by Betty Neels
‘That would be nice. We can talk…’
He took her arm and they started to cross the forecourt. ‘Ah yes—I really must tell you about that leukaemia case on Men’s Medical…’
That hadn’t been quite what she had meant, but she listened with real interest, made intelligent comments, and curbed her desire to talk about themselves. She was rewarded by her forbearance, for presently, when they were seated at a corner table in the same café she and Mr Grenfell had visited, Humphrey put down the menu and asked smilingly: ‘Well, what have you been doing with yourself? Not too busy?’ His question was casual. ‘And quite recovered from your little outburst, I hope?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry about that, although I meant every word of it…’ She saw his quick frown, but before he could say anything the proprietor was at the table waiting to know what they would like. Eugenia chose beans on toast and an egg and a pot of tea and waited while Humphrey decided between soup of the day and fishcakes or bacon and eggs. He ordered coffee for himself, pointing out that she drank too much tea as it was.
‘I missed tea today,’ she told him cheerfully. ‘One of my ladies took a nasty turn…’ She paused, because there was a faint impatience on his face, but only for a moment. ‘Humphrey, do you want me to go on working after we’re married?’
‘Now, why on earth do you want to bring that up?’ He gave her a light tolerant smile. ‘I never knew such a girl! Time enough to decide that once we’ve settled on a date.’
The tea came and she poured herself a cup. ‘Let’s settle the date now?’ she suggested.
His smile was still tolerant. ‘Darling, what’s come over you? I was doing some sums a day or so ago, and if we save hard, we should be able to get married in eighteen months’ time; let’s wait until then before making any more plans.’
She said a little desperately. ‘Yes, but don’t you feel that we’re wasting time—losing something? We could find a small flat and I’d go on working and we could still save…’
‘We’ve gone over this before, Eugenia, and you know my views. I want security, my own home, a future free from uncertainties. Maybe we’re waiting a little longer than most couples before we get married, but we’ll have no worries about mortgages or hire-purchase.’
‘Won’t we—everything—be a little stale by then?’ she asked.
‘I can’t imagine why you should say that. Security is important above all else, especially in married life.’
‘What about love?’ Eugenia drew a deep breath and plunged. ‘Humphrey, why don’t we go away for a weekend together? I mean on our own—stay somewhere quiet. It might…that is, we might feel like we did when we first met.’
He took a mouthful of bacon with deliberation. ‘I said last week that you needed a holiday, my dear. I’ll repeat that; you’re overwrought and exhausted for some reason and don’t realise what you’re saying. I don’t agree with pre-marital relationships. I’m glad Mother didn’t hear you say that, she would have been profoundly shocked!’
‘I’m a bit shocked myself,’ said Eugenia. ‘Only I—thought that perhaps it might help—sort of stir things up a bit.’ She stopped again, because he was looking vexed. ‘You don’t like the idea?’
‘Certainly not, and I should be glad if you don’t bring up the subject again. If you’ve finished, how about a brisk walk? Probably you don’t get sufficient exercise.’
She didn’t see him for a couple of days after that, which was perhaps just as well, because she felt quite at outs with him. When they had first become engaged, saving for a home had been fun, but it had never entered her head that the saving would have to go on for so long. It seemed to her that their love for each other was being swamped by Humphrey’s precise calculations, just as it seemed that the list of things which were quite indispensable to their marriage grew longer and longer each month.
She went home one evening, but somehow she was unable to talk about it. It had gone too deep, she realised; now it was something she and Humphrey must work out for themselves. If only she could make him see!
She wasn’t sleeping very well and she had lost her appetite, although her work didn’t suffer. All the same, when she met Mr Grenfell on the way to X-ray one morning he stopped in front of her and asked: ‘What’s wrong? No, don’t tell me, I’ll guess. Humphrey’s set his sights on a dishwashing machine and put the wedding off for another couple of months?’
There was no sneer in his voice, he had meant it as such a joke, and Eugenia tried to answer him in the same spirit. ‘Something like that. I’m too impatient. I think he’s right, I need a holiday. Perhaps I’ll take one.’
‘I wish you would, and solve a problem for me. Mrs Pringle has had a severe attack of bronchitis. I want her to have a week at the cottage, but she won’t go on her own, naturally enough, and Pringle says he can’t leave the house to the daily maids. If you’d go with her…’ he paused and smiled at her. ‘You’d make three people happy; Mrs Pringle, Pringle and me. You’d not have anything to do, just see that she takes her pills and takes life easily.’
‘You’re joking,’ said Eugenia, and was answered by his grave:
‘No, I’m not. Why should I do that? You mentioned that you might take a holiday and it seemed like a gift from heaven. Take it or leave it.’
She told herself afterwards that she had never intended to agree. She had done so on the spur of the moment, some small demon inside her had prompted her. She spent the rest of the day wondering what excuse she could make so that she could refuse to take up his offer, and decided that she wouldn’t make one, only tell him that she hadn’t meant to say yes and that she really didn’t want a holiday after all.
Only she had no opportunity to do so. True, he did a round the next day, but that was hardly the time or the place in which to discuss the matter with him. If he had just so much as mentioned the matter it would have made it easier, but he was more remote than usual; perfectly polite, even friendly in an impersonal way, but he gave her no chance to say a word other than those concerning strictly surgical matters. Eugenia saw him go with a smouldering eye and presently went off duty, to bump into Humphrey coming from the medical wing. She stopped in front of him, relieved that here was someone in whom she could confide. ‘Humphrey, did you mean it, the other evening when you said that I needed a holiday?’
He changed a pile of case notes from one arm to the other. ‘Yes, yes, of course I did, Eugenia, but don’t stop me now; I’m extremely busy. I’m glad you’re taking my advice for once.’ He took a step away from her. ‘I’m late as it is…’
She swivelled on her heels and watched him stride away; handsome, undoubtedly clever, and quite frighteningly and suddenly a stranger who didn’t want to be bothered with her small worries. ‘I’ll go, then,’ she declared out loud so that one of the porters, passing her, turned round and asked: ‘Did you say something, Sister?’
‘No, Blake—just thought something out loud.’
Next morning she went to the Office and arranged for her week’s leave. If Mr Grenfell’s suggestion hadn’t been a genuine one, it really didn’t matter; she could always spend the week at home. But it was genuine all right; back in her office writing up the surgical supplies for the next day, she lifted the receiver when the phone rang and heard his voice.
‘Ah, Eugenia. You have your holiday booked?’ He had asked the question, but she had the feeling that he already knew the answer. All the same, she told him yes.
‘Good, I’ll collect you about nine o’clock on Saturday—it is your weekend, isn’t it? I’ll have Mrs Pringle with me. Do you want to call in on your family on the way?’
‘No, thanks, I’ve got an evening off tomorrow, so I’ll go home then.’ There was a small silence, then she said stiffly: ‘I saw Humphrey. I asked him if he thought it a good idea if I took a week off and he said yes.’
Mr Grenfell sounded very smooth. ‘Ah, yes. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t visit you while you’re at the cottage.’
Sh
e said reluctantly: ‘He doesn’t know I’m going there.’ And when he didn’t answer: ‘I’ll tell him before I go.’
‘Naturally.’ He sounded amused. ‘Nine o’clock on Saturday, then.’
Eugenia went home the next evening and told her father that she would be away for a week. ‘Mr Grenfell’s housekeeper’s been ill and he asked if I’d mind spending a week with her. It’ll make a nice change.’ There was a hint of defiance in her voice.
‘What a splendid idea, Eugenia. A week in the country will do you a world of good. What does Humphrey say about it?’
‘I haven’t told him yet—I was going to, but he couldn’t stop to listen. But I’ll make a point of seeing him before Saturday. He—he told me I needed a holiday anyway.’
‘In that case he should be delighted.’
She wasn’t so sure about that, but all the same, she intended telling him. She was off duty on Friday evening, and perhaps they could go out for an hour and she would tell him then.
Humphrey was free after six, so he told her when she phoned him. He would meet her in the car park at half past the hour. He didn’t say more; he didn’t like her phoning him at his flat, still less in the ward—something she never did unless it was urgent. She wasn’t late off duty, she showered and changed into a jersey dress and found a cardigan to go with it; it was a pleasant enough evening and she supposed they would drive out of town and have a meal. They hadn’t done that for a long time, and surely it was something they could afford once in a while.
One of the housemen was talking to Humphrey as she reached his car, so she merely said, ‘Hullo’, and smiled as she got in, waiting patiently until they had finished their conversation.
Humphrey was in a good mood, condescending about young newly qualified doctors. ‘Very uncertain of himself,’ he observed, taking the car out of the forecourt and into the street.
‘Well, I suppose we all are, when we start something new,’ said Eugenia mildly. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Mother phoned—she’s having trouble with her tax returns; it seems a good chance to sort them out for her. She’ll give us supper.’
‘I thought we were going to have an evening together—it seems a long time…’
‘Yes, well, we’ll go out next week. I’ve got an evening on Wednesday. I can’t leave Mother to worry herself sick…’
‘Couldn’t she get help? An accountant or the bank?’
‘When I can see to it for nothing?’ He laughed gently. ‘Darling, you’re sometimes quite lacking in common sense!’
It didn’t seem the right moment to mention her holiday.
It was on the way back to the hospital that she at last managed to tell him; the evening had been a dead loss, with Humphrey poring over endless forms and Mrs Parsons fluttering to and fro with sandwiches and unspeakable coffee. ‘I do remember saying that I’d give you supper,’ she explained in her little-girl voice, ‘but I’ve been so worried about these silly taxes that I couldn’t bring myself to cook.’ She added: ‘It would have been nice if we could have gone out for a meal…’
‘The sandwiches are very nice, Mrs Parsons,’ said Eugenia. ‘Humphrey and I are quite used to scratch meals.’
Not very happily put, she had realised, catching Mrs Parsons’ incensed eye. Now, with St Clare’s red bricks in sight, she said: ‘I’m going away for a week tomorrow.’
‘Ah, you took my advice.’ Humphrey sounded smug. ‘I knew you would!’
‘No, I didn’t take your advice. Mr Grenfell’s housekeeper has been ill and I’m going to spend a week in the country with her at Mr Grenfell’s cottage.’
She had often wondered what a pregnant silence was. She knew now. Humphrey turned the car into the forecourt, drove round to the car park and stopped. Only then did he turn round to look at her. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ he demanded. It struck her that he didn’t sound annoyed, only tolerantly amused. ‘Of course you’ll do no such thing,’ he went on in the same tolerant way. ‘I’ve never heard of anything so silly!’
‘It’s not silly. You said I ought to take a holiday—well, Mrs Pringle needs to go away for a week and doesn’t want to go alone. It’ll be a nice change.’
‘You’ve met Mrs Pringle?’
Perhaps it was best not to go into that. ‘She’s Mr Grenfell’s housekeeper—I’ve just told you that. She’s elderly—well housekeepers generally are, aren’t they? She’s had bronchitis.’ She added recklessly: ‘Don’t you think it sounds a good idea?’
Humphrey sighed a little dramatically. ‘You have changed lately, Eugenia, but you must do as you wish. On several occasions in the last few weeks you’ve gone against my wishes. Perhaps a week away would be a good idea.’
‘You could come and see me.’ She tried not to sound wistful.
‘That would be ridiculous—I don’t know where the cottage is, but presumably it’s outside London. And you’ll only be gone for a week.’
‘Yes. Humphrey, will you miss me?’
He laughed. ‘In a week? After all, we don’t see much of each other in that time, do we? Perhaps when you get back we’ll have an evening together.’
‘Oh, Humphrey, yes! Let’s splash out and have dinner and dance…’
He laughed again. ‘I think a walk in Regent’s Park and a meal out would do very nicely, don’t you? No point in wasting money.’
She said soberly: ‘No, Humphrey. You don’t mind me going?’
‘My dear girl, you’re a grown woman and can make up your own mind, besides I advised you to have a week off—you’ll be able to pull yourself together.’ He pushed open his door. ‘Well, I’m off to bed: I was up half of last night.’ He leaned across and kissed her cheek. ‘I shall expect a calm, sensible girl next time we meet.’
Eugenia opened her door and got out. ‘Yes, Humphrey.’
He locked the car and gave her a casual pat on a shoulder. ‘I won’t come round to the entrance—no point, is there?’ He laughed goodhumouredly. ‘A great strapping girl like you can take care of herself!’
Eugenia said: ‘Yes, Humphrey,’ again. If he would kiss her—just once—properly, or tell her that he loved her… She found herself willing him to do the one or the other, but he turned away, lifting a hand as he went. ‘See you,’ he said. She watched him go through the side door before walking slowly round to the entrance and going inside. A good thing Mr Grenfell wasn’t there this time, or she would have flung herself at him and burst into a flood of tears.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EUGENIA DIDN’T SLEEP all that much. She lay in bed making excuses for Humphrey, telling herself she had been behaving foolishly and selfishly, that he had every reason to be annoyed. The trouble was, she couldn’t pinpoint the exact trouble. Mrs Parsons was a stumbling block, of course, and Humphrey’s increasing urge to save money at the expense of their happiness. For she had to admit, she wasn’t happy. Being engaged should be delightful—there was no need to fling money around, but neither was there any need to scrape and screw for a future which was fast becoming unattractive. She dozed off towards morning and woke with a headache, far too early. She got up and made herself some tea, then packed a weekend case with slacks and shirts and a dress—she would not need much at the cottage anyway.
She made more tea, ate some biscuits, put on the blue suit and went down to the forecourt. Mr Grenfell had said nine o’clock, and if he was as punctual in his private life as he was on the ward, then she mustn’t keep him waiting.
He was there, with Mrs Pringle in the back, looking under the weather but smiling cheerfully as Eugenia reached them. Mrs Pringle and Mr Grenfell wished her good morning, and he opened the door and ushered her in beside his housekeeper. She had expected to sit beside him and she gave him a quick, surprised glance as she settled herself. He met it with a small smile which told her nothing and got back in and drove off, lifting a casual hand in salute to the handful of people who had been watching them, hopeful of adding some titbit of gossip to the hospital grapevin
e.
Mrs Pringle, delighted to have someone to talk to, chatted happily for the entire journey. She still had a nasty cough, but that didn’t deter her, and Eugenia, always a good listener, was a willing audience. Mr Grenfell said nothing at all. Indeed, she wondered once or twice if he had forgotten that he had passengers in the back of the car.
The cottage looked just as delightful in the May sunshine as it had in moonlight, but obviously Mr Grenfell wasn’t feeling sentimental. He brushed past the lilac trees as though they weren’t there, deposited their bags in the hall, introduced Eugenia to the middle-aged woman who had come from the village to open the house for them, drank a hasty cup of coffee and drove away again, declaring that he had an appointment for two o’clock. Not one word did he say about fetching them back again the following week; presumably he had already said something to Mrs Pringle about that. Eugenia wished him a calm goodbye and went indoors, resisting a strong desire to watch the Bentley until it was out of sight; despite Mrs Pringle’s cheerful presence, she felt suddenly lonely.
Mrs Cobb, coming in from the kitchen as they went indoors again, beamed at them both. ‘I’m sure it’s proper nice to have someone here; haven’t seen Mr Grenfell for dear knows how long. O’ course, his fiancée don’t like this place—too quiet. I suppose that’s why he doesn’t come, only on his own, like, for an hour or two.’ She went on, hardly pausing for breath: ‘There’s a nice shepherd’s pie in the oven and one of my custard tarts—will half an hour suit you?’
‘You sit here,’ suggested Eugenia to Mrs Pringle. ‘I’ll unpack for us both, there’s no need for you to go upstairs.’
‘Well, that’s kind of you, Sister Smith. I’ll sit in the kitchen while Mrs Cobb finishes off the cooking and have a chat.’
Eugenia went up the small staircase. Mrs Cobb had taken their cases up and she went slowly, looking around her. The hall was roomy and square, furnished with some nice old chests and a wall table with a bowl of flowers on it. The floor was tiled, but most of it was covered by a patterned rug; the same pattern covered the stairs and the landing, and she stopped there to look around her. The furnishings were exactly right for a cottage and there was no lack of comfort; she discovered that when she went into the room which was to be hers. A nice square room with an old-fashioned casement window hung with flowered chintz; there was a pale rug on the polished wood floor and the bed and tallboy and dressing table were of yew. There was a small bathroom too, equipped with pastel towels, a bowl of soaps and an assortment of jars which she promised herself she would examine at her leisure. She unpacked her few things and went along to Mrs Pringle’s room across the landing—the counterpart of hers, its window overlooking the side of the garden.
