An Unlikely Romance

It was disappointing that they moved away and Trixie missed the rest of it. Not that she was in the least interested in the man, she told herself as she made up empty beds. Indeed, she was sorry for him, going around with his head in endocrinal clouds and never without a pile of papers or some weighty tome under one arm. He needed a wife to give him something else to think about. He had, she reflected, been taken with Margaret, and he couldn’t be all that old. Late thirties or forty perhaps, and Margaret had fancied him. He was good-looking, with beautiful manners, and probably comfortably off. She wondered where he lived. She was aware that he was fairly frequently at Timothy’s, but it didn’t take long to go to and fro between Holland and England; he could be living there just as easily as living in London. She had to stop thinking about him then, because the new patient with diabetes was feeling sick, which could be hazardous, for she hadn’t been stabilised yet. Trixie abandoned the beds and nipped smartly down the ward to deal with the situation.

October was creeping to its close, getting colder each day, so that the desire to go out in one’s off duty became very faint; the pleasant fug in the nurses’ sitting-room, with the television turned on and the gas fire up as high as it would go, became the focal point for anyone lucky enough to be off duty.

Trixie, curled up in one of the rather shabby armchairs sleepily watching TV, after a long day’s work, a medical book open on her lap but so far unread, closed her eyes. She and Jill had agreed to ask each other questions about the circulatory system, but Jill was already dozing, her mouth slightly open, her cap, which she hadn’t bothered to take off, a crumpled ruin sliding over one ear. It would be supper in an hour and the prospect of a pot of tea, a gossip and early bed was very appealing. ‘I’m in a comfortable rut,’ muttered Trixie as she dropped off.

To be awakened in seconds by Mary Fitzjohn’s voice. ‘There you are—someone wants you on the phone.’ She sniffed in a derogatory way. ‘Honestly, what a way to spend an evening—the pair of you. No wonder Jill’s getting fat, lolling around.’ She turned an accusing eye on to Trixie. ‘Hadn’t you better answer the phone?’

She went away and Trixie got out of her chair, gave Jill an apologetic smile, and went into the hall and picked up the receiver.

She almost fumbled and dropped it again at the sound of Professor van der Brink-Schaatsma’s unhurried voice. ‘Trixie? I should like to take you out to dinner. I’ll be outside the entrance in half an hour.’

She got her breath back. ‘I think you must be mistaken.’ She spoke in her sensible way, picturing him engrossed in some learned work or other and half remembering that he was supposed to be taking someone out that evening, forgetful of who it was. ‘I’m Trixie.’

‘Of course you are.’ He sounded testy. ‘Is half an hour not long enough?’

‘More than enough, only I’m surprised—you don’t know me…’

‘That is why I am asking you to have dinner with me.’

It was a reasonable answer; besides, supper in the canteen—ham, salad and boiled potatoes since it was Thursday—was hardly a mouth-watering prospect. ‘I’ll be at the entrance in half an hour,’ said Trixie, and the moment she had said it wished that she hadn’t.

While she showered, got into the blue crêpe, did her face and hair, which she wound into a chignon, she cogitated over the professor’s strange invitation. She was almost ready when she hit on what had to be the reason. He wanted to know more about Margaret. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? He had obviously been smitten at the party, probably had been seeing her since then and wanted to talk about her, and who better than a member of the family? She got into her coat—navy-blue wool, by no means new but elegant in a timeless way—thrust her tired feet into her best shoes, crammed things into her clutch-bag and went along to the entrance.

Halfway across the entrance hall she paused, suddenly wishing to turn and run, but it was too late; the professor was standing by the door, leaning against the wall, writing something in a notebook, but he glanced up, put the notebook away and came to meet her.

His smile was delightful and she smiled back. ‘You were not christened Trixie?’ he asked.

It seemed a strange kind of greeting. ‘No, Beatrice. My aunt preferred Trixie.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, that I believe.’ He held the door open for her and led her across the courtyard to where a dark-blue Bentley stood, settled her into it and got in beside her.

There wasn’t a great deal of traffic in that part of London at that time of the evening; the rush-hour had passed and there were few taxis or cars for the people who lived around Timothy’s ate their suppers and then settled down in front of the telly, and if they were going to the local pub or cinema they walked.

The Bentley slid smoothly away, going westward, and presently joining the more elegant evening traffic, and then, after ten minutes or so, coming to a halt outside the Connaught Hotel.

The professor appeared to be known; Trixie, conscious that the blue crêpe wasn’t doing justice to the occasion, followed a waiter to a candlelit table, accepted the sherry she was offered and waited for the professor to say something, to explain…

She was disappointed; he began a rambling conversation about nothing much, pausing only long enough to recommend the lobster mousse, the noisette of lamb with its accompanying tarragon sauce, and, since she was hungry and this was an unexpected treat, she forbore from asking any questions. Only when she had polished off the profiteroles and had handed him his coffee-cup did she ask, ‘Why have you asked me to dine with you, Professor? There has to be a reason.’ When he didn’t answer at once, she prompted, ‘I dare say you want to talk about Margaret.’

‘Margaret? Oh, your cousin. Why should I wish to know about her?’

Trixie was a girl of sound common sense, but her tongue had been loosened by two glasses of wine on top of the sherry. ‘Well, I thought… that is, I thought that you were—well, interested in her—that you might want to talk about her.’

‘A charming girl, I have no doubt of that. I wish to talk about you, and may I say that I do not think that Trixie suits you at all; I shall call you Beatrice.’

‘Oh, well—if you like. Mother and Father always called me Beatrice; Aunt Alice has always called me Trixie.’

He didn’t appear to be listening. Any minute now, thought Trixie, he’s going to start making notes—he’s probably forgotten where he is.

She nodded her head in confirmation of this thought when he said, ‘I am writing a book. It absorbs a good deal of my time, indeed I wish that I could devote my days to it, but it seems it is not possible to do so; there are patients to attend, lectures and consultations—there are things which cannot be put on one side. My social life is another matter. I wish to withdraw from it until such time as I have finished the book, but I find it difficult to refuse invitations to dinner, the theatre and so on. It had crossed my mind that if I had a wife she might deal with that side of my life; act, as it were, as a buffer between me and these distractions. I am aware that from time to time it is obligatory for me to attend some function or other and that I must from time to time entertain my friends. A wife could deal with such matters, however, leaving me free to work on my book.’

Trixie poured more coffee for them both. ‘Is it very important to you, this book?’

‘To me, yes. And I hope to the medical profession.’

‘How much have you written?’

‘The first few chapters. There is a good deal of research.’

‘Why are you telling me this, Professor?’

Just for a moment he lifted heavy lids and she saw how blue his eyes were. ‘I haven’t made myself clear? I believe that you would be a most suitable wife, Beatrice.’

She put down her coffee-cup with a hand which shook only slightly.

‘Why?’

‘I still have not made myself clear? You are quiet, you have a pleasant voice, the patients like you, you are, I gather, popular in the hospital. You do not giggle or shriek with laughter, you dress sensibly, and above all you have no family, for I surmised from my brief visit to your aunt’s house that you are very much the poor relation.’

She said drily, ‘You have described me very accurately, Professor, only you haven’t mentioned my lack of good looks—I am not tall and willowy, indeed I am plump and not in the least pretty.’

He looked surprised. ‘I had hardly noticed and I do not think that looks matter.’

‘No?’ She sounded tart. ‘Tell me, Professor, have you no cousin or sister who might act as a buffer between you and your social commitments?’

‘Sister? Oh, I have four, all married and living in Holland and as for cousins—yes, I have any number; I cannot remember the names of half of them. No, no, I feel that a wife would solve my problem.’ He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. ‘A platonic relationship, naturally—all I would ask of you would be to order my household in such a way that I have a maximum of quiet.’

‘Will you still work at Timothy’s?’

‘Of course. Very shortly I shall be returning to Holland, where I have beds in several hospitals, but coming here at regular intervals and for consultations when necessary.’

‘I can’t speak any Dutch,’ observed Trixie, who had a practical mind.

‘You will learn! In any case English is widely spoken.’

She said rather wildly, ‘We’re talking as though I’ve agreed to—your proposal, but I haven’t.’

‘I would hardly expect you to do so at a moment’s notice; you are far too sensible a young woman to do that. I leave it to you to consider the matter at your leisure.’

He was staring at her, looking, for the moment, not in the least absent-minded. ‘Yes, well… but I don’t think… that is, it’s all rather unusual.’ She closed her eyes for a second and opened them again. He was still there; she wasn’t dreaming. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to go back to Timothy’s.’

He drove her back, talking in a desultory manner about this and that, and never said another word about his astonishing proposal. She allowed herself to be helped out of the car, feeling bewildered, and stammered her awkward thanks before hurrying away to the nurses’ home. He hadn’t said a word about seeing her again, she thought as she tore off her clothes and jumped into bed. Probably, when they did meet again, he would have forgotten the whole episode. She began to go over the evening and fell asleep halfway through, telling herself that something would happen anyway.

CHAPTER TWO

NOTHING happened, at least nothing to do with Trixie and the professor. A week went by and a most unsatisfactory week it was: Staff Nurse Bennett’s dislike of her manifested itself in a dozen annoying ways; off duty changed at the last minute when Sister Snell had days off, going late to meals because of some errand which really had to be run, constant criticism of whatever she was doing on the ward. Trixie’s temper, usually good, had become badly frayed. It was fortunate that she had days off even though she was late going off duty that evening. She left the ward and started down the stone staircase to the floor below. She would have supper and go to bed early and decide what she was going to do with her precious two days. The parks, she thought; a good walk would improve her temper. November, it seemed, was to be a sunny crisp month, and she needed the exercise. She loitered along, happily engaged in her plans, when the professor’s voice from behind and above her startled her into missing her footing. He plucked her upright and fell into step beside her.

‘I could have broken a leg,’ said Trixie with asperity. ‘Creeping up behind me like that.’ She eventually remembered to whom she was speaking and then mumbled, ‘Sorry, sir, but you startled me.’

He didn’t appear to hear her. ‘You have days off, Beatrice?’

They had reached the floor below and she turned to look up at him. ‘Yes.’

He eyed her narrowly. ‘You are pale and I think rather cross. Has it been a bad week?’

‘Awful. I shall never be a good nurse, Staff Nurse Bennett says so.’

He smiled faintly. ‘She is quite right,’ and at her indignant gasp, ‘I shall explain…’

He was interrupted by one of the path lab assistants. ‘Sir, they are waiting for you. Dr Gillespie is quite ready…’

The professor waved a large hand. ‘Yes, yes, I am on my way. I will be with you in a moment.’ When the man went back up the stairs, he went on walking beside Trixie, who was bent on getting away from him at the earliest possible moment. Halfway across the vast landing she stopped.

‘You’re going the wrong way, Professor,’ she reminded him gently.

‘Yes, yes, I dare say I am, but I wish to talk to you.’

‘They’re waiting for you,’ she pointed out patiently. ‘I should think it’s urgent.’

He said at once, ‘Ah, yes! A most interesting case; a tumour of the medulla—I believe it to be a phaeochromocytoma. This will cause hypertension…’

Trixie, her eyes popping out of her head and quite out of her depth, put a hand on one large coat sleeve. If she didn’t stop him now he’d ramble on happily about the adrenal glands. ‘Sir—sir, you have to go back upstairs. Oh, do go to the path lab. Dr Gillespie is waiting for you.’

He wasn’t listening. ‘You see, the hypertension will give rise to irregular cardiac rhythm…’ He glanced down at her. ‘Why are you looking like that, Beatrice?’

She neither knew nor cared what she looked like. ‘The path lab,’ she urged him.

‘Ah, yes. I have an appointment there.’ He patted her arm in a kindly fashion and turned to go back up the staircase. ‘Be outside at nine o’clock tomorrow morning; we will have a day in the country.’

Trixie asked faintly, ‘Will we?’ but he had already gone, two steps at a time. She glimpsed his great back disappearing on the landing above.

She started on her way again to be brought to a halt by his voice, loud and clear enough for the whole hospital to hear. He was hanging over the balustrade with the path lab assistant hovering anxiously.

‘Wear something warm, Beatrice. I have a wish to breathe the sea air.’

He disappeared, leaving her to continue across the landing and down another flight of stairs and so to her room. She sat down on the bed to think. A day by the sea would be wonderful and the professor was a charming companion, if somewhat unmindful of his surroundings from time to time. From these reflections her thoughts progressed naturally enough to the important question as to what to wear. Not a winter coat, it wasn’t cold enough, and her old quilted jacket wouldn’t do in case they had a meal somewhere. It would have to be the elderly Jaeger suit, timeless in cut, its tweed of the best quality, but, to a discerning female eye, out of date. The professor probably hadn’t a discerning eye, indeed he had observed that she dressed sensibly, which, considering that he had only seen her in uniform and the brown velvet and blue crêpe, proved her point. It would have to be the tweed. This important decision having been made, she felt free to wonder why he wanted to spend a day with her. She refused to take seriously his remarks about her being a suitable wife. He must have friends here in London even if he was Dutch; he had seemed on very easy terms with Colonel Vosper and surely if he wanted a day out he would have chosen someone like Margaret, guaranteed to be an amusing companion besides having a pretty face and the right clothes.

She got out of her uniform slowly, and, no longer wishing for her supper, got into a dressing-gown and went along to the kitchenette to make a pot of tea and eat the rest of the rich tea biscuits left in the packet. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she put her name down for bread and butter and marmalade for her breakfast, which the nurses’ home maid would bring over and leave in the kitchenette. She was hunting round for milk when several of her friends came off duty after supper.

‘You’re not ill, are you?’ asked Lucy. ‘You never miss meals.’

‘I’m fine, I wasn’t hungry. I’ve got days off anyway.’

She wished she hadn’t said that, for Mary asked in her nosy way, ‘Going home, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Got a date?’

She didn’t need to think of an answer for someone said, gently teasing, ‘Of course she has. The Governor of the Bank of England; lunch off a gold plate at the Ritz and dinner and dancing with minor royalty…’

There was a chorus of laughter and Mary said huffily, ‘You all talk such nonsense.’ She thumped down her mug and went away, and presently the rest of them wandered away to wash their hair, do their nails and argue as to who should have the hairdrier first. Trixie nipped into one of the bathrooms before anyone else had laid claim to it, and soaked in the bath, wishing that she had said a firm ‘no’ to the professor’s invitation—not an invitation, really, more an order which he had taken for granted would be obeyed. She was pondering ways and means of letting him know that she wouldn’t be able to join him in the morning when repeated impatient thumps on the door forced her to get out of the bath.

‘You’ve been in there hours,’ said Mary. ‘You’re the colour of a lobster too. You’ll probably get a chill; a good thing you’ve got days off.’

Trixie took the pins out of her hair and let it fall in a soft brown curtain around her shoulders. ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ she agreed cheerfully, and went off to drink more tea with such of her friends as hadn’t gone to bed. Later, in her room, curled up in her bed, she found the chapter on endocrinology and read it carefully. The professor would probably discuss the subject nearest his heart and it might help to sustain a sensible conversation if she had some idea of the subject. She had had several lectures on it; indeed, the professor himself had delivered one of them, using so many long words that she had dozed off halfway through and had had to be prodded awake when he had finished.

It took her a little time to go to sleep, her head being full of any number of facts concerning ductless glands all nicely muddled.

In the light of an early November morning, the whole thing seemed absurd. Nevertheless, Trixie ate her toast and drank her tea and got into the tweed, did her hair and face with extra care, and, as nine o’clock struck, went down to the front entrance.

The professor was there, sharing a copy of the Sun with the head porter. He handed his portion back and went to meet her. His good morning was cheerful if brief. ‘The variety of newspapers in this country is wide,’ he told her. ‘I do not as a rule read anything other than The Times or the Telegraph but I must admit that the paper I have just been reading is, to say the least, stimulating, though I must admit that the advertisements in the Dutch daily papers are even more revealing.’

He ushered her into the car and got in beside her but made no attempt to drive away. ‘It is an interesting fact,’ he informed her, ‘that I find myself able to talk to you without inhibitions.’ He didn’t wait for her reply. ‘Do you know the east coast at all? There is a most interesting village there, once a town swallowed by the sea; it is National Trust property so that we can, if we wish, walk for miles.’

Trixie said faintly, ‘It sounds very pleasant. I don’t know that part of the country at all.’

He started the car and after that had very little to say, not that there was much to say about the Mile End Road, Leytonstone, Wanstead Flats and so on to the A12, but when they reached Chelmsford he turned north and took the road through Castle Hedingham and on to Lavenham, and there he stopped at the Swan Hotel, remarking that it was time they had a cup of coffee. The road was a quiet one, the country was wide and the town was old and charming. Trixie had given up serious thoughts; she was enjoying herself, and, although they had had but desultory talk, she felt very much at ease with her companion. She got out of the car and sat in the old inn, drinking her coffee and listening to his informed talk about the town.

‘Do you know this part of England well?’ she asked.

‘I do, yes. You see, it reminds me of my own country.’ He smiled at her and passed his cup for more coffee.

‘Wouldn’t you like to live in Holland?’

‘I do for a great deal of the time. I have, as it were, a foot in both camps. Do you know the Continent at all?’

‘My aunt and uncle took me to France while I was still at school. Paris.’

She remembered that she hadn’t enjoyed it much because she had had to do what Margaret wanted all the time and Margaret had no wish to look at old buildings and churches, only wanted to walk down the Rue de Rivoli and spend hours in the shops. ‘That’s all,’ she added flatly. ‘I expect you’ve travelled a lot?’

‘Well, yes. I go where I’m needed.’

They drove on presently and now he took the car through a network of side roads, missing Stowmarket and not joining the main road again until they had almost reached the coast, and presently they turned into a narrow country road which led eventually to a tree-shaded area where the professor parked the car. ‘This is where we get out and walk,’ he told Trixie, and got out to open her door. She could see the sea now and the village behind a shingle bank and low cliffs. It looked lonely and bleak under the grey sky, but the path they took was sheltered and winding, leading them into the village street. ‘Lunch?’ asked the professor, and took her by the arm and urged her into the Ship Inn.

He had been there before; he was greeted cheerfully by the stout cheerful man behind the bar, asked if he would like his usual and what would the young lady have?

Trixie settled for coffee and a ploughman’s lunch and sat down near the open fireplace. While she ate it, the professor talked of the history of the village, once a Saxon and then a Roman town, long swallowed up by the sea. Between mouthfuls of cheese he assured her that the bells of numerous churches long since drowned by the encroaching seas were still to be heard tolling beneath the waves. ‘There is a monastery along the cliffs; we will walk there presently and on to the Heath.’

They set out in a while with a strong wind blowing into their faces and the North Sea grey below the cliffs. The surge of the waves breaking on the shingle was almost as loud as the wind soughing among the trees. The professor had tucked her hand into his and was marching along at a good pace. It was evident that he envisaged a long walk. She thanked heaven for sensible shoes and saved her breath. They didn’t talk much until they were in sight of the coastguard cottages and beyond the bird reserve and the wide sweep of the coastline; indeed, it was so windy that just breathing normally was a bit of an effort. Trixie came to a thankful halt at last and the professor turned her round and studied her face.

‘That is better. I think that nursing is not a suitable life for you.’

‘Oh, do you? That’s what Staff Nurse Bennett says; that I’ll never make a good nurse.’

‘An unkind young woman.’ He stared down at her face, nicely rosy from the wind and the sea air. ‘It has occurred to me that I have been over-hasty in broaching the subject of our marriage. Nevertheless, I hope that you have given it your consideration. Perhaps you have a boyfriend of your own or you may not wish to marry?’

His voice was quiet and very faintly accented.

‘Me? A boyfriend? Heavens, no. At least,’ she hesitated, ‘before I started my training, there was a man who was one of Margaret’s friends—Aunt Alice would have liked him for a son-in-law, but for some reason he—he liked me instead of Margaret. That’s why I started nursing…’

It was a meagre enough explanation but the professor seemed to understand it. ‘I see—you say “out of sight, out of mind”, do you not?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t like him anyway…’

‘You have no objection to being married, do you?’

‘None at all,’ she told him soberly, and thought what a strange conversation they were having. Not even a glimmer of romance either, but the professor didn’t strike her as a romantic man; his work was his life, and she suspected that his social life was something he regarded as an unwelcome necessity.