who hadn’t given Malcolm a thought for the best part of the day, agreed.
The period of quiet was over, there was still ten minutes to go before visiting time was over; Josephine went into the ward, cast a quick eye over the four operation cases, agreed to talk to their visitors presently and made her way slowly round the ward, to be stopped every few yards by relatives and friends. Some of their questions she couldn’t answer, they were better dealt with by one of the surgeons; she would have to get Mr Bull’s registrar, Matt Cummings to come up to the ward. But all the other questions she answered patiently and helpfully, knowing that to the people concerned they were important. Back in her office she phoned Matt and then, one by one, invited the anxious mothers and sisters and daughters to come and talk. There were never any husbands in the afternoon, they came in the evening, clutching flowers and things in paper bags and sometimes they rather shyly offered her a gift. Chocolates mostly, sometimes a bag of oranges or a melon and as Christmas approached, nuts. She accepted them with gratitude because it was nice that in the middle of what was to most men a domestic upheaval, they remembered the nurses.
Malcolm was waiting for her; she had got off duty rather later than usual and had hurried to change and make her way to the front entrance. He was standing by the entrance, reading an evening paper, and she paused, unseen as yet, to look at him. Not over tall, stoutly built, nice looking in a smug kind of way. It struck her forcibly that she couldn’t possibly marry him. In ten years time he would be satisfied with his life, following in his father’s footsteps, content to take over from him and probably when his father died, having his mother to live with them… He had never been keen on an evening out, she suspected. No, she knew now that once they were married, she would be expected to stay at home or at best visit his family. The enormity of it all shook her; she felt guilty and mean, but surely it was better to cry off now rather than go through with an unhappy marriage? And why, she asked herself miserably, should she suddenly be aware of these things? True she had had doubts from time to time but she had supposed that was natural enough in an engaged woman, but now it wasn’t doubts, it was dreadful certainty.
She walked on again and he looked up and saw her. His, ‘Hullo old girl,’ did nothing to reassure her, nor did the perfunctory kiss he dropped on her cheek, but she struggled to respond to it, feeling guiltier than ever so that she responded rather more warmly than usual and he drew back with a ‘Hey—what’s got into you, Jo?’ And when she just shook her head, ‘Had a busy day, no doubt—well, we’ll go to a cafe and have a meal. That’ll set you on your feet again.’
She longed to tell him that a cafe wouldn’t help in the least; champagne and an exotic dinner at some fashionable restaurant might have helped, but she doubted that even. She said urgently, ‘Malcolm, could we go somewhere quiet where we can talk?’
‘Quiet? Why do we want to be quiet?’ He was ushering her into his car as he spoke. He added rather irritably, ‘I’m not made of money, you know…’
A rather unfair remark, she decided, sitting silent beside him.
The restaurant was fairly full and noisy. They found a table for two and he said as they sat down, ‘Steak for you?’ And when she said that no she would have a poached egg on toast, he observed shortly, ‘Whatever is the matter with you, Jo? I always order a steak for you…’
She said lamely, ‘I’m not hungry, Malcolm,’ and then trying hard to recapture something she knew was lost for ever, ‘Have you had a busy day?’
‘Oh, God, yes. I’ll be glad to be shot of the Hampstead practice, there’ll be just enough to keep me busy with Father, there’s nothing like a country practice—one knows everyone in the district, a settled routine…’
‘Is that what you want, Malcolm? Don’t you want to—to stretch your wings? Use your knowledge?’
He laughed. ‘Jo, you’re not yourself this evening, what on earth’s got into you. Why should I want to wear myself out when I can drop into a comfortable country practice with my father?’
She abandoned the egg on toast. She was appalled to hear herself say, ‘Malcolm, I don’t want to get married.’
He finished his mouthful before he replied. ‘Rubbish, Jo. You’re just tired—you don’t know what you are saying.’
She said doggedly, ‘But I do. I—I’ve felt uncertain for a week or two but I thought—well, I thought I’d get over it, but I haven’t, Malcolm. I’d make you a bad wife—there are all sorts of reasons—living so far away and being so near your parents. Your mother doesn’t like me much, you know that; she thinks I’m too keen on clothes and don’t know enough about keeping house, and I want to do more than just be a housewife—and I’m not sure that I love you enough, Malcolm.’ She paused and went on bravely. ‘I’m not even sure if you love me enough. You see, I think, perhaps you’re mistaken in me—I don’t like being told what to do and being taken for granted. Why do I have to eat steak when we go out just because you think I want to? Can’t you see that if you expect me to eat steak because you order it for me, you’ll expect me to do everything else you think is good for me.’
Malcolm gave an indulgent laugh, which infuriated her. ‘You are just being silly, Jo. Good Lord, we’re to be married in a couple of months, you can’t break everything off now.’
‘You mean to tell me that you think we should go ahead with the wedding even when I know in my heart that I don’t want to marry you?’
He shrugged. ‘You’ll feel differently in the morning. Besides, what will everyone say…’
‘They’d say a lot more if I ran away after we were married.’
‘You don’t mean that. Why do women have to exaggerate so?’
She saw that she wasn’t going to get through his smugness. She said soberly, ‘I’m not exaggerating, Malcolm, I mean every word.’ And she took the ring off her finger and pushed it across the table towards him. ‘Please will you take me back to St Michael’s.’
He picked up the ring and put it in his pocket. ‘If that’s how you feel, the quicker we part company the better. You’re not the girl I thought you were.’
She agreed sadly, ‘You’ll meet some girl who’ll make you happy, Malcolm. I’m very sorry, but it’s far better to part than to be unhappy for the rest of our lives.’
He muttered something, and because she was a kindhearted girl and blamed herself she was honest and said so, to be brought up short by his, ‘Oh save that, I’m beginning to think that once I’ve got over the awkwardness of it all, it’ll be a good thing.’
He paid the bill and they went out to the car and got in without speaking. They still hadn’t said a word when he drew up at the Hospital entrance.
Josephine opened her door. ‘Well, goodbye, Malcolm— I’m sorry…’
He presented an unmoved profile to her. ‘I doubt that,’ he told her, and caught the door and slammed it shut and drove away without another word.
She stood for a moment watching the tail lights receding and then pushed the glass swing doors open. Mr van Tacx was standing just inside, barring her path.
‘Hullo,’ he observed ‘had a tiff?’
It was a bit too much; Josephine lifted a pale face to his, blinking back tears. ‘What do you know about tiffs?’ she asked him bitterly and sped past him, intent
