An Empty Death (26 page)
Authors: Laura Wilson
She proved quite willing to brave the blackout and the whizzes and bangs to follow the pinpoint light of his torch to a pub near Regent’s Park where they weren’t likely to be recognised, and where he’d managed to buy two gins.
‘You do look lovely like that,’ he said, as they settled down at a corner table and she took off the coat, revealing an elegant blue dress.
‘Thanks. It’s nice to be out of uniform.’
‘I’ll bet. Are you in awful trouble?’
‘A wigging from Sister. I’ve had far worse. To be honest, everything’s been rather at sixes and sevens since that poor nurse was killed.’
‘I heard about that. Did you know her?’
‘Not well. It was a terrible thing to happen, especially in the hospital.’ Fay shuddered. ‘I’ll never feel the same way about operating theatres again.’
‘Well, let’s talk about something a bit more cheerful, shall we? Have you been at the Middlesex long?’
‘Three years. Since I started.’
‘You must know the place inside out.’
‘Oh, not really. I’ve been on most of the wards, though. You know, training.’
‘Which do you like best?’
‘I don’t really mind. The only patients I don’t like are the ones who say they’ll try not to give you any trouble - they’re always the worst. Fetch this, fetch that, sit them up, lie them down, cup of tea . . .’
‘Not quite Florence Nightingale, then?’
‘Hardly. Lots of girls do have romantic ideas about it, I suppose, and they get terribly disillusioned. But you must know that.’
‘Didn’t you ever have a romantic idea about it?’
Fay shook her head. ‘My father’s a doctor. He was the one who suggested I train. He’s the old-fashioned type: nurses should be strong girls who do as they’re told. He’s quite right, of course, but it’s no fun when you get treated like an imbecile child and not allowed out and all the rest of it.’
Dacre laughed. ‘If it’s any consolation, I get treated like an imbecile, too. Like this morning.’
‘That’s just Mr Hambling’s way. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t know.’
‘No, but I should have known. That’s where I need your help, you see . . . I want you to tell me everything about the hospital.’
‘But you already know much more than—’
‘Pretend I don’t. Do you know, one of our professors used to say that the worst thing a physician can do is to make assumptions. He said that humility and an open mind were the keys to healing. I’ve never forgotten that.’ Dacre, who had gambled that Fay, being a nurse, wouldn’t make enquiries about his training, thought he’d better move on quickly in case she decided to do so. ‘The other thing he said was that the patient should be your teacher. Or, in this case, the nurse should. So, you see, you can help me.’
‘Well, I’ll do my best.’
For the next hour, Fay talked about the Middlesex, and about her work. After a while, she seemed to forget that Dacre was a doctor at all, and even started to talk about various medical procedures. Dacre nodded, encouraged, prompted, and asked occasional questions, and when Fay went to the Ladies, he took out a pencil and paper and jotted down the key points.
‘I don’t think,’ said Fay, as she sat down again, ‘that I’ve talked so much in ages. I hope I didn’t bore you.’
‘Not at all. I enjoyed listening to you - and watching you. You’d be a wonderful teacher.’
‘And you’re going to be a wonderful doctor.’ She coloured. ‘I mean, I’m sure you are already, but—’
‘There’s always room for improvement. Let’s say I hope to be, in time.’ He tapped his glass. ‘Shall I see if they’ll run to two more of these?’
As he put the fresh drinks on the table and was helping Fay to a cigarette, she touched the scar on the base of his thumb. ‘What’s that?’
‘Dog bite. When I was a kid.’
‘Must have been painful.’
‘It was. I just about yelled the house down. I’d love to tell you that I’d wrestled some huge monster to the ground trying to defend an elderly lady from its fangs, but actually it was just a little ratty thing.’
‘They’re often fiercer than the big ones, though, aren’t they?’
‘All the same, it’s pretty pathetic, isn’t it? I’m not a conscientious objector or anything, by the way. The forces turned me down because I had an enlarged heart, so that’s something else that’s not very heroic. I thought you might as well know the worst straight away.’
‘Well, if that’s as bad as it gets, it’s hardly very dreadful.’ Fay laughed. ‘You might have told me you had two wives and five mistresses and fifteen children, or something.’
‘Well . . .’ Dacre put his fingers on Fay’s hand, which was resting on the table top. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I didn’t want to tell you this, but it wouldn’t be right or fair to keep quiet about it: I am married.’ Fay ducked her head and tried to snatch back her hand, but he clung on to it. ‘Please hear me out,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m married, but only in name. My wife lives up in Suffolk with her parents, and I hardly see her. Being apart, I realised I didn’t miss her, and, to be honest, I started to wonder if I’d ever loved her. Properly, I mean. In the way she deserved. It was rather a whirl-wind sort of thing, and if I’d stopped to think, which I should have . . . Well, I wouldn’t have gone through with it. I feel sad about it, but I’m not sure that we were ever suited, really.’ Dacre removed his hand from Fay’s and said, ‘You can leave if you like - I’ll walk you back to the hospital - but I didn’t want to start by having secrets from you.’
Fay looked into his eyes for a long moment, as if she were searching for a sign. Finally, she said, ‘I’m not going to leave. I know . . . these things can happen. People grow apart sometimes, and . . . Shall I tell you something? You said just now about secrets, and I’ve never told anyone about this before, in fact, I’ve really only just admitted the truth of it to myself, but . . .’ She hesitated, and Dacre, fearing to break the intensity of the mood by prompting her, sat quite still, his eyes fixed on hers, and waited. ‘I was engaged,’ she said. ‘He was killed at Tobruk. It had been very romantic, because we’d had such a short time together - snatched moments . . .’ She laughed, embarrassed. ‘You know the type of thing. And when he asked me to marry him I was so happy . . . But when he went away, and I was by myself again, I’d try to imagine what it might be like to be married to him, with a family, and I found I couldn’t. It was difficult, even at first, but I kept telling myself it was because I didn’t know what marriage was like . . . I’d argue with myself about it. That sounds mad, doesn’t it? Arguing with yourself. Especially,’ she laughed again, ‘if you lose the arguments. ’
‘No,’ said Dacre. ‘It sounds as if you had far more self-knowledge than I did.’
‘That’s a generous way to put it, but I’m not sure it’s true. If I really had had self-knowledge, I would have refused him in the first place. I was intending to break it off, and I tried to write, but it seemed so mean, so I thought I’d wait until I saw him again, and then I heard the news . . .’ Fay lowered her eyes. ‘It was a way out, and nobody would know how I was feeling. Oh, I wasn’t glad he was dead or anything as horrible as that, but . . . I felt so guilty because I didn’t want to marry him. Was that terrible of me?’
‘Look at me, Fay,’ said Dacre. She looked up, blinking, and wiped her eyes with her fingers. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said, gently. ‘It wasn’t terrible at all. I’m honoured that you told me - that you feel you can trust me.’
‘Yes, I do. But yours was different. I can’t believe that what happened was your fault.’
‘Some of it was.’ Dacre looked sombre. ‘It’s never just one person who’s to blame, and I certainly don’t blame her. But . . .’ His face lightened. ‘I’m glad I told you. I’d like us to be honest with each other. You know, I became a doctor because of my father, too. It was how he died, really. A perforated ulcer. He was in agony. I was fifteen - I’d have given anything to have been able to help him.’
‘How terrible.’
‘It was. We didn’t know he was ill, you see, and . . . Well, I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.’
‘I’m not surprised. Poor man . . .’
‘Yes.’ As Fay reached forward and clasped his fingers in hers, giving them a little squeeze, Dacre reflected that there was, actually, some truth in what he had just said. It was his father who had made him a doctor, but by the manner of his life, not his death. The wife business had gone down well, too. He’d been right about her not being too inquisitive - a different sort of girl would have asked a hundred questions, but Fay seemed just to accept what he’d said at its face value. He hadn’t even had to invent an affair between his fictitious wife and a Yank. She’d believed him because she was naturally sympathetic, and she’d confided in return . . . Just how sympathetic was she, he wondered, fingering the hotel key in his jacket pocket. After all, she trusted him, didn’t she? She’d proved that by confiding in him. Should he try his luck? Even if she declined the invitation, it would show her that he had money and connections, wouldn’t it?
He debated the pros and cons of this as they walked back towards the hospital, her arm linked in his, in the darkness. For the most part they were silent, and for once, Dacre thought, the blackout felt like a cocoon, not a menace. The flying bombs were more distant, now - the other side of the river, he guessed - and, but for the odd wedge of light from an open door as the pubs emptied out, a few scuffles and giggles from the odd just-glimpsed couple writhing in a doorway, they could have been entirely alone. It was seeing the clinch that spurred him on to ask. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘it’s early yet. Would you like to go somewhere else?’
‘Another pub, you mean?’
‘I was thinking of somewhere rather smarter. Ever been to the Clarendon?’
‘The hotel, you mean?’ Fay sounded surprised. ‘Heavens, no.’
‘Well, would you like to? I’ve got the key of the door in my pocket. Well, not “the” door, “a” door. Room 135, to be exact. My family keep it on, you see.’
In a single swift movement, Fay unhooked her arm from his and stepped back. For a moment, Dacre thought she would slap him, but she merely said, ‘What for?’
‘Well, to have somewhere to stay in town . . . Oh, I see what you mean. A drink, nothing more. I promise to behave like a gentleman.’
‘Really?’
‘I give you my word.’
During the short stroll to the hotel, Dacre felt his excitement growing. Was it possible that he could actually have her, so soon? Painfully aware of her body next to his, her hip brushing against his as they walked, it was all he could do not to drag her into the nearest doorway and pin her against the wall. Wait, he told himself. You’ll get what you want . . .
The lobby of the Clarendon was impressively large and echoing, with marble pillars and groups of leather chairs. Dacre, with Fay on his arm, whisked past the elderly doorman and, leading with his chin, marched across to the lifts. Halfway across, Fay stopped. ‘James,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m not sure about this. Those people . . .’ she inclined her head towards the desk, from behind which several liveried flunkies were watching them with interest, ‘they’ll know I’m not your wife, and it looks—’
‘Don’t worry about them,’ said Dacre, tucking her arm more firmly beneath his own, ‘they know me.’
‘That’s what I mean! I don’t think this is a good idea.’
‘Fay . . .’ Dacre drew her behind the nearest pillar, out of sight, leant her against the marble and put his arms round her waist. ‘Come on, darling . . .’ he breathed into her ear.
For a second, she seemed to respond, and then, ‘No, James, really.’ He pressed against her, nuzzling her warm neck and feeling the softness of her breasts beneath her clothing. ‘Please stop it.’ Fay struggled to push him away, and feeling her strain and wriggle made him more urgent.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ he whispered, hoarsely, pushing his knee between her legs. ‘So lovely . . . Please, Fay.’
‘No,’ hissed Fay. ‘Please stop, James, you’re frightening me.’ Dacre brought his hand up to her throat and forced her chin upwards. ‘Kiss me, darling . . .’
‘Good evening, sir. May I help you?’ Letting go of Fay, Dacre whirled round to see one of the hotel servants standing behind him, a deferential but determined look on his face.
‘No thank you.’ Recalled to his senses, Dacre made his voice casual, as if he were familiar with the place. ‘There won’t be anything tonight - we were just leaving.’ Anxious to avoid further confrontation, he took Fay’s hand and led her back outside, followed at a discreet distance by the man.
At the doorway, he turned. ‘Goodnight,’ he said.
‘Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, madam.’
Once they were clear of the hotel, Fay tugged her hand away from Dacre’s. ‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’
‘I’m sorry, Fay.’ Dacre kept looking straight ahead. ‘I was carried away.’
‘In front of everyone! You made me look like some sort of tart.’
‘No-one could ever think that about you,’ he said, desperately, trying to win back the ground he’d lost. ‘And I really am sorry.’ He meant it, too. The genuineness of the emotion surprised him, and he felt lost for words.
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