Nurse Trent's Children

by Joyce Dingwell

  “Terence, this is Nurse Trent,” he said briefly. “Nurse Trent, Terence Bliss, who had an argument on the soccer field.”

  Terrence, a hefty sixteen-year-old, gave an engaging grin. “Thought I’d lost my eye, but doc here has fixed me up.”

  “We always keep a good supply of eyes,” said Dr. Malcolm. “Here is your gauze, nurse. Go right ahead.”

  She did so, a little shakily, reassured by Terence’s wide smile and the fact that he was not a local boy and so did not know her. “I come from down the line,” he informed her cheerfully. “One thing, we beat Burnley, so it doesn’t matter about this.” He blinked.

  “Keep still,” said Cathy.

  She commenced with two turns around the head from above the affected eye toward the unaffected, then she passed the bandage beneath the ear and over the eye, and repeated it twice and pinned it in front.

  She half glanced at Malcolm. He made no comment to her, but said to Terence, “Right you are, lad. You’ll mend. No soccer for at least a month.” Then he turned briefly to Cathy. “Thank you, nurse.”

  Cathy decided her bandaging must have been awarded a pass.

  While the boy was returned to his waiting teammates Cathy set out her books. The fire was burning brightly in the hearth, but it had none of the magic glow that she had found in an empty grate.

  She stared at it unseeing, and suddenly, silently, Dr. Malcolm was beside her, saying briskly, “Page 214, Trent, ‘Minor Medical Procedures.’ ”

  She opened the book. So he did not notice the fire, she thought...

  He put her through the chapters he considered her weak points. They were just finishing when Mrs. Williams brought in the supper.

  “That’s a fine blaze.” The old district nurse stood a moment admiring it. “I’m lazy, Miss Trent. I like to get my warmth by pulling a switch. But have you ever met anyone who sees pictures in a radiator?”

  Dr. Malcolm took the tray to the stool beside the grate. “It was better on Tuesday,” he said absently.

  “Tuesday—you never had a fire then, doctor. That was the night you visited Christabel.”

  “Was it, Willie, how foolish I am.” He did not look at Cathy. Cathy’s own eyes were averted. He does remember, she thought. He, too, knew the spell.

  They talked on about the approaching exam for a while, then with his usual forthrightness Dr. Malcolm said, “What’s this about you and Kennedy?”

  “I don’t think that concerns you.”

  “Then you think wrongly. Anything to do with Redgates concerns me. Another of the rules we had to waive temporarily—temporarily, mark you—was the employment of married women. Well?”

  “There is nothing definite.” Cathy’s voice was evasive in tone. She had no intention of enlightening him.

  “There has been a discussion between you then?”

  “Yes, there has been a discussion.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  She looked up resentfully. “What do you see?”

  He shook his head in warning. “You wouldn’t like it.”

  She set her lips firmly. “What do you see, Dr. Malcolm?”

  “Well, if you must have it, I see the time-honored old routine of the rebound—some say ricochet romance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that after my letter you promptly salved your foundering pride by substituting with Kennedy.”

  “How dare you?”

  “I have dared. It’s your own fault. I warned you that you would not like what I was thinking.”

  “It’s so unfair ... so unfounded...”

  “Yet not so untrue?”

  “It is untrue. There was no rebound, as you say, at all. I’ve always liked David.”

  “Liked? What poor thing is this, Aunty Cathy? Liked, you say.”

  “Liking a person,” said Cathy blandly, “is really more important than loving them. Many women have gone into marriage with only affection in their hearts.”

  She was suddenly aware of the icy fury in his dark eyes. “You cheat,” he said, “you hypocrite. You would look down on the adventures, yet you would paint yourself as pure as the lily. Isn’t it as bad to share a bed with a lie in your heart as to share it with a lie written on a hotel register?”

  Cathy said frigidly, “Just now I have no intention of doing either.”

  “Good. Study chapters five, eight, fifteen and seventeen. Especially seventeen. I anticipate questions from that. No need for you to come around anymore. Review is all that is needed. Will you be all right going home? The rain is past. It is a clear night. Good evening, Miss Trent.”

  Cathy found herself outside.

  She ran most of the way. She was not nervous, she never had been. She told herself it was because of the cold, but she was still cold when she reached home.

  During the next morning David came across to the girls’ block. “I’ve had a pile of clothing catalogs for the spring. Have you had yours?”

  Cathy said she had.

  “This is my problem—shirts for the boys. I thought I’d like checked ones; practical, easy to launder, sufficiently subdued for church parade but bright enough for the youngsters to imagine themselves small Hopalong Cassidys. Asking too much, you think?”

  “I don’t think. I think it’s a splendid and quite feasible idea. All the same color, or varied?”

  “Red check, green spun, brown tartan, blue weave—that’s where you come in. I’m going to the Freeman Textiles to choose the colors and I want you to come along and advise me.”

  “Oh, David, I’d love to.”

  “Just as well, because it’s an order. According to Regulation Twenty-Two ‘Housemothers must help with the replenishing of both girls’ and boys’ wardrobes.’ When can you tear yourself away? Before lunch?”

  “After lunch. I have to supervise Avery’s gargle, or she’ll drink it instead, and the voluntary helpers come this morning.”

  “Good, afternoon tea will be lighter on my pocketbook than lunch.”

  “Is that a reward for helping you choose the materials? How nice of you David.” She smiled and waved him off.

  Avery was “gargled” and put back into the sandpit. Mrs. Latrobe arrived with three others and went into the sewing room to patch.

  When Cathy took in the morning teapot she saw Mrs. Latrobe’s eager eyes on her. When she took it out to refill it again the woman was close behind her.

  Oh, Miss Trent, I got this little letter. It was pushed into my box.”

  Cathy opened it.

  My darling Mommy, I am being very good. It will not be long now. Your affekshunate daughter Denise.

  Oh, dear, said Cathy to herself.

  Mrs. Latrobe was looking at her with worried yet eager eyes.

  “I can’t understand it, Miss Trent. Miss Trent, is there anything behind it? I mean, are you ... could you be ... would Little Families waive the regulation?”

  “Mrs. Latrobe, what can I say to you? Miracles have happened, but not this time. How could they, Mrs. Latrobe? The foundation says clearly that ...”

  “Miracles have happened,” murmured Mrs. Latrobe, seizing the three words like a straw. She left Cathy and went back to the sewing room. Her step was light. Cathy did not follow her. She gave Elvira the replenished teapot to take in. “I am a coward,” she said.

  After lunch Avery “gargled” again and the voluntary helpers were given more useful tasks. Cathy ran upstairs and put on her gray suit. It was a deep charcoal, perfectly tailored, a reminder of the English days when only the best was good enough because father was always there to help defray the cost. The frothy blouse beneath added the right feminine touch. Because in Australia, Cathy had noticed, more women wore hats, she added her little French beret with the soaring feather worn at a jaunty angle. She knew she looked nice and was glad for David. David deserved it.

  He raised appreciative brows when she came down the stairs. “I’m dazzled. So dazzled
I could not possibly take you in Cora.” Cora was the truck. “Do you mind the train instead?”

  “I’d like it. I’ve never been in that way.”

  They caught the train into Wynyard, Cathy looking eagerly at the flying scenery, pointing out the Winona in port again to her companion as they crossed the bridge.

  “Only one trip ago,” she told him, “and so much has happened.”

  He nodded and seemed about to say something, then changed his mind.

  They went straight to the warehouse. Here rolls of material were brought out for their inspection. “We must have this green plaid for Alex,” pounced Cathy. Alex was a bright redhead.

  David laughed. “If you’re going to plan every boy’s shirt we’ll be here all night. Wasn’t the first lesson you received at the foundation school the necessity of never taking any one child too personally?”

  Cathy ignored him. She picked up a red spun with a decided Wild West suasion to its weave. “Ricky,” she said, inspired.

  “Definitely not, housemother. With a shirt of that type Richard would demand a holster and gun, and quite possibly they would accompany him to church.”

  They squabbled companionably over their choice, finally came to a decision, then emerged into the winter sunlight again.

  “Tea,” said David.

  It was pleasant in the little restaurant, one ordering sandwiches, the other cakes, and sharing the two. “We used to do that on our afternoons off at St. Cloud,” said Cathy. “It gave us variety.”

  “Do you miss those days, Cathy?”

  “No, not now.”

  “Do you miss England?”

  “How can I when England is coming out to me?” She told David about Miss Watts’s visit.

  They lingered over their tea, then strolled outside again. They walked along the busy streets, both enjoying the change from quiet Burnley Hills.

  They were turning into King Street when Cathy caught David’s arm. He was quick to follow the direction of her eyes. Standing hand in hand and staring in a window were two familiar figures from Redgates, Rita and Andrew.

  David drew Cathy into the threshold of a small shop. Under pretense of looking at some antiques he said, "What are we to do, Cathy? Those children are out of bounds. Andrew should be at his trade. It can’t be his lunch hour, it is far too late.”

  “Rita has skipped another steno class,” despaired Cathy. “I overlooked it before. I can’t all the time.”

  They both stood silent awhile, thinking desperately. David spoke first.

  “I’d sooner pretend I hadn’t seen Andrew,” he said in a troubled voice. “It would give me time to think out a right course and give Andrew the opportunity not to do it again.”

  “Can you?” said Cathy eagerly. “Can I ignore Rita, too?”

  “No. It’s too serious for that. A board member might see them. Undoubtedly Andrew’s employer will be reporting the lad’s nonattendance. I’m afraid it’s something we must tackle straight away.” He turned in the children’s direction.

  Cathy caught his arm. “Ice cream,” she said, inspired. “There is nothing like a peach sundae for loosening a taut atmosphere.”

  “We’ll try it.” They both approached the boy and girl.

  Rita and Andrew were startled. There was no doubt about that. David said genially, “Fancy meeting you two.”

  Cathy called, “Let’s have ice cream. That’s something we don’t often have at home.”

  They found a soda fountain and settled themselves on tall stools, but the atmosphere did not alter.

  Rita and Andrew only poked at the frozen desserts that ordinarily would have brought joy to their still childish hearts. David and Cathy, recently filled up with rich pastries, faced piled dishes with inner shudders of distaste.

  The conversation lagged and the ice creams did not diminish. Undoubtedly to Rita and Andrew the treats took the form of a sugar-coated pill.

  At last they could linger no more, and David stood up and said quietly, “Coming, Andrew?”

  Andrew gulped, “Yes, sir.”

  Rita stood sullenly by Cathy’s side and when they parted from the men did not even give Andrew a farewell glance.

  The two young women walked up the street. Rita made no attempt to escape from Cathy, and that made it more pathetic still. She seemed hopeless, spiritless. Cathy’s heart rushed out to her in warm sympathy, but it was no use; she was just as helpless as Rita herself.

  They stood before a cosmetician’s looking at the tubes of lipstick and the stoppered vials of nail polish.

  “Mrs. Dubois called at the business school,” said Rita. “The principal told her it was no use persevering with me, and Mrs. Dubois said she knew so all along. I’m to start at her place.”

  Cathy longed to call, “You won’t, Rita, I won’t let you, darling.”

  Aloud she said coolly, “And Andrew?”

  “He hates his trade.”

  “He chose it.”

  “Sometimes you don’t know what you want. A girl at business school said her brother tried four times, so it’s not just us, not just orphans.”

  “Oh, Rita.” There were tears in Cathy’s voice. That “not just us, not just orphans” tore at her heart. What did these children of hers think deep down inside them? Did they think they were different from others? All the consideration she and David and many others gave them—did it ever go even a short way toward making up what they had lost?

  On an impulse she caught Rita’s arm and took her into the little salon.

  “I want a lipstick.”

  “For yourself, madam?”

  A glance at the stony little face beside her and Cathy said, “Yes.”

  “You’re so beautifully fair. A rose coral, I think. Do you like this?” The attendant unscrewed the cap of a candy-striped enamel container.

  Rita was losing her indifference now. She looked longingly at the pretty trinket.

  “What do you think, Rita? Would it be the right color?”

  “Oh, yes, Aunty Cathy. It’s beautiful.” There was envy in the girl’s voice.

  Cathy gathered her courage.

  “And one for this young lady. A clear cherry, I thought,”

  “I think so, too,” agreed the attendant after a brief scrutiny of Rita’s small eager countenance.

  The money was passed over, and Cathy slipped her lipstick into her bag and handed the other to Rita.

  Rita stood enraptured. “Oh, Aunty Cathy,” she said.

  They emerged in the street again. Cathy suggested walking across the bridge and catching the train back to Burnley from North Sydney station. “It’s such a lovely day, Rita, and frankly I’m so full of ice cream and cake I’d like a walk.”

  Rita nodded compliance, clutching the handsome lipstick in her hot possessive fingers. They came to the massive bridge approaches, then walked leisurely across.

  Halfway over Cathy indicted the berthed Winona.

  “That is the ship we others sailed in, dear, Janet and the rest of, us latecomers.”

  Rita nodded. She seemed unhappy again. Cathy knew that the diversion in the cosmetician’s had worn off.

  Suddenly the girl stopped and went to the parapet. A moment of swift alarm stabbed Cathy, but the rail was high and wired and a quick look assured her that Rita had no intention of trying to leap off.

  Instead, she looked down on the lipstick, held it tightly a moment, then flung it between the wires to the harbor far below.

  “What’s the use?” she said in a piteous little voice, “She wouldn’t let me use it.”

  Remorse set in quickly. “Oh, Aunty Cathy, I’m sorry. All the money. And you don’t get so much for looking after us, do you? You’re not rich—like her.”

  Cathy fumbled in her bag. “Coral is quite a nice shade. In fact, I think it would suit you as much as the cherry.” She put her own lipstick in the hot small fingers, and together, in silence and unspoken understanding, they crossed the bridge and went home.

  CHAPT
ER FOURTEEN

  The day before Cathy’s exam, Elvira and Mrs. Ferguson insisted on taking upon themselves the lion’s share of the housemother’s duties. These included answering the telephone, seeing to Avery, interviewing callers, and listening sympathetically to the little woes to which every child is prone one time or another.

  Cathy cloistered herself in her room and worked madly. A fortnight ago she had felt prepared for the test, but so many things had happened during the last week that the words of the manual seemed to have retreated far back in her mind, and now she knew doubt and apprehension.

  She studied the chapters that Dr. Malcolm had advised until she knew them almost verbatim. She had not heard from the doctor. He had neither phoned nor called. She had expected that having coached her so far, he would relent at the last moment and summon her to the office for a final brush-up. He had not done so, and, hearing the children’s voices in the driveway and realizing with surprise that they were home already from school, Cathy did not think he would do so now. She closed the books wearily and went down the stairs.

  Elvira, seeing her, called briskly, “No need for you to come Aunty Cathy, love, Mrs. Fergie and I can manage.”

  “Elvie, if I read up another aspiration or venesection I’ll go mad. I’m having broth with my children.” She took a bowl and to the delight of the girls joined the line. “How are things?” she asked Elvira, receiving her portion of vegetable soup.

  “Rather quiet. Avery had her hitch, so I patted in calamine.”

  “It’s a sore throat day, not itch. Avery’s calendar must be amiss.”

  “Aunty Cathy,” said Janet eagerly, “a lot of our girls at school are sitting for their intermediate exams and they’re taking mascots with them to help them pass.”

  “What are mascots?” inquired Janet’s juniors, and Janet explained.

  “They needn’t be little black cats, either,” she added, “they can be anything. Lucky stone's, lucky buttons, lucky acorns—anything that’s lucky.”

  That started it. The girls finished their broth and raced out to find something lucky to make Aunty Cathy pass her exam.