Hospital Corridors (2 page)

We’re having a honeymoon in Paris. I’m sorry, darlings, that there was no big and glamorous wedding—but maybe that wouldn’t have done anyway, so soon after Daddy’s funeral. As it was, Gerald had to go to Paris on business, so it seemed absurd not to take the chance of making that our honeymoon. You do understand, don’t you?

Of course they understood. They were considerably taken aback, they were anxious over the suddenness of her choice, they felt guilty on her behalf so far as the unfortunate Nat Lanyon was concerned. But they understood all right, for this, alas, was the way Clarissa had always managed her own life and those of other people.

“I feel dreadfully sorry for that other poor boy,” Enid said.

“He’s not a boy, Enid, which makes it worse,” Madeline pointed out. “He is, if Clarissa’s original description is to be believed, a successful and distinguished man, who’s probably received a bad blow to his pride as well as his affections.”

“Oh, dear! But people do get over these things,” Enid said hopefully. “And anyway, I can’t help a certain relief to think you won’t either of you be going so far away after all. I was delighted for your sakes before, but if you don’t have to go—”

“But I am going,” Madeline stated firmly.

“Without Clarissa—or anyone else?”

“Certainly. I’ve made all my arrangements, I’ve been looking forward to this trip for weeks, and I’ve no intention of altering my plans now.”

“But the whole plan was based on the idea of Clarissa being there—with a home of her own,” Enid protested.

“Really, I can’t help that.” Madeline sounded a little impatient for once. “I want to go to Canada now purely from my own point of view, and I’m certainly not going to arrange and rearrange my life according to Clarissa’s rather unpredictable decisions. I’m sorry she won’t be there, but
I
am going.” And so, disregarding the measure of nervousness and anxiety now imparted to the plan, Madeline determinedly went ahead with her arrangements.

Less than a fortnight before she was due to leave, Clarissa returned from her honeymoon and, accompanied by the husband she had preferred to the distinguished Nat Lanyon, she came north to visit her mother and stepsister.

Secretly, Madeline had not much liked Gerald Maine, whom she thought altogether too casual, though witty and evidently prepared to make himself charming. But Clarissa seemed very well satisfied with her choice and that, after all, Madeline told herself, was the important thing where Gerald was concerned.

“I was astonished when you wrote and told me you were going on with your Canadian project,” Clarissa said. “But I suppose it’s a case of almost anything for a change after those dreary years at All Souls.”

Madeline said drily that was not quite how she had looked at it. That, in fact, she loved her work, that, broadly speaking, she had greatly enjoyed her years at All Souls, but that the Canadian trip, once she had made the decision, seemed to her to promise some wonderful experiences.

“Yes—well, of course,” agreed Clarissa, who had not attended to much more than the first third of this. “But I was just going to tell you—the most extraordinary piece of luck happened! You’ll never guess what I’ve managed to do for you, darling. I’ve more or less arranged for you to travel first class on the
Empress of Dunedin
with all your expenses paid.”

“But,” said Madeline, controlling a desire to scream at Clarissa’s pleasantly arbitrary way of riding roughshod over other people’s affairs, “I have already arranged to fly, and have paid my fare.”

“Then you can unpay it,” Clarissa assured her. “I mean, it can be refunded, or whatever they do in these cases. There’s no point in spending money unnecessarily. Besides, first class is not to be sneezed at. I went in to see Morton Sanders when I got back from my honeymoon, more or less to see how my successor was getting on. And then I found that he was going to Montreal on family business. He is half Canadian, you know. He and his mother will be travelling on that boat with you, as she has nerve trouble or something and refuses to fly, and she needs a nurse to look after her on the voyage. I thought of you at once. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

“No,” Madeline retorted with energy, “I don’t know that it is. I wanted to fly, and I
don’t
want to spend the best part of a week looking after an invalid.”

“But, my dear, it’s not as though she’s really ill,” protested Clarissa airily, which immediately made Madeline reflect that the not-really-ill patient is usually the one who gives all the trouble. “It’s a wonderful opportunity.”

Madeline looked unconvinced.

“How far have you committed me?” she enquired.

“I said I was nearly sure you would agree. Personally, I think it’s
providential
.”

Madeline smiled a little drily.

“If she were really ill, of course I would be prepared to help,” she said. “But someone who is vaguely described as a nerve case can be almost anything from a spoiled woman to a raving lunatic.”

“She’s not a raving lunatic,” Clarissa asserted, with such comforting conviction that Madeline laughed.

“Well, that’s something,” Madeline conceded with humour. And then, as a new thought struck her, she turned quickly to her stepmother. “Why, of course, if my passage were paid, I could leave over the air flight I’ve already booked. It could be deferred until later in the year and then
you
could use it! That would make it possible for you to come and visit me.” Enid exclaimed with delight, while Clarissa said complacently,

“I knew you’d see the advantages if you thought it over. Here’s Morton Sanders’ phone number. You’d better have a long-distance call and arrange to see him some time.” Madeline had already planned to go to London for a couple of days during that week, in order to visit the airline office and make her final arrangements. So, later that evening, she telephoned to Clarissa’s one-time employer in order to arrange a meeting.

It was a gay, faintly mocking voice which replied to her. A voice which curiously excited her interest, though she could not quite have said why.

“I shall be immensely relieved if you can arrange to travel with us, Miss Gill,” Morton Sanders said frankly. “My mother isn’t seriously ill, in the sense of being incapacitated all the time. She has some sort of neurological trouble which results in violent headaches and a tendency to nervous collapse. But if you’re with us I shall feel much less worried on her account.”

In some odd way, the interesting voice banished any doubts Madeline had entertained about the proposed arrangement, and she found herself saying how glad she was that Clarissa had made the suggestion that she could help. She arranged a time for her call at the Sanders’ London flat, and came away from the telephone thoughtful and in some way intrigued.

“He sounds nice,” she said carelessly to Clarissa.

“Nice?” Clarissa considered the choice of word and laughed. “I don’t know that he’d consider that a compliment himself. But he definitely has something.”

Madeline naturally asked what.

“It’s rather difficult to say. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him. He has all the charm of success, of course—and a sort of mocking gaiety which is provocative. I don’t think,” Clarissa said, with sudden and unusual insight, “that he believes in anyone or anything but himself.”

“That doesn’t sound at all attractive to me!” Madeline exclaimed rather indignantly.

“It is. Especially to women,” Clarissa assured her equably. “I suppose each one hopes to make him believe in her, as the great exception. He’s a good deal run after, and his mamma just tears herself to pieces between pride in him and jealousy of all the other women.”

Madeline’s misgivings returned at this point a hundredfold, but it was too late to draw back now. And so she went to London a few days later, and met Morton Sanders for the first time.

Less than two weeks ago. It was hard to believe that now. Madeline ran her hand thoughtfully up and down the deck rail and tried to decide whether she was glad or sorry that he had come into her life.

He had made an instantaneous impression, that morning in the elegant drawing-room of his London home. Quite extraordinarily handsome by any standards, he was tall and well-built, with lively intelligent eyes and a well-cut mouth that would have been sensual but for the firm way he set his lips.

To Madeline he had been charming, almost cordial, in his manner—but she had immediately known what Clarissa had meant about the provocative nature of his attraction. He had spoken of his mother with a sort of cool affection, and she had, with some difficulty, reminded herself that it was Mrs. Sanders, not Morton Sanders, who would be her concern during the voyage.

Before Madeline had been taken to meet her patient, the doctor had come in and, sending Morton Sanders upstairs to announce their arrival, had contrived to have a few words alone with her.

“It’s not altogether an easy case, Nurse,” he had said with candour, “but there will be little professional work involved. There is certainly some deep neurological disturbance, and the headaches are genuine enough. But, in addition, she is a very attractive, self-centred woman who has been spoiled. If she takes a fancy to you, you’ll have no trouble at all. Otherwise—Well, it’s only for a week,” he finished philosophically. “One of those difficult borderline cases where it’s hard to tell how much is true sickness and how much self-indulgence.”

“Just the sort of thing I should have chosen to avoid,” thought Madeline ruefully. But there was nothing she could do about it now.

That first meeting with Mrs. Sanders had been quite reassuring. Undoubtedly delicate-looking, very beautiful, and singularly soft-voiced, she had inspired Madeline with pity rather than misgiving. And everything had promised well when her cool, beautiful fingers had closed round Madeline’s hand and she had said rather pathetically,

“I’m so glad you’re coming with us. I’ve been dreading this journey.”

It did occur to Madeline that no one was forcing her to take the journey. But she spoke reassuringly and in her most friendly manner, and after some discussion it was arranged that they should meet at the boat, since Morton Sanders and his mother would be coming from London and Madeline from her Yorkshire home.

That meeting on the boat! Madeline smiled ruefully now when she recalled it, but she had felt hot with annoyance and embarrassment at the time.

She herself had arrived first, still aching a little from the good-byes which had had to be said, but interested after all to find herself actually aboard a transatlantic liner.

The suite reserved for her employers and herself was far more luxurious than anything she had imagined—curiously reminiscent of an elegant country house, with chintz curtains fluttering at the windows and the furniture both intrinsically beautiful and admirably designed to save space.

She was enchanted with it all, and when Mrs. Sanders arrived on the arm of a sympathetic stewardess, Morton being elsewhere engaged on something to do with the luggage, Madeline hurried forward with an eager smile.

But there was no answering smile on Mrs. Sanders’ face. Her dark eyes looked as beautiful as ever, but surprise and then unmistakable vexation clouded their depths.

“But, Nurse,” she said, her voice soft, but her displeasure obvious, “you’re not in uniform!”

“Why—why, no, Mrs. Sanders.” Madeline was taken aback by this greeting. “I wasn’t expecting to wear uniform on the journey. I’m not entitled to wear my All Souls uniform now I’ve left, you know. And until I reach Montreal I—”

“That is not of any interest to me!” The beautiful voice was suddenly very cold. “Your expenses are being paid in order that you should act as nurse to me on this journey. I expect you to
look
like a nurse.”

Madeline bit her lip to control the anger which rose in her at this form of address. But a glance of humorous sympathy from the stewardess—as well as the warning note of hysteria which she detected in her employer’s voice—prompted her to reply peaceably,

“I can’t have my Dominion uniforms until I arrive, Mrs. Sanders. But I have some white overalls with me—”

“And caps, I hope.”

“And caps,” agreed Madeline, remembering thankfully that she had kept some of her All Souls caps, for sentiment’s sake as much as anything.

“Very well. Wear them, please,” Mrs. Sanders said, and went on to her own cabin, leaving Madeline feeling like a Victorian housemaid caught in undress, as she put it to herself. This, so far as Mrs. Sanders’ attitude was concerned, had set the keynote for the journey. Not, Madeline decided later, that she particularly wanted to establish any sense of inferiority in her young companion. It was just that she liked the picture of herself as fragile and suffering, with a trained nurse in attendance. And for this purpose some sort of uniform was essential!

Forewarned by what Clarissa had said of Mrs. Sanders’ jealousy where any woman noticed by her son was concerned, Madeline maintained a scrupulously circumspect, even reserved, air towards him. He found this amusing, she rather thought, and not a little intriguing. And, though he avoided anything in his mother’s presence which might lead to trouble, Madeline had an idea from the beginning that he intended to get to know her very much better when she was off duty and, so to speak, in her own identity.

In practice, however, her off-duty hours proved few. And, in any case, a deep, inner instinct warned Madeline that, even when Mrs. Sanders was not there, it would be wiser to avoid any intimate contact with Morton Sanders. Though whether this was because of any possible trouble with his mother or because of his own rather dangerous attraction she was not sure.