A sudden, fearful death - Anne Perry [30]
She came out into the ward, a long room with a high ceiling, lined on both sides with narrow beds, each blanketed in gray and with someone either sitting or lying in it. Some were pale-faced, others feverish, some restless, tossing from side to side, some lying motionless, breathing shallowly, gasping for air. The room was hot and smelled stale and close.
A young woman in a soiled overall walked down the length of the floor between the beds carrying an uncovered pail of slops. The odor of it, strong and sour, assailed Callandra’s nostrils as she passed.
“I’m sorry,” Callandra replied, snatching her attention back to the matron’s request. “Lecturing them isn’t the answer. We need to get a different kind of woman into the trade, and then treat them accordingly.”
Mrs. Flaherty’s face creased with irritation. She had heard these arguments before and they were fanciful and completely impractical.
“All very nice, your ladyship,” she said tartly. “But we have got to deal with what we have, and we have laziness, drunkenness, thieving, and complete irresponsibility. If you want to help, you’ll do something about that, not talk about situations that will never be.”
Callandra opened her mouth to argue, but her attention was distracted by a woman halfway down the ward starting to choke, and the patient next to her calling out for help.
A pale, obese woman appeared with an empty slop pail and lumbered over to the gasping patient, who began to vomit.
“That’s the digitalis leaves,” Mrs. Flaherty said matter-of-factly. “The poor creature is dropsical. Passed no urine for days, but this will help. She’s been in here before and recovered.” She turned away and looked back toward her table, where she had been writing notes on medications and responses. The heavy keys hanging in her belt jangled against each other. “Now if you will excuse me,” she went on, her back to Callandra, “I’ve got a great deal to do, and I’m sure you have.” Her voice on the last remark was tight with sarcasm.
“Yes,” Callandra said equally tartly. “Yes I have. I am afraid you will have to ask someone else to lecture the nurses, Mrs. Flaherty; perhaps Lady Ross Gilbert would do that. She seems very capable.”
“She is,” Mrs. Flaherty said meaningfully, then sat down at her table and picked up her pen. It was dismissal.
Callandra left the ward, walking along a dim corridor past a woman with a bucket and scrubbing brush, and another woman seeming no more than a heap of laundry piled up against the wall, insensible with alcohol.
At the end of the corridor she encountered a group of three young student doctors talking together eagerly, heads close, hands gesticulating.
“It’s this big,” one red-haired youth said, holding up his clenched fist. “Sir Herbert is going to cut it out. Thank God I live when I do. Just think how hopeless that would have been twelve years ago before anesthetic. Now with ether or nitrous oxide, nothing is impossible.”
“Greatest thing since Harvey and the circulation of blood,” another agreed enthusiastically. “My grandfather was a naval surgeon in Nelson’s fleet. Had to do everything with a bottle of rum and a leather gag, and two men to hold you down. My God, isn’t modern medicine wonderful. Damn, I’ve got blood all over my trousers.” He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbed at himself without effect, except to stain the handkerchief scarlet.
“Don’t know why you’re wasting your time,” the third young man said, regarding his efforts with a smile. “You’re assisting, aren’t you? You’ll only get covered again. Shouldn’t have worn a good suit. I never do. That’ll teach