The Girl With Green Eyes

People sat around talking after dinner, and beyond a few passing remarks Lucy saw nothing of the doctor. Since she left with her family before he did, she had no chance to see him and Fiona Seymour leave together. She told herself stoutly that it didn’t matter one bit, one day she would marry him, only she couldn’t leave it too long, for she was twenty-five already. She was immensely cheered by the thought that Mrs Seymour, however well made-up she was, couldn’t disguise the fact that she wouldn’t see thirty again.

Back home, all of them in the kitchen, drinking hot milk before bed, her mother remarked, ‘What a nice man William Thurloe is, so good-looking and clever and not an ounce of conceit in him.’

‘We had quite a long chat,’ said Imogen complacently.

‘But Fiona Seymour has got her talons into him,’ said Pauline. She added, ‘He must be all of thirty-five—she’d make him a very suitable wife.’

‘Why?’ asked Lucy quietly.

Both sisters turned to look at her. ‘She’s what is known as a handsome woman, intelligent and always well dressed,’ they chorused kindly, ‘and she would look just right sitting opposite him at the dinner table. A splendid hostess …’

‘But she can’t be a hostess all the time—I mean, what about looking after the children, and seeing that he gets a good meal when he comes home late, and gets enough sleep …?’

Her family stared at her. ‘Why, Lucy,’ said her mother, ‘you sound,’ she paused, seeking a word, ‘concerned.’

Lucy finished her milk and put the mug in the sink. ‘I just think that Fiona Seymour isn’t the wife for him. He was the specialist I took Miranda to see yesterday; he likes children and somehow I don’t think she does.’ She kissed her mother and father, nodded goodnight to her sisters and went up to her room. She had said more than she had intended to say, which had been silly of her. The doctor’s future was nothing to her; she would probably meet him from time to time at some mutual friend’s house, and he would greet her politely and go and talk to someone else, forgetting her at once.

It was raining dismally when she left home the next morning. The orphanage looked bleaker than ever as she got off her bus, although once inside it became more cheerful with its bright painted walls and colourful curtains. All the same, the morning dragged with its unending round of chores. She was ministering to a vomiting four-year-old when Sister came to find her. ‘Matron wants you in the office, Lucy. You’d better go at once.’

Lucy handed over the small child, took off her apron and made her way to the office on the first floor.

Matron was quite young and well liked. ‘Sit down, Lucy,’ she invited. ‘I’ve a favour to ask of you. Miranda has to go off into hospital in two days’ time. Dr Thurloe has asked if you would be allowed to go with her—it’s important that she is not too disturbed, and she responds to you. You would have to live at the City Royal for a few days—she would be in a room off the children’s ward and you would have a room next to hers. You would be relieved for meals and off-duty, but it might be necessary for you to get up at night if she is very disturbed.’ She smiled. ‘And we both know what that’s like.’

‘Yes, of course I’ll go, Matron.’ Lucy smiled too; she would see Dr Thurloe again after all, and perhaps she would be able to say something witty or clever and get his attention—not just polite attention, but real interest … ‘When exactly are we to go?’

‘Have a day off tomorrow and report here at eight o’clock on the day after. I believe Dr Thurloe means to insert the tube later in the day, and I must warn you that you may have a difficult night afterwards. It depends on her reactions as to how long she stays there. You’ll be free?’

‘Oh, yes, Matron—for as long as you want me to be with Miranda.’

‘Good, that’s settled, then. I won’t keep you longer.’

The day had suddenly become perfect; the children were little angels, and the hours sped away in a flurry of tasks which were no longer boring or tiresome. Lucy changed nappies, cleaned up messes, fed protesting toddlers and dreamt of the days ahead, days in which she would become the object of admiration—Dr Thurloe’s admiration—because of some skilful act on her part—saving Miranda’s life by her quick thinking, rescuing a ward full of children by her bravery in case of fire … a bomb outrage … burst pipes …? It didn’t really matter what it was as long as it caused him to notice her and then fall in love with her.

She finished at last and went off duty and home. It was still raining, and as she hurried from the bus-stop the steady downpour brought her to her usual senses. She laughed out loud so that an elderly couple passing looked at her with suspicion. ‘No more useless daydreaming,’ she told herself briskly. ‘You’re too old for that anyway, but that doesn’t mean that you aren’t going to marry him some day.’

It was nice to be home for a day. She pottered around, helping her mother with the flowers, sorting out the sheets of scrawled writing which flowed from her father’s pen as he worked at the lengthy task of putting together notes for the book he intended to write. At the end of the day she packed the bag that she would need while she was in hospital, washed her hair, did her nails and inspected her pretty face for the first wrinkles and lines. She couldn’t find any.

She and Miranda were fetched from the orphanage by ambulance the next morning, and to everyone’s relief the child slept quietly in Lucy’s arms. It wasn’t until they were in the room where she was to stay that she woke and, sensing something out of the ordinary, began to cry.

Lucy sat down, still in her outdoor things, and set about the task of quieting Miranda. She had just succeeded when Dr Thurloe came in.

His ‘Good morning, Lucy,’ was quietly spoken and uttered with impersonal courtesy before he began giving the ward sister his instructions, and presently Miranda, still snivelling a bit, was given an injection and carried away to Theatre, leaving Lucy free to unpack her bag in the adjoining room and envelop her nicely curved person in the voluminous overall she had been told that she must wear. Her duties, as far as she could make out, were light enough—certainly no worse than they were at the orphanage. The only difference was that they would extend for a much longer period each day, and quite possibly each night too. A small price to pay for seeing the doctor from time to time, and on his own ground too.

She drank the coffee that one of the nurses brought her; the nurse was a nice girl, but faintly condescending. ‘Why don’t you train as a nurse?’ she asked.

‘I’m not clever,’ observed Lucy, ‘but I like children.’ She might have added that she had no need to earn her living, and that her mother and father found it difficult to understand as well as faintly amusing that she should spend her days feeding babies and toddlers and everlastingly clearing up their mess, only it didn’t enter her head to do so.

‘How long will it take?’ she wanted to know, and was treated to a lengthy description of exactly what Dr Thurloe was doing. She didn’t understand half of it, but it was nice to talk about him. ‘I thought he was a physician,’ she ventured.

The nurse gave her an impatient look. ‘Well, of course he is, but he does this kind of surgery too. He’s a paediatrician—that’s a children’s doctor.’

Lucy, who had looked all that up in her father’s study, already knew that, but she expressed suitable gratitude for being told, and when her companion said importantly that she must return to the ward and continue what sounded like a mountain of tasks, she thanked her for her company and settled herself down to wait. It wouldn’t be too long.

Miranda returned ten minutes later, borne in the arms of Theatre Sister and already rousing from the anaesthetic. There was just time for her to be settled in Lucy’s arms before she opened her eyes, and then her small mouth was ready to let out an enraged yell.

‘Hello, love,’ said Lucy in her gentle voice, and Miranda smiled instead.

‘Lucy,’ she mumbled contentedly, and closed her eyes and her mouth too.

Dr Thurloe, standing silently behind her, nodded his handsome head. He had been right to follow his instinctive wish to have Lucy there; it would make things a good deal easier on the ward, and besides, she looked nice sitting there in that oversized overall. He had a sudden jumble of ridiculous thoughts run through his clever head; nurseries, rice pudding, children shouting and laughing, and small figures pattering to and fro …

He frowned. Fiona had told him laughingly only the other day that he saw enough children without needing any of his own. ‘What you need,’ she had told him in her charming way, ‘is a quiet house to come home to, pleasant evenings with friends, and someone to talk to at the end of the day without any interruptions.’ She had made it sound very inviting and, because he had been very tired then, he had more or less agreed with her, but now he realised that that wasn’t what he wanted. He wasn’t sure what he did want, and anyway, it was hardly the time to worry about it now. He went to bend over his small patient, taking no notice of Lucy, then he gave more instructions to his ward sister and went away.

CHAPTER TWO

THE day seemed very long to Lucy. She was relieved for her meals, but Miranda, now fully awake, became restless towards the evening, and the only way to placate her was for Lucy to take her on her lap and murmur the moppet’s favourite nursery rhymes over and over again in her gentle voice. But eventually Miranda slept, and Lucy was able to tuck her into her cot and, with a nurse in her place, go to the canteen for her supper. The nurses there were casually kind, showing her where to get her meal and where she might sit, but beyond a few smiles and hellos she was ignored while they discussed their work on the wards, their boyfriends and their lack of money. She ate her supper quickly and slipped away unnoticed, back to the austere little room where Miranda was. The ward sister was there conning the chart.

Had your supper? Good. Night Sister will be along in about an hour. I think it might be a good idea if you had a bath and got ready for bed while I can spare a nurse to sit here—that will mean that if Miranda wakes up later and is difficult you’ll be available. Go to bed once Sister’s been—but you do know you may have to get up in the night? I don’t think there will be a nurse to spare to attend the child; we’re rather busy …’

She nodded and smiled and went away, and Lucy set about getting ready for bed in her own small room, leaving the door open in case Miranda woke and the nurse couldn’t placate her.

But the child slept on and Lucy bathed in peace, brushed her hair, got into a dressing-gown and padded back to take the nurse’s place.

The nurse yawned. ‘She hasn’t moved,’ she told Lucy. ‘She looks like a cherub, doesn’t she? If it weren’t for that outsized head …’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m off duty, thank heaven; it’s been a long day. See you in the morning.’

Lucy sat down. Miranda was sleeping peacefully, and her pulse, which Lucy had been shown how to take and record, was exactly as it should be. Lucy studied the chart and started to read up the notes behind it. The small operation had been written up in red ink in an almost unreadable scrawl and initialled W.T., and she puzzled it out with patience. Dr Thurloe might be an excellent paediatrician, but his writing appeared to be appalling. She smiled, pleased that she knew something about him, and then she sat quietly thinking about him until Night Sister, a small brisk woman, came into the room. She checked the valve, looked at the chart and asked, ‘You know what you’re looking for, Miss Lockitt? Slow pulse, vomiting, headache—not that Miranda will be able to tell you that … But if you’re worried, or even doubtful, ring the bell at once. I’ll be back later on, and if I can’t come then my junior night sister will. I should go to bed if I were you. Her pulse is steady and she’s sleeping, but I depend on you to see to her during the night.’

She went away as quietly as she had come, and Lucy did as she had been told and got into the narrow, cold bed in the adjoining room. She got up again in a few minutes and put on her dressing-gown again, and then tucked her cold feet into its cosy folds and rolled into a tight ball, and dozed off.

It was only a little after an hour later when Miranda’s first restless whimpers woke her. She was out of bed in a flash and bending over the cot. Miranda was awake and cross, but her pulse seemed all right. Lucy picked her up carefully and sat down with her on her lap, gave her a drink and began the one-sided conversation which the toddler seemed to enjoy. Miranda stopped grizzling and presently began a conversation of her own, although when Lucy stopped talking her small face creased into infantile rage again, so that Lucy hurried into the Three Bears, growling gently so that Miranda chuckled. ‘And Father Bear blew on his porridge to cool it,’ said Lucy, and blew, to stop and draw a quick breath because Dr Thurloe had come silently into the room and was watching her. He had someone with him, a pretty, dark girl in sister’s uniform, and it was to her that he spoke. ‘You see, Marian, how well my plan has worked? With Miss Lucy Lockitt’s co-operation we shall have Miranda greatly improved in no time.’

He nodded, smiling faintly at Lucy. ‘Has she been very restless?’

‘No, only for the last twenty minutes or so. She began to cry, but I think she’ll settle down again.’ She went red at his look; she had no business telling a specialist something he must already know for himself.

‘I’ll take a look while I’m here. Can you sit her up a little on your knee?’

He bent over her to examine Miranda and Lucy studied the top of his head; he had a lot of hair, a pleasing mixture of fairness and silver cut short by a master hand.

He straightened up and spoke to the sister. ‘I think something to settle her, don’t you, Marian?’ He glanced at the thin gold watch on his wrist. ‘Let’s see, it’s getting on for eleven o’clock.’ He glanced at Lucy. ‘A few hours of sleep will do you both good …’ He took the chart from the sister’s hand and wrote. ‘That should see to it.’ He walked to the door. ‘Go to bed, Miss Lockitt; Sister will see that someone wakes you before Miranda rouses. Goodnight.’

He had gone before she could reply. She waited until the sister came back with an injection and then sat soothing Miranda until she dozed off and she was able to tuck her up in her cot once more. She wasn’t very happy about going back to bed, but she was sure that Dr Thurloe wouldn’t have suggested it if he hadn’t been quite convinced that Miranda would sleep quietly for a few hours. So she got back into bed again and presently fell asleep, to wake very early in the morning and go and take a look at Miranda, who was still sleeping peacefully. Lucy took her pulse and was relieved to find that it was just what it was supposed to be. She was dressed and tied into her ample overall long before a nurse poked her head round the door. ‘Oh, good, you’re up already. I’ll bring you a cup of tea just as soon as I’ve got the time. If she wakes can you wash her and pot her?’

Lucy nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I expect I’ll need clean sheets and another nightie.’

‘In that cupboard in the corner, and there’s a plastic bag where you can put the stuff that needs washing …’

The nurse’s head disappeared to be replaced almost at once by the bulk of Dr Thurloe, immaculate and looking as though he had had ten hours’ sleep. He was alone this time and his ‘good morning’ was friendly, so that Lucy regretted that she hadn’t bothered to powder her nose or put on lipstick.

‘Had a good night? You’re up early.’

‘So are you,’ observed Lucy, and wished she hadn’t said it; she must remember that they weren’t at a dinner party but in hospital, where he was someone important and she wasn’t of any account, especially in the bunchy garment she was wearing. And she felt worse because he didn’t answer her, only bent over the cot.

‘We’ll have a look,’ he said with impersonal politeness, and waited expectantly.

Lucy took down the cot side. She said in her sensible way, ‘She’s wet—I didn’t like to change her until I’d seen Sister. Do you mind?’

The look he gave her was amused and kind too. ‘I dare say I’ve dealt with more wet infants than you’ve had hot dinners. No, I don’t mind! I’m glad she’s had a good night. I don’t intend to give her anything today though, and you may have your work cut out keeping her happy.’

He was halfway through his examination when the junior night sister came in. She said sharply, ‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know you were here.’ And then to Lucy. ‘You should have rung the bell, Miss Lockitt.’

‘My fault,’ said the doctor smoothly, ‘I told her not to bother.’ Which was kind of him, reflected Lucy, listening to him giving the night sister his instructions. ‘And I’ll be in some time during the day. I think Miranda will be all right, but we must look out for mental disturbance—there may be a deficiency …’

Lucy couldn’t understand everything he was saying, but she presumed it wasn’t necessary; she was there to keep Miranda quiet and happy until she was deemed fit to return to the orphanage. She supposed that would be in a couple of days’ time and that she would be told in due course. The doctor strolled to the door with the junior night sister beside him. As he went out of the room, he said over his shoulder, ‘Thank you, Miss Lockitt. Be sure and let someone know if you’re anxious about anything, never mind how trivial it may seem.’

Lucy watched him go, wishing with her whole heart that she were the junior night sister, not only on good terms with him, but able to understand what he was talking about and give the right answers. Not for the first time she wished fervently that she were clever and not just practical and sensible.

There was no point in dwelling upon that; Miranda was showing signs of waking up, and she fetched clean linen from the cupboard and ran warm water into the deep sink in one corner of the room. She was very grateful when the nurse brought her a cup of tea, for the next half-hour was busy and noisy: Miranda was fretful and screamed her annoyance at the top of her voice. It was nothing new, and Lucy did all that was necessary, talking in her quiet voice all the while. When the ward sister came on duty and poked her head round the door with a ‘Can you cope alone?’ Lucy said placidly that she was quite all right, thank you, and the head disappeared without another word. She had Miranda tucked up in bed by the time a nurse came with the toddler’s breakfast. ‘Ring when she’s had it,’ she advised, ‘and someone will relieve you while you go to the canteen.’ She grinned widely. ‘I bet you’re ready for breakfast. Did you get a cup of tea?’

‘Yes, thanks. Are you very busy?’

The nurse cast her eyes to heaven. ‘You can say that again.’ She darted off leaving Lucy to feed Miranda, who, clean and smiling again, was more than pleased to eat her breakfast.

The same nurse came back when Lucy rang the bell. ‘Half an hour,’ she warned. ‘We’ve got theatre cases this morning, so it’s all go. Someone will bring you coffee, though, and you’ll get time for your dinner. I don’t know about off-duty, I expect that Sister will tell you.’

Lucy went thankfully to the canteen; she was hungry, and besides, it was nice to have a change of scene. She was fond of Miranda and she saw a lot of her at the orphanage, but all the same she could see that her patience and good temper were going to be tried for the next day or two.

There weren’t many people in the canteen. She took her tray to a table by a window and ate with her eye on the clock, and then hurried back to find Miranda sobbing and refusing to be comforted. It took a little while to soothe her again, but presently the little girl fell asleep and Lucy was free to walk round the little room and look out of the window. The hospital forecourt was below. She watched Dr Thurloe’s car come to a dignified halt in the consultants’ car park, and then studied him as he got out and crossed to the hospital entrance. He walked fast, but halfway there he paused and looked up to the window where she stood. There wasn’t time to draw back; she stood there while he looked and presently went on his way.

She was in the canteen having her dinner when he came to see Miranda again, and that evening it was his registrar who paid a visit. And in the morning when he came with the ward sister his good morning to Lucy was pleasant but cool, and anything he had to say was said to the sister.

Miranda was to go back to the orphanage the next day; everything was going well and the matron there would know how to deal with any emergency. Miranda was to come to his next out-patients’ clinic in two weeks’ time. He paused to thank Lucy as he went away. She was watching him go with regret; at the same time her wish to marry him had never been so strong.

She took Miranda back the next day without having seen him again. He was in the hospital; his car was parked in the forecourt. She glimpsed it as she got into the ambulance which was to take them to the orphanage. She consoled herself with the thought that she would be taking Miranda to his clinic in two weeks’ time. In the meantime she might be able to think of something to attract his attention. A different hairstyle? Different make-up? A striking outfit? Better still, a few amusing, witty remarks … She occupied her brief ride trying to think of them.

It was early afternoon by the time she had handed over Miranda and reported to Matron, to be told that, since she had had almost no time off in the hospital, she was to go home at once and not return to the orphanage until the day following the next.

‘You enjoyed your stay at the City Royal?’

‘Yes, thank you. I didn’t have anything much to do, just keep Miranda happy and see that she ate her food. She was very good.’

‘She slept?’

‘Oh, quite a bit. I got up once or twice during the night, but she soon settled.’

‘Good. Dr Thurloe seemed to be pleased with the arrangement; it took a good deal of the work off the nurses’ shoulders. Miranda seems to need a lot of attention, but he thinks that she will improve fairly rapidly.’

‘That’s good. What will happen to her, Matron? I mean when she’s older and more—more normal?’

‘Well, as to that, we must wait and see. But she will always have a home here, you know. Now do go home, you must be tired.’

It was still early afternoon and only Alice was at home when Lucy let herself in. ‘A nice cup of tea and a sandwich or two,’ said Alice comfortably. ‘You look tired, love. Your mother and father are at the Victoria and Albert. Someone there wanted your pa to see some old rocks that someone had sent from Africa—or was it the Andes? One of those foreign places, anyway. They won’t be back until after tea. Imogen’s working late and Pauline’s going out to dinner with her fiancé.’ She sniffed. ‘You go and change and I’ll have a snack for you in ten minutes.’

So Lucy went to her room, unpacked her few things, had a shower, washed her hair and wandered downstairs with her head in a towel and wearing a dressing-gown. Her mother wouldn’t have approved, but since the house was empty except for herself and Alice she couldn’t see that it mattered. Alice had made a pot of tea and cut a plateful of sandwiches and Lucy sat down at the kitchen table to eat them. Somehow she had missed dinner at the hospital, what with feeding Miranda and getting her ready to go back to the orphanage, and the nurses on the ward being in short supply since they took it in turns to go to the canteen. She lifted the edge of a sandwich and saw with satisfaction that it was generously filled with chopped egg and cress. She wolfed it down delicately, poured tea and invited Alice to have a cup.

‘Not me, love,’ said Alice. “Ad me lunch not an hour back. You eat that lot and have a nice rest before your mother and father come home.’

Lucy polished off the egg and cress and started on the ham. The kitchen was pleasantly warm and cheerful. It was a semi-basement room, for the house had been built at the turn of the century, a late Victorian gentleman’s residence with ornate brickwork and large rooms. It had been Lucy’s home for as long as she could remember, and although her mother often expressed a wish for a house in the country nothing ever came of it, for the Chelsea house was convenient for her father’s headquarters; he still travelled widely, taking her mother with him, and when they were at home he worked for various museums and he lectured a good deal. Lucy, a sensible girl not given to wanting things she couldn’t have, accepted her life cheerfully, aware that she didn’t quite fit in with her family and that she was a source of mild disappointment, to her mother at least, even though she was loved. Until now she had been quite prepared to go on working at the orphanage with the hope at the back of her mind that one day she would meet a man who might want to marry her. So far she hadn’t met anyone whom she would want to marry—that was, until she’d met Dr Thurloe. An event which incited her to do something about it. She took another sandwich and bit into it. Clothes, she thought, new clothes—she had plenty, but a few more might help—and then she might try and discover mutual friends—the Walters, of course, for a start, and there must be others. Her parents knew any number of people, it would be a process of elimination. But first the new clothes, so that if and when they met again she would be able to compete with Fiona Seymour.