by Betty Neels
‘Shall we dress up?’ asked Esme, filling an awkward pause.
‘Er—well, something pretty...’ The professor, so fluent when it came to unpronounceable medical terms, was at a loss.
‘Will you be wearing a dinner jacket?’ asked Mrs Beckworth. ‘We none of us have anything very fashionable, I’m afraid.’
The professor looked at Julie. ‘When I saw you at the Café Royale you were wearing something silky and green—that would be exactly right.’
‘That old thing,’ declared Esme. ‘Julie’s had it for years. It suits her, though.’
‘That’s most helpful, Simon,’ said her mother. ‘We wouldn’t want to embarrass you.’
‘I’m quite sure that would be impossible, Mrs Beckworth. May I fetch you shortly after seven o’clock?’
He went soon afterwards, bending to receive Esme’s kiss, shaking hands with Mrs Beckworth and wishing Luscombe a friendly goodnight, but giving Julie no more than a casual nod, with the reminder that he would see her in the morning.
Esme was on the point of remarking upon this, but before she could utter her mother said, ‘We must settle this clothes question. Esme, finish your homework; we’ll talk over our supper. Yes, I’m sure Julie will help you with your essay while I talk to Luscombe...’
In the kitchen she sat down at the table where her old and devoted servant was making a salad. ‘Toasted cheese,’ he told her. ‘’Is nibs popping in like that didn’t give me no time for anything else.’
‘Well, yes, we weren’t expecting him. It’s very kind of him to invite us out. If you would like to have Saturday afternoon and evening off, Luscombe, we shan’t be back till late. I think we’d better have a kind of high tea before we go, and we can get that for ourselves.’
‘OK, Mrs Beckworth. There’s a film I’d like ter see—I could go to the matinee and ’ave tea at my sister’s.’ He was cutting bread. ‘’Is nibs didn’t so much as look at Miss Julie. ’E’s smitten, all right, and so’s she, bless ’er. ’E’d better love ’er dearly, or I’ll wring ’is neck for ’im!’
Mrs Beckworth acknowledged this generous offer in the spirit with which it had been given. ‘We would be lost without you, Luscombe. Ever since the doctor died you’ve been our faithful friend.’
‘And ’appy to be so, Mrs Beckworth.’ He put the bread under the grill. ‘’Is nibs is right for our Julie. All we need’s a bit of patience while they discover it for themselves. At cross purposes, they are, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, Luscombe, I do believe you’re right. We’ll just have to wait and see.’
Over supper the important question as to what they should wear dominated the conversation. Julie, secretly surprised that the professor had noticed what she had been wearing, agreed that the green jersey would do. Her mother had what she called her ‘good black’, which was instantly vetoed as being too dull. ‘There’s that grey silk you had for your silver wedding,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘If I alter the neck there’s that bit of lace in the trunk in the attic—I could turn it into a jabot.’
Esme was rather more of a problem. There were four days before Saturday, and nothing in Esme’s cupboard which would suit the occasion.
‘There’s that sapphire-blue velvet cloak you had from Granny, Mother,’ Julie said. ‘There’s enough material in it to make a pinafore dress for Esme. If you get a pattern I could cut it out tomorrow and run it up on the machine. You’ll need a blouse, Esme—have I got anything? There’s that white short-sleeved one of mine—I can take it in everywhere and add a blue bow at the neck. If it doesn’t turn out we can rush out on Saturday afternoon and find something.’
* * *
The professor, pursuing his own plans, took care to be away from his desk as much as possible during the next few days. It meant that he had to work late after Julie had gone home, but it also meant that save for dictating his letters he needed to see little of her. True, she accompanied him on his ward-rounds, but so did half a dozen other people; there was no fear of being alone with her.
* * *
It wasn’t until Julie was on the point of leaving on Friday that he said casually, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow evening—I did say shortly after seven, did I not?’
‘Yes, Professor. We’ll be ready,’ Julie replied, and added, ‘We’re looking forward to it.’
She went home then, intent on finishing Esme’s outfit—which had turned out surprisingly well. The blue suited her, and although they all knew it had originally been an old cloak no one else did, and the blouse, taken in drastically, was mostly concealed under the pinafore.
* * *
On Saturday evening, dressed and ready, they inspected each other carefully. Mrs Beckworth looked charming—the jabot had made all the difference and she was wearing her amethyst brooch. Esme preened herself in childish delight, and Julie, in the green dress, hoped that the professor wouldn’t find them too unfashionable.
He arrived punctually, complimented them on their appearance, and helped Mrs Beckworth into the cashmere coat.
‘We share the coat,’ Esme told him chattily. ‘It’s Mother’s but Julie wears it too, and just as soon as I’m big enough I shall be allowed to borrow it as well.’
Not a muscle of the professor’s face moved; he ignored Mrs Beckworth’s small distressed sound and Julie’s sharp breath.
‘You’ll be a charming young lady in no time,’ he observed. ‘I like the blue thing you are wearing.’
‘You’ll never guess—’ began Esme.
She was brought to a halt by Julie’s urgent, ’Esme, no.’ And Luscombe, coming into the hall to see them off, proved a welcome diversion...
Much later, lying in bed, too busy with her thoughts to sleep, Julie mulled over the evening. It had been wonderful; the Opera House had been magnificent, the audience sparkling and colourful, and the singing magnificent too—more than that, it had been breathtakingly dramatic. As the curtain had come down on the last act Julie had wanted to weep at the sadness. She hadn’t been able to speak, only to shake her head and smile when the professor had asked her if she had enjoyed it.
He had driven them to the Savoy Grill Room and given them supper, and Esme, she remembered thankfully, had behaved beautifully—although her eyes had been sparkling with excitement and it had been obvious that she was longing to stare around her and make remarks. Her mother had said little, but Julie hadn’t seen her look so happy for a long time.
She, herself, knew that there would never be another evening like it; it was something she would treasure for the rest of her life, something to remember when the professor became once more coldly impersonal and addressed her as Miss Beckworth.
She closed her eyes at last on the happy reflection that the blue velvet pinafore dress had been a great success; even though the seams and finish wouldn’t bear close inspection, no one would have guessed...
* * *
The professor hadn’t guessed but he had suspected—a suspicion confirmed by Esme, that outspoken child, who, finding herself alone with him for a few moments, had confided that it had been made out of her granny’s old evening cloak.
‘It took Julie three days—she’s ever so good at cutting out and we’ve a very old machine, but it doesn’t work very well. It’s best not to look inside and inspect the stitches, but it’s nice, isn’t it?’
‘It’s charming,’ he had assured her gently. ‘And no one would have any idea that it wasn’t brand-new from one of the best shops.’
A remark which had encouraged her to tell him about her mother’s lace jabot...
* * *
It was a relief that the next day was Sunday. It gave Julie time to remind herself that just because the professor had invited them out to such a splendid evening it didn’t mean that he felt any friendlier towards her. He was behaving very strangely too. She was never quite
sure of him—one minute coolly disinterested, bent only on the work in hand, the next asking friendly questions about her mother and Esme.
* * *
The professor, on the other hand, was well pleased with the evening.
Late though it was by the time he had let himself into his little house, Blossom had still been up.
‘A pleasant evening, I trust, sir?’ Under his severe exterior Blossom hid a soft heart and a real fondness for his master. ‘Mrs Venton telephoned to remind you that you are lunching at her house tomorrow. I am to tell you that Professor Smythe and his wife will be there.’
The professor, his head full of Julie and the way she had looked during the last act of La Bohème, had given an absent-minded nod. Even the mention of Professor Smythe, old friend and respected colleague though he was, had roused no interest in him just at that moment. Later, of course, when he had disciplined his thoughts to be sensible, he would look forward to seeing him again.
When they did meet the next day, over drinks at Audrey Venton’s house, they were given little chance to talk.
Mrs Venton was a woman who liked to be the centre of interest. She was well aware that she was attractive, well dressed and an amusing companion, and she expected everyone else to think the same. She also expected to monopolise the conversation.
The professor, who had from time to time taken her out to dine, discovered that he no longer had any interest in her. Lunch was a lengthy meal, and when the Smythes got up to leave he made the excuse that he had to call in at the hospital and left with them.
‘Perhaps we could have an evening out soon?’ asked Audrey.
‘I’m afraid not—there are the students’ exams coming up. They’ll keep me busy for some time—marking the papers.’
‘I’ll phone you...’
‘A delightful lunch,’ he told her smoothly, and remembered the Beckworths’ kitchen, with a cake on the table and everyone drinking mugs of coffee. The conversation might not be scintillating but it was spontaneous and sometimes amusing, and everyone listened to everyone else...
Seeing Professor Smythe and his wife into their car outside, he put his head through the open window. ‘Will you dine with me one evening soon? Just the three of us? We had no chance to talk.’
‘We’d love that,’ said Mary Smythe. ‘I’ll bring my book or my knitting and you two can discuss whatever it is you want to discuss. How do you get on with that dear creature, Julie, Simon?’
‘She’s a splendid worker...’
‘Had you noticed that she was beautiful too?’
‘Yes—she isn’t easily ignored, is she?’
His elderly friend asked, ‘How did she get on in Holland? Never got into a flap with me, but of course we never went across the channel.’
‘Took it in her stride—worked like a beaver.’
‘Good. Aren’t you glad that I bequeathed her to you?’
‘Indeed I am.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘You have no idea how glad!’ He withdrew his head, saying, ‘I’ll give you a ring about dinner.’
He stood on the pavement and watched Professor Smythe drive away. He in his turn was watched by Audrey Venton from behind the drawing room curtains. She was clever enough to know that what little interest he had had in her had gone completely, and she wondered why.
As for the professor, he went back home, finished an article for a medical journal and then sat back to think about Julie. He was quite capable of making her fall in love with him, but he had no intention of doing that—love, if there was any love, would have to come naturally from her. All it required, he concluded, was monumental patience. Although, of course, if fate cared to intervene in some way, he would be grateful.
* * *
Fate did intervene.
The fire alarm sounded just after five o’clock on Monday, while Julie, requested by the professor to find the old notes of a long dead patient, was patiently going through the racks of dusty folders housed in a vast bare room just under the hospital roof. There were no windows—only a skylight, never opened—so she had to work by the aid of the strip lighting above the racks. There was another girl there too, one of the clerks attached to the records office, standing at the end of the room, close to the door. She gave a squawk of fright at the sound, dumped her papers and made for the door.
‘Quick, there’s a fire. We’ll all be burnt alive.’ The squawk became a scream. ‘And all those stairs...’
‘Only one flight,’ said Julie. ‘Probably it’s only a small fire in the kitchens. You run on; I’m just coming.’
She kept her voice calm although her insides were quaking as she put back the folders she had taken from the rack—and at the same time she saw the folder the professor wanted. She tucked it under her arm and started towards the door.
It was slammed shut before she reached it. The girl, in her hurry, had forgotten to slip the lock. There was no key on the inside of the door, which was a solid affair, fitting snugly into the wall. Julie turned the handle in the vain hope that a miracle would happen, but it didn’t. The door was shut and she was on the wrong side of it.
She wasted a few minutes shouting, even though she knew that no one was likely to hear her—nor would she be missed. The professor would expect her to make her way to the assembly point for the staff and there was no reason to suppose that the nursing staff would miss her.
‘A pretty kettle of fish,’ said Julie, and cheered herself with the thought that the girl who had fled so hastily would remember that she had slammed the door shut. The attic was too remote for her to hear much, but faintly she caught the sound of the fire engines and then, faint but ominous, a crackling sound.
Something had to be done, and she looked around her.
There was a small solid table and chair for the convenience of those checking the folders. She dragged the table under the skylight and climbed onto it. Even by stretching her arms above her head she couldn’t reach it. She got down again and began to pile folders onto the table. When she had stacked a goodly pile she climbed up again, and this time she could reach the skylight. The iron catch had rusted off and it was jammed.
She got down again and carried the chair over to the table, balanced it on the piles of folders and climbed back on. The chair was light, she ought to be able to smash the skylight... She remembered the notes the professor had wanted, and got down again to fetch them. She climbed back as quickly as possible—the little puff of smoke finding its way through a minute crack in the door warned her to waste no time.
All the same, she paused for a moment—if smoke could get through cracks in the door maybe if she waited until it collapsed in the fire she could escape down the stairs... Second thoughts revealed the futility of such a scheme; she climbed carefully, dragging the chair after her and, since she was a practical girl, with the professor’s folder tucked under one arm.
She raised the chair above her head, wobbling uncertainly on the pile of folders, but it was awkward lifting the chair and the prod she gave the skylight was no more than a tap. She lowered the chair, and at the same time the lights went out.
It was evening outside by now, and raining. She stared up into the dark outside, so frightened now that she couldn’t think.
The sound of the skylight being opened almost sent her off balance.
‘Hello,’ said the professor from the dark above her, and shone a torch onto her upturned face, suddenly lightened by a glorious smile.
‘Oh, Simon,’ said Julie.
She couldn’t see his face clearly, couldn’t see his slow, wide smile. He said cheerfully, ‘I see you’ve started to escape. Good. Now, this may be a bit tricky—I’m going to have to heave you out. The moment you can reach the edge of the skylight get a grip of it so that I can shift my hold a bit.’
She said idiotically, ‘I’ve found those notes you wanted.�
� And went on, ‘Couldn’t you open the door, and then I could come through? I’m awfully heavy!’
‘Too much smoke. I’m awfully heavy too; I dare say we’ll manage very well between us. Only do exactly as I say.’
‘Yes, I’m ready.’
‘Lift your arms and don’t whatever you do fall off the table. I shall probably hurt you; I rely on you not to burst into tears or have hysterics.’
Julie said crossly, ‘What do you take me for?’ and lifted her arms.
He began to haul her up, inch by inch. The iron grip on her arms was almost more than she could bear—if he were to drop her... She went stiff with fright.
‘Relax,’ said the professor calmly, and went on heaving, his powerful arms straining. It seemed like a very long time before he said, ‘Now try and get hold of the sides and hold on very tightly. I’m going to move my hands.’
Julie let out a squeaky gasp and did as she had been told, and then she squeaked again as his hands slid from her arms and held her in a crushing grip.
‘Now heave yourself up a bit. I’ve got you safe and I’m heaving too. You’re almost out.’
It took a few more anxious minutes before she tumbled out in an untidy heap. ‘Don’t move,’ said the professor, and flung a great arm across her. ‘There’s a slope here. We’ll lie still for a moment and get our breath.’
Julie reflected that standing up would be difficult—moving of any kind would be impossible. She had no breath and she ached all over. She lay thankfully under the shelter of his arm and felt his heart thudding mightily against her.
Presently she gasped, ‘Thank you very much—you saved my life. How did you know I was there?’
‘Well, I asked you to come here, didn’t I?’ He gave a rumble of laughter. ‘I can’t afford to lose my secretary, can I?’
A remark which brought tears to her eyes. She gave a sniff and told herself that it was the kind of remark that she might have expected.
‘Why are you crying?’
‘I’m not...’
‘It’s a good thing it’s dark—we must look a fine pair, spreadeagled on the tiles. Now, the next thing to do is to attract attention. There’s a low parapet round the roof, and we have to slide down to it. Slowly, hanging on to everything handy as we go. Ready?’