by Betty Neels
It was gratifying to find, after half an hour or so, that she wasn’t going to lack partners for the evening. She was quickly surrounded by a cluster of gentlemen from the various Embassies, anxious to make her acquaintance and dance with her. Indeed, she could have spent the entire evening on the dance floor, but mindful of her patient, she took care to sit with him from time to time and make certain that he wasn’t exerting himself unduly. Only when she saw him nicely settled with two elderly gentlemen with strong mid-European accents did she return to the dance floor, escorted by a young and still obscure secretary from the German Embassy, who unlike Professor van Tijlen, encouraged her to air her German, so that it was with some discomfort that she became aware that the professor was standing at her elbow. The sight of him, quite unexpected, made her break off in mid-sentence hashing her Teutonic grammar hopelessly and causing her to greet him with understandable coldness.
Apparently he had forgotten their last meeting, for he wished her and her companion an affable good evening and went on blandly:
“Don’t let me interrupt you in your exercise of the German tongue, Miss Dawson. I can’t say that you have made much progress, but enthusiasm is the great thing, is it not?” He turned to the other man and spoke to him in a German which shamed her own and which she didn’t quite catch, and rather to her surprise, Herr Schmidt begged her to excuse him and walked rapidly away.
“Well,” exclaimed Charity, “whatever did you say to him?” and when the professor only smiled, she went on: “And there was no need for you to show off like that. I cannot think why you should be so amused when I choose to speak another language than my own. And now if you will excuse me…”
“No, I won’t.” He laid a large gentle hand on her arm. “Tell me, have you learned any Dutch yet?”
Her eyes flashed greenly. “No, and I don’t intend to.” She spoke with some spirit, disregarding entirely the fact that she had learned quite a fair amount of the language during the last week or so. “And kindly let go of my arm.”
“No.” He was smiling again. “Tell me, do you still hold me in contempt?”
She was too surprised to answer him, only after a stunned moment she shook her head and presently she mumbled: “I don’t suppose it is of the least importance to you what I should think.”
He laughed at that and she went on crossly: “I’m sure you find it all very amusing.” A feeling she wasn’t sharing, indeed, she felt a strong desire to burst into tears, which in the light of the evening’s pleasures was absurd.
“You look as though you’re going to cry,” observed her companion conversationally.
She blinked rapidly with her fantastic eyelashes. “Professor van Tijlen,” she uttered in a low, furious voice, quite forgetting the awful things she had said to him about his fees, “I hope you will believe me when I say that I dislike you more than anyone else I know.”
His grey eyes swept her face. “No, I don’t believe you, but being nicely brought up, I know when to make myself scarce.” His eyes left her face and he glanced round the room; almost immediately they were joined by an elderly bearded man whom the professor introduced as “My uncle, Mijnheer van Tijlen, from the Dutch Embassy,” who professed himself delighted at making her acquaintance and began at once to talk about England, a country, he assured her, of which he was very fond. He had barely begun a dissertation on Stonehenge, which he had recently visited, when his nephew excused himself.
Charity didn’t speak to him for the rest of the evening, which had unaccountably become deadly dull. She watched him dancing with a succession of ladies, with each of whom he appeared to be on the friendliest terms, and when, during an old-fashioned waltz, she found herself, partnered by a cheerful young man from the French Embassy, in such close proximity to the professor and his partner that she was able to overhear him expressing the warmest admiration for that lady’s dress, she smouldered with vexation; he had made no remark at all about her own appearance, and as each successive partner had been eager to tell her how very pretty her gown was, she was forced to the conclusion that either his taste in women’s clothes was poor, or that he just hadn’t noticed what she was wearing. Neither of these surmises cheered her in the least, and when Mr Boekerchek decided that he wished to leave the party, she was the first to urge him to do so, and even though the professor came over to say goodnight to his patient and his wife, he did no more than accord her a cool, “Goodbye, Miss Dawson.”
Getting into the car to go back to the apartment, Charity remembered that she wouldn’t see him again; this tiresome thought persisted until long after she was in bed. She should have gone to sleep immediately after such an exciting evening; she did no such thing, however, but lay frowning into the dark, alternately disliking the professor very much and then finding all kinds of excuses for him. Just before she at last slept she admitted to herself that she had been appallingly rude and probably he had resented it very much—she would have resented such remarks herself—they had been almost slanderous, or did she mean libellous? She was still deciding in a muddle-headed way when she fell asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
CHARITY HAD BEEN back five days and had hated every moment of each one of them. The ward was busy enough; her staff were delighted to have her back, and those of the patients who were still in the ward expressed their pleasure at seeing her again, too. Yet the effort to be cheerful and patient with everyone was a big one, and although she maintained her professionally bright face when she was on duty, off duty she was inclined to sit staring at nothing, so that her closer friends asked her if she had quarrelled with Clive.
He was away on a short holiday and she had hardly noticed it; she assured those who asked that there had been no quarrel and that she was looking forward to seeing him when he returned—indeed, she imagined that it was his absence that made her feel so low in spirits. That and the absence of Mr Howard; perhaps when they both came back she would feel herself again.
Clive returned first. She met him on the ward, doing his usual round before noon, and was at once struck by his air of constraint. She accompanied him as usual, and as usual invited him to have coffee with her afterwards, but he pleaded an appointment for which he was already late and said he would see her later. Charity watched his departing back, a little puzzled; perhaps he was feeling awkward because she hadn’t said if she would marry him yet; she realised with a guilty pang that she hadn’t written to him while she had been in Holland, so very likely he was hurt and upset about her neglect.
She went into her office and poured out her coffee and then sat watching it get cold while she thought. The future looked, for some reason, uninviting, probably because she hadn’t made up her mind about Clive. Perhaps it would be the right thing to marry him after all; she liked him enormously, they didn’t get on each other’s nerves, and they had similar tastes—besides, being a nurse, she had a very good idea of what would be expected of her when they married and she would be able to help him a good deal.
When he returned to the ward that afternoon and asked her, still with that air of constraint, if she would go out with him that evening, she accepted readily. He would probably propose again and this time she would say yes.
She was late off duty; a last-minute emergency had held her up. She changed into the first dress which came to hand and skimped her make-up, conscious that she wasn’t looking her best. But Clive had seen her looking far worse; Charity swept her hair up into a bun and raced downstairs.
She didn’t ask where they were going, taking it for granted that it would be their usual restaurant, as indeed it was. They were on the point of going in when Clive, who had been unusually silent, said:
“I thought it would be fun to make up a little party—you have already met.”
They had indeed. Margery was looking prettier than ever and even more helpless in a pale blue dress which exactly matched her eyes. It took only a few moments for Charity to discover that Margery’s father took it for granted that she had come al
ong for his entertainment; he took her arm and led her to a table in the window, leaving the other two to follow. “Let them have a minute or two to themselves,” he suggested in a conspiratorial manner. “I’ve a soft spot for young people in love.”
Charity allowed herself to be seated. Amazement had bereft her of words, and hard on the heels of amazement came relief; she hadn’t wanted to marry Clive at all. Seeing him there, mooning over Margery, made him seem so young…she caught his eye and smiled quite gaily at him. He looked positively hangdog until she said brightly: “I knew this was going to happen, but I can’t think why you didn’t write and tell me.”
“You don’t mind?” Margery asked warily.
“Why ever should I? Clive and I have always been good friends, and always will be, I hope, and now we two can be good friends as well. When is the wedding to be?”
They told her, both talking at once, obviously relieved that the situation had been carried off in such a friendly fashion, and all she needed to do was to acclaim their plans with enthusiasm and turn a polite ear to the old man’s plans for his son-in-law’s future. It was all very cosy and chatty and the conversation had as much sparkle as a wet Monday morning, thought Charity peevishly. It was a pity that Clive hadn’t plucked up the courage to tell her that morning and then she need not have come. Had he been frightened of her?
The thought that perhaps he was and always had been, just a little, crossed her mind as she talked and laughed and joined in the inevitable toasts, and she mused a little bitterly on the fact that being a good-looking and intelligent girl wasn’t any help at all if all the men she met were going to be timid of her. If she had had a boastful disposition, trying to impress everyone she met, it would have served her right, but she had done her best to conceal her brains, and her looks she couldn’t help, anyway.
So for Charity the evening wasn’t all that of a success; by the time she had been deposited at St Simon’s door she had a raging headache and a very uncertain temper, and although the headache was better by the morning, her temper wasn’t. She concealed it well, she considered, but Mr Howard, back from his holiday and rather terse in consequence, wanted to know what had bitten her.
“Frustrated,” he told her, “that’s what you are. Locked in that starched apron and longing to tear it off. What’s the matter? Didn’t you enjoy your trip to Holland?”
She assured him politely that she had and chose to ignore the first of his remarks.
“What’s the matter, then?” he persisted. “Fallen in love with Everard?”
She went a little pale but asked gamely: “Who is Everard?”
“Professor van Tijlen, if we’re going to be formal about it. Nice chap, wish I had his brains—and his looks, for that matter. Gave you his article to read, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. I found it most useful—the case was very interesting.”
Mr Howard gave her a searching look, said gruffly: “Yes, well—I must move on to the children’s ward, I suppose,” and stalked away.
Charity, left on her own, started to go back to the ward and then changed her mind and went into her office instead and sat down at her desk. She was feeling a little peculiar; she had known it all the time, she supposed, and hadn’t been prepared to admit it. It had taken Mr Howard’s question to unwrap the fact that she was in love with Professor van Tijlen, and now that she allowed herself to admit it she might just as well be honest—she had been in love with him since the moment she had set eyes on him. Full stop. For everything was finished and done with; he would have forgotten her already and now she would have to forget him, something which was going to take all her determination.
She went back into the ward, a little pale still and went through the rest of the day, true to her resolution, not thinking about him at all—or only when she couldn’t prevent herself, but she thought about a great many other things; that evening when she got off duty she wrote out her resignation.
It created quite a stir for the logical conclusion which everyone drew was that Clive had jilted her, or, more probably, she had refused to marry him. Neither surmise worried her; she was leaving for a sufficiently good reason; a new job in a new place would fill her mind with other thoughts and in time, it was to be hoped, blot them out entirely. In the meantime, she talked to Clive, was careful to be seen with him, maintain her friendliness towards him and even join him and Margery on an evening’s outing, so that after a few days of wild rumours the hospital was forced to the conclusion that nothing outstanding had happened or was going to happen. Her story that she felt that she needed a change was accepted by all but the most sceptical, and in due course she was sped on her way, burdened by a variety of farewell gifts and with a homily from Miss Evans still ringing in her ears. She had been very foolish, that lady had told her sternly, to give up a good position for no valid reason. She had paused expectantly here, in the hope that Charity might supply the reason, but she remained silent, which gave Miss Evans the opportunity of telling her that she had always known that the journey to Holland had been a mistake. A change of mind which Charity might have argued about. But there seemed no point in it; Miss Evans had never liked her over much; probably she was glad to see her go and Staff Gay already in her shoes. They wished each other a coldly polite goodbye and Charity got into her car and drove home, her mind empty of plans for the future. That there would have to be plans before very long she was well aware, but she would have a week or two at home first. After all, she told herself, when one broke an arm or a leg, one had a period of convalescence while it mended. Surely a broken heart merited the same treatment?
The quiet peace of home was wonderful to her. No one questioned her decision to leave St Simon’s, there was plenty of room in the house for her, Lucy was delighted to have her home for a while and her mother and father absorbed her into their lives as though she had never been away. She tramped for miles with the dogs, gardened with her father and drove her mother down to Budleigh Salterton to shop and visit her friends. Her days were healthily full; she should have bloomed in the air and the sun instead of becoming thinner and paler.
Her father, worried at the dark shadows under her eyes, gave her a glass of his best port each morning, wearing that she had become run down and had worked too hard. Her mother said nothing at all, and because she never mentioned Holland, no one else did. Only one morning when she received a letter from Mr Boekerchek did her mother remark that it was nice not to lose contact with people—a vague remark which needed no reply.
Charity had been home two weeks or more when her father was stricken with a touch of lumbago just as the early potatoes needed digging. Lucy was useless with a spade, there was no question of her mother attempting such work. Charity, glad of something to do, put on a pair of old slacks and a cotton shirt which had seen better days, and repaired to the kitchen garden. It was the best part of her father’s modest grounds, up on the hill behind the house, with a view of the sea through the trees and the great sweep of Woodbury Common at its back. Even early in the morning it was warm work but rewarding; she had several piles of potatoes to show for her labours when she heard footsteps coming along the path from the house. Without looking round she called: “There’s no need for you to come; I’m doing very well— I’ll be down in a half hour or so. You shouldn’t be here, you know.”
She was kneeling on the warm earth, grubbing the potatoes out with her hands. She dropped the handful she was holding when she was plucked from the ground, stood on her feet, and turned round.
“I shouldn’t be here—you are quite right,” Professor van Tijlen observed with all the casualness of one who had seen her not five minutes earlier instead of five weeks or more, “but there is a need.”
He stared down at her, still holding her firmly in an impersonal grasp. “I’m not here on my own behalf—that would be unlikely, would it not? but our Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek is very ill again. I shall have to do an exploration and he flatly refuses to have it done unless he can have you bac
k again as his nurse. There is not a day to lose, so I came over myself to ask you.” His grey eyes searched her face. “That hatchet-faced virago at Simon’s told me that you had left and she wasn’t disposed to give me your address—however, I persuaded her.”
He sounded rather grim and Charity spared a few seconds from her own bewildered thoughts to wonder how he had persuaded anyone as formidable as Miss Evans to do anything she didn’t wish to. She was brought back to the amazing present by his remark: “I want to operate on Thursday.”
She found her voice at last. “But it’s Tuesday already, and you’re here.”
“We can be away in an hour—I hadn’t reckoned on you not being in London but we can still be back in Utrecht by tomorrow night.”
The enchantment of seeing him again had emptied her head of all her usual common sense. With a great effort she made herself think.
“It’s what? half past nine? Will you go over on the evening ferry?” And when he nodded: “So we should have to leave here by midday—that’s if you’ve got the Lamborghini…” He nodded again, not interrupting her. “So there’s about two hours.” She stared down at her earthy hands, dusting them off. “Yes, Professor, of course I’ll come. I’ll go and change and pack now. Will you come to the house—I’ll get some coffee.”
She was already leading the way down the path, but stopped to look at him. “Have you slept at all? would you like…?”
He smiled faintly as he interrupted her. “You’re kind—but then Charity is kind, is she not? Yes, I have had all the sleep I need, but I should love some coffee.”
“And sandwiches,” she added as they went in through the back door. “If we eat something before we go, it won’t matter if there’s no time to stop on the way.”
