For Ever and Ever

by Mary Burchell

  “But I insist on—”

  “Mr. Stour”—the older man’s voice was quiet, almost gentle—”I am your superior officer.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Angrily, and with obvious reluctance, Kingsley Stour went out of the surgery, and for two minutes there was silence, while the Senior Surgeon sat down at the desk and began to rearrange some papers. Then, without looking up, he said.

  “There’s no need to cry about it. But you were a very silly girl ever to put yourself in that position, and you really asked for what you got.”

  “I’m n-not crying,” Leonie said, staring very hard out of the porthole and somehow controlling a desire to sob aloud.

  “Then blow your nose and stop sniffing.”

  Humbly Leonie complied with his direction, and after a moment she was able to say huskily,

  “Thank you very much for—for defending me.”

  “Well, I don’t know that it amounted to anything quite as grand as that.” Mr. Pembridge regarded her with some dry amusement. “But I certainly was not going to have him talk to you in that strain, whether you deserved it or not.”

  “Mr. Pembridge—sir—I didn’t really deserve it,” Leonie declared pleadingly.

  “No? Hadn’t you been passing yourself off as a well-endowed play-girl, instead of a nice, useful secretary?”

  “In a way—yes. But—”

  “In what sort of way?” inquired Mr. Pembridge, who had an exact mind. “Either you did so or you didn’t.”

  “It’s all rather involved,” Leonie said with a sigh.

  “I’m sure it is. That’s why I said you really asked for what you got. But I think I hear our first patient coming. Powder your nose and smile, or else they will think I’ve been bullying you.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Leonie submissively. For the extraordinary thing was that Mr. Pembridge’s brisk and astringent manner had the effect of making her feel what a nice and worthwhile person he was. And if this seems altogether illogical, it can only be said that human nature is illogical.

  They were busy that morning, and by the time the last patient had departed, Leonie felt sure that her own unimportant affairs had quite slipped from Mr. Pembridge’s mind. But, as he was leaving, he turned at the door and said,

  “If it’s going to be embarrassing or unpleasant for you to work closely with Stour in future, I’ll arrange that you take surgery with me always, and Nurse Meech can assist him.”

  “Oh, sir—” Leonie flushed at this signal mark of concern on her behalf, and was about to accept gratefully. But then it suddenly occurred to her that she had no intention of giving Kingsley Stour the satisfaction of thinking she was afraid of him. So she added hastily, “Thank you very much—but I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “As you like.” Mr. Pembridge’s tone was mortifyingly indifferent. And then he went away, leaving Leonie to wonder if she had given him the wrong impression by insisting that she was still prepared to work for Kingsley Stour.

  During the next few days life took on a curious and somewhat embarrassing quality. Inevitably she and Claire were strained in their relationship, and Leonie was glad that her professional duties cut their time together to a minimum. But, even so, as they shared the suite, they could not entirely avoid each other.

  Neither referred again to the dreadfully revealing discussion they had had about Kingsley Stour. But it was not to be supposed that it was ever far from either of their minds when they were together, and more than once Leonie thought Claire would have liked to reopen the discussion.

  But either she realized there was nothing much more to be said, or else she was afraid they might be forced to an open breach. At any rate, she kept silent on the burning topic.

  As for Kingsley Stour himself, he was very correct in his attitude towards Leonie now, and called her “Nurse” on every possible occasion. And for her part she allowed a veil to be drawn over what had happened, and made no further attempt to shame him with his own conduct.

  Leonie now felt so very much one of the nursing staff on board that it was almost a shock to her when, the day before they reached Colombo, Mr. Pembridge broached the possibility of their taking on a substitute nurse there.

  “But do you have to?” Leonie looked dismayed at the prospect. “I’d much rather go on as I am.”

  “Are you sure?” The Senior Surgeon looked at her with an uncomfortable degree of penetration. “You’ve been working hard during the hottest part of the journey, and you’re beginning to look as though you’re finding the trip rather strenuous.”

  “Oh, no, really. It’s not the heat—or the work,” Leonie assured him. “I mean—” She faltered and blushed slightly because of the implication that something made her look less than her brightest. “I’d much rather go on as a nurse. It’s so much—easier that way,” she insisted, thinking how complicated life would become if she had once more to live constantly in Claire’s company.

  “Well, you should know best.” Mr. Pembridge’s tone was unnecessarily dry. “But if you change your mind before tomorrow morning, let me know. We ought to be able to get a relief nurse, if necessary.”

  “I shan’t change my mind,” Leonie assured him with fervor, and Mr. Pembridge did not press the point.

  On Nurse Meech’s generous insistence, it had been arranged that she should stay on duty the next day, while Leonie took the opportunity to go ashore.

  “I’ve visited Colombo twice already,” she told Leonie, “and it would be too bad if you lost your one chance because you’ve been kind enough to help us out. It’s one of the loveliest of all our ports of call, and you simply have to go to the Pettah—that’s the Oriental Bazaar—and see the silks and jewels and the gold and tortoiseshell boxes and things. Maybe Mr. Pembridge will take you.”

  But Mr. Pembridge did not offer to do so—possibly remembering the rebuff on a previous occasion. Instead, Nicholas Edmonds unexpectedly offered to take her ashore, and Leonie very willingly accepted.

  “Now you spend so much time being a ministering angel, I see very little of you,” he declared. “How is life in the ship’s hospital? Very exciting or very dull?”

  “Neither, I suppose.” Leonie smiled. “I love the work, which makes it anything but dull. But fortunately we haven’t had any high spots of drama, and I don’t think one wants them in a ship’s hospital. We’re just there to keep people well and able to enjoy themselves.”

  “And for the occasional emergency.”

  “Well—yes. That, too, of course.” Suddenly she remembered Renee Armand’s visit and what she had said about her one-time husband.

  “Talking of keeping people well,” she said carelessly, “how are you yourself?”

  “I?” He shrugged. “All right, I suppose.”

  “That sounds a bit negative. Which probably means that you don’t feel too good. Why don’t you let Mr. Pembridge have a look at you? Maybe you want some further treatment,” suggested Leonie tactfully.

  “Oh, I might do something about it when I get to Melbourne.” He spoke a little impatiently. “It’s not interesting. Let’s talk of something else.”

  Leonie did not press the point, since she saw it was useless, and they talked of other things. But when they went ashore at Colombo, he was so interesting and lively and made such an amusing and informative companion that he looked infinitely better than she had seen him look at any other time during the voyage.

  “Mr. Pembridge was right,” she thought. “More than any medical treatment he needs a purpose in life and the feeling that someone cares what happens to him. I wish one could say something more to Renee Armand—”

  But Leonie’s experience of taking a hand in other people’s lives had not proved a very happy one. And she decided at that moment that, much though she liked Nicholas Edmonds, he and his Renee must settle things for themselves.

  He proved an admirable guide through the Pettah— that entrancing example of an Eastern Bazaar, where veiled women and turbaned
men people a scene which seems to come straight out of the Arabian Nights.

  Dark-skinned races from every corner of the Orient mingle here, in their brilliant, varied native costumes. And Leonie hardly knew which to look at most the picturesque people themselves, or the exquisite merchandise they offered.

  Gorgeous silks, of a coloring and texture she had ever seen before, drew exclamations of delight from her. And Nicholas Edmonds paused, smiling indulgently, for as long as she wanted to examine the jewellery and the wonderful metal-work.

  “It’s the loveliest place yet,” she declared.

  “Because you’re on holiday after hard work,” he replied teasingly.

  “Perhaps that has something to do with it, Leonie conceded with a smile. “It could hardly be further removed from hospital routine. And I can’t tell you how glad I am to have this interlude. It was very kind of you to bring me.”

  “My dear child, it was very generous of you to give me your charming company when I suppose you could have gone with either of your good-looking surgeons,” replied her companion amusedly.

  “No-o, I couldn’t. Neither of them asked me,” Leonie explained with candor. “And with one of them—it wouldn’t have been any good if he had.”

  “Poor Pembridge still in your bad books?” Nicholas Edmonds looked amused again.

  “Mr. Pembridge! Oh, no. I didn’t mean him.” She looked naively surprised.

  “No?—Oh, excuse me. I don’t seem to have kept up with the rapid march of events.” Her companion laughed outright then, and Leonie laughed, too—but doubtfully, as though she were slightly taken aback herself to find how rapidly situations changed.

  He took her to lunch at one of the big hotels on the sea-front, and here she ate curry such as she had never tasted before, and sampled the little “sugar bananas” of the district and the succulent paw-paw.

  After that there was just time to take a rickshaw ride, to see a little of the beautiful wooded and flower-jewelled country around Colombo, before they had to return to the ship.

  Back on board they found letters from England, and Leonie eagerly devoured the budget of home news, which consisted of reports from her mother and sister of experiences that were very minor compared to her own. But they took on a special charm and significance because they were happening at home, and for an odd moment or two Leonie felt overwhelmingly homesick.

  In addition to her family letters, there was one from Mr. Collier telling her that Sir James was now making a good recovery, and that Leonie’s accounts of the voyage—and his daughter’s enjoyment—gave him much pleasure and satisfaction.

  Remembering the expurgated account she had had to give of almost everything that had happened, Leonie felt guiltily glad Sir James could not know how ruthlessly the news was censored. But the reference to him made her decide that she must make a genuine attempt to get nearer to Claire again.

  “After all, his sole reason for sending me was that I could be a companion to her,” thought Leonie remorsefully. “If we hardly ever see each other, and rather embarrassedly avoid each other, I can’t be much help or comfort to her.”

  She was too busy that evening to do anything much about it, as Nurse Meech was now taking a turn off duty. But she determined she would make an attempt on the morrow.

  During the next day, Claire proved extraordinarily elusive, and although it was not late when Leonie came back to their suite at night, Claire’s door was already closed and there was no sign of a light and no sound from her.

  So anxious was Leonie for a talk by now that she nearly knocked on the door. But nothing useful has ever been said to or by someone roused unwillingly from sleep. And so, reflecting on this, she went unwilling to her own bed.

  Like most nurses, Leonie could sleep easily and almost at will, and in spite of her disturbed feeling about Claire, she did not lie long awake.

  How long she had slept she could not have said, when suddenly she was roused by soft, urgent tappings on her door, and a voice saying in frightened tones, “Leonie! Leonie!”

  “Come in! What is it?” And suddenly and instinctively alarmed, she leapt out of bed and ran to the door without even waiting for a dressing-gown.

  As she did so the door opened to disclose Claire, drooping against the side of the door-frame, her hair disordered, and her face a queer putty color.

  “Oh Leonie”—she gasped—”I feel so ill. It’s that pain again—but much worse—I think I’m going to die.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Oh, no, darling, you’re not! People don’t die of even a bad pain.” Immediately Leonie was the calm, competent, infinitely comforting nurse, and Claire her patient. Personal embarrassment between them no longer existed.

  “Come, let me help you back to bed”—Leonie’s arm was round the other girl, strong and reassuring—”and I’ll get Mr. Pembridge to come and see you.”

  “Oh, yes—please do.” Neither of them suggested Kingsley Stour for the emergency. “I wanted to tell you about this pain before, Leonie. But somehow—”

  “I know, darling.” Remorse smote Leonie, even though the estrangement between them was certainly not all of her making. “It hasn’t been easy to talk together in the last few days, has it? But we’ll change all that now.”

  As she talked, she had helped Claire back across the sitting-room into her own cabin, and now she put her into bed. She was oddly cold, in spite of the warmth of the night, and Leonie wrapped a travelling rug round her.

  “I won’t be a moment. I’ll get the stewardess to stay with you while—”

  “Don’t leave me!” Claire interrupted sharply.

  “Very well.” Leonie yielded immediately. “I’ll get the stewardess to fetch Mr. Pembridge.” And she rang the bell with some urgency.

  Fortunately the stewardess came at once, and a hasty explanation from Leonie and one glance at Claire sent her hurriedly in search of the Senior Surgeon. Meanwhile, Leonie threw on a wrap and thrust her feet into slippers, and then returned to sit by Claire and give her what comfort she could.

  “What do you think it is, Leonie?” Claire looked at her with big, frightened eyes.

  “I don’t know, my dear, and it’s always silly to make guesses,” Leonie said, taking her cold hand and chafing it gently. “But Mr. Pembridge will know. He was just about the cleverest man at diagnosis when I was with him at St. Catherine’s.”

  “It couldn’t be appendicitis, could it?—because that’s always a pain in the side, isn’t it?” Claire pressed her anxiously.

  “Not necessarily,” Leonie felt bound to tell her. “But when Mr. Pembridge comes—”

  And then Mr. Pembridge came, bringing with him the most extraordinary sense of reassurance and calm, and as Leonie yielded her place by the bed to him, she remembered how he used to bring even into the operating theatre a feeling of confident optimism which infected both nurses and patient.

  He was not very long examining Claire and asking her a few unhurried questions.

  “Why didn’t you tell Leonie about this earlier?” he asked once, making Leonie feel much more a friend than a nurse by this use of her name.

  “I—didn’t want to talk about it. I just hoped it would go off,” Claire said a little evasively.

  “It’s not the kind of pain that goes off.” The Senior Surgeon smiled at her. “Pity you didn’t mention it before, my dear. We’d have had you tucked up in hospital in Colombo by now, minus your appendix and feeling fine.”

  “You mean—it is appendicitis?”

  “Afraid so. As it is, you’re going to be able to boast to your friends for years that you were operated on at sea.”

  “You’re going to—operate on me?” Claire’s eyes opened wide again.

  “Right away,” Mr. Pembridge said, as though he took out appendices at the rate of four an hour before breakfast. “It’s quite a simple operation, you know. Leonie will tell you that. She’s seen enough of them.”

  “But—couldn’t we wait until we get to Fremant
le or—or somewhere?”

  “It isn’t a case where I’d want to wait,” Mr. Pembridge said, though without drama. “By the time we get to Fremantle you’ll be sitting up and enjoying your convalescence.”

  “Mr. Pembridge, are you quite sure it would be wrong to wait?”

  “Quite sure,” said Mr. Pembridge. “We’ll get you down to the hospital now. Leonie and Nurse Meech will get you ready. Stour will give you the anaesthetic, and you can leave the rest to me.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say,” stammered Claire. “It’s all so sudden. There’s no time to think—”

  “That’s the way to have an operation,” Mr. Pembridge told her with a smile. “No one wants to think over an operation beforehand. Much better to think of it in retrospect. Try not to be frightened”—he ruffled her fair hair as though she were a child—”your friends will look after you, remember.”

  Then he turned to Leonie and said,

  “I’ll send the orderlies to fetch her. Get ready, will you?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  Leonie came with him into the sitting-room of the suite, even though it meant leaving Claire alone for a moment.

  “Is it so urgent?” she asked softly. “Oughtn’t we to cable for her father’s consent or something?”

  “There isn’t time.” Mr. Pembridge was not smiling nor specially reassuring any more. In fact, he looked bleak. “There’s a strong probability of perforation in a few hours if I don’t operate tonight. One lesson on the danger of delay in a case like this is enough.”