The Girl With Green Eyes

So Lucy went to her room, unpacked her few things, had a shower, washed her hair and wandered downstairs with her head in a towel and wearing a dressing-gown. Her mother wouldn’t have approved, but since the house was empty except for herself and Alice she couldn’t see that it mattered. Alice had made a pot of tea and cut a plateful of sandwiches and Lucy sat down at the kitchen table to eat them. Somehow she had missed dinner at the hospital, what with feeding Miranda and getting her ready to go back to the orphanage, and the nurses on the ward being in short supply since they took it in turns to go to the canteen. She lifted the edge of a sandwich and saw with satisfaction that it was generously filled with chopped egg and cress. She wolfed it down delicately, poured tea and invited Alice to have a cup.

‘Not me, love,’ said Alice. “Ad me lunch not an hour back. You eat that lot and have a nice rest before your mother and father come home.’

Lucy polished off the egg and cress and started on the ham. The kitchen was pleasantly warm and cheerful. It was a semi-basement room, for the house had been built at the turn of the century, a late Victorian gentleman’s residence with ornate brickwork and large rooms. It had been Lucy’s home for as long as she could remember, and although her mother often expressed a wish for a house in the country nothing ever came of it, for the Chelsea house was convenient for her father’s headquarters; he still travelled widely, taking her mother with him, and when they were at home he worked for various museums and he lectured a good deal. Lucy, a sensible girl not given to wanting things she couldn’t have, accepted her life cheerfully, aware that she didn’t quite fit in with her family and that she was a source of mild disappointment, to her mother at least, even though she was loved. Until now she had been quite prepared to go on working at the orphanage with the hope at the back of her mind that one day she would meet a man who might want to marry her. So far she hadn’t met anyone whom she would want to marry—that was, until she’d met Dr Thurloe. An event which incited her to do something about it. She took another sandwich and bit into it. Clothes, she thought, new clothes—she had plenty, but a few more might help—and then she might try and discover mutual friends—the Walters, of course, for a start, and there must be others. Her parents knew any number of people, it would be a process of elimination. But first the new clothes, so that if and when they met again she would be able to compete with Fiona Seymour.

The front door bell, one of a row of old-fashioned bells along the kitchen wall, jangled and Alice put down the plates that she was stacking.

‘Postman?’ asked Lucy. ‘He’s late …’

‘I’d best go, I suppose,’ grumbled Alice, and went out of the kitchen, shutting the door after her as she went up the short flight of stairs to the hall.

Lucy sat back, a second cup of tea in her hand. There was one sandwich left; it was a pity to leave it. She took it off the plate and bit into it. The door behind her opened and she said, ‘Was it the postman?’ and turned round as she took another bite.

Alice had returned, but not alone. Dr Thurloe was with her, looking completely at home, elegant as always and smiling faintly.

‘Gracious heavens!’ Lucy spoke rather thickly because of the sandwich. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’ She put an agitated hand up to the towel. ‘I’ve just washed my hair …’

She frowned heavily, all her plans knocked edgeways; instead of sporting an elegant outfit and a tidy head of hair, here she was looking just about as awful as she possibly could. She turned the frown on Alice and the doctor spoke.

‘Don’t be annoyed with your housekeeper, I told her that you wouldn’t mind. You don’t, do you? After all, I’ve seen you in a dressing-gown at the hospital.’ He sounded kind and friendly and the smile held charm.

Lucy smiled back. ‘Is it something important? Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Indeed I would.’

Alice gave a small sound which might have been a chuckle and pulled out a chair. ‘The kettle’s on the boil,’ she informed him, ‘and I’ve as nice a bit of Madeira cake as you’ll taste anywhere, though I says it that oughtn’t, being me own baking.’

‘I’m partial to Madeira cake, and what a pleasant kitchen you have.’

He sat down opposite Lucy and eyed the towel. ‘Do you know, all the girls I know go to the hairdresser every few days; I can’t remember when I last saw a young woman washing her own hair.’ He studied Lucy thoughtfully. ‘Will it take long to dry?’

‘No. It’s almost dry now.’ She poured him a cup of tea from the fresh pot Alice had put on the table. ‘Is it something to do with Miranda? She’s not ill …?’

‘No, she’s doing nicely. I wondered if we might go somewhere this evening and have dinner; I’m sure you would like to know the details of her treatment, and there really was no time at the City Royal to say much.’

He ate some cake and watched her, amused at her hesitation.

‘Well,’ said Lucy, ‘Mother and Father—’ She was interrupted by the telephone’s ringing, and Alice answered it. She listened for a moment, said, ‘Yes, ma’am’ twice and then hung up. ‘Yer ma and pa,’ she told Lucy. ‘They’re going on to Professor Schinkel’s house for dinner.’ She added, ‘I expect your ma thought you weren’t home today.’

The look on Lucy’s face made the doctor say quickly, ‘Now isn’t that providential, you will be free to dine with me, then?’ That settled, he took another piece of cake and passed his cup for more tea. ‘Your sisters won’t mind?’

‘They’re both out too.’

‘Then may I call for you this evening? Half-past seven or thereabouts? Somewhere fairly quiet? Boulestin’s, perhaps?’

‘That sounds very nice,’ said Lucy, ‘but only if you can spare the time …’

He looked as though he was going to laugh, but said gravely, ‘As far as I know there will be no calls upon me until tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.’ He got to his feet. ‘Until half-past seven. I look forward to it.’

Alice showed him out and came bustling back. ‘There now, what a nice gentleman, to be sure. Take that towel off and I’ll dry that hair. What will you wear?’ She began to rub vigorously. ‘That’s a posh restaurant …’

‘Those sandals I got from Rayne’s and haven’t worn—and I’ll leave my hair loose …’

‘All right as far as it goes, but what about a dress? Sandals and hair aren’t enough.’

‘That silver-grey satin, you know, the one with the calf-length skirt and the wide lace collar and cuffs.’ Lucy’s voice, muffled by the towel, sounded pleased. It was a very pretty dress, so simple that it stood out among other more striking dresses, and the colour, she hoped, would make her look the kind of girl a man might like to marry, elegant but demure.

She left a note for her mother on the hall table, collected an enormous cashmere shawl in which to wrap herself, and her little grey handbag, and eased her feet into her new sandals. They were a little tight, but they were exactly right with the dress, and what was a little discomfort compared with that?

The drawing-room looked charming with its soft lighting and the fire blazing. She arranged herself to the very best advantage on a small balloon-backed chair covered in old-rose velvet, and waited for the doorbell.

The doctor was punctual to the minute, and Alice ushered him into the drawing-room, opening the door wide so that he had a splendid view of Lucy, delightfully pretty and at great pains to appear cool.

She got up as he came in, and said in her best hostess voice, ‘Oh, hello again. Would you like a drink before we go?’

‘Hello, Lucy. How very elegant you look, and so punctual. Almost unheard of and quite refreshing.’

She should have stayed in her room until he had arrived and kept him waiting, she thought crossly.

She said haughtily, ‘I have to be punctual at the orphanage, it’s a habit.’

‘Of course. I booked a table for half-past eight; I thought we might have a drink there first. Shall we go?’

She smiled at him, she couldn’t help herself; he looked so large and handsome and so assured. She wondered fleetingly if he ever lost his temper.

Southampton Street wasn’t all that far away, but the evening traffic was heavy and slow moving, so it was well past eight o’clock by the time Lucy found herself at a table opposite the doctor. It was a good table too, she noticed, and he was known at the restaurant. Perhaps he took Fiona Seymour there … She wasn’t going to waste thought about that; here she was doing exactly what she had dreamed of doing, being alone with the doctor, nicely dressed, looking her best, and hopefully at her best when it came to conversation.

It was a pity that no witty remarks filled her head; indeed, it was regrettably empty. She sipped her sherry and thankfully bowed her head over the menu card. She was hungry and he said encouragingly, ‘I dare say you had a very scanty lunch. I know I did. How about the terrine of leeks with prawns for a start, and if you like fish the red mullet is delicious—or roast pigeon?’

‘I couldn’t eat a pigeon,’ said Lucy. ‘I feed them on the way to work every morning.’ She was reassured by his understanding smile. ‘I’d like the red mullet.’

It wasn’t until these delicacies had been eaten, followed by a dessert of puff pastry, piled with a hazelnut mousse and topped with caramel, that the doctor switched smoothly from the gentle conversation, calculated to put his companion at her ease, to the more serious subject of Miranda.

‘Do you see a great deal of her at the orphanage?’ he wanted to know.

‘Well, yes—not all the time, of course, but always each morning, bathing her and getting her to walk and that kind of thing.’

He nodded. ‘You do realise that she will probably be backward—mentally retarded—but this operation that I have just done should give her a better chance. One would wish to do everything possible for her—she is such a pretty child, and if only she had been brought to our attention while she was still a baby we could have done so much more.’

‘But isn’t there any special treatment? She talks a little, you know, and although she’s a bit wobbly when she’s walking she does try.’

‘I’m going to ask you to do all you can to help her, and don’t be discouraged when she makes almost no progress. I know you have a busy day and there are other children to look after, but Matron tells me that Miranda responds to you much more willingly than to anyone else there. Once the shunt gets into its stride we should take advantage of that and get her little brain stimulated. If all goes well, she will be able to have therapy in a few months.’

‘Do you get many children like her?’ Lucy poured their coffee and reflected sadly that the only reason he had asked her out was to make sure that she was going to stay at the orphanage and look after Miranda. Well, he need not have gone to so much trouble, wasting an evening with her when he might have been spending it with the glamorous Fiona. It was quite obvious that she had no effect upon him whatsoever, despite the fashionable grey dress and the new sandals. He probably hadn’t even noticed them.

He guided their talk into more general channels, and when Lucy said that she should really go back home since she was on duty in the morning he made no objection, but signed the bill and followed her out of the restaurant without one word of persuasion to remain a little longer—or even go dancing. But that was a good thing, for the sandals were pinching horribly and walking in them, even the short distance across the pavement to the car, was crippling.

‘Take them off,’ suggested the doctor as he started the car.

‘Oh, you don’t mind? They’re killing me. How did you know?’

‘You have quite a fierce frown which, I hasten to add, I am quite sure no one noticed except me.’ He gave her a sideways glance. ‘They’re quite delightful though; indeed, the rest of you looks delightful too, Lucy. Demure and malleable. Are you demure and malleable, I wonder?’

She curled her toes in blissful comfort. ‘No, I don’t think so; I don’t think girls are demure nowadays, are they? Anyway, I’m too old … and I’m not sure what malleable means—I thought it meant squashy.’

He gave a growl of laughter. ‘I meant it to mean tender and gentle, and I wasn’t aware that age had anything to do with being demure. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-five. You’re thirty-five, aren’t you?’

‘We might say that we have reached the ages of discretion.’

They had reached her home and he stopped the car gently, and when she made to get out he put out a restraining hand. ‘No, wait.’

He got out and opened her door. ‘You’ll never cram your feet back into those sandals.’ He picked them up and put them into her hand, scooped her out of the seat and carried her to the front door, where he asked her to ring the doorbell.

Alice answered the door, flung it wide to allow him to get inside, and said urgently, ‘You’re not hurt, love? What’s the matter? You’ve not ‘ad too much to drink?’

The doctor set Lucy gently on her feet. ‘Her feet,’ he explained. ‘Her sandals were pinching and, of course, once they were off they wouldn’t go on again.’

Alice laughed. ‘And there’s me wondering what on earth had happened. Your mother and father are in the drawing-room—you go too, sir. I’ll bring in a nice tray of coffee and you, Miss Lucy, go and fetch a pair of slippers this minute—what your ma will say I don’t know.’

‘It could happen to anyone,’ remarked the doctor mildly, and gave Alice a nice smile so that she said,

‘Oh, well, perhaps it won’t be noticed,’ and went ahead of them to open the drawing-room door.

Lucy’s mother and father were sitting one on each side of the hearth, her father immersed in a sheaf of papers and her mother turning the pages of Harper’s. They both looked up as she and the doctor went in and her father got to his feet. ‘There you are, Lucy and Dr Thurloe, how delightful. Come and sit down for half an hour—Lucy, run and ask Alice to bring coffee—’

‘She’s making it now, Father!’ Lucy bent to kiss her mother’s cheek and wished she knew how to raise a graceful hand to greet the doctor in the same manner as that lady. ‘Delighted to see you, Dr Thurloe. Do sit down. How very kind of you to take Lucy out to dinner.’

‘It was Lucy who was kind, Mrs Lockitt,’ he replied, and paused, smiling, as Mrs Lockitt caught sight of Lucy’s feet.

‘Lucy, your shoes? You’ve never lost them? You aren’t hurt?’

‘They pinched, Mother, so I took them off.’

‘Well, really!’ She turned her attention to her guest. ‘I have been hoping that we might meet again, you really must dine one evening before we go to Turkey.’

‘Kayseri, the ancient Hittite city—there have been some interesting finds lately, and I’ve been asked to go out there and take a look,’ Mr Lockitt joined in. ‘We plan to fly out at the end of next week.’

The doctor, much to Lucy’s surprise, expressed his delight at the invitation, and Mrs Lockitt said, ‘Lucy, dear, run up to my room and get my engagement book, will you? And do get some slippers at the same time.’

Lucy went slowly upstairs. Her parents, whom she loved dearly, were spoiling everything for her; she showed up in a bad light in her own home with no chance to outshine their intellectual talk—she had hardly scintillated over dinner, and since she had entered the drawing-room she had uttered only a few words. She found the book, poked her feet into a pair of frivolous satin mules and went back downstairs. Alice had brought in the coffee and Lucy’s father had fetched the brandy; the doctor looked as though he had settled for the rest of the evening, already making knowledgeable replies to her father’s observations—apparently he knew all about the iron-smelting activities of the Hittites, and he knew too where they had lived in Asia Minor.

As she handed round the coffee-cups he asked pleasantly, ‘And do you not wish to go too, Lucy?’

Her mother answered for her. ‘Lucy’s a home-bird, aren’t you, darling? This nice little job at the orphanage gives her something to do while we’re away.’ Mrs Lockitt went on, not meaning to be unkind, ‘She hasn’t had a training for anything. Of course, Imogen is the clever one in the family—she has this super job in the City—and Pauline works in an art gallery, and will marry at the end of this year. They are all such capable girls, and of course we have an excellent housekeeper.’

The doctor murmured politely and presently got up to go, and Mr Lockitt went to the door with him, so that beyond a stiff little speech of thanks Lucy had no chance to speak. There was nothing to say anyway. Her fragile dream, never more than a fantasy, had been blown away; he would think of her, if he ever did, as a dull girl not worth a second thought.

She bade her parents goodnight and went to bed. Surprisingly, just before she slept, she decided that somehow or other she would get to know him better, and eventually, in the teeth of all hazards, marry him.

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