He whirled round. “Josie, guilty? Why?”
Barbara evaded his eyes. “Children do get these ideas –” She was purposely vague. “Especially girls of Josie’s age. If you can get her to talk – to cry – she’ll be better.”
He sighed sharply. “I wish I could. I can’t get near her, somehow. I’d hoped that perhaps you would be able to –”
“I’ll try, Geoffrey. Give her more time for the – well, for her to realise what has happened. Then I’ll try to see what I can do.”
She went across to him, and held out her hand, looking at his face for the first time. “Goodbye, Geoffrey. I’ll ’phone you in a day or so, to see how things are. And you can reach me if you need me.”
He smiled at her, his thin face lighting for a moment. “Thank you again, Barbara. I’ll try not to worry you unless I must. Take care of yourself, my dear. I –” he looked rueful. “I’d almost forgotten why you are here at all. How are you? Any more trouble with that ulcer?”
She smiled back. “Not too much – only if I miss a meal, or forget my pills.” She had said nothing about the acute attack of pain that had followed the night that Mary had died, the almost perpetual feeling of vague ill health that had been with her all week. “I’m fine.”
Together, they went to the front door. Barbara’s small case stood there ready, and Geoffrey helped her into her coat.
As she buttoned it round her, Geoffrey put both hands on her shoulders, and smiled down into her face.
“I mean it, you know, Barbara. I do want you to come to see us often. We – I’ll need you. You’re a breath of fresh air and common sense, and that’s – valuable.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek gently, in a brotherly way. Barbara, almost to her surprise, didn’t pull back, forgetting completely the strain that had existed between them since the party that had led to her leaving the house before. She just smiled up at him, and put out her hand to touch his cheek, sympathy bubbling up in her, uncomplicated sympathy.
Behind them, on the stairs, there was a faint rustle, and Barbara turned her head sharply to see Josie standing on the bottom step.
Her heart seemed to contract as she looked at the child. She had always been thin, always pale, but now she looked so fragile that a breath of wind could blow her away.
“Josie, darling,” she said gently. “I must go back to the hospital today. But I’ll be back to visit you all – and any time you’d like to see me, come along to the hospital –”
“Goodbye, Auntie Bar,” Josie said dully. “Thank you for helping us.” But there was no feeling behind the words. She said them automatically, just as any well-brought-up child would thank a hostess after a party. And with a little bob of her fair hair, she turned and went back up the stairs. Barbara watched her go, biting her lip.
“I know,” said Geoffrey, unexpectedly. “I feel helpless too. Perhaps I’d better take her to see someone – a child psychologist –”
“Not yet. Give her time,” Barbara said. “Time may help –”
But all the way back to the hospital, she worried about Josie. Of course she was distressed – any twelve-year-old, faced with such a dreadful shock, would be. But Josie’s response to the shock was so odd, so unchildlike. “She’s more like an old woman than a child,” Barbara thought wretchedly. “And yet so vulnerable –”
The hospital felt like home when she came through the wide door into the main hall, and dropped her little suitcase beside the table in the centre of the stone-flagged floor. The smell of the place, the mixture of coffee and roast meat, of disinfectant and floor polish, was almost like a benison. Matron, hearing her footsteps on the stone, came bustling out of her cluttered office, to greet her like a long lost relative.
“Sister Hughes! Oh, my dear, but I’m glad to see you. Are you well? And how are they all? Poor Mr. Martin – such a loss – and the children, bless their little souls, how are they taking it? Come and have some sherry with me, you look worn out, child – come along now –”
And she swept Barbara away, to feed her sherry, and then some soup and an omelette, cooked by Matron herself, before taking Barbara up to her room to “see her settled comfortably again” as she put it in her breathless motherly fashion. And Barbara, only a little irritated by her questions, almost amused by the way she never waited for an answer to those questions, relaxed and allowed herself to be mothered.
Work again, she told herself, when she had finally managed to get rid of Matron, and was making a fresh cap and preparing her uniform, work was the answer. With plenty to do, she would have no time to remember the dreadful night that Mary had died, nor time to think about her own problems, of Josie and Geoffrey and Jamie. The summer season was about to start, and as Matron had once said, “In the summer, we do as much work here as any big Infirmary – wretched holiday crowds – we’re run off our feet.”
Barbara was looking forward to being “run off her feet”.
Chapter Nine
“Dear Matron,
How nice it was to hear from you! I must confess that I felt very guilty when I got your letter; I should have written to you sooner. My only excuse is the pressure of work here. We may have only thirty beds, but the turnover has been tremendous – we’ve practically had patients queuing up for admission! It isn’t always like this, I gather – just in the summer, when the town fills with holiday crowds. So, what with wards bulging with patients, and a steady influx into our tiny Casualty Department, I haven’t had time to call my soul my own!
“Thank you for your very kind enquiries about my family. My young nephew seems to be quite well and happy, working hard for his University entrance. Josie, my niece, is, I am afraid, more of a problem. Even three months after her mother’s death, she seemed to be still in a state of shock. The family doctor advised my brother-in-law to send her to a very good boarding-school he knew, where they have experience in helping these disturbed children. So, she went there. According to her headmistress, she has settled down there quite well – in fact, the head suggested that Josie should spend the first holiday away from home, going to Switzerland with some of the other schoolgirls. So, when she comes home for Christmas holidays next month, it will be the first time we have seen her for five months! I do hope we shall find her more happy – her letters have been so short and uncommunicative, we haven’t been able to assess for ourselves how she is.
“By all means give my regards to Doctor Marston. I suppose it was rather childish of me to have parted from an old friend on such bad terms. I do realise now that he acted in good faith, but I was too angry at the time to think clearly. I could have written, I suppose, but I really have been so very busy –
“I am feeling extremely well now, thank you. I have had no trouble with this dreary ulcer for some five months now – in fact, I rather think the thing has healed for good and all. I have been feeling so well, in fact, that I have been thinking that I should be able to return to the Royal – if you’ll have me, that is – quite soon. The trouble is, I just wouldn’t have the heart to leave Matron Elliott yet. She has the usual difficulty in finding and keeping nursing staff, and to leave now, even though the summer rush is coming to an end at last, would be rather selfish of me.
“I must say that this so-called “summer rush” is a remarkably long one. It started in April and here we are at the end of October, still dealing with holiday makers! What will never cease to surprise me is the number of women who decide to take a holiday during the last fortnight of pregnancy. We have had nineteen deliveries – emergency ones – this summer!
“Thank you again for your letter. It was like actually being at the Royal to read it. I feel positively homesick for the noise and bustle of North London. My best wishes to you all –”
Barbara signed the last sheet neatly, and stretched her tired back with a sigh. It had been a long day, and now, the evening mist was rising from the sea, and filling her room with the melancholy smell of autumn. She went over to her window, and leaned out for a brief moment, sni
ffing the mixed smells of fallen rotting leaves and chrysanthemums from the garden, and the ever present sea beyond. Then, she closed it, drew the curtains, and went down the corridor to run her bath.
As she relaxed in the hot water, she thought back again over the past seven months. It didn’t seem so long, in some ways, but in others, it seemed as though she had spent her whole life at Sandleas Cottage Hospital. Every stick and stone of the old building was as familiar as the lines of her own hands; every patient and staff member were like old friends. In fact, she had hardly thought about the Royal for months, not until Matron Spencer had written to her so unexpectedly, the first letter since the correct letter of condolence she had written to Barbara after Mary’s death.
It had been an odd seven months, Barbara thought, as she soaped herself. She had done little more than work, spending what off duty was left at the end of the day in reading, or the very occasional visit to the local repertory company. Apart from the regular Friday evening visit to the Martin house, that had been the sum total of her private and social life.
Fridays, Barbara mused. Odd evenings in many ways. Mrs. Lester would serve dinner to Geoffrey, Jamie and herself, while they made desultory small talk, about Jamie’s school activities (though he wasn’t very forthcoming about them), about the hospital, about local happenings. Then they would drift into the drawing room, and watch television, while Jamie sat immersed in a book, and Geoffrey tried to relax while doing nothing. Poor Geoffrey. For so many years work had filled his life so completely that relaxation had become an effort. Barbara smiled a little wryly. It was clear now that Mary had been the driving force behind Geoffrey. Since her death, he had delegated more and more work to his staff, so that although he still held his position as the town’s foremost solicitor, although as far as Barbara could tell his income remained at its old high level, he no longer tried to increase his practice, no longer sought after new clients. He had become a man who spent his evenings in his own home, instead of in his office or buried in paper-work brought from the office.
Clearly, the change suited him. He wasn’t as uneasy in his inactivity as he had been at first, and his face had smoothed out, somehow, the lines of strain disappearing. He had even gained weight.
Barbara, with an effort, pulled herself out of her reverie, and began to dress. Friday today, and if she didn’t hurry, she would be late for dinner, and that would make Mrs. Lester sulk.
The house felt warm and comfortable as she let herself in with the key Geoffrey had insisted on giving her. The hall was redolent of the rich smell of roast duckling, and she could see a log fire throwing leaping shadows over the drawing room walls. It was late – nearly half-past seven, so she went straight into the dining-room.
Geoffrey was sitting in his usual place at the head of the table, his face abstracted as he played with the soup spoon beside him. He looked up as Barbara came in, his face breaking into pleasure at the sight of her.
“Hello, my dear! Not too hard a day, I hope?”
“Thank you, no.” Barbara slipped into her seat and unfolded her napkin, raising her eyebrows a little as she noticed that the table was only set for two.
“No Jamie tonight?”
“He’s gone to the theatre with a friend of his, so I staked them to dinner at the Queen’s. He’s growing up fast, that boy, but he’s still young enough to prefer an indifferent meal at a glossy hotel to a better one at home,” he grinned lopsidedly. “I find it hard to realise I’m the father of quite so – so large a young man!”
Barbara laughed. Jamie was indeed a large young man, nearly six foot tall, and still growing, his raw frame beginning to fill out with muscle instead of childish gawkiness.
“Between ourselves,” Geoffrey said, leaning back a little so that Mrs. Lester could serve his soup, “I suspect that this friend he is escorting is a female one. He was a little too forthcoming about the evening, somehow! When Jamie starts to tell me details about a ‘chap at school’ I can’t help but be suspicious. It’s so out of character!”
“It’s time he did start showing an interest in girls,” Barbara said serenely. “I would worry far more about a boy of seventeen who didn’t.”
“Wise Barbara!” Geoffrey laughed. “So un-Aunt-like a comment. You’re quite right, of course. It is time he started looking at girls. That’s why I staked him. I’m all for it!”
They ate their dinner in companionable silence. The duck was succulent, the vegetables properly cooked, the lemon mousse chilled to perfection. Barbara smiled at Mrs. Lester as she collected the last of the pudding plates.
“You cook like an angel, Mrs. Lester,” she said, despising herself a little for her somewhat sycophantic smile. But keeping Mrs. Lester happy paid big dividends in comfort for Jamie and Geoffrey, she knew. “I wish I could.”
Mrs. Lester bridled a little and preened herself. “Glad to teach you, Miss Hughes, any time. Just you come along to the kitchen, and I’ll be there.”
“I may well do that one of these days – when I have the time. Coffee in here or in the drawing-room, Geoffrey?”
“Oh, in the drawing-room, I think. Then we won’t hold Mrs. Lester up in here.”
Barbara, still thinking of keeping Mrs. Lester happy, collected the coffee tray from the kitchen herself, and carried it into the drawing-room. As she set it down on the low table and settled herself onto her favourite low pouffe on the hearth-rug she said casually, “What has television to offer tonight? The usual pattern, or something new?”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something, Barbara.” Geoffrey’s voice sounded stilted, and Barbara looked up at him sharply. “Would you mind if we didn’t watch tonight?”
“Not in the least! I thought you enjoyed it.” Barbara said a little wonderingly.
“Sometimes – thank you.” He took his coffee from her, and sat stirring it, his eyes gazing unseeingly into space, then he roused himself, and reached into his pocket.
“I’ve had a letter from Westchester,” he held out a typewritten sheet. “The headmistress wanted me to come and see her before Josie started her holiday, but I couldn’t get there – so she’s written instead. I’d like you to read this.”
Barbara took the letter, and smoothed it over her knees, straining her eyes to read it in the firelight. After a few preliminary comments about speech day, and the arrangements made for Josie to come home for the holiday, Miss Le Courbet had written “ – I hope you will forgive what might seem impertinent advice; I would not offer it if I did not have Josephine’s best interests at heart. I have been sorely worried about this child. She was so withdrawn, so elderly in her attitudes when she came to us, and I quite understood what a dreadful experience she had suffered, and the trauma caused by her mother’s tragic and sudden death. Now that I have had the opportunity to observe Josephine for some months and, I hope, to build some sort of a relationship with her, I flatter myself I have been able to make some assessment of her needs.
“I fully realise, of course, the problems of a widower in caring for his children, and equally understand how your own sense of loss might make the arrangement of your household a difficult task for you. Josephine has told me of Mrs. Lester, and I am sure she is a very estimable housekeeper. But – forgive me – are you sure that she is an adequate person to give Josephine the feminine – indeed motherly – care that she so sorely needs? She is at such a difficult age. She really needs someone who can care for her as her mother would have done had she been spared. If it were possible for you to find some kindly intelligent woman to take over this task, I feel that Josephine could overcome this sad period in her life, and grow into the adjusted and happy adult she has the potential to become. Again, do forgive me if I have been impertinent. I simply feel that there are occasions, as with this, when an interested outsider can see a problem more clearly.”
Barbara slowly folded the letter, and gave it back to Geoffrey. There was a long silence, broken only by the crackle of the burning logs, and the distant cla
tter of dishes being washed in the kitchen.
Barbara broke the silence. “Well?” she said levelly. He bit his lip, and then stood up.
“A drink, I think – “ he poured a glass of brandy for himself, and brought Barbara a little glass of the Drambuie he knew she liked.
She put it down on the table beside her, and sat, hands folded on the deep green of her dress, her dark head tilted a little as she looked up at him where he stood staring down into the fire, the leaping flames highlighting the bones of his cheeks, throwing his eyes into deep shadow so that she could not see the expression in them.
“I have – a suggestion to make, Barbara. Please, will you let me make it, and hear me out before you say anything?”
She nodded, never taking her eyes from his face.
“Miss Le Courbet’s letter has merely made me an opportunity to speak to you on this – I have been thinking about it for some time, but I haven’t known how or when to speak to you. I – I feel that Josie’s needs are of prime importance, of course. But so, perhaps to a lesser degree, are mine and Jamie’s. He is nearly off my hands, I know. He will be at University next year, and living his own life. But Josie and I – we – “ he fumbled for words, “we – dammit, to be honest, mostly I – am lonely. I admit that Mary and I weren’t as – close as we might have been, but we complemented each other in many ways. I miss her presence – her companionship, if you like, more than I thought I would. I am not a man who can be sufficient to himself. I need someone to whom I can turn for advice, who can support me both in my business life and my private life. You must have noticed that I work less well than I once did. The practice has not suffered because of this – yet. But it will, I think, if I don’t do something more active soon.” He turned and looked down at her, “Barbara – to be straightforward, my dear, I am asking you to marry me.”
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