Saints Preserve Us

18

Saints Preserve Us

    Harriet sat by Crispin’s bed, holding his hand. His right hand: his left arm was all bandaged up and that hand had a horrible tube in it. There was a big bandage on his head, too. You couldn’t see his chest at the moment but Josh had cautiously lifted the sheet and shown her. It looked awful. All cut up, with big red, um, scars, but worse, they were dreadfully lumpy, and huge black stitches everywhere and giant plastic tubes going into him. Plus those weirdo round sticker thingos with wires coming out of them that she’d thought you only saw on dumb American doctor and nursey TV shows. The bed was surrounded by huge pieces of electronic equipment and more giant tubes. Every so often a nurse would come in and check things, and once she’d put an oxygen mask on him: that had been terrifying. But after several more check-ups she’d taken it off again. Josh had said that up until a couple of days ago he’d had to have it all the time. One lung had been badly shot about. But at least the bullets had missed his heart.

    After a while, she couldn’t have said how long, Josh, who was sitting on the second visitor’s chair, got up, bent down to her and said very quietly: “Harriet, I’m just going to get a coffee. Do you want a drink?”

    Never mind St Vincent’s excellent medical reputation, their hot drinks were horrible. Well, probably not theirs, it’d be one of those commercial dispensing machines, almost as big a rort as the pokies. Added to which it was, of course, very warm in here. Josh was in his shirtsleeves and Harriet had removed the warm parka that Kyla had made her wear for the trip to Sydney, and was in her Queensland tee, but she was still hot. “Um, would there be any cold drinks, Josh?”

    “Of course! Well, Coke and the usual.”

    “Mm. I’d like a Coke, please. Hang on, have you got any Australian money?”

    “Yes, of course, don’t worry. Um, if Dad comes round, just—just tell him you’re here.” With that he hurried out. His voice had had a distinct wobble in, poor boy.

    Harriet just sat on numbly holding Crispin’s hand.

    All three Drinkwaters had collected them from the airport. The plane had been an early flight from Brizzie: Kyla had efficiently rung up Hughie and Joel to ask if they could keep an eye on Brindle while Harriet was away, and since there were no flights from the tiny local airport until ten tomorrow morning, Joel had insisted on driving them down to the state capital straight away. Hughie, in the meantime, had come over to look after Brindle. Harriet had said faintly: “What about Foster?” To which the reply had been: “Never mind him, the silly bugger can look after ’imself. And I’d of driven ya down, only he hadda stick ’is oar in!”

    Steve had grimly ordered Trisha not to ask Harrie any stupid questions, to which she’d retorted angrily: “I’m not that dumb!” They’d then apologised to each other. Jimbo hadn’t said anything, he’d just got into the car. So they’d let him come—not just for the drive to the airport to collect his aunt, but to the hospital as well.

    Harriet had been allowed to go into Crispin’s room straight away—not a good sign, the older Drinkwaters had silently recognised. They’d all just sat down in the waiting area, just down the corridor from the room. Very nice, really.

    After about an hour Kyla had fallen asleep on the little sofa that she and Trisha were sharing. They’d let her sleep, there seemed no point in waking her. Lunchtime had come and gone but nobody had fancied anything to eat. They had all had a drink, though.

    Josh Narrowmine had come and spoken to them after Harriet had been in with his dad for ten minutes or so. He seemed a very nice young man. Rather quiet-mannered, as far as you could tell at a time like this, and quite tall, with light brown wavy hair. Nobody asked him how on earth his dad knew Harriet. They just accepted his explanation that Crispin had been out here for a while and had been looking for her for ages, and that after he’d been shot up by “some damned Muslim terrorist that he shouldn’t have got involved with in the first place”—the Drinkwaters all nodding horrified agreement—he, Josh, had gone through his list of possible contacts and tried the likely ones again. Finally getting Aunty Mary. All he’d had to say was it was an emergency and he was looking for the Harriet Harrison who’d been in Oxford about five years back. She’d given him Harriet’s number right away.

    At this Trisha clapped a hand to her mouth, gasping: “Oh, heck! I think your dad must’ve spoken to Uncle Don, before!”

    “Er—there was a note that he’d spoken to someone, yes.”

    “I’m awfully sorry, Josh, he’s getting a bit deaf and he won’t admit it!” she gasped. “He rang me with some tale about someone wanting to book in as a B&B customer!”

    “Um, yes, Dad had a note about not wanting any paying guests,” he said numbly.

    Steve swallowed hard. “Sorry, mate. Never mind, ya found her.”

    “Mm,” he agreed. “I—I’ll get back to Dad, if you’ll excuse me.”

    “Yeah, you go, Josh. Can I get you a coffee or anythink?” asked Steve.

    “Thanks very much, Steve. I would like a coffee, thanks.”

    “I’ll go!” gasped Jimbo, bounding up.

    Josh tried to smile at him, failed, managed: “Thanks,” and went back to his father’s room.

    “Oh, cripes,” concluded Trisha numbly. “That was ages ago.”

    Steve couldn’t honestly remember if she’d ever mentioned it to him. “Never mind, darl’. These things happen. Well, God knows what the silly bugger was up to, hanging round Muslim terrorists—specially if ’is accent’s anything like the young joker’s—but finding Harrie a bit earlier probably wouldn’t of stopped him getting shot.”

    “No,” she admitted, swallowing.

    Up to this point Kyla hadn’t said anything at all. Now she ventured in a tiny voice: “It’s awful.”

    “Yes. Don’t cry, dear,” sighed Trisha, putting her arm round her.

    After quite some time—Jimbo had come back with Josh’s coffee, bravely taken it in himself, and returned very shaken to report that you could hardly see the dad for great big tubes and bandages and “oscilloscopes and junk”—Kyla ventured: “Did she ever mention him to you, Mum?” To which Trisha replied heavily: “No.”

    “Um, when she come back from Oxford, was this?” groped Steve. “Thought you said back then she was hung up on some picture?”

    “Don’t, Steve,” said Trisha faintly.

    “Sorry.”

    Silence fell.

    It was well into the afternoon when the flaming specialist swanned up, surrounded by fawning hangers-on in doctors’ gear with stethoscopes hanging off them. What good they were supposed to do, God knew: they just stood around, as far as Steve could see. He’d followed them into the bloke’s room uninvited. If they wanted to chuck him out, they could bloody well try. But they just ignored him.

    Yeah, well. “Doing as well as can be expected” and “If he comes round, speak to him” were what it amounted to.

    Grimly Steve followed His Majesty out, wondering madly without being able to stop himself if the type had his suits hand-made at the same place that Harrie had always claimed flaming Paul Keating, ostensibly Labor or not, had his.

    “Just hang on, mate,” he said grimly. “You can give me the good gen, now that that poor young sod can’t hear us.”

    “Are you a relative, sir?”

    “You can drop that,” said Steve grimly. “We’re his Aussie cousins, see?”—They were less than three metres from the waiting area: Trisha and Kyla both went very red and Jimbo suddenly looked as if he was about to explode.—“He hasn’t got any rellies out here except us. And that in there’s his girlfriend, ya wanna make somethink of it?”

    “No, as a matter of fact,” he said, suddenly sounding almost ordinary. “Well, he’s doing as well as can be expected with a chestful of bullets. Uh—we have been worried by the concussion.”

    “Gee, have ya?” –In the waiting area Trisha bit her lip.

    “Yes. We were hoping that he’d have come round by now.”

    “Listen, mate, has his brain been affected or NOT?” shouted Steve.

    “Uh—I’m not his neurosurgeon, but I can tell you that there was a limited amount of swelling just at first, but there doesn’t appear to be any permanent damage.”

    “So, did he fall on his head, or what?”

    “As far as we can tell, he did fall after the shooting, naturally. There was some trauma to the posterior—” He caught Steve’s eye. “A bump on the back of the head,” he admitted.

    “So has he got inflammation of the brain or not? Just put it in plain English.”

    “Not as far as we can tell, at this stage.”

    At this Trisha got up and said cautiously: “Steve, they do have to be cagey, in case they get it wrong and some idiot goes and sues them.”

    “Huh! What about telling the friends and rellies the truth?”

    The bloke stiffened up again and said: “That is the truth. As I was trying to explain, it’s difficult to tell just when someone who’s sustained trauma to the head will come round.”

    “Well, do his eyes look funny?”

    “Uh—Steve, is it? –Yes. Look, Steve,” he said with a sigh, “he is still suffering the effects of head trauma, yes, and probably his eyes would look funny to you. We’re doing everything possible for him, I do assure you. We just have to wait at this stage.”

    Trisha had now taken Steve’s arm. “Yes,” she said in a small voice. “St Vincent’s has got a really good reputation, you said so yourself, dear.”

    “Yeah. All right. Well, no worse than the rest of them, I dare say,” said Steve bitterly to one of Sydney’s most eminent cardio-thoracic surgeons. “Okay, push yer barrow.”

    Poor Trisha just watched limply as the doctor, who had gone rather red, duly went. Then she just tottered back to the sofa. Steve had gone over to the window—there was a window, not like some—and was gazing bitterly at a view of nothing very much in the greyness of a Sydney winter with his back to them. Eventually she managed: “They’re all like that. He could of been worse. Just—just come and sit down, love.”

    “Yes, sit by Mum, Dad!” gasped Kyla, getting up from the two-person sofa. “Um, me and Jimbo’ll go and suss out the drink machines. Come on, Jimbo!” They hurried off.

    Steve subsided heavily onto the sofa. “Jesus, Trisha! Harrie looks bad now, what’s she gonna be like if the joker—”

    “Yes. Don’t.”

    He ran his hand though his hair. “Who the Hell is ’e?”

    “I dunno, darl’. Someone she met in England, obviously,” she ventured miserably.

    “Yeah. This woulda been before Uncle Ben,” he noted.

    “Um—yeah. Well, I suppose it didn’t, um, count. Well, she was fond of him, of course.”

    “Yeah. This Crispin type—never come across that as a name before—he musta been married.”

    “Mm.”

    “Well, she can’t be in the picture any more, or she’da been out here!”

    “Eh? Oh: the wife. Yeah.”

    He sighed. “I suppose we ought to’ve rung the ruddy school, let ’em know where Jimbo is. Oh well, too bad.”

    “Yes. And work, come to think of it. Um, well, you could do that now.”

    “Forgot me blasted mobile. You got yours?”

    “Um, I think so.” She delved in her handbag. “Yes. –Oh. The battery’s flat.”

    “That’s that, then. Too flamin’ bad.”

    “Yeah.”

    … “Mucking around with Muslim terrorists?” he muttered incredulously.

    “Mm. Stop worrying about it, Steve. I dare say we’ll find out, eventually.”

    Silence. No sign of the kids.

    Finally Trisha murmured: “It’s funny Aunty Mary didn’t ring me.”

    “Uh—might of tried to when I was talking to Kyla. Or come to think of, it when I was booking their tickets. Or she might of rung your ruddy mobile.”

    “Yeah.”

    Silence again.

    It was getting on for six when one of the nurses who’d been coming and going every ten minutes—well, at least they were checking up on him—came over to them and said: “I really think it might be a good idea if you all went home and had something to eat. Try to get Josh and Harriet to go, too. We don’t expect any change, and we’ve got your numbers: we’ll ring you if there is. And Josh really needs to get some sleep: see if you can persuade him. You can always come back later this evening.”

    “How late?” demanded Steve.

    “Any time, we don’t restrict visitors in these cases,” she said nicely.

    This had the wrong effect entirely: the Drinkwaters all cringed.

    “Um, yeah,” croaked Steve. “Okay, we’ll try and drag them home for a bite. Dunno if we can persuade the young joker to kip, though.”

    “It is the poor boy’s father, after all!” put in Trisha crossly.

    “Yes, of course—Trisha, is it? Yes: Trisha. He needs to sleep, though. Just try. And don’t worry: the night nurses will be looking in on Crispin every few minutes; and his vitals are continuously monitored, you know.”

    “Look, the boy won’t wanna come halfway across the city if his dad goes downhill!” said Steve crossly.

    “No, but we really don’t think he will. He does seem more peaceful. He came through the operations very well, you know; Doctor said he’s got a strong constitution!” She nodded brightly, and bustled off.

    “Operations, plural?” croaked Steve numbly.

    Abruptly Kyla burst into tears.

    “Shit. Don’t cry, love. He’s past that stage.”

    “Mm. You’re overtired, Kyla, after all that travelling,” said Trisha, putting her arm round her. “She’s right, you know: we do all need some food.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll fetch Harrie.”

    When she went in Harriet was still just sitting there holding his hand, looking as dreadful as she had done all day.

    “No change?” Trisha breathed, putting a hand on her shoulder.

    “No. The nurse thinks he’s more peaceful.”

    “I think she’s right,” agreed Josh hoarsely.

    Trisha nodded. “Good. Now, you’re both coming home with us to have something to eat—no arguments. You can come back this evening. Come on.”

    To her utter astonishment, they both got up and followed her out meekly.

    Steve drove Harriet and Josh back to the hospital after they’d all had a meal. Kyla had wanted to come but Trisha had put her foot down. Jimbo hadn’t volunteered—he was looking pretty shell-shocked, actually.

    “I’ll be right out here,” Steve said firmly after they’d looked in on the patient. There was a nurse in there, but she was just sitting. She got up, reported that he seemed quieter and hadn’t been muttering or restless, reassured them that she’d be popping in regularly, and left them to it.

    “Thanks, Steve,” replied Harriet in a tiny voice. She sat down by the bed and took Crispin’s hand again.

    Steve squeezed her shoulder briefly, said quietly to Josh: “Let me know if I can get you anything,” and went out.

    It must have been getting on for midnight when he roused with a start to find a nurse standing there telling him something. “Is ’e worse?” he gasped.

    “No, he’s peaceful. There’s an extra bed in the room, and Josh and Harriet have agreed to take turns resting. There’s a relatives’ room you can use if you’d like to lie down too, Steve.”

    “Uh—s’pose it would be sensible, yeah. Thanks—uh—what’s your name?”

    “Nancy,” she said, smiling at him.

    “Thanks, Nancy. Not a name ya hear much these days, is it? Had a Great-Aunty Nancy: she was a game old girl: she was a Wren during the War. I rather fancied calling our daughter that, but Trisha was keen on Kyla.”

    “I’m named after Mum’s aunty, actually!” Nancy revealed with a smile. “She was in the War, too: not a Wren, a nurse.”

    “Right! So nursing runs in the family, too, eh?”

    “That’s right. Now, it’s this way, Steve: it’s not far. And it’s got its own ensuite.”

    It was clearly a set of rooms they used for families with rellies that were terminal. Looked a bit like a motel, actually. It had a double bed, two narrow singles and a folding kiddie’s cot propped against the wall. Steve couldn’t help wondering who the last luckless lot that had used it had been. But he was very grateful for it, and in fact, though he hadn’t thought he’d sleep, passed out immediately his head hit the pillow.

    In Crispin’s room Josh also went out like a light. Harriet had insisted he rest first, poor boy: he was obviously exhausted. She just sat on, holding Crispin’s hand. At some stage she dozed in her chair, then woke up needing to pee. The private room had its own little ensuite. She tried not to think of what it must be costing—Crispin and Josh wouldn’t have any kind of Aussie medical insurance, of course, and even if they had English insurance she was pretty sure the local rip-off artists would never agree that it counted. It’d be like Trisha’s neighbour’s English friend who’d insured the furniture she’d brought out from England with some huge British insurance company, only then the Aussie storage firm broke a whole lot of it and neither of them would admit liability.

    Josh had made her promise to wake him up at four and take her turn lying down but she didn’t bother. She did doze off again at some stage, and when she woke up again it was early morning and one of the day nurses—Jill, that was it, she was actually a sister, she was very nice—was checking Crispin’s chart and machines and things.

    “How is he, Jill?” she croaked.

    Jill gave her that practised, professional smile. Harriet knew it was, of course, but nevertheless it always made her feel a bit better. “Stable. His pulse rate has improved and his breathing’s regular. Patients with concussion often sense who’s with them, you know: I think you’re doing him good, Harriet!”

    Yeah. Well, that was the standard medical lie. You heard it on TV all the time, not only on those silly doctor and nursey shows, but on the so-called News as well, when they interviewed the unfortunate rellies of football stars and so forth who’d knocked themselves out playing their stupid sports.

    “Oh, good,” she replied obediently.

    “Now, you mustn’t forget to have breakfast, Harriet. You won’t do Crispin any good by starving yourself, you know!”

    “I’m not hungry, thanks.”

    “You’ll find you can eat once you start,” replied Jill firmly. “Now, if you’d like to wait outside,”—not a suggestion—“Mandy’s just going to help me spruce him up a bit;”—as she spoke a very young nurse came in looking cowed—“and then you can have a nice shower! I’ll send someone along with breakfast for you and Josh in half an hour or so.”

    “Not if it’s gonna go on the Narrowmines’ bill,” replied Harriet grimly.

    Jill blinked, but made a swift recover. “I’m quite sure Crispin wouldn’t want you to starve yourself, Harriet. It’ll just be something simple.”

    Harriet was about to give in, she felt too drained to argue, but Josh’s voice suddenly said groggily: “Not our bill, Harriet.”

    “Not half!” replied Harriet bitterly. “I know this hospital’s very good, but nothing’s free if you’re not an Aussie national, Josh, and this is a private room; you’re thinking of the British National Health.”

    “No,” he said, sitting up and blinking. “I don’t know the legal situation for British citizens, but Five is covering all expenses—the least the blighters could do. Well, Dad’s probably got coverage through them or something, but we don’t have to worry about it. How is he, Jill?”

    “He’s fine, Josh, much more peaceful and his pulse rate’s nice and steady,” she said soothingly. “Now, why don’t you pop out with Harriet, while Mandy and I spruce him up a bit.”

    “He’s been asleep all night, let the poor boy go to the bog, at least!” said Harriet in exasperation, as the nicely managing bit got too much for her.

    “Of course; I was just going to say use the ensuite before we start, Josh,” she said nicely.

    Harriet sighed: nothing was gonna phase a nursing sister, she’d’ve seen and heard it all. She duly went out and sat down heavily in the waiting area.

    After a few minutes Josh appeared and sat down beside her. “He does seem more peaceful. Um, you shouldn’t have let me sleep.”

    “There was no reason to wake you up. Anyway, I kipped in the chair.”

    “Good. Um, it’ll probably be scrambled eggs with toast and marmalade and rather bad coffee.”

    “Ya mean they’ve been giving you breakfast every day?”

    “Mm.”

    “Good. Well, serve this ruddy Five lot right, whoever they are when they’re at home!” said Harriet viciously.

    “Uh—oh.” Josh bit his lip. “The Ministry of Defence, Harriet. Dad’s with MI5. Counter-intelligence stuff. You may well ask how the Hell did that mean getting shot in Australia,” he added heavily.

    “Um, yeah.”

    “Well, he didn’t let on the lot to me and Uncle John, but as far as we could make out, they sussed out some group in England that was liaising with another lot out here that were planning some sort of attack on British installations.”

    “What British installations?” said Harriet blankly. “There aren’t any. I mean, you could understand it if they were gonna have a go at that giant Yank thing that’s stuck out in Outer Woop-Woop somewhere that for about two days the News was full of and then all of a sudden it wasn’t any more, but British?”

    “Mm,” he agreed drily. “Well, I think they assumed it was the High Commission in Canberra: anyway, that’s where they sent Dad. Apparently the terrorists turned out to be based in Sydney, not Canberra, so presumably that’s why he ended up here with a chestful of bullets.”

    “Mm. Um, so does your Uncle John live in England?”

    “Yes.” Josh made a face. “He’s coming out as soon as he can, but he can’t leave Aunt Elinor: she’s come down with pneumonia.”

    “At this time of year?” she gasped. “Isn’t it your summer?”

    “Nevertheless. Well, a bit rundown, doing too much, don’t think that helped. She’s a volunteer with a children’s charity, and she’s on the committee. Started off just doing a bit of part-time office work for them while her kids were little, but as soon as they saw how capable she was, they started piling more stuff on her; and being her, she’d never refuse to take it on.”

    “I see. How is she?”

    “Over the worst, thank God, but Uncle John doesn’t like to leave her just yet. –That’ll be him now,” he said as his phone rang. “Excuse me.”

    Harriet just sat there numbly while he spoke to his uncle.

    Josh rang off and smiled at her. “Aunt Elinor’s much better, demanding to be let out of hospital, and desperate for something solid to read!”

    “That sounds okay!”

    “Mm. Uncle John thinks he might make it out at the end of the week.”

    “Good,” said Harriet in a small voice, as the horrible thought reared its ugly head, that that might be too late.

    “This’d be your dad’s brother, would it?” asked Steve from behind them.

    Josh jumped. “Uh—yes! Good morning, Steve.”

    “How is he?”

    “Stable. They seem very pleased with him.”

    “Good-oh. They offered you two brekkie?”

    “Yes, and don’t worry, Steve, Crispin’s horrible work is paying for everything!” said Harriet quickly.

    “Right. This’d be the lot that let him in for it, would it, or am I wrong?”

    “You’re not wrong,” replied Josh tightly. “MI5.”

    “Cripes, ya mean ’e’s a kind of James Bond?” he croaked, the jaw sagging.

    “Er—no. Counter-espionage. James Bond would have been MI6, Steve.”

    “Right. So ’e come out after our Aussie terrorists, that the story?”

    “Um, well, Muslims who’ve been in contact with their counterparts in Britain, we think.”

    “Goddit. Well, I won’t ask how the Hell ya got mixed up with a bloke like that, Harrie, on one short visit to Inspector Morse-land,” he said drily. “Not just now, at any rate. –Okay, if they’re paying, I’ll have it,” he allowed.

    “Yes, of course. Oh: there’s Jill. They’ve been giving him a sponge bath,” Josh explained.

    “Why didn’t the mealy-mouthed female say so, instead of calling it sprucing him up?” wondered Harriet limply.

    “Medico-Talk 101,” Steve explained. “They’re all like that. ’Member when young Jimbo had a boil on ’is bum?”

    “Ugh, yes, poor boy!”

    “Right. –Took ’im into the doc,” he explained to Josh, “and the ruddy joker called it ’is bottom throughout!”

    “They’re like that in Britain, too. Our local doctor always offers me a jellybean from his jellybean jar, too,” the young man replied, smiling.

    “Uh—known you since yer cradle?” he groped.

    “No, he’s only in his early thirties.”

    Steve collapsed in delighted splutters.

    Josh and Harriet had both had showers, and as Crispin was still peaceful were back in the waiting area with Steve when a young man with a tray came along, beaming. “Now, I’ve brought your breakfasts: you could have them here or in the relatives’ room, just as ya like.”

    “Here,” said Steve instantly.

    “Righto!” He set the tray on the coffee table and removed dish covers with a flourish. “Scrambled eggs and toast, and there’s some nice marmalade, and orange juice and coffee!” he beamed.

    “Lovely, thank you,” said Josh politely.

    “Uh—yeah, thanks, mate,” agreed Steve a trifle numbly. “Uh—would you be a male nurse, then?”

    “Me? No, I’m just an orderly!” he beamed. “Now, see you eat it all up!” With this he took himself off, still beaming.

    Steve sat down heavily. “They must give ’em all a course before they start, right down to the orderlies. Patient-talk, eh?”

    “With nanny smiles,” agreed Josh.

    Even though two Australians in the 21st century, from a culture a world away from his, might have been expected not to know what he was on about, in fact Harriet and Steve immediately collapsed in giggles, nodding madly. And Josh, Steve at least wasn’t too out of it to register with relief, promptly followed suit.

    The scrambled eggs were good, too. And the marmalade was nice. Little packets, sort of thing the airlines had. Be the brand Trisha never bought at the supermarket because it was too dear.

    Three days had passed. Crispin was still “stable” and “peaceful.” Harriet and Josh were looking worse than ever. Jimbo was back at school but whether the poor kid was managing to concentrate on his lessons was anybody’s guess. He was valiantly turning up at the hospital after school—whether or not his class might have been expected to be at “afterschool homework”. It was quite a long way, entailing the train and then a bus, so he usually didn’t arrive until around four-thirty. He didn’t do much once he got there except drink Coke and eat Mars Bars or potato crisps from the junk food dispensers, but Josh reported that Harriet seemed glad to see him.

    On the third morning Kyla had determinedly gone into RightSmart and asked to see Gail. Marlene, their experienced receptionist, had taken one look at the red, swollen eyelids and rung through to the CEO’s office immediately, and Gail in person had come out to the reception area to collect her.

    Kyla only needed the slightest encouragement to pour it all out. Ending with a repetition of the declaration she’d begun with, varying the emphasis only slightly: “I was gonna ring you about that design lady that wants help in the office, honest!”

    “That’s okay, Kyla. We have sent her a couple of candidates, but,”—Gail’s shrewd eyes twinkled, as she bowdlerised what her forthright artistic friend had actually said—“she reckoned they were too experienced, she doesn’t want someone that’d take over and insist on doing it their way.”

    “Um, I geddit. Um, so would she show ya what to do?”

    “Of course,” the CEO replied smoothly. “Think you could manage it?”

    “Um, yeah! I mean, I’ve done filing and quite a lot of data input now, and if she showed me the filing system, I’d be okay!” she gasped.

    Gail smiled. Still too young and naïve to have any notion of selling herself, of course. Poor kid; why the Hell the bloody schools let them out totally unprepared for the real world—! True, we’d all gone through it in our time, but that, in Gail Vickers’s very firm opinion, was neither an excuse nor a reason for inflicting the same struggle on the current generation.

    “Good-oh,” she agreed. “I’ll phone Ellen Gilbert and let her know that we’ll be sending you over, and I’ll explain about the situation with your aunty, don’t worry. I’ll suggest that she just gives you a couple of hours a day to start with. Then you’ll be able to nip over to St Vincent’s to support Harriet, okey-doke?”

    This was very much okey-doke and Kyla breathed: “Ye-ah! Tha-anks, Gail!”

    Small offices being what they were, the whole staff had the full story by lunchtime, and Marlene, who of course knew Harriet from her own stint temping for them, rushed out to buy her an elaborate card—well, not a sympathy card, no, she had acknowledged as several persons issued a warning, but something that said they were thinking of her. She returned to work with a card that said, in so many words: “Thinking of You”. By this time all the staff knew her well enough to know she would. Though in private both Gail Vickers and Iain Ross had a good grin over it.

    Trisha had gone back to work after the first day but her mind certainly wasn’t on the task in hand. Steve had managed a day’s leave without pay but then he’d had to get back to it, too. They were coming over to the hospital straight after work and after checking up on Crispin, firmly taking Josh and Harriet, and incidentally their offspring, home to get a meal into them.

    At around ten in the morning of the fourth day Crispin started muttering. Josh had gone to get coffee; Harriet panicked and pressed the panic button. Jill in person shot in, closely followed by two other nurses and a very young doctor.

    “It’s all right, Harriet, calm down. He’s coming round: it’s a good sign!” Jill reassured her, what time the so-called doctor, who looked about seventeen, did some stethoscope work.

    “What are you doing?” gasped Harriet. “Mind his chest!”

    “Um, I am,” the young man replied very, very lamely.

    “Now, now, Harriet: Doctor Sam knows what he’s doing!” Jill reassured her brightly.

    The so-called “Doctor” Sam had introduced himself on Harriet’s first day here merely as “Sam”. She hadn’t realised for two solid days that he was actually a flaming doctor. Were you supposed to tell from the stethoscope round his neck, was that it? Because that thing he usually wore looked like some kind of overall.

    Two panting persons had now arrived pushing a trolley laden with more medical equipment, but Jill—not Sam, please note—dismissed them kindly and firmly, reassuring them that they wouldn’t need it: he was coming round. Harriet was pretty sure it was what the Yank TV shows called a crash cart. She gulped.

    Josh had dashed in in the wake of this cart, looking white as a sheet. “Jill,” he ventured: “they thought he was coming round before, remember? When he was muttering like he is now. Only that was days ago.”

    “Yes, but this time it’s a sign he is coming round, Josh. He’s a much better colour,” she assured him.

    “What?” croaked Harriet. He had a tan, yeah, but it was far from a healthy one: he looked a sort of yellowy-green.

    “Um, yes, well, he does look a bit better, I suppose,” Josh fumbled.

    Suddenly Harriet, who had of course been briskly elbowed aside by various medical personnel, took his hand tightly. Josh squeezed hers gratefully. Then they just stood there like two spare parts while various medical personnel did God-knew-what with charts, gauges, thingos that showed you levels of God-knew-what, tubes going in and out, tubes going up and down, switch kind of thingos on tubes, buttons on machines… You name it.

    Cripes, here was another one! A big, important-looking one. Oh, and a big, important-looking nur— Uh, no, this was Matron, she had been in before, several times. She was like the most competent sort of businesswoman you could possibly imagine. Well, Gail Vickers in a crisp nursing uniform multiplied ten times, was the closest Harriet had got to it.

    Oddly enough Matron only had to glance at one of the junior nurses and she was chivvying Harriet and Josh out. Yes, they could come in again when Mr Whoever had seen him. No, there was nothing to worry about—the bright, reassuring smile could have been Jill’s very own—he was coming round!

    Harriet and Josh just looked at each other limply.

    Eventually she managed to croak: “Have you seen that big man before?”

    “Mm.”Josh swallowed hard. “He’s a neurosurgeon.”

    She looked at him in horror.

    “Um, big by reputation as well as by nature, I gather, Harriet. They said he’s one of the best in the country.”

    “Yes, this is St Vincent’s,” she said numbly. Couldn’t the poor boy see that that was a bad thing, not a good one? If Crispin was so bad that their top man had to see him?

    “Um, shall we sit down?” he offered lamely after a moment.

    “I’d rather stay here,” she admitted.

    “Well, look: I’ll grab a couple of chairs!” He hurried down the corridor to the waiting area.

    After that they just sat there like two spare parts.

    By the time Kyla got there, around two-thirty—it was a bus ride, then a train ride and another bus ride to get to the hospital from Ellen Gilbert’s place—Harriet and Josh were back in the room, Crispin had been approved by the eminent neurosurgeon himself, and to the non-medical person’s eye looked exactly the same! He wasn’t muttering any more, but he hadn’t been muttering when Harriet had first got here, had he?

    “How is he, Aunty Harrie?” she breathed, bending over her.

    “He—” Suddenly she burst into sobs.

    “They say he’s much better, Kyla!” gasped poor Josh, leaping up. “Don’t cry, Harriet! The neurosurgeon was pleased with him! His brain functions are fine!”

    “Didn’t—say—fine! Never—do!” sobbed Harriet.

    “Never mind, I’m sure he would of meant it,” said Kyla sturdily, patting her shoulder. “Don’t cry. Look: Ellen Gilbert—she said to call her Ellen, she’s Mrs Gilbert, really—she gimme some brandy for you, ’cos she said they never think of that, only when her sister was really sick her aunty brung some in and she was really glad of it!”

    Wincing, Josh shot over to the door and checked the corridor. “It’s all right: quick!” he hissed.

    Looking pleased, Kyla produced a thermos from her bulging carry-all and insouciantly filled its cap with its contents.

    “Uh—not that much, Kyla,” he croaked.

    “Never mind, you can share it, eh? Go on, Aunty Harrie!”

    Sniffing hard, Harriet took the thermos top and sipped.

    “More than that,” prompted Kyla. “I think he does look better,” she announced firmly.

    Harriet sniffed again. “Have you got a hanky?”

    “Have some tissues: Mrs—I mean Ellen gimme them, they’re her own design. You can keep the box.”

    Limply Harriet took a couple of tissues from a very fancily patterned box. “Thanks, Kyla.”

    “Take my chair, Kyla,” said Josh with a smile.

    “That’s okay, I been sitting for ages on the train.”

    “No, do: I’ll grab one from outside.” He suited the action to the word. By the time he was sitting on it Kyla had produced a cake tin full of homemade blueberry muffins from Ellen Gilbert and was forcing one on her aunt.

    Josh accepted one, smiling, and allowed her to force a sip of brandy on him. “This Ellen Gilbert sounds very nice, Kyla.”

    “Yeah, she’s ace!” she beamed.

    Harriet was blowing her nose again. “So you got the job?”

    “Yeah, ’course! Gail said those other ones, they were too bossy, they’d of wanted to do stuff their own way, she didn’t like them!”

    “I see. Well, she must be very kind.”

    “Mm!” nodded Kyla round a muffin.

    “And very practical,” said Josh thoughtfully. “How many people would think of brandy, I mean.”

    “Yeah, I think she is,” Kyla agreed. “Like, she can do loads of stuff, not just art stuff. She’s got these ace shelves in her office, she built them herself! Like, there’s special compartments and everythink! And really ace blinds, Roman blinds, she said, she made them, too! They go up and down in like, big folds. ’Ve you ever seen those?”

    “Big cloth blinds? —Mm,” Josh replied. “Golly, she must be clever. Dad and I stayed in a place in Rome once that had those—they really must be Roman! They looked terribly intricate.”

    “I thought so, too,” Kyla agreed pleasedly, “only she said they were easy.”

    “La locanda della Signora Neroni,” said a faint voice.

    Harriet choked and Josh dropped his muffin. “Dad!”

    They all started to their feet and bent over the bed, but Crispin appeared to be asleep.

    “I’ll get a nurse!” gasped Kyla, dashing out.

    Harriet just had time to say weakly: “Was that Italian?” and Josh just had time to nod, replying: “The private hotel where we stayed, more of a boarding house, really,” when Jill and a helper hurried in…

    By the time Jimbo arrived the excitement was over, five hundred of them had come and gone complete with the expected palaver with charts, gauges, etcetera, etcetera, and Crispin had been pronounced to be sleeping peacefully, and on no account try to wake him up: he’d wake up in his own good time.

    Harriet burst into tears again when Jimbo enquired after the patient but by now Josh and Kyla were able to reassure him that she was just overwrought, Crispin was much better, he’d come round and said something—nobody pointing out that it had been in a foreign language and Josh especially not pointing out that the reference had been to a holiday they’d had when he was sixteen—and Jimbo was enabled to grin in huge relief, assure his aunt that it sounded really good, and gratefully accept a blueberry muffin or three.

    Neither Josh nor Harriet wanted to leave Crispin when Trisha and Steve tried to drag them off home for tea, so Steve, though privately pretty sure that the poor bloke was gonna sleep for hours, you didn’t just wake up all perky after the best part of three weeks out of it with a load of bullet holes in your chest, suggested having a meal in town.

    “Yeah! Ace!” breathed Jimbo, eyes shining. “What about Hog’s Breath?”

    Josh’s jaw dropped, as Steve, apparently accepting this extraordinary name as normal, explained reluctantly: “That’d be about an hour’s drive from here, Jimbo. Uh, look, one of the blokes at work recommended a great steakhouse: it’s really close.” He got out his mobile.

    “Dad, you’re not supposed to use them in here!” gasped Kyla.

    “Aw. Shit. Forgot. No, well, come on, look it up when we get outside, okay?”

    They did that, with a slight delay, as Steve had to ring the bloke, having forgotten the place’s name. Then the helpful online map revealed it was really close, so they went there.

    Josh just goggled at the giant slab of meat that appeared before him after he’d allowed Steve to order for him. Steve was having the same. Jimbo had a giant mound of food misnamed burger. The ladies had opted for spare ribs but they were also huge. “Is this usual?” he croaked.

    “Eh? Yeah!” replied Steve in astonishment. “Haven’t you ever been to a decent steakhouse before?”

    Suddenly Josh laughed. “No, I don’t think I have, Steve!”

    “Well, eat up, mate!”

    Smiling, Josh did his best to eat his way through his enormous Australian sirloin steak.

    Crispin woke up during the night and said quite clearly: “Harriet. Can’t find… Harriet.”

    Josh had been sitting by him holding his hand, having persuaded Harriet to get some sleep. He gasped. “Dad? Harriet’s here, I’ve found her! Dad?”

    But Crispin was asleep again, with a little frown on his forehead.

    Shakily Josh reported to the night nurse as she popped in on one of her usual check-ups. She nodded pleasedly, told him that was a very good sign, made a note, did the usual chart checking, and went quietly away again. Josh looked limply at Harriet, who’d slept through it all. There seemed no point in waking her: there was clearly no telling when Dad might come to again. He dithered for a while but finally decided to let her sleep.

    Harriet had woken up, been told the patient had spoken again, though not that he’d been worrying about not finding her, and they’d both had their showers and were waiting for their breakfasts when Crispin came to again. Harriet was, as usual, holding his hand. He opened his eyes, looked straight at her, said: “Harriet. Looking… for you,” and fell right asleep again.

    She was too startled to do anything but gape from him to Josh.

    “He—he mentioned you last night, too,” said Josh with tears in his eyes.

    “You said. I—I think they’re right, and he is getting better,” she quavered.

    “Mm.” Josh blew his nose hard. “Mm. Definitely.”

    After a moment Harriet admitted: “I suppose we’d better tell them. There’ll be more silly pulse-taking and stuff.”

    “Bound to be.”

    “Let’s just wait, eh? I don’t reckon it does him any good to be disturbed like that every time he looks like coming to.”

    “Right,” Josh agreed, smiling shakily.

    They waited.

    A nurse came in and started doing the usual checking, mild version. Josh and Harriet exchanged glances. Neither of them volunteered anything. The nurse went away again. Neither of them spoke.

    When the usual smiling orderly—they’d now found out his name was Brett—came in with their breakfast, however, they both beamed at him and Harriet confided: “Guess what, Brett? He’s come to a couple of times!”

    “And he’s said Harriet’s name, and this last time we’re pretty sure he recognised her!” Josh reported.

    Brett was unaffectedly thrilled, told them that was great, called them both “dear” several times in the course of making sure they had their trays stable and weren’t going to drop anything and didn’t need anything else, and bustled off again, beaming.

    After a moment Josh said: “Help, cooked tomatoes, not scrambled eggs, and cornflakes and fruit as well, this morning.”

    And Harriet replied, smiling: “Yummy!”

    Then they just ate and drank.

    When the plates had been cleaned she admitted guiltily: “I suppose we didn’t need all that on top of that enormous meal last night,” and Josh agreed with a guilty laugh: “Not really, no!”

    Nothing else happened that morning until going on eleven, when the big doctor who was the neurosurgeon turned up. He looked silently at Crispin’s chart.

    Harriet was staring studiously at her feet. Josh cleared his throat. “Er—Mr Mortimer,”—such was the eminent personage’s name—“I’m afraid there is one more thing that should probably be, uh, noted on the chart.”

    “Yes?” he replied unemotionally.

    “Er—this was just before breakfast. Dad came to briefly, and we think he recognised Harriet. He did look straight at her, and he said her name, and that he was looking for her.”

    “I see.” He switched his attention to the shrinking Harriet. “Did he focus, Harriet?”

    “Um, what?”

    “Did he focus?”

    “Um, do you mean his eyes? Um, he looked straight at me, if that’s what you mean.”

    “And you were where?”

    “In here, of course,” she said blankly.

    “Um, no, I think he means more precisely, Harriet!” gulped Josh. “She was sitting on the bedside chair—show him, Harriet.”

    Looking dubious, Harriet repositioned the chair which a minion had officiously moved aside the moment she’d stood up—Mr Mortimer was of course accompanied by the usual coterie—and sat down on it. “Here. I was holding his hand.”

    “Go on, show him,” prompted Josh.

    Uncertainly Harriet took Crispin’s hand. On the other side of the bed a minion was fiddling with his bad arm, so the whole picture was entirely wrong, but who was she to correct these expert medical persons?

    Suddenly Josh said: “Naturally there was nothing on the other side of the bed to distract him.”

    “No, quite,” murmured Mr Mortimer. “And where were you, Josh?”

    Resignedly Josh pulled up his chair and sat on it. “Here.”

    “Exactly like we were when you came in just now,” noted Harriet grimly.

    “Yes. Good.” He came closer, bent down and raised Crispin’s nearest eyelid. Harriet blenched.

    “Is—is he normal?” quavered Josh, as the eyelid-raising apparently produced nothing.

    “Mm? Yes, doing as well as can—”

    “Don’t say it!” cried Harriet, at the end of her tether.

    “Uh—sorry,” he said weakly, failing to maintain the complete façade, for once. “But he is.”

    “Why do you all have to keep poking and prodding at him?” she gulped with tears in her eyes. “It can’t be doing him any good: every time he almost comes to your mob come in and start poking and prodding and—and testing stuff! That’s why we didn’t say anything last time!”

    He sighed, almost as if he was human after all. “We have to ensure there are no problems. Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes patients do talk when they’re feverish. We just need to be sure his temperature hasn’t gone up and so forth.”

    It would have been better without the “and so forth”, they both silently recognised; nevertheless Josh admitted: “I see. That makes sense, Harriet. Should have thought of it.”

    “Nobody thinks straight when they’re under stress, Josh, you’d think they’d of realised it, at least!” she said bitterly.

    “Um, well, I think they do.” He smiled weakly. “That’s why they all use what Steve calls Medico-Talk 101 or patient-talk, when they talk to us.”

    Good grief, Mr Mortimer was actually smiling! “I’m afraid it is,” he admitted. “Well, that’s why we have to fuss over him, Harriet. We do try to disturb him as little as possible.”

    Harriet blew her nose on a tissue from Ellen Gilbert’s fancy box that Kyla had helpfully put on the bedside cabinet, just by her elbow. “At least you didn’t say ‘try to mitigate the invasive interventions,’” she noted sourly.

    Josh gave a startled choke of laughter and one of the hovering young persons hung with stethoscopes that none of them had been seen to use so far coughed suddenly.

    “No, I don’t think we’re that bad at St Vincent’s,” said Mr Mortimer calmly, though there was a distinct twinkle in his eye. “Well, he is doing quite well, and to avoid the Medico-Talk 101 entirely, it’s a big improvement on this time last week. I think it was Josh finding you that did the trick!” He yawned suddenly. “I’m sorry: been operating all morning.”

    “Since four o’clock this morning,” put in one of the coterie severely. Not a stethoscoped one, this one had a nurse’s uniform on. “He really should have gone home straight after, but he insisted on seeing Crispin.”

    “Were you on night duty, then?” asked Harriet dazedly. She’d thought specialists didn’t do that.

    “No: called in,” said Mr Mortimer simply.

    Still looking severe, the nurse explained: “There was a terrible pile-up last night just south of the city: two cars and a truck. Five people were badly injured and we got the brain injury: they coptered him in. Splinters—”

    “Yes, never mind, Marion,” said Mr Mortimer—very mildly, but she shut up like a clam. “Since I was on deck anyway, I grabbed the chance to see Crispin.”

    “Mm.” Harriet swallowed hard, trying not to cry. “How—how is the patient, Mr Mortimer?”

    “He came through the operation, and he’s in intensive care. The rest—and you needn’t quote me—is in the lap of the gods, as usual.”

    “Mm. Well, I’m glad the operation worked. And—and thank you for looking after Crispin. –Have you had any breakfast?”

    “No!” burst out one of the younger male hangers-on. “He insisted—”

    “Shut up, Damian,” said Mr Mortimer mildly. “I’ll grab some in the canteen now, okay?”

    “We had lovely fried tomatoes this morning, but they might’ve all gone,” Harriet informed him.

    “There’s sure to be something: people have breakfast at any hour of the day here!” he said cheerily. “Now don’t brood, okay?”

    “And mind you do alert us every time he comes round,” added Marion severely.

    Harriet opened her mouth crossly but Josh said quickly: “Yes, of course: we understand, now. And thank you all for—for caring.”

    To their astonishment Mr Mortimer at this patted his shoulder and said kindly: “That’s all right, son.” Quite as if he was just an ordinary bloke after all. And went.

    It was an appreciable time before Harriet managed to say: “Crikey, he didn’t even say it was all part of the job!”

    “No,” Josh agreed shakily. He blew his nose hard.

    “I hope he does get some brekkie, he looked a bit grey, don’t you think?”

    “No wonder! On his feet operating on some poor guy’s brain for six hours?”

    “Probably closer to seven, if he started at f— Heck.” She stared at him in horror.

    Josh cleared his throat. “Dad was in theatre for ages, yes, but it’s all over now.”

    “If only we’d known! We could of been with you!”

    “Well, you’re here now, thank God.”

    “Thank Aunty Mary, ya mean! Jesus, if hadda been Uncle Don again—”

    “Yes, but it wasn’t,” he said quickly.

    “Mm.” Harriet had recourse to the fancy tissues again.

    Then they just got on with sitting and holding his hand.

    It was getting on for three-thirty and they were expecting Kyla any minute—in fact wondering what the hold-up was—when Crispin squeezed Harriet’s hand, and said faintly: “Blueberry muffins.” He opened his eyes. “Hullo.”

    “Hullo, Crispin!” she gulped.

    “It’s Harriet, Dad, I found her!” gasped Josh.

    “Mm.” Crispin seemed to be gathering his strength. “Heard that. Heard… blueberry muffins, too... Funny little girl.”

    “Um, yes!” gasped Harriet. “That was the other day. That was my niece, Kyla!”

    They waited anxiously. “Mm,” he said faintly. “Looked for you… ages, Harriet.”

    “Yes, I know, but Josh found me. You’re gonna be all right, Crispin. This is a very good hospital.”

    “Mm… Own fault,” he said very, very faintly: they had to bend down to hear him. “The bugger… gun.”

    “Yes, but it’s all over, Dad,” said Josh anxiously.

    “Been… idiot,” he said weakly. “Sorry, Josh.” Then he closed his eyes and seemed to be asleep again.

    Harriet and Josh stared at each other wildly.

    “Is he okay?” gasped Kyla from the doorway.

    Josh tried to speak but tears started to trickle down his cheeks.

    “Yes!” gulped Harriet. “He was quite rational. I think he’s just asleep again.”

    “I’ll get Jill!” She shot off.

    Harriet put her arm round Josh. After a moment she leaned her head against his. She managed to croak: “I really do think he’s come good.” Then she started to cry, too.

Next chapter:

https://trialsofharrietharrison.blogspot.com/2023/09/invalid-comforts.html