by Sheila Burns
She lay lazily in bed and thought am-I-still-as-much-in-love-with-Chris? Perhaps she guessed that she was not. In love, yes, of course, but more reasonably so, not liable to be so bitterly hurt, stung too deeply, able to see it more wisely, with the maturer judgement. There would, of course, be too many Lucilles in his life, she knew that. There are some men who have to go through affairs, for life is never full enough without them. Maybe they cannot help the flirtatiousness which is the actual undercurrent of their lives. Maybe it hurts them as much as it hurts other people, but the conclusion she had to decide was, could she live with it? Can one stay in love with a man who is liable to hurt a girl so much? Here she would have the time to think it over, and this was what she needed.
She got up and had a reasonable breakfast before she was suddenly called out to an old man who had had a stroke. This was one of the sad cases, she knew, the coming to the end of the story, something no medical person likes to see. Having a baby was always the beginning. It was the romantic story, and she loved the glowing sense of satisfaction when she received the newly-born into her arms.
But there was nothing much that she could do for this poor old man who knew nothing; for his own sake she hoped that he would not last out the day, but feared that he might, for people cling to life.
Turning to go back home she was stopped by an agitated old lady who said that her daughter was having a baby, and they had not been able to get help. She had rung Claire up again and again, and could not get her.
‘You hop into my car and show me the way,’ Claire said. ‘Don’t worry! You’ve got me now.’
The old woman was half crying, yet thankful that at last she was safe, and they travelled fast to one of those Elizabethan cottages with a tired thatch which slumped down into a wild ditch, by which it had stood for centuries. This cottage was well accustomed to birth, and to death if it came to that; through its wheezy doors and rattling windows life had come and gone, and still came and went.
The girl, who had no wedding ring, was in the last stages, and confessed that she did not know who the father was. It had happened at a party where she had been given too much wine, and was unused to it. She had come to twenty-four hours later in her digs (she was working in the city) and then had felt ill. Claire tried to comfort her.
‘You’ll have the sweetest baby,’ she promised her.
The boy came quickly into the world, he was impatient to be born. He was a handsome child, finely made, and giving a healthy shriek of dismay. Claire gathered him into her arms.
‘Here he is, and a boy!’ she said joyously.
She held him out for his mother to see his face, and the tie between mother and child was something which always brought a thrill to her. This was the greatest moment in a girl’s life, far more so than the first kiss, or her wedding morning, or even her wedding night. This was the unspeakable joy of giving a new life to the world.
‘Look, he’s a beauty!’ she said.
She finished up, and had the child washed, dressed and asleep in his cot, whilst the girl fell into an exhausted sleep and would stay that way for some time. The old woman had been delighted with the boy. Her fears, her sense of shame, and her regrets, had all gone, for a child knows the way to clutch at a heart.
Then Claire set out on the usual bronchitises, the ‘rheumatics’ and the stomach aches. A man getting over a drunken orgy, and old Mrs. Blake who always went funny in the head when the moon was a certain way. Also that everlasting biliousness which seemed to affect some of these people eternally.
When she came home to get her lunch, Vernon Heath was waiting. He was such an unattractive young man, but had none of his mother’s pretentiousness, and in some ways she was sorry for him having this mother.
‘More flowers,’ he said, and held out another extravagant bunch. ‘Mother had them picked for you.’
‘She is far too kind to me.’
He followed her into the house without being asked; she had rather wanted to sit back, let down her hair, and put her feet up. If she did not relax now, she would most certainly not have a chance later on. He watched her as she slid her bag on to the side table, and pulled off her gloves. He grinned a little, not used to women, she felt, but anxious to be a success with them. ‘Please thank your mother for me,’ she said.
‘She may be coming along herself. Mother is fond of interfering, and she has been hearing chatter about you.’ He giggled again, for this was apparently something of a joke. She wheeled round.
‘What are you talking about?’
Taken a little aback he said, ‘Well … you’re pretty aren’t you? Younger than I am, too; she says Sir Charles should have told her so, and you should have heard what he said when she told him over the telephone.’
Coldly Claire said, ‘I would have loved to have heard what he said!’
‘Mother is a bit prim. I sometimes wonder how it was she ever got married herself. Never knew my father. Maybe he had faulty eyesight, or something.’
Claire brought him to, and was at her stiffest. ‘What is it about me which annoys your mother?’
‘Oh, I didn’t say …’
‘Yes, you did! You inferred that I had been doing something wrong; what was it?’
He looked at her and she realised that he was suddenly scared. ‘I didn’t mean that. I just didn’t mean that. I thought we were in luck’s way having somebody pretty for a change, and now Mother’s furious.’
So that was it, and perhaps she might have expected it. She jerked herself together, for at all costs she must keep control of herself, and then very quietly she said, ‘I have got to have my lunch quickly, and go back to my work. I can’t delay now. I’m sorry but I’ve just got to get through.’
‘You aren’t annoyed?’
‘I’m not pleased. You could hardly expect that, could you?’
‘I ‒ I didn’t mean a thing.’
If she stayed here arguing, this would go on for ever, and she must stop it. ‘Now I must get on with my own work, for time is running out. Please tell your mother that I will come and see her about this.’
‘Oh Lord!’ His face fell. She knew that given half a chance he would fly right off the handle again, and she must not give him that opportunity at any cost. She took him to the cottage door, and shut it firmly after him. She came back into the room and saw the exquisite bunch of flowers on the side, they were very lovely ones. I’ll put them on my own grave, she thought bitterly.
It was always difficult to do the right thing when one was furiously angry, and she was sure that Vernon had not been exaggerating his mother’s feeling at all. From the first she had felt that Mrs. Heath did not like her, and now she had come to the snapping point. When she really thought about it, perhaps this had been approaching all the time. Charnworth had to stop believing that she was any man’s girl, which seemed to be the story which had got round. Even if Mrs. Heath was her boss, she was within her rights if she had this out.
Her contract here was for six months, and she was sure that Sir Charles would back her up. With his big bump of curiosity she wondered that he had not found out for himself what was going on in a big way. He said little about it. I’ve just got to face up to this in my own way, she thought.
She finished a lunch for which she had little appetite, and she had started on her coffee when the telephone rang again, and the message came from Stable House. It was Mavis. She did not think that Terence was at all well again, and she sounded panicky. The headache had returned, and could Claire bring round some of those miraculous tablets? Instantly she put that visit first on her list.
As she drove off she told herself that the real trouble lay in the fact that Terence had left the hospital for Stable House. The sooner he got back to the studio in Chelsea, the better it would be for everybody.
Mavis was waiting for her by the gate, a woman who always chose unpleasant colours for her dresses. Mavis never selected a positive colour, but preferred a mottled fawn, or a faded sage green. Claire wo
ndered how any woman ever wore that sort of colour satisfactorily, for Mavis looked horrible in it. The moment she saw the car she came running forward.
‘He is so rotten,’ she said, ‘the pain is quite unbearable, and it worries me.’
‘Headaches can be pretty bad, of course, and this is post-accident trouble. Where is he?’
‘He’s lying down in his room. You ‒ you don’t think there is anything really wrong, do you? A fractured skull or something like that?’
‘No, no, of course not!’
They went along the little passage to the ground floor bedroom which had been given over to Terence. Claire entered it. The blinds had been drawn to shelter him from the too brilliant light. The windows were flung wide open, and she saw Terence lying on the bed, and looking extremely pale. She knew that he was exhausted by the pain.
‘I’ve come to help you,’ she said gently.
‘This pain is driving me mad.’
‘Tell me where it aches? The temples, or the back of the head?’ then, when he had told her, she opened her bag and brought out some special tablets. She went to the basin and poured out a glass of water for him. ‘This’ll help you. It won’t taste awful either. Just take them gently. How did the headache begin?’
‘I don’t know.’
Somehow she knew this was untrue. He did know, but did not want to admit it. ‘Did something go wrong again?’ she asked.
He had been going to deny it, then changed the idea of deceiving her. ‘You ‒ you’ve got it in one act.’
‘It was Mavis, of course?’
‘Yes. It was Mavis! I ‒ I was a fool to think this could work, but after hospital the idea of pleasant surroundings tempted me, and I didn’t feel strong enough to go back to London on my own, and the garden is a joy.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘She has awful outbursts of temper. There’s something very wrong with her, something awful.’
‘Don’t talk about it now. Just try to rest.’ She smoothed the bedclothes, but restlessly he turned and clutched at his head.
‘The old man is such a dear, it is a shame that she should play him up this way. Last time she said she would control it, now it has happened again. What do I do?’
‘You don’t give her the chance to let it happen another time.’
‘But how can I get away?’
Purposely she changed the subject for now. ‘Please give those tablets a chance to work, then we’ll talk and we’ll find the way out. You could get a telegram to return to Chelsea, or something, but for the moment do stay calm. I want you to rest.’
‘All right.’
Quietly she tidied the bed and shook the pillows, rearranging them for him. She knew he was not sleepy, and she started talking gently. She soothed him as she would have soothed a child, realising that this gave him a sense of comfort, of reassurance, and the pain was easing. He was such a nice person, highly sensitive, and Mavis had found it easy to play him up.
After a while she went back to the side of the bed and stood there looking down at him. She was a girl in a blue cotton frock, with a clean white apron over it. She wore stiff collar and cuffs and had the St. Julian’s medallion on her breast. He turned over and looked at her; she knew that his vision was clearing now, for the tablets were doing their work.
He said, ‘If ever I turn my hand to portraits, it would be you as you stand there. A girl in uniform with a mist of hair to her head. One day perhaps I’ll do it. You’d make a lovely picture in the severity of that uniform, and the sweetness of those clever trained hands against the dress. Your hands are wonderful in action.’
Somehow when he spoke that way he had the power to change her. Until this moment she had looked upon him as a patient, one got into the habit of thinking of people in this way. Now she changed. Given half a chance, the whole episode would slip into a dream, and that would be disappointing. She wanted him to stay real.
She said, ‘You’re talking too much, you know, you aren’t giving yourself a chance. I think you’d better stick to your lovely landscapes.’ Automatically she went on tidying up the room. He lay still for a time, watching her under his eyelids, and she became aware of the fact that he had very thick and very dark eyelashes. A woman would have envied them! She turned at last. ‘I’ll fetch you some tea now,’ she said.
She left him then, hoping that he would doze, and she went into the entirely modern kitchen (it was the only genuine bit of modernity in the place); she found Mavis busy there.
‘I think he’d like some tea,’ she said.
‘I’ll make him a cup and take it along.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll wait for it and take it myself. He ought to be kept very quiet to get over that headache, and he must not be disturbed.’
Instantly Mavis, herself on edge, lifted her head. ‘You think that I should disturb him? Why?’
‘I don’t think that at all, it is only that I want him to be very quiet, so that the tablets get a chance to work.’
Mavis said nothing, but went on with her work. Her mouth was twitching a little, and she was muttering to herself. She was in one of her dubious moods when she could do anything, this woman with the evasive eyes, and when at last she spoke, her voice had gone very hoarse.
‘You want everything for yourself,’ she said slowly, ‘I don’t wonder the village men whistle after you, and talk about you. You know they do that, of course? But then everybody knows it.’
The maddening part was that it was true. The men were interested, and showed it, and Mavis’s words cut right through Claire, but she still retained her control. She had got to stay calm for this was the only way she could hope to manage Mavis.
She waited in silence for the tray, and when it was ready she picked it up and took it to her patient. Mavis without a doubt was working up for another attack. It would not do to leave Terence alone with her, and Claire would be glad when Sir Charles arrived tonight.
When she got to his room, Terence was infinitely better. He drank the tea, and found it refreshing. She was worried for him, and suggested that he took Sir Charles into his confidence. At all costs he must not have further rows with Mavis, for he was quite unfitted to face them. Yet on the other hand, nor was he fit to return to his home in Chelsea, and his studio work.
Quite suddenly she heard a car stop outside the house and the sound of Sir Charles’s pleasant voice. It could have been the answer to prayer, she had never thought that she would be so enchanted to hear him. Terence heard it, too, and was delighted.
He was talking to Mavis, who had been surprised to see him so soon; judging by her tone, he was far earlier than expected. Her voice was raised, it had become quite shrill, and obviously they were on the verge of one of those wretched quarrels.
‘I expect something has gone wrong with the housekeeping money,’ said Claire, trying to cover it up to Terence.
If the pain had gone, he was still limp from the effects of it, and she wanted him to have more sleep. She made excuses. She drew the curtain and left him, walking out into the sitting-room, and straight into a scene. Sir Charles was standing there with his hands dug deeply into his jacket pockets, which was a familiar pose of his, one she always recognised as being due to anxiety over the patient’s condition.
‘I never expected to see you down here so early, Sir Charles,’ she said.
He smiled at that. ‘I’m one of those odd people who get hunches. I felt that something was going wrong, and that maybe I was wanted here. Silly of me, but when I get an impression this way, then I always work on it, so I came.’ He paused, then went on more hurriedly. ‘By the look on Mavis’s face I was not too far from the truth, was I?’ Mavis went out into the kitchen.
He really was the most extraordinary old man, and Claire played for safety; she did not want to get herself too far involved in this. ‘I don’t really know. I came over to see Mr. Anderson because he is getting these very bad headaches and needs assistance.’
‘Post-accident,’ he
grunted, hands still in the jacket pockets, a sure sign that he was inwardly anxious.
‘Yes, but the tablets help him. I don’t think he should press himself too far, but rest more.’
‘Isn’t he resting?’
‘Not as much as he should,’ again she hesitated. Then quickly for she wanted to get this over, ‘Your niece …’
‘Yes, I know.’ He went on, clipping his words, which she had always noticed with him when he was worried. ‘In this house rows come. The fact that they go again is not really a great help, for they leave an aftermath behind them, and this can be killing. You and I have got to stop it.’
She went back to her hospital days, the old feeling throbbed through her veins, the feeling of drive, of urge, and of triumph to come. She said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mavis is on the verge of one of her bad attacks.’
‘Would you like me to stay here for a short while?’
‘If your list is not too full, yes. You could have calls transferred here, and if you could do this, it would be a great help to both of us. Just another hour?’
‘I’ll arrange it. There is no imminent baby at the moment, and maybe we shall be lucky, though goodness knows the unborn are no respecters of persons.’
‘Not at all.’
She phoned back to the exchange and arranged for any calls for her to be transferred to Stable House, and then she returned to Sir Charles. She knew that he was over-anxious. He had not yet drunk his tea, but had unpacked a few things, apparently forgetting that tea had been brought in for him. Claire took it to him.
‘I could unpack for you,’ she said.
‘Nonsense! I’m not as old as all that,’ and he laughed; she was glad to hear that. ‘A man knows when he is getting old, because everybody wants to do things to help him. I’m okay.’
