“Oh, nothing much, I imagine.”
She had come with him to the cabin door. Now she hesitated, looking at him intently, then she made up her mind.
“Bill and I think a lot of you, doctor—especially after this. . . . We’ve often wondered if you were, well, beginning to get mixed up with Miss Holbrook.”
“Mixed up?” he repeated blankly, then with a sudden flush, realising her meaning: “Of course not.”
“I’m glad.” She pressed his hand. “She’s attractive, and she’s obviously completely gone on you. But there’s something odd about that girl, something I could never like—Bill says she’s a split personality, she gives him the creeps. Now you do forgive me for having spoken?”
“Quite all right.” He tried to speak easily, although he was both embarrassed and offended. “Now take that triple bromide I gave you and off you go to your bunk.”
Uncomfortably, he went back to his cabin, shaved and showered, drank two cups of coffee, and set out on his round of visits. He had begun to realise that Doris was not popular on the ship. She was often rude, kept a great deal to herself, and doubtless, since she wore an expensive new dress every other night, provoked feminine envy with her nice clothes. Moreover, it seemed to him that their continued success in all the competitions was arousing unfavourable comment. Was this the reason of Mrs Kindersley’s dislike? He could scarcely believe it. Her intervention was well-meaning. Even so, he resented it. What right had she to interfere in his affairs, especially since he had been blameless in the matter? And what the devil did Kindersley mean, with his cheap sneer? He was no paragon—a beery, social type that probably hung around the club at Kadur all day; no wonder his wife was so surprised. All morning Moray brooded, and his train of thought, rather than turning him against Doris, swung him in her favour. Admittedly she was not an ordinary, run-of-the-mill type, but was she any the worse for that? There was something to her. Instinctively he rose to her defence. Still, he decided it might be wiser to cut down their efforts in the tournaments.
At the end of the week it suddenly turned cooler, his work and the weather became less hectic. He had time to write a long, loving letter to Mary, with an enclosure specially for Willie. And that same afternoon he was given a further lift when O’Neil took him aside to say:
“I thought you’d like to know, Doc, the skipper had a good word for you on the bridge this morning. In fact, when he heard about the Kindersley kids, he said you were doing a hell of a nice job. The only sawbones we’ve had yet that didn’t get corns on his behind.” The big Irishman paused, took a long look at Moray’s new watch, and grinned. “Present from a grateful patient? Go to it, my boy. You’ll soon reach pay-dirt or I’m not from County Down.”
“Haven’t I told you I’m not interested,” Moray said, irritably. “I’m only rather sorry for her because she’s such a little outsider.”
“Then why aren’t you a little insider?” said O’Neil, and roared with laughter. “Ah, now, don’t be so backward in coming forward, my boy. We’re all looking for a bit of skirt on this bloody tub—otherwise it would bore the arse off us. Say, did you ever hear this one . . .”
Moray had to laugh. What a decent sort O’Neil was. There wasn’t a bit of harm in his remark, he didn’t really mean it—like his profane limericks, it was just fun. Why couldn’t the Kindersleys see it that way?
On the following day, when it was even cooler, Doris appeared on deck. He came on her reclining in a sheltered spot, her hair bound with a silk scarf, a light cashmere rug over her knees, looking dull and with dark lines beneath her eyes. She did not move, merely flickered her lashes towards him.
“Hello, stranger, where have you been hiding?” He took the chair beside her. “Feeling better?”
Injured by his brightness, she did not reply.
“Quite a few people have been laid out by the heat,” he continued. “But now it’s really lovely.”
They were in the Indian Ocean where the soft monsoon made songs in the rigging and a school of young whales, disporting gaily, blew temperate fountains about the ship.
“You’ve seen our escort,” he went on. “I thought whales were only found in the Arctic, but O’Neil tells me they’re a regular feature of this run.”
She took no notice of the remark, making it sound fatuous. Head pillowed sideways on the chair, she watched him with flat eyes as if she were drugged.
“You’re a nice one,” she said.
“Why, Doris, what’s the matter?”
“Don’t pretend, after what you did. It was an insult. I haven’t forgiven you yet. Who have you been dancing with while I was away?”
“No one. I’ve been waiting on my own special teacher.”
Her expression lightened faintly. She gave him a languid smile.
“Why didn’t you come to see me? Oh, well, there wasn’t any need. And I can’t bear anyone when I have these turns. I don’t get them often, mind you, not more than once in six months.”
He looked at her curiously; it wasn’t what he had imagined.
She went on:
“But they’re not exactly fun. Even when the headache goes, they leave me so blasted low.”
“That’s not you, Dorrie.”
“Don’t give me that, like Mother. When I’m this way I keep thinking what’s the good of anything, why go on, what’s the use. I feel I’m a terrible person, different from other girls, all so full of sweet ideas. You know what I mean. Clapcows!” She laughed suddenly. “Where did I get that word?”
“Well, it’s good to be a little different from the ordinary.”
“Glad you think so. I used to try to work it all out, that time I was off school for a bit, wanting to be respected, to have everything just right. But I couldn’t do anything about it. So now I just do as I feel, you know—what I feel like doing. I can’t fight it. Don’t you agree? You kill everything that’s in you if you don’t give way to your feelings.”
“Well . . .” He stared at her perplexedly. Why was she going on like this? He didn’t follow her at all.
“You know the motto, be yourself. It’s a challenge. I’m glad I’m feminine, made for love, so I just want to be myself. Did you miss me? But you wouldn’t, you beastly rotter, you make friends so easily and get on with everybody. I’ve never made any real friends, I just don’t seem to get on with people, except you.” She paused, said in a low voice: “Can’t you see I’ve a frightful crush on you?”
He was touched by the admission. Her apathetic voice and unusual depression went to his heart. And of course he was flattered, too.
“Come now, Dorrie, you mustn’t give way.” He reached out and pressed her hand. “If you want to know, I did miss you.”
Inclining her head a little more to one side, she looked at him intently; then, retaining his hand as he made to withdraw, she tucked it beneath the cashmere rug.
“That’s cosy. I missed you so much.”
Moray was fearfully embarrassed, not only by the unexpectedness of her action but because, undoubtedly without her knowing it, she had pressed his fingers against the warm softness, of her thigh.
“Now, Doris,” he tried to speak lightly. “you can’t do that there here—not to the ship’s surgeon.”
“But I need a little petting. Mind you, I don’t let anybody into my life. Oh, I’ve been around with boys, some of them high, wide, and handsome, but you’re different. I’ve such an unselfish feeling towards you.”
“Please . . . someone is sure to come along.”
“You can say you’re feeling my pulse.” She gave him a malicious caressing look. “Or else I’ll tell them it’s what the doctor ordered. Oh, you’re doing me so much good. I feel less of a washout already.”