Wedding Bells for Beatrice
Beatrice, feeling ruffled because he hadn’t bothered to ask her if she had had a good Christmas, wished she hadn’t come. And why had she come? she asked herself. Force of habit? She had allowed herself to drift into something more than casual friendship with Tom and it struck her now that it was time it ended. She was a kind-hearted girl and although he was exasperating her now she was honest enough to admit that she had enjoyed several pleasant evenings with him when they had first become friendly; it was only later that she’d realised that he was using her as a means to an end. Perhaps she could talk to him presently.
‘We’ll go to the Tower Thistle,’ he told her, ‘have something in the bar. I mustn’t be away for more than an hour or so, and I’ll probably get called up during the night. I could do with some sleep too. We had a splendid party on Christmas night, didn’t get to bed until two o’clock and got called out just after five. Ah, well, it isn’t for ever—once I get a decent private practice—a partnership, perhaps …’ He went on at some length, sure of himself and her attention.
She was only half listening; the first of the specialists would be arriving in time for coffee in the morning and she was going over her careful catering once more, saying, ‘Oh yes?’ and, ‘Really?’ and, ‘Of course,’ at intervals. Once at the hotel, a vast place which she didn’t much like, she had to give Tom her undivided attention, sitting opposite him at a table in the bar, eating sandwiches and drinking a glass of white wine. The sandwiches were small and elegant, garnished with cress, and Beatrice, who was hungry, could have eaten the lot.
‘You’ll have had a good square meal,’ said Tom comfortably, ‘but do devour one—there’s just enough horseradish with the beef.’
She nibbled one, thinking of fried eggs on baked beans and a huge pot of tea or coffee. It was a funny thing, but Tom wasn’t the kind of man you could ask to take you to the nearest McDonald’s. If he wasn’t hungry, then you weren’t either, or, for that matter, if he assumed that you weren’t hungry and he was he wouldn’t ask you if you were …
It was very noisy in the bar and he had to raise his voice when he spoke. He put his elbows on the table and leaned towards her. ‘Isn’t it time that we made a few plans?’
‘Plans? What plans?’
He smiled at her indulgently. ‘Our future—I’ve another six months to do at St Justin’s then I’ll be ready to get a practice—buy a partnership. I’ll need some financial backing but your father could put me in touch with all the right people—he may be a country GP but he knows everyone worth knowing, doesn’t he? Besides, your mother …’ He paused delicately and his smile widened and he added coaxingly, ‘Once all that is settled we might get married.’
Beatrice sought for words; the only ones she could think of were very rude, so she kept silent. He must have been very sure of her—his proposal, if you could call it that, had been an afterthought. She twiddled the glass in her hand and wondered what would happen if she threw it at him. She said very quietly, ‘But I don’t want to marry you, Tom.’
He laughed, ‘Don’t be a silly girl, of course you do. Don’t pretend that I’ve taken you by surprise. We’ve been going out together now for weeks and I’ve made no secret of the fact that I want to settle down once I’m away from St Justin’s.’
‘I don’t remember you asking me if I had any plans for the future,’ observed Beatrice. She was bubbling over with rage but she looked quite serene. ‘But you—your plan was to get my father to put in a good word for you—I don’t know where Mother comes in … Oh, of course—being the granddaughter of an earl.’
‘A little name-dropping never does any harm,’ answered Tom complacently. ‘Can’t you just see it in the Telegraph? “Beatrice, daughter of Dr and the Hon. Mrs Crawley”.’ He sat back in his chair, smiling at her.
‘Tom, I have just told you—I don’t want to marry you. I’m sorry if you got the impression that I did. We’ve been good friends and enjoyed each other’s company but that’s all, isn’t it?’
‘I’m very fond of you, old girl.’ He didn’t notice her wince. ‘You’ll be a splendid wife, all the right connections and so on. I’ll make a name for myself in no time.’
The colossal conceit of him, reflected Beatrice; it was like trying to dent a steel plate with a teaspoon. He hadn’t once said that he loved her …
Characteristically, he didn’t ask if she wanted to go but finished his drink with an air of satisfaction at a job well done and asked, ‘Ready? I’ve got a couple of cases that I must look at.’
She got into the car beside him and he drove back to the hospital in silence. At the entrance he said, ‘We must get together again as soon as possible—you’ll have to give up your job here, of course.’
‘Tom,’ she tried to sound reasonable, ‘you don’t understand. I don’t want to marry you and I have no intention of giving up my job here. I think it might be better if we don’t see each other again. Surely we can part friends?’ She added coldly, ‘There must be plenty of suitable girls from whom you can choose a wife.’
‘Oh, you are being a silly girl. You’ll change your mind, I’ll see to that. I’ll give you a ring when I’m free.’
He sat in the car with the engine still running, waiting for her to get out, and the moment that she did he shot away with a casual wave. Not the behaviour of a man who had only half an hour ago proposed to her. Bottled-up rage and hurt feelings choked her as she crossed the courtyard. It was cold and very dark once she was away from the brightly lit entrance. The bulk of the new block behind the hospital loomed ahead of her; there were still a good many lights burning—several of the path. labs were still working. She wished with all her heart that she were at home, able to go to her room and cry her eyes out without anyone wanting to know why unless she wished to tell them. Held-back tears filled her eyes and dribbled down her cheeks; there was no one to tell here …!
There was, however. Gijs van der Eekerk reached the door at the same time as she did; his large gloved hand covered hers as she put it on the door-handle.
He took no notice of her stifled scream. ‘They told me that you would be back—that you had gone out for an hour with Dr Ford. I thought we might bury the hatchet over supper.’
He took the hand off the door and turned her round so that the dim light above the door shone on her face.
His ‘tut-tut’ was uttered with all the mild good-natured concern of an uncle or elder brother. ‘Tears? May I ask why?’
‘Don’t you tut-tut at me,’ said Beatrice crossly, ‘and if I want to cry I shall and I shan’t tell you why.’
He offered a large handkerchief. ‘No, no, of course you shan’t and a good weep is very soothing to the nerves, only wouldn’t it be better if you wept in a warmer spot?’
She blew her nose. ‘Yes, of course if would. If you would let me go in I can get some peace and quiet in my flat.’
‘Splendid.’ He opened the door and, when she had gone through, followed her.
‘I’m quite all right, thank you,’ said Beatrice, belatedly remembering her manners. Then she added, ‘How did you get here?’
‘I’m to read a paper here in the morning.’
‘You’re a doctor—a surgeon …?’
‘A haematologist. Let us go to your flat. You can tidy yourself before we go somewhere and have supper.’
‘I don’t want … that is, thank you very much, but I don’t want any supper and there is no need for you to come with me.’
‘Ah—you had a meal with that young man who drove off in such a hurry?’
‘You were spying?’
‘No—no—I was just getting out of my car.’ He sounded so reasonable that she felt guilty of her suspicions and muttered,
‘Sorry.’
‘So now let us do as I suggested, there’s a good girl,’ His avuncular manner was reassuring; she led the way to the top floor and opened the door of her flat.
He took her coat in the tiny hallway. ‘Run along and do your face,’ he advised her, and went round the room, turning on the lamps and closing the curtains and, despite the faint warmth from the central heating, he turned on the gas fire too. The sleeping area of the room was curtained off and she set to, repairing the damage done to her face and re-doing her hair, listening to him strolling around the room, whistling softly. She reflected that he was the first man to be there; it had never entered her head to invite Tom or any of the young doctors who from time to time had asked her out, and she wondered now what on earth had possessed her to do so now. Not that she had invited him; he had come with her as though it were a perfectly natural thing to do. She frowned as she stuck pins into her coil of hair; he was altogether too much and she would tell him so—show him the door, politely, of course.
He was sitting, his coat off, in one of the small easy-chairs by the fire, but he got up as she crossed the room, watching her. ‘That’s better. Supposing that you tell me what upset you then if you want to cry again you can do so in warmth and comfort before we go to supper.’
‘I have no intention of crying again, Doctor, nor do I want supper.’
Her insides rumbled as she said it, giving the lie to her words. She might have saved her breath.
He pulled forward a chair invitingly. ‘Did he jilt you or did you jilt him?’
She found herself sitting opposite him. ‘Well, neither really,’ she began.
‘A quarrel? It will help to talk about it and since I am a complete stranger to you too you can say what you like, I’ll listen and forget about it.’
She was taking leave of her senses of course, confiding in this man.
‘Well,’ she began, ‘it is all a bit of a muddle.’
CHAPTER TWO
THE professor was a splendid listener; Beatrice quite forgot that he was there once she had started. ‘It’s probably all my fault. Tom’s attractive and amusing and I suppose I was flattered and it got a kind of habit to go out with him when he asked me. I didn’t really notice how friendly we’d become. I took him home for a weekend …’
She paused. ‘Mother and Father didn’t like him very much—oh, they didn’t say so, I just knew, and then lately he began to talk about buying a practice and making a name for himself, only he said he would need some backing and he began to talk about Father—he’s a GP, and not well known or anything, but he does know a lot of important medical men, and Tom discovered that Mother was an earl’s granddaughter.’ She paused to say wildly, ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this …’
He said in a detached voice, ‘As I have already said, we’re more or less strangers, unlikely to be more than that. I’m just a face to talk to … go on!’
‘I—I was getting doubtful, I mean I wasn’t sure if I liked him as much as I thought I did, if you see what I mean, and then this evening he wanted me to go out with him; he was very persistent so I went. He took me to the Tower Thistle—it’s a hotel, not too far away.’ She heaved a great sigh. ‘He ate all but one of the sandwiches—he said that no doubt I had had a good square meal. I knew that I didn’t love him then—well, any girl would, wouldn’t she?’ She gave her companion a brief glance and found his face passive and impersonal. ‘Then he said it was time we thought about our future, that he would need financial backing to get a partnership and that Father would be a great help. He even suggested that he could use Mother’s name to give him a start; he actually described the notice of our engagement in the Telegraph. I told him that I didn’t want to marry him—he hadn’t actually asked me, just took me for granted—and then he just laughed.’ She sniffed and added in a furious voice, ‘I won’t be taken for granted.’
‘Certainly not,’ agreed the professor. ‘This—Tom—? seems to be a singularly thick-skinned man.’ His voice was as avuncular as his manner. ‘Do you see much of him during your working hours?’
‘Hardly ever. I’m here all day and he works on the medical wards, but he telephones and I have to answer in case it’s one of the profs, wanting hot milk or sandwiches.’
‘Hot milk?’ The professor looked taken aback.
‘Well, some of them are getting on a bit and they forget to go to meals or go home when they’re supposed to. I suppose professors are all the same, a bit absentminded …’
She gave him a startled look. ‘You’re a professor, you must be if you’re coming to the seminar tomorrow.’
‘Well, yes, I am, but I must assure you at once that I am unlikely to need hot milk. Which reminds me, we still have to have supper.’
‘I don’t want …’ began Beatrice, saw the quizzical lift of his eyebrows and added quickly, ‘Thank you, that would be nice—if it could be somewhere quiet? I’m not dressed for anywhere smart. Do you know London?’
‘I find my way around,’ admitted the professor modestly. ‘Get your coat and let us see what we can find.’
When she came back ready to leave he had turned off the fire, left one lamp burning and had the door open. As they went down to the entrance the building was very quiet and, despite the heating, chilly. It was even colder outside and he took her arm and hurried her round to the corner of the forecourt where he had parked his car.
‘You drove over?’ asked Beatrice, silently admiring the understated luxury of the big Bentley as she was ushered into it.
He got in beside her and drove out of the forecourt with the minimum of fuss. ‘I have several other hospitals to visit while I’m here. It saves time if I have the car.’
She sat quietly, realising almost at once that he knew London well, not hesitating at all until he stopped in Camden Passage, got out and opened her door, locked it, put money in the parking meter and led her across the pavement to the restaurant. She had heard of it—Frederick’s—but she had never been there and she hung back a little, wondering if she was wearing the right clothes.
‘Now don’t start fussing,’ begged the professor, just as though she had voiced her doubts. ‘You’re perfectly adequately dressed,’ he added as a concession to her uncertainty. ‘You look very nice.’
A remark her brother George might have made, and one hardly adequate; she dressed well, knowing what suited her and that she could afford to buy it—the tweed coat and woolly cap were suitable for a quick drink on a cold winter’s night but not what she would have chosen for a late dinner in a restaurant.
She was propelled with gentle remorselessness through the entrance. ‘You can leave your coat there,’ said the professor, and bade the doorman good evening.
When she joined him, reassured by her reflection in the cloakroom’s mirrors, he was talking to the maître d’ who, as she reached them, led them to a table by a window, paused to recommend the pheasant, which he said was excellent, wished them an enjoyable meal and gave way to a waiter.
‘You like pheasant?’ asked the professor. ‘Or perhaps you would prefer something else.’
She studied the menu and suddenly felt famished. ‘I’d like the pheasant, please …’
‘The lobster mousse is delicious—shall we start with that?’
She would have started with a hunk of bread, lunch having been a sketchy affair of soup and a roll and her solitary beef sandwich already long forgotten.
She ate the mousse with pleasure. It was amazing what good food did to restore one’s good spirits; by the time they had disposed of the pheasant and she was deciding on a sweet she had quite recovered and was once more the level-headed supervisor, making polite conversation over the dinner-table. All the same during a pause in the talk she caught her companion’s eye resting thoughtfully upon her face and said impulsively, ‘I’m sorry I made a fool of myself this evening. So very stupid of me.’
The professor smiled. The smile held mockery. ‘Dear, oh, dear! Here we go again back to square one, about to discuss the weather, unless I am much mistaken, and I was beginning to think that we had at least cracked the ice.’
‘I don’t know what you mean …’
‘Such a useful remark and quite without truth. Never mind, though, tell me about tomorrow—do you check us in as we arrive? Presumably we are expected to go to the hospital main entrance …’
She would have liked to have argued with him but he hadn’t given her the chance. Besides, she mustn’t forget that he was a visiting specialist, to be treated with respect. ‘No need for that,’ she told him. ‘You can use the door we came through this evening. I’ll be at the desk in the reception area, ticking off names.’
‘Then what do you do?’
‘Go to the kitchen and make sure that coffee and biscuits are ready, there’s a buffet lunch at one o’clock, I’ll have to see to that, and then the clearing-up afterwards and there’s tea at four o’clock.’
‘You have help, of course?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m just there to see that everything is going smoothly.’
She finished the bombe glacé with a small sigh of content and he ordered coffee.
‘Do you see much of young Derek?’
‘Almost nothing, only if we happen to be at home at the same time and that’s seldom. Is he a friend of yours? I mean, aren’t you a bit …?’ She stopped and went pink and he finished smoothly,
‘Old for him. Of course I am; my father was a friend of his father. I’ve known the family on and off for a long time.’
‘I didn’t mean to be rude, I’m sorry.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Two apologies in less than half an hour, Beatrice. Don’t do it again or I might have to alter my opinion of you.’
He passed his cup for more coffee and began to talk about her brother.
It was after eleven o’clock by the time he stopped the car by the passage door. ‘You’re not supposed to park here,’ said Beatrice as he got out.
She might have saved her breath for he took no notice, but opened the door and followed her inside.
‘Thank you for a very pleasant evening,’ said Beatrice politely. ‘It was most kind of you. Goodnight, Professor van der Eekerk.’
He began to walk up the stairs beside her and she said, ‘There’s no need.’
‘Hush, girl, save your breath for the climb.’ So she hushed since there was little point in arguing with him and at her door he took the key from her and stood aside to let her in and then went ahead of her to turn on the lights before wishing her a quiet goodnight and going down the stairs two at a time in what she considered to be a highly dangerous manner.
She stood in the middle of the room reflecting that when she had been taken out for the evening she had always been thanked for her company and been given to understand that her companion had enjoyed it—Professor van der Eekerk, on the other hand, hadn’t said any such thing.
She had a bath and got ready for bed feeling peevish. ‘There will be no need to speak to him tomorrow,’ she told herself, and thumped her pillows into comfort. ‘I dare say he only asked me out because he wanted company at the dinner-table and I happened to be handy.’
She went to sleep, having quite forgotten about Tom.
The learned gentlemen attending the seminar began to arrive soon after half-past eight and Beatrice was kept busy ticking their names off her list, helping the more elderly out of their coats and scarves, finding mislaid notes, spectacles and cough lozenges and ushering them into the conference hall, a gloomy place filled with rows of uncomfortable chairs, its walls painted a particularly repellent green and having a small platform at one end on which was a table, half a dozen chairs and, since Beatrice found the place so bleak, a bowl of hyacinths on the table, flanked by a carafe of water and a glass.
The first speaker was Professor Moore, still suffering from his cold and by no means in the best of tempers. Once he had arrived his colleagues started to file into the hall, stopping to greet friends as they went and taking their time about it. Beatrice looked at her list; there were still half a dozen to come …
They came in a group and one of them was Professor van der Eekerk, towering over his companions. She noticed that he appeared to be on the best of terms with all of them, and, like them, greeted her with a polite good morning before going into the hall. She wasn’t sure what she had expected; all she knew was that she felt disappointed. She watched his massive back disappear through the door and told herself that she had no wish to see him again. A wish she was unable to fulfil, for, the first paper having been duly read and discussed, the distinguished audience surged out of the hall and into one of the smaller lecture-rooms where coffee and biscuits awaited them. Still deep in talk, they received their cups and saucers in an absentminded fashion, and Beatrice, making her way from one group to another with some of the biscuits, was sure that Professor van der Eekerk was unaware of her being there, deep as he was in discussion with several other doctors. She was wrong, of course. His heavy-lidded gaze followed her around the room without apparently doing so and when she was at last back behind the coffee percolators, refilling the cups her helpers fetched, all she could see of him was his back in a superbly tailored suit.
The second paper to be read before lunch started late, which meant that it finished late. Beatrice, pacifying the cook, wished the erudite and wordy gentleman on the platform to Jericho, going on and on about endocrinology. When he at length came to an end she lost no time in urging his audience to repair to the smaller lecture hall once more and ladled soup to be handed round without loss of time while the cook seethed over the lamb cutlets, ruined, she assured Beatrice.
Ruined or not, they were eaten; indeed, the various conversations were so engrossing that she doubted if anyone had noticed what was on their plates. She portioned out castle puddings with a generous hand and went to make sure that the coffee percolators were ready.
The afternoon session was to be taken up by a paper on haematology by Professor van der Eekerk and, contrary to the previous lecturer, she hoped that he would take a long time delivering it; it would give them time to clear the room once more and put out the tea things—sandwiches, buttered buns and fruit cake. Having some considerable experience of similar occasions, she knew what got eaten and what got left.
Ready and with time to spare, she took a discreet peep through the not quite closed doors of the lecture hall. Professor van der Eekerk was well into his subject: haemolytic anaemia, jaundice, the Rh factor and a lot of long words which meant nothing to her. She opened the door a little wider and listened. He had a deep voice, rather slow, and with only a trace of an accent. She poked her head round the door and he looked straight at her. Without a pause he went on, ‘Now polycythaemia is an entirely different matter …’
Beatrice withdrew her head smartly. He had appeared to look at her but the hall was large and she had been right at the back of it. She thought it unlikely that he had noticed her. She glanced at her watch; he was due to finish in five minutes, so she and her helpers started to carry the plates of food in. With luck, no one would linger over tea, for they would all be anxious to go home. She sighed. They would be back again tomorrow.
Her hopes were dashed. They sat over their tea, drinking second and third cups and eating everything in sight. ‘Like a swarm of locusts,’ said the cook crossly, cutting up yet another cake. ‘And’ ow they can eat and drink and talk about blood beats me though I must say ‘e ‘oo did the talking is something like. Wouldn’t mind ‘aving a lecture from ‘im.’ Beatrice, bearing the cake, was stopped by the senior medical consultant of the hospital. ‘Very nice, Miss Crawley, organised with your usual finesse. We are a little behind time, I fancy, but Professor van der Eekerk’s paper was most interesting. We look forward to his second talk tomorrow. Is that more cake? Splendid.’ He beamed at her. ‘A delightful tea—most enjoyable.’
They all went at last; Beatrice sent the part-time helpers home, spent a brief time with the cook checking the menu for the next day, assured her that she could manage on her own and, once left to herself, emptied the dishwasher and began to put out coffee-cups and saucers, spoons and sugar basins ready for the morning. They were well ahead for the next day, she reflected. There had been time while they waited between the breaks to prepare the food and collect plates and cutlery ready to lay the tables again. She had almost finished when the entrance door was pushed open and Tom came in.