Ship's Surgeon (15 page)

“It would recover in a tree, wouldn’t it?” she asked Bill. “It would stand a chance, though it might be kinder to kill it.”

“No, we’ll find a tree.”

She stroked it with a finger as they walked, and Bill, looking at her, said, “You’re soft as butter, young Patsy. I don’t wonder you get hurt.”

“I do try not to, but I’d rather get hurt than feel nothing.” She looked up. “You’re not like that, are you, Bill?”

“I was torn about a bit once,” he admitted wryly. “I told myself then that I’d never let it happen again.”

She lowered her head, continued stroking the little yellow bird in her hand. “But don’t you think it happens to most of us, at least once—an experience of that kind? You just have to live it down, and perhaps it makes you less vulnerable.”

“Do you think you’ll live Alan down?”

“I have to.” She wanted to tell him that already Alan was a hazy figure in her mind, but more than that she wanted to keep this day just for herself and Bill. So she changed the subject. “Is there a park somewhere? I want a bushy little tree where the bird can hide till his wing is stronger.”

They found their tree, spread a huge leaf over some twigs and-rested the little bird in its centre. And as they walked on, Pat’s hand swung idly and was caught by Bill’s, casually. Pat felt that in the future this would always be Bombay. Bill, big and self-assured at her side, negligently swinging her fingers while he told her about his student days and his spell on research and tropical medicine.

They had tea in a tiled palace of a cafe, and sat on the veranda above a thronged street, watching the cars and the people and the palms in a courtyard down below. The sun lowered, the air cooled slightly, and on the warm exotic breeze came the scents of jasmine and frangipani and joss-sticks. India, thought Pat ecstatically. And for the first time during the whole voyage she was carried away by an atmosphere. Marseilles, Port Said, Aden, Karachi ... they had been exciting, but not shot with magic, like Bombay. If only this day with Bill need never end.

Actually, that part of it had to end rather abruptly. Bill looked at his watch and swiftly stood up. “We’re due to sail at six—which means about six-twenty. It’s now a quarter to ... come on!”

They took a taxi, exhorted the driver to get a move on. He was so blandly happy at having a fare that he settled back and chatted cheerily about the night life in Bombay; there was much which both the sahib and the memsahib would enjoy. But perhaps the sahib would return alone? There was even more that the sahib alone could enjoy! Bill had to promise a double fare before the man realized that they were serious about wanting to rejoin the ship.

It was quite dark when they reached the
Walhara
and Bill hustled Pat up the gangway. In fact, it was six forty-five before they sailed, but that last rush had been exhilarating, to Pat anyway. She promised to meet him for a drink before dinner and went along to Deva’s stateroom, where she stayed until the girl had had supper. At seven, when the ship was moving south once more, she left Mrs. Lai setting out cards for Deva’s favourite game, and went to her own deck to take a shower and change.

She put on a pink dress which had wavy lines of black round the skirt, and clipped a small pearl to each earlobe. The brilliance of her own eyes sobered Pat, but only for a moment. She wasn’t building up too much, she told her other self impatiently. This was a shipboard affair, and one way and another she had earned it. Surely she was sophisticated enough to take it in her stride, especially after Alan? But had she felt for Alan what she now felt for Bill? Maybe not, but with Alan she had been sure of the future and was let down; whereas with Bill she had no illusions. In his mocking and very charming way he had made sure of that.

When she met Bill in the cocktail lounge he grinned and characteristically lifted one eyebrow.

“You look marvellous,” he said, as he seated her. “So marvellous I’m a little suspicious.”

“Of what?”

“Your emotions. What will you have—martini?”

“Please. Why are you suspicious of my emotions?”

“They’re too sudden, drawn to the surface by relief, the hot sun and a spot of masculine admiration.”

A tiny cloud swept across the blue and was gone. “I’ve been unhappy and now I’m happy, that’s all.” And quickly: “Everything all right in the sick bay?”

“We’ll get a case or two with all these new people aboard, but it’s quiet at the moment.”

“What about that baby?”

“The parents landed this morning and I had him taken straight to a hospital. He may pull through this lot, but heaven knows about the next. That’s how it is in the overcrowded East. Here’s your drink. To your green eyes, Patsy—may they always shine as they do tonight.”

They dined, and Pat went below with him, and sat in his surgery while he checked up in the sick bay. Then they walked, and looked over the sea, which was dark and sprinkled with silver coins. There was no moon, but the sky was soft black velvet sown with stars. Because a film was in progress the promenade deck was almost deserted, but they did not linger there. Bill led her to a companionway and she mounted ahead of him, thinking, with her heart very near her throat, that there was something very intimate about mounting stairs at night with a man.

This was the officers’ deck, and it seemed a long, long way up from the sea. There were no lights, except a tiny one above each companionway, and the cabins were in darkness too.

“Am I allowed up here?” she asked, whispering for no reason at all.

“With me, yes.” He leaned on the rail, looked sideways at her. “It’s pretty late, and you’ve had an exhausting day. This will clean the cobwebs from the corners before you go to bed. Lie there in that lounger, if you want to.”

“The officers do themselves well, don’t they?” she commented, “but you can’t blame them; this is their home. This lounger’s comfy—the nylon cover doesn’t even crackle.”

She leaned back and looked at him as he stood near her feet. With his usual calm movements he lit a couple of cigarettes and came round to give her one. Straight from his lips it tasted wonderful. When he sat down at her side and looked across at the sea her moment was complete. She was glad of the darkness; it hid so much.

But she could see his face; its angular ruggedness, the thick line of his brows, the springing brown-gold hair. When he looked at her she flushed in the darkness. There was a minute’s silence before his fingers touched her shoulder and the flesh quivered, but the next second he was on the side of the lounger and leaning over her, pinning down both shoulders while he kissed her. It numbed her lips, that kiss, and painfully stretched her throat. Her impulse had been to slip her arms about his neck, but his pressure on her shoulders made her helpless; from the chest up she was in agony.

He let go of her suddenly, the chair was shot back by his knees as he stood up. He spoke in clipped tones. “The day wouldn’t have been complete without that, would it? But somehow it didn’t quite come off, probably because I didn’t want to kiss you.”

“Then ... then why did you?” she whispered.

“Because I wanted to prove something.”

“And ... did you prove it?”

“Yes. I’ve decided I’d sooner spar with Avis Markman than get intense with you—you’re not taking
me
for a ride on the rebound. Maybe I’ll stay in my cabin with Bonnie Venning; she’s never yet let me down.”

Pat was so shattered that she might have said anything just then, had not the loudspeaker above them murmured dulcetly, “Doctor Norton, please. Casualty at the surgery. Doctor Norton!”

For fully thirty seconds he stared down at her. Then he took a short angry breath and strode across the deck to the companionway. It was almost half an hour later that Pat found the strength to propel herself to her cabin.

The next day Pat had to start Deva’s packing. Apart from saris, underwear, some furs and several pairs of shoes and sandals, there was not much in the way of clothing, but during her stay in England, Deva had collected all kinds of things which she had insisted upon taking home to Ceylon. There were complicated jigsaw puzzles, books, a compendium of games, expensive cosmetic outfits, caskets of French scent, typically English ornaments and statuettes of the poets, and many other oddments. It had not been known till the last moment that Deva would wish to carry with her all the gifts which had been showered upon her in the hospital and nursing home; otherwise, they might have been crated and stowed in the ship’s hold. Instead, they had had to be pushed into the trunks, and had Deva not been a very important little person Pat might have had to pass a wearing hour or so at the Customs. To avoid a hitch at Colombo, it would be as well to place all the gifts in one trunk and hand a fist of the contents to an agent. So Pat begged plenty of paper from the stewardess and wrapped and tucked away and listed, and chatted to Deva while she did so.

Now that they were nearing Ceylon the Sinhalese girl was so excited that she had gone off her food. “What will my father say when he sees me walking from the ship?” she exclaimed, a dozen times. “My uncles will be there too, and perhaps my father’s business partner. They all put me on the plane for England, you know, but I was sick then, very sick and frightened, and I did not want to leave them. Now I am well!”

“And your mother?” Pat asked. “Will she meet you?”

“Oh, yes. And she will weep because I am recovered. But I assure you she weeps silently, because my father does not care to see a woman’s tears in public. He is a strict man.”

“But not with you?”

There was mischief in Deva’s small laugh. “I am the only girl, you see, so I am the favourite. Also, I was so weak that he spoiled me. He is a splendid man, my father.”

Pat suspected that Deva’s mother had striven to keep her daughter unspoiled and thereby had forfeited just a little affection. But it sounded like a loving family, and Pat caught her breath when she reflected that but for daring modern surgery Deva might have had to die young.

At last the trunk was locked and labelled. The rest of the packing could be left till a couple of hours before they were due at Colombo. Pat gave herself an airing, and found that the new passengers were playing deck games with furious concentration. They seemed to be Australians, mostly, some of them on the way home after touring the Far East and others returning from business trips. One beefy man slapped Pat’s back and said, “Hey, lass, will you join us for deck tennis? That’s my two sons the other side of the net.”

They were fair young giants who looked nice but unintelligent. Pat played one game as the father’s partner, and retired thankfully; the pace had been lethal, the humour excruciating. But she was glad to see the new faces, the natty little cheongsams bought in Hong Kong, the sun-jackets embroidered with the Taj Mahal, the coolie hats from Singapore. Any fresh sight was welcome, any diversion drew her. Since rising this morning after a sleepless night Pat had found she hated to be alone.

There were only three people on the afterdeck; a young couple who were engrossed in each other, and Avis Markman. Avis sat in a corner facing the sea, a sketchbook on her lap and a pile of fashion journals beside her on the deck; she seemed to be working. Pat hesitated, but went right on, to pause at Avis’ side. The other looked up with a calculating stare.

“Well?” she asked coolly.

Pat ignored the rudeness. She eyed the latest sketch and said, “If you’re aiming to design for Australians you ought to get matey with the new crop on board. Their tastes are varied, I should say.”

“I don’t remember asking your advice.”

“You’ve got it, gratis,” said Pat. She couldn’t get hot about Avis, but there were one or two things she had to get off her mind. “This is the first time I’ve spoken to you since Karachi. How are you getting along without your two table friends?”

“I don’t think you and I have anything to discuss. I warned you about them, but I don’t remember your thanking me for it.”

“I didn’t thank you for the anonymous letters, either, did I? But then you haven’t been very grateful for the fact that your name was kept out of the case, so we’re quits. I still can’t think why those two men dragged you into their schemes; they must have seen you were the kind to cave in under pressure.”

“They live by their wits. I met them while I was waiting to embark. When they heard that I was alone and an artist, they got friendly, and after we were on board they said a few jokes would enliven the voyage, and the usual kind of unsigned letter was played out. I’ve never been on a long trip before, so I was a soft touch and easily deceived. But I was dubious about writing those messages, especially as they were only to you, and after the first one I jibbed because I was afraid you might take them seriously and report them. Frank knew I had no personal cash and that I was easy game.” She tossed a windblown white ponytail. “They promised me five hundred pounds—the same amount they promised you if you’d co-operate—and that’s huge money to me—so I sent you the second envelope. But stealing isn’t so dreadful as the other thing they had in mind.” She forgot her aloofness for a moment and thrust out her jaw angrily. “Quite innocently, on that first day, I’d told those two creatures that I’d done a year’s nursing. When they discovered there were no jewels aboard they spoke of abduction, and said I was just the person they needed to look after the girl. She had to be kept fit while they were hiding out in India. That’s when I broke up. I spent two days in the ship’s hospital and daren’t say a word to anyone because they’d threatened me, and when I came out Thornton wouldn’t let me out of his sight. I felt utterly, desperately ill.”