she wouldn’t take a word of it, she would do exactly as she wanted, she might even, if Malcolm saw fit to apologise, consider marrying him after all…
Even as she thought this, she knew in her heart that she would do no such thing and in any case, hadn’t he said that she wasn’t the girl he had thought she was? He couldn’t have loved her… ‘There is no good crying over spilt milk,’ said Josephine.
It was her weekend off at the end of the week; it seemed interminable, the days dragging themselves slowly from morning to evening and at the same time almost impossibly busy. Mr van Tacx came and went, stalking through the ward with Matt at his heels and Josephine making a third. He had little to say to her and that about the patients. It was as if they had never met outside the ward; she must have annoyed him in some way she decided, and she told herself that it did not matter in the least. Knowing quite well that it did, even though her heart was broken because Malcolm didn’t want to marry her. That wasn’t true either, it was she who had broken off their engagement; she felt quite guilty when she remembered that; when she got home she would explain it all to her mother and see what she had to say.
Operation day went off tolerably well but Mrs Prior worried her. She wasn’t picking up at all; she should have been out of bed by now, walking around a bit, taking an interest in her hair and face and swapping gossip with the other ladies. She did none of these things though, but lay quietly in bed, neither reading nor knitting, not repelling the other patients attempts at a chat, but certainly not encouraging them. It worried Josephine and she confided in Matt who must have in his turn, confided in Mr van Tacx for after the round on Friday he went straight to the office, sat down in the canvas chair, and said, ‘Now, Mrs Prior—I understand you’re not happy about her?’
‘No, I’m not, sir. I can’t put a finger on it but she doesn’t seem to mind if she gets well or not.’
‘Husband?’
‘He comes most evenings but never speaks to any of us.’
‘Make an appointment with him, will you? Monday evening, I’ll come here if you will give me a ring when he arrives.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘She may not want to go home. Try and find out, will you? If that’s the case we’ll get her into a convalescent home. She’s not due for radiotherapy yet, is she?’
‘No, another two weeks…’
She refilled his cup and offered the biscuit tin to Matt. He took one and asked, ‘Off this weekend, Jo?’
For some reason she hadn’t wanted Mr van Tacx to know that. She said guardedly, ‘Well, yes,’ and then hurriedly, ‘How’s the baby, Matt?’
A happy turn in the conversation. Matt spent a minute or so describing his small nephew’s first tooth, before picking up his pen to write Mr van Tacx’s instructions on the pile of charts before him. Josephine, peeping at his absorbed face, thought that he hadn’t heard her anyway.
She caught an evening train and less than two hours later was hurrying down the platform at Tisbury to where her father was waiting. It was a raw evening, already dark and overcast, but as far as she was concerned it could snow or blow a gale; to be home, in any weather, was bliss.
They drove the few miles from Tisbury, through the narrow high hedged lanes with Cuthbert’s head thrust between them. In answer to her father’s query as to her week’s work, she admitted that they had been busy, ‘And how about you, Father?’ she wanted to know.
‘Oh, the usual at this time of the year, my dear—chests and varicose veins and one or two cases of flu—quite nasty ones…’
They were still arguing amicably over a flu epidemic when they reached the house and while her father put the car away she hurried into the kitchen with Cuthbert hard on her heels. Her mother was there stirring something in a saucepan and Josephine sniffed delightedly ‘onion soup and something tasty in the oven.’ She hugged her mother. ‘It’s heaven to be home.’
‘And lovely to see you, darling. Where’s your father?’
‘Putting the car in the garage. I’ll take up my bag…’
‘Supper’s ready.’ Her mother looked at her. ‘Tired, Jo?’ Her eye fell on her daughter’s ringless hand but she didn’t say anything.
‘Five minutes—I’ll start dishing up.’
They had eaten supper and Josephine and her mother were washing the dishes while her father caught up with the paper work before Mrs Dowling said, ‘You’re not wearing your ring, Jo?’
It was the opening she had been waiting for but now that she had it it was hard to begin. She stacked plates carefully. ‘Well, no Mother. I—I was going to tell you and Father. We—that is I, decided that we didn’t suit each other. I’ve left it a bit late, haven’t I? Only three months from the date we’d fixed, but somehow I couldn’t go on with it. I thought I loved Malcolm, truly I did, but last time, when I was home out walking with Cuthbert I suddenly knew that I didn’t want to marry him, so I told him.’ She sighed. ‘He was angry but he had every right to be. Just for a few days I felt awful, I mean, I’d got used to the idea of getting married.’
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