Nurse with a Dream

by Norrey Ford

  “Possibly. We’ve pieced a good deal together. I’ll speak to Doctor about that.”

  Jacqueline was overcome by the idea of Matron and whoever “we” might be piecing her week-end together. She must have shown this in her face, for Matron smiled just as if she were human. “Did you think I wouldn’t know, Nurse? When one of my gels goes off on a weekend’s leave and returns in an ambulance, I want to know where she has been and what she has been doing. And of course there are other people, too, who want to know—Don’t worry about it, don’t try to force yourself to remember—but we do hope that in time you’ll be able to fill in certain gaps. I wrote to your grandmother.”

  Jacqueline digested this information, and the thought of her beloved Grand’mère brought weak tears to her eyes. “I—I never thought—she’ll be worrying, not hearing from me.”

  “I wrote fully at once. I am responsible for all my nurses.”

  Her tone sounded faintly ominous. “Matron—you’re not sending me away? I feel much better, truly.”

  “No, I’m not sending you away, though if your people were in England I should certainly send you home to convalesce. But to France—no, the journey would be a strain. Have you any friends or relations who could take you for a week or so?”

  “I don’t know of anyone, Matron. I haven’t been here long enough to make friends.”

  “What about your cousin? Could they possibly take you at the farm? I’ll speak to Sister.”

  This seemed Greek to Jacqueline, but she said meekly, “Thank you, Matron. It is kind of you.”

  “Kind? Naturally I am concerned for your welfare, Nurse.”

  After Matron’s departure, Bridget popped up from under her blankets like a rabbit out of a hole. “Whew! I pretended to be asleep, but I heard the lot. You’ll be for it, my girl, when you get up. You went off alone, hiking or something, didn’t you? Of all the crazy ideas! She’ll have you in her room for that, in a clean apron, see if she doesn’t!”

  “She seemed kind and very concerned.”

  “You bet she is! Don’t you realise this may be a scandal, and on the fair name of St. Simon’s, too. The old girl is in a wax. What did she mean, cousin?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. Bridie, do you realise I’ve lost a whole week-end out of my life and no one will tell me where it went? After all, someone must know! If I came in an ambulance, someone called it. Perhaps I was in a road accident?”

  “You poor crittur! I never thought of it like that. You must be desperate to know. Listen, have you ever heard of a place called Black Crag?”

  “Never. At least—well, no.”

  “Whether or not, you fell off it. You were found at the foot of it with your head all blood, by a certain person—naming no names—who went there to look for you, expecting to find your bleeding corpse at the bottom. And there you were—except you weren’t a corpse. You were carried two miles across heather to a road where the ambulance was waiting for you ... Jacky, I’ve got it! Your dream—heather!”

  “Heather? It could be. Yes, why not?”

  “So that part wasn’t a dream. And the man?”

  “He was definitely a dream.” Jacky closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, because the exciting thought had come to her that if the heather was real, the man might be real too. And if so, she wasn’t going to discuss him with Bridget O’Hara ... because she had liked this man very much.

  It seemed that Dr. Parsons was satisfied with Jacqueline’s X-rays and her general progress, because the next day she was allowed to sit up. He was a stout, fair man with a neighing laugh and a passion for growing irises, which he managed to do nearly all the year round.

  “Well, Nurse, I think we shall rear you. Nothing broken, but you had a nasty fall and you must go steady.”

  “When may I return to duty, Doctor?”

  He neighed with laughter. “When I say. Not yet. Go home for a couple of weeks. Oh—you can’t, can you? Don’t you live in France or somewhere? Well, the almoner will find somewhere for you, if you haven’t relatives who could take you. Right-ho—good-bye, good-bye. Take care of yourself.”

  “Return to duty!” Bridget sniffed scornfully. “You must be crazy. Why didn’t I fall off a crag? Look, infant—hear me this chapter, will you? There are some questions at the end of it—page twenty-seven.”

  Nurse Hannon opened the door and had time to press a warning finger to her lips before standing aside, straight as a ramrod, to allow a visitor to sweep past her. Jacqueline pushed the text-book under her top sheet and hoped it did not show. She was not supposed to read yet.

  Jacky did not know the man and supposed he was for Bridget. But the Irish girl had melted away under the bedclothes in an astonishing way, and the visitor twisted a chair round to face Jacqueline, and studied her appraisingly. Then he nodded.

  “I just met Parsons. He said you were better to-day. Now, young lady, what I want to know is, what the deuce do you mean by climbing Black Crag alone when I’d told you it was dangerous?”

  Jacky gaped with astonishment and indignation. He sounded so angry. Before she could answer he turned on Liz. “Don’t stand there breathing down my neck, Nurse.” Liz went scarlet, as if her collar were too tight. She, too, melted away. The man turned to Jacky. “Well?”

  “Don’t shout at me,” she said crossly. “It makes my head ache. You won’t make my memory come back by yelling at me. All I have to say is that I’m certain I didn’t climb your old Black Crag by myself, and I’m certain I didn’t fall off it.”

  “But you left me a note, to say you were going to attempt it. That’s why I was there so soon. If you hadn’t left the note, you might have been dead of exposure by the time we found you. It all tied up with what you said to your cousin, about ‘you couldn’t wait to see it’. He thought you’d gone to the Bubbling Well.”

  Jacqueline knew she was going to do one of two things—cry or lose her temper. Why didn’t someone explain to her, instead of shouting and bullying like this, and jabbering a lot of nonsense she didn’t understand?

  She lost her temper. “Listen—I’m not such a fool as to climb a crag I don’t know, and alone, if it’s dangerous. That’s a fool’s trick and I know enough not to try it. I hate rock-climbing, anyway—and if the wretched thing is as dangerous as you say, why wasn’t I killed, or at any rate more seriously injured? Dr. Parsons says I haven’t broken anything. My arms were badly scratched; why weren’t they broken?”

  He tilted his chair back dangerously on two legs. “But I found you unconscious at the foot of the crag. How did you get there, if you didn’t fall from it? The scratches”—he shrugged—“that’s obvious—the heather did that.”

  She said in a low, angry voice, “Has it occurred to you that I didn’t necessarily fall from the rock? No, it hasn’t! Has it occurred to anyone that I’m more anxious than anybody to know what happened? I’ve lost a whole weekend of my life, and I want to know where it is.” Her lips trembled and for a moment she could not speak. There was a troublesome lump in her throat. She thought she heard a strangled sort of yelp from under Bridget’s sheet, but was too busy groping for a handkerchief to glance across the room.

  A large handkerchief was pushed into her hand. “No, it hasn’t occurred to us,” her visitor said gently. “We’ve been too worried about ourselves and how the hospital would come out of this. We never considered your point of view.”

  The change of voice caught her attention. She stared at him a long moment, while a shaming blush started in her throat and spread slowly up to the roots of her hair. She pressed the cool linen to her burning cheeks. “It can’t be!” she murmured, though she had no real doubt.

  This was the man in her dream, and to make her even more certain, she saw the tiny scar near his chin. Was the dream true, then? Had he carried her so gently in his arms, her head on his shoulder?

  He leaned forward. “You recognise me, don’t you?”

  “I—I think so.”

  “Good, good. We wer
e together at the Moor Hen Inn on Saturday. Then you collected your luggage, leaving a note in my room saying you thought Black Crag would be fun. So Lance and I struck across country for Black Crag, expecting to get there in time to scold you for being such an ass. Instead we found you unconscious at the foot. And jolly lucky for you we did.”

  “Did you—pick me up?”

  “Certainly I did. You opened your eyes, took one look at me and went off again. Lance went to fetch a stretcher and telephone for an ambulance. He met your cousin in his jeep, half frantic with worry. He’d come to make up a search party. He’d been to the Bubbling Well to look for you.”

  “Bubbling Well? Give me time and it will all sink in. My cousin—did I go to Timberfold?”

  “That’s right. Clever girl.”

  “You saved my life. I’m sorry I was cross just now. I was all muddled. I ought to thank you.”

  “And your lucky stars. Don’t do such a dam silly trick again, that’s all I ask.”

  She choked with rage. He didn’t believe her! She knew she was speaking the truth—knew it beyond all shadow of doubt. Whatever and wherever that horrible Black Crag might be, she had not climbed it—or left a note telling anybody she intended to do so. It was—well, against Nature, that’s all.

  “But I didn’t! Don’t you understand, I—”

  He stood up and suddenly looked as if he’d had enough of this conversation. “Yes, I understand. You’re an experienced climber, aren’t you? Puffed up just a little with your own skill, wanting to score off someone who was trying to help you—inclined to despise a Yorkshire cliff because you’ve done easy bits of the Alps with an elderly man. Our crags are tough nuts to crack, Nurse—like Yorkshire heads.”

  Unable to resist, she flashed, “Mine is a Yorkshire head, too.”

  He stared down at her, with such an odd expression that she did not know whether he was pleased or angry.

  “You don’t believe me!” She was almost crying with exasperation.

  He shrugged. “You admit you don’t remember much. I go by evidence.”

  “Take your handkerchief and get out of here before I throw something. Of all the tiresome, exasperating people—”

  He took the handkerchief from her fingers and pushed it into his pocket. “Do you know, Nurse Clarke, that is precisely the effect you have on me?”

  The girl’s hand hovered threateningly over her water-jug. “One—two,” she counted, between her teeth.

  He laughed softly and moved so quickly that the door was closing after him almost before she realised he had left the bedside.

  Bridget popped up from under her blankets. She was crimson and swore she had been holding her breath for twenty minutes. “Holy Mother! You’ll be the death of me. I waited for the lightning to strike you.”

  “This water-jug would have struck him in another two seconds. He as good as called me a liar!”

  “How do you know you’re not?”

  “I don’t know how I know. But I know.”

  Liz came back with a tea-tray. “It’s a bit early but we’re rushed to death on the ward. Sister is in a tizzy and poor old Mrs. Ramsbottom is going at last It’s a blessed release, but her relations have forgotten that and are sitting round the bed either crying or peeking through the screens to see what we’re up to. What did his lordship want? I nearly passed out when he spoke to me.”

  Bridget examined her tray critically. “No cake?”

  Liz produced a slice of bright yellow cake from her pocket. “And for heaven’s sake don’t leave any crumbs. Talk fast, girls. Come on, give.”

  “You may well ask,” said Bridget, with her mouth full. She was eating the cake first to make sure of it. “I practically passed out. She sat up as cool as a young inexperienced cucumber and argued with him.”

  “Why not?” Jacqueline was still indignant. “He practically told me he didn’t believe me.”

  “He was sweet to her, Hannon, and lent her a hankie to cry in.”

  Both nurses were reduced to silence. Jacqueline looked from one to the other. “You look like goldfish, staring at me from a glass bowl. Listen, I don’t mind crawling or eating the dust where Sister or Matron or even a staff nurse is concerned. But I will not have strange men coming in here asking impertinent questions and disbelieving my answers. As a junior nurse, I’m less than the dust, but as me I won’t be anybody’s doormat.”

  “You’re telling us,” Bridget said feelingly. “Hannon, we can look our last on this child. She threatened to throw the water-jug at him.”

  Liz felt for Jacqueline’s pulse. “I’d better call Sister. You’re stark raving mad.”

  “Just hopping mad,” Jacqueline admitted. “Why the fuss?”

  “Listen,” said Liz very seriously. “Have you heard of the great and good Mr. Broderick, who eats Sisters for tea and before whom Matron beats her head on the ground?”

  “I’ve heard of Mr. Broderick—yes. Why?”

  “That’s him!” said Bridget, with more gusto than grammar.

  Jacqueline groaned and sank back on her pillow. But it couldn’t be! Because if the girls weren’t pulling her leg, she was due for almost instant execution.

  “W-what will happen to me?” she demanded faintly.

  “Imagination boggles,” Liz murmured. “Mine is boggling like anything. There’s one ray of hope—you’re a patient.”

  “There is that,” Nurse O’Hara agreed thoughtfully. “What I want to know is—didn’t he say he was at the Moor Hen Inn with you? What were you doing there—and with him?”

  Liz’s china-blue eyes widened. “You said you were going, Jacky. But where does Alan Broderick come in?”

  “That’s what I was wondering,” said Jacky faintly.

  Jacky’s temperature was up. Sister, glancing at her chart, frowned. “No visitors to-morrow, Nurse. You must keep absolutely quiet until this temperature goes down.” She cast a cold, experienced eye on Bridget. “You been chattering to her and exciting her, Nurse?”

  Both girls looked virtuous and chimed in, “No, Sister” in harmony.

  “She knows,” Bridget said as soon as Sister had rustled away. “I’ll bet everyone in this hospital, from Matron to the man who stokes the boiler, knows Mr. Broderick visited you this afternoon. It’s going to make you unpopular.”

  “How unfair! Why?”

  “We’re supposed to keep to our stations in life. There’ll be jealousy and howls of favouritism. Women living together can be a petty crowd. Besides, nine nurses out of ten are in love with Broderick, and if there’s any scandal they will blame you, not him.”

  “Why should there be scandal? I haven’t done anything scandalous.”

  “I don’t suggest you have. But hospitals are funny places and a doctor’s reputation is precious. Not the faintest breath of gossip must touch it. Remember what Auntie Bridget tells you, my chicken, and go carefully. Several hundred pairs of eyes will be upon you and Alan Broderick.”

  “How—utterly—horrible!”

  “It’s life—especially life in an enclosed community like this. Everybody gets rather petty and we all talk too much shop.”

  By morning, Sister was satisfied with Jacqueline’s temperature and withdrew her ban on visitors, though as she wasn’t expecting any, it made no difference. Bridget’s family were in Ireland, but she was hoping for a visit from the current boy-friend, and spent most of the morning doing her hair and face.

  About eleven, Liz came in with flowers for Jacqueline, which were official, and cocoa in tooth-mugs, which wasn’t.

  The flowers were from the patients in Lister Ward, and as most of them were pensioners Jacqueline was touched.

  “And Night Sister sent a message to say she is coming to see you,” Liz added. “She’s doing a bit of shopping this morning, but will pop in about twelve if you are allowed visitors. Sister said to tell you.”

  Jacky was astonished. “What’s so special about me?”

  “Nothing,” said both nurses together, la
ughing.

  Liz added, “I’ll bet she is a relation, after all. I told you she might be.”

  “Good lor’, yes,” said Bridget, her eyes popping. “Her name is Clarke, too. I wouldn’t be in your shoes, Nurse.”

  “What difference will it make?”

  Liz collected the tooth-mugs. “None, to me, ducks. I must fly. Two patients for the theatre to-day, and the new one in Mrs. Ramsbottom’s bed is as barmy as they come. I’m terribly sorry for her, poor old dear—but it makes work. She thinks Sister is Queen Victoria. There’s a little old husband who comes to visit her, and I’m sure he doesn’t get enough to eat. Sometimes I hate nursing. So long.”

  Bridget held scarlet nails up to the light, turning her hands this way and that in admiration. “If Sister comes in I’ll keep my hands under, just in case she blows up. Though I am a patient at the moment and my nails are not her affair. If she says anything I shall tell her so. Glory be! I wish I were out of this dump.”

  A sweet, sickly smell began to pervade the small ward. Bridget sniffed critically. “What on earth is that? It smells like funerals.”

  Jacqueline unpinned the cone of tissue paper which contained her flowers, first detaching a card which said, Respectfully yours, Nurse—from Lister Ward. Four big hothouse lilies were revealed, looking exactly like wax but heavy with scent.

  Both girls studied them in dismayed silence. “Oh well,” said Bridget after a moment, “it’s the thought that counts.”

  “Perhaps in a vase—?” Jacqueline suggested. But in the narrow, comet-shaped glass vase provided by the hospital the heavy flowers looked worse than before.

  “They must have been so expensive!” Jacqueline almost wept. She was still struggling with them when Sister Clarke came in, in her outdoor things. Out of uniform, one saw the woman, rather than the dignified disciplinarian; noticed the full red mouth, richly curved, the velvety skin, the dark eyes which could warm to love and passion as well as to anger. She was probably thirty, and still possessed the magnetism which could draw a man.

  “Good morning, Nurses.”

  “Good morning, Sister.”

  Sister Clarke stood at the foot of Jacqueline’s bed and studied her critically. “Yes—you look better. I’ve been in to see you before, naturally, but you were unconscious at first and then asleep. I am your cousin Deborah Clarke. Guy would tell you I was at the hospital?”