A Promise Is for Keeping Page 14

  She had only got that far when the phone rang again. She felt pretty certain that it was the same caller back again, but she had of course to answer it in case it should be an urgent call.

  "Sister? Now why did you hang up on me? We hadn't really started our conversation—

  "Look, I don't know who you are or what you want, but I would remind you that this is a public line to a hospital and it may be needed at any time for emergency calls—"

  "But there are five or six lines to the hospital. They're not all likely to be needed at this ungodly hour, now are they? Besides, I am an emergency. I need help."'

  "What sort of help?" Fay's reaction was automatic, if reluctant.

  "I have a problem—" the voice paused, and Fay, regretting her moment of weakness, cut in decisively.

  "Look, Mr. Angel or whoever you are. I'm on night duty in a hospital ward and I have twenty-six patients on my hands. It s no part of my duty to help solve the problems of complete strangers—"

  "But surely it s the duty of human beings to help one another? And we all have problems, don't we—even hospital Sisters. And they have a habit of looming tremendously large at this hour of the morning, don't you agree?"

  That so exactly reflected Fay's own experience that she found herself agreeing before she realised it. There was something about the gentle voice that was not unpleasant ... almost to her own amazement Fay found that she did not want to ring oft, though part of her mind still told her she should.

  "I thought you'd agree," the voice went on. "Ladies first—what is your problem?"

  "I didn't say I had one," Fay contradicted.

  "But you admitted it—tacitly, as the novelists would say. Now what is it, I wonder? Boy-friend, perhaps?"

  The thought struck her that it was odd he should have used the word "novelist" in the same sentence almost as the reference to a boy-friend. Unless—unless it was someone who knew all about Geoff. She decided to go on talking—it seemed likely the caller would give himself away sooner or later.

  "Who said I had a boy-friend?" she countered.

  "Oh, come—a young, attractive woman—"

  "How do you know I'm young, or attractive for that matter?"

  "You have a young and attractive voice."

  "That's nothing to go by—I've known old ladies of eighty who sounded delightfully young over the telephone."

  "So have I—but I'm sure you're not one of them! What does my voice tell you about me?"

  Fay thought for a moment and then admitted, "Nothing. Except that I think I ought to know it, somehow. You've a slight Scottish accent, but I'm not sure that it's natural."

  "How dare you! I've more than a drop of Scots blood in my veins, somewhere or other. Doesn't my voice tell you that I'm tall, dark and handsome?"

  "Are you?" Fay countered quickly. It was a description she had heard applied to the Medical Registrar—a man named Gallimore.

  "I shall admit to nothing less," came the laughing reply. "But back to our muttons—just what is the problem about the boy-friend. Don't you care for him?"

  She could have made some light reply to that—have kept the conversation on the same level of airy-fairy nonsense it had been so far. But whether it was a slight feeling of light-headedness from lack of sleep, or that combined with the early hour of morning, Fay suddenly wanted to confide in this unknown voice—as though he might indeed help her solve the problem which was never far from her thoughts these days—a problem which grew more urgent with every meeting with Geoff and with every letter which passed between them.

  "I do care for him—very much—" she spoke slowly now, for the words were being wrung out from her heart. She was speaking of things she had as yet confided to no one. "I care, and I want to make him happy—" she paused.

  "Then what's the trouble?" the other voice had grown serious too.

  "I don't love him," Fay said simply.

  There fell a silence for a moment and then the man's voice went on, "I think that's only half the story. There's something you're not telling me. If that were all, I would say marry him if he loves you—and I presume that's what he wants. Marry him and you'll grow to love him. But if that's not the whole story—well, my dear, there are some things which no true woman could ever do—"

  "What things?" she asked a little breathlessly in the momentary silence.

  "Don't you know? I'm sure you do—"

  A light flicked on in the ward—the signal that a patient needed attention. It recalled Fay to her normal self with a jerk. She could not think what she had been doing to allow herself so nearly to give herself away. "I must go," she said quickly. "One of my patients is calling."

  "Then of course you must go—but don't worry about me. Just think of me as someone as lonely as you were—two ships that pass in the dark."

  "But we never mentioned your problem—" Fay remembered.

  "It doesn't matter—it wasn't really important. Goodnight !"

  The telephone did not ring again that night, and Fay did not really expect that it would.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THEY were still talking about the dance when Fay went on

  duty in the theatre on Monday morning. Apparently a very

  good time had been had by all—and in particular by Shorty.

  Staff was teasing him about it when Fay walked in and she turned to her to remark, "You should have seen this young man on Saturday—talk about the life and soul of the party ! You don't know what you missed, Sister."

  Shorty, getting tired it seemed of the merriment at his expense, turned the tables. "How d'you know she wasn't having a whale of a time herself? There's no telling what high jinks she was getting up to, there on Adelaide, in the dead of night—eh, Sister?" He gave her the broadest of winks as he spoke and for a moment Fay thought he must indeed have been her unknown caller of the night.

  But she was not seriously bothered any longer as to the identity of that mysterious caller. It was enough that he had solved one problem for her and presented her with another which was even more difficult. She knew now what she had to do about Geoff, but how to do it with the minimum of pain to him—that was the question which occupied her mind now.

  When the swing doors opened to admit the surgeons only Mark entered the theatre.

  "Mr. Barton won't be here until eleven," he announced. "So we'll make a start if the patient's ready." He did not address Fay, but he was speaking directly to her and she realised, with a little inward twinge, that he was smiling at her for the first time since before Toni died. And that smile

  told her that the decision she had arrived at was the right

  one, the only one, without making it any easier to carry out.

  For the first time, that morning Fay found it hard to keep her mind exclusively on her work. The uncanny rapport between herself and Mark was not quite complete, and he had to call sharply, "Retractor, please, Sister!" when normally she would have had it ready to put into his hand.

  That was during the first case. After that, with a supreme effort, she pulled herself together and there were no more similar lapses.

  Mark, however, did not let it pass without comment. As he was peeling off his gloves he spoke from behind his mask. "Not quite on top of your form this morning, Sister? You haven't the excuse of the dance to offer, since you weren't there."

  "I should be ashamed to offer that as a valid excuse, anyway," she told him quickly.

  Mark removed his mask. "Quite right, Sister—I stand corrected."

  It was the nearest they had come to pleasantries for a long time, and Fay felt again that sickening little twinge that was made up of pain and pleasure and was quite unpermissible.

  It was difficult in the extreme to tell a man that you cannot marry him when he has not even asked you. But that was the size of the problem that confronted Fay. She and Geoff had never so far stepped out of the realm of the novel as far as words went, but Fay did not try to deceive herself. Geoff's eyes and his kiss had told her that he lov
ed her—and she had allowed him to go on hoping. She had used him, she now accused herself bitterly, to feed her own hunger. But now quite definitely she had to call a halt—before it was too late. She clung with fierce determination to the belief that it was not too late, but she did not allow any consideration to weaken her resolution. She went to meet him with nerves stretched almost to breaking point—and hating herself.

  They were meeting at their favourite restaurant—for by now they had established a "favourite"—and as soon as she

  caught sight of him she could tell that Geoff was excited about something or other. She could not be quite sure whether it was good news or not.

  "Oh, I'm so glad you're on time!" he greeted her. "I've such a lot to tell you and not much time in which to do it. I've ordered already—I hope you don't mind. I tried to choose all your favourite things, but if I've gone wrong you'll have to forgive me this time and I promise to do better next time."

  That was her opportunity. She could have told him then that there wasn't going to be a next time—or at least, not on quite the same footing. But she had not the heart to stop him—he was evidently bubbling over with his news.

  "I'm sure the meal will be all right," she smiled "But tell me your news."

  "I've been discharged from the convalescent home," he told her, "and I'm on my way home. Have to catch the seven-forty from Euston—and I mustn't miss it because Dad's meeting me at the other end."

  "That's good news—but I thought you weren't to leave for at least another fortnight. In fact I'd have thought you needed more time before getting back to normal life."

  "That's the whole point! I thought I was there for another few weeks yet—in fact I was looking forward to it because I reckoned I could get the book finished there while I still had plenty of free time. But unknown to me, Mum and Dad had been arranging for a cruise—with the blessing of the Matron, apparently. They all seem to think that it's just what I need to get me properly back on my feet. It could be exciting in different circumstances," Geoff said with a slight cloud in his expression. "I've never travelled and I've always wanted to. But—well, it means that I shan't see you for a month. I couldn't refuse after Mum and Dad have gone to so much trouble, especially as they can't really afford it—"

  "Good gracious—why on earth should you even think of refusing?" Fay cut in. "It's wonderful of your parents, and it'll be the very thing for you. You can take your portable typewriter with you and there'll be plenty of time on board for you to get on with the final chapters."

  Geoff smiled, obviously relieved. "I'm so glad you see it

  that way too. I was rather depressed when they first told me, but then I saw that it could serve a good purpose. It's surprising, isn't it," he mused, "the way things do turn out all for the best in the end. You know," he twinkled at her, "I think I owe an awful lot to that chap who ran into me !"

  "What—" Fay began, but Geoff was going on, serious now, heedless of her interruption. "If it hadn't been for him smashing me up like that I should never have met you—never have written my book—"

  "That's nonsense," she told him firmly, ignoring the earlier part of his remark. "You always wanted to write—you told me so. You always had it in you—"

  "No," he said, looking at her very directly with those honest grey eyes of his. "I always wanted to write, yes, that's true. But I didn't have it in me, until you came along and gave me inspiration—and understanding. It's strange—" he switched to another line of thought. "I'd always got along all right with other people—I didn't fall out with them, but I never really understood how they felt, how the things I said and did could affect them. I hadn't any—compassion—I think that's the word that really describes it. It means 'suffering with' literally, doesn't it? And that's what I hadn't the capacity for. But I've learned it a bit now, and a whole lot more besides, and one day perhaps I'll be able to tell you just how much I owe to you—"

  It was strange, Fay thought, that he should have used that word "compassion." It was a term she always used when she was thinking of Mark.

  Plainly, it seemed to Fay, she could not say what she had come to say. Not now, or the cruise would do him no good at all. Perhaps—who could tell?—perhaps the cruise might widen his horizons again, give him fresh interests. Though even as she thought it she knew that it was a vain hope and not one calculated to ease her own difficulties. She tried to keep the conversation in safe channels

  "Tell me about the cruise," she begged. "Where, and when, and for how long?"

  "It isn't really a cruise—not one of the luxury ones at all events," he told her. "Dad has a few contacts in the smaller shipping lines, and this ship is one of the Carlisle line operat-

  ing with quite small boats and carrying cargo and a few passengers. This trip starts from Southampton in ten days' time. Gibraltar, and along the north coast of Africa, calling at various ports to deliver and take on cargo. Then north to Crete, a bit of cruising round the Greek islands, Sicily, Naples—most of the shore time will be in Greece, I'm told."

  "It sounds interesting," Fay commented. "Better than a luxury cruise, I should think—not so organised."

  "Yes, that's what appeals to me about it," Geoff agreed. "It sounds very easy-going. We'll finish up at Marseilles and travel home over land, because the ship isn't returning to England—it has to go on down the West African coast."

  "Lucky you!" Fay could share the anticipated happiness in Geoff's eyes.

  "I wish you were coming," he said, and for a moment the happiness died. "I—I suppose you couldn't possibly get off—?"

  "Heavens, no !" she cried. "That really would be the last straw as far as Matron's concerned—she's tearing her hair already, what with the holiday season, two Sisters off sick and another two resigning early in September!"

  "It must be nice, though, to be so necessary. My bank seems to be getting on perfectly well without me."

  "I bet they'll be glad to get you back, all the same. When do you think that will be?"

  "The doc seems to think I should be fit by October."

  "Umm," Fay said thoughtfully. "Yes, you'd better go back for a bit—until you see how the book goes. If it's a bestseller you'll be able to resign from the bank and devote yourself entirely to writing. Somehow I can't see you as a bank clerk—I didn't think bank clerks had any imagination!"

  He grinned boyishly at the generalisation. "You'd be surprised," he told her. "Some of them dream—but most of them aren't as lucky as I am, and the dreams just remain dreams. Heavens, look at the time ! I'll miss my train if I don't hurry !"

  They got a taxi and she saw him off on his train at Euston.

  "Write and tell me all about the cruise, won't you," she

  said, and then corrected herself, "but not so often as to

  detract from the book. You simply must get that finished and revised before October."

  "Don't you worry, I will," he promised. "I've got it all worked out in my head now, so it'll be all plain sailing. When I get back I'll have finished that part of the story and be ready to start an entirely new chapter, I hope—and minus this thing, too," he scornfully indicated the stout walking stick which had replaced his crutches.

  He did not need to say any more. Fay knew perfectly well what he meant—it was written in his face. Geoff had been something of an athlete, proud of his physical fitness, rejoicing in his manhood. He had been too proud to offer himself until he was a whole man again.

  A warning shout from the porters told them that the train was about to start. There was no time for anything but a hasty farewell, then Geoff clambered aboard and continued to wave from the carriage window until a curve in the line took it out of view of the platform.

  Then, sick at heart, Fay turned and made her way back, a solitary figure amongst the crowd—solitary as she must ever be.

  Work in the theatres was rather lighter than usual in August and only more or less emergency operations were done. Many of the surgeons, including Mr. Barton, were away. In the
atre Mark did most of the work. He took a week off in the early part of the month and Fay gleaned from various sources that he was down at Beechcroft trying to get some of Toni's things in order. His place in the theatre was taken by another Registrar named Collins. He was something of the hit-and-miss school, which after Mark's precision work did not please Fay at all.

  It was during the week that Mark was away from St. Edith's that Fay received a letter in untidy childish handwriting. When she opened it, somewhat puzzled as to the sender, she found that it was from Wendy and written from Beechcroft. The spelling was shocking, but the style was commendably brief and lucid.

  "Dear Fay," it began with characteristic lack of inhibition, "We are spending the hollidays at Beechcroft. It is horid

  here without Toni. Mark says when we go back to scool we can write our letters to you. I will write one and the next time Helen and then me again. Mark says you may not have time to anser but I hope you do. I want to here all about the hospittle. I would like to be a surgon when I grow up. I dont mind blud. I fell down on the terris at scool last term and made my nose bleed. Their was blud all over the place. Ther is not much to do here that is wy I am writting to you. Tim and John are here but they are boys and pretty small and silly. They are sort of cusons. If you cant always anser plese make it my week when you do becos Helen has a boy, friend and I haven't. With love from Wendy.

  P.S. I forgot to tell you Mummy is still on the yot."

  A little whimsical smile played round Fay's lips as she read—until she got to the bit about the "yot" when she felt a tug at her heart.