by Betty Neels
She didn’t see the Professor for four days. Each evening she laid the work she had done on his desk, and since he wasn’t there, she worked early and late. By Thursday evening she had two chapters there and was well into the next one.
She hadn’t liked to ask Diana where he was, and since he wasn’t mentioned at all, she had to contain her curiosity, so she was completely taken by surprise on Friday morning, when, after a stroll round the garden, she was deep in a highly involved chapter concerning the pronunciation of both Greek and Latin when the door was thrust open to admit both dogs and the Professor.
He didn’t bother with a good morning, which made Polly’s greeting all the more polite.
‘You’ve been working overtime?’ he asked accusingly.
Polly bent to pull gently at the dogs’ ears. ‘To please myself,’ she told him airily, and wondered why she was so glad to see him again, seeing that he hadn’t even the good manners to wish her a good day.
‘I expressly…’ he began.
She chipped in before he got going. ‘Professor Gervis, I don’t suppose you’ve considered anyone else other than yourself over this business of getting Sir Ronald’s book published. Indeed there’s no reason why you should, I suppose. But I should like to point out that I’m as anxious to get it finished as you are. Not because I’m not enjoying the work—I am, very much, but I do have plans which I don’t want to delay for too long.’ She smiled at him kindly, without effect.
‘What sort of plans?’
Polly frowned. How like him to pick on the one weak point in her careful little speech! ‘I don’t think it’s necessary to bother you with them.’
‘Not going to tell me, eh? Well, if that’s the case, go ahead and work as much as you wish. When will you be finished?’
‘In two weeks’ time, unless I’m thwarted.’
He gave a great shout of laughter. ‘No one would dare!’ He whistled to the dogs, lifted a hand in casual salute and went away.
Polly didn’t do anything for quite a while. She had said all that about having plans on the spur of the moment, but the idea, once in her head, stuck firmly, crystallising the vague plans she had had to do something useful. She couldn’t teach, she would be hopeless in a shop and the idea of sitting at a desk typing all day quite sickened her, which left only one other thing she might be able to do. She could train as a nurse. She pondered over this for a few minutes, and then, satisfied that she had hit on a solution, went back to the Romans and the Greeks once more.
There was a paper shop in the village; there was no sign of the Professor and Diana had gone to friends for lunch. Polly got on to one of the bicycles from the shed behind the garage, and cycled through the narrow lanes to where Mrs Prosser presided over a selection of newspapers, magazines and sweets. She was a nice old lady, and helpful. To Polly’s question as to whether she sold a nursing magazine, she said that of course she did; the district nurse collected her Nursing Times regularly each week, but there was only her copy. ‘There being no call for more,’ she pointed out. ‘Why?’
Polly explained in a roundabout way; an address of a hospital for a friend, and could she possibly just take a peep at the district nurse’s copy?
Mrs Prosser didn’t see why not. Polly bought a Mars bar and perched on the only chair in the shop to leaf through the vacancies columns. There were several London hospitals wanting student nurses, but London was too far away and so was Manchester. She was just about to give up when her eye lighted on a Birmingham children’s hospital; immediate vacancies, it stated, and gave a phone number to enquire for application forms. Polly made a hasty note of the address, bought another Mars bar, thanked Mrs Prosser and got back on the bike. There was a phone box a little further down the road, and she believed in striking while the iron was hot.
The application form came the next day, she filled it in, hopefully, then went back to Sir Ronald’s book.
The next day was a Saturday and she was free to go home should she wish to do so. She phoned her father in the evening, coaxed him into fetching her on Saturday morning, and since Diana and the Professor were out again, spent the evening typing, only stopping for an hour for dinner and a quick walk round the garden with the dogs.
She had warned Diana that she would be going home after breakfast and would she mind if she had it early, and when she went downstairs there was no one about but Bessy, who wished her a cheerful good morning and served her breakfast. Of the Professor there was no sign; Polly took it for granted that he was away from home.
Her father arrived a little early and she lost no time in climbing into the car beside him, explaining that there was no one about and there was no point in waiting round. And on the way home she told him what she had done. Rather to her surprise, he thought it a splendid idea. ‘There are so few openings for your particular talents, my dear,’ he told her, ‘and nursing is a profession which offers great opportunities. You can climb to the top of the tree if you wish—Matron of one of the big hospitals.’
Polly thought privately that she had little desire to be a Matron. She would like to marry and have children, and enough money to bring them up in comfort, provided by a husband who adored her and lavished impossible things like diamond rings and cashmere sweaters and Gucci handbags upon her. She sighed and her father asked: ‘Tired, my dear? How is the book going?’
‘Two weeks and it’ll be finished, Father. If the hospital asks me to go for an interview I thought I’d decide on next Saturday, so I won’t be home…’
‘Nonsense, my dear, you go to Birmingham if they want you to, and give me a ring. I’ll fetch you—after all, there’ll be a lot to talk over if they consider you.’
There was a lot to talk about when she got home too. The family, a little astonished at the turn of events, all the same gave her their enthusiastic blessing. ‘And of course,’ her father pointed out, ‘your knowledge of Greek and Latin will stand you in good stead, you know—Latin terms are prevalent in medical books.’
So the weekend passed happily enough, with Shylock as a companion on a long walk and church on Sunday and her mother’s delicious roast dinner afterwards. She hated leaving them all again. All the same, as her father stopped outside the Professor’s impressive porch, she felt a little spiral of excitement. Not excitement, she told herself severely, merely a precautionary bracing against his dislike of her.
She wished her father goodbye, got her overnight bag from the back of the car and with a final wave, tugged the old-fashioned cast-iron bell beside the door, but before its clanging had ceased the door had been flung open and the Professor, with a brief hullo, had passed her, going to the car. Polly turned round to see her father getting out and coming indoors with his host, and slid ahead of them into the hall.
The Professor stopped briefly by her. ‘Come down to the drawing room, Polly, we can all have coffee together.’ And she nodded. Thank heaven she had warned her father to say nothing of her intention of training as a nurse; she could imagine the curl of the Professor’s lip at the very idea.
Diana was there too, and two nice elderly people from the village who seemed to know the Professor and his sister very well. They were charming to Polly, and an hour passed quickly before her father got up to go.
‘I’ll see you next week, my dear,’ he told her as she kissed him goodbye, and only a warning glance stopped him from saying anything more. He coughed to cover his confusion, added, ‘Yes, well…give me a ring, Polly,’ and she sighed with relief, all of which the Professor noted with interest.
Now that the weather was settling into warmth and sunshine, Diana was out a good deal, which meant that Polly had time to herself. She put in more hours than she was supposed to, went to the village from time to time, and got into the habit of taking the dogs for a run as far as the little stream through the wood. There had been a reply to her application; she was summoned for an interview and, most luckily, the following Saturday was one of the days suggested. She wrote off at once and then spent mo
st of the next night lying awake wondering if she had done the right thing. Too late now, she told herself, and sensibly went to sleep, albeit for a mere couple of hours.
Of the Professor there was no sign, although she was almost sure that he came home at night and went very early in the morning, and although by now she was on very good terms with Diana, she couldn’t bring herself to ask about him. She finished the chapter and began on the next; a nice easy one, mostly concerned with Sir Ronald’s own opinions concerning the previous chapters. Two days, she reckoned, and then only the final one and the glossary.
It was after tea on Thursday, and she heard the Bentley whispering up the drive and then the Professor’s voice in the hall. She went on typing, one small corner of her head deciding to wear the sleeveless jersey dress. She had worn the pink separates and Diana had admired them, but a change would be nice.
She finished the work she had decided to do, despite a desire to go to her room and get changed for the evening, and finally gathered together the finished sheets, left her desk tidy, and took her work along to his study. She hesitated before she knocked, then jumped nervously as he called from the stairs: ‘No, I’m not there—go in and leave the papers on my desk, will you?’
She gave him a brief glance, nodded and did as he asked. When she came into the hall, he had gone.
Not even a good evening, she mused, going upstairs, it’s just as though I’m not here.
She took a long time bathing and changing into the new dress, doing her face, brushing her newly washed hair. The result, while not spectacular, was pleasing enough. The dress was nicely cut and showed off her pretty figure, and its deep cream went well with the faint tan she was already getting. She waited until ten minutes before the gong would go, then went downstairs.
Diana was in the drawing room, and so was the Professor; so, too, was Deirdre. Polly stopped just inside the door, arranged her face into a social smile and said: ‘Good evening—I didn’t know you had guests.’
Deirdre was lolling back on one of the sofas, wearing a blue crêpe trouser suit and a lot of jangling jewellery. She gave a little laugh. ‘My dear… I’ve forgotten your name, so sorry…I hardly count myself as a guest, and I’m sure that if there’d been guests for dinner Diana would have made arrangements for you.’
‘Yes, I would,’ said Diana instantly. ‘Polly would have been invited.’ She shot Deirdre a furious look and then turned her eyes on her brother.
‘Oh, most certainly,’ declared the Professor smoothly. ‘Polly’s quite one of the family.’ He smiled at her so kindly that her stiff face relaxed into a genuine smile. ‘And what will you drink?’
From then on he kept the conversation in his own hands, not giving Deirdre much chance to make any more spiteful remarks, talking about a hundred and one topics with an ease Polly envied. She ate her dinner without having much to say for herself, although she answered politely when she was spoken to, conscious that the jersey dress was totally inadequate when seen in the company of pale blue crêpe and Diana’s simple and expensive silk dress. The prospect of another hour or so in Deirdre’s company after dinner was not to be borne. After coffee in the drawing room, Polly made her excuses in a composed voice, wished everyone goodnight, and went from the room. It was comforting that the Professor, holding the door for her, uttered a soft, ‘Goodnight, Polly,’ of his own as she went past him, but the evening, as far as she was concerned, had been quite awful. She went upstairs and stood looking out of the window, knowing that the mere sight of Deirdre had so annoyed her that she wouldn’t sleep if she went to bed.
‘So silly,’ said Polly to the moon, already climbing the early summer sky, ‘to let her upset me—after all, I’ll never see any of them again once I leave here.’ She found the thought so upsetting that she determined on action.
She could reach her little office by way of the back stairs and a narrow passage on the ground floor. She would go down and read through the work she intended to do in the morning; it saved time in the actual typing if she checked spelling and punctuation and references first.
It was cool in the little room. She went and switched on the reading lamp on the desk, left the door ajar, then sat down to read. She had been there for half an hour or so when she heard voices and footsteps coming in her direction. She switched out the lamp and sat like a mouse, praying that whoever it was wouldn’t stay in the hall. But they did; the Professor and his Deirdre, obviously having a leisurely chat before she left the house. To close the door would have been the right thing to do, but one or other of them might see that, and she could just imagine their faces if they found her sitting there in the dark. She went hot at the very idea. She would, of course, put her fingers in her ears. She was on the point of performing this laudable act when she heard her own name, uttered by Deirdre.
‘Such a suitable name—Polly. She’s a nonentity, poor girl—no looks and so dull, and that awful dress! Where does she buy her clothes, I wonder?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ The Professor’s voice was coolly uninterested. ‘She looked rather nice this evening, I thought, and you’re mistaken as to her dullness, Deirdre. She has more brains in her little finger than you have in the whole of your pretty head.’
Deirdre gave a titter. ‘You’re always so forbearing, Sam— I daresay it’s because you don’t care about such people.’
He sounded bored. ‘Probably. I think you’re being unnecessarily unkind.’
‘Darling Sam, if I wasn’t sure that you were my devoted slave I might think you were angry!’ And when he didn’t answer: ‘Oh, well, what a boring talk we’re having, aren’t we? Are you going to be at the Bradshaws’ on Saturday? We’ll see each other there, then. I’ve bought the most divine dress—wait till you see it!’
They were walking away towards the door of the house. Polly heard the sound of a car door slamming and goodnights being called. She wouldn’t be able to go yet, but the Professor would go back to the drawing room and she could slip upstairs. She sat quietly staring out into the darkened garden, fighting a strong wish to cry. And that would be silly, she told herself fiercely, just because a spiteful girl had vented her spite…
The door opened wide and the Professor stood framed in the doorway. He didn’t put on the light. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear, Polly,’ he said in such a gentle voice that her throat was choked with the tears she had been fighting.
Presently she managed! ‘How did you know?’
‘Deirdre uses Chanel Number Five; you’re wearing something quite different, light and flowery.’
‘Oh, I do hope she didn’t notice too. I didn’t mean to listen, only I couldn’t very well come out, could I? Your fiancée would have felt awkward…’
‘Deirdre never feels awkward,’ he said drily. ‘I’m sorry, Polly. Deirdre hasn’t met anyone like you before,’ he went on carefully. ‘She lives such a different life from yours she finds it difficult…’
‘Don’t apologise, Professor.’ Polly had got her usual calm voice back again. ‘It really is of no importance. Oh, I was a bit upset, but not any more. Probably I shan’t see her again, and one forgets these things.’
‘You’re a very nice person, Polly. I for one find you…’
She interrupted him: ‘I know—brainy, but still dull and badly dressed.’ She got to her feet quickly and whisked past him and ran upstairs to her room.
She was down at her usual time in the morning, relieved to have heard the Bentley being driven away while she was still dressing. She would only have to see him that evening at dinner, and the next day was Saturday.
She walked round the garden, wishing she could have spent an hour there, for the fine weather had brought on a multitude of flowers, but it was more important than ever to get the book finished at the earliest possible moment. She had made good headway by breakfast time and the whole day stretched before her. She returned Diana’s good morning cheerfully and even managed to laugh at that young lady’s opinion of her future sister-in-law. ‘She’s t
he utter end,’ said Diana, ‘she bores me to tears; all she can talk about is herself and clothes. Well, I like clothes too, but not all day and every day. Sam will go spare once they’re married. She’s still on about the romance of being married on Midsummer’s Day, but I heard Sam say he didn’t think he could fit it in.’ She gave a delighted chuckle. ‘Can you imagine a man, really in love, not being able to fit in his wedding!’ She nodded her head darkly. ‘I’m just waiting for the crunch. There’s going to be one, you know.’
Polly finished her coffee. ‘Well, I shan’t be here to know about it. Perhaps Deirdre will be nicer once she’s married.’
‘You must be joking, Polly! There’s nothing nice about her. I suppose you’re going to work? Oh, well, at least I’ll see you at lunch, won’t I?’
That was a pleasant interlude in the day’s work for Polly, although she didn’t loiter over it. She had planned to finish the chapter and she did. What was more, she began on the last one of the book.
The Professor didn’t come home, and she told herself she was glad. It would make going in the morning easier, for she would have to go down to the village and catch a bus for the first part of her journey to Birmingham. If he were home, he would probably want to know why and where she was going, but Diana wasn’t a curious-minded girl. Polly told her as they went to bed that she was going early in the morning and would be back on Sunday evening, and beyond expressing regret that Polly wouldn’t be there to talk to, Diana made no other comment.
Polly, more than ever determined to take up her new career as soon as possible, although she wasn’t quite sure why, put some things into her overnight bag and got into bed, taking care not to think about the Professor at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE HOSPITAL was in the heart of the city, gloomy red brick and old-fashioned windows. But Polly wasted no time in inspecting it; she marched firmly in and enquired where she should go.
The porter was friendly. ‘Come to see the Chief Nursing Officer?’ he asked. ‘Go to the back of the hall and turn left—there’s a door.’
