‘Nothing to apologise for. She died far too young. I know that sounds clichéd but she was incredibly generous to me at a time when I was missing my own family.’
I’m sure we were both remembering the Titanic sinking in that moment. ‘They died too young too,’ I said, and reached for his hand to squeeze it.
‘Thank you. But now let’s not get maudlin. This is the happiest of circumstances to be reunited with you, Isla. And you’re so accomplished. I hear you’re the darling of the midwives.’
I couldn’t help a smile but a sigh chased it. ‘I saw myself as being more a physician . . . a researcher, even. I wanted to work entirely in tropical medicine but both my parents insisted that gynaecology was the significant area in which women doctors should really take charge. And it’s true, new mothers, pregnant women, labouring women . . . they all respond better to another woman.’ I smiled. ‘I was a forceps baby and my mother suffered for that.’ At his frown I explained. ‘We’re now so much more skilled with instruments but when I was born, they were just blundering around.’
I was glad he chuckled because saying this aloud for the first time could have made me feel guilty but his amusement allowed it to pass by.
‘I dare say her encouragement of better handling of births is the major reason I find myself specialising these days in gynaecology and obstetrics. And so while I hanker to work in the tropics, I would be lying if I didn’t admit to deriving enormous reward from being part of the team that has raised our hospital’s record of successful deliveries by more than fifty per cent in the last three years.’
‘So I hear. Your father is immensely proud of you.’ He winked. ‘I’m proud of you.’
It was a sweet moment and we both looked away after it.
‘Tell me about your work. Yesterday, for example, describe it to me,’ he said.
‘Well,’ I began, ‘you couldn’t have picked a more dramatic one.’
I told him of the events.
‘Are you ever frightened by the responsibility?’
I shook my head. ‘No, I’ve been trained by the best; I’m surrounded by talented people and, to be honest, there’s no time to be fearful. A good clinician needs to be decisive . . . people are waiting on your lead so you’d soon earn a poor reputation if you hesitated. I think the important aspect to what I do, though, is to keep learning, keep broadening the knowledge base. My father made the remark recently that medicine is moving along so fast he can’t keep up but the fact is, it’s developing at such a rate with new skills, new ideas, new technology that all of us – even the younger practitioners like me – have to run to stay up with innovations. Only yesterday I watched our anaesthetist use a piece of equipment that only came into use this year – this was my first time to see it in action and it’s set to change the world of anaesthesia.’
Jove sat forward, intrigued, so I continued.
‘It may seem like a tame innovation to you but it’s a cuff around the tracheal tubes,’ I said, touching my throat. ‘Used when a patient is under the influence of very strong drugs that keep her unconscious and pain-free while we cut her open to deliver a child, for instance.’
He winced.
‘Sorry, it’s rather unsavoury teatime conversation, isn’t it?’
He shook his head. ‘Go on, it’s fascinating.’
‘We need to keep that mother breathing safely and rhythmically,
and a straightforward cuff – introduced earlier this year by a man called Arthur Guedel – allows doctors to control the ventilation of patients under anaesthesia.’
‘Sounds simple enough.’
‘The most useful instruments usually are. One can’t help but wonder why we took so long to think of it.’
The crowded rooms, with the steam from tea and energy from the waitresses, created a cosy atmosphere around us. To be fair, apart from the initial moment of arrival, no one was paying us attention and I let go of my self-consciousness. I followed Mandeville’s lead and slipped off my coat too. With smiling thanks he laid both across the arm of our waitress, who had returned with her pad. I’d already decided he possessed an eager smile that could warm up any chill. It flooded his eyes with its happiness and had an infectious quality that couldn’t fail to ignite a similar response from whomever it fell upon.
The waitress proved my point, immediately grinning back. ‘Welcome to the Lyons’ tearooms of Brighton, sir, madam.’
‘What’s your favourite poison, Isla?’ he wondered.
‘I’ll have a pot of your strongest tea, please.’
‘Make that for two,’ he said, ‘and I think we should have a small slice of cake each, please. What do you recommend, Joyce?’ he asked, reading her badge swiftly.
‘The pound cake isn’t iced but it is especially fresh and lovely today, sir. And,’ she whispered, ‘it’s got a nice hum of brandy in it.’
He glanced my way, making sure I was happy with this by catching my nod. ‘That will do us nicely, thank you.’
The young woman retreated and we were now left to finally confront each other. These early impressions would be lasting. We were, after all – and I was determined not to lose sight of this – sizing each other up for a lifetime together.
‘You used to call me the Isle of Isla,’ I accused.
‘Because you were so fiercely independent and appallingly confident for one so young, plus you also had looks to match your pretty Scottish name. Nothing’s changed.’ His voice had a gentle, raspy quality that only added to his attractiveness. ‘Are you still as difficult to navigate as the Hebrides from where it hails?’
‘I do hope so. I’d hate to be a pushover.’
It was the right answer. He grinned broadly. ‘Well, as we’re on names, I struggle with mine.’
My eyes widened. ‘What’s wrong with Jovian?’
‘I think my grandparents decided that as I was the first new male in the family it deserved recognition, without considering the consequences of forcing a little boy to grow up with such a burdensome Roman name.’
‘If my classical education serves me right, isn’t Jove an old way of referring to the god Jupiter?’
‘The supreme god in Roman mythology.’
‘Presiding over heaven and light,’ I added.
‘And the law of the land.’
‘The protector,’ I said, with a note of triumph.
His eyebrows lifted in pleasure, creasing his forehead.
‘Well, for the record, I’ve always loved the name. I’m surprised you aren’t aware that I was completely besotted by you when I was young.’ It slipped out before I could censor myself; curiously, though, it felt amusing more than embarrassing to admit my crush.
‘No!’ he gusted, astonished.
I nodded. ‘It’s true. But a dozen or more years separated us and to you I was a mere child.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘Surely?’
‘No. You must have covered it by being so intense around me.’
‘You broke my heart.’
‘Gracious. Let me heal it – cake is called for.’
We laughed delightedly and I admit to feeling thrilled at how relaxed I was in his company; it felt easy and familiar but also the ground had been levelled. We were two adults now.
‘It was a little unfair to spring this place on you and with no forewarning. You’ve been a brick just clambering into a car with no idea of where you were headed . . . and towards a relative stranger. We could have gone to swankier establishments, but —’
‘Between us, I’m impressed you chose it.’
‘Really?’
I shrugged. ‘Anyone of your standing who chooses a tea salon frequented by the everyday person suggests to me that you aren’t so concerned with status . . . or money . . . ’ I was in the realm of vulgar mentioning his wealth.
‘Or appearances?’
‘Yes.’ I shrugged. ‘I could learn from that.’ I could tell he appreciated my admission by the kind smile he gave me. ‘It means y
ou’re not stuffy,’ I continued, as usual offering my thoughts instead of carefully phrasing a reply. ‘Actually, you never were that but when my father asked me to meet with you again I feared the years might have turned you conservative.’
‘Perish the thought. And stuffy is definitely not part of my nature . . . neither of us have our laces tied too tightly, then.’
‘I think we should drink to that,’ I offered as our pots of tea arrived in simple creamware rather than the elegant porcelain that I’m certain we were both more used to drinking from.
The teapots and cups were laid out along with two quarterplates accompanied by slices of cake studded with dried fruit, plumped from the bake. ‘It’s our best quality orange pekoe and well brewed, sir,’ the girl said, but rather than wait for her, he gestured an offer to pour and I nodded for him to go ahead.
‘Thank you, Joyce,’ he said. ‘This all looks lovely.’
She gave a small curtsey and disappeared.
‘This is so much better than meeting in London,’ I admitted. Jove looked to be enjoying himself serving me tea. I couldn’t say I was used to a man being so domestic but then everything about Jove was a lovely surprise.
‘Feels like we’re playing truant, doesn’t it?’ He paused, with an expression of gleeful wickedness. ‘I’ll let you help yourself to milk and sugar. Please don’t make me eat cake alone.’
‘So, as we proceed I feel I must be myself . . . by that I mean my usual direct, precocious self without fear of giving offence,’ I remarked.
‘Isla, I’d be disappointed if you were anything but,’ he reassured, and I noticed that he’d shown no inclination to talk down to me, despite him having many years on me. His maturity instead was showing itself in far more pleasing ways. I noticed the slightest feathering of silver at the curve of his ear where his hair was trimmed short, parted and combed tidily in a lush sweep across and away from a forehead that was a neatly spaced bridge to his dark, even brows. It was all symmetry from there on, down to the clipped moustache and chin that had surely been expertly shaved that morning.
We forked at our cakes. They crumbled pleasingly and I savoured the hint of lemon rind that sparkled on my tongue first.
‘Mmm.’ Jove groaned with satisfaction. ‘Joyce didn’t lie about the brandy. Delicious!’
I chewed politely on an almond sliver. Each bite was flavoursome, crowded with fruit or nuts. With our mouths full there developed a slightly strained pause between us as we both realised that a deeper dialogue was desperately trying to clamber its way out.
He cleared his throat. ‘Isla, I’m a bit embarrassed, to tell the truth.’
I frowned, holding my tongue.
‘You see, I find myself staring at you.’
I had noticed but I was surprised that I genuinely felt the need to lower my gaze; I could be rightly accused of fake modesty if I pretended my looks did not interest men. It was better to accept the compliment and move on.
‘Look, I have no doubt you’ve been told countless times how pretty you are and I won’t bore you with the fact that I find the adult Isla deeply attractive. I hope that doesn’t make you feel uncomfortable, given our history?’
I lifted a shoulder. ‘Not at all.’
‘Good. But let’s set that aside, shall we?’
I looked up, unsure whether I was disappointed he wasn’t going to lavish me with sweet compliments or filled with delight that he was pragmatic. I chose the latter. ‘Yes, let’s.’
‘So,’ he continued, ‘your father is keen to find an ideal partner for his daughter who, shall we say, measures up to her exacting specifications.’ He pressed his lips into a sad smile and I realised that his general good humour hid the melancholy that seemingly lurked in his life. ‘I readily admit that I have turned away from many a lovely woman because I’ve had this notion in my mind that she must be special beyond the shell that the gods have granted her. Good-looking people can’t help but have an advantage in life and I would gladly debate it if anyone wished to contradict that idea. A beautiful woman has it hands down over a plain one – opportunities are more plentiful in every aspect of life, not just marriage. But I’ve come to the conclusion that beauty and attraction do not always add up to happiness. I have been guilty of falling for someone’s looks only to discover that I am bored by her all too soon – finding little in common. And so now I’ve become cautious, reminding myself that I must be more interested in what makes her laugh, or feel sad, what her secrets and dreams might be.’ He gave a small cough. ‘That probably strikes you as odd.’
I shook my head. ‘No, it strikes me as powerful.’
‘Powerful?’
I reached for my tea and sipped, enjoying the brew that was the colour of toffee when first poured. I tasted the hint of its flowery richness from the large leaves that unfurled in the tea strainer and I sighed with pleasure. Sitting back, I weighed up whether he’d appreciate such an opinionated woman as I, but decided there was no point in hiding it. ‘I take the view that men who deliberately court women on the basis of their beauty rather than their wit, intelligence or personality must surely possess a sense of inferiority, hoping these women will bolster their confidence in front of other men. You, by contrast, surely possess an innate sense of your own power – and you’ve already reached the conclusion that a wife who is considered beautiful by others is a compliment to her rather than yourself . . . but it has no bearing on your self-worth.’
He stared at me with astonishment. I could feel my neck warming with the rush of blood. I’d offered far too much. So there it was, another flaw on display – a major one. My father called it prideful. I would argue that I simply take a position on most matters.
‘Good grief,’ he uttered and I couldn’t even take another sip of tea to keep my fingers busy because my throat felt as though it had shrivelled to let nothing pass, not even a gushing apology. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he added.
I pushed away the blockage with a soft clearing of my throat. ‘You must forgive me, Jove,’ I began, but he started to laugh softly. ‘My father has warned me of airing my opinions too readily.’
‘Isla,’ he murmured, leaning closer as if no one else in the noisy tearoom mattered, ‘there is nothing to be sorry for. I am going to hold that commendation of yours as the highest compliment.’
I spoke over his chuckling. ‘I am impetuous; it is a failing of mine to speak my mind.’
‘Also to have your own way? I seem to recall you possessed a clear vision of your desires and objectives from young.’
Honesty, we’d agreed upon. ‘I know my mind and what I want. I haven’t changed from that child you knew – I’ve just grown taller.’ I smiled at the thin jest.
His expression had turned more thoughtful, fine creases appearing in his forehead. He looked at his teacup for so long I wondered if I should fill the gap with words. ‘Again, I would want you no other way,’ he said, finally meeting my gaze, all amusement gone. The curlicues of steam had dissipated and the space between us had shortened, filled by a new intensity stretching from him to me. ‘My reluctance to marry is mostly because I don’t want to spend my life with a woman whose conversation is tedious to me. I also don’t want a woman who spends her life trying to please me all the time. That’s just as numbing. I’ve become terrified of taking a vow to commit to someone so wholly and then disappointing a wife through lack of interest or even common ground. It just wouldn’t be fair to bring a lovely woman into my life who ultimately will look upon me with bewilderment for how to behave . . . or worse, with regret.’
‘Have you ever been close?’
‘To marriage?’
I felt pinned down by his scrutiny. I nodded.
‘No. I’ve fled in the other direction whenever I felt cornered.’
I didn’t mean to grin but his wording painted an amusing picture. ‘So why now?’ It was out. We were finally discussing why we were both here in this tearoom at Brighton.
‘I mustn’t avoid commitmen
t any longer. It’s time to share my life . . . but I am determined to give love and to be loved back.’
‘You know a couple of affectionate Labrador dogs will fill that gap, don’t you? And they’ll never answer back or bore you with tedious conversation.’
His gaze snapped back to me and, seeing the smile, burst into delighted laughter. ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of it!’
I couldn’t hold back my laughter either and we shared a few moments of unbridled amusement. His modesty and honesty were charming me. Here was a man whom I knew from my father’s information to be wealthy, with status and respect in his field. From my own perspective, while he was far from the ‘old man’ my father made him sound, he had the lines on his face that spoke of life’s experiences and the knowledge won through them. He was a man who could move among the common folk without turning heads and yet his clothes were finely tailored, his appearance most carefully kempt. His amusement won looks from other patrons, perhaps with a little envy that we were having such fun. Our sense of companionship was immediate, a rekindling of the past, a genuine sense of connection via our families, and even if nothing came of my father’s best hopes for us, I could envisage us becoming the very best of friends. Wasn’t friendship vital for a sound union of two people who were going to spend their lives together, being able to find common ground on everything? That meant compromise. I wasn’t adept at compromise but I sensed that Jove might be.
‘I’m surprised we haven’t seen each other over the years,’ I admitted.
‘I have travelled a great deal and I’ve been spending a lot of my time in my constituency —’
‘Do you enjoy politics?’
‘Only for as long as I can make a difference. I feel strongly enough about certain issues that I think it’s no good nagging from the sidelines.’
‘Stand up and be counted,’ I said, making a fist and grinning.
‘I suppose so,’ he agreed.
‘So tell me of an issue you feel moved to support,’ I asked, sipping and watching him over the rim of my cup.
He didn’t hesitate to take my measure and that impressed me. ‘Indian Home Rule. I support the National Government’s proposal, though with diehards like Churchill angrily opposed, you can imagine the difficult journey ahead for those of us who like to believe we’re forward global thinkers.’
The Tea Gardens Page 4