by Betty Neels
‘Have you seen anything of Dr Seymour?’ her mother asked that evening.
‘Him?’ Daisy had washed her hair and was winding an elaborate turban around her head. ‘No, but he works in London as well, you know. Probably he only comes to Salisbury when he’s needed.’
‘A pity, but at least you’ll see something of the Thorleys when they come back, won’t you?’
‘I expect so. I promised the children I’d go and see them.’
She had been happy with Josh and Katie, she reflected and, despite the fact that she never wanted to see Dr Seymour again, she had been unable to forget him. He would have forgotten her already, of course.
Halfway through the next week she met him face to face on her way back from her lunch; there was no one else in sight and she debated whether to stop and speak to him—a wasted exercise for he gave her a wintry smile, nodded briefly and walked past her. She stood, watching him go out of sight; she still wasn’t sure just how important he was; if the young housemen ignored the domestic staff, she supposed that the more senior medical staff were hardly aware of any but the senior nursing staff. All the same, he could have said something—hello would have done…
Gobbling bread and butter and drinking strong tea with some of the other orderlies during her brief tea break, she suddenly realised that they were talking about him.
‘Marvellous with the kids,’ said a voice, ‘a pity we don’t see more of him; comes twice a week for his outpatients and ward-rounds; ever so polite too—says good morning as affable as you like, more than some I know…’
There was general laughter. ‘Well, what do you expect? No one’s going to look twice at the likes of us. He’s different, though—a real gent.’
‘Married, is ’e?’ asked one of the girls.
‘Well, I don’t know him well enough to ask…’ There was a good deal of good-natured laughter as they got up to go back to their wards.
It must be that he didn’t like her, reflected Daisy, hurrying along corridors and up stairs; if he had said good morning to the other girls, why couldn’t he have done the same to her? She had quite overlooked the fact that she told him in no uncertain terms that she had no wish to see him again.
That afternoon, when she was cycling home after work, the Rolls whispered past her. The doctor was looking straight ahead and there was a good deal of traffic on the road; he wouldn’t have seen her. All the same, she wished most unreasonably that he had at least lifted a hand in salute.
When she got home her mother said in a pleased voice, ‘Lady Thorley phoned, love. They came back today and the children want to see you. I told her you were only free at the weekends—she said she’d ring again.’ She glanced at Daisy’s face. ‘You’ve had a horrid day, haven’t you? Come and sit down; I’ll have supper on the table in no time. It’ll be nice for you to have an outing and go and see those children again—she said that they still miss you.’
Lady Thorley phoned after supper; the children were well and getting on famously with Miss Thompson but they did want to see her again. Daisy agreed to go to tea on Saturday and was relieved and at the same time disappointed to be told that Lady Thorley would be on her own. ‘Hugh won’t be home until Sunday—we can have a nice gossip and I know Miss Thompson will be glad to see you again.’
Daisy put down the phone; the doctor would have got back to London by then, of course. A good thing too, she muttered to Razor as she gave him his supper.
She woke to rain on Saturday morning, not that she minded overmuch; for two days she was free of Mrs Brett’s grumbling voice. She got the breakfast, saw Pamela off to spend the day with friends, made a shopping-list with her mother and walked to the centre of Wilton; doled out carefully, there was money enough to buy all the right sort of food; she visited the butcher, the grocer and the post office, bought bread still warm from the oven, and carried the lot home, had coffee with her mother and, since there were only the two of them, settled on soup and bread and cheese for lunch. While her mother got them ready, she went up to her room and changed into a navy blue jersey dress she had bought in the January sales. It was elegant, well cut and well made, and it fitted her nicely, but the colour did nothing for her. A well-meaning friend had once told her in the kindest possible way that unless a girl was pretty enough to warrant a second look it was wise to wear clothes which didn’t draw attention to herself. Daisy, aware of her shortcomings, had taken her advice. Besides, one didn’t get tired of neutral colours; at least, in theory one didn’t. That she was heartily sick of them was something she never admitted to herself.
The twins would have been happy to see her wearing an old sack; they gave her a rapturous welcome and the welcome from Lady Thorley and Miss Thompson was equally warm. There was a good deal of talking before everyone settled down—Lady Thorley to go back to her drawing-room and Miss Thompson and the children, taking Daisy with them, to the nursery where she was shown the twins’ latest craze. They had discovered the joys of Plasticine, which they had not been so keen on when Daisy had looked after them—not just small quantities of it, but large lumps which they were modelling into a variety of large and obscure objects.
‘I’m no good at making things,’ confessed Miss Thompson as they sat down at the table. ‘I can just about manage a dog or a cat but Josh wants a model of Buckingham Palace.’ She handed Daisy a hefty lump. ‘They tell me that you’re very good at making things…’
So Daisy embarked on the royal building while the twins, their tongues hanging out with their efforts, started on their various versions of the Queen and Prince Philip, all the while talking non-stop. Presently Miss Thompson said quietly, ‘Daisy, I’ve some letters to post; would you mind very much if I go now? Josh and Katie are happy with you—if it weren’t raining so hard we could all have gone…’ Daisy didn’t mind. At Josh’s request she had stopped her modelling to make a drawing of Razor and she had no worries about keeping the children amused. The village post office wasn’t too far away; Miss Thompson would be back in plenty of time for tea. Daisy glanced at the clock; she had promised to be home as soon after six o’clock as possible, but that was three hours away.
One drawing of Razor wasn’t enough; she embarked upon a series of this splendid animal, handing over each sketch for the children to colour, Katie in her favourite pink, Josh with large spots and stripes. It was a good thing that Razor, a dignified animal, wasn’t there to see.
She was putting the finishing touches to Razor’s fine whiskers when she heard the twins give a kind of whispered shout, but before she could look up two large, cool hands covered her eyes.
‘Guess who?’ asked a voice she had done her best to forget.
There was no need for her to reply—the twins were shouting with delight, ‘You don’t know, do you, Daisy? You must guess—we’ll help you…’
She should have been feeling annoyance but instead she felt a pleasant tingling from the touch of his hands and a distinct thrill at the sound of his voice. Which simply would not do. Besides, the children would be disappointed.
‘Father Christmas?’ she suggested, a remark hailed by peals of laughter from Josh.
‘Silly Daisy, it’s not Christmas yet,’ and,
‘Two more guesses,’ said Katie.
‘Mr Cummins?’ She had heard all about him from the twins; he had been in the nursery all day repairing the central heating.
‘One more,’ shouted Josh.
‘Dr Seymour.’ Her voice was quite steady.
‘You mean Uncle Val. You’ve guessed; now you don’t have to pay a forfeit.’
‘What a pity,’ remarked the doctor and dropped his hands to let them rest on Daisy’s shoulders, which she found even more unsettling. ‘I don’t mind being taken for Father Christmas but I’m not so sure about this unknown Mr Cummins.’
‘The plumber,’ said Da
isy and wished he would take his hands away.
However, he didn’t; indeed he began to stroke the back of her neck with a thumb, which, although wholly delightful, she soon put a stop to by getting up quickly; and, since she had no idea what she was going to do next, it was a relief when Miss Thompson, followed by Lady Thorley, came into the room.
‘Shall we all have tea here?’ asked Lady Thorley, and didn’t wait for an answer.
‘I’ll tell Cook,’ said Miss Thompson, leaving Daisy to clear the table of the lumps of Plasticine, fend off Boots’s delighted caperings and find a cloth for the table. The doctor, sitting with a twin on either knee, listened to his sister’s idle talk and watched Daisy.
Tea was noisy, cheerful and leisurely, and Daisy, despite the doctor’s unsettling presence, enjoyed herself so much that she forgot the time, and, her eye lighting on the clock, she saw that it was already past six o’clock.
She caught Lady Thorley’s eye. ‘I really have to go,’ she said. ‘I said I’d be home by six…’ She lifted Boots’s great head off her lap and stood up as the twins raised a roar of protest. ‘Look,’ she told them, ‘if your mother and Miss Thompson will allow it, you can come and have tea with me and meet Razor.’
‘When?’ asked Josh.
‘Any Saturday.’ She paused. ‘No, not next Saturday; I have to work that day.’
She began her goodbyes, long-drawn-out on the part of the children, brisk and friendly from Miss Thompson, and was politely cool towards the doctor.
‘I’ll see you to the door,’ Lady Thorley said comfortably and they went down the hall, lingering for a moment while Daisy got into her plastic mac and uttered suitable thanks. She had her hand on the doorknob when the doctor joined them, took her hand off the knob and opened the door.
‘Ready?’ he asked briskly, and to his sister said, ‘I’ll be back shortly, Meg.’
Daisy swept out into the porch, then found her voice. ‘My bike’s here—I’m cycling home—I can’t leave it here, I need it…’
He had opened the car door and she found herself inside without quite knowing how she had got there. ‘Your bike will be delivered to you at the latest by tomorrow afternoon, so stop fussing.’
He got inside the car, fastened her seat belt as well as his own and made no effort to start the car.
‘Enjoying your new job?’ he asked.
She said peevishly, ‘Oh, so you did see me the other day—you looked at me as though I weren’t there. Thank you, I quite like the work; I like the patients too…’
‘But?’
His voice was beguilingly encouraging and for a moment she forgot that she wanted nothing more to do with him. ‘Mrs Brett—the other orderly—she’s been there a long time and she’s a bit set in her ways; I suppose she’s seen so many patients she doesn’t really notice them any more.’
‘And what do you intend to do about that?’
‘Me? Nothing. I’ve only been there for a few weeks and I want to keep the job; and besides, who am I to criticise her? Only I can see that the patients can reach their water jugs and cut up their meat and pick up their knitting.’ She stopped and went a bright pink. ‘That sounds priggish; I can’t think why I’m telling you about it—it’s not important.’
He said casually, ‘Why not get a transfer to another ward?’
‘Orderlies are sent to a ward and stay on it until they’re moved somewhere else.’ She stared ahead of her. ‘I think we’re called ancillary workers but we’re domestics. When are you going back to London?’
The sound which escaped his lips might have been a chuckle. ‘Very shortly; that’s a relief, isn’t it? We shan’t need to ignore each other if we should meet at the hospital.’
There didn’t seem to be a reply to that.
He drove her home then, carrying on the kind of conversation which meant nothing at all but sounded pleasant. He got out when they reached her home, opened her door and held the gate as she went through it.
She thanked him as he shut it behind her, making it obvious that if she had invited him in he would have refused anyway, so she wished him goodbye and went into the house.
‘Is that you, darling?’ called her mother from the kitchen. ‘Are you very wet?’
‘I got a lift,’ said Daisy, getting out of the hated mac, ‘and my bike will be brought back some time tomorrow.’
‘Who brought you back?’ Her mother had poked her head round the door to ask.
‘Dr Seymour came to tea and brought me back.’ She added quite unnecessarily, ‘It’s raining.’
Her mother gave her a thoughtful look. ‘Yes, dear. I’ve started supper.’ She opened the door wider. ‘But I thought you might like to make the pie—all those apples and they won’t keep.’
Daisy, rolling pastry ten minutes later, wondered if Dr Seymour was staying with his sister, and if not where was he? He must live somewhere. In London? He worked there too, didn’t he? Perhaps he had a house there as well as living in Salisbury; but perhaps he didn’t live there either.
She frowned, reminding herself that she had no interest in him.
Much refreshed by a weekend at home, Daisy went back to work on Monday, full of good resolves: not to allow Mrs Brett to annoy her, to carry out her orders even if she found them unnecessary—locker-tops didn’t need to be washed twice a day, whereas water jugs, sitting empty, needed to be filled… She bade her superior good morning and had a grunted reply, followed by a stern request to get on with the cleaning since it was the consultant’s round, ‘And don’t you hang around wasting time picking up knitting and such like, and see that the ten o’clock drinks trolley is on time; I don’t want no ’itch.’
Daisy didn’t want a hitch either; all the same she contrived to unpick a row of knitting and take two lots of hair curlers out while Mrs Brett had gone to have her coffee.
Her hopes of a better relationship between herself and Mrs Brett came to nothing; it seemed that she couldn’t please that lady. Whatever she did was found fault with, and as the week progressed it was apparent that Mrs Brett had decided not to like her and nothing Daisy could do would alter that. They parted company on Friday evening with Mrs Brett full of foreboding as to how Daisy was going to manage over the weekend.
‘You’ll get no ’elp,’ she warned her. ‘You’ll ’ave ter work for two, and lord knows what I’ll find when I gets ’ere on Monday morning.’
Daisy said, ‘Yes, Mrs Brett,’ and ‘Goodnight, Mrs Brett,’ and cycled home, the prospect of two days without her surly companion quite a pleasing one.
Without that lady breathing down her neck every ten minutes or so, Daisy found herself enjoying her work; she had common sense, speed and a kind nature that, she discovered for herself, was what her job was all about. No one bothered her; she got on with her chores and found time to satisfy the needs of those patients who were not in a fit state to look after themselves. She went off duty on the Saturday evening feeling pleased with herself even though her feet ached abominably.
Sunday was even better, for Sister wasn’t on duty until one o’clock and there was a general air of leisure on the ward so that there was time to listen to titbits of news read aloud by those patients who had the Sunday papers and pause to help with the odd crossword puzzle. She went down to the canteen feeling that life was quite fun after all.
She was going off duty that evening, crossing the main entrance hall, inconspicuous in her good suit, when she saw Dr Seymour watching her from one corner. He was talking to one of the house doctors, staring at her over the man’s shoulder. She looked away at once and whisked herself out of the door and over to the bicycle racks and presently pedalled home as though the furies were after her, but no Rolls-Royce sped past her, and she arrived home out of breath and feeling foolish. What, she asked herself, had she expected him to do?
Speak to her? Open the door for her? A thin-lipped smile perhaps?
She was free all day on Monday, a splendid opportunity to help her mother around the little house, tidy the garden before the weather worsened and change the library books. As she biked to work on Tuesday morning she allowed herself to wonder if she would see the doctor.
Scrambling into the pink overall in the small room the orderlies used, she was accosted by one of them. ‘Lucky you,’ said the girl, ‘you’re being sent to Children’s—Irma told me—it’s on the board outside. You’d better look for yourself.’
‘Me?’ said Daisy. ‘But I thought you never got moved…’
‘Someone off sick, I dare say—make the best of it, Daisy, it’s the best ward in the whole place.’
There, sure enough, was her name—to report to the children’s unit forthwith. She skipped along corridors and in and out of swing doors with a light heart; no more Mrs Brett… She was opening the last of the swing doors when she remembered that Dr Seymour was a consultant paediatrician.
CHAPTER SIX
AFTER the quietness of the women’s medical ward, the children’s unit gave forth a steady roar of sound: shrill cries, shrieks, babies crying and cheerful voices, accompanied by background music just loud enough to weld the whole into a cheerful din. Daisy paused just inside the doors, not sure where to go; there were doors on either side of the wide hall leading to the ward. She supposed she should report to Sister…
A very pretty young woman put her head round one of the doors. ‘Our new orderly?’ she asked in a friendly voice. ‘Come in here, will you, and I’ll give you a few ideas…?’
Sister Carter was as unlike Sister on Women’s Medical as chalk was from cheese. Not much older than Daisy, with curly hair framing a delightful face, she looked good enough to eat. Daisy, bidden to sit, sat and said politely, ‘Good morning, Sister. I’m the orderly; my name’s Daisy.’
