"DISTRICT NURSE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 30 January 1939, Page 12

"DISTRICT NURSE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

FAITH BALDWIN.

CHAPTER XXVI. No, not the kid, the kid was all right, Bill said. There was a nurse there. Ellen knew that, one of the girls on the contagion service had been sent that morning. It was something that bothered him, Bill said. He’d like to talk to Mis’ Ellen, if he could. Mrs Adams smiled and went out to make cocoa. She was, Ellen discovered, so much happier when they let her do things. And Coral and Nancy were arguing, there in the bedroom, over the proper shade of green for gingham curtains for kitchen windows. “Shoot,” said Ellen, encouragingly. He wouldn’t sit down nor take off his things. He twisted his cap in his hands. His honest little eyes were distressed. He said, “You’ve been swell, Mis’ Ellen. I —l gotta spill sumpin’ to you. Jees, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. You see, that day I come here with Frank, well when I come back, I see you—and that other feller —” The grammar he was trying so pain•fully to acquire, fled. But no pleader at the bar could have been more eloquent. Ellen asked, “Well, Bill ?” “Nothin’ . . only . . see, he was kissin’ you . . or it looked that way. I —l thought, Frank’s crazy about her, see? She’s his girl, but she’s two-timin’ him. I thought, he’s such a grand sort of guy. So I told him, see?” So that was it. Ellen said, trying to smile.

“It’s all right, Bill. Frank wouldn’t mind; we’re just friends —and what you say wasn’t, really, important.” “You're not sore at me, Mis’ Ellen?” “Of course not.” “Frank’s sore.” “Oh, no, Bill, he isn’t.”

“Yes. I —l been to his office with the report cards—all except once. He looks, and gives me the buck. He alters gives me a buck. But he don’t have not time for me; he’s different somehow; he don’t care no more. I —oh, what’s the use,” said Bill, too stubborn to weep. Mrs Adams came in with cups and a bakery cake. Bill’s widened. “Gee,” he said, and was persuaded to “take off his things and stay a white.” Chick was coming in for Nancy; they’d see that he got home. And so no more was said. Bill ate and drank as much as he could hold. And went home again, or rather to his mother’s next-door neighbour, where he was staying until the baby was all well again. Ellen thought, poor Bill . .

He was mistaken about Frank, of course. She herself wouldn’t make that error of judgment again. He hadn’t tired; he hadn’t forgotten —Bill. He was busy, perhaps he was worried . . . She tried to tell Bill so, as he left with Nancy and the very much entertained Chick.

It was perhaps two weeks or more later that late one afternoon Ellen stopped at Bill’s house to inquire after the welfare of her small emergency patient. The youngster was, his mother assured her, as fit as a fiddle, “When I seen you, holding him, and that terrible tube . . She shuddered and was silent. It was, Ellen agreed, not a pleasant process to watch, but it had done the trick. We can’t never thank you enough,” said Mrs Maloney. She then said, “That Bill!” “What’s the matter with him?”

“Nothing but cussedness,” said Bill’s mother. “He’s been playing hookey. Starts off to school as gay as you please, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, with his lunch in his pocket, and a good lunch, too, now that Maloney is working regular, praise be to the saints! But doesn't the truant officer come around again, sticking his long nose in the door. Three days. "Bill isn’t in school.” She was dramatic. “Didn’t Maloney strap him good for it? But it’s no use talking to him. I thought this wouldn’t be lastin’, him goin’ and cornin’ so quiet and good, after Mr Bartlett—a fine man if ever there was one—got after him. I wish he’d git after him again,” sighed Mrs Maloney. “Wait till 1 see Bill,” Ellen threatened. She smiled at the baby. “No, I won’t hold him, or come too near,” she said, as Mrs Maloney coaxed her to “feel the solid heft of the rascal.” “I go in and out of all sorts of places, you know.”

On the way to the door with her caller Mrs Maloney said suddenly, “do you know who’s moved in, the next house but one . . and has the upstairs? The Fontanas, the young people, she that was an Esposito. You knew her. didn t you? There was talk, around.” she went on, dropping her voice, “about her bein' kidnapped, you know, but she came back and was married, and lived with the old folks. Now they’ve moved in, but Fontana’s lost his trucking business or whatever it was. I don’t know.

“ ’Tis a hard world," Mrs Maloney, said after a pause, and smiled cheerfully, while the little boy in her arms laughed aloud, “but you’ve got to take it as it comes,” she ended philosophically. “Come in again, do,” she said to Ellen. “It does me a marvel of good just to see you.”

Going downstairs, Ellen looked at her watch. She would stop and see Gilda, for a minute, ten minutes. If there was anything she could do for her . .

She had not seen her since the marriage.

The woman who owned the small house directed her upstairs, and sent her husky voice before, as warning, “Hey, Mis’ Fontana, there’s the nurse here to see you. . .”

Gilda was waiting for her, smiling. “It was good of you to come. I’ve been meaning to try to get to see you.” Ellen went with her into the little flat. Two rooms, spotless; two rooms very bright with colour, very cheerful. A canary, in a cage. Gilda’s sewing. The smell of good soup coming from

the tiny kitchen. “It isn't much of a place,” said Gilda. “I've tried to fix it up, though." "It’s sweet. Mrs Maloney told me you were here. Gilda, how are things?” "All right,” said Gilda bravely. “Pasquale, well, he was unlucky, he hadn’t much business, he lost the little he had, the truck, I mean.” "But ”

“Oh, it’s all right, he’s strong, he’ll find work; he’s out now, looking. But, we thought, we’d save and get another truck and a man to run it, and pretty soon, we’d have a- —a fleet or something and be rich,” said Gilda. “My brother Mike wanted to help—go shares, Pasquale wouldn’t let him, not till he had something to show for it, he said.” “He’s good to you?” asked Ellen gently.

Gilda’s great eyes were clear and grave.

“Yes, he’s good,” she said simply, “he does his best. We both do.” She said, a little later, “If you hear of anything . . ot course, he . . he isn’t trained. But, he’s strong. He worked on a farm as a boy. I’ve been teaching him English nights . . and other things. He’s changed, some, I think,” said Gilda, a little proudly. There was a step on the stair, a man’s step. “Perhaps that’s Pasquale,” said Ellen. But it was not.

The door opened at the moment the knock on it. “Pasqual’ here, Gilda?”

The’ speaker was in the room, a big young man, dark, very good looking. It was Jim O’Connor.

“He’s not here, he's looking for work, Mi- O’Connor,” Gilda answered. Her tone was exceedingly hostile. Jim looked at Ellen. That he had been very much taken aback at seeing her on his entrance was apparent. He said awkwardly. "Hello, didn’t expect to see you here . . Look here, Gilda. I’ll go on, I'm late to an appointment. Tell Pasquale’ that I think I have something in mind for him if he’ll drop around to the office tonight. I’ll be there, working,” he said. He turned to Ellen, “I've got the car outside,”he said. “Shall I take you somewhere?”

The words were casual; the tone was insistent. Too insistent, Ellen thought instantly. For some reason he was displeased to find her here; and anxious for her to go. She smiled at him. She said, “Thanks, I think I’ll stay here with Gilda for a while.” “It’s snowing,” said Jim. “I thought it would. But that doesn’t matter, I’m through work, but I have to go back to the office,” she said, “on my way home.” He nodded, briefly, saying to Gilda, "Don’t forget to tell Pasqual’—” and left. There was a little silence. Then Gilda, her oval cheeks flaming, burst out, “if only he wouldn’t come, if only he’d give Pasquale a chance!” She was twisting her slim olive-tinted hands together in her lap. Pasquale’s old-fash-ioned ring, a broad gold band, stood cut against the warm flesh. “Isn’t that what he’s going to do?” asked Ellen, puzzled. “I mean Jim has influence down here, lots. In his work he runs into all sorts of people; he might easily find your husband a job.” She remembered asking Jim to have Fontana looked tip at the time of that trouble about Gilda. He had kept track of them since. A little wave of warmth, of gratitude, stirred her heart. That was pretty decent of him. Gilda was staring at her. “You don’t understand,” she said slowly, “I . . . havq you known him long . . O’Connor, I mean . . ?” “All my life,” said Ellen. But her tone was guarded.. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. If she made the least false move Gilda would freeze up. would withdraw into herself. But Gilda was crying. Gilda was saying as Ellen, in the last few years had heard so many women, “I have to tell you, I have to tell some one, it’s killing me, I—’’ CHAPTER XXVII. “All right, Gilda,” said Ellen. She took the girl’s hands in her own. “You won’t tell, you won’t get Pasquale into trouble?’’ asked Gilda. “No, I won’t get him into trouble." “The trucking business. He ... he had that all right. But when he first came here, to the neighbourhood, he met O'Connor. Pasquale didn't understand. It was a game to him the racket. It was . . . exciting. He’s strong, he’s young, dangers . . that’s a game to him, too. And he didn't mind if they were breaking the law. Laws didn’t mean much to him . . at home, it had always been a man’s own law, first. You were your law. You understand. You know such people. And (here was easy money in the racket Ellen was cold with the realisation which, coming to her slowly, was not to be denied. So many things began to clear, so many little pieces of puzzles began to fit in. Jim. denying he knew Fontanaj.Jim, at Fontana’s table at the Napoli; Jim, and his new car; and his “big business”; Jim, and his careless ways, so easy with money; Jim and Bartlett's warning. She said, “Liquor, of course?” “I don’t know,” said Gilda. She was calmer now. “Liquor, maybe, but something else. Something smuggled. Drugs perhaps,” said Gilda. “I’ve never been able to find out. Perhaps some imported goods, gotten through here without duty. I’ve thought and thought and tried to make him tell. He wouldn't. Pasquale’s loyal, he laughs, he says, ‘neve mind, I take care of it.’ He had the truck, you see, and his little business. He was young,” she said again, “and strong. He had friends . . .” “It’s Jim’s business then, whatever it it?” asked Ellen slowly. (To be Continued.)