by Norrey Ford
One night Jacqueline went in with a glass of hot milk and found Diana sitting up, wide awake and ready for a chat. The girl said bluntly, “Are you the nurse all the talk is about?”
Jacqueline set the milk down carefully. “I don’t know what you mean, Miss Lovell.”
“Ugh! There’s skin on this milk. I hear there’s a nurse here crazy about Alan. Chases him all over. They say he spends his time with her at the Moor Hen and brings her back in his car at all hours.”
“It’s cruel and untrue to say such things about a fine man. People who talk like that must be jealous of his success.”
“Or of hers? He’s Barnbury’s most eligible bachelor, remember.”
“He’s Barnbury’s finest surgeon.”
Diana shrugged white shoulders. “You know how it is. Doctors and nurses are fair game.”
Jacqueline’s blood boiled. “Considering how much the public owe to doctors and nurses, that’s hardly fair.”
“No, but it’s human. Rumour tells me you’re the one.”
“Rumour has a human tongue. Whose, Miss Lovell?”
“I’m not telling tales.”
“Mr. Broderick gave me a lift home one night, when my cousin’s transport broke down and I should have been late in.”
“How innocent it sounds! Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, would it? I’ll bet he kissed you!” Suddenly she squealed with delighted laughter. “Nurse—he did! You’re blushing like a lobster. Oh, how exquisite—what fun! Wait till I tell them at the Club. Alan and the little blonde nurse, bless his heart! He’ll never live this down.”
Jacqueline was shaking with anger. “If I’m blushing, it’s with anger that anyone who professes to be his friend should be so cruel. Say what you like about me, but leave Mr. Broderick out of it. Why should he have to suffer for what was only a very simple courtesy?”
“Don’t be huffy. I just think the whole thing is a lark.”
It was fortunate that Night Sister had already done her round in Private Patients, and that nothing occurred to bring her back. Otherwise Jacqueline’s burning sense of injustice might have led her into a serious breach of discipline. For of course it was Deborah who had been talking. She must have spoken to Guy, and knew all about the drive home.
But when it was she who warned me about gossip, why should she spread it herself? Jacky stood stockstill in the corridor, a tray in her hands, as she realised what was probably the truth. Deborah was jealous. She was seeking revenge for the fact that Alan would have nothing more to do with her. Striking at me, because Alan is kind to me. Striking at him, through his kindness to me—making it the basis of cruel gossip, the very thing which will hurt him most.
She stalked into the kitchen and clashed the tray down in a way which alarmed Bridget, who was writing a long screed to her mother on hospital paper.
“The fair Diana upset you? She’s poison, that one.” “Not Diana. Just—circumstances. As Mary Leigh would say, ‘how all occasions do inform against us’. That’s Lady Macbeth.” She returned the milk to the refrigerator and added doubtfully, “Or somebody.”
Sister Birdie Cartwright’s party" was to take place the next afternoon, so the night nurses went to bed early in order to be ready for the fray.
At three in the afternoon Jacqueline was on her way downstairs, immaculate in white and freshly ironed pink, her newly-washed hair gleaming soft as satin. She felt a sick excitement, sure Alan would be there; knowing she must not speak to him or even look at him. It was like walking on quicksand—she could not tell where, or how much, Deborah had talked. All she was sure of was that gossip would hurt Alan—and she would rather die than hurt him.
She reached the first-floor landing, where the sisters had their bed-sitting-rooms, and on the turn of the iron staircase came face to face with Deborah—obviously bound for the party, too.
Deborah hesitated. The stairs were deserted at that hour. “I’ve been wanting to speak to you—”
“And I’ve been wanting to speak to you,” the girl flashed. “Sister or no Sister, I won’t suffer your conduct in silence. How dare you talk to Miss Lovell about me, making her believe my behaviour is scandalous?”
A red patch rose dangerously on the older woman’s cheeks. “And isn’t it? My brother took you to a dance. You left him, to go home with another man. That the other man was Mr. Broderick was beside the point. It was rank bad manners.”
“I was forced to it, by Guy’s own manners.”
She shrugged. “That wasn’t the version I heard. And I saw for myself how you sneaked on foot the last part of the way. I wondered at the time why Guy had let you walk the last bit in the rain. Afterwards I knew. You felt too guilty, I suppose, to drive up in the normal way.”
“Were you spying?”
“Keeping an eye on the late-pass nurses.”
“You’ve twisted everything against me, because you hate me, don’t you, Deborah? You’re jealous because Alan is kind to me; jealous, for all I know, because Guy wants to marry me. And I see now that you’ve talked to Diana Lovell because she’s a bird of a feather, spiteful and cruel. Though I believe her cruelty is thoughtless, but yours is carefully thought out.”
“Be careful!”
“Use your position to go to Matron about me if you wish. I’m not afraid. There are things so intolerable than no one should be intimidated into putting up with them. Even if you make Matron sack me—and I know you could—I know I’d be right in speaking out. I believe your whole object is revenge, whether on me or upon Alan I don’t know.”
“Be quiet. Don’t you know how these stair wells echo? Do you want the whole place to hear? I don’t know what you are talking about—you must be hysterical. What Diana Lovell says is her own business. She’s in love with Alan and expects to marry him. So far as I know, he’s in love with her. If she hears things in the town about you, you can’t expect her to be pleased, but don’t blame me. You’ve been throwing yourself at his head ever since you came here, you are solely to blame. If you must know, I am fond of Alan. I’ve warned you before of your conduct towards him, and if it is getting about in the town—as it must be, from what you say—one of you must leave the hospital. Obviously not Alan, so it must be you.”
“I shall do no such thing. If necessary, I shall ask Alan himself to talk to Matron.”
“And force him to resign? Don’t, for his sake, mention it to him at all. If you have any friendship towards him, just go, quietly.”
Jacqueline shook her head helplessly. She was caught in a net of Deborah’s weaving and could see no way of escape. “I won’t run away and neither will he. The truth will always overcome a lie.”
Deborah smiled coldly. “Has that been your experience? It hasn’t been mine. You are in a temper, and making wild accusations for which I hope you will be sorry—but I am making allowances for you and speaking earnestly for your good and his. Leave St. Simon’s, leave Barnbury, telling no one of your reasons.”
“I certainly won’t.”
“Very well.” Deborah moved as if to end the conversation. “I felt sorry for you, because I had an idea you loved Alan in your way. Now I see you don’t. You’ll spoil his life here in Barnbury without regret.”
“But it’s you who—” She pressed her fingers to her burning temples. ‘There must be a way of proving you’re wrong.”
“Why not announce your engagement to Guy? That would kill any rumours stone dead.”
Deborah moved away, leaving Jacqueline staring after her speechless.
The nurses’ sitting-room was packed with people, chattering through a blue haze of smoke. Birdie sat in state; Matron, temporarily descended from Olympus, beside her; the senior medical staff were clustered round the throne, and the junior men were making the most of their opportunity to fraternise with the prettier nurses.
Already, on a table beside her, Birdie had accumulated enough gaudy tea-towels, wicker plant-pots, pottery cruet-sets and Italian pottery donkeys in straw hats to last a coup
le of lifetimes. There were one-woman casseroles in red, blue or green ovenglass, side by side with pots of trailing tradescantia. Jacqueline was pushed forward by friendly hands until she stood before the royal circle.
“You did this yourself—for me?” Birdie blew her nose violently. “I’d no idea we harboured such talent.”
“I went to a French convent, Sister. The nuns taught us to embroider.”
Birdie passed the tray-cloth to Matron, who examined it with interest. “Mark my words, Matron—this girl will be leaving us to get married before long. A talent like this won’t be used on rolling bandages.”
“Not she!” said Matron confidently, smiling at Jacqueline. “When she hears what I have to say to her in the morning. Nurse has other talents, Sister.”
It seemed as though everyone was talking to everyone else and very few listening to Matron, but as she made this quiet remark there was an explosive hiss as practically every nurse in the room whispered, “Exam, results!” The whole room fell silent, and every eye turned to Matron as if she were the Delphic oracle in person.
Into this silence Sister Clarke said clearly, “I think Nurse does intend to marry, Matron. Isn’t that so, Nurse?” She smiled graciously on Jacqueline, who alone knew that Deborah was opening the door of a trap. Here was the perfect way out; here was the swiftest, surest way of killing gossip about herself and Alan; of silencing Diana Lovell, who intended to spread the story round town as a great joke. Well, by the time she did so, it would already be dead and cold if—if—
Jacqueline said clearly, “I have promised to marry my half-cousin, Matron. Guy Clarke.”
She dared not look at Alan. Deborah primmed her mouth in a self-satisfied way and Matron looked more grieved than cross. She said softly, “I’m disappointed, Nurse. We had hopes of you.” Then she raised her voice authoritatively. ‘This very special occasion has lured me into saying more than I intended. The examination results are here, but no one”—she fixed a beady eye upon a junior nurse who nervously dropped half a sandwich into her tea—“will be told anything before to-morrow morning, when those nurses who took the exam, will report to me at ten. Keep your minds on your work and don’t spend the rest of the day chattering in moderns.”
A mistress of strategy, she withdrew on this splendid exit line, whereupon everyone concerned fell into a high-pitched chattering about the results.
Alan detached himself from a group of his colleagues and moved towards Jacqueline. “Can this be true?” he inquired in a low voice. “If so, I must apologise sincerely for knocking your fiancé about. You should have told me.”
She was confused. “We—arranged it later, by letter.”
He did not fail to notice her distress. She had blushed scarlet when making her announcement, but now she was paler than usual. “Jacky, are you happy about this? No one is putting pressure on you?”
“I’m quite happy.” It was no use making a gesture to help the man you loved if you threw up the sponge the minute things became hard. She had to see this through. She lifted her head proudly. “I’m quite happy, thank you.” It was a moment before he answered. Then he bent his head gravely. “I understand. Then one can only wish you joy—and good luck.”
A posse of her friends had now worked through the crowd to her. She was completely surrounded and Alan had to withdraw to safe masculine company. Matron having retired, the doctors and Sisters were now saying goodbye, anyway.
“Every happiness, Jacky!”
“Secretive little monkey!”
“Congratters, ducks!”
After a few minutes of this, Sister Clarke sailed forward, tall and awe-inspiring in her high Sister’s cap. The chatterers fell away politely, leaving Jacqueline and Deborah in a little pool of isolation.
“Congratulations—on your common sense.”
“You forced my hand. Guy doesn’t even know, and I feel awful about it. Why do you want me to marry him—you don’t even like me?”
“If Guy wants you, I don’t see why he shouldn’t have you. It gets you out of the way here, scotches rumours conveniently—and after all”—she smiled with her thin lips, her eyes stony—“I shan’t have to live at Timberfold. It doesn’t matter to me who Guy marries.”
A grand, self-sacrificing gesture is easy to make; not so easy to sustain after the tumult and the shouting have died. For a little while, the fuss and excitement of being engaged had borne her along and she had almost forgotten that the man in the case did not even know—yet.
She stared helplessly at the sheet of writing-paper before her. Dear Guy...
CHAPTER SEVEN
Guy was delighted with what he considered the success of his strong-man tactics. He chuckled over Jacqueline’s evasion of him on St. David’s Day, saying he liked a girl with spirit, and bought her an engagement ring so large that it made her gasp with dismay. On her slight finger it felt heavy, like a fetter, and she was glad to have an excuse not to wear it at the hospital.
Diana Lovell was going home, with a great deal of hoo-ha and flutter. “Engaged, Nurse?” Her blue eyes opened very wide. “I thought your heart belonged to Daddy. What about poor Alan?”
Jacqueline smiled. “Moral—never believe half you hear, Miss Lovell. Sorry you won’t be able to launch your joke at the Club.”
“It would fall a bit flat now.” She looked disappointed for a moment. “I’d planned a tremendous leg-pull, and he’ll get away scot-free, the brute!”
Which, thought Jacqueline, as she folded soft-coloured nightdresses into a white hide suitcase, is exactly what I intended.
Now Guy had got his own way, he was charming, attentive, ready to defer to her wishes. More often than not, his car was outside the hospital when she went off duty. He waved her protests away.
“The land won’t run away. Maybe I’m neglecting it a bit now, but I’ve served it all my life and it will be waiting when we’re married. So long as the stock is tended and fed...”
There were moments when she felt she had done the right thing. Was she to stay single all her life, with all the frustration that meant—no husband, home or children—for the sake of a man out of her reach? But that was when things went wrong at St. Simon’s and the nurses had an epidemic of I-wish-I-could-get-out-of-this-hole.
It was when she thought of Timberfold, cold, hopelessly old-fashioned, lost among the far moors, that she shivered; and when she thought of Connie.
Her grandparents received the news characteristically, knowing they would not make the long journey, she had painted Timberfold in glowing colours and hardly mentioned Connie at all. It was suitable, they wrote, that she should go to Timberfold as a bride; proper that money and land should be kept within the family. She devoured their letters, reading the heartache between the lines, and could hardly see Grand-peer’s thin elegant writing for tears, She was tempted to pack and run back to the only home she had ever known.
Only the knowledge that one cannot run away from oneself restrained her. One must face the consequences of one’s actions. Wherever she went, she would still love Alan. She had to face a life without marriage and all that marriage meant—or marry a man who was not Alan.
In one thing she and Guy disagreed. She had promised to spend her next free week-end at the Moor Hen. Guy thought she ought to go to Timberfold.
“I keep my promises,” she told him firmly. “Anyway, they’ve invited you for dinner on Saturday. I don’t think Connie wants me—she wasn’t exactly enthusiastic when you told her of our engagement. Guy—what are we going to do about her?”
“Do? Nothing? Why should we?”
They were in the Picture House Cafe which, although it smelt of stale tobacco smoke and chips, was somewhere to sit down, away from the perpetual drizzle and cold winds of a Barnbury spring. Although it was only four o’clock, the customers were already tucking into high teas of fried plaice or sausage and chips, with pink iced cakes or flaky pastry which looked and tasted like charred greaseproof paper; it was a meal to ruin figure and com
plexion, but Jacqueline, like several other off-duty nurses in the café, demolished it with a healthy young appetite and a conscience as yet untroubled by weight or ageing skin. Guy was always uncritical of food, being used to Connie, and was usually hungry.
“You mean, she’s going to live at Timberfold after we are married?” she asked without much hope. She knew Guy’s views and respected them, though she told herself there was no harm in trying.
“It’s her home. Where else should she go?”
“I know, but—she’s queer. She gives me peculiar looks.” He laughed. “Poor old stick! That’s her face, it’s enough to stop a clock, but she can’t help it.”
“I feel she takes to me like a duck takes to poison. What if she changed me into a white mouse and set the cat on me?”
“My bird, just you keep on taking plenty of no notice. You’ll be mistress, not Con. I’ll make her understand.”
“I doubt if she will understand.”
“You underestimate Con, dear. As a matter of fact, she is keen for you to come for this week-end of yours.”
“How odd! I had the definite impression she resented me. However, I’m not giving up my holiday with the Medways. I like Mollie, and, remember, they will be practically our nearest neighbours.”
“Unless you count old Michael, Connie’s admirer. I say, Jacky—let’s marry them off.”
They giggled cosily together, and for a moment there was sympathy and harmony between them. She felt a quick, warm affection for the man—the same affection she felt, sometimes, for a patient, a stray dog, an injured bird; the desire to spend herself, to serve, to mother.
Almost without thinking she said, “I wonder what Phyllis Arnott thinks of our engagement. I haven’t seen her since I went on nights.”
He glanced at her quickly. “Phyllis? Why? What made you bring Phyllis up, all of a sudden? Maybe she doesn’t know, anyway.”
“In our enclosed world everybody knows everything. If you change your mind, the whole hospital hears you.” He dismissed Phyllis from the conversation. “Change your mind about the week-end.”
