Nurse with a Dream (2 page)

Liz nudged Jacqueline. “You haven’t met
her
yet. Night Sister. Clever as they come, and hard as nails. A good-looker if you like that dark slumbrous-passion type with plenty of figure. They say Mr. Broderick took her out a couple of times, but that’s probably a rumour. They say he doesn’t care for nurses—except
as
nurses. He’s a terror and twists their heads off, like eating shrimps.”

“A nice type, he sounds. This hospital revolves round Mr. Broderick, it seems.”

“He works miracles. You’ll see.”

“And get my head twisted off like a shrimp?”

Liz grinned. “Small fry like us never get near enough to the great man to be in any danger.”

Jacqueline looked after the straight, retreating back of the Night Sister with frank envy. Clever as they come! Would anyone ever say that about
her?
So tall, too—such vivid colouring and vitality. Jacqueline always deplored her own slightness, and was apt to think her pale, smooth hair uninteresting; she admired extravagantly the dark, vivacious French girls amongst whom she had been brought up, and took her own looks at their valuation—colourless. Night Sister was just such another. She sighed.

“She’s awfully good-looking, Liz. I’ll bet the great Broderick
did
take her out.”

“Be that as it may, child, they do say La Clarke is mad on him...” She broke off, eyes wide, and burst into a fit of merriment. “I say, I never realised—she’s called Clarke, too. I wonder if she’s a relation?”

“Clarke’s a fairly common name. We’ve one in the ward, though mine is with an ‘e’. It puzzled them in France. I’m so used to their variations that I don’t bother much now. Funny, if Sister Clarke
is
one of my relations! After all, we did come from these parts.”

“I can’t think of anything more awful! She’s as hard as nails, and, besides, there’s not a trace of family likeness. Sister is a huge flaunting peony and you’re a snowdrop. No, you’re my favourite flower, a cool mauve tulip in a pointed bud—a sort of self-contained serenity and perfection. Gosh, I’m getting poetic, and oh, heck! it’s rissoles again. When I came off-duty I was hungry enough to eat a dead dog, but I didn’t think I’d have to.”

They filed demurely into place, stood with bent heads as the Sister in charge said grace.

“What a day!” groaned Nurse Patterson, sitting next to Liz. “We lost Mr. Aldridge’s stomach and Broderick was furious. Wanted to send it to London—but of course he hadn’t said so. Expects us to read his thoughts, the brute! We found it all right.” She ate half a rissole with healthy young appetite before adding thoughtfully, “I hope to Heaven it was Aldridge’s we found. It might have been Mrs. Appleton’s.”

Jacqueline pushed away her rissole, and wondered if she had chosen the right profession, after all. The way the others talked made it sound as if conditions in this hospital were the same as in the Crimean War, when Florence Nightingale complained that the rats ate the poultices. She had a mental picture of the theatre nurses rummaging in a dustbin and asked curiously, “How could you lose a stomach?” Before Nurse Patterson could answer, she added, “No, don’t tell me now. Some other time.”

“They say a leg was lost once, and never found. A great hairy leg. Vanished—completely!”

Jacqueline said, “V-vanished?” rather shakily, and a nurse from across the table leaned towards her.

“Utterly. Never heard of again, but now it haunts the corridor outside Men’s Surgical. Looking for its owner, you see. Watch out, young Jacky—it appears to young nurses on their first spell of night duty.”

“Tosh!” said Jacqueline firmly. “I don’t believe in whole ghosts and certainly not portions of ghosts.” All the same, she thought uneasily, I’ll remember the story when I am on nights and alone.

“Broderick’s thing this afternoon took hours. We were all ready to drop. Shouldn’t like to be his wife at this minute.”

Liz asked curiously, “Why? I’ll bet
her
feet don’t ache.”

“He’s an angel of patience when he’s operating—so cool and easy, yet so quick. I could fall in love with him then. But afterwards he’s a demon. Takes it out of him.”

A stout nurse across the table guffawed. “You mean he takes it out of them! Broderick isn’t married. He lives in that double-fronted stone house standing back from the Low Moor road. Used to be a farmhouse when Barnbury was a village. They say it’s lovely inside. My aunts knows his housekeeper.”

“Not married! There’s a chance for us all, then,” said Liz.

“Not me!!” declared the Theatre Nurse hurriedly. “He’d frighten me to death. Once he was asked what he thought of a famous actress who’d made a big hit in New York. She was a local girl made good, see, and naturally the Barnbury tabbies were pulling her to pieces. Broderick said, ‘Charming, charming! The most fascinating appendix I ever saw!’ ”

Everybody laughed. Jacqueline was not interested in the fabulous Broderick. She wanted the meal to finish, so that she could hurry to the market-place and catch her bus. It would be almost dark by the time she reached the Moor Hen, but she didn’t mind. She had a yearning to wake up in the deep country, to the sound of birds.

The bus had left Barnbury, left the fringe of mining villages clustered about the town, and was slowly pulling up the long climb on to the moors. Only low stone walls divided the road from the open moors, which stretched dim and mysterious in the failing light.

Jacqueline was the only passenger now. Her rucksack was propped on the seat beside her, and she peered out of the dingy window, anxious not to miss the opening to
the track
which would take her to her destination. She had studied the map carefully. Two brisk miles of walking would bring her to the Moor Hen Inn. She smiled to herself, remembering the thrill she had experienced on first seeing the familiar name on a large-scale map, just as her father had described it. How many times had she curled up on his knee, her head tucked cosily under his chin, and listened, only half comprehending, to tales of the moors, the becks, the royal purple heather, the welcoming light of the Moor Hen with its beamed ceiling and the row of shining copper measures, from a teeny one as small as a thimble to a big one fit for a giant.

“Moor Hen Lane End,” said the cheerful robin of a conductress, ringing the bus to a stop. “Here y’are, love. Sure you know your way? It’s real dark now, proper creepy on these old moors. Give me a bit of light and a good pavement, I say.” She lifted Jacqueline’s rucksack down with a strong grimy paw, the broken nails lacquered scarlet. “Better you than me.”

“It’s only two miles.”

The girl frowned. “Yes, but how are you going to
get
there?”

“Walk, of course.”

The plucked eyebrows flew up. “
Walk
?”

“Why not?”

“Walk two miles? You must be barmy. Oh well, there’s nowt so funny as folks, my grandma says.” She swung back on to the platform, but, with her hand on the bell, hesitated. “I don’t like leaving you here, love, and that’s the truth. What if someone does you in, like?”

Jacqueline shouldered her rucksack. “No one is likely to.”

The girl’s face cleared. The rucksack, now snug on her passenger’s back, struck a familiar note. “Oh, I get it. You’re a
hiker.
It’s okay, then. Ta-ta for now.”

The bus rumbled away into the violet dusk like a caravan full of warm light. A bird piped sadly; startlingly near, a sheep bleated. The familiar weight of her Bergen rucksack was an old friend, welcome after the strangeness of starched caps and rustling aprons. Her walking shoes were old and good. She stamped to feel their comfort, and set off at a good pace.

The Moor Hen was exactly as she expected to find it, from the outside. Light streamed hospitably from its windows, there were one or two cars parked on the cobbled strip before the open door. Inside there was a stone passage, bright with copper and brass, with polished black oak and a low-beamed ceiling. And there, across the biggest beam, were the measures, and above them a long slender coach-horn.

Daddy, oh, darling Daddy, I’m here! It’s all true. She blinked rapidly, hoping she wouldn’t cry. A warm, strong hand had reached out of the past, and for a moment she was a child again, with a big laughing father and a pretty mother, just like other children.

From the door marked dining-room came a pleasant smell of cooking and the clatter of dishes. In a moment a woman came out, dark, attractive, about thirty perhaps, with an air of disciplined efficiency which reminded Jacqueline of the senior nurses. But she was redeemed from too much efficiency by merry grey eyes and a cheerful smile.

“Oh—I didn’t hear you come in. Can I help you? You’re not too late for dinner, if that’s what you are looking for. Go on in. We’re always rather late on Fridays; people come out here after office hours, for the week-end. If you’d like to wash first—”

Jacqueline swallowed nervously. She felt like Aladdin; she had rubbed the lamp confidently, never really believing that a genie would appear. But genie, fairy palace and all were actually here, and she had to be practical about it. Though she had stayed often in climbers’ huts, with her grandfather or a party of young friends, she had never stayed in an English inn before, and suddenly she realised the procedure might be quite different.

“I’d like to stay two nights, please. A single room.”

“What name, please? You’ve booked, of course?”

“No. I didn’t think. My—my father said no one ever came here.”

“They do now. Since Lance and I took over, we’re full nearly all the time. That’s Lance’s cooking—he’s a wizard. And this is August, remember—our high season.”

“Oh, dear, you must think me a fool. I’m not really used to England. I didn’t think there’d be so many people everywhere.”

“I
am
so sorry, believe me. This tight little island is a bit overcrowded nowadays; but you could get a room at the Dog and Gun, I’m certain. You could telephone from here if you like.”

“Thanks. I’m disappointed, though. For ages I’ve dreamt of sleeping here, and it is all just as I imagined it—like a Christmas-card. Do you know, my first fairy-tales were about those measures up on your beam, though this is my first visit to England?”

“Good gracious! Then I’m sorrier than ever to turn you away. I’ll show you round the rest of the house, if you like, before you leave. But first you must telephone. This way.”

“I’m taking up your time. You were busy.”

Her hostess smiled. “That’s all right. We’ve always time for a customer.”

“But I’m not one,” Jacqueline exclaimed. “How I wish I were! How far is it to this Dog and what’s-it?”

“Gun. About ten miles.”

The girl stared. ‘Ten miles! I can’t walk as far as that to-night. And I’ve missed the last bus back to Barnbury.”

“Walk? Are you on foot? I thought I heard a car.”

“Some people were leaving as I arrived.” She smiled to hide the panic she felt. “Well, I got myself into this jam, and I’ll have to get myself out. Ten miles isn’t far if I’m certain of a room at the end of it.”

“Nonsense! We never turn walkers away at this time of day. Could you manage on a folding-bed in the sewing-room? It’s tiny, but—” She glanced at Jacqueline’s slight figure and smiled.

“But so am I, you mean? I’d love it, if you can really manage. I don’t need a meal, I had supper before I came out.”

“Sit in the lounge, then, and make yourself comfy. I’ll have a word with Lance. He’s my husband—our name is Medway, by the way. Ex-Royal Navy, both of us. Sit by the fire; even in August our evenings are cool.”

“What a queer fire!”

“It’s peat—didn’t you know? Wasn’t it included in the fairy-tales?”

“Yes—oh yes, I remember now. A peat fire. I simply couldn’t imagine what it was like. Besides, Daddy said it hadn’t gone out for a hundred years, so I knew that wasn’t really true—just the fairy-tale part.”

“It is true. And that is the very one.”

Awed, the girl stretched her hands to the glow. “Then, my father warmed his hands at this very same fire?”

“I say, this is a sentimental journey you’re on!”

“It is. I suppose that’s why I’ve behaved so stupidly over it. I’m quite practical, as a rule.”

Mrs. Medway smiled at her. “I’m sure you are. Sit and rest while I go and be practical about beds.”

She was glad to rest in the depths of a leather-covered chair. She had been up early and had spent a long day in the ward. Soon the gentle warmth of the fire after her walk in the cool air made her sleepy. In no time at all, it seemed, Mrs. Medway returned.

“Good news. Lance says you’re to have Alan’s room. He’s a friend who photographs birds. He comes most weekends when he can get away; but Lance says it’s much too late for him to turn up to-night, and if he does come, he must make do with the sewing-room.”

“I don’t want to rob your friend. I can manage with the sewing-room, really I can.”

“He won’t come now. Maybe some emergency has kept him. That sort of thing is liable to happen to Alan. You were almost asleep. Do you want to go to bed now? It’s a goose-feather bed. I hope you know the story about the Princess and the Pea.” She grinned impishly.