They all went at last; Beatrice sent the part-time helpers home, spent a brief time with the cook checking the menu for the next day, assured her that she could manage on her own and, once left to herself, emptied the dishwasher and began to put out coffee-cups and saucers, spoons and sugar basins ready for the morning. They were well ahead for the next day, she reflected. There had been time while they waited between the breaks to prepare the food and collect plates and cutlery ready to lay the tables again. She had almost finished when the entrance door was pushed open and Tom came in.
‘Thought you’d be here. Lord, I’ve had a busy day—I could do with a sandwich or even a coffee …’
Beatrice arranged the last few cups just so. ‘Go away, Tom. I’m tired, I’ve had a busy day too and you know you have no business to be here.’
‘Since when haven’t I been allowed to come over here?’ He was laughing, wheedling her.
‘You know very well what I mean. Of course you can come here when you need to see the path. lab about something or other. But this isn’t the path. lab and in any case if you are as busy as you say you are you can telephone.’
‘Snappy, aren’t you? Never mind, I’ll make allowances, I dare say your dull old men have bored you stiff. When we marry you can stay at home and keep house and be a lady of leisure.’
‘I’m not going to marry you, Tom. Now go away, do.’
He came round the counter towards her. ‘Oh, come on, you know you don’t mean it.’
He was smiling and he had a charming smile, only she didn’t feel like being charmed; she wanted a quick meal, a hot bath and her bed. She pushed his arm away. ‘I said go away …’
The outer door had opened very quietly. Professor van der Eekerk was beside her before she had even seen him come in. He said smoothly, ‘Miss Crawley, do forgive me, but I need to check the times of the papers being read tomorrow. Perhaps you would like me to come back later?’
He smiled gently at her and glanced at Tom Ford, murmured something or other and turned to go again.
‘Don’t go,’ said Beatrice, rather more loudly than she had intended. ‘There’s no need. I mean, I’ll be glad to help you, Professor.’ She shot a fiery look at Tom. ‘Dr Ford was just going.’
‘In that case …’ observed the professor and held the door for Tom to go through, giving him a cheerful goodnight as he went.
‘Now what?’ asked Beatrice, very much on edge and not disposed to be polite or friendly.
‘Food, a long hot bath and bed,’ said Professor van der Eekerk, putting his finger exactly on the crux of the matter. ‘Go and get a coat—don’t bother with titivating yourself, you’ll do as you are. We’ll go to a fish and chip shop or something similar. You can eat your fill and be back here within the hour.’
‘I had intended—’ began Beatrice haughtily.
‘Beans on toast? A boiled egg? A great girl like you needs a square meal. Off you go.’
He held the door open and after a moment she went past him and started up the stairs. She told herself that she hadn’t said anything because she was speechless with rage; in actual fact he had suggested exactly what she wanted to do …
She got her coat and, since he had said—rudely, she considered—that she was all right as she was, she didn’t bother to look in the mirror. When she joined him she said frostily, ‘You wanted to ask me something, Professor?’
He looked vague. ‘Did I? Oh, yes, of course. It was the first thing I thought of. I was coming out of the hospital when I saw your boyfriend coming this way …’
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘No, no, of course not.’ He went around turning off lights and then ushered her out into the passage. ‘I was told by your excellent head porter that there is a splendid café just along the street. Alfred’s Place is its name, I believe—let us sample Alfred’s cooking.’
He took her arm and marched her out of the forecourt and into the busy street, its small shops still open and plenty of people still about. The café was a bare five minutes’ walk away; the professor pushed open the door and urged her inside. It was almost full and the air was redolent of hot food and Beatrice’s charming nose wrinkled with delight as they sat down at a table in one corner.
There was no menu but Alfred came over at once. “Ow do?’ he greeted them cheerfully. ‘Me old pal at St Justin’s gave me a tinkle, said you might be coming. ‘E’s ‘ead porter.’
‘Very thoughtful of him. What can you offer us? We have very little time but we’re hungry …’
‘Pot o’ tea ter start and while yer drinking it I’ll do a couple of plates of bacon and eggs, tomatoes and fried bread.’ Alfred, small and portly, drew himself up. ‘I reckon you wouldn’t eat better up west.’
‘It sounds delicious.’ The professor glanced at Beatrice. ‘Or is there something else you fancy, Beatrice?’
‘I can’t think of anything nicer. And I’d love a cup of tea.’
The tea came, borne by a plump pretty girl, untidy, but nevertheless very clean. She gazed at the professor as she set the pot before Beatrice. ‘Dad says you’re a professor,’ she breathed in an excited whisper. ‘I never seen one before.’
She gave him a wide grin and hurried away to answer another customer.
‘I feel that I should have horns or a beard and a basilisk stare at the very least!’
Beatrice poured their tea, a strong brew, powerful enough to revive the lowest spirits. ‘Well, you do look like one, you know, only you’re a bit too young …’
‘I’ll start the beard first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘No, no, don’t be absurd, what I mean is that most people think of professors as being elderly and grey-haired and forgetful and unworldly.’
‘I have the grey hair, but I rather like the world, don’t you? I can be forgetful when I want to be and in a few years I shall be elderly.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Beatrice. ‘I don’t suppose you are over forty.’
‘Well, no, I’m thirty-seven—and how old are you, Beatrice?’
She answered without thinking. ‘Twenty-eight,’ and then, ‘Why do you ask? It’s really not polite …’
‘But I’m not polite, only when life demands it of me. I wanted to know so that we can clear the air.’
‘Clear the air—whatever do you mean?’
She wasn’t going to find out for Alfred arrived with two plates piled high with crisp bacon, eggs fried to a turn and mushrooms arranged nicely on a bed of fried bread.
‘Eat it while it’s ‘ot,’ he told them, and took away the teapot to refill it.
Alfred was a good cook, perhaps the best in the area bisected by the Commercial Road. With yet more tea, they did justice to his food.
Beatrice put down her knife and fork. ‘That was lovely. My goodness, I feel ready for anything.’
‘Not until the morning. You’re going back to bath and a bed now.’
He smiled at her protesting face. ‘Doctor’s orders.’
He