Nurse with a Dream (12 page)

“I mean what I dreamt was real. I didn’t fall off anything. Somebody hit me!”

“You mean this doggy upped with a lump of stone between its paws and dotted you one?”

“No. There was a man. I heard him shout and then I felt a blow. I didn’t actually see anyone, but I heard him.”

“A sort of disembodied man? No, ducky, you dreamt that.”

A nurse appeared shyly at the door with two steaming tooth-mugs. Her cap was slightly askew and her apron was too long. “Nurse Hannon says would you like some eyewash, please?”

“Bless you!” said Bridget, sipping the scalding tea gratefully. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yes. This is my first morning. My name is Coe—Stella.”

Jacky and Bridget groaned. Jacky, taking the tea with a reassuring smile, advised her to put a tuck in her apron. “Or Sister will be after you.”

“She has already,” Nurse Coe whispered. “I wish I knew what I was supposed to do next.”

“Wash these mugs. Thoroughly, mind! Don’t let one tea-leaf escape, and if you value your life, don’t let Sister or the staff nurse see you.”

“N-no, Nurse. What shall I do if I meet Sister in the corridor?”

“In that case, you eat the mugs.”

“Y-yes, Nurse.” Little Coe scuttled away, her lips moving as if in prayer.

Bridget unrolled the last curler and tackled the resulting frizz with a hairbrush. “Now listen, acushla! If you’d been attacked by a dog, you’d have bites, not bumps. Stands to reason. I believe you dreamt the dog, because I heard you yelling. Then you dreamt it again, and now you’re convinced it’s true.”

“If I could prove a dog,” Jacqueline went on stubbornly as if Bridget had not spoken, “it would prove I hadn’t climbed Black Crag.”

“So what? You fell somewhere. Does it matter where?” “It matters to me. Do you think—could I tell Mr. Broderick about the dog?”

“Good heavens, child—no. It will be years before you are even allowed to breathe in his presence. As soon as you’ve finished breakfast to-day you’ll be a first-year nurse again, and don’t you forget it.”

“But if it’s important?”

“Nothing a first-year nurse thinks or says is important.”

“And how!” said Liz, entering with Stella Coe at her heels. Nurse Coe’s cap was now over one ear, and her mouth was open as if she were a grassed fish. “Jacky, love, as soon as you’ve finished your breakfast, get up. We want your bed. You’ve had it, chum. Gosh, I’m dead already—this is going to be a day and a half. Sparrow is wild about two bedpans she swears the night nurses have lost. Sister and Fanny Cartwright have been having a cold war about it. Well, Jacky my girl, out you come, and all set for the Greek god. Some people have all the luck. Farm, eh? Butter and eggs.”

“I don’t want to go, Liz. I’d rather go on duty.”

“Crazy!” Liz remarked to no one in particular. “Hit on the head, you know. Pity.”

Coe stared at Jacqueline, who was now in dressing-gown and slippers
en route
for the bathroom. She was visibly shaken.

“She thinks a dog attacked her in the night,” Bridget contributed.

Liz threw a pile of pillows at Nurse Coe, who dropped them nervously and scrabbled on the floor to pick them up again. “Don’t
try
so hard, Nurse. You won’t last the day at this rate.” She turned to Jacqueline. “Not on this ward, it didn’t. Sister would already have complained to Night Sister.”

Jacqueline was ready, in the sitting-room of the Nurses’ Home, when Deborah looked in. Neither wore uniform, and for the first time Jacqueline felt it possible that they were cousins. A Sister in full panoply couldn’t be anybody’s cousin—she was a being apart. But this good-looking woman in a smart suit and white crepe blouse was undoubtedly Guy’s sister. There was even a likeness now.

The girl stood up politely, but Deborah said at once, “Sit down, Jacqueline. I told you two o’clock because I wanted to have a few words with you. I hope you are going to be a sensible girl.”

Surprised, Jacqueline said, “I hope I always am.”

“I mean about Alan Broderick. It’s all over the hospital that he rescued you and has been to visit you. And you were talking to him in the corridor outside Matron’s room so long that he had to make excuses for your being late.”

“That was hardly my fault. Matron sent for me, so I couldn’t help being in the corridor when Mr. Broderick came out of her room. He only asked how I was.”

“A young girl could easily have her head turned by attention from an important man. Don’t get big ideas. Your friendship with Alan Broderick is not likely to come to anything.”

“Come to anything? What on earth do you mean?”

Deborah said bluntly, “He won’t marry you, you little fool.”

“M-marry
me!
But that’s ridiculous!”

“I’m glad you realise it.” Deborah’s tone was dry. “He is not likely to fall for a young girl. His tastes are more sophisticated, and to be the wife of a successful surgeon you need more than mere looks. You need money.” The voice was tinged with bitterness. “You need the kind of money that makes a woman beautiful, soft and pampered; the money that buys big houses and long cars.”

Jacqueline shook her smooth fair head in a puzzled way, as if she had wandered into a net of cobwebs. “You can’t be saying this to me. I don’t believe my ears. You speak as if I had designs on him or something. I can’t find words to answer you.”

Deborah leaned forward, pushing her face close to Jacqueline’s. Her eyes had a hard glitter. “Can you swear you’ve never fancied yourself in love with him? I see by your tell-tale face you can’t. You’re blushing crimson.”

“If I am, it’s because of your preposterous suggestions. I’m ashamed by what you ask—ashamed of you. Why should I swear any such thing? My thoughts are my own.”

Deborah recovered her dignity. “Very well. Don’t say you haven’t been warned. I’ve said what I wanted to say, and I hope you will take it to heart.”

She swept out of the room with such immense dignity that one could almost hear the rustle of a starched apron. Jacqueline followed, bursting with rebellion.

She did not mind being a junior, being Alexander Beetle in this huge, busy community. She knew she had everything to learn. But she could not and would not accept interference with her private life, her personal friendships. Why did everyone think they knew what was good for her, better than she knew herself?

In the long echoing walk between the sitting-room and the humble staff exit, she almost succumbed to the temptation to walk right out of the hospital and never come back. There were other hospitals. There were Grand’mère and Grand-père, longing for her to return. How they would welcome her, spoil and pet her!

But running away from the situation wouldn’t make it any better. One cannot run away from oneself—and it would be awful to be branded in one’s own eyes as a coward.

“Guy isn’t here yet. We’ll stand on the steps, then we shan’t keep him waiting.” Deborah swept the long gravel drive with a disapproving glance, and Jacqueline hoped that, for his own sake, Guy would not be long.

The main hospital building was hideous, a Victorian mock-Gothic structure in red brick. The front entrance, used only by V.I.P.s, was Scottish baronial in style, designed for silk-hatted doctors arriving in broughams. There were two men chatting under the portico. They separated, and one strode towards the doctors’ car park. It was Mr. Broderick, alone.

Without giving herself time to think, she plunged after him. “Mr. Broderick! Please—may I speak to you?”

He turned inquiringly, waited till she had caught him up, breathless.

“Mr. Broderick—this is the day I go to Timberfold, to stay.”

He frowned, as if faintly puzzled. He doesn’t even
remember,
she thought desperately. He orders me to go, quite casually, and doesn’t know how important it is to me. “You know,” she urged. “The farm. You said I had to go.”

His brow cleared. “Oh—the farm. Yes, yes, have a good time and come back looking less transparent. At the moment you look like a wax angel.” Struck by his own simile, he looked at her more closely. Funny young thing—she had indeed that look of innocence, of childlike belief in man’s goodness, which characterised a pale-haired Christmas angel. A windflower, a snowdrop. A vaguely protective feeling stirred in him. What was such a girl doing amid the harsh realities of hospital life? Someone ought to wrap her up carefully in tissue paper, take her away and cherish her.

Suddenly he laughed aloud. She was no drowned Ophelia. She had fire and courage, her own flash of temper. He remembered her determined grip on the water-jug. He patted her shoulder indulgently. “You’ll do fine on fresh air and good milk.”

Her eyes filled with tears, part desperation, part temper. "You won’t understand, will you! I’m afraid, Alan. Can’t you hear?
Afraid.
Listen—someone attacked me up there. I didn’t fall; someone hit me. They want to kill me, they always hated Daddy—Uncle Saul, Connie, and all that side of the family. They drove him from home and now they hate me.”

He gripped her wrist, his fingers biting the flesh cruelly. “Steady! This is hysterical talk. You’ve no proof anyone tried to kill you. Why should they invite you to stay, take such an interest in you, if they hate you? You’re letting this old feud become an obsession.”

She gulped, blinking back the tears. She felt slightly ashamed of her outburst, but she had had about as much as she could stand to-day from St. Simon’s and everybody connected with it. “Yes, there is that. They got rid of me, and needn’t have come to see me or asked me there. But—there was the dog.”

“Don’t tell me they set the dog on you?”

She shook her head violently. Guy would be here any minute and she had to make Alan understand. “No—not at the farm. But I saw a dog, just before I was struck down. A black-and-white dog like a collie, with white feet and a white tip to its tail—”

“Sheepdog, a very common marking. Dozens like that.”

“But this one had a map of England on its shoulder. Well, a patch rather like a map. Someone shouted to it, to lie down, and it obeyed. Then someone hit me.”

He frowned, rubbing his chin. “You are sure someone hit you?”

“Positive. I dreamt it twice.”

“And what you dream twice is true, eh? Aren’t you making a lot of fuss over a dream, you silly child?”

She stamped impatiently, entirely forgetting that he was a surgeon, she the least important member of St. Simon’s. “It wasn’t a dream. At least, I mean—oh, don’t be such a fool!”

Before he could answer, Sister Clarke seized her arm. “Nurse! What are you thinking of? Don’t molest Mr. Broderick like this. I’m sorry, sir, I’d no idea she was going to chase after you. I was speaking to my brother—he’s just arrived—”

‘That’s all right, Sister.” He nodded briefly to Jacqueline. “I shouldn’t worry too much about those dreams. They’ll vanish in time. Bound to have a few nightmares after the fright you had.” He strode away, and Jacqueline was marched back to Guy’s car, her arm firmly gripped by Deborah’s remarkably strong hand.

Guy drove cautiously through the dingy streets surrounding the hospital. “Deb was in a wax. Why?”

“I spoke to Alan Broderick. Juniors aren’t supposed to.”

He pulled down the corners of his mouth. “Outside the hospital and off duty? What nonsense! Deborah’s mad because she’s jealous. She’s keen on him herself—and you are younger and prettier.”

They were soon on the main road to the moors. “Oh, Guy, isn’t it good to be out of doors! I’m in everybody’s bad books, I think.”

“Not in mine. I think you’re wonderful.”

“Thank you for those kind words. They are balm to the soul. Say it again.”

“I think you’re wonderful.”

“Thank you. That’s very sweet of you. My ego is inflating already.”

Alan Broderick drove himself home, to a square stone cottage which dated from the time before Barnbury was industrialised. The Beck Cottage windows had once looked out on fields and woods, the stream at the end of the garden once sparkled and sang, where now it flowed heavily, yellow with effluents. The grey stone walls were blackened with half a century of grime, but indoors the cottage was bright and clean, the few good pieces of Early Victorian furniture shining with generations of housewifely care.

Mrs. Hawkins, his housekeeper, hurried from the kitchen to meet him. She had been washing her aspidistra, and dried her hands hurriedly. “Ee, doctor, you look tired out—proper grey and no mistake. I wonder if we’ve lost kettle?”

Correctly understanding this as a promise of a cup of tea, he nodded and entered his double-windowed study, which Mrs. Hawkins referred to quite simply as Room. He sank thankfully into a deep leather chair and lit his pipe. The room was quiet, but not entirely silent, for a marble clock ticked heavily, sparrows squabbled outside the open windows, and Mrs. Hawkins’s voice could be heard faintly as she talked to herself in the kitchen. Mrs. Hawkins was a juggernaut talker, slowly and relentlessly crushing opposition. Failing an audience, she talked to herself, even in her sleep.

As he enveloped himself in a cloud of blue smoke, like—Mrs. Hawkins said—a Chinese idol, tension slipped from him. He had fought two hours for the life of a fat toy-manufacturer, bald as a baby and with three chins in front and two at the back of his neck. The fight had been won—for the present. If all went well; if nothing unexpected happened; if the man’s heart stood up to it. Nothing
must
go wrong. Alan remembered the wife, her plump fingers squeezing out of white lace gloves, rocking to and fro in agony of mind, the make-up standing out on her fat, gray face. “Neddy boy, get better—oh, get better for Gladys, love.” She had turned a daubed, trusting face to Alan.