Two Weeks to Remember

by Betty Neels

  And a busy one, added Charity silently as she began on the post.

  Jake’s door was shut and it was very quiet; she worked steadily, sorting letters, bills, advertisements from pharmaceutical firms and reports from the Path Lab, X-Ray department and outside doctors. She had them in neat piles when Jake opened the door, his coat over his arm.

  ‘There’s more on my desk,’ he told her cheerfully. ‘When you get here in the morning get them sorted out, will you? And be prepared to work late tomorrow. There is no one booked until eleven o’clock, is there? I’ll go straight to the hospital—you’ll find notes on the stuff in my room, so go ahead with as much as you can, will you?’ She nodded and he smiled at her. ‘Tired? Let’s go?’

  She hoped that Miss Cornwallis wasn’t going to be at his house. There was no sign of her as they went in and Snook beamed at her and offered to take her coat.

  ‘I’ve just come for my case, thank you, Snook, and to have a look at Bones and Bertie, of course.’

  Snook looked disappointed as he opened the drawing-room door and ushered her in while the professor took off his coat, picked up the letters from the tray on the console table in the hall, and then followed her.

  The room was beautiful, with a lofty ceiling adorned with delicate plaster work, a polished wood floor almost covered by an Aubusson tapestry-weave carpet in dim blues and greens and pinks, and a Regency striped paper. There was a handsome marble fireplace housing an eighteenth-century steel grate in which burned a cheerful fire, and the furniture was a pleasing partnership of comfortable armchairs, large sofas and a charming teapoy, a hanging cabinet against one wall and a chimney glass, after the style of Adam, above the fireplace. There was a Regency library table under the bow window at one end of the room and a pair of shield-back armchairs on either side of a handsome secretairebookcase, the whole lighted by wall sconces with delicate pink shades and several table lamps. Charity, studying her surroundings, heaved a sigh; a lovely room to come home to, and hard on that thought the more practical one that the electricity bill must be colossal.

  The dogs were lying before the fire, side by side, but they got up at once when they saw the professor, rushing across the room to greet him. They turned their attention to Charity next, allowing her to rub their ears and stroke their heads. Bones no longer lived up to his name; he was positively chubby, his once rough coat sleek and silken. Charity knelt beside him while he made much of her and then turned her attention to Bertie in case he felt hurt. Apparently not; she scratched his head gently and he looked at her with the same bland good humour displayed by his master, standing idly, his hands in his pockets.

  Charity got to her feet. ‘He is positively handsome! They make a splendid couple,’ she said, and in the same breath, ‘I must go…’

  The professor made no attempt to detain her but ushered her out again, the dogs with them this time. They sat side by side in the back of the car, as silent as Charity and the professor; only as they reached her door did he say, ‘I dare say young Kemble has missed you, and you deserve some time off. Let me know if you want some free time and we’ll see that we arrange some.’

  ‘I don’t want…’ began Charity and stopped. Perhaps this was the solution to her problem; if Jake thought that she and Guy were serious, he might feel free to concentrate on his horrid Brenda. The small doubt she had tried to ignore for the last week or so, that he was sorry for her and had allowed their acquaintance to develop till it was a friendship as a consequence, became all of a sudden an overpowering one. She said sedately, ‘That’s very kind of you, Professor,’ and, since it seemed rude not to do so, invited him in. He wouldn’t accept anyway, he would rush off to Brenda…

  He accepted with the air of a man who had been expecting to be asked anyway and followed her up the garden path, carrying the case, to be greeted by Aunt Emily in a fine state of excitement, and then by her father, who kissed her absently, expressing the hope that she had enjoyed herself and then turned to his guest with the news that he had acquired only that day a splendid example of an early number of Punch which he was sure would be of the greatest interest to him.

  Charity, although a loving daughter, thought a number of unfilial thoughts as she watched Jake’s broad back disappear into her father’s study. Her aunt watched her thoughtfully, ‘You must be hungry—there’s a steak and kidney pudding ready to be eaten and an apple tart. Do you suppose he’ll stay?’

  Charity shook her head. ‘No, dear, he’ll want to spend the evening with Miss Cornwallis. He brought me home because we went straight to the consulting rooms and started on the post. There is a lot of catching up to do—I shall be late home for a few days.’

  ‘You had a good time? We had your letters, of course, and your phone call, and the professor phoned at the end of the first week.’

  ‘Did he? I didn’t know.’ Charity took off her outdoor things. ‘I’ll unpack presently. Shall I make coffee for us all?’

  ‘It’s ready. If you carry the tray into the sitting room I’ll tell them.’

  They came readily enough but Jake didn’t stay long. He made gentle small talk with Aunt Emily, listened knowledgeably to her father’s bibliophilism, reminded her that they had a busy day on the morrow, and took his leave. Charity went to the door with him, her polite thank you speech ready to trip off her tongue, but when she opened her mouth to say it he smiled down at her and said: ‘No, don’t embark on a thank you speech. It is I who should thank you.’ He bent and kissed her surprised face, put his hand on the door handle and opened the door. ‘Two weeks to remember,’ he said, as he went out into the dark night and shut the door firmly behind him.

  Eating her steak and kidney pudding, listening to her father and aunt’s questions and answering them as best she might, unpacking her case and offering her presents, she pondered Jake’s remark. The kiss she had decided to ignore; people kissed all the time, most of it meaningless—although it had meant a lot to her—but what exactly had he meant? By the time she was in bed she had decided that he had been referring to the success of the convention. After all, from what she could make out, he had made several speeches and given a number of successful lectures. Besides, he had seen his family, he would have plenty to remember. So had she, but she would wait to do that until the remembering didn’t hurt quite so fiercely.

  By the time Jake arrived at his rooms next day she had got herself nicely in hand. She had got up early, put on a sober wool dress with a white collar, brushed her curls smoothly into a french pleat, taken great care with her face and been at her desk half an hour early. She looked exactly as she had hoped she might, efficient, unflappable and pleasant in a quite impersonal way. So much so that when the professor came into her office he took one considered look at her and asked her if she were ill.

  ‘Me? Ill? Of course not.’ She had quite forgotten to be the perfect secretary for the moment; indeed she was in danger of slipping back into their easy friendship without a moment’s thought and smiled at him enthusiastically, and enchantingly.

  He studied her face in silence, a look on his own face which brought her to her senses sharply. She said quickly, in what she hoped was a very businesslike voice, ‘I’ve sorted out the post, sir, it’s on your desk. And a Mr Blake telephoned to make an appointment; he said that he had been a patient of yours six months ago and was anxious to consult you again.’

  ‘Diverticular disease,’ murmured the professor. ‘You gave him an appointment?’

  ‘Yes, he said it was urgent; I’ve squeezed him in before the first patient this afternoon.’

  The professor nodded and disappeared into his consulting room, to ring for her presently and hand her a pile of letters. ‘If you get on with these to start with?’ He gave her his kind smile. ‘I’ve scribbled notes for you. I’m going to Augustine’s now, but I’ll be back about one o’clock and will dictate the rest.’

  She wouldn’t be able to go out to lunch. Mrs Kemp went at midday and brought back sandwiches and Charity munched th
em as she typed. A good thing, too, for when the professor returned he wasted no time but began to dictate almost before she had her notebook open. When he had finished he looked at his watch. ‘Mr Blake is coming at two-fifteen? I’ve half an hour. I’ll be at the Berkeley if I’m needed urgently. Keep Mr Blake happy if I’m not back.’

  He was gone, with the air of a man who had all the time in the world. Mrs Kemp, coming to check the examination room, went to look out of the window. ‘There he goes,’ she declared. ‘I suppose that Brenda woman wants him to tag along for drinks or something. Can’t think why he bothers…’

  ‘Perhaps he loves her?’

  Mrs Kemp gave a snort. ‘No one could love that creature. Did you have enough to eat, love? I’m going to make a cup of tea—there is a busy afternoon coming up.’

  Charity worked her way through the letters and then transferred her attention to the scrappy notes he had given her. By now she could read his awful writing quite easily; luckily, for her mind wasn’t altogether on her work; it was busy imagining Jake tossing off gin and tonic in Brenda’s company.

  If that was what he had been doing, it hadn’t improved his temper. Usually placid, he bore all the marks of an irritable man on his return. Charity took one look at him, fetched a cup of coffee and laid her finished work on his desk. But he spoke in his usual calm voice. ‘Mr Blake is here?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Let’s have him in.’

  The afternoon wore on, the last patient went and minutes later the professor went, too. ‘I’ll be at Augustine’s if you want me,’ he told Charity from the door. ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’

  Charity looked at the work still to do on her desk; she was going to be very late home, but he had already warned her of that and she in turn had warned Aunt Emily. The urge to fling everything out of the window was very strong; perhaps Jake felt like that about his patients. She accepted Mrs Kemp’s offer of tea, wasted ten minutes describing the pleasures of her trip to that lady, finished the contents of the biscuit tin, bade Mrs Kemp good night as she left to catch her bus, and settled down to work again. She had almost finished when the professor came back, and as he came in the phone rang. It was Guy Kemble and Charity had said, ‘Oh, hallo, Guy’, before she could stop herself. He wanted to take her out; that evening perhaps? Tomorrow then? She said, ‘impossible,’ to both, trying not to notice the professor standing in his doorway, listening quite openly.

  He came back to her desk while she was listening to Guy, who sounded excited and worried at the same time. ‘Well…’ she began and had the receiver taken gently from her.

  ‘Guy? Wyllie-Lyon here. We’re only just back and Charity has got a mass of work. Sorry about that but I’ll see she is free by five o’clock on the day after tomorrow.’ He handed back the receiver and went into his room and closed the door gently, leaving Charity fuming.

  ‘Well, really!’ she said tartly to Guy. ‘Supposing I don’t want to spend the evening with you? Whatever next? High-handed…interfering…’

  ‘Hey, hold on. I think it’s pretty decent of him. Do come, Charity, there is something I want to talk about.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘It’s about you.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ She knew she was being ungracious by reason of Jake’s action. Possibly he thought he was doing her a favour; it wasn’t likely that he knew about the girl waiting for Guy. She tossed her head, sending the curls flying. Let him think what he liked.

  She rang off and the buzzer summoning her to the consulting room went. She picked up her notebook and pencil and went in, looking as cross as she felt, to be instantly disarmed by his, ‘Sorry to keep you like this, Charity. Did you get some tea? We are catching up nicely with the paperwork; another day and we’ll have done the worst.’

  He dictated steadily, then finally leaned back in his chair. ‘Right, can you manage that lot? I’ve some phoning to do. I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I can catch a bus.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Don’t get on your high horse with me, Charity.’ His voice was mild and faintly amused.

  The letters were brief and took very little time. When she went in with them he was sitting with his feet on the desk, his eyes closed. He opened them as she laid the letters beside him. ‘Did I ever tell you that you are a treasure, Charity?’

  There were several answers to that but all she said in a prim voice was, ‘I’m very happy working here, sir.’

  ‘So am I. I hope it’s for the same reason.’ He began to sign the letters. ‘Get your things on, I’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.’

  It was dark and chilly and she was tired. She sat beside him as he drove the Bentley to her home, saw her to her door, wished her good night and went away with the remark that he had a dinner date.

  Well, of course he had, Charity told herself silently; beautiful Brenda waiting for him, looking like a fashion plate, no doubt, and probably making him dance after dinner when all the dear man needed was a good night’s sleep. She ate her supper in the kitchen because the others had had theirs and then she went to bed. It would be another busy day tomorrow, she explained to her aunt, but after that things would be back to normal.

  Things would never be normal again, she decided sadly by the end of the next day. How could they be? Taking dictation from the quiet man sitting at his desk, intent upon his work, she couldn’t help but remember the feel of his arm around her as he had guided her on her skis, the uproarious games of Scrabble, and their day in Bergen. It seemed to her that all these had been normal and now it wasn’t normal at all to be sitting there in the role of his efficient secretary with no interest in him at all, saying ‘Yes, sir, no, sir,’ handing him his letters and his patients’ notes, answering the telephone. Worrying the whole thing round and round in her unhappy head when she ought to have been asleep, she almost made up her mind to give in her notice. But if she did, how could she live without seeing him? She couldn’t.

  She was reminded the next afternoon, quite unnecessarily, that Guy Kemble would be taking her out that evening and she was to leave on time. ‘And no reason why you shouldn’t,’ said the professor cheerfully. ‘I’m not coming back here after I’ve been to Augustine’s so go when you’ve finished.’

  She thanked him politely and when he went presently and paused to express the hope that she and Guy would have a delightful evening together, and that she had only to mention it if she wanted to leave early at any future date, she thanked him again, although this time the politeness was tinged with snappishness.

  Aunt Emily was delighted that she was spending the evening with a young man and nothing Charity could say would persuade her that there wasn’t romance in the air. Charity dressed without enthusiasm but she was careful to be ready by the time Guy came to fetch her. Aunt Emily hovering in the hall needed to be gently headed away from asking awkward questions.

  Guy took her to Poon’s in Lisle Street, a Chinese restaurant, and he was so bursting with pleasure about something or other, she hadn’t the heart to tell him that she didn’t much like Chinese food. So she ate her way through sweet and sour pork, rice and bamboo shoots and drank the wine she was offered and listened to what he had to tell her. He was really very young, she thought; she felt quite motherly towards him as he poured out his news. His Mary, dithering prudently on the brink of marriage, had written to say that she would marry him when he got back to New Zealand. ‘I can’t wait,’ he assured her. ‘I’ve only another week or two at Augustine’s—I’ve enjoyed being here and the professor’s been wonderfully decent and kind. There’s that job waiting for me; we can get married just as soon as Mary says so.’

  Charity beamed at him. ‘That is marvellous news. Have you told anyone else? I mean, shouldn’t the professor know?’

  ‘I’m going to see him on Monday. I’ll get a flight…’ He embarked on a detailed list of all the things he had to do, which lasted through their coffee. He had so much to say that Charity was able to leav
e most of the talking to him and most of the food on her plate without him noticing. He was indeed in a blissful state of oblivion where she might have had two heads without him seeing them. She let him talk himself out, agreed for the tenth time or so that he was a lucky man and that he had a splendid future, and suggested diffidently that she should go home. ‘It’s been a long week,’ she told him, ‘and I’m rather tired.’

  They were almost at the door of the restaurant when she saw Mrs Kemp sitting with two teenage boys and an older man. She waved and smiled, pointed her out to Guy, who waved, too, and then went to get her coat.

  The return journey was taken up with a discussion as to a suitable gift to take Mary. Charity made helpful suggestions, thanked him for a delightful evening and wished him good night.

  ‘You’re no end of a nice girl,’ he told her and gave her a brotherly clap on the shoulder. ‘See you sometime on Monday.’

  Aunt Emily was waiting up with coffee. ‘You didn’t bring him in,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t have come, Aunty. He’s in a hurry to get back to his digs so he can sit and dream about his girl in New Zealand.’

  Aunt Emily was deflated. ‘Oh, and I thought he might be Mr Right, dear.’

  Charity poured coffee for them both. ‘No, love. He is a nice lad but he doesn’t give me even the smallest thrill.’

  Her aunt looked disappointed. ‘You are twenty-six,’ she pointed out.

  Just right for Jake, thought Charity; he was nearly ten years older than that. She smiled at the brief daydream floating round inside her head and Aunt Emily said quite sharply, ‘I can’t see much to smile about dear.’

  Charity put down her cup and kissed her. ‘No, love. Don’t worry so much about me, I am all right.’

  The professor had been back again after she had gone on Friday night and had left a handful of scrawled notes on her desk with, ‘First thing on Monday, please,’ written across the top one.

  She was arranging them tidily ready for him to sign when Mrs Kemp arrived and, hard on her heels, the professor. They all wished each other good morning and Mrs Kemp went on in her breezy way, ‘Did you have a nice time with that Dr Kemble? You had your heads together I must say. Plotting a wedding were you?’