by Betty Neels
Her mother bit back the obvious remark that he wasn’t married. ‘When one has been going full tilt for a long time, it’s very nice to have someone there to get one back on one’s feet,’ she observed. ‘Now, jump into bed, love, and have a good sleep. Do you and Melville plan to do anything tomorrow?’
Rachel plumped her pillows into maximum comfort. ‘I don’t know; he didn’t say. I’d like to go for a good walk and take Mutt; I dare say that’s what we’ll do.’
They went for a walk, but not the kind of walk that Rachel had hoped for. Melville pointed out after a mile or so that he wasn’t wearing shoes fit for country lanes. It hadn’t rained for several days and Rachel had happily set out along a rutted track, its winter mud turned to a powdery dust, her feet sensibly shod, happily oblivious of Melville’s discomfort. She was instantly contrite and led the way back to the road, much to Mutt’s annoyance. ‘Little Creed is just down the road,’ she told Melville. ‘It’s the prettiest place and we can take the lower road home.’
‘Darling girl, what a great healthy creature you are. It sounds lovely but I’ve just remembered that I promised to phone my producer.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Can we get back to your place in twenty minutes or so?’ He took her arm and kissed her cheek. ‘I’d forgotten all about it but what do you expect when I’m with the most beautiful girl in the world?’
She was far too sensible to believe that, but it sounded delightful all the same. While she whistled to the disgruntled Mutt and turned for home, she thought she would have to get used to Melville’s work constantly disrupting his free time, but she quite understood. His was an important job and it had to come first. She left him to his telephoning and went in search of her mother.
‘Back so soon?’ asked that lady, in the kitchen busy with getting the lunch.
‘Well, yes. Melville remembered that he had to phone someone. Shall I make coffee?’
They spent the rest of the day indoors, playing two-handed whist and, after lunch, listening to Melville’s amusing conversation. Rachel sat enthralled, taking in every word; it wasn’t until she was getting ready for bed that night that she suppressed regret at a wasted day. Well, not wasted, she hastened to correct herself—it could never be that while she was with Melville—only it had been so glorious out and she was able to see so little of the country. Her final waking thought was the hope that he wouldn’t mind going to church.
To her surprise he didn’t. He had a pleasing tenor voice and sang the hymns with great feeling, listening with great attention to the sermon, his handsome profile uplifted to the pulpit, and when they left the church he took her arm in a protective fashion, smiling at anyone who caught his eye. Her heart swelled with pride as they walked back to the house. Her mother, some way behind with her father, voiced her feelings quite fiercely.
‘He is not the right man for her, dear. That was an act in church—all that pious singing and charm. I bet he hasn’t been in a church for years. But it was an audience, and he has to have that. My poor Rachel. I can’t think what’s got into the girl.’
Her husband patted the hand on his arm. ‘She’s infatuated, my dear, and naturally. She’s been working at that hospital for years and the only men she has met have been doctors. Then along comes this Melville with his man-about-town manners and sweeps her off her feet. But it won’t last; she’s going to come a cropper, poor girl, but she’ll be none the worse.’
‘That Professor she works for… Do you suppose…’
‘Shall we wait and see, my dear?’
It was a warm, sunny afternoon. Rachel pottered in the garden while Melville lay in a deck chair, his eyes closed. He had a busy week ahead of him, he had assured her, and needed to relax. They went back after tea and as they drove he made various plans for meeting her. No definite dates, he warned her, his work wouldn’t permit that, but he hoped that when he did manage to get free she would be free, too.
She would do her best, she told him earnestly, remembering uneasily that Norah had a week’s holiday and that neither Mrs Pepys nor Mrs Crow could be expected to cover for her at a moment’s notice.
‘A lovely weekend,’ he told her when they arrived at the hospital. ‘I enjoyed every moment of it, darling. Life is so empty when you aren’t with me.’ He kissed her. ‘Now I must dash—I’ve work to catch up on.’
She remembered uneasily what the woman at the party had said and dismissed the thought as disloyal. ‘When shall I see you?’ she asked.
‘As I said, darling, I can’t say at the moment. But the minute I’m free I’ll give you a ring.’ He drove off and she picked up her bag and went through the hospital, back to her room, to phone her mother and then to gather in Lucy’s room with such of her friends as were off duty and to drink tea. She had no reason to feel depressed, she told herself; it had been a marvellous weekend and Melville had been simply great. Perhaps it was because they had to meet at odd moments whenever he was free, and so often, when he was, she wasn’t. If only they could spend more weekends at her home. But the disquieting thought that he might be bored refused to go away; he was a man who liked living in London; he liked parties and theatres and crowds of people, and she supposed that given time, she would get to like them too. Just at the moment, though, she was homesick for her parents and Mutt and the peace of the country. Bed would be the best place and a good night’s sleep.
But she slept badly, waking often with a vague worry at the back of her mind. It was a relief to get up and somehow comforting to eat breakfast in the company of her friends, talking shop, the outside world for the moment forgotten. It was equally comforting to find the Professor sitting at her desk, studying a pile of Path Lab forms. His ‘good morning’ was friendly and his casual enquiry as to whether she had enjoyed her days off uttered in such a placid tone that she heard herself saying, ‘Not very. At least, the weather was heavenly and it was so nice to be at home… It was a bit quiet for Melville…’
‘With you there?’ He sounded surprised. He abandoned the Path Lab forms and sat back looking at her. ‘I have a very strong feeling that you ignored my advice; you probably agreed to every word he uttered and sat about doing nothing much while all the time you were longing to stretch your legs.’
‘Well, yes. You see, he hadn’t got the right shoes to go walking…’
The Professor allowed a small sound to escape his lips. ‘Ah, that of course might make things difficult.’ He examined his beautifully kept nails. ‘You will not of course take my advice—why should you? But refuse his next invitation, Rachel.’
‘Why? He asks me out because he—he likes me to be with him.’
‘That is why.’ He got up, sweeping the papers before him into a neat heap. ‘I shall be in X-Ray if anyone wants me. We start at nine o’clock, do we not?’
He was gone with a careless nod.
His list was fairly straightforward which, seeing that Norah wasn’t there, was a mercy. Nor did he waste much time over his coffee once they were finished, only discussed the cases with George, thanked her with his usual politeness, and wandered away to look at his more recent cases on the surgical wards. Rachel sent Mrs Pepys, who had just come on duty, to her dinner with two of the student nurses, and cleared the theatre with Nurse Saunders’s help. George had a couple of minor operations for the afternoon and Mrs Pepys could scrub for them while Rachel got on with the books and forms. When that lady came back from her meal, Rachel went down to the canteen to eat roast lamb and two vegetables and treacle tart for afters. For some reason she had lost her appetite, and her friends sitting with her made sure they lost no opportunity to make pointed remarks about being in love. They teased her gently and didn’t believe her when she said that she didn’t know when she and Melville would be going out again.
After the ordered urgency of the morning’s list, the afternoon seemed dull. She did her books, carried on mild arguments with the CSU and the pharmacy, and a more heated one with the laundry, saw Mrs Pepys off duty and went into the theatre to check
any instruments which might need repair. Mrs Crow, coming on duty at five o’clock, sent her thankfully off duty in her turn, to have a late tea in the sisters’ sitting-room, and then sit around, gossiping until it was time for supper. A dull evening, she reflected, yawning her head off as she got ready for bed. An evening without Melville… It would have been lovely to go out. Never mind what the Professor said; if he phoned and asked her out, she would go. She lay in bed, deciding what she would wear.
Mrs Crow preferred to have an evening duty, so Rachel was free after five o’clock for the rest of the week, but it wasn’t until three days had passed that Melville phoned. He had tickets for a concert, he told her, and how about coming?
Any faint remnants of the Professor’s advice flew from her head. Of course, she would love to go; she bubbled over with eagerness and Melville laughed in her ear. ‘My goodness, what’s come over you, darling? You’re usually tied up and here you are bursting with enthusiasm. I’m flattered.’
A tiny doubt had crept into the back of her mind; had she been too eager? But it was too late now; she agreed to be ready by seven o’clock that evening and to meet him in the entrance hall. ‘And what shall I wear?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Oh, something pretty. We’ll have a drink first; the concert doesn’t start until half past eight.’
‘What sort of concert?’
‘Oh, a bit highbrow, darling, but everyone who’s anyone will be there.’
She wore a silk jersey dress she hoped he didn’t remember and arrived at the front door exactly on time—a mistake, because Melville wasn’t there. But Professor van Teule was, strolling in, presumably to cast an eye over his patients. She stood there and he stopped when he saw her and shook his head.
‘Oh dear, oh dear. I fear you have cast wisdom to the winds again, Rachel. A quiet dinner or is it dancing?’
She caught the amused gleam in his eye and frowned. ‘We’re going to a concert and really, Professor van Teule, you have no right to question what I do in my free time.’
He didn’t answer her, only smiled gently. ‘Take-in from midnight, isn’t it? But of course you will be back in the hospital by then, and here is, er, Melville.’
Melville’s ‘darling’ was a bit too fervent but Rachel didn’t mind; it would give the Professor something to think about. He said so little, she thought worriedly, and yet he disquieted her. She wished him goodnight in a cold voice and smiled brilliantly at Melville, quite certain that the evening was going to be marvellous.
They went to a small bar in Soho and she enjoyed every minute of it, even though Melville remembered the dress, adding kindly, ‘But of course it was too short notice for you to pop out and get something new.’
One day, she resolved firmly, she would explain to him that she simply couldn’t buy a new dress every time she went out with him. Luckily he forgot it very quickly, plunging into an amusing anecdote about a well-known film star whom he had met that very morning.
The concert was well patronised; the hall was filled with fashionably clad women and men smoking cigars. They had seats in the stalls and Melville didn’t hurry to reach them, stopping to greet people as they went. And once they had settled down, he spent the time pointing out the various famous people around them. ‘I may have to leave you now and again, darling,’ he told her and squeezed her hand. ‘Must show my face, you know.’
The orchestra filed in and presently began to play. Rachel liked music, with a bias towards Rachmaninov’s concertos and Debussy, Chopin and Grieg, but she was quite unable to understand the weird sounds coming from the orchestra. ‘Brilliant composer,’ whispered Melville. ‘Modern music is the only thing worth listening to. He’s all the rage.’
Rachel could hardly bear it. To take her mind off the strange sounds she began to work out the off duty for the next fortnight in her head, and, that done to her satisfaction, did a mental check of the extra instruments the Professor would need in the morning, which led to wondering what he was doing at that moment. Whenever she met him off duty he was either going to or coming from the surgical wards or theatre. Surely he must enjoy some leisure? And he had vaguely mentioned that he hoped to marry… His fiancée must be a long suffering girl. And a lucky girl; the thought had flown into her head quite unbidden.
Melville left her during the first interval. ‘I shan’t be a moment, darling,’ he explained. ‘There are one or two people I must speak to. I’ll bring you a drink.’
She sat, feeling lonely, until the lights dimmed and he reappeared, to catch her hand in his. ‘Darling, I’m so sorry—I couldn’t get away. Have you been very lonely without me? We’ll go to the bar after this next concerto, I promise you.’
The thought of a drink sustained her through the next half-hour of weird sounds and when the lights went up at last she followed him to the bar, already packed with people.
They found a corner and he went in search of drinks, to come back presently with two glasses. ‘Martini, darling,’ he told her and she felt a little prickle of irritation that he hadn’t asked her what she wanted; she loathed Martini.
He had taken barely two sips when he exclaimed, ‘Good heavens! There’s Guy. I simply must have a word with him.’ And he had gone again, disappearing into the dense crowd around them. She put her untouched drink down on a convenient ledge and looked around her. Women in ultra-fashionable dresses hemmed her in, escorted by men who, unlike Melville, didn’t keep dashing off to see someone or other. She couldn’t see him anywhere, and presently she edged her way out of the bar and went back to her seat, feeling hard done by. The evening, from her point of view, wasn’t being a success; the music was frightful and she might just as well have been on her own. Which wasn’t quite true but she was in no mood for niceties. When Melville rejoined her she said coldly, ‘Guy must have had a lot to say.’
‘Darling, you’re cross.’ He took her hand in his. ‘And I’m grovelling, really I am. We’ll have supper somewhere to make up for it. I’m truly sorry; do forgive me.’
And of course she forgave him. She loved him, or she thought that she did. They sat through the last excruciating medley of sound and then, with only the minimum of pauses while Melville greeted the people he knew, they got into the car and drove to the Ivy Restaurant. It was full of well-known faces, Melville told her gleefully, and presently there would be even more. ‘And choose what you like, my angel, I can put it on the expense account.’
A remark which upset her. Would he have taken her to this expensive place if he had had to pay for it out of his own pocket? It was a question which bothered her throughout the meal so that she was rather quiet.
‘A bit out of your depth?’ asked Melville kindly. ‘Rubbing shoulders with the famous is a bit awe-inspiring until you get to know them, as I do.’
She swallowed an oyster patty, not liking it overmuch. ‘Do you really? Know all of them?’ It was difficult not to be impressed, although she had no wish to meet any of them. ‘Do you enjoy meeting them?’ she asked.
‘My dear girl, of course I do. Success—successful people—they matter.’
She wasn’t sure what prompted her to say, ‘And people like Professor van Teule, who is very successful as a surgeon, although he never appears in public…’
Melville laughed. ‘You don’t quite follow me, darling. I’m talking about the success which brings you before the public eye. I dare say your Professor is clever enough in his way, but who wants to know about his work? I mean, it’s something one doesn’t talk about, isn’t it?’
Which, she had to admit, was true.
He took her back to the hospital soon afterwards, kissed her fervently, assured her that he would see her soon, and drove off. She got ready for bed slowly, mulling over her evening. The music had been awful and it had been a pity that Melville had had to spend so much time with his friends and leave her alone, but he had been an attentive and amusing companion and she was quite sure that she loved him to distraction.
‘A pleasant evening, I h
ope?’ enquired the Professor suavely as he went to scrub before his list. ‘Where was the concert?’
She told him briefly and he said, ‘Ah, that new conductor—all the fashion at the moment, I believe. Modern music, was it?’
‘Very,’ said Rachel and went back to her trolleys, subduing a strong desire to tell him just how awful she had found it. He would have listened and, even if he was a devotee of the stuff, he would have given her his full attention.
The list was an exacting one. The Professor, as he always did, carried on a desultory conversation with his companions, touching on a variety of subjects, but music wasn’t mentioned, nor did he refer to it while they had their coffee break. When at length he had finished, he bade them all good day, added his thanks, and went unhurriedly away. For some reason Rachel felt frustrated; she had prepared herself for his observation about her evening, and steeled herself against the advice he gave so readily. It was a bit of a let down.
At dinner Lucy warned her that there was a badly injured child in. ‘Fell off a high wall, face downwards. Professor van Teule has had a look and he wants to operate; he was talking to George when I came to dinner. You’ll get the good news when you get back.’
He was waiting for her, standing with his back to the office, looking at the chimney pots. He turned round when she went in.
‘There’s a child for a splenectomy. Can you be ready in twenty minutes or so?’
‘Certainly, sir. Boy or girl?’
‘A little boy—ten years old—fooling around on a demolished block of flats.’
‘Oh, the poor lamb. Is his mother with him?’
‘No, she hasn’t been traced. There doesn’t seem to be a father.’
‘Someone must look after him—love him.’
‘They’re looking for his granny; she works somewhere in the Mile End Road.’