The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor flickered as the ward sister briskly walked past the rows of medicine trolleys. «Margaret Elizabeth, really now, must you keep rearranging those IV drips? It’s gone nine — go home and finish in the morning,» the consultant physician said, pausing in the doorway of the treatment room. His eyes rested on the elderly nurse methodically sorting through vials. «Your Henry must be wondering where you’ve got to.»
«My Henry stopped wondering thirty years ago, and he’s none the worse for it,» Margaret replied with a wry smile, though her hands never stopped their efficient work — checking, sorting, arranging the trays. «Don’t fret, Dr Whittaker, I’ll be done shortly. Just want everything ready for the morning rounds.»
The consultant shook his head but didn’t argue — after forty years at St Bartholomew’s, Sister Wilkins had earned the right to work at her own pace. Her meticulous care was legendary throughout the department.
«By the way,» he added, already turning to leave, «that patient in Bay 7 was asking for you. Beatrice Anne. Said you promised her some drops for sleep.»
«Oh drat, so I did!» Margaret clapped a hand to her forehead. «Clean slipped my mind. Poor love hasn’t slept properly in days. I told her I’d fetch that prescription Dr Ainsworth wrote.»
«Well see to that, then go home,» he said sternly. «Else your Henry will be ringing me tomorrow complaining I’m working you too hard.»
Margaret chuckled. «He won’t. Never did master that mobile of his. Says he’s too old for such modern nonsense.»
When he’d gone, she finished organising the IVs and made her way to Bay 7. There, by the window, lay a woman in her fifties — thin, worn, with premature silver threading through her chestnut hair. Despite her illness, there was a quiet dignity about her, though her eyes held shadows of unspoken sorrow.
«Beatrice Anne, you wanted me? So sorry, I got caught up,» Margaret said, perching on the edge of the bed. «How are you feeling today?»
«Better, thank you,» the woman replied softly. «The breathlessness has eased. Only… I can’t sleep nights — too many thoughts crowding in.»
«That’s the nerves,» Margaret nodded sympathetically. «Your body needs time to heal after such surgery. Here, I’ve brought those drops Dr Ainsworth prescribed. Twenty in half a glass of water before bed.»
«Thank you,» Beatrice said, accepting the bottle. «You’re always so kind. There aren’t many like you in this world.»
Something in her tone made Margaret study the patient more closely.
«Is everything alright? I don’t mean your health. Does anyone visit you?»
«My daughter comes when she can,» Beatrice replied. «She’s good to me. But she lives up in Manchester — not always easy to get away. And my husband…» she hesitated, «my husband’s busy with work.»
Margaret frowned but held her tongue. Forty years on the wards had taught her to hear what patients left unsaid. Something here wasn’t right.
«Here now,» she said suddenly, «let me brush your hair for you. It’s lovely, but all tangled. You’re still too weak to manage it yourself, and heaven knows there’s little enough comfort in hospital.»
Without waiting for an answer, she took a brush from the bedside cabinet and began gently working through the knots. Beatrice stiffened at first, then gradually relaxed under the soothing rhythm.
«My mother used to brush my hair,» she murmured. «Said it was the best cure for sadness. I did the same for my daughter when she was small. But my husband…» Her voice trailed off.
«Your husband what?» Margaret prompted gently, still brushing.
«Calls it nonsense,» Beatrice said after a long pause. «Says long hair’s just extra work. That with my bad back, I should wear it short — more practical. But I… I kept it long anyway. Just this once, I didn’t listen.»
«Quite right too,» Margaret nodded. «A woman’s hair is her crowning glory. Men don’t understand.»
They sat in comfortable silence as Margaret plaited Beatrice’s hair into a loose braid.
«Tell me about yourself,» Beatrice asked suddenly. «Do you have family? You mentioned your husband…»
«Oh, not much to tell,» Margaret smiled. «Just me and my Henry — that’s family enough. Our son’s in Canada, shows us the grandchildren on video calls every few years. We rattle round our little terraced house in Kentish Town, just the two of us. Forty-five years come May — frightens me to think how fast the time’s gone!»
«Forty-five years…» Beatrice echoed. «Victor and I would have been thirty-two this October. If I make it.»
«Don’t talk like that!» Margaret scolded. «Of course you’ll make it. The operation went splendidly, your tests are improving. You’ll be bouncing great-grandchildren on your knee yet.»
«Victor doesn’t want grandchildren,» Beatrice said quietly. «Says I’m trouble enough as it is. That babies would mean no peace at all.»
Margaret’s hands stilled on the braid. Something in Beatrice’s tone sent a chill through her.
«Beatrice Anne,» she began carefully, «does your husband always… speak to you like that?»
The silence stretched so long Margaret thought she wouldn’t answer. Then Beatrice drew a shaky breath.
«No. Not always. When we were young, he was different. Brought me flowers, wrote me poems. Then… then I fell ill. My spine started giving way — trapped nerves, chronic pain. Had to give up my teaching job. And Victor… he became someone else. Snapped about my complaints, about the medicines, about meals not being what they used to be.»
Margaret gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
«At first I told myself it was stress — his work at the bank was demanding. Then I hoped when Emily left for university, things might ease. But they only got worse. I became…» she searched for the word, «a burden. That’s what he calls me. ‘You’re nothing but a burden, Beatrice. All you bring is trouble and expense.'»
«The nerve of the man!» Margaret couldn’t help exclaiming. «And you put up with this?»
«What choice have I?» Beatrice shrugged helplessly. «Where would I go? No school would hire me in this state, my teacher’s pension barely covers my prescriptions. Emily’s just starting out — I can’t saddle her with my troubles. So I stay quiet, try not to make waves.»
Margaret finished the braid and moved to face Beatrice properly.
«My dear, this is no way to live. A husband should stand by you in sickness, not throw it in your face. Thirty-two years together, a daughter raised — can’t he see you didn’t choose this illness?»
«Victor says I brought it on myself,» Beatrice looked away. «Wrong posture at my desk, not enough exercise, poor diet. And the endless treatments… I’ve stopped some medicines to save money. Then this operation — he was furious when he saw what the private consultations cost.»
«Wait now,» Margaret frowned. «But the surgery was done on the NHS.»
«The surgery, yes,» Beatrice nodded. «But the scans beforehand, the special brace afterwards, the physiotherapy — it all adds up. We’ve the mortgage still, and the car loan…»
«And let me guess — the car’s his?» Margaret’s eyes narrowed.
«Of course,» Beatrice gave a joyless smile. «He needs it for work. He’s the breadwinner.»
Margaret opened her mouth to reply when a junior nurse appeared.
«Sister Wilkins? Call for you at the desk. Your husband’s on the line.»
«Henry? Ringing the hospital?» Margaret blinked in surprise. «Something must be wrong. Right Beatrice Anne, I must dash. Don’t forget those drops tonight.»
Leaving the bay, she spotted young Dr Ainsworth speaking to a well-dressed man in his fifties — expensive watch, polished shoes, the controlled tension of someone used to giving orders.
«I want to know the prognosis,» the man was saying. «How long until she’s functional? When can she come home?»
«Recovery from spinal surgery takes time,» Dr Ainsworth explained patiently. «At least a month here, then home care. Initially she’ll need assistance with mobility, personal care…»
«Assistance?» The man’s mouth tightened. «I’ve meetings in the City, I can’t play nursemaid. Can’t we speed things up? Additional treatments perhaps?»
«The body heals at its own pace,» Dr Ainsworth said firmly. «You could hire a carer. Or perhaps family might help?»
«Carers cost money,» the man snapped. «We’ve no family nearby — just our daughter up north.»
Margaret picked up the phone, trying not to eavesdrop, though the man’s manner set her teeth on edge.
«Henry? What’s happened?»
«Margaret love, when you coming home?» Her husband’s voice held uncharacteristic worry. «The boiler’s making odd noises, British Gas sent someone but they say the homeowner needs to be present.»
«I’ll be there shortly,» she soothed. «Put the kettle on, I’m famished.»
Hanging up, she couldn’t help overhearing the exchange at the desk.
«Doctor, I need to speak with my wife,» the man said tightly. «Make her understand she must push harder with recovery. She tends to… lack motivation.»
Dr Ainsworth — young but already renowned for his surgical skill — drew himself up.
«Your wife underwent major spinal surgery. She’s making excellent progress, but healing takes time.»
«Just take me to her,» the man insisted. «I’ll make her see sense.»
They moved towards the bay, and Margaret found herself following, uneasy without knowing why.
When they entered, Beatrice was struggling to sit up using the bed rails. Seeing her husband, she froze, her face a mix of surprise and something like fear.
«Victor? You came?»
«Obviously,» he remained by the door. «Your doctor says you’ll be lazing about here for weeks yet.»
«I’m doing all the exercises,» Beatrice said quietly. «Everything they’ve asked.»
«Not enough, clearly,» Victor’s lips thinned. «Do you have any idea what this is costing? Third time I’ve left work early for hospital visits. And these medicines you keep demanding…»
«I don’t demand,» Beatrice’s head bowed. «Just what the doctors say I need. I’ve tried to economise…»
«Economise?» he cut in. «You economised your way onto the operating table! How many times did I tell you to see someone before it got this bad? But no, you dithered about the cost. Now look where we are.»
Dr Ainsworth cleared his throat. «Actually, degenerative disc disease…»
«Doctor, I’ve known my wife thirty-two years,» Victor said coldly. «Always putting things off until they become crises. Her job, our daughter, now her health.»
Beatrice sat silent, fingers plucking at the blanket.
«Victor, please,» she finally whispered. «Not now. I am getting better. I’ll be home soon, out of your way.»
«My way?» he gave a harsh laugh. «Beatrice, you’ve been a millstone round my neck for years. First the postpartum depression, then the migraines, now this. Our whole marriage has been me carrying your dead weight.»
The bay went silent. Dr Ainsworth’s jaw tightened. Margaret stepped forward.
«Sir,» she said, surprising herself, «this is a hospital. You’re speaking to someone who’s just had major surgery. Have some respect, if not for your wife, then for where you are.»
Victor turned as if noticing her for the first time.
«And you are?»
«Sister Wilkins, senior nurse on this ward,» she met his gaze steadily. «I’ll ask you to leave if you can’t speak civilly.»
«This is my wife, I’ll speak how I…»
«You have visiting rights during designated hours, conducted appropriately,» Margaret cut in. «Right now you’re disturbing my patient.»
«Listen here, I won’t be lectured by some nurse about how to talk to my own wife!» Victor’s voice rose.
«And I won’t have patients abused in my ward,» Dr Ainsworth said firmly. «I suggest you leave and return when you’ve calmed down.»
Victor glared between them, then at his wife, who sat with downcast eyes.
«Fine,» he spat. «Coddle her if you like. But mark my words, Beatrice,» he turned on his wife, «when you come home, there’ll be no carer. You’ll manage alone.»
The door slammed behind him.
In the ringing silence, Beatrice raised her head — tears in her eyes but her face strangely calm.
«I’m sorry you had to see that,» she said. «Victor’s not usually… he’s under pressure at work.»
Dr Ainsworth and Margaret exchanged glances.
«Beatrice Anne,» the doctor began gently, «does he always speak to you like this?»
She attempted a smile. «Goodness no. It’s just… a difficult time. Work troubles, then my operation…»
«That’s no excuse,» Margaret said firmly. «No man has the right to speak to any woman so, let alone an invalid.»
«You don’t understand,» Beatrice’s voice dropped to a whisper. «I’ve nowhere to go. I’m entirely dependent — financially, physically. Emily’s just starting out, I can’t burden her with this.»
Dr Ainsworth sat on the bed edge. «There are support services for situations like this. Rehabilitation centres where you could recover. And…» he hesitated, «this could constitute emotional abuse.»
«Abuse?» Beatrice shook her head. «No, no. He’s never raised a hand. Just… words. And exhaustion. Thirty-two years is a long time.»
Margaret took her hand. «My dear, not all long marriages look like this. Forty-five years with my Henry, we’ve had our rows, Lord knows. But to call your sick wife a burden? That’s not stress. That’s cruelty.»
«But what can I do?» The despair in Beatrice’s voice was palpable.
«First, focus on getting well,» Dr Ainsworth said. «While you’re here, we’ll explore what help is available.»
After the doctor left, Margaret stayed awhile longer, settling Beatrice comfortably and administering the drops.
«You know,» she said before leaving, «my Henry was just as full of himself as your Victor when we met. Thought the sun rose and set on him. Then I caught pneumonia — terribly ill I was. And he sat up night after night, changing compresses, making broth. That’s when I knew he was a real man. Not one for pretty words when you’re well, but one who stands by you when you’re not.»
«You were lucky,» Beatrice murmured.
«Not luck,» Margaret corrected. «Choice. And you still have choices — not for new love, perhaps, but for a different life. One without humiliation, without this constant guilt. Think on that.»
She left Beatrice deep in thought.
That evening, over tea in their cosy kitchen, Margaret told Henry about the day’s events. Her husband — a stocky man with a face seamed like an old oak — listened, shaking his head.
«Bloody monster,» he growled when she finished. «How do such men live with themselves?»
«I can’t fathom it,» Margaret sighed, pouring the tea. «But days like this, Henry Wilkins, make me thank my stars for you.»
Henry gave an embarrassed cough, though his eyes crinkled with pleasure.
«Get away with you… I’m nowt special.»
«You are to me,» she said softly, patting his work-roughened hand.
Meanwhile, in Bay 7, Beatrice lay awake despite the sleeping drops. She thought of Victor’s words, of thirty-two years with a man who saw her only as dead weight. Of how many more years she might endure this. And for the first time in decades, a faint but persistent thought took root — that perhaps it wasn’t too late to change her story.
