A Weekend in The Garden (The Jason Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  He dismissed the past, took a long look at the threadbare carpet of the stairs that as in The Garden ran up from the back of the hall and were of oak, but much less grandiose, and the shine on the scratched banisters looked to owe more to sliding children than wax polish. That ‘middle room’ presented a problem. There were four doors opposite the front entrance; the only one open was on the extreme left and from the coats hanging from the inside hooks was a coat cupboard. He investigated, closed the door, and decided the lavatory didn’t count. He thought the old lady would have preferred to ignore its existence. He had met few Victorian English women and was unaware that they often lacked the prudery of their Edwardian daughters, and regarded a kitchen not as ‘a room’ but as the servants’ hall. He knocked fairly loudly on the second of the three closed doors. Nothing happened. He knocked very loudly. Same response. Convinced Catherine slept somewhere above, he glanced at the stairs, shrugged, turned the handle, looked round the door and froze.

  Catherine heard the knocks through waves of sleep but was too far under and too used to ignoring knocks to register the slight difference of the sounds or remember she had gone straight back to sleep after switching off the alarms she had set for a quarter-to-six to give herself time to wake before Ruth’s arrival. Her reaction to the soft click of her door opening was a conditioned reflex. When Mrs Weston was home in the evenings and heard a prolonged silence following Catherine’s alarm, she always came in to be sure she was awake.

  Catherine had shot out of bed before MacDonald’s head was round the door. She stood swaying slightly, her eyes half-gummed with sleep, a shoulder-strap flopping over her right elbow, pushing the hair from her face. ‘God bless you, Mrs Weston, I had over ‒’ her voice stopped as she recognized her mistake. ‘Oh, God, no!’ Her voice had dropped to an agonized whisper. ‘Mark? You’ve come to tell me ‒’ and her hands shot forward for something on which to steady herself.

  MacDonald didn’t forget, he merely ignored all but her need for help. He kicked the door shut and caught her hands. ‘It’s not that! It’s not Mark.’ His quiet voice was a little unsteady. ‘It’s all right.’ Her eyes stared at him in agony. He dropped her hands, gripped her bare shoulders and shook her gently. ‘Wake up properly, Mrs Jason. I’ve only come with a message from Ruth.’ He explained quickly. ‘That’s all.’

  It took time before the agony was replaced by gravity, but her face remained the colour of her nightdress. ‘Thanks. As you said, not awake,’ she muttered and had to lower her head as she felt the floor lurch. It was more time before she realized he had rested her head against his chest and his arms were the only reason why she hadn’t hit the floor. At first she was too light-headed with reaction to move. She didn’t see the expression on his face as he looked down at her and for that time the truth was in his eyes, his tautened muscles, and the rate of his pulse. It was after her trained brain began mechanically registering the heartbeats thudding against his chest wall that she moved away and didn’t look at his face. Mechanically, she picked up and put on the long blue cotton housecoat that had dropped when she leapt out of bed. ‘Thanks, Mr MacDonald. I’m okay now.’

  ‘Good.’ His voice was under control but he was nearly as pale as herself. ‘I’m exceedingly sorry to have caused that shock.’

  ‘Not your fault.’ She managed to sound normal. She didn’t know how. It was one thing to sense, another to know. He was too bright and too sensitive to be kidded or kid himself. The story of my life, she thought numbly. Three men. Not one could make or have made first base as a heel.

  She had to look at him now. ‘You did say you saw Mark this morning?’

  He met her eyes only kindly. ‘Yes. Just saw. He was having what looked to be a singularly pleasant wee sleep.’

  Thank God. She had to sit on the edge of bed. ‘I’m glad. And ‒ er ‒ as you’re here, can I ask ‒’

  ‘No need for that.’ From his tone there was no need for her to have another piece of bread-and-butter. ‘I won’t.’

  She breathed out and looked at her lap. ‘Thanks. And for coming to run me up. I’ll only be a few minutes. Had a bath this morning. Would you like to wait in the drawing-room? Only room on the other side of the hall. The Westons will be happy for you to use it.’ She looked towards the open french window. ‘I can’t hear the vicar. I usually can when he’s sighing over his sermon. Probably he left the Fair for The Garden. He’s always popping in to see the patients.’

  ‘An old lady outside said he’d be in as the outer door was open.’

  She smiled faintly at the lengthening shadows of the oaks on the overgrown lawn. ‘I’ll bet he forgot to shut it. He’s always forgetting and Mrs Weston gives him hell.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He watched the faint smile on the profile of her pale, drawn, averted face, and the untidy fall of her hair that looked more silver than gold in the pastel light in her room. This is how she’ll look when she’s old, he thought. Beautiful, worn-out, and gallant. He said briskly, ‘I’ll wait in my car, Mrs Jason. No foreseeable hurry. Rolls knows to ring here, then the San. if I’m wanted for the next hour or so.’

  She faced him with that faint smile. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  He nodded and went out quickly, but closed her own and the front door as if both were constructed solely of plate glass. He went quickly to unlock his car but didn’t get in at once. He stood staring at nothing and breathing as if he had been running hard. When he got into the driving seat he lit a cigarette as if it were his first after years of abstinence from nicotine.

  Catherine swiftly washed, put on pants, brassiere, waist-slip, dealt with her face, all in her habitual order. Had she been getting into the clean uniform she had packed in her small suitcase before going to bed, she would have done up her hair into the french knot and fixed on her cap before stepping into her uniform dress. The blue seersucker went over her head so she left combing out her hair till last. Her slow-motion mind registered dispassionately the speed of her bodily movements. Not a machine, she thought, a zombie. And when she heard the study telephone ringing unanswered, and automatically answered it, a bloody well-trained zombie.

  She said, ‘Vicarage. I’m sorry the vicar and Mrs Weston ‒’

  ‘It was you I hoped to catch, Mrs J.,’ interrupted Mr Rolls’ voice. ‘As you’re still there, I hope my new boss has showed up?’

  ‘Outside in his car. I’ll get ‒’

  ‘Hang on, please ‒’ he urged and paused. Then, ‘On a white phone.’

  ‘With you.’ She sat down in the vicar’s chair and tried to flog her brain into normal action. The local operators on the Oakden Exchange took a friendly, helpful interest in their work and never hesitated to advise Mr A calling Mr B that it was no use calling the Bs as the family had gone to the sea for the day, or Mrs B was visiting her mother in Wilverden and Mr B up in London on business and willingly offered to hand on a message when the Bs put through their next call saying Mr A had tried to ring them earlier.

  ‘Possible to diagnose the problem?’ Catherine prompted.

  ‘Sure. My neck.’

  She sat straighten He sounded really worried. ‘Cause?’

  ‘My top boss has just blown in. Operative word, blown. All fuses. Next door.’

  She closed her eyes. Dr Smythe was with the Ass. Mat. So? ‘Your new boss wants him?’

  ‘And vice versa. My new’s been trying to contact No. One all afternoon and said to let him know if he turned up. I hoped I’d get you first to ‒ er ‒ ask you to spread a little sweetness and light before he joins the party. He sent the adrenalin up earlier and hitting the roof now. If he weighs in as he did earlier though it was a straight s.o.s. (si opus sit ‒ as the occasion demands) ‒ just stand by to transfuse yours truly when you come on.’

  She opened her eyes to frown. If Dr Smythe was out for Joe’s blood, Joe had a problem. The quality of his next job depended on his getting a good testimonial from The Garden. Dr Smythe’s signature would head the list, and he took his position and himself,
very seriously. ‘I’ll need a bit of time. I’ll say you couldn’t hang on. A ward’s shouting for you, stat. If he later asks you why, have a good story ready. Okay?’

  ‘Heaven’ll reward you even if I don’t, Mrs J. Thanks.’

  Joe rang off.

  She went back to her room for her case then out to MacDonald closing only the glass-panelled door. He was leaning against his car and glanced from her face to the open outer door as he came to take her case. ‘Did I hear the phone?’

  ‘Yes.’ She ignored his offered hand and put the case on the gravel drive. She gave Joe’s message and her improvised rider.

  His fine black brows met. ‘Why the devil didn’t the young fool just shout for Dr Smythe and leave the receiver off the hook when he was called away? Will the vicar object to my using his phone?’

  ‘No, but ‒’ she had to pause to dredge up the right words. She looked up at him in open appeal and the rigidity in his face increased with his efforts to control the passionate sympathy threatening to overwhelm him. ‘I gather Dr Smythe’s with the Assistant Matron and a bit lit up.’

  ‘Isn’t what you’re trying to say, that you think it would be more politic if I called back to apologize in person?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not even sure you’ve call to apologize. Joe Rolls couldn’t tell me much on an outside line. He’d have had to say even less via the hospital switchboard.’

  ‘Of course.’ He told her succinctly and saw her eyes darken.

  ‘Yes. She had to stay. 3 was the only available bed. I had to scrounge it.’

  ‘Yes.’ She stared at his car. She felt that if she could concentrate there was something she should remember. She couldn’t place it.

  ‘What kind of a chap is Smythe, Mrs Jason?’

  The conventional address reassured her as much as his tug on the OPA strings. She responded in kind. ‘Blood-brother to our pundit Dr Wilmington-Smith of Martha’s, Mr MacDonald.’

  ‘Christ. No wonder the poor laddie’s sweating blood over his next testimonial. What anti-hypertensive therapy do you advise?’

  She turned back to him, her eyes alight with relieved amusement. ‘Soft-soap, plus ‒ if you can tolerate it?’

  ‘Both points taken.’ He gazed up at the high square church tower and his momentary smile looked on the face of another man. ‘I don’t know about tolerating it, but I expect I can take it. Why not? About an hour ago I stood standing on the sidelines watching some poor damned Alsatian doing a bloody waltz.’ He looked back at her. ‘It’s not only you English who have hearts of oak though I had to attend Oakden Fair for that discovery.’

  She laughed quietly, ‘I wish I’d seen that.’

  ‘It was a sobering spectacle,’ he informed the tower in his most precise Edinburgh drawl. ‘If I may leave you to contemplate it, I’ll use the vicar’s phone for a first application of soft-soap, then run you up the hill with your bike tied in my boot before I take myself back to The Garden. Could you get your bike? I’ll leave whatever it costs by the phone.’

  ‘Sure, but I haven’t a rope to tie on my bike.’

  ‘I’ve got one in the boot.’

  ‘Thanks, and if Dr Smythe won’t wait, I can easily bike up.’

  ‘I doubt that’ll be necessary,’ he said and walked by her into the hall.

  It wasn’t necessary.

  ‘Dr Smythe wishes me to present his compliments to Dr and Mrs Jason.’

  Catherine leant on her bicycle handlebars. ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘Enough, apparently. He’ll wait. Let’s get this bike in situ.’

  The high street traffic had lessened. A few minutes later they were climbing the hill and hadn’t spoken since they left the vicarage. Suddenly Catherine slapped her forehead. ‘I am a nut.’

  ‘Indeed?’ he queried evenly, watching the road ahead.

  ‘Yes. So’s the Ass. M., but deviations of any sort always drive her up the wall. There’s no need for all this song and dance about that bed. Old Smythe’s cardiac failure can still have 3 tomorrow if you don’t mind your Miss Jones being shoved in her bed two rooms down Maria corridor. 5’s a PP (Private Patient) room occupied by Miss Franklin, a ‒ hold everything ‒ eleventh? No. Twelfth day post-tonsillectomy. Doing very well, pining to get home to her cat and her companion and due out Monday morning and that room’s unbooked. No problem at home. Miss ‒ hell ‒ sorry ‒ can’t remember the companion’s name ‒ is a retired ward sister. Guy’s or Thomas’. Nice old girl, very much on the ball, and according to Miss Franklin has had hot water bottles in her bed at home all week, though she’s been an up-patient since Sunday. I’m positive neither Miss Franklin nor Mr Hodges our ENT (Ear, Nose and Throat) pundit’ll give a damn about her leaving a day early. Mr Hodges lives in Arumchester. Off this weekend but won’t have gone away as he won’t in summer. Ardent gardener. Can’t leave his roses. A very nice man. The hospital exchange have his number.’

  He muttered inaudibly and slowed to a stop in the middle of the road to await a gap to cross into the Sanatorium drive. ‘Rolls should’ve told me.’

  ‘He wouldn’t know. PPs aren’t his baby. We have to haul him into them when things go wrong and we can’t get hold of their respective pundits in a hurry, but on paper, strictly pundits’ concern. That’s why they pay their fifteen guineas a week. Some get hellish narked when treated by a houseman. None seem to catch on to a spot they could be in if we hadn’t a houseman on tap.’

  ‘I believe you.’ They were still waiting for a gap. He didn’t glance at her. ‘The one good deed Jerry did Martha’s was to flatten our old Private Block. Not yet re-built and I hope never will be. I can take PPs in general wards or side wards off generals ‒ like Mark in this place ‒’ he jerked his head at the San. ‘but shut off in Private Blocks and Wings they scare the living daylights out of me. Privacy in illness can be as bloody dangerous as it’s expensive.’ A gap appeared. He drove carefully over. ‘Have you ever seen the coronary or pulmonary embolus with enough breath to spare for reaching for a bell?’

  ‘No.’

  They finished the drive in silence. He got out, untied her bicycle, pushed it into the rack and returned to close his boot. ‘How long does the down run take?’

  ‘About five minutes.’

  ‘Take it easy on the hill.’

  ‘Sure. Thanks very much.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said politely and they exchanged polite smiles that owed less to their professional training than to the rigid conventions instilled in them from birth by their Edwardian parents, guardians and schoolteachers. If those conventions often felt a straight-jacket, they were also, on occasions, a useful armour. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay and see your husband now. Give him my regards and apologies and say I’ll hope for better luck ‒ what time does he settle for the night?’

  ‘About ten. The Med. Super isn’t too keen on visitors in general after nine, but he’ll always stretch the point for people who can’t get up at other times.’

  ‘Right. Then it’ll be either this evening if not too late, or tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll tell him. Thanks again.’ She raised a hand and disappeared quickly down the side passage. MacDonald waited until she had gone to get back into the car. A few seconds later her unexpected appearance in the open wall illuminated Mark Jason’s face. She smiled joyfully and took in both hers the hand he had held out. Mark was too happy and breathless for speech for about a minute. Then he gasped, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, girl? You should be just waking up.’

  ‘Not bloody likely when someone offers me a lift up.’ She hitched the hard chair closer with one foot, sat down holding his hand and as always told him the truth, if not all the truth.

  She had nursed too many desperately ill patients not to know that hope was the last thing to die.

  Talk shop, Mrs Jason, the Medical Superintendent had said in his study a year ago, talk about your new colleagues, digs, friends, enemies, the lot. Don’t try and shut him out of your life to spa
re him anxiety. Far better he should worry over your patients than his own health. He’s got a good mind. If you can keep it constantly occupied, as your visits will give him something to look forward to, the value of both to a long-term bedridden patient in his condition can be incalculable.

  ‘I never knew Mack had been G.O.R. (Gynaecological and Obstetric Registrar).’

  ‘Had to be, Cath. He did it long before our time ‒ ’35 or ’36, I think. He needed the experience as he was always aiming for SSO and the top. Martha’s SSO in his and our day was expected to cut up and stitch together any surgicals that came in. Different now they’ve started herding all the firms into self-contained Units. Not back in the war.’ Mark paused for reflection, not breath. He looked a different man since her arrival. There was a new brightness in his eyes, new strength in his voice, and even a faint colour in his thin cheeks.

  She watched him tenderly, gratefully, and recognized his upward swing as one of the frequent transitions from depression to high spirits that were symptomatic of his illness. After an evening high, often he slept through the inevitable ensuing low, and slept well, but she made the mental promise to skip breakfast and come straight up directly she changed tomorrow.

  ‘Much placenta left in situ?’

  ‘Bits, he said, and only God knew why she hadn’t bled to death in that coach. He thought she’d lost about four pints.’

  He grimaced. ‘Poor kid. Anyone any idea why that ticket to Arumchester?’

  ‘Sort of. Apparently the only person she said much to at all was Aggie Martin in Cas. ‒ you know Aggie ‒?’

  ‘Snappy blonde piece who knows her stuff and out to better herself in the Colonies?’

  ‘That’s her! Well, she told Aggie she had told her family she was spending the weekend with some girlfriend and Aggie thinks she intended resting up at the girlfriend’s digs, but when whoever did the job turned her out on the pavement to fend for herself this morning and she got back to girlfriend they were both dead scared. Girlfriend wanted her to go to a London hospital but she turned that down.’