The Girl With Green Eyes

‘I see—and who uses the Sparrow Street door?’ He edged the car forward a few yards and turned to look at her.

‘Oh, the committee and visiting doctors and the governors—you know, important people.’

‘I should have thought that in an orphanage the orphans were the important people.’

‘They are. They’re awfully well looked after.’ She lapsed into silence as the big car slid smoothly ahead and presently stopped in Willoughby Street. The doctor got out and opened her door for her and she got out carefully. ‘Thank you very much for the lift, it was kind of you.’ She smiled up into his impassive face.

‘I’m coming in with you, I want to see the matron. Where do you live?’

‘Me? In Chelsea.’

‘I pass it on my way home. I’ll drop you off.’

‘I’ll be at least fifteen minutes …’

‘So shall I.’ They had gone inside and he indicated the row of chairs lined up against the wall of the small reception room. ‘Wait here, will you?’

He nodded to the nurse who came to meet them and walked off, leaving Lucy to follow her to the back of the building where the toddlers had their cots and where the sister-in-charge was waiting. It was all of fifteen minutes by the time Lucy had explained everything, handed over the now wakeful Miranda, and said goodnight.

‘Thanks for staying on over your time,’ Sister said. ‘I’ll make it up to you some time.’ She smiled nicely because Lucy was a good worker and didn’t grumble at the unending task of keeping the toddlers clean and fed and happy. We could do with a few more like her, she thought, watching Lucy’s slender shape disappearing down the corridor.

There was no sign of the doctor when Lucy got back to the reception-room. Perhaps she had been too long and he had gone without her, and she could hardly blame him for that—he had probably had a long and tiring day and was just as anxious to get home as she was. All the same, she sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs; there was no one else there, or she could have asked …

He came five minutes later, calm and unhurried, smiling genially, and accompanied by the matron. Lucy got to her feet and, rather to her surprise, was thanked for her afternoon’s duties; it was by no means an uncommon thing for her to take children to hospital to be examined, and she was surprised that anyone had found it necessary to thank her. She muttered politely, added a goodnight and followed the doctor out to his car.

‘Exactly where do you live?’ he enquired of her as he settled himself beside her.

She mentioned a quiet road, one of those leading away from the Embankment, and added, ‘It is very kind of you. I hope it’s not taking you out of your way?’

‘I live in Chiswick. Do you share a flat?’ The question was casual.

‘Me? No. I live with my parents …’

‘Of course, now I remember—is your father an archaeologist, the Gregory Lockitt?’ And when she murmured that he was, ‘I met your parents some time ago at a dinner party. They were just back from the Andes.’

‘That’s right,’ she agreed composedly, ‘they travel a good deal.’

‘But you prefer your orphanage?’ His voice was kindly impersonal.

‘Yes.’ She didn’t add to that, to explain that it was a job she had found for herself and taken on with the good humoured tolerance of her parents. She had been a disappointment to them, she knew that, although they had never actually said so; her elder sister, with a university degree and distinguished good looks, was personal assistant to the director of a City firm, and her younger sister, equally good-looking and chic with it, worked in one of the art galleries—moreover she was engaged to a young executive who was rising through his financial world with the ruthless intention of reaching the top before anyone else. Only Lucy, the middle sister and overshadowed by them both, had failed to be a success. There was no question but that they all loved her with an easygoing tolerance, but there was also no question that she had failed to live up to the family’s high standards. She was capable, sensible and practical and not in the least clever, and despite her gentle prettiness she was a shy girl. At twenty-five, she knew that her mother was beginning to despair of her marrying.

Dr Thurloe stopped the car before her home and got out to open her door, and she thanked him again. Pauline and Imogen would have known exactly what to say to make him interested enough to suggest meeting again, but she had no idea; the only thought in her head was that she wasn’t likely to see him again, and that almost broke her heart. She stared up into his face, learning it by heart, knowing that she would never forget it, still bemused by the surprise of loving him.

His quiet, ‘A pleasure, enjoy your evening, Miss Lockitt,’ brought her to her senses again, and she bade him a hasty goodnight and thumped the door knocker. He waited by his car until Alice, the housekeeper, opened the door, and then he got into the car and drove away. Perhaps I should have asked him in, reflected Lucy uneasily as she said hello to Alice.

‘And who was that now?’ asked Alice. ‘Nice car too. Got yourself a young man, love?’

Lucy shook her head. ‘Just a lift home. Is everyone in, Alice?’

‘In the drawing-room and ‘is nibs with them.’ She gave Lucy a motherly pat. ‘Best go and tidy yerself, love—they’re having drinks …’

Lucy went slowly upstairs to her room, showered and got into a wool dress, brushed out her hair and did her face. She knew her mother disliked her wearing the clothes she had worn at the orphanage, even though they were covered by an overall and a plastic apron. She didn’t hurry—there would just be time for a drink before dinner, and that meant that she wouldn’t have to listen to Cyril, Pauline’s fiancé, prosing about stocks and shares for too long. She went slowly downstairs, wondering if her sister really loved him or whether she was merely carried away at the prospect of being the wife of a successful businessman, with a flat in town, a nice little cottage in the country, two cars and enough money to allow her to dress well and entertain lavishly. In Lucy’s opinion, none of these was a good reason for marrying him.

She found them all sitting round the fire in the drawing-room and her mother looked round to say, ‘There you are, darling. Have the orphans been trying? You’re so late …’

Lucy took the drink her father had handed her and she sat down beside him. ‘I took one of them to be seen by a specialist at the City Royal; it took rather a long time.’ She didn’t say any more, for they weren’t interested—although they always asked her about her day, they didn’t listen to her reply. And indeed, she admitted to herself, it made dull listening compared with Pauline’s witty accounts of the people who had called in to the art gallery, and Imogen’s amusing little titbits of news about the important people she met so often. She sipped her sherry and listened to Cyril clearing his throat preparatory to addressing them. He never just talked, she thought; he either gave a potted lecture, or gave them his opinion about some matter with the air of a man who believed that no one else was clever enough to do so. She swallowed her sherry in a gulp and listened to his diatribe about the National Health Service. She didn’t hear a word; she was thinking about Dr Thurloe.

Later, as Lucy said goodnight to her mother, that lady observed lightly, ‘You were very quiet this evening, darling—quieter than usual. Is this little job of yours too much for you, do you suppose?’

Lucy wondered if her mother had any idea of what her little job entailed, but she didn’t say so. ‘Oh, no, Mother.’ She spoke briskly. ‘It’s really easy …’

‘Oh, good—it doesn’t bore you?’

‘Not in the least.’ How could she ever explain to her mother that the orphans were never boring? Tiresome, infuriating, lovable and exhausting, but never boring. ‘I only help around, you know.’

Her mother offered a cheek for a goodnight kiss. ‘Well, as long as you’re happy, darling. I do wish you could meet some nice man …’

But I have, thought Lucy, and a lot of good it’s done me. She said ‘Goodnight, Mother dear …’

‘Goodnight, Lucy. Don’t forget we are all going to the Walters’ for dinner tomorrow evening, so don’t be late home, and wear something pretty.’

Lucy went to bed and forgot all about the dinner party; she was going over, syllable by syllable, every word which Dr Thurloe had uttered.

She got home in good time the next evening. The day had been busy and she felt the worse for wear, so it was a relief to find that her sisters were in their rooms dressing and her parents were still out. She drank the tea Alice had just made, gobbled a slice of toast and went to her room to get ready for the party.

The Walters were old friends of her parents, recently retired from the diplomatic service, and Lucy and her sisters had known them since they were small girls; the friendship was close enough for frequent invitations to their dinner parties. Lucy burrowed through her wardrobe, deciding what to wear. She had a nice taste in dress, although she wasn’t a slavish follower of fashion, and the green dress she finally hauled out was simple in style with a long, full skirt, long, tight sleeves and a round, low neckline. She ran a bath and then lay in it, daydreaming about Dr Thurloe, quite forgetting the time, so that she had to dress in a tearing hurry, brush out her hair and dash on powder and lipstick without much thought to her appearance. Everyone was in the hall waiting for her as she ran downstairs and her mother said tolerantly, ‘Darling, you’re wearing that green dress again. Surely it’s time you had something new?’

‘You’d better come with me on your next free day,’ said Imogen. ‘I know just the shop for you—there was a gorgeous pink suit in the window, just right for you.’

Lucy forbore from saying that she didn’t look nice in pink, only if it were very pale pink like almond blossom. ‘Sorry if I’ve kept you all waiting. Pauline, you and Imogen look stunning enough for the lot of us.’

Pauline patted her on the shoulder. ‘You could look stunning too,’ she pointed out, ‘if you took the trouble.’

It was pointless to remind her sister that the orphans didn’t mind whether she looked stunning or not. She followed her father out to the car and squashed into the back with her sisters.

The Walters gave rather grand dinner parties; they had many friends and they enjoyed entertaining. The Lockitts found that there were half a dozen guests already there, and Mrs Walter, welcoming them warmly, observed that there were only two more expected. ‘That charming Mrs Seymour,’ she observed, ‘so handsome, and I dare say very lonely now that she is widowed, and I don’t know if you’ve met—’ She broke off, smiling towards the door, ‘Here he is, anyway. William, how delightful that you could come! I was just saying … perhaps you know Mrs Lockitt?’

Imogen and Pauline had gone to speak to Mr Walter; only Lucy was with her mother. She watched Dr Thurloe, the very epitome of the well-dressed man, walk towards his hostess, her gentle mouth slightly open, her cheeks pinkening with surprise and delight. Here he was again, fallen as it were into her lap, and on his own too, so perhaps he wasn’t married or even engaged.

He greeted his hostess, shook hands with Lucy’s mother, and when Mrs Walter would have introduced Lucy he forestalled her with a pleasant, ‘Oh, but we have already met—during working hours …’

He smiled down at Lucy, who beamed back at him, regretting at the same time that she had worn the green, by no means her prettiest dress. She regretted it even more as the door was opened again and Mrs Seymour swept in. A splendid blonde, exquisitely dressed and possessed of a haughty manner and good looks, she greeted Mrs Walter with a kiss on one cheek, bade Mrs Lockitt a charming good evening, smiled perfunctorily at Lucy, and turned to the doctor. ‘William!’ she exclaimed. ‘I had no idea that you would be here—I had to take a taxi. If I’d known you could have picked me up.’ She smiled sweetly and Lucy ground silent teeth. ‘But you shall drive me home—you will, won’t you?’

‘Delighted, Fiona.’

She put a hand on his sleeve and said brightly, ‘Oh, there is Tim Wetherby, I must speak to him—you know him, of course …’

It seemed that Dr Thurloe did. The pair of them strolled away and, since Mrs Walter had turned aside to talk to one of the guests, Lucy was left standing by her mother.