Cruise to a Wedding

by Betty Neels

  She was arranging the Mayo’s table, decking it to her satisfaction and laying out instruments with care upon it, when Mr Gore-Symes came in, wished her good morning, eyed her without further speech and went out again; she went on with her careful work, supposing him to have forgotten something—he would be back presently; the patient had been wheeled in and arranged just so by the theatre orderlies and Mrs Thripps. Loveday swept her team together with a lift of the eyebrows and bent to test a pair of Spencer Wells forceps which didn’t seem to be up to her high standard. When she looked up, Mr Gore-Symes was coming into the theatre. He had Gordon Blair with him, the usual two housemen, and towering over them all, Adam.

  Loveday regrettably dropped the forceps, quite carried away by a desire to push the trolleys away and fling herself at him; a foolish action fortunately prevented by her years of training. But she did allow herself a reproachful glance at Mr Gore-Symes, who, even behind his mask, looked sheepish.

  It was Adam who broke the silence with a cheerful ‘Good morning, Loveday,’ and followed this up with an equally cheerful greeting to everyone else standing around. He then engaged Mr Gore-Symes in a few technicalities, took the scalpel Loveday was offering, and began his work. He didn’t speak to her, unless it was to make a request for some instrument or other, for the rest of the operation, there was little opportunity, anyway, for presently a group of gowned and masked figures joined them, and any further remarks he made, were addressed to them.

  At the end of the case they stopped for coffee, but not, as usual, in her office. There were far too many of them for that; the gentlemen were accommodated in their dressing room with a large tray loaded with mugs and jugs and sugar bowls, and Loveday, drinking her own coffee with Staff for company, could hear their cheerful voices and occasional bellows of laughter.

  ‘I say,’ observed Peggy, ‘that was a bit of a surprise, Sister—Professor what’s-his-name coming in like that. You didn’t expect him, did you?’

  ‘No,’ said Loveday, and sought frantically for something to say. ‘Mr Gore-Symes did tell me that there would be an audience, but you knew that too, didn’t you? I suppose he came over at the last minute and no one remembered to let us know.’

  ‘Well, someone must have known,’ pointed out her right hand, ‘for his instruments were ready, weren’t they?’

  Loveday frowned. ‘Yes, I know. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter, does it? I expect he’ll be leaving now with the rest of them.’

  But he did no such thing; he assisted Mr Gore-Symes for the remainder of the morning, and after their midday break, there he was again, bending his height tirelessly over the table. Loveday, who had had to go to her own meal and return early from it, thought crossly that he might consider others occasionally. As the day wore on, her staff came and went, but inevitably towards evening, the group around the table became depleted. Staff had gone off duty at one o’clock, the indefatigible Mrs. Thripps went at half past three, and one student nurse had gone after her dinner; any moment now the faithful Bert, nudged by an invisible union, would down tools. She heaved a sigh, unaware that she had done so, and Adam said quietly: ‘Another ten minutes or so, Sister—it’s been a long day.’

  He looked across at Mr Gore-Symes, who was removing an appendix with an apparently effortless skill, although he must have been tired too. He threw the offending portion of his patient’s anatomy at the kidney dish held out by a nurse and said: ‘It’s a funny thing, the more we do the more we get, if you see what I mean.’ He tied the purse string carefully and Adam snipped the ends for him. ‘A good thing you said you would stay, de Wolff—I’m obliged to you. Blair always seems to have a half day when we’re extra busy.’ He did some neat needlework, pulled off his gloves, stopped to pass the time of day with the anaesthetist, and walked away, followed by Adam.

  It took a long time to clear theatre; there were only three of them left by now, and they flagged a little. At last they were ready and Loveday sent the other two off and after ten minutes’ work in her office, closed the doors thankfully behind her. It had been a busy day and she was tired, and although it was still early evening, she was already planning an early night. She would skip supper; she had biscuits in her room and she could make a pot of tea, have a long, long bath and go to bed with an armful of magazines.

  She dwelt deliberately on these rather dull plans, thrusting to the back of her mind any foolish ideas she might have concerning Adam. He had gone from theatre without a word, and after all, what else could she have expected?

  She crossed the entrance hall and made for the little door at the back which would bring her to the inner courtyard and eventually, the Nurses’ Home. She was half-way there when she was hailed by Nancy, her red-haired friend from the Accident Room, in a fiery mood to suit her hair, for she began without preamble: ‘That wretched woman—she said she would be back before four, and here it is six o’clock and no sign of her—she was off duty at half past, too.’

  Loveday came to a halt. ‘Trouble?’ she enquired, glad to have her unhappy thoughts distracted.

  Nancy snorted. ‘I’d say—an old lady—brought in this morning with the usual—fell over, Colles’ fracture and a bit of a shaking. We put a plaster on and sent her home—she lives nearby in Summer Street—and when she’d gone we found her purse and the dope Teddy gave her for the pain. No one came back for them and Dolly’—Dolly was the department maid—’said she’d fetch them before she went home and deliver them on her way—now the wretch has gone.’ She jerked her brilliant head in the direction of the porter’s lodge. ‘I’ve just asked. Now I’ll have to take the wretched things. George will just have to wait.’

  Loveday knew all about George, Nancy’s devoted fiancée. ‘Here,’ she offered, ‘let me have them. I’m off late myself and I’ve no plans to do anything and it’s only five minutes’ walk.’

  Nancy’s face brightened. ‘You’re a pet—will you really? Number twenty—one of those grotty little houses half way down.’

  Loveday had her cloak with her; she shrugged it round her shoulders and made for the entrance, calling a cheerful word or so to Bob, the porter on duty. It was already dusk, but dry; she stepped out briskly, glad of something to do, even if only for half an hour. Summer Street was small and dreary, lined on one side by ugly Victorian houses, grey with smoke and grime, paint-work peeling and windows tight shut, Loveday, who was used to the shabbiness of the neighbourhood, hardly noticed them. Number twenty was a little over half way down the row, opposite a narrow, high-walled alley and the blank wall of some disused warehouse. The air smelled stale and damp, and Loveday wondered how anyone could bear to live there and pitied the occupants of the horrid little houses with all her heart.

  It took a long time before anyone answered her knock; she could hear bolts being drawn before at length it was opened cautiously to show an old lady’s face.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Loveday reassuringly, ‘it’s someone from the hospital—you left your purse and tablets and I’ve brought them for you.’

  The door was opened wider. ‘You’ll come in?’ said the old lady, and Loveday could hear the eagerness in the old voice. She hadn’t meant to stop, but ten minutes would make no difference to her evening and the poor soul was probably lonely. She found herself in a narrow lobby which opened into a small dark room, and it was cold as well as dark. Ushered to a worn-out armchair, she sat down at her companion’s bidding and when the old lady asked: ‘Yer’ll ’ave a cuppa, won’t yer, Sister?’ she hadn’t the heart to refuse; besides, the kettle was already on the gas ring by the empty fireplace.

  She sipped the too strong tea from a cup not quite clean, and listened, her kind heart wrung, while the old lady talked. Not that she complained or grumbled; Loveday saw that she was lonely and desperate for company; she sat back in the wreck of a chair and prepared to spend part at least of her evening there. There was little need to say much once her hostess had started; she poured out a miscellany of family history, local gossip and comme
nts on life in general. An old woman of spirit and a good deal of courage, Loveday considered, who had refused help despite her arm in plaster and her bruises and was delighted to play hostess for an hour or so.

  It was considerably more than an hour later when she got to her feet. The evening was dark now and she guessed that the old woman would go to bed in order to save lighting a lamp. She bade her a friendly good night, and resolved silently to do something to help—a visit now and then, papers to read, sweets, the odd packet of tea. She started back along the dark little street, making a mental list of suitable things to take. She had gone perhaps twenty yards when a slight sound made her look behind her; there were three figures in the gloom behind her; teenagers, she thought; a girl and two boys. They looked vaguely menacing, but not being of a timid nature, she walked on; the street was silent and empty, but its end wasn’t far away and there would be plenty of people around once she gained the main road. She was surprised when the girl ran ahead and then stopped in front of her; she wished her a good evening in a level voice and walked on, but the girl got in her way. Short of running herself, it would be difficult to get away from her, and the two boys were crowding close behind now. Loveday turned to face them.

  ‘If you’re thinking of mugging me, you can think again,’ she told them roundly, and quaked inwardly as she spoke. ‘I haven’t a penny on me, so get on home, do!’

  The three of them were encircling her now, moving all the time, saying nothing at all, which was somehow more frightening than anything else. The girl put a hand on her cloak and she shook it off, and when one of the boys caught her other arm she pushed him away so that he almost lost his balance. She was really frightened now, although she knew that if she could keep walking she would shortly reach the main road. She started to walk again saying: ‘Don’t be so silly, you’re not frightening me in the least, and if this is your idea of a joke, then you can stop it!’ The girl clutched at her cloak again and she pushed her hard, by now angry as well as frightened. The girl fell over, scrambled to her feet and made for Loveday, intent on revenge. But she didn’t get far. From the dark street ahead a hand clamped her firm and then set her on one side, and Adam, stepping silently into the miserable light of the street lamp, caught the two boys in an iron grip, shook them hard and gave them a push. Without bothering to see the results of this exercise, he caught Loveday by the arm, turned his back upon the discomfited three, and began to walk her up the street. His ‘Hullo, dear girl,’ was almost placid. ‘They told me where you might be. No hurt, I trust?’

  She was swallowing tears. After a minute she managed, ‘No, thank you,’ and because that sounded inadequate, she added: ‘I was frightened.’

  He stopped and turned her to face him under the light of the next street lamp. The three youngsters had followed them and they stopped too. He looked round at them and said impatiently: ‘Get home, the lot of you, and if you try your silly tricks again, I swear I’ll come after you and turn you into mincemeat!’

  He turned his back on them again and Loveday, unable to help herself, whispered: ‘Oh, Adam, be careful!’

  He stared down at her without speaking. Presently, after a silence which seemed to last for ever, he said: ‘Well, well,’ and bent to kiss her, very gently, on the cheek.

  But his voice held nothing but friendly cheerfulness as he marched her along once more. ‘Dinner, I thought—we never had our little chat, did we? Tell me, just how did you get to Schiphol from my aunt’s house? Your letters were a bit vague about that, as were your reasons for going home. I can quite understand that you were put out at my aunt’s manner towards you, but put yourself in her place, dear girl…she had every reason to be suspicious of you.’

  ‘And you could have stopped her,’ said Loveday quite fiercely.

  ‘Yes, so I could, but it wouldn’t have done to have set my aunt against her only child, would it? As it is, she considers her to be an innocent girl persuaded into foolhardiness—by you, I’m afraid—and now luckily restored to the maternal bosom until such time as Guake proposes.’

  ‘You had it all worked out…’ Somehow the knowledge that he had used her quite ruthlessly to gain his own ends, hurt more than anything else. But of course, to him, she had just been an annoying stumbling block in his schemes.

  They were almost at the hospital. At its door she said quietly:

  ‘Thanks for bringing me back, and rescuing me, I’m very grateful. Will you give my love to Rimada when you see her?’

  She whisked through the door and made off across the entrance hall, her determination badly cracked by the rebel wish that he would come rushing after her. Only he didn’t. She reached the door and went through it, not looking back. The courtyard was chilly and half dark and as cheerless as her mood; it had the immediate effect of causing her to burst into silent tears. It took her several minutes to stop crying, out there in the dark, but presently she mopped her face and rushed into the home, not caring in the least what she looked like; everyone would be at supper, anyway.

  The Baron was waiting for her, standing at the foot of the stairs, his vast person leaning against its utilitarian banisters. He appeared half asleep, but the eyes beneath their drooping lids were very intent.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ he said easily. ‘Now do go and get dressed, there’s a good girl—I’m famished. Would you like me to come up and chat while you change?’

  Loveday gaped at him. ‘How…’ she began, and then: ‘Of course you can’t come upstairs—it’s not allowed.’ She had passed him and was on her way up, and he had made no attempt to stop her. ‘I don’t want to come out with you, thank you.’

  He waited until she was right at the top. ‘No, I was afraid you wouldn’t, but Rimada and Guake are over here with me. Rimada told me that she would never speak to me again if I didn’t bring you back with me—hardly a threat I would lose any sleep over! It was to have been a surprise, but I have been forced to tell you, haven’t I?’

  She had whirled round on the top stairs. ‘Rimmy here? Where?’

  ‘I said we would meet them at the Brompton Grill.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You have ten minutes, Loveday.’ He smiled engagingly at her. ‘That’s if you intend coming… Rimtsje will be very disappointed if you don’t.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ she asked with a decided snap.

  He contrived to look humble. ‘I had nourished the hope that you might have liked to come, thinking that we would have been on our own.’

  To answer him would be to involve herself in a number of pitfalls. ‘Wait there,’ she begged him, and flew to her room. She was used to changing in a hurry, she had had a shower, got into a fine wool dress and its matching green coat, put up her hair, done her face, found shoes, gloves and handbag, remembered her cherished bottle of ‘Femme’ and found herself ready in exactly fifteen minutes. If her face was pale, as her reflection showed her, and her eyes were a trifle pink-rimmed, there was nothing to do about that; after all, she had had a nasty shock not half an hour earlier. She forced herself to walk sedately downstairs to where he was waiting.

  Rimada fell upon her with a shriek of joy as they entered the foyer. She paused just long enough for Guake to say hullo too, and then embarked on a monologue which included her future, her new clothes, her reasons for being in London, and lastly Guake’s many good points. She only stopped when Adam put a glass into her hand and said: ‘Drink up, Rimtsje, our table’s ready.’

  Over their excellent dinner, he told them about Loveday’s encounter that evening, and Guake said gravely: ‘A very unnerving experience, Loveday—you shouldn’t go out alone in the evening, you know,’ and Rimada had echoed him warmly, only the Baron said nothing, which annoyed her very much; presumably she wasn’t of sufficient importance to merit his concern, yet he had seemed concerned enough at the time. She went into a brown study and was only reminded of her surroundings when Rimada asked her gaily: ‘You will come over, won’t you, Loveday? It’s to be a big party; Guake h
as so many friends and so have I, and a betrothal is so exciting.’ Her blue eyes shone at the thought of it. ‘And of course, there’s Adam too, but he will have his party after ours.’

  The words dripped like ice cold water into Loveday’s head. ‘Why is Adam giving a party?’ she asked, and achieved a smile as gay as Rimada’s own.

  Her friend gave her a reproachful look. ‘You’ve not been listening—first our party, then Adam’s. His will be huge…’

  Loveday speared some of the delicious flan on her plate and didn’t look up. ‘Oh, are you getting married too?’ she asked lightly.

  His own voice was equally light. ‘We all come to it, Loveday. Does it surprise you?’

  The flan tasted of nothing; there was a stone somewhere inside her which prevented her from swallowing it. She said carefully: ‘No, but Rimmy said that you were a footloose bachelor.’ She smiled vaguely in his direction and drank some of the excellent claret in her glass.

  ‘So was Guake, and look what’s happened to him.’ There was a general laugh and Rimada began to bubble on again, saving Loveday from the difficulty of making lighthearted conversation when her heart was lead.

  The party broke up soon afterwards with Rimada and Guake going back to their hotel and Adam hailing a taxi, putting Loveday in, and then, despite her protests, getting in beside her. As it moved off down the quiet street, he leaned back in his corner, stretched his long legs, and invited her: ‘Do tell about your journey to Schiphol. Did you thumb a lift?’

  There was no point in keeping it a secret and it would give her something to talk about; anything better than sitting in an awkward silence. He laughed a good deal when she had finished, which she considered rather heartless of him.