first, shall we? We can talk over dinner.” Claire looked at the menu without seeing it. Her mind was in a whirl of ideas. She’d come with the intention of asking favours but, as usual, Patrick was playing a mysterious game of his own. She could see her chance of discussing sponsorship fading fast. “Ready to order?” The young girl was back at their table. Claire peered at the menu and tried to concentrate. 118

“The hot-pot’s the best in Lancashire,” said Patrick. “Will you join me?” She nodded, relieved of the need to make a decision.” “And a bottle of red, I think?” Patrick turned to the very young waitress and gave the order. “So how’re you going to turn me into a client?” Claire asked as soon as they were alone again. “By asking you to do me a favour.” Claire stared at him, aghast. She was supposed to be asking the favours – he’d turned the whole thing upside-down! And what sort of favour was he going to ask? Mind working furiously, she watched the landlord open a bottle and pour a sample for Patrick to try. “Thanks,” he nodded carelessly. “It’ll do.” Already unnerved by Patrick’s hints, Claire was now embarrassed by his attitude to the staff. She watched in silence as the young waitress plonked a heavy earthenware dish down between them, then turned to look for space for the vegetable dishes. It all reminded Claire of her own attempts to work in the dining room back at the Leonmohr Hotel. Odd, she reflected; she was so clumsy waiting at table and yet so neat and nimble with complicated dressings. The thought of 119

dressings reminded her of the favour she’d not yet asked and she groaned inwardly. “So what is this favour you want me to do?” she asked when the girl had finally managed to fit all the dishes on to the rather small table. Deftly, Patrick shared out the hot-pot and handed her vegetables. “Business is difficult just now with all the new trusts, new contracts, not to mention the hospital cuts. . .” “Well, that’s all the more reason to let me pay my share of the bill,” said Claire. Patrick shook his head. “No, no, this is nothing. I’ve told you, it’ll come out of my expenses.” He paused and looked at her quizzically. “Provided we can do a deal,” he added. “What sort of deal?” Claire began to feel uneasy. She remembered the veiled threat he’d used to get her to go out with him that evening. Patrick could be ruthless as well as mysterious. Suddenly she wasn’t hungry; she pushed a few potatoes around her plate. But Patrick was eating heartily. “Oh, just a little business deal,” he assured her. “Quite straight-forward.” That made her feel even more uneasy. “I don’t know anything about business,” she said. 120

“It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,” he smiled. “And anyway, you know quite a lot about this business.” Claire’s heart sank. Was he going to ask her to get him into the hotel business? She’d had the feeling lately that Patrick wanted to get back in with the family in Ireland. “Brassington Royal Infirmary,” Patrick announced. Claire looked puzzled. “You know, the place where you work?” he smiled. “Brassington . . . you mean St Ag’s?” Claire almost laughed with relief; at least Patrick wasn’t expecting her to help him into the family business. “But I know nothing about the hospital as a business.” “No, but you know people who do.” His words reminded Claire of Nick Bone’s comments about sponsorship – and of her task this evening. She’d yet to beg her favour of Patrick and there was more chance of getting it if she co-operated now. “Oh, you mean the management – but I’ve never even met a hospital manager.” “That makes two of us,” he replied, “but you can change that.” “How?” “You’ve got a charity do coming up; October 20th, isn’t it?” “How did you know that?” Claire was amazed; Katie was always complaining that 121

she couldn’t get publicity for events at St Ag’s and yet Patrick, who lived a hundred miles away, knew all about the fund-raising night. He shrugged off her question. “I should think you’ll have a lot of management people around that evening.” “Well, possibly; but it’s for Friends of St Ag’s and staff only, not a public event.” “But you’re allowed a guest?” Claire nodded cautiously. She was beginning to see what he was driving at, and she didn’t like it. “So – I come as your guest, get talking to one or two of the management, put a few deals their way; my bonus is assured and, more importantly, my future with the company.” He put his knife and fork exactly parallel on his plate and sat back. “More wine?” he asked. Claire shook her head. She wasn’t at all happy about the idea of Patrick attending the function – certainly not as her guest. In spite of Jan’s moods lately, she was still hoping he would partner her in more than a few folk songs. On the other hand, the Kelhamites were relying on her to get some sponsorship from Patrick’s firm. If she didn’t co-operate with him now, she could say goodbye to any sponsorship and half the evening’s entertainment. 122

And then there was that business of keeping quiet about the street battle. He hadn’t mentioned it again, but she felt he would use it if he had to. “It is a charity evening, you know,” she reminded him. He laughed. “Just think of me as your favourite charity, Claire,” he said. “After all, it’s supposed to begin at home, isn’t it?” He looked at her so straight and hard that she knew he was referring to her family and the secret she was keeping from them. She sighed. “You’re welcome to come, of course, but I can’t guarantee you’ll meet up with anyone important, or even that I’ll recognize them if they’re there. . .” “Leave that to me, Claire. I’ll do my homework before then. Now, what about a pudding? This place is famous for them.” But Claire couldn’t eat. She sat and watched as Patrick, whose financial situation appeared to have revived suddenly, demolished an amazingly dark, rich concoction of chocolate, brandy and cream, classified on the menu as “Killer Mousse”. “I . . . er . . . have a favour to ask of you, too,” she said, as he reached the bottom of the dish. “Have you now?” Patrick licked his spoon thoughtfully. 123

“Yes. I’m involved in this charity do – Kelham House is always the tops for entertainment, you know. We’ve organized a talent show but we haven’t got any prizes.” She waited for him to come up with an offer but he continued to scrape up the last remnants of mousse. “You see,” she went on, “what we need is a sponsor – someone to offer a prize or two.” “Or three.” Patrick examined the empty dish and put it down with his spoon. “So you volunteered my firm, is that it?” “No, I did not!” Claire was indignant. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it at all but my friends have seen you around, asked about you, know you’re a medical rep. . .” “And they asked you to ask me to ask the firm.” Patrick sounded amused. Claire eyed him cautiously. “Are you in a position to ask?” “With your help I’ll be in an excellent position. Now that I can promise results, they’ll do anything for me.” “But you haven’t got any results,” she reminded him. “I will have, thanks to you. Meantime, I’ll suggest the results could be even better with a bit of free advertising on your flyers. Right?” Claire nodded slowly. She’d got what she wanted; the Kelhamites would be proud 124

of her. Only it wasn’t quite the way she’d wanted it. It seemed to her she was paying quite a high price for one small favour. How could she explain Patrick’s presence at Charity Night to Jan? Always assuming he’d want to listen! “Coffee?” the little waitress was asking her now. Claire sipped the bitter black liquid in silence, listening to Patrick chat easily about what he called “the Irish connection” – their relatives. It seemed that he was making up for his lost childhood, getting in touch with many people Claire hardly knew. “They’ve asked me over for a few days and I’m very tempted to go, only it’s so damned expensive.” This made her sit up, alert suddenly. Who was it had asked him over? Not her parents, surely; they had quite enough to do over the hunting season, without inviting family. “To Dublin, you mean?” she asked. He shook his head. “To Donegal,” he said. “Aunt Tess says they could use another pair of hands.” So Mammy had invited him! Claire wondered what her father had to say about that but she didn’t comment. She just sat quite still, saying nothing, waiting for the worst. 125

It came. He leaned over the tiny table towards her. She was conscious of his knee pressing against hers, his hand on hers. “So we could be spending your half-term together, Claire,” he said. “Now wouldn’t that be something?”

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utumn was in the air at St Ag’s. The drive was littered with cascading leaves, which frequently blew into the foyer as staff and patients scurried out of the wind and into the hospital. The Harrington Ward in Gynaecology, on the other hand, retained its air of gentle springtime, with warm air and banks of flowers. Claire revelled in it. She didn’t care how wild the weather was outside; with luck, it might even make travelling home for half-term impossible! “It’s very quiet in here now,” she observed to Sister Lawrence one afternoon. “Plenty of empty beds.” “Running down ready for reorganization,” Sister explained. “Management says we don’t need two Gynae wards, so this one’s closing down soon.” She spoke quite coolly, but her face gave away what she was thinking. 127

“But we’ve been full all the time I’ve been here,” said Claire. “Yes, and so has Tissington,” Sister said grimly. “However, ‘ours not to question why’, you know.” She stood for a moment lost in thought, then turned to smile at Claire. “As we’re not busy you could take a bit of extra study time,” she suggested. “Oh, no! That’s all right,” Claire said hastily; she certainly didn’t want to spend any more time alone in her room. “Well, I’ve already filled in your report and grade; you’ve done very well here, Claire,” Sister Lawrence told her. “You have a real affinity with gynaecological patients: cool, calm and so sympathetic. We’ll be sorry to lose you.” Sister Lawrence smiled warmly at Claire as she hurried off to answer her phone. Claire began to strip a newly vacated bed, still glowing from Sister’s comments and very thoughtful. Cool and calm – was that how she appeared to other people? It was amazing considering her mind was in such turmoil she could hardly sleep at night. She blamed it on the forthcoming exams, but it wasn’t really a question of biology, physiology, psychology or any other -ology that was keeping her awake. It was the question of Patrick. She’d never looked forward to going home with 128

much enthusiasm, but now that Patrick was going to be there, she really dreaded it. Night after night she lay staring up at her ceiling thinking of ways to put him off: a ’flu epidemic, perhaps? Or particularly bad weather? But she was such a bad liar he’d never believe her. Just as no one believed she wanted to get rid of her charming, attractive friend. Especially Jan. And thereby hung another problem. Everyone, with the possible exception of Jan, had been delighted to hear that Patrick’s firm would sponsor their talent competition. And everyone, probably including Jan, assumed that Patrick had fixed it for the sake of Claire. So now Jan was avoiding her and Patrick was preparing to move in on the family. It was all very well doing a favour for friends, Claire reflected unhappily, but they would never know what it cost her. “I told him to ring and discuss the details with you,” Claire told Katie over tea and toast in the kitchen one afternoon. “Why me?” Katie asked, trying not to look delighted. “You know just what we need.” In fact, it had occurred to Claire that this was one way of distancing herself from Patrick. She didn’t like the way her name kept being coupled with his. 129

“Well, I’m always pleased to chat up a dishy Irishman,” Katie grinned. “He’s not Irish,” said Claire irritably. “He’s English.” “Of course. Your English cousin, is he?” Katie grinned. “Does that mean he’s available?” “How should I know?” asked Claire dismissively. “You’ll have to check that out for yourself.” She stood up and began to collect their dishes. “Thanks, I’ll do that,” said Katie. She looked at her watch. “Oh, damn! Can’t stay to help – got a meeting.” She made a dash for the door and bumped into Jan. “Hi – and ‘bye!” she called. “See you, Jan!” Claire looked across the room to see Jan just about to leave. She tried frantically to think of something to say – something witty and light-hearted, to make him laugh, break the ice that seemed to have formed between them. But even as she opened her mouth he turned at the door and was gone. She went back to her room and opened her biology book, though it was useless trying to make sense of it through tears. Claire sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Damn! She’d never remember all this new terminology without Jan to help her. And they were supposed to be performing one of Kathleen Brogan’s 130

songs at the talent competition, but he was never around when she wanted to rehearse. He wasn’t even around when she needed help with revision, although he knew exams were only days away now. She slapped her book shut. No use trying to revise when her thoughts were whirling. Maybe her mind would work better tomorrow. Claire took her books along to Gynaecology next day and tried to revise during her coffee break in the staff room. Which was where Ahmed Durahni caught up with her. “So this is where you hide out,” he teased. “I haven’t had a decent cup of coffee since you left A & E.” “I don’t believe you,” laughed Claire. “I’ll bet you’ve got teams of nurses plying you with coffee day and night.” Dr Durahni shook his beautiful head. “I’d rather have one coffee a day from your fair hand than a dozen from anyone else,” he declared. “And they say it’s the Irish who talk blarney!” Claire laughed. “ ‘Blarney’ now, is it?” he said, copying her accent perfectly. “Well, and you’ll be knowing all about that then, won’t you?” “Just at this moment I don’t feel I know much about anything,” said Claire, 131

looking gloomily down at her file full of notes. “I’m sure you do. Tell you what,” Dr Durahni took the file and settled down beside her, “you go and get me a coffee and I’ll help you revise. Deal?” “You really are incorrigible,” laughed Claire, “but I need all the help I can get with these next exams. One cup of coffee is a small price to pay.” They sat sipping their coffee, Ahmed asking questions and Claire stumbling through answers – but getting them right nevertheless – until their coffee break was over. “Thank you, Ahmed,” she said, taking back the file and getting up to go back on duty. “That’s been a great help. I feel more confident than I have for weeks.” “No problem, Claire; you’ll be all right. Just relax.” He smiled up at her. “You’re going to the Charity Night Disco?” “I . . . er . . . yes, I am.” “With someone?” Claire hesitated. “Well, yes,” she admitted, and she blushed. “Ah! The romantic violinist, yes?” “No.” Claire felt her face getting hotter and hotter. “No?” Ahmed feigned amazement. “What a sly puss you are, little Irish girl. Who 132

is this lucky fellow, bringing you to the ball?” “It’s only a staff disco,” she corrected him. The formal ball had been last summer, she thought sadly, and Jan Buczowski had been her partner. “And he’s just a friend of mine.” “Well, I hope your friend will spare you for a dance with me.” “I shall dance with whom I please,” said Claire rather primly. “Then I shall have to join the queue, madame,” Ahmed teased. “Not you, Ahmed – you’re always at the head of the queue.” Claire laughed and glanced at her watch. “And I’ll be at the head of the queue for failures if I don’t get back to Gynae right away.” She sped back along the corridor still smiling, buoyed up by Ahmed’s obvious interest in her. It was really quite flattering to have two offers for her favours even if neither was the one she wanted. If only Jan had Ahmed’s easy charm, she thought, or even Patrick’s irritating forcefulness, she might get somewhere with him. Things had been so different last summer. She’d helped Jan with his English, he’d helped her with her notes, and they’d sung and played and laughed and worked together – even danced half the night at 133

St Ag’s Centenary Ball. And now they rarely met and barely spoke. “Why has it all gone wrong?” she murmured to herself. “What’s all wrong?” asked Nurse Doughty, looking up from the files she was sorting. “Your love-life, is it?” “Chance would be a fine thing,” Claire said, trying to strike a light-hearted note. “Who’s got time for a love-life in this place?” And she felt her face grow hot with blushes. She was used to being teased about boyfriends, by both patients and staff; she usually rode it with a bright smile and a bit of a joke, but today it didn’t seem very funny. Fortunately Nurse Doughty hadn’t noticed her blushes. “I’ll tell you something that’s all wrong,” she said, slapping another file down on the counter. “This charity do – that’s all wrong.” Claire looked up in surprise; she’d assumed everyone was in favour of the great fundraising effort; after all, it was an annual event at St Ag’s. “Don’t you think it’s a good idea to raise funds for charity?” she asked. “Depends what you mean by charity,” Nurse Doughty frowned. “Begins at home, to my way of thinking.” 134

Ah, that was it! Claire recognized the argument; Katie was always going on about the controversy surrounding the distribution of funds raised at the Charity Day. “But surely the whole point of Charity Day is that it raises funds for others, not the hospital? St Agatha’s Fund for the Needy, isn’t it?” “And who’s more needy than the patients in this hospital?” asked Nurse Doughty, glaring out at the almost empty ward. “Well, taking a world view, many thousands of people,” said Claire. And she thought about Jan’s people living in cellars without mains water, fresh food, even dressings for their wounds. “Huh – ‘world view’ indeed – flipping foreigners!” Nurse Doughty was saying. “Get things right at home first is what I say, then the rest will fall into place.” Claire stared at her. “What did you say?” she asked sharply. Nurse Doughty looked stricken. “Oh! I didn’t mean you, Claire – I mean, I never think of you as a foreigner. . .” But Claire just gave her a brilliant smile. “Thanks, Margaret,” she said. “Neither do I. But you’ve just helped me make a decision.” “Ah, is that what you were muttering about?” Nurse Doughty smiled. “Can’t 135

decide between two of them – home or away, is it?” She waved a waggish finger. “Take my advice, stick to your own kind.” Claire was about to contradict her, then she suddenly realized Jan was her own kind: musician, outsider, foreigner, all set to travel the world. Patrick might be partIrishman, a Geary, even, but that was the only thing they had in common. Yet he’d insinuated himself into her social life, taken over her emotions and thoughts, and was even planning to enter her home life. All in all, she suddenly realized, Patrick Geary was playing far too large a part in her life at present. Just as Jan appeared to have walked right out of it. “You’re right, Margaret,” she agreed. “I’ll stick to my own kind and to hell with the others!” Of course, it was all easier said than done, as Nurse Doughty herself would have said. Claire sat in her room, notepad open in front of her, reading her plan of action. 1. Patrick – staff disco. 2. Half-term – Donegal, and Patrick again. 3. Jan – how do we stand? 136

This last was so painful that she covered it with her hand and turned her eyes back to number one. “Get rid of Patrick at the staff disco,” she read aloud. Yes, but how? she asked herself. Katie had already reported that his firm had offered several really generous prizes for the talent competition, so Patrick would probably want to be in on the whole evening. Claire groaned. But not necessarily as her partner. Claire suddenly sat up very straight as she remembered Katie’s laughing assurance that she’d chat up any charming Irishman. Well, what better opportunity than this? So far as she knew, Katie had no partner for the dance. Nick Bone might have been, but he was DJ for the evening. Which left Katie available, as she herself would have put it. Furthermore, she knew several senior managers, sat on committees with them, was always ready with a caustic comment about them; she’d be delighted to introduce Patrick to them. Two of a kind, they were, always go-getting; Patrick for himself, Katie for her causes. They’d have a great time together, Claire decided. And she was going to organize it. She drew a large, dark tick at the end of Number One. 137

Not that it was accomplished, she reminded herself. But she had a feeling Katie would be only too happy to help her out. Number Two was more daunting. Patrick had obviously become a favourite with Mammy and she might well insist on his presence at half-term. He’d been so sure of his welcome when he’d told her of the invitation, but had he been telling her the truth? There was only one way to find out. Claire closed her notepad and went down to the telephone. “Da, how are you?” “Claire! Ach, there’s a wonderful surprise. It’s not often you get around to ringing your poor old da.” Claire winced at the truth of this. “Well, I’m a busy student nurse, you know,” she excused herself. “And whose fault is that?” asked Da, only half teasing. “Mine, all mine,” laughed Claire. She’d already decided to keep things light. “And are you very busy just now?” she asked. “No, the weekend shoots is all we’re doing right now, thank goodness. You are coming over for half-term, aren’t you?” “I hope so. I really want to, but. . .” Claire hesitated. “Did Mammy mention anyone else in the family joining us?” 138

“Well, there’ll be Uncle Bernard and all his brood, Granda, of course, and some few of the Donovans for Sunday lunch.” Claire smiled to herself; “some few” in Da’s parlance meant a couple of dozen assorted brothers, sisters and cousins. “No Gearys?” she asked innocently. “Why on earth would there be Gearys this time of year? They think we live under six feet of snow all winter and our roads are impassable, thank the Lord!” For a moment Claire thought she was home and dry; if Da didn’t even know Patrick was invited, it ought to be quite easy to stop the visit. But then Da went on, “Anyway, you’ll be needing the rest at home by now. I hear you’ve been working very hard this term, weekends and all.” And Claire’s heart sank. “You hear that, do you? Who from?” she asked sharply. “Oh, that young lad of Liam’s. Your Mammy took quite a fancy to him. He rings us now and then.” I’ll bet he does, thought Claire. With tales of what I’m doing. “Patrick says he’s invited over for the weekend,” she said. “Is he? That’ll be your mammy’s idea – company for you, I suppose.” 139

“I don’t want company, Da – not Patrick’s company. I’d like it to be just family, you know.” This was a stroke of pure genius, an appeal to Da’s sentimental attachment to family values. “Well, it’s good to know you still appreciate us, Claire,” he said. She could almost see his wide smile, his moist eyes. “But Patrick’s family too.” “Distant,” she reminded him. Not distant enough, she added to herself. “Yes, well; your Mammy’s lot have never been as close as we are,” Da conceded. “The Gearys were very hard on his father. Maybe Mammy wants to make it up to him.” “Well, if she’s determined to have him over for that weekend, I’ll make my own arrangements.” Claire was quite breathless at her own daring. What other arrangements could she possibly make? “Well now, Claire, sure it’s not like you to talk like that.” Da was obviously taken by surprise. “Has the boy been upsetting you?” Now that she’d got started, Claire suddenly felt quite strong. “He’s only been seeing me so that he could report back to you, hasn’t he?” There was a pause. “I wouldn’t put it exactly like that, Claire,” Da said cautiously. “I would,” Claire retorted. And she knew it was now-or-never time. “But there’s one 140

little incident he hasn’t reported back to you.” “What? What’s that?” “Oh, it’s too complicated now. I’ll tell you all about it when – if – I come home.” “What do you mean, ‘if’?” “Only that I’m not coming if Patrick Geary’s there. Tell Mammy ‘hello’ from me, will you?” And she put down the phone.

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hat’s that, then.” Nurse Doughty looked around Hartington Ward with marked satisfaction. “I like to see it all fettled out.” Claire wasn’t quite sure what “fettled out” meant, but Gynae certainly looked bare and silent and deserted. “Like a ghost town,” she said. “You must be feeling sad?” “Not for long,” Nurse Doughty spoke briskly. “Over at Tissington we’ll be rushed off our feet.” “And I’ll be sitting back in lectures,” groaned Claire. “Exams first,” Nurse Doughty reminded her. “Best get on with a bit of revision; there’s nothing more to do here.” And she bustled off as if to set a good example. Claire paused to cast a final look around Hartington Ward. Maybe if she’d left a busy department still working at full pressure,

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she’d have been quite glad of the break. But to leave Gynae hushed and silent, devoid of patients, felt like leaving a sinking ship. Sadly, she made her way to the office for the last time. “Finished already, Claire?” Sister Lawrence looked up from the screen of her computer. “I expect you’ll want to get on with lastminute revision; you can go any time you want to.” Claire hesitated. “I . . . er, brought a little treat for you all. Thanks to everyone who helped me through the course.” She put a long, gold-wrapped box on Sister’s desk. “Well, thank you, Claire! How very kind.” Sister picked up the box automatically, then, catching a glimpse of the label, looked up. “You shouldn’t have gone to all this expense,” she said, a trifle disapproving. “Well, actually my da sent them,” Claire admitted. He’d sent them to her as a sort of apology, she knew, but she couldn’t face eating them. Sister Lawrence looked over the box of handmade chocolates at Claire. “Well, that’s a very kind gesture. Your father must be pleased that you’ve been such a success here.” “He’ll certainly be surprised,” said Claire truthfully. “This is my first success since I started training.” 143

“But not, I trust, the last.” Sister Lawrence looked serious. “I’ve seen a change in you since you started in this department, Claire. You have more sense of purpose, more determination.” She leaned forward, looking straight into Claire’s eyes. “You are one of the few students I’ve met with a real sense of vocation. You keep at it, Claire. We’ll make a Nightingale nurse of you yet.” Claire looked at her in amazement. Nightingale medals were awarded only to the most promising nurses in the year. She’d never considered herself in that league. Had Sister Lawrence not seen her previous exam grades? As if she’d read her thoughts, the Sister went on, “I know you find the college course quite difficult, Claire, but take heart – the best nursing skills can’t be measured by examinations.” She smiled and put the chocolates down on her desk. “Goodbye, Claire – and thank your father for this lovely gift.” “I will,” Claire said, promising herself that she would tell Da what she’d done with his chocolates; one more little home truth with which to face up to him. “Good luck with the reorganization, Sister – and thanks!” The days immediately before exams were left free for private study. But Claire had reached the point in her revision where she 144

felt she couldn’t cram one more fact into her over-loaded brain. She paused at the library door, then turned away. Maybe she’d feel more like it later. And anyway, Katie had ordered her to some meeting or other in the Medics’ Mess just along the corridor. Claire had protested that she had work to do, but now, feeling aimless and vaguely depressed, she was only too glad to put it off for a while. As she approached the club room, she heard the faint sound of a guitar. Someone getting an act together for the talent contest, she thought. And for a moment she hesitated; if this meeting of Katie’s was just to finalize the list of contestants, she didn’t want to be there; without Jan to accompany her she had nothing to sing. She stood outside the heavy double doors listening as the sound grew stronger, with plangent chords and a delicate melody. Automatically, without a thought in her head, Claire began to hum the harmony, pick out the main tune. What was it? Nothing she’d heard before, she was certain. Still humming, she pushed open the door and went in. At first she could see no one. The music seemed to be emanating from the stale air through the dusky light. Claire followed the sound across the mess, towards the 145

dim emergency light by the bar. Now she could just make out a figure on a high stool, crouched over his guitar. A tall, lean figure, with long legs and a dark head. “Jan?” She’d spoken without meaning to. The figure turned and looked at her. “Claire?” he said. They looked at one another through the gloom. “I didn’t know you played the guitar,” Claire said. “No, not play,” he corrected her. “I use it only to work out a new song.” “You mean that music you were playing was your own?” “Ah! You heard my music?” Jan dropped his gaze to the instrument and began to play again. As the melody developed Claire hummed it, then sang softly, mouthing vague sounds in place of words. They went on together for quite some minutes, then the theme faded, the final chord sang out and all was still. Suddenly Jan spoke. “You want words?” he asked. Oh yes, thought Claire. I want all the words in the world. If only I had the words I could tell him so much. . . “What words?” she asked. “You asked me once to teach you a song from my country,” he said. He began to 146

strum once more on the guitar, singing softly and not very tunefully, in English: “I walk the roads from town to town, Searching for my love. She has gone and left me now, And I am all alone.” “That is the chorus,” he explained. “The verses tell of the journeys, over mountains, through the forests, until he finds his love again.” Keeping his eyes firmly on the guitar, he plucked out a different melody. Claire was humming now, filling the gaps in the harmony and listening to Jan’s words. As the last chord faded and their voices died, she raised her hand as if gesturing the melody away. Jan reached out, took it in his and pulled her close. Claire stood quite still, holding her breath. “I make the song for you, Claire,” he said softly. “For me to sing?” “For you to have.” Claire sighed. “Then we’re friends again, are we?” Jan shook his head. “I don’t know what we are, Claire. I know we make beautiful music. I wish to be your friend – your special friend, perhaps. But you?” He sighed. “You have your Irish friend. . .” 147

“No, he’s not special, Jan,” Claire said. “Not like you are,” she added. “I’ve missed you, Jan, these past weeks.” “I missed you, too, Claire. No one to correct my English, no one to play music with.” He turned his head and kissed her, gently, on her nose. “I am sorry I have been so . . . so far away since that night.” “No, I understand. It must have brought so many memories back.” He nodded. “Yes, but they must go,” he said. “I must get on with my life.” He looked away from her then, far into the dim distance. She caught a glimpse of tears in his eyes. “Don’t turn away,” she said. “Not again.” He propped the guitar against the table and, smiling through his tears, turned to face her. Claire opened up her arms and hugged him tightly. She stood holding him close, saying nothing, but hearing the sounds of hospital life muffled, as if everything was happening miles away and she and Jan were tucked away together, out of anyone’s reach. Jan slid off the high stool and led her to a corner seat. “Oh, Claire,” he murmured, “we have lost so much time...” Claire wasn’t even aware of time now. He kissed her, gently at first, then harder, more urgently, holding her tight as she clung against him. 148

Eventually they came up for air. Claire looked around, dazed and delighted – and somewhat puzzled. “I thought Katie said there was a meeting in here.” “She told me that, too.” They looked into each other’s eyes, puzzled for only a moment, then burst out laughing. Shaking with laughter, Claire looked up and saw that Jan’s face was radiant; the tears in his eyes were tears of laughter now. Her own, she was sure, were more mixed. “That’s the trouble with Katie Harding,” she said shakily. “Always organizing everyone else’s life.” Jan nodded. “She told me it was an important meeting,” he smiled. “But I thought it was important only for her Charity Night.” “And it turned out to be important for you and me.” “For us,” he agreed. And he kissed her once more, tenderly, gently... After a while Claire extricated herself from his embrace. “Do you think I could learn that song in time for the talent contest?” she asked. They didn’t win, but then they didn’t really care. The days had passed in last-minute 149

revision sessions with Jan, music practice with Jan, cold, grey walks across the ground of St Ag’s – with Jan complaining about the lack of sunshine and snow. And as she turned over the first exam paper she glanced across the aisle to meet Jan’s eyes. He smiled, nodded, and blew an invisible kiss to bring her luck. Whether the luck held, she didn’t yet know, but she’d never written so many answers so fast in the whole of her educational existence. And now it was all over; exams had ended and the frenzied Charity Day activities were over. By the time the talent competition and the karaoke finished, several thousand pounds had been raised and students and staff alike settled down to dance the night away. Claire sat by the bar, waiting for Jan to bring her a beer and watching with amusement as Katie dragged Patrick round to meet the management. They’d hit it off straight away, Katie and Patrick, just as she’d suspected. Here they were, not drinking, not dancing, not chatting to friends, but touting for business. Well, she didn’t begrudge him that; after all, she’d probably ruined his weekend in Donegal. Though, looking at his expression as he leaned close to say something into Katie’s ear, she wasn’t so sure. Maybe he’d have something better to 150

do next weekend than dogsbody in Donegal for Mammy? And here was Jan holding out a glass of lager and grinning as if his face would split. “Cheers!” She held up her glass to his. “Prost!” He linked his arm round hers and they each bent over to drink, head touching head. “We should have champagne,” he said. Claire shook her head. “I don’t like champagne,” she said. “There’ll be too much of it about at home next weekend.” She stopped, looking stricken. What a terrible thing to say to someone who was going to spend half-term in an ex-RAF camp! She’d invited him over to Donegal, but he couldn’t afford the air fare and she hadn’t dared offer him the price of a ticket. But Jan ignored her gaffe. “Myself, I love champagne,” he announced. “Then why don’t you come over to Donegal and help us drink some?” she asked. “Come on, Jan – it would do you the world of good. I’ll lend you the money for the fare; you can pay me back next halfterm.” She looked across at him anxiously. Had she offended him? But Jan was still smiling, broader than ever. “No need to lend me money,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a long, thin envelope. 151

“What’s that you’re brandishing about, Jan?” asked Claire. “And why are you grinning in that foolish manner?” “Brandish – a good word,” he smiled, wafting the envelope under her nose. “And I am only foolish for you.” Claire blushed. “Foolish-fond,” she said, “as I am for you.” She looked at him and smiled. “However, this foolishness does not answer my question.” “What question?” he asked innocently. “Come on, you obviously have something pretty special in that envelope.” For a moment she wondered whether it was a present for herself. She hoped not. “Now, you have a saying in England: ‘charity begins at home’, no?” “Yes, and in Ireland too,” she replied, thinking it odd that he should be reiterating remarks made by Nurse Doughty a week or more ago. Words that she had repeated to Katie. “I’ve heard a few murmurs on that score,” Katie had said. And she got the determined gleam in her eye that showed she was going to do something about it. “I’ll bring it up at the next committee meeting,” she’d said. Now Jan was holding up his envelope. “This charity begins at home but travels far.” “What charity?” Claire asked. 152

“Katie says it is the Jan Buczowski Development Fund.” Claire stared at him. “The what?” she whispered. He reached into the envelope and pulled out a flight ticket. “I think travel is very developing for the mind,” he said solemnly. Claire’s heart almost stopped. Was he going to fly back home? Go on fighting in the seemingly hopeless war that engulfed his country? Then she saw the name and number of the flight – 205 K – BELFAST. And suddenly, happiness flooded through her like a tangible warmth. “Oh, Jan! You’re coming home with me?” “Unless you have changed your mind.” “No, no, no! How could I? Oh, Jan! I’m so glad – so happy! We’ll have a wonderful holiday – it’s just what you need. And maybe there’ll even be some snow up in the mountains for you.” Jan put the ticket back in its envelope and tucked them both in his inside pocket. “And now – more music,” he smiled and bowed to her. “May I have the pleasure?” he asked in impeccable English.

153

Jan’s Journey Bette Paul

Prologue

E

veryone clamoured for attention. “Water – for the love of God a drink of water!” “Bring me a bed-pan – quick!” “The blood’s seeping through. More bandage, please.” “Something for the pain, please, Doctor.” Jan Buczowski smiled grimly to himself; it was nice to be addressed as “doctor” even though he was only a medical orderly. His smile faded as he remembered the real doctor of the family – his mother. She’d always wanted him to follow her profession and he’d always resisted. Well, she’d be proud of him now, wherever she was. But where was she now? And his father? Not in conference with some government committee these days, surely. Across the river at home with Granya, he fervently hoped, though they might as well be on a different planet; there was no chance 157

of getting back there now the tanks had entered the city. As if to echo his thoughts, a series of dull thuds started up quite close. Jan stopped adjusting the patient’s drip for a moment and looked across at Sister Radski. She nodded and they both moved away from the bed. “They’re getting close now,” said Sister. “But surely they won’t attack the hospital?” Jan protested. Sister Radski shrugged. “They’ll attack anything in their way,” she said. “Round up the children and take them down to the basement.” “What about these people?” Jan looked around the ward, where everyone was badly wounded, immobilized. “I’ll wheel them across to the inside wall, well away from the windows.” “And you?” he asked anxiously. Tanya Radski had been a good friend to him – and a good teacher; what little he knew of nursing came from her. They’d been on duty together on and off – mostly on – for over a week now and Jan had learned to admire the tough little Sister. Through the dust and grime on her face, and the exhaustion in her eyes, Tanya smiled. “I’ll stay here – well away from the windows, don’t you worry.” 158

But Jan did worry. As he heaved injured children down the flights of narrow steps, along the sandbagged passages and into the candle-lit store rooms deep under the hospital building, he wondered how Tanya was getting on. I’ll go back and help her, he decided, just as soon as I’ve finished here. But as soon as he’d got the children to safety, the adult patients were on their way. They lined the stairwell, supporting each other, two, sometimes three abreast. Jan knew he couldn’t leave them there; he stood at the bottom of the steps, lifting, heaving, pushing them in through the door to the basement, like so many hunks of meat. And all the time he was aware of the dull, heavy thud of gunfire and, he realized, the steady rumble of traffic. The tanks were coming up the hospital drive! Even then he couldn’t make himself believe they would fire on the hospital; not until he pushed his way up to the ground floor to help a couple of walking wounded down. There, he was almost knocked down as a dozen soldiers stampeded through the foyer, hauling machine guns, clutching rifles, thrusting aside anyone unlucky enough to be in their way. Jan’s heart sank. Snipers! They’d be off to the top floor to fire on anything that 159

moved outside. They’d been sent to defend the hospital, but what could they do against armoured tanks? Only stir them into action, Jan realized with a shudder. And he was right. Soon after, he was ushering another batch of patients to the top of the steps to the basement when there came a thud so loud it hurt the back of his ears. Then silence – for whole minutes it seemed – followed by a kind of slithering groan as the front of the building collapsed. Jan felt the floor shudder and settle under his feet. “Go on – move!” he commanded, shoving the patients down the steps so that they stumbled into the crowd. And even as they moved, he heard the shattering of glass as the ground-floor windows began to splinter into the foyer. Now the narrow concrete stairway was crowded with people. No one waited for his help – they crawled, hobbled, staggered, some on one foot, a few lucky ones with crutches; others sitting, bobbing from step to step like babies, they surged downwards like a living stream while Jan stood helpless at the top of the stairs, watching them flounder like so many fish in a net. He should be down there with them, he thought, to help sort them out. But how could he? Peering down through the dim, 160

dusty light he could see a solid mass of bodies jammed into the narrow passage. He had no idea how many people were already down there; he didn’t even know how far the basement reached underground. He’d worked up on the first floor ever since he’d reported to the hospital when the university was blown up. All students, male and female, had been ordered into the army, but those with even the slightest medical training were sent to the hospitals. Biology was Jan’s subject – not much use when it came to dealing with broken limbs and shrapnel wounds, he knew, but somewhat safer than guerrilla warfare up in the hills. Until now. Jan felt the floor shift beneath him and, looking up, saw the jagged edges of cracks appearing up the walls. Another thud and the staircase seemed to lean slightly, the cracks grew wider, and the metal handrail twisted like a live thing as people struggled to hold on to it. The whole building above them seemed to groan then settle, like an old lady on a sofa. If it falls we’ll all be trapped, thought Jan, and he took a step back. Maybe it was safer up here? For a moment he thought of making a run for it – out the back, anywhere away from the sound of gunfire, rifle shots, screaming and howling as whole wards 161

collapsed above him. But he couldn’t leave all those people down there. Could he? Jan hesitated. Then a voice boomed across the remains of the foyer. “All medical staff report to the ground floor – urgent – all medical staff this way. . .” Jan couldn’t believe his luck; it was as if he’d asked permission to leave and it had been granted. “Hey, get a move on!” Somebody rushed past. “You’re medical, aren’t you? You’re needed out at the back.” Jan almost leapt to attention and, turning his back on the sight and sound of the distressed, disabled people lining the staircase, he fled. Within days there was no hospital left in Czerny. No electricity, no water, no food – almost no city. Medical help was reduced to mere first aid, nursing duties to comforting and smoothing brows. The remains of the hospital staff, and the few wounded, sick, and dying they tended, existed – it could not be called living – in the battered remains of a school, huddled in the dark rooms under desks and tables, eating an occasional dry biscuit and sipping water from burst mains. 162

“They’re coming to get us out,” a young half-qualified doctor told Jan one day. “UN troops are on their way.” And Jan was too exhausted even to ask why. Two days later his plane touched down somewhere in the east of England and he was given clean warm clothing, a cursory medical and a bed in a hut on an ex-RAF airfield. Jan Buczowski had a new home.

163

Chapter 1

J

an closed his eyes and gripped the arms of his seat as the plane wheels touched the tarmac. Next to him, Claire Donovan leaned over and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Jan flinched away. He knew Claire was puzzled and hurt, but he could say nothing to reassure her, not while the black hole of panic filled his brain. Inwardly he cursed; why had it happened just then? He wasn’t afraid of flying; had done the outward journey to Belfast calmly – eagerly, even – four days ago. All his life he’d accompanied his parents on flights – to medical conferences with his mother, Soviet universities with Dad. . . He cut off the memory. “It’s all right, we’re landed,” Claire was saying. And he knew he had to open his eyes. “Yes,” he breathed. “A tense moment.” 165

“It always is.” She smiled, reassuringly. “But we’re down now, safe and sound.” “Safe and sound,” he repeated. And he was; the blackness had receded, the thudding in his ears stopped, he was back on firm ground. “Terra firma,” he muttered. “What?” Claire looked at him, worried. “Nothing.” He laughed a little. “Now, shall we take the bus or the train into Brassington?” “Taxi,” said Claire firmly. “Da gave me the money, we may as well use it.” Jan nodded, though without enthusiasm. It would have been nice, just once, to have contributed something to the weekend’s pleasures. And there had been so many at the Leonmohr Hotel, which Claire’s parents owned: a beautiful room over-looking the bay, several sumptuous feasts, walks along the wide, deserted beaches, log fires to come home to – all without asking. And there was Claire, beside him all day and long into the evening when the two of them made music for the family and their friends. Jan couldn’t remember when he’d last been so cosseted, so obviously cherished. And felt so guilty. He gave a huge sigh. “Is that a sigh of relief you’re feeling now we’ve landed?” Claire teased. “And a little sadness now that the holiday’s over,” he replied – almost truthfully. 166

“Not for long; we’ll have a wonderful time there at Christmas.” Claire beamed up at him, obviously anticipating his acceptance. “But first we must work, eh, Claire?” Jan fielded the answer to her invitation. It had been a wonderful holiday, but. . . “Ah! Doors open,” he said with relief. “After you!” They were carrying only hand luggage and so were very quickly on their way into the centre of Brassington and to its Royal Infirmary, known to medics and students alike as St Ag’s. “Will I do us a meal later?” asked Claire as the taxi pulled away from Kelham’s, the nurses’ home. “I’ve brought half the Leonmohr kitchen as usual.” Jan groaned. “After what I’ve eaten this weekend?” he joked. “No, really, I think I need a rest, Claire. The journey, you know.” “Yes, you don’t look at all well.” Claire looked anxiously into his face. “And I thought the fresh sea air would be good for you.” “Oh, it was marvellous,” Jan assured her. “I just got a bit . . . a bit wheezy on the plane.” Claire looked puzzled. “Wheezy?” she asked. He nodded. “Yes, you know – feeling a little sick.” “Ah – queasy – that’s the word.” 167

“Queasy,” Jan repeated slowly, memorizing the new word as he always did. His English had improved rapidly with the help of The Six – his friends and colleagues at St Ag’s – but there were hundreds of words still to learn, especially the colloquial, almost slangy words the others used so easily. “Queasy,” he said again. “How do you spell that?” He was still feeling queasy as he lay on his bed in his room. He’d take a little rest – a nap – and then go over to St Ag’s to check his placement. The exam results would be out too, but he wasn’t very interested in them – he knew he’d done well. Exams were no worry to Jan: he’d been well on with his biology degree before the civil war in his country. Chemistry, anatomy, biology – all the science subjects in the nursing course were elementary to him. It was the practicalities of nursing he found difficult. Not the blood, the vomit, the bed-pans – he’d seen all that and worse during the war back home. It was the patients, their attitude – whining, complaining, demanding. When he thought how brave his people had been, even with terrible wounds, horrendous burns, slow starvation . . . He sat up suddenly and opened his eyes wide. No! He didn’t want to think of that. 168

“You’re in Mental Health,” Nick Bone told him. “And you’ve come top in the exams. Congratulations on both counts!” “Thank you.” Jan peered again at the notice board in the common room. “Where did you see this – this Mental Health?” “There.” Nick pointed to the list. “They must think you had enough blood and gore on Men’s Surgical last term.” “That I do not mind,” said Jan. “But nutters you do?” asked Nick cheerily. “Nutters? What are they?” “Ah, well.” Knowing Jan’s eagerness to extend his vocabulary, Nick hastily backtracked. “Not a word you’ll need to know, Jan. Forget it.” Jan bowed his head slightly. “You’ll do well in Mental Health,” Nick assured him. “A doddle after Surgical – and after exams.” “Exams – easy,” Jan told him. “Surgical – interesting. But this Mental Health – this is not in the hospital, is it?” Nick shook his head. “No, it’s that new building across the grounds,” he said. “Beautiful gardens and rooms with a view; treatment for healthy minds,” he added, seeing Jan’s uncomprehending expression. “Healthy minds,” Jan repeated. “But this is not medical?” 169

“Well, there are folk who’d tell you it’s all in the mind,” Nick smiled. “Healthy mind in a healthy body, you know?” “Mens sana in corpore sano,” Jan said softly. “And you know Latin too!” Nick threw an arm around Jan’s shoulders. “Is there no end to your genius, young feller?” Jan hastily moved away. “Ask me that at the end of term,” he laughed, a little awkwardly. “Oh, you’ll enjoy Mental Health once you adjust,” Nick assured Jan. “And once you relax,” he added pointedly. “But I am just back from relaxing,” Jan protested. “Ah, yes. Did you have a good time over at Claire’s place?” Jan blushed. “Certainly,” he said stiffly. “It was very . . . luxurious.” He pronounced the word carefully. “You sound as if you disapprove,” Nick observed. “Everyone was very kind to me, very . . . careful. No – caring.” “A bit too caring, perhaps?” “Can there be ‘too caring’?” asked Jan, neatly avoiding the question that he’d asked himself all weekend. “Oh, yes,” Nick assured him. “Here’s another little saying for your English notebook: ‘smothering with kindness’.” 170

“Smothering,” Jan repeated the word perfectly. “But that is a way of killing, is it not?” “It is,” Nick agreed cheerfully. “Too much of it kills the spirit. A bit of healthy neglect is what we all need now and then.” He stared hard at Jan. “See you!” he said, and breezed his way down the corridor. Jan stood gazing vacantly after Nick, quietly repeating his words “a bit of healthy neglect”. And he wasn’t just practising his English: the phrase seemed to hold a special significance for him just then. He suddenly remembered the exam list and looked along it to check the results of the rest of The Six, as the little group called themselves. He quickly scanned the computer print-out, which was in alphabetical order. Well, they’d all passed – Katie Harding with only a few marks less than himself, he noted. Even Claire’s results were better than usual; she’d be relieved. Claire found the academic work very hard and relied on his help; revision sessions, finalizing course work, help with biology notes – Jan was on hand to help her through all of these. It was one of the things that had brought them together. She might actually enjoy her period in college while he mouldered away in the non-medical world of Mental Health, he 171

thought wryly. They were in different study modules; that was one of the things that kept them apart. Jan flushed, suddenly recognizing his feeling of relief. Of course, he told himself, he enjoyed being with Claire, was very grateful for the weekend he’d just spent with her family, loved making music with her, was perfectly willing to help her through the whole course if necessary. But. . . Frowning, he thrust the “but” from his thoughts and made his way back to Kelham’s.

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Chapter 2

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he sound of laughter drifted down the top corridor of Kelham’s. It came from the kitchen, as did the pungent scent of spices. Barbara Robinson, not Claire, was providing the meal. Nevertheless, Jan walked cautiously past the kitchen door, hoping to go unseen. “Hi, Jan! Come on in. Grandma’s hot ’n’ spicy pumpkin soup, all the way from sunkissed Brixton,” Barbara called through the part-open door. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.” Jan popped his head into the kitchen, still hoping to make a quick getaway. “Not very hungry,” he corrected himself as he watched Barbara pouring thick, golden liquid into bowls and saw the mounds of Irish soda bread on the table. Saw, too, Claire’s face brighten as she turned to him. He went in. “Irish-Caribbean cuisine today – yet another triumph for the talents of the Kelhamites!” 173

Barbara handed him a bowl of soup. “Spoons on the table, chairs all taken, you’ll have to prop up the worktop as usual.” So Jan went and propped himself up behind Claire. “Had a good rest?” She turned to look up at him and offer him bread. Jan nodded. “I went also into college,” he admitted. Katie Harding heard that. “Did you get the exam results?” she demanded. “I’ll bet you’ve come top.” His mouth full of soda bread, Jan merely nodded. “Does that mean you came top or you got the results?” teased Claire. She half-turned, looking up with shining eyes, and putting out a hand as if to touch him. Jan shuffled himself up on to the work-top, a little out of her reach. “It means,” he said, swallowing a lump of soda bread, “that I saw the results and. . .” He paused, rather enjoying the rapt attention of the girls. Even Barbara was wide-eyed. “And?” she prompted. “Well, I can tell you . . . that . . .” Another pause. “Get on with it, Jan! Don’t be so tantalizing,” begged Katie. “Tanta- what?” asked Jan. “What does it mean?” He reached into his pocket for his 174

notebook, but before he could find a pencil, Barbara had snatched the book away. “You’ll lose all your hard-won slang,” she threatened, “if you don’t tell us the results – now, immediately, tout de suite!” Jan grinned. “Well, you’ve all passed,” he said, holding out his hand for the notebook. “Of course we have,” said Barbara crossly. She slapped the book on to the table. “But what about the grades?” Jan blushed. “I didn’t much notice,” he said. “The list was in the order of the alphabet.” “Come on, Jan,” said Katie. “You’re not telling me you don’t even know your own grade?” “Well, yes,” he said carefully. “I do know that – and yours too, as a matter of fact.” “Then, as a matter of fact, tell me what I got!” “Almost the same as I – we both passed Grade A.” “Yippeeee!” Katie Harding jumped up and thrust a clenched fist into the air. “Well done, you two!” said Barbara, a little subdued. “But you and Nick are also high – Grade B.” “Well, I expected at least that,” said Barbara. “Nick Bone must be pleased with himself though,” she added, a trifle 175

patronizing. “What about the infants?” She often referred to Claire and Nikki in this way; although Katie was technically the youngest of them all, the other two had come into nursing straight from school. Jan was uncomfortably aware of two pairs of anxious eyes still on him. He moved slightly so that he stood between Claire and Nikki Browne, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “Claire – a C. It’s better than you expected, no?” He felt her sigh of relief run right through his arm. “Oh, yes, thanks to you, love.” She reached up and this time grasped his hand in hers. “Thank you,” she said softly. But Jan had already turned away to face Nikki. “You too have passed,” he said gently. There was no need to mention Nikki’s grade, a basic pass – they all knew what he meant. Nikki Brown gave a small, tight nod. “Thank you, Jan,” was all she said. There was a slightly awkward pause. Katie slid back into her seat, Barbara turned her attention to the stove and, for different reasons, Claire and Nikki sat staring at the wall in front of them. “Well,” said Jan. He put down his soup bowl. “After that succrumptious meal, I will wash up.” 176

“Scrumptious or succulent,” said Katie, “or even both, but not together.” The others laughed with relief. Now they were together again, not divided by their exam results. “We must do something to celebrate,” announced Katie. “It’ll have to be at the weekend,” said Claire gloomily. “Have you seen our timetables for this module?” Barbara and Katie groaned. They and Claire were in college for the next few weeks as they’d been on placement up to the exams. They went on talking together about schedules, seminars and tutorials, and Jan turned to Nikki. “There is a list of placements too,” he said. “But I am so sorry – I did not look for you.” Nikki looked round at him, like a startled rabbit. “Oh, that’s all right; Sister Thomas told me before half-term.” Jan was surprised. Placements were supposed to be announced only a day ahead, to prevent too much agonizing and arguing. Which was just what he wanted to do with the idiot who’d put him on Mental Health, he reflected. “Sister told you?” he asked. And the others, catching his drift, turned their attention to Nikki. 177

“Why would she do that?” asked Katie. Nikki shrugged. “She wanted me to be prepared, I suppose,” she said. “Why?” asked Katie, never one for subtlety. Nikki took a deep breath, then paused. “I’m in the hospice,” she said quietly. “Wheeew!” Katie whistled. The others looked at Nikki with interest. “You think you can face it?” asked Barbara. “Well, you see. . .” Nikki hesitated, as she usually did before speaking. “That’s why Sister Thomas told me – to give me time to prepare myself. Of course,” she went on hurriedly in her clipped, well-bred voice, “there’s no need to suppose anyone will actually – er – go while I’m there.” It was obvious she was repeating Sister Thomas’s words of comfort. “And anyway. . .” she went on, then stopped. “Anyway?” Katie pressed her. Nikki flushed and looked down at the table as if it was suddenly very interesting. “What is it people say – ‘been there, done that’? I have faced the problem before, you know.” Another silence. It occurred to Jan that they knew very little about Nikki Browne. She was always rushing off home at every opportunity – weekends, free days – hence, 178

he supposed, her poor exam results. But she never offered any explanation – merely turned down most of their invitations for weekend treats – film, disco, club – apologizing profusely and muttering about being needed at home. “You will have a very interesting experience,” said Jan seriously. “There is much courage in such a place.” Nikki brightened. “Is that what you found in the war in your country?” she asked. Jan nodded. “Of course things were so fast; many woundeds came and moved on, so we never knew what had become of them all. But some stayed and some died. . .” He closed his eyes, pushed the memory from him. “You will learn much at the hospice,” he said. “I hope so,” said Nikki. “And where are they sending you this term?” Jan grimaced. “I think maybe Sister Thomas should tell me before,” he said. “Then I can change it.” “Why? Where are you going?” asked Claire. “Maternity?” giggled Katie. “Gynae?” added Barbara. “Urology?” Nikki suggested. Everyone laughed; these were all departments where most male nurses would rather not boldly go. 179

Jan shook his head. “Mental Health,” he announced in hollow tones. He groaned and rubbed his hands through his hair nervously. “Well, why all the fuss? It’s great,” said Barbara. “We did a visit there last term. No dressings, no drips, no messy beds, not even any wards. All the heavy work’s done by domestic staff and the patients look after themselves. It’s a doddle, man!” “And it’s a beautiful place,” Nikki assured him. “I often walk through the woods down there – so peaceful.” “And Geoff Huckthwaite – the Charge Nurse – he’s a great bloke,” said Katie. “Don’t you remember him in the cabaret last summer? Killingly funny. . .” They all smiled at the memory of the stocky exminer doing a drag act. Except for Jan; he couldn’t find it in himself to smile at the prospect of six weeks in Mental Health, no matter how amusing the Charge Nurse was. “Myself, I’m not pleased with this arrangement.” He turned to open the door. “I shall go now and discuss with Sister Thomas. Goodbye, ladies!” He gave a mock bow and left. “Oh, Jan – don’t go! Wait a minute, please. . .” Claire came to the door and called down the corridor. 180

But Jan merely waved back at her and stumped off downstairs to Sister Thomas’s sitting room. Sister Thomas was no help. “I’m sorry, Jan, but everyone has a placement he’d rather not do sometime or other and, you know, I’m always surprised how often he ends up enjoying it. You see, it’s part of the European training regulations: you have to experience the work of every department before making your final choice of specialism. And, after all, it’s only for a few weeks. . .” It was like arguing with cotton-wool, thought Jan. Though there had been no argument, really, because he had no valid objections. None, at least, that he was prepared to share with Sister Thomas. “You have no personal reasons for not wanting to work in the Mental Health Unit, do you?” Sister Thomas asked. Jan’s face set hard and he shook his head. “I mean, no close friends who are currently being treated there or anything like that?” she went on. And she’d smiled at him so warmly, looked at him so closely, that Jan found himself blushing and backing out of the elegant little room, feeling more than a little foolish. He strode along St Ag’s drive, battling with the wind and his bad temper. He 181

had to admit there was no reason for him to object to the placement except his own vague unease, and he wasn’t going to admit that to anyone. He kicked up a mound of leaves and watched them scatter in the wind. Like all my plans, he thought bitterly. Jan had many reservations about the training at St Ag’s, not least because he had never intended to become a nurse. When he was air-lifted out of the battered hospital back home, he was working as a medic, as were many students who did not choose to join in the fighting. So when he arrived in England, the refugee authorities arranged for him to train at St Ag’s. By the time Jan understood what was happening, it was too late to go back. And anyway, back to what? To where? Without his place at the hospital he’d doubtless be hanging round the huts on the ex-airfield which had become home to so many of his countrymen and women. At least he was comfortably housed, fed and, more important, kept usefully busy at St Ag’s. Until now, anyway. Jan stood in the hospital grounds in the wind and the rain, glaring at the bright lights of the huge building ahead. All those patients, all that medical work, all those drugs and lab tests, X-rays and CAT scans, all that exciting, 182

scientific research, all that knowledge – and he had to end up in Mental Health! He turned and peered through the driving rain across the grounds to the Mental Health department. No bright lights there, merely the spherical lamps outlining the patio which surrounded the low, stone-faced building. From where Jan stood it looked more like an outsize Japanese pagoda than a hospital department. Willows wept in the cobbled courtyard, water bubbled through coloured pebbles, and, from the hole in the centre of a huge millstone, a fountain burst, swivelled off-course just then by the wind. “Beautiful” and “peaceful”, Nikki Browne had called it. Which it was, but it didn’t look the least bit like a hospital to Jan. More like a holiday lodge up in the mountains back home, he thought. And what sort of medical treatments could be done in a hotel? As he stared gloomily through the darkness, he saw someone slide a glass door back and step out on to the patio, standing, as he was doing, alone in the darkness and the pouring rain. He was wearing a tracksuit – Jan could just glimpse the white flashings on the jacket and trainers. Now, was he staff or was he a patient? wondered Jan. But there was no way of telling. 183

Chapter 3

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e was no happier about his placement next day. It was a soft, bright morning, almost summery, and even Jan had to admire the russet brick building glowing in the sunshine, surrounded by trees shedding red, brown and yellow leaves like coloured flakes. Compared with the hotchpotch of architectural styles that made up the main hospital – the Gothic splendour and inconvenience of the old Nightingale wing, the glassy tower of the main hospital block, and the scattered “temporary” buildings between – the Mental Health building was a little palace. A Japanese palace, Jan reflected, as he searched for the main entrance. The glass sides of the octagonal building came down to ground level, but were heavily curtained and had no apparent door handles. He prowled along the terrace, feeling more and more uneasy as he peered into what could, 184

after all, be people’s bedrooms. What if someone drew back the curtains just as he was peering in? Jan winced at the thought and moved swiftly round a corner. And here he found a small sign with “Entrance” beautifully painted in gold on a black wooden board with a long golden arrow pointing the way. Feeling rather like the poor son in a fairy tale, questing his way into the princess’s castle, Jan followed the direction of the arrow. And, lo and behold, a door! It was exactly like the rest of the glass panels except that it did have a handle – a gift from a fairy godmother. Jan smiled at his fanciful thought and tried the handle, pushing, pulling, and pushing again. Well, he’d failed the test; he was obviously not going to get the princess! Giving up the fairy-tale approach, he rattled the handle irritably, to no effect. “Press and slide,” said a light, husky voice behind him. Jan turned and looked out over the terrace but saw no one. Was he hearing voices now? For a moment he was tempted to cross his fingers, superstitiously, as his grandmother had taught him. “Press the hand-grip and then slide the door back,” the voice said slowly in a flat northern accent. Nothing ethereal about that, Jan decided. 185

He looked down and saw the girl below him, sitting on one of the steps that led up to the entrance. Crumpled tracksuit, muddy trainers, off-white flashings, short, sweatstreaked blonde hair. Obviously not a fairytale princess, but what was she? Staff or patient? Jan couldn’t make up his mind and dared not ask. “Come on, I’ll do it.” She got up, gently pushed him aside and slid the door smoothly back, gesturing for him to enter. “Student Nurse Jan Buczowski,” she said, peering up to read the name badge on his pocket as he passed. “Well, Jan, once you’ve tackled that door everything’s easy,” she told him. She certainly had an air of authority, Jan reflected, in spite of the informal dress. Maybe she was a member of the nursing staff; probably been out for her morning run before going on duty. Smiling, he turned to introduce himself, but she’d disappeared. Only a door swinging softly to the left of the hall showed where she’d gone. Like the Good Fairy in a children’s story, thought Jan. He looked around; this was obviously the reception area, except there was no one to receive him. Humming nervously to himself, he moved across to a noticeboard and began to read. Even there he couldn’t make out the distinction between staff 186

information and that aimed at patients. Courses on stress management, yoga, hypnotherapy and drug abuse overlapped with information about helplines, outings and discos. So who was this information for? Jan wondered. As if in answer, the door crashed open and half a dozen tracksuited people scrambled in and stood panting by the entrance, not speaking. One by one, as they recovered their breath, they filtered off left and right through the swing doors. Except for one short, heavy man, whose sweat-stained tracksuit top showed that either he was terribly unfit or he was terribly fit and had just been on a very long run. “Hey up, lad! What are you wanting?” he asked in a husky voice with a broad local accent. “Ah – I – er – I – Jan Buczowski.” Jan touched his badge, said his name and bowed slightly. Well, at last someone seemed prepared to receive him. He smiled expectantly. But apparently the man was not expecting him. “You what?” he asked. Jan took a deep breath. “I am Student Nurse Jan Buczowski,” he said. “I am sent on placement to this department.” “Well, blow me down!” Without embarrassment, the short man stripped off his sweaty sweatshirt, screwed it up 187

and rubbed vaguely under his arms with it. “Fancy you being our student!” he said. “I beg your pardon?” asked Jan coldly. The man walked over to the desk, his ancient trainers flip-flapping on the floor as he walked. He sat down behind the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a clipboard with several papers fastened to it. “Aye, here it is – Week Seven, Student Placement.” He frowned down at the top page thoughtfully. “Oh, I see now. . .” Jan’s heart leapt. There was some mistake; he was not expected. He could go back to Sister Thomas and tell her there was no placement in Mental Health. . . “Ah well, Jan,” said the man. He pronounced the name with a hard J, English-fashion. “You see, I thought you were Janet, or Janice, or Jane, I suppose. Any road up, I thought you were a lass.” He looked up at Jan, eyes spilling over with humour. “It’s your name, sithee – Jan. . .” He laughed. “Please – my name?” Jan was puzzled and disappointed. Obviously if they’d got his name they were expecting him. The placement was on. But why did this man think his name was so funny? “It is not funny,” said Jan firmly. “No – you’re right, lad, it’s not funny in itself. It’s just that I was expecting one of the little lasses from the nurse’s home, like.” 188

He chuckled again, then stood up, holding out a well-worn hand. “Geoff Huckthwaite. Pleased to meet you, er, Jan.” Automatically, Jan took the proffered hand, wincing as the strong grasp enveloped his own. “Jan Buczowski. Please to meet you.” Though he felt far from pleased now he knew his placement was fixed. “Right then, Yan.” This time Charge Nurse Huckthwaite got it right. “Come and sit you down while I make meself decent.” So Jan found himself sitting in a small lounge with instructions to make two mugs of coffee – “two sugars in the panda mug” – in the little kitchen beyond, while Charge Nurse Huckthwaite – how on earth was he going to spell that in his reports? Jan wondered – went off to shower and change. He didn’t change much; Jan was surprised when he appeared once more in fresh sweatshirt and jeans. No white tunic, no blue tabs, no indication whatsoever that he was a Senior Charge Nurse, except for the usual name-badge worn by all staff, whatever their rank. “Thanks, Jan.” Geoff – he told Jan to call him that – picked up the mug with pandas on it. “I’m glad to see you can make yourself at home.” “Make yourself at home” was a phrase Jan had heard often since coming to England. 189

At first it puzzled him, later it irritated him greatly. After all, he’d explained to Claire only that weekend, if you were at home you had no need to make yourself at home, and if you weren’t, you couldn’t. She had smiled at him and apologized for her overhospitable relatives, making him feel more than usually guilty. He winced at the memory and hastily glanced round at the room: television in the corner, shelves stacked with paperbacks and magazines, half a dozen low chairs and a couple of coffee tables. Plants on the window-sill, brass urn filled with dried grasses in the fireplace. “It is like a home,” he said. But Geoff didn’t looked pleased. “Not a home,” he said. “More a home from home, if you see what I mean.” Jan didn’t. “Is your coffee all right?” he asked, to cover his ignorance. “Champion!” Geoff took a long draught from the panda mug and nodded. Jan reached into his pocket for the notebook. “Champ-i-on,” he muttered. “How do you spell?” Geoff looked puzzled for a moment, then amused. “Ah, I see. Learning English as well as nursing, are you?” Jan nodded. “All times when I hear new word, I write it down,” he said. 190

“Every time,” Geoff corrected. Jan nodded. “Every time,” he repeated. Geoff gave a roar of laughter. “You’ll have a rare old collection by the time you’re done here,” he said. “Why is that?” Geoff shrugged his huge shoulders. “Well, we’re very informal here, as you might have noticed.” Jan nodded sternly. “And sometimes, with our sort of patient, things get on top of them and they have to let fly. Are you with me?” Another nod. Another frown. Geoff cocked an amused eye at Jan’s serious face. “So the language, d’you see, gets a bit ripe.” He laughed softly. “Ripe. . .” Jan repeated slowly. He was thinking hard. “Strong language, mayhaps?” “Aye, just a bit.” Geoff shook his head, though he still smiled broadly. “Only to be expected,” he said. “After all, it’s home from home here.” “What is this ‘home from a home’?” Jan felt confident enough to ask now. “Like being at home. Like you in the Nurses’ Home. Which one are you in?” “Kelham House.” “Aye. Well, that’s what I mean. You have a little room, a little home of your own, 191

away from all the hassles and cares of your studies, don’t you?” Jan nodded. “I am lucky,” he said. People were always telling him that, and as far as accommodation was concerned, he had to agree with them. “Yes, well, so are my folk here.” Charge Nurse Huckthwaite plonked his mug on the table. “I’ll show you around; you’ll see what I mean.” The rest of the morning was a blur of names, smiles, blank looks, surly glares and occasional handshakes. And what with Geoff’s strong accent and his habit of referring to everyone by their first name, and the fact that the only white coat in the whole building seemed to be his own, Jan still couldn’t work out who were staff and who were patients. It was so much more difficult than being in a traditional ward. There, the first thing he did was to make a mental map of the beds and the names of the patients in them. Here, there was no chance of that; there wasn’t a ward in sight – nor even a single bed. Until Charge Nurse Huckthwaite found an unoccupied bedroom to show him. It was neatly furnished, in a style similar to Jan’s room back at Kelham’s. As they stood looking in at the door, Geoff explained that 192

Jan must never enter anyone’s room without knocking. “We don’t have locks, you see, for security reasons.” He looked hard at Jan, to see whether he understood. “In case anyone’s in danger and we need to get in.” “Ah,” said Jan, eagerly. “In case of fire.” “Well, among other things.” Geoff hesitated, then obviously decided against going any further with that subject. “Any road up,” he went on, “to give people their privacy, we have a rule about not entering their rooms without being invited. Right?” “Right.” Jan made a mental note of Rule Number One: do not enter patients’ rooms without knocking. He looked around the corridors. “But where are all the patients?” he asked. “Good point.” Geoff grinned. “Some of them will have gone across to clinics, others will be in occupational therapy, and some will be back in bed unless I go and rouse them. Come on!” So Jan spent the next few minutes knocking loudly on doors while Geoff popped his head round the doors with a cheery greeting and a reminder of some appointment or other. Eventually they reached the last door before reception. “Karen? Karen, come on now; you know Dr Hammond’s clinic’s at ten. Get your glad 193

rags on and trot on over. Shall I send our new student in to help you?” He winked broadly at Jan. “Jan here –” he went back to saying the “J” as in Janet – “Jan’ll be glad to give you a hand. . .” “I’ll bet he will!” The door opened quickly and Jan saw the small blonde girl who’d let him in. She was wrapped in a white towelling robe and rubbing her wet hair. “Hi, Jan!” she said. “What’s a nice boy like you doing with a dirty old man like Geoff?” Jan blushed but Geoff merely laughed. “How did you know Jan was a lad?” he asked her. “We’ve met,” she said. “Don’t think you know everything that goes on here, Geoff Huckthwaite.” She threw Jan a bright smile. “I’ll go straight over,” she said, and closed the door. “Met our Karen then, have you?” Geoff asked as they made their way across reception to the office. Still blushing, Jan nodded. “She let me in this morning,” he said. “Before you came back from your run.” “The little madam took a short cut and was back before us.” But Geoff smiled almost fondly at the thought. “A month ago she couldn’t get out of bed of a morning; now she’s out running three times a week.” “Why?” Jan repeated. 194

“Why?” Geoff repeated incredulously. “Hast never heard of a healthy mind in a healthy body, lad?” That phrase again! Jan nodded. “But this department is for the mind only, isn’t it?” Geoff nodded. “Aye, well, Clinical Depression is very debilitating, you know; low energy levels, disturbed sleep patterns – some people can’t sleep at night so they tend to doze on and off all day. And when they first arrive we let ’em, but later we try to get them moving, just a bit at first; in the gym, out for walks, swimming – whatever they can face. It’s the only bit of control they have over their lives, some of them.” “And this makes them well again?” Jan couldn’t keep the scorn out of his voice. If the only thing these patients needed was a bit of exercise, what kind of nursing was he going to learn? Gymnastics and jogging? Geoff looked up at him shrewdly. “Of course, they need a lot more besides,” he said. “Therapy, counselling, yoga, relaxation – pills even. Depends on the patient, and which psychiatrist takes the case.” They were back in the office now, and as soon as Geoff sat down, the phone started ringing. “Tell you what, Jan.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Just go and make sure 195

Karen gets to Dr Hammond’s clinic, will you? She’s a dab hand at going missing.” Grimly, Jan strode back to Karen’s room. So, his first assignment was escort duty! he thought. More like being a policeman than a nurse! He knocked on the door and waited to be invited in. But when Karen appeared, she was dressed – black sweater, black leggings, biker boots, leather jacket – and apparently ready to go out. “I might have known he’d send you back to check up on me.” She glared up at him. “No, I am here to escort you,” said Jan, bowing slightly and smiling down at her, conscious of trying hard to charm the girl – something that gave him no trouble at all, usually. But Karen didn’t smile back; she just shrugged. “Please yourself,” she said. “But I’m not going to Hammond’s Horrors until I’ve had my coffee. Right?” “Right,” Jan agreed. “I will make you one right now.” “No, hang about – I go to the caff; they’ll do me some toast. Hammond’s bound to ask what I’ve eaten. Come on!” And slamming the door, she led him back to reception. This time, he slid the outer door open easily and stood back to let her through. 196

“Quick learner, aren’t you?” she said coldly. But she allowed him to catch up with her and together they walked quickly across the dewy-damp grass towards the main building. Once there, Karen suddenly changed; she stood stiffly in a corner at the top of the steps and refused to go through the door. “I can’t go in,” she whispered. “But you said you wanted to come over to the café,” said Jan. “And if we don’t hurry, the toast will be off.” He put out a hand to her and for a moment she stood, staring at it as if she’d never seen a hand before. “What’s that for?” she demanded. “To help you through the door,” Jan said. “Remember how you helped me this morning? ‘Once you’ve cackled the door,’ you said, ‘everything’s easy’. . .” Karen looked up at him through narrowed eyes. Then breathing hard, as if back from a run, she pulled herself upright. “Tackled” she muttered. “What?” “The word’s tackled, not cackled.” She looked at him severely, like a very strict teacher. But Jan’s mistake seemed to have revived her; she took his hand and allowed him to lead her through the swing doors. He could feel her trembling right from her fingertips, 197

just like some of the casualties back home – uninjured but shocked. So Jan did as he would have done there: he grasped Karen’s upper arm, pulled her close and began speaking gently and softly into her ear as he guided her across the crowded entrance. “Nearly there now, Karen. Just a bit further – steady – past the news shop – turn right here – soon be eating your tea and toast. Look, it’s just over there!” He looked up as he said that, just in time to see Claire Donovan coming out of the café, waving, smiling, moving quickly towards him. Suddenly conscious that he was holding Karen very close, he let go of her arm. Immediately she was off across the hall. Avoiding Claire’s welcoming smile, he pushed through the crowd. “Karen!” he called. “Karen, come back!” He scanned the entrance eagerly, but saw only the puzzled hurt in Claire Donovan’s eyes.

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ith a muttered apology, Jan rushed on into the café. But a quick scan of the queue showed him that Karen had given up the idea of toast and coffee. He turned to leave and saw Claire standing just where he’d pushed past her. Jan groaned; he’d have to pass her again, and he could hardly ignore her this time. “Claire! Sorry, I have no time – I’m with a patient. Did you see her? A small blonde girl in black – leather jacket, boots?” “Yes, I did see her,” Claire said. “With you,” she added pointedly. “I’m bringing her to the clinic,” Jan explained. “But she’s gone a runner.” He looked wildly all round once more. “Done a runner,” Claire corrected. She looked at him closely. “You are all right, aren’t you, Jan?” He shook her off. “Of course I’m not all right. What if I’ve lost a patient?” 199

“Calm down, Jan.” Claire put a hand on his arm. “She’s probably only slipped off for a quick smoke.” Jan shook off the hand. “Did you see her go?” he asked impatiently. “Yes, she went that way.” Claire pointed down the main corridor. “See you this evening?” she called as Jan rushed off. Well, at least he didn’t have to reply, he thought. The corridor was wide, high and dim – part of the Nightingale building – and at that time of day it was seething with people. Jan nipped in and out, edging this person aside, dodging a wheelchair, overtaking a trolley, passing porters, patients and probably distinguished consultants for all he knew. All he did know was that he couldn’t see Karen. Inwardly cursing – in his own language – he lifted up his head to peer above the crowd but he knew it was hopeless; she was so small she would be quite hidden among all those people. At the junction that marked the start of the modern extension, he paused and mopped his face. Sweating! His hand was shaking too, and he suddenly felt quite dizzy. Damn! This was not the time, not the place. . . He stepped back into a quiet side corridor, leaned against the wall and rubbed his damp hands down his tunic. He was suddenly reminded of Geoff Huckthwaite’s stained tracksuit top. And 200

of his words: “She’s a dab hand at going missing.” Well, whatever a “dab hand” meant, Karen certainly was one; she’d got away from him easily enough. Jan took a deep, shaky breath and tried to gather his thoughts into some coherent plan. Suddenly he knew what to do; he’d go to Dr Hammond’s clinic and report her missing. Yes, that was it; let someone else take the responsibility. He was here to train as a nurse, not a nursemaid. He stepped out into the concourse again and looked round for some signs. Now, where did Dr Hammond have his clinic? Damn! He should have checked with Geoff before setting off. Or even with Karen, though he doubted whether she’d have told him the truth. In spite of his irritation, he smiled. That girl reminded him of some of the young soldiers at home, so certain and full of themselves – bravado they called it – and then suddenly, for no obvious reason, crumbling, just as she had at the main entrance. It had always embarrassed Jan back home; soldiers – even sixteen-yearold soldiers – should be cold and hard, not shivering in corners or quietly weeping. But Karen hadn’t wept, he remembered. She’d just stopped, as if paralysed, unable to get through the door. Yet even now she was on the run, probably enjoying all 201

the trouble she was causing him. Well, he wasn’t going to give her that satisfaction. Mobilized by the thought, he pushed his way across to the reception desk. There were the usual long queues but Jan’s white coat had a magical effect; people stepped back to let him through. “Where is Dr Hammond’s clinic?” he asked the duty clerk. “Hammond? Psychiatric?” The clerk took his eyes off the computer screen for a moment then paused, examining Jan’s tense face curiously. Jan was irritated. Surely the clerk didn’t think that he had an appointment with Dr Hammond? “I have a message,” he lied. And he pointed to his name-badge. “Oh, right. Best take the lift. It’s the tenth floor, Tower Block; you’ll see the signs up there.” “Thanks!” Jan’s heart sank. Across the lobby he could see small knots of people waiting for the lifts. More delay, more time for Karen to get wherever she was going. Well, wherever she was, she wouldn’t be waiting for a lift, he suddenly realized. Anyone who panicked like she did in the crowded entrance wouldn’t be happy squashed into a small space with a crowd of people. Claustrophobia, they called it. Jan remembered making a note of the word only 202

a few weeks ago. Remembered, too, being shut into small spaces with the stench of unwashed patients, lamp-oil, dust and crude disinfectant in the hospital back home. He’d put his notebook away quickly then, shutting out the word and the memories. And he shut them out now as he made his way to the Tower Block stairs. He knew them well; last term he’d been in Cytology on the fifth floor, and he’d run up the stairs every morning. Just for the exercise, he’d told himself, and anyway, there were always queues for the lifts. He ran up the concrete steps now, flight after flight, sweating again and breathless, but somehow healthily, not sickened and dizzy as he had been a few minutes earlier. Maybe Geoff Huckthwaite’s recipe for a healthy mind and body had some truth in it after all, he thought. Maybe he should take up running, or work out in the gym this winter, instead of going for walks with Claire. Jan sighed; it would be-difficult to persuade Claire that he was doing it for his health and not just to avoid her. Not just, he repeated, and his feet drummed out the words as he plodded upwards – not just, not just. . . Suddenly, on the landing of the eighth floor, he stopped. He could hear the steady plock, plock of rubber boots on the steps 203

further up and a slight clink of metal, like the sounds of zips and rings on a biker’s boots. Jan slowed down and moved quietly from step to step, trying to breathe steadily without panting. It wouldn’t do for Karen to think she was being followed by a heavy-breather! He caught up with her between the ninth and tenth floor, but only because she was sitting on the bottom step of the final flight, legs sprawled in front of her, cigarette on, for all the world as if she was relaxing on the sofa at home. “Thought it’d be you,” she said, blowing smoke at him. “Took your time.” “Karen!” Jan leaned against the balustrade, panting. “Put that cigarette out. You must know there is rule. . .” “Oh, there’s always a rule,” said Karen. She took a deep drag on the cigarette. “But we’re not bothering anybody here, are we? Want one?” She offered a crumpled pack to Jan. He shook his head. In his country, before their war, most people smoked quite heavily, himself included. Even during the dark, halfstarved, wartime days, people somehow managed to smoke something. Cigarettes became currency; you could even buy food with them. So it had been a shock to discover that many places in England did 204

not allow smoking, like St Ag’s. The whole of the hospital and the grounds were nonsmoking areas – Kelham House too. And the cost of English cigarettes came as a shock too, so Jan had no alternative but to give up the habit which had sustained him through many appalling battles and raids. Now he barely remembered the taste and found it easy to refuse. “Come on,” he said. “Put that out and let’s get up this last flight.” To his surprise she crushed out the stub on the floor – amongst several others, he noted with amusement. Even in a non-smoking hospital, the dedicated puffers – many of them medical staff – would find a little haven. “Race you!” said Karen, setting off upstairs at a good pace. But Jan’s legs were longer, and his determination to keep her in sight was stronger. He leapt upstairs two at a time and almost pushed her through the door into the tenth floor. Karen gripped his hand, as if he were the unwilling patient and she was in charge, and led him along a thickly carpeted corridor with doors at either side, like a hotel. Eventually it opened out to a lounge area, with a small desk at which sat an elegant older woman, working on the inevitable computer. 205

“Hi, Mrs Bradley!” Karen greeted her. “I’ve brought you a new one. Dr Hammond’ll love him – he’s a nutter!” And she laughed – a little too loudly, a little too much. Jan blushed. “Oh, don’t mind Karen,” Mrs Bradley reassured him, though she carefully checked his badge as she spoke. “Full of jokes and merry quips, aren’t you, dear?” As if she’d cleaned it off with a damp cloth, Karen’s smile disappeared. “Sometimes,” she muttered. Letting go of Jan’s hand, she flopped down in a corner – on the carpet, not a seat – and curled herself up, head down, knees up. Ignoring Karen, Mrs Bradley nodded brightly at Jan. “Dr Hammond is running late,” she said. “If you’d like to take a seat. . .” She leaned over the desk. “And keep an eye on her,” she whispered. So Jan sat beside the huddled figure of Karen, watching, waiting, thinking. . . The last time he’d seen someone curled up like that had been a year ago. They’d been clearing the rubble from the hospital entrance so that ambulances could get through. Not a job for nursing staff, Jan would have been quick to point out at St Ag’s, but back home you took on each and any job as you were needed. And it was almost a pleasant change from working 206

inside the hospital, juggling drips and drugs and dressings and never having enough of any of them. Outdoors, in the crisp, clear air, with the light shimmering off the snowy mountains, Jan had relaxed, heaving great stones to one side, feeling, for once, fit and strong. Until he shifted a pile of loose rubble with his shovel and saw the body, curled tightly, quite intact, no apparent injury, no blood, no broken bones – nothing to account for the screams of horror which seemed to come from nowhere, until he realized they came from himself. . . Shaking himself free of the memory he saw Karen, sitting upright now, staring at him. “You all right?” she asked in her husky voice. Jan nodded – it was all he could do; his mouth was dry, his ears filled with pounding, his eyes staring into blackness, his hands shaking so much he couldn’t even get them into his pockets to hide them. “You don’t look it,” observed Karen. “Mrs Bradley, this new one’s having an attack. Got any tranks?” Through the pounding and the mists, Jan was aware of her shrill laughter. Aware, too, of Mrs Bradley, bending over him, speaking low. “Just sit still, Student Nurse Buczowski. Take a few deep breaths. . .” She moved out 207

of his limited vision then and he felt his hand being gripped. “Tell you what,” Karen said, squeezing hard, “you can go in my place to see Dr Hammond. Honest, he’s good.” In her place! The shock of it actually seemed to help for a moment. Did she really think he needed to see her psychiatrist – therapist – whatever he was? Jan breathed deeply and shook his head, though he soon gave that up when the world whirled round him. “Karen?” A gentle voice called from the door. “Are you ready? Lovely to see you looking so smart. . .” Jan saw a short man emerge from one of the rooms off the lounge. He felt Karen stiffen and now she was gripping his hands for her own comfort, not his. “Right,” she said flatly. “Just doing a bit of therapizing on my nurse.” She turned to Jan. “Be all right, will you?” And, as he nodded, she stuck her head in the air and tramped over to the open door. Mrs Bradley appeared, carrying a mug of coffee. “Here you are, Student Nurse Buczowski. Sit back and sip this – it’s very sweet.” It was! Jan took a wobbly, tentative sip and winced. He was often disparaging of the sweet, milky concoction which passed 208

for coffee in England, but he found himself reluctantly relishing this stuff. “There! You’re looking better already,” said the observant Mrs Bradley. “Gave you a shock, did she, our Karen?” She looked at him curiously. “You did well getting her here – I’d given her up. She’s a naughty girl, that one.” But she smiled almost affectionately at the thought. “And I expect you started off this morning without breakfast, late, rushing around?” Jan nodded, too exhausted to correct her errors. And anyway, they might not be errors. OK, so he’d had a good breakfast, but maybe that was the trouble – rushing up ten flights of stairs on top of a heavy meal? Yes, that surely was what had knocked him out. He took a gulp of coffee. Mrs Bradley nodded. “You youngsters don’t realize what a strain nursing is. You must keep yourself fit if you’re to help other people get better.” She moved back to her desk. “Now, I’ll ring Geoff Huckthwaite and tell him you’re going off. . .” “No!” Jan leapt to his feet, recklessly spilling coffee. “No, I shall take Karen back home. . .” “Home?” Mrs Bradley looked startled. “Back to the home,” he corrected himself. “I’ll talk with Geoff then, please?” He turned his most charming smile on to her, 209

not realizing how dark were his eyes and the patches beneath, how ghastly white his face. “See, I’ll drink up my coffee and feel fine.” He sat down and drained the remainder of the coffee. “Well, if you’re sure. . .” Mrs Bradley’s hand hovered over the telephone. “I am sure,” said Jan. And, as if to prove it, he picked up a magazine from the table and made a pretence of reading. “I will wait,” he said, frowning at the words which danced up and down on the page in front of his eyes, but seeing only the body huddled under the pile of rubble.

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H

e didn’t talk with Geoff, though – not about feeling ill. On the way back to Mental Health Karen had been very subdued, disappearing to her room as soon as they arrived, without even a wave or a word of thanks. Geoff had been busy in the office so Nurse Hawley had introduced herself and taken Jan off to the pharmacy to show him the drug regimes they used. That was more like real nursing! Jan forgot all about his morning’s troubles, impressed Nurse Hawley by producing his ever-ready notebook, and spent the rest of the morning helping her to check the stock in the drug cupboards. It was the kind of meticulous, well-defined task he found so satisfying. By lunchtime he was quite recovered – there was no need to mention anything to Geoff Huckthwaite. “Everything all right with Karen?” he’d asked Jan over lunch in the cafeteria. 211

“Gave me the slip in here,” Jan admitted. He decided he’d better be honest about that. “But I caught up with her – smoking on the stairs.” He grinned, as if the nightmare chase had been merely a game. “Mrs Bradley says she’s a naughty girl.” Geoff snorted. “Eeh, that Dr Hammond! He thinks they’re all just naughty girls and boys. Give ’em plenty to do and a bit of dope to keep them happy, that’s his remedy.” “Does it work?” Jan asked. Geoff Huckthwaite shook his head. “Nothing works,” he said. “Not on its own.” “But you have all those drugs. . .” Jan had been amazed at the number and variety of pills he’d seen that morning; In Cytology he’d soon become accustomed to learning complex drug regimes but he’d thought Mental Health would be all chat and therapy, not pills. “Oh, drugs. . .” Geoff pronged a huge piece of sausage on to his fork and looked at it gloomily. “They have their place, of course, but they’re no substitute for a bit of TLC and discipline.” He chewed thoughtfully. “And even then we’re often too late.” “This TLC, it is electric?” Jan asked. He’d heard of such treatments back in his own country before the war. One of his aunts had been ill after her daughter died, and there had been talk of some electrical treatment 212

to make her better again. “But how can a few electrical impulses make up for the loss of a child?” Jan’s mother had asked. And his father had smiled sadly and shaken his head. As Geoff Huckthwaite was doing right now. “Tender Loving Care,” he was saying. “Pardon?” Jan automatically felt in his pocket for his notebook. “Nay, put that away,” said Geoff. “This isn’t a bit of your medical jargon. TLC – tender loving care – the most important method of treating any ailment from eczema to schizophrenia. Pills alone can’t cure and, frankly, neither can hospital. There’s no prescription for peace of mind, tha knows.” And all through the afternoon, as Jan checked records, typed notices for the board, made tea for everyone, chatted to patients in the lounge, listened to Geoff running through their current work-load and helped Nurse Hawley walk a panic-stricken agoraphobic around the terrace, those words lived on in his mind. Peace of mind – peace of anything – was something he’d had very little of in the past two years, he thought. But was he going to find peace amongst the troubled Mental Health patients in St Ag’s? At five o’clock he went to the office to check out with Geoff. The door was open and 213

he could see Geoff, sitting pushed back from the desk, looking up at the ceiling, arms loose by his sides, head lolling slightly. Asleep? Jan wondered, somewhat shocked by the idea. What should he do – wake Geoff up or just go quietly off duty without checking? As Jan stood at the door, pondering this dilemma, Geoff suddenly yawned loudly, stretched broadly and shook himself awake. “Knackered,” he said without apology. And Jan, remembering Geoff’s return from the early morning run, nodded in agreement. “I suppose you’re the same,” Geoff went on. “It’s harder for you.” “But I started later,” said Jan. “Today you did; tomorrow you can join us on the run. Right?” Jan nodded. Well, it would fit in with his resolution to get fit. “You start from here?” he asked. “Yes, eight o’clock. Tracksuit and trainers – and something comfortable for the rest of the day; you don’t need that tunic here,” Geoff said. Jan thought of the thick, dark blue tracksuit issued by the refugee committee on his arrival in England. No two-tone jacket, no snazzy flashings – just fluffylined navy-blue cotton jersey. He’d slept in it on many a bitter cold night in his hut 214

back at the base in Norfolk last winter. But he’d never appeared in public wearing it – yet. “Right, I’ll be here at eight,” he told Geoff. Geoff stood up. “Off you go, then. Write up your notes – and your new words.” He grinned at Jan. “Knackered’s a useful one.” Jan smiled. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I have that already.” “Went all right, then, did it?” Nick Bone asked. Jan hesitated, then nodded. “All right,” he said doubtfully. “But. . .?” Nick urged. “But it is not like medical work,” said Jan. “It is like . . . caretaking.” “Caretaking?” Nick looked puzzled. “You mean you were emptying the bins, cleaning the building?” “No, I mean I was taking care of the patients – just watching them.” “Oh!” Nick laughed as he understood him. “Well, I dare say there’s a lot of that to do. I suppose they need company as much as anything.” “You mean just sitting with them – that is part of the treatment?” “I dunno, but it can’t do much harm, can it?” 215

Jan’s face suddenly brightened. “TLC!” he said. “What?” “It is what Geoff – the Charge Nurse – told me. Tender loving care, he said. . .” But Nick wasn’t interested in Geoff’s medical theories. “Geoff – is that what you call your Charge Nurse?” he asked. “He told me to.” Nick frowned. “Never heard of a student on first-name terms with a Charge Nurse; not on the ward, anyway.” “But there is no ward – that’s another thing. It is like – well, like living here, I suppose.” Jan gestured round Kelham’s elegant entrance hall. “The patients have their own rooms, a bit like ours, a kitchen, a lounge like our common room; most of them have their own things with them too: radio, small television set, you know. . .” “I know,” Nick agreed ironically. “More gear than us nurses.” Not more than he had though, reflected Jan. Nick’s room was crammed with all the latest technology – TV, CD, computer, CD-ROM – all bought cheap on trips abroad, he’d told the others. “But you see, it’s a ‘home from a home’, Geoff says,” he explained to Nick. 216

“Well, I can see why you’re not keen on things there – more like an old folks’ home. Why don’t you take your fiddle and give them a sing-song?” “No, tomorrow I must go in my tracksuit and take them for a run.” Jan sighed, thinking once more of that awful garment. “Wow! Funny sort of nursing, that is. Can you do it?” “Oh, I can do it,” said Jan. “I was thinking of doing some running to get fit this winter, so I don’t mind that.” “But. . .?” Jan shrugged. “It’s just that I have only a baggy old tracksuit, very heavy and thick. And there is not time to find a new one.” Nor money, he added to himself. Nick was looking him up and down thoughtfully. “You can take one of mine,” he said. “Oh, I couldn’t do that!” “Why not? I’m in college all day tomorrow – I shan’t be doing any running. And in any case, the one I’m offering is too long in the legs for me. Come on!” They went upstairs to Nick’s room. When he opened the wardrobe, Jan couldn’t stop a sharp gasp. “A bit over the top, eh?” said Nick, surveying the dozens of suits, jackets, shirts, sweaters, trousers, ties, the many 217

pairs of shoes. “I’ve let my own place off so I had to clear everything out,” he said apologetically. “Now, where’s that green shell-suit?” Blue flashings it had, not white, but it was nevertheless a beautiful suit – and it fitted Jan perfectly. “There you are, Student Nurse Buczowski – your new uniform!” “Ah, no – I’ll bring it back tomorrow.” Nick shrugged. “Keep it, old son; I never use it. Too lazy to need a tracksuit – and I’ve got another if ever I should feel the urge to take exercise. Now, what about a drink down in the medics’ bar?” Jan looked at the shimmering green nylon slung over his arm. “I’m buying,” he said. Luckily, having been in Ireland with Claire’s family for the last few days, Jan had spent very little that week, so he was able to get the first round in. But Nick insisted on buying the next, then a couple of friends of his joined them and someone else bought, and after that, Jan lost count. And almost lost his footing as he stumbled up the stairs at Kelham’s. Nick and his friends had gone on to watch a video, but Jan was conscious of having an early start next morning and of being very hungry, so he’d left. There might be the makings of a sandwich 218

in the kitchen, hethought – mayhaps. He giggled at his deliberate mistake, stumbled over the top step and fell in a heap on the landing. He lay for a moment half stunned, then made as if to rise. But he couldn’t; his head was spinning and he was sweating again. And he knew this was not caused by his fall but by the memory of other corridors, other stairs, of pushing crowds, splintering glass, bulging walls. He clung on to the carpet and felt it shift beneath him. Don’t vomit, he told himself as the blackness descended. * * * “Jan! What are you doing? Are you hurt? Come on, let me help you up. . .” Claire’s soft, sweet voice came from some distance above him. He felt her sit on the step next to him, gather his shoulders, turn him over. “Oh, Jan!” he heard her exclaim. “You’ve been drinking!” And he heard the disappointment in her voice. Quickly sobered, he pushed her away and scrambled to his feet. “I’ve been for a drink with Nick,” he mumbled. “So I see,” said Claire coldly. “And more than one, I guess.” “A few,” Jan admitted. But why should he feel guilty? This was the first night since his student days at home – over a 219

year ago, now – that he’d had more than a couple of lagers, which was probably why they’d affected him so much, he excused himself. Suddenly overcome with weariness, he drooped unsteadily against the wall and yawned widely. “I must sleep,” he announced, making to move past Claire. “You must eat,” said Claire firmly. “And I’ll make some coffee. Come on.” She pushed him towards the kitchen, where he slumped into a chair and propped his heavy head in his hands. Without speaking, Claire made sandwiches and coffee and thrust them across at him. “Thank you,” said Jan with as much dignity as he could muster. He chewed at a sandwich hungrily, took a sip of hot coffee and suddenly felt better. “Thanks,” he said again, and he smiled, very slightly, at Claire, who sat opposite, clutching a mug of coffee but not drinking. Suddenly aware of her silence, he picked up another sandwich. “This I need,” he said. “Need this.” Claire spoke. “What?” “I need this – or I needed this; that’s the way we say it.” “Ah, yes. I need this,” Jan repeated, vaguely feeling for the notebook. Failing to 220

locate it, he gave up and concentrated on eating. When he’d finished the last sandwich, he sat back, mug in hand. “You had supper in the cafeteria?” he asked, suddenly conscious that he’d not offered her any of the sandwiches. Claire shook her head. “I was waiting,” she said. “Waiting?” “To have it with you.” Jan was horrified. “But we should have shared the sandwiches,” he protested. “I thought you made them for me.” “I did,” she said. “I had a snack earlier when I realized you’d gone out.” “Oh, good,” he smiled, feeling it wasn’t really good at all, though he couldn’t quite think why. “I waited,” Claire said again, very clearly, “because I thought we were going to eat together, either here or over in the cafe – or maybe down at Dukes.” Dukes was the local pub, “The Duke of Wellington”, where many of the medics had their suppers whenever funds allowed. Jan’s never did, though he’d often joined the Kelham Six for a drink there. “Did we arrange this?” he asked, genuinely puzzled and a little alarmed. Surely his funny turns couldn’t be affecting his memory? 221

Claire blushed. “Well, not exactly,” she admitted. “I just assumed. . .” Jan stared at her. “Is this what you do in England?” he asked. “Go everywhere together, do everything together, because we are” he gestured vaguely, unable to find a word to describe their relationship – “together?” “Of course not!” Claire said fiercely. “It’s just that as we’re not actually together all day, I thought you’d want – I mean – well, for us to meet in the evenings . . . sometimes,” she ended lamely. “Sometimes, yes,” Jan agreed. The food was beginning to affect him; all he wanted to do now was to roll into bed and sleep. “But this evening we had no arrangement.” “No, we hadn’t,” Claire agreed sadly. “Sorry.” Jan tried to work out whether she was sorry they hadn’t arranged to meet or sorry she’d assumed they would eat together. But the effort was too much; he felt utterly exhausted and not a little guilty and he suddenly snapped. “So what is this ‘sorry’?” he asked. “It is I who must be sorry. I did not think enough. . .” “Enough of me?” she asked, anxiously. “No, I mean not enough thinking . . . what is it?” Jan scowled with the effort of 222

fighting off exhaustion and finding the right word. “Thoughtless!” He brought it out triumphantly. “I was thoughtless; I am very sorry.” He gave a great sigh and propped his head up again. “And very tired,” he added. “And tomorrow I must run.” “Run?” Claire was startled. “We have a morning run. Good therapy, Geoff says. And I must join; it is part of the treatment.” “For them or for you?” asked Claire. Jan took her amused tone to mean he was forgiven. “For both, I hope,” he said. “I think I need exercise too.” “I think you need therapy too,” said Claire, looking straight at him. He stood up suddenly, roughly pushing the chair away. “Why do you think this?” he demanded. “You think I am a nutter just because I don’t take you to supper?” He felt himself shaking – with anger, he hoped it was nothing else. “No, no,” soothed Claire. “I just mean you are having symptoms of stress; admit it. Good heavens! It would be very strange if you didn’t, after all you’ve been through.” “No!” Jan was shouting now, gripping the back of his chair so hard that his knuckles stood out white and bony, and he felt the blood drain from his face. “I have no 223

symptoms, no stress. You think because I have a few drinks I am alco . . . alho . . . alcholic.” The word eluded him. “I didn’t say that.” Claire glared at him. “I mean, just look at you – you’re stressed out right now!” There was a moment’s pause. They faced each other over the table, dark eyes blazing into grey, both faces white with anger, overlaying other emotions – concern in Claire, fear in Jan. Suddenly he spoke. “Stressed? Maybe.” He got the word right for once. “But who is stressing me?” he asked. He turned abruptly and left the room.

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Chapter 6

I

t was just his luck, it seemed to Jan, that the weather changed overnight. A westerly wind had sprung up, ripping the last of the leaves off the trees and scattering them wildly up into the lowering sky. Rain was already spitting down as he ran across the lawns to the Mental Health building. At least he knew the way to get in today. He slid the door open and, closing it, leaned on the glass, breathless already. “You’d best dump your bag in the office,” Geoff greeted him. “And lock it after you. Make haste – we’re nearly ready!” But when Jan came back he found only four prospective runners. “Lazy lot!” said Geoff. He turned to a youngster who was sitting gazing blankly at nothing. “Take a run round, Martin; bash at a few doors.” The boy got up, stiff as an old man, and plodded off down the corridor. Jan could hear 225

him knocking and calling. He looked round at the other three members of the party – all men – all ignoring him and each other, standing, leaning, one running gently on the spot, murmuring something to himself. Jan pulled on the zip of Nick’s tracksuit and reflected that he needn’t have bothered to borrow it; no one would have noticed his shabby blue one. But suddenly the door burst open and Karen ran in. “Good! Just in time,” she said. “Hi, Geoff! Hi, Jan!” She jumped up and down, did a few bends and came up looking wonderful, skin glowing, eyes shining, lips smiling. “What have you been taking?” Geoff asked suspiciously. Karen scowled. “Well, thank you, Nurse Huckthwaite,” she said. “Here I am, full of positive thoughts and natural good humour, all ready to race the lot of you round the track, and all you can do is accuse me of being high!” She put out her tongue at Geoff and blew a very noisy raspberry. Jan couldn’t help smiling, though he looked anxiously across at Geoff, who grinned and slapped Karen on the shoulders. “OK, I’m sorry. It’s just that we haven’t seen you like this for a week or two.” He glanced at Martin, who had just returned 226

from his recruiting trip and was about to collapse on the sofa again. “No more takers, Martin?” he asked. “Right, let’s be off then!” They started slowly, jogging rather than running, in pairs. To his disappointment, Jan found himself bringing up the rear with Martin; Karen had taken the lead with Geoff. Well, at least that saved him having to make conversation, he thought. Martin was obviously on automatic pilot, and running right into the wind was hard going. Jan had assumed he was pretty fit after the hard living of the past year. Certainly he hadn’t an extra ounce of weight, he’d stopped smoking, rarely drank (except for last night, he reminded himself, grimly) and, although he’d done no organized exercise, he was always on the move in and out of the hospital, up and down steps and stairs. . . But he’d forgotten how he’d sat over his books and notes and in lectures every day and many nights last half-term. And the Irish hospitality over the holiday; he’d been feeling heavier since he got back from Claire’s family. Another pang of guilt hit him when he thought of their kindness and her obvious concern for him. No time to brood, however; the track led uphill through the woods and the going was hard. Leaf-mould and mud clung to 227

his trainers and he was tempted to drop out for a moment to clean them off. But Martin pounded on grimly, as if driven by clockwork, and the others were out of sight. Geoff had pushed him to the back, with the muttered instruction that Jan should pick up any stragglers. Remembering how easily Karen had escaped him, Jan put on a spurt and pulled alongside Martin. The track had levelled out now, the pace was easy. The rain fell steadily, dripping off the trees into his hair and down his neck. His feet were sodden, the beautiful tracksuit mud-splattered, but Jan felt quite lighthearted. Like Karen had looked before they’d started out, he reflected; a sudden surge of well-being and energy, all stress fallen away. Unconsciously he quickened his pace. “Come on, Martin,” he called. “Let’s catch up with the others.” He glanced back and saw the boy following, hair plastered flat against his skull, eyes dead, rain streaming down his face. Or was it rain? Something in the boy’s expression made Jan pause. He looked like those young soldiers, down from the mountains, snowsoaked and dazed. . . “You all right?” he asked as Martin came up. 228

The boy merely gasped for breath – or was he sobbing? Jan didn’t wait to check. After all, what could he do if Martin was weeping? He edged away from the answer to that. “How much further?” he asked. Martin shook his head hopelessly. He didn’t care, Jan realized. So shut up in his own despair, it didn’t matter to him whether he was out there getting soaking wet or in his room warm and dry – and still depressed. I know the feeling, Jan thought. And, shocked by his admission, he stumbled over a tree root and fell. Retreating to his own language, he cursed loudly and scrambled up. Martin never even turned to see what he’d done. “You’ve made a right muck-up of your tracksuit,” observed Karen when Jan ran in last. “And we beat you!” She was sitting on the terrace, taking off her shoes. “You did not,” said Jan. “I was to be last in case anyone. . .” He realized how tactless that was going to sound. “. . .got away,” Karen finished. “Not today, mate,” she grinned. “Shoes off, young Martin! You too,” she told Jan. Martin stood, one-legged, fumbling with his laces, rain and tears dripping off the end of his nose as he bent his head. Jan felt he should help in some way, but he couldn’t 229

help a grown boy to undo his shoelaces, could he? He stood watching, helplessly trying to figure out what to do. Karen pushed between them. “Come on, lad, let’s be having you. Here, sit down.” She pushed him on to a bench, mopped Martin’s wet face with her handkerchief and bent to unfasten his shoes. “Right! Hot shower for both of us, I reckon, eh, Martin?” She put an arm around the boy’s shaking shoulders and led him indoors. Jan sat on the bench and removed his shoes, feeling helpless, useless and wishing he was anywhere but in the Mental Health department of St Ag’s. After all, he told himself angrily, even in the blasted-out wreck of Czerny Infirmary he’d been useful. Here, even the patients knew more than he did. He pushed his way into the entrance, hoping to catch up with Karen, but she’d done her usual disappearing act. With Martin? Jan wondered. “He’s a bright lad,” Geoff said at coffee break. “But not as bright as his parents think he is.” “And that is his trouble?” asked Jan. Geoff shrugged. “Some of it,” he said. They were in Geoff’s sitting room, sharing coffee and doughnuts. Showered, wearing his usual jeans and sweatshirt, Jan felt 230

healthier than he had done for a long time. Running, he decided, was definitely going to be his new hobby. He’d get to know the patients better, get himself fit, and never have another of his funny “turns”. “Now then, what’ve we got for you today?” Geoff pulled his clipboard closer. “Nurse Hawley asked me to put the new drugs list into the computer,” said Jan happily. “Did she?” Geoff looked hard at Jan. “Yes, well, you can do that this afternoon. This morning we’ve got group therapy.” Jan’s expression registered his dismay. “Group therapy,” he repeated. “You don’t have to take part – just sit in on it,” Geoff beamed. “You’ll need to get some idea of all the different treatments we use – for your file, at least.” “Ah, yes,” Jan nodded. “And the running, is that for my file also?” Geoff grinned. “Please yourself,” he said. “That’s my bit of voluntary work.” “It did not seem to help Martin,” Jan observed. “But Karen was full of – er –” “Beans,” supplied Geoff. “Yes, well, don’t be foxed by Karen. When she’s high she’s very, very high. When she’s low, she’s rock bottom.” Jan remembered how Karen had collapsed at the clinic the previous day. “This I have 231

seen at home,” he told Geoff, surprising himself with the reference. “Aye,” Geoff nodded. “And a few like Martin, I’ll be bound.” Jan looked away, out through the window. Grey, no sun, no light, not even a breath of wind now, just the drip, drip of drizzle and the blank grey fog. “Depression,” he said. “That is what he suffers?” “He does that,” Geoff agreed. “Clinical depression. I expect you’d see a lot of that back home?” “No, not a lot,” said Jan. “It was funny, when you think how we were trying to live in that city; no water, no electricity, no food, no medical supplies and the bombardment going on, on, on. . .” He took a shaky breath. This was the first time he’d spoken to anyone about his experiences back home and he wasn’t quite sure why he was talking to Geoff. “But people were not depressed,” he went on. “Not like Martin. They weep, they cry, they are hungry, cold, frightened – but not depressed. I wonder why this is?” “Same in Northern Ireland,” said Geoff. “All those years of bombs and shootings, but the cases of breakdown and suicide actually went down.” He took a sip of coffee and looked at Jan shrewdly. “Won’t be the same in peace-time, I’ll bet you.” 232

“What do you mean?” “It’s as if people put off having a breakdown. They’re too busy struggling to survive – no time for mental health problems. Then, when peace breaks out as it were, it all comes tumbling down.” “ ‘Tumbling down’,” Jan repeated thoughtfully. “So, you think when there is peace in my country there will also be stress?” Geoff nodded. “And a need for psychiatric nursing,” he said pointedly. He stood up. “So we’d better get on with your training, else you won’t be ready to go back.” Go back? Jan pondered this idea as he followed Geoff down the corridor to a seminar room. Back to what? No home, no parents that he knew of, no university to continue his studies. No, he would never go back there. “Here we are!” Geoff opened the door and ushered Jan into the room ahead of him. The first thing that struck him was the silence. It wasn’t the kind of hush that falls when someone enters and conversation dies. Jan had the distinct feeling that there had been no conversation, even before he came in. And no one looked towards the door. On half a dozen chairs, set well apart but in a perfect circle, sat four women, a middle-aged 233

man, and the boy, Martin, who was slumped forward, examining the pattern on the carpet. One woman hugged herself close and rocked gently from side to side; an elderly woman with a halo of fine white hair sat rigidly upright, eyes tight shut, apparently fast asleep; the others stared at the wall in front of them. “Good morning, everybody.” Geoff spoke heartily. “Are we all here?” No one replied. “Now then, who’ve we got, today?” Geoff looked round the circle. “There’s Alan –” he indicated the older man – “and Margaret.” He nodded towards the rocker. “Susan, Anna and Frieda.” The last was the older lady, who nodded graciously but never opened an eye. “And, of course, Martin you’ve met. This is Jan, our student nurse. You know him already, don’t you, Martin?” Geoff said pointedly. Martin lifted his eyes for a second, nodding vaguely, then looked alarmed as the door opened once more. Jan turned to see Karen, in full leather gear. “Hello, hello, hello!” she said busily. “More chairs, Geoff – unless you’re going to stand inside the kissing circle?” She laughed too much at the joke. “Can I have first go?” she said. 234

“Nah then, Karen!” Geoff spoke quietly. “Calm yourself and come on in. Jan will get us some more chairs.” “Oh, thanks very much, Jan.” Karen looked across at Jan and smiled sweetly. “Sure you can manage?” “I can manage,” Jan said, copying Geoff’s gentle tone. It seemed to work: as soon as the chairs were set – with mathematical precision – into the circle, everyone, including Karen, settled back and looked expectantly at Geoff. Jan felt in his pocket for his notebook, but Geoff frowned and motioned him to leave it where it was. Jan obeyed, though he was worried he would miss something if he had no notes. In fact, by the time they finished, he felt he’d missed everything. No matter how carefully he listened, how hard he concentrated, he didn’t hear anything that seemed at all important. Geoff started by inviting the patients to tell the group how they were feeling, how they were coping, what they’d been doing since the previous meeting and, in their various ways, they told him. Some hesitated, others twittered on at great length and little relevance. Martin merely nodded to any question Geoff put to him; Karen did a cabaret act, flirting outrageously with anyone who caught her 235

eye, and suddenly gave up mid-sentence, slumping down in her chair and turning her back on the group. Geoff didn’t even react to this. He listened, prompted, asked the occasional question, but otherwise remained silent, watchful. He could have been interviewing them for a job, not treating them for an illness, Jan reflected. Geoff took no notes, carried no files, and, of course, did not wear a white coat. Jan wondered whether the patients had got more out of the session than he had. After about an hour, Geoff sat back and stretched his arms above his head. “Anything more to say?” he asked. There was no response. “So everybody’s happy, are they? Everything’s hunky-dory, is it?” There was a stultifying silence. Jan was just deciding what he was going to have for lunch when Margaret suddenly stopped rocking and pointed at him. “What about that one?” she said accusingly. “He hasn’t had a go.” “Neither he has,” agreed Geoff. “What shall we ask him?” “Well, I mean, what’s he for?” she said. Jan’s eyes widened in dismay as Geoff said softly, “Well, Jan, what do you think you’re for?” Everyone sat up expectantly. Even Karen turned round. Unable to think of an answer, 236

Jan looked desperately round for help; surely Karen would come out with some witty comment or other? But she only stared at him sullenly. “Jan?” Geoff prompted gently. “I . . . er . . . I do not understand the question,” Jan finally brought out. Geoff turned to the others. “You see, Jan here, he’s from a country that’s at war with itself. His English is better than mine, but he can’t always follow what we’re on about.” There was silence then as eight pairs of eyes regarded him with curiosity. Suddenly Alan spoke. “I think Margaret means what’s he here for?” he said. “Ah! Well, I am here to learn all about nursing,” Jan said, relieved to have an impossible question reduced to a simple one. “If your country’s at war, I should have thought you could have learned a lot more about nursing at home than over here,” Alan pointed out. “I did learn – was learning – but there we have no medicines, no drugs or dressings, no hospitals now. . .” Suddenly assailed by the memory of his final morning at Czerny Infirmary, Jan stopped. Alan was right, he thought. What on earth was he doing at St Ag’s, sitting in a circle chatting 237

to “nutters”, when his own people were still under bombardment, his parents still missing? He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to shut out the memory. When he opened them, Frieda was looking straight at him, her own eyes startlingly blue and clear, seeming to see right through him. “But you’ll be a better nurse when you go back qualified,” she smiled. Jan stared at her as if he didn’t understand. “Go back” – there it was again, that assumption that he would return home to his country some day. But since the day he got out, Jan had never once considered going back, never given a conscious, waking thought to the past. Even Granya and his parents were kept tucked away as if they were only photographs in an album. Now he closed his eyes, shut out Frieda’s clear gaze, took a shaky breath and stood up. “Sorry, I must go. Sorry – Geoff?” He turned to ask permission, but couldn’t speak. Geoff looked shrewdly at him and nodded. “Best be off, lad,” he said in his easy way. “Dinnertime anyway.” * * * Jan sat alone in the office, breathing heavily, waiting for the panic to subside. Damn! 238

He’d felt so well that morning, quite glad to be back in the MH centre and quite proud to have done the run – even at the back. He looked across to the radiator where he’d hung the tracksuit to dry. Suddenly he got up, pulled off his sweatshirt and jeans, scrambled into the still-damp suit, and quickly let himself out on to the terrace. There he changed his shoes and set off through the mist, along the running track, breathing steadily now, striding smoothly. Panic over.

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he following week Jan ran every day, sometimes with the patients, more often alone, pounding along the track without a thought in his head. It seemed to do the trick; as long as he stuck to the running and to work, he had no recurrence of the panic symptoms. That was the solution, then – work and run, run and work. “Physician, heal thyself,” he quoted triumphantly. And he was healing very well up to now. But weekends were different: no work to go to, all his friends around – he knew he’d find it difficult to keep to his solitary routine. On Saturday morning he returned to Kelham’s from his run, taking the stairs two at a time and landing in the kitchen without even breathing heavily. “Ah! The elusive Mr Buczowski!” Katie greeted him. “Just in time to help me open this.”

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She handed him a square cake tin. “I’ve already broken two nails trying to get the lid off that old tin,” she said. “I’ll never shift my dad into the Tupperware age.” Jan had no idea what Tupperware was, but he obligingly sat down and eased his strong fingers around the lid. Eventually it slid off, revealing a square of sticky brown cake. Jan sniffed the pungent, spicy aroma and felt quite sick. “Gingerbread!” he said. “Like we make at Christmas. . .” He choked and pushed the cake tin away from him. “It’s parkin,” Katie explained. “My mam used to make it for Bonfire Night. Dad’s taken over now.” Jan stared at her. This was the first time he’d heard her mention her mother, who, he suddenly remembered, had died just before Katie had arrived at St Ag’s. For a moment he was tempted to ask her how she’d felt at the time; perhaps she too had “funny turns”? “Dad’s a whizz at making parkin now,” Katie went on hurriedly, as if reading his thoughts. “You’re coming to the bonfire, aren’t you?” “What is this bon-fire?” he asked cautiously. “ ‘Please to remember the fifth of November, with gunpowder, treason and 241

plot,’ ” Katie chanted. “You know – Guy Fawkes?” Jan shook his head. “Well, he and some other men tried to blow up Parliament.” Katie sat on the edge of the table and settled to her subject. “But somebody told the King’s men and Guy Fawkes’s gang were rounded up, tortured and executed – you understand?” Jan shuddered. He understood it; it was the kind of treason and plot that was going on right now in his country. “When did this happen?” he asked. “Sixteen hundred and something.” “But why did they plot?” Katie shrugged. “They were Roman Catholics and the King and parliament were Protestant – you know, Church of England ?” This time Jan nodded. After all, his country was – had been – Catholic. “And you eat gingerbread to celebrate these Catholics?” he asked. Katie laughed. “Well, I don’t know how the gingerbread – the parkin – got in there. But we have a bonfire and burn the guy – a model, you understand – and let off fireworks and eat treacle toffee, baked potatoes, hot-dogs. . .” “Hot-dogs are American,” Jan protested. 242

“Yeah – well, I think they came in later.” Katie slid off the table. “Anyway, there’s going to be a bit of a ‘do’ tonight – rather belated, I know, but the weather was lousy last week. We’re building the bonfire right outside the children’s ward this afternoon. Why don’t you come and help?” Jan hesitated. The last thing he wanted to get involved with was bangs and burning; he’d seen quite enough of those. On the other hand, he realized he’d been avoiding the gang – and Claire – all week. “I’ll come to build the bong fire,” he said, leaving the rest of the invitation unanswered. Katie laughed at his pronunciation. “Bonfire. You know – something to do with bones, I think.” She shuddered. “Guy Fawkes wasn’t the only one to be burned on a fire.” Jan repeated the word automatically, blocking out the implication. “Bonfire,” he said. “I’ll go and write that down.” “And meet us all downstairs after lunch. Nick’s borrowed a truck to round up all the wood and stuff, Nikki’s making a wonderful guy, and I’m just off to buy the fireworks. I’ll be after contributions later – a fiver a head, all right?” Katie breezed past without noticing the look of dismay on Jan’s face. 243

It wasn’t all right. A fiver was about all Jan had in the world just then without dipping into his very small bank balance. “Right,” he said, apparently agreeing. “See you later!” They were all assembled when he returned from his session in the library and a lunch of beans on toast in the cafeteria. He could have had a snack with the gang in the Kelham’s kitchen, but he had no supplies and was increasingly embarrassed at eating theirs. “Ach – here you are finally,” Claire greeted him. She didn’t look directly at him, but chattered on nervously. “We’re just trying to sort out some old clothes for Nikki’s guy.” “Maybe you can sort out a few for me also,” joked Jan. But then he suddenly remembered the baggy blue tracksuit. “Wait,” he commanded. “I have something.” He darted upstairs and was soon back, carrying the terrible tracksuit. “Is this useful?” he asked Nikki. “Oh, it’s just right,” she said. “It’ll be easy to sew up the trouser ends and sleeves, then I’ll stuff it with straw. . .” “Stuff it well, stick a pumpkin on top and it’ll look like Derek Waterson,” suggested Barbara. 244

Everyone laughed. Mr Waterson was the senior executive of Brassington Royal Hospital Trust Inc. “Oh, yes,” urged Katie. “You’ll get a pumpkin from the kitchen; there’s plenty left from Hallowe’en.” Nikki beamed; she didn’t often stay at Kelham’s at the weekends and was obviously enjoying herself. She looked unusually happy, Jan suddenly realized, in spite of the fact that she was on placement in the Hospice. Obviously coping better than he was! “Don’t forget the straw,” she ordered. “I’ll see you all later, when I’ve done some work on the guy.” The others piled into the janitor’s open truck, Barbara and Katie squashed up inside the cab with Nick, leaving Jan and Claire to ride outside. “So you two can keep each other warm,” teased Katie. But they didn’t. They sat on the floor of the truck, side by side but not really together. Jan knew Claire was waiting for him to make the first move, knew he owed it to her at least to hold her hand, put an arm around her shoulders. But he couldn’t. It was as though a glass barrier was keeping them apart. The truck rattled and shook up the drive and round the back of the main hospital to the workshops. Jan sat back, 245

closed his eyes and let his head bang loosely on the side of the truck. Suddenly he felt so weary. . . “What is it?” He suddenly shook himself awake. “Lie down, Tanya,” he ordered Claire roughly. “What?” She looked at him, aghast. Jan gulped. “Sorry,” he said. “I must have fallen asleep. . .” “And you wanted me to sleep with you?” asked Claire, with irony in her voice. Jan shook his head, bewildered. “What?” he asked. “You told me to lie down,” she reminded him. “Ah, no – I was thinking it was dangerous; the truck ride was like the journeys we took through Czerny after a raid. . .” “And Tanya?” “Tanya.” He repeated the name thoughtfully. “Sister Radski . . . was a nurse at the hospital. Once,” he added. It was Claire who took his hand then, firmly. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s build a fire that will blaze to the skies.” All afternoon they worked, collecting broken-down furniture, branches trimmed from the trees all round the grounds, huge piles of boxes and packaging, mountains of 246

paper. Eventually they had it all piled up on rough grass at the back of the children’s wing. “Sister Thomas says we’ll have to start early,” Katie told them. “Or there’ll be temperatures and tantrums before the fireworks.” “Yeah,” Nick agreed. “Then we can get off to the pub afterwards.” Barbara looked up at the lowering grey sky. “Hope the rain keeps off,” she said. “Or the fire will never light.” “That’s why we left it until this afternoon,” Katie explained. “The forecast isn’t too bad – showers later – so if we get the fire going and the fireworks over by eight. . .” “Right,” said Nick. “Let’s go and see how the guy’s coming along.” * * * Guy – “Derek Waterson” – Fawkes was in fine fettle. Nikki had chalked pinstripes down Jan’s blue tracksuit and tucked a striped tea-towel in the open front, like a shirt. The pumpkin head was crowned with an old mop, quite remarkably like Mr Waterson’s stringy grey hair. She’d even unearthed a battered briefcase for him to carry. “From my car boot,” she said, without explaining how it came to be in there, cracked and mouldering. 247

“He’s marvellous!” said Barbara. “The lipstick suits him!” “A pity we haven’t got a St Ag’s tie and pair of glasses,” said Katie. “Very symbolic – burning the old St Ag’s, peering through the smoke into the future. . .” “I have one,” said Jan. “What? A future?” teased Katie. “A hospital tie.” “What on earth for?” asked Nick. “Issued with my clothing when I was sent here,” Jan explained. “It must have been on the list.” For a moment the others were silent. A hospital tie was on their lists too, but each of them, for varied reasons, had ignored the suggestion. Yet Jan had no choice; he hadn’t even bought his own gear. “Issued,” he’d said. And the Kelhamites suddenly felt sad for him. “Well, thanks, Jan. That’s wonderful,” said Nikki warmly. “It will be just the right finishing touch – though I doubt the children will notice the symbolism,” she added to Katie. “And I’ve got a spare pair of glasses,” Nick offered. “You?” asked Katie. “But you don’t wear glasses.” “Not now lenses are so good,” he grinned. “Hang on.” He ran lightly up the stairs, followed by Jan. 248

“Let’s all go up and have a cup of tea,” suggested Barbara. “I’m parched and filthy after all that dust.” Over tea they decided that the guy was so brilliant he should make an entrance – on the janitor’s truck. “Nick can take us round the main drive.” Katie was ready to produce the show, as usual. “The rest of us will sit in the back with sparklers. You can hold Derek on your knee, Jan.” Jan opened his mouth to protest. He had no intention of wasting his last fiver on a bonfire party which he was sure he’d hate. But looking round at the eager faces of his friends, he knew he couldn’t refuse, even if it meant beans on toast every day next week. So at seven o’clock the strange procession set off. Nick had rigged up a lantern at the back of the cab, where Jan sat with “Derek” on his knee, now complete with glasses and tie and looking, in the dim light, almost too good to be true. “I’ll bet there’s plenty of people who’d be glad if it really was Mr Derek-ManagementWaterson,” commented Barbara, brandishing her sparkler like a weapon. 249

Everyone laughed – except Jan, who shuddered at the idea of anyone being caught on a burning heap. As they approached the back of the children’s wing a great cheer went up. Those patients who were mobile were out on the balconies; bed-patients were ranged along the big windows at the end of the ward. The lights blazed out behind them and they each waved a sparkler in greeting. Nick pulled up and got out of the cab. “Come on, let’s be having him,” he said to Jan, who passed the guy to him and picked up the folding ladder they had in the back of the truck. Once they’d propped the ladder safely up the bonfire, Jan stood aside, assuming that Nick would take the guy up. But Nick held back. “Up you go!” he said to Jan. “I’ll pass the body up to you when you’re halfway there; you can just drag it after that.” He turned to fuss about with the guy’s clothing. Jan was surprised. Could it be that Nick Bone – mature, sensible, strong, healthy – was nervous of climbing a ladder? Coming from the mountains, where he’d walked and climbed all summer and skied all winter, Jan had no fear of heights. He scaled the ladder with ease, leant down to grab the 250

guy from Nick, who was only a few rungs up, and moved on to the top, dragging the body after him. He set the guy up in the broken chair they’d saved for him, then slid down, fireman-style, the children’s cheers ringing out all round him. “Very impressive,” said Nick tersely. “Now let’s get this fire going.” This was the moment Jan had been dreading, but he’d reckoned without the damp English climate. Soon he was so intent on lifting bits of reluctantly smouldering wood from one part of the fire to the other in an attempt to get it to burn regularly that he totally forgot about the blazing fires of the war at home. Forgot, too, to be awkward with Claire, who was also working on getting the blaze going. With hands and faces filthy, clothes stinking, they stood watching the first flames begin to curl upwards through the pile, urged on by another cheer from the children. “At last,” said Claire, coughing through the smoke. “Though I don’t know why you and I should be helping to celebrate the death of a Catholic.” “It is strange,” Jan agreed. “The English – they have no carnival, no saints’ days, and yet they have this funny festival called . . . what is it called?” 251

“Bonfire Night,” Claire told him. “There you are, you see,” said Jan. “Where am I?” asked Claire. And Jan knew she meant more than her words. “It just proves that the English are odd,” he went on, not choosing to take her up on any deep meaning. “They have only one bonfire in the whole year so it does not need a special name.” Claire moved up close and they stood together in the glow of the fire. “You have this celebration in Ireland?” he asked. She shook her head. “Not in the South. We’re not British, you know.” “A foreigner,” said Jan softly. It was one of the things they had in common; he’d often called her his little foreigner. Now he looked down into her smoke-smudged face and for a moment he wanted to hold her close, tell her about his fears, explain why he was keeping so much apart. . . They moved together, clung to each other and, silhouetted against the red glow, they kissed and the watching children cheered. He would do it, he decided, tonight. He would explain to her about needing to keep running, to keep quiet, to keep working. She’d understand. Claire was a warm, intelligent girl. He turned to her again. 252

Suddenly there was a zipping, swooshing sound, as if the air was being sucked upwards into the sky. Then a loud bang, followed by lots of small cracks like rifle shots. From the windows, children shouted and screamed in mock fright. And Jan Buczowski crumpled to the ground.

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is first thought was to scramble up in the hope that nobody had seen him. But even as he moved his head the nausea hit him. And as for getting to his feet – well, the earth was heaving and shifting beneath them. He groaned and turned his face into the grass, the pops and bangs of the fireworks, the roar and the cracks of the bonfire filling his ears, his brain, his head. Grabbing tufts of grass in both hands, he clung on to the earth. “Jan, are you all right?” Claire was bending over him, anxious as ever. Jan took a deep, shuddering breath. “I must have slipped,” he said, laughing shakily. “But we weren’t even moving.” He opened his mouth to reply and suddenly felt too exhausted. It really didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. “Will I help you to get up?” asked Claire. He didn’t reply. 254

“Jan, you can’t just lie there all night! Come on, let me help you.” He felt her gently shift his shoulders, knew she was turning him over easily, expertly. Claire was a good nurse, he reflected, and even in the firelight she’d notice. . . “Jan, your face is all wet. You’re crying!” she exclaimed, her voice breaking. “Oh, Jan, are you hurt?” He began to breathe quickly now, trying to batten down the panic. Hurt? Yes, that was the way. If only he’d hurt his ankle as he fell. . . “My foot,” he said, pointing downwards. Claire’s hands moved around his ankle firmly, professionally. Jan groaned as if in pain, though it was the prospect of humiliation that worried him. “That’s not swollen,” said Claire. Tentatively she pushed his foot to the left, then the right. Jan was too tired even to protest and he certainly didn’t know how to act a broken ankle. “There’s full rotation,” she went on. “Maybe you just bruised it as you fell.” He could tell from her voice she didn’t believe for a moment in the sprained ankle. “Come on, Jan – you really must move,” she urged with just the slightest touch of impatience in her voice. “It’s dangerous so close to the fire and all. Here – up we go!” 255

Taken by surprise, he allowed himself to be pulled into a sitting position. Silently, Claire handed him a handkerchief and he mopped his wet, muddy face. With shaking hands, he noted with clinical interest; and he was very, very cold. “Could you stand up now?” Claire asked. Not trusting himself to speak, Jan shook his head. He could feel her sizing him up, working out the best way to get him to his feet. Thankfully, he remembered how small and light she was. No matter how skilfully she supported him, she’d never get him upright. “I’ll get Nick,” she said. “You’ll be all right for a moment. Just sit still.” And before he could protest, she was gone. And he didn’t really mind, was quite relieved to be left alone in the glow of the fire. His head began to nod, his shoulders sagged, he felt so sleepy. . . A spray of rockets whooshed up in the sky and fountains of sparks fell with a whistling, whining noise. As if galvanized by the sound, Jan scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly, but upright and walking – away from the fire, the fireworks, Claire. . . He was on the running track, feet pounding, working hard, keeping moving, but the panic stayed with him. He forced his leaden legs 256

forwards – one, two, one, two, faster, faster, up the hill towards the spinney. It was as if he were running home, he thought, evening lectures ended, supper calling – across the river and into the trees, up the hill to the house where he’d lived all his life until the war came. And here are the stone steps leading up to the terrace. Not enough steps, though; the house is high above the river and flights of steps rise up through the garden. Where had they all gone to? He paused for a moment and looked back through the darkness, catching a glimpse of mist rising over the grounds and the glow of the children’s bonfire over the hill. The glow of burning, he thought, over the river; had the tanks arrived? He pushed on upwards, walking now, not running, up the steps, through the darkness, wondering why there were no lights. His grandmother, Granya, always left the terrace light on for him; perhaps there was no electricity again? He pushed past the wet bushes and stepped on to the terrace. Suddenly orange light flooded the whole building and Jan’s steps faltered. He stood blinking, trying to understand. Was it an explosion? Had they bombed the house? Where were his parents? He ran forwards 257

and pushed at the glass door. It didn’t move. Frantically he snatched at the handle, shaking the glass. And now his ears were filled with the shattering sound of screaming sirens. Jan crouched low, holding on to his head as if it would burst. Sirens! Another attack on Czerny! He must get back over the river to the hospital, to the patients. He stood now, reeling back from the lights and the noise, and fell once more, this time on to concrete. “Well, well, well! I never expected to see you in here of a Sunday, lad. Certainly not in bed!” Jan opened his eyes and saw Geoff, towering over him for once. “Aye, that’s it – wake up. Had a good night, did you?” Jan frowned. Night – that was what he remembered. Night and fire and bangs. . . “Is it over?” he asked. Geoff nodded. “Bonfire night’s over, if that’s what upset you,” he said. “Breaking and entering’s over, if that’s what you were doing.” Then, gently, “But I don’t think your nightmare’s over yet, not by a long chalk.” Jan didn’t even try to work out the meaning of that. He sighed, leaned back on his pillow, and closed his eyes. 258

“I’ll send you some tea,” said Geoff. He woke up to find Karen sitting beside the bed, reading a magazine and sipping from Geoff’s mug. “Panda,” said Jan. “No, it’s just the way I do my eyes,” grinned Karen. “Now sit yourself up and drink this.” She didn’t ask him whether he wanted the tea, merely shoved the mug into his shaking hand and pushed a pillow up behind his head. She didn’t ask how he was feeling either. She just went on sipping and reading. So Jan sipped too, relishing the feel of the warm, sweet tea as it sluiced the metallic taste away from his mouth. “Have I been drinking?” he wondered aloud. Karen looked up. “In here?” she asked. “Chance’d be a fine thing!” She put her magazine down. “Mind you, I thought you had been, last night.” “Last night?” Jan’s mind edged away from thoughts of last night. “Yeah – when the alarm went. Found you all of a heap on the terrace. Thought you’d been out on the binge. Bit early, mind, but I know you medics have your own supplies.” “Binge?” 259

She nodded. “Yeah – you know, some sort of celebration. A few beers, a few vodkas, out with the lads. . .” Jan shook his head. “With the children,” he said. “It was the children’s bongfire. . .” “Yeah, apparently. That’s where you were last seen. Caused no end of a rumpus searching the grounds for you.” “I was lost?” he asked, interested. “Missing,” she corrected. “You went missing. Until you set our alarm off. Hey, it was great – security guards, dogs . . . better than Saturday night telly, I can tell you. Geoff had to be fetched; it was him who had you brought in here. They were all for sending you to casualty once I’d identified you. Good job I knew you, eh?” “Good job,” agreed Jan. “I’m sorry for all the – er – rum-pus.” Karen laughed as she took his empty mug. “Nah! It was good entertainment. I was going to go out for an hour but you saved me the money.” She leaned behind and pushed his pillow down. “Sleepy-byes,” she said. “I’m going to take Martin for his run – woof, woof!” Jan drifted off once more, smiling this time. The day went by in a blur of sleep and dreams and awakenings which passed like 260

dreams. The Kelhamites drifted through, though he couldn’t remember who’d been when, and it didn’t seem to matter anyway. Nick brought his things over – all in one small suitcase – and the girls came with gifts: fruit and magazines and Grandma Robinson’s home-made cookies. So he knew they’d been to see him, had a vague recollection of snatches of conversation, and a vague sense of unease whenever he thought of Claire. It was as if they were ghosts from some previous existence, he thought. Geoff was more real to him than his friends from Kelham’s. So was Karen – and Martin, who sat in silent vigil by his bedside late into the night. Martin rarely spoke, never smiled, only occasionally glanced in the direction of the bed, yet whenever he woke, Jan found comfort in the boy’s presence. Most of the time he slept, and in his dreams he was back home. Not in the shattered hospital in Czerny, but home as it used to be, on the hill above the river, with Granya waiting at the top of the steps. His parents were nowhere to be seen, but it didn’t seem to matter. Nothing mattered. . . He awoke with a jump next morning and lay listening to the thud-thud of trainers 261

and the single bang on each door as someone came down the corridor. The steps hesitated outside his door, the knocking was subdued. “Jan! You running?” It was Karen. “Jan? Come on! Twice round the spinney, last one home’s a dwork.” A what? thought Jan, automatically reaching out for his notebook. But his hand dropped even before it reached his locker; it didn’t matter now. He pulled the quilt up over his face and lay quite still, waiting for the footsteps to continue. When they did, he sat up, pulled back the curtains and looked out at the grey drizzle. Tears fell unheeded down his cheeks, off his chin, though he couldn’t think why they should; he wasn’t consciously weeping, wasn’t even unhappy. Wasn’t anything. He slid back on his pillows and slept. Again the knocking awoke him, but this time it was different – firmer, sharper. The door opened and Geoff came in. “You missed the run this morning, Jan,” he announced, ignoring the inert figure in bed. “Still, you’ve just got time for a bit of breakfast, then I’ll see you in my office at nine. Right?” Shocked into action, Jan sat upright, wideeyed. “I can’t,” he said. 262

“What do you mean?” asked Geoff sharply. “I can’t do those things – go to breakfast, to your office.” “Why not?” Geoff looked genuinely surprised. “You’ll make it in time if you get a move on.” “No, I don’t mean there’s no time. I mean I can’t . . . can’t . . .” Jan’s voice trailed miserably off. “Can’t what?” Geoff asked, gently persisting. Jan gave a shuddering sigh. “I can’t get up,” he muttered. “I see.” Geoff looked at him thoughtfully. “Well, your injuries were quite slight – that cut on your arm, a few bruises. Maybe it was the bump on your head. Shall I send you for an X-ray?” Jan shook his head. “Not cuts and bruises,” he whispered. “Not the bump on the head.” “So what is it that’s stopping you getting out of bed?” Geoff prompted. There was a pause. Jan looked at Geoff; surely the man could see what was wrong? He was a qualified nurse, wasn’t he? And his specialism was Mental Health? “You know, Jan, by rights you should have reported for duty half an hour ago,” Geoff pointed out mildly. 263

“For duty?” Jan was horrified. How could he be expected to go on duty, to help the patients when he himself was. . . “I’m too ill,” he said. “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” Geoff nodded. “Where are you ill?” Jan hesitated. He felt terrible in a general sort of way, but he couldn’t begin to describe any specific symptom. “I have a headache,” he said, though he hadn’t. “I’m not surprised,” Geoff said. “It’s this over-heated building. You should have come out for a run – that would’ve cleared your head.” “I couldn’t run,” said Jan. “I am too tired – terribly, terribly tired.” Geoff nodded, apparently sympathetic. “You’re all the same, you students,” he said. “So used to sitting on your bum all day, the first week on placement knocks you out.” Jan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d seen himself in the bathroom mirror, knew he looked ghastly – sheet-white, gaunt, patches under his eyes black as bruises. Why couldn’t Geoff see this? “I am ill,” he said, quite loudly this time. “How?” Geoff repeated. Tears welled up from Jan’s eyes; swallowing a sob, he pointed to himself. 264

“In here,” he gasped, pounding his chest. “And here,” pointing to his head. “I am so sick and so tired I can’t get up.” His head dropped, his whole body sagged, his hands dropped down on to the bed and he felt the tears drip down his pyjama jacket. “Don’t you understand?” he asked. “Aye, lad, I understand.” Geoff leaned over and patted Jan’s thin shoulder gently. “Point is, do you?” There was a long silence, then Jan looked up, wiped his wet face, and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I understand that I am ill inside myself, in my soul, mayhaps.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “Mentally ill,” he said. And he sat back with something like relief. “Well, now you’ve admitted it, you’re on your way to getting better.” Geoff smiled and nodded at him thoughtfully for a moment. “So, you’re in a funny old position in this department, aren’t you?” he said. “No longer a student nurse – more a patient.” He laughed. “What are we going to do with you?” he asked. “I hope you’re going to make me better,” said Jan, smiling painfully. “Nay, lad, we can’t do that. I’ve told you – in the end that’s up to you.” He turned to the door. “And Dr Hammond, of course. That’s why I want you in my office at 265

nine o’clock. Dr Hammond’s popping in to have a chat with you – right?” He stared at Jan. Jan stared back then slowly, hesitantly, he nodded. “I will come,” he said.

266

Chapter 9

A

nd so Jan was transformed from student nurse to hospital patient – or so he thought. Dr Hammond prescribed largactil, Geoff prescribed rest and quiet and Karen provided the back-up service. It seemed to Jan that all he had to do was to keep on taking the pills, ask Karen to make the occasional coffee, and shut himself up in his room alone, dozing and dreaming day and night. But he soon found there was a price to pay. “You can take the run tomorrow,” Geoff told him towards the end of the week. “I’m off.” “Off where?” Jan asked. “Off – you know, as in ‘day off’.” “I came in last Saturday night, worked over Sunday, didn’t I?” Jan shook his head; he couldn’t remember last Sunday – or even last night. Didn’t want to. 267

“Doug Bellamy’s on but he won’t take the run. Plays it by the book, does our Doug.” Geoff leaned over and patted Jan’s back. “So, it’s up to you, lad.” Jan stared stonily out of the window. “I can’t.” Geoff ignored him. “We’ve just got a nice little group going now – don’t want to lose ’em. They soon get out of the habit, you know – miss a couple of mornings and never get up early again.” Jan sighed. “But I am ill,” he protested. Geoff nodded. “Aye,” he agreed. “And this is one way of getting better.” Ignoring Jan’s stricken face, he went on, “Don’t go pressing them too much – especially not Karen; she soon overdoes it. Martin’s your pace-maker – slow but steady, could keep on for hours.” “I can’t go,” Jan turned his back on Geoff. Geoff said nothing and he never moved. Eventually Jan turned over to see what he was doing. He was sitting in the single armchair, apparently dozing, but as Jan sat up his eyes opened. “I was thinking,” he said, “that if you go on working with the group, living here for a bit but keeping all your notes for your assignment, you could pass this placement with flying colours.” 268

“Colours?” “Aye – you know, as in flags.” Jan frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Right, I’ll explain the reference; where’s your notebook?” Jan looked vaguely round. He had no idea where the notebook was; he hadn’t even noticed a new word for days. But Geoff flipped through all the papers on the dressing-table and soon came up with the little red book. Further search revealed a pencil. “Now then, ‘flying colours’,” he said. “Ready?” Jan blinked at the white page, took the pencil in his shaking fingers, and began laboriously to write as Geoff expanded on the theme of flags and warfare as if Jan was a military student, not a nurse. Jan looked at the wobbly letters on the page and wondered why he himself was bothering. Why Geoff was bothering. . . Nevertheless, he went on writing, and drawing the little flags as Geoff described them, and he noticed his hand grow steadier, his interest ever so slightly roused. Ah – occupational therapy – that’s what Geoff was up to! Jan glared at him and stopped writing. But before he could protest he was interrupted by a knock on the door. 269

Head bowed, Jan quickly turned his attention to his notebook. “Go on,” urged Geoff. “Tell ’em to come in.” Jan looked round the small room, made even smaller with Geoff’s bulk spreading over the arm-chair, his legs sprawled out, filling the only space. “There is no room,” he pointed out. “That’s all right – I’m just leaving.” Geoff stood up. “Go on,” he said again. “It’s your room – I can’t invite anybody in.” Jan sighed. “Come in,” he muttered, unwelcoming. After all that therapy nonsense from Geoff, he really didn’t feel he could face another visitor. Especially not Claire Donovan. “Oh, I’m very sorry,” she said, pausing in the doorway. “I didn’t realize you were busy.” Jan looked helplessly at Geoff, but he moved over to the door. “Nay, lass, I’m just off.” He turned and grinned at Jan. “See you Monday,” he said. “And don’t forget that run.” He left a space behind him – a silence too. Jan slumped back on his pillows, avoiding Claire’s eyes, as she went across to sit down. “How are you feeling?” she asked. Jan shrugged. 270

“Are you feeling better than you did last weekend?” she persisted. “I don’t know,” he said, truthfully. He didn’t want to remember how he’d felt last weekend. There was a pause – a long pause. Jan stared at the wall at the end of the bed, Claire fiddled with the plastic bag on her lap. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you sooner,” she said eventually. “It is all right,” Jan assured her. It was more than that, he reflected; it was quite a relief. “I thought maybe you needed a breathing space,” Claire went on, her voice so quiet and low that he had to strain to hear it. “You see, in some way I feel responsible for your . . . breakdown.” She’d said it aloud. It was the first time Jan had heard his condition labelled. Dr Hammond was very careful to avoid labels – “stress”, he’d called it, and something called “PTS”, which, he’d explained, often happened to people who’d come through a particularly bad experience. “Post-traumatic Syndrome”; Jan recalled the words, took comfort in them. “It is stress,” he said coldly to Claire. “We do not use the word ‘breakdown’ here.” Claire flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said. 271

“And you are not responsible,” he went on. “It is stress from the battles, from leaving my country, my home, my. . .” “Family,” he wanted to add, but dared not. Even to think of them would start up the tears. “You must not blame yourself,” he added rather severely. Then, to his own surprise, he said, “I am getting better now.” “Good.” Claire looked at him doubtfully and he knew she was noticing his blackringed eyes, his haggard face, his hands, trembling again already. Swiftly he shoved them under the covers and grasped one in the other, to hold them still. “Well, I am better than last weekend,” he assured Claire, making a ghastly attempt to smile. “So much better that tomorrow I am in charge of the early morning run.” Again, the words took him by surprise. “Good,” said Claire doubtfully. “So when are you coming back?” The smile collapsed. Why was everyone so keen for him to go back to where he didn’t want to be? “Back?” he asked, playing for time. “Back where?” “To Kelham’s, of course,” she said. “To your friends.” Jan didn’t answer. It seemed to him that Kelham’s and The Six were part of a different existence now. They might have 272

been on another planet. He couldn’t even imagine himself taking the journey across the grounds. In some ways Czerny seemed closer. “I must stay here,” he muttered. “As a patient?” Claire asked, sharply. “Or as a nurse?” There was no answer to that. Jan shrugged and turned away from her. Claire took a deep breath. “You see, I do feel responsible. I think your – er – trouble started over in Donegal. Maybe it was the flight that triggered off something, or perhaps it was just the holiday that did it – relaxing and all. . .” “Ah, so you are a psychiatrist?” Jan sneered. “No, I’m not,” Claire said quietly, and Jan immediately felt guilty. “But I have been thinking, Jan, about you – about us.” She paused, as if giving him the opportunity to interrupt. He didn’t, so she went on. “You may be right to stay over here for a while, whatever your role. Things are always hectic over at Kelham’s; we’re not the most restful company, I know.” She smiled. “And I think that’s what you’re needing now, Jan – a rest – from us all.” Silence. Jan could hear the spatter of rain on the window, the steady hum of the central heating system, and far away, down 273

the corridor, a familiar “toc-toc-toc” of heavy rubber boots. “So you see,” Claire stood up, “you mustn’t be worrying about me – about us. We’ll just take a little holiday from each other – see how things are when you’re feeling better.” She leaned over the bed to look into his eyes. And all the time he was aware of the footsteps getting closer. “Bye, love,” said Claire. She took his hand and held it up to her face. “When – if – you want to see me, just tell one of the others.” Jan could scarcely breathe. When the knock came at the door, he couldn’t even call an answer. “Jan? You there, love?” Karen’s voice sounded clearly through the door, cheerful and chirpy as it always was when she was on a high. Jan sat up and pulled his hand away from Claire. “Come in!” he called brightly. She stood in the doorway, a vision of leather and metal, her short, blonde spikes around her head like a halo. “Hi!” she lifted a hand to Claire. “You one of his nursing friends?” “Yes, I am,” said Claire, though she was still looking at Jan. “Just one of his nursing 274

friends,” she said. And then she turned away, pushed past Karen and was gone. “Wow!” Karen whistled. “Did I interrupt something?” She wasn’t nearly so bright and bumptious next morning, Jan observed. Nobody was. Now he realized why they were so silent on the runs: merely getting out of bed used up most of their energy and they had none left for talking. When Martin had banged on his door that morning, Jan had turned his face into his pillow and groaned. He couldn’t get up, he told himself – hadn’t the strength to move off the bed, never mind run along the track. But Martin had persisted and Jan, afraid he would awaken the whole corridor, struggled into his track-suit and out to the foyer where half a dozen runners awaited him. And now they were spread out along the track – Karen leading, pressing hard as usual, though she looked as if she’d hardly slept all night, Martin mid-field, staring straight ahead, pushing one foot in front of the other, one-two, one-two. . . From the end of the line, Jan watched and remembered that feeling of being on automatic pilot. The feeling he’d had when he’d run to the Mental Health Unit, away from the fire and the bangs of the fireworks. 275

The feeling he’d experienced at Czerny Hospital, when casualties were arriving every second and the throb of heavy gunfire echoed relentlessly from the hills above the town. Jan closed his eyes for a second, as if to wash away the memories. And opened them sharpish as a cry went out ahead. Putting on a spurt, he caught up with a cluster of people by the copse. “Karen’s done a runner,” announced Alan, the oldest in the group. “Again,” added Margaret, jogging from foot to foot. “Shall we go and get her?” she added with relish. “We’d never catch up,” said Alan. Jan could feel his heart racing, the saliva rising in his mouth, the hint of nausea edging up from his stomach. Oh God, not now! Doug Bellamy had made it very obvious that he wasn’t happy with Jan’s dual role on the unit. “So what are you, then?” he’d asked, apparently innocently. “A nurse off sick or a fit patient?” Jan had refused to answer then, but now he realized that if he didn’t cope with this crisis, he’d soon be classified – in Doug’s mind at least – as an unfit patient. Or, worse, as a mentally sick nurse, bundled back into the main hospital. And suddenly he knew he didn’t want either label. 276

“Which way?” he asked, addressing Martin, who pointed off the track and into the woods. Jan hesitated. None of this group needed to be kept under supervision; Alan, for example, often came out running alone, as did Martin. But some of the patients were at their worst first thing, so it was accepted that they should be accompanied by someone from the staff – even someone as lowly as Jan. Doug Bellamy had expressed his doubts about Jan leading the run as soon as he’d arrived on duty that morning. If Jan sent them back unaccompanied. . . On the other hand, it was accepted that Karen was prone to doing a runner – and to harming herself in all sorts of ways. And yet, when she’d last run away from him up at the hospital, it was only to have a cigarette. “We’ll take the path up through the woods,” he said decisively. “You take the lead, Martin – as fast as you like. And everyone will smell.” There was a pause and Jan was aware of puzzled faces turning to him. He sniffed. “Like so,” he explained. “Karen will be smoking somewhere, I think.” “Ah! You mean we’re on the scent,” said Alan. And everyone laughed, partly at the joke, but mainly, Jan reflected, with relief. Relief at what? At having someone 277

to take decisions? Well, he knew how they felt – wished he had someone to take a few decisions for him. No time now though. “Come on, then,” he said. “Off you go, Martin.” They ran on steadily, not fast, sniffing the air and smiling at each other – the first time Jan had seen them exchange any looks at all. And he understood now why they didn’t, why they rarely communicated. The blackness, the blankness, the utter exhaustion and the sleepless nights left them without interest in anyone or anything other than their illness. It was all-consuming. But this little crisis had brought them together, given them an aim in common, quite apart from their illness and their treatments. Jan jogged alongside Margaret and noticed that his symptoms of panic had subsided now. He almost smiled. But a shout up ahead made him put on speed. Martin was at an intersection where a narrow track led deep into the undergrowth. His head was held unusually high, his nose in the air – obviously sniffing – and he was pointing, almost animatedly, into the bushes. He made no attempt to speak, however, when Jan joined him. Not that there was any need: the smell of cigarette smoke overlay the dank scent of rotting vegetation. 278

“Karen!” Jan called. “Karen, you have led us off the track; now come and lead us home again.” No answer. The others came up now, standing in a silent group around him. “Karen,” Jan tried again. “We must get back; Doug Bellamy will not be pleased with me if we are late.” Blackmail, he thought, grimly, that’s what this is. He knew Karen was fond of him; she’d want to protect him from Doug Bellamy’s wrath. And he was right – there was a response. Not an actual answer, more a rustling in the bushes and a slight sound – a whimper, perhaps? Martin looked a question at Jan, who nodded, and they both pushed off the path and into the dense undergrowth. Jan felt the brambles dragging at his tracksuit, ripping his hands, tangling in his hair, and yet he didn’t care. It was as if the effort of battling with the brambles was creating energy within him. Grunting, he thrust a fist through the prickly barrier towards the light and almost fell over Karen as she crouched in a sudden clearing. “Come on, Karen!” Jan commanded. “You should not rest in the middle of running; it is bad for the circulation.” But she didn’t move. Couldn’t move, he realized. 279

“Are you hurt?” he asked. He was suddenly reminded of a similar situation, with himself prone on grass, Claire asking the same question as she bent to examine his ankle. Karen lifted her head and grimaced with pain as he gently worked the right foot. “Never mind that – find my lighter,” she commanded. Martin had joined them now. He reached out to lift Karen up but she waved him away. “Go and look for my lighter,” she told him. “I dropped it when I fell over that damned root.” Martin obediently turned his attention to the grassy tussocks around them. Jan, meanwhile, had loosened the lace of Karen’s trainer. He tried to ease it off. “Ooooh!” she gasped. “Just leave it alone.” Jan looked down at her; she was very white now, her face creased with pain and shock. And it was a relief to know that she had something physically wrong with her; dealing with injuries came easily to him. “Here – wrap this round you.” He took off his tracksuit top and put it on her shoulders. “Now, Martin and I will lift you – like a cradle, see?” He indicated with crossed hands. “Come on, Martin,” he called. 280

Between them they lifted Karen on to her one good foot, then cradled her back through the path they’d left in the undergrowth. As soon as they emerged, the others came forward with murmurs of concern. “Eeh, you’ve done it now, Karen,” said Margaret. “You’ll not be doing a runner for many a day now.” But she smiled at the injured girl, and supported her bad leg so that it didn’t drag painfully down. “Alan, can you get close behind us; lift her a little under her arms, let her head rest against you,” Jan commanded. “Now, are you comfortable, Karen?” He turned to look into her peaky little face. Karen shook her head. “What about my lighter?” she demanded. “And the rest of my fags?” Jan almost laughed at her – and then felt amazed by the urge. It was a long time since he’d wanted to laugh. “Martin and I will come back to find them,” he promised. “But now we must get you back to the unit and over to X-ray – pronto.” “I’ll hold you to that,” said Karen, rather faintly. She turned to look up at Jan and gave a great wink. Jan couldn’t help smiling back, taken by surprise by the surge of tenderness he 281

suddenly felt for her. Not that Karen would notice – she’d fainted again. “Let’s go!” he ordered. He braced his shoulders and, nodding to the other two carriers, led the group back up the running track.

282

Chapter 10

I

“ shouldn’t be spending too much time with Karen Shelford, if I were you, lad,” Geoff said. Startled, Jan looked up from the files he was checking. He was in Geoff’s office, working on a tedious administrative job that he would have despised as “nonmedical” a week ago. But now he enjoyed the steady routine and the silent, undemanding company of Geoff. He was feeling better, in a vaguely uneasy way, so long as he kept busy with simple, non-stressful tasks. And although Dr Hammond assured him that the anti-depressants would not start working for at least a week, he was already sleeping more peacefully. And without consciously taking the decision, he had settled back into his role of student nurse again. Nick brought his files and notes across, Nikki collected psychology books from the library and Katie, obviously 283

puzzled as to why Claire always passed the job on to her, dashed in with assignment hand-outs. So Jan’s daily routine was becoming established: early morning run (without Karen, alas!), snack and coffee in the residents’ kitchen, work on the. computer for Nurse Hawley, a few admin jobs for Geoff – all very peaceful, very satisfactory. For the first time in weeks, Jan felt he had things under control. He spread the files out on Geoff’s desk, noting with pleasure that his hands were almost steady now. “We are all spending much time with Karen, now she is stuck in the unit,” he observed. Karen’s fall had resulted in an inflamed Achilles tendon; her leg was strapped up and she had to rest it. “Couldn’t even walk out of this place, never mind do a runner,” she’d joked, holding court in the lounge all day. Even so, she was getting around on her crutches with remarkable speed and had queues of eager attendants ready to push the wheelchair across to the cafeteria at meal times. But Jan preferred to see her alone in her room, partly because he knew she’d be feeling low, but mostly, he had to admit, because he wanted to be alone with her. 284

“She spent a lot of her time with me before her accident,” he pointed out to Geoff. “I know she did,” Geoff agreed. “But that was different; she’s free to visit who she likes, but you’re part of the team. It doesn’t do to get involved with a patient, you know.” He looked closely at Jan, who flushed and bent over his work. “Any road up,” Geoff went on, “you’ll not be around so much yourself now you’re feeling better.” “What?” “It’s time you were getting back to Kelham’s,” said Geoff. Jan stared at him. “But . . . I am not ready for that,” he protested. Geoff shrugged. “And you never will be if you stay on here,” he said. “Besides, I need the room.” There was no arguing with that; Jan went on with his filing in sullen silence. “You can take this afternoon to move your stuff,” Geoff offered. “Need a lift?” Jan shook his head. “I have only my bag,” he said. “I’ll take it when I go off this evening.” He hesitated. “After I’ve spent some time with Karen.” “I wouldn’t do that.” Geoff spoke gently. “You’ll see plenty of her in the daytime – in your official capacity,” he added firmly. 285

By the time he’d packed his bag – and three plastic carriers – Jan almost wished he’d taken up Geoff’s offer of a lift. He couldn’t believe how much stuff he’d acquired in little more than a week. He put Nick’s portable CD/radio carefully back into its box and gathered up a dozen or more discs from the dressing table: dance music from Nick – not Jan’s taste – and a couple of Clannad. His heart sank: they must be Claire’s. Then there were Nikki’s big art books, a box of cookies from Barbara and a whole bowlful of fruit – a collective offering organized by Katie. She’d delivered it only last Saturday, wide-eyed and curious. “Claire says to let her know if there’s anything you need,” she said. “She’s working in the library all morning,” she added pointedly. They both knew that Jan usually helped Claire with her assignments. Jan merely nodded, accepted the gifts and listened to the latest news from Kelham’s with an air of detachment. It meant nothing to him just then; he could scarcely remember being there. It seemed to him that the Mental Health Unit was the best place on earth to be: safe, secure, with a regular routine and a gentle atmosphere. Kelham’s was filled with bright talk and loud laughter – and Claire. What was he to do about Claire? 286

Gloomily he picked up his luggage and staggered out to the foyer. “You’re leaving us, then?” Margaret was sitting by the desk, rocking gently from side to side. “I’ll be back in the morning,” said Jan, trying to sound cheerful. “Aye.” Margaret nodded more vigorously. “But you’ll not be one of us then, will you?” Jan looked at her helplessly. She was right, of course, but he didn’t want to admit it. “Will you take these into the kitchen?” He offered the bag in which the cookies and fruit were packed. “Tell everyone to help themselves.” She nodded into the carrier bag, delved in and produced the cookies. “Thanks!” she said. “Just in time for afternoon tea. I’ll go and put the kettle on.” Clutching the bag to her, she scuttled off to the kitchen. “I hope they all like spicy biscuits,” said Barbara, standing by the open door. Jan jumped guiltily. “Oh, I liked them very much,” he assured her. “But I have to leave and there is so much to carry. . .” He surveyed the collection of plastic bags with dismay. “Lucky I came over to see you, then,” said Barbara. “Come on – you take the travel bag, I’ll take the rest.” 287

Jan looked back to the lounge, where he was sure Karen was lying on a sofa, leg propped up in front of her, Martin dancing attendance. Jan had planned to see her alone, to explain about losing his room, to assure her – of what? “Ready?” Barbara asked, pausing at the main door. “Yes,” he said. Jan had hoped to slip back into Kelham’s unobserved. In the early evening most people would be in the cafeteria, having supper, or in the Medics’ Mess, having a drink. Well, there would be coffee and milk up in the Kelhamites’ kitchen and, with luck, a slice or two of bread to toast. He’d make do with that for supper; he was never hungry these days anyway. Then he’d sort out his room, turn in for the night, take a pill and hope to sleep until morning. But he’d reckoned without Barbara. “You look as though you could do with some decent food,” she observed, as she put the carrier bags down in his room. “Soup’s up in five minutes – made it yesterday.” Jan was about to protest, but she was already gone. He looked cautiously along the corridor. Nobody about. Apparently Barbara was the only one at home just then, and he 288

felt he could face a bowl of her soup. He followed her into the kitchen. “So, you’re better now?” she asked, as she tipped the soup into a pan and lit the gas. “Well, what is that word Katie uses,” he smiled sadly, “when she means almost?” “Oh, you mean ‘nobbut just’.” Barbara laughed. “You’ve got a good ear for languages, Jan.” “Well, I must thank all of you for that.” Jan pulled out a chair and sat at the table, leaning his head on his hands. “You have been so patient with me. I even think in English now. Soon I shall forget my own language.” He smiled, though he wasn’t joking. “You mustn’t do that,” Barbara told him. “You’ll need it again one day.” Slowly, sadly, Jan shook his head. There it was again, that suggestion that he’d go back. They didn’t know what they were saying, these people who’d never experienced war. Nobody in their right mind would go back to what was left of Czerny. “I hear on the news that things are settling down,” Barbara said. She poured dark liquid, pungent and thick, into his bowl. “Bread?” she asked. Jan nodded. “Settling down in Czerny?” he asked. “There is nothing left to settle, I think.” 289

“Well, that’s why I was on my way to see you.” Barbara came and sat down beside Jan, her expression serious, yet filled with suppressed excitement. “You know my mother is a nurse – a midwife?” Jan took a sip of the soup and nodded. “This is very good,” he said. “I have not felt hungry for days, but this I can eat.” He tore a piece of bread off and chewed vigorously. For once he could really taste what he was eating. “Mmmm!” he muttered, bending to inhale the aroma. “Listen, Jan, this is very important,” Barbara said. “Now, my family are Adventists – you understand?” Jan stopped chewing, swallowed hard and stared at her. “You understand the word Adventists?” she asked him. “Oh, yes. They were in Czerny even when we left. They have – immunization?” “Immunity,” Barbara corrected. “Yes, that’s right. They work with the aid agencies, delivering food packs, medical supplies – and letters.” She brought the last word out with a flourish. “Letters?” Jan’s eyes opened wide. Barbara nodded. “My mum’s been on a mission to your country, trying to get food and clothes and blankets to the camps before they’re cut off by the winter. I saw her just 290

before she left and gave her your family’s name and the address you mentioned ages ago. Was it your house or your grandma’s?” “We all lived there together,” said Jan, thinking of the tall shuttered house above the river and waiting for the pang of pain that always accompanied the memory. But it never came; maybe the pills were beginning to work already. “Well, they’re all back home now. I talked to Mum on the phone last weekend; she sounded as high as she always does when she’s been doing good works.” “They are very brave, very kind, the Adventists,” said Jan. “And very clever, some of us,” laughed Barbara. She put a hand on his arm and looked straight into his eyes. “She found them – your family – way up in the mountains, away from the worst of the fighting. Hey – you never told us your mother’s a doctor.” Jan sat rigid, upright, quite, quite still, his spoon in his hand. Barbara was right: he’d never spoken to anyone about his family, not even to Claire. And everyone, assuming he’d left them behind, maybe even lost them, avoided the topic. “Yes, she was,” he whispered. “Still is,” Barbara corrected him. “She’s running a sort of refuge for the injured and an orphanage for all the stray kids. My mum 291

was most impressed at the work they were doing – with so few resources too. . .” For once, Jan wasn’t interested in hospital organization. “Go on,” he urged. “What about Father – and Granya?” “It’s all in the letters. Mum brought them out and posted them on. I got them today. I was just bringing them over when I met you in the foyer.” She smiled. “Thought you’d rather receive them somewhere more private.” The spoon clattered down into the soup. Jan buried his head in his hands and took deep, shaking breaths. Gently, Barbara put a package on the table in front of him. Gently, very gently, she leaned over and squeezed his shoulder. “I was in two minds as to whether to deliver them right away, or to wait until you were feeling more – more together, you know?” she said softly. “But, well, I’m not qualified yet, but my nursing instinct tells me that losing touch with your country – and especially your family – is at the root of your depression.” She sat back and looked at the bowed head. “Anyway, Ma assures me this is what you need – ‘better than all the tryptophan in the world, Barbie-girl!’ she says. And she’s the greatest nurse I know, since my gran retired.” 292

Jan lifted up his face, blinked rapidly to clear the tears from his eyes, and looked at the package in wonder. He put out a finger, touched it, brought it gently towards him, then in a sudden movement, grabbed it and clutched it to his chest. Barbara turned back to the sink, ignoring the harsh, dry sobs behind her. She made a mug of coffee, sifting two spoonfuls of sugar into it. “Here,” she said. “Take this to your room, and read your letters in peace.” She put a hand under his elbow and, with surprising strength, almost lifted him out of his chair, guiding him along the corridor to his room. “I’ll be around if you need me.” Then, closing the door softly, she left him alone with his letters.

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Chapter 11

Vlada Nov 5th

M

y dear Jan, We were so relieved to hear from Serena Robinson that you are safe now. We knew about the evacuation from Czerny hospital but we thought you had been taken to Germany; indeed we were hoping you would be studying at one of the universities there. When Serena Robinson told me that you are a student nurse I laughed aloud. I think she was quite shocked, but then, she didn’t know how hard you fought against a medical career. Well, this war has changed many things – including, it seems, your mind. Perhaps you will have the opportunity to change it again and study medicine later? We were among the last to leave Czerny; we came straight up here to Granya’s family house – you remember the holidays you

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used to have with Granya and Grandpa at the farm? We brought some refugees along with us, including many children who have lost their families. They live in the stables and barns or camp out in the fields – even now, as winter sets in. In the house we have casualties from all sides; many of them have hobbled – even crawled – away from the fighting and sadly, many of them are too weakened by the journey to survive treatment even if I could provide it. We are short of everything – bandages, bedding, drugs, electricity, heating, food, clothing. . . Fortunately there is plenty of clean, fresh water, though it has to be brought up to the hospital in casks. I never thought to see your father driving a donkey up a mountainside! I leave him to continue our story and send you my love, as always, dear, dear Jan. I am so proud and pleased that you have at last turned to medicine for your career. Perhaps this wretched war will have ended by the time you qualify as a doctor. Mama Jan sat at his desk, his mother’s letter in his hand, though he stared blindly at the wall in front of him. He could see her now, tugging that stray strand of hair that always escaped from behind her ear, frowning slightly as she 295

concentrated on a sick child or her notes. Funny – he couldn’t imagine her without her white coat. Even through his tears, Jan smiled as he glanced once more at her letter; how typical that her first message for over a year should be concerned with medical details! Dear Mama, he thought, I wonder whether you’ve taken your white coat up to Vlada with you? Sighing deeply, he turned to the next letter. My dear son, So – you have taken that longed-for trip to England without me after all! You remember how we dreamed of it one day, when the barriers were down? Well, they’re down now and all the violent feelings, so long suppressed, are let loose. I can see no end to this war; there are too many private battles, too many personal revenges. Would you believe that they have taken all our papers, our passports, everything? So now we belong nowhere. But perhaps it is good that we can start all over again from nothing. After all, that is what you are doing in England. I can only suppose you found the vocation for nursing while you were working in the hospital at Czerny. Well, you must do as you think fit, my boy. But if you wish to continue with your scientific 296

studies, the University of Brassington has a fine reputation. Unfortunately we cannot offer you any financial help – we have not drawn a salary for over a year now and our little savings are dwindling daily. Meanwhile the worst of the fighting is moving southwards and we are settling into the life of peasants. Luckily Granya still has her horticultural gift – we are rich in vegetables at least. I have two new careers now – both, of course, unpaid: headmaster of the local school and mayor of the district. And, you know, I am enjoying them both. I feel quite guilty when I thank the war for releasing me from the tedium of government committees. And so the tides of war wash us clean of ambition; to survive is enough just now. When we meet again – as I trust we shall – we will see great changes in each other, my son, but my love for you remains as deep and constant as ever. Your Pappy Now Jan gave up any pretence of holding back the tears. He admired and respected his mother, was even a little afraid of her, but he’d always loved his father deeply and his letter moved him in a way his mother’s never could. 297

Oh, Pappy! Jan thought, between sniffs and sobs. If you could see me now – a cracked-up student nurse, too miserable to think about a new career, too much of a coward, to return home to you. . . He went over to the washbasin and sluiced away the tears. Granya’s letter was brief, he noted with relief. My dear Janni, Serena Robinson brought us the best news ever. I knew in my heart that you were safe, but to know where you live and what you are doing, that is so much better. Now we can all talk of you and be happy with you. But this war might go on for many years and I shall not. We must meet again very soon. I hear the coastal resorts are opening up again now and the tourists are being allowed in. You must come to one of the holiday resorts and then we can all meet again. I need a change of scene! However you fix it, please come once more to your dear, dear, Granya Jan shook his head and smiled at this letter. His parents sent their love and advice, but Granya asked him to come back. Well, she had brought him up while his parents got on with their careers and she still thought 298

of him as “Little Janni”, bless her! He sat for a moment, feeling a great surge of love and warmth spread through him; now he knew they were safe he could get on with his life. And perhaps next year he might do as Granya asked, who knows? But first he had to go and thank Barbara – and her mother; they had been so kind to arrange all this. He picked up the letters and found himself humming happily as he went down the corridor to the kitchen. A figure was bent over the sink, silhouetted in the orange light from the car park below. Overtaken by a sudden joyful, grateful urge, he pulled her arm and began to dance round the table with her. “Oh, thanks to you, Mrs Robinson. . .” he sang, misquoting the song he’d heard Barbara sing so often. “Janni loves you more than he can say. Yeah, yeah, yeah. . .” He stopped suddenly as he realized his dancing partner was not Barbara Robinson. It was Claire Donovan. And she was a marvel. She sat Jan down at the kitchen table, filled up the big red pot with strong tea, fetched his pills, and sat in silence whilst he sipped tea and gazed at the letters spread before him as if drinking them too. 299

Claire tipped out two pills from the bottle and handed them to him. “Oh, yes, thanks.” Without looking at her he swallowed the pills, took another drink, and sighed deeply. “I am so sorry,” he said. “I have not always been right to you.” “I’m thinking perhaps we haven’t been right for each other just lately,” Claire said softly. “But I hope we are still friends?” Jan took her hand, almost formally. “Very best friends,” he said solemnly. “Friends enough to share your news?” she asked. “Of course,” he said, handing the letters to her. She shook her head. “I can’t read your language,” she protested. “Oh, I am so stupid!” Jan struck his forehead. “I will translate.” “Wait!” Claire held up a hand. “I think the others are coming up now.” She smiled and looked steadily at Jan as the sound of footsteps and excited chatter drew closer. “Could you bear to share them with us all?” “You have all shared so much with me – food, money, clothes – you even shared your family, Claire. Now, everyone can share my joy.” He looked up at her and smiled. “Call them in!” 300

It wasn’t a glamorous celebration. In deference to Jan’s drug regime and his reluctance to go out for a drink, Claire made fresh tea, Katie cut the last of the parkin, Nick made “odds-and-sods” sandwiches and Barbara emptied out the contents of the cookie tin. Jan sat at the head of the kitchen table basking in the warmth of their friendship and feeling, for the first time, that he belonged here with them. The thought gave him courage. “Now I will translate my letters,” he announced. They all sat very quiet while he read to them in a low, husky voice that just about managed not to crack. When he finished there was a pause whilst noses were blown and eyes wiped. “Oh, Jan – I’m so glad my ma brought those letters back with her,” said Barbara. “I must write and thank her,” Jan said. “She is a brave and wonderful lady.” “Brave and wonderful, yes,” Barbara laughed. “But she’s no lady – just an ordinary working nurse.” “A saint!” Jan exclaimed. “I saw the work the Adventists did in Czerny.” “Yeah, well, according to Ma, there’s plenty left to do.” Barbara turned to the others. “They’re hoping to do another run 301

before Christmas if they can get enough money together.” “Hey! We could help with that,” Katie said eagerly. “We’re good fundraisers.” That was true: the Kelhamites had already had great success in fundraising both for St Ag’s and for local charities. “Do you not think people are a bit sick of giving us money?” Claire asked. “And they’re never very keen when there’s no local angle,” Nikki pointed out. Barbara shrugged. “Don’t you worry,” she said. “They’ll manage something. The Adventists’ motto is ‘The Lord will provide’.” “Well, I wish He would provide me with a ticket home,” murmured Jan. “Just to see Granya once more. . .” There was a pause. Five pairs of eyes turned to the head of the table; thoughtful, pensive, calculating eyes. “That’s it!” cried Katie. “You are the local angle!” “What?” Jan was startled. “We raise funds for the Christmas convoy – and send you along with them!” Jan stared at her, aghast. “I can’t go back to Czerny,” he said. “Neither can they,” Barbara told him. “It’s too dangerous now. Ma says they’re planning to drive up into the mountains where the refugee camps are.” 302

“Vlada,” murmured Jan. “Granya’s farm.” And for a moment he smelt the sweet, sickly scent of the cow barns and heard the wind sighing like the sea through the pines. He stood up, lifting his mug high. “We will drink to Mrs Robinson’s Christmas Convoy!” he declared. “And to the champion fundraisers – The Six!” After the joys of celebrating – even with tea – Jan had the best night’s sleep in months and found himself late for duty the next morning. Well, at least it wasn’t a running morning, he consoled himself as he made his way across the hospital grounds. With any luck he could get himself installed in front of the computer and spend a quiet morning updating Nurse Hawley’s drug lists. But he’d reckoned without Karen. She was sitting waiting for him in the foyer, all set up in her wheelchair. “You’re late,” she accused. “I’ve been waiting for you to come and push me across to breakfast.” “You never eat breakfast,” Jan protested. “I’ll get you coffee and toast from the kitchen here.” “Like hell!” Karen glared all round. “I’m pig-sick of being cooped up in here. I need a change of scene.” 303

“A change of scene” – the very words Granya had used, the words she always used when she took Jan off to the farm for the summer. “The country food and fresh air will do us both good.” Jan smiled; he could hear Granya’s voice now, as if she was standing right there. . . “. . .do you good,” Karen was saying. “Are you listening to me, Jan?” “No – sorry – what?” Jan stuttered. “I told you that Dr Hammond would do you good, didn’t I?” she repeated. “Still taking the pills, are you?” Jan nodded. “I am feeling better,” he admitted. But he knew that wasn’t just the pills. Since yesterday he’d felt more secure, more rooted in the world, even though his family was still far away. “Yeah, he’s great, is Dr Hammond.” Karen backed the chair off and looked hard at Jan. “Says I’ll be able to leave before Christmas,” she announced casually. “Leave? You mean . . . go home?” Karen shrugged. “Half-way,” she said. “Half-way home?” Jan was puzzled. “Where is that?” She laughed. “Not far away,” she said. “It’s a half-way home, as in half-way to getting better. A room in a house with somebody in charge in case you need help.” 304

Jan looked at her thoughtfully. “We shall miss you, Karen,” he said. “Oh, no, you won’t. I’ll be back most days – Dr Hammond’s clinic, therapy sessions – then there’s my plaster to come off, followed by loads of physio. I’ll be around a while yet.” She looked at Jan, almost hopefully. “I’m glad,” he said. “Glad enough to push me over to breakfast?” Karen grinned. Jan hesitated, thinking of the queues, the clatter and the chatter in the cafeteria at that hour, and the sheer physical effort of shoving the wheelchair across to the main building. “Come on!” Karen commanded, letting off the brake. “I’m ready!” And perhaps I ought to be ready, Jan told himself. I’ll have to face the chatter and clatter of crowds when we’re fundraising. And I’ll have to be really fit to travel on the Christmas convoy. He moved behind Karen and grasped the handle of the wheelchair. “Right!” he said. “Two all-day breakfasts, here we come!” He set off across the foyer, through the glass door, out along the terrace and up the road at such a speed that Karen laughed and squealed and screamed all the way to the main entrance of St Ag’s. 305

Epilogue

A

ll right at the back there?” the van driver called. “All done.” Jan slammed the double doors, turned the key, and made his way back up to the cab. “Ready for the off?” The driver turned on the ignition. Jan swung himself into the seat alongside the driver, clipped the belt on and settled back. “I’m ready, Serena,” he said. “Well, you can settle in for a long run,” said Serena Robinson – driver just then, not midwife. “Apart from the break on the cross-channel ferry, you’ll be living in that seat for three days.” “I don’t mind,” said Jan, grinning happily down at the traffic already jamming the suburbs in the weak dawn light. “You can relax until we get over the last border,” Serena promised. “I can manage a bit of French and Italian myself, but I’m certainly glad to let you take over with the Serbo-Croat.”

“

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Jan smiled. “Oh, it will be easy for me,” he assured her. The easiest part of the whole business, he reflected; there had been so many obstacles to overcome. In the first place, he was on placement at the Mental Health Unit until mid-December. Secondly, although his recovery was steady, it was slow; the panic attacks still hit him if he was over-tired and the depression was always there when he first woke. So even if the Kelhamites raised the funds for the Christmas convoy, Jan always had doubts as to whether they’d take a mental wreck along. Serena Robinson, apparently, had no such doubts. Indeed, she made it a condition of accepting the funds. And Sister Thomas arranged his sick leave, Geoff Huckthwaite filled in a glowing placement report so that he wouldn’t have to repeat the missing two weeks, and Claire’s father sent a fantastically generous cheque, together with a vanload of canned food, which he claimed was what Jan would have eaten over Christmas in Ireland. So many people had given so generously, Jan refl ected. It was as if they felt responsible for the mad things that were happening in his country. A year ago, when he’d first arrived in England, he’d felt he belonged nowhere, to no one. Now, it 307

seemed, he belonged all over the place, to everyone. And in the frantic weeks of fund-raising he was “all over the place”. The Kelhamites ran folk evenings in the Medics’ Mess, the hospital authorities allowed appeal days around the wards, which Nick publicized on the hospital radio, the children in Paediatrics ransacked toy cupboards and bookshelves, the women in Obstetrics offered excess baby clothes, hundreds of hospital visitors emptied their pockets and purses into Nikki’s big red appeal buckets, and Jan even found enough courage to speak out in public. Katie fixed an interview on local radio for Jan, then took him by the hand and made sure he went through with it. Well, it was only five minutes on a Tuesday afternoon and hardly anyone would be listening, he thought. Then he discovered that Karen had taped the programme and was hiring it out at a pound a time! “Every little helps,” she’d said, grinning like a little cat. And every little had certainly helped. Here he was, part of a three-vehicle convoy filled with supplies – and Christmas presents – for the refugees back home. Jan Buczowski tapped his fingers on the dashboard, rhythmically, 6/8 time, and hummed an old Slavonic tune that Granya used to sing to him. 308

“That’s nice,” Serena Robinson nodded her head in time to the music. “What is it?” “A song for a special feast day,” Jan explained. “Granya used to sing it at the dark end of winter, just as spring began.” Serena Robinson smiled. “Very apt,” she said. “Apt? What is that?” Jan reached in his pocket for his notebook. “Suitable,” Serena explained. “A suitable song for coming out of the dark days into the light.” She smiled at him briefly, knowingly. “What’s it called?” she asked. Jan grinned and answered her in Serbo-Croat. “Don’t be daft, Jan,” Serena laughed. “Tell me in English.” Jan thought for a moment, searching for the most apt words. Then a wide grin spread across his face. “Saint Agatha’s Blessing,” he said.

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