The Convenient Wife

She was a sensible girl, and she didn’t dwell on the lack of romance in her future, but made civil conversation with Todd, who was presiding over her dinner. He excused himself when he had served her pudding, and she heard him talking in the hall, and then the professor’s deep voice. Todd came back presently, and after a little while she heard the professor’s step in the hall and the sound of the heavy front door being shut.

She explained to Todd when she went down to breakfast that she would be leaving that morning, refusing his offer of a nice lunch, although she agreed that she wouldn’t go until he had brought her coffee later on in the morning. And, when it came to the point of leaving, she felt real regret as she thanked the Todds for their kindness; the professor’s home had spelt security and calm just when she had needed it. She refused the taxi Todd offered her, and walked to the High Street, where she idled away an hour before having lunch in a small café and then going to collect her cheque. That done, there was nothing to keep her there any longer. She made her way to Percy Lane and found the little house already empty, and, mindful of the solicitor’s instructions, left the keys on the sitting-room mantelshelf and then went quickly away, closing the door behind her and not looking back.

In a way it was a relief to be back at work, even though Staff Nurse Thomas was sharper tongued than usual and there were several testy patients who wanted attention all the time, never mind how busy the nurses were.

Of the professor there was no sign. It wasn’t for a day or two after her return that Caroline, sharing a pot of tea with her before bed, observed that he had gone back to Holland.

‘How do you know?’ asked Venetia. ‘I mean, you knew last time, too…’

‘Tim told me. But he’ll be back. I heard Theatre Sister telling Sister Bolt that there was a brain tumour being sent over from Jersey—he’s bound to be back to deal with it. It’s a teaser, she said, and they always have him over for the nasty ones.’

Two days later she met him in one of the long downstairs corridors. She was on her way to collect a drug which had to be given immediately, and was racing along much too fast. His long arm, shooting out to try to stop her, brought her to a halt.

He had his registrar with him, which probably accounted for his bland, ‘Ah, Nurse Forbes. Your domestic difficulties are at an end, I trust?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir.’ She had gone a little pink with the unexpectedness of the meeting, and when he nodded in a dismissive manner she smiled a little uncertainly at him and hurried off on her errand. Seeing him brought back the memories she had been trying so hard to stifle. All at once she longed for her grandmother and the little house in Hampstead—more than that, she longed for an anchor, somewhere to call home, somewhere to go when she was free. She hadn’t moped, she had done her best, spending her free days visiting museums and art galleries, eating economical meals in busy cafés so that she had people around her, assuring her friends when they asked her that she simply loved exploring London, anxious not to infringe upon their kind concern for her. And now the professor was back to upset her. She had some holiday due, she would use some of her little capital and go away. Right away, although just for the moment she had no idea where.

The answer came from an unexpected source the very next day. The professor’s registrar stopped her as she was crossing the entrance hall, intent on giving a message to whoever was in the porter’s lodge.

‘Spare a minute?’ he asked pleasantly, and, since he had always been friendly and she liked him, she stopped willingly enough. ‘I say, you may find this awful cheek, but I’m in a spot. I have to go over to Holland with Professor ter Laan-Luitinga, and it means leaving my wife for a week or ten days. She’s expecting a baby and hates to be on her own, and none of her family or mine is free to go and stay with her. Sister Giles was complaining about being short of a nurse while you were on leave, and I wondered—if you hadn’t anything better to do, if you would stay with Lottie?’

She had met his wife once, at Christmas when Mr Miles had brought her round the wards. They had liked each other, but they hadn’t met since. Venetia said slowly, ‘Well, I wasn’t going anywhere—but how does your wife feel about it?’

‘When I suggested it she was pleased. You have met, haven’t you? I remember she liked you. Would you think about it? The professor will be going back to Holland in two or three days’time—he’s got this tricky case to see to, and a backlog of patients to deal with. When do you start your holiday?’

Nothing in his manner suggested to her that he might already know.

‘Well, I’ve days off on Monday and Tuesday, and then my holiday starts.’

‘Couldn’t be better, I believe we’re to go on the Tuesday evening.’

He smiled in his friendly fashion. ‘Leave a message at the lodge if you would like to come; we’d be eternally grateful.’

‘If you’re sure—?’ began Venetia.

‘Quite sure, and you’ve no idea what a load it would be off my mind.’

She thought about it for the rest of the day. It was a heaven-sent opportunity to get away from hospital life, and, when she came to think about it, hadn’t someone told her that Mr Miles had bought a small cottage—somewhere near Beaconsfield? Penn, that was the name, and, although he and his wife had a small flat in one of the new blocks built by the Thames where the docks once were, they spent his free weekends and holidays there. She was a little surprised that he had asked her, but there probably wasn’t anyone suitable free. By the end of the day she had made up her mind to accept his offer.

On the Friday evening he came on to the ward, very properly asked Sister Giles if he might have a word with Venetia, and drew her to one side.

‘Lottie and I are so glad that you will come. She’s at the flat, but if you could be ready to go with us on Tuesday afternoon, we’ll collect you on the way down to the cottage at Penn; she would rather be there.’

He smiled kindly at her and went away, leaving her feeling pleasantly excited at the prospect of a change of scene.

She felt a little anxious as she waited for Mr Miles to fetch her; supposing his wife didn’t like her after all? And what would they do all day? And would she be expected to help in the house? She wasn’t really a guest, but, on the other hand, she wasn’t employed by the Mileses, either.

She need not have worried; she was popped into the car, her luggage was stowed in the boot, and it was evident from the first moment that she and Mr Miles’s wife were going to like each other.

‘Call me Lottie,’ begged the pretty girl sitting beside him, ‘and I shall call you Venetia. You don’t mind?’

It took a little while to leave London behind them, but once on the motorway they were going through Beaconsfield and turning off for Penn in no time at all. It was a charming village, just as Venetia had hoped it would be, with a green and a duck pond, surrounded by seventeenth-century cottages overlooked by the church and the Crown Inn. The Mileses’ cottage was down a narrow lane, standing sideways on to the road; a small, neat house, its garden bare now, although very tidy. Inside there was a welcoming fire in the sitting room, and an appetising smell coming from the kitchen.

‘Mrs Trent,’ explained Lottie. ‘She comes in every day when we’re here, just for an hour or two. Come and see your bedroom—we’ve only got two—Arthur will bring up your case.’

It was a dear little room, pink and blue and white, sparsely furnished, but there was everything one could need. ‘We share the bathroom.’ Lottie beamed at Venetia. ‘I don’t know what we’ll do when baby gets here.’

Venetia peered out of the small window. ‘Couldn’t you build on? There’s lots of room, isn’t there? The garden’s beautiful, and fairly big.’

‘We don’t want to leave here—we love it. Would you like to unpack? Arthur will have to go back almost at once…’

‘Will you wish him a good trip from me? I’d like to unpack, if I may.’

It was obvious from her companion’s face that she had said the right thing. She opened her case and started putting things away, and found that her thoughts, without any prompting from her, had turned to the professor. He would be going home—and to whom?

CHAPTER THREE

THE two of them settled down happily. They had a lot in common, for they were of a similar age and they both liked clothes, books and the theatre. Although Venetia had a small wardrobe, her clothes were as good as she could afford, even if not in the forefront of fashion. As for Lottie, a slavish follower of all fashion, but for the moment wearing voluminous garments which none the less contrived to look smart, she studied the latest Harper’s, her pretty head full of the clothes she would buy when the baby was born.

Mrs Trent came daily to tidy the house and give what she called a good clean through, so Venetia and Lottie had a minimum of chores. They did the shopping, went for a walk each day, and spent the evenings round the fire, roasting chestnuts and knitting garments for the forthcoming infant. Each evening the phone rang, the signal for Venetia to go into the kitchen to start the supper while Lottie spent the next fifteen minutes or so talking to Arthur. It was on their fourth evening there that she remarked, putting down the phone at last, ‘He doesn’t know when he’ll be back, he thinks at least another four days.’

Venetia came to the open door between the kitchen and the sitting-room. ‘What exactly are they doing?’ she wanted to know.

‘Oh, some VIP needed brain surgery. Arthur doesn’t always go with the professor, but now he’s getting much more experienced—the professor’s very generous with his teaching.’ She looked up, smiling. ‘He’s a nice man. Do you see much of him at St Jude’s?’

‘Almost nothing, but he was very kind to me when my grandmother died.’ Venetia began to beat the eggs for an omelette. ‘He stitched up my arm, too.’

Lottie chuckled. ‘I can just imagine the fuss and bother when they discovered that you were on the staff.’

Venetia spooned in water and did a bit more beating. ‘Yes, it was funny, though I couldn’t have cared less at the time.’

‘A nasty experience. I’d have been terrified.’

‘Well, I was, and I felt such a fool—I was sick while my arm was being stitched…’

‘Not very glamorous, but then medical men expect that kind of thing,’ observed Lottie comfortably.

But not very senior consultant surgeons who had descended from Olympian heights to do a bit of sewing on a student nurse’s arm. But Venetia didn’t say that out loud.

It was cold and wet the next day, and they spent it happily enough writing Christmas cards—not that Venetia had many to write, a lack more than made up for by the list Lottie worked her way through.

‘Will you be in hospital over Christmas?’ she wanted to know.

‘Me? Oh, yes. It’s quite fun, you know. We visit the other wards and sing carols, and each ward has a tree.’

‘Could you have leave if you wanted it?’

Venetia said a little too quickly, ‘Not really. We all get some time off, of course, but it’s split up… Will you be here for Christmas?’