When May Follows. Betty NeelsЧитать онлайн книгу.
out yesterday evening too.’
‘Well, yes, I did—just to a bistro…’
‘And is it to be a bistro tonight?’ several voices chorused.
‘The King and I.’ Katrina poured tea from the large pot just put on the table.
‘And dinner afterwards, I expect, and a spot of dancing?’
‘Well, the Professor did say something about it…’
There was another howl of laughter. ‘Kate, you don’t call him Professor, do you? What’s his name—what do you talk about?’
‘The weather,’ said Katrina guilelessly.
The afternoon went quickly. She handed over to Julie at five o’clock, did a final round to wish the patients goodnight, and went off duty. She had plenty of time, time to lie for ages in the bath, make up her lovely face at her leisure and wind her hair into its intricate chignon before putting on the organza dress. It was a lovely thing, patterned in shades of amber and brown with a square yoke and a waist tied by long satin ribbons, its balloon sleeves ending in tight bands at her elbows. Her slippers were exactly right with it, as was the brown marabou stole she dug out from the back of the wardrobe.
He had said half past seven, and she took care to be on time this evening, even though she was held up for a few minutes by some of her friends who had come to inspect her outfit. Their cheerful teasing voices followed her down the stairs and then were abruptly shut off by the nurses’ home door. It was quiet as she went through the hospital corridors: it was visiting time again and nurses would be at first supper while the rest finished the tidying up for the day. The sudden lack of voices worried her. Supposing he wasn’t there? Supposing she had made a mistake in the evening—supposing he hadn’t meant it? All silly ideas, but all the same they loomed large. Just until she came in sight of the entrance, to see him standing there, enormous, reassuringly calm and very elegant indeed.
His hullo was friendly, as was his: ‘How charming you look, Katrina, and punctual too.’
She wondered fleetingly if he said that to all the girls he took out, for undoubtedly there must be girls… She said, ‘Thank you,’ in a guarded tone, and he laughed and said ruefully: ‘It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You see a hidden meaning in every word I utter.’
They were walking to the car, but now she stopped. ‘Look, we can’t possibly start the evening like this— I—didn’t mean…that is, I was only wondering if you said that to all the girls you take out.’
‘Would you mind if I said yes?’
She said haughtily: ‘Of course not,’ and spoilt it by asking: ‘Do you go out a great deal?’
They were in the car now, but he hadn’t started the engine. ‘Yes, quite a bit, but work comes first. What about you, Katrina?’
‘Well, I go out—I like my work too,’ she added with a bit of a rush.
‘We share a common interest, then.’ He started the car. ‘We have time for a drink if you would like one.’
He took her to the Savoy and gave her a glass of Madeira, and when she confessed that she had had no tea, a dish of salted nuts and another of potato crisps.
She crushed her way very nearly through the lot and then said apologetically: ‘I’m making a pig of myself. It was stew for lunch and I got there late.’
His winged nostrils flared. ‘Tepid and greasy, no doubt.’ He lifted a finger and when the waiter came, asked for sandwiches. She consumed them with the unselfconscious pleasure of a child—smoked salmon and pâté de foie gras and cucumber. But she refused a second glass of Madeira because, as she explained to her companion, she wanted to enjoy every moment of the play.
Which she did, sitting up straight in her seat, her eyes glued to the stage, and the Professor, sitting a little sideways so that he could watch her as well as the stage, allowed himself a faint smile at her obvious pleasure. They went back to the Savoy when it was over and had supper—caviar, poularde Impératrice, and for Katrina a bûche glacée, while the Professor contented himself with Welsh rarebit. And because, as he had gravely pointed out to her at the beginning of the meal, they had both had a tiring day, a bottle of champagne seemed the best thing to drink.
Katrina, her head still full of romantic music, would have happily drunk tap water; as it was, she drank two glasses of champagne and enjoyed them very much. There was a faint worry at the back of her head that she was liking her companion much more than she had intended. Perhaps it was the combination of romance and champagne which had dimmed her good sense, but certainly he seemed really rather nice. When he suggested that they might dance she got up at once. She might be a big girl, but she danced well and was as light as a feather, and the Professor was pretty neat on his feet too. They danced for a long time, going back to drink their coffee and then taking to the floor again. It was past one o’clock when Katrina asked him the time, and gave a small screech when he told her.
‘I’m on in the morning, and it’s Mr Knowles’ round and take-in.’
He didn’t try to persuade her to stay but drove her back to the hospital without fuss and saw her to the door, and when she thanked him for her lovely evening, observed placidly that he had enjoyed it too, then he wished her goodnight and opened the door for her.
Katrina went through feeling let down; not so much as a hint that he wanted to see her again, let alone the kiss which she had come to expect at the close of an evening out. The horrid thought that he had asked her out because Uncle Ben had suggested it crossed her mind; Uncle Ben knew how shy she was about going out with men who weren’t her size, and here was one who positively towered over her. He hadn’t said goodbye, she mused as she tumbled into bed; a clever girl would have known how to find out when and where he was going…and anyway, she asked herself pettishly, why was she worried? She didn’t like him, did she? Or did she? She was too sleepy to decide.
The morning began badly with two road accidents being admitted just after eight o’clock, and it got worse as the day wore on, so that when Jack Bentall rather fussily examined Mr Knowles’ patients during the afternoon, demanding unnecessary attention and calling for things he didn’t really need, she found her patience wearing thin. The urge to cry off the evening’s entertainment was very strong, but she was a kind-hearted girl and she had refused to go out with him on so many occasions she couldn’t avoid this one without hurting his feelings. Not that she minded about that over-much; he was a young man of unbounded conceit and she doubted if even the severest snub would affect him for more than a few minutes.
She dressed unwillingly and went just as unwillingly to the car park where Jack had asked her to meet him. He drove a souped-up Mini, very battered and uncomfortable and he tended to regard the road as his. She felt a pang of relief as he stopped with a teeth-jarring suddenness in front of a Chinese restaurant in the Tottenham Court Road. It was unfortunate that Katrina didn’t like Chinese food and that Jack hadn’t thought to ask her. Now if it had been the Professor, with all his faults, she added mentally, he would have made it his business to find out. And even if he hadn’t, she mused with surprise, she would have felt quite at liberty to have told him that she loathed sweet and sour pork and could have asked him if they could go somewhere else. But Jack would either laugh at her and tell her that she didn’t know good food when she saw it, or worse, sulk.
She ate her way through a great many dishes without once betraying her dislike of them, listening to Jack, carrying on about the other housemen and their inefficiencies, what Mr Knowles had said to him and he had said to Mr Knowles; he droned on and on and Katrina’s thoughts turned more and more to the previous evening. Professor van Tellerinck might annoy her, although she wasn’t sure why any more—but he didn’t bore her. She came out of a flurry of half-formed thoughts to hear Jack say:
‘Well, what about it? Everyone else does it these days and getting married seems a bit silly until I’ve reached the top, and you’re not all that keen on it, are you? You can’t be—you must have had plenty of chances, but after all, you are twenty-seven.’