by Betty Neels
He said rapidly, ‘I want to talk to you, Sarah.’
She gave a polite smile. ‘But I don’t want to talk to you,’ she said coldly. She glanced round the room as she spoke; Hugo wasn’t to be seen, unless he was behind her, and she couldn’t very well turn round and look.
‘You’re not in love with him,’ Steven said roughly, ‘you married him to spite me.’ His eyes fell on the pearls, and he gave a sneering little laugh, so that Sarah felt rage bubble up into her throat. She went white, swallowed the rage and said softly, ‘How dare you, and how insufferably conceited you are!’
This time she did turn round. Hugo was at the other end of the room, talking to Matron. With the most casual air in the world he strolled across the space between them, bringing Matron with him. He ignored Steven and said pleasantly, ‘Darling, I’ve just been telling Miss Good what a phenomenal cook you are.’ His manner was placid, but she caught the gleam in his eyes as he smiled down at her. She didn’t stop to think what the gleam might be, but returned his smile with one of pure relief and said gaily, ‘Oh, Hugo, have you been puffing me up?’
She transferred her smile to Matron, who said comfortably, ‘And why not? And what is more, your husband has invited me to dinner on the strength of it.’
By some means, she wasn’t sure how, Hugo had got between her and Steven. He stood close to her and had caught her hand in his and held it lightly while he asked Steven in a polite voice which wholly covered his dislike of him what his plans were for the future. Sarah felt they must present a picture of perfect wedded bliss, but the glow of satisfaction the thought had engendered faded into a peculiar hollow feeling that it was only a picture. She arranged a date with Matron, and when Mr Peppard joined them, answered his fatherly jokes with just the right amount of pertness, and presently, having bidden her hostess goodbye with the gentle good manners Hugo deserved of her, went home with him.
He hardly spoke on the short journey save for trivialities about the evening, but when they were home, sitting over a leisurely meal, he asked:
‘What did Steven say to make you angry, Sarah?’
She hesitated, then, ‘He was offensive.’
Hugo selected a peach from the dish before him and asked, ‘Shall I peel it for you?’ and proceeded to do so. After a moment he said gently, ‘I am aware that he was offensive. I thought you would hit him.’ He smiled briefly and his grey eyes, very compelling, met hers across the table. ‘What did he say, Sarah?’
She said miserably, ‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’
‘Not in the least. That’s why I can see no reason why you shouldn’t tell me.’
She looked at him with a smouldering eye, annoyed at his bland persistence, and said clearly, ‘He said I wasn’t in love with you and that I had married you to spite him.’
She hadn’t known what he would say, she only knew that she was put out when he chuckled dryly. ‘Conceited fool!’ was all he said. He passed her a plate with the peach on it, and took one for himself. ‘By the way, I shan’t be in tomorrow evening, Sarah—perhaps you would like Kate or some other friend to come to dinner and spend an hour or two.’
She put down her fruit knife with a hand which shook ever so slightly.
She spoke with a certain amount of violence. ‘No, I would not! You … on Tuesdays and Fridays you come home late!’
He glanced up with raised eyebrows, there was the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. ‘Yes, I do, don’t I?’ he agreed imperturbably. Sarah waited for him to say something—anything, but he didn’t. It was like having a door shut quietly in her face. She put her napkin down on the table and got up and ran from the room and upstairs, where, to her own amazement, she burst into tears. She felt better afterwards—probably it was the result of seeing Steven again—she thought about him, and was surprised to find the process rather dull. She gave up after a time and had a bath and went to bed. She heard Hugo go out with the dogs and then lock up for the night, but he didn’t come upstairs. She guessed he had gone to his study; it was past midnight when she heard his quiet step pass her door and cross the landing to his room.
She felt foolish and self-conscious when she woke up the next morning, but when she went downstairs at her usual time it was to find Hugo waiting as though nothing unusual had occurred. It was a breathless day, the sun already brassy in a thunderous sky, the river reflected the dull clouds, making it look like sluggish oil. They strolled along by the water and she talked a little wildly of anything that came to mind, jumping from one subject to the next with a fine disregard for context. When she at last paused for breath, Hugo enquired, ‘Are you going to visit Mrs Brown today?’
She hadn’t thought to do so, but now that he had put the idea in her head she said yes, she rather thought she might.
‘May I suggest that you don’t take the car? I think we’re in for a storm, and driving in blinding rain can be unpleasant. Take a taxi up after lunch.’
They turned for home and she answered meekly, ‘Very well, Hugo,’ secretly relieved because she hated thunderstorms anyway. She remembered then that Alice would be out that evening, and hoped it would have cleared away by the time she got home. She said so to him, then went scarlet, because it sounded as though she was getting at him because he wouldn’t be home. He didn’t answer, though, and after a minute she concluded that he hadn’t been paying attention to what she had been saying.
It was raining by the time she reached Phipps Street. The taxi-driver looked at her curiously when she paid him outside the shabby little house, and when Mr Ives appeared in the doorway, scowling horribly, Sarah made haste to assure the man that there was no need for him to wait. She soothed Mr Ives, whose scowl was due to anxiety over Mrs Brown, and went upstairs to greet the invalid and arrange the flowers she had brought with her in a dreadful china vase with ‘A present from Southend’ written in gold across its front. It was one of Mrs Brown’s treasures and the sight of it led the old lady to a series of reminiscences about day trips to that popular resort. It worried Sarah to see that she was in bed, sitting comfortably enough, it was true, with Timmy under the quilt, and her new bedjacket on. Doc, she assured Sarah, had told her it would be a good idea if she stayed in bed until her dinner, so after Mrs Crews had been to tidy her up, she popped back in. That it was now almost four o’clock in the afternoon seemed to have escaped her notice, and Sarah saw no point in telling her. They had tea, and she produced the chocolate cake Mrs Brown was partial to, then sat listening to the old lady’s snatches of talk. Every now and then Mrs Brown dropped off into a light nap, and woke up apparently refreshed, to continue where she had left off.
Sarah hadn’t meant to stay so long, but Mrs Crews would be coming at five, and it seemed a shame to leave Mrs Brown by herself. Thunder had been rumbling for the last hour or so; now there were fitful flashes of lightning; she wondered uneasily if she would be able to get a taxi. She was washing the tea things when Hugo walked in. He smiled and nodded at his patient and said to Sarah, ‘I counted on you staying until Mrs Crews got here,’ and proceeded to examine Mrs Brown in a casual fashion which didn’t deceive Sarah at all. He hadn’t quite finished when Mrs Crews arrived and without looking up he said quietly, ‘Don’t go, Sarah.’
So she stayed, standing with her back to the window so that she shouldn’t see the lightning. He gave Mrs Crews some instructions and said goodbye, then waited while Sarah made her farewells and then followed her downstairs to where Mr Ives was waiting. She stood while the men talked, only half listening, but when they were at length on the pavement she stood stubbornly where she was.
‘Jump in,’ said Hugo cheerfully, but Sarah stayed where she was. ‘I shall take a taxi, thank you,’ she said with an hauteur which was spoiled by an ear-splitting crash of thunder. He looked up and down the empty street.
‘Don’t be mulish, Sarah. Taxis seldom come along here, you know.’
‘If you think you have to come home with me,’ she burst out, ‘just because I said I didn�
�t like thunderstorms—there’s no need. I—I was joking.’
‘You’re a shocking liar, Sarah.’ He laughed softly. ‘I’m not taking you home, anyway. There’s something I want you to see.’
She eyed him uncertainly. He looked quite serious. ‘Get in, my girl. There’s no time to explain now—I’m late already.’
She got in at that, and Hugo started the car at once without saying any more. The journey wasn’t a long one; he picked his way through the maze of small streets between Bethnal Green and the Whitechapel Road and eventually turned into a drab street improbably called Rose Road, and stopped before a two-storied house, one of a row; and distinguished from its neighbours by the fact that its lower windows were painted white with the words Surgery. Dr John Bright written upon them in large black letters. Sarah let out a slow breath and turned to Hugo, but he said quickly:
‘Not now, Sarah—come inside.’
She did as she was bid, following him meekly through the ramshackle door which led directly into a bare waiting room very full of people, all talking at the tops of their voices. They stopped as Hugo entered, however, and rather raggedly chorused a ‘Good evening, Doctor’ and stared at Sarah. Hugo paused on his way to one of the doors at the back of the room, drawing her to a standstill too. ‘My wife,’ he said to the room at large. ‘She is a trained nurse and has come to help this evening.’ There was a murmur of interest and Sarah smiled uncertainly, then coloured when a voice said, ‘Cor, Doc, you got yerself the fairy orf the Christmas tree and no mistake!’
There was a little ripple of good-natured mirth in which Hugo joined before he took her by the arm again and ushered her into one of the rooms at the back. There was an elderly man there, going bald and stooping. He had rugged features and bright, dark eyes; they searched Sarah’s face as she went in and he straightened up. Hugo said easily, ‘Hullo, John. I’ve brought my wife—Sarah, this is John Bright who runs the practice. He’s kind enough to let me come along and help twice a week.’
The smile he gave her was wholly friendly, which did nothing to lessen her feeling of guilt. She had thought … Heaven knows what she had thought … She raised troubled eyes to his, but Dr Bright was speaking.
‘I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs van Elven. Hugo has told me so much about you; and don’t believe a word he says—he keeps this place going. I’d never manage on my own, and well he knows it.’ He paused. ‘There’s a room next door where Sandra, our clerk, sits. Would you like to sit with her?’
Sarah put her gloves and handbag down on the hideous little mantelshelf. ‘I’d like to help,’ she said simply. She looked at Hugo as she spoke. He was smiling. ‘Why not? Heaven knows we can do with it, eh, John? Come and meet Sandra—I daresay she’s got some sort of white coat you can wear.’
Sandra was young and blonde and mini-skirted and patently pleased to see a fresh face. She pinned Sarah into a white overall, very starched and much too large, and confided that the sight of blood fair turned her up, and they’d get on a fair treat with another pair of hands.
By the end of the evening Sarah wondered how they had managed with only the three of them; she undressed babies and struggled with small children wearing clothes which were a little too small for them and therefore not at all easy to peel off, let alone put on again; she tested urine and took temperatures and did a few simple dressings, and cleaned the dirt from hands and faces and feet—good honest dirt from good honest workers who told her sheepishly that they hadn’t had time to clean up before surgery hours.
The last patient went just after nine o’clock and Sandra, with a cheerful, ‘So long’, followed him. The doctors lighted their pipes and settled down to notes and forms. Sarah tidied up, turned off the gas from under the old-fashioned sterilizer and then sat down on the hard wooden chair in the tiny room used by Hugo. He looked up briefly, smiled and went on with his writing. She sat quietly, watching him, until Dr Bright put his head round the door and said, ‘There you are, how about coffee in my flat?’
He looked a little wistful. She peeped at Hugo who wasn’t looking at her and said at once, ‘There’s nothing I’d like better—I’m exhausted after all that hard work!’
She smiled at Dr Bright, looking, for an exhausted person, remarkably pretty and lively. Hugo hadn’t looked up, but she sensed that he was pleased with her answer—perhaps they always had coffee after the surgery had closed.
Dr Bright lived alone on the second floor. He had a daily woman, he explained to her, who cooked and cleaned. He added stiffly that his wife had died several years ago and that he had a son, running a hospital in Mombasa. He led the way into a comfortable sitting room, very much cluttered up with books and papers and old copies of The Lancet; he swept a pile of them off a shabby but enormous armchair and invited her to sit down. Instead, she asked tentatively, ‘Would you let me make coffee? I’m sure you and Hugo don’t get much time for a good talk.’
She listened to the steady rumble of their voices as she boiled milk and found mugs, and then, inspired by a sudden idea, she put her head round the door.
‘Are you hungry? How about some sandwiches, or have you had a meal?’
They hadn’t, nor for that matter had she. The fridge yielded a surprising hoard of comestibles. She took in the coffee, and then, preceded by a delicious smell, omelettes stuffed with bacon and tomatoes and mushrooms. When she returned with her own, they had already demolished theirs.
‘I told you she was a good cook,’ Hugo commented as he got up to replenish their coffee mugs. While he was in the kitchen, Sarah said quickly:
‘Would I really be a help if I came every week? Twice a week, isn’t it?—with Hugo. I don’t want to be in the way …’
Dr Bright looked at her over the heavy rims of his glasses.
‘My dear Mrs van Elven, of course you will be of help—we need someone desperately, but I can’t afford an assistant and I’ll not let Hugo put his hand deeper into his pocket than he has done already.’ He smiled. ‘The omelette was delicious.’
She laughed. ‘I’ll make a cheese soufflée next time—only it’ll take a little longer.’ She broke off as Hugo came back. He said nothing, only smiled, so presently Sarah cleared the dishes away and went back into the kitchen, and when she had tidied up, got ready to go home.
In the car, on the way to Richmond, she said half defiantly:
‘I told Dr Bright I’d come with you to help,’ then added hastily, because she had sounded overbearing, ‘That is, if you don’t mind. It would be nice to have a little job … not that I’m bored or anything like that. I can always find lots to do at home, and there’s the garden—and the dogs; but there’s still time over …’
‘You don’t need to make excuses,’ Hugo replied shortly. ‘We shall be glad of your help. It’s a busy practice,’ and added as an afterthought, ‘John and I have known each other for years.’ And that was all he said. After a short silence, she began to talk, rather aimlessly, about the weather, hardly noticing that he did no more than make polite comments from time to time, because she was busy with her own thoughts.
Inside the house, in the dim-lit hall, he said almost curtly: ‘I expect you’re tired—I’ll say goodnight. There’s some reading I must do.’ He took a handful of letters from the marble-topped side table and walked away from her to his study, went inside and shut the door with quiet emphasis. Sarah started up the stairs, getting slower and slower, until half way up she stopped, turned round, and ran down again and across the hall to the study door and went in before she could change her mind. Hugo was standing with his back to her, looking out of the open window, the dogs beside him, but he turned round as she went in and took a couple of steps towards her, saying, ‘Sarah, is anything the matter?’
She stayed by the door. ‘Yes, there is. I had no business to suggest to Dr Bright that I should work for you both—not without asking you first.’ She sought for words. ‘I thought you would be glad,’ she said woodenly, ‘but you’re not. I—I pried into something pri
vate you didn’t want me to know about. I’ll write to Dr Bright and make some excuse …’
She turned to go, to be checked by his quiet, ‘Just a minute, Sarah.’ She turned to face him and he went on, ‘If you choose to remember, it was I who—er—put the idea into your head to visit Mrs Brown.’ She blinked and then nodded. ‘I also suggested that you should not take the Rover.’ She nodded again. ‘And I counted on you—being you—staying with Mrs Brown until five o’clock when Mrs Crews arrived. I knew that if I left the last two or three cases to Coles I should find you still at Phipps Street.’ He paused, staring at her. ‘I could have brought you home even then, if I had wanted to.’
She gasped. ‘You didn’t mind me going to Rose Road.’ Her voice rose a little. ‘You wanted me to …’ She frowned heavily and looked magnificent, but she gave no thought to that. ‘Why couldn’t you have just said so?’ she demanded.
He said blandly, ‘I should prefer you to—er—like me for myself, not for what I do.’
Sarah digested this in silence, understanding very well what he meant. It was romantic, even a little dramatic, that a successful Harley Street specialist, presenting an immaculate person to his own world, should choose to help out in a scruffy little surgery near the Whitechapel Road. It would impress any girl less level-headed than herself. She twiddled her wedding ring, admitting to herself that, level-headed or not, she was impressed too. She glanced up and found his grey eyes upon her.
