by June Wright
“That is an heroic offer, Mr—”
“Bannister. Todd Bannister. We have the local and one and only pub. The Tom Thumb.”
“Well, thanks for the tip, Mr Bannister, but I would like to see Matthews. What is the matter with it?”
The rise in the road was steep now. Marsh changed into second gear. The little car climbed protestingly. On the left of the road the land sloped away to a bay; a broad steady expanse of water rimmed by desolate swamps which formed the township’s eastern foreshore. The rain spattered against the windscreen viciously. At the crest of the road the wind became violent. It shook the car, almost threatening to overturn it.
“Matthews!” announced her companion succinctly. “We’ve been here for a year now. It never seems to stop blowing. That is one of the things that matter.”
“What else is wrong?” she asked, amused.
“Apart from the wind I don’t object to the position. Taken by and large you might even call it pretty. But dead! The place hasn’t changed over the last fifty years. Do you realize this is the only decent road that runs through the town? No sewerage—no water. In summer you have to wash in a cup.”
“Sounds rather quaint, even if it might be considered unhygienic,” Marsh commented.
“It may be quaint,” the young man said gloomily, “but it is not too good for business. The whole trouble is people around here don’t want to progress. They run a Retarding Society, not a Progress Association. Matthews could be made into a splendid little resort, but the powers that be won’t have it.”
“Who are the powers that be?”
“A small group of ruddy quacks. Years ago some bright boy, seeking a respite from carving people up, hit on this spot. Members of the medical profession are two a penny down here now. The place is mushroomed with their weekend mansions. If you address every person you see on the links or down at the jetty as Doctor, you won’t cause any embarrassment.”
Marsh drove on in silence. Presently they reached the little township.
“Is that your place?” she asked, slowing up.
“That’s the hostelry. Care to come in and let me give you a drink out of gratitude for the Girl Guide deed?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so, thanks.”
Todd Bannister got out of the car. “I hope Mother won’t see me—accepting lifts from strange girls. Shall I be seeing you again? Where are you staying?”
“With one of the powers that be,” Marsh told him, releasing the brake.
“For Pete’s sake, are you? Whatever did I say? Which one?”
“With the Warings, at Reliance.”
The young man stuck one finger in his mouth, rounding his eyes in horror. “The biggest power of the lot! How I hate dear Kingsley!”
“Good-bye,” she said.
“Hey, wait a minute! I don’t know your name. I must be able to tell Mother something. Otherwise she might start imagining things.”
“Mowbray,” Marsh supplied. “You’d better get off the running-board.”
“Miss or Mrs.?” he asked, glancing at her gloved hands.
“Doctor,” she said gently, and put the car into first. Bannister jumped aside in haste. She looked sideways as she moved back on to the road. The young man was still staring after her.
III
Marsh drove slowly through the tiny village. Reliance lay at the other end somewhere, where scrub and ti-trees covered the rise to the cliffs. There should be a sandy track through the bush which would lead to the house, but she drove to the end of the metal road without finding it.
The road stopped almost at the cliff’s edge, where the ocean foreshore was indented into a small rocky inlet. Marsh, with one foot hard on the brake again, sat for a while looking down on it. The rain was still coming down strongly. Great sheets of it, visible against the tall shadow of the cliffs, were being swept across by the wind. The water of the inlet was tumultuous, a grey swirling mass. It beat against the rocks, sending up clouds of spray, and smashed its way to the tiny crescent of sand below. A solitary gull was held immobile above her car. It stayed poised for a moment before it turned tail to the wind, as though giving up trying to get to the cliffs the other side of the inlet.
These cliffs were quite barren; a contrast to the thickly wooded land on Marsh’s side and above the inlet. They sloped inland in a series of folds and dents caused by abortive water-courses. Under their towering protection a miniature mole ran into the sea from a boat-house built into the solid rock.
Marsh turned her attention from the view to the map on the seat beside her. Todd Bannister’s damp clothes had rendered it almost indecipherable. She put the gear into reverse and backed a few yards. She was pulling the wheel hard to turn when something caught her eye on the bare hill the opposite side of the inlet.
A man on horseback was climbing to the cliff’s edge. She watched them frowningly. The wind was strong enough to send the animal off its balance. It seemed a foolhardy project and she caught her breath as the horse was forced to the very edge. For a moment or two the rider held his mount at the top of the cliffs, gazing out towards the ocean. Then he turned and cantered back down the slope. He disappeared into a path through the bush above the inlet.
Marsh turned the car about and waited. Presently the rider came through the ti-trees at a hard canter. He reined in as he saw the car blocking the entrance to the track. Under the skilful pressure of knee and hand the horse passaged to alongside the car. Water ran off the animal’s coat and the rider’s leather jacket and whipcord breeches. He bent to glance into the car.
“Can you tell me the way to the Warings’ place?” the girl asked above the gale.
The horse was fidgeting badly. The man’s leg seemed clamped to its wet heaving side.
“I am a stranger,” he said curtly. “I do not know anyone in Matthews. What is the name of the house?”
“Reliance.”
The rider frowned. “There is a turning a hundred yards or so back. I think that will be the one you want. Drive slowly. It is easy to miss.”
“It was,” Marsh retorted. “I didn’t come here just to admire the view.”
The man glanced behind him, down to the heaving sea. “This is a very dangerous point. One day someone will walk straight off the road on to the rocks down there. Then maybe they will put up a railing and a warning notice.”
His knee released its pressure, and he touched the horse’s flank with his heel. The animal leaped forward at once.
Marsh’s car crept along. Her eyes searched the right side of the road for a break in the undergrowth. Presently she discerned the track, irritated that she had missed it in the first place. It was getting late, and she was never late for appointments as a rule.
The wheels moved heavily over the grey sandy surface of the drive. It curved in and out of the scrub, following the contour of the ground for about half a mile before the grotesque shapes of the ti-trees gave place to tall ordered pines and a harder-soiled area in front of the house. She pulled up and got out, thankful that the pressure of the wind and rain was lost against the huge swaying pine-trees. She felt very tired.
A figure moved forward from the shadow of the house. A shambling heavy body with arms that swung loosely from hunched shoulders. It loped over to her. A stupid face grinned wetly.
“Is this Reliance?” Marsh asked, surveying the boy uncertainly.
He nodded his big head. “Dr. Kate’s,” he announced in a proud voice, lifting one of his arms towards the house.
Marsh turned to drag her cases from the boot of the car. The imbecile wiped his slobbery mouth on the back of one hand and picked them up. Then a door in the house opened and Katherine Waring came along the verandah swiftly. In her dinner dress of dark red velvet she was an even more arresting figure.
“How are you, Dr. Mowbray?” she asked cordially. “Come inside.
You must be very cold. Sam, take the doctor’s bags up to her room.”
“Which room, Dr. Kate?” asked the boy, his small red-rimmed eyes blinking up at her.
“I showed you this morning, Sam. Go upstairs. You will know when you see it.”
The boy clumped through the house, his voice raised in a sing-song chant.
“I hope he did not startle you,” Dr. Waring said to the girl. “He shows occasional signs of intelligence. He is an interesting case.”
Marsh followed her along the verandah. It ran round two sides of the house with long French windows opening on to it.
“In here,” said Katherine Waring, stepping over the sill into a small book-lined room lit only by a lamp. “A glass of sherry will do you good. Then you would like a bath. I have told Jennet to keep dinner for you.”
“I am sorry I am late,” Marsh said, moving over to the fire. “I missed the turning.” She drew off her gloves and held her fingers to the blaze. “One would never think this was the first week of summer.”
“Matthews is a draughty spot,” Dr. Waring remarked, handing her a glass.
“So the young man I gave a lift to said. A Mr Bannister from the hotel.”
“Bannister? Oh yes, the new people. Mother and son.”
“They have been here a year,” Marsh said, looking up in surprise.
A slightly more reserved expression overlaid Dr. Waring’s fine face. “Anyone who has lived here less than five years is counted as a newcomer.”
Marsh sipped her sherry in silence. She felt a small rebuke and hoped Katherine Waring did not think she made a habit of giving lifts to strange young men.
Then her hostess said in a warmer voice, “I am so glad you came.”
“I was glad to come,” the girl stammered. She finished the sherry and placed the glass on the tray.
Katherine Waring moved to the door. “Sam will have your bath ready. Go straight upstairs. You can meet the others after you have had your dinner. I will send up your tray in half an hour.”
She led the way along the passage to the stairs. Another lamp, beautifully wrought in copper, stood on the bottom newel. She lit it and adjusted the wick. “Your room is the second on the right. You’ll forgive me if I don’t come up. The others are still in the dining-room. They will be wondering where I am.”
“Please go back,” Marsh replied, wondering just who the other members of the household were. She did not like to ask as Dr. Waring had not enlarged upon names. It was not in her nature to waste words on premeditated introductions or to discuss others loosely in order to prepare the meeting.
Marsh was glad of the respite. She felt too tired to appear suddenly as a congenial companion at the dinner-table. The long drive and the wild weather had left her almost exhausted. Her room was comfortable and attractive. Her bags, one containing her clothes, the other her attaché case, stood near a door which opened into an adjoining bathroom. For a moment she pressed her fingers against her aching eyes. Then she gave herself a little shake and began to undress.
IV
She had finished her bath and was about to slip into a reseda-green dinner dress when a tap came at the door. She put on her dressing-gown again.
“Come in,” she called, tying the sash.
The door swung open slowly as a girl backed her way in. She was carrying an immense tray. She nodded, but did not smile.
“Dr. Kate said if you felt all in to go to bed and have this. She doesn’t expect you to come down if you don’t want to.” She did not look at Marsh as she spoke. “Will I put the tray here on the table?”
“Yes, that will do. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
“I’m Betty Donne, Dr. Kate’s nurse at her rooms. Do you think you have all you need? I must go down now. I promised Miss Jennet I’d help her.”
But she did not go at once and Marsh waited for her to speak. Then the young nurse muttered something inaudible and darted out of the room. Marsh closed the door after her, shrugged slightly and then turned her attention to the dinner.
It was an odd sort of meal but exquisitely served. Everything seemed highly seasoned and the sweet was a shade too sweet, but she attacked it with an appetite hitherto dulled by plain hospital fare. Finally she pushed aside the tray and finished her dressing, sipping the rich coffee as she carefully attended to her appearance. Then she picked up the tray and opened the door.
She descended the stairs and went down the passage to find the kitchen.
It was a big warm room and full of tantalizing smells. Betty Donne, an apron tied over her dress, was scraping plates. She was not doing it quickly. She would pick up a plate, run a knife over the surface once and then stop, as though the noise might prevent her from hearing something of the conversation that wafted through the servery from the dining-room. She glanced at Marsh vaguely as she put her tray on the table and turned her head away again.
A plump little woman immaculately dressed in a white overall was lifting a heavy boiler from the stove.
“Let me take that,” Marsh said at once, seeing the woman’s trembling wrist.
“No, really I can manage. Well, just over here, thank you, Doctor. Do mind your lovely dress. Did you enjoy your dinner?” She darted over to inspect the tray. “Oh, I am glad. Kate told me about you. I’m Jennet, you know.”
Marsh said doubtfully, “Yes, I guessed—”
“I know what you are thinking. I’ve always kept house for Kate, but I’m a sort of cousin, too. Such a distinguished pair!”
“Hush,” said Betty Donne suddenly. Marsh swung round, her brows lifted. The nurse flushed, but she bent her head closer to the servery.
“Hush yourself,” said Miss Jennet good-naturedly, “because I want to listen to The Morans. Do you like the radio, Doctor? I follow six different serials.” She spoke with pride.
“Not very much,” Marsh replied absently, observing the intent face of the nurse. Miss Jennet went on chattering in the background until she found her station, but she did not hear her. She, too, was listening to the voice in the dining-room; a man’s voice, slightly raised in tone and with a hint of perpetual patronage.
“Medical errors should be acknowledged for debate and censure, not excused in a wealth of detail or hidden away amongst subsequent successes. If a doctor cannot bring himself to admit a mistake then it is the duty of a colleague to expose it.”
There was silence for a moment in the dining-room before another man’s voice said: “All very well, King, but the fellow who does the exposing is going to make himself unpopular. Let sleeping dogs lie, I say.”
“A comfortable motto, but not a very brave one, my dear Henry.”
“You mean to say you would have the courage to denounce another man to the world!”
“Or woman. Let those of our profession who are infallible remain god-like to the public. But the many others should be exposed so that the hero-worshipping of patients will be tempered a little.”
The radio in the kitchen suddenly rose to a roar.
Betty Donne whirled around furiously. “Why did you do that?” she asked in a fierce voice.
“Do what?” asked Miss Jennet, startled.
The nurse’s hands were trembling. “Nothing,” she muttered. “Never mind.”
She began to scrape the plates again, and Miss Jennet, after a moment’s distress, returned to her soap-opera.
The diners were filing out of the adjoining room as Marsh closed the kitchen door behind her. She stayed in the shadows until the living-room door farther along shut them in. Then she made her way along slowly. Before she reached it the door reopened and Kingsley Waring came out. She did not see his face in the dimly lit passage, but she recognized the voice again as he spoke some word excusing himself as he went past her.
There were five persons in the big living-room when Marsh entered. The sound of the sea
was very clear and occasionally fine points of spray came out of the darkness to spatter the broad windows which covered the view to the ocean. The front of the house had been built into a fold of ground almost at the cliffs’ edge.
Katherine Waring sat behind a coffee-table near the huge log fire at one end of the room. She looked up as the girl came in and smiled. It was a comradely personal smile that made her feel she was the one person Dr. Waring wanted to be there. She went over at once.
“Did you get coffee with your tray? Perhaps you would care for some more. Let me introduce you to the others.”
Marsh turned to face them, her green skirt flaring out gently. The glowing fire was behind her and the lamplight was soft on her serious young face.
“My sister-in-law, Mrs Arkwright, and Surgeon-Commander Arkwright. Delia, this is Dr. Marsh Mowbray.”
Marsh looked down on the pair seated together on a couch the other side of the fire. Mrs Arkwright raised her eyes from her knitting, nodded, and then lowered them again. She did not speak. Henry Arkwright got up. He was a big handsome man, very conscious of the naval insignia in his lapel and the responsibility of extraordinary courtesy that went with it. He stumbled across his wife’s extended feet with an outstretched hand.
“Glad to see you on board,” he said heartily. “Will you splice the main brace with your coffee?”
“A liqueur,” Dr. Waring supplied. “Brandy or crème de menthe?”
“Just the coffee, thanks.”
Katherine Waring turned her head. “Miss Peterson, will you have a liqueur?”
The young woman leaning over the piano at the opposite end of the room straightened up and sauntered over to the coffee-table. Her white crepe frock clung tightly to her thin body, outlining the shape of each leg as she walked.
“Evelyn Peterson, my husband’s nurse, Dr. Mowbray. You have met Betty. She took up your tray.”
Miss Peterson extended one narrow hand. The fingers were long and curved. The thumb and first fingers were bright with nicotine, the third was smudged at the tip with lipstick. Only the little finger was its proper colour but this seemed more claw-like than the others. She gave Marsh a long lazy look.