bundling herself into her jacket, addressed the tidy shelves. ‘Now there’s a real gent for you. That was a nice chat too—no one knows how dull it is down here these days.’
Mr van der Eisler, discussing the next day’s list with the senior surgical registrar and the theatre sister, wrung from that lady a reluctant assent to begin operating at eight o’clock in the morning instead of an hour later, gave her a smile to set her elderly heart beating a good deal faster, and took his leave.
‘That man could wring blood from a stone,’ declared Sister. ‘I’m sure I don’t know why I let him get away with it…’
The registrar laughed. ‘Go one with you, you know you’d agree to open theatre at six a.m. He’s a splendid man and a first-rate surgeon. He’s been here several weeks now, hasn’t he? Handed over several new techniques, shared his ideas with Mr Jenks—between them they’ve perfected them—look at Mrs Eliza Brown.’
‘He’ll be leaving soon, I suppose.’
‘Yes, and Mr Jenks is going back with him for a week or two.’ He turned to leave. ‘He’ll be back, I’ve no doubt—goes all over the place—got an international reputation already. Not bad for a man of thirty-six.’
He wandered away to look out of a window, in time to see Mr van der Eisler’s grey Bentley edge out of the hospital forecourt.
‘I wonder where he goes?’ he reflected aloud.
Mr van der Eisler was going to Islington to cast his eye over Sylvester Crescent. He found it eventually, tooling patiently up and down identical streets of identical houses, and drove its length until he came to Mr Patel’s shop, still open.
Mr van der Eisler, who never purchased food for his excellently run household, nevertheless purchased a tin of baked beans, and engaged Mr Patel in casual conversation. Naturally enough the talk led to observations about Islington and Sylvester Crescent in particular.
‘A quiet area,’ observed Mr van der Eisler. ‘Flats, I suppose, and elderly people.’
‘You are right, sir.’ Mr Patel, with no customers in the offing, was glad of a chat. ‘Many elderly ladies and gentlemen. It is not a street for the young—and an awkward journey to the day’s work. There is Miss Harding, who lives with her grandmother Mrs Fitzgibbon at number twenty-six, but I see her each morning now, and I think she must no longer work.’ He sighed. ‘Such a beautiful young lady too. It is dull here for the young.’
Mr van der Eisler murmured suitably, remarked that Mr Patel and his shop must be a boon and a blessing to the neighbourhood, professed himself pleased with his purchase, paid for it and got back into his car. Number twenty-six was in the middle of the row of houses and there was a chink of light showing between the heavy curtains pulled across the windows on the ground floor.
He drove back to the quiet, elegant street near Sloane Square and let himself into his ground-floor flat to be met in the hall by his housekeeper.
‘You’re late, sir. Your dinner’s ready and I’ll be so bold as to say that it won’t keep for more than five minutes.’
‘Excellent timing, Becky.’ He patted her plump shoulder and added, ‘Here’s something for you to amuse yourself with.’
He handed her the bag and she looked inside. ‘Mr Haso, whatever will you do next? Since when have you eaten baked beans?’ She gave him a suspicious glance. ‘What did you want to buy it for?’
‘Well, I needed to ask for some information and the best place was the local corner shop.’
Miss Rebecca Potts, elderly now, and long since retired as his nanny, was his devoted housekeeper whenever he was in London, and she knew better than to ask him why he wanted to know something. All the same, she gave him a sharp look. ‘I’ll dish up,’ she told him severely. ‘You’ve time for a drink.’
He picked up his bag and went down the hall to his study and sat down in the leather armchair drawn up to the fire. A drink in his hand, he sat quietly, busy with his thoughts, until Becky knocked on the door.
It was two days before he had the opportunity to return to Sylvester Crescent. He had no plan as to what he intended doing, only the vague idea of seeing Olivia going to or from the shops or, failing that, calling at her grandmother’s flat with some trumped-up story about Debbie. Perhaps, he thought ruefully, once he had met her again, he would be able to get her off his mind.
He saw her as he turned the car into Sylvester Crescent, coming towards him in her well-worn jacket and skirt, her bright hair a splash of colour in the sober street, a shopping basket over her arm. He slowed the car and stopped as she drew abreast of it.
The quick colour swept over her face when she saw him but she said composedly, ‘Why, good morning, Mr van der Eisler. Have you a patient to visit?’
Mr van der Eisler, an upright and godfearing man, could on occasion lie like a trooper when it was necessary, and he considered that this was necessary. ‘No, no, I have a few hours with nothing to do. I am looking for a suitable flat for a friend who will be coming to London for a few months.’
He got out of the car and stood beside her. ‘A most delightful surprise to meet you again. I was in the Records Office only the other day and Debbie was telling me how much she missed you. She tells me that you have another job—how fortunate…’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ She caught his eye and something in his look made her add, ‘Well, no, I haven’t actually. I told her that because she was worried about getting the sack. Is she managing?’
‘Tolerably well.’ He smiled down at her, looking so kind that she had a sudden urge to tell him about her grandmother, whose nasty little digs about her not getting a job had done nothing to make her fruitless efforts easier to bear. Instead she said briskly, ‘It’s nice meeting you, but don’t let me keep you from your house-hunting.’
Mr van der Eisler, never a man to be deterred from his purpose, stood his ground. ‘As to that—’ he began, and was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Rodney, who had pulled in behind the Bentley and was grabbing Olivia by the arm.
‘Olivia—I had to come and see you…’
Olivia removed her arm. ‘Why?’ she asked coldly.
‘Oh, old friends and all that, you know. Wouldn’t like you to think badly of me—you did walk off in a huff…’ He glanced at Mr van der Eisler towering over him, a look of only the faintest interest upon his face. ‘I say,’ Rodney went on, ‘is this the lucky man?’ He shook hands, beaming. ‘Olivia said she was going to get married—described you to a T. Well, everything works out for the best, doesn’t it?’ He patted Olivia’s shoulder. ‘You don’t know what a relief it is to see you so happy. Can’t stop now. My regards to your mother. Bye, old girl.’
He flashed a smile at them both, got back into his car, and drove away without looking back.
Olivia looked at her feet and wished she could stop blushing, and Mr van der Eisler looked at the top of her head and admired her hair.
‘I can explain,’ said Olivia to her shoes. ‘It wasn’t you I described; I said he was very large and had a profession and a great deal of money.’ She added crossly, ‘Well, that’s what any girl would say, isn’t it?’
Mr
