Nurse Angela (4 page)

“Yes, we’ll do that. Good night, Roger.”

He let her go reluctantly and she slid out of the car.

She turned and waved as he started up the engine, then let herself in the residence. Dear Roger, he was rather a dear. Was their friendship deepening into something more? It would be easy to fall in love with Roger; she was more than fond of him already. It was the first time he had kissed her and as her head touched the pillow she gave a sudden, broad smile as she recalled something Nancy Roberts had asked. No, Roger’s beard didn’t tickle when he kissed her. It was soft and somehow, well, sort of nice. She fell sound asleep.

At nine o’clock the next morning a maid brought her breakfast. After a leisurely meal and a bath she dressed in a soft, red, jersey dress, which she set off with a bright scarf. Hearing Roger’s car, she slipped on a warm camel coat and ran downstairs.

The sight of Simon walking across to the hospital brought back forcibly the disturbing article that Peter had told her of. Angela’s heart contracted with sympathy for Simon. Why had he not given her a chance to finish what she had been going to say the other evening when he had invited her out? She saw him pause and turn to look in her direction as she got in the car beside Roger. Then he went abruptly indoors.

Roger saw him too. “He’s a cool customer, Dr. LeFeure,” he said. “He passed me almost close enough to speak, but went by with barely a nod.”

“He is rather inclined to be moody,” Angela said. “But of course if that article Peter saw is about his father, it’s not to be wondered at.”

“No, that’s true.”

They were silent for a minute; then Angela said, in order to change the subject, “What time did the party break up last night?”

“About two. Debbie lingered on for ages after that. In the end, Milly had to almost drag her away.”

They stopped at the apartment where Peter had coffee already on the stove. From his room came the tap-tap of his typewriter, and a delicious aroma of coffee drifted from the kitchen. Roger poured out three cups.

“Come and get it, Peter.”

Peter emerged wearing a sweater and an old pair of slacks. “Hello, Peter,” Angela said. “Working on a Sunday?”

He grinned. “Writers are like nurses. Sundays, Mondays—
t
hey’re all alike to us. Besides, you know what they say, we have to work when we’ve got the inspiration.”

“Is it true what people say about a writer’s inspiration?”

“Well, in a vague kind of way, I suppose, but a lot of it is nonsense. Sometimes you’re stuck for ideas and have to drag out every word; other times they just seem to come arid you can’t get them on paper fast enough. That’s about the way of it.”

“Peter, you make it sound so ordinary. I’m sure there’s a little more to it than that.”

Peter grinned. “Yes, I forgot to mention hard work and determination. But spare me inspiration and temperament.”

“You’re too modest by far, isn’t he, Roger?”

Roger laughed. “Oh yes. It’s the same with us artists. Modest, self-effacing geniuses.”

It was not a long journey to Wendover, no more than 30 or 40 miles, but the road ran up wooded hills and down pleasant valleys passing through sleepy, old-world villages with thatched roofs and tiny village schools. Church bells rang out on the clear morning air as folks made their leisurely way to church. The woods wore their spring carpet of bluebells, the scent wafting pleasantly to their nostrils as they drove along.

Angela glanced at Roger’s profile. “You’re very quiet.”

“I was thinking. Angela,” he said abruptly, “would you marry me?”

She gasped, then laughed a little. “Roger, you’re joking.”

He smiled wryly. “Does the idea strike you as being so funny?”

“No, not altogether. But you didn’t ask it seriously, did you? I mean—”

“Well, forget it, for the time being. Or consider the matter some time in the small hours of the morning when you have nothing better to think about.”

“Roger,” she protested, laughing. “Anyone would think you were asking me to go on a trip to Morocco or something.” She was struck with a sudden recollection. “That reminds me, I’m thinking of going to Paris for two weeks in August.”

“Eh?” he exclaimed in a startled voice. He brought the car to a stop and looked at her. “Did I hear you say you were thinking of going to Paris for a fortnight?”

“Yes. Why not? Don’t look so surprised.”

“But of course I’m surprised, your throwing out a piece of news like that. Have you been before?”

“No.”

“Who are you going with? You can’t possibly go alone.”

“Of course I can, and I am,” she told him laughing. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

He sighed. “I’m just plain envious, I suppose. I’d love to be going with you, but unless a miracle happens it’s out of the question. Paris is a wonderful city, you’ll love it. I spent two years there as a student. I’ll give you the address of the student’s hotel in the Latin Quarter. It
’
s quite comfortable. I can’t say I like the idea of your going alone though. Paris can be awfully lonely, especially at night—wonderful with the right person, of course. I’d give anything to be able to go with you.”

He started the car again and they grew silent. Roger was an odd mixture at times, Angela thought. Unconventional and casual over so many things, yet so concerned about her going to Paris alone. Why was it out of the question for him to go? Lack of money? She scarcely thought about his odd proposal of marriage. He had been joking, of course, though there were times when one did not know when Roger was joking and when he was serious. She was fond of Roger, but not in love with
him
...
yet.

It was almost lunchtime when they drew up outside her mother’s bungalow. The front garden was a riot of spring flowers: tulips in every conceivable color—these were her mother’s special pride—sweet-smelling wallflowers, or gillivers as her mother called them, and a border flanked with yellow and varicolored polyanthus.

“Isn’t it a picture?” asked Angela proudly. “She does it all herself. You’re coming in, aren’t you? She’ll be very pleased to see you.”

“Just for a moment. Then I’ll push off to visit my folks. I can call back for you any time you say.”

They found Helen Lindsay at the back of the house sitting in the sunny lounge by the French window. Her face lit up when she saw them.

“Angela
darling
...
and Roger. How lovely to see you both.”

“How are you, Mrs. Lindsay?” asked Roger.

“Just fine, this lovely weather, Roger. Will you stay to lunch, or are your people expecting you?”

“That’s kind of you, Mrs. Lindsay. I’m not really expected at home, but all the same, I wouldn’t like to put you to extra trouble.” “No trouble at all. The roast is almost cooked, and the vegetables are prepared.”

“Roger is a good cook, too, Mother,” Angela said when they sat down to lunch.

“Are you?” Helen said, turning to Roger. “I wouldn’t care to have a man busying himself in my kitchen.”

Angela laughed. “There you are, Roger. Mother, at any rate, doesn’t approve.”

Roger told her why he and Peter had turned to cooking. She deplored the idea of two young men fending for themselves and was quite convinced that they were half-starved.

After lunch Roger went to see his own parents who lived nearby, promising to return presently to take Helen for a short drive.

“What a nice person Roger has become,” Helen said when they were alone. “Though I can’t say I like that beard of his. Do you see a lot of him, my dear?”

“A fair amount these days. He is rather sweet.”

“You’re fond of him?”

Angela smiled. “Yes. But nothing
more
...
yet.”

Her mother was silent for a minute; then she said quietly, “My dear, you will be sure, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mother, I will,” Angela assured her. She went on to talk about her proposed trip to Paris. “Would you come with me, Mother?”

Helen Lindsay shook her head. “No, darling, I’d rather not. I went once with your father. It would bring back too many memories. Perhaps you can get one of the other sisters to go with you.”

“Perhaps.” Better not mention the fact yet that she was thinking of going alone.

“What gave you the idea?” her mother asked. “I’ve never heard you express any particular desire to travel.”

Angela smiled. Two weeks’ holiday in Paris could scarcely be called “travel.”

“Indirectly, it was Dr. LeFeure who gave me the idea. He’s half-French, so they say.”

“Dr. LeFeure? Oh yes, of course. Does he talk much about his life in France or mention going back there?”

“No, he talks very little about himself. He’s ... very reserved and difficult to understand at times.”

She fell silent and her mother watched her thoughtfully. This lovely, warm-hearted daughter of hers had so much to give. She would love wholeheartedly, and people with a great capacity for loving were often very badly hurt. Helen prayed fervently that her beloved Angela would meet a man who would give her that kind of love in return—the kind that gave all without reserve.

After bringing Helen back home in time for church, Roger and Angela set off on a roundabout route back to Lockerfield.

When, much later, they reached the hospital, Roger slipped an arm around her in the darkness.

“It’s been a wonderful day, darling,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. “Do you know what I’d like to do? Kidnap you, take you to my lair and never let you go.” He kissed her smooth cheek.
“You know, darling, I’m getting into quite a state about you. I’ll have to do some serious thinking.”

She laughed softly. “In the still, small hours?” She gave him a swift kiss on the cheek. “I must go now, my dear. Thank you for a lovely day.”

He got out and opened the car door for her. “When am I going to see you again?”

“In the morning, if you like,” she said as she stepped out of the car.

“I do like. Come for coffee and stay for lunch.”

“All right, but I must get back for a little sleep before going on duty.”

“Of course. I’ll see to it that you’re back for that. Good night, darling, and thank
you
for a lovely day.”

He kissed her hard and suddenly on the lips, then released her. And as she watched him drive away, Angela saw Simon LeFeure entering the hospital for his usual night visit. She felt disquieted that he might have witnessed Roger’s embrace.

It was rather odd that, after that evening, Roger reverted to his old casual friendliness with nothing more than a gentle squeeze of the hand on parting and a quick kiss that could not possibly mean anything. Angela was relieved by this change. At the moment she did not want marriage; she was far too interested in her job. Roger was a dear and the idea of marrying him one day was not by any means an unpleasant speculation, but not yet. Some day perhaps if he should ask her seriously
...

She was so engrossed in her work and her patients that it almost came as a shock that there remained only three weeks to her holiday. The realization was brought upon her by a casual query from Simon LeFeure.

“When are you taking your holiday, Sister?”

This was the first personal question she had received from him since the night he had asked her out and had taken her opening remark as a blank refusal. Since that evening he had been more cool with her than ever. He had shown no desire to linger for any conversation and had certainly not asked her out again. She had ceased even to think very much about that item of news passed on by Peter. His question now brought her up with a jerk. She glanced at the calendar.

“Good gracious, it’s in three weeks’ time.”

His interest quickened. “August the twelfth? Why, so is mine. Where are you going?”

She was conscious of sudden embarrassment. “I don’t know. I had thought of going to Paris,
but
...
”
It would be too late now of course.

He looked quite startled for a moment. Then a slow smile crossed his face, a smile that transformed his features and made Angela’s heart give a sudden little leap.

“What an extraordinary coincidence,” he said slowly. “That’s just where I’m going. But of course, I was born there. How are you traveling?”

“Well, this may seem silly, but I haven’t worked out the details. I expect it will be too late now, though I have an address in Paris and I’m told there is always room in the holiday season. It’s the student hotel in the Latin Quarter.”

“Oh yes, I know it quite well. It’s in Rue St. Jacques. You’ll have no difficulty there. Most of the students will be away on holiday, so the place will be almost empty.”

“Yes, Roger said the
same.”

“Is he not going with you?”

“Oh no, I’m going
alone
...
if I do go, that is.”

“I’m flying,” he said, “but I’m renting a car in Calais to drive to Paris. If you can manage to book a seat on any plane the same day, would you care to drive down with me?”