Australian Hospital (5 page)

“Sister Arnold isn’t there, I see. She won’t be long. All these paintings are by Australian artists. This is the founder’s plaque.”

Candace approached the polished plate. This was what Mr. Laurence had left for her to discover for herself.

The inscription said:

“In memory of Howard Jeffrey who founded Manathunka.

‘... as the light of the morning when the sun riseth ... as the tender grass springing out of the earth by clear shining after rain.’ ”

Claire was standing beside her. “That’s from Samuel,” she said. She added, a little guiltily, “Arthur had to tell me, I’m afraid.”

There was a moment’s silence interrupted by the tap of heels on the bare floor.

“Here’s Jessie Arnold now. Come and meet her. She’d be quite a nice girl if she’d let herself go.”

It was a long time since Sister Arnold had been a girl. Her pepper-and-salt hair was drawn severely from her rather timid but quite likeable face. “I do hope you’ll be happy here, Sister Jamieson,” she said pleasantly, but with a slightly preoccupied air. “Sister Flett, I’ve been having trouble with Bobby. He won’t take his greens.”

“Leave that young man to me,” said Claire cheerfully. She took Candace’s arm and led her down a hall veering to the annexe.

“Ditherer,” she shrugged off Sister Arnold. “Everything worries that woman.”

They turned to the left.

“She was talking about my extra special, Bobby Grenfell. He’s in a plastic jacket, and we’ve recently had to add metal bars. The disease is high in the spine. Incidentally, we have high hopes for Bob. His prognosis is not quite so definite.”

The men’s ward was more like a wide verandah. Windows framed a green valley with a thicket of trees, as charming, in its way, as the view of the river.

Claire introduced Candace to the male patients, who turned bright, interested eyes on her. She stood talking a while, then Sister Flett wheeled out the miscreant, ten-year-old Bobby, who would not touch his greens.

“Sister Arnold told me about you,” she scolded. “You’re the wicked one.”

“Hate spinach.”

“How do you hope to grow big enough to be like Jack the giant-killer?”

“That’s only in stories.”

“It’s in dreams, too. You know how you dream. You often tell me about it. Once you forced open the whale’s mouth that swallowed Jonah. Jonah was most awfully grateful.”

Bobby looked down at his hands. “Well, if it wasn’t spinach—”

“It has to be sometimes. Like your plastic jacket until

your spine improves. But if you don’t eat properly it won’t.”

“All right, Sister Flett, but”—Bobby was determined to have the last word—“I still hate spinach.”

Claire rumpled his rough brown hair, and drew Candace into another ward.

Men were playing chess here. A few were basket-weaving. “Of course you have a therapist,” said Candace as they walked between the cots.

“You mean—manipulation?”

“I meant an
occupational
therapist.”

Claire sighed. “I thought you meant that,” was all she said.

They crossed to the women’s section.

There were many cases here like dear little Miss Hilary’s. Candace took a pair of papery hands in her own, and thought of the felt elephant.

“What did you mean when you answered like that, Claire? About the therapist?”

“I think it would be better if you find out for yourself... . This is Mrs. Jenkins. She does the most divine layettes. She supplies all her grandchildren. I’m going to get her to help me out when Arthur and I—”

“Sister, the things you say!”

“This is little Jeanie our baby. She’s just had her seventh birthday. She’s taking music lessons from the local music teacher. Isn’t that fine!”

A petulant voice from a corner cot called, “You needn’t introduce me, Sister Flett. I don’t want to meet her. If she’s anything like the rest of your staff—”

“This is Miss Walsh, our most dependable thorn,” insisted Claire, taking Candace across to the thin, discontented woman in the furthest bed.

“Who wouldn’t be in a place like this?” said Miss Walsh, who looked in her mid-thirties.

“No one, pet. Don’t heed her, Candace, beneath that rough exterior beats a heart of gold, but I must admit I haven’t found it yet. I’ll leave that to Ash, eh, Walshie?” At the name Ash, several heads turned eagerly.

“... Has he turned up yet? ... Is Doctor Ash back, do you know?”

“Couldn’t say, kids, but Sister Trisby is absent, if that means anything.”

“Fancy a man like Doctor Ash having anything to do with her,” demeaned Miss Walsh sourly.

“Come, come,” scolded Claire in a matronly fashion. She whispered to Candace, “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Who is he? A local doctor?”

“No, Toby Ferry is our local. Doctor Ash is visiting honorary, and one of the Board. He’s been away post-graduating. Incidentally, Candace, sisters are allowed to vote at the meetings. Keep that in mind. You might need the prerogative some day. Arthur votes, too, as clergy. One local clergyman is permitted on the Board.”

“Are there many members?”

“About eight or nine, I think, comprising the staff, Matron, local doctor, honorary, clergy, and two of the most influential patrons. Eve Trisby’s godfather is one of the chosen last. But you’ll soon find out.”

They finished their rounds, then wandered back to the quarters.

“Arthur is calling for me at five-thirty.” Claire consulted her watch. “I haven’t long to go.”

“You didn’t say good-bye.”

“I don’t intend to. I mean to come up here as often as my wifely parochial duties permit. By the way, Candace, you’ll come to my wedding, won’t you?”

“Why, I’d love to.”

“I’ll have Mother send you an invitation then. Don’t worry about not knowing any of us. We do things like that here. Not knowing people is our last worry.”

‘That’ll be Arthur now. Come and meet him.”

Candace met the earnest-faced, twinkling-eyed man who was to be Claire’s husband, and took an instant liking to him. They talked for a few minutes and then it was time for Claire to go.

“Good-bye, Sister Jamieson,” said Claire. “Best of luck.”

Candace turned back to the sisters’ quarters. She walked briskly. Her heart felt light. She was among people she understood. She was surrounded by work she had chosen, and loved.

She ran up the steps to her apartment, but stopped before she reached the top.

Above her stood a tall, silver-blonde young woman in a perfectly-fitting grey tailleur. She was quite a beautiful young woman, but just now her lips were drawn back almost in a snarl, and her dark, near-black eyes blazed.

“I suppose you are the new sister. How dare you take my room!”

For a moment. Candace could not speak. She was completely taken aback by the absurd extent of the girl’s anger.

“If you were doubtful you should have inquired, not helped yourself to the best room in the house,” went on the furious voice.

“I’m sorry,”—Candace was finding her tongue again—“I never knew. Sister Flett just seemed to take it for granted that I would move in after her.”

“Sister Flett was wrong. Sister Flett, also, is no longer attached to Manathunka. In future you will take your orders from me.”

“You are—?”

“Sister Trisby.”

A spark of spirit lit Candace’s calm grey eyes. “I was not given to understand there was any seniority between us.”

“I am senior through longer service here. If you are at all doubtful, please refer to Sister Arnold.”

Candace thought of Jessie Arnold and realised how futile that reference would be. Arnold was well-meaning enough, but weak. She would be putty in the shapely white hands of the girl on the stair above.

“I’m sorry to have caused you any trouble, Sister,’’ she said now, slipping up and past the other girl. Eve Trisby was a full head taller than she was. It was an exquisite head of shining, platinum-white, smoothly-sculptured curls.

Candace started collecting her bags. She was glad she had not begun to unpack.

Eve Trisby watched her a moment through narrowed black eyes, then went out and along the passage to return with toppling armfuls of clothes, making several journeys.

They were lovely clothes. There were piles of expensive lingerie, a neglige as breath-taking as Rosemary’s had been, numerous slippers and shoes.

Eve hugged them to her as though they were very precious. Once she turned her head to Candace, and said, “As you see by my wardrobe I don’t have to work here or anywhere else. It’s just a pastime with me. I only do it because my godfather gets a thrill out of it. He’s one of Manathunka’s most valued patrons. He hates to see me doing this, but all the same he’s tremendously proud.” She held out a slip of gleaming peach satin, ran her fingers almost with worship over the smooth sheen, and smiled to herself.

Candace transferred her bags to the room that Eve had vacated. It had the same view as the men’s ward—a green valley with a thicket of trees. She thought this quite as lovely as the view of the river.

The room was untidy, though. The waste-paper basket overflowed; there was a suggestion of old perfume; talc had been spilled carelessly on the floor.

Candace tidied it as much as she could without broom and duster, unpacked what things she would immediately need, then went across and tapped on the door of the room that now belonged to Eve Trisby.

“Come in. Oh, it’s you.”

“I was wondering about uniform, Sister.”

Eve was now regarding her closely. She was not as satisfied at what she saw as she had been when she was standing on the steps.

There, the girl had looked ordinary and rather mousy, and that had pleased her. Now she was discovering what many people soon discovered, that Stephen Halliday had discovered—that here was one of those women who grow more attractive on longer acquaintance.

She noticed the clear skin, the soft hair, the eyes that did not shine so much as glow.

She gave herself a quick look in her mirror. The brilliant contrasts of the almost-white curls and black eyes against Candace’s understatement reassured her. Her first impressions had been right. The new sister was a mouse. She decided to make her mousier still. At Manathunka the nursing aides wore neat, dull hospital stripes, but the sisters could choose their own colours, and uniforms of blue, pink, green, lilac and primrose hung in the lobby wardrobe.

Arnold, as deputy, invariably chose blue. Eve herself could never make up her mind whether she looked more lovely in green or primrose.

She did not care for pink. It killed her dead-white skin. It might give this girl a glow, though, whereas the pale lilac, a very insipid shade, she had always thought, would make her even mousier still.

“The uniforms are in the lobby cupboard. Yours is the mauve.”

“Thank you, Sister. Oh—and meals? I think I heard the bell. Could you show me the dining-room?”

“I could, but I’m not going to. I dined in town, and I’m not hungry. You go down the stairs and”—Eve paused—“turn to the left.” She smiled slightly.

“Thank you, Sister.”

Candace closed the door.

At the bottom of the flight she turned as directed. There was the sound of laughter, the clatter of dishes, the smell of food.

A little shyly, she entered a long hall furnished with two correspondingly long tables and a large sideboard.

The tables were almost filled, but there was space at one end, and Candace slipped quietly in.

She soon found she had been noticed, though. A silence fell on the chattering girls, someone tittered, then one of the young aides—for obviously that was what they were—asked, “Are you the new sister?” “Yes.”

“Then you’re in the wrong room.”

“I was told to come here.”

“Then someone told you wrongly. You go in the other direction—”

“Among the elite,” put in a pert young voice.

“Be quiet, Elaine, she didn’t know. Would you like me to show you, Sister?”

“No, thank you, I think I’ll be able to manage. I’m terribly sorry.” Candace stepped hurriedly out.

Her cheeks were burning. She heard the voices and laughter begin again. Did I merely make a mistake over the right and left, or did Sister Trisby misdirect me
intentionally,
she thought. If she did, it was a mean trick.

Sister Arnold was already starting her broth.

“Oh, good evening, Sister. Sit there. Eve not coming down again? She doesn’t eat enough. I’ve had a dreadful day. I don’t mind how soon Matron returns.”

“Has she been away long?”

“A fortnight. I think she has another fortnight to go. The responsibility is wearing me down.”

Candace murmured something sympathetic about patients taking a lot out of one.

“It’s not the patients, it’s the accounts. They must be kept at a certain level. You’ve no idea how strict Matron is on that. She can’t seem to realise that prices go up and up. Take rice, Sister Jamieson, when Matron left a fortnight ago it was only—”

They took rice, then cheese, then eggs, for the rest of the meal.

Candace made her escape at last, first asking Sister Arnold what time in the morning she was expected on duty.

“We usually come on duty at eight o’clock. You’ll see a roster on the notice-board in the hall, showing off-duty times and all that sort of thing. I think you’ll find it all quite straightforward, but come and ask me if there’s anything you don’t understand.”