She braced herself to face the two nurses. “Nurse Swenwick, there’s a cup of tea left in the pot. Go and get it, then come back and Nurse Adcock can go.”
Nurse Swenwick gave her a peculiar look, but murmured “thank you” and went out. Nurse Adcock continued mopping the floor. Christine took a swift look around to make sure that most of the clearing up in the main body of the theater was almost completed, then moved toward the sterilizing room where the instruments were waiting to be cleaned.
Nurse Adcock called: “Nurse Townsend!”
Christine halted and turned around. “Yes, Nurse?”
There was a little awkward silence. “Nurse, I—I don’t know whether you heard what Nurse Swenwick said, just as you came in, but I—I want you to know that I didn’t agree with her in the least.”
Christine’s face softened. “That’s very nice of you, Nurse, and I appreciate it. The trouble is, to how many more people will Nurse Swenwick repeat what she said? There’s no private life in hospital, Nurse. I should remember that, if I were you.”
Christine wondered, as she cleaned the instruments and dropped them into the sterilizer, whether John was aware of the talk making the rounds. She supposed not. Though men could do their own share of gossiping, they probably saw things from a different point of view. But she couldn’t imagine them making the sort of surmises Nurse Swenwick had come out with.
As she hurried down the drive to catch the bus home, Christine realized that it was what Nurse Swenwick had said that hurt most of all. It hurt because she saw the possible truth of it. She had suspected for quite some time that John liked Nurse Larcham, and though she had not seen them out together herself, others had.
She changed her mind about taking the bus, and decided to walk home. Perhaps by the time she arrived she might have a few things straightened out in her mind. At the moment, she was just confused.
She strode out, thinking alternately of Robert and John, trying to analyze her restlessness, the ease with which tears came into her eyes these days. She never used to be so emotional. She had been happy, her life entirely uncomplicated.
By the time she reached home, worn out after her long walk following a day on her feet, she had quite made up her mind that she had had enough of love for a while, and that if Robert ever did ask her to marry him again she would turn him down.
It was astonishing how easy it was to avoid direct or personal contact if one so wished. This Christine did with regard to both Robert and John for quite a long period; weeks in fact.
Robert was the most persistent in trying to engage her in conversation. He would call her back when she was leaving a room, make efforts to stop her in the corridors, seek her out when he thought Sister Kelly was off duty.
One day he came into the office on some flimsy pretext and tried to detain her by standing with his back to the door.
“Just a minute, Chris, I want to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Marston, I have work to do.”
“Not until you’ve told me why you’re deliberately avoiding me.”
“I should have thought that was obvious. Now, will you please move away from that door. You and I have absolutely nothing to say to each other.”
“No?”
He moved toward her, and at that moment somebody pushed against the door, trying to enter. But Christine was not going to be caught this time. She moved aside as John stepped into the room. “Am I interrupting anything?” he asked.
“No, Dr. Taylor,” she answered determinedly. “Dr. Marston was just going.”
The two men eyed each other for a moment, John in his quiet, grave way, Robert rather angrily.
But he shrugged off his anger and sent Christine a smiling glance.
“Be seeing you, Chris,” he said casually, and went out.
But there was no pretence about John’s visit. “About that cholecystectomy tomorrow, Nurse Townsend...”
There was some change in the order of the operations on the list. John said what he had to say, then thanked her formally and left.
Perversely, Christine wished he had said a personal word to her.
Spring had now progressed into early summer. Feeling the need to get away, to go somewhere where there were wide open spaces, she took a bus out into the country and walked. She had not planned her route particularly well and so found herself near the cottage where she and John had had tea together. She hesitated before going in, in case Robert or even John should happen to be there again. But she was thirsty and in need of a rest, and in any case, she told herself, it would be rather too much of a coincidence if either of them were in the cafe.
But as she entered the place she looked around almost apprehensively. It really wouldn’t be all that much of a coincidence. But to her relief, though the cafe was crowded, neither Robert nor John was there.
Afterward she wished she had not gone near the place. It set her thinking again, and brought on an attack of acute loneliness. As she walked, she found herself thinking, not so much of Robert as of John, and the day he had brought her out here. How happy she had been that day—that is, until they had seen Robert and Sandra. Looking back now, she discovered she had not really minded Robert being with Sandra. It had been her pride that had been hurt; the fact that Robert could so easily switch his affections from herself to Sandra when once she had thought they meant everything to each other.
She began to climb up one of the crags, only to be reminded forcibly of John, her hand in his, firm, cool and strong. What was it about John? she asked herself. Why was it she felt so at peace with him? Had felt so much at peace. For now it seemed she had lost him, had deliberately shut him out of her life. She reached the top of the crag and stood there, and after a minute or so realized that, subconsciously, her fingers had begun to curve as if becoming entwined in someone else’s. In John’s.
She pulled herself up with a jerk. It was ridiculous to be dreaming away like this. She was too much alone these days, that was the trouble. She must make new friends, invite one or two of the other staff nurses home. Being so much alone made one too introspective. She turned quickly and began to make her way back down. Suddenly, her foot slipped sideways on a jutting piece of crag, and with a cry of pain, she plunged headlong down the hill.
Desperately she tried to stop herself from rolling, crying out as sharp pieces of rock jabbed at her flesh, here and there, larger, more menacing pieces jutting up like giant’s teeth. If she crashed headlong into one of those she felt certain she would crack her skull.
But steep though the crag was, the unevenness of its surface and the patches of stubbly grass served at last to slow up her downward, treacherous progress. Finally she came to a halt with a sickening jolt. Bruised and shaken, with sharp pains stabbing in a dozen different places, she lay there without moving for a long while.
It had become quite dark. She looked up as a spot of rain fell. That was all she needed. Cautiously she tried to move, then became aware that the most persistent pain was coming from her right ankle. She sat up and looked at it. Already there was some swelling.
Gritting her teeth against the pain in her ankle, she began to make a slow and painful descent. Shortsightedly, she had not brought a raincoat with her and though the wool cardigan she wore gave her some protection, her light cotton skirt was soon soaked. She tried to find shelter against a piece of rock, but the ‘ rain was coming straight down and she began to shiver with cold. She stayed there for a little while, battling against the sickening pain in her ankle and fighting off a desire to weep.
She thought she might just as well be making some progress. She was getting more and more wet in any case, so she set off once more.
As she neared the bottom she tried in vain to attract the attention of a passing motorist. With a great swoosh of mud and water, he raced past at 60 or 70 miles an hour. She tried again with much the same result. All kept their eyes straight ahead, intent only, she supposed, on getting home as quickly as they could.
She moved on until she was at the bottom of the crag. Here there was a three-foot drop to the road below. Christine peered up and down the road. She was beginning to feel a little sick and dizzy, and the pain in her ankle was getting worse.
Further along the road she thought she could see a parked car. Through the wet curtain of gloom it was difficult to tell which way the car was facing. She was wondering whether she could possibly jump down and hop in that direction when to her dismay the car began to move. Unless she could attract the driver’s attention quickly as he came out on to the road he might drive off in the opposite direction. Even if he wasn’t going her way or the car was too full for him to give her a lift, he might at least telephone her father and ask him to come out and get her.
She pulled out her handkerchief and waved frantically. In doing so she lost her balance and fell to the road with a sickening jolt.
A wave of the most excruciating pain robbed her of her senses and blotted out what little daylight there was left.
CHAPTER NINE
She was roused by a blessedly familiar voice, and thought she must be dreaming.
“Good heavens above! Christine!”
A pair of strong arms lifted her up. She opened her eyes and through a mist of tears looked into John’s face.
“Oh, John. I don’t know how you managed to be here, but thank goodness you are. I—”
“Merciful heavens, child, what on earth has been happening to you? Are you alone? I mean—”
“Yes, I—I slipped, up on the crag. I think I’ve sprained my ankle.”
He carried her to the car and opened the door on the passenger side.
“Do you think you could possibly stand on one leg for a minute while I lower you into the seat, Christine? I won’t let you fall.”
Darling John, I know you won’t, she answered silently.
“You’re absolutely soaked,” he said anxiously. “Try to hitch up your dress before you sit down. Don’t mind me. Then you must take it off. You can’t possibly sit in that. It’s almost an hour’s drive home.”
She did as he told her, and when she was safely in the seat he rummaged in the back and produced a raincoat, one of the long old-fashioned type.
“Here, put this over your knees. It’s just an old one I keep in the back in case I get a flat tire in the rain or anything like that.” He helped her to manipulate it, then took off his jacket. “Now, get out of that wet dress and cardigan and put this on.”
“But, John, you’re getting wet!” she protested as he stood there in his shirt-sleeves, with the obvious intention of waiting until she had made the change.
“Don’t argue—just hurry up,” he told her mildly.
As quickly as she could she peeled off the wet cardigan and pulled the dress over her head. His coat was still warm from contact with his body, and she hugged it to her unconsciously, loving the feel of it.
She tapped on the windshield. “It’s all right now, John, thanks.”
He turned swiftly then and got in the seat beside her. “Feeling a little better now?”
“Oh yes! Lovely. I hope you’re not cold without your coat.”
“Not in the least.” He started up the car again and headed for home. “I simply can’t understand what you’re doing out here on your own. I should have thought...” But here he broke off.
She guessed what he had been going to say. He would have thought Robert would be with her.
She felt the rough tweed of his coat. Her ankle was still painful, but she scarcely noticed it.
“I often used to come out here by myself,” she said, thinking it best not to talk about Robert and herself. “But how did you happen to be here?”
“There’s nothing really strange about it, Christine. I’ve been here several times since you and I came that day.”
“Alone?”
He hesitated a fraction. “Most times.”
Most times. She didn’t ask who had been with him on the other occasions. The thought that he had been with Larcham made her miserable.
“How’s your ankle feeling?” he asked after a while.
“Better, thanks, now that I’m resting it.”
They fell silent and she closed her eyes, leaning her head back on the seat. After a while he glanced at her. In her own private darkness, she heard him say, “That’s right. Try to sleep.”
She found herself strongly tempted to rest her head on his shoulder, to reach out her hand and touch him. She was only just beginning to realize how strongly she felt drawn to John. She opened her eyes and looked at his profile. His face looked unusually severe and drawn. Was something troubling him?
All at once her attitude of the past towards him changed, turned about. Instead of reaching out for his sympathy, it was hers to give. Instead of being strengthened by him she felt the stronger, and whereas before she was content to be comforted by him, she now wanted to comfort him. A great wave of tenderness washed over her.
She loved him. Yes, at this moment she loved him. Not in the way she had loved Robert—still loved him, though she was trying hard to put him behind her—not in that same urgent fashion when the sea of one’s emotions is in a constant state of disturbance verging on storm or tempest, but calmly, like still waters.
Presently she asked in a soft, low voice, “Is something troubling you, John?”
The question took him unawares. A look of swift surprise robbed his face of its severity.
“No,” he said a little abruptly. “I’m anxious to get you home, if that’s what you mean. Not cold, are you?”
She shook her head, feeling rather abashed. Then, as if he was aware that he had been a little short with her, his right hand reached out and touched her arm.
“We’ll soon have you home, then we’ll get you into bed and attend to that ankle of yours. There’ll be no theater duty for you for a day or two at least.”
“I suppose not. I’m afraid I’m being an awful nuisance.”
“Nonsense,” he said briefly.
The rain had stopped by the time they reached Dunston. The lights of the street lamps reflected in the wet pavements, a shy, slender new moon queened the sequined sky, and as they drove past the colliery yard a line of twinkling lamps snaked a path to the pit shaft.
“A moving sight, Christine,” John said in a low voice.
He turned the car into the drive and the headlights swung around, highlighting a red sports car.
Surprise mingled with dismay as she recognized it.
What was Robert doing here?
John switched off the engine but left the lights on. “Stay here a minute, Christine. I’ll let your mother know what’s happened and bring a coat or something for you to put on.”
He got out of the car and stood for a moment eyeing Robert’s car. Then he went to the front door; Her mother opened it, and though Christine did not hear what John said, her mother’s voice came clearly to her. She called out to her father, then disappeared for a moment and came out again with a coat over her arm.
“Christine, my dear child, what on earth have you been doing to yourself? Here you are. Put this on. Whatever would you have done if John hadn’t found you? Really, Christine, you ought to be more careful.”
“Don’t fuss so, Mother. I’m all right, really I am.”
Her father and John came out together. Robert stood silhouetted in the doorway.
“Here’s your coat, John, and thanks,” Christine said as she swiveled her legs out of the car, hoping her own coat covered a sufficiently respectable amount of her legs.
“I think John and I might as well make a bosun’s chair and carry you in if you’ve sprained your ankle,” her father said.
Protests from Christine were useless. Amid fuss and some laughter she was carried indoors and plumped into an armchair in the sitting room.
“Better let me look at that,” he said.
Mrs. Townsend went to the door. “I’ll get some bandages and a bowl of cold water.”
Very gently,
Robert removed her shoe, then felt the swelling, carefully moving the foot from side to side and up and down.
“It is just a sprain, I think. Poor Chris. It must be causing you a lot of pain.”
It was then she realized that John was not there. She heard his voice in the hall, her mother’s “Oh, John, must you?” Then her mother came into the sitting room with the water and bandages, and John followed, but stopped just inside the door.
“Good night, all,” he said very quietly. “Good night, Christine. Hope your ankle will soon be better.”
And before she could even call out good night, still less thank him for all he had done, he was gone.
Mr. Townsend came in as the front door closed on John, a tray of glasses in his hand.
“Was that John who just went out? He is coming back, isn’t he?”
“Why, no.” Mrs. Townsend set down the bowl.
“Good lord, Elaine, have you let the boy go without so much as a drink?”
He went out quickly, but a second later Christine heard John’s car roar into life, and when her father returned he grumbled at his wife and daughter for letting him go.
Expertly and with infinite gentleness Robert bandaged Christine’s foot. She vaguely sensed something different about him. This was more like the Rob she used to know. At least, this part of him. The quietness and tenderness that had somehow been missing in him of late. She looked down at his dark head as he worked, and wondered what had happened, why he was here.
Their eyes met as he looked up, and Christine saw the unmistakable expression of love.
“Now, darling, how does that feel?” he asked softly.
The Gentle Surgeon Page 12