Australian Hospital (4 page)

Rosemary frowned. “It’s not like that in Australia, Candace. We don’t see things in that light. The fact that I don’t work makes absolutely no difference—unless it’s more marks to you, being some good to the community. I won’t be seeing you for a while, though. We’re going direct to Bibaringa. I don’t know whether to be pleased over that, or sorry. I love the country, but not sheep.”

She looked contemplative. “What about John?” she asked Candace.

“He’s getting off at Fremantle, too.”

“Crossing by air?” There was the slightest change in Rosemary’s voice.

“Yes, but not to Sydney. He’s going straight up North. He says he will get in touch.”

“Oh—”

They berthed the next day, and Candace took a reluctant farewell of the Tilburns.

“We’ll see a lot of you, dear, when we come up to our town flat, and, of course, you must visit Bibaringa.” Mrs. Tilburn kissed Candace warmly, and the family climbed into the car that would take them to the airfield.

“Fremantle,” wrote Candace on Gwenda’s postcard, “is the port to Perth, the capital of Western Australia. This is a view of Mount’s Bay, and it is very blue and very beautiful—”

The weather across the Bight was not as rough as Mrs. Tilburn had led Candace to expect.

They came into Adelaide on a clear morning, and Candace went ashore and loved the place for its English influence and quiet charm.

Melbourne soon followed, a model city with wide streets and leisurely gardens—and now there were only, a few days of the trip, then journey’s end.

Candace had seen comparatively little of Doctor Halliday. There had been a considerable intake of local travellers at Fremantle, and the ship had become almost a tourist ship, gay, animated, filled to capacity.

She had been fortunate in securing a friendly cabin-mate, but the newcomer was not such stimulating company as Rosemary, and Candace missed the old companionship.

The ballroom was crowded every night now, for the smaller distances considerably reduced the fares, and the luxury liner was more in the reach of the younger traveller.

She did not dance at all with Stephen, for he had found someone he knew among the fresh intake, and spent most of his evenings at cards.

On the last night, however, he appeared at the ballroom door, and before Candace realised it had taken her practically out of the arms of the approaching second engineer, and was whirling her in a waltz.

“I thought you were playing bridge.”

“I am. I’m dummy.”

“So you’re filling in time with me.”

“Exactly. Any objections?”

“They wouldn’t do any good.”

“I’m glad you’ve come to realise that. My apologies if my dancing offends, however. Perhaps this will suit you better.” He was steering her outside to the rails.

“I was forgetting how lonely you must have become,” he drawled deliberately.

Candace knew he did not refer to Rosemary.

“Tell me,” he demanded suddenly, “did the French perfume pay dividends?”

She did not answer, and he took her left hand in his.

“No ring,” he commented, and Candace remembered the beautiful ring that she had found among her parcels after she had come from the bazaars at Aden, and flushed. She had meant to tax John about it again, but had forgotten.

“Perhaps the other hand—” Stephen took Candace’s right hand in his.

It was similarly devoid, and for a moment he stood with both of her hands in his own, quite still, quite silent.

Then he laughed, a brief, sardonic laugh, and Candace looked quickly up at him, saw the twist to his lips, then looked away in humiliation.

Had she looked a moment longer she would have seen the sarcasm go out of his eyes, and something strong and warm come in instead.

As it was, when he took her into his arms and pulled her to him with an almost savage tenderness, she only saw the action in a belittling light, and shrank sensitively away.

As quick as she was, he was quicker.

The next moment his lips were closing down on hers, and he was kissing her firmly, definitely, with purpose.

For a moment Candace stood quite still in the circle of his arms.

She had to, for he held her prisoner. She was glad to, anyway, for everything suddenly seemed to be swaying. The light at the other end of the deck had blinked out, and the boards beneath her seemed to rock crazily.

She felt an odd but irresistible impulse to respond to that one purposeful kiss, and she might have done so had he not put her firmly on her feet at that very moment, and said, “Consider that my good-bye gesture, Miss Jamieson. I thought it would be better given to-night. There won’t be much time to-morrow.”

He turned on his heel and left her, but Candace stood for a long time by the rails.

She felt shaken but at the same time queerly exhilarated. She recalled with embarrassment her instinct to respond to him, and how he had stopped her just in time.

“It means nothing at all to Stephen Halliday,” she realised sensibly, “just as it means nothing at all to me.”

But that was not quite right, she thought, as she made her way down to her cabin.

This man
did
mean something to her, even if it was something distasteful. She could not feel entirely neutral towards him. She never had—not since that day he had taken her, rather forcibly, to the rail, to see the last of England.

She was glad they were berthing in Sydney the next morning, and she would be rid of him.

She had learned what a large place was this Southern capital, and what a remote possibility there would be of her ever encountering Halliday again.

She slipped into bed, but it was only for a few hours.

She awoke to the awareness of quieter waters, and realised that already they must have cleared the Heads.

She put on her dressing-gown and went on deck.

There were very few people around. Most of the passengers now were Australians who had seen the harbour often, and were more interested in getting an extra hour’s rest.

She looked at the vast panorama of beach, bay, promontory and waterway unrolling on either side. No wonder these people were proud of their harbour.

The great ship veered to the right, and the bridge rose up before Candace, looking rather like a Meccano assemblage that the small boys back at Fairhill had often constructed between them, only now gigantically enlarged.

Someone came up behind her.

“You are advised not to compare it to an outsize coat-hanger,” said Doctor Halliday. ‘The locals don’t like it. Also, they are a sophisticated breed. More so than Adelaide and Melbourne, and they will be bored if you mention ‘Symphony of steel.’ ”

“I just think it is very grand,” said Candace simply. “It fits into the scene.”

“Yes, I think that.” Stephen looked on the graceful, grey arch.

Presently he said, still looking at the bridge, “This is good-bye, then.”

‘Yes”

“You never told me where you were going.”

“I told you Sydney.”

“But you never said where.”

“Neither did you,” reminded Candace.

“I disembark here, too. That is all I want to say at the moment.”

“Then that will do for me, too.”

Her tone was unmistakable. There was an edge to it that Stephen could not possibly misconstrue.

“I understand. I apologise if I have annoyed you. It appears I have been doing quite a lot of apologising during this trip.”

She did not answer. Her eyes, like his, were on the grey arch.

When she turned at last she saw that a crowd of people were coming up behind her to air their views on the famous bridge.

She saw at the same time that Stephen Halliday was gone.

CHAPTER IV

Candace
disembarked as soon as she was permitted.

There were only a few left in the ship to whom she wished to say good-bye. She saw no more of Doctor Halliday. Climbing into the taxi and directing the driver to the Manathunka city office, she believed she would never see him again.

She looked out of the window with interest. Sydney, she thought, was a cross-current and a contradiction. At one moment you could have been in London, the next in a modern section of New York.

The building at which they stopped was large and imposing. The commissionaire conducted Candace to the lift and instructed her to get off at the fourth floor.

A moment later Candace was pushing the glass door reading: “F. Laurence, Secretary, Manathunka Home, Please Enter.” A smiling girl rose from behind a desk.

Candace gave her name and the girl said brightly, “Come right in to Mr. Laurence’s office, Miss Jamieson. We’ve been expecting you.”

She steered Candace inside another door, called, “Miss Jamieson, Mr. Laurence, shall I put on the billy?” and disappeared.

Mr. Laurence met Candace’s eyes, and they both laughed. “We’re really not that primitive,” he hastened to explain,
“it’s just a local colloquialism. Incidentally, they don’t say elevenses here. They say cuppa.”

“The important thing,” smiled Candace, “is that they drink tea.”

“Oh,
decidedly.
Now sit here, Miss Jamieson. You don’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to this.”

Mr. Laurence was a small, slight man, with a wide smile, and air of capability, and quick, rather bird-like movements. Although he was now tanned from warmer suns, he still retained much of his English rosy colouring.

They talked of Candace’s trip until the tea arrived—served, Candace was quick to notice, in the accepted manner, and no trace at all of any billy.

Mr. Laurence poured, pushed a plate of biscuits towards the girl, then leaned back in his chair. “And now, my dear, tell me about Manders.”

There was a slight note of wistfulness in his voice to which Candace responded as well as she was able. She described the condition of the estate, told him how old Andrews had renewed the rose garden and planted an herbaceous border, then painted a word picture of the ivy that was reaching out long fingers in the western wing and looked like achieving the top gable.

Mr. Laurence listened eagerly, tapping the tips of his fingers together. When Candace had finished, he flashed her a grateful smile.

“That was good, Miss Jamieson. That was a breath of home. You must not think”—hurriedly—“that when I say home, I’m not at home here. That’s another local colloquialism. Even the most determined Australian always speaks of the old country as home.”

“You like this land, don’t you, Mr. Laurence?”

“Very much. You will, too. You’ll find a lot that is different. You’ll be aware of different values. Tradition does not count so much. Time is immaterial But it’s a warmhearted place, Miss Jamieson. If you go half-way, you’ll find it waiting for you.”

“Tell me about my post.”

“Manathunka.” Mr. Laurence sat forward again. “I expect you have a general idea as to the type of hospital to which you are going?”

“Yes, Miss Hilary told me. Arthritic sufferers, she said, chronic muscular and nervous cases, established paralysis, some spondylitics—and each one with a rather hopeless prognosis.”

Mr. Laurence nodded. “Did she tell you about the foundation of Manathunka?”

“She said it was one man’s vision, and she told me Manathunka’s meaning.”

“Then I shall say no more. You will read Howard Jeffrey’s plaque in the entrance hall.”

“Was he the one man?”

“Yes, Miss Jamieson.”

Mr. Laurence was straightening some papers on his desk. He started on the business side of Candace’s employment, and she found the salary very satisfactory.

“Things are dearer here,” he warned. “Don’t be carried away with the sound of that larger remuneration.”

She laughed, and promised she wouldn’t. She learned that there would be only two other trained nurses as well as herself, besides, of course, Matron, but an ample staff of young nursing aides.

“You understand the work is very different from general hospital duties. It is much less arduous but at the same time much more exacting. You might find it depressing upon occasion, and you will never have the satisfaction of conducting a cured patient to the door and wishing him God-speed.

“On the other hand, there will be faces that grow more and more familiar, and—at least, I have found it so—more and more loved.

“As regards the social side, you will never be without diversion at Manathunka. I do not think there is a home that is so well catered for when it comes to entertainment. Amateur repertories visit the Home regularly. There are concert parties and ballets. Movies are shown. There is a monthly dance in the Welfare Hall run by the local supporters, bi-weekly church, several large social balls, an annual fete, and visiting hours are any hours at all when friends find they have an opportunity to call in.”

“It sounds good,” said Candace.

“It is, Miss Jamieson, indeed it is—at least—”

Mr. Laurence paused, a slight cloud on his face, and Candace waited.

The secretary went as though to say something, then evidently changed his mind. He began telling Candace, instead, of the financial arrangements of the home.

“Here, the public hospitals are partly maintained by the Government and partly by hospital contribution. Manathunka, however, does not benefit at all by Government aid. It is run solely by public subscription, large and small. It depends entirely on the good hearts of the people.”

“And is that sufficient?”

“It always has been.” The same look that had clouded his face when he answered, “It is good, Miss Jamieson, at least—” now clouded it again.

A moment or two later he was his bright self once more, and asking Candace how long a holiday she wanted before she took up duty.

“I’ve just had five weeks.”

“But I thought perhaps you would care to look around first.”

“According to what you have told me, the vacations at Manathunka are quite frequent and very generous, Mr. Laurence, so I see no reason for taking a holiday now. Besides”—Candace’s eyes twinkled—“I really can’t afford it.” Mr. Laurence understood perfectly. He had acquired a wife and three daughters since he had emigrated.

“Then you are ready to begin?”

“I am quite ready.”

“Next week, perhaps?”

“To-morrow, if possible.”

“My dear, nothing could be more admirable. Our Miss Flett is leaving to-day. I’ll ring Manathunka as soon as you go and tell them to expect you. Would you like Miss Quist to get you a taxi?”

Candace hesitated. “My heavy luggage has gone direct,” she said. “I have only an overnight bag to carry.”

Again, Mr. Laurence understood.

“A bus will be just as convenient. It stops right at the door. It is about fifteen miles to Westfield. A nice forty-minute trip; quite scenic in parts. Travel upper-deck, Miss Jamieson, and you will see more.”

Mr. Laurence rose, smiling. “And now I can tell that you are anxious to be going. I won’t say good-bye because I’m out at Manathunka almost as much as I am here at the city office. The books to be audited, you understand, arrangements for concert parties, household accounts, always something to attend to—”

He was conducting Candace to the door, smiling as he opened it in his quick bird-like way.

Candace said good-bye to the typist, and went down to the busy street. It was not long before the bus bearing the number that Mr. Laurence had told her to take pulled up at the stop.

Candace climbed the steps, secured a window seat, and waited eagerly to start on the last lap of her journey to Manathunka.

The suburbs intrigued Candace. Cheek by jowl with familiar names like Kensington, Paddington, Croydon, were the more liquid aboriginal Watamurra, Ukalola, Irruka.

Several times the bus crossed a river. The conductor, seeing Candace’s interest, told her it was the Ninnana, which meant “resting a while.” At the head of this river, so the early natives had declared, “eels sat down.”

The bus climbed a hill, and as it did the conductor pointed out to Candace her journey’s end.

Manathunka stood out like a landmark, dominating the district rather like the cathedral in a cathedral town.

They came to a halt at the large gates, and Candace got out.

She stood until the bus started again, then turned and looked at the house.

What she could see behind the avenue of trees instantly charmed her Manathunka was rather confused as to architecture. The original building was pure English, the wings colonial, the annexe modern in the American style.

Yet, if it could not make up its mind, it still achieved a certain beauty, an air of inbred pride, a graciousness even equal in its way, she thought, to Manders.

She had just taken up her bag and started along the drive when she heard running steps. The next moment a young woman, rather pink-faced from exertion, came into view.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I heard the bus stop, and I—I say, you
are
Miss Jamieson, aren’t you?”

Candace smiled and nodded.

“Then I’m your predecessor, Claire Flett. You’re taking my place at Manathunka.”

The two girls walked together beneath the thick trees that Candace learned were camphor laurels. Candace sniffed appreciatively, and Claire said, “Yes, it’s like wet sticks and drenched violets, isn’t it, but Brownley, our gardener, curses camphors He says they take all the good out of the ground, and that you can’t grow a flower for twelve square yards.” They passed the home proper and descended a few steps to the sisters’ quarters.

“I’m awfully glad you decided to come straight away,” said Claire warmly. “I’ll feel much better leaving now that I can show you around first.”

Candace looked at her and smiled. “You’re a little bit sorry, aren’t you?”

“A big bit. I shouldn’t be. I’m marrying the
only
man, and we’ll be living in this district, but—well. I’ve been at Manathunka as a sister ever since I got my nursing certificate, and I was here before I achieved that as a humble little aide.”

“There are quite a few aides, Mr. Laurence tells me.”

“Yes.” Claire looked about to say something, then changed her mind.

“I expect you’ll be taking my digs” she said, leading the way up the stairs to a small apartment.

Candace looked around her with pleasure. The room had a large window overlooking the Ninnana River. The mirror-still waters unwound in the distance like a green satin ribbon.

“Why, this is beautiful.”

“I think so. I’ve loved it here. Sit down, and I’ll see about some tea.”

“It’s awfully kind of you, Miss Flett, but actually I’ve just had some.”

“At least fifty minutes ago. That’s an awfully long wait for another cuppa. Look, I’m Claire. I told you before.”

“I’m Candace.”

“Well, just relax, Candace, I won’t be long.”

True to her promise she was back almost at once.

“There’s a furnace downstairs and the water’s so hot you can run it straight on the leaves.”

Claire poured, produced a tin of milk, then said encouragingly to Candace, “All right, start shooting questions. You must have lots to ask.”

Candace thought she might learn a lot by listening to Claire, so she drew her out.

Claire was being married in a fortnight’s time to one of the local clergy.

‘This place really has lots of opportunities,” she dimpled. “I had at least three offers before Arthur’s.”

Candace asked about the staff.

“There’s Matron—she’s away just now on vacation. She’s all right. A bit suet-dumplingish, but her heart’s in the right place once you reach it. Sister Arnold—the rest of us certificated nurses are always known as Sister—is deputy. She, too, is all right, though as weak as water, poor dear. Then”—Claire paused a moment—“there’s Sister Trisby.”

Claire got up and found herself a cigarette.

“Name of Eve,” she added laconically, and struck a match.

Candace longed to learn more, and Claire seemed half inclined to confide in her.

She must have decided against it, however, for instead she told Candace: “I think, perhaps, it would be better if you formed your own views. I don’t mind confessing that mine are sometimes pretty strong. Something tells me you’re going to feel the way I’ve often felt. It’s your eyes, I think. They’re like your name. Candid, I mean. I hope you’ll be more successful than I was in trying to combat it. But look, don’t ask me another thing. Arthur would be horrified at my spilling this many beans.

“Have you finished your tea? Then come and I’ll show you my pet patients. Oh, I forgot—Trisby is off for the afternoon. Won’t be home till tea.”

The girls descended the stairs and crossed to the main building.

Large glass doors opened on to a long vestibule of polished native timber with an office at the extreme end.