Cherry Ames 24 Companion Nurse (6 page)

Mrs. Logan was immediately interested. “You do keep up with the art news, don’t you, Mr. Hazard?”

“I’m acquainted with several art dealers in New York,” Archibald Hazard said, “and, well, in many parts of the world. And I subscribe to the London newspapers to keep informed about art news there.”

“I happen to know an art dealer in London,” Martha Logan responded. “Pierre Selsam, who owns the Selsam Gallery in Mayfair.”

“Oh, really? Possibly you know,” Mr. Hazard said,

“that he’s showing a million dollars’ worth of French Impressionists—ten Renoirs, several Cézannes, as well as Picassos and other important works. Be sure to see Selsam’s exhibit.”

“I shall, thanks. In fact, I hope to see Pierre Selsam during the week we’ll be in London,” Martha Logan replied.

“And don’t miss the show of young painters at the Bonney Gallery, the best young hopefuls in many

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seasons, according to the critics and the way private collectors are buying—”

Cherry grew restless. Around her, the other passengers were collecting their belongings and fi lling out the landing cards that the stewardesses had distributed.

Cherry fi lled out her patient’s and her own cards. She whispered to Mrs. Logan:

“Would you like me to walk you to the washroom, to freshen up for our arrival?”

“Yes, Cherry. Please excuse us, Mr. Hazard.” As they came back, the plane was gradually losing altitude. Ahead and below in the dark lay a few tiny, scattered lights—the coast of England. The pilot announced over the P.A. system, “Ladies and gentle-men, we will be landing at London Airport in twenty minutes.” The young steward advised Cherry that a wheelchair would be brought for her patient. Peter Holt, clutching his books, turned around to say:

“I’d like to be of service to you ladies, if I may—

starting right now.”

Martha thanked him, but Mr. Hazard insisted in his lordly way that
he
be allowed to see them off the plane, through Customs, and safely into a taxi. Peter looked disappointed.

By the time they went through Immigration Service, Peter Holt was being carried off by his students, anyway, Cherry noticed. Mr. Hazard, who was being a great help, found them a taxi, saw to their luggage, and helped them in. He said he was staying at the other side of London from them, at the Ritz, but he escorted 46
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them to their hotel. When Martha tried to thank him for being so attentive, he would not hear of it.

“Call me at the Ritz if I can be of further service,” he said. “I hope you and Miss Ames will have lunch with me soon.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Martha said warmly, and Cherry smiled her best. She’d rather have lunch or just a walk with Peter Holt—but maybe that would happen, too.

c h a p t e r i v

An Eventful Week

“make haste slowly,” cherry cautioned her patient on their fi rst day in London. Martha Logan, eager to see her British publisher and friends, was exasperated that she must move slowly. The most Cherry thought it wise for her to do was to make telephone calls. Cherry also telephoned for an appointment for her to see the doctor later in their stay. Cherry unpacked for her and unpacked her own clothes. She would wear street clothes, not her white uniform, during the trip. She put on a white apron, scrubbed her hands, and changed the dressings on her patient’s legs.

Then they ventured out on London’s stately, historic streets to go to a restaurant for lunch, but the crowds tired Martha. On their return Cherry insisted they remain quietly in their adjoining rooms for the rest of the day.

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Martha Logan was restless until an unexpectedly entertaining program turned up on the television set that she had rented to use in her room. She and Cherry watched a half-hour interview with Shah Liddy, a fl amboyant, white-bearded plump little man who had just arrived in England with his wife for a visit of three or possibly four weeks. The title “Shah” was honorary.

Basil Liddy was an Englishman who had lived most of his life in the Near East and had amassed a great fortune there. He was famous as an avid art patron and collector. He sported—besides his luxuriant white beard, a mustache, and bristling white eyebrows—a fl ower in his buttonhole, a pipe, and he spoke with an Oxford accent. A
bon vivant,
he talked enthusiastically of fi ne foods and wines, as well as of paintings. Lady Liddy was a pretty blond young Englishwoman, much younger than the Shah, who quietly let her theatrical husband do most of the talking.

“Isn’t he a character!” Martha exclaimed, when the telecast was over. “His collection sounds fabulous—

but that beard! Speaking of interviews, I wonder why that reporter never showed up at Idlewild to interview me. Probably because I don’t wear a white beard.” On Saturday they were still careful not to overdo, but did go outdoors for a short time on this fi ne day. Cherry had deep, special feelings about London. Here in this ancient city, founded by the Romans, were so many of the things she had read and heard about—London Bridge of the nursery rhyme, the Magna Carta, the fi rst document to declare the principles for democratic

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government and a free citizenry, and along the River Thames the place where Shakespeare had rehearsed his Globe Theater players. Here stood Westminster Abbey where centuries of England’s kings and poets reposed in stone vaults; here was Keats’s nightingale still singing in her memory up on Hampstead Heath hill, and here were the houses on crowded lanes where Dickens’s characters lived. Martha Logan said she felt the same way, no matter how often she came to London.

Yet this was a thoroughly modern, fast-paced city, not startlingly different from American cities, except for the double-decker red buses. Cherry found British accents and currency a little foreign to her, as they shopped for presents to send home. Cherry chose Liberty silk scarfs for her mother and some of her Spencer Club friends.

She was careful to establish a routine for her patient whose legs were still sore—so much walking, and so much rest. She found places in shops and parks for Mrs. Logan to sit down frequently.

They walked along Park Lane back to their hotel, and found mail and messages waiting for them. Cherry’s mother had sent a second letter—the fi rst was already there for her on the night of her arrival. Here was a letter from the Carewe Museum, saying stiffl y that in view of Mrs. Logan’s injury, her nurse would be admitted with her, as a very special exception. Peter Holt had telephoned and would try again. Archibald Hazard had telephoned inviting Mrs. Logan and Miss Ames 50
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to lunch the next day. Martha telephoned back and accepted. Then Cherry insisted on a long rest period.

“Can’t we go to the theater this evening?” Martha asked. “It’s that, or work on my notes.”

“Now who’s bullying whom?” Cherry said.

She ordered dinner in their rooms, went downstairs to the hotel lobby, and bought theater tickets and an evening newspaper. There was a story and photographs of the picturesque Shah and his recipes for good living. In his own hothouses he grew the fl owers for his buttonhole. To stay healthy, the Shah recommended champagne every day. He couldn’t be bothered with owning a car; when he needed one, he hired one, but had his own uniformed chauffeur. When he sang the school song at reunion dinners, tears ran down his beard.

Martha Logan was so amused, as Cherry read these eccentricities aloud to her during dinner, that she actually ate well for a change. They went on to the theater, and had a fi ne evening.

On Sunday at one o’clock they met Archibald Hazard at Simpson’s in the Strand. In this formal, high-ceilinged restaurant with its large staff, Mr. Hazard looked small and eager. Cherry was sorry she could not like him better, since he was extending himself to entertain them. Martha Logan was glad to see him.

Once they were seated, they plunged into art talk.

Cherry listened and learned, but she was diverted by the handsome people at other tables and by the excellent service and food. Mr. Hazard had ordered roast sirloin

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of beef and Yorkshire pudding. The roast was brought in on a trolley, and carved for them by a waiter.

“It deserves the lordly treatment,” Mr. Hazard declared. “In each city I visit the very best restaurant serving roast beef. And believe me, Mrs. Logan, I am acquainted with the really fi ne restaurants of the world.” He made an expansive gesture with his short, plump arms.

Cherry grinned at his fondness for roast beef. She did think he sounded like a phony, with all his preten-tious talk, but she could be mistaken.

Now Mr. Hazard described the London art collections he had already visited. Martha Logan listened with interest.

“I’m going to see my friend, Pierre Selsam, at his gallery tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “Poor Miss Cherry will have an overdose of paintings on this trip.”

“Lucky Miss Cherry,” said their host. He hesitated.

“I haven’t seen the show at the Selsam yet.”

“Come along with us tomorrow,” Martha invited.

“I’m sure Pierre Selsam would be happy to meet you.”

“Why, thanks,” Mr. Hazard said. “I’d enjoy meeting him, and I’d enjoy seeing the exhibit in your company.” They made arrangements for tomorrow.

When lunch was over, Mr. Hazard asked whether he could take them anywhere. Martha Logan explained that they were going now to visit some family friends of hers, in another part of London.

“If you’ll just get a taxi for us, we’ll appreciate it,” Martha requested. She thanked him for a wonderful 52
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lunch. Cherry added her thanks, and followed her patient into the taxi.

They had not driven more than two blocks when Martha exclaimed, “That box of American nylon stock-ings I’m bringing my friends—I left it at the restaurant!

I put it on the empty chair at our table and forgot it.

How careless of me! Driver, take us back to Simpson’s, please.”

The taxi driver complied. As they pulled up in front of Simpson’s, Cherry was surprised to see Mr. Hazard standing there deep in talk with a stocky, unshaven, roughly dressed man who might have been a mechanic or workman. What was striking was that the two men, so unlike, appeared to be on familiar terms. The workman was arguing with Mr. Hazard, who looked over-bearing but was listening. As Cherry stepped out of the taxi, she had a good look at the muscular, dark-haired workman, and at Mr. Hazard’s startled face when his eyes met Cherry’s. Mr. Hazard raised his hat and came forward.

“Have you lost something, Miss Ames?” he asked.

“May I help you? I’m obliged to speak to this man,” Mr. Hazard said with some distaste, “but I can get rid of him if you or Mrs. Logan need me—” Cherry thanked him and said No. Mr. Hazard raised his hat again, and both men walked off down the street.

In the restaurant Cherry recovered the package, and brought it back to Martha Logan. Her patient was sitting with her eyes closed. If she had seen Mr. Hazard

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and his companion, she did not remark on it. So Cherry let it go, and asked, “Are you in pain?”

“The arm aches a little, but it’s not worth mention-ing. No, I’m just resting.” Cherry took her patient’s word and did not offer medication. “Shall we go ahead now, driver?” Martha said.

A half hour’s drive showed them many parts of London—much bigger than New York—with its many parks and tree-fi lled squares. Up a long hill, they arrived in a spacious neighborhood of houses and walled gardens.

Cherry thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon she spent with Martha Logan’s friends in their garden.

Such beautiful fl owers! She had never seen such an abundance—nor such giant sweet peas, blooming in September at that—nor such glorious roses! Their hostess told her that fl owers and trees thrived in England’s mild, rainy climate, and gathered a bouquet for them. The children of the family took Cherry on a tour of the garden and introduced her to the bullfrog who lived in the little stream. Later in the afternoon, tea was served ceremoniously. Whenever Cherry thought of England after that, she remembered these kind people.

Monday afternoon Martha Logan and Cherry arrived at the Selsam Gallery to fi nd Archibald Hazard already there, one of dozens of persons absorbed in the glowing paintings in the hushed, deeply carpeted rooms. Martha greeted him, and asked an attendant to tell Mr. Selsam that Mrs. Logan and two friends were here.

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A very tall, thin, high-strung man quickly came out of an offi ce. Pierre Selsam reminded Cherry of a grey-hound.

“Martha! I
am
glad to see you! But what has happened to your arm?” Pierre Selsam asked, grasping her good left hand.

“A fall, just before I left. But it has provided me with this young nurse who is a delightful traveling companion. Miss Cherry Ames—” Mr. Selsam smiled and shook hands with Cherry, saying she must take the very best care of Mrs. Logan. Cherry smiled back. Martha said, “And this is Archibald Hazard. We met on the plane coming over.”

The two men shook hands, Mr. Hazard saying how much he admired the exhibit. Cherry thought that next to Pierre Selsam, Mr. Hazard appeared much less impressive. She sensed something faintly false or insincere about pompous little Mr. Hazard. Martha Logan said, “How are you, Pierre?”

“Oh, splendid. Won’t you come along to my offi ce where we can have a chat?”

Cherry hung back, so that the two friends could visit in private. But Mr. Hazard marched right into the private offi ce with them, so Cherry went along, too. Pierre Selsam drew up chairs for them, and asked Martha how her children were.

Her face lighted. “Bobby is shooting up like a bean sprout, and Ruth is turning into quite a young lady.” They exchanged personal news for a few minutes.