Doctor Fane (hiatus)

The New Nurse I.

She quieted that child the same way she always had, by digging the nails of her left hand sharply into the flesh of her right wrist. The tears burned in her eyes but did not fall.

I'll go back into the station, she told herself. I'll find the signalman and ask him if he has a telephone or can send a telegram.

A one-platform station in a half-penny town isn't going to have a telephone, her inner child wailed, but Celia told her to shut up and crossed the road.

As she did so, a motor car came roaring around the corner of the street. Its horn bellowed, and Celia flung herself backwards out of the way. The car swerved then jerked to a stop in a cloud of dust, and a man leaped out.

"Are you mad?" he shouted. "I could've killed you!"

Celia trembled on the ground and tried to make sure that she wasn't really dead. Her wrists hurt for breaking her fall. Her carpet bag had split open and was spilling her thick, ugly, practical, worsted stockings into the gutter.

The man strode up to Celia and stooped, one gloved hand raising her chin so he could look her in the eyes. He had searching, pale grey eyes, set under winged, angular black brows.

"What are you doing?" Celia asked.

"Making sure you don't have a concussion."

"I don't."

"How would you know?"

"Because I didn't hit my head. I'm a nurse," she added. "I do know."

The man drew back. "Oh." He looked at his car and then back at Celia. "You're my nurse."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I was sent to pick up the new nurse from the station," he said. "But we're late. We'd better go. Unless you're hurt?"

"I'm alright." Celia stood and brushed wet leaf litter from her skirt. She did feel alright, now that she knew she was where she was meant to be. "We can go."

"Where're your things?" The man looked at the carpet bag on the ground. "Sending them on?"

"I... I don't have any other things." Celia hastily bundled her stockings back into her carpet bag and clasped it shut. "This is what I've got."

"Then you can keep it on your feet," the man said. "Come on. We've got a drive ahead of us."

He turned his back on her and strode to the motor car, pulling the passenger door open on his way. Celia heaved her carpet bag into the car then clambered rather nervously up into the seat. She had never ridden in a car before. The man stopped around the front of the car to crank the beast up, and then, when it was purring, ran for the driver's door and vaulted over it into the seat. It occurred to Celia that she did not know the man's name. She opened her mouth to ask, but it was lost in the roar of the engine.

Celia clutched at the side of the car as they ripped down the quiet country lanes. Her hat lifted in the wind and she grabbed at it and shoved it between her knees then resumed her hold on the side of the car. They flashed past fields of startled cows and muddy rows where the potatoes had been harvested.

I hope I've found the right person, Celia's inner child said anxiously. I hope this man is taking me to the right place.

As the drive went on and the afternoon grew dark, as they drove out into darkening woods and hills, Celia grew more anxious. Perhaps it was some other nurse the man had been meant to pick up. Perhaps he was taking her to the wrong hospital — or a mental asylum. There was no opportunity to ask him, for the roar of the car engine prevented any conversation.