Nurse Lang (4 page)

Moira felt that she did not want to discuss Grant at that moment. Her desire to be alone took her to the farthest end of the ship, down three decks and out to the rail where a seaman was adjusting the log, but she was not to escape thus easily. Before the seaman had touched his cap to her in salute and disappeared in the direction of the bridge, Grant Melmore had come striding along the deck to stand beside her.

“Tomorrow we will reach the Canaries,” he said, coming to the point without preliminary. “Have you made up your mind yet about coming home with us?”

“I’ll come,” she said at last, “till Philip is well.”

“Philip will be pleased,” he said drawing out his pipe to light it in the shelter of his white jacket.

Was that all? Did he feel nothing,
nothing at all,
about her decision? It was a convenience, something that would benefit Philip, and because of that he was relieved!

“All this has been most unconventional,” he said, “but believe me, I am very grateful. We’ll try to make you comfortable at Mellyn, and I could promise you a job in the local hospital afterwards, I think.”

His gratitude stung, like a kind word in the place of love, yet she told herself that she was not in love with him. She was sorry for Philip, that was all.

“You’ll be going ashore tomorrow,” he said, looking out to the golden Atlantic sunset. “Ports are like an oasis in the desert on these long sea trips.”

“I would like to see Las Palmas,” Moira confessed. “I’ve been unlucky so far. We got ashore at Madeira coming out, but each time we’ve called at the Canaries I’ve had a serious case in the sick-bay and Doctor Paston has always promised to take someone else. We can’t both be away from the surgery at the same time.”

“Can I hope to take you ashore, then?” he asked unexpectedly. “I feel that Philip and I owe you something for these past few days.”

“But what about Philip?” she asked. “Won’t he need you?”

“He’s agreed to be patient with the stewardess,” he said, so that it was quite obvious that he had discussed his proposition with his brother beforehand and his offer to take her ashore was no impulsive suggestion made from the sheer desire for her company. “She’s quite willing to tackle the job to give you a day off.”

“She’s a dear!” Moira declared, her eyes shining.

“I’ll tell Paston that I am taking you ashore.”

“I’m afraid you won’t be at all popular,” Moira told him lightheartedly. “He imagines it is his prerogative.”

“To take you ashore?” he asked, frowning.

“Oh, no!” Obviously she had confused the issue. “What I meant was that Greg thinks no one else should go ashore if he wants to.”

“Tomorrow,” he said decisively, “is going to be Doctor Paston’s unlucky day.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“IT’S NO USE, Greg, we couldn’t have gone ashore together in any case.” Moira continued to fold dressings with a determined air, her eyes averted from the angry look in the ship’s surgeon’s as he stood between her and the surgery door. “There’s Mrs. Knowles’ fracture to see to and the Bellinger twins have definitely got “spots.”

“Too many bananas,” he growled. “Greedy little beasts. They've been stuffing themselves ever since they came on board, but that’s by the way. I’m not sure that I like the idea of your going ashore alone.”

“I won’t be going alone,” she told him. “Mr. Melmore is taking me.”

“Melmore? You must be crazy. The man’s ruthless and dangerous Moira. A man who would go off with his brother’s fiancée and then hope that everything would be overlooked when his professional help was needed is beneath contempt.”

Moira gave a small gasp and when she looked at her companion there was no color left in her face.

“I simply don’t believe it,” she said.

“Whether you believe it or not,” Greg told her mercilessly, “the fact remains. I got the whole story from Mrs. Chiltern and she doesn’t appear to have much time for your Mr. Melmore. Her sympathy is all with the young brother. She’s a near neighbour of theirs, I gather, and knows them both reasonably well.”

“I prefer to form my own opinion of people I meet, Greg,” she tried to say evenly, and then she ventured something which she never thought she would have had the courage to say. “Even if you have an interest in Jill, it doesn’t mean that you need to protect me. I’m older than Jill and I can take care of myself.”

“Jill?” he said, laughing rather awkwardly. “Good heavens, she’s only a kid!”

“She’s twenty-two, but she can be hurt just the same.”

“I still don’t like the idea of your going ashore with Melmore,” he said stubbornly. “He’s too much of a dark horse. He’s never mixed with the other passengers since he came on board, and now, suddenly, he decides to take you ashore at Las Palmas. Can you tell me why?”

“Because I’ve helped him to nurse his brother.” Her eyes were raised to his, steady and clear. “There’s nothing more to it, Greg, than that.” She had gone before he could answer, pausing at her cabin to find a white knitted cardigan to wear over her light poplin dress in case it grew cold before they returned to the ship in the evening. They had come into the harbor in the early morning and now they were alongside the quay waiting for the port authority clearance which would allow them to go ashore. There was a surging anticipation everywhere and she felt its echo in her own heart, a mounting excitement which drove the color into her cheeks and gave her whole face a shining quality of eagerness which drew smiling glances from the waiting groups as she passed. It was as if this was the first time she was about to set foot on foreign soil, and she saw Grant Melmore smiling as she joined him at his cabin door.

He was wearing the light grey suit she had first seen him in, and he held the door open for her to say good morning to Philip.

“Bring me back a parrot!” Philip grinned in an attempt to keep some of the wistfulness out of his voice. “How long will you be away?”

“Not too long,” Grant said behind her.

“I’ll give you till six o’clock,” his brother conceded.

She went across the cabin to stand beside the bed, holding his hand for a moment.

“We won’t stay too long,” she promised, because, suddenly, she felt that it was expected of her.

Grant followed her down the gangway and hired a taxi to take them into the town.

“Where would you like to go?” he asked. “It's entirely your day.”

“I don’t know the first thing about Las Palmas,” she confessed. “I must leave it to you.”

“You’ve seen Madeira,” he mused, “but Grand Canary is quite different. It is a Spanish island, for one thing, gayer, more lighthearted, and it holds greater variety in its scenery. They call it a continent in miniature, but Las Palmas itself is just another big town. When one strips it of glamour of palm trees and luxurious tropical flowers, it’s Funchal or Santa Cruz over again. It’s the country beyond the town I would like you to see, the real home of the people who live here.”

There was no pretence about Moira. She was ready to embrace life, to widen her horizon, and she was frankly grateful to him for giving her this opportunity of seeing an island which she might only have dreamed about. Bareheaded, she sat beside him in the open carriage, gazing about her at the busy, sun-scorched streets, her hands clasped rapturously tight in her lap, her eyes everywhere, but the man beside her made little sign that he had reacted to her mood.

Now and then Moira exclaimed aloud at the beauty of wonder, and he smiled as he might have smiled at a child, indulgently. When their carriage slowed down in the main street and a Spanish woman proffered flowers, he bought her an armful.

“Nothing like this has ever happened to me before!” she told him, starry-eyed. “I’ve never had so many flowers all at once!”

“They don't last long in this climate,” he said. “They’ll be withered before the day is out, but there's such a profusion of them that we can always buy more.”

As they neared a small village Grant signed to the driver and the man pulled up with an encouraging smile. The hamlet he explained in halting English, was making holiday. It was the day of the local
fiesta
and the people had been celebrating since early morning when the figure of the saint had been carried in procession down the steep main street from the chapel on the hill, but now that the religious part of the ceremonies was over there was plenty to eat and drink and the dancing would soon begin. They would, he said, be able to get some lunch in the small local hostelry across the square there.

He pointed out a white, colonnaded building at the edge of the plaza, with wrought-iron windows overlooking a palm-fringed courtyard where little iron tables were set in the shade and the music of guitars drifted in from the street beyond.

Grant helped Moira down from the carriage on to a pavement strewn with flowers. Gardenias and pale cream roses and geraniums as vivid as any she had ever seen were mixed with the flamboyant bougainvillea which festooned every balcony and doorway, and garlanded flowers hung above the open windows of the houses in long, brilliant chains. The figure of the saint had been carried that way and some of the intricate pattern of the flower carpet over which the priests had walked still remained, a mosaic of living blossom lovingly contrived for this special day.

“It seems a shame to tread on it!” she said as Grant followed her through the cool archway into the hostelry. “It’s so wonderfully done.”

“I’d like you to have seen it before it was disturbed,” he said, “but that would have meant getting here very early in the morning, when the dew was still on the flowers. No woven carpet could ever compare with it for beauty and depth of color, and the patterns are amazing.”

“You’ve been here before?” she suggested.

He nodded.

“I operated on a Spaniard once who appeared to be everlastingly grateful” he explained. “He insisted that I should spend a holiday with his family on the island, and I must say I thoroughly enjoyed my stay. These old Spanish grandees certainly know how to entertain.”

It seemed that he had learned much from his former visit, and they were soon installed at a table where they overlooked the scene of the festivities in the square below. A typical Spanish meal was set before them with its individual dishes of strange vegetables and richly cooked meats, and Moira was conscious of him watching her while she ate, smiling at her frank enjoyment of the novelty of the food. She was too happy to wonder whether his gaze was critical or not and he seemed to be entering more into the spirit of their adventure as time went on.

Moira did not want to miss a minute of it. She felt that she wanted to laugh and sing with the people down there in the flower-strewn square and she rose as soon as they had finished their meal and crossed nearer to the window.

The muted guitar music had taken on a new insistency and she turned to meet Grant’s eyes across the table. He held out his hand to her.

“Come!” he said. “We appear to be missing something worth seeing.”

He paid his bill and they were ushered out to the pavement by a beaming landlord who invited them, with traditional Spanish hospitality, to pass that way soon again.

A procession of dancers and young people was forming in the square, the women in their colorful, embroidered scarves and their feet already tapping impatiently to the rhythm of the dance, the men in their fullsleeved satin shirts and goat-skin waistcoats with their scarlet cummerbunds swathed round their waists and their black sombreros tied securely under their chins. There was an air of expectation as the dance began.

Grant and Moira moved aside to watch, but after an hour there were very few spectators left. Everyone had been drawn into the merry throng and the spirit of
fiesta
was complete.

Moira danced with laughter spilling over in her eyes and flooding into her heart. This was something she had never hoped to see, and Grant Melmore’s nearness was like heady wine in the bright sunlight, as stimulating as the strange pulsating music to which they both moved so easily.

When they were tired they sank into wicker chairs at the table under the palms and a smiling Spanish girl brought them long, cool drinks and plates of avocado pears smothered in cream.

“Had enough?” Grant asked, glancing at his watch for the first time.

“I don’t want to know the time!” Moira declared. “It’s passing far too quickly, I know.”

Shortly afterwards he told her that it was almost four o’clock.

“If we are to get back to Las Palmas before the sun goes down,” he said, “we really shouldn’t wait much longer.”

As if the dancers had sensed her reluctance to leave their festive village, they were whirled back into the gay, laughing throng as soon as they stood up and attempted to make their way across the square in search of the hired carriage. This time a gay chain was in progress and garlands of flowers were being caught up and flung round the young girls’ necks. They began to form into smaller circles through which the young men wove their way to the increasing tempo of the music and now and then a couple would be caught in the whirling rings where they would stop and kiss in a flower-decked embrace while the others laughed and clapped their hands. It seemed that to be captured thus was the hallmark of popularity, but whether the kiss had any binding significance it was difficult to say. Laughter was the keynote of the game and the sunshine promoted laughter. It spun all around Moira and her companion like golden dust until they, too, were caught in the dancers’ ring, facing each other in the magic circle.

A garland of flowers was thrust into Grant’s hands, a chain of small white gardenias roped together with gleaming smilax, and he came towards her and put it over her head in traditional fashion.

“
Caramba! Caramba!
” the dancers cried. “The kiss! The kiss!”

Moira drew back. Excitement was running in her veins like fire and protest caught her by the throat. She wanted Grant to kiss her and she did not. It was a game, the climax of the dance. It could mean nothing, yet his eyes were looking into hers and they held demand.

“It’s expected of us, Moira,” he said, and his lips came down, sudden and strong against her own.

She felt his arms fastening about her, drawing her close, and the sunshine and the palm-fringed square and the music and laughter all dimmed into a vague obscurity. The kiss seemed to last for an eternity and her lips clung to his in the fullness of complete surrender. For the moment there was no world beyond the flower-decked plaza and no time but the present now that their lips had met.

Slowly, gently he released her, holding both her hands in a firm, steadying grasp as the dancers moved on. He did not speak, and it seemed to Moira that words would have broken her golden spell. She was content to follow him to the waiting carriage in silence and sit silently beside him as they drove south and north through the dense foliage of the banana plantations and past the seaplane base at Gando to Telde and San Cristobal where they could pick out the shadowy domes of the cathedral rising above Las Palmas. Moira saw them almost with relief. It was all over. Grant had given her her promised day in the sun!

“It’s later than I imagined,” he said. “Philip will be wondering where we have been.”

She could not go to Philip immediately they went on board, although she had promised to tell him all about Las Palmas. She felt choked and inarticulate, wanting to be alone.

“Some other time I shall try to thank you,” she said escaping from Grant at the deck companionway nearest her cabin and running along the alleyway to the familiar door as if she were pursued.

The moonlight was flooding through the porthole when she reached her cabin and she did not switch on the electric light.

“What am I to do?” she cried forlornly. “What am I to do now that I know how much I love him?”

She could not avoid Grant because she had no reason to avoid Philip, and when he sent a message to her cabin as the first dinner-gong sounded through the ship she could not ignore it.

“Will you have dinner with us up here?” it ran. “The steward will arrange everything.”

She changed her dress, putting on her uniform coat and a fresh headsquare as she might have put on some kind of armour, and she was aware that Grant had noticed it as soon as their eyes met. She could not look at him, could not bear to see him smile as he remembered.

“I want to hear about Tajeda,” Philip demanded, “and your drive across the island. Did you see the flying fish and a mermaid in the bay?” He was unusually gay, with two spots of brilliant color in his cheeks, and he—or had it been Grant?—had ordered a bottle of champagne to be brought in with their tray.

“It’s by way of celebration,” he explained, “now that you have definitely agreed to come home with us!”

If she had wanted to change her mind now she could not have done so, Moira realized. Too much depended on her taking this job, and certainly the change in Philip was noticeable.

To avoid a description of the
fiesta
would have been impossible. Philip had a way of saying “And after that what happened?” which made short work of hesitation, but Grant did nothing to make it easy for her.

“What did you do when you got to the mountains?” Philip insisted.

“We stopped for lunch. There was a local
fiesta
in progress and—we stayed to watch.”

“You took part in the dancing, of course,” he said. “Everybody does! I expect you were pulled into the Floral Dance. I always think it rather a pity that most of these old customs have died out in England,” he mused, “but perhaps Grant felt that dancing wasn’t much in his line.”

“One hadn’t a great deal of choice,” Grant said coolly. “You’re practically bludgeoned into the thing in these out-of-the-way villages.” His voice could not have sounded more cutting to Moira’s sensitive ears and she felt a hot rush of color staining her cheeks as she tried to meet his eyes across the room.