Nurse with a Dream (13 page)

“It had to be you, Mr. Broderick. He would come to St. Simon’s for it. He started mekkin’ his first toys in my back kitchen, seems like yesterday. But he can afford to pay for the best now, can Edward. He’s got on.”

Edward for the man who could afford surtax, double chins and private treatment. But that poor woman was in the old back kitchen again with her soft, continual moan. “Neddy, Neddy-boy, get well.”

Mrs. Hawkins brought the tea, in a big brown pot with a salmon-pink and yellow cosy, product of a missionary sale. She was ticking for gossip. “Noo, doctor, been cutting anybody up to-day?”

He said patiently, “I don’t cut people up, Hawkey. If you must know, a man called Neddy whose wife wants him back.”

“Poor soul! Will she get him?”

He took the cup from her. “Depends on good nursing now. In the long run, it always does.”

“Aye. And faith and prayer, I reckon.”

“And faith and prayer, Hawkey. Is there a tea-cake?”

Mrs. Hawkins started on a story involving her sister’s nephew which would sooner or later bring her round to tea-cakes, so Alan opened a drawer of his desk and took out a long bright knife; it was not sharp, being, in fact, a letter-opener, but he fingered the blade lovingly, fixing Mrs. Hawkins with a look at once speculative and absent-minded, and in a moment she hurried away. He threw the ever-useful paper-cutter back and sipped his tea.

Nursing! That reminded him of the little Clarke girl. When she spoke to him he had been lost in thought about the toy-manufacturer and his wife, and had not given the girl his full attention. Now he recollected that he had spoken to her like an elderly uncle, patted her on the head and told her to run away and play. He scowled, trying to remember exactly what she had said. She had been serious, desperation in her voice and small piquant face. She had appealed to him for help twice, and he had taken no notice.

Dash it, what had she said? Something about a dog and being attacked? And he had dismissed it as a dream!

What fools we’ve all been! We were all so confident she had climbed Black Crag and fallen, in spite of her strenuous denials. Why were we? The note she left for me, and the innumerable questions she asked Guy Clarke about the crag—the way she’d said
I can’t wait to see it.
A suspicion made his scalp crawl. Suppose she’s right all the time—suppose they do hate her, at Timberfold; suppose they’ve asked her there in order to get rid of her!

Bosh—melodrama! An excitable girl! Excitable—no, she wasn’t that. She had been first-class, all that morning they spent together. Look how she’d dropped in her tracks, frozen silent and motionless, whenever he’d given the signal. How coolly she’d behaved when she found an intruder in her room! No, she wasn’t excitable—only warm, impulsive, human. His lips twitched in a smile. Bless the child, she had not yet been moulded into the hospital pattern; she was finding it hard going, and Deborah Clarke wouldn’t help. Deborah as a nurse was hard as nails; she believed in efficiency but hadn’t a notion of what made a really good nurse; she used her brain but not her heart. Little Jacqueline would find it tough if Deborah got a down on her.

He had made a fool of himself over Deborah; attracted by her vibrant femininity, the lush promise of cherries-and-cream, he had broken his own strict rule about nurses, and taken her out—twice. But twice was enough to see that she was a jealous, possessive woman, not content to let their friendship develop naturally, but too eager to force it in an emotional hothouse. He had dropped her quickly, before any harm was done, and had never again broken his rule. No nurses, ever, for him.

“Here’s your nice tea-cake, Doctor,” said the housekeeper, returning. “Will it be all right if I pop down to butcher’s? He’s saving a nice chop for your dinner, and don’t stop at that hospital till all hours, mooning over your patients. Let the nurses have a chance.”

“I don’t moon.”

“Course you do. You’d like to do everything for them, wouldn’t you? I believe you can’t trust anybody to do a thing right except yourself. You think just because you’ve saved their lives you’re responsible for them for ever more.” “Hawkey, you’ve hit on a profound truth. If you save a life you’re responsible for it—for evermore. That’s why—here, pass me my engagement-book. How am I for the week-end?”

“Same as usual. Free, barring accidents—and there always
is
an accident, one way or another.”

“I want to go to the Moor Hen. Telephone Mrs. Medway, there’s a dear, and ask her to be sure to keep my room.”

“Don’t they always?”

“Last time they let it to a girl. A little fair thing like a Christmas angel.”

“That’d be a bit frail for everyday life.”

He shouted with sudden laughter. “She’s got a temper like the kick of a horse. She thought I was a ghost or a burglar, and coolly ordered me out Then she threatened to throw a water-jug at me—but that was after I saved her life. So now I’m responsible for her. Hawkey, don’t forget to telephone, it’s urgent. Now, I’m going back to my toy-manufacturer, I want to have a look at him. If anybody wants me, I’m at the hospital.”

The front door banged behind him. Mrs. Hawkins pursed her lips curiously, nodding to herself. Then she trotted into the kitchen to finish her aspidistra, and was so lost in her own thoughts that Mr. Tomkins, the ginger cat, was able to wheedle an extra meal out of her by rubbing his head on her stout ankles and telling her a tale about not having had a bite since breakfast. She gave him the last of the tin of
cat food
and put her plant back on its stand. Then she rang the Moor Hen and gave Mollie Alan’s message.

“What’s this about a girl, Mrs. Medway?” she said with the confidence of long acquaintance. ‘The doctor’s talking blethers about a girl like an angel who threw things at him.”

Mrs. Hawkins was for ever torn between two desires—the itch of every woman to marry off any eligible bachelor within reach, and the fear that Alan’s marriage might cost her a comfortable job. But for the moment the match-making instinct was uppermost.

“Girl?” Mollie Medway’s voice warmed with interest. “I don’t know, Mrs. Hawkins. What do you mean, talking blethers?”

‘Talking nonsense, that’s what. He says she looks like an angel, and if that isn’t a sign of something I don’t know what is. It’s my belief he’s head over heels in love with her, but of course he doesn’t know it.”

“Mrs. Hawkins! Are you
sure
?”

“Well, no. I only feel it in my bones. I mean, it’s noticing her face that worries me. Mostly he recognises them by their insides. Anyway, Mrs. Medway, you’ll see for yourself, and don’t say as I’ve said anything, will you?”

“I certainly won’t.” Mollie replaced the receiver and went into the kitchen to look for her husband. He was chopping onions. “Lance, my darling, you owe me tuppence. Alan has fallen for the girl. His housekeeper says so.”

“I’ll pay when Alan says so. You women live in a daze of romance. It’s a wonder there’s a bachelor left on earth.”

She kissed the back of his neck, the only part of him she could reach. “There wouldn’t be, if you men didn’t band together in clubs and secret societies for safety. Lock the doors and keep the women out, that’s your idea. We only catch the ones who stay out after curfew. And you still owe me tuppence.”

“If you’d listen to reason—”

“When women start listening to reason, men will get their own way, darling—and then, where would the world be?”

Jacqueline, Guy and Gypsy were in Tegger’s Clough, a ravine hidden in the fold of a hill. Its sides were clothed in bracken, gold and green. A tiny beck trickled down the clough, a thin silver thread where in winter, Guy said, it would be a torrent. In these long, airless days of autumn, the sheep were troubled by pests which hatched in the wool and weakened the animals till they crept into the bracken to die if they were not found and treated by a shepherd. Gypsy ranged wide, panting in the heat. The cloth-of-gold covering of bracken, so lovely to look at, was a death-trap for an infested sheep.

“The heather is gone,” Jacqueline said rather sadly. “It was too beautiful to last long. Guy, I absolutely must sit down a minute by this little pool and cool my wrists. I never knew shepherding was such hard work.”

Gypsy took a long drink, then flopped on the short sweet turf, one eye on her master to see if this rest was allowed. Jacqueline dipped her hands in the pool; the water was ice-cold, refreshing. A thread of water dropped into it from the pool above, with a bell-like tinkle.

She lifted her wet hands and shook them, laughing over her shoulder at Guy. “The sun will dry them, my hankie isn’t big enough.”

He put his arms round her, drawing her away from the water and turning her to face him. “Jacky—you’re lovely,” he murmured urgently. “The loveliest girl I’ve ever seen.”

She caught her breath. She had wondered what it would be like to hear that special note in a man’s voice. Now she was alarmed, unsure. Was Guy the one? How should she respond? His big hands held her gently, but she could feel their strength, the warmth of his body close to her, see a pulse beating in his golden-tan throat. In a way, it seemed perfectly natural that this should happen.

“You’re so tiny, so fair,” he went on, a little breathless. “I’m afraid to touch you, yet I want to take you in my two hands and hold you like—like a snowdrop lodged in a cranny of rock, protected from cold winds. I’d like to shelter you from the cold winds, Jacky—all the winds that blow.”

She said uncertainly, “You shouldn’t talk that way, Guy, unless you—” She hesitated, voice uncertain.

“Unless I’m in love with you, want to marry you? But I am, darling. I do. Please, Jacky, marry me—soon. I do love you so much.”

Gently she withdrew her hands. “That’s sweet of you, and I’ll always remember you asked me. But I can’t answer yet, either yes or no.”

His face clouded. “Someone else?”

“No, Guy—there’s no one else. And I do like you, very much. But we don’t know each other properly. How can we decide to live together for the rest of our lives, when we don’t know whether we agree about a single important thing? I can’t tell whether I love you or not.”‘

He made an impatient gesture. “But love, darling—that’s not decided by whether you like or dislike the same things or vote the same way. It’s bigger than all that—it overrides everything. I
know
I love you; I don’t have to know whether you like sugar in your tea, or black coffee. I knew I loved you, that first day, the minute I set eyes on you. I said ‘that’s for me’—and you are, you know.”

She could not help smiling. “Guy, you’re so intense. Don’t you see, you silly man, we can’t decide our whole lives in a minute. You can’t just say “that’s for me’ as if I were a cake in a confectioner’s window.”

He cupped his hands over her slim shoulders, shook her slightly, smiling into her face. “I’m going to have you, my lass. My mind is made up. It’s all or nothing for me.”

His assurance, his over-confidence, made her angry.

Pushing his hands down, she said, “Nothing, then—if you can’t give me time to make up my mind.”

Her coolness checked him. He said more reasonably, “Don’t be like this, darling. So distant, so remote. Don’t you like me at all?”

“I told you I did. I may even love you. It’s just—being in such a hurry. Please, Guy—give me time to get to know you. It’s been fun, being with you to-day. I’ve enjoyed every single minute of it But we haven’t”—she spread her hands helplessly, unable to explain properly—“talked together. Found out whether we have anything in common. Anything that really matters.”

He swept her into his arms. “What really matters is
this
?”
He kissed her lips roughly, hungrily. “My little darling, my love.”

She was swept away, as a swimmer, clinging to a crumbling bank, might be carried off by a raging river. It was crazy, it was much too impetuous, but his vigorous, determined, love-making, his vitality and sureness, were not to be resisted. She felt faint with excitement; as if her feet were no longer on solid ground. He searched for her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. Then suddenly he stopped, his mouth to her hair. He held her so closely that she could feel the pounding of his heart.

“Don’t make me wait,” he whispered urgently. “I don’t want to wait any more. I’ve been on fire ever since I first saw you. Please, please, darling Jacqueline, say you’ll marry me soon.”

She freed herself, feeling she could think better if she were not in his arms. Was this love, this pounding of the heart, this disturbance of the senses? Was this the important thing, and was Guy right when he said the other things did not matter? She pressed cool fingers to her hot temples.

“I can’t think straight. You’re not being fair. Wait just a little time, a few months. There’s my career, too. All my life I’ve wanted to be a nurse—why should I give it up?”

He sulked, like a small boy, his handsome face dark and angry. “As if a woman’s career mattered, when she has a chance of marrying!”

She stared, unable to believe he had made such a preposterous statement, but his face convinced her he really meant what he said. He believed it. She pealed with sudden laughter.

“Guy! I never heard such a conceited statement in my life. Do men think they are the be-all and end-all of a woman’s existence? Do you think we’d throw anything over that we cared about, just to marry one of you?”