by Betty Neels
Just before she went to sleep that night she thought drowsily that Marc van Borsele certainly knew how to take a girl out in style. She smacked her lips at the memory of the mousse and went happily to sleep.
On their way to Tisbury the following morning she asked him rather diffidently if he would like to lunch at her home, but he declined with reluctance; she was told his sister was expecting him and, since she wouldn’t be seeing him for some time, he had promised to spend the day with her and her husband and the baby, adding that he intended leaving towards the end of the week.
‘And you are still adamant in refusing to come with me?’ he asked.
‘Well, of course I am. I can’t leave my job at a moment’s notice.’
‘In that case, give in your notice tomorrow and I’ll come over for you.’
She turned in her seat to look at him. ‘Just for once,’ she told him severely, ‘you’re not going to have your own way. I’ve helped you because I said I would, but that’s the lot.’
He said mildly, ‘You could take your holidays; I’m sure dear Miss Flute could contrive to let you go—family affairs, or something like that.’
She said stubbornly, ‘It’s no use; it’s a good job and I have to work.’
It was very disconcerting when he agreed cheerfully and suggested that they should stop for coffee.
He didn’t say another word about his suggestion, but spent ten minutes talking to her mother and father, warned her to be ready by seven o’clock that evening and drove away, leaving her feeling dreary and deprived, but of what she had no idea.
That Claribel was distraite was obvious to Mrs Brown but she didn’t remark upon it; her beautiful daughter was up to something or other, and Mrs Brown hoped fervently that the something was to do with Marc van Borsele. It was most fortunate that Sebastian was coming home for the day: the brother and sister were close and she might unburden herself to him.
But she didn’t. She was delighted to see him, they exchanged outrageous stories, teased each other and argued amicably, but somehow Mr van Borsele wasn’t mentioned. Not until the afternoon as they sat at tea did Claribel let fall the information that she was being given a lift by someone from the hospital.
‘Who?’ asked Sebastian. ‘Some callow medical student?’
‘Well I dare say he was years ago, although it’s hard to think of him as such. He’s one of the consultants; divides his time between Jerome’s and some hospital or other in Holland.’
Sebastian sat up. ‘He’s not by any chance called van Borsele?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Only, my dear sister, you’ve hooked one of the cleverest and most famous orthopaedic men there is around. I say, is he coming here?’
‘Well, of course. Why all the fuss? He’s got a bad temper and he likes his own way.’
‘Don’t we all? He’s a real workaholic, too.’
‘He dances very nicely,’ observed Claribel demurely.
To all of which conversation her mother listened with the greatest satisfaction.
Mr van Borsele arrived punctually, accepting a mug of coffee from Mrs Brown, shook hands with Mr Brown and Sebastian and nodded casually to Claribel. There was nothing loverlike about the nod, nor did Claribel evince any sign of delight at the sight of him; Mrs Brown was quite put out. She felt better after they had gone, though; Sebastian, sitting on the kitchen table while she got the supper, remarked idly, ‘So our old Clari has succumbed at last.’
Mrs Brown stopped beating eggs to look at him. ‘What do you mean, dear?’
‘Why, Mother, it’s as plain as the nose on my face; they’re in love.’
Mrs Brown brightened visibly. ‘You really think so? But he hardly speaks to her when she is fetched and Claribel is quite offhand.’
‘Clari hasn’t discovered it yet and he’s far too clever to do anything about it.’ He helped himself to a slice of bread from the loaf on the table. ‘You mark my words, Mother dear, we’ve got a romance on our hands.’
There was nothing romantic about Mr van Borsele’s manner as they drove back to London. He talked intermittently about nothing much, and as for Claribel, she said hardly a word. She had given the matter a good deal of thought and was feeling, surprisingly enough, mean. Mr van Borsele had treated her generously, even if for his own ends, and she had refused to listen to his plans. They were silly plans, she considered, but she could have refused nicely, let him down gently… She waited for him to mention them again but he had nothing to say on the subject; he saw her and the cats into the flat, declined her offer of coffee with friendly casualness, and drove off. Not a word about meeting her again. She told herself that that was just what she wanted; she was sick and tired of him turning up at all hours and demanding coffee… That this wasn’t in the least true didn’t bother her; she wasn’t in the mood to feel well disposed towards him.
‘I hope I never see him again,’ she told the cats, happily unaware that fate was about to take a hand in her affairs.
Physio was busier than usual in the morning and, besides, there were several more patients on the wards to be treated, but other than her usual morning session with little Rita, Claribel was kept in the department. Mrs Green had gone to Out-patients, and Miss Flute had gone to the orthopaedic wards to accompany Mr van Borsele’s round. Claribel worked her way steadily through a variety of broken limbs, frozen shoulders and arthritic knees while Tilly and Pat, at the far end of the department, dealt with an enormously stout and heavy man learning to walk after a severely fractured leg.
Claribel, bidding goodbye to a tough young man with a torn knee ligament, heaved a sigh of relief; Miss Flute would be back in another ten minutes and so would Mrs Green, unless Mr van Borsele chose to be extra long-winded; they would take it in turns to have their coffee and get their breath before working on until their lunch break. Mrs Snow, still cheerfully unable to use her arm as she should, was her next patient. She came trotting in, chatty as ever, and began peeling off the various garments she still found necessary despite the fact that it was quite a warm day and summer was well advanced. But presently, with her felt hat still firmly on her head, she sat down, put her arm on the cushioned table and settled for a cosy chat while Claribel took her through her exercises. She was in the middle of a saga concerning the neighbour’s daughter and her goings-on when Claribel caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Pat and Tilly were disappearing through the far door, supporting their patient to the waiting ambulance; the movement had come from the other end. She turned to look sideways to the waiting-room in time to see a man stoop to put a carrier bag between the benches.
‘Just a tick,’ she begged Mrs Snow, then hurried into the waiting-room, but the man had disappeared and there was no one else there. The bag was, though, wedged so that she couldn’t get at it. Someone leaving something quite harmless for a patient who had perhaps not yet arrived? One of the workmen around the hospital leaving tools for later on? Or a bomb?
It seemed a bit silly to telephone the porter’s lodge; perhaps she was over-reacting, and she was going to look an awful fool if it turned out to be someone’s shopping. All the same, she explained to Begg, the head porter, and asked if he would notify whoever ought to know.
Mr van Borsele, head and shoulders thrust though the lodge’s small window, writing a note to his registrar, looked up at Begg’s worried, ‘Does it look like a bomb, Miss Brown?’
He removed his head and shoulders and went to stand by Begg. ‘Trouble?’ he asked without any appearance of anxiety.
‘There’s Miss Brown, down in physio, says she glimpsed a man go into the waiting-room and leave a parcel. She went to investigate and can’t move it. It’s a plastic shopping bag; she says it’s wedged tightly, and should anyone be told?’
Mr van Borsele took the phone from him. ‘Claribel? Have you any patients there with you? One? Get out, both of you, as fast as you can. It may be nothing at all to worry about, but let us take precautions. Warn anyone nearby to get well cle
ar. I’ll see that the right people know. Now leave, fast.’
‘Begg, give the alarm then get the police; you know the drill.’ Mr van Borsele was already disappearing at a rippling pace through the hospital entrance. Once outside he ran; the physiotherapy department was to one side of the hospital, built on to one wing. He went to the far door and saw Claribel, hurrying Mrs Snow towards him…
Claribel had wasted no time; Marc had sounded urgent but unflurried. She had shot back to Mrs Snow, sitting at her ease, with her shoes off, in order to ease her corns.
‘We have to leave at once, Mrs Snow,’ she had said as calmly as she could. ‘There’s a suspicious parcel in the waiting-room.’ She had no need to explain; everyone knew about bombs in plastic bags these days. ‘We must be quick…’
Mrs Snow had bent to her shoes. ‘Oh, if you say so, ducks. You’ll ’ave ter wait while I get my feet back in, though.’
Claribel had caught up the various garments scattered around her patient. ‘Never mind putting them on,’ she had said urgently. ‘We can do that outside.’
Her voice had been drowned by the hospital alarm sounding the pre-arranged signal in case of dire emergency, and at the same time she had seen Mr van Borsele racing towards them.
He was within feet of them when the bomb went off, so that she didn’t hear his roared warning to get down. She wasn’t sure, thinking about it later, if it was the explosion or Mr van Borsele’s considerable weight on top of her and Mrs Snow which knocked the breath from her and left her head spinning. It seemed to her that the entire hospital was disintegrating about them, although, since the bomb had been a small one, it was only the physiotherapy department which was torn apart, subsiding into piles of debris. By some miracle they escaped the worst of it. True, lumps of ceiling plaster, torn and twisted equipment, tattered remnants of curtains and broken chairs and stools and landed on them, but their effect had been deadened by the burst pillows from the couches which had more or less smothered them.
Mr van Borsele rose cautiously to his feet, his beautiful suit covered by feathers, bundles of curtain bits and a great deal of plaster. He was rather pale but his voice was calm. ‘Let’s get out of here, shall we?’
He pulled Claribel to her feet and put an arm around her. She was white and dazed and all she wanted to do was to cling to him and bury her head in his shoulder. ‘Hold hard,’ he told her in a matter-of-fact voice, and stopped to help Mrs Snow to her feet.
‘Me ’at,’ said Mrs Snow urgently, ‘and me shoes! Drat them blessed bombs.’
Given some chance she would have searched for them but Mr van Borsele said firmly, ‘Out of here, as quick as you can,’ and caught her by the arm and urged her over the rubble towards the further door.
Claribel was feeling peculiar; she had lost her shoes and there was a warm trickle of something down one leg; she had a fearful headache and all she really wanted to do was to lie down somewhere and go to sleep. She muttered such wishes aloud, to be answered by Mr van Borsele’s, ‘Later. Let’s get you outside first.’ He added sternly, ‘And do remember that we have a patient with us.’
‘Heartless brute,’ Claribel mumbled, but she stumbled along beside him, half listening to the rumblings and grumblings of the ruin around her as it settled.
She became aware that there were other people around them. Deft hands reached out to help them and she was dimly aware of Mrs Snow’s indignant voice going on about her hat. Mr van Borsele’s voice, unhurried and quiet, penetrating her dimmed wits. ‘Mrs Snow, tomorrow I promise I will gladly call upon you and take you to buy a hat and shoes. You are a very plucky lady; I’m proud to know you.’
At this point Claribel was regrettably sick, and was conscious of Mr van Borsele’s firm hand on her forehead. ‘I bet you’re not so proud to know me,’ she said loudly, and hardly noticed when he picked her up and laid her on one of the trolleys being rushed from the accident room.
She was dimly aware once more of people doing things, but their voices were far away and she couldn’t be bothered to open her eyes and look at them while they peeled off her clothes, cleaned her up, examined the long scratch on one leg and warded her. She slept soundly once she had been put to bed and, being young and strong, when she woke up some hours later she felt perfectly all right.
‘I’ll go home,’ she told the nurse who came to look at her. ‘You must be busy enough and there is nothing wrong with me.’
‘I’ll fetch Sister.’ The nurse smiled at her and slid away and a moment later Sister came, and with her Mr van Borsele, looking immaculate, not a hair out of place.
He stood looking down at her. ‘Feeling better? I’m afraid I knocked all the wind out of you. You want to go to your flat? There’s no reason why you shouldn’t but be good enough to stay quietly there tomorrow, in bed if you wish. Miss Flute asked me to tell you that she’ll be round to see how you are in the morning. Don’t worry about coming to work—they are arranging to transfer the physio patients to Clem’s and St Giles.’
‘No work,’ she repeated. Despite her pale face she looked quite beautiful sitting up in a theatre gown several sizes too large for her, her hair in a golden tangle. ‘Oh. I suppose I’ll go to either Clem’s or St Giles’…’
He smiled. ‘I believe the physio staff are to go on protracted leave.’ His smiled widened and she stared up at him. ‘So you’ll be able to come to Holland with me after all, Claribel.’
She gaped at him, taken by surprise and conscious of Sister’s interest. Before she could say anything, he said to that lady, ‘Claribel has been invited to stay with a member of my family in Holland. It will be an ideal break for her—just what she needs now after this—er—upheaval.’
Claribel cast him a fulminating look which he returned with a bland smile. He had her cornered; to manage to explain to Sister was impossible and now, in less than no time, the entire hospital would know that she was going to Holland with him. Perhaps there would be no snide asides; he was respected and liked and the general opinion was that he was a widower. He was aware of this surmise and had never chosen to correct it. Now the hospital grapevine would conclude that he intended to take a wife, and who better than Claribel Brown, who was a nice girl anyway?
She watched him go with a smouldering eye while Sister tripped along beside him, dying to spread the news.
Angry tears filled her eyes, but she brushed them away as Miss Flute came briskly down the ward and stopped beside her bed.
‘Pat has gone to your flat to get you some clothes, dear. You are sure you feel all right? You had a very bad shock.’
‘It was rather. Miss Flute, were there many people hurt, and is the damage bad?’
‘Half a dozen with cuts and bruises—a miracle that there wasn’t more damage. Physio’s wiped out though.’ She repeated what Mr van Borsele had already said and added, ‘They don’t want us at Clem’s or St Giles’, at least not for some weeks—they plan to put up a temporary extension for us. Our place will have to be re-built and equipped of course—it will take months.’
She patted Claribel on the shoulder. ‘We’re to have paid leave for at least a month; by then they will have sorted things out. I’m coming to see how you are in the morning, so don’t go rushing around, there’s a dear girl. We found your bag, or rather the remains of it. Pat took your keys; she’ll be along soon.’
‘Is Mrs Snow all right?’
‘She was taken to the accident room and given a check-up and then driven home. She was keen to know if you were all right and was full of Mr van Borsele’s promise that he would buy her a hat and shoes. What a kind man he is, and so resourceful.’ She glanced at Claribel’s face. ‘Well, I’ll be off home; everyone’s settled down again. There’s a frightful mess outside, of course, but the hospital itself is back to normal. They’re looking for the man; the police want to see you after you get to the flat. Will you be all right?’
Claribel nodded and Miss Flute left.
Pat came up with her clothes very shortly after
wards. Claribel dressed and, with Sister as an escort went down to the entrance. Almost there she said hesitantly, ‘I think I’d better have a taxi, Sister, if someone could phone for one?’
‘No need, you are being taken home, my dear.’
They had reached the entrance hall and Claribel saw Mr van Borsele sitting on a windowsill, reading a newspaper. He folded it up, put it away and came to meet them. ‘Quite ready?’ he asked in a voice nicely balanced between casual and concerned.
She stopped beside him. ‘Yes, but I’m quite able to go home in a taxi…’
‘I’m sure you are, but the police want to interview you and I think it might be a good idea if someone from this hospital was there as well.’
She stood undecided. ‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.’
Sister said firmly, ‘You go along with Mr van Borsele, dear—he is quite right, someone ought to be with you.’
Claribel said, ‘Yes, Sister,’ meekly and got just as meekly into the Rolls. To tell the truth, she still felt not quite herself and the idea of having to answer a host of questions filled her with quite unreasoning fright.
Mr van Borsele didn’t utter a word as he drove her to Meadow Road. When they reached the flat he took her key from her, opened the door, urged her inside and then followed her. The cats rushed to meet them and she bent to stroke them, and then sat down quickly because she felt giddy.
Mr van Borsele had gone at once to put on the kettle and, still without speaking, he fed the cats, made the tea and brought her a cup. She took it with a hand which she was ashamed to see still shook a little, which made her so cross she said snappily, ‘It doesn’t seem to have bothered you at all, being bombed.’
He said mildly, ‘Well, you know, men aren’t supposed to show their feelings on these regrettable occasions.’ He added with a smile, ‘I was scared stiff.’
Her peevishness dissolved. ‘Oh, were you? No one would have known.’ And then, ‘How much do you weight?’
‘Very nearly fifteen stones. I hope I didn’t hurt you too much.’ He sat opposite her, very much at his ease, sipping his tea.