Nurse Angela (6 page)

Then he half jerked his head around as if he had made a decision. “I’m going to Paris on this occasion largely to clear up one or two things about my father, as a matter of fact.” Angela’s heart gave a tiny leap. He went on; “He was a French-born doctor and a priest. During the war he was thought to be a collaborator, or to use a coarser words, a traitor. After the liberation he protested his innocence, but died before he could prove it. My own belief is that he was a leader of the Resistance movement. Before he died he whispered a man’s name to me. I searched for the man as long as it was comfortable for me to remain in the country, but without success. The more I think about it, the more certain I become that my father was a patriot. However, after a time it no longer seemed
to matter, though these things somehow leave a bitter taste behind.”

“And now?” she asked.

“Now, it has suddenly become important to me both to know and to prove my father’s innocence.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why but some instinct prevented her. Besides, on such short acquaintance the question would be impertinent.

“
Did you train as a doctor in France?” she asked.

“Yes, but feeling was such, for some time after the war that to practise became impossible. I came to England, my mother’s country, and began all over again.” He added after a slight pause. “There must be hundreds of men like my father who made a pretense of collaborating with the enemy while working secretly for the Resistance. It was often the only way.”

“Yes,” Angela agreed. “But, Simon, the war is almost history now, especially to our generation. No one, today, would hold anything against you, least of all in this country. Are
you
...
thinking of going back to France to practise medicine?”

“No,” he answered quietly. “I want to take up the search for the truth largely for my own satisfaction.” Then came the answer that she had been dreading. “I have begun lately to think about marriage and I would not want to ask any woman to marry me unless my conscience was absolutely clear. I once asked your opinion on the matter, if you remember. As you said then, suppose she should find out about my father from someone else one day? I want to be able to answer truthfully, from facts, that he was loyal to his countrymen. No woman would like to feel that her husband’s father had been a traitor or that there was even any doubt about him. Who knows how the son might behave in similar circumstances?”

For a moment Angela felt bewildered and depressed without knowing why.

“But, Simon, if she really loved you and you had told her about it, surely it would not matter whether it were proved or not? The main thing would be that you had told her.”

“Perhaps not, at first, but afterward, as the years went by it would be like a skeleton in the cupboard. No, Angela, I wouldn’t like to take the chance.”

They fell silent for a time while the car ate up the miles. Finally Angela said quietly: “Simon, suppose you discovered that what they said about your father is true? Surely you wouldn’t remain a bachelor for the rest of your life?
”

For a long time he did not answer; then he said tensely, “All I know is, I must find out. I must.”

Simon was a good driver, if a rather fast one, and the miles sped by pleasantly as they drove through England’s beautiful countryside, busy market towns and tiny picturesque villages. At Tewkesbury they stopped for lunch at the old mill of “John Halifax—Gentleman” fame where the old millstones for grinding corn were still preserved. For a while Angela was taken back to those days, years ago, when Mrs. Craik’s characters, John Halifax and his wife lived out their happy married life.

They took a short stroll through the quaint, old town with its narrow streets, cobbled courtyards and tiny boatyards before setting off again on their journey. They had agreed to try to get within a few miles of the airport that night, so after a hard day’s driving they arrived at New Inn Green late that night. Simon had not mentioned the subject of his father again, and Angela thought of their conversation only in snatches between talk of the various places they were passing through, the prospect of a good airplane trip and other generalities.

They were tired and stiff when they arrived at the hotel, and as they had to be up early the next morning they went to bed almost immediately after supper.

It was when she lay down to sleep that Angela asked herself the question that had been hovering at the back of her mind throughout their journey, one to which she had no answer. Who was this woman whom Simon wished to marry? Did he have a certain woman in mind or was he merely thinking of marriage in a general kind of way? The way he spoke somehow gave the impression that there was someone definite, and
her mind asked the question over again. Who was she?

“I hope you’re not too tired after your long drive,” Simon said at breakfast the next morning. “We can reach Paris tonight if you’re sure it won’t be too much for you.”

“Oh, goodness, no,” she laughed, her eyes sparkling. “I’d love to get to Paris tonight. I can hardly wait after all you’ve told me about it.”

Her eyes shone with eagerness and she looked fresh and radiant.

“You’re wonderful, Angela,” Simon said impulsively.

Angela blushed faintly and thought suddenly and inexplicably of Roger who loved her.

And watching her expression Simon cursed himself for a fool. Wasn’t she practically engaged to that artist fellow?

CHAPTER FIVE

Th
ey
said little as they drove to the airport where they waited in the lounge to be called. At last they were settled in their seats on the plane.

Angela had never flown before, and though the flight was only a short one, she found it a thrill to be airborne. The earth below looked as flat as stage scenery, and the farm country with its fenced fields took on handkerchief dimensions. Then as England was left behind, sky and sea merged.

Simon smiled as he watched her eager face. “All right?” She nodded, her eyes shining with the thrill of a new experience. “You needed this break, you know,” he said. “You look almost a different person already.”

“Yes, I suppose so. We nurses are apt to get into a rut.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that. You could never get into a rut. It’s simply that you’re the kind of person who puts everything you have into your job. You become so absorbed that you’re inclined to forget there is a world outside.”

She laughed. “Well, I don’t really think I’m one of those bores who never stir outside the hospital, but I think I know what you mean. I do need to get around more. I certainly don’t seem to get much farther than Lockerfield, and I had almost forgotten that there was this sort of thing waiting to be experienced. I think I was in danger of becoming stale.”

“I can’t agree with that, but we all need a change and the stimulus it gives.”

“I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, I’m enjoying myself enormously.”

“Well, that’s the main thing. May I take you out to dinner on your first night in Paris?”

“
Oh, Simon, thank you. I’d love it.”

She looked down again through the small, square windows of the plane. “Oh, look, Simon, we’re over France now. How different the country looks.” She puzzled for a moment. “Why, of course, there are no hedges, just large squares of differently colored land—much bigger than our ‘patchwork.’”

Five minutes later they touched down in the airport at Calais and Angela had her first experience of French people and customs. The thing that seemed strangest of all was the large revolver carried by the French policeman who stood by talking to the customs officer. She found the sight quite alarming.

The formalities were soon over and Simon drove his rented car out of the airport and along the rackety, cobbled streets of Calais. The gaily painted shutters of the houses enchanted her and Simon smiled when every now and then she gave an exclamation of delight. She noticed the many small wayside shrines and wondered at the devoutness of the people. Then, to the delight and amusement of both of them they were forced to fall in behind a town band consisting of a small group of Frenchmen blowing frantically on an assortment of shrill whistles and beating solemnly on small drums, producing a sound that was reminiscent of Hulme Beaman
’
s toytown band.

After the soft contours of the English countryside Angela found most of northern France very stark and barren indeed and the roads mainly straight and uninteresting. Towns and villages were an odd mixture of modern buildings rubbing shoulders with the old.

After a while Simon grew silent, whether to concentrate on his driving, which he did at a fair speed along the straight, monotonous roads or whether it was to think, Angela could not guess. Whatever his thoughts, she did not interrupt them.

They stopped for lunch at a small cafe smelling of new wood, and here Angela had her first taste of French cooking. Tiny as the cafe was the female owner served a soup that would have put many an opulent hotel in England to shame and a mushroom omelette that was a perfect dream.

As the day wore on, the barren country gave way to the more fertile countryside of the Oise and Seine and shortly after that they entered the suburbs of Paris.

Angela found her excitement mounting. Even so, she was totally unprepared for her first glimpse of that wonderful city. The suburbs of Paris seemed so utterly unlike many of those in England, with their industries and tall, gloomy houses. They were traveling along a road bordered by trees and small shops and cafes with gay seats and striped umbrellas set out on the pavements. Suddenly, Angela saw a great stone arch looming ahead, impressive and magnificent.

“Simon,” she cried excitedly. “Surely that isn’t—”

Simon gave a slow smile
. “Yes, Angela, that’s it. The Arc de Triomphe!” he said with unmistakable pride.

Angela gazed in front of her feeling almost as though they were making the triumphant entry of a conquer
o
r. The road seemed to lead straight through the great arch.

“Simon, it looks ... surely we don’t drive through it!”

He laughed. “That would be a novel idea. I’ll try it sometime. No, the road goes around it. You’ll see as we get nearer.”

She felt almost relieved. “Of course,” she laughed. “How silly of me. This is wonderful. I had no idea we were so near the city. It comes on you quite suddenly, almost with a shock, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. The entrance to Paris from this side is quite dramatic, especially to anyone coming for the first time.”

“Impressive too. But I should think it would always have that effect on anyone who loved it—the city, I mean.”

“Yes,” Simon said quietly. “It does.”

He steered the car around the arch and continued on the straight, wide road where the trees became more abundant. “What a lovely road, Simon.”

“This is the Avenue des Champs Elys
é
es.”

“Of course. But, Simon, how lovely! One hears vaguely of these things without thinking of their location, or what they really look like.”

“It’s just as well. If you know too much about a place before you visit it, there’s no thrill or surprise left.”

Angela thought she would always be thrilled and surprised by Paris. She was enchanted by everything; the wide sweep of the Place de la Concorde; the magnificence of its bridges; the gendarmerie, nonchalantly directing traffic that at one moment seemed to be in the most hopeless jam and was sorted out the next; and the occasional glimpses of the magnificent Eiffel Tower. They drove along the banks of the Seine, past the Louvre to sight the great cathedral of Notre Dame, then up Rue St. Jacques where, almost at the top, was the student hotel.

“Well, here you are, Angela,” Simon announced. “I’ll come in with you and make sure there is a vacancy.”

There was, and after arranging to call for her at seven, he left her in the care of the hotel receptionist, an unsophisticated young woman of about her own age.

It was a simple room. A clean, comfortable-looking bed, a table and a plain wooden chair, a wash basin and a wardrobe with a full-length mirror. Angela pictured some hard-working student, perhaps even Simon, himself, poring over his books, and did not wish for anything more resplendent. The windows opened outward as all French windows do, onto a small verandah overlooking the street. She was content with that.

Tingling with excitement, she dressed carefully, choosing a simple black dress with a low, scooped neckline and the rhinestone necklace given to her by her mother. A black purse and dress sandals completed her outfit.

“Am I suitably attired for an evening in Paris, Simon?” she asked, when he called for her promptly at seven.

“You look absolutely charming for an evening in Paris or anywhere in the world,” he said softly.

She smiled, a faint color brushing her cheek.

It was a warm night and Simon chose a small restaurant on the Boulevard St. Michel where the tables were out-of-doors, their individual privacy made possible by beautifully cut hedges bearing a, fragrant leafy smell.

Angela gave a long-drawn-out sigh of contentment.

“Simon, this is wonderful. To be having an evening meal right out under the stars like this. Why can’t we do things this way in England?”

He smiled. What an amazing capacity she had for enjoying everything. “In England,” he said, “down would come the rain before you had time to lift your knife and fork.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

The food was delicious and beautifully cooked and served. Again, Angela thought suddenly of Roger and his cooking prowess and wondered if Simon had ever cooked a meal. She raised her eyes to find him eyeing her with an odd expression on his handsome face.

“You were deep in thought,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but actually I
w
asn’t so very far away.” She laughed. “This may sound odd, but I was wondering if you could cook.”

He stared at her for a moment and then burst out laughing. “How in the world did you get around to thinking something like that?”

“It’s this wonderful French cooking. For a moment I was reminded of someone I know. A rare specimen, I suppose. An Englishman who can cook ... really cook, I mean.”

“Roger, your eccentric artist?”

She smiled. “I suppose he is, rather. Then as my thoughts do run on, I wondered if—being French born—you were interested in cooking.”

“No. Does that disappoint you?”

“Good heavens, no. It was just an idle thought.”

He thought fleetingly how easily her thoughts strayed to Roger. ‘Tell me, Angela,” he said presently. “What would you like to do with the rest of the evening? A show, nightclub with cabaret, the lights of Paris from the Eiffel Tower, a stroll along the Seine. If it appeals to you, I’ll try to get tickets for the Folies Bergere.”

She laughed. “Not the Folies Bergere, please! That would be too much like a busman’s holiday, all that female anatomy. No, since you kindly give me the choice, what I’d really like to do is to see the lights of Paris from the Eiffel Tower and then just stroll along the streets and boulevards and have coffee at one of the sidewalk cafes and watch the world go by.”

“Excellent! First, to
La Tour Eiffel
,”
he said gaily.

It was a wonderful evening, full of enchantment. Angela drank in every moment of it, acutely aware of the man at her side. The size of the Eiffel Tower at close quarters astonished her. “Simon, I’d no idea it was so huge!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, everybody thought M. Eiffel was crazy when he built it.” They went up in an elevator and soon were standing high above the city, the lights pricking the darkness like millions of glow worms. A soft breeze gently touched their faces and a magic, light as thistledown, seemed to descend upon them.

“Like it?” Simon murmured, his lips close to her ear.

“It’s wonderful,” she breathed, afraid to break the spell.

He pulled her lightly around to face him and brushed her lips with his. Then, in a whisper so faint that it seemed to be spoken by the very breeze, he breathed, “I love you,
Angela
...
in such a romantic setting I find you completely irresistible
...
”

Then he kissed her again, more firmly this time, and held her close to him. She had a feeling of being on the edge of time itself, until, still in that strange whisper, he said, “Let us go down again. Up here there is too much magic. It goes to the head.”

Bemused, Angela allowed herself to be led back to the elevator and out into the warm scented air of the Tower gardens.

Throughout the rest of the evening Simon was the attentive escort, showing her some of the wonders of the city. Angela wondered if she had dreamed the scene under the stars. A kiss was understandable, she supposed, but those words spoken on the
breeze
...
Was that the legendary romantic nature of the Frenchman showing itself? Whatever it was, she found herself wanting to recapture the moment, but Simon appeared to have forgotten it; or had he regretted it, thinking perhaps of someone else?

Toward the end of the evening he took her to one of the numerous sidewalk cafes in the Latin Quarter where the young and old of every race and nationality meet to talk and sip their coffee or a glass of wine.

“You wouldn’t like the fashionable ones on the Boulevard
l’
Opera,” he told her. “They’re usually full of American tourists. Here, you see the real people of Paris.”

They sat for a while; then he said suddenly, “You must be tired. It’s past midnight even though everywhere is so lively. These people will be here for hours yet, but you must have your beauty sleep.”

He saw her to her hotel. Then with no more than a casual good night he left her.

Slowly, Angela mounted the stairs to her room. What a wonderful, wonderful evening. She got into bed and discovered that it was just as comfortable as it looked. She sank into a somewhat bemused state of pleasant weariness, seeing again the lights of Paris, feeling the gentle breeze in her hair and the pressure of Simon’s lips on hers. He had said he loved
her
...

She opened her eyes the next morning with a vague feeling of having made a wonderful discovery, a vague feeling that became a glowing happiness, which soared higher with every waking minute. For a moment she could not think what had happened to make her feel like th
i
s. Then as recollection flooded over her, she knew a fresh surge of joy. Simon loved her—he had said so, up in the Eiffel Tower. She wanted to laugh out loud. Then a slow blush covered her face and neck as she became fully awake and her thoughts clarified. It was true he had spoken the word “love,” but he had also used another word—“Magic.” And for the rest of the evening he had been quite a different person from the romantic Frenchman who had kissed her and held her in his arms. Her joyous feeling on waking had been, not because Simon loved
her,
but because she had fallen in love with him, while
he
...

But what was she to do? How was she going to hide her feelings when they met? For hide them she must if he did not feel the same way. She sat up and recalled that he had not mentioned seeing her again. She reminded herself that he had not come to Paris merely for a holiday but to secure proof of his father’s integrity. She might not even see him until their departure for England. At this thought and the remembrance of his reason for his visit, loneliness and misery descended on her.

Presently she got out of bed to look through the window, and in doing so, felt a little of the thrill of being in a strange country returning. She had two whole weeks to explore Paris, she told herself resolutely. She would see the shops—something of Paris fashions. She simply must not sit around moping.

Like many hotels in France, the one she was staying in provided no meals, but she had noticed a small cafe at the end of the street. She would go there and have a French breakfast of rolls and coffee. She hurried along to the bathroom, then dressed quickly, choosing one of her shantung dresses. It was too warm for the matching jacket, she decided, as she fastened her light, comfortable sandals.