by Sheila Burns
The doctor was a young man with innumerable freckles and rough hair which defied the bravest attempts to make it lie flat. His smile was infectious. Claire knew that he had a happy acceptance of life. He did not lose his head in an emergency, and that wretched little twin had been an emergency, as she knew. Fancy getting that on her first case here!
‘Oh well, it’s all part of the day’s work,’ said the doctor when he had done, and was washing his hands in the hot water she had brought up in a pail, for there was no can.
‘Yes, but we didn’t think of this one.’
He glanced over his shoulder at the bed. ‘She won’t be round for a bit, stay with her, will you?’ and then; ‘You’re something of an asset to this place. The old nurse was getting a bit happy-go-lucky, over fifty anyway, they always have them old. You’re a change, a big change, and a good one! What’s your name?’
‘Dale. Claire Dale. I am here for six months, old Sir Charles Hague wanted me to do it.’
‘Sir Charles! He’s a grand old boy! I would have called him the backbone of the village.’
‘He is the backbone of St. Julian’s too.’
‘I bet he is!’
She had another look at the patient, and then began work on the baby. He was a good-looking child, robust, even if he was somewhat on the small side. The doctor dried his hands and went to the door, bag in hand.
‘I’d better have a word with the happy father. He’ll thank his lucky stars that the second twin was dead, I bet! You tell her when she comes round, and I’ll nip up and have another look before I go.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
I like him, she thought, he is nice to work with and that makes all the difference in the world. She got the baby tidy, and into a home-made nightdress, calming him down. That was when the woman stirred. She had that almost incredible pallor which comes from childbirth, but soon changes. Claire went to her.
‘Feeling better now?’ then, when she realised that the patient had heard her, ‘You’ve got a lovely little son!’
The eyes opened, and the woman stared at the two of them, almost unbelieving, then she held out her arms rather pathetically. ‘A boy?’
‘A beautiful little boy! You had two of them, but the other never breathed.’
‘This one is all right?’ Only the living child interested her, and somehow Claire understood this. In the supreme moment she turned to the new life which had come into the world, and held him to her.
‘He’s fine,’ she whispered. ‘Yes.’
She left them together for a moment and went down to see if the husband could come up. Doctor and new father were sharing a cup of tea. The father, a rather good-looking young man, was only too grateful that the second baby was dead; he had not really wanted the one, but as he explained, ‘You know the way things go!’
They did indeed!
‘He’s a lovely boy, and your wife would probably like to see you,’ Claire said.
‘Oh ah!’ and the man lumbered off upstairs. Now she and the doctor faced each other.
He said, ‘You did well, and will be a great help. I’ve been here five years, my first job, and it is something of a mixed bag, I can tell you. I hope we shall be seeing a lot of each other.’
‘We shall,’ she said.
It was a full half-hour before she got back to her own cottage, where Mrs. Hopkins was awaiting her. More flowers had come for her, fat bunches from strangers, and somehow Claire felt flattered. It was nice of the amiable country people to be so kind and want to make her happy. Apparently the loveliest bunch of all had come from Stable House, and she rang Mavis up. On the telephone Mavis sounded quite friendly, and Claire wondered if perhaps some of her gaucherie had been caused on the Sunday because they were strangers. She could be very shy. Mavis said that she had forgotten to bring something that she had made for Claire’s supper, and would it be all right to drop it in later?
‘Absolutely all right. I’d love to see you,’ Claire told her and then triumphantly, ‘Already I have brought a new small villager into the world, and I feel that is something!’
She went up to her room to tidy and put on a clean frock. Already she found that she was thinking of Mavis as being a friend. She must have misjudged her the other day. The flowers and the ‘something for her supper’ were a thrill, charming thoughts for which she was grateful.
She knew she had done the right thing to come here, even if it had meant ending the affair with Chris pro tem. She stood on a new threshold. She was the district nurse.
Chapter Eight
Mavis brought round a big fruit flan and some small chicken pies.
‘I knew you would have no time to shop,’ she said, ‘and when you are not used to it shopping in the country is far more difficult than in the town. We are six miles from a butcher. Eggs and butter are plentiful, and there is an odd little grocer’s shop which sells nothing you really want, but otherwise there is not so much.’
‘I’m very very grateful for this,’ and Claire told herself again that she had made a big mistake when she had summed her up, for Mavis was far nicer than on first appearances.
They were able to talk for a short while. Mavis told her nothing about herself, she was noticeably silent when it came to her own life, but was full of the accident they had seen together, and Claire’s admirable first aid. She had visited the hospital to enquire after Terence Anderson’s condition, and Mavis appeared to be glowing about it.
‘I visit him most days; you see, he has nobody else to do anything for him. He seems horribly alone. But he is getting better, and the skull was not fractured, as you suspected. It was very severe concussion. They say that he will remain there another ten days.’
‘With concussion? And he can talk? He must be recovering if he can see people,’ then she asked, ‘Hasn’t he got a home where he can return? The address on his driving licence was Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, as far as I remember.’
Mavis became confidential. She flushed with pleasure and was obviously very happy. ‘He has no real home; that is his studio in Chelsea. You see, he is an artist. There was something about him in the London papers only the other day. His people are in New Zealand, he was born there, and is an only child. He came to London because of his art.’
‘He seems rather young to be so alone,’ Claire said thoughtfully.
‘He’s nearly thirty.’ It seemed surprising that Mavis had discovered quite so much, and was it knowing this young man that had brought about the change in her? Claire looked again. She was wearing a far more becoming dress than last time, and her hair had had a perm. It had been set by a proper hairdresser, and glistened. It made a big difference to her.
On the last visit that Sunday when Claire had first come down here, Mavis had given her the picture of a woman who had lost heart with life; she had been the forlorn spinster who has missed the boat in this world, and even if she was only thirty-eight, she gave the impression of being wearied with living and a great deal older.
Claire had surmised that her disappointment in life had been psychologically upsetting, but now somehow she felt a good deal more apprehensive for her.
‘Ten days more?’ she asked.
‘Uncle Charles says so. I suggested that when he got better he should come and stay with us for a bit at Stable House to convalesce.’
‘That would be lovely for him.’
Mavis had flushed a little. ‘Then Uncle could see after him (and Dr. Holding, of course), and Uncle says something must be done about his bad headaches. He has been having quite terrible headaches, they come every day.’
‘They could be caused by shock.’
Mavis nodded. ‘It will be lovely if he comes to stay with us, for he is such a very nice person, and sick of doing landscapes. He very much wants to start on portraits, and is looking for a suitable model.’ She coloured again, and Claire knew what was coming. ‘I’d love to sit for him. He is so nice, and it would be exciting.’
The thought of Mavis sitting for a portrai
t was slightly shattering, for she was so very plain and ordinary. Claire could not believe that young Terence Anderson had ever really intended this when they had been talking. Maybe Mavis was endowed with the gift of a vivid imagination, which can be so misleading, so difficult to understand, and even more so to cope with.
Mrs. Heath arrived in a large car. She swept in on them in high state, feathered hat and all. One fact was quite plain, this village missed nothing. It was a self-contained little place ever avid for news, and obviously now they were going to sugar-coat their curiosity with an abundant generosity, which was rapidly becoming disturbing. Mrs. Heath walked in with another armful of flowers, a dozen new-laid eggs, and a Dundee cake which she said her cook always made for very special friends, and did it remarkably well.
The fact that today anyone had a cook who could make a Dundee cake (well or badly) astounded Claire beyond belief. Also this was the great lady, the one most closely concerned with her new appointment, and who could make it easy or difficult for her here. She felt worried.
It was plain that Mrs. Heath disliked having been preceded by Mavis, who now left, for this was choir practice night and she had to get away. The second she had gone, Mrs. Heath began.
‘You know all about that dreadful young woman, of course? Poor Sir Charles! Poor, poor Sir Charles! What that man suffers with his niece is nobody’s business. She is now throwing her cap at that poor young man who was hurt in the car accident, she absolutely lives at the hospital. He is, I am told, a very rich fellow, an artist from Chelsea, to add to it.’
Mrs. Heath’s goggle eyes were all over the place, and it struck Claire that there could be very little that those two eyes missed. She was mistress of the situation, of course, seeing that she and Sir Charles had appointed Claire, and therefore could not be swept aside quite so readily. However, Claire was well aware of the need to start as she intended to go on. She had of course to be discreet with both Mrs. Heath and Mavis Hague, and therefore she must be careful.
‘She has been very kind to me,’ she commented, and this was true.
‘Ah yes, of course she would be! She always makes sure that she starts off with a good impression, but that never goes on for long. I think that I ought to warn you that being a nurse in a village like this, is not easy. You’ve never done it before, and you need good advice. These little places are so gossipy, one never knows what will happen next. You have not lived in a village before?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t,’ and she knew this was an error.
‘Then you must let me be your guardian angel, protect you, and advise you for your own good.’ Mrs. Heath had started to purr with self-assurance. ‘I know everyone, came here as a bride, and that is endless years ago, for my dear son Vernon is already twenty-seven. I will guide you and help you. You must rely on me!’
The last person Claire wished to rely on was Mrs. Heath. ‘I don’t intend to be drawn into local gossip,’ she said, ‘nor to listen to scandals, but just to do my job, and I hope that I do it well.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I admire that, but let me warn you,’ Mrs. Heath was now well away with her story again, ‘You must be careful with Miss Hague, she is a very peculiar woman, and the thing that I dislike more than all else is peculiarity! Sir Charles lost his wife sadly, he has had a lot of trouble, poor man (such a dear), but privately, and I would never say it to anybody else, his niece is a very dreadful person. She is not at all suitable to be living here in Charnworth with him. It distresses us all.’
‘They have both been very good to me,’ and Claire only hoped that this might stem the floodtide, yet rather feared that it would not.
‘I’m afraid you don’t know Miss Hague. I realise she was with you when that awful accident happened, and that poor young man was hurt. If you ask me she is wasting her time on him, he can’t possibly want her.’
‘I expect he would say so if he didn’t.’
Mrs. Heath flushed slightly. ‘Oh well, that could be, but I hope he does nothing silly. He is suffering from bad shock, and anything could happen. He has outrageous headaches, too, and there is talk of him convalescing at Stable House. I do hope that he does nothing so silly.’ Desperately Claire tried to change the subject by speaking of the beautiful flowers, but Mrs. Heath would not be changed, and at last Claire had to take the risk and speak out.
‘I am sorry, Mrs. Heath, but I don’t like discussing other people, and especially so when I am in the position which I hold now. It isn’t right of either of us.’
A dull copper glow illuminated Mrs. Heath’s face and ran to her ears. She stopped abruptly, and Claire knew that she was furiously angry, and this could quite well mean the end of her appointment here, and then she did not know what else she could do.
‘You’ve got me entirely wrong.’ There was a tinny sound of resentment in her tone. ‘I never discuss people, I hate gossip, and refuse to tolerate it in my private life, but …’ The telephone rang.
Never had Claire been more thankful to hear it. At the far end of the line she could hear an urgent voice, the tone of a working man.
‘Is that Sister speaking?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘It’s Harry Harris. Me wife’s had the pains all day and they’re getting worse. They’re downright awful! The baby’s coming, and the neighbour said I was to ring you up, and tell you to get round here quick.’
‘Yes, of course, has your wife got a bed in the hospital? If so, it would be as well to let them know.’
‘No, she don’t believe in hospitals, she don’t! She’s having her baby here, as she wanted, and I said so too.’
‘Right! I’ll come. Where are you?’
‘It’s on the hill. You take the Hammerton Road, and it brings you here. There are four cottages in a row, our’n is the last but one, but be quick, Sister,’ His voice broke a little with the strain. ‘I’m no good at this sort of thing meself, Sister. Come along the main road, take the Springwell turn, which’ll bring you into the Hammerton Road. You’ll see the cottages clear all right, for they stand up.’
‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’
She hung up and turned back to the room where Mrs. Heath had made no attempt to hide the fact that she was listening hard. ‘Trouble?’ she asked.
‘No, not exactly trouble, but a patient needs me and I must go. Mrs. Harris, in the row of cottages in the Hammerton Road, needs help.’
She did not wait for explanations, but turned to her ever-ready bag and caught it up in her hand as she went to the door. Mrs. Heath watched her with her irritating protuberant eyes which always asked eternal questions.
‘Do you have to be so quick?’
In the doorway Claire turned, and now she was sure of herself. ‘Yes, I do. Babies don’t bide their time to come into the world, and her poor husband must be worried to death.’ She went without saying goodbye.
She thrust her bag into the back of the little car, and got inside to start off. She knew without looking that Mrs. Heath had come out into the front garden to watch her. She prayed that she would be forgiven for this, but she was doing the right thing, and must abide by it. It was absurd to wonder what Chris would have said, but it is the sort of thing that happens to a girl. It was absurd to wonder how she could think so fondly of him when she was doing this job to finish with him ‒ if she could! Maybe after all she couldn’t, and she accelerated gently.
The car slid away on to the main road, and as she turned into the Hammerton Road, she saw a vivid lane with cow parsley standing high in the ditches, and heard the wild birds singing in the hedges. She saw the houses she wanted, standing in one of those plain rows which were built all over England in the eighties. It meant well water again, and she shuddered for it, no real comforts, but this was something with which she had to cope. I’m needed here, she told herself, this place wants me, and I am coming to believe that I want it.
Chapter Nine
Claire got out of the car and went to the last door but one, and as she
did so she heard a long low moan. A good-looking young man was waiting in the doorway, and they met face to face on the step. ‘Here I am,’ she said.
He looked at her quite oddly. He had about him a sort of ill-bred gaucherie which was crude. ‘Usually our nurses are middle-aged and fat,’ he said in a choky voice. ‘You’re different. You are young,’ and in a lower voice, ‘You are very pretty,’ and there came a grin across his face.
Claire loathed the sight of it and she knew that this was the type of young man who had affairs with every pretty woman in the place. Instinctively she shrank from him.
‘Your wife?’ she asked him.
‘She’s upstairs, you can hear her, she’s been making noise enough,’ and even as he said it, his eyes watched Claire too closely, almost as if he doubted her youth and inexperience. Almost as if he saw her not as a trained nurse at all, but as a lavish dish of food which was there for the asking.
She had never met this in hospital, perhaps the actual atmosphere of the place helped a girl, perhaps half the patients were afraid, and there one had Sisters and Matron behind one. Here she had nobody. She could feel that curious turn coming inside her, and she went into the cottage. She went up the wooden stairs hoping that he was not following her. Half afraid.
The place was clean enough, well scrubbed, but barren. She entered the front bedroom; apparently a neighbour, a worthy but futile woman, had come in and was standing there wiping away her sympathetic tears.
‘It’s all right, lovie,’ she kept saying.
Claire knew the ineffectuality of such remarks, and went over to the bed. ‘I’ve come to help you, it won’t be long,’ she said comfortingly.
She recognised that the woman was nearing the actual moment of birth, by the way she moved, and the look in her eyes. Instantly Claire brought out the gas and oxygen outfit.
‘Put this over your mouth,’ she said, ‘now breathe heavily and long, and the pain’ll go. That’s fine. Do it again, and again. Splendid!’