Nurse Trent's Children (14 page)

“Another lie. You know you want to do it.”

He was right. She did want to qualify. She had not realized how much she wanted it until she had learned that it was still possible. That “something short of fulfillment” he had spoken of was true. Only because she had driven herself relentlessly, not permitted herself to think about it, had she escaped temporarily that, sense of disappointment, futility, inferiority, where there should have been achievement and justifiable pride.

He read her expression. “See,” he triumphed, “lies.”

“It’s not that, Dr. Malcolm, I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“It won’t be any
trouble
.”

“I—I don’t want to be obliged to you.”

At that his face darkened. “Is it all that hard then? Would it be hard to be obliged to him? Kennedy?”

“We were not speaking of David.”

“
I
was. However, let that pass. Let us consider, instead, your reluctance to be ‘obliged’ to me, as you said. It will be no obligation. I
want
you to qualify, not for yourself, don’t think it. I am only anxious for the welfare of the home. It was an original stipulation as I told you before, that the housemother be a qualified nurse. Seeing you are so close to your certificate, I believe it is my duty to Little Families to put you through,”

“I could study alone.”

'“You said yourself you were rusty, in need of tutoring.”

“Could you come here?” She knew she was making herself a target for his sarcasm again, but somehow she had to fight him.

“If you will arrange to give Redgates’s number to all my patients and to all whom misfortune may make emergency patients, the answer is yes, madam.”

She did not reply, and on a note of angry irritation he flung, “What are you worrying about, you little fool? Questions from the nursing manual—or some torrid love scene?”

She knew she had deserved that, but murmured, “You’re hateful
...
”

“But practical,” he amended. He flung down a sheaf of application papers. “Does that look like the beginnings of a clandestine affair? I had to pull strings to get permission for you to sit, and I’m not going to be laughed at with a failure. You’re going to pass and pass well, a
nd
to achieve that here will be no holding of hands,
I assure you. Now do you feel safe?”

She nodded dumbly.

“Good. We’ll start on Tuesday night. I’ll come around for you.”

“I’d sooner walk.”

“Determined to be obstinate, aren’t you?”

“It’s not obstinacy, it’s just a plain preference for walking. After coping with children all day a ten-minute stroll along a silent lane can be very soothing. ”

“Also a good setting-up exercise, I should say. A set-up for what lies ahead, eh? Very well, Miss Trent, next Tuesday, and madam will walk.” He turned to go.

“Denise
...
”
she called to him.

“I’ll call before I do my afternoon rounds.”

“Thank you, Dr. Malcolm.”

He swung out of the office, and presently she heard his car gathering speed down the driveway.

Cathy had never felt so grateful for the voluntary helpers as during those two weeks following Christabel’s illness.

When she was overcrowded with work the kindly local women who were interested enough in Little Families to give an afternoon out of their busy lives, took over the time-squandering jobs of buttering bread, sewing on buttons, superintending play period—even occasionally trimming little bobbed heads of hair.

Mrs. Latrobe was one of their most dependable workers. She came twice a week and really got into things.

Once Cathy had said, “Mrs. Latrobe, you work too hard. Much harder than the other volunteers. ”

I want to. I have a debt to pay.”

“A debt?”

“I was a selfish child and still more selfish girl, Miss Trent. I was one of a medium-sized family, and I always saw to it I got out of everything unpleasant and dreary. My mother never forced me because I would sulk and become unbearably sullen. In short, I was an unpleasant individual.”

“Perhaps you imagined you were.”

“Are you imagining Denise is?”

“Oh ... so you have noticed her, too.”

“I couldn’t help it. Miss Trent, I love that little girl.”

Before Cathy could speak, Mrs. Latrobe went on, a little agitatedly.

“I was a Denise once—frustrated, bewildered, starved for an all-encompassing love. I could not bear my parents to caress my
other brothers or sisters. I hated them for it, and I hated my brothers and sisters for receiving it. It had to be me—me—all the time. I should have been an adored one-chick, and then, then only, could I have looked around from my security and spread the love that in reality was in me all the time. As it is in Denise, Miss Trent. I feel
sure
of that.”

Cathy said with discouragement, “I see a lot of Denise and I’m not sure. She is extremely introverted, Mrs. Latrobe. Apart from that she has a hard shell of reserve.”

“Not for me, Miss Trent.”

Cathy looked at the woman sharply. She saw the words that were trembling on her lips and quickly and adroitly changed the subject. She knew Mrs. Latrobe was childless. She believed she knew what she had in her mind. But it was impossible. All the children were the wards of Little Families. The foundation never adopted them out.

As though too afraid to hear this
s
aid in final words, Mrs. Latrobe changed the subject, too. She began to tell Cathy in a breathless manner about a pudding she was sure the children would love. “It’s easy and it goes a long way. It would be just the thing for you, Miss Trent, when Mrs. Ferguson and Elvira are both off.”

“I’ll fetch my little black book,” said Cathy, rather with relief, for she felt she could not cope with another situation just at present. She sat down and copied out the ingredients and the method.

The subject was not closed, however.

Dr. Jerry came as he had promised that afternoon before rounds and gave Denise her
“
booster.”

It was a blunter needle; he put more in; he went deeper; he was less gentle—according to Denise.

“Darling, doctor is making
sure
for you,” said Cathy reasonably. “If he put more in and went deeper, you’re the lucky one. You’re
doubly
protected.”

Denise kept whimpering.

It was then that Mrs. Latrobe came into action. With a reckless glance at Cathy she took the little girl in her arms and rocked her backward and forward and stroked her acorn-brown hair. “There, there, my pet, there, there, my little Denny
...
”

Denise blinked up at her. “Am I, Mrs. Latrobe? Am I
your
Denny?”

“You are
my
Denny.”

“You have no other little girls?”

“Only this little girl.”

“You love me really and truly?”

“Really and truly.”

“Oh,” sighed Denise, and for the first time really, thought Cathy, she lost that starved-puppy look.

She would have liked to debate the subject with someone, but Elvira was apt to be a little terse when the subject was Denise, and she would not willingly approach Dr. Malcolm.

David Kennedy was the only one. David had had dealings of his own with Denise. But David was away and would not be back till the end of the week.

Meanwhile, Cathy put Denise out of her mind, caught up on her medical reports, unpacked a few nursing manuals she had put at the bottom of her big trunk, and wrote a letter to England between supervising the play periods of both the boys and the girls.

The letter was to Miss Watts. It was long overdue, but she had wanted to have something to write, other than first impressions.

Her impressions were deeper now. She had a lot of things to tell. Best of all, she had the news of her intention to finish her career. She knew, as a nurse herself, Miss Watts would be pleased. She put all her doubts and fears in the pages—the fears that she might not succeed. It was good to pour out her soul to an old friend.

She finished the letter, addressed and stamped it to go air mail, then slipped out to mail it.

On the way back someone caught up to her—someone with a smile that always helped and encouraged her. It was David.

“You’re back earlier than I expected,” she greeted him warmly
.

“A couple of days. I would have been here a week ago had I known.”

“You mean our trouble?”

“Yes. Cathy, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I felt like doing that, but I knew by the time you returned it would all be over.”

“I would have flown. I would have been back the same afternoon.”

“I know, David, but I could cope.”

“You’re a brick.”

They walked along together, and she told him all that had happened.

“An emergency tracheotomy,” he whistled. “That must have been tricky. I guess you were worried.”

“No, I wasn’t.” Her voice stopped suddenly. She hadn’t been worried, she
remembered
. She had been confident, trustful. She had
known
Christabe
l’s
little ship would be all right with Dr. Malcolm at the helm.

David was regarding her thoughtfully.

Presently he said, “How is the baby now?'”

“Doing fine. After tomorrow we can see her.”

“Then I’ll take you tomorrow night.”

That brought up the subject of Cathy’s continuation of study. Tomorrow night she began her lessons.

She told him briefly, then awaited his opinion.

He was all approval. “That’s splendid, Cathy. It’s splendid of the doctor, too, to encourage you.”

“I don’t think he had me in mind; he was thinking of Little Families.” She remembered with a flush how he had given his other reasons, “a girl with a career is less likely to fall, like a ripe peach, into the first willing hands.” She did not tell this to David.

David reported facts he had gleaned in Melbourne. “It’s possible that our smaller-and-mixed-unit plea might come up at the next sitting of parliament. I have several of the big men down there interested in it.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Very necessary, Cathy. That is why everyone is so anxious to keep in with Fayette Dubois. Apart from the money needed, she has a considerable number of valuable contacts. In other words, she could, if she would, pull strings.”

“If she would
...”
Cathy looked at David questioningly.

“There has to be something in it for her,” returned David succinctly.

“But she has money, you said
...
”

“Forget money, Cathy.”

“Then you mean ... notoriety?”

“Mrs. Dubois would not be against that, but I meant something else
...”

“Something else?”

“I should say somebody.”

“I don’t understand.”

But Cathy did, of course. It was Dr. Malcolm Fayette wanted. She recalled that evening at the nightclub and those odd scraps of conversation. How had they gone? “You
have
neglected me terribly
...
You can’t do that to a Dubois, hasn’t anyone told you
...?
Of course it’s blackmail, but I mean it. I’d be ruthless enough to do anything to keep you.”

How ruthless,
thought Cathy now.
Sufficiently ruthless to withdraw her patronage? Not to pull those
“
strings” as David said?

The man changed the subject.

“How is the garden going? How are the Marys attending it? Any contrary ones?”

“Only the usual.”

“So Denise won’t cooperate.”

“She hasn’t even planted her seeds. She says they were not as good as the other girls’ packets.”

“She’ll be sorry when I allot the prizes. There’s going to be a present for
every
gardener who has raised a plant.”

“That eliminates Denise, and she’ll hate it.”

“She must hate some things in life, Cathy. Face up to it, she can’t be protected all the time.”

“I know, David, but
...
”

“But what?”

She told him about Mrs. Latrobe, and he nodded thoughtfully. “Could be the solution,” he admitted, “but of course it’s out of the question.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, Cathy, Cathy-girl, don’t start on the pigeon now. We’ve enough on our hands with elimination of the present segregating system.”

“I know.” Cathy sighed. Deep down in her heart, she knew it was Denise’s only way out. Perhaps there had to be some things in life that Denise hated, as David said, but she knew Denise better than he did, and she knew there was nothing that Denise would even
like,
if that miracle of complete
personal
love did not come true.

After he had put away his things she accompanied him around the garden. The little gardeners trailed behind, their faces expectant.

“A block of chocolate for every one of you,” he praised lavishly.

“Denise Lane hasn’t done a thing,” they reported indignantly.

“Then, alas, no chocolate for Denise.”

They raced off in childish cruelty to tease the lazy gardener, and Cathy said dubiously, “Do you think you should have done that?”

“Yes, I do. I told you before, Cathy, the child can’t be wrapped in cotton wool all the time. Nobody’s so special that she can’t be touched, and Denise must learn that. She is too ingrown, too secret. Soon we’ll find her becoming proud of her difference, and then we’ll have a worse problem on our hands. Individuals are no use, Cathy. Somewhere there is a job, or a place, or a person to which we all must turn.”

“Her person is Mrs. Latrobe then,” put in Cathy stubbornly.

“Oh, my dear,” reproved David gently. Shrugging her shoulders in resignation, Cathy turned with him to the house.

The next morning proved David wrong. In his punishment of Denise anyhow. Instead of a wistful, regretful, sorry little girl there had arisen much earlier than the other children a positive tornado of revenge.

Racing out to the garden Denise had stamped, kicked and jumped on every carefully nurtured flower. She had knelt down and scrabbled her small fists destructively through their roots. By the time old Jeffreys came, and Jeffreys preferred to start at dawn, the damage was done. Before him lay the mutilation and ruins of what had been a thriving plot.

“I could hardly believe me eyes,” he reported breathlessly to Cathy and David and a hovering Elvira. “Everything was doing so nicely. Carrots ready to pull, lovely heads of lettuce, then there were those poppies just opening their buds.”

Cathy met David’s eyes. Denise, they telegraphed to each other.

David went off with the old man to examine the debris. Cathy and Elvira stood silently till he returned.

He did not say anything. He simply spread significant palms.

“Bad?” murmured Cathy.

“Nonexistent,” he told her.

“Oh, dear
.”
said Cathy.

They were all silent again.

“The question, of course, is Denise,” ventured David presently.

“
You mean ... punishment?”

“Yes.”

“Deprivation wasn’t any good, was it? It only made her worse.”

“A hairbrush is what she needs,” said Elvira stoutly.

“No,” said Cathy definitely, “that is out. It would only make Denise a heroine to herself, a stoic. Besides, she’s just had a booster needle, so we must go gently.”

“She didn’t go gently with the children’s gardens,” mumbled Elvira. “Poor mites, and all the time they put into it.”

David was watching Cathy. “I think,” he said evenly, “this is Aunty Cathy’s pigeon. She is the housemother, and the care of the girls is her responsibility. ”

Cathy shot him a grateful look. “I’ll see to Denise,” she promised.

She went inside and up the stairs to the dormitories. The children were up with one exception—Denise. She must have performed her damaging act while still in her small nightie. She lay cuddled in a mutinous little ball well down in her bed. Underneath the bed Cathy could see her slippers. They were caked in mud.

She bent down and picked up the evidence.

“Denise,” she said quietly, “how did your slippers get so dirty?”

No answer.

“Was it when you were digging up all the plants this morning and jumping and stamping on them until they were dead?”

Denise looked at her with narrowed smoldering eyes. “If you know why are you asking me?”

“Because when Mrs. Latrobe hears about it, as of course she must, she will ask me if it is true.
”

The eyes were wide open now. There was panic in them.

“Mrs.
Latrobe...”

“Mrs. Latrobe loves you, Denise. She told me so yesterday. She said she would like you for her own little girl, though, of course, she would not want anyone who went through life doing things like this...” and Cathy dropped the slipper.

Denise was crying. It was a soft heartbroken cry that stabbed at Cathy.
Poor little scrap,
she thought, poor,
lost, bewildered, hungry little scrap.

“I want to be Mrs. Latrobe’s little girl, Aunty Cathy, oh, I do, I do.”

“
Then you must be good.
”

“I will, Aunty Cathy.”

Cathy sat on the bed and put her arms around her. Denise sobbed, “When can I go with Mrs. Latrobe?”

“When you are
very
good.”

It was against the principles of every book ever written on child management. It was against the rules of her training at Little Families. Children must never be bribed to good behavior, never lured there with the promise of a reward, particularly, and Cathy’s heart reproached her, a reward that could never be given.

Deprivation had not worked, but bribery had, bribery that was a lie and an evasion, and must later have its adverse effect on the child.

I am weak,
thought Cathy,
helping Denise to dress quickly so that she might catch up with the others.
I am more than weak, I am evil. I have let that child build a castle in the air, a castle she can never reach.

Elvira was frankly amazed at the new docility in their most flourishing problem child. “You’re a marvel,” she gasped to the housemother. “What did you do?”

David made no comment. Cathy supposed with a deep sense of guilt that he had guessed what form her treatment had taken.

“Oh, Cathy,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“It might come true one day,” she defended herself
.

“You know it can’t.”

Meanwhile Denise was digging in the garden, making herself so nice to the others that some of the more forgiving ones were pressing upon her generous shares of Uncle David’s reward chocolate.

She refused them, though her mouth watered with longing. Chocolate was a rare treat at Redgates. Refusal made her feel a step nearer to her goal though. “Oh, Mrs. Latrobe,
dear
Mrs. Latrobe,” she whispered, kneeling down to replant a still-intact stem of onion.

Then she said softly and experimentally, “Mommy.”