deserve—a long weekend off; there was that little tussle with Matron before her, concerning the new ward curtains—and there was Clive Barton, the Surgical Registrar, who had shown signs of becoming serious about her, and for some reason she couldn’t quite understand, she didn’t want to encourage him. Which was silly really, for she liked him very much, perhaps she was a little fond of him even and might get fonder, but she hesitated to commit herself.
She whizzed past a couple of slow-moving transports, wondering why it was that Lucy, quiet and retiring and shy, who had little or no opportunity of meeting any men, should have known the moment she had set eyes upon David that she wanted to marry him.
Charity’s dark winged eyebrows drew together in a frown. Perhaps she was never going to meet a man who would make her feel like that—willing to hand over her whole life without question. She slowed down to go through Axminster, to get caught up in the early morning traffic filtering its way through the narrow, curling main street. She glanced at her watch; she was doing nicely, she would stop for lunch just before she got on to the M3 and then press on, for London would take a bit of getting through even outside the rush hour.
She reached St Simon’s Hospital in time to join her friends in the Sisters’ sitting-room for an early tea. They hailed her with pleasure and a spate of questions about her holiday, brought her up to date with the hospital news and settled down to drink their tea and eat as much bread and butter and jam as time allowed.
“Did anything exciting happen, Charity?” Nancy Benson wanted to know as she got up to fill her cup.
Charity sat down on the arm of the chair. “No—at least, not exciting, exactly; a man fainted while we were waiting to cross one of the ferries—an American, Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek…” There was a shriek of laughter. “Yes, I know it’s a gorgeous name, isn’t it—I couldn’t believe my ears.”
“I suppose you did your Florence Nightingale act?” a small girl remarked, “or was there a doctor around?”
Charity, a little belatedly, discovered that she didn’t want to tell anyone about the doctor. She said briskly: “Oh, yes—someone or other came along, and the American was taken to a hotel to rest. It wasn’t in the least exciting. Tell me, how is our Alice doing with Mr Wright?”
“Our Alice” was Accident Room Sister, a quiet retiring girl in her early thirties. Her younger colleagues had despaired of her seeming content to remain single, and when Mr Wright, the assistant radiologist, equally quiet and retiring, had shown interest in her, they had combined in a conspiracy to bring them together as often as possible. Her inquiry was met with a triumphant cry of: “They’re engaged—isn’t it marvellous? After all our hard work and patience.”
“I wonder who’ll be next?” asked Nancy, and looked at Charity, who said instantly and strongly: “Don’t look at me—I’ve no one in mind,” which wasn’t quite true, but how could one be serious about a man one had glimpsed for the briefest moment of time and would never see again?
They dispersed very soon after that, most of them to go back on to their wards, the lucky ones off duty to change for an evening out, and Charity to her room to unpack and get ready for the morning.
She had only been away a fortnight, but there were a number of new patients, although old Mr Grey, who had been in the ward for some time, was still there, as were Mr Timms and Charlie Green. During her absence, she noticed, they had contrived to get moved into the four-bedded, partitioned area at the top of the ward where doubtless they were continuing their cosy little card parties whenever it was possible to get someone to push their beds together. There was a fourth man there, and she passed from her patients’ glad cries of welcome to his bed—a small, cherubic-faced elderly man, recovering from a not too serious operation, and, as Charlie was quick to tell her, a tip-top rummy player. She smiled at them in a motherly fashion, begged them to be good boys and went on down the ward.
The patients here were all new, so she began the task of getting to know them—twenty-odd men who had been admitted during her fortnight’s absence—supported after a while by her staff nurse, Lacey Bell, who presently, at Charity’s invitation, followed her into her office, where they drank their coffee together while Lacey added a few details about the patients—details best left unsaid in the ward. She was a good nurse, thought Charity, listening to her astute summing-up of the cases, and one day she would make a good Sister—perhaps she already had aspirations to step into her own shoes. Charity was very well aware that the hospital expected her to marry Clive Barton.
She gathered her scattered thoughts together and said cheerfully: “Thanks, Lacey, you’ve done a good job while I’ve been away.” She smiled at the girl opposite her. “How about a weekend off? I’m sure you’ve some overtime to work off.”
Her staff nurse looked pleased. “Lovely, thank you, Sister, if you’re sure it’s OK.” She got up. “I’ll just go and make sure the ward’s straight, shall I?”
Charity nodded. “Do—I’ll flip through these notes, and mind you’re at hand during Mr Howard’s round, I may need a reminder.”
She had never needed a reminder yet, thought Lacey as she swung down the ward once more. Sister Dawson might be one of the most eye-catching girls at St Simon’s, she was also one of the brainiest; she had never been known to forget anything; she learned new techniques within minutes and she had been the Gold Medallist of her year—a sufficiency of talents to swell her pretty head, and yet they hadn’t; she never mentioned her medal, nor for that matter had she ever been heard to tell anyone that she had the Advanced Driver’s Certificate, could speak fluent French and passable German, even if with a strong English accent; that she swam like a fish and played a first-class game of tennis, and had received more proposals of marriage than any other female in the hospital.
She deserved better than Clive Barton, mused her faithful staff nurse, plumping up pillows and straightening counterpanes while she kept a stern eye on the student nurses. Clive was all right, but Charity Dawson needed someone even cleverer than she was and with a brain just that much quicker; someone to be the boss, however gently he did it. Lacey, reviewing the eligible males to hand, couldn’t discover one who might do. It vexed her so that she spoke rather more sharply than she had intended to Mr Grey, and then had to tell him she hadn’t meant a word of it.
Charity, left alone, started on the notes, she read them fast and carefully and when she was half way through them, got up to peer at herself in the small mirror behind her desk. She was by no means vain, but no ward Sister would wish to do a round with one of the consultant surgeons, with her pleated muslin cap at an incorrect angle; she adjusted her headgear minutely, wrinkled her nose at her reflection, and sat down again. She was studying the last of the notes when Clive Barton came in.
Charity raised her green eyes for a moment and smiled. “Hi,” she said briefly, “I shan’t be a tick—there’s some cool coffee on the tray and a mug behind you.”
She bent her head again while her companion did as she had suggested and then took the chair opposite her. He was a middle-sized young man, with a pleasant face and pale hair already receding a little. He looked to be a mild man too, but Charity knew that there was a good deal of determination behind his placid features. Clive wanted to get to the top—to become a consultant—he had been a registrar for several years now and was liked and respected by the consultants he worked for. Sooner or later one of them would retire, and he, if he was lucky, would have a chance of stepping into his shoes. He sat quietly now, admiring Charity; he was almost in love with her, he certainly liked her enormously and she would make him a splendid wife. Besides, she was known to all the consultants and a great many of the local GP’s and they liked her, a fact which would be of considerable help to him. She was certainly a good-looker, although he had
