by Betty Neels
‘They have to be turned once a day,’ explained Alec, and at her look hastened to add that it didn’t hurt a bit. ‘Not feeling squeamish, are you?’ he wanted to know anxiously. ‘The professor said you never turned a hair under any circumstances.’
‘Did he? No, I’m not squeamish, Alec, and it’s a marvellous thing to be able to do, isn’t it? He must be very clever. Do you operate?’
Alec looked pleased at her question. ‘Minor stuff—and I take my turn at scrubbing to assist.’
‘So one day you will be like Professor van Kessel?’
‘Can’t hope to reach his heights, but I’ll have a go at any rate. Come and see the prem ward then we’ll go and get something to eat before we go to the clinic.’
They ate beefburgers and chips and jam roly-poly pudding while Alec talked and she listened. They were firm friends by now, enjoying each other’s company.
Margo, absorbing information the way a sponge absorbed water, was a pleasant surprise to Alec. He had undertaken to escort Margo when the professor had asked him, resigned to a boring day, but she had turned out to be both intelligent and interested. A great girl, he reflected; never mind her plain face. And when she looked at you her eyes were magnificent...
The clinic was still crowded and very noisy. There was a short corridor at the far end, with doors on either side, and a constant flow of people going to and fro along it.
‘The consulting rooms,’ explained Alec. ‘The professor’s got the first one on this side, then there’s his registrar and the junior registrar and two more doctors at the end. The professor sees all the new patients and the serious cases, and also any of the children his team refer to him.’
‘But there must be hundreds here.’
‘Something like that—it seems more with all the screeching and bawling.’
‘I wish I could see him working...’
‘More than my life’s worth. There he is now, going along to see a child in the junior registrar’s room.’
Margo craned her neck. He looked different in a long white coat, with a stethoscope slung around his shoulders and a fistful of papers in one hand.
‘He looks so clever,’ she observed in a whisper.
‘Well, he is.’ Alec smiled at her. ‘He’ll come back presently; you’ll be able to see him better then.’
When he did return the professor saw them at once, standing to one side. Alec was saying something to Margo, who was smiling at him. They appeared to be on excellent terms. The professor frowned, feeling no pleasure at the sight, quite forgetting that the whole idea of bringing Margo to the hospital was so that she might meet one or two young men...
The pair of them stayed for some time, and then, when there was a mere handful of patients left, went back to the canteen once more to drink strong tea and eat currant buns.
‘You should train as a nurse,’ suggested Alec. ‘A children’s nurse.’
‘I’m too old,’ said Margo matter-of-factly. ‘I’m twenty-eight. Besides, I’m quite busy at home. It’s only a small village but there’s always something...’
‘You’re not too old. You don’t look as though you’re twenty-eight either,’ observed Alec generously. He added with a burst of candour, ‘The professor said you were a sensible girl, with no silly ideas, and I expected a kind of schoolteacher type, if you know what I mean. You’re not a bit like that—just the opposite. I dare say he was comparing you with some of his elegant lady-friends.’
Margo laughed with him, inwardly boiling with rage. How dared the professor describe her as a schoolteacher, and a sensible one too? If she didn’t love him so much she would hate him. If that’s what he thinks of me then I’ll be just that, she told herself. Just let him wait until he drives me home.
Alec, unaware of the feelings he had stirred up behind Margo’s pleasant little face, was on the point of suggesting that they might meet again when his phone bleeped.
‘The professor is waiting for us.’
Margo pondered the idea of having another cup of tea and keeping him waiting, but that might get Alec into trouble. She followed him out, outwardly meek, back through the hospital to the front entrance, and found the professor leaning against a wall reading the porter’s evening paper. He handed it back as they reached him, expressed the hope that they had had a satisfactory day, and held the door open for Margo.
‘Thanks, Alec,’ he said, and listened while he was told that their tour had been most enjoyable. Then he watched as Margo shook hands with Alec and echoed his wish that they might meet again soon. She knew it was not at all likely, but even schoolteacher types had their moments!
She smiled very sweetly at Alec. ‘It was lovely,’ she reiterated, with a show of warmth especially for the professor’s benefit. ‘You made it all so interesting...’
She got into the car then, turning to wave as they drove away and then sitting as still as a mouse.
Presently the professor asked, ‘So the day was a success? Alec gave you lunch?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
He tried again. ‘What did you enjoy most?’
She thought before she replied. ‘The two boys whose legs were being lengthened. Their little faces and their cheerful acceptance of having their legs in those awful contraptions. And knowing that later on they will be normal, like other boys.’
Her voice was cool but she was still boiling away inside, and he was quick to sense that.
‘What is the matter, Margo?’
‘Matter? There is nothing the matter, Professor.’
‘You would prefer not to talk?’
‘Yes.’ Such a small word, he thought, and fired like a bullet from a gun. Something had upset her and he wondered what it was. Not Alec, surely? They had parted the best of friends—indeed, with the promise of future meetings. Which was exactly what he had hoped for, wasn’t it?
Conversation languished after that, Margo’s polite and chilly replies bringing each topic he introduced to a dead end. Only when they reached the vicarage and he stopped before its door did he turn to her.
‘I wish to know what has upset you, Margo.’
‘Nothing. I’m not upset,’ she told him stonily.
‘We will sit here until you tell me.’
As she put a hand on the door he reached over and put it gently back into her lap. ‘Well?’
She looked at him then. ‘You said I was a sensible girl with no silly ideas; Alec thought I sounded like a schoolteacher. If that’s what you think of me I don’t want to see you again, ever.’
‘But you are a sensible girl, and to the best of my knowledge refreshingly lacking in silly ideas...’
‘There, you see what I mean? It’s called damning with faint praise. Now I’m going in. Thank you for letting me visit the hospital.’
She put a hand on the door and this time he didn’t stop her, but got out too and walked with her to the front door, where she asked him in a voice straight from the deep freeze if he would care for a cup of coffee.
‘In the circumstances, no, Margo.’
He sounded as though he was laughing, and she said fiercely, ‘Oh, I hope I never see you again!’
He didn’t answer that but got back into the car, and was driving away as her mother opened the door.
‘Darling—but Gijs is going? Can’t he stop for a cup of coffee or supper?’
Margo stepped into the warmth of the hall and shut the door behind her.
‘No, he couldn’t stop. He’s a very busy man, Mother. Wait while I take off my things and I’ll tell you about my day—it was fascinating...’
When she had finished her mother remarked, ‘You didn’t see much of Gijs, then?’
‘Only from a distance. I think he is frightfully important and considered to be very clever because of this special surgery h
e’s so good at.’
‘Oh, well, I dare say he’ll come and see us one day, when he has the time.’
‘Alec said that he has many friends.’
‘Well, I dare say—such a handsome man and such beautiful manners. He’s a man to trust, too.’
To which Margo said nothing at all. In bed later, she lay bitterly regretting what she had said to Gijs. She hadn’t meant a word of it; she had been hurt and angry and had said things she really hadn’t meant. She had told him that she never wanted to see him again and her heart would break if that were to happen. Never mind what he thought of her; to see him from time to time was all she asked and expected.
* * *
A WEEK WENT by—a week of unpleasant November weather, cold and damp and dark but tolerated by everyone since it heralded Christmas.
Margo busied herself preparing for the forthcoming festivities—the play for the Sunday School, the making of decorations for the village hall, the wrapping of small presents for the bran tub for the children’s party—and never for one moment was Gijs out of her thoughts. She did her best to banish him, to bury him beneath plans for Christmas, but that wasn’t easy.
Mrs Pearson paused in her busy life from time to time and wondered what was wrong. Surely Margo wasn’t regretting her decision not to marry George? When she had a few quiet moments to spare she would try to find out.
The vicar was free on Mondays and he had planned a day out, leaving Margo to mind the house and deal with any small matter which might crop up while he and her mother went to Exeter for the day. They would buy Christmas presents, treat themselves to a splendid lunch, visit the cathedral, and still have time for Mrs Pearson to indulge in some window-shopping.
Margo saw them off soon after breakfast and went back indoors to feed Caesar and Plato, clear away the dishes and get on with the housework. They would be hungry when they returned, she reflected; she would go down to the butcher and get some steak and make a casserole. It could simmer for hours on the stove and be ready when they got home.
On her return she turned the radio up, filling the house with sound, and busied herself until lunchtime. After her meal Plato needed a walk, and by the time they were home again it was dusk and time for tea. That over, she laid the table, saw to the potatoes, made a custard to go with the plum compote she had made and sat down to wait for the sound of the car.
The six o’clock news came and went and there was no sign of them. She went to look out of the window and saw that it wasn’t raining—indeed, there was a glimpse of the moon from time to time—so it wasn’t the weather that was delaying them.
She picked up a book and read for a while, but when the clock struck half past seven she gave up her pretence of reading and went to the window again. Her father didn’t like driving at night unless it was absolutely necessary, and he had said that they would be home before six o’clock.
‘So what’s happened?’ Margo asked Caesar and Plato, who were sitting beside her. ‘They could phone...’
The hands of the clock were creeping towards eight when there was a knock on the door, and when she went to open it Bob Passmore, the village bobby, called through the letter-box, ‘It’s Bob, miss, if you’ll let me in.’
He was a big man with a red face and a flowing moustache, friendly with everyone. He gave the village a feeling of security—admonishing naughty boys, directing what traffic there was, cycling hither and thither on his conscientious rounds.
Now his cheerful face was serious. He came into the hall and shut the door behind him.
‘Come and sit down, Miss Margo. I’m afraid I’ve a bit of bad news for you.’
She led the way into the sitting room. ‘Mother and Father? There’s been an accident?’
Bob Passmore stood in front of her. ‘Yes, Miss Margo.’
‘They’re hurt?’ She saw his face. ‘They’re killed?’
‘I’m afraid so, Miss Margo. A car crashed into the barrier on the A303 and collided with theirs head-on. They died instantly.’
He had never known anyone so colourless and still alive.
She said quietly, ‘Thank you for telling me, Bob.’ She was so still that the only living thing about her was her eyes.
‘You’ll need to phone the family, miss. Shall I do it for you?’
‘No—no, thank you, Bob. I’ll ring my aunt. I’m sure she’ll come here and—and help me. There will be a great deal to attend to, won’t there?’
He saw that she was in shock. ‘You ring your aunt while I make you a cup of tea. Would you like the wife to come over?’
‘How kind of you, Bob, but I’m quite all right, and my aunt will come as soon as she can arrange it.’
‘You can’t be alone here, Miss Margo...’
‘She’ll hire a car.’ She got up. ‘I’ll phone her now while you make the tea.’
* * *
AUNT FLORENCE HAD settled down to a pleasant evening with a book from the library when the phone rang, so she lifted the receiver with a touch of impatience and said snappily, ‘Hello—who is speaking?’
For a moment she didn’t believe it was Margo, telling her in a voice that didn’t sound like hers at all that her mother and father had been killed.
‘My dear child...this is terrible. I shall come at once, just as soon as I can get a car and pack a bag. Are you all right?’
Margo’s voice telling her that she was quite all right didn’t reassure her at all. So quiet and calm and without emotion.
Aunt Florence put down the phone and then picked it up again. A car—that was the first thing—and while she was waiting for it she could phone the rest of the family. She had started to dial when the doorknocker was thumped, and she went to answer it in a rush of impatience.
Someone from the village, she supposed. Well, she had no time for them now. She flung the door wide and met Professor van Kessel’s smiling face.
‘Oh, Professor—Gijs—how kind. Do come in. You must excuse me while I do some phoning...’
Aunt Florence, never known to lose her cool, had lost it now.
‘I’ve had some bad news. Margo phoned not five minutes ago—her parents have been killed in a car accident. I must go to her. I’m about to arrange... You’d like a cup of coffee?’
He followed her into the sitting room. ‘You want to go to Margo? I’ll drive you there, Mrs Pearson. While you pack a bag I’ll get you a drink; I think you need one...’
‘But it’s so far—I really can’t impose... There’s a good garage in Windsor. It can’t be true—they make mistakes sometimes, don’t they?’
He pushed her gently into a chair and went looking for the brandy.
‘Drink this—all of it; you’ve had a bad shock. Tell me exactly what Margo said on the phone.’
When she had told him he said, ‘Go and pack a few things while I see to doors and windows. Do you have a maid? Did I not see someone when I was here before?’
‘Phoebe. She’s not on the phone.’
‘We will stop at her home as we go so that you can give her a key. May I use your phone?’
Aunt Florence, for once unable to cope, thankfully did as she was told. As she sat in the car some ten minutes later, it crossed her mind that he hadn’t uttered one word of sympathy—but somehow that didn’t matter; while others might have wasted time thinking up comforting words, he had dealt with the situation within minutes.
‘Why had you come to see me?’ she asked.
‘I had visited Lord Trueman and I was calling to thank you for your hospitality; it was a pleasant visit.’ He paused. ‘Did Margo sound very upset? She was devoted to her parents, was she not?’
‘Yes, she was. It didn’t sound like her at all—very quiet and composed.’
‘In shock. I hope that someone is with her. When she realises what has ha
ppened she will need a shoulder to cry on.’
He drove for some miles in silence, then said, ‘Presumably she will have to leave the vicarage. There will be a new incumbent and he will need to live there. Has she any family other than yourself?’
‘Aunts and uncles and cousins, but all but myself live in the north of England or Scotland. We are in contact—birthdays and Christmas and holidays—but I’m not sure if Margo would be happy living with any of them. Besides, she will need to find work; there won’t be much money. She can come to me, of course, until she decides what she wants to do. I’m fond of her and we get on very well.’
He was driving fast, his hands relaxed on the wheel, his face quiet. Aunt Florence wondered what he was thinking.
The journey seemed endless. ‘Are we nearly there?’ she asked him.
‘Not long now. Try not to think about it, Mrs Pearson. I know that sounds a stupid thing to say, but Margo is going to need your help, and if you can manage to bottle up your own grief for her sake you should. It has been a terrible shock to you, I know, but I believe you to be a stout-hearted woman. Margo is a stout-hearted girl too, but the suddenness of it will have bowled her over.’
There were lights on at the vicarage as he drew up before its door. It was Bob Passmore who answered their knock.
He said in his soft Dorset voice, ‘She’s in the kitchen, just sitting. You’ll stay? Mrs Pearson, isn’t it? Her aunt?’
Aunt Florence nodded. ‘And Professor van Kessel, a friend of the family—a doctor.’
Bob Passmore looked more cheerful. ‘Ah, a doctor. Maybe that’ll be a help. I’ll be getting along. I’ll come any time you want me. There’ll be more news in the morning—perhaps tonight...’ He gave the professor a good look and nodded, reassured by the size of him.
Aunt Florence took off her coat and went into the kitchen, and after a moment the professor followed her.
Margo was sitting at the kitchen table with Caesar on her lap and Plato beside her. She looked up as they went in and the professor thought that she had never looked so plain; her face was quite white, with no sign of tears, but her eyes were huge.