Nurse Abroad(11)

“But, Sarah, lass ... the work ... the quantities the men eat, the running up and down to the sheds!”

She could not disturb Sarah’s composure. Grant was watching Sarah, a crease between his brows. Sarah had become a professional nurse at once. Nothing must be allowed to disturb the patient: All Mrs. Mac had to do was to submit to orders, and put her mind at rest... others would take on where she left off. Grant felt reassured himself.

Sarah continued: “You’ve done it for years, Mrs. Mac. I don’t suppose the men will get quite as well looked after as if you were at the helm, but well enough.”

They heard the doctor’s car draw up. Mrs. Mac seemed easier when he’d done with her. He was unqualified in his praise of what Sarah had done.

“You’re a dam’ lucky man,” he said to Grant. “Nursing sister on the spot to render first aid, and one prepared to carry on with the cooking for the shearers. Your uncle knew what he was about when he bestowed a partner like this upon you!”



Over his head Sarah’s eyes met Grant’s. There was laughter in both pairs of eyes, the first time they had shared a common gleam of humor over the situation. A dimple appeared beside Sarah’s exquisitely-shaped mouth.

“You’ll not need to go by ambulance,” said the doctor. “Grant can take you in that luxury liner of his.”

Mrs. Mac said swiftly, “He’s too busy. He couldn’t possibly spare the time.”

That sounded reasonable to Sarah. The sheep were being rounded up and yarded all day. There was dip to prepare for the mister spray dip, and a thousand and one other things to attend to.

But Grant said, “Don’t be silly, Mrs. Mac. As if I’d let anyone else take you. If it was my mother or my wife, I’d go, wouldn’t I? The men can work till very late, and I’ll be back to give them a hand later.”

Mrs. Mac was horrified. “It’s over seventy miles there, and—”

Grant was adamant. “You need your own folk when you’re sick, Mrs. Mac. Not only that, Sarah can come too, in case you feel queer on the way.”

The doctor nodded. “I’d feel a lot happier.”

Sarah stilled all protests. “I’ll make the pies tonight. We’ll be back for a late tea. I’ll get up early and do all the vegies. The meat is jointed and ready. Now, stop worrying.”

They left a note for the children, telling them what to get for the tea meal for themselves and the men, packed Mrs. Mac firmly in the front seat between them, with cushions, and set off, taking the road carefully, till they left the shingle for the tarmac.

Even on the main road, Grant drove easily, with no hint of haste or impatience. Sarah was amazed. Was it only to herself that he showed the grim side? The thought had power to stab.

He chatted lightly to Mrs. Mac, overriding all her objections and scolding her affectionately when she whipped herself for being a nuisance. He even—though Sarah realized it would be only temporary—buried the hatchet as far as she was concerned. It would be for Mrs. Mac’s sake, of course, to make her believe things would go harmoniously while she was in hospital.

He said, “We could have been in real pickle but for Miss Isbister. With Nan Granger expecting, and Mrs. Granger senior just retired to town, we’d have had no one to call upon. The shearers might have walked out on me in a body if I couldn’t feed them. My one accomplishment in the cooking line is bacon and eggs. Mrs. Mac won’t let anyone near her precious stoves ... except Sarah Isbister, who has apparently worked a spell on her.” He said to Sarah, “Mrs. Granger is our neighbor’s wife. You’ll not have met her yet? No. She’s going into the Home next month. She has one wee girl of three. A grand sort.”

Mrs. Mac went on giving Sarah instructions. How much bread to order each day, how many potatoes to peel, how long to do the joints. “Praise the saints the beetroot is all ready, and, there are jars of pickles and sauces. Be sure they don’t leave forks in the pickle. There’s a bread slice in the storeroom—a great time-saver. But they potatoes for tea too. No fancy touches, but quantities of everything.

“I give them fruit, with jellies and custards one day and fruit pies the next, but don’t you go fashing yourself making pastry. Just use the preserved fruit every day. I’ve hundreds of jars done.”

They came down the Main North Road into the city by Papanui, crossing the mighty Waimakiriri. Sarah’s eyes swept the tree-belted city, the green-banked gentle Avon, the incredibly large and brilliant gardens, the grey hills that reared beyond the city, keeping watch and ward over it, and was delighted.



“Except for the verandahs above the shop windows, this could be England,” she said. “Does it get a lot of rain? Are the verandahs to protect people?”

Grant chuckled. “No—just the reverse. It’s to protect the goods on display from the sun, though it’s wonderful shelter when it rains ... you see very few umbrellas, ever.”

They came to the hospital, set against the gracious background of Hagley Park with its grassy coolness under its great oaks, planted by homesick pioneers a hundred years ago. Many of the ward windows looked out on, the blossomy vistas of the Botanical Gardens.

Grant Alexander seemed to get things moving very quickly, Sarah thought, used as she was to the painstaking, unhurried way of hospital admittance routine.

Presently they were taking their leave of Mrs. Mac.

“I’ll go round to your sister’s and let her know,” said Grant to his housekeeper, “then she’ll be in to see you tomorrow.”

He cut Mrs. Mac’s protests short, and, to Sarah’s surprise, bent and kissed her goodbye.



“Now, no more worrying, Macsie. Sarah will cope.”



Sarah looked back at the door and was aware that the look on Mrs. Mac’s face was an odd one. She looked a little pleased.

Fortunately Mrs. Mac’s sister lived in Fendalton, so they made their call on their way out, and as Grant declined her offer of a cup of tea, they were soon on their way home, Grant driving at speed limit, but carefully.

Sarah was surprised when, a few miles north, he pulled up at a wayside tea-room.

“This is a grand place, quite new. Much better than most of our tea-rooms—it’s run by English folk who really know how.”



He caught Sarah’s look of amazement, and said, “Staggered, aren’t you? But I’m not such a dyed-in-the-wool colonial as not to admit there are some things folk from Home can teach us, and catering’s one of them.”

Sarah was annoyed he’d read her thought so easily, and said, “Oh, it was just I thought you’d decided we couldn’t spare the time for even a cup of tea.”

He shook his head. “No, but I felt a meal would do you more good than a hasty cup of tea. You’ve had a big day. You need something more substantial.”

It certainly was substantial. They had toheroa soup, one of New Zealand’s rare delicacies, casserole of beef, potatoes, glazed carrots, young peas, and lemon soufflé, coffee and biscuits.

Sarah recognized all this for a truce born of necessity, and that she mustn’t allow it to lull her into thinking Grant Alexander had forgiven her, but ... well, something of the well-nigh intolerable tension of the past few weeks eased.

Grant stubbed out his cigarette, sighed, looked at Sarah and said, “I suppose we must move. Those thrice-accursed sheep must be shorn.”

Sarah had been sitting, her elbows on the table, her chin in her cupped hands, her eyes rapt, as she gazed out of the landscape window. It looked upriver to where the mighty Waimakiriri rose in the snow-capped Alps, touched now with coral and flame.

She said smilingly, “Our last moment of leisure for many hours, I suppose.”

He was taking money from his wallet, and actually smiled over it at her. “Appalled at the prospect, Miss Isbister?”

Her eyes, blue as gentians, regarded him steadily. “No. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve been off duty too long.”



It was eight o’clock when they splashed through the waters of the ford, and came into Challowsford. As they drew up at the garage the back door flew open, and the two children rushed at them, each trying to get in with the news.

“Sarah ... Grant ... whaddya think? Let me tell ... I’m the oldest ... doesn’t make any difference—I saw it first—I gave the alarm—Our class was nearest. Besides, you always tell, you mean pig ... In the end there was no telling who gasped it out first.

“There was a fire ... in the bakehouse. It was bully fun! We all helped put it out till the fire brigade got there. It’s a volunteer brigade ... but we used the school bucket brigade. And what do you think?—the headmaster got in the way and got soaked—supposed to be an accident! But he laughed like mad. It’s burnt right out. We didn’t do any afternoon lessons at all!”

With their hearers nothing registered but one predominant fact. There would be no bread for tomorrow’s shearing!

“Shut up”, said Sarah. “This moment! Tell me, did they get the orders out? Was the bread in the box when you came home? Quick, tell me?”

“No. It was ready to go out on the country run, but it copped the first lot of water and was ruined.”