by Betty Neels
He was dragging himself down the middle of the street when she arrived at work on Monday morning. He was hurt and dazed and yelping piteously, and none of the cars avoiding him stopped; indeed, sooner or later he was going to get run over. A car, going too fast, brushed past him and he panicked and ran across the road as best he might, hampered by the stout rope trailing from his neck.
Charity went after him, holding up an imperious hand to the oncoming traffic, not heeding the squeal of brakes and the angry shouts. The dog was standing still now, swaying a little, and she was almost near enough to snatch at the rope…
‘Don’t move,’ said the professor softly as he went past her, picked up the rope and went slowly up to the dog, taking no notice at all of the snarl-up of traffic around him. He picked the beast up and rejoined her, then they crossed the street together.
‘If you would unlock the door?’ he suggested mildly and went through to his own rooms to the cloakroom, where he laid the dog gently on the floor. Charity, hard on his heels, filled a bowl with water and put it by the dog, who lay panting quietly. The professor cast off his coat and squatted down beside him, allowed him to drink and then set about examining him.
‘No bones broken, by a miracle. He’s tired out and starved. Have we any food? Milk or something?’
Charity produced milk and watched the dog guzzle it down and then drop his head back on to the floor.
‘There’s a blanket in the cupboard. Bring it here, will you, Charity? I think the best thing is for me to carry him to my house—there’s someone there who will look after him. He’s been roughly treated but as far as I can see all that he needs is food and rest…’
‘And someone to mind about him,’ added Charity fiercely. ‘All those hard-hearted idiots not caring—he could have been killed.’
She fetched the blanket and he said, ‘Look in the phone book on my desk; under V—my vet’s number is there. Ask him to go to my house, will you? What time is my first patient?’
‘Nine o’clock.’
He was wrapping the dog in the blanket and she went to open the door for him. He paused when he reached it, looking down at her, a look on his face she couldn’t understand. ‘It’s no good me telling you not to go around rescuing stray animals for I know you wouldn’t listen, but don’t do it too often, my heart won’t stand it.’
He bent and kissed her very gently.
CHAPTER FIVE
CHARITY CLOSED THE DOOR after him and stood leaning against it. She had been taken by surprise and she wanted to think about it. She was still there when someone outside turned the handle and tried to get in—Mrs Kemp, putting a puzzled face round the edge of the door as Charity stood up and pulled it open.
‘Hallo,’ said Mrs Kemp. ‘Whatever are you doing here? My goodness, I thought it might be burglars or something…’
Charity gave her a dazzling smile. ‘I came down to let Professor Wyllie-Lyon out. There was a dog in the street—a stray—and the traffic wouldn’t stop. We went after it. It’s all right; he’s taken it to his house…’
Mrs Kemp studied the smile. After a little pause she said, ‘Just what he would do, bless him. I suppose there’s a frightful mess in his room?’
‘No,’ said Charity dreamily, ‘in the cloakroom—I’ll clear it up.’
She wandered over behind Mrs Kemp’s solid back and set to work to restore order and get the coffee percolator going. She would have to get on with her work, too; she got out patients’ notes and arranged the files neatly, her head full of those brief moments at the door. Just what had he meant? And he had kissed her! She hugged the glorious fact to herself. She would have liked more time to enjoy the memory, but she could hear Mrs Kemp talking in the waiting room; the first patients would have arrived.
She sat down at her desk and then jumped up again to take a look at her face in the looking-glass in the cloakroom. Her glowing, bright-eyed face stared back at her; she added a touch more lipstick, patted the little curls which had escaped from the french pleat, and went back to her desk. She had barely begun to type when the door opened and the professor walked in.
She wasn’t sure what she expected, certainly not this matter-of-fact aloofness.
He said without preamble, ‘He’ll do—the vet’s on his way; someone’s cleaning the beast up—he must have been straying for a long time.’ He paused at the door. ‘Let me have the X-Rays for Mrs Foster, will you?’
He went into his consulting room and closed the door quietly.
Buoyed up by rage and disappointment, she was the perfect secretary. He went to Augustine’s presently, came back to see his patients in the afternoon, then back to the hospital for an emergency, pausing this time long enough to tell her that the vet had phoned to say that the dog needed only care and good food to make a good recovery.
She finished her work in the silent place; Mrs Kemp had gone home. She added the last letter to the pile to be signed, covered her machine, tidied the cloakroom and put on her coat. She felt utterly dispirited. Why, oh, why, couldn’t she have fallen head over heels in love with Sidney instead of this remote man who looked upon her merely as a cog in the well-oiled machinery of his daily life?
She switched out the lights and went to the door just as the professor opened it and came in. He said easily, ‘Ah, there you are. If you’re ready we’ll have a look at that dog?’
She goggled at him. ‘Dog? He’s at your home…’
‘Well, of course he is. You’d like a look at him, wouldn’t you? He has had a good day, and he has to have a name too, now.’
‘You’ll keep him? Oh, I’m so glad. I’m sure he’ll be devoted to you because you rescued him.’
‘And to you, Charity—you rescued him, too.’ He sat down at her desk and started to sign the letters she had put ready for him to read through in the morning. ‘I’ll be in late tomorrow; get these off this evening, will you?’
So she put down her bag and folded the letters into their envelopes and stamped them and put them into her bag and then preceded him out into the street. It was cold and damp and they walked briskly, saying little.
The professor let himself into his house and ushered her before him as a portly man with grey hair and several chins crossed the hall to meet them. His ‘Good evening, sir,’ was uttered in a nice mixture of respect and familiarity as he cast his eyes upon Charity.
‘This is Miss Graham, Snook, come to see the dog.’ He glanced at her. ‘Snook runs this place for me with his wife. He taught me to ride a bike and to fish.’
Charity held out a hand. ‘I hope the dog hasn’t given you too much to do,’ she observed and beamed at the man.
‘Indeed no, miss. A very docile beast, if I might say so. He’s in the kitchen, Mrs Snook having just this minute given him a small meal.’
He had taken his master’s coat; now the professor said, ‘Let Snook have that coat Charity,’ and when she unbuttoned it Snook took it from her and said, ‘This way,’ and led her to a door beside the elegant staircase.
The kitchen was in the basement, a large room, cosy and cheerful and equipped with pine cupboards and a large old-fashioned dresser of the same wood. There were rows of plates upon it, and copper saucepans gleaming from shelves beside the Aga, in front of which, in a comfortable basket, was the dog.
Charity stopped short. ‘Two dogs,’ she said doubtfully.
Lying beside the basket containing the invalid was a bull terrier, his chin resting on its rim, but he got up as they went into the room and trotted over to the professor who bent to pull an ear gently and scratch the smooth head. ‘Bertie,’ he said. ‘One of the family! You like dogs?’
‘Yes, I do.’ She offered a fist and had it gently examined before she went to look into the basket. The dog lifted his head. He was still weary and his paws, she saw with pity, were cut and sore, but he had lost the hopeless air he had worn when she had first seen him. She got down on her knees beside him and stroked his grubby woollen head gently. ‘What do you suppose he is?
’ she asked.
The professor was sitting on his heels beside her with Bertie pressed against him. ‘Hard to say. Part labrador, part sheep-dog I should think.’ He looked up at Snook. ‘What would you say, Snook?’
‘I dare say you are right, sir. He’s big, and once we’ve got him cleaned up properly and on his feet we’ll have a better chance of guessing. Bertie has taken to him right enough.’
The professor nodded. He was examining the dog’s paws in large gentle hands. ‘Poor brute—he’s had a rough time. Well, Charity, what shall we call him?’
She stroked the gaunt, mud-covered matted coat. ‘He’s so bony,’ she said.
‘Then we’ll call him Bones.’ He had his hand on Bertie’s head once more. ‘We’ll have to wait a day or two before we can clean him up…’
He stopped at the muffled peal of the door bell and Snook went away to answer it. He was back very quickly and there was someone behind him, pushing past him at the door, exclaiming impatiently, ‘What on earth are you doing in the kitchen, Jake?’
The woman he was going to marry, thought Charity, looking over her shoulder and encountering a cold stare. ‘And who is this?’
Professor Wyllie-Lyon got to his feet. ‘Hallo, Brenda. This is my secretary, Charity Graham; Charity, Brenda Cornwallis.’
He didn’t appear to notice Brenda’s black looks. ‘We rescued a dog from the street this morning—a nice beast once he’s fit and well again.’
Miss Cornwallis went to peer down at the dog and then stood back with a look of distaste. ‘It smells and it’s filthy.’
‘He,’ said the professor softly. ‘And if you had been wandering for days without food I’m sure you’d be filthy and smell, too.’
She looked outraged. ‘Well, you’ll have to get rid of him. There must be a dog’s home…’
‘Oh, no. He’s to be one of the family—Bertie has taken to him and so have we.’
Just for a moment the lovely face was ugly with rage and then she shrugged. ‘As long as I don’t have to see it again.’ She glanced at Charity. ‘I’ll wait in the drawing room—I expect this person is going soon?’
‘When we’ve had a drink,’ said the professor calmly, and turned a placid face towards Charity when she uttered a protest. ‘And I’ll drive you home, Charity.’
She waited until Brenda Cornwallis had gone, banging the door behind her. ‘No, thank you, Professor, I’d like to go home now.’
He gave an almost imperceptible nod to Snook and said smoothly. ‘Of course, but do say goodbye to Bones first.’
She wanted to get away as quickly as possible but she had lost her heart to the grubby creature in the basket. She bent down and spoke to him and stroked his matted coat and then, since he seemed to expect it, did the same for Bertie.
The professor opened the kitchen door smartly, crossed the hall with her and helped her into her coat. As she was buttoning it up she saw him open a door and she glimpsed an open fire, soft lamplight shining on polished wood and Brenda’s back.
‘I’m taking Charity home,’ he told the back placidly.
‘I’ll not wait.’ Charity could hear the angry voice from where she stood. ‘You can tell Snook to call a taxi for me.’
Charity didn’t catch his low-voiced reply, but picked up her bag and went to the door to find the professor beside her in his overcoat and Snook opening it from outside.
‘I really…’ she began, but was bustled across the pavement and into the car before she could finish the sentence.
She said crossly as he got in beside her, ‘This really will not do, Professor Wyllie-Lyon; I’ve disrupted your whole evening and upset Miss Cornwallis.’
His face was impassive and he ignored this completely. ‘I have rather a splendid copy of John Donne to show your father,’ he observed blandly. ‘Perhaps I might have five minutes of his time.’
‘Miss Cornwallis…’ began Charity and subsided under his silky, ‘Mind your own business, Charity.’
It served the girl right, she thought, and surely she knew him well enough to know that she wouldn’t get the better of him by being bossy. Charity closed her eyes; she knew exactly how to get round him if only she were given the chance. Wishful thinking.
The professor spent the evening closeted in her father’s study, where the two of them were sustained by coffee and sandwiches and then beer and more sandwiches.
‘The poor man must have missed his lunch,’ observed Aunt Emily sympathetically. ‘All that hard work, too, and then the poor little dog…’
Charity refilled their cups. ‘He’s a big dog and Professor Wyllie-Lyon has a lovely house with someone called Snook and his wife to run it for him. He would only need to say so, and I daresay a four-course meal would be put in front of him.’
‘What is the house like?’ asked her aunt. ‘It’s a splendid address.’
‘Well, the hall is carpeted and there’s a wall table and lights on the walls. The kitchen is large; it looks old-fashioned, but it isn’t, if you know what I mean?’
‘Never mind about the kitchen, dear; what about the sitting room, or was it the drawing room?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t go anywhere else but the hall and the kitchen.’
Aunt Emily paused, crochet hook poised. ‘But, my dear, how very strange. Surely, the kitchen—I mean, I wouldn’t ask the vicar there.’ For such a mild, thoughtless little lady, she looked quite fierce. ‘Doesn’t he think you’re good enough…’
Charity said calmly, ‘Oh, no, it’s not like that at all. We went to the kitchen to look at the dog and I’m sure we would have gone into the drawing room afterwards only this Miss Cornwallis was in there, having a tantrum.’
‘Is he a ladies’ man?’ asked Aunt Emily all agog.
‘No, Aunty, rumour has it that he intends to marry her.’
‘How strange, I shouldn’t have thought he was a man to countenance ill temper.’
‘He’s not. That’s why he is spending the evening with Father.’
Aunt Emily’s hook flashed in and out making incredibly difficult patterns. She said nothing but glanced at her niece curled up in the chair opposite her. Presently she observed, ‘Sidney’s engaged—the Johnsons’ youngest daughter.’
‘The one with the buck teeth? Doesn’t she work in a bank?’
‘Yes, dear. They’re well suited.’ She added delicately, ‘You don’t regret giving him up?’
‘Not for one second.’ Charity uncurled herself and stretched hugely. ‘I’m off to bed, dear. The professor’s going away for a day or two, so I’ll be extra busy tomorrow.’
He didn’t leave until almost midnight; she heard him drive away as she lay in bed. Far too late to see that detestable girl, she thought with deep satisfaction. And as far as she could remember from the day’s agenda, all of tomorrow would be taken up with hospital rounds, a handful of patients and giving a last minute look to the papers he would be taking with him.
It was exactly as she thought; he was flying on an afternoon plane and there was no time for anything else but work. But perhaps he had gone to see Brenda last night, she thought uneasily, for he was so very cheerful despite the ordered haste during the morning. A pity, she cogitated quietly, that it was impossible to tell from his calm face whether he was happy or not. She had never met anyone before who could disguise their feelings so successfully.
Certainly there was no vestige of ill humour on it when Mrs Kemp ushered in Dr Kemble.
‘He wants to see the professor,’ said Mrs Kemp. ‘Can you slip him in?’ And Charity had done just that, looking for signs of impatience or annoyance on his face and meeting with nothing but blandness. He said cheerfully, ‘Ask him to come in, Charity—five minutes—I can’t spare longer.’
She went back to her desk to be interrupted by Guy Kemble reappearing. He came and stood by the desk. ‘My God, he’s incredible! I’ve learnt more from him in a few weeks than in two years at home.’
A remark which made Charity almost burst wi
th hidden pride. Her pleasure must have shown on her face for he said quickly, ‘Take pity on a chap and have dinner with me, Charity? Christmas and all that.’
There wouldn’t be much work while the professor was away. ‘Yes, all right, I’d like that. It’ll have to be while Professor Wyllie-Lyon is away though.’
‘Great. The same place as last time? Tomorrow? Where shall we meet? Shall I come for you at your home?’
‘No,’ said Charity hastily; she could just see Aunt Emily’s face…’ I’ll meet you there, shall I?’
He went to the door. ‘Tomorrow then, seven-thirty—I look forward to it.’
The professor’s door was open and he was standing there listening. As Guy went away without seeing him, he wandered into her office, his hands in his pockets.
‘Lady Burnett is waiting, sir,’ said Charity, her voice a shade sharp; he had no business to be standing there looking as though he had never done a day’s work in his life while there was a patient waiting. What was more regrettable was that he had been standing there listening.
‘Ah, yes—Lady Burnett, a perfect example of hypochondria, Charity, and that is harder to cure than any number of other conditions. Half a dozen demanding children and just enough to live on would put things right.’ And, before she could reply, ‘What is young Kemble doing for Christmas?’
‘I haven’t the least idea,’ said Charity frostily.
‘He will be lonely, poor chap.’ There was a silkiness in the professor’s voice which she didn’t much like.
‘I imagine not. He must have made some friends here.’
That was a mistake. ‘You, for instance?’ asked the professor placidly.
‘I hardly consider us to be friends. Professor, Lady Burnett…’
‘Charity you are an echinus; harmless and pleasing to look at but very prickly.’
She gaped at him. ‘What’s an echinus?’
‘A sea urchin.’ He became all at once brisk and impersonal. ‘Ask Lady Burnett to come in, will you?’
