by Betty Neels
‘Start away, Clotilde. And don’t bother to get things in order, just get it off your chest.’
She took him at his word. It all came tumbling out, a muddle of words, half finished sentences, long pauses while she held back tears. ‘So you see,’ she finished, ‘it’s all the most frightful mess and I don’t know what to do.’
And when she paused; ‘You’ve talked to Johnson—but only yesterday, is that right? Why didn’t you tell him when Mr Trent first told you?’
She hadn’t meant to tell him that, but there was no point in holding back anything now. ‘He had to go back to St Alma’s, and—and then he was too busy to phone and he couldn’t come down…’
‘I see. Did you discuss your future at all while I was in France? You saw him frequently, I gather?’ His voice was very bland as he asked the question.
‘Well, no, he wasn’t able to come and see me—not until the afternoon you and Mr Trent came back.’
Dr Thackery’s heavy lids lowered themselves over his eyes. Ah—it had crossed my mind, and I must admit I found it curious that you hadn’t replied to my messages after I returned. You see, I thought he was seeing you each day.’
‘I’m sure he would have done, only he really couldn’t get away.’ Clotilde made the excuse eagerly. ‘I’m not blaming him, really I’m not, but he’s very disappointed and that makes it…’ she paused. ‘It’s a bit ghastly coming on top of everything else.’
The doctor examined his fingernails. ‘I agree with you. May I ask what sum was involved?’ She told him and he nodded. ‘A considerable amount. All the same, there are alternatives, you know. He is a young man and good at his work; he is tolerably well paid; there’s no reason why he shouldn’t stay on in his present job and marry you. Other men have done just that. Ambition is a fine thing, but sometimes we aim too high and lose our happiness.’
‘But he wouldn’t be happy. Don’t you see? His whole aim is to become a consultant surgeon as quickly as possible.’
‘That’s still possible—not quite as quickly as he would like, perhaps, but after ten years or so, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t apply for a consultant’s post and get it.’
‘He wants a private practice…’
‘Very nice as a sideline, but not essential. What would you like me to do? Talk to him? No, perhaps not, he doesn’t like me overmuch. Talk to Sir Oswald?’ He smiled a little. ‘I don’t think that would help very much; even a junior partnership would cost a lot of money.’
The waiter came back and he ordered more drinks even though Clotilde shook her head. ‘I’m prescribing it,’ he told her. ‘And now we’re going to talk about something else. You say the house is to be sold. What about the furniture?’
‘I suppose I can keep that, only what would I do with it? I could give some to Rosie, if her niece will have her to live with her…’
‘We must find somewhere close by—it would be cruel to uproot her after all these years—perhaps a cottage on a neighbouring estate where she could work for her rent? And that would be somewhere for you to go too. Would she be able to look after Tinker?’
‘Well, I should think so. She might be glad to have his company and she’d have time to take him out.’ She gave him a relieved smile. ‘Why is it that you make everything seem so simple?’
‘Because I’m not personally involved.’ Just for a moment she thought he had sounded bitter, then she dismissed the idea as silly.
‘What shall I do?’ she asked him, and saw him smile a little, but not at her, she thought, at some hidden idea of his own.
‘About Rosie, leave that for the time being—her future depends very much upon yours, doesn’t it? Have a talk with Johnson. I would have thought that once he’s got over his initial disappointment he’ll want to make life as easy for you as possible, and the best way to do that is to marry you as soon as it can be arranged, you might even go on working until you can find somewhere to live. Furnishing would be no problem, and once you were married you could put your heads together and see what can be done about Rosie and Tinker.’
She nodded slowly. ‘You’ve been so very kind and understanding, and I’ll take your advice. It’s funny, we’ve worked together for several years now, and until last week I never really knew you as a person. I liked you, I always have—we get on well together, don’t we—on the ward, I mean? I thought that was because we’d never got to know each other, I mean if you aren’t personally involved with someone you’re not likely to like or dislike them are you? Oh, dear, I’ve put that very badly!’
He was laughing at her. ‘All the same, I get the gist of your argument. I gather we’re friends.’
‘Oh, yes—away from the ward, of course. I wish Mother and Father could have known you.’
He said very deliberately: ‘Yes, tell me about them, Clotilde.’
And she did, astonished to find that she could at last talk about them with pleasure—sadness too, of course, but she hadn’t realised until then how much she had wanted to. She felt the tension going out of her as he led her on to speak of her home and her childhood. When the waiter came to tell them their table was ready, she said rather shyly: ‘I feel so much better, just talking about them, you know. I hope it hasn’t bored you.’
‘No, you had a happy childhood, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, very. A pity one had to grow up.’
‘That has its compensations.’ He smiled at her across the table. ‘You’ll enjoy giving your own children a happy childhood.’
The sherry had loosened her tongue, and now the claret they were drinking with their steak left it quite unbridled. ‘Bruce doesn’t think we should have children until he’s established.’
‘How old are you, Clotilde?’ Dr Thackery asked.
‘Twenty-five—well, to be quite truthful, I’m almost twenty-six.’ She flushed a little under his thoughtful stare. ‘Yes, I know, I’m getting on, aren’t I?’
‘No age—but Johnson may take ten years or more to get to where he wants to go.’
‘And then it may be too late?’ She sighed. ‘I like children.’
‘Ah, well,’ he sounded cheerfully matter-of-fact, ‘I expect you’ll be able to make him change his mind.’
He began to talk about other things. They had their pudding and were drinking their coffee when he said: ‘I shall be away for a week. Jeff will take over.’
Clotilde looked up at him with something like dismay. ‘Oh—you won’t be here…’
He said in his calm way: ‘No, I shall be in Holland. My mother is a Dutchwoman and my grandparents are still living there. She married young, as did my mother. My father is a good deal older than she is.’
Three years, thought Clotilde, we’ve known each other, seen each other regularly, and this is the first time he’s even given me a hint of his private life. She asked casually, hoping she didn’t sound eager: ‘Have you brothers and sisters?’
‘Two of each, all younger than I,’ and as she opened her mouth to speak and then shut it quickly: ‘And I’m thirty-five. My name is James. I think it’s about time you stopped calling me Dr Thackery, It makes me feel old.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘And no, I’m not married. I’ve not had the time.’ He paused. ‘That’s not quite true, if I’d found the right girl I’d have found the time to marry her at the first opportunity, but I…’ He paused and Clotilde finished for him.
‘Never found the girl. But you will, I’m sure. Do you go to Holland often?’
‘Oh yes, several times a year. My younger sister is married to a Dutchman and I’ve a number of friends there.’
He went on to talk about Holland, and their conversation stayed impersonal for the rest of the evening. Only as she was saying goodnight at the hospital entrance and she had thanked him did she wish him a pleasant holiday.
He thanked her gravely. ‘And I hope to hear that the banns are being read when I return,’ he told her as he turned away.
It was ridiculous to miss him—after all, he didn’t live in the hos
pital; he was there most days, but even if she had wanted to, there would have been no chance of talking to him. She saw him frequently enough, of course, in the ward twice a week, if there was an emergency and he had been called in; standing in some corridor talking to one or other of his colleagues. That was what she missed, she assured herself—his vast, reassuring form looming in the distance, or glimpsed going up or down a staircase. It was like losing a bit of familiar background.
She didn’t see Bruce all the next day. It was after lunch, on her way back to the ward on the day following, that she bumped into him, going the other way. She stopped and smiled widely. ‘Bruce—how nice! Have you been very busy? No one seemed to know where you were yesterday.’
He looked vaguely ill at ease, although he had taken her hand in his. He didn’t answer her question but said with comforting eagerness: ‘Are you off this evening? We’ll go round to the local and have a drink.’ He kissed her swiftly on her cheek and let go of her hand. ‘I must fly. Make it eight o’clock.’
Clotilde went through her afternoon’s work happily after that. Everything was going to be all right; there had been no hint of ill humour, no reproaches. Dr Thackery— James, she corrected herself, had been right; Bruce must have had second thoughts now that he had got over his disappointment.
It was busy on the ward. Sally had days off and there was a new student nurse to coax along, and over and above that, Dr Evans spent some time on the ward, getting in the way, demanding this and that, wanting to examine a patient just as teas were being served. Clotilde treated her with professional politeness, disliking her air of contempt towards both nurses and patients. She was a good doctor, she conceded, but her bedside manner was non-existent, and she put the nurses’ backs up the moment she came on to the ward. She went, at last, and Clotilde settled down to write the outline report so that the part-time staff nurse who would be relieving her presently could fill in later. She was a nice girl, married and with two small children who were looked after by her husband while she was at the hospital. ‘Not an ideal arrangement,’ she had confided to Clotilde, ‘but we do need the money, and Ned’s a darling—never grumbles and is so patient.’
She came punctually, took the report, listened to what Clotilde had to say about the ill patients and then said quietly: ‘I’m so sorry Sister—about your parents. It was a terrible thing. You must be so thankful you’ve got Mr Johnson. I expect you’ll be getting married as soon as you can get things fixed up.’
Clotilde was at the door, ready to go. ‘Yes—we’re going out this evening to talk about it. He’s been too busy to have time off…’
Her companion swept the look of surprise off her face before Clotilde noticed it. She had met one of the theatre staff nurses on the way to the ward, and that young lady had told her that Mr Johnson had had the whole of the previous day off and that morning as well. ‘And very cock o’ hoop he was when he came back,’ she commented. ‘Put us on the spot, too, with only our Freddy to operate.’
Freddy was a good natured, slow-moving young man, much liked by the nursing staff and tolerated in a friendly fashion by the other men. He cheerfully stood in for anyone wanting time off, never looked at the clock and performed operations with tremendous care and at a snail’s pace. The two girls had speculated as to where Mr Johnson had been before parting. Somewhere Sister Collins didn’t know anything about; making arrangements for their wedding perhaps, to take her by surprise. Watching Clotilde walking across the landing to the stairs, she did hope so.
The few hours Clotilde spent with Bruce were unmarred by any arguments—indeed, he avoided telling her anything about their future so assiduously that in the end she asked: ‘Oughtn’t we to make some plans, Bruce? I know it’s early days yet, but perhaps if we explored a few possibilities…?’
He had flung an arm around her shoulders. ‘Now just you leave everything to me, darling, you’ve had enough to worry you lately. Just relax and let things slide for a little while.’
She looked at him eagerly. ‘Have you decided something? I know you can’t have a practice, but you’ve got a good job at St Alma’s and Sir Oswald thinks highly of you—he might be able to get you an even better post.’
Bruce laughed softly. ‘Don’t ask so many questions. Haven’t I just said leave everything to me? When are you going to Wendens Ambo again?’
‘I’ve got days off on Friday and Saturday. Could you come too?’
She didn’t notice his hesitation. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Don’t count on it, but I daresay I could manage something.’
Everything was all right again, she thought, getting ready for bed. Perhaps Bruce had his plans made and wanted to surprise her with them. She went to bed almost happy and slept better than she had done for some time.
She didn’t see Bruce until Thursday evening, when he came along to the ward where she was writing the report. ‘Up to my eyes,’ he told her, ‘but I’ll drive you down tomorrow directly after breakfast.’
She beamed at him. ‘Oh, good. Will you stay?’
‘Can’t say for certain until the morning, but I’ll fetch you on Saturday evening—we might have a meal out.’ He dropped a kiss on her cheek. ‘Must fly. See you—usual place.’
Clotilde finished the report and stood for a moment before going into the ward for her goodnight round. Life was bearable again, only just, but at least she could think of her parents without bursting into tears, and look to the future. Grief was something you have to learn to live with, but the rest of life should go on normally. She closed the report book and went into the ward.
Bruce was already in his car when she got to the staff parking space the next morning. She got in, put her overnight bag on the back seat and turned to smile at him. ‘A beastly day,’ she said cheerfully, and indeed it was pouring with rain and chilly with it, ‘but we can sit by the fire.’
He was already driving out of the forecourt. ‘Sorry, darling, I’ll have to come straight back—there’s a perf for noon and Freddy isn’t too keen on doing it. Everyone else is tied up—outpatients—so I said I’d help out.’
Her face fell, but only for a moment. ‘Oh well, it can’t be helped. Will you come down this evening?’
‘I’ll try—if not, tomorrow.’
‘Well, at least we’ve got an hour or two now.’ Clotilde settled back in her seat. ‘Bruce, your appointment’s up in a couple of week’s time, isn’t it? I forgot—there’s been so much… Is Sir Oswald going to—offer you another year?’
He didn’t answer her directly. ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’
‘Yes, but that’s all very well. You must have time to look around for another appointment.’
He said shortly: ‘Don’t fuss, darling,’ so that she fell silent. Perhaps she was fussing, she thought worriedly, but it was their future, something to be decided together and with care. Presently he did say: ‘Sorry if I snapped; I’ve been busy—this drive is a godsend—just to get away.’
She cheered up at once. ‘Poor you, I’m sorry. Let me know when you can get some days off and I’ll fix mine to fit in—you can just sit around and do nothing. Rosie will love to have someone to cook for.’
‘Sounds heavenly. A pity I can’t stay for lunch.’
‘Rosie will have coffee ready and she’s sure to have made a cake.’
Rosie and Tinker gave them an enthusiastic welcome. The niece had gone to Saffron Walden to shop and spend the night with friends. ‘She’s a good girl,’ said Rosie. ‘It’d be lonely like on my own. We get on fine together.’
They had their coffee and cake round the sittingroom fire, and Bruce didn’t linger. Clotilde went with him to the car and stuck her head through the window for a final kiss. ‘I shall miss you,’ she told him, ‘but tomorrow’s not far off.’
He didn’t answer and she stood back, a little chilled because he seemed so absentminded.
‘What’s he worried about?’ demanded Rosie when she went back indoors.
Clotilde didn’t pretend n
ot to understand her. ‘Well, now that the practice has fallen through, we’ve got to make other plans,’ she told her old friend.
‘That shouldn’tbe too difficult. Get married, that’s what.’
‘Yes—well, I suppose we shall.’ Clotilde didn’t know she sounded hesitant and was surprised to hear Rosie snort.
‘A nice quiet little wedding here,’ went on Rosie, ‘with all your friends round you. Don’t you go to a nasty old register office, your ma and pa wouldn’t have liked it.’
Clotilde managed a smile. ‘Of course not, Rosie. I’d like it to be here, just as they’d hoped.’
‘Well now,’ said Rosie briskly, and sniffed. ‘I’m going to get lunch, and there’s Tinker just asking for a good long walk.’
It was after lunch the next day when Bruce telephoned to say that he wouldn’t be able to drive her back.
‘But my car’s at St Alma’s,’ protested Clotilde. ‘I’ll have to come by train.’
‘I know— I’m so sorry, darling, but there’s nothing I can do about it. You can get the village taxi to take you to the station, can’t you? What time will you be back? I’ll try and be around.’
‘I’ll catch the eight-fifteen; that makes it a bit late, but we could pop out for a drink if you like.’
‘Fine, darling,’ he sounded so pleased that she smiled at the phone. ‘I’ll give you a ring at the home.’
It was disappointing, but she was learning to be philosophical about it. She took Tinker for a walk, had tea with Rosie and her niece who had just returned and phoned for a taxi.
