by Betty Neels
‘Doesn’t it make you furious?’ She had gone to stand by him, sharing the deplorable view. ‘Can you keep him as long as possible?’
‘Yes. He can go to the country branch when he’s fit again and we must see what we can do about Granny. A temporary job close by, perhaps?’
‘The world’s a funny place.’ Rachel was voicing her thoughts, hardly aware that she was sharing them with him. ‘All these dressed-up people yesterday evening, listening to that frightful music, and being what they call successful. They’re not, you know; they don’t do anything that matters.’ She gave a great sigh. ‘You do.’
She didn’t see his slow smile and the gleam in his eyes.
‘Thank you, Rachel. But it takes all sorts to make a world. I take it that you didn’t altogether enjoy your evening?’
‘The thing is,’ she told him seriously, ‘Melville is so popular. When we go out he meets so many friends he has to stop and talk to.’
‘But you must meet a number of famous people?’
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘You see, he thinks—quite rightly—that I wouldn’t have much in common with them.’
‘I feel sure that he is right.’ He glanced down at her and walked to the door. ‘You’re off duty at five o’clock?’
She was already unpinning her cap. ‘Yes, sir.’ She followed him out and went to theatre to make sure that it was ready for use; the nurses had done very well. With that she went to scrub and presently, standing by her trolleys, she watched him, gowned and masked, join those waiting for him round the table. He asked, ‘Ready, Sister?’ in his unhurried voice and she handed him a scalpel, reflecting how nice he was to work for.
CHAPTER SIX
THE SPLENECTOMY was followed by a baby girl who had swallowed an open safety pin. The Professor extricated it, his large strong hands as delicate as thistledown, and then went away to reassure the anxious mother. He was back again before Rachel had the theatre just so once more.
‘Mr Jolly is taking over until tomorrow morning. Billy will assist him if anything comes in. I’m going over to Welbeck Street.’ He had private patients there. ‘George and his wife are coming to dinner; I wondered if you would care to join us? I haven’t asked you earlier because I wasn’t sure if you had a date.’ He added, ‘You know Rosie?’
Rosie was George’s wife of less than a year, a nurse like herself who had been working at another London hospital. Rachel had met her and liked her and an evening out would be nice… Melville had said that he was going to be very busy; it was unlikely that he would want to take her out. She said, ‘Thank you, Professor, I should like to come.’
‘Good—nice for Rosie to have another girl to chat to. I’ll be outside at seven o’clock.’
He had gone his unhurried way before she could reply.
There was time to shower and change at her leisure and spend time on deciding what she should wear. It had been a warm sunny day but now that it was early evening, it had turned a little chilly. She decided on a patterned Italian jersey dress which she had worn only once because Melville had declared it to be totally without eye-catching appeal. She had pointed out at the time that she had no wish to catch eyes anyway, but all the same she hadn’t worn it again. It was a pretty dress though, in shades of soft pink with a high neck and long sleeves. She put on a light coat, patted her hair into final tidiness and went down to the entrance. As she went she reflected that she could have kept the Professor waiting for ten minutes—after all, he was always advising her not to be too eager—but somehow she didn’t want to do that. For one thing he wasn’t Melville… She wondered about the girl he was going to marry—in Holland, presumably, or she would have been at the dinner party and she herself would not have been invited.
The Professor was leaning up against the Rolls’s bonnet, talking to Mr Jolly, but he straightened up when he saw her and the two men walked towards her, greeted her pleasantly, passed the time of day for a few moments and then parted, Mr Jolly to go into the hospital and they to get into the car.
‘George and Rosie will join us just before eight o’clock.’ He started the car and slid out into the street. ‘You look nice.’ He sounded just like one of her brothers and she felt instantly at ease.
‘Thank you. What a lovely evening, even in London.’
‘You like the country, don’t you, Rachel?’
‘Yes—oh, yes. I was born and brought up in Wherwell, and of course the hospital is in the wrong end of London, isn’t it?’
‘Where it does the most good.’ They were nearing his home and she thought it wasn’t so bad for him, living in a pleasant street with trees and probably a garden behind the house. In fact, she decided, one could live quite happily in such surroundings, with the park not too far away and the sound of traffic nicely muted.
Bodkin had the door open before they had crossed the pavement and bade her a dignified good evening before closing the door after them and throwing open the drawing-room door. The Professor urged her in, saying to Bodkin over his shoulder, ‘Mr and Mrs Cook will be here in a few minutes, Bodkin. Show them straight in, will you?’
There was a log fire in the steel fireplace but the french window at the end of the room was open. ‘Come and see the garden,’ he invited.
It was larger than she expected, with a little fountain at the end of a stone path and trees all round so that the houses on either side were quite hidden. There were flower beds on either side, crammed with wallflowers and late tulips, and at the end there were roses. Not yet in flower, but she guessed that in a few weeks’ time they would be magnificent.
They strolled to the end and back with Toby trotting beside them.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she sighed, ‘to come back here after a hard day’s work. Do you like gardening?’
‘Yes, when I can spare the time. A gardener comes and does most of the work, though.’ He looked towards the house. ‘Here are George and Rosie.’
The evening was delightful. Not a celebrity in sight, thought Rachel naughtily, and instantly felt disloyal to Melville, but it was so nice to sit quietly knowing that when her companions looked at her it was with detached friendliness and not with the sharp eyes of critics.
No one mentioned hospitals or patients during dinner. The conversation was light-hearted and the food delicious and afterwards, when they had had coffee, the men strolled into the garden, and Rachel and Rosie sat gossiping gently, clothes and holiday plans and the exciting news that Rosie and George were expecting a baby. ‘Not until November,’ said Rosie. ‘I wish I could knit.’
‘I can—let me know what you want. It will make a nice change from the sweaters I wade through for my brothers. Does Professor van Teule know?’
‘Yes, George told him the moment we were certain. He is a dear, isn’t he?’
Rachel said slowly. ‘Yes, he is. He is always there.’ An obscure remark which Rosie immediately understood.
‘I haven’t mentioned your Melville—I wasn’t sure if you’d mind, but everyone knows about him at the hospital. He’s very glamorous, so I’m told. Is he great fun? You must meet masses of famous people.’
‘Well, I’ve seen them, but I haven’t met them— Melville says I’d find it difficult to talk to them. I mean, I don’t know a thing about the stage and TV and all that, and they certainly wouldn’t want to know about hospitals.’
Rosie made a sympathetic noise. ‘When we married I thought, oh, good, no more hospitals. I can be a married lady and keep house and have time to read the paper. Well, it’s not like that at all. George comes home and gives me a blow-by-blow account of some super operation Professor van Teule has done; I don’t know why I don’t wear uniform…’
Rachel laughed. ‘You know you wouldn’t like anything else and it must be super for George to go home and talk to someone who knows what he’s talking about.’
Rosie giggled. ‘Yes, I suppose you are right. Professor van Teule must feel awfully lonely sometimes; I mean, no one to unburden himself to. He goes out
a good deal—lots of friends—but that’s not quite the same thing, is it?’
Rachel agreed that it wasn’t, but before they could pursue this interesting topic further the two men joined them and they sat and talked for an hour until George declared that they must go home.
Rachel got up to go too and George said at once, ‘We’ll give you a lift, Rachel.’
‘I’ll drive Rachel back,’ observed the Professor, at his most placid. Rachel knew from long experience of working for him in theatre that the more placid he was the more determined he was to have his own way. She made no demur for it would have been of no use; besides, she enjoyed his company.
Perhaps rather more than he enjoyed hers, she wondered, when, the moment George had left, he urged her, in the nicest possible way, to get into his own car. It was a depressing thought, but she kept up a cheerful flow of small talk until they reached the hospital, where she prepared to alight without waste of time. The Professor’s hand clamped down on hers on the door handle. He said to her surprise, ‘I wonder why it is that I am able to know what you are thinking despite the social chatter? And no, I am not anxious to be rid of you; at least not for the reasons you are mulling over.’
He bent his head and kissed her cheek gently. ‘Stay there,’ he bade her, and got out to open her door and walk her to the hospital entrance.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Rachel in a chilly voice.
‘Of course you haven’t. Later on, perhaps… Good night, Rachel. It was a delightful evening; thank you.’
She gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘You’ve said my lines. It’s me who’s thanking you, Professor.’
‘What deplorable grammar. Perhaps we both enjoyed ourselves equally.’
‘Well, I do hope so. I loved every minute of it and thank you very much.’ She added ingenuously, ‘You see, the food was delicious and I didn’t have to worry about what I was wearing…’ She stopped and went very pink. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon. That sounds awful, but it wasn’t meant to be. What I meant was, I felt quite at home. You see, I’m not much good at parties.’
She stopped because she could see that she amused him; he must think her very silly and gauche. Apparently he didn’t. ‘You are a nice girl,’ he told her as he opened the door. ‘Don’t try and change, Rachel.’
She went past him and the door swung to. As she crossed the entrance hall she couldn’t resist looking to see if there was a letter or a message for her. There wasn’t.
It was four days before she heard from Melville again. A note, dashed off in a hurry; he had been so busy, too busy even to phone her, but he couldn’t wait to see her again; he would take her out to dinner that evening and call for her at eight o’clock.
She wondered what she would have done if she hadn’t been off duty that evening, but as it was, she was free; the day suddenly became wonderful, her eyes shone with delight, she was bubbling over. The Professor, coming to collect some of his instruments to take with him to the nursing home where he was operating, paused to look at her. After a moment he observed, ‘Melville is taking you out; am I right?’
‘Yes, Professor. How did you know?’ She smiled widely; she couldn’t help herself.
He said rather shortly, ‘You look happy. I wonder if Melville knows what a lucky man he is…’
She blushed. ‘Oh, thank you, but that’s not quite true. You see, you only know the sensible side of me, the theatre sister; but me, out of uniform, I’m not sensible at all—or perhaps I’m too sensible, I’m not sure; I think that sometimes I fall very short of Melville’s standards.’
The Professor picked up the bundle of instruments she had ready for him, shook his head at her and walked away without a word. An unsatisfactory end to their rather strange conversation. She put it out of her head, though, and fell to thinking about what she would wear that evening.
Not the blue; Melville had said that it didn’t suit her. She decided on a pale patterned silk dress, sleeveless and plainly cut. It had been an off-the-peg bargain, chosen for its unassuming good cut, soft colours and excellent fit. Moreover she knew that it suited her and it did a lot for her. She went off duty punctually and spent a long time getting ready. She was pleased with the result and, unheeding of the Professor’s advice not to be eager, hurried down to the entrance at exactly eight o’clock. Excitement and happiness had rendered her positively beautiful and Melville, sitting behind the wheel of his car, kissed her with a most satisfactory warmth.
‘Darling, how I’ve missed you and how beautiful you look. We are going to have a wonderful evening. The Savoy, no less, and we’ll dance the night away.’
He began to tell her about his work, making her laugh a great deal; she hadn’t felt as happy as this for a long time. The happiness was only a little marred as they entered the foyer of the restaurant. Melville, waiting for her while she went to hand in her wrap, watched her coming towards him under the bright lights of the chandeliers.
‘That’s quite a nice dress,’ he told her, ‘but, darling, can’t you be a bit more—well, eye-catching? You’ve got a splendid figure but you don’t show it. Now if you went to one of the good dress houses they would do you proud.’
She refused to be put out. ‘Don’t be absurd, Melville, I can’t afford those kind of clothes. If you don’t approve of what I’m wearing then I’ll go back to the hospital.’
He caught her arm, laughing. ‘Oh, darling, you look lovely in rags, I’m sure, and now I’ve got you here at last, I’m certainly not letting you go again. It’s only that I want you to look more beautiful than any other girl around.’ He gave her a long look. ‘You are that already.’
Very extravagant talk, thought Rachel with her usual good sense, instantly swallowed up in delight; the evening was going to be sheer heaven and Melville was the most marvellous man in the world.
Marvellous he was, too, ordering dinner and champagne and dancing with a careless grace, murmuring in her ear, holding her hand across the table. But it was unfortunate that as they danced he should see friends, who came back to their table with them and were presently joined by two more. They introduced themselves by first names, were carelessly polite to her and then, when the talk centred around the studios and their work, inevitably she was forgotten. Even when someone did ask her opinion of some actor or actress or some TV show, she was forced to admit that she didn’t know much about those things, so that they looked at her in astonishment. It was obvious to her that any way of life outside their own was of no interest to them at all. She smiled and smiled until her face felt as though it would crack and felt relief when someone suggested that she should dance again.
She found herself partnered by a cheerful young man who danced well and hadn’t much to say—or perhaps, she thought guiltily, he thinks I’m too stupid to talk to. But she enjoyed dancing with him and presently she danced with Melville who held her too tightly and murmured in her ear, ‘So sorry about this, darling, but you see how it is. They’re a jolly lot really.’
She agreed cheerfully. ‘They must be nice to work with,’ she observed.
‘Lord, yes. A damned sight nicer than that lethargic fellow you work for. I can’t think how you stick it, Rachel, working in that dreary hospital day after day.’
She didn’t answer because he never listened to her when she tried to explain that she loved her work and that the Professor wasn’t in the least lethargic. They finished the dance and went back to their table and found the other four on the point of going. ‘Promised to pop in on Tommy’s party,’ said one of them. ‘See you around, Melville.’ They smiled at Rachel—they had already forgotten her name, but she had forgotten theirs, too.
It wasn’t very late. All the same, Melville said as they sat down, ‘I expect you want to get back, darling. Shall we go?’
A little disappointing, really. She had hoped that they would have stayed for another hour and danced, but it was thoughtful of Melville to see that she got back in good time. She fetched her wrap and got int
o the car beside him. It was a warm night, starlit and with a bright moon, and London streets were fairly empty, offering a spurious charm. Rachel had a sudden urgent longing to be at home in the garden, sweet smelling and quiet…
‘That was a piece of luck meeting that lot,’ said Melville. ‘They’re marvellous company—never a dull moment when they’re around. You were a bit quiet, darling.’
‘Well, I haven’t seen any of the shows they were talking about or the people in them…’
‘Which bears out what I’m always telling you. You should go out more, enjoy life, meet people instead of spending your days and half your nights in that gruesome place. Look, my sweet, give up this job of yours; no one will miss you. I can get you into some show or other; you’re pretty enough and with a decent wardrobe you would make the grade.’
‘Grade to what?’
‘Why success, of course; fame, darling, money, the bright lights.’
She said patiently, ‘But Melville, I don’t want any of those things. Can’t you understand that I’m happy as I am?’
They were in sight of the hospital and its ugly bulk against the night sky put her in mind of the Professor and his advice.
To her own great surprise, she said strongly, ‘If you don’t like me as I am, then we’ll stop seeing each other, Melville.’ He had stopped before the door and she got out quickly. ‘Thank you for a delightful evening and my dinner.’
She marched away, her head in the air, taking no notice of Melville’s angry astonishment, although the temptation to look round was very great. She stalked through the entrance hall to find a group of men in the middle of it. Too late, she remembered that the hospital consultant staff were to have met the hospital management committee that evening. The meeting was over, but a large handful of learned gentlemen had paused to chat on the way home.
They paused in their talk as she went towards them and eyed her with appreciation. Her colour was high, her eyes sparkled, she looked ready to do battle and, if they had but known it, she was ready to burst into floods of tears, too.
