by Betty Neels
The Professor made no effort to rejoin Wilfred, but stood where she had left him, going over their conversation. It hadn't been the one he had intended, and despite Sarah's remarks about her future they hadn't rung quite true in his ears. He had wished her goodbye, but he had no intention of keeping to that. Now he knew where she was it would be easy enough to keep an eye on her. He strolled towards the garage where Wilfred was waiting for him. Sarah had somehow wormed her way into his orderly life, and he found it disquieting that she was a perpetual worry to him. What was more, he didn't consider young Fitzgibbon a suitable husband for her. He waited for the feeling of relief her news should have engendered in him, and felt merely a rising sense of annoyance.
"I have never met such a tiresome girl," he muttered as he came in sight of the patient Wilfred.
Driving back to London, he edged the talk round to the subject of Sarah. "Quite some surprise for you meeting her like that," he observed casually. "You must have been delighted to see her again."
Wilfred, anxious to please, made the reply he thought was expected of him. "Oh, rather, sir. Though I must say I was a bit put out to see her working like that. I mean, it just isn't her scene. Mind you, she could turn her hand to most things and is splendid at running a house and so on. She did it all when her father was alive before he married again, that is."
The Professor murmured encouragingly and Wilfred went on, glad to have something to talk about with this man, who, although he wouldn't admit it even to himself, rather intimidated him.
"She'll make a splendid wife." He didn't see the Professor's quick frown. "Just the kind of girl to encourage a man on his way up the ladder. Oh, well, I don't suppose it will be long before she leaves that job and settles down." He felt a rush of brotherly affection for Sarah. "I shall do my best to persuade her," he declared largely.
The Professor had thought that Sarah might have been exaggerating, but now he had heard her story corroborated, something which should on the face of things have pleased him. But he felt no pleasure, only a mounting feeling of annoyance that her future appeared to be settled without any help from him.
He dropped Wilfred off at the hospital with the remark that he would see him in the morning, and drove himself home where he brooded over his dinner, was terse with Brindle and sat up far too late with Trotter for company. He was an abstemious man, but he had drunk rather too much whisky before he went at last to his bed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SARAH settled down to the rather monotonous round of her day's work. She had made up her mind to be sensible-brooding over something she could never have wouldn't help at all. She resolved not to think about the Professor at all, but despite this he was there, inside her head for all her waking hours, and if she dreamed, it was of him. Nevertheless, she persevered, and on her day off, if it fell on a weekday, she took herself off to Bedford. There were some good shops there, and she began to spend some, at least, of her money, laying it out carefully, replenishing a wardrobe which was woefully scanty. After her shopping she took herself off to a restaurant and had lunch. It was lonely, but she had become used to that over the years.
Of the Professor there was no sign, and she told herself that that was a good thing. Out of sight, out of mind, she reminded herself over and over again and, so that she wouldn't have time to sit and think, she worked rather harder than she needed to. She became a little thin and seemed pale, despite the lovely weather, but there was nothing wrong with her work. Cork, discussing her with Mrs. Legge, gave it as his opinion that despite her cheerful appearance she was unhappy. "Not the kind of young woman to show it, Mrs. Legge," he stated, "nor the kind of young woman to be asked what is up, if you see what I mean." He drank the tea Mrs. Legge offered him. "Of course, this isn't her accompaniment."
Mrs. Legge, who wasn't quite sure what accompaniment meant, nodded her head wisely. "Indeed not, Mr. Cork. You are a very discerning man, if I may say so."
The Professor, when he arrived to take lunch with his Aunt Beatrice on the following day, proved to be just as discerning. One brief look at Sarah's face allowed him to see that something was wrong. He had noted with approval on his previous visits that her small person had achieved a pleasing plumpness and that her pale London face had become healthy and pink, but now the pink had faded and she had become thin. She was probably hankering after young Fitzgibbon, in which case he supposed he would have to take a hand in their affairs. There were flats around the hospital where the married doctors could live. No doubt he could arrange things so that the next one to come empty should go to the boy, and he and Sarah could marry. In that event, he himself would be able to keep an eye on her. The Professor, no longer in a state to order his thoughts, found nothing strange in this idea. Before he went back to London, he would contrive to have a word with her. He had seen her only briefly when he had arrived, and it was Parsons who served lunch with Cork, but an opportunity would have to be made.
As it turned out, the opportunity presented itself without any effort on his part. As they sat chatting by the open doors of the drawingroom after lunch, Lady Wesley said, "While you are here, Radolf, would you take a look at Fletcher? Mrs. Legge tells me that she is getting rather thin, and although she works very hard and gives every satisfaction, she remains pale and quiet. Possibly she is anaemic and needs a tonic?"
Never having suffered anything more serious than a heavy cold in the head, Lady Wesley was out of date regarding medical matters. "A tonic?" she repeated. "My mother always kept a bottle of tonic for the servants."
The Professor looked at his relation with mild affection and well-concealed amusement. Like so many comfortably placed people, while not stinting herself in any way, if it was possible to get something for nothing, she did so. His fees, if he cared to remind her, would probably give her a mild heart attack.
"Yes, of course I'll see her." He glanced at his watch. "I shall have to leave in about half an hour, so how about my taking a look at her now? You have your nap, don't you? I'll say goodbye and not disturb you when I leave. If there is anything seriously amiss I will let Mrs. Legge know."
"Thank you, Radolf. If you wouldn't mind going to Mrs. Legge's room? I'll send for Fletcher to go there."
So Sarah, sitting in the yard with Charles enjoying the sun and half-asleep, was summoned to go to Mrs. Legge's room and to look sharp about it. Since Parsons, who had been given the task of fetching her, had no idea why she was wanted, she was quite unprepared for the sight of the Professor engaged in conversation with the housekeeper.
Mrs. Legge addressed her in a no-nonsense voice. "Her ladyship has asked Professor Nauta to see you, Fletcher. I have been uneasy about you for the last week or so. You are not quite yourself, perhaps a tonic… The Professor will decide that." She glanced at him. "You said that you preferred to see Sarah alone, sir. I shall be in the servants' hall if you should need me."
The Professor opened the door for her, closed it gently behind her and stood leaning against it, looking at Sarah. "Let me set your mind at rest," he begged silkily. "My godmother cannot resist getting something for nothing, and since I am here and a doctor, she seized the opportunity to secure my services for free. I do not think that she is in the least worried about your health, but Mrs. Legge and Cork certainly are. Sit down and tell me what is wrong, Sarah, and remember that we are patient and doctor and nothing more."
She sat, and was glad to do so for her legs felt like jelly, but his explanation had given her time to pull herself together and she said quietly, "But I am not ill, Professor, indeed I am not…"
"Then there is something worrying you?" His voice was kind now, and gentle. "Trouble with your stepmother, perhaps?" When she shook her head he said, after a pause, "But you are unhappy; do you know, you remind me of Twelfth Night- "With a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like patience on a monument, smiling at grief."' And, when she looked at him, "She never told her love, did she? And I suspect you are in like case, Sarah?"
He watched the
colour flood over her pale face and sighed. Really, she was twenty-eight and surely old enough to sort out her own love life. She was sitting there looking not a day older than eighteen. He supposed that she and young Fitzgibbon had quarrelled-he would discover that easily enough, since Wilfred tended to look upon him as a god-like father confessor.
He said, "Lady Wesley and Mrs. Legge are of the opinion that you should be given a tonic. I cannot remember ever prescribing one, but since it is expected of me I shall write you up for a glass of Guinness with your dinner."
"I don't like it," said Sarah in a positive voice.
"Nevertheless you will drink it, Sarah, and I will reassure Mrs. Legge that you haven't fallen into a decline, and that you will recover your normal good spirits very shortly." He said, suddenly harsh, "And for heaven's sake, let this be the last time we meet."
She got up slowly. She had never felt so unhappy in her life before. She wanted to turn and run-to the other side of the world, as far away from her unhappiness as possible, only she couldn't do that. She felt numb and unable to think, let alone say anything. And what was there to say? Radolf didn't want to see her ever again, and that made sense. He was going to be married shortly and her heart would break. People laughed at broken hearts… She didn't look at him or speak, but opened the door and walked away on legs which didn't seem to belong to her any more.
As for the Professor, he spent five minutes with Mrs. Legge and then got into his car and drove himself back to London, in a thoroughly bad temper.
It was perhaps fortunate for his registrar and housemen that he was leaving on a short lecture tour the following day. It would take him to Birmingham, Edinburgh and Aberdeen, and when he returned he was flying out to the Middle East to join a consultation of learned gentlemen concerning the health of an oil magnate. Brindle, packing his bag for him, gave it as his opinion that a week or two in different surroundings would benefit everyone as well as the Professor, and Mrs. Brindle, eyeing the tasty meal returned to the kitchen half-eaten, agreed with him.
Sarah drank her Guinness with her dinner, but it was evident that it wasn't doing her much good. She became a little thinner and paler, even though she remained as cheerful as she always had been.
"It is my opinion," said Miss Mudd, drinking a genteel cup of tea with Mrs. Legge, "that the girl is in love."
"Such a quiet, plain little thing, too, but not lacking in backbone."
The two ladies nodded wisely to each other.
Sarah, unaware of their concern, did her work and got through her days as best she could. She supposed that given time she would get over the Professor, consign him to the very back of her mind and eventually forget him entirely, although just at the moment that seemed to be an impossibility.
The Professor returned, outwardly at least his usual coldly polite self, and, since he had a backlog of patients to deal with at the hospital as well as a formidable list of private patients to work his way through, he saw little of young Fitzgibbon out of working hours. He had been back a week or more before he found himself with ten minutes to spare and his young houseman with him.
"Any plans to get married yet?" he asked casually.
Wilfred beamed at him. "Well, sir, we would like to-I mean, we've settled our differences finally and of course we'll have to find somewhere to live. She wanted to go on working, but of course I can't allow that. Janet thinks I'm old-fashioned."
"Janet?" queried the Professor sharply.
"That's her name, sir. Janet Burrows-she's a staff nurse on the surgical side. We've known each other for a couple of years, and we've been waiting until I got started."
The look of mild interest on the Professor's face didn't waver, while he sternly suppressed surprised delight and at the same time rage against Sarah. He said, still casually, "Well, you are started now, aren't you? I believe that Dr Wilkinson is leaving in a couple of months. If you would like it, I think I could put in a good word for you."
Wilfred went scarlet with emotion. "Sir, could you really? I say, that would be splendid. We could get married-"
"That was the idea," said the Professor mildly. "You have eight or nine months still to work here, haven't you? Take my advice and try for a junior registrar's post in a smallish hospital. By the end of another year you should be capable of a GP's job at a health centre."
"I say, sir, you are good. My word, wait until Janet hears this."
The Professor glanced at his watch. "I can dispense with your services for half an hour. Be in Men's Medical at half-past five." He nodded and stalked away, and Wilfred took himself over to the surgical wing to find his Janet.
As for the Professor, he went along to his consulting-room at his clinic, shut the door and straight away sat down to think. He had a lot to think about, and his thoughts were wholly of Sarah. They were interrupted by the return of Wilfred, cock-a-hoop and bursting with gratitude, and the Professor gave up his daydreams for the moment and bent his sapient mind to the problems facing him in Men's Medical.
He returned home that evening, and Brindle took one look at his face and at once confided in Mrs. Brindle that whatever it was that had been upsetting the Professor had been dealt with satisfactorily, an opinion which was corroborated when he demolished the excellent dinner she had cooked for him and then took himself down to the kitchen to compliment her on it.
"Well, I never did," she told Brindle. "It can't be his job, for he can't go no higher, surely to goodness. He's in love."
They exchanged the kind of glance married couples exchange. "That nice young lady who came to lunch," said Mrs. Brindle, and smiled and nodded.
As for the Professor, he and Trotter went into his study where Trotter went instantly to sleep, and he dealt with the papers on his desk. Only then did he sit back and allow his thoughts to wander. He tried to remember how he had felt about Sarah when she had been working at the clinic, and came to the rueful conclusion that he hadn't felt anything at all. She had been the quiet, rather plain girl, with a surprisingly sharp tongue if she was put out, lovely eyes and pretty hair and a way of looking very directly at one…
Now he had to admit that she had become more important to him than anyone else in the world. The idea of a future without her wasn't to be borne. She had by some mysterious metamorphosis become more beautiful than anyone else he had ever encountered.
"How do you like the idea?" he asked Trotter, and stirred the dog gently with his foot. Trotter opened an eye, rumbled gently and closed it again. "You'll have to share her with Charles," the Professor reminded him.
Sarah, unaware of the future the Professor was planning for her, went to bed each evening and wept quietly into Charles' comforting fur, and each morning got up with the stern resolve not to think any more about him. An easy resolve to keep, as it happened, for Lady Wesley had invited guests for the weekend and was planning a party for her birthday. When Sarah heard about it, she plucked up the courage to ask Cork if she need go into the dining-room. "I almost let you down," she reminded him, "that time I nearly dropped the cheese. I suppose it's the smell of the food that makes me feel giddy, Mr. Cork."
Certainly, clumsiness at the dining table wouldn't do at all, Mr. Cork agreed. As it happened, Mrs. Willis was asking him only the other day if there was any casual work for her. "Cook can do with extra help in the kitchen, since there will be eighteen for dinner." He frowned importantly. "I will grant your request, Fletcher, for there is sense in it. A mishap at table would not do. But you will have to help serve this weekend. There are only three guests: Colonel and Mrs. Phelps and the Honourable Miss Bennett." He gave Sarah a severe look. "And see that you do your work well, Fletcher."
She thanked him, and went back to her vacuuming very relieved. The Professor would certainly be one of the guests at the birthday party, but if she was in the kitchen there would be no chance of encountering him. The weekend, made busy by the three elderly and somewhat demanding guests, passed uneventfully, and the household set about getting ready for the birt
hday party. There was to be a dinner for eighteen persons first, and then some forty or fifty guests for the evening. Sarah was very busy, running to and fro, fetching flowers for Miss Mudd who fancied herself as a disciple of Constance Spry, descending to the cellar to help Cork bring up the wines, pleasantly giving Cook a hand and polishing silver and glass. The caterers would deal with the evening's entertainment, but Cook had every intention of excelling herself with the dinner. There was furniture to move, the dining table to lengthen, sufficient linen to be brought down from the vast linen cupboard on the second floor and, since Sarah was quick on her feet and willing, it fell to her lot to trot up and down with whatever Mrs. Legge selected.
She was tired at the end of her day, but she welcomed that, for she had no time to think about the Professor-although she was aware that his image was firmly implanted at the back of her head and would never go away.
The summer weather was exceptional, and Lady Wesley's birthday dawned clear and sunny. Sarah, up early like everyone else in the house and on the run all day, was ready for her bed as the first of the guests arrived. The kitchen was uncomfortably warm, but at least it was a safe hiding-place.
Parsons, nipping down for a quick cup of tea before the gong sounded, reported the ladies' dresses, their hairstyles and any gossip she had overheard. "That Miss de Foe-Burgess is here, wearing red crepe-all wrong for her-and rolling her eyes at all the men. Professor Nauta's here too, looking ever so pleased with himself." She swallowed the rest of her tea and darted away again as the gong sounded and Sarah, under Cook's watchful eye, began to put the dishes in the food-lift. The dinner was a success, reported Cork, and he told Sarah to go up to the diningroom and clear the table. "Parsons is up there, and there's more than enough work for one."
So Sarah slid upstairs, looking carefully in all directions in case the Professor was lurking in a corner. But he wasn't. She gained the diningroom, helped Parsons and then, mindful of Mr. Cork's instructions nipped smartly across the back of the hall to the service door. The sight of a housemaid in a print dress and rather dishevelled as well would shock the guests, he had cautioned her. She gained the door and slid through, giving a last look round the hall as she did so. The Professor was at the other end of the hall, watching her. Too far away to see his expression, she felt an urge to run to him so great that she very nearly did just that. She whisked herself to her side of the green baize door, and wondered how she could possibly feel such a desire to go to him after he had hoped, so vehemently, that they wouldd never meet again.