by Betty Neels
He was standing in front of her so that she was forced to look at him. She said with some truth: ‘I’ve not been sleeping well, otherwise everything is fine.’
He stared at her. ‘Is it? Your future settled?’
‘Yes—yes, it is.’ And that wasn’t a lie, she consoled herself, only a bit misleading, and if only he would go before she poured it all out and he would be forced to stand there and listen to her self-pitying moans. ‘It’s nice to have it all decided,’ she added.
His, ‘Very nice,’ was uttered so blandly that she gave him a sharp look. He was staring out of the window at the vista of chimneypots and didn’t return her look, and presently he went away, his, ‘Goodbye, Clotilde,’ very placid.
Over lunch with Sir Oswald, however, his feelings were far from placid, although not for one moment did he allow his calm manner to reveal them.
‘He’s not a bad surgeon,’ observed his companion, ‘not bad at all; he should go far. Pity he has no money—still, I’ve done the best I can for him. Leeds Hospital is a good stepping off point for him.’ He laughed cosily. ‘The first rung up the ladder, shall we say?’ He sipped his coffee. ‘He was engaged, you know, to that pretty creature on Women’s Medical—of course, you know her—he’s taken her decision not to marry him like a man, I must say, although as I pointed out, he’ll go farther faster without her!’ He added: ‘She’s pretty enough to marry anyone she fancies.’
‘Indeed yes,’ agreed Dr Thackery.
It was two days before he saw Clotilde again; he had come on to the ward to examine a patient Dr Evans wasn’t too happy about, and Clotilde, called from her office by one of the nurses, had sailed down the ward to meet him. Her manner was pleasant and professional, but her eyes were miserable and deeply shadowed. She had come face to face with Bruce in one of the corridors that morning and given him back his ring which she had been carrying with her in the hope of just such a meeting.
He had gone red and taken it without a word, and she stayed only to wish him good luck in his new job before continuing on her way to the Path. Lab. It had, somehow, made everything final; she supposed that right up to that moment, she had held the faint hope that Bruce would seek her out and tell her that he loved her so much that he was willing to forgo some of his ambitions.
Dr Thackery spent ten minutes or so with his patient, then left without a word other than fresh instructions for Clotilde to carry out. But halfway along the corridor he turned back just as she was going into the ward again.
He said vaguely: ‘I may not be here for the round… When do you take your days off, Sister? I prefer you to be on duty.’
‘The day after tomorrow, sir, and the day after that. Which day will you be coming?’
He frowned a little. ‘I will let you know.’
He turned on his heel, and after a minute she went back into the ward.
She drove herself home at the end of the following day, and even though it was barely six o’clock as she left the hospital, the evening was rapidly darkening. It took her some time to get out of London, but it was only a little over an hour later when she stopped outside her home.
Rosie was waiting for her with a meal, half tea, half supper, and she sat down obediently to eat it, Tinker pressed to her side and Rosie staring at her from across the table.
‘What’s up, love?’ she asked presently.
‘Bruce has given me up,’ said Clotilde, and was surprised to feel nothing much but tiredness. ‘He’s got a high-powered job in Leeds.’ She added quickly: ‘It’s quite all high-powered right, I’m getting over it— I suppose in a way I was half expecting it.’
‘You’ve not been sleeping,’ accused Rosie. ‘You go this minute and sit down by the fire while I tidy away these things. You have a nice nap and I’ll bring you a hot drink, then you’ll go to bed.’
Clotilde got up and dropped a kiss on the elderly cheek. ‘What a darling you are, Rosie! I feel marvellous now I’m home, and I do believe I could doze for a bit. I feel mean leaving you with the washing up, though.’
‘Pooh,’ said Rosie. ‘You disappear and do as I say—you can wash up all you want to tomorrow.’
The sitting room was cosy in the firelight and Clotilde curled up in an easy chair drawn up to the hearth. It was very quiet in the room and she wished it could stay that way endlessly, with no future to worry about and no feelings to be hurt. She was lulled to sleep by its peace within a few minutes.
When she woke up Dr Thackery was sitting in the chair opposite her, reading a newspaper. He lowered it as she stirred and then she sat up, gaping at him. ‘However did you get here?’ she asked, and, ‘How long…? What’s the time?’ and then: ‘Is anything the matter at the hospital?’
He put the newspaper down. ‘I came by car, and I’ve been here for just under an hour.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost nine o’clock, and there’s nothing the matter at St Alma’s.’
She shook her head to settle her wits. ‘Oh—then why…? Would you like some coffee or supper or a drink?’
He ignored that. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Clotilde?’
She studied his calm face. It was really impossible to lie to him; if he had raised his voice or shown annoyance high-powered or anger it might have been different—as it was, she heard herself say meekly: ‘I thought I’d bored you enough with my troubles, you might have said: “Oh, lord, here she is again whining away and wanting sympathy and expecting me to solve her worries.” So I wasn’t going to tell you.’
He said mildly: ‘I get my share of hospital gossip, you know. I had Sir Oswald’s version over lunch yesterday.’ He asked with interest: ‘Did you jilt Johnson, Clotilde?’
Her dark eyes flashed. ‘No, I did not! He took me out for supper and told me that his work was more important than I was…’ She gulped back the lump in her throat. ‘I would have been a hindrance, you see,’ she finished bitterly.
‘So now what will you do?’ The doctor’s voice was placidly enquiring and not in the least demanding.
‘I have no idea.’ Clotilde jumped to her feet, overwhelmed with the desire to burst into tears, even scream a little to relieve her feelings. Dr Thackery got up too, and somehow without knowing how it happened, she found herself with his arms round her, sobbing her heart out.
It took all of five minutes for her to sniffle and snuffle her way to an end. When she finally lifted her head she said with watery dignity: ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I had to do that—so silly. And I can’t think why you put up with it.’
‘That’s what friends are for.’ He took out a handkerchief and mopped her face in a matter-of-fact fashion. ‘You’re going to feel better from now on.’
She smiled up at him and gave a great sniff. ‘Oh, you are nice,’ she told him. ‘A splendid friend—you’re always here at the right moment.’ She chuckled: ‘Well, at the right moment for me, at any rate.’
‘I aim to please. How about that coffee?’
‘And something to eat? There’s whisky in the dining room.’ She asked anxiously: ‘You don’t have to go again?’
‘I hoped you would ask me to stay the night…’
‘Oh, please do. Rosie will be so pleased; she’s been lonely even with her niece here, and cooking for the two of them is no challenge to her. If you could stay until lunch tomorrow she’ll be up in the clouds.’
‘Thank you—if you want me to?’
‘Well, of course, I do. I’ll ask her to make some coffee and get you something to eat—would sandwiches do? We had supper when I got here, but I could make an omelette…?’
He shook his head. ‘Coffee and sandwiches sound fine, thanks. May I put the car away while you are seeing to them?’
Suddenly everything was bearable again; Clotilde smiled with something like content. ‘Yes, do—and you’ll be in the room you had last time.’
He came back into the kitchen just as she had finished the sandwiches and sat down at the table.
‘Rosie’s making up your be
d; she’ll be down in a minute and the coffee’s ready.’
The three of them sat there, drinking their coffee while the doctor made inroads into the sandwiches. They talked about her parents, and afterwards Clotilde realised he had deliberately led her on to doing that. Nothing more was said about Bruce, it wasn’t until she woke the next morning that she remembered that she hadn’t thought about him once.
They had their breakfast, the three of them, at the kitchen table, then the doctor washed up while Clotilde and Rosie made beds and Hoovered and then, leaving Rosie to prepare lunch, they took Tinker for a walk—a proper country walk along bridle paths and skirting the edges of fields. There had been a slight frost during the night and the ground was hard under their feet, but the sun shone and they walked at a good pace, not talking a great deal. They had turned for home before he asked: ‘Have you seen Mr Trent lately? Are your affairs going well?’
‘I haven’t heard. I suppose he’s paying off what Father owed and…’ She paused and went on: ‘He said he’d settle up with you, for—for the expenses. Did he?’
‘That’s been dealt with long since,’ he assured her. ‘And it’s still early days for the mortgager to foreclose. You will continue to work at St Alma’s?’
‘Well, yes. What else can I do? It’s quite well paid, you know. I’d like to go away—oh, a long way away and start again, but how can I? With Rosie to look after and everything to settle about the house and the furniture… I wish I could turn my back on it all and then come back and find everything arranged for me.’ She sighed. ‘I had no idea I was so fainthearted. And everyone’s been so kind. I know there’s been a lot of talk about Bruce and me, but only behind my back, once he’s gone it will all be forgotten.’
‘But not by you.’ His voice was very gentle and quiet.
‘No,’ she agreed sadly. ‘I wondered if later on, when things are sorted out, if I took a job miles away—you know, out of sight, out of mind—that sort of thing.’
‘A holiday?’ he suggested. ‘To see if you would really like that?’
‘Perhaps. Do you think it’s a good idea?’
‘Yes, I do. Because when you come back to St Alma’s you’ll know if you really want to leave and make a new life somewhere else.’ He was looking straight ahead and she thought how stern his profile was. ‘You might think seriously of that.’
‘Yes—well, perhaps I will. I’m beginning to feel I can start again.’
‘Splendid. How about taking Rosie into Saffron Walden after lunch, it will be a little outing for her—we might have tea somewhere?’
‘That sounds lovely.’ She added: ‘I’m on in the morning early…’
‘We’ll go back after supper.’
She stopped to look up at him. ‘Why did you come?’ she asked.
He shrugged massive shoulders. ‘I wanted to know the reason for you not telling me about you and Johnson.’ He sounded so casual about it that she didn’t ask any more questions but started to throw sticks for Tinker.
The afternoon’s outing was highly satisfactory. Rosie, delighted to be whisked off without warning, was even more delighted when the doctor made her a present of a handbag she had admired, treated her to a splendid tea and bought her a pot plant she fancied. ‘It’s like having a birthday,’ she breathed. ‘I haven’t had such a nice time since your ma and pa gave me that bit of fur for Christmas.’
It was as they drove back that Clotilde realised that talking about her mother and father was no longer the pain it had been; she grieved for them, but it was a grief that she could cope with. Now she must disentangle herself from Bruce.
They drove back to St Alma’s that evening, quite late after one of Rosie’s splendid suppers, and parted with the casualness of good friends at the entrance. Clotilde had no idea where James Thackery lived and she wasn’t particularly curious about it. She went through the swing doors with a backward smiling glance and up to her room. She had thanked him nicely for his visit and tried to explain without much success, how much it had helped her, but he had waved aside her thanks in a negligent manner. She had hoped that he might say when they could meet again, but he made no mention of it. ‘And quite right too,’ she told herself, getting ready for bed. ‘He must have quite a social life of his own, and heaven knows he’s wasted enough time on me in the past few weeks.’
All the same, she felt disappointed when he did his usual round a few days later and made no attempt to speak to her other than to give her directions about various treatments. ‘Back to square one,’ she muttered, watching his enormous back disappearing down the corridor. Not that there was any reason for it to be otherwise, only his comforting bulk had stood between her and her worries, and now it wasn’t there any more, she missed it. ‘Time you stood on your two feet, by yourself, my girl,’ she told her reflection.
The gossip had died down, of course. Bruce was still around, but she contrived to keep out of his way, and pride had helped her to show a calm face to the world of St Alma’s. And if she cried about it, she did it when she was alone. Her world was shattered, but she had the good sense to know that in time she would pick up the pieces.
Thank heaven, the ward was busy. The annual influx of elderly ladies with chest complaints was already in full spate, and early November was proving to be cold and damp and windy, none of which contributed to the comfort of those same elderly ladies living in poky flats with not enough heating and with little inclination to cook good hot meals for themselves.
Clotilde put up extra beds, coped with a shortage of nurses, and found the days long. It was a relief when Bruce left. He hadn’t come near her since that awful evening at the pub, and when occasionally they had unavoidable meetings around the hospital, he had given her an accusing look as though the whole miserable business had been her fault.
But even when he had gone, she still thought of him, not so much of him, perhaps, but of the life she had been looking forward to. She told herself vigorously not to look back but to plan for the future, but that didn’t stop her wakeful nights. She would never look plain, but the sparkle had gone out of her, and although she gossiped and laughed with her friends and went out and about, it was an effort to do so.
She went home on her days off, of course, and when Rosie wanted to know when they were to see that nice doctor again, Clotilde told her calmly that he had a busy life with his own friends to be with in his free time, and that although he was such a comfort to them when they had needed that, they mustn’t presume on his good nature and kindness. After which long speech Rosie fell silent, clicking her knitting needles with speed and glancing now and then over her spectacles at Clotilde, sitting opposite her with a book.
Clotilde, aware of the glances, went on reading; she had read the same page several times already; she would like to know herself why James Thackery had somehow become Dr Thackery, the coolly friendly consultant who discussed his patients with her twice a week, bade her good morning at the ward door and that was that. Perhaps she expected too much; she had presumed on a friendship offered when it was needed but which had now served its purpose. She toyed with the idea of asking him if she had vexed him in any way, and decided against it; he would be too nice to say so, and if he snubbed her it would be rubbing salt into the raw wound Bruce had inflicted.
It was a week later when Mr Trent wrote to her, a letter as dry as his conversation, stating merely that the few hundred pounds salvaged from her father’s estate had been deposited in her account at the bank, and that the mortgager had informed that he intended to foreclose at the end of the month. ‘I suggest,’ wrote Mr Trent, ‘that you visit me at a time convenient to yourself so that we may discuss this matter.’
Clotilde went the very next morning, providentially free until one o’clock, and was ushered into Mr Trent’s office at the top of a winding staircase in a cramped house behind St Paul’s Cathedral. The old man settled her in a chair, asked for coffee to be sent in, and shuffled the papers on his desk.
‘There are a
few small matters to deal with,’ he told her as they drank their Nescafé and proceeded to deal with them in his deliberate way. Then he took off his glasses, polished them, and put them back on again so that he could peer at her closely. ‘What I am about to say may be a surprise to you, Clotilde, but to me it can only be an act of kindly providence, and I think should be accepted as such.’
He took off his glasses again and looked at them, then put them back on. ‘I have received a communication from a firm of solicitors whose client has bought up the mortgage on your father’s property and who intends to live there within a few months— I understand that he intends to marry—moreover, he has stated the wish to buy the furniture in situ at a price to be ascertained by the proper authority, with the proviso that any pieces you might wish to keep for yourself should be excluded. Now, my dear Clotilde, that is a very fair offer and I most strongly advise you to accept it. What is more, he requests a caretaker for the house until such a time as he should move into the property and I would be able to recommend Miss Hicks— Rosie, I believe you call her?—for that position, which will assure a roof over her head for a few months at least. I cannot do more than urge you most strongly to accept this offer.’
Clotilde had been goggling at him, her mouth slightly open. She shut it firmly now and asked: ‘What’s his name?’ And then: ‘Are you sure he’s on the level?’
Mr Trent looked hurt. ‘My dear Clotilde, the solicitors involved are known by me personally. I can assure you that they are on the level, and their client also.’
‘How long will it take? I mean, when do I have to decide what bits and pieces I want to keep?’
A valuer will visit the house at a date convenient to you, and in due course I will appraise you of his findings.’
‘Well, I suppose any day will do. I only have to phone Rosie to ask her to be in…’
‘You would prefer not to be there yourself?’
She nodded without speaking.
‘Very well. Shall we say in three days’ time? If you would let Miss Hicks know. And in due course I will let you know the result of his visit.’