by Betty Neels
Getting into the car presently, she said: ‘I am enjoying myself.’
Oliver turned the car Londonwards. ‘So am I.’
Celine didn’t ask where they were going next; she was content not to know. He threaded his way through the city’s heart, going towards the river, going westwards as well as south, but as they drove down the Kings Road she asked suddenly: ‘Where are we going?’
‘Home for tea.’ And presently the car turned into a narrow road alongside the river and a row of charming old houses facing the water.
‘Oh, it’s Strand on the Green!’ Celine turned to look at him. ‘Do you know someone who lives here? Isn’t it heavenly? Not like London at all.’
‘I like it. I live here.’
He had drawn up before a narrow-fronted house in the middle of the row. ‘It seems a good idea to have tea here, then you can tidy up before the theatre.’
He got out and opened her door and they crossed the pavement together. Oliver opened the street door and stood aside to let her go in. The hall was narrow, panelled with white painted wood and thickly carpeted in a rich mulberry colour. It was bright and welcoming and there was a bowl of flowers on the wall table and a rather beautiful chandelier; after the spick and span austerity of the surgery it seemed like heaven to Celine.
Someone had come through the door at the end of the hall; an elderly man with a fringe of grey hair framing a round face. He was portly and dressed very precisely, and if he was surprised to see Celine his bland features gave no sign of it.
He was introduced as Pym, asked to fetch tea and show Celine to a bedroom where she might tidy herself, and tell Mrs Pym that her services might be required there. ‘And you’ll excuse me for a moment, Celine?’ went on Oliver, all at once the doctor again. ‘I’ve a couple of phone calls to make. Mrs Pym will take you to the sitting-room when you’re ready.’
The stairs were narrow, curving gracefully to the floor above, and on the landing Celine glimpsed another small staircase and a passage leading to the back of the house before Pym opened a door and begged her to go in.
The room was small compared to her own room at home, but it was furnished in great taste with a small bed, a dressing-table under the window, a tall boy and a comfortable chair beside a drum table. The colours were muted pastels and the carpet was white. Celine, having lived all her life with fine furniture, looked everything over with a knowledgeable eye and liked it very much.
She went into the adjoining bathroom, where she washed her face and hands and did her hair, then she made up once more, and by then Mrs Pym had tapped on the door—a small cosy woman who reminded her of Angela. It was very pleasant to be fussed over again; she had begun to get used to her spartan life at the clinic.
She accompanied Mrs Pym downstairs presently and was ushered into a long narrow room, its windows overlooking the river, and here the furniture was exactly right too, a medley of comfortable chairs and beautifully cared for antiques. There was no sign of Oliver. Celine went to the window and looked out at the water, thinking how delightful it must be to live in this charming house. And she was surprised too. She hadn’t given Oliver much thought; he disappeared each day in his car after the clinic was over and she had supposed vaguely that he lived somewhere in London—a flat, because so many people lived in flats and they were convenient, especially for someone on their own.
She turned round as the door opened and he came in.
‘Nice view, isn’t it?’ He crossed the room and came to stand beside her. ‘There’s always something to see from this window, and it’s quiet.’
‘It’s beautiful—after Bethnal Green.’ She sighed without knowing it and he glanced down at her.
‘Have you bitten off more than you can chew?’ His tone was light; but she knew him well enough to know that he would want an answer.
‘Certainly not. I found it a bit—well, strange at first, but now I like it—it’s worthwhile.’
‘Yes, it is.’ He turned away as Pym came in with the tea tray. ‘Here’s tea—there’s rather a nice garden behind the house, perhaps you would like to see it presently?’
They ate their tea sitting at the window—cucumber sandwiches, a rich fruit cake and tiny fairy cakes and tea from a silver pot. After Mrs Thatch’s brown teapot and thick china, it was a treat. Oliver, making inroads into the cake, carried on a desultory conversation which demanded little of her attention but was just sufficient to stop her thinking too many thoughts, and presently he took her to the end of the narrow hall and opened a door into a much smaller room, a sitting-room, she supposed, although why on earth he should need two she had no idea. There was a french window here standing open and beyond it a small gravel paved patio with easy chairs and a table, and beyond that still the prettiest little garden she had ever seen. It was walled, the small old bricks almost covered by roses, a peach tree or two and clematis. The flower beds below the walls were packed with a riot of flowers and there was a very small fountain in the centre of the lawn.
‘Pocket handkerchief size,’ said Oliver, ‘but nice to relax in when I get the time.’
‘It’s beautiful! Do you have a gardener? You don’t look…’ she stopped herself just in time from saying that he didn’t look as though he could garden, he was too elegant.
If he noticed her hesitation he took no notice of it. ‘Lord, no—I potter myself, and Pym and Mrs Pym pull the odd weed or two from time to time. My mother had a lovely garden and I suppose I’ve inherited her pleasure in growing things.’
‘No animals?’ asked Celine.
‘A battered old cat called May and couple of Jack Russells—they’re at the vet’s having a going over, Pym will fetch them presently.’
‘I’d like to see them. And why do you call the cat May?’
‘That was the month in which we found him.’
She lifted her face to the late afternoon sun. ‘It must be delightful living here, but don’t you wish you had more time to enjoy it?’
Oliver was standing with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall. ‘Yes, often.’ He looked as though he was going to say something else, but he didn’t, and she filled an awkward little silence. ‘You said we were going to the theatre—what are we going to see?’
‘Cats—I hope you’ll enjoy it, Celine.’
‘Oh, I shall—it’s months since I went anywhere.’ She looked down at herself. ‘Will I do like this?’
The glance he gave her was swift and heavy-lidded. ‘Charmingly. I thought we might eat here rather earlier than usual and perhaps have supper after the show.’
‘Oh, how lovely—I’d forgotten just what fun London can be!’
‘But you are really a home bird, aren’t you, Celine?’
‘I suppose so—I mean, I could live at home and not mind very much if I never saw London again, I suppose, but if I had to live in Bethnal Green for the rest of my life I just couldn’t.’
‘Could you live here?’
She answered readily, ‘Of course—it’s a little oasis, isn’t it? This house and garden could be anywhere—it’s a perfect little world of its own.’
Oliver smiled. ‘I like to think so—I’m glad you share my views.’
They dined later in a small elegant room furnished with some nice pieces of Regency mahogany, its silk-hung walls almost covered with family portraits. And Pym’s wife proved herself to be just as good a cook as Angela, serving up tiny pancakes filled with mushrooms, lamb cutlets with a host of vegetables and a syllabub to follow, and there was time to sit over their coffee before leaving for the theatre. Celine, nicely full and conscious that the white Burgundy they had drunk at dinner had made her feel, that the world, if not quite right, was almost so, got into the car with a small sigh of content. ‘I’m having a lovely day,’ she declared, and added belatedly, ‘It’s very kind of you—thank you very much.’
‘I’m having a lovely day too.’ His voice was friendly and quite impersonal.
They had excellent seats in the
stalls and the theatre was full, adding to the excitement Celine felt. She sat enthralled until the interval and when Oliver suggested that they might get a drink, she got up happily and went with him to the bar.
It was crowded, and they were edging their way through the people clustered around when Oliver touched her arm. ‘Over here,’ he said, and a moment later: ‘Hullo, Daphne.’ He had stopped by a young woman, dark and attractive and strikingly dressed, who turned round to face him at once.
‘Oliver, how nice to see you!’ She looked at Celine and Oliver said with a kind of lazy good humour,
‘This is Celine Baylis—Celine, meet Nicky’s wife, Daphne.’
Celine felt the blood draining from her face, but she had had six years of good manners drilled into her at the excellent girls’ school she had been sent to—moreover, she had inherited a good deal of her father’s spirit—a dreamy man now, but much decorated during the last war. She lifted her chin a very little, summoned a smile and offered a hand, her social murmur exactly right.
‘Now this is nice,’ exclaimed the girl. ‘Mother-in-law has told me so much about you and what a great help you were while they were staying at your home. You must go and see them—Father-in-law’s much better, you know.’
‘Is Nicky with you?’ asked Oliver idly.
She made a face. ‘Yes—we’re trying again, my dear. I don’t suppose it’ll work, but we do have to think of Mandy.’ She glanced at Celine. ‘My little daughter.’ She looked round her. ‘Heaven knows where Nicky is—go and get your drinks, Oliver, while Celine and I have a gossip.’
And when he had gone, ‘I daresay you know that Nicky and I plan to separate—at least, I do; he insists on having another shot at making a go of it, but it won’t work, of course. His mother and father pretend there’s nothing the matter—they dote on him, although they know he wouldn’t lift a finger to help them—that’s left for Oliver, bless him.’ She tucked a hand under Celine’s elbow. ‘You’re very pale, is it too hot for you here?’
‘It is warm,’ Celine seized on the excuse, ‘and I’m not used to these crushes, but I feel fine, thanks. Tell me about your little girl.’
Oliver came back with their drinks and she took hers without looking higher than his tie. She was so angry that she bubbled with rage; how dare he? He’d ruined her lovely day, and very likely he had done it deliberately. If Nicky turned up now she wasn’t sure what she would do. But he didn’t; Oliver took them both back presently and left Daphne in her seat before they settled once more in their own. But now all the fun had gone out of the evening. Celine hardly heard a note and the stage was a meaningless blur. She couldn’t wait for it all to end, and when finally it was over and they stood up and began the slow progress to the exit, she saw Daphne waving. She waved back, sick at heart to see Nicky beside her. He hadn’t wanted even to meet her, and a good thing too—she didn’t know who she hated most, him or his massive cousin, behaving for all the world as though nothing was the matter!
They had to walk a little way to the car, and neither spoke until they were in it. As he drove away from the theatre she exploded. ‘You knew—you knew, didn’t you? That they were going to be there. You did it deliberately—you’ve spoilt my lovely day…’ She stopped because she was going to cry, the last thing she wanted to do, especially in front of him.
Oliver slid the car into the stream of traffic leaving the theatre.
His, ‘Yes, I did it deliberately, Celine,’ was imperturbable.
‘I want to go back to the surgery,’ muttered Celine. ‘I don’t want to go out to supper with you, now or ever—I don’t want to see you again ever!’
She was aware that this was a very unfair remark and that it would be difficult to adhere to. She added fiercely: ‘Nicky said you always interfered…’
‘Tell me something,’ asked Oliver, at his most placid, ignoring her tears and sniffs. ‘Did you intend seeing Nicky again? Willingly?’
‘Of course not!’
‘You are in fact crying for the moon. Far more sense if you looked up at your star—your midsummer star, remember?’
She didn’t answer that. By the time he drew up before the surgery door she had stopped crying and had mopped her face and was staring stonily in front of her.
Oliver was out of the car and opening her door before she could do anything about it. He opened the surgery door too and stood aside to let her go in, then followed her. Mrs Thatch had left a light on in the hall and there was a note propped up against the flowers on the table, addressed to Celine.
She picked it up and saw that the writing was Nicky’s, hardly noticing Oliver’s sharp glance as he passed her on his way to the little kitchen.
She opened it slowly and felt sick as she read it: Nicky had called to see her, he had splendid news and he begged her to see him again. His wife had left him, he would be free in a few months, he was her devoted Nicky.
She stood with the letter dangling from one hand. She didn’t want to cry any more, only run away and hide somewhere. Oliver came back and took the letter from her without asking, read it and then tore it very deliberately in pieces. ‘There’s a nice pot of tea waiting,’ he told her, and propelled her into the kitchen and on to a chair. Apparently unnoticing of her dead white face and shaking hands, he perched on the edge of the table and said cheerfully, ‘I’ve got a job for you tomorrow. There’s a Mrs Hawkins living in Sunshine Row who’s being unco-operative about bringing her young Linda to see me. The child was in hospital for weeks with Huntington’s chorea, her mum took her home before she should have been discharged and although we’ve sent follow-up letters, there’s no trace. I want you to go and see her if you can and persuade her that it’s vital to Linda’s health that she should come here. I’ll leave the address and the particulars on my desk so you can go after breakfast. If you find a situation you can’t cope with, ring back here—I’ll leave a note for David.’ He didn’t ask if she wanted to go, he had taken it for granted that she would do as she was told. ‘Have you any idea what chorea is?’
She said slowly: ‘Wasn’t it called StVitus’Dance years ago?’
‘Near enough. Use your eyes while you’re there, make sure Linda’s being cared for as far as possible, and above all, try and get Mrs Hawkins to bring her here.’ He stretched out an arm and took the mug from her hand. ‘Now go to bed.’
Celine got up obediently and he stood up too. Whatever she felt, manners had to be remembered. She said in a rigid voice: ‘Thank you for my day out,’ and then, the manners forgotten, hurled herself at him and buried her head against his shoulder. She was a big girl; it was fortunate that he was an even bigger man. He caught her deftly and held her close while she grizzled. Presently she pulled away and raised her eyes to his. ‘I must be mad,’ she told him, ‘after what you did this evening.’ She drew a deep breath and then rushed on in a rather loud voice, ‘I said I didn’t want to see you ever again, and I meant it!’
‘That’s a perfectly natural reaction.’ Oliver opened the door for her. ‘Don’t forget Mrs Hawkins in the morning, will you?’
She brushed past him with a muttered goodnight and once in her room tore off her clothes and jumped into bed. She wouldn’t sleep, of that she was certain; her head was seething with odds and ends of thoughts which needed sorting out before morning. ‘Nicky, oh, Nicky!’ she said to the dark room, but it was Oliver’s calm face which her mind’s eye saw before she fell into exhausted, dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER SIX
IT WAS A DULL morning when she woke, but warm. She found Sister Griffiths already in the surgery when she went down after her breakfast, and that lady lost no time in telling her to be off to Sunshine Row. ‘We’ve all tried our luck with Mrs Hawkins, perhaps you’ll do better. Be sure and telephone if you’re worried about anything.’
Sunshine Row didn’t live up to its name. Even on the brightest of days it would have been gloomy, and now, under a steady drizzle from a grey sky, it looked the very antithesis of that name. It w
as a narrow lane, with a high brick wall, surrounding some nameless factory running its length on one side, and a row of mean little houses on the other. The pavement was greasy, and old plastic bags, cigarette cartons, banana skins and orange peel made walking on it hazardous. Her instructions said number six; Celine knocked on the half-open door and when a harsh voice bade her come in, she went. The hall was narrow with threadbare lino on the floor and it smelled of onions and cabbage and washing. Guided by the voice, she went upstairs and came face to face with a sharp-featured woman with her hair in curlers, swathed in a grubby overall.
‘Mrs Hawkins?’ asked Celine in what she hoped was a confident voice.
‘S’ right. ‘Oo are you?’ The woman jerked her head. ‘If you’re from Security you can ‘op it—spying on me!’
‘I’m from Dr Seymour.’ Celine was relieved to see the woman’s face soften a little, although her voice was harsh still.
“E wants to see little Linda, does ‘e? Well, tell ‘im from me that she’s OK ‘E did ’er a lot of good in ’orspital, but ’ome’s where she belongs.’
‘I’m sure he agrees with you,’ said Celine hastily. ‘It’s just that if he could keep an eye on her each week, there’d never be any need for her to go into hospital. Perhaps no one explained that to you? And I’m sure he’d arrange for Linda to be taken to the surgery with you.’
“Ow d’yer mean, a taxi?’
Celine crossed her fingers. ‘That’s right, he asked me to fix things if you would agree.’
‘No strings?’
‘None. He—or his partner—just want to take a look at Linda at regular intervals.’
Mrs Hawkins stared hard at her. ‘Come on in,’ she invited.
