by Betty Neels
He handed her a pile of folders, observing mildly, ‘The floor is the best place.’
So she got on her knees and went to work. It was dull and tedious, and since he showed no signs of wanting to talk she kept silent. Before long the phone rang, and when she answered it it was an urgent request that he should go at once to the wards. Which left her alone with her thoughts.
CHAPTER SIX
BY THE TIME the professor came back Julie had established some kind of order. There had been a good deal of sorting out to do and her normal day’s work was already piled on her desk. She had paused briefly to open the post and lay the contents on his desk, find his diary and leave it open—it was crammed with appointments—and had dealt with several phone calls which hadn’t been urgent.
He went past her into his own office without speaking and presently asked her to take some letters. As she sat down he looked at her over his spectacles. ‘You are suffering no ill effects from your disturbed evening?’ he wanted to know.
‘None, sir.’ She opened her notebook, pencil poised. After a quick look she bent her head, writing the date on her pad, taking her time over it, wishing that he would start dictating, because sitting there with him was a mixed blessing; it was pure happiness to be near him; on the other hand, the sooner he started dictating with his usual abruptness, apparently unaware of her as a person, the easier it would be for her to ignore her feelings.
The professor was, however, in no hurry. He was irritated that Julie was so frequently in his thoughts and yesterday he had, much against his will, told her that she was beautiful and been altogether too concerned about her. He had been so careful to hold her at arm’s length when it was obvious that she didn’t like him. Hopefully, she had been so upset that she had probably not been listening. He would have to be careful; he had no intention of allowing himself to fall in love with a girl who so disliked him.
He thought with relief of the few days’ holiday he intended to take in Holland; to get away might bring him to his senses so that he could return to his austere, hard-working life.
He pushed his spectacles further up his handsome nose. ‘The hospital director—you have his name and the hospital’s in the letter—Stockholm. With regard to your invitation to lecture...’
Would he want her to go to Stockholm with him? Julie wondered, her pencil racing over the page. Perhaps not for such a brief visit to read a paper at a seminar there. She turned the page for a new letter and concentrated; this time it was full of long medical terms—she would have to check it all in her dictionary.
He went away presently and she made a cup of coffee before starting on her typing—the letters first and then printing out the spoilt sheets again and then getting down to the routine paperwork. The professor was still absent and she decided that she would miss her dinner. If there was a porter free he might bring her a sandwich from the canteen.
She rang through to the lodge, and since she was regarded as something of a heroine after last night’s escapade a few minutes later one of the porters who had followed the police brought her a plate of sandwiches. ‘Beef, miss, and a packet of biscuits. All right for coffee, are you?’ When she thanked him, he said awkwardly, ‘Wish I’d known about that fellow getting in here; I’d have put him to the right about. None the worse are you, miss?’
She assured him that she had never felt better. ‘And I know you would have been the first to deal with him. I feel quite safe here. It was just chance that he managed to creep in.’
The professor returned just as she had taken a bite of sandwich. He eyed her coldly. ‘Why have you not gone to your dinner, Miss Beckworth? Am I such a hard taskmaster?’
She said thickly through a mouthful of beef, ‘No, no, sir, but the work’s piling up and there’s a lot of time wasted in the canteen, queueing for food.’
He looked surprised and then picked up the phone and asked for sandwiches and coffee to be sent to his office. Julie swallowed the last of the beef; it seemed that he was going to lunch at his desk too...
She was wrong; the porter, when he came with a tray bearing a pot of coffee and sandwiches, was directed to put them on her desk, and when she turned a surprised face to him Professor van der Driesma said, ‘They were for you, Miss Beckworth.’
The professor came through the door as the porter went away. Julie eyed the sandwiches with pleasure—egg and cress, ham, and a couple of leaves of lettuce on the side—very tasty. She said gratefully, ‘Thank you, sir.’
He paused on his way out. ‘I cannot allow you to waste away, Miss Beckworth.’
Her ‘Well, really!’ was lost on him as he closed the door gently behind him.
She drank a cup of delicious coffee and ate the sandwiches. What had he meant? Had it been an oblique reference to her size? She was a big girl but she had a splendid shape. Perhaps he preferred the beanpole type—or did he think that she was greedy? She ate another sandwich. ‘Well, too bad!’ said Julie, gobbling the last delicious morsel and pouring the last of the coffee. Though the canteen, if they knew that she was lunching off what was intended to be a light snack for a consultant, would be furious.
She started her work again, much refreshed, and by the time the professor came back, his head bent over the papers before him, she had finished her work. She took his letters in, waited to see if he needed her for anything else and went back to her office to start on the filing.
He had given her the briefest of glances and returned to his work again. I might just as well not be here, she reflected. Why does it all have to be so hopeless? Why couldn’t he have fallen in love with me? And why did I have to fall in love with him? Useless questions she couldn’t answer. She finished her filing, bade him a wooden goodnight and took herself off home.
* * *
Luscombe was in the kitchen when she went in. ‘’Arf a mo’, there’s a cup of tea coming up,’ he told her. ‘’Ad a bad day?’
‘Absolutely beastly.’ She drank her tea and felt better, so she was able to tell her mother that she wasn’t in the least tired and the day had been no busier than usual.
‘Well, dear, that’s a good thing. Do you remember Peter Mortimer? He went to Australia—or was it New Zealand?—last year. He’s back home and phoned to see if you’d have dinner with him this evening. You used to be quite friendly...’ Her mother looked hopeful. ‘He said he’d ring again.’
Which he did, exactly on cue. ‘Remember me?’ he asked cheerfully. ‘I’m here in town for a couple of days before I go home. Will you have dinner with me this evening and tell me all the gossip?’
She had liked him and he had more than liked her, but she had almost forgotten what he looked like. He sounded lonely and perhaps an evening out would restore her spirits. After all, what was the use of mooning over a man who hardly looked at her, much less bothered to say anything other than good morning and good evening? ‘I’d like that,’ she told him. ‘Do you want me to meet you somewhere?’
‘I’ll come for you. Seven o’clock be too early?’
‘That’s fine.’ She ran off and went to tell her mother.
‘How nice, dear. You have so little fun these days. I wonder where he’ll take you?’
‘No idea.’ To discourage her mother’s obvious hopes, she added, ‘He’s in town just for a day or two then he’s going home.’
She put on a pretty silk jersey dress, its colour matching her hair, piled her hair in a complicated topknot and went to her mother’s wardrobe to get the coat—a dark brown cashmere treasured from their better-off days and shared between them, used only on special occasions.
Esme was in the sitting room when she went downstairs. ‘You look quite chic,’ she observed. ‘Take care of the coat, won’t you? In a year or two I’ll be able to borrow it too.’
‘Such a useful garment,’ said Mrs Beckworth. ‘I shall need it for that commit
tee meeting in a couple of days’ time. You know the one—we drink weak tea and decide about the Christmas party for the rest home. Only they’re all so dressy. I know I’ve worn the coat for several years, but no one can cavil at cashmere, can they?’ She paused. ‘There’s the doorbell. You go, dear; Luscombe’s busy in the kitchen.’
Peter Mortimer hadn’t changed; he had a round, chubby face and bright blue eyes and no one took him seriously, although he was something successful in the advertising business. He came in and spent five minutes talking to Mrs Beckworth. Esme bombarded him with questions about Australia—only it turned out that it was New Zealand—but presently he suggested that they should go. ‘I’ve got a table for eight o’clock and we’re bound to get hung up crossing town.’
He was an easy companion, delighted to talk about his year away from England, and Julie was a good listener. The traffic was heavy but he was a good driver and patient. ‘Not boring you?’ he asked as he drew up outside the Café Royal. ‘Pop inside while I get this chappie to park the car...’
Julie went into the foyer, left the coat in the cloakroom and hoped that he wouldn’t be too long. He wasn’t. ‘Marvellous chap—tucked the car somewhere. Hope this place suits you?’
‘Peter, it’s heavenly. I haven’t been out to dine for months.’
They were shown to their table and when they had sat down he asked, ‘Why not?’ He grinned. ‘A gorgeous girl like you? I should have thought you’d have been out night after night, if not spoken for!’
‘Well, I’m not. I know it sounds silly but I’m quite tired when I get home in the evenings and there’s always something which has to be done. Don’t think I’m grumbling; I’ve a good job and lots of friends, only I don’t see any of them as often as I’d like to.’ She looked around her at the opulent grill room with its gilded rococo and mirrors. ‘This is quite something. Are you a millionaire or something?’
‘Lord, no, but I’m doing quite nicely. I’m going back to New Zealand in a couple of weeks. Came over to see the parents, actually.’ He looked suddenly bashful. ‘I’m going to marry a girl—her father’s a sheep farmer on the South Island; thought I’d better tell them about her. We’ll marry after Christmas and come over here to see them.’
‘Peter, how lovely! I hope you’ll be very happy. Tell me about her...’
‘Let’s have a drink and decide what we’ll eat—I’ve some photos of her...’
They had their drinks and decided what they would have—spinach soufflé, medallions of pork with ginger sauce—and, since Peter insisted that it was a kind of celebration—or a reunion if she’d rather—he ordered a bottle of champagne.
The soufflé eaten, he brought out the photos and they bent over them, their heads close together. ‘She looks very pretty, Peter; she’s dark, and her eyes are lovely.’ Julie sat back while the waiter served her, and glanced round the room. The professor was sitting thirty yards away, staring at her.
He wasn’t alone; the woman he was with had her back to Julie, but, from what she could see of it, it promised elegance. She had dark hair, cut short, a graceful neck and shoulders and when she turned her head, a perfect profile.
Julie managed a small, social smile and looked away quickly, not wanting to see if he would acknowledge it or not. Probably not, she thought peevishly, bending an apparently attentive head to hear Peter’s description of life in New Zealand.
Who was the woman? she wondered. Of course, the professor was entitled to have as many girlfriends as he wanted, but what about the girl in Groningen? There had been no mistaking the way he had held her close and kissed her.
She had never thought of him as having a social life; to see him, sitting there in black tie, in one of the most fashionable restaurants in London, had surprised her. Just for a moment she wondered if he would say anything to her in the morning, but she dismissed the thought as Peter began a detailed description of the house he intended to buy for his bride.
When she contrived to peep towards the professor’s table later it was to find that he and his companion had gone.
* * *
In the morning the professor was already at his desk when she got to her office. His good morning was affable. ‘You had a pleasant evening, Miss Beckworth?’ He sounded positively avuncular.
‘Thank you, yes, very pleasant. Shall I ring the path lab for those results they promised for this morning?’
He didn’t answer this. ‘An old friend?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Julie briskly. ‘We’ve known each other for a very long time.’ She wasn’t sure how one simpered but it seemed an appropriate expression and she did her best.
The professor watched with secret amusement. ‘I suppose we shall be losing you shortly,’ he suggested. ‘He didn’t look the kind of man who would like his wife to work.’
Julie was thinking about the woman at the professor’s table and wasn’t listening with more than half an ear. ‘He still has to get his house—of course, in that part of New Zealand there is plenty of space.’
‘New Zealand? That’s a long way away.’
‘Twenty-four hours in a plane,’ she told him, and added briskly, ‘I’ll phone the path lab...’
* * *
He watched her go to her office and pick up the phone, surprised to find that he didn’t like the idea of her going to the other side of the world as another man’s wife.
He gave an impatient sigh; she had somehow wormed her way into his mind and now his heart, and, what was worse, she was quite unaware of it. Well, he would never let her see that; a pity that after all these years he should be in danger of falling in love at last, and with the wrong girl. He opened his diary and studied its contents; a busy day lay ahead of him. He was too old for her, anyway.
That evening when he got home Blossom came to meet him. ‘Mrs Venton telephoned, sir, not half an hour ago. Asked if you would ring her back. I did tell her that I didn’t know how late you’d be.’
The professor paused on his way to his study. ‘Ah, thank you, Blossom. Did she say why she wished me to ring her?’
‘She mentioned a small dinner party with a few friends, sir.’ Blossom coughed. ‘The young lady whom you brought here recently, sir—I trust she is fully recovered from her nasty experience? I had the whole story from your head porter’s wife while shopping at the supermarket.’
‘Quite recovered, Blossom.’
‘I am glad to hear it; a very nice young lady if I may say so, sir, and extremely pretty. Very well liked, I understand.’ He slid past the professor and opened his study door for him. ‘I lighted a small fire, sir; these evenings are chilly. Will you dine at your usual time?’
‘Please.’
The professor went and sat at his desk, ignoring the papers on it, so still that Kitty in her basket by the fire left her sleeping kittens and climbed onto his knee. He stroked her gently while he thought about Julie. Despite her evasive answers to his questions he felt sure now that the man she had been with was no more than a friend. From where he had been sitting he had had an excellent view of the pair of them; they certainly hadn’t behaved like people in love and yet he had had the distinct impression that that was what she would have liked him to think.
Since he was now quite certain in his mind that he loved her and intended, by hook or crook to marry her, he would have to find ways of getting to know her better, and that, he knew, would have to be a gradual process or she would be frightened off. First he must win her liking.
Blossom, coming to tell him that dinner was ready, wondered why he looked so thoughtful and at the same time so cheerful. Surely that Mrs Venton hadn’t had that effect upon his master. A tiresome woman, thought Blossom, out to catch the professor, given the chance. Not that he would be an easy man to catch, but sooner or later someone would do just that.
Blossom, serving soup with the
same perfection he would have shown at a dinner party for a dozen, thought of Julie again. She would do nicely.
It would have given him great peace of mind if he had known that the professor had come to the same conclusion, never mind his previous doubts.
* * *
Julie, unaware of these plans for her future, her feelings ruffled because the professor had shown no emotion when she had hinted that she might be going to New Zealand, went home in a bad temper, didn’t eat her supper and flounced around the house doing a lot of unnecessary things like shaking up the cushions and opening and closing drawers and cupboards.
Her mother, placidly sewing name-tapes on Esme’s new sports kit, watched her and said nothing; only later, when Julie had taken herself off to bed, did she remark to Luscombe worriedly, ‘Julie doesn’t seem quite herself. I do hope she’s not sickening for something.’
Luscombe offered the warm drink he had thoughtfully prepared for her.
‘In love, isn’t she? I said so, didn’t I? ‘’Ad a row, no doubt, with the professor...’
‘When he’s here he hardly speaks to her. I mean, she’s his secretary.’ A muddled statement which Luscombe had no difficulty in understanding.
‘Goes to show—’e’s smitten too. The pair of them ’as got crossed wires.’
* * *
On Monday the professor began his campaign to win Julie’s attention, if not her affection, with caution. Nevertheless, she looked at him once or twice during the day; he had smiled at her several times, he had wished her a cheerful good morning and each time he came and went to and from his office he had a word to say; she could only conclude that he had had some good news of some sort. Perhaps that girl was coming to see him. He had told her that he would be going back to Holland shortly—the prospect of being at his home again might have put him in a good mood. She responded guardedly, carefully polite.