by Bette Paul
To her surprise Jan was there, in obvious good form. When she walked into the Medics’ Mess he was demonstrating a wild dance tune to Nikki Browne.
“You’re not serious?” she was saying. “You mean we’re supposed to stamp our feet, slap our thighs and clap our hands, at that speed?”
Jan increased the tempo of the wild tune so that Nikki got all her slaps and taps muddled up and they both ended up almost collapsing with laughter.
Claire watched enviously as Jan threw an arm around Nikki and helped her up as she gasped for breath.
“A little slower, you think?” he asked.
Nikki leaned against him for a moment while she got her breath back. “You’d better stick to accompanying Claire’s songs,” she told him. “Your playing’s too wild for dancing.”
Claire moved forward into the room and Jan’s arm dropped from Nikki’s shoulder – guiltily, was it?
Oh, stop that, Claire Donovan, she told herself. Why should a casual friendly gesture make him feel guilty?
And she couldn’t help the silent answer: possibly because it was more than a friendly gesture. Shaking herself free of such disloyal thoughts, she moved towards the pair.
“You feeling better now?” she asked Jan.
“Very well, thank you, Claire,” he replied coolly, as if she were just a passer-by enquiring after his health.
But then, she comforted herself, Jan’s English often did sound rather formal.
“You weren’t hurt in that street fight, were you?” Nikki Browne asked him.
“Me? No, I was not hurt, not at all.” He stared at Claire as if challenging her to deny it.
She didn’t get the chance anyway; Katie called everyone to attention and outlined her latest ideas.
“We’re going to have a talent competition, with each contestant paying to enter,” she explained. “The audience will judge; Nikki’s designing a clapometer, aren’t you, Nikki?” She looked in Nikki’s direction.
“Er . . . yes, of course, Katie.” Nikki obviously hadn’t got round to that yet.
“Oh, great! What do we win?” asked Barbara, who knew she had a good chance of winning.
For once, Katie was stuck for words.
“Oh, come on, Katie, we must have a prize,” Barbara told her, “or nobody will bother entering the competition.”
“But what can we offer?” asked Katie. “We’re supposed to be raising funds, not giving them away.”
“We need a sponsor,” said Nikki Browne. “You know, like theatrical productions have nowadays.”
“You mean like ‘Cats’, sponsored by Petafood Inc.,” Barbara suggested brightly.
“Or ‘The Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb’, sponsored by Flexibandage,” Katie rejoined.
“Johnson’s surgical masks would love to sponsor ‘Phantom of the Opera’,” Nick grinned.
“And the Blood Bank could finance a Dracula Spectacular,” added Barbara. And this time everyone joined in the laughter.
“It’s not a bad general idea, though,” said Nick Bone. “Why not try some of our suppliers? They get the publicity and we get the prizes.”
“OK, but how do we persuade them to sponsor us? They probably get dozens of requests like this every day,” said Katie.
“What we need is a personal contact,” suggested Nick. “You know the sort of thing: somebody who knows somebody who’s in the business.” He looked hopefully at Nikki Browne.
She shook her head. “The nearest my family comes to medical contacts is me,” she said, “unless you count vets – Daddy owes money to several.”
“I don’t think sponsorship by a veterinary firm would improve St Ag’s’ image,” laughed Katie. “Anyone got any serious ideas?” She looked all round, but no one spoke.
Claire sat very still, wrestling with her conscience. She knew someone who had the right contacts, but she didn’t want to ask any favours of him.
But Katie seemed to have read her thoughts. “What about your dishy Irish guy?” she asked Claire. “Didn’t you say he was something to do with medical supplies?”
Claire blushed so hard her face felt as if it was on fire. She could feel Jan watching her and she avoided his eye. Really – how could Katie Harding be so tactless?
“You mean my cousin?” she said. “Oh, I shouldn’t think he’d be able to hand out sponsorship money.”
“No, but he’ll know someone who can,” said Nick. “Ring him, will you?”
Claire felt torn; it seemed a simple enough request, but she didn’t want to ask Patrick for anything. More importantly, she didn’t want Jan to think she was in regular contact with her “dishy Irish guy”.
“Well, I think he’s around this area about now. I’ll try to get him.” She swallowed hard and risked a glance in Jan’s direction but he was gloomily pulling a frayed string off his bow. “He usually gets in touch. . .” she ended, lamely.
“Right, don’t forget we’re relying on you.” Katie beamed at Claire, totally unaware of the embarrassment she’d caused. “Now that the ceilidh seems to have come to nothing we’re left with the talent competition, some funny team games with water sprays and balloons, Nick’s karaoke and the disco afterwards. I think Kelham’s has done it again – a great little earner for the Charity Night!”
Claire watched the group split up and go their various ways. Nikki was already sketching her ideas for the clapometer, Barbara was at the piano, picking out one of her songs, Nick was checking the mixing desk and Jan had been commandeered by Katie to help her build up the stage. Claire took a step towards him, thinking she would help, but he heaved a stage-block on to his shoulder, glowered at her, and walked off.
Might as well get back and do some revision, Claire decided gloomily. As usual, exams loomed again.
“Put the kettle on, Claire; make the coffee,” Barbara called after her. “We’ll be along soon.”
Catering again, Claire muttered to herself. That’s all I seem fit for. And begging favours.
But it was Patrick who begged the first favour. He drove her out of Brassington to a country pub, where the food was simple – and inexpensive, she noted with relief.
“Look, Patrick, you must let me pay my share, you know,” she said, even before they’d studied the menu. “That’s only fair.”
“No, it’s not,” he replied, as she knew he would. “I asked you out – my treat.”
“But last time was your treat too,” she protested.
“Look, if it makes you uneasy, you can count this as a business dinner,” said Patrick. “I’m going to put it down to expenses.”
“But you can’t. I’m not a client of yours.”
“No, but you might be – in a way.”
“In what way?” Claire was losing her patience. “Could you just talk straight for once now, Patrick? Tell me what you’re getting at?”
Patrick smiled his cultivated, enigmatic smile. “Let’s order first, shall we? We can talk over dinner.”
Claire looked at the menu without seeing it. Her mind was in a whirl of ideas. She’d come with the intention of asking favours but, as usual, Patrick was playing a mysterious game of his own. She could see her chance of discussing sponsorship fading fast.
“Ready to order?” The young girl was back at their table. Claire peered at the menu and tried to concentrate.
“The hot-pot’s the best in Lancashire,” said Patrick. “Will you join me?”
She nodded, relieved of the need to make a decision.”
“And a bottle of red, I think?” Patrick turned to the very young waitress and gave the order.
“So how’re you going to turn me into a client?” Claire asked as soon as they were alone again.
“By asking you to do me a favour.”
Claire stared at him, aghast. She was supposed to be asking the favours – he’d turned the whole thing upside-down! And what sort of favour was he going to ask? Mind working furiously, she watched the landlord open a bottle and pour a sample for Patrick
to try.
“Thanks,” he nodded carelessly. “It’ll do.”
Already unnerved by Patrick’s hints, Claire was now embarrassed by his attitude to the staff. She watched in silence as the young waitress plonked a heavy earthenware dish down between them, then turned to look for space for the vegetable dishes. It all reminded Claire of her own attempts to work in the dining room back at the Leonmohr Hotel. Odd, she reflected; she was so clumsy waiting at table and yet so neat and nimble with complicated dressings. The thought of dressings reminded her of the favour she’d not yet asked and she groaned inwardly.
“So what is this favour you want me to do?” she asked when the girl had finally managed to fit all the dishes on to the rather small table.
Deftly, Patrick shared out the hot-pot and handed her vegetables. “Business is difficult just now with all the new trusts, new contracts, not to mention the hospital cuts. . .”
“Well, that’s all the more reason to let me pay my share of the bill,” said Claire.
Patrick shook his head. “No, no, this is nothing. I’ve told you, it’ll come out of my expenses.” He paused and looked at her quizzically. “Provided we can do a deal,” he added.
“What sort of deal?” Claire began to feel uneasy. She remembered the veiled threat he’d used to get her to go out with him that evening. Patrick could be ruthless as well as mysterious. Suddenly she wasn’t hungry; she pushed a few potatoes around her plate.
But Patrick was eating heartily. “Oh, just a little business deal,” he assured her. “Quite straight-forward.”
That made her feel even more uneasy.
“I don’t know anything about business,” she said.
“It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,” he smiled. “And anyway, you know quite a lot about this business.”
Claire’s heart sank. Was he going to ask her to get him into the hotel business? She’d had the feeling lately that Patrick wanted to get back in with the family in Ireland.
“Brassington Royal Infirmary,” Patrick announced. Claire looked puzzled. “You know, the place where you work?” he smiled.
“Brassington . . . you mean St Ag’s?” Claire almost laughed with relief; at least Patrick wasn’t expecting her to help him into the family business. “But I know nothing about the hospital as a business.”
“No, but you know people who do.”
His words reminded Claire of Nick Bone’s comments about sponsorship – and of her task this evening. She’d yet to beg her favour of Patrick and there was more chance of getting it if she co-operated now.
“Oh, you mean the management – but I’ve never even met a hospital manager.”
“That makes two of us,” he replied, “but you can change that.”
“How?”
“You’ve got a charity do coming up; October 20th, isn’t it?”
“How did you know that?” Claire was amaz ed; Katie was always complaining that she couldn’t get publicity for events at St Ag’s and yet Patrick, who lived a hundred miles away, knew all about the fund-raising night.
He shrugged off her question. “I should think you’ll have a lot of management people around that evening.”
“Well, possibly; but it’s for Friends of St Ag’s and staff only, not a public event.”
“But you’re allowed a guest?”
Claire nodded cautiously. She was beginning to see what he was driving at, and she didn’t like it.
“So – I come as your guest, get talking to one or two of the management, put a few deals their way; my bonus is assured and, more importantly, my future with the company.” He put his knife and fork exactly parallel on his plate and sat back. “More wine?” he asked.
Claire shook her head. She wasn’t at all happy about the idea of Patrick attending the function – certainly not as her guest. In spite of Jan’s moods lately, she was still hoping he would partner her in more than a few folk songs.
On the other hand, the Kelhamites were relying on her to get some sponsorship from Patrick’s firm. If she didn’t co-operate with him now, she could say goodbye to any sponsorship and half the evening’s entertainment.
And then there was that business of keeping quiet about the street battle. He hadn’t mentioned it again, but she felt he would use it if he had to.
“It is a charity evening, you know,” she reminded him.
He laughed. “Just think of me as your favourite charity, Claire,” he said. “After all, it’s supposed to begin at home, isn’t it?”
He looked at her so straight and hard that she knew he was referring to her family and the secret she was keeping from them.
She sighed. “You’re welcome to come, of course, but I can’t guarantee you’ll meet up with anyone important, or even that I’ll recognize them if they’re there. . .”
“Leave that to me, Claire. I’ll do my homework before then. Now, what about a pudding? This place is famous for them.”
But Claire couldn’t eat. She sat and watched as Patrick, whose financial situation appeared to have revived suddenly, demolished an amazingly dark, rich concoction of chocolate, brandy and cream, classified on the menu as “Killer Mousse”.
“I . . . er . . . have a favour to ask of you, too,” she said, as he reached the bottom of the dish.
“Have you now?” Patrick licked his spoon thoughtfully.
“Yes. I’m involved in this charity do – Kelham House is always the tops for entertainment, you know. We’ve organized a talent show but we haven’t got any prizes.” She waited for him to come up with an offer but he continued to scrape up the last remnants of mousse.
“You see,” she went on, “what we need is a sponsor – someone to offer a prize or two.”
“Or three.” Patrick examined the empty dish and put it down with his spoon. “So you volunteered my firm, is that it?”
“No, I did not!” Claire was indignant. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it at all but my friends have seen you around, asked about you, know you’re a medical rep. . .”
“And they asked you to ask me to ask the firm.” Patrick sounded amused.
Claire eyed him cautiously. “Are you in a position to ask?”
“With your help I’ll be in an excellent position. Now that I can promise results, they’ll do anything for me.”
“But you haven’t got any results,” she reminded him.
“I will have, thanks to you. Meantime, I’ll suggest the results could be even better with a bit of free advertising on your flyers. Right?”
Claire nodded slowly. She’d got what she wanted; the Kelhamites would be proud of her. Only it wasn’t quite the way she’d wanted it. It seemed to her she was paying quite a high price for one small favour. How could she explain Patrick’s presence at Charity Night to Jan? Always assuming he’d want to listen!
“Coffee?” the little waitress was asking her now.
Claire sipped the bitter black liquid in silence, listening to Patrick chat easily about what he called “the Irish connection” – their relatives. It seemed that he was making up for his lost childhood, getting in touch with many people Claire hardly knew.
“They’ve asked me over for a few days and I’m very tempted to go, only it’s so damned expensive.”
This made her sit up, alert suddenly. Who was it had asked him over? Not her parents, surely; they had quite enough to do over the hunting season, without inviting family.
“To Dublin, you mean?” she asked.
He shook his head. “To Donegal,” he said. “Aunt Tess says they could use another pair of hands.”
So Mammy had invited him! Claire wondered what her father had to say about that but she didn’t comment. She just sat quite still, saying nothing, waiting for the worst.
It came.
He leaned over the tiny table towards her. She was conscious of his knee pressing against hers, his hand on hers.
“So we could be spending your half-term together, Claire,” he said. “Now wouldn’t that
be something?”
Chapter 10
Autumn was in the air at St Ag’s. The drive was littered with cascading leaves, which frequently blew into the foyer as staff and patients scurried out of the wind and into the hospital.
The Harrington Ward in Gynaecology, on the other hand, retained its air of gentle springtime, with warm air and banks of flowers. Claire revelled in it. She didn’t care how wild the weather was outside; with luck, it might even make travelling home for half-term impossible!
“It’s very quiet in here now,” she observed to Sister Lawrence one afternoon. “Plenty of empty beds.”
“Running down ready for reorganization,” Sister explained. “Management says we don’t need two Gynae wards, so this one’s closing down soon.” She spoke quite coolly, but her face gave away what she was thinking.
“But we’ve been full all the time I’ve been here,” said Claire.
“Yes, and so has Tissington,” Sister said grimly. “However, ‘ours not to question why’, you know.” She stood for a moment lost in thought, then turned to smile at Claire. “As we’re not busy you could take a bit of extra study time,” she suggested.
“Oh, no! That’s all right,” Claire said hastily; she certainly didn’t want to spend any more time alone in her room.
“Well, I’ve already filled in your report and grade; you’ve done very well here, Claire,” Sister Lawrence told her. “You have a real affinity with gynaecological patients: cool, calm and so sympathetic. We’ll be sorry to lose you.” Sister Lawrence smiled warmly at Claire as she hurried off to answer her phone.
Claire began to strip a newly vacated bed, still glowing from Sister’s comments and very thoughtful. Cool and calm – was that how she appeared to other people? It was amazing considering her mind was in such turmoil she could hardly sleep at night. She blamed it on the forthcoming exams, but it wasn’t really a question of biology, physiology, psychology or any other -ology that was keeping her awake.