Ship's Surgeon (10 page)

In spite of herself Pat became enthralled. She looked over the side at the conglomeration of merchandise in the bobbing boats which were now lining up beside the pontoons. Passengers were already making their way across the swaying bridge to the waterfront; women in cottons and straw hats, men in shorts and an astonishing variety of headgear, and all wearing sunglasses. Over there was Port Said, one of the taverns of the seas. Pat decided she would definitely go ashore after lunch.

There weren’t many aboard during the morning. The heat was brassy, the smells legion, the Canal like a vast bath of oil. But valiantly the tourists toured, and towards one they came staggering back across the pontoons carrying a weird assortment of mementoes; basketware dyed every conceivable colour, orange leather bags stamped in black with pyramids and camels, matchwood boxes of sweetmeats and Turkish delight, and large models in vegetable ivory of the ancient Kings and palaces.

After lunch, of course, they were flat out. Almost no one saw Pat, in the pink sun-dress and white straw hat, set out across the perilous-looking bridge for the town, and few of the vendors, still patiently strung out close to the ship, besought her to buy. The Egyptians and Arabs were sleepy in the great heat of the day.

So Pat was able to walk about the old smelly district near the harbour without the usual string of would-be guides, and in the bazaars, where the clamour was muted, she bought a set of views of the town and the Canal, and a wall plaque of the Egyptian scene which the boys might like to hang in their room; it could be posted quite easily ... if she could only find the post office. She began walking towards the modern part of the city, where life was returning.

“Lady wish coffee? Nice coffee?”

“No, thank you,” she said to the wizened little man in grey rags who offered a steaming bowl of black liquid.

A few more paces, and then, “Lady, nice snack? Good caffe ... lady, come with me.”

“Buy bag, lady—any colour!”

“Fine bracelets, cheap! Watches, nice camera...”

“Good cakes, lady.”

Pat was besieged. There was a glassed-in trolley packed with sticky buns and yellow pastries; there were brown men in dirty robes and tarboushes, trays of gimcrackery, pointing claws, searching eyes. From feeling hunted and a bit frightened, she suddenly knew a sense of overwhelming suffocation. Her handbag tight under her arm, she fought her way to the kerb, felt them dragging at her dress, at the things she held. Panic seized her; she might have flailed out at them with her arms if a taxi had not come to a screeching halt almost at her side. She saw the door swing violently open, felt an arm fairly lift her into the interior of the car and heard Bill Norton shout furiously, “Get back, you scummy lot. Drive on!” The cab jolted forward, the door slammed, and Pat sat slumped in her corner, gazing at Bill’s working jaw.

“I dropped the bazaar bag,” she said weakly.

“You crazy idiot!” he flung at her. “Don’t you know better than to walk alone in a place like this? That lot could have stripped you of everything worth selling, and you grizzle about losing a damned bazaar bag. You ought to be locked away!”

“When I came there was hardly anyone about—a few sleeping beggars and one or two people walking. They took no interest in me. I ... I bought a couple of things and was looking for a post office.”

“You’ve nothing to post now, I suppose,” he said grimly. “Be thankful nothing worse happened. I have to make a call, but you’d better go straight back to the ship. The taxi will take you.”

“Yes ... all right.”

There was a long moment in which the cab turned a couple of corners. Then, with less anger but no more warmth, Bill said, “You scared me into yelling at you back there. I know you’re not feeling too good, but that made things worse. You shouldn’t have come ashore alone.”

“You’ve ... said that.”

“Well, for Pete’s sake remember it. The ports from here to Colombo are swarming with people who have to fight for their very existence; all the tourists mean to them is the money in their purses and pockets. Most of them try to get it legally, by selling something, but in every port there’s an element that will prey on the unwary and innocent. Don’t you dare go alone again. You hear me?”

“After this I shan’t be tempted,” she said, low-voiced. “Thank you for picking me up.”

Another silence before he asked, “Head normal today?”

“Yes, thank you, though it did begin to throb a bit when that bunch...” she broke off, but after a second said, “I
would
like to buy a few photographic views. I promised my brothers I’d get some at every port.”

“We’ll go to a hotel for some tea. You can get them there.”

“Please,” she said, distressed. “I don’t want you to trouble. I dare say the boatmen near the ship have them.”

But Bill ignored her. He leaned forward and gave the name of an hotel to the fezzed driver, and after that he half turned from her and looked out at the modern shops and the thickening crowds who walked at a leisurely pace in the heat-burdened air. They arrived at the hotel, and he led her through a cool tiled vestibule into a courtyard where palms shaded the tables and a fountain played. Without consulting her he ordered tea and pastries, and then excused himself. His business could be done on the telephone; he wouldn’t be long.

He was gone five minutes, and he brought back a dozen double-sized photographs which Pat looked at, rather than look at him. The tea arrived and she poured. She felt stifled, and the afternoon’s heat still hammered in her veins. Because there were others at tables nearby, cosmopolitan-looking men and an emancipated Egyptian woman or two, she tried to eat a cake. But the pieces stuck in her throat, held there by a ridge that was like rough stones. Bill bit into a cake as if the soft sweet stuff were fireclay, and neither spoke. He got out cigarettes and put them away again.

“More tea?” she asked in a shaky whisper.

“No, thanks. Finish yours and we’ll go.”

She picked up her cup in trembling fingers, set it down quickly with a little crash. He gazed in consternation at her tear-brimmed eyes.

“God, Patsy!
Not here
.”

He thrust a note under a plate, grabbed her arm and marched her out into the grilling heat and glare. The taxi, fingering hopefully near the kerb, was a haven into winch she plunged headlong. They moved away.

Head averted, she said thickly, “I’m terribly sorry. I’ve disgraced myself ... never done anything like that before.”

“Maybe you’ve never been jilted before,” he said curtly. “You might at least have got through the weeping last night. He certainly can’t be worth all you’re going through.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I don’t even want to. In fact, I don’t want to talk to you much at all until you’ve got it all out of your system. That may sound brutal, but that’s how I happen to feel about it.”

It was difficult to go beyond that. His presence wasn’t exactly hostile, but she sensed in him a cold impatience with everything connected with herself. She sat still and watched the clean modern city give way to the old tortuous streets near the waterfront, and by the time they reached the harbour her eyes, though still hot, were dry and could give him a level look.

He paid off the taxi, took her elbow in a firm impersonal grip as they crossed the stretch of water by the pontoons. On deck, his grip loosened, but he kept his fingers on her arm.

“I seem to have been a bit savage with you this afternoon. I didn’t mean to be. I guess I was smouldering over something private, and seeing you there among those leeches set me alight. I don’t want you to feel you can’t come to me if you need help. I’ll help you, any time.”

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

“Have dinner with me tonight? We’ll get on top of it—split a bottle of champagne.”

But she shook her head. “I don’t think so, thank you. You don’t have to go as far as that.”

There was a faint angry tightening in his fingertips on her forearm, then his hand dropped. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “So long.”

Pat did not go to her cabin. She went up to the forbidden deck, to find the Chief Sparks. His assistant was reclining across two chairs close to his instruments, but quickly got to his feet.

“Hello,” he said. “Come to do business?”

She nodded. “I want to send a telegram in reply to the one I received yesterday. Just ... congratulations and best wishes for the future, Pat. Shall I write it for you?”

“I’ll write it, if you’ll dictate the address.”

They got it down, and Sparks Two said he would send it right away; it would reach London tomorrow morning.

“I’ve just taken a reply to one of the cables the doc sent yesterday. You came aboard with him, didn’t you? I saw you on the pont.”

“Yes. I should say he went to his cabin.”

“Is he still fed up?”

“Was he ... has he been fed up for some time?”

“Ever since he heard that he has to leave the ship at Fremantle—that would be about the middle of yesterday afternoon. They want him in the Fijis rather earlier than he expected—seems the retiring doctor has been taken ill and there’s been a lot of cabling backwards and forwards, trying to get our usual doctor to meet the ship at Fremantle.”

“You’re having the same doctor back?”

“Oh, of course. He got married in England and took his bride round the world on the company’s ships. He’s settling her in England now, and was booked to fly to Australia in time to meet us in Sydney. I’ll bet the air will turn blue when he hears he’s got to leave his honey-bunch about two weeks earlier. Well, I’d better send down Doc Norton’s wire.”

She smiled politely and left him. She knew, now, that Bill Norton hadn’t been so angry with herself this afternoon as with fate. No month in Australia, only a hurriedly arranged meeting with the girl in the picture before he left for the Fiji Islands. Perhaps he’d have to arrange for a quick wedding. Quick weddings seemed to be the thing, didn’t they?

Tiredly, she went in to see Deva. The air-conditioned stateroom was like a small, withdrawn, private world, and Pat wished, rather achingly, that she had spent the afternoon in it, away from ... everybody.

She left Deva and took a bath. Sudden darkness fell, and then the ship was moving again, away from Port Said towards Suez, and the thundering heat of the Red Sea.

CHAPTER FIVE

There
was hardly a passenger on board the
Walhara
who would not have agreed with the rest that an adjective which might pithily describe that passage through the Red Sea had not yet been minted. Mildly put, it was intolerable. Even the most intrepid walkers lay limply in deck chairs, children had to be imprisoned in an air-conditioned lounge, and iced drinks often took the place of food. Several occupants of cabins which were only ventilated formed the habit of taking a pillow to the coolness of the main lounge and spending the night there. There were cases of violent sickness and heat-stroke, of blistering about the waist, of migraine and even palpitations. The stewards said it was always grillingly hot, but seldom as bad as this.

Like everyone else, Pat felt wrung out, but on the whole those long, brazen days had a healing effect because it was almost impossible to remember routine, let alone mull over one’s troubles.

Deva did not go to the hospital for her treatments. She was well enough to stand and walk about a little in the stateroom, and Pat felt that this exercise, combined with the flexing and twisting that it was possible to accomplish on the bed, was enough while the ship arrowed slowly down the centre of the torrid Red Sea.

It was hardly cooler at night than during the day, but at least the glare was missing. Pat often stood on deck watching the sea and feeling the hot desert wind across her face. Sometimes they came near enough to some of the islands to see the black silhouettes of palms, but until they were past Port Sudan and getting close to the narrows where the Red Sea met the Indian Ocean, they saw very little life. There were other ships, of course, but the sea was too hot for good fishing or even for bathing.

Then at last the Red Sea was behind them, and Aden just ahead. Still hot, but already they felt a change of wind, a tropical balminess without the suggestion of flames.

Pat did not go ashore at Aden. She once more borrowed Van Pickard’s binoculars and spent some time on deck viewing the parched rocky city which had no shade, no zest. She could see camel carts pushing a way through narrow streets crammed with half naked children, strings of drab washing, shops spilling their wares into the roads. Over the whole place hung a brilliant, merciless sun. She would have liked to roam the city, even in this heat, but there wasn’t time. When Deva’s treatment was over, only three-quarters of an hour remained to sailing time.

Pat watched a few inveterate tourists return to the ship. They looked parboiled and exhausted, and immediately went below to their cabins; she had the port deck almost to herself, till Avis Markman, on the arm of Frank Thornton, came slowly from one of the saloons.

Pat saw the woman, barely looked at her and then glanced back at her quickly. Avis looked dreadful. She was wearing one of those accordion-pleated dresses that give an appearance of shadow stripes; hers was blue and white, and with it she wore her oldest white sandals. Her hair was drawn back into its usual flossy fold, but it shouldn’t have been, because the style startlingly accentuated the whiteness and clamminess of her face. Pat suddenly remembered that she hadn’t seen her since Port Said.

She went a few steps to meet Avis. “Why, hello,” she said with concern. “Did the Red Sea get you?”

“Yes, it did, rather,” came the reply in colourless tones. “I had two days in the sick ward. Bill was very sweet to me, and ... and Frank’s been wonderful.”

“Not at all,” said Frank Thornton heartily. “Didn’t like to see you under the weather; you’re usually so chirpy.”

“I think you’ll find it cooler in the Indian Ocean,” Pat said. “I do hope so.”

Avis waved vaguely with a novel she was holding. “I’d rather like to sit down. Perhaps you’d get drinks for the three of us, Frank.”

“Yes, of course. Let’s sit here, and I’ll call the steward.”

He sat between the women, gave an order. Frank had a pleasant, genial way with him, but he kept it low-pitched. He didn’t talk about himself but was happy to answer questions. At odd times Pat had learned that he was contentedly married, supremely happy in the job which took him backwards and forwards to Australia, and that he tried, about every eighteen months, to make the trip by sea. Unfortunately, his wife didn’t care for the sea, so she invariably took the two children to their country cottage for the school holidays. He looked the family man and quite a good sport, and Pat thought he had cottoned to Avis because she was fair company and safe. Avis was far more interested in the doctor than in either of her male table companions. At the moment, though, she was in no state to be interested in men at all; her nerves seemed shot to bits.

Pat saw the shaky movements of the long thin fingers, the opening and closing of the pinky-blue bps, the frequent swallowing motion in Avis’s throat. She also saw Avis take down a gin and vermouth at amazing speed. The woman must really be in a state; did Bill know she was this bad?

Avis said, fanning herself with the book, “It’s so hot when the ship isn’t moving. I think I must go back to my cabin and lie down. I’ll have lunch there, if I need any.”

Pat jumped up. “Would you like me to go with you?”

“No,” jerkily. “No, I’m fine.”

“I’ll go with her,” said Mr. Thornton. “The doc said she should stay below for another day, but she insisted on a short walk.”

“Well... thanks for the drink,” Pat said. “Let me know if I can do anything.”

She watched the two enter a lounge, was about to turn back to the rail when she saw the novel lying on the table near the glasses they had used. She picked it up, took a couple of steps and halted. Strange that Avis should put down the thing she had held so tightly all the time ... just as she was leaving. Another sign of nerves? Or had there been something furtive and hurried, just at that last moment, as she had clutched at Frank Thornton’s arm? But there couldn’t have been. What was more natural than to drop a book one grew tired of carrying?

But standing there holding the novel, Pat wondered. Hadn’t Avis made rather a play with the thing? When you’re weak and nervy you don’t fan yourself with anything as heavy as a book, not unless you’re more than halfway round the bend. Had Avis been trying to convey something which couldn’t be said in front of a man? Had she left the book behind so that Pat would have an excuse for visiting her in her cabin? It seemed a little far-fetched; there had been nothing to prevent her inviting Pat along for tea, or even a chat. It was most odd.

The luncheon chimes were sounding along the decks, and Pat decided to wash her hands and leave the book in her own cabin. Later on she might take it along to Avis; they were both on B Deck.

Pat ate a salad in the dining-room, parried the rather pedestrian humour of the young assistant purser and gazed across the room at the changing shoreline which was visible through the windows. Stunted trees with a palm reaching high here and there, the brown thatch of a village, more palms which would grow denser and smaller until they were a vanishing green fuzz on the horizon. Over there was Arabia, where half the population lived back in history. In a couple of days they would pass the Persian Gulf and touch Karachi.

She looked about the dining-room. There seemed to be no new faces except those of an Indian couple who looked quiet and monied, the man in Western dress, the woman in a dark green silk sari edged with gold. The old chap was missing; Pat remembered that he was changing ships at Aden and was travelling by freighter to stay with a crony who rented a tiny island in the Seychelles. You certainly get a mixed bag on a slow ship to the Antipodes, she decided.

Van Pickard joined her for coffee in the lounge. He gave her the packet of cards he had bought ashore for her, told her about Aden and recounted an amusing incident in one of the bazaars. He was refreshingly unconcerned about being labelled a tourist.

“Who cares? I wear a panama and carry a camera because it’s necessary if I’m to enjoy myself. I’ve never done this trip in such detail before, and I mean to get the best out of it.”

Pat saw the doctor come in with an American couple, but he quickly drank his coffee and left them. He’d been busy all the morning, had had a doctor from Aden on board to anaesthetize for an appendectomy. The heatstroke cases might be recovering but in this climate he’d never be without victims of gastric troubles. He looked dour when he wasn’t politely smiling. For him, he seemed to be taking an unconscionable time to recover from the disappointment of not being able to spend any time in Australia. “Ever yours, darling” had really got under his skin, thought Pat despondently.

The coffee lounge emptied. Most of the passengers retired for the afternoon, but Pat felt restless. The ship was moving fast now and there was a good breeze on deck. Fishes were flying in shoals, like clouds of winged needles skimming sometimes a whole mile across the surface of the indigo sea before dipping out of sight. Fascinated, Pat remained close to the rail with an awning flapping coolly overhead.

The huge but elegantly clad figure of Vernon Corey came beside her, and with a swift tightening in her chest Pat looked beyond him, for Kristin. But for once Vernon was alone.

“Hi there, Miss Fenley,” he said in his distinctive drawl. “I couldn’t sleep, either, this afternoon. Usually can, after a jaunt ashore, but Aden was too hot and dry for me—made my skin burn. Cigarette?”

She took one, let him light it. “I’ve been watching the flying fish and thinking about Kipling. It’s a strange and thrilling sensation—travelling East. I suppose you’ve done this voyage several times?”

“Yes, but not so slow.” Apologetically, he added, “I hate air travel. Everyone does it—even my old mother—but I can’t face it unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’m plain yellow.”

“So long as you can do it when you have to, I don’t see that it matters. But Australia is a long way from England, isn’t it?”

“A long way, but a great country. You say you have an uncle in Australia? Why not settle there with him?”

Yes, why not? There was no Alan now, nothing to stop her if she could only ... She said, with a smile, “I might, at that. They probably need physiotherapists in your country.”

“They need everyone. You got a family, Miss Fenley?”

He didn’t connect her with Kristin. Why not give him the truth? “Only twin brothers,” she said. “They’re eleven, and rather a responsibility, and I’m hoping my uncle in Melbourne will help me a little.”

He leant beside her, gave her a serious, sympathetic glance. “Say, that’s tough, at your age. This uncle got plenty of dough?”

“Enough, I think. I really wanted the boys to be educated in England, but my uncle will only help if they go to Australia.”

“You can’t blame him for that.”

“I did at first, but now I’m trying to keep an open mind, till we meet.”

“You’re a wise girl, but don’t pass up the chance of those boys growing up in Australia. I promise you they’ll take to it.” He wiped an expensive beige handkerchief over his shining red face. “Say, I’d like to help you with those kids. I really would—it’s not one of those easy shipboard promises. I’ve got interests all over Southern Australia; cattle stations, a canning factory, even an investment corporation. I could do something for them when they’re through college. You let them come over, Miss Fenley—or better still bring them over yourself. I mean to keep in touch with you.”

Pat knew a moment’s fright. Had she said too much? He was obviously a sincere man, and when he made a promise he meant it. She had better ease off.

“You’re a most generous man, Mr. Corey. Thank you very much.” She nodded towards the sea. “It’s as calm as the Mediterranean, isn’t it?”

He nodded absently; his mind hadn’t yet made the switch. “You’ll do right by those boys if you let your uncle take over. I like kids—I hope Kristin and I will have several. She loves ’em, too. I’m sure glad I got round to thinking about marriage; it’s altered my whole outlook.”

Apparently he did not need an answer, for as the silence widened between them he looked into the distance with a smile on his lips, and pictures, no doubt, in his mind. Pictures of the future, with Kristin ... and a family. Pat thought it sad that he should have waited so long before his emotions were stirred; and sadder that Kristin should have been the one to rouse him.

Vernon Corey would have liked the twins, but would he have proposed to Kristin had he known she was thirty-nine and their mother? Probably not; he wanted children of his own. Had Kristin really been thirty-two and the twins only a year or two old, Corey would have been an enthusiastic stepfather.

She gave him another brief glance and decided that as a young man he had been big and hard-thewed and not at all bad looking. Prosperity had fattened him somewhat and time had thinned the sand-coloured hair, but he dressed with good, if flamboyant taste, and Pat felt he would show his years less as time passed. Strange that she, in a financial dilemma and full of uncertainty, should feel a sort of compassion for the rich Vernon Corey.

There came the report of a rifle on the after-deck and he said, “They’re shooting clay pigeons. Like to see it?” Deeming it wiser to part from him before Kristin emerged from her cabin, Pat said, “Thanks, but I think I’ll go below for a rest before tea.”

He sauntered away. Pat looked in upon Deva, found her asleep and made one of her usual signs to Mrs. Lai, who sat nodding over a lapful of fine sewing. The woman seemed endlessly engaged with making the sari-cotton nightgowns that Deva wore.

In her own cabin Pat switched on the fan, took off her dress and sat down to begin a letter to the boys. But she wasn’t in the mood for writing, and there was plenty of time before the next port of call. So she leaned back in the chair, picked up the novel which Avis had left behind her on deck and idly leafed through it. And that was when she found the envelope. It slipped on to her lap, a thick white one with the ship’s monogram on the unsealed flap. There was no name on it, and Pat thought it likely that Avis had used it as a bookmark till, almost without volition, she lifted the flap and saw the small italicized writing just under it. Sudden hope, as well as fear, sent her pulses racing.

She read: “Library at three-thirty. Imperative.” Pat’s first reaction was one of relief. Pat Fenley wasn’t the only one who had been selected to receive a cryptic message. Avis Markman had been getting them too, and apparently they frightened her far more than they had frightened Pat. That would account for the woman’s look of exhaustion, even perhaps for the fact that Avis had spent two days in hospital; there, she would have felt safe.