An Unlikely Romance Page 3

  CHAPTER TWO

  NOTHING HAPPENED, AT least nothing to do with Trixie and the professor. A week went by and a most unsatisfactory week it was: Staff Nurse Bennett’s dislike of her manifested itself in a dozen annoying ways; off duty changed at the last minute when Sister Snell had days off, going late to meals because of some errand which really had to be run, constant criticism of whatever she was doing on the ward. Trixie’s temper, usually good, had become badly frayed. It was fortunate that she had days off even though she was late going off duty that evening. She left the ward and started down the stone staircase to the floor below. She would have supper and go to bed early and decide what she was going to do with her precious two days. The parks, she thought; a good walk would improve her temper. November, it seemed, was to be a sunny crisp month, and she needed the exercise. She loitered along, happily engaged in her plans, when the professor’s voice from behind and above her startled her into missing her footing. He plucked her upright and fell into step beside her.

  ‘I could have broken a leg,’ said Trixie with asperity. ‘Creeping up behind me like that.’ She eventually remembered to whom she was speaking and then mumbled, ‘Sorry, sir, but you startled me.’

  He didn’t appear to hear her. ‘You have days off, Beatrice?’

  They had reached the floor below and she turned to look up at him. ‘Yes.’

  He eyed her narrowly. ‘You are pale and I think rather cross. Has it been a bad week?’

  ‘Awful. I shall never be a good nurse, Staff Nurse Bennett says so.’

  He smiled faintly. ‘She is quite right,’ and at her indignant gasp, ‘I shall explain...’

  He was interrupted by one of the path lab assistants. ‘Sir, they are waiting for you. Dr Gillespie is quite ready...’

  The professor waved a large hand. ‘Yes, yes, I am on my way. I will be with you in a moment.’ When the man went back up the stairs, he went on walking beside Trixie, who was bent on getting away from him at the earliest possible moment. Halfway across the vast landing she stopped.

  ‘You’re going the wrong way, Professor,’ she reminded him gently.

  ‘Yes, yes, I dare say I am, but I wish to talk to you.’

  ‘They’re waiting for you,’ she pointed out patiently. ‘I should think it’s urgent.’

  He said at once, ‘Ah, yes! A most interesting case; a tumour of the medulla—I believe it to be a phaeochromocytoma. This will cause hypertension...’

  Trixie, her eyes popping out of her head and quite out of her depth, put a hand on one large coat sleeve. If she didn’t stop him now he’d ramble on happily about the adrenal glands. ‘Sir—sir, you have to go back upstairs. Oh, do go to the path lab. Dr Gillespie is waiting for you.’

  He wasn’t listening. ‘You see, the hypertension will give rise to irregular cardiac rhythm...’ He glanced down at her. ‘Why are you looking like that, Beatrice?’

  She neither knew nor cared what she looked like. ‘The path lab,’ she urged him.

  ‘Ah, yes. I have an appointment there.’ He patted her arm in a kindly fashion and turned to go back up the staircase. ‘Be outside at nine o’clock tomorrow morning; we will have a day in the country.’

  Trixie asked faintly, ‘Will we?’ but he had already gone, two steps at a time. She glimpsed his great back disappearing on the landing above.

  She started on her way again to be brought to a halt by his voice, loud and clear enough for the whole hospital to hear. He was hanging over the balustrade with the path lab assistant hovering anxiously.

  ‘Wear something warm, Beatrice. I have a wish to breathe the sea air.’

  He disappeared, leaving her to continue across the landing and down another flight of stairs and so to her room. She sat down on the bed to think. A day by the sea would be wonderful and the professor was a charming companion, if somewhat unmindful of his surroundings from time to time. From these reflections her thoughts progressed naturally enough to the important question as to what to wear. Not a winter coat, it wasn’t cold enough, and her old quilted jacket wouldn’t do in case they had a meal somewhere. It would have to be the elderly Jaeger suit, timeless in cut, its tweed of the best quality, but, to a discerning female eye, out of date. The professor probably hadn’t a discerning eye, indeed he had observed that she dressed sensibly, which, considering that he had only seen her in uniform and the brown velvet and blue crêpe, proved her point. It would have to be the tweed. This important decision having been made, she felt free to wonder why he wanted to spend a day with her. She refused to take seriously his remarks about her being a suitable wife. He must have friends here in London even if he was Dutch; he had seemed on very easy terms with Colonel Vosper and surely if he wanted a day out he would have chosen someone like Margaret, guaranteed to be an amusing companion besides having a pretty face and the right clothes.

  She got out of her uniform slowly, and, no longer wishing for her supper, got into a dressing-gown and went along to the kitchenette to make a pot of tea and eat the rest of the rich tea biscuits left in the packet. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she put her name down for bread and butter and marmalade for her breakfast, which the nurses’ home maid would bring over and leave in the kitchenette. She was hunting round for milk when several of her friends came off duty after supper.

  ‘You’re not ill, are you?’ asked Lucy. ‘You never miss meals.’

  ‘I’m fine, I wasn’t hungry. I’ve got days off anyway.’

  She wished she hadn’t said that, for Mary asked in her nosy way, ‘Going home, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Got a date?’

  She didn’t need to think of an answer for someone said, gently teasing, ‘Of course she has. The Governor of the Bank of England; lunch off a gold plate at the Ritz and dinner and dancing with minor royalty...’

  There was a chorus of laughter and Mary said huffily, ‘You all talk such nonsense.’ She thumped down her mug and went away, and presently the rest of them wandered away to wash their hair, do their nails and argue as to who should have the hairdrier first. Trixie nipped into one of the bathrooms before anyone else had laid claim to it, and soaked in the bath, wishing that she had said a firm ‘no’ to the professor’s invitation—not an invitation, really, more an order which he had taken for granted would be obeyed. She was pondering ways and means of letting him know that she wouldn’t be able to join him in the morning when repeated impatient thumps on the door forced her to get out of the bath.

  ‘You’ve been in there hours,’ said Mary. ‘You’re the colour of a lobster too. You’ll probably get a chill; a good thing you’ve got days off.’

  Trixie took the pins out of her hair and let it fall in a soft brown curtain around her shoulders. ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ she agreed cheerfully, and went off to drink more tea with such of her friends as hadn’t gone to bed. Later, in her room, curled up in her bed, she found the chapter on endocrinology and read it carefully. The professor would probably discuss the subject nearest his heart and it might help to sustain a sensible conversation if she had some idea of the subject. She had had several lectures on it; indeed, the professor himself had delivered one of them, using so many long words that she had dozed off halfway through and had had to be prodded awake when he had finished.

  It took her a little time to go to sleep, her head being full of any number of facts concerning ductless glands all nicely muddled.

  In the light of an early November morning, the whole thing seemed absurd. Nevertheless, Trixie ate her toast and drank her tea and got into the tweed, did her hair and face with extra care, and, as nine o’clock struck, went down to the front entrance.

  The professor was there, sharing a copy of the Sun with the head porter. He handed his portion back and went to meet her. His good morning was cheerful if brief. ‘The variety of newspapers in this country is wide,’ he told
her. ‘I do not as a rule read anything other than The Times or the Telegraph but I must admit that the paper I have just been reading is, to say the least, stimulating, though I must admit that the advertisements in the Dutch daily papers are even more revealing.’

  He ushered her into the car and got in beside her but made no attempt to drive away. ‘It is an interesting fact,’ he informed her, ‘that I find myself able to talk to you without inhibitions.’ He didn’t wait for her reply. ‘Do you know the east coast at all? There is a most interesting village there, once a town swallowed by the sea; it is National Trust property so that we can, if we wish, walk for miles.’

  Trixie said faintly, ‘It sounds very pleasant. I don’t know that part of the country at all.’

  He started the car and after that had very little to say, not that there was much to say about the Mile End Road, Leytonstone, Wanstead Flats and so on to the A12, but when they reached Chelmsford he turned north and took the road through Castle Hedingham and on to Lavenham, and there he stopped at the Swan Hotel, remarking that it was time they had a cup of coffee. The road was a quiet one, the country was wide and the town was old and charming. Trixie had given up serious thoughts; she was enjoying herself, and, although they had had but desultory talk, she felt very much at ease with her companion. She got out of the car and sat in the old inn, drinking her coffee and listening to his informed talk about the town.

  ‘Do you know this part of England well?’ she asked.

  ‘I do, yes. You see, it reminds me of my own country.’ He smiled at her and passed his cup for more coffee.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to live in Holland?’

  ‘I do for a great deal of the time. I have, as it were, a foot in both camps. Do you know the Continent at all?’

  ‘My aunt and uncle took me to France while I was still at school. Paris.’

  She remembered that she hadn’t enjoyed it much because she had had to do what Margaret wanted all the time and Margaret had no wish to look at old buildings and churches, only wanted to walk down the Rue de Rivoli and spend hours in the shops. ‘That’s all,’ she added flatly. ‘I expect you’ve travelled a lot?’

  ‘Well, yes. I go where I’m needed.’

  They drove on presently and now he took the car through a network of side roads, missing Stowmarket and not joining the main road again until they had almost reached the coast, and presently they turned into a narrow country road which led eventually to a tree-shaded area where the professor parked the car. ‘This is where we get out and walk,’ he told Trixie, and got out to open her door. She could see the sea now and the village behind a shingle bank and low cliffs. It looked lonely and bleak under the grey sky, but the path they took was sheltered and winding, leading them into the village street. ‘Lunch?’ asked the professor, and took her by the arm and urged her into the Ship Inn.

  He had been there before; he was greeted cheerfully by the stout cheerful man behind the bar, asked if he would like his usual and what would the young lady have?

  Trixie settled for coffee and a ploughman’s lunch and sat down near the open fireplace. While she ate it, the professor talked of the history of the village, once a Saxon and then a Roman town, long swallowed up by the sea. Between mouthfuls of cheese he assured her that the bells of numerous churches long since drowned by the encroaching seas were still to be heard tolling beneath the waves. ‘There is a monastery along the cliffs; we will walk there presently and on to the Heath.’

  They set out in a while with a strong wind blowing into their faces and the North Sea grey below the cliffs. The surge of the waves breaking on the shingle was almost as loud as the wind soughing among the trees. The professor had tucked her hand into his and was marching along at a good pace. It was evident that he envisaged a long walk. She thanked heaven for sensible shoes and saved her breath. They didn’t talk much until they were in sight of the coastguard cottages and beyond the bird reserve and the wide sweep of the coastline; indeed, it was so windy that just breathing normally was a bit of an effort. Trixie came to a thankful halt at last and the professor turned her round and studied her face.

  ‘That is better. I think that nursing is not a suitable life for you.’

  ‘Oh, do you? That’s what Staff Nurse Bennett says; that I’ll never make a good nurse.’

  ‘An unkind young woman.’ He stared down at her face, nicely rosy from the wind and the sea air. ‘It has occurred to me that I have been over-hasty in broaching the subject of our marriage. Nevertheless, I hope that you have given it your consideration. Perhaps you have a boyfriend of your own or you may not wish to marry?’

  His voice was quiet and very faintly accented.

  ‘Me? A boyfriend? Heavens, no. At least,’ she hesitated, ‘before I started my training, there was a man who was one of Margaret’s friends—Aunt Alice would have liked him for a son-in-law, but for some reason he—he liked me instead of Margaret. That’s why I started nursing...’

  It was a meagre enough explanation but the professor seemed to understand it. ‘I see—you say “out of sight, out of mind”, do you not?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t like him anyway...’

  ‘You have no objection to being married, do you?’

  ‘None at all,’ she told him soberly, and thought what a strange conversation they were having. Not even a glimmer of romance either, but the professor didn’t strike her as a romantic man; his work was his life, and she suspected that his social life was something he regarded as an unwelcome necessity.

  ‘So you will consider becoming my wife? I have already explained to you that all I ask is peace and quiet so that I may write whenever I have the time. You will not mind being left to your own devices? There will be times when I shall be obliged to attend dinner parties and similar occasions, but I shall rely upon you to deal with any entertaining which I may be obliged to do from time to time; to deal with the tiresome details, answer the telephone calls and return the visits which are so distracting.’

  He looked away from her to the grey sea, and Trixie said in her matter-of-fact way, ‘I expect you are very sought after—there must be lots of girls who would like to marry you.’

  He didn’t look at her, although he smiled a little. ‘You would not mind acting as my guardian? I find that young women can be very ruthless in getting what they want.’

  It would be worth trying, thought Trixie—a handsome man, still quite young, well known in his profession, well off, she supposed, able to give his wife the comforts of life. All he wanted was to work and write his book. He said to surprise her, ‘I should like to fall in love—it is a long time ago since I did that and now my life is so full and perhaps I am too old.’

  ‘Pooh,’ said Trixie. ‘Age hasn’t anything to do with it. Get that book written and then you’ll have time to look around you.’

  He did glance at her then, although she couldn’t read the look in his eyes beneath their dropping lids. ‘But I shall be married to you.’

  ‘Ah, yes—but not—not...that is, divorce is very easy these days.’

  He took her hands in his. ‘You do understand, don’t you? My work is so very important to me and it has been so for years. So will you marry me, Beatrice?’

  ‘Yes. I think it might be a good idea. I’m not likely to get asked by anyone else. I like you and I feel easy with you, although I don’t know you at all, do I? I will really try to be the sort of wife you want.’

  ‘I’m a selfish man...’

  ‘No. You are driven by your urge to do something you feel you must—like Scott going to the Pole or Hilary climbing Everest.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’ll guard you like a dragon.’

  ‘I believe you will.’ He flung a great arm around her shoulders and felt her shiver in the wind. ‘You’re cold—how thoughtless of me. We’ll go back. We can stop for tea at Lawshall; there’s a pleasant hotel there.�
�� He glanced at his watch. ‘I need to be back at Timothy’s by seven o’clock—I’m admitting a woman with exophthalmos, a most interesting case, and I want to make sure that the special treatment is started immediately. I dare say you haven’t come across a case—it is a question of controlling the hyperthyroidism...’

  They had begun to walk back and they were going up the path to where the car had been parked before the finer points of the condition had been explained. The professor stopped so suddenly that Trixie almost overbalanced. ‘Oh, my dear Beatrice, I had quite lost myself, do forgive me, I tend to forget...’

  It was at that moment, looking up into his concerned face, that Trixie fell in love with him.

  The knowledge rendered her speechless but only for a moment, for at the same moment she had realised that this was something which was going to happen time and again and she would have to get used to it. She said calmly, ‘I found it most interesting and you don’t need to apologise, now or ever. The poor woman—I do so hope you’ll be able to cure her.’

  They had reached the car and were leaning against its elegant bonnet.

  ‘I shall do what I can; if the Diotroxin and the radiotherapy fail to halt it, then it will have to be tarsorrhaphy. I will explain about that...’

  He was lost again, deep in the subject nearest his heart, and Trixie, getting colder by the minute in the now chilly wind, listened willingly because she liked the sound of his deep voice and he was treating her as someone in whom he could confide. When, at length, he paused, she said warmly, ‘Oh, I do expect you must be anxious to get back to Timothy’s and get started on her.’