Nurse with a Dream (11 page)

“No, you ass. This boy. Well, man, I mean, because after all he is a doctor, but only just, I’d say. I mean you could still see bits of eggshell and fluff on him. Gregory, his name is.”

“Is he nicer than Derek?”

“Derek? Derek’s only a stop-gap till I get something better; though, mind you, this Gregory didn’t really see me at my best.” She sighed ecstatically. “I’ll be lie’s looking at my inside right this minute. I hope it’s pretty.”

“Don’t get big ideas. Your inside can’t be
very
pretty.” “To a doctor,” Bridget said knowledgeably, “the most remarkable things are pretty. I’ll bet he’s saying ‘that’s the neatest little stomach I’ve ever seen—what’s her name?’ ”

Liz Hannon interrupted, tearing in with two bars of chocolate under her apron. “Sister’s giving everybody bell-tinker; you know how she hates visiting-day—it upsets the patients and untidies the wards. Two husbands gave me choc., and I’m slimming—at least, I’m dieting, but honestly I haven’t lost an ounce. Here you are, children.”

“Am I allowed chocolate?” Bridget wondered.

“I doubt it. Shall I ask for you?”

“Good lor, no, not till I’ve eaten it. Thanks a lot.”

“I’ve been sent to see if you’re all right, so you’d better be. How are you really, Bridie?”

“Tell Sister I’m dead. That’ll shake her.”

“I will. Oh—Jacky, your luggage came back, so I unpacked for you. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought your things would get awfully creased in that rucksack. I found this pinned in your dress, so I thought you’d like to keep it.” She laid a tiny sprig of white heather on Jacky’s bed. “White heather! It didn’t bring you much luck, did it?”

Jacqueline laid the sprig on her palm, studied it curiously, frowning. “White heather! Timberfold? Surely the two go together, somewhere. White—”

“Look out, Nurse,” warned Bridget sharply in her professional voice.

Liz grabbed Jacky as she sagged, white-faced. “She’s fainted, Bridie.”

“No, I haven’t,” said a muffled voice. “I’ve remembered.”

CHAPTER FOUR

On
Sunday Guy came, laden with fruit and flowers and a box of chocolates. He tiptoed across the polished floor, watching Jacqueline nervously as if she were a time-bomb. She held out both hands, feeling warmly kin to him, an entirely unexpected feeling of belonging.

“Guy! How pleased I am to see you! The only bit of family I possess this side of the Channel.”

He smiled wryly. “Is that the only reason you’re pleased to see me? Because you’re homesick?”

“I—no, of course not. Do sit down and stop looking nervous. And let me introduce you to my fellow-sufferer, Bridget O’Hara.”

Guy breathed more freely. “I expected to find you all bandaged up. And Deborah said you didn’t remember me.”

“I’m promoted to a neat dressing now, and I do remember you—and Gypsy and everything. How is Aunt Connie?” She was excited. She was talking too much and knew it. But she had not, until this moment, realised how truly homesick she was. Ill amongst strangers—friendly strangers, but not the same as someone of one’s own. And here was Guy, part and parcel of the Timberfold legend in which she’d grown up; part—in a way—of home.

Liz came in and there were more introductions. Jacqueline was proud of her visitor. Quite obviously, neither girl could take her eyes off him. Just before the end of visiting hour, Jimmy Tummey arrived with a message from Matron, asking Mr. Clarke to see her in her room.

‘To be vetted,” said Liz. “Bet she doesn’t let you go when she see how young and good-looking he is.”

“I don’t really want to go.”

Bridget exploded with laughter. “You were all over him, girl. His eyes were sticking out like chapel hat-pegs by the time you’d finished hugging him.”

“But that wasn’t because of him. Not personally, I mean. It was because he sort of represented by family—and I suddenly knew I was homesick.”

“He doesn’t think so. He’s obviously smitten and thinks you are, too. Trust little Bridie to know the signs. Too bad he’s your cousin, you can’t marry him.”

“Half-cousin,” Liz corrected. “And she can. I looked in the prayer-book during morning prayers.”

Jacqueline sighed. “Don’t you two think of anything but marriage?”

Liz grinned. “Hardly ever. A man is a meal ticket for life.”

Even Guy’s visit could not dispel the gloom which overtook Jacqueline when she thought of spending two weeks at Timberfold. She remembered all too clearly Connie Clarke’s dour manner and grudging welcome. More than that, she remembered the brooding atmosphere, as if the house itself resented her. But she did not see how she could get out of the visit. Matron seemed pleased with the idea, so did Sister Clarke who had arranged it, and Home Sister had been scandalised when Jacqueline timidly suggested to her that she did not want to go.

“If you ask me,” Bridget said, though nobody had asked her, “Matron is sending you to Timberfold until the Broderick affair blows over. I mean, why all the hoo-ha about a totally unimportant junior—and whoever heard of two weeks’ convalescence, when we’re short-staffed and you’re not actually dying?”

Jacky banged her clenched fist on her knees. “There is no ‘Broderick affair!’ Anyway, why should Matron want to protect me from him?”

“Search me!” said Liz.

Bridget took another of Guy’s chocolates, rummaging under the top layer to find a hard square one. “My innocents! She is protecting Alan B. from
you,
Jacky. He’s her white-headed boy, and you can go to the devil or to Timberfold, so long as dear Alan is safe. She knows you were at the Moor Hen with him.”

“At the same time. Not
with.
There’s a difference.”

It was Tuesday. Nurse Clarke had to appear before Matron at five o’clock. Feeling as if her knees were jelly, she dressed, in uniform. In cap and crisp apron, she could take a scolding meekly, saying Yes, Matron, No, Matron, in a subdued voice. In ordinary clothes she felt too much an individual, the Jacky who had been spoiled by doting grandparents, a girl with a will of her own, a quick tongue. She had planned to make a last appeal to Matron to allow her to stay at the Nurses’ Home, but if Bridget was right—if Matron really did want her out of the way—appeal would be useless.

She adjusted her cap to the severe angle favoured by Matron but avoided by the nurses whenever possible, and grinned ruefully at her reflection. Save your breath, my child. You’ll have to go—a sacrifice on the altar of the great god Broderick.

She was so anxious not to be late that she was too early and had to wait on a wooden seat outside Matron’s door.

This was a mistake. It allowed time for butterflies to develop in the hollow space under her trim belt.

Matron’s door opened sharply and—of all people—Alan Broderick emerged. He ignored the small figure in uniform, and, amused, she watched him march down the corridor, his erect determined walk quite different from the easy lope with which he’d covered the miles of sheep-track across the moors.

At the corner he stopped, hesitated, turned back. “Sorry,” he said, smiling. “The penny didn’t drop at once. I haven’t seen you in uniform before. Well, how are we? No scars, I hope?” There was a teasing lilt in his voice.

She stood up politely, conscious of her lowly status, and of Matron behind that closed door. If she knew what was happening on this side of it!

“Dr. Parsons says there will be no scar. They cut a bit of my hair off, but it’s growing again.” She blushed hotly. “Mr. Broderick, I didn’t know who you were, the other day. I’m afraid I was dreadfully rude.”

He nodded. “Most reprehensible, Nurse. However, as a patient we’ll excuse you. Water-jugs, indeed! Don’t let it happen again.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m
very
sorry.”

She looked up and saw that his eyes were smiling, that there was a twitch of amusement at the corners of his mobile mouth. And suddenly she realised he had not spoken in his own voice, but in Matron’s; not an out-and-out imitation, but unmistakable all the same. Her lips quivered, and they both laughed softly, like conspirators. Suddenly they were in the heather again, munching beef sandwiches by the beck. She smiled impishly.

“I think you should apologise, too.”

His jaw dropped in comical amazement. “Me?”

“You as good as called me a liar. Nobody has ever—”

“Perhaps because you’ve never been found out before.”

“Do you suggest I’m in the habit of lying?”

He studied his square, practical finger-tips. “We all are.” She stiffened indignantly. “But I’ve remembered what happened.”

He dropped his pose and was instantly, gravely attentive. ‘Tell me.”

“I can remember walking towards the Bubbling Well. Connie Clarke directed me.”

“Did you arrive?”

Her eyebrows went up. “But of course. I—er—” She stopped abruptly, dropping her eyes.

‘Tell me, Nurse.” The mocking inflexion was back in his voice. “Did you wish?”

She admitted it, feeling a fool.

“And then—?”

“I don’t remember any more.”

“But from the Bubbling Well you can see Black Crag. And perhaps you thought: Ah, there it is! What a sell for everybody if I climb it, all by myself!”

“No.”

“You’re not suggesting the boulder standing beside the well toppled over and dunted you?”

She stared at him. ‘The—boulder?” Somehow, the boulder seemed important. “I seem to recall—no, nothing is clear. Could the boulder have hit me?”

“It’s a big as a cottage. By the way, how did you get on at Timberfold?”

“Ambushed, by Connie Clarke. My step-aunt.”

“Who welcomed you with open arms?”

“Not exactly. But I met Guy Clarke, and he was awfully nice. Did you know our Sister Clarke is his sister?”

“And you cousin? No, I didn’t.”

“She is, and—oh, Mr. Broderick, I have to go in to Matron at five, but if you could help me, I’d be so grateful.”

“My poor child, I can’t get you out of a wigging.”

“I don’t ask. Sister Clarke and Matron have fixed up for me to go to Timberfold for two weeks, to convalesce. Guy will fetch me to-morrow. Everybody thinks it a splendid idea—except me. Could you forbid it or—or something?”

“Why should I? You’re looking peaked, and moor air will heal even a broken leg, given a chance.”

“Maybe, but I prefer to stay here.”

“In the Nurses’ Home? Chattering till all hours, drinking unwholesome brews, listening to traffic on the High Street and breathing fumes instead of pure air? Perish the thought. Got anywhere else to go?”

“Well—not really.”

“Timberfold then—why not? Good air, early to bed, just what the doctor ordered. Timberfold itself may be no Grand Hotel, but it’s quiet.”

She shivered. “The wrong sort of quiet Sinister, as if the house hated me enough to hurt me.”

“Juggins! You banged your silly head and have bad dreams. If they’ve invited you, by all means go. Do you a world of good.”

“I suppose so. Only—”

“Only what?”

“I’m frightened.” She had not said it aloud, not actually admitted it, even to herself. But he had drawn it out of her, brought it into the open. And very silly it sounds, she thought crossly. What a fool he must think me!

He did not laugh. She was pale, her eyes dark-shadowed, and he was struck with pity. The child really was scared stiff. “Of what?” he asked gently. “The redoubtable Connie?”

She considered. “No. Her bark is fierce, but I don’t think she bites. Not Connie.”

“Your cousin, then? What is he like?”

“Tall, dark. The tough film-star type.”

“He sounds out of place on a remote farm.”

“No, he belongs—part of Timberfold, the living part.”

“Afraid of him?”

“Dear me, no.” Her colour rose faintly, not unmarked by his keen eye.

“And I know you’re not afraid of things that go bump in the night. So you see—you’re being silly.”

Her face was young, stubborn. “I don’t want to go, silly or not.”

“Silly or not, you are going. I order it.”

“Yes, sir.” There seemed no other answer one could give to Alan Broderick.

“Good girl. Good lord, I’ve made you late for your appointment. I’ll explain.”

He did so, briefly, then gave Jacqueline a little push into the room. Matron was seated behind her desk. With her was Sister Deborah Clarke, who rose to leave as soon as Jacqueline entered. Matron motioned her to sit down.

“Don’t go, Sister. We haven’t finished the lists. You know why I want to speak to Nurse, and you have some arrangements to make with her.”

That settles it, Jacqueline thought desperately. There’s no hope of a last-minute reprieve.

Matron said she was more grieved than cross. A nurse’s off-duty time is her own. Nevertheless ... It was like school again, especially the bit about the honour of the hospital. So like school that Jacqueline almost curtsied when she was dismissed.

“No—wait, Nurse. I forgot. Sister Clarke wishes to say something.”

“Only that I shall collect you from the nurses’ sitting-room at two to-morrow afternoon, Nurse. Be ready
with your
luggage. The car will be here about two-fifteen.”

Jacqueline’s ears burned. Was she being escorted to the car like a delinquent under the care of a policewoman? Did they think she would run away?

“Please don’t stay up for me, Sister. I can manage, thank you.”

Deborah’s tone was freezing. “I shall not be in bed, Nurse. In any case, I shall want to speak to my brother.” How hard it was to believe Deborah was Guy’s sister! Now she knew what he meant when he said it was “amusing” not to tell her about his sister. No wonder he found the situation piquant. All the same, it was a little cruel not to have warned her.

Jacqueline was having a nightmare. It started pleasantly, as nightmares often do. She was standing on the moor enjoying the sun, the soft breeze, when a giant dog appeared from nowhere, showing bared fangs and growling. It chased her, always close on her heels however hard she ran. She screamed with terror and woke trembling.

“Holy Mother!” said Bridget, putting on her bed-light. “What’s wrong?”

“I had a dream. A hideous dog chased me.”

“Poor kid; it has scared you! Shall I ring? You could have a sleeping-pill, I daresay.”

“No, thanks. Don’t bother the night nurses. I’m all right, sorry to disturb you.”

“Think nothing of it, kid.” Bridget had a fringe of blue plastic curlers across her forehead, the rest of her hair securely netted in a pink string-bag arrangement. Her skin shone with cream and she slept in white cotton gloves. She made rapid adjustment to all these beauty aids before settling down once more. “Good night.”

Towards morning the dream recurred, but this time it was just an ordinary sheep-dog, with white paws and a white patch on its side, shaped like a map of England. It looked at her, a paw upraised, then a man’s voice shouted. Instantly the dog lay down. She turned to look for the owner of the voice, then suddenly there was pain and terror, jerking her awake. She sat up, gasping.

Bridget was twisting curlers out of her hair. “Another dream?”

“The dog again. But it wasn’t a dream. It happened!”

Bridget hung head downwards, looking underneath the two high beds. She surfaced, red-faced. “No dogs here.”