suggested, ‘Why not close your eyes until we’re clear of London? I’ll wake you once there is something worth seeing.’
‘Don’t you like London?’ she asked. Somehow she had pictured him, when she had bothered to think about him at all, as a man about town, wining and dining and going to the theatre; having smart friends.
‘No. Close your eyes, Rachel.’
She closed them and, although she hadn’t meant to, went to sleep at once.
He had turned off the motorway at Maidenhead before he woke her up.
‘There’s rather a nice pub by the river at Mouls-ford—the Beetle and Wedge—we’ll bypass Henley and go across country. It’s charming scenery and it’s still light.’
Rachel, much refreshed by her nap, sat up. ‘Sorry I went to sleep, but I feel fine now.’
‘Good. I hope you’re hungry—I am.’
He talked easily as they drove through the country roads and after a while arrived at the Beetle and Wedge. It was an old inn surrounded by trees and with plenty of garden around it. And it was cosy and welcoming inside. They sat by the log fire in the bar and had leisurely drinks and then dined generously; here they hadn’t heard of crudités. There was water-cress soup with a lavish spoonful of cream atop, followed by steak and kidney pie which melted in the mouth, and even more generous portions of vegetables. Rachel polished off the home-made ice cream she had chosen and drank the last of the claret the Professor had ordered—a very nice wine, she had observed, and he had agreed gravely; a vintage 1981 Chêteau Léoville-Lascases should be nice. He had no doubt that she would be thunderstruck if she knew what it cost.
They had coffee round the fire in the pleasantly filled bar and, true to his word, when she suggested rather diffidently that she would like an early night, he got up at once, paid the bill and settled her in the car. This time he took the main road through Henley and then on to Maidenhead and the motorway, so that they were back at the hospital minutes before ten o’clock.
It was unfortunate, to say the least of it, that Melville should have been getting into his car as Rachel got out of the Professor’s.
The Professor shut the car door behind her and she heard him say, ‘Oh, dear, dear,’ in an infuriatingly mild voice. She felt his reassuring bulk behind her as Melville left his car and came towards them.
‘Rachel? I came to take you out for a drink.’ He smiled but his eyes were angry. ‘But I see that someone else had the same idea.’ He gave the Professor an angry look.
‘Ah, Mr-er-Grant, isn’t it? Good evening. My dear fellow, how vexing for you. We have been for a run into the country. Rachel has had a busy day and so have I. We return considerably refreshed.’ He smiled gently and made no move to go away.
Rachel touched Melville on his coat sleeve. ‘Melville, I’m so sorry to have missed you. You didn’t phone—I had no idea.’
‘You’re not the only one who’s had a busy day.’ Melville’s voice held a sneer. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way—I’ll see you some time.’
He was going, probably out of her life for ever. Rachel swallowed panic. ‘Melville, I’ve said I’m sorry. If only you had let me know… Can’t we go somewhere and have a drink now?’
‘I left a desk full of work to come and see you,’ declared Melville dramatically. ‘I’ll go back and finish it.’
‘Look, can’t we talk?’ asked Rachel desperately and glanced round at the Professor, hoping that he might take the hint and leave them alone. He returned her look with a placid one of his own and she saw that he had no intention of doing that. There he stood, saying nothing, silently watching and not being of the least help. She said again, ‘Melville…’ but that gentleman turned without another word and went back to his car, got in and drove away.
‘He’ll ruin that engine,’ observed the Professor, ‘crashing his gears like that.’
‘Who cares about his gears?’ asked Rachel wildly. ‘He’s gone and I don’t suppose he’ll ever come back.’
‘Oh, yes he will, Rachel. There is nothing like a little healthy competition to keep a man interested; something which I’m sure you know already. Not, I must hasten to add, that in fact there is competition, but, there is no harm in letting, er, Melville think so.’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ snapped Rachel, and then, ‘Do you really think so? You don’t think he’s gone forever?’
Her voice shook a little at the idea.
He was reassuringly matter-of-fact. ‘Most certainly not. Men want the unobtainable, and you were unobtainable this evening—you are a challenge to his vanity.’ He sighed. ‘You don’t know much about men, do you, Rachel?’
She said indignantly, ‘I have three brothers…’
‘That isn’t quite what I meant. I dare say you boss them about most dreadfully and take them for granted like an old coat.’
She stared up at him. ‘Well, yes, perhaps. But Melville’s different.’
‘Indeed he is.’ His sleepy eyes searched her face. ‘You love him very much, do you not?’ He added, ‘pro tempore,’ which, since she wasn’t listening properly, meant nothing to her; in any case her knowledge of Latin was confined to medical terms.
‘Go to bed, Rachel.’ His voice was comfortably avuncular. ‘In the morning you’ll think straight again. Only believe me when I say that your Melville hasn’t gone for good.’
She whispered, ‘You’re awfully kind,’ then added, to her own astonishment as well as his, ‘Are you married, Professor?’
‘That is a pleasure I still have to experience within the not too distant future. Run along, there’s a good girl.’
Emotion and the Château Léoville-Lascases got the better of her good sense. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek and then ran into the hospital.
She felt terrible about it in the morning; thank heaven he had no list, she thought as she went on duty. She opened her office door and found him sitting at the desk: immaculate and placid, writing busily.
He glanced up at her. ‘Oh, good morning, Sister. Can you fit in an emergency? Multiple abdominal stab wounds—some poor blighter set upon in the small hours. Mr Sims has a list, hasn’t he?’
‘Not till ten o’clock, sir.’ Rachel had forgotten any awkwardness she had been harbouring, for the moment at least. ‘I can have theatre ready in fifteen minutes; Mr Sims could do his first case in the second theatre—Norah’s on as well as me.’
“‘I’” corrected the Professor. ‘Very well, I’ll give Mr Sims a ring.’ He gave her a casual glance. ‘I’ll be up in twenty minutes if you can manage that.’
She nodded, rather pink in the face, and left him there to go into theatre and warn her nurses.
It was just as though last night had never been. The Professor duly arrived, dead on time as usual, with George to assist him, exchanged a few friendly remarks of an impersonal nature with her, and got down to work, and
