by Betty Neels
They sat down, with Victoria on her father’s left with her back to the semi-circular room, and her parents facing each other at each end of the table. They had finished their soup and were awaiting their crabmeat patties when Stephanie, sitting opposite Victoria, remarked:
‘There’s a man across the room—I’ve never seen him before.’ A remark sufficient to awaken interest in the two younger Miss Parsons, for they knew most of the young men on the island and they had deduced, quite rightly, that the man was good-looking and tolerably young—otherwise she wouldn’t have noticed him.
It was Louise, sitting next to Victoria, who asked: ‘How old? Is he nice-looking? Dark or fair?’ Before her sister could reply her mother interposed.
‘Louise, you should know better, encouraging Stephanie like that! We don’t know him, I fancy, do we, dear?’ She raised her eyebrows at her husband, who laughed.
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I can hardly inspect the man without embarrassment on both our parts, but if you’ve never seen him before, then I’m fairly sure that I haven’t either.’
Victoria speared her last morsel of patty. ‘All the same, I’m dying of curiosity and I can’t turn round, can I?’ She looked enquiringly at her mother, who smiled a little and said, ‘Oh, very well, but he’s with a very pretty young woman, so it really is a waste of Stephanie’s time.’
Stephanie ignored the young woman. ‘He’s very large and he’s got dark hair and one of those high foreheads—he doesn’t laugh very much, but he looks swoony when he smiles. He’s got one of those straight noses, just a little too big for his face, if you know what I mean—he turns me on.’
This vivid description met with her sister’s interested approval, but her mother said briskly before any of them could speak:
‘That is a vulgar expression which I dislike, Stephanie, you will be good enough to remember that.’
‘Amabel says it,’ muttered her youngest born rebelliously.
‘Amabel is twenty-one,’ said her mother sweepingly as she helped herself to poached salmon, and Stephanie made a mutinous face so that Victoria said swiftly, before the mutiny should become an open one:
‘I thought of going down to Castle Cornet tomorrow to see Uncle Gardener’—the curator and an old family friend, and such a ferocious horticulturist that they had called him by that name all their lives. ‘Anyone want to come with me?’
A cheerful babble of argument broke out as she had known it would. Her holiday this time was a short one, and her family, anxious that she shouldn’t waste a precious minute of it, were full of suggestions.
‘It’ll have to be in the afternoon, then,’ said Amabel. ‘Remember we’re going to the market in the morning and you’ve got some shopping to do—if you don’t do it straight away you’re sure to forget it and go back with only half the things you want.’
‘There’s a dress in the Jaguar shop,’ began Louise. They settled down to a happy discussion as to what Vicky should do with her days and the stranger across the restaurant was forgotten—or almost. Only Stephanie glanced across at him once or twice and Victoria, eating her ice pudding with a healthy appetite, wondered if he could possibly be the man she had met that afternoon. It seemed so unlikely that she dismissed the idea from her mind and bent it instead to the conversation going on around her.
They lingered over the cheese board and the coffee; it was only when Mr Parsons suggested that they should go to the bar below the restaurant for a drink before they returned home that the family made a move. They left as they had entered, Mrs Parsons in the lead, her daughters following and Mr Parsons ambling along behind them, and this time the girls contrived to get a good look at the man Stephanie had described. Victoria, waiting for the others to file out ahead of her, had the best chance of all of them to study him. It was the man of the afternoon, this time elegantly dressed and, as her mother had remarked, in the company of a very pretty woman. He was smiling across the table at her and as she lifted her hand for a brief moment Victoria, who had excellent sight, clearly saw the rings on her left hand. His fiancée, his wife even. She felt a sudden surprising sensation of loss and after that one look followed Louise through the restaurant, aware as she went that he had seen her.
She spent the next morning shopping with her sisters, stocking up on soap and lipsticks and face powder because they were all so much cheaper in Guernsey. They were clustered round the door of ‘La Parfumerie’ arguing where they should go for their coffee when Victoria saw him again, looking exactly as he had done when she had met him, and accompanied by a man of his own age, similarly attired. He was holding a very small boy by the hand too, which substantiated her guess about the pretty girl with the rings. She stared after him and Louise, looking up, caught her at it and said at once: ‘There he is again, that man Stephanie was so smitten with—and that was a waste of time, ducky, he’s trailing a kid.’
They all laughed, and if Victoria’s laughter sounded a little hollow, nobody noticed. They went, arm-in-arm, into the arcade, to Maison Carré for coffee and enormous cream puffs, which should have spoiled their appetites for lunch, but didn’t.
As it turned out, Victoria went alone to Castle Cornet, for it began to rain after lunch and none of the others liked the idea of getting wet doing something which they could so easily do on a fine day, but Vicky, they all agreed, should certainly go if she had a mind to. After all, it was her holiday, and she, who would have gone whatever her sisters had said, agreed pleasantly to be home in good time because they were all going to the theatre that evening. All parties being satisfied, she set off, sensibly dressed in slacks and a hooded anorak, down the hill and along the Esplanade, deserted now, and along Castle Pier to the castle. Uncle Gardener would be on the battlements, brooding over his spring flowers whatever the weather.
She entered by the visitors’ gateway and waved to the woman sitting idly in the little booth where summer visitors paid their fees, and walked on to the Outer Bailey and so eventually to the ramparts, where sure enough, Uncle Gardener was working. He was at the far end and Victoria made her way unhurriedly towards him, pausing to look down to the rocks below and then out to sea. There was a wind, but it was surprisingly light for the time of year and the sea had been beaten flat by the rain. All the same, it was hardly the weather to take a boat out, she thought, watching a yacht, its white-painted hull and brown sails showing up vividly against the greyness of the sea and sky, coming out of the harbour, running fast before the wind, going south towards Jerbourg Point. She could see the orange-coloured lifejackets of the two people aboard—two men, one at the tiller, the other…there was no reason to be so sure that it was the man she had met on the way to Fermain Bay, only—even at that distance—his size.
Victoria began to run along the path beside the battlements until she reached Uncle Gardener, who looked up and smiled. ‘Uncle,’ she wasted no time in greeting him, ‘have you got your binoculars with you?’ and when he handed them to her without speaking, turned and raced back along the ramparts. It was the same man, and his companion was the man she had seen him with that morning. There was no sign of anyone else on board, but they could be in the cabin, for it was a fair-sized boat—a Sea King—built for a family, although surely he wouldn’t take his family out on a day such as this one was? She watched it pass the castle and alter course out to sea—Jersey, perhaps? She walked slowly back to where the man she had come to visit waited. ‘And what’s all that about?’ he wanted to know.
He was elderly and short and rather stout and her father’s closest friend, and like him, was one of the Jurats of the island, perhaps the highest honour a citizen of Guernsey could aspire to. Victoria had known him all her life; when she had been a small girl and his wife had been alive, they had come frequently to her home, but now he was alone and although they saw him often, he seldom came to see them any more. Nevertheless, she knew that he was always delighted to see them. She looked at him with deep affection and said: ‘Oh, nothing. Just that yacht, it seems su
ch a daft sort of day to sail.’
‘Well, as to that, it’s a matter of who’s sailing it, isn’t it? It seemed to me that the boat was being handled by someone who knew what he was about. Do you know him?’
Victoria perched herself on the end of the wheelbarrow. ‘No—yes, well, we met—just for a little while when I was out walking. I’ve no idea who he is.’ She shrugged her shoulders and added falsely, ‘And I don’t really care.’
Mr Givaude, alias Uncle Gardener, lifted a face which bore strong traces of his Norman ancestors and stared at her rain-wet face. He didn’t answer, only made a grunting sound and said: ‘How about tea? It’s early, but I’ve finished here. Come on up to the house.’
His home was tucked away to one side of the Prisoners’ Walk, and although it was still early, as Mr Givaude had observed, his housekeeper was waiting for them, ready to take Victoria’s wet anorak and then to bring in the tea-tray with the old silver teapot and the cherry cake she made so well. Victoria ate two generous slices while she told Uncle Gardener about hospital and how she hoped to get the ward within a year, and how beastly London was except when she went to the theatre or out to dinner, when it was the greatest possible fun.
‘Want to live there for ever?’ her companion asked.
‘No,’ she sounded positive about it.
‘Then you’d better hurry up and find yourself a husband. After all, you’re the eldest, you should have first pick.’
She grinned at him. ‘And what chance do I have when the others are around?’ she demanded. ‘They’re quite spectacular, you know. I only get noticed when I’m on my own.’
Her companion took a lump of sugar from the pot and scrunched it up.
‘Bah,’ he said roundly, ‘fiddlesticks, I’ll tell you something—I was out with your mother and father a little while ago and do you know what I heard someone say? They were talking about your sisters, and this person said: “Maybe they do make the rest of the girls here look pretty dim, but wait until you’ve seen the eldest of ’em—and the best, a real smasher.” What do you think of that?’
‘Codswallop,’ stated Victoria succinctly. ‘It must have been someone who had never seen me—and anyway, Uncle Gardener, I don’t care overmuch about being pretty.’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘I want to be liked—loved because I’m me, not just because I’m pretty.’
Mr Givaude nodded in agreement. ‘Don’t worry, Vicky,’ he said, ‘you will be.’
She went soon afterwards, mindful that she had to be home in good time, and with the promise that she would return to say goodbye before she went back to London. The rain had stopped and the clouds were parting reluctantly to allow a watery sunshine to filter through, probably it would be a fine day tomorrow. She walked quickly home, wondering what she should do with it—they could take the Mini if their mother didn’t want it and go across the island to Rocquaine Bay; it was still early in the year, but on the western shores of the island it would be warm in the sheltered coves. She turned towards the town when she reached the end of the pier and instead of going along the Esplanade and up Havelet, turned off at the Town Church. At the corner, before she reached the shelter of the little town’s main street she took a backward look at the sea. It was empty; her half-formed idea that the yacht with the brown sails might have turned and sailed back into harbour died almost before she became aware of it. All the same, that evening, sitting in the theatre waiting for the curtain to go up, she looked around her, just in case the stranger might be there too.
They went to Rocquaine Bay the next morning with Victoria driving. She wasn’t a good driver, but she knew the island well, and most of the people on it; it wasn’t like driving on the mainland where there was no one to give her a hand if she reversed down the wrong street or met a bus head-on. It was a grand morning with a wind which was going to strengthen later in the day and a pale sky from which a surprisingly warm sun shone. Victoria stopped the car when they reached Pleinmont Point and they all piled out and walked along the cliff path, past the radio station to the edge of the cliffs to get a view of the lighthouse. The keen air made them hungry and they were glad enough to stop at Portelet and have coffee and buns, arguing briskly among themselves as to whether it was worth leaving the car and walking back along the cliff path for a mile or so. They decided against it at last, although Victoria promised herself that when next she came on holiday she would walk from her home and swim in Venus’s Pool and explore the Creux Mahie—a cave she hadn’t visited for several years. Louise teased her gently about it.
‘Honestly, Vicky,’ she declared, ‘there’s heaps of other things to do. Who wants to poke round an old cave, and the water in the pool is cold until summer. When will you be home again?’
Victoria thought. ‘Well, this is the last week of my holidays for this year—I start again in April. I think I’ll try and get a week in May.’
‘Don’t forget we’re all going to Scotland in September,’ Amabel reminded her. ‘That’ll be two weeks. You’re awfully lucky getting six weeks. Doctors aren’t so lucky.’
There was a sympathetic murmur from her sisters; Amabel and a newly qualified, overworked young doctor at the hospital had taken a fancy to each other. The affair was in its very early stages and the entire family were careful not to mention it unless Amabel brought the subject up.
‘They do better as they get more senior,’ said Victoria soothingly. ‘And once they’ve got a practice…’
Amabel brightened and her sisters smiled at each other; they quarreled fiercely among themselves on occasion, but their affection for each other was just as fierce, and Amabel had the sweetest nature of them all.
‘We’d better go,’ suggested Victoria, and the other three rose at once because she was the eldest and although she couldn’t match them in size she had always led them. It was when they were almost in St Peter Port again that Stephanie remembered that she had promised their mother to buy some fruit in the market, which naturally enough led Amabel to say that in that case she might as well pop into the arcade and see if they had got the belt she’d ordered.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Louise. She looked at Victoria, ‘You don’t mind, Vicky? We shall only be a minute or two.’
Victoria nodded and pulled into the side of the street, there wasn’t much traffic about and even fewer pedestrians. She switched off the engine and said: ‘Five minutes, and if you’re not back you can jolly well walk home!’
She watched them cross the road and turn off in the direction of the arcades and the market. Even in slacks and sweaters and at a distance, they looked striking. When they were out of sight she stared idly around her. Across the street was the man who had been so much in her thoughts. His face was grave and unsmiling, which should have stopped her smiling at him but didn’t. He crossed the street slowly, almost as if he were reluctant to speak to her, but when he reached the car he said politely enough: ‘Good morning. I hope you took no hurt from your wetting the other day?’
He still hadn’t smiled and she found herself wishing that he would.
‘No, thank you.’ She felt curiously shy and was furious with herself for being so and presently when he didn’t reply she added inanely: ‘You’re still here, then.’
The thick black brows were raised very slightly and he smiled suddenly and her heart lost its steady rhythm. She was still searching wildly for something interesting to talk about, something which would keep him there just a little longer, when someone whistled from across the street and he straightened up and looked over his shoulder and said: ‘Ah, I see I’m wanted,’ and added, ‘Perhaps we shall meet again.’
His tone had been so formal that she thought it very unlikely; she watched him regain the opposite pavement and disappear, going up the hill, away from the sea-front, to join the little boy she had seen before, and this time the girl she had seen him with was there too. Victoria looked away. Oh, well, she thought, there must be a great many more men in the world like him, and knew it for cold comfo
rt.
She didn’t see him again for several days, not, in fact, until she was getting out of her father’s car on the White Rock Pier, preparatory to boarding the boat back to Weymouth, on her way back to St Judd’s. He was standing so close to the car that it was impossible to avoid him. She said: ‘Oh, hullo,’ and looked quickly away in case he should think that she might want to talk to him. Which she did very much indeed, but there was no fear of that, for by the time the rest of the Parsons family had got out of the car, he had disappeared, and for a little while at least she forgot about him while she said her goodbyes and went on board. It was the night boat, and although the boat was by no means full her father had insisted that she should have a cabin to herself. She felt grateful for this as she settled herself for a short night’s sleep.
She would have breakfast on the train and get to London in time to go to dinner in the hospital if she wanted to. She hated going back; she always did, but she would be coming again in a couple of months. It was silly at her age to feel even faintly homesick. She switched her thoughts to St Judd’s and kept them there despite an alarming tendency to allow the man she had met and would doubtless never meet again to creep into her head. Besides, she reminded herself firmly, he was married, and she was old-fashioned enough to believe that was sufficient reason to forget him. The highminded thought was tinged with sadness as she closed her eyes and went to sleep.
It was almost light when they docked at Weymouth. Victoria got into the waiting train and went along to breakfast and schooled her thoughts so well that by the time her taxi drew up outside the hospital, she had almost succeeded in forgetting him—but not quite.
CHAPTER TWO
THE brisk, instant routine of St Judd’s was something Victoria almost welcomed, so that she could tell herself as frequently as possible that it was her life, the one she had chosen even though her parents had wanted her to stay at home, busying herself with voluntary work of some sort; indulging her talent for sketching while she waited for, and in due course married, some suitable man. She alone of their four daughters had rebelled against this pleasant tameness even while she suffered acute homesickness each time she returned to work. That she was more fortunate than many of her friends in hospital she freely admitted, for she didn’t need to depend upon her salary; her father was generous so that she could make the long journey to Guernsey whenever she could manage her holiday. All the same she prized her independence, although she knew in her heart that while nursing satisfied her need to do something with her life, she would leave it at a moment’s notice if she met a man she could love.
