Free Sold to the Surgeon by Ann Jennings

Abigail and Sue Parkins cleaned out the room ready for the next occupant. Sister Collins had decided to keep the room temporarily empty, in case they had an emergency admission. Privately Abigail thought it was a silly idea. If they did have an emergency, the patient would need to be near the nursing station to be observed, and that would mean moving someone else into Mr. Weatherspoon’s old room. It would have been much better to have moved a patient now, she reasoned, when they had some spare time, rather than to leave it and have to do it when they were rushed off their feet with an emergency admission. She sighed. Sometimes Sister Collins didn’t seem to use any common sense at all, in spite of all her years of nursing experience.
    As it happened, when the emergency case did come in, it was the following day, just before Abigail was due to go off duty—an old lady was admitted with a chicken bone lodged in her throat.
    Abigail almost felt like saying, “I told you so,” to Sister Collins when Greg came along and told them about the patient, adding that she would need to go into the bed opposite the nursing station.
    â€œAs Mr. Smith is going home tomorrow,” he said, “he can be moved into the side room, and we can put Mrs. Jewell into his bed.”
    â€œMr. Lincoln,” Sister Collins replied icily, “I am quite capable of organising my own ward.”
    â€œGood,” was the only comment, before he strode off down the corridor.
    Thank you very much! Abigail felt morose. He had come in, with a few words stirred up Sister Collins into a foul mood, then marched off, leaving her to bear the brunt of Sister’s bad temper. But there was no time for more than a fleeting mental grumble—there was work to be done, and by the time Mr. Smith had been moved, lock, stock and bedside locker; and an anxious Mrs. Jewell installed in the appropriate bed, it was way past the time when Abigail should have been off duty.
    Oh heavens, she thought, glancing down at her watch, Lynne will be waiting—I’ll be late for the barbecue. She’d brought some jeans and a teeshirt into the hospital with her, and hastily scrambled into them in the changing room. When she finally made the frantic dash downstairs, it was to find Lynne pacing up and down impatiently in the car park.
    â€œAbout time too,” was her comment, as they both jumped into Lynne’s old banger, laden up to the gunwales with boxes of food and wine. “Come on, it takes absolutely ages to get the charcoal going.”
    It was a gorgeous summer’s evening, a clear sky splashed with streaks of gold, the temperature warm and balmy. In spite of the temporary set-back of the storm of Friday night, the spell of good weather was holding. Lynne drove quickly, chattering non-stop all the way to the site, which was several miles out of the town, set deep in a clearing of woods belonging to the Forestry Commission. A Forest Ranger was waiting for them when they arrived, and helped them to get the fire for the barbecue started before he left.
    Derek Thompson had also arrived early, and was rigging up lights strung between the trees, to be run from a small petrol-driven generator he had put behind the old barn which stood on the edge of the clearing.
    â€œSorry, girls,” he said as soon as he spied them, “but I’m not going to be able to stay. Bob Raleigh has been stricken with some ghastly bug, and I’ve got to go back on duty.”
    â€œOh Derek!” wailed Lynne, her big eyes round and reproachful.
    â€œSorry,” said Derek, completely misunderstanding her disappointment, “but don’t worry, I’ve organised one of the theatre technicians to take down the lights. All you’ve got to do is take the generator back in your car. I’ll pick it up from you tomorrow.”
    â€œBut you’ll miss the barbecue,” grumbled Lynne.
    â€œNeeds must,” answered Derek,