Involuntarily she asked, “Do you know the blonde?”
“No, but she’s limping slightly, so I shall probably be making her acquaintance. Steak not so good?”
“It’s fine, but I’ve really had enough. No more wine, thanks. Will you excuse me?”
“Queasy?”
“No,” quickly. “No, it’s not that. I was going to leave you to finish your dinner in peace.”
His expression was calculating, his tone sarcastic. “You don’t threaten my peace, Miss Fenley.”
“I imagine no woman would ever do that.”
“One did—just once. I had to toss up whether to practise in Mayfair or concentrate on the pestilential jungle of West Africa. I took the wiser course, thank heaven.”
“The other might have been more personally satisfying, if less exciting.”
“I doubt it. Ever been in love, Miss Fenley?”
“Yes.”
He lifted thick brown eyebrows. “More than once?”
“No.”
“Still smarting? Or is he waiting for you?”
Pat felt too raw about many things to begin a discussion that would add Alan to her imaginings. She took a cigarette from the case he offered and lifted a smiling mask.
“When you get out to that plantation you’re going to miss probing into other people’s affairs.”
“Maybe,” he said indifferently as he stabbed his lighter into life and held it to her cigarette before fighting his own. “Let’s go and have coffee.”
“No coffee for me, thanks. I’ll go to bed early.”
“Get a coat and take a walk. Make a habit of it every night.” He went from the dining-room behind her, waved a perfunctory hand as she murmured something and left him, to descend to B Deck. Pat took his advice and slipped into her black coat. As she emerged into the half lit promenade deck she wondered why her chest felt a little tight. Was it because the man had made her recall Alan? She didn’t think so. Thinking about Alan wasn’t really painful; it only reminded her that she had to do something about the boys before ... well, before he’d propose. You couldn’t blame Alan; he had no income yet and the twins weren’t his brothers.
Pat walked quickly past the windows of the lounge, out on to the gaily illumined sun-deck, down towards amidships. A steward stepped from a companion way.
“Miss Fenley?”
“Yes.”
“A letter for you. It was left at the purser’s office by one of the passengers.”
Her name was written on a ship’s envelope in neat italicized writing—nothing like Kristin’s. She ran a thumb under the flap, slipped fingers inside the envelope and found it ... empty. How very odd. A passenger, the steward had said. She would have to ask the purser to identify whoever it was. Pat pushed the envelope into her pocket and raised her collar against the cold breeze. She stood at the rail, watching the black sea and the white angle of foam left by the speeding ship. The Channel; they were really on their way. Ceylon first, and little Deva delivered to her parents. Then Melbourne, and Uncle Dan. He wanted the boys, and Alan thought it right that Uncle Dan should have them. Thinking about it, Pat felt cold and small; twelve thousand miles between herself and the twins. If only there were someone she could consult, someone who could advise and...
The doctor came beside her. “I told you to walk,” he said tersely. “You’re too important to go down with a cold on the chest!”
“I’ve had my walk. Please leave me alone.”
Words and tone apparently shook the doctor. He took a firm hold on her chin and lifted her face, looked down at the pale oval. “Trouble?” he shot out. “I thought so. Tell me about it.”
For just a moment she was tempted. Then it came to her that Dr. Bill Norton was no more able to help her than anyone else. All she wanted was freedom from money worries, so that she could ignore Uncle Dan and keep the boys at the school where they were happy and doing well. It was no use confiding in a stranger, particularly this one, who was interested in the people he met simply because the relationship was likely to be brief.
She averted her head from his touch. “I’m just too tired for words. It’s been a long and rather gruelling day.”
Instead of his gripping her arm and marching her inside, as she had half expected, he leaned beside her on the rail, without speaking. Pat was acutely aware of him, his protective strength, his self-sufficiency, his loneness. For a pulsating minute she thought, “This man could be everything a girl might need; lover, brother, protector.” No more groping desperation...
Lord, how low she’d sunk, and all because Kristin was here on the ship, threatening her. Come to that, threats could backfire. Pat might threaten to tell the Corey man about the boys ... and get some money for them out of their mother. It was a cheering thought, and came so suddenly that she had to quell a tiny sob of relief. Tomorrow she might think of an even easier way out of the muddle.
She stole a glance at the man at her side. He was looking aft, and Pat did the same. She saw a couple standing away there in the dimness, saw them cling and kiss, endlessly. She must have been holding her breath, for she had to inhale quickly and audibly. The doctor turned his head. She saw that his mouth was cynical as he said,
“Honeymooners. They’ll probably leave us at Gib. Do you envy them?”
“It must be marvellous to feel secure with the one you love,” she said wistfully.
He sounded a little cooler as he replied, “And it’s right for you—security and being cherished. Get off to bed. I’ll send the invalid chair along straight after my first surgery in the morning. Goodnight.”
She answered him quietly and went to her cabin. Tiredly, she undressed, washed and brushed her teeth. She turned out the main light, leaving only the fluorescent bar above her bedhead, and was about to slide between the sheets when she remembered the envelope she had left in her coat pocket. She found it, and again felt for the non-existent contents. How strange her name looked in those graceful italics; no mistaking it—Miss P. Fenley. The bureau was closed tonight, but she would be able to make enquiries in the morning. Surely the clerk would remember who had handed in such a distinctive-looking envelope?
Idly, Pat looked at the thing in her hands, peered into it. Good heavens, there was some minute writing inside the front part of the envelope. She tore back the gummed flaps, spread them and read:
“If you could use a nice sum of money write ‘yes’ on a slip of paper and leave it on your dressing table when you go to breakfast tomorrow. Ask no questions of anyone and destroy this at once, or you may be sorry.”
Pat leaned on the wooden side of her bed. It was a joke, of course, one of those corny hoaxes that certain inhibited types resorted to when they felt neglected. But why pick on Pat Fenley? On the other hand, wasn’t that just what a practical joker would do—choose a girl travelling more or less alone for their first victim? Perhaps they intended to start a sort of chain reaction; if so, they’d made a mistake in selecting Pat to start it off. Jerkily, she shredded the envelope, put her hand through the open porthole and sent the little cloud scudding.
As she got into bed and pulled the blankets up to her chin, Pat began to get angry. She was on board with a job to do, and that was more than could be said of the rest of the couple of hundred first-class passengers, excepting Mrs. Lai. Kristin was an unpleasant complication, nothing more. And as for the comic who couldn’t wait to get cracking with mystery letters, he’d better stay clear of Number Thirty-two B Deck or she might be tempted to retaliate!
In the darkness she felt her flexible fingers gripping upon each other, and she thought of the doctor’s sharp blue eyes and cynical mouth, the knowledgeable smile when she showed a trace of emotion. He was kind and bantering towards his patients, she was sure of that. He had good sensitive hands, a fine brain and uncanny insight. But somewhere along the way his heart had lost all but its deliberate mechanical action. Well, that was his loss. Even taking into consideration all she had had to endure lately, Pat had no wis
h to lose her power to feel. The doctor was nonchalantly expert at his job, but in Pat’s opinion he was missing a lot. After which reflection she fell into an uneasy sleep.
CHAPTER TWO
“Gently, Deva. Just a half turn to the left .. and now come slowly round to a half turn to the right. Good. A breather and we’ll try it again.” Pat slipped a finger over the girl’s pulse. “Feel all right?”
“Wonderful, Pattie. May we do the legs again?”
“Not in this position. Another trunk turn first, then you can he back against the rest. Ready?”
Deva was a model patient, eager for therapy but not too venturesome. At the nursing home she had occupied a luxurious soundproof ward, and perhaps it was the extreme change of atmosphere which made her love every minute she spent in the cubicle, with the ship’s blue and white hospital just outside the curtain. Fortunately, although the Walhara was tossing a bit as they ploughed into the notorious Bay, Deva remained quite unconcerned. Yet even Pat was off her food.
“Right,” she said, five minutes later. “That’s enough for this morning. I’ll get you into the wheelchair and call the doctor.”
But Bill Norton must have heard her clear, smiling tones, for he yanked back the curtain and entered the cubicle.
“Hello, there,” he said in his cool fashion. “Well, how do you feel after your exercises, Deva? Sorry I couldn’t watch them—I was busy among the crew. Let’s test your pump.” He was silent while he did so. Then: “All right. Go back to your bed.”
“May I get up for lunch?”
“I guess so, but we’ll take it easy for three days.” With a negligent foot he hooked the invalid chair close to the couch, and with no trouble at all he transferred the thin, childlike figure from one to the other. “There you are. My steward will take you home.”
The dark eyes laughed up at him. “Home? Yes, bed is home, where I feel safe. How did you know that? But of course you must know much about people.” Her smile became earnest. “Is it impertinent for me to ask if you have a wife?”
“No. I don’t have a wife.”
“Yet you must have known many pretty nurses.”
Tongue in cheek, Bill answered, “Sure, but I made a getaway and the urge faded. Is that woman of yours outside?”
“Yes, Lallie is waiting. But, Doctor,” she persisted, “you are not so old. I would be most pleased if you would consider taking Pattie as your wife.”
“Would you now? All right, I’ll consider it.”
Her colour heightened, Pat gave him a swift exasperated glance. Inexplicably, his nonchalance hurt a little, and the hurt sharpened her voice slightly. “We must go now, Deva. There’s just time for you to get settled before elevenses. We shan’t need your steward, Doctor.”
“I’d forgotten you were a superwoman,” he said negligently. “Come back when you’ve settled the patient. I think she’s ready to start the vitamin diet.”
“Very well, Doctor.”
Deva was wheeled back to the stateroom, divested of the sari-silk wrap and put to bed with plenty of supporting pillows. Mrs. Lai brought a tastefully arranged tray that smelled of herb tea and sugary sweetmeats, and Pat made her way back to the surgery. The cabin was empty, but as she sat down Sister Edwards came in with a load of packets and bottles which she locked away in a cupboard.
“We’re getting busy,” she remarked. “Nurse Brodrick has to watch a baby with colic and we’ve just had a toddler with a greenstick. Five of our dozen beds are occupied and a third of the crew are down with ’flu. Not to mention a hundred or so passengers groaning in their bunks from seasickness. Did you ever think of becoming a nurse?”
Pat nodded. “I meant to—then a school friend contracted polio and I changed my mind. I’ve never been sorry.”
“I’m not surprised. You types have to slog, but you do have normal hours—not to mention kudos!” She paused. “Did Dr. Norton ask you to wait here for him?”
“He told me to come back after taking Miss Wadia to her stateroom.”
“Oh. Well, he’s attending to a patient. Miss Avis Markman—do you know her? A white-haired creature with eyes like clear barley-sugar.”
“I believe I’ve seen her.”
The plump Sister winked significantly. “She’s a wow. We had an adhesive silvery type last trip, but she’d been around. This one has everything—the hesitant tones, utter confidence in the doctor, and artistic temperament. She gave her occupation as dress-designer. I’m short on cash—like to make a bet?”
“I’m not exactly loaded myself, but what bet?”
“That the fair Avis will become an almost permanent fixture at the doctor’s table.”
“Is he ... like that?”
“With him, it’s only surface stuff, but Miss Markman has deliberately fastened on to him. She limped gracefully, but I doubt whether there’s anything wrong with that leg of hers. She says it’s a strain caused by posture when she works at her drawing board, that she’s had cortisone injections for it. I wonder!”
“You’d hardly think up a thing of that kind just to get friendly with a ship’s doctor. It’s probably true.”
Sister Edwards shrugged her thick shoulders. “You’re young and charitable. I’ve been with Dr. Norton on his previous couple of trips and each time we’ve had malingering young women cluttering the place. He’s too ugly-handsome for a ship’s surgeon!”
Pat laughed a little. “He does happen to be immune, though, and I suppose you can’t blame him for seeking a little light relief with the passengers. There won’t be any spare women on the plantation.”
The Sister flicked at her own full cheeks. “If I were ten years younger I’d send these curvy blondes packing and get busy myself. He’s all man, and no nonsense. He’d have no difficulty in making a woman forget herself and everything else ... except him. It would be a blissful amnesia!”
Wryly, Sister Edwards twisted the scarred wedding-ring on her finger, winked an eye and walked out. A second later, the inner curtain was held aside, to allow the willowy blonde Pat had seen in the dining-room last night to enter the surgery, with the doctor close behind her. Pat stood up.
“I can come back later,” she said.
“No, my patient’s leaving. Have you two met each other? Miss Fenley ... Miss Markman.”
Avis Markman inclined her head as if she were afraid the swathed floss of her hair might tumble about her ears. She was about twenty-five, had a small pale face and shiny make-up, curved baby-pink lips and heavy shadowed eyelids. The topaz eyes were startlingly limpid as they glanced over Pat’s white uniform, her bare, bronze-dark head.
“I thought you had only the two nurses and a male assistant, Doctor,” she said in soft, little-girl tones. And then, reading Pat’s profession on her shoulder, “Oh, dear. You must be very clever.”
Bill said, “We might get Miss Fenley on that biceps femoris of yours, Miss Markman. As you’re not working now I wouldn’t advise the cortisone. Just rest the leg for a few days in the position I explained to you, and then see me again. You may find the pain will let up as the climate changes.”
“You’re very kind.”
Bill opened the door. “And you’re very brave,” he murmured suavely. “Take your time.”
He closed the door quietly, came behind the desk. “Sit down again, Miss Fenley. Cigarette?”
“No, thank you.”
Something in her voice made him look at her, directly. With a half-smile he said, nodding towards the door, “Nice woman, that. Did a year at nursing, she told me, and it nearly killed her. She’s already had successful therapy for that leg muscle, so it’s quite possible we’ll be able to help her. I’d prefer to have a report from her own doctor, but failing that, we’ll work something out, if it becomes necessary.”
“I came to see you about Deva Wadia,” she reminded him.
“Don’t go acid on me because I suggested you might be able to help someone else.” He was maddeningly unruffled as he took from a drawer the letter P
at had given him yesterday. “What is Deva’s present diet?”
“Meatless—her family are almost vegetarian. As you probably know, there are several Indians on the kitchen staff and they prepare whatever Mrs. Lai orders for herself and Deva. The basis seems to be rice, brown sugar, nuts and fruits. Deva eats fish occasionally, but not eggs and cheese.”
“Sounds monotonous, and she’s naturally anaemic. I’ll give you two kinds of vitamin capsules, and in a week or so we might start injections for the anaemia. It’s about a month to Ceylon. With luck we’ll have her fit enough to walk off the ship.”
“Really? I do hope so!”
His expression was quizzical. “As keen as all that to get on to Australia? How long is it since you last saw your uncle?”
“I’ve never seen him.”
“Good lord. Did he invite you out? “
“No. He won’t even know I’m on my way till I leave Ceylon. I’ll send him a cable.” The ship took a decided tilt to port and involuntarily Pat clutched at the edge of the desk. She felt a fine sweat break out across the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones. “If you’ll give me those capsules I’ll ... go now.”
“Been dosing yourself?” he asked quickly.
“No. I’m not usually sickly, but I ... I haven’t eaten today.”
“All right, relax.” He spoke on the intercom: “Cocktail gherkins and cream crackers, pronto.”
“Why, Doctor,” said a hollow male voice in mock surprise. “You poor soul.”
Bill flipped up the key, grinning. “Their jokes are cleaner than the medical type, and hammier. Don’t look so glassy, my dear girl. We were pitching much more violently an hour ago. You feel queer because you’re empty. Ah, here we are,” as a steward entered. “Chew away on those gherkins and crackers and don’t take a sip of anything till you feel fine.” He bit on a gherkin himself. “I’ve liked these things ever since I was a kid—used to pinch them from the pantry.”
She smiled shakily. “You’re most kind.”
“The Markman girl said that, so I must be slipping. By the way,” without a change of voice, “have you heard from the heart-throb since you came aboard?”
Ship's Surgeon Page 3
