by Betty Neels
It was surprising what a long dreamless sleep did for one. Celine peered out of her window upon a glorious morning, put on a thin sleeveless dress, did her face and hair with extra care and ate the splendid breakfast Mrs Thatch had provided. The surroundings might be pretty grim, but the clinic building and its appointments were beyond complaint, as was the food. I shall get fat, thought Celine as she began on the early morning chores. She was halfway through the day’s work before she remembered it would be Saturday tomorrow—emergencies only in the morning and then free until Monday morning. She wasn’t going home, it was too short a time anyway. She would wait for the weekend Oliver had promised her, and besides, they were doing splendidly with the bed and breakfasts—house full, her mother had declared over the phone, and Aunt Chloe was loving every minute of it. And to her mother’s enquiries as to how she was enjoying her job, Celine had replied that she was loving it. Strangely enough, upon reflection, she found this was almost true, probably because she had no time to think about anything except things like where someone’s notes were, and what Sister Griffiths had done with her scissors and where were the particular forms Oliver was asking for.
She saw very little of him. True, he paused on his way in or out and asked how she was getting on, reminded her about not going out alone at night and mentioned, vaguely, the weekend he had promised, but beyond that she was a faceless pair of hands, fetching and carrying.
The morning clinic on Saturday passed without incident and Sister Griffiths departed for home just after noon, leaving Celine to have her dinner at the little table in her room and then go to the park again. She stayed there for tea and went back on the bus to find her supper waiting for her. ‘And me and Thatch is going out this evening, so if yer want ter watch telly, you’re welcome. Leave them dishes in the sink if you will, miss.’
It was a dull evening, Celine wrote letters, watched a show on TV, without seeing it, and went early to bed with a book. The house was very quiet without the Thatches’ cheerful voices; she was quite glad to hear them come in just before midnight. Tomorrow, she thought, sitting up in bed with the book still unopened, she would go out for the whole day. She had money; her pay packet had been handed to her that morning by Sister Griffiths. She would go to church—St Paul’s, perhaps—and then lunch at a small restaurant and spend the afternoon in Green Park. She could have tea there and then have a meal at another restaurant before taking a bus back.
The Thatches didn’t get up very early on Sundays. Celine was dressed and ready by the time her breakfast arrived. She had taken extra pains with her make-up and put on silk separates, not new but of an expensive simplicity. Mrs Thatch eyed her with open admiration. ‘My, you do look a treat, miss,’ she declared. ‘You’ll ’ave the men running after you, an’ no mistake.’ She added darkly: ‘An’ just you take care!’
There were very few people on the streets. Celine got on her bus, went to St Paul’s and afterwards took a bus to Green Park, to find to her dismay that most of the restaurants in the area were closed. In the end she settled for a meal at a fast food café and presently crossed Piccadilly into Green Park. It was a heavenly day. She found a seat and read the paper she had bought, and presently strolled off to find a tea-room. Several men had stopped to speak to her; she had replied to them all with chilly politeness and gone on her way, not in the least disconcerted. She was aware that she was nice to look at and she supposed that if she were a man she might be tempted to chat up a passable girl.
She had tea and started back towards Piccadilly. There was, she remembered from previous shopping expeditions with her mother, a decent small restaurant somewhere near Old Bond Street. There was the chance that it would be open for dinner, if not she would have to make do with another fast food café. As she walked she began to go through the names of various friends who lived in London. It might be a good idea to give some of them a ring and perhaps meet them on an occasional Sunday. She was, she confessed to herself, most dreadfully lonely.
She had come out of the Park and was about to cross Piccadilly when she looked up and saw Nicky coming towards her.
CHAPTER FIVE
CELINE CLOSED her eyes and then opened them again. Nicky was still there. A moment later she felt his hand on her shoulders, and heard him say: ‘Darling girl—of all the miracles! Is it actually you? I’ve dreamed of you so often I’m afraid I shall wake up…’
She smiled shakily. ‘Yes, it’s me. You’re—you’re the last person I expected to see, Nicky.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘In fact, I came to London to forget about you.’
He laughed. ‘But fate didn’t intend that, did she?’ He took her arm. ‘Where are you going? On second thoughts I don’t want to know. You’re going to have dinner with me and we’ll talk—there’s so much to say.’
‘No, there’s not, Nicky. You’re married…’
He interrupted her quickly. ‘I’ve left her for good—I’ll get a divorce and we’ll get married, and until then we can see each other every day.’ He had crossed Piccadilly, taking her with him. ‘Anyway, we can’t talk here, I know just the place.’
Celine’s head told her she was being more than foolish, her heart egged her on to go with him. After all, there was no harm in listening to what he had to say, and had she not longed to see him?
The restaurant was tucked away in a side street, small, discreet and dimly lighted, and even if Celine hadn’t been romantic it would have made her so, and when she made a protest, a not very strong one, Nicky took her hand and said gently: ‘No, don’t argue, darling. We’ll have a drink and you shall tell me what you’re doing in London, and after that—’ he gave her hand a squeeze, ‘we’ll talk about our future.’
It was hard to resist him. She let him order for both of them, drank the wine poured into her glass and allowed herself to be happy. It was a pity that underneath the happiness, buried deep but still there, was doubt.
Nicky saw the doubt. He talked amusingly about everything under the sun excepting themselves, dismissed her queries about his father with a shrug and a smile and a casual: ‘Well, you know how it is with the elderly—he’s doing quite well.’ He gave her his disarming smile again. ‘But I want to know about you, Celine.’
‘I’m working for Oliver,’ she said, ‘at his surgery in Bethnal Green,’ and saw with a pang of uneasiness that his face had become ugly with some strong emotion. ‘I like it,’ she added. ‘It’s hard work but very interesting.’
‘I might have known! All my life I’ve had to put up with Oliver interfering with me. I suppose he’s been jealous.’ He glanced at Celine and went on carefully: ‘He’s never been much of a success socially—too cocksure, I suppose. The times he’s come between me and my friends—even my wife. Ah well, one should be sorry for him, I suppose, poor devil.’
‘Why is he a poor devil?’ Celine asked; she had never thought of Oliver in that light, certainly not as a man to be pitied. And he had been kind to her. It struck her that she rather liked him after all. She said quite sharply, ‘I don’t think he needs pity, he’s dependable and kind and…’
Nicky’s eyes narrowed. ‘Darling, don’t get ideas about him—you belong to me, you know.’
‘No, I don’t. Nicky, I’d like to go now. Thank you for my dinner, it was very nice. I’ll catch a bus…’
She had expected him to ignore that and get a taxi and perhaps drive back with her, but he said sulkily: ‘Oh, very well—there’s a bus stop across the road, but don’t think you can shake me off like this, darling—you gave me enough encouragement to start with, you know. I shall come looking for you.’
‘No, don’t do that. I’d rather not see you again. It—it’s all quite pointless, and I want to stop now, so let’s say goodbye, Nicky.’
He didn’t answer her but took her arm, crossed the road and got to the bus stop just as one came into sight. It wasn’t the one she wanted, but now she wanted to get away as quickly as possible. He barely waited for her to get on, and when she called goodbye,
she heard, his ‘Au revoir,’ with mixed feelings.
Back in her room, she sat down to think. She should have been happy and elated; she had been longing to see Nicky again and now that she had she wasn’t happy at all. Undoubtedly he had been glad to see her, but his snide remarks about Oliver had worried her, and his lack of interest in his father—that was another thing which bothered her. He was as charming as ever, she admitted that, but when she was away from him the charm didn’t work as well as it should have done. Perhaps that was because she had no time to think about him any more. At home it had been easy enough to sit and dream. She tried to decide what she would do if he came to her and told her that he had got his divorce and wanted to marry her, but she couldn’t. His wife, a shadowy figure in her daydreams, had become flesh and blood a woman with feelings like her own. Celine sighed and went to bed. She would have to be up early and even if she didn’t sleep she would have to rest.
And she didn’t sleep; an hour here and an hour there, not enough to blot out the dark shadows under her eyes and put colour in her cheeks. And she was so muddle-headed in her work that morning that Sister Griffiths was sharp with her and Oliver, waiting patiently for her to bring some notes, gave her a considered look as she came into the office. When she dropped them all over the floor stupidly, he said nothing, only got to his feet and helped her to pick them up, nor did he comment when later that morning she muddled the children so that the wrong patient went to the first aid room. It was only at the end of the clinic, while she began to clear up and Sister Griffiths gave her a piece of her mind, that he came out of his office and asked her to give him a few minutes of her time.
She followed him inside and closed and door behind her. She had made a hash of the morning’s work and she knew it without being told; all the same she apologised, and added: ‘I expect you’re going to give me the sack.’
‘No, I’m not, Celine, but it would help if you would tell me what’s the matter.’ And when she didn’t answer: ‘Celine?’ His voice was quiet, but she had to obey it.
‘I’m a bit upset,’ she mumbled.
‘So it can be seen,’ was his mild rejoinder. ‘But why?’ He opened a file of papers on his desk and leafed through them. ‘Homesick?’
‘No—oh, I miss home, how could I not? I keep thinking of the roses and the strawberries and taking Dusty for a walk…’
‘But it’s none of those things.’ Oliver looked up suddenly. ‘Nicky?’ he asked gently.
She met his eyes honestly. ‘I met him yesterday—quite by accident. I went to Green Park for most of the day and as I came out of the gates—to cross Piccadilly, you know, and look for somewhere to have my supper—he was coming along the pavement.’
She paused, expecting him to say something, but when he didn’t she went on slowly, ‘He told me he was getting a divorce, and he—he asked me to marry him when he was free.’
‘And will you?’ Oliver’s voice was as placid as ever, inviting a reply.
Celine stared down at her hands, neatly folded on her lap. ‘It’s a funny thing,’ she said slowly, ‘when I was with him, it all seemed so easy and exciting, but I can’t stop wondering about his wife, and I know it’s silly, but I feel a bit scared of seeing him again. I said I didn’t want to, but he said he’d come looking for me, and I don’t think I want him to.’
Oliver’s handsome head was bent over his desk and she couldn’t see his face. ‘There are several things we can do about that.’ His voice was soothing and very reassuring. ‘You can safely leave me to deal with circumstances as they arise.’
‘But you may not be there.’
‘Oh, but I will, Celine, just until you know your own mind.’ He looked at her, smiling a little. ‘And now you’ve got that off your chest, do you suppose you could cope a little better with the work?’
She stood up. ‘Yes. I’m very sorry, I’ll try, I really will. I feel better now I’ve told you, and I’m sorry I’m beastly to you sometimes.’
He remained serious, although his eyes gleamed.
‘Try and think of me as a friend and not an interfering, middle-aged bachelor who thinks he knows everything.’ He smiled then and Celine, very pink in the cheeks, managed a smile back. She looked so beautiful that the doctor went on staring at her, although he wasn’t smiling any more. She wondered why. She said quickly: ‘You’re not middle-aged…’
He had pulled a folder towards him and was opening it. ‘Perhaps not quite. Will you ask Maggie when you’re to have your day off this week and let me know?’
Polite dismissal. She went out of the room and found Sister Griffiths. She was to have Wednesday; only one doctor would be coming in on that day and there weren’t too many patients. Celine went back to the office and opened the door. Oliver was sitting just as she had left him, staring at the opposite wall, deep in thought. She said quietly: ‘Sister Griffiths says Wednesday,’ and when he nodded rather absently, she went out again.
Sister Griffiths might be sharp-tongued, but she didn’t hold grudges. The pair of them enjoyed their snack lunch after Oliver had gone and then got ready for the afternoon’s session. David Slater arrived a little early and since the waiting-room was fuller than usual, it was well past their usual closing hour by the time the last child had been seen and sent home. There wasn’t an evening clinic on Mondays and Celine discovered that she was expected to give the whole place a turn-out with Mrs Thatch doing the rough work. Surprisingly she enjoyed it, and though she hadn’t expected to, she fell into bed after the lavish supper Mrs Thatch had provided, and slept till morning.
The next day went well. She was getting the hang of it now, and what was more important, the patients and their mothers had accepted her. She was learning names rapidly and was no longer bewildered when Sister Griffiths told her to boil up the Spencer Wells or Oliver wanted old notes or asked her to telephone this or that hospital. And it was her day off on Wednesday; a weekday would be far more satisfactory than on Sunday; she would go to Regent Street and browse down the Burlington Arcade—she hadn’t been there since she was a schoolgirl. If at the back of her mind she wondered if she would meet Nicky, she didn’t allow herself to dwell on it, only she felt a vague disquiet at the idea. She supposed she would love him for ever, but meeting him wasn’t the answer, and in time she supposed she wouldn’t feel so bereft. Hard work certainly helped, and time—hadn’t someone said that time heals all wounds?
David Slater took the afternoon clinic, full to overflowing, so that he stayed and had tea with them before starting on the much smaller evening session. He had finished and gone and Sister Griffiths was actually going through the door when Oliver came in.
‘Still hard at work?’ he wanted to know cheerfully. ‘Not going out?’ And when she shook her head, ‘I thought we might spend the day together tomorrow—I’ve a day off too.’
Celine stood, bleach in one hand, cleaning cloth in the other, ‘Us? A day out?’
‘Why not? I’ll be here at nine o’clock.’ He turned to go and she said urgently,
‘Yes, but where, and for how long?’
‘Oh, here and there, you know—I’ve got tickets for the theatre in the evening, and we might have supper afterwards.’
‘Oh, might we?’ She knew she sounded idiotic, but it was so unexpected.
‘Why not?’ He was gone. Celine stood looking at the closed door, listening to the sound of his car as he drove away. ‘But I haven’t said I’d go,’ she declared peevishly to the empty room, and then: ‘What shall I wear?’
Before she went to bed that night she went through her small wardrobe. She hadn’t brought much with her, but what there was was definitely wearable. She decided on a dim apricot silk, the dress with a finely pleated skirt and a plain bodice with a white quaker collar, and its matching jacket. A bit much for nine o’clock in the morning, but if they were going to the theatre and to supper afterwards, it would pass muster. And because she hadn’t had the opportunity of dressing up for some time, she was up early, maki
ng a careful toilet. It was another gorgeous morning; she put on her Charles Jourdan sandals and found their matching handbag. If it rained she would be sunk, but nothing on earth would induce her to take her raincoat. She took a final look in the mirror, sprayed perfume with a lavish hand and went downstairs.
Oliver was in his office, and she had time to admire the elegance of his appearance as he glanced up, saw her, and got out of his chair.
His “Morning’, was casually friendly, as was his: ‘You look nice. Shall we go?’
‘Good morning, Oliver,’ said Celine sedately. ‘Where to?’
He smiled. ‘A mystery tour? It’s such a lovely day, would you rather drive out into the country this morning?’
‘I’d like that very much, that’s if you want to?’
‘I think it would be an excellent idea—Bethnal Green can be a little stifling.’
He drove out of London into Hertfordshire, not hurrying and taking the by roads. At Much Hadham he stopped and they had coffee and buns in a small Elizabethan cottage, whose front room held a handful of tables and chairs and had a view of the charming main street. And by then Celine was enjoying herself, for Oliver was a good companion, saying very little about himself but rambling on in his placid way about this and that and never mentioning Nicky or her home and family—which for some strange reason made her eager to talk about just those things.
But he gave her no chance. Each time she turned the conversation to more personal matters, he deliberately spiked her guns. He did it nicely, but very soon she gave up; it was like banging one’s head against a feather bed. They drove on presently, across Essex and into Suffolk, still by quiet country roads, to stop in Lavenham, looking, with its Tudor houses and market cross, very much as it must have done in the sixteenth century.
‘Lunch?’ asked Oliver, and when Celine nodded, he stopped outside the Swan Hotel, a lovely old building with beamed ceilings and a history which went back hundreds of years. Celine, healthily hungry by now, ate her way through the house pâté, wild duck stuffed with apples, vegetables to rival her home’s kitchen garden and a luscious ice-cream which she attacked with all the enthusiasm of a small girl.