A Kiss for Julie

Her mother frowned. ‘I don’t like you going out after dark.’

‘I’ll not be alone, dear; Blotto will be with me.’ She smiled widely. ‘Besides, I’m hardly what you would describe as a delicate female, am I?’

She was in the kitchen when Esme came home, bringing with her the Thompson boy, Freddie, and Blotto, a dog of assorted ancestry with a long, sweeping tail and a rough coat. He was a large dog and he looked fierce, but his disposition was that of a lamb. However, as Julie pointed out, what did that matter when he looked fierce?

Freddie didn’t stay; he was a frequent visitor to the house and came and went casually. He bade Julie a polite goodbye, lifted a hand in farewell to Esme and took himself off, leaving the younger girl to feed Blotto and then, spurred on by Julie, to finish her homework. ‘And we’ll go on Saturday and get that hockey stick,’ said Julie.

Esme flung herself at her. ‘Julie, you darling. Really? The one I want? Not one of those horrid cheap ones.’

‘The one you want, love.’

Getting ready for bed in her room later that evening, Julie allowed her thoughts to dwell on the future. She did this seldom, for as far as she could see there wasn’t much point in doing so. She must learn to be content with her life.

No one had expected her father to die of a heart attack and they were lucky to have this house to live in. It was too large and needed a lot done to it, but it was cheaper to continue to live in it than to find something more modern and smaller. Besides, when she had made tentative enquiries of a house agent, he had told her that if they sold the place they would get a very poor price—barely enough to buy anything worth living in. It was a pity that there had been very little money, and what there had been had gone to get the boys started.

Julie sighed and picked up her hairbrush. It would be nice to get married—to meet a man who wouldn’t mind shouldering the burden of a widowed mother, two brothers and a schoolgirl sister. Her sensible mind told her that she might as well wish for the moon.

She brushed her mane of hair and jumped into bed. She hoped that the professor who was taking her over would be as nice an old man as Professor Smythe. Perhaps, she thought sleepily, as he was Dutch, he would go back to Holland from time to time, leaving her to deal with things or be loaned out to other consultants as and when required. It would make a change.

There was a good deal of extra work to be done during the rest of the week; Professor Smythe tended to be forgetful and occasionally peevish when he mislaid something. Julie dealt with him patiently, used to his sudden little spurts of temper. Besides, she reasoned after a particularly trying morning, he wasn’t well.

It was on the last morning—Friday—as she patiently waded through the filing cabinet for notes which Professor Smythe simply had to have when the door opened behind her and she turned to see who it was.

Any girl’s dream, she thought, and, since he had ignored her and crossed to Professor Smythe’s office, turned back to her files. But she had even in those few seconds taken a good look. Tall—six and a half feet, perhaps—and enormous with it, and pale hair—so pale that there might be grey hair too. His eyes, she felt sure, would be blue.

‘Come here, Julie, and meet your new boss,’ called Professor Smythe.

She entered his office, closed the door carefully and crossed the room, glad for once that she was a tall girl and wouldn’t have to stretch her neck to look at him.

‘Professor van der Driesma,’ said Professor Smythe. ‘Simon, this is Julie Beckworth; I’m sure you’ll get on famously.’

She held out a polite hand and had it crushed briefly. She wasn’t as sure as Professor Smythe about getting on famously, though. His eyes were blue; they were cold too, and indifferent. He wasn’t going to like her. She sought frantically for the right thing to say and murmured, ‘How do you do?’ which didn’t sound right somehow.

He didn’t waste words but nodded at her and turned to Professor Smythe. ‘I wonder if we might go over these notes—that patient in the women’s ward—Mrs Collins—there are several problems...’

‘Ah, yes, you are quite right, Simon. Now, as I see it...’

Julie went back to her filing cabinet, and when told to take her coffee-break went away thankfully. When she got back her new boss had gone.

He came again that afternoon when she was at her desk, dealing with the last of the paperwork before Professor Smythe handed over. The door separating her office from Professor Smythe’s was open but when he came in he paused to close it—an action which caused her to sit up very straight and let out an explosive word. Did he imagine that she would eavesdrop? Professor Smythe had conducted countless interviews with the door wide open. A bad start, reflected Julie, thumping the computer with unnecessary force.

She would have been even more indignant if she could have heard what the two men were talking about.

‘I should like to know more about Miss Beckworth,’ observed Professor van der Driesma. ‘I am indeed fortunate to have her, but if I were to know rather more of her background it might make for a speedier rapport between us.’

‘Of course, Simon. I should have thought of that sooner. She has been with me for three years; I believe I told you that. Her father had a practice near Victoria Park, died suddenly of a massive heart attack—he was barely fifty-six years old. A splendid man, had a big practice, never expected to die young, of course, and left almost no money.

‘Luckily the house was his; they still live in it—Julie, her mother and her young sister. There are two boys—the eldest’s at the Birmingham General, his first post after qualifying, and the other boy’s at Cambridge. I imagine they are poor, but Julie is hardly a young woman to talk about herself and I wouldn’t presume to ask. She’s a clever girl, very patient and hard-working, well liked too; you will find her a splendid right hand when you need one.’ He chuckled. ‘All this and beautiful besides.’

His companion smiled. ‘How old is she? There is no question of her leaving to marry?’

‘Twenty-six. Never heard of a boyfriend let alone a prospective husband. Even if she didn’t tell me, the hospital grapevine would have got hold of it. Her home is nearby and she doesn’t watch the clock and I’ve never known her to be late.’

‘A paragon,’ observed his companion drily.

‘Indeed, yes. You are a lucky man, Simon.’

To which Professor van der Driesma made no reply. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m due on the wards; I’d better go. I shall hope to see something of you when you have retired, sir.’

‘Of course, Mary and I will be delighted to see you at any time. I shall be interested to know how you get on. I’m sure you’ll like the post.’

‘I’m looking forward to it. I’ll see you tomorrow before you leave.’

He went away, adding insult to injury by leaving the door open on his way out.

Professor Smythe had refused an official leave-taking but his friends and colleagues poured into his office on Saturday morning. Julie, who didn’t work on a Saturday, was there, keeping in the background as well as her splendid shape allowed, making coffee, finding chairs and answering the phone, which rang incessantly. Presently the last of the visitors went away and Professor Smythe was left with just his successor and Julie.

‘I’m off,’ he told them. ‘Thank you, Julie, for coming in to give a hand.’ He trotted over to her and kissed her cheek. ‘My right hand; I shall miss you. You must come and see us.’

She shook his hand and saw how tired he looked. ‘Oh, I will, please.’ She proffered a small book. ‘I hope you’ll like this—a kind of memento...’

It was a small book on birds and probably he had it already, for he was a keen bird-watcher, but he received it with delight, kissed her again and said, ‘Be off with you, Julie.’

He would want to talk to Professor van der Driesma she thought, and went silently, closing the door behind her. She was crossing the forecourt when a dark grey Bentley crept up beside her and stopped. Professor van der Driesma got out.

He said without preamble, ‘I’ll drive you home.’

‘My bus goes from across the street. Thank you for the offer, though.’ She was coolly polite, remembering the closed door. Rude man...

‘Get in.’ Nicely said, but he wasn’t prepared to argue. After all, she was working for him from now on. She got in.

He got in beside her. ‘Somewhere on the other side of Victoria Park, isn’t it? Professor Smythe told me that your father was a GP.’

‘Yes.’ She added baldly, ‘He died.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and strangely enough she knew that he meant it.

‘I think that I should warn you that I may work at a slightly faster pace than Professor Smythe.’

‘That’s to be expected,’ said Julie crisply. ‘He’s very elderly and ill too, and you’re...’ she paused. ‘You’re not quite middle-aged, are you?’

‘Not quite. If I work you too hard you must tell me, Miss Beckworth.’

Put neatly in her place, she said, ‘You can turn left here and then right. It’s a short cut.’

If he was surprised to see the roomy house with its rather untidy garden, surrounded by narrow streets of small dwellings, he said nothing. He drew up in the road and got out to open her door—an action which impressed her, even if against her will. He might have a nasty tongue but his manners were perfect and effortless.

‘Thank you, Professor,’ she said politely, not to be outdone. ‘I’ll be at the office at eight forty-five on Monday morning.’