A Christmas Wish

Perhaps you get like that when you’re old, thought Olivia, and gave her mother a cheerful wink. It was of no use getting annoyed, and she knew that her grandmother’s waspish tongue was far kinder to her mother, an only daughter who had married the wrong man—in her grandmother’s eyes at least—and it was because Olivia was more like her father than her mother that her grandmother disliked her. If she had been slender and graceful and gentle, like her mother, it might have been a different kettle of fish…

She dressed with care presently, anxious to look her best for Rodney. The jacket and skirt, even though they were four years old, were more or less dateless, as was the silk blouse which went with them. She didn’t look too bad, she conceded to herself, studying her person in her wardrobe mirror, only she wished that she were small and dainty. She pulled a face at her lovely reflection, gave her hair a final pat, and bade her mother goodbye.

‘Take a key,’ ordered her grandmother. ‘We don’t want to be wakened at all hours.’

Olivia said nothing. She couldn’t remember a single evening when Rodney hadn’t driven her back well before eleven o’clock.

Perhaps, she mused, sitting in an almost empty bus, she and Rodney had known each other for too long. Although surely when you were in love that wouldn’t matter? The thought that perhaps she wasn’t in love with him took her breath. Of course she was. She was very fond of him; she liked him, they had enjoyed cosy little dinners in out of the way restaurants and had gone to the theatre together and she had been to his flat. Only once, though. It was by the river in a new block of flats with astronomical rents, and appeared to her to be completely furnished, although Rodney had listed a whole lot of things which he still had to have. Only then, he had told her, would he contemplate settling down to married life.

It was a short walk from the bus-stop and she was punctual but he was already there, sitting at a table for two in the corner of the narrow room. He got up when he saw her and said ‘hello’ in a hearty way, not at all in his usual manner.

She sat down composedly and smiled at him. ‘Hello, Rodney. Was your trip successful?’

‘Trip? What…? Oh, yes, very. What would you like to drink?’

Why did she have the feeling that she was going to need something to bolster her up presently? ‘Gin and tonic,’ she told him. A drink she disliked but Debbie, who knew about these things, had assured her once that there was nothing like it to pull a girl together.

Rodney looked surprised. ‘That’s not like you, Olivia.’

She didn’t reply to that. ‘Tell me what you’ve been doing, and why do you want to talk, Rodney? It’s lovely to see you, but you sounded so—so urgent on the phone.’

He had no time to answer because the waiter handed them the menus and they both studied them. At least Olivia appeared to be studying hers, but actually she was wondering about Rodney. She asked for mushrooms in a garlic sauce and a Dover sole with a salad, and took a heartening sip of her drink. It was horrible but she saw what Debbie meant. She took another sip.

Their talk was trivial as they ate. Whatever it was Rodney had to tell her would doubtless be told over their coffee. He was an amusing companion, going from one topic to the next and never once mentioning his own work. Nor did he ask her about her own job or what she had been doing. She would tell him presently, she decided, and suppressed peevish surprise when he waved away the waiter with his trolley of desserts and ordered coffee. She was a girl with a healthy appetite and she had had her eye on the peach pavlova.

She poured the coffee and caught Rodney’s eye. ‘Well?’ she asked pleasantly. ‘Out with it, my dear. Have you been made redundant—I…’

‘Olivia, we’ve known each other a long time—we’ve been good friends—you may even have expected us to marry. I find this very difficult to say…’

‘Well, have a go!’ she encouraged in a matter-of-fact voice which quite concealed her shock. ‘As you say, we’ve been friends for a long time.’

‘Perhaps you’ve guessed.’ Rodney was having difficulty in coming to the point.

‘Well, no, I can’t say I have.’

‘The truth is I haven’t been away—I wanted to tell you but it was too difficult. I’m in love. We’re going to be married very shortly…’

‘Before you get your new car?’ asked Olivia. Silly, but what else to say?

‘Yes, yes, of course. She’s worth a dozen new cars. She’s wonderful.’

She looked at him across the table. Her grandmother was quite right: his eyes were too close together.

She smiled her sweetest smile. ‘Why, Rodney, how could I possibly have thought such a thing? I’m thinking of getting married myself.’

‘You could have told me…’

She gave him a limpid look. He looked awkward and added, ‘What’s he like? Has he got a good job? When are you getting married?’

‘Handsome. He has a profession and we intend to marry quite soon. Enough about me, Rodney, tell me about the girl you’re going to marry. Is she pretty? Dark? Fair?’

‘Quite pretty. I suppose you’d call her fair. Her father’s chairman of several big companies.’

‘Now that is nice—a wife with money-bags.’

He looked astounded. ‘Olivia, how can you say such a thing? We’re old friends—I can’t believe my ears.’

‘Old friends can say what they like to each other, Rodney. If I stay here much longer I might say a great deal more, so I’ll go.’

He got to his feet as she stood up. ‘You can’t,’ he spluttered. ‘I’ll drive you back; it’s the least I can do.’

‘Don’t be a pompous ass,’ said Olivia pleasantly, and walked out of the bistro and started along the street to the bus-stop.

Sitting in the bus presently, she decided that her heart wasn’t broken. Her pride had a nasty dent in it, though, and she felt a sadness which would probably turn into self-pity unless she did something about it. Of course it happened to thousands of girls, and she had to admit that she had thought of him as part of her pleasant life before her father had died, hoping that somehow or other she could turn back the clock by marrying him. She had been fond of him, accepted him as more than a friend, and although she had been in and out of love several times she had never given her whole heart; she had supposed that she would do that when they married.

‘How silly can you get?’ muttered Olivia, and the severe-looking couple sitting in front of her turned round to stare.

‘I counted my chickens before they were hatched,’ she told them gravely, and since it was her stop got off the bus.

‘It must be the gin and tonic,’ she said to herself. ‘Or perhaps I’m in shock.’ She unlocked the front door and went in. ‘I’ll make a strong cup of tea.’

The sitting-room door was half open. ‘You’re home early, darling,’ said her mother. ‘Is Rodney with you?’

Olivia poked her head round the door. ‘I came home by bus. I’m going to make a cup of tea—would you like one?’ She glanced across the room to her grandmother. ‘And you, Granny?’

‘You have refused him,’ said Mrs Fitzgibbon accusingly. ‘It is time you learnt on which side your bread is buttered, Olivia.’

‘You’re quite right, Granny, his eyes are too close together, and he’s going to marry the daughter of a chairman of several large companies.’

‘Do not be flippant, Olivia. What do you intend to do?’

‘Put the kettle on and have a cup of tea,’ said Olivia.

‘You’re not upset, darling?’ asked her mother anxiously. ‘We all thought he wanted to marry you.’

Olivia left the door and went to drop a kiss on her mother’s cheek.

‘I’m not a bit upset, love.’ She spoke with matter-of-fact cheerfulness because her mother did look upset. Unlike her daughter she was a small, frail little woman, who had been cherished all her married life and was still bewildered by the lack of it, despite Olivia’s care of her. ‘I’ll make the tea.’

She sat between the two of them presently, listening to her grandmother complaining about the lack of money, her lack of a job, and now her inability to get herself a husband. ‘You’re such a big girl,’ observed Mrs Fitzgibbon snappily.

Olivia, used to this kind of talk and not listening to it, drank her tea and presently took herself off, washing the tea things in the kitchen, laying her grandmother’s breakfast tray and their own breakfast, before she at last closed the door of her room.

Now, at last, she could cry her eyes out in peace.

CHAPTER TWO

DEBBIE looked up from the piles of folders on the table in the Records Office as the door opened and Mr van der Eisler came in. Her disconsolate face broke into a smile at the sight of him, although she asked with a touch of wariness, ‘Oh, hello—have I sent the wrong notes up again? I can’t get anything right, and now that Olivia’s not here to sort things out for me I seem to be in a muddle the whole time.’

He came unhurriedly to the table and glanced at the untidy piles on it. ‘I expect it will get easier once you have got used to being on your own. And I do want some notes, but there’s no hurry. Do you have to file these before you go home?’

She nodded. ‘It’s almost five o’clock and I daren’t leave them until the morning; there’ll be some bossy old sister coming down and wanting to know where this and that is. Interfering so-and-sos.’

‘Ten minutes’ work at the most,’ declared Mr van der Eisler. ‘I’ll sort them into alphabetical order, you file them.’

‘Cor—you mean you’ll give a hand? But no one ever does…’

He was already busy, and after a moment she did as he suggested.

‘I expect you miss Olivia,’ he observed presently.

‘You bet I do.’

‘Does she come to see you?’ His voice was casual.

‘No, worse luck. Doesn’t live near here. Her granny’s got a flat Islington way; she and her mum have to live with her since her dad died, left them badly off. Not that Olivia told me much—shut up like an oyster when it came to her private life.’ She laughed. ‘Not like me.’

He handed her another pile of folders. ‘You live near the hospital?’

‘Five minutes walk. Me dad’s out of work, Mum’s part-time at the supermarket. Was I scared that I’d get the sack? Olivia didn’t tell me, but the girl in the office said as how she had another job to go to. This wasn’t her cup of tea. Been to one of those la-di-da schools, I dare say. Always spoke posh, if you see what I mean.’

Mr van der Eisler agreed that he saw. ‘Not many jobs going in Islington, I should have thought.’

‘Not where her granny lives—one of those dull streets with rows of houses with net curtains. Had a soppy name too—Sylvester Crescent.’

Mr van der Eisler’s heavy lids drooped over the gleam in his eyes.

‘Very fanciful,’ he agreed. He handed over the last pile, waited while Debbie filed the folders away and came back to the table, made his request for the notes he needed, listened with a kind smile to her thanks and, with the folder under his arm, took himself off.

Debbie, bundling herself into her jacket, addressed the tidy shelves. ‘Now there’s a real gent for you. That was a nice chat too—no one knows how dull it is down here these days.’

Mr van der Eisler, discussing the next day’s list with the senior surgical registrar and the theatre sister, wrung from that lady a reluctant assent to begin operating at eight o’clock in the morning instead of an hour later, gave her a smile to set her elderly heart beating a good deal faster, and took his leave.

‘That man could wring blood from a stone,’ declared Sister. ‘I’m sure I don’t know why I let him get away with it…’

The registrar laughed. ‘Go one with you, you know you’d agree to open theatre at six a.m. He’s a splendid man and a first-rate surgeon. He’s been here several weeks now, hasn’t he? Handed over several new techniques, shared his ideas with Mr Jenks—between them they’ve perfected them—look at Mrs Eliza Brown.’

‘He’ll be leaving soon, I suppose.’

‘Yes, and Mr Jenks is going back with him for a week or two.’ He turned to leave. ‘He’ll be back, I’ve no doubt—goes all over the place—got an international reputation already. Not bad for a man of thirty-six.’

He wandered away to look out of a window, in time to see Mr van der Eisler’s grey Bentley edge out of the hospital forecourt.

‘I wonder where he goes?’ he reflected aloud.

Mr van der Eisler was going to Islington to cast his eye over Sylvester Crescent. He found it eventually, tooling patiently up and down identical streets of identical houses, and drove its length until he came to Mr Patel’s shop, still open.

Mr van der Eisler, who never purchased food for his excellently run household, nevertheless purchased a tin of baked beans, and engaged Mr Patel in casual conversation. Naturally enough the talk led to observations about Islington and Sylvester Crescent in particular.

‘A quiet area,’ observed Mr van der Eisler. ‘Flats, I suppose, and elderly people.’

‘You are right, sir.’ Mr Patel, with no customers in the offing, was glad of a chat. ‘Many elderly ladies and gentlemen. It is not a street for the young—and an awkward journey to the day’s work. There is Miss Harding, who lives with her grandmother Mrs Fitzgibbon at number twenty-six, but I see her each morning now, and I think she must no longer work.’ He sighed. ‘Such a beautiful young lady too. It is dull here for the young.’

Mr van der Eisler murmured suitably, remarked that Mr Patel and his shop must be a boon and a blessing to the neighbourhood, professed himself pleased with his purchase, paid for it and got back into his car. Number twenty-six was in the middle of the row of houses and there was a chink of light showing between the heavy curtains pulled across the windows on the ground floor.

He drove back to the quiet, elegant street near Sloane Square and let himself into his ground-floor flat to be met in the hall by his housekeeper.

‘You’re late, sir. Your dinner’s ready and I’ll be so bold as to say that it won’t keep for more than five minutes.’

‘Excellent timing, Becky.’ He patted her plump shoulder and added, ‘Here’s something for you to amuse yourself with.’

He handed her the bag and she looked inside. ‘Mr Haso, whatever will you do next? Since when have you eaten baked beans?’ She gave him a suspicious glance. ‘What did you want to buy it for?’

‘Well, I needed to ask for some information and the best place was the local corner shop.’

Miss Rebecca Potts, elderly now, and long since retired as his nanny, was his devoted housekeeper whenever he was in London, and she knew better than to ask him why he wanted to know something. All the same, she gave him a sharp look. ‘I’ll dish up,’ she told him severely. ‘You’ve time for a drink.’

He picked up his bag and went down the hall to his study and sat down in the leather armchair drawn up to the fire. A drink in his hand, he sat quietly, busy with his thoughts, until Becky knocked on the door.

It was two days before he had the opportunity to return to Sylvester Crescent. He had no plan as to what he intended doing, only the vague idea of seeing Olivia going to or from the shops or, failing that, calling at her grandmother’s flat with some trumped-up story about Debbie. Perhaps, he thought ruefully, once he had met her again, he would be able to get her off his mind.

He saw her as he turned the car into Sylvester Crescent, coming towards him in her well-worn jacket and skirt, her bright hair a splash of colour in the sober street, a shopping basket over her arm. He slowed the car and stopped as she drew abreast of it.

The quick colour swept over her face when she saw him but she said composedly, ‘Why, good morning, Mr van der Eisler. Have you a patient to visit?’

Mr van der Eisler, an upright and godfearing man, could on occasion lie like a trooper when it was necessary, and he considered that this was necessary. ‘No, no, I have a few hours with nothing to do. I am looking for a suitable flat for a friend who will be coming to London for a few months.’

He got out of the car and stood beside her. ‘A most delightful surprise to meet you again. I was in the Records Office only the other day and Debbie was telling me how much she missed you. She tells me that you have another job—how fortunate…’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ She caught his eye and something in his look made her add, ‘Well, no, I haven’t actually. I told her that because she was worried about getting the sack. Is she managing?’

‘Tolerably well.’ He smiled down at her, looking so kind that she had a sudden urge to tell him about her grandmother, whose nasty little digs about her not getting a job had done nothing to make her fruitless efforts easier to bear. Instead she said briskly, ‘It’s nice meeting you, but don’t let me keep you from your house-hunting.’

Mr van der Eisler, never a man to be deterred from his purpose, stood his ground. ‘As to that—’ he began, and was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Rodney, who had pulled in behind the Bentley and was grabbing Olivia by the arm.

‘Olivia—I had to come and see you…’

Olivia removed her arm. ‘Why?’ she asked coldly.

‘Oh, old friends and all that, you know. Wouldn’t like you to think badly of me—you did walk off in a huff…’ He glanced at Mr van der Eisler towering over him, a look of only the faintest interest upon his face. ‘I say,’ Rodney went on, ‘is this the lucky man?’ He shook hands, beaming. ‘Olivia said she was going to get married—described you to a T. Well, everything works out for the best, doesn’t it?’ He patted Olivia’s shoulder. ‘You don’t know what a relief it is to see you so happy. Can’t stop now. My regards to your mother. Bye, old girl.’

He flashed a smile at them both, got back into his car, and drove away without looking back.

Olivia looked at her feet and wished she could stop blushing, and Mr van der Eisler looked at the top of her head and admired her hair.

‘I can explain,’ said Olivia to her shoes. ‘It wasn’t you I described; I said he was very large and had a profession and a great deal of money.’ She added crossly, ‘Well, that’s what any girl would say, isn’t it?’

Mr van der Eisler, used to unravelling his patients’ meanderings, hit the nail on the head accurately. ‘Any girl worth her salt,’ he agreed gravely. ‘Did you actually intend to marry this—this fellow?’

‘Well, you see, I’ve known him for years, long before Father died and we had to move here, and somehow he seemed part of my life then and I didn’t want to give that up—do you see what I mean?’

She looked at him then. He looked just as a favourite uncle or cousin might have looked: a safe recipient of her woes, ready to give sound advice. She said breathlessly, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t think why I’m boring you with all this. Please forgive me—he— Rodney was something of a shock.’

He took her basket from her. ‘Get in the car,’ he suggested mildly. ‘We will have a cup of coffee before you do your shopping.’

‘No, no, thank you. I can’t keep you standing around any longer. I must get the fish…’

As she was speaking she found herself being urged gently into the Bentley. ‘Tell me where we can get coffee—I passed some shops further back.’

‘There’s the Coffee-Pot, about five minutes’ walk away—so it’s close by. Aren’t I wasting your time?’ she asked uneasily.

‘Certainly not. In fact, while we are having it I shall pick your brains as to the best way of finding a flat.’

The café was in a side-street. He parked the car, opened her door for her, and followed her into the half-empty place. It was small, with half a dozen tables with pink formica tops, and the chairs looked fragile. Mr van der Eisler, a man of some seventeen stones in weight, sat down gingerly. He mistrusted the chairs and he mistrusted the coffee which, when it came, justified his doubts, but Olivia, happy to be doing something different in her otherwise rather dull days, drank hers with every appearance of enjoyment and, while she did, explained in a matter-of-fact way about living with Granny.

‘I dare say you are glad to have a brief holiday,’ he suggested, and handed her the plate of Rich Tea biscuits which had come with the coffee.

‘Well, no, not really. I mean, I do need a job as soon as possible, only I’m not trained for anything really useful…’ She went on in a bright voice, ‘Of course I shall find something soon, I’m sure.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ he agreed, and went on to talk of other things. He had had years of calming timid patients, so he set about putting Olivia at her ease before mentioning casually that he would be going back to Holland very shortly.

‘Oh—but will you come back here?’

‘Yes. I’m an honorary consultant at Jerome’s, so I’m frequently over here. I do have beds in several hospitals in Holland—I divide my time between the two.’ He drank the last of the coffee with relief. ‘Do you plan to stay with your grandmother for the foreseeable future?’

‘Until I can get a job where Mother and I can live together. Only I’m not sure what kind of job. There are lots of advertisements for housekeepers and minders, although I’m not sure what a minder is and I’m not good enough at housekeeping, although I could do domestic work…’

He studied the lovely face opposite him and shook his head. ‘I hardly think you’re suitable for that.’

Which dampened her spirits, although she didn’t let him see that. ‘I really have to go. It has been nice meeting you again and I do hope you find a nice flat for your friend.’

He paid the bill and they went outside, and she held out a hand as they stood on the pavement. ‘Goodbye, Mr van der Eisler. Please give Debbie my love if ever you should see her. Please don’t tell her that I haven’t got a job yet.’

She walked away quickly, wishing that she could spend the whole day with him; he had seemed like an old friend and she lacked friends.

By the time she reached the fishmonger’s the fillets of plaice that her grandmother had fancied for dinner that evening had been sold and she had to buy a whole large plaice and have it filleted, which cost a good deal more money. Olivia, her head rather too full of Mr van der Eisler, didn’t care.

Naturally enough, when she returned to the flat she was asked why she had spent half the morning doing a small amount of shopping. ‘Loitering around drinking coffee, I suppose,’ said Mrs Fitzgibbon accusingly.

‘I met someone I knew at the hospital; we had coffee together,’ said Olivia. She didn’t mention Rodney.

Mr van der Eisler drove himself back to his home, ate the lunch Becky had ready for him, and went to the hospital to take a ward-round. None of the students trailing him from one patient to the next had the least suspicion that one corner of his brilliant mind was grappling with the problem of Olivia while he posed courteous questions to each of them in turn.

Olivia had let fall the information that her grandmother had once lived in a small village in Wiltshire, and in that county was the school where his small goddaughter was a boarder, since her own grandmother lived near enough to it for her to visit frequently during term-time. In the holidays she went back to Holland to her widowed mother, who had sent her to an English school because her dead husband had wanted that. Might there be a possibility of Mrs Fitzgibbon and Nel’s grandmother being acquainted, or at least having mutual friends? It was worth a try…

‘Now,’ he said in his placid way, ‘which of you gentlemen will explain to me the exact reasons which make it necessary for me to operate upon Miss Forbes?’

He smiled down at the woman lying in bed and added, ‘And restoring her to normal good health once more?’ He sounded so confident that she smiled back at him.

It was several days before Mr van der Eisler was free to drive down to Wiltshire. His small goddaughter’s grandmother lived in a village some five or six miles from Bradford-on-Avon and on that particular morning there was more than a hint of spring in the air. The sky was blue—albeit rather pale, the sun shone—as yet without much warmth, and the countryside was tipped with green. Slowing down to turn off the road on to a narrow country lane leading to Earleigh Gilford, he told himself that he was wasting his time: Olivia had probably got herself a job by now and the chance of her grandmother knowing Lady Brennon was so remote as to be hopeless.