by Betty Neels
Theodosia would have liked to tell her that it wasn’t new clothes, more’s the pity. It was cat food, and milk, bread and cheese, tea and the cheaper cuts of meat, and all the other necessities one needed to keep body and soul together. But she didn’t say a word.
It was the professor who said blandly, ‘I don’t imagine that Theodosia has a great deal of money to spare—our hospital salaries are hardly generous.’
He smiled, shook hands and took his leave. At the door to the drawing room he bent his great height and kissed Theodosia’s cheek. ‘Until tomorrow evening.’ His smile included all three ladies as he followed Mrs Trickey to the front door.
Great-Aunt Jessica might not have moved with the times—in her young days gentlemen didn’t kiss young ladies with such an air, as though they had a right to do so—but she was romantic at heart and now she smiled. It was Great-Aunt Mary who spoke, her thin voice disapproving.
‘I am surprised, Theodosia, that you allow a gentleman to kiss you in that manner. Casual kissing is a regrettable aspect of modern life.’
Theodosia said reasonably, ‘Well, I didn’t allow him, did I? I’m just as surprised as you are, Aunt Mary, but I can assure you that nowadays a kiss doesn’t meant anything—it’s a social greeting—or a way of saying goodbye.’
And she had enjoyed it very much.
‘Shall I unpack the things you wanted?’ she asked, suddenly anxious not to talk about the professor.
It was a task which took some time and successfully diverted the old ladies’ attention.
The weekend was like all the others, only there was more talk of Christmas now. ‘We shall expect you on Christmas Eve,’ said Aunt Jessica. ‘Around teatime will suit us very nicely.’
That would suit Theodosia nicely, too. She would have to work in the morning; patients still had diets even at Christmas. There would be a tremendous rush getting the diets organised for the holiday period but with luck she would be able to get a late-afternoon train. She must remember to check the times …
In bed much later that night, with Gustavus curled up beside her, she allowed herself to think about the professor. It was, of course, perfectly all right for him to kiss her, she reassured herself, just as she had reassured her aunts: it was an accepted social greeting. Only it hadn’t been necessary for him to do it. He was a very nice man, she thought sleepily, only nice wasn’t quite the right word to describe him.
It was very cold in church the next morning and, as usual, lunch was cold—roast beef which was underdone, beetroot and boiled potatoes. The trifle which followed was cold, too, and her offer to make coffee afterwards was rejected by the aunts, who took their accustomed seats in the drawing room, impervious to the chill. Theodosia was glad when it was time for her to get the tea, but two cups of Earl Grey, taken without milk, did little to warm her.
She was relieved when the professor arrived; he spent a short time talking to her aunts and then suggested that they should leave. He hadn’t kissed her; she hadn’t expected him to, but he did give her a long, thoughtful look before bidding his farewells in the nicest possible manner and sweeping her out to the car.
It must have been the delightful warmth in the car which caused Theodosia to sneeze and then shiver.
‘You look like a wet hen,’ said the professor, driving away from the house. ‘You’ve caught a cold.’
She sneezed again. ‘I think perhaps I have. The church was cold, but the aunts don’t seem to mind the cold. I’ll be perfectly all right once I’m back at Mrs Towzer’s.’ She added, ‘I’m sorry; I do hope I won’t give it to you.’
‘Most unlikely. We won’t stop for a meal at Great Dunmow, I’ll drive you straight back.’
‘Thank you.’
It was the sensible thing to do, she told herself, but at the same time she felt overwhelming disappointment. Hot soup, a sizzling omelette, piping hot coffee—any of these would have been welcome at Great Dunmow. Perhaps, despite his denial, he was anxious not to catch her cold. She muffled a sneeze and tried to blow her nose soundlessly.
By the time they reached the outskirts of London she was feeling wretched; she had the beginnings of a headache, a running nose and icy shivers down her spine. The idea of getting a meal, seeing to Gustavus and crawling down to the bathroom was far from inviting. She sneezed again and he handed her a large, very white handkerchief.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Theodosia. She heaved a sigh of relief at his quiet, ‘We’re very nearly there.’
Only he seemed to be driving the wrong way. ‘This is the Embankment,’ she pointed out. ‘You missed the way …’
‘No. You are coming home with me. You’re going to have a meal and something for that cold, then I’ll drive you back.’
‘But that’s a lot of trouble and there’s Gustavus …’
‘No trouble, and Gustavus can have his supper with my housekeeper.’
He had turned into a narrow street, very quiet, lined with Regency houses, and stopped before the last one in the terrace.
Theodosia was still trying to think of a good reason for insisting on going back to Mrs Towzer’s but she was given no chance to do so. She found herself out of the car and in through the handsome door and borne away by a little stout woman with grey hair and a round, cheerful face who evinced no surprise at her appearance but ushered her into a cloakroom at the back of the narrow hall, tut-tutting sympathetically as she did so.
‘That’s a nasty cold, miss, but the professor will have something for it and there’ll be supper on the table in no time at all.’
So Theodosia washed her face and tidied her hair, feeling better already, and went back into the hall and was ushered through one of the doors there. The room was large and high-ceilinged with a bow window overlooking the street. It was furnished most comfortably, with armchairs drawn up on each side of the bright fire burning in the steel grate, a vast sofa facing it, more smaller chairs, a scattering of lamp tables and a mahogany rent table in the bow window. There were glass-fronted cabinets on either side of the fireplace and a long case clock by the door.
Theodosia was enchanted. ‘Oh, what a lovely room,’ she said, and smiled with delight at the professor.
‘Yes, I think so, too. Come and sit down. A glass of sherry will make you feel easier; you’ll feel better when you have had a meal. I’ll give you some pills later; take two when you go to bed and two more in the morning. I’ll give you enough for several days.’
She drank her sherry and the housekeeper came presently to say that supper was on the table. ‘And that nice cat of yours is sitting by the Aga as though he lived here, miss. Had his supper, too.’
Theodosia thanked her and the professor said, ‘This is Meg, my housekeeper. She was my nanny a long time ago. Meg, this is Miss Theodosia Chapman; she works at the hospital.’
Meg smiled broadly. ‘Well, now, isn’t that nice?’ And she shook the hand Theodosia offered.
Supper was everything she could have wished for—piping hot soup, an omelette as light as air, creamed potatoes, tiny brussels sprouts and little egg custards in brown china pots for pudding. She ate every morsel and the professor, watching the colour creep back into her cheeks, urged her to have a second cup of coffee and gave her a glass of brandy.
‘I don’t think I would like it …’
‘Probably not. I’m giving it to you as a medicine so toss it off, but not too quickly.’
It made her choke and her eyes water, but it warmed her too, and when she had finished it he said, ‘I’m going to take you back now. Go straight to bed and take your pills and I promise you that you will feel better in the morning.’
‘You’ve been very kind; I’m very grateful. And it was a lovely supper …’
She bade Meg goodbye and thanked her, too, and with Gustavus stowed in the back of the car she was driven back to Mrs Towzer’s.
The contrast was cruel as she got out of the car: the professor’s house, so dignified and elegant, and Mrs Towzer’s, so shabby and unwelcomi
ng. But she wasn’t a girl to whinge or complain. She had a roof over her head and a job and the added bonus of knowing the professor.
He took the key from her and went up the four flights of stairs, carrying her bag and Gustavus in his basket. Then he opened her door and switched on the light and went to light the gas fire. He put the pills on the table and then said, ‘Go straight to bed, Theodosia.’ He sounded like an uncle or a big brother.
She thanked him again and wished him goodnight and he went to the door. He turned round and came back to where she was standing, studying her face in a manner which disconcerted her. She knew that her nose was red and her eyes puffy; she must look a sight …
He bent and kissed her then, a gentle kiss on her mouth and quite unhurried. Then he was gone, the door shut quietly behind him.
‘He’ll catch my cold,’ said Theodosia. ‘Why ever did he do that? I’ll never forgive myself if he does; I should have stopped him.’
Only she hadn’t wanted to. She took Gustavus out of his basket and gave him his bedtime snack, put on the kettle for her hot-water bottle and turned the divan into a bed, doing all these things without noticing what she was doing.
‘I should like him to kiss me again,’ said Theodosia loudly. ‘I liked it. I like him—no, I’m in love with him, aren’t I? Which is very silly of me. I expect it’s because I don’t see many men and somehow we seem to come across each other quite often. I must stop thinking about him and feeling happy when I see him.’
After which praiseworthy speech she took her pills and, warmed by Gustavus and the hot-water bottle, presently went to sleep—but not before she had had a little weep for what might have been if life had allowed her to tread the same path as the professor.
CHAPTER THREE
THEODOSIA felt better in the morning; she had a cold, but she no longer felt—or looked—like a wet hen. She took the pills she had been given, ate her breakfast, saw to Gustavus and went to work. Miss Prescott greeted her sourly, expressed the hope that she would take care not to pass her cold on to her and gave her enough work to keep her busy for the rest of the day. Which suited Theodosia very well for she had no time to think about the professor. Something, she told herself sternly, she must stop doing at once—which didn’t prevent her from hoping that she might see him as she went around the hospital. But she didn’t, nor was his car in the forecourt when she went home later that day.
He must have gone away; she had heard that he was frequently asked to other hospitals for consultations, and there was no reason why he should have told her. It was during the following morning, on her rounds, that she overhead the ward sister remark to her staff nurse that he would be back for his rounds at the end of the week. It seemed that he was in Austria.
Theodosia dropped her diet sheets deliberately and took a long time picking them up so that she could hear more.
‘In Vienna,’ said Sister, ‘and probably Rome. Let’s hope he gets back before Christmas.’
A wish Theodosia heartily endorsed; the idea of him spending Christmas anywhere but at his lovely home filled her with unease.
She was quite herself by the end of the week; happy to be free from Miss Prescott’s iron hand, she did her shopping on Saturday and, since the weather was fine and cold, decided to go to Sunday’s early-morning service and then go for a walk in one of the parks.
It was still not quite light when she left the house the next morning and there was a sparkle of frost on the walls and rooftops. The church was warm, though, and fragrant with the scent of chrysanthemums. There wasn’t a large congregation and the simple service was soon over. She started to walk back, sorry to find that the early-morning sky was clouding over.
The streets were empty save for the occasional car and an old lady some way ahead of her. Theodosia, with ten minutes’ brisk walk before her, walked faster, spurred on by the thought of breakfast.
She was still some way from the old lady when a car passed her, going much too fast and swerving from side to side of the street. The old lady hadn’t a chance; the car mounted the kerb as it reached her, knocked her down and drove on.
Theodosia ran. There was no one about, the houses on either side of the street had their curtains tightly pulled over the windows, and the street was empty; she wanted to scream but she needed her breath.
The old lady lay half on the road, half on the pavement. She looked as though someone had picked her up and tossed her down and left her in a crumpled heap. One leg was crumpled up under her and although her skirt covered it Theodosia could see that there was blood oozing from under the cloth. She was conscious, though, turning faded blue eyes on her, full of bewilderment.
Theodosia whipped off her coat, tucked it gently under the elderly head and asked gently, ‘Are you in pain? Don’t move; I’m going to get help.’
‘Can’t feel nothing, dearie—a bit dizzy, like.’
There was a lot more blood now. Theodosia lifted the skirt gently and looked at the awful mess under it. She got to her feet, filling her lungs ready to bellow for help and at the same time starting towards the nearest door.
* * *
The professor, driving himself back from Heathrow after his flight from Rome, had decided to go first to the hospital, check his patients there and then go home for the rest of the day. He didn’t hurry. It was pleasant to be back in England and London—even the shabbier streets of London—was quiet and empty. His peaceful thoughts were rudely shattered at the sight of Theodosia racing across the street, waving her arms like a maniac.
He stopped the car smoothly, swearing softly, something he seldom did, but he had been severely shaken …
‘Oh, do hurry, she’s bleeding badly,’ said Theodosia. ‘I was just going to shout for help for I’m so glad it’s you …’
He said nothing; there would be time for words later. He got out of the car and crossed the street and bent over the old lady.
‘Get my bag from the back of the car.’ He had lifted the sodden skirt. When she had done that he said, ‘There’s a phone in the car. Get an ambulance. Say that it is urgent.’
She did as she was told and went back to find him on his haunches, a hand rummaging in his bag, while he applied pressure with his other hand to the severed artery.
‘Find a forceps,’ he told her. ‘One with teeth.’
She did that too and held a second pair ready, trying not to look at the awful mess. ‘Now put the bag where I can reach it and go and talk to her.’ He didn’t look up. ‘You got the ambulance?’
‘Yes, I told them where to come and that it was very urgent.’
She went and knelt by the old lady, who was still conscious but very pale.
‘Bit of bad luck,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I was going to me daughter for Christmas …’
‘Well, you will be well again by then,’ said Theodosia. ‘The doctor’s here now and you’re going to hospital in a few minutes.’
‘Proper Christmas dinner, we was going ter ’ave. Turkey and the trimmings—I like a bit of turkey …’
‘Oh, yes, so do I,’ said Theodosia, her ears stretched for the ambulance. ‘Cranberry sauce with it …’
‘And a nice bit of stuffing.’ The old lady’s voice was very weak. ‘And plenty of gravy. Sprouts and pertaters and a good bread sauce. Plenty of onion with it.’
‘Your daughter makes her own puddings?’ asked Theodosia, and thought what a strange conversation this was—like a nightmare only she was already awake.
‘Is there something wrong with me leg?’ The blue eyes looked anxious.
‘You’ve cut it a bit; the doctor’s seeing to it. Wasn’t it lucky that he was passing?’
‘Don’t ‘ave much ter say for ‘imself, does ‘e?’
‘Well, he is busy putting a bandage on. Do you live near here?’
‘Just round the corner—Holne Road, number six. Just popped out ter get the paper.’ The elderly face crumpled. ‘I don’t feel all that good.’
‘You’ll be as bright as
a button in no time,’ said Theodosia, and heard the ambulance at last.
Things moved fast then. The old lady, drowsy with morphia now, was connected up to oxygen and plasma while the professor tied off the torn arteries, checked her heart and with the paramedics stowed her in the ambulance.
Theodosia, making herself small against someone’s gate, watched the curious faces at windows and doors and wondered if she should go.
‘Get into the car; I’ll drop you off. I’m going to the hospital.’
He stared down at her unhappy face. ‘Hello,’ he said gently, and he smiled.
He had nothing more to say and Theodosia was feeling sick. He stopped at Mrs Towzer’s just long enough for her to get out and drove off quickly. She climbed the stairs and, once in her room, took off her dirty, blood-stained clothes and washed and dressed again, all the while telling Gustavus what had happened.
She supposed that she should have breakfast although she didn’t really want it. She fed Gustavus and put on the kettle. A cup of tea would do.
When there was a knock on the door she called, ‘Come in,’ remembering too late that she shouldn’t have done that before asking who was there.
The professor walked in. ‘You should never open the door without checking,’ he said. He turned off the gas under the kettle and the gas fire and then stowed Gustavus in his basket.
‘What are you doing?’ Theodosia wanted to know.
‘Taking you back for breakfast—you and Gustavus. Get a coat—something warm.’
‘My coat is a bit—that is, I shall have to take it to the cleaners. I’ve got a mac.’ She should have been annoyed with him, walking in like that, but somehow she couldn’t be bothered. Besides, he was badly in need of the dry cleaners, too. ‘Is the old lady all right?’
‘She is in theatre now, and hopefully she will recover. Now, hurry up, dear girl.’
She could refuse politely but Gustavus was already in his basket and breakfast would be very welcome. She got into her mac, pulled a woolly cap over her bright hair and accompanied him downstairs. There was no one about and the street was quiet; she got into the car when he opened the door for her, mulling over all the things she should have said if only she had had her wits about her.
