by Norrey Ford
“Marsh gas,” Guy explained. “Walking round the edge disturbs it and releases it into the water—or so I’m told. Anyway, the wishes come true. Connie wished to be mistress of Timberfold, didn’t you, Con?”
“Aye, my first day here. I always knew it would come true.”
She looked at them both with an expression of sly triumph. “I’ve had other wishes, since yon.”
“And did they come true?”
“Aye. And if they don’t—I make them.” She pushed past Jacqueline and peered out of the window. “Yonder’s old Michael. I want a word with him.”
“Good gracious, Guy—what an odd-looking man! He looks like a bundle of old clothes.”
Guy looked over Jacqueline’s shoulder. She was conscious of his nearness. ‘That’s our shepherd—so-called! He’s about as much use as a sick headache. Drunk whenever he can lay his hands on the stuff. He’d sell his soul for a bottle of whisky.”
“He can’t be much use as a shepherd. Why don’t you sack him?”
“You can’t sack folks like Michael. His cottage is on our land and we are responsible for him. He was a fine man, they say, when he first came here. Believe it or not, he was madly in love with Connie. Still is, as far as I know, for he never married. She wasn’t bad-looking as a girl.” He chuckled, “Married or not, I’ll bet Mike thanks God on his knees for a narrow escape.” He watched the couple curiously. “What the deuce is she telling him now? One of her crazy ideas, I’ll be bound. I cured her of interfering with the farm after I came of age, but Michael is her slave. He’d do any daft thing she. told him, bar harming the sheep. He’s sense enough to keep off them, which is a comfort.”
“What do you do with yourself, Guy—I mean when you’re not farming? Isn’t it dull for you?”
“Pictures in Barnbury sometimes, or a dance. They have the odd dance at the Moor Hen. Sometimes,” he grinned mischievously, “I take a girl out—but I’ve never had the luck to find one as attractive as my pretty cousin. May I take you to a dance one day?”
“Thank you. But you know it would be dependent on my time off—and I have to be back strictly on time.”
“I know. You could take me to a staff dance some time; then you wouldn’t be worried by the clock, Cinderella.” The idea pleased her. He would be a wonderful escort, and she had worried a little about the staff dances, knowing the nurses took their own partners, and she knew nobody.
“Guy, I’d love to.”
“It’s a date. Won’t old Debbie be surprised, too?”
“Why? You were going to tell me about Deborah, and we were interrupted. Is she older or younger than you?”
“Older. Tries to do the big sister on me, but it doesn’t work. I was going to tell you about Deb, but I’ve changed my mind. I won’t. At least, not yet.”
“Why ever not?”
He laughed, a sound which irritated her vaguely. There was the faintest trace of maliciousness in it. “Because I’ve a sense of humour, my pixie.”
“It doesn’t seem startlingly funny to me.”
“It will, darling—it will. Don’t look so cross. If you’re ready, we’ll start for the Bubbling Well or you’ll miss your wish.”
As they left the house, Connie stumped towards them with a face full of doom. “Michael says there’s some trouble among the sheep up at Miller’s Clough. You’ll have to take Gypsy and get along to ‘em, quick, he says.”
“Drat the old fool! He’s supposed to be a shepherd. Why couldn’t he go? I am taking Jacky to the Well.”
“Not if you’re needed elsewhere. I could walk to the Well by myself—or could I come with you to the sheep?”
Connie was scornful. “He needs to move sharp, Mike says, if he doesn’t want to lose some good animals. You stop here.”
Guy scowled. “What on earth can be wrong? Didn’t he say? Why didn’t he speak to me? You ought to have brought him into the house, Con. I’ve told you before, I won’t have you and that drunken old creature fixing things between you.”
Connie shrugged. “He wouldn’t speak to thee. You shout at him, he says. And you do. T’owd chap’s scared o’ thee.”
He whistled for Gypsy. “Sorry, Jacky. You see what a farmer’s life is? I’ll settle the trouble, and we’ll have our trip to the Black Crag after dinner.”
He strode off. Jacqueline felt lonely, not wishing to spend a whole morning in Connie’s company.
The woman pointed. “Bubbling Well’s yon way. Through the gate and up the hill about half a mile, turn right at a clump of hawthorns. You can’t miss it. Dinner’s at twelve.” She clumped away, clogs clattering on the cobbled yard, and Jacqueline thankfully felt herself free to go off by herself.
It was a day of golden stillness. Down in the town, it would be too hot, enervating. But here there was a faint, tangy drift of air, too light to be called a breeze, which fingered her hair and blew coolly about her ears. After the communal life of Hospital and Nurses’ Home, she enjoyed her solitude. The track went steadily uphill and as she gained height she saw the Crag again. It dominated the scene whichever path one took, but now she saw it from a different angle. She shaded her eyes, trying to estimate its distance, but it was slightly obscured by heat haze.
It seemed that not a fly moved across the whole horizon. She knew there were sheep, but they must be lying down. Somewhere, Alan and Lance Medway would be enjoying their planned trip. Surely more than a day had passed since she walked the sheep tracks behind Alan’s neat, economical moving. How kind he had been, how easy their companionship—as easy as an old shoe! He had helped her, as one human being to another—not as a man gallantly squiring a pretty girl. There had been no excitement, no tingling of the pulses, as in her short walk with Guy. But she had been happy, and her inner loneliness had gone away for a brief time. Alan seemed to understand, without being told, what she was thinking and feeling. He would be a dependable friend in trouble. But no one—not even his best friend—could call him really handsome! She smiled a little, remembering his rangy figure and how she’d thought him an apparition out of the Middle Ages in his green sweater which somehow made him look like Blondin.
On Friday, when she left St. Simon’s, she knew no Englishmen at all. Now she knew two. Alan had come into her life unannounced—smiled, given her a morning’s friendship, and departed. She did not even know his full name. And Guy? She had found him waiting at the end of a long, long journey; true, she had not been expecting him, any more than he had expected her, but it did seem that fate had brought them together. Even the white heather had taken a hand, encouraging her to go forward when the tossed coin said “go back.”
Guy was in her life now, for good or ill. And his being there was her own doing. In some subtle way, the whole pattern of her life had been altered since she left the hospital. For good or ill.
From nowhere, a cooler wind blew across the heather, riffling across her bare arms and turning the smooth tanned skin to goose-flesh, making her shiver. She had reached the Bubbling Well.
It was a dark pool under the shadow of a great grey boulder; a much smaller pool than she had imagined. When she leaned over it, she saw her own face staring up at her, like a girl long drowned in a peat bog. The place was uncanny, and she wished she had waited for Guy.
Walk three times round and wish before the bubbles burst. Better to have one’s wish quite ready, then, for wishes have to be spoken very carefully if they are not to rebound uncomfortably upon the wisher. Think of all those unfortunate people granted three wishes by a fairy who seemed to take a delight in catching them out!
Carefully she paced round and watched breathlessly. Yes, a circle of bubbles rose heavily into the middle of the pool. Gases in the bog—a very simple scientific explanation, suitable for schoolboys. But how much better to think it was magic.
“Please, Well,” she whispered, “let me find my true love—or let my true love find me.”
With a plop, the bubbles burst.
“That’s done—and I think I was
in time!” Like most people who have grown up in a lonely childhood, Jacqueline talked to herself sometimes. But, as if her voice had called it, a dog immediately trotted round the boulder which sheltered the well.
“Why, Gypsy!” She held out a hand to the black-and-white animal. “Come on—good girl.”
But the dog turned away from her, and she saw then that it was not Gypsy after all, for there was a large white patch on the shoulder now turned towards her. Gypsy was all black, except for her feet and tail-tip. The patch was curiously like a map of England.
Then a rough voice, startlingly near, shouted—and the dog instantly sank motionless into the heather, its head lowered on its fore-paws.
A dog and a voice—yet no one visible as far as eye could see. The dog’s master must be taking cover. Where was obvious ... behind the boulder. But why?
She shouted, “Is anybody there?” The stupid game of hide-and-seek annoyed her, she hated to be spied upon. Besides, she felt slightly foolish, pacing round the pool like that. There was no answer, but the dog’s eyes moved as if it saw someone behind her. She swung round.
She saw a vague shape rise up out of the heather, felt an agonising blow and saw blackness starred by splinters of light. As if from a great distance, she heard a dog bark.
Then she dropped like a log into the heather.
CHAPTER THREE
Jacqueline knew she had passed from sleeping to waking. She had been deeply asleep for a long time. So long, she could not remember where she was.
She was not in her grandmother’s house, for the bed was too hard and the room smelt quite different. It was the polish smell that made her think of Grandmother, but this polish was not so fragrant, it was more antiseptic—like a hospital.
But of course—it was the hospital. She was no longer the spoilt, petted granddaughter, she was Nurse Clarke. Nurse to all those darling, tiresome old women, though less than the dust beneath the feet of Sister.
She had a splitting headache, her neck and shoulders hurt abominably. Was she going to be ill? No, that was ridiculous—nurses are never ill. A couple of aspirins would fix it; would have to fix it, because if this particular headache persisted, she’d be stupid with pain and make mistakes. Sister and the staff nurse did not tolerate mistakes in very junior nurses.
Surely it must be time to get up? She opened her eyes, and the light stabbed like a sliver of glass. She closed them again quickly, with a faint groan.
A voice said, “She’s awake!” And because she had believed herself alone in her narrow bedroom, she forced her eyes open again.
A uniformed nurse stood by her bed. Jacqueline thought it was Liz. She said painfully, “My head aches. I’ll have to take some aspirin before I go on duty. Am I late?”
A comfortable voice said, “You’re not going on duty today, Nurse. I’m going to send Liz Hannon to practice on you, so you must be a good patient.”
The screen was moved slightly, so this time she was able to open her eyes in comfort, and saw the stout figure of Home Sister in a startlingly white apron and the plain pink of the St. Simon’s sister’s uniform.
“Am I ill? What happened?”
“That is what we want to know. You fell and bumped your head. No bones broken, but you’ve had quite a knock; so you must lie still and do as you’re told. I’ll give you something for your headache.”
“Is Sister very cross because I’m not on duty?”
“She says you’ll be more addle-pated than ever after this—but she’s not cross, you silly girl. I shall be, if you don’t immediately drink this and go to sleep.”
Jacqueline slept and woke again. It was dusk and the screens had been removed from her bed. Painfully she turned her head, to find out where she was, and encountered a pair of bright dark eyes watching her from an adjacent bed.
“You look better. Practically human, in fact. I’m Bridget O’Hara—tummy trouble, on a diet of pig-swill and cow-cake. I’ll bet you haven’t been here before—it is the staff sick-bay, and we’re the only inhabitants. Crusoe and Friday sort of style. You’re Jacky Clarke, aren’t you? How’s the head?”
“Horrible. Did someone hit me?”
Bridget grinned. “Don’t you know? All that’s known here is that you arrived in an ambulance under very distinguished escort. Are you a dark horse, Jacky?”
“I don’t think so. My mind is a blank.”
Bridget leaned out of bed to look at her more closely. “Lost your memory, have you? I’ve always wanted to see a lost-memory case. Can’t you remember a thing?”
“Name—age—where I live—the old woman in Lister. I can remember everything, but—” She put her hands to her temples and discovered her head was bandaged, her arms scratched. “I can’t remember what happened after supper on Friday. What day is it to-day?”
“Monday.”
“What are all these scratches?”
“Ah-ah! That’s what his lordship wanted to know. Furious, he was. Had Matron and Home Sister running round in circles like a couple of juniors. I’ve never seen him in such a wax. Little Bridget lay low and said nuffin’. Pretended to be asleep in case he started on me next.”
“I don’t believe it! You’re pulling my leg.”
“Honest, no kidding. Look out—Sister.”
Jacqueline drifted off into sleep again, and dreamt vividly of lying on something springy and faintly scented, which tickled her cheek. There was a man, too. He had gentle hands, and he lifted her easily in his arms, cradled her head on his shoulder. Her nose was buried in the good cloth of his coat, which smelled of smoke and peat. His voice was kind and she felt wonderfully safe.
When she woke again, Liz Hannon was bringing in the tea-trays. Bridget looked at hers with disgust.
“I never have luck. Why couldn’t I get ill with something decent? Look at this disgusting muck!”
“Now you know! Perhaps you’ll be a bit more sympathetic when you dish it out to the patients.”
“I’m always sympathetic! There’s a nice boy on Men’s Surgical says I’m the most sympathetic nurse he’s ever had. What’s young Clarke having?”
“Never you mind!” said Liz, winking at Jacqueline. “What on earth happened, Jacky? Tell Liz all, but make it snappy or I’ll never get done. We haven’t had a replacement for you and my feet are practically red-hot. We’ll never get done to-day.”
“Honestly, Liz—I can’t remember. At least I—no, that was a dream.”
“It might not be. Have you got glimmerings of memory? Tell Bridget, dear.”
“Shut up, O’Hara, you shouldn’t bother her. Take your time, Jacky. If you don’t remember to-day, you may tomorrow.”
“She can tell us her dream, can’t she?”
Jacqueline smiled wanly. “I know you’re both dying to know—and believe me, so am I! But my dream was that I was lying on something springy and—yes, scratchy, I think. It tickled my cheek.”
“Scratchy? Could that account for your arms?”
“This was a dream, I tell you. There was a man—dark, with blue eyes.”
“Goody!” said Bridget, forgetting to eat. “Good-looking?”
“Not a bit. He had a scar—just a tiny one under his chin. I saw it when he picked me up.” She frowned. “The funny thing is, I’d seen it before. I mean, I sort of recognized it. He picked me up and held me in his arms quite easily, and said—”
“Darling, I love you?”
“Certainly not He said ‘you funny young juggins, you are giving me a lot of trouble this week-end, aren’t you?’ ”
“Then what happened?” Liz demanded, her mouth gaping slightly.
“I woke up.”
“One always does when a dream gets interesting. I wonder why? Heavens, I must fly. Good-bye, girls—look after yourselves.”
“I guess we’ll have to,” said Bridget. “You shouldn’t be talking at all, young Jacky. Shut your eyes and let me get on with my work.” She took a book from her locker and groaned. “I failed my prelim, the firs
t time. If I fail again I’ll just die quietly in a corner. Oh, heck! These horrible bones. Why can’t human beings be born filleted?”
Jacqueline closed her eyes obediently, but immediately began to worry about her own examination work and whether the blow on her head had driven out all the knowledge she had already acquired so painfully. She began to rehearse the bones, starting at her toes, but by the time she reached the knee the effort was becoming too great and she fell asleep.
The days slid past Jacqueline lost count of them as she dozed into and out of the orderly hospital routine; sometimes she talked to Liz or Bridget; at times she was not patient, but nurse, as the round of washing, bed-making, locker dusting, temperatures and dressings went on. She worried about her “corners” as her bed was made with swift impersonal strokes, or anxiously checked the contents of a trolley in her mind.
One morning she opened her eyes to find Matron by her bed, tall, slim, neat in navy blue dress and flowing white cap.
“How are you, Nurse?”
“Quite well, thank you, Matron.”
It had always amused Jacqueline to hear nine patients out of ten say “quite well, thank you” when Matron made her majestic round, her routine inquiry. Even those bold enough to tell Matron they were ill soon found themselves conforming to the stock pattern. There was a look in those penetrating grey eyes which said: I know exactly how you are, and in the next ward there are patients much, much worse! So if one were well enough to speak at all, one said meekly quite well, thank you.
Now I’m saying it too, Jacqueline thought. She felt horribly nervous, for this was not the daily visit of state, but a special, private visit, and she felt vaguely she ought to have put on a clean apron. She said timidly:
“I’m sorry to have been so much trouble, Matron. I’ll be ready for duty soon.”
“The doctor will decide that, Nurse. You will return to duty when you are told.” She took a chair and sat by the bed. “Are you ready to tell us what happened?”
“I don’t know, Matron. Perhaps if someone told me what happened, it might help to bring something back.”