Australian Hospital (3 page)

She was not very happy over the new seating arrangement.

On one of her windy tours round the ship she had met another hardy soul, a tall, lean, young Australian returning home from England, and, battling against the elements, they had become friendly.

Last night on the boat-deck, the wind screaming its dislike of the world, John Buckland had yelled a similar suggestion in Candace’s ear.

His table for four, he had shouted, in the corner of the saloon, was occupied only by himself. If he asked the steward at breakfast and he was agreeable, would Candace join him?

Candace now shot a swift glance across to the corner to John. Stephen Halliday, hawk-eyed, caught the rather rueful look.

“So the ammunition is working already?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You know what I mean. The French perfume. Young Buckland is quite a catch.”

The kidneys had lost their savour altogether now. Candace pushed them aside.

“Not feeling the effects?” grinned Halliday remorselessly. “I warned you seasickness struck at the most unexpected times.”

“I feel fine. I mean I
would
if I were sitting elsewhere.”

“Young Buckland’s table?”

Candace’s chin went up. “Why not?”

“Why not indeed. He is one of the N.T. Bucklands, and extremely well placed. To put it crudely, you’d do yourself proud.”

Candace was seething now, and it was all she could do not to rise and leave his table.

“What is N.T.?” she asked instead, determined not to give him another opportunity to score.

“Northern Territory. The Bucklands are cattle people. They freight their cattle by air. You want to ask young Buckland all about air-lift beef. Men like women to be interested in what they do. Interest is almost as potent as French perfume.”

Again Candace had to hold on to her temper.

“John,” she began, flushing as Halliday’s brows rose sardonically at her use of the Christian name, “appeals to me as a nice, fresh, heartening example of young Australian manhood. He would be years younger than I—”

“Probably one. But proceed.”

“There is nothing more to say. I’m just trying to tell you that he is the first Australian male that I have met, and that I am favourably impressed.”

“You are wrong, Miss Jamieson. You have met me. Don’t tell me”—he grinned crookedly—“you were favourably impressed.”

Candace did not heed his sarcasm. She had rather gathered the impression that Halliday was English, and said so now.

“I was born in Australia. My grandfather was Australian. I have been educated in England, that’s all. I suppose you expect what all English people seem to expect—either a slow drawl or a nasal twang or a deadly monotone.” Candace, who had thought Rosemary’s animated voice a delight, and found pleasure in John’s leisured tone, did not answer.

She raised her eyes to find that Halliday was looking at her with amusement. The cool, vivid-blue depths were more appraising than ever.

“Now you,” he stated reflectively, “have a very gentle and level voice.”

“I need a level voice. It is part of my trade.”

“Don’t tell me you work?”

“I’m a nurse.”

“So!”

He sat back, regarding her with interest.

“I am generally perceptive over such matters, but I would not have guessed that,” he said at length.

“I suppose you are thinking of my passage on this ship. That was paid.”

“No, I was not thinking of that. Although I said just now your voice was gentle, you are not entirely the placid type. There is a spark in you, an inclination to answer back, that I have noticed in some Australian nurses but never in the English. Perhaps it is the opposed climate, or perhaps it is a different training. I don’t know. But I would certainly not take you for an English nurse, docile, disciplined, obedient without asking questions.”

Again Candace was annoyed. She had always prided herself on her ability to submit cheerfully to authority, and she flushed now with resentment.

Immediately, she realised that her hot cheeks must only bear out what Halliday had just observed of her. A spark, he had said, an inclination to answer back. What right had he to jump to such a conclusion? How had he reached his finding on English nurses—“docile, disciplined, obedient without asking questions”?

She lifted her head proudly, and inquired, “You think the English docility a liability then?”

He shrugged indifferently. “On the contrary, I admire, and approve of, the English nurse, and the fitting and correct way she retreats to the background.”

“For an onlooker you seem to have formed definite opinions.”

“I am not an onlooker. I am a doctor.”

Candace paused. She had walked right into that, she thought ruefully. She might have guessed by the way Stephen Halliday had spoken that he was on ground that was familiar to him.

There was a silence for a moment, then Candace spoke deliberately and with not a little malice.

“You must find your Australian nurses rather a trial, Doctor.”

“My dear child, all nurses are the same to me. I see to it they are kept in their place. I prefer the English type of discipline, so always make known my preference. Woe betide any livelier soul, English or Australian, who has other ideas on the subject.”

The pink flush that had come into Candace’s cheeks was quite rosy now. She looked very pretty sitting there, with her wide eyes stormy, her small mouth a little tremulous with anger.

The man thought idly: she is one of those women who only grow lovely on longer acquaintance.

At first he had categorised her as a little grey mouse. Then he had looked a second time, and then a third.

He watched now, and realised, in spite of the just-fair hair, grey eyes, pale but not dazzling white skin, that this girl was near beauty. There was a sweetness in her sensitive mouth, and although he had accused her of having the ability to answer back, there was that same gentleness he had noticed in many of the nurses he had worked with in England.

Her eyes were her chief attraction. They did not shine particularly—it would be more accurate, he decided, to say that they glowed. Almost as though there were candles lit behind them.

They were bog-shadow eyes. Put in with a smutty finger. They were clear and honest, a pure, candid grey.

Candid. That was the word. Something like her name, Candace. Her voluble friend Gwenda had called her Candy, but it did not suit her. She was Candace, pure and simple.

Stephen Halliday gave a little start. He found that he was still regarding the girl, and that she was staring rather defensively back.

“Where are you going to?” he asked quickly to hide his embarrassment. “I mean, what state?”

“New South Wales.”

“I see. You have a post waiting?”

“Yes.” She did not tell him where, and he did not ask. There was a rather uncomfortable silence on both sides, which Candace broke with a remark upon the weather.

“I wonder if it will ever lift.”

“Yes. To-morrow.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I can smell a change. By morning those grey backdrops will be drawn aside and we’ll have a blue setting.”

“You sound theatrical, not medical.”

“I assure you I never act. I do and say just as I think and feel, not dream.”

“In brief, an honest character.”

“Exactly. Keep that in mind, Miss Jamieson. In time to come it might be helpful to remember that what I do, I mean. There are no illusions.”

“Thank you. I’m quite sure I shall have no need to remember, however.” Candace paused to lend effect to her words.

“You know,” she resumed brightly, glancing towards a porthole, “I believe you might be right about the weather. It
is
lifting.”

“I told you. I wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t correct.” Candace could stand the confidence in his voice, the amused twist in his smile, no longer. She rose to her feet. Halliday got up with her.

“Nurse Jamieson,” he remarked quizzically, looking her up and down with his bright blue eyes, “you’re quite small, aren’t you? You could do with a few more inches.”

“Perhaps you could be shorter.”

“Oh, come, your friend Buckland is every bit as tall as I.” As he spoke, John Buckland strolled up to their table.

“It’s going to be fine,” he told Candace cheerfully. “There’s enough blue in the sky to make a cat a pair of pyjamas.”

“We say to patch a Dutchman’s trousers,” smiled back the girl.

“It just shows you,” said John, “how far the child has got away from the Mother Country.”

“I’ve been telling her the same thing,” put in Stephen, “but with reservations. Often quite a few of the off-spring’s characteristics are seen in the home product. Did you notice, Buckland, during your English sojourn, a similar tendency among the young to kick over the traces?”

Candace was relieved that John had no idea of the real trend of the conversation.

She excused herself, leaving the men conversing together as they made their way out of the saloon, and ran down to Rosemary.

Rosemary was sitting up, sipping broth. She looked wan, but she looked better.

“My dear, it’s going to be smooth and sunny to-morrow,” Candace promised.

“Who said?”

“Oh, John—and Mr. Halliday.”

“John and Mr. Halliday. Candace, you wretch, you’ve got your groundwork in. I’ll have to flirt like mad to catch up.”

“Now you sound like my friend Gwenda. I’d hate Mr. Stephen Halliday to hear you talking.”

“That nice number you were promenading with before I died?”

“Yes. He’s not so nice.”

“Oh, good, that’s how I like them. I’ll soon thaw him out. But who’s John?”

“John Buckland. Northern Territory. Cattle,” Candace recited it glibly.

Rosemary’s eyes lit up. “Mummy’s people were cattle people. She’s always preferred cattle to sheep. I think I must take after her. Stupid things, sheep.”

“They keep you in luxury,” reminded Candace.

“I know, but somehow cattle are more interesting. Daddy can’t see it. He’s strictly wool. Candace, darling, I think I could eat some more broth. Come to think of it, I’m starved.”

“You must be. I’ll ring the bell.”

Candace pulled the cord, then went and stood at the porthole.

“Yes, it will be fine,” she promised, pointing out some silver-lined clouds. “Your bad spell is over.”

CHAPTER III

The
next morning the ship came alive. Passengers who had seemed somehow unreal behind their closed doors appeared on deck, and the Mediterranean warmth sent them searching their trunks for cool cottons and rope sandals.

After the days of gloom it was like some bright bazaar. For the first time since sailing, the dining-saloon was entirely filled. The missed meals had given the passengers tremendous appetites, and the stewards were kept running.

Candace was introduced to Rosemary’s parents, who laughingly hoped they made a better spectacle than the first morning she had seen them, and who proved a friendly, comfortable pair, not at all unbalanced by the sudden whims of Lady Luck and the phenomenal rise in wool.

“You have been very good to our little girl,” said Mrs. Tilburn gratefully. “You must let us be your hosts when we reach Aden. Such an interesting place.”

“Oh, Mummy, Candace is not going to do any such thing,” put in Rosemary. “You stop with your old fogies and leave us young ones on our own. We’ll find escorts, eh, Candace?”

She was so breezy you could take no offence. Mrs. Tilburn was evidently accustomed to her daughter, and looked a little relieved.

“As a matter of fact, Father and I thought we’d stay on board if you can make up a party without us. Once you’ve seen the Tanks, and visited the bazaars, you’ve done Aden.”

There was a dance the night they went through the Red Sea, and Candace was glad that the house-mother at Fairhill had taught the rudimentary steps to her young charges.

She had not danced much at Charlotte. There had not seemed sufficient time, for she had been very serious over her training.

Now, however, all her old knowledge returned, and she found herself waltzing easily and enjoyably in John Buckland’s arms.

John, Stephen Halliday, Rosemary and herself, comprising, as they did, almost the entire younger group of the ship’s passengers, had made up a foursome.

Stephen had taken instantly to the high-spirited Rosemary. She matched him in repartee, but he did not seem to mind it. There was a kind of easy camaraderie between these two that amazed Candace.

She herself found Stephen a little frightening, in spite of his assertion that she possessed the ability to answer back. She wished she could be like Rosemary, blithe, uncaring, rough-riding over bumps that would have unseated Candace.

To her surprise, though, there was a certain air of strain between John and Rosemary. Whereas Candace found it easy to talk to John, Rosemary appeared to find it difficult. Whenever the four split up it was John who came with Candace.

She had danced almost the entire evening with John, and was waiting for him to cross over for the last waltz, for he had asked her to reserve it, when Stephen Halliday appeared before her, bowed slightly, and taking her hand drew her to her feet.

Candace murmured something about Buckland, but Stephen answered coolly, “He’s showing Miss Tilburn the moon. Young people do those things, you know. Don’t tell me you’re jealous. A man fully a year younger than yourself.”

Candace did not reply, but concentrated on her dancing. She did not enjoy it much. Halliday made it more a compulsory exercise than a pleasant relaxation. He tried out many intricate steps and it took her all her time to follow him.

When the music stopped he led her out to the deck, remarking, as he lit a cigarette, ‘You dance well.”

“I suppose I should return the compliment.”

“Not unless you mean it I did mean it. As I have told before, I only say what I think. There must have been lots of opportunities for dancing in the hospital where you trained. One doesn’t achieve that standard without practice.”

“I haven’t danced since Fairhill.”

“No? But I presume those expensive girls’ schools concentrate on that sort of thing.”

“It wasn’t a school, it was a home. An orphans’ home.” Candace said it deliberately. She wanted to embarrass this man.

His face did not betray any change in expression. Only his thick dark brows raised, and he said speculatively, as he often said, “So!”

After a pause he suggested laconically, “I suppose this is the moment I offer tender apologies. The little orphan alone in the world and earning her own living, what?”

“There is no need for your kind remarks. I am, and have been for a long time, completely self-sufficient.”

He was regarding her closely. “Yes, I think you’re right. You would be self-sufficient. Shall we find Buckland? I sent him to the boat-deck looking for you while I stole his dance. No, don’t look so outraged. I did you a good turn, really. There’s nothing so beneficial to a love affair as a little competition. You were rushing him too much, Miss Jamieson.” Candace turned, her eyes blazing. Instinctively, before she realised it, her hand half rose, but instantly Stephen Halliday caught it, prisoning the slim wrist.

“No face-slapping, please, if that was your intention. That went out with melodrama. The gesture is psychologically interesting, though. It bears out what I said: that for all your English discipline, you’re still disciplined, my dear.”

“I’m not your dear.”

“No. Nor Buckland's either, as yet. But he tells me he is taking you ashore at Aden to-morrow. Now is your chance to get something concrete out of the fellow. The bazaar is full of charming and expensive gewgaws.”

Candace wrenched her hand away, escaped him, and ran down to her cabin.

Rosemary was in bed, and already half asleep.

“Where did you get to? We berth at sunrise. Do hurry, Candace, my eyes are like lead. I want to be up to-morrow in time to get my first glimpse of Arabia.”

“You’ve seen it before.”

“I told you we flew over.” Rosemary sounded rather cross.

Candace hastened to put out the light.

They reached the quay at dawn.

Most of the passengers were on deck before that, straining their eyes to see this tiny tip of foreign country.

John Buckland pointed out the volcanic rock and the huddled white buildings, but Candace found herself more interested later in the masses of people on the quay. Pure Arab, half-caste, dockers, vendors, persistent beggars.

She glanced over her shoulder at the crowd behind her, and saw that Stephen Halliday had appeared.

He had taken his time to dress, and looked a little scornfully on the girls in their negligées. It seemed to Candace he looked longer on her faded blue crepe, and she shrank sensitively into it, remembering how long she had had it, and how shabby it must appear beside Rosemary’s.

As a matter of fact, Stephen was thinking what a child she seemed, with her soft pale hair streaming fanlike over her slight shoulders, and her eyes wide with excitement.

He thought of last night, and her announcement about Fairhill, and suddenly, spontaneously, standing there on deck, he wanted to gather her protectively in his arms.

It was at the same moment that Candace withdrew deeper into her wrap. It was a small gesture, but she seemed to withdraw in spirit as well as body.

He turned his attention to Rosemary.

Breakfast was a hurried meal. Everyone seemed to have made plans for the day and to be anxious to get away. Even the seasoned travellers spoke of going ashore, if only to stretch their legs, and Mr. and Mrs. Tilburn, relieved of their dynamic daughter, set off after all to the hotel, which, they told Candace, was famous for its coffee.

The two girls dressed excitedly, Rosemary in one of Montague’s inspirations, apple-green nylon, and Candace in a simple blue linen.

The men were awaiting them. Stephen, who was the better at bargaining, had found a taxi, and they were soon driving out to the Tanks.

When they returned they visited the bazaar, and here Candace found a lucky elephant to send to Gwenda, and a scarf of suitably subdued shades for Matron.

It was only on her return to the ship that she discovered the ring, in a little velvet box that lay at the bottom of her purchases.

It was a beautiful trinket fashioned of hand-beaten silver, with an exquisitely-cut stone of a limpid, clear-grey hue. It was a lovely thing, and obviously expensive.

She thought of what Stephen had said—“Now is your chance to get something concrete out of the fellow,” and flushed with annoyance.

She must return it to John at once—

John, down beside the pool, denied any knowledge of the ring.

Candace was at a loss. She could not imagine how it could have got there if someone had not placed it there deliberately. There were only three solutions.

John, too shy to admit his gift, was lying.

Rosemary, instructed by the Tilburns, had put it there when Candace was not looking.

Or it had been—

No, it would not be Mr. Halliday, she decided.

She went back to her cabin, looked at the lovely thing again, slipped it on, then took it off and resolutely packed it at the bottom of her trunk.

“I think it was John,” she said, smiling. “He’ll admit it later.”

The days were beautiful now. Each one seemed to outdo its predecessor in perfection. The nights were like matched pearls.

No land was visible. Bright blue sea merging into bright blue sky surrounded them on every side.

They went smoothly, endlessly it sometimes seemed to Candace, towards a lilac horizon that they never reached.

This was the Indian Ocean, and it was on its best behaviour from Aden to Colombo, and the girls sunbaking by the pool, were overjoyed when they began to acquire a golden tan.

“This is my right colour,” boasted Rosemary. “I lost most of it in England and I thought I’d never win it back.”

“
You,
young woman, had better take it in smaller doses,” prescribed Stephen to Candace.

She knew he was right, but chose stubbornly to ignore his advice, with the result that when they reached Colombo harbour she was far too sore to join the shorebound launch.

She was annoyed with her own pigheadedness. They were going to take coffee at the Galle Face Hotel, then a run up to the hills for a curry lunch.

She had heard all about that from John. The spices, the pieces of papaw, the tropical chutneys, the hot pastes and the popadams you held in your fingers and “dunked.” Now she was missing it all, because she had chosen to be childishly perverse. For some stupid reason she had wanted to annoy Stephen.

After lunch she felt a little better, and decided to go ashore after all. She wanted to get something for Gwenda, and an hour or so should not do any harm.

She stared curiously at the motley hues of the crowds, the women in their saris wearing flowers in their glossy hair, the rickshaws pulled by brown coolies, the tropical flowers growing as profusely as English daisies in an English back garden, the beautiful trees, the flamboyant and the jacaranda, vivid contrasts in crimson and flaunting blue.

She was standing in the post office writing to Gwenda when John Buckland came up behind her.

She was surprised. She had thought he had gone with the others on the excursion.

“No, I’ve done the hills before,” he answered to her inquiry. “Besides, my brother wished me to pay his respects to a friend of his here in Colombo.”

“And have you?”

“My duties are all performed. Are yours?”

“I still have this card to write. Listen, John, would you say this was correct?—‘Dear Gwen, This picture shows an ancient Hindu Temple in the Pettah, or native town of Colombo. One-sixth of the world’s tea is grown in Ceylon. Also rubber, cacao, quinine and pepper—’ ”

John started to laugh, and she laughed with him.

“I don’t know why I did that, really,” she admitted, “Gwenda will be horribly bored.”

They laughed as they made their way out into the street. They laughed as they took coffee at the Galle Face, and they were laughing as they climbed into the launch to go back to the ship.

Rosemary and Stephen and the rest of the tourists were already ensconced. Rosemary looked surprised, and a little hurt, thought Candace.

Stephen said nothing, but as he helped her up the steps when they reached the ship, he commented briefly, “That was a cunning move, Miss Jamieson. Also a very convenient attack of sunburn. However, not very considerate and not quite polite, do you think?”

When they awoke the ship was on its way again.

Candace said knowledgeably to Rosemary, “Did you know we had three thousand one hundred and twenty nautical miles before us?”

Rosemary was a little inclined to sulk, but she soon got over it.

Candace could not imagine what had annoyed her, but was glad when the day and its various excitements diverted her attention, and she was the old, irresistible Rosemary once more.

The time went by as in a dream.

Dances, movies, deck-games, competitions, hours in the pool, hours beside the pool, and suddenly before they could realise it, Australia by the next morning!

The Tilburns were disembarking at Fremantle and crossing the continent by air.

“Mummy hates the Bight,” said Rosemary. “She always says it upsets her as much as Biscay.”

Candace was sorry they were going.

“I’ll miss you, Rosemary.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen the last of me. Don’t think it.”

“It
will
be the last. It will be very different in Sydney. We’ll be in different worlds.”