Nurse with a Dream

by Norrey Ford

  “If you ask me,” Bridget said, though nobody had asked her, “Matron is sending you to Timberfold until the Broderick affair blows over. I mean, why all the hoo-ha about a totally unimportant junior—and whoever heard of two weeks’ convalescence, when we’re short-staffed and you’re not actually dying?”

  Jacky banged her clenched fist on her knees. “There is no ‘Broderick affair!’ Anyway, why should Matron want to protect me from him?”

  “Search me!” said Liz.

  Bridget took another of Guy’s chocolates, rummaging under the top layer to find a hard square one. “My innocents! She is protecting Alan B. from you, Jacky. He’s her white-headed boy, and you can go to the devil or to Timberfold, so long as dear Alan is safe. She knows you were at the Moor Hen with him.”

  “At the same time. Not with. There’s a difference.”

  It was Tuesday. Nurse Clarke had to appear before Matron at five o’clock. Feeling as if her knees were jelly, she dressed, in uniform. In cap and crisp apron, she could take a scolding meekly, saying Yes, Matron, No, Matron, in a subdued voice. In ordinary clothes she felt too much an individual, the Jacky who had been spoiled by doting grandparents, a girl with a will of her own, a quick tongue. She had planned to make a last appeal to Matron to allow her to stay at the Nurses’ Home, but if Bridget was right—if Matron really did want her out of the way—appeal would be useless.

  She adjusted her cap to the severe angle favoured by Matron but avoided by the nurses whenever possible, and grinned ruefully at her reflection. Save your breath, my child. You’ll have to go—a sacrifice on the altar of the great god Broderick.

  She was so anxious not to be late that she was too early and had to wait on a wooden seat outside Matron’s door.

  This was a mistake. It allowed time for butterflies to develop in the hollow space under her trim belt.

  Matron’s door opened sharply and—of all people—Alan Broderick emerged. He ignored the small figure in uniform, and, amused, she watched him march down the corridor, his erect determined walk quite different from the easy lope with which he’d covered the miles of sheep-track across the moors.

  At the corner he stopped, hesitated, turned back. “Sorry,” he said, smiling. “The penny didn’t drop at once. I haven’t seen you in uniform before. Well, how are we? No scars, I hope?” There was a teasing lilt in his voice.

  She stood up politely, conscious of her lowly status, and of Matron behind that closed door. If she knew what was happening on this side of it!

  “Dr. Parsons says there will be no scar. They cut a bit of my hair off, but it’s growing again.” She blushed hotly. “Mr. Broderick, I didn’t know who you were, the other day. I’m afraid I was dreadfully rude.”

  He nodded. “Most reprehensible, Nurse. However, as a patient we’ll excuse you. Water-jugs, indeed! Don’t let it happen again.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m very sorry.”

  She looked up and saw that his eyes were smiling, that there was a twitch of amusement at the corners of his mobile mouth. And suddenly she realised he had not spoken in his own voice, but in Matron’s; not an out-and-out imitation, but unmistakable all the same. Her lips quivered, and they both laughed softly, like conspirators. Suddenly they were in the heather again, munching beef sandwiches by the beck. She smiled impishly.

  “I think you should apologise, too.”

  His jaw dropped in comical amazement. “Me?”

  “You as good as called me a liar. Nobody has ever—”

  “Perhaps because you’ve never been found out before.”

  “Do you suggest I’m in the habit of lying?”

  He studied his square, practical finger-tips. “We all are.” She stiffened indignantly. “But I’ve remembered what happened.”

  He dropped his pose and was instantly, gravely attentive. ‘Tell me.”

  “I can remember walking towards the Bubbling Well. Connie Clarke directed me.”

  “Did you arrive?”

  Her eyebrows went up. “But of course. I—er—” She stopped abruptly, dropping her eyes.

  ‘Tell me, Nurse.” The mocking inflexion was back in his voice. “Did you wish?”

  She admitted it, feeling a fool.

  “And then—?”

  “I don’t remember any more.”

  “But from the Bubbling Well you can see Black Crag. And perhaps you thought: Ah, there it is! What a sell for everybody if I climb it, all by myself!”

  “No.”

  “You’re not suggesting the boulder standing beside the well toppled over and dunted you?”

  She stared at him. ‘The—boulder?” Somehow, the boulder seemed important. “I seem to recall—no, nothing is clear. Could the boulder have hit me?”

  “It’s a big as a cottage. By the way, how did you get on at Timberfold?”

  “Ambushed, by Connie Clarke. My step-aunt.”

  “Who welcomed you with open arms?”

  “Not exactly. But I met Guy Clarke, and he was awfully nice. Did you know our Sister Clarke is his sister?”

  “And you cousin? No, I didn’t.”

  “She is, and—oh, Mr. Broderick, I have to go in to Matron at five, but if you could help me, I’d be so grateful.”

  “My poor child, I can’t get you out of a wigging.”

  “I don’t ask. Sister Clarke and Matron have fixed up for me to go to Timberfold for two weeks, to convalesce. Guy will fetch me to-morrow. Everybody thinks it a splendid idea—except me. Could you forbid it or—or something?”

  “Why should I? You’re looking peaked, and moor air will heal even a broken leg, given a chance.”

  “Maybe, but I prefer to stay here.”

  “In the Nurses’ Home? Chattering till all hours, drinking unwholesome brews, listening to traffic on the High Street and breathing fumes instead of pure air? Perish the thought. Got anywhere else to go?”

  “Well—not really.”

  “Timberfold then—why not? Good air, early to bed, just what the doctor ordered. Timberfold itself may be no Grand Hotel, but it’s quiet.”

  She shivered. “The wrong sort of quiet Sinister, as if the house hated me enough to hurt me.”

  “Juggins! You banged your silly head and have bad dreams. If they’ve invited you, by all means go. Do you a world of good.”

  “I suppose so. Only—”

  “Only what?”

  “I’m frightened.” She had not said it aloud, not actually admitted it, even to herself. But he had drawn it out of her, brought it into the open. And very silly it sounds, she thought crossly. What a fool he must think me!

  He did not laugh. She was pale, her eyes dark-shadowed, and he was struck with pity. The child really was scared stiff. “Of what?” he asked gently. “The redoubtable Connie?”

  She considered. “No. Her bark is fierce, but I don’t think she bites. Not Connie.”

  “Your cousin, then? What is he like?”

  “Tall, dark. The tough film-star type.”

  “He sounds out of place on a remote farm.”

  “No, he belongs—part of Timberfold, the living part.”

  “Afraid of him?”

  “Dear me, no.” Her colour rose faintly, not unmarked by his keen eye.

  “And I know you’re not afraid of things that go bump in the night. So you see—you’re being silly.”

  Her face was young, stubborn. “I don’t want to go, silly or not.”

  “Silly or not, you are going. I order it.”

  “Yes, sir.” There seemed no other answer one could give to Alan Broderick.

  “Good girl. Good lord, I’ve made you late for your appointment. I’ll explain.”

  He did so, briefly, then gave Jacqueline a little push into the room. Matron was seated behind her desk. With her was Sister Deborah Clarke, who rose to leave as soon as Jacqueline entered. Matron motioned her to sit down.

  “Don’t go, Sister. We haven’t finished the lists. You know why I want to speak to Nurse, and you have s
ome arrangements to make with her.”

  That settles it, Jacqueline thought desperately. There’s no hope of a last-minute reprieve.

  Matron said she was more grieved than cross. A nurse’s off-duty time is her own. Nevertheless ... It was like school again, especially the bit about the honour of the hospital. So like school that Jacqueline almost curtsied when she was dismissed.

  “No—wait, Nurse. I forgot. Sister Clarke wishes to say something.”

  “Only that I shall collect you from the nurses’ sitting-room at two to-morrow afternoon, Nurse. Be ready with your luggage. The car will be here about two-fifteen.”

  Jacqueline’s ears burned. Was she being escorted to the car like a delinquent under the care of a policewoman? Did they think she would run away?

  “Please don’t stay up for me, Sister. I can manage, thank you.”

  Deborah’s tone was freezing. “I shall not be in bed, Nurse. In any case, I shall want to speak to my brother.” How hard it was to believe Deborah was Guy’s sister! Now she knew what he meant when he said it was “amusing” not to tell her about his sister. No wonder he found the situation piquant. All the same, it was a little cruel not to have warned her.

  Jacqueline was having a nightmare. It started pleasantly, as nightmares often do. She was standing on the moor enjoying the sun, the soft breeze, when a giant dog appeared from nowhere, showing bared fangs and growling. It chased her, always close on her heels however hard she ran. She screamed with terror and woke trembling.

  “Holy Mother!” said Bridget, putting on her bed-light. “What’s wrong?”

  “I had a dream. A hideous dog chased me.”

  “Poor kid; it has scared you! Shall I ring? You could have a sleeping-pill, I daresay.”

  “No, thanks. Don’t bother the night nurses. I’m all right, sorry to disturb you.”

  “Think nothing of it, kid.” Bridget had a fringe of blue plastic curlers across her forehead, the rest of her hair securely netted in a pink string-bag arrangement. Her skin shone with cream and she slept in white cotton gloves. She made rapid adjustment to all these beauty aids before settling down once more. “Good night.”

  Towards morning the dream recurred, but this time it was just an ordinary sheep-dog, with white paws and a white patch on its side, shaped like a map of England. It looked at her, a paw upraised, then a man’s voice shouted. Instantly the dog lay down. She turned to look for the owner of the voice, then suddenly there was pain and terror, jerking her awake. She sat up, gasping.

  Bridget was twisting curlers out of her hair. “Another dream?”

  “The dog again. But it wasn’t a dream. It happened!”

  Bridget hung head downwards, looking underneath the two high beds. She surfaced, red-faced. “No dogs here.”

  “I mean what I dreamt was real. I didn’t fall off anything. Somebody hit me!”

  “You mean this doggy upped with a lump of stone between its paws and dotted you one?”

  “No. There was a man. I heard him shout and then I felt a blow. I didn’t actually see anyone, but I heard him.”

  “A sort of disembodied man? No, ducky, you dreamt that.”

  A nurse appeared shyly at the door with two steaming tooth-mugs. Her cap was slightly askew and her apron was too long. “Nurse Hannon says would you like some eyewash, please?”

  “Bless you!” said Bridget, sipping the scalding tea gratefully. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. This is my first morning. My name is Coe—Stella.”

  Jacky and Bridget groaned. Jacky, taking the tea with a reassuring smile, advised her to put a tuck in her apron. “Or Sister will be after you.”

  “She has already,” Nurse Coe whispered. “I wish I knew what I was supposed to do next.”

  “Wash these mugs. Thoroughly, mind! Don’t let one tea-leaf escape, and if you value your life, don’t let Sister or the staff nurse see you.”

  “N-no, Nurse. What shall I do if I meet Sister in the corridor?”

  “In that case, you eat the mugs.”

  “Y-yes, Nurse.” Little Coe scuttled away, her lips moving as if in prayer.

  Bridget unrolled the last curler and tackled the resulting frizz with a hairbrush. “Now listen, acushla! If you’d been attacked by a dog, you’d have bites, not bumps. Stands to reason. I believe you dreamt the dog, because I heard you yelling. Then you dreamt it again, and now you’re convinced it’s true.”

  “If I could prove a dog,” Jacqueline went on stubbornly as if Bridget had not spoken, “it would prove I hadn’t climbed Black Crag.”

  “So what? You fell somewhere. Does it matter where?” “It matters to me. Do you think—could I tell Mr. Broderick about the dog?”

  “Good heavens, child—no. It will be years before you are even allowed to breathe in his presence. As soon as you’ve finished breakfast to-day you’ll be a first-year nurse again, and don’t you forget it.”

  “But if it’s important?”

  “Nothing a first-year nurse thinks or says is important.”

  “And how!” said Liz, entering with Stella Coe at her heels. Nurse Coe’s cap was now over one ear, and her mouth was open as if she were a grassed fish. “Jacky, love, as soon as you’ve finished your breakfast, get up. We want your bed. You’ve had it, chum. Gosh, I’m dead already—this is going to be a day and a half. Sparrow is wild about two bedpans she swears the night nurses have lost. Sister and Fanny Cartwright have been having a cold war about it. Well, Jacky my girl, out you come, and all set for the Greek god. Some people have all the luck. Farm, eh? Butter and eggs.”

  “I don’t want to go, Liz. I’d rather go on duty.”

  “Crazy!” Liz remarked to no one in particular. “Hit on the head, you know. Pity.”

  Coe stared at Jacqueline, who was now in dressing-gown and slippers en route for the bathroom. She was visibly shaken.

  “She thinks a dog attacked her in the night,” Bridget contributed.

  Liz threw a pile of pillows at Nurse Coe, who dropped them nervously and scrabbled on the floor to pick them up again. “Don’t try so hard, Nurse. You won’t last the day at this rate.” She turned to Jacqueline. “Not on this ward, it didn’t. Sister would already have complained to Night Sister.”

  Jacqueline was ready, in the sitting-room of the Nurses’ Home, when Deborah looked in. Neither wore uniform, and for the first time Jacqueline felt it possible that they were cousins. A Sister in full panoply couldn’t be anybody’s cousin—she was a being apart. But this good-looking woman in a smart suit and white crepe blouse was undoubtedly Guy’s sister. There was even a likeness now.

  The girl stood up politely, but Deborah said at once, “Sit down, Jacqueline. I told you two o’clock because I wanted to have a few words with you. I hope you are going to be a sensible girl.”

  Surprised, Jacqueline said, “I hope I always am.”

  “I mean about Alan Broderick. It’s all over the hospital that he rescued you and has been to visit you. And you were talking to him in the corridor outside Matron’s room so long that he had to make excuses for your being late.”

  “That was hardly my fault. Matron sent for me, so I couldn’t help being in the corridor when Mr. Broderick came out of her room. He only asked how I was.”

  “A young girl could easily have her head turned by attention from an important man. Don’t get big ideas. Your friendship with Alan Broderick is not likely to come to anything.”

  “Come to anything? What on earth do you mean?”

  Deborah said bluntly, “He won’t marry you, you little fool.”

  “M-marry me! But that’s ridiculous!”

  “I’m glad you realise it.” Deborah’s tone was dry. “He is not likely to fall for a young girl. His tastes are more sophisticated, and to be the wife of a successful surgeon you need more than mere looks. You need money.” The voice was tinged with bitterness. “You need the kind of money that makes a woman beautiful, soft and pampered; the money that buys big houses and
long cars.”

  Jacqueline shook her smooth fair head in a puzzled way, as if she had wandered into a net of cobwebs. “You can’t be saying this to me. I don’t believe my ears. You speak as if I had designs on him or something. I can’t find words to answer you.”

  Deborah leaned forward, pushing her face close to Jacqueline’s. Her eyes had a hard glitter. “Can you swear you’ve never fancied yourself in love with him? I see by your tell-tale face you can’t. You’re blushing crimson.”

  “If I am, it’s because of your preposterous suggestions. I’m ashamed by what you ask—ashamed of you. Why should I swear any such thing? My thoughts are my own.”

  Deborah recovered her dignity. “Very well. Don’t say you haven’t been warned. I’ve said what I wanted to say, and I hope you will take it to heart.”

  She swept out of the room with such immense dignity that one could almost hear the rustle of a starched apron. Jacqueline followed, bursting with rebellion.

  She did not mind being a junior, being Alexander Beetle in this huge, busy community. She knew she had everything to learn. But she could not and would not accept interference with her private life, her personal friendships. Why did everyone think they knew what was good for her, better than she knew herself?

  In the long echoing walk between the sitting-room and the humble staff exit, she almost succumbed to the temptation to walk right out of the hospital and never come back. There were other hospitals. There were Grand’mère and Grand-père, longing for her to return. How they would welcome her, spoil and pet her!

  But running away from the situation wouldn’t make it any better. One cannot run away from oneself—and it would be awful to be branded in one’s own eyes as a coward.

  “Guy isn’t here yet. We’ll stand on the steps, then we shan’t keep him waiting.” Deborah swept the long gravel drive with a disapproving glance, and Jacqueline hoped that, for his own sake, Guy would not be long.