Heidelberg Wedding

by Betty Neels

  She voiced her thoughts: ‘This is really very nice, and it’s such a heavenly day too.’ She gave a happy sigh. ‘I love April.’

  The calm expression on her companion’s face didn’t alter. ‘I must agree, but I think I’ll wait for May.’

  She turned a puzzled face to his. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Somebody—Edward Way Teale, I think—wrote “All things seem possible in May”.’

  She was just as puzzled. ‘Oh, are you—that is, do you plan to get married then?’

  He said gravely: ‘You take the very words from my mouth, Eugenia.’

  For some reason she felt depressed. Mr Grenfell’s choice of a wife was his own business, of course, but she couldn’t help feeling that if he married Miriam he would be making the mistake of a lifetime. It was a pity she didn’t know him well enough to tell him so.

  The streets were fairly quiet and the twins were ready and waiting by the time they reached her home. Rather to her surprise Mr Grenfell elected to go in with her, although her father wasn’t at home. She discovered why when she saw him laying a book on the sitting room table. ‘For your father—he mentioned that he was looking for a copy, and I happened to have one at home.’

  He stood patiently tickling Plum’s furry head while Becky made a last-minute search for her purse, and then he ushered his party outside and into the car. This time Eugenia shared the back seat with Becky while Bruce sat beside Mr Grenfell; beginning on a string of questions which lasted as they went through the streets once more, in the direction of the river this time, with the streets and houses becoming larger and wider until they turned into Fulham Road and then the King’s Road and finally into Cheyne Walk.

  Becky bounced forward and poked her face over Mr Grenfell’s shoulder. ‘I say, you don’t live here, do you, Gerard?’ she wanted to know excitedly.

  He half turned his head to smile at her. ‘Indeed I do.’ He slowed the car and stopped before a Georgian terrace house, separated from the pavement by an iron railing and a small garden. It had a wide porch and sash windows rising in four neat rows to its roof, and as they got out of the car, Eugenia glanced over her shoulder; the view of the Thames and Battersea Park took her breath, before she turned back to the house. Not at all the kind of home she had expected Mr Grenfell to have. Vaguely, she had imagined that he lived in a service flat in one of the great faceless blocks convenient to St Clare’s. But of course, she reminded herself, if he was going to get married soon, he would need a house. Miriam, she guessed, wouldn’t be happy in anything else. Probably she had chosen this one and furnished it…

  She was mistaken. She heard him answer some question of Becky’s: ‘My family have lived here for a very long time—it’s too big at present, but I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.’

  A remark which cheered her up considerably, although she wasn’t quite sure why.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MR GRENFELL ushered his small party along the short path, unlocked his front door and stood aside for them to go in, at the same time giving a piercing whistle, instantly answered by a loud barking. A moment later a door at the back of the square hall swung violently open to admit a portly golden labrador, who in her turn was followed by an equally portly man, no longer young, but very spruce in his dark suit.

  ‘This is Pringle,’ said Mr Grenfell. ‘He and Mrs Pringle look after me—Pringle, this is Miss Smith and Becky and Bruce Smith.’ He stood fondling the dog’s head while they shook hands. ‘And this is Muffin.’

  They greeted the dog suitably while Pringle relieved the twins of their coats. ‘Very glad to see you, she is,’ he observed. ‘Looking forward to a bit of a ramble in the garden.’

  ‘A garden here?’ asked Eugenia.

  ‘Oh, quite a large one. There’s even a small wood at the end of it. Would you like to see the puppies first or shall we take Muffin for a stroll?’

  ‘The puppies,’ chorused the twins, ‘please!’

  The small creatures were curled up in a large basket in the kitchen, a splendidly equipped room which somehow managed to look comfortably old-fashioned. And the short, stout little lady standing at the kitchen table, floury arms in a bowl of dough, looked the same. ‘Mrs Pringle,’ said Mr Grenfell, ‘my housekeeper. Miss Smith, Becky, and Bruce Smith.’

  ‘Pleased, I’m sure,’ chuckled Mrs Pringle. ‘Excuse me if I don’t shake hands, I’d spoil the pastry.’

  ‘God forbid,’ observed Mr Grenfell seriously, and led the way to the puppies.

  There was a tabby cat sitting with them. ‘My Maudie,’ said Mrs Pringle. ‘Kind of nursemaid, she is, when Muffin’s not there. Thinks they’re kittens, I daresay.’

  They spent some time kneeling by the basket while Muffin stood by her master, occasionally bending to snuff gently at her puppies, while Maudie slept peacefully. ‘I’d love to have one,’ said Becky longingly, ‘but of course we can’t, not in our little house—now if we were back at Chilcoate Magna…’

  Eugenia frowned. She didn’t think, as far as she could remember, that she had ever mentioned her old home to Mr Grenfell; for some reason she didn’t bother to think about, she didn’t want him to know about it. She said hastily: ‘Yes—well, love, we really can’t have a puppy, can we? There’d be no one at home to look after him—he’s far happier here.’

  Mr Grenfell made no comment, merely remarking that if they had looked their fill, they might like to go round the garden.

  A quite large garden. Walking down its well kept paths, it was possible to forget that London was all round them; it had been cleverly screened by a variety of trees and shrubs and there were spring flowers all over the place. And when they reached the end there was the bluebell wood; small but genuine. Eugenia stopped in her tracks and drew in a fragrant breath.

  ‘It’s heavenly! However did you manage it, right in the middle of all these streets and houses?’

  ‘I think it was because of the streets and houses that my father planted it.’

  ‘Oh,’ she looked at him in surprise, ‘have you always lived here?’

  ‘All my life.’ There was content and satisfaction in his voice and she said: ‘You must love it very much,’ and then in a sudden burst of frankness: ‘I always thought of you as living in a service flat.’

  ‘But then you know so little about me, Eugenia.’

  Becky and Bruce were at the other end of the little wood with Muffin, she could hear their happy voices, and just for the moment she wished with all her heart that she could call a halt to time and stay there in the sunshine with the bluebells all around her and the thin evening light dappling the trees. Such thoughts were nonsense, of course, and disloyal to Humphrey. She gave an involuntary shudder at a mental picture of a semi-detached in one of the better suburbs, well maintained, because Humphrey wouldn’t settle for anything less, its garden neat and uninspired and not a blade of grass out of place; certainly not a bluebell in sight…

  ‘Will you stay for tea?’ asked Mr Grenfell, gently cutting across her thoughts.

  They had their tea in a sitting room at the back of the house with french windows opening on to the garden, sandwiches cut paper-thin, tiny cakes and a large chocolate cake oozing cream. Becky and Bruce tucked in with uninhibited pleasure, while Eugenia nibbled at the sandwiches and looked around her. The room was delightfully furnished with two large sofas covered in tawny velvet, one each side of a small fireplace, a modicum of lamps on tables, and a scattering of small comfortable chairs covered in paler shades of velvet. The floor was covered by a Turkey carpet, its various colours pleasantly dimmed by age.

  ‘You like it?’ asked Mr Grenfell suddenly.

  ‘Very much.’ She tried to think of something else to say and couldn’t. Singularly stupid of her to feel shy—after all, she had known him for three years or more and had never once felt anything else but professional interest in his remarks. She busied herself refilling his cup and hoped he would embark on some general topic. But it seemed that he wasn’t going to, a
nd when she glanced at him presently, it was to find him watching her. When he did speak, it was to take her quite by surprise.

  ‘Your home at Chilcoate Magna—it had a garden?’

  ‘Yes. As big as this one, but not nearly so well planned.’

  ‘And the house?’ he persisted gently.

  She shot a frustrated glance at Becky, whose fault it was that he knew anything about it, anyway. ‘Oh, just a country house on the edge of the village.’

  ‘You must miss it.’

  Before she could reply Becky chimed in: ‘Oh, she does—we all do, but we had to move. We pretend that we don’t mind living in Islington, but as soon as Bruce and I have got ourselves educated we plan to buy it back.’

  ‘A most salutory aim,’ remarked Mr Grenfell, and looked so encouraging that Becky had her mouth open to tell him even more, only Eugenia stopped her in time by remarking on the beauty of the tapestry firescreen.

  Mr Grenfell’s mouth twitched, but he agreed with her politely, in fact, enlarged upon its history at some length, and by the time he had finished, Eugenia was able to suggest that it was time, she felt, they should go home.

  ‘And please don’t bother to see us home,’ she begged him. ‘I’m sure there’s a bus close by.’

  He had got out of his chair to shut the french window. ‘I have to go back to St Clare’s,’ he told her smoothly, ‘and Muffin is longing for a ride. I’ve no doubt Maudie will keep an eye on the puppies till we get back.’

  It would have been ungracious to have protested further, so they bade the Pringles goodbye and went back down the short path and got into the car. When they were almost at the hospital Eugenia said stiffly: ‘Thank you for a pleasant afternoon, Mr Grenfell. It was great fun, and the bluebell wood was something to remember. If you’d like to drop us off here we can easily catch a bus…’

  ‘So very anxious to be rid of me, Eugenia,’ he said softly. ‘I wonder why? I need only leave a note for Harry with the porter on duty. Wait in the car, will you?’

  He didn’t stop to see if she agreed, but whisked himself out of his seat and in through the hospital doors, to reappear in a very short time indeed.

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Bruce. ‘You’re coming back with us— Father will be pleased. When Eugenia’s home we usually have coffee and cake before she goes back. Will you stop and have some too?’

  Eugenia felt indignation rise within her as Mr Grenfell, without even bothering to look at her, agreed. Anyway, he wouldn’t stay long; he would most certainly have some date or other during the evening, and even if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t want to miss his dinner.

  She was quite wrong. He went into the house with them, spent half an hour with her father, helped Bruce with his biology and then settled down to coffee and cake and a pleasant evening round the small fire. It was Becky who asked suddenly: ‘Do you mind missing your dinner? It’s after eight o’clock. We have dinner in the middle of the day and so does Father—Eugenia cooks when she’s at home. I could cut some sandwiches for you?’

  ‘You’re very kind, Becky, but I—er—had a splendid meal at midday myself, and this cake is delicious.’

  ‘Eugenia made it. She makes one every week. I suppose when she marries Humphrey she won’t be able to…’

  ‘Well, they won’t get married for ages, so you’ll be able to cook yourself by then,’ observed her brother.

  The conversation, Eugenia thought, was getting altogether too personal. She made a crisp remark about the weather and Mr Grenfell followed her at once, proving, she told herself, that he found such family gossip boring.

  But if he did, he concealed it well. It was another two hours before he got up to go, with the twins on the verge of going to their beds, urging him to come again, echoed by their father, too. But not by Eugenia.

  He thanked them, observing that he wouldn’t want to encroach on any visit Humphrey would make.

  ‘Oh, but he almost never comes,’ said Becky. ‘He doesn’t like us, and he never knows what to say to Father.’

  ‘That will do, Becky!’ Eugenia’s voice was sharp. And as Mr Grenfell turned his thoughtful gaze upon her flushed face: ‘Of course we shall be delighted to see you whenever you can come, Mr Grenfell—though I don’t suppose,’ she added ingenuously, ‘that will be often, you must have a great many friends.’

  ‘One always finds time for friends,’ drawled Mr Grenfell, at his most bland.

  They drove back in almost total silence while Eugenia tried to think of something to say. Why, she wondered, was light conversation so difficult with him? She mumbled a few commonplaces, and felt relief as he stopped the car before the hospital entrance. ‘It’s been very nice,’ she told him hurriedly. ‘Thank you very much,’ and put her hand on the door, to have it covered at once by his large one.

  ‘Does it strike you that this is becoming a little monotonous—I’ve given up the habit of counting the number of times you’ve offered thanks before bolting away like a startled rabbit. There are other ways, you know.’

  She gave her hand an experimental wriggle and felt his clasp tighten. She should feel angry, but she didn’t. Instead she felt pleasantly excited, not at all how she should feel; an engaged girl with a faithful Humphrey somewhere on the other side of the door, probably hard at it on the wards. And Mr Grenfell should know better. What would Miriam think?—not that Eugenia cared about that. She said clearly in what she hoped was her usual pleasantly cool voice: ‘Humphrey would have loved your garden, Mr Grenfell.’

  He took his hand away at once. ‘A keen gardener?’ he asked, his voice as mild as milk. ‘I must ask him round one day, it might inspire him to start a bluebell wood of his own.’

  He got out of the car and came round to open her door. ‘Goodnight, Eugenia; a very pleasant day.’

  Eugenia went through the hospital and up to her room and undressed slowly. She was in bed when she remembered that Humphrey had been free that afternoon and she hadn’t even thought about him once. She turned over and closed her eyes, intent on getting to sleep. She would ask him when he would be free again and be sure to see that she would be likewise.

  He was free the very next evening, and so was she. They had had a hard day behind them, and Eugenia for one was feeling guilty as well as tired. She had argued with herself all day that she should tell him about her afternoon with the twins; that it should be perfectly easy to do so, but she had shrunk from the controlled annoyance he would show, his handsome features rigid with displeased hurt. But in any case, she had had no chance to say anything, because he didn’t mention the matter at all, being quite taken up with a lengthy diatribe concerning a difficult diagnosis he had made that morning. She ate her chicken in a basket and drank the beer she had been given and which she disliked, and listened, trying to take an interest, her tired mind wanting nothing more than to stop thinking for a while. When Humphrey paused to take a mouthful of chips, she said: ‘I’ve had a busy day, too, Humphrey.’

  ‘Yes,’ his interest was transitory, ‘you’ve got plenty of staff, haven’t you? I suppose Grenfell takes advantage of his seniority.’

  She said seriously: ‘Oh, I don’t think so; it would be a difficult ward to manage unless we had sufficient nurses, and some of them are very junior and need a lot of teaching.’

  Humphrey took a pull at his beer. ‘Well, as I was saying, this case of mine—I knew it wasn’t a normal polyneuritis—the paralysis was there, but there was a degree of fever and severe headache…’

  Eugenia allowed her thoughts to wander hazily. Presently she said abruptly: ‘Why does your mother want to come and live with us when we get married, Humphrey?’

  He took a mouthful of chicken very deliberately. ‘You have no interest in my work—probably you’re tired. I suggest some sort of tonic to give you more stamina. This is certainly no time to discuss our future, Eugenia.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He laughed indulgently. ‘It’s obvious that your mind isn’t clear.’ He patted her arm. ‘Never mind�
�I’ve got a surprise for you. I’ve got hold of a couple of tickets for that new show at the Prince of Wales. Next Saturday, so fix your off-duty, will you?’

  ‘Humphrey, how super! They must have cost the earth.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, they’re complimentary—stalls.’

  ‘Well, I’m on duty until eight o’clock, but I’ll get Hatty to change with me.’ She added, half laughing: ‘Mind you, if there’s a flap on, I’ll have to stay.’

  ‘Rubbish, darling, you’re not indispensable, you know.’

  ‘No, but I can be an extra pair of hands when they’re needed.’

  He finished his chicken and leant over the table to take her hand. ‘I can’t imagine anything much happening on a weekend—no theatre and all the Tuesday cases out of the wood. Besides, Hatty is pretty good, isn’t she?’

  ‘Splendid.’ She didn’t add that at the weekends they were pretty thin on the ground for those very reasons.

  They strolled back to St Clare’s in harmony, and Eugenia, relieved to have Humphrey so good-humoured, didn’t bring up the subject of his mother again.

  In bed later, she accused herself of being a coward and then took comfort from her father’s advice that she should do nothing for the time being. And Humphrey was right, of course. Weekends were usually just the routine business.

  Humphrey couldn’t always be right, though. She was on the point of giving the report to Hatty before going off duty when the phone rang. The Accident Room; Eugenia felt a horrible premonition shoot through her before anyone spoke.

  ‘It’s me, Laura,’ and one of Eugenia’s closest friends in charge of the Accident Room. ‘I say, love, you’ve got a load of trouble coming your way. A nasty smash in the Old Kent Road; we’ve got them sorted out and you’ll be getting three. Stove-in chest—she was driving and took the full force of the wheel; a nasty penetrating wound and a collapse of the left lung, and a small girl, who got shot on to some railings and was impaled. They’ll be up in fifteen minutes.’