New Doctor at Northmoor (13 page)

So Gwenny said what she knew her mother would want to hear:
‘
Not too bad, Mummy. I expect I shall be home soon.
’

Her mother didn
’
t like that idea at all.
‘
Gwenny, you can
’
t come home yet. Who would look after you?
’

‘
That
’
s a thought,
’
Gwenny said soberly.
‘
Oh, well not to worry. How
’
s Laurence?
’

Her mother looked sharply at her, wondering what had prompted that question. Gwenny seldom asked after Laurence, and today her mother was curiously put out over it.

‘
He
’
s
...
at home,
’
she admitted unwillingly. Laurence had said he didn
’
t want Gwenny to know he was visiting the hospital. That meant, she supposed, that he was going to give all his time to that Tilda Sansom and not spare even five minutes to look in on his sister.
‘
He sent his love, dear. And that reminds me
—
that tiresome old
Mrs.
Yeedon also sent a message to send you her love, which brings me to the main point of my visit. You go to that horrible little cottage far too much, Gwenny. Have you told the doctors here how much you visit that old woman?
’

Gwenny set her mouth tightly. Not for worlds was she going to tell her mother of that visit to the old woman
’
s cottage, when the R.M.O. had stood talking to
Mrs.
Yeedon, and had apparently got on well with her, nor was she going to disclose that
Mrs.
Yeedon liked Mark Bayfield either. But it bothered Gwenny that she should feel like this. She ought to be able to say, frankly and openly, that Mark Bayfield knew about it, and then her mother would take the obvious step of remarking tartly that anyone like Mark Bayfield would just naturally approve of that horrid old woman, because Gwenny
’
s mother disliked
Mrs.
Yeedon almost as much as she disliked Mark Bayfield.

Gwenny said,
‘
I don
’
t know what they know about the friends I make, but I don
’
t suppose they want to know. They just want to cure me of this bug I
’
ve got.
’

‘
But that
’
s the whole point,
’
her mother said triumphantly.
‘
It
’
s because of that that I wish them to know, because I really do feel that you caught your bug in one of those dirty places.
’

‘
They aren
’
t dirty,
’
Gwenny said indignantly.

‘
Your
father feels the same,
’
her mother went o
n. ‘
There have been cases of fever in the village, but your father can
’
t arouse any interest among the local authorities because Church Terrace is belonging to St Matthew
’
s, and you know what
Mr.
Walker is like.
’

Again Gwenny was impelled to protest.
‘
I suppose you
’
ve taken against the vicar because he
’
s a distant relation of old
Mrs.
Walker and you didn
’
t like her because she wouldn
’
t sell you Fairmead and be one of the
old people in your beastly home
—’

‘
Gwenny, pet, don
’
t upset yourself,
’
her mother said, on an altered note.
‘
All I want to know is which of these horrid little cottages you have been in lately, so that your
father can visit them and
—’

‘
—and make beastly tests and pin my illness on to them and get them turned out of their homes and then you
’
d have a case for starting an old people
’
s home. Oh, I know you—that
’
s all you think about, isn
’
t
it?
’
Gwenny cried, her voice rising.
‘
Why don
’
t you leave it to the local authorities? Because you want a toy, don
’
t you? It
’
s only an excuse, saying they take their time over such things—if they promised to build an old people
’
s home you
’
d have nothing to spend your time on, would you?
’

Her mother rose angrily, and Sister appeared at the door in time to hear her say stiffly,
‘
—and I shall not mention the matter again, Gwenny, and if it means you
’
ll have to stay in here for a very long time until they do track the source, then you
’
ll only have yourself to blame.
’

Sister was very angry. They hadn
’
t wanted Gwenny upset. A doctor
’
s wife of all people should know better, she considered, and she said so.
Mrs.
Kinglake said a few things about ward sisters stepping out of their place, and in the midst of it, Gwenny fainted.

They turned her bed round again and took away all the innovations, including the field-glasses. Nothing, they said, must upset her again. No looking out of windows, no visitors, nothing. Perfect quiet, in a darkened room, if necessary.

Gwenny felt terrible, and oddly enough she didn
’
t mind. Those field-glasses weren
’
t reliable, anyway. It couldn
’
t have been right, that last thing she thought she had seen: Catherine Allen stopping to talk to her brother Laurence—could it?

Perhaps, she told herself, the curious fever which took possession of her at times, was making her see things, or imagine she saw things. She settled down to let everything ride, because when she got angry and worked up, the top of her head went all tight and prickly in a truly scaring way. She didn
’
t like it, and lay in half darkness, waiting for oblivion, and trying to help it to come by muttering to herself: relax, slide away, let everything go, don
’
t care about a thing, not a thing
...

The coming to was the worst. She braced herself for it, every time. What would be the first thing she saw or heard, and what construction would she put on it? She had discovered that things were usually distorted, and when she had had time to think about them, a rational explanation replaced the garbled impression in her mind. So when she came to from that little bout of sedation and heard people out on the fire stairs, she told herself it would all work out all right, if she tried to go t
o
sleep again and forget it. It was probably people talking in the corridor outside.

But people in the corridor didn
’
t make a metallic
clang
like the heel of a shoe hitting sharply a metal step like a fire escape step. And voices in the corridor didn
’
t have that funny hollow sound that voices outside in the cold night air had.

She knew it was night-time. Night-fresh cold air came in at the slightly open window, and the darkness was punctuated by pin-points of light that must be stars. She could see them in the mirror of her small dressing-table, which her status in a private room gave her. Night, star-spangled, and people outside on the fire stairs. People
...
coming from a dance? Who had said that? Catherine Allen, making her bed that day, and threatening to come back late via the fire stairs. But the door would be bolted. Who would let her in?

Gwenny
’
s scalp tightened in the now familiar way, as she lay fretting about it. But then the fire door opened, squeaked, and closed again, heels tapped and then there was silence, until heavy steps went down the fire stairs. A man
’
s steps. Well, she told herself, if Catherine Allen wanted to run risks like that, coming back with a man and using the forbidden fire stairs, that was her look-out, Gwenny thought, and prepared to slide down again into the safe darkness of heavy slumber.

Then she jerked herself awake, shocked and trembling, as she recalled the man
’
s voice, spoken briefly, with a warning and a good-night.
‘
Well, don
’
t be an ass and do it again,
’
the man had said, but did it have to sound so much like Gwenny
’
s brother Laurence?

CHAPTER VII

The next day was a day of small upheavals for Gwenny, though they weren
’
t intended to be. It started with the arrival of the R.M.O.

‘
Now, Gwenny, let
’
s have it. What happened yesterday to upset you?
’
he asked, sitting down beside her. His voice was quiet, but ste
rn
.

‘
My mother came,
’
Gwenny said briefly.

‘
What did she say? I want to hear everything.
’

She told him all she remembered, and watched him grow more angry. It was rather fascinating. His face didn
’
t change. He didn
’
t show anger by a glowering scowl as her brother Laurence did; he didn
’
t show anger by a stony look spreading over his face, as her father did. The R.M.O.
’
s face didn
’
t seem to change at all, yet she could sense his consuming anger and it had a more chastening effect than anyone else
’
s anger. She couldn
’
t understand it and she found herself wishing he wouldn
’
t be angry. She didn
’
t want him to be angry with her.

‘
Well, you realize I shall have to stipulate that your mother doesn
’
t come again for the time being,
’
he said at last.

Gwenny nodded.
‘
I don
’
t want her to come, particularly. She worries me.
’

‘
Has she always had that effect on you?
’
he asked.
‘
It won
’
t be disloyalty to tell me frankly. All I want to know for is to be abl
e to eliminate any disruptive in
fluences on you, without cutting off all your visitors. Of course it may come to that, if I don
’
t get help from you.
’

Gwenny half shrugged.
‘
I don
’
t care. Stop the lot. What does it matter?
’

‘
That
’
s just depression,
’
he said coolly.
‘
It will pass and you
’
ll shout for visitors again.
’

‘
I
’
d like to see
Mrs.
Yeedon, but she doesn
’
t leave her cottage much,
’
Gwenny said softly.

‘
Anyone else you
’
d like to see, who won
’
t upset you?
’

She eyed him suspiciously.
‘
Mrs.
Taylor, but she
wouldn
’
t leave her cats. Old Jock, but he can
’
t leave his cottage—he can
’
t walk much. He just looks after his bird. You could bring him in an ambulance, I suppose, but no—that would frighten him. He doesn
’
t like people much, anyway. Only his pets.
’

‘
Do all your friends have pets
?’
he asked sharply.

‘
No,
Mrs.
Yeedon doesn
’
t, and neither does Clem.
’

‘
Who, might I ask, is Clem?
’

She told him something about Clem, guardedly, the R.M.O. noticed, but he wasn
’
t going to risk questioning her too closely, so she got away with not mentioning Clem
’
s cleft palate and impediment in his speech. She knew Clem would never forgive her for disclosing it to hospital people.

Mark Bayfield was nonplussed. He knew
Mrs.
Yeedon. No trouble of infection there. The others he didn
’
t know so well, but they sounded innocent enough. He half promised himself to go down to Church Terrace one day, but domestic pets weren
’
t troubling him just then. What was troubling him far more was that he and his consultant uncle were at loggerheads over Gwenny: the first time, the first time ever. Mark didn
’
t like it. His uncle had always been a friend. He didn
’
t like it because they had fallen out over Gwenny. His uncle believed Gwenny
’
s trouble was hysteria and nothing else. Mark believed in that bug, but couldn
’
t isolate it, and couldn
’
t trace its source, and the path. lab. boys were losing interest. Soon they would come round to thinking the same as his uncle, simply by pressure of influence.

He stayed some time talking to Gwenny, and she thought o
f
the nurses
’
gossip and grew uneasy.

‘
You
’
re getting hot,
’
he accused her.
‘
Describe how you feel.
’

‘
Worried,
’
she said shortly. And when he demanded to know why, she said, not caring any longer,
‘
Well, they
’
re saying things about you staying so long in here. What
’
s the interest? they
’
re saying. And that
’
s what I want to know. Have I really got something frightful, and if not, why do you stay so long? You don
’
t like me. You never have. You just scold me all the time. I wish you
’
d go. I wish I could be on the main ward. I wish I were dead!
’
she sobbed.

He sat patiently holding her hand down, firmly, so that at last the pressure of his large hand on hers penetrated through to her and she stopped her wild but muffled sobbing.

‘
Now,
’
he said at last,
‘
what started all that? Can you be sure you really heard gossip—
gossip,
or just people talking with very real interest about a new patient and a new R.M.O? Both topics of interest to everyone, but people don
’
t, unfortunately, remember to keep their voices low.
’

‘
No, I was wrong. No gossip. Just interest
,’
she capitulated, with a gulp.

‘
What are your ambitions, Gwenny
?
What do you want to do in life?
’
he asked her suddenly.

‘
Who, me
?
I can
’
t do anything. I
’
m no good. Everyone says so.
’

‘
Perhaps you
’
ve deliberately led them to think so
,’
he said remorselessly.
‘
You can
’
t really be no good at anything. Everyone can do something. Even old Mrs
.
Yeedon, who has had no book learning at all and is the first to admit it, is very, very good at the country arts of brewing and baking.
’

Gwenny thought about it. She shook her head finally.
‘
It
’
s no good. I did think of being a nurse, but everyone laughed me out of that one. Besides, my sister is a nurse. No good trying to stand up to that. I have no ear for music, I
’
m no good at drawing, I can
’
t even take a good picture with a child
’
s camera. I never learned to ride and they wouldn
’
t let me get near the steering wheel of a car, even the old one that no one uses. No, I can
’
t think of a thing I
’
m good at.
’

‘
Do you like books?
’
he persisted.

She shook her head.
‘
No, my head goes funny if I try to do any close work, and don
’
t ask me if I can stitch or knit, because I can
’
t. Total loss, redundant, that
’
s me.
’

‘
I think we must get you started on some therapy,
’
he said quietly.
‘
Well, any child can make something of a lump of clay. You might try, mightn
’
t you?
’

She pulled a face, but didn
’
t argue.

He tried once more.
‘
How did you spend your days, then, if as you
’
d have me believe, you are not capable of doing anything intelligent or constructive?
’

She winced at that, and stuck her chin out. She wasn
’
t going to tell him how she explored the countryside and knew as much of country lore as any woodman
’
s child, not after that. She wasn
’
t going to tell him how she loved old houses, old furniture, old pictures, pushing herself into the past and imagining herself in history, that she had had a passion for books and was very well read, before her sight began to play her up.

He got up with a sigh. Somehow he had missed the boat. There had been a time, a long time ago, it seemed, when, at Fairmead, he had thought there was a spark—a bond—between them, that could light up into a rather special friendship. Now that spark had gone, and at times there was frank hostility in Gwenny
’
s face. He blamed her family for this. He guessed they had said things about him, but like Gwenny he, too, was stiff-necked when it suited him, and although he could have explained everything away, he wasn
’
t going to. If she couldn
’
t trust him, in face of other people
’
s impressions which they imparted so faithfully to her, then he wasn
’
t going to help her to see the real Mark Bayfield.

Very much to Gwenny
’
s surprise her brother Laurence looked in later that day.
‘
Hello,
’
he said, with that rather special careless friendliness that he had for her at times—times when he was at loggerheads with the rest of the family.

‘
Hello,
’
she said warily.
‘
Did they tell you I wasn
’
t supposed to have visitors?
’

‘
No.
I was visiting someone else and had to pass this door, so I thought you
’
d think it unfriendly of me if I didn
’
t look in.
’

‘
Oh, yes, I suppose Tilda Sansom is in that ward next to this. Daddy did mention she was here.
’

Laurence looked rather bothered, Gwenny thought, but her brother had swift powers of recovery. He grinned amiably.
‘
Trust dear old Dad to have a few things to say about it! Is he peeved?
’

‘
That is the understatement of the year,
’
Gwenny told him.
‘
First and foremost, Daddy doesn
’
t like the Sansoms, second, Mummy doesn
’
t like you being friends with Tilda, third, Priscilla has an axe to grind but won
’
t say what it is, and that
’
s making Daddy furious, anyway, though Mummy hasn
’
t favoured me with what she
’
s thinking at present about Priscilla
—’

‘
I say,
’
Laurence said, with respect,
‘
for a young
‘
un with a bug that
’
s interesting so many people, you
’
ve a lot to say for yourself haven
’
t you? I was given to believe that you were sedated practically all the time, so I thought I
’
d just look in
—’
‘