by Norrey Ford
“What is it?” someone asked. “Rat poison?”
An obscure junior named Richardson or Harrison burst into tears and said she was homesick. She’d never been away from her mother at Christmas before.
“Buck up, ducks,” said Liz in a Barnbury accent. “Seventy per cent of the customers haven’t either, and you’ve got your ’ealth and strength.”
After tea on Christmas Eve, the nurses’ choir toured the hospital, wearing their red capes and carrying cardboard lanterns with red crinkled-paper windows lit by insecure torches. They sang a carol or two in each ward, during which the tree was illuminated, and a number of the patients enjoyed a good cry which in no way diminished their rapturous applause. In the Children’s Ward every bed already sported a giant sock, which would have to be filled by the night staff from a pile of magnificent toys provided by the local Rotary Club. Here the tree was still screened, waiting for Santa Claus himself, due to make a personal appearance in the morning. Several of the younger children, who had been to Sunday-school, became slightly confused, and thought they had already arrived in Heaven.
Jacqueline and Liz were almost at the end of the procession as it wound its Christmassy way through the corridors. Nurse Lowe led the choir, a modest but definite triumph, her training in the Methodist Chapel at home having come in useful, after all.
The medical and senior nursing staff were assembled in the Great Hall under holly-dressed pictures of Florence Nightingale, Sister Dora and the late Alderman P. R. Jackson. The choir serenaded them with a few of the more successful carols before dispersing to catch up with work or sleep, as the case might be. The doctors and senior sisters retired to Matron’s room to drink sweet brown sherry and eat chocolate biscuits, and the lesser lights rushed back to the wards to harry their juniors.
On Christmas Day the nurses worked twice as hard and twice as fast, but nobody noticed because it was Christmas. The patients got out of hand quite early, and even Birdie’s eye could not quell them. She did not try, but accepted boxes of chocolates, tins of toffee, lavender water and plastic comb sets with the utmost graciousness. Most of her cards sported a robin, a fact which puzzled her as much as it delighted everyone else.
The Mayor and Mayoress arrived, convoyed by Matron, Assistant Matron, the medical staff and wives. Mrs. Parsons was a half a head taller than her husband, and had exactly the same kind, neighing laugh which revealed long equine teeth. Mrs. Anstay was dark, lovely as a cameo, with exquisite clothes and a hand-span waist. The nurses, plump with cocoa and starchy meals, stared at her enviously, and made resolutions about slimming which they knew they could not keep.
Dinner was turkey, of course. The luckless few on diets groaned and booed, but Diet Kitchen did their best and sent up something festive.
“Steamed flipping cod with a flipping paper serviette with holly on it!” Daddy Pearson grumbled. But even the worst grousers groused good-humouredly.
In the staff dining-room, the Mayor took the head of one table and Alan took the other. The Mayor’s Chaplain said Grace, the Mayor stuck a carving-knife into the turkey’s crisp brown breast and was surprised but relieved when it was immediately whisked away to be carved professionally. Alan, however, was left with his turkey, and carved it good-humouredly to a running fire of commentary and advice from his colleagues who gathered round to cheer him on. On removing the stuffing from the neck end, he discovered a big red heart, an enormous safety-pin and a pair of forceps in the body. These he removed amid cheers, while Home Sister trotted round whispering that they had all been thoroughly sterilised and nobody was to worry.
Plum-pudding, crackers, paper hats. More carols, army songs, Birdie’s balloons bursting, with bombardment noises from the old soldiers. Nurse Knight decided that old-fashioned red and green decorations looked best, after all; yet cast a languishing look over her shoulder at Lister’s green and silver and Harvey’s elegant Regency decor in pale blue, white and gold.
One by one the wards fell silent, with only the green-shaded lamps casting pools of light. First the Children’s Ward, then the old tired ladies of Lister, Pasteur, Hunter, and Jenner kept it up to the very last. When Jacqueline came off-duty she searched for soft spots in the terrazzo-tiled corridors to ease her burning soles.
“What a day!” Bridget was sitting sideways, her stockinged feet draped over the arm of her chair. “Dr. Gregory kissed me. Twice.”
“He didn’t!”
“Swank!”
“When’s the wedding?”
“He showed me the Charleston. His grandma taught him.” She rolled down her nylons and proudly displayed blue bruises. “Those old-timers must have been tough.”
The Staff Dance was a different kettle of fish. Formal, with everyone in their best clothes and on their best behaviour. Matron, splendid in gunmetal poult, opened the dancing with the Mayor. Assistant Matron wore royal blue georgette with silver beads. Deborah wore black superbly. Miss Pugh the almoner and her fiancé were up to competition standard and twirled with smooth competence twice round the floor before anyone else stood up; the office clerk told everyone proudly that there were eighty yards of net in Miss Pugh’s flame-coloured net dress and that she’d won a bronze medal at Bournemouth.
Guy brought a corsage of carnations. It was strange to see him in evening dress, and his suit smelt faintly of mothballs; but he looked magnificent, and Jacqueline was proud of her big escort as she laid her small hand on his arm and led him up to Matron to be received.
He held her closely as they danced. “I’m still waiting for my answer, sweetheart. When are you going to say yes?”
“You promised me time to think.”
“You’ve had time. Don’t be a coward. You know you will marry me sooner or later, you can’t help yourself. It’s your fate—I’ll bet it’s written in your palm.”
Dancing with Guy, outstandingly the best-looking man in the room, she felt excited, proud, gay. Why should she hesitate? Was this love, a whirling exhilaration, the thrill of hand touching, of blue eyes looking into brown?
Or was there something more?
When Deborah claimed her brother to give a dance or two to the older Sisters who had come unpartnered, Jacqueline was besieged by partners who complained that Guy was taking more than his fair share.
She kept an eye open for Alan, sure that he would be here this gala evening. It was not until she was dancing with a shy young doctor, who stammered and whose name she never knew, that she saw him. She caught her breath.
He was dancing with a tall slender girl with a faintly discontented pout which marred her lovely features. Her dress was matt white, with a plain gold kid belt. It made every other woman look bunchy.
“Who is that girl in white?” There was no need to say which girl in white.
“Diana Lovell. Her father is an industrialist, steel or something. She drives his cars in rallies.”
“She’s quite beautiful.”
Her partner’s fair skin flushed under his gold freckles. “If you can afford it. She is enormously rich.”
The music stopped. Everybody clapped wildly. Jacqueline asked inquiringly, “The sort of money that buys big houses—and long cars?”
He nodded. “That sort. May I bring you an ice?”
Ices, too. Matron had pushed the boat out to-night! “That would be delicious.”
She ate her ice and surreptitiously watched Alan and Miss Lovell. It did not matter at all to her what kind of woman Alan married, so it was silly to feel so strongly that Diana Lovell wasn’t right for him. She had a self-centred look, which would deceive all of the men most of the time and all of the women none of the time. Miss Lovell was interested in Miss Lovell and the effect she had upon other people. She did not even give the impression most women try to create, of being passionately interested in her, partner’s conversation.
“H-Harley Street, here I come,” said the little doctor. “He’ll be an authority on Duchesses’ Slipped Disc in no time.”
Jacqueline tried to
picture Diana up to her ankles in bog water and sopping moss, not even moving when a fly tramped across her nose because Alan wanted to take a photograph. The picture wouldn’t focus. In scrupulous fairness, she admitted that a motor-rally driver had to be tough and maybe Diana wasn’t as brittle as she looked.
She saw Guy making his way towards her, and in a sudden absurd desire to postpone further conversation with him, she stepped behind a pot-bellied palm lent by the Parks Committee.
“Ah—there you are!” said Alan smoothly, appearing like a genie at her side. “I’ve been looking for you. You are like a birchwood this evening, in your silver and green. Let’s dance.”
He steered her expertly through the crush. He felt her tremble in his arms, and was conscious, as always, of a desire to protect her. He hadn’t got to the bottom of that sheep-dog business yet, and while he knew she was safe enough inside the hospital, here she was to-night dancing away with that big dark brute Guy Clarke, who certainly seemed struck on her. Maybe he had something to do with the dog, maybe not. But the whole thing was tied up with Timberfold, and Jacqueline was better away from the place and its influence.
“Cousin Guy is in fine fettle to-night,” he said experimentally, steering her round another vegetable tribute by the Parks Committee.
“Yes.” She was non-committal.
“What do you two talk about? Sheep, appendectomies, liver fluke, sterilisers?”
“Mostly he asks me to marry him.”
He felt a faint but definite shock. He had not anticipated this move. Did it eliminate Guy—or implicate him? “Good God! That’s ridiculous!”
She glanced sideways at him. “Why?”
“I don’t know. It just is. You don’t know him.”
“How do you ‘know’ a person? Is there a set time, or could you know someone really well in five minutes, or a day? There are people I don’t know at all, after years.”
“True. Getting to know? Maybe it’s like peeling an onion—taking off layer after layer of protective covering, finding more and more of the true personality until at last you reach the core. And liking what you find there.”
“And how about the people you ‘know’ straightaway?” He chuckled. “Maybe you come across them ready peeled, so to speak. When they have already shed their outside personalities and are walking around in mental dressing-gowns and slippers.
“Or take potatoes,” he went on. “You might peel off the skin and find them frosted or bad; you might peel and peel hoping to get to a good piece, and find in the end you had nothing left in your fingers—barely enough for one decent chip.”
She laughed. “What do you know about peeling potatoes?”
He swirled her into an intricate step. “Everything. Was I not in the army, girl?”
They danced in silence for a while. “What do you think of Miss Lovell?” he asked. “The man she is dancing with now is her father. He looks like a pink cod, but he’s a decent chappie—genuine.”
“She’s very beautiful.”
He nodded, but seemed to be waiting for further comment.
“And exquisitely dressed.”
He was impatient. “Yes, yes—what else? Use your eyes.”
“She seems very unhappy.”
“And very ill.”
She glanced at him, startled. ‘Ill? Is she?”
She’ll be in St. Simon’s within three months, mark my words.”
“Does she know?”
“Probably suspects and is fighting her suspicions.”
“Oh, dear—I’m so sorry for her. And for you. I mean—are you—?” She paused, conscious of having said the wrong thing.
He prompted her gently. “Am I in love with her? Is that what you meant to ask?”
“Well, yes, it was,” she admitted honestly, “but I shouldn’t. Do please forgive me. I say what comes into my head, I’m afraid.”
He was not in the least offended. “You do, my pretty, you do. It’s part of your very refreshing charm—a childlike quality I admire in you. Don’t start casing yourself in armour—at least, not for me. No, I’m not in love with Miss Diana Lovell. I like and admire her father. As to Diana, let us say I am—peeling.”
As there seemed no possible answer to this, they finished the dance in silence. Deborah was dancing with a senior house officer, and gave Jacqueline a cold look as the two couples danced side by side for a moment before being separated by the crowd. They encountered Guy, dancing with a pleasant-featured girl with wavy brown hair and perfect skin. Jacqueline mentally put a cap on the brown hair and remembered seeing the girl in the staff dining room—third-year, she thought. Guy looked sulky, and she knew him well enough by now to recognise the look. This was a duty dance and he did not want to do it. She smiled at him as he passed, hoping to cheer him up and make him look a little happier—that poor girl must feel humiliated.
Later, dancing with Guy, she asked, “Who is that, Guy? I know she’s a nurse, but I haven’t met her.”
“Phyllis Arnott. She was on the ward when I was in here last year. Had to give her a dance, out of politeness.”
“You weren’t very polite. You made it pretty obvious you were bored.”
He seemed surprised. “I wasn’t. She’s quite a nice little thing. But I wanted to get back to you. You make all the others look so dull and ordinary. You’re like a little dancing flame to-night, can you blame me for being crazy about you?”
The room was crowded and he held her closely. She was very conscious of his arm encircling her waist, his hand grasping hers firmly.
“No girl could blame a man for being crazy about her,” she said truthfully. “It’s a great compliment. But it troubles me because I’m not sure yet whether I’m crazy about you.”
“You will be,” he said with a confidence that irritated her slightly. “I believe you are now, if only you’d be honest with yourself. Incidentally, need you be so forthcoming with our friend Broderick? I noticed you just now, dancing with him. Your face was sort of—alight, shining, I was dashed jealous, I can tell you.”
“You have no shadow of right to be jealous. I shall dance with whom I please, and if I do look a bit interested and as if I’m enjoying myself, you might take a leaf out of my book. The way you looked, dancing with Nurse Arnott, was an insult to the poor girl. I like dancing with Mr. Broderick, and I shall do it again if he asks me.” She was hotly furious.
He was not offended. He held her close, smiling—a curious, thin-lipped smile. “Not after we are married, darling. Then I shall want my wife all to myself—every dance will be mine, and I shall have the right to be jealous.”
“You’re not encouraging me to fall in love with you. No girl can love a jealous man.”
He laughed. “Can’t she? Don’t talk such nonsense. A man is jealous because a woman means something to him. Could you love someone who didn’t care a hoot whether you danced with other men or not?”
He was becoming intense and she felt herself trembling slightly, as if in the grip of a force she could not control. In this mood he was frightening. She forced herself to laugh softly.
“Could you love a woman who didn’t attract other men enough to make them want to dance with her? Don’t be silly, Guy. A dance like this is a social occasion. We know nearly everybody here. It would be different if all these people were strangers.”
“So far as you are concerned,” he said more gently, “they might as well be strangers. I see no one but you.” She was relieved when Liz and Bridget suggested a quick break between dances.
In the cloakroom they repaired their make-up. At the next mirror to Jacqueline, Phyllis Arnott was tidying her hair. They smiled at each other vaguely in the glass; then, as the other girl leant forward to smooth lipstick with a little finger, Jacqueline noticed she had been crying and was attempting to hide the traces.
Jacqueline turned her glance away uncomfortably. Who could have made such a pleasant-looking girl cry till her eyes were red, lips blotched? It couldn’t be Guy, surely? O
h no, not Guy. He said he hardly knew her.
After the heady excitement of Christmas and New Year, January was stale, flat and cold. A mean north wind, laced with sleet and snow, filled the beds with bronchitis and pneumonia patients, then roared up and down the wards as if searching for its victims; old gentlemen broke bones on ice-slides made by the children; old ladies, huddling over gas-fires, set their nightdresses on fire. But bad as January was, it rushed all too soon into February, and those nurses taking the examination went about with glazed eyes and moving lips.
Guy invited Jacqueline to a St. David’s Day dance at the Moor Hen.
“Say you’ll go!” Mary Leigh urged. “The exam, will be over and you’ll be in the mood for fun.”
“When is St. David’s Day?” Bridget demanded. “Because Hank Gregory asked me to a concert by somebody called Bark and I had to say yes, subject to being off duty. But I didn’t dare to say I didn’t know exactly when it was.”
“There’s the ignorant Irish for you,” said Liz. “You think there weren’t any saints except Patrick.”
“There were so.” Bridget was indignant. “St. Kevin and St. Bridget and—”
Mary interrupted to say it was the first of March and the concert was probably Bach, who was dead.
“Live and learn,” said Liz resignedly. “Honestly, Leigh, if we work with you long enough we’ll get quite educated. Who wants late passes, and is it better to go in a bunch or separately?”
Matron was in a benign mood owing to the fortunate purchase of a beige two-piece in the January sales, so Jacqueline got her late pass without difficulty, wrote and accepted Guy’s invitation across the great gulf of the examination and temporarily forgot all about it because a nurse on Children’s Ward started shingles and Jacqueline had to take her place.
Not the least of her regrets about leaving Men’s Surgical was that she would see no more of Alan. Not that she saw him often, but there was always a chance that he would make one of his swooping, disconcerting visits, and, because there was always some patient talking about him, he seemed to be always just around the corner. She had had a hand, however humble, in helping with Alan’s miracles. Once in a while he noticed her, nodded and said good morning. She would miss Alan very much.
