Once For All Time. Betty Neels

reserved spaces and at her look of surprise, he said: ‘I’m in a hurry and this is nearer. Have you had a pleasant time?’

      ‘Yes, lovely.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m late,’ she told him.

      ‘Then for heaven’s sake don’t let me keep you.’ He spoke in his usual friendly fashion and turned to get his bag out of the car. But Clotilde paused to look in at the rear window at the Jack Russell sitting in the centre of the back seat. ‘Is he yours?’ she asked.

      ‘Yes, and he’s a she— Millie. She cadged a ride at the last minute.’

      She smiled widely. ‘She’s rather gorgeous. You look as though you ought to have a Great Dane.’

      His firm mouth twitched. ‘But I have. His name is George, and he’s car-sick.’

      Clotilde gave a delighted chortle and then remembered the time. ‘I must fly!’ she exclaimed.

      She was racing for the side door leading to the Nurses’ Home when she bumped into Bruce, but before she could speak he said crossly: ‘What was all that about? I’ve been standing here…’

      She pulled up short. ‘Oh, Bruce, I’m so sorry— I was admiring Dr Thackery’s dog. A Jack Russell… I didn’t see you.’ She added unnecessarily: ‘I’m late.’

      ‘Then you’d better get a move on,’ said Bruce loftily.

      Not the best start to the rest of the day, thought Clotilde, tearing off her suit and getting into uniform. Now she would have to try and see Bruce that evening—hours away. But by then he might have forgotten about it, and after all, she told herself reasonably, one didn’t ignore someone one worked with, especially someone as goodnatured as Dr Thackery.

      The afternoon was busier than she would have liked, with two emergency admissions, Miss Knapp choosing to have an attack of hysterics just as teas were being served, and Miss Fitch next to her going into a diabetic coma. Not the easiest of days, thought Clotilde, drinking a hasty cup of tea in her office before starting on the medicine round, and to crown it all Dr Evans had been on the ward, throwing her weight around, annoying both nurses and patients. Usually Clotilde had found the women doctors easy to get on with; they cheerfully looked after themselves if they saw that the nurses were busy, but Dr Evans had had other ideas.

      She insisted on having someone in attendance, and that in the middle of the bedpan round…

      Clotilde went off duty at last tired and irritable, glad that the day was over. She gobbled her supper in the company of those of her friends who had just come off duty, then she went down to the lodge to see if Bruce had left a message. Old Diggs the porter looked up from his paper.

      ‘Dr Johnson said he’ll be free at half past nine and you was to go for a drink together.’

      ‘Thanks, Diggs.’ She felt suddenly much better; it would be late before she got to bed, but that would be a small price to pay for an hour of Bruce’s company. She went back to her room and changed into a dress, and since it was damp and dreary outside, a raincoat. There was no point in dressing up; the local pub was used by almost everyone at the hospital and it was so near that all one needed to do was slip on a coat or a mac.

      Clotilde was prompt and it was five minutes before Bruce arrived—and not in too good a temper, she saw, her heart sinking.

      ‘Hallo.’ His greeting was abrupt. ‘A pity you’ve not bothered to get into something decent, now we’ll have to go to the Lamb and Thistle, I suppose.’

      ‘It’s a bit late…’ She didn’t know why he was in a bad temper; too much to do, probably. A drink and a quiet chat should put that right.

      But it didn’t; he was edgy and ill at ease until she said forthrightly: ‘What’s the matter, Bruce? Had a bad day?’

      ‘Nothing’s the matter.’ He covered her hand with his and gave it a squeeze. ‘And the day was no worse than others. I had a long talk with Sir Oswald—he’s offered me a junior partnership.’

      ‘But that’s marvellous Bruce, absolutely wonderful— I can’t believe it! Of course you accepted?’

      He shrugged. ‘How can I? I’d have to buy myself in.’ He mentioned a sum which sent her dark brows up.

      ‘But that’s twice what Father said he’d give us, and I don’t honestly think that he could manage any more. Do you know anyone who’d lend it to you?’

      ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I do—at least, I’d have to do it through someone I know.’

      ‘Not moneylenders?’ asked Clotilde sharply, and got laughed at for her pains.

      ‘Silly darling—no, of course not, and I won’t do anything until I’ve talked to your father. He might be able to manage.’

      ‘I’m sure he can’t. He never talks about money, but I heard him talking to Mother about some shares that had dropped and he sounded worried.’

      ‘Well, it can’t be as bad as all that.’ Bruce sounded uninterested. ‘They’ve gone on holiday, haven’t they, and the house isn’t kept going on peanuts.’

      He began to talk about his day and Clotilde, who would have liked to have made plans for their wedding, listened cheerfully. She wasn’t tired any more; it was splendid news that Bruce had been offered a partnership with Sir Oswald—something he had always wanted. She had wanted it too, of course; it made their future together a good deal nearer, and after all, she was twenty-five, almost twenty-six, and Bruce was thirty. They went back presently and parted in the entrance hall. Even though there was no one there, only old Diggs, they didn’t kiss. Bruce had said it was a bad example for the students.

      They barely saw each other for the next couple of days. Clotilde had to be content with a quick wave from a distance and a note left at the lodge telling her that he was too busy to meet her. She accepted it more or less cheerfully; his work came first and when he was free he would be too tired to want to go out. She washed her hair, did her nails and went to the cinema with some of her friends. Bruce had said he would be free on the following day and she assumed that they would spend as much of it together as they could manage. It was Dr Thackery’s round in the morning, but she had given herself a half day and she would be free after dinner.

      The round went smoothly. Clotilde was ready and waiting, with Sally beside her, loaded with case notes and X-rays, when the ward doors were opened and Dr Thackery, hedged about by Jeff Saunders, the Evans woman and the rest of them, came into the ward. His ‘good morning’ was pleasant, impersonal and brisk and Clotilde was equally brisk. After the few years they had worked together, they appreciated the fine line they had drawn together between friendship and getting on with the job. Miss Knapp was dealt with with smooth competence and a quite definite decision that she might go home on the next day, the emergency cases which had been admitted during the week were examined at some length and Mrs Perch, almost at her last breath now, was gently teased and chatted to, just as though Dr Thackery had no other patients to see.

      Presently they moved on to the next bed— Mrs Butler, a mountain of a woman, propped up in bed against her pillows, puffing her way through an asthmatic attack. She took a great deal of time too, and Clotilde felt a twinge of impatience. Her delightful nose had caught the first whiff of dinners; they would never be finished on time—which meant that she would be late off duty and Bruce would have to hang around…

      An urgent tap on her sleeve broke her train of thought. Clare, the ward clerk, gave her a scared look because no one was supposed to interrupt the round. She stood on tiptoe to reach Clotilde’s ear. ‘There’s a phone call for you in the Office, Sister. Urgent—they wouldn’t give a message.’

      ‘Did they gave their name?’ Clotilde’s whisper was almost soundless.

      Clare looked helpless. ‘I didn’t ask, Sister.’

      ‘It might be as well if you dealt with the matter yourself,’ said Dr Thackery suddenly. ‘We’re almost finished, aren’t we?’