As she did not turn up I left the dining-room a little early and went along to Elizabeth. Jill saw me in her duty-room. Her sleeves were up, her face was masked, and her eyes were troubled. She closed the door herself. ‘Rowe, I have problems.’
She had five women on the D.I.L. and three major ops coming off that afternoon. Her senior staff nurse was having the day off. ‘My junior is a good child, but this is her first staffing job. I can’t leave her to carry my ward alone as it is now. Sister Mary’ll understand. My senior’s on early tomorrow, so I’ll get down to Wylden by an early train. Now’ ‒ she took a key from a desk drawer ‒ ‘this is the cottage back-door. Sister Mary sent it up yesterday. She is going in today to light the boiler and make our beds, and then she’s off to Hayhurst to visit one of her ex-Matrons. Where’s that letter? Ah, here.’ She scanned it. ‘The Matron’s got rheumatism. Hayhurst is forty miles from Wylden, and she’ll be back on the evening coach. We will find food in the larder and are to help ourselves if we get there first.’ She gave me the key. ‘Rowe, I’m sorry about this. Will you cope alone? And rustle up supper for Sister Mary’s return? Bless you, my child!’
When I got back to Observation I contrasted Jill’s approach with Wardell’s. Just to see Jill put me in a good humour. I had grown accustomed to Wardell’s detachment, but for the rest of my time on duty that day she was not merely detached with me ‒ she froze into a human iceberg whenever she saw me. She did not stop at freezing. Nothing I did was right.
Mr. Muir came up with Robert and a houseman to have another look at Tom Elkroyd. It so happened Sister was occupied with Sir Julius Charing. We had the same off-duty for once because it was my free weekend. I took no chances, even in her absence. I smiled at Mr. Muir and his houseman and ignored Robert, and if that seemed hard after last night I was sorry, but my instinct for self-preservation was strong.
Sister was free to join us after Mr. Muir had finished his examination and was having a little chat with Tom about his wife and children. He surprised me and went up in my estimation by knowing all their names, ages, and interests. ‘This the wee laddie, George, who already wants to become a doctor? That’s grand. The country needs doctors.’
Robert had been ignoring me as I was him. When Sister escorted the men out he lingered to take a small chess-set from his pocket and lay it on the bed-table. Tom jerked a thumb upward and Robert nodded back.
I stayed to turn Tom’s pillows and straighten his bed. ‘I didn’t know you liked chess. I’d have got you a set.’
‘I’ve not played the game since I was a lad. My old Dad used to like it. Mr. Gordon asked if I’d like to have a go when he came in late last night. I’d woke, like. Not for long. That Mr. Gordon was sitting on my locker when I woke. Often comes in and sits of a night, he does.’
‘I didn’t know that. You have long chats?’
‘Oh, aye. Times we’ll chat, times he’ll just sit. Puts me in mind of my mate Sid. Sid’ll sup his beer all night and not say nowt. He’s been a right good mate to me, has Sid. I miss him. A lad misses his mates,’ he added apologetically.
‘I’ll bet he does. I hope you’ll be back home with your mates very soon.’
‘Oh, aye. See you Monday, then?’
‘Yes.’ I hated leaving him, even though I had a very good team and he liked all the girls. ‘Have a good week-end ‒ and take care of yourself.’
He grinned. ‘I’ll not have to do that, Nurse. I’ll have half the doctors and nurses in this hospital on job for me! And you’ll be going down to the country, then?’
‘That’s right.’ I had told him about Sister Mary’s cottage. ‘Wylden’s a lovely village.’
‘That’s what Mr. Gordon said, like. He’s off to visit his old grandad or summat in those parts. Happen you’ll be seeing him down there?’
Oh, Lor’, I thought, no! I said, ‘I don’t know. I’m not expecting to see him.’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Tom. ‘No telling, is there then?’
Chapter Six
A SUMMER EVENING IN THE COTTAGE
The blossom had vanished from the apple and cherry orchards. In the hop gardens the young hops were beginning to climb their poles. The corn was still green and the hay was golden. The evening rush hour was on when I left London, but in the hayfields round Wylden the tractors and hay-balers were still busy, their drivers stripped to the waist and tanned as Latins. A few of the very young men had bare heads, their hair streaked by the sun and the hay-dust. The others wore old Army berets to a man, and the berets were so coated with dust that it was impossible to distinguish the original regimental colour underneath.
I was the only passenger to get off the Astead bus at Wylden. The village main street was deserted, and the whole place had a deceptively sleepy air. Deceptively, as Wylden was a very prosperous agricultural village, and June one of the hardest working months of the agricultural year. Work on the farms began at 7 a.m., if not earlier, and went on as long as the light lasted. A few old men were working in their gardens, and two were sitting on a bench outside The Swan talking to the middle-aged landlord. The door to the public bar was open ‒ the bar was empty. The landlord was the only man under sixty-five in sight. He wished me a civil ‘good evening’ as I went by, and, even though I did not know him, called after me, ‘Miss Bush should be back by seven-thirty on the Hayhurst coach, miss.’
‘Thank you.’ I was amused by this reminder of the efficiency of the Wylden grapevine. ‘Lovely evening.’
The landlord agreed. One of the old men shook his head. ‘Not doing the soft fruit much good.’
The street was wide. The old houses on either side leant companionably against each other, as if they had grown out of the land rather than been built. The square Norman tower of the church would have delighted Mrs. Bird. It had been added to the church by one of the Conqueror’s men, but it was still called ‘the new tower’. The written records of the church went back one thousand years. The first records dated from one hundred years after the rebuilding of the church when the original building, itself old and wooden, had been burnt down by some itinerant Vikings.
It was difficult to believe I was less than sixty miles from London. Wylden was another world after the heat and noise of London today. The warmth of the evening sun was gentle, the pavements did not steam, the air was clean and smelt of hay, not exhaust and diesel fumes, and the whirr of tractors, combines, and balers in the background was as soothing as a drowsy bee.
In the rush to change, get my train, and then catch the cross-country bus, with two minutes to spare, I had had no time to realise that the new tension of falling out with Wardell today, coming on top of the general strain of working in Observation, had left me unusually tense and exhausted. I had gone to sleep in the bus, and the driver-conductor had obligingly woken me at the stop before Wylden. Sauntering towards Sister Mary’s cottage, I felt myself consciously unwinding, and was suddenly very glad to have this opportunity to get right away from London and Nick for a week-end. I had recently discovered I was getting very confused about Nick Dexter, but had kept shelving the problem as something to think on when less busy. It had niggled at the back of my mind. I knew I found him attractive, so attractive that when I was in his presence I was incapable of thinking of anything else; yet when he was not around I kept forgetting he existed.
Had there been no David it would never have occurred me to question whether or not I was in love. Previously I had leapt into a relationship first and thought it over afterwards. But, having had one man ask me for his ring back, I had no intention of allowing that scene to be repeated. As I would not sleep with Nick, from his letters and that last phone call I had the impression he was paving the way to ask me to marry him, and, being an impulsive type, it was not going to be long before matters came to a head. He was no man to hang around while a girl made up her mind, as his behaviour with Sabby Wardell showed. Another ‘no’ from me would finish things between us. Did I want to risk losing him? Could I bear to lose him? The thought of
life without Nick nearly settled my problem, and then I began wondering about life with Nick. I reached Sister Mary’s gate more confused than ever.
Frank must have scythed the small front garden in the last day or so. The grass heaped under the hedge was still fresh. The flowerbeds against the cottage had been cleared of weeds and were filled with pinks, pansies, and an old lavender bush. The beds looked very nice and already typical of Sister Mary.
The cottage was very old, half-timbered, and built round a centre chimney. The roof tiles were a pale orange, and the lower brickwork was red-grey. The white paint on the timbered part was dirty and blistering, but the wood was good, and the tiles and bricks were in perfect condition. Sister Mary had been very lucky. A lot of people would have been willing to pay a lot of money for the place. I wondered how much extra old Mr. Norris had paid. If Sister Mary knew, which I doubted, she had not told me. Then, inevitably, I thought of Robert the night of that party and how different he had seemed in Eyes last night. Last night while we talked about Tom I had forgotten the party, David, even how infuriated Robert had made me about this particular week-end. Now I had to see his point about that. I suddenly remembered all the people who had promised to help Sister Mary with this cottage, and how all but Jill and myself had now vanished. I felt more peeved than smug, and went round to the back to let myself in.
The back was to the weather side. The roof there was windowless and sloped down to a few inches above the kitchen door. As I put the key in the lock something crackled behind me. I glanced round incuriously. A mountain of weeds was smouldering on a bonfire ‒ the obvious origin of that crackle. Frank had been as busy round the back as in the front. The nettles that had been knee-high under the wide old apple-tree had gone. The vegetable patch had been cleared and dug over. The back garden was bare, apart from the apple-tree. It was covered with leaves and minute pellets of apples.
An apple hit me on the shoulder as I opened the door. I looked round again. There was no wind, but the apple-leaves were stirring. I went closer to investigate, and gasped. ‘Nick! What are you doing in that tree?’
He wore a London suit, but his smile as he swung himself down took me back to our first meeting.
‘Darling, you know I am incapable of resisting trees and redheads! I’ve been waiting for you.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s your bright and breezy pal? And where is old Miss Bush? I’ve looked in all the windows, but there’s no sign of life within. Isn’t the old lady expecting you?’ He took my hands. ‘Or is this just a convenient hide-out? Tell me the worst! What’s his name? What’s he got that I haven’t got?’
His presence was having its habitual effect. I went weak at the knees and grinned like the Cheshire Cat while I explained. ‘Now you tell me what you are doing here?’
‘If you must know, my sweet, London had no charms without you. I felt lost. So, I thought, why not have a quiet week-end too? Nick the Nut has decided to go no more a-roving ‒ at least, not till Monday. I rang to offer you a lift, but you had gone. So I got in the car and put my foot down.’ He picked up my suitcase and followed me into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got my old room at The Swan.’
‘And the landlord didn’t tell you Sister Mary’s in Hayhurst? He told me!’
‘The new chap across the way? No. He was heaving barrels in his cellar when I checked in. He said, “How do?” and I said “Ah!” Having been here before, as you will recollect, I speak the language. He kissed me, then looked about him and shuddered. ‘God! Look at these walls. Sepia! Ugh! In a slit of a room that faces due north. White’s the only possible colour in here, picked out with ‒ what? Orange, to attract every scrap of light. And as for those curtains … The only thing to do with them is shove ’em straight on that bonfire!’ He reached for the ceiling. ‘This is far too low!’
‘All old houses have low ceilings.’
‘Not this low.’ He tapped the ceiling, took out a pen-knife, and began scraping. ‘I thought so. Some vandal has used plaster to hide the beams. There’s good oak above this.’
‘Hey! Stop that! You might be right, but this isn’t my cottage, and Sister Mary may not like’ ‒ a telephone was ringing ‒ ‘where’s the phone?’
He found it under a pile of rugs in the microscopic front hall, and moaned with disgust at the dark-blue figured wallpaper as he handed me the receiver.
‘What’s this number?’ I covered the mouthpiece. ‘Shift those rugs, Nick. I can’t read it.’
‘Wylden 227,’ he replied automatically. ‘Looked it up.’
‘Sensible man.’ I gave it over the phone.
‘Isn’t that you, Nurse Rowe?’ It was Sister Mary’s voice. ‘Dearie, is Miss Collins there? What’s that? I can’t hear you too clearly.’
I bellowed, ‘I’m sorry, Sister. Miss Collins can’t leave her ward until the morning.’
‘You can’t get her to leave what, dearie? Never mind. You can give her a message.’ She then explained her friend had summer flu in addition to chronic rheumatism. ‘Dear Edith is too poorly to be left. I have asked her doctor to call either this evening or in the morning and must await events. I shall telephone you again tomorrow. I am very sorry to leave all my work to you dear girls, but I know you will understand how I am placed. Be sure and make yourselves quite at home; do what you think fit, but please do not work too hard. I must go now as dear Edith is calling.’
I replaced the receiver. ‘Hear that?’
‘Most.’ He draped an arm round my shoulders, and we went into the sitting-room. ‘Seems we’ve won the jackpot.’
‘How do you make that out?’ I asked unnecessarily, as it was obvious what he was getting at.
He rubbed his face against mine. ‘You don’t need me to spell that out, sweetie.’
I disentangled myself from him. ‘Then maybe you need me to spell it out, dear. The answer is still no.’
Probably I should not have been surprised by his surprise, but I was. ‘Hell, Anna! You can’t pass up a break like this! We’ve this place to ourselves’ ‒ he caught my shoulders and drew me against him ‒ ‘and I so want to love you. You know that.’
I moved my head back to look at him. It was not easy with the grip he had on me. ‘I thought you never made a pass unless the girl was willing?’
‘Don’t pretend you aren’t willing, darling. Not now I know how you feel about me.’
Until that moment possibly he had, and been right. Until that moment I had always been very scathing about the girls who let themselves get into this situation and then complained when the inevitable happened. After this I would be far more charitable about my fellow-women.
‘I’m fond of you, Nick, but ‒’ and I could not go on as he was kissing me.
Eventually I freed my hands and caught his face. ‘Nick, lay off! This isn’t going to do you any good ‒’
‘It’s doing me a power of good!’
‘No!’ I pushed him away and took a few steps back. ‘I’m serious about this, Nick! So cool down ‒ or go.’
‘Darling, don’t be childish.’ He grabbed at me. Only my training made me able to resist the overpowering urge to slap his face. But the truism that violence begets violence was engrained in me, and, as he was so much larger than myself, in any physical struggle I was bound to lose. That did not mean I was helpless, though it took me a few seconds to realise it. Then, as weeping was something I could do quite easily, provided I thought a distressing thought, I thought hard about Tom Elkroyd’s future and the tears poured down my face.
As I had hoped, they acted on Nick like a cold shower. ‘Oh, God.’ He dropped his hands. ‘Don’t weep. I can’t stand weeping women.’
‘Sorry,’ I wailed, ‘can’t help it.’ As he had removed his shoulder I wept on the mantelpiece.
I was now feeling sorry for myself as well as for Tom, and almost as sorry for Nick. He was not a real wolf, or tears would not have stopped him. He merely had a very simple approach to women, and all that talk about understanding my attitude had only been part o
f the patter. He had assumed my talk was my patter. I clearly had him as much out of his depth now as Sabby Wardell had done. Being so attractive, he was not used to failure. He obviously had no idea what to do or say next. While I mopped my face he stared at the fireplace with an expression that was sulky, hurt, and puzzled.
‘How could Gervase Martin live with that eyesore!’ he muttered.
‘It is hideous. It’s not old, surely?’
‘Only about fifty years old.’ He tapped the fireside wall absently. ‘The moronic vandal who shoved up that kitchen ceiling must have put in this wall. It’s false.’ He dug in his penknife. ‘I’ve gone through. The original fireplace must be behind it.’ He noticed the smoke marks on the ceiling. ‘No wonder this ruddy thing doesn’t draw properly. How could it, with the main flue half choked?’
I said, ‘I seem to remember Sister Mary asking about this and Mr. Martin saying he hadn’t had the chimney swept for years. Won’t that clear it?’
‘Doubt it.’ He was less sulky and growing interested. ‘How old do you think this is?’
‘Two ‒ three hundred years?’
‘More like four or five.’ He roamed the room, tapping the walls. ‘The chaps who built it knew how to build, even though this is probably only standing on a few inches of foundations. But it’s stood a few centuries. And they knew all about draughts and chimneys. Their chimneys work and don’t smoke, provided no fool messes around with them. That’s when the trouble starts. This wall’ ‒ he slapped it hard, and the sound was hollow ‒ ‘should come down. Then this room’ll be bigger and warmer.’
‘Won’t that cost a lot?’
‘Not all that much. It generally costs as much to get a building wrong as right. As your old girl is starting from scratch’ ‒ he now slapped himself ‒ ‘where’s my pad? Just my luck! I left it in town.’
A House for Sister Mary Page 10
