Читать книгу Never While the Grass Grows - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 7

SISTER OCTAVIA LOCK swept through the swing doors of Casualty on a wave of vague ill-humour; she had over-slept and as a consequence had had no breakfast save a cup of tea, drunk far too hot and as much toast as she could cram into her mouth with one bite, and over and above that, it was a glorious September morning with enough of autumn in the air to make her wish that she was at home and not in a London hospital, hemmed in by narrow streets and rows of shabby little houses. And now, to make matters worse, she could see at a glance that Casualty, even at eight o’clock in the morning, was already filling itself up fast. Her senior, Sister Moody, who tended to take her time in coming on duty after breakfast, would as a consequence doubtless live up to her name. Octavia’s eye lighted upon a small forlorn boy sitting by himself and, her ill-humour forgotten, she swept him along with her on the way to the office, asking his name and what was the matter as they went. ‘Stanley,’ he told her tearfully, and his mum had sent him along because he’d burnt his arm the day before.

Octavia sighed, popped him into a cubicle and began to take off his too-small jacket. It amazed her that although patients crowded into Casualty, a vast number of them took their time about it. And if I’d been this mum I’d have brought Stanley here pretty smartly, she reflected, gently laying bare a sizeable burn wrapped in a handkerchief. The blisters weren’t broken, and that was something to be thankful for; she slid the handkerchief away and replaced it with gauze, said: ‘OK Stanley, the doctor will come and make that much more comfortable for you,’ warned a student nurse about him, and went into the office. One of the night Sisters was already there ready to leave and Octavia listened carefully to the night report, happily short and fairly uneventful, before she remarked gloomily: ‘You may have had a good night, Joan, but I’ve a nasty feeling that we’re in for a perfectly foul day—are you on tonight?’

Her companion grinned smugly. ‘Nights off—you’ll have Snoopy Kate on…’

‘Oh, lord, and I’m on till nine o’clock. Sister Moody wants the evening; I’ll have to have a split.’ She paused and smiled suddenly: ‘It’s my weekend off, though.’

They parted then, Joan to breakfast and bed, Octavia into Casualty to cast an eye over the patients already being treated and then those who were waiting. There was nothing urgent; cuts and bruises, septic fingers, a fractured collarbone which a nurse had already put into a collar and cuff, a number of small children with earache, sore throats and the like and the usual sprinkling of elderly men and women for morning dressings and stitches to be removed. She had just finished her round when Sister Moody arrived, nodded briefly and retired to the office, to stay there for a good deal of the day, doing the paper work and only coming out when an urgent case came in; not that she did much to help then; explaining comfortably to Octavia that at her age it would be ridiculous to expect her to take too active a part in the work while Octavia was perfectly capable of coping.

Octavia started her daily round of the cubicles and dressing rooms and small theatre, checking this and that with care but not wasting time. Nurses would be going to their coffee break in an hour and the quicker the light cases were dealt with the better. She could hear the steady hum of voices through the theatre door and all the sounds that went with it; the clatter of bowls, the faint click of instruments tossed into receivers, the telephone—she would have to go and give a hand. All the same, she paused by a window and gazed out into the street outside, full of traffic and people hurrying to work, a tall girl with a splendid figure and a lovely face crowned by rich brown hair, drawn back neatly under her cap, although a number of small curls had escaped to frame her face. Her eyes were hazel, large and heavily fringed and topped by black brows and her mouth curved gently, and as though these weren’t enough, she had a happy nature, marred only occasionally by a fiery temper. She turned away from the window presently and went back into Casualty, rolling up her sleeves as she went.

The day went as most days went; a steady trickle of minor casualties, interrupted frequently by the more severely injured as well as a small girl with a perforated appendix and an elderly man who had been found alone, half starved and dirty in a pokey little room in one of the rows of small houses close to the hospital. He had opened weary eyes as Octavia bent over him and told her fretfully to leave him alone, ‘Because what’s the use of getting me on my feet again?’ he wanted to know. ‘I’ve nowhere to go and no one to bother about me.’

Octavia, taking his blood pressure, gave him a motherly smile. ‘You just wait,’ she admonished him kindly, ‘there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be fit enough to get a job. You just need fattening up, you know. How old are you?’

‘Sixty—who’d want the likes of me, I’d like to know?’

‘Let’s worry about that when the time comes—first we’ll get you better.’ She turned at the tap on her shoulder. ‘Here’s the doctor to have a look at you.’

He had pneumonia, not badly—nothing that a few days in hospital wouldn’t put right. Octavia arranged for him to be admitted to the men’s medical ward and when he asked her if she would visit him, promised cheerfully that she would.

‘Now that’s a great shame,’ she declared to John Waring, the Casualty Officer. ‘A nice man like that thrown out of work because the family went to Switzerland—the least they could have done would have been to try and get him fixed up with someone else, or even taken him with them—I mean, after fifteen years working for them,’ she paused. ‘I’m not sure what a handyman does…’

‘Makes himself handy,’ and then more seriously: ‘I agree with you, Octavia, and he hasn’t much chance of getting any work—I suppose he would be unskilled labour, and he’s getting on.’ John finished the notes he was writing up and looked up at her. ‘Are you off this evening? How about a film?’

She shook her head regretfully. ‘I’m off…’ she glanced at the clock, ‘now, then I’m on until nine and I’ll be fit for nothing by then.’

‘Tomorrow, then?’

‘Lovely—but aren’t you on call?’

He grinned at her. ‘I’ll get someone to stand in for me.’

A nice boy, she reflected as she went through the hospital on her way to lunch and off duty. She had been out with him several times, indeed she had been out with most of the housemen in St Maud’s at one time or another, for she was popular with everyone and as pretty as a picture to boot, but although a surprisingly large percentage of them had wanted to marry her, she had remained heartwhole. By the time she had reached the canteen and joined her friends at table, she had forgotten all about John Waring.

She returned to Casualty just before six o’clock, to find it almost as full as when she had left it and Sister Moody waiting impatiently for her.

‘There’s a query appendix in the end bay,’ she was told swiftly, ‘a scalp wound next to it, and then a Colles fracture…’ she was ticking the cases off on her fingers, ‘a crushed thumb, septic foot…the rest haven’t been seen yet. Nurse Barnes is taking their names now—John Waring will be down presently. We had a couple of RTAs in—they’re warded—oh, and a BID I’ve had no time to make up the book.’ She was already half way through the door as she spoke and now, with a briefly muttered goodnight, she was gone.

There were two student nurses on duty as well as Mrs Taylor, a reliable nursing aide who had been in Casualty for so long that no one could remember when she had first come; she was elderly now and not able to lift or do any heavy work, but she was invaluable because she knew where everything was and fetched it at the drop of a hat. Octavia sent her to help the senior of the student nurses to marshall the remainder of the patients ready for John Waring and took the other nurse with her to deal with the appendix first and then, seeing that the man was resting comfortably, to get the scalp wound cleaned up, something Sister Moody might have done and hadn’t.

It was almost nine o’clock, after a steady stream of patients had been dealt with, that the street entrance was flung open and a tall man with wide shoulders and a giant’s stride came in. He was carrying a little old lady in his arms and rather to Octavia’s surprise, walked across the department to deposit her carefully on a couch in one of the bays. Only then did he turn to address her. ‘Mugged,’ his voice was deep and unhurried. ‘You’re in charge? Well, get the Casualty Officer here at once, will you?’

Octavia, bending over the small figure, paused for a moment to look up at the man. She said evenly: ‘Thanks for bringing her in, you can safely leave the rest to us now.’

He was a handsome man, with fair hair liberally sprinkled with grey, looking down his high-bridged nose with cold blue eyes. He looked, she realised suddenly, as though he didn’t like her. With something of an effort she clung to her professional calm and then found it in shreds when he went on: ‘I shall remain until she has received adequate treatment.’

Octavia let out an indignant snort and managed to hold her tongue. She could deal with the tiresome man presently, but now she bent to her patient, taking off the battered felt hat to search for head wounds, taking her pulse moving her arms gently and when the old lady opened her eyes, asked quietly: ‘Can you tell me where it hurts, my dear? You’re quite safe now, in hospital, but I don’t want to move you too much until we know what the damage is.’

The old eyes studied her wearily. ‘I aches all over, but there ain’t much sense in bothering over me, I ’aven’t got a soul ter mind if I snuffs it.’

‘I for one shall mind,’ Octavia assured her warmly. She ignored the large man looming over her and told the student nurse hovering to telephone Doctor Waring.

‘Tell him it’s a mugging, an elderly lady, no visible fractures, contusion on temple, cut eye, cut lip, not yet fully examined, rather shocked. Ask him to come at once, please.’

She began very gently to take off the old lady’s coat, a shockingly shabby garment, now freshly torn and ruined for ever. Octavia got out her scissors. ‘Look, my dear, I’m going to cut your coat so that I can get it off without hurting you; we’ll replace it for you.’

She had been busy cutting up one sleeve, and now when she went to do the same with the other, the patient’s rescuer took the scissors from her. It was then that she saw that his knuckles were bleeding and that there was a small cut across the back of one hand, the blood congealing now.

‘Oh, you’re hurt!’ She added forcefully: ‘I hope you knocked them down and jumped on them!’

Her companion continued his steady plying of the scissors. ‘I knocked them down—they—er—hardly needed to be jumped on, I fancy.’

She was easing the old lady’s jumper and put out her hand for the scissors again. ‘Good for you,’ said Octavia, ‘now if you wouldn’t mind just going into the next cubicle, Nurse will clean that hand up and the doctor can take a look at it. You’ll need ATS too—a knife, I imagine?’

‘You imagine correctly, Sister.’

She nodded without looking at him. ‘I’m going to telephone the police very shortly, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling them just what happened? This little lady is hardly fit to be questioned just yet. We shall need your name and address too… Nurse will see to it.’ She turned as she heard John Waring’s step. ‘Hullo, again.’ She flashed him a tired smile. ‘I’ve not done too much—I thought you’d better take a quick look first. There’s a small wound here…’ They bent over the patient together, everything else forgotten for the moment.

It was some time later, when Octavia had discovered her patient’s name, wrapped her in a dressing gown, Mr Waring had dealt with her injuries, and she had taken her to X-ray and finally seen her safely off to one of the women’s wards, that she discovered that the man who had brought her in was still there. The police had come and gone, John Waring had disappeared too and she had sent the two nurses and Mrs Taylor off duty. It was ten o’clock by now and she had started to tidy up the cubicle before writing up the Casualty Book. Snoopy Kate hadn’t been near—typical, thought Octavia, racing round the little room transforming it to its usual spick and span appearance; when there was nothing to do, she would bustle around, picking holes in things that didn’t matter at all, but when the day staff were delayed by a case, Snoopy Kate kept well away until everything was quiet again. Octavia shot the last receiver into its allotted space and nipped across to the office to be brought to a halt by a voice behind her.

‘This place is very inefficiently run,’ remarked the big man coolly. ‘You send your nurses off duty and remain behind to do work which is theirs; and apparently there is no one to take over—just when do you go yourself?’

Octavia, quite short-tempered by now, answered him snappily: ‘I might ask the same question of you. Doctor Waring saw you, didn’t he? and Nurse told me that your hand had been attended to. And really it is no concern of yours as to when I go off duty.’ She was about to wish him goodnight and show him the door when she was struck by a sudden thought. ‘Did you have your ATS?’

‘Ah—I wondered when someone would give it a thought,’ he told her nastily.

She whisked back to the trolley she had just tidied so carefully and found syringe, needle and ampoule. ‘I’m sorry,’ she told him contritely, ‘you should have said sooner, but I quite see that you wouldn’t want to do that because we were a bit busy. I hope it hasn’t spoilt your evening…’

The man’s lip quivered slightly. ‘My evening was spoilt some hours ago,’ he reminded her.

He had got to his feet and taken off his jacket and rolled up a sleeve. Silk shirt, she noted, and a beautifully tailored jacket; she wondered fleetingly who he was. Rather an arrogant type, she considered, and given to saying just what he thought, but he had a nice voice and the trace of an accent…

‘Why did you look like that when your patient told you that she had not a soul to mind?’

She stood beside him, the syringe in hand, her lovely eyes wide. ‘Look like what?’

‘Worried—upset, angry.’

She shot the needle into the arm like a tree trunk before she answered him. ‘Oh, well—there was a man this morning, the police brought him in, half starved and ill and elderly—he said almost the same thing.’ She added almost to herself: ‘There must be someone…’

‘You like helping lame dogs?’ He had his jacket on again.

She said indignantly: ‘That sounds horrid, as though I were a do-gooder, but everyone deserves a chance to be happy and have enough to eat and a home.’

He sat down again and she interrupted herself to ask: ‘Don’t you want to go? There’s nothing more…’

He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll stay until you go off duty—anyone might come in and you’re alone.’

He was nice after all. Octavia gave him a friendly smile. ‘That’s very nice of you—do you imagine that the muggers will come crawling in here to have their bruises seen to? I’m not easily frightened—besides, one of the night Sisters will be here any time now.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he murmured, ‘Snoopy Kate. Nurse told me about her while she was cleaning up my hand—she sounds interesting. I believe I hear footsteps now.’

It was Snoopy Kate right enough, coming in from the other end of Casualty so that she could peer and prod at the equipment and move all the trollies half an inch, tut-tutting as she came. She could see Octavia but no one else and she began grumbling while she was still the length of the department away. ‘Ten o’clock,’ she declared, ‘and still not finished. I don’t know, you girls can’t work like we did when I was young—What are you doing here anyway? There’s no patient…’

The large man came into view then, holding his strapped knuckles rather ostentatiously before him, so that Octavia, suppressing a grin was able to point out to her superior that there was indeed a patient. ‘This gentleman brought in an old lady who had been injured by muggers,’ she told her, and added coldly: ‘A few minutes before nine o’clock, but since I wasn’t relieved and there was a lot to do, I’m only just finished.’

Snoopy Kate shot a look at the man, who was looking down his nose again, looking detached and a little bored. ‘I was hindered,’ she explained awkwardly. ‘I’ll take over now, Sister.’

‘No need,’ Octavia told her cheerfully. ‘He’s ready to go and I’ve finished the clearing up. The book’ll take me two minutes.’ She nodded a general goodnight and went into the office and shut the door. She could hear Snoopy Kate questioning the man while she made her entries and smiled to herself. He was quite nice, she conceded, but he had been rude to begin with and obviously liked his own way and wasn’t above being sarcastic, although Nurse Scott should have remembered the ATS—she would have to speak to her in the morning. She heard a door creak and the rustle of Snoopy Kate’s uniform. They had gone. She closed the book, and went back into Casualty on her way to her bed at last. The man was still there.

‘Oh, I’m going,’ he told her blandly. ‘That was a nasty trick, leaving me to parry your colleague’s questions—you seem to have a grudge against me.’

He was smiling and he looked nicer than ever. ‘It was mean of me,’ she allowed, ‘but you were rather nasty when you came in this evening, you know. Just as though you expected everyone to do exactly what you said at once—I see in the book that you’re a professor, so I expect that accounts for it. Teaching people must make you a bit bossy—boys or girls?’ she asked.

The face he turned to hers was without expression. ‘Both.’ He went to the door. ‘I hope—no, I know that we shall meet again, Sister. Goodnight.’

Octavia was halfway to the Nurses’ Home when she remembered that she had promised to visit the man who had been admitted that morning. It was late; most patients would have been settled for the night, but she could just take a peep. She whispered to the staff nurse in charge of Men’s Medical and went quietly down the ward to find him awake. He looked quite different now; he had been shaved and bathed and put into clean pyjamas and looked ten years younger, although woefully thin. He smiled when he saw her.

‘I said ter meself: She’ll come, and yer ’ave. Looked after me a treat, they ’ave, too.’

‘Splendid. Now, Mr…’

‘Call me Charlie, Sister.’ He looked wistful. ‘Like friends…’

She took a hand, still ingrained with grime despite the washing, and held it firmly in hers. ‘Friends it is,’ she told him, ‘and now you just listen to me, Charlie, you just lie there and eat and sleep for a day or two and don’t worry about a thing. I feel in my bones that your luck’s changed. And now go to sleep, there’s a dear.’ Upon which heartening words she bade him goodnight.

She went to see him each day after that, watching his face slowly fill out and his eyes brighten. The Ward Sister was a friend of hers, so it didn’t take much persuasion to get her to recommend that Charlie should stay where he was for another week at least. And she went to see the little old lady, Mrs Stubbs, too, smaller than ever in a hospital nightgown and with her grey hair neatly arranged over her bruised head. She had a black eye too, which gave her a decidedly rakish air, but despite her injuries she insisted on sitting out of bed each day and before very long had coaxed the nurses to let her do any little odd jobs of mending or sewing. She was, the Ward Sister told Octavia, very good with her needle.

‘Well, surely a job could be found for her?’ asked Octavia. ‘What about the sewing room?’

‘Huh—two were made redundant last month. The Social Worker’s scouting round though and there’s at least a week before discharge—longer, I imagine.’

The week neared its end and Octavia, weary from the rush and urgency of a constantly busy Casualty, went happily off duty on the Friday evening. She had been to see Charlie and Mrs Stubbs and it seemed reasonable to suppose that they would still be there when she returned on Monday afternoon. They were making progress now, but as yet their futures were uncertain; a problem which somehow had come to be very important to her. She caught the train by the skin of her teeth and found it crowded and resigned herself to standing in the corridor until Guildford, where she got a seat, crushed between a stout elderly lady and a small boy who ate crisps for the rest of the journey. She was kept so busy brushing crumbs off her new skirt that she had no time or inclination to think of anything much and at Alresford she discovered that her father wasn’t waiting for her, something which happened from time to time, for he was a Professor of Physics and remarkably absentminded. She could telephone from the station, but on the other hand it would be as quick—quicker, to take a taxi.

Her home was in the centre of the little town, a small Georgian town house in a row of similar dwellings. It had no garden in the front, but tucked away at the back was a pleasant walled lawn with flower beds and vegetables, kept alive by Octavia’s care on her frequent but brief visits. She opened the front door now and went into the narrow hall just as Mrs Lovelace, the daily housekeeper, came from the kitchen, dressed to leave.

‘There you are, Miss Octavia,’ she remarked comfortably. ‘There’s supper for you keeping hot, your pa’s had his.’ She nodded her head in its severe felt hat in the direction of one of the doors. ‘Busy with something or other, he is—did he know you were coming? I did remind him, but he didn’t hear, I imagine.’

Octavia smiled. ‘He never does, Mrs Lovelace. Thanks for the supper.’ She put down her case and took off her gloves. ‘I’m starved!’

‘And I’ve no doubt of that,’ declared the housekeeper. ‘I doubt you get good wholesome food in those hospitals. Can you manage if I don’t come in tomorrow?’

‘Yes, of course—I’ll have to go back on Sunday evening, though. I’ll get Father’s supper before I go.’

Mrs Lovelace nodded. ‘Thank you, Miss Octavia. I’ll be here Monday as usual.’

Professor Lock greeted his daughter with an absentminded warmth which she took in good part; her father had always been absentminded, and now that he was elderly, he was worse than ever. She kissed his bald pate, begged him not to disturb himself—something she was well aware he had no intention of doing, anyway—and went along to the kitchen to see what was for her supper. It smelled delicious; she took her case upstairs to the comfortable bedroom she had had since she was a child, and without bothering to unpack it, went downstairs again to put Mrs Lovelace’s tasty steak and kidney pie on a tray and carry it along to her father’s study. She ate in silence until he had finished what he was writing and then listened with interest to the theories he had been expounding. She wasn’t in the least scientific herself, but she was intelligent enough to make sensible observations and was rewarded presently by his: ‘You haven’t my brain, my dear, but for a girl you don’t do so badly.’ He peered at her over his old-fashioned spectacles. ‘Are you here for a weekend?’

She nodded, her mouth full of pie.

‘You have been busy?’

‘Well, yes—people have accidents all the time, you know, Father.’

‘Indeed yes—I read only recently a most interesting article… Do you not wish to marry, Octavia? How old are you?’

‘Twenty-seven, Father.’

‘Your mother had been married five years… You have had the opportunity, I imagine?’

‘Oh, yes—several times. But I never seem to meet the right man.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ll go and make some coffee, shall I?’

‘That would be nice. I should like you to be married, Octavia. I’ve never been very good with money, as you know, what little I have is getting used up rapidly.’ He frowned. ‘Books have become increasingly expensive… There won’t be much left for you, my dear.’

She smiled at him fondly. ‘Don’t worry, Father dear; I’ve got a good job, and I earn enough to keep myself—just you go on buying all the books you want. Anyway, you get fees for your articles, don’t you, and all that coaching you do.’

He brightened. ‘Ah, yes—I’d forgotten. What a comfort you are, Octavia. Your mother would have been proud of you.’

While she made the coffee she thought rather wistfully of her mother who had died ten years ago or more; a pretty, still young woman who had known how to manage her husband without him realising it; it was only since her death that he had become so withdrawn. A pity I haven’t got a brother thought Octavia. She and her father got on splendidly and were devoted to each other, but sometimes she reflected that he would have managed quite well without her. Her fault perhaps for working away from home, but she had a good job now, with a chance of stepping into Sister Moody’s shoes when that lady retired; the thought was somehow depressing. While she drank her coffee she reviewed the various men who had wanted to marry her; none of them were exactly what she was looking for. She wasn’t quite sure what that was, herself, but she supposed she would know when she met him. She sighed gently and went to the kitchen to wash the supper things and then to bid her father a quiet goodnight before going upstairs to bed.

It was over breakfast the next morning that Mr Lock wanted to know why she didn’t change her job. ‘I realise that you would have to remain in nursing, because you don’t know what else to do, do you? But why not strike out, my dear? Go abroad, travel, see something of the world.’

She stared at him, a little surprised, ‘Me? Father, where would I go? There are jobs enough in the Middle East, but I don’t want to live there, and it’s not all that easy to go to Australia or New Zealand now—work permits, and so on, you know. I’d love to travel, though.’ She wrinkled her forehead in thought. ‘I could get a job with some rich elderly type who wanted to travel, but I should be bored in no time. I think I’ll stay where I am.’

Her parent passed his cup to be refilled. ‘Until you marry,’ he commented.

Her father’s unexpected interest in her ruffled the serenity of her weekend just a little. She did the shopping in the little town without her usual interest and although she accepted an invitation to have coffee with a chance acquaintance, she had to make an effort to take an interest in the conversation. Perhaps, she reflected uneasily, she had been drifting along and getting into a rut and should make an effort to get out of it before she no longer wanted to. She pondered about it during Sunday too, sitting beside her father in church, looking attentively at the vicar while he preached his sermon and not hearing a word of it.

She went back to London in the early evening, leaving her father quite happily immersed in his books, although he paused in his reading long enough to wish her a good journey back and expressed the hope that she would be home again soon. He said that every time she went home and she smiled at him now and said that yes, she would be back again in two weeks provided Sister Moody didn’t want to change her weekend.

She reached the hospital just as most of her friends were coming off duty and because she was still feeling a little unsettled, she went along to the Sisters’ sitting room to share their after supper tea. It had been a busy weekend, Sister Moody told her gloomily, although that lady’s idea of business and her own didn’t quite agree. ‘I shan’t come on until one o’clock tomorrow,’ declared Sister Moody. ‘I could do with a morning in bed—you’ve an evening, haven’t you? So there’ll be two of us on until five o’clock, it usually quietens down by then.’

Octavia agreed pleasantly; she hadn’t found that Casualty ever quietened down, but she didn’t say so. Presently she went to sit with her own particular friends, to listen to the day’s gossip and talk the inevitable shop. It was as they were drinking the last dregs of their tea that Connie Wills, the junior Sister on Men’s Medical, remarked: ‘That nice old Charlie—you remember, Octavia? He’s going on Thursday.’

Octavia put down her cup. ‘He can’t be—he’s not fit—where’s he going?’

‘Well, it all turned out rather well. I know he’s not fit, but someone—some man or other has offered him a job, living in—caretaking and so on. It’s just up Charlie’s street, and he’s promised that Charlie shall be looked after and not allowed to work until he’s quite well. Marvellous, isn’t it?’

‘That’s funny,’ chimed in the Sister, on Women’s Surgical. ‘Remember that little lady you sent us the other evening—the one you’ve been visiting? Well, she’s got somewhere to go to, too. She’s not to be discharged yet, but when she is, she’s been offered this job helping the housekeeper in some house or other. All very vague, but quite OK, so John Waring tells me.’

‘That’s wonderful!’ Octavia forgot her own vague problems in the pleasure of knowing that the unfortunate pair were to have more cheerful futures, after all. ‘Tell Charlie I’ll come to say goodbye, will you? I’ll never get away in the morning—Monday…’ she wrinkled her pretty nose, ‘but I’ll pop up and see Mrs Stubbs in the evening.’

They all went to their rooms after that, stopping to chat as they went, reluctant to bring their brief leisure to an end until Sister Moody, passing Octavia and a handful of the younger sisters still chatting outside their rooms, remarked sourly: ‘Don’t forget it’s Monday tomorrow.’

They exchanged speaking glances and when she was safely in the bathroom with the taps running, Octavia observed: ‘Do you suppose we’ll be like her in twenty years’ time?’

‘Not if I can help it,’ declared Connie. ‘I votes we get married.’

‘Chance is a fine thing,’ said Octavia.

They all looked at her. ‘You’ve no reason to complain, Octavia, there’s always someone or other dangling after you. It’s us plain ones who worry.’

They all laughed as they broke up, but in her room, sitting on the side of her bed, Octavia mulled over that remark and felt a vague disquiet again. She was lucky, she knew that, but only because she was pretty—she knew that too, without conceit—but there would come a time, she supposed, when no one would dangle after her any more. Perhaps, she decided, hopping into bed, she should take the very next chance that came her way.