Brown had a good book. ‘I don’t see that it matters; Claribel doesn’t like him.’
Mrs Brown did a row in silence. ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘She hadn’t a good word to say for him—a good sign.’
Her husband sighed. ‘Mr dear, how you do run on. Besides, he’s a consultant. Presumably hardly likely to take up with a physiotherapist.’
‘Claribel is beautiful,’ said her mother simply, as though that put an end to the argument.
The weekend went too fast; it always did. Claribel biked into Tisbury in the morning on various errands for her mother and to waste a good deal of time chatting with various friends she met there. In the afternoon she and her father took Rover for a walk along the bridle paths, which were short cuts leading to the villages around the little town. The weather had improved but it was wet underfoot. Claribel, in wellies, an old tweed skirt and an even older quilted jacket, had tied a scarf round her golden hair and borrowed her mother’s woolly gloves. They got back for tea glowing with fresh air.
Sunday morning was taken up with church and leisurely chats after the service. Claribel had a lot of friends, most of them married now, and several with weddings in the offing. She was to be a bridesmaid at two of them and wandered off into the churchyard with the brides-to-be, to sit on a handy tombstone and discuss clothes.
The day wasn’t too long enough. She collected Enoch and Toots, packed her bag and in the early evening was driven to Tisbury once more, very much inclined to agree with her mother’s remark that it was a pity that she couldn’t stay at home. But there was no hospital nearer than Salisbury and no vacancies there. Besides, she had to stand on her own two feet and make her own life. She might not marry; she had had chances enough but none of them had been right for her. She wasn’t sure what kind of man she wanted for a husband but she supposed that she would know when she met him.
Meadow Road looked more dingy than ever as the taxi drove down it, and her little semi-basement seemed unbearably small and dark even with all the lights on. She made tea, fed the cats and turned on the gas fire. She always felt like this when she came back after a weekend at home; in a day or two she would settle down.
She got out paper and envelopes, and wrote a stiff little note to Mr van Borsele, enclosing a cheque for her railway fare. In the morning she would take it to the lodge and ask a porter to put it in the pigeonholes reserved for the consultants and that would be the end of that.
She went to bed presently and fell asleep at once, to wake in the night and wish that it wouldn’t be the end; he was such a thoroughly unpleasant man that it would be a pleasure to reform him. She thought of several ways of doing this before she slept again.
CHAPTER TWO
CLARIBEL was disappointed that she wouldn’t be doing a ward round during the week; Mrs Green was back and there was a backlog of patients to deal with. The first few days of the week flew by and not once did she cast eyes on Mr van Borsele. She had handed in her note and the cheque and if she had expected an acknowledgement she was doomed to disappointment. Not that she had any wish to see him again, or so she told herself.
Not only was it a busy week, but the hospital was to hold its bi-annual bazaar at the weekend. It seemed a most unsuitable time for this, but since for very many years it had taken place on that particular Saturday, no one had considered changing it. Everyone was expected to help in some way. Minor royalty would be opening it, and the lecture hall would be turned into an indoor fair, the more expensive goods well to the forefront, the jumble and secondhand books at the back. Claribel was helping at the jumble stall; only the young and active were asked to do so for the local inhabitants relied upon it for a large proportion of their wardrobes and there was keen and sometimes ill-natured competition for clothes contributed by the patrons of the hospital.
The bazaar opened at two o’clock sharp and Miss Flute, marshalling her staff, reminded them to be there at one o’clock and not a minute later. Which meant that Saturday morning was rather a rush, what with having to shop for the weekend, clean the flat and do the washing. Claribel got into a needlecord skirt and a knitted jumper—the jumble stall caught all the icy draughts—tied her hair in a scarf, put on a quilted jacket and went to catch her bus. It was a dreadful waste of a Saturday afternoon; she would have preferred to stay home with the cats, reading and making scones for tea.
The lecture hall was a hive of activity; she went straight to her stall and began to sort clothes into suitable piles. They wouldn’t last long like that but the first bargain hunters would be able to snap up their choice without too much tossing of garments to and fro. There were two other girls on the stall, both good friends of hers, and, ready with ten minutes to spare, they had a pleasant gossip until a sudden subdued roar told them that the doors had been opened.
No one could buy anything until the bazaar had been officially opened. Minor royalty arrived exactly on time, made a brief speech, received the bouquet the hospital director’s small daughter had been clutching, and declared the affair open, the signal for a concerted rush to the various stalls. Trade was brisk; the more élite toured the hall in the wake of royalty, buying beribboned coat hangers, lace pincushions and homemade jams, while the rest surged towards the jumble and secondhand books.
Claribel did a brisk trade; the mounds of clothing, hats and shoes disappeared rapidly. She knew a good many of her customers and wasn’t surprised to see Mrs Snow edging her way along the stall, her arms already full of garments and a couple of hats.
‘There you are, ducks,’ said that lady cheerfully. ‘Got a nice haul ’ere. ’Ere, I say, that nice young feller I told you about—’e’s over there with the nobs.’ She waved a cluttered hand towards the centre of the hall and Claribel perforce followed its direction. Sure enough, there was Mr van Borsele, head and shoulders above everyone else, talking to one of the hospital committee. He looked at her across the crowded hall and, although he gave no sign of having seen her, she turned her head at once. She took great care not to look around her again and indeed she had little time; by four o’clock she longed for a cup of tea but trade was too brisk for any of them to leave the stall. When the last customer had gone, an hour later, there was almost nothing to pack up and they made short work of it, grumbling among themselves in a good-natured way because their precious Saturday had been infringed upon. But as Miss Flute had told them, it had been well worth it; they had made a good deal of money and the hospital would be the richer by another kidney machine. They trooped off to wash their hands and do their faces and dispersed in a chorus of goodbyes. Miss Flute was standing by the door talking to Mr van Borsele as Claribel and several of the other girls reached it. She stretched out a hand as Claribel went by so that she had to stop.
‘Claribel, Mr van Borsele has kindly offered to give me a lift home; he will have to go past Meadow Road and says it’s no trouble to drop you off.’
Claribel said quickly, ‘Oh, please don’t bother—there will be plenty of buses.’
‘No bother,’ said Mr van Borsele smoothly. ‘Shall we go? I’m sure you must both want your tea.’
She found herself sitting behind him, watching Miss Flute chatting away with surprising animation. They were on the best of terms, she reflected peevishly, and only occasionally did Miss Flute address some remark to her over a shoulder.
Miss Flute lived alone in a tiny mews flat behind Charing Cross station and Mr van Borsele got out and opened the door for her and saw her safely inside before coming back to his car.
He opened the door and studied Claribel. ‘Come in front?’ he enquired so pleasantly that she had no choice but to get out and get in again beside
