Bittersweet (20 page)

Which had made this winter finally passing the hardest one of Edda’s life, even including Kitty’s suicide attempts. Naturally Tufts and Kitty sensed that there had been a quarrel, but various attempts by either as well as both combined, whether addressed to Edda or to Grace, were met with an immovable stone wall. Neither Edda nor Grace wanted to speak about the breach, let
alone heal it. And to Edda, the one unjustly accused and judged, the sheer magnitude of Grace’s insults eclipsed their relationship.

Kitty went to the Rector, who tackled Edda as the twin with an abiding capacity to see reason — and got nowhere. When he tackled Grace, his only reward was an hysterical outburst of sobs, copious tears, and utter lack of reason. When Maude inserted herself into the act on Grace’s side, Edda cut her dead and refused to visit the Rectory until Maude minded her own business.

In the end, Matron Newdigate stepped up to the breach, her trusty battle-axe sharpened, so the spies said, on Liam Finucan’s device that did the same for microtome blades; that he had been drawn into the fray was thanks to Tufts, who had seen a faint ray of light at the end of the Edda–Grace tunnel.

“This needs God,” she said to Liam, “and a feminine God at that. It has to be Matron.”

“But Grace hasn’t been a nurse in years,” he protested.

“The dragon is etched into Grace’s brain with a white-hot poker,” Tufts countered, “and Matron is the dragon to end all dragons.”

So Grace was summoned to see Matron just as if she were still a trainee nurse, and the moment she was seated, in walked Edda.

Neither twin suspected the ploy; nor was either twin courageous enough to storm out of
Matron’s
office in a huff.

“Sit down, Sister Latimer,” said Matron with great affability, “and bid your twin a good morning.”

An enormous weight fell from Edda’s shoulders. “Good morning, Grace,” she said, and produced a small stiff smile from paralysed lips.

Grace’s was much larger; she knew whose fault the quarrel was, and hadn’t slept well in three months trying to find a way out of her dilemma that let her salvage at least a little pride. The trouble was that no way out could preserve her pride — oh, if only on that awful day Edda hadn’t looked so elegant, so — so
soignée
! But she had, and the wounding words had gushed out in a spiteful, petty torrent. How much she rued them! But pride was pride, insatiable.

Matron’s office saw Edda in a veil and without an apron, a cool effigy in green-and-white stripes, while Grace the married woman sat in her Sunday best: a flattering, waisted crepe dress in fuchsia pink, a smart straw hat to match, and navy-blue accessories.

“You look
trés chic
, Grace,” Edda said.

“And you look like a sister — very intimidating.”

“So is this ridiculous spat finally at an end?” Matron asked with a smile.

“It is — if I apologise,” said Grace, “and I do, Edda, most sincerely. I put my foot in my mouth.”

“Excellent!” said Matron, beaming. “Your causes and effects have become so old they’ve grown whiskers. Which reminds me, Faulding, that you never did hand in that five-page essay on the fluid balance chart.”

The door opened, a wardsmaid wheeled in the tea cart.

“Ah, tea! Now we’ll drop formality and use Christian names.”

Grace gasped. “Matron! I couldn’t do that!”

“Nonsense! Actually I need you, Grace. The hospital under its new administration needs a voice in the Trelawneys, and I hear that yours is a very respected Trelawney voice.”

A flattered Grace blushed, eyes shining. “I’m the hospital’s to command, Matron.”

“Gertie,” said Edda, grinning. “The name is Gertie.”

The thin letter in a sealed envelope was in her pigeonhole,
Sister Edda Latimer
scrawled across it in near-black ink. Sent by the new Superintendent was Edda’s guess — interesting handwriting, very bold and executed with a broad nib. She opened it.

Blunt, yet to the point: an invitation to have a drink with him in the Grand lounge at six, after which, if she so desired, they could repair to the Parthenon to have dinner. She need not reply; if she was interested, he would be where he said at the stated time tonight, tomorrow night, and any other night.

He harboured no man–woman interest, Edda was certain of that; the stare they had exchanged early this morning was of the kind that passed between two warriors from rival tribes. No, he was after Kitty, that day at the train station had told her so, and now he had discovered that Kitty Latimer was Katherine Treadby, nursing sister. A complication, as was the fact that she had taken against him. He was the invading stranger, far too clever not to realise that before he could fix his interest with Kitty, he needed to know a lot about her. And she, Edda Latimer, was his carefully selected informant.

It would have to be tonight; tomorrow she was in theatre, and would remain on duty for seven days before her next leave. He’d known that too, but not rammed it down her throat.

Having a mere £500 in the bank, Edda made all her own clothes, and lived so thriftily that she funded her wardrobe from her tiny earnings as a nurse. Fabrics, shoes, gloves and bags had to be bought; dresses and hats she made, so extremely well that Corunda assumed she shopped in Sydney’s best fashion stores. She had just sewn the last bead on a dress of purplish-grey in the latest style, hem below the knees and a suggestion of a waist, made more interesting at hem and sleeve edges by several thousand tiny purple glass beads; black kid shoes and bag, and a wisp of dark grey tulle sprinkled with the same purple beads on her head. Yes, that would do! Chic.

He was waiting at a secluded low table in the hotel lounge, no drink before him, and rose to his feet the moment he saw her crossing the room.

“A cocktail?” he asked, settling her in a big, low chair.

“Thank you, no. A glass of pilsener,” she said, removing her black kid gloves finger by finger, a fastidious task.

“Do many Australian women drink beer?” he asked, seating himself and waving at the waiter.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. It’s the climate. We drink thin German-style beers with a relatively high alcohol content, and we drink them icy-cold. You’ll find no thick English ales served warm out here,” she said, finishing with the gloves. “As a bonus, I can tell you that Kitty drinks icy beer too.”

“You’re awake on every suit,” he said, having given his order. “Did you not wonder if perhaps it were you I was interested in?”

“Not for a second. I’m far too tall.”

“Touché. You’re very exotic for Corunda, surely?”

“Someone has to be. As you get to know the Latimer sisters better, you’ll find that for two sets of identical twins, the similarities in each set are perfectly delineated in the one yet warped in the other, as in a sideshow hall of mirrors.”

“Tell me more,” he said.

“Take Grace and me. I’m very exotic for Corunda, whereas my sister is absolutely typical — a housewife and mother, always struggling to make ends meet but nonetheless enraptured by her role. With Kitty and Tufts, Kitty is the epitome of modern beauty, from the rosebud mouth to the huge, blind-looking eyes, while Tufts is a born spinster, as down-to-earth and unvarnished as spinsters get.” Edda picked up her tall glass of beer, its sides wet with condensation, and inclined it in his direction. “Here’s mud in your eye, Charlie.”

“Must everyone call me Charlie?” he demanded, irritated.

“Yes, as you’re not the Chikker sort. Charles is considered slightly effeminate by
real
men in this Year of Our Lord 1929 — at least in this part of the world,” she said smoothly.

“Christ Jesus, you’re a bitch!”

“In England you’d have thought that, but never said it.”

“Triple distilled!”

“And proud of it.”

“I really don’t need cutting down to size, Edda, but perhaps you can explain why Englishness is so objectionable to almost all Australians, and what the word Pommy means?”

“No one knows why the English are called Pommies, they just are, but they’re disliked because this continent was a collection of British colonies until twenty-eight years ago, and we natives were
despised. In fact, even now there is a Commonwealth of Australia, a great many Australians feel the country is still owned by the Bank of England and English companies. The plum jobs all go to Pommies, and the more English-inflected an Australian’s speech is, the better his or her chances to get ahead socially and financially. Australians educated at state schools are punished for speaking with a low-class accent — yes, you brought the class system with you, and it took root! Whether you wish to consider yourself by your nationality or as an individual, the answer is still Pommy,” said Edda, eyes gone white and staring. Then, as if annoyed at betraying so much feeling, she shrugged. “If you want to be liked in Corunda, Charlie, shed the Pommy as fast as you can.”

“Cigarette?” he asked, offering her his case.

“I don’t smoke. All four of us gave it up after a few weeks on the men’s ward.”

“The illnesses?” he asked, rather blankly.

A sour smile twisted her mouth, painted very red. “No! One thing a doctor never does is empty and clean the sputum mugs. If he did, he’d understand.”

An image of a sputum mug’s contents rose in his mind; he put his Scotch and soda (no ice) down hastily. “What do you want to do with your life?” he asked.

“Travel. Have mad adventures everywhere except Antarctica. That’s the continent most people on the top side of the globe always forget. I’m hoping to be classified as a charge sister — more money. My finances are negligible — church mouse poor.”

“Well, you are a church mouse, but I’ll see what I can do about the charge sister status.”

“In return for my feeding you information about Kitty?”

“Exactly,” Charles Burdum said, sounding unruffled. “I’d be extremely grateful for any and all information.”

The second half of Edda’s beer contained no magic; ignoring her glass, she leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs at the knee, and fixed her lupine eyes on the new Superintendent. The mockery had left them, and for some reason she seemed to have revised her original, rather contemptuous estimation of him; he listened intently to a superb raconteur narrating a well-loved story, only interrupting to walk with her two blocks to the Greek café for a steak dinner.

So Kitty was internally scarred, not a stuck-up local belle out to string a series of male scalps on her belt. Very much in love with her, Charles Burdum itched to meet this awful mother Edda so patently loathed. Maude Scobie Latimer … So wrapped in her ravishing child that she couldn’t see what adulation was doing to Kitty, too shallow to comprehend that some beautiful females yearned to be esteemed for something more enduring than their faces and figures. A cheese grater, and Kitty just ten years old! It hardly bore thinking of. The attempted suicide that only Edda and the Rector knew about …

Oh, my poor, darling Kitty! How much being a registered nurse must mean to you, and how little my declaration of love could possibly have mattered to you! It’s a manifestation of what you’ve spent your life running away from — I must have disgusted you. On no better basis than those looks of yours, I announced myself in love with you. If only I had known! How can I ever persuade you to love me after such a start to our relationship?

“If you love her, you’re going to have to convince her that how she looks is the least of your reasons for loving her,” Edda said as she and Charles parted. “That means earning her trust a crumb at a time, and don’t forget Tufts. You’ll have to earn Tufts’s trust as well.”

Tufts was already conquered, however, thanks to Liam Finucan. The pathologist couldn’t speak of the new Superintendent highly enough, especially to Tufts.

“He’ll work wonders, Heather, and finally this hospital will fulfil its potential,” Liam said to her, repeating the words often.

So when Kitty approached her seeking moral support, Tufts was not prepared to give it. “If he’s courting your attentions and you’d rather he didn’t, Kits, then use that salty tongue of yours and tell him to piss off. Personally, I deem him a fine man.”

“Yes, but that’s just it — I don’t know what I feel, or what I want!” cried Kitty on a wail. “I’ve never met such an obnoxious, conceited man in all my life, yet he does have an admirable side, and I sincerely believe he wants to give Corunda Base the chance it’s never had. But do I want to be his
wife
? Make his causes and ambitions mine?”

“That’s a big deductive jump, Kits, and cart before horse too. You don’t have to become personally embroiled with him to like and admire him for improving Corunda Base, therefore I must conclude from the way you’re talking that you secretly hanker a little bit for Dr. Burdum,” said Tufts in the voice of reason.

“Should I do an Edda, and go out with him?”

“It would be far different, Kitty. Burdum took Edda out on a fishing expedition about you. Ask her! As she says, he’s not interested in her, she’s too tall.”

“Yes, and that’s one reason why I’m not interested in Dr. Burdum — he’s too short. The only sight that makes people want to laugh more than a tiny wife with a lanky husband is the sight of Tom Thumb and his wife — ludicrous!”

“Pride goeth before a fall,” said Tufts, chuckling. “Good, here’s Edda! Edda, tell Kitty about your evening with the Super.”

“Delighted to oblige,” Edda said, sitting down with a sigh. “One side of me mistrusts him — he’s a confidence trickster who could sell the proverbial coals to Newcastle, and it’s ineradicable because it’s at the core of him. He’s driven to big-note himself, blow a loud and brassy trumpet. At the same time I liked other aspects of him — chiefly his affection and concern for you, as well as his ideas about the hospital. If I had as much money in the bank as you do, Kitty, I’d bet it on my certainty that Charlie Burdum the Pommy wonder will be very good for Corunda.” She drew in her generous mouth, frowned. “As to whether he’ll be as good for you, sweetest little sister, I’m not sure. His intentions are noble, but there’s a chance that the most enduring love in Charlie Burdum’s life will always be Charlie Burdum.”