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who it was—and bore goodnaturedly with a little mild teasing before going off duty clasping their magnificence to her starched bosom.
She was halfway down the stairs when he caught up with her. She had known who it was, if not by the pricking of her thumbs, then by some sixth sense, but she didn’t turn round, indeed, she contemplated breaking into a run, only to discard the idea as being undignified, so he caught up with her easily enough, observing mildly, ‘What—too tired to run away?’
She smiled frostily and answered shortly, ‘No,’ and then remembered that he had, after all, been kind enough to give her the tulips.
‘The flowers are lovely,’ she said in a slightly less frigid voice. ‘It was kind of you.’
They had reached the bottom of the stairs; she added ‘I go this way.’ She smiled a little and turned away, to be instantly caught and held by the large hand on her shoulder and twiddled round to face him again.
‘Since we are saying goodnight—’ he said softly, and bent to kiss her.
She spent a wakeful night, rehearsing the cool manner in which she would greet him when they next met. It was a pity that her lack of sleep was wasted, for he didn’t come. After a week she was forced to admit to herself that the tulips had been in the nature of a farewell gesture, and that he was now probably building bridges or discovering oil wells in some far-flung spot of the globe. That he was no longer in London at least was obvious, because the dark-haired girl still came to visit Lady Belway, and Augusta had seen her leave the hospital, driving herself in a rakish little sports car. On the eighth day, she threw away the last of the tulips, designating, as it were, his memory to the dustbin of her mind. She had plenty of other things to fill it…the Brig, making good progress, was none the less very difficult, especially on the days when the cricketing news wasn’t good. Miss Dawn Dewey, recovered rather reluctantly from her cold, had gone, to be replaced by a minor statesman with tonsilitis…and there had been a fresh batch of T’s and A’s in. Lady Belway, organised at last with a nurse to take her home and stay, was due to go. Augusta had been invited—rather, commanded, to visit her and take tea; something she was loath to do, but perhaps the old lady was lonely, and it would be interesting to see where she lived—somewhere off Knightsbridge, in one of the squares.
She had been surprised one day when the girl had stopped her as she left Lady Belway’s room, and said, ‘It’s silly the way we see each other every day and don’t know each other’s names—at least, I know yours. I’m Susan Belsize—Lady Belway’s niece.’ She put out a hand, and Augusta shook it and said politely and a little absentmindedly, ‘How do you do?’ because she was thinking about Mrs Bewley the alcoholic, who had the first symptoms of pellagra; she was already having nicotine acid, but it obviously wasn’t sufficient…she would have to telephone Dr Watts. She smiled vaguely at Miss Belsize, who, it seemed, wasn’t in a hurry, for she went on, ‘You’ve been very kind to my aunt. I expect you know that she wanted you to go home with her—but Matron said you were indispensable.’ She added with a rather gushing sympathy, ‘You must get so tired, and I’m sure you don’t get much fun.’
Augusta thought she detected pity, and anyway what sort of fun did the girl mean? She said, a little extravagantly, that yes, she had quite a lot of fun, and edged towards the office door. But her companion, with time on her hands, seemed incapable of realising that there were those who worked. She observed archly:
‘Of course, this place is stuffed with doctors, isn’t it?’ She shot a playful look at Augusta. ‘We saw you out the other evening.’
Augusta blinked, trying to think of a mutual social background. Not a bus queue, surely, and certainly not the cheapest seats at the cinema, and the little café where Archie sometimes took her for coffee was hardly the kind of place Miss Belsize would be seen in. She said carefully, ‘Oh? I don’t think…’
‘You were with one of the doctors—I’m sure I’ve seen him around. We passed you both as we were leaving one evening, rather late, but you didn’t see us.’
‘Us,’ thought Augusta, ‘the man with straw-coloured hair.’ She murmured politely, her hand on the office door which she opened an inch or two, and her companion said with animation:
‘You meet so many people, don’t you? But I daresay you forget them…ships that pass in the night and all that stuff.’ She laughed. She had a pleasant laugh.
‘Oh, definitely,’ said Augusta, her mind still on Mrs Bewley. ‘I really must get on…you’ll forgive me if I…?’
Miss Belsize said at once with a genuine concern, ‘Oh, my poor dear, I’m keeping you from your work, aren’t I absolutely beastly?’ She giggled. ‘I expect I shall see you again.’
She floated away down the corridor, leaving a faint delicious whiff of Chanel Number 5 on the air. Augusta gave an appreciative sniff before going to the telephone, and then forgot all about her, for the time being at least.
It seemed quiet on PP after Lady Belway had gone home. Augusta missed the old lady’s caustic tongue and the autocratic voice demanding this, that and the other thing. She had been a trying patient, but an interesting person, and something Augusta didn’t quite admit to herself, while she had been in the hospital, there had always been the chance that she would have visitors—which visitors, Augusta took care not to define. She supposed that she could have found out from the Brig the name of the man who had given her the tulips, but each time she was on the point of asking, something had prevented her from doing so. She decided that she wasn’t meant to know anyway. He had been a ship that passed in the night, as Susan Belsize had so tritely put it. All the same, as she got off the bus outside Harrods a few days later, she hoped that Lady Belway might mention him.
Lady Belway lived in a Nash house; one of a terrace of houses making up one side of a quiet square within ten minutes’ walk of Harrods. She rang its old-fashioned door bell and stood back to admire the window boxes decorating the downstairs rooms. The house was in a beautiful state of preservation, as was the elderly butler who presently opened the door, and led her, at his own pace, across the narrow hall and up a handsome staircase to the drawing room—an apartment which took up a major part of the first floor, with windows both back and front and a vast chimneypiece the focal point of its further wall. Lady Belway was lying on a day bed, swathed in a variety of pastel-coloured wraps and stoles, which showed up her white, elegantly dressed hair to perfection. The butler announced Augusta in a sonorous voice, making what he could of her prosaic name, and her hostess said with a good deal of pleasure, ‘How nice to see you, Staff Nurse…no, I cannot possibly call you that—I shall call you Augusta. Come here and sit down beside me and tell me what you have been doing.’
Augusta, privately of the opinion that her activities would be both boring and distasteful to the old lady, took her seat on a Sheraton armchair near enough to her hostess to make conversation easy, and instead of answering her question, asked several of her own, which launched Lady Belway into a happy and somewhat rambling account of the delights of being in her own home once more.
Augusta had expected the nurse to be there, and perhaps Susan Belsize; but it soon transpired that the former was off duty for the afternoon, and the latter had flown over to Paris for a brief period.
‘The dear gal needed a change after dancing attendance on me all the while I was in hospital,’ explained Lady Belway. ‘If it hadn’t been for her and my godson, I should have been a lonely old woman.’
Augusta politely agreed, while she tried to remember a single day while Lady Belway had been in hospital when she had had no visitors at all. There were, she supposed, degrees of loneliness.
They spent an amicable afternoon together, taking tea in some state off Sèvres china and talking about a great many things; indeed, during a discussion on foreign politics, Lady Belway paused to comment that Augusta was a well-informed girl. She said this in some surprise, so that Augusta was moved to remind her that nurses were, on the whole, tolerably well educated and reasonably intelligent, which remark Lady Belway took in good part, saying graciously, ‘And what is your father, Augusta?’
She