by Betty Neels
CHAPTER NINE
SOMEHOW OR OTHER, Clotilde got through the rest of Christmas, presenting a cheerful face to the small world of hospital, lending a sympathetic ear to the mild dissatisfactions of her patients, going to infinite trouble to keep them happy. Then listening to endless relations wanting to know what exactly was wrong with Mother or Aunty or Granny, entertaining visitors; important dignitaries, innumerable students, her friends when they could leave their wards for ten minutes, and on the day after Boxing Day they began the task of getting everything back to normal as quickly as possible.
The night staff helped. Once the patients had settled for the night they crept round the ward, stealthily collecting paper chains and anything else they could reach easily, so that when Clotilde came on duty in the morning it only remained for the chains and wreaths to be dismantled. The ward looked very bare, but it made their work easier. Besides, it was the consultant’s round at morning and Clotilde was aware that the doctors, while entering willingly enough into the Christmas spirit, liked all trace of it away the moment Christmas was over; none of that Twelfth Night business for them. So that by the time James was due to arrive, the ward was back to pristine orderliness. The empty beds had been filled, of course, but that was to be expected. It was a pity that this time their new occupants were all elderly, and because they bore a grudge against Fate allowing them to fall ill at a time when they were all set to enjoy themselves, they were both gloomy and peevish. Clotilde led the way to the first of them watched with admiration while James charmed her a better frame of mind.
‘Home in no time,’ he assured her. ‘We’ll soon have that chest as good as new—in the meantime make the most of the rest here, you’ll enjoy yourself all the more when you get home again.’ He left her actually smiling and passed on to the next patient. Undoubtedly he had a splendid bedside manner, thought Clotilde as she led the way to an old lady who had been in the ward for some time now, and whom he greeted like an old friend.
The round went well. Even the ill patients had improved, although for two of them it would only be a temporary improvement, brought about by the euphoria of the last few days. James stayed to talk to them with kindly gentleness after he had finished examining them, giving them his unhurried attention. In Clotilde’s office presently he observed: ‘Both Mrs Twist and Mrs White are failing fast, aren’t they, Sister? We’d better increase…let me see, how much are they getting now?’
He looked at Jeff, but Dr Evans answered, adding a few details importantly. James didn’t look up, merely went on writing on the charts and then handing them to Clotilde. His smile was brief and friendly and she smiled in return, pleasantly cool and quite impersonal, delighted that she had herself so well in hand, to have that coolness shattered by his: ‘Perhaps you will rearrange your off duty, Sister. Katrina expects you for Old Year’s Night.’
Her heart bounced. ‘I’m afraid that’s quite impossible, Sir— I’ve already made out the off duty…’
He glanced at Sally, who had come in with the coffee, and she said at once: ‘I’ll change with you, Sister. As a matter of fact I’d rather have your days off than mine.’
‘That’s settled, then,’ said James in the placid no-nonsense voice Clotilde always found so hard to ignore. ‘I’ll pick you up about seven o’clock. You’ll stay the night, of course.’
Clotilde sought for words. She was furious at his highhanded arrangements, she was also giddy with delight and at the same time apprehensive of Mary Evans’ reactions. Perhaps she would be going too. Clotilde stole a look at her, and although she looked angry she was silent. That would be it, then. She was to go with the pair of them to Shaftesbury, not because James particularly wanted her company, but because his spoilt young sister wanted to see her again. Probably both he and Mary were annoyed at her having to be there, playing gooseberry. She turned an impassive face upon her staff nurse. ‘Thank you, Sally, in that case we’ll do as you suggest and change duties.’ She began to pour the coffee, trying not to listen to the lighthearted conversation James had started with Mary Evans, while she pondered the chances of him getting to hear that she was leaving before she wanted him to. She would tell him, of course, but only at the last minute. Secrets, however well kept, had a nasty way of escaping, and it would be all over St Alma’s in no time at all. She could safely leave it for another week, and by then she would have had replies from Birmingham and Bristol. It would be much easier to confront him with the news that she had a job waiting for her.
James made no mention of Katrina’s invitation; he bade her good morning with only the faintest of smiles, apparently oblivious of Mary Evans’ vindictive stare at Clotilde. Jeff was the only one who was the same as usual, with his cheerful: ‘See you tomorrow, Tilly.’
Clotilde spent the next two days wondering how she could get out of going with James, and on the third morning there he was again to do another round and she no clearer as to what she should do. The temptation to go to his parents’ home was very great. On the other hand, much as she disliked Mary Evans, it seemed very unfair on the girl to foist her company on the pair of them. She went on duty with her mind made up. She wasn’t going.
The round, for some reason, took a good deal longer than usual, and coffee was drunk in a businesslike fashion, while those cases which needed to be discussed were. Clotilde’s firm: ‘I should like a word with you, Dr Thackery,’ was met by an equally firm: ‘Not now, Clotilde,’ and he was up and away before she could get to the door. Considerably nettled by this deviation from hospital manners, Clotilde swished back to the office. Sally was there, sorting charts, putting the papers James had scattered all over the desk back into order.
‘Well, she could have said goodbye!’ she declared as Clotilde sat down.
‘Who?’
‘Why, our Mary, Sister. Off to Cardiff this evening—got herself a house surgeon’s post there. All done in quite a hurry too. I suppose she came to the conclusion that there was no future with Dr Thackery—matrimonially-wise, that is. That’s why it’s all a bit hush-hush, I daresay. After all, she was pretty obvious about her crush on him, wasn’t she?’ She broke off to ask: ‘Are you feeling okay, Sister? You’re awfully pale.’
‘I’m fine—just tired. I didn’t know about Dr Evans.’ Clotilde added reluctantly: ‘Actually I thought she and Dr Thackery were serious about each other…’
Sally chuckled. ‘She may have been, but anyone could see with half an eye that she wasn’t his sort.’
Clotilde said incoherently: ‘I thought—that is, his sister told me…and I imagined it to be Dr Evans. I…’ She stopped and drew a sharp breath and began again. ‘We’d better get these forms down to X-Ray.’
Sally took her lead at once. ‘And shall I get Mrs Trevor up now, or wait until after the rest hour?’
They plunged into the day-to-day planning of the ward work, and presently went to serve the dinners. Dr Evans wasn’t mentioned again. That didn’t mean to say that Clotilde didn’t think about her a great deal. Had she refused James? she wondered. Had he ever proposed? And if not, who had Katrina been talking about? Doing her evening round, she stopped short by Mrs Trevor, sitting grumpily in a chair. James had said something very strange—about saying goodbye to Sister Collins, or some such nonsense, surely he hadn’t meant…? No wishful thinking, she told herself bracingly; just because she was head over heels in love with him, she had no reason to be fanciful. She heard Mrs Trevor’s complaining voice, going on and on and cut it short with a soothing: ‘Well, we’ll pop you back into bed, Mrs Trevor,’ and moved on to exchange a meaningless conversation with the next patient. Linda Bond was in the bed at the end of the ward by the door; seventeen years old, a pert, pretty little Cockney, she was recovering nicely from pneumonia. She invited Clotilde to admire the clothes in the fashion magazine she was reading and observed cheekily: ‘Yer could do with a bit of smartenin’ up, Sister. Proper down in the dumps you are. Yer can’t be all that old.’ She winked and nodded. ‘Got a boy-friend, ha
ve yer? If yer ’aven’t, it’s time yer did.’
The door opened as she spoke and James walked in. ‘’E’d do nicely,’ said Linda.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ observed James equably. ‘Sister, you wanted to speak to me?’
‘Yes, no— I don’t know…’ Clotilde, her calm in tatters, went pink in the face, and added even more obscurely: ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Perhaps you were going to tell me you’re leaving?’ His placid voice held no curiosity.
‘Cor, getting married, are yer?’ asked the incorrigible Linda. ‘Well, it ain’t right for yer to be stuck ‘ere in that silly cap all yer life. S’right, ain’t it, Doctor?’
‘Quite right, Linda, though I don’t agree about the cap. I rather like it.’
‘Did you want to see someone?’ asked Clotilde severely.
He smiled slowly at her. ‘In the office, I think, Sister.’
He gave Linda another smile, a quite different one, though, and walked with Clotilde down the ward and into the office. Once there, he said placidly: ‘Sit down, Tilly,’ and shut the door and leant against it. ‘Now tell me…’
But now that she had the chance she couldn’t find the words. She mumbled: ‘You know I’m leaving.’
‘Oh yes. Did you really think you could keep it a secret? What are your plans?’
She stared at the plain silk tie he was wearing. He wore nice ties. She said, still mumbling: ‘There’s a job in Birmingham and another one at the Bristol Royal Infirmary.’
‘But you’ve not decided?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Now I’m going to talk, and you’re not going to interrupt.’
He left the door and came to sit on the edge of her desk, looming over her. ‘Let’s just put several things right. I’ve been very diverted from time to time to hear rumours about myself and Mary Evans—so absurd that I never gave them a second thought. But upon reflection, I believe you did?’ He paused waiting for her to speak, so she said, ‘Yes,’ without looking at him. ‘You know now that they’re pure fantasy, they can be forgotten. They’re of no importance.’ He bent over and picked up one of her hands and held it between his. ‘You agree?’
‘Yes,’ said Clotilde, and thought how very comforting his hands felt.
‘Another matter entirely,’ went on James in his calm way. ‘Your home— I’m the new owner.’
Her eyes flew to his face. ‘You? Why? And you didn’t tell me…’
‘It seemed the logical thing to do. Mr Trent agreed with me; so did Rosie.’
‘But you didn’t tell me,’ said Clotilde crossly. ‘Why not?’
‘At the time the circumstances weren’t in my favour.’
‘So why are they now?’ she snapped, quite put out.
‘That, my darling, is what I am about to tell you.’ James gave a great sigh as the phone rang and he lifted the receiver, and Clotilde, her face glowing from the ‘darling’, watched as he listened.
She would have to wait to hear whatever it was he was going to tell her; she saw his face grow remote and thoughtful and heard his brief answers. He put down the phone presently, all trace of his former manner gone.
‘There’s an outbreak of food poisoning—a wedding party in Tutty Street, about thirty, they think. How many beds have we?’
‘Four, and two in the side wards, and I can put up six down the centre.’
‘Good—arrange that, will you? Let’s hope they won’t be needed, but let’s be ready. I’ll go down to the Accident Room and see if there’s anything to be admitted. Ring Jeff to join me there, will you? Oh, and my new houseman—his name is Pratt. Get him too.’
He went to the door and then back he came to where Clotilde was already lifting the phone. ‘We can wait, they can’t,’ he said softly, and kissed her.
Clotilde allowed herself half a minute of pure happiness and then went into action. The phoning done, she collected the two nurses and the nursing aide who were on duty, set them to getting the empty beds ready, then went back to the phone to ask for more beds. She was leaving the office when the phone rang to say that two patients were on their way up and there would be at least six more. ‘They’re still coming in,’ said the voice, ‘so expect more than that.’
The first two were in a bad way, already dehydrated and in a good deal of pain. Clotilde, setting up drips, directing bowls and clean linen, undressing the sufferers, still in their wedding finery, was hardly aware of James. She did as he asked with the efficiency of long practice, had more beds made up, gave the drugs he ordered, and in between whiles, showed poor young Mr Pratt, pitched in at the deep end with a vengeance, where the essential ward equipment was. Jeff joined them presently, coming up from the Accident Room with the news that there were two more women to admit, both rather ill.
‘I’ve had two beds put up in the side wards,’ said Clotilde. ‘It’ll be crowded, but it’s the best that I can do.’
‘Thank God it’s only a matter of a day or two before they’re better,’ observed Jeff. ‘I say hard luck for you and Dr Thackery, you’d have been on your way by now.’ He grinned. ‘What a way to see the New Year in!’
Clotilde was far too busy to know exactly when midnight struck. The night staff had come on duty hours ago, she had sent her own nurses off, and with the promise of a relief as soon as it could be arranged, was toiling on with occasional help from the senior night runner and one of the Night Sisters when she could spare the time. James and Jeff and Mr Pratt were still there, disappearing every now and then to go to Men’s Medical, although there were fewer patients admitted there. It was well after midnight before a relief staff nurse took over from Clotilde and since there was no sign of James, she went off duty, to fall into bed to sleep like a log until the morning. She had forgotten all about New Year.
It seemed to her that she was going on duty again in no time at all; she responded to the ‘Happy New Year’ greetings from everyone she encountered, intent on getting to the ward to see how the rest of the night had gone.
Not nearly so badly, as it turned out. The unfortunate victims of the wedding feast were wan and pale, but no longer suffering their distressing symptoms with such frequency. They were all drinking any fluids they fancied and except for the last two to be admitted, were off their drips.
‘I only have to turn my back,’ remarked Sally. ‘It must have been bedlam, Sister. And of course you didn’t get off duty…wasn’t there anyone to relieve you?’
‘Not until after midnight,’ Clotilde sighed gently. ‘I didn’t dare take my days off… I’ll have them later in the week. I should think most of these poor souls will go home tomorrow—a fluid diet and a day’s rest should put them back on their feet.’
An opinion substantiated by James when he returned during the morning. All but two of them would be able to leave on the following day, and those two would have to remain until he was satisfied they had fully recovered.
Clotilde, dispensing coffee, had little to say for herself beyond strictly professional replies to his queries, but as they got up to leave the ward, James said casually: ‘I’ve arranged for you to have your days off on the day after tomorrow, Clotilde— I’ll be at the entrance about eight o’clock. We can stop for breakfast as we go.’
It was difficult—impossible—to give any kind of a coherent answer with Jeff and Sally and Mr Pratt all staring at her. In any case, James didn’t appear to expect one. He said very formally: ‘Good day to you, Sister Collins,’ and strode off to Men’s Medical.
Clotilde spent her day vacillating between a delightful excitement and annoyance at the way he had arranged everything without even consulting her. And she still wasn’t sure—he hadn’t said he loved her, although she had to admit that he hadn’t had the time for that, but surely he could have given a hint? He had kissed her, but he had done that before without apparently meaning a thing. She had no appetite, glancing up each time the door opened, keeping her mind on her work only by the greatest efforts. She went off duty that
evening hoping there would be a message for her or that she might meet him on her way over to the home, but there was nothing. She washed her hair and went to supper and declared that she was tired enough to go to bed early, but not as early as she would have wished. The grapevine had done its work, and she was besieged by questions from her friends as to where she was going and why she was leaving. She answered them all with a calm she wasn’t feeling and went at last to bed, where she lay awake for a long time, consumed by love for James and exasperation at his behaviour. And just supposing it’s not me after all, she thought in sudden panic, and he’s only being friendly because Katrina wants me to go and see her? She rehearsed the conversation they might be expected to have on their drive, thinking up the kind of remarks which would let him see that for her part, everything was very lighthearted. She fell asleep at last, her head in a fine muddle.
She had given herself a morning off duty and she spent the hour or so after breakfast packing an overnight bag—slacks and a thick sweater, a pretty dress for the evening and the things to go with it. She would travel in her suit and take her winter coat, because it was bitterly cold. That done, she went down to the phone box in the hall and phoned Rosie, who came on the line wanting to know if she was all right; there had been no letter and she hadn’t rung up.
‘I’m sorry, Rosie,’ declared Clotilde. ‘We had a lot of patients in with food poisoning and there wasn’t time to do anything very much but look after them. Rosie, you knew about James buying the house?’