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His firm mouth twitched. ‘But I have. His name is George, and he’s car-sick.’
Clotilde gave a delighted chortle and then remembered the time. ‘I must fly!’ she exclaimed.
She was racing for the side door leading to the Nurses’ Home when she bumped into Bruce, but before she could speak he said crossly: ‘What was all that about? I’ve been standing here…’
She pulled up short. ‘Oh, Bruce, I’m so sorry— I was admiring Dr Thackery’s dog. A Jack Russell… I didn’t see you.’ She added unnecessarily: ‘I’m late.’
‘Then you’d better get a move on,’ said Bruce loftily.
Not the best start to the rest of the day, thought Clotilde, tearing off her suit and getting into uniform. Now she would have to try and see Bruce that evening—hours away. But by then he might have forgotten about it, and after all, she told herself reasonably, one didn’t ignore someone one worked with, especially someone as goodnatured as Dr Thackery.
The afternoon was busier than she would have liked, with two emergency admissions, Miss Knapp choosing to have an attack of hysterics just as teas were being served, and Miss Fitch next to her going into a diabetic coma. Not the easiest of days, thought Clotilde, drinking a hasty cup of tea in her office before starting on the medicine round, and to crown it all Dr Evans had been on the ward, throwing her weight around, annoying both nurses and patients. Usually Clotilde had found the women doctors easy to get on with; they cheerfully looked after themselves if they saw that the nurses were busy, but Dr Evans had had other ideas.
She insisted on having someone in attendance, and that in the middle of the bedpan round…
Clotilde went off duty at last tired and irritable, glad that the day was over. She gobbled her supper in the company of those of her friends who had just come off duty, then she went down to the lodge to see if Bruce had left a message. Old Diggs the porter looked up from his paper.
‘Dr Johnson said he’ll be free at half past nine and you was to go for a drink together.’
‘Thanks, Diggs.’ She felt suddenly much better; it would be late before she got to bed, but that would be a small price to pay for an hour of Bruce’s company. She went back to her room and changed into a dress, and since it was damp and dreary outside, a raincoat. There was no point in dressing up; the local pub was used by almost everyone at the hospital and it was so near that all one needed to do was slip on a coat or a mac.
Clotilde was prompt and it was five minutes before Bruce arrived—and not in too good a temper, she saw, her heart sinking.
‘Hallo.’ His greeting was abrupt. ‘A pity you’ve not bothered to get into something decent, now we’ll have to go to the Lamb and Thistle, I suppose.’
‘It’s a bit late…’ She didn’t know why he was in a bad temper; too much to do, probably. A drink and a quiet chat should put that right.
But it didn’t; he was edgy and ill at ease until she said forthrightly: ‘What’s the matter, Bruce? Had a bad day?’
‘Nothing’s the matter.’ He covered her hand with his and gave it a squeeze. ‘And the day was no worse than others. I had a long talk with Sir Oswald—he’s offered me a junior partnership.’
‘But that’s marvellous Bruce, absolutely wonderful— I can’t believe it! Of course you accepted?’
He shrugged. ‘How can I? I’d have to buy myself in.’ He mentioned a sum which sent her dark brows up.
‘But that’s twice what Father said he’d give us, and I don’t honestly think that he could manage any more. Do you know anyone who’d lend it to you?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I do—at least, I’d have to do it through someone I know.’
‘Not moneylenders?’ asked Clotilde sharply, and got laughed at for her pains.
‘Silly darling—no, of course not, and I won’t do anything until I’ve talked to your father. He might be able to manage.’
‘I’m sure he can’t. He never talks about money, but I heard him talking to Mother about some shares that had dropped and he sounded worried.’
‘Well, it can’t be as bad as all that.’ Bruce sounded uninterested. ‘They’ve gone on holiday, haven’t they, and the house isn’t kept going on peanuts.’
He began to talk about his day and Clotilde, who would have liked to have made plans for their wedding, listened cheerfully. She wasn’t tired any more; it was splendid news that Bruce had been offered a partnership with Sir Oswald—something he had always wanted. She had wanted it too, of course; it made their future together a good deal nearer, and after all, she was twenty-five, almost twenty-six, and Bruce was thirty. They went back presently and parted in the entrance hall. Even though there was no one there, only old Diggs, they didn’t kiss. Bruce had said it was a bad example for the students.
They barely saw each other for the next couple of days. Clotilde had to be content with a quick wave from a distance and a note left at the lodge telling her that he was too busy to meet her. She accepted it more or less cheerfully; his work came first and when he was free he would be too tired to want to go out. She washed her hair, did her nails and went to the cinema with some of her friends. Bruce had said he would be free on the following day and she assumed that they would spend as much of it together as they could manage. It was Dr Thackery’s round in the morning, but she had given herself a half day and she would be free after dinner.
The round went smoothly. Clotilde was ready and waiting, with Sally beside her, loaded with case notes and X-rays, when the ward doors were opened and Dr Thackery, hedged about by Jeff Saunders, the Evans woman and the rest of them, came into the ward. His ‘good morning’ was pleasant, impersonal and brisk and Clotilde was equally brisk. After the few years they had worked together, they appreciated the fine line they had drawn together between friendship and getting on with the job. Miss Knapp was dealt with with smooth competence and a quite definite decision that she might go home on the next day, the emergency cases which had been admitted during the week were examined at some length and Mrs Perch, almost at her last breath now, was gently teased and chatted to, just as though Dr Thackery had no other patients to see.
Presently they moved on to the next bed— Mrs Butler, a mountain of a woman, propped up in bed against her pillows, puffing her way through an asthmatic attack. She took a great deal of time too, and Clotilde felt a twinge of impatience. Her delightful nose had caught the first whiff of dinners; they would never be finished on time—which meant that she would be late off duty and Bruce would have to hang around…
An urgent tap on her sleeve broke her train of thought. Clare, the ward clerk, gave her a scared look because no one was supposed to interrupt the round. She stood on tiptoe to reach Clotilde’s ear. ‘There’s a phone call for you in the Office, Sister. Urgent—they wouldn’t give a message.’
‘Did they gave their name?’ Clotilde’s whisper was almost soundless.
Clare looked helpless. ‘I didn’t ask, Sister.’
‘It might be as well if you dealt with the matter yourself,’ said Dr Thackery suddenly. ‘We’re almost finished, aren’t we?’
He looked round and smiled at her and she found herself smiling back at him, even while she deplored his eavesdropping. She nodded to Sally to take her place and hurried down the ward. It would be anxious relations of one of the patients, she had no doubt. It was a favourite ploy to ring and say it was urgent and not give a name, because that made it necessary for her to go to the phone herself instead of letting the ward clerk deal with it. She lifted the receiver and said, ‘Hullo?’ then because there were sounds of distress at the other end, she added encouragingly: ‘This is Sister Collins.’
Rosie’s voice sounded in her ear—a voice thick with tears and distress. ‘Miss Tilly—oh, Miss Tilly, however am I going to tell you? Your dear ma and pa…’
Clotilde felt her insides go cold. She asked in a rigidly controlled voice: ‘There’s been an accident, Rosie—where are they?’
‘Oh, Miss Tilly, they’ve been killed! In a car crash in France, on their way home. The police came,’ and then in a bewildered voice: ‘What am I to do?’
Clotilde felt the ice inside her spreading, her arms felt leaden, her face stiff and her brain frozen solid. She said carefully: ‘Don’t worry, Rosie, I’ll come home and see to everything.’ After a pause she added: ‘You’re quite sure, aren’t you, Rosie?’
‘Yes, Miss Tilly. Will you be long?’
‘No, a couple of hours, perhaps less.’
She put the receiver down carefully and sat down behind her desk. There was a lot to do, but just for the moment she was quite incapable of doing it.
It was ten minutes or more before Dr Thackery and his entourage reached her office. He opened the door, glanced at her frozen, ashen face, and turned round so that his bulk filled the doorway.
‘I believe Sister has had bad news,’ he said quietly. He nodded to his registrar. ‘Start the round on the Men’s Medical side will you? Staff Nurse, take over for the moment, will you, and bring some brandy here as quickly as you can.’
He didn’t wait for them to answer but went into the office again, shutting the door after him.
Clotilde hardly noticed him, but when he came close and sat on the edge of the desk in front of her chair and took her icy hands in his she said politely: ‘So sorry I didn’t finish the round, but I— I’ve had some bad news.’ She took a deep breath. ‘My parents have been killed, somewhere in France—they were on their way home from Switzerland. They go most years because Mother likes it there.’
The hands holding hers tightened. ‘My poor girl!’ Dr Thackery’s voice was very gentle, he went on holding her hands and when Sally came in with the brandy, nodded to her without speaking. When she had gone he picked up the glass. ‘You’re going to drink this because you need it,’ and like a child she did so, coughing and spluttering and catching her breath, but there was a little colour in her cheeks now.
‘That’s better. You want to go home, of course? We’ll settle that first.’ He didn’t let go of her hands, but dialled the Nursing Supervisor and presently put down the receiver. ‘That’s settled,’ he told her. ‘You can go home as soon as you want to. You have a car? Not that you’re in a fit state to drive. Is Johnson free?’
And when she nodded he picked up the phone again. Clotilde, her shocked mind dulled by the brandy, only half listened; it sounded as though there was some difficulty. She leaned forward suddenly and said: ‘Let me,’ and took the receiver from Dr Thackery. Her voice sounded odd but it was almost steady. ‘Bruce, I’ve had some bad news about—about Mother and Father. Would you drive me home?’ She added tonelessly: ‘They’ve been killed.’
His voice came over the wire very clearly. ‘I say, I am sorry—how simply frightful! Of course you must go home straight away. The thing is I simply can’t get away…’ and when she interrupted with: ‘But you’re free today,’ he went on: ‘Yes, I know, but Sir Oswald’s asked me to lunch and I simply must go—it’s my whole future. I’ll come down just as soon as I can afterwards. Why don’t you go and lie down for a bit—get someone to give you a sedative. You’ll feel more able to cope and later on we can get things sorted out.’
She didn’t speak, only gave the receiver back to Dr Thackery, her face stony and whiter than ever. She said: ‘I’ll be quite all right to drive myself. Bruce can’t manage…’ She stopped and looked at him from huge dark eyes. ‘He’s having lunch with Sir Oswald,’ she told him.
Dr Thackery said nothing at all to this, only gave her the rest of the brandy to drink and picked up the phone again. When he put it down he said with calm authority: ‘Home Sister is coming here for you, you will go to your room with her and pack a bag.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll be at the front entrance in twenty minutes. I’ll drive you home.’
The brandy had made Clotilde feel peculiar, numb and still unable to think. She stared back at him and nodded obediently.
CHAPTER TWO
THINKING ABOUT it afterwards, Clotilde could remember very little of the drive to Wendens Ambo. Dr Thackery had spoken seldom and then in a calm matter-of-fact voice which had hardly penetrated her bewildered thoughts. They weren’t really thoughts, anyway, just odds and ends of ideas which came to the surface and vanished again. Once when she thought of it she said: ‘I didn’t tell Staff about Mrs Perch’s daughter…’ and he had answered at once: ‘I’ll take back any messages you want to send,’ and she had thought: Anyone else would have told me not to worry—like Home Sister, who had helped her pack her case and given her tea to drink and told her over and over again not to worry.
Rosie met them at the door, her nice elderly face puffed with weeping. She gave Clotilde a worried look and then glanced at the doctor.
‘Rosie— I may call you that?—would you make a pot of tea? Then we’ll sit down and talk, shall we?’ And when she nodded, thankful to have someone to tell her what to do, and opened the sitting room door, he took Clotilde’s elbow and ushered her into the room.
Perhaps it was the sight of her mother’s work basket, standing on her little table, a piece of tapestry hanging from it, or the row of silver cups her father had won at various sports in his youth, which melted the ice inside her. Suddenly she was in floods of tears, her head resting on Dr Thackery’s enormous chest, his arms holding her close. She cried for a long time. Rosie came in with the tray of tea and sat down quietly at a look from him, and only the phone ringing stopped her. Dr Thackery made no haste to answer it. He mopped Clotilde’s eyes for her, sat her down in an easy chair and went into the hall to answer it.
‘The police, wanting to know who will take care of things,’ he told her, and handed her a cup and saucer. ‘Drink up, there’s a good girl.’ He sat down near her, smiled at Rosie and started on his own tea. ‘This has to be talked about,’ he said gently, ‘and you will feel better when you do. Have you a brother, uncle or anyone else in the family who can deal with the formalities?’And at Clotilde’s blank look: ‘Someone who can go over to France, identify your parents and arrange for them to be brought back here?’
Clotilde said in a tear-sodden voice: ‘I’ve an older sister; she’s married and lives in Canada and she’s expecting another baby in two weeks’ time. I’ve no uncles or cousins, and my god-father died last year.’
‘What about young Johnson? I imagine the authorities would allow him to cope with the necessary arrangements.’
She remembered Bruce’s voice—sympathetic but anxious not to be involved in anything which might spoil his chances with Sir Oswald. ‘He’s—he’s got his job, I don’t suppose he could get leave. Besides, he’s assisting Sir Oswald all next week while the Senior Registrar’s away.’
‘Ah yes,’ Dr Thackery’s voice was dry, ‘that makes it impossible for him to get away, doesn’t it? I wonder if I would do. I didn’t know your parents, but I imagine that your solicitor or even the local parson would come with me. I could make all the arrangements necessary for their return while you attend to matters at this end.’
He didn’t wait for her to answer but went on in the same matter-of-fact voice: ‘Now, there are several people to inform, aren’t there? Your solicitor, the parson, your sister—perhaps it would be best to tell her husband and he could decide if she is to be told? I’ll arrange for you to have leave from the hospital, and if you feel you can, write to Sally Wood and give her any instructions which might help her.’
He looked across the room at Rosie. ‘I’m sorry I shall have to leave you quite soon. Eat something, the pair of you, and then lie down for an hour or so. Before I go I’ll do some phoning, if I may. I’ll need some phone numbers.’
It was Clotilde who got up and fetched the telephone book for him. She felt curiously empty and tired. The shock was beginning to wear off now and she was aware of the sharp edge of pain. She said: ‘Do you have to go?’
‘Yes, but I shall be back this evening. Can you put me up for the night? I’ll be fairly late, I’m afraid.’
Rosie said eagerly: ‘You’ll want your supper, doctor. I’ll see and cook you something.’
‘That would be kind, but don’t stay up for me. Something kept hot on the stove will suit me very well.’ His blue eyes studied Clotilde from under their lids. ‘If I might suggest that you both go to bed? I expect you leave the key under the mat?’
Clotilde nodded. ‘Everyone does. But you don’t need to come back, really you don’t. You’ve been so kind and helpful—you’ve done too much already. We’ll be quite all right.’
He only smiled gently, got up and went away to the telephone. Presently he came back. ‘Your vicar will be round very shortly and your solicitor will be down to see you in the morning. Remember what I said and have a rest after lunch.’ He bent and kissed Rosie’s cheek, and at the door turned to kiss Clotilde too. ‘Look after each other,’ he said gravely. ‘I’ll see you, and I can let myself out.’
‘What a nice gentleman,’ said Rosie, ‘doing all that for us too—and him no more than someone at the hospital. What happened to Mr Johnson?’
‘He couldn’t get away.’ Clotilde busied herself putting the cups and saucers back on the tray. ‘Rosie, I can’t believe it, but we’ve got to go on as usual, haven’t we? I’ll go and make up a bed for Dr Thackery while you do something for lunch, I’m not hungry and I don’t suppose you are either, but he said we must have something.’
Rosie was crying again, and she went and put her arms round the dear soul. ‘Rosie, don’t, please don’t! The next few days are going to be awful and we’ve got to get through them somehow.’ She kissed her and Rosie said between sobs:
‘He kissed me too—so natural like, just as though he was a friend and really minded.’
‘I think he does mind. He’s always kind to his patients, and calm and quiet.’ Clotilde added thoughtfully: ‘But I don’t know what he’s really like.’
She made herself busy until the vicar came—an old man, and very shaken by the news. She gave him a glass of sherry because he looked as though he needed it, then poured one for Rosie and another for herself.
‘Your friend has everything in hand,’ observed the vicar. ‘You are most fortunate to have someone so helpful at such a sad time.’ He added inevitably: ‘Is Mr Johnson not with you?’
‘He’s unable to leave the hospital.’ Clotilde was filled with fresh unhappiness. The one person who could have consoled her wasn’t there. And he couldn’t help it, she reminded herself—an important engagement with Sir Oswald just couldn’t be missed; his future depended upon pleasing the great man. It wasn’t as if Bruce had known her parents well. They had met on countless occasions, but in all fairness there was only a mild affection between them. A tiny voice reminded her that Dr Thackery hadn’t known them at all, yet he was prepared to go to France for her.
She listened politely to the vicar making tentative arrangements and offering help. ‘The village will be shocked,’ he told her. ‘Your parents were well liked. You will stay on here, of course? We would not like to see you go.’
‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ said Clotilde, ‘but I expect Rosie and I will go on living here, at least until I marry. We’ll have to think about that later.’
He went away presently and she and Rosie had their lunch, sitting at the kitchen table, not talking much and not eating much either. They washed up together and then, obedient to the Doctor’s instructions, went and lay down, and surprisingly, slept.
They had tea, then Rosie busied herself making soup to keep hot on the stove and a caramel custard to follow it. ‘Because I’ll be bound he’ll be hungry when he gets here.’ She asked hesitantly: ‘When will he go to France, Miss Tilly?’
‘I don’t know, he’ll tell us, though.’ Clotilde went to answer the phone yet again; the news had got around and people were ringing up all the time.
They had their supper quite early and then because they couldn’t bear to talk anymore, said goodnight and went to their rooms. Clotilde didn’t undress at once but sat at her window, looking out on to the dark evening, not even thinking. It was much later when she got to her feet, cold now, and went to run a bath. She could hear Rosie snoring and uttered a thankful sigh; the poor dear had had a shock and she must be worn out with grief. She would have to go to bed herself, she supposed, and she took as long as possible undressing and bathing, brushing her long hair for ten minutes or more before at last getting into bed. It surprised her to see that it was already almost eleven o’clock. She was still making up her mind to put out the light when she heard the Bentley surge almost silently up to the front door. She had been dreading the moment when she must lie in the dark and try and sleep, now she seized on the chance to put that moment off till later. She got up, put on a dressing gown and slippers, and went silently downstairs.
Dr Thackery was in the kitchen, a saucepan lid in one hand, eyeing the soup. He looked up as she went in, said ‘Hullo’ in an unsurprised voice and then: ‘How about sharing some of this soup with me? I dislike eating alone.’
Clotilde came slowly into the kitchen, her face puffy with weeping, her hair hanging in a curtain down her back, her nose pink. All the same, she still looked quite lovely.
‘You didn’t eat your supper.’ He wasn’t asking, just stating a fact, and she said quickly: ‘We did try, really we did.’
He turned and fetched two bowls from the dresser and added them to the neatly laid tray Rosie had left ready, while Clotilde went to the bread bin and got out a loaf and sliced some bread.
‘Have you been busy?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I saw Sally, and she sent a great many kind messages and you’re not to worry about a thing; she’s been sent extra help until you get back and all the patients are okay. She won’t bother you with phoning, but if you want to ring her, she’d like that very much.’
They ate in silence for a minute or two and presently he went on: ‘I’m going over to France tomorrow. I should be back in a couple of days at the latest. I’ve arranged things with the undertakers.’ He mentioned the name of a firm in the nearest town. ‘That’s all you need to know at present, I think. As soon as you feel that you can and you want to, you can take over.’
Clotilde got up and fetched the coffee from the stove and put the soup bowls into the sink. There was one of Rosie’s bacon and cheese flans on the table and she pushed it towards him. ‘Please have some, you must be hungry. I can’t thank you enough for all you’re doing…’
He smiled at her. ‘You would have done the same, I fancy. I’ve been high-handed, haven’t I, but the matter is urgent. Authority doesn’t like to be left hanging around.’
‘No. I— I wouldn’t have known what to do anyway.’ She drank her coffee and some of the burden of sadness seemed to have been lifted from her shoulders. ‘I still can’t believe it.’
‘That’s natural, and it’s nature’s way of protecting you until you can cope again.’ He finished his flan. ‘Now go to bed, Clotilde, and go to sleep. I’ll clear away these things. If you can’t sleep, come and say so and I’ll give you something. Where am I sleeping?’
He was as calm and matter-of-fact as a brother. ‘The first door on the left at the head of the stairs.’ Suddenly bed seemed a nice place to be; shock and grief had numbed her to a standstill and all she wanted to do was sleep. She said goodnight and went upstairs, and slept the moment her head touched the pillow.
Dr Thackery left soon after breakfast, but not before he had written a list of things to be done and which would keep her, and Rosie, for that matter, busy until his return. ‘I’ll phone you before we leave France,’ he told her. ‘Two or three days’ time, I expect—if there’s a delay, I’ll let you know.’ He went out to the car and Clotilde went with him, reluctant to see him go. ‘I’m going to St Alma’s first, and I’ll be in touch with your solicitor.’ He looked away from her, across the garden. ‘Perhaps Johnson could manage to come down and be here when I get back?’