"I've just got in," she told him. "Mr. Conway isn't back yet, but he shouldn't be long. I think they're through for tonight."
Withers tut-tutted. "You must be dead beat, miss. Make yourself a hot drink and get right off to bed. I'm sorry I can't be there to do it for you—"
"Oh, Withers !" she laughed weakly. "You are a dear —I bet you've got your hands full there, too. Tell me, what does Mr. Conway like to drink after he's been operating late?"
"I mostly leave him a flask of coffee, miss."
"All right, that suits me too. I'll go and make some and then tumble into bed. 'Bye, Withers."
Upstairs she found her father dozing. He was too sleepy to realise her exhaustion, though, so she just reassured him, kissed him, and left him to finish his night's rest.
In a kind of daze she made the coffee, then realising
that she had no flask, went downstairs to Withers kitchen to see if she could find one. She saw it standing on a tray in the middle of the kitchen table. She took it and started on her way upstairs again, wondering why she hadn't had the sense to bring the coffee pot down with her. But before she had taken many steps she heard the back door open and shut, and Philip's step through the hall.
"You look like a ghost," he said, and no doubt her white apron in the dim light from the hall did have that effect.
"I was too tired to change," she told him.
"Why didn't you wait for me? I could at least have saved you the walk. You've had an eighteen-hour day, besides losing a couple of pints of blood. You must be all in."
"I'm all right. Withers telephoned—he won't be back till tomorrow. He's got a rest centre on his hands. I've made some coffee. I came down to find a flask to fill for you," she said in short, staccato sentences.
"Thanks a lot—I could do with it. Bring the coffee down and drink yours with me—I'll get the cups," he ordered.
"All right," she said, and trailed wearily upstairs.
When she came down again carrying the pot of hot coffee he was crossing the hall with a tray. She followed him into the lounge. He did not put the electric light on. There was no need—the room was like day with moonlight which streamed in through the long window. He put the tray on a lovely coffee table of Indian silver which reflected light on to his face.
He turned and took the pot from her and poured two cups with a steady hand, then dropped three lumps of sugar in each. Ronnie preferred one, but he had done it before she could speak. "Good for you tonight," he said, as though he had read her thought.
She was thirsty, and drained her cup. He refilled it immediately, remarking : "You need plenty of fluid."
Neither of them spoke for a short space of time, then Philip said : "Is your father awake?"
"He was dozing till I came in, but I think he's gone off properly now."
"You know he's a sick man, don't you?"
"Yes," she admitted. "He hasn't been so well these last weeks. But he's got a very good doctor," she smiled a little, but there was no flicker of answering emotion in the cameo-like profile etched against the moonlit window.
"Did he tell you that I had Rosenberg to see him a week or so ago?"
"He told me you brought a friend—he didn't say who it was. Rosenberg—he's the heart man, isn't he?"
"Yes. He said there was nothing more we could do. I just wanted to be absolutely sure."
"It was very good of you. Our doctor in Africa said Daddy would be all right if he took things quietly. He does, doesn't he? And he's not drinking now. He'll go on for a long time if he takes care—won't he?"
"I hope so," he did smile a little now.
"What about the woman you were operating on tonight? Will she be all right?" she asked.
He moved abruptly so that he was no longer in the moonlight but just a voice out of the shadows. "She died before she reached the ward," he said flatly.
"Oh, I'm sorry—" Ronnie fumbled for words, but in her weariness the right ones would not come. "It must be—terrible—after you've tried so hard to save a life—"
He did not answer for a moment, and when he spoke it was a question. "Know who she was?"
"No. No one had any names today. They just rushed them in—there was no time for anything else."
"I'm thankful for the screen. I took over from Mar-
chant and never saw her face until they took the screen away. It was—my wife."
The shock dispelled her tiredness. Appalled at the tragedy, she was anxious only for one thing—to make it bearable for Phil.
"Oh, Phil !" she cried on a little gasping breath. "How terrible ! But they didn't know—or they wouldn't have let you operate. You couldn't have done more ... nobody could !"
A short, bitter laugh broke from the shadows. "No, I couldn't have done more. I knew she wouldn't live when I finished. But when I saw who she was I was glad of that. D'you understand—glad ! That's where the tragedy lies."
"I'm sorry, Phil. But you're tired tonight. You'll see things differently after a rest. It must have been a shock. Why don't you take something and get a really good sleep?"
He uttered that short, mirthless laugh again. "I don't want to sleep. I want to talk And I want you to listen. Sit down." She had got up from her chair, but now his hands hard on her shoulders forced her back into her chair.
"It isn't the fact of Carolyn's death that's shocked me," he said. "I'm shocked at myself. She was in that plane—I expect she was off on another foreign tour. Better for her to go out quickly like that, without recovering consciousness. She'd never have given up dancing willingly, and there's no niche for an ageing ballerina, you know."
"But she was a person as well, and very beautiful. You must have loved her once."
"No, I didn't," he stated categorically. "We got on pretty well as kids—we were almost brought up together. But later she got launched on her career as a dancer while I was still a dewy-eyed medical student. That just
about describes me—I was an idealistic fool, and when Carolyn came to me and asked for help I tried to be Sir Galahad and all the saints rolled into one. She thought she was in trouble and asked me, as a doctor, to help her—"
"But—you didn't—" Ronnie could feel her indignation bubbling up.
"Oh, no. I was much too much of an idealist. I married her instead." He had moved into the patch of moonlight again and she saw his lips curl in angry self-scorn. "There never was a more reluctant bride, but I insisted. We went to a registrar's office with a couple of witnesses off the street. It was all legal—I was twenty-one and she was twenty-two."
"Didn't you tell your families?"
"No. I don't think anyone ever knew. About three weeks later she had a miscarriage. She was pretty furious—not about losing the baby, but about having got married 'for nothing' as she put it. She's very cold, you know—though that seems strange when you see her dance. But later on she found it rather useful to be married. If other admirers got too ardent she could flourish her married state at them. We had long since agreed not to live together, of course."
"Why didn't you get the marriage annulled if neither of you cared—" Ronnie stopped. She had no right to pry.
A quick frown drew his brows down. "I don't like that sort of thing," he said. "And I didn't feel the need for it. Carolyn had shattered something—call it my ideals, if you like. Oh, I've fooled around with a good many women in my time, I suppose—but I've always chosen the ones with unbreakable hearts. I thought mine was unbreakable too, but I found it wasn't. Then I asked Carolyn for an annulment, but she refused—that was the message you gave me, do you remember? I hated
her then, and tonight when I realised she was dead ... God forgive me, I was glad. I'm supposed to hold life sacred, yet I was glad of a death because it clears the way for me ... but it doesn't, after all. Now I know myself for what I am, what have I to offer?"
Ronnie was on her feet now, forgetting everything in the need to clear Phil's mind for him—to get rid of this ridiculous sense of guilt. She put her hands o
n his shoulders and gave him a little shake. "Phil, you're being morbid and utterly silly. Of course it's been a shock to you—Carolyn dying like that and your not being able to save her. But her death was an accident, nobody's fault, and certainly not yours—you know you couldn't have done more."
He did not answer and she dropped her hands from his shoulders in embarrassment. "Now go and get me some sleeping pills and take some yourself. You'll see things in their right perspective in the morning."
"I hope you're right," he said, and went off into the surgery. He came back in a moment shaking pills from a small bottle into his hand. "Two for you—they should give you a quiet night. You're not on until afternoon, Sister told me, so don't worry about the clock."
"Thank you," she said, and looked up at him. "You will take some yourself, won't you? You need sleep more than anybody."
He smiled faintly, nodded, and then said : "Thank you for listening to me. I've been behaving very badly keeping you up. Please forgive me and forget what I said."
"There's nothing to forgive," she told him. "But I shan't forget," she spoke those last words so softly that it was doubtful if he heard them.
For what seemed like a long time they just stood there in the patch of moonlight staring at one another. Then at last Ronnie broke away from the spell which held her inert. "Goodnight," she said, and turned away.
He said goodnight too, but a second or two later on the stairs she heard his voice from the hall below. "Ronnie?"
"Yes?"
"It wasn't my child."
Tiredness, emotion, hopes, despair, all mingled together, produced in Ronnie a desire to laugh hysterically.
"Of course not," she said shakily. "Everyone at the hospital knows you're only interested in black babies !"
CHAPTER NINE
IT was midday before Ronnie finally awoke from the sleep which resulted from her sleeping tablets. When she did, it was to find Toby sitting on the edge of her bed and a covered tray on her bedside table.
Toby had the day's papers tucked under his arm. "Come along, dear, you'd better wake up now."
"What time is it?" she asked drowsily, and then sat up quickly. "Goodness, I'm supposed to be on duty at two ! It's not that yet, is it?"
"No—heaps of time. It's only just after twelve," her father told her. "But you've got to get some food inside you before you think about going off to work."
Ronnie did not feel hungry, but when she peeped under the cover of the tray she changed her mind. "Who got that ready? Did you?" she asked her parent.
He smiled deprecatingly. "I would have done, but you know what Withers is—he just insisted, even though he was dead-beat himself—been up all night. He's gone off to sleep now."
Withers knew how to serve up a light tasty meal that was nourishing. Cold chicken breast, salad and pineapple mousse would have tempted the most fickle appetite—and the tray was garnished with a red rosebud from the little paved garden at the back of the house.
"Dear Withers—he thinks of everything !" she smiled. "I've been reading the papers," Toby told her while she ate her lunch.
The details absorbed him while she, suddenly feeling not so hungry after all, gave herself over to thoughts of last night. The drama and tension were forgotten. It was the little things that remained.
That utterly stupid, crude, banal remark she had made on the stairs last night—how on earth had she come to utter it ! She knew she would remember the shame of it for a long time to come. It was inexcusable —though there was an excuse she could make to herself—but never to Phil. He must never know how she had mistaken his need last night.
She had thought—had been almost sure—that it was because of her that Phil had wanted his freedom from that marriage that was no marriage at all. In the clear light of day she now saw that she had not the slightest reason for thinking that. All Phil had wanted was someone to talk to—a relief for the intolerable tension. Even to his nerves of steel and iron self-control it must have been a shock to find that the patient he could not save was Carolyn d'Auverne.
No, there was nothing she could blame Phil for. He had told her that he wanted to talk. He had not even kissed her goodnight as he had done on that other neverto-be-forgotten occasion. Then he had taken her by surprise, but last night she had given him ample opportunity, invitation almost.
But he was not interested. The cold-water shock of that realisation was her only excuse. She could not think why he had thought he needed to tell her that Carolyn's child was not his—but at least she ought to have ...
She was not quite sure what she ought to have done last night, but a glance at the clock told her what she ought to be doing at that moment. "Take the tray, away, will you, please, Daddy. It's time I was getting up, or I'll be late on duty."
"I should think that would be excusable after all you
went through last night," Toby said, but he got up and obediently carried off the tray.
As she was passing through the hall on her way out Mrs. Ferguson popped out of the secretary's cubbyhole. "Oh, Miss Forbes," she began, "I wonder if you'd be good enough to see that Mr. Conway has this as soon as possible? I've been trying to cancel all his appointments for today as he wanted to be free for the hospitals, but there's one at five-thirty which I can't contact, so he will have to get back for that."
"All right," Ronnie agreed. "But will he be at St. Chad's? He did most of his ops at Boniface yesterday."
"I don't know. But he said to send any message by you, so I expect he'll turn up there sometime this afternoon."
Ronnie did not feel strong enough yet to meet those clear grey eyes of Phil's, but she thought she could easily get the hall porter to deliver the note for her. Unfortunately for her plans, the man demurred. "I can't leave the switchboard at the moment, miss, and he's only along in St. Michael's. Could you just slip down there and give it to him or to Sister, please, miss? He may go on up after that, you see, and I wouldn't see him."
"Oh, very well," Ronnie said not too graciously, and tucked the envelope in the bib of her apron when she had changed into her uniform.
St. Michael's Ward was quite near to the theatre, so she had no valid excuse for not taking the note at once, and as she had plenty of time she went along there first before reporting to the theatre unit.
As she turned into the long corridor which led to St. Michael's she saw His Nibs coming out of the ward with the Sister at his side.
She hesitated a moment, uncertain whether to go on or to wait until he came up with her. She decided it would be better to go on.
As she approached, the two of them had stopped for a moment, Sister apparently intending to turn and go back to the ward. She was a small, dumpy person, and over her head Phil's eyes met Ronnie's. There was a light in them—not exactly a smile, certainly not the mockery that she had been accustomed to see there so frequently—but a kind of glad light.
Suddenly Ronnie knew that she must not be alone with him She must deliver her letter and get away while Sister was still present. She hurried forward, and murmuring "Excuse me, please, Sister—I have a note for Mr. Conway," she handed over the envelope to the Sister
Her duty was done. As a mere probationer she should have withdrawn immediately. She wished afterwards that she had done so. Phil took the envelope from Sister, glanced at the handwriting, and his face went coldly blank and official as he slit it open. It did not take him more than a few seconds to read it.
"Thank you, Nurse—no reply," he said curtly, and without even glancing at Ronnie again he turned to Sister and resumed the discussion which had been interrupted.
Ronnie turned about promptly and retraced her steps. She had been a little worried as to how she could make the transition easily from last night's revelation to the everyday relationship. She need not have worried. Phil had quite clearly and unmistakably put her back right where she belonged.
It was a tired and dispirited Ronnie who toiled up the stairs to the flat at half past seven that evening. Her fa
ther was sitting in his favourite chair by the window which looked over the Square, but he seemed to have dozed off over whatever it was he had been reading.
He did not rouse when she came in, and for a moment or two Ronnie stood looking down at him with an icy
,
fear clutching her heart. He was only in a light sleep, but he looked like some of the old patients she had seen in her turn of duty on Men's Medical—old, sick men for whom death was not far off.
But Toby was not old ! He had a dicky heart, yes, but their doctor in Lemumba had said that with care he would go on for years. But what was it Phil had said—
Before she could remember Toby stirred and woke. He smiled. "Hullo, dear, I didn't hear you come in. I've been reading, and that nearly always sends me to sleep these days."
She kissed his forehead, reassured by the normality of his voice and manner. "What have you been reading?"
"This file of correspondence—Phil brought it to me. It's with Stanhope and some of his pals in the Cabinet about the hospital scheme."
"Is it all going according to plan?" she asked absently, noticing that the rose which had garnished her luncheon tray was lying on the mantelshelf, wilted through not having been put in water. She should have done something about it—it would be a shame to hurt Withers' feelings, she thought tiredly, and said aloud : "Did Phil bring the files up or Withers?"
"Phil brought them himself. Everyone seems very impressed with the thoroughness and workability of the scheme," Toby harked back to her first question. "But as to whether it'll go through or not, I wouldn't like to say. Things are very tricky in Africa just now—very tricky indeed."
"He'll be terribly disappointed if it doesn't go through," Ronnie said as she walked into the little kitchen to see what she could make for supper.
"Won't you?" Toby called after her, and she plied : "Of course." But she had already plumbed the depths of disappointment in matters that were far more vital to her than the hospital scheme for Bazualiland.
The kitchen was fitted with a tiny wall refrigerator which she found a great boon. Opening it now, she found there was crisp lettuce and cucumber in it. "Will soup and salad do you, Daddy?" she called out, but turning found that he was standing in the doorway watching her, with a curious look in his eyes.
Nurse Ronnie's Vocation Page 13