The Course of True Love. Бетти Нилс
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admire you!’
‘Probably.’ He spoke without conceit. ‘But I’m really only concerned with one girl, not untold numbers.’
‘Oh, well in that case it doesn’t matter what I think about you, does it, Mr van Borsele?’
He shrugged into his coat, offered a gentle hand to Enoch and Toots and went to the door. He didn’t answer her, only wished her the politest of goodnights as he left.
Several times during the evening she found herself wishing that Mr van Borsele had been there, which, considering she didn’t like him, seemed strange.
Back in her flat, lying in bed with the cats curled up at her feet, she decided it was because he was so much older than the young men who had been at the party, mostly newly qualified housemen or final-year students. ‘After all, I am getting a bit long in the tooth,’ muttered Claribel to her unresponsive companions.
Of course she knew other older men. There was one in particular, Frederick Frost, the junior registrar on the orthopaedic wards, a serious man who had given her to understand that he had singled her out for his attention. She had gone out with him on several occasions now, and liked him well enough although she found him singularly lacking in romantic feeling. He would be a splendid husband; he would also be very dull.
Sometimes she lay in bed and wondered if she had been wise to refuse the offers of several young men who had wished to marry her. She hadn’t loved any of them; liked them well enough, even been fond of them, but that was all. Somewhere in the world, she was convinced, was the man she could love for always; she had no idea what he would look like but she supposed that when she met him she would know that he was the one. Only here she was, the wrong end of the twenties, and it looked as though she would never meet him.
Frederick had asked her to spend Sunday afternoon with him; she came back from church in the morning, ate her solitary lunch and took a bus to Hyde Park where they were to meet. Frederick believed in good fresh air and exercise; he walked her briskly from the Marble Arch entrance to Green Park and thence to St James’s Park, talking rather prosily all the way. Claribel, brought up in the country and fond of walking, nonetheless was relieved when they finally reached the Mall and Trafalgar Square and entered a modest café for tea and toasted teacakes.
Frederick was on duty at the hospital at six o’clock. He saw her on to a bus, assuring her that she looked all the better for the exercise they had taken that afternoon, and invited her to repeat it on the following Sunday.
Claribel’s feet ached and her head buzzed with the various diagnoses he had been entertaining with her; she said hastily that she would be going home, thanked him prettily for her tea and sank thankfully on to a seat in the bus.
The cats were pleased to see her and her little room looked cosy as she went indoors. She kicked off her shoes, took off her outdoor things and turned on the gas fire. She would sit and read for an hour before getting her supper.
It was barely ten minutes before the knocker on her front door was given a sound thump. She got up reluctantly, dislodging the cats, and went to open the door.
Mr van Borsele loomed over her. ‘I thought I told you never to answer the door without making sure that you knew the caller,’ he said testily. ‘Well, won’t you ask me in?’
‘Why should I?’ she snapped. ‘Banging on my door… Next time I shan’t open it.’
‘What makes you think there will be a next time?’ he asked smoothly.
Only by a great effort did she stop herself from grinding her teeth. ‘There won’t be if I can help it,’ she assured him coldly.
‘Having cleared up that knotty point, may I come in? There’s something I wish to discuss with you.’
‘Could it not wait until Monday?’ She added crossly, ‘It’s Sunday, you know.’
‘Monday will be too late.’ He suddenly smiled at her with great charm. ‘If I might come in?’
She stood back reluctantly and remembered that she wasn’t wearing her shoes. At the same time Mr van Borsele observed, ‘Been walking? Don’t bother to put your shoes on for me.’ He studied her stockinged feet. ‘You have nice ankles.’
He was impossible! She said stonily, ‘You wished to say something urgently, Mr van Borsele?’
‘Ah, yes. There is an orthopaedic clinic in White-chapel; it seems there is a flu bug there which has laid low the visiting consultant and three of the physiotherapists. They have asked us for help, and Miss Flute suggested you might accompany me—she can get a part-time girl in to do your work at our clinic for the morning, and I happen to be free until the afternoon. The clinic starts at eight o’clock and lasts until about noon.’
‘Why me?’ asked Claribel.
‘You seem to be a sensible young woman, able to cope.’
‘Am I given any choice?’
‘Not really. It’s a busy clinic; takes fringe cases from several hospitals; I believe the patients come quite long distances.’
Claribel eyed him carefully; he didn’t appear to be anything else but serious but one couldn’t tell. She said slowly, ‘Very well, Mr van Borsele.’
‘Splendid. One does appreciate a willing volunteer.’ His voice was all silk so that she darted a suspicious look at him. He met her eye with a look of bland innocence and she was sure that he was finding something very amusing behind it.
‘I am not a willing volunteer,’ she protested. ‘You yourself have just said…’
He interrupted her in a soothing voice, ‘No, no, of course you’re not; merely doing your duty, however irksome. I will call for you at seven o’clock precisely; that will give us time to find our way around.’
He had been standing all this time and so had she. ‘You have had a pleasant afternoon? A few hours in the country, perhaps?’
She thought of her aching feet. ‘Hyde Park and Green Park and St James’s Park.’
‘Delightful in pleasant company.’
She thought of Frederick. ‘I dare say,’ she sighed.
‘Never alone, Claribel?’
‘No,’ she added, forgetting to whom she was talking. ‘I would have liked to be at home.’ She looked up at him with her lovely eyes and was startled at the look on his face, gone so quickly that she supposed that she had imagined it.
He said casually, ‘One can be lonely even with companions. Do you suppose we might dine together this evening? I had to cancel a date so that I could get arrangements made for the morning and I’m sure we could remain polite towards each other for a couple of hours; we don’t need to talk unless you want to.’
While he spoke he contrived to look lonely and hungry and in need of companionship; Claribel was aware that he was doing it deliberately, but all the same it would be heartless to refuse. Besides, there was only cold ham in the fridge… She said quickly before she thought better of it, ‘Very well, Mr van Borsele, I’ll dine with you, but I have to see to Enoch and Toots first.’ She remembered her manners. ‘Do sit down, I’ll only be ten minutes.’ At the door she paused. ‘Nowhere posh—I’m not dressed to go out.’
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