Heidelberg Wedding

by Betty Neels

  It had been a quiet night on the ward. Eugenia did her morning round with her usual unhurried friendliness, describing patiently to those patients well enough to be interested as many of the dresses as she could remember, handing out the post and checking, in her quiet matter-of-fact way, her patients’ conditions. She had ten minutes or so in her office before the clock began to strike and she got to her feet again. It wouldn’t do to keep Mr Grenfell waiting.

  They met, as they always did, at the doors exactly on time, exchanged their usual polite good mornings and gathered round the first bed. Considering that the whole bunch of them had been up until the small hours, they didn’t look too bad, thought Eugenia, casting surreptitious glances at her companions. True, the girl from Physiotherapy had bags under her eyes and Harry was a little pale, but Mr Grenfell looked exactly as he always did, not a well groomed hair out of place, not a speck on his well cut suit, and since his eyelids drooped over his eyes anyway, it was impossible to tell if he was tired or not. Dennis, the current houseman, looked as though he hadn’t been to bed at all, although he was spruce enough. Hatty had weathered the ball very well, though. Eugenia caught her staff nurse’s eye and smiled, unaware that that young lady was marvelling that Sister Smith could look so cool and composed and not in the least tired after dancing until all hours. With Mr Grenfell too, mused Hatty, and a splendid pair they had made. Sister had looked gorgeous and she had seen them laughing and talking like old friends, and here they were, back to square one, so to speak. But not permanently. The round done, coffee ordered and drunk in the office, Mr Grenfell got up to go, but at the door he paused.

  ‘Harry, go ahead, will you—take the others with you. I’ll join you on the Men’s Surgical in a few minutes.’

  They filed out and he closed the door behind them and then leaned against it. Eugenia watched him, listening to the familiar jingle of coins in his pocket and wondering what he had to say.

  ‘Have you seen Humphrey?’

  She said in some surprise: ‘No—there’s hardly been time, but I expect I shall once I’m off duty.’

  He nodded. ‘Good, I’m sure you’ll do your utmost to patch things up. It was, after all, a silly reason to quarrel, and he’s a sound young man.’ He paused and stared out of the window, over her head. ‘He should have a good solid future before him—you’ll have security and a well ordered life and his affection.’

  Eugenia stared at him round-eyed. This didn’t sound like Mr Grenfell at all. Why on earth was he suddenly so concerned about her future? He had never said whether he liked Humphrey or not, but he had certainly never sung his praises in such a manner. She said uncertainly: ‘Yes, I suppose I shall,’ and added: ‘We have a weekend free, we’ll go to his mother’s…’

  Mr Grenfell straightened and put a hand on the door. ‘It would be more sense if you left Mother out of it,’ he said as he went away, leaving her so muddled that she sat for quite two minutes, tidying the papers on her desk over and over again and getting them into a fine mess.

  She saw Humphrey that evening after supper and, mindful of Mr Grenfell’s advice, told him she was sorry their quarrel had spoilt their evening. It took all her powers of persuasion to wipe the sulky look from his face, but at length her patience was rewarded and he agreed to forget the whole thing.

  ‘You’ve behaved foolishly,’ he pointed out in a reasonable forgiving voice, ‘but we’ll say no more about it, but I must ask you not to wear that flashy dress again.’ He added unforgivably: ‘It’s not as though you’re a young girl and slim.’ And Eugenia, intent on pacifying him, agreed meekly, damping down the spark of anger threatening to burst into a raging inferno.

  She had a busy day ahead of her. She went to sleep feeling a glow of self-satisfaction because everything was all right again and went on duty in the morning prepared to face a hard day’s work and, looming near now, a weekend with her future mother-in-law.

  She went home for an hour or two that evening, and sitting round the small fire with the twins on the rug and her father opposite her, she told them about the ball and touched lightly on Humphrey’s displeasure. ‘I had to tell him,’ she explained. ‘He thought I’d taken the money from my bank account.’ She sighed unconsciously. ‘We’re both free this weekend, we’re going to his mother’s.’

  ‘You will, of course, wear your new blue outfit,’ advised Becky, ‘and the shoes.’

  Eugenia said she would; surely Humphrey, content and relaxed at his mother’s home, wouldn’t take exception to something as sensible as a jacket and skirt—he would probably disapprove of the shoes; low-heeled lace-ups would have longer wear in them, but after all, they were her shoes, bought with her money, and even if she loved him that was no reason to dress like a dowd. She left home with regret and the promise that she would see them all next week, and once in her room at the hospital she got out her overnight bag and packed it. She would be working until five o’clock and Humphrey didn’t like to be kept waiting. There would be no time to do more than change.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE DAY WAS as busy as the previous one had been. The thoracotomy which had gone to theatre two days earlier was showing signs of congestion, so Eugenia sent for Harry and he in turn went away to fetch Mr Grenfell, who came unhurriedly, examined his patient, wrote up fresh instructions and asked that the physiotherapist should be sent for so that he might give explicit instructions about essential breathing exercises.

  ‘I want to know of any further developments, Sister,’ he told Eugenia. ‘I think we’ve caught it in time. Anything else worrying you?’

  ‘No, sir, thank you.’

  ‘Good. Enjoy your weekend.’

  He went quietly out of the ward again and she began on the careful task of getting the patient back on to the road to normal recovery. She was successful, she hoped, although it would fall to Hatty’s lot to continue the rest of the treatment over the weekend. All the same, when she went off duty she was a little late and not quite as serene as she usually was. Humphrey would be waiting impatiently and to make matters worse she broke a finger nail, had to wait for an empty shower and laddered her tights. All the same, she regained some of her calm when she was dressed. The jacket and skirt were just right, even if she had had to wear a last year’s knitted top with them, and the shoes were elegant… She caught up her overnight bag and raced downstairs.

  Humphrey was in his car, looking impatient. Eugenia got in beside him with a breathless: ‘Sorry—I got held up—one of the patients.’ She smiled at him and added, ‘Hullo, dear.’

  He pecked her cheek. ‘It’s a pity,’ he said reasonably, ‘that on the few occasions that we’re able to go out together, you’re invariably late.’

  ‘Well, I can’t clock-watch, can I?’ she coaxed, anxious for him to be good-humoured. ‘And I’m never off duty on the dot, you know.’

  He started the car and drove at a steady pace across the forecourt and into the street beyond. ‘That’s new—that suit you’re wearing.’

  ‘Yes.’ She hoped she sounded calmer than she felt. ‘I bought it with the rest of the money…’

  ‘What money?’ His voice was sharp.

  ‘Well, Mrs Clarence—the patient I went to nurse in the Algarve, sent me this cheque, and since I’ve paid almost all of my salary into the bank this month, I spent it on clothes.’

  Humphrey tightened his lips. ‘Since you felt justified in doing so, I’ll say no more about it.’ He spoke in a reasonable voice, but she sensed that he was angry. She worked hard at getting him in a good frame of mind before they reached his mother’s home, but he was still a little aloof when he stopped the car outside his home. Her heart sank as the door opened and Mrs Parsons appeared on the doorstep. She greeted her son with a wistful joy calculated to wring all but the hardest of hearts and which instantly put Eugenia’s teeth on edge, then turned to her with a gushing sweetness even harder to bear.

  The little lady’s sharp eyes took in the whole of her person while she stooped to peck her
cheek. ‘New clothes?’ The sweetness was tinged with acid and she gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Extravagant girl, and such an expensive colour too—always at the cleaners.’ Her glance fell to the shoes. ‘Very smart,’ her voice was suddenly plaintive. ‘I only wish I could afford them, but low heels and a sensible lace-up are so much better value…’

  Before Eugenia could answer Humphrey laughed. ‘But Eugenia wasn’t feeling sensible, were you, old girl?’ He gave her a condescending pat on the back. ‘Let’s get inside, shall we?’

  Mrs Parsons led the way indoors, to a house gleaming with polish, smelling faintly of pine disinfectant, and as they neared the kitchen, something roasting in the oven. ‘Your favourite meal, darling,’ declared that lady, opening the drawing room door. ‘You come so seldom that I can afford the best of everything.’ Her voice was plaintive again.

  They sat in a semi-circle round an imitation coal fire with only one bar on, and presently Mrs Parsons said, as she had said a dozen times before: ‘Pour us a glass of sherry, will you, darling—I save it up as a special treat for you; it’s a small luxury I’ve had to give up since your dear father died.’

  Eugenia sat, very upright so that she did not disarrange the cushions, and sipped at her sherry, listening politely to Mrs Parsons’ chatter, most of it full of self-pity, handed out with an air of ‘What a brave little woman I am’. She paused presently, asked perfunctorily after Eugenia’s work and then listened to Humphrey’s account of his busy days. Somehow, thought Eugenia, crossly, she was made to feel inferior for no reason at all; she worked as hard as Humphrey, but it was never admitted. Indeed, he made a grave reference to her visit to the Algarve, making it appear that she had had the whale of a time and mentioning the cheque, something she found hard to forgive.

  ‘Ah,’ cried Mrs Parsons playfully, ‘I can see that you’re a girl who knows which side her bread is buttered!’

  Eugenia’s mild temper flared suddenly. ‘Oh, indeed I do,’ she said gently. ‘Only all the butter has to go into the bank, doesn’t it?’

  Mrs Parsons looked affronted, observed that she would dish up their supper, and went out of the room, indignation in every line of her back.

  ‘There was no need to be rude to Mother,’ said Humphrey in the measured tones she found so hard to contradict, but just for once she was really angry.

  ‘Then get off my back!’ she snapped, and got up and went upstairs to the guest room she always slept in when she stayed the night.

  It was a small room, as impersonal as a hotel bedroom and so immaculate that she was almost afraid to unpack her case. Five minutes on her own calmed her down, though, she did her face, tidied her hair and went downstairs again. Humphrey and his mother had been talking about her; she could see that from their faces, which instantly assumed expressions of innocence.

  ‘We’re waiting for you,’ said Humphrey with a tolerance she didn’t believe. Supper was eaten solemnly, with due regard to the perfection of Mrs Parsons’ cooking and accompanied by tales of bygone comforts uttered in her wistful voice. To hear her talk, thought Eugenia, you would think she was on the breadline, and then felt ashamed for being unkind. The poor old dear must be lonely, even if she did appear to live in quite comfortable circumstances. The house was certainly much too large for her.

  The evening passed as previous evenings. Eugenia had had the forethought to bring her knitting with her while she listened to mother and son talking. She was included in their conversation of course, but only from time to time, and even then she only needed to agree to what was being said.

  They went to bed at a reasonable hour, with Mrs Parsons taking care that she was the last upstairs. Heaven knew what awful goings-on she imagined they would get up to, if they were left on their own, thought Eugenia naughtily—not that Humphrey was that sort of man. She sighed wistfully at the very idea.

  It was wrong of her, she thought as she brushed her hair, to expect life to be more exciting. Here she was, engaged to be married, with a secure future before her, wanting something to happen. Thinking about that, she wasn’t sure what.

  Saturday was spent as they always spent it when they were at Mrs Parsons’—tidying the garden. When that was done they had coffee, then Humphrey got out the car and they went for what Mrs Parsons called a nice drive; round Hampstead Heath and back again to a cold lunch and a quiet afternoon, while Eugenia knitted, Mrs Parsons dozed and Humphrey read The Times. After tea the cards were got out and they played three-handed whist until it was time for supper; another cooked meal, concocted, if Mrs Parsons was to be believed, at great expense and trouble to herself. Eugenia, playing a careless game, sniffed the air, boiled cod and shrimp sauce.

  Sunday was better. For one thing, they would go back to St Clare’s after tea and church took up most of the morning. Eugenia, sitting beside Humphrey, paid no attention to the sermon at all; she was working out the next lot of off-duty in her head, wondering about the patient with the thoracotomy, and thinking, rather to her own surprise, about Mr Grenfell.

  Lunch was roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and everything that went with them, followed by something out of a packet which hadn’t been whipped up enough and tasted gritty. Eugenia, wiping the dishes, did her best to make conversation with Mrs Parsons while Humphrey sat in the drawing-room with the Sunday papers, for as his mother said: ‘The poor boy has a heavy week’s work ahead of him and needs all the rest he can get.’

  Eugenia, wiping spoons and forks rather carelessly, wondered if his mother ever stopped to think that she might have a heavy week’s work too. Apparently not, for, said Mrs Parsons: ‘We women have no idea how hard our menfolk work to keep us in comfort.’

  Eugenia murmured assent, hung the dishcloth in its appointed place and followed Mrs Parsons back into the drawing-room. There would be light conversation until teatime. She picked up her knitting, only half listening to what was being said, until it dawned upon her suddenly that Mrs Parsons was talking about their future.

  ‘I daresay it will take me six months to sell this house,’ she was saying, ‘but I imagine you won’t be marrying just yet. I shall sell most of the furniture, just keep enough to furnish two rooms for myself—of course I shall take my meals with you dear—so much more economical and we shall all be pleasant company for each other—besides, I shall be able to give Eugenia some cooking hints.’ She beamed across at Eugenia’s astounded face. ‘I’m sure you’ve had little chance to work in a kitchen, have you, dear?’

  Eugenia took a deep breath. ‘As a matter of fact, I have— I can cook, too. Which is a good thing, because two women sharing a kitchen never works, does it?’ She went on, pleased that her voice was so steady: ‘Do you intend to live with us when we’re married, Mrs Parsons?’

  ‘Well, dear, it seems a good idea. I’ve given it a good deal of thought during the past few months and it has so many advantages…’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Company for you while Humphrey is working, and although I may not be able to do much housework—I have a very good daily woman, you know—I can advise you about so many things. I shall have my own rooms, of course.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘You mustn’t mind if I enjoy a little privacy from time to time!’

  Eugenia glanced at Humphrey and was pleased to see that he looked uncomfortable. ‘You hadn’t mentioned this to me,’ she said quietly.

  ‘No—well, I thought it better to wait until we could all discuss it.’

  Just for the moment she had no words. She got up. ‘I’ll get the tea, shall I? You won’t mind if we leave earlier than usual, Mrs Parsons? Humphrey is going to drop me off at my home—I’ve promised to spend the evening there.’

  Humphrey opened his mouth to protest, but the fierce look she gave him closed it again. He muttered something and when his mother protested said quite meekly: ‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten.’

  Nothing more was said on the matter, conversation was light and impersonal and for the life of her, afterwards Eugenia couldn’t remember a word of it.
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  In the car at last, watching Mrs Parsons being ‘poor little me’ as she wished Humphrey goodbye, Eugenia allowed herself to think. By the time he got in beside her and had begun the short drive back she had made at least some sense of her chaotic thoughts.

  She said with dangerous calm: ‘I thought that we were saving for our own home, Humphrey, not to keep your mother in ease at our expense for the rest of her days. Because that’s what it will be…’ and when he tried to interrupt: ‘No, please be quiet, it’s my turn to say something. It seems to me that you and your mother have had far too much to say without including me. Your mother lives very comfortably, she has someone to do the housework—presumably,’ Eugenia went on bitterly, ‘she’ll have me to do that when we eventually marry. There’s no need for her to live with us—what kind of a life will it be? We shall never be alone.’ She looked bewildered and choked with misery. ‘And why couldn’t you have talked about it to me? After all, I’m concerned as well, you know.’

  He said stiffly: ‘There’s no point in discussing it while you’re in this unreasonable mood, Eugenia. Later, when you’ve calmed down, we’ll talk about it quietly.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s something I can discuss quietly; at the moment I’d like to throw something at you, Humphrey! And now you can drive me to Father’s house.’

  Which, strangely enough, he did, without another word, waiting while she got out of the car and then driving away without a backward glance.

  They were in the sitting room, her father and the twins and Plum, spending a comfortable evening spread out in front of the fire. They were surprised to see her, welcoming her with a warmth that did her chilled heart good.