Nurse Ronnie's Vocation

by Felicity Hayle

  "Yes, anything that's the least trouble," he agreed. "You didn't tell me about this blood transfusion business. Phil says you should go to bed early tonight and get plenty of rest."

  She laughed a little shortly. "He's your doctor, maybe, but he's not mine," she said. "A couple of pints of blood is nothing to a great strapping wench like me."

  "Thank goodness you've always been healthy, dear. But you should respect expert advice when it's given. And come to think of it, you do look a bit peaky tonight. Don't bother about supper—let me do it instead."

  "Rubbish !" she kissed his cheek lightly. "Let's have supper and then we can relax afterwards—go to bed if we want to. What did Phil say about you? Did you tell him how dizzy you've felt once or twice lately?"

  "Yes. He's changed my pills again. Withers will get them tomorrow. But I'm not worried—now." She wondered what he meant by that, but she did not ask him.

  It was only a few days later that Ronnie was extremely puzzled to receive a package addressed to her at the hospital. When she opened it, it contained an old-fashioned Victorian publication on flowers, their names, derivations and meanings.

  There was no note with it, but it had obviously been bought second-hand because it had the stamp of a famous bookshop in the Charing Cross Road.

  Ronnie was knitting her brows in bewilderment over the little volume over her morning break coffee when Flossie joined her.

  "What've you got there, Forbsie?"

  "I don't know," Ronnie replied. "It's all rather queer. This little book arrived for me addressed to the hospital, but there's no note to say who it's come from."

  "You should have said 'whom'—I think," Flossie told her. Flossie had been taking up grammar seriously lately, having become interested in a meticulous young houseman on the E.N.T. ward where she was now working. "Let's have a dekko—" she relapsed into the vernacular, and when Ronnie handed her the volume started to chortle. "Oh, isn't it priceless ! Say it with flowers !' Have you had any bouquets lately ?"

  "No." Ronnie wrinkled her nose in an effort to try to solve the mystery.

  "Then you bet your life you'll be getting one soon, and the sender wants to make quite sure that you understand what he's trying to say. Who was that dear old boy on Men's Medical you used to flirt with?"

  "I never did any such thing, but if you mean old Mr. Parsons I'm quite sure he wouldn't—"

  "He was pretty well smitten, though."

  "He wouldn't be so oblique about it—he was all on the surface," Ronnie said. "He told me he loved me and kissed me goodbye when he left, so he'd hardly send me messages by flowers, now would he? And anyway, the whole idea is ridiculous !"

  "Well, ridiculous or not, you've got the book and you'll be able to look up the meaning if any flowers do arrive. Rosemary for Remembrance—that's the only one I know."

  "Pansies for thoughts," Ronnie put in.

  "Oh yes, and roses—red roses, isn't it?—for love," Flossie remembered another of the obvious ones.

  But obvious or not it had not struck Ronnie until now, when she suddenly remembered the red rose which had garnished the lunch tray Withers had prepared the day after the plane crash. She felt her cheeks go hot.

  "Ha! Have you remembered something? Come on, tell Auntie !" Flossie's eyes were bright with mischievous curiosity.

  "Yes, I've remembered that I'm due back on duty !" Ronnie got up and fled from Flossie's questioning.

  It was a perfectly ghastly thought. Withers ! Surely it couldn't be ... and yet there were many things that pointed in his direction. The package which had contained the book had been addressed in capital letters, but there was no stamp on it. It must have been handed in at the porter's lodge—that pointed to someone living nearby. Withers was also known to be addicted to spending hours of his free time browsing in the Charing Cross Road.

  Withers was a pet. He had always been so kind and helpful ever since they had gone to live in Adam Square, but Ronnie had always thought that it was Toby and not herself who had aroused his protective loyalty. And she was going on thinking that, she decided firmly. She would just ignore the whole thing and treat Withers with the same jocular familiarity as usual. That, she felt sure, would be the best and safest way to damp his ardour.

  She had thought that Withers would take his holidays while Phil was away on his cruise, but it seemed that this was not going to be the case, and though in one sense she was glad, she hoped that complications would not ensure from his having more time on his hands. To make things more difficult, though she would not hurt Withers' feelings for anything, every time she thought of him cherishing a secret passion for herself she had to suppress a strong desire to giggle.

  August started on a Saturday that year, and with the coming of the month pressure of work in the theatres was reduced to emergencies. The two theatre staffs were also reduced, but Ronnie had been lucky. Sister Mac-

  dougall had asked for her to be kept on, and that meant that for the holiday month at least she would have an opportunity to do more senior work. The registrars, who would be doing most of the operations, were less formal than the consultants and with any luck Ronnie would be able to get near to the centre of things.

  All the same, the thought of a whole month without a sight of Phil either at the hospital or at home filled her with a sense of emptiness. They had hardly come face to face in the last ten days or so, and exchanged nothing more than a formal passing of the time of day. Certainly there had been no opportunity for Ronnie to apologise, as she often felt she would like to do, for her lapse of taste on the night of the crash. She had been overtired—he ought to understand that even if he did not know what else she was suffering from. But there had been no chance of a quiet word with him.

  When she took the stairs in her usual rush on the morning of the day Phil was starting his holiday she was surprised to see him in the hall sorting the post once again. He had not done that lately—not since, as she now knew, he had been expecting a letter from Carolyn d'Auverne.

  "Letter for you," he said, holding out an envelope, almost without looking at her.

  "Thank you," she said, and even before she stuffed it in her pocket she recognised Alan Pickering's writing and knew that Phil had too. Well, it was nothing to him—but she did wish she did not get that ridiculous sense of guilt every time Alan cropped up between them in any shape or form !

  "You're starting your holiday today, aren't you?" she asked, to cover her confusion. "I hope you have a good time."

  "Thank you," he replied with the same formal politeness, and now that their eyes did meet she was quite

  surprised at the look in his. She couldn't quite fathom what it was—but it was not the look of one anticipating a happy holiday.

  "Withers will be here while I'm away," he told her. "Don't hesitate to let him know if there's anything you want."

  "That's very good of you," she said, hesitated a moment, and then added : "Goodbye, then."

  She did not wait to hear whether he answered or not, for she felt the sudden pricking of tears behind her eyes—tears which she knew must remain unshed.

  August turned into a heat wave, and as if to make up for former deficiencies the sun shone with vigour from its rising to its setting each day, and even after it had gone the nights were hot and airless.

  In spite of her African sojourn Ronnie felt the heat badly and arrived home each day completely fagged out. At least, she thought it was the heat. She found some refreshment in the thought of Phil and his friends sailing in the cool waters of the fjords amid the pine-clad mountains. She had never been to Norway and her images were culled from brochures—but the fact that Phil was there made them sharply real to her.

  Toby was feeling the heat too, and for him there was no escape. He was not well enough to go out into the parks or the country. True, the flat was as airy as it could be in London, and the trees of the Square at least gave an illusion of coolness, even though their shade did not affect the flat.

  "I suppose
it's the humidity," Toby apologised. "It makes the air difficult to breathe. I never used to mind the heat in the old days, did I?"

  Ronnie reassured him. "It's just that we're out of practice, darling," she told him. "We've had so much wet and cold weather our thermostats haven't readjusted themselves yet !"

  But she did not really deceive herself. Toby was far from well and little niggles of panic were constantly tugging at her heart. "D'you think you'd like to see a doctor?" she asked tentatively. "Perhaps you need a tonic —you're not eating very well this hot weather, you know."

  But on the subject of doctors Toby was adamant. "No —I don't want any other fellers messing about with Phil's treatment. He understands me and I'm doing just what he told me to, taking my pills regularly, leading a quiet life, and practically cutting out alcohol, aren't I?"

  "Yes, you're being very good, Daddy, but I just wondered whether while Phil's away—"

  Toby did not answer, but returned to his reading of The Times with determination. But Ronnie noticed that within a few minutes his hands slackened their grasp and the paper fell limply in his lap as he dropped into the half-doze in which he spent a great deal of his time.

  Withers noticed a change too, and he stopped Ronnie on her way downstairs. "Mr. Forbes don't seem so well, does he, miss?"

  "No, I'm afraid he doesn't," Ronnie agreed. "But I'm hoping it's just the heat. It can't last much longer— he'll buck up when it's cooler."

  Withers buttoned his mouth up disapprovingly and then opened it to say : "If you ask me, miss, it's time to send for Mr. Phil."

  "Good gracious, Withers, we can't do that !" Ronnie expostulated. "All the way from Norway ! And anyway, he's at sea."

  "No, miss, he isn't. He's at Stoneacres."

  Ronnie's eyes widened in surprise. "You mean he didn't go on the cruise?"

  "No, miss. It seems that he didn't have the heart for it after all. So we could quite easily ring him up, couldn't we?"

  "I—I don't know that we ought to do that," Ronnie demurred, trying to adjust several reactions at the same time. But through her confusion she noticed a look of— could it be affection ?—on Withers' face, and suddenly remembered the episode of the rose and the flower book. But Withers' next words threw her into even greater confusion.

  "Excuse me asking, miss, but there wouldn't be anything wrong between you and Mr. Phil, would there?"

  "Of course not !" Ronnie gasped in astonishment. "What should there be—I mean, he's always been most kind to Daddy, and to me. There's nothing that could go wrong, so far as I know—"

  "Then I should ring up, miss, if I was you. He'll be upset if you didn't let him know."

  "We'll see how Daddy is tomorrow," she compromised. "I don't want to break in on his holiday if I can help it."

  "Just as you say, miss." Withers was plainly disappointed.

  But when she went to say her final goodnight to Toby she knew, with a sudden feeling of panic, that tomorrow might be too late.

  There wasn't any definable change in him. He was sitting propped high on his pillows as he always slept since his heart had been bad, and was struggling with the crossword puzzle which he always said sent him to sleep.

  He took off his spectacles and smiled at his daughter. "Going to bed early tonight, then, dear?"

  "Yes, I thought I'd turn in and take some of my books with me. Is there anything you want?"

  "No, thank you," he said. "Leave the windows open— it's so hot tonight."

  She kissed him and went to her own room. But she knew she could not rest. She was filled with disquiet for which she could find no real reason. Toby was serene

  enough—that was it, she decided. He was too quiet, too resigned. He had always been a fighter, always slightly intolerant, and now he seemed to have withdrawn inside himself, as if nothing mattered any more.

  She knew she was frightened and for a long time she tried to fight down that fear, alone in the darkness. With all London around her she felt more alone than she had ever felt in her life before. She knew that she could go and talk to Withers, but she would still be alone ...

  Suddenly on an impulse she ran downstairs to the hall telephone and dialled trunks. She knew Lady Porthaven's number, and although it was nearly eleven o'clock by then she could not resist the need to speak to the only person who could help her in her loneliness.

  The connection took some time, and even when it was made the bell rang for a long time at the other end. At last she heard Lady Porthaven's unmistakable voice.

  "It's Ronnie Forbes here," she said, and found that her knees were trembling.

  "Oh, how nice to hear you, my dear. How are you? Isn't it hot ! It's bad enough here, but it must be dreadful in London !"

  Ronnie had to cut in or Adela Porthaven would have gone on for ever. "I'm terribly sorry to trouble you so late at night, but do you think I could possibly speak to Phil?"

  "Of course you can, my dear. He'll love to hear from you. Just you hold on a minute and I'll go and find him."

  The agony of waiting was almost more than she could bear, and when at last she heard Phil's voice, cool and steady, she found that she had lost her own.

  "Hullo—hullo--are you still there?" he asked, and at last she was able to make her dry lips articulate faintly, "Yes—"

  "What's the matter?" he asked quickly. "Are you ill?"

  "No. I thought you were in Norway, but Withers told me today where you were—and he said you'd want to know if—if Daddy weren't so well ..."

  "Has he had another heart attack?" Phil's voice was clear and succinct and somehow gave her strength to continue. Yet she still hesitated—it was so difficult to put her nameless fear into words. "No, there isn't really any big change in him. It's justjust that I'm frightened .." A remnant of common sense drew her back. "I'm sorry, it sounds silly. I shouldn't have bothered you—"

  "I'll be with you in about an hour," he cut in energetically. "Get Withers to stay with you. And, Ronnie, don't be frightened. There's nothing to be afraid of."

  "Thank you—thank you, Phil darling," she breathed into the phone, but he had rung off before the words were spoken.

  She did not call Withers. She did not feel the need of someone—anyone—to talk to. There was one particular person she wanted, and he was coming.

  She looked in on her father again. He had dozed off to sleep with the paper still on the bed and his spectacles in one slack hand. He was sleeping quietly, but his breathing was very shallow. She did not want to alarm him and stole softly away again to wait.

  `About an hour,' Phil had said, but she did not think he could drive up from Stoneacres in that time, so she schooled herself not to expect him too soon. So long before she dared to hope she heard the quick steps on the stairs outside the flat and knew that her time of waiting was over.

  She opened the door to him, completely unconscious of how utterly desirable and appealing she looked with

  her fair hair tumbled and the pale green dressing gown outlining her slim figure. "It's so good of you—" she started to say, but he interrupted her, his keen glance seeing beyond the beautiful girl to the frightened child.

  "Why didn't you call me sooner?" he asked.

  "Because I thought you were in Norway—" she heard herself reply, but was not exactly conscious of speaking the words. Everything seemed to be in a kind of golden haze ... "It's the light after sitting in the dark," she thought.

  She thought he answered : "Did you really think I'd go out of reach?" but she was not sure. She was sure, though, that their hands touched as they reached for the handle of her father's door.

  Toby was still quietly dozing, but he opened his eyes as Ronnie switched on the shaded light.

  "Hullo, sir—it's only me, Phil. Just looked in to see you."

  Toby smiled. "Hullo, Phil my boy. How time flies ! I'd no idea you were back. Had a good holiday?"

  "Yes, thank you, sir. How have you been? The old ticker behaving itself ?" Phil took the thin brown wrist in his s
trong fingers and Ronnie noted his eyes watchful on his patient's face.

  "Nothing to complain about," Toby smiled. "I don't seem to have much energy, that's all. I'm glad you came, though, my boy—very glad." He took the younger man's hand in his, and with his other hand stretched out for Ronnie's. Then he smiled up at them quizzically, sighed, closed his eyes—and it was all over for Toby Forbes.

  Death was never kinder nor more gentle, and Ronnie had met it many times before at the hospital. Yet it came with all the impact of a physical blow and left her stunned.

  Almost as an onlooker she knew that Phil took her arm and led her from the room. In the sitting room he gave

  her a little shake and said : "Why don't you cry, damn you! I've a good broad shoulder—you'd feel much better if you could cry."

  But she could not cry—not then. She just sat in the chair where he had put her, until he went away and came back a few minutes later and pushed back her sleeve. She felt the sharp prick of a hypodermic needle, and then things became blurred and unreal.

  Someone must have put her on her bed, for that was where she found herself when she woke hours later. The clock told her that it was past ten, but she felt no urge to move. As long as she lay ,there it seemed that life stood still. Once she got up she would have to face a world that was empty for her.

  She had not realised how much her life, her thoughts, her reason for being, had centred round her father. They had always been close, and it seemed as if the king-pin of her being had been removed.

  She heard voices from the sitting room—a woman and a man—and a moment or two later Lady Porthaven came in. Seeing that Ronnie was awake she came over to the bed and put her arms round her.

  "My poor, dear child," was all she said, but there was such a wealth of comfort in those motherly arms that at last the tears came and brought a measure of relief.

  But tears could not last for ever. There were things to be done, and Ronnie schooled herself to tackle them. It appeared that Aunt Mary had already been sent for, but Adela Porthaven promised to stay until she came.