Chapter 16
chapter
St. Helier
When Ivy entered the surgical ward of General Hospital, Dr. Harold Tipton stood at a patient’s bedside by the window with nursing sister Kitty de Puy, one of Fern’s best friends.
At a bed to the right, hospital chaplain Canon Clifford Cohu of St. Saviour’s Church prayed with a patient.
The canon looked drawn, no doubt due to the arrests of many in his parish on charges of owning a wireless and spreading news from the BBC.
Indeed, the canon himself was known for cheering patients with British news.
To the left, Mrs. Le Huquet lay in bed, her leg up in traction. She’d suffered a compound fracture when hit by a speeding German motorcycle. However, the surgeon, Mr. Halliwell, had done a fine bit of work.
Canon Cohu lifted his head and smiled at Ivy, his blue eyes bright. “Good morning, Dr. Picot.”
“Don’t talk to her.” Kitty glared at Ivy. “Her sister works for the Germans.”
Ivy’s stomach caved in, curling her spine, and she struggled to stand tall. Over the past two months, she’d endured some snubbing, but now a wave of compassion crested over the mortification. Fern had lost one of her oldest friends.
A redheaded physician nearing forty years of age, Dr. Tipton slipped a chart onto a hook on the foot of the bed. “Yes, I’m afraid Dr. Picot can’t be trusted.”
“Is it true?” Mrs. Le Huquet’s voice warbled.
Fern’s decision had stirred up a whirlwind in the Picot household.
Would it never subside? Dozens had left the practice, but losing Mrs. Le Huquet would hurt deeply, and Ivy made her way to her patient’s side.
“My sister is indeed working for the Germans, against my advice. I do not approve. However, I’m not her mother but her sister, and her younger sister at that. ”
Canon Cohu rose and set his hand on Ivy’s shoulder. “I trust you.”
“Thank you, Reverend.” Her voice came out in a whisper, trailing the middle-aged man as he left the room.
Mrs. Le Huquet frowned, and her eyebrows tented. “I’m sorry about your sister. That must be difficult for you.”
Ivy picked up the chart, settled into a chair, and set her medical bag beside her. “I’m not here to receive sympathy but to give it. How is your pain?”
The widow fiddled with the braid over her shoulder, of equal parts black and silver. “I won’t lie. It hurts, but I’m thankful to be alive.”
“I’m thankful too. You’ll be in hospital a few weeks, so enjoy the extra rations.”
One corner of Mrs. Le Huquet’s mouth turned up. “That is indeed a benefit.”
“A benefit that’ll continue. When you go home, I’ll order extra milk rations to help heal the bones.” The irony of milk rationing on an island famed for its cows!
Ivy reviewed the chart. All looked well, and Mrs. Le Huquet seemed in good spirits.
“Dr. Picot?” Dr. Tipton stood at the foot of the bed with a stern expression. “May I have a word with you in private?”
How much lower could her heart sink? What if the medical society expelled her? Revoked her hospital privileges? How would she be able to practice medicine?
“Yes, Doctor.” She squeezed her patient’s hand. “Excuse me, Mrs. Le Huquet. I’m glad to see you recovering so well, and I’ll visit in a few days.”
Out in the hallway, Dr. Tipton leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his white coat. He pressed a finger to his lips and watched a nursing sister enter another ward with a tray.
Then he . . . smiled? He leaned closer until his freckles became apparent. “I do hope you can forgive me.” His voice barely reached her ears. “Keeping up appearances and all that. You do understand. But I wanted to thank you for your actions and for the paper. Cheerio.”
With a swirl of white coat, he marched down the hall.
Ivy stared after the man. First he’d berated her, then thanked her. What on earth had happened?
And men claimed women were difficult to understand.
Ivy shook her head and made her way out of the hospital. She did appreciate the gratitude for the paper. At least once a week now, Charlie brought home a ream, saying, “Don’t ask where it came from if you don’t want to know.”
She did not want to know, didn’t want to think of her little brother negotiating France’s black market, so she merely warned him to be careful and accepted the gift.
A twofold gift. Not only did she have writing paper for her own practice and to share with the other physicians, but she’d been able to spare three sketch pads—now five, after one of the doctors returned the sketch pads she’d given him.
With care, they could last for months.
She stepped outside to Gloucester Street under a brilliant blue sky, the hospital entrance now imprinted with the memory of Gerrit van der Zee bowing his goodbye with his arm cradled to his belly, preserving the shreds of her reputation.
Ivy placed her medical bag in her bicycle basket and pedaled down Gloucester Street.
In church, Gerrit and Bernardus no longer conversed with the Picots. Very . . . gallant. Gerrit knew the harm Fern had done to the family, and friendliness with Todt men would only further that harm.
Gerrit did, however, continue to talk to Thelma Galais. Since Thelma had often been ill the past winter, she appreciated his attention when she could attend church. She thought the world of Gerrit van der Zee.
If it weren’t for that uniform, Ivy might share her opinion.
Ivy checked her watch, a practice she was trying to make a habit. Still enough time to visit Joan de Ferrers before lunch.
The only benefit Fern’s new job provided was more freedom in Ivy’s day, and not only from the loss of patients.
The daily routes Fern had designed worked well, and Ivy had retained them.
But now when patients requested home visits, Aunt Ruby insisted on a visit to the surgery if they were able.
With less travel, Ivy could see patients more quickly, and she had more time to treat escapees and to sketch along the way, aided by Charlie’s timer.
At Carter’s Chemist’s, Ivy locked up her bicycle and entered the shop.
“Miss de Ferrers?” Ivy pulled a book from her medical bag and waved it to Joan, far behind the counter. “I brought you a book I found in my father’s office.”
“Oh?” Joan came to the counter. “What sort of book?”
Ivy handed it to her. “It must go back generations to the first Dr. Picot.”
Joan eased the cover open with reverence. “Traditional remedies? Oh my. Look at this. Our modern commercial medications work well, but these—they work too. And look—this grows in the hedgerows.”
Ivy knew she’d like it. But she’d soon lose Joan to the pages, so she cleared her throat. “Anything for me?”
Joan’s gaze dragged up to Ivy, and she kept one possessive finger in the book. “Oh yes. Yes, I do. Mr. Hooper said you were coming out to his farm tomorrow, and he asked if you could bring his thyroid medicine.”
“I’d be glad to.” In their code, “tomorrow” meant the case wasn’t urgent, and “thyroid” meant a general examination of a new escapee.
Mr. Hooper had sheltered several foreign workers in the past, but they never stayed long, shuttled to other homes by members of the “ring,” the name Ivy had given the organization, since no one would tell her about it. Nor should they.
Whoever they were, they trusted her despite everything. Her throat swelled, and she swallowed hard. “You know about my sister’s job, don’t you?”
Joan’s eyes went cool. “Yes.”
“Why do you still . . . ?” She knew better than to speak of their work.
Joan’s eyelids crimped at the mere allusion to that work. Then she scanned the shop with a languid gaze, took a little steel tray, and poured tablets into it. “I trust you.” Her words were almost lost amidst the rat-a-tat of tablets on steel.
Ivy’s throat ballooned over the thanks she should have expressed.
With a metal spatula, Joan scooted tablets in families of five into a chute attached to the side of the tray. “Her reputation serves as an excellent decoy.”
Decoy? Why, yes. Since the entire Picot family had been smeared as collaborators, no one would suspect Ivy of defying the Nazis.
Joan tipped the tray, and the tablets slid down the chute into a glass vial. She flicked up her gaze to Ivy. “She knows nothing.” Was that a statement or a question?
“Since she no longer works for the practice, I don’t discuss patients with her. Even when she did work with me, I only told her what she needed to know for scheduling and billing.”
Joan smoothed a label on the vial and handed it to Ivy. “Mr. Hooper will pay me later.”
Every word veiled, keeping up the appearances of an ordinary transaction.
Keeping up appearances? Ivy’s breath rushed in. Was Dr. Tipton part of the ring? He’d praised her in private for “her actions” but shamed her in public. If he were in the ring, that would make sense.
The question grew in her mouth, but she chewed it to bits. With the Germans, one arrest always led to a dozen. The less each of them knew about the others, the better.
“Is that all for today?” Joan asked.
“Yes.” Ivy tucked the vial in her bag. Her fingers brushed her sketch pad, and she pulled it out. “I have something else for you. A little sketch.”
She tore out the drawing and handed it to the chemist.
Joan stared at it, completely still, except her lips, which rolled in.
Ivy had drawn Joan at work, intent on turning wildflowers into healing medicine.
A wisp of a smile hinted at the chemist’s satisfaction and enjoyment.
Although Joan kept her hair neat, Ivy had drawn half a dozen curls floating free, and she’d used a splash of watercolor to bring out the auburn in those curls, a stroke of peach on her cheeks, spots of yellow on the flowers.
The drawing showed what Ivy saw in Joan—a woman who cared about her patients, a woman dedicated to her craft, but also a woman who lived outside the expectations of others.
Joan didn’t move, and the peach of her cheeks deepened.
Did she hate it? No one would call her a beautiful woman, and Ivy hadn’t hidden the pointiness of Joan’s chin. Fern had hated Ivy’s drawing with similar sharp lines, called it ugly, called Ivy cruel. “I—I’m—”
“You did this for me?” Joan’s voice faltered, her eyelashes fluttered, and her mouth edged up. “It’s rather—well, it’s rather nice, isn’t it?”
She liked it, and Ivy’s smile unfurled.
“I need to close shop.” Joan hefted her chin and spun away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Joan de Ferrers, who knew only the poison of feminine relationships, didn’t know what to do with the sweetness.
“Yes,” Ivy said. “Tomorrow.”
Joan shot her a glance over her shoulder, the jerk of an unpracticed smile.
Ivy smiled back and departed. Gerrit had said art brought her life, like food for her mind and soul. Even more so when it nourished others.