Ship's Surgeon (8 page)

She touched it. “I must have touched it as I ran from my cabin. It’s nothing.”

But Bill, the doctor, already had an ice-cold swab of cotton wool between his fingers. He dabbed and she shivered. He was very close, very male, and all at once she wanted nothing except to lean forward and let him take her weight. He wouldn’t have to hold her, or say a thing; only stand there like the big dependable man he was and let her rest against him for a while.

What idiocy. How he’d laugh if he knew her thoughts! She looked up quickly with a bright new smile which froze as she met his glance. He did know her thoughts and he wasn’t amused. There were small angry flames in the steel-blue eyes, menace in the way he smiled. His hand moved over her slim shoulder, cupped itself about one side of her neck, quite tightly.

“Emotional research?” he said with glacial calm. “Not at this hour or in this place, if you don’t mind. You’d better get back to your cabin.”

She took a long quivering breath. “You can be pretty nasty, can’t you?” she said thinly. “For a moment I thought you were human, and I felt in need of comfort—nothing else.”

His hand dropped. “You’d better have a pill,” he said, and found one for her. “Take it now.” He opened his cabin door, saw that the night steward was within call and beckoned him. “Miss Fenley was upset over that little business with Miss Wadia, but she’s recovered now. Take her to her cabin, will you?”

All very circumspect, thought Pat wearily, as she made to leave the cabin. And then, without volition, she looked at the wall above the bedhead, the wall which had been hidden by the door when she came in. A photograph was fixed there, the head and shoulders of a laughing young woman with a provocative wilful mouth and bubbly, light-coloured hair. And across the corner was written, in a firm challenging hand, “Ever yours, darling. Bonnie.” Pat looked away quickly, was aware that Bill had seen her summing-up of the photograph. And suddenly she felt too bitter and let down to care what he thought. Head high, a smile back on her lips, she walked past him.

“Thank you for the shot, Doctor,” she said clearly. “Goodnight.”

Barefoot, it is impossible to walk regally, but Pat managed to walk with dignity at least. She entered her cabin and closed the door, took off her wrap, washed her hands and got into bed. In the darkness she lay listening to the ceaseless wash of the sea and wondering why she felt as bruised as if she had been physically battering at a locked door. After a while her mind became startlingly clear, and she saw herself back there in the doctor’s cabin, forlorn and shaky and needing something which Bill Norton had interpreted as a careful doctor would interpret it. For that, she couldn’t blame him. But for other things she felt she would never forgive him; the icy rebuff ... and that photograph.

Was she the woman who had wanted him to become a fashionable London doctor? Pat didn’t think so; she looked jolly and uncaring, and Pat had the conviction that the photographer’s imprint at the bottom of the picture had read ‘Raymond, Sydney’. An Australian woman. Perhaps she had travelled out on the
Walhara
the trip before last. In Sydney, where the ship sometimes spent as long as a week, she had shown him her city. What was it he had said to Pat that night before Gibraltar: “I’d like to see Gib with your wide innocent slant.” He would have said something similar to ... Bonnie, some time before Sydney. And they’d grown friendly enough for her to inscribe her photograph: “Ever yours, darling.” And for him to fix it over his bed.

Pat felt chilly and damp with sweat under the blanket. That coldness of his was a pose, a defensive measure against women. She had met it before in doctors, particularly if they were attractive. Bill wasn’t good-looking; too rugged and angular. He did have a charm, though, and it wouldn’t have taken him long, during his houseman days, to realize that women were apt to fall in love with their doctor. And the very idea would have repelled him.

Pat’s head began to ache, but she couldn’t leave the subject. He was on his way to Sydney, would have a free month in Australia before he left for the Fijis. Perhaps by the end of that month he would decide he couldn’t leave this ... person; they’d have to marry.

He might at least have said something about her; instead, he’d hugged the woman’s existence to himself as though the whole thing were too new and brittle to be talked of. But she was there in his cabin with him during his leisure hours and through the night, a presence that laughed and was full of promise.

Dawn was silvering the porthole before Pat slept, and an hour later she was dragged back from the depths by the stewardess bringing tea and biscuits with an orange on the side. She sat up, and wondered whether she looked as ragged as she felt. She sipped tea, remembered Deva, and hurried into her dressing-gown.

On board the
Walhara
Deva was her reason for living. Not Bill Norton, nor that cruel joker who made the hairs stand out on her neck with fright when she saw his italicized writing. Just Deva Wadia. If she could keep that in mind all the way to Ceylon she might stand a chance of being at least moderately happy.

She did her hair and went quickly along to the stateroom.

CHAPTER FOUR

Pat did go ashore at Marseilles. She left the ship after lunch, with Van Pickard, Frank Thornton and Avis Markman, but Avis and the middle-aged Frank were joining up with others, while Van decided to hire a taxi for the afternoon for Pat and himself.

Van was what Alan would have termed an oddball. He was so friendly that it was impossible not to like him, but because he rather tried to sell himself as a ladies’ man it was also impossible to like him a great deal. Pat had never met any young man who was so difficult to know. He wouldn’t talk about business because this trip was in the nature of an annual leave, and when Pat put the usual companionable enquiries about his family, Van said,

“I left the bunch when I was twenty-one, and I’ve never been back. In London, I live at a bachelor club.”

A domestic environment less colourful Pat couldn’t imagine. No wonder the man had so little conversation. On a sightseeing tour he wasn’t such a bad companion, though, and he was as delighted as she with the gay centre of the historical town and the Vieux Port with its crowded fishing boats and pleasure craft. They drove along the Promenade de la Corniche and stopped to look over the islands lying like chunks of viridian stone in the azure sea. They returned by the Avenue du Prado, had tea and delicious little cakes at a cafe near the station, and then made the ascent of Notre Dame de la Garde. It was while admiring the wide sweep of Marseilles and the hills that Pat realized two others from the ship were sharing the experience; Kristin and her adoring fiancé, of all people. Pat was ready to nod and pass on towards the basilica, when Vernon Corey said, in his drawling, agreeable tones,

“Well, look who’s here, Kris; others from the boat. Hello, there. What do you think of this place?”

Van said inanely, “Quite a dump. We’ve been touring by taxi.”

“We, too,” said Kristin, in her most polite and delicate tones. “French history is most interesting, isn’t it?”

“I like the views—they’re great,” Corey said. Then he looked at Pat. “You’re the nurse who helped the doc when I smashed my glasses, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Did the cuts heal quickly?”

“Pretty soon, but I got a black eye—a beaut. That’s gone now, though. I never did thank you for what you did for me.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Kristin and I have been keeping a lookout for you, so that we could perhaps all have a drink together and a talk. If you’re going to Sydney...”

“I’m not, Mr. Corey, but you’re very kind.”

“But you’re going to Australia, aren’t you?”

Kristin said, in a voice which only just missed the flatness of boredom, “I told you, darling. Miss Fenley leaves the ship at Colombo.”

“Is that so?” The big man looked puzzled. “I’d have wagered your name isn’t on the Colombo section of the list. I’d have noticed it—yours being the same as Kristin’s. Maybe you ought to see the purser.” Instinctively Pat knew that Vernon Corey, beneath the money and the bulk, was an essentially good man. She had. noticed him chatting with others, ruffling a child’s hair, listening as though with enjoyment to the tedious ramblings of the old gentleman who was on his way to the Seychelles. There was almost an innocence about him; he would never wittingly hurt anyone, she was sure of that. She could see, now, why Kristin had uneasily decided to accompany him; he was a talkative, friendly Australian with stacks of money, and he expected shipboard acquaintances to be as large-hearted as himself, and as frank.

It was strange, but perhaps inevitable, that a man who had waited so long before considering marriage should be incapable of knowing how to choose. In this case, Kristin had obviously chosen him, not he her. Physically, he was not her cup of tea. She liked spare, distinguished-looking men, had once admitted that Pat’s father had attracted her simply by his thin straight nose and white wings at the temples; but in those days Kristin had been poor and quite plain. Hers was one of those faces that are transformed by beauty aids into a dark, slightly foreign luminescence, and it had taken a course in modelling, after the boys were born, to make her aware of all her potentialities.

Mr. Corey, in Pat’s opinion, deserved someone more honest. Perhaps that was why she said, rather deliberately, “No, I’m not on the Colombo list. If I possibly can, I shall continue on the
Walhara
to Melbourne. I have an uncle there.”

“To ... Melbourne!” Kristin had spoken so abruptly that everyone was silent, looking at her. She laughed quickly, slipped a hand round the big man’s elbow. “In that case we’ll be seeing you and Mr. Pickard for some time to come. Shall we move on, darling? You did promise me a visit to the Palais Longchamp.”

The two couples parted, and as she and Van returned to their taxi, Pat wondered how the Corey man would have reacted had she mentioned that Kristin had been her father’s second wife. Although she didn’t know the man, she felt he would be mortally hurt. Not because of the boys; he loved children. He’d be hurt because Kristin had lied to him, ignored her connection with Pat even here on the boat. He’d be hurt into hating her and casting her off. And, Kristin being what she was, you couldn’t blame her entirely. A lovely widow of thirty or so, childless and free to go anywhere, would be far more likely to snaffle a good job than one several years older and burdened with children. She had met Vernon Corey and let him think of her as other men thought; until, when she realized he would marry her, it was too late for the truth. She had set herself on a path from which there was no return. Pat hoped it worried her; she deserved to suffer more than a little.

During the next few days, as the
Walhara
steamed steadily south-east towards Port Said and the breeze became warmer and slightly humid, Pat devoted almost all her time to Deva Wadia. The Sinhalese girl seemed not to have suffered any ill effects from the nightmare, though her usual light spirits did desert her for a while now and then. It was as if she recalled something unpleasant, reflected upon it and eventually cast it aside. Pat thought it best not to mention it. Deva was improving quite rapidly now, and as well as the exercises, which were becoming a degree or two more strenuous each day, she sat in a long chair on deck every afternoon, and had tea there.

At first, the passengers hid their stares, but soon they were apt to take chairs nearby and start a conversation. Deva loved chatting, was candid and merry about herself, and even with Mrs. Lai looking blankly disapproving at her side she reacted naturally and spontaneously to friendly overtures.

“I like all those people,” she told Pat one night as she settled for sleep. “But they puzzle me. Why do they play so hard? That red man who throws the quoit for exactly half an hour each afternoon, and those two women who walk, walk, walk! What are they afraid of?”

“Putting on weight, I suppose,” Pat answered. “The ship’s food is so tempting that they all eat too much.”

“But if they have to work so hard after it,” said Deva, mystified, “why do they permit themselves to be tempted?”

“It’s human nature to take pleasures as they come, and if one has to pay for them afterwards, it’s just bad luck.” Deva looked up at her earnestly. “You are with me so much now. Do you have any of these pleasures?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Yet you are not happy, are you, Pattie? Is it because of the doctor and the shining woman with the white hair? I saw them together for a few moments, once. She looks very exciting in the little white shorts, with her long brown legs and scarlet sandals, but although the doctor smiled when he was with her he is not in love with her, I think.”

“I don’t suppose he is. They don’t worry me at all.”

“But you often think of things which cannot be spoken of, don’t you, Pattie? The doctor does also, but with him,” with a smiling grimace, “it is probably his patients. You were not here when he came to see me today ... or yesterday. Is it because I am so much stronger?”

“Partly. He used to come at a regular time, but he doesn’t now, because it isn’t necessary. He fits you in among other calls. Would you like a little ice-water before I leave you?”

“Lallie will give me some later. Pattie?”

“Yes, Deva?”

“You are not sorry you came with me?”

Pat leaned over her and warmly kissed her forehead. “I’m glad, very glad. I wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world! Goodnight, honey. Sleep well.”

It was true, thought Pat, as she walked out for a breather in the early darkness; as far as being here with Deva was concerned she had no regrets. A few worries, an indefinable heartache, but no regrets.

It was the one hour of the day when the deck was almost deserted. Passengers were having drinks in the cocktail lounge or dressing, and tonight the women would be taking extra care over their appearance because there would be dancing after dinner. Pat sighed gently and leaned sideways on the rail, looking over the dark, sparkling sea, which later on would be moonshot and full of magic. She knew a faint but persistent yearning, a poignant need. It was something in the air, a subtle quality which sent most people just slightly and delightfully mad, so that even the most staid married man flung a surprising compliment at another man’s wife, and no one minded, because this was the beginning of the East, where all was different. How blissful to be taking this trip as a honeymoon.

“I have just knocked at your cabin door,” said Kristin at her side. “As you were not there I thought I might find you star-gazing. For a fairly attractive young woman you’re surprisingly neglected.”

As a jibe, it misfired. With Kristin, Pat instinctively donned armour. She looked at the other woman in the dim deck-light, saw her slim and dark in a tightly fitting strapless dress and short jacket in brown and gold brocade.

“I’m not on a pleasure cruise, like everyone else,” she answered in level tones. “Why did you want me?”

Kristin took her time before saying coolly, “We have a relationship, you and I. Let’s acknowledge that first, shall we?”

“You mean to one another? Or have you decided to come right out into the open?”

Kristin’s dark eyes glinted angrily in the half light, but her expression did not alter; it was carefully blank with the hint of a smile at her lips. “You know perfectly well what I mean. We’ll be honest with each other. With your high principles you should appreciate that. Tomorrow, we dock at Port Said, and I thought it best that we should have a talk before then. You know, of course, that I had no idea you had booked through to Melbourne.”

“Does it matter?”

“Immensely. On this ship it takes three weeks from Colombo to Melbourne!”

“It needn’t bother you; so far we’ve seen very little of each other. We’ll go on that way.”

“It won’t be possible. Vernon is the friendly kind, and he’ll naturally hook on to you among others, when passengers start disembarking at various ports. And after Ceylon you’ll be free to mix with everyone.”

Pat turned completely, to face her. “You must be leading a tense sort of life now, Kristin. I’m surprised you didn’t try to prevent my coming aboard the
Walhara
in England.”

The dark head went back. “I thought of it, you can be sure of that. But the Wadia girl was a little too important, and I daren’t risk publicity. You put me in a spot where I had no option but to travel with Vernon, so I also owe you something for the several weeks of boredom.”

“Boredom? Is that all you think of the man?”

Kristin gestured impatiently. “Does he look my sort of man? Have sense, for heaven’s sake. I like Vernon and I mean to marry him—but I’m not in love with him. I doubt whether I’ve ever been in love in my life.”

“I doubt it, too.”

Kristin’s tones went smooth and hard. “You sounded horribly girlish when you said that. You hate me, and all because I left the twins where they’d be better looked after than they would have been with me.”

“You left them for selfish reasons—because you wanted freedom.” Pat shrugged. “In a way it was best, so there’s no need to talk about it. If you sought me out to ask me to keep out of your way in Port Said, all right. I’ll do that.”

“Have you booked for the organized trip ashore?”

“No, it starts too early, and I’m not free till noon.”

“Good.” Slowly, Kristin twisted the huge diamond on her finger. “There’s something more. I want you definitely to leave the ship at Colombo and return to England.”

Pat felt a constriction in her chest and the rail suddenly pressed like a rod of iron into her back; she must have collapsed against it, quite hard. “Are you asking me not to go to Uncle Dan? You have a nerve, Kristin! How do you think the boys are going to finish their education if I don’t get some financial help? Will you promise to let me have money for them once you’re married to Vernon Corey? No, I’ll bet you won’t! Because you’re not too sure of him yet—there’s his family to deceive, isn’t there? You wear a fortune on your finger, and he gave it to you, but underneath you’re just a wee bit uncertain. Uncle Dan was my father’s brother and he’s actually offered to do everything for the boys, if they’ll go out to Australia.”

Kristin caught her breath audibly. “No! I can’t have that. Vernon has interests in Melbourne, and I shall have to go there with him sometimes. Besides, how do you think I’d feel, having the boys within car distance all the time? I’d never feel safe!”

“That’s your worry, isn’t it? You chose an unsafe way of living and I’m afraid you’ll have to bear the consequences,” said Pat, in far more forcible tones than she had ever before used to Kristin. “With me, the twins come first, always. I’ll never understand how you could deny the existence of your own children, but now that you’ve done it you can darned well live with it. If you’d paid something towards their education...”