by Betty Neels
It was a pleasant room; long and low-ceilinged and furnished with some nice pieces which had been in the family for generations. There was comfort too; easy chairs drawn up to the open fire, a vast sofa with a padded back and plenty of small reading lamps. Phyllida curled up on the sofa, the firelight warm on her face and dutifully answered the questions with which her mother bombarded her. They were mostly about Philip and cunningly put, and she answered them patiently, wishing illogically that her mother didn’t seem so keen on him all of a sudden. She had been vaguely put out after Philip’s first visit to her home by her mother’s reaction to him. ‘Such a nice young man,’ her parent had declared, ‘and so serious. I’m sure if you marry him he’ll make a model husband.’It hadn’t been the words so much as the tone in which they had been uttered, and ever since Phyllida had been worried by a faint niggling doubt at the back of her pretty head; a model husband sounded so dull. But this evening she could detect no doubt in her mother’s voice—indeed, her parent chattered on at some length about Phyllida’s future, talking about the wedding as though it were already a certainty.
Phyllida finished her coffee, observed rather tartly that no one had asked her to get married yet and when her mother remarked that she had understood that Philip was coming to stay for a couple of days, pointed out very quickly that it was only a friendly visit—it made a nice restful change after his work at the hospital. Mrs Cresswell agreed placidly, her still pretty head bent over some embroidery, and presently Phyllida went to bed.
Being home was delightful—pottering in the garden, helping her mother round the house, going for long bike rides with Willy, helping in her father’s surgery. Phyllida relaxed, colour came back into her London-pale cheeks, her hair seemed more golden, her eyes bluer. Her mother, looking at her as she made pastry at the kitchen table, felt certain that Philip would ask her to marry him when he came.
She was right; he did, but not at once. He wasn’t a man to rush his fences, and it wasn’t until the morning of his second day there that he suggested that they might go into Shaftesbury for her mother and do some shopping, and Phyllida, called in from fetching the eggs from the hen-house at the end of the garden, readily agreed. She had been glad to see Philip when he had arrived, but not, she confessed to herself, thrilled, but they had quickly slipped into their pleasant, easygoing camaraderie and he was an undemanding companion. She put a jacket on over her slacks, combed her fringe, added a little more lipstick and pronounced herself ready.
Shaftesbury was full of people and cars; it always was, probably because it was a small town and built originally on top of a hill and its shops were concentrated in two main streets. They had done their shopping, chosen a variety of cakes from the fragrant bakery hidden away in an alley where the two streets met, and sat themselves down in the buttery of one of the few hotels for a cup of coffee before Philip made any but the most impersonal remarks.
‘Wouldn’t you like to leave hospital and have a home of your own?’ he wanted to know.
Phyllida chose a bun, not paying as much attention as she should have done. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said casually, ‘I’d love it. Have a bun?’
‘Then why don’t you?’
She looked up then, suddenly realizing what he was going to say. ‘Don’t, Philip—please…’
He took a bun too. ‘Why not? You must know that I want to marry you?’
‘Yes—well, yes, I suppose I did, but not—not urgently.’
He was a very honest young man. ‘If you mean I’m beside myself with impatience to get married, you’re right. But I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought lately and I’m sure you’re the wife for me; we know each other very well by now and I’m more than half in love with you.’ He smiled at her across the table. ‘How about it, Phylly?’
She knew that she was going to say no. Perhaps, she thought desperately, she had never intended to say anything else, but it was going to be hard to say it. For one thing, she was strongly tempted to accept Philip’s matter-of-fact proposal. They would live together happily enough, she would take an interest in his work and he would be a kind and considerate husband, of that she was sure. She would have a pleasant enough life with enough to live on, a nice home, friends of her own sort and children. She would like several children; only she had the lowering feeling that Philip would want a neat little family of a boy and a girl. He would be a splendid father too and the children would be good, obedient and reasonably clever. In fact, life wouldn’t be what she had dreamed—a vague dream of a man who would sweep her off her feet, treasure her and love her and never on any account allow her to wear the trousers, and more than that, would fill his house with a brood of healthy, naughty children.
She sighed and said gently: ‘It wouldn’t work, Philip.’
He showed no rancour. ‘Why not? You must have reasons.’
She frowned. ‘I like you very, very much—I think for a while I was a little in love with you, but I’m sure that it’s not enough.’ She looked at him with unhappy blue eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Philip—and I don’t think I shall change my mind.’
He said calmly: ‘You’re in love with someone else?’
‘No. Oh, no, no one at all, that’s why it’s difficult…you see, you’re so right for me. I respect you and admire your work and the way you live, and I like being with you, only I don’t want to marry you.’ She added miserably: ‘It would be such a mistake, and the awful thing is I don’t know what I want.’
Philip finished his coffee with the air of a man who wasn’t in the least defeated. ‘I’m not taking no for an answer,’ he told her quietly. ‘I won’t bother you, but I’ll wait.’
‘But it won’t be any good.’ She looked like an unhappy little girl, her short upper lip caught between her teeth, her eyes enormous under the fringe. She felt suddenly peevish. If she could get away, right away, he would forget her because he didn’t love her, not with the sort of love which just didn’t want to go on living without her—he might even fall in love with someone else quite quickly. It struck her then that he was the kind of man who didn’t need to love like that; he was a calm, even-tempered man and too much love would choke him. When he only smiled and offered her more coffee she didn’t say any more, for what was the use?
Philip didn’t allow her refusal to make any difference between them. He spent the rest of the day with her, treating her with the same good-natured affection that he had always shown her. He went back to London that day after tea, saying all the right things to her mother and father and reminding Phyllida cheerfully that they would be going to the Annual Dance at the hospital together two days after her return: ‘Though I’ll see you before then,’ he had assured her.
She watched him go with mixed feelings; real regret that she didn’t love him and a faint touch of temper because he seemed so unmoved about her refusal—or was he so sure that she would give in? The thought made her even more peevish.
The moment he was out of sight her mother remarked: ‘Well, dear, are you going to marry him? I’m sure he must have asked you.’
Phyllida hadn’t meant to say anything about it—not just yet anyway, but she perceived now that her mother would go on gently asking questions until she got an answer.
‘Yes, he did, and I said no.’
‘Oh, good.’ Mrs Cresswell took no notice of her daughter’s surprised look. ‘He’s a very nice man, darling, but not your sort.’
‘What is my sort, Mother?’ Phyllida didn’t feel peevish any more.
Her mother washed a tea-cup with care; it was old and treasured like most of the china she insisted on using every day. ‘Well, he doesn’t have to be handsome, but eye-catching, if you know what I mean, the sort of man who would take command in a sticky situation and know just what to do—and not let you have your own way unless he thought it was good for you.’
‘A bigheaded tyrant,’ suggested Phyllida.
‘No, dear, just a man who would never take you for granted; take great care of you without
you ever knowing it, and know exactly what he intended doing with his life—and yours, of course.’
‘A paragon. Mother, I never knew you were romantic—does Father know?’
‘He married me,’ observed her parent placidly. ‘What will you do about Philip? I mean, you can’t help but see him often, can you?’
Phyllida had piled the tea things on to a tray, on her way to putting them away in the carved corner cupboard in the sitting room. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said slowly. ‘It would be sense to leave, I suppose.’
‘Well, think about it, darling.’ Her mother spoke briskly. ‘It could be done easily enough.’
Phyllida gave her a faintly mocking look. ‘Mother, you have no idea…’
‘No, dear, but things can always be done, however awkward, if only one applies oneself to them.’
Nothing more was said after that. Phyllida went back to London two days later, reluctant to give up a job she liked and go through all the fuss and bother of finding another one—and outside London, she supposed gloomily.
She didn’t see Philip until the evening of the dance; indeed, she had taken care to keep out of his way, going to great lengths to avoid their usual meeting places, keeping one eye on the ward door in case he should come to see a patient referred for surgery.
But she had to see him again eventually. They met in the entrance hall, shortly after the dance had started, he very correct in his black tie, she prettier than ever in a pearly grey chiffon dress and silver slippers.
Her hullo was a trifle awkward, but Philip didn’t seem to notice. He took her arm, asked her where she’d been during the last two days and suggested that they went into the big lecture hall, decorated for the occasion, and danced. It wasn’t until they had circled the place at least twice that he asked: ‘Had second thoughts, Phylly?’
‘About what?’ And then, despising herself for the remark: ‘No, I haven’t, Philip, and I’m not going to— truly I’m not.’
He laughed down at her. ‘No? Shall we wait and see? We meet most days, don’t we, so it won’t be a case of “Out of sight, out of mind”—you’re very used to me being there, aren’t you?’
She met his eyes. ‘Yes. You mean you’ll wear me away like water on a stone.’
‘Nicely put, although I wouldn’t describe you as stony. You’ll change your mind.’
Perhaps it was because he looked so smug and sure of himself that she resolved then and there to look for another job. She didn’t say anything though, but danced the night away, mostly with Philip but with all the other men she knew as well. She enjoyed herself too; tomorrow was time enough to think things out.
She hadn’t got much further by the following evening when she came off duty. It had been a busy day with several of her patients not doing as well as she had hoped, so that she felt too depressed to do more than take off her cap and put her feet up on the sofa in the Sisters’ sitting room. She closed her eyes the better to think and then opened them again as the door opened and Meg Dawson, Surgical Ward Sister and one of her closest friends, came in. ‘There’s a phone call for you, Phylly—your mum.’
Phyllida had taken her shoes off as well. She padded down the passage to the phone box at its end and picked up the receiver. Her mother’s voice, very youthful still, sounded very clear. ‘Phylly? Father wants to talk to you.’
Phyllida was surprised; she and her father got on splendidly, but he was a busy man, not given to telephone conversations unless they concerned a patient. She said cautiously: ‘Yes?’
Doctor Cresswell didn’t waste time. ‘You mentioned leaving, Phylly—if you do, there’s a job going in about three weeks’ time.’
A sign from heaven, thought Phyllida childishly. ‘I could leave then—I’ve still another week’s leave due, so I’d have to work three weeks notice…’She knew that her father was nodding his head even though he didn’t speak. ‘What sort of job?’
‘A patient of mine until I referred her to Sir Keith Maltby—I attend her parents too. A girl of eighteen with erythroblastic leukaemia—I wasn’t called in until she had been ill for some time, sent her straight to Sir Keith who got her into hospital; she was there two months, had several courses of cytotoxic drugs and has improved considerably, gained weight, taken an interest in life. Her mother came to see me today, says Gaby has set her heart on going to somewhere sunny—they want to take her on a short cruise—Madeira and the Canaries, but they want a skilled nurse to keep an eye on her and recognise the signs and symptoms if she should have a relapse. All expenses paid, and fare of course, and a decent salary—about three weeks, they think. Of course you realise that Gaby hasn’t very long to live. Sir Keith agrees with me that she should be allowed to do what she wants within reason—her parents are wealthy, fortunately. It would get you away, my dear, if that’s what you want.’ And when Phyllida didn’t answer: ‘I could arrange for you to see these people—the name’s de Wolff—they’ve booked for a cruise leaving on April the sixth, that’s not quite four weeks away.’
Phyllida heard herself say that yes, she would like to meet the de Wolffs and that provided they liked her, she would be prepared to take the job. ‘I’ve a couple of days off, but not till the end of the week, that would be too late to give in my notice—look, Father, I’m off at five o’clock tomorrow and on at one o’clock the next day. I’ll drive down in the evening, see them in the morning and drive straight back—I can just do it provided they’ll make an appointment early in the morning.’
‘Splendid, my dear. I’ll see to it and ring you back.’
So she found herself the next day rushing off duty, racing into her outdoor things and driving as fast as traffic permitted out of London. The appointment was for half past nine on the following morning and to save time she was to go to the de Wolffs’ house, as it was on the London side of Shaftesbury and she could drive straight on back to work after the interview. She hadn’t told anyone about it and she hadn’t seen Philip. She had toyed with the idea of going to the office and giving in her notice that morning, but there was always the chance that the job wouldn’t turn out to be what she expected. She got clear of London at last and belted for home.
CHAPTER TWO
MRS CRESSWELL was waiting with supper, and her father came from his study to talk to Phyllida while she ate it. ‘Gaby’s a nice enough girl, poor child—difficult at times, I gather from her mother, but it has to be remembered that she’s very ill. She has no idea how ill, of course, although her parents have been told. Not that they’ve accepted it well; they simply cannot believe that a girl of eighteen can die. They’re both energetic, social types and can’t understand why Gaby isn’t the same.’
Phyllida carved another slice of her mother’s home-baked bread. ‘You don’t like them,’ she stated flatly.
‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say that, shall I say that I regret their attitude towards illness and death—two inconvenient states they simply refuse to recognise, but I’m glad they’re so eager to take Gaby on this trip. Sir Keith tells me it’s only a question of three months or so.’
‘Oh, Father, how awful—isn’t there anything at all to be done?’
He shook his head. ‘You know that yourself, my dear. Thank heaven it’s extremely rare—other forms of leukaemia have a much more favourable prognosis these days.’
Phyllida left home after breakfast the next morning, to drive the few miles to the de Wolffs’home. She joined the main Salisbury road presently and then turned away on to a country road leading to Berwick St John, and after another mile came upon the house she was looking for. It was Edwardian, much gabled and ornamented with beams and plasterwork in an attempt to make it look Tudor. It was large too, spick and span as to paint-work and altogether too perfect for her taste. She thought with sudden nostalgia of her own home only a few miles away and so very different, its ancient oak door almost always open, its mullioned windows wide, with curtains blowing a welcome. There were no curtains to be seen here and no open windows
.
She got out, crossed the gravel, so smooth that she felt guilty treading on it, and rang the bell. The man-servant who opened the door matched the house exactly; correct; unwelcoming and without any warmth. He begged her to enter, ushered her into a small panelled room furnished with expensive, tasteless furniture, and went away.
Both Mr and Mrs de Wolff entered the room a moment later, bringing with them an air of brisk efficiency and charm. They bade Phyllida seat herself, and without any preliminaries, proceeded to put her—as Mr de Wolff observed—in the picture. ‘You shall see Gaby presently,’ promised Mrs de Wolff, and smiled charmingly at Phyllida. She was a handsome woman, in her forties but not looking it by reason of exquisite make-up and beautifully cut hair, and a casual tweed suit which must have cost a great deal of money. She smiled a lot, thought Phyllida, and she quite understood what her father had meant when he had told her that neither she nor her husband wanted to accept the fact that Gaby’s illness was a terminal one.
‘The specialist takes a grave view, of course,’ said Mr de Wolff, teetering on his toes before the fireplace, like the chairman of a board meeting, ‘but we’re both so healthy ourselves we take a more optimistic view. This little holiday should do her the world of good, and she’s so keen to go.’
‘You will notify the ship’s doctor of her illness?’ asked Phyllida, ‘and I should want her medical notes with me so that they can be referred to if necessary.’
Mrs de Wolff frowned, and just for a minute all the charm had gone, but it was back almost at once. ‘Of course we’ll see to all that, Miss Cresswell, you can safely leave us to arrange everything just as it should be. We shall consult Sir Keith, of course—such a pity that he’s in Scotland, otherwise you could have gone to see him, but I’m sure your father has told you all there is to know about Gaby.’She got to her feet. ‘Would you like to see her now before you go? We do so hope you’ll come with us, but it’s for you to decide of course.’
