A Promise Is for Keeping

by Felicity Hayle

  "Yes—oh, here she is—she's just come in now. Yes, I'll tell her, Mr. Osborne," and Matron put down the receiver.

  "I didn't expect you back so soon, Sister," she said.

  "I was in time to see Mrs. Travers—and speak to her. But she died very shortly after I arrived, so I thought I'd better come straight back," Fay explained. "There was nothing

  more I could do for her. The nurse is there, and a housekeeper, and an au pair girl. It was good of you to let me have the time off, Matron, but I didn't want to be away longer than I needed."

  Matron nodded. "I appreciate that, Sister. You apparently left before the date for the funeral had been arranged. Mr. Osborne asked me to tell you that it will be on Monday. Will you be wanting to go down again to attend?"

  Fay had not given that question any thought as yet, but she replied at once as though she had, obeying instinct rather than thought. "No, thank you, Matron. I don't know any of the family, and my friendship with Mrs. Travers was very short and mostly through my mother. I should feel an outsider—and I think I should respect her memory better by remaining on duty here."

  Matron nodded in agreement. "Thank you, Sister. I don't mind admitting that it would have been difficult to release you again on Monday as Sister Miles goes on leave on Sunday. But of course I would have managed somehow if you had wanted to go."

  "Thank you, Matron, but I would prefer to remain on duty. Shall I take over the evening theatres? I think there was a heavy list for today."

  To Fay's surprise Matron declined her offer. "No, thank you, Sister. I have given strict instructions that there is to be no duty for you today. You do look rather washed out," she went on, cutting short Fay's remonstrance. "If I might suggest it, why don't you spend the rest of the day out of doors —you look as if you need some fresh air. Get out into the parks or something like that."

  Suddenly Fay realised that she was glad Matron had not accepted her offer of duty. Anger had taken its toll of her and she did feel tired and lethargic.

  She had not had lunch, but she had no appetite, and a glass of milk and a few biscuits supplied all she needed. Within half an hour she was passing through the hospital gates again.

  She had no set plan as she passed the porter's lodge, but the sight of a bus decided her. She would go to Kew. It was neither daffodil time nor bluebell time now, and she had

  been there at both those seasons in response to Geoff's persuasions, but there was bound to be something worth seeing, and in any event as it was a weekday the long shady green drives that led down towards the river would be cool and peaceful.

  The bus journey through the crowded streets of London provided her with a diversion from her thoughts, but her interest was very detached. The whole day seemed unreal now and if it were not for the pain in her heart she might have thought she had dreamed it all. But instead her thought was, "I wonder if this is what a patient feels like when he knows he has some incurable disease? One just has to learn to live with it, I suppose."

  The second crop roses in the Gardens were magnificent and the early dahlias almost incredibly bright and gay, but Fay did not stay long amongst the formal flower beds, seeking instead those quieter parts of the place where, with grass under her feet and leaves above her head, she could think that she was in the country again.

  It was getting well into the afternoon now and she had the long ride to herself—except for one other person who was walking in the same direction as herself. Walking—but slowly with the aid of two crutches. She blinked. It couldn't be, because he had gone back to his convalescent home yesterday —but it was—Geoff ! And even as she stared incredulously at his back she saw him throw down the crutches and proceed, a little uncertainly, without their aid.

  "That was a silly thing to do," she said, catching him up and bringing the discarded crutches with her. "You might not have been able to stoop to pick them up."

  Geoff was so astounded at her voice and the sight of her that he rocked a little and might have fallen, but she already had a grip of his arm.

  "What on earth are you doing here?" he cried.

  "I might ask you the same thing," she smiled. "You're playing truant, aren't you."

  "Not exactly. I phoned yesterday evening and told the Matron that I had some business I wanted to see through before I went back—and that I could stay with a friend—so she gave me her blessing. I wanted to see you again," he

  explained a little shyly, "but when I went to the hospital they told me you had gone to Mr. Osborne's grandmother."

  "Toni Travers, yes. She was my mother's godmother, you know."

  "Yes, I remember, you told me about her. But they said you weren't expected back until tonight."

  "Well, I came back earlier. I thought Matron might want me to take over some duty seeing that I had all yesterday off. But she didn't, so here I am—getting some fresh air."

  "You look awfully tired," he commented.

  "That's the result of idleness," she said, for Geoff's grey eyes could be very penetrating and she did not want him to see too much. "Now what was the idea of throwing away your crutches?" she demanded.

  "I wanted to see if I could do without them."

  "Goodness, Geoff, haven't you been told time and time again that you'll be completely fit and well again—it's only a question of time and patience. But you might have undone everything if you'd slipped and fallen again now."

  "I suppose it was silly," he agreed, "but you see I wanted to be sure—well, that I could be a whole man again. It's very important to me. Important to the end of my novel, too," he finished with a smile.

  "Well, don't you go taking any more chances like that or I shall have to read the riot act to you!" she said with mock severity. "Here, take your crutches. Shall we go down to the river or go and get some tea?"

  Geoff had to return to his convalescent home by Green Line coach which he could pick up in Richmond, so they decided to linger by the river for a while and then have dinner in the town before he had to leave.

  It seemed to Fay that some special providence must have planned this unexpected meeting with Geoff, for it was so exactly what she needed. The sunlight, ever getting more golden and mellow as the afternoon wore on, the quiet, and Geoff's company poured a kind of balm over the frayed emotions of the morning and gave the occasion a feeling of timelessness.

  Afterwards she realised that for that afternoon and evening at any rate she and Geoff had changed roles. Formerly it had

  been she, in her official capacity, who had applied the right therapy to Geoff's moods of depression or moments of undue optimism. Today it was he who assessed her needs—accurately—and gave her what she needed. She needed quiet, ordinary uneventful things to restore her balance. She needed to think and talk of other times, other places, old, remembered friends in order to help her put this morning into its proper perspective.

  They exchanged anecdotes of their childhood and laughed at each other's escapades. He was three years her senior and they had been brought up on opposite sides of the world. But the experiences of childhood were a common bond. Their talk was all trivial and gentle and pleasant.

  It was only when dinner was nearly over that Geoff stopped his banter and after a silence which held nothing of embarrassment, but plenty of companionship, he leaned across the table. Now his eyes were serious—but first he asked, "Cigarette?"

  "No, thanks," she refused, "I don't very often." And then something made her change her mind. "But perhaps I will now, after all."

  When he had lighted it for her, and his own, he spoke again. "D'you remember telling me once that it was only in books that you could make your characters do as you want? Draw them to whatever happy conclusion you had in mind for them?"

  "I believe I did say something like that."

  "Do you think that it's only in novels that there are happy endings?" he questioned, and his eyes never left her face.

  She puffed a cloud of smoke—literally as a screen from his too discerning eyes. "I
wouldn't go so far as to say that," she said slowly, "but—well, life does have a habit of tangling the threads."

  "Have yours got tangled?" he asked, and the change from the hypothetical to the actual caused her no surprise. It was as though she had known it was bound to happen.

  "Yes," she answered simply.

  "It's Osborne, isn't it?" he went on, and the dropping of the "Mr." was symbolical of a new relationship, putting them on a basis of equality.

  She nodded and scarcely wondered how Geoff should have known.

  "He's married, isn't he?" Geoff's tone told her that he had plumbed the depths of her tragedy.

  "Yes," she said again, and knew she did not have to elaborate. Geoff would understand the utter irrevocability of that.

  They neither of them spoke for a while, then Geoff said quietly, "Don't you think it may be like you said? The threads have got tangled, crossed, for a while. But the main thread goes on past the tangle—don't you think it might go on to a happy ending after all?"

  "I don't know, Geoff—I just don't know." And there was something in her voice which told of tears not very far off. For a moment Geoff's hand touched hers.

  "I'm sorry, Fay. I don't want to probe."

  "There's nothing to probe—nothing at all," she told him huskily. That was true : there had been nothing between herself and Mark which could not stand the most searching light of day. Only why did it hurt so?

  It hurt so much that she hardly knew what she was replying to Geoff when he asked her again just as the coach was drawing into the station, "Shall I go for the happy ending, Fay?" speaking ostensibly of his novel.

  And not realising the full implications, she had told him, "Yes, Geoff—you do that. Go for the happy ending." Perhaps she still thought that Geoff was the panacea for her pain.

  Then he bent and kissed her, not asking permission this time, and kissing her not as a brother or a friend. Though it was necessarily brief, hardly more than a touch, yet his lips were the lips of a lover.

  "Au revoir, Fay," he whispered. "Thank you for giving me that little gleam of light to travel by."

  And then he was gone, stepping on to the coach with something of his old agility.

  Mark was not at the hospital for the rest of that week and most of the next. Fay guessed that he was busy with the funeral and Toni's affairs. She was glad in a way not to have

  to meet him, yet the longer the occasion was put off the more she grew to dread it. But for the fact that with Sister Miles on holiday she knew the request would have to be turned down, she would have gone to Matron to ask to be relieved of theatre duties.

  She would have been ashamed of her cowardice if she had made such a request, but she knew in her heart that it was only Sister Miles' absence which stopped her.

  But like most things dreaded the first meeting was not so difficult as she had expected. Mark came into the theatre with Mr. Barton, rather late, and all the theatre staff were ready and waiting. She had taken the precaution of already putting on her mask as though this afforded her some protection.

  They wasted no time in getting started, for the first case had already been in the anteroom for some time. Mr. Barton was operating, Mark assisting. That suited Fay and she concentrated entirely on the consultant. That of course was as it should be, and Fay could never explain to herself why on an instant, and it was only an instant, she should have glanced at Mark. It would not have been so bad if at that precise moment he had not been looking at her.

  In that brief instant of time she could not fathom the expression in his brown eyes, but it told her one thing—that Mark still had the power to move her strongly—and not to anger. She had to whip that up for herself, for anger was the only emotion towards him that she was prepared to allow herself.

  It was a heavy morning list, and inevitably Mark took his turn. Fay found she preferred that, for while she was working to assist him at least she could be certain that he was not watching her from the other side of the operating table.

  Just before they broke for lunch, Shorty Shaw did a straightforward appendicectomy. The other two surgeons watched him, talking lightheartedly at the same time, though Fay knew that Mr. Barton's eyes would miss nothing.

  "What sort of stitch d'you call that?" he cried disgustedly as Shorty was closing up. "Campfire blanket, I should think! You're too ham-fisted, my lad!"

  Actually there was nothing much wrong with Shorty's

  effort and Fay knew that the remark was intended more as a joke than a criticism.

  Shorty knew it too. "I'm usually regarded as a pretty good needleman," he said. "They're having a stall specially stocked with my embroidery at the Hospital Fete."

  Afterwards, when they were disrobing, Mr. Barton brought up the subject of the Fete again, and turned to Fay. "Tell me about this Fete of yours, Sister. What does it entail?"

  "I'm afraid I'm as much in the dark as you," Fay told him. "I haven't experienced one yet."

  Staff Nurse Fisher put in her oar. She was a middle-aged married woman with no thoughts of promotion who had done a fixed duty shift on theatres for years. "It's the Friends of the Hospital, you see," she told Mr. Barton. "They get up this Fete and Fair in the hospital grounds. Last year they raised nearly nine hundred pounds—and pretty well wrecked the hospital routine into the bargain! But as far as you're concerned, sir, there's only one 'must,' and that's the staff dance in the evening."

  "Oh ho!" Mr. Barton twinkled. "With or without my wife?"

  "Without, please, sir," Nurse Fisher stated categorically. "We married staff can bring husbands, but wives—no. Matron has to do something to try to equalise things a bit, and every man on the staff who can hobble even if only on one leg has to be there or Matron'll have his blood."

  "That lets us off the hook for the evening, then, doesn't it?" Mr. Barton turned to his Registrar. "You'll be there, I take it."

  "I suppose so," Mark agreed unwillingly.

  "He'd better be !" the staff nurse put in almost under her breath.

  Forewarned was forearmed as far as Fay was concerned, and she made a mental note that the staff dance was one aspect of the Hospital Fete which she would not support.

  She could of course just have absented herself, but that would have caused a good deal of comment. As it was, fate played into her hands and gave her a good excuse. Flip, who had recently been promoted to night duty in charge of one of the women's medical wards, was one of the unlucky ones who

  did not fall due for their night off on the occasion of the dance. She bemoaned her fate loudly to Fay, with whom in spite of the barrier which their difference in rank might have made between them, she was still very good friends.

  "I'll take over your ward for you if you like," Fay offered, "and of course provided we can persuade Matron to agree."

  Flip regarded her open-mouthed with astonishment. "You must be mad !" she said.

  Matron seemed very much of the same opinion when Fay broached the question to her, but since she was at her wits' end to keep an adequate skeleton staff on duty that night she was only too glad to have anyone of Fay's rank actually offering to do duty that Saturday. So an incoherently grateful Flip was able to go to the dance while an equally thankful Fay patrolled her darkened ward.

  Actually Fay was being more generous than Flip realised when she offered to take over her night duty. For even in all the years she had been nursing, Fay had never really liked night duty. She had of course subjugated this dislike to common sense and knew she could cope with anything that might occur. Professionally she was quite confident, but inevitably between about two and four in the morning she became a prey to a sense of utter loneliness, or more than that, a deep aloneness. She was not a gregarious person, but if she was awake at that time of the morning and not busily occupied she always longed for someone to talk to. She would have welcomed the flicking on of one of the bed lights from a patient wanting a bedpan or some other little attention. But tonight she had a quiet ward. No one was seriously ill and
all her patients were breathing rhythmically, fast asleep.

  It was about ten past two when the telephone bell rang. Fay hurried to answer it lest the noise should wake any of the sleepers. To her surprise she realised that it was the external and not the internal phone that was ringing. Then she remembered that the dance would be ending about now —it might be a still grateful Flip ringing to see if all was well.

  It was not Flip's voice which greeted her when she picked up the receiver, but a man's with a slight soft Scots accent.

  "Good evening—or rather, good morning. Is that Adelaide Ward and is that Night Sister?"

  "Yes, this is Adelaide," Fay confirmed, a little mystified.

  "Good," the voice went on. "And how are you, Sister?"

  "I'm very—" almost Fay fell into the trap of being personal, but she pulled herself up in time. "Who is that speaking, please?"

  "Now if I told you my name I'm afraid it wouldn't mean much to you. Suppose we say it's—Angel? or would you prefer Archangel?"

  All Fay's suspicions were immediately aroused. The play on her surname made her virtually certain that the caller was a member of the hospital staff. Shorty was the most likely practical joker, but it did not sound like his voice. Ferguson was the only houseman with a Scots accent, and he was far too dour to indulge in even the mildest joke.

  The realisation that the person on the other end of the line was probably someone she met in her daily work stiffened Fay's resolution to end the conversation. She said brusquely, "I don't know who you are, but if you've just come from the dance my advice to you is to go home and try to sober up before tomorrow. Goodnight!" and she replaced the receiver—not however before she caught the outraged protest, "I'm as sober as a judge!"

  Replacing the receiver was simple enough, but for some minutes afterwards Fay stood frowning a little and trying to fathom the most likely suspects for the joker. It might not of course be one of the medical staff. There were many men employed in the dispensary and on the administration whom she hardly knew, even by sight. Many of them might have Scots accents and a voice which was at the same time sympathetic and yet challenging. Yet she could not think of any possible reason why any one of them should choose her as the object for the joke.