Rosie’s voice sounded in her ear—a voice thick with tears and distress. ‘Miss Tilly—oh, Miss Tilly, however am I going to tell you? Your dear ma and pa…’
Clotilde felt her insides go cold. She asked in a rigidly controlled voice: ‘There’s been an accident, Rosie—where are they?’
‘Oh, Miss Tilly, they’ve been killed! In a car crash in France, on their way home. The police came,’ and then in a bewildered voice: ‘What am I to do?’
Clotilde felt the ice inside her spreading, her arms felt leaden, her face stiff and her brain frozen solid. She said carefully: ‘Don’t worry, Rosie, I’ll come home and see to everything.’ After a pause she added: ‘You’re quite sure, aren’t you, Rosie?’
‘Yes, Miss Tilly. Will you be long?’
‘No, a couple of hours, perhaps less.’
She put the receiver down carefully and sat down behind her desk. There was a lot to do, but just for the moment she was quite incapable of doing it.
It was ten minutes or more before Dr Thackery and his entourage reached her office. He opened the door, glanced at her frozen, ashen face, and turned round so that his bulk filled the doorway.
‘I believe Sister has had bad news,’ he said quietly. He nodded to his registrar. ‘Start the round on the Men’s Medical side will you? Staff Nurse, take over for the moment, will you, and bring some brandy here as quickly as you can.’
He didn’t wait for them to answer but went into the office again, shutting the door after him.
Clotilde hardly noticed him, but when he came close and sat on the edge of the desk in front of her chair and took her icy hands in his she said politely: ‘So sorry I didn’t finish the round, but I— I’ve had some bad news.’ She took a deep breath. ‘My parents have been killed, somewhere in France—they were on their way home from Switzerland. They go most years because Mother likes it there.’
The hands holding hers tightened. ‘My poor girl!’ Dr Thackery’s voice was very gentle, he went on holding her hands and when Sally came in with the brandy, nodded to her without speaking. When she had gone he picked up the glass. ‘You’re going to drink this because you need it,’ and like a child she did so, coughing and spluttering and catching her breath, but there was a little colour in her cheeks now.
‘That’s better. You want to go home, of course? We’ll settle that first.’ He didn’t let go of her hands, but dialled the Nursing Supervisor and presently put down the receiver. ‘That’s settled,’ he told her. ‘You can go home as soon as you want to. You have a car? Not that you’re in a fit state to drive. Is Johnson free?’
And when she nodded he picked up the phone again. Clotilde, her shocked mind dulled by the brandy, only half listened; it sounded as though there was some difficulty. She leaned forward suddenly and said: ‘Let me,’ and took the receiver from Dr Thackery. Her voice sounded odd but it was almost steady. ‘Bruce, I’ve had some bad news about—about Mother and Father. Would you drive me home?’ She added tonelessly: ‘They’ve been killed.’
His voice came over the wire very clearly. ‘I say, I am sorry—how simply frightful! Of course you must go home straight away. The thing is I simply can’t get away…’ and when she interrupted with: ‘But you’re free today,’ he went on: ‘Yes, I know, but Sir Oswald’s asked me to lunch and I simply must go—it’s my whole future. I’ll come down just as soon as I can afterwards. Why don’t you go and lie down for a bit—get someone to give you a sedative. You’ll feel more able to cope and later on we can get things sorted out.’
She didn’t speak, only gave the receiver back to Dr Thackery, her face stony and whiter than ever. She said: ‘I’ll be quite all right to drive myself. Bruce can’t manage…’ She stopped and looked at him from huge dark eyes. ‘He’s having lunch with Sir Oswald,’ she told him.
Dr Thackery said nothing at all to this, only gave her the rest of the brandy to drink and picked up the phone again. When he put it down he said with calm authority: ‘Home Sister is coming here for you, you will go to your room with her and pack a bag.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll be at the front entrance in twenty minutes. I’ll drive you home.’
The brandy had made Clotilde feel peculiar, numb and still unable to think. She stared back at him and nodded obediently.
THINKING ABOUT it afterwards, Clotilde could remember very little of the drive to Wendens Ambo. Dr Thackery had spoken seldom and then in a calm matter-of-fact voice which had hardly penetrated her bewildered thoughts. They weren’t really thoughts, anyway, just odds and ends of ideas which came to the surface and vanished again. Once when she thought of it she said: ‘I didn’t tell Staff about Mrs Perch’s daughter…’ and he had answered at once: ‘I’ll take back any messages you want to send,’ and she had thought: Anyone else would have told me not to worry—like Home Sister, who had helped her pack her case and given her tea to drink and told her over and over again not to worry.
Rosie met them at the door, her nice elderly face puffed with weeping. She gave Clotilde a worried look and then glanced at the doctor.
‘Rosie— I may call you that?—would you make a pot of tea? Then we’ll sit down and talk, shall we?’ And when she nodded, thankful to have someone to tell her what to do, and opened the sitting room door, he took Clotilde’s elbow and ushered her into the room.
Perhaps it was the sight of her mother’s work basket, standing on her little table, a piece of tapestry hanging from it, or the row of silver cups her father had won at various sports in his youth, which melted the ice inside her. Suddenly she was in floods of tears, her head resting on Dr Thackery’s enormous chest, his arms holding her close. She cried for a long time. Rosie came in with the tray of tea and sat down quietly at a look from him, and only the phone ringing stopped her. Dr Thackery made no haste to answer it. He mopped Clotilde’s eyes for her, sat her down in an easy chair and went into the hall to answer it.
‘The police, wanting to know who will take care of things,’ he told her, and handed her a cup and saucer. ‘Drink up, there’s a good girl.’ He sat down near her, smiled at Rosie and started on his own tea. ‘This has to be talked about,’ he said gently, ‘and you will feel better when you do. Have you a brother, uncle or anyone else in the family who can deal with the formalities?’And at Clotilde’s blank look: ‘Someone who can go over to France, identify your parents and arrange for them to be brought back here?’
Clotilde said in a tear-sodden voice: ‘I’ve an older sister; she’s married and lives in Canada and she’s expecting another baby in two weeks’ time. I’ve no uncles or cousins, and my god-father died last year.’
‘What about young Johnson? I imagine the authorities would allow him to cope with the necessary arrangements.’
She remembered Bruce’s voice—sympathetic but anxious not to be involved in anything which might spoil his chances with Sir Oswald. ‘He’s—he’s got his job, I don’t suppose he could get leave. Besides, he’s assisting Sir Oswald all next week while the Senior Registrar’s away.’
‘Ah yes,’ Dr Thackery’s voice was dry, ‘that makes it impossible for him to get away, doesn’t it? I wonder if I would do. I didn’t know your parents, but I imagine that your solicitor or even the local parson would come with me. I could make all the arrangements necessary for their return while you attend to matters at this end.’
He didn’t wait for her to answer but went on in the same matter-of-fact