A Christmas Wish Page 3

  The registrar laughed. ‘Go one with you, you know you’d agree to open theatre at six a.m. He’s a splendid man and a first-rate surgeon. He’s been here several weeks now, hasn’t he? Handed over several new techniques, shared his ideas with Mr Jenks—between them they’ve perfected them—look at Mrs Eliza Brown.’

  ‘He’ll be leaving soon, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, and Mr Jenks is going back with him for a week or two.’ He turned to leave. ‘He’ll be back, I’ve no doubt—goes all over the place—got an international reputation already. Not bad for a man of thirty-six.’

  He wandered away to look out of a window, in time to see Mr van der Eisler’s grey Bentley edge out of the hospital forecourt.

  ‘I wonder where he goes?’ he reflected aloud.

  Mr van der Eisler was going to Islington to cast his eye over Sylvester Crescent. He found it eventually, tooling patiently up and down identical streets of identical houses, and drove its length until he came to Mr Patel’s shop, still open.

  Mr van der Eisler, who never purchased food for his excellently run household, nevertheless purchased a tin of baked beans, and engaged Mr Patel in casual conversation. Naturally enough the talk led to observations about Islington and Sylvester Crescent in particular.

  ‘A quiet area,’ observed Mr van der Eisler. ‘Flats, I suppose, and elderly people.’

  ‘You are right, sir.’ Mr Patel, with no customers in the offing, was glad of a chat. ‘Many elderly ladies and gentlemen. It is not a street for the young—and an awkward journey to the day’s work. There is Miss Harding, who lives with her grandmother Mrs Fitzgibbon at number twenty-six, but I see her each morning now, and I think she must no longer work.’ He sighed. ‘Such a beautiful young lady too. It is dull here for the young.’

  Mr van der Eisler murmured suitably, remarked that Mr Patel and his shop must be a boon and a blessing to the neighbourhood, professed himself pleased with his purchase, paid for it and got back into his car. Number twenty-six was in the middle of the row of houses and there was a chink of light showing between the heavy curtains pulled across the windows on the ground floor.

  He drove back to the quiet, elegant street near Sloane Square and let himself into his ground-floor flat to be met in the hall by his housekeeper.

  ‘You’re late, sir. Your dinner’s ready and I’ll be so bold as to say that it won’t keep for more than five minutes.’

  ‘Excellent timing, Becky.’ He patted her plump shoulder and added, ‘Here’s something for you to amuse yourself with.’

  He handed her the bag and she looked inside. ‘Mr Haso, whatever will you do next? Since when have you eaten baked beans?’ She gave him a suspicious glance. ‘What did you want to buy it for?’

  ‘Well, I needed to ask for some information and the best place was the local corner shop.’

  Miss Rebecca Potts, elderly now, and long since retired as his nanny, was his devoted housekeeper whenever he was in London, and she knew better than to ask him why he wanted to know something. All the same, she gave him a sharp look. ‘I’ll dish up,’ she told him severely. ‘You’ve time for a drink.’

  He picked up his bag and went down the hall to his study and sat down in the leather armchair drawn up to the fire. A drink in his hand, he sat quietly, busy with his thoughts, until Becky knocked on the door.

  It was two days before he had the opportunity to return to Sylvester Crescent. He had no plan as to what he intended doing, only the vague idea of seeing Olivia going to or from the shops or, failing that, calling at her grandmother’s flat with some trumped-up story about Debbie. Perhaps, he thought ruefully, once he had met her again, he would be able to get her off his mind.

  He saw her as he turned the car into Sylvester Crescent, coming towards him in her well-worn jacket and skirt, her bright hair a splash of colour in the sober street, a shopping basket over her arm. He slowed the car and stopped as she drew abreast of it.

  The quick colour swept over her face when she saw him but she said composedly, ‘Why, good morning, Mr van der Eisler. Have you a patient to visit?’

  Mr van der Eisler, an upright and godfearing man, could on occasion lie like a trooper when it was necessary, and he considered that this was necessary. ‘No, no, I have a few hours with nothing to do. I am looking for a suitable flat for a friend who will be coming to London for a few months.’

  He got out of the car and stood beside her. ‘A most delightful surprise to meet you again. I was in the Records Office only the other day and Debbie was telling me how much she missed you. She tells me that you have another job—how fortunate…’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ She caught his eye and something in his look made her add, ‘Well, no, I haven’t actually. I told her that because she was worried about getting the sack. Is she managing?’

  ‘Tolerably well.’ He smiled down at her, looking so kind that she had a sudden urge to tell him about her grandmother, whose nasty little digs about her not getting a job had done nothing to make her fruitless efforts easier to bear. Instead she said briskly, ‘It’s nice meeting you, but don’t let me keep you from your house-hunting.’

  Mr van der Eisler, never a man to be deterred from his purpose, stood his ground. ‘As to that—’ he began, and was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Rodney, who had pulled in behind the Bentley and was grabbing Olivia by the arm.

  ‘Olivia—I had to come and see you…’

  Olivia removed her arm. ‘Why?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘Oh, old friends and all that, you know. Wouldn’t like you to think badly of me—you did walk off in a huff…’ He glanced at Mr van der Eisler towering over him, a look of only the faintest interest upon his face. ‘I say,’ Rodney went on, ‘is this the lucky man?’ He shook hands, beaming. ‘Olivia said she was going to get married—described you to a T. Well, everything works out for the best, doesn’t it?’ He patted Olivia’s shoulder. ‘You don’t know what a relief it is to see you so happy. Can’t stop now. My regards to your mother. Bye, old girl.’

  He flashed a smile at them both, got back into his car, and drove away without looking back.

  Olivia looked at her feet and wished she could stop blushing, and Mr van der Eisler looked at the top of her head and admired her hair.

  ‘I can explain,’ said Olivia to her shoes. ‘It wasn’t you I described; I said he was very large and had a profession and a great deal of money.’ She added crossly, ‘Well, that’s what any girl would say, isn’t it?’

  Mr van der Eisler, used to unravelling his patients’ meanderings, hit the nail on the head accurately. ‘Any girl worth her salt,’ he agreed gravely. ‘Did you actually intend to marry this—this fellow?’

  ‘Well, you see, I’ve known him for years, long before Father died and we had to move here, and somehow he seemed part of my life then and I didn’t want to give that up—do you see what I mean?’

  She looked at him then. He looked just as a favourite uncle or cousin might have looked: a safe recipient of her woes, ready to give sound advice. She said breathlessly, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t think why I’m boring you with all this. Please forgive me—he— Rodney was something of a shock.’

  He took her basket from her. ‘Get in the car,’ he suggested mildly. ‘We will have a cup of coffee before you do your shopping.’

  ‘No, no, thank you. I can’t keep you standing around any longer. I must get the fish…’

  As she was speaking she found herself being urged gently into the Bentley. ‘Tell me where we can get coffee—I passed some shops further back.’

  ‘There’s the Coffee-Pot, about five minutes’ walk away—so it’s close by. Aren’t I wasting your time?’ she asked uneasily.

  ‘Certainly not. In fact, while we are having it I shall pick your brains as to the best way of finding a flat.’

  The café was in a side-street. He parked the car, opened her door for her, and followed her into the half-empty place. It was small, with half a dozen tables with pink formica tops, an
d the chairs looked fragile. Mr van der Eisler, a man of some seventeen stones in weight, sat down gingerly. He mistrusted the chairs and he mistrusted the coffee which, when it came, justified his doubts, but Olivia, happy to be doing something different in her otherwise rather dull days, drank hers with every appearance of enjoyment and, while she did, explained in a matter-of-fact way about living with Granny.

  ‘I dare say you are glad to have a brief holiday,’ he suggested, and handed her the plate of Rich Tea biscuits which had come with the coffee.

  ‘Well, no, not really. I mean, I do need a job as soon as possible, only I’m not trained for anything really useful…’ She went on in a bright voice, ‘Of course I shall find something soon, I’m sure.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ he agreed, and went on to talk of other things. He had had years of calming timid patients, so he set about putting Olivia at her ease before mentioning casually that he would be going back to Holland very shortly.

  ‘Oh—but will you come back here?’

  ‘Yes. I’m an honorary consultant at Jerome’s, so I’m frequently over here. I do have beds in several hospitals in Holland—I divide my time between the two.’ He drank the last of the coffee with relief. ‘Do you plan to stay with your grandmother for the foreseeable future?’

  ‘Until I can get a job where Mother and I can live together. Only I’m not sure what kind of job. There are lots of advertisements for housekeepers and minders, although I’m not sure what a minder is and I’m not good enough at housekeeping, although I could do domestic work…’

  He studied the lovely face opposite him and shook his head. ‘I hardly think you’re suitable for that.’

  Which dampened her spirits, although she didn’t let him see that. ‘I really have to go. It has been nice meeting you again and I do hope you find a nice flat for your friend.’

  He paid the bill and they went outside, and she held out a hand as they stood on the pavement. ‘Goodbye, Mr van der Eisler. Please give Debbie my love if ever you should see her. Please don’t tell her that I haven’t got a job yet.’

  She walked away quickly, wishing that she could spend the whole day with him; he had seemed like an old friend and she lacked friends.

  By the time she reached the fishmonger’s the fillets of plaice that her grandmother had fancied for dinner that evening had been sold and she had to buy a whole large plaice and have it filleted, which cost a good deal more money. Olivia, her head rather too full of Mr van der Eisler, didn’t care.

  Naturally enough, when she returned to the flat she was asked why she had spent half the morning doing a small amount of shopping. ‘Loitering around drinking coffee, I suppose,’ said Mrs Fitzgibbon accusingly.

  ‘I met someone I knew at the hospital; we had coffee together,’ said Olivia. She didn’t mention Rodney.

  Mr van der Eisler drove himself back to his home, ate the lunch Becky had ready for him, and went to the hospital to take a ward-round. None of the students trailing him from one patient to the next had the least suspicion that one corner of his brilliant mind was grappling with the problem of Olivia while he posed courteous questions to each of them in turn.

  Olivia had let fall the information that her grandmother had once lived in a small village in Wiltshire, and in that county was the school where his small goddaughter was a boarder, since her own grandmother lived near enough to it for her to visit frequently during term-time. In the holidays she went back to Holland to her widowed mother, who had sent her to an English school because her dead husband had wanted that. Might there be a possibility of Mrs Fitzgibbon and Nel’s grandmother being acquainted, or at least having mutual friends? It was worth a try…

  ‘Now,’ he said in his placid way, ‘which of you gentlemen will explain to me the exact reasons which make it necessary for me to operate upon Miss Forbes?’

  He smiled down at the woman lying in bed and added, ‘And restoring her to normal good health once more?’ He sounded so confident that she smiled back at him.

  It was several days before Mr van der Eisler was free to drive down to Wiltshire. His small goddaughter’s grandmother lived in a village some five or six miles from Bradford-on-Avon and on that particular morning there was more than a hint of spring in the air. The sky was blue—albeit rather pale, the sun shone—as yet without much warmth, and the countryside was tipped with green. Slowing down to turn off the road on to a narrow country lane leading to Earleigh Gilford, he told himself that he was wasting his time: Olivia had probably got herself a job by now and the chance of her grandmother knowing Lady Brennon was so remote as to be hopeless.

  He had phoned ahead and they met as old friends, for both of them had been charged with the care of Nel during term-time. Lady Brennon was a youthful sixty, living in a charming little Georgian villa on the edge of the village, busy with her garden and her painting, her dogs and the various village committees on which she sat.

  ‘So nice to see you, Haso.’ She looked sad for a moment. ‘It seems a long time since Rob’s wedding and your coming here as his best man. I miss him still, you know. Thank heavens we have little Nel.’

  They went into the house together and he asked, ‘Is she here for the weekend?’

  ‘Yes, she’ll be here on Saturday. There’s no chance of your staying until then?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’ll try and get down before the Easter holidays. In fact, I might be able to arrange things so I can drive her over to Holland.’

  ‘That would be splendid.’ Lady Brennon poured their coffee. ‘The child’s very fond of you. Rita phoned this week; she said that you had been to see her when you were in Holland. Was she happy?’

  ‘I believe so. She likes her work and she has her friends. She misses Nel, but she wants to carry out Rob’s wishes.’

  ‘Of course. Probably she will change her mind and come to live here later on.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He put down his cup. ‘Lady Brennon, did you know a Mrs Fitzgibbon—oh, it would be some years ago? I believe she lived somewhere near Bradford-on-Avon.’ He dredged up the bits and pieces of information that Olivia had let drop. ‘I believe her daughter married a man called Harding—rather a grand wedding in Bath Abbey…’

  ‘Fitzgibbon? The name rings a bell. You know her? She is a friend of yours? Rather an elderly one…’

  ‘No. No. I have never met her.’

  ‘Then I can tell you that she was a most disagreeable woman—I remember her very well—bullied her daughter, a rather sweet little thing. Married against her wishes, I believe. I met her several times. The daughter had a little girl—the husband died, I believe, it was in the Telegraph a few years ago. Dear me, it must be almost thirty years since we met.’

  She gave Haso an enquiring look. ‘May I know why you are interested in her?’

  ‘I have met her granddaughter—she was working at Jerome’s as a filing clerk, got made redundant and can’t find work. She and her mother live with Mrs Fitzgibbon and I gather are not happy there. Olivia has said very little about herself, and I am barely acquainted with her, but she got herself sacked so that the girl she worked with, who desperately needs the money, could keep her job, and I wondered if you knew of anything…’ He smiled then. ‘I have no personal interest in her; it is only that I feel that she deserves a better chance.’

  ‘Is she educated?’

  ‘Yes. Intelligent and well-mannered, speaks well, very level-headed, I should imagine. She is lacking in the essentials—typing, shorthand, computers—all that kind of thing. She had no need to work until her father died.’

  ‘Is she very young?’

  ‘I should guess her to be in her late twenties.’ He frowned. ‘I think she would make a good governess if they still have such people.’

  ‘Not to any extent, I’m afraid. She might get a post in a private school, with the smaller children perhaps, or even taking drama classes for the older girls. What do you want me to do, Haso?’

  ‘I’m presuming on your kindness, Lady Brennon
. If you should hear of something which might suit Olivia, could you possibly find a reason to write to Mrs Fitzgibbon, mention the job, and say how you wished you knew of someone suitable to fill it? It is most unlikely, I know, but a kindly fate does occasionally step in. I don’t wish her to know that I have had anything to do with it.’

  ‘I will be most discreet. It would certainly be an ideal solution, and since it would appear to Mrs Fitzgibbon that it was through her good offices that Olivia should hear of the job she might present no difficulties. I’ll ask around, my dear. There are any number of schools around here, you know.’

  They talked about other things then, and Olivia wasn’t mentioned again, and later, as he drove himself back to London, Mr van der Eisler’s thoughts were of the week ahead of him—Liverpool and then Birmingham, then back to Holland…

  It was three weeks before he returned to his London home. It was late at night on the first day of his return before he had the leisure to sit down and read his post. A good deal of it he consigned to the wastepaper basket and then put the rest aside while he read the letter from Lady Brennon. She had telephoned him, she wrote, and Becky had told her that he was away so it seemed best to write. By the greatest good fortune, she went on, Nel had told her on her half-term holiday that Miss Tomkins, who it seemed was a Jill of all trades at the school, had left suddenly and there was no one to take her place. Lady Brennon had acted with speed, recommended Olivia to the headmistress on the strength of his recommendation, and written to Mrs Fitzgibbon, using the excuse that a friend of hers had seen Olivia’s mother when she was in London and that that had prompted Lady Brennon to write to her. A lie, of course, she had put in brackets. The letter continued:

  ‘The upshot is, Haso, that your protégée is at Nel’s school, working out the rest of the term, and if she proves satisfactory she is to be taken on on a termly basis and allowed to live in a small annexe of the school. Very poky, so Nel tells me, but there is room for her mother if she cares to go and live there. The salary is barely adequate but, as it has been pointed out, she has no qualifications. I hope this news will relieve you from further feelings of responsibility towards Olivia who, from Nel’s account, is well-liked and apparently happy. Do phone when you can spare the time, and tell me how Rita is. Still as pretty as ever, I’m sure, and such a delightful companion. I hope you found time to see something of her.’