perhaps she had been unreasonable. He was a busy man and good at his job and she was aware that sooner or later he would ask her to marry him, and always at the back of her head was the unpleasant thought that he didn’t love her—not with the kind of love she wanted, anyway. She was sure that if she had been a hospital clerk with a father who had no influential friends he would never have entertained the idea of marrying her. On the other hand, he was ambitious and hard-working and had a charming manner when he needed it; he would make a success of his career and she would have a pleasant enough life. She wandered around the room, picking things up and putting them down again, feeling unsettled.
There was plenty to keep her occupied the next day. Very neat in her dark grey dress with its white collar and cuffs, she toured the whole place, making sure that the domestic staff were doing what they were supposed to do, calculating with the cook just how many morning coffees and afternoon teas she would have to get ready. She hadn’t had the list of names yet, which was vexing, although she did know the number of men who would be attending; at least she could make sure that the lecture-room near her small office could be got ready.
The various laboratories were all hard at work again after Christmas and she was kept busy: an urgent call for a new light bulb, a worn washer on one of the sink taps, demands for hot milk from Professor Moore, the dermatologist, who had a frightful cold, more demands for Panadol from his secretary, who was convinced that she had caught it.
Really, thought Beatrice, I’m actually the caretaker with a bit of book-keeping thrown in. Administrator was far too grand a word for it.
Several of the labs were working late; she sent up coffee and sandwiches to the technicians and took herself off to her flat. It was already after seven o’clock and she would have liked to have a shower, get into her dressing-gown and eat her supper by the small gas fire, with a good book. Instead she showered and changed into a green wool dress and put on a thick wool coat, rammed a woolly cap on to her head, found gloves and handbag and went out of the building, along the passage and through the hospital until she reached the entrance. Tom was there; she could see him sitting in his car, reading the paper. He saw her too as she crossed the forecourt, folded the paper and opened the door for her.
‘I was going to give you another five minutes, but I guessed you would come.’ He sounded smug.
His tone implied that she would always come running … never mind if she were tired or cross or just not feeling like going out. She busied herself with her safety-belt and stayed silent. He made it worse by remarking that she would feel better after a drink and launching into a very complicated account of his own busy day.
Beatrice, feeling ruffled because he hadn’t bothered to ask her if she had had a good Christmas, wished she hadn’t come. And why had she come? she asked herself. Force of habit? She had allowed herself to drift into something more than casual friendship with Tom and it struck her now that it was time it ended. She was a kind-hearted girl and although he was exasperating her now she was honest enough to admit that she had enjoyed several pleasant evenings with him when they had first become friendly; it was only later that she’d realised that he was using her as a means to an end. Perhaps she could talk to him presently.
‘We’ll go to the Tower Thistle,’ he told her, ‘have something in the bar. I mustn’t be away for more than an hour or so, and I’ll probably get called up during the night. I could do with some sleep too. We had a splendid party on Christmas night, didn’t get to bed until two o’clock and got called out just after five. Ah, well, it isn’t for ever—once I get a decent private practice—a partnership, perhaps …’ He went on at some length, sure of himself and her attention.
She was only half listening; the first of the specialists would be arriving in time for coffee in the morning and she was going over her careful catering once more, saying, ‘Oh yes?’ and, ‘Really?’ and, ‘Of course,’ at intervals. Once at the hotel, a vast place which she didn’t much like, she had to give Tom her undivided attention, sitting opposite him at a table in the bar, eating sandwiches and drinking a glass of white wine. The sandwiches were small and elegant, garnished with cress, and Beatrice, who was hungry, could have eaten the lot.
‘You’ll have had a good square meal,’ said Tom comfortably, ‘but do devour one—there’s just enough horseradish with the beef.’
She nibbled one, thinking of fried eggs on baked beans and a huge pot of tea or coffee. It was a funny thing, but Tom wasn’t the kind of man you could ask to take you to the nearest McDonald’s. If he wasn’t hungry, then you weren’t either, or, for that matter, if he assumed that you weren’t hungry and he was he wouldn’t ask you if you were …
It was very noisy in the bar and he had to raise his voice when he spoke. He put his elbows on the table and leaned towards her. ‘Isn’t it time that we made a few plans?’
‘Plans? What plans?’
He smiled at her indulgently. ‘Our future—I’ve another six months to do at St Justin’s then I’ll be ready to get a practice—buy a partnership. I’ll need some financial backing but your father could put me in touch with all the right people—he may be a country GP but he knows everyone worth knowing, doesn’t he? Besides, your mother …’ He paused delicately and his smile widened and he added coaxingly, ‘Once all that is settled we might get married.’
Beatrice sought for words; the only ones she could think of were very rude, so she kept silent. He must have been very sure of her—his proposal, if you could call it that, had been an afterthought. She twiddled the glass in her hand and wondered what would happen if she threw it at him. She said very quietly, ‘But I don’t want to marry you, Tom.’
He laughed, ‘Don’t be a silly girl, of course you do. Don’t pretend that I’ve taken you by surprise. We’ve been going out together now for weeks and I’ve made no secret of the fact that I want to settle down once I’m away from St Justin’s.’
‘I don’t remember you asking me if I had any plans for the future,’ observed Beatrice. She was bubbling over with rage but she looked quite serene. ‘But you—your plan was to get my father to put in a good word for you—I don’t know where Mother comes in … Oh, of course—being the granddaughter of an earl.’
‘A little name-dropping never does any harm,’ answered Tom complacently. ‘Can’t you just see it in the Telegraph? “Beatrice, daughter of Dr and the Hon. Mrs Crawley”.’ He sat back in his chair, smiling at her.
‘Tom, I have just told you—I don’t want to marry you. I’m sorry if you got the impression that I did. We’ve been good friends and enjoyed each other’s company but that’s all, isn’t it?’
‘I’m very fond of you, old girl.’ He didn’t notice her wince. ‘You’ll be a splendid wife, all the right connections and so on. I’ll make a name for myself in no time.’
The colossal conceit of him, reflected Beatrice; it was like trying to dent a steel plate with a teaspoon. He hadn’t once said that he loved her …
Characteristically, he didn’t ask if she wanted to go but finished his drink with an air of satisfaction at a job well done and asked, ‘Ready? I’ve got a couple of cases that I must look at.’
She got into the car beside him and he drove back to the hospital in silence. At the entrance he said, ‘We must get together again as soon as possible—you’ll have to give up your job here, of course.’
‘Tom,’ she tried to sound reasonable, ‘you don’t understand. I don’t want to marry you and I have no intention of giving up my job here. I think it might be
