Free Ship's Surgeon by Celine Conway Page A

won’t be a second.”
    Without haste, when he returned, he gave Deva an injection. Pat had slipped a cushion behind the small head and shoulders, and now the Sinhalese girl sat there gazing at them a little blankly. The tears were finished, but her eyelids were swollen and her mouth quivered slightly.
    In polite, formal tones she said, “I apologize for bringing you from your bed, Doctor ... and you, Pattie. It was a bad dream. First my father told me to take care, and then there came a shadow that frightened me.”
    Mrs. Lai, wringing her hands in the background, whimpered softly, “She is ill again. All those months...”
    “Shut up,” said Bill, without emphasis. “Deva’s all right. In a few minutes, when she’s sleepy, we’ll put her to bed. Get it ready.”
    Pat was unbearably tensed. Like Mrs. Lai, she was stabbed by terrifying thoughts. So much had been done for Deva, the touch-and-go operation, the battle with complications, the slow, tricky process of physiotherapy ... and it couldn’t be all for nothing! Yet such things did happen. But not in this case ... please, not in this case! Her parents were waiting eagerly for their only daughter; their riches meant nothing if they could not accomplish this healing of their little flower. Her father had written that ... little flower.
    “Stop shaking,” said Bill under his breath. “She’s still here, isn’t she?”
    Pat bit on to the inside of her lip. “Can’t we move her now?”
    “In a minute. Tell that fool of a woman to get back into her own bed. She won’t have to watch the child—she’s practically out.”
    Deva’s almond-shaped eyes were half closed, her lips were slack. Bill touched her fingers and got no response. He lifted her carefully, laid her on the bed and pulled sheet and blanket over her. Automatically, Pat tidied the bed. As she straightened she felt her head spinning, and she must have swayed, for Bill caught at her arm and steadied her.
    “We’ll leave one small light. You stay in bed, Mrs. Lai; Deva won’t waken for at least eight hours.”
    He pushed Pat in front of him out of the stateroom, and closed the door. He told the night steward he wasn’t likely to be needed, and then, taking a firm grip on Pat’s elbow, he waved towards the end of the short wide corridor.
    “I’m only a few doors away. You’d better come in and have a tonic.”
    “I ... I think I’ll be all right, but I would like to know what you think of Deva.”
    He opened a door, and even in her distress she was mildly surprised. It was a male bedsitter of fair proportions and a red and black colour scheme. Immediately visible were two armchairs in wine-red, a black fitted carpet and a cocktail cabinet with bookshelves below it. Behind the open door stood the bed from which Bill had been roused. The book-tray above it was loaded with heavy tomes, and another lay open on the pillow; almost unconsciously she saw that it was a medical book with illustrations; tropical medicine, probably.
    He was pouring whisky into two small glasses, filling up with cold water. “Here,” he said, placing a glass in her hand. “Sit down and drink it. You look like a hospital case yourself.”
    “It was the shock,” she said weakly, and sank into the chair.
    “And anxiety, I suppose. You know more about the working of her mind than I do. What do you think caused the nightmare?”
    “It’s beyond me. How much harm has been done?”
    “Not much, but we’ll know for sure in the morning. Drink that whisky.”
    She did manage almost half of it, in a couple of swallows. After grimacing, she looked up at him. “I’d rather know the truth about Deva’s condition. Don’t spare me.”
    He grinned faintly. “I won’t spare you, Patsy; I’m not the type. Jumping out of bed without help was a darned good test that I wouldn’t have dared to prescribe. Yet in a way I believe it paid off. Physically, she stood up to it.” He emptied his own glass and set it down. “Tell