The Hasty Marriage

by Betty Neels

  Laura gasped. ‘She didn’t say that? But it isn’t true—you’re thirty-eight, aren’t you? That’s not old.’

  ‘Perhaps not to you, Laura, but Joyce is only twenty.’

  She went a little pale at his unthinking unkindness, but she said steadily: ‘Age doesn’t have anything to do with it.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, how would you know about that?’

  ‘That’s twice you’ve been abominably rude,’ she pointed out. ‘It’s all right, though—I know you’re angry and shocked and unhappy. I—I think I understand a little of how you feel; you’d like to knock someone down, I expect, but there’s no one here, only me, and I shouldn’t let you.’

  The sneer was there once more. ‘Indeed? And how could you prevent me from doing so?’

  ‘Never you mind.’ She came down off the stairs at last and said carefully, ‘Reilof, there are a great many other girls—pretty girls—in the world. I know that seems a dreadful thing to say, but it’s true. Once you’ve got over this…’

  His dark eyes, so hard that she winced, swept over her. ‘My dear good girl,’ and his voice was almost a drawl, ‘she wouldn’t need to be pretty; anyone will do after Joyce, there couldn’t be another girl like her.’ He laughed without humour. ‘Good God, girl, if it comes to that, I might just as well marry you.’

  ‘Then why don’t you?’ asked Laura, very much to her own astonishment. She hadn’t meant to say that at all, the words had popped out, and now there was no way of getting them back again. She lifted her firm little chin and met his dark look.

  If he was astonished too, he didn’t show it. ‘Indeed, and why not?’ he echoed smoothly, ‘since I’m obviously too—er—mature for Joyce, then I must learn my lesson from her, mustn’t I, and take someone nearer my own age.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And you, Laura, are reaching thirty, are you not?’

  He was being deliberately cruel now, but she could understand that; he wanted to hit back and she was the nearest thing to hit. She agreed in a quiet voice but made no other comment, and presently he went on:

  ‘We’re both old enough not to expect romance, I imagine. At least I am cured of that illusion, although I must admit that having made up my mind to marry again, the prospect of remaining single for the rest of my life doesn’t appeal to me any more.’ He took his hands from his pockets and came towards her, his voice quite kind now.

  ‘A marriage of friends, Laura, nothing more—I want no more of romance; companionship, someone to run my home and entertain my guests and friends, that will suffice for me. And what about you? Is that enough for you too? Or do you want to go on waiting patiently for the man of your dreams to come along?’

  She shook her head. ‘I can promise you I shan’t do that,’ she assured him seriously. ‘You only have to take a good look at me—nudging thirty and what my mother always described as homely. And even if my dream man came along, he would hardly take a second glance at me, would he?’

  He nodded in agreement and she thought what a preposterous conversation they were having.

  ‘Then you would marry me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Laura baldly.

  He studied her at length. ‘You’re very certain. Why?’

  It would have been nice to have been able to answer him truthfully, instead she said soberly: ‘Mr Burnett was quite right, you know; the prospect of being a Ward Sister for the rest of my working life quite appalls me. I’ve been nursing for ten years now and I love it, make no mistake about that, but it’s a narrow life and an exacting one, and there are so many things I want to do and so far I’ve never had enough time to do much of any of them.’

  ‘For instance?’

  She was aware that he was only giving her his polite attention while the rest of his mind was given over to the shattering news she had just given him, but she went on talking, knowing that the only way to treat an abnormal situation was to be as normal as possible. A pretended normality, but at least it kept one from an outburst of rage which one might regret later. Children were lucky, she thought inconsequently, they could express their feelings exactly as they wished, whereas here was Reilof, and for that matter, herself too, both shocked and unhappy though for different reasons, and all they could do was have this ridiculous conversation.

  ‘Petit-point,’ she murmured, and when he smiled faintly, ‘reading all the books I’ve ever wanted to, having a garden and tending it and picking the flowers and arranging them—taking hours over it—and meeting people—oh, I meet people every day; doctors and nurses and patients, and we all talk about the same thing, each from our own point of view. I want to meet people who know things—like Uncle Wim…’

  She thought that he hadn’t been listening, but now he gave her a considering look and she wondered if, just for a moment, he had forgotten Joyce. ‘And if we were to marry you would be content with such simple pleasures as these? No holidays abroad, no theatres and dances and dinner parties—you wouldn’t expect me to change my selfish bachelor ways to suit you?’

  ‘Would you have changed them for Joyce?’

  His face was bleak. ‘Of course—it’s different when one loves someone. One wants to please them, to make them happy.’

  Rather a poor outlook for me, thought Laura, and said calmly, ‘No, I’d not bother you—I’d be there if you wanted me, though.’

  His mouth twisted and she went on quickly, ‘It’s not what you’d hoped for, but it might be better than being lonely for the rest of your life.’ She went on in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘But there, I daresay you don’t mean a word of it—one says things when one is angry or upset.’

  He interrupted her brusquely. ‘I mean every word, Laura. I’m not at all sure of my reasons, but I do mean what I’ve said. But you—you must have time to think it over; I stand to gain a hostess for my friends, someone to run my home, bear me company, but you gain very little—a disgruntled man, disappointed in love and used until recently to leading a solitary life. There may be days when you’ll hate me and wish that you’d never married me.’

  He paused to look at her and she said placidly, ‘Very likely,’ while her heart cried silently, ‘Never that,’ and presently he went on: ‘Would you consider giving in your notice at St Anne’s—that would give you a month or so to make up your mind.’

  ‘Very well.’ It was time this extraordinary conversation was brought to a close, and she asked politely: ‘Would you like a cup of tea? You must be tired after your journey.’

  He let out a bellow of laughter. ‘Not tired, Laura, but I’ll have your cup of tea. Is it not supposed to be the panacea of all ills?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BACK in St Anne’s that Saturday night, Laura, so late in that all her friends were in bed and asleep, made no attempt to go to bed herself, but sat in the small easy chair provided for each Sister’s comfort, by her window. There was nothing to see; it was pitch dark and even in daylight the view was nothing but chimneypots and rather shabby slate roofs, and anyway, she wasn’t looking at anything. Her brain was busy going over the events of her stay at home. Because of course she had stayed—she hadn’t intended to, but there was no point in rushing off again now that Joyce’s departure was a known fact, and it might have looked as though she was chickening out of an unpleasant situation. So she stayed and cooked supper for them all while her father and Reilof had gone to the study and Uncle Wim had kept her company in the kitchen, getting dreadfully in the way and talking about everything under the sun except the one topic uppermost in her mind, until at length she had asked: ‘Godfather, what do you think? I mean about Joyce and Reilof—he must be broken-hearted.’

  Her elderly companion had settled himself more comfortably in the shabby old chair by the Aga, Mittens on his knee. ‘For the moment, my dear—only for the moment. You see, love and infatuation are rather alike to begin with.’

  Laura stirred her soup. ‘You mean he didn’t—doesn’t love her?’

  ‘Shall we say that he thought he did, and still thinks so,
and what man would not? Such a pretty girl with all that lovely golden hair and those eyes—but of course it isn’t eyes and hair which count in the long run, Laura, and after a while a man comes to his senses and realizes that.’

  ‘Oh, does he? And how does one tell the difference?’

  ‘My dear child, you ask me that when you already know the answer.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Have you not known the difference between your love for Reilof and Joyce’s infatuation for him, or rather for the things he could give her—striking good looks, the assurance of an older man, money—although she wasn’t quite certain about that, was she?—and the satisfaction of being adored by a man of the world?’

  Laura hardly heard the last bit of his remark. ‘My love for Reilof,’ she uttered. ‘Godfather…’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Laura, no one else even guesses, and certainly not Reilof. You have no need to look so alarmed.’

  She was at the table preparing bread for croutons, and paused, knife in hand, to ask, ‘But you knew?’

  ‘Well, yes, but then you and I have always been close, have we not? I think of you as my own daughter, and perhaps I know a good deal more about you than you do yourself.’

  She popped her bread cubes into the pan and watched them crisp. ‘Uncle Wim, this may sound crazy to you, but he’s asked me to marry him. We were talking and he was so angry, although he didn’t look angry, if you know what I mean, and he said he might as well marry anyone if he couldn’t marry Joyce, so I said, well, why not me? And—and he agreed in a nasty smooth voice and we talked about that for a bit too, and then I said I supposed he’d been talking wildly, but he said no, he hadn’t, and I might as well give a month’s notice at St Anne’s and think about it and let him know… He only wants a companion and someone to run his home, he says he’s done with romance.’

  She had dished the croutons and lifted her saucepan lids and peered inside, prodding their contents with a fork.

  ‘Of course he has, we all say that at such times, it’s a very natural reaction,’ her godparent had observed comfortably. ‘It happens time and time again. You will of course accept.’

  Laura remembered how quickly she had said yes, she would.

  She undressed then and got into bed, her brain still busy. Joyce had telephoned late on Friday evening and had contrived, as only she could, to wring forgiveness out of her father, even a reluctant acceptance of her actions; she was deliriously happy, she had said. Larry was super and although they would be flying to America in a few days she would bring him home before they went, and anyway, he was so rich that she would be able to come home and see them all just whenever she wanted to.

  She didn’t mention Reilof at all, and Laura, who had whisked him off to the kitchen when the telephone rang, kept him at the sink washing the supper things until she judged that Joyce would be finished. And Reilof, wiping his hands at the end of his unaccustomed task, had said in that bland voice she was beginning to hate because it hid his feelings so effectively: ‘That was thoughtful of you, Laura—do you intend to smooth my path as diligently when we’re married?’

  She had resented his cool assumption that she would accept him, even though she had more or less done so, but all she had said had been:

  ‘No—I imagine you’re perfectly able to do that for yourself. I thought it might have been awkward for Father.’

  And he had laughed and murmured: ‘Cut down to size for the second time today! And don’t look so stricken, Laura, I dislike sympathy.’

  ‘Wretch,’ Laura reflected, ‘ill-tempered, arrogant wretch—just let him wait until we’re married!’ Upon which satisfying resolution, not taking into account resentment or uncertainty or anything else, she fell sound asleep.

  The astonishment on the Principal Nursing Officer’s face when Laura presented herself at the office and gave in her notice was quite ludicrous. Laura had seemed to her to be a safe bet for the rest of her working life, but she swallowed her surprise and asked in a coy voice which went ill with her stern visage, ‘And who is the lucky man, Sister?’

  ‘Doctor van Meerum, Miss Moore.’

  It was difficult to know whether to be flattered or insulted by her superior’s look of sheer disbelief. Her, ‘You’ll be living in Holland, then? Well, I must wish you every happiness and accept your resignation as from today, Sister Standish,’ was uttered in a tone which implied that she considered the happiness rather doubtful. Laura conceded that she was probably right; any happiness which came her way she would have to fight for—excellent tooth and pretty pink nail.

  There seemed little point in keeping her departure a secret, as the grapevine would get hold of it anyway, and rather than allow its sometimes inaccurate gossip to spread through the hospital, Laura told Ann while they were having their morning coffee together. The news spread like wildfire, and if its hearers were mystified by it, only the more indiscreet of them made reference to the fact that they had understood that it was Joyce who had become engaged to Doctor van Meerum. Those who did were hushed at once, for Laura was liked throughout the hospital and the good wishes she received were sincere. But in reply to the numerous questions as to when and where she would marry, where she would live, and most important of all, what she intended wearing for the wedding, she was forced to prevaricate, for she had only the haziest of ideas herself. Indeed, when she considered the matter, she wasn’t sure if she had actually said that she would marry Reilof, and supposing, just supposing he had changed his mind?

  He hadn’t; she had taken it for granted that they would see each other again when she went home, but towards the end of the week he came to see her at St Anne’s. The moment was hardly an auspicious one, for she was busily engaged in restraining one of the patients from removing the cannula from his arm; he had taken exception to the flask of blood hanging beside his bed and had made several attempts to tug the tubing free, each time restrained by Laura, who was outwardly composed but wishing heartily that her nurses would come back from their supper so that she could telephone George. The man was written up for more sedatives, but the difficulty was getting them…she heard the step behind her with relief and said at once, still calmly, so that the other patients shouldn’t be disturbed, ‘George, do come and hang on to this arm while I get his injection.’

  But the arm in its well-tailored sleeve which reached from behind her didn’t belong to George; she would know that large well-kept hand anywhere. ‘It’s you!’ she exclaimed idiotically.

  ‘In person, and on this occasion arriving at the right time, I think.’ He was beside her now and gave her a brief smile. ‘Run along and get whatever it is he needs while I hold him—what is he?’

  ‘A bad laceration of scalp with concussion—he really needs a special for a bit, but there’s no one to spare until the night staff come on.’

  She sped away, unpinning the DDA key from her uniform as she went. It took only a few minutes to unlock the cupboard in her office, find the drug, check it and draw it up and then go quick-footed down the ward once more. Doctor van Meerum was standing just as she had left him, a firm hand on the patient, and he kept it there until she had given the injection and it had taken effect. Only when the man quietened and sank into unconsciousness once more did he relinquish his hold.

  ‘No nurses?’ he inquired.

  ‘At supper—they’ll be back any minute.’

  ‘Surely a little rash to send everyone but yourself with such a patient on the ward?’ His tone was mild, but she flushed.

  ‘I have two first-year nurses on duty with me; it would have been most unfair to keep one back and then leave the other one by herself to cope while I gave the report.’

  He said gravely, ‘I stand corrected. Here they are now. Shall I stay for the moment? Just until you’ve given the report to the night nurses, that would allow your two to keep an eye on the other patients.’

  She gave him a relieved glance. ‘Oh, would you? It would be very kind—they’re both very good, but it’s
their first ward and everything’s strange. I’ll be about ten minutes.’

  She was as good as her word, and leaving the night staff nurse and her junior as well as a third-year male student nurse to sit with the concussion case, she went down the ward once more, murmuring her goodnights to the patients as she went. Reilof had relinquished his post to the male nurse and was standing idly waiting for her, and turned without a word as she reached him. They left the ward together and started down the stone staircase.

  ‘Supper?’ he suggested.

  Laura stopped to look up at him. ‘That would be nice—are you staying here?’

  ‘In London? Yes. There’s a meeting I have to attend tomorrow. I flew over.’

  She nodded. ‘I see.’ She searched his impassive face with anxious eyes. ‘Have you heard from Joyce?’

  There was no expression on his face at all, but his voice was bland. ‘Should I have? No—what would be the point?’

  Laura resumed her brisk trot down the stairs. ‘Well—none, I suppose. I just thought…well, that she might have explained…’

  ‘I think she gave all the explanation necessary in her letter. She’s married now, Laura,’ he gave her a mocking smile. ‘Don’t tell me that you’re having ideas about her discovering that she has made a mistake and rushing back to me—you’re wasting your time.’

  They had reached the long corridor which would lead eventually to the back entrance of the Nurses’ Home and Laura stopped. ‘I go down here.’

  ‘I’ll wait for you at the front entrance. How long will you be? Ten minutes?’

  She almost smiled, imagining what Joyce would have said if he had put that same question to her. Apparently her own appearance didn’t matter all that much; it was a sobering reflection. All the same she used her ten minutes to good effect, showering and making up her face nicely and re-doing her hair into its neat topknot before putting on what Joyce called her middle-of-the-road Jaeger shirt-waister. Its soft silvery grey was kind to her mousiness and set off her charming figure to advantage. She caught up the grey flannel coat which matched it so exactly, tucked a rose-pink scarf into the dress’s neck and sped towards the entrance, pleased that however sober her dress was, her shoes and handbag were high fashion, bought in a burst of extravagance only a few weeks previously.