The Convenient Wife

‘I remember.’

‘Nice little thing, by all accounts. On the plain side, but you must have seen that. Liked by everyone; no wiles, and a bit shy, though she can be remarkably plain-spoken.’

‘Indeed?’ The professor lost all interest. ‘Now, I thought I’d try that new drill…’

Venetia had gone on her way to the nurses’ home, to gossip with her friends until it was time for supper, and then retire to her room to drink tea with those of them who weren’t going out for the evening. Almost all her friends had some kind of love-affair in progress and, since she made a good listener, she knew the ins and outs of them all, but if she felt that she was missing romance she never said so. To anyone who asked her she replied that she was quite happy to visit her granny on her days off, and in her off-duty to visit the art galleries and museums easily reached by bus. They made a nice change from the dull streets encircling the hospital in the east end of London; they didn’t cost much, either.

She always went to her grandmother’s house on her days off. A small, red brick cottage in a row of similar ones, tucked away behind the opulent avenues of Hampstead, it had been home for her for the last five or six years, ever since her mother and father had been killed in a car accident. She had no brothers or sisters, and, for that matter, no uncles or aunts, either. Save for a cousin of her father’s whom she had never met, and who lived somewhere in Yorkshire, she and her grandmother were without kith and kin. Her grandmother hadn’t always lived there; when Venetia was very small she had gone with her mother and father to visit her grandparents at a nice old house on the edge of a Sussex village, but when her grandfather had died a good deal of his income had died with him, and her grandmother had moved to the little house she now lived in to be near Venetia’s parents, who lived in a pleasant house on the other side of the Heath. It wasn’t until after their deaths that she discovered that the house had been rented, and what money there was was barely enough to feed and clothe her. All the same, her grandmother had insisted that she should continue at school until she had her A levels. She was eighteen by then, and, although she had been offered a place at one of the lesser universities, she had got a paid job instead as a receptionist to a team of doctors and then, almost two years ago, she had persuaded her grandmother to let her train as a nurse.

She had had no regrets; she enjoyed her work and, being a friendly soul, had no trouble in making friends. The patients liked her, too, for she was patient and good-tempered and most sympathetic without being sentimental. The pay wasn’t very much, for she had to pay board and lodging to the hospital, but there was enough over to buy clothes and help out her grandmother’s small income. And it would get better—in a little over a year she would be trained, with more freedom, more money and a chance to work where she fancied.

It was three days later that she met the professor again. She had raced off duty at five o’clock, changed into a sweater and skirt, brushed her hair and tied it back, packed what she would need for a couple of days into a big shoulder-bag, dragged on her jacket and sped down to the entrance. The rush hour was on and she would have to get into a queue for a bus, but she would still be home in time for supper.

She was half-way across the vast expanse of the entrance hall when she saw the professor making for the door from the other side—the side sacred to consultants, the hospital secretary’s office and the boardroom. He was going fast, and if she slowed her steps there would be no need to encounter him—on the other hand, if she just hurried more she might slip through the door ahead of him. The quicker she got to the bus stop the better the chance of getting on a bus at this hour of day.

As it turned out they arrived at the door together, and to her annoyance he opened it for her and then stood so that she couldn’t get past him.

‘Ah, Nurse Forbes. You have had the stitches out?’

‘Thank you, yes, sir. You stitched it beautifully; there’ll be almost no scar.’

His firm mouth twitched. ‘I do my best. Why are you dancing around like that? Are you in a hurry?’

She had indeed been edging round him. ‘I’m going to catch a bus.’

‘Where to?’

It was none of his business, but she said politely, ‘Hampstead.’

‘Ah—Hampstead. I’m just about to drive myself there; may I offer you a lift?’

‘Well,’ said Venetia, ‘it’s very kind of you, sir, but I’m not sure…’

He hadn’t listened to a word. She was swept outside into the courtyard, and walked across to where a dark blue Bentley was parked. ‘Get in,’ he said, and, since it was obvious to her that he meant exactly what he said, she got in.

‘Where do you live?’

He had inched the car into the rush-hour traffic and had turned the nose to the west.

‘If you would drop me off in any part of Hampstead…’ began Venetia.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Where do you live?’

‘Do you talk to everyone in such a manner?’ asked Venetia, quite forgetting who he was. ‘Or perhaps,’ she went on thoughtfully, ‘you’re tired after a long day’s work.’

‘Think whatever you wish, Nurse. Where do you live?’

‘Percy Lane. It’s behind—’

‘I know where it is. Are you married or—er—having a lasting relationship with some young man?’

They were driving through Holborn, and then on towards Primrose Hill; they would be in Hampstead very soon now. ‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m not married, and I haven’t a boyfriend or anything like that. I live with my granny, at least for my days off and my holidays.’

‘No parents or brothers or sisters?’

‘No.’

He had nothing more to say, and she sat quietly, enjoying the comfort of the big, smooth car until he slowed and turned into Percy Lane. ‘Which house?’

‘Number fourteen, on the left half-way down.’

He slid to a halt, leaned across her and opened the door and undid her seat-belt, then got out himself and hauled her bag from the back of the car. ‘Enjoy your days off.’ He sounded as though he didn’t much care whether she did or not. ‘Goodnight, Nurse.’

‘Goodnight, and thank you, sir.’ She looked up into his face and smiled a little. He looked tired; perhaps that was why he looked austere and impatient whenever she had encountered him. She said kindly, ‘You must be glad to be going home; you look tired, sir.’

His mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘I am touched by your solicitude, Nurse. Quite wasted upon me, I’m afraid.’

He got back into the car and drove away, and she watched the car until it had turned back into the wide avenue at the end of the lane, and then beat a tattoo on the door of the little house behind her.

It was opened immediately. ‘Come in, child. How nice to see you. Who was that? A Bentley, too!’

Venetia kissed her grandmother, a small, elderly lady with the same nondescript features as her granddaughter, and with the same beautiful eyes. ‘Nice to be home, Granny. That was Professor ter Laan-Luitinga. He’s an honorary brain surgeon who comes to operate here from time to time. He met me at the door and offered me a lift.’

Her grandmother ushered her into the little sitting-room. ‘Nice of him, darling. Supper won’t be long. Leave everything in the hall, you can go to your room later.’

She cast a quick look at her granddaughter’s face. She was way behind with modern ways and habits, but in her elderly view it seemed strange that a member of the consultant staff should offer a lift to a student nurse he would probably know nothing of. Unless, of course, they had met already.

She took her usual high-backed chair in the pleasant room, remembering that she hadn’t heard from Venetia for some days, and there had been that bomb…

‘Did you see anything of that bomb outrage?’ she asked. ‘There must have been any number of casualties, and it was close to St Jude’s.’

‘Well, actually, I was in Woolworth’s when it went off, Granny. I was one of the lucky ones, though—just cut my arm a little. Professor ter Laan-Luitinga stitched it for me, and it’s perfectly all right.’

Her grandmother gave a small sigh of satisfaction. So that was why…

‘Let me see it, Venetia.’

The scar was examined, and pronounced a very neat piece of needlework. ‘Couldn’t have done it better myself,’ said her grandmother. ‘I thought you said he was a brain surgeon.’

‘Well, yes, he is. He just happened to go past while I was waiting in Casualty.’

‘How very fortunate, child.’ Her grandmother, a great knitter, began to turn the heel of a sock she was making. ‘Now tell me what you’ve been doing since I saw you last.’

Venetia’s two days off passed quickly. There was nothing exciting to do, but she didn’t mind—it was nice just to potter round the little house, go shopping with her grandmother, and sit round the fire in the evening listening to her reminiscing about Venetia’s mother and father. She had been very happy in those days, and remembering them made her sad, but, as her grandmother had said, life had to go on, and the sooner she was trained with the certainty of a secure job, the better. ‘I shan’t live forever,’ said her grandmother, ‘and there won’t be much for you, child. I’ve borrowed on this house, so there will be only a fraction of its worth to come to you. It’s not what I would have wished.’

Venetia had assured her that she had no need to worry; she already paid some of her salary towards household expenses, and in another year or two she would earn sufficient to look after the pair of them.

St Jude’s loomed inhospitably out of the evening mist when she went back the following day. The bus had been packed, and when she got out of it the sight of the narrow, shabby streets around her sent her usually cheerful heart plummeting down into her sensible shoes. Perhaps when she had trained she would be able to find a job away from London, somewhere from where she could still get to Hampstead to visit Granny, but where there were trees and fields and one could hear the birds singing.