A plan did not immediately present itself, but her aim did not waver. Somehow, by hook or by crook, she had to meet Mark again—and at Beechcroft. She had an unshakable conviction that their happiness—hers and Mark's—was somehow bound up with Beechcroft where they had first met and unknowingly recognised their love.
The hospital was having a busy time that winter, and they were understaffed. The theatre teams found themselves doing extra duties; there was little leisure in which to come to grips with the problem of how to get to Beechcroft again —and at Christmas time.
There were other things too making claims on her time and thought. Geoff, for instance. She narrowly missed running into him on several occasions, for he still came to see Mr. Oliver quite frequently.
Then one day the inevitable happened and she ran into him in the corridor as she was going off duty. He stopped her, smiling. "Hullo, Fay," he said. "How are you?"
"Very well," she told him. "And you?"
"Not a trace of a limp, as you can see," he smiled down at her.
"Are you back at the bank?" she asked, taken off her guard and a little embarrassed, for she knew from Mr. Oliver that he was not.
"No," he said. "The publishers have been extraordinarily generous to me and have made such a good advance on the book that I was able to get it finished instead of going back to work. It seemed to fill a need in the spring list—so I've been lucky."
"Publishers," Fay said decidedly, "are never generous. If they've made you a good advance it means that they recognise something pretty good in your book. My congratulations —it's going to be an enormous success."
There was a touch of wistfulness in Geoff's eyes as he acknowledged her compliment. "I changed the ending, you know."
"I'm sorry, Geoff," she said quietly, and all her embarrassment was gone now. Geoff was too sincere—too big a person not to be able to accept the denial of his own hopes as more than something to be put aside in their friendship.
"Don't be sorry. It was something I had to learn. D'you remember my first efforts at writing—here in Stanhope?"
"I do indeed," she smiled at the memory of days that seemed so very far away now.
"You told me then that I was trying to write about something I hadn't experienced. You were quite right—I didn't know what love was like until a little later. I'd never loved before. I'd never known any real sorrow before either—so perhaps that was something I had to learn too. At any rate, the publishers seem to like the new ending."
"You're very brave, Geoff," she said sadly, "and you're kinder than you ought to be in letting me off so lightly."
"I had hoped to hear good news of you before this," he said. It was his way of telling her that he knew about Mark's true position.
"There are difficulties." She spoke slowly as those difficulties loomed up once again in her mind.
"I know," Geoff nodded. "But nothing—and especially not pride—ought to be allowed to stand in the way of complete happiness."
Perhaps that was the spur she had needed, for quite suddenly her heart felt lighter. "You're right, Geoff—and I think I've swallowed mine completely."
"Let me hear from you sometimes, will you?" Geoff's eyes added their message to the request.
"I will," she promised, "and don't forget to send me a copy of the book !"
Fay went straight back to her flatlet and wrote a letter. Choosing her words rather carefully, she made two or three attempts before she got the whole thing simple enough and yet not too obvious.
Then she settled herself to wait for the answer. It took longer to come than she had hoped, but was eminently satisfactory when it did arrive.
Wendy wrote with her usual commendable lucidity, on a rather grubby ragged-edged sheet which appeared to have been torn from an exercise book.
"Of cors I havent got a girl to come back for Christmass. I thort you new it was to be you. Wont it be fun. Its my turn to rite to Horsey next week so I shall tell her about our secrit plan. She wont tell ANYONE Thank you for the paper and stamp. I am saveing the paper for next time I rite to Mark to make it look smart and I no you wont mind this paper wich I am riteing in prep time. Love and kisses from Wendy."
There followed a long line of giant X's.
Fay felt a little thrill of excitement run through her. She did not know, she could not, dared not hazard a guess as to the ultimate success of their "secrit plan" but it was a first step. There were five long weeks until Christmas. But, she realised with something of a shock, there was a good deal to arrange in that time; notably and foremost to arrange with Matron that she should have Christmas leave.
As the train rattled on into the darkness Fay exerted her
will power to relax. Christmas leave had not been easy to get. Matron liked to have as many of the staff on duty as possible, and since Fay had not been there the previous year it was not without reason that Matron was rather sticky about it. Fay had not dared to tell her where she hoped to spend Christmas, though had she done so, Fay had a shrewd idea that permission would have been more readily forthcoming. As it was, her plea had been that she had been asked to spend the holiday with friends with whom it was probably the last Christmas they would have in their old home, which was of course true. Even so, she felt she had said too much and that in all likelihood Matron knew that Beechcroft was to be sold.
The theatre had not closed down until half past two and Fay's train left just after four, so life had been hectic for her that day. She was very tired—it was not often that she admitted that, or had need to do so, but she did now. But she told herself that it would be all right when she got to Beechcroft; all right or all wrong—but she could not admit the possibility of the alternative.
She must have dozed a little, for in no time at all they were at the junction and she had to seize her baggage and tumble out of the train.
Most people travelling for Christmas had done so earlier in the day, or would do so later after Christmas Eve parties, and she had no difficulty in getting a taxi. The countryside was very quiet that evening—not at all as she remembered last year when the things that stood out most vividly in her mind had been the ringing of church bells in the cold, frosty air, and car headlights lighting up the white blanket which lay over fields and roads and hedgerows alike. That, and the sound of Mark's voice coming up to her from under her window.
This evening it was mild and later the night would be black and silver, for already the moon was coming up.
She dismissed the cab at the end of the lane leading to Beechcroft so that her arrival should be unheralded. By prearrangement with Horsey she made her way round to the back of the house, and found an excited Wendy waiting for her behind the back door.
"Oh, angel child, I thought you were never coming!" the little girl gave her a tremendous hug of welcome. "I'm glad Mark didn't know you were coming—I wouldn't want him to suffer the agonies I've been going through," she announced.
"Is everyone else here?" Fay whispered as they crept noiselessly up the stairs.
"Yes, most of them—except Bill."
"Who's Bill?"
"He's John and Timmy's father—you know, he's married to Margaret and she's Mark's sister. He's in the Navy. His ship only got in today and he's motoring up from Portsmouth. We shan't get any sense out of Margaret until he arrives—she does get so excited when he's coming home," Wendy confided in a maternal tone that came oddly from her skinny little frame.
"Who else is here?" asked Fay, suppressing a smile.
"There's Sandra—Helen's friend from school. We don't like her very much, but she was the only one who could come, and we had to have someone after asking Mark if we could."
"Oh dear, I don't know any of these people," sighed Fay.
"Well, you know us and Mark, and I 'spect you've heard of Margaret. And oh, Bernard's coming too. But he's ever so different from last year. He's got a job."
"Good," Fay commented. "By the way, what's my name supposed to be?"
"You're my friend Elizabeth!" Wendy giggled.
"Why Elizabeth?"
"Because I think you're the Queen—the Queen of my heart, and Mark's," Wendy told her, and Fay bent and kissed the child so that she should not see the mist of tears which came over her eyes. "Pray God she's right"—the prayer, unspoken, went up from her heart.
As soon as she was ready they went downstairs. The house was alive with voices again, but as soon as they turned into the gallery she saw that there was no one in the hall except Mark who was standing in front of the fireplace staring moodily into the flaming logs. It was just as it had been last
year, only then Mark's right hand had not been strapped and splinted.
He turned at the sound of her steps down the stairs, and she saw the look of blank astonishment on his face give way to one of sheer happiness. All the strain and tension she had seen at Hampstead melted away as she watched him
"So you've really come ..." he began, but then Wendy danced up to him.
"This is my friend—you know, the one you said I could have for Christmas."
"But you said she was called Elizabeth and was eight years old—" Mark gave himself time to recover from his surprise by ruffling Wendy's hair and pinching her nose.
"Well, Elizabeth is the Queen's name," Wendy expostulated, "and I don't know how old people are, it's rude to ask grown-ups anyway."
"I hope you're not going to be cross with her," Fay said tentatively.
"Cross!" Mark gave a short laugh. "I shall never be able to thank her enough for bringing you back! You and I and the children are about the only link with Toni's last Christmas."
Other voices broke in on them then, and Fay found herself being introduced to a tall golden-haired young woman with Mark's dark eyes which would have proclaimed them brother and sister anywhere.
"I'm so glad to meet you at last," she smiled warmly at Fay. "I've heard so much about you from Toni—and from Mark."
Mark cut in quickly, "I'm afraid, my dear, that Toni's stories were of Fay's mother. She was the original angel child. Toni got me hooked on that one too—"
"Oh well, never mind, the description is very apt." Margaret smiled again at Fay, who said, "Except that I'm neither an angel nor a child!"
They had supper then—a much more informal affair than it had been last year. Bill had not yet arrived, but Margaret said not to wait for him. Her two boys, John and Timmy, had already gone to bed—evidently they were brought up on more conventional lines than Wendy and Helen—so Fay had
to wait until tomorrow to get her first sight in the flesh of "Mark's kids."
She felt no impatience for tomorrow, nor any dread of its outcome. Tonight she felt a sense of complete peace and well-being and so far as she was concerned it could go on
forever
.
After supper bedtime for the three little girls began to be talked of, but nothing was done about it until Bill Sloan arrived. He was a typical seafaring man, with the bluest of eyes and a face that radiated cleanliness and good temper. After he had been introduced and made himself pleasant all round Margaret bore him off, and Fay guessed that they would not be seen again that night. Bernard too—a new Bernard with close-cropped hair and the neat dark suit of the young business executive—and Lissa, the nice ordinary girl he had introduced as his fiancée, had lost themselves somewhere in the house.
It was not surprising therefore that when Fay came downstairs from finally getting Wendy, Helen and Sandra into some sort of mood for sleep, she found Mark alone in the hall—just as she had done last year.
She had the feeling that he had been waiting for her. It was all so like last year—except that this was still only the eve of Christmas.
She went towards him and it was she who spoke first. "Are you going to church tonight, Mark?"
"No," he said, and waved his splinted hand. "This thing will be off soon, I hope, so it didn't seem worth while to get the car altered, but as it is at the moment I'm not too hot as a driver."
"I'll drive you over if you like," Fay offered.
He looked at her sharply and then shook his head. "No, you're far too tired. I wouldn't mind betting that you came straight off duty."
"I did," she admitted.
"Then it's bed for you, my dear. I didn't know you did drive, by the way."
"There are a lot of things we don't know about one another." Fay perched herself on the broad fender seat and stared dreamily into the fire.
"Last year I thought we knew everything." Mark spoke softly so that she was not sure whether she had heard him a
l
right. Nevertheless she answered,
"I think we did."
"Then why did you distrust me?" Mark's voice was challenging now, a demanding, insistent voice.
She did not reply at once and when she did speak she had no real answer to give him. "I don't know," she said simply, and then after another pause she went on, "Perhaps I didn't trust myself. You see I'd never done anything like that before—falling in love with a man whose name I didn't even know. I didn't know who you were or what you did or anything about you—except that I loved you."