Bloody Good. Georgia Evans
about ignoring her heritage and gifts. “Yes, Gran, we’ll talk about it later. How many patients are waiting?” She’d love to tell every last one of them that she’d been up half the night and was dead on her feet but they counted on her and she was still struggling to convince the village skeptics that she was every bit as much a “real” doctor as her father had been.
“Half a dozen by the look of things.” Not too bad at all. “One is Mrs. Jenkins.” The local hypochondriac who read medical encyclopedias with the enthusiasm other women reserved for a good Mills and Boon.
“Give me ten minutes and send the first one in.”
“I’ll put a cup of tea on your desk.”
God bless grandmothers!
The ambulance arrived somewhere round about seven, just as Alice was writing out a prescription for stomach powder. She’d let Gran take care of things. “There you are, Mr. Grace. Give it a couple of weeks and if it doesn’t help, come back and we’ll try something else.”
Mr. Grace left with his prescription and Alice put her head round the door to call in the last patient. Someone she didn’t recognize. Perhaps one of the evacuees? She was in her twenties, slight, and tired looking.
“Dr. Doyle? I’m June Groves, one of the teachers evacuated with the school children. I hate to bother you but I cut my hand a few days ago and it’s gone a bit nasty.”
A “bit nasty” wasn’t the word. “How did this happen?” Alice frowned at the red, angry wound.
“I was in a hurry one morning. Trying to open one of those tins of dried milk. Like an ass, I used a kitchen knife and it slipped. I washed it off at the time but…”
Washing off hadn’t been enough. “Do you have any kaolin poultice at home?”
She shook her head. “I’ve no idea; it’s a billet. Mrs. Roundhill has a houseful of us and I hate to cause extra trouble.”
So she was up at the vicarage. “Never mind.” Alice filled a clean specimen jar with several spoonfuls scooped from a new tin. “Warm this up. An enamel plate balanced over a saucepan of boiling water is the easiest way. Put half on tonight and bandage it up and the other half in the morning. That should draw everything to a head. Come back after school tomorrow and I’ll lance it.” And hope it works. “If it gets painful overnight, take a couple of aspirin.”
“Thanks.” June Groves took the bottle. “What do I owe you?”
“We’ll sort that out tomorrow.”
Alice shut the door behind her, knowing she should have talked to the young teacher more, made sure her charges were settling in, or if they’d returned to London during the quiet months without bombing. She’d make up for that tomorrow when she came back.
“Alice.” It was Gran. “The ambulance is here. They need to talk to you.”
“Well, then,” the surly faced driver asked. “Where is he?”
A very good question.
Four of them, including the rather good-looking driver’s helper, crowded into the examining room. Gran looked bewildered—and worried. Sid Mosley, the older driver Alice had met before, shook his head. “Flown the coop has he? Can’t have been as hurt as you thought, Doctor.”
Obviously. “He certainly had me fooled. He could barely stand a few hours ago. I needed Sergeant Pendragon’s help to get him in here.” The discarded and bloody dressing tossed on the floor and the crumpled blankets were sure proof she had not dreamed the entire incident. How Mr. Smith had managed to stand and walk, much less disappear, was beyond her.
“He must have gone out through the house,” Gran said. “We’d surely have noticed if he’d come through the surgery.”
Odd that Susie, her spaniel, hadn’t barked but…“I’m sorry you had a wasted journey.” There’d no doubt be a round of laughs over this. She could just hear Sid Mosley: “You know that new lady doctor over in Brytewood? Called us out there because a chap was half dying and he got up and walked away before we arrived.”
“How about a nice cup of tea before you head back?” Gran asked. Trust her to offer the eternal panacea.
Sitting at the kitchen table while the kettle boiled and Gran lined up cups and saucers, Alice had a chance to sum up the other man. Not as young as she’d thought at first—close to her own age probably. Not bad looking either. Not that she was about to start ogling the ambulance crews. Quiet, not quite meeting anyone’s eyes, but when she did meet his gaze he returned her look, his calm brown eyes cautious and intelligent.
“I didn’t catch your name,” she said as Gran put plates and a custard tart on the table. More experiments with dried egg. Alice hoped it tasted better than the mayonnaise last week.
“Why that looks delicious, Mrs. Burrows,” Sid Mosley said, all but smacking his lips together.
“It’s Watson. Peter Watson,” the younger one replied, as if Mosley hadn’t spoken.
Alice took the hand he held out. His fingers were long, his grip strong, and when he smiled, his eyes crinkled at the corners. Nice smile too: even down to the little dimple in his chin. Definitely worth looking at twice.
“Watson?” Gran looked up from spooning tea into the pot. “There are a lot of Watsons around here.” And two more since last night. “Any connection?” Gran asked as she reached for the boiling kettle.
“No, madam,” Peter Watson replied. “My family is from Devon.”
The lid met the pot with a loud ding. “Really? Where? I’m from near Dunstead. Came here when my daughter—Dr. Doyle’s mother—married.”
When Peter Watson smiled his face lit up. “I went to Blundells but my home was in Broad Clyst, down near Exeter.”
Gran was positively beaming as she handed him a cup of tea. “The most beautiful county in England. What brought you up here? The war?”
“He’s a conscie. A bloody CO!” Sid Mosley muttered.
The tick of the clock over the door was the only noise, apart for the dull sound of a clinker of burned coke shifting in the boiler. Even Gran stared before pouring another cup and handing it to Alice.
As if she wanted to eat and drink at the same table as a coward! Gran should be offering him a white feather not a cup of tea.
“Yes,” Peter Watson replied, his voice tight but steady. “I’m a Conscientious Objector. I was a student in London when the war broke out, so I went before a review board in London. Did my nine months in Pentonville. When I got out, they looked at my records, saw I was a couple of years off qualifying as a vet, so decided I was fit to be an ambulance driver.”
Alice couldn’t miss the irony in his voice, or the tinge of defiance, daring her to pass judgment. Well, darn it, she already had. They should have found him fit to shovel sludge.
“The ambulance service always needs drivers.” Trust Gran to break the silence. “And we’ll need every one of you if the bombing gets worse. Alice was up in London last week…” She shook her head and reached for the custard tart.
They’d have eaten in silence if Gran hadn’t kept the conversation going, asking the darn CO about his family. He had two half brothers, his father was dead, and his mother was still living, and, hopefully, suitably ashamed of her eldest son.
Sid Mosley answered Gran, even volunteered or comment or two of his own, but never, Alice noticed, did he say a word to his assistant.
“That was wonderful,” Mosley said as he polished of the last few crumbs. “Very welcome before a drive back in the dark.” After a fruitless trip out here, Alice added to herself. “But we’d best be back.” Without a word or a nod to Peter Watson, he left.
Peter Watson thanked Gran and shook hands