Three for a Wedding Read online

  ‘I told him I wouldn’t do that.’

  She remembered the conversation now, sitting in the train, and wondered what would happen if she suddenly discovered that she had made a mistake and was in love with Jack after all, and then dismissed the idea because they had known each other for a year or more and surely by now she would have some other feeling for him other than one of friendship. She decided not to think about it any more—not, in fact, to think of anything very deeply, but to take each day as it came, at least until she returned to England.

  It was Nick and Sybil who met her at Shaftesbury, for Nick was spending a day or so at Magdalen Provost before taking Sybil to meet his parents. They discussed the wedding as he drove his car, a Saab, rather too fast but very skilfully, in the direction of the village, but presently he interrupted to ask: ‘Phoebe, what’s the name of this man you’re going to work for? I’ve an idea I know something about him.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Phoebe lightly, ‘because I don’t—his name’s van Someren.’

  Nick tore past an articulated wagon at a speed which made her wince. ‘I knew his name rang a bell,’ her future relative told her cheerfully. ‘Old van Someren—met him at one of those get-togethers …’

  ‘Then you can tell me something about him,’ said Phoebe firmly.

  ‘Don’t know anything—surely your people have given you all the gen?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean that. How old is he, and is he nice, and is he married?’

  They were going down the hill into the village at a speed which could if necessary, take them through it and up the other side. ‘Good lord, I don’t know—thirty, forty, I suppose—and what do you mean by nice? To look at, his morals, his work?’

  ‘Just … oh, never mind, you tiresome thing. You’re not much help. There’s ten years between thirty and forty, but perhaps you haven’t noticed,’

  Nick laughed and brought the car to a sudden halt outside the house. ‘Poor Phoebe—I’d have taken a photo of him if I’d known. Tell you one thing, though, I’m sure someone told me that he’s got a boy, so he must be married.’ He turned in his seat to look at her. ‘When do you go, tomorrow?’

  ‘On an afternoon train. I said I’d arrive at the hospital in the evening.’

  ‘We’ll take you in to Shaftesbury—we’d go the whole way, but we’ve still got to see the parson about this and that.’ They were all out of the car by now, loitering towards the door. ‘You’ll be at the wedding, won’t you?’

  It was Sybil who answered for her. ‘Of course she will. I know I’m not having any bridesmaids, but Phoebe’s going to be there,’ she turned to her sister, ‘and you’d better be in something eye-catching, darling.’

  ‘It’s your day, Syb. I thought of wearing dove grey—that’s if Doctor van Someren allows me to come.’

  ‘You’ll have days off—all you have to do is save them up and tell him you have to attend a wedding. Anyway, didn’t I read somewhere that the Dutch set great store on family gatherings? Of course you’ll be able to come.’

  She sounded so worried that Phoebe said reassuringly: ‘Don’t you worry, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  They went indoors then, to Aunt Martha, busy in a kitchen which smelled deliciously of something roasting in the oven, and no one mentioned the Dutch doctor again.

  Twenty-four hours never went so quickly. Phoebe, joining the queue at Waterloo station for a taxi, felt as though she hadn’t been home at all. She would miss going down to Magdalen Provost and she doubted very much if she would get another opportunity of a weekend before she left England. She had quite forgotten to ask Sybil the arrangements for her off-duty, but surely she would manage a day or two before she left the children’s hospital. She got out of the taxi, paid the man and rang the visitors bell of the Nurses’ Home. If anyone wanted to see her so late in the day, the warden would doubtless give her the message. But there was only a request that she should present herself at the Principal Officer’s office at nine o’clock the next morning, and when she stated simply that she was Nurse Brook, the warden hadn’t wanted to know any more than that, but took her up to a rather pleasant little room, offered her a warm drink and wished her good night. So far, so good, Phoebe told her reflection in the mirror, and went to bed and slept soundly.

  The Principal Nursing Officer was brisk and busy. As Phoebe went into the room she said: ‘Ah, yes, Nurse Brook. Splendid. Will you go along to the Children’s Unit and they’ll put you in the picture—I’m sure it has already been made clear to you that this scheme is housed here temporarily, and it’s run quite separately from the hospital itself. Anything you want to know, there will be someone you can ask there.’

  She smiled quite kindly in dismissal and pulled a pile of papers towards her, and Phoebe, murmuring suitably, got herself out of the office, sighing with relief that it had all been so easy, aware at the same time that she should be feeling guilty and failing to do so because she remembered Sybil’s happy face.

  The Children’s Unit was across the yard. Supposedly there was another way to it under cover, but she couldn’t see it and it was a lovely sunny day and she welcomed the chance to be out of doors, if only for a minute or two. The door stood open on to the usual tiled, austere entrance, a staircase ascending from it on one side, a row of doors lining its other wall. On the one marked ‘Doctor van Someren’ she knocked, for it seemed good sense to get to the heart of the matter at once. No one answered, so she opened the door and went inside. It was a small room and rather dreary, with a large desk with its swivel chair, shelves full of books and papers and two more chairs, hard and uncomfortable, ranged against one wall. Phoebe, who had seen many such offices, wasn’t unduly depressed at this unwelcoming scene, however. Hospitals, she had learned over the years, were not run for the comfort of their staff. There was an inner door, too. She crossed the room and tapped on it and a woman’s voice said ‘Come in.’ It was an exact copy of the room she had just left, only smaller, and had the additions of a typewriter and a woman using it. She wasn’t young any more and rather plain, but she looked nice and when Phoebe said: ‘I’m Nurse Brook and I’m not at all sure where I’m supposed to be,’ she smiled in a friendly fashion.

  ‘Here,’ she answered cheerfully, ‘if you like to go back to the other room, I’ll see if Doctor van Someren is available. I expect you want to start work at once.’

  She went back with Phoebe to the doctor’s room, waved a hand at one of the chairs and disappeared. Phoebe sat for perhaps ten seconds, but it was far too splendid a day not to go to the window and look out. It was too high for her to see much; obviously whoever had built the place had considered it unnecessary for the occupants to refresh themselves with a glimpse of the outside world. But by standing on tiptoe she was able to see quite a pretty garden, so unexpected that she opened the bottom sash in order to examine it with greater ease.

  She didn’t hear the door open. When she turned round at last, she had no idea how long the man had been standing there. She frowned a little and went a faint pink because it was hardly the way she would want an interview to begin, with her leaning out of the window, showing a great deal more leg than she considered dignified for a Ward Sister but then she wasn’t a Ward Sister she really would have to remember … And he wasn’t in the least like the picture Sybil had painted of him. He was a big, broad-shouldered man and very tall, something her sister had forgotten to mention, and she, for that matter, had forgotten to ask. His hair was the colour of straw which she thought could be streaked with grey; it was impossible to tell until she got really close to him. And she was deeply astonished to find him good-looking in a beaky-nosed fashion, with a firm mouth which looked anything but dreamy, and there was nothing vague about the piercing blue gaze bent upon her at the moment.

  ‘Miss Brook,’ his voice was deep, ‘Miss Sybil Brook?’

  She advanced from the window. ‘Yes, I’m Miss Brook,’ she informed him pleasantly, pleased that she didn’t have to tell a downright
fib so soon in the conversation. There would be time enough for that; she only hoped that she wouldn’t get confused … ‘You’re Doctor van Someren, I expect. How do you do?’ She held out her small capable hand and had it gripped in a gentle vice. For one startled moment she wondered if he could be the same man whom Sybil had seen, and then knew that it was; his face had become placid, his eyelids drooping over eyes which seemed half asleep, his whole manner vague.

  ‘Er—yes, how do you do?’ He smiled at her. ‘I think it would be best if I were to take you to the ward—you can talk to Sister Jones, and later there will be some notes and so on which I should like you to study.’ He went over to the desk and picked up a small notebook and put it in his pocket, saying as he did so: ‘I’m sometimes a little absentminded … I shall be doing a ward round in an hour, I should like you to be there, please.’

  He sat down at the desk and began to open a pile of letters stacked tidily before him, quite absorbed in the task, so that after a few minutes Phoebe ventured to ask: ‘Shall I go to the ward now, sir?’

  He looked up and studied her carefully, just as though he had never set eyes on her before. ‘Ah—Miss Brook, Miss Sybil Brook,’ he reminded himself. ‘I really do apologise. We’ll go at once.’

  Following him out of the room and up the stairs Phoebe could understand why Sybil had described him as vague—all to the good; she saw little reason for him to discover that she wasn’t Sybil; she doubted if he had really looked at her, not after that first disconcerting stare.

  Sister Jones was expecting her, and to Phoebe’s relief turned out to be a girl of about her own age, with a cheerful grin and soft Welsh voice which had a tendency to stammer. She greeted the doctor with a friendly respect and Phoebe was a little surprised to hear him address her as Lottie. She hoped he wasn’t in the habit of addressing his nursing staff by their christian names, for not only would she find it difficult to answer to Sybil, she discovered at that moment that she had no wish to tell him a fib. He was too nice—an opinion presently endorsed when he did his ward round; he was kind too and his little patients adored him.

  There were ten children in the ward, most of them up and about, full of life and filled, too, with a capacity for enjoyment which fibrocystics seemed to possess as a kind of bonus over and above a child’s normal capacity to enjoy itself. They were bright too, with an intelligence beyond their years, as though they were being allowed to crowd as much as possible into a life which would possibly be shortened. The small boy Doctor van Someren was examining at that moment was thin and pale, but he laughed a good deal at the doctor’s little jokes, discussed the cricket scores and wanted to know who Phoebe was. The doctor told him briefly and went on: ‘And now, how about that tipping and tapping, Peter?’

  A question which called forth a good deal of sheepish glances and mutterings on Peter’s part. He didn’t like hanging over his bed, being thumped by a nurse at six o’clock in the morning, he said so now with considerable vigour, and everyone laughed, but instead of leaving it at that, Phoebe was glad to see the doctor sit down on the side of the bed once more and patiently explain just why it was good for Peter to hang head downwards the minute he woke up each morning. Having made his point Doctor van Someren strolled towards the next bed, murmuring as he went:

  ‘What a sad thing it is that this illness is so difficult to tackle.’ He looked at Phoebe as he spoke and seemed to expect an answer, so she said: ‘Yes, it is, but I’m afraid I don’t know enough about it to pass any opinion.’

  ‘A refreshing observation,’ he said surprisingly. ‘I find, during the course of my work, that there are a distressing number of people who have a great deal too much opinion and very little sense. I fancy that you have plenty of sense, Nurse Brook.’ He nodded at her in a kindly way, sat down on the next bed and became instantly absorbed in its occupant. Phoebe, standing close behind him, found herself wondering how old he was. She had been right, there was quite a lot of grey mixed in with the straw-coloured hair. She guessed forty, but a moment later when he turned his head to speak to Sister Jones, and she could study his face, she decided that he was a good deal younger than that.

  She had been a little disturbed to find that she was to go to Delft in ten days’ time, for she had imagined that it would be longer than that, as it wasn’t very long in which to get to know the doctor and his methods, and now she very much doubted if she would be able to get home again before she went, for Sister Jones had explained at some length that it was hoped that she would take her days off singly because the time was too short for her to miss even two days together; there was so much for her to learn. She had agreed because there was nothing else she could do, and in any case she would be going home for the wedding—she dragged her thoughts away from that interesting topic and applied herself to what the doctor was saying. He had some interesting theories and a compelling way of talking about them which held one’s attention; by the end of the day she found herself deeply interested, both in the man and his ideas, and was a little surprised to find that the ward seemed very empty without him, rather like a room without its furniture, and yet he was a quiet man, there was nothing flamboyant about him—indeed, when he wasn’t actually engaged in his work, he was positively retiring.

  In her room, after a friendly cup of tea with the other staff nurses, Phoebe undressed slowly, thinking about him, and when she was finally ready for bed she didn’t go to sleep immediately, but sat up against the pillows, her golden hair cascading round her shoulders, her lovely face, devoid of the small amount of make-up she used, creased in a thoughtful frown. It wasn’t turning out a bit as she had expected—she had expected to feel regrets, even guilt, but she didn’t feel either, only a faint excitement and a certainty that she was going to enjoy every minute of Sybil’s scheme.

  Her feelings were strengthened during the next ten days; it seemed strange to be a staff nurse again, but Sister Jones was a dear and the other nurses were pleasant to work with. There was plenty of work on the ward, for Doctor van Someren was a man who expected his orders to be carried out to the letter, and it was sometimes hard and exacting. He had given Phoebe a number of books to read, some of them written by himself, and she couldn’t help but be impressed by the string of letters after his name. He was undoubtedly clever, which might account for his moments of vagueness and for his habit of staring at her, which at first she had found a little trying until she decided that he was probably deep in thought and wasn’t even aware of her.

  She was to spend five nights on duty, because there was a good deal to do at night and he wanted her to be conversant with that as well, and to her surprise Doctor van Someren had himself suggested that she should have two days off afterwards so that she could go home before returning to London to meet him for the journey. He had offered no information about the trip. She supposed they would travel by train and cross from Harwich, and although she would have liked to know very much, she hadn’t liked to ask him because he had appeared so preoccupied when he had told her; he had moved away even as he was speaking, his registrar and housemen circling around him like satellites round their sun.

  Phoebe hadn’t been best pleased about going on nights, although she didn’t care to admit to herself that the main reason for this was because she wouldn’t see Doctor van Someren—and she liked seeing him, even though he was a married man and never seemed to see her at all. Apparently he had no eyes for women, however lovely—unlike his Registrar and George the houseman, both of whom found her company very much to their liking. She sighed and wondered, not for the first time, what his wife was like, then pushed the ward doors open, ready to take the day report from Sister Jones on her first night on. Life seemed strangely-dissatisfying.

  The children took a lot of settling; she and Rawlings, the student nurse on with her, were still hard at it when Doctor van Someren came quietly into the ward. Phoebe laid the little girl carefully on to the pillows stacked behind her, conscious that her heart was beating a good deal faster than
it should do.

  ‘Any trouble?’ he asked quietly, and she shook her head and smiled at him because it was so nice to see him unexpectedly.

  ‘No, thank you, sir. They’re very good, but we’ve still got two more to see to.’ She was apologetic because it was almost nine o’clock, but he made no sign of having heard her, only stood looking down on the child, comfortable and sleepy now, and presently he went away.

  He came each night, conveying without words that his visits were simply because he liked the children and not because he had doubts as to his nurses’ ability. And in the small hours of the night—her third night on, when Andrew, the ten-year-old in the corner bed, died, he was there again, with his registrar and Night Sister. But Phoebe noticed none of them, doing what she had to do with a heavy heart, and later, when there was no more to be done, going into the kitchen on some excuse or other because if she didn’t shed some of the tears her throat would burst. She neither saw nor heard Doctor van Someren; it was his apologetic little cough which caused her to spin round to face him. She said wildly: ‘You see, I’ll be no good for your scheme—I can’t bear it when this happens—he was so little.’

  She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes to blot the tears, and despite them, her lovely face was quite undimmed.

  The doctor said nothing for a moment, but crossed to the table, ladled tea into the pot, lifted the boiling water from the gas ring and made the tea. ‘On the contrary, you will be very good, because you feel deeply about it.’ He looked at her and in a voice suddenly harsh, asked: ‘And how do you suppose I feel?’

  She sniffled, ‘Awful. I’m sorry.’ She began to gather mugs on to a tray. ‘I mean I’m sorry because I’m being a fool, and I’m sorry for you too, because this happens despite all you do.’

  He took the tray from her. ‘You are kind, Miss Brook, but the boot is on the other foot—soon we shall win our battle, you know.’ He kicked open the door. ‘And now dry your eyes and have a cup of your English tea—I should warn you that in Holland our tea is not as you make it, but our coffee is genuine coffee, which is more than I can say for the abomination I am offered here.’ He smiled at her and she found herself smiling back at him; he really was nice—absentminded, perhaps, a little pedantic and, she fancied, old-fashioned in his views, but definitely nice.