Backstage Nurse (2 page)

"I don't know." Shirley smiled. "Who is his private nurse now?"

"Hasn't any. He's been a walking patient for more than a week. Ready to be discharged. Guess he wants someone to travel with him when he goes on the road with his show." She studied a chart on her desk.

"Is he in his room now?" Shirley asked.

"Yes. Has a visitor. One of the actors in his play."

"Then perhaps I'd better wait until later."

"Go ahead. This man is nothing special. He comes up here almost every afternoon."

"Oh!" Shirley said.

When she came near the open door of the room, she recognized Craft's voice in conversation with a younger man. The old actor's sonorous tones were pleasant to hear. She hesitated at the door for a moment and then knocked lightly.

"Come in!" Oliver Craft looked across at the door and his face lighted up with pleased surprise. "You must be the young nurse Dr. Trask mentioned."

She stepped inside the room and nodded. Oliver Craft was sitting in a large easy chair by the window, and she could see that the gaunt face with its large aquiline nose was even paler and more emaciated than she remembered it.

The man with whom Oliver Craft had been chatting stood up in acknowledgment of her presence. He was a youngish-looking man, with curly brown hair that showed a trace of gray near the temples. He had a friendly face, and a warm smile.

Craft gestured toward him. "This is Hugh Deering, one of my company, my dear." He paused. "And your name is—?"

"Shirley Grant." She returned Deering's smile, mentally noting that he seemed a very out-of-the-ordinary type. There was something about him that suggested depth in spite of his casual good looks.

"I understand you were once in the theater, Miss Grant?" The old actor cocked his head to one side and beamed at her.

"For a very short period. About two years in all."

"Some people would call that a career," the younger man said. "Did you do anything on Broadway?"

"A small part in
Gentry
. You probably won't remember it," she said. "The play was an awful flop."

Oliver Craft nodded in recollection. "But I do remember it. A charming little show, and well done. So you were in it."

Hugh Deering addressed the old actor. "That's the trouble nowadays, Chief. They don't want anything that's decent and well acted. We were lucky the
Cardinal
caught on as it did."

"I knew it was a play that would go from the moment we began rehearsals," Craft said. "And it will make money on tour. You'll see. Have you made up your mind about joining us, Miss Grant?"

"That's why I came up to see you," she said. "Honestly, I don't think you'd be happy with me, or that I'd fit in. Having backstage experience might be more of a hindrance than a help."

"You're young and bright." Oliver Craft leaned forward in his chair. "Those are qualities I could do with now. I'd like to have you say yes."

Shirley studied the old man, so relaxed and sure of himself; so full of plans and enthusiasm for his show. She found it hard to believe that he had probably only a few months to live.

"You haven't been very well," she said. "Do you think it wise to go on the road with your play?"

"In all my life," his eyes met hers, "I have never set too much store on the wise course. I have done what I felt I must. And that is how it is now—I must go back in my play."

"But why?"

He chuckled. "Well, if we must be practical— first, because the producer, who is an old friend of mine, did not break even on the Broadway run. His chance to make up the costs of production and a small profit lie in this tour. I want him to make that profit. I owe it to him for his faith in me."

Hugh Deering spoke quietly. "But no one wants or expects you to risk your health for their financial benefit."

Oliver Craft's noble old face became solemn again. "Let us understand one thing. I have no health left to squander. That is why it doesn't matter what decision I make. The end will be the same, no matter. And I prefer to die in harness."

"Well, if you're determined—" Shirley said.

"I am." Craft was emphatic. "I know my grandson will try to stop me. He'll be able to argue with all the right reasons, and he's very good at arguments, Miss Grant. But he won't sway me. This may well be my final play and I want to finish it right."

"So you'd better plan to join us." Hugh Deering watched Shirley for her reaction.

Swayed between her genuine liking for the actor and her desire to avoid the strain that taking care of him would mean, she tried to weigh the decision.

"How long do you plan to tour?" she asked.

"We have engagements for four months, beginning here in Boston in about ten days' time. The bookings carry us up until the week before Christmas. We have a few days' layoff and then play the Holidays, and that winds us up the first week in January."

"Well, then, perhaps I'll try it. Since it won't be too long."

"Good girl!" He stretched out his hand to her. "I'll see that you don't regret it."

Shirley took the slim, wasted hand in hers, and for a moment felt almost repulsed. Then she looked into the calm, patrician face and the large blue eyes, so filled with wisdom, and her feeling of repugnance vanished. It was plain the actor needed her, and she would not want to miss the challenge.

Hugh Deering came over to her, all smiles. "Nice to have an ex-pro with us. We can use a little feminine charm in the company. Rather short of it at the moment."

"This is an all-male play," Oliver Craft explained in his rich bass, "but for two minor roles. And they are character types."

"I've been looking around the hospital," Hugh Deering went on. "It's excellently run. Did you train here?"

She nodded. "And I work here mostly."

"I can understand why." He glanced around. "These rooms are something like you'd find in a swank hotel. And the equipment is strictly up to date."

She looked at him with a new interest. "You know something about hospitals?"

"A bit." For a moment, Hugh Deering seemed vaguely uncomfortable. "Let's say they're sort of a hobby of mine."

Oliver Craft sighed. "Then I can count on you, Miss Grant?"

Shirley could tell by his voice that he was weary; it was time for her to leave. "Yes. I'll have another chat with Dr. Trask. And you can let me know when you'd like me to begin."

"I can tell you that now," Craft said. "I'll be leaving the hospital over the weekend and going in to town. I'll be taking a suite at the Touraine Hotel—I always stay there when I'm in Boston— and I'd like you to join me there. I'll have an adjoining room for you."

"Fine," she said, going to the door.

Hugh Deering followed her. "I'll look forward to our next meeting at rehearsals." He held out his hand.

She took it, and smiling, inquired, "The Colonial, I suppose?"

"Yes. The Chief wouldn't play anywhere else. Till next week, then." He stood by the door watching her as she left.

On her way back to the elevator, Shirley decided that the tour might be fun after all. The theater still fascinated her, and Oliver Craft was a wonderful old man. Working for him would be an experience. And she did like Hugh Deering. At twenty-seven, she was beginning to wonder if the right man would ever come along. And suddenly, in this charming, easygoing actor, she had met someone who really clicked with her. Perhaps she would get to know him well. There was something strangely familiar in his manner that puzzled her; it was as though she had met him somewhere before.

The head nurse broke into her reverie: "Are you taking the job?"

Shirley nodded. "Yes."

"Good luck. You'll be needing it." The square-faced nurse jerked her head toward the corridor. "How did you like our friend Hugh Deering?"

Surprised at her familiarity with the young man's name, Shirley managed, "Very much. I only talked to him a minute."

The head nurse smiled wisely. "You should get to know him better. You have something in common. Before he took up acting, he was
Doctor
Hugh Deering."

Shirley could hardly believe her ears. "He was a doctor?"

The head nurse nodded. "Yes. That was before he was blamed for a man's death."

Shirley repeated after her: "Blamed for a man's death!"

The head nurse glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was coming down the corridor; then turned and continued in a lower tone: "It was one of those things. I know all about it because I was a student in the hospital where he interned."

"He had a fine practice and a good reputation. But he got in with a sporty crowd and the next thing I heard was that he was drinking too much. Still does. I smelled it on his breath when he came in here yesterday."

"But what happened?" Shirley wanted her to get to the point.

The nurse shrugged. "He and this friend went on a hunting trip. On the way back, their car was involved in a head-on collision. Deering came out of it with only a few scratches, but the friend, who was in the front seat with him, was thrown out of the car and badly injured. And that's where the trouble came. Dr. Deering wasn't able to help him."

"You mean, he'd been drinking?"

"Witnesses said he was drunk. Just stumbled around and couldn't do a thing. The people in the other car were injured, too. But he did nothing. And then, the police and ambulance came, but by that time his friend had died."

Shirley felt a wave of sympathy for the good-looking, brown-haired man. "But the doctor was probably suffering from shock, even though he'd had a drink or two. That's probably why he couldn't help. And perhaps his friend would have died, anyway."

"A lot of people thought that way," the nurse agreed. "But just the same, his friend's family made a court case of it. The jury found him not guilty. But it hurt his practice, and I guess it upset him pretty bad. Shortly afterward, he closed his office. Next thing I heard, he was in show business. I hadn't seen him again until he came here visiting Oliver Craft."

"He must have felt terrible about it," Shirley said. "Thanks for filling me in. It helps to know about the people you're working with."

Then, the elevator having arrived, she got in and started down again. The news about Hugh Deering had come as such a shock she had hardly been able to take the story in. Here, she had just met a pleasant young man whom she felt she could really like, with the prospect of being in his close company for several months, and now it was all spoiled by this revelation about his character.

Not that she believed the whole thing. No doubt, a lot of it had been exaggerated. Somehow, she had the feeling that the jury had been right: Hugh Deering could in no sense be accused of neglect in his friend's death. But public opinion was often quite opposed to justice, and it was public opinion that had ruined the young doctor's future. She made up her mind not to be swayed. She would decide about Hugh Deering on the basis of her own experience with him.

On Saturday afternoon, Shirley had a phone call from Dr. Trask saying that Oliver Craft was leaving the hospital and would be expecting her at the Touraine within the hour. Dr. Trask had already filled her in on the routine for which she would be responsible and the reports which he wanted her to send him each day.

"You'll be staying here in Boston for the next two weeks," he said. "I'll call in at the hotel regularly until you leave. Oliver Craft has a wonderful spirit and he seems almost himself again. But you must keep warning him that he mustn't overdo. He must horde his strength if he is to work. See that he sits whenever possible at rehearsal; have a couch for his dressing room so that when he is resting he can lie down."

Shirley made a note of the many instructions the doctor gave her in his dry New England voice. Then she did some final packing and phoned for a taxi to take her to the Touraine.

The rooms that Oliver Craft had engaged were on the Tremont Street side of the building, and from the windows of his sitting room he could look down on the Common where it fronted on Boylston Street and the Colonial Theater. Shirley found the old man waiting for her in a chair next to the window. He was patient as she went about her first examination, and when she had finished, he put his dressing gown back on and sat again in the chair with a smile.

"Think I'll last until rehearsals?" he asked her with a twinkle.

"You seem much better than I'd hoped." She studied him. "If you don't overdo, you may just manage it."

"I'm encouraged." He grasped the arms of his chair with his thin, delicate hands. "I've been sitting here watching my public. Or at least, pretending the people down there were all part of it. I've been lonesome in the hospital. It will be a tonic for me to face an audience again."

Shirley came back from the bathroom with a glass containing a routine medication Dr. Trask had prescribed and handed it to him. "Part of your daily dose," she said with a smile.

He sipped it and made a wry face. "Why must they always make the stuff so bitter?" Then he downed the liquid at a gulp and handed the glass back to her. "We start rehearsals on Monday morning and you'll be able to meet the rest of the company."

Shirley put the glass down and hesitated a moment before answering. Then, deciding that this might be a good time to sound out Craft's opinion of Hugh Deering, she said, "I understand you have an ex-doctor in the company."

The old man's hawk-face raised to hers. His expression was that of grim resignation. "Bad news travels quickly. I suppose you heard at the hospital?"

Almost immediately sorry that she had so openly exposed her curiosity, Shirley blushed and said, "Yes. I didn't mean to be a gossip. It just slipped out."

The old actor sighed. "Nothing wrong in your mentioning it, my dear. I'd say it was good that you did, since you've heard a version of the story. May as well clear the air. Yes, Deering was a doctor. Now he's an actor, and a good one."

"I'm sure he must be," Shirley said quickly.

"He's trying to make a new life for himself," Oliver Craft went on slowly, "and I think he should be helped. I wouldn't mention any of it to him if I were you. He's still troubled, as it is."