I thought of Jill this afternoon. In retrospect I saw it was not only her appearance that had changed, it was her whole manner. She had looked so happy. As happy as a girl looks when she discovers she is in love and loved.
The corn was golden, the hops were shooting up their poles, the apples were turning pink, and every garden we passed was blazing with roses. The Garden of England was living up to its name in this most perfect of summers. I admired it absently, as my thoughts drifted from Jill to Sabby Wardell on Sunday night. Wardell’s appearance then had had something in common with Jill’s this afternoon. Was that happiness? Then I got it. They had both worn the same faint aura of triumph. In Jill’s case, no doubt because I liked her very much, I was convinced that had been unconscious. I wanted to be fair to Wardell, even though I knew that was now practically impossible for me, so I did try to persuade myself her triumph on Sunday could not possibly have been intentionally directed at me. She had no reason for rejoicing in scoring over me. She held all the aces. She was far better-looking, she held the better job, and she had Robert on a string.
Then I remembered Jill was one of her oldest friends. And Peter Graveny was a friend of Nick’s. It was more than odd he should not have mentioned seeing Nick when we had that coffee. After his previous visits to Nick he had made a point of bringing me up to date. Jill had always managed to do the same after her visits, either on the telephone or by leaving me a note. Yet since last weekend no one, Nick included, had volunteered any news of him at all. Was it merely a coincidence, or did it tie up with the impression I had long had that Jill was falling in love with Nick? If Nick had discovered it was Jill and not me ‒ and in present circumstances I was the last person to blame him for that ‒ he would certainly have told Peter. I knew Jill’s dislike of discussing her private affairs, but there were some things a girl just had to tell someone or burst. Since yesterday I had been aching to unburden to Harriet, and had only managed to keep things to myself because she was such a talker and my situation was so hopeless. Had there been no Sabby Wardell and had I suspected Robert was growing interested in me, not even Harriet’s chatty tongue would have kept me quiet. Sabby was no talker, she was Jill’s old friend, and she lived in the room next door. If Jill confided in her she would not have been human had she not found the news pleasing and amusing at my expense. She might, as Addy insisted, like me, but our relationship was very superficial. Jill belonged in her original set, and we all had a family feeling about our old sets. I had to be honest. If one of my old set looked like Jill and managed to remove a man as attractive as Nick from a girl years younger than herself and ‒ still being honest ‒ who was much prettier, I should have been enchanted. I was enchanted now, having quite made up my mind I was right. My spirits soared as the bus turned into Wylden.
Nick and Sister Mary were waiting for me at the bus stop. Marcus Stock had rung them from Astead.
‘Such a dear man,’ said Sister Mary, kissing me affectionately, ‘and as thoughtful and cheery now as when he was a hefty midwifery clerk bounding round my nurseries with a baby under each arm and a much-stretched nursery apron round his waist. His hair was then as golden as yours, dear boy.’ She slid an arm through mine, the other through Nick’s as we walked slowly towards her cottage. ‘You must be as delighted as we are with his pleasing news, dearies!’
‘News, Sister Mary?’ I looked at Nick. He wore dark glasses with blinkered side-pieces like Tom’s. He smiled at me in silence.
‘You’ve not heard, dearie? You don’t know Dr. Stock is engaged to be married?’
‘And that it’s all my own work?’ Nick put in. ‘Isn’t that so, Sister, my angel?’
‘Dear boy, have I not been giving you all the credit ever since you first opened my eyes to the situation when I visited you in hospital? Just think’ ‒ she squeezed my arm ‒ ‘it was this poor boy’s eye that brought those two nice people together again!’
My God, I thought. Harriet was right! I nearly exploded with relief. ‘I heard a rumour. Several rumours. I never guessed there was anything really in them.’
‘Nor would there have been,’ said Nick, ‘had I not had the brilliance to spot the truth, albeit with both eyes bandaged, and start asking tactful questions of one and all! You’d be surprised how much I learnt, darling!’ He blew me a kiss over Sister Mary’s head. ‘You may think you know our Jilly! I’ll bet you never even guessed time was when she and Marcus Stock were very very good friends!’
‘Jilly …’ My voice cracked. ‘Jill Collins?’
They laughed at my surprise. Sister Mary said we must have a nice cup of tea and they would tell me all about it. Nick held open her front gate and said I could call him Cupid. ‘I may say Cupid with his one good eye saw a damn sight better than you with your two, my love! You, my precious redhead,’ he added almost accusingly, ‘go round with your big blue eyes wide, wide open ‒ seeing nothing! Nothing at all!’
Chapter Eleven
THE GROCER DELIVERS THE GOODS
Sister Mary looked years younger. She said, ‘My old friends keep writing to ask what I find to do in my quiet country village. When I have time to draw breath, dearie, no doubt I shall give that problem my full attention.’
Nick said, ‘If you don’t watch it, Sister, the district nurse’ll be complaining to her union.’
‘Nonsense, dear boy! That charming and most sensible girl works long hours even by midwifery standards. She was very sweet about the help I was able to give poor Mrs. Ferguson.’
I said, ‘You’ve not been nursing the Prof’s wife as well as Nick and your Matron, Sister?’
‘No, no, dearie. She was only unwell, so I saw to her household.’ She smiled. ‘I had forgotten how children eat! I rang our dear Mrs. Evans for advice, and she told me catering for teenagers was simple. She said allow for each child “as for two healthy men on manual work!” I looked up the correct calories in one of the Professor’s books and acted accordingly! It was barely enough. Those children cleared every meal, and half an hour later needed buns and apples to support their flagging energies. And the noise!’ She smiled affectionately on us. ‘My dears, I am rather thankful you are both past the “pop” age. But I am now an expert on the subject and can discuss at length the Top Ten and the strange magic of the Beatles. I fear dear Edith was very shocked because I looked at those ‒ I believe they are known as pop programmes ‒ on her television. But, as I explained, the Ferguson children all promised to visit me, and have done so, and I want to be able to understand what they are talking about.’
‘Sister,’ said Nick, ‘no excuses! You are as big a fan of the Mersey Beat as any of those kids!’
‘Naughty boy! You mustn’t tease me! Whatever must Nurse Rowe be thinking?’
They got on very well. She treated him as a cross between a pet patient and a pet nephew, and was clearly delighted to have him to fuss over, even though his presence inevitably meant a lot of extra work for her. Housekeeping was still a novelty to her, and she was taking a very active part in her interior decorating, but that had not stopped her keeping open house for Jill and myself, and all her local friends.
Over tea she reminded me of our long search pre-Mr. Martin. ‘Remember all those terrible barn-like places we looked at dearie?’
‘And that place the house agent called a “quiet little house” that was right next to the sawmill on one side and the forge on the other? Harriet Jones took me to see it on her scooter, and there was so much noise, even on a Saturday afternoon, that we couldn’t even hear her engine.’
‘What about that “period cottage of character” on the marsh! Dear Jill took me in Mrs. Evans’ car, and we found it without water, drains, electricity, or a whole roof! Jill put the period as late Roman!’
Nick said, ‘One thing I can’t understand, ladies, is how, with all this scouring of the countryside, you never seem to have run into Marcus Stock.’
Sister Mary reproached herself for the opportunities wasted in that direction during the years Ji
ll was one of her staff midwives. ‘But a maternity hospital works under constant pressure. We were always in a hurry, on and off duty. I was aware Dr. Stock worked locally, but he was no longer on our staff, so we had no occasion to require his services. My party was our first and last purely social occasion.’
I asked, ‘Did you send him an invitation, Sister?’
Regretfully she shook her head. ‘He was included in my general invitation to all old Barny’s men, but I believe he was unaware Jill was at Wylden House.’ Nick nodded. ‘I never knew they were acquainted, or I would have made a point of sending him a personal invitation. You are a remarkably astute young man, Nick!’
He coloured slightly. ‘Sister, my angel, I am all for hogging the credit, but, remember, I did ask a lot of questions, and, as I told you, my stroke of luck was seeing someone in Astead General who remembered the past and had known Stock and Jill way back.’
‘Why did it break off? His family problems?’ I asked. ‘Then why didn’t he ask her to wait?’
‘Because she’s the type who would wait unto death, and he’s a very decent old boy and wouldn’t dream of holding a girl to those terms. So he backed out. My stroke of luck was of the opinion they both took it hard. That’s why I decided to move in.’
I snapped my fingers. ‘Sister Dawson! I’ll bet you had this from her. She told me she had known the Doctor a long time, and he was always sweet to Jill. Am I right?’
‘Beloved, as I seem to recollect telling you previously, you mustn’t expect me to divulge my sources of information.’
That took me back to his first telephone call and the effect it had had on me. It seemed so long ago, but not, from the way he was watching me, to Nick. I had to change the subject. I asked to be shown round.
It was over two weeks since my last visit, and the ground-floor rooms were now ready. The furniture was wholly free of dust-covers and it was brushed and polished and arranged as neatly as only a trained nurse would arrange a room. Sister Mary had few pictures, but literally hundreds of photographs. They lined every available space. There were rows and rows of babies. Of mothers and babies, of “old babies” as school-children, “older babies” in their wedding groups, second-generation babies on their mothers’ laps, groups of old pupils and clerks, of nurses in Barny’s old uniform, one of which included our present Matron as a plump, rather untidy second-year.
Nick’s colour scheme had transformed the kitchen from a poky, dark slit of a room into apparently twice its size. Even in electric light that night the white and orange made it as gay and bright as a summer morning. He had also doubled the size of the front hall. It was now papered in a plain, soft apricot. Sister had papered it herself yesterday morning. ‘Dearie, it was so easy ‒ with an expert to advise me at my elbow.’
When she moved on ahead of us Nick kissed me quickly, then asked why I was looking old-fashioned. ‘Do you not dig apricot, my sweet?’
‘It’s not that.’ I used the first excuse that occurred to me. ‘I’m just surprised, knowing your views on pastels.’
‘There are pastels and pastels. This one has character. It’s alive.’ As ever, when discussing colours or anything vaguely connected with his work, his attitude changed. He spent the next half-hour lecturing me on colours. ‘There are those that give, and those that take. Before you choose any colour you should first decide what you want it to do for you. If you want stimulation you need a strong colour ‒ say, one wall red ‒ something like that. If you want to keep a room cool ‒ blue. You want rest ‒ green. Why do you think all your operating theatres are green?’
‘Because green gives no glare? Easy on the eyes and so on?’
‘More than that. It soothes the nerves without having the dreamy effect of this pink I want for Sister Mary’s bedroom.’ He took me into the scullery. ‘This’ll be your job tomorrow, love, when I have the shade right. We couldn’t get what I wanted, so we got a selection, and I am going to mix it myself.’
He began his mixing on the newspaper-protected scullery floor a little later, and was still at it when Sister Mary got ready to go to a Parish Council meeting in the village hall at seven. I offered to cook supper in her absence.
‘Nonsense, dearie! You will be doing quite enough for me tomorrow! I’ll see to it when I get back. You have a nice little talk with the dear boy.’
I said, ‘Sister, if I know the dear boy he’ll still be playing with paint when you get back, and he’ll start throwing things if I interrupt him.’
‘I can see you two are old friends! Well, dearie, if you insist …’
I thought over her comment later as I peeled potatoes. Through the open scullery door I could see Nick kneeling on the newspapers and whistling to himself as he worked. The day had been very hot, the evening was still warm, but now it was August the evenings were beginning to grow visibly shorter, and through the tiny scullery window I could just see the sun going down.
I remembered the last evening he and I had been in that cottage together, and then Robert sitting at the table drinking all that tea. I looked at the electric kettle with a quite astonishingly absurd rush of affection. When I glanced back at Nick he was watching me. I had to look away briefly.
He sat back on his heels. ‘Our cherished Sister Mary gone?’
‘Yes.’ I gave the potatoes more attention than they required. ‘Didn’t you hear her say goodbye?’
‘Expect so. Forget.’ He jiggled a large paint-tin as if it were a cocktail-shaker. ‘Sister Mary really lives with her meetings! She had the W.I. on Monday, Darby and Joan on Tuesday, something ‒ I forget what ‒ yesterday, and there’s something big on tomorrow afternoon. We’ve already fixed on the hat she’s wearing. Sister Mary has a very snazzy line in hats.’
I smiled. ‘I’m glad you two are such chums.’
‘I adore her, darling, and she adores me!’ He shook his tin violently. ‘Let’s face it ‒ I’m a lovable type!’
‘What else? Hey, Nick, don’t bounce! I know all your stitches are out, but give your eye a break. Can’t you just stir that paint?’
‘Not if I want it properly mixed. Stop fussing, Anna. You aren’t on duty now, and I know what I’m doing. Back to your cooking, woman, and leave a man to do his work.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But, Nick, it isn’t all that long.’
‘Guess not.’ He slammed down the tin and stood up. After washing his hands at the scullery sink he came into the kitchen. ‘I’ve still got a partial blackout about that evening it all started in here. I vaguely recollect Rob Gordon materialising and then old Marcus. And you were with me, darling. That I do remember.’ He came close, but did not touch me. His blue eyes were as steady and as honest as water. ‘I remember your freezing up on me ‒ and then you wouldn’t let me knock down any walls. Jilly was just as bloody-minded. And even my favourite Sister wouldn’t let me take down this monster of a ceiling.’ He reached up. ‘Absolute nonsense! As if I’d join in the demolition!’
‘The last thing you’d do! But you have done the hell of a lot for this place, Nick. I know Sister Mary is helping you, but this is still very big of you.’
‘Darling,’ he drawled, ‘we know I’ve a noble nature, but I could have an ulterior motive.’
That was something else he had said before. Last time it turned me into jelly. Now I again had to change the subject. ‘What I’ve never been able to follow is how old Martin tolerated the place as it was. He was an art-master. How could he live with such dreadful colours?’
He grinned. ‘You know what they say: those who can, do; those who can’t, teach. Maybe that’s not always fair, but it was in his case. He could draw fairly decently, but his colours ‒ ugh! Ever see his pictures?’
‘No.’ I was curious. ‘I never knew you had. I didn’t even know you knew him?’
He helped himself to a glass of water. ‘He sometimes brought his stuff over to that pub across the road when I was there. Didn’t I tell you?’
‘No. Did you ever meet his miserable
nephew? The one in medicine?’
‘A doc?’ He turned. ‘I didn’t even know he had one in the family. Why “miserable”?’
‘The wretch nearly stopped Sister from having this. He wanted him to wait for a better offer or something. She nearly lost it!’
‘Who wanted whom to wait? Take this slowly, love. That red hair of yours is having a shocking effect on your grammar, but never mind, we love you the way you are. Sister Mary is in possession, so why worry?’ He rinsed the glass. ‘I’m all for forgetting the past, unless it suits me to do otherwise, as with Jilly and Stock.’
I forgot my indignation. ‘I can’t get over that! You might have let me in on it! Instead you lead me astray with that “fashion model” lark!’
‘Don’t blame me. That was the tale current in Astead General. I only handed it on. I couldn’t hand on the other as I had sworn a great swear to keep it dark. Forgive me?’
‘Sure.’ I waved that aside. ‘Nick, do you suppose anyone in Astead General saw Stock with Sabby Wardell? Harriet thinks she must live near Astead. Does she?’
‘Sabby?’ he echoed as if it was hard to place the name. ‘No, her home’s ‒ where? I know, Cumberland. Like old Peter’s.’ He sat on the table. ‘Seen much of Peter lately?’
‘Not much. Occasionally in the corridor or canteen. I saw him this afternoon on my way out.’
‘You knew he was down here on Monday?’
‘Only today.’ I explained my hurry, and carelessly knocked an empty saucepan off the table. ‘Nick, don’t dive like that!’ I protested as he lunged for it. ‘Think of your eye!’
‘Anna, for God’s sake stop fussing!’
‘Sorry. I know it infuriates you. I’ll try not to. Snag is, old habits die hard with me.’
‘Don’t let it keep you awake.’ He stood up. ‘I think I should remove this sweet scent of paraffin. Have I time for a bath? And how’s the hot water?’
A House for Sister Mary Page 18