The Course of True Love

by Betty Neels

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IN HER efforts to appear quite at ease, Claribel plunged into talk, trivial stuff to which her companion replied politely without contributing any conversation of his own. After a time her chatter petered out and she sat silent.

  Mr van Borsele gave a deep sigh and observed blandly, ‘There’s no need to try so hard, Claribel. You may not like me overmuch but at least you know me well enough by now to be able to keep silent if you wish. Where shall we stop for a meal?’ he asked, but didn’t wait for her to answer.

  They were almost on to the M3 which would take them nearly as far as Andover. ‘Once we are off the motorway we can stop at Middle Wallop—there’s a good restaurant there, the Old Drapery Stores, run by a Dutch family.’

  He began to talk easily about the place in a placid voice so that presently Claribel began to relax again. By the time they reached the restaurant she was her usual self, able to enjoy the good food set before her. But they didn’t linger over the meal; they were on their way again within the hour, speeding towards Salisbury.

  ‘I’ll take the A30 and turn off it at Fovant,’ observed Mr van Borsele, and he put down his well-shod foot.

  It was dark by now but the sky was starlit and the moon was rising; the road leapt ahead of them in the car’s powerful headlamps and Claribel, quietly content without quite knowing why, sat back in her seat, watching Mr van Borsele’s masterly handling of his car.

  They turned off at Fovant, travelling along a narrow country road full of unexpected twists and turns. ‘Tell me if I go wrong,’ said Mr van Borsele placidly. ‘I don’t know this road.’

  There were no villages, only the odd farmhouse or row of farm cottages and the occasional isolated house standing well back from the road.

  Mr van Borsele slowed for an S-bend and as they came out of it slowed still more; there were blue lights flashing ahead of them and a police road sign. A few hundred yards down the road they were stopped by a policeman.

  Mr van Borsele opened his window. ‘Anything I can do to help, constable?’ he asked. ‘I’m a doctor.’

  ‘We are waiting for the ambulance, sir—there’s a badly injured man and an elderly couple with cuts and shock and a young lady apparently uninjured. If you’d care to take a look at the man? We—we aren’t sure…’ He glanced at Claribel, hesitating.

  ‘This lady is hospital staff and unshockable.’ If Mr van Borsele heard her indignant breath he gave no sign. ‘I’ll have a look if you wish.’

  He got out of the car, took his bag off the back seat, said, ‘Stay where you are,’ to Claribel and walked off with the constable.

  He had been gone perhaps ten minutes when the ambulance arrived, but it was a good deal longer than that before he returned. He stuck his head through the window to address her.

  ‘The man is dead. The ambulance will take the other two into Salisbury, but the girl’s unhurt and she is desperate to get to Bath as quickly as possible. I’ll give her a lift—her family live there.’

  He went away again before Claribel could ask any questions and presently returned with the girl, small and slim and dark with an elfin prettiness and an air of helplessness. As they reached the car she stared up into Mr van Borsele’s face with what Claribel uncharitably considered to be a sickening look of adoration.

  ‘You’re so very kind,’ she uttered in a wispy little-girl voice. ‘I don’t know what I would have done…’ Her voice faltered and a small sob escaped her. ‘I simply must get back home this evening—my parents will be so worried.’

  She allowed him to settle her in the back of the car and Mr van Borsele said briskly, ‘Claribel, will you get in with this young lady? She’s had rather a shock. Do you suppose your mother would give her a cup of tea before I take her on to Bath? She’s had a bad time.’

  Claribel got out and got in again beside the girl, who threw her a quick look and smiled charmingly.

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed at once. ‘We could put her up for the night if that would be a good idea.’

  She was interrupted instantly by the girl saying urgently, ‘No, no, I must be taken home as quickly as possible.’ The girl’s voice was so urgent that Claribel looked at her in surprise. She said kindly, ‘Well, I’m sure if it’s urgent that you should go home, Mr van Borsele will take you.’

  He had been conferring with the road traffic police but now he came back to his own car.

  ‘The police will contact you in the morning,’ he told the girl in what Claribel considered to be far too soothing a manner; couldn’t he see that the girl was acting up? She had shown no concern for her dead companion or the couple in the other car and Claribel didn’t think she was in a state of shock, either; her colour was good, her hands were as steady as rocks and she had taken out a pocket mirror and was studying her face in it.

  Mr van Borsele gave her a long, considering look and got into the car.

  ‘We turn off somewhere here?’ he asked Claribel over his shoulder.

  ‘Left at the next signpost.’ She sat looking out of the window, worrying a little about the dead man and the elderly couple. ‘They’ll be all right?’ she asked.

  He understood her at once. ‘Yes. They were on their way to Wilton; they have a son living there. The police will take him to them.’

  ‘And the poor man?’

  ‘His people come from Bath; the police have the address.’

  ‘His poor mother and father,’ muttered Claribel. Mr van Borsele didn’t answer; the girl ignored her.

  Her mother needed only the briefest of explanations before ushering them into the sitting-room, offering a bed to the girl to rest upon, hot tea and the telephone. ‘Your parents will be worried,’ she said kindly.

  ‘I don’t want to phone.’ The girl sounded uneasy. ‘If I could just have some tea, the doctor has kindly offered to drive me home—I have to get back as soon as possible.’

  She flashed a smile at Mrs Brown and allowed herself to be settled in Mr Brown’s easy chair. When Claribel came in with the tea tray presently she was talking animatedly to Mr Brown and Mr van Borsele.

  As Claribel poured the tea and offered biscuits, Mr van Borsele asked casually, ‘This young man who was killed, you knew him well?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘I’ve lots of friends. He always drove too fast.’

  Claribel saw the shocked look on her mother’s face and made a great business of passing teacups.

  Mr van Borsele got up the minute he had finished his tea. ‘We’ll go, shall we?’ he asked and the girl jumped up and hurried to the door, barely pausing to utter thanks. She flashed the smile at Mrs Brown again, another one at Mr Brown, wasted no more than a nod at Claribel and caught Mr van Borsele by the arm. ‘I do feel shaky,’ she told him in her little-girl voice, and gave him a limpid look.

  He bade Mrs Brown goodbye and thanked her without any appearance of haste, shook Mr Brown by the hand and paused by Claribel. ‘Have a pleasant weekend,’ he advised her. ‘I’m sorry it had to start like this.’

  Then they had gone. Claribel watched the car’s tail-lights disappear into the lane and came in and shut the door. She didn’t go back into the sitting-room at once but went to let out the indignant cats and feed them. It was in the kitchen that her mother joined her.

  ‘Tell me about it, love. I know Mr van Borsele gave us the facts but I want the trimmings.’ She sat down at the table. ‘I didn’t like that girl.’

  ‘Nor did I.’ Claribel cut a slice of bread from the loaf on the table and began to munch it. ‘Mother, she didn’t utter one word of concern for that poor man who was killed, and all that “poor little me” act she put on just for Marc’s benefit… Men!’ said Claribel with feeling. ‘They can be so dim.’

  Mrs Brown had felt a certain satisfaction when Claribel had said ‘Marc’, but just now it was overshadowed by the memory of the girl. Men, the most sensible of men, fell for that helpless wistful look; it was unfortunate that her darling Claribel had never looked either wistful or helpless;
indeed, she was usually the first to come forward with a practical suggestion of help or matter-of-fact solving of a problem. She sighed. ‘Perhaps she was in shock’, she suggested half-heartedly.

  ‘Oh, pooh!’ said Claribel.

  Mr van Borsele hadn’t said a word about taking her back and, since he hadn’t phoned by Sunday morning, she packed her overnight bag again, had lunch with her parents and told them she would go back by train. ‘If you wouldn’t mind taking me into Tisbury, Father? There’s the five-fifteen that’ll get me back in nice time for supper.’

  Mr Brown had his mouth open to observe that surely Mr van Borsele was calling for her when he encountered his wife’s eloquent look. He closed his mouth, coughed and said, ‘Of course, dear. That’s a good train.’

  There was time to go for a quick walk along the bridlepath after lunch. Claribel took Rover with her and tried not to think about Mr van Borsele. Of course, she had never liked him, she reminded herself; it was highly likely that he had only taken her out because there was no one else available. She would, she observed to Rover, accept the invitation she had had from one of the medical housemen to accompany him to a disco at the club the following weekend and in the mean time, if Mr van Borsele should knock on her door, which seemed unlikely, she would on no account open it.

  Her mother had tea ready when she got back. She made brisk work of it, reminding her father that he was to drive her to the station and went upstairs to get her bag. She was stowing the cats into their basket when the phone rang. Her mother was standing with her, and Claribel said urgently,

  ‘You answer it, Mother. Just tell Marc if it’s him that I’ve gone back by train,’ and, when her mother hesitated, added fiercely, ‘Please, Mother. Look, I’ll go outside; Father’s already in the garage, so you won’t be fibbing…’ She kissed her doubtful parent and darted through the door with the cats and her bag.

  To her father’s surprised, ‘You could have waited indoors, my dear,’ she said airly, ‘I thought it would save you a minute or two and we haven’t all that much time, have we?’

  It was absurd, but she didn’t feel safe until she was on the train on the way to Salisbury and London. Safe from what? she asked herself. The possibility that Mr van Borsele might have that girl with him? Or that his phone call could have been made from a nearby call-box and he was even now listening to her mother’s only too obviously trumped-up excuses.

  Claribel sat staring out of the window. Perhaps it hadn’t been him at all, in which case there was no harm done. The more she thought about it the more certain she felt this to be the case, and by the time the train got into Waterloo station she had managed to dismiss the whole business from her mind. She took a taxi to the flat, an unwonted luxury, but the buses were full and she had the cats.

  Meadow Road was a cruel contrast to the peace of the Wiltshire countryside. She unlocked her door and went inside quickly; at least her own little flat looked cosy and welcoming.

  She freed the cats and, since they were grumbling, fed them before she did anything else, but half an hour later she was laying the table for her supper—scrambled eggs on toast and a pot of tea, and since the evenings were still chilly she lit the gas fire, pulled the curtains and turned on the radio—it was something wistful and romantic and suited her mood exactly. She had the saucepan with the butter and the milk heated ready for the eggs when there was a knock at the door. Only one person thumped it in that ferocious manner—Mr van Borsele—and she had promised herself that she wouldn’t let him in. A second thunderous knock changed her mind for her; the neighbours, already deeply interested in his comings and goings, would be at their windows twitching their curtains. She went to the door and flung it open, the saucepan still in her hands.

  Mr van Borsele scooped her to one side and went past her into the living-room. He said in an admonitory voice, ‘Must I remind you yet again not to open the door unless the chain is in position?’

  The remark wasn’t what she had expected; she gaped at him, speechless. He took the saucepan from her, turned off the gas and set it tidily on the stove.

  ‘Your mother,’ he observed in a silky voice, ‘is a charming woman—I like her immensely—but she’s a very poor fibber. Besides, you banged the front door as you went out.’

  Claribel found her voice. ‘Go away,’ she said loudly. ‘I don’t know why you’re here…’

  ‘You fib as badly as your mother. Of course you know why I’m here and I’m not going away. I’ve driven at risk to life and limb in order to get here before you locked up for the night. Why did you run away?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Her voice came out too loud and she tried to keep it cool and dignified. ‘I have to go to work in the morning which means that I have to get back here this evening. I caught the train…’

  His smile disquieted her for it held mockery. ‘Now let me guess—I didn’t say that I would take you back; indeed, I went on my way with a charming fairylike creature whose antics were calculated to arouse male chivalry to its highest pitch. Naturally, with two days in which to embroider your imagination to the full, you felt yourself cast off, rejected for a slip of a girl half your size; you probably went for a long walk, vowing never to open your door to me again…’

  Claribel glared at him; he was so exactly right. She said frostily, ‘Don’t be so conceited; I’ve other things to think about,’ and added loftily, ‘Now do go, I want to cook my supper.’ However, she was unable to prevent herself from saying, ‘I’m not a bit interested in how you spent your weekend.’

  She took a quick look at him. His face was impassive but his eyes were gleaming with amusement. She hadn’t liked that bit about the girl being half her size, it made her feel a size eighteen at least, and she wasn’t; she was a nicely curved twelve.

  His smile had lost its mockery. ‘May I stay to supper?’ he asked. ‘And will you empty that head of yours of the fairy stories you’ve been thinking up?’ He went past her into the kitchen, broke eggs into a bowl and began to beat them with a fork. ‘I’ll do the eggs if you make the toast.’ And, when she began to slice a loaf, still wordless, ‘That girl had gone off with the young man who was killed; they were evidently intent on a weekend together and she had told her parents that she was staying with friends. Hence her anxiety to get to Bath—heaven knows what story she cooked up for them. Just as well I didn’t accept her invitation to go in provided I said nothing about the accident. I was already late.’ He poured the eggs into the saucepan and stirred them very gently. ‘I went to see my sister—she had a son on Sunday morning. We were up all night with her, and by the time I got back from the hospital it was early morning, too soon to phone you. I slept for a bit and then went back to see her.’

  Claribel stood, her knife poised over the bread, her pretty face the picture of contrition.

  ‘Oh, Marc, I’m a witless fool. I’m so sorry. You’ve had almost no sleep and now you’ve come racing back without your supper.’

  He said placidly, ‘I like driving and I’m going to have my supper and I can always catch up on my sleep. May I use all these eggs?’

  ‘Yes, of course. What would you like to drink?’ She had forgotten her peevishness, bent on feeding him, seeing, now that she really looked at him, that he was tired to his bones.

  ‘Tea. Is there anything to drink before supper?’

  ‘Father gave me a bottle of claret months ago. I’ll find it.’

  She rooted around in the cupboard in the living-room and held up the bottle for his inspection. He nodded approvingly. ‘Rather unusual before a meal, but we must celebrate with something.’

  ‘Celebrate? What are we celebrating?’

  ‘Why, that we are back on our old footing, Claribel. If you’ll find a corkscrew I will open this.’

  While he was doing that, she laid another place at the table, feeling suddenly light-hearted.

  They drank their claret—not quite at the right temperature for Mr van Borsele, who was a stickler for such things—buttered quantitie
s of toast, and dished up the eggs. When they had eaten, Claribel fetched the fruit cake her mother had given her and watched her companion eat several large slices, washed down with tea. Finally, he sat back.

  ‘A delightful meal, Claribel.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But unfortunately I must go. Forgive me if I don’t wash the dishes?’

  He had got up and she stood up, too, disappointed but determined not to show it. The vague idea that they might have spent the rest of the evening together, sitting comfortably before the fire, talking about nothing much, had taken root in her head; she told herself now that there was no reason why he should do so. On the face of things, she was a bolthole convenient for a quick meal, a kind of younger sister… She disliked the idea very much.

  ‘Don’t be late,’ she said brightly and wondered where he was going—it was almost ten o’clock and a Sunday…

  He grinned suddenly. ‘Claribel, you’re making up fairytales again. Why not ask me where I’m going?’

  She said severely, ‘Certainly not. And in any case I have no wish to pry into your life.’

  He tapped her cheek with a gentle finger. ‘But we are friends again?’

  She said peevishly, ‘If by that you mean may you come here for coffee and a meal when you have nowhere better to go, then yes.’

  ‘That’s my kind, forgiving girl.’ He put out a hand. ‘Friends?’

  His grip was firm and brief, his nod of goodbye even briefer. When he had driven away she slowly cleared the table, washed up and put her breakfast ready. It was obvious to her that, whether she liked it or not, he regarded her as a sister; the thought was very depressing.

  In the morning she viewed things in a different light; common sense asserted itself. There was no reason why Mr van Borsele shouldn’t consider her in the light of a sister. He was at liberty to do so if he wished, only somehow she was finding it difficult to look upon him as a brother…

  She saw him thrice during the week. On the first occasion it was on the ward, during his round, when she was called upon to demonstrate the progress of the patients she had been treating, and two days later there was a lengthy session with the chesty man, now making steady progress despite his wheezing. The third occasion was a rather different one. On Saturday morning she was window-shopping in the Burlington Arcade, looking for a suitable birthday present for her father. She had turned away from a tasteful display of ties, all beyond her means, when she saw Mr van Borsele walking down the arcade in her direction. He hadn’t seen her, and no wonder: the fairylike creature from the car accident was tripping along beside him.