Wish with the Candles

by Betty Neels

  Her pleased mind registered the fact that he had called her Emma.

  ‘Yes, but not until Saturday morning. I shall leave early, I like driving then—besides,’ she added in a burst of candour, ‘there’s not so much on the roads.’

  A remark which called forth a gentle smile from the professor and a hearty laugh from Little Willy, who, despite his retiring nature, became transformed when he got into his car and drove with a nonchalant sangfroid which Emma found quite unnerving, although she was at a loss to understand why Justin’s driving, while just as nonchalant, left her completely at ease.

  Friday was a busy day as well as being Emma’s birthday. She had first of all thought that she would go home in the evening and celebrate the event with her mother, but one look at the day’s list decided her against this; she would never get away in time, besides, she would be too tired. They would go out on the Saturday instead, lunch perhaps, or a trip to Dorchester or Yeovil and tea somewhere. She looked at her cards and the gifts she had received from her family and friends and told herself how lucky she was to have so many people to remember her. The wild, extravagant thought that it would have been even more satisfactory if the professor, in some mysterious way, had known about her birthday and had given her some gift—a pearl necklace? a pair of diamond earrings? a mink coat…no, it was hardly the season for mink coats, they were more suitable for Christmas…she burst out laughing at her preposterous imagination and went to inspect the trolleys.

  The day’s list ended at last and the professor hurried away with a vague word or so about an appointment and Will hurried after him, to return half an hour later, just as Emma was beginning on the needles, to ask her to go out with him that evening.

  She looked doubtfully at him. ‘Oh, Will, it’s half past six and I can’t leave Staff to do more than she’s doing at the moment. There’s only Mrs Tate on with her until eight and we must leave everything ready—supposing something came in?’

  ‘I know all about that, Emma. It’s not going to take you all that time, is it? Be a sport.’

  She supposed he wanted to talk about Kitty. She inspected a round-bodied needle with care, frowned at it and threw it out. ‘All right, I’ll come. Where are you going—Pip’s?’

  ‘No,’ Will sounded flurried, ‘and wear that brown and white dress.’

  Emma looked at him in puzzled astonishment. ‘Brown and white dress?’ she repeated. ‘But you’ve never seen it.’

  He avoided her eye. ‘Kitty told me about it.’

  ‘Well, that’s a funny reason for wearing it, but I suppose it’s as good as any.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘I’ll be outside at half past seven.’

  It was twenty past the hour when she reached his car, wearing the brown and white dress and smelling deliciously of Quelques Fleurs, but beyond a hurried, ‘You look nice, Emma,’ which was no more than she had expected, Will had little to say. It was only when he had driven rather too fast through the city that she asked, ‘Where are we going? I thought you said Pip’s?’

  ‘I thought we’d go somewhere else.’

  Emma nodded in agreement. ‘Why not?’ The idea that Will might have discovered that it was her birthday crossed her mind, to be at once dismissed; even if he knew, he was unlikely to mark the occasion with an outing. Much more likely, she thought shrewdly, her first guess was the right one; he wanted to talk about Kitty. And it seemed she was right, for when she mentioned that young lady’s name, he was disposed to talk at some length about her and only paused when they turned in at Hamble Manor. Emma peered round her. ‘Look,’ she said with all the freedom of an old friend, ‘I’m not one to turn my back on a good dinner, but this isn’t anything like Pip’s.’ She glanced at her companion. ‘We’re only going to eat,’ she pointed out.

  Will smiled, but not at her—over her shoulder at someone behind her, someone who was opening the car door and inviting her to get out. Justin.

  He said, ‘A happy birthday, Emma,’ took her unresisting arm and helped her out and then stood smiling down at her, and Emma, staring back, had to admit to herself that she loved him more than ever before, quite unaware that despite the serenity of her face, her eyes were troubled—something the professor was quick to see, for his hand tightened on her arm and he began ‘Emma?’ then stopped and stared again in his usual calm, almost lazy manner. ‘Your mother and Kitty are here. I know you’re tired, but…’

  ‘Do I look awful?’ Emma instantly wanted to know.

  He shook his head. ‘You look delightful. Come and enjoy yourself—you can sleep it off tomorrow.’

  She was on the point of reminding him that she intended to leave very early the next morning, but that might seem ungrateful. She gave him a sweet smile instead and, urged on gently by his hand, entered the hotel.

  Her mother and Kitty were having drinks, and so, surprisingly, was Mr Bone, and as Will joined them, Justin said:

  ‘I hate uneven numbers at table. Six seemed just right, don’t you think?’ and she agreed without really listening because she was still getting over her surprise. When there was a little pause in the general babel of talk she asked Kitty, ‘How did you arrange it? Who thought of it?’

  Kitty laughed. ‘I thought of it—I wanted Will to come up and fetch me, but of course he couldn’t get away, so Justin came as far as Winchester and met my train, and a fine rush it was, I can tell you—we thought we’d never make it before you got here. Mr Bone fetched Mother; that was Justin’s idea too.’

  ‘That’s why you telephoned?’

  ‘Yes—wasn’t it a marvellous idea?’

  ‘Lovely, Kitty. How are you going back?’

  ‘Will’s taking me all the way.’

  ‘And Mother?’ She glanced over to where her mother was sitting, talking to the professor and Mr Bone.

  ‘Mr Bone’s taking care of her. He says he likes travelling at night.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emma, ‘but what about…?’

  She was interrupted by her mother who wanted a detailed account of the cards she had had and the presents she had received. She was only half-way through them when the head waiter came to whisper discreetly in the professor’s ear, and they all went in to dinner.

  The food was delicious and had been ordered beforehand. Emma discovered herself to be hungry and the champagne which accompanied it gave her a pleasurable if slightly woolly feeling. She sat between Mr Bone and the professor, and probably because of the champagne, remembered to call him Justin.

  She was half way through the dessert of chocolate soufflé, lavishly mantled in whipped cream and almonds, when she began to wonder how she was to get back to hospital. Perhaps Will would drop her off as he and Kitty went to London. She was on the point of leaning across the table to ask him when the waiter brought in the birthday cake, complete with candles, all twenty-six of them. It was set before her, the candles lighted and her health drunk before the professor said gaily:

  ‘Blow your hardest, Emma. Remember you’ll get a wish with the candles.’

  She took a deep breath and blew and was aware as her breath failed that he was blowing gently beside her to douse the remainder.

  ‘Now it won’t come true,’ she said sadly. Her wish had been an impossible one anyway.

  ‘Oh, yes, it will,’ Justin sounded quite convinced. ‘You see, I wished the same wish.’

  She picked up the cake knife with a hand which shook a little. ‘That’s impossible—I mean it was something that couldn’t possibly happen.’

  He smiled. ‘We’ll see,’ was all he said.

  The party broke up soon after that and her mother kissed her goodbye with a cheerful, ‘See you tomorrow morning, darling,’ before she went away with Mr Bone, and Kitty embraced her briefly with the remark that she was glad she had thought of the whole thing and hadn’t it been fun and she would let Emma know when she was free. Then she was gone too, with Will beside her, holding her arm as though she was fragile china. Emma turned round, rather at a loss to hear the professor say, �
��If you’re not too tired, how about going back at our leisure?’

  Emma agreed that it would be nice, and for the second time that evening forbore from reminding him that she intended getting up early and it was already well past ten o’clock and that she hadn’t packed so much as a hanky, let alone washed her hair. But it was certainly pleasant to be driven along the quieter roads while Justin talked placidly about a variety of unimportant subjects. They had been clear of the outskirts of the city for some time before she ventured to inquire where they were going and was shocked into sitting upright when he said calmly, ‘The New Forest,’ and then on a laugh, ‘don’t worry, Emma, I’m only working round the city. We should land up in Beaulieu eventually—we can turn back from there.’

  It was a warm late evening, with a pale moon, almost full, battling with the last of the long daylight so that the countryside was etched in black and whitewashed with pale colour. They were running into the Forest now, not travelling fast, and presently Justin slid the Rolls on to the grass beside the road and switched off the engine.

  ‘Your birthday’s almost over,’ he commented pleasantly.

  Emma turned her head to look at him. The moonlight had turned his hair to no colour at all and had emphasized his nose—his face looked as though it had been engraved in steel, only his eyes were alive.

  She said, ‘Yes, but it was a lovely one, unexpected parties always are. We haven’t had a family gathering like that for quite a time.’ As she spoke she remembered the gay parties they had had before her father died and sighed. ‘I expect you have a big family party on your birthday, don’t you? The Dutch like to do that, don’t they?’

  ‘I have no family—no close family.’ He turned towards her and slid an arm along the back of her seat without touching her. ‘My father died ten years ago and my mother two years later. I had a brother and a sister—he was ten years older than I and my sister was eight years older. When the war broke out I was eight and they were teenagers. Towards the end of the war they joined the Dutch Underground. They were killed when I was eleven.’

  Emma said with swift pity, ‘Oh, Justin, I’m so sorry. How terrible for you all, and how lonely.’ She went on impulsively, ‘You should have married,’ and stopped.

  ‘Yes, I should,’ he agreed blandly. ‘It’s unfortunate that I happen to be a man who is unable to put up with second best. I prefer to wait until the girl I want to marry is ready for me.’

  So there was a girl. Emma remembered Saskia, who had faded into a comfortable dream and had suddenly become very much alive again. She swallowed sudden intense misery and said warmly, ‘Well, as long as you’ve got someone, even if you do have to wait.’

  ‘Are you waiting too, Emma?’

  ‘No,’ said Emma bleakly, ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Yet I fancy you must have had your chances to marry before now?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  He ignored her question. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, but only twice, and one was a middle-aged widower.’

  ‘I’m middle-aged, Emma, and I may be a widower.’

  Emma said instantly, ‘No—you’re not, are you?’

  She tried to see his face, but the moonlight played tricks; his eyes gleamed, whether with amusement or anger she didn’t know.

  ‘And would it make any difference if I were, Emma?’

  She gave up trying to read his expression and stared out of the window instead. After a moment or two she said with perfect truth, ‘None at all,’ and all the same was extravagantly relieved when he replied:

  ‘Well, I’m not. As I said, I have waited patiently and I think the years of waiting will be worth while.’

  She was digesting this when he asked to surprise her, ‘You don’t mind that Lunn has fallen for Kitty?’

  She gaped foolishly. ‘Mind? Why should I? We aren’t—that is, he’s—I don’t frighten him,’ she finished, rather lamely.

  ‘Ah, yes, I can understand that perfectly.’ Justin’s remark deflated poor Emma, for it could only mean that he thought of her in the same way, a kind of Universal Comrade, to fill a gap—quite safely and without fear of any feelings being involved. For a few moments she allowed herself the pleasure of hating Saskia and carried away by her feelings, asked before she had stopped to think, ‘Who is Saskia?’

  If the professor found her remark in any way extraordinary he refrained from saying so.

  ‘A charming girl, isn’t she? And pretty. She is a cousin.’

  Cousin! thought Emma fiercely. Cousins could be thrice removed, or even further than that, so that they need no longer see each other as family…

  ‘Perhaps we should go back,’ she suggested.

  They talked a great deal going back to Southampton, safe topics which Emma introduced, guaranteed not to lapse into anything personal. She worked her way through Wimbledon, Test cricket, the growing of roses, touched lightly on small antiques, and when the pauses became too lengthy, the weather. In all of which the professor followed her with appropriate comments and observations. It was only as he was setting her down at the Nurses’ Home door that he remarked, half laughing, ‘I had no idea you were such a chatterbox, Emma—or were you afraid I might start a conversation of my own?’

  She blushed in the dark. ‘Oh,’ she faltered, ‘did I bore you?’

  ‘On the contrary, you entertained me very much.’

  Which hadn’t been her intention at all. She thanked him again for her evening and went up to her room, where she made short work of getting into bed, determined not to think any more about her not entirely satisfactory birthday.

  She was up betimes to find the morning grey and wet. She dressed quickly, drank a hasty cup of tea which she made in the little kitchen at the end of the corridor, packed a small bag, and enveloped in her raincoat and a head scarf, crept quietly through the Sisters’ quarters and out to the forecourt. The Ford was where she had left it, and next to it was the Rolls, with the professor sitting at its wheel, smoking a pipe. Despite the earliness of the hour he looked well rested and exquisitely turned out. She made to pass him, but he knocked out his pipe, got out with unexpected dispatch, took her bag from her and said, ‘Good morning—I should have mentioned last night that I would be taking you home this morning. Do jump in.’

  He tossed the bag on to the back seat and opened the door a little wider for her to enter. Emma did no such thing, for although she would dearly have loved to go with him she wasn’t a girl to give in tamely to high-handedness such as his. She said coldly, ‘Good morning, I’m sorry, but I intend to drive my own car.’

  She could have spared her breath. ‘Jump in,’ he invited, ‘there’s a good girl. You must see how ridiculous it is for us to use two cars when one would do.’

  He smiled charmingly at her and put a large, persuasive hand on her shoulder and without meaning to in the least, she capitulated. When she was sitting beside him and he was on the point of starting, she declared, ‘This is all very well, you know, but I have to come back tomorrow evening.’

  ‘That has been taken care of. Have you had breakfast? I do hope not, for I thought we would stop in Dorchester—I noticed a place at the top of the town when we went through.’ He idled the big car through the hospital gates into the almost empty street.

  ‘Why are you going to Mutchley Magna?’ demanded Emma. ‘You never said a word—nor did Mother.’ She added waspishly, ‘I don’t think I like being taken for granted.’

  He slowed the car and pulled into the kerb and turned to look at her. His voice was bland. ‘My apologies, I had no idea that you would object to coming with me. I’ll take you back.’

  He stretched out a hand to the ignition just as Emma stretched out a quick hand and gave his arm an urgent shake. ‘No, oh, no,’ she spoke very fast, ‘I didn’t mean that, really I didn’t, not—not in the way you think I did. I like being with you.’

  She stopped before she said something she might be sorry for later on, but she was honest not to look a
way from his level gaze. His smile changed subtly, enveloping her in its warmth.

  ‘Now, isn’t that nice?’ said the professor mildly. ‘I like being with you too, Emma, which clears up the matter very easily, doesn’t it?’

  He eased the car away from the kerb and when next he spoke it was merely to remark in an ordinary voice that with any luck they should be at breakfast within the hour. Which was true enough—they ate their way through eggs and bacon, large quantities of buttered toast, and consumed several cups of coffee before taking the road to Mutchley Magna, a journey which they completed in an atmosphere of great good humour and with the comfortable feeling on Emma’s part that they had been friends all their lives, and when they reached the cottage her mother welcomed Justin with the ease of an old acquaintance, so that it was doubly surprising to Emma that having spent a bare ten minutes talking to them both, he got up to go, declaring that he had an engagement and would have to leave immediately. Only as he got into his car did he mention:

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow evening for you, Emma—about eight.’

  ‘Supper?’ asked Mrs Hastings. ‘There’ll be cold chicken and salad and a custard tart.’

  ‘It sounds delicious,’ he both sounded and looked regretful, ‘but I shan’t be able to spare the time.’

  Emma, standing beside her mother to see him off, felt a surge of temper. He was on the point of leaving when she poked her head through the window and said a trifle haughtily, ‘In that case, there’s no need for you to come for me. I can very well go back on my own.’

  His eyes were only a few inches away from her own; she watched them narrow. He said, ‘Stop being a goose, Emma—I can always spare time for you.’

  He let in the clutch and the car slid silently down the lane and out of sight, leaving her standing there repeating his words to herself and wondering just exactly what he had meant. She would have liked to think that he had meant just what he had said, but it seemed unlikely. With the vivid mental picture of Saskia clouding her good sense, she turned back to her mother and went indoors.