To Please the Doctor

by Marjorie Moore

  “Mother ... Trevor, this is Dr. McRey, Dr. Traven, of course, you know.” The introduction effected, Jill returned again to Duncan McRey. “I daresay you’d like some tea; I’ll ring for fresh.”

  Once again the small group round the fire became, to Jill, like a stage set, and now, with Duncan McRey’s tall figure added to the group, it appeared totally unreal. His dominating personality seemed to over-awe the others, and even her mother, whom Jill knew must have been longing to discuss the one matter so near to her heart, seemed resigned and sat quietly while he, enjoying his tea, calmly discussed entirely irrelevant matters. At a signal from Jill, Philip slipped from the room to phone Dr. Sharland. At least, his arrival might hasten things, Jill hoped, as she sat barely able to contain her impatience.

  Later, when with Dr. Sharland, Philip and herself, Duncan McRey stood outside the night nursery door, all that air of detachment had left him. He was alert, keen and insistent on every detail, and questioned them all exhaustively with regard to the onset of Terry’s indisposition. “I’d like a word with his nurse before I see the child.” As Duncan McRey seated himself on the wide window-seat of the day nursery firing questions at Nana, Jill found her thoughts wandering. She had lost track of the conversation; words, only words, came meaningless to her ears. That window-seat was her earliest childhood memory. She could even recall the days when it had been out of her reach; then, gradually, she had managed to clamber up—that first time she had reached the window unaided had imbued her with a sense of power and achievement, a sign of “growing up” which had filled her with pride. Since those long ago days, and all through girlhood and adolescence, it had remained her favourite seat. She had always sat there in her happiest moments, staring across the garden sharing her happiness with the birds, the trees, the flowers. She had also escaped to that seat with her grief, sorrow, which, judged by her childish standards, had been comparable with the agony of despair, yet on looking back had been nothing more than a mere disappointment. It seemed absurd that Duncan McRey should be occupying that very corner, his head resting against the window-frame as she had been wont to rest hers, his arm lying along the sill, his long, sensitive hand fingering his pen as, now and again, he jotted down a note on the pad resting on his knee ... Life played strange tricks, his being there seemed so utterly incongruous, as if he had found his way into her most intimate dreams.

  Duncan McRey was replacing the top of his pen, screwing it firmly as he placed it in his waistcoat pocket. .”Well, I’ll run over the boy. I imagine it means a lumbar puncture...” He turned to Jill and added casually, “Lucky youngster, your brother, to have a nursery like this.”

  “It was mine as a child.” Jill found herself speaking. “It was never used as anything else, but just remained empty until mother remarried and Terry was born.”

  “Of course, he’s your half-brother.” He picked up a large, much-worn teddy bear from the top of a chest. “This looks as if it might have been handed down, too.”

  “Yes, it was my favourite toy,” Jill admitted. “It’s purely decorative now. Terry never liked cuddly toys.”

  “Sounds like a discriminating young man. Cuddly toys are a form of escapism; no doubt he is a more self-sufficient child than you were!”

  Without response Jill took the teddy bear from Duncan McRey’s hand, then watched the three men disappear through the door to Terry’s room.

  “Aren’t you going with them, Jill?” Nana asked.

  “No, I’d rather wait. You go down to Mother; tell her they have only just gone in to Terry, she’ll be worrying why they are so long.”

  Jill felt herself drawn mechanically towards the window-seat which Duncan McRey had so recently vacated. She gave an involuntary sigh as she settled against the cushioned back, the teddy bear still clasped in her arms. He had looked so odd holding it, stupid the way he had stroked its head and tweaked its ears. Jill found herself doing exactly the same thing. Then, burying her face in its soft covering, she found herself fighting back the tears which stung her eyes. In a moment she had regained control, and setting the bear down crossed to the mirror and, leaning forward, scanned her features. He mustn’t think she’d been crying. She carefully applied powder to her cheeks, then, composing herself, returned to the window. Suddenly she felt calmer, and although the low murmur of masculine voices came to her through the dividing door to the night nursery where Terry lay, it brought no sense of dread but only anxiety. Jill had little doubt in her mind of the diagnosis. Her afternoon spent with Terry had convinced her it was meningitis. She knew full well its possibilities, its dangers, but somehow, since Duncan McRey had entered the night nursery, Jill’s fears had quietened and left her with a calm sense of resignation.

  The sudden opening of the intervening door and the clearer note of conversation brought her to her feet Her knees felt unsteady, but she managed to pull herself together and cross the oil clothed floor with dignity.

  “I’ll have a word with Miss Fernley...”

  Duncan McRey’s words reached her ears, and before he joined her she heard Dr. Sharland and Philip descend to her waiting parents.

  “I expect you know pretty well what to expect.” Duncan McRey crossed the room, ignoring her as she stood in the doorway, and settled himself again in the window-seat. In spite of that new-born feeling of confidence, Jill was conscious of her quickened heartbeats as she stood waiting for him to proceed.

  “May as well sit down, too, we aren’t in hospital now.” He looked up at her with a faint smile.

  Jill seated herself on the edge of the seat, her hands gripping the edge of the chintz cushion.

  “I did a lumbar puncture. I’ll take the fluid back with me for examination.” He paused. “I’ve no doubt that it’s meningitis. It’s unfortunate, but we must hope that it will take a normal course—we should know pretty soon. There is, unfortunately, some evidence of ear complication.”

  “I see.” Jill spoke quietly, and in the silence which followed she was sure that her thumping heart must be clearly audible.

  “I understand from Traven that you have sent for a nurse from town. How about a night nurse, too? I think he’ll need one. That Nanny of his seems a sensible woman, but it’s important that he have experienced handling.”

  “Of course...” Jill broke off, then added: “I ... I shall write to Matron. I shall explain that I can’t get back. I intend to take over the day nursing myself. I want to be with Terry until ... until we know ... until I am sure he is progressing.”

  “You can’t do that.” The words were terse, almost sharply spoken.

  The unexpected tone caused Jill to look up to find his steely eyes commanding her attention. “I—I don’t understand—surely it’s the obvious thing for me to do.”

  His short laugh jarred Jill’s taut nerves, but she remained silent waiting for him to speak. “ ‘Obvious’.” He echoed her word with a note of derision. “To my mind there is only one obvious thing for you to do, and that is to return to your job.”

  “... but Terry ... until he is out of danger ... How can I leave him?”

  Duncan McRey leaned towards her and there was a commanding note in his voice “You told me once that having private means, not being dependent on your work made no difference; you loved your job sufficiently to ignore, that, perhaps, unfortunate advantage. Unless you were indifferent as to how Matron would accept your behaviour you wouldn’t be in the position to walk out of your job for a purely personal matter, would you?”

  Jill found her eyes faltering before the intensity of his gaze, and an involuntary shiver went through her. It was a moment or two before she could answer, and even then she found difficulty in framing her words. “I ... I don’t think I understand.” Her voice quivered miserably.

  “You understand perfectly well.” He spoke sharply and almost contemptuously. “It’s no affair of mine, you must naturally do as you please. I will give you full instruction as to nursing the child before I leave. Dr. Sharland will keep in touch wi
th me, and I’ll get over again in a day or so—that is, unless Dr. Sharland requires me sooner.” He rose to his feet with an abrupt movement which sent the teddy bear, against which he had been leaning, flying to the ground.

  “Please ... don’t go for a minute ... You can’t!” Jill was stung to words, yet scarcely conscious of what she was saying, and quite unaware of her action tugged desperately at his arm.

  At her detaining hold he paused and turned to look down at her where she sat on the edge of the broad seat, her face, white and strained, raised to his imploringly. “What more have you to say?” The tone was more gentle and, to Jill’s infinite relief, he re-seated himself beside her. “Come along, I haven’t much time you know, I’ve got to have a word with Sir Trevor and I’ve still a long journey ahead of me.”

  “I ... I won’t keep you long,” Jill faltered. “Please be patient with me, I am trying to understand.” She knew she could no longer conceal the tell-tale tears which stung her eyes.

  “It shouldn’t be difficult.” His voice was now infinitely gentle, and his arm which rested along the sill now pressed against her shoulders. “I said just now that it wasn’t my affair, and I meant it. You must do just as you wish, I haven’t any right whatever to stop you, but I did have the right to give you my opinion.”

  Jill had believed the pressure of his arm to be accidental. Now his encircling hold was drawing her closer until her face was within a few inches of his. Conscious of tears which hung on her lashes, she longed to turn away, but some inexplicable longing to prolong that soothing contact held her. “I just hadn’t thought. I’m so upset about Terry ... but I suppose you’re right.”

  “Terry is seriously ill; I don’t have to tell you that. He is, however, a fortunate child: he will have the best of care and nothing that money can buy will be spared to assist his recovery. He is even fortunate enough to be nursed in his own home, not in hospital among strangers; loving and familiar faces will always be at his bedside ready to give in to his slightest whim. That is the story of one child. Back at St. Joseph’s you have a ward of forty children, some equally ill—many far worse. They need you just as much, maybe more, and can you weigh one child against the multitude?”

  “No ... I had no right to think of it.” Jill’s voice was little above a whisper.

  “You see, Jill, if I felt your presence would do anything to further Terry’s recovery it would be different. For the next few days he won’t be conscious of any particular person, when—and if—he rallies, then the danger is passed and there would be no necessity for your presence. Your intention of staying here is purely selfish, entirely for your own peace of mind and not the child’s.”

  “Yes, I see that now.” Jill dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. She felt suddenly relaxed, yet inwardly dreaded the moment when he would withdraw his supporting arm. She had been acutely conscious of his unexpected use of her Christian name, yet it had seemed entirely natural at the time, and only now produced within her a sense of pleasurable surprise.

  “I take it that you would not, in any case, be leaving here until Sunday night or early Monday. I shall be haying another word with Dr. Sharland before I go. It’s possible that he may want me to look in again tomorrow, so if you care to delay your decision about overstaying your leave, I shall be able to carry back your letter to Matron.”

  “I have made up my mind. I shall be returning at the proper time.” Jill knew relief even as she made her decision, but the tears, no longer to be denied, forced themselves below her lashes and lay wet on her cheek. She did not know if Duncan McRey had drawn her head to his shoulder or whether the desire so long withheld, to indulge in her grief, blinded her to conscious action, but she was suddenly aware of the rough texture of his jacket against her cheek and the caressing touch of his hand on her hair. Her first grief spent, she still felt no inclination to move, as if by movement she would shatter the blissful peace of that respite and know again the tearing anxiety of her distress. It was indeed doubtful if she realized whose arms held her, and against whose shoulder she had found consolation. She lived for that brief moment as under a spell.

  “That’s enough, Jill. Giving in won’t help you—or the child. Perhaps you understand now that, quite apart from the purely ethical question of your remaining here, I prefer a patient to be nursed by someone with neither personal nor emotional relationship.”

  Jill lifted her tear-stained face. “I shouldn’t have been like this with Terry,” she protested.

  “It would have been humanly impossible for you to nurse him as well as you would some child in whom you are entirely disinterested. It was not easy to tell you that, so I thought it wiser to appeal to your sense of duty.” This time his eyes twinkled with amusement. “It was bound to annoy you whichever way I put it.”

  “I see now you were right, on both counts.” Jill managed a tremulous smile, then becoming suddenly aware of her undignified posture, a warm flush mounted to her cheeks. She sat up hurriedly, and smoothed back the hair which had tumbled across her forehead. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’ve been behaving like a child,” she murmured with embarrassment.

  “That’s quite all right, I like children.” The words were casual and disinterested, and his expression was hidden as he stooped to retrieve the teddy bear which lay on its back, its four paws stuck up in the air. Straightening its limbs, he placed it carefully beside him. “Feel better?” he asked abruptly.

  “Yes—so much better.” There was a depth of underlying feeling in Jill’s tone. She felt more content than she had since that morning when she had held Terry in her arms, had felt his hot limbs beneath her fingers. “I have been so—so bottled up, I’m not like that any more.” It was she who sought his eyes this time. “I am glad you came, I know he’ll be all right in your hands.”

  Duncan McRey rose to his feet and at that moment, looking up, Jill thought he seemed taller than ever. “I appreciate your confidence.” He gave a short laugh, then, as if to put an end to the discussion, added: “I must get down now and see the others: the sooner I set started back the better.”

  “If you don’t mind I won’t come down ... I ... I still feel a bit shaken. If Mother notices any signs of tears it will only alarm her.” Jill watched him leave the nursery, then returned to kneel on the seat at the window. Darkness had fallen. She hadn’t noticed how quickly gloom had filled the room, which was lighted only by a glowing gas-fire behind a high, protective fender. She turned away. She could see nothing through the darkness, beyond the narrow outside sill from which the snow had now disappeared, leaving a wet, slushy surface. Shadows flickered across the furniture giving the room a strangely unfamiliar appearance. Even the bright chintzes were mellowed to a greyish monotone, and the seat where she rested was now submerged in shadow. She hadn’t realized how dark it had suddenly become; the last hours of daylight had passed her by and she felt like a swimmer returning to the surface. She leaned back, cradling her head against the folds of the undrawn curtain, and scarcely conscious of the action set the teddy bear on her knee. A little smile curved her lips as she recalled Duncan McRey with the toy in his arms; how he had smoothed its furry limbs and straightened its ragged ears; how utterly inexplicable he was, how ruthless, almost heartless at times, and yet ... She put the toy from her as a warm feeling of embarrassment filled her being. Surely the whole thing had been an illusion, a trick of her overwrought emotions. Had he really held her close against him ... cradled her head against his shoulder? It couldn’t have been, it seemed like some mad, fantastic dream!

  Jill passed her hand across her eyes as if she would wipe out the vision and sweep the idea from her mind, but it was not until she returned to Terry’s bedside and kneeling rested her head against his as it lay on the pillow, that she knew it to be true.

  “I like new doctor man.” The child’s voice was little above a whisper. “He has made my headache lots better, he very, very kind...” His voice trailed away.

  “Don’t talk, sweetheart.” Jill
smoothed the thick curly hair. “Just lie quietly, try and sleep. I’ll stay with you.”

  “I love him ‘most as much as you. He says you help him make ill people better. Do you?”

  “Yes, that’s right ... now try and rest.” Jill repeated as she smoothed the sheet across the cot and tucked it neatly under the mattress. “I’ve made you all cosy and it’s very dark, past your bedtime.”

  “Can I have that nice man to make me better again?” Terry went on, apparently unconcerned with anything but the problem of the moment. “I want him to come and see me lots and lots. I’m going to show him my engine on rails, the one what works with ‘tricity, ‘cos it don’t work any more and he says he’ll make it work. So he will, won’t he? A sigh shook his small frame and he flung an arm restlessly from the confining covers.

  “Yes, of course,” Jill murmured, realizing the hopelessness of attempting to curb the child’s desire to speak. “He’ll do anything he promises, if you are good too, and do as he tells you.”

  “ ‘Course I will. He pricked me with a pin and I didn’t cry; I love him ‘mensely. When you aren’t here with me, is you with him? I thought you might be lonely, but you wouldn’t be, not with him, would you? Does you love him like I do?” The childish voice was obviously tiring, and Jill had to stoop closely to hear.

  “Yes—yes, I do.” Jill surreptitiously wiped away the tears which had sprung to her eyes. The reassuring words were but an idle lie to pacify a child, but she knew they were neither as improbable nor as far-fetched as she might, not so long ago, have most certainly believed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It did not Take long for Jill to realize the justice of Duncan McRey’s arguments against her nursing Terry. She was fair enough to admit that the nurses who had come down from Baldwin’s could manage the child as she, loving him as she did, could never have done, and the result was obviously to the patient’s advantage. She knew both nurses reasonably well, since, although attached to the “Outdoor Staff” of Baldwin’s, they frequently returned to the wards between cases, and at various times she had worked with both of them. They had shown some surprise that Jill, after her long experience of Dr. Humphrey, had not called him in to the case. It hadn’t been easy for Jill to give any reason, it was something which she had not as yet explained to herself; but of one thing she was certain, she harboured no regrets. Duncan McRey had inspired her with confidence which Dr. Humphrey, in spite of his high standing in the profession, could never have done.