Acting Sister, page 4
‘It is quite awful,’ she said, and she had gone pale.
He was not sympathetic.
‘Look here, it is pretty ghastly for me also. The Warden and I have never seen eye to eye, and we never shall. The Warden and I haggle half the time, and he is suspicious of me. We may have to put an announcement of the engagement in the paper, if it comes to it, and that whatever she says. How about if she does turn nasty? Those prim girls usually can.’
‘I ‒ I’ll talk her round,’ but Barbie’s heart was falling, for she knew that Ferdie was only too right.
‘Well, it’s no good crossing bridges before we come to them. Let’s wait for the next move.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And don’t worry too much.’
‘It’s all the worse because I have something of a bad name.’
‘If it comes to that, so have I. Lady’s man is what that old fool of a Warden called it.’
They made it up and even got friendly again, which at one time Barbie had thought to be quite impossible, and then each went home a different way. At all costs they must not be seen out together.
She would write a heart-broken letter to Sally, saying that she was sure she would be sent away and her career ruined, just because her friend would not help her. She could perhaps talk her round, anyway she would have to do this, for the Matron meant business. When she got back she managed to reel out a pathetic little note in which she said that it was so dreadful to see her career flop just because she had been silly, and the Matron was a stick-in-the-mud. She thought that this was quite the best letter that she had ever written and went to bed to sleep soundly on it. Ferdie insisted that it would be all right, and he ought to know, for he had been in sufficient larks of this kind to know what was likely.
The letter arrived on the morning when Sally had made up her mind to go up the mountain. In the lumber room which ran the length of the house, she had unearthed her old climbing boots, and the sight of them had given her a fillip of joy. She was feeling so much better. She loved being here in Wales with Aunt Glynis, inhaling the strong air, and for the moment the weather was supreme. She pottered round the familiar village shops which she had known on previous visits. Mr Jones the post, and Mrs Jones who had the shop; Fred the milk; Owen Davis the fish. She felt as though she had gone back to her early teens again and was a child. The world was hers.
When Barbie’s letter arrived, it horrified her.
What ever had induced Barbie to say anything so wildly absurd, and so involving as this? For there was no man in the world with whom Sally was less likely to start an affair than young Ferdie Strong, and the fact that Barbie said he was taking the whole thing with a burst of goodwill showed her that he would be no help.
Barbie went on to say that his angle was that the new Matron was applying the brakes all round, and during this process he hoped that nobody would be hurt too much, but it could happen. There had been nothing in it at all, and if the Matron had not been a silly old maid she would have realized this and done nothing about it. But she had not realized it.
Undoubtedly she had been specially chosen to clear up the mess and muddle that her predecessor had made of things, and she would not be here for long, but whilst she did stay it was going to be too bad. They could break off this nonsensical engagement within the month, but now, for four weeks, for Pete’s sake, for the love of heaven, and of everybody concerned, she prayed Sally to be a dear girl and do exactly what they wanted her to do, or the whole thing would be ghastly.
Sally sat down on the side of the bed which she had not had to make (and that was a merciful relief). She stared ahead of her at a very sweet wallpaper, with lilies-of-the-valley, tiny pink roses and marguerites on it, the sort of sentimental paper which Aunt Glynis would choose, and she wondered what on earth she could do next. Her first impulse had been to refuse. They had deliberately walked her into this affair, and let them get out of it! Then she realized that this was not right at all.
She sat down and wrote a letter to each of them in turn, and she did it before she started her climb up the mountain, on a day which was radiantly promising, with the scent of clematis drifting in waves through the open window.
She wrote to Barbie and said quite plainly that she thought she must have been mad ever to think of such an excuse, and involve a third person who was totally ignorant of what was going on. She would have to do it, but only because she was sorry for her and knew that if she now denied it, the new Matron might get rid of Barbie, who ever since she came to St Gray’s had had a name for flirtatiousness, for what Mother had always called ‘Carryings-onses’. Now it would serve her exactly right if she got caught out on it. She did not know why she was such a fool as to agree, when she had an exemplary character, and none could raise a finger against her, but she remembered the time when she herself was ill, and Barbie had kept coming to her. Barbie was one of those kind but absurdly silly girls who bounce from one affair to the next. But the moment this idiotic engagement could be broken off without arousing suspicion, then it must be done, and that was the end of it.
She wrote scathingly to Ferdie, whom she had never liked anyway, for he was not her sort of young man. If he was not for ever flirting and fooling, this wretched situation could never have happened, and she would like to know what he privately thought of himself. She was agreeing to it, but only for the sake of her friend who had been good to her when she was ill, and when the ghastly time was over when she supposed they would have to meet occasionally (if only for the sake of keeping up appearances), she prayed heaven he would never cross her path again.
Perhaps she had never thought she could write quite as rudely to any young man as she did to him, and then before she relented, for she had a stupidly tender heart, she went off to Mrs Jones at the post office to despatch it. There must be no shilly-shallying about this.
The post office was Mrs Jones’s front-room, with a side table arranged with stamps and such in boxes, and notices as to game licences and that sort of thing hanging on the walls. The rest of the place was cluttered up with Mrs Jones’s washing, two small children who did not appear to be getting on too well, and the remains of Mr Jones’s breakfast.
‘I’m going up the mountain,’ Sally told her.
‘And it’s the most beautiful day it is for climbing. Evan says it will be a bit mist-y later. A pit-y indeed. We want no fog whateffer.’
‘I’ve known the mountain all my life, and even if I get stuck all night in the halfway hut for my pains, it’s up the mountain I’m going,’ Sally told her.
‘Indeed you would!’ and she turned to deal a slap at a screeching child on the floor, which made the noise considerably worse.
I’m glad I posted those letters, Sally thought, and she walked out into the grey little street. Yet every garden had flowers in it, and all the windows sparkled, and the curtains were fresh and clean. At the end of the road was the little inn known as The Welsh Harp, with its bright flowered curtains, and its paved courtyard before it. The new owner had tried to make it look more attractive than in the days when she first remembered it. Here were great pots of cinerarias in profusion. There was a rustic arch in the back garden, and Teas on it in bold letters. But mercifully another of those sweet-smelling clematises was growing over it. It looked quite lovely, and had a magnificent view of the lake and the mountains beyond.
Last night even Aunt Glynis had said that it tempted one to go inside and have a drink, and this year the new owner had bought some of those bold festive coloured umbrellas to stick over the little tables when it was too hot. The village thought they were a bit showy, and privately despised them. ‘It would not be the way, would it?’ they insisted. For the village stuck to pattern. It delighted in small scandals, it disliked strangers coming to the place, but tolerated them, for they ‘made a bit of money out of them, did they not?’ But bright flowers outside the pub and bright umbrellas might be what the rich folk had, but were hardly what the village wanted, they said.
Aunt Glynis thought it all looked rather nice, for left to itself Wales could be grey, and if there was one colour which she disliked more than another it was what the village called ‘the grey’.
Being rid of the letters helped Sally, and she started on the field path towards the mountain. The field was rampant with wild flowers, and the sheep were everywhere. In England the sheep were amiable, one could even make friends with them, but the Welsh sheep lived mainly by their wits, and they lived hard. If you went too close, as she had learnt as a child, down came a head, and the legs doubled up, and they came at you far faster than you would ever have thought possible.
As she began to go higher there came the thrilling experience of breathing more easily, and drinking in something which had the effect of wine on one. She went on, and higher, and came to the scree, a dribble of stones at first, darkening, and now looking back behind her she found how far below her the village had become, much farther away, and it lay beneath her as though it had no connection with the mountain at all.
Suddenly she thought how very remote she was from the hospital of St Gray’s. The morning would have begun in the operating theatre, with patients being wheeled in and out, and the orderlies coming and going all the time. In the wards everything would be cut and dried, prepared for Matron’s rounds, but would she give sufficient warning? A new Matron was always suspect. The old one had drifted into nice quiet habits which just did not want any trouble, and took care that she did not get it. But the new one had come here to pull things together, and to pull up the nursing staff also. She might pop in at any time.
That was when Sally wondered what the new Matron had thought when she learnt that she ‒ of all girls ‒ was engaged to Ferdie Strong. She was a clever woman, and surely she would have wondered how a quiet girl, as Sally had proved herself to be, could fancy a fast young man like Ferdie? The law of opposites, perhaps? On that score much had been aggravated and much forgiven. Anyway, why spoil today thinking about other people’s business? She went higher.
Somehow now, with the rarefied air, and the tremendous stimulation which comes on a mountain, she felt that these small details of living life were trivialities which one should thrust aside, and for the time being can forget. She thought of her mother and her stepfather in Majorca, and did not even envy them. It was so lovely here. Going higher still, she found that the wind grew colder, and she pulled on another cardigan and was glad of it. There was the sudden knife-sharp cut in it, and her feet were not gripping as readily as they had done lower down.
She had come this far enjoying every moment of it, and happier than she had been for a long time, away from the world, entirely alone, but now with the cold she felt different. Older. I can’t be getting old so soon, she thought, of course this is ridiculous!
She paused to look down.
She could see right out across the sea for it was one of the fine clear days which give you everything. She saw the Isle of Man as a mere dot in the ocean, and Eire lying away on the horizon. She knew that the village said that it was only on rare days that you were fortunate enough to see both of the islands together, and it meant good luck. It meant that round the next corner joy was coming. Maybe a fortune, maybe a lover, who knew? they had told her. Could be both!
She sat down on the ledge clasping her knees, and it was then that she became aware of another climber. A man was below her, climbing badly, she thought. He will never reach where I am in a month of Sundays, she told herself. Then she went on, for evening would come and she wanted to undertake the return journey by daylight.
She got to the top about three o’clock, too cold to be interesting, though she ate her lunch up there. The sandwiches were glorious, the sort one never got in hospital, for Aunt Glynis was fussy about food, but somehow now Sally wanted to return. She had got here and she had seen the two islands which brought a dual happiness with them. So she cut the meal short and came down the mountain earlier than she had meant to do.
She came down cautiously.
Maybe she was tired; maybe the stimulating air was too much for her, but now she found it was hard going. The mountain had a certain danger, and men had died on it even though it was not particularly high. Any girl who has spent time in Wales knows quite well that only a fool plays tricks with mountains. They change so quickly, they know so many games. They are not always one’s friends.
She came lower, thankful for the comparative warmth, and for a short time she paused. Then when she looked out to sea again, she found that Man and Eire had disappeared. They were no longer there. A little mystified, and wondering if the good fortune had gone with them (for she could not remember the whole story), she looked down below and saw that the village itself had disappeared.
This morning Mr Jones the post had said that there was going to be fog. She got up again and began to climb down. She would have to make the halfway hut if the fog became bad, and it was quite a distance to that. If the fog was only moderate, then, after the hut, she could go down to the fields, for the hut was within a short distance of the end of the scree.
The difficulty now was not to be in too great a hurry, for if she tried to go fast she would lose speed. It was getting slightly darker in that strange way of its own, and there was the horrid smell of fog. It began gently increasing all the time, until when it came to it, she was thankful to see the hut just beneath her, and even then she had to feel for the door.
She opened it and went in.
The hut was in twilight, but luckily she knew it fairly well, and her memory had not played tricks with her. She groped for the matches which were on the little shelf just inside the door and struck one. The place smelt musty, there were bunks at either end of it, and warm blankets. She lit the big lamp which swung in the centre, an evil-smelling lamp, but she was grateful for its light, as the fog was alongside the windows. If she had delayed any more, she would have been out in the open all night.
If you see Man and Eire together, then you have luck, she thought, and maybe this is my luck. At least I’m safe for the night. Man and Eire together! Not everybody had seen that sight, and very beautiful it had been, radiant and lovely, and the sea shimmering with paillettes which the sunshine made.
There was a grim silence, and the darkness. Night had come early.
Chapter Three
Sally spread out the remains of her food on the table; she had sufficient here for quite a time, and she knew that there were iron rations in the cupboard on the wall. People had been stuck here for days on end, and the arrangements to help them were good. Aunt Glynis would realize what had happened, and she would know that Sally knew enough about it not to be out on the face of the mountain in a fog. She hoped that her aunt would not be unduly worried. She got the stove burning, and was glad of it, even if it did make the place seem stuffy, for outside it was getting very cold.
How long will this last? she asked herself as she sat down with a newspaper (last year’s vintage) left here by the last person who had been stuck.
That was when she heard a man’s voice calling.
At first she thought that something idiotic had happened to her, and she was imagining it, for on mountains one can imagine all sorts of things, but she listened, and it came again. She went to the hut door. To open it was horrible, for at once heavy clouds of the fog came floating in, and it smelt vile.
‘Is somebody there?’ she called.
The voice which answered her was nearer to hand than she had anticipated. ‘I lost my way,’ said the man.
‘You are close to the hut where there is shelter and security. Are you hurt at all?’
‘My arm. Nothing much,’ but a little groan came with it.
He came closer, she got the impression that he was very near indeed, even if she could not actually see him, and she stretched out her arm and touched him.
‘One step forward and you are safe. You won’t fall. Come inside the hut,’ she said.
The moment she could, she shut the door behind him, for the stench of the fog was appalling, and now by the eerie light of the strong-smelling lamp, for the first time she saw him close to her. He was a tall man, well made, with the bluest eyes that she had ever seen, looking at her. He seemed dazed, she thought, she felt also that when he had hurt his arm he had done more to it than he admitted, and she helped him to the bunk.
‘Sit down for a moment. Your arm is hurting you a lot. What a mercy it’s the left one! What happened?’
He sat down and looked at her.
‘I was climbing badly, racing against the fog, I suppose, got windy and took a false step. I brought down a bit of rock on to myself.’
‘It’s easy to do. Now leave this to me.’ She ran a cautious hand over the shoulder, then helped his right arm out of the jacket, and gradually got the other one out. ‘I don’t think it’s broken, but leave it to me. I won’t hurt.’
‘You’ve had medical training?’
‘Yes, I’m a nurse.’
‘And a good one!’ He laughed at that. He was a man with thick black hair, its lustre like bird wings. The jetty lashes which fringed those almost too blue eyes were the same colour and showed off their brilliance. Then as he saw her glancing at him, he said, ‘I’m a doctor. But that’s not much help to me now. A chap can’t be doctor and patient at one and the same time, can he?’
