Cruise to a Wedding

The operation was to be an adrenalectomy, and both kidneys were involved. As it proceeded Loveday felt bound to admit that this foreign surgeon was good; he worked fast and thoroughly, and not until he reached the stage where his own new technique was involved did he speak more than a few words. Even then she could not fault his manner; there was no hint of boasting; she was forced to admire his modest manner even while she recalled his quite unnecessary rudeness in the corridor.

It was a long business and tiring for all of them. All the same, it was with regret that she saw him leave the theatre. It was a pity, she decided, as she took off her gown and gloves and prepared to scrub for the second case, that she wouldn’t see him again, let alone discover his name—even if she asked Mr Gore-Symes at the end of the list, he would have forgotten it by then. She sighed and freshly scrubbed and gowned went to brood over the contents of her trolleys.

They finished just before six; the last two cases had been straightforward ones, and she had been able to send those nurses who were off duty out of the theatre punctually. She was off duty herself, but she was doing nothing with her evening, so that she sent the last of her staff away and, the theatre cleaned and readied once more, went to her office. Ten minutes would be long enough to write up the books, then she would take the keys along to Joyce, on duty in the ENT theatre, and go off duty herself. Someone had made her a pot of tea, she discovered; it stood on a tray on her desk with a plate of thin bread and butter on a saucer-covered plate. She smiled at the little attention, poured herself a cup and opened her books.

She had finished her writing and was polishing off the rest of the bread and butter when she heard the swing doors separating the theatre block from the hospital open and click shut. ‘In here,’ she called. ‘I was just coming over with the keys.’

But it wasn’t Joyce, it was Mr Gore-Symes’ visitor who entered, and at her surprised, ‘Oh, hullo, it’s you,’ he inclined his head and put her firmly in her place with a cold good evening. She stared at him for several seconds, a little puzzled, and then spoke with relief. ‘Oh, of course, you want your instruments. I gave them to Bert, but I daresay he couldn’t find them—they’ll be in the theatre.’

‘Thank you, I have them already. You are a friend of Rimada’s, are you not?’

He was leaning against the wall, staring at her in a disconcerting fashion. She said slowly: ‘Yes,’ while a sudden unwelcome thought trickled into the back of her mind. ‘I didn’t hear your name, sir.’ She spoke hesitatingly.

‘I didn’t think you had, that is why I have come back.’ His voice was silky. ‘De Wolff van Ozinga,’ he added with a biting quietness. ‘Adam.’

Rimada’s name was de Wolff. Loveday said in a small voice, ‘Oh, lord—I might have known, you’re Rimada’s guardian!’

‘I am. I intend seeing her this evening. Is she behaving herself?’

She shot him a guarded look which he met with a bland stare. ‘She always behaves herself, and I have no intention of answering any prying questions about her.’

He smiled lazily and she felt her dislike for him oozing away, to return at once as he continued: ‘She has a remarkable habit of falling in love with every second young man she meets. Who is it at the moment?’

Loveday looked at him crossly. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? I’m not going to answer your questions. You should ask Rimada.’

He looked hatefully pleased with himself. ‘So there is someone—she meant what she said. The absurd girl telephoned me—besides, her mother showed me a letter. I suppose you are aiding and abetting her?’

Loveday lifted her chin. ‘No. But now I’ve met you, I certainly shall!’

This spirited remark met with a laugh. ‘By all means,’ he agreed affably. ‘If you are half as bird-witted as my cousin, you aren’t likely to succeed, though.’

‘I am not bird-witted!’ She was feeling quite ill-tempered by now. ‘Rimada’s a dear, she can’t help being—being…’ She stopped, conscious of his amused eyes. ‘She’s afraid of you,’ she flung at him.

He lifted his eyebrows and looked resigned. ‘I can’t think why; I’m kindness and consideration at all times towards her. Just as long as she does nothing foolish, of course.’

Loveday felt that she should really make an end to this absurd conversation; she wasn’t getting anywhere with it, and nor, she fancied, was the man before her. A pity, though; she would have liked to have got to know him better, even, as she hastily reminded herself, though she disliked him. She closed her books and stood up.

‘Do finish your bread and butter,’ he suggested politely.

‘Thank you, no. I’m off duty.’ She picked up the tea-tray with an air of someone with not a minute to lose.

He took the tray from her and put it down again on the desk. ‘Now from any other girl I might take that as an invitation. But from you, Miss Loveday Pearce, I think not. All the same, despite your cross face and your pert manners and your bad habit of running along hospital corridors, I find you a good deal more—er—interesting than Rimada.’

He leaned across the desk and kissed her on her half open, surprised mouth.

CHAPTER TWO

LOVEDAY stood very still. Her power of speech had left her; so for the moment had the power to think clearly. She was aware of a peculiar feeling deep inside her which she presently decided might be attributed to rage and a bitter dislike of her visitor, certainly she found that she was shaking with some strong emotion. Presently she picked up the tray and took it along to the tiny kitchen on the theatre corridor and tidied everything away in her usual methodical fashion before taking the keys over to ENT and going off duty. Once in the Home, she went straight to Rimada’s room and found that young lady dressing to go out, an elaborate ritual which she interrupted to say dramatically: ‘He is here—the horrid Adam. He waits below and I am forced to dine with him.’ She tossed her head. ‘I should have been spending the evening with Terry.’

Loveday sat down. ‘Well, it’s a good thing in a way, Rimmy, because now you can tell your guardian all about it. Why doesn’t Terry go with you?’

Rimada applied mascara and leaned forward to survey her handiwork.

‘Adam wished that, but Terry is suddenly called away—an emergency case in theatre…’

‘Oh—I hadn’t heard.’

‘But you are off duty, so how could you? They will have told Joyce in ENT.’

Loveday reflected that she had left Joyce not ten minutes earlier and there had been no news of an emergency; indeed, there had been nothing in the Accident Room, and Nancy was very good at letting them know the moment anything likely came in, indeed, she often warned the theatre staff the moment she had news of an emergency from the ambulance crews. It sounded like an excuse on Terry’s part, but perhaps it was best not to pursue that train of thought. Instead, she asked: ‘How old is your guardian?’

‘Thirty-six—no, seven. Almost middle-aged.’

Not middle-aged, Loveday decided silently; middle-aged men didn’t kiss like that. ‘I didn’t know that he was a surgeon.’

Her friend swung round to stare at her. ‘You have met him? How is that? Do you not find him quite terrible?’

Loveday skated round the question. ‘He operated this afternoon. We bumped into each other when I was on the way back to theatre. He’s super at his job, whatever else he is.’

Rimada shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh, yes; he is, how do you say? the tops. He is a Professor of Surgery, you know. He also likes pretty girls. You will take care, Loveday? He has charm…’

You can say that again, thought Loveday while she assured Rimada that she would indeed take care. ‘Though as I’m not likely to meet him again, it doesn’t matter, does it?’ She felt a momentary regret about that. ‘I’m going down to supper—come along to my room when you get back and tell me how you got on.’ She peered at her reflection over Rimada’s shoulder. ‘Gosh, I look a hag,’ she remarked, and following her train of thought: ‘I daresay your guardian won’t be as difficult as you imagine—he’s only human, after all.’

Her friend snorted. ‘Bah!’ she said through excellent teeth. The word carried a great deal of feeling.

Loveday had been in bed and asleep for quite some time when Rimada wakened her with an urgent shake. She was in tears, and Loveday, still in a half dreaming state, sat up slowly, forcing herself to wakefulness.

‘Rimmy,’ she uttered urgently, ‘whatever is the matter? You’re in floods!’

‘Adam—I hate him! He does not listen when I say that I will marry Terry; he laughs and says that I don’t know my own mind.’ A fresh flow of tears choked her and Loveday, ever helpful, offered a handkerchief.

‘He hasn’t cut you off with a shilling, or anything drastic?’ she wanted to know.

‘Of course not,’ sobbed Rimada. ‘It is my money, is it not? When I asked him for some of my allowance so that I could buy that hat—you remember?—he gave it to me at once.’

She gave Loveday a rather hurt look because she giggled. ‘Oh, it is funny to you, I daresay, but he thinks that he can bribe me, and I will not be bribed—I will have my own way.’

Rimada’s rather weak chin set in stubborn lines. ‘He is unkind, also he called you an interfering busybody and told me that I should run my own life. He said, too, that you are too clever by far and that bossy women are not his cup of tea.’

Loveday’s bosom heaved with the fury of her feelings. ‘He said that? I can well believe it,’ she said in an icy voice. ‘Anyone disputing his opinions or his plans would naturally prick his abominable ego.’ She drew a trembling breath. ‘You really want to marry Terry? OK, Rimmy, so you shall. I’ll help you all I can. We should be able to think of something between us.’ Her dark eyes glinted, she was now very much awake. ‘I’ll show him what a busybody I am!’ She smiled at the Dutch girl. ‘I’ve got days off at the end of the week—change yours and come home with me, that will give us two days’ peace and quiet in which to cook up something. Go to bed, Rimmy, and stop crying—you shall have your Terry. Good lord,’ she exclaimed, suddenly furious, ‘anyone would think it was the nineteenth century we’re living in; he’s nothing but a tyrant.’ She added softly: ‘It’ll be rather fun.’

She didn’t see Rimada until they shared a table with half a dozen other Sisters at dinner time the following day, and it was apparent that the Dutch girl had quite recovered her spirits. For a moment Loveday wondered uneasily if Terry Wilde really was the best husband for her friend—a dear girl, but easily swayed and singularly bad at managing her own affairs, monetary or otherwise. But Rimada caught her eye even as she was thinking it, and smiled so happily that Loveday dismissed the idea as nonsense, and plunged into the lively discussion going on around her; Nancy Dawson from the Accident Room was getting married in December; she had just informed the table at large that they would be spending their honeymoon on a cruise. ‘Madeira,’ she breathed ecstatically, ‘Lisbon—can you imagine? I can hardly wait!’

There was a general murmur of envy and interest and the inevitable topic of the right clothes was broached. It wasn’t until they had left the dining-room and were hurrying back to their various wards that Loveday was struck by an idea so exquisite that she stood still in the middle of the passage to savour it. Supposing she and Rimada should go on a cruise? Quite openly, of course, in fact, they would tell everyone, including the hateful guardian. Even though he considered her to be a bossy busybody, he could hardly object to the pair of them going on holiday; indeed, he should be glad because it would take Rimada away from the Royal City and Terry. She smiled slowly; only he would be with them, of course, and once in Madeira—and Madeira would suit admirably because it was more than two days’ cruising away, which gave them two days’ start…they could marry. There must surely be such things as special licences there; Terry would have to find out. And once they were married, her guardian could do very little to change things; he would have to give in, settle Rimada’s money on her and accept Terry Wilde into the family.

Loveday got into the lift, quite carried away with the cleverness of her reasoning. What was more, she decided as she pushed open the theatre doors, she would say very little to Rimada until they were on their way home; Rimmy, bless her, was no good at keeping a secret, but she would have her two days off in which to get used to the idea, and during that time she would have to be made to understand that discretion was all important—about Terry—she could tell as many people as she liked about the cruise. Loveday, greeting Staff with an absent-minded nod, made up her mind to go to a travel agency in the morning and collect all the brochures they had.

They drove down to Tenterden two evenings later, after their day’s work. They went in Loveday’s elderly Morris 1000, a car which, while hardly noted for its breathtaking speed and racy lines, maintained a steady forty miles an hour and seldom gave her any trouble. She would have liked something fast and eye-catching even though she was devoted to the Morris; it got her home with unfailing certainty and was, moreover, the result of two years’ hard saving on her own part. Rimada laughed at it, and Loveday, understanding to someone who had never known any other car but a large Mercedes or a Porsche, the Morris was something of a joke, didn’t mind in the least. Its steady speed gave her ample opportunity to talk, and that was what she wanted to do now.

Her plan was received rapturously. ‘You are a genius,’ declared her friend. ‘I have thought and thought and I have been in despair.’ And Loveday, used to Rimada’s dramatic turn of speech, said reassuringly:

‘Well, now you can cheer up, it’s all quite simple really. I’ve a pile of brochures with me, and there’s a cruise to Madeira and the Med in three weeks’ time—that will be the very end of September. You can book for the whole cruise and leave the ship at Madeira—with Terry, of course—I’ll go on, at least, I haven’t thought about that yet. You and Terry can stay there until you get married and then let your guardian know. It’s the last cruise of the summer for this particular ship and the agency says it won’t be heavily booked, so I daresay we’ll get a cabin easily enough.’

‘Clothes?’ asked Rimada urgently.

‘Well, I suppose we’ve both got enough to get by—I can’t afford to buy anything much…’

They were nearly at Tenterden. ‘We’ll talk about that later,’ she advised. ‘We’ll be home in a few minutes.’

Home was a nice old house on the outskirts of the pleasant little town. They went up the wide main street, lined with its trees and old-fashioned shops and houses, and turned off at the top of the hill into a narrow lane disappearing into the gentle Kentish countryside. The house stood on a curve, all by itself, a nice example of Elizabethan building, the last of the evening sunlight giving its tiled roof a glow and touching the garden around it with a splash of vivid colour. Loveday, who had a deep fondness for the old place, sighed with content as she caught sight of it, and just for a moment wished that she was spending her holiday at home instead of plotting against Rimada’s guardian. She squashed this thought immediately, however. He deserved all he got and a lot more besides, and she would be delighted to prove to him just how right he had been when he had called her a meddlesome busybody; the words still rankled.

Her parents were waiting for them. Rimada had visited them several times and they considered her almost one of the family and once the first greetings were over, she was whirled away by Loveday’s younger sister, Phyllis, a fourteen-year-old, home for the weekend from her boarding school nearby, and who considered the Dutch girl an authority on clothes, a subject very dear to her heart, leaving Loveday to have a brief chat with her mother before going into the garden with her father. He had retired as senior partner in a firm of solicitors in Maidstone and now he spent his days amongst his flowers, keeping the books of various local organizations in good order, and tinkering with his beloved vintage Humber motor car. They went to the potting shed and settled down for a gentle talk about seed catalogues, bulbs for the following spring and which roses he should order—he was good with roses, and Loveday, studying his thin good looks and a few extra lines which hadn’t been in his face a year ago, entered wholeheartedly into the discussion because she knew how important these things were to him now that he didn’t go to the office every day, and presently, in answer to his query as to when she was coming home for a week or two, she told him the vague plans she and Rimada had made for their cruise.

He was disappointed, she knew that, and her heart misgave her for a moment. ‘I should have liked to have come home for a week or two,’ she told him with regret, ‘but I’ve another week in November, I’ll come then. There’ll be the roses to prune and plant out and those fruit trees you want to replace and the hedges to cut—I shall be very useful.’

They both laughed as they started to walk back to the house.

Mrs Pearce was rather more enthusiastic about the trip. Loveday worried her a little; rising twenty-eight and still not married, and heaven knew it wasn’t for the lack of chances. Beryl, her twenty-two-year-old sister, had been married for six months, and her brother, the eldest of the family, intended marrying the following year now that he had a junior partnership in his father’s firm, and Phyllis was still only a schoolgirl—if her darling eldest daughter didn’t find someone soon she would be what Mrs Pearce persisted in calling an old maid. She never spoke her fears out loud, of course, but Loveday, gently cross-questioned each time she went home, was well aware of them. Sometimes she shared them too; as her mother knew, she had chances enough, and once or twice she had been on the point of saying yes, and each time something had made her hesitate even while common sense had told her that she was being foolish, waiting for someone she couldn’t even picture in her mind.

They all studied the brochures that evening; it was going to cost quite a lot, Loveday calculated, but she would have enough if she were careful, but Rimada was quite positive that she hadn’t nearly sufficient money.

‘I am not good with money,’ she explained to the Pearce family. ‘I buy things…’

‘Get your guardian to let you have some,’ struck in Loveday.

Rimada gave her a shocked look. ‘I would never…’ The look changed to one of delighted surprise. ‘But I have thought of something—of course, I will ask Mama—she gives me anything I want.’

‘Would you like to telephone her now?’ asked Mr Pearce helpfully.

She shook her head. ‘Better than that, I will visit her. She will send money for me to travel to Holland and I will arrange that I have four days off together—next week, I think. I will ask her and she will be pleased to give me all the money I need.’

Her companions looked at her with interest. Rimada’s faculty for getting her own way always interested them; they were moderately well off themselves, but it would never have entered Loveday’s head to ask her parents to pay for a holiday she could well afford for herself provided she saved for it. Not that they weren’t generous, but she was a grown woman, earning a sufficient income to keep her independent, and independence was vital to a girl on her own; especially, as Mrs Pearce frequently thought, rather sadly, if she didn’t intend to marry.

‘If your mother has no objection, dear,’ she murmured to Rimada, who looked surprised.

‘How can she object? I am her only child and my happiness is most important to her. She will arrange a ticket for me to fly home and she will arrange that Loveday will come with me, and pay for her too.’

‘No, thanks,’ said Loveday quietly. ‘I couldn’t possibly get away—besides, even if I could, I can well afford the fare, Rimmy.’

But Rimada was persuasive; at the end of half an hour’s argument Loveday had agreed to go with her; it would mean juggling with the off-duty, but that could be managed, she thought. But she insisted that she would pay her own fare to Holland and had to laugh when Rimada said plaintively: ‘I find you so strange, Loveday, to spend your own money when there is someone else to pay for you.’

They went back to the hospital two days later, early in the morning, their plans crystallized by numerous telephone calls, a number of lengthy discussions as to the clothes they should take with them on the cruise, and a close study of the brochures. Moreover, Loveday had a cheque in her purse which her father, in the privacy of the potting shed, had pressed upon her—to cover her fare to Holland, he had explained briefly. It only remained for them to book their flight to Schiphol for the end of the following week and reply suitably to Rimada’s mother, who had arranged, after a lengthy telephone call, for her daughter to draw enough money for her flight from an old family friend in London, and at the same time she had said a few words to Loveday, making her welcome in a charming little speech.

Some days later, Loveday, packing a small case ready for their early morning flight, reflected that the time and trouble taken in adjusting theatre duties so that she could be free over the weekend had been well worth it; she was looking forward to seeing Rimada’s home, and although her friend had assured her that there was absolutely no chance of her meeting her guardian, she found herself, against her will, wishing that there was. Only, of course, so that she might let him see that his peculiar behaviour had made no impression upon her. He would have to find himself another pretty girl to kiss, she told herself crossly; as many pretty girls as he wanted, she added savagely, not liking the idea at all.

She had known that Rimada’s home was a comfortable one, and she had supposed, without wasting too much thought about it, that her family were a good deal better off than her own; Rimada’s remarks about her fortune she had always taken with a pinch of salt, for her friend was inclined to flights of fantasy, so she really was surprised when they were met at Schiphol by a chauffeur-driven Mercedes. No hired car, this, for the man was obviously a well trusted servant and friend, greeting Rimada with the respectful familiarity of someone who had known her for a long time.

‘This is Jos,’ said Rimada. ‘He’s been with us ever since I can remember. He doesn’t speak English, but he’s a wizard driver.’

They tore along the motorway in the direction of Den Haag; Rimada’s home was to the north of that city, north too of Wassenaar, its fashionable suburb. As they went, she pointed out the more interesting aspects of the countryside through which they were passing and while Loveday obediently looked from left to right so as to miss nothing, she wondered if Rimada had been wise in her decision not to tell her mother the true purpose of her cruise. A decision which, she had assured Loveday, Terry had agreed with. If it were I marrying, thought Loveday, frowning thoughtfully at a windmill, I would have wanted Mother and Father to know—I would have wanted them to meet him too. But perhaps it wasn’t quite the same in her friend’s case. She settled back more comfortably and murmured her appreciation of a particularly fine church in the distance.

If she had been surprised at the car and the chauffeur, she was even more surprised at the sight of Rimada’s home; a large villa, embellished with balconies, turrets and fancy brickwork, set in the midst of a garden so precise that it might have been ruled out with a set-square, and so perfectly kept that it appeared to have been embroidered upon the ground rather than growing in the earth. The massive mahogany and glass door was flung open by a tall angular woman, whose rather harsh features broke into a smile as they got out of the car. ‘Jaantje,’ introduced Rimada as they went inside, and hardly pausing, crossed the thickly carpeted floor to a half-open door.