Read Online Nurse Trent's Children by Joyce Dingwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Joyce Dingwell
Ads: Link
from her home and was a little breathless. “Go and have your bath, Aunty Cathy ,” she implored, “or you’ll have Dr. Jerry here before you’re ready. What are you wearing? Mother and I think it should be the pink silk.”
Cathy told her and saw the plain pleasant face cloud over. “Oh, no, Aunty Cathy, not that. What about the lace? Or the brocade? Or ... ”
“I’m wearing the black, Elvira. Why not? I can assure you it was more expensive than any of the others.”
Elvira did not argue, but she looked disappointed. When the children clamored around her asking, “Can we stay up and see Aunty Cathy go to the party?” she said crossly, “No, in half an hour you’ll all be in bed and lights out.”
She was not usually so insistent on keeping the rules, and Cathy had a suspicion that if she were going to wear the pink or the blue or the brocade Elvira would have permitted, even encouraged, the girls to stay up. She found herself sympathizing, though unwillingly, with Elvira. She remembered her own childhood days and how mommy in the resplendency of an evening gown had always seemed something out of a fairy tale. There would be no resplendency, she admitted, in the slinky black, and for a moment she almost weakened just for the sake of Elvira and the girls, but “English prude” reminded a little voice within her, and she ran upstairs, filled the bath, went through the accepted pre-party procedure of careful makeup and discreet dabbing of French perfume, then slipped into the sheath.
It fitted her even closer than a glove, and the neckline was more daring than she had thought. Again she hesitated, but time had run out, as Jeremy Malcolm’s car was pulling up the driveway, and there was nothing for her to do but button on the concealing jacket and take up her bag. She stood in front of the mirror. The black suited her English fairness, but that was all one could say. The high collar of the little coat gave the outfit anything but a festive air. She hoped none of the children was watching from the window. She realized now she had not been so clever. They had little enough in their small lives without her depriving them of a moment of glamour. She peered along the corridor. It was in darkness, and Elvira was standing guard. “Have a good time, Aunty Cathy,” she said dubiously.
Cathy said, “Yes,” in a meek little voice. It’s ridiculous really, she tried to tell herself. I c an wear what I like, and it was a very expensive gown.
Jerry Malcolm opened the door of the convertible. As she had come out of the door his dark eyes had swept her up and down—once. As his foot went on the accelerator he said dryly, “I hardly expected you to make a funeral occasion of it.”
“My gown or my demeanor?” she returned flippantly.
He did not answer. She could see that, like Elvira, he was not pleased.
They left Burnley Hills and made their way down the Pacific Highway. Cathy saw the orchards and poultry runs give way to the privileged homes, and then they were crossing the great bridge into Sydney. It was something to look at, she thought. The velvety waters reflecting the lights of the beetling ferry boats, the rainbow glitter of the fun park on the northern side sending candy illuminations into the lapping bays.
“Not tired of it yet?” He took one hand off the wheel and waved it idly.
“I could never be. Anyway, this is my first visit into Sydney since I arrived here.”
“Good Lord. Why? A dislike of the asphalt jungle or a shortage of money?”
“Neither. I just don’t like leaving the kiddies. Elvira has enough to do. When David comes it will be different. The girls like U n cle David very much.”
“This girl, too?”
Cathy set her lips. “Very much,” she repeated. She was annoyed that she had spoken of Mr. Kennedy as David, annoyed, too, that Dr. Malcolm had noticed it.
“I take it,” he said casually, “that when Kennedy conducts you out it will not rate a black gown. Not by the
Cathy told her and saw the plain pleasant face cloud over. “Oh, no, Aunty Cathy, not that. What about the lace? Or the brocade? Or ... ”
“I’m wearing the black, Elvira. Why not? I can assure you it was more expensive than any of the others.”
Elvira did not argue, but she looked disappointed. When the children clamored around her asking, “Can we stay up and see Aunty Cathy go to the party?” she said crossly, “No, in half an hour you’ll all be in bed and lights out.”
She was not usually so insistent on keeping the rules, and Cathy had a suspicion that if she were going to wear the pink or the blue or the brocade Elvira would have permitted, even encouraged, the girls to stay up. She found herself sympathizing, though unwillingly, with Elvira. She remembered her own childhood days and how mommy in the resplendency of an evening gown had always seemed something out of a fairy tale. There would be no resplendency, she admitted, in the slinky black, and for a moment she almost weakened just for the sake of Elvira and the girls, but “English prude” reminded a little voice within her, and she ran upstairs, filled the bath, went through the accepted pre-party procedure of careful makeup and discreet dabbing of French perfume, then slipped into the sheath.
It fitted her even closer than a glove, and the neckline was more daring than she had thought. Again she hesitated, but time had run out, as Jeremy Malcolm’s car was pulling up the driveway, and there was nothing for her to do but button on the concealing jacket and take up her bag. She stood in front of the mirror. The black suited her English fairness, but that was all one could say. The high collar of the little coat gave the outfit anything but a festive air. She hoped none of the children was watching from the window. She realized now she had not been so clever. They had little enough in their small lives without her depriving them of a moment of glamour. She peered along the corridor. It was in darkness, and Elvira was standing guard. “Have a good time, Aunty Cathy,” she said dubiously.
Cathy said, “Yes,” in a meek little voice. It’s ridiculous really, she tried to tell herself. I c an wear what I like, and it was a very expensive gown.
Jerry Malcolm opened the door of the convertible. As she had come out of the door his dark eyes had swept her up and down—once. As his foot went on the accelerator he said dryly, “I hardly expected you to make a funeral occasion of it.”
“My gown or my demeanor?” she returned flippantly.
He did not answer. She could see that, like Elvira, he was not pleased.
They left Burnley Hills and made their way down the Pacific Highway. Cathy saw the orchards and poultry runs give way to the privileged homes, and then they were crossing the great bridge into Sydney. It was something to look at, she thought. The velvety waters reflecting the lights of the beetling ferry boats, the rainbow glitter of the fun park on the northern side sending candy illuminations into the lapping bays.
“Not tired of it yet?” He took one hand off the wheel and waved it idly.
“I could never be. Anyway, this is my first visit into Sydney since I arrived here.”
“Good Lord. Why? A dislike of the asphalt jungle or a shortage of money?”
“Neither. I just don’t like leaving the kiddies. Elvira has enough to do. When David comes it will be different. The girls like U n cle David very much.”
“This girl, too?”
Cathy set her lips. “Very much,” she repeated. She was annoyed that she had spoken of Mr. Kennedy as David, annoyed, too, that Dr. Malcolm had noticed it.
“I take it,” he said casually, “that when Kennedy conducts you out it will not rate a black gown. Not by the
Similar Books
