The Convenient Wife Read online

  ‘No.’ He was frowning so heavily that she added kindly, ‘But it doesn’t matter at all, I’ve lots of friends.’

  He nodded. ‘I shall be out this evening. Feel free to come and go as you please. You return to your duties tomorrow?’

  She made haste to assure him that she would return to the hospital when she had been to receive the cheque from the furniture company. ‘I—I’ve promised to go out in the evening,’ she fibbed, in case he might think that she would want to stay for dinner.

  He regarded her thoughtfully, aware of her small lie, even guessing why she had told it. ‘Just as you wish.’ He smiled faintly. ‘I dare say that we shall see each other occasionally in St Jude’s.’

  ‘Oh, yes, but not to talk to, of course. I’m not supposed to talk to consultants, only to answer them if they ask me something.’

  She gave a brisk nod and went upstairs to take off her coat. When she went down again the house was quiet as she went to the small sitting-room and did her telephoning. That done, she sat quietly until Todd came in with the tea-tray and the news that the professor had returned to the hospital and would only come back for a brief visit in order to change for the evening.

  She was saved from loneliness by the presence of the cat, who curled up on the chair on the other side of the hearth and went to sleep while she sat with paper and pen, making plans. The money from the furniture sale wasn’t a great deal, but she felt emboldened to spend a little of it; she needed new boots for the winter as well as a topcoat. The remainder she would put in the bank to swell her tiny capital against a rainy day.

  And tomorrow, she reflected, she would leave during the morning, for she felt that she had tried the professor’s hospitable instincts to their limit. She could look at the shops, have a snack lunch, collect her cheque and go back to St Jude’s. Having decided things to her satisfaction, she drank the sherry Todd handed to her and sat down to her dinner. It was a pity that her grandmother wasn’t there to share the delicious food. For a moment her firmly suppressed grief threatened to engulf her, but Granny had had no time for self-pity. She was young, and once she had trained she would have a safe, interesting job for as long as she wanted, or until she retired, she supposed. She dreamed of marrying, as any girl of her age would, but she had no looks to speak of and, according to her friends at the hospital, looks were of paramount importance when it came to getting a husband.

  She was a sensible girl, and she didn’t dwell on the lack of romance in her future, but made civil conversation with Todd, who was presiding over her dinner. He excused himself when he had served her pudding, and she heard him talking in the hall, and then the professor’s deep voice. Todd came back presently, and after a little while she heard the professor’s step in the hall and the sound of the heavy front door being shut.

  She explained to Todd when she went down to breakfast that she would be leaving that morning, refusing his offer of a nice lunch, although she agreed that she wouldn’t go until he had brought her coffee later on in the morning. And, when it came to the point of leaving, she felt real regret as she thanked the Todds for their kindness; the professor’s home had spelt security and calm just when she had needed it. She refused the taxi Todd offered her, and walked to the High Street, where she idled away an hour before having lunch in a small café and then going to collect her cheque. That done, there was nothing to keep her there any longer. She made her way to Percy Lane and found the little house already empty, and, mindful of the solicitor’s instructions, left the keys on the sitting-room mantelshelf and then went quickly away, closing the door behind her and not looking back.

  In a way it was a relief to be back at work, even though Staff Nurse Thomas was sharper tongued than usual and there were several testy patients who wanted attention all the time, never mind how busy the nurses were.

  Of the professor there was no sign. It wasn’t for a day or two after her return that Caroline, sharing a pot of tea with her before bed, observed that he had gone back to Holland.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Venetia. ‘I mean, you knew last time, too…’

  ‘Tim told me. But he’ll be back. I heard Theatre Sister telling Sister Bolt that there was a brain tumour being sent over from Jersey—he’s bound to be back to deal with it. It’s a teaser, she said, and they always have him over for the nasty ones.’

  Two days later she met him in one of the long downstairs corridors. She was on her way to collect a drug which had to be given immediately, and was racing along much too fast. His long arm, shooting out to try to stop her, brought her to a halt.

  He had his registrar with him, which probably accounted for his bland, ‘Ah, Nurse Forbes. Your domestic difficulties are at an end, I trust?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’ She had gone a little pink with the unexpectedness of the meeting, and when he nodded in a dismissive manner she smiled a little uncertainly at him and hurried off on her errand. Seeing him brought back the memories she had been trying so hard to stifle. All at once she longed for her grandmother and the little house in Hampstead—more than that, she longed for an anchor, somewhere to call home, somewhere to go when she was free. She hadn’t moped, she had done her best, spending her free days visiting museums and art galleries, eating economical meals in busy cafés so that she had people around her, assuring her friends when they asked her that she simply loved exploring London, anxious not to infringe upon their kind concern for her. And now the professor was back to upset her. She had some holiday due, she would use some of her little capital and go away. Right away, although just for the moment she had no idea where.

  The answer came from an unexpected source the very next day. The professor’s registrar stopped her as she was crossing the entrance hall, intent on giving a message to whoever was in the porter’s lodge.

  ‘Spare a minute?’ he asked pleasantly, and, since he had always been friendly and she liked him, she stopped willingly enough. ‘I say, you may find this awful cheek, but I’m in a spot. I have to go over to Holland with Professor ter Laan-Luitinga, and it means leaving my wife for a week or ten days. She’s expecting a baby and hates to be on her own, and none of her family or mine is free to go and stay with her. Sister Giles was complaining about being short of a nurse while you were on leave, and I wondered—if you hadn’t anything better to do, if you would stay with Lottie?’

  She had met his wife once, at Christmas when Mr Miles had brought her round the wards. They had liked each other, but they hadn’t met since. Venetia said slowly, ‘Well, I wasn’t going anywhere—but how does your wife feel about it?’

  ‘When I suggested it she was pleased. You have met, haven’t you? I remember she liked you. Would you think about it? The professor will be going back to Holland in two or three days’time—he’s got this tricky case to see to, and a backlog of patients to deal with. When do you start your holiday?’

  Nothing in his manner suggested to her that he might already know.

  ‘Well, I’ve days off on Monday and Tuesday, and then my holiday starts.’

  ‘Couldn’t be better, I believe we’re to go on the Tuesday evening.’

  He smiled in his friendly fashion. ‘Leave a message at the lodge if you would like to come; we’d be eternally grateful.’

  ‘If you’re sure—?’ began Venetia.

  ‘Quite sure, and you’ve no idea what a load it would be off my mind.’

  She thought about it for the rest of the day. It was a heaven-sent opportunity to get away from hospital life, and, when she came to think about it, hadn’t someone told her that Mr Miles had bought a small cottage—somewhere near Beaconsfield? Penn, that was the name, and, although he and his wife had a small flat in one of the new blocks built by the Thames where the docks once were, they spent his free weekends and holidays there. She was a little surprised that he had asked her, but there probably wasn’t anyone suitable free. By the end of the day she had made up her mind to accept his offer.

  On the Friday evening he came on to the
ward, very properly asked Sister Giles if he might have a word with Venetia, and drew her to one side.

  ‘Lottie and I are so glad that you will come. She’s at the flat, but if you could be ready to go with us on Tuesday afternoon, we’ll collect you on the way down to the cottage at Penn; she would rather be there.’

  He smiled kindly at her and went away, leaving her feeling pleasantly excited at the prospect of a change of scene.

  She felt a little anxious as she waited for Mr Miles to fetch her; supposing his wife didn’t like her after all? And what would they do all day? And would she be expected to help in the house? She wasn’t really a guest, but, on the other hand, she wasn’t employed by the Mileses, either.

  She need not have worried; she was popped into the car, her luggage was stowed in the boot, and it was evident from the first moment that she and Mr Miles’s wife were going to like each other.

  ‘Call me Lottie,’ begged the pretty girl sitting beside him, ‘and I shall call you Venetia. You don’t mind?’

  It took a little while to leave London behind them, but once on the motorway they were going through Beaconsfield and turning off for Penn in no time at all. It was a charming village, just as Venetia had hoped it would be, with a green and a duck pond, surrounded by seventeenth-century cottages overlooked by the church and the Crown Inn. The Mileses’ cottage was down a narrow lane, standing sideways on to the road; a small, neat house, its garden bare now, although very tidy. Inside there was a welcoming fire in the sitting room, and an appetising smell coming from the kitchen.

  ‘Mrs Trent,’ explained Lottie. ‘She comes in every day when we’re here, just for an hour or two. Come and see your bedroom—we’ve only got two—Arthur will bring up your case.’

  It was a dear little room, pink and blue and white, sparsely furnished, but there was everything one could need. ‘We share the bathroom.’ Lottie beamed at Venetia. ‘I don’t know what we’ll do when baby gets here.’

  Venetia peered out of the small window. ‘Couldn’t you build on? There’s lots of room, isn’t there? The garden’s beautiful, and fairly big.’

  ‘We don’t want to leave here—we love it. Would you like to unpack? Arthur will have to go back almost at once…’

  ‘Will you wish him a good trip from me? I’d like to unpack, if I may.’

  It was obvious from her companion’s face that she had said the right thing. She opened her case and started putting things away, and found that her thoughts, without any prompting from her, had turned to the professor. He would be going home—and to whom?

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE two of them settled down happily. They had a lot in common, for they were of a similar age and they both liked clothes, books and the theatre. Although Venetia had a small wardrobe, her clothes were as good as she could afford, even if not in the forefront of fashion. As for Lottie, a slavish follower of all fashion, but for the moment wearing voluminous garments which none the less contrived to look smart, she studied the latest Harper’s, her pretty head full of the clothes she would buy when the baby was born.

  Mrs Trent came daily to tidy the house and give what she called a good clean through, so Venetia and Lottie had a minimum of chores. They did the shopping, went for a walk each day, and spent the evenings round the fire, roasting chestnuts and knitting garments for the forthcoming infant. Each evening the phone rang, the signal for Venetia to go into the kitchen to start the supper while Lottie spent the next fifteen minutes or so talking to Arthur. It was on their fourth evening there that she remarked, putting down the phone at last, ‘He doesn’t know when he’ll be back, he thinks at least another four days.’

  Venetia came to the open door between the kitchen and the sitting-room. ‘What exactly are they doing?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘Oh, some VIP needed brain surgery. Arthur doesn’t always go with the professor, but now he’s getting much more experienced—the professor’s very generous with his teaching.’ She looked up, smiling. ‘He’s a nice man. Do you see much of him at St Jude’s?’

  ‘Almost nothing, but he was very kind to me when my grandmother died.’ Venetia began to beat the eggs for an omelette. ‘He stitched up my arm, too.’

  Lottie chuckled. ‘I can just imagine the fuss and bother when they discovered that you were on the staff.’

  Venetia spooned in water and did a bit more beating. ‘Yes, it was funny, though I couldn’t have cared less at the time.’

  ‘A nasty experience. I’d have been terrified.’

  ‘Well, I was, and I felt such a fool—I was sick while my arm was being stitched…’

  ‘Not very glamorous, but then medical men expect that kind of thing,’ observed Lottie comfortably.

  But not very senior consultant surgeons who had descended from Olympian heights to do a bit of sewing on a student nurse’s arm. But Venetia didn’t say that out loud.

  It was cold and wet the next day, and they spent it happily enough writing Christmas cards—not that Venetia had many to write, a lack more than made up for by the list Lottie worked her way through.

  ‘Will you be in hospital over Christmas?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘Me? Oh, yes. It’s quite fun, you know. We visit the other wards and sing carols, and each ward has a tree.’

  ‘Could you have leave if you wanted it?’

  Venetia said a little too quickly, ‘Not really. We all get some time off, of course, but it’s split up… Will you be here for Christmas?’

  ‘Yes, Arthur’s got the three days off. We’ll go to his parents’ on Christmas Eve, and mine on Boxing Day, but we’ll have Christmas Day here together.’

  ‘That’s nice. That shop in the village has got some lovely tree decorations in. Do you want to buy some tomorrow?’

  Christmas as a topic of conversation kept them busy until bedtime.

  It was still cold the next morning, and the grey sky held a yellowish tinge. ‘It’s going to snow,’ said Venetia as they walked briskly into the village and returned presently with a basket full of tinsel, baubles and the ingredients for a beef casserole.

  ‘You ought to sort out the decorations,’ suggested Venetia, ‘while I get this casserole into a pot. I’ll just nip into the garden and pull a couple of leeks.’

  Easier said than done—there had been a hard frost for several nights and she had to prise them out with a gardening fork. The first few flakes of snow were falling as she went back indoors. A lovely wave of warm air met her as she opened the kitchen door, to stop short on the threshold and gape at the professor, who was leaning against the kitchen table, eating the carrots she had laid out neatly for the casserole.

  ‘Come in and shut the door, Venetia. You’re letting all the cold air in.’

  She pushed the door shut with one foot and put the leeks beside the carrots. ‘You’re in Holland,’ she said.

  ‘An unnecessary remark, and untrue,’ he pointed out. ‘Arthur and I arrived here not ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’ll go and—’

  ‘No, you won’t. They haven’t seen each other for a week. Why do you think I am mewed up here with nothing but carrots to eat?’

  She took off her coat and kicked off her boots. She looked small without them. She said tartly, ‘You could get into that car of yours and drive home, and Mrs Todd would give you a super meal.’

  ‘What an unkind girl you are, and what a way to talk to someone of my age! Besides, I’ve been invited to stay for lunch and tea. Will there be muffins?’

  She could make neither head nor tail of him; she had thought of him as being reserved, taciturn almost, and certainly impatient, and at times positively unfriendly. She said weakly, ‘Yes, we brought some muffins back from the village,’ then added worriedly, ‘but this casserole will never be ready for lunch. It’ll have to be baked beans and eggs. I’ll get this ready for this evening…’

  ‘In that case, I’ll stay for supper.’ He stood up, his head only inches from the ceiling. ‘Come, let’s join the
others.’

  ‘I’m not very tidy…’

  He studied her coolly. ‘No, you aren’t, but I don’t think that matters.’

  His voice was as cool as his look; it was the voice she was used to hearing at the hospital. Suddenly he had become the professor again, and not just a man eating carrots in the kitchen. She swept her hair away from her face. ‘I was rude just now. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t dare talk to you like that at St Jude’s; I just forgot who you were for a moment.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I’m flattered by that remark!’ His alarming eyebrows rose in a mocking arc. He opened the door and swept her before him into the sitting-room.

  Venetia went to bed that night in a state of pleasant bewilderment. The professor had stayed until late that evening, and he hadn’t seemed like a professor at all—he had washed up after their meals, buttered the muffins, eaten a splendid supper, and behaved as though he did all these things as a matter of course, whereas she was quite certain that in his own home he was neither called upon nor wished to perform such homely tasks.

  More than that, he had fixed her with a compelling eye after lunch and suggested that she should accompany him on a walk. She had had her mouth open to refuse, and then realised that Arthur and Lottie might want to be alone. So she had fetched her coat and tied a scarf over her hair and gone walking with him. It had been very cold, and from time to time the snow had drifted down in a desultory fashion. After a few minutes, the professor had tucked her arm into his, shortening his great strides so that she could keep up. They had walked round the village green and the pond, and then taken one of the lanes leading from the village.

  ‘Where does this go?’ Venetia had asked.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ the professor had said, a remark to bring her to silence.

  But the silence hadn’t lasted long. He had begun to talk, and it wasn’t until she was curled up in bed, remembering it all, that she realised she had told him a great deal more about herself than she had meant to. It was his voice, she decided. Sometimes it held a compelling tone which made it difficult to ignore. She supposed that students, on a teaching round with him and confronted by that cool, impersonal manner, might feel the same.