Nurse with a Dream (8 page)

Then a rough voice, startlingly near, shouted—and the dog instantly sank motionless into the heather, its head lowered on its fore-paws.

A dog and a voice—yet no one visible as far as eye could see. The dog’s master must be taking cover.
Where
was obvious ... behind the boulder. But why?

She shouted, “Is anybody there?” The stupid game of hide-and-seek annoyed her, she hated to be spied upon. Besides, she felt slightly foolish, pacing round the pool like that. There was no answer, but the dog’s eyes moved as if it saw someone behind her. She swung round.

She saw a vague shape rise up out of the heather, felt an agonising blow and saw blackness starred by splinters of light. As if from a great distance, she heard a dog bark.

Then she dropped like a log into the heather.

CHAPTER THREE

Jacqueline
knew she had passed from sleeping to waking. She had been deeply asleep for a long time. So long, she could not remember where she was.

She was not in her grandmother’s house, for the bed was too hard and the room smelt quite different. It was the polish smell that made her think of Grandmother, but this polish was not so fragrant, it was more antiseptic—like a hospital.

But of course—it
was
the hospital. She was no longer the spoilt, petted granddaughter, she was Nurse Clarke.
Nurse
to all those darling, tiresome old women, though less than the dust beneath the feet of Sister.

She had a splitting headache, her neck and shoulders hurt abominably. Was she going to be ill? No, that was ridiculous—nurses are never ill. A couple of aspirins would fix it; would have to fix it, because if this particular headache persisted, she’d be stupid with pain and make mistakes. Sister and the staff nurse did not tolerate mistakes in very junior nurses.

Surely it must be time to get up? She opened her eyes, and the light stabbed like a sliver of glass. She closed them again quickly, with a faint groan.

A voice said, “She’s awake!” And because she had believed herself alone in her narrow bedroom, she forced her eyes open again.

A uniformed nurse stood by her bed. Jacqueline thought it was Liz. She said painfully, “My head aches. I’ll have to take some aspirin before I go on duty. Am I late?”

A comfortable voice said, “You’re not going on duty today, Nurse. I’m going to send Liz Hannon to practice on you, so you must be a good patient.”

The screen was moved slightly, so this time she was able to open her eyes in comfort, and saw the stout figure of Home Sister in a startlingly white apron and the plain pink of the St. Simon’s sister’s uniform.

“Am I ill? What happened?”

“That is what we want to know. You fell and bumped your head. No bones broken, but you’ve had quite a knock; so you must lie still and do as you’re told. I’ll give you something for your headache.”

“Is Sister very cross because I’m not on duty?”

“She says you’ll be more addle-pated than ever after this—but she’s not cross, you silly girl.
I
shall be, if you don’t immediately drink this and go to sleep.”

Jacqueline slept and woke again. It was dusk and the screens had been removed from her bed. Painfully she turned her head, to find out where she was, and encountered a pair of bright dark eyes watching her from an adjacent bed.

“You look better. Practically human, in fact. I’m Bridget O’Hara—tummy trouble, on a diet of pig-swill and cow-cake. I’ll bet you haven’t been here before—it is the staff sick-bay, and we’re the only inhabitants. Crusoe and Friday sort of style. You’re Jacky Clarke, aren’t you? How’s the head?”

“Horrible. Did someone hit me?”

Bridget grinned. “Don’t
you
know? All that’s known here is that you arrived in an ambulance under very distinguished escort. Are you a dark horse, Jacky?”

“I don’t think so. My mind is a blank.”

Bridget leaned out of bed to look at her more closely. “Lost your memory, have you? I’ve always wanted to see a lost-memory case. Can’t you remember a thing?”

“Name—age—where I live—the old woman in Lister. I can remember everything, but—” She put her hands to her temples and discovered her head was bandaged, her arms scratched. “I can’t remember what happened after supper on Friday. What day is it to-day?”

“Monday.”

“What are all these scratches?”

“Ah-ah! That’s what his lordship wanted to know. Furious, he was. Had Matron and Home Sister running round in circles like a couple of juniors. I’ve never seen him in such a wax. Little Bridget lay low and said nuffin’. Pretended to be asleep in case he started on me next.”

“I don’t believe it! You’re pulling my leg.”

“Honest, no kidding. Look out—Sister.”

Jacqueline drifted off into sleep again, and dreamt vividly of lying on something springy and faintly scented, which tickled her cheek. There was a man, too. He had gentle hands, and he lifted her easily in his arms, cradled her head on his shoulder. Her nose was buried in the good cloth of his coat, which smelled of smoke and peat. His voice was kind and she felt wonderfully safe.

When she woke again, Liz Hannon was bringing in the tea-trays. Bridget looked at hers with disgust.

“I never have luck. Why couldn’t I get ill with something decent? Look at this disgusting muck!”

“Now you know! Perhaps you’ll be a bit more sympathetic when you dish it out to the patients.”

“I’m always sympathetic! There’s a nice boy on Men’s Surgical says I’m the most sympathetic nurse he’s ever had. What’s young Clarke having?”

“Never you mind!” said Liz, winking at Jacqueline. “What on earth happened, Jacky? Tell Liz all, but make it snappy or I’ll never get done. We haven’t had a replacement for you and my feet are practically red-hot. We’ll never get done to-day.”

“Honestly, Liz—I can’t remember. At least I—no, that was a dream.”

“It might not be. Have you got glimmerings of memory? Tell Bridget, dear.”

“Shut up, O’Hara, you shouldn’t bother her. Take your time, Jacky. If you don’t remember to-day, you may tomorrow.”

“She can tell us her dream, can’t she?”

Jacqueline smiled wanly. “I know you’re both dying to know—and believe me, so am I! But my dream was that I was lying on something springy and—yes, scratchy, I think. It tickled my cheek.”

“Scratchy? Could that account for your arms?”

“This was a dream, I tell you. There was a man—dark, with blue eyes.”

“Goody!” said Bridget, forgetting to eat. “Good-looking?”

“Not a bit. He had a scar—just a tiny one under his chin. I saw it when he picked me up.” She frowned. “The funny thing is, I’d seen it before. I mean, I sort of recognized it. He picked me up and held me in his arms quite easily, and said—”

“Darling, I love you?”

“Certainly not He said ‘you funny young juggins, you
are
giving me a lot of trouble this week-end, aren’t you?’ ”

“Then what happened?” Liz demanded, her mouth gaping slightly.

“I woke up.”

“One always does when a dream gets interesting. I wonder why? Heavens, I must fly. Good-bye, girls—look after yourselves.”

“I guess we’ll have to,” said Bridget. “You shouldn’t be talking at all, young Jacky. Shut your eyes and let me get on with my work.” She took a book from her locker and groaned. “I failed my prelim, the first time. If I fail again I’ll just die quietly in a corner. Oh, heck! These horrible bones. Why can’t human beings be born filleted?”

Jacqueline closed her eyes obediently, but immediately began to worry about her own examination work and whether the blow on her head had driven out all the knowledge she had already acquired so painfully. She began to rehearse the bones, starting at her toes, but by the time she reached the knee the effort was becoming too great and she fell asleep.

The days slid past Jacqueline lost count of them as she dozed into and out of the orderly hospital routine; sometimes she talked to Liz or Bridget; at times she was not patient, but nurse, as the round of washing, bed-making, locker dusting, temperatures and dressings went on. She worried about her “corners” as her bed was made with swift impersonal strokes, or anxiously checked the contents of a trolley in her mind.

One morning she opened her eyes to find Matron by her bed, tall, slim, neat in navy blue dress and flowing white cap.

“How are you, Nurse?”

“Quite well, thank you, Matron.”

It had always amused Jacqueline to hear nine patients out of ten say “quite well, thank you” when Matron made her majestic round, her routine inquiry. Even those bold enough to tell Matron they were ill soon found themselves conforming to the stock pattern. There was a look in those penetrating grey eyes which said:
I
know exactly how you are, and in the next ward there are patients much, much worse!
So if one were well enough to speak at all, one said meekly
quite well, thank you.

Now I’m saying it too, Jacqueline thought. She felt horribly nervous, for this was not the daily visit of state, but a special, private visit, and she felt vaguely she ought to have put on a clean apron. She said timidly:

“I’m sorry to have been so much trouble, Matron. I’ll be ready for duty soon.”

“The doctor will decide that, Nurse. You will return to duty when you are told.” She took a chair and sat by the bed. “Are you ready to tell us what happened?”

“I don’t know, Matron. Perhaps if someone told
me
what happened, it might help to bring something back.”

“Possibly. We’ve pieced a good deal together. I’ll speak to Doctor about that.”

Jacqueline was overcome by the idea of Matron and whoever “we” might be piecing her week-end together. She must have shown this in her face, for Matron smiled just as if she were human. “Did you think I
wouldn’t
know, Nurse? When one of my gels goes off on a weekend’s leave and returns in an ambulance, I want to know where she has been and what she has been doing. And of course there are other people, too, who want to know—Don’t worry about it, don’t try to force yourself to remember—but we do hope that in time you’ll be able to fill in certain gaps. I wrote to your grandmother.”

Jacqueline digested this information, and the thought of her beloved Grand’mère brought weak tears to her eyes. “I—I never thought—she’ll be worrying, not hearing from me.”

“I wrote fully at once. I am responsible for all my nurses.”

Her tone sounded faintly ominous. “Matron—you’re not sending me away? I feel much better, truly.”

“No, I’m not sending you away, though if your people were in England I should certainly send you home to convalesce. But to France—no, the journey would be a strain. Have you any friends or relations who could take you for a week or so?”

“I don’t know of anyone, Matron. I haven’t been here long enough to make friends.”

“What about your cousin? Could they possibly take you at the farm? I’ll speak to Sister.”

This seemed Greek to Jacqueline, but she said meekly, “Thank you, Matron. It is kind of you.”

“Kind? Naturally I am concerned for your welfare, Nurse.”

After Matron’s departure, Bridget popped up from under her blankets like a rabbit out of a hole. “Whew! I pretended to be asleep, but I heard the lot. You’ll be for it, my girl, when you get up. You went off alone, hiking or something, didn’t you? Of all the crazy ideas! She’ll have you in her room for that, in a clean apron, see if she doesn’t!”

“She seemed kind and very concerned.”

“You bet she is! Don’t you realise this may be a scandal, and on the fair name of St. Simon’s, too. The old girl is in a wax. What did she mean, cousin?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Bridie, do you realise I’ve lost a whole week-end out of my life and no one will tell me where it went? After all, someone must know! If I came in an ambulance, someone called it. Perhaps I was in a road accident?”

“You poor crittur! I never thought of it like that. You must be desperate to know. Listen, have you ever heard of a place called Black Crag?”

“Never. At least—well, no.”

“Whether or no
t
, you fell off it. You were found at the foot of it with your head all blood, by a certain person—naming no names—who went there to look for you, expecting to find your bleeding corpse at the bottom. And there you were—except you weren’t a corpse. You were carried two miles across heather to a road where the ambulance was waiting for you ...
Jacky,
I’ve got it! Your dream—heather!”

“Heather? It could be. Yes, why not?”

“So that part wasn’t a dream. And the man?”

“He was definitely a dream.” Jacky closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, because the exciting thought had come to her that if the heather was real, the man might be real too. And if so, she wasn’t going to discuss him with Bridget O’Hara ... because she had liked this man very much.

It seemed that Dr. Parsons was satisfied with Jacqueline’s X-rays and her general progress, because the next day she was allowed to sit up. He was a stout, fair man with a neighing laugh and a passion for growing irises, which he managed to do nearly all the year round.

“Well, Nurse, I think we shall rear you. Nothing broken, but you had a nasty fall and you must go steady.”

“When may I return to duty, Doctor?”

He neighed with laughter. “When I say. Not yet. Go home for a couple of weeks. Oh—you can’t, can you? Don’t you live in France or somewhere? Well, the almoner will find somewhere for you, if you haven’t relatives who could take you. Right-ho—good-bye, good-bye. Take care of yourself.”

“Return to duty!” Bridget sniffed scornfully. “You must be crazy. Why didn’t I fall off a crag? Look, infant—hear me this chapter, will you? There are some questions at the end of it—page twenty-seven.”

Nurse Hannon opened the door and had time to press a warning finger to her lips before standing aside, straight as a ramrod, to allow a visitor to sweep past her. Jacqueline pushed the text-book under her top sheet and hoped it did not show. She was not supposed to read yet.