Australian Hospital by Joyce Dingwell Page B

from the meeting of visitors and the conducting of officials, to their general behaviour when backs were turned and they were free to patronise the hoop-la or fish hopefully in the Magic Well.
    An amateur fortune-teller arrived to see if her tent was sufficiently secret. A radio electrician made weird noises through a microphone to make sure the sound would not be impaired. A band-leader arrived to choose the best position for his players.
    And all the time someone was coming or going, and the mood of the Fete hung heavily and pleasantly on the air.
    Candace was as excited as the rest. Perhaps she was more excited, for to-morrow she would meet Anne again, and that meeting alone would make the bazaar an event.
    She took out her uniforms that night, and decided, in spite of the frayed cuff, to wear the yellow. It would match the weather, she thought, and it would complement the festive day. Matron had particularly requested that both sisters and aides should come in uniform, whether they were on duty or off.
    She lay out the outfit in readiness—the sunny, simply-styled cotton, the snowy white veil. “I’m like Jeanie and Bobby,” she thought childishly, “I just can’t wait.”
    Breakfast was a hurried affair the next morning, for although the Fete was not officially opened until noon, parties arrived hours before that, and the lawns would soon be dotted, rather like biscuits with hundreds and thousands, with the gay frocks of the feminine visitors.
    Candace was just leaving the dining-room when Eve Trisby entered. Her black eyes went up and down briefly, then she said, “All brushed up, Jamieson?”
    “I’m wearing my usual uniform.”
    “I suppose so, but it looks as though you’ve taken extra pains. Not much use when you’re stuck up in Room 9, is it?”
    “Room 9?”
    “Miss Beresford has a chill. Someone must be in attendance.”
    “But I’m not on duty, Sister.”
    “Indeed you are.”
    “But I looked at the roster weeks ago—”
    “Then you must have looked wrong. I looked only last night and I assure you that you are on duty.”
    Candace did not answer. She went out to the vestibule where the roster was hung and looked up eagerly.
    One glance told her that Eve was right. She was on duty. Weeks ago she had checked and found that she wasn’t. There appeared to be no alteration, but Candace knew that her eyes had not deceived her that day with Barbara Breen.
    She was sick with disappointment. It was not the Fete and the fun she would miss that she minded so much; it was missing Anne.
    Room 9 was at the corner of the house, on the top floor, and only commanding a very limited view of the proceedings.
    She went drearily up, to find Miss Beresford a very irritable patient. She, too, was bitterly disappointed, and could only see her disappointment from her own point of view. She had no thought for the unfortunate Sister who had to nurse her, and be similarly deprived of a long-awaited pleasure.
    The day went on laggard feet.
    Candace heard the official car arrive, but only saw the brim of an expensive hat passing into the vestibule.
    The band struck up. Whistles and clap-traps and bursting balloons smote the air, but in Room 9 the minutes went like hours, and Miss Beresford fretted and scolded, and Sister Jamieson soothed and kept blinking away her disappointed tears.
    At last the official party left, and this time the baroness had to walk to the other side of the drive to her car.
    It was Anne—Anne Westing, Baroness Lexforde, who had come to Fairhill Home with her mother as a girl, and later distributed certificates at Charlotte as a grown, and elegant, and very beautiful woman.
    “Anne—” Candace lent perilously out to wave.
    The gracious lady on the gravelled drive looked up and waved back. But there was no recognition. How could there be? To Baroness Lexforde, Candace Jamieson was still in England. That was just a pleasant, in some way vaguely familiar, young sister. She smiled and waved again,