Yankee Surgeon (15 page)

Sally was tempted to laugh. How childish men could be. John was sulking because she wouldn
’
t go to the Founders
’
Ball with him, and now George was acting just as bad.

“I don
’
t know,” Sally said slowly. “I like you both
...
in
different ways. But I don
’
t want it to be more than that.”

She wondered if she had been too honest but George was relaxing now and beginning to drink his tea. Suddenly he put his cup down and looked at Sally. “Are you going to the Founder
’
s Ball?”

She was too flabbergasted to answer at first. “Me? Whatever made you say that? Staff nurses don
’
t go to posh affairs like that.”

“They do if they
’
re given a suitable invitation,” George said slowly.

“Well, I
’
m
not going ...
so there,” Sally snapped crossly. John must have told someone that he had intended to ask her and the wretched hospital grapevine had picked
it up...

“You mean you don
’
t want to or you haven
’
t been asked?” She had never known George to be quite so persistent in prodding the tender spots.

“I
’
ll be away on holiday,” she said quickly and then realized that he only had to pick up the implication to work out the answer.

“I see. Well, I
’
d better be getting along. Thanks for the tea.” George stood up.

A moment before she had wanted him to go and now she didn
’
t want to be
alone ...
alone with her thoughts.

She followed him to the door. “Claris up to anything new?”

George glanced at her. “Funny you should ask that. She is and
she isn’t ...
if you get me. She
’
s gone out with our American surgeon, but I don
’
t think she invited herself
t
his time. Sweet dreams, Sally.” There was a crooked grin on his face but no smile in his eyes.

Sally watched him go down the corridor. She had tried to play fair with both John and George and where had it got her? John had gone out with the prettiest cat they
’
d had among the female house surgeons for ages, and George hadn
’
t even been friendly tonight.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Sally peered out of the train window. They should be slowing down for the stop at Much Over any moment. It would have been quicker to go by bus instead of taking the stopping train which seemed to delight in halting at every village however small, but luggage was a nuisance on a bus. Coming off night duty she was always too excited to sleep, too impatient to tolerate any delay in getting home. This time it had been even worse than usual. She had been longer on nights for one thing, and thanks to John
’
s weekly night operating lists she had had far more work to do on night duty. But she had never experienced quite the same frantic impatience to be away from the hospital, away from the tight chains of its routine, the closeness of her friends, and the knowing that everything she did and almost everything she thought was of interest. She shivered a little as she thought of last night and wondered if news of it had hit the hospital grapevine yet.

She had come back from supper and had found John waiting for her. It had been the first time he had bothered to come up the fire stairs to keep the night rendezvous that they had arranged so blithely so long ago.

He had been abrupt. “Come to wish you a happy holiday, honey.”

She had been very polite. “Thank you very much, John.”

It had been a temptation to call him Dr. Tremayne, but perhaps that would have been taking too much notice of his neglect.

“Would you show me the door if I ambled down to take a look at this Much Over of yours?”

It was so humbly said that she had
to smile...

The train shuffled slowly into the station and she was relieved to see her father standing under the solitary lamp on the platform. She let the window down with a bang and leaned out.

“I
’
m here, Daddy, and I
’
ve got stacks of luggage.”

Her father chuckled. “You didn
’
t warn me you were coming home to stay!” He kissed her warmly. “Pity you
’
re so fond of that hospital of yours
...
otherwise you could help me.”

“Daddy! I
’
d be no good as a nursemaid to your orchids and strawberries. I need people to look after.”

At last they had stowed all her cases in the back of the car and Sally could start asking the questions that were trembling on the tip of her tongue.

“Where
’
s Mummy?”

Mr. Conway chuckled. “You
’
ll soon get used to the answer—out with Aunt Agnes.”

“What
’
s she like?”

Her father considered the question. “I think you have to meet her to know what
’
s she
’
s like ... very smart and very lively.”

Sally wished he would go on talking instead of making her ask questions.

“How long is she staying?”

Her father laughed again. “With us? I haven
’
t the faintest idea. She
’
s quite capable of announcing that she
’
s booked a passage to Lapland or Moscow and is leaving in the morning. I don
’
t know whether your mother told you that Uncle Henry had died ... that
’
s why she
’
s been able to come over. So she may stay six weeks or six months.”

Sally decided she would settle for one more question. “Are there any children?”

Her father was silent for a moment. “There was
one ...
a daughter Ruth, who was killed in an accident.” He slowed down as they came to a main road. Then, waiting for the light to change, he glanced at Sally. “Well, and how are things with you? Your letters have been a trifle sketchy lately.”

Sally had let out a sigh before she realized it and knew that her father would be after the reason for it before her holidays were over.

“We
’
ve been extra busy with this new night session,” she said briefly and was thankful that her father now was fully engaged in weaving through traffic.

Her father only chuckled. “Is that a polite way of telling me to mind my own business and that I wouldn
’
t understand anyway? Never mind, dear. You can tell me when and if you want to. That
’
s your Aunt Agnes
’
s car pulling in ahead of us.”

Sally
’
s heart had missed a beat as she had glimpsed the red car turning into the drive. Of course all red cars didn
’
t belong to Americans and there was no law forbidding her aunt to drive the same model as a certain
surgeon...

But there was not time for further thought as she was caught up in enthusiastic family greetings.

“So you
’
re Sally ... hmm ... you
’
re not what I
’
d have guessed from your parents
’
description. You
’
re much prettier for one thing ... a mite peaky at the moment but then your mother says you
’
ve just come off night duty. Funny
thing ...
you remind me of me when I was your age. Remember that old photo, Sarah, of you and me on that Sunday outing? Of course we were all dolled up in those old-fashioned clothes—styles over here didn
’
t smarten up as quickly as those in the States—and I had my hair shingled and not softly curled like Sally
’
s.”

Sally studied her aunt who was chatting away to her mother, turning over memories like the pages of an old family album. It was hard to believe that they were sisters or even that Agnes Raynor was older than Sarah Conway. There was a smartness and zip about the American woman that contrasted sharply with the softer, more comfortable style of her English sister. Sally felt a strong pull of attraction toward her aunt. Here would be enthusiasm and support for any plans she might mention, Sally was sure. It wasn
’
t as if she wanted more than sponsorship for her American venture. Matron
’
s hint about a possible scholarship wouldn
’
t have been lightly given ... and that last hospital she had written to did advance passage money.

Engrossed in her daydreams Sally followed the others into the house and stumbled as usual over the uneven step. Greenoaks had been two old cottages which a former owner had joined into one, carefully preserving the centuries-old charm and tucking the modern amenities into odd corners. Sally was used to her mother
’
s grumbles about the awkwardness of trying to run such a house efficiently, but she knew as well that any move toward a modern house would have been resisted most strenuously.

“Sally, when did you last have a meal?”

Sally woke up to the fact that her mother was addressing her. “I had some tea before I left.”

“I might have known it. No proper food and I suppose no proper sleep either,” Mrs. Conway scolded away gently.

“I
’
ve got two weeks of lovely nights for sleeping, Mother dear. I
’
ll soon get caught up,” Sally said reassuringly.

She was beginning to realize how fragile her covering defenses were. She hadn
’
t bothered to take thought about that. Tonight she could get away with it but tomorrow would be a different story. Frantically she tried to recall what she had said in letters home about John ... about anything of importance that had happened. Or had it happened at all? Wasn
’
t it all possibly a figment of her overvivid imagination?

“Sarah, can
’
t you see the poor kid
’
s dead beat? Can
’
t you heat up some soup or something and I can take it up to her if she
’
d like to pop into bed.”

For a moment Sally
’
s indignation bristled as she realized that Aunt Agnes was referring to her and then she saw it as the ideal retreat. She really was tired ... more tired than she had ever been before, but it wasn
’
t entirely from
overwork...

“I think I will, Mother, if you don
’
t mind.” Sally yawned to give color to her excuse.

If Mrs. Conway was astonished by her daughter
’
s unexpected docility she gave no sign. “Chicken soup or tomato?”

“Chicken, please.”

Sally picked up her overnight case and fled up the narrow, crooked stairs to her little corner bedroom tucked away under the eaves. She was already undressed and just about to jump into bed when her aunt tapped on the door and followed it in without waiting for Sally
’
s “Come in.”

Her aunt gave her no chance to be shy as she put the tray down on the little bedside table and curled herself up neatly on the foot of Sally
’
s bed.

“Get that into you while it
’
s still hot. Funny, but I can
’
t get used to having a niece who
’
s the image of the me that was. You can
’
t guess how many times I
’
ve dreamed of coming back to England but it just wa
s
n
’
t possible. Henry had his pride and you can
’
t blame
him.
If my parents thought so little of him that they wouldn
’
t even write to me because of our marrying, he wasn
’
t going to stick his neck out by making the first move and he wouldn
’
t let me either.” She looked a little sad. “When our Ruth was drowned it seemed as if there just wasn
’
t any reason for coming. You
’
d have liked her. She was a real sweetie ... with hair so fair it was almost white as cotton and as soft as silk and her eyes were blue, not dark like yours but pale blue like the sky on a scorching summer day. Most likely she
’
d be married by now and I
’
d be a grandmother. She was quite a lot older than you. She had been visiting Henry
’
s people in Germany that
summer...”

Sally listened in silence as she sipped her soup. She could make no comment on what her aunt was saying and she knew that none was expected. This was an old sorrow and the sting had gone and only the sadness remained.

“Sally, what do you think your parents would say if I took you back with me to the States for a visit?”

As soon as she could find breath after her surprise Sally gasped out, “I don
’
t know what they would say but I
’
d love it! I
’
ve wanted to go to America ever since I can remember.”

“But why? You
’
ve got one lovely country over here and I
’
m saying it who has seen them both.”

“I want to work over there,” Sally said slowly, not quite sure how that would be received by her aunt.

“You go right ahead. There are some mighty smart hospitals not far from where I live. I forgot. Maybe you don
’
t even know where that is ... White Plains—thirty-odd miles from New York City. I guess you need my name as a sponsor, don
’
t you? Any special time you were thinking of going? I
’
ll be having a look-see around this country and the continent for the next few months ... I don
’
t know exactly how long yet, but you can go on ahead of me if you are dying to get started or you can wait and come with me and I
’
d surely love that.” She laughed suddenly. “Here, I
’
m sounding as if it
’
s all settled and I
’
m probably giving you fits the way I do your mother when I make up my mind to things quick off the mark.”

“Maybe if Mother and Daddy think I
’
ll be under your wing sort of, they won
’
t be quite so unhappy about my going. I
’
ve mentioned it now and again but there
’
s always been a hurt silence. It isn
’
t that they want to stand in my way
but...”

“I know ...
you don
’
t have to tell me,” Agnes Raynor interrupted. “Sleep on my suggestion, honey, and if you still like the idea we can talk some more and then try selling it to your parents.” She bent down and kissed Sally lightly. “Sweet dreams. Perhaps I shouldn
’
t tell you but something tells me I
’
m going to like my new niece more than a little.”

She was gone before Sally could say anything and perhaps it was the American turn of phrase and accent that brought the memory of John so strongly to mind. He too had hair as fair as cotton and eyes like the blue of a summer sky. For a time Sally was too tired for sleep. Excitement at the thought of her aunt
’
s invitation was laced through with sadness at the thought of leaving England ... not only her parents but St. Bride
’
s and all the nurses she knew and dear old George, and yes, she had to admit it, John as well.

Her room was full of sunshine when she awakened and she realized that she must have slept in. She lay there reveling in the thought that she didn
’
t have to hurry up. Sally
’
s daydreams were interrupted by a knock on the door and her aunt came in with a tray.

“Good morning, honey. I must say you do look a new girl this morning. Here
’
s a bite of breakfast for you. Somehow I seem to have been elected as a bearer of trays to you.”

She put the tray down and settled herself on the foot of Sally
’
s bed.

“Oh, and before I forget, your boyfriend called and said to tell you he would be in the vicinity and hoped to see you. Such a nicely spoken young man.”