“I think not. You see, she only helps with some clerical work in the Social Worker’s office, and it is not very exacting, I gather. And she has always let it be supposed that as she and Steven had money of their own she doesn’t really need to work. But what did you mean, Barbara?”
“Well, she was talking yesterday—not directly to me and not in the slightest confidence—about Steven and his Nigerian appointment, saying that it was no wonder he’d succumbed to the climate since, through no fault of his own, when he went out his whole mental and physical resistance had been sapped. He had no reserves, she said, with which to combat anything he might have to face. She paused there to allow that to sink in, and when someone had asked her what she meant, she said that a girl he had been in love with had encouraged him almost to the point of marriage and then thrown him over at the last minute. And then, with an air of challenge, she asked if anyone could blame a sensitive man like Steven for allowin
g it
to destroy his whole spirit. Anyway,
she
certainly couldn’t
!”
“Was that all?” asked Kathryn, her face white.
“It was—if only because of the restraint of everyone present in not asking her who the girl was. But if anyone had, I can’t decide whether she would actually have mentioned your name—risked slander, in fact. Steven
did
ask you to marry him before he left England, didn’t he, Kathryn?”
“Yes—and I refused him because I didn’t love him and hadn’t entertained for a moment any idea of marrying him. But Steven accepted that, and he didn’t
blame me. We parted friends, and at the time Thelma knew that.”
“Then why should she have concocted this fantasy since?” puzzled Barbara. “Could it be that she wanted you two to marry so much that her disappointment for Steven had to find a scapegoat in you?”
Kathryn shook her head. “Thelma never wanted Steven to marry me,” she said slowly.
“But
?
”
“She’s younger than he is—Steven is thirty-five
—
but I think she must always have dominated him as she does still. I sensed from the beginning that she would resent his marrying me—or even anyone to whom he might transfer his loyalties. I hate saying this about her, but I think if I’d ever considered marrying Steven, Thelma in the background would have made things too difficult.”
“You would have been marrying Steven, not Thelma,” Barbara reminded her gently. “No one in love should allow in-laws to matter so much.”
Kathryn sighed. “If I had loved Steven, that would have been different, I daresay. But I didn’t, and I’ve always been content to leave him to Thelma’s influence. Going out to Africa with Steven wouldn’t have solved matters either, for she has always planned to go out there too, I understand.”
“Then the sooner she goes, the better—or learns to hold her tongue,” declared Barbara, with unwonted asperity. “After what you’ve told me, the things she implied yesterday were a sheer, wanton destruction of
your character
—
”
“She ‘named no names’, remember,” put in Kathryn a little bitterly.
“But that may have been only because we didn’t
question her. It could be that, given the right confidential atmosphere and a really sympathetic ear, she wouldn’t have any scruples, though of course nobody who
really
knew you would listen
—
”
“No one who knew you would listen.” But Adam Brand must have listened to Thelma’s version of the break with Steven, for there could be no other explanation of his distorted judgment of her action. Adam Brand had based his first impressions of her, a stranger, upon the trust he put in Thelma Carter’s word! That meant that he must know her very well indeed, and at least as well as he knew Steven. Even better, probably. For though Steven would surely have told the truth, only a closeness with Thelma that went far deeper than friendship could have persuaded Adam Brand to accept and voice her judgment as unquestioningly as if it were his own.
Strangely, Kathryn found that she cared that it should be so, even more than she minded that Thelma was setting no check to her tongue elsewhere.
More than anything it mattered that Adam Brand should come to judge her fairly.
More than anything it mattered that he, of all people, should know her for what she really was, and her thoughts began to grope for ways in which that might be achieved.
She supposed that she could face Thelma in his presence, demanding that the other girl should repeat her malice. But how undignified that would be! She could write to Steven, asking him to see that Adam Brand learned the truth. But how to explain to Steven why she cared that he should? At every turn of her thoughts pride stepped in, telling her mockingly that for pride’s sake she would do nothing—nothing at all.
She shivered suddenly and Barbara exclaimed: “You’re cold, dear! I should have lit the fire
—
”
“I’m not cold,” Kathryn assured her quickly.
“Then I’ll bring Carol down and get the tea. Victor should be in at any minute now.” She added laughingly: “Do play Snakes and Ladders with Carol, won’t you? It’s her pet craze at the moment, and if I have once more to slide down that revolting reptile that wriggles from the top of the board to the bottom, I shall scream!”
So Kathryn and Carol settled to their game, Kathryn becoming almost as eager over its fortunes as the child, and finding in their shared laughter a sure, cool retreat from the distaste which Barbara’s news had aroused.
Just as Barbara brought in the tea the telephone rang.
“Victor—what do you bet?” she said resignedly, and when she returned from answering it she announced: “It was. And he isn’t—coming home to tea, I mean. He’s giving Cramp Major an hour’s coaching in the Elizabethan dramatists, will have tea in the staffroom and be home later. Oh, and he’s bringing in for a drink someone he’s ‘run up against’—an old pupil, I gather. You know,” she added, pouring tea, “if you put Victor’s ex-pupils end to end they’d reach an incredibly long way. A
n
d he seems to remember them all, and to ‘run up against’ more than you’d suppose possible.”
“I daresay a lot of them look him up, don’t they?” asked Kathryn.
“Yes, and I’m so glad for him. I’ve sometimes thought that ‘my’ boys, as he calls them, are his compensation now for—other things he’s missed.” Ba
r
bara’s glance went momentarily to Carol, and Kathryn sensed that in the child she had found a bracing against her own fruitless memories.
Barbara said: “Do you know, I think I hear Edward stirring. Do you suppose he could take a little nourishment?”
“Could he?” Carol sought Kathryn’s professional advice.
“Oh yes, I should think so.”
“What could he have?”
“Well
—
” Kathryn hesitated, suitable diets for
sick toy bears not being within her daily experience, and it was Barbara who came to the rescue, whispering in an aside:
“You’ll find Edward can take anything that Carol particularly likes—I’d suggest chocolate biscuits myself.”
So Edward was brought in, wrapped in a piece of blanket and looking interestingly convalescent. And if he wasn’t seen actually to consume chocolate biscuits, at least three disappeared from the dish, no questions being asked by either grown-up.
Carol was duly bathed and put to bed before Victor Thorley came in, but Kathryn, protesting that she really ought to go, lingered on for a while, hoping to see him before she left.
At last voices were heard in the hall, and Barbara jumped to her feet to greet her husband as he ushered in his companion.
Kathryn had risen too, to find to her surprise that, as he towered above Victor stoo
ping
to kiss his wife, Adam Brand’s eyes were meeting hers across the room.
Victor was introducing him to Barbara: “Brand, my dear. You wouldn’t remember him. He was in the Sixth at Repstow during my last year there.”
Barbara held out her hand. “Yes, Repstow was before my time with Victor, and before he had to give up his job there for something less demanding. His doctors assured him he would find it in day-school work
—
But what strange illusions doctors suffer from, don’t they? Tell me, Mr.—er—what are you doing now?” Clearly she had not caught her guest’s name. “I’m a doctor.”
“Oh
!
” Barbara’s little yelp of dismay at her
lack of tact coincided with Victor’s:
“I should have told you, dear. Brand has just taken
up an appointment at the Wardrop
—
”
Upon which something seemed to click into place in Barbara’s mind as, with a glance at Kathryn, she extended a hand each to her and to Adam, drawing them together, saying to Adam: “Then you’ll be the Dr
.
Brand of whom Kathryn has told me? You’ve even met already?”
“Yes. Sister Clare and I met on the ward for the first time yesterday.” Adam’s smile was polite and his tone studiedly non-committal. But he went drily: “At this point surely someone should remark, ‘It’s a small world, isn’t it?”’
“Well, so it is!” Barbara defended the platitude gaily as Victor handed drinks. “Haven’t we just proved it—first you and Victor; then your knowing Kathryn
!
”
“I deliberately looked your husband up,” remarked Adam, with cool significance.
“Implying that you’ve had Kathryn thrust upon you?” laughed Barbara. “Come, that’s not very gallant
of you, Dr
.
Brand! I declare I resent it—for Kathryn’s
sake!”
Kathryn flushed, and resented for herself the slight nod of apology which Adam Brand accorded her. He went on to answer a question of Victor’s as to his immediate history before coming to the Wardrop, and as the two men talked she was to realise that his judgment upon her must have been based on what Thelma had told him, as he could not have met Steven in person for a very long time.
He was telling Victor: “Yes, I decided to specialise in pediatrics as soon as I was qualified. I had some time at Creswell and at Dursington”—mentioning two children’s hospitals—“and more recentl
y
I’ve
ret
urn
ed from a year in America. I accepted the Wardrop appointment when I returned to England three months ago.”
“Well, you couldn’t be more fortunate than in having Kathryn as a colleague,” declared Barbara loyally. She hesitated, then said to Victor shyly: “May I tell him about Peter?”
Victor nodded agreement, and she did so. At the end of the sad little story Adam asked: “And no other children since then?”
Barbara’s smile was wistful. “None of our own,” she admitted. “Now we make-do at secondhand with Victor’s boys—and, of course Carol.” This time she glanced at Kathryn. “Now I must tell him about Carol, mustn’t I?”
When she had finished, omitting no detail of the part Kathryn had played, Kathryn rose to go. Adam Brand rose too, offering to give her a lift back to hospital, an offer which she had no choice but to accept, though she did not look forward to the journey.
Victor said warmly: “You’ll come again to see us
Brand?”
To which Adam’s reply of: “I’d certainly like to, sir,” sounded so nearly boyish that Kathryn glanced at him in surprise. She had not heard that disarming note in his voice before.
They drove in silence until Adam remarked: “You appear to have played the part of fairy godmother very successfully. Tell me, were you making these plans for your friend and for the child at the time you rejected Carter?”
“No. Steven had already left England then. Why do you ask?”
His swift glance was enigmatic. “Perhaps because I hoped that you might have turned Steven down for the sake of some misguided idea of staying in England until these young people were settled and happy.”
How easy it would be to let
him
believe that, if it would close the rift between them that was of his making. But Kathryn’s chin went up stubbornly. “It was not like that at all,” she said coldly.
“No? Then I’m sorry. I hoped I might have stumbled upon a possible reason for your high-handed treatment of a man who loved you.”
“Why should you trouble to seek excuses for me?”
Again the oblique glance flashed. Adam said: “Because I prefer to try to think the best of people, even when it is easier to believe the worst. That’s all, I assure you.” With the very coolness and indifference of the words he seemed to set the seal upon their strangerhood.
CHAPTER THREE
Thelma
Carter was alone
in
the Social Worker’s office when Adam knocked and entered. She was at a filing-cabinet consulting some records, but turned about and smiled brilliantl
y
at
the
si
gh
t of him.
“Why, Adam, how nice to see you!”
He set down his brief-case. “The compliment is returned. But I’m on business bent. Where’s Miss Dale?”
“She’s with Matron. She may be half an hour or more. Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible, if you’ve got access to what I want. There’s a patient of mine—a child named Roger Horrick—whose mother is in difficulty about being able to afford him the care he needs. She is going to have to give up the night work she has been doing, and I’d an idea that she might suit me as a daily woman. I thought of getting Miss Dale to sound her about it, take up her references and so on. I don’t know if that comes within the Social Worker’s province.”
“If it doesn’t, I’d willingly do it for you,” smiled Thelma. “Horrick—let’s see. Yes, her details are here somewhere.” She found the appropriate record card and in a characteristic gesture smoothed a forefinger over a delicately arched brow as she read it. “I’ll see that she comes for a talk with Miss Dale next time she visits hospital, shall I?”
“Yes, do that, please. And if it’s outside her scope, may I look to you to follow it up instead and let me know the result?”
“You know you may.”
Adam nodded, and was about to go when he was arrested by Thelma’s adding quickly: “Adam—I may call you that, mayn’t I? I always think of you so because of Steven—would you mind if I talked to you
—
about Steven?”
“Of course not. Go ahead. Have you heard from him?”
“I had a letter this morning. He’s back on duty again, but the letter worries me, and I’d be glad if you’d read it.”
Adam glanced at his watch. “Willingly. But I’m due at my clinic immediately. Perhaps you’d let me take it along, and return it to you on my way to luncheon? Or look here, if you aren’t doing anything this evening, will you dine with me? Bring Steven’s letter and we’ll talk it over. Where do you recommend? It must be somewhere close, in case I’m called out.” They agreed on a Dining Club of which Thelma was a member. Adam promising to call for her at seven, went on his way.
Over their after-luncheon cup of coffee in the Sisters’ common-room Kathryn found an opportunity to tackle Sister Bridgeworth about Sara.
Even Sister Bridgeworth’s manner of drinking coffee was swift and expert, as if she had allotted so many minutes and no more to its consumption. Between sips she said: “Yes—Spender. Does as she’s told. Doesn’t want to argue. Doesn’t shirk anything. What’s she complaining about?”
Kathryn’s eyes twinkled. “She says she doesn’t get enough to do.”
“Not enough to do! On
my
ward? Why, even I am
r
un off my feet with wor
k!
”
“You may be. I gather your student nurses are merely frustrated. You do most of their work for them.”
“But how could I
?
”
“The other morning you admitted it,” Kathryn reminded her with a smile. “As for ‘how’—well, I always thought they gave you an option on atomic energy as soon as it was discovered! Come now, Bridgeworth dear, you do like to be in amongst anything that’s going on, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t think I can accept that. Take Nurse Spender now—what has she done this morning?—let’s
see. First of all she checked in the clean linen
—
”
“
She
was permitted to count it.
You
checked it by the book.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“I haven’t seen her. Pure guesswork on my part,” chuckled Kathryn wickedly.
Sister Bridgeworth shot a suspicious look. “Yes, well—I helped her because I wanted her to get on with
cleaning the sterilizer
—
”
“Don’t tell me you let her do it
alone
!”
“I was showing the other student nurse how to mitre her sheet comers. No idea of it had she got. No idea at all
—
”
“Just let Sister Tutor hear you! However, go on.
“We had an intravenous to do after that,” continued Sister Bridgworth loftily. “And I remember particularly that I asked your Nurse Spender to bring the saline stand.”
“Who set it up?”
“We were in a hurry
—
” At sight of Kathryn’s
face Sister Bridgeworth blushed, laughed and gave in. “Honestly, Clare,” she said remorsefully, “I do mean
to let them get on with it, but when the work is there to be done, I simply
can’t
!”
“You’re unique,” Kathryn consoled her. “But you are a bit of a menace, all the same. For instance, you’ve got young Sara Spender fairly aching to feel her wings, and you just don’t give her a chance. And what do you suppose your methods do for the rest of us when your students are transferred and they’ve been so spoon-fed by you that they can’t do anything for themselves? I say, you don’t mind my bearding you about this, do you?”
“Of course not. I know it’s a major fault of mine, and I suppose it could rile a youngster who thinks she knows all the answers. I ought to be gagged and bound,” concluded Sister Bridgeworth gloomily.
“And that, nobody could achieve without your telling them how it should be done and even taking a hand in the process yourself!” teased Kathryn slyly.
And the discussion closed to the sound of Sister Bridgeworth’s rueful laughter.
On the children’s ward the afternoon promised to be a quiet one, and Kathryn found that she herself had time to spend with the group of laughing, convalescent youngsters who were playing on the balcony in the autumn sunshine.
But at about half-past five a call came through from the Casualty Ward. An urgent case of scalding—a little girl of two had dragged a kettle of boiling water over herself—was being sent to the operating theatre immediately and would be sent to the children’s ward after treatment. The house physician on duty should be called and also Dr
.
Brand. Casualty was sending a nurse with the case to Theatre, but would Sister Clare
kindly arrange for one of her own nurses to collect it?
Swiftly and smoothly the skilled machinery went into action
...
Kathryn telephoned for the ward’s houseman, asking him to call Dr
.
Brand; ordered an operation bed to be prepared, superintended the laying
-
up of an instrument trolley. A nurse was despatched to the operating theatre, and Kathryn went to offer some guarded reassurance and comfort to the quivering-lipped woman who was shown into the waiting
-
room on the corridor.
Time passed. The house physician came to wait with Kathryn, and shortly before seven o’clock Adam arrived. Kathryn was ready to give him such details as she knew, but he cut her short. He had checked with Theatre before coming up to the ward, he said. Then he glanced at his watch and went to the telephone.
Above the bustle of the arrival of the awaited trolley in the corridor, Kathryn was vaguely aware that she could not help overhearing the brief message—“I shall have to be late for our appointment
...
I’m sorry
...
No, I can’t say how long I may be
...”
He rang off abruptly, and by the time the trolley reached the bed made ready for the patient he was at Kathryn’s side.
His face was very grave as he looked down at the scrap of humanity, swaddled by bandages into a pitiful misshapen bundle. He took a pulse, noted the respirations, spoke to the younger doctor and demanded of Kathryn: “The parents—are they here?”
“The mother is.”
“Well, ask her to wait for the time being. See that she’s comfortable until I say she may be called.” In answer to Kathryn’s look of enquiry he added: “I shall stay myself. An hour more or less should tell
what hope we have—or if there’s none. Meanwhile, when do you go off, Sister?”
“I was due off at seven. But I shall not go,” said Kathryn quietly. And when she had sent for screens for the bed she went to the child’s mother. She felt heartsick and frustrated, longing to be doing all the busy, curative things of which the doing might already be too late. But if Adam Brand, with all his skill, could stand by and merely wait, she supposed that she must too.
Afterwards, when hope and mere waiting had been rewarded by a steadying pulse and a sleep that was natural and no longer a shocked coma, she went back to her office and sat down at her table, her arms outstretched before her, her fingers clasped. When Adam Brand entered she did not look up, and his voice came almost harshly to her ears: “You should go off now, Sister.”
She looked wearily up at the clock. “Yes, I’m just going. I—had to stay until we knew.”
He came across to stand beside her, looking down at her. “Surely you can’t allow yourself to take individual cases so hardly? It’s not a virtue in someone with your weight of responsibility, you know.”
“Each case is individual in the sadness and the regrets it creates,” she murmured. “The mother of that child—how she blamed herself! And all there was for her to do was wait—as we had to.”
His hand came down upon her shoulder, its pressure firm and reassuring but surprisingly gentle. “Do you
think
that that sort of waiting is any easier for me than for you knowing that at such times I’m as powerless and empty-handed as if I were really empty-hearted
and did not care?”
“I know. I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He turned to rest against the table-edge so that he faced her. He said musingly: “You may not believe it, but I’m not completely case-hardened. And with each one I find myself with an old lesson to be learned
—
again.”
Kathryn’s glance was an unspoken question.
“Humility,” he explained briefly. “Nowadays we know so much, and yet there are still limits to what we can use. Nature and Time have to play their part. To-night they were on our side. But even if they hadn’t been, we’d still have no right to despair of their being so in the next case—and the next—and the next. You might find that the thought helps.”
“I shall, I think. Thank you.” Kathryn stood up, but caught her foot awkwardly and stumbled as she did so. Adam’s hand shot out, catching at her wrist, steadying her.
“All right?” he queried.
“Yes, thank you
—
” She broke off as, after a
perfunctory knock, Thelma Carter stood in the open doorway.
Thelma was hatless, her auburn hair clustering about her head in the latest fashionable short cut; she wore a black trouser suit with scarlet shoes and bag: she nodded briefly to Kathryn, but she addressed Adam Brand.
“You don’t mind my coming up?” she asked. “I had to come back to the office for something I had forgotten, so I thought I’d call and collect you if you were ready, or wait for you if you weren’t.”
“I warned you I should be late. We have had an emergency case which might have gone either way.”
“
I’m sorry.” The words were the merest convention, and Kathryn momentarily envied Thelma her self-interest which could remain so little touched by near-tragedy. She went on smoothly: “Of course, I shouldn’t have come if I hadn’t hoped to save you time, as we’re very late already.”
“It couldn’t be helped. But shall we go now?” Adam’s gesture towards the door invited Kathryn as well as Thelma, but Kathryn excused herself, saying that she must see Night Nurse before leaving the ward.
Had she been surprised that Adam Brand’s postponed appointment was with Thelma, she asked herself when they had gone. Not really, she admitted. What more likely than that they should be seeing each other often—dining together, as no doubt they were to-night? As they left, Adam’s hand had been lightly beneath Thelma’s elbow, his head bent towards her as she was speaking, and suddenly Kathryn had been reluctant to go with them even as far as the main entrance hall, where their ways would part.
She told herself that she magnified her own importance if she saw their intimacy merely as an alliance against her, but her sore pride insisted on being hurt by it. For before Thelma had come upon them so unexpectedly she and Adam Brand had been, she believed, upon the edge of an understanding of their own. Different, of course, in every way from any feeling he must have for Thelma; far less personal and really no more than that of working colleagues with common problems. But since it was the only kind of understanding they were likely to achieve, she would have counted it valuable, hoping that he would come to do the same.
After all, he had troubled to offer her some astringent comfort; he had used his own philosophy to try to teach her courage; momentarily, even, his touch upon her shoulder had been sympathetic. Then Thelma had been there, her arrogance immediately taking possession of him, demanding and getting his whole attention. And because of Thelma he became once more in Kathryn’s thoughts the near-enemy he had appeared to be at their first meeting.
He and Thelma Carter—allied against her. The thought recurred and persisted. But was it pride alone that cared? Or something more?
Because they were late the dining-room at the Club was almost empty when Thelma and Adam arrived—a circumstance which did not please Thelma particularly. She had hoped to be able to nod to a good many of her friends from the well-placed table to which they were shown, and the knowledge that the evening’s purpose was already half wasted sharpened her tongue as she asked the question she had meant to put more casually.