The Course of True Love. Бетти Нилс
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about it, she promised herself that she would have another go in the morning.
Perhaps he wasn’t as bad as she had first thought, she decided sleepily; he had driven her back to her flat, opened her door for her and then bidden her a cheerful goodnight. She had been debating whether to ask him in for a final cup of coffee as they drove, but the very briskness of his manner decided her against it.
She was ready and waiting for him when he arrived the next morning. They exchanged good mornings but, beyond a few civil remarks about the weather, which for early April was chilly and damp, they had nothing to say to each other, and once at the clinic they each went their own way, to meet again presently on a strictly professional basis.
Even if they had felt inclined, there was no opportunity to talk. The clinic bulged with patients of all sorts, a good-natured crowd with its crutches and slings and neck braces, sitting patiently and rather noisily in the waiting-room. There were two physiotherapists there besides Claribel. They shared out the work between them and long after Mr van Borsele had seen his last patient, they were all hard at it. It was after one o’clock when they began to clear up and tidy away the apparatus.
He’ll be gone, reflected Claribel as she got out of her overall. I’ll have to get a bus—it’ll take hours. She dragged a comb through her hair, dabbed powder on to her nose and got into her coat. The other two girls were waiting to leave. She said goodbye and went out through the side door and saw the Rolls parked in front of it. Mr van Borsele was at the wheel, looking impassive. He got out and opened the door, and ushered her in without a word.
‘There was no need to wait,’ protested Claribel, faintly peevish, and was taken aback when he replied,
‘Well, of course there wasn’t, only I chose to do so.’
‘Well, really…’
‘I have found,’ remarked Mr van Borsele blandly as he sent the car smoothly to join the traffic, ‘that the English language is littered with useless phrases.’ And, while she was getting over that, ‘Unfortunately there is not sufficient time to have lunch, but one of the registrars assures me that Nick’s Diner, just round the corner from Jerome’s, can offer a sound beef sandwich and good coffee. We will go there.’
He had no more to say and for the life of her Claribel could think of no conversation suitable for the occasion. She knew very well that if she raised any objections she would be either ignored or talked out of it; she held her tongue.
The streets were comparatively empty; she got out, still wordless, when Mr van Borsele parked tidily in the consultant’s car park and walked beside him as he strode out of the hospital forecourt into the dingy street beyond. Nick’s Diner was down a side street, one side of which was taken up by St Jerome’s looming walls. It was small and rather dark and the plastic tables were crowded close together, but it was clean and the aroma from the coffee machine caused Claribel to wrinkle her pretty nose.
The little place was full but as they went in two medical students got up from a table near the door. ‘Over here, sir,’ they chorused and ushered Claribel into a chair, accepting his thanks with a kind of reverence which made her smile a little, and rushed out. Probably they had skipped a lecture.
The proprietor, a small wizened man who had been there so long no one could remember when he first appeared, joined them at once, gave the table a wipe and bent a differential ear to Mr van Borsele’s request for beef sandwiches and coffee.
‘Couldn’t ’ave chosen better,’ he assured them. ‘Nice bit o’ beef I’ve got—cuts like silk—and good ’olesome bread to go with it, too; none of that white flannel stuff from a factory. Be with you in a couple of shakes, sir.’
Sir sat back and looked around him and then across the little table at Claribel. ‘Hardly a place I would like to bring anyone. You’re not feeling insulted or having injured feelings, I hope?’
‘Me? Heavens, no.’ She added waspishly, ‘I’m not a snob.’
‘I hardly imagined that you were. Nor am I, although I can see that you think that I am. But one would normally choose a rather more fitting background for a girl as pretty as you are, Claribel.’
He watched her blush.
‘Why are you called Claribel?’
‘My mother liked—still likes—historical romances. Just before I was born she was reading a tale where the heroine was called Claribel—so I was christened that. She rather wanted Mariabella, which is another version of it, but Father put his foot down.’
‘And your brother?’ The question was put casually.
‘Sebastian? Oh, Mother was into Shakespeare in a big way.’ She bit into a sandwich. ‘Why were…’ she began, but stopped just in time and took another bite; she must remember that he was a consultant and, from what Miss Flute had let drop, an important one in his own field.
‘My name, as you know, is Marc, spelled with a c, and, since the conversation tends to be rather more personal than usual, I am thirty-six years old. At the moment I am not prepared to divulge more details of my life.’
She chocked on some of the wholesome bread. ‘I am not in the least interested in you, Mr van Borsele.’ She spoke with a cold dignity marred by having a mouthful of sandwich.
He laughed. ‘What a touchy girl you are! How old are you, Claribel?’
She said indignantly, ‘Don’t you know that you never ask any girl how old she is?’
‘Yes, I know, but you aren’t any girl, Claribel. You look about eighteen, but of course, you’re not.’ He waited for her to reply, his eyebrows raised.
He was utterly impossible and getting worse all the time; she couldn’t imagine Frederick saying a thing like that. Come to think of it, she couldn’t imagine Frederick… He had become so vague she could barely remember what he looked like. ‘I’m twenty-eight.’ She added coldly, ‘Is there anything else you want to know?’
‘Oh, a great deal, but unfortunately we are pressed for time.’
She put down her empty coffee cup. ‘I really have to go. Thank you for my lunch, Mr van Borsele.’
He got up with her, paid the bill, and followed her into the street. ‘What’s his name, this young man who walks you through London parks until your feet ache?’
She said quickly, ‘Oh, you wouldn’t know him.’ She spoke so hurriedly and loudly that he had his answer and smiled to himself. ‘I’m not being nosey, just making polite conversation,’ he assured her blandly. ‘Are you—what is the term?—going steady with him?’
They were crossing the forecourt and in a few moments she would be able to escape his endless questions. ‘No, of course not.’ She was an honest girl, so she added, ‘Well, I suppose I could if I wanted to, only I don’t. It’s just that he wants someone to go for a walk with.’
Mr van Borsele gave a chortle of laughter and she said crossly, ‘Don’t you dare laugh.’
‘No, no, my dear girl, I’m laughing for all the wrong reasons. You have too kind a heart; I suspect you don’t discourage this young man with no name. I suspect also that you get dates enough and can pick and choose.’
She said seriously, ‘Well, yes, I suppose so, but I’m not very, well—modern.’ She stared up at him with a grave face. ‘You won’t know what I mean.’
‘On the contrary, I know very well.’ He smiled suddenly and she discovered that he was a kind man after all. ‘If ever I should invite you out again, Claribel, it will be on the strict understanding that you have no need to be modern. Being well past my first youth, I’m not modern, either.’
They had reached the side door leading to the physiotherapy department. He opened it for them and with a brief nod walked away.
She scuttled down the covered way, already late. Perhaps she liked him after all, she thought confusedly;