by Betty Neels
‘None at all; you look very nice in that thing.’
The kind of remark Sebastian might make. She got into the car and tried not to smile when Mr van Borsele gravely saluted the inquisitive face peering from the next door window.
He drove to the Savoy. It was only as she got out of the car that she was struck by an unpleasant thought. ‘Is this one of the places Irma comes to?’
He nodded to the doorman to get the car parked before taking her arm and marching her through the imposing doors. ‘Yes. Shall we have a drink first?’
She said softly in a fierce voice, ‘No, I’d like to go back to my flat, now.’ She gave him a look to wither him up completely, only it didn’t appear to make any difference to him. ‘You planned this, didn’t you? I told you it was a silly idea…’
‘The word was ridiculous. I was so sure that you would have second thoughts, Claribel, and agree to help me. You’re a sensible girl, there’s no romantic nonsense about you, and after all it is such a trifling little matter for you.’
They had paused on the way to the bar and she gave him a long deliberate look. His opinion of her was galling to say the least.
‘I don’t really see why I should allow you to make use of me just to get you out of a hole.’
He had never looked more patiently reasonable. He said gently, ‘You’re just about the nicest person I know, Claribel, and certainly the most beautiful. Irma will take one good look at you and know that she hasn’t got a chance.’
She went faintly pink. ‘You have no need to say that. Anyway, she’s seen me already.’
‘That’s why you’re so exactly right.’ He smiled. It was a charming smile, warm and reassuring; she reflected idiotically that if she was one of his patients and he had just told her that he was going to amputate an arm or a leg she would accept the horrid news with complete trust.
‘All right. But just as soon as she leaves you alone or goes home it’s to stop.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘But of course, Claribel.’ He dug a hand into a pocket and put something into her hand. A diamond ring, three large stones surrounded by circles of smaller stones. She opened her mouth to protest but his hand closed over hers. ‘Put it on…’
‘It’s not real?’ she half whispered.
‘Of course it’s real. It belonged to my great-grandmother. Shall we have that drink?’
They went into the bar and she tried not to gape at the magnificent jewels on her finger while she drank her sherry, an excellent one which as far as she was concerned could have been tap water. They went into the Grill Room presently and she felt disquiet at their table: in a prominent position in the centre of the room.
‘Just right,’ murmured Mr van Borsele. ‘Put your hand on the table and flash the ring; Irma is sitting quite close by with a party of people.’
She had the good sense not to look around her and buried her pretty nose in the menu while she steadied her breath. Mr van Borsele’s calm voice was suggesting that caviare might be good to start with, and how did she like the idea of chicken à la king?’
They had ordered and he was telling the wine waiter to bring a bottle of champagne when Irma arrived at the table. Claribel, mindful of her companion’s wishes, laid a hand on the cloth so that the ring was in full view, arranged her features into an expression of friendly surprise and watched Mr van Borsele get to his feet.
Irma spoke before anyone else had a chance. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages. You must know…’ Her eyes caught the sparkle of the diamonds on Claribel’s hand and she stopped.
Claribel returned her glare with a sweet smile. ‘Hello,’ she said with every appearance of pleasure. ‘Do you remember me? When you had that accident—we took you to my home before Marc drove you to Bath.’
She turned a dazzling smile upon Mr van Borsele. ‘We’ve often talked about it, haven’t we, darling?’
‘You are engaged?’ Irma looked at them in turn. ‘So it’s true. I didn’t believe you, but it’s true.’ Her eyes fastened on the ring. ‘Not that it’s important; engagements don’t mean much these days.’ She tossed her head and smiled at Mr van Borsele, who smiled back thinly.
‘Ours does,’ he told her. ‘Now if you would excuse us, we have a great deal to discuss—plans for the wedding and so on.’ He glanced over to the table she had left. ‘I think your friends are waiting to leave.’
Irma left without a word and presently departed with her companions without looking at them again. Claribel, spreading caviare on toast with a hand which shook very slightly, couldn’t quite suppress a sigh of relief.
‘Women,’ observed Mr van Borsele, ‘never fail to surprise me. Just for a few minutes I actually believed that you and I were engaged.’ He smiled at her in what she considered to be a smug fashion. ‘You should call me “darling” more often; it does something to my ego.’
She choked on a morsel of toast. ‘Your ego doesn’t need any propping up. You’re Mr van Borsele, and Mr van Borsele you’ll remain, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Marc?’ he suggested. ‘We’re bound to meet the tiresome girl again and you might slip up.’
‘I should imagine you’re rid of her after that little scene.’ She studied the chicken à la king which had just been set before her; her appetite had in no way been impaired by her acting. ‘How fortunate that we should meet her so soon; we can call the whole thing off.’
‘Certainly not; she’s badly adjusted mentally, and spoilt and selfish and uninhibited; it will take more than one encounter with us as a devoted engaged couple to convince her.’
‘Oh, will it? Aren’t you going back to Holland?’
‘What I like about you, Claribel, is your plain speaking. I am aware that you have a poor opinion of me, but I beg that you will endeavour to overcome that until I can, as it were, sink without trace.’
She remained unmoved. ‘So you’re not going back to Holland?’
‘For the moment, no. Mr Shutter and I are joining forces over a child who sadly needs extensive surgery; we hope to get to work on her next week. Which means that you and I will be free to show ourselves as a loving couple on several evenings.’
‘Which evenings?’ she wanted to know. ‘I have plans as well.’ Her glass had been filled for a second time and she took a defiant sip of champagne.
‘It’s hard to say at the moment. I expect I shall be at the hospital until quite late tomorrow evening; I’ll call in on my way home and let you know if Tuesday evening will be free. So if you have a date for tomorrow evening, go ahead.’ He spoke in a kindly voice which annoyed her very much. ‘Only don’t go anywhere you are likely to be seen by Irma.’
She said coldly and crossly, ‘How am I to know where she will be? Anyway, I never go out on a Monday evening; I wash my hair.’
‘I’ll dry it for you while we make our plans.’ And, at her outraged look, ‘Quite permissible by Meadow Road standards. After all, we are engaged.’ He smiled his sudden beguiling smile. ‘Now, shall we bury the hatchet and enjoy ourselves?’
Which, surprisingly, she did.
Monday was always a busy day and she got home rather later than usual. She got her supper, fed Enoch and Toots, washed the smalls, prudently set the coffee tray ready and washed her hair. It was almost ten o’clock and she was sitting in her dressing-gown drying it when the door knocker resounded with the familiar thump. She unlocked the door, leaving the chain up, and Mr van Borsele said, ‘Good girl. Open up.’
She stood aside as he went in and followed him into the living-room.
‘It’s rather late,’ observed Claribel.
‘Not so late that the neighbours aren’t peering at me through their curtains.’ He stood looking at her. Her abundant hair hung in a golden stream down her back, not quite dry. ‘Come and sit on this stool and I’ll finish that for you.’
There seemed nothing strange in sitting down at his feet while he settled in the armchair, took a towel from her and began a vi
gorous rubbing.
‘Had a busy day?’ she asked through a tangle of hair.
‘Very, but I think we’ve got it right. If it all goes as it should we’ll be able to lengthen her legs by six inches; she’ll still be on the short side when she has grown, but at least she won’t be grotesque.’
‘Oh—is it that operation where someone has to turn a key each day?’
‘Well, something like that, yes. Daily manipulation enables the bone to lengthen gradually. We’ve dealt with one leg; if it’s a success we’ll do the other in due course.’ He took up a length of her hair and began on it. ‘What a mass of hair you have, Claribel. They should have called you Rapunzel.’
‘I’ve been wondering if I should have it cut.’
‘Don’t you dare. You’ll probably get the child for physio. Have you been busy today?’
‘Not nearly as busy as you. Are you going back to Jerome’s?’
‘Yes, but if it goes as it should I thought you and I might have an evening out tomorrow. Remind me to give you the ring again.’
She mumbled behind her hair. She had given it back on the previous evening, growing shy and awkward doing it—stupidly, as he had taken it from her in a matter-of-fact way. She tossed her hair out of her eyes and took the towel from him. ‘Thanks; that’s dry enough to plait. Would you like a cup of coffee before you go?’
‘I’ve only just got here,’ he complained mildly, ‘but, yes, I’d like that.’
She made coffee for them both and they drank it in a companionable silence before he got to his feet.
‘Tomorrow then,’ he said. ‘Now, let me see—you’d better dine at my place and we can go on from there. A bit dressy, I think. I’ll call for you at seven o’clock unless you get a message to the contrary.’
To all of which she agreed meekly enough. She had agreed to help him; in for a penny in for a pound. And there was no denying that he was a delightful companion with whom to spend an evening, even if they did argue most of the time. She saw him to the door and wished him goodnight, and was quite unprepared for his kiss.
The following morning Miss Flute told her that she would be treating the little girl Mr van Borsele and Mr Shutter had operated on. ‘She is still in intensive care. You’re to give her breathing exercises for the first few days, ten-minutes sessions, TDS. She’ll be going to Crispin Ward once she is fit enough. They want you at ten o’clock.’
The intensive care unit was on the top floor of the hospital, next door to the theatre block, a daunting place to the layman, full of technical apparatus, yards of tubing and computer screens, and manned by teams of nurses round the clock. There were several patients there, but the little girl was the one Claribel had to deal with. The child was small, with a white face and enormous dark eyes.
Claribel knelt down by the bed. ‘Hello, poppet. I’ve come to help get you well again. We’re going to play some breathing games; I’m sure you’ll win every time.’ She talked to the child for a little while and then pulled up a chair and began the exercises which had been ordered, going cautiously. Each day they would be stepped up but just at first she had to gain the little girl’s confidence. Ten minutes wasn’t long; they parted the best of friends. Claribel slipped quietly away and started for the stairs. Half-way down she met Mr van Borsele going up. He stopped by her.
‘Ah, good morning, Miss Brown. You’ve been with Rita?’
Her cool, ‘Good morning, Mr van Borsele,’ was uttered in her best professional manner and the corners of his mouth twitched. ‘Rita has been very good, although she is apprehensive. I think we’ll have to keep to the simple breathing exercises for a couple of days until I have her complete confidence.’
He nodded. ‘Good, good. I’ll leave that to your capable judgement.’
With a nod he had gone on his way, leaving her vaguely annoyed, although she wasn’t sure why.
She was kept busy for the rest of the day with a snatched sandwich lunch and a cup of tea gulped down during the afternoon. As she dressed that evening she thought about her dinner—a substantial one, she hoped; she was famished.
She had chosen to wear a long-skirted dress of green crêpe which exactly matched her eyes. It was discreetly simple in cut, elegant and severely plain, suitable she hoped for whatever evening Mr van Borsele had in mind; he had, after all, told her to wear something dressy. She put on her very best slippers—bronze kid with very high heels, a wicked extravagance she had been unable to resist—and from the depths of her wardrobe hauled out a mohair wrap, a long-ago gift to her mother who had handed it over to Claribel, quite rightly observing that such a garment could only be seen to advantage on a tall, queenly figure. Claribel had accepted it with delight, telling her indignant parent that it was just the thing to cover her buxom person.
‘You are not buxom,’ Mrs Brown had declared, ‘and you never will be. You work too hard.’
‘I might marry,’ Claribel had said flippantly, ‘and live a life of sloth.’
Her mother had snorted indignantly. ‘If you marry, love, a husband and children won’t give you any chance to idle.’
Mr van Borsele was punctual, but then he always was. He had been home first, that was apparent as soon as she cast eyes on the elegance of his attire. He looked more handsome than ever in a dinner-jacket; no wonder the tiresome Irma found him irresistible.
She said, ‘Hello, or should I say good evening, Mr van Borsele?’
He came to stand in front of her. ‘Don’t be pert; there is a time and a place for everything. You look charming.’ He bent and kissed her, adding, ‘If you see what I mean.’
He picked up the wrap. ‘Must we cover your charms?’ he wanted to know, and Claribel, for once feeling shy, said, ‘Well, it is chilly in the evening,’ and swathed the garment around her.
‘We’ll have to go via Jerome’s,’ he told her as they went out to the car. ‘I want to check on Rita.’
‘She’s not so well?’ Claribel turned a concerned face to him.
‘She’s splendid, but Shutter’s out of town and I want a word with Night Sister about her.’
Sitting in the car, waiting for him, Claribel thought idly that being married to a doctor or a surgeon was, to say the least, a life of unexpected happenings: late meals, no meals at all, broken nights, difficult patients, and, in the case of an eminent surgeon such as Marc, a good deal of travelling. As he got back into the car she asked, ‘Is everything going well?’
‘It’s early days, my dear, but I’m hoping so. Another day or two and we’ll feel more certain of it.’
‘Have you done this particular operation before?’
He was going over Westminster Bridge, and the overhead lights showed his rather stern profile. ‘Half a dozen times.’
‘And all successful?’
‘Yes, to date.’
She said in a worried way, ‘You know, I think I’m a bit in awe of you—you’re clever, and you do things that few other people would dare to do.’
He laughed. ‘If I were asked to cut out and make one of your dresses I wouldn’t have the faintest idea where to start. Perhaps others don’t dare to pick up a scalpel, but I don’t dare to let myself pick up dressmaking scissors.’
He gave her a quick glance. ‘What is it you say in English? “It takes all sorts to make a world”.’ He drove along Whitehall and turned into Trafalgar Square, into Pall Mall and then began to work his way through the one-way streets until they were in Wigmore Street where soon he turned into one of the quiet streets close by and stopped before a terrace of Regency houses, with handsome porches and well-tended window-boxes. There was only the muted sound of traffic and there were trees lining the pavement.
‘Very nice,’ said Claribel, taking it all in as she got out of the car.
He had her arm. ‘London can be delightful,’ he observed, ‘and it is convenient for the rooms I share with Shutter.’
They were mounting the three steps which led to the front door and he took out his keys. ‘Oh, do you hav
e private patients as well?’ She answered herself. ‘Of course you do.’
‘Well, yes.’ He opened the door and ushered her into a vestibule opening on to a fair-sized hall. A porter was standing there who bade them good evening and went towards a lift to open its gates. Mr van Borsele flapped a large hand. ‘We’ll walk thanks, George—healthy exercise.’
They went unhurriedly up the stairs to the next floor and he opened one of the doors on the carpeted landing. The lobby they entered was square with a number of doors leading from it. Mr van Borsele took her wrap and threw it over an English elbow-chair, calling at the same time, ‘Tilly, come and meet Miss Brown.’
Tilly was small and round and brisk with grey hair and twinkly blue eyes; she bounced into the lobby almost before he had finished speaking and fetched up in front of Claribel.
‘Claribel, this is Tilly, my housekeeper and old friend; she cooks like a dream, rules the cleaning lady with a rod of iron and keeps a firm hand on me.’
The housekeeper grinned at him as Claribel said, ‘How do you do’ and shook hands. ‘Don’t you believe a word, miss,’ observed Tilly. ‘’Is lordship does just what ’e wants, bless ’is ’eart.’ She eyed Claribel. ‘You’re as pretty as a peach—all that lovely ’air. A sight better than that nasty little piece ’oo comes poking her nose in where she’s not wanted.’
She whisked away again, saying as she went, ‘You can ’ave ten minutes, then I’ll dish up.’
Mr van Borsele hadn’t said a word; he pushed open a door and stood aside for Claribel to go into the room beyond: a charming room, high ceilinged with a bow window at one end. The walls were panelled and it was furnished most comfortably with armchairs and with a large sofa on either side of the fireplace. Small wine tables, some with lighted lamps, were scattered around, and a mahogany break-front bookcase with glass doors stood against one wall. There were flowers, too, and some charming pieces of china; a beautiful room, she decided, admiring the brocade curtains at the window.