child was a new patient, admitted just as the day staff were handing over thankfully to their night colleagues, and not particularly ill. She was popped into a cot while the more urgent cases were attended to, presently she would be bathed, her hair washed, and tucked up for the night.
Phoebe, looking quite breathtakingly beautiful in her dark blue uniform, trod quietly down the ward with a nod to the nurses to get on with what they were doing and not mind her. The child was sitting on a blanket in its cot, eating a biscuit. It looked pale and undernourished and was, like so many of the children who were admitted, too small, too thin and lacklustre as to eye—not through lack of money, Phoebe knew, but through the parents’ neglect; good-natured and unthinking, but still neglect. She smiled at the elderly little face, said brightly, ‘Hullo, chick, what’s your name?’ and at the same time peered with an expert eye at the spots.
There were a great many of them, and when she peeped beneath the little flannel nightshirt there were a great many more. She straightened up and spoke to the nurse who had joined her. ‘Fleas,’ she said softly, so that no one would hear save her companion. ‘Infected too. A mild Savlon bath, Nurse, usual hair treatment and keep a sharp eye open. Give her a milk drink and let me know if she doesn’t settle. She’s a bronchitis, isn’t she? She’ll be seen in the morning, but if you’re worried let me know.’ She turned away and then came back to say in a low voice: ‘And wear a gown.’ Her lovely eyes twinkled at the nurse, who smiled back. ‘And I might as well do a round now I’m here, mightn’t I?’
The night went smoothly after that. She was accustomed to, and indeed expected, the diabetic comas, coronaries and relapses which occurred during the course of it. She dealt with them as they arose with a calm patience and a sense of humour which endeared her to the rest of the night staff. She even had time for a quick cup of tea before she went to give her report.
She arrived at Waterloo with a couple of minutes to spare. There was no sign of Sybil—she would be on the train, a long train, and only its front carriages went to Salisbury; she jumped into the nearest door and started walking along the corridor. Her sister was in the front coach, sitting in an empty compartment with her feet comfortably on the seat opposite her, reading a glossy magazine. She was very like Phoebe, but her good looks were a little more vivid, her eyes a shade paler and her voice, when she spoke, just a tone higher.
‘Hullo, Phoebe darling, here by the skin of your teeth, I see. How are you —it’s ages since we saw each other.’ She was putting Phoebe’s bag on the rack as she spoke, now she pushed her gently into a window seat. ‘Here, put your feet up and have a nap. We can talk later. I’ll wake you in good time.’
And Phoebe, now that she had caught her train and greeted her sister, did just as Sybil suggested; in two minutes she was asleep. She wakened, much refreshed, at the touch on her arm and sat up, did her face, tidied her hair and drank the coffee Sybil had got for her, then said contritely: ‘What a wretch I am —I quite forgot. How about the hospitals?’
Sybil grinned engagingly. ‘The Gold Medal, ducky! I couldn’t let you be the only one in the family with one, could I? I don’t get the State results for six weeks, but I don’t care whether I pass or not.’ She looked secretive and mischievous at the same time, but when Phoebe said: ‘Do tell—something exciting?’ all she would say was: ‘I’ll tell you later, when there’s no hurry. Look!’
The carriage door was flung open and a horde of people surged in, making conversation impossible. The train shuddered, gave a sigh as though it disliked the idea of leaving the station, and continued on its way. At Shaftesbury, they got out; they lived in a small village close to Sturminster Newton, but Aunt Martha, who had moved in to look after them when their mother had died, and stayed on when their father died a few years later, liked to come and fetch them in the second-hand Austin which they had all three bought between them. She was on the platform now, in her tweed skirt and her twin-set, a felt hat of impeccable origin wedged on her almost black hair, only lightly streaked with grey despite her fifty-odd years. It framed her austere good looks and gave colour to her pale face, which broke into a smile as she saw them. She greeted them both with equal affection and walked them briskly to where the car was parked, telling Sybil to sit in front with her so that Phoebe, if she felt so inclined, could continue her nap undisturbed in the back.
Which she did without loss of time, waking after a blissful fifteen minutes to find that they were already going through East Orchard; at the next village, named, inevitably, West Orchard, they would turn off on to a side road which would bring them to Magdalen Provost, where they lived—a very small village indeed, which Phoebe had declared on several occasions to have more letters to its name than it had houses. It was a charming place, only a mile or so from the main road, and yet it had remained peacefully behind the times; even motor cars and the twice daily bus had failed to bring it up to date, and by some miracle it had remained undiscovered by weekend househunters looking for a holiday cottage, probably because it was so well hidden, awkward to get at, and in winter, impossible to get out of or into by car or bus because it lay snug between two hills rising steeply on either side, carrying a road whose gradient was more than enough for a would-be commuter.
Aunt Martha rattled down the hill and stopped in the centre of the village where the church, surrounded by a sprinkling of houses, the pub and the post office and village stores which were actually housed in old Mrs Deed’s front room, stood. Phoebe’s home stood a little apart from the rest, surrounded by a stone wall which enclosed a fair-sized, rather unkempt garden. The house itself wasn’t large, but roomy enough, and she loved it dearly; she and Sybil had spent a happy childhood here with their parents, their father, a scientist of some repute, pursuing his engrossing occupation while their mother gardened and kept house and rode round the countryside on the rather fiery horse her husband had given her. Both girls rode too, but neither of them were with their mother when she was thrown and killed while they were still at school, and their father, considerably older than his wife, had died a few years later.
Aunt Martha drew up with a flourish before the door and they all went inside. It was a little shabby but not poorly so; the furniture was old and well cared for and even if the curtains and carpets were rather faded, there was some nice Georgian silver on the sideboard in the dining room. Phoebe, now wide awake, helped bring in the cases and then went upstairs to change into slacks and shirt before joining Aunt Martha in the kitchen for coffee, regaling that lady with the latest hospital news as they drank it, but when Sybil joined them, the talk, naturally enough, centred around her and her success. It wasn’t for a few minutes that Phoebe came to the conclusion that it was she and their aunt who were excited about the results and not Sybil herself. She wondered uneasily why this was and whether it had something to do with whatever it was Sybil was going to tell her. Prompted by this thought, she asked:
‘Shall we go for a walk after lunch, Syb?’ and the uneasiness grew at the almost guilty look her sister gave her as she agreed.
They went to their favourite haunt—a copse well away from the road, with a clearing near its edge where a fallen tree caught the spring sun. They squatted comfortably on it and Phoebe said: ‘Now, Sybil, let’s have it. Is it something to do with St Elmer’s or about your exams?’
Her sister didn’t look at her. ‘No—no, of course not—at least … Phoebe, I’m giving in my notice at the end of the week.’
Phoebe felt the uneasiness she had been trying to ignore stir, but all she said was: ‘Why, love?’
‘I’m going to get married.’
The uneasiness exploded like a bomb inside her. ‘Yes, dear? Who to?’
‘Nick Trent, he’s the Medical Registrar. He’s landed a marvellous job at that new hospital in Southampton. We’re going to marry in two months’ time —he gets a flat with the job and there’s
