Friends and Lovers (50 page)

“Oh,” Penny had said.

“It is probably only a summer cold. I had a very bad one last week.” “Did you?” Penny had asked, and hung up the receiver. It was only now that Penny, sewing on the last button, realized that Margaret had possibly been tryi Otherwise she would never have spoken so n just have said, “Oh!” in that noncommittal w what strange ways people had of being polite Margaret had had a very bad cold too, ; absolutely nothing to worry about.

I give up. Penny decided. I’ve tried to like up. Mother dislikes David, Margaret dislikes r and Margaret developed a cordial dislike for < they did meet. Yet David makes excuses for must be fond of her. And I defend Mothe about her. How on earth, then, did David ar love?

She half smiled, and then, thinking of Mar^ cold voice, she stopped smiling, and her fa< hard. What I resent most, she thought, is th between us. As if I were opposition to her. t don’t even compete with her, the silly thir some women can be, going about with mart; as soon as their son or brother thinks of takin of course, would have his usual answer. But i woman he could have added a little footnote strange fact that men who were drunks or g have to worry about any silver cord.

Penny snapped off the tight thread angi sewing-box on the mantelpiece. She touche gram to straighten it. a first a job and yo always david. Her face softened and be can How happy he had been when he had w turned quickly away.

The letter from Ed usual blue deckle-edged envelope, was left lyii the mantelpiece. She would read it when sb now there were too many things to be done.

She heard David stir restlessly. He was 1 she still hesitated. The danger of a chill, if was very great; the danger of lying between < even worse. She knew so little about nursin: remembering how she had been nursed wl Then suddenly she became decided. She cauj blanket which she had laid in readiness ov went over to the bed. She shook David’s firmly.

“David! Please get up. Help me, darling.”

He shook his head dizzily, looked at her as if he did not recognize her, raised himself on to one elbow, and then sank back on the pillow as if he were falling asleep again.

“Come on, darling. Help me. David, help me.” She raised him until he sat up in bed, half wrapping the blanket round his shoulders. This time he really was awake. He obeyed her urgent voice now, but when he rose to walk to the armchair he seemed to be moving in some heavy dream.

“Help me, darling,” she said, and the urgency in her voice roused him. When he had changed his pyjamas she wrapped the blanket tightly round him and sat him down gently in the chair. Then she turned to the bed, stripping it quickly, changing the soaking linen, and as she stretched the cool, fresh sheets smoothly in place she remembered the burning heat of his body. At least, she thought, he will be able to rest more comfortably now. But her worry increased as she helped him back to bed. She bent and kissed his forehead as she tucked the bedclothes neatly round him. It seemed to be on fire.

She wept then, silently, so that David would not hear her. She felt lonely and afraid. She found she was kneeling beside the bed, burying her face in the blanket. She was terrified of her loneliness, of her fears.

That was just after midnight.

At two o’clock she again roused David, again changed the sodden linen.

And again she did all this when it was almost five o’clock, and the pale light outside cast a cold look into the dreary room. This time David was less dazed, smiled for her, watched contentedly, and said, “Dear Penny, all this trouble–-” before he fell asleep. This time, too, it was an easier sleep; his brow felt more normal, his breathing was lighter.

She sat on the chair beside the bed, so that she could cover him with the bedclothes whenever he threw, an arm outside of the covers, or when he flung over on his side and exposed his back and shoulders.

But now, suddenly, his sleep was deep and peaceful, and all the wild restlessness had gone. She relaxed in the chair, watching him as he lay so quietly, folding her arms tightly to keep her body warm in her flannel dressing-gown, for the morning had brought coolness to the room.

And then, as he still slept, sudden relief surged through her with the biting sharpness of pain. She rose and walked to th’ window, staring at the grey-blue rooftops. Their slopin slates rippled sea like as they gleamed with dew under th early sunlight. The day promised well. Loneliness vanishes with the cold shadows of the night.

“He won’t die,” she said, at last giving words to her fears: ‘he won’t die now.”

The doctor, grey-haired, thin, sharp-eyed, noncommittal, was preparing to leave.

“Don’t worry about him,” he said, not unkindly.

“He stil has some fever, but really nothing to worry about now. Thesi things go up and down, you know. All we have to do is t( keep an eye on him. If he gets any worse again tonight yoi can call me, and I’ll send round a woman to help you. Sh( isn’t a qualified nurse, but she is very capable.”

“It developed so suddenly,” Penny explained.

“We thought i was only a bad cold, and then suddenly it was something much worse. And I didn’t know of any doctor until the care taker downstairs gave me your address this morning. Thani you for coming so quickly.”

The doctor repressed a smile. He found her anxiety amusing, and a little touching too. Newly married, he thought glancing at the heavy signet ring on her left hand. Just wai until she had five children, two down with mumps, anottiei with asthma, and the baby with croup.

Then she would know what a night’s nursing was like. Still, she hadn’t donf a bad job. She had managed to stave off pneumonia. He; husband would be all right now.

“You had better get some sleep,” the doctor said, he wh( hadn’t been to bed all night himself.

“And let him sleep a; much as possible. You may not need to call me again.” Hi; patients weren’t the kind who wanted repeated visits.

He paused at the top of the stairs, and said, “If you couli stop him from worrying he will get better in no time. He is i healthy specimen, you know.” And then, as if he felt that hi had intruded too much into some personal problem, he gavi a brief good-day and hurried downstairs.

David, who had been pretending to be asleep, opened hii eyes as she came back into the room. He said, “If you don’ get some sleep I shall start some real worrying.”

“I shall sleep. That’s all arranged. Mrs. Lawson, the care taker, has found a camp bed; one of her neighbours is lending it to her. I just can’t manage the two-chair technique, it seems —they slip and I slide. Strange how kind people are when you are in difficulties. There has been a sort of communal rallying round going on here, ever since Mrs. Lawson sent the neighbour’s small boy for the doctor. I gave Mrs. Lawson all the food and wine which we didn’t touch last night—in a roundabout way, of course, so that her feelings wouldn’t be hurt. And I’ve a length of flowered material which will make some bright cushion-covers to cheer up the neighbour’s parlour.

She came up here with some broth for you when you were asleep, and admired our curtains. And the small boy gets tuppence, which seems to be the union rate for running errands in this neighbour hood Mrs. Lawson said I was to give him no more than that. But I did give him the chocolates you brought me. You don’t mind, do you? His eyes went into big circles! And he has been running so many errands for me all morning. But to balance the box of chocolates, which he seems to have taken home and shared round, his mother arrived with the bowl of broth. Strange, isn’t it?”

“Only because you have never lived with the poor. Penny. They’d never survive if they didn’t lend each other a helping hand.”

Then he frowned, trying to remember what he knew must be remembered.

Tt is hell to be ill at this time,” he said irritably. There was a job to be found, a job to begin. And what kind of job now?

“Penny, would you send a telegram to Fairbairn for me? There’s some money in my pocket, and his address is in the small diary you’ll find in my jacket.

Get the boy with the big circles of eyes to take it to the post-office.”

“Don’t worry about that, darling. We’ve still a day to decide.”

“I’ve decided already.”

So have I, she thought sadly. The telegram had probably reached Chaundler by this time. What else could have been done? Saturday was tomorrow, and Fairbairn was Fairbairn. David could not change his career a second time because of her. But she was glad that he had not made that decision, that it had to come from her.

She smiled, gave him her hand obediently. He stretched himself lazily, drowsily. If you had to be ill, he thought, it was good to be ill with all this kind of care around you.

Dimly he remembered last night. I “You must love me a lot,” he sa “And you must love me a lot i of Fairbairn.

“Sleep and get better, She turned away quickly, and pre room.

The telegram from David had f mantelpiece. She picked it up, and the envelope over in her hand, ar first time. The writing was not Me of handwriting, but with more df “It’s Mother,” Penny said incredu the envelope.

There was a single s David watched her face. It was v “Father is ill,” she reported.

“He 1 his ” great worries.” She looked fault, of course, I suppose.” She p from her eyes and forced herself t( been to stop reading the letter al tog Then David saw her whole fac again, young, incredulous, happy.

She held the letter out to him, t smile had changed to laughter, a 1, tears.

But her happy eyes, her ha): news was good. She held out the 1 not moving.

“The old brain is slow today,” guess.” There was a glimmering of repressed it. Too many disappoint add another. Better repress all hop’ distance.

Penny,” he said, with one c She came forward to him sayin They stared at each other, still he caught her wrist and pulled her i let us get married?” he asked increc ” Yes, David, yes! Oh, darling, ca temperature attack.”

“And, by God, it couldn’t be for temperature I’ll enjoy having.” He t worry, old girl, nothing is going to *I know I’m a rotten nurse, bu this,” Penny said, and made him rebel, so perhaps he wasn’t quite so well as he had suddenly thought he was.

“How strange women can be,” he said.

“So calm and practical.”

“Calm?” She laughed then, unevenly, happily.

“Just wait until you are better, and you’ll see how very un calm I am.” She covered his shoulders carefully, smoothed the top sheet under his chin, turned the pillow round for coolness, and felt his brow.

“Well, nurse?” he asked, with a grin.

“Some more aspirin, darling. And a lot of sleep. And no more talking.

I don’t want any more frights like the kind I had last night.”

“Strange, I can’t remember much about it except that you were there, hazily, and that the bed seemed to have an oven going full blast underneath it.”

“No more frights, thank you,” Penny repeated firmly, and placed a kiss on each eyelid to close them.

They didn’t stay closed.

“Darling. America. For both of us!”

“Yes, David.”

“Send Fairbaim a telegram. His address is in my pocketbook in my jacket.

Tell him I’m ready to start any time.”

“Yes, David.” She smiled and added, “Get some sleep now.”

“We’d better see about getting a marriage licence. It takes ages sometimes, I believe. Get a quick one, darling. And I want at least one week on dry land with you before we sail. I’m a rotten sailor. I want a honeymoon on solid ground.”

“Yes, David.” Her smile told him to stop talking, to fall asleep, to get well quickly.

She left him then, to-make sure of these things.

She sat outside on the top step of the staircase, her arms hugging herself, her eyes looking at the black wall dipping down into the dark house. She made herself think of all the things to be done, all the practical things which must be done, and for once they seemed neither too difficult nor exhausting. She wasn’t even tired now.

I must write Grandfather at once, she thought.

“He must know that I am so happy,” she said aloud. She laughed as her voice startled her.

It was so happy.

She rose and went back to the room. David was asleep. She picked up her mother’s letter from where it had fallen on the floor beside him.

“We’ve managed it, David,” she said softly.

“We’ve managed it. In spite of everything.”

She went to the table and found her pen and some paper. She watched the sunlight turning the blue tiles on the opposite rooms to shimmering heat, and imagined Inchnamurren with the sun on the waters. If they had time to travel there, that would be a wonderful place to spend David’s week on solid ground.

Inchnamurren . And, thinking of the island and its quiet loveliness, she began to remember the summer day when she had met David there. She smiled with the delight of remembering, but the wonder in her heart grew.

“What is love?” she asked herself suddenly, and could find no answer that was complete enough. Her smile lingered, giving warmth to her lips and depths to her blue eyes.

“It just is, that’s all,” she said. She turned for a moment to look at David.

Then she drew the sheet of paper in front of her, and began to write the letter to her grandfather.

Chapter Thirty-nine.

BEGINNING OF A LONG JOURNEY.

The wedding, in spite of Mrs. Lorrimer’s dismay over its suddenness, its simplicity, its lack of invitations and white satin, was an enormous success. The bridegroom felt less sick with apprehension and nervousness than the usual bridegroom is forced to feel; the bride was neither as exhausted nor as short-tempered as the usual bride is forced to be. Thsir only worry—each of them had it, concealed it from the other, and then admitted it a week later with laughter—was that one of them would be killed or injured in a traffic accident on their separate ways to the ceremony, and that they would never really get each other after all.

Dr. MacLntyre, after giving away the bride, was host at the luncheon in the Savoy. It was a small party, but a gay one in spite of Mrs. Lorrimer’s determinedly brave face.

At first she had said it was quite impossible to attend the wedding. And then, just as David was secretly congratulating himself, she had decided to come. She re-engaged a nurse for her husband, and spent a busy three days organizing clothes for the occasion. She also found time to write a great number of explanatory letters before she set out for London with Moira and Betty. The one to Mattie Fane in Salzburg gave her a certain amount of pleasure. ‘ … So very exciting … leaving at once for America .