by Sheila Burns
The neighbour watched, still wiping her eyes. ‘It’s downright awful for her, if you ask me! Men ought to have babies, not women. It’s a dirty shame! I don’t believe that baby’ll ever be born.’
‘Yes, it will. It will be here soon enough. Now would you keep squeezing this rubber bulb when she loses her hold, and keep the mouthpiece over her face, and we’ll help her. Is Dr. Holding coming?’
‘We sent for him hours ago, but you know what he is. Never hurries hisself, and it’s his cricket afternoon up at the Grange.’
‘Then we’ve got to manage without him.’
Five minutes later Claire had the baby girl in her arms, a big child (too big, of course), an angry and screaming child, furious to have been brought into the world with such a rush.
‘It’s all over now, Mother,’ Claire told her patient, ‘and you’ve got the loveliest little girl.’
The chatty neighbour insisted that all along she had wanted a boy, but instinctively Claire realised that after this ordeal the patient would be thankful enough for a living child, and would not care which sort it was.
‘No more pain,’ she promised, ‘no more trouble. You lie back and rest, and be happy.’
The neighbour helped her to tidy up. She was a useful person coming and going, fetching up hot water, and she was amiably inclined, though most certainly she had no genius for nursing. They got the bed tidied, and the baby into her cot.
‘Now let her husband come up and see her,’ Claire suggested, and from the door, ‘He must be in an agony.’
The neighbour spoke in a whisper. ‘You don’t know Harry Harris! Fond of women, he is, never misses a pretty face. He didn’t want the baby, said so this morning when he found it would be born today. He don’t know what her’s been through, but I’ll get him,’ and she went downstairs.
The man came up, but without hurrying. Claire knew that the neighbour was right about him, he was a man who liked women, and for one reason only. He had been quick enough to note her own fresh beauty and comment on it.
She left the two alone to what she always felt must be the most exultant moments of an entire married life, then, when their time ran out, went back herself. Now she wanted her patient to sleep, and she turned the husband out of the room.
‘You can sleep now,’ she said, ‘I’m taking the baby downstairs with me to wash and dress her properly and before I go I’ll bring her back to you.’
‘Thank you so much, Sister.’
‘But why? This is my job. I love helping, and I love babies, too.’
The patient paused. ‘Your name? Your Christian name, Sister? I’ll want to call my baby after you.’
‘My name is Claire.’
‘What a lovely name to have! I’ll never forget the way you put that thing over my face and brought help when I’d given up all hope of it.’
‘Now don’t cry.’ Claire picked up the baby. ‘Sleep a bit, and I’ll see after the little one.’
Downstairs the neighbour had taken herself off, possibly she had children of her own to care for, but the man was there. Claire ignored him, hoping that cold indifference would put him off, and she sat down with the baby in her lap and a bowl of clean water on the chair before her.
She washed the child carefully; all the time she knew that the man was watching her, she did not have to look to see it. He had a sensuous mouth, she felt. She dressed the baby in hand-made clothes, and care had been taken with them, so plainly the girl upstairs had worked well.
‘Now look at your dad,’ she said, and called him to come to see the child. ‘She’s like you,’ she said.
There was the same thick black hair, a lot of it for one so young, and the same close mouth. They always said that when a child was so like the father, it meant that the wife had thought of no one else during her pregnancy.
‘Hers all right,’ he said, ‘and we are calling her Claire after you, Claire.’
She wished that she had not coloured. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Funny thing, I had three babes in this village afore I was wed, and they were all boys; and now I marry and can give my kid a name, and damme, it has to be a girl!’
Again Claire said nothing.
He spoke once more. ‘I’ll have a baby every year of my life if it brings a pretty nurse like you along here,’ then added, ‘I like you, Claire.’
Uncomfortably she got up.
The baby was dressed and asleep in the big warm shawl; she would stay asleep, and needed this, and Claire went out of the room carrying the baby. She felt embarrassed with the man watching her in that self-conscious way of his. But he came after her to the foot of the stairs, and she realised that he knew he was making her uncomfortable, and that he enjoyed doing it.
‘You’ll be seeing a lot of me,’ he told her.
‘Unless you become a patient of mine, I certainly shall not,’ she answered.
She went on up the stairs and left the baby with her mother, then walked out to her car. She wished that the wretched man had not made her so angry, but his approach had been entirely unexpected. She drove back to the cottage feeling worried.
Mrs. Heath had gone, and Mrs. Hopkins was now busying herself with the supper. There had been a call from London, she said, a man’s voice, and he seemed upset that she was out. A sharp feeling of exultancy came to Claire that it could have been Chris, she had not known that she wanted him so much. Maybe she had been idiotic to come here, maybe she had acted too quickly, allowing the silly moment with Lucille to turn her head for her. Mrs. Hopkins could tell her no more, only that a child was sick in the cottage round the corner, and she went round before supper. Dr. Holding was just coming out of the door.
He laughed at her. ‘A mixture of chocolate creams, ice creams and nougat bars!’ he said.
‘You did not get along to the Harris baby.’
‘Good Lord! I’d forgotten the call. One gets so slack in the country; I’ll go now.’
‘She’s as right as rain, and the baby a six-and-a-half pound girl. Don’t worry,’ and she got back into the car.
‘A good thing somebody isn’t slack!’ he said, and somehow she knew that her reproach would not make him any better when the next time came.
She got back home, and perhaps she showed that she had had something of an ordeal. ‘That man Harris worrying you?’ said Mrs. Hopkins, evidently judging by her look.
‘He did worry me a lot.’
She nodded. ‘You’re not like the last nurse, you see. You’re too pretty for the work, nurses ought to be fat and old, or thin and scruffy,’ and she smiled.
She sat down to her supper and thought about it. If the voice from London had been Chris’s, he would ring again, and she looked forward to that. Then she remembered that if he was out with Lucille he would not ring again, and no call came.
She had got to get used to district nursing. She had got to learn to look a man in the eyes and not let him annoy her. She had got to be sensible.
The first three days were more gruelling than she could have believed to be possible, even more so than when she had first arrived at St. Julian’s, a student nurse, all fubsy-fingered and very much the new girl. She had got to accept her age and looks, and just go on working as though she noticed nothing. I’ve got to do it, she told herself.
On the Saturday afternoon to her great surprise Sir Charles himself walked into the cottage. Perhaps she would have expected Chris, though he had not rung again, and that was another pain that she could not quieten; but it was crazy to have run away from a man and then be angry that he did not run after her. Sir Charles was down for the week-end, and had just been to the cottage hospital to see how Terence Anderson was getting on.
‘I really came because he asked about you,’ he said.
‘He asked about me? Surely not?’
‘He remembers more of the accident than you would think, and he said he wished you would go round and see him. He longs for visitors.’
‘I’ll go tomorrow.’
&
nbsp; ‘I should. It would help him. And how are things going on down here?’
This is the man I can consult, she thought, the one man who will understand the trouble with these villagers, and know what I ought to do; cautiously she explained. ‘It ‒ it’s rather difficult, but you did mention that the last nurse was old, a good deal older than I am, I mean, and they ‒ the village people ‒ say that I am too young. It is getting rather trying.’
After all, she had not made it very clear, and she only hoped he would understand. If anyone could, he would be the one. He had always made light of life, yet she had seen him beside the operating table, a man with quick fingers and very discerning eyes. He could work miracles; he had the quickest and the most alive brain that she knew, and surely he would grasp what had happened with the village.
After a moment he said, ‘It’s a younger world today, and the people ought to realise that district nurses are much younger than they used to be.’
‘Yes, I know, but some of the women resent it. The wives you know.’
‘So it’s the men?’
‘Yes, it’s the men ‒ and Mrs. Heath.’
He nodded. ‘But the men have to get used to you. Remember that youth has a wonderful habit of growing older.’
‘Of course.’
‘When they find it’s no use trying to get off, they’ll give it up.’
‘Yes, I suppose they will.’
‘I know that Mrs. Heath can be rather a bother. I’m a bit troubled about her. Mrs. Heath is everyone’s worry, you must recognise this and just avoid crossing swords with her if you can ‒ maybe you can’t! After all, she has the big house, she has the ’fluence, and she thinks quite a lot of herself. Have you met Vernon?’
‘No, I haven’t, not yet, but she has mentioned her son.’
‘Yes, I don’t think Vernon is the name that I should ever have chosen for a child of mine, but there you are, and I suppose it does take all sorts to make a world.’
‘Maybe I am making a fuss.’ She made an attempt to pull herself together.
He turned to her and smiled. What a dear kind face it was! she thought, and he was the most amiable and helpful person in the world, who wanted to help and who had already done so much for others. ‘You have been warned!’ he said kindly. ‘Now you must just look after things for yourself. But remember that the main thing is to stand up to Mrs. Heath, and she will never give you the chance to repeat the medicine. She stays put when spoken to. Stand up to her and don’t be too scared.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Why not come round and have a bite at our place on Sunday night?’
‘I’d love it.’
Before Sunday she had met Vernon Heath. She had been called out to a case, a boy playing in a barn had got his hand caught in some ancient chaff-cutter, and she had to go to him. The child was good about it, and already he had lost a finger; she was horrified to see that another was so much damaged that she doubted if it could be saved. His mother was hysterical; Claire did what she could, got him into the ambulance and into the care of an efficient nurse, then she returned home.
Claire had always felt that accidents to the young were particularly cruel. It was awful to be standing on the very threshold of life, and then to lose a limb. It had to be the boy’s right hand, of course, and the second finger was in a dangerous state. She felt herself curiously shattered by the thought of this.
As she turned the corner of the road to come back to her own cottage, she saw that a strange man was standing on her step.
He was tallish, but stout with it, a man who walked rather badly, for he bulged in parts, and was obviously over-fat. Possibly he liked food. As she went up her path, she smiled at him.
‘You are waiting for me? I am Sister.’
He grinned at that. ‘I couldn’t be waiting for anyone prettier,’ he admitted.
Instantly she froze, for this sort of cheap compliment had always gone badly with her. ‘I’m the Sister on the district, have you got a message for me?’
‘These flowers are from my mother.’ She had not noticed that he was carrying an exquisite posy of azaleas, the Mollis kind, with their beautiful honeysuckle scent.
She flushed with eager enthusiasm as she reached out her hand to take them.
‘Your mother must be a very nice person.’
‘Her name is Heath. I am Vernon Heath.’
So this is it! she thought as he walked into the cottage after her. Apparently he felt that she would want him. The beauty of the azaleas had for the moment disarmed her, and she took them into the kitchen and laid them in a bowl in the sink. Then she came back to him in the sitting-room. He had sat down.
‘Do please tell your mother that I am so pleased with them. I think it was very kind of you to bring them round here.’
‘Not at all! She told me how pretty you were, so I very much wanted to come.’ He sat there smirking at her while she snatched the hurried lunch Mrs. Hopkins had prepared for her. She half rebelled against Vernon, for he was a curious combination of ill-bred boy and rather cunning adult, and she did not know which was the stronger. She knew, of course, that he could not help being Mrs. Heath’s son and being spoilt into the bargain. Her trained eye noticed thyroid trouble, he needed medical attention, but possibly it would terrify his mother if she suggested that he saw Dr. Holding about it. Anyway, for the time being the advances that Vernon Heath was making, had to be stemmed.
Coldly she said, ‘I’m afraid that sort of chat does not go down very well with nurses. Anyway I am not that kind of person, I am here on a busy job, and I do my job. I have a round of visits waiting for me.’
This did not disturb Vernon Heath, for he opened a magnificent gold cigarette case and held it out to her. ‘Cigarette?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you,’ and she moved towards the door. ‘Tell your mother that I am most grateful and that I will write to her, meanwhile I must be off again.’
‘But I wanted to talk to you?’
‘Yes, but I have to go.’
‘You’re pretty severe, aren’t you? And they did tell me …’ He stopped himself quickly.
‘What did they tell you?’
He went red and stuttered for a moment, with some nervousness, he had been over-mothered from his cradle, and if so needed help rather than criticism. She steadied herself, knowing that it would never do to lose her temper. ‘I oughtn’t to tell you,’ he said.
‘All right. But remember that you are grown-up and should know how to behave. Never go by hearsay and what other people tell you. It was kind to bring me those lovely azaleas, and nice of your mother to send them.’
He giggled. ‘I picked them, Mother didn’t even know, but I had to have some excuse to come.’
‘Thank you.’ No more.
She turned then, and picked up the bag which she had come back to the house to fetch, then walked out of the place to her car. He watched, then went out to her as she got into it.
‘I’ve made a muck of this, haven’t I?’ he said. ‘The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak, and mother is bound to find out.’
‘I know,’ and she moved off. She did not know why she had become quite so angry, for Vernon Heath had had a bad upbringing; he was probably quite a nice young man at heart, but at the same time she was sick with annoyance. He had heard from the village men that she was pretty and that they had tried to flirt with her. That wretched rumour was going the rounds and she felt angry. Worse, there was nothing she could do.
She finished quickly with the two cases. The first was the old trouble known as ‘bad legs’, the other a T.B. girl who needed to go back to the sanatorium, which she detested. Sister Stevens had warned Claire of the danger of being too sympathetic, and she was feeling that now.
She was with time in hand, and because of this she went into the cottage hospital to see how the boy with the injured hand was getting on. She met an amiable nurse who told her that the second finger had had to be removed; he was not yet round from the
anaesthetic, but doing well. The nurse was friendly.
‘There’s someone else asking for you,’ she said. ‘It is the young man who was in the car accident. He has so wanted to meet you.’
‘I did not know that he was conscious.’
‘Apparently he has some faint memory of it, and he asked if ever you came in, would you pop along and see him? He is lots better now.’
She had the time. For a moment she could not be sure that this was wise, then she said, ‘All right.’ She walked along the corridor and turned into the sort of friendly little room which today is only to be found in cottage hospitals. Terence Anderson was lying on the bed, half dressed. His colour was fresh, and young, and warm, his blue eyes smiling.
‘You don’t remember me, of course?’ she said, ‘but Nurse said that you wanted to see me, so I came along. I was there when the accident happened.’
His eyes searched her face. ‘Nice of you to come. The funny thing is that I was unconscious but I do remember you! Work that out! I have the picture of your face etched quite sharply in my mind.’
‘But you never really came to.’
‘I knew you were there. Sit down and talk. You can tell me who this woman is who keeps coming to see me. She was in the car, too.’
‘It must be Mavis Hague.’
‘Do I know her? I can’t place her.’
‘She was in the car with me. Her uncle is a famous surgeon and they have a cottage in the park.’
‘You see, my memory is a bit wonky,’ but the very blue eyes laughed.
‘I know, but remember this stage will pass, and you will be right as rain again. Lie still, try not to get too agitated, for that is bad for you.’
They talked like old friends, she liked him, and knew that he liked her, and when she left she promised to return. Mavis was worrying him, it was the sort of thing that she would do, of course, and she thought of it as she drove home.
Turning the corner of the lane and into her own side drive, she saw a working man cutting a hedge. He was bare to the waist, his flesh ‒ tanned vigorously by the sun ‒ was almost copper; he saw her car and recognised her. He blew her a kiss.
This has got to stop, she told herself, and did not know what to do about it. It was a new angle on her job, something she had never thought could happen, but it was happening, and it was hideously embarrassing. It must stop, she said to herself.
