Nurse Trent's Children (23 page)

Monday’s child is fair of face,

Tuesday’s child is full of grace,

Wednesday’s child is full of woe
.

These, then, were the sad children, born into sadness, surrounded by others born into such sadness, growing up quickly to
men and women so that they could leave sadness far behind them, could start fresh lives of their own.

“We—David, Elvie, all of us—tried,” she murmured in distress at her own thoughts.

“Yes, you have tried, but you have not recognized the salient point that those youngsters next door, although they are youngsters, have reached manhood and womanhood in their outlook on life.”

“I tried to keep step with Rita.”

“A lipstick does not establish a belief in maturity.”

“I did not do it for that.” Cathy’s v
o
ice was defensive.

“No.” His voice in his turn was a little weary. “You did it from your kindness of heart. You are very kind, Aunty Cathy, I am sure of it, but you don’t understand, and never will.”

“Understand what?”

“How the heart of a Wed
n
esday’s child cries out for love. How Rita and Andrew need each other even though they are young.”

She looked at him curiously. “You mean you believe those children are
...
are in love?”

“Why not? Love happens. It happens at fifteen, it happens at fifty. Do you believe, then, there are rules for that condition that is called love?”

“I believe they may not know their own minds. Rita might change, Andrew might think differently
...
”

“Granted. But
I
believe that our belief in their capability to live and love is what they mostly need. If you go now to Rita and say, ‘You are still a child, you must put such thoughts out of your mind,’ she will be gone again tomorrow. It was not just Fayette Dubois who was scaring her, it
w
as the fact that she had left childhood yet was still considered a child. But if you believe in her, she will build on her life from now on. Andrew will, too. Why? Because they are Wednesday’s children, and they must grow up quickly to leave behind woe!
”

“You could be wrong,” whispered Cathy. “Rita has been restless
_t
before this. There was young Jim Jeffreys. She thrust herself at him.”

“Because she was starved, but she won’t be anymore. She and Andrew may never come together, but recognition of her status of womanhood and her right to be in love will give her what she needs.” He smiled suddenly. “And I’ll take a bet with you, Aunty Cathy, that one day she’ll make him a damn good wife.”

Cathy stood up. “I’m going in to see them.”

He stood aside and let her pass.

The children were still sitting at the table. Cathy saw they were hand in hand.

She sat down, too.

“Well, Rita? Well, Andrew?”

“We were running away,” said Rita.

“We were going to be married,” said Andrew.

“You are too young. It would have been annulled.”

“We know that now. We know we were silly.” It was Rita speaking, her eyes were alight.

“Dr. Jerry explained it,” added Andrew. “He said why run away and hide when we can start properly and build from the beginning like other people
...
people not from institutions
...
people not like
us...”

Cathy said, “People not born on Wednesday.” She smiled.

“So you are coming home to Redgates?”

“Yes, Aunty Cathy. Dr. Jerry said when he went out to fetch you, ‘You can still leave if you like. The door is wide open. But why start like that when you can have so much more from life?’ ” So that, thought Cathy, was the lock that had kept them—the lock that was freedom, the freedom to live and to love.

“Mrs. Flett has got me a position,” said Andrew. “I am going to work hard. I know I can do it all right.”

“She has arranged for a course for me in cake decoration,” said Rita. “Later on Andrew will have a little shop—” her eyes were dreamy “—and I’ll put sugar roses on his cakes.”

T
hen, as Cathy watched, Andrew bent across and kissed Rita. It was a light kiss, passionless, almost without emotion, a boy’s kiss to a girl at her first dance.

Suddenly Cathy saw it all. She saw other girls of Rita’s age in pretty fluffy dresses, their young escorts stealing kisses on terraces silvered with moonlight and set for young love, scenes that Wednesday’s children were denied.

She saw there was nothing wrong in this as there was nothing wrong in the other. Indeed, the little unstudied caress touched her to her heart.

She got up unsteadily. “When you are ready, dears,” she managed and went out to wait in the porch.

It was there Jerry found her, her face turned to the night.

He did not speak. He just came and stood beside her, and suddenly his arms were around her so tightly she could not even quiver with the wonder of it. It was not a kiss of fulfillment as that other night, it was a boundless ecstasy, a relief in sheer loving from one who had been deprived of love. It was Wednesday’s child who was kissing her, not Jeremy Malcolm.

She stood in the circle of his arms wishing suddenly she could have Jeremy’s love.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Latrobes had arrived
half an hour too early.

They were dressed in their best clothes, and when Cathy put them in the front room-and switched on the radiator they sat bolt upright on the lounge, not even putting their hands or feet toward the warming glow.

“Pull your chair closer, Mrs. Latrobe. It’s a chilly day.”

“I’m warm enough, thank you, Miss Trent.”

“Can I bring the radiator nearer, Mr. Latrobe?”

“I’m doing well, ma’am; you’re very kind, I’m sure.”

If they did not feel the cold, Cathy did. There was a chill in her that set her teeth chattering. She wished Mrs. Latrobe did not look as she did, prim, gloved, not a hair out of place. She wondered how Denise would react to this new Mrs. Latrobe. Whenever she came to Redgates as voluntary helper, Mrs. Latrobe wore a cheerful and capacious apron, her hair escaped from its pins, her eyes warm with affection, not guarded as they were today.

Then Mr. Latrobe—Denise had never met him. What did she expect? What had Cathy expected?

Certainly not the tongue-tied, awkward little man sitting on the edge of the chair running his finger every now and then around the rim of his immaculate collar. How would Denise, difficult, touchy, unpredictable Denise, react to the husband of Mrs. Latrobe whom she wanted for her mommy?

Cathy went outside, shutting the door quietly behind her. She found Miss Watts touching up the flowers in the hall.

“What’s the matter with you, nurse?” Edith Watts was as discerning as ever.

"The Latrobes are here. Oh, Miss Watts, it’s all going to go badly. She’s got on her best dress, a rusty brown with bugle beading. It makes her tight, unapproachable.
He
hasn’t any words, and he looks too shy even to smile. I know Denise. She’s a mollusk. She’ll curl up like a little snail and get into her shell.”

“Good,” said Miss Watts, “then the Latrobes don’t get her, and it would serve the wench right. Mrs. Latrobe has to dress up sometimes, and if the child can’t accept that she’s better left alone. As for Mr. Latrobe, if he’s silent he’s silent. Better for him to stay as he is and not put on an act just to lure her love. Be sensible, Trent. These are two good people. If the girl turns them down for some temperamental reason I should say the Latrobes are well rid of Denise.”

“I want them to have her,” said Cathy obstinately.

Miss Watts sniffed, removed a dead bud and threw it out the window. “The cars are beginning to arrive,” she said.

Within half an hour all the members except one were present. Mr. Bell, although he must have sensed, as the rest sensed, that Fayette Dubois would never attend again, delayed the meeting for another half hour, during which the Latrobes still sat in the front room, upright and speechless. Then he announced busily, “Shall we adjourn to the assembly room now
,
members? Housemother, will you show in the Latrobes.”

The pair followed Cathy nervously and silently took their seats. Mr. Bell spoke kindly to them, as did other members, but they did not relax.

“Mr. Bell is my name, Mrs. Latrobe.”

“Yes, Mr. Bell.”

“Mrs. Latrobe, you wrote to me concerning a certain matter, a matter that we are gathered here today to discuss.”

“Yes, sir ... Mr. Bell.”

Mr. Bell cleared his throat.

“No need, after digesting the contents of that letter, to examine you further regarding your honest and sincere desire to adopt this child in question. You put everything very frankly and clearly, Mrs. Latrobe. I was quite touched.”

Mrs. Latrobe did not say anything. She started fiddling with the button of her glove. Cathy suspected she was not far from
tears.

“Mr. Latrobe,” said Mr. Bell, “how do
you
feel about all
this?”

The little man ran his finger around his collar. “If Ellie wants
it, it’s all right with me.”

“
I’
m sorry, Mr. Latrobe, can’t you go further? Can’t you say whether
you
want the child yourself?”

“Yes, sir, I want the child. We’ve none of our own. Home’s only a house without a little one.
”

“Perhaps,” suggested Mr. Bell, “You might get Denise home and wish you had chosen a boy. A man likes a boy, Mr. Latrobe.”

“We had our boy,” said the little man, moistening his lips. “When we were wed we said we’d have a pigeon pair. Well, Jimmie arrived
...
but, God’s will, he went again, and Ellie knew there wouldn’t be any other, brothers
or
sisters. I’m just telling you this so you’d know that no boy would take Jim’s place. It’s different with the girlie. Her place is unfilled. The corner of our hearts is ready for her.”

It was long and elaborate speech for Mr. Latrobe. He seemed embarrassed and exhausted.

Mr. Bell tactfully turned over some papers. “Financial position satisfactory ... home bright and comfortable ... no religious barriers...” he murmured.

He looked resolutely up. “Housemother, bring in the child.” Cathy went for Denise. The little girl was stiff and unfriendly with shyness. Only pretty when she was lighted up, she looked today a plain sallow little thing.

She went at once instinctively to Mrs. Latrobe. She looked her over very slowly, leaned forward and touched the rather repulsive beads—or so Cathy thought. “You’re pretty,” she said.

“Darling, this is Mrs. Latrobe’s husband,” explained Cathy. “If Mrs. Latrobe became your mommy, he would be your dad.” Denise eyed him furtively. She had never taken much to David or even Dr. Jerry. How would she react to this quiet plain little man?

“Hello, Denny,” said Mr. Latrobe.

Denise did not answer. She leaned against Mrs. Latrobe’s knees and began stroking the bugle beads again. “Pretty,” she repeated, studiously avoiding looking at Mr. Latrobe. A long moment went past. It seemed they had reached a deadlock.

Then abruptly Miss Watts acted. She leaned forward and gave the child a gentle push. “Don’t crush your mother’s best dress, you foolish little girl, lean against your father.”

Denise obeyed without a word.

Presently she leaned more heavily.

Then she climbed on his knee.

There was silence around the table.

Miss Marriott broke it by blowing her nose. Cathy dared a glance in Mr. Latrobe’s direction. He sat as one entranced.

By the time Mr. Bell had turned over his papers again Denise was playing with Mr. Latrobe’s waistcoat button. Her head was against his shoulder. She gave a little sigh of content.

“Members,” said Mr. Bell, rising and speaking rather huskily, “all in favor of closing this meeting say ‘aye.’ ”

“Aye,” said voices, and it was over. Denise was a Wednesday child no longer. She was going home.

T
he Latrobes took her with them. “We’ll call for the rest of her things later on. Do you think she wants to say goodbye to any of her friends?”

Cathy shook her head. Denise had no friends. She knew that at brothtime her absence would scarcely be noticed. She had been such a pallid child, she made such a tiny ripple, that possibly it would be weeks before they even knew she was gone.

She went out to the door and watched Denise climb into the shabby car. The child sat between the Latrobes and never looked back.

Cathy waved, but it was only Mrs. Latrobe who acknowledged her.

“There,” said Miss Watts at her side, “departs an ungrateful child,” She laughed, well pleased with the situation.

“And there,” added Cathy with a sigh, “departs our very best voluntary help.”

The board members were leaving. Dr. Malcolm left with them.

“I’ll be off tomorrow,” said Miss Watts busily. “I’m flying to Melbourne to see my solicitor. Don’t look so glum. I’ll be back.”

“It wasn’t you entirely,” admitted Cathy frankly, “it was more reaction. Now I’ve got what I wanted I feel deflated like a pricked balloon.”

“Perhaps you haven’t got
all
you wanted,” said Miss Watts wisely. She went back to the house, and Cathy followed.

The next day was Mrs. Ferguson’s day off. Elvira came to Cathy during the morning, looking upset.

“It’s mother again. Poorly. Can I take my Saturday off today, Aunty Cathy?”

“Certainly, Elvie.”

“Fergie’s off, too.”

“I can manage.”

Elvie smiled widely. “After how you managed last time the children w
i
ll enjoy the change.”

Miss Watts had departed early, David driving her out to Mascot. Elvira put on her navy coat and hat and left within the hour.

Cathy sat in the kitchen looking through the little black book of household notes.

Rissoles first, she decided, then Spanish Cream—or flummery. She looked in the larder. They were down on eggs, so that precluded the Spanish Cream. The oranges and lemons, too, were short, so she decided against flummery
.
Oh, well,
she thought with a hint of humor,
it will have to be gelatin.

She was
standing at the stove stirring the milk mixture when she heard the steps behind her. This time she did not mistake them. She knew them too well. She turned around.

“Good morning Dr. Malcolm. Did you want something?”

“A word with the housemother. No, please continue. I can speak here just as well.”

She took up the spoon again. She saw that her hand was trembling.

“I’ve come to apologize,” he said without preamble, “for my behavior last night.”

“Accepted,” she nodded coolly. She stirred furiously a moment, then added, “I’m always accepting your apologies, aren’t
I?”

“Twice, and for similar offences.” He paused a long moment, then baited, “Aren’t you going to say something?”

“That they were not offences. That would be more polite, wouldn’t it, even if you didn’t mean it.”

Cathy pushed the saucepan to one side. “Dr. Malcolm, what
did
you come to tell me?”

He looked back at her, his eyes not baiting now. He spoke directly and curiously without emotion.

“I came to tell you I love you, Catherine, that I have loved you from the moment I first saw you, that I’ll love you till I die.”

She went as though to move away, but as he had done that first time, he crossed quickly to the range and imprisoned her by stretching out his two big arms and planting a large brown hand each side of the stove.

She challenged a little huskily, “If you say you feel like this,
have
felt like this, why did you apologize that first time?” She was remembering with a curious pain that knowledge of an empty grate with a leaping fire, two familiar chairs.

He looked at her reproachfully, “You offered me no encouragement. You accepted, but you did not give. There is give and take in love. One to kiss and one to be kissed was your attitude, and
you
did not kiss.”

“What was Fayette to you?” she demanded almost huskily, ignoring his reproach.

“I despised her; I’ve always despised her. She possessed that worst of all traits, meanness.”

“And yet you danced to her tune?”

“I despised myself for that, too, but I was tied, Catherine. I was tied in loyalty to a place I distrusted and yet loved. Without Fayette Redgates could not have functioned. I realized that. But I realized, too, if I married her she would tire of it, of Redgates, and all my efforts would have gone for nothing. So I just held off, saying nothing, doing nothing, dancing, as you said, to her tune, but allowing the tune to go so far and no further. Sometimes—” wearily “—I think it was the wrong method. It only whetted her desire, made her more determined to get what she was after.”

“She told me she was going to marry you.”

‘So you told her about David.”

“That was a mistake.”

He said grimly, “It was.”

A silence fell between them. Cathy broke it nervously.

“I was coming to you after Miss Watts told you that Susan was not your sister. I knew how you felt, Jeremy—cold, rootless, at the beginning of a long empty road.”

“I waited for you. I waited in vain.” His eyes were again reproachful.

She asked gently, “Was it so awful?”

“Not so awful. I realized that the chip I had worn on my shoulder all these years against Little Families was unwarranted, that they had not broken up an intrinsic unit, as I thought. But long before that, Catherine, in fact, ever since I met you, I had found myself thinking differently. I believe it was those four words.”

“What words?”

“ ‘In a little while,’ you said. In a little while things would be different. I saw things as scientists see them—time past, time present, time future, all happening together on the same broad canvas. Even now—who knows? Children
everywhere,
Wednesday’s children, are living in small home units with their own brothers and sisters. You can’t have everything in your own lifetime. It is just a matter of a little waiting; just a case, as you said, of ‘in a little while.’ ”