Wedding Bells for Beatrice. Betty Neels
and went out of the building, along the passage and through the hospital until she reached the entrance. Tom was there; she could see him sitting in his car, reading the paper. He saw her too as she crossed the forecourt, folded the paper and opened the door for her.
‘I was going to give you another five minutes, but I guessed you would come.’ He sounded smug.
His tone implied that she would always come running … never mind if she were tired or cross or just not feeling like going out. She busied herself with her safety-belt and stayed silent. He made it worse by remarking that she would feel better after a drink and launching into a very complicated account of his own busy day.
Beatrice, feeling ruffled because he hadn’t bothered to ask her if she had had a good Christmas, wished she hadn’t come. And why had she come? she asked herself. Force of habit? She had allowed herself to drift into something more than casual friendship with Tom and it struck her now that it was time it ended. She was a kind-hearted girl and although he was exasperating her now she was honest enough to admit that she had enjoyed several pleasant evenings with him when they had first become friendly; it was only later that she’d realised that he was using her as a means to an end. Perhaps she could talk to him presently.
‘We’ll go to the Tower Thistle,’ he told her, ‘have something in the bar. I mustn’t be away for more than an hour or so, and I’ll probably get called up during the night. I could do with some sleep too. We had a splendid party on Christmas night, didn’t get to bed until two o’clock and got called out just after five. Ah, well, it isn’t for ever—once I get a decent private practice—a partnership, perhaps …’ He went on at some length, sure of himself and her attention.
She was only half listening; the first of the specialists would be arriving in time for coffee in the morning and she was going over her careful catering once more, saying, ‘Oh yes?’ and, ‘Really?’ and, ‘Of course,’ at intervals. Once at the hotel, a vast place which she didn’t much like, she had to give Tom her undivided attention, sitting opposite him at a table in the bar, eating sandwiches and drinking a glass of white wine. The sandwiches were small and elegant, garnished with cress, and Beatrice, who was hungry, could have eaten the lot.
‘You’ll have had a good square meal,’ said Tom comfortably, ‘but do devour one—there’s just enough horseradish with the beef.’
She nibbled one, thinking of fried eggs on baked beans and a huge pot of tea or coffee. It was a funny thing, but Tom wasn’t the kind of man you could ask to take you to the nearest McDonald’s. If he wasn’t hungry, then you weren’t either, or, for that matter, if he assumed that you weren’t hungry and he was he wouldn’t ask you if you were …
It was very noisy in the bar and he had to raise his voice when he spoke. He put his elbows on the table and leaned towards her. ‘Isn’t it time that we made a few plans?’
‘Plans? What plans?’
He smiled at her indulgently. ‘Our future—I’ve another six months to do at St Justin’s then I’ll be ready to get a practice—buy a partnership. I’ll need some financial backing but your father could put me in touch with all the right people—he may be a country GP but he knows everyone worth knowing, doesn’t he? Besides, your mother …’ He paused delicately and his smile widened and he added coaxingly, ‘Once all that is settled we might get married.’
Beatrice sought for words; the only ones she could think of were very rude, so she kept silent. He must have been very sure of her—his proposal, if you could call it that, had been an afterthought. She twiddled the glass in her hand and wondered what would happen if she threw it at him. She said very quietly, ‘But I don’t want to marry you, Tom.’
He laughed, ‘Don’t be a silly girl, of course you do. Don’t pretend that I’ve taken you by surprise. We’ve been going out together now for weeks and I’ve made no secret of the fact that I want to settle down once I’m away from St Justin’s.’
‘I don’t remember you asking me if I had any plans for the future,’ observed Beatrice. She was bubbling over with rage but she looked quite serene. ‘But you—your plan was to get my father to put in a good word for you—I don’t know where Mother comes in … Oh, of course—being the granddaughter of an earl.’
‘A little name-dropping never does any harm,’ answered Tom complacently. ‘Can’t you just see it in the Telegraph? “Beatrice, daughter of Dr and the Hon. Mrs Crawley”.’ He sat back in his chair, smiling at her.
‘Tom, I have just told you—I don’t want to marry you. I’m sorry if you got the impression that I did. We’ve been good friends and enjoyed each other’s company but that’s all, isn’t it?’
‘I’m very fond of you, old girl.’ He didn’t notice her wince. ‘You’ll be a splendid wife, all the right connections and so on. I’ll make a name for myself in no time.’
The colossal conceit of him, reflected Beatrice; it was like trying to dent a steel plate with a teaspoon. He hadn’t once said that he loved her …
Characteristically, he didn’t ask if she wanted to go but finished his drink with an air of satisfaction at a job well done and asked, ‘Ready? I’ve got a couple of cases that I must look at.’
She got into the car beside him and he drove back to the hospital in silence. At the entrance he said, ‘We must get together again as soon as possible—you’ll have to give up your job here, of course.’
‘Tom,’ she tried to sound reasonable, ‘you don’t understand. I don’t want to marry you and I have no intention of giving up my job here. I think it might be better if we don’t see each other again. Surely we can part friends?’ She added coldly, ‘There must be plenty of suitable girls from whom you can choose a wife.’
‘Oh, you are being a silly girl. You’ll change your mind, I’ll see to that. I’ll give you a ring when I’m free.’
He sat in the car with the engine still running, waiting for her to get out, and the moment that she did he shot away with a casual wave. Not the behaviour of a man who had only half an hour ago proposed to her. Bottled-up rage and hurt feelings choked her as she crossed the courtyard. It was cold and very dark once she was away from the brightly lit entrance. The bulk of the new block behind the hospital loomed ahead of her; there were still a good many lights burning—several of the path. labs were still working. She wished with all her heart that she were at home, able to go to her room and cry her eyes out without anyone wanting to know why unless she wished to tell them. Held-back tears filled her eyes and dribbled down her cheeks; there was no one to tell here …!
There was, however. Gijs van der Eekerk reached the door at the same time as she did; his large gloved hand covered hers as she put it on the door-handle.
He took no notice of her stifled scream. ‘They told me that you would be back—that you had gone out for an hour with Dr Ford. I thought we might bury the hatchet over supper.’
He took the hand off the door and turned her round so that the dim light above the door shone on her face.
His ‘tut-tut’ was uttered with all the mild good-natured concern of an uncle or elder brother. ‘Tears? May I ask why?’
‘Don’t you tut-tut at me,’ said Beatrice crossly, ‘and if I want to cry I shall and I shan’t tell you why.’
He offered a large handkerchief. ‘No, no, of course you shan’t and a good weep is very soothing to the nerves, only wouldn’t it be better if you wept in a warmer spot?’
She blew her nose. ‘Yes, of course if would. If you would let me go in I can get some peace and quiet in my flat.’
‘Splendid.’ He opened the door and, when she had gone through, followed her.
‘I’m quite all right, thank you,’ said Beatrice, belatedly remembering her manners. Then she added, ‘How did you get here?’
‘I’m to read a paper here in the