Nurse with a Dream

by Norrey Ford

  Jacqueline said, “V-vanished?” rather shakily, and a nurse from across the table leaned towards her.

  “Utterly. Never heard of again, but now it haunts the corridor outside Men’s Surgical. Looking for its owner, you see. Watch out, young Jacky—it appears to young nurses on their first spell of night duty.”

  “Tosh!” said Jacqueline firmly. “I don’t believe in whole ghosts and certainly not portions of ghosts.” All the same, she thought uneasily, I’ll remember the story when I am on nights and alone.

  “Broderick’s thing this afternoon took hours. We were all ready to drop. Shouldn’t like to be his wife at this minute.”

  Liz asked curiously, “Why? I’ll bet her feet don’t ache.”

  “He’s an angel of patience when he’s operating—so cool and easy, yet so quick. I could fall in love with him then. But afterwards he’s a demon. Takes it out of him.”

  A stout nurse across the table guffawed. “You mean he takes it out of them! Broderick isn’t married. He lives in that double-fronted stone house standing back from the Low Moor road. Used to be a farmhouse when Barnbury was a village. They say it’s lovely inside. My aunts knows his housekeeper.”

  “Not married! There’s a chance for us all, then,” said Liz.

  “Not me!!” declared the Theatre Nurse hurriedly. “He’d frighten me to death. Once he was asked what he thought of a famous actress who’d made a big hit in New York. She was a local girl made good, see, and naturally the Barnbury tabbies were pulling her to pieces. Broderick said, ‘Charming, charming! The most fascinating appendix I ever saw!’ ”

  Everybody laughed. Jacqueline was not interested in the fabulous Broderick. She wanted the meal to finish, so that she could hurry to the market-place and catch her bus. It would be almost dark by the time she reached the Moor Hen, but she didn’t mind. She had a yearning to wake up in the deep country, to the sound of birds.

  The bus had left Barnbury, left the fringe of mining villages clustered about the town, and was slowly pulling up the long climb on to the moors. Only low stone walls divided the road from the open moors, which stretched dim and mysterious in the failing light.

  Jacqueline was the only passenger now. Her rucksack was propped on the seat beside her, and she peered out of the dingy window, anxious not to miss the opening to the track which would take her to her destination. She had studied the map carefully. Two brisk miles of walking would bring her to the Moor Hen Inn. She smiled to herself, remembering the thrill she had experienced on first seeing the familiar name on a large-scale map, just as her father had described it. How many times had she curled up on his knee, her head tucked cosily under his chin, and listened, only half comprehending, to tales of the moors, the becks, the royal purple heather, the welcoming light of the Moor Hen with its beamed ceiling and the row of shining copper measures, from a teeny one as small as a thimble to a big one fit for a giant.

  “Moor Hen Lane End,” said the cheerful robin of a conductress, ringing the bus to a stop. “Here y’are, love. Sure you know your way? It’s real dark now, proper creepy on these old moors. Give me a bit of light and a good pavement, I say.” She lifted Jacqueline’s rucksack down with a strong grimy paw, the broken nails lacquered scarlet. “Better you than me.”

  “It’s only two miles.”

  The girl frowned. “Yes, but how are you going to get there?”

  “Walk, of course.”

  The plucked eyebrows flew up. “Walk?”

  “Why not?”

  “Walk two miles? You must be barmy. Oh well, there’s nowt so funny as folks, my grandma says.” She swung back on to the platform, but, with her hand on the bell, hesitated. “I don’t like leaving you here, love, and that’s the truth. What if someone does you in, like?”

  Jacqueline shouldered her rucksack. “No one is likely to.”

  The girl’s face cleared. The rucksack, now snug on her passenger’s back, struck a familiar note. “Oh, I get it. You’re a hiker. It’s okay, then. Ta-ta for now.”

  The bus rumbled away into the violet dusk like a caravan full of warm light. A bird piped sadly; startlingly near, a sheep bleated. The familiar weight of her Bergen rucksack was an old friend, welcome after the strangeness of starched caps and rustling aprons. Her walking shoes were old and good. She stamped to feel their comfort, and set off at a good pace.

  The Moor Hen was exactly as she expected to find it, from the outside. Light streamed hospitably from its windows, there were one or two cars parked on the cobbled strip before the open door. Inside there was a stone passage, bright with copper and brass, with polished black oak and a low-beamed ceiling. And there, across the biggest beam, were the measures, and above them a long slender coach-horn.

  Daddy, oh, darling Daddy, I’m here! It’s all true. She blinked rapidly, hoping she wouldn’t cry. A warm, strong hand had reached out of the past, and for a moment she was a child again, with a big laughing father and a pretty mother, just like other children.

  From the door marked dining-room came a pleasant smell of cooking and the clatter of dishes. In a moment a woman came out, dark, attractive, about thirty perhaps, with an air of disciplined efficiency which reminded Jacqueline of the senior nurses. But she was redeemed from too much efficiency by merry grey eyes and a cheerful smile.

  “Oh—I didn’t hear you come in. Can I help you? You’re not too late for dinner, if that’s what you are looking for. Go on in. We’re always rather late on Fridays; people come out here after office hours, for the week-end. If you’d like to wash first—”

  Jacqueline swallowed nervously. She felt like Aladdin; she had rubbed the lamp confidently, never really believing that a genie would appear. But genie, fairy palace and all were actually here, and she had to be practical about it. Though she had stayed often in climbers’ huts, with her grandfather or a party of young friends, she had never stayed in an English inn before, and suddenly she realised the procedure might be quite different.

  “I’d like to stay two nights, please. A single room.”

  “What name, please? You’ve booked, of course?”

  “No. I didn’t think. My—my father said no one ever came here.”

  “They do now. Since Lance and I took over, we’re full nearly all the time. That’s Lance’s cooking—he’s a wizard. And this is August, remember—our high season.”

  “Oh, dear, you must think me a fool. I’m not really used to England. I didn’t think there’d be so many people everywhere.”

  “I am so sorry, believe me. This tight little island is a bit overcrowded nowadays; but you could get a room at the Dog and Gun, I’m certain. You could telephone from here if you like.”

  “Thanks. I’m disappointed, though. For ages I’ve dreamt of sleeping here, and it is all just as I imagined it—like a Christmas-card. Do you know, my first fairy-tales were about those measures up on your beam, though this is my first visit to England?”

  “Good gracious! Then I’m sorrier than ever to turn you away. I’ll show you round the rest of the house, if you like, before you leave. But first you must telephone. This way.”

  “I’m taking up your time. You were busy.”

  Her hostess smiled. “That’s all right. We’ve always time for a customer.”

  “But I’m not one,” Jacqueline exclaimed. “How I wish I were! How far is it to this Dog and what’s-it?”

  “Gun. About ten miles.”

  The girl stared. ‘Ten miles! I can’t walk as far as that to-night. And I’ve missed the last bus back to Barnbury.”

  “Walk? Are you on foot? I thought I heard a car.”

  “Some people were leaving as I arrived.” She smiled to hide the panic she felt. “Well, I got myself into this jam, and I’ll have to get myself out. Ten miles isn’t far if I’m certain of a room at the end of it.”

  “Nonsense! We never turn walkers away at this time of day. Could you manage on a folding-bed in the sewing-room? It’s tiny, but—” She glanced at Jacqueline’s slight
figure and smiled.

  “But so am I, you mean? I’d love it, if you can really manage. I don’t need a meal, I had supper before I came out.”

  “Sit in the lounge, then, and make yourself comfy. I’ll have a word with Lance. He’s my husband—our name is Medway, by the way. Ex-Royal Navy, both of us. Sit by the fire; even in August our evenings are cool.”

  “What a queer fire!”

  “It’s peat—didn’t you know? Wasn’t it included in the fairy-tales?”

  “Yes—oh yes, I remember now. A peat fire. I simply couldn’t imagine what it was like. Besides, Daddy said it hadn’t gone out for a hundred years, so I knew that wasn’t really true—just the fairy-tale part.”

  “It is true. And that is the very one.”

  Awed, the girl stretched her hands to the glow. “Then, my father warmed his hands at this very same fire?”

  “I say, this is a sentimental journey you’re on!”

  “It is. I suppose that’s why I’ve behaved so stupidly over it. I’m quite practical, as a rule.”

  Mrs. Medway smiled at her. “I’m sure you are. Sit and rest while I go and be practical about beds.”

  She was glad to rest in the depths of a leather-covered chair. She had been up early and had spent a long day in the ward. Soon the gentle warmth of the fire after her walk in the cool air made her sleepy. In no time at all, it seemed, Mrs. Medway returned.

  “Good news. Lance says you’re to have Alan’s room. He’s a friend who photographs birds. He comes most weekends when he can get away; but Lance says it’s much too late for him to turn up to-night, and if he does come, he must make do with the sewing-room.”

  “I don’t want to rob your friend. I can manage with the sewing-room, really I can.”

  “He won’t come now. Maybe some emergency has kept him. That sort of thing is liable to happen to Alan. You were almost asleep. Do you want to go to bed now? It’s a goose-feather bed. I hope you know the story about the Princess and the Pea.” She grinned impishly.

  “I do. By the way, do you know a place called Timberfold? My map tells me it’s about four miles from here.”

  “Four miles in a straight line across the moor. Six by road. We used to buy turkeys there, until I disagreed sharply with Connie about prices. Don’t tell me this is part of the journey, too? Or—Guy’s a nice boy, isn’t he?” Her kind grey eyes twinkled. She lit a heavy silver candlestick and offered it to Jacqueline. “We have no electricity upstairs. Good for trade, our guests adore it. Mind your head on the beam.”

  The girl bent her head obediently as she followed her hostess. “I don’t know anybody at Timberfold. I only want to see the farm. My father lived there as a boy. He hated the family, but he loved the old house and the wood which surrounds it. Does a wood surround it?”

  “It does. A fir plantation, rather dark and gloomy. The landing floor is uneven, watch your step.” She halted with her hand on the heavy glass knob of a door. “You are not afraid of disappointment?”

  “The first step turned out so well, after all, that I have gained a lot of courage for the next. But frankly I am a bit scared of Timberfold. When you bought your turkeys, did Saul Clarke live there? He was my father’s half-brother—a big, dark man. At least, I was never quite clear which was Uncle Saul and which was the Ogre in Jack and the Beanstalk.”

  They both laughed, and Mrs. Medway opened the door to a charming room of oak and chintz, with white-painted walls and a light two-poster bed. “Not a pleasant character, your Uncle Saul! I think he must be dead. Connie Clarke—is she your aunt?—is a widow, and Guy must be her son. We’ve only been here three years. I seem to remember hearing Connie’s husband got pneumonia and died during the war. Home Guard duty, I believe.”

  Jacqueline shook her head. “That’s wrong somewhere. Connie was the nasty little maidservant who took sides with Saul against Peter—that was Daddy—because he was like his mother, fair and small and more refined. They used to lock him in a cupboard till he yelled himself sick; then let him out and laugh. Saul married May—she was pink and white, like mayblossom, and too delicate for a farm.”

  “I don’t wonder you’re not interested in the family, they sound horrid. There’s no May there now, only Connie and Guy; but where they fit in, I can’t tell you. Sure you’ll be all right? Bathroom third on the left, lots of hot water. Breakfast is at nine, cup of tea eight-thirty.”

  “Music in my ears. Sorry, I can’t stop yawning. Good night, Mrs. Medway, and thank you.”

  Jacqueline examined her room with interest. There was a small casement window set into a thick stone wall. The floor was made of wide polished boards which sloped away to one corner disconcertingly. She tried a pencil on the floor and it rolled away so fast she had almost to plunge under the valanced bed to recover it. Over the chimney-piece there was an embroidered picture of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the Fiery Furnace, the flames very splendidly done in scarlet, yellow and orange, and not much faded. The pillows were softest down, and the bedcover was an intricate patchwork pattern.

  I feel like the Queen of Sheba, she thought; the half has not been told me. If Timberfold is half as good as this, I’ll want to cry with happiness. A piping hot bath to-night and early morning tea to-morrow—and I thought it would be like a climbers’ hut! I’ll bath first and unpack afterwards—if the inn is full there may be a run on the bathroom later. Luckily my washing things are on the top.

  The candle threw shadows up and down the white walls of the passage; shadows which looked so much like long waving legs that she was unpleasantly reminded of the ghost of the hairy leg reputed to haunt St. Simon’s. She dismissed it, only to remember the inn was three hundred years old and had no doubt sheltered a few unsavoury characters in its time. Had travellers been murdered here—for their money-bags? Were throats slit and duels fought? The big white bath and cheerful chromium taps were a welcoming sight after the shadowy landing. Hot water gushed out in a delightfully twentieth-century way.

  On the return journey she was too sleepy to worry about shadows or legends, and opened her bedroom door yawning unashamedly, her imagination already climbing into that deep feather-bed.

  There was a man in the room. His shadow ran up the wall and wavered on the ceiling, making him look twelve feet high. He wore a green jerkin of some kind, and looked like someone out of the Middle Ages, with a high crest of black hair and a thin brown face with dark deep-set eyes. Jacqueline swallowed a scream, gulped, and said, “What are you doing in my room?” firmly, as if speaking to a mischievous child.

  The man exploded into such an everyday masculine voice that her fear of ghosties and ghoulies vanished at once.

  “What the deuce! Sorry, this is my room. You’ve made a mistake.” His shadow danced as he moved towards her and stretched out an arm which seemed a mile long. She drew back slightly, but he smiled and took her candlestick out of her hand. “It’s easy to get lost up here. Let me guide you. What is your number?”

  She saw now that he was wearing a turtle-neck sweater knitted in thick wool, which had given his silhouette a mediaeval look, but the lean brown hand had square capable fingers and his wrist wore a thin gold watch with a broad leather strap.

  She laughed shakily. “Ghosts don’t wear watches, so I suppose you are real. That’s a comfort.”

  “What?” Concerned, he brought his own candle close to hers, throwing a better light upon them both. “My poor child, did I frighten you? I’m so often at the Moor Hen, it never occurred to me—but if you’re not used to candles they can be a bit creepy. Come, I’ll take you to your room.”

  “You must think me a complete fool. The passage made me think of highwaymen and so on. Oh...” Her hand went to her lips in surprise. “This is my room, after all. There’s my rucksack—and those are my toilet things on the dressing-table.”

  Smiling, he shook his head. ‘This room was reserved for me. I always have it. And these”—he swung a hand around the floor—“are my things. Sorry, but possessi
on is nine points of the law. I’ll help you move.”

  Jacqueline’s temper rose. She grabbed her silver candlestick from his hand and raised it. He was an untidy unpacker. She indicated his strewn possessions with an imperious sweep of the hand holding her pink toilet-bag, which swung on her finger like a weapon. “You must tidy those away. I want to go to bed.” She marched to the wardrobe, which resisted her tug and then swung open disconcertingly, almost knocking her over. “Whose clothes are those? Mine. That’s my brush and comb on the dressing-table, my rucksack in the corner there.” Suddenly her temper vanished and she laughed sunnily. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but you have to sleep on a folding-bed in the sewing-room. You’re Alan—you were late and I’ve been given your room.”

  His quick smile transformed a stern face. “I surrender. I should have spoken to Lance or Mollie before coming upstairs, but they were busy in the bar so I grabbed a candle and came up. Sorry I scared you. Give me a minute to pack, and I’ll retreat defeated to the sewing-room.” He knelt, put his candle on the floor, and swept his luggage together, dumping it into a zipped canvas bag without ceremony.

  “I’m sorry about the sewing-room.” Jacqueline could afford to be generous now.

  “I’m sorry I scared you. And thank you for not making a fuss. Most women would have screeched the place down. You have courage.” He glanced round the empty floor. “All packed now. Good night. Sleep well, and don’t dream of highwaymen or smugglers.”

  “I shall sleep like a kitten and not dream at all. I hope you’ll be comfortable in the sewing-room, Alan.”

  “Thanks...?” He hesitated questioningly, the dark eyebrows raised.

  “Jacqueline. Usually called Jacky.”

  “Aye you would be. Waste of a lovely name. I shall call you Jacqueline. Breakfast is at nine.”

  The feather-bed was a dream of comfort. Jacqueline snuggled down with a sigh of pleasure. Poor Alan—he looked too tall for a folding-bed. Hope he’s comfortable. I feel a mean beast, but a deliciously cosy beast. It’s a nice name—Alan. He has an obstinate chin—was that a scar or a trick of candlelight? Not disfiguring, anyway. I liked him.