Friends for Life

by Carol Smith

  Chapter Nine

  It suited her pale complexion, the lavender and white striped cotton of the uniform they wore as probationers, and Catherine was pleased when she pinned on the neat little Nightingale cap and viewed herself in the full-length glass. The wide white belt accentuated her tiny waist, and fine black stockings flattered her graceful legs. She missed being pretty by a whisker but this crisp uniform showed her off to her best advantage. Training at St. Thomas’s Hospital, Lambeth, was turning out to be exhilarating and even the long hours and grueling hard work failed to dampen her enthusiasm.

  Nor did the crowded conditions of shared digs, for this was her first big adventure and Catherine was determined nothing was going to stop her relishing every moment of it. Throughout her life she had suffered the loneliness of the only child whose parents were constantly on the move, so that the sheer enjoyment of being part of a ready-made gang of girls, mucking in together, was all the more accentuated after the opulence of home. She loved the rickety old house in Vauxhall, with its creaking stairs and exploding Ascot in the bathroom, and grew to look forward to hurrying home after a long, hard shift, knowing that no matter what time of the day or night it might be, she would always find someone to talk to in the shared kitchen. Catherine was shy by nature and cautious by inclination but at last, for the first time ever, she felt she was making real friends among the other nurses.

  They didn’t have much money but that didn’t stop them having fun. Most weekends there was a party they could crash, or else she’d tag along with the crowd to the pub for a beer or two. Then there was the Old Vic nearby, Catherine’s heaven, where as often as possible she queued for tickets—Standing Room Only, which was all she could afford. Father had offered her an allowance, of course, but this was the beginning of adulthood and freedom, and Catherine’s fierce spirit of independence made her determined to go it alone.

  Those were heady days and full of fun; she looked back on them now with a warm nostalgia. She had never before lived in the heart of London and, with her parents safely abroad, was finally free to explore and experiment at will. She had a lot of innocent fun, learning to cope on her own and soaking up the sights and sounds of this marvelous city, but she worked hard too. She was determined to pass her finals, if only to shake off the tyranny of her mother, and the thought of one day being in a position to announce she was never coming home again was sufficient incentive to keep her slogging away.

  Until she met Tom.

  The outside door was pushed open with a clang of the bell and Catherine was brought back to the present. A young woman in a quilted flak jacket over baggy corduroys strode into the waiting room. Her hair was streaked with blond and tied back in a ponytail, she wore huge dark glasses pushed up on top of her head. It was late morning but already the light was beginning to fail in the acceleration of days toward Christmas.

  “Is he in?” The voice was confident and over-loud, so different from Catherine’s at about the same age, all those years ago.

  “Do you have an appointment?” Automatically, Catherine scanned the book.

  “No, it’s social. Tell him I’m here, would you.”

  Catherine felt her hackles beginning to stir. The sheer nerve of some people, especially these Sloaney types whom she particularly disliked. Who did they think they were?

  “He’s in surgery, I’m afraid. I can’t disturb him.”

  The girl snorted with derision and leaned on the counter so that she was at Catherine’s eye level and could make her point more succinctly. Speaking slowly, as if to a child, she repeated: “Just tell him I’m here.”

  Catherine held her ground, her fingers, hidden beneath the keyboard, curling in fury.

  It was a small victory but Catherine’s wan cheeks flushed with triumph. Duncan’s working life was full of this sort of interruption from young women—pushy, determined, often ravishingly pretty—and she considered it part of her duties to hold them at bay as much as possible. She knew he was grateful to her for it, even if it was never discussed.

  When, finally, he did emerge for a breather, white coat unbuttoned to reveal his faded denim shirt and a good slice of his tanned and muscular chest, it was clear to anyone just what all this fuss was about. His huge bulk filled the tiny waiting room and he stepped outside for a breath of air. Concentrating on his patients always made him stiff. He needed the occasional break like this to stretch and unwind.

  “Hey, Serena!” Catherine heard him exclaim. “What brings you here? What a nice surprise.”

  “Lunch,” said the cut-glass voice. “At Drones at one. I’m meeting some chums and thought I’d pick you up on the way.” Her Land Rover was parked on the cobbles and a couple of Labradors were standing inside, tails wagging with pleased recognition.

  She followed Duncan back inside and Catherine saw the look on her face, transformed now from one of sulky hauteur to sheer, desperate adoration and longing. Duncan reached one long arm over the counter for the appointment book and ran his eye quickly over the pages.

  “No can do,” he said, with what looked like genuine regret. “I’ve got a full surgery till then and a couple of emergencies in Putney directly after. Sorry. I’ll have to take a rain check.”

  “You’ll have to wait until he’s free. Surgery ends at one.”

  Then, as another woman backed slowly into the room, carrying a huge wicker cat-basket: “Perhaps you’d be good enough to wait outside in the mews. There’s not a lot of room in here.”

  He stooped to kiss her cheek.

  “Got to get back,” he said with his devastating grin, and was gone behind the closed surgery door before she could reply.

  Poor kid, thought Catherine, softening, observing her stricken gaze. I know just how she feels. For that was the way she used to run after Tom; just remembering hurt more than she was able to handle, even after all these years. She tested a smile on the now disconsolate Serena, but it went unacknowledged.

  Tom was a surgical registrar when Catherine first encountered him, a clever, opinionated scholarship boy from County Durham, with a gold medal in surgery and a soft, seductive regional burr that was part of the initial attraction. There were no fireworks or anything like that to begin with; they met in the course of their normal hospital duties and simply rubbed along. Tom had his heart and mind set on the top of the surgical ladder, while Catherine was usually too tired to think about anything other than her routine work. She liked his confidence and his energy inspired her.

  Then, as their paths continued to cross, Tom started to notice Catherine, with her trim waist and fragile prettiness, and enjoyed bringing a faint flush to her cheeks with his slightly risqué remarks. As a rule, women found Tom attractive and he was used to them coming on to him, but this pale creature presented something of a challenge. He started to look out for her, and when eventually he bumped into her in the pub, surprised her hugely by asking for a date.

  He arrived to collect her in a spectacularly decrepit car, an ancient Morris Minor held together with string and a prayer. He wore shabby cords and an old tweed jacket, with a long, long scarf wound, Bob Cratchit-style, round his neck. And he never, ever stopped talking. He was nothing special in the looks department but his eyes were mischievous and his tongue wicked and before she realized what was happening, he had Catherine under his spell.

  “He’s totally brilliant!” she told her roommate, Nancy, and Nancy—who had been around a bit—merely smiled.

  “So when are you seeing him again?”

  They were in their room, the size of a shoebox, squeezing past each other as they undressed and got ready for bed.

  “Thursday. He’s studying for his fellowship and wants me to hear him go through his notes. I said I’d cook him a meal at his digs. Spaghetti bolognese, I thought, if you’ll show me how to make it.”

  “How romantic!” mocked Nancy. “The last of the big spenders.” But secretly she was impressed. At one time or another they had all had an eye on Tom and she was slightly jealous
that her insipid friend seemed to have stolen a march on them all. With his brains and charisma, Tom was quite a catch and known to be going places fast. Maybe there was more to Catherine than met the eye.

  Catherine’s cooking was basic but she obviously passed the test, because more invitations followed and soon she and Tom were something of a couple. He was a miner’s son from Consett with very little money and had to work in the vacations in order to keep himself while he studied. That meant nothing to Catherine; just being with him was enough. He was bright and forceful and utterly captivating. Soon, she became a creature obsessed.

  To subsidize his scholarship and help pay for books and things, Tom played the clarinet in a doctors’ jazz band that was so popular for student hops and other occasions that they were thinking of turning professional. He was impressed when he discovered who Catherine’s mother was; he had always been an opera fan, he said, and hoped one day to hear Eleanor Palmer sing in person, maybe even meet her if she ever came back to London. Catherine was thrilled at the implication but also a little scared. She had never taken a boyfriend home to meet her parents, mainly because she’d never really had one. She tried not to think about the cross-examination she knew he would be bound to face but her heart fluttered at the very idea of one day presenting Tom to her parents. Was that how things went in Consett? she wondered. Was it still the fashion in Tom’s circles to ask a father for his daughter’s hand?

  Meanwhile, whenever she wasn’t on duty, Catherine followed Tom to most of his gigs and her happiest memories were of sitting in the smoky depths of some dive in Brixton or Enfield, sipping a half of lager and lime that would last her most of the evening, watching her boy perform. The energy he put into a single night’s session was amazing. He seemed to hold the whole audience in the palm of his hand, just the way he had her. There was no doubt about it, Tom was a star and, on this one subject, Catherine was an expert. He could have turned professional, she felt, if it weren’t for his burning ambition to be a great surgeon and save lives.

  His group, the Sawbones Seven, was getting fancier and fancier bookings, had performed on the radio a number of times, and even cut a record which was heading up the charts. Catherine felt so proud standing shyly at his side, watching other women press close to him and try to chat him up.

  “Hey, Tom! You were fabulous, let me buy you a drink.”

  “Hey, Tom! Will you autograph the back of my hand?”

  “Hey, Tom! Where’s the next gig? I’ll be there, bet your life on it!”

  “Hey, Tom! What about a date sometime? I’ll give you a ring.” He had charm, he had talent, and he was going a long, long way. They were all after him but she was the one he had chosen. Catherine still couldn’t believe her luck. It made her feel quite humble. It all seemed a long time ago now.

  • • •

  In the early afternoon, Vivienne Nugent stopped by at the surgery, also without an appointment.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said with genuine contrition, “but I thought you might like to have some theater tickets to this new musical. You and your mother, perhaps. It’s short notice but I hear it’s terrific and it’s going to be quite a glittering occasion.”

  Catherine was surprised and pleased. It was less than two weeks to Christmas but she had been feeling fairly ropy, with a nagging pain in her lower abdomen, and had scarcely given the festive season a thought. Autumn Crocus—The Musical. She had vaguely heard about it, the latest smash hit newly transferred from Broadway. Mama might enjoy the outing and it would make a good start to the holiday season. It was a kind, kind thought.

  Vivienne glanced hopefully at the surgery door but it remained closed.

  “He’s not there,” said Catherine helpfully. “Had to go over to Putney for an emergency. Won’t be back till after five.”

  “Well, never mind,” said Vivienne. “Perhaps you’d just mention I called. I’ll try to catch up with him later.”

  Poor lady, thought Catherine, watching her walk away. Even she’s not impervious—though why, with that glamorous husband, I’ll never know. Life certainly was rum. She’d never be able to figure it out.

  Catherine had been a virgin when she first met Tom, but he quickly took care of that.

  “You must be joking!” he laughed, the first time they lay together on his lumpy bed and he slipped his hand inside her panties and inched them down toward her knees. “Come on, baby, don’t be a spoilsport. This is the twentieth century, you know. Who do you think you’re saving it for—Prince Charles?”

  Catherine had made a vague attempt to push him off but without any real conviction. Tom was on top and he was stronger. His hand was firmly between her thighs and his kisses robbed her of all willpower. Besides, she was enjoying it.

  “I’ll take care of you,” he said softly in her ear, stroking her fine fair hair and closing her eyes with his kisses. “Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

  Then later, after they were dressed and were eating fish and chips in his shabby room in front of the television:

  “Don’t get uptight. It’s the most natural thing in the world, didn’t your mother tell you? As natural as breathing or brushing your teeth. And don’t say you didn’t enjoy it because you’d be lying. And this is only the beginning. Wait till you’ve had a bit of practice.”

  Then he took her in his arms and started all over again. “That’s the stuff, I knew you’d come round. With a bit of coaching you’ll soon be a ten. Just you wait and see.”

  Tom had been a thoughtful and skillful lover and soon had Catherine addicted.

  “What do you do about contraception?” Nancy asked casually, the first time Catherine stayed out all night.

  The question had startled and confused Catherine.

  “Oh, Tom takes care of all that,” she said. “We’ve never discussed it.”

  “You mean he uses a sheath?”

  Catherine was unaccustomed to such personal questioning and didn’t want to spoil her romance with matters so sordid. The truth was she had never talked about it, not now with Tom, nor in the past with her school friends. Not ever with her mother, heaven forbid, though she must surely have seen a thing or two in her time.

  “I trust Tom,” she said simply. “He loves me.”

  True, he’d never actually said the words, but his actions spoke out loud and clear, and for Catherine that was enough. Nancy snorted with disbelief. She was a plain-talking girl from Birmingham who had been round the block a time or two, and she hated to see a sucker.

  “And I suppose you believe him, you ninny!” she said, though not unkindly. “Well, it takes all sorts.”

  “He is a doctor,” protested Catherine. “And a brilliant one too. He knows what he’s doing and is far too responsible to let me get pregnant, at least not yet. He has his finals to pass first and his fellowship to get.”

  Nancy looked at her with amusement in her eyes but the coarse quip died on her lips when she saw how serious Catherine really was.

  Poor girl, she thought, she believes it too. But she was fond of her roommate and nice enough to button her lip and leave Catherine to her dreams. Maybe she’d have been a better friend if she had spoken up, but that didn’t occur to her till later.

  It was almost five in the afternoon now, the surgery quiet, when the pain returned. Just thinking about Tom and her shattered dreams was enough to bring it on again. Catherine remembered her mother’s cruel words—“Chalk it up to experience and look for someone with a little more backbone”—resounding down the years, an epitaph for the ruined love that might have been. Twenty years it had been but it still hurt unbearably.

  Duncan stepped in from the cold, wet street just in time to see her crumple and had his arms around her before she even hit the ground. Dear God, he thought as he lifted her tenderly and laid her on the bench with his white coat cushioning her head, how thin she is, nothing but skin and bones. How had he let her get to this state without even noticing? He cursed himself for his lack of interest and vowe
d to be more alert in the future. He smoothed her hair as she sobbed her heart out and waited for the storm to pass. Her eyes were closed and her skin was clammy; she was obviously very sick indeed.

  “Tomorrow, my dear,” he said firmly but kindly, “you are going to the doctor. Can’t have you fading away like this, it’s more than my reputation is worth.”

  And at that moment Vivienne Nugent rang to ask if he would take her husband’s place at the opening of a fancy new musical the following week.

  Chapter Ten

  The barman was West Indian with a cute bum and a diamond in his ear. Sally liked him immediately. She also liked the hours he was suggesting—two shifts daily, since she didn’t want to be residential, of three hours at lunchtime—eleven till two—and five or even six hours at night, to start at six.

  “At least that way you’ll miss the first shift. Clearing up and cleaning out the loos,” said the barman, and Sally concurred. That would give her the freedom she insisted on, to potter around, sleep late when she felt like it, and generally get on with the business of living her life in her own space at her own speed. Sally was entirely tolerant but could not understand people who allowed themselves to become enslaved by a rigid timetable. Quite simply, life was too short.

  It was barely past eleven but Joe insisted they celebrate and set about mixing an exotic cocktail which he shook expertly in a chrome shaker, moving his hips seductively as he did so.

  Sally spluttered as she took the first sip.

  “Jesus, man, what in hell’s name’s in it?”

  She clutched her throat theatrically and made as if to fall off her stool. Joe smiled, showing excellent teeth.

  “That will put hair on your chest, sister, I guarantee. As well as clean out your sinuses. Back home we drink it on the beach for breakfast.”

  Sally sipped again.

  “Guess I’ll stick to beer,” she laughed, tipping back her head and emptying the glass in a single swallow.