Nurse Trent's Children (16 page)

“She did not even notice us going,” smiled Cathy.

“No.” Malcolm’s voice was short.

Presently he said, “It’s almost uncanny
...
”

“What is?”

“That kid’s likeness to ... to Susan. Susan was a tomboy, just like Christabel, but she was a little mother as well. ”

A silence fell between them. The doctor broke it.

“Wherever she is now, I know she is still all mother. I can see her with her children around her, just as vivacious as I remember her, yet still with that unerring mother instinct and that capacity for love.”

Wherever she is now
...
Cathy glanced quickly at him. She thought of that little God’s Acre and the grave with the brief
i
nscription. So he still did not know; he still wondered and did not dare try to discover. It was a pity really. Until he learned what had become of his sister he would carry with him that streak of hardness, that disbelief.

She said quickly, “Where do you think she could be?”

“I don’t think.”

“Perhaps you believe she was transferred to another home.”

“I tell you I don’t think.”

“Isn’t that a mistake?”

“My mistake is recalling her at all. My mistake is imagining sometimes, her children around her
—my
nieces,
my
nephews, part, in a way, of my blood.”

She saw suddenly the loneliness in him, the yearning for someone who belonged.

Gently, she reminded him, “There will be your own children one day.”

He looked down on her, the eyes unrevealing again. “Let’s get back,” he said.

They drove silently through the night, and when they reached Burnley she suggested, “Perhaps I’d better go straight home. It’s too late for lessons tonight.”

“You have to pick up your satchel.”

“The children could do that tomorrow.”

“It won’t take long.”

When they reached the office she came in with him because she had forgotten where she had put the briefcase.

“You must be chilled. I’ll put on some coffee. Mrs. Williams is out, but it won’t take long.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I want it myself.”

“Then let me.”

“I told you before, this is the doctor’s prerogative. Just wait by the empty hearth and pretend the fire is lit.”

When he went out she crossed and stood by the cold grate. She looked around the room, the white walls, the severe masculine furniture, she saw the trees outside whispering against the panes of the window. Then she turned to the hearth.

The clock on the mantelpiece was ticking steadily. The ticks seemed to become louder and louder
...
They even drowned the man’s steps as he returned to the room with the tray. He put it down and crossed to her side.

Together they stared at the empty fireplace, and then it happened—a spell so strong that Cathy could have sworn that flames burned high and that they came from logs that
he
had cut and
piled, that tea and toast
she
had made were keeping hot, that there were two chairs drawn up awaiting them—that they were
familiar
chairs.

She turned slightly, then feeling his eyes upon her, looked up.

In that moment she was no longer rootless. In that moment she knew that there were just the two of them and nobody else in the world. The reason was not clear, but she had the feeling that it had been there all the time, waiting to be discovered
...

Jeremy had felt the enchantment, too. He had sensed the burning logs, the toast, the familiar chairs—and he had looked down on the girl. He felt an almost suffocating largeness in his heart, a wonder possessed him.

Slowly, quietly, they drew together. The spell that was on them affected the quality of their first kiss. It had no greed, no desire to possess, but it was deep and satisfying; it was a fulfillment that needed no declaration.

When they drew apart again they still had said no words.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The mail delivery to Redgates al
ways coincided with the children
’
s
breakfast. It had become an established custom for the mailman to sit down with them to a cup of tea and a piece of toast. Cathy did not know how the authorities would have looked on this, but the girls considered it good fun, for they took it in turn to make his toast and pour him his tea.

Often Cathy shuddered inwardly over the burnt offering and the milky, slopped-over beverage, but the mailman made each child feel that never had there been such food for the gods, and as he supped and sipped they stood beside him beaming their approval.

He was a generous old fellow with an immense love for children, especially the Little Families children. He had the dates of their birthdays down in a book, and never did he forget to fetch out a card with the mail. A
mailed
card, too. That made it really exciting. Elvira had told Cathy that at Christmastime the whole house had received cards.

Today Mr. Monty put down the mail with a flourish. “Anyone here by the name of Miss Jeanie Glasson?”

“Me,
me...”
gasped Jeanie.

“That’s funny, there’s an envelope here with your name on it. Couldn’t be you, of course, but you’d better open it and see.”

Jeanie did, her cheeks like carnations. “It’s Happy Birthday,” she said, enraptured. “It’s the first Happy Birthday I’ve ever had on a card. A
mailed card,
too. Look, there’s a proper stamp.”

Cathy was glancing over the other mail. She never opened it until the rush of getting the children away was over, but she could not resist turning it curiously.

There were the usual catalogs and brochures. They were addressed “Housemother, Little Families, Burnley Hills,” and they contained samples of materials suitable for small girls’ dresses, treatises on the latest child tonics, details of new equipment for play centers. At the bottom of the pile were two addressed to Miss Trent. She put them aside with some of the personal pleasure that Jeanie must have felt. One was from England. She recognized the familiar airmail stamp. The writing was vaguely familiar, yet it was not Helen’s or Judith’s. Philippa, perhaps. She had forgotten Philippa’s writing. She knew a happy satisfaction. Only when letters from home arrived did one realize how one had looked for them.

She turned to the other letter.
It
was not vague. She would have recognized that bold handwriting anywhere. She handled it every day on the prescriptions she took to the pharmacist. It had scribbled caustic criticisms on the essays she handed in at class. The letter was from Jeremy Malcolm.

She sat through the meal smiling at the mailman and Jeanie and Little Marilyn, whose turn it had been to make the tea, but wondering all the time what was inside that letter.

What did she want to find inside? That was the trouble. Cathy did not know.

She had not dared analyze the feelings that had taken possession of her after they had returned from visiting Christabel last night.

The moment of magic, the aura of enchantment, was still upon her, but that was all. Nothing about it seemed real, tangible, and if it was not real and tangible, was it lasting? Could it really matter?

As in a dream she recaptured the fire in the empty hearth again, the two familiar chairs, the knowledge of being no longer rootless, but she was recapturing only a picture. Pleasant to look at, but never existing and never to exist. What was stranger still, she did not
want
it to exist. For a moment she had loved—yes, she must admit that love—but it had only been for a moment, and when one did not like a person, as she frankly did not like Jerry Malcolm, how could there be a deep emotion, except in fantasy?

Now there was this letter probably confirming what had happened in that silly moment when they both had stared down on the empty grate and the flames had leaped and they had drawn quietly, shining, together.

She looked at it wonderingly, nervously, anxiously. She did not know she looked at it longingly. She was unaware that her heart was standing still.

At last the mailman went, looking none the worse for lukewarm oversweetened, overmilked tea and black toast.

“My turn tomorrow,” said Barbara with some trepidation, for she had an instinct for breaking things.

Cathy said, “Yes, darling, but school now. Girls, get your bags and pack in your lunches. School bus children can go down and wait at the stop. Local schoolgirls can leave with them. Those who come in the truck with me must be ready in five minutes. Rita, you don’t have typing class till ten. You can start Avery off on her finger drawing.
”

Rita looked sulky, as she always looked sulky now. She made a half-audible remark about being sick of looking after brats, which Cathy decided to ignore. She had found it best to ignore most of Rita’s comments.

She checked for handkerchiefs, saw the local schoolchildren across the highway, then piled her own into the truck. It took only half an hour to distribute them to their different schools, but all the time the letter was in front of her. What was in it? What did she
want
to be in it? If it was what she thought it was, how could she face Malcolm, tell him that to her the episode had been only a dream?

She came back to find Rita gone before she was supposed to go. Avery was crying because Rita had not got out her painting things and she had a sore throat. Cathy looked at the throat and promised honey and lemon. “I have a hitch,” said Avery. She always called itch “hitch.” Calamine appeased that, and before Redgates’s little whiner could discover anything else Cathy ran up to see if the girls had made their beds. It was an established rule that the older girls made their beds and helped the tinies with theirs. As usual, Alison’s was deceptively neat. Cathy pulled down the pink cottage-weave bedspread. Beneath was a muss of sheet and blanket. Alison was plump, nicely matured and lazy. In years to come, thought Cathy fondly, she would be one of those women who gossip, arms akimbo, over the fence while the dishes wait unwashed and the children run around with dirty faces. But for all that, if her mate was as easygoing and kind, there would be happiness in the house and harmony. Alison had the capacity for forgiveness and love, and that, perhaps, was better than two tidy hands. Cathy knew that when she was an old, old housemother she would sooner visit Alison than Lilias Wesley, who could no
t
sleep at night unless her two shoes sat side by side and her books were stacked, but for a
l
l her fastidiousness would sooner throw away a candy than share it. “Naughty Alison,” she scolded the unplumped pillow.

She went downstairs again, the letters burning holes in her pocket.

Elvira was in the vegetable garden with Mrs. Ferguson. The boys’ cook joined them, and they appeared set for a nice long gossip.

Cathy went into the office, shutting the door behind her. She took out the letters.

She opened the English one first. Something she could not explain made her unwilling to open Dr. Malcolm’s.

She uncreased the single sheet and glanced down at the signature. Why, Miss Watts, of course. Why hadn’t she remembered the writing? How often had she seen it on the Public Notice Board at St. Cloud announcing rosters to duty and time off. Once it had said in disapproving red ink, A.W.O.L., C. Trent.” She had been punished with the cancellation of six leaves.

But for all that she had liked Miss Watts, and now she read eagerly:

Dear Catherine, I was pleased to receive your letter and learn of your prowess. Pleased, too, as you can guess, that you have decided to continue your career.

The letter followed another from Australia, the contents of which have left me (and still find me) bewildered and a little appalled. That last description confounds my friends who consider it good fortune, but I am an old woman now, Catherine, and frankly feel a little out of my depth. All this must be puzzling to you and a little tantalizing, I am not going to satisfy your curiosity by the written word because I hope, quite soon, to be with you and to
tell
you. Indeed, I leave by air on Tuesday of next month, the fifth.

Cathy glanced at the desk calendar. Why, that was only three weeks from today.

That is all for now, my dear.

I
shall bring messages from Helen and Judith. Helen is
‘specialing.’ Judith has been lacking in ambition lately.
I
believe it may be wedding bells. Goodbye for the present. I shall cable you on my departure. Edith Watts.

There was a postscript.

I
f I recall correctly, Redgates had a small ward kept sacred for the use of old girls. Could an ex
-
housemother be considered an old girl?