The Course of True Love

He cast an eye over her person. ‘You will do very well as you are. Only put your shoes on.’

He took her to Chelsea, to a restaurant just off the Kings Road: English Garden, quite small but pleasantly surrounded by a conservatory full of greenery and flowers. They ate traditional English food, beautifully cooked and served, and rather to Claribel’s surprise she found herself enjoying not only the food but her companion’s conversation. Not that she discovered anything much about him from his talk; he talked about Holland, touched lightly on his work, went on to discuss several West End plays he had been to and then led her on, ever so gently, to talk about herself. It was only later that she realised this, annoyed with herself for telling him so much, especially as she hadn’t found out anything at all about him. She had asked, in a roundabout way, how long he would be in London, but somehow he hadn’t answered her. Lying in her bed, thinking about it, she promised herself that she would have another go in the morning.

Perhaps he wasn’t as bad as she had first thought, she decided sleepily; he had driven her back to her flat, opened her door for her and then bidden her a cheerful goodnight. She had been debating whether to ask him in for a final cup of coffee as they drove, but the very briskness of his manner decided her against it.

She was ready and waiting for him when he arrived the next morning. They exchanged good mornings but, beyond a few civil remarks about the weather, which for early April was chilly and damp, they had nothing to say to each other, and once at the clinic they each went their own way, to meet again presently on a strictly professional basis.

Even if they had felt inclined, there was no opportunity to talk. The clinic bulged with patients of all sorts, a good-natured crowd with its crutches and slings and neck braces, sitting patiently and rather noisily in the waiting-room. There were two physiotherapists there besides Claribel. They shared out the work between them and long after Mr van Borsele had seen his last patient, they were all hard at it. It was after one o’clock when they began to clear up and tidy away the apparatus.

He’ll be gone, reflected Claribel as she got out of her overall. I’ll have to get a bus—it’ll take hours. She dragged a comb through her hair, dabbed powder on to her nose and got into her coat. The other two girls were waiting to leave. She said goodbye and went out through the side door and saw the Rolls parked in front of it. Mr van Borsele was at the wheel, looking impassive. He got out and opened the door, and ushered her in without a word.

‘There was no need to wait,’ protested Claribel, faintly peevish, and was taken aback when he replied,

‘Well, of course there wasn’t, only I chose to do so.’

‘Well, really…’

‘I have found,’ remarked Mr van Borsele blandly as he sent the car smoothly to join the traffic, ‘that the English language is littered with useless phrases.’ And, while she was getting over that, ‘Unfortunately there is not sufficient time to have lunch, but one of the registrars assures me that Nick’s Diner, just round the corner from Jerome’s, can offer a sound beef sandwich and good coffee. We will go there.’

He had no more to say and for the life of her Claribel could think of no conversation suitable for the occasion. She knew very well that if she raised any objections she would be either ignored or talked out of it; she held her tongue.

The streets were comparatively empty; she got out, still wordless, when Mr van Borsele parked tidily in the consultant’s car park and walked beside him as he strode out of the hospital forecourt into the dingy street beyond. Nick’s Diner was down a side street, one side of which was taken up by St Jerome’s looming walls. It was small and rather dark and the plastic tables were crowded close together, but it was clean and the aroma from the coffee machine caused Claribel to wrinkle her pretty nose.

The little place was full but as they went in two medical students got up from a table near the door. ‘Over here, sir,’ they chorused and ushered Claribel into a chair, accepting his thanks with a kind of reverence which made her smile a little, and rushed out. Probably they had skipped a lecture.

The proprietor, a small wizened man who had been there so long no one could remember when he first appeared, joined them at once, gave the table a wipe and bent a differential ear to Mr van Borsele’s request for beef sandwiches and coffee.

‘Couldn’t ’ave chosen better,’ he assured them. ‘Nice bit o’ beef I’ve got—cuts like silk—and good ’olesome bread to go with it, too; none of that white flannel stuff from a factory. Be with you in a couple of shakes, sir.’

Sir sat back and looked around him and then across the little table at Claribel. ‘Hardly a place I would like to bring anyone. You’re not feeling insulted or having injured feelings, I hope?’

‘Me? Heavens, no.’ She added waspishly, ‘I’m not a snob.’

‘I hardly imagined that you were. Nor am I, although I can see that you think that I am. But one would normally choose a rather more fitting background for a girl as pretty as you are, Claribel.’

He watched her blush.

‘Why are you called Claribel?’

‘My mother liked—still likes—historical romances. Just before I was born she was reading a tale where the heroine was called Claribel—so I was christened that. She rather wanted Mariabella, which is another version of it, but Father put his foot down.’

‘And your brother?’ The question was put casually.

‘Sebastian? Oh, Mother was into Shakespeare in a big way.’ She bit into a sandwich. ‘Why were…’ she began, but stopped just in time and took another bite; she must remember that he was a consultant and, from what Miss Flute had let drop, an important one in his own field.

‘My name, as you know, is Marc, spelled with a c, and, since the conversation tends to be rather more personal than usual, I am thirty-six years old. At the moment I am not prepared to divulge more details of my life.’

She chocked on some of the wholesome bread. ‘I am not in the least interested in you, Mr van Borsele.’ She spoke with a cold dignity marred by having a mouthful of sandwich.

He laughed. ‘What a touchy girl you are! How old are you, Claribel?’

She said indignantly, ‘Don’t you know that you never ask any girl how old she is?’

‘Yes, I know, but you aren’t any girl, Claribel. You look about eighteen, but of course, you’re not.’ He waited for her to reply, his eyebrows raised.

He was utterly impossible and getting worse all the time; she couldn’t imagine Frederick saying a thing like that. Come to think of it, she couldn’t imagine Frederick… He had become so vague she could barely remember what he looked like. ‘I’m twenty-eight.’ She added coldly, ‘Is there anything else you want to know?’

‘Oh, a great deal, but unfortunately we are pressed for time.’

She put down her empty coffee cup. ‘I really have to go. Thank you for my lunch, Mr van Borsele.’

He got up with her, paid the bill, and followed her into the street. ‘What’s his name, this young man who walks you through London parks until your feet ache?’

She said quickly, ‘Oh, you wouldn’t know him.’ She spoke so hurriedly and loudly that he had his answer and smiled to himself. ‘I’m not being nosey, just making polite conversation,’ he assured her blandly. ‘Are you—what is the term?—going steady with him?’

They were crossing the forecourt and in a few moments she would be able to escape his endless questions. ‘No, of course not.’ She was an honest girl, so she added, ‘Well, I suppose I could if I wanted to, only I don’t. It’s just that he wants someone to go for a walk with.’

Mr van Borsele gave a chortle of laughter and she said crossly, ‘Don’t you dare laugh.’

‘No, no, my dear girl, I’m laughing for all the wrong reasons. You have too kind a heart; I suspect you don’t discourage this young man with no name. I suspect also that you get dates enough and can pick and choose.’

She said seriously, ‘Well, yes, I suppose so, but I’m not very, well—modern.’ She stared up at him with a grave face. ‘You won’t know what I mean.’

‘On the contrary, I know very well.’ He smiled suddenly and she discovered that he was a kind man after all. ‘If ever I should invite you out again, Claribel, it will be on the strict understanding that you have no need to be modern. Being well past my first youth, I’m not modern, either.’

They had reached the side door leading to the physiotherapy department. He opened it for them and with a brief nod walked away.

She scuttled down the covered way, already late. Perhaps she liked him after all, she thought confusedly; well, some of the time at any rate.

Miss Flute was surprisingly mild about her lateness; someone had covered for her and Mrs Green had gone to the wards. ‘Mr van Borsele had a round on Women’s Ward,’ she observed. ‘I didn’t dare wait for you for I wasn’t sure how long you would be. Were you very busy?’

Claribel, tearing into her overall, told her.

‘You’ve had no lunch?’ asked Miss Flute worriedly.

Claribel went faintly pink. ‘Well, Mr van Borsele gave me a lift back and I—we had a sandwich in Nick’s Diner.’

‘Very civil of him,’ answered Miss Flute briskly. ‘There’s that nervous old lady with the hip—will you take her on? She’s so scared, she needs someone gentle and unhurried.’

‘Unhurried?’ Claribel cast her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Miss Flute, I’ll be lucky to get away by six o’clock.’

‘Well, you’ve had a nice morning, haven’t you, dear?’ suggested Miss Flute and went back into her office.

Claribel, pacifying her elderly patient, decided that, yes, she had had a nice morning. It was a pity that she had been too late to go to the ward for Mr van Borsele’s round; perhaps Miss Flute would send her to Men’s Orthopaedic for the next consultant’s round; she had been treating several patients there.

But Miss Flute, it seemed, had other ideas. Claribel spent the next two days in Out-patients with the senior registrar and Frederick and didn’t so much as catch a glimpse of Mr van Borsele. Life was really rather dull, she reflected, getting her supper while Toots and Enoch sat and watched her; it might be a good idea if she were to go home at the weekend. ‘It would be a nice change for all of us,’ she assured the cats as she sat down to her solitary meal.

She bumped into him—literally—as she crossed the courtyard to go home on the following day. He put out a had to steady her and said without preamble, ‘I’m going to Bath for the weekend. I’ll drop you off at Tisbury and pick you up on the way back.’

‘Oh, but I…’ She caught his eye and stopped then began again, ‘I really hadn’t intended…’ Under that dark gaze she faltered again. She said slowly, because she felt compelled to, ‘I should like that very much, Mr van Borsele.’ She added hastily, ‘To go home, I mean.’ She wondered why he grinned suddenly. ‘Shall I meet you here, and at what time?’

‘Haven’t you forgotten your cats? I’ll pick you up—half past six at your flat, and mind you are ready.’

He nodded his goodbye and had gone before she could frame so much as a single word.

She told Enoch and Toots when she got home and, mindful that she might get away late on Friday afternoon, put her overnight things in a bag and decided what she would wear; before she went to work in the morning she would put her clothes ready. Mr van Borsele might have offered her a lift, but he was quite capable of going without her if she kept him waiting for more than a minute or so.

Friday’s clinic was overflowing and, to make matters worse, Mrs Green went home during the morning, feeling, as she put it, not at all the thing. That meant Claribel would have to take on several more patients as well as her own, for two of the other girls were at the ante-natal clinic and the other two were only just qualified and needed an eye kept upon them.

Claribel got home half an hour late. To have sat down, kicked off her shoes and drunk the teapot dry would have been bliss; as it was, she fed the cats, showered, changed into a short jacket and plaid pleated skirt, got her aching feet into her rather smart boots, popped the cats into their basket and opened the door to Mr van Borsele, looking as composed as if she had spent the entire day doing nothing much.

He ran a knowledgeable eye over her person. ‘Tired? You can doze in the car.’

A remark which incensed her after her efforts. But she hadn’t noticed the shadows under her eyes or the lack of colour in her cheeks.

She wished him a good evening, adding that she had no desire to doze. ‘Besides, you might want me to map-read for you.’

He took her bag from her and stowed it in the boot and then put the cat basket on the back seat. ‘Straight down the A303, once I’m on it. You can wake up when we’re nearby and tell me where to go from there.’

She said huffily, ‘Well, if you want me to sleep all the way I’ll do my best. There’s no need for you to talk.’

He shut the door and made sure that it was locked. ‘In you get,’ he urged her. ‘You’re a bit edgy but I dare say you’ve had a hard day with Mrs Green away.’ He got in beside her and turned to look at her. ‘You thought that I wouldn’t wait if you weren’t ready? I am an impatient man, Claribel, but for some things I am prepared to wait—if necessary, for ever.’

She puzzled over this and found no clear answer. ‘Have you had a busy day?’ she asked politely.

‘Very. A quiet weekend will be delightful. You know Bath?’

‘Quite well—we go there to shop sometimes. You—you said you had friends there?’

He was driving west out of London in heavy traffic. ‘Yes, they live at Limpley Stoke—not friends; my young sister and her husband.’

‘Oh, she’s Dutch, too…’ It was a silly remark and she waited for him to say so. But he didn’t.

‘She spent some years over here at boarding school. She’s happy here and of course they go to Holland frequently.’

Claribel tried to imagine his sister. Tall, short; thin, fat?

‘She’s not in the least like me: small, fair and very slim.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘Close your eyes, Claribel, you are tired.’

She frowned. Tired so often meant plain. The thought didn’t stop her doing as she was told; she was asleep within minutes.

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