He looked at Jessamine speculatively. “The best job,” he advised, “would be the entire job. New rims. I’d do the very latest style.
Jessa saw Professor Gink taking out of his pocket spectacles really worthy of a Professor.
“Yes,” she agreed, “I suppose it would.” She asked, “How much?”
It was rather dear, and what was more she had to leave a deposit, but it made no difference, because curiously but quite definitely her mind was made up.
She came back to Belinda to snatch some sleep before she started work.
As she approached the long corridor that evening she glanced upwards, as she found she always glanced now, and saw a lanky shadow. Only one shadow in all Belinda could reach two-thirds of the wall up to the ceiling like that, only one shadow could have such gangling, dangling, daddy-longlegs legs.
Rounding the corner, she bumped into the substance.
“Oh—oh, it’s you,” she gasped, pretending surprise. It would not have been polite, she thought, to have taken that shadow for granted.
“Good evening, Nurse Jess, determined to knock me over, aren’t you?”
Jessa said, “Good evening, Professor Gink.”
They stood a moment, both as awkward as each other.
Professor Gink said, “How is the Perfesser?” at precisely the same moment as Jessa said it.
They felt more awkward still.
“I thought you had gone away again,” Jessa ventured.
“I came back.”
“Yes,” agreed Jessa foolishly, “you did.”
Another shy silence, then—”My glasses—suggested the Professor.
“I—well—you see, they’re not finished.”
“Not finished?” There was no censure in the two words, but there was a disappointment. All this time and only needing some cotton. Jessa gave a nervous gulp.
“Well, it doesn’t matter, anyway,” said the Professor. He paused then mumbled, “Good evening, Nurse.”
“Good evening, sir.” She watched his daddy-long-legs legs make only six strides of the long corridor—then she found her tongue.
“Hi!” she called, forgetting that that was not the way to address a professor. “Hi!”
He turned at once. She could almost have said he turned eagerly. But of course they were probably his favourite glasses, that was all.
“I—well, when you were away so long, I decided to have them smartened up properly. I—I took off the cotton again and left them at the opticians. You’re going to have new rims,” Jessa said.
He looked down at her—he had retraced the six long strides—and from his height it was a rather steep descent. He said, “You did that—?”
Somewhere a baby cried. Jessa remembered her first prem squeak and how excited she had been. She blurted shyly, “Yes, Professor Gink.”
“You shouldn’t have, you know.”
“I broke them.”
“Then you should have mended them, not someone else. Do you think”—he looked at her, and it was definitely eagerness this time, she was sure of it—“that you can get them back and do it yourself?”
“If you want it like that—”
“I do want it, I want it very much.”
There was a pause. It was an odd sort of pause. It was almost a breathless pause. Margaret, Jessa was trying to remember, Margaret, Margaret, MARGARET. Dear dedicated Margaret for deal dedicated Professor Gink.
But of course he meant nothing by that answer, only that he had become familiar with his old glasses, with the way their rims went crookedly, that he did not care about a change. That was all.
She did not think the spectacles would be started yet. She told him this.
“Then you’ll do that for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Nurse Jess.”
Jessa said, “Thank you, Professor Gink.”
She did her work in a daze that night. Luckily they were not busy. Before she went to bed the next day she called around at the optician’s.
The man was not pleased at losing the commission. “You’ll never make a good job of them yourself with thread; besides, we don’t refund deposits.”
“Could I buy something else with the money?”
There were spectacle cases in the display window. The attendant saw a way of making profit even though he had lost a commission. He drew out a tray.
Jessa chose a brown leather one. It was dark and soft and good, and somehow it looked like a professor.
In an expansive mood the assistant said he would add initials free.
“I don’t know the initials, but could you engrave the full name, Professor Gink?”
The assistant said yes, but added ten shillings to the price he had intended asking for the case. After all, that meant a lot more letters than was usual, he reminded himself, so he was entitled to the extra charge.
Jessa waited for it to be done, then took it, and the glasses, back to Belinda.
She sat on the bed doing a second repair job on the spectacles, even neater than before. But she knew she would never summon the nerve to put them in the spectacle case. What had possessed her to presume in such a manner? Personal gifts were a privilege reserved strictly for fellow dedicators like Margaret—or future wives, of course.
She put the case in the bottom of her drawer. She wrapped the glasses in a handkerchief then put them in her uniform pocket in readiness.
Then she got into bed—but it was a long time before she fell asleep.
CHAPTER VI
THE following evening Jessa underwent an experience that affected her very deeply.
Within minutes of being rushed into Belinda from a country cottage hospital a prem’s life was saved by a complete exchange blood transfusion. The little girl was Rh-factor type, but the case was quite successful. Doctors Elizabeth and Mary were almost maddeningly calm over the result, thought Jessa, whose own heart was fluttering wildly, and who was drawn back to the small cubicle a dozen times to assure herself that it had happened, that a child had undergone all this and lived.
Not only lived, but looked fairly robust after it—as robust, anyway, as one could expect of a prem.
The doctors had gone. It was the quiet hour and she was alone in the little nursery. She checked the temperature of the cot to make sure it was ninety-five degrees. The rest of the room was seventy-five degrees, but three hot-water bottles between two mattresses made sure that the Country Girl, as Jessa had named her, would be snug and warm.
She took another glance at the little countenance, thinking as she did that that might be all that belonged to the child. These very new babes were completely muffled up even to their bonnets. It was only when they grew huge like the Bruiser or the Bouncer—or even Madeleine, who was almost full time and would soon be up to water baths now—that one realized there was something more to them than a little pinched face.
The Country Girl was only on glucose. Before Doctor Elizabeth had departed, she had superintended Jessa as she fed the babe by a pipette. Tomorrow she was to have boiled whey, the same the next day, but after that, all going well, there would be another bottle to label and store in the sterilizer, another baby to feed.
Jessa replaced the dressing trolley and tray, the bowls, tourniquets, plaster and scissors.
“Young woman,” she told the Country Girl, “if you’d been born a century ago you wouldn’t be alive today.” She realized what she had said and smiled. “If you did survive,” she amended, “you’d be terribly old, my dear.”
It somehow seemed a time for smiling. The Country Girl was alive and should grow into a strong woman. She had asked Doctor Elizabeth about prems once and had been told, “If they haven’t caught up by twelve months you can be sure they will by twenty-four. And there are no setbacks or complications in after years, no ill effects.”
The spectacles in her pocket, too, made Jessa curiously happy. She did not know why, or whether they should, but none the less they did.
Then, too
, she was going home on Wednesday. She was not homesick, but there was a lightness in her heart every time she thought of the island, and of Mummy and Father. And Lopi, of course, with its little wisp of smoke.
She could have sung at her work—she did croon a little.
When Nurse Anthea came in she remarked, “Someone’s glad.”
“Me,” said Jessa ungrammatically. “Our Rh babe is bouncing fit—or will be, and I go on leave quite soon.” She did not mention the glasses. How could she? And, anyway, they could not be making her blithe like this.
She kept on just missing the Professor. Either he attended the nurseries when she was absent or she arrived just after he had gone. She thought ruefully that unless she soon handed over his spectacles she would be breaking them completely, not just a wing, and one breakage was enough. Her work was not always as delicate and light as a prem baby, it was occasionally quite hard. Besides, there were often awkward trays to replace, trolleys to push, nursery furniture to shift. Glasses carried in a uniform pocket were just asking to be damaged.
She had noticed before that the letter rack in the hall sometimes held mail for the Professor, for anyone attached even casually to Belinda, in fact. She therefore bought a big envelope, wrote his name on it, wrapped the glasses in tissue and put it in the compartment under G.
No one saw her do it and no one took any notice when it was there. Lots of letters and parcels were left at the office. It probably was assumed, if anyone bothered to do any assuming, that as it was stampless it had arrived by hand.
The following morning the parcel was gone—but there was a similarly stampless letter for Miss J. Barlow.
Jessa put it in her pocket and when she went upstairs she opened it.
“—As beautiful as an appendicostomy,” wrote the Professor in very bad writing. “My thanks, B. G.”
B, she pondered with warm interest... Bertram, Boris, Benedict? Then she wondered how he knew she was Miss Barlow when he had only ever met her as Nurse Jess. The knowledge that he must have enquired gave her a curiously satisfied feeling. It was a rather nice sensation, but it must not be permitted. She must remember what she had resolved for Margaret and the Professor, she must keep in mind the betterment of the cause that she had planned.
Thus it was when the second letter came, and by the letter a similar envelope to the one in which she had slipped his first glasses, she only took away the letter guessing in advance what it would ask.
It did.
“My second pair call also for operation. Could you again be Doctor, not Nurse Jess? Yours, B. G.”
She could—but she wouldn’t.
It meant nothing to him save perhaps a few moments of idle amusement and another pair of mended glasses, but it could mean—and somewhere deep within her she admitted it uneasily—quite a lot to her.
In which case she would stand firm right from the beginning. If Margaret had been anyone else but the sensitive soul she was, she would have taken the glasses and mended them blithely, thinking nothing—well, very little, anyway—of it all. But Margaret was Margaret, and one day she might not be happy if the Professor remarked, “My dear, both these pairs of spectacles were salvaged by your friend Jess Barlow. It was amusing, really—we performed our commissions through the medium of the public notice-board and no one noticed a thing.”
So the larger envelope remained there long after the smaller one was taken. It would not have needed a psychologist to deduce that it remained on simply because someone deliberately had not wanted to take it away.
No one pointed out to Jessa that she had not collected all her mail. The way it is with public racks one only looks for one’s own mail, the rest are simply letters. So the second pair of the Professor’s glasses needing attention stopped where they had been placed.
Margaret had had a ring from Rene suggesting a reunion. Rene had done the organizing and it appeared that all the old girls with the exception of Jennifer, who, with her interne, was on honeymoon, could attend.
“Even Jan of the inland is coming down,” said Rene, “and Dinah’s ship will be in, and Glenda’s concentrating on night patients.”
“Miranda and Della?”
“They’re coming as well. There’s only you two—can you make it?” Rene begged.
Margaret and Jessa conferred anxiously and decided they could.
To Jessa’s pleasure they met in a cafe. They all chose different teas as they used to in pro days, sharing for variety when the orders arrived.
Rene was very proud of herself. “It’s that veil and crimson cape that does it. Sometimes I have to turn away, the respect I get from the junior kids.”
“I don’t get merely respect, I get adulation,” said Jan gaily. “You have to go outback for gratitude—it’s touching, really. And to think one year ago I was lisping ‘Yes, sister,’ just like Rene’s juniors to her.”
Della said, “Anything I ask for arrives immediately. Incidentally, I’m called Matron by the factory, so how do you like that?”
“I think it sounds very unromantic,” put in Dinah. “On the ship I’m Sister Allard, but of course”—with a heavenly sigh—“I’m not always on duty.” She gave a wise sidelong look.
Practical Glenda sniffed. “A rose by another name;” she reminded. “What does it matter so long as the money comes?”
Miranda, now shares in that popular private nursing home, agreed at once.
Mavis, a young matron if not a nursing one, listened indulgently and a little pityingly, but Margaret and Jessa only listened—at least Jessa did—ruefully. No title or esteem for them, Jessa was thinking, and very little money.
Also discipline, as Margaret, consulting her watch, established indubitably with a gasped, “Ten past, Jessa, we’ll have to take off.”
“You poor little subordinates,” pitied Rene.
“Don’t say we didn’t warn you,” reminded Dinah.
It had no effect on Margaret, sweet, calm, satisfied Margaret, but Jessa felt a little disgruntled.
Several times on their way back to Belinda she opened her mouth to remark something of the kind, but one look at the peaceful contented face beside her kept her silent.
More than ever she found herself resolving to bring about a close association between the dedicated Margaret and the dedicated Professor. Why, they were made for each other, she thought. From now on she must make it her goal.
As they alighted from the bus and walked up the hospital drive she told herself that she might as well do that good deed, anyhow, because, the way she was feeling right now, she would never be much good at anything else, not at Belinda. Undoubtedly the girls had unsettled her. Their social position ... the fun they had... their rewards. Here at Lady Belinda there was only hard work and no position, no fun, really no reward.
...No reward?
The moment she entered the nurseries she knew it again, that worthwhile feeling. She tiptoed into the little cubicle and looked at the result of yesterday’s miracle, the Rh baby, who, with her help as well as the others, should grow into a lovely woman; her beautiful Country Girl.
Yes, oh, yes, there was reward.
When she went downstairs for tea she noticed that at last her letter had been taken. He had given her three days to claim it and she had not claimed it. Now he must draw the conclusion that she had deliberately inferred.
Instead of feeling self-sacrificing and saintly, even martyr like, she felt curiously deflated, oddly unhappy. Thank goodness there was only the week-end, then Monday and Tuesday to go before they left for Crescent Island.
Luckily Margaret’s excitement was contagious. She lost a lot of her deflation showing Margaret on the map just where Crescent was, telling her how distant it was, how long the journey would take.
But somehow she could not lose it all—
The night before they left she encountered Professor Gink in the corridor again. There was no one in sight, nothing to prevent him stopping a moment as he had before to enquire about the Perfesser—but
he didn’t.
He looked down gravely and courteously and said carefully, “Good evening, Nurse.”
And Jessa said as gravely and courteously and carefully back, “Good evening, sir.”
CHAPTER VII
THEY took off in Matthew Flinders 3 at nine o’clock the next morning.
Margaret delighted Barry by her pre-knowledge of the trip that lay before her.
“Crescent Island is one thousand and fifty miles away northeast, and on the Tropic of Capricorn.”
“What products?” he grinned.
She smiled back at him. “I know that, too. The three C’s—copra, conchi, coral.”
“Probably tourist coral soon, founted and painted and inscribed Crescent Island, seeing we’re to be a holiday resort.” Barry sighed audibly.
“You’re unhappy over that, aren’t you?” Jessa had brought her to the cockpit to be introduced, then gone aft.
“Progress,” Ba retorted, “but then you would be all for progress.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re a nurse. That means a predilection for everything scientific, modern and go-ahead.”
“Perhaps, but it also entails love, and love is as old as the hills.” Margaret hesitated, then, “And I believe I possess that.”
... And I believe you do, too, Ba was thinking. He took his eyes off the instrument panel a brief moment to look at her eyes. They were soft and gentle and brown. He liked this sweet quiet girl.
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