Winter Wedding. Betty Neels
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surprise, gaped. The Professor’s handsome features, however, remained calm. He reined in his horse, got down and said civilly: ‘Good afternoon, Nurse Seymour.’
She muttered a greeting, rather red in the face, and bent to inspect Claire. ‘I didn’t know that you were married.’ He turned to smile at Emily, and the red deepened.
‘I’m not,’ said Emily.
His expression didn’t alter, only his heavy lids drooped over his eyes so that she had no idea what he was thinking. ‘She is very like you,’ he observed. ‘What is her name?’
‘Claire.’
‘Charming. You live close by?’
She jerked her head sideways. ‘Yes, in one of those houses over there—the last in a row, so it’s not too bad.’ She added earnestly: ‘I was lucky to get it.’ She went on, to make it clear: ‘It’s not so easy to get a house, you know—not if you’re not married.’
‘Er—probably not. I’m lost in admiration that you can work full time and run a house and a baby as well.’
‘Well, Louisa—she’s my sister, is staying with me until she can go to school for modelling—she’s waiting for a place.’
His eyes flickered over her sensible coat, wellingtons and woolly cap pulled well down. ‘She must be a pretty girl.’
‘Oh, she is,’ said Emily enthusiastically, ‘and she’s only just eighteen.’
He smiled faintly. ‘And you, Emily? how old are you?’
‘Twenty-three, almost twenty-four.’
‘And Claire?’
‘Eight months.’
‘You moved here because of her, of course,’ he suggested smoothly.
Emily had her mouth open to explain and then thought better of it. He couldn’t possibly be interested. She frowned a little and said ‘Yes’ and nothing more. And then, because he just stood there, saying nothing, she said: ‘I must be getting on; it’s cold for Claire if I stand still.’
‘Of course.’ He got on his horse, raised his crop in salute and rode on, leaving her to continue her walk while she discussed the meeting with Claire, who chuckled and crowed and didn’t answer back, which was nice. She was almost home again when the thought crossed her mind that the Professor might have thought Claire to be her baby. She stopped in the middle of the pavement, so that people hurrying past had to push against her.
‘But that’s absurd,’ said Emily, out loud. ‘I’m not married.’
The elderly woman squeezing past her, running over her wellingtons with one of those beastly little carriers on wheels, paused to say: ‘Then you ought to be, my girl!’
Emily delivered a telling kick at the carrier; better than nothing, for she could think of nothing to answer back.
She went back on duty the next morning, on day duty now, but still on ENT. The wards were as busy as ever and Mr Spencer cheered her up by the warmth of his welcome. Of the Professor there was no sign; she went back home that evening wondering what had happened to him. She hadn’t liked to ask and she had gone late to her dinner, so that she hadn’t had a chance to talk to any of her friends.
He was there on the following morning, though, doing a round with Mr Spencer and his house surgeon, Sister and the speech therapist, a young woman whom Emily envied, for she was tall and slim and always said the right thing so that even the Professor listened to her when she had something to say, and smiled too. He didn’t smile at Emily, only wished her a chilly good morning and requested a patient’s notes. On her way home later, pedalling briskly through the crowded streets, she saw him again, driving a beautiful Jaguar XJ Spider. It was a silver-grey, Italian designed and probably worth a very great deal of money. He lifted a nonchalant hand in greeting as he slid past her which she had to ignore; there was so much traffic about that if she had lifted a hand from the handlebar she would certainly have fallen off.
Louisa wanted to go to the cinema, so Emily stayed home, contentedly enough because she had had a hard day. The little sitting room, rather bare of furniture, yet looked cosy enough in the firelight; she sat by it and sewed for the twins by the light of the lamp at her elbow.
There was a good programme on Radio Three and she allowed her thoughts to idle along with Brahms and Grieg and Delius. They returned over and over again to the Professor—too much so, she told herself severely; it was pointless to get even the faintest bit interested in him when he could hardly bear the sight of her. Besides, with a car like that, he obviously came from an entirely different background from her own. She folded her needlework carefully, left everything ready for Louisa to make herself a hot drink when she came in, and went to bed.
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