by Betty Neels
St Alma’s seemed dark and grim in the damp October evening. To live there and not be able to go to Wendens Ambo each week would be ghastly. Clotilde cheered herself up with the thought that once they were married, they would at least have a home of their own, however small. She began to think about mortgages as she unpacked her bag. She had a little money saved and there were the few hundreds Mr Trent had assured her of, and surely Bruce would have something put by. He wasn’t an extravagant man and other than his car, his expenses were few. It surprised her that she had never wanted to know.
She went to supper presently, late but still in time for the second meal that those who had been on duty could have when they left the wards. And when she got back to the home, there was a message for her to be in the entrance hall. They were too late for a drink, but there was a small café close by where they could get coffee. Clotilde was so glad to see Bruce again that she hardly noticed his preoccupied air, and when he suggested that they went back to the hospital she agreed. He hadn’t said much about his day, but probably it had been a busy one.
‘How did the perf go?’ she asked.
He didn’t answer at once and then said: ‘Oh, the perf—very well—he’s doing fine.’
He must be very tired, thought Clotilde with faint worry; usually he liked to give her a blow-by-blow account of his cases. ‘You simply must get a couple of days off,’ she declared, and had to be content with his: ‘Well, I will—do stop fussing!’
So they walked back to St Alma’s, and although Clotilde had her arm in his, she had never felt so far away from him. It would be better in a day or two, she told herself, getting ready for bed. He was overworked and worried and perhaps, like her, he felt frustrated at their not being able to see one another as often as they wanted to. She got into bed and lay for a while, thinking about it, and came to the conclusion that there was nothing much to be done about it at the moment. She would have liked to have talked about it to someone— James Thackery would do nicely, with his calm impartial manner and his certainty that things would sort themselves out. She was too impatient and she mustn’t fuss.
She reminded herself of that several times during the next few days. She saw Bruce from time to time, but never for more than a few minutes, and it always happened to be in some place where all the world could see them. She wasn’t sure whether she was pleased or vexed at the idea of seeing Dr Thackery again. The day of his return saw her on the ward in good time, making sure that everything was ready for his visit, and then, with time to spare, she went into her office to start on some of the paper work; there was a good half hour before he was due and he was always exactly on time.
But not this morning. She had picked up the laundry list preparatory to phoning the laundry and enquiring as to the dearth of pillowcases when the door opened and the doctor came in. His, ‘Good morning, Sister,’ was uttered in his usual casual friendly fashion, but his eyes searched her far too pale face. He closed the door and leaned against it. ‘Problems solved?’ he wanted to know.
Clotilde stared up at him, aware of the relief at just seeing him again. ‘Well,’ she began, ‘you see, we never have time to talk, Bruce and I. He’s busy or I’m on duty when he isn’t, but he said I must be patient and not fuss, so I think he’s doing something and isn’t going to tell me until it’s settled. I just hope Sir Oswald offers him another year’s appointment—this one lapses in two weeks’ time.’
Dr Thackery’s face gave nothing away. He said kindly: ‘Ah, yes, of course. Well, I’m sorry the banns haven’t been read, but you’ve made some progress, haven’t you? It isn’t quite as hopeless as it seemed, is it?’
She agreed seriously and asked if he’d had a good holiday.
‘Very pleasant. Terrible weather, though. Is there much new on the ward?’
She shook her head. ‘Four new patients. Are you doing your round now? We’re quite ready if you want to.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got someone to see first. I’ll be here at the usual time.’ He had gone as quickly and quietly as he had come.
Clotilde went back to her list and the telephone. He had been a little remote, she reflected, and found herself blushing. How boring for him having to listen to her moans; he had no reason to be interested; he had done his good deed and she must remember that and not impose on him further. She would be eternally grateful for his help and kindness when she had needed it so badly, but enough was enough. Next time he asked her about her plans, she would give him a bright and cheerful answer, even if it wasn’t true.
She went to the ward door to meet him, as she had done so many times, wishing him good morning for the second time, and led him from bed to bed, the very epitome of professional competence and dignity, and studying his assured calmness, she found it hard to believe that this was the same man who had listened so patiently to her unhappy meanderings and actually suggested that she should call him James.
She caught his eye and realised that he had spoken to her, and he smiled very faintly as he repeated his suggestion that the woman he had been examining should have another blood count done. He turned to reassure his patient that it was merely a routine thing done at regular intervals. ‘Just to make sure you’re making progress,’ he said kindly, and Clotilde, knowing that Mrs Duckworth was suffering from myeloid leukaemia and had a not very hopeful future, reflected, as she so often did when he was on the ward, that he was not only very good at his job, he was good at handling people too, passing on some of his own calm and never seeming to be in a hurry.
The round over, she led the way to her office for coffee. Dr Evans was there, of course, and Jeff Saunders, and the talk was all of the patients and their treatments. They got up to go presently, and she went down the ward and stood at the door while they filed through behind Dr Thackery, who after a brief ‘Good morning, Sister,’ was already striding towards Men’s Surgical.
She had her days off the next day and since she hadn’t seen Bruce she took herself off home, leaving a message at the lodge for him. Busy or not, he could at least have found time to say ‘hullo’. Clotilde drove herself in the Mini, glad to get away for a while, glad too that it was a lovely morning, with a blue sky and a late autumn sunshine. She was looking forward to getting into the garden, and she and Rosie must put their heads together about housekeeping. Her mother had always had a well filled larder, but it would need replenishing; they could make out a list together and she would leave enough money to see Rosie through the next few weeks. There would be the rates to pay, and the gas and electricity and the telephone bill, she thought anxiously; she would have to see Mr Trent and discover just how much money there was.
But once back in her home, her worries receded. It was nice to be welcomed and made much of, to go upstairs to her own room and change into slacks and a sweater and go down to the kitchen for Rosie’s excellent coffee and her gentle gossip about the village. That it would have to end soon was something she put out of her mind; just now she was content.
There was a phone call from Canada that afternoon to say that her sister had had a baby girl. She had been told of her parents’ deaths, but there was no chance of her coming over to England for the time being. ‘Next year, Tilly,’ she promised. ‘And how about you coming out here and paying us a long visit? I’m so sorry you’ve got all the worry of seeing to things, but you’ve got Bruce.’
Clotilde agreed that she had Bruce, ‘And I’ve written to you. There’s such a lot to explain. Mr Trent was going to write too; he’s been waiting for you to have the baby.’ They talked for a few minutes more, then hung up. It might be an idea to go to Canada later on if Bruce didn’t want to get married just yet. She might get a temporary job and get some money saved. ‘Oh, poor Bruce,’ she said, throwing sticks for Tinker in the garden. ‘There must be some sort of way—if only I had a rich aunt!’
She went into the house for tea, resolved to see Mr Trent and ask his advice.
But as it happened there was no need of that. She spent
two happy days at home and then drove back after supper. She parked the Mini, and because there might be a message for her at the lodge, walked round to the hospital entrance. Bruce was crossing the hall as she went in and she called softly: ‘Hi— I’m just back. Did you leave a note for me? I was coming to look.’
He came towards her reluctantly. ‘I guessed you’d be about now—a pity it’s late, we could have talked…’
‘I’m not tired; we could go to a café and have coffee.’ Clotilde smiled at him. ‘You’ve got news for me, haven’t you? Can’t I know now?’
‘What, now, with everyone listening to every word?’
There wasn’t a soul in sight and she said so, but Bruce laughed and bent to kiss her. ‘There’s no hurry,’ he told her. ‘When are you off tomorrow?’
‘Five o’clock.’
‘I’m off at six, with any luck. Be at the car about half past six and we’ll have a meal somewhere.’ He kissed again and turned away. ‘I must see a couple of patients,’ he told her, and walked quickly away.
She spent quite a time in futile speculation before she slept that night, and it was hard to keep her mind on her work the next day. Five o’clock had never taken so long to come, but come it did, finally, and she made her way to have a sketchy tea and change. Last time they had gone out together Bruce had been annoyed because she hadn’t been dressed up enough; she chose to wear the grey flannel suit with a navy silk blouse and navy shoes—an outfit which would pass muster if he intended to take her somewhere special. And it would be, she decided excitedly; Bruce had said he had news, and he had looked excited. It was a pity that he had been reluctant to tell her, but it would be all the more wonderful now.
She found matching gloves and handbag, gave her burnished topknot a final pat, and went down to where he kept his car. He was already there and greeted her with a quite unusual heartiness and her spirits soared, to be somewhat dashed by his: ‘You’ve got yourself up— I was going to the pub for something in a basket and a pint.’
‘Suits me, and I’m hardly dressed for the Ritz, am I?’
All the same, she was disappointed, though she wasn’t going to say so, but she did murmur a question as Bruce drove past the Fleece and Thicket where they usually went. In fact he drove for five minutes or more and finally parked the car outside a small pub tucked away in a side street in the city.
‘We’ve never been here before,’ observed Clotilde as they went in. Bruce was on edge and she wondered why, but he was so attentive, ordering their drinks and asking what she would like to eat, that she forgot that while she listened to him giving an amusing account of his day. It was a few minutes after they had been brought their chicken in a basket that she begged: ‘Now tell me this news, Bruce.’
‘You won’t like it— I’ve been hoping you’d guess…’
She gave him a puzzled look. ‘What should I have guessed? Hasn’t Sir Oswald offered you a new appointment? Well, you mustn’t worry…’
‘Oh, do listen—how you do carry on! Can’t you see how impossible it is? For us to marry? To even stay engaged? How am I ever going to make my way if I’ve got you to provide for—we would never save a farthing—it would be years before I could apply for even a junior consultant’s post. I want to go ahead now, can’t you understand? While I’m young. I’m sorry, darling, I adore you, you know that, but my work is very important to me; I’m determined to reach the top any price.’ He added almost accusingly: ‘You must understand. I’ve got the chance of a marvellous post…’
Clotilde hadn’t said a word. She had gone very white and she had the feeling that she was going to faint, only, she reminded herself, great strapping girls like her never fainted. All the same, she had to do something. She picked up her bag and gloves, stood up, and walked away very fast. She heard his not too loud ‘Clotilde!’ behind her, but she didn’t pause. He wouldn’t come after her because he wouldn’t want to make a scene in the crowded bar. She went out into the dark evening and started to walk. She walked a long way, not having the least idea where she was going, her head empty of all thought, which was perhaps just as well. She found herself on the Embankment finally and looked up at Big Ben to see the time. It was almost midnight. Half the night gone, she thought thankfully, and in the morning she would have her work to keep her occupied. She was almost at Whitehall Place when a police car pulled up beside her.
‘Are you all right, love?’ asked the driver. ‘It’s a bit late to be out on your own.’ He got out of the car and gave her a closer look. ‘Not feeling too good, are you? Hop in and we’ll give you a lift home.’
Clotilde said in a polite wooden voice: ‘That’s very kind of you. I didn’t realise I’d come so far. I’m a sister at St Alma’s— I expect that’s rather out of your way.’
He opened the door and ushered her in. ‘Ten minutes. You oughtn’t to be out on your own, Sister.’ He repeated, Anything we can do?’
She managed to smile from a wooden face. ‘No, there isn’t, but thank you for asking. I’ll be all right— I just had to—to get used to something.’
They dropped her off at the hospital gates by the ambulance entrance and she thanked them and wished them good night and then went in through the side door to the Accident room. The staff nurse on duty gave her a surprised look, but beyond a, ‘Goodnight, Sister Collins,’ she didn’t say anything. Clotilde went through the back passages of the hospital and so to the Nurses’ Home, climbed the stairs like an old, old woman and gained her room. She undressed quickly, got into her bed, and because she was so exhausted with emotion, slept at once, to wake a couple of hours later and stay awake, her tired brain going over and over the things that Bruce had said.
CHAPTER FOUR
CLOTILDE GOT UP long before she needed to and went along to the pantry and made tea before spending a long time at the dressing table doing the best she could with her face. She hadn’t cried; she wished she could have done so, and at least her eyes weren’t puffy or her nose red, there were purple shadows under her eyes and no colour at all in her face—something which her companions at breakfast were too quick to notice.
‘Got a cold coming on?’ someone asked sympathetically, and when she said yes, she thought she had, they offered various remedies, not quite believing her. After all, it was only a few weeks since her parents had died so tragically. Her colleagues bunched round her as they walked to their wards, offering a wordless sympathy that warmed her cold heart.
Providentially, the ward was busy. Miss Knapp was back again, making life unbearable for everyone who came near her, and an elderly deaf and dumb woman had been admitted, and since she was too ill to bother with lip-reading or the notes written for her, Clotilde spent a great deal of time making her understand about the various treatments she was to have. If it hadn’t been for several cheerful Cockney women, always ready for a joke, the ward would have been a gloomy one. As it was, there wasn’t much time to dwell on that; the nurses bustled to and fro and Clotilde wrote up charts, attended to Dr Evans’ wants, which were many, and worked her way steadily through the administration.
She went off duty at last, glad that the day’s work had kept her too busy to think about herself or Bruce, and when someone suggested that she might like to go to the cinema with some of her friends, she agreed, outwardly cheerful. It would pass the evening, and sitting alone moping wasn’t going to make things easier anyway.
She slept that night and found that by keeping herself busier than she needed to she could get through the day well enough, and it was getting easier with each day too. She was aware that there was gossip about her and Bruce, but no one really knew anything and she had no intention of telling them. Perhaps later, when she could talk about it rationally, she would tell Fiona.
It was Dr Thackery’s round the next morning; she did her face with extra care, studying it intently. It didn’t look too bad and if she used blusher on her cheeks she would look perfectly normal. Nothing like a little colour, she encouraged herself, and was disappo
inted to find that it didn’t help at all, only made her face whiter than it was. She rubbed it all off and went, rather late, to breakfast.
There were still several ill patients on the ward and Dr Thackery hadn’t seen them yet, which meant that the round would take longer than usual. A good thing, as since he had to go to Men’s Medical afterwards, he might decide not to stay for coffee and certainly there would be no time for a leisurely chat. Clotilde met him at the door as she always did, wished him an over-bright good morning and avoided his eye.
She had been right—the round took ages, not that it made any difference to their coffee break. Dr Thackery settled himself in the chair opposite her desk with the air of a man who had all day in which to do nothing, and although the talk was of all the patients and their treatment, she was annoyedly aware that he was watching her, and when he got up to go she jumped up with alacrity, eager to see the last of him, terrified that he might make some remark about Bruce and destroy her hard-held calm. But he didn’t, merely thanked her as he always did, bade her good morning and walked off with his team.
She sat down again when they’d gone and heaved a sigh of relief. Sally was in the ward seeing that the nurses were getting the patients ready for their dinners, and although she had a pile of charts and notes to sort out, Clotilde allowed them to lie on the desk before her. She was filled with an overwhelming desire to talk to Dr Thackery, to tell him about the awful thing that had happened and be allowed to weep all over him and be comforted—the very last thing she would do. She pulled the first of the charts towards her and lifted her pen as the door opened and he walked in.
Her pale face flushed and then went paler still. She found her voice. ‘Have you forgotten something, sir? Or did you want to see a patient again?’
He ignored this. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, quite sharply for him. ‘You look as though you’ve been trampled underfoot. Has Johnson been upsetting you?’