Chapter 28 – Hospital
Tom Branson drove Lady Mary to the village straight to the hospital door. He alighted and opened the door for her. "Milady."
"Thank you Branson."
"You're welcome. Mr. Matthew isn't here yet, is he?"
"No. Not yet." She smiled, "but I hope he's here today."
Branson looked at the ground then up at her pale face. "He's a good man, in my opinion."
"Thank you. I think so too." Her voice caught for a moment and then she said, "He's a better man…"
Branson took her hand. "We all think very highly of him. You know that."
Lady Mary looked very deep into the chauffer's eyes. She saw compassion, concern, and something more.
"Mary… milady, excuse me." He let go of her hand and closed the automobile door. "If you need anything… call the house. I'll bring it down straight away."
Mary collected herself. "Thank you, Branson. I shall."
Branson gave her a brave smile. "He'll pull through, I know it. I'm certain it's quite hard to kill a solicitor," he said and then he winked.
Mary entered the hospital, buoyed by that strange final comment.
Tom Branson caught a glimpse of Lady Mary in the mirror when he turned the motor to go back to Downton. His lips set themselves into a hard line as he watched her sad figure go into the building. "There's entirely too much sadness in the house these days." He sighed. "And entirely too much sadness in those who live there." He started to whistle an old Irish tune, one his gran taught him, as he motored back to Downton.
About the time he drove up the drive to the house, as far in the distance, he thought he heard a train's whistle blow.
000
Doctor Richard Clarkson saw Lady Mary come down the hall and he braced himself. "Lady Mary. We don't know if Matthew will come in today. I told your father that on the telephone, when he called."
"Yes, I know," she looked around. "But…"
The doctor took her elbow and took her to the side to make way for a soldier on crutches. "When the soldiers get here… well, it's never pretty."
She gave him a level stare. "Do you think…" her voice broke, "I could stay away?"
Clarkson looked away for a moment. Was it his place to tell her of the terrible things that could be done to the human body by simple accident, let alone bullet or explosive shell? He himself had to run outside when he saw his first case of gangrene, but that was only a farm accident, when a boy had been crushed by the wheel of a farm cart. He had to saw off the shattered foot of that young boy years back – that was bad enough. But bullets shattered bones into tiny fragments, driving pieces in all directions, while any cloth or dirt was likewise forced into the tissues. And the infection after days of poor treatment, he shuddered.
He had no idea what injuries Matthew Crawley might have suffered, but they would find out when he got there. He looked at the strained pale face of Mary and felt his heart give a little. How many girls – women – were waiting just as Lady Mary was? How many waiting to find out if their loved one, yes - loved one - had no arms, or legs, or face? Or worse, was coming home to die?
"Lady Mary, no, of course not. That's not what I mean." He paused when he knew there would be no reasoning with the girl. "Well, then. Why don't you come into my office? There's a pot of tea and you'll be more comfortable, while you wait." He smiled.
Mary allowed herself to be escorted into the office and there was tea. So as the hospital bustled around her, she sipped at tea, which to her tongue had no taste, and she tried to be very, very brave.
000
In a short while Sybil came in wearing her nurse's uniform and found Mary slumped in Clarkson's office. "I knew you'd be here."
"Where else would I be? I… have… to be here," her older sister told her in a quavering voice.
"Right. I'll be working but rest assured that I'll help when…" she touched her sister's shoulder gently.
Mark grasped her fingers as one might when drowning.
Sybil bent and kissed her sister's cheek. "Oh, Mary."
Mary accepted the gesture then pushed her away. "No. No," she said sadly. "We have to think about Matthew. Any word of William?"
"Granny and Edith have headed off to Leeds infirmary. Edith said that granny had the bit in her teeth. You know how she is."
Mark smiled at that. "I'd not want to get into Violet's way."
They both looked up with a start when the train whistle announced its arrival at the village station.
Hand in hand they stood in the hall and awaited developments.
Shorty motor ambulances began to arrive in the street outside and stretchers began to be carried in as other men limped in on crutches.
Sybil pointed to the ward across the hall. "They'll bring him there. There are open beds in here," she directed. "Go through." She took Mary's elbow and escorted her into the room.
Mary stood near the stove, in spite of Clarkson's protestations, and there in awful expectation and quivering fear watched as Matthew was carried in. She reminded herself that she was a volunteer and sometime volunteers didn't exactly know what they were getting themselves into.
He was flat on his back and unresponsive. The gray striped pyjamas he wore were clean, but the man himself was unshaven, dirty, his hair filthy, and he smelled. His eyes were blackened and his eyebrows had tiny cuts along with his cheeks and hands.
Mary managed to stifle a gasp and to her credit did not cry out as she helped Sybil and a military nurse transfer him from the litter to a bed. She lifted the tag tied to his shirt and read the awful words: Probable spinal damage.
Mary held the tag out to Sybil and felt the floor drop out from under her feet. "It says probable spinal damage."
"That can mean anything." Sybil said. "We'll know more in the morning." She moved a green military blanket, topped by a uniform cap and military badges and a small stuffed dog fell from it. "What's this doing here?" She held the tiny dog towards Mary since she recognized it as her sister's.
"I gave to him for luck. He was probably carrying it when he fell." Mary's voice was clam as she said that but she felt anything but.
Sybil sighed sadly. "If only it had worked."
"He's alive, isn't he?" replied Mary factually.
Sybil stared at her sister, knowing she was correct then they spoke about the need to wash the patient. As Mary went to get warm water, soap and towels, Sybil bent down over the face of the wounded Matthew and pondered what tomorrow would bring.
So the two sisters washed the prostrate and unmoving figure of Matthew, having been shot full of morphine the orderly had said, so they kept their voices low.
Matthew knew he was dreaming and the horrors and dark shapes of the last little bit started to lift. He now felt like he was sinking into a warm tub and very dimly, very dimly, he thought he heard Mary's voice.
