The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [178]
I found an excuse to slip away to the wards, to look for Cabbage. No sign of him on Men’s Surgical, but Lysol’s tall back stalked the corridor ahead of me. He would know if Cabbage was on duty. I tried to run to catch him up, but my feet could get no grip on the shiny green lino and the ache in my back began to burn like I’d torn something. Breathless, I had to stop at the junction of two corridors. Which way had Lysol gone? My head felt heavy and dull. I closed my eyes and could feel myself swaying where I stood, wheezing like an old woman.
Someone cannoned into me with a muttered ‘Sorry.’ It was Pee, the youngest of the three housemen, head down, white coat flapping, bony lantern jaw sunk onto his hollow chest. He stopped a few yards along the corridor.
‘Miss Er…?’ He could never remember any of the girls’ names. ‘Are you all right? You’re very pale.’ He started to walk back towards me. His eyes were fixed on my feet.
I followed his gaze down. There was a tiny puddle, hardly more than a couple of teaspoons of fluid, on the lino between my legs. I baked in shame. I’d wet myself, dear Lord, without even noticing. I’d have to pretend it hadn’t happened, was nothing to do with me. Puddle, Dr Matthews? Some careless nurse must’ve slopped a bedpan.
‘Hot,’ I said. ‘Sticky day. Didn’t sleep.’ Waving my hand all airy, fanning my face, anything to take his eyes off my soggy shoes. ‘You seen Cab–Dr Prentice?’
‘Dr Prentice is off duty,’ said Pee, like it was mothballs in his mouth.
‘When’ll–’
‘Clever Dr Prentice has the Almighty on his side. His next shift isn’t until tomorrow.’ There were bruised bags under his eyes, a crpey look to his pale, pockmarked skin. I’d heard the girls in the office this morning talking about a car crash in the blackout last night, and remembered that Pee had been called out with the ambulance. He’d had to cut off a girl’s leg to free her from the wreckage of the passenger seat. The firemen kept their torches trained on the girl’s feet so Pee wouldn’t have to see the boyfriend’s severed head watching him from the back. He was young, in his mid-twenties, but today he looked like a grey ghost of an old man.
He wiped a hand across dry lips before carrying on: ‘But they’ll probably call him in later. All hands to the pump when the casualties arrive.’
‘What casualties?’ My heart started thudding.
‘There’s been a big raid on Bristol. The infirmary there can’t cope, and they’re talking about sending the overspill to us.’
‘They can’t…’ My head was spinning with the thought of it. ‘We’re full–I was doing a requisition to move some of the convalescents out.’
‘Full or not, they’re already on their way,’ said Pee. Are you running a temperature, Miss Er…?’
I was in a muck sweat and dizzy with it. My back ached like blazes. My skin was so tight and tender I flinched when he put his hand on my forehead.
‘You’re more than a bit clammy,’ he said. ‘That’s all we need, some bloody bug rampaging through the staff. Go home.’
‘The paperwork,’ I said weakly.
He gave a croak of a laugh. ‘Bugger the paperwork. What we need today are nurses, not pen-pushers. Go home. And while you’re about it–’ his face grew pink, and his eyes went to my feet again ‘–you might, er, want to change your sanitary towel.’ He turned and went steaming off up the corridor.
I glanced down and saw what I’d missed–a streak of bloody mucus on my white ankle sock. This couldn’t be it, could it? What I knew about babies was no more than village gossip and earwigging in the church porch when new mothers whispered the details of epic deliveries to each other. Waters broke, all of a gush. I were splitting from stem to stern. Hurt summat terrible. Those women let go at least a gallon apiece: the Red Sea parted, Niagara Falls ran down their legs. Not a pathetic trickle like I’d globbed on the lino. No, this couldn’t be it. I had an overwhelming urge to lie down, but any minute now the glass doors would swing open