The Course of True Love Page 5

  ‘Well, you can’t sit around all evening in that dress. I’ve fed the cats and the coffee is ready. What a pretty dress, and I like your hair.’

  She stared at him. ‘But I haven’t done it yet.’ It was hanging down her back, a golden damp tangle. She had forgotten it when she had gone into the sitting-room; now she felt very self-conscious about it. ‘If you wouldn’t mind pouring the coffee I’ll only be a few minutes.’

  She did her face rapidly, swept her hair tidily into a chignon and went back to join him. He was standing by the window, a mug in his hand; he handed her hers and told her to drink up and not waste any more time.

  She took a heartening sip. ‘What a most unfair thing to say,’ she pointed out. ‘I had no intention of going out and I’m only coming with you because…well, because…’

  ‘You want to?’ He smiled at her and she gulped her coffee and burnt her tongue.

  The show was marvellous; Claribel sat spellbound, her eyes on the stage listening and watching, afraid to miss a single moment of it. Mr van Borsele sat back in his seat, watching her. During the interval he took her to the foyer for a drink and listened to her rather breathless remarks about the show, agreeing gravely, the perfect companion. When the curtain came down for the very last time, he led her out to the car and drove to the Savoy Grill and gave her a delicious supper: lobster thermidor, with a mouthwatering salad, chaudfroid of raspberries and endless coffee and petits fours.

  ‘Working tomorrow?’ he enquired casually.

  ‘Yes. There’s an ante-natal clinic in the morning and Out-patients’ Department in the afternoon. The orthopaedic registrar takes it, but you know that, of course.’

  She nibbled a petit four. ‘When does Mr Shutter come back?’

  ‘Next week.’

  She waited for him to say more but he remained utterly silent. Presently she asked, ‘Do you leave then?’

  ‘Within a day or two of his return, yes. Will you miss me?’

  ‘Mrs Green has been working with you…’

  ‘I asked if you would miss me, Claribel.’

  For something to do she poured more coffee. ‘Well, yes, I think I shall.’

  ‘You will doubtless have as many dates as you can cope with?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was quite serious. ‘But they’re not like you.’

  ‘God forbid! Tell me, Claribel, what do you intend to do with your life?’

  The wine she had drunk at supper had loosened her tongue. ‘I like my work—it’s very rewarding, you know—but I’d like to get married and have children, only I’m getting a bit…’

  ‘But you must have had offers of marriage?’

  ‘Several, only they’ve never been…I’m not sure… How will I know when I meet the right man, if I ever do? And perhaps it’s too late.’

  ‘You’ll know, and it’s never too late. But most of us make do with what we get offered and make a success of it, too.’

  ‘You mean we don’t always meet the right person?’

  ‘I don’t mean that at all; almost all of us do, but we don’t always realise it.’

  ‘Oh.’ She thought about that. ‘Don’t you think that people should marry because they fall in love?’

  ‘Well, of course I do, but there are a dozen other excellent reasons for marrying and none of them have anything to do with falling in love. And they make for sound marriages, too.’

  She eyed him across the table, faintly muzzy from the wine. ‘Are you going to get married, Mr van Borsele?’ A question she wouldn’t have dreamed of asking, only the wine was talking now.

  He smiled a little, ‘Yes, Claribel, I have the urge to settle down and become a family man.’

  ‘In Holland, of course?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I hope you will be very happy.’ The wine had taken over with a vengeance. ‘She’ll be small and dainty and agree with everything you do and say and she’ll do exactly as you wish. I can’t imagine you marrying anyone else.’

  ‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you, dear girl.’ He gave her a mocking smile which acted like a shower of cold water, drowning the rest of the wine.

  She muttered, ‘I’m sure you will be very happy, Mr van Borsele.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall be, too.’

  She was very conscious of having been rude. ‘I’m sorry I said that,’ she told him. ‘I didn’t mean a word of it. Do you mind if we go now? It’s quite late…’

  He asked for the bill and his smile wasn’t mocking any more. ‘You have no need to apologise, although I don’t think I shall take your advice.’

  He talked of everyday things as they drove back, and having seen her safely indoors, bade her a cheerful farewell and goodnight and got back into his car, barely giving her time to thank him for the evening.

  She didn’t see him the next day, but she hadn’t expected to. The following Tuesday she spent the day in Intensive Care, helping one of the patients to adjust to breathing normally again. It was on Wednesday in the clinic at the end of a busy morning, with only Mrs Snow between her and a brief lunch, that that lady came trotting in.

  ‘There you are, dearie,’ she began as she started to peel off a variety of woollen garments. ‘Wot a week I’ve had—there’s me youngest out of work again and the old man with toothache and me ’aving to look after young Claude while ’is mum goes to the ante-natal…’

  Claribel arranged her on a stool by a low table, put a cushion under her arm and ran a gentle hand over it. ‘Been doing your exercises?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘Well, now, love, I ’aven’t ’ad much time, wot with the ironing and that.’

  Claribel was massaging gently. ‘No, I don’t suppose you do have much time,’ she agreed. ‘Could you manage to do a few exercises before you get up? Just lifting your arm like I showed you and swinging it a bit?’

  ‘Anything to please yer, ducks. Where were you last week? I ’ad a cross old dragon, got real narked ’cause I couldn’t touch me ’ead.’

  ‘I had to go to an outside clinic—they were short of staff.’

  ‘All on yer own?’

  ‘Oh, my, no, there were other staff there.’

  ‘That nice young man I saw—’e’s gone back to Holland. Ain’t it a shame? I rather fancied him. I just ’appened to be passing as ’e was shaking ’ ands with Mr Shutter and I ’eard him say, “Well, I’ll be off—I plan to catch the evening ferry from Harwich.”’ She breathed a gusty sigh, redolent of onion, all over Claribel. ‘Silly ter say I’ll miss ’im,’ she observed and Claribel, rather to her surprise, agreed with her silently. So silly really; she hardly knew him and she still wasn’t quite sure if she liked him, but here she was regretting his departure. And without so much as wishing her goodbye. He could at least have mentioned it when he had brought her home from the play; he had said within a day or two of Mr Shutter’s return and Mr Shutter had returned only that morning…

  ‘Tired, ducks?’ asked Mrs Snow kindly. ‘All that rubbing you do…I can come next week; perhaps you’ll be feeling more the thing.’

  ‘I never felt better, Mrs Snow.’ Claribel resumed her massage and the soothing chat with it.

  As they ate their sandwiches together she said to Miss Flute, ‘Mr van Borsele didn’t waste much time in going back to Holland. Perhaps he didn’t like it here.’

  Miss Flute bit daintily into a sausage roll. ‘Didn’t you see him? He came in to say goodbye. Said he’d enjoyed every minute of being here; hoped to come back some day. He and Mr Shutter were students together, you know.’

  Claribel said lightly, ‘Oh, were they?’ It seemed that Miss Flute knew more about him than she herself did. But then, why should he have told her anything about himself?

  She felt cross for the rest of the day and when Frederick met her on her way out of the hospital and asked her to go to a concert with him on the Sunday evening, she agreed, instantly regretting it. Frederick no longer interested her in the slightest.

  But a promise was a
promise. She was dressed and waiting for him when he called at the flat on Sunday and listened with every appearance of interest to the account of the week’s work with which he regaled her as they walked to the nearest bus-stop. The concert was in a rather pokey hall and given by an ensemble who played modern music which she didn’t like. Frederick sat back with his eyes closed, enjoying it, while she sat beside him, making a mental list of the groceries she would need for the following week and brooding over the patients she would be working on. She clapped when everyone else did and finally rose with well-concealed thankfulness and filed out in to the late April evening. It would be glorious to be at home now, she thought, but here in the busy London street there was only a strip of sky and stars to be seen. She sighed and agreed with Frederick that a cup of coffee would be very nice.

  There weren’t many cafés open in that part of London on a Sunday evening; the one they entered was small and rather dark and almost empty, but the coffee was good. She accepted a second cup and waited for Frederick to tell her what he so obviously was longing to say. Finally she said, ‘There’s something on your mind, Frederick. Do tell.’

  He said rather pompously. ‘Have you ever taken me seriously, Claribel?’

  He sounded anxious and she said soothingly, ‘No, Frederick, but I don’t think you ever led me to suppose…’ she paused delicately, hoping that he would explain.

  ‘Oh, good’. His relief was so obvious that she almost laughed. ‘You see, I like you very much, Claribel—at one time I actually considered asking you to marry me—but I met Joyce when I went home a couple of weeks ago.’ He added solemnly, ‘I’m not a man to play fast and loose.’

  ‘No, of course you aren’t,’ she told him warmly. ‘I’ve always considered you as a friend, Frederick, nothing more.’ Which wasn’t true, but it was what he wanted to hear. ‘Tell me about her—does she love you, too?’

  ‘Well I think so, but it’s too soon to ask her…’

  ‘Rubbish,’ cried Claribel. ‘How will you ever know if you don’t ask? When are you going home again?’

  ‘I’ve a couple of days due next week.’

  ‘Oh, good. Get after her fast, Frederick, before someone else snaps her up. What is she like?’ It took a considerable time to tell her. They had to have a third cup of coffee while he enlarged on the subject nearest his heart.

  ‘Of course, we’ll still be real friends?’

  She put down her cup for the last time. ‘Of course—why ever not? But do let me know what happens, Frederick. I think it’s marvellous for you.’

  Back in her flat she got supper, fed the cats and sat down to write a letter home. She wouldn’t miss Frederick in the least, so why did she feel so out of spirits?

  The cats, when questioned, had no answer; she made a pot of tea and went to bed.

  Normally a contented girl, sensible enough to accept her lot in life and be happy with it, for after all, it wasn’t so bad, Claribel found that her spirits didn’t rise. The week went by, busy as it always was, but there were things which should have made her happy. The weather, usually unpredictable in April, had been steadily warmer and sunnier each day so that going to work was a pleasure, even though her way led her through rather shabby streets. Besides, the early tulips in the tubs she had so carefully cherished by the front door had bloomed and gave a nice splash of colour to her little home, and, over and above these small pleasures, she had been given an unexpected free afternoon and had gone shopping. She hadn’t intended to buy anything but the sight of a cotton jersey ensemble in a pale toffee colour sent prudence to the winds. She bought it, knowing that its colour did all the right things to her eyes and hair, and this despite the doubt as to when she would be able to wear it. It was too elegant to wear to work and she supposed that she would wear it when she went home for the weekend. Strangely, when one of the house doctors waylaid her on the following afternoon and asked her to spend the following Sunday afternoon with him—an excellent opportunity to air the new outfit—she refused; he was quite a pleasant man but when he suggested that they might go to an absent friend’s flat for tea, she prudently said no.

  Squashed on the bus going home after this encounter she supposed that she was getting prudish, certainly old-fashioned. Perhaps she should have tried harder with Frederick and made sure of a secure future. She frowned at the thought and an elderly man on whom she had bent her unseeing gaze looked the other way. She wasn’t a very nice girl, she reflected, and sighed loudly, right down the neck of the woman pressed against her. The woman turned an indignant face to her. ‘Do you mind?’ she asked aggressively.

  ‘So sorry,’ said Claribel and brought her thoughts back to the present. She got off at the next stop, walked briskly down Meadow Road and unlocked her front door. She felt better once she was inside, with the cats there to welcome her and the prospect of tea.

  She cast about her for ways in which to fill the approaching weekend. She could have gone home, but the outfit had cost far too much money; it was pay day during the next week; she would go on the following weekend. She cheered up at the thought and decided to wash the sitting-room net curtains; they were necessary to keep prying eyes from staring in, but they didn’t stay clean for more than a week or so. And she would recover the little chair in the bedroom. She had bought the velvet weeks ago and there was webbing and tacks and a hammer somewhere in the kitchen, and while she was at it she could use the rest of the velvet to cover a couple of cushions.

  ‘I’m getting to be a real old maid,’ she told the cats.

  The weekend came; she had the curtains washed and dripping over the bath and, fired with a sudden energy, had upended the bedroom chair and was ripping off its old cover when there was a thump on the door knocker. It was the kind of thump Mr van Borsele gave. Just for a split second she felt delight surge though her, to be instantly quenched by common sense; he was in Holland.

  Only he wasn’t. He was on her doorstep, looking impatient when she opened the door.

  She stared up at him, conscious of vexation because she was wearing an old dress and a plastic pinny with ‘Work Hard’ printed on its bib.

  ‘You’re in Holland,’ she greeted him.

  ‘No, I’m here waiting to be asked in.’

  She mumbled, ‘Oh, sorry.’ How like him to turn a situation to his advantage. ‘Do come in, I’m having a weekend turn out.’

  He stalked past her. ‘Have you nothing better to do?’ he asked testily. He poked at the chair. ‘Do you know how to upholster chairs as well as get bones working again?’

  ‘No, and I’m not upholstering, only covering. Sit down, Mr van Borsele.’

  It would hardly do to ask him why he had come. Instead she asked, ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Yes. I came on the night ferry to Harwich. For some reason there was a hitch and there was no breakfast car on the boat train and I didn’t stop on the way.’

  Her motherly instincts were aroused. ‘Just you sit there and I’ll get you a meal. Bacon and eggs and mushrooms and toast and marmalade and tea—no coffee.’

  ‘Since I am in England, a pot of your strong tea and with luck while you are getting it I will see to this chair. It seems as if you are not making a very good job of it.’

  She rounded on him indignantly. ‘Well, you really are the limit! You come here for breakfast—and there’s no reason why I should cook it for you only I’ve got a kind heart—and then you mock my work. I’d like to see you do it better.’

  ‘And so you shall, Claribel. But I do beg of you, give me a meal before you deliver the lecture which I feel is hovering on your tongue.’

  ‘Oh, you are impossible!’ she told him. But she went into the kitchen and got out the jar of fat and the frying pan, and presently the delicious smell of bacon frying filled the little flat.

  When she went back into the sitting-room to lay the table she was surprised to see that he had taken off his jacket and was making a splendid job of covering the chair. ‘There’s no need,’ she cr
ied. ‘I’ve all the weekend in which to do it.’

  ‘No you haven’t. We’re going to Richmond Park after lunch—I need a good brisk walk—and this evening I thought we might go dancing after dinner.’

  She stood goggling until he said briskly, ‘Don’t burn the bacon, Claribel.’

  She dished up a plateful, carried it in and set it on the table.

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ she began.

  ‘Well, for a start, for heaven’s sake stop calling me Mr van Borsele—my name’s Marc. You know that already.’ He pulled the velvet tight over the chair and tacked it neatly.

  He polished off his breakfast and returned to the chair. Claribel, speechless, for she had no idea of how to deal with the situation, cleared away the remnants of his meal, washed the dishes and went back into the sitting-room. The chair was finished, and very nice it looked, too.

  ‘Do passers-by always stare in so rudely?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘I’ve washed the curtains. They’re almost dry.’

  ‘Let us hang them up at once then.’ Still bemused, she fetched them and watched him hang them up once more. ‘And let us hope that is the extent of your activities for the day,’ he commented.

  She said feebly, ‘I’m going to cover some cushions…’

  ‘Surely not urgent?’ He had settled into an easy chair. ‘Get yourself dressed, Claribel, while I take a nap.’

  She knew exactly how a rabbit felt when it was face to face with a snake. ‘But I’m not going out—I told you…’

  He stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. ‘I haven’t come all this way just to watch you do the housework,’ he pointed out. ‘You have no need to demonstrate your capabilities in that field.’

  She stood and looked at him, mulling over a number of things she intended to say, but was stopped from doing this by the quite genuine snore which, while not detracting in the least from his dignity, bore witness to the fact that he was sound asleep.