at the time. She had a deformed lip. Her name was Susan Wright.’
Graham tried to remember. It was impossible. He had operated on so many girls. ‘I can only hope the operation was a success?’
‘Oh, yes!’ She suddenly became animated. ‘It made an enormous difference to her. Not only physically, I mean, but mentally. She told me all about you, Mr Trevose—how understanding you were, how skilful. Perhaps it gave me the ambition of one day working for you.’
Graham folded his arms. She was terribly young, but old Cavill had praised her warmly enough. She’d be pretty to have about the annex. Perhaps the boys would take pity on her delicate looks, though he doubted it. And she had a neat hand with flattery. A sensible girl. It was a talent which had taken him a long way at the beginning of his career.
‘Can you start on Wednesday?’ he asked her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BLUEY JARDINE bared the upper half of his left arm with an air of resignation. He knew exactly what was coming to him. It was a Friday morning, following the Sunday when Graham had sent Peter Thomas on leave, which gave Bluey the dubious honour of being the ward’s oldest inhabitant. He had then been in the annex four months, and into the theatre eight times. Like everyone else, he had developed a keen interest in the science which was bedevilling him.
The routine of an operation had become as familiar to him as the routine of flying. The injection about to enter his arm was his ‘premedication’, and he even knew the names of the drugs. There was one hundred-and-fiftieth of a grain of scopolamine, which dried up your mouth and lungs and stopped you bubbling and drowning yourself once you were under. There was a third of a grain of omnopon, which was just another name for morphia, and gave you guts. He twitched as the staff nurse punctured his skin with the syringe. The more needles they stuck into you, the more you came to hate them.
He lay back in bed, wearing long white knitted socks and a short over-laundered cotton nightshirt which fastened with rubber buttons at the back. He didn’t seem to be growing as drowsy as usual. Perhaps the injection was losing effect. Only to be expected, he told himself. Once he could get drunk on a bottle of beer, now it needed a couple of crates. He wondered how many more operations the Wizz had in store for him. It never occurred to Bluey that he might ask Graham to stop, to leave him with a half-patched face and makeshift hands, but in peace. He accepted his treatment as something which went on until it reached its natural end, like the war.
As they wheeled him the few yards from the ward to the operating theatre on a trolley he searched the ceiling for a peculiar star-shaped crack, as he always touched the dried kangaroo paw in his tunic pocket before flying. Sometimes when they trundled you out you were dead scared, others you didn’t gave a damn. He supposed it depended how rough they were on your last visit. Anyway, the operation today was kid’s stuff. He’d soon get over it. With luck, he’d be out on the grog again on Saturday night, as usual.
The anaesthetic room, improvised out of flimsy partitions, was hardly big enough to hold the patient, the ward nurse accompanying him, the tall frame of John Bickley, and the anaesthetic trolly gleaming with dials, bottles, piping, and coloured cylinders. Bluey raised his head from the pillow. The Gasman, his long green gown pushed up to his elbows, was holding a large syringe.
‘Not another bloody needle?’
‘You’re a favoured customer, Bluey. No gas this time. I’m sending you off with an injection.’
‘Go on?’ This was an interesting departure, something to tell the ward afterwards. The anaesthetist rubbed a swab of cold antiseptic on the crook of Bluey’s left arm. ‘What’s the stuff called?’
‘Evipan.’ John drew back the plunger of his syringe, a swirl of blood telling him the needle lay safely inside the vein. If the
Graham tried to remember. It was impossible. He had operated on so many girls. ‘I can only hope the operation was a success?’
‘Oh, yes!’ She suddenly became animated. ‘It made an enormous difference to her. Not only physically, I mean, but mentally. She told me all about you, Mr Trevose—how understanding you were, how skilful. Perhaps it gave me the ambition of one day working for you.’
Graham folded his arms. She was terribly young, but old Cavill had praised her warmly enough. She’d be pretty to have about the annex. Perhaps the boys would take pity on her delicate looks, though he doubted it. And she had a neat hand with flattery. A sensible girl. It was a talent which had taken him a long way at the beginning of his career.
‘Can you start on Wednesday?’ he asked her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BLUEY JARDINE bared the upper half of his left arm with an air of resignation. He knew exactly what was coming to him. It was a Friday morning, following the Sunday when Graham had sent Peter Thomas on leave, which gave Bluey the dubious honour of being the ward’s oldest inhabitant. He had then been in the annex four months, and into the theatre eight times. Like everyone else, he had developed a keen interest in the science which was bedevilling him.
The routine of an operation had become as familiar to him as the routine of flying. The injection about to enter his arm was his ‘premedication’, and he even knew the names of the drugs. There was one hundred-and-fiftieth of a grain of scopolamine, which dried up your mouth and lungs and stopped you bubbling and drowning yourself once you were under. There was a third of a grain of omnopon, which was just another name for morphia, and gave you guts. He twitched as the staff nurse punctured his skin with the syringe. The more needles they stuck into you, the more you came to hate them.
He lay back in bed, wearing long white knitted socks and a short over-laundered cotton nightshirt which fastened with rubber buttons at the back. He didn’t seem to be growing as drowsy as usual. Perhaps the injection was losing effect. Only to be expected, he told himself. Once he could get drunk on a bottle of beer, now it needed a couple of crates. He wondered how many more operations the Wizz had in store for him. It never occurred to Bluey that he might ask Graham to stop, to leave him with a half-patched face and makeshift hands, but in peace. He accepted his treatment as something which went on until it reached its natural end, like the war.
As they wheeled him the few yards from the ward to the operating theatre on a trolley he searched the ceiling for a peculiar star-shaped crack, as he always touched the dried kangaroo paw in his tunic pocket before flying. Sometimes when they trundled you out you were dead scared, others you didn’t gave a damn. He supposed it depended how rough they were on your last visit. Anyway, the operation today was kid’s stuff. He’d soon get over it. With luck, he’d be out on the grog again on Saturday night, as usual.
The anaesthetic room, improvised out of flimsy partitions, was hardly big enough to hold the patient, the ward nurse accompanying him, the tall frame of John Bickley, and the anaesthetic trolly gleaming with dials, bottles, piping, and coloured cylinders. Bluey raised his head from the pillow. The Gasman, his long green gown pushed up to his elbows, was holding a large syringe.
‘Not another bloody needle?’
‘You’re a favoured customer, Bluey. No gas this time. I’m sending you off with an injection.’
‘Go on?’ This was an interesting departure, something to tell the ward afterwards. The anaesthetist rubbed a swab of cold antiseptic on the crook of Bluey’s left arm. ‘What’s the stuff called?’
‘Evipan.’ John drew back the plunger of his syringe, a swirl of blood telling him the needle lay safely inside the vein. If the
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