The Final Diagnosis

Seddons had returned from the phone. “Pearson was in Serology,” he said. “He’s coming across now.”

The two men waited silently. Then they heard Pearson’s shuffling footsteps, and the old man came in. He glanced at the body as McNeil recited the details of the case. An hour or two earlier the child had been struck by an automobile outside his own home. He had been brought to the hospital by ambulance but was dead on arrival. Notified, the coroner had ordered an autopsy. McNeil told Pearson what they had discovered.

The old man said, “You mean that’s all?” He seemed incredulous.

McNeil answered, “That’s all that killed him. Nothing else.”

Pearson moved toward the body, then stopped. He knew McNeil well enough to be aware that the resident would have made no mistake. He said, “Then they must have just stood there . . . and watched.”

Seddons put in, “Most likely nobody knew what was happening.”

Pearson nodded slowly. Seddons wondered what the old man was thinking. Then Pearson asked, “How old was the child?”

“Four,” McNeil answered. “Nice-looking kid too.”

All of them glanced at the autopsy table and the still, small figure. The eyes were closed, the fair, tousled hair pulled back in place now that the brain had been removed. Pearson shook his head, then turned toward the door. Over his shoulder he said, “All right; I’ll go up and tell them.”

The three occupants of the hospital anteroom looked up as Pearson entered. One was a uniformed patrolman of the city police, and near him was a tall man whose eyes were red-rimmed. The third occupant—dejected and sitting alone in the far corner—was a mousy little man with a straggling mustache.

Pearson introduced himself. The patrolman said, “I’m Stevens, sir. Fifth Precinct.” He produced a notebook and pencil.

Pearson asked him, “Were you at the scene of the accident?”

“I arrived just after it happened.” He indicated the tall man. “This is the father of the boy. The other gentleman was the driver of the car.”

The mousy man looked up. Appealing to Pearson, he said, “He ran straight out—straight out from the side of the house. I’m not a careless driver. I’ve got kids of my own. I wasn’t going fast. I was almost stopped when it happened.”

“And I say you’re a lousy liar.” It was the father, his voice choked with emotion and bitterness. “You killed him, and I hope you go to jail for it.”

Pearson said quietly, “Just a moment, please.” There was silence, the others watching him. He motioned to the policeman’s notebook. “There’ll be a full report for the coroner, but I can tell you the preliminary findings now.” He paused. “The autopsy has shown it was not the car that killed the boy.”

The patrolman looked puzzled. The father said, “But I was there! I tell you . . .”

“I wish there were some other way to tell you this,” Pearson said, “but I’m afraid there isn’t.” He addressed the father. “The blow your boy received knocked him to the road, and there was a mild concussion which rendered him unconscious. He also sustained a small fracture of the nose—quite minor, but unfortunately it caused his nose to bleed profusely.” Pearson turned to the patrolman. “The boy was left lying on his back, I believe—where he fell.”

The officer said, “Yes, sir, that’s right. We didn’t want to move him until the ambulance came.”

“And how long was that?”

“I’d say about ten minutes.”

Pearson nodded slowly. It was more than enough time; five minutes would have been sufficient. He said, “I’m afraid that that was the cause of death. The blood from the nosebleed ran back into the boy’s throat. He was unable to breathe and he aspirated blood into the lungs. He died of asphyxiation.”

The father’s face revealed horror, incredulity. He said, “You mean . . . if we’d only turned him over . . .”

Pearson raised his hands expressively. “I meant what I said—I wish there were some other way to tell you this. But I can only report the truth: the original injuries to your boy were minor.”

The patrolman said, “Then the blow from the car . . . ?”

“One can’t be sure, of course, but my own opinion is that it was glancing and comparatively light.” Pearson gestured to the mousy man, now standing close beside them. “I imagine this man is telling the truth when he says the car was moving slowly.”

“Mother of God!” It came from the father—a despairing, tortured wail. He was sobbing, his hands to his face. After a moment the mousy man led him to a settee, his arm around the other’s shoulders, his own eyes glistening.

The patrolman’s face was white. He said, “Doctor, I was there all the time. I could have moved the boy . . . but I didn’t know.”

“I don’t think you should blame yourself.”

The man appeared not to have heard. He went on as if in a daze. “I took a first-aid course. I got a badge for it. All the time they taught us—don’t move anybody; whatever you do, don’t move them!”

“I know.” Pearson touched the patrolman’s arm gently. He said slowly, “Unfortunately there are some exceptions to the rule—one of them is when someone is bleeding in the mouth.”

In the main-floor corridor on his way to lunch David Coleman saw Pearson emerge from the anteroom. At first Coleman wondered if the senior pathologist were ill. He seemed distracted, unaware of his surroundings. Then he caught sight of Coleman and moved toward him. The younger man halted.

“Oh yes . . . Dr. Coleman . . . There was something I had to tell you.” Coleman sensed that for some reason Pearson was having trouble marshaling his thoughts. Now he reached out absently and grasped the lapel of Coleman’s white lab coat. Coleman noticed that the old man’s hands were nervous and fumbling. He disengaged his coat.

“What was it, Dr. Pearson?”

“There was . . . something to do with the lab.” Pearson shook his head. “Well, it’s gone now . . . I’ll remember later.” He seemed about to turn away when another thought came to him. “I think you’d better take over the autopsy room. Starting tomorrow. Keep your eye on things. See they do a good job.”

“Very well. I’ll be glad to do that.” David Coleman had some clear-cut ideas about the performance of autopsies, and this would be an opportunity to put them into effect. It occurred to him that while they were talking he might as well bring up something else. He said, “I wonder if I could speak to you—about the laboratories.”

“The laboratories?” The old man’s mind still seemed to be elsewhere.

“You’ll remember in my letter I suggested you might consider giving me charge of some part of the laboratories.” It seemed a little odd to be discussing this here and now, but Coleman sensed the opportunity might not occur again.

“Yes . . . yes, I remember something being said.” Pearson appeared to be watching a group of three moving down the corridor away from them—a policeman and a little man, supporting a bigger man in the middle.

“I wonder if I might start in Serology,” Coleman said. “I’d like to do some checks on the procedures—standard lab checks, that is.”

“Um? What was that?”

It was annoying to have to keep repeating things. “I said I would like to make some lab checks in Serology.”

“Oh yes, yes . . . that’s all right.” Pearson said it absently. He was still looking away, down the corridor, when Coleman left.

Elizabeth Alexander was feeling good. About to begin lunch in Three Counties Hospital cafeteria, she realized she had been feeling that way for days, but especially so this morning. The child inside her was alive and stirring; even at this moment she could detect its movements faintly. She had just come from a department-store sale where, amid the melee of women, she had victoriously acquired some bright fabrics for the apartment, including one length for the tiny extra bedroom which was to be the baby’s. And now she had met John.

It was the first time they had had a meal together in the hospital. Use of the cafeteria by employees’ families was an unwritten privilege the hospital allowed, and John had learned about it a few days earlier. A few minutes ago they had lined up to select their food and Elizabeth had chosen a salad, soup, a roll, roast lamb with potatoes and cabbage, pie with cheese, and milk. John had asked good-humoredly, “Are you sure you have enough?”

Elizabeth selected a stick of celery. Biting into it, she said, “This is a hungry baby.”

John smiled. A few minutes earlier, on the way to lunch, he had felt defeated and depressed, this morning’s tongue-lashing by Dr. Pearson still fresh in mind. But Elizabeth’s infectious spirits had caused him to shrug it off, at least for the time being. After all, he reflected, there would be no more trouble in the lab because from now on he intended to watch his step carefully. In any case, Dr. Pearson had now done the sensitization tests himself—in saline and high protein—and had pronounced both test results negative. “So far as your wife’s blood is concerned,” he had said, “there is nothing for anyone to worry about.” In fact, he had been almost kindly about it—at least it seemed that way after the earlier outburst.

There was another thing to remember: Dr. Pearson was a pathologist and John was not. Maybe Dr. Pearson was right; perhaps John had placed too much importance on some of the things that were taught at technology school. Wasn’t it a well-known fact that schools always pumped a lot of theory into you that you had no use for in the practical world outside? Goodness knows, he thought, there are plenty of subjects in high school and college that you never work at again once final exams are over. Couldn’t this be the same thing? Couldn’t John himself have taken too seriously the school theory about the need for a third sensitization test, whereas Dr. Pearson, with all his practical knowledge, knew it was unnecessary?

What was it Dr. Pearson had said while he was doing the tests this morning? “If we changed our laboratory methods every time something new came up, there’d never be any end to it. In medicine there are new ideas coming out every day. But in a hospital we have to make sure they’re proven and valuable before we start to use them. Here we’re dealing with people’s lives and we can’t afford to take chances.”

John had not quite been able to see how an extra blood test would imperil anybody’s life, but, all the same, Dr. Pearson did have a point about the new ideas. John knew from his own reading that there were lots of them around and not all good. Of course, Dr. Coleman had been pretty definite about the need for a third sensitization test. But then he was a lot younger than Dr. Pearson; certainly he had not had as much experience . . .

“Your soup’s getting cold.” Elizabeth broke in on his thoughts. “What are you so pensive about?”

“Nothing, honey.” He decided to put the whole thing out of his mind. Elizabeth, at times, had a disconcerting habit of worming out his thoughts. “I meant to ask you last week,” he said. “How was your weight?”

“It’s about right,” Elizabeth answered cheerfully. “But Dr. Dornberger said I have to eat well.” She had finished her soup and was attacking the roast lamb hungrily.

Glancing up, John Alexander noticed Dr. Coleman approaching. The new pathologist was on his way to the tables where the medical staff usually sat. On impulse Alexander rose from his chair. “Dr. Coleman!”

David Coleman glanced across. “Yes?”

“Doctor, I’d like to have you meet my wife.” Then, as Coleman came toward them, “Elizabeth, honey, this is Dr. Coleman.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Alexander?” Coleman paused, holding the tray he had collected from the counter.

A trifle awkwardly John Alexander said, “You remember, honey?—I told you the doctor came from New Richmond too.”

“Yes, of course,” Elizabeth said. Then directly to Coleman, smiling, “Hullo, Dr. Coleman—I remember you very well. Didn’t you used to come into my father’s store sometimes?”

“That’s right.” He recalled her clearly now: a cheerful, long-legged girl who used to clamber obligingly around that cluttered, old-fashioned store, finding things that had got lost in the confusion. She didn’t seem to have changed much. He said, “I think you once sold me some clothesline.”

She answered brightly, “I believe I remember that. Was it all right?”

He appeared to ponder. “Now you mention it, I think it broke.”

Elizabeth laughed. “If you take it back, I’m sure my mother will exchange it. She still runs the store. It’s more of a mess than ever.” Her good humor was infectious. Coleman smiled.

John Alexander had pulled back a chair. “Won’t you join us, Doctor?”

For a moment Coleman hesitated. Then, realizing it would be churlish to refuse, “All right,” he said. He put down his tray—it contained a Spartan lunch—a small fruit salad and a glass of milk—and sat at the table. Looking at Elizabeth, he said, “If I remember, didn’t you have pigtails when I knew you?”

“Yes,” she answered promptly, “and bands on my teeth as well. I grew out of them.”

David Coleman found himself liking this girl. And seeing her here today had been like suddenly turning a page from the past. She reminded him of earlier years; Indiana had been a good place to live. He remembered the summers home from school, driving on rounds with his father in the doctor’s old and battered Chevrolet. He said reflectively, “It’s a long time since I was in New Richmond. My father died, you know, and Mother moved to the West Coast. There’s nothing to take me back there now.” Then drawing his thoughts away, “Tell me,” he said to Elizabeth, “how do you like being married to a medical man?”

Swiftly John Alexander put in, “Not a medical man—just a technologist.” When he had said it he wondered why. Perhaps it was a reflex action from what had happened this morning. A few minutes ago, when Coleman had joined them, John had considered telling him about the incident in the lab. But immediately afterward he had decided not to. Talking freely with Dr. Coleman had got him into enough trouble already. He decided to leave well enough alone.

“Don’t sell technology short,” Coleman said. “It’s pretty important.”

Elizabeth said, “He doesn’t. But sometimes he wishes he had become a doctor instead.”

Coleman turned to him. “Is that right?”

Alexander wished Elizabeth had not brought this up. He said reluctantly, “I did have ideas that way. For a time.”

Coleman speared some fruit salad with his fork. “Why didn’t you go to medical school?”

“The usual reasons—money mostly. I didn’t have any, and I wanted to start earning.”

Between mouthfuls Coleman said, “You could still do it. How old are you?”

Elizabeth answered for him. “John will be twenty-three. In two months’ time.”

“That’s pretty old, of course.” They laughed, then Coleman added, “You’ve still got time.”

“Oh, I know.” John Alexander said it slowly, thoughtfully, as if knowing in advance that his own argument was unconvincing. “The trouble is, it would mean a big financial struggle just when we’re beginning to get settled. And besides, with a baby coming . . .” He left the sentence hanging.

Coleman took the glass of milk and drank deeply. Then he said, “Plenty of people have gone through medical school with a baby. And financial problems.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been saying!” Elizabeth said it intensely, leaning forward across the table. “I’m so glad to hear it from someone else.”

Coleman wiped his mouth with a napkin, then put it down. He looked directly at Alexander. He had a feeling that he had been right in his first impression of this young technologist. He seemed intelligent and conscientious; certainly he was interested in his work—that had been evident the other day. Coleman said, “You know what I think, John? I think if you feel like this, and don’t go to medical school while you have the chance, it may be something you’ll regret the rest of your life.”

Alexander was looking down, absently moving his knife and fork.

Elizabeth asked, “There’s still a need for a lot of doctors in pathology, isn’t there?”

“Oh yes.” Coleman nodded emphatically. “Perhaps more in pathology than anywhere else.”

“Why is that?”

“There’s a need of research for one thing—to keep medicine moving ahead; to fill in the gaps behind.”

She asked, “What do you mean—the gaps behind?”

Momentarily the thought occurred to David Coleman that he was talking more freely than usual. He found himself about to express ideas which most of the time he kept locked in his own mind. But the company of these two had seemed refreshing, possibly because it was a change to be with someone younger after being around Dr. Pearson. Answering Elizabeth’s question, he said, “In a way medicine is like a war. And, just as in a war, sometimes there’s a spectacular advance. When that happens, people—doctors—rush to the new front. And they leave a lot of pockets of knowledge to be filled in behind.”

Elizabeth said, “And that’s the pathologist’s job—to fill them?”

“It’s the job of every branch of medicine. But sometimes in pathology there are more opportunities.” Coleman thought a moment, then continued, “There’s another thing too. All research in medicine is very much like building a wall. Someone adds a piece of knowledge—puts one brick on another; someone else adds one more, and gradually the wall grows. Finally someone comes along and puts the last brick on top.” He smiled. “It isn’t given to many to do spectacular things—to be a Fleming or a Salk. The best a pathologist can do, usually, is to make some modest contribution to medical knowledge—something within his own reach, within his own time. But at least he should do that.”

John Alexander had been listening intently. Now he asked eagerly, “Will you be doing research here?”

“I hope so.”

“On what?”

Coleman hesitated. This was something he had not spoken of before. But he had said so much now, he supposed one more thing would not make any difference. “Well, for one thing, on lipomas—benign tumors of fat tissue. We know very little about them.” Unconsciously, as he had warmed to his subject, his normal coolness and reserve had fallen away. “Do you know there have been cases of men starving to death, yet having tumors thriving inside them? What I hope to do is—” He stopped abruptly. “Mrs. Alexander, is something wrong?”

Elizabeth had gasped suddenly and put her face in her hands. Now she took her hands away. She shook her head, as if to clear it.

“Elizabeth! What is it?” Alarmed, John Alexander jumped up from his chair. He moved to go around the table.

“It’s . . . it’s all right.” Elizabeth motioned him back. She closed her eyes momentarily, then opened them. “It was just . . . for a moment—a pain, then dizziness. It’s gone now.”

She drank some water. Yes, it was true it had gone. But for a moment it had been like sharp hot needles—inside where the baby moved—then her head swimming, the cafeteria spinning around her.

“Has this happened before?” Coleman asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Are you sure, honey?” It was John, his voice anxious.

Elizabeth reached across the table and put a hand on his. “Now don’t begin worrying. It’s too early for the baby. There’s at least another four months to go.”

“All the same,” Coleman said seriously, “I suggest you call your obstetrician and tell him what happened. He might want to see you.”

“I will.” She gave him a warm smile. “I promise.”

At the time Elizabeth had meant what she said. But afterward, away from the hospital, it seemed silly to bother Dr. Dornberger about a single pain that had come and gone so quickly. If it happened again, surely then would be the time to tell him—not now. She decided to wait.

Fifteen

“Is there any news?”

From the wheel chair Vivian looked up as Dr. Lucy Grainger came into the hospital room. It was four days since the biopsy, three since Pearson had sent the slides to New York and Boston.

Lucy shook her head. “I’ll tell you, Vivian—just as soon as I know.”

“When . . . when will you know . . . for sure?”

“Probably today.” Lucy answered matter-of-factly. She did not want to reveal that she, too, was troubled by the waiting. She had spoken to Joe Pearson again last night; at that time he had said that if the second opinions were not forthcoming by midday today he would phone the two consultants to hurry them along. Waiting was hard on everyone—including Vivian’s parents, who had arrived in Burlington from Oregon the previous day.

Lucy removed the dressing from Vivian’s knee; the biopsy scar appeared to be healing well. Replacing the dressing, she said, “It’s hard to do, I know, but try to think of other things as much as you can.”

The girl smiled faintly. “It isn’t easy.”

Lucy was at the door now. She said, “Perhaps a visitor will help. You have an early one.” She opened the door and beckoned. Mike Seddons came in as Lucy left.

Seddons was wearing his hospital whites. He said, “I stole ten minutes. You can have them all.”

He crossed to the chair and kissed her. For a moment she closed her eyes and held on to him tightly. He ran his hands through her hair. His voice in her ear was gentle. “It’s been hard, hasn’t it?—just waiting.”

“Oh, Mike, if only I knew what was going to happen! I don’t think I’d mind so much. It’s . . . wondering . . . not knowing.”

He drew slightly away, looking into her face. “Vivian darling, I wish there were something, just something I could do.”

“You’ve done a lot already.” Vivian was smiling now. “Just being you—and being here. I don’t know what it would have been like without . . .” She stopped as he reached out and put a finger across her lips.

“Don’t say it! I had to be here. It was preordained—all worked out by cosmic coincidence.” He gave her his bright, broad grin. Only he knew there was a sense of hollowness behind it. Mike Seddons, like Lucy, was aware of the implications of the delayed report from Pathology.

He had succeeded in making Vivian laugh though. “Rubbish!” she said. “If I hadn’t gone to that old autopsy, and if some other student nurse had got to you first . . .”

“Uh, uh!” He shook his head. “It might look that way, but you can’t escape predestination. Ever since our great-great ancestors were swinging from trees, scratching their underarms, our genes have been moving together across the dusty sands of Time, Life, and Fortune.” He was talking now for the sake of it, using the first words which came into his head, but it was having the effect he wanted.

Vivian said, “Oh, Mike, you talk such wonderful nonsense. And I do love you very much.”

“I can understand that.” He kissed her again, lightly. “I think your mother likes me too.”

She put a hand to her mouth. “You see what you do to me! I should have asked first. Was everything all right—after you all left here last night?”

“Sure it was. I went back with them to the hotel. We sat around and talked for a bit. Your mother didn’t say much, but I could see your father summing me up, thinking to himself: What kind of a man is this who presumes to marry my beautiful daughter?”

Vivian said, “I’ll tell him today.”

“What will you say?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She reached out and held Seddons by the ears, turning his head from side to side, inspecting it. “I might say, ‘He has the nicest red hair which is always untidy, but you can put your fingers through it and it’s very soft.’ ” She matched the action to her words.

“Well, that should be a big help. No marriage is complete without it. What else?”

“I’ll say, ‘Of course, he isn’t much to look at. But he has a heart of gold and he’s going to be a brilliant surgeon.’ ”

Seddons frowned. “Couldn’t you make it ‘exceptionally brilliant’?”

“I might, if . . .”

“If what?”

“If you kiss me again—now.”

On the second floor of the hospital Lucy Grainger knocked lightly on the chief of surgery’s office door and went inside.

Looking up from a sheaf of reports, Kent O’Donnell said, “Hullo, Lucy—rest your weary bones.”

“Now you mention it, they are a little weary.” She dropped into the big leather chair which faced O’Donnell’s desk.

“I had Mr. Loburton in to see me first thing this morning.” O’Donnell came around the desk and perched informally on the corner nearest Lucy. “Cigarette?” He held out an embossed gold case.

“Thank you.” She took a cigarette. “Yes—Vivian’s father.” Lucy accepted the light which O’Donnell offered and inhaled deeply; the smoke was cool, relaxing. She said, “Both parents got here yesterday. Naturally they’re very concerned, and they know nothing about me, of course. I suggested Mr. Loburton have a talk with you.”

“He did.” O’Donnell spoke quietly. “I told him that in my opinion his daughter couldn’t possibly be in better hands, that there was no one on the hospital’s staff in whom I would have greater confidence. I may tell you he seemed quite reassured.”

“Thank you.” Lucy found herself intensely gratified by O’Donnell’s words.

The chief of surgery smiled. “Don’t thank me; it’s an honest appraisal.” He paused. “What about the girl, Lucy? What’s the story so far?”

In a few words she summed up the case history, her tentative diagnosis, and the biopsy.

O’Donnell nodded. He asked, “Is there any problem with Pathology? Has Joe Pearson come through promptly?”

Lucy told him of the delay and the reasons for it. He thought briefly, then said, “Well, I guess that’s reasonable. I don’t believe we can complain about that. But keep after Joe; I don’t think you should let it go beyond today.”

“I won’t.” Lucy glanced at her watch. “I plan to see Joe again after lunch. He expected to know something definite by then.”

O’Donnell made a wry face. “As definite as anything like that can ever be.” He mused. “Poor kid. How old did you say she is?”

“Nineteen.” Lucy was watching Kent O’Donnell’s face. To her eyes it seemed to mirror thought, character, and understanding. She reflected: He has greatness and he wears it easily because it belongs to him. It made what he had said a few moments ago about her own ability seem warmer and more significant. Then suddenly, explosively, as if in a burst of revelation, Lucy knew what she had denied herself knowing these past months: that she loved this man—profoundly and ardently. She became aware, with startling clarity, that she had shielded herself from the knowledge, perhaps from an instinctive fear of being hurt. But now, whatever happened, she could shield herself no longer. For a moment the thought made her weak; she wondered if she had betrayed it on her face.

O’Donnell said apologetically, “I’ll have to leave you, Lucy. It’s another full day.” He smiled. “Aren’t they all?”

Her heartbeat faster, her emotions surging, she had risen and gone to the door. As he opened it O’Donnell put an arm around her shoulders. It was a casual, friendly gesture that any other of her colleagues might have made. But at this moment the effect seemed electric; it left her breathless and confused.

O’Donnell said, “Let me know, Lucy, if there’s any problem. And if you don’t mind, I might drop in today and see your patient.”

Collecting her thoughts, she told him, “I’m sure she’d like it, and so would I.” Then, as the door closed behind her, Lucy shut her eyes for a moment to control her racing mind.

The ordeal of waiting for the diagnosis concerning Vivian had had a profound effect on Mike Seddons. By nature a genial and outgoing personality, in normal times he was noted for being one of the livelier spirits on Three Counties’ house staff, and it was not unusual to find him the focus of a noisy, boisterous group in the residents’ quarters. For the past several days, however, most of the time he had avoided the company of others, his spirits dampened by the knowledge of what an adverse verdict from Pathology could mean to Vivian and himself.

His feelings about Vivian had not wavered; if anything, they had become more intense. He hoped he had conveyed this in the time he had spent last evening with Vivian’s parents after their initial meeting at the hospital. At first, as was to be expected, all of them—Mr. and Mrs. Loburton, Vivian, and himself—had been constrained, their talk awkward and at times formal. Even afterward it had seemed that the Loburtons’ meeting with a prospective son-in-law, which in other circumstances might have been an important occasion, had taken second place to their concern with the immediate problem of Vivian’s health. In a sense Mike Seddons felt he had become accepted because there was no time for anything else.

Back at the Loburtons’ hotel, though, they had talked briefly about himself and Vivian. Henry Loburton, his big frame spilling from an overstuffed chair in the sitting room of their hotel suite, had asked Mike Seddons about his future, more, Seddons suspected, from courtesy than from any real concern. He had responded by telling them briefly of his own intention to practice surgery in Philadelphia when his residency at Three Counties ended. The Loburtons had nodded politely and had left the matter there.

Certainly, it seemed, there would be no opposition to a marriage. “Vivian has always seemed to know what she wanted,” Henry Loburton had observed at one point. “It was the same way when she wanted to be a nurse. We were doubtful about it, but she had already made up her mind. There wasn’t much else to say after that.”

Mike Seddons had expressed the hope that they would not consider Vivian too young to marry. It was then that Angela Loburton had smiled. “I imagine it would be rather difficult to object on that account,” she had said. “You see, I was married at seventeen. I ran away from home to do it.” She smiled at her husband. “We didn’t have any money, but we managed to get by.”