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Authors: Donna Douglas
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operation,’ she warned. ‘I think you’ll find Mr Latimer isn’t as forgiving as Mr Cooper. He doesn’t even like a sound while he’s operating.’
‘So we’ve heard,’ William said. ‘But I daresay you’ll keep us on the straight and narrow, Sis!’
‘I won’t be allowed anywhere near you. I’ll be next door, up to my elbows in steam and soapy water.’
No sooner had the unconscious patient been wheeled into Theatre than Mr Latimer made his perfectly timed appearance. He swept in to scrub up, flanked by a line of white-faced medical students. Helen was used to doctors being treated like gods, but Mr Latimer truly seemed to be one. His fearsome presence filled the room as he towered over his minions, all blazing amber eyes and a leonine mane of russet waves. His Theatre nurse fluttered around him like a handmaiden, helping him into his gown and fastening the ties while he stood in the centre of the room with arms outstretched. Helen almost expected the sound of a heavenly choir to fill the theatre.
She glanced across the room at William. She couldn’t see his face behind his surgical mask, but the mischievous crinkling of his brown eyes told her he was thinking exactly the same as she was.
Once the operation was underway, Helen was banished to the sluice to wash and sterilise instruments from an earlier procedure.
Wielding the Cheatle’s forceps, she reached into the steamy interior of the autoclave and pulled out a large metal tray. As she lifted it out, a cloud of scalding steam made her lose her grip on the forceps for a split second. She felt the tray start to slide and desperately tried to stop it. But it was too late. She could only watch helplessly as, in terrible slow motion, it slid from the forceps and crashed to the ground.
The sound was like the crash of a hundred cymbals, shattering the silence. A second later the door flew open and Miss Feehan appeared in the doorway, quivering with fury.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she hissed.
‘Sorry, Sister.’ Helen couldn’t meet her eye as she retrieved the tray.
‘It’s not me you should be apologising to, is it?’ Miss Feehan’s eyes blazed. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, girl. Put that tray back in the autoclave and resterilise it. And then you must apologise to Mr Latimer. He is most upset.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
All faces turned to her when she stepped into the operating theatre. William regarded her with silent sympathy over his face mask.
Mr Latimer stared at her, forceps poised, but didn’t speak.
Helen cleared her throat. ‘Mr Latimer, I just wanted to say how sorry I am that I disturbed your operation.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet it still seemed to ring around the hushed theatre.
Mr Latimer said nothing. Helen squirmed as his amber gaze moved slowly down to her feet and back up to her face. Then, finally, he spoke.
‘Go away,’ he said.
She didn’t need to be told twice. She backed out of the room, closing the door behind her, and fled back to the sluice.
I won’t cry, she told herself over and over again, trying to blink back the tears of humiliation that prickled at the backs of her eyes. Hot soapy water scalded her arms as she plunged them in, but she was too mortified to care. Any minute she expected Miss Feehan to barge in and send her to Matron.
Luckily there were only two other procedures on Mr Latimer’s list for that day. By four o’clock he had gone, and surgery had finished.
Helen was still at the sink, scrubbing blood from the joint of a pair of surgical scissors, when William and Alec came to find her.
‘You mustn’t take it to heart,’ William said. ‘It was an accident. They happen to everyone.’
‘Not to me.’ Helen held the scissors up to her eyes, examining them for imaginary specks. ‘What kind of a nurse am I if I can’t even sterilise an instrument properly?’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You only dropped a tray. It’s not as if a patient
‘So we’ve heard,’ William said. ‘But I daresay you’ll keep us on the straight and narrow, Sis!’
‘I won’t be allowed anywhere near you. I’ll be next door, up to my elbows in steam and soapy water.’
No sooner had the unconscious patient been wheeled into Theatre than Mr Latimer made his perfectly timed appearance. He swept in to scrub up, flanked by a line of white-faced medical students. Helen was used to doctors being treated like gods, but Mr Latimer truly seemed to be one. His fearsome presence filled the room as he towered over his minions, all blazing amber eyes and a leonine mane of russet waves. His Theatre nurse fluttered around him like a handmaiden, helping him into his gown and fastening the ties while he stood in the centre of the room with arms outstretched. Helen almost expected the sound of a heavenly choir to fill the theatre.
She glanced across the room at William. She couldn’t see his face behind his surgical mask, but the mischievous crinkling of his brown eyes told her he was thinking exactly the same as she was.
Once the operation was underway, Helen was banished to the sluice to wash and sterilise instruments from an earlier procedure.
Wielding the Cheatle’s forceps, she reached into the steamy interior of the autoclave and pulled out a large metal tray. As she lifted it out, a cloud of scalding steam made her lose her grip on the forceps for a split second. She felt the tray start to slide and desperately tried to stop it. But it was too late. She could only watch helplessly as, in terrible slow motion, it slid from the forceps and crashed to the ground.
The sound was like the crash of a hundred cymbals, shattering the silence. A second later the door flew open and Miss Feehan appeared in the doorway, quivering with fury.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she hissed.
‘Sorry, Sister.’ Helen couldn’t meet her eye as she retrieved the tray.
‘It’s not me you should be apologising to, is it?’ Miss Feehan’s eyes blazed. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, girl. Put that tray back in the autoclave and resterilise it. And then you must apologise to Mr Latimer. He is most upset.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
All faces turned to her when she stepped into the operating theatre. William regarded her with silent sympathy over his face mask.
Mr Latimer stared at her, forceps poised, but didn’t speak.
Helen cleared her throat. ‘Mr Latimer, I just wanted to say how sorry I am that I disturbed your operation.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet it still seemed to ring around the hushed theatre.
Mr Latimer said nothing. Helen squirmed as his amber gaze moved slowly down to her feet and back up to her face. Then, finally, he spoke.
‘Go away,’ he said.
She didn’t need to be told twice. She backed out of the room, closing the door behind her, and fled back to the sluice.
I won’t cry, she told herself over and over again, trying to blink back the tears of humiliation that prickled at the backs of her eyes. Hot soapy water scalded her arms as she plunged them in, but she was too mortified to care. Any minute she expected Miss Feehan to barge in and send her to Matron.
Luckily there were only two other procedures on Mr Latimer’s list for that day. By four o’clock he had gone, and surgery had finished.
Helen was still at the sink, scrubbing blood from the joint of a pair of surgical scissors, when William and Alec came to find her.
‘You mustn’t take it to heart,’ William said. ‘It was an accident. They happen to everyone.’
‘Not to me.’ Helen held the scissors up to her eyes, examining them for imaginary specks. ‘What kind of a nurse am I if I can’t even sterilise an instrument properly?’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You only dropped a tray. It’s not as if a patient
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