The Course of True Love Read online

  Claribel, driven by some strong feeling she didn’t stop to analyse, opened the door of the exclusive men’s shop whose window she had been looking at and hurried inside. She emerged ten minutes later, having purchased a tie with almost all the money in her purse, but nevertheless cheap at the price for it had enabled her to avoid Mr van Borsele.

  She walked to Piccadilly Circus, turned down Haymarket and caught a bus to Stamford Street with the rest of the weekend looming emptily before her. It was providential that within half an hour of her return a junior surgical registrar at Jerome’s should ring up to invite her to his birthday party.

  ‘We’re having it at the Dog and Thistle—’ the pub frequented by the medical staff at Jerome’s. ‘Someone will fetch you and take you back. Miss Flute’s coming, and Tilly and Pat—’ both girls from the physio department. ‘You know everyone.’

  It turned out to be a pleasant, noisy evening: far too many people crammed into the private bar of the pub, eating potato crisps and drinking beer or tonic water; it was too near pay day for anything more expensive. It was almost eleven o’clock when Miss Flute edged her way over to where Claribel was at the centre of a group of several of the young doctors and signified her intention of going home.

  ‘Pat’s got the car here, she says she’ll run us back if we’d like to go now.’

  So Claribel eased her way to the door, calling goodbyes as she went, and got into Pat’s elderly Austin with Miss Flute and presently was back in the flat, opening a can of soup, giving the cats a meal and getting ready for bed.

  One of the more senior housemen had suggested that they might spend the next afternoon together and have tea. He was a serious young man, and she had been out with him once or twice; he was given to visiting museums and art galleries and they had enjoyed a casual acquaintance. She had said that she would go, for it would fill her day nicely. As he was on call after six o’clock, they had agreed to meet at two o’clock outside the National Gallery, so after a morning cleaning the flat and doing the chores, she got into a jersey dress, covered it with a raincoat since it was drizzling and caught a bus to Trafalgar Square, where she found him waiting for her.

  He was a nice young man, undemanding, polite and able to talk well; they spent an hour or so in the National Gallery and then found a small café where they had tea. It was a pleasant afternoon and, back at the flat feeding the cats, she wondered why she hadn’t enjoyed it more. Nicky was a serious, steady young man, her own age; she was aware that he liked her and that if she encouraged him he would more than like her. It was therefore surprising that she didn’t really care if she never saw him again.

  Miss Flute sent her to the wards on Monday morning. It would give her a chance to give Mr van Borsele a cool stare if he so much glanced at her, Claribel thought. It was a great pity that there was no sign of him; Mr Shutter took the round, remarking as they paused by a patient so that she might put him through his exercises, ‘A pity Mr van Borsele had to return to Holland. He would have liked to see the results of his work here.’

  Claribel murmured a reply. The feeling of disappointment she felt she put down to not having a chance to snub the man. She wasn’t quite clear as to why she wished to do this; he had, after all, come and gone in her life and she would forget him completely—well, almost completely. He had made life interesting, even though they had argued each time they had met, and she had enjoyed his company.

  The week seemed longer than usual. Several new patients came for treatment, a number of them very hard work, for they were naturally timid about exercising a painful arm or leg, and by Friday evening Claribel was tired and dispirited. The weekend loomed emptily before her. She could, of course, go home and as she got her supper she decided that she might do that, only it would have to be in the morning; she could go out early and do what shopping she had to do, and catch a late morning train; twenty-four hours at home might improve her mood. She decided against telling her mother, though; that could be left until the morning. Much cheered, she cleaned the flat, saw to Enoch and Toots, washed her hair, did her nails and went to bed.

  She was out early. There were a few shops at the other end of Meadow Road; she bought what she needed and hurried back to pack a shoulder bag and put away her groceries, then telephone her mother.

  The hearty thump on the door caused her to drop the bag of sugar she was emptying into her storage jar. Mr van Borsele was in Holland; Mr Shutter had told her so. A second thump sent her to the door which she prudently opened with the chain up.

  ‘Hello,’ said Mr van Borsele, at his most placid. ‘I’m delighted to see that you have taken my advice at last. Now open the door, there’s a good girl.’

  Claribel peeped at him through the narrow opening. ‘I’m just leaving,’ she pointed out. ‘So sorry, but I had no idea that you would be calling.’

  ‘Well, of course you hadn’t.’ He looked down his nose at her. ‘I shall stand here and thump the knocker until you let me in; there are curtains twitching already.’

  She opened the door and he went past her into the living-room. ‘I want to talk to you,’ he observed, briskly businesslike. ‘The most sensible thing seems for me to drive you down to Tisbury and we can talk on the way; in that way I shall have your full attention.’

  He went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. ‘Coffee?’

  She followed him. ‘Have you been in London all this time?’

  He bent over the stove so that she didn’t see the gleam in his eyes. ‘No, in Holland. I crossed over last night.’

  ‘So why have you come here?’ She put two mugs on a tray and got the milk from the fridge.

  He turned to look at her. ‘We’re still friends?’

  She said huffily, ‘I suppose so, although I don’t see why…’

  ‘Ah, you’re still peevish,’ he observed blandly. ‘Did you buy anything in that shop with all the ties in the window?’

  Claribel dropped the spoon she was holding. A slow blush crept up her face, contributing a delightful prettiness to her already very pretty face.

  ‘You saw me! How mean can you get.’

  He spooned instant coffee. ‘Dear girl, mean because I didn’t come into that shop and help you choose a tie? Or because I was with Irma Cooper?’

  She said crossly, ‘Is that her name?’ then added icily, ‘Not that I’m interested.’

  ‘Why should you be?’ He handed her a mug of coffee and smiled into her frowning face. ‘I thought we might have luncheon on the way—the Old Drapery Stores again if you would like that? Go and do whatever you have to do while I stuff these cats into their basket.’

  It was obvious to her that he had no intention of telling her anything until they were on their way. She tidied her hair and whisked herself into the new three-piece, reflecting as she did so that she spent a good deal of her free time making coffee and then being rushed to wherever Mr van Borsele desired to go. It would have to stop, but first she would find out what he wanted of her.

  He was in no hurry to tell her; they talked trivialities as he drove westwards, falling into friendly silence from time to time, and even when they stopped for lunch at the Old Drapery Stores, he gave her no hint as to what he wished to discuss with her.

  Claribel, a sensible girl, dismissed the matter for the more important one of enjoying her lunch: homemade soup, trout caught that morning and rhubarb tart which melted in the mouth, accompanied by a great dish of clotted cream. They drank tonic water since Mr van Borsele was driving and she had no wish to drink alone, and when they were having their coffee she ventured a question.

  ‘This—whatever it is you want to talk about, what is it?’

  ‘Presently.’ He sounded remote and rather cold; for the life of her she felt unable to pursue the matter and was forced to contain her curiosity while he finished his coffee and presently ushered her back into the car.

  Even then he said nothing. it wasn’t until they had turned off at Fovant and Tisbury was only a few miles away that he sli
d the Rolls to the side of the road and remarked, ‘I want your attention, Claribel, and no interruptions.’

  She said pertly, ‘You sound as though you were going to deliver a lecture, but I’ll listen—I can’t do anything else, can I?’

  She turned to look at him and saw that he was frowning. ‘It’s about that Irma, isn’t it? Before you start, let me guess. You’ve fallen for her, but you’ve got a girl in Holland—perhaps you are engaged—and you don’t know what to do. Though I should have thought you were the very last man to need help with anything.’

  ‘Did I ever tell you that you have a splendid imagination Claribel? Yes, it is concerning Irma, and you are near enough the mark, but there is more to it than that. I left her at home in Bath and as far as I was concerned that was the end of it, but it seemed she wished to see me again. She discovered who I was and where I lived and worked. She has been a most unwelcome visitor ever since. I’ve treated her as I would treat any other woman of my acquaintance but she seems bent on plaguing me; I told her that I was going to be married but she refuses to believe me.’ He turned to look at Claribel, and something in his face made her sit up straight. He went on, his voice silky, ‘If I could produce a fiancée she would be convinced. It crossed my mind that you might consent to, er, take on that role in a temporary and nominal fashion…’

  Her voice came out a squeak. ‘Me? You must be mad! What about…I thought you were going to be married to a girl in Holland.’

  ‘You may have thought that, but I believe I never actually told you so.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Your imagination again, Claribel.’

  ‘Yes, well… It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Of course it is. And trifling, but of course if you are going to magnify the whole matter out of all proportion then there is nothing more to be said.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Why, as to that, it’s a simple matter for me to return to Holland. A pity, though, for Mr Shutter and I work well together and have several worthwhile projects we intended to set up.’

  He spoke quietly, staring ahead of him, and Claribel, glancing at him, thought how grim his profile looked. She knew that his work was important to him and that he had done some splendid surgery at Jerome’s; to have to give all that up because of some tiresome girl pestering him seemed unfair to him. She said, ‘What exactly have you in mind?’

  She watched his face as he turned towards her; one look of triumph at having got his way and she would refuse to help him. But there was no expression on his face at all, although he smiled at her.

  ‘I’ll explain and you can think about it over the weekend. Irma is staying in London with friends. I haven’t met them and I don’t know where they live. She contrives to meet me when I get back in the evening and when I leave the flat in the morning; at times she has attached herself to me when I’ve been out—in the Burlington Arcade on one occasion; you saw that for yourself. She phones and leaves messages and is generally a nuisance. I rashly told her that I was engaged to be married but she refused to believe me. If I can produce a fiancée, however, it might discourage her…’

  ‘Don’t you know any other girls more suitable than I am?’

  ‘I know any number of people in London, but if you think about it you must agree with me that you are exactly right—you are free in the evening and at the weekends, we can arrange to go out on the town without difficulty, you can come to my flat and I can go to yours.’

  She said coldly, ‘It all sounds very convenient for you.’ She heaved an indignant breath; she was to be at his beck and call, was she? Her own social life was to be neglected to suit him. ‘What about me?’

  ‘It won’t be for more than a week or so,’ he told her soothingly. ‘A few evenings out. Dinner and dancing or the theatre, places where we’re likely to be seen by her or her friends—they haunt them at night, she told me; we are bound to meet them at one place or another. I’ll drive you back with me in the evenings so that there is a good chance of her seeing you then.’

  He fell into a placid silence and she said snappishly, ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’

  He said blandly, ‘But of course.’

  ‘It would make a lovely plot for a romantic novel,’ she snapped again.

  He agreed in a voice which reminded her forcibly of a grown-up pandering to a child’s tantrums. ‘Though I don’t read them myself,’ he added.

  She had nothing to say to that but, after a few moments, ‘The whole idea is ridiculous. I’m surprised at you for thinking it up in the first place.’

  He laughed then. ‘Well, let’s get on, shall we?’ he observed easily. ‘Your people will be wondering why we are late.’

  Most aggravatingly, he began to talk about the charms of the English countryside at that time of year, a subject which he maintained until they arrived at her home.

  They were welcomed warmly and Claribel was surprised when Mr van Borsele accepted her mother’s invitation to stay for tea. They had it in the sitting-room, around the fire, for the day had turned chilly. To the casual visitor the scene couldn’t have been more convivial; the talk was general as Mrs Brown’s sandwiches and cakes disappeared rapidly, and if Claribel was more silent than usual, no one remarked upon it. Mr van Borsele got up to go eventually and she reflected how quickly he had made himself at home with her parents as he bade them goodbye. At the door he told her, ‘I’ll collect you about six o’clock tomorrow, Claribel,’ and gracefully refused Mrs Brown’s invitation to have tea with them.

  Watching the car’s lights disappear, Mrs Brown said slowly, ‘What a very nice man he is, and such beautiful manners.’

  Her daughter eyed her stormily. ‘Mother, when he wants something he is quite ruthless…’

  ‘Well, dear, I suppose a clever man such as he, performing small miracles of surgery almost every day of his life, is entitled to have his own way sometimes.’

  ‘Always, Mother, always.’

  ‘Such a pity you don’t like him,’ murmured Mrs Brown. She stole a look at her daughter’s cross face. ‘That friend of Sebastian’s is staying at the refectory; he was wondering if you would be at home this weekend. How about giving him a ring?’

  ‘Him? Malcolm something or other? He’s so young, Mother!’

  An answer which pleased her parent mightily.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THERE wasn’t much of Saturday left, and although Claribel would have liked to confide in her mother she could see the good sense of saying nothing. Mr van Borsele could change his mind. Besides, if he went back to Holland within a day or so, there would surely be no need for his hare-brained scheme to be put into action. She spent the evening sitting cosily by the fire with Rover and the cats at her feet, listening to her mother’s gentle gossip about the village and giving in her turn a faithful account of her week at Jerome’s, although she had little to say about Mr van Borsele. To her mother’s carefully casual enquiries she replied airly that he had returned unexpectedly from Holland and she had no idea how long he would be in England.

  Sunday, comfortably filled by walking Rover, going to church, passing the time of day with various friends at the church door and going home to Sunday lunch, flew by too fast. She had stuffed her bag with her overnight things and one of her mother’s mouthwatering fruit cakes, and was sitting round the fire eating buttery muffins, when Mr van Borsele arrived.

  He apologised for being early and, at her mother’s invitation, sat down beside her father’s chair and started on the muffins, falling into easy conversation with Mr Brown. He had left his sister’s home rather earlier than he had intended, he explained, and he hoped that he wasn’t putting Claribel out in any way.

  As though he hadn’t put her out enough, she thought indignantly and told him in a cool voice that half an hour or so made no difference to her. She went on to remark about the rather chilly weather. ‘It probably spoilt your weekend,’ she observed and got up to pour second cups.

  ‘There are so many things other than w
eather which can spoil a weekend,’ he remarked blandly, ‘just as it can turn out completely successful when it is least expected to.’

  She eyed him uncertainly, wondering if he was referring to his scheme, and met his bland stare. ‘One lump or two?’ she asked him, so sharply that her mother looked at her in surprise.

  He seemed in no hurry to go. Her mother’s cake, a Victoria sponge, and a slice of gingerbread were sampled in turn with enjoyment and a well-phrased compliment or two which delighted her mother. When they finally left it was well past six o’clock.

  It was frustrating of him to remain silent for long stretches of time and when he did speak it was on some trivial topic. They were on the motorway, rapidly approaching London, before he asked, ‘Are you doing anything this evening? I thought we might have dinner somewhere?’

  ‘The cats,’ she reminded him, aware of pleasure warming her chilly thoughts.

  ‘Shall we go to the flat first? You can feed them or whatever and we can go on from there.’

  She agreed readily enough; to dine out would make a pleasant end to a weekend which hadn’t been altogether pleasant. She debated with herself as to whether she should bring up the subject of his scheme and decided not to say anything about it. She had more or less refused to have anything to do with it and he hadn’t pressed her for an answer. It was a pity if the girl was being a nuisance, but surely he could think of something…

  At the flat she saw to the cats, did her face and her hair and pronounced herself ready. ‘There’s no need to dress up, is there?’ she asked anxiously.