by Laura Wilson
She shoved the letter back in her pocket and stared hard at the hens, trying to keep the tears back. She didn’t often cry, but now…Everything was wrong. Monica was her daughter, not Mrs Chetwynd’s, and this sort of thing was just—Stop it, she told herself. Monica and Pete are alive and safe: be grateful for that. Hard on the heels of this thought came – as it tended to nowadays – the resentful welling inside, born of so many years of not minding or complaining, of being patient, of making do and hiding one’s feelings and counting one’s blessings…Not to mention being pregnant from one stupid little mistake. ‘It’s not fair,’ she repeated, out loud. ‘It isn’t bloody fair!’
‘Mrs Stratton?’
Turning, she saw her neighbour’s head appear above the fence and hoped that Mrs Nairn, who had a bleating voice that reminded her of Larry the Lamb, hadn’t heard her swear. It seemed not, as Mrs Nairn’s face was wearing its usual bland expression. ‘Got a parcel from Bill’s sister in America.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Spam, corned beef, nylons, everything.’
‘Ooh, lovely.’ Not for the first time, Jenny wished that she or Ted had relatives living in the States. Ted’s surviving brother occasionally sent food packages from the family farm in Devon, but that was hardly the same. Nylons…She just hoped she didn’t look as envious as she felt.
‘I could let you have a tin of Spam in exchange for some eggs,’ said Mrs Nairn. ‘Bill’s home on leave tomorrow, and I want to make a cake.’
‘Ooh, yes,’ said Jenny, eagerness replacing jealousy. ‘If you’re sure. Take these.’ She passed the bowl across. ‘Fresh this morning.’
Mrs Nairn dug into her apron pocket and produced the tin. ‘There you are.’
‘Thank you, dear. Tell Bill to give us a knock, won’t you? I know Ted would love to see him.’
Mrs Nairn disappeared, and Jenny stood in the sunshine, turning the tin over in her hands. Spam was Pete’s favourite…Something – the brightly coloured wrapper, perhaps – made her remember a seaside holiday they’d had before the war. Monica and Pete at the fair, grinning and waving as they bobbed up and down on the proud but shabby horses of the merry-go-round…
It was nice to think about the happy times. Even poor Mr Ingram had kept that holiday photograph…The photograph! If Mrs Ingram saw that, perhaps she’d be convinced. Presumably, unless Mr Ingram had others, it was the only one left after the bombing – the only actual, physical, pictorial evidence. If Mrs Ingram were to see it, to be able to compare it to the man himself…Perhaps they should have a tea party. The only problem was that Mr Ingram, who’d disappeared so abruptly from the pub – thanks to her idiot brother-in-law – appeared to have vanished. No-one had come asking for him, but Ted said there were lots of deserters, so maybe they didn’t have time to go chasing after all of them…If only Mr Ingram would ring up Doris, she thought. They could arrange a tea party, and, if Mrs Ingram could be persuaded to stay downstairs for long enough, she could see the photograph and it would all come back – the jokes, the intimate things.
She’d nip down to Doris’s later and suggest it. Donald was now agitating for Mrs Ingram to be taken to Friern Barnet. Dr Makepeace hadn’t mentioned the subject, but it was only a matter of time before Donald ran out of patience and broached it with him. Doris refused to discuss it, and, Jenny, knowing she was thinking of Aunt Ivy, had backed her up: once they had you in a place like that, the only way you got out was in a box. Ted was so preoccupied with his work that she hadn’t liked to bother him…Besides, she didn’t see there was much point: he and Donald would certainly have discussed the matter, so, if pressed, he would undoubtedly be on his brother-in-law’s side.
The other thing was that she felt cut off from Ted at the moment. Not only because of his work, but because of the pregnancy. There was no point going to see Dr Makepeace about it yet, and she didn’t want to tell Ted until she was certain, not just ‘possible’ or ‘probable’ or whatever it was they said. With Monica, and then Pete, she’d told him as soon as she knew and he’d been delighted, but this was different. It wasn’t what they’d agreed – and it certainly wasn’t what they wanted. Jenny crossed her fingers. She’d give it a few more days, yet. There was a slim chance, even now…
Ridiculous how a tin of Spam could make you feel that bit more optimistic. She turned her face up to the sun, enjoying the warmth. Even if she were pregnant, perhaps Ted wouldn’t mind as much as she thought. After all, he did like children – he’d always been good with the kids, even when they were babies, which was more than you could say for some men. In any case, a trouble shared…Perhaps she ought to mention it to him after all. ‘Enjoy the sunshine, ladies,’ she murmured to the hens, and went back indoors with a spring in her step.
Twenty-Nine
Dacre gasped, turned on his heel and, opening the first door he came to, stepped inside and closed it behind him. Pitch darkness – a cupboard of some sort, he thought. Heart thudding inside his chest, he stood stock still for a moment and then, hearing no shouts of recognition or banging on the door, stuck out his hands and encountered a splintery wooden thicket of broom and mop handles. As long as none of the ward maids decided this was the moment to fetch a scrubbing brush, he ought to be safe enough. Blood pounding in his ears and soaked in perspiration, he trembled in the carbolic-scented blackness, his mind racing. Higgs couldn’t be after him, or he’d know by now. Besides, the man had no idea he was still in the hospital, so, not expecting to see him, wouldn’t have recognised him, clean shaven and with black hair…What the hell had he been doing in the corridor? The only time mortuary staff came upstairs was to the laboratory, and there was a separate staircase for that.
Perhaps he’d been delivering a message. Perhaps…for Christ’s sake, Dacre told himself, it doesn’t matter. Moving gingerly, so as not to disturb the cloths and boxes of soap, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. All the same, if Higgs – or, God forbid, Dr Byrne – had started making a habit of wandering about, he’d have to be on his guard.
As he shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket, his fingers touched something small and hard. It took him a moment to remember what it was: one of the phials of morphine. Why had he taken them? Habit, yes – he’d always made a point of picking up anything that looked as though it might be useful. Anything else? That, he thought, was better not examined. The thing was, always to be prepared. He hoped Fay wasn’t getting into trouble over it. Still, he’d make it up to her this evening. Their first date…It struck him, then, with a pang of sadness, that Fay would only – could only – ever know him as James Dacre. That was who she would love. He could never make a clean breast of things – not only would she despise him, she’d probably go to the police. Getting close to anybody was a risk, but this was definitely one worth taking. Remembering the conversation about Wemyss’s suite at the Clarendon, he decided to see if he could purloin the key for use later. Asking Wemyss, at this stage, would be presumptuous. Besides, the man might have qualms about lending it to someone married, and, more importantly, he didn’t want anyone to know about his plans for Fay. Wemyss would be bound to tell somebody, and gossip spread around like wildfire. It occurred to him then that if Fay had mentioned their drink to anyone – unlikely, as that sort of thing was frowned upon, but not impossible – she may have already learnt about his ‘marriage’. Dacre frowned. That could prove awkward. There was no point in making plans for dealing with it – he’d have to play it by ear.
Wemyss had said he kept the key ‘handy’, so presumably it was in his jacket pocket – that would be easy enough to extract in the doctors’ mess. And he’d also asked Dacre to keep quiet about its existence, which meant Fay would not know about it, and he could pass it off as his own – better and better…
He needed to get moving. Surely Higgs would be gone by now? He took his hand out of his pocket and began, very slowly, to count to one hundred. When he reached ninety-nine, he pushed the cupboard door open a cautious three inches
and looked out: coast clear. He took several deep breaths and, stepping back into the corridor, resumed a leisurely pace back to Casualty.
After his fright at seeing Higgs, the rest of Dacre’s day had not – apart from a sticky moment when he’d failed to spot a fractured fibula – been too bad, and he was very – very, very – much looking forward to his drink with Fay. Perhaps, he thought, it would be more than just a drink…Normally, he wouldn’t consider proposing a hotel room to a nice girl, which Fay undoubtedly was, but, as she belonged to him, then the sooner he enjoyed her the better it would be for both of them. Sliding the hotel room key out of Wemyss’s jacket pocket had been the work of a second. He held on to it tightly as he hurried back to Eversholt Street to smarten himself up: in view of the possibility of the Clarendon, he’d better put on a clean shirt and take a brush to his suit.
From the moment Fay had walked up to him outside the hospital’s main gate, he’d known, somehow, that it was going to be fine. He’d arrived early on purpose, so that she wouldn’t have to wait about and risk trouble if she was seen by the matron, and her gratitude for this put them on a good footing immediately. She’d looked even better with her hair down, and she’d obviously dressed up, because she wearing a smart coat, high heels and lipstick.
She proved quite willing to brave the blackout and the whizzes and bangs to follow the pinpoint light of his torch to a pub near Regent’s Park where they weren’t likely to be recognised, and where he’d managed to buy two gins.
‘You do look lovely like that,’ he said, as they settled down at a corner table and she took off the coat, revealing an elegant blue dress.
‘Thanks. It’s nice to be out of uniform.’
‘I’ll bet. Are you in awful trouble?’
‘A wigging from Sister. I’ve had far worse. To be honest, everything’s been rather at sixes and sevens since that poor nurse was killed.’
‘I heard about that. Did you know her?’
‘Not well. It was a terrible thing to happen, especially in the hospital.’ Fay shuddered. ‘I’ll never feel the same way about operating theatres again.’
‘Well, let’s talk about something a bit more cheerful, shall we? Have you been at the Middlesex long?’
‘Three years. Since I started.’
‘You must know the place inside out.’
‘Oh, not really. I’ve been on most of the wards, though. You know, training.’
‘Which do you like best?’
‘I don’t really mind. The only patients I don’t like are the ones who say they’ll try not to give you any trouble – they’re always the worst. Fetch this, fetch that, sit them up, lie them down, cup of tea…’
‘Not quite Florence Nightingale, then?’
‘Hardly. Lots of girls do have romantic ideas about it, I suppose, and they get terribly disillusioned. But you must know that.’
‘Didn’t you ever have a romantic idea about it?’
Fay shook her head. ‘My father’s a doctor. He was the one who suggested I train. He’s the old-fashioned type: nurses should be strong girls who do as they’re told. He’s quite right, of course, but it’s no fun when you get treated like an imbecile child and not allowed out and all the rest of it.’
Dacre laughed. ‘If it’s any consolation, I get treated like an imbecile, too. Like this morning.’
‘That’s just Mr Hambling’s way. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t know.’
‘No, but I should have known. That’s where I need your help, you see…I want you to tell me everything about the hospital.’
‘But you already know much more than—’
‘Pretend I don’t. Do you know, one of our professors used to say that the worst thing a physician can do is to make assumptions. He said that humility and an open mind were the keys to healing. I’ve never forgotten that.’ Dacre, who had gambled that Fay, being a nurse, wouldn’t make enquiries about his training, thought he’d better move on quickly in case she decided to do so. ‘The other thing he said was that the patient should be your teacher. Or, in this case, the nurse should. So, you see, you can help me.’
‘Well, I’ll do my best.’
For the next hour, Fay talked about the Middlesex, and about her work. After a while, she seemed to forget that Dacre was a doctor at all, and even started to talk about various medical procedures. Dacre nodded, encouraged, prompted, and asked occasional questions, and when Fay went to the Ladies, he took out a pencil and paper and jotted down the key points.
‘I don’t think,’ said Fay, as she sat down again, ‘that I’ve talked so much in ages. I hope I didn’t bore you.’
‘Not at all. I enjoyed listening to you – and watching you. You’d be a wonderful teacher.’
‘And you’re going to be a wonderful doctor.’ She coloured. ‘I mean, I’m sure you are already, but—’
‘There’s always room for improvement. Let’s say I hope to be, in time.’ He tapped his glass. ‘Shall I see if they’ll run to two more of these?’
As he put the fresh drinks on the table and was helping Fay to a cigarette, she touched the scar on the base of his thumb. ‘What’s that?’
‘Dog bite. When I was a kid.’
‘Must have been painful.’
‘It was. I just about yelled the house down. I’d love to tell you that I’d wrestled some huge monster to the ground trying to defend an elderly lady from its fangs, but actually it was just a little ratty thing.’
‘They’re often fiercer than the big ones, though, aren’t they?’
‘All the same, it’s pretty pathetic, isn’t it? I’m not a conscientious objector or anything, by the way. The forces turned me down because I had an enlarged heart, so that’s something else that’s not very heroic. I thought you might as well know the worst straight away.’
‘Well, if that’s as bad as it gets, it’s hardly very dreadful.’ Fay laughed. ‘You might have told me you had two wives and five mistresses and fifteen children, or something.’
‘Well…’ Dacre put his fingers on Fay’s hand, which was resting on the table top. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I didn’t want to tell you this, but it wouldn’t be right or fair to keep quiet about it: I am married.’ Fay ducked her head and tried to snatch back her hand, but he clung on to it. ‘Please hear me out,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m married, but only in name. My wife lives up in Suffolk with her parents, and I hardly see her. Being apart, I realised I didn’t miss her, and, to be honest, I started to wonder if I’d ever loved her. Properly, I mean. In the way she deserved. It was rather a whirlwind sort of thing, and if I’d stopped to think, which I should have…Well, I wouldn’t have gone through with it. I feel sad about it, but I’m not sure that we were ever suited, really.’ Dacre removed his hand from Fay’s and said, ‘You can leave if you like – I’ll walk you back to the hospital – but I didn’t want to start by having secrets from you.’
Fay looked into his eyes for a long moment, as if she were searching for a sign. Finally, she said, ‘I’m not going to leave. I know…these things can happen. People grow apart sometimes, and…Shall I tell you something? You said just now about secrets, and I’ve never told anyone about this before, in fact, I’ve really only just admitted the truth of it to myself, but…’ She hesitated, and Dacre, fearing to break the intensity of the mood by prompting her, sat quite still, his eyes fixed on hers, and waited. ‘I was engaged,’ she said. ‘He was killed at Tobruk. It had been very romantic, because we’d had such a short time together – snatched moments…’ She laughed, embarrassed. ‘You know the type of thing. And when he asked me to marry him I was so happy…But when he went away, and I was by myself again, I’d try to imagine what it might be like to be married to him, with a family, and I found I couldn’t. It was difficult, even at first, but I kept telling myself it was because I didn’t know what marriage was like…I’d argue with myself about it. That sounds mad, doesn’t it? Arguing with yourself. Especially,’ she laughed again, ‘if you lose the arguments.
’
‘No,’ said Dacre. ‘It sounds as if you had far more self-knowledge than I did.’
‘That’s a generous way to put it, but I’m not sure it’s true. If I really had had self-knowledge, I would have refused him in the first place. I was intending to break it off, and I tried to write, but it seemed so mean, so I thought I’d wait until I saw him again, and then I heard the news…’ Fay lowered her eyes. ‘It was a way out, and nobody would know how I was feeling. Oh, I wasn’t glad he was dead or anything as horrible as that, but…I felt so guilty because I didn’t want to marry him. Was that terrible of me?’
‘Look at me, Fay,’ said Dacre. She looked up, blinking, and wiped her eyes with her fingers. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said, gently. ‘It wasn’t terrible at all. I’m honoured that you told me – that you feel you can trust me.’
‘Yes, I do. But yours was different. I can’t believe that what happened was your fault.’
‘Some of it was.’ Dacre looked sombre. ‘It’s never just one person who’s to blame, and I certainly don’t blame her. But…’ His face lightened. ‘I’m glad I told you. I’d like us to be honest with each other. You know, I became a doctor because of my father, too. It was how he died, really. A perforated ulcer. He was in agony. I was fifteen – I’d have given anything to have been able to help him.’
‘How terrible.’
‘It was. We didn’t know he was ill, you see, and…Well, I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.’
‘I’m not surprised. Poor man…’
‘Yes.’ As Fay reached forward and clasped his fingers in hers, giving them a little squeeze, Dacre reflected that there was, actually, some truth in what he had just said. It was his father who had made him a doctor, but by the manner of his life, not his death. The wife business had gone down well, too. He’d been right about her not being too inquisitive – a different sort of girl would have asked a hundred questions, but Fay seemed just to accept what he’d said at its face value. He hadn’t even had to invent an affair between his fictitious wife and a Yank. She’d believed him because she was naturally sympathetic, and she’d confided in return…Just how sympathetic was she, he wondered, fingering the hotel key in his jacket pocket. After all, she trusted him, didn’t she? She’d proved that by confiding in him. Should he try his luck? Even if she declined the invitation, it would show her that he had money and connections, wouldn’t it?
