Nurse Angela

by Hilary Preston

  “How’s your bluebeard, or rather, redbeard?” teased Nancy Roberts, one of the younger sisters. “Does he sleep with it under the sheet or over?”

  Angela laughed good humoredly. “You’re jealous, just jealous.”

  Sister Grace Hughes sniffed. She was a sour-faced woman who resented Angela’s senior position, though she did not want night duty herself. “Hm. Something to be jealous of, I must say. I don’t know how you can bear to go out with a man like that. Beards are most unhygienic to say the least.”

  At this, the rest of them roared with laughter.

  “Does it tickle when he kisses you, Lindsay?” Nancy asked, laughter in her eyes.

  “I wouldn’t know, Nancy,” replied Angela.

  “Oh, I say—a platonic friendship!”

  “Beards are sheer affectation,” sniffed Sister Hughes. “Young men going around with beards these days!”

  “Roger grows his for convenience, Sister—rather like sailors do. And though Roger is an artist, he’s by no means affected.”

  “Affected or not,” Nancy said. “I think it’s terribly intriguing.”

  Angela put her cup down. “Well, I must go. Thanks for the tea, folks. Don’t forget to put the light out, will you? Good night.” There echoed a chorus of good nights as she went out of the room and along to the kitchen where the night cook was preparing the nurses’ supper.

  Saturday came and after a few hours sleep in the morning Angela dressed to go out. It had been arranged that she and Milly should have lunch with Roger and Peter at the flat. The two men prided themselves on their cooking prowess and made quite an art of it—not just the throwing of a heap of sausages into a frying pan, but the cooking of a proper four-course meal that would do credit to the most skilled chef.

  Roger answered the door. He was wearing a large businesslike apron in butcher blue. “Enter, fair lady,” he cried with a bow. “Milly’s already here. She’s in the living room setting the table.”

  Angela sniffed. “What a delicious smell. I can hardly wait.”

  He glanced at the colorful anemones in her hand. “Why the flowers?”

  She laughed. “They’re for the table.”

  They went into the large, pleasant living room, which reflected the masculine, but artistic taste of its occupants. The mushroom-colored walls were decorated here and there with colorful Chinese tapestries; a lovely Indian carpet covered the entire floor and the man-sized armchairs were strewn with brightly colored cushions. There was no sign of a drawing board or a typewriter. The two men had long ago agreed to have at least one room uncluttered with the paraphernalia of their respective arts. Roger had the use of an attic with a north light for his studio, while Peter used a small room that had once been a dressing room. Sometimes, during the winter evenings Roger would bring a sketchbook by the fire, and Peter, a manuscript to revise or correct, but the main part of their work was kept strictly to their individual rooms.

  Roger disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the two women together.

  “They are an unusual pair, aren’t they?” laughed Milly. “So different from other men. They love showing off their cooking, especially Roger.”

  Angela agreed. “Roger’s an artist about everything.”

  Milly glanced at her thoughtfully. “Some women would hate to be married to a man like that. You know, the self-sufficient type. For myself I’d welcome the chance to sit back and let my husband cook dinner for a change.”

  “As long as he wasn’t critical of your efforts,” Angela said placing the bowl of flowers in the center of the polished table.

  “Yes, that’s a point. The flowers look very nice, Angela. Come on, let’s sit down by the window and have a chat. It’s no use our offering to help in the kitchen. It would be more than we dare.”

  They settled themselves on an elegant sofa covered with old, rich tapestry. The magnificent chestnut trees in the park beyond were laden with pink and white blossoms and swayed gently in the breeze.

  For a while Milly and Angela sat in companionable silence; then they looked at each other and smiled.

  “It was nice of them to ask us around before the mob gets here, wasn’t it?” said Milly.

  “Yes, it’s so peaceful at the moment. What time are the others arriving?”

  “Any time after six, so we’ve plenty of time. Debbie was furious that she wasn’t asked to dinner.”

  Angela frowned. “How can she make her jealousy so obvious?”

  “Not everyone has your pride and refinement. Don’t tell me if you don’t want to, Angela, but how are things actually between you and Roger? Are you in love?”

  Angela felt her cheeks go a faint pink. “I ... I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. Love is a thing that comes gradually—at least, I think it does.”

  “You don’t believe in love at first sight?”

  “No. I think what one does feel very often is a liking, a certain attraction for a person on the first meeting, but not love—real love. I think that comes only when you really get to know each other. Anything else is sheer emotionalism.”

  “Don’t you think, perhaps, that love takes people different ways according to their temperament? You have that placid nature that makes a good nurse. Love will probably come upon you unaware. Others, like Debbie, have more volatile natures and can fall quite violently in love on sight—and it can still be the real thing.”

  Before Angela could think that over a call came from the kitchen to take their places at the table. A minute later Peter entered the room carrying soup dishes. Roger followed with a huge bowl of, delicious-smelling soup, which he served solemnly to each person as if he were a professional waiter—much to their amusement.

  “This looks and smells wonderful,” Milly exclaimed. “Who made it? I’m sure it didn’t come out of a tin.”

  “Most certainly it didn’t,” Roger exclaimed. “I made it myself. I made the soup and dessert, and Peter cooked the main course.”

  “Anyone would think you two were confirmed bachelors,” laughed Milly. “What made you so interested in cooking?”

  “Sheer necessity in the first place,” Roger answered. “We have to eat, we hate scrappy meals and continually eating out is too expensive. Also, we like having you ladies in occasionally, and we don’t like having a cook around. After all, some of the best cooks in the world are men, isn’t that so, Pete?”

  Peter grinned. “Sure, and some of the best men are cooks.”

  “Well, there’s one thing,” laughed Milly. “You’ll both make excellent husbands.”

  Peter looked at her mischievously. “Which one of us would you like, Milly?”

  She laughed. “I’ll think it over.”

  Roger looked at Angela. “Would you think it a desirable trait in a husband or would you be possessive of your kitchen?”

  “May I have notice of that question, please?” she said, blushing faintly.

  Peter rose. “Excuse me, folks. The next course is all mine.” He disappeared into the kitchen while Roger gathered up the empty soup dishes.

  It was when they were having their coffee that Peter suddenly remarked, “By the way, Angela, that doctor of yours at the hospital—what’s his name—LeFeure. I was browsing through some old newspapers the other day and came across something about a man of that name.”

  Angela felt a sudden, swift reaction. “Oh? What was it?” she asked jerkily.

  “It was about a Frenchman by the name of Michael LeFeure. Apparently he was a collaborator with the Nazis in the last war—” Angela’s heart seemed to stop beating, though she could not have said why. She stared at Peter unbelievingly.

  “A collaborator? It ... it couldn’t be the same, I’m sure of it.”

  Peter shrugged. “Could be. Might not be. How do I know? It wouldn’t be your doctor of course, but it could have been his father.”

  “I don’t believe it was his father either,” Angela declared vehemently.

  Roger looked at her in surprise. “What
are you so het up about, darling? Does it matter? I mean, even if the father was a collaborator, you can’t hold it against the son.”

  “I wouldn’t for a minute. I didn’t mean that at all,” she said indignantly.

  Peter put in, “Forget it. If I’d known anyone was going to get upset, I wouldn’t have mentioned it. Don’t suppose it’s the same family anyway.”

  But Angela could not forget it. She was more disturbed by Peter’s information than the others realized. She had a horrible sort of conviction that the article did refer to Simon’s father and that it must be true. She recalled bitterness around Simon’s mouth, his question as to whether or not she would marry a man whose father had done something to be ashamed of. But somehow there was something wrong with the picture of Simon being the son of a weakling, a traitor to his country. With her whole heart she did not want to believe it and yet...

  She was vaguely conscious that Peter and Milly had gone into the kitchen to do the dishes and that Roger was talking to her. “What are you doing tomorrow, Angela?”

  “Going home to see my mother.”

  “I’ll run you over. I’m not busy. I have next week’s drawings mapped out for the Echo and the illustrations for Thompson’s new book are finished.”

  With an effort she brought herself back to Roger’s interests. “Not short of work are you, Roger?”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry on my account, darling. I won’t starve. All the same, although the Echo drawings keep the wolf away the free-lance business isn’t much security. You wouldn’t like insecurity, would you?”

  She colored faintly. The implication in his question was obvious. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want notice of that question too?” he teased, putting an arm around her shoulders.

  Whether her earlier conversation with Milly about love and her relationship with Roger, or Roger’s own question about domesticity being a desirable trait in a husband were contributory causes, Angela could not tell, but she was conscious of a new and disturbing awareness of Roger. Perhaps it was just as well that, at this juncture, Peter and Milly returned.

  “We have a couple of hours grace before we need to start getting ready for the arrival of the mob,” Peter said. “How about a run out onto the moors?”

  It was agreed and they set off in Roger’s convertible. It was a fine afternoon and Angela enjoyed the run. They parked the car and took a short climb up one of the steep inclines where the turf was soft and springy and here and there trickled a small stream. They reached the top breathless, and paused to gaze at the countryside stretched out before them. None of the party spoke much, each drawing their own inspiration and enjoyment from the beauty of the hills and valleys, the sheep grazing peacefully on the hillside, the soft, spring air and gentle breeze.

  Again, to the surface of Angela’s mind came the article that Peter had spoken of. Why did Simon think that anything like that could possibly make the slightest difference to a woman if she loved him? The probable answer was that the woman he wanted to marry was a Frenchwoman. A thing like that—the fact that a man’s father had been a collaborator—could be important to the French. To an Englishwoman it would not matter as much. An unaccountable depression settled upon her.

  “Come on, folks,” Roger said presently. “Time to get back and prepare for the party.”

  The first to arrive that evening was Debbie, dressed in a tight black frock, which did not, in the least, suit her sallow complexion.

  “Hello, everybody, Hello, Roger,” she drawled touching Roger’s cheek. “Sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”

  “Hello, Debbie,” he answered; “Temporary cloakroom in Peter’s study.”

  She disappeared and the others cast amused glances at each other.

  “Look out, Roger,” said Milly. “She’s after you.”

  “She doesn’t stand an earthly chance, does she, Roger?” said Peter.

  Roger laughed. “Not while Angela’s around or anytime.”

  Very soon the flat was full of a merry, laughing crowd consisting of writers, artists and their models. Roger and Angela served the drinks. Presently, Roger called for a toast and everyone drank to Peter’s continued success and congratulated him on the acceptance of his book.

  It was after 11 o’clock when Roger said to Angela, “You look tired, darling. I don’t suppose you’ve had much sleep since being on duty last night. Would you like me to run you back to the hospital? This crowd will be here for goodness knows how long yet.”

  “Oh, Roger, would you?” she said gratefully. “I am rather tired.” Quite apart from lack of sleep, the day had been a strain one way and another.

  Debbie watched them go, her dark eyes narrow with jealousy. How a gorgeous man like Roger could even look at an anemic creature like that...

  In thoughtful silence, Roger drove through the almost deserted streets. Angela glanced at his profile. This was a new Roger. He was usually so cheerful, so casual. Not that he was depressed or miserable now, but she had rarely, if ever, seen him so silent and pensive. She wondered if he did have financial worries in spite of what he had said earlier. Yet somehow he didn’t seem really distressed about that.

  He drove into the hospital grounds and drew up outside the residence. Rather to her surprise, he switched off the engine and turning, put his arm around her and kissed her very gently.

  Her hand touched his temples and his blue eyes looked questioningly into hers.

  “Good night, Roger,” she said softly.

  He kissed her again. “Darling, you’re nice. I like you very much indeed.”

  “Do you now?” she mocked lightly.

  His eyes roved over her face. “What time shall I call for you tomorrow?” he murmured, his lips close to her ear.

  “About 11?”

  “So late? That’s almost half the day gone. Still, I suppose you have to catch up on some sleep. We’ll have a coffee at my place before we set off for home.”

  “Yes, we’ll do that. Good night, Roger.”

  He let her go reluctantly and she slid out of the car.

  She turned and waved as he started up the engine, then let herself in the residence. Dear Roger, he was rather a dear. Was their friendship deepening into something more? It would be easy to fall in love with Roger; she was more than fond of him already. It was the first time he had kissed her and as her head touched the pillow she gave a sudden, broad smile as she recalled something Nancy Roberts had asked. No, Roger’s beard didn’t tickle when he kissed her. It was soft and somehow, well, sort of nice. She fell sound asleep.

  At nine o’clock the next morning a maid brought her breakfast. After a leisurely meal and a bath she dressed in a soft, red, jersey dress, which she set off with a bright scarf. Hearing Roger’s car, she slipped on a warm camel coat and ran downstairs.

  The sight of Simon walking across to the hospital brought back forcibly the disturbing article that Peter had told her of. Angela’s heart contracted with sympathy for Simon. Why had he not given her a chance to finish what she had been going to say the other evening when he had invited her out? She saw him pause and turn to look in her direction as she got in the car beside Roger. Then he went abruptly indoors.

  Roger saw him too. “He’s a cool customer, Dr. LeFeure,” he said. “He passed me almost close enough to speak, but went by with barely a nod.”

  “He is rather inclined to be moody,” Angela said. “But of course if that article Peter saw is about his father, it’s not to be wondered at.”

  “No, that’s true.”

  They were silent for a minute; then Angela said, in order to change the subject, “What time did the party break up last night?”

  “About two. Debbie lingered on for ages after that. In the end, Milly had to almost drag her away.”

  They stopped at the apartment where Peter had coffee already on the stove. From his room came the tap-tap of his typewriter, and a delicious aroma of coffee drifted from the kitchen. Roger poured out three cups.


  “Come and get it, Peter.”

  Peter emerged wearing a sweater and an old pair of slacks. “Hello, Peter,” Angela said. “Working on a Sunday?”

  He grinned. “Writers are like nurses. Sundays, Mondays—they’re all alike to us. Besides, you know what they say, we have to work when we’ve got the inspiration.”

  “Is it true what people say about a writer’s inspiration?”

  “Well, in a vague kind of way, I suppose, but a lot of it is nonsense. Sometimes you’re stuck for ideas and have to drag out every word; other times they just seem to come arid you can’t get them on paper fast enough. That’s about the way of it.”

  “Peter, you make it sound so ordinary. I’m sure there’s a little more to it than that.”

  Peter grinned. “Yes, I forgot to mention hard work and determination. But spare me inspiration and temperament.”

  “You’re too modest by far, isn’t he, Roger?”

  Roger laughed. “Oh yes. It’s the same with us artists. Modest, self-effacing geniuses.”

  It was not a long journey to Wendover, no more than 30 or 40 miles, but the road ran up wooded hills and down pleasant valleys passing through sleepy, old-world villages with thatched roofs and tiny village schools. Church bells rang out on the clear morning air as folks made their leisurely way to church. The woods wore their spring carpet of bluebells, the scent wafting pleasantly to their nostrils as they drove along.

  Angela glanced at Roger’s profile. “You’re very quiet.”

  “I was thinking. Angela,” he said abruptly, “would you marry me?”

  She gasped, then laughed a little. “Roger, you’re joking.”

  He smiled wryly. “Does the idea strike you as being so funny?”

  “No, not altogether. But you didn’t ask it seriously, did you? I mean—”

  “Well, forget it, for the time being. Or consider the matter some time in the small hours of the morning when you have nothing better to think about.”

  “Roger,” she protested, laughing. “Anyone would think you were asking me to go on a trip to Morocco or something.” She was struck with a sudden recollection. “That reminds me, I’m thinking of going to Paris for two weeks in August.”