Nurse Trent's Children (8 page)

But a child not inured to it, a vulnerable child like this clever moody man now sitting before her, must have felt terribly uprooted, completely shattered. She blinked back a quick tear. It was a tear for all lonely, bewildered, uprooted, shattered little boys.

“I’m sorry,” she said spontaneously, “I’m terribly sorry. Can you tell me about it?”

“I expect is sounds silly. I expect it is silly. One does not cherish a dim childhood figure in one’s memory for twenty-five years.”

“Yet you did.”

“Yes, I did. I’ll always remember Susan.”

That was her name?”

“Yes.”

“You were together in England?”

“I can’t remember her there, but then I can’t remember anything there. My first recollections were on the ship coming out. She was a little mother to me. I depended on her for everything. When we were parted on our arrival here it broke my heart.”

“Were you parted at once?”

“Oh, no, the boys came to Redgates and occupied the other block, as next week Mr. Kennedy and his charges will do. That was bad enough. To be under a different roof from my sister, the only person who
belonged
to me in the whole world, was a barb to a child’s heart, but when she went altogether
...
”

“How do you mean she went altogether?”

“I don’t know. I only remember I went down with measles, as half Redgates was down with measles, and that when I came out of quarantine my sister was gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes.”

“Were others gone? Other girls?”

“No, only Susan.”

“Where had she gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you ask?”

“I asked her friends. They did not know.”

“Did you ask the authorities?”

“How,” he flung harshly, “can a child of five ask a question of anyone in authority?”

“The children of today do. Christabel would ask anyone.”

“Yes ... Christabel.” He leaned back in his chair. He was temporarily diverted. “I always think of Susan when I see Christabel. She had that same tenacity of purpose, that same impish mischief. It was the mischief, I expect, I most admired in her. To a small, rather shy boy she seemed a most satisfactory elder sister.”

“How much older?”

“Susan was nine.”

Cathy was quiet. She was seeing a small, introspective, sensitive boy searching wildly for the only one who really meant anything to him and finding instead a big blank wall.

“You grew up with that on your mind,” she said, half to herself.

“Yes, I expect I did in a way. Fortunately the bread-and-butter influence of Little Families dispelled most of any inhibitions I might have gathered.”

“But not all?”

“As you say, not all.”

“When you grew up did you try to find out?”

He shook his head rather wearily.

“Why?”

“The wound had healed. I had outgrown the pain. I did not want to reopen it.”

“Why are you reopening it now?”

“Because I want you to understand how a man can be of two minds at the one time. How he can fight for something and yet distrust it. How he can show clearly that he has no real confidence, as you just remarked, yet still persist. I was a Little Families brother. I am still, and always will be, a Little Families brother, but that does not blind me to their shortcomings.”

“You must be patient,” repeated Cathy rather helplessly. “There is sure to be a change to the English way. In a little while
...
”

“In a little while will mean a long while, and in that while
another brother and sister are lost to each other, and another child remembers something tender and puts out an eager hand to find emptiness instead.”

“Dr. Malcolm, you feel very deeply over this
”
Her voice held concern.

His face had darkened. “I believe that the thing we call family is a living structu
re. That is what I shall expect
my
family to be. I believe that you can’t take away from a family without destruction. When Susan was taken it was like tearing a piece off myself.”

His words ended and she did not say any more. She felt that they had both spoken enough. He must have agreed, for when he broke the silence it was lightly, casually. He said, “Another dance?”

They moved in the same ease of rhythm around the floor. He made trivial remarks, and she responded with trivials.

She commented on the aboriginal murals around the room, and he swung her closer to examine them the better.

“Jerry.” The voice that called was low, careful of timbre, rather studied.

“Fayette, of all people.” He stopped in his dancing and, steering Cathy in front of him, retired to the table whence the voice had come.

“Sit down, darling. And do sit down, Miss...?”

“Trent,” said Dr. Malcolm. “Miss Trent, this is Mrs. Dubois.”

Cathy saw a quite beautiful and very elegant blond woman who was regarding her with frankly curious eyes. The eyes took in everything: Cathy’s modern and expensive dress, her fair coloring, her unease at being in the company of the woman whom Elvira had mentioned several times as the most influential member of the board. She wondered if Dr. Malcolm would explain his companion’s position at Redgates. He did not. Mrs. Dubois appeared to be thinking it over, but the cut of Cathy’s dress must have satisfied her that this was not the young and attractive person she had been told was now ensconced at Burnley Hills, and she turned back to Dr. Malcolm.

“This is Brent, darling. Brent Fordham.” Her suave escort bowed and turned his attention to Cathy.

They had drinks together, and while she talked to Brent, Cathy heard odd scraps of conversation.

“But you must come to the meeting, bad boy.
I’ll
be
there
...

“Jerry, you have neglected me terribly of late. You can’t do that to a Dubois. Hasn’t anyone told you?

“Of course it’s blackmail, but I mean it. I’d be ruthless enough to do anything to keep you.”

The voice was still low, sweet, studied, but there was a note of deliberation in it—and of warning.

Cathy half turned. Dr. Malcolm was intent on the woman beside him. If he had deserved her censure or intended deserving it he did not betray it. He appeared totally absorbed in her beauty and charm.

At length he rose, Cathy after him, and they took their leave.

“Next week then, Jeremy.”

“Next week, Fayette.”

They did not sit down again at their own table. By unspoken agreement they gathered their things together and left.

As they sped over the bridge, the fun park’s lights out now, the beetling ferries docked for the night, and only the stars and the moon reflected in the velvet harbor, Cathy said, “I thought Elvira said
Miss
Dubois.”

“Fayette was a Miss Dubois. She married her cousin.”

“So she is Mrs. Dubois, a married woman.” Cathy spoke reflectively.

“No,” said Dr. Malcolm, “actually she is not. Fayette was widowed last year.”

CHAPTER SIX

Mrs. Ferguson had decided on
Apple Float for the dessert course and had taken up a basket and gone down to the shed.

“She’s a wonder,” said Cathy to Elvira. “All the goodness of apple without the monotony. Economy, too. The Pippin Valley Orchards gave us several cases of apples, yet all I would think of, I’m afraid, is compote.”

“Fergie told you the remedy,” reminded Elvira. “Five children and fourteen grandchildren. They’d teach you the tricks.”

Cathy sighed. “I expect it’s one of those things you don’t learn overnight.”

Elvira giggled. “You don’t have five children and fourteen grandchildren overnight. You haven’t told me about last night yet. Was it enjoyable?”

“Very.” Cathy related every detail of the menu. Then she said, “Mrs. Dubois was there.”

“The beautiful Fayette.”

“Yes. I thought you called her
Miss
Dubois, Elvira.”

“I’d like to call her a lot of things,” said the little woman, her black boot buttons snapping.

“Why don’t you like her?”

“Do
you
?”

When it was put blankly like that, Cathy was forced to consider.

“No,” she admitted ruefully but honestly at last, “I don’t think I do.” She added quickly. “Though, really, I have no cause to
dis
like Mrs. Dubois.”

“You will have.”

“You sound very sure.”

“I am.”

Cathy and Elvira finished their coffee and returned to the linen cupboard, where they were checking the sheets and pillow slips. Elvira held up one of the smaller sheets and said, “Avery’s had this. She always chews the top hem. Must be something lacking in the kiddy. You’d better have Dr. Jerry look her over.”

Cathy nodded, adding a pillow slip to the pile to be patched. “Has Mrs. Dubois ever given
you
cause, Elvira?” she probed.

“Plenty of causes.”

“For example... ?”

Elvira said briskly, “This sheet’s been used by Gwenda. As fast as I mend it she tears it again. She’s a restless sleeper. Aunty Cathy, it’s a nice day. Don’t let’s spoil it.”

Cathy understood she did not want to talk about Fayette Dubois and gladly changed the subject.
I must be fair though,
she told herself.
Mrs. Dubois was quite nice to me.

The two women took the patching to the sewing room. A seamstress came in for bigger jobs such as curtains and covers, and a dressmaker made the family’s dresses, but the smaller repairs were supposed to be attended to by the older girls under the supervision of the housemother. Cathy, remembering her own not-so-distant young days, invariably cast a blind eye on Rita and Gwenda and Janet when they conveniently forgot the patching and took out a piece of bright embroidery instead. Elvira, being Elvi
r
a, could be depended upon to abet their forgetfulness, even to the extent of buying them traced doilies out of her own pocket and providing them with gay silks.

Cathy stood a moment at the window before she began her share of the mending. Beneath her a young planted pine tree reached up its spiky arms. She caught the faintly tarry scent of its rough cones.

She was thinking of Rita, because in her workbasket she had found one of the girl’s bits of fancywork. Rita, she thought worriedly, was becoming a problem.

She sat down again a
n
d threaded her needle. How fortunate was she in dear old Elvira. To Elvira she could speak her heart.

“Elvie
...
”

“Yes, Aunty Cathy?”

“We must do something about Rita. Something more than new silks, I mean, though goodness knows that’s a kindness for which you are out of pocket.”

“What’s a pocket,” dismissed Elvira. She bit off a thread and suggested, “We could have her in the next time Miss Quinn sews the new dresses and let her choose her own style.”

“Oh, that would please Rita tremendously. There’s another
thing I’ve been thinking. Lipstick. Only for Saturdays and holidays, of course, but I’d be very much surprised if Rita weren’t the only girl in her class at the commercial school who hasn’t her own lipstick and her own small compact of powder.”

Elvira looked dubious, and Cathy hastened to defend her cause. “I know
you
don’t use it, Elvira
.”

“Couldn’t make any difference to me.”

“But most girls do, and I don’t see why Rita should be deprived. If we don’t openly allow her, she’ll only secretly save up her pennies and buy a small cheap stick, probably a ghastly shade, and then the other children will laugh and we’ll have a new problem on our hands.”

When Elv
i
ra did not speak Cathy wondered if this was one time when the kindly person was not in agreement. She soon learned otherwise.

“I’m all for it, Aunty Cathy, though there might be difficulties
...
”

“How, Elvira?”

“Well, things like embroidery can always be hidden away, but lipstick shows.”

“Of course. It’s expected to.”

“If Rita could be told only to wear it when, well, when nobody sees it
...”

“Elvira, what are you trying to say? What does it matter who sees it? It will be paid for.
I
shall have paid for it. I’ve intended to buy Rita lipstick ever since I came here. Then in a few months it will be Janet’s turn, then Gwenda’s. I want to take each girl with me and have the cosmetics consultant choose her the right color—a fresh pink, I should think, or a clear red—and tell her how to blend it in. And I shall insist on a good case so she can buy refills. Oh, it will be a lesson on values as well as a first lipstick,” and Cathy laughed in youthful anticipation.