muttered Olivia, and the severe-looking couple sitting in front of her turned round to stare.
‘I counted my chickens before they were hatched,’ she told them gravely, and since it was her stop got off the bus.
‘It must be the gin and tonic,’ she said to herself. ‘Or perhaps I’m in shock.’ She unlocked the front door and went in. ‘I’ll make a strong cup of tea.’
The sitting-room door was half open. ‘You’re home early, darling,’ said her mother. ‘Is Rodney with you?’
Olivia poked her head round the door. ‘I came home by bus. I’m going to make a cup of tea—would you like one?’ She glanced across the room to her grandmother. ‘And you, Granny?’
‘You have refused him,’ said Mrs Fitzgibbon accusingly. ‘It is time you learnt on which side your bread is buttered, Olivia.’
‘You’re quite right, Granny, his eyes are too close together, and he’s going to marry the daughter of a chairman of several large companies.’
‘Do not be flippant, Olivia. What do you intend to do?’
‘Put the kettle on and have a cup of tea,’ said Olivia.
‘You’re not upset, darling?’ asked her mother anxiously. ‘We all thought he wanted to marry you.’
Olivia left the door and went to drop a kiss on her mother’s cheek.
‘I’m not a bit upset, love.’ She spoke with matter-of-fact cheerfulness because her mother did look upset. Unlike her daughter she was a small, frail little woman, who had been cherished all her married life and was still bewildered by the lack of it, despite Olivia’s care of her. ‘I’ll make the tea.’
She sat between the two of them presently, listening to her grandmother complaining about the lack of money, her lack of a job, and now her inability to get herself a husband. ‘You’re such a big girl,’ observed Mrs Fitzgibbon snappily.
Olivia, used to this kind of talk and not listening to it, drank her tea and presently took herself off, washing the tea things in the kitchen, laying her grandmother’s breakfast tray and their own breakfast, before she at last closed the door of her room.
Now, at last, she could cry her eyes out in peace.
CHAPTER TWO
DEBBIE looked up from the piles of folders on the table in the Records Office as the door opened and Mr van der Eisler came in. Her disconsolate face broke into a smile at the sight of him, although she asked with a touch of wariness, ‘Oh, hello—have I sent the wrong notes up again? I can’t get anything right, and now that Olivia’s not here to sort things out for me I seem to be in a muddle the whole time.’
He came unhurriedly to the table and glanced at the untidy piles on it. ‘I expect it will get easier once you have got used to being on your own. And I do want some notes, but there’s no hurry. Do you have to file these before you go home?’
She nodded. ‘It’s almost five o’clock and I daren’t leave them until the morning; there’ll be some bossy old sister coming down and wanting to know where this and that is. Interfering so-and-sos.’
‘Ten minutes’ work at the most,’ declared Mr van der Eisler. ‘I’ll sort them into alphabetical order, you file them.’
‘Cor—you mean you’ll give a hand? But no one ever does…’
He was already busy, and after a moment she did as he suggested.
‘I expect you miss Olivia,’ he observed presently.
‘You bet I do.’
‘Does she come to see you?’ His voice was casual.
‘No, worse luck. Doesn’t live near here. Her granny’s got a flat Islington way; she and her mum have to live with her since her dad died, left them badly off. Not that Olivia told me much—shut up like an oyster when it came to her private life.’ She laughed. ‘Not like me.’
He handed her another pile of folders. ‘You live near the hospital?’
‘Five minutes walk. Me dad’s out of work, Mum’s part-time at the supermarket. Was I scared that I’d get the sack? Olivia didn’t tell me, but the girl in the office said as how she had another job to go to. This wasn’t her cup of tea. Been to one of those la-di-da schools, I dare say. Always spoke posh, if you see what I mean.’
Mr van der Eisler agreed that he saw. ‘Not many jobs going in Islington, I should have thought.’
‘Not where her granny lives—one of those dull streets with rows of houses with net curtains. Had a soppy name too—Sylvester Crescent.’
Mr van der Eisler’s heavy lids drooped over the gleam in his eyes.
‘Very fanciful,’ he agreed. He handed over the last pile, waited while Debbie filed the folders away and came back to the table, made his request for the notes he needed, listened with a kind smile to her thanks and, with the folder under his arm, took himself off.
Debbie, bundling herself into her jacket, addressed the tidy shelves. ‘Now there’s a real gent for you. That was a nice chat too—no one knows how dull it is down here these days.’
Mr van der Eisler, discussing the next day’s list with the senior surgical registrar and the theatre sister, wrung from that lady a reluctant assent to begin operating at eight o’clock in the morning instead of an hour later, gave her a smile to set her elderly heart beating a good deal faster, and took his leave.
‘That man could wring blood from a stone,’ declared Sister. ‘I’m sure I don’t know why I let him get away with it…’
The registrar laughed. ‘Go one with you, you know you’d agree to open theatre at six a.m. He’s a splendid man and a first-rate surgeon. He’s been here several weeks now, hasn’t he? Handed over several new techniques, shared his ideas with Mr Jenks—between them they’ve perfected them—look at Mrs Eliza Brown.’
‘He’ll be leaving soon, I suppose.’
‘Yes, and Mr Jenks is going back with him for a week or two.’ He turned to leave. ‘He’ll be back, I’ve no doubt—goes all over the place—got an international reputation already. Not bad for a man of thirty-six.’
He wandered away to look out of a window, in time to see Mr van der Eisler’s grey Bentley edge out of the hospital forecourt.
‘I wonder where he goes?’ he reflected aloud.
Mr van der Eisler was going to Islington to cast his eye over Sylvester Crescent. He found it eventually, tooling patiently up and down identical streets of identical houses, and drove its length until he came to Mr Patel’s shop, still open.
Mr van der Eisler, who never purchased food for his excellently run household, nevertheless purchased a tin of baked beans, and engaged Mr Patel in casual conversation. Naturally enough the talk led to observations about Islington and Sylvester Crescent in particular.
‘A quiet area,’ observed Mr van der Eisler. ‘Flats, I suppose, and elderly people.’
‘You are right, sir.’ Mr Patel, with no customers in the offing, was glad of a chat. ‘Many elderly ladies and gentlemen. It is not a street for the young—and an awkward journey to the day’s work. There is Miss Harding, who lives with her grandmother Mrs Fitzgibbon at number twenty-six, but I see her each morning now, and I think she must no longer work.’ He sighed. ‘Such a beautiful young lady too. It is dull here for the young.’
Mr van der Eisler murmured suitably, remarked that Mr Patel and his shop must be a boon and a blessing to the neighbourhood, professed himself pleased with his purchase, paid for it and got back into his car. Number twenty-six was in the middle of the row of houses and there was a chink of light showing between the heavy curtains pulled across the windows on the ground floor.