The Gemel Ring

There were no operations that day; the routine of dressings, getting patients up who didn’t want to get up, and keeping in bed those who were determined to get out of it, conducting Miss Evans, the Principal Nursing Officer, round the ward, dealing with various house-men, physiotherapists, visitors and those of her staff who wanted her private ear for some reason or other, kept Charity busy until she went off duty at five o’clock. She was to meet Clive at seven; there was plenty of time to bath and change, so she went along to the sitting-room and ate her tea in company with such of her friends who were off duty too, talking shop as usual, and presently went upstairs to her pleasant little room.

Clive hadn’t told her where they were going, she supposed it would be the quiet little restaurant close to the hospital where they had been several times before. She chose the lime green wild silk with its matching jacket and brushed her chestnut hair until it shone, before running downstairs to meet him at the Home entrance. She hoped uneasily that he wasn’t going to ask her to marry him; he had started to once before and she had gently dissuaded him, knowing that she was only postponing the inevitable.

She wasn’t even sure what she was going to say when he did propose; she was attracted to him, perhaps she was a little in love with him, but she didn’t think the feeling was enough to last a lifetime. Love, she felt sure, should sweep one off one’s feet, and leave one uncaring about anything or anybody else, and Clive hadn’t done that—besides, she wasn’t even sure that he loved her. She had no conceit, but she couldn’t help but be aware that she was a striking-looking girl, one whom men liked to be seen out with; she was also aware that she had intelligence as well as looks. She sighed and shrugged and then smiled at Clive waiting patiently in the hospital courtyard.

They dined pleasantly together, and over coffee he asked her to marry him, and looking at his earnest face across the table, she very nearly said yes. Only a fleeting memory, the tail-end of a dream, of a laconic giant of a man who didn’t like her accent, prevented her. But because Clive was so persistent, she did promise to think it over.

“I have to be quite certain,” she told him. “You see, when I marry it will be for the rest of my life—oh, I understand that sometimes divorce is inevitable, but perhaps it could sometimes be prevented if the people concerned had been quite sure before they married.” She grinned engagingly. “Aren’t I a pompous ass? I’m bossy too, you know—you might hate that.”

She hoped that he would say something about making sure that she would never get the chance to boss him, but he didn’t, only smiled and said that he wouldn’t mind—a remark which strangely disquieted her.

It was when they were leaving the restaurant that a girl ahead of them fell in the foyer. Both Charity and Clive went to help her, for the girl’s companion was elderly and stout and past bending. The girl was a wisp of a thing, slim and golden-haired and blue-eyed, who to Charity’s faint disgust, gave way at once to easy tears even as she assured Clive prettily that she had only tripped and not hurt herself in the least. And Charity, glancing at Clive’s face, could see that he rather liked this feminine display of helplessness, a disquieting thought, for she had been brought up to control her feelings in public and reserve her tears for the privacy of her own room, something she had sometimes found difficult when she had longed to have a good cry without having to wait until she was by herself, when quite often, by that time, she had no wish to weep any more. But this pretty little creature she was supporting now had no such inhibitions; she cried with ease and charm so that Charity felt compelled to suggest that they should retire to the powder room and repair the damage, if there was any.

The girl cheered up under Charity’s kindly eye, introduced herself as Margery Cross, and after a few minutes of re-doing her face, followed Charity back into the foyer where the two gentlemen were chatting quite happily together. There was another round of introductions before Margery thanked Clive with all the fervour of one who had been rescued from untold horrors, and with several backward glances, accompanied the stout gentleman, who it turned out was her doting father, to the taxi waiting for them. Charity stood patiently beside Clive while he waited on the pavement, staring after it until it had disappeared round a corner, before taking her arm and starting on their walk back to the hospital.

“Poor child,” he remarked. “It’s so unusual to find someone so sensitive in these days; most girls are so self-sufficient.”

“They have to be,” said Charity mildly.

He glanced at her quickly. “You were a dear, taking her under your wing like that—her father was most grateful. That’s what I like about you, Charity, you always know what to do.”

But she didn’t, she told him silently; she didn’t know if she wanted to marry him, did she? And if she had known what to do at Vlissingen, she would have found a way of talking—even for a few minutes—to that doctor who remained so persistently in her thoughts, just to convince him that she wasn’t a priggish English girl, boastful about her knowledge of German and resentful of his criticism. She admitted now that it was his complete unawareness of her which had so annoyed her, and if she were to be quite honest, she might as well admit at the same time that she didn’t dislike him. On the contrary.

“You’re very silent,” observed Clive. “I expect you’re tired, Charity.”

She agreed with him; not tired in the least, but it would be easier to agree than try to explain that she felt, all of a sudden, dissatisfied with life. They parted at the entrance to the Home and Clive kissed her goodnight, and although she enjoyed it, as any normal girl would, she felt no stirring within her. The fact frightened her a little as she got ready for bed. Perhaps she would never love anyone; some people had no great depth of feeling, supposing she should be one of these unfortunates? She went to sleep finally, worrying about it.

She had been back for two weeks when Miss Evans sent for her soon after eight o’clock on a day which bade fair to be both hot and busy. Theatre day, and the temperature already in the seventies. Charity muttered under her breath, bade the invaluable Lacey Bell take over, and sped through the hospital to its very heart where the PNO had her office, ringed about by lesser nursing officers whose duty it was to hold back those too eager to take up her time. But today Charity received no rebuff, no delay even, she was swept through to Miss Evans’ sanctum before she had time to do more than straighten her cap and adjust her cuffs. She had no idea why she had been sent for and there had been no moment in which to review the happenings of the last few days to discover what she had done wrong. She braced herself, took up her position before the desk and wished her superior a good morning.

It was a surprise when Miss Evans smiled at her, a rather vinegary smile, it was true, but still a smile. It was still more of a surprise when she was bidden to take a chair.

“I realise that you are busy,” began Miss Evans, a shade pompously, “but there is a matter of importance concerning yourself which I must discuss with you without delay—an urgent matter, I might say, and somewhat unusual. I have received a visit from a member of the American Embassy staff this morning with the request that you should be released from your duties here in order to nurse a member of their trade delegation in The Hague.” Her rather cold eyes studied Charity’s quiet face with interest. “A Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek—an extraordinary name—I understand that you have already met him.”

Charity felt surprise and excitement and kept both feelings firmly under control. “He fainted in a car at the ferry—I did very little, I just happened to be there…”

Miss Evans held up a hand. “The details are irrelevant, Sister. I merely wished to know that you were indeed the person they ask for, although it is a puzzle to me that it must be you and no one else—one would have thought that there was a sufficiency of nurses in a large city such as The Hague. However, I found it impossible to refuse their request on Mr Boekerchek’s behalf without giving offence; you will be good enough to make ready to leave for Holland some time tomorrow.”

Charity’s green eyes glinted dangerously. “But perhaps I might not wish to go to Holland, Miss Evans,” she prompted gently. “I wasn’t aware that I had been asked.”

Her superior’s face went a rich puce; at any moment, thought Charity naughtily, she’ll begin to gobble—she had never liked Miss Evans; few of her staff did, she wasn’t too good at her job, but she was nearing retirement; for the most part they allowed themselves to be dictated to and quietly went their own way without minding overmuch. But this time, Charity did mind. She got to her feet.

“I’m afraid that I must refuse to go, Miss Evans,” she said politely. “And now, if you will excuse me, I should go back to the ward—it’s theatre day.”

She was immediately immersed in the tasks which awaited her—drips to supervise patients to send on time to the theatre, dressings to do, nurses to keep an eye on—she urged on her team of helpers, the faithful Bell at her right hand. There was certainly no time to think about her interview with Miss Evans; that she would hear more of it was a foregone conclusion. Which she did, very shortly and hardly in the manner which she would have expected.

The last case came down to the ward just after twelve o’clock. Mr Howard, whose operating day it was, worked fast and expected everyone else to do the same; he arrived hard on the heels of his patient, still in his theatre trousers and a terrible old sweater, his cap pulled untidily over his hair, his mask dragged down under his chin. He marched up the ward to where Charity was connecting the quiet form in bed to the various tubes vital to his recovery, and said impatiently: “Morning, girl—I’ll see that first case—wasn’t very happy about him.”

They were bending over the unconscious man when Mr Howard asked: “What’s all this I hear about you going to Holland, eh?”

Charity reconnected a tube and said with calm: “Matron had arranged for me to go, but I refused.”

He let out a barking laugh. “Did you now? Why?”

“I was told nothing about it until the arrangements had been made. That annoyed me, sir.”

They had moved on to the second of the patients and Mr Howard was deep in his notes when a student nurse slid silently to Charity’s side.

“There’s someone to see you, Sister,” she breathed, “he says it’s important. He’s an American.”

Mr Howard, for all his sixty years, had splendid hearing. “Run along, girl,” he advised Charity. “I don’t doubt you’re about to get a handsome apology, so you can come down off your high horse and offer your services, after all.” He cast her a quick, friendly look. “Not that I shan’t miss you.”

“How did you know…?” began Charity, and was told to hush and get on with it and leave the student nurse, pale with fright, in her place.

The man waiting for her was elderly, with a narrow, clever face and a penetrating voice which he strove to quieten out of deference to the patients. He wasted no time after he had introduced himself. “If I might have a word?” he begged, and on being shown into Charity’s office and bidden to sit, did so.

“I’ve come to apologise, my dear young lady,” he began. “I had no idea that you had been told nothing of our request—indeed, I was led to suppose that you knew of it and had consented to go.” He coughed gently. “However, the—er—misunderstanding has been put right, and I hope that if I ask you personally to come as nurse to our Mr Boekerchek, you will agree to do so.”

He was rather nice, despite his American accent and enormous horn-rimmed spectacles—he reminded her of Mr Boekerchek, they both had nice smiles. She found herself smiling in return. “I’ll come whenever you want me to,” she told him, and was surprised at herself for saying it. “Miss Evans told me that you had asked if I would leave tomorrow.”

He nodded. “It is an urgent matter, if you could arrange to go to The Hague as soon as possible. Mr Boekerchek has a rare condition—multiple insulinomata—the fainting fit which he experienced when you so kindly went to his aid was an early symptom of it, I believe. When he was told yesterday that surgery was imperative, he agreed to undergo it on condition that you could be found to act as his nurse.” He grinned engagingly. “He is certain that you will bring him good luck.”

Charity was thinking about multiple insulinomata, and trying to remember all she knew about it. She had only seen two or three cases of it and none of them had recovered—she recollected the squint and the tingling hands and knew now why they had aroused her interest; they were two of the earliest symptoms. Probably Mr Boekerchek’s condition had been discovered in good time; she enjoyed a challenge, if she could, and she would do everything to help him to make a complete recovery. “I’ll do my best,” she told her visitor. “I can be ready by tomorrow and if possible I should like to drive myself, only I’ve no papers for the car.”

He brushed that aside. “That can easily be attended to. If you will let me know what time you intend to leave, everything will be arranged and all you need will be sent here to you this evening.”

She blinked. “How nice—there’s a ferry leaving at midday from Dover.” She added doubtfully, “It’s the holiday season…”

“Don’t worry about that.” He was comfortably efficient; obviously she was to have no worries on the journey. He left in another five minutes, the tiresome details dealt with, leaving her with nothing further to do but pack; fill up with petrol and telephone home, all of which she was forced to do that evening when she came off duty, having had not a moment to call her own until then.

She didn’t see Miss Evans again before she left, a message telling her to take what uniform she needed with her, and to notify the Office as soon as she knew the date of her return, was all the official acknowledgment she received of her departure, an omission easily made up for by the enthusiastic help of her friends, who assisted her to pack, provided the odds and ends she had had no time to purchase for herself, and even volunteered to tell Clive, whom she had completely forgotten in the excitement of the moment. She dashed off a note to him the next morning just before she left and then forgot about him almost immediately.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS A smooth journey, even if crowded, but Charity hardly noticed that; she was immersed in a copy of The Lancet she had borrowed from Mr Howard after she had asked him urgently on the previous afternoon to tell her all he could about her patient’s complaint.

“Oh, so you’re going after all?” he had snorted at her. “I can do better than tell you, there was a first-class article about it in last week’s Lancet.” And he had brought it down to the ward that evening, when he came to do a final check of his patients.

She studied it now, learning it almost word for word, so that later on she would know what everyone was talking about. It was a well-written article, written by a professor at the Utrecht School of Medicine, a certain Everard van Tijlen, a man, she considered, reading it through for the last time, who knew what he was about—a fine decisive style and sound knowledge of the subject. She put it away in her case and went up on deck to watch the flat coast of Belgium creep nearer.

She made good time from Zeebrugge to the Hague; it was only a little after seven o’clock when she drew up smartly before the address she had been given. The block of flats was large and modern and obviously luxurious and in a pleasant part of the city. She wasted no time, but got out, locked the car, went into the foyer and asked to be taken to the fifth floor by the porter.

Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek lived in style, she discovered when his apartment door was opened by a small woman with an unhappy face; the hall was large and square and furnished with taste and there seemed to be passages and doors leading off in all directions. The woman smiled uncertainly.

“Oh, are you the English nurse?”

Charity smiled and said that yes, she was. This, unless she was very much mistaken, was Mr Boekerchek’s wife. “I’m sorry to arrive so late,” she apologised. “If I could just put my car away and get my luggage…”

Her hostess went back to the door where the porter still lingered and spoke to him and then turned to Charity. “If you would let him have the keys,” she suggested, “he’ll put the car away—there’s an underground garage—and bring up your cases,” and when Charity had done this and closed the door the poor lady burst into tears.

“I never thought you’d come,” she sobbed, “and Arthur was so dead set on having you and no one else, and I thought if you wouldn’t come, he’d refuse surgery and then what would happen?”

Charity put an arm round the little lady’s shoulders and led her across the hall to a half-opened door which she hoped was a sitting-room. She was right, it was. She settled Mrs Boekerchek in a chair and sat down close by. “But I am here,” she pointed out cheerfully, “and we’ll have your husband on his feet again in no time at all.”

Her companion sniffed, blew her nose and made a great effort to calm down. “I don’t know what I expected,” she confided, “but you’re quite different, I reckon—no wonder Arthur wouldn’t budge.” She got up quickly. “There, see what an old fool I am—you must be tired to death and I’m wasting your time. There’s a meal for you—I’ll get Nel to serve it…”

Charity had got to her feet too. “That sounds lovely, but could I have five minutes to tidy myself and then go and see Mr Boekerchek? Will his doctor be coming this evening?”

“No—tomorrow morning. He’s to go to Utrecht, you know. The ambulance is coming at nine o’clock to take him to the hospital there—I’ve forgotten its name—Dr Donker said he’d see you before you went.” She was leading the way across the hall again and into one of the passages. “This is your room. I hope you’ll be comfortable—there’s a shower room beyond. Shall I come back for you in a few minutes?” She sounded wistful; Charity guessed that she needed company to take her mind off her husband’s illness.

“Give me ten minutes,” she agreed readily.

The room was luxurious; a pity, thought Charity, tidying herself hastily, that she would only have one night here. After that it would presumably be the Nurses’ Home in Utrecht. She fancied that it might be very like the Home at St Simon’s. She cast a lingering look round the room and turned to smile at Mrs Boekerchek at the door.

Mr Boekerchek certainly looked ill. He was pale and decidedly irritable despite his pleasure at seeing Charity. He had lost a lot of weight too, and confided to her that he was quite unable to work any more and suffered from a depression which was a blight both to himself and his wife.

“Hyperinsulinism, that’s my trouble,” he declared, “that professor what’s-his-name who’s going to carve me up, explained it to me—can’t say I made head or tail of it, though. But I trust him all right—lucky I’d already met him.” He managed a thin smile. “Just as long as you know what he’s talking about, eh? I’m glad they got hold of you. I do declare that I wouldn’t have agreed to surgery unless they had. I’m a daft old man, aren’t I? but thank God, I’m important enough to be humoured.”

Charity stayed with him for the rest of the evening, studying the notes the doctor had left for her before settling him for the night, eating a hasty supper and then going to sit for half an hour with his wife, whom she tried, not very successfully, to comfort before going to her room and bed. It seemed to her that her head had barely touched the pillow before Nel was shaking her awake with a cup of tea on a tray and the news that it was six o’clock, something the city’s carillons let her know, a dozen times over.

Mindful of the doctor’s visit at eight o’clock, she dressed, in uniform this time—and went along to her patient’s room. He had slept well, he told her, and was positively cheerful at the idea of getting things going at last. She helped him wash and shave, made sure that he was comfortable, checked his packed case, and went along to the kitchen. Mrs Boekerchek was up too, fussing round the stolid Nel while she prepared their breakfast. Mr Boekerchek, naturally enough, had very little appetite. Charity saw to his wants first and then made a healthily sustaining meal herself while her companion drank quantities of scalding coffee and jumped up and down like a yo-yo. She wasn’t going to Utrecht with them; Charity was to telephone her later on in the day, and tell her what had been decided, and when the decision to operate had been taken she would go over to the hospital and stay if it were considered necessary.

Charity discussed Mrs Boekerchek’s plans at length and in a cheerful voice and was rewarded by seeing the unhappy little woman’s face brighten. “Wear something pretty when you come,” she advised her, “something your husband likes; it will help him enormously, you know, if he’s feeling weak and ill, to see you looking pretty and nicely dressed—and don’t be upset when you see him after the op. He’ll look very pale and strange and there’ll be tubes and things all over the place—they look dramatic, but he won’t notice them, so don’t you either.”

Her words had the desired effect. Mrs Boekerchek fell to planning various outfits and even pondered the advisability of a visit to the hairdresser. “I have a rinse, you know,” she confided. “It needs to be done every week or so—Arthur is dead set on me not going grey, I reckon.” She eyed Charity’s burnished head with some envy. “Yours is real, I guess,” she asked wistfully.

“Well, yes,” Charity felt almost apologetic about it, “but quite often people think it isn’t.” Her pretty mouth curved in a smile. “Do you mind if I go to my room and make sure everything is ready? We mustn’t keep the ambulance waiting and I’m not certain how long the doctor will take—it’s almost eight o’clock.”

He came a few minutes later, a small dark man with thick glasses and hair brushed carefully over the bald spot on the top of his head. He spoke English with a fluency she instantly envied and plunged at once into instructions, details of his patient’s illness, and dire warnings as to what might go wrong and what she was to do if they did. She listened attentively, collected the necessary papers he had entrusted to her care, wished him goodbye and rejoined her patient. Ten minutes later they were in the ambulance, on their way to Utrecht.

It was a journey of forty miles or so, and since they travelled on the motorway for almost the entire distance and the ambulance was an elegant sleek model built for speed, they were soon on the outskirts of the city, but here their progress slowed considerably, and Charity, bent on keeping her patient’s mind on the normal things of life, encouraged him to describe the city to her, and looked when told to do so through the dark glass windows, trying to identify the various buildings he was telling her about. He had become quite cheerful during their ride together and had told her about his work and his family and home in the USA.

“This country’s OK,” he told her, “but a bit cramped, I guess—why, you can drive from one end to the other in the matter of a few hours, now, back home…” He paused. “I guess it’s OK, though, like I said—nice people, no need to learn the language, and a good thing too, for it’s a tongue-twister, all right. Where are we now?”

Charity had a look. “Going up a narrow lane, walls on either side—the backs of houses I should think. Oh, here’s a gate and a courtyard—I believe it’s the hospital.”

She was right. The ambulance passed the main entrance and drew up before a double swing door. Within minutes Mr Boekerchek was stretched tidily under his blankets on a trolley and they were making their way through the corridors and vast areas filled with crowded benches—Outpatients Charity guessed, and wished that there was more time to look around her. They were in a lift by now, though, on their way up to the sixth floor.