Feeling cold and alone, the surgical gown she is wearing is ill-fitting; too loose around the sweep of her shoulders and too tight across the flare of her hips, it feels bunched uncomfortably around her bottom and despite her best attempts she cannot seem to get it sorted comfortably. And she is not warm enough by half. The lone blanket that the young nurse spread across her is not warming her chilled legs but that is not the only reason that she feels cold and alone. It has been a quarter hour since Charles left her side. After helping her change out of her clothing and into a hospital gown, and safely tucking her engagement ring inside his waistcoat pocket, the nurse shooed Charles out of the ward leaving Elsie on her own. Not exactly alone, people scurry about, nurses, technicians, doctors, yet Elsie feels isolated in her cubicle. She has been left alone and she is thinking; though hers is a benign condition, she wonders how things might be different had the diagnosis been different. Before her thoughts have too much time to fester, she notices the curtain that divides her cubicle from the next patient begin to rustle.
"Mrs. Crawley, what are you…..." Elsie is astonished to find Isobel Crawley pushing back the curtain that blocks off her cubicle from the others.
"I hope you don't mind but when I saw your name on Reginald's schedule, well, I still scrub in from time to time, and I thought that perhaps a familiar face might help to put your mind at ease." The words tumble quickly from Mrs. Crawley's lips as she busies herself flipping through Elsie's chart, ticking off items as she goes through the pages.
"No, I don't mind at all," Elsie replies. "In fact, I rather appreciate it. Thank you."
"You were wise not to wait and to schedule your surgery before the holidays. You'll still be healing but the worry of it all will be behind you."
"I must admit I thought of postponing it but Charles insisted," a nervous laugh forces its way out through a tense smile. Mrs. Crawley lays Elsie's chart to the side and gathers the items necessary for the intravenous drip that will transfer fluids and medicines into her body.
"Well, I know that he was anxious. Robert said as much when he phoned Reginald to ask if he could wrangle a spot on his schedule for you." Mrs. Crawley feels Elsie's hand tense beneath her fingers as she searches for a vein. She looks up to find Elsie confused and something else that she cannot quite place; she wonders if it is anger. "Oh, dear. I've said too much. I often do," Isobel confesses as she slips a tourniquet around Elsie's arm and then taps the top of her hand to plump the vein.
"Oh, no. It's all right. Really," Elsie soothes though she had explicitly asked Charles not to mention her condition to anyone and she certainly did not want him calling in any favours on her account. With practiced ease, Mrs. Crawley quickly and deftly slips the needle in and secures the line before Elsie feels any pain; it is doubtful that she would notice though, her mind focuses on Charles and his telephoning Robert, their playing the "connections" card. In this moment, she does not know whether to feel joy that he would do something of this nature for her or consternation at abuse of a system that she finds unfair to millions of people on waiting lists.
As she works, Mrs. Crawley chatters on about various things. She proudly tells Elsie of her only son Matthew who is taking his A levels with plans to study the law despite his father's wishes that his only son follows him into medicine. She speaks of the charity that she operates with Cora Crawley; Elsie knows that the two often lock horns, each such strong-willed women, but that they are effective and have helped dozens of women like Phyllis Baxter find new lives, leaving behind shameful pasts or ones full of pain and deprivation. In these few moments, Elsie learns more about Isobel Crawley than she has in the entire six years that she has known her. She learns that Mrs. Crawley is, at heart, a kind woman enveloped in the innate need to be needed, to be useful. In many ways, Elsie sees this trait in herself, the desire to be useful rather than idle, taking up space when one can help to make something better. In overabundance, Elsie knows many find this a flaw; she knows that the line between being a busybody and being helpful is a fine one.
"Now, do you have any questions?" Mrs. Crawley asks cheerfully as she tidies up.
Elsie looks down to her hands apprehensively and questions herself as to whether or not to ask what is really on her mind because in the long run the answer does not matter, not really. Because things will be what they are and she can do nothing but accept them. Mrs. Crawley, sensing Elsie's unease, stops what she is doing and rests a hand atop Elsie's trembling one.
"What is it?" Isobel asks softly, woman to woman.
"I know that Dr. Crawley and I discussed it, but how much do you think that….that Dr. Crawley with have to remove?" Elsie finally manages.
Charles snaps open his pocket watch and checks the time. It is ten minutes later than the last time he checked it and Beryl peers at him over the top of the romance novel that she is reading. She does not say a word, but judging by the exasperated look that she gives him, her brow furrowed, blue eyes narrowed, he knows that it has not been nearly long enough for the surgery to have begun and finished. Dr. Crawley has told them an hour and only half of that has passed. Yet Charles cannot help but to worry because despite her attempts to cheer him, he saw the look of uncertainty, perhaps fear in Elsie's eyes when he left her in the ward, the plastic bag with her possession in hand, and her engagement ring in his pocket. He knows that she worries about slight disfigurement or that the scar will be large, raised, and angry. He heard her say as much to Beryl when she thought he was not listening. He has tried to convince her it does not matter, that she is more to him than that.
"How's our girl?" a voice comes from behind Charles.
"Oh, Thomas. How are you?" Charles asks as he extends his hand to Thomas. "Thank you for coming. She's still in surgery but I expect that they should tell us something in half an hour or so."
"Do you mind if I wait with you?" Thomas firmly plants his hand in Charles', shakes it in friendship, and offers him one of the cups of coffee that he has brought with him.
"Of course not," Charles replies as he accepts the coffee, hands one to Beryl, and he and Thomas ease into two of the empty chairs near her. The minutes continue to slowly tick past and the three friends slip into quiet conversation. Charles is thankful for Thomas' company; it eases the silent tension that consumed him and Beryl as they agonized over Elsie. As Thomas gregariously regales them with a tale of one of his and Elsie's nights on the town a few years back, Charles' thinks back one how his life has changed over the past year. How Elsie has changed it so completely and how her friends are now his.
Charles reflects back to the early days of his relationship with Elsie when he wondered what she saw in the Thomas. Charles could agree that the young man was well spoken, well educated, and professional; his work ethic second to none. Yet, something about Thomas was off putting; it was not his lifestyle, no Charles was not that intolerant or unsympathetic. It was that Charles thought Thomas almost too slick, too polished, and sometimes too eager to please to the point of being false. Yet with Elsie, Thomas' attempt at counterfeit emotions seem to flutter away and initially Charles thought that it had to do with Elsie's intolerance of insincerity. The more that Charles observes them together, over Saturday brunch, over cocktails, or when Elsie cooks for them, he wonders if it simply has to do with the fact that she accepts Thomas for who he is when his own mother rejects him and his father finds him twisted. Over time, Charles and Thomas have come to appreciate one another and have come to appreciate the fact that they both love the same woman.
As time passes, Thomas and Charles discuss local politics until Beryl places a hand on Charles' arm and squeezes gently. She nods in the direction of the doctor who is quickly approaching them. A tall, well-built man with piercing blue eyes and a purposeful stride, Dr. Crawley comes bearing news of Elsie.
"Mr. Carson," Dr. Crawley inquires in smooth, educated politeness.
"Yes, Dr. Crawley. How is she?" Charles asks anxiously as he stands to greet the doctor. He shoves his hands into his pockets to keep them from trembling.
"The surgery was successful. We removed the cyst completely and I think that she will be pleased with the results. Scarring should be fairly minimal all things considered," Dr. Crawley reaches to untie his surgical cap, and remove it. "You will be able to see her in about an hour when they move her to a room. I'll check in with her later."
"Thank you Dr. Crawley," Charles replies. "For all that you have done."
Beryl has returned home to cook; hospital food being what it is, she has promised to bring something edible for Charles and Elsie later in the evening. Charles has settled into the uncomfortable chair nearest Elsie's bed and watches as she sleeps. He wants to reach out, to take her hand, and bring it to his lips; wants to pull her close and tell her that everything is all right, that she is well, and there is nothing at all about which to worry. Instead, he thinks of how frail she appears in that dreadful hospital gown, how uncomfortable she must be, attached to bags of fluids, blood pressure monitors, and the like.
"A penny for them," she manages, her voice a little husky, hoarse, and frayed around the edges.
"Was I thinking so loudly that I woke you?" he teases.
"No," she replies before beginning to cough. Then wincing in pain, she instinctively hugs her arm around her waist to support herself. Charles moves to her side, puts his arms around her back and shoulders, tries to brace her. The coughing he tells her is a consequence of surgery, of general anaesthesia, the nurses had warned him about it.
As the coughing subsides, Charles places a kiss to her hair and begins to move back to his chair, but Elsie catches his hand and tugs him back to her. She is pleading with him, her lip worried, her eyes misty. She is asking a silent question and without a word passing between them, he knows the answer. He moves back to her side and gently loosens the ties of her gown. He carefully pulls back the fabric at her shoulder to reveal the white surgical bandage and as he inspects it, Elsie watches him; it is important that she gauge his reaction. While she is a strong woman, this thing that she has faced, this thing that invaded her body, almost took the wind out of her sails. She knows what Dr. Crawley told her and what Isobel confirmed, that everything went as clockwork, the surgery was as routine as routine could be but she needs to share this moment with Charles, to confirm it together.
The bandage is not so large and Charles is grateful; he hopes that it will put Elsie's mind at ease and the blood that has seeped through is not so very much. The on call nurse has assured them that some blood is perfectly normal in these types of situations. He breaks his gaze from the bandage and back to Elsie and nods, offers her a tiny smile.
"Look for yourself," he tells her. She glances down and when she sees that everything is just as the doctor said it should be, she heaves a deep sigh of relief and a tear rolls down her cheek. Charles lifts the fabric of the gown back into place and ties the string at her shoulder. Straightening the blankets, he gently kisses her. "See, everything is all right," he whispers against her lips.
"Charles?"
"Hmmm." He sits on the side of the bed, takes her hand in his.
"Did you speak to the Crawleys about me?"
"I don't know what you mean. Why?" He knows exactly what she means and he wonders how she has found out; she seems to know so many things and he knows that she will know that he is lying.
"Don't worry, darling" she assures him with a small smile. "I am touched. I freely admit it. I am quite touched that you and Robert would go to such trouble."
Charles whistles a happy tune as he parks the car near the hospital's entrance. Elsie has done well overnight and Dr. Crawley has discharged her to return home. A light rain has fallen, but the sky has cleared and the morning's sun shines bright. The air is crisp and cold but fitting for the Christmas season. Charles bounds up the hospital's front steps, nods hello to an elderly couple he passes along the way and then familiar voices draws his attention. He pauses, turns, and sees Charlie Grigg with a small bundle in his arms and following beside them, a nurse pushes Alice in a wheelchair. Charles' feet are rooted to the ground as he watches Grigg fold back the baby's blankets to show her tiny face an inquiring passer-by. He watches the scene unfold; the proud father wreathed in smiles, the mother, smiling broadly, accepting the congratulations of the admiring stranger. For the first time in his life pangs of jealousy course through him and Charles resents Charlie Grigg; he knows that Grigg is so undeserving of it all. Undeserving of the baby, the wife, the family. Charles does not want Alice, no Elsie is the woman he wants, but he wants everything that Grigg has, everything that Grigg and Alice said that they never wanted. The child, family. He wonders how long it will last before they tire of one another, how long Grigg will stay true to one woman or how long Alice will be happy devoting her time to a screaming, needy infant. He watches as the little family moves on, makes their way to a waiting taxi, and drives away. He reaches into his waistcoat pocket and feels Elsie's ring there; he knows that it will not be long before they are married and they have everything of which they dream.
TBC…Thank you for your support. I apologize for not responding to the last round of reviews. Know that I read and appreciated every one of them. I promise to respond to any future reviews that you are kind enough to leave me. x