Nurse Trent's Children (7 page)

“Only?”

“Only Elvira won’t be back till eleven tonight. She never is on her day off, and I couldn’t leave the children.”

“Quite creditable of you, though incorrect. You see, Elvira
will
be back. I called around and instructed her. Not that she needed any instruction. She was delighted for her darling ‘Aunty Cathy’ to have a night out. I might state you’ve made a hit there.”

Cathy did not answer. She wriggled her chin away from the cupped palms, returned the saucepan to the range and began to stir. After a while, when the mixture had thickened sufficiently, she took it to the table
and poured it into a series of molds. “The butterscotch topping goes on when they come out,” she explained elaborately.

“Cooking class, stage two,” he said dryly. Then he asked, “Well?”

She knew what he meant and answered, “It’s very kind of you, Dr. Malcolm, but
...
”

“But you won’t come.”

“Not unless it is an order. Not unless it is something the board expects me to do. To cooperate with their medical officer, I mean.”

She had not intended to be so rude. It amazed her that she had spoken in such a forthright way. She had never been like this before. There must be something about this man that brought out the worst in her.

His face had darkened. Bronzed at any time, he looked almost like an American Indian. Christabel had asked him once if he
was
one, and he had said, “Yes, I am Big Chief Grizzly Bear, so all you children had better watch out.” Christabel would not have laughed delightedly now, she would have believed him.

Cathy waited for the withdrawn look, the haughty elevation of brows, the angry exit, but he did not move. Instead he said leisurely and deliberately, “Yes, it is an order. It is something the board expects of you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“No? Then let me inform you that
I
happen to be one of the board—quite an important member, indeed—and that
I
expect you to do as I have just asked. Well, Miss Trent, are you convinced?”

She had not known he was so closely associated with the foundation; she had believed he only served in an honorary medical capacity and then simply because it was obligatory.

Quietly she said, “If you have anything to discuss with me couldn’t we do it here?”

“Wouldn’t that be
...
safe?” His brow had risen, reminding her once again of that first evening.

Before she could reply he said briskly, “Enough of these preliminaries. I never was one for preliminaries. When I fall in love it will be at once and for all time, and there will be no time wasted on any dillydally.”

“Were we discussing falling in love?” Cathy asked it too innocently.

He looked at her quickly, saw the rebellious light in her blue eyes and answered forcibly, “Good Lord, no.”

“You needn’t be so unnecessarily downright about it.”

“What about yourself? Weren’t you unnecessarily downright just now when you declined my invitation?”

She had the grace to apologize. “I was, and I’m sorry. There’s something about you, Dr. Malcolm
...
”

He bowed a gracious acknowledgment, but she waved the gesture away impatiently.

“I didn’t mean that as a compliment. There is something about you that makes me say the ... the sort of thing I just said.”

“And don’t mean?”

“Oh, I mean them.”

“So?” He regarded her quizzically and at length. After a while he said, “Thank heaven, anyway, I have some effect on you. I’d hate to leave you quite indifferent. ”

“What does it matter how you leave me?”

He shrugged. “Nothing at all. I’m just vain and dislike leaving
anyone
without an impression, good or bad. The matter is settled then, is it? Although you don’t want to, you’ll dine with me because you have to. I’ll be around at half-past seven. Good afternoon, Aunty Cathy.”

He was gone, and immediately the room seemed to grow bigger again. Cathy washed the saucepan and hung it up, and as she did so she found herself actually looking forward to the evening that lay before her. However enthusiastic one was over children, one could not absorb oneself completely in the wholesome food that went to nourish them—not, anyway, to the extent of not relishing a meal designed solely to pander to the palate instead of the building of firm flesh.

Besides, it would be nice to dress up again.

She ran upstairs and opened her wardrobe. There was quite an array to select from, and none of them was more than a few months old. The week before the finals a party of the trainees had celebrated the end of their studies with a shopping binge, and the gold brocade and the Ming blue lace were the result of an hour in a fitting room in Bond Street surrounded by advising friends.

For a moment Cathy halted her selection, her hands on a tea rose silk. Daddy and mommy had sent this for her twentieth birthday with slippers to match.

She pushed back the silk rather blindly, passed over several more dresses thinking,
I’m rather well supplied, but then I used to spend every penny on rags because I never thought of the future. I never thought I
’
d have to
...
to
...

She recalled sitting in the solicitor’s dull brown room and the s
o
licitor telling her how little there was to come to her. “It costs much more to die than to be born, Miss Trent,” he had finished with feeling. “Taking that into consideration, as well as the fact that your late parents lived in probably the most expensive times one could live in, you will realize why you are left practically unsupported.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cathy had answered dully, “nothing matters.”

She looked at the dresses now and smiled ruefully. All the same, she thought, less for my back and more for the bank would have been wiser of you, Aunty Cathy.

A flick of the dress hangers, and her eye fell on the black taffeta. It was a plain two-piece creation. It had a slim, almost clinging, skirt and a high, concealing little jacket to wear over it. But the bodice of the gown itself was almost daringly
décolleté
, so much so that after her fellow trainees had teased and called her the tragedy queen, she had never worn it. She knew it was not
her
dress and never would be. She knew it was one of those shopping errors all women make at least once in their lives. She was not the
décolleté
type—well, not as
décolleté
as was this gown. She was not the slinky, clinging, revealing sort of person to wear such a dress. Yet as she fingered the smooth material she felt the challenge—Dr. Malcolm’s challenge. English prude, was she? With flaming cheeks she laid out the gown, the plain gabardine shoes to match, and the plain grosgrain bag. Then she went downstairs and out to the grounds, joined some of the girls in their gardening, played a round of basketball, helped the little ones down the slippery slide—and all the time thought with a certain misgiving, coupled with a stubborn determination, of a tight black
décolleté
gown.

CHAPTER FIVE

The children were helping w
ith the dishes when Elvira arrived back. She had cycled from her home and was a little breathless. “Go and have your bath, Aunty Cathy
,”
she implored, “or you’ll have Dr. Jerry here before you’re ready. What are you wearing? Mother and I think it should be the pink silk.”

Cathy told her and saw the plain pleasant face cloud over. “Oh, no, Aunty Cathy, not that. What about the lace? Or the brocade? Or
...
”

“I’m wearing the black, Elvira. Why not? I can assure you it was more expensive than any of the others.”

Elvira did not argue, but she looked disappointed. When the children clamored around her asking, “Can we stay up and see Aunty Cathy go to the party?” she said crossly, “No, in half an hour you’ll all be in bed and lights out.”

She was not usually so insistent on keeping the rules, and Cathy had a suspicion that if she were going to wear the pink or the blue or the brocade Elvira would have permitted, even encouraged, the girls to stay up. She found herself sympathizing, though unwillingly, with Elvira. She remembered her own childhood days and how mommy in the resplendency of an evening gown had always seemed something out of a fairy tale. There would be no resplendency, she admitted, in the slinky black, and for a moment she almost weakened just for the sake of Elvira and the girls, but “English prude” reminded a little voice within her, and she ran upstairs, filled the bath, went through the accepted pre-party procedure of careful makeup and discreet dabbing of French perfume, then slipped into the sheath.

It fitted her even closer than a glove, and the neckline was more daring than she had thought. Again she hesitated, but time had run out, as Jeremy Malcolm’s car was pulling up the driveway, and there was nothing for her to do but button on the concealing jacket and take up her bag. She stood in front of the mirror. The
black suited her English fairness, but that was all one could say. The high collar of the little coat gave the outfit anything but a festive air. She hoped none of the children was watching from the window. She realized now she had not been so clever. They had little enough in their small lives without her depriving them of a moment of glamour. She peered along the corridor. It was in darkness, and Elvira was standing guard. “Have a good time, Aunty Cathy,” she said dubiously.

Cathy said, “Yes,” in a meek little voice.
It’s ridiculous really,
she tried to tell herself.
I c
an wear what I
like, and it was a very expensive gown.

Jerry Malcolm opened the door of the convertible. As she had come out of the door his dark eyes had swept her up and down—once. As his foot went on the accelerator he said dryly, “I hardly expected you to make a funeral occasion of it.”

“My gown or my demeanor?” she returned flippantly.

He did not answer. She could see that, like Elvira, he was not pleased.

They left Burnley Hills and made their way down the Pacific Highway. Cathy saw the orchards and poultry runs give way to the privileged homes, and then they were crossing the great bridge into Sydney. It was something to look at, she thought. The velvety waters reflecting the lights of the beetling ferry boats, the rainbow glitter of the fun park on the northern side sending candy illuminations into the lapping bays.

“Not tired of it yet?” He took one hand off the wheel and waved it idly.

“I could never be. Anyway, this is my first visit into Sydney since I arrived here.”

“Good Lord. Why? A dislike of the asphalt jungle or a shortage of money?”

“Neither. I just don’t like leaving the kiddies. Elvira has enough to do. When David comes it will be different. The girls like U
n
cle David very much.”

“This girl, too?”

Cathy set her lips. “Very much,” she repeated. She was annoyed that she had spoken of Mr. Kennedy as David, annoyed, too, that Dr. Malcolm had noticed it.

“I take it,” he said casually, “that when Kennedy conducts you out it will not rate a
black
gown. Not by the enthusiasm of that ‘very much.’ Correct, Miss Trent?”

She did not answer him, and he did not press it. Instead, he put his attention to weaving adroitly through the dinner traffic of a big city. Presently he found parking space, helped her out of the car, then putting the palm of his hand under her elbow, led her half a block down the street to the narrow but tasteful entrance to a large restaurant.

The music was playing as they were ushered to their seats. It was a good table, it was a good restaurant. Cathy looked with critical eyes, for she had had her share of nightlife in London, but found nothing to criticize. “It’s nice,” she said.

He did not answer. He was studying the menu. “Shall I order?”

“Please.”

“No particular objections? Oysters, I mean, anything like that?”

“I love oysters.”

“No special favorites?”

“I have,” she said deliberately, “a predilection for gelatin.”

“Probably here it’s known as Cr
e
me Dubarry or some such thing. Meanwhile, we’ll forget that part and concentrate on cocktails. Manhattan? Martini?”

“Something exciting, please.
”

“In that gown?” One eyebrow had shot up.

She hesitated, then deliberately she unbuttoned the jacket. He stood up, came around and lifted it from her shoulders. She thought as he did so that it was a silly outfit and it had been silly of her to wear it. One moment it was prim, almost Victorian, and the next moment it was far too daring, almost
risqué
. She felt the color rising in her cheeks. He was back in his seat before she could lift her eyes to his. He had ordered the drinks and the waiter had departed. In his glance she read that he, too, had recognized the purpose of the gown. He had realized it was her answer to his unspoken declaration. She saw that he had found challenge, rebellion, a clashing of her will against his own in her choice of dress. He did not speak. If he had it would have made everything much easier. He just regarded her solidly, until, flushing again, she lowered her eyes once more.

The drinks came and she took hers in a rather shaking hand. “Cheers,” he said casually, and she nodded and drank. Not once did that steady brown gaze flick over the dress a second time. It only regarded the blue gaze of the eyes before him, until, with an indistinguishable murmur, she slipped the jacket loosely but
concealingly
over her shoulders again. Then he laughed. It was a hearty, amused, contagious laugh. It did away with regrets, spites, little trivialities. It pricked her balloon of unease as nothing
el
se could have, and suddenly she was laughing with him. Vexedly
a
t first, ruefully, then just laughter for laughter’s sake.

He did not explain his change of mood, so she did not either, but there was a truce between them as companionable as that night of her arrival when they had worked side by side and conquered a domestic crisis.

She knew it was only temporary, and he knew it, too, for he said, “I’m calling off my dogs for tonight. Miss Trent. How about you?”

Before she could respond he explained, “I do like to get my money’s worth, and that requires cooperation. I suppose—” lighting a cigarette “—it’s a thrifty habit I learned in my Redgates youth. A penny a week did not go far.”

“They get sixpence now,” proffered Cathy. She added, “Though of course you know all that, being a board member.” She had not thought her voice implied a doubt, but it must have, for he looked at her quizzically. “You don’t really believe I am a board member, do you?”

“You must be if you say so. It simply surprised me.”

“Why?”

“From the beginning you have shown clearly that you have no real confidence in Little Families.”

He shrugged at that and turned his attention to the small dance floor. “Too tired?” he asked, and when she said she would like to dance he rose and came around to her.

He was a decisive dancer. There was no uncertainty in the arms he put around her or in the firm grasp of his strong hands. Their steps blended smoothly. Cathy found she could relax, and that made for enjoyment. She looked up and said, “Did the foundation confer this dexterity on you?”

“They conferred on me physical jerks every Wednesday morning from seven to eight. Old Major Fitzgibbons gave them. It was his act of charity.”

“And a good one, too.”

“Probably, only we kids never thought so. No, Miss Trent, dancing came later in my career. To be precise, when the female sex entered into it.”

She did not comment. She was thinking that he would find plenty of teachers. Most women were attracted by tall dark men like Dr. Malcolm.

She was suddenly aware that he was watching her closely, and said hurriedly, “I asked because I’d like to start something like that myself. I believe the children could do with a few social attributes. Especially girls of Rita’s age group. Rita is growing up.”

“So I’ve noticed.” His voice was dry, and she looked up, trying to read the inscrutable expression in his eyes. As usual, she failed. The music stopped and they went back to their table.

They began dinner. It was an excellent one, and Cathy frankly enjoyed herself. “Mrs. Ferguson is a gem,” she told him, “but it is nice to have something not out of the little black book.”

They sat back waiting for coffee.

“Dance again?”

“No, thank you.”

“That leaves only one alternative, a tete-a-tete conversation.”

She raised her blue eyes to his. “Why not, Dr. Malcolm? I believed that was the real purpose of all this.”

He hunched his shoulders. “Not entirely the purpose but part of it. I thought it was high time you understood a few things.”

“Like
...?
”

“Like the statement you made a little while ago, Miss Trent. You said, ‘From the beginning you have shown clearly that you have no real confidence in Little Families.’ ”

Cathy inclined her head. “It has appeared so to me. Have you confidence?”

“No.”

“Then
...
”

For a moment there was silence, then with an abrupt movement of his head, as though brushing aside other issues, he said, “If we could advance ten years, perhaps more, maybe
less...
”

“What do you mean?”

He did not speak at once. He seemed to be selecting his words. “On your way up to Redgates on the night of your arrival here you mentioned the segregation of the sexes in the Australian section of Little Families.” He paused and then said,
“
That is
what I mean.”

He did not speak loudly or forcibly, but she was unmistakably aware of the force behind his quiet words. It was a white-hot force. It showed in his narrowed eyes, in the blanched knuckle bones of his clenched hands.
She, too, felt strongly on this issue, but not as strongly as this man before her. To him, she could see, it was a major disaster.

“I’m sorry,” she faltered, “I never dreamed ... I mean
...
”

“You did not think a thing like that could be so important?”

“Oh, I agree it is important, Dr. Malcolm, but you take the long view. The country is young. It still has growing pains. You must work to a certain stage, not arrive there.” She was suddenly conscious of a stricken light in his eyes, and her heart went out in sympathy and wonder and she leaned forward.

“I felt a little as you did,” she confessed. “It was when Mrs. Jessopp left. She swept out very outraged because I had said all children, boys
and
girls, should be kept together in their
own
family units irrespective of sex. It was then that Elvira stepped in. She said that was true, and most people admitted it, but things could not happen overnight, one had to wait for them. Then she told me—” and Cathy half shut her eyes remembering that gentle liquid voice “—‘we haven’t gone half your distance, so you’ll have to give us time. In a little while it will all be right. Keep that in your mind. Keep telling yourself in a little while.’ ”

The coffee came. He did not speak for several minutes. Then when he did his voice was a little blurred.

“Twenty-five years,” he said, “is not a little while.”

She looked across at him with a question in her eyes. He answered it.

“I was five when I was farmed out to Australia from England. That is twenty-five years ago now.”

“Yes?”

“Even then there was a movement to follow the English Little Families precedent of keeping brothers and sisters together, and even then people spoke as you do now of ‘in a little while.’ ”

“The country was in its infancy—still is,” defended Cathy.

“And members of Little Families are still separated if they are misguided enough to comprise both sexes.” His voice was bitter.

She looked at him curiously. Allowing that it was a sore point with him, he still seemed more than ordinarily upset. Could there be something
personal
in his bitterness? She waited, and after a while he spoke.

“There were two Malcolms on the ship that brought across our
particular cargo of experimental young. I was one. The other was—my sister.”

“Your sister.”

She sat silent a long while digesting his words. She remembered how she had been distressed over the separation of the Curtises and the Bannermans and how David Kennedy had assured her that these particular families were inured to being apart and were not, anyway, particularly sensitive types.