by Betty Neels
It was the Sopers, a pleasant couple in their thirties, who lived close by. John Soper was something in the City and had known Hugo for years. Sarah liked him; she liked Margery Soper too—a small, dark woman, good-natured and lively and kind. The Peppards followed hard on their heels, and lastly, the Binns. Sarah greeted them all with a serenity which successfully hid her annoyance. Hugo had been going to say—what? She thought she would never know now, for he hadn’t meant to speak; the words had been wrung from his lips—unpremeditated. She thought that whatever he had been going to say would never be said.
Then she dismissed the thought with an effort and concentrated on her role of hostess with such success that after dinner the ladies retired to the drawing room full of praise at her good management, leaving the men to talk around the dining table. ‘And let’s hope they won’t be too long,’ remarked Sarah, as she arranged her guests comfortably around the log fire. It hadn’t been really necessary to light it, indeed all the windows were open to the quiet September evening, but the room looked so lovely with the firelight flickering and one or two lamps alight. Alice had brought in the coffee tray, and Sarah busied herself with the delicate little cups and saucers, to be surprised when the men joined them almost at once, and then covered in confusion when Mr Peppard said loudly:
‘I saw no point in sitting around talking about politics and antibiotics and such dreary stuff when I could be here with you, Sarah, I shall sit beside you and you shall tell me what you thought of Scotland.’ He drew up a chair and continued, ‘There’s an advantage in being elderly, my dear. One can do as one wishes and merely be labelled eccentric instead of ill-mannered.’
Sarah poured the coffee amid the ensuing laughter and then, obedient to Mr Peppard’s whim, entertained him with her views on Scotland. But presently the conversation became general and she was free to look around her. Hugo was at the other end of the room, talking to Margery Soper, when Mrs Binns took advantage of a pause to enquire archly, ‘I suppose this house contains some splendid nurseries—after all, it was built in a period when large families were the thing. I expect they’re on the top floor.’ She looked at Sarah. ‘Will you use them?’
With admirable composure Sarah smiled at the wretched woman. She was aware that Hugo, as well as everyone else, was listening. She said evenly, ‘As a matter of fact, there are some super nurseries on the first floor. They’re separated from the front landing by a soundproofed door—such a sensible precaution, don’t you think?’
Hugo’s voice came pleasantly across the room. ‘I’ve some happy memories of the nurseries in the house—it’s virtually sound-proof, as Sarah has said. My sisters and I could quarrel to our heart’s content while some poor housemaid acted as an uneasy referee … my grandmother was a little deaf, and my mother in a perpetual state of apprehension as to what we would do next.’
Margery Soper spoke quickly, as though she were picking up a cue.
‘Do tell us—do you still quarrel with your sisters? I can’t imagine you doing any such thing with anyone. I think you just go on getting your own way!’
Everyone laughed, although Mrs Binns’ laugh was half-hearted—she wanted to know more about the nurseries. She knew, as everyone else present knew, that Sarah and Steven had been, at some time or another, in love with each other. It had been providential that Hugo had married her, leaving the way clear for dear Anne … and while she had no doubt that Sarah was happy, there was no avoiding the fact that she was a striking-looking girl and attractive to men. A baby—several babies—would keep her nicely occupied. She decided to pop in for tea one afternoon and ask a few tactful questions …
The last of the guests had gone by eleven o’clock. Sarah preceded Hugo into the hall from the front door. The evening had gone very well—at least, she thought so. Hugo said just behind her, ‘Thank you, Sarah. Another feather in your cap … the evening was delightful.’
She stood still and he came and stood beside her in the dim-lit hall.
‘I don’t remember telling you about the nurseries when we went over the house.’ His voice was bland, and although it wasn’t a question, she was aware that he expected an answer.
‘No,’ she answered, her voice very matter-of-fact, ‘you didn’t. Alice told me, because I asked her. You—you didn’t want me to know, did you?’ She turned round to face him. ‘But I love this house—all of it. I wanted to see all of it, so I asked Alice. You don’t mind?’
He said shortly, ‘I should have preferred it if you had asked me.’
‘Oh, I thought—as you hadn’t mentioned it …’
His voice was all silk. ‘I had forgotten your discretion, Sarah.’
She said nothing, for there was nothing to say—nothing, that was, that could penetrate the aloofness of his manner. She watched him walk past her into the drawing room and put the guard before the still smouldering fire. He said over one shoulder:
‘Would you like to go to your parents on Sunday? It’s rather short notice, but perhaps they would have us for luncheon.’
‘I’d like that—and of course Mother won’t mind short notice. Shall I telephone her tomorrow?’
He strolled back, hands in pockets. ‘Yes, will you?’ He smiled down at her charming and elegant and infuriatingly good-natured. Sarah’s heart bounced against her ribs because he was near and at the same time she felt rage snatch at her good sense. She said with almost painful clarity, ‘I wasn’t being discreet, I was being kind—at least I thought I was. It must be—painful for you to talk about the nursery wing. It’s empty; it could have had yours and Janet’s children in it.’
She met his thunderous, astounded look briefly. ‘Goodnight.’
She swept past him and started up the stairs. By the time she had reached her bedroom she had regretted every word.
She would have apologised the next morning, but he gave her no chance—there was nothing in his manner to indicate his true feelings. He discussed their forthcoming holiday and wanted to know if she could spare the time to go to Rose Road that evening, and presently left for his consulting rooms, leaving her to wonder if he had heard her at all.
Sarah arrived a little early at St Edwin’s and went to sit in the car to wait for him. When he came through the gloomy archway which led from Outpatients, he had Dick Coles and Kate’s Jimmy with him. They were deep in discussion, and once they all stopped and bent their heads over the papers he was holding. Watching him standing there, Sarah felt quite light-headed at the sight of him. But the face she lifted to his presently was calmly welcoming, and she greeted the three of them with a mild pleasure which gave no hint of the commotion going on inside her. It was quickly apparent that she was to be given no chance to apologise. Hugo, during the short drive to Rose Road, began a dissertation on a case of phaeochromocytoma which had been referred to him that afternoon. Sarah agreed politely with his deliberations over irregular cardiac rhythm, and marvelled silently that he found so much to say about it.
It was a relief to get to Rose Road and plunge into the cheerful hubbub of the waiting room. Sandra was on her summer holiday, but she had the somewhat erratic help of Shorty and Lefty and Tom, who, true to their promise, had indeed turned up to make themselves useful at the surgery. She had despaired of them on their first evening, but now that they had been several times, they were beginning to be of help. Tonight she set them collecting names, so that she could get the cards from the filing cabinet … but there were several patients with dressings to be taken down and re-done, and any number of specimens to be tested. She began to wonder if half the residents in the area suffered from diabetes.
They were down to their last two patients when the door was flung open and a young woman carrying a bundle rushed in. She thrust it at Sarah, her face parchment white, struggling for words although she made no sound. But she had no need to speak, for the bundle was a very small baby. From the state of the charred tatters around it, it had been very severely burned. It was alive; Sarah thanked heaven for its faint wailing
voice even as she winced for its pain. She went straight to Hugo’s little surgery and put her bundle on the couch, indicated the mother and set about wringing out a sheet in saline solution. She had it ready as Hugo asked, ‘Have you got …?’ then stopped because she was already wrapping the mite very gently in it. He said then, ‘Hospital—you take the baby, the mother can sit behind. I’ll tell John.’
She sat beside him, her pathetic burden in her arms while he drove through the crowded streets. It was the only time she had seen him with his hand on the horn … Casualty were ready for them, because of course John Bright would have telephoned. She handed her tiny patient to a waiting nurse, then took the girl into one of the cubicles and gave her tea while she gently wormed from her all the information the hospital had to have. It seemed a long time that they sat there, though in reality it wasn’t above an hour and at the end of that time Night Sister came to say that the baby had a fair chance and that the mother could stay the night in the hospital if she wished. The girl went with her, her face empty with shock. Sarah thought it probable that she didn’t realise where she was. Dr Bright would have contacted her husband by now; perhaps when he came she would draw comfort from him.
There was no sign of Hugo. Sarah tidied the cubicle and took the tea cup to the sink and washed it, then started to clear the small cluttered treatment room. She was only half done when she heard a car stop outside and a moment later Dr Bright and a short, thick-set young man came in.
Dr Bright wasted no words. ‘Where is she?’
‘Children’s—Special unit. I’ll take Mr McClough up.’ She started for the door, the pale-faced young man keeping pace with her. ‘Will it be too late for us to come back to you?’ she asked as she went.
John Bright was on his way out. ‘Of course not—I’ll be waiting.’
Children’s was quiet, deceptively so, for there was subdued activity in the glass-walled cubicle at the end of the wide corridor. The cot was in the centre of the small room; she could see the plasma drip on its stand and Night Sister fiddling with it … and Hugo straightening his long back to speak to the Registrar. There was a nurse there too, and the baby’s mother. She looked up and saw them coming and rushed out to meet them, not stopping to take off the white gown they had put her into. She hurtled through the door like a small whirlwind and hurled herself into her husband’s arms. He held her close and despite his pallor said bracingly, ‘Or’right, me darlin’, ‘ere I am, so yer don’t need ter worry no more.’
He gave her a smacking kiss and Sarah half turned away, horrified at the envy she felt for the girl—to envy a woman so unhappy, because her husband loved her! She closed her eyes for a second and when she opened them Hugo had come out into the corridor too and was standing watching her. She turned and went back to Casualty then; there was nothing more to do but wait for him. He came presently, quite unhurried and said mildly:
‘I’m sorry you had to wait, Sarah.’
They sat silent as they went back through the late evening. Lefty was hanging about outside the surgery. Sarah saw his quick glance before he looked away with studied indifference. She got out of the car and said, ‘Hullo, Lefty, thanks for your help—we couldn’t have managed without you.’ Which wasn’t quite true, although they were improving.
He grinned. ‘Garn, missus! ‘Ow’s the baby?’ His narrow chest swelled. ‘I fetched ‘er dad.’
Hugo joined them. ‘I told you you’d be useful if you hung round here long enough. The baby will be all right—we hope.’ He took something from his pocket. ‘Split that with your pals.’
Lefty took a look at what he had been offered and gave a shrill whistle. ‘Cor! Ta, Doc. You’re OK.’ He grinned. ‘Missus ‘ere, she’s OK too.’
Inside, John Bright was waiting for them. He had made coffee and while they drank it Sarah made sandwiches, then took them into the sitting room, where Dr Bright said, ‘What a woman you are, Sarah! I can think of quite a few women who would be sitting back complaining that they were tired or upset.’
She smiled gently at him. ‘I hate to disillusion you; I’m both—but I’m hungry too.’ She bit into a sandwich and said, ‘I hope the baby does.’
‘She’s got a good chance, I hear. You looked very—lonely—when we got to Casualty this evening.’ He looked at Hugo. ‘You have a wonderful wife, Hugo.’
She tried not to look at Hugo, but it was impossible not to do so. He was staring at her very hard and half smiling. After a little pause he said, ‘Yes, John, I have.’
She was disappointed. He could have thanked her on their way back from the hospital; he could have told her she was beautiful, and wonderful too, never mind if it were true or not. She remembered then how horrible she had been about Janet and the nurseries and conceded that it had been generous of him, in the circumstances, to agree with Dr Bright. She got up and collected the cups and plates and, refusing help, washed them up with a cheerful clatter.
They spoke very little on the way back to Richmond. Sarah could have told him how sorry she was a dozen times, but, sadly, she couldn’t find the words.
It wasn’t until Sunday after lunch with her parents, when she elected to take the dogs for a walk and Hugo unexpectedly joined her, that she plucked up her courage. They had reached the top of the hill and had paused to admire the sweep of country around them. She spoke quickly before she could change her mind.
‘I’m sorry I was beastly the other evening, Hugo—it was a rotten thing to say. I beg your pardon, and if Janet were here, I’d beg hers too.’
He gave a rumble of laughter. ‘If Janet were here your—er—regrettable words wouldn’t have been uttered.’
She had been taken aback by his laughter until she realised that of course he was hiding his true feelings. She encountered the mockery of his smile as he observed, ‘You know, Sarah, I can’t remember feeling hurt. Should I have been?’
She went an indignant pink. ‘Please don’t joke, Hugo. You told me before we married how you felt about Janet …’ She was very earnest.
He stopped smiling and stood staring at her with an expressionless face, his grey eyes a little bleak. He said at last, ‘My dear, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that you had so much thought for my happiness. Shall we cry quits?’
He kissed her briefly and she managed a very credible smile, and presently began to talk about their holidays, resolutely ignoring her aching heart.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEY ARRIVED IN Amsterdam in a wet dusk. The weather had been pleasant enough when they had landed at Zeebrugge—they had followed the coast road as far as Le Zoute and had tea there and then gone on to catch the ferry at Vlissingen. It was crowded with enormous lorries and long-distance transports, standing nose to tail, hedging them in on all sides. Hugo eased the car between them and they climbed the iron steps to the deck. Sarah had been momentarily taken aback to hear Hugo speaking Dutch to one of the drivers. When they were leaning on the rail watching the grey water of the Scheldt, she said:
‘You know, I’d almost forgotten that you’re Dutch. Your English is so perfect—well, nearly perfect.’
He smiled lazily. ‘Dear me, do I drop my H’s?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! I didn’t mean your grammar—it’s just your accent; but only now and then.’ She frowned. ‘I wish I spoke Dutch—even a modicum. I suppose you couldn’t teach me a few words?’
‘Perhaps—a word here and there as you need it. My family speak English so you will have no difficulty there.’
She watched Vlissingen advancing towards them across the wide river’s mouth; it looked grey and disappointing until she saw the row of houses along its sea boulevard. ‘When we go home,’ she said, ‘perhaps I could find someone to teach me Dutch.’
Hugo laughed. ‘Am I to take that as an invitation?’
She gave him a quick sidelong glance to see if he was serious. She was unable to tell. ‘You would never have time,’ she said flatly, and then, in case she had sounded ungracious, ‘Thank you just the same
.’
They had said no more on the subject, as it was time to go ashore, and later, when they were crossing the flat countryside towards Bergen-op-Zoom, their talk was of the country around them. The road was good and fast, running through endless fields, showing a vista of villages and tall church spires under a wide sky, into whose empty blue bowl clouds were beginning to pour. They skirted Breda—a tantalising view of churches and steeples, gone in a flash, and then on to the Moordijk bridge crossing the Hollandsche Diep, worthy of a long explanation from Hugo.
Rotterdam was, to her, a jungle of flyovers and bridges and traffic coming at them from all sides. She hadn’t quite got used to travelling on the other side of the road for a start, a fact which didn’t seem to worry Hugo at all for he drove steadily through the confusion without hesitation, commenting upon the interesting aspects of the city as he did so. It was pleasant to leave the city behind at last, and the motorway with it. It was beginning to drizzle, but the country was pretty now, with small villages whose houses might have come from Brueghel’s brush. As they slowed to go through Alpen-aan-der-Rijn, Hugo told her about the International Bird Park. ‘If you like,’ he said, ‘we’ll come over one evening for dinner. There’s an excellent restaurant and the lighting is rather special, I think you might enjoy it.’
Sarah replied warmly, ‘Oh, please, yes—I’d love it. How interesting it all is!’ More than interesting—she was just beginning to realise that they would be together for two weeks or more. It hadn’t seemed quite true; the idea was so delightful that her heart began to hurry. She was unaware that she was smiling until Hugo’s hand came down on her own two hands clasped on her knee. ‘Why do you smile like that?’ he asked quietly. ‘Are you happy?’
He had withdrawn his hand, but she still felt its warmth. He had never asked her if she was happy. She said now, ‘Yes, I am—I haven’t been so happy …’ she paused, for she had been on the verge of saying since she discovered that she didn’t love Steven; but of course she couldn’t say that. ‘For a long time,’ she ended rather lamely, then added:
