by Betty Neels
Mr der Linssen had other plans. He helped her neatly into the Panther and drove gently through the evening traffic, chatting about this and that. It wasn’t until she saw that they were going down the Brompton Road that she stirred uneasily in her comfortable seat. ‘Knightsbridge?’ she queried doubtfully. ‘I’m not dressed...’
‘The Brompton Grill.’ His voice reassured her, and she was still further reassured when they reached the restaurant and she saw that many of the tables were occupied by people dressed like themselves. Not, she decided, casting a sideways glance at her companion, that she was wearing anything to equal Mr der Linssen’s beautifully cut suit. She forgot all that presently; the sherry he ordered for her sharpened her appetite, for she had skipped supper, and she agreed happily to caviar and toast for starters, Poussin en Cocotte to follow and a lemon syllabub to round off these delicacies, while her companion enjoyed a carpet-bag steak followed by the cheese board. And all the while her host carried on a gentle conversation about nothing at all.
But over coffee he suddenly asked briskly: ‘And how are you getting on, Lucy? Your Finals are not so far off, are they? Have you any plans?’
She eyed him over the table and shook her head.
‘Perhaps you plan to get married?’ He sounded casual.
‘Me? No.’
‘I rather thought that Willem fancied you.’
She poured them each more coffee. ‘Did Mies tell you that?’
He gave her a little mocking smile. ‘My dear Lucy, I have eyes in my head and I might remind you that I’ve been around for quite a while.’
It was difficult to know what to say, so she decided not to say anything but asked instead: ‘Are you and Mies going to get married?’
He dropped the lids over his eyes so that she couldn’t see their expression. His face was so bland that she said quickly: ‘No, don’t answer, I can see that you aren’t going to anyway...’
‘You haven’t answered me, either, Lucy.’
She frowned and he went on: ‘It’s difficult to lie when you’re an honest person, isn’t it?’
She threw him a startled look. ‘Yes. You were very rude after the lecture. I don’t understand you at all, Mr der Linssen. Here you are taking me out to dinner and yet you looked right through me only an hour ago.’ She went pink as she spoke, remembering that he had once said that he tried not to see her.
He studied her face before he spoke. ‘I wonder what Sister Tutor would have said if I had—er—greeted you with any degree of familiarity? I thought it best to keep to our roles of nurse and lecturer, and as for taking you out to dinner, did I not tell you that Mies made me promise to do so?’
Indignation almost choked her, but she managed an: ‘Of course, stupid of me to have forgotten.’ She put down her coffee cup. ‘Would you please take me back now? It was a delicious dinner, thank you. You’ll be able to tell Mies that you did exactly as she asked.’
He looked surprised. ‘Now what on earth?...ah, I see, I put that very badly, did I not?’
Her eyes glowed green. ‘No—you’re like me, you find it difficult to tell lies. I should have hated it if you’d said how much you’d enjoyed meeting me again.’
He didn’t answer her, only lifted a finger for the bill, paid it, helped her into her coat and accompanied her out to the car. Driving back he asked quite humbly: ‘You won’t believe me if I told you that I have enjoyed every moment of this evening?’
‘No, I won’t.’ That sounded a little bald, so she added kindly: ‘There’s no need, you know. I think it was nice of you to take me out just because Mies wanted you to.’ They were turning into the hospital forecourt. ‘Will you give her my love, please? It was a lovely holiday—and Willem—will you give him...’ she hesitated, ‘my regards?’
He got out to open her door and she held out a hand. ‘I hope you have a good journey back,’ she observed politely, and then a little rush because she had only just remembered: ‘How is the cat?’
‘In splendid shape—you wouldn’t recognise him, he has become so portly.’
‘You were very kind to him.’ She tugged at her hand which he was still absent-mindedly holding, but he didn’t let it go.
‘Kinder than I have been to you, Lucilla.’
She tugged again and this time he let her hand go. ‘You’ve been very kind,’ she repeated, longing for poise and an ability to turn a clever sentence. ‘I must go.’
He caught her so close that the squeak of surprise she let out was buried in his waistcoat. ‘I almost forgot,’ his hand came up and lifted her chin gently: ‘I had to give you this from Mies.’
She had never been kissed like that before. When he released her she stood staring at him blankly until he turned her round, opened the door and popped her through it. Even when he had shut it gently behind her she went on standing there until the warden, muttering to herself, came out of her little flat by the office to ask what Lucy thought she was doing. ‘Gone midnight,’ stated the lady. ‘I don’t know what you girls are coming to, coming in at all hours—no wonder you never pass your exams!’
Lucy turned to look at her, not having heard a word. ‘It was a lovely evening,’ she said, and added: ‘But of course, he didn’t mean the last bit.’ She smiled at the warden, tutting and muttering by her door. ‘Have you ever been kissed, Miss Peek?’
She didn’t wait for that lady’s outraged answer, but wandered off up the stairs and into her room where she undressed, got her clean uniform ready for the morning and went along to lie in far too hot a bath while she tried to sort out her thoughts. But she was tired and they refused to be sorted; she gave up in the end and went to bed to fall at once into a dreamless sleep, so deep that she missed the night nurse’s rap on her door and only had time to swallow a cup of tea and half of Chris’s toast on her way to the ward.
As the day advanced her common sense reasserted itself. Fraam der Linssen had gone again and probably she wouldn’t see him any more, and he had done just what Mies had asked him to do, hadn’t he? Perhaps he had pretended that he was kissing Mies. Lucy let out a great sigh and Maureen, having her neat little wound re-sprayed, giggled. ‘What’s up?’ she wanted to know. ‘You look as though you’d had your purse stolen.’
Lucy laughed. ‘That would be no great loss; it’s two weeks to pay day.’
If secretly she had hoped to see Fraam again, she was to be disappointed; he had disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived and although she wrote to Mies later in that week, she took care not to ask about him, only made a lighthearted reference to his visit and that very brief. She didn’t mention his visit when she went home, though; her mother, like all mothers, would read romance into a dinner à deux; there was plenty to talk about anyway, for on that particular trip home her brothers and sisters were all there too. They all teased her a great deal, of course, but being the youngest girl she came in for a little spoiling too. The weather had turned uncommonly cold too; they went for long walks, breathing the frosty air and the smell of bonfires and windfall apples rotting in the orchards, and in the evening they sat round a fire, roasting chestnuts and cracking the cobnuts they had picked on their walks. The days had never gone by so quickly. Lucy went back to St Norbert’s with the greatest reluctance, only cheered by the thought that she would be returning in three weeks’ time; she had five days’ holiday still to come and Sister Ellis, always fair to her nurses, had promised that she should add them to her days off so that she would have a whole week at home. She would have to do some studying, of course, but most of the day would be hers in which to potter round the Rectory, drive into Beaminster for the shopping and help her father with the more distant of his parish visits.
These simple pleasures were something to look forward to; she reminded herself of them each day as she did the dressings, urged unwilling patients to get out of their beds when they didn’t want to and urge
d those who wanted to and weren’t in a fit state to do so to remain in bed for yet another day. The old lady was back too; she had been discharged to a convalescent home, but her condition had worsened and she was in her old bed in the corner by Sister’s office, and this time there would be no going to the convalescent home or anywhere else. The nurses quietly spoilt her—extra cups of tea, the best books when the library lady came round, a bottle of Lucozade on the locker because she had faith in its strengthening properties and a constant stream of cheerful talk from whoever was passing her bed. She appreciated it all, making little jokes and never complaining, and during the last few days, when she was drowsy from the drugs to ease her, she would manage to stay awake long enough to whisper some small word of thanks. She died very quietly the day before Lucy was due to go on holiday, holding her hand while Lucy talked calmly about this and that until there was no need to talk any more. Sometimes, thought Lucy, going off duty, nursing was more than she could bear, and yet perhaps that had been the best way. The old lady had had no family and no friends, she might have gone on living in a lonely bedsitter with no one to mind what happened to her. Lucy, a tender-hearted girl, had a good weep in the bath and then, a little red-eyed, packed ready for her holiday.
CHAPTER SIX
THE OLDER MEMBERS of her father’s parish had told Lucy that it would be a severe winter, and she had no reason to doubt their words as she left St Norbert’s very early the next morning. The bus was crowded and cold and the sky hung, an ugly grey, over the first rush of earlier commuters. Lucy, going the other way, found Waterloo surprisingly empty once the streams of passengers coming to work had ended their race out of the station. She had ten minutes before the train left; breakfastless, she bought herself a plastic beaker of tea, which, while tasting of nothing, warmed her up. She had just enough time to buy some chocolate before the train left; she munched it up, tucked her small person into the corner seat in the almost empty carriage and went to sleep.
The guard woke her as the train drew in to Crewkerne and she skipped on to the platform, refreshed and ravenous, to find her father deep in conversation with the doctor from Beaminster, on his way to London. She was greeted fondly by her parent and with a friendly pat on the back from the doctor who had known her from her childhood. Both gentlemen then finished their conversation at some length while Lucy stood between them, her head full of pots of tea, home-made cakes and the cheese straws her mother always kept on the top shelf of the cupboard. She promised herself that she would eat the lot—if only she could get to them.
In the car at last her father observed apologetically: ‘Doctor Banks and I were discussing Shirley Stevens—young Ted’s wife, you know. She’s expecting her first child very shortly and he’s trying to get her into hospital a few days earlier. They’re very isolated and even in good weather the lane is no place for an ambulance.’
‘There’s the district nurse,’ offered Lucy helpfully.
‘Yes, dear, but she has her days off, you know, and when she’s on duty she has an enormous area to cover—she might not be available.’
‘Where does Doctor Banks hope to get a bed?’
‘Wherever there’s one in his area. He’s gone to London to some meeting or other. He’ll try Yeovil on the way back; Crewkerne say they can’t take her before the booked date.’
‘Poor Shirley,’ said Lucy, ‘let’s hope he’s lucky at Yeovil—there’s Bridport, of course.’
‘Fully booked.’ He turned the car into the Rectory drive. ‘Here we are. I daresay you’re hungry, Lucilla.’
She said ‘Yes, Father,’ with admirable restraint and rushed into the kitchen. Her mother was there, preparing vegetables, so were the cheese straws. Lucy, with her mouth full, sat on the kitchen table, stuffing her delicate frame while she answered her mother’s questions about the journey, her need for a good meal and whether she had been busy at the hospital. But her usual catechism was lacking, and Lucy, who had been looking forward to tell all about her dinner with Fraam der Linssen, felt quite let down.
But not for long; over a late breakfast the three of them discussed her week’s holiday and there was more than enough to fill it; a whist drive at the Village Hall, the W.R.V.S. meeting and how providential that Lucy should be home because the speaker was ill and she could act as substitute. ‘First Aid,’ murmured her mother helpfully, ‘or something, dear, it’s only for half an hour, I’m sure you’ll be splendid.’
‘Me? Mother, I’ve forgotten it all.’ A statement which called forth amused smiles from her parents as they passed on to the delights of country dancing on Thursday evenings.
It was lovely to be home again, free to do exactly as she pleased and yet following the simple routine of the Rectory because she had been born and brought up to it. There was no hardship in getting up early in the morning when she could go straight out into the country for a walk if she was so inclined, something she combined with errands for her father in the other parishes, the distribution of the parish magazine and visits to the ladies who took it in turns to do the flowers in the little Norman church. The week slid away, each day faster than the last; the First Aid lecture was pronounced a rattling success, she won the booby prize at the whist drive and spent an energetic evening dancing the Lancers and Sir Roger de Coverley and the Barn Dance, partnered by a local farm hand, who proved himself a dab hand at all of them. She woke the next morning to the realisation that it was her last but one day. On Sunday she would have to go back and, worse, in six weeks’ time she was due for a move. Women’s Surgical had been busy, but she had been happy working there. Ten to one, she told herself, tearing into slacks and a sweater, I’ll be sent to that awful Men’s Medical. But she forgot all that; it was a cold day with lowering skies again and everyone in the village forecast snow; just the weather for a walk, she decided, and armed with sandwiches, set off for an outlying farm where there was an old lady, bedridden now, but still someone to be reckoned with. She liked her weekly visit from the Rector, but today Lucy was to fill his place; there was urgent business at the other end of the wide-flung parish and he couldn’t be in two places at once.
She enjoyed the walk. The ground was hard with frost and there was no wind at all, although as she gained higher ground she heard it sighing and howling somewhere behind the hills. And the sky had darkened although it was barely noon. She hurried a little, her anorak pulled cosily close round her glowing face, her slacks stuffed into wellingtons. She would eat her sandwiches with the old lady and make tea for them both, since the men would all be out until two o’clock or later; they would be getting the cattle in, she guessed, against the threatening weather.
The farmhouse was large and in a bad state of repair. But it was still warm inside and the furniture was solid and comfortable. Old Mrs Leach was in her usual spot, by the fire in the roomy kitchen, sitting in a Windsor chair, her rheumaticky knees covered by a patchwork rug. She greeted Lucy brusquely and after complaining that it was the Rector she liked to see, not some chit of a girl, allowed Lucy to make tea and ate some of her sandwiches. The small meal mellowed her a little; she treated Lucy to a lengthy complaint about non-laying chickens, straying sheep and the difficulties of making ends meet. Lucy listened politely. She had heard it before, several times, and beyond a murmur now and again, said nothing. Mrs Leach was very old and got confused; she had never accepted the fact that her grandson who now ran the farm was making it pay very well, but persisted in her fancy that they were all on the edge of disaster. She dropped off presently and Lucy cleared away their meal and washed up, then put a tray of tea ready. The grandson’s wife would be back from Beaminster shortly and the old lady liked a cup of tea. She sat down again then and waited for Mrs Leach to wake up before bidding her goodbye and starting off home again.
She wasn’t surprised to see that it was snowing, and worse, that the wind had risen. The countryside, already thinly blanketed in white, looked quite differe
nt and although it was warmer now, the wind, blowing in gusts and gathering strength with each one, was icy. Lucy was glad to see the village presently and gave a sigh of content as she gained the warmth of the kitchen where she took off her wet things and went to find her parents, the thought of tea uppermost in her mind.
It was already dusk when Lucy went into the kitchen to get tea; an unnaturally early dusk by reason of the snow, whirling in all directions before a fierce wind. They hadn’t had a blizzard for years, she remembered, and hoped there wasn’t going to be one now. The howl of the wind answered her thought and when she went to peer through the window she had the uneasy feeling that the weather was going to worsen. She carried in the tea tray and put it on the lamp table by her mother’s chair, then went to find her father. His study was at the end of a long draughty passage and the wind sounded even louder.
He looked up as she went in, observing mildly: ‘Bad weather, I’m afraid, Lucy. If this snow persists there will be a good many people cut off, I’m afraid.’
They had their tea by the fire, in the cosy, shabby sitting room, while Lucy made a list of parishioners who might need help if the weather got really bad. She finished the list over her last cup of tea, handed it to her father and went off to the kitchen again with the tray, saying cheerfully as she went: ‘I don’t suppose it will be needed...there aren’t any emergencies around, are there?’
She was wrong, of course; she was drying the last of the delicate fluted china which had belonged to her grandmother when there was an urgent banging on the kitchen door, and when she opened it Ted Stevens, one of the farm hands at Lockett’s Farm, rushed in, bringing with him a good deal of snow and wind.