A Man of Honour. Caroline Anderson
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was a gorgeous day—a day to share, she thought crossly, and felt suddenly very lonely and sad.
‘There was no guarantee he felt anything for you,’ she told herself firmly as she walked. ‘He’s just as entitled to be as picky as you are—and he’s obviously decided not to pick you. God knows he gave you enough warning—he was hardly all over you. And yesterday—he could have kissed you so easily, but he didn’t. And still you expect miracles!’
‘Pardon?’
She looked up, startled, to find a woman with a dog regarding her strangely. ‘Are you all right, dear?’
She blushed and laughed. ‘Sorry—yes, I’m fine. I was just telling myself off.’
‘On a lovely day like this? What a shame.’ The woman smiled, and Helen smiled back, suddenly happier.
‘Yes, you’re right. It’s much too nice a day to be cross.’
They parted company, the woman and her dog going on the way Helen had come, Helen following the track beside the stream.
She was right, it was a beautiful day, and being cross and ungracious was just a waste of it. She would put Tom out of her mind, and forget him.
Easier said than done, she acknowledged the following morning.
How he had managed it in so short a time she didn’t know, but Tom Russell had winkled his way into her heart in a big way, and it would take more than a little determination to get him out again.
He was quiet and withdrawn when she saw him, but they were so busy that she hardly had time to chat anyway.
Judy Fulcher, the patient with the burst appendix and peritonitis, was making slow but steady progress, althought she was still unable to take anything by mouth. As a result oral care was a very important part of her nursing, and Helen took the opportunity, to sponge off her caked lips and tongue and clean her teeth as a training exercise for Carol, one of the student nurses who had started with her that day.
Judy’s gratitude was touching, and Helen wished she had time to do it better and more often.
However she didn’t, and she was busy with the pre-ops who were due to go up to Tom in Theatre that afternoon.
Trailing her students, she prepared the patients for Theatre, including passing a Ryle’s tube into one man who found the whole experience intolerable and panicked himself into a frenzy.
‘Look, Mr Blackstone,’ she explained for the second time, ‘it really doesn’t hurt. All you have to do is relax as much as possible, take little sips of water and swallow gently, and I’ll just slip the tube down your throat bit by bit. It’s really not that bad.’
He snorted and put his hand over his face. ‘I’m not having no bloody tube poked down my throat!’ he mumbled.
‘Please let me try,’ she coaxed. After a few more minutes he lowered his hand, and, taking the lubricated tube, she lifted it towards his nose.
‘No,’ he moaned, and covered his face again.
Tom arrived just as she was soothing the man down for the third time, and with his help she managed to calm him sufficiently to try again.
This time she actually succeeded, much to her relief, and afterwards, when the tube was taped in place and the man’s stomach had been aspirated and he was settled, Tom drew Helen aside.
‘You were wonderful with him,’ he said gently, and the sun came out for her again.
Foolish heart, she chided herself, and tugged off her gloves. Her smile was coolly impersonal.
‘He’s just a big baby. What can I do for you?’
He sighed quietly. ‘Could we go round the pre-ops? Do you have time? I wanted a last word with them.’
Her heart sank. She had thought—oh, never mind what she had thought. She forced another smile. ‘Of course. Susan, clear up the trolley could you, please? And then start the lunches. Carol can give you a hand. Oh, and Susan?’
‘Don’t forget to read the menu list,’ the third-year student said with a grin. ‘OK, Sister.’
Helen watched her go. ‘Scatty as the day is long, but willing. Right, where were we?’
The rest of the day was hectic, and that suited Helen just fine, because the last thing she needed was time to think about Tom. She felt she had come within an ace of making a complete fool of herself over him, and he so clearly wasn’t interested.
Oh, well.
She was just going off duty at five when she heard a commotion in Judy Fulcher’s room.
The door was shut, most unusually, and when she opened it she saw to her horror that Judy’s husband was sprawled across the bed, his trousers round his ankles, and Judy was sobbing and pleading with him as he dragged her nightdress up.
For a second Helen was so stunned she did nothing, but then she leant on the bell over the bed and seized his shoulders.
He shrugged her off, and she stumbled back, steadying herself on the locker.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ she asked furiously, and grabbed hold of him again, determined to drag him off. He flung her aside and she landed on the floor with a crash, shaken but not seriously hurt. She was more worried about Judy, still struggling with her half-crazed husband.
As she crawled to the door for help, so Tom appeared in the doorway and with one look at the scene stepped over her and hauled the man off, slamming him up against the wall.
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’ he roared. ‘She’s ill, for God’s sake!’
‘She’s always ill!’ he snarled. ‘Always got some damn excuse or other. I’ve got rights, you know, and I haven’t had it for months!’
‘What about her rights?’ Tom yelled into his face. ‘What kind of an animal are you that she’s lying there after a major abdominal operation and all you can think about is getting your leg over?’
Helen tried not to smile. Tom was so furious with the man it would be a miracle if the latter survived intact!
She stood up, dusted herself down and went to make sure that Judy was all right.
Ruth Warnes had heard the bell and come to help, and between them they settled Judy down again and made sure her drip hadn’t become dislodged, while Tom hauled up the man’s trousers with more vigour than was strictly necessary and dragged him off to the office.
Judy was crying, and Helen left Ruth comforting her and went to phone the hospital security. Just as she got through there was a crash from her office, and she put the phone down after begging the security officer to hurry and ran into the office, to find Mr Fulcher pinned to the floor, Tom with blood running down his face and glass everywhere.
‘Security’s coming,’ she said briefly, and Tom nodded.
‘Fine. Just so long as they’re quick, before I’m tempted to run this bloke through with a scalpel.’
‘He threatened me!’ Fulcher mumbled against the floor. ‘Did you hear that? Threatened me, he did.’
‘I shouldn’t let it worry you,’ Helen said drily, eyeing Tom’s bleeding eyebrow. ‘He’s the one running with blood. Are you going to press charges, Tom?’
‘If I don’t bleed to death first,’ he muttered. ‘Where the hell are they?’
Just then the security staff came running in and Tom stood up, handing his charge over to the uniformed officials.
‘Lock him up till the police get here,’ he said shortly.
‘Right, sir,’ one of them muttered, and then they hauled the man to his feet and marched him out of the office.
Helen