"It must be nice, though, to be so necessary. My bank seems to be getting on perfectly well without me."
"I bet they'll be glad to get you back, all the same. When do you think that will be?"
"The doc seems to think I should be fit by October."
"Umm," Fay said thoughtfully. "Yes, you'd better go back for a bit—until you see how the book goes. If it's a bestseller you'll be able to resign from the bank and devote yourself entirely to writing. Somehow I can't see you as a bank clerk—I didn't think bank clerks had any imagination!"
He grinned boyishly at the generalisation. "You'd be surprised," he told her. "Some of them dream—but most of them aren't as lucky as I am, and the dreams just remain dreams. Heavens, look at the time ! I'll miss my train if I don't hurry !"
They got a taxi and she saw him off on his train at Euston.
"Write and tell me all about the cruise, won't you," she
said, and then corrected herself, "but not so often as to
detract from the book. You simply must get that finished and revised before October."
"Don't you worry, I will," he promised. "I've got it all worked out in my head now, so it'll be all plain sailing. When I get back I'll have finished that part of the story and be ready to start an entirely new chapter, I hope—and minus this thing, too," he scornfully indicated the stout walking stick which had replaced his crutches.
He did not need to say any more. Fay knew perfectly well what he meant—it was written in his face. Geoff had been something of an athlete, proud of his physical fitness, rejoicing in his manhood. He had been too proud to offer himself until he was a whole man again.
A warning shout from the porters told them that the train was about to start. There was no time for anything but a hasty farewell, then Geoff clambered aboard and continued to wave from the carriage window until a curve in the line took it out of view of the platform.
Then, sick at heart, Fay turned and made her way back, a solitary figure amongst the crowd—solitary as she must ever be.
Work in the theatres was rather lighter than usual in August and only more or less emergency operations were done. Many of the surgeons, including Mr. Barton, were away. In theatre Mark did most of the work. He took a week off in the early part of the month and Fay gleaned from various sources that he was down at Beechcroft trying to get some of Toni's things in order. His place in the theatre was taken by another Registrar named Collins. He was something of the hit-and-miss school, which after Mark's precision work did not please Fay at all.
It was during the week that Mark was away from St. Edith's that Fay received a letter in untidy childish handwriting. When she opened it, somewhat puzzled as to the sender, she found that it was from Wendy and written from Beechcroft. The spelling was shocking, but the style was commendably brief and lucid.
"Dear Fay," it began with characteristic lack of inhibition, "We are spending the hollidays at Beechcroft. It is horid
here without Toni. Mark says when we go back to scool we can write our letters to you. I will write one and the next time Helen and then me again. Mark says you may not have time to anse
r but I hope you do. I want to h
ere all about the hospittle. I wou
ld like to be a surg
on when I grow up. I dont mind blud. I fell down on the terris at scool last term and made my nose bleed. Their was blud all over the place. Ther is not much to do here that is wy I am writting to you. Tim and John are here but they are boys and pretty small and silly. They are sort of cusons. If you cant always anser plese make it my week when you do becos Helen has a boy, friend and I haven't. With love from Wendy.
P.S. I forgot to tell you Mummy is still on the yot."
A little whimsical smile played round Fay's lips as she read—until she got to the bit about the "yot" when she felt a tug at her heart.
Poor little Wendy. Under the thin veneer of hardboiled sophistication she was-at heart just a normal little girl in need of affection.
Fay resented Mark's assumption, however, that she should be the one to supply the affection. She would have preferred to sever all connection with any member of his family He must know that too, she thought. Or—the thought crossed her mind swiftly and she did not dwell on it—was he perhaps trying to make up to her for something she would never have for herself—something he had denied her?
At any rate, whatever the state of affairs between herself and Mark, Wendy must not suffer, and Fay sat down in her first free time and wrote the little girl a long letter with just a little, but not too much, "blud" in it.
When Mark came back after his brief leave he did not make any reference to the liberty he had taken in telling the children they might write to her. In fact since Toni's death they had had no personal conversation at all. Fay was glad he had realised that this was the way she wanted things, the only way they could continue working together. But even on those terms she was rather less restless and unhappy when he was about the hospital than when he was away from it.
He was back, however, for a mere ten days or so before he was off again to complete his spell of leave. It was about
this time that Matron sent for Fay. She wondered what was in the wind as she made her way along the corridors to Matron's office. She no longer felt the apprehension which younger nurses felt on receiving such a summons, but she did wonder if she was being transferred from theatres to some other appointment and was not sure whether to be glad or sorry at the prospect.
"Good morning, Sister," Matron greeted her with a smile. "Sit down—though I'm not going to keep you long."
"Thank you, Matron," Fay murmured, still wondering what was coming.
"I have just realised, Sister, that you have been with us nearly eight months now and you have not had any leave. It is high time you took some—"
"Oh, that's all right, Matron, I'm quite happy to go on working—"
"Nonsense!" Matron cut in brusquely. "Of course you must have the leave which is due to you—and as a matter of fact you look as if you need it. I should have noticed before. I don't want any more of my Sisters going sick on me—they're too precious. Now I make it you are due for three weeks' leave—and I suggest you take it as from Monday while things are still comparatively slack in theatres."
Fay knew better than to argue, though it was ridiculously short notice and she hadn't any idea about what to do with herself.
Perhaps Matron read that thought as quickly as it went through Fay's mind. "Have you any arrangements?" she asked Fay. "Anyone with whom you could spend your leave? Mind you, I want you to get right away and not just waste it hanging about here."
"No, I haven't any plans," Fay confessed. "I've very few friends over here, but I'll think of something, and I'm quite fond of my own company!" She smiled to give assurance to the words, not wanting Matron to suggest that she should team up with one or other of the staff who happened to be going on leave at the same time.
Such however was not Matron's intention, and as she went on fluently Fay became convinced that she had had it all
worked out beforehand. "Then now would seem to be the time to accept that invitation which your patient in Stanhope was always begging you to take up." She paused for a second while Fay blinked and tried to get her bearings. "Mr. Oliver and that villa of his on the Riviera."
That eventually was what Fay did, unlikely as it had appeared at first sight.
Mr. Oliver was still in the side ward of Stanhope, awaiting the second part of his colostomy. It was Fay's private opinion that they never would get him quite fit enough for that further operation, but of course she did not voice this opinion to anyone. Certainly when he heard that there was a possibility of her going to his beloved villa Mr. Oliver's health seemed to improve beyond all imagining.
He soon had the telephone wires buzzing and in no time at all the whole thing was arranged, including her flight ticket to Nice.
"You know, you're piling up such a debt of gratitude that I can never hope to repay you," Fay told the old man.
"The boot's on the other foot," he said. "I can never tell you how happy it's made me to think of you going to Lamontella. You will tell me how it's looking, won't you? There should be pears and perhaps some late peaches, and Pietro has flowers at every season. I want to hear about the waterfall he was making last time I was there—I've never seen it since it was finished. You will write and tell me, won't you, and take some pictures, perhaps?"
"I've got my camera loaded up with colour film," she told him.
"I wish you'd let them open up the villa for you. Not that you won't be very comfortable in Pietro's bungalow, and not so lonely, as you're going alone. Rose Pietro is English, you know—a Lancashire lassie we took out one year as a maid, when my wife was alive. When it was time to come home Rose told us she was staying on. And it's been a godsend having her there. She'll take good care of you, my dear. I wish young Geoff could have gone with you, though—I don't like to think of you going off on your own—"
"Mr. Oliver !" Fay cried, pretending to be shocked. "You naughty old man ? That wouldn't be at all proper!"
The question of her going alone on holiday seemed to bother her colleagues a lot too. Half of them were openly sceptical that she really was going alone and insisted that she was holding out on them, and the other half seemed to think that there must be something odd about her if she could contemplate going by herself.
Actually as the day for departure dawned Fay was getting more and more excited at the prospect of new surroundings and solitude—and more and more aware of how much she needed the latter.
She had started and torn up at least a dozen letters to Geoff and she knew she must not delay much longer. She promised herself that the first thing she would do when she got to Lamontella would be to write to Geoff. She had already missed his boat at the last port of call, so he would not know of her holiday. She would tell him about that—and the other thing she had to tell him—at one and the same time.
Her flight to Nice left Heathrow at noon, and even allowing for the time by car from there to the villa she would be there before nightfall. She had called a taxi just after nine, though, as instructed by the airline, as there were formalities to be gone through when she reached the airport. Fortunately there had been no passport difficulties as she already had a British one which was comprehensive. Nevertheless, getting herself packed up and leaving everything in apple pie order in the theatre had been something of a burden, and she felt a distinct sense of relief as she watched the hospital porter pile her bags into the waiting cab and offer his good wishes at the same time.
"Running away, Sister?" A voice behind her startled her so much that in turning to confront the speaker she nearly fell off the bottom step on which she had been standing.
For an instant Mark put his hand under her elbow to steady her, but he did not keep it there.
No doubt she looked as frosty as she felt. Mark was supposed to be on leave. Why did he have to appear at this
moment? And why did the labels on her luggage have to be so prominent?
"Of course not," she replied coldly. "Just taking some leave which is due to me."
"Good," he replied, undaunted. He was full of sunshine that morning. "Have a good time. Not going all alone, are you?"
She deliberately ignored that question and turned to the porter. "Thanks a lot, Potter," she said, pressing a coin into his hand. But it was Mark who closed the cab door and had the final word.
"I hope you enjoy yourself," he smiled. "You look as though you could do with a dose of sunshine," which told her that he had both read the labels and that her frostiness had not been lost on him.
The cab had to circle the forecourt before it could get out on to the drive again, and as it did so Fay saw Mark walk across to his own car and start it up. His business at the hospital must have been very brief.
"Bother him !" she thought. "Why did he have to turn up just now and spoil everything?" For the sight of him had indeed shattered the sense of getting away from everything which had begun to steal over her. It was a false illusion, she realised now, for whether she liked it or not Mark had profoundly influenced her life. She would not be able to get away from him—ever.
Lamontella was all and more than Mr. Oliver had promised. It was not a holiday resort—the tiny bay was too strewn with jagged rocks to make it attractive for tourists, and there was only one passable road through the place—the coast road—and that did not really touch the village
It looked as though at some time in the far forgotten past the land on that section of the coast had cascaded into the sea, and only little by little had the local inhabitants managed to subdue nature to their needs. There was no main village street, for the place was built in a succession of terraces with the newer villas on the higher terraces while the old cottages, each with its little plot of land, nestled on the lower ones. There were vineyards, small ones worked by families who made their own wines and sold them locally;
fruit, vegetables and flowers were there in profusion, and goats and hens, but practically no cows, since grazing land was scarce.