They had sat down at the old-fashioned table with its Windsor chairs at each end and the smaller wheel-backs, three each side. They were joined by Mutt, the labrador, and Everett, the family cat, who sat quietly while they had the soup and cold ham, taking a long time over them for there was so much to talk about.
‘How’s Natalie?’ Rachel wanted to know, passing her cup for more tea.
‘Fine. She’s coming over tomorrow.’ Tom had got engaged to a girl in the next village—the vet’s daughter and someone they had all known for most of their lives. ‘How about your Melville?’
Melville was a producer in television and it was because of him that Rachel neither noticed nor encouraged the advances of quite a few of the medical staff at the hospital. She was quite prepared to be friendly but that was all; she was wholly loyal to Melville and, being a modest girl, had never quite got over her delight and surprise when he had made it clear, after they had met at a party, that he considered her to be his. True, he hadn’t mentioned getting married, but he took her out and about, sent her flowers and, when she had firmly refused to spend a weekend at Brighton with him, had taken her refusal with good grace and no hard feelings. Indeed, he had somehow made her feel rather silly about it and she was honest enough to agree with him. She was, after all, twenty-five and sensible. Too sensible, perhaps. She smiled. ‘Up to his eyes in work but he’s collecting me for a drink on Sunday evening. I’ve got to be back because Professor van Teule wants to operate at eight o’clock on Monday morning.’
Her father lifted an eyebrow. ‘Working you hard? Something tricky?’
‘No, the usual list—most of his cases are tricky, anyway. I expect he wants to get away early.’
‘You like working for him still, darling?’ asked her mother.
‘Oh, yes. He’s always good-natured and easy—we get on famously.’
Her mother gave an inward regretful sigh. She had met Melville only once, and she hadn’t taken to him. This Professor sounded nice—he would be married, of course, and probably middle-aged… She asked, ‘How old is he?’
Rachel bit into an apple. ‘Do you know, I’ve no idea? Anything between thirty-five and forty-five, I suppose. I’ve never looked to see.’
They cleared the supper dishes and then, since it was now late, went to bed.
The weekend went too quickly. Rachel, country born and bred, wondered for the hundredth time what on earth had possessed her to choose a job which forced her to live in London. But she had never wanted to do anything else and her family had let her go at eighteen to train at one of the big London teaching hospitals and made a great success of it, too. They were proud of her, although her mother’s pride was thinned by the wish that Rachel would marry, but she never mentioned this.
Rachel drove back after tea; Melville wouldn’t be free until half-past eight and she had plenty of time. It was a blustery evening and there was little traffic, even on the motorway. She parked the Fiat and made her way to her room where she changed into a dark brown suit and a crêpe blouse and exchanged her sensible low-heeled shoes for high heels. Melville liked well-dressed women; indeed, he didn’t care for her job since, as he explained to her in his well modulated voice, it necessitated her wearing the most outlandish clothes.
‘Well, I’d look a fool tripping round the theatre in high heels and a smart hat,’ Rachel had pointed out reasonably, not really believing him.
She had ten minutes to spare; she nipped along to the little pantry the sisters shared in their corridor and found Lucy making tea. Melville had said drinks, which probably meant nothing but bits and pieces to eat with them and she had had no supper. ‘Mother gave me a fruit cake,’ she said. ‘Bring that pot of tea with you and have a slice.’
Lucy followed her back to her room and kicked the door shut. ‘Going out? It’s a beastly night but I suppose Melville will see you don’t get cold and wet. I like the shoes—new, aren’t they?’
Rachel agreed guiltily. Since she had started going out with Melville she had spent more on clothes than she could afford, and they were the kind of clothes she wouldn’t normally have bought. Her taste ran to tweed suits and simply cut jersey dresses with an occasional splurge on something glamorous for the hospital ball or some special occasion.
She drank her tea and gobbled up her cake. ‘I must fly…’ She took a last look in the mirror and Lucy said laughingly, ‘Do him good to be kept waiting, and you needn’t bother to prink; you look good in an old sack.’
Rachel gave her jacket a tug. ‘I’m getting fat,’ she worried. ‘It doesn’t notice because I’m tall, but it will—Melville doesn’t like fat girls.’
‘You’re not fat.’ Lucy picked up the teapot, preparatory to departing to her own room. ‘Just generously curved. There is a difference. Have fun, love.’
Melville’s car wasn’t in the forecourt. Rachel peered round hoping to see him and then took a backward step back into the entrance hall. Her heel landed on something yielding and she turned sharply to find herself face to face with Professor van Teule’s solid front.
She said guiltily, ‘I’m so sorry—have I hurt you badly? I had no idea…’
He glanced down at his elegantly shod foot. ‘I scarcely noticed.’ He eyed her deliberately. ‘You’re very smart. Going out for the evening? If he’s not here you’d better come inside—you’ll catch a cold standing here.’
She obeyed his matter-of-fact advice, and, when he enquired if she had had a pleasant weekend, said that yes, she had. ‘But over too soon—it always is.’ She glanced at his placid face. ‘Is there a case in theatre? You’re here…’
‘There was. I’m on my way home.’
She hardly heard him. Melville’s Porsche had stopped outside and he was opening the entrance door and coming towards them. She half glanced at the Professor, a polite goodbye on her tongue, only he wasn’t going away; he stood, completely at ease, watching Melville who caught her hand and cried, ‘Darling, I’m late. Do forgive me—I got caught up at the studio. You know how it is.’
She said hello and added almost crossly, ‘This is Professor van Teule—I work for him. Professor, this is Melville Grant—he’s in television.’
‘How very interesting,’ observed the Professor. ‘How do you do, Mr Grant.’ He didn’t shake hands, only smiled in a sleepy way and patted Rachel on a shoulder. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your free evening.’
He went on standing there, so that after a minute Rachel murmured a goodbye and went to the door with Melville at her heels.
It shouldn’t have been like that, she thought peevishly—he should have walked away instead of seeing them off the premises like a benevolent uncle.
Melville opened the car door for her with something of a flourish. He gave a quick glance behind him as he did so to see if the Professor was watching. He was.
‘Sleepy kind of chap, Professor What’s-his-name. Don’t know that I’d care to have him nod off over my appendix or whatever.’
Womanlike, Rachel sprang at once to the defence of the man who had annoyed her. ‘You couldn’t have a better surgeon,’ she declared roundly, ‘and he’s far too busy to do appendicectomies—he specialises in complicated abdominal surgery and he’s marvellous with severe internal injuries; even when it seems hopeless, he…’
Melville drove out of the forecourt. ‘My dear girl, spare me the gruesome details, I beg you. Tell me, did you have a happy time with your family? I can see that it did you good, you’re more beautiful than ever.’
Something any girl would like to hear and, to a girl in love, doubly welcome. ‘Lovely, but far too short.’
He had turned the car in the direction of the West End. ‘I thought we might have a drink…’