Stars Through the Mist

He smiled again. ‘Good. Shall we go?’

They went through the Home door together, and she was very conscious of the unseen eyes peering at them from the net-covered windows, but she forgot all about them when she saw the car drawn up waiting for them. She had wondered from time to time what sort of car he drove, and here it was—a BMW 3 OCSL, a sleek, powerful coupé which looked as though it could do an enormous speed if it were allowed to. She paused by its door and asked: ‘Yours?’

‘Yes. I could use a larger car really, but once I’m in it it’s OK, and she goes like a bird. We’ll change her, though, if you prefer something roomier.’

Deborah had settled herself in her seat. ‘She’s super, you mustn’t dream of changing her.’ She turned to look at him as he got in beside her. ‘I always imagined that you would drive something stately.’

He laughed. ‘I’m flattered that you spared even such thoughts as those upon me. I’ve a Citroën at home, an SM, plenty of room but not so fast as this one. I take it that you drive?’

He had eased the car into the evening traffic and was travelling westward. ‘Well,’ said Deborah, ‘I drive, but I’m not what you would call a good driver, though I haven’t had much opportunity…’

‘Then we must find opportunity for you—you will need a car of your own.’

In Piccadilly, where the traffic was faster and thinner, he turned off into Berkeley Street and stopped outside the Empress Restaurant. A truly imposing place, she discovered, peeping discreetly about her as they went in—grandly Victorian with its red plush and its candelabra. When they were seated she said with disarming frankness: ‘It rather takes my breath away.’

His mouth twitched. ‘Worthy of the occasion, I hope.’ He opened his eyes wide and she was surprised, as she always was, by their intense blue. ‘For it is an occasion, is it not?’

She studied him; he was really extraordinarily handsome and very distinguished in his dinner jacket. After a moment he said softly:

‘I hope I pass muster?’

She blinked and smiled rather shyly. ‘I beg your pardon—I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that—well, you never see a person properly in theatre, do you?’

He studied her in his turn. ‘No—and I made a mistake just now. I called you handsome, and you’re not, you’re beautiful.’

She flushed delicately under his gaze and he went on blandly: ‘But let us make no mistake, I’m not getting sentimental or falling in love with you, Deborah.’ His voice had a faint edge which she was quick to hear.

She forced her own voice to normality. ‘You explained about that, but supposing you should meet someone with whom you do fall in love? And you might, you’re not old, are you?’

‘I’m thirty-seven,’ he informed her, still bland, ‘and I have had a number of years in which to fall in and out of love since Sasja’s death.’ He saw her look and smiled slightly. ‘And by that I mean exactly what I said; I must confess I’ve been attracted to a number of women, but I didn’t like them—there is a difference. I like you, Deborah.’

She sipped the drink he had ordered and studied the menu card and tried not to mind too much that he was talking to her as though she were an old friend who had just applied for a job he had going. In a way she was. She put the idea out of her head and chose Suprême de Turbot Mogador and settled for caviare for starters, then applied herself to a lighthearted conversation which gave him no opportunity of turning the talk back to themselves. But that didn’t last long; with the coming of the Vacherin Glacéhe cut easily into her flow of small talk with:

‘As to our marriage—have you any objection if it takes place soon? I want to return to Holland as quickly as possible and I have arranged to leave Clare’s in ten days’ time. I thought we might get married then.’

Deborah sat with her fork poised midway between plate and mouth. ‘Ten days’ time?’ she uttered. ‘But that’s not possible! I have to give a month’s notice.’

‘Oh, don’t concern yourself with that. I can arrange something. Is that your only objection?’

‘You don’t know my family.’

‘You live in Somerset, don’t you? We might go down there and see them before we go to Holland—unless you wish to be married from your home?’

It was like being swept along a fast-moving river with not even a twig in sight. ‘I—I hadn’t thought about it.’

‘Then how would it be if we marry quietly here in London and then go to see your parents?’

‘You mean surprise them?’

‘I’ll be guided by you,’ he murmured.

She thought this rather unlikely; all the same it was a good idea.

‘Father’s an historian,’ she explained, ‘and rather wrapped up in his work, and Mother—Mother is never surprised about anything. They wouldn’t mind. I’d like a quiet wedding, but in church.’

He looked surprised. ‘Naturally. I am a Calvinist myself and you are presumably Church of England. If you care to choose your church I’ll see about the licence and make the arrangements. Do you want any guests?’

She shook her head; it didn’t seem quite right to invite people to a marriage which was, after all, a friendly arrangement between two people who were marrying for all the wrong reasons—although there was nothing wrong with her reason; surely loving someone was sufficiently strong grounds for marrying them? And as for Gerard, his reasons, though very different, held a strong element of practical common sense. Besides, he believed her to be in complete agreement with him over the suitability of a marriage between two persons who, presumably, had no intention of allowing their hearts to run away with their feelings. She wondered idly just what kind of a girl might steal his heart. Certainly not herself—had he not said that he liked her, and that, as far as she could see, was as far as it went.

She drank her coffee and agreed with every show of pleasure to his suggestion that they should go somewhere and dance.

He took her to the Savoy, where they danced for an hour or more between pleasant little interludes at the table he had secured well away from the dance floor. She was an excellent dancer and Gerard, she discovered, danced well too, if a trifle conservatively. Just for a space she forgot her problems and gave herself to the enjoyment of the evening, and presently, drinking champagne, her face prettily flushed, she found herself agreeing that a light supper would be delightful before he took her back to Clare’s. It was almost three o’clock when he stopped the car outside the Home. He got out of the car with her and opened the heavy door with the latch key she gave him and then stood idly swinging it in his hand.

‘Thank you for a delightful evening,’ said Deborah, and tried to remember that she was going to marry this large, quiet man standing beside her, and in ten days, too. She felt sudden panic swamp the tenuous happiness inspired by the champagne and the dancing, and raised her eyes to his face, her mouth already open to give utterance to a variety of thoughts which, largely because of that same champagne, no longer made sense.

The eyes which met hers were very kind. ‘Don’t worry, Deborah,’ he urged her in his deep, placid voice. ‘It’s only reaction; in the morning everything will be quite all right again. You must believe me.’

He bent and kissed her cheek, much as though he were comforting a child, and told her to go to bed. ‘And I’ll see you tomorrow before I go to Holland.’

And because she was bewildered and a little afraid and her head had begun to ache, she did as he bade her. With a whispered good night she went slowly up the stairs without looking back to see if he was watching her, undressed and got into bed, and fell at once into a dreamless sleep which was only ended by her alarm clock warning her to get up and dress, astonished to find that what Gerard had said was quite true; everything did seem all right. She went down to breakfast and in response to the urgent enquiries of her companions, gave a detailed account of her evening and then, fortified by several cups of strong tea, made her way to the theatre unit.

There wasn’t much doing. Mr Squires had a couple of Smith-Petersen pins to insert, a bone graft to do, and there was a Carpal Tunnel—an easy enough list, for he kept strictly to straightforward bone work, leaving the bone tumours to Gerard van Doorninck. They were finished by one o’clock and Deborah had time to go down to dinner before sending Staff off duty. The theatre would have to be washed down that afternoon and she wanted to go through the sharps; some of the chisels needed attention, as did the grooved awl and one or two of the rugines. She would go down to the surgical stores and see what could be done. She had them neatly wrapped and was on the point of making her way through the labyrinth of semi-underground passages to the stores, when Gerard walked in. ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Going somewhere?’

She explained about the sharps, and even as she was speaking he had taken them from her and put them on the desk. ‘Later. I have to go again in a few minutes. I just wanted to make sure…’ he paused and studied her with cool leisure. Apparently her calm demeanour pleased him, for he said: ‘I told you that everything would be all right, didn’t I?’ and when she nodded, longing to tell him that indeed nothing was right at all, he went on: ‘I’ve seen about the licence—there’s a small church round the corner, St Joram’s. Would you like to go and see it and tell me if you will marry me there?’

Her heart jumped because she still wasn’t used to the idea of marrying him, although her face remained tranquil enough. ‘I know St Joram’s very well, I go there sometimes. I should like to be married there.’

He gave a small satisfied sound, like a man who had had a finicky job to do and had succeeded with it sooner than he had expected.

‘I’ll be back on Monday—there’s a list at ten o’clock, isn’t there? I’ll see you before we start.’

He took her hand briefly, said goodbye even more briefly, and retraced his steps. Deborah stood in the empty corridor, listening to his unhurried stride melt into the distance and then merge into the multitude of hospital sounds. Presently she picked up the instruments and started on her way to the surgical stores.

CHAPTER THREE

THE WARMTH OF the early September morning had barely penetrated the dim cool of the little church. Deborah, standing in its porch, peered down its length; in a very few minutes she was going to walk down the aisle with Gerard beside her and become his wife. She wished suddenly that he hadn’t left her there while he returned to lock the car parked outside, because then she wouldn’t have time to think. Now her head seethed with the events of the last ten days; the interview with Miss Bright, the Principal Nursing Officer, and the astonishing ease with which she found herself free to leave exactly when Gerard had wanted her to; the delight and curiosity of her friends, who even at that very moment had no idea that she was getting married this very morning; she had allowed them to think that she and Gerard were going down to her parents in Somerset. She had even allowed them to discuss her wedding dress, with a good deal of friendly bickering as to which style and material would suit her best, and had quietly gone out and shopped around for a pale blue dress and jacket and a wisp of a hat which she had only put on in the car, in case someone in the hospital should have seen it and guessed what it might be, for it was that sort of a hat. But the hat was the only frivolous thing about her; she looked completely composed, and when she heard Gerard’s step behind her, she turned a tranquil face to greet him, very much at variance with her heart’s secret thudding.

He had flowers in his hand, a small spray of roses and orange blossom and green leaves. ‘For you,’ he said. ‘I know that you should have a bouquet, but it might have been difficult to hide from your friends.’ He spoke easily with no sign of discomposure and proceeded to fasten them on to her dress in a matter-of-fact manner. When he had done so, he stood back to look at her. ‘Very nice,’ was his verdict. ‘How lucky that we have such a glorious morning.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’re a few minutes early, shall we stroll round the church?’

They wandered off, examining the memorials on the walls and the gravestones at their feet, for all the world, thought Deborah, slightly light-headed, as though they were a pair of tourists. It was when they reached the pulpit that she noticed the flowers beautifully arranged around the chancel. She stopped before one particularly fine mass of blooms and remarked: ‘How beautiful these are, and so many of them. I shouldn’t have thought that the parish was rich enough to afford anything like this.’

She turned to look at her companion as she spoke and exclaimed:

‘Oh, you had them put here. How—how thoughtful!’

‘I’m glad you like them. I found the church a little bare when I came the other day—the vicar’s wife was only too glad to see to them for me.’

‘Thank you,’ said Deborah. She touched the flowers on her dress. ‘And for these too.’