The Silent Valley

by Jean S. MacLeod

  'I'm going up pick-a-back!' that bright young sprite announced unnecessarily. 'Watch me, Auntie Jane!'

  It was Hazel that Jane watched, however, Hazel mounting the stairs with absolute confidence now, her small daughter perched securely on her back. So many things had happened in four eventful years.

  Hazel took a long time to come down. She had left Jane's meal on the end of the dining-room table, salad and some pressed meat and small, home-made tarts. Obviously her own tea had been shared with Linda earlier, and when she came into the room Jane noticed that she had changed her blue print overall for a tweed skirt and coat. Her eyes were shining with a quiet happiness.

  'Jane,' she said, 'could I be a selfish pig and ask you to baby-sit again? I know you must be tired, but Lindy's generally a lamb once she's been put to bed.'

  Linda's behaviour was anything but lamb-like at the moment. With the peculiar sixth sense of childhood, she was fully aware of something unusual afoot and was asserting her claim to her mother's attention in her own peculiar way.

  'Mummy! I want a drink. Please can I have 'nother drink, 'cos I'm thirsty?'

  When there was no immediate response from a normally doting and attentive parent, there was a brief pause, followed by a series of sleepy yells.

  'She isn't generally like this,' Hazel apologised, glancing uneasily at the clock in the corner. It was evident that she did not notice Jane's own distraught state. 'I did so want to go, but ‑'

  Jane thrust her out of the door.

  'Go, Hazel! Go quickly. You'll be late!'

  She heard the garden gate clang behind her relieved sister and turned to mount the stairs. She ought to be glad. She was glad, but somehow she wished that the knowledge that Hazel was in love again hadn't come to-night.

  Linda capitulated swiftly to the offer of one of Jane's tarts and a bed-time story, and Jane made fresh tea when she got downstairs again. She washed up, thinking of Hazel. Young, hopeful, radiant again, Hazel had a right to happiness, the sort of happiness she had lost when George had died, and it could mean added security for Linda Jane. She wanted them both to be happy, and they would share it with her, as they had shared so much in the past.

  Brief, foolish thought! Hazel came back shortly after eight o'clock, bringing Eric Bridgewater with her.

  'I thought you wouldn't mind me bringing Eric in to supper,' she said, limping through to the kitchen to prowl in the larder for something to feed the man, and Jane was left confronting Eric and liking what she saw.

  He was big and fair and obviously easy-going, with his affection for Hazel an open book shining in his honest brown eyes. He met Jane with just a hint of defensiveness, as if he was prepared to do battle should she attempt to stand in his way, but Jane knew that Hazel's decision was already made. She would marry Eric Bridgewater, and that quickly.

  'Jane,' she said when she came back into the room with a tray, 'Eric and I are going to be married.'

  Jane's delight was instantaneous, sweeping aside selfishness and doubt. This was right for Hazel, right for Linda, too. They would have someone to care for them, a man to stand between them and the outside world. She felt no resentment at the thought of Eric Bridgewater coming to live at Heppleton with them. The house was amply big enough. It had really been too big for them after her mother had died, but Hazel had been reluctant to let it go.

  Jane drank a companionable cup of tea with them while they ate their supper. Eric was pleasant, cheerful in a hearty sort of way that suited Hazel after all these years of depression. She had never been made to live alone, and a man's adoration was essential to her. She blossomed under it like an unfolding rose, watching Eric dispatch the last of her succulent pasties and sighing quite audibly with content.

  Rather pointedly, Hazel chose to do the washing up alone.

  'You did the tea things, Jane. Sit and talk to Eric!'

  It was Eric who did the talking. No sooner had the kitchen door closed upon his beloved than he rose and offered Jane a cigarette from the packet in his pocket. When she refused it he lit one for himself, rather nervously, she thought. His voice was quite steady, however, when he said:

  'I know you won't mind this, Jane—I know how fond you are of Hazel and young Lindy—so you won't grudge Hazel a home of her own, I'm sure.' He paused, drawing hard on the cigarette, forcing an added firmness into his voice as he went on: 'It's all rather a surprise, I guess—rather sudden, perhaps. What will you do about the house?'

  Jane stared at him.

  'The house?' she repeated stupidly.

  'Hazel and I will want our own place.'

  Of course! It was only natural with two people in love. Jane crushed down the rising pain in her heart.

  'I'll have to think about the house,' she said. 'It's—too big for one person, but I kept it on because—because it held so many memories.'

  She crossed to the fire, stirring the laggard coals into new life.

  'When will Hazel and you be married?' she asked.

  'Pretty soon. There's no point in waiting, really.' He was more confident now, once he had got that awkward bit over. It seemed that Jane wasn't greatly concerned about living alone. He didn't quite know what to make of her, that taut upper lip and the clear grey-green eyes meeting his squarely when she might have been accepting defeat. 'It'll be a quiet affair, of course. I've no people.' He went on outlining his plans, unconscious of any cruelty. 'Hazel and I will have our own place, somewhere in the country, I guess. It doesn't matter where I live. I travel about a great deal, but Hazel and young Lindy can come with me most days. It will be good for her to get about. She'll have a woman to do the rough work in the house.'

  When, eventually, they were alone, Hazel appeared sensitive about their fully matured plans.

  'If Eric hadn't wanted to live out of town you could have come with us, Jane,' she began.

  'No, Hazel—good gracious, no!' Jane was quick to protest. 'It's the most natural thing in the world that Eric should want you to himself once you're married. I'll be all right. I'll have to give up the house, of course. The rent's too heavy for one person, and we can share the furniture. I'll look out for a flat somewhere.'

  Hazel did little things to please her after that, so that the hurt they had inflicted should not go too deep. She felt guilty, but sometimes she consoled herself with the reflection that her own unexpected romance was not the only reason for Jane's sudden reticence.

  Jane plunged back into work. There was plenty of it at Conyers. They were hopelessly understaffed, as usual. Two of the Irish nurses had left after a 'few words' with Matron.

  They were more independent these days, knowing their value in the general shortage. Quite often she helped in the rooms when the theatre was not in use.

  It was a week before she met Stuart Hemmingway again. Clarrie Parr was on leave and she had taken her duty on the downstairs corridor, where bells rang incessantly. She saw the tally go down on number seven as she prepared the mid-morning trays and she picked up Della Cortonwell's diet chart with a quickened heartbeat. Nothing special. Marmite, biscuits and cream cheese. It was all ready.

  She walked briskly along the corridor, tapping lightly on the door of number seven before she entered.

  The room was full of flowers. Their heady perfume was the first impression she got as she entered, but her eyes went instinctively to the girl in the bed. Della Cortonwell looked as if she might be taller than average and she was very slim. She had hollows at the base of her throat and there were deep shadows beneath her amber coloured eyes. Otherwise, she was strikingly beautiful. Her hair was a deep chestnut brown, her skin pale by contrast, and her red lips were firm and exquisitely moulded. There was a determination about the lift of her head that Jane liked, although she told herself that it was probably immaterial what she thought about her unexpected patient.

  'Good morning!' She put the tray down on the bedside table and felt for the bed rest. 'I heard your bell. I'm deputising for Nurse Parr.'

  Della gave her a l
ong, searching look.

  'Why haven't I seen you before?'

  'Normally I'm in the theatre, on the floor above.'

  Della's interest deepened, the amber eyes darkening a little.

  'That's Stuart's sphere, I suppose. Was he operating yesterday?' She laughed suddenly. 'Of course! I should learn to call him Mr. Hemmingway!'

  'We've been concentrating on tonsils and the odd appendix this week.' Jane's heart was beating with ridiculous energy. 'There hasn't been anything big.'

  'Big enough for Stuart, do you mean? I suppose he's gone beyond tonsils.' Della studied her tray uninterestedly. 'How long do they expect me to thrive on this hateful mess?' she demanded.

  'If you don't like it you can have something else, but it really is very nourishing.'

  Della made a wry face.

  'And that's the point, isn't it?' Suddenly her voice was harsh. 'The unequal battle against the insidious disease.'

  Jane said cheerfully: 'There are times when we all need to rest, when we've overdone things a little.'

  'At twenty-five!' The lovely mouth twisted bitterly. 'Can you imagine anything more ghastly than having to "take care" at every step because they've suddenly discovered that one lung is doing the work of two?'

  The amber eyes, clear and alert, were steady on Jane's, disdaining the soft answer, challenging her to speak truthfully.

  'No,' Jane admitted. 'But you're not being terribly fair, are you? This is one disease where a cure can be almost certain these days, but you have to give it a chance to work. So much advance has been made in the past twenty years that nothing is impossible. Mr. Hemmingway is an authority on the subject. You're in safe hands.'

  'I know.' Della looked ashamed of her sudden outburst. 'He wants me to go to Switzerland, but I won't.'

  Jane removed the offending Marmite, proffering the biscuits, which met with as little enthusiasm.

  'Why don't you go?' she asked.

  A flood of colour suffused Della's pale cheeks.

  'I couldn't. There are—reasons. I don't want to leave Norchester. Surely Stuart can do something for me here?'

  She was clinging to Stuart's strength, to his ability to help her, and possibly to the comforting knowledge of his love.

  Jane turned abruptly to the window, making a pretence of drawing back the curtains, rearranging the chrysanthemums in the tall vase on the sill until she was in absolute control of her emotions.

  Della was not what she had expected. She was not small and soft and delicately appealing, the sort of person to stimulate a man's protective instinct, but she probably had a greater attraction for Stuart for that very reason. Della knew where she was going. Strength of will lay behind that high, narrow forehead and in the fold of the red lips, and there was purpose, too, in the unwavering look of the strange, light eyes. Della Cortonwell was a personality not easily assigned to any particular niche, with her direct approach and baffling suggestion of reserve. Jane knew instinctively that her present illness had come upon her with all the paralysing quality of shock, a thing undreamed of and, therefore, the more resented. It was something to which she would never become resigned.

  Jane had turned back to the bed when Stuart came in. He put his head round the door after a first brief knock, and then he came into the room and crossed to his patient's side. Jane saw Della's face light up, her eyes grow warm and deep in the instant.

  'Well, how do we feel this morning?' he asked with a mixture of professional reserve and a tenderness Jane remembered only too well. He took Della's wrist between his fingers. 'Sleep well?' he asked.

  'As well as could be expected, Doctor!' Della mocked. 'Stuart, you've got to get me out of here. I'm not really as ill as all this!'

  'And have you running all over the town, and heaven knows what else besides?' he queried, keeping his gaze fixed on his watch.

  'I promise you I won't run—not if you say not to!'

  'I'd have to have someone to keep a check on you.' He released her wrist and smiled into her stubborn face. 'No, Della, you're safer here.'

  'Because I refuse to do as you say and go to Switzerland?'

  He sat down on the bed with his back to Jane.

  'Because what I propose would be the best way, the surest way for your recovery.'

  Della put her fingers over the wrist he had released, as if to protect it. She was no longer looking at Stuart.

  'You've got a strongly sadistic streak somewhere,' she accused. 'You know quite well why I don't want to go.'

  He got up from the bed and crossed to the dressing-table, idly examining the chart Jane had left there.

  'You needn't go back to St. Moritz,' he said evenly. 'I'm not suggesting that.'

  'It would be all the same.' Della's eyes were still resentful. 'I'm not going,' she said.

  He raised his shoulders in the faintest suggestion of a shrug and turned to Jane.

  'How goes the theatre work?' he asked. 'You look tired.'

  His eyes searched hers, gravely, professionally. There was nothing else.

  'I'm beginning to gain the confidence you promised I should,' she said. 'I had none at first.'

  'I'm surprised at that,' he said immediately. 'Time was when you had plenty of confidence, Jane.'

  Della's eyes searched first Jane's face and then Stuart's. Jane was very pale.

  'I had no idea you two knew each other,' she said.

  'We're both fledglings of the City General,' Stuart answered, the indifference of his tone stinging Jane, as it was probably meant to do. 'We—lost touch for a year or two, though. I had no idea Sister Calvert was at Conyers.'

  Or Conyers might have been deprived of your valuable services, Jane thought. Oh, Stuart! this is too paltry. If you want to hurt me there are so many other ways. Yet indifference was the final, the most dreaded barb, and he knew how to use it with the finesse of an expert.

  'I'll take this cup away, Miss Cortonwell, and bring you something else.'

  She wanted to escape, to get away from that look on Della's face and Stuart's tall, angular confidence. He was master of the situation, the man at one with his profession whose confidence was expected of him. It was part of his stock in trade, but it was new to her. There had been a time when she had shared his uncertainty, his youthful groping with the future, but now it seemed that he needed nothing, neither tenderness nor encouragement nor the help of love. There was a hardness about him that emanated from within.

  She could not think that it had been put on as an armour.

  Tom Sark was in the corridor when she reached it.

  'Hullo!' he said, 'I'd no idea you were down on Millionaires' Row. I thought you were exclusively theatre these days?'

  'I can't sit twiddling my thumbs waiting for emergencies to crop up.' Her answer had been sharper than she had intended and she was instantly sorry. 'Have you finished for the day?' she asked.

  'Not me! "A doctor's work is never done"!' He quoted Matron with a grin. 'Anyway, you've been avoiding me these past few days. Why?'

  'I've been very busy.'

  'You're always busy. We all are, but we must get some sort of relaxation or we'll develop into very dull boys!' He looked at her keenly. 'You appear to be in need of relaxation right now, so I shall prescribe a "cuppa" at the Linden Cafe and a visit to the flicks. Doctor's orders!'

  'I'm standing in for Clarrie Parr,' Jane hedged, 'and I'll be on call even if I do get the afternoon off.'

  They had reached the green baize door leading to the kitchens and she put her back against it and slid through, relieved that she had managed to evade him without undue argument, but she had not taken Tom's natural persistence into sufficient account. He was still there when she reappeared with Della's beaker of warm milk.

  'Look here, Jane,' he declared, 'it's no use trying to put me off like that. I'm a persistent devil when I try, and I'm certainly trying now. We've got to have time off, and we've got to have it together. To hell with Conyers' rules!'

  Jane walked briskly along the
corridor, her head up, a purposeful gleam in her eyes.

  'It's no use, Tom. If Matron gets to know we'll both be on the carpet.'

  His face reddened.

  'She's not going to interfere in my affairs,' he declared. 'Not any more. I'm not one of her nursing staff.'

  'But I am,' Jane pointed out. 'Please, Tom, don't make it difficult. I—I'm serious about this.'

  'The devil you are! So am I.' He put a detaining hand on her arm as a door opened ahead of them. 'It's not like you to lie down to this sort of thing, Jane. See you later!'

  He wheeled and went off in the direction of the doctors' common-room, leaving Jane to face Stuart Hemmingway outside Della's door.

  It would have been impossible for Stuart to have pretended the he had not seen the incident with Tom. He scorned pretence at any time, and he was regarding her now with a sardonic expression which deepened the colour of his eyes until they were almost black.

  'What have we here?' he asked, lifting the beaker from the tray and sniffing curiously. 'Nothing obnoxious, I hope?'

  His care for Della came first, of course. Jane felt her hands tighten on the tray as her breathing quickened.

  'Miss Cortonwell didn't want the Marmite you ordered. It appears to upset her.'

  'A good many things appear to be upsetting Della at present,' he mused, 'but I think we'll have to humour her over the Marmite. She isn't really a difficult person, but at times you will have to exert your authority.'

  'I'm not really Miss Cortonwell's nurse,' she told him. 'Nurse Parr is in charge down here.'

  'Pity,' he said, as if the fact had only just occurred to him.

  'Of course, you're in the theatre. Is it a permanent posting, or are you very much on trial?'

  'Very much on trial, I should think.'

  He glanced at her keenly.

  'It's what you wanted?'

  'Yes.' She looked away from him and a wretched sort of pride goaded her to say: 'I don't think I disgraced myself the other day. Matron was apparently quite satisfied—or so she told me.'

  'Compliments from Matron are never anything but genuine, I should imagine,' he said. 'She approves of you, Jane. You should go far.' Satire deepened his tone and the lines about his handsome mouth were etched more deeply. 'Beware of the romance angle, though,' he warned. 'She has an interest in young Sark's career, I understand.'