Two Weeks to Remember. Betty Neels
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there is nothing to tell. I suddenly knew that I didn’t want to go on sort of waiting for Sidney. I mean there wasn’t anything definite; I suppose we’d just drifted into taking it for granted that we’d marry one day.’ She sighed. ‘I got home late and he didn’t like having to wait for me…’
‘I think that’s my fault. I gave you that extra work.’
‘Not your fault at all,’ said Charity with some spirit. ‘If it hadn’t been you it could have been anyone else. It’s my job, isn’t it?’
Professor Wyllie-Lyon sat back in his chair as though he had nothing to do for the rest of the day. ‘Do you ever feel that you would like to change your job, Charity?’
She said seriously, ‘Oh, yes, but what could I do? I’m nothing but a shorthand typist, you know.’
‘A good one, if I may say so. But you are a capable young woman, you can cook and presumably keep house and you get on well with people, don’t you?’
She said with sudden fierceness. ‘I want to travel, see other countries; soon it will be too late.’ She stopped, ashamed of her outburst, but he didn’t seem to notice that.
‘You would like to marry and have children?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She was off again, speaking her thoughts aloud. ‘A large rambling house with a huge garden and dogs and cats and a donkey and children—not just one or two.’ She stopped for a second time, going slowly pink under his gaze, wondering what had come over her, talking such nonsense to someone she hardly knew. ‘I really must get back,’ she said, with a briskness which brought a quiver to the professor’s mouth.
He agreed unfussily and talked of nothing much on their brief journey back to the hospital, and at the door he thanked her pleasantly for her company and hoped that her afternoon wouldn’t be too busy.
She darted down the passage, her thoughts a fine muddle. She had enjoyed being with him, she liked him; on the other hand she had allowed her tongue to run away with her. Perhaps he had been bored? She burst into the office, blushing furiously at the very idea, so that Miss Hudson gave her a surprised look and said with unwonted concern, ‘Well, there’s no need to break your neck, dear. You’re scarlet from hurrying. You’d better have a drink of water.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘You’re not late.’
Charity looked rather wildly at her. ‘Oh, good—I rather forgot the time.’ She hung her coat in the cupboard, obediently drank a glass of water and went to her desk. A lot of reports had come in while she had been away and, as usual, she had the lion’s share. Not that she minded; the more she had to occupy her, the better, and in future she would keep out of Professor Wyllie-Lyon’s way.
She had no need to worry; there was no sign of him. And a very good thing too, she told herself severely; she was becoming far too interested in him. She had to remind herself of this several times during the following week; the days seemed long and purposeless and her quiet evenings at home excessively dull. She welcomed Saturday at last, with the prospect of the Church Fête, an annual affair which tried everyone connected with it to their utmost. Weeks ago she had agreed to help her aunt with a stall: fancy goods, which meant handiwork done by the ladies of the parish. She spent Saturday morning arranging tea cosies, hand-painted calendars, embroidered trayclothes, aprons and a variety of crochet work, some items of which she was unable to recognise.
She and Aunt Emily hurried back home for a hasty lunch and then presented themselves, in the nick of time, before the church hall doors opened to the public to allow the small crowd in. Most of them made for the jumble stall, crowding round it impatiently while a film star of the lesser kind made an opening speech. Charity, re-arranging knitted egg cosies, listened with half an ear. The star had a faint lisp, which became irksome after a few minutes, but she received hearty applause, although whether that was because she had finished talking and everyone could get down to the business in hand, or because they admired her oration, was a moot point.
Talking animatedly to the vicar, she did a round of the stalls, but not of course the jumble, and left presently, the richer by a number of useless articles she didn’t want, and almost totally unnoticed by the audience she had so recently addressed.
Charity, persuading a haughty lady from the better end of St John’s Wood to buy a crocheted bedjacket in a revolting pink, had just taken the money and popped the garment into a bag before she could change her mind, when she looked up and saw Professor Wyllie-Lyon, head and shoulders above everyone else, coming towards her. She handed change, assured the lady that she would never regret her purchase and, swallowing back pleasure at the sight of him, wished him what she hoped was a cool good afternoon.
He didn’t bother to answer that. ‘Is this how you spend your leisure?’ he wanted to know. ‘I must say you have remarkably persuasive powers; no woman worth her salt would wear a pink monstrosity such as you have just sold her.’
‘This is a bazaar; people buy things they don’t want—it’s quite usual.’ She re-arranged some baby bootees in sky-blue. ‘How—how did you get here?’
‘By car.’
‘Oh, well, yes. Of course. I mean, do you know anyone here?’
‘You.’
‘Oh, I thought—that is, have you been away, Professor?’
‘Ah—you missed me.’ He smiled in a self-satisfied way so that she felt impelled to say, ‘I missed all the work.’
‘You sound tart.’ He looked around him. ‘How long does this go on for?’
‘Until half-past five.’ She became aware that Aunt Emily was sidling towards her end of the stall, intent on being introduced. She said clearly, ‘Aunt, this is Professor Wyllie-Lyon from the hospital—my aunt, Miss Graham.’
She had always thought of him as being a reserved man, very large and learned, and with a mind way above church bazaars and the like; she had been wrong. He listened with every sign of interest to her aunt’s rambling discourse encompassing church bazaars in general, her own stall in particular and the amount of work it involved. ‘Although of course it would be far harder if it wasn’t for Charity’s help—such a dear girl; a real support to her father and myself.’ Aunt Emily, quite carried away, went on, ‘Such a pity about Sidney, you know. We quite thought…’
Charity’s voice throbbed with feeling, even though it was quiet. ‘I don’t expect that the professor is interested.’
Aunt Emily prided herself on being able to take a hint. ‘Of course, dear, how foolish of me.’ She peered up at him, studying his impassive face. ‘I dare say you’re very clever and learned—Charity’s father is, you know—a bookworm, as I so often tell him. I like a nice romantic novel myself, but he prefers first editions…’
‘Indeed?’ Professor Wyllie-Lyon had focused all his attention on Aunt Emily. ‘A man after my own heart; I’m a collector myself.’
Aunt Emily beamed. ‘Well, but how interesting; you must come and meet my brother, I’m sure you would have a lot in common.
The professor’s eyes rested briefly on Charity’s face. ‘I believe that we have.’
Charity, counting out change to a very pregnant young woman who had bought three pairs of bootees, stretched her ears, anxious not to miss a word.
‘If you are free this evening?’ began Aunt Emily. ‘We close the bazaar in half an hour—perhaps you would care to come back with us and meet my brother? I’m sure he’ll be delighted.’
The professor’s heavy-lidded eyes took in the look of consternation on Charity’s face and he smiled very faintly. ‘That would be delightful,’ he observed blandly. ‘I have my car outside; may I give you a lift? I’ll be outside when you are ready to leave.’
He took his leave, gave Charity a casual nod, and wandered off to try his luck on the bottle stall.
‘Such a nice man,’ declared her aunt.