The Silver Locket by Margaret James Page B

face. He had no right to make her blush.
    When she’d led him over to the bath house that first morning, he had sat and watched her as she filled the wooden tub.
    ‘I expect you can manage by yourself,’ she’d told him briskly, as she checked the water to make sure it was hot.
    ‘I don’t think so, Sister.’ He’d fumbled ineffectually with his dressing gown. ‘I can’t untie the belt on this.’
    So she’d untied it for him.
    He’d let the gown slide to the floor, then looked down helplessly at his pyjamas. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t manage buttons yet.’
    She helped him take off his pyjama jacket.
    He tugged at his pyjama trousers. ‘The cord is in a knot.’
    As Rose untied the cord, she felt her face begin to glow. She’d helped to bath hundreds of men, and they always hated it, resented being treated like helpless infants. Sometimes it was even worse than that, for some of them would be aroused, and then it was horribly embarrassing.
    Also, nurses weren’t supposed to be alone with patients. Unless they were very busy, baths were always done in pairs. ‘I think you’ll be fine now,’ she said curtly.
    ‘I’m still very unsteady on my feet.’ As the sun poured through the dusty windows of the little bath house, Alex looked at her and smiled, and to her dismay her heart turned somersaults of pleasure. ‘I think you’d better stay.’
    He was most insistent he couldn’t wash himself, so she had to do it, carefully dabbing at the half-healed shrapnel wounds that streaked down his left side, soaping him all over, then rinsing him with buckets of cool water from the pump outside. Then she wrapped him in a soft, white towel and rubbed him dry.
    He smelled of cinnamon, she realised. Almost obliterated by the harsh, clean top notes of regulation issue army soap, there were intoxicating undertones of oriental spice and sun-warmed skin.
    ‘Thank you, Sister.’ As she dressed him in some clean pyjamas, then helped him put his dressing gown back on, he’d sighed contentedly. As she turned the collar back, she could feel his gaze upon her face.
    ‘Rose, you’re as red as anything,’ he whispered. ‘You have done this sort of thing before?’
    ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Denham?’
    ‘I said it’s looking dark out there.’ He grinned, and Rose was almost sure he winked. ‘I think there’s going to be a storm.’
    She carried the tray of drinks into the ward. When she came to Alex’s bed, she put his cup of cocoa on his locker, and then moved on without a word.
    But as she walked back up the ward, he called her over. ‘May I have a glass of brandy, please?’ he asked politely.
    ‘I think you’ve probably had enough today.’ Rose was getting concerned about his drinking. He was always asking her for brandy, but he never seemed the worse for drink, and she’d been warned this was a danger sign.
    He hadn’t always been a hardened drinker, able to soak up brandy like a sponge and still seem stone-cold sober. She had not forgotten the night he’d lurched across the ballroom at the Minster to ask her if she’d dance.
    The smile he’d given her then had made her feel light-headed, as if she had drunk wine. ‘Go on Sister, be a sport,’ he said, and smiled again.
    ‘But are you in pain?’ she asked, concerned.
    ‘In torment.’ Alex’s gaze was on her face. ‘Sister, you can’t imagine what it’s like, I’m in such agony.’
    ‘Dr Lloyd will be here soon,’ said Rose. ‘I’ll ask if you can have a shot of morphine, so you won’t need more alcohol tonight.’
    The following morning, when Rose, Belinda and the orderlies took round the breakfast trays, they found the men were grinning and nodding knowingly at Rose.
    ‘What’s the matter with you all this morning?’ she demanded, as she put Alex’s tray down on his locker, then took the top off his boiled egg.
    ‘Your notoriety has caught up with you.’ Alex picked his spoon up and started on his egg. ‘Where’s my toast