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‘What didn’t? He was in awful pain, first in his back, then down his sides, and tops of his legs. He was chilling one minute and feverish the next. His urine was full of blood.’ She stared at Hester as if she were still desperate for some kind of help.
‘I didn’t know what to do,’ Sherryl went on. ‘He was in agony worse than his wounds, and terrified. I was useless. He was dying and I couldn’t think of anything to do for him. He was faint. Some parts of him went absolutely white, as if there were no blood inside him. Others were dark red and, strong man as he was, he wept with the pain of it. God in heaven, that’s not a way for anybody to die!’ Now the tears ran unashamedly down her cheeks. ‘Why the hell weren’t you there?’ she said furiously.
Hester knew this was anger at helplessness, at pain, and death. They were the tears of exhaustion, and the need not to be alone.
‘I’m sorry,’ Hester said quietly. ‘I was with another patient. A child. I told Mary Ann.’
‘She’s no damn use!’ Sherryl said desperately. ‘She thought Wilton was going to live, after Dr Rand took him away for treatment yesterday.
He . . . he was so full of hope when he came back.’ She stopped abruptly, unable to keep her self-control any longer.
‘Did you know there was a children’s ward here?’ Hester asked, wondering even as she spoke if she was wise to mention it.
Sherryl’s eyes widened. ‘What are you talking about? Where? There are no children here. It’s all soldiers and sailors.’ Disbelief was heavy in her face.
‘No it isn’t,’ Hester contradicted her. ‘I found a child in one of the corridors, looking for help. She was about six, and her brother was in crisis. I went with her. That’s where I was.’
Sherryl’s eyes widened again.
‘We got him through the night, but I don’t know what good it will do. He was very weak.’
‘A child too?’ Sherryl asked.
‘About seven,’ Hester replied. ‘I couldn’t leave her alone to watch him die . . .’
Indecision flickered in Sherryl’s face, and then she chose to believe. ‘You couldn’t have done anything here anyway,’ she conceded, turning away after a moment to master her feelings, and wipe her face with the corner of her apron.
Hester was uncertain what to say. She really did understand the sense of helplessness, the going over and over every step, every decision, all the possibilities that could have been tried, and then the agony of watching such a painful, horrible death. Everyone who cared questioned themselves.
Sherryl O’Neill was a difficult person to get to know. Their first real conversation had been when Hester asked about her unusual name, one she had not heard before, and Sherryl had told her of its origins in France. Her parents had been touring the country and had never forgotten its beauty. When their daughter was born the intended name of ‘Rose’ had been replaced with a version of the French word for ‘dear’ or ‘beloved’, and she had been trying to live up to it ever since.
Hester, who had always felt herself to look rather ordinary, understood exactly. It had not started a friendship, but at least rather more than simply an acquaintance.
As soon as Hester knew that Dr Magnus Rand was due in the hospital, and before he could begin any rounds, she went to tell him about Charlie. She found him in his office towards the front of the building. It was an imposing room with an oak desk and a couple of other tables with books, papers and instruments spread out, as if there were always a new work in progress.
Two of the walls were lined with shelves, the books packed in. At a glance they seemed at random. There were no obvious sets of volumes. Once she had had the chance to read the titles and she was impressed with the breadth and variety of his interest, but always in some form of medicine. There were studies dating from the ancient Greeks, through the developing knowledge of the Arabs and Jews, and such giants as Maimonides. Then the herbalists of the Middle Ages, to the modern histories of new discoveries in anatomy and physiology. Harvey, who had discovered the circulation of the blood, was clearly Dr Rand’s greatest hero.
He was a mild-seeming man, several years younger than his brother, Hamilton, but his features were not dissimilar, perhaps a little blunter. Unlike Hamilton, his fairish hair was thick and always seemed to have escaped his control.
He looked up as Hester knocked lightly on the open door.
‘Ah, come in, Mrs Monk.’ His expression appeared mild but his blue eyes were sharp with interest. ‘How went the night?’
She stood in front of the desk. Only then did she realise that Hamilton Rand was in the room also. He was visibly the elder of the two. His face was leaner and more deeply lined, his hair thinner. It was difficult to tell what colour his eyes were, but impossible to miss the acute intelligence in them. Now he watched her silently. She was not a social acquaintance so he did not feel it necessary to acknowledge her.
There was no escape. Hester could feel the colour burn up her face. She did not have any doubt that she had done the right thing, but she was by no means certain that either man would see it that way. They would have heard of Wilton’s death. To lose a patient was always a kind of failure, and they had not expected this one.
She told them exactly what her own notes had said, until the time she had left to walk along the corridor to fetch more paper for recording patients’ progress.
‘Wilton was restless.’ Magnus affirmed. ‘What then?’
‘What time was he restless, Mrs Monk?’ Hamilton interrupted without looking at his brother. ‘Be precise, if you please.’
‘Ten minutes past midnight he got tangled in the sheet and started to struggle,’ Hester replied. She was used to his manner. He looked for reason in the details and she understood that. He was a man of penetrating intelligence and accustomed to dealing with those who generalised where he required exactness.
‘Awake, Mrs Monk? Were his eyes open? Did he focus?’
‘His eyes were open but he seemed to focus only now and then. I would say less than half the time,’ she replied.
