by Betty Neels
‘I’ll get fat,’ smiled Clotilde contentedly.
‘A great strapping girl like you, Miss Tilly? There’s enough of you to carry a few pounds more. Your dear ma always wanted to be a big girl.’
‘Oh, well, she had me instead; goodness knows I’m big enough for the two of us. Rosie, when we’ve washed up I’m going into Saffron Walden. Do you want to come? And if you don’t, is there anything you want?’
‘Some more of that wool I’m using for my niece’s sweater. I’ll put my feet up while you’re gone and we’ll have a nice tea when you get back.’
Saffron Walden was bustling in a gentle way. Clotilde parked the car, bought the wool and then did a little shopping on her own account—tights and toothpaste and make-up and a crêpe blouse which would go rather well with the velvet skirt she sometimes wore when she and Bruce went out for the evening. She searched, not very hard, for a dress and then decided that she would wait until she went shopping in London, then since the dull day was fast turning into a thickening twilight, she drove back home to eat Rosie’s scones round the fire in the comfortable sitting room. Rosie hadn’t wanted to share her tea, she was old-fashioned and had strong views about keeping her place, but Clotilde wheedled her into the sitting room into the chair opposite hers and switched on the TV. There she ate almost all the scones and encouraged Rosie to talk about her youth, while Tinker lay with his head across her feet. She hadn’t felt so content and happy for a long time. St Alma’s seemed to be in another world, even Bruce seemed a vague figure, an outsider in the cosiness of the room. Nonsense, of course, she told herself briskly. He was very much part of her life, and when they were married they would come to her home together and sit round the fire and eat scones and talk…
‘A nice cheese omelette for your supper,’ Rosie’s voice stopped her dreaming, ‘and there’s a trifle. It’s nice to have someone to cook for.’
‘You’re spoiling me, Rosie. I hope you cook for yourself when you’re here alone.’
‘Course I do—and your ma told me to have Mrs Grimshaw from the Post Office up for supper whenever I want to.’
Clotilde woke the next morning to the smell of frying bacon and it was so tantalising that she got up at once, dressed in an elderly pleated skirt and a jersey and went down to the kitchen. Rosie looked up from the Aga.
‘I guessed that would bring you down smart like, Miss Tilly—just you sit down and we’ll have breakfast.’ She opened the door and Tinker came rushing in, damp from the drizzle outside. ‘Not much of a day,’ she added.
‘I’m going for a walk anyway,’ declared Clotilde. ‘I’ll go down to Audley End and cross the park, then come home through the woods. It’ll be good for Tinker.’
It took her the best part of the morning, but she didn’t care. She made easy work of the miles, not bothering about the steady drizzle, and coming back through the village she met several people she knew and stopped to chat. She got back with a fine colour and a good appetite, dried Tinker, tidied herself and ate the dinner Rosie had ready. And afterwards she did the ironing, saw to the plants in the conservatory built on to the back of the house and then retired to the sitting room fire to read while Rosie had her nap on her bed. Later, going to bed, she thought happily that it had been a lovely day, no hustle or bustle, no Miss Knapp constantly complaining, no phone calls, no rounds. For no reason at all she found herself thinking about Dr Thackery; he would be a pleasant companion with whom to walk in the rain. She suddenly was brought up short, feeling disloyal to Bruce, who hated rain anyway.
She said goodbye to Rosie and Tinker with regret the next morning. ‘But I’ll be back next week,’ she told them. ‘Mother and Father will be back on Thursday, won’t they? I won’t be able to get away before two o’clock, but they won’t be home much before tea time. I’ll bring some flowers with me.’
She waved goodbye and shot into the lane and through the village on her way back to St Alma’s. She had hung about, talking to Rosie, and if she didn’t hurry she would be late on duty. A nuisance; she had intended to go to the Surgical Wing first in case Bruce was there. Now she wouldn’t have the time.
There was barely twenty minutes left as she turned into the hospital forecourt. She ran the Mini round the side of the sprawling building and parked it, and as she got out Dr Thackery’s Bentley slid silently into the next parking lot. He should have parked in the consultants’ reserved spaces and at her look of surprise, he said: ‘I’m in a hurry and this is nearer. Have you had a pleasant time?’
‘Yes, lovely.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m late,’ she told him.
‘Then for heaven’s sake don’t let me keep you.’ He spoke in his usual friendly fashion and turned to get his bag out of the car. But Clotilde paused to look in at the rear window at the Jack Russell sitting in the centre of the back seat. ‘Is he yours?’ she asked.
‘Yes, and he’s a she— Millie. She cadged a ride at the last minute.’
She smiled widely. ‘She’s rather gorgeous. You look as though you ought to have a Great Dane.’
His firm mouth twitched. ‘But I have. His name is George, and he’s car-sick.’
Clotilde gave a delighted chortle and then remembered the time. ‘I must fly!’ she exclaimed.
She was racing for the side door leading to the Nurses’ Home when she bumped into Bruce, but before she could speak he said crossly: ‘What was all that about? I’ve been standing here…’
She pulled up short. ‘Oh, Bruce, I’m so sorry— I was admiring Dr Thackery’s dog. A Jack Russell… I didn’t see you.’ She added unnecessarily: ‘I’m late.’
‘Then you’d better get a move on,’ said Bruce loftily.
Not the best start to the rest of the day, thought Clotilde, tearing off her suit and getting into uniform. Now she would have to try and see Bruce that evening—hours away. But by then he might have forgotten about it, and after all, she told herself reasonably, one didn’t ignore someone one worked with, especially someone as goodnatured as Dr Thackery.
The afternoon was busier than she would have liked, with two emergency admissions, Miss Knapp choosing to have an attack of hysterics just as teas were being served, and Miss Fitch next to her going into a diabetic coma. Not the easiest of days, thought Clotilde, drinking a hasty cup of tea in her office before starting on the medicine round, and to crown it all Dr Evans had been on the ward, throwing her weight around, annoying both nurses and patients. Usually Clotilde had found the women doctors easy to get on with; they cheerfully looked after themselves if they saw that the nurses were busy, but Dr Evans had had other ideas.
She insisted on having someone in attendance, and that in the middle of the bedpan round…
Clotilde went off duty at last tired and irritable, glad that the day was over. She gobbled her supper in the company of those of her friends who had just come off duty, then she went down to the lodge to see if Bruce had left a message. Old Diggs the porter looked up from his paper.
‘Dr Johnson said he’ll be free at half past nine and you was to go for a drink together.’
‘Thanks, Diggs.’ She felt suddenly much better; it would be late before she got to bed, but that would be a small price to pay for an hour of Bruce’s company. She went back to her room and changed into a dress, and since it was damp and dreary outside, a raincoat. There was no point in dressing up; the local pub was used by almost everyone at the hospital and it was so near that all one needed to do was slip on a coat or a mac.
Clotilde was prompt and it was five minutes before Bruce arrived—and not in too good a temper, she saw, her heart sinking.
‘Hallo.’ His greeting was abrupt. ‘A pity you’ve not bothered to get into something decent, now we’ll have to go to the Lamb and Thistle, I suppose.’
‘It’s a bit late…’ She didn’t know why he was in a bad temper; too much to do, probably. A drink and a quiet chat should put that right.
But it didn’t; he was edgy and ill at ease until she said forthrightly: ‘What’s
the matter, Bruce? Had a bad day?’
‘Nothing’s the matter.’ He covered her hand with his and gave it a squeeze. ‘And the day was no worse than others. I had a long talk with Sir Oswald—he’s offered me a junior partnership.’
‘But that’s marvellous Bruce, absolutely wonderful— I can’t believe it! Of course you accepted?’
He shrugged. ‘How can I? I’d have to buy myself in.’ He mentioned a sum which sent her dark brows up.
‘But that’s twice what Father said he’d give us, and I don’t honestly think that he could manage any more. Do you know anyone who’d lend it to you?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I do—at least, I’d have to do it through someone I know.’
‘Not moneylenders?’ asked Clotilde sharply, and got laughed at for her pains.
‘Silly darling—no, of course not, and I won’t do anything until I’ve talked to your father. He might be able to manage.’
‘I’m sure he can’t. He never talks about money, but I heard him talking to Mother about some shares that had dropped and he sounded worried.’
‘Well, it can’t be as bad as all that.’ Bruce sounded uninterested. ‘They’ve gone on holiday, haven’t they, and the house isn’t kept going on peanuts.’
He began to talk about his day and Clotilde, who would have liked to have made plans for their wedding, listened cheerfully. She wasn’t tired any more; it was splendid news that Bruce had been offered a partnership with Sir Oswald—something he had always wanted. She had wanted it too, of course; it made their future together a good deal nearer, and after all, she was twenty-five, almost twenty-six, and Bruce was thirty. They went back presently and parted in the entrance hall. Even though there was no one there, only old Diggs, they didn’t kiss. Bruce had said it was a bad example for the students.
They barely saw each other for the next couple of days. Clotilde had to be content with a quick wave from a distance and a note left at the lodge telling her that he was too busy to meet her. She accepted it more or less cheerfully; his work came first and when he was free he would be too tired to want to go out. She washed her hair, did her nails and went to the cinema with some of her friends. Bruce had said he would be free on the following day and she assumed that they would spend as much of it together as they could manage. It was Dr Thackery’s round in the morning, but she had given herself a half day and she would be free after dinner.
The round went smoothly. Clotilde was ready and waiting, with Sally beside her, loaded with case notes and X-rays, when the ward doors were opened and Dr Thackery, hedged about by Jeff Saunders, the Evans woman and the rest of them, came into the ward. His ‘good morning’ was pleasant, impersonal and brisk and Clotilde was equally brisk. After the few years they had worked together, they appreciated the fine line they had drawn together between friendship and getting on with the job. Miss Knapp was dealt with with smooth competence and a quite definite decision that she might go home on the next day, the emergency cases which had been admitted during the week were examined at some length and Mrs Perch, almost at her last breath now, was gently teased and chatted to, just as though Dr Thackery had no other patients to see.
Presently they moved on to the next bed— Mrs Butler, a mountain of a woman, propped up in bed against her pillows, puffing her way through an asthmatic attack. She took a great deal of time too, and Clotilde felt a twinge of impatience. Her delightful nose had caught the first whiff of dinners; they would never be finished on time—which meant that she would be late off duty and Bruce would have to hang around…
An urgent tap on her sleeve broke her train of thought. Clare, the ward clerk, gave her a scared look because no one was supposed to interrupt the round. She stood on tiptoe to reach Clotilde’s ear. ‘There’s a phone call for you in the Office, Sister. Urgent—they wouldn’t give a message.’
‘Did they gave their name?’ Clotilde’s whisper was almost soundless.
Clare looked helpless. ‘I didn’t ask, Sister.’
‘It might be as well if you dealt with the matter yourself,’ said Dr Thackery suddenly. ‘We’re almost finished, aren’t we?’
He looked round and smiled at her and she found herself smiling back at him, even while she deplored his eavesdropping. She nodded to Sally to take her place and hurried down the ward. It would be anxious relations of one of the patients, she had no doubt. It was a favourite ploy to ring and say it was urgent and not give a name, because that made it necessary for her to go to the phone herself instead of letting the ward clerk deal with it. She lifted the receiver and said, ‘Hullo?’ then because there were sounds of distress at the other end, she added encouragingly: ‘This is Sister Collins.’
Rosie’s voice sounded in her ear—a voice thick with tears and distress. ‘Miss Tilly—oh, Miss Tilly, however am I going to tell you? Your dear ma and pa…’
Clotilde felt her insides go cold. She asked in a rigidly controlled voice: ‘There’s been an accident, Rosie—where are they?’
‘Oh, Miss Tilly, they’ve been killed! In a car crash in France, on their way home. The police came,’ and then in a bewildered voice: ‘What am I to do?’
Clotilde felt the ice inside her spreading, her arms felt leaden, her face stiff and her brain frozen solid. She said carefully: ‘Don’t worry, Rosie, I’ll come home and see to everything.’ After a pause she added: ‘You’re quite sure, aren’t you, Rosie?’
‘Yes, Miss Tilly. Will you be long?’
‘No, a couple of hours, perhaps less.’
She put the receiver down carefully and sat down behind her desk. There was a lot to do, but just for the moment she was quite incapable of doing it.
It was ten minutes or more before Dr Thackery and his entourage reached her office. He opened the door, glanced at her frozen, ashen face, and turned round so that his bulk filled the doorway.
‘I believe Sister has had bad news,’ he said quietly. He nodded to his registrar. ‘Start the round on the Men’s Medical side will you? Staff Nurse, take over for the moment, will you, and bring some brandy here as quickly as you can.’
He didn’t wait for them to answer but went into the office again, shutting the door after him.
Clotilde hardly noticed him, but when he came close and sat on the edge of the desk in front of her chair and took her icy hands in his she said politely: ‘So sorry I didn’t finish the round, but I— I’ve had some bad news.’ She took a deep breath. ‘My parents have been killed, somewhere in France—they were on their way home from Switzerland. They go most years because Mother likes it there.’
The hands holding hers tightened. ‘My poor girl!’ Dr Thackery’s voice was very gentle, he went on holding her hands and when Sally came in with the brandy, nodded to her without speaking. When she had gone he picked up the glass. ‘You’re going to drink this because you need it,’ and like a child she did so, coughing and spluttering and catching her breath, but there was a little colour in her cheeks now.
‘That’s better. You want to go home, of course? We’ll settle that first.’ He didn’t let go of her hands, but dialled the Nursing Supervisor and presently put down the receiver. ‘That’s settled,’ he told her. ‘You can go home as soon as you want to. You have a car? Not that you’re in a fit state to drive. Is Johnson free?’
And when she nodded he picked up the phone again. Clotilde, her shocked mind dulled by the brandy, only half listened; it sounded as though there was some difficulty. She leaned forward suddenly and said: ‘Let me,’ and took the receiver from Dr Thackery. Her voice sounded odd but it was almost steady. ‘Bruce, I’ve had some bad news about—about Mother and Father. Would you drive me home?’ She added tonelessly: ‘They’ve been killed.’
His voice came over the wire very clearly. ‘I say, I am sorry—how simply frightful! Of course you must go home straight away. The thing is I simply can’t get away…’ and when she interrupted with: ‘But you’re free today,’ he went on: ‘Yes, I know, but Sir Oswald’s asked me to lunch an
d I simply must go—it’s my whole future. I’ll come down just as soon as I can afterwards. Why don’t you go and lie down for a bit—get someone to give you a sedative. You’ll feel more able to cope and later on we can get things sorted out.’
She didn’t speak, only gave the receiver back to Dr Thackery, her face stony and whiter than ever. She said: ‘I’ll be quite all right to drive myself. Bruce can’t manage…’ She stopped and looked at him from huge dark eyes. ‘He’s having lunch with Sir Oswald,’ she told him.
Dr Thackery said nothing at all to this, only gave her the rest of the brandy to drink and picked up the phone again. When he put it down he said with calm authority: ‘Home Sister is coming here for you, you will go to your room with her and pack a bag.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll be at the front entrance in twenty minutes. I’ll drive you home.’
The brandy had made Clotilde feel peculiar, numb and still unable to think. She stared back at him and nodded obediently.
CHAPTER TWO
THINKING ABOUT it afterwards, Clotilde could remember very little of the drive to Wendens Ambo. Dr Thackery had spoken seldom and then in a calm matter-of-fact voice which had hardly penetrated her bewildered thoughts. They weren’t really thoughts, anyway, just odds and ends of ideas which came to the surface and vanished again. Once when she thought of it she said: ‘I didn’t tell Staff about Mrs Perch’s daughter…’ and he had answered at once: ‘I’ll take back any messages you want to send,’ and she had thought: Anyone else would have told me not to worry—like Home Sister, who had helped her pack her case and given her tea to drink and told her over and over again not to worry.
Rosie met them at the door, her nice elderly face puffed with weeping. She gave Clotilde a worried look and then glanced at the doctor.
‘Rosie— I may call you that?—would you make a pot of tea? Then we’ll sit down and talk, shall we?’ And when she nodded, thankful to have someone to tell her what to do, and opened the sitting room door, he took Clotilde’s elbow and ushered her into the room.
