Nurse Angela

by Hilary Preston

  This conversation rather worried Angela. She had not given a great deal of thought to how it would look to an outsider, she and Simon traveling to Paris together. Dr. Wilson had certainly put the situation startlingly clear. She had kept quiet about it, more by instinct than by deliberate intention. An instinct born, unfortunately, by previous experience, even if only of the vague, general kind. What a pity you couldn’t be really honest with people, she thought. Yet, if you couldn’t, was the thing you were doing really right? This thought nagged her for quite some time. It would be dreadful if a wrong construction were put on such a simple matter like two people travelling to the same place together.

  By morning, however, she had succeeded in shaking free of her fears and went off duty with a lift of excitement. Her other luggage had been taken home previously, by easy stages. So now all she had to do was pack a small case and catch a bus for home. To be fresh for the journey to the airport, she’d planned to spend her first night there. As soon as she got home, however, her mother packed her off to bed until lunchtime; then Angela spent the afternoon and evening in last-minute pressing and packing. Simon had arranged to call for her at eight o’clock the next morning, which was Saturday, and Helen Lindsay was looking forward very much to meeting him. She had been delighted when Angela told her she was to travel down with him and had already decided that she was going to like him. Angela felt sure she would not be disappointed.

  He called promptly at eight o’clock, and Angela was ready waiting for him. He shook hands with Helen and accepted the cup of coffee she offered. Angela went to pick up her coat.

  “It’s very good of you to trust your daughter in my hands, Mrs. Lindsay,” he said.

  Helen smiled. “I have every faith in my daughter’s judgment, Dr. LeFeure. She would not have accepted your invitation had she not liked and trusted you.”

  “You have a very wonderful daughter, Mrs. Lindsay,” Simon said solemnly.

  “I know,” she answered simply.

  They drove off in the cool, early-morning sunshine.

  “Have you been abroad much? Sister?” Simon asked.

  “Not at all, I’m afraid,” Angela said ruefully. “It doesn’t look as though I’ve shown a great deal of initiative, does it?”

  He smiled. “I expect you’ve had your mind on other things. When you take an interest in your job you don’t give a lot of thought to your holiday until it’s almost on top of you. You very nearly missed this trip, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I would have ‘missed the boat’ altogether if it hadn’t been for you, Doctor.”

  He half turned his head. “Don’t you think we could drop the ‘doctor’ and ‘sister’ business, at least while we’re on holiday?”

  She smiled. “Why yes, I’ll be glad to. My name is Angela.”

  He gave her a smiling glance. “Yes, I know. Mine is Simon.” There was a moment’s pause. Then he said, “I’m really delighted that you consented to drive down with me, Angela. I’ve wanted to get to know you better for some time, but one way and another ... Anyway, this will be a very good opportunity. I do hope you enjoy your first trip to Paris, but then you’re bound to. Paris is every bit as wonderful as the romantics say it is. Perhaps you’ll allow me to show you something of it myself.”

  “I’d love it. You know Paris well, of course. Have you been there recently?”

  His eyes clouded. “It’s a year or so since I was there, though my mother still lives there in spite of the fact that she is English. I have tried many times to persuade her to come back to England to live and let us forget ... Paris, but she prefers to stay where she is.”

  “And your father?”

  The query was out before she could stop it. With her heart beginning to pound she waited for his reply.

  “He died during the war,” he said harshly.

  Angela wished fervently that she had not spoken. If it were true that his father collaborated with the Nazis during the war, the subject would naturally be painful to him. She glanced at his set face and her heart contracted with pity.

  Then he half jerked his head around as if he had made a decision. “I’m going to Paris on this occasion largely to clear up one or two things about my father, as a matter of fact.” Angela’s heart gave a tiny leap. He went on; “He was a French-born doctor and a priest. During the war he was thought to be a collaborator, or to use a coarser words, a traitor. After the liberation he protested his innocence, but died before he could prove it. My own belief is that he was a leader of the Resistance movement. Before he died he whispered a man’s name to me. I searched for the man as long as it was comfortable for me to remain in the country, but without success. The more I think about it, the more certain I become that my father was a patriot. However, after a time it no longer seemed to matter, though these things somehow leave a bitter taste behind.”

  “And now?” she asked.

  “Now, it has suddenly become important to me both to know and to prove my father’s innocence.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why but some instinct prevented her. Besides, on such short acquaintance the question would be impertinent.

  “Did you train as a doctor in France?” she asked.

  “Yes, but feeling was such, for some time after the war that to practise became impossible. I came to England, my mother’s country, and began all over again.” He added after a slight pause. “There must be hundreds of men like my father who made a pretense of collaborating with the enemy while working secretly for the Resistance. It was often the only way.”

  “Yes,” Angela agreed. “But, Simon, the war is almost history now, especially to our generation. No one, today, would hold anything against you, least of all in this country. Are you ... thinking of going back to France to practise medicine?”

  “No,” he answered quietly. “I want to take up the search for the truth largely for my own satisfaction.” Then came the answer that she had been dreading. “I have begun lately to think about marriage and I would not want to ask any woman to marry me unless my conscience was absolutely clear. I once asked your opinion on the matter, if you remember. As you said then, suppose she should find out about my father from someone else one day? I want to be able to answer truthfully, from facts, that he was loyal to his countrymen. No woman would like to feel that her husband’s father had been a traitor or that there was even any doubt about him. Who knows how the son might behave in similar circumstances?”

  For a moment Angela felt bewildered and depressed without knowing why.

  “But, Simon, if she really loved you and you had told her about it, surely it would not matter whether it were proved or not? The main thing would be that you had told her.”

  “Perhaps not, at first, but afterward, as the years went by it would be like a skeleton in the cupboard. No, Angela, I wouldn’t like to take the chance.”

  They fell silent for a time while the car ate up the miles. Finally Angela said quietly: “Simon, suppose you discovered that what they said about your father is true? Surely you wouldn’t remain a bachelor for the rest of your life?”

  For a long time he did not answer; then he said tensely, “All I know is, I must find out. I must.”

  Simon was a good driver, if a rather fast one, and the miles sped by pleasantly as they drove through England’s beautiful countryside, busy market towns and tiny picturesque villages. At Tewkesbury they stopped for lunch at the old mill of “John Halifax—Gentleman” fame where the old millstones for grinding corn were still preserved. For a while Angela was taken back to those days, years ago, when Mrs. Craik’s characters, John Halifax and his wife lived out their happy married life.

  They took a short stroll through the quaint, old town with its narrow streets, cobbled courtyards and tiny boatyards before setting off again on their journey. They had agreed to try to get within a few miles of the airport that night, so after a hard day’s driving they arrived at New Inn Green late that night. Simon had not mentioned the subject of his fath
er again, and Angela thought of their conversation only in snatches between talk of the various places they were passing through, the prospect of a good airplane trip and other generalities.

  They were tired and stiff when they arrived at the hotel, and as they had to be up early the next morning they went to bed almost immediately after supper.

  It was when she lay down to sleep that Angela asked herself the question that had been hovering at the back of her mind throughout their journey, one to which she had no answer. Who was this woman whom Simon wished to marry? Did he have a certain woman in mind or was he merely thinking of marriage in a general kind of way? The way he spoke somehow gave the impression that there was someone definite, and her mind asked the question over again. Who was she?

  “I hope you’re not too tired after your long drive,” Simon said at breakfast the next morning. “We can reach Paris tonight if you’re sure it won’t be too much for you.”

  “Oh, goodness, no,” she laughed, her eyes sparkling. “I’d love to get to Paris tonight. I can hardly wait after all you’ve told me about it.”

  Her eyes shone with eagerness and she looked fresh and radiant.

  “You’re wonderful, Angela,” Simon said impulsively.

  Angela blushed faintly and thought suddenly and inexplicably of Roger who loved her.

  And watching her expression Simon cursed himself for a fool. Wasn’t she practically engaged to that artist fellow?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They said little as they drove to the airport where they waited in the lounge to be called. At last they were settled in their seats on the plane.

  Angela had never flown before, and though the flight was only a short one, she found it a thrill to be airborne. The earth below looked as flat as stage scenery, and the farm country with its fenced fields took on handkerchief dimensions. Then as England was left behind, sky and sea merged.

  Simon smiled as he watched her eager face. “All right?” She nodded, her eyes shining with the thrill of a new experience. “You needed this break, you know,” he said. “You look almost a different person already.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. We nurses are apt to get into a rut.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that. You could never get into a rut. It’s simply that you’re the kind of person who puts everything you have into your job. You become so absorbed that you’re inclined to forget there is a world outside.”

  She laughed. “Well, I don’t really think I’m one of those bores who never stir outside the hospital, but I think I know what you mean. I do need to get around more. I certainly don’t seem to get much farther than Lockerfield, and I had almost forgotten that there was this sort of thing waiting to be experienced. I think I was in danger of becoming stale.”

  “I can’t agree with that, but we all need a change and the stimulus it gives.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, I’m enjoying myself enormously.”

  “Well, that’s the main thing. May I take you out to dinner on your first night in Paris?”

  “Oh, Simon, thank you. I’d love it.”

  She looked down again through the small, square windows of the plane. “Oh, look, Simon, we’re over France now. How different the country looks.” She puzzled for a moment. “Why, of course, there are no hedges, just large squares of differently colored land—much bigger than our ‘patchwork.’”

  Five minutes later they touched down in the airport at Calais and Angela had her first experience of French people and customs. The thing that seemed strangest of all was the large revolver carried by the French policeman who stood by talking to the customs officer. She found the sight quite alarming.

  The formalities were soon over and Simon drove his rented car out of the airport and along the rackety, cobbled streets of Calais. The gaily painted shutters of the houses enchanted her and Simon smiled when every now and then she gave an exclamation of delight. She noticed the many small wayside shrines and wondered at the devoutness of the people. Then, to the delight and amusement of both of them they were forced to fall in behind a town band consisting of a small group of Frenchmen blowing frantically on an assortment of shrill whistles and beating solemnly on small drums, producing a sound that was reminiscent of Hulme Beaman’s toytown band.

  After the soft contours of the English countryside Angela found most of northern France very stark and barren indeed and the roads mainly straight and uninteresting. Towns and villages were an odd mixture of modern buildings rubbing shoulders with the old.

  After a while Simon grew silent, whether to concentrate on his driving, which he did at a fair speed along the straight, monotonous roads or whether it was to think, Angela could not guess. Whatever his thoughts, she did not interrupt them.

  They stopped for lunch at a small cafe smelling of new wood, and here Angela had her first taste of French cooking. Tiny as the cafe was the female owner served a soup that would have put many an opulent hotel in England to shame and a mushroom omelette that was a perfect dream.

  As the day wore on, the barren country gave way to the more fertile countryside of the Oise and Seine and shortly after that they entered the suburbs of Paris.

  Angela found her excitement mounting. Even so, she was totally unprepared for her first glimpse of that wonderful city. The suburbs of Paris seemed so utterly unlike many of those in England, with their industries and tall, gloomy houses. They were traveling along a road bordered by trees and small shops and cafes with gay seats and striped umbrellas set out on the pavements. Suddenly, Angela saw a great stone arch looming ahead, impressive and magnificent.

  “Simon,” she cried excitedly. “Surely that isn’t—”

  Simon gave a slow smile. “Yes, Angela, that’s it. The Arc de Triomphe!” he said with unmistakable pride.

  Angela gazed in front of her feeling almost as though they were making the triumphant entry of a conqueror. The road seemed to lead straight through the great arch.

  “Simon, it looks ... surely we don’t drive through it!”

  He laughed. “That would be a novel idea. I’ll try it sometime. No, the road goes around it. You’ll see as we get nearer.”

  She felt almost relieved. “Of course,” she laughed. “How silly of me. This is wonderful. I had no idea we were so near the city. It comes on you quite suddenly, almost with a shock, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. The entrance to Paris from this side is quite dramatic, especially to anyone coming for the first time.”

  “Impressive too. But I should think it would always have that effect on anyone who loved it—the city, I mean.”

  “Yes,” Simon said quietly. “It does.”

  He steered the car around the arch and continued on the straight, wide road where the trees became more abundant. “What a lovely road, Simon.”

  “This is the Avenue des Champs Elysées.”

  “Of course. But, Simon, how lovely! One hears vaguely of these things without thinking of their location, or what they really look like.”

  “It’s just as well. If you know too much about a place before you visit it, there’s no thrill or surprise left.”

  Angela thought she would always be thrilled and surprised by Paris. She was enchanted by everything; the wide sweep of the Place de la Concorde; the magnificence of its bridges; the gendarmerie, nonchalantly directing traffic that at one moment seemed to be in the most hopeless jam and was sorted out the next; and the occasional glimpses of the magnificent Eiffel Tower. They drove along the banks of the Seine, past the Louvre to sight the great cathedral of Notre Dame, then up Rue St. Jacques where, almost at the top, was the student hotel.

  “Well, here you are, Angela,” Simon announced. “I’ll come in with you and make sure there is a vacancy.”

  There was, and after arranging to call for her at seven, he left her in the care of the hotel receptionist, an unsophisticated young woman of about her own age.

  It was a simple room. A clean, comfortable-looking bed, a table and a plain wooden chair,
a wash basin and a wardrobe with a full-length mirror. Angela pictured some hard-working student, perhaps even Simon, himself, poring over his books, and did not wish for anything more resplendent. The windows opened outward as all French windows do, onto a small verandah overlooking the street. She was content with that.

  Tingling with excitement, she dressed carefully, choosing a simple black dress with a low, scooped neckline and the rhinestone necklace given to her by her mother. A black purse and dress sandals completed her outfit.

  “Am I suitably attired for an evening in Paris, Simon?” she asked, when he called for her promptly at seven.

  “You look absolutely charming for an evening in Paris or anywhere in the world,” he said softly.

  She smiled, a faint color brushing her cheek.

  It was a warm night and Simon chose a small restaurant on the Boulevard St. Michel where the tables were out-of-doors, their individual privacy made possible by beautifully cut hedges bearing a, fragrant leafy smell.

  Angela gave a long-drawn-out sigh of contentment.

  “Simon, this is wonderful. To be having an evening meal right out under the stars like this. Why can’t we do things this way in England?”

  He smiled. What an amazing capacity she had for enjoying everything. “In England,” he said, “down would come the rain before you had time to lift your knife and fork.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  The food was delicious and beautifully cooked and served. Again, Angela thought suddenly of Roger and his cooking prowess and wondered if Simon had ever cooked a meal. She raised her eyes to find him eyeing her with an odd expression on his handsome face.