by Betty Neels
The room was clean but crowded with furniture and with a line of washing hanging above their heads. There was a small balcony at one end and two more doors—kitchen and bathroom, guessed Celine, and saw the bed in one corner with a child, presumably Linda, on it. She was a very small girl, thin and feverish-looking, and Celine’s soft heart ached at the sight of her. ‘Is she your only one?’ she asked gently.
‘Only one alive,’ said Mrs Hawkins matter-of-factly. ‘Me ’usband’s dead too.’
‘Does Dr Seymour know that?’
‘Course not—’e only died a month ago.’ She gave Celine a pitying look. ‘New around ’ere, ain’t yer?’
‘Yes, I am, Mrs Hawkins. Would you tell me when it would be convenient for you to be fetched with Linda and I’ll ask Dr Seymour to arrange it.’
Mrs Hawkins shrugged. ‘Termorrer. Mind you, I can’t afford ter pay.’
‘I’m sure he’ll understand that—indeed, he asked me to find out if you needed anything for Linda.’ Celine told the lie quite convincingly: ‘He gave me some money…’
‘A real gent. ‘Elped me when Linda was ill, ‘e did, told me to ask ‘im if I needed anything, but I’ve got me pride, see, and Jim was alive then.’
‘Yes, of course, but you’re on your own now.’ Celine opened her purse and took out a five-pound note. ‘It’s not charity, Mrs Hawkins, it’s to help Linda to get well.’
She walked back quickly, oblivious of the rain. She must see Oliver and tell him and ask him to do something to help Mrs Hawkins and that pitiful scrap staring at her from the bed in the corner.
The clinic was only half over, and there was no one free to tell; she waited until the last patient had gone and because Sister Griffiths was busy writing, went along to Oliver’s room.
He wasn’t there. David Slater sat in his chair, tidying his notes. He looked up with a smile as Celine went in and asked: ‘Any luck?’
‘Yes, I think so. I—expected to see Dr Seymour…’
‘Oh, he’s away for a few days, but he told me about Mrs Hawkins,’ he scrabbled round among the papers on the desk—‘there’s a note somewhere.’
Celine was aware of bitter disappointment. She had for the moment forgotten that she never wanted to see Oliver again. Just now he was the one person she did want to see, but David Slater would have to do instead.
She explained at some length and he listened carefully. When she had finished he said: ‘You’ve done very well—I’ll make a note of that fiver and let you have it back. Get Sister Griffiths to arrange a taxi for tomorrow morning, will you?’
‘Could you let Dr Seymour know?’
David Slater gave her a quick look of surprise. ‘Well, I don’t suppose he wants to be disturbed when he’s on holiday.’
She agreed in a subdued voice, ‘No, of course not—how silly of me!’
She went back to her chores. Oliver hadn’t said a word about going on holiday, but then why should he? He never talked about himself, even when they had been together all day. She couldn’t remember his telling her anything relating to his private life. But then why should he have done? She had shown clearly enough that she wasn’t in the least interested. She had been appallingly rude too, thinking about it made her blush hotly; she would apologise when she saw him again. For some reason she felt depressed for the rest of the day, and it wasn’t because of Nicky. To her surprise she discovered, by the end of the evening session, that she hadn’t given him so much as one thought. On the other hand, she had been wondering frequently what Oliver was doing and where he had gone.
Her spirits were still low after supper. She went downstairs to the office and telephoned her mother, to be told by her that the bed and breakfast business was flourishing, that Dusty missed her, and when was she coming home for a day or two?
‘I hope Oliver isn’t working you too hard,’ observed her mother’s voice anxiously, and when Celine reassured her: ‘Well, of course, he’s far too nice to do that. Have you bought anything nice, darling?’
It was a little difficult to make her mother understand that she didn’t have a great deal of time to go shopping. Free time was limited and it was quite a journey to Harrods or the smart little boutiques around Sloane Street. Her mother said comfortably: ‘Oh, well, darling, I daresay Oliver would give you a lift if you asked him.’
It seemed unlikely to Celine that Oliver would ever offer to take her anywhere again. Between weeping all over him and calling him names she had proved herself to be a companion any man in his right mind would shun. She rang off presently, feeling she wasn’t needed anywhere; Aunt Chloe was managing splendidly, and Nurse Byng would be coming back from her holiday on Friday, and it would be quite possible to manage without her amateurish efforts at the surgery.
The week wore on slowly, the only bright spot being the arrival of Mrs Hawkins and Linda and that lady’s promise that provided she had a taxi she would attend regularly.
‘Nice enough,’ she confided to Celine, on her way out, ‘that young doctor, but not a patch on Dr Seymour. I wish ’e was ’ere.’
Celine, rather more grammatically, wished he was too.
On Thursday evening Sister Griffiths announced that she would be going on holiday herself on Saturday for a week, and Celine would find Dorothy Byng very easy to get on with. ‘And when I get back you shall have your weekend,’ she promised. ‘And I must say you’ve earned it; when I first saw you I never thought you’d stick it, but you have, and you’re a real help to all of us.’ She added as an afterthought: ‘You’re far too pretty, of course.’
Celine went pink. ‘Why, thank you, Sister Griffiths…’
‘And you might as well call me Maggie, everyone else does.’
Nurse Byng worked part-time, but when Sister Griffiths was away, she came for the whole day. She was a short stout woman with a round cheerful face and a tremendous capacity for hard work, and although she lacked Sister Griffiths’ severity, she conformed to that lady’s high standards. But she did enjoy a good gossip, from her Celine learned that David Slater was married to a French girl and had a baby daughter to whom Dr Seymour was godfather. ‘And if you ask me,’ added Nurse Byng, ‘he ought to marry himself and have a family of his own. It’s a waste, a nice man like him being single. He had an unhappy affair years ago and it turned him off women—at least that’s what they say. Always the gentleman, mind you, but never meets the right girl, though heaven knows he’s had plenty of girl-friends. Of course, he’s got family commitments, and that good-for-nothing cousin of his does his best to make trouble.’
‘What sort of commitments?’ asked Celine, anxious to know more.
‘Well, he’s the one with the money—lent any amount to that cousin and for all I know never had a penny of it back.’ She darted a look at Celine, sitting composedly eating her lunch. ‘You met his uncle and aunt, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. They were nice.’
‘That son of theirs costs them a packet, by all accounts. He’s got a nice little wife too—and a child. Some men never know when to settle down, do they?’
‘It seems not,’ murmured Celine. Nicky somehow seemed unimportant now. She supposed she had loved him, but that love was so dead now she couldn’t remember how she had felt, only a blessed relief that she no longer thought about him or cared in the least what happened to him. Oliver had been right, and it would be her just deserts if he were to say I told you so. She poured more coffee and reflected that she wouldn’t mind if he did just so long as he was there to say something. The surgery seemed very empty without him.
In two days’ time it would be Sunday, and she had made no plans, refusing to admit to herself that she was nervous of running into Nicky. There had been nothing since the note Oliver had torn up in such a high-handed manner and perhaps he would never try to contact her again, she hoped so. But she would have to get out, away from the surgery—out of London.
Her problem was solved for her by Dorothy Byng, who during the course of the evening clinic wanted
to know if she would like to spend Sunday afternoon with her. ‘We live at Greenwich, just me and Bill and Emma—that’s our daughter. It’s an easy trip once you know the way, just through the Blackwall Tunnel—the bus takes you almost to the door, but Bill will come for you—about two o’clock. We can have a walk in the park and you must stay to supper.’
‘Won’t I be a nuisance?’ protested Celine. ‘I mean, you don’t get much time at home…’
‘Bless you, Celine, it’ll be a treat to have you. You can talk clothes with Emma—she’s fourteen and mad about fashion, and Bill likes a chat with someone different.’
‘Well, if you’re sure I won’t be in the way, I’d love to come.’ Celine beamed with pleasure and relief. ‘And you’re awfully kind to ask me.’
Saturday didn’t seem so bad now that she had something to look forward to on Sunday. She washed her hair, washed her smalls, did some ironing and her nails, accompanied Mrs Thatch on a shopping expedition to the local shops and went to bed early with a book; not an exciting day, but as she reminded herself, next weekend she would be home.
She enjoyed her Sunday outing too, Bill, a short taciturn man with a nice smile, drove her to Greenwich, to the small terraced house where Dorothy welcomed her with a warmth which made up for her rather lonely weekend. They went for a walk almost as soon as she arrived, with Emma hanging on her arm, eagerly talking about clothes. ‘That’s a lovely dress,’ she declared, eyeing Celine’s Italian jersey dress with frank envy. ‘I’ll have those sort of clothes when I’m older.’
‘They last for years,’ said Celine practically. ‘They’re more expensive to buy, but they go on and on. What are you going to do when you leave school?’
They went back for a large, old-fashioned tea presently, cake and scones and jam and a plate of bread and butter, and Celine was allowed to help with the washing up while Bill watched the news on TV. They just sat and walked after that, and Celine found herself trying to lead the talk round to Oliver, but Dorothy at home wasn’t as gossipy as she was at the surgery. She gave up presently and went round the house with her hostess, admiring everything they had done to improve it. They were a happy family, that was evident, and Celine, who had been feeling unaccountably disturbed about something she couldn’t place a finger on, felt soothed by that.
They sat down to supper presently—cold ham and salad and pickles and a gorgeous trifle washed down by cups of coffee. She got up to go with real reluctance, not wanting to end her day.
‘You must come again,’ said Dorothy kindly, ‘and next time we go shopping for Emma, perhaps you’d come with us—to give us advice, you know. She knows what she wants, but sometimes it goes wrong.’
‘Oh, I’d love to. We could go to Laura Ashley—not expensive, and caters for Emma’s age group.’
Celine said goodbye and see you tomorrow, then got into the little car beside Bill, still taciturn but friendly as he drove her back to Bethnal Green.
‘Nice to have had you,’ he told her on parting. ‘And our Emma’s taken to you—you must come again.’
She thanked him and meant it when she said that she would like to. She unlocked the door and went in with a last wave as she shut the door behind her.
There was a letter for her on the hall table. She knew the handwriting, of course, and just for a moment she was tempted to tear it to pieces, but curiosity got the better of her good judgement, and she opened it. Nicky had called, it said, he wanted to see her and why hadn’t she answered his last letter. He would explain everything.
Celine read it to the end, put it back in the envelope and went upstairs to bed, wishing with all her heart that Oliver had been there to tear it into tiny pieces with casual contempt. She didn’t do that, but laid it on the dressing-table and got ready for bed, where, surprisingly enough, she forgot all about it, her head fully occupied with speculation as to when Oliver would return.
The surgery was always busy on a Monday morning. The waiting-room was already comfortably full as she went through it on her way to the office with the post. There was still fifteen minutes before Dr Slater would arrive, and Dorothy had warned her that she might be a little late if the traffic was heavy. Celine opened the office door and went in briskly, to stop short at the sight of Oliver sitting at his desk. He looked elegant, too elegant for his surroundings, but probably he was going on later that morning to his hospital rounds or whatever he did—she was a bit vague about that.
She said breathlessly: ‘Oh, Oliver, how nice to see you…’ but anything else she had been going to say was choked back because of his raised eyebrows and the amused surprise on his face. She remembered then that she had told him that she never wanted to see him again, and he’d remembered that too. She stuck out her beautiful chin. ‘Good morning,’ and she put the post on the desk and turned to go.
His pleasant, ‘Good morning, Celine,’ made her hesitate and she turned right round again when he went on, still very pleasant, but distant too: ‘Let me introduce Dr Peter Trent—he’s to be the third partner here. Peter, this is Miss Celine Baylis, our—er—right hand around the place.’
She hadn’t noticed him because she had had eyes only for Oliver, but now she looked at the young man standing in a corner of the office. He was a little above middle height and slim, with a shock of fair hair and bright blue eyes in a face which just missed good looks. They shook hands and Celine, returning his smile, thought he looked nice, and certainly more friendly than Oliver.
‘Nurse Byng here?’ asked Oliver. ‘If she is, will you ask her to come in?’
She said, ‘Yes, Dr Seymour,’ in what she hoped sounded like a coolly efficient voice, and whisked out of the room and bumped, luckily enough into Dorothy’s cosy person.
‘He’s back,’ said Celine. ‘He wants you in the office.’
Nurse Byng nodded, her sharp eyes on Celine’s face. ‘There’s a child feeling sick—will you deal with him?’
Celine did her best. She was still somewhat inept but she was willing and patient and outwardly serene; inside she blazed at the cool way Oliver had dismissed her, and presently the blaze turned into a kind of sadness. She was only just beginning to realise what a dependable man he was, and undemanding too. No wonder his aunt and uncle had sent for him—and she had treated him very badly. She would have to apologise and hope they would be friends again. Performing her mundane tasks, she tried out several speeches, not too eager, she hoped, but extending a whole bouquet of olive branches if he should choose to grasp it. The clinic was almost over, she would catch him before he left.
She was speeding the last small patient on his way when Oliver went past her, got into his car and drove off. He wouldn’t be back until the evening, Dorothy Byng told her over their hasty lunch. David Slater would be coming for the afternoon clinic—a small one, as it happened, and the new doctor would stay all day. ‘Doctor Seymour seems anxious to work him in as quickly as possible,’ said Dorothy. ‘Perhaps he’s planning to do fewer hours here—I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s got a big practice, you know, as well as beds in several hospitals. He’s very high up in his profession—internationally well-known, one might say.’ She passed her cup for more coffee. ‘We’d better get a move on. The new man’s nice, but he is a bit slow.’
It was strange, but Celine was quite unable to speak to Oliver alone. He came and went, and it always seemed to her that he did this just at the very moment when she was too busy to get to the office. It was Saturday morning and Sister Griffiths was back, refreshed from her holiday and more exacting than ever, before she was told she was to have her weekend. ‘Though you’ll have to stay until the morning clinic’s over this morning,’ said Sister Griffiths, ‘because Nurse Byng has to take her daughter to the dentist, and won’t be coming in. You can have an extra half day to make up for that later on.’
Celine thanked her. It was short notice with a vengeance, but it would take only a couple of minutes to fling some things into an overnight bag and get a bus to Paddington. She had no i
dea of the trains…something that didn’t matter, as it turned out, because young Dr Peter Trent waylaid her between the waiting-room and the surgery and asked her in a bumbling fashion if he could give her a lift.
‘I’m going down to Bath for the weekend, and it’s not at all out of my way,’ he explained, ‘and I’ve got to be back here on Monday morning. I’d give you a lift back on Sunday evening—it’s really no trouble.’
Celine beamed at him. ‘I’d be very grateful—I’ve been wondering about trains and things. Are you going from here at the end of the clinic?’
He nodded. ‘I’ve got my case in the car—I don’t suppose you’d take long to pack?’
‘Five minutes—ten at the most. And thank you very much, Dr Trent.’
‘Everyone calls you Celine,’ he mumbled, ‘perhaps you’d call me Peter?’
‘All right, Peter. I’ll be as quick as I can. Are you sure it’s no trouble?’
He shook his head. ‘It’ll be nice to have company.’
He went into the surgery, and a few minutes later Oliver arrived and the stream of patients started to ooze slowly from the waiting-room to the office.
Half way through the session Oliver looked up from his desk. He asked casually: ‘Did Celine agree to your offer of a lift home, Peter?’
‘Yes, I think she was jolly pleased about it—saves her a lot of fussing about with trains and so on. It was kind of you to suggest it—thank you, sir.’
Oliver picked up the next batch of notes. ‘It’s a long drive on your own,’ he observed laconically. ‘Now this next child…’
The moment the door had shut on the last of the patients, Sister Griffiths shooed Celine away. ‘Go and get your things together before we change our minds,’ she counselled.
‘Yes, but I wanted to see Dr Seymour about something…’
‘Well, you can’t,’ declared Sister Griffiths forthrightly. ‘He told me I was to go in the moment surgery was over, and he won’t thank you for changing his plans. Off with you, and have a good time.’
