Ship's Surgeon (6 page)

“Nothing at all, except that he and his colleague sit at the same table in the dining saloon as Miss Markman and an American woman who’s travelling alone.”

“The pretty Avis says she knows little about him, but that he’s charming and a gentleman. I’m never quite sure what a woman means when she calls a man a gentleman. Is it a compliment?”

Pat laughed a little. “It depends on the tone in which it’s said. I hardly spoke to Mr. Pickard, so in this case I wouldn’t know.” She looked at the dark velvety sky strewn with stars, and breathed deeply. “I ought to go to bed. It’s going to be a strenuous day tomorrow. How long do we have in Gibraltar—a couple of days?”

“Only half a day; no room for a congestion of ships round the Rock.”

“Oh, but we arrive at eight, don’t we?”

“And leave around one.” He looked at her eyes, shining in the half darkness. “I’d like to see Gib with your wide innocent slant. How would you like to go round a few of the sights with me tomorrow?”

“I’d love it!” But her sparkle died swiftly. “What about Deva’s treatment?”

“Dammit, I’d forgotten. Sorry, Patsy.”

“I needn’t start the treatment till ten-thirty.”

“I shan’t be free myself till ten. We’ll have to wait till Marseilles.”

It was absurd, but Pat felt as though she’d received a mortal blow. To Bill Norton it meant nothing; she realized that. Too bad she had to stay aboard, but after all she, like himself, had a job to do. If her working hours happened to coincide with the few hours they were in dock she would have to forgo the pleasures of Gibraltar; to him it was as clear-cut as that.

She leaned back and said nothing, but it was at that moment, with the nonchalant ship’s doctor at her side and the distant dance music being wafted back on the breeze, that she knew the voyage to Ceylon, and Australia, had become of life-and-death importance to Pat Fenley. From the beginning it had been the most significant thing in her life—to get Uncle Dan to agree to finance the boys’ education until they could please themselves whether they settled in England or Australia. Deva, for all her sweetness and courage, had been chiefly a means to an end ... the boys’ future.

But complications had thrust their way into the picture. Kristin had embarked on the
Walhara
simply to ensure that Pat had no contact with Vernon Corey; because Vernon must never know that she had twin sons of eleven. Kristin took it for granted that Pat was leaving the ship at Colombo; merely by inspecting the ship’s passenger list she could have found out otherwise, but Kristin wouldn’t do that because to put herself to so much trouble would be to admit too much. In despair, Pat had long ago given up wondering what it was like to be the mother of two fine boys and ashamed of the fact.

The second complication—Pat had to confess it—was the doctor. He bothered her emotions. She never entered the dining-room without looking first towards his table, and while treating Deva Wadia she often caught herself listening for the firm step, the authoritative voice. And constantly she thought back to that morning in his cabin, when he had suggested experimenting in emotional research. He’d been joking, of course, but just remembering made her pulses leap. He was the most unsettling man she had ever met.

The unsettling man said casually, “We’ll pick up mail tomorrow. I expect you’re looking forward to hearing from your friend at St. Cedric’s.”

“Yes,” she said candidly. “I am.”

“You don’t have to go all defiant about it—unless you’re trying to convince yourself, of course. Care to have a last dance before going below?”

Pat shook her head quickly. “No, thanks. I’m sleepy.”

“Not scared?”

Something jumped in her throat. “Scared?” she echoed. “Why should I be scared?”

His voice was amused. “Because the atmosphere has got into you, just as it gets into everyone but the hardened. I’ll bet you’ll be kissed ... and kissing ... before we reach Port Said.”

Pat didn’t explode, though she was tempted to. She stood up and said coolly, “Is that a prescription you hand out every voyage?”

“Where you’re concerned,” he answered, with a sharpness behind the cynicism, “it’s not even advice. You’re a conscientious physiotherapist, which probably means that you have an outsize conscience in other directions. You’ll fight yourself, but you’ll lose ... and be most unhappy.”

She began to walk and he took long strides at her side. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said vexedly. “I’ve given you no reason to think that I’m flighty.”

“Maybe your seriousness is the trouble,” he commented off-handedly. And for some reason he would say no more.

At the end of her corridor he said an abrupt goodnight and passed on. Feeling bruised and bewildered, Pat went to bed.

The Rock was swathed in mist next morning, but most of the passengers took to the launches for the shore. Pat watched them from the upper deck as they emerged on to a stairway and carefully descended into the gently bouncing boats. She would have given a good deal to be going with them, but it was no use letting herself get desperate over something she couldn’t have. The caves and the Barbary apes, the sandy flats connecting the Rock with the mainland, the stone-pines and palmettos and cactus ... maybe she would see them all yet, on her return journey. Why should those three words sound so bleak ... her return journey?

The launches disappeared into the mist. Someone who had come to her side said, “This mist is unusual, I believe. There’ll be a strong wind before long and you’ll see Gibraltar quite clearly. You might like to borrow my binoculars for the morning.”

Pat looked at the almost handsome young face of Van Pickard, and involuntarily she accepted the binoculars. “Thanks. Are you going ashore?”

“Yes. I know you’re tied up with the Sinhalese girl or I’d offer to escort you.”

“That’s kind of you. I’ll take care of the glasses.”

He gave the sort of smile that is common to young men who know they’re attractive. “Anything I can get for you?”

She was about to shake her head, but paused. “If you should come across any picture postcards of the apes, or anything else that’s interesting, will you buy them for me? I’d like to send them home.”

“I’ll do my best. So long.”

She answered him and felt slightly cheered. There was nothing in the least repellent about the young man and she’d been foolish to ignore him. Maybe he was a little attracted to her; that would account for his glances across the dining-room and the lounge. Well, she thought, a little bitterly, it was agreeable to know she had jolted
one
man on the ship, if only mildly.

The boats had pulled away and only a small official-looking launch remained, tied alongside the platform at the base of the stairway. Pat saw Van Pickard go down the chequered steps, followed by a couple of young officers. Then another late passenger joined the others, but the boat did not leave. It put-putted gently, and waited. Till Dr. Bill Norton appeared, with Avis Markman. Bill went first, with Avis close behind him clinging to the swaying wooden handrail and looking sweet and slight in a tan linen skirt which had gay motif pockets, and a white blouse; the floss-silk hair was tied up in a brilliant scarf the ends of which flapped merrily in the rising breeze.

Pat saw Bill step into the launch and turn to help Avis. There was a moment when the dark angular face smiled down at the upturned pale one, and another while he settled the girl into a cushioned seat. Then Pat decided, rather bleakly, that she had had about enough, and she went to Deva’s stateroom.

CHAPTER THREE

The
letter from Alan was in cheerful vein; a third of the hospital staff was down with colds and he’d been shoved on to Minor Ops with Marshall, but he rather liked it. Never been so fussed over in his life; Monica Birley was there—did Pat remember her? He wanted to know how the open-heart was progressing, and ended: “I feel you’re doing the right thing, sweetie. The boys will have a proper home with your uncle and Australia is a fine country to grow up in. I know you will hate being parted from them, but you can’t carry on with a load like that. You’ve done a lot too much for those little ruffians; they won’t thank you for it later on—boys are quite ruthless and ungrateful, it’s the way they’re constructed. Have a good trip, my pet, but don’t do anything Alan wouldn’t want you to!”

Pat could almost hear him saying the words, with an easy smile and a flick of his fingertips at her neck. While she was with Alan she kept a light slant on everything, just as he did. Not about the boys, though. She sighed. Alan was probably right; the boys would settle happily in Australia and forget her. She was fighting for herself, not for them.

She wrote a quick note to Alan, was rather appalled to realize that she had not intended to write to him from Gibraltar, or even from Marseilles. What in the world was happening to her? She got the letter off, went to Deva’s stateroom and got her into the wheelchair.

Sister Edwards had remained aboard in charge of the hospital, and because she had little to do she watched Deva’s treatment, the muscle exercises, gentle massage and back strengthening.

“The breathing is normal, isn’t it?” she asked. “Was that your first job?”

“The breathing had to be pretty well perfect before Deva was allowed to leave England,” Pat said. “The previous physio took care of that; I took over just for the voyage. Like to help walk her a little? If we both take her weight she’ll do more.”

Sister Edwards complied. Before Pat wheeled Deva away, the Sister said, “It’s nice having you with us: sends me back to my early days.”

“How long have you been travelling?”

“Eight years—ever since I parted from my husband.”

“I thought you were a widow.”

Sister Edwards shrugged philosophically. “No. I’m a good nurse but a lousy wife—couldn’t cook or take an interest in his job. I’ve told him to divorce me, but he can’t bring himself to take action.”

“Do you see him between trips?” Pat asked curiously.

“Sometimes, but never alone. I wish he’d find someone else.”

“Do you really wish that?”

“No, I suppose I don’t—but if he did it would do us both good. Gosh,” with a small yawn, “what a mess life can be. Thank heaven for nursing.”

Outside, Pat let Mrs. Lai take over the wheelchair, and she walked behind it, thinking that drama was the last thing you’d connect with the private life of Sister Edwards. Yet there she was, plump, ageing, an excellent nurse, but hiding a sadness and disappointment that must go very deep. How many people on the ship had sorrows that they masked with conventional gaiety? It was a sobering reflection.

She noticed that the passengers were drifting back to the
Walhara.
They brought a few mementoes and an air of satisfaction; at last they had had a good walk and felt they had really earned one of the ship’s superb luncheons. Pat took off her white uniform and slipped into a flowered sun-dress. It was good to feel the cool air stirring about her shoulders; maybe she would get in a swim later on. She read until she felt the ship in motion, and then, intending to go above and watch the huge green and brown Rock disappear before going to lunch, she used a little powder and lipstick. She had just gathered a handkerchief when someone knocked at the door. She opened it, was taken aback. Van Pickard, still wearing a natty sports jacket with light slacks, was standing there, offering with his left hand a block of postcards and with his right a bouquet of jasmine whose scent was so heavy that it might have been synthetic.

He smiled. “I thought you’d rather I brought them here than to the dining-room,” he said. “Do you like jasmine?”

“It’s beautiful. Gibraltar looked, far too barren to grow anything so heavily scented.”

“It was probably brought in from Spain. Will the cards do?”

“I’m sure they’re just right. How much were they?”

“I can’t remember. Are you coming to lunch now?”

“The flowers can go into the carafe till I come back.” She drew water, and looked across at him as he stood in the doorway. “Do let me pay for the cards, or I shan’t want to ask you another favour.”

“We’ll both go ashore in Marseilles and you can treat me to a drink.”

She placed the jasmine in water, left the postcards on her dressing table and closed up the cabin. Together, they walked along the corridor. At the end of it, near the bureau, they almost collided with the doctor and Avis Markman. For some reason, Pat was glad she had an escort, even though Van Pickard was not a young man with whom she could feel entirely comfortable.

They parted at the dining-room entrance and she went to her usual table. She could see, through a porthole, that they were now speeding away from Gibraltar; there was just blue sea, with the coastline of Spain in the distance.

She went to the lounge for coffee, and was joined almost at once by the doctor. He came and sat in a chair beside her, ordered black coffee. He looked dour and uncommunicative, but he said:

“Straight after coffee I’ll take a look at your patient. You’d better go with me.”

“Very well, Doctor. Did you have a good morning ashore?”

“Yes,” he said, and that was all.

He drank his coffee as soon as it came, and stood up. So Pat couldn’t linger. She preceded him from the lounge and down the staircase to the deck below, walked at his side to the stateroom.

“You smell of jasmine,” he said abruptly.

“Do I?” Perhaps it was his mood which put blandness into Pat’s tones. She could be noncommittal, too.

“I saw Pickard looking like a left-over from a wedding. If you keep the stuff in your cabin it’ll put you off your food.”

“I don’t think so—I have the porthole wide open. I’m afraid Deva will have settled for the afternoon.”

“I won’t disturb her much.”

He knocked briefly and loudly on the stateroom door and entered. Mrs. Lai got up from her armchair, gave him her usual deadpan look and remained standing. Deva submitted to the keen stare and the pulse-count. “You are angry, Doctor?” she asked a little anxiously.

“Not at all. Did you have a good lunch?”

“Some curried fish with rice and some fruits. Lallie has ordered nut sweets for my tea.” She was staring up at him reproachfully. “You once promised you would come and have tea with me. Can you come today?”

“Sorry, but I’ll be busy all afternoon.”

“Then tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

“And Pattie will come too. Did you consider, Doctor, as you said you would?”

“Consider what?”

“Taking Pattie as your wife!”

Pat didn’t go pink this time. She tidied the sheet and said, “The doctor was joking, Deva. He doesn’t need a wife, or want one.”

“But, Pattie,” the girl persisted, frowning worriedly, “you would accept if he asked, wouldn’t you? He is a very fine man, and all men are cross sometimes. You must judge him only by his good moods. Would you marry him?”

“No.” It was the only way to reply, with Bill standing there looking satirical and unmoved. “Have your rest now, Deva.”

“Doctor Bill has not answered me.”

Bill said, as if he were preoccupied with something else, “I’m not a marrying man, Deva, and Miss Fenley is hooked up with someone in England. We don’t arrange marriages as you do in your country. We wait till we meet someone we can’t live without, and take a dive.”

Deva’s little sallow-brown face was grave as she absorbed this. “And you cannot take this dive with Pattie? I know I am foolish, but I was hoping so much that at our home in Mount Lavinia we could welcome you both, as ... as betrothed to each other. Pattie is English and free to do as she likes, and I was quite sure there would be someone on such a big ship who would be right for her.”

“Well, I’m not the only man on the ship. I’m afraid you’re too much alone, and you daydream. Now that it’s much warmer we’ll give you an hour on deck each afternoon, starting tomorrow. Get some sleep. Will you come to my surgery, Miss Fenley?”

But there he was even more withdrawn and businesslike. “Miss Markman is still having some trouble with her leg. I think it’s intramuscular rheumatism, and if so there’s not much we can do for her on the ship, except relieve the pain. I’d like you to carry out the usual movement tests and let me have a report. You can charge a fee.”

“Is there no one else who can do it for you?”

“I could do it myself. If you weren’t here I’d have Sister Edwards apply a heat pad and leave it at that.” He paused, then asked bluntly, “Do you mind doing this for a fellow-passenger?”

“Of course not.” But she did mind, rather a lot. Had it been anyone else she would have been eager about it. “I’ll see Miss Markman now. Is that all, Doctor?”

“It is.”

The crispness of his reply left a brief echo. Pat drew in her lip, hesitated for a moment and then left the surgery. She felt like delivering a sharp blow on the door with the heel of her shoe, but where doctors were concerned she was too well disciplined to show annoyance in such a way. What she hated about Bill Norton—yes, hated!—was his coolness and unconcern about her as a person. He’d started off the voyage in friendly manner, gone cold, warmed slightly last night and asked her to go ashore with him, and now had chilled again, only more so. Any woman who cared about him would be at the mercy of his moods. Pat didn’t follow up that thought; she wasn’t yet ready to admit that Bill Norton really mattered.

She had better collect a notebook from her cabin and then get along to Miss Markman’s. Avis was also on B Deck, in the other corridor, but Pat wasn’t sure of the cabin number. The bureau would know. Head lowered, Pat went to her own cabin. She breathed in jasmine, felt in the drawer of the dressing table for a notebook and found herself going cold and clammy as her fingers fastened over a thick white envelope and her eyes saw her own name in beautifully neat and small italics. Another of those...

She fumbled frantically, ripped it open. Again, there was no enclosure, only a message written in the tiny classical script on the reverse side of the front of the envelope, just where the flap covered it.

“The offer is still open, £500 for your co-operation. Refuse, and you’ll wish you hadn’t. Write ‘yes’ on a slip of paper and leave it on your dressing table when you go to dinner tonight.”

Kristin, she thought faintly, and as before she discarded the notion. Kristin was getting along capitally with her millionaire, and it was certain that she did not regard Pat as a threat of any kind. In any case, it was doubtful whether Kristin owned five hundred pounds; she was definitely in no position to give away such a sum. And Kristin was unlikely to use such a backdoor approach as an anonymous letter. Her ways were devious, she used lies and tricks, and she was capable of denying all knowledge of Pat, if it came to a test; but her ways were bold and fearless. Just as she had unhesitatingly decided to accompany her fiancé rather than risk having her past unveiled in a chance encounter between the man and her stepdaughter, so, if she now had some plan, she would come out into the open with it—with Pat, at least.

But who else would offer money for “co-operation”? What sort of co-operation were they after? It
must
have some connection with Kristin. Unless ... unless Pat were in the hopeless condition of having lost her sense of humour. This
could
be round two of a hoax. Others might have received such letters and compared them while she, set a little apart from the rest of the passengers, knew nothing about them. She would have to ask someone ; she might even sound out Avis Markman right away.

Shakily, she pushed the envelope into the pocket of her sun-dress, found her notebook and went to the bureau. Miss Markman was in Number Seventy-three, port corridor. Pat knocked on the door and was admitted.

Avis, wearing a few square inches of magenta nylon, was tying a handkerchief round her hair before taking a rest. As usual, her face was opalescent, her lips an unnatural pink, but she smiled a shy welcome, and hastened to move the drawing board and easel which occupied all the space between the bed and the wardrobe.

“I’ve been trying out an idea or two, and getting nowhere. It’s awfully difficult to concentrate on anything here. Don’t you find that?”

“Not so much as you would; I have to keep my mind on the job I was engaged for.” Pat looked politely at the drawing which had been set back against the wall. “An evening dress? It has pretty lines.”

“Do you think so? I’m glad. I had a horrible experience just before I sailed—twelve ideas commissioned and not one of them accepted. It was a frightening send-off and I almost lost my nerve.”

“We all have bad breaks. Dr. Norton asked me to make some tests on your legs. Mind if I do it now?”

“I wish you would.” The girl extended a shapely left leg, gave a troubled frown. “It didn’t seem too bad in England, though I did have therapy. The orthopaedic man said it’s caused by posture, because I stand at an easel to do most of my work. It’s the muscle at the back here, from just above the knee to halfway up the thigh.’

“Is it painful to the touch?”

“Bill found the spot, and it hurt a lot when he pressed. Apart from that it’s a painful ache.”

“I’ll try a few movements. Will you lean forward on the edge of the bed?”

Pat made some notes, half listened to the rather colourless voice of the fair girl. No, it wasn’t colourless so much as deliberate; she’d probably attended a charm school, or modelled herself on some famous woman designer. The arty look of the ashen hair, the hesitancy in her manner, the large topaz eyes and thick lashes, all made her very feminine and desirable. She’d told Bill she had done a year’s nursing; it was easy to see why she had felt one year was enough. Avis Markman hadn’t the makings of a nurse or a career woman; she was a man’s woman, all through.