Midsummer Star Read online

  She was more cheerful in the morning. She had got herself into an awkward situation, but she could see no way out of it—if she drew back now, Oliver would want to know why, and what was she to tell him? Better to go on as she had started, and in a few weeks, when Nicky had finally learnt to leave her alone, she would give up her job and go home. Oliver, she felt sure, wouldn’t miss her. She blinked away tears at that; there was no point in making herself unhappy by thinking of a future without him.

  She went down to the clinic and bustled around and kept herself busy all day. It should have helped to discover that Oliver wasn’t coming in, but it didn’t.

  He was there on the following day, though, to receive the astonished congratulations of his staff with calm politeness. Celine had forgotten all about the announcement to be made in The Times and the Telegraph, and was almost as surprised as they were, though she managed to hide it under an exterior almost as calm as Oliver’s.

  It was at lunchtime, shared with Maggie Griffiths and Dorothy Byng, when she found herself bombarded with questions. When were they going to marry? Where would they live? What would she wear for the wedding? What was her ring like?

  She answered them all to the best of her ability and wondered if Oliver had forgotten about a ring. There would surely be one lying around somewhere in his lovely house—some valueless trinket inherited from aunts or grandmothers or even his mother, anything would do…!

  It seemed it wouldn’t. That evening, after the clinic had finished and she had tidied up, and since there was no sign of Oliver, she was on the point of going upstairs, when he opened his office door and invited her in.

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ he told her, ‘but I keep my mother’s jewellery at the bank.’

  The box he handed her was small, red leather and old. Celine opened it slowly and let out a small sigh of delight at the ring inside. Sapphires and diamonds, large ones, set in gold, worn thin with age.

  ‘It’s handed down,’ explained Oliver. ‘The wives have it in turn, on loan, so to speak.’

  ‘It’s beautiful!’ breathed Celine. ‘But I couldn’t possibly wear it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be right—I mean, we’re not truly engaged, you see.’

  Oliver said slowly: ‘I don’t for one moment doubt that either my mother or any one of the Seymour wives would object—it’s in a good cause, you see. Put it on.’

  It fitted very well. She had large, beautifully shaped hands, well kept, the nails oval and delicately pink; the ring was exactly right.

  ‘Suppose I should lose it?’

  ‘I thought of that.’ He dug an enormous hand into a pocket and pulled out a fine gold chain. ‘You can wear it round your neck during working hours.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘I’m sorry, Celine, but, I have to go out this evening. Will you be all right?’

  Her head was instantly full of speculation. Dining with some lovely girl? Perhaps the girl who would wear his ring one day, knowing that she was entitled to do so? She said coolly: ‘Of course. I don’t expect you to take me out every night, you know, only when it’s necessary.’

  She was disconcerted when he agreed pleasantly. It would serve him right if Nicky arrived one evening and persuaded her to go out with him. She had no intention of doing so, of course, but it pleased her to imagine Oliver’s reaction when she told him. She bade him a cold goodnight and bounced upstairs, where she ate a solitary supper without appetite, washed her hair, did her nails and finally went to bed early.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CELINE SAW very little of Oliver until the Sunday morning. There had been little opportunity to say anything to each other until then, only as he had left on the Friday evening he had told her to be ready by ten o’clock on the Sunday, casting this over one shoulder as he hurried through the door. ‘And don’t forget about your passport,’ he had added.

  Maggie Griffiths watched him go with a sympathetic glance at Celine. ‘They’ve admitted two children with suspected polio; he’s going to see them now—they phoned not five minutes ago. Being married to a doctor isn’t all roses, you’ll see—working for him is bad enough!’ She smiled suddenly. ‘But I wouldn’t mind telling you that if I were as young and pretty as you are, I’d do my best to cut you out!’

  So Celine spent her Saturday walking in the park, phoning her mother and rearranging her hair in a variety of ways with a view to looking her best on the morrow.

  Half way through the afternoon Mrs Thatch came to tell her she was wanted on the phone, and she raced downstairs. It would be Oliver; perhaps he was going to take her out after all. She picked up the phone and said ‘Yes?’ and so much of her pleasure and delight was in that one small word that Nicky exclaimed: ‘You’re glad to hear from me!—admit it, Celine. And don’t think I believe a word about this engagement of yours—of all the nonsense—has Oliver cast a spell over you? You can’t possibly love him!’

  Celine said quietly: ‘I don’t want to talk to you, Nicky. Oliver and I are engaged and I’m very happy. Goodbye.’ She rang off and went and told Mrs Thatch not to answer the phone if it should ring again during the next hour or so. It would have been lovely if she could have talked to Oliver, but nothing would have induced her to have intruded into his private life. All the same, she would tell him about it when she saw him in the morning.

  The phone rang again almost immediately, and then again half an hour later, and again a third time, and by now Mrs Thatch was out with Mr Thatch doing her Saturday afternoon shopping. Celine switched on the TV in Mrs Thatch’s sitting-room and doggedly watched a tennis match without seeing a thing. Presently she got up and went along to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She had filled the kettle and was about to put it on the stove when she heard the street door being opened. Mrs Thatch hadn’t been gone more than an hour, and since she and her husband always had a cup of tea out she didn’t get back until well after six o’clock. Celine turned off the gas and went to peer over the banisters.

  Oliver was in the hall. He said testily: ‘Why in hell’s name don’t you answer the phone when it rings?’ His stare became a frown. ‘You’re as white as a sheet—what’s wrong?’

  She peered at him from the top of the stairs. She had been scared, blissfully relieved to see him and now furious because he had snapped at her so impatiently. She said with great dignity which sat ill on her pale face: ‘I didn’t answer the phone because Nicky keeps ringing, and when you came in I was afraid he’d found a key…’

  He came up the stairs two at a time and wrapped her close in a comforting embrace. ‘Oh, my poor girl—what an unthinking brute I am! Come and sit down and I’ll make a cup of tea and then take you back to my place.’

  It was a tempting offer, but she resisted it. ‘That’s very kind of you, but there’s no need. So silly of me to be scared, but I’m perfectly all right now.’ It would be lovely to stay in his arms for ever, she thought dreamily, but that just wouldn’t do.

  ‘Mrs Pym will be disappointed; I asked her to have tea ready for us both in half an hour.’

  ‘You want me to come to tea with you? I thought—that is, we’re spending Sunday together…’ She had been looking at him, now she turned her head away from his amused smile.

  ‘We’ve still got a few things to talk over,’ Oliver pointed out.

  ‘Oh, is that why you telephoned?’

  Celine had moved a little way away from him, and he put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the stair rail. He said evenly, ‘I telephoned because I wanted to see you.’ He didn’t tell her that after the second no reply he had got into the car and driven across London just to check that she was all right. ‘Shall I make that cup of tea, or shall we go now?’

  She had the colour back in her cheeks again, she said a little breathlessly: ‘We’ll go now, if you like—I’ll get my handbag.’ She looked down at herself; she was wearing a plain linen dress, beautifully cut. ‘Will I do like this?’

  His glance was unflatteringly brief. ‘
Of course.’

  It had been silly of her to ask, she thought, scribbling a note for Mrs Thatch. She must remember not to do that again; he was getting her out of an awkward hole, but that didn’t mean he had to be personal about it.

  All the same, she was happy sitting beside him as he drove to his house. By the time she got back to Bethnal Green the Thatches would be home too and she would get them to answer the phone; and tomorrow wasn’t too far off now. It was a lovely afternoon, the sun sparkled on the river and the house, as Oliver pulled up in front of it, looked enchanting.

  They had their tea in the garden and Celine, lulled into somnolence by Mrs Pym’s delicious scones and several cups of Earl Grey, together with Oliver’s gentle undemanding conversation, closed her eyes and went to sleep, her lovely head lolling back on the padded cushions of the garden chair, her mouth very slightly open.

  Oliver sat opposite her, watching, and when Pym came out to collect the tea things, waved him away. It was almost an hour later when she woke up and exclaimed unnecessarily: ‘I’ve been to sleep—I’m so sorry, how rude!’

  Oliver smiled. ‘I had a lot to think about,’ he told her. ‘It’s very peaceful here and it’s nice just to be able to idle for a while.’

  Celine sat up and poked at her hair with her hands, and he said: ‘You look perfectly all right, you can tidy up presently. Some friends asked us along for a drink later—they live a few doors away and I think you’ll like them.’

  She blinked at him. ‘Yes, but…aren’t I going back to Bethnal Green? It’s long after five o’clock.’ She added worriedly: ‘I’m not dressed…’

  ‘Why do women fuss so much about their clothes?’ he asked placidly. ‘You look perfectly all right. Will you come?’ He paused. ‘Unless you had anything else to do this evening?’

  She said quietly: ‘No, nothing, and I’d like to come with you.’ After a moment she added: ‘You’re not just being kind, are you?’

  ‘No, Celine, I’d like you to come and afterwards we can come back here for dinner—you haven’t seen the house yet, have you?’ He went on smoothly: ‘It would be as well if you were familiar with it, don’t you think? And for the record, I’m rising thirty-six, I was christened Oliver Edmund Frederick, born in a small village called Pepperham in Buckinghamshire, no brothers or sisters, parents dead. That’ll do to go on with, I think, although no one is likely to cross-examine you.’ He got up and pulled her to her feet. ‘Mrs Pym will take you upstairs.’

  His friends lived a few hundred yards away, in a house similar to his own but a good deal untidier. Eileen and Jim Weatherby had three children at home, the eldest fifteen, a schoolboy with a freckled face and an engaging grin, and two girls, one twelve the other seven. Celine found herself accepted at once; Eileen said happily: ‘Oh, here you are at last, and every bit as pretty as Oliver said you were—prettier, but you know what men are when they’re in love, poor besotted creatures. I’m not surprised that he’s besotted with you, love.’ She smiled at Oliver and called over her shoulder: ‘Come over here, Jim, and meet this lovely creature Oliver’s snatched for himself!’

  Celine had gone pink. Nothing, but nothing, would make her look at Oliver: all the same she was conscious of strong disappointment when he was led away to speak to some one or other at the end of the room. He was back before she could feel lost, taking her arm and introducing her to a dozen people who all seemed glad to meet her, wishing her well, asking her when they were to be married and did she like Oliver’s house and would she mind being a doctor’s wife. She made all the right answers, and if her colour was heightened those who saw it approved; a nice shy girl, just right for Oliver, they told each other. She was made to show her ring a dozen times too, making smiling rejoinders to everyone’s remarks about it, conscious of a bitter sorrow that before long she would take it off her finger and give it back to Oliver—probably all these nice people would think her fickle and say it was a good thing that he found out that he’d made a mistake before they were married.

  The party lasted some time, and they were among the first to leave, Oliver giving the excuse that he had to telephone the hospital about one of his patients. As they strolled the short distance back to his house he observed: ‘There aren’t many advantages to being a doctor, but it’s so convenient to be called away for urgent phone messages.’

  ‘No patient needing your attention?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Peter is on call, anyway.’

  ‘But do you go on call too?’ She added apologetically: ‘I don’t know much about your work.’

  ‘Well, no, I don’t. But I can be contacted if someone wants advice.’

  ‘Oh, are you a consultant?’

  ‘Yes.’ They had reached the house and went inside. ‘Do you want another drink before dinner?’ asked Oliver.

  She shook her head. ‘No, thanks. Will you tell me about your work?’

  They were in the sitting-room, looking out of the window at the river. ‘Nothing much to tell. I specialise in children’s diseases; I’ve got consulting rooms—you’ve been to them; I run the clinic and I have beds in several hospitals. Occasionally I travel if I’m wanted somewhere.’

  ‘Abroad as well as here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, are you important?’

  He smiled. ‘Let’s say that if I dropped down dead tomorrow there would be someone else to fill my shoes.’

  ‘Don’t,’ she spoke vehemently, ‘talk like that! I think you’re important.’

  ‘I’m flattered. Ah, here’s Pym—I’m famished!’

  Over dinner he told her something of the forthcoming trip to Holland.

  ‘The end of next week,’ he told her. ‘We shall be gone for four days. I’ll take the car and we’ll go from Harwich on the night ferry. We shall be staying with some friends of mine in Leiden—Dr Theo ter Boen; he has a French wife, Mireille. There are a clutch of children too, I’m not sure how many, four at the last count, I believe.’

  ‘I’ve got no clothes,’ said Celine suddenly.

  ‘Not enough for four days? My dear girl, it’s not a social visit—all you’ll need is a dress for the days, and something different for the evenings. That yellow thing would do very nicely.’

  Celine eyed him a trifle crossly. ‘I’ve had it for years!’

  ‘What a splendid wife you’ll make. No one will know that, you can take that other thing you wear—Italian, isn’t it?’ She looked at him in surprise and he said mildly: ‘I’m quite observant, it must be something to do with being a doctor.’

  She laughed. ‘Don’t be so silly! Only I don’t want to let you down by looking dowdy.’

  ‘You could never look that, Celine. Got your passport?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. You never know when you might want to travel in the future.’

  ‘It’s very unlikely.’ She looked at him in surprise. ‘When I get home it’ll be Mother and Father who’ll need a holiday; I suppose the bed and breakfast trade will die out at the end of the summer and I can manage very well on my own. They’ll need a rest.’

  Oliver asked idly: ‘They’re making a go of it, are they?’

  ‘Yes, much more so than we ever imagined.’

  They sat over their coffee in the sitting-room, watching the evening pale and then darken gradually. It was eleven o’clock by the time Oliver sent the Aston Martin sliding back towards Bethnal Green. The street was quiet and the surgery looked bleak indeed after Oliver’s house. Celine, standing beside him while he unlocked the door, wished with all her heart that she was back there. Oliver handed her back the key, held the door open for her and glanced over his shoulder into the hall. There was no letter there—she had looked too.

  ‘Glanced at that star of yours lately?’ asked Oliver.

  She looked up. ‘No—but I know it’s still there.’ She lowered her eyes and met his.

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Oliver, and kissed her hard. ‘I did say that we needed to practise,’ he reminded her, and push
ed her gently indoors. Celine stood in the narrow little hall listening to the subdued roar of the car gradually receding. A clock somewhere or other struck midnight and she smiled. It was Sunday today—this very morning she would be seeing Oliver again.

  The Seymours lived in a handsome house set in a large garden on the outskirts of Highgate; twice as large as Oliver’s, but, thought Celine privately, not half as nice. It was elaborately late Victorian, with old-fashioned sash windows and a large conservatory running the width of the house at the back, where Mr Seymour pottered among his plants. He was getting around now, although he would never be quite the same again, for he had a slight limp and one arm was still weak. All the same, he greeted Celine with pleasure, assured her that he had never felt better in his life before and bore her off to admire his Browallia. ‘Your father has some in your greenhouse, but I venture to think that mine are better specimens.’

  Celine admired colour, size and height and spent the next half hour touring the array of plants and flowers. Oliver, she was quick to notice, had settled himself comfortably in a garden chair beside his aunt and was deep in conversation. She admired an arum lily with insincerity and longed for a cool drink.

  Someone must have read her thoughts, because a moment later an elderly woman came out with a tray loaded with glasses and jugs and bottles and Mrs Seymour bade them come and sit down.

  Over iced lemonade, Celine answered questions, and there were a great many of them, and all the while Oliver sat there, saying almost nothing, indeed looking to be on the verge of taking a nap. He made no sign when a car’s engine sounded faintly from the front of the house, and although he got up as the door opened, his face wore its usual placid expression. Celine, turning to look too, sat rigid in her chair. Nicky had walked in and his wife with him.