He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I thought someone should mark the auspicious occasion of the heroine's return," he said.
Fay felt her cheeks flush with annoyance. "I can't think what all this ridiculous nonsense is about—I was only doing my normal job—"
"Under very trying conditions," Mark put in, and then added, "That Commandant fellow seemed to think it was something to write home about, anyway. His report sang your praises to the skies."
Fay's annoyance faded away as quickly as it had come. It puzzled as well as amused her slightly to notice, as she had noticed once before, how Mark showed a childish and quite uncharacteristic jealousy whenever another man appeared to notice her.
"That's more than he did of you," she told him, smiling a little. "He seemed to think that you crushed your hand purposely to spite him—" then she could keep up her bantering tone no longer. "How bad is it?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I'm not the first man to lose the ability to do the work he wants to do, I suppose. But right now I'm not taking it very well. It means the end of all I've ever worked for—all I had hoped."
"Oh, surely not," Fay put in quickly, because she could not bear to see the look of desolation on his face. "Your hands are not your only asset—you have a brain, you know. There are other fields of medicine."
"Oh, yes," he agreed, "I shall be able to write prescriptions in time, and become a Civil Servant."
"G.P.s are very necessary," she reminded him "You shouldn't scorn them."
"Sorry," he smiled bleakly.
"You've got your Fellowship—you could teach," she reminded him.
"I suppose I could," he agreed, "but I could do that when I'm sixty-five."
He was not in a mood to be comforted, and Fay could understand that. She herself had refused to accept second best, so why should she expect him to do so? She turned the talk into other channels.
"The children tell me that you're having some difficulty with Toni's finances "
He seemed willing to talk on that subject. "The trouble is that the will was made a long time ago, and assets are a bit short to meet all the legacies and benefactions. I'm afraid it might eventually be necessary to sell Beechcroft—and anyway, it's hardly a suitable location for a general practice, is it?"
The children came back then with their tray of tea and biscuits, and hearing the last remark bombarded Mark with protestations.
"Oh, Mark, you mustn't sell Beechcroft—not before Christmas, anyway. There wouldn't be anywhere to go for the holidays."
"You'd have to come here," Mark told them. "You won't be without somewhere to go in the holidays, I promise you that."
"But it's not nearly as much fun as Beechcroft," Wendy wailed.
"I know," Mark agreed. "But we'll have to see. Anyway, it won't be before Christmas—we'll have Christmas there this year."
"Oh, goody !" Helen hugged him, while Fay poured tea and was surprised to find how her hand shook.
"Can we have a friend each to stay at Christmas, Mark?" Wendy enquired.
"Yes—but not more than one each," Mark conceded, and then added, "but I shouldn't think you'd find any of your girls wanting to go to strangers for Christmas."
"I know who I'll ask," said Wendy.
Time seemed to have wings, and soon they had to leave. She and Mark were alone for a moment while the children went upstairs to the bathroom, and she said, "D'you remember that first day you came to Dubrocja you told me to remind you that you had something to tell me?"
"Did I?" he said bleakly.
"Yes," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "What was it, Mark?"
"I expect it was the Fellowship—and my appointment. I
was rather full of it at the time. It doesn't seem to matter very much now," he replied, averting his eyes.
"Was that all?" she asked, and now the very intensity of her voice and eyes compelled him to look at her.
There was a tiny pause. Then Mark said, "That was all—so far as I can remember."
It was a lie. She knew it was a lie, but her pride would not let her face him with it.
For Flip had divulged in her letter that Mark's "marriage" was a story invented by himself, dating from his student days, as a protective covering against distraction and the predatory instincts of the nurses—the whole story bolstered by the photograph of his sister Margaret's children.
But if Mark himself did not want to tell her this, then the fact that he was free was of no use to her.
BY the time she got back to the hospital that evening the golden, mild autumn day had gone and there was a cold drizzle in the air which exactly matched Fay's mood.
The porter who came out to collect her bags gave her a broad smile. "Welcome back, Sister I" he greeted her. "We've been hearing lots about you—St. Edith's has gone up a peg or two all on account of you, I can tell you. Home Sister wants to see you first thing, before you go up to your quarters. I'll just ring through and find out where she is, Sister."
A puzzled frown knitted Fay's brows as she waited for the man to telephone. She wondered what on earth Home Sister could want with her before she even got herself unpacked.
She soon found out however when she got to the Home Sister's office.
"Hullo, Gabriel," the other gave her a friendly smile. "My word, you've had some adventures, haven't you? I shall expect to hear about them all later on—but right now I'm due off duty. I've only been waiting to tell you that while you've been gone Sister Wilcox has left us—"
"Oh yes, I heard she'd gone."
"Yes. Well, she had one of the flatlets, as maybe you know. Matron wanted you to have it, so we put the new staff nurse in your old room. I'm afraid we had to move your things for you. I did most of it myself, so I hope you won't find anything lost."
"Oh, thank you very much, Sister, I'm sure everything will be all right."
"Yes—well, we thought you'd like to have it—a bit more room to spread yourself ! Here's the key. You're doing afternoon theatres, by the way, so that'll give you time to shake down. You don't look all that fit, by the way—ought you to be back yet?"
"I'm perfectly all right," Fay assured her. "I'm a bit tired. I made an early start for one thing and I've been toting a couple of kids round town all day."
"Very wearing," agreed the other.
"Sorry about that, Wendy," Fay murmured to herself as she put the key in the lock of her new quarters. "You weren't any trouble, and you did mean well," and her lips twisted in a little wry smile as she remembered the children's efforts.
The flatlet provided a little sitting room with a kitchen alcove, and the privilege of entertaining there. At any other time Fay would have been delighted with her cl.ange of quarters, but that evening it meant little to her.
She passed into the bedroom. Home Sister had made a good job of disposing her things about the room—too good, in fact; for propped up against the pillows at the head of the bed stood the fairy doll which Toni had given her last Christmas. It was a reminder she could well have done without at that moment.
She remembered the wish that had gone with the gift—that she might have her "heart's desire". Poor Toni, that really wasn't in her power to give, although—knowingly or unknowingly—she had worked to that end even when she was dying.
As she was not on duty the next morning Fay took the opportunity to go over to Stanhope Ward. After a few minutes with Sister Rainbow she went into the side ward to see Mr. Oliver.
She found him looking very much better and promoted to sitting up in a wheelchair for most of the day. Shorty was chatting with him and when he saw Fay he broke into a delighted grin.
"Welcome home, Sister dear. The world of St. Edith's has been a dark place without you all these long weeks. You look as lovely as ever—we feared you would come back hard-
visaged and battle-scarred ..." he flowed on, inconsequential as ever.
Mr. Oliver shook her hand warmly and continued to hold it. "Privilege of old age," he explained. "I never dreamed of what I was letting you in for when I persuaded you to go to the villa. But it seems I did a good service to those poor folk in the disaster area—was it very bad?"
"Pretty ghastly," Fay told him "The pioneer people had the worst time, of course, trying to get the victims out of the shambles that was all that was left of their little town. We were desperately short of every sort of drug and equipment to start with, but that got better in time. It was just a hard grind and some rather bad casualties."
"And then my revered ex-boss has to go and add to it by smashing his hand up. That'll lam him to go chasing off after pretty Sisters, eh? He's copped a packet, though, poor chap," and with that Shorty drifted off.
When the door had closed behind him Mr. Oliver said gently, "He's a very insensitive young man, I'm afraid."
"Just juvenile. He'll grow up in time—I hope," Fay excused him.
"Mr. Osborne looked in to see me before he left hospital after his own operation," Mr. Oliver went on. "He does seem terribly cut up about it, I must say. And it was all because he was being more than conscientious—"
"How did it happen? I was almost on the spot, but I never did hear exactly what had happened."
"He didn't go into much detail." Mr. Oliver settled down for a chat. "From what I can gather, there was a badly injured man brought in and Mr. Osborne heard of it from the driver of the ambulance. He was a semi-trained chap, and it was his opinion that the man didn't stand a chance. Mr. Osborne didn't think it right to accept the driver's opinion and went out to see for himself whether anything could be done. The ambulance had been knocked about a bit with the bad roads, and instead of the door staying open as it should have done it swung to as he was stepping up into the vehicle, and trapped his hand in the hinge space. They're heavy doors, as I expect you know. Pretty well broke every bone in his hand, I believe."
Fay shuddered a little. "A terrible thing to happen to a surgeon." She spoke more to herself than to the old man.
"Yes, it is a tragedy," he agreed, and then went on almost pleadingly, "but it isn't the end of everything for him, surely. He seems to think that there's nothing left in life for him—as though he hasn't anything to give any more ... am I being a silly old man?" he finished with a quizzical glance.
Fay smiled, although she did not feel very much like smiling. "No," she said. "You're being very understanding. I think it's Mr. Osborne who's wrong. There are lots of things he can do—plenty he can offer. Teaching, for one thing—"
"Then you tell him so, my dear," the old man patted her hand enthusiastically. "He'd believe you—because you know about these things."
As she went through the corridors back to her own quarters to get ready for duty the ward dinners were coming up in the great trolleys. The savoury food made her feel a little sick—or that was the explanation she gave herself. But actually the cause of the nausea went deeper than that.
She was sick at heart—and with herself. She had said to Mr. Oliver that Shorty was insensitive, but she saw now that she herself was guilty of insensitiveness—and more.
She had tried to apply the approved therapy treatment for Mark's dilemma in encouraging him to consider the possibilities which lay before him, but she had not recognised that his need went deeper than therapy could touch.
Her mind went back over all those long weeks and months of heartache since last Christmas—and she could find in them nothing but blame for herself. She should have trusted Mark. He had told her, just as plainly as she had told him. That kiss under the mistletoe at Beechcroft had been a token of love mutually given. But she had mistrusted it. She had believed the evidence of other people without ever giving him a chance to defend himself. She had insulted him—called him a cheat and a liar. It must have seemed such a harmless deception when he first entered into it—and so very understandable. She knew only too well how difficult the attentions of the nursing ranks could be to an unattached young doctor. Perhaps he had promised Toni not to marry until he had made his way secure in his profession—because Toni had not
approved of early marriages. She could imagine now how it had all arisen. Just the photographs of the children—resembling him as children so often do resemble their uncle—and the world had assumed the rest.
With the years the web had grown thicker and more tangled, so that he had been waiting until he left St. Edith's to break free from it. Flip had said something of this in her letter.
And—still seeing it from Mark's point of view—he must have known that once the story had leaked out it would certainly have reached her ears, and yet she had not so much as hinted at it. Small wonder indeed that Mark himself had not made any reference to it. No doubt he wanted to leave the way open for her to escape from what she had told him last Christmas since, in his own eyes, he was now condemned to failure.
Now, it seemed to her, it was too late.
Mechanically she started to change into her uniform. If she were not quick she would be late for duty. But as she was changing she caught sight of the doll which was still propped up on her bed since she had not yet found a home for it. She stopped dressing for a moment and stood still, struck by a glimmer of an idea. Perhaps it was not too late after all. ...