by Betty Neels
‘Well, she’s had lots of chances, but she doesn’t have much time to go out and, of course, a girl needs lots of pretty clothes to do that.’
The professor, with sisters of his own, agreed with that.
Once through Chichester and on the coast road, he set the car at a good pace, only slowing as they passed through the small seaside towns, so that Hove and Brighton were reached while the afternoon was still young.
They went to the Pavilion first; they inspected the entrance hall, the long gallery, the state apartments and lastly the kitchens. It was here that Julie found herself alone with the professor. Her mother and Esme had wandered off, leaving them in front of a vast row of copper saucepans on one of the walls of the huge place.
‘I wonder how many cooks worked here?’ said Julie for something to say.
He looked down at her with a faint smile. ‘You have been here before?’
‘No. It’s—well, unusual. Have you?’ And before he could reply she added, ‘No, of course you haven’t; it isn’t the sort of place you would take a girl to, is it?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, not the kind of girl you take out. I mean—’ she was getting flustered ‘—she’d expect a super restaurant and dancing and black tie and all that. This isn’t romantic...’
‘Does one need to wear a black tie to be romantic? I would have thought that one could be romantic here in this kitchen if one felt that way inclined.’ He sounded amused. ‘Shall we find your mother and Esme? I dare say we have time to go to the pier.’
They spent half an hour there; Julie and Esme played the machines, winning small amounts of money on the fruit machines and losing it again, while her mother and the professor strolled round. Julie glanced at them once or twice; they appeared to be getting on very well. It was impossible to see whether he was really enjoying himself, though.
They went to the Lanes then, peering into the small shop windows. There was so much to see: jewellery, antiques, tiny boutiques with one exquisite garment flung over a chair in the window, and seaside shops open still, even though the season was over. They had tea here, in an olde-worlde tea shoppe, with waitresses in mob-caps and dainty little tables ringed with flimsy chairs. The professor set his large person down gingerly onto a chair which creaked and groaned under him.
They ate toasted teacakes and buttered toast and chocolate eclairs and ordered a second pot of tea. Julie, passing his cup for the second time, wondered uneasily just how much their outing was costing him. She should have refused his offer straight away, she reflected, and not mentioned her mother and sister; he had had no choice but to invite them too...
She wondered if he would be more friendly now—after all, her mother and Esme were on excellent terms with him, calling him Simon too. She had been careful not to call him anything for the whole day, and so, she noticed, had he avoided using her name.
They went back to the car finally and then drove back to London, reaching it as dusk was turning to dark, and very much to her surprise he accepted her mother’s offer of coffee. ‘I’ll take Blotto for a quick run,’ he suggested. ‘He should be tired out, but five minutes will do him no harm.’
Luscombe was back. ‘Thought you might want a bite to eat,’ he explained. ‘Kettle’s on the boil and I’ve cut some sandwiches. ’Is nibs coming in, is ’e?’
‘He’s taken Blotto for a quick walk. Luscombe, that’s good of you. Have you had your supper? Did you have a good day with your sister?’
‘First-rate, Mrs Beckworth. That I should live to see the day I’d ride in a Bentley. Enjoy yourself, did you?’
‘Lovely; we went all over the place and saw so much and had a gorgeous lunch. Had we better have coffee in the drawing room?’
‘Not on my account, Mrs Beckworth.’ The professor had come into the kitchen. He nodded to Luscombe. ‘You had a good day too?’ he asked.
‘I’d say. Best fish and chips in town at my sister’s.’
They sat around the table in the warm kitchen, all of them, and Luscombe cut more sandwiches and made more coffee. The talk was cheerful, with Esme and Luscombe doing most of it and Mrs Beckworth putting in a gentle word here and there and the professor joining in from time to time in his quiet voice. As for Julie, she joined in too, trying to ignore the nagging thought that next week she would be back at her desk with the professor in his office. Would this day’s outing change things? Perhaps he would be more friendly now; perhaps he would stop calling her Miss Beckworth.
* * *
He wasn’t there when she arrived on Monday, but there was a note on her desk. ‘In path lab if wanted,’ with his initials scrawled underneath. Julie opened the post, answered the phone, opened his diary and sat down to start her own work. She had been there for quite some time when the professor walked in, laid some papers on her desk and in an austere voice said, ‘Good morning, Miss Beckworth.’
Julie sighed; they were back at square one again. She wished him good morning in a colourless voice, adding a snappy ‘sir’ and ‘Dr MacFinn would like to see you if possible this morning.’
He was standing at her desk, looking at her, which she found unnerving. She poised her hands over her computer and gave him an enquiring look.
‘I’ll get these notes finished, sir.’ She looked away quickly from his thoughtful stare, glad to have an excuse to turn away from his eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
JULIE SAW VERY little of the professor after that first unsatisfactory conversation. She told herself that she was glad of it—something which she knew wasn’t true; she wanted him to like her, to laugh and talk to her as he did with Esme and her mother. She wasn’t a conceited girl; she was used to admiring glances and had fended off the tentative advances of several of the young housemen, but the professor’s glances were strictly impersonal and he had shown no wish to add warmth to their relationship.
Why should he? she reasoned, when he had a girl waiting for him in Groningen. Or perhaps she wasn’t waiting; perhaps they faced a hopeless future with only stolen meetings to keep their love alive. Julie, aware that she was allowing her thoughts to get too romantic, applied herself to her word processor once more.
It was during the morning that a call was put through to her desk.
‘I can’t contact Professor van der Driesma,’ complained the operator. ‘I can’t get him on his phone. Will you take the call?’
Julie, glad of a diversion, lifted the receiver. The voice was a woman’s—a young voice too. ‘You are the secretary of Professor van der Driesma? I wish to speak to him, please.’
‘He’s not here for the moment. Will you hang on and I’ll see if I can find him? Who shall I say?’
‘Mevrouw van Graaf. I will wait.’
Julie heard the little chuckle as she put down the receiver. ‘Drat the man,’ said Julie, and went to check the phone on his desk. It hadn’t been replaced; no wonder the operator hadn’t got his desk. She put it back in its cradle and not very hopefully phoned his bleep. She was surprised when a minute or so later he phoned back.
‘I hope it’s urgent,’ he told her testily before she could speak. ‘I’m occupied.’
‘Mevrouw van Graaf is on the phone for you, sir.’
He didn’t answer at once, then said, ‘Ask her for a number, will you? And tell her I’ll ring her within half an hour.’ He hung up then and she went back to her desk and picked up her own phone.
‘Mevrouw van Graaf? The professor can’t come to the phone for the moment; he has asked me to get your phone number and he will ring you during the next half-hour.’
‘Very well; here is the number. I will wait.’ There was a happy little laugh. ‘I have waited for a long time and now I do not need to wait. I do not speak of the telephone, you understand...’
‘Yes, I understand,’ Julie said, and hung up. Somethin
g must have happened; Mevrouw van Graaf was free. Free to marry the professor. She didn’t want to think about that; it was a good thing that she had so much work on her desk.
He came back presently. ‘You have the number?’ he asked.
Julie handed him the slip of paper and he went back to his office, leaving the door open. She would have to shut it; she had no intention of eavesdropping although she was longing to know what it was all about. But there was no need to shut the door for he spoke in his own language, although she understood the first word he uttered. Lieveling—darling—and an endearment which the Dutch didn’t use lightly. Julie tapped away as though her life depended on it, not wishing to hear his voice; even speaking another language it sounded full of delight.
He talked for some time and a glance at the clock showed her that it was time for her to go to her dinner. She didn’t like to go in case he needed her for something, so she sat there quietly, listening to the murmur of his voice and his laugh. He rang off presently and came to the open door.
‘I have an Outpatients at one o’clock; I’ll see you there, Miss Beckworth. There are a couple of tapes for you to type up; they’re on my desk.’
‘Very well, sir; I’m going to my dinner now.’
He glanced at the clock. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He gave her an absent-minded nod and went away, pausing at the door to say, ‘I’m on the ward if I should be wanted. Let them know, will you?’
Julie ate her dinner quickly and hurried back to her desk. Outpatients could sometimes run late and there would be no time for her to type up the tapes as well as the outpatients’ notes; she could start on the tapes before one o’clock...
Outpatients was busy, and although it was already running late the professor remained unhurried, giving his full attention to each patient in turn; the nurses came and went for their tea but Sister stayed put at his elbow and so, perforce, did the two students.
Julie filled her notebook with her expert shorthand, sharpened her pencil and longed for her tea. She saw the last patient leave and closed her notebook smartly. It was past five o’clock but if the professor wanted the notes she would have to stay and type them—and the tapes weren’t finished...
She was roused from her thoughts by his voice. ‘Sister, I’m sure you are longing for a cup of tea; would you ring for someone to bring us a tray?’ He looked across at Julie. ‘And you, Miss Beckworth—it’s been a long afternoon?’
She thanked him nicely, thinking that, for her at least, the afternoon wasn’t over.
The tea came with a plate of biscuits, and over second cups he said, ‘I will drop you off, Miss Beckworth, if you can be ready in half an hour?’
‘I thought I’d stay and get these notes typed.’
‘No need. I am going to Leeds tomorrow; you will have the day in which to finish any outstanding work.’
There was no point in arguing and Sister was sitting there listening. Julie said, ‘Very well, sir,’ in a neutral voice and presently went away to get on with the tapes. She didn’t get them finished, of course; he had said half an hour and she knew by now that when he said something he meant it. She was ready, her desk tidied, work put away for the morning, when he came back to his office.
He had little to say as he drove her home and what he did say concerned his work and various instructions for her while he was away. He got out when they reached the house, opened her door, waited while she gained the front door, bade her goodnight and got back into his car and drove away.
A most unsatisfactory day, reflected Julie, going into the kitchen to see what Luscombe was cooking for supper.
‘You look peaky, Miss Julie; ’ad a rotten day?’
‘Yes, Luscombe; all go, if you know what I mean. I wish I could get a job miles away from any hospital, somewhere where people smiled and had time to pass the time of day...’
‘Oh, you are low,’ said Luscombe. ‘’Is nibs been tiresome, ’as ’e?’
‘Not more than usual. Can I smell macaroni cheese? I’m famished.
‘Ten minutes, Miss Julie. Your ma’s in the sitting room and Esme’s doing her homework.’
Julie went and talked to her mother then, glossing over her unsatisfactory day before helping Esme with her homework, and it wasn’t until they were sitting round the table that Mrs Beckworth asked, ‘Did Simon say how much he had enjoyed his day out?’
Julie took a mouthful of macaroni cheese. ‘He didn’t mention it.’
Mrs Beckworth looked surprised. ‘Didn’t he? How very strange.’
And Esme chimed in, ‘But he said he’d had a lovely time. He told me so.’
‘He’s had a busy day,’ said Julie. ‘And he’s going to Leeds all day tomorrow, he said.’
‘Have you quarrelled?’ asked Esme.
‘Of course not; we’re both too busy—we hardly speak unless it’s about the work.’ Julie spoke so sharply that Esme, ready with more questions, swallowed them instead.
* * *
It was Luscombe who voiced his concern the next morning after she had gone to work. ‘Miss Julie’s got the ’ump,’ he observed to Mrs Beckworth. ‘Told me she’d like to find another job. It’s my ’umble opinion that she and ’is nibs don’t suit. On the other hand...’
‘They have fallen in love?’ suggested Mrs Beckworth.
‘And don’t know it, of course. ‘Is nibs ’as more than likely got a girl already—someone in Holland; so he takes care to be extra stiff, if you see what I mean.’
Mrs Beckworth nodded. ‘Yes, yes, Luscombe, but Julie doesn’t seem to like him overmuch. When we were out together the other day she hardly spoke to him.’
‘Got their lines crossed,’ said Luscombe, peeling the potatoes. ‘’E only ’as to say ’e’s got a girl to make it all fair and square and Miss Julie can behave normal-like again. Me, I don’t believe she don’t like ’im, but she’s got her head screwed on straight, ’asn’t she? Not the sort to go crazy over a chap when he’s already spoken for.’
‘It’s very worrying,’ said Mrs Beckworth.
‘It’ll all come out in the wash,’ said Luscombe.
* * *
Julie, laying piles of perfectly typed notes, memoranda and letters on his desk, wished that the professor were there, sitting with his spectacles perched on his nose, ignoring her for the most part and, truth to tell, unaware of her unless he required her services.
* * *
He wasn’t expected back until the late evening, the head porter, who had a soft spot for her, told Julie when she arrived the next morning. Which meant that she could start on updating the files which Professor Smythe had stashed away in the filing cabinets and which should have gone to the records office long ago. She worked steadily at them all day and, since another hour or so’s work on them would have the job done, decided to stay on after five-thirty and finish it.
She phoned home to say that she would be an hour or so late and then settled back to work. There would be no interruptions; the receptionist knew that the professor wasn’t in the hospital and no one would phone or come to his office.
She worked steadily; there was more to do than she had expected but since she had started there seemed no point in not finishing. It was quiet in that part of the hospital where the professor had his office, and the sounds of traffic were muffled by the thin fog which had crept over the city. Julie, intent on getting finished, hardly noticed.
Someone opening the professor’s door made her turn round. A man stood there, as surprised as she was, although his astonishment turned to a look of cunning that she didn’t much care for. She got up and went through the door to the professor’s office. ‘You’re visiting someone in the hospital?’ she asked, and hoped that her voice wasn’t wobbling too much. ‘You’ve got lost—you need to go back along the passage and go up the stairs to the wards.’
&
nbsp; The man laughed. ‘Me? I’m not lost. You just sit quiet, like a good girl, and no one will hurt you.’ He went past her and picked up her handbag from the desk.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ asked Julie angrily. ‘Put that down at once. Get out of here...’ She picked up the phone and had it snatched from her before she could utter a word into it. ‘Now, now, that won’t do. I told you to be good, didn’t I?’ He pushed her into the chair opposite the desk. ‘You sit quiet or else...’
He began opening drawers in the professor’s desk, sweeping papers onto the floor, pocketing some loose change lying there, and the Waterman pen that the professor used. There was a silver-framed photo in one of the drawers—Julie had never seen it before. He smashed the glass, threw the photo onto the desk and put the frame into his pocket. She could see that it was of a young woman and just for a moment she forgot her fright—so the professor kept a photo of his future wife tucked away in his desk like any lovesick young man. She smiled at the thought and then went white as the man came round the desk to her, grinning.
‘Easy as kiss me hand,’ he boasted. ‘Walk in, I did, just like that, and that old codger in his little box doing his crossword didn’t even see me. Now you’ll tell me where there’s some cash and, better still, I’ll wait here while you fetch it.’
‘I haven’t the least idea where there’s any money,’ said Julie in a voice which didn’t sound quite like hers. ‘The cleaners will be along in a minute to collect the waste paper and turn off the lights. You’re a fool to think you can get away with this. What are you doing here, anyway?’
‘Thought I’d have a look around; didn’t know I’d find a pretty girl—what yer doing with all this junk?’ His eye roved over the computer and the answering machine, and he picked up the heavy paperweight on the desk. ‘Let’s smash ’em up...’
Julie’s fright turned to rage; she darted from the chair that he had made her sit in, picked up the inkstand on the desk—a Victorian monstrosity of size and weight—and flung it at the man. Her aim was poor; it sailed past him and narrowly missed the professor as he opened the door, whistling past his ear to crash in the passage beyond.
