Abruptly, with all the firmness of a mind habituated to self-discipline, she had put the thought away, yet even now she had not altogether forgiven herself. However, as they drew near the first cottage she was due to visit she willed herself to throw off her constraint. Turning to him she asked if he would like to come inside with her.
“That’s why I’m here,” he exclaimed. “I want to see everything.”
The cottage was tenanted by a farm-worker whose leg had been caught in a threshing machine at the last harvest. He lay in the usual alcove bed in the dark little kitchen, where also were his wife, a defeated-looking woman in a torn wrapper, and three half-dressed unwashed young children, one of whom was crawling on the floor with naked buttocks, slavering over a slice of bread and jam. The room was in a state of disorder, used pots piled in the sink, greasy dishes on the table which was covered by an old soiled newspaper. Into this mess and muddle, which left him appalled, Kathy walked with an air of unconcern, said good morning to the woman and the children, calling each by name, then turned to the bed.
“Well, John, man, how are you today?”
“Oh, not so bad, nurse.” His face had cleared at the sight of her. “It’s just that, like the wife there, I never seem to get out the bit.”
“Tuts, man, don’t give up. You’ll be getting about in a week or so. Now let’s have a look at you.” As she opened her bag, she added casually: “This gentleman is a friend who has come along to say hello to you.”
It was a severe and extensive injury. Viewing it across her shoulder Moray could see that only by the barest margin had the femoral artery escaped. Several of the tendons had been severed, and as healing had not taken place by first intention, some of the sutures had gone septic. He watched as, having noted pulse and temperature, she cleansed the wound, renewed the dressing and rebandaged the leg, meanwhile maintaining a flow of encouraging remarks. Finally, straightening, she said:
“John here doesn’t know how lucky he’s been. Another inch and the thresher would have been through the big blood vessel of the leg.” In an undertone to Moray, modestly displaying her knowledge, she added: “It’s called the femoral artery.”
He restrained a smile, accepted the information with an appreciative glance, meanwhile continuing to observe her as she closed her bag and moved from the bed exclaiming:
“That’s enough for you, John. Now let’s give your lass a hand.” She turned to his wife. “Come away now, Jeannie Lang, and get a move on. If you redd up the dishes, I’ll see to the bairns.”
It was amazing: in fifteen minutes she had washed and dressed the children, swept and straightened up the room, dried the dishes as they were handed dripping from the sink. Then, almost in the same breath, she had rolled down her sleeves and was on her way out, calling over her shoulder:
“Don’t forget now, send to the Centre for the children’s milk this evening.”
Moray made no comment until they were back in the car and he had restarted the motor, then he said:
“That was well done, Kathy.”
“Oh, I’m used to it,” she said lightly. “It’s just a matter of method.”
“No, it was much more than that. You seemed to put new heart in them.”
She shook her head.
“The Lord knows, they need it, poor things.”
It continued dismally wet and windy, the tangle of country by-roads which served her district were smeared in liquid mud, the labourers’ and brick-workers’ rows of cottages, small, poor homesteads, all were dripping and bedraggled in the rain. Yet this wretchedness seemed never to depress her. The troubled mood of the morning was gone. As she stepped from the car with her black nurse’s bag, splashing her way towards damp kitchens and attic bedrooms, there was about her an alacrity beyond professional pretence, an unforced willingness he couldn’t understand. Although she wanted him to stay in the shelter of the car, he insisted on accompanying her: something unknown compelled him to do so. All that day he watched her at work; tending nursing mothers and fractious children; a schoolgirl with a painfully scalded arm, the dressing so adherent it must be removed with time-consuming care; the wife of a brick-worker propped up in bed, struggling with asthma; then the old people, some bedridden, full of their tedious complaints, one old man, helpless and incontinent, who must be washed, the sheets changed, his bedsores cleaned with spirit.
And beyond ail this were the extra duties she imposed upon herself: the dusty rooms, smelling of lamp oil, to be aired and tidied, soiled linen to be rinsed, dishes washed, milk to be heated, soup put to simmer on the kitchen range; all under conditions which would have reduced him to the lowest ebb of melancholia, and all accomplished not with quiet competence alone, but with a sympathy, a sense of spirited enterprise that left him baffled.
He might, at times, have obtruded with a remark arising from his own knowledge, for this renewed contact with sickness and disease, although so long deferred, induced a strange evocation of the days when he had walked the wards of Winton Infirmary. Yet he refrained, mainly because, in an effort to interest him, she had continued to make simple little medical comments on the condition of her patients. He did not wish to wound her.
In the late afternoon, on one of her last visits, when she had been to a case in a row of cottages, a woman called her in from a neighbouring doorway. Angus, her youngest, had “a bit of a rash,” she thought that nurse ought to have a look at him. The boy, looking fevered and uncomfortable, was lying down under a plaid shawl on two chairs placed end to end. His mother said that he complained of headache and had refused the dinner. Then she had seen his spots, some of them like little blisters.
Kathy talked with him for a minute, then, having gained his confidence, turned back the shawl and undid his shirt. At the sight of the rash Moray could see her face change. After sending the mother into the scullery on a pretext she turned to him.
“Poor boy,” she whispered. “It’s the smallpox. They’ve had two cases down in Berwick and I’m terribly afraid this is another. I’ll have to notify the M.O.H. at once.”
He hesitated; then, for her own sake, felt obliged to intervene. In a tone which lightly parodied the professional manner, he said:
“Take another look, nurse.”
She stared at him, disconcerted at his use of that word, above all to find him smiling at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Only that you needn’t worry, Kathy.” He bent forward, pointing to illustrate his remarks. “Just look at the distribution of these vesicles. They’re centripetal, none at all on the hands, feet, or face. Also they’re not multilocular and show no signs of umbilication. Finally these papules are at different stages of development—unlike smallpox where the lesions appear simultaneously. Taken with the mildness of the prodromal symptoms there isn’t the slightest doubt about the diagnosis. Chickenpox. Tell his mother to give him a dose of castor oil, some baking soda for the itching, and he’ll be over it in a week.”
Her expression of surprise had gradually deepened until now she seemed almost petrified.
“Are you sure?”
“I am absolutely and positively certain.” He read the unspoken question in her eyes. “Yes, I’m a doctor, Kathy.” He spoke with a kind of mild frankness, half in apology. “Does that shock you?”
She could scarcely speak.
“It fair takes my breath away. Why did you not tell me?”
“Well, you see . . . I’ve never been in practice.”
“Never practised! It’s beyond belief. Why in all the world not?”