Australian Hospital (11 page)

From angels bending near the earth To touch their harps of gold.”

“Go on, Sister.”

“... Peace on the earth, good-will to men,

From heaven’s all-gracious King!

The world in solemn stillness lay To hear the angels sing.”

“Are those angels singing now, Sister?”

“Perhaps, darling.”

A silence, a very long silence, then:

“Look, Sister, the Midnight Clear.” Jeanie’s voice was high and emphatic. It seemed to have birds singing in it.

Candace looked. All she could see was a break in a cloud and a moon scudding through.

What had Jeanie seen there to make her call out in a voice full of birds singing?

She turned to ask, but Jeanie could not tell her any more—

A hand pulled Candace to her feet.

“Take it easy, Jam.” It was Toby Ferry.

Candace’s own hands were across her mouth, her shoulders were heaving.

“Here, here, that’s not good Charlotte training. Stand against the balcony rails a minute, and get a breath of fresh air.”

The young doctor stood with her, and when sobs rose in her throat he put his arms awkwardly but comfortingly around her.

She stood in their circle, grateful for his understanding.

It was at that moment that Stephen Halliday passed beneath them. Something must have attracted his attention. Perhaps a movement from Ferry, a stifled cry from the girl in his arms.

He looked up, paused, stared a moment, then went on.

Neither Candace nor Toby noticed.

Presently, Candace breathed normally again and slipped from the strengthening arms.

“Thanks for understanding.”

“You don’t need to say that, Jam.”

“I know—but all the same, thanks.”

She went quietly over the lawn towards her quarters. She had no idea what time it was. She did not care.

As she reached the hedge a shadow rose up before her. A voice said, “Not so fast, Sister Jamieson. I want a word with you.”

Candace, at that moment, wished to speak to nobody, and she hastened her steps to escape round the tall, broad figure of Stephen Halliday.

Instantly, his arm shot out and he pulled her back to face him.

“When are you going to learn to obey orders?” he demanded roughly, “or do you have to be taught over and over again? In the future when you wish to do your love-making, kindly find a more secluded position than the veranda. I saw you in Ferry’s arms just now. I was not surprised at your
presence,
but I was a little surprised at your lack of respect for the place that employs you—that you saw nothing amiss in standing in the view of anybody who passed and exhibiting your emotions.”

His voice was ice.

Blindly, dumbly, Candace turned away, but ruthlessly he held her, forcing her chin upwards, her eyes to meet his.

He saw the great unshed tears in them, and uttered a short, sardonic laugh.

“So this particular path of love is not running smooth, Jamieson?”

This time Candace did find her voice.

With a choking sob she said, “Leave me alone. I—I think I hate you. Jeanie just died. Only a little while ago. Just a few moments before you saw me—as you put it—in Doctor Ferry’s arms.”

Her eyes were blazing now. The tears were gone. She was a match for him.

“Get back to your other women, Doctor Halliday. You’re not a watch-dog. You’re not paid to stand guard over me.”

CHAPTER VIII

Candace was off duty on Christmas Day, so partook of the traditional dinner at the Rectory with Claire and Arthur.

Her heart was heavy because of Jeanie, and she found it hard to hide it.

After a meal much too abundant for a hot climate, she and Claire relaxed on the low wicker chairs on the veranda.

Claire lit a surreptitious cigarette. “My parishioners mightn’t approve,” she excused herself, “but after all it’s Christmas.”

She looked at Candace, then leaned over and squeezed her hand.

“Darling, I know how you’re feeling. Jeanie made all our hearts tissue-paper hearts, and now yours is tearing. But it was the kindest thing, Arthur says. He was talking to Ash. Ash said there was never any hope for Jeanie—not like for Bobby or that new boy, Peter. She would have always remained a helpless cripple. As it was, Candace, she was unaware of her affliction. She was only a little child.”

“When did Doctor Ash tell this to Arthur?”

“This morning. Ash was very upset, but he could see it in the right light.”

Candace sat silent. She knew that part of the heaviness within her was the memory of Stephen’s treatment of her last night. When she had needed someone to turn to, he had turned his back. She had put it down to a doctor’s essential practical acceptance of such things, but Arthur had told Claire that the doctor, too, was upset. In sorrow there is invariably a bond, however temporary, between people. She had half expected Stephen Halliday to come to her this morning with regret in his eyes, and an apology on his lips. But he had passed her in the avenue as she had left the quarters for the Rectory, and had responded to her greeting with the barest nod.

Claire was still speaking. Candace noticed her eyes were shining. “I wish it hadn’t happened like this. Not
to-day.
The day I put aside for telling you.”

“Telling me what, Claire?”

“Mrs. Jenkins’s layettes,” returned Mrs. Arthur MacInnes cryptically, and Candace instantly understood.

“No! Oh, when, Claire?”

“Oh, not for ages yet. Isn’t it a thrill, though? You know, Candace, it’s going to be a girl. Arthur thinks so, too. Darling, if it is, we’ll call her Jeanie.”

Candace squeezed Claire’s hand in return. Her heart seemed to lighten.

They lounged in the chairs until dinner seemed more remote, then Claire suggested opening presents.

“Arthur collected all mine from the tree. He brought yours, too, Candace.”

Candace started. She had forgotten all about presents.

Although Christmas Eve was only a night away, it seemed to belong to another decade.

She pulled herself out of the chair and followed Claire inside the house.

Claire opened hers first, and shed a few tears over a handkerchief with a Donald Duck motif and a card: “From your loving friend, Jeanie.”

Candace had crocheted her a buttercup bed-jacket.

‘ You must have known,” smiled Claire happily.

It was Candace’s turn, and she found she had scored handsomely.

A cashmere jacket from Gwenda, probably now shivering with cold—A cherry-red nursing cape from Claire—“You’ll find it valuable in a few months, Candace, the wind can get very cutting at Manathunka.”—A scarf from Barbara—A blouse from Rosemary—A tiny handkerchief, sister to Claire’s, with the same little message—An oblong box.

“What’s this?” puzzled Candace.

“Darling, I’m not clairvoyant.”

“There doesn’t seem to be any message.”

‘‘Probably came with this letter,” suggested Claire. She pushed an envelope towards Candace.

Candace glanced at it. She did not know the writing, but the postmark was Hooper’s Well.

“Where would that be, Claire?”

“The Northern Territory.”

“Oh, it’ll be John then. John Buckland.” Candace’s voice was eager. She unwrapped the oblong box.

Within lay a necklet, earrings and bracelet in the same design as the ring she had found among her purchases that day she had returned to the ship from Aden.

So John
had
bought her that ring, after all. She had asked him about it, but he had protested ignorance. Now he was acknowledging it in a further gift that would complete the set.

“But this is beautiful,” Claire was enthusing. “That lovely beaten silver, and the unusual stones. What are they, Candace? They remind me of something. Yes, that’s it. Your
eyes.
Whoever chose this jewellery must have seen the likeness, too.”

Candace was reading the letter. Typical of John; he made no mention of the gift.

“... I suppose you had given me up? I have no excuse to offer. You would not ask one if you could have seen how busy we have been. Air-lift beef requires every man’s effort, from the humblest native rouseabout to the pilot who freights the beasts.

“... All that is over for a period, however, and I am free to take a breath and catch up once more with my friends.

“... Do you think you could bear to tear yourself away from the big city and visit Kemona? The journey is not so fabulous as it sounds, as, although you would have to emplane for a couple of thousand miles or thereabouts, you would be travelling by air, and that, these times, is a bagatelle.

“... Think it over—you and Rosemary. Happy Christmas, John.”

Candace put down the letter, laughing a little. “Australians are casual. He speaks of a thousand miles as though they were nothing.”

“So they are. Distance is immaterial anywhere these times. You could visit your friend in the N.T. and be comfortably back within a week.”

The prospect was exciting. Matron had mentioned to Candace that she had accumulated a few days’ leave and was welcome to take them whenever she pleased.

She must get in touch with Rosemary and tell her what had happened.

She glanced down at the letter she held in her hand, and wondered if she could do it in a manner that would not incense the girl.

That—“Think it over—you and Rosemary,” was scarcely complimentary. Rose might take it that John had only included her as an afterthought, and so refuse to go.

She would not show her John’s note. She would not show her the jewellery either. She would not show it to anyone—yet. She was not quite happy over it. It was much too expensive even if John was, as Stephen Halliday asserted, quite well placed. She would have a word with John about it. Meanwhile it would join the ring, at the bottom of her box.

“Is that all?” asked Claire, looking round for further presents.

“Surely you didn’t expect more. I’ve been treated well.”

“I thought Ash might have done the right thing. He did to all the others.”

“No, this is all,” said Candace levelly.

She gathered her gifts together, but somehow the satisfaction she had felt in their reception was a little hollow now. There seemed an empty space for another present, but the present was not forthcoming. It would never be forthcoming when she was the recipient—not from Stephen Halliday.

Candace put through a trunk-call to Bibaringa from the Rectory. She was glad she was addressing a telephone and not Rosemary’s perceptive little face.

Rosemary’s first reaction after they had greeted each other and Candace had announced her news was pleasure. Then she said in an odd tone, “John never wrote to me.”

“Probably did not have your address.”

“You think so—” There was a note in Rosemary’s voice that Candace could not quite understand.

“Would you consider this invitation, Rose?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll consider it. In fact, I’ll probably go. All the same—” Again that note.

“Anyway, there’s oodles of time, isn’t there?” resumed Rosemary carelessly. “Next month will be quite early enough. It would be too hot yet, and besides—”

“Yes?”

“You’re to come here first to Bibaringa.”

“What’s that?”

“Listen, Candace, time’s up, and, anyway, you’ll soon find out. Good-bye, now, pet. Be seeing you soon.” Candace heard the click of the country telephone.

She went to evening church with Claire and Arthur, and came home after Christmas supper, passing beneath the huge camphor, its lights dimmed now, and only the tinsel and baubles hanging palely in the dark-blue night.

It was still quite early, so she went down to the library. But it was hot there, and she decided, instead, to sit for a while on the lawn.

She had not been there long when Stephen Halliday came out of Matron’s office. She did not think he could see her, but he crossed the grass with long, silent steps, bent over, took her arm, and pulled her, rather peremptorily, to her feet.

“Matron wants you,” was all he said.

She followed him rather against her will, angry at the form of his summons, alarmed at being asked to report at such an odd hour.

“Oh, Sister,” Matron began, looking up from her inevitable papers, “could you be ready in the morning?”

“For what, Matron?”

“To escort Bobby Grenfell down to Bibaringa. Mr. Tilburn has kindly asked Bobby to spend a few days there, so, of course, someone must take him. Mr. Tilburn, naturally, will pay the fares.” Matron announced this last with vast satisfaction. Candace had no doubt it had decided Matron to let the boy go.

She noticed that Doctor Halliday was not joining in the conversation. He was leaning against the window, his hands in his pockets. He did not look at all pleased.

“So long as we know where a patient is going we never have any objection,” fussed Matron. “With Mr. Tilburn we need entertain no fears.”

“How shall we travel? How long will we stay?”

“Air, of course. The tickets are ready. Several days, Sister. Perhaps even a week.”

“Three days only,” put in the man by the window. His lips were drawn in a straight line.

“Doctor Halliday does not entirely approve,” said Matron. “I really don’t know why. We do this sort of thing quite often.”

The telephone rang and she leaned over to answer it. “Very well, Jessie, I’ll come at once.”

It was the house-phone, noted Candace rather absently. Probably Sister Arnold ringing Matron over some domestic detail. She stood up as Matron went.

She turned when the door closed to face Stephen Halliday. “Is your objection because of me?” she asked deliberately. “Would you sooner have somebody else to conduct Bobby?”

“I might have known you would reach that conclusion.”

“What other conclusion is there?”

A silence, and Candace defended, “Bobby is apparently fit enough to stand the journey.”

“Oh, he’s fit.” The reply was sharp, even irritable.

“Then—”

“It’s nothing to do with either you or Bobby. It’s Tilburn himself.”

Suddenly Stephen began to pace the room.

“I suppose you know he wants to adopt the boy?”

“Yes, I thought it was an admirable idea.”

“Obviously, you would. Obviously, you would take the same narrow view of the matter as Hugh Tilburn.”

“How do you mean?”

Halliday turned on her.

“Tilburn wants
Bobby,
do you understand me? He doesn’t want Peter, he doesn’t want any of the half-dozen other youngsters we’ve got here, he wants
Bobby
.”

“Well?”

“It’s not well. Not for Manathunka. Bobby is a nice child, but so is John, so is Wendy. Ruth—Peter—”

“You mean Bobby must be deprived because of them?”

“I don’t mean that. I mean that Tilburn is incapable of seeing beyond his own limited vision. He sees this child as his own child, as part of himself. He doesn’t see Manathunka at all. It doesn’t even enter into his generosity.”

“Shouldn’t we be thankful,” put in Candace softly, “that Mr. Tilburn’s charity is sufficient to want to help at least
some
of Manathunka?”

“No—no, we shouldn’t,” returned Stephen quite angrily. “This place is an entirety. That’s how Howard Jeffrey thought of it when it was one man’s vision.”

“How could
you
know that? He might have been grateful for little crumbs from a table.”

“He never would,” returned Stephen proudly. “Just as I would never be grateful, either. It has to be the entirety, Candace, or not at all.
It has to be the entirety in everything, can you understand
?”

He wheeled away at the words, slamming the door behind him.

Candace sat back, a little bewildered.

It was the first time, apart from that momentous night of her “discipline,” that he had called her by her Christian name since she had come to the hospital. Yet there had been no softening in his tone, only a thinly-held anger. What had he meant by “entirety”? She understood, of course, when he referred to Manathunka. But what had he meant when he looked as he had—at
her?

Doctor Ferry motored them to Mascot Aerodrome the next morning.

Bobby, still in his plastic jacket, moved laboriously but fairly ably to the big plane.

“Toby, what do you think about Bobby?” Candace found time to ask it as the child became acquainted with the hostess.