Nurse in the Sun

by Claire Rayner

  For years afterwards, whenever she remembered that evening there was a special dreamlike quality about it for Isabel. The narrow winding little streets, the wide plazas, the trees and the crowds and the pavement cafés and the kiosks selling extraordinary foods and the shops and the boulevards - all drifting past the high jingling carriage and between the horse’s ears jogging away far in front while Biff talked amusingly and she laughed, and drank it all in in its exciting strangeness.

  And the Pueblo Espagnol, through which they strolled in the twilight, with its shuttered buildings and silent courtyards and galleried houses; it was as though they had stepped back centuries in time, and were moving about in the Spain of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, where only windmills could make trouble for anyone, and the world was a quieter, yet more exciting romantic place.

  The Flamenco cellar strengthened the feeling she had of remoteness, of not being really herself, for it was coolly whitewashed and black-beamed, looking for all the world as though it had been there for ever, and always would be.

  They drank sangria, a concoction of lemonade and red wine and brandy that made her feel very gay indeed, and made the pinchitos a rabes they ate - pieces of seasoned meat cooked on skewers thrust into the vast open fire that burned in the far corner - taste incredibly exciting.

  And then the dancing and the singing - she sat enchanted. The singing with its curious wailing lilt, the plink of the guitar in rhythm with the hand clapping that somehow she couldn’t quite keep time with, though she tried; and above all the great stamping, clicking, whirling, dipping excitement of the dance as the girls in their black stockinged red frilled splendour moved round the tight trousered boys with their backs arched into agonizingly lovely curves, and always their faces so serious, so intent, so haughtily uncaring of the audience, for the dance was all that mattered, the dance for its own sake.

  When they went back to the hotel, again riding in the high-jingling carriage, it was well after one o’clock, but she was not in the least tired. She sat there beside Biff in a dreamy contentment, staring out across the Bay at the lights of distant hotels, and the repeated gleam of the far lighthouse pulsing its warning and didn’t care about anything at all. Not about the supercilious Señor Garcia, or the loathsome Vanda Connaught or - and experimentally she tried the thought, rolling it round her mind as she had rolled the sangria on her palate - or Jason Chandos.

  But she shouldn’t have tried that thought, for it burst the bubble of pleasure in which she had been so blissfully enclosed all night. It would all have been more than twice, more than four times as wonderful and exciting if only Jason had been with her instead of nice, friendly but oh-so-very-much-not-Jason Biff -

  She turned her head to look at him as the carriage drew up outside the Hotel Cadiz, and he was smiling at her in the dim light, his wide smile that was so very friendly and comforting, and without stopping to think, she leaned forwards and very lightly kissed his cheek.

  “Nice Biff. Nice, kind Biff. I have had a wonderful evening - so wonderful. Thank you. And goodnight -”

  And before he could move she had slipped down from the high seat and run into the hotel, leaving him sitting happily grinning into the darkness.

  7

  The hotel foyer was still busy with people, and she could see Jaime Mendoza at the desk, talking busily to a group of very American looking guests, and she was grateful for that; there was still some magic in the evening, still a lingering sense of enchantment that she didn’t want to spoil and being talked to by Jaime Mendoza would certainly do that. But as she moved towards the lift the Americans went away from the desk, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Jaime spot her, and make a move towards her. And almost without thinking she pretended she hadn’t seen him and veered away towards the staircase.

  She ran down rather than up, somehow not feeling at all ready for sleep, late though it was. She would go down to the swimming pool level, and sit out on the star dark terrace for a while, smelling the smells of mimosa and almond blossom and fruited trees and hugging her evening to herself a little longer.

  She reached the pool level and had begun to cross the wide hallway towards the double doors that led out to the terrace when she realized that the music that had been in the background ever since she had come into the hotel was here much louder, and she turned her head and looked into the long room where the bar was, the room Consuelo had shown her that afternoon. It looked very different now, and she moved towards the doorway to stand and stare with pleasure at the transformation.

  The lighting was what did it, she decided. There were lamps arranged in corners and on low tables that flanked the bar and each produced a pool of soft yellow light which gave the people round the tables a glow that was almost a halo; one blonde girl in particular caught her eye, for her hair gleamed an incredibly rich gold as the light played across it. And then she recognized her as the small Daniel-Fred’s mother, and looked around further wondering briefly if the child were here too. He wasn’t, but she stopped thinking about him when she saw who was.

  In front of the small band of musicians that was playing on the neat dais in the corner was just one dancing couple; Sebastian Garcia, moving smoothly and elegantly in time to the soft beating of the Beguine that was being played, and clinging to him, both arms about his neck and her feet dragging a little behind his precision, Vanda Connaught. She was so close to him that it was almost as though she were trying to merge her body with his, and her head was thrown up in such a way that her lips nearly met his. And he danced precisely and smoothly on, staring down at her with his face set in the same uncompromising expressionless mould that she was beginning to realize was characteristic of him.

  Watching them she tried to analyse the rush of feeling that had filled her at the sight of them. Was it revulsion at seeing a woman as drunk as Vanda Connaught so obviously was, with her not-quite-focused eyes and flushed and gleaming face? Was it seeing a middle-aged woman who should have known better behaving on a dance floor like some daft little trollop of seventeen? Or was it fear for her job, fear that this woman to whom she had been so very rude had already told Señor Garcia about it? She didn’t know what the feeling was, but it was far from pleasant, and certainly had thrust out any remnants of the peace and pleasure that had been left of her evening.

  “So Isabella, you like to watch the dancing, yes?” she turned her head, and saw Jaime Mendoza beaming happily at her.

  “I saw you come in, and I thought - ah, now I must make my effort to make you even more at home with us, and ask you to drink with me, yes? But first, we dance - better to dance than to watch, hmm? Watching is for the old and the lazy, and not for you or me -”

  And he seized her hand and pulled her into the bar and on to the dance floor almost before she realized what he was doing, and then his arms were around her and his feet moving with such energy that she had to join in if she wasn’t to be tripped up to fall flat on her face.

  She had to concentrate hard on his dancing, for it owed more to goodwill and hope than to any natural feeling for the beat of the music, and for a while she could not pay any attention to anything else. But then she became aware of being watched herself, and turned her head slightly to look over Jaime’s shoulder.

  Sebastian Garcia and Vanda Connaught had stopped dancing. She was standing clinging to his neck and staring venomously at Isabel, and even as Isabel looked at them he raised his hands to untwine her arms, and tried to move her away towards one of the tables. The music swirled louder and faster for a moment, and Jaime busily sidestepped and swooped with one carefully bent knee so that she was turned with her back to them; and then she heard it above the sound of the music, the high shrill tone she was getting to know all too well.

  “So why don’ you do something about it right now, Sebastian? Righ’ now, you hear me? I tol’ you what happened, - why don’ you do something? That lousy bitch there - it was her, don’ you understand? An’ you got to do somethin’ about it right away -”


  Jaime moved sideways again, and twirled her so that once again she was able to see them. He was standing very close to her at the edge of the floor, holding her arms just above the elbow, and his face was very white and still. His lips moved then, but he spoke so softly that Isabel couldn’t hear his voice above the beat of the music. But she saw Vanda Connaught shake her head with the exaggerated vigour of the drunk, and her yellow hair come tumbling across her face making her look more dishevelled and unattractive than ever. And for a moment, Isabel felt very sorry for the man standing there beside her, for every line of his body showed his distaste for the situation, and his shoulders were rigid with anger.

  The music stopped, and Jaime, to her intense relief, let her go and stepped back, beaming at her with every evidence of enjoyment, clearly having paid no attention at all to the little scene being played out on the edge of the dance floor.

  “So, now, we have that little drink, yes?”

  “No, Jaime - not tonight, if you’ll forgive me,” she said quickly and moved away, heading for the door. “Some other time, maybe -”

  And then it happened. The sound of Vanda Connaught’s voice rose again more shrill than ever and horribly clear in the big room now filled only with the sound of glasses tinkling and voices talking softly.

  “If you won’t do anything about it then I bloody well will - you let go of me, you hear? Tha’ lousy bitch - she ought to be -”

  Isabel felt her coming rather than saw her, and whirled, her hands outstretched, as Vanda Connaught came lurching across the floor towards her, her arms thrust out and the fingers positively clawed with rage.

  “I’ll scratch her bloody eyes out -” she was screeching, and people were standing up, and one of the men from the bandstand was rushing across the floor, and Isabel stood rigid with terror, for if there was one thing that always made her feel totally helpless it was physical violence -

  It was Sebastian Garcia who reached her first, his hand coming over her shoulder with a dart like a snake’s, and clamping down with a sharpness that made Isabel almost wince as though she’d felt it.

  He pulled the woman round to face him, and with one small but very swift movement raised his hand, and the sound as his open palm struck her cheek was very clear and crisp.

  There was a moment of horrified silence as Vanda Connaught stood and stared at him, her hand jerking clumsily towards her red patched face but not being able to make contact; and then her eyes rolled up rather horribly and she crumpled awkwardly to fall at his feet.

  Garcia nodded crisply at the band leader who hurried back to the dais, and began to play a sprightly samba, and people talking eagerly sat down again but still kept their necks craned to see what was going on, as Garcia knelt down to pick up the sprawled figure at his feet.

  “Mendoza, see to it at once that the bar serves drinks to all the guests here who have been unfortunately disturbed by this incident. My compliments, Señorita Cameron, you will be good enough to help this ill lady to her room. She is clearly in need of medical attention and after you have examined her, we will send for the doctor if you regard this as a necessary step.”

  His voice was not loud, but so clear that it could be heard everywhere in the room, even above the sound of the music, and Isabel felt the wave of relaxation that passed through the roomful of people, saw some of them look away, almost as though they were embarrassed.

  “An incredible personality this,” she thought briefly, obediently bending towards the recumbent Vanda Connaught. “To make people believe she’s ill and not just fighting drunk, simply by saying so -”

  Together they picked her up, looping an arm round each neck so that they could carry her towards the lift, and she co-operated a little, slithering her feet against the floor, and rolling her head about and mumbling a little.

  They went up in the lift in total silence, standing side by side with the weight of Vanda Connaught between them, watching the floor numbers slide by, and then, as they reached her floor, carried the woman out and into her room, accompanied by the startled chambermaid who had popped her head out of her cubicle at the end of the corridor in answer to Garcia’s peremptory “Criada! Venga pronto!”

  He helped her put the woman on her bed and then straightened his back to stand staring down at her, his face again inscrutable.

  After a moment he spoke in rapid Spanish to the chambermaid, hovering nervously at the door she had unlocked for them, and she bobbed her head and came to stand on the far side of the bed, looking expectantly at Isabel.

  “The maid will help you,” he said, looking at Isabel directly for the first time. “If when she is undressed and in bed you consider she needs further medical aid, be so good as to call the desk. They will arrange for a medico. For the rest -”

  “Look, Señor,” Isabel said awkwardly, and then bit her lip, as he stood and looked at her with his eyebrows very slightly raised. “Look, I feel a - you could say that all this -” she indicated Vanda Connaught, now snoring very unappetizingly. “I suppose it’s a bit my fault -”

  He raised his eyebrows a little farther. “You take a great deal upon yourself, Señorita Cameron! You did not, I believe, give her the brandy she has taken tonight?”

  “Well, of course, I didn’t!” she said irritably. “But damn it all - I mean - I know she told you of what happened this afternoon.”

  “As to that, tomorrow is soon enough to discuss it. That and some other matters pertaining to your work here at the Cadiz. Now, if you will forgive me, it is late, and you as well as I have work to do before we can go to bed. Buenos noches, Señorita. If you will attend at my office tomorrow at one fifteen, these other matters will be discussed.”

  And he went, closing the door firmly but quietly behind him, leaving her with the help of the chambermaid and Mrs. Connaught. And by the time they had managed to undress her, as she thrashed heavily about and muttered ferociously (and Isabel was glad the maid spoke no English, feeling that it would have complicated matters considerably had so young and clearly innocent a country girl understood the obscenities that came pouring out of Vanda Connaught’s lax mouth) and coped with her as she started to be violently and very unpleasantly sick, she was too tired to care what Garcia would have to say to her the next day.

  And once she had assured herself that Mrs. Connaught was suffering from no more than an alcoholic stupor, was in no danger of further illness, and so did not need a doctor’s care, she fell into bed feeling as desperately tired as she could ever remember being.

  And woke to a sense of foreboding. She lay there in bed for a few moments after the shrilling of the telephone bell which was her morning call had stopped, staring stupidly at the bright shape of the window behind the drawn curtains, trying to remember where she was and what she was doing there.

  And then it all came back with a rush, and she got up heavily to shower without any of the pleasure she usually took in starting the day, and to put on a crisp clean uniform. If she was going to be fired at that one fifteen interview, at least she’d go out in a blaze of glory. At which thought she grimaced at her reflection in the mirror and went down to breakfast.

  But she didn’t enjoy her ensaimadas and mermelada nearly as much as she had done the day before, clearly to Carlos’ concern, for he hovered over her worriedly, offering her more coffee, or different ensaimadas if these were not to her taste. So that she had to pull herself out of her abstraction to reassure him she was not in any way displeased with his care of her, at which he beamed his wide smile again.

  “Señorita - per favor - you tell me of the - of Ricardo? He is well this morning, si? You have discover?”

  “Ricardo?”

  “The butcher - se ha cortada en la mano - he cut his hand and you send to el hospital - you remember?”

  She smiled at that. “I’d be hardly likely to forget! No, I don’t know yet. I’ll telephone the hospital in a while, and as soon as I know I’ll tell all of you, yes? Uh - what’s his name? Apart from Ricardo, I mean?�
��

  “Calcagno, Señorita. Ricardo Calcagno. I tell Felipe that you telephone the message of his health, yes?”

  And she agreed yes, she would, and hurried away to start her morning in the clinic, first telephoning the hospital to find out about Ricardo. But after a frustrating quarter hour she gave up, for hardly anyone seemed able to understand her halting Spanish, and those that could seemed unwilling to give her any information at all. So, in desperation she called Jaime Mendoza on her office phone, and asked him to inquire for her.

  “With the greatest of pleasure, Señorita,” he said busily. “But tell me, the Señora Connaught - is she well again this morning? Last night - tsssss -” and he produced a hiss of enjoyable disapproval, so full of comment that she could almost see him standing there at the desk, shaking his head dolorously from side to side.

  “I haven’t seen her this morning. I’ve no doubt she’s a very bad headache, though if she has it’s no more than she deserves. I’ll be up to see to her as soon as I’ve my clinic ready, and I’ll report to you as soon as I have. I’ll look forward to hearing the report on Ricardo, in the meantime, please.”

  By eight fifteen the clinic was quite ready for any patients who might present themselves, and she stood at the door for a moment, looking round with a pleasure that was sharply tempered by regret. It was such a very delightful place to work, she thought mournfully. The gentle hiss of the steam as the sterilizer bubbled contentedly to itself, the gleam of early morning sunshine on perfect chrome and glass, the faint and agreeable scent of the disinfectant that had been used to swab the terrazzo floor to a shining cleanness - already she felt proprietal about it all. It would hurt a good deal to be sent away, and not only in her pride; this job had already shown it had much satisfaction to offer in a purely professional sense -