Three for a Wedding

‘Of course, but you could get married afterwards, dear. It would only be a few months—not long.’

Her young sister gave her a smouldering glance. ‘Yes, it is,’ she declared. ‘I won’t!’

‘Well, tell your people at hospital that it’s all off.’

‘I can’t—all the papers and things are signed and the hospital in Delft has made all the arrangements. Phoebe, will you go instead of me?’

‘Will I what?’ uttered Phoebe in a shocked voice.

‘Go instead of me.’

‘How can I possibly? It couldn’t be done—it’s absurd—they’d find out.’

‘You know you’re dying to leave and get off night duty and try something else for a change. Well, here’s your chance.’

‘But I’m not you.’

‘Near enough, no one need know. No one’s ever seen us at the children’s hospital, nor in Delft, have they? Even if they had, we’re so alike.’

‘I thought you said the Dutch doctor had seen you?’

‘Pooh, him—he looked half asleep; I don’t think he even looked at me, and we were only together for a couple of minutes, and I hardly spoke.’ She added persuasively: ‘Do, darling Phoebe! It sounds mad, doesn’t it? but no one’s being harmed and it’s not really so silly. And don’t worry about the man, I doubt if he even noticed that I was a girl.’ She sounded scornful.

‘He sounds ghastly—I suppose he speaks English?’

‘So well that you know he’s not,’ explained her sister, ‘and he’s got those vague good manners …’

‘I’ll not do it,’ said Phoebe, and was horrified when Sybil burst into tears.

‘Oh, dear,’ she wailed through her sobs, ‘now I don’t know what I’ll do at least, I do. I shall run away and hide until Nick goes to Southampton and we’ll get married in one of those pokey register offices and n-no one will come to the w-wedding!’

Phoebe sat watching her sister’s lovely face. Even while she cried she was beautiful and very appealing and she loved her dearly besides, she had promised her father that she would look after her. She said now: ‘Don’t cry, love —I’ll do it. I think it’s crazy and I’m not sure that if I’m caught I shan’t get sent to prison, but it’s only for a couple of months and if you don’t go someone else will, so it might as well be me. Only promise me that you’ll have a proper wedding, the sort Mother and Father would have liked you to have. And are you sure about Nick? I mean really sure —it’s for the rest of your life.’

Sybil smiled at her through her tears. ‘Oh, Phoebe, I’m sure—I can’t explain, but when you love someone like I love Nick, you’ll know. You’re a darling! We’ll fix it all up while we’re here, shall we? Just you and me—Nick doesn’t know, I was so excited and happy I forgot to tell him and when I thought about it later I couldn’t. And Aunt Martha …’

‘We won’t tell anyone at all,’ said Phoebe. Now that she was resigned to the madcap scheme she found herself positively enjoying the prospect of a change of scene. ‘I’m quite mad to do it, of course. Now begin at the beginning and tell me exactly what it’s all about. Are you sure this doctor didn’t get a good look at you?’

‘Him? Lord, no, Phoebe. I told you, he’s the sleepy kind, eyes half shut—I should think that half the time he forgets where he is. You’ll be able to twist him round your little finger.’

‘What’s his name?’

Sybil looked vague. ‘I can’t remember. I’ll find out for you, and the name of the hospital and where he lives and anything else I’m supposed to know.’

‘Which reminds me—I don’t know an awful lot about fibrocystic disease—hasn’t it got another name?’

‘Mucoviscidosis, and you can forget it. The treatment hasn’t changed much in the last year or so and you know quite enough about it—I remember telling me about several cases you had on the Children’s Unit …’

‘Three years ago,’ murmured Phoebe.

‘Yes, well … I’ll bring you up to date, and what does it matter anyway, for the whole idea is that I—you should be seconded to this hospital so that you can learn all about this man’s new ideas.’

‘And afterwards? Am I supposed to go back to St Elmer’s and spread the good news around?—then we are in the apple cart.’

‘No, nothing like that. I’m free to do what I like when I come back from Holland. As far as St Elmer’s goes, they think I’m giving in my notice so’s I can get a job somewhere else when I get back to England.’

‘My passport,’ hazarded Phoebe suddenly. ‘Supposing this man sees it? Or don’t we travel together when we go?’

‘Oh, yes, that’s all been arranged, but remember the British and the non-British split up when they get to the Customs. Anyway, he’s hardly likely to breathe over your shoulder, he’s not that sort.’

‘He sounds a dead bore,’ Phoebe said slowly. ‘I’m not sure …’

‘You promised —besides, there are bound to be other people around —housemen and so forth.’ She paused. ‘I say, there’s nothing serious between you and Jack, is there?’

Phoebe shook her head and said thoughtfully: ‘And if there was, this is just what’s needed to speed things up —I can’t quite make up my mind …’

‘Then don’t,’ said Sybil swiftly. ‘Phoebe love, if it were the real thing, you wouldn’t even stop to think—you’d know.’ She grinned and got up. ‘You see, this is just what you need, away from it all you’ll have time to decide.’

Phoebe got to her feet. ‘Perhaps you’re right, love. Now tell me, you and your Nick, when do you want to get married?’

They spent the rest of their walk happily discussing wedding plans and clothes. Phoebe had a little money saved, but Sybil none at all.

‘Well, that doesn’t matter,’ declared Phoebe. ‘There’s enough to buy you some decent clothes and pay for the wedding,’ and when Sybil protested: ‘I’m not likely to marry first, am I?’ she wanted to know soberly, and then broke off to exclaim: ‘Look—three magpies, they must have been eavesdropping. What is it now? One for anger, two for mirth, three for a wedding …’

They giggled happily and walked home arm-in-arm.

By the time Phoebe returned to St Gideon’s from her nights off, she and Sybil had their plans laid, the first step of which was for her to resign immediately. It would work out very well, they had discovered; she would be due nights off before she left, time to go home, explain to Aunt Martha that she had taken a job with this Dutch doctor and would be going to Holland, collect the uniform Sybil’s hospital were allowing her to keep until she returned to England, and make her way to the children’s hospital, where, according to Sybil, she was expected. The one important point to remember was that for the time being, she was Sybil and not Phoebe.

She went to the office to resign on the morning after her return, to the utter amazement of the Chief Nursing Officer. She was a nice woman, interested in her staff and anxious to know what Phoebe intended to do—something, of course, which Phoebe was unable to tell her, for most of the big hospitals knew each other’s business and probably the exchange scheme at St Elmer’s was already common property. Miss Bates would hear sooner or later via the hospital grapevine, that Sybil had left to get married, probably she already knew that she had been seconded for the scheme, she wasn’t above putting two and two together and making five.

‘I haven’t quite decided,’ Phoebe told her, playing safe. ‘I think I shall have a month or two’s holiday at home.’

If Miss Bates considered this a curious statement from a member of her staff whom she knew for a fact depended upon her job for her bread and butter, she forbore from saying so. She thought Phoebe a nice girl, clever and remarkably beautiful. She hoped that she would marry, because she deserved something better than living out her life between hospital walls. Miss Bates was aware, just as the rest of the hospital, that the Medical Registrar fancied Night Sister Brook, but she was an astute woman, she thought that the affair was lukewarm and Sister Brook, despite her calm disposition, was not a lukewarm person. She sighed to herself, assured Phoebe that she would always be glad to see her back on the staff should she change her mind, and hoped that she would enjoy her holiday.

Phoebe didn’t see Jack during her first night’s duty; he had gone on a few days’ leave and wouldn’t be back for two more days—something for which she was thankful, for it seemed a good idea to let the hospital know that she was leaving first. The news would filter through to him when he got back and he would have time to get used to the idea before they encountered each other, as they were bound to do.

They met over the bed of a young girl three nights later—an overdose and ill; there was no time to say anything to each other, for the patient took all their attention, and when he left, almost an hour later, he gave her some instructions to pass on to the nurses, and walked away. Ten minutes later Phoebe left the ward herself. She had done her first round, thank heaven, so she could spare ten minutes for a cup of coffee. She opened the door of her office at the same time as the junior nurse on the ward arrived with the tray and she took it from her with a word of thanks, noting with a sinking heart that there were two cups on it—presumably Jack intended to have a cup with her. She pushed the door open and found him inside, standing by the desk, glowering.

He said at once; ‘I’m told you’re leaving. Rather sudden, isn’t it?’

Phoebe sat down, poured coffee for them both and opened the biscuit tin before she answered him. ‘Yes, Jack. I—I made up my mind while I was on nights off. Sybil’s leaving too.’

He looked slightly mollified. ‘Oh—you’re off together somewhere, I suppose. For how long?’

‘No—I’ve decided to have a little holiday, staying with relatives.’ The idea had just that minute popped into her head and she hated lying to him, but after all, it wasn’t his business. ‘I feel unsettled.’

He stirred his coffee endlessly, looking at it intently. ‘Yes, well, I suppose if you feel you must—I shall miss you, Phoebe, but I daresay you’ll be ready to come back by the time I decide to marry. I shall ask you then.’ He glanced up briefly. ‘Everything has to be just as I want it first.’

That jarred. Was she not important enough to him—more important—than the set pattern he had laid out for them both, and without first finding out if she wanted it that way? She could see it all—the engagement when he was suitably qualified and had his feet on the first rung of the consultant’s ladder, the wedding, the suitable home, suitably furnished, all the things that any girl would want, so why did she feel so rebellious?

It was all too tepid, she decided. It would be nice to be swept off her feet, to be so madly loved that the more mundane things of life didn’t matter, to rush off to the nearest church without thought of the right sort of wedding. She passed him the sugar and sipped her coffee. If Nick could marry Sybil on his registrar’s pay and find it wonderful, why couldn’t Jack feel the same way? She began to understand a little of what Sybil had meant about loving someone, and she knew at that moment that she would never love Jack—like him, yes, even be fond of him, but that wasn’t at all the same thing.

She said quietly: ‘Jack, I can’t stop you doing that, but I don’t think it’s going to be any use.’ She stared at him over the rim of her mug, her lovely eyes troubled.

‘I’ll be the best judge of that,’ he told her a shade pompously, ‘and until then I prefer not to discuss it.’

He was as good as his word; they discussed the patient they had just left until, with a huffy good night, he went away.

She should mind, Phoebe told herself when she was alone. She had closed the door on a settled future, and just for a moment she was a little scared; she was twenty-seven, not very young any more, and although she could have married half a dozen times in the last few years, that was of no consolation to her now. She sighed and pulled the bed state towards her. It seemed likely that she was going to be an old maid.

CHAPTER TWO

A MONTH later, on her way to Magdalen Provost, St Gideon’s behind her, the doubtful future before her, Phoebe reflected that everything had gone very well—there had been no snags, no one had wanted to know anything, no awkward questions had been asked. Sybil had already left and was at home making plans for her wedding to Nick, whom Phoebe considered to be all that could be desired as a brother-in-law. Sybil was going to be happy; now that she had met him Phoebe had to admit that in Sybil’s place, she would have done exactly as she had done. Even Aunt Martha had accepted everything calmly—she had liked Nick too, had been generous in her offers of help to the bride, and was entering into the pleasurable excitement of a wedding in the family with a great deal more zest than Phoebe had supposed she would. And as for her own future, when she had told her aunt what she intended doing, without bringing Sybil’s part into it at all, the older lady had wholly endorsed her plans.

‘It’s high time you had a change,’ she stated approvingly, ‘it sounds a most interesting scheme and you’ll enjoy a change of scene. What did Jack have to say?’

Phoebe had told her rather worriedly and added: ‘I feel guilty, Aunt, but honestly, I didn’t let him think that I … I don’t think I encouraged him at all; we just sort of liked being together.’

‘Well, my dear,’ her aunt had said briskly, ‘there’s a good deal more to being in love than liking each other’s company, and I’m sure you know that. Have you been able to convince him, or does he still think you might change your mind?’

‘I told him I wouldn’t do that.’

She remembered the conversation now, sitting in the train, and wondered what would happen if she suddenly discovered that she had made a mistake and was in love with Jack after all, and then dismissed the idea because they had known each other for a year or more and surely by now she would have some other feeling for him other than one of friendship. She decided not to think about it any more—not, in fact, to think of anything very deeply, but to take each day as it came, at least until she returned to England.

It was Nick and Sybil who met her at Shaftesbury, for Nick was spending a day or so at Magdalen Provost before taking Sybil to meet his parents. They discussed the wedding as he drove his car, a Saab, rather too fast but very skilfully, in the direction of the village, but presently he interrupted to ask: ‘Phoebe, what’s the name of this man you’re going to work for? I’ve an idea I know something about him.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Phoebe lightly, ‘because I don’t—his name’s van Someren.’

Nick tore past an articulated wagon at a speed which made her wince. ‘I knew his name rang a bell,’ her future relative told her cheerfully. ‘Old van Someren—met him at one of those get-togethers …’

‘Then you can tell me something about him,’ said Phoebe firmly.

‘Don’t know anything—surely your people have given you all the gen?’

‘Oh, I don’t mean that. How old is he, and is he nice, and is he married?’

They were going down the hill into the village at a speed which could if necessary, take them through it and up the other side. ‘Good lord, I don’t know—thirty, forty, I suppose—and what do you mean by nice? To look at, his morals, his work?’

‘Just … oh, never mind, you tiresome thing. You’re not much help. There’s ten years between thirty and forty, but perhaps you haven’t noticed,’

Nick laughed and brought the car to a sudden halt outside the house. ‘Poor Phoebe—I’d have taken a photo of him if I’d known. Tell you one thing, though, I’m sure someone told me that he’s got a boy, so he must be married.’ He turned in his seat to look at her. ‘When do you go, tomorrow?’

‘On an afternoon train. I said I’d arrive at the hospital in the evening.’

‘We’ll take you in to Shaftesbury—we’d go the whole way, but we’ve still got to see the parson about this and that.’ They were all out of the car by now, loitering towards the door. ‘You’ll be at the wedding, won’t you?’

It was Sybil who answered for her. ‘Of course she will. I know I’m not having any bridesmaids, but Phoebe’s going to be there,’ she turned to her sister, ‘and you’d better be in something eye-catching, darling.’

‘It’s your day, Syb. I thought of wearing dove grey—that’s if Doctor van Someren allows me to come.’

‘You’ll have days off—all you have to do is save them up and tell him you have to attend a wedding. Anyway, didn’t I read somewhere that the Dutch set great store on family gatherings? Of course you’ll be able to come.’

She sounded so worried that Phoebe said reassuringly: ‘Don’t you worry, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

They went indoors then, to Aunt Martha, busy in a kitchen which smelled deliciously of something roasting in the oven, and no one mentioned the Dutch doctor again.

Twenty-four hours never went so quickly. Phoebe, joining the queue at Waterloo station for a taxi, felt as though she hadn’t been home at all. She would miss going down to Magdalen Provost and she doubted very much if she would get another opportunity of a weekend before she left England. She had quite forgotten to ask Sybil the arrangements for her off-duty, but surely she would manage a day or two before she left the children’s hospital. She got out of the taxi, paid the man and rang the visitors bell of the Nurses’ Home. If anyone wanted to see her so late in the day, the warden would doubtless give her the message. But there was only a request that she should present herself at the Principal Officer’s office at nine o’clock the next morning, and when she stated simply that she was Nurse Brook, the warden hadn’t wanted to know any more than that, but took her up to a rather pleasant little room, offered her a warm drink and wished her good night. So far, so good, Phoebe told her reflection in the mirror, and went to bed and slept soundly.

The Principal Nursing Officer was brisk and busy. As Phoebe went into the room she said: ‘Ah, yes, Nurse Brook. Splendid. Will you go along to the Children’s Unit and they’ll put you in the picture —I’m sure it has already been made clear to you that this scheme is housed here temporarily, and it’s run quite separately from the hospital itself. Anything you want to know, there will be someone you can ask there.’

She smiled quite kindly in dismissal and pulled a pile of papers towards her, and Phoebe, murmuring suitably, got herself out of the office, sighing with relief that it had all been so easy, aware at the same time that she should be feeling guilty and failing to do so because she remembered Sybil’s happy face.

The Children’s Unit was across the yard. Supposedly there was another way to it under cover, but she couldn’t see it and it was a lovely sunny day and she welcomed the chance to be out of doors, if only for a minute or two. The door stood open on to the usual tiled, austere entrance, a staircase ascending from it on one side, a row of doors lining its other wall. On the one marked ‘Doctor van Someren’ she knocked, for it seemed good sense to get to the heart of the matter at once. No one answered, so she opened the door and went inside. It was a small room and rather dreary, with a large desk with its swivel chair, shelves full of books and papers and two more chairs, hard and uncomfortable, ranged against one wall. Phoebe, who had seen many such offices, wasn’t unduly depressed at this unwelcoming scene, however. Hospitals, she had learned over the years, were not run for the comfort of their staff. There was an inner door, too. She crossed the room and tapped on it and a woman’s voice said ‘Come in.’ It was an exact copy of the room she had just left, only smaller, and had the additions of a typewriter and a woman using it. She wasn’t young any more and rather plain, but she looked nice and when Phoebe said: ‘I’m Nurse Brook and I’m not at all sure where I’m supposed to be,’ she smiled in a friendly fashion.

‘Here,’ she answered cheerfully, ‘if you like to go back to the other room, I’ll see if Doctor van Someren is available. I expect you want to start work at once.’

She went back with Phoebe to the doctor’s room, waved a hand at one of the chairs and disappeared. Phoebe sat for perhaps ten seconds, but it was far too splendid a day not to go to the window and look out. It was too high for her to see much; obviously whoever had built the place had considered it unnecessary for the occupants to refresh themselves with a glimpse of the outside world. But by standing on tiptoe she was able to see quite a pretty garden, so unexpected that she opened the bottom sash in order to examine it with greater ease.

She didn’t hear the door open. When she turned round at last, she had no idea how long the man had been standing there. She frowned a little and went a faint pink because it was hardly the way she would want an interview to begin, with her leaning out of the window, showing a great deal more leg than she considered dignified for a Ward Sister but then she wasn’t a Ward Sister she really would have to remember … And he wasn’t in the least like the picture Sybil had painted of him. He was a big, broad-shouldered man and very tall, something her sister had forgotten to mention, and she, for that matter, had forgotten to ask. His hair was the colour of straw which she thought could be streaked with grey; it was impossible to tell until she got really close to him. And she was deeply astonished to find him good-looking in a beaky-nosed fashion, with a firm mouth which looked anything but dreamy, and there was nothing vague about the piercing blue gaze bent upon her at the moment.

‘Miss Brook,’ his voice was deep, ‘Miss Sybil Brook?’

She advanced from the window. ‘Yes, I’m Miss Brook,’ she informed him pleasantly, pleased that she didn’t have to tell a downright fib so soon in the conversation. There would be time enough for that; she only hoped that she wouldn’t get confused … ‘You’re Doctor van Someren, I expect. How do you do?’ She held out her small capable hand and had it gripped in a gentle vice. For one startled moment she wondered if he could be the same man whom Sybil had seen, and then knew that it was; his face had become placid, his eyelids drooping over eyes which seemed half asleep, his whole manner vague.

‘Er—yes, how do you do?’ He smiled at her. ‘I think it would be best if I were to take you to the ward—you can talk to Sister Jones, and later there will be some notes and so on which I should like you to study.’ He went over to the desk and picked up a small notebook and put it in his pocket, saying as he did so: ‘I’m sometimes a little absentminded … I shall be doing a ward round in an hour, I should like you to be there, please.’

He sat down at the desk and began to open a pile of letters stacked tidily before him, quite absorbed in the task, so that after a few minutes Phoebe ventured to ask: ‘Shall I go to the ward now, sir?’

He looked up and studied her carefully, just as though he had never set eyes on her before. ‘Ah—Miss Brook, Miss Sybil Brook,’ he reminded himself. ‘I really do apologise. We’ll go at once.’

Following him out of the room and up the stairs Phoebe could understand why Sybil had described him as vague—all to the good; she saw little reason for him to discover that she wasn’t Sybil; she doubted if he had really looked at her, not after that first disconcerting stare.

Sister Jones was expecting her, and to Phoebe’s relief turned out to be a girl of about her own age, with a cheerful grin and soft Welsh voice which had a tendency to stammer. She greeted the doctor with a friendly respect and Phoebe was a little surprised to hear him address her as Lottie. She hoped he wasn’t in the habit of addressing his nursing staff by their christian names, for not only would she find it difficult to answer to Sybil, she discovered at that moment that she had no wish to tell him a fib. He was too nice—an opinion presently endorsed when he did his ward round; he was kind too and his little patients adored him.

There were ten children in the ward, most of them up and about, full of life and filled, too, with a capacity for enjoyment which fibrocystics seemed to possess as a kind of bonus over and above a child’s normal capacity to enjoy itself. They were bright too, with an intelligence beyond their years, as though they were being allowed to crowd as much as possible into a life which would possibly be shortened. The small boy Doctor van Someren was examining at that moment was thin and pale, but he laughed a good deal at the doctor’s little jokes, discussed the cricket scores and wanted to know who Phoebe was. The doctor told him briefly and went on: ‘And now, how about that tipping and tapping, Peter?’