by Betty Neels
Her instant rage was swallowed up in a wave of unhappiness. He could have told her earlier so that she could have gone home. Now half a day at least had been wasted, for she could have driven down on the previous evening. Here she was, dressed for a smart restaurant and probably a theatre with Melville, who took it for granted that she would understand. She had been silly, she admitted to herself, to expect a man as important as Melville to be free to come and go as he wished, and sillier still to have been so sure of him. She read the letter once again and took comfort from the endearments which strewed it so liberally. He must love her very much to write like that… She became aware of someone standing beside her—Professor van Teule, calmly and unforgivably reading the letter she had still open in her hand.
‘Oh, bad luck,’ he said placidly, and smiled so kindly that the heated words on her tongue were un-uttered. All she said was rather weakly, ‘You have no right…’
‘None,’ he agreed cheerfully, ‘but how very fortunate that I should, er, glimpse the contents of your letter. I am about to drive down to Bath and will be glad to give you a lift.’
‘But I live miles from there.’ She knew that she sounded ungracious, but disappointment was still biting deep.
‘I had intended to take the road through Andover, and I seem to remember you telling me at some time or other that you lived in that part of the world.’
If she hadn’t been quite so upset she would have remembered nothing of the sort. As it was, she mumbled, ‘I told Mother yesterday evening that I was going to stay here…’
The Professor became all at once very brisk. ‘Give her a ring now.’ His glance took in her little cap and high-heeled shoes. ‘I need ten minutes to talk to George; you can change if you want and meet me here.’
He propelled her gently towards the porter’s lodge, but as she was lifting the receiver she said hesitantly, ‘We’re not allowed to use this phone.’
‘Leave that to me.’ He turned his back and engaged the head porter in conversation as she dialled her home number.
Her mother answered the phone. ‘Now isn’t that nice?’ she commented. ‘Your brothers are home—we’ll have a cosy weekend together. Are you driving, darling?’
Rachel explained. ‘Oh, good.’ Mrs Downing’s voice was casual in the extreme. ‘You’ll be here before lunch. Will he stay, this Professor?’
‘Most unlikely—he’s going on to Bath.’
She put down the receiver and saw that the Professor was still deep in conversation with Simkins, the elderly head porter, who, if rumour had it right, had been there ever since Victorian times. She went towards them now and the Professor turned his head to ask, ‘All right? Good, ten minutes then.’
She went back to her room and changed into a sweater and skirt and a quilted jacket, rammed a few necessities into an overnight bag, got into a pair of sturdy shoes, and hurried back to the entrance hall. The Professor was there, talking to George, who gave her a friendly grin and then walked to the entrance with them both.
‘Goodbye, sir. I’ll see what I can find you when you get back. Rachel, don’t forget it’s take-in next week.’
He laughed and raised a hand as the Professor took the Rolls smoothly out into the traffic, joining the steady stream going west.
He had little to say, and that required little in the way of a reply, something which was a relief to Rachel, busy with her thoughts about Melville. They gained the motorway and the Professor put his large, elegantly shod foot down so that the car ate up the miles, but once they were off the motorway he slowed the car and presently stopped at a wayside café.
‘Shall we have coffee? We’ve made good time.’
‘Yes, please. But have you to be in Bath for lunch? You’ll be late if you take me home first.’
‘There is time enough,’ he told her in his unhurried way, and for some reason she felt snubbed. Over their coffee she made small talk, feeling guilty because for such a lot of the journey she had said almost nothing. As they got back into the car she tried to put that right. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a dull companion, but I wanted to think…’
‘Let us say restful rather than dull. And I had the opportunity to think a few thoughts of my own, Rachel.’
Which made her uneasy. Was he hinting that he wanted to stay silent for the rest of the journey, or just being kind?
She played safe and kept quiet, and discovered that their silence was a friendly one. There was no need to make conversation; she felt quite at ease, and so, apparently, did the Professor.
As he drew up before her home it struck her that he hadn’t hesitated once on the way, nor had she given him any directions; she was on the point of pointing this interesting fact out to him when her mother opened the door and came out to the car.
Mrs Downing wasn’t in the least like her daughter. She was barely middle height, plump, but pretty still, looking incapable of running a house, let alone helping her husband, cooking meals at odd hours, waiting with endless patience for him to come home, and owning three very large sons and a daughter, who if not large, was a good deal taller than herself.
She poked her head through the window the Professor had opened and beamed at them both. ‘Darling, how nice. Your brothers are in the kitchen.’ She turned still-beautiful blue eyes upon the professor and Rachel said quickly, ‘This is Professor van Teule, Mother; he kindly gave me a lift.’
Mrs Downing offered a hand. ‘I’ve often wondered what you were like,’ she told him chattily. ‘Not a bit what I expected. Will you stay for lunch?’
He smiled at her. ‘You are most kind to ask me, but I have to get to Bath.’
‘Charming place, have you friends there?’ She didn’t wait for him to answer. ‘Are you calling to take Rachel back tomorrow?’
Rachel pinkened and frowned and the Professor’s eyes gleamed with amusement.
‘Certainly.’ He turned to look at Rachel. ‘About eight o’clock?’ he asked.
‘You’ll have to come out of your way.’
‘A few miles. Eight o’clock, Rachel?’
She scowled at him, wishing she could refuse the lift her mother had angled for. She said crossly, ‘Very well, Professor, thank you.’
‘There’ll be coffee for you,’ said Mrs Downing happily. ‘My husband will be delighted to meet you.’
The Professor replied suitably, bade Mrs Downing goodbye, said nonchalantly to Rachel, ‘Tomorrow evening, then,’ and drove off.
‘What a very nice man,’ said Mrs Downing, leading the way indoors. ‘Is he married? No? Going to be? What a pity, he would suit you down to the ground, darling. And you told me you’d never really looked at him. How could you not? Such a handsome man…’
Rachel put an arm round her parent. ‘Mother,’ she said patiently, ‘the Professor is someone I work for. We get on well enough, but I don’t know anything about him and he doesn’t know anything about me.’
‘He knows where you live,’ said Mrs Downing happily.
No one mentioned Melville until Sunday morning, on the way to church, when Mrs Downing asked casually if he was in London. ‘For these important men do get around, don’t they?’ she added chattily.
‘He’s having to show some American actress the sights this weekend,’ said Rachel shortly, ‘and he’s very busy.’ She added defensively, ‘We had a lovely afternoon and evening out last week.’
She was glad that her three brothers joined them then and there was no need to say more.
Sunday passed peacefully; church, one of Mrs Downing’s superbly cooked lunches and then a long lazy afternoon sitting round the fire in the comfortable rather shabby drawing-room, with the Sunday papers strewn all over the place and desultory family gossip. They had supper early since Rachel was leaving that evening, and the meal had been cleared away before the Professor arrived, exactly at eight o’clock. Rachel was ready to go but he seemed in no hurry; he accepted her mother’s invitation to have coffee and followed her into the drawing-room, where her father and th
ree brothers subjected him to a brief scrutiny as she introduced him. They seemed to like what they saw; over coffee and one of her mother’s ginger cakes, the men talked and it was almost nine o’clock when, at last, the Professor asked her, ‘Well, are you ready, Rachel?’ A remark which she considered most unfair, since she had been ready for an hour.
It took another fifteen minutes to say goodbye to everyone and, to make matters worse, the Professor made no attempt to drive fast. Perhaps Melville had phoned, she thought distractedly, and she hadn’t been there—he might have written or called…she’d been a fool to go home.
Her companion, uncannily reading her thoughts, observed placidly, ‘Well, let us hope that, er, Melville has phoned or called to take you out.’
‘Of all the nasty unkind things to say,’ began Rachel fiercely.
‘No, no you mistake me. Can you not see that his appetite will be whetted? The unobtainable, Rachel—that is what you have to be,’ he added with tiresome conviction. ‘Use your wits, girl.’
Rachel almost choked with temper. ‘Well!’ She paused to think up a scathing remark, and he laughed and said, ‘What a pity you don’t treat, er, Melville to one of your bad tempers.’ His voice changed from mockery to avuncular kindness. ‘Rachel, if you want him you’ll need to fight for him.’ He sighed soundlessly. ‘You have the weapons: youth and beauty and a pretty voice and, besides these, a good brain and plenty of common sense.’ He was silent for a few moments. ‘Don’t try and be what he thinks you should be; be yourself—if he loves you he won’t care if he takes you out wearing a potato sack.’
‘You’re full of good advice,’ she said bitterly.
‘I do my best,’ he told her placidly. ‘Have you had supper?’
‘Ages ago.’
‘Good, then we could stop for a sandwich. It will give me an opportunity to discuss tomorrow’s list—I want to make some alterations. I shall be away for a couple of weeks; George will cope, but there’s a case I want transferred and added…can we do that?’
He had become Professor van Teule again, impersonal and friendly, with his mind on his work. They stopped at a service station and drank some awful coffee and ate sandwiches which looked and tasted as though they were made of plastic, and talked shop the whole time.
The Professor wasn’t a man to leave a girl to open her own door, even if it was only the hospital entrance; he took her overnight bag and saw her into the entrance hall, but before she could say goodbye the night porter poked his head out of his cubby hole.
‘There’s a phone call for you, Sister. I was just ringing round for you.’
‘Melville,’ uttered the Professor and gave her a little push towards the porter’s lodge. ‘Take it here and remember what I said.’
It was indeed Melville. Where had she been? He had called twice already. ‘I’ve missed you so,’ he added plaintively.
She was on the point of saying that she’d missed him, too, when she remembered the Professor’s advice. She said in rather a cold voice, ‘I’ve been home for the weekend. Just this minute got in.’
‘I’ll be round in ten minutes—we can go to my club and have a drink.’
It cost her a lot to say lightly, ‘Sorry, Melville, I’m on my way to bed. There’s an early list in the morning and I’ll be needing all my wits.’
What was more, she hung up on him.
‘Oh, splendid!’ The Professor’s quiet voice made her jump; she hadn’t known that he was right behind her. Probably he had heard every word. He was, she reflected, quite unscrupulous.
‘You have him in the hollow of your hand,’ he said. ‘Goodnight Rachel.’
He had gone, while she was still gaping at him.
There was, indeed, a heavy list in the morning; Professor van Teule, since he would be away for two weeks, was intent on getting as much work done as possible before he went. Rachel, after a sound night’s sleep despite her doubts as to whether she hadn’t been a bit drastic in her treatment of Melville, went calmly through her day. The Professor’s list extended far beyond its time limits; they stopped briefly between cases to snatch a cup of coffee and a sandwich and then went on again, with the faithful Norah laying up each fresh case and Rachel scrubbing. It was a blessing that Mrs Pepys wasn’t on duty; the routine went smoothly and the student nurses, even the junior one, were lulled into a state of instant obedience and confidence by the Professor’s pleasantly casual manner and Rachel’s unflappable demeanour.
It was almost three o’clock by the time they had finished his last case and Rachel thanked heaven that Mr Jolly had phoned in to say that he was cancelling his list because he had a heavy cold. Norah, who had gone off duty for the afternoon, came on again at six o’clock, and Rachel, bogged down in paperwork, hailed her with relief. ‘What a day! We finished at three o’clock and it took us all of two hours to clear and clean. I’ve almost finished here. You’ve got Nurse Walters on. There’s nothing in the accident room, so with luck you’ll have a quiet evening.’
‘Has he gone?’ asked Norah.
‘Not until the morning,’ observed the Professor from the doorway. And, as they turned to look at him, ‘Don’t worry, I don’t want to operate. That last case, I didn’t write up the notes. If I might trouble you…’
Rachel got up. ‘Sit here, sir. I’m going off duty. Norah will be in theatre if you need anything.’
She found the case book he wanted and laid it ready on the desk. ‘I hope you have a pleasant holiday,’ she said politely.
‘Thank you.’ He sat down at the desk and pulled the notes towards him and she had the unpleasant sensation of being shut out. She bade him goodbye in a cold voice, cast a speaking glance at Norah and left the office.
There was no phone call from Melville. Rachel spent the evening in the sitting-room, knitting a complicated sweater which should have taken all her attention but didn’t, so that she unpicked almost as much as she knitted. Perhaps she had been too harsh with Melville; perhaps the Professor’s advice hadn’t been all that good. She pondered the matter at length, giving absent-minded answers to her friends’ remarks, not really hearing them.
When she went to bed she was still thinking about it, so that it was all the more surprising that her last thoughts were of the Professor. Where did he go when he went on holiday? she wondered. To Holland? To stay with the girl he was going to marry? Did he have parents like everyone else? And where did they live? These questions and others quite ousted Melville from her mind.
She had to admit after a day or two that she missed the Professor; at least, she missed the bustle and urgency of working for him. George had lists, of course, and so did Mr Jolly and Mr Reeves, and of course there were the dental cases, but, whereas the Professor always worked himself and everyone else to their capacity, the days were now orderly, with everyone going off duty at the right time and the lists finishing exactly when they should. So that, when Melville at last phoned, she was in a mood to agree with anything he might suggest.
A party, he told her; the production he had been busy with had been completed, and they were having a celebration. He would fetch her at nine o’clock the next evening, and she was to wear her prettiest dress. ‘I missed you, darling,’ he declared. ‘It seems ages since I saw you. Thank heaven I’ll have nothing important on for a time—we’ll see each other as much as possible.’ He added dramatically, ‘You have no idea how busy I’ve been.’
Rachel had been busy, too, but she was too happy to say so. Perhaps after all the Professor’s advice was bearing fruit.
She gave a good deal of thought to what she was going to wear. She was off duty at six, which gave her ample time in which to change her mind half a dozen times. The women would be smart; more than that, they would be fashionable and expensively dressed and she mustn’t let Melville down. She decided on a long black skirt, a vividly patterned silk top which had cost the earth and a wide black satin sash of Lucy’s. Not bad, she considered, inspecting her reflection and admiring the black satin slippers
she had bought for their last evening out. She had a long black evening cloak which seemed too dramatic for the occasion and Lucy came to the rescue once more with the offer of her short fur jacket: rabbit, and a little on the small side, but it lent a certain cachet to the outfit.
Remembering the Professor’s advice again she waited until five minutes past the hour before going down to the entrance; she found Melville waiting for her in his car. He didn’t get out but opened the door for her and kissed her warmly when she got in. ‘Darling, you’re more beautiful than ever. How I’ve longed to see you. This is going to be some party—in Chelsea—everyone who’s anyone will be there.’
Rachel said, ‘Oh, how nice,’ feeling this to be an inadequate remark, but Melville wasn’t listening; he was reciting names to her—important names of the important people they would meet. It took the entire drive to complete and left Rachel, who wasn’t at all up-to-date with the latest pop stars, bewildered.
The party was being held in a large terraced house near the river; there were rows of cars in the street outside and lights blazing from every window. ‘Hurry up,’ begged Melville and leaned across to open the door impatiently.
The house inside was opulent and very warm. It was also brilliantly lit and the huge chandelier in the hall shone down on the rabbit so that there was no hope of passing it off as anything else. Melville gave it a look as she handed it to a haughty-looking maid, then he cast an eye over her person. ‘I don’t suppose you had time to buy something more suitable,’ he began, and then paused at the look Rachel gave him. ‘Not that you don’t look smashing,’ he added hastily. ‘You always look marvellous. Let’s go in.’
The room they entered was packed and the noise of voices drowned normal speech. Melville seemed to know everyone as he made his way across the room with Rachel close beside him. At the far end standing by a roaring fire was their host, or so she presumed; it was impossible to hear what Melville was saying. She shook hands and smiled and accepted a glass of something and to her dismay saw Melville disappear into a group of people standing nearby. She sipped the drink which she privately decided was sugared petrol, and then looked around her. The women’s dresses were fabulous; she stuck out like a sore thumb and her hair was all wrong. Several of the girls there had brightly coloured hair—pink and purple and pale blue and even the normal colours had been coaxed into wild clouds of crimped hair, or spiky hairdos, and there were several with hair so short and sleek that it seemed to have been painted on to their heads. Rachel stood there, entertaining wild ideas about having her hair cut off and buying some shoes with diamond encrusted heels three inches high at least, and was roused from these unlikely happenings by a pleasant voice at her elbow.