Matron nodded. "The reports on your practical work are very good, I may say, Nurse. That is why we want to help you through your examinations as much as we can. There are very few nurses who have a natural aptitude with patients. But you seem to have that. So now, if you work hard for the next six months and don't
have any distractions, I feel reasonably confident that you will get through the first part of your State examination."
"Thank you, Matron," Ronnie murmured.
"I'm taking you off Connaught," Matron went on briskly. "We left you there in order not to put too much strain on you, but now it's time you had more experience. I think three months on a medical ward, a month in theatre perhaps, and then the children's ward. I will notify Sister Young and send her a replacement. Report to Men's Medical tomorrow morning at the usual time. That will be all, Nurse."
"Thank you, Matron." Ronnie passed into the corridor and breathed a sigh of relief that the one-way conversation was over. Naturally she was pleased, and realised that Matron was taking considerably more time and trouble over her than she did over most of the other nurses—particularly those who had no aptitude for exams. She was glad to be moved from Connaught in some ways, for she had blotted her copybook with Sister Young too many times to be really happy working with her. But she did not altogether welcome the idea of a medical ward. It would mean that she would not see Philip Conway ... but there was the promise of a month in theatre. That, she felt, would be something to look forward to.
"Hullo, dreamer !" Flossie's voice greeted her. "I say, have you heard that Alan's going to a post-up north somewhere?"
"Yes—registrar to Sir George Maples. He's jolly lucky!" Ronnie hastily changed the subject "Have you heard that I'm coming on Men's Medical with you?"
"Oh, no !" Flossie feigned acute dismay. "Don't tell me I've got to cover up for you again ! And another thing—you'll have to promise not to cast your beady eyes on my old Mr. Stevens. He's a pet, and I'm not
having any competition from you to cope with, my girl !"
"Don't worry," Ronnie told her. "You can keep him. Matron says I'm not to have any distractions for the next six months. Interpret that how you like, but I'm sure it includes your Mr. Stevens !"
Laughing lightheartedly, the two girls parted and Ronnie went back to Connaught for her last day there.
Though it was nice to be working with Flossie and Nurse Graves again, on the whole Ronnie did not like work on a medical ward so much as on a surgical. For one thing, the atmosphere was not so cheerful. In Connaught the cases were seldom critically ill once their operations were over, but on the medical wards there were many cases of long-drawn-out debilitating illness which made the patient despondent and apt to be querulous.
"Still, let's thank our lucky stars that it's men and not women !" Flossie consoled her. "Women's Medical is the gloomiest place you ever saw ! The men at least are good for a joke now and then."
"It's very different," Ronnie soliloquised. "I'd got quite good at drips and dressings and now I've got to cope with diets and down-in-the-dumps ! No one seems to know what half the patients are suffering from. It might be one of at least half a dozen complaints."
Flossie regarded her for a moment and then said : "D'you know, Forbsie, you said that last bit in exactly His Nibs' tone of voice ? It must be catching !"
"Don't talk such rot," Ronnie told her, and turned away quickly so that her friend should not see or comment on the pinkness of her cheeks.
After a few weeks, however, Ronnie felt quite at home on her new ward. The one thing she could not get used to was the absence of a tall dark-haired figure striding into the ward with scant ceremony, but always bringing
with him an air of confidence and a challenge to the status quo.
For several weeks she hardly saw Philip Conway at all. Occasionally she might pass him in a hospital corridor and would get the briefest of nods in acknowledgement, and at home she thought he must be definitely avoiding her, for she seldom caught sight of him at all.
March gave place to April, and it was a lovely April that year. All the trees in Adam Square put on the most delicate green coats and the song of the blackbirds in the early morning was something which lifted Ronnie's heart.
Adam Square was quiet at all times of the day, and particularly deserted in the early morning, so that Ronnie, crossing it on her way to the hospital, could feel that she had the world to herself for a few moments. In those few moments she used to dream—to think wishful thoughts that had nothing to do with reality and were just a part of the magic of the spring morning.
At half past four in the afternoon, however, the Square presented a very different picture. Although there were still few people about, the four sides of the Square were lined with parked cars. Weaving her way between two of them, Ronnie emerged exactly opposite her front door—a space which should have been kept clear—to find an elegantly dressed woman coming down the steps.
They almost collided, and murmuring 'Sorry,' Ronnie proceeded up the steps.
"There isn't anyone at home," a delightful voice said behind her, and Ronnie turned to find the woman she had just passed standing at the foot of the five steps and looking up at her.
She was so lovely that for a moment it was quite startling—lovely not in any style of the moment, but with a timeless, classical beauty of perfect features, big grey eyes and a pale, flawless complexion.
"Oh, then I expect Withers is out. Thursday is Mr. Conway's clinic day at St. Boniface, so he doesn't usually see patients on that day."
"Oh, I'm not a patient—I just wanted to see Phil." There was amusement in the grey eyes.
Ronnie felt slightly irritated—there did not appear to-be any cause for amusement. She had taken her key out of her bag by now and turned to insert it in the door.
"Are you the secretary?" the woman asked.
"No," Ronnie answered, keeping the irritation out of her voice with an effort. "I live here with my father. We have a flat on the top floor. I can give Mr. Conway a message if you would care to leave one."
"No, I don't think it matters, thanks," the grey eyes narrowed and then widened again and now there was a distinct look of mischief in them. "Yes, though ... will you tell Philip that I had his letter but that it's quite impossible for me to do what he wants just now. Perhaps later—in two or three years' time—"
"Wouldn't you rather come inside and write him a note?" Ronnie suggested, not too happy about delivering such a long and cryptic message.
"No, thanks—I can't be bothered, and I'm already late for an appointment. Just tell him that—he'll understand. Goodbye."
"Goodbye," Ronnie responded, and then remembered : "Who shall I tell him called?"
The woman looked back over her shoulder. "Carolyn. Just Carolyn," she said with a smile, and then moved off two car lengths down_the Square to where apparently her own chauffeur-driven car was parked. She walked with consummate grace, and against her will Ronnie watched until she got in the car and the door was slammed behind her.
In the hall Ronnie regarded her reflection in the long hall mirror. She felt gauche and almost as if there were a smut on her nose. But there was nothing wrong with the tall, slim figure looking back at her. "It's self-confidence you lack," she told her reflection. "Now why did you let that woman make you feel a fool?"
Why, indeed? Carolyn—whoever she was—was nothing to her. But the question that tormented her mind in spite of her efforts not to let it was : 'What is Carolyn to Philip?'
Obviously they must be close friends—even intimate friends—or she would not have left so cryptic a message and been so sure that Phil would understand it. What was the thing he had asked her to do which she had refused?
Ronnie felt she would be glad when Withers got back and she could get the responsibility of that message off her mind. When she got up to the flat, however, it was to be greeted with the news that Withers had actually taken the whole day off to go to the wedding of a niece in Buckinghamshire a
nd that they were entertaining Philip to dinner.
"You don't mind, do you, dear?" Toby asked when Ronnie received the news in silence. "I mean, it's the least we could do. Withers had got everything ready and I've turned the oven on."
"Of course I don't mind," Ronnie pulled herself together. "What are we eating? And I wish I'd known earlier—I'd have got some flowers on my way home."
"Oh, I don't think that'll worry Phil. We're going to do some work after dinner, so you needn't feel you've got to spend the whole evening entertaining him. You just give us some coffee and go and get on with your studying if you want to." Toby gave her a worried glance. "Ronnie, you don't dislike Phil, do you? I
mean, I know I made a mistake at first—but that's all over now, isn't it?"
"Of course it is, darling—but look now, you'll have to help. Will you lay that table while I see to things in the kitchen? What time is dinner to be?"
"Not dinner reallyjust a nice supper," Toby declared. "Half past seven to eight, Withers said, but I gather that it rather depends on his other commitments what time Phil gets here."
He was punctual that night, however, and promptly at half past seven he presented himself at the flat door with a smile on his face and a briefcase under his arm.
"Please, I've come," he announced, and went on : "You look very nice, Ronnie. I've had a letter from Stanhope, sir—it begins to look as though things are really moving !"—all in one breath.
Perhaps it was that breezy entry of his that put the matter from her mind, or if it were not, Ronnie could never afterwards account for her failure to deliver Carolyn's message there and then. But she did not, and proceeded immediately to the meal, which was ready for serving.
There was no better raconteur than Toby Forbes at his best, and he was on top of his form that evening. If Ronnie had heard many of his stories before she was able to enjoy them afresh in Phil's evident appreciation, and it was a hilarious meal.
When they had finished Phil insisted on washing up while Ronnie dried. In a happy ease after the shared laughter and talk she watched appreciatively his quick, deft movements.
"You're good at washing up," she said, and added quickly : "That's more of a compliment than you think. People say housework is easy, but it's just as hard as anything else to do it well."
"Like stitchcraft," he retorted good-humouredly.
"I'm good at that, though it's supposed to be a woman's work. Funnily enough, though, there are very few women who make good surgeons."
The remark was spoken half in jest, but it set Ronnie thinking. "That's what I'd like to have been," she said slowly. "There must be something very satisfying about surgery. Much more definite than medicine—you can see what you're doing and it's usually kill or cure, isn't it?"
Phil made a grimace. "More often cure, I hope ! But believe me, when it's kill it's something you remember with horror all your life."
"Umm," Ronnie remembered tales she had heard on the wards of patients being rushed back to their beds so that they should not die under the surgeon's hand. "All the same, that's what I would like to have been— but I've left it a bit late discovering my vocation, haven't I?"
Phil looked at her curiously. "You'd find the training pretty hard now, I think—with or without distractions."
Ronnie looked at him closely, but could not be sure whether he was serious or not. Too many people had talked to her about distractions just lately, and she did not quite like the innuendo.
"You don't think I've got a vocation in the field of medicine at all, do you?" she challenged.
"I'm sure you have," he gave her back quickly and then added quietly : "But I don't think you've found it yet Here, take this dish—I've nowhere to put it. You're not keeping up !"
By the time the washing up was finished the coffee was ready and they rejoined Toby to drink it and to talk—about Lemumba and Bazualiland and tribal laws and customs.
Philip was avid for detail of any description and questioned them closely about tribal hygiene, laws, marriage customs and the like. Particularly he tried to get Ronnie to assess the aptitude of local girls and women for work in a hospital.
"There's a mission school in the region, isn't there?" he asked. "Would it be likely that any of their girls would be suitable for training?"
"I should think so," Ronnie replied. "But I believe they're wanted for the mission hospitals—there are two of those further south. They don't really serve our area at all, and it means that the girls are sent far away from their homes. But the missionary societies like to keep an eye on where their girls work. They might be a little suspicious of a Government hospital."
"Then it would mean getting the nursing staff entirely from England?"
"It would be better—to start with, anyway," Ronnie gave as her considered opinion.
"But domestic staff—cooks, cleaners, laundrymaids-- could they all be recruited on the spot?"
"Oh, yes. The Africans work quite well, but you'd need someone to supervise them who's been used to handling native labour. They don't take very kindly to orders—they have to be sort of encouraged along."
So the talk went back and forth, and no one noticed the time until Toby began to flag and Philip rose quickly. "I've tired you out, sir. I'll take myself off at once and you go straight to bed and take one of your tablets."
"You haven't tired me, Phil," Toby replied with a smile. "It's just that I seem to pack up all at once like that nowadays. But I'll go to bed as you say. Goodnight, my boy, and thank you for a pleasant evening."
"That's all wrong," Philip smiled. "It's I who should thank you. Would you like me to give you a hand?"
But Toby declined, saying he would rather take his own time, and Philip picked up his briefcase.
"I'm afraid I've been the cause of your neglecting your studies tonight," he apologised as he opened the door to let himself out. "As a penalty I'd better give you an evening's coaching."
"That would be too heavy a penalty for giving me the excuse for an evening off," she said, half teasing.
"We'll see. Goodnight, and thanks again," he said, and made for the stair head.
It was then she remembered, and called him back. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I almost forgot ! I've got a message for you."
"A message?" he queried, turning back.
"Yes. A lady called here and was just going away when I got back this afternoon. She hadn't been able to get an answer, but she asked me to tell you that she was Carolyn, and that she'd had your letter but that it was not possible to do what you asked just now. Perhaps in two or three years, she said ... why, what's the matter?" In the half-light she could sense more than see that Philip was suddenly tense and angry.
"Thanks," he said abruptly. "Why didn't you tell me this before?" But without giving her time to frame an excuse he went on : "Do you know who she was?"
"No, ought I to?"
"She's pretty well known—have you heard of Carolyn d'Auverne?"
It was a name world-famous in the ballet world, and now that she heard it Ronnie knew why the beautiful face and graceful movements had seemed half-familiar. "Oh yes, of course—" she began, but Philip's voice cut across hers with harsh brutality.
"She also happens to be my wife. Goodnight."
CHAPTER EIGHT
AFTER that the looked-for summer never came. The delightful April turned into a wet, cold May that spoiled all the best of the blossom. June tried half-heartedly to live up to its reputation, but it’s wet days were far more numerous than its sunny ones.
All the world seemed dreary to Ronnie. She told herself over and over again that the fact that Philip Conway was married made no difference. She could not blame him for anything. He had never philandered with her, never tried to make her love him, never asked that she could care. There was that one kiss—that casual, cool 'thank you' kiss. And she had loved him before that, it was not because of it that she would love him for always. He had been scrupulously fair with her—and that was the very reason she had b
egun to think that perhaps he did care a little. As Sister O'Neill had hinted, he only played with hearts that were unbreakable !
She knew the reason for his invincibility now. But she kept that knowledge to herself. He had not asked her to keep silent. Perhaps he did not care—but she preferred to think that he knew he could trust her.
Ronnie was due for part of her annual leave early in June and she and Toby went north to Aunt Mary's. But the visit was not a success. The weather was bad and the climate less genial than in the south. Toby was not well and Aunt Mary insisted he should see her
doctor, who promptly advised him to return to the south and to consult his own doctor.
Ronnie was not sorry. Though she seldom saw Phil in those days it gave her some comfort to know that he was under the same roof.
She wondered often—far too often for her peace of mind—what request it could have been which Carolyn had refused. Perhaps Phil had asked her to come back to him—to patch up whatever had gone wrong with their marriage. She wondered what that could have been, too. Phil could be exasperating, she knew, but she felt that he would make a good husband, and Carolyn with her grace and her beauty would be a wife that he, .or any man, could be proud of. She thought most likely that the trouble had been the clash of their careers--and that would explain Carolyn's reference to `not now, but perhaps in two or three years.' Perhaps in that time she might be ready to retire from the stage. But right now she was at the height of her success as prima ballerina in the National Ballet.
Ronnie often took herself to task for these unprofitable thoughts. She had been prepared to face the fact that Phil did not love her; it really was no worse now she knew that he could not, but it just seemed more hopeless.
"Is anything the matter with you, Ronnie?" her father asked more than once. "I'm thinking that it's you who should be seeing a doctor. Let Phil run the measure over you."
But she was up in arms at that idea. "Good gracious, no, Daddy !" she cried. "I'm perfectly all right—just bored with having nothing to do. I'll be better when I'm back at work next week."
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