Ladysmith, South Africa, March 1900
"You never did marry, did you, Clarkson?"
Sat at his desk, bent over the admission form, Richard looked up in surprise at the question. Not that it was meant unkindly, he was sure, but just that he hadn't been expecting it at that moment.
From the chair at the other side of the desk Reginald Crawley, his sometime acquaintance from back in his medical school days, smiled indulgently at him, and he knew he wasn't meant to take it to heart; he had been used to Crawley's gentle teasing when he knew him earlier.
"No, I didn't," he replied curtly, pretending to take moderate offence for a moment, and bending back over the admission form.
"You ought to have tried it, you know," Crawley told him, "Does me the power of good. I know I'd be lost without my Isobel."
"That much is obvious," Richard replied, only a little dryly, turning his head to a similar form regarding Crawley's wife that lay before him on the desk.
"You don't approve of my bringing her," Crawley surmised with the hint of a grin.
Richard frowned.
"It's not that I disapprove," he corrected, "Frankly, we need all the help we can get here and I'm grateful for whatever portion of it comes my way. But I'm surprised you didn't leave her at home, Crawley. I'm surprised she didn't want to be left at home."
"That's because you haven't met her yet," Crawley insisted, "You just wait until you meet my Isobel. She's as keen as anything. Don't worry, she knows it'll be hard out here. There aren't many kind of discomfort that would put her off once she's decided what she wants."
"I'd hardly call nearly a thousand men dead from typhoid at Bloemfontein a mere discomfort," Richard murmured in reply, "But if your wife really is reconciled with this... And I do take it that you wouldn't have brought her if you didn't think she was a competent nurse..."
"She is the best there is," Crawley surmised proudly, "If I do say so myself."
"Well, I'm not in much of position to turn that sort of help down," Richard replied, briefly examining Mrs Crawley's form and papers.
"She'll be very pleased indeed," Crawley told him, "We did get the feeling that we were arriving as part of something like a relief column."
"You're not wrong about that," Richard replied, ruefully.
"Have you been here since the start?"
"As good as. I started off a Lieutenant like you, but my commanding officer was caught by a stray bullet in November."
They were quiet for a few moments, as Richard made a few notes on Mrs Crawley's papers.
"Well, everything certainly seems to be in order here, Lieutenant Crawley," Richard told him at last, "You're rather fortunate in that we should be able to get you some rather good quarters. Since we've taken over the town properly we've commandeered a rather good hotel and we should be able to let you and your wife have a suite there."
"Is that where you're based?" Crawley asked him.
"Sadly, no," Richard replied, "I've had to make do with a rather perfunctory little flat just across the street from here. It was thought prudent that I always be in the near vicinity. Still, I can't complain, at least I have a roof over my head. Where is your wife, by the way?"
"I left her out in the corridor," Crawley told him, "She's got our suitcases. Didn't think I would bother her with the business side of things. She was quite tired out from the train."
"Well, then, should we go out and see her?" Richard asked, "I'll help take your things down to the car and show you to the hotel if you like."
"Yes, that would be most helpful," Crawley told him, "I think you and Isobel will get on like a house on fire, you know."
He had to admit he was rather curious to meet Crawley's wife, and this assertion made him raise an eyebrow as Crawley stood up and turned towards the door. It was true, when they had been at medical school Crawley had always seemed to be in vague, unexplained emotional tangles with one girl or other, but Richard could not remember one called Isobel, and he wouldn't have said that he himself was likely to get on with any of the ones he could.
Richard led the way towards his office door, holding it open for Crawley to go through.
"Darling?" Crawley called down the corridor, "Are you still there, darling?"
"Of course I am," came the curt soft-voiced reply.
Sitting on the wooden bench in the corridor beside three identical brown suitcases was Mrs Crawley, dressed in white coat, hat and gloves. She stood up to her full height as the two of them approached, about the same height as Richard- she would be a little shorter without her boots. Richard couldn't say that he thought she looked particularly tired out; there was, if anything, a little spark in her eyes as she surveyed him.
"Darling, this is Captain Richard Clarkson," Crawley told her, kissing her once on the cheek, "We trained together. He seems to be in charge around here."
"And are you in charge, Captain Clarkson?" Mrs Crawley asked, giving him a very thorough look, extending her hand for him to shake. She had a pleasantly firm handshake and very brown eyes. Crawley's wife was a pretty girl, there was no denying that; poised at some indeterminate point between youth and real womanhood. She had too a rather insinuating stare.
"I suppose you would say that, Mrs Crawley," he told her, for some reason inclining his head to her a little humbly. He did not know why, but she seemed to have unnerved him slightly.
"Then I suppose we shall probably be working together," Mrs Crawley surmised, "That is if you'll agree to take me on?"
"He has done," her husband supplied.
"There is plenty of work for you both here," Richard told her, "Of that, at least, I can assure you."
He spoke clearly, hoping she would understand: all he could guarantee was hard, largely unpleasant work, and lots of it. Not safety, or happiness, or any kind of success. Not even survival.
But luckily it seemed that she did understand him.
"That's all you need to assure me of," she replied, with a look that conveyed such implicit understanding. Their eyes met for a moment, and held, before Richard, or both of them, looked abruptly away.
There was a moment's pause.
"Excellent," Richard declared, his voice light, for some reason trying to avoid looking at Mrs Crawley, "Well, if you'll allow me to help with the cases, I think we can be getting into the car, and I will show you to your quarters."
…...
The next day dawned brighter, but slightly colder. There was a lot of light in Richard's main ward, as Isobel Crawley appeared in the door, dressed in her freshly-issued white and blue uniform. The blonde-brown hair visible under cap glowed a little in the light from the windows and Richard was hard-pressed not to notice that she cut rather an elegant figure, even in the modest pattern of her uniform. Pushing these quite unprofessional thoughts out of his mind with annoyance, he gave her a polite smile and approached to see if he could help.
"Dr. Crawley sent me through," she told him by way of explanation, "He says we're rather overstaffed in the ward he's been given, but there isn't enough in your ward."
"So he sent you through?" he asked, slightly surprised.
She seemed to detect an undertone in his voice.
"Yes," she replied, a little defensively, and then, when he did not quantify his remark, "Would you rather he had sent someone else?"
"No," he replied, a little hastily. Really, he had only been surprised that the chap had chosen to send his own wife, it was not a complaint. To say so might have sounded insincere, though, so he asked, "So he's managing alright, then?"
"Yes, fine," she replied, "Dr. Crawley asked me to tell you that quite frankly things are much better than he expected them to be."
Obviously, she was used to calling him that, and would not change to using his military style in the very near future. He remembered that Crawley had said she often assisted him at the hospital where they lived, in Manchester.
This time he detected an undertone in her voice, something that told him she did not share her husband's approval of the situation. Or perhaps she was just impatient with him, thinking that he did not want her in his ward. Perhaps Crawley had told her that he had had misgivings when he had been told that he had brought his wife. She was watching him questioningly, warily, with something like suspicion.
"And do you disagree with him, Nurse Crawley?" he asked her.
She was quiet for a moment.
"Well, quite honestly, I don't know how you manage," she told him.
"I wouldn't say we were that bad," he replied, trying not to wince uncomfortably at this rather honest appraisal of the situation.
"I would," she countered stoutly, "There aren't enough beds; the equipment, as far as I've seen is basic; I'm sure Reginald's being kind when he says "overstaffed"-..."
"Well, Nurse Crawley, we're a long way from Manchester General now."
She coloured a little.
"I know that. But back in England the impression you get f the situation out here is rather different. I read quite a glowing report about the General Hospital in Cape Town when we were on the train to London."
"Well, I'm sorry to fall short of your high expectations, Mrs Crawley, but we're only a stationary hospital," he told her curtly, for some reason her criticism wounded him, though he knew it was not personal and that he had asked for her opinion, "We have to make do with stretchers for the most part. We have to deal with the circumstances we are given."
"I know," she replied doggedly, seeming to grow more irritated, "I'm not trying to say it's your fault, Dr. Clarkson. I'm saying just saying, you'd think there would be a little more support from Central Command, with so many patients to take care of. It just doesn't seem right. These men have given their best for their country and the country doesn't seem to do much about their welfare once they're finished."
"I think you've come to the wrong place, then," he told her quietly, and a little brusquely, "If you're looking for shining example of welfare. We do what we can." For some reason, his heart was seemed to be skipping a little in his chest, and it made him feel fractious. He was certainly reacting more aversely to her criticisms than he usually would. "And it's best if you just learn to get on with it. And if you're so concerned about the men's welfare, perhaps you'd better get a move on and start your rounds rather than standing here telling me things that I already know."
He knew that he had snapped at her unnecessarily then, but still he could not reproach himself. Somehow, he had the feeling that it had been her fault- that she had wound him up-, though he knew rationally that it was not; and she would have had more than the right to reproach him, though he was her superior.
For a moment, her dark brown eyes flashed dangerously, and he though she was going to. She was evidently smarting.
But all she said was, "Very well, Doctor," before turning sharply on her heel and stalking off down the ward to begin her rounds; her pace quick and angry.
He sighed in annoyance, watching the gentle curl at the back of her hair and the slight sway of her walk with an absent mind as her back retreated away from him. Somehow, he did not think they were quite getting on like a house on fire.
Please review if you have the time.