Ship's Surgeon by Celine Conway Page A

because this trip was in the nature of an annual leave, and when Pat put the usual companionable enquiries about his family, Van said,
    “I left the bunch when I was twenty-one, and I’ve never been back. In London, I live at a bachelor club.”
    A domestic environment less colourful Pat couldn’t imagine. No wonder the man had so little conversation. On a sightseeing tour he wasn’t such a bad companion, though, and he was as delighted as she with the gay centre of the historical town and the Vieux Port with its crowded fishing boats and pleasure craft. They drove along the Promenade de la Corniche and stopped to look over the islands lying like chunks of viridian stone in the azure sea. They returned by the Avenue du Prado, had tea and delicious little cakes at a cafe near the station, and then made the ascent of Notre Dame de la Garde. It was while admiring the wide sweep of Marseilles and the hills that Pat realized two others from the ship were sharing the experience; Kristin and her adoring fiancé, of all people. Pat was ready to nod and pass on towards the basilica, when Vernon Corey said, in his drawling, agreeable tones,
    “Well, look who’s here, Kris; others from the boat. Hello, there. What do you think of this place?”
    Van said inanely, “Quite a dump. We’ve been touring by taxi.”
    “We, too,” said Kristin, in her most polite and delicate tones. “French history is most interesting, isn’t it?”
    “I like the views—they’re great,” Corey said. Then he looked at Pat. “You’re the nurse who helped the doc when I smashed my glasses, aren’t you?”
    “Yes. Did the cuts heal quickly?”
    “Pretty soon, but I got a black eye—a beaut. That’s gone now, though. I never did thank you for what you did for me.”
    “I didn’t do anything.”
    “Kristin and I have been keeping a lookout for you, so that we could perhaps all have a drink together and a talk. If you’re going to Sydney...”
    “I’m not, Mr. Corey, but you’re very kind.”
    “But you’re going to Australia, aren’t you?”
    Kristin said, in a voice which only just missed the flatness of boredom, “I told you, darling. Miss Fenley leaves the ship at Colombo.”
    “Is that so?” The big man looked puzzled. “I’d have wagered your name isn’t on the Colombo section of the list. I’d have noticed it—yours being the same as Kristin’s. Maybe you ought to see the purser.” Instinctively Pat knew that Vernon Corey, beneath the money and the bulk, was an essentially good man. She had. noticed him chatting with others, ruffling a child’s hair, listening as though with enjoyment to the tedious ramblings of the old gentleman who was on his way to the Seychelles. There was almost an innocence about him; he would never wittingly hurt anyone, she was sure of that. She could see, now, why Kristin had uneasily decided to accompany him; he was a talkative, friendly Australian with stacks of money, and he expected shipboard acquaintances to be as large-hearted as himself, and as frank.
    It was strange, but perhaps inevitable, that a man who had waited so long before considering marriage should be incapable of knowing how to choose. In this case, Kristin had obviously chosen him, not he her. Physically, he was not her cup of tea. She liked spare, distinguished-looking men, had once admitted that Pat’s father had attracted her simply by his thin straight nose and white wings at the temples; but in those days Kristin had been poor and quite plain. Hers was one of those faces that are transformed by beauty aids into a dark, slightly foreign luminescence, and it had taken a course in modelling, after the boys were born, to make her aware of all her potentialities.
    Mr. Corey, in Pat’s opinion, deserved someone more honest. Perhaps that was why she said, rather deliberately, “No, I’m not on the Colombo list. If I possibly can, I shall continue on the Walhara to Melbourne. I have an uncle there.”
    “To ...