by Betty Neels
He kept his arm around her and began to edge his way down. ‘You won’t fall; I have you safe.’
It was a tricky business, and hard on the knees and hands, but finally they reached the narrow gutter and felt the parapet against their feet.
‘Keep perfectly still. I’m going to stand up.’
The professor rose to his splendid height, put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. He repeated the ear-piercing noise until he heard a shout from the ground below, and a moment later a searchlight almost blinded him.
He sat down then, content to wait until they were rescued, putting a hand on Julie’s shoulder. ‘Stay as you are,’ he told her. ‘We’ll be home and dry in a very short time. Have you stopped crying?’
‘Yes. I am sorry.’
He patted her shoulder. ‘You have been a dear brave girl, Julie.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘We’re wet, aren’t we?’
She nodded in the dark. ‘Is it a bad fire?’
‘The medical wing.’
‘That’s under here.’
‘Everyone has been got out.’
‘Not us...’
‘Very soon now. I’m quite happy here, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so happy. What’s that noise?’
‘The fire brigade’s ladder.’
A cheerful voice from the other side of the parapet accosted them.
‘Getting a bit wet, are you? I’ll have one at a time...’
‘I’m not going without you,’ said Julie.
‘Yes, you are, and don’t do anything on your own.’
‘Young lady, is it?’ The fireman shone his torch. ‘Best to lift her in without turning her.’
Two pairs of hands shovelled her gently over the parapet and onto the ladder. She kept her eyes shut; if she opened them she would scream. ‘Don’t be long,’ she mumbled to the professor, and was borne to the ground, feeling sick.
‘Oops-a-daisy,’ said the fireman cheerfully. ‘We’re on the ground, missy! I’ll go back up for the gentleman.’
‘He’s a professor,’ said Julie, and added, ‘Thank you very much.’
She was whisked away then, trundled in a chair to Casualty, on the other side of the hospital, where she was clucked over by the dragon in charge, divested of her sodden clothes and cleaned up and plastered where plaster was needed.
‘Lucky girl,’ said the dragon, ‘nothing serious—a few cuts and scratches. Was it Professor van der Driesma who got you out? A man of many parts. That silly girl, panicking and slamming the door—didn’t tell a soul either. Only he went round looking for you and she plucked up courage to tell him. Silly with fright, poor girl.’
She took her phone from her pocket as it bleeped. ‘She’s fine, sir—a few bruises and cuts. Nothing a good sleep won’t cure.’ She listened for a moment. ‘I’ll send her home now. A good hot bath and bed.’ She listened again and laughed, then turned back to Julie. ‘You’re to go home. I’ll parcel up your clothes and you can go in that blanket. I’ll get an ambulance.’
‘He’s all right—the professor?’
‘Sounded normal enough to me. Giving a helping hand, he said.’ The dragon eyed her thoughtfully. ‘Those bruises on your arms are going to be painful—how did he get you out?’
‘Through the skylight. He pulled me out.’
‘Very resourceful. You’re not exactly a wisp of a girl, are you?’
‘No. I told him I was heavy but he wouldn’t listen...’
‘Well, no, I don’t imagine he would. Lie there while I get that ambulance.’
Julie, swathed in a grey blanket, was driven home—away from the chaos of the hospital. The fire was under control now, but there was a good deal of smoke and great pools of water.
‘A nasty fire,’ said the ambulance driver. ‘Lucky no one was hurt, though I dare say it shook up some of the patients. As soon as they’ve been checked, we’ll be ferrying them over to New City and St Andrew’s...’
He stopped the ambulance then, and her mother came running out.
‘Half a mo’, love. I’ll carry the young lady in—she can’t walk without her shoes.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Mrs Beckworth opened the door wide and Julie was carried into the sitting room and laid on the sofa.
‘A cup of tea?’ her mother asked the driver. ‘I know you can’t stay, but there’s one ready in the kitchen...’
‘If it’s made...’
Julie thanked him and sat up as Esme came racing downstairs. ‘Whatever happened?’ she wanted to know. ’Simon phoned and said you were being sent home for a rest. He said there’s been a fire.’ She eyed Julie. ‘Why are you wearing a blanket?’
‘I’ve no clothes. We had to lie on the roof, and it’s raining.’
Mrs Beckworth came and sat down on the edge of the sofa. ’Esme, go to the kitchen and get a mug of tea for Julie. She’ll tell us what’s happened when she’s rested.’
‘I’ll tell you now,’ said Julie. ‘I’m quite all right—only a bit scratched and bruised.’ She took the mug Esme offered and Luscombe, ushering the driver out, followed her in.
‘Gave us a fright, Miss Julie—and there’s the phone...’ He went to answer it. ‘It’s ’is nibs. Wants you, Mrs Beckworth,’ he reported.
The professor’s voice was almost placid. ‘Julie’s home? Good. She needs a warm bath and bed. I don’t want her to come in tomorrow—let her have a lazy day.’
‘Yes—yes, all right, Simon. You can’t tell me what happened now—I expect you’re very busy. She’ll tell us presently.’
‘She’s a brave girl. I must go.’
He rang off, and Mrs Beckworth went back to sit by her daughter.
‘That was Simon, dear. Just wanted to make sure you were safely home and to say you’re not to go to work tomorrow.’
‘He saved my life,’ said Julie. ‘He pulled me through a skylight. He must have hurt himself.’
‘He sounded all right, love. Why a skylight?’
Julie finished her tea and Luscombe came back with a plate of thin bread and butter and the teapot. ‘I’ll explain,’ she said.
It took some time but no one interrupted, and when, at length, she had finished, Luscombe said, ‘’E’s a bit of all right, isn’t he? I’m going to put a hot water bottle in your bed, Miss Julie, and when you’ve had your bath I’ll bring up a drop of hot milk and a spot of brandy.’
He went away and Mrs Beckworth said, ‘Darling, you’ve had an awful time—thank heaven Simon found you. You could have been....’ She choked on the word. ‘We can never repay him.’
‘I can think of all sorts of ways,’ said Esme. ‘I’ll go and run a bath—and you’d better have Blotto with you tonight for company.’
So Julie, still wrapped in the blanket, went upstairs presently and got into a bath, and her mother exclaimed in horror at her bruised arms.
‘They look worse than they are,’ said Julie untruthfully. ‘I expect he’s bruised too.’
Tucked up in bed, drowsy with the brandy and milk, and with Blotto pressed close to her, Julie slept.
* * *
The professor, letting himself into his house at three o’clock in the morning, was met by Blossom. ‘A fine time to come home, if I may say so, sir! I trust you’ve suffered no hurt and that the fire is now under control. I gather from your telephone call that no one was injured.’
He sounded disapproving, but he had a fire burning brightly in the study and a tray with coffee and sandwiches ready on the desk. He fetched the whisky and a glass and poured a generous measure.
The professor sat down tiredly. ‘Thanks for staying up, Blossom. I’ll go to bed presently. Everything’s under control at the hospital. I’ll go in as usual if you’ll give me a call around eight o’clock. Good
night.’
Blossom, dignified in his plaid dressing gown, went to the door. ‘I must say that I am relieved that you are none the worse, sir. Goodnight!’
The professor drank his whisky, swallowed the coffee and sandwiches and stretched aching muscles, thinking of Julie. Safe in her bed, he hoped, and sleeping. Upon reflection he concluded that he had rather enjoyed himself on the roof. He hoped that the next time he had his arms around Julie it would be in a rather more appropriate situation.
Presently he went to his bed, his tired muscles eased by a long hot shower. When he woke later and went down to his breakfast there was nothing about his elegant appearance to suggest that he led other than a pleasant life and an uneventful one.
* * *
Julie woke late and Luscombe brought her breakfast in bed. ‘Had a good sleep, Miss Julie? Your ma’s on her way up and I’m off to the shops—chops for supper tonight, and I’ll make a macaroni cheese for lunch.’
‘You’re an angel, Luscombe, but I feel fine. I’m going to get up presently.’
The bruises looked rather awful in the morning light, and the scratches and little cuts and grazes were sore, but they didn’t seem to matter. Her mother sat on the side of the bed while she ate and Esme, on her way to school, came to see how she was and gobble up the last slice of toast. ‘If Simon comes give him my love,’ she said airily, and clattered downstairs and banged the front door.
‘Of course he won’t come,’ said Julie to her mother. ‘I’m going to get up.’
The secret wish that he would come she kept hidden; he had no reason to do so. Tomorrow she would go back to work and he would be the professor again, not Simon, holding her fast on that awful roof.
‘Now I’m home for the day,’ she declared, ‘I’ll make myself useful.’ And when her mother protested, she said, ‘I’m going to polish the silver.’
‘Your hands, darling...’
‘I’ll wear gloves.’ She sat down at the dining room table with the spoons and forks, and the small pieces of silver that her mother treasured, and started work.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JULIE DIDN’T HEAR the professor arrive; her mother had seen him drive up from the sitting room window and had opened the door to him before he could knock. It wasn’t until Julie turned round, suddenly aware that she was being looked at, that she saw him standing in the doorway watching her.
‘Hello, Julie,’ said the professor, and crossed the room to take her hands in his and remove the rubber gloves she was wearing. He examined them in turn. ‘Did they give you an ATS jab?’ he asked.
‘I think so, but I’m not quite sure. I was being sick...’
He pushed the spoons and forks to one side and sat down on the table.
‘I’d like to take a look at your arms.’
Julie took off her cardigan and rolled up the sleeves of her blouse. The bruises were a vivid purple, blue and green, the marks of his fingers very clear. He examined them very gently, observing, ‘They are going to hurt for a few days, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.’
‘Yes, but you got me out—the bruises don’t matter. Did—did it hurt you pulling me up? Your muscles must be so tired.’
‘A little stiff.’ He gave her a gentle smile and she was suddenly shy.
‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough...’ she began, ‘I—’
Her mother’s voice from the door stopped her from saying something she might have regretted. ‘There’s coffee in the kitchen—you won’t mind having it there, Simon?’
They sat around the kitchen table, the professor, her mother, Luscombe and Julie, drinking their coffee and eating the fairy cakes her mother had made, and the talk was cheerful and easy—and if Julie was rather silent, no one mentioned it.
Presently the professor got up to go. He shook Mrs Beckworth’s hand, clapped Luscombe on the shoulder, told Julie that if she felt like it she could return to work in the morning and bent and kissed her cheek, leaving her with a very pink face. Her mother pretended not to notice and walked out to the car with him.
I mustn’t interfere, reflected Mrs Beckworth, but spoke her thought out loud. ‘Do you like Julie, Simon?’
He smiled down at her. ‘Like her? I love her, Mrs Beckworth. I’m in love with her and I intend to marry her. I believe that she loves me, only there is something that won’t allow her to show her feelings. I have no idea what it can be but I have plenty of patience—I’ll wait until she is ready.’
‘I didn’t mean to ask,’ said Mrs Beckworth. ‘Interfering, you know. Only I’d said it before I could stop myself.’
‘You will be a delightful mother-in-law,’ said the professor, and got into his car. ‘And you will like my mother.’
She watched him drive away and went back to the kitchen. Julie wasn’t there.
‘Gone back to that polishing,’ said Luscombe. ‘How’s the lie of the land?’
‘Just what you and I hope for, Luscombe. But all in good time.’
Her faithful old friend and servant nodded his head. ‘That’s OK, by me, ma’am—as long as the end’s a happy one.’
‘I’m quite sure it will be.’
* * *
The professor was deep in discussion with one of the medical consultants when Julie arrived back the next morning. He wished her good morning in an impersonal voice and resumed his talk and presently he went away, which gave her time to assume the mantle of the perfect secretary and sort out the post, find the right page in his diary and fetch the patients’ notes he had listed.
It was mid-morning before she saw him again, when he returned to read through his post and dictate his letters. Not once did he mention the terrifying happenings on the roof. She went to her dinner eventually, where she was surrounded by eager acquaintances anxious to hear exactly what had happened.
‘Weren’t you terrified?’ someone asked.
‘Yes. I never want to feel like that again.’
‘I bet you were glad to see Professor van der Driesma’s face peering down at you.’ The speaker was a pale-faced girl given to spiteful remarks. ‘He must be as stout as an ox—you’re no lightweight, Julie.’
A cheerful voice chimed in. ‘I wouldn’t mind being rescued by someone like the Prof. I don’t suppose he swore once...’
‘No, he didn’t—anyway, it would have been a waste of breath, and he needed all he’d got. As Joyce said, I’m no lightweight.’ Julie studied the cottage pie on her plate. ‘Just how much damage has been done? Does anyone know?’
‘Well, it’s not as bad as it might have been. The whole wing is gutted, but the rest of the place escaped damage. The secretaries have had to move across to the surgical side, somewhere in the basement, and a lot of equipment went up in smoke. It could be worse.’
When she got back to her office the professor was at his desk. ‘I’m going over to the New City,’ he told her. ‘There are several patients bedded there that I must check. If I’m not back, go home as usual.’ He glanced up at her, pushing his spectacles up his handsome nose. ‘Arms all right?’
‘Yes, thank you, sir. You have a consultation in Manchester tomorrow at two o’clock.’
‘I’ll be in to go through the post with you before I go. I should be back here some time in the evening.’
He turned back to his desk, once more immersed in his work, and she went to her desk and began to type the letters he had dictated.
If it hadn’t been for the pain in her arms and the almost healed scratches, the night of the fire might have been a figment of her imagination. He had kissed her too—not that it had meant anything. Probably given in the same spirit as he would pat a dog or stroke a cat, and already forgotten. She shook her head angrily to dispel her thoughts, and applied herself to her typing.
The professor went presently, wishing her a bland good aftern
oon, and she was left to thump her machine with unnecessary vigour. She was finished by five o’clock and ready to go home, but she lingered briefly, tidying her desk and then his, careful not to move any of the papers. His diary was open still and she glanced at it and saw his scrawl at the bottom of the page: ‘Phone Groningen’.
‘And why not?’ she asked herself out loud. ‘It’s a perfectly natural thing to wish to speak to the girl you’re going to marry.’
Perhaps he would make a joke of his rescue of herself, make light of it.
Julie took herself off home and spent the evening helping Esme with her homework and cutting up the windfalls from the old apple tree in the garden, so that Luscombe could make apple jelly. He liked to do that for himself actually, but it was obvious to his fatherly eye that she needed to be occupied. She went to bed early, pleading a headache, and wept herself to sleep.
She greeted him coolly in the morning, made sure with her usual efficiency that he had everything he needed with him, and when he had gone settled down to clear her desk. She was on the point of going to her dinner when one of the junior registrars came in—a pleasant young man she had met on several occasions. He had some papers for the professor and handed them over and then lingered to talk.
‘Going to the hospital dance with anyone?’ he asked diffidently.
‘No.’ She smiled at him as she laid the papers on the professor’s desk.
‘Then would you go with me? I’m no great shakes as a dancer, but I dare say we could amble round the floor.’
Why not? thought Julie. I’ll have to start all over again making a life for myself. ‘Thank you. I’d like to go with you. It’s a week tomorrow, isn’t it? Shall I meet you here?’
‘Would you? If I wait in the entrance hall for you—around half past eight?’
‘Yes, that suits me very well. I may have to leave before the end—you wouldn’t mind?’
‘No, no of course not. I look forward to it. Probably won’t see you again before the dance—but you’ll be there?’