Doctor's Assistant

by Celine Conway

  “A woman’s fingernails,” he said in clipped tones. “Whose?”

  There was a little quiver in her throat as she answered, “It was my own fault. Let’s say they were mine.”

  “Whose?” he repeated inexorably.

  “Charles, it’s over. I won’t have you enter into it now.”

  “If you won’t be frank I’ll see Ben about it in the morning.”

  A liquid brightness sprang into her eyes but she paid no attention to it. “It wouldn’t be any good, because he knows nothing whatever about it. It’s over, I tell you ... finished.”

  He took both her elbows and forcibly turned her to face him. “You’re so filled with misery because the doctor has changed his mind and discovered he can do without you, that you refuse to see the seriousness of this ... this woman-handling. I can’t guess who it was or why she did it, but it’s up to you to be honest with me.” He shook her once, and let her go. She said nothing and he took a long, savage breath. “Very well I’ll handle it in my own way.”

  “Anything you may do,” she said at last with difficulty, “can only make things worse for me. You’re leaving in a few days, but I have to stay—for a while, at least, and live among these people. It’s noble of you to want to protect me, Charles, but I shall be safer without your protection. In any case, these scratches were done in a burst of temper; now that I know what to expect I won’t rouse it again.”

  “I see.” His voice was cynical and cold as steel. He stood back, with his hands in his pockets. “I thought we were friends, but it seems we’re not. Have the milk and get into bed. With luck, you’ll dream you’re in love with Ben, and wake up to find everything solved. Good night.”

  He went out quietly, and a minute later she heard his step on the veranda. He was possibly less than a dozen yards away, yet a whole world divided them.

  CHAPTER TEN

  WHEN Laurette told her father next morning that she was without a job, he shrugged and smiled.

  “It’s Ben’s loss,” he said. “When we get back to the bungalow you’ll have plenty to do. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Aren’t you surprised?”

  “My dear, a soldier is never surprised, nor does he often ask questions. I’m glad you’re going to be free. The writer chap, Markham, has promised to lend me his portable typewriter for a week or so, and you can get down to preparing that masterpiece of mine for the publisher. We’ve given so much time to Charles during the last month that I daresay you’ve forgotten your father’s, a creative artist!”

  Laurette suspected he was bolstering her courage. She doubted whether Markham yet knew he had promised to lend his machine, but her father, in his determination that she should be as happy as he could make her, would see that the typewriter was there for her diversion.

  They were on the veranda after breakfast. Sun scorched down on the cannas and hibiscus, but the view was hazed by a mist which had risen from the sea. Not that one could ever see, far beyond the garden from the Kelsey veranda. There were too many gums, now fuzzed all over with vermilion, too many palms and other sub-tropical trees.

  Mr. Kelsey had gone down to a meeting of the town council, and Charles had not yet returned from his ride. The house was quiet, except for the intermittent humming of a servant who, judging by the rhythms he used, was doing a slack bit of polishing.

  John Delaney began to read the two-days-old newspaper which had arrived in the railway bus from Umtopo, and Laurette went indoors to find a novel. Mr. Kelsey’s reading matter appeared to have been gathered during the early part of the century, but a few provocative titles, no doubt added by Charles, stood at the end of the top shelf. Laurette took down a book in an enigmatic dust-cover, read a few pages and carried it outside.

  In the porch she stopped precipitately, for Ben was with her father; he had pulled round a chair and was leaning forward in a professional manner. She hesitated, part of her shrinking from facing him while the rest of her mind was curious as to how he would greet her. She wondered what Alix had said to him, and whether he was secretly relieved that his cousin had taken action. But Ben was not a coward; he was capable of complete candor with Laurette.

  Standing there and looking along the veranda at his back, she recalled his matter-of-fact statement that he loved her, and his assertion not so long ago that he needed her assistance. Ben was not the vehement type but on both occasions she had believed him. Possibly the facts had been true when he uttered them.

  The coming of Alix Brooke had altered him. She remembered his saying, “You and Alix wouldn’t mix”, and now the phrase had a peculiar significance. Alex had been his first love. One would not have said she was a suitable wife for Ben, but love seemed to choose its victims wildly, without regard for differences ill temperament and personality.

  Laurette had no time to draw conclusions from these reflections. Her father saw her and beckoned.

  “Ben says it won’t be long now,” he exclaimed genially, indicating the stiff leg. “It’ll be like receiving my release from the service all over again.”

  Ben was on his feet, carefully keeping his glance above Laurette’s head. “It’s not my day to call, but I thought I’d look in on my way to the mission.”

  The Captain stared up at his pale, set face. “You mustn’t mind about Laurette, Ben. We understand. She’ll be happy enough back in the bungalow—we go on Sunday, you know. And don’t forget to come in for tea sometimes.”

  “I won’t.” But there was no warmth in the monosyllables. “About the leg—I’ll be along one morning next week. I must be off now.”

  His good-bye nod included them both, and he dropped down the steps and walked round the drive as though he were in a tremendous hurry. Laurette heard the car start up, and her eyes followed its progress along the road, though it was hidden by trees. There came a space between a giant magnolia and a humpy frangipani, and for a second or two she saw the car clearly, with Ben at the wheel, and the dark wavy head of his cousin beyond.

  So Alix, who had contempt for Port Quentin and Ben’s native patients, had persuaded him to take her to the mission. She had also managed to convey to him a satisfactory explanation of the sudden cessation of Laurette’s duties. Ben’s acceptance of it without question was incomprehensible, unless pride had prompted him; pride and a few telling utterances from Alix.

  The estrangement from Ben was not immediately important to Laurette. The rest of that week passed too quickly for her to be conscious of anything save that the hours were narrowing till Charles’ departure, and that the barrier which had sprung between them the night she had dined at Ben’s showed no signs of crumbling.

  Apart from his morning ride, Charles spent much of his time in the house, packing his things and writing letters. When he did relax in the lounge his expression was preoccupied, as if already he was in Mohpeng, sorting over the difficulties which had accumulated during his six months’ leave. Laurette got the impression of a calm and shrewd brain rewakening to embrace the multiple problems in the Mohpeng district, of Port Quentin and the Kelsey residence falling behind him like a pleasant interlude as his mind travelled north. She felt bleak, but resigned.

  On Friday afternoon she became too restless to remain in the garden with her father. The steamer had put in during the morning, and no doubt Port Quentin’s single store had new supplies to offer. She had to give a big order for delivery to the bungalow.

  The store assistant, like most Indians, was exceptionally polite and obliging. He was also quick at figures, so that within ten minutes Laurette was out again in the hot sun, and wondering what to do with the rest of the afternoon. She walked down to the beach, which at this hour was practically deserted. But one small figure sat on a rock, dangling a thin shapeless leg into a pool. She crossed the sea-washed sand to speak to him.

  “Hallo, Klas.”

  “Hullaw,” he answered, in his clear Pondo voice, and he grinned because it was one of the words Laurette had taught him.

  “You go home s
oon?” she asked.

  This took Klas some minutes to elucidate but at length he nodded cheerfully. “Leg one time sick,” he said, “but Klas walk good.”

  “Do you? Show me.”

  With amazing agility he leapt from the rock, but as he limped around her in a circle, Laurette could see that there was no improvement in the muscles. Klas’ faith in his recovery was superb.

  He was an intelligent boy. Many times, while massaging him and exchanging an English word for a Bantu one, Laurette had wished his parents would allow him to attend the mission school. Even if he remained permanently disabled there were many things a bright boy could enjoy, and Klas was the sort of youngster who would have learned swiftly and eventually have benefited his own people. But African parents have no time for crippled offspring. “Clearly,” they said, “he has had contact with dark spirits, and we, his parents, are made to suffer for it.” A child born only slightly deformed was killed and buried at once, and babies who were not discovered to be blind or dumb until they were a year or two old were deliberately lost in the bush. These were age-old customs and nearly impossible to eradicate among tribal natives.

  Klas had survived because until the age of three his physique had been perfect. No one quite knew how those vital tendons had been severed, but his father averred that a chance-flung knife by an evil one had caused the damage. No cure had been sought, of course; Klas was ten and reconciled to his handicap when Ben found him.

  The boy stood in front of Laurette, his large eager eyes inviting her praise of his effort.

  “Very good,” she said. “Will the doctor take you back to your father’s kraal?”

  After a further pause while he sorted this out, Klas gave his vigorous nod. His reply was a voluble mixture of Bantu and newly-acquired pidgin. “I go to my father’s kraal,” he said in effect, “to wish them all good-bye. The white missus will pay them money so that they will let the doctor take me to the hospital in Umtopo.”

  It was Laurette who now hesitated while the gist of this was absorbed. She sank down upon the rock and looked at him, and her instant reaction was one of gladness that Klas was to have his chance, after all. Miracles of orthopaedic surgery were performed nowadays, and in the hospital Klas would have the companionship of other children in similar plight. He would be given picture books and educational toys, and later he would join the classes in the grounds. Ben would be happy about it.

  It was not until she had expressed her pleasure, patted the woolly head and strolled back towards the dunes that Laurette received the full impact of what had really taken place. “The white missus” must be Alix. Alix Brooke had learned of Ben’s wishes for Klas and hastened to fulfil them, by paying off the boy’s parents. Well, her money could not be put to a finer use, even if the gesture did savor of a mild form of corruption. Fortunately, Ben was incorruptible. Not for a moment would Laurette believe that he would abandon Port Quentin and become a heart specialist. Some time, she thought soberly, there would come a bitter tug-of-war between Ben and his cousin.

  She arrived back at the house as tea was being served in the lounge, but though the tray had been prepared for four, only her father sat near it.

  “They’ll be in presently,” he said. “Charles has had a wire. He’s leaving almost at once and driving through the night.”

  Laurette’s knees were suddenly weak. It was here; the dreaded moment had rushed forward from tomorrow morning and, in spite of her brave resolutions, it found her trembling and unprepared. She would have given anything for ten minutes alone in her room, but her father was expecting to be served with tea, and already she could hear the advancing voices of Charles and his uncle.

  The two came into the room and, as usual, Charles stood near the table, ready to hand the cups when she had filled them. Through a blur she saw he was wearing a grey suit, and what she took in of his smile seemed to her to be pleased and indolent.

  For a long moment she hated him, hated his self-sufficiency, his recognition of his own power, and that capacity of his for remaining aloof while endearing himself to others. Her hand shook and tea spilled over.

  ‘Tut, tut,” said Charles. “You’ve walked too far in the hot sun. Let me do it.”

  She yielded her place to him and sat in a nearby chair. His coolness turned her hate into a cold anger. Charles had no real feelings. Places and things touched him more deeply than people did; the feel of a deck beneath his feet, the African coastline sliding by. Even the village of the ‘Tumbling Waters”...

  Laurette had to take her cup and help herself to sugar. She forced herself to look up into sea-green eyes and murmur conversationally, “So you’re departing for your fastness today instead of tomorrow?”

  “I had a telegram asking me to pick up a friend at Maseru. We’ll be in Mohpeng tomorrow evening.”

  “And we shan’t see him again for four or five months,” put in Mr. Kelsey testily.

  “Captain Delaney is coming up to see me. You might travel with him,” suggested Charles.

  “I’m too old for whole days of car-riding, and I dislike Mohpeng.” In a disgruntled manner Mr. Kelsey bit at a piece of cake. “I just become accustomed to having you here when you fly off again. If you were married, Charles, I’d make you leave your wife behind as a hostage.”

  Charles laughed. “When I do acquire a wife,” he said, “I’ll remind you of that.”

  The old man leant forward, his jaw ludicrously fallen. “Are you implying that there’s a possibility of your marrying?”

  “My dear Uncle Gilbert,” said Charles as he selected a nutty biscuit from the dish, “I’m by no means a hermit, therefore my chances of taking a wife are no fewer than the next chap’s.”

  “But you’ve always spoken as if you couldn’t be bothered with women.”

  Charles’ grin, as he lay back and crossed his long legs, moved over Laurette before it rested on his uncle. “I bothered with your little mouse, didn’t I? If you were younger you’d discover that there’s nothing in the least mousy about her. In fact, she has the temperament of a colt—stubborn and somewhat incalculable.”

  “If Laurette had been five years older,” Mr. Kelsey shot back at him, “you’d have engaged all the nurses in Umtopo to look after John, rather than have her in the house, after his accident.”

  “Let’s say if she’d been ten years older,” amended Charles, unperturbed. “A woman doesn’t really become dangerous till she’s nearing thirty. Are we boring you, Laurette?”

  “I’m never bored when I’m learning about life from those who know it all.”

  “You see?” Charles said to his uncle. “No mouse would give an answer like that. The child in our midst is her father’s daughter.”

  “I suspect,” remarked John Delaney comfortably, “that you’re teasing Laurette as a sort of blind, to divert your uncle from putting more awkward questions about marriage.”

  “You may be right,” Charles told him. “It’s a subject I sidestep whenever possible. It has too many complications.”

  Watching him, Laurette felt her bruised heart sinking lower and lower. He was happy to be going, uncaring what anyone said because soon he would be speeding through the hills, away from them. He was going to the life which satisfied him, to dwell among people who wanted nothing better than the rugged mountains of Basutoland and the job they had to do. Why, at this, last minute, did he have to look so heart-wrenchingly handsome, so arrogant, yet so dear?

  She turned her head to stare through the open french door. The rectangle framed part of the veranda, a column of brick-red bougainvilia, a silky palm and a drift of white cloud across the sapphire sky. She thought of the sea as she had seen it that afternoon, undulating and crested in the distance but unhurried as it washed in to fill the hollows in the sands about the rocks.

  The men’s voices sounded far off, till Charles spoke her name. “Laurette, will you do me a favor? I haven’t worn this suit for some time, and I find one of the jacket buttons is loose.”

&
nbsp; She jumped up, perhaps too readily. He had never before requested the smallest intimate task of her; the wife of one of the houseboys did the mending at the Kelsey residence.

  “I’ll get a needle and grey cotton,” she said.

  She went to her room, paused there, because he had followed her. Then she took her work-box from a shelf in the wardrobe and hunted through it with unsteady hands for her requirements. Charles leaned against the corner of the wardrobe, apparently interested in her movements. When finally she turned to him with the threaded needle, he straightened and indicated the button.

  “I wouldn’t call that one very loose,” she observed.

  “You can put a few stitches through it. Shall I take off the jacket?”

  “No, I’ll manage.”

  At the first stitch she pricked her finger and the swift, electric pain pulled her up sharp, so that she was able to go on methodically pushing in the needle and drawing it out on the other side.

  Charles said quietly, “I meant to have a little talk with you this evening, but I’m afraid it’s impossible now. I haven’t forgiven you for treating me as a stranger the other night, but I daresay that when we’re apart it will lose significance. You’re still unhappy over the break with Ben, aren’t you?”

  It wouldn’t hurt to let him think that was all that troubled her. “We were the best of friends and I’d have gladly helped him voluntarily till I fixed up elsewhere.”

  “Ben wouldn’t have it, I suppose. He’s wiser than I thought. You’ll live it down, little one.” He watched her fasten off the thread before adding, “Get in touch with me if you’re ever in a jam.”

  “Why should I?” She was methodically replacing the needle in its case. “I have my father.”

  “In affairs of the heart a father isn’t always the best counsellor.”

  “I shouldn’t think you’d be a very sympathetic one, either.”