streets.
‘Here we are,’ declared Aunt Emily, quite unnecessarily. ‘Do come in. Did you have tea? I shall make some at once, for we had none, although I dare say you would prefer a drink with my brother.’
Charity, following her aunt into the house and then standing on one side while that lady ushered him in, didn’t look at him. She felt awkward in a situation thrust upon her; probably the professor had absolutely no wish to meet her father. After all, there was no earthly reason why he should, even if he did collect books. She had the awful feeling that Aunt Emily had seized the opportunity to invite him under the impression that he might be Mr Right. Charity squirmed at the thought; her aunt had been going on for years about Mr Right and just for a little while Sidney had filled the bill; now she would start her well-meant matchmaking again.
She murmured a nothing and sidled into the kitchen to get the tea. Pray heaven that, by the time it was ready, he would be in her Father’s study drinking whisky or, better still, on the point of departure.
Neither of those hopes was to be fulfilled. Professor Wyllie-Lyon was sitting, very much at his ease, in the sitting room with her aunt on one side of him and her father on the other. Her aunt was taking no part in the conversation, understandably, for the two gentlemen were discussing Homer’s works and arguing pleasantly over which of the seven cities had the honour of being his birthplace. They paused, however, while Aunt Emily handed tea and cake and chatted about her afternoon. ‘Very successful,’ she declared in tones of satisfaction. ‘Was it not, Charity?’
Charity agreed; she had had very little to say and now her father observed with vague kindness, ‘A pleasant afternoon out for you, my dear; I’m sure you enjoyed it.’
She said that, Oh, yes, she had, and got up to fill the teapot, and presently the two men excused themselves on the plea that there was a particularly fine first edition her father wished to show to his guest. Charity, listening to them prosing on about Homer, tossing bits of poems in the original Greek to and fro, felt rising frustration. She must be tired, she decided, clearing away the tea things and conferring with her aunt as to what they should have for supper.
‘Do you suppose he’ll stay?’ wondered Aunt Emily hopefully. ‘There’s that quiche you made this morning, dear, and we could have a salad and biscuits and cheese.’
‘He won’t stay,’ said Charity.
It was her father who put his head round the kitchen door to inform them that Professor Wyllie-Lyon would be staying for supper; most fortunately he had declared that he had nothing much to do that evening, and it was a splendid opportunity to leaf through the Walter Scott first edition her father had been fortunate enough to pick up that week.
Charity sighed and began to prepare the salad. The professor had been a kind of secret delight to her, an interest in her otherwise rather staid life, but that was all. She had never imagined him even remotely associated with her life; indeed, she considered it highly unlikely that he would welcome the idea. It was obvious to her that they came from different backgrounds, their only mutual interest being the hospital. Why or how he had come to visit the bazaar was something she couldn’t begin to guess at. That was bad enough; what was worse was having him here, in the house. With regret she had to admit that things wouldn’t be the same again.
She sliced tomatoes and began to arrange them in a neat pattern on the lettuce, to stop suddenly at the awful thought that he might imagine that, because he’d had tea at her home, he would need to be friendly at the hospital. Of course, he had always been that in an austere kind of way, but now he might feel under an obligation. Her cheeks grew hot and her aunt, coming to see how the salad was going, remarked with some concern that she looked feverish.
She had worked herself into a state for nothing; at supper Professor Wyllie-Lyon behaved towards her as he had always done—friendly in a casual, slightly absent-minded way, placidly eating his supper, keeping the conversational ball rolling without once taking control of it, giving anyone who hadn’t met him the impression that he was a friend of the family who had dropped in for a pleasant evening.
She bore the remains of their meal away to the kitchen and took coffee into the sitting room, and presently he got up to go with the remark that Mr Graham must at some time visit him so that he might browse through his library. His leave-taking of Miss Graham was everything that lady could have wished for, and as for Charity, she was swept to the front door and was not quite sure how she had got there.
‘A very pleasant evening,’ said the professor and waited, his eyes on her face.
‘Why did you come?’ It sounded a bit bald, but she wasn’t a girl to mince her words.
‘Ah, as to that I am not absolutely certain myself, so I am unable to answer you for the moment. Later perhaps?’ He smiled gently down at her, and it struck her how nice it was for someone to actually look down at her; so often, being a tall girl, she was forced to dwindle into her shoes when she was talking to someone. ‘Your father is something of a scholar. A most enjoyable conversation.’
She asked abruptly: ‘Have you any friends?’
‘Oh, lord! Too many—and I neglect them shamefully. I so seldom have any free time…’
‘This afternoon…’ She was so anxious to get to the bottom of his visit that she had forgotten to be shy.
‘Well, as to that…a sudden whim, shall we say?’ He held out a large hand and shook hers gently. ‘Enjoy your weekend,’ he observed in a non-committal voice which told her nothing, and he went down the garden path to his car. She stood there, watching him drive away, and found herself looking forward to Monday.
Which, as it turned out, was just like any other day! Miss Hudson still moaning on about her lost umbrella and the remnants of her cold; no central heating because the engineers were having a meeting to decide if they could take industrial action over something or other; and a load of reports waiting to be typed.
‘The Path. Lab must have been working overtime at the weekend,’ grumbled Miss Hudson. ‘Of course they get double time if they do. I have a good mind to go on strike myself.’ She sniffed in a ladylike fashion. ‘Charity, you’ll have to change your dinner hour with me. I’ve a dental appointment.’
‘More teeth?’ Charity asked, her mind on other things.
‘You have no need to be funny at my expense,’ said Miss Hudson huffily. ‘I’ll do Dr Clarkson’s ledgers, you can get on with those reports.’
Dr Clarkson’s correspondence was always commendably brief and, what was more, written clearly; some of the reports had presumably been scribbled by a spider. Charity sighed, and attacked the first; it was full of long words, like cephalhaematoma and cinchocaine hydrochloride, which hadn’t been written clearly in the first place and which she couldn’t spell anyway. By twelve o’clock she was glad to go to her dinner.
The meal was unappetising; presumably the engineers’ meeting had disorganised the kitchens as well, for slabs of corned beef, baked beans and instant mashed potato were offered on a take-it or leave-it basis. Charity, sharing a table with several theatre nurses who were discussing the morning’s list in colourful detail, wished she had gone to Reg’s café, but if she had done that she might have missed Professor Wyllie-Lyon. The thought sprung unbidden into her mind and she made haste to bury it under the grim details concerning a patient’s gangrenous appendix. All the same, it would brighten a dull day if he were to bring his letters to the office…
Which he had done while she was in the canteen.
‘No hurry for that lot,’ explained Miss Hudson, nodding at the little pile he had left on her desk while she titivated herself for her own dinner. ‘And I must say, that’s unusual. And X-Ray came up for that report about the man with multiple injuries—you hadn’t done it—I had to interrupt my own work…’
Charity sat down at her desk, disappointment welling slowly inside her; a good-natured girl, she was suddenly peevish.
‘I’ve had to do the same for you often enough,’ she snapped,