Once For All Time. Betty Neels

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      It took her the best part of the morning, but she didn’t care. She made easy work of the miles, not bothering about the steady drizzle, and coming back through the village she met several people she knew and stopped to chat. She got back with a fine colour and a good appetite, dried Tinker, tidied herself and ate the dinner Rosie had ready. And afterwards she did the ironing, saw to the plants in the conservatory built on to the back of the house and then retired to the sitting room fire to read while Rosie had her nap on her bed. Later, going to bed, she thought happily that it had been a lovely day, no hustle or bustle, no Miss Knapp constantly complaining, no phone calls, no rounds. For no reason at all she found herself thinking about Dr Thackery; he would be a pleasant companion with whom to walk in the rain. She suddenly was brought up short, feeling disloyal to Bruce, who hated rain anyway.

      She said goodbye to Rosie and Tinker with regret the next morning. ‘But I’ll be back next week,’ she told them. ‘Mother and Father will be back on Thursday, won’t they? I won’t be able to get away before two o’clock, but they won’t be home much before tea time. I’ll bring some flowers with me.’

      She waved goodbye and shot into the lane and through the village on her way back to St Alma’s. She had hung about, talking to Rosie, and if she didn’t hurry she would be late on duty. A nuisance; she had intended to go to the Surgical Wing first in case Bruce was there. Now she wouldn’t have the time.

      There was barely twenty minutes left as she turned into the hospital forecourt. She ran the Mini round the side of the sprawling building and parked it, and as she got out Dr Thackery’s Bentley slid silently into the next parking lot. He should have parked in the consultants’ 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.

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