Philomena's Miracle. Бетти Нилс
every corner and a fish and chip shop every few hundred yards. He pulled up outside one of these and turned to look at her. ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten something,’ he said placidly, ‘and you can have it here.’
She spoke in a tired little voice. ‘You’re very kind, but I don’t think I could manage…’
She felt his arm, large and comforting, gently drawing her head down on to his shoulder. ‘There, there, my pretty,’ he said in a comforting voice, and she thought: He must be blind or hasn’t looked at me; she was only too well aware that when she cried she looked a quite pitiful object, with a red nose, puffy eyelids and an unhappy tendency to hiccough. Her giggle was watery. ‘I’m not, you know—I look an absolute fright when I howl.’
He took her chin in one hand and turned her face deliberately to the light. ‘A pretty face is a poor substitute for compassion and loving kindness—you’ll do very well as you are.’ He took his arm away and opened the door. ‘I’ll only be a few minutes.’
He was back in less than that, two newspaper-wrapped, fragrant-smelling parcels balanced in one hand. In the car once more, he unwrapped one and set it carefully on her lap. ‘I’m not quite sure which fish it is, but chips are chips anywhere in the world. Eat up, there’s a good girl.’ He unwrapped his own supper, and the sight of him, sitting back comfortably eating it with his fingers as though he did it every day of his life, somehow made everything seem normal again. Philomena tried a chip and found it good. Before long she had polished off her impromptu supper and her white face wasn’t white any more, even though it was still blotchy from her crying.
The doctor ate the last chip and licked a large finger. ‘It was better this way, you know,’ he remarked. ‘The Commander would have lived for only a short time without operation and so deeply drugged that he wouldn’t have known what was happening. When that was pointed out to him he swore some very naval oaths and insisted upon operation. I think he was right, too.’ He took the empty paper from her lap and rolled it up neatly. ‘He liked you, Philomena.’
She felt much better; it was a relief to talk too. ‘Yes, I think he did. My father was a bit peppery too…’
She found herself talking, still sad about the Commander, but able to talk about him, and presently she was telling the doctor about her father too. She hadn’t talked about him for a long time; her stepmother and sisters spoke of him seldom, not because they hadn’t loved him in their own fashion, but because his death had spoiled the pleasant tenor of their lives. The doctor listened, interpolating a remark now and again as though he were interested, and gradually she began to feel better, almost cheerful again. It was the fish and chip shop shutting its doors which roused her to think of the time, and when she saw that it was midnight she gave a gasp of horror. ‘The time! Why didn’t you say something—you must be longing for your bed instead of sitting here listening to me boring on about someone you never met…’
‘I’ve not been bored and I’m certainly not tired, indeed I’ve enjoyed your company.’
‘You couldn’t have,’ burst out Philomena. ‘Just look at me!’
Which he did, taking his time about it. ‘I’m looking,’ he said at length, ‘and I like what I see.’
She could think of nothing to say to that as he started the car and drove back to the hospital, saying nothing much himself. He wished her a quiet goodnight at its entrance and made no reference to meeting her again. As she got ready for bed she thought it very unlikely that she would see him—he had been more than kind for the second time within a week, but circumstances had made their meetings inevitable, although it struck her now that he might have been waiting for her as she had gone off duty that evening. She dismissed the idea, though; after all, he was presumably working in the hospital for a short time—probably with Mr Dale. They seemed to know each other very well, and what was more likely than that they should meet occasionally?
Contrary to her expectations, she slept immediately her head touched the pillow.
She saw nothing of him the next day, although one of her friends, the theatre staff nurse, assured her that he was anaesthetising for Mr Dale again, and on the next day he had gone.
A week later she went home—it was Chloe’s birthday; she was to have a party, a big one to celebrate the fact that she was eighteen. Philomena had a long weekend for it and had bought a new dress; cream silk with a high neck and long sleeves and a full skirt. It was trimmed with narrow lace and was, she considered, exactly right for the occasion; Chloe and Miriam would look enchanting in whatever they wore; they always did, and she knew that it would be quite impossible to rival them; she wouldn’t have dreamed of doing so, anyway. She put on her nicely cut grey flannel suit, tossed her raincoat over her arm, picked up her overnight bag, and took a taxi to the station.
There was no one to meet her at Wareham station, although she had telephoned the day before to say that she was coming, so she took a taxi to the charming Georgian house by the river. There was no one home, only Molly, the housekeeper, who had been with them for such a long time that Philomena couldn’t remember life without her. She came from the kitchen as she went in, wiping her hands on a towel, her nice wrinkled face beaming with pleasure.
‘Miss Philly, how lovely to see you—the Missus and Miss Chloe and Miss Miriam have gone over to Bournemouth to get something or other—they said you wouldn’t mind getting yourself here. They’ll be back by teatime.’ She glanced at Philomena’s disappointed face. ‘So you’ve passed those exams of yours, you clever girl. How proud your dad would have been of you—just as I am, Miss Philly.’ She took the bag from Philomena’s hand. ‘I’ve a nice little lunch all ready for you—you just come into the kitchen and eat it, there’s a good girl.’
It was a very nice lunch and Molly was interested in her hospital life; she stood at the other end of the big kitchen table, making pastry and plying Philomena with questions, so that very shortly Philomena began to feel a good deal more cheerful, and presently, when she had unpacked in her pretty bedroom overlooking the river, she went downstairs and strolled through the garden to the water’s edge until Molly called her in for tea, and soon after that her stepmother and sisters came home. They embraced her warmly, all talking at once about the party, and swept her upstairs to admire their dresses, and it wasn’t until they were going to their rooms to tidy themselves for dinner that her stepmother observed carelessly: ‘Did you pass your exams, Philly? I do hope so—so boring for you, darling, I can’t think why you want to stay at that horrid hospital. Which reminds me, Nicholas Pierce and his wife have asked us all to lunch tomorrow—so convenient, because we shall have enough to do with the party without feeding ourselves. We’re to meet them at the Priory Hotel at half past twelve. I hope you’ve got something smart to wear?’
‘My suit—there’s that silk blouse I left at home—I could wear that with it…no hat.’
Her stepmother glanced at Philomena’s neat head of hair. ‘No? Well, dear, I don’t suppose it makes much difference. The suit’s all right.’ She smiled, already thinking about something else. ‘See you downstairs, Philly.’
The evening passed quickly. There were last-minute plans to make, local gossip to mull over, the question as to whether Chloe should have her curly dark hair dressed in a different style discussed at length. They were on their way to bed when her stepmother remembered to ask Philomena again: ‘Did you pass, darling? Not that it matters I expect.’
Philomena paused on the stairs. ‘Yes, Mother, I passed.’ She didn’t add that it had mattered very much.
‘I suppose everyone celebrated?’ asked Chloe.
‘Yes,’ said Philomena, ‘it’s customary.’
‘How nice,’ remarked Mrs Parsons a little vaguely. ‘I expect you have lots of friends. No one special, I suppose?’
Philomena had a sudden vivid memory of a large, fair man with kind blue eyes. She said, ‘No,’ feeling regret as she said it.
She was up early; it had tacitly been agreed for some time now that as she rose early