The Girl With Green Eyes

‘Kayseri, the ancient Hittite city—there have been some interesting finds lately, and I’ve been asked to go out there and take a look,’ Mr Lockitt joined in. ‘We plan to fly out at the end of next week.’

The doctor, much to Lucy’s surprise, expressed his delight at the invitation, and Mrs Lockitt said, ‘Lucy, dear, run up to my room and get my engagement book, will you? And do get some slippers at the same time.’

Lucy went slowly upstairs. Her parents, whom she loved dearly, were spoiling everything for her; she showed up in a bad light in her own home with no chance to outshine their intellectual talk—she had hardly scintillated over dinner, and since she had entered the drawing-room she had uttered only a few words. She found the book, poked her feet into a pair of frivolous satin mules and went back downstairs. Alice had brought in the coffee and Lucy’s father had fetched the brandy; the doctor looked as though he had settled for the rest of the evening, already making knowledgeable replies to her father’s observations—apparently he knew all about the iron-smelting activities of the Hittites, and he knew too where they had lived in Asia Minor.

As she handed round the coffee-cups he asked pleasantly, ‘And do you not wish to go too, Lucy?’

Her mother answered for her. ‘Lucy’s a home-bird, aren’t you, darling? This nice little job at the orphanage gives her something to do while we’re away.’ Mrs Lockitt went on, not meaning to be unkind, ‘She hasn’t had a training for anything. Of course, Imogen is the clever one in the family—she has this super job in the City—and Pauline works in an art gallery, and will marry at the end of this year. They are all such capable girls, and of course we have an excellent housekeeper.’

The doctor murmured politely and presently got up to go, and Mr Lockitt went to the door with him, so that beyond a stiff little speech of thanks Lucy had no chance to speak. There was nothing to say anyway. Her fragile dream, never more than a fantasy, had been blown away; he would think of her, if he ever did, as a dull girl not worth a second thought.

She bade her parents goodnight and went to bed. Surprisingly, just before she slept, she decided that somehow or other she would get to know him better, and eventually, in the teeth of all hazards, marry him.

CHAPTER THREE

FOR several days Lucy had no chance to put her resolve into practice. There was no sign of Dr Thurloe at the orphanage and it had been silly of her to imagine that she might see him there. Very occasionally in an emergency he might be asked to go there, but there weren’t any emergencies; Miranda was doing very nicely—she was even showing small signs of improvement.

Mr and Mrs Lockitt, their journey arranged, had decided to invite a few friends as well as the doctor for dinner. ‘Rather short notice,’ observed Mrs Lockitt, ‘but they’re all old friends and we don’t stand on ceremony. I suppose I’ll have to ask Mrs Seymour …’

‘Why?’ asked Lucy, making a list of guests.

‘Well, dear, she and Dr Thurloe seem to be old friends. Indeed, people seem to think that he might marry her—heaven knows she’s trying hard enough—but I don’t think he will. Mind you’re home in good time and wear something pretty—the grey, perhaps?’

‘Definitely not the grey. There’s that rust velvet I’ve hardly worn …’

‘Ah, yes. I’d forgotten that.’ Her mother eyed her a little anxiously. ‘You’ll be all right while we’re away, darling? It is such a pity that Pauline will be in Edinburgh at that Art Exhibition for the next two weeks, and Imogen tells me that she has to accompany Sir George to Brussels—for a few weeks, she thought. But you’ll have Alice.’

‘We’ll be quite all right, Mother, dear. How long will you and Father be away?’

‘Well, we aren’t sure, it rather depends on what they’ve found. I must say Turkey is as good a place as anywhere to go at this time of year. Of course, we’ll phone you, darling.’ She smiled at Lucy. ‘Now, how many have we got? I thought we might have soup first, so comforting in this weather, and then that nice fish salad and lamb chops with new potatoes and green peas—I’m sure I saw some in Harrods. They cost the earth, but they are so delicious. I’ll get Alice to make some of those chocolate mousses, the ones with orange, and cheese of course.’

Lucy wrote it all down tidily and handed it to her mother.

‘Thank you, dear; you’re such a good daughter. I’m so glad you’re not a career girl, Lucy. You must find a nice man and marry him, darling.’

Lucy said, ‘Yes, Mother.’ It wasn’t much use telling her that she had found the nice man. The chances of marrying him, were, as far as she could see, negligible.

She dressed for the dinner party with extra care and viewed the result with some satisfaction. The rust velvet suited her—it made her eyes greener than they were, gave her hair a reflected glint, and showed off her pretty figure to its best advantage. She was even more satisfied when she joined her family in the drawing-room and her mother exclaimed, ‘Why, Lucy, how delightfully that dress suits you! There’s the doorbell—I’ve put you between Cyril and Mr Walter …’

So much for her painstaking dressing; Cyril didn’t like her, she was beneath his notice, and Mr Walter was a dear, but hard of hearing. She joined in greeting the first of the guests, moving from one to the other, watching the door out of the corner of her eye. Dr Thurloe came in alone and she beamed at him across the room; at least he hadn’t given Fiona Seymour a lift. He smiled back as he greeted his hostess and host, but made no effort to join Lucy—probably because she was trapped in a corner by old Mrs Winchell, who was eighty if she was a day and invited to everyone’s table although no one really knew why. Lucy, listening with patience to that lady’s opinion of the government, watched Fiona Seymour, the last to arrive, make her entrance. She really was good-looking and this evening she was wearing a starkly plain black dress, superbly cut, with her hair swept into an elaborate arrangement of curls on top of her head. She had half a dozen golden bangles on one arm and several gold chains hung around her slender neck. Old Mrs Winchell turned to look at her, using her old-fashioned lorgnettes to do so. ‘She’s wasting her time,’ she muttered, and then in her usual rather loud voice, went on to reorganise the government.

The talk at dinner was largely concerned with the forthcoming trip to Turkey, so that Lucy was kept busy listening first to Cyril carrying on about the rate of exchange, and then repeating to Mr Walter what people were saying at the table that he hadn’t quite heard. The doctor, to her disappointment, was at the other end of the rectangular table, with Imogen on one side and Fiona on the other.