Ship's Surgeon

by Celine Conway

  But who else would offer money for “co-operation”? What sort of co-operation were they after? It must have some connection with Kristin. Unless ... unless Pat were in the hopeless condition of having lost her sense of humour. This could be round two of a hoax. Others might have received such letters and compared them while she, set a little apart from the rest of the passengers, knew nothing about them. She would have to ask someone ; she might even sound out Avis Markman right away.

  Shakily, she pushed the envelope into the pocket of her sun-dress, found her notebook and went to the bureau. Miss Markman was in Number Seventy-three, port corridor. Pat knocked on the door and was admitted.

  Avis, wearing a few square inches of magenta nylon, was tying a handkerchief round her hair before taking a rest. As usual, her face was opalescent, her lips an unnatural pink, but she smiled a shy welcome, and hastened to move the drawing board and easel which occupied all the space between the bed and the wardrobe.

  “I’ve been trying out an idea or two, and getting nowhere. It’s awfully difficult to concentrate on anything here. Don’t you find that?”

  “Not so much as you would; I have to keep my mind on the job I was engaged for.” Pat looked politely at the drawing which had been set back against the wall. “An evening dress? It has pretty lines.”

  “Do you think so? I’m glad. I had a horrible experience just before I sailed—twelve ideas commissioned and not one of them accepted. It was a frightening send-off and I almost lost my nerve.”

  “We all have bad breaks. Dr. Norton asked me to make some tests on your legs. Mind if I do it now?”

  “I wish you would.” The girl extended a shapely left leg, gave a troubled frown. “It didn’t seem too bad in England, though I did have therapy. The orthopaedic man said it’s caused by posture, because I stand at an easel to do most of my work. It’s the muscle at the back here, from just above the knee to halfway up the thigh.’

  “Is it painful to the touch?”

  “Bill found the spot, and it hurt a lot when he pressed. Apart from that it’s a painful ache.”

  “I’ll try a few movements. Will you lean forward on the edge of the bed?”

  Pat made some notes, half listened to the rather colourless voice of the fair girl. No, it wasn’t colourless so much as deliberate; she’d probably attended a charm school, or modelled herself on some famous woman designer. The arty look of the ashen hair, the hesitancy in her manner, the large topaz eyes and thick lashes, all made her very feminine and desirable. She’d told Bill she had done a year’s nursing; it was easy to see why she had felt one year was enough. Avis Markman hadn’t the makings of a nurse or a career woman; she was a man’s woman, all through.

  As Pat ran her fingers in a gentle massaging motion over the offending leg muscles, she said conversationally, “You’ve been watching some of the deck sports, haven’t you? Is there a programme of events?”

  “I don’t know. I do watch, but I’m not sporty.”

  “Isn’t there some sort of joke on about anonymous letters?”

  “There could be, though I haven’t heard about it. Bill says I must rest my leg, so I’m missing things. Still, I’m enjoying the trip, aren’t you?”

  Pat nodded. “Did you walk far this morning?”

  “I couldn’t—that’s why Bill suggested physiotherapy. We had drinks with some friends of his who are stationed at Gibraltar. I felt a bit of a drag, but he said it didn’t matter. He was wonderful to me. Did you know that he’ll have a free month before going to his plantation post?”

  “Yes, he did mention it.”

  “I was thrilled to hear it. We’ll be in Sydney together! Ouch! You found the spot, too.”

  Pat withdrew her hand quickly. It was the first time in her life that she had deliberately hurt a patient. She felt sick of both Avis and herself, particularly herself.

  “I expect Dr. Norton will order diathermy followed by light massage,” she said. “Curing a muscle lesion is a long job and between treatments you’ll have to rest the leg in a position which causes no pain whatsoever. That’s important, because pain means strain just where it shouldn’t be. I’d lie down till it’s time to dress for dinner, if I were you.”

  “For an hour, anyway. Thanks, Miss Fenley. “

  Pat picked up a pencil from the floor and dropped it into the slot on the easel. On the wooden bar, beside the slot, stood a little ape in soapstone, or some similar substance. Almost, Pat touched it.

  “Bill bought me that,” said Avis in a warm, satisfied tone. “I said I must buy a memento at every port and he presented me with a Barbary ape in miniature. You know, I believe I’m in love with Bill Norton.”

  Pat said evenly, “So long as you don’t forget that he’s no believer in marriage.”

  “Fudge. When a doctor’s emotions are roused he has to believe in marriage; he can’t play around like other men. And Bill’s getting a little stirred up, believe me.” She laughed softly. “I’d love to give up my career and settle a long way from England. Well, there’s still a month or two!”

  Pat got herself out of the cabin, but somehow she couldn’t face closing herself up within her own. She went to one of the desks in the music lounge, wrote a brief report on the ship’s writing paper and handed it to a steward for the doctor. Then she walked along the upper deck to the screened-off children’s playground, and for a while she talked with the Scottish nurse and watched the youngsters on the chute and swings. But every so often her fingers sought the crackling white envelope in her pocket, and at last she was driven to the main deck, where tournament tennis was in progress. She was welcomed by Frank Thornton and Van Pickard, and as she sat there between them, watching a swift game between two male opponents, she wondered whether to confide in Van. He was very polite and attentive, and though he sometimes behaved in a blasé manner his actions were those of an ordinary good sort. He wasn’t particularly shrewd, but he was a man who would do all he could to help her.

  But somehow she couldn’t get round to it, and when the game ended she left the men and returned to the bureau. Officially, the bureau was closed, but the clerk was willing to have a word with Miss Fenley. He looked at the envelope she pushed under the grille and shook his head.

  “Don’t know the writing at all, Miss Fenley. I’ve got the papers of all the passengers right here in the safe, but I’m positive none of them has that kind of writing. It’s very distinctive; I wouldn’t forget it.”

  As if it hardly mattered she withdrew the envelope and said, “It’s probably a joke. Don’t worry.”

  “Was the letter unpleasant in any way?”

  “The envelope was ... empty.”

  The clerk laughed. “Then it was certainly a joke. Someone high-spirited who found Gib unexciting. But you might let us know if you get another. The Skipper would climb the wall if he heard of a passenger receiving anonymous letters.”

  Pat didn’t destroy the second envelope; she slipped it into a pocket of her cosmetic case. And she didn’t leave a slip of paper bearing the word ‘yes’ on the dressing table, though she felt hollow inside when she went to dinner without having obeyed that command. In the corridor she hesitated. Should she ask the steward to watch her cabin? Or enquire, carelessly, whether he left his master-key in a place where it could be taken by someone else? She didn’t meet the steward and was rather glad. The whole business made her flesh crawl, and was better forgotten.

  She was off food that night. She saw that the doctor had an American couple at his table, that Kristin was wearing a peculiarly lovely sea-green dress and that Vernon Corey looked as huge and well turned out as ever. Pat did without coffee, strolled on to the deck and felt the new Mediterranean warmth in the atmosphere. There was a thin curve of moon, brand-new and lemon-silver, and there seemed to be a scent of lemons, too.

  Pat felt a physical ache near her heart, a tired rawness in her throat. If only Alan were here, with his teasing and banter, his total inability to be serious about anything except
his work. At one time she had wondered if his lightheartedness were a fault in him; not now, though. Alan would soon put the cryptic anonymous messages where they belonged.

  She went below at about ten-thirty, found herself looking about her apprehensively, for a sign of some other presence. But gradually her nerves settled and she got into pyjamas. She lay on her blanket and tried to read, heard the clatter of stilt heels, the baritone speech of men as the filmgoers went to bed. Then it was quiet, till a summons came; a summons she had expected the first nights at sea but gradually forgotten to expect. A hurried thumping at her door, the thick urgent tones of Mrs. Lai.

  “You are there, Miss Fenley? Please come to Deva ... quick! You hear? Please come!”

  Pat flung on a wrap and was still knotting the girdle as she sped along the corridor at Mrs. Lai’s side. “What happened?” she demanded.

  The panting woman flapped her white sari. “She slept early. I too slept. Then there is this noise in my ears, a wailing, and I wake to find Deva sitting on the floor and weeping. You tell me I must never lift her alone, so I leave her there and come.”

  Pat tore up the staircase to A Deck, sprinted along to the stateroom. Deva sat near the wall with her head back and tears streaming soundlessly down her cheeks. Pulses hammering, Pat got down beside her and slipped a hand over her heart. She turned to the older woman.

  “Find the steward and go on to the hospital and get the night nurse to call the doctor. You can’t get him on this phone at night. Hurry, Mrs. Lai!”

  The woman was light on her feet but not nearly quick enough for Pat. With a wet face towel, Pat bathed Deva’s forehead with a stroking motion, murmuring soothing words as she did so. The girl’s face was grey, her eyes huge and lustrous, and as she swallowed her throat moved, painfully.

  “Deva darling ... you’re all right. There’s no need for tears. You can see that now, can’t you? We’re all here on the ship ... you and Lallie and me ... you’re going home to see your family. There’s nothing to cry for, lovey...”

  Bill strode in, knelt beside them. “Well, well,” he said quietly, and Pat felt a huge wave of thankfulness for his detachment and calm, the bulwark of his knowledge and strength.

  Bill did not ask questions. He used a stethoscope and a thermometer, passed his fingers almost absently over the smooth forehead and hair, and smiled. “Stay where you are for a bit,” he said casually. “I won’t be a second.”

  Without haste, when he returned, he gave Deva an injection. Pat had slipped a cushion behind the small head and shoulders, and now the Sinhalese girl sat there gazing at them a little blankly. The tears were finished, but her eyelids were swollen and her mouth quivered slightly.

  In polite, formal tones she said, “I apologize for bringing you from your bed, Doctor ... and you, Pattie. It was a bad dream. First my father told me to take care, and then there came a shadow that frightened me.”

  Mrs. Lai, wringing her hands in the background, whimpered softly, “She is ill again. All those months...”

  “Shut up,” said Bill, without emphasis. “Deva’s all right. In a few minutes, when she’s sleepy, we’ll put her to bed. Get it ready.”

  Pat was unbearably tensed. Like Mrs. Lai, she was stabbed by terrifying thoughts. So much had been done for Deva, the touch-and-go operation, the battle with complications, the slow, tricky process of physiotherapy ... and it couldn’t be all for nothing! Yet such things did happen. But not in this case ... please, not in this case! Her parents were waiting eagerly for their only daughter; their riches meant nothing if they could not accomplish this healing of their little flower. Her father had written that ... little flower.

  “Stop shaking,” said Bill under his breath. “She’s still here, isn’t she?”

  Pat bit on to the inside of her lip. “Can’t we move her now?”

  “In a minute. Tell that fool of a woman to get back into her own bed. She won’t have to watch the child—she’s practically out.”

  Deva’s almond-shaped eyes were half closed, her lips were slack. Bill touched her fingers and got no response. He lifted her carefully, laid her on the bed and pulled sheet and blanket over her. Automatically, Pat tidied the bed. As she straightened she felt her head spinning, and she must have swayed, for Bill caught at her arm and steadied her.

  “We’ll leave one small light. You stay in bed, Mrs. Lai; Deva won’t waken for at least eight hours.”

  He pushed Pat in front of him out of the stateroom, and closed the door. He told the night steward he wasn’t likely to be needed, and then, taking a firm grip on Pat’s elbow, he waved towards the end of the short wide corridor.

  “I’m only a few doors away. You’d better come in and have a tonic.”

  “I ... I think I’ll be all right, but I would like to know what you think of Deva.”

  He opened a door, and even in her distress she was mildly surprised. It was a male bedsitter of fair proportions and a red and black colour scheme. Immediately visible were two armchairs in wine-red, a black fitted carpet and a cocktail cabinet with bookshelves below it. Behind the open door stood the bed from which Bill had been roused. The book-tray above it was loaded with heavy tomes, and another lay open on the pillow; almost unconsciously she saw that it was a medical book with illustrations; tropical medicine, probably.

  He was pouring whisky into two small glasses, filling up with cold water. “Here,” he said, placing a glass in her hand. “Sit down and drink it. You look like a hospital case yourself.”

  “It was the shock,” she said weakly, and sank into the chair.

  “And anxiety, I suppose. You know more about the working of her mind than I do. What do you think caused the nightmare?”

  “It’s beyond me. How much harm has been done?”

  “Not much, but we’ll know for sure in the morning. Drink that whisky.”

  She did manage almost half of it, in a couple of swallows. After grimacing, she looked up at him. “I’d rather know the truth about Deva’s condition. Don’t spare me.”

  He grinned faintly. “I won’t spare you, Patsy; I’m not the type. Jumping out of bed without help was a darned good test that I wouldn’t have dared to prescribe. Yet in a way I believe it paid off. Physically, she stood up to it.” He emptied his own glass and set it down. “Tell me, has she ever had dreams before?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’ve sometimes thought she had a sort of extra-sensory perception.”

  “And you a dealer in the human body,” he scoffed. “The girl has a restless brain and not enough to think about. Look at the way she keeps harping on my taking a wife ... preferably you.”

  Pat bent her head and looked woodenly at the hem of his navy robe and the cream silk pyjamas below it. “Besides Mrs. Lai and the steward, you and I are the only people she sees. After the way you spoke to her about it, she’s not likely to mention it again.” She pushed a hand over tousled hair. “Is there any way to make her forget the nightmare?”

  “Heavy sleep will help, and I’ll give her a sedative for a few nights. Do you always fret about your patients’ setbacks?”

  “A little, but Deva is special. She’s gone through so much, and her people love her so much, and want her back. Sometimes I feel frighteningly responsible for her.”

  “That’s wrong,” he said, frowning. “You’re responsible only for the treatment. Mrs. Lai is her servant and companion, I’m temporarily her doctor, and you’re the technician. She’s carefully watched and looked after, and that’s all you need worry about. You understand?”

  “I’ll try to look at it that way.” She reached to put down her glass. “I can’t finish the whisky, I’m afraid. Do you mind?”

  “No. You’re not used to it, so too much of it might over-stimulate you—and that wouldn’t do, would it?” He sounded good-humouredly sarcastic, but Pat didn’t look at him to compare his expression with his tones. She got to her feet. “I do feel better now. Thanks for the medicine.”

  “In the glass, or otherwise?
”

  “Both. You have a detergent action, Doctor, and it’s bracing.”

  “I don’t care for being labelled like something in a tin.” He looked at her more closely. “You’ve a slight bump just above your right eye. How come?”

  She touched it. “I must have touched it as I ran from my cabin. It’s nothing.”

  But Bill, the doctor, already had an ice-cold swab of cotton wool between his fingers. He dabbed and she shivered. He was very close, very male, and all at once she wanted nothing except to lean forward and let him take her weight. He wouldn’t have to hold her, or say a thing; only stand there like the big dependable man he was and let her rest against him for a while.

  What idiocy. How he’d laugh if he knew her thoughts! She looked up quickly with a bright new smile which froze as she met his glance. He did know her thoughts and he wasn’t amused. There were small angry flames in the steel-blue eyes, menace in the way he smiled. His hand moved over her slim shoulder, cupped itself about one side of her neck, quite tightly.

  “Emotional research?” he said with glacial calm. “Not at this hour or in this place, if you don’t mind. You’d better get back to your cabin.”

  She took a long quivering breath. “You can be pretty nasty, can’t you?” she said thinly. “For a moment I thought you were human, and I felt in need of comfort—nothing else.”

  His hand dropped. “You’d better have a pill,” he said, and found one for her. “Take it now.” He opened his cabin door, saw that the night steward was within call and beckoned him. “Miss Fenley was upset over that little business with Miss Wadia, but she’s recovered now. Take her to her cabin, will you?”

  All very circumspect, thought Pat wearily, as she made to leave the cabin. And then, without volition, she looked at the wall above the bedhead, the wall which had been hidden by the door when she came in. A photograph was fixed there, the head and shoulders of a laughing young woman with a provocative wilful mouth and bubbly, light-coloured hair. And across the corner was written, in a firm challenging hand, “Ever yours, darling. Bonnie.” Pat looked away quickly, was aware that Bill had seen her summing-up of the photograph. And suddenly she felt too bitter and let down to care what he thought. Head high, a smile back on her lips, she walked past him.