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AMOS HUBBARD WAS AS DEAD AS A DOOR-NAIL. The doctors said it was combining factors; pneumonia, a weakened immune system, the lack of heating that made the terraced Hubbard household as cold as bone. Robin holding herself responsible was just a given — and just as well, it was an agony incomparable to any other.
So she worked her fingers to the bone to keep herself occupied. Harold Hamilton gave her two weeks free from Hamilton Manor to overcome her grief, so she turned elsewhere. She passed her nursing exam with flying colours, and the practical stages of her training were in full swing. Having not been called to the Hamilton manor for days on end, she became accustomed to spending her time at the local field hospital instead. It was only a half hour tram ride away, so she was there most of the time. In fact, the little clinking of surgical tools was the norm to her ears, and the sight of a jagged bullet wound did nothing but make her wince. She had watched raw flesh be sewn back together again for days, and guilt washed over her as it wasn't her grandfather whom she was thinking about; it was Jim.
However, she hadn't said a word to him since her grandfather was pronounced dead at the scene in late April, once she'd returned from the pub after her perilous encounter with Hiram Dearing. It had been almost a week since then, yet there was no end to the misery that night had brought her. She expected that Jim was done with her, especially after everyone in the pub that night had concluded the reason for the way she was. It was probably almost as embarrassing for him as it was for her. Who wants a girl like that? If Robin Winifred wasn't already a dreary little girl, she was now.
Since the incident, Kitty Grogan had invited her around twice for a cup of tea — Robin was quite shocked by this pleasant gesture, and forced herself to accept out of thankfulness; however, all she could find at the bottom of her teacup was desperation, and herbal brew didn't so much calm her as it did give her a headache.
Her hands were trembling, and as she went to hand Dr Sherman Bunting a silver scalpel, she let go too early. It fell onto the ground by their feet with a clatter, and the surrounding interns gasped. She'd always been a good girl with a pliable nature, always so quick to apologise and skulk into the shadows, but as the doctor turned to her in anticipation, there was nothing on her tongue.
Dr Bunting pressed his fingers against his temple, as if rubbing his fingers in circles would coax the migraine and the frustration away. "Christ, Nurse Hubbard!" he barked, turning to the nurse working with the anaesthetic, "You. Go get me a competent orderly in here. The life of a good man such as the one here could be at stake. Wake up! Do you want to be a secretary? Because that's the exact direction you're heading, my dear."
She was dismissed. Sherman Bunting was never an overly compassionate man, but then again, was an upgrade from Hiram Dearing, whom had also been a doctor, albeit a different kind. Polly Nettle, who also happened to be one of Dr Bunting's orderlies (and also happened to be a first-class gossipmonger) had made her very aware of the story of Mary-Margot Cross, who'd once worked for him back around the time of the Battle of Britain — she'd been knocked up by the doc himself, and once he'd refused to marry her, nor give her an ounce of coin compensation, she'd tried to hang herself with her apron strings. They'd found her half-choked and on the verge of death before she'd had to chance to take her life completely. She was in an asylum now, and had given birth in there. Her baby had been taken away because she'd been unfit for motherhood — that's what Polly had said.
