by Betty Neels
Clotilde and Jo exchanged speaking looks. It was, to say the least of it, unusual for Dr Thackery to lose his calm, and so often Staff Nurse Dawes had got away with it; lisping prettily for help, fluttering her eyelashes while she wriggled out of some tricky job.
‘I’ll see that she does,’ said Jo, and winked at Clotilde.
James hadn’t taken his eyes off his patient. ‘Just keep her out of my way,’ he begged.
It was well after midnight when he said: ‘Let’s have the oxygen flow down and see how she is. If all’s well, we’ll get her over to Intensive Care. Please warn Night Sister, will you?’
It was an hour later before Clotilde crawled into bed. Mrs Jeeves safely bedded down in the Intensive Care unit. She had drunk a cup of tea in James’s company, sitting in Jo’s office, mumbled her goodnights, only too well aware that she was tired and cold and that reaction was making her pettish. James had thanked her gravely and told her, quite unnecessarily, to go to bed.
She was her contained, serene self the next morning. She ate her breakfast, laughed and chatted with her friends and went on duty to sit patiently while Staff Nurse Dawes gave her report, interlarded with asides about the awful night it had been.
‘Well, we must expect these things to happen,’ Clotilde pointed out. ‘This is, after all, a hospital.’
‘Yeth, Sister,’ agreed her companion infuriatingly, and added: ‘Dr Thackery was quite nasty; after all, I had the ward to look after.’
‘At such times a doctor thinks only of his patient,’ observed Clotilde. ‘Are you on duty here this evening?’
‘Yeth, Sithter. Mrs Jeeves won’t be back? I’d need extra help…’
‘No, I doubt if she’ll return for a day or two.’ Clotilde nodded dismissal, and watched the girl go down the ward on her way to breakfast and bed. She should have been a model or worked in a boutique. Clotilde wondered, not for the first time, how she had ever got into the nursing profession. Probably she would like to marry a doctor… Which reminded her forcibly that that was exactly what she wanted to do herself.
She spent the next half hour with Sally, arranging the day’s work, telling her about Mrs Jeeves, listening to Sally’s mild grumbles about Staff Nurse Dawes’s ideas about leaving a tidy ward. ‘And she forgot to test the diabetics’ specimens; I’ve held back their breakfasts.’ She looked at Clotilde’s face. ‘You have had a rotten time— I’ll get you a cup of tea. There’s nothing to worry about at the moment.’
And at Clotilde’s demur: ‘That Dawes girl forgot to chart the temps.’ She put the pile in front of Clotilde. ‘If you must work, Sister, they’ll keep you busy for ten minutes or so.’
Clotilde laughed, then picked up her pen and drew the first chart towards her, and at the same time the door was pushed wide and James came in.
The unexpectedness of it sent the colour flying into her cheeks, but her voice was nice and steady. He looked tired, as well he might be, but as immaculate as always. His good morning was cheerful: ‘And I passed your staff nurse on her way to the kitchen. She’s bringing me a cup too, I hope you don’t mind?’
Clotilde pushed the charts aside. ‘Of course not. Do you want anything to eat?’ And when he shook his head: ‘How’s Mrs Jeeves?’
‘Holding her own. Gave us a nasty turn, didn’t it? What a good thing it was that you’d decided to stay on duty—that pretty blue-eyed charmer wasn’t much good, was she?’
‘Well, I daresay she hadn’t seen a pulmonary embolism before—they’re a bit scarey.’
Sally came in with the tea and he got up from the corner of the desk and took the cups from her with a smile. ‘Happy to be back at work?’ he asked.
Clotilde took a sip of tea. She said with false heartiness: ‘Oh, yes—there are some interesting patients on the ward…’ She stopped before she said anything even more inane.
‘No plans yet?’ he asked. He picked up the off duty book and began to look through it.
‘No—at least, not—not quite decided. I thought I’d get Christmas over first.’
‘Very wise. When are you going home again?’
She had written up off duty for next week; he couldn’t have seen it. She said lightly: ‘I don’t know. Rosie’s very well, I phoned her.’
He got up from the desk, towering over her. ‘I’m glad to hear that. Thanks for the tea.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve a date with Mary in five minutes, I’ll be off.’ At the door he looked back at her. ‘Thanks for last night— Mrs Jeeves could have died so easily.’
Of one thing Clotilde was certain, she wasn’t going to be able to stand seeing him much more; these casual friendly meetings were playing havoc with her feelings. She glanced out of the window, down below to the inner yard of the hospital, and there he was, walking across it with Mary Evans beside him. They could be going to see a patient, of course, but they went in the Surgical Wing door. She turned her back on them and buried her pretty nose in the charts.
She didn’t see him for two days, and when he did come, it was for his round, hedged about by the group of people who always accompanied him. Clotilde led him from bed to bed, made concise reports about their occupants, made a careful note of his instructions, entertained him and his companions to coffee and at last saw them off the ward. She was surprised at herself, behaving just as she always did when all she really wanted to do was to throw herself into his arms. A good thing that she had days off and would be driving herself home that evening.
There was an icy rain falling as she left the hospital later. The dark afternoon had lapsed earlier than usual into a dark evening and the journey home would be a dreary one, but it was grand to be away from London, even for such a short time; she would spend her two days doing nothing much. Walking Tinker, choosing furniture, and making final plans for Christmas—the last not as difficult as it might sound, for she had spent several Christmases on Women’s Medical and knew the routine by heart. Besides, while she did it she would be sitting cosily by the fire writing her neat lists.
Rosie was waiting for her with a hot supper and a warm welcome. Clotilde flung her outdoor things down in the hall, while Tinker almost knocked her off her feet with delight, then she sat down at the kitchen table. It was lovely to talk to Rosie; a far happier Rosie, she noted with relief, now that her future was safe. She had finished her soup and begun to eat the omelette before Rosie asked: ‘What’s the matter, Miss Tilly? I know you’ve had a good time seeing your friend in Holland, but things aren’t right, are they?’
Clotilde looked down at her plate. ‘Perhaps not quite, Rosie, but they’ll work out. They always do. We’ve been busy and I expect I’m tired. I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow I’ll go round picking out the bits and pieces I want to keep…’
‘Yes, love, but where will you put them? Are you going to find somewhere to live away from that hospital? Perhaps whoever is coming here will let you store them—you know there’s the attic and that big bedroom at the back that’s never used.’
‘He might want to use it,’ observed Clotilde reasonably. ‘Besides, he might not like me turning up after he’s settled in and wanting to move my things out. I think I’d better get them stored— I’m not even sure what I want yet.’ She poured tea for both of them. ‘Enough to furnish a bedsitter, I suppose.’
She spilt the tea when Rosie asked suddenly: ‘Do you see that nice Dr Thackery very often? Such a dear kind man, and his family sound nice too.’
‘I see him when he does the ward round. He’s—he’s getting married soon, his sister told me. I have an awful feeling it’s to his house doctor—a Welsh girl who has been angling for him for weeks. None of us like her, which is horrid of us, I suppose…’ She launched into a light hearted description of Mary Evans to make Rosie laugh, and presently they cleared away their supper and went to bed. Clotilde lay awake for a long while, wondering what James was doing. Entertaining Mary to dinner in his charming house, no doubt, perhaps deciding on the date of the wedding.
The rain had ceased by the time she got up the next morning. She took Tinker for a run and then came back into the house, to go through it room by room trying to decide what she needed. Of course, it would be sensible to select useful furniture; small stuff that would fit into a flat or bedsitter. She had no idea if she would ever have either; she found it impossible to envisage anything but a vague, misty future in which a job and a home of her own seemed hopelessly remote. So she went back and started all over again, standing in the middle of the drawing-room, eyeing chairs and tables and sofas with a calculating eye. She had her back to the door when Rosie threw it open and called her name.
‘If it’s coffee,’ she said without turning round, ‘I’ll come now. Rosie, do you suppose the owner would mind if I took Mother’s work table?’
It was James who answered her. She spun round to see him standing in the doorway. He said placidly: ‘Well, I don’t imagine he’d have much use for it, do you?’
Clotilde let out a held breath. Her heart was thundering away so loudly that she was sure that he must hear it. She said in a wooden voice heavy with false calm: ‘Good morning—how—unexpected! Will you have some coffee?’
‘I’d love some.’ He gave her a lazy smile. ‘Have you finished your selection or are you just beginning?’
‘Just beginning—it’s difficult to decide. How—why are you here?’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘Oh, dear, you’re looking awfully stern! Shall I go away again?’ He contrived to look ill-used and forlorn. ‘I had nothing to do and I saw that you had days off, and a run into the country seemed a very good idea.’
Clotilde glanced out of the window; it was going to rain again at any minute and the sky was a lowering hostile grey. ‘You really are absurd,’ she said, and burst out laughing.
‘That’s better. You don’t do that enough. Where’s the coffee?’ They went into the hall and he said: ‘I do hope you don’t mind, but I brought the dogs with me. I thought they might like to meet Tinker.’
They went to the front door and opened it, and there was George, his great head pressed against the window, gazing out, and peering over one shoulder, Millie. They barely stopped to be patted by Clotilde before making a beeline for Tinker, peering cautiously at them from the hall.
‘We’ll leave the door open,’ said Clotilde, ‘and they can run around and get to know each other. Did you shut the gate?’
They drank their coffee, ate most of the cake Rosie had baked ready for their tea that afternoon, then called the dogs and went, unheeding of the threatening rain, for a walk. Clotilde, bundled into an old tweed coat, its hood dragged over her hair and quite unconscious of the charming picture she made, threw sticks for the dogs, ran races with them and in between that, carried on an undemanding conversation with James. It was raining quite hard when they turned for home and she said: ‘I meant to have finished with the furniture by lunchtime— I’ve got all the lists to make for Christmas—the ward, you know, presents for the nurses and the patients, and what decorations we’re going to have, and extra food and the Boxing Day tea for the relations…’
‘The mind boggles. Do you know what you want to keep?’
‘Yes and no. You see, I ought to choose just a few sensible things so that I can furnish a bedsitter, but there are some quite useless things I’d love to have…’
When they reached the house and had taken off their wet things, James said firmly: ‘Let’s start in here. There’s half an hour before lunch, isn’t there?’
‘It’s midday dinner,’ said Clotilde. ‘Rosie’s cooking because she thinks you might be jolly hungry, and there’s some sherry left if you’d like some.’
‘Rosie is a treasure,’ observed James, ‘and so are you, Tilly. We’ll finish the sherry when we’ve inspected these rooms downstairs.’
Somehow it made it much easier to choose having James there, not that he said a great deal, only it was always to a good purpose. When they had finished and she read her list, it was to discover that she had an almost equal share of sensible basic furniture and small antique pieces all of which she prized.
‘Enough there with which to set up house,’ observed James matter-of-factly. ‘Presumably you leave it here until you know what to do with it?’
‘I don’t know— I’d better ask Mr Trent. I’d like to be gone with my bits and pieces before the new owner moves in.’
‘And when is that to be?’ James asked the question idly.
‘Well, that’s the point— I don’t know. Mr Trent’s always so vague and solicitors always take such ages, don’t they?’
‘Probably everyone’s waiting until after Christmas,’ said James comfortably.
He went back after tea, making no secret of the fact that he had a dinner date. Clotilde bade him a sedate goodbye, which was perhaps why he merely patted her on the shoulder in an avuncular fashion, remarking carelessly that they would see each other on the ward in a few days’ time.
Clotilde was heartily thankful that it was dark enough to hide her disappointment, but indoors, in the kitchen helping Rosie to wash the tea things, her tell-tale face gave her away.
‘He does come and go like,’ remarked Rosie, her shrewd eyes on Clotilde’s downcast features. ‘But there, that’s what you’d expect from a friend…just keeping an eye on you, as it were.’
‘Oh, Rosie!’ cried Clotilde, and flung down her tea cloth and flew out of the kitchen and up to her room. She cried hard for five minutes or so, then washed her face and went downstairs again.
Rosie was still in the kitchen, beating eggs for an omelette. ‘There isn’t any call to fret yourself, love,’ she said bracingly. “E wouldn’t have noticed, so cool and calmlike you always are with the doctor.’ Then she darted a sharp glance at Clotilde. “E’s a nice man, he’d be that upset…’
Clotilde flung her arms round her old friend. ‘Oh, Rosie, what a comfort you are! I’d rather die than let him find out.’
‘No, dear, there’s no call for that, love. But it might be easier if you went away for a while.’
‘Yes, I know, and I must. Directly Christmas is over I’ll give in my notice and find something miles away—somewhere where I can have a room or a flat. I could still come and see you…’
‘Of course,’ agreed Rosie stoutly. ‘I’m free to have visitors if I so wish, the new owner told Mr Trent to tell me that very particular. And later on perhaps Dr Thackery will go somewhere else to work, though if he stays at St Alma’s you’re not likely to see him even if you got a job at another London hospital.’
‘No, but I’d be hoping I would, Rosie, and that wouldn’t do.’
She went into the dining room and came back with the rest of the sherry. ‘We’ll drink to that.’ She poured two glasses and tossed her own off, then poured another. Rosie, sipping at her own drink, didn’t bat an eyelid when Clotilde poured herself a third glass. She didn’t approve of young ladies drinking more than one glass of anything, but in the case of her dear Miss Tilly, she would allow that there had to be an exception to every rule.
Clotilde walked miles the next day, until even Tinker became tired. But it helped, and by the time she was due to go back to London, she had come to terms with herself. It was going to be difficult, but somehow she would have to continue on the same friendly ground she and James had reached. She need not tell him she was leaving; sooner or later he would hear it from someone or other in the hospital, and by then she would have given in her notice and, with luck, have found herself another job. But she wouldn’t tell him where she was going. A clean break, and now was the time to make it; she had mastered her sorrow at the loss of her parents, certainly recovered from breaking off her engagement with Bruce, and she had the future in front of her and it was up to her to make something of it. A bit high-flown, she allowed, but she needed to pull her socks up.
Christmas was getting very close. Back at St Alma’s Clotilde was caught up in the annual furor of decorations, Christmas trees, presents and the problem of
dividing the off duty among her nurses, so that each had a chance of getting away from work for a short time. There was the Hospital Ball too. She had no wish to go, but she would have to put in an appearance. Last year’s dress, a gay pink affair, would never do. She browsed around the boutiques in the West End and found a pale grey silk, dusted with silvery stars; it had wide sleeves cuffed at the elbow and a high neckline. She would go for an hour, she decided, and dance with the obligatory partners she was expected to dance with, then she would slip away.
The days rushed past. Going home was out of the question, her free time was fully occupied, making decorations out of crêpe paper, inveigling the sprightliest of her patients into helping. James came on his round, a little austere, she thought, but always pleasant, although he had nothing to say to her other than topics which affected his patients. It was on the morning of the Ball, as he left the ward, flanked by Jeff Saunders and Mary Evans, that he enquired of her if she would be there.
Clotilde told him yes in a quiet voice and wished him a good morning in the same breath. His good morning was equally quiet, but glancing up into his face she had the strong impression that he was amused, although he wasn’t smiling and his eyes were half hidden by the heavy lids.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CLOTILDE HAD elected to be on duty until eight o’clock that evening so that Sally and the student nurses could go off duty at five o’clock and get themselves dolled up ready for the evening. She had help, of course, two nursing aides, both middle-aged and not as quick as she would have liked; but they were pleasant enough and knew what they had to do while she got on with the medicines and treatments and served the suppers. It was half past the hour before she went off duty, and even then she didn’t hurry, so that it was almost an hour later by the time she reached the lecture hall where the Ball was being held.
