Cherry Ames 05 Flight Nurse (9 page)

“I’m so homesick,” young Bunce confided, “I could break down and blubber. Gosh, I’d like to see my mother! And our house, and my two kid brothers, and my town. This war, Miss Cherry, is an awful lonesome war.

“It sure is. Well, Bunce, whenever you get so lonesome you can’t stand it, you just come and tell me about it.”

Bunce grinned down at her from his lanky six feet.

His candid blue eyes and tousled hair might better have been atop a small boy, than such a tall man. He gave a vigorous chew on his gum, hesitated a moment, and then said earnestly:

“ A U N T ” C H E R R Y

79

“Miss Cherry, ’scuse me for askin’, but what’s on your mind lately? Seems to me you’re thinkin’ awful hard about something. Is it that little girl?” Cherry glanced up at him, startled. “Well—uh—

Don’t take such long strides, Bunce. Yes, I have been worrying about that youngster.”

“War orphan, I guess.”

“In a way.” Cherry let it go at that, and Bunce seemed satisfied. She would have liked to take Bunce into her confidence, for she knew from past experience how helpful he could be. But she knew she must keep the story of Mark Grainger to herself.

“Bunce,” she asked, “did I tell you that Muriel is coming over for dinner today?” Bunce kicked along some pebbles in the road. “Miss Cherry, ’t’ain’t fair. Why just one little girl? There’re dozens of youngsters in the neighborhood who need us for aunts and uncles too. Why couldn’t we adopt a whole bunch of ’em?”

“That’s an idea! Maybe a Christmas party for all the children for miles around!”

“Aw, shucks, a whole month to wait?” Cherry smiled. “The woman who runs our barracks has two little boys—if you insist on sharing your Thanksgiving dinner!”

The young guests hugely enjoyed their first Thanksgiving dinner. Muriel’s share of turkey and candied 80

C H E R R Y A M E S , F L I G H T N U R S E

sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce impressed her very much. Perched on a chair and three thick books, she absorbed food and the noble story of Thanksgiving with equal seriousness.

Late that afternoon, Cherry and Wade took her home. Cherry and her pilot had the rest of the evening off. Wade bundled “my two girls” into the front seat of a borrowed jeep, tossed a blanket over their laps, and squeezed in behind the wheel. As usual, he drove on two wheels, and sang in a booming baritone:

“One—meat—BALL! Now ain’t that sad—on-ly ONE meat BALL!”

Cherry giggled as much as small Muriel did. “Don’t you know any other song?” she demanded.

“Nope. Don’t need to.
One Meat Ball
is a fine song.

Suits me. You know any songs, cherub?” Muriel knitted her brows. “I know about Mother Goose. But I guess you heard those. I know one my father taught me, last time he came home.” She started to sing in a thin, earnest, tuneless chant.

The words were in German. Wade glanced at Cherry over the little fair head. Cherry uncomfortably looked straight ahead at the road.

When Muriel finished the song, Wade said that was

“real fine,” only he and Cherry couldn’t understand the words. What was the song about?

Muriel said, “My father told me, but I forget. Some thing about
Röslein
, roses and a girl. Not English roses,

“ A U N T ” C H E R R Y

81

not a girl here in England, though. Anyhow, I like the Meat Ball song better! You know what, Captain Wade?” she prattled along. “You know much better songs than my father. Of course I love my father very very much,” she explained seriously, “more than anyone in the world. Whenever he comes home, we have such fun together. Lilac too.”

Cherry heard this speech with growing uneasiness.

She wanted to ask questions, yet in decency she could not question a child. She did not want to discuss the child’s doubtful father before anyone else, either. Wade certainly was looking puzzled and on the alert.

“Your daddy in the British Army?”

“He used to be.”

Wade glanced again at Cherry. Then, to her relief, he said in his usual lighthearted way, “Well, cherub, I’m no linguist but I could teach you pig Latin. Now, you take the first letter of a word, and put it at the end, like this—Uriel-may. That’s your name. Surprised?” Muriel promptly replied, “I-ay already-ay ow-knay ig-pay atin-Lay!”

Wade looked so astonished, so thunderstruck, that all three of them laughed the rest of the way into the village.

Muriel importantly directed Wade past the pub on High Street and to the right down a quiet lane. At last the jeep drew up before a regular storybook house.

82

C H E R R Y A M E S , F L I G H T N U R S E

It was a low, rambling cottage, white with blue shut-ters, and a blue door. Hedges and bare flower beds surrounded it, damply fragrant in the misty twilight.

Branches of low, old trees brushed the windows. Cherry would not have been surprised if Queen Mab and her

“fa ëry ring,” or Puck himself, had come tumbling down the wet eaves on a breath of air.

“This is where I live!” the tiny flight nurse announced.

“Please, both of you, come in for tea. Grandmother said I was to ask you.”

Cherry and Wade heard only absent-mindedly: they were under the spell of this place.

“Please come in?”

The two Americans roused themselves. Wade said to Cherry, “I’ll come to the door and be properly introduced to the cherub’s grandmother. But, gosh, don’t make me sit around at a ladies’ tea party. I’ll meet some of the fellows at the inn and I’ll drive back here for you around eight or nine. All right? Besides,” he added shrewdly, “you may have something private to talk over with the cherub’s grandmother.” The blue door opened and Mrs. Eldredge stood in the doorway, on the single stone step. She was a tall, valiant white-haired figure with the lamplight shining out behind her.

“Do come in!” she called in her clipped British voice.

“So nice of you to trouble with Muriel.”

“ A U N T ” C H E R R Y

83

Muriel held open the gate. They went up the path.

Wade looked very brown, very young, very American, next to this parchment-like lady as Cherry said, “Mrs.

Eldredge, Captain Cooper.”

“Delighted, Captain.”

“How do you do!”

Wade made his excuses and, after whispering to the disappointed little girl, climbed back into the jeep and drove away.

“Come in, my dear.”

Cherry followed her dignified hostess into the living room—or sitting room, as the English called it. It was a low, square, wall-papered room, dominated by a brick fireplace, and cozily furnished. There were pictures and books and a sewing basket. The room looked so unassuming and homelike that it took Cherry a few moments to realize these comfortable mahogany arm-chairs, the stately sideboard with its sprigged porcelain dishes, the wing chair of faded needlepoint, the flowery waxy chintz curtains, were all very beautiful things. A framed photograph of a young man caught her eye.

Mrs. Eldredge smiled at Cherry’s frank curiosity, but said nothing.

Cherry burst out with honest admiration, “I’ve sel-dom seen anything so inviting!”

“War has left it all sadly worn and in need of repair.

Would you like to see the other rooms?” 84

C H E R R Y A M E S , F L I G H T N U R S E

“Oh, may I?”

Muriel interrupted, romping in with a shaggy brown nondescript dog nearly as big as she was.

“This is Lilac!” she announced. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

“He’s very nice,” Cherry chuckled and patted the floppy ears. Lilac sniffed hard, wagged his tail, barked, offered his clumsy paw, rolled over, and ended up by noisily licking Cherry’s hand.

“Isn’t he smart!” his small owner beamed. “He’s part collie, part Airedale, and part I-don’t-know-what-else.” Cherry, Muriel, and the overgrown puppy made up a retinue, following Mrs. Eldredge through the house.

There were three oak-beamed bedrooms with high-backed wooden beds and plump goose-down comfortables, patched it was true but still tempting. There was a roomy old-fashioned kitchen which Mrs. Eldredge called the scullery, a laundry room, and a bathroom whose brassy fixtures were fancy, old and inconvenient.

In fact, everything in the house, from its uneven bare wooden floors to the last teaspoon, was worn thread-bare. Yet everything gleamed with good care and with honest use.

They returned to the living room and sat by the smol-dering wood fire. Mrs. Eldredge talked interestingly of old houses. Cherry could not keep her lively dark eyes from straying to the framed photograph on the mantel.

“That is my son-in-law. Muriel dear, bring Miss Ames the picture.”

“ A U N T ” C H E R R Y

85

Cherry held the photograph and studied it. The man, just past first youth, was handsome and of fair coloring.

The features were strong, clear-cut, well proportioned; the mouth was firm. Cherry could see in Muriel’s baby face a likeness to that rather long head, that high, finely molded forehead.

“That portrait was made just after Mark left the Army.

An odd occasion to have one’s picture taken,” Mrs.

Eldredge added bitterly.

Muriel’s little face was filled with distress. She took the picture from Cherry and clasped it to her, as if to defend her father.

Cherry was appalled to see defiant tears in the child’s eyes. “Poor little sprite!” she thought.

Mrs. Eldredge sighed. “You have a picture of your mother, too, dear.”

“Oh, yes, Aunt Cherry! Want to see it?” After lovingly setting down her father’s picture, Muriel trotted out. She returned carrying a little leather folder. Cherry found herself looking into a lovely young face, with Muriel’s same enormous, sensitive eyes. A cascade of golden hair fell about the lovely Lucia’s throat.

“Isn’t my mother beautiful? I love her dearly.” Mrs. Eldredge said quietly, “That is the only mother Muriel has—a bit of paper—and I have no daughter—

thanks to the Germans.” She looked down at her veined hands. “Muriel does not remember her mother.

86

C H E R R Y A M E S , F L I G H T N U R S E

Unfortunately she scarcely sees her father. Her father—Mark is—Are you ready for tea? Shall we have our tea now?” She nervously got busy.

There was nothing Cherry could say. She assisted her elderly hostess in bringing in dishes and food, determined to make herself a cheerful guest in this brave house. She expressed her surprise that tea could be a real supper—though Cherry guessed that her hostess had spread out most of her rations for a whole week, to be hospitable. Muriel’s widened eyes proved that.

“Do have some more, Miss Ames,” urged Mrs. Eldredge.

But Cherry was careful not to accept too much.

The trio grew quite gay over this feast. Mrs. Eldredge told Cherry the history of the curious cups her deceased husband had brought from India, and showed her beautiful Paisley shawls.

They were folding the big shawls when the outer door opened and Mark Grainger came in.

For a second there was tense silence. Cherry saw Mrs. Eldredge stiffen. Then Muriel, whose mouth was open in surprise, gave a whoop of delight and ran into her father’s arms.

He picked her up, held her high, their two fair heads close, and demanded, “How is my daughter today? And what is this you are wearing?”

“ A U N T ” C H E R R Y

87

“My uniform—I’m a mascot now. Extremely well, thank you. How are you? Oh, father I didn’t know you were coming home!”

“I didn’t know it myself.” Mark Grainger kissed her and gently put her down. Then he went over to the grandmother. “How are you, Mother Eldredge? Are you all right? How is the head?”

“Improving, thank you.” The elderly woman hesitated, then met his eyes and forced a smile. “Well, Mark! Quite a surprise. We’re happy to have you at home. Let me present you to an American friend of Dr.

Fortune’s—Lieutenant Cherry Ames.” Cherry shook hands with Mark Grainger. She took a good look at this man. He was about twenty-seven or eight, a little above medium height, dressed unobtru-sively in a dark gray suit. He seemed weary, but otherwise he gave an impression of great vigor and character.

Cherry said she would take her departure now. But they all insisted she stay, and settled down for a visit.

“I dare say you’re famished, Mark. Tea is already on the table.”

“I am half starved. Literally.” But he did not say why, or where he had been, or how he had happened to arrive so unexpectedly. Cherry saw that Mrs. Eldredge, even Muriel, tensely avoided asking any questions.

There was a kind of dread in the old lady’s saddened eyes. Yet—remarkably—Mark Grainger sat at the table, 88

C H E R R Y A M E S , F L I G H T N U R S E

eating, completely at ease, completely happy and at home here. Was he callous, cynical—or did he have a clear conscience despite the silent accusation in this room?

“May I stay up late, very late?” Muriel begged.

“You may stay up a bit longer, to see your father. Mark, Miss Ames has been exceptionally kind to Muriel. She has been entertaining her at the American installation.”

Mark’s eyes lit up. “I am most grateful to you. I’m sure you are supplying most of the happiness in her life just now.” There was a tone of deep regret in his voice.

Then he gave her a friendly smile. “You’re a flight nurse, aren’t you, Miss Ames?”

“Yes, Mr. Grainger.”

“I’m an engineer. I’ve been in the Army and I’ve also done some engineering work for the British gov-ernment.” It sounded very smooth and plausible, the way he said it. He deftly turned the subject away from his activities. “It was while I was studying engineering in your country that I had the great pleasure of knowing Dr. Fortune. How is he—and what is he doing now?” Cherry replied, not too specifically, that Dr. Fortune was doing some sort of medical work for the American Army.

“Research, I suppose?” Mark said pleasantly.

“I’m not sure, Mr. Grainger.”

“ A U N T ” C H E R R Y

89

“Dr. Fortune’s passion was research when
I
knew him. A remarkable man. Lucia was very fond of him.”