Fay did not hear any more. She was conscious only of the great kindliness in his eyes before unshed tears in her own blinded her as she turned with a whispered, "Thank you, Commandant," and left him. She knew that whatever might happen in the days to come she would have to face nothing worse than this, for what had happened to Mark was something worse than death.
The work Fay had to undertake for the next two weeks was indeed gruelling, and not made any easier by the fact that the nurses she had to work with were none of them English-speaking, and had little training for the most part. This meant that she seldom or never got an unbroken rest period. In all she did she knew she had the support and approbation of the Commandant, especially as under her care several patients who had been considered as unlikely to recover were indeed brought to a condition where it was possible to move them to other hospitals where they could receive the specialised treatment needed.
One other bright spot, too, was the young mother on whom Mark had operated. She made a wonderful recovery, aided of course by the news that her child was doing well and waiting for her in a hospital not twenty miles away. Her young husband too, who had had both legs broken while he was working as a volunteer with a rescue party, was making good progress, and for that one little family at least there was hope of a brighter future.
But the shadow that the disaster had brought would hang
over the place for a long time to come. Almost it might be said that Dubrocja had ceased to exist and the survivors would have to be absorbed into other townships. It was the end of a whole community.
Francesca Renati came out to the emergency hospital once—to see the mother of the child. Her visit luckily coincided with Fay's duty. They exchanged addresses, and it was Francesca who brought up the subject of Mark.
"Your friend—Mr. Osborne, isn't it? I hear he had an accident. Was it bad?"
"I'm afraid so," Fay told her. "I've only heard what the Commandant said, and what one of the ambulance men told me, but it seems that his right hand was badly crushed—trapped in the ambulance door."
"That is bad," Francesca's dark eyes expressed her concern. "For a surgeon—and a surgeon such as he was !—that is very bad. What will he do if he cannot operate again?"
"I don't know," Fay answered bleakly. It was the question she had been asking herself all along. It might not be as bad as that, but doubt was no less torturing than certainty.
"But you will be married just the same when you go back to England?" Francesca queried.
"Good heavens, no!" Fay spoke so sharply that the other woman jumped. "He's married already."
Francesca looked completely baffled. "But you love each other—" she protested.
"I don't know what makes you think that." Fay struggled to keep her voice steady and matter-of-fact. "I may have made a bit of a fool of myself in letting myself care for him, but I can assure you that Mr. Osborne is a very happily married man with two lovely small boys."
The sympathy in Francesca's eyes was so real that it made Fay's hurt more intense. "How sad, how very sad. It is worse for you," she sighed deeply.
Fay knew what she meant. Her man had died—and there was something irrevocable about death which made it bearable; more bearable than the terrible longing which possessed her at times. She was glad that Mark did not have to suffer that.
She still could not begin to explain to herself why Mark should have given Francesca, as an observer, the impression
that he cared. Why had he bothered to ring her up on the night of the hospital dance? How had he so exactly gauged her mood of utter loneliness so that she was glad to talk to a stranger? How had he managed to put his finger so accurately on the one thing which made marriage to Geoff impossible for her?
But she had no time to answer any of her own questions—if indeed they were answerable at all. She was getting more and more tired, although she herself hardly realised it. She knew only that there was no joy, no sense of achievement in her work anymore, and she could not envisage anything beyond the field hospital. It seemed to her that she had come to the end of all her ambition here.
It was only a few days after Francesca's visit that the Commandant sent for her.
He had been a bit of a martinet and a slave-driver while the emergency lasted, but now that things were easing up the essential kindliness of the man was showing through. He looked at Fay with keenly scrutinising eyes for a full half minute before he spoke.
"Feeling tired, Sister?" he enquired, and reaching out took her wrist between his fingers. What he felt there did not seem to please him, for he brushed aside her disavowal, saying, "Umm, I can see you are. Well, we'd better send you home, I guess."
Fay started to say that she was not too tired to stay as long as there was a need for her services, but plainly the Commandant was not listening. He was ruffling through a sheaf of papers.
"Let's see—there's a plane leaving for Nice in the morning —we'll put you on that. Be ready to leave here at seven-thirty. Transport will be laid on, and a car will meet the plane in Nice to take you to—this place where you were staying."
Fay blinked. She could hardly believe in the efficiency of the big American. He must have decided on this course before he sent for her.
"Thank you, Commandant—" she managed to put in, "but I'm really not so tired as all that—I can stay until you can get a replacement—"
"You'll do as you're told, Sister," he said brusquely, but the twinkle in his eye belied the sharpness of his words. "We shall clear all cases out of here in two or three days from now, and they are sending me a Sister—Assistant Matron, rather—from the hospital at Brenska. We shall cope. Now your instructions are to return to Lamontella and stay there for another two weeks before returning to your hospital."
"But—"
"Your Matron's instructions. Argue it out with her later if you want to—but if you take my advice you'll make the most of the opportunity to catch up on lost rest and general strain." He got up, indicating that the interview was over, or so Fay thought, but instead he took her shoulders between his hands. "You've done a very good job of work here, and it will be recorded. I'm not all that good at saying pretty things, Sister, but—well, thanks, and good luck to you. I hope you find that things aren't as bad as you fear for young Osborne."
She turned and left the office rather hurriedly. Suddenly she felt that tears were too near the surface for her to remain.
It was not until she was on the plane next morning, however, that she realised just how lost and purposeless her life seemed now that she was leaving behind the scene of tragedy which had filled it for the past weeks. There she had been needed, there she had had something to give where it was most needed. By contrast the future seemed to hold no place for her ... she checked on the thought. "That isn't true !" she told herself. "You're a nurse—there is always a need for you." But in her heart she knew that what she really meant was that the one person who made up her world had no need of her love.
It seemed no time at all after the plane took off before Fay realised that she was being told to fasten her safety belt as they were coming in to land at Nice.
All the arrangements for the return flight had gone without a hitch so that Fay, tired as she was, scarcely bothered to wonder who had made them all. It did occur to her in the car which was taking her from Nice to Lamontella that she had not warned Pietro and Rose of her imminent arrival,
but when she got to their bungalow she found that they were expecting her.
"Oh, miss, I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you! I began to think you'd never come back from that dreadful place. What a time you must have had—and my word, how thin you've got! And as white as a ghost. We've been hearing all about it—"
"Si, si," Pietro put in, his dark eyes looking at her with the adoration of a faithful dog. "We hear how brave you are—and how you work day and night to save those poor souls. So very brave—"
Fay was unprepared for this respect which her absence seemed to have
turned to near reverence, and she had to stop them.
"There was a great band of helpers—all sorts of people, all doing wonderful work," she told them. "I didn't do it all on my own, you know!"
It was obvious that this point was unimportant as far as Rose was concerned. "Well, we mustn't keeping you standing talking when what you want is a nice cup of tea and then bed," she stated categorically. "Did you have lunch, miss?"
"Yes, thank you—at the airport. But a cup of real tea would be gorgeous. I can't think how the Americans get along without it—or Continentals either," she remembered that Pietro never touched the "stuff."
"I'll get it in two shakes of a lamb's tail!" Rose promised, and disappeared towards the kitchen, calling before she went, "There's letters for you in your room, miss."
A moment later she came back and put her head round the door to say, "Mr. Wentworth telephoned three times enquiring for you, miss, but he didn't leave any message. He just wanted to know if you were back or when we expected you, but of course I couldn't tell him—seeing as I didn't have any news myself about that till yesterday."
It was in Fay's mind to ask from whom the news had come, but she could not be bothered, and at that moment she was sorting through the pile of letters which awaited her, refusing to admit, even to herself, that the handwriting for which she was looking was Mark's. Her depression deepened a little when she saw that there was no envelope addressed
in his rather individual hand, until she remembered seconds later that Mark had injured his right hand and so he could not write.
After the tea there came a hot bath and bed—and Fay had never appreciated before how luxurious these everyday things were. But she did not ponder on her lack of gratitude for them long before sleep claimed her.
When she woke she thought at first she had slept only a short time, for it was still not quite dark. It was only when Rose tiptoed into the room that she learned that she had slept round the clock and a bit more.
When she learned that she decided to stay where she was and accept Rose's suggestion of a tray meal. She had forgotten how good food could taste when cooked the way Rose cooked it, and when she had eaten she found that she had no desire to do anything else but slide down in the bed and go off to sleep again. She would read her letters tomorrow—that was time enough to catch up with her everyday world. Just at the moment she was in a kind of no-man's land which, if it was sterile and offered little hope of fulfilment, at least was undemanding.
The next morning, feeling more or less her normal self again, though disinclined for any great physical exertion, she tackled her letters without particular interest.
There was one from Geoff and she opened that first, because she was so full of feeling for him.
"My dearest," it began,
"I am so sorry at the way I left you the other night. I'm afraid I was just being selfish and thinking only of myself. I know so well what you are suffering but there does not seem any way I can help. I should not feel so bad if only I knew there was a chance of happiness for you—but as it is it seems such a waste—such a wicked waste . .."
She sighed deeply. She could understand too. She had the same yearning that he too should find happiness in spite of her—and with more reason, she thought, since it was all her fault.
She was ready enough to accept the blame, but there was nothing she could do to help she thought, as she turned to her other letters.
Many of them were congratulatory on her exploits, and she found these vaguely embarrassing. She knew she had done only what her training had qualified her to do—nothing more than any of her colleagues would have done if they had been more or less on the spot as she was.
For a change from their eulogies she turned to an envelope in Wendy's large, childish hand. It went straight to the point, as usual.
"Isn't it orful," she wrote, "about Marks hand. He is very deprest as he wont ever be able to oprate again. I am going to grow up ever so quik so as to do it for him but I didnt have to have my school skurt made longer this term as I thort I would. I have been eating all my poridge too. I think you should come home and cheer Mark up it will be ever so misrable at the Chrismas holidays if you dont hury up."
Christmas holidays—they were a long way off yet. The children had only been back at school a week or two. But the mere mention of Christmas still had power to move Fay with the sweetness of the rapture which she had known at Beechcroft—so short-lived and yet never to be forgotten.
She came last of all to Flip's letter—it was the bulkiest, and would, she knew, put her completely in the picture with regard to the world of St. Edith's, to which she must return soon.
She was not disappointed. Flip's letter told her all the hospital scandal—including the sudden departure, unexplained, of one of the junior Sisters. Rumour had it that she was pregnant—but rumour remained unconfirmed.
"You won't be surprised to hear that your Mr. Osborne got his Fellowship. He was appointed to St. Giles—but with this awful injury to his hand I suppose that's put paid to his consultancy ..." So the news of his Fellowship was what Mark had wanted to tell her, Fay's brain commented as she read on. "But my next bit of news will shake you rigid," Flip continued.
By the time she had read to the end of that letter Fay was more than shaken. Stunned would have been a better word. Stunned and bewildered—not quite sure whether she was riding for the crest of a wave or whether she was slipping into the trough and about to be engulfed.
Her first impulse was to pack and return to London imme-
diately, but on more sober reflection she realised that Matron was right to tell her to stay at Lamontella for a while. She did not feel at all equal to a full day's duty at the moment, now that the emergency had passed and reaction had set in. Better to make the most of the last days of a summer which lingered on and was conducive to lethargy and the sense that time itself was standing still.
This, however, was a false illusion, and on the morning she flew in to London Airport it was a crisp October morning. The sun was still golden but the leaves, touched by an overnight frost, were coming down in showers, so that from the plane the three-lined roads and fields seemed carpeted in russet gold.
She was not due to report at the hospital until the next morning, so that she had the whole day before her, and as she stepped on to the tarmac she wondered what she should do with it.
She was not expecting to be met, so she did not even glance at the little crowd of people who were there to meet other passengers off the plane, and was nearly taken off her balance when two small figures rushed at her with hugs and cries of welcome.
She had to look at them twice before she could recognise Helen and Wendy. In their school uniforms they looked more nearly normal children than she had ever thought they could.
"Good gracious, Wendy—Helen—however did you get here?" she managed to ask when they had stopped squeezing the very breath out of her.
"Mark got us the day off," Helen explained.
"And he got an aunt to bring us—she's over there." "She's a University aunt," Helen corroborated.
A youngish woman detached herself from the little crowd of onlookers and came up to Fay. "Welcome back home, Miss Gabriel," she smiled pleasantly. "I have been hearing all about the grand work you've been doing in the Yugoslavia disaster. My name's Joy Ainsworth, by the way."
"These are for you—" Wendy thrust a bunch of choice rosebuds at her.
"And these are from us," Helen followed suit with an expensive-looking box of chocolates.
Wendy wrinkled her nose. "Well, Mark paid for them really, she admitted, and her half-sister gave her a violent dig in the ribs.
"We weren't to say that!" she hissed.
To save the children embarrassment Fay did not pursue that question further, but subconsciously her brain registered the fact that Mark had taken pains to find out what plane she would be on and to send the children to give her a welcome—though he was not prepared to take the responsibility of givin
g her presents.
Miss Ainsworth was talking as they left the runway and made for the terminal buildings. "I have to see the girls back to their school by six tonight—which means leaving Charing Cross by the five-ten. In the meanwhile I think I'm expected to disappear so that they can have you to themselves. I don't know what they're planning to do, but I daresay they'll let you know in due course. Provided you haven't any other arrangements, of course," she finished.
Once again Fay detected Mark's lordly hand behind this, but faced with the children's eagerness she could not possibly plead any other arrangements—and besides, it would not have been true.
"Let's all go and have something to eat first, shall we?" she suggested.
Miss Ainsworth declined. "If you don't mind," she explained, "I have a lot of shopping I should like to work in this morning, but if you like to trust me with your luggage I've got to look in at the office—I can leave it there, and your beautiful roses too. It would be a shame for them to die for lack of a drink."
"That would be kind of you," Fay said gratefully. "Then I'll meet you at Charing Cross at five, shall I?"
Fay had had a very early breakfast and the children were quite prepared to have an early lunch so as to leave the rest of the day free for whatever it was they had in mind.
"We'd like to go to the Zoo for a part of the time," Helen announced.
"Right," Fay agreed. "And after that?"
"We want to take you to see a friend of ours."
"A school friend?" Fay queried, and then corrected her-
self, "Oh no, of course all your school friends would be at school now. Who is it, then?"
"It's someone who discovered our school," Wendy explained. "It was why we went there, because of her. I say—do you know—" her voice became suddenly tragic, "Toni didn't have nearly as much money as she thought she had. Mark might have to sell Beechcroft—and we don't know who's going to pay our school fees—"
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