Nurse Angela (7 page)

The hotel telephone was ringing as she went downstairs, and she was met at the bottom by the receptionist.

“For you, Ma’moiselle. Monsieur LeFeure.”

Angela’s heart leaped. Simon. So he had called her, after all. She picked up the receiver.

“Hello, Angela here,” she said trying to make her voice sound normal.

“Good morning, Angela. I saw so many stars last night that I forgot to ask what you’re doing today.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m just on my way out in search of breakfast,” she answered lightly.

“Where are you going to get it?”

“At the little cafe at the end of the street.”

“I know it. I’ll meet you there in five minutes. Order
cafe et croissants pou
r deux
—coffee and rolls for two—and I’ll be with you almost as soon as the waitress brings it.”

She laughed.
“All
right, I will.”

Her heart was singing again. Over and over again she told herself not to act like a romantic schoolgirl. Simon probably regretted kissing her, or at least would hope that, she was adult enough to take it for what it had been. Just a light flirtation culled from the magic of the night and stars. He had likely dismissed the incident as not being worth thinking twice about. He would certainly not expect her to have fallen in love with him. “I saw too many stars last
night...”
he said this morning. She must think of it that way too!

But when she saw him coming toward her on the open veranda of the cafe, she could not prevent her heart from contracting violently.

“Angela,” he cried with an exuberance that finally dispelled any lingering thought that he might have been serious last night. “You look as fresh as the morning. Were you comfortable in the hotel?”

“Absolutely, thank you.”

“Ah, here’s our breakfast,” Simon said as the waitress set large cups of strong, sweet coffee and a plate of crescent-shaped rolls before them. “You’ll find these rolls perfectly wonderful as they are, Angela, but they will serve butter and marmalade with them if you wish.”

“I’ll try them as they are first,” Angela said, taking one and biting into it. “Hm. Why, they’re lovely, absolutely delicious.”

Simon smiled. “I thought you’d like them. The French cannot understand how the English can tackle their huge breakfasts. Porridge, bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade and so on.”

“But you couldn’t do a hard morning’s work on rolls and coffee, and of course, on holiday some people like to go for a brisk walk or a swim before breakfast. By the time they sit down to the table they’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

“Are you one of those?”

“I can usually tackle a good breakfast on duty and even on holiday too, sometimes.”

“Well, if you get a longing for bacon and eggs while you’re here, don’t let the signs reading “English Breakfast” lure you. The Frenchman’s idea of bacon and eggs, or ham and eggs is thin, boiled ham warmed up, accompanied by an egg that is usually poached.”

Angela laughed and pulled a wry face. “Thanks for the warning.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Simon said in a quiet voice, “Angela, you remember I said I wanted to follow something up during the next two weeks? I wonder if
you
...
”
He hesitated.

“Don’t worry on my account,” Angela said quickly. “I shall be perfectly all right. I have today all planned,
and
...
”

She faltered and he gave her a quick look. “Perhaps I should first have apologized to you for last night. I had no right, and I’m sorry. I hope you’re not angry, but I—”

She smiled brightly and pushed any further explanations aside. “You don’t need to apologize for anything. It was a very pleasant evening. Why should I be angry?”

He looked troubled for a moment. “I was wondering if you would care to meet my mother. She would be glad to meet you and happy to show you the city.”

“There’s really no need, Simon. After all, because you kindly offered me, what really amounts to a lift, you don’t need to feel responsible for me for the rest of my holiday.”

He covered her hand with his. “If you persist in talking like that, I really will think you’re angry. Please try to understand. I really
want
you to meet my mother; I’m not just trying to be polite. But of course, if you would rather not, that’s quite all right.”

Angela lowered her eyes. The feel of his hand on hers was almost more than she could bear. She made a slight movement and immediately, he removed his hand. She saw the anxious expression in his eyes. Was he worried in case she had attached too much importance to last night?

She smiled suddenly. “But of course I’d love to meet her, if you’re sure she won’t object to having an English tourist thrust upon her.”

His face lit up. “You forget that she is English, too. She will love meeting and talking to you. And there’s one thing you can rely on—she still loves a cup of tea.”

She laughed. “Lovely.”

“If I can possibly get away, will you have dinner with me again tonight?”

“How shall I know whether or not you will be free?”

“My mother has a telephone. I can either call you there or leave a message at your hotel. You’ll be going back there to change, won’t you? If by any chance you find something better to do, leave a message at my hotel. I don’t stay with my mother because she has no room in her small apartment. I hope you will still be free, but my mother knows so many people you never know when somebody might hail her from across the street.”

“If you can’t get away, I will come here for dinner, then maybe pay another visit to
La Tour Eiffel
.”

His eyes flickered for a moment; then he said abruptly: “Shall we go?”

Simon and his mother were not the least bit alike. She was small and dark and very vivacious. One would have taken her more for a Frenchwoman than an English one, but she greeted Angela in English in a softly cultured voice.

“My dear, how lovely to meet you. An English sister from Simon’s own hospital. Do sit down. Will you join me in a cup of tea? It’s so seldom I can get anyone to drink tea with me who really appreciates it.”

Angela was about to protest that she had only just had breakfast when there was a sound from an adjoining room.

Madame LeFeure glanced smilingly at Simon. “I have a surprise for you, Simon. Guess who’s here?” As she spoke the inner door opened and Madame LeFeure announced, “Voila! Paulette!”

“Paulette!” cried Simon and went toward the tall, slim, beautifully dressed girl who stood poised in the doorway.

“Simon,
darling
...
”
Paulette cried, flinging her arms about his neck.

CHAPTER SIX

Angela witnessed the scene, a sharp pain searing through her as if someone had thrust a knife into her heart. This, then, was the woman he wanted to marry.

Simon turned to introduce her and Angela knew a further stab of pain as she realized how beautiful Paulette was and how exquisitely dressed. Paulette held out a beautifully manicured hand.

“How do you do?” she said politely in careful English.

“How do you do,” Angela murmured, proffering her own comparatively work-worn hand. Although she had given herself a manicure, her hands had certainly not the smooth whiteness of this woman’s. Up to this moment Angela had felt reasonably smart and well dressed, but in contrast with Paulette’s chic she felt almost dowdy.

Paulette treated her to a swift look from a pair of very blue eyes. Angela felt herself summed up and then dismissed as Paulette turned her attention back to Simon. She chattered away in French of which Angela caught only the gist. It was plain that she and Simon knew each other intimately. Paulette put her arm through Simon’s drawing him unresisting to the door.

Simon glanced back at Angela. “I’ll leave you and mother to get acquainted,” he said.

Paulette waved an elegant hand. “Au’voir, Suzette, Mademoiselle
...
”

They went out together leaving a strange emptiness.

Madame LeFeure sighed. “Well now, Angela, you and I will have a nice cup of tea and get to know each other. Paulette is very beautiful, is she not? She and Simon have adored each other from childhood.”

Suzette went into the kitchenette, and Angela sank, trembling into a chair. So Simon and Paulette had loved each other since childhood; and it was obvious that they still did. What a fool she had been to let herself fall in love with him so easily. She might have known. She buried her face in her hands in despair. Then, the clatter of crockery from the kitchenette forced her to look up and try to take an interest in her surroundings.

It was a bright, colorful room, the furniture small and dainty and of good taste like its owner. The rugs and cushions were splashes of vivid hues, while the pictures were unusual and obviously of artistic value. On an elegant bureau stood a framed photograph. At first Angela thought it was a picture of Simon and her heart gave, by now, its familiar twist. But as she looked she became certain it must be of Simon’s father. When Madame LeFeure reentered the room she confirmed this.

“You may wonder why I have no picture of my son,” she said,
“but they are so very much alike as you can see. I loved Michel dearly, and somehow I seem to have both husband and son in that one photograph.”

Her voice had become tense and serious. She set down the tray and poured out the tea in silence.

Then she said, “I expect you are wondering why I do not live in England with Simon, but I feel closer to my husband here in his own country. His dear body lies buried in French soil and I would feel that I was deserting him if I—” She broke off and smiled suddenly. “But what gloomy talk, and you are on holiday. Forgive me, Angela. You don’t mind if I call you that? And please call me Suzette. My English name was Susan, but Michel always called me Suzette and so does everyone else. I have come to prefer it.”

Angela’s heart warmed toward this gallant little Englishwoman, so obviously still in love with her husband. Life could not have been easy for her.

“I’d love you to call me Angela, and I think yours is a lovely name. But your talk of Simon’s father is by no means gloomy.
I’m
...
most interested.”

“Oh, but you have come to Paris to enjoy yourself. I’m sure you hear quite enough sad things in your work. I am usually in a happy mood too, but just meeting you and talking of Simon’s
father
...
”

“Simon has told me about him and what he hopes to find out while he is in Paris.”

Suzette shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know why Simon is bothering about all that. I feel sure in my own mind, even though Michel himself could not tell me very much, that he was a patriot. Anyone really knowing him could not believe anything else.”

“Oh, I’m sure Simon believes that too,” Angela said quickly. “But he is looking for proof.”

She gave an impatient exclamation. “It is hopeless. And what does it matter? He says he does not want to practise medicine in France.” She looked at Angela speculatively. “Would it matter to you about his father?”

“No,” Angela said decisively. “Not in the least.”

Suzette threw up her hands in a gesture that was more typical of the French than the English. “There you are! But a man must have proof—they must have everything in black and white. With women it is different.” She stood up. “Excuse me, my dear, while I put on my hat and gloves. We will go out into the sunshine, eh?” She went through to her dressing room and emerged a few minutes later looking cool and elegant in crisp navy and white.

“I have a surprise for you,” she said. “When I knew you were coming to spend the day with me, I phoned Paulette—she models for one of Paris’s famous dress designers. She brought two invitations for us to a showing of his new spring collection to be held this very morning at half past eleven.”

“So Paulette is a model—no wonder she was so beautifully dressed!”

Suzette smiled. “Ah yes. That is why she was in such a hurry—she is Gabrielle DuPont’s chief model.”

“Gabrielle DuPont!” cried Angela. The name was world famous. Outside she quickly hailed a taxi and five minutes later they were standing outside a tall house in the Avenue Montaigne. “But it looks so ordinary. Not a bit as I expected.”

“Wait until you see the inside,” said Suzette. She pushed her way through ornate, glass swing doors, Angela following.

Angela could scarcely refrain from gasping out loud. They were in a large reception room covered entirely with a rich, deep pile carpet of plain, dove gray. The walls were in a glowing blush pink, decorated here and there by cherubic figures of beautiful design, each holding a rose. The most wonderful crystal chandelier that Angela had ever seen hung from a ceiling of palest blue dotted with stars. Flowers were everywhere, filling the room with a wonderful fragrance, and from the center of the room rose a wide, magnificent staircase.

A beautifully groomed assistant came forward to meet them. Angela stood by while Suzette spoke in French.

“Ah!
Oui, oui,
Madame. Paulette, of course.”

The receptionist took two tickets from an envelope and handed them to her. Then they were led up the beautiful staircase to a large room with a draped stage at one end and a walking platform protruding from it to the center of the room. They sat down in one of the pale blue basket chairs arranged on either side of it.

The room was nearly full, and in a few moments, the showing began. Angela watched with bated breath as one by one, the lovely, elegant models walked the dais wearing the most breathtakingly lovely clothes. Dresses and two-piece ensembles in new, intriguing colors and designs; deceivingly casual tweeds, impeccable .tailor-mades each with some new feature of pocket, rever or line. There were evening gowns too, in glamorous brocades and romantic taffetas, organza and nylon lace, soft chiffon, and regal gowns in glowing, rich shades of velvet.

Lastly, the dramatic entrance of a spring bride and her entourage. Gasps and murmurs of approval ran around the room as Paulette, the bride, looking unbelievingly lovely, walked the dais. The bride’s dress, beautiful in its simplicity, was in skilfully draped white French lace and organza. But Angela was gazing at the lovely face of the bride and scarcely saw the exquisite dress. No wonder Simon loved her. In her imagination, Angela saw Simon walking by Paulette’s side, the bridesmaids in long dresses, rose-colored nylon following behind.

Angela followed Suzette outside in silence, then struggled to find her voice and say something appreciative.

“Suzette, thank you. That was an unforgettable experience
—
such wonderful, wonderful clothes.”

They lunched at a small cafe overlooking the Seine, then strolled along the Rue de la Paix gazing in the shop windows. Suzette persuaded Angela to buy a hat, and she settled on a wonderful creation swathed with gray, white and black tulle ingeniously arranged.

“Wear it on top of ze ’ead, zo—” said the assistant.

“It’s a dream,” cried Suzette. “Simon will adore it.”

Angela looked at her in surprise. Surely she knew how things were between Simon and Paulette? But perhaps it was the way of the Frenchman—to be in love with one woman and able to admire another in freedom.

But as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror she found herself hoping that Simon would indeed admire her in the hat.

“Now, you must be ready for a cup of tea,” Suzette said. “And for that you must come back to my apartment.”

And so they did, Suzette providing an English afternoon tea of wafer-thin sandwiches, cakes and scones.

“Well now, you will just have enough time to get back to your hotel, have a rest, a bath and change for your evening with Simon,” she said an hour later.

“But I’m not sure whether or not Simon will be free.”

“Of course he will be free, foolish child, but if he is not I can very soon fix an escort for you, believe me.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t—” Angela began.

“Why not, pray? You can’t walk the streets of Paris alone.” She chuckled. “Don’t worry about Simon being jealous. It will do him good.”

“But surely—” This time Angela was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.

Suzette went to answer it. “That will probably be Simon now.”

Angela waited in a kind of breathless anxiety. The thought of spending another evening with Simon thrilled her, but surely he would be taking Paulette out to dinner now? He had hinted that he might not be free. She heard Suzette’s voice answering.

“Yes, she is still here. Yes, I will tell her. She will understand.” Angela’s heart sank. It was as she feared. He was not free, naturally. Suzette put down the receiver.

“He says he is in a hurry and will you forgive him not asking you to the phone. I said you would understand.”

“Of course,” Angela said miserably.

Then Suzette said with a twinkle, “He will call for you at seven.”

“You mean he wants to see me?”

“But of course. Who else?”

“Paulette, surely?”

“Ah, Paulette, yes. But not tonight, not tonight. In any case, you can have the choice of several very presentable young men whenever you wish. I will arrange it.”

Angela forced a smile. “Simon hinted as much. Well it’s very kind of you both to be considering my pleasure so much.” She glanced at the clock. “I had better be returning to my hotel.”

“Yes, you had better,” agreed Suzette. “I will get a taxi for you.”

Angela was about to protest. She could not get used to this idea of riding around in taxis. She was accustomed to jumping on buses. But she had forgotten for the moment that she was in a country where the bus routes were unfamiliar and that she had by no means a fluent command of the language.

Before she left, Suzette looked at her seriously.

“I hope we meet again soon, my dear ... before you return to England. Though I must say, you have had rather a disturbing effect on me.”

“Oh, but I hope not,” Angela said quickly.

Smilingly Suzette shook her head and propelled the younger woman gently to the door where the taxi stood waiting.

“You have awakened my sleeping conscience, my dear. I don’t altogether like it,
but...
well we shall see.”

With these mysterious words, she gave instructions to the taxi driver and waved goodbye.

What did Suzette mean, Angela wondered. Was it her conscience regarding Simon that had been disturbed? Leaving him to his own devices in England while clinging to the memory of her husband? Holding to the dead instead of giving to the living? Poor Suzette. She must have loved her Michel very much indeed. And how like his father Simon was. The same fine, fair hair, lean classic features. Her heart suddenly contracted.

When Simon called for her, happiness radiated from every part of her.

A mixture of emotions, he gazed at her. Why had he allowed himself to kiss her last night, and how was he going to prevent himself from doing precisely the same tonight? But refrain he must, he knew.
Otherwise
...

He pressed her hand and smiled as he drew her arm through his. “Where would you like to go for dinner? The same place or somewhere entirely different?”

“The same place would be lovely. And let’s leave the car and just walk, all right?”

“If you like.”

During dinner, Simon seemed preoccupied. He asked about her day with his mother, teased her about her enthusiast for the fashion show and the Parisian shops, then lapsed into silence.

“Simon,” she said at last. “What of your day? Have you had any luck at all? Have you managed to find out anything about your father?
”
She preferred not to think of how much time he had spent with Paulette.

He gave a wry smile and answered, “Very little. I’ve tramped from one cafe to another. Only one person has ever heard of Albert Poiret, the man I am looking for, the man whose name my father whispered.”

“Couldn’t the person give you any clue at all as to Albert Poiret’s whereabouts?”

“None at all,” he said gloomily.

“Simon, don’t look so unhappy.” She reached out her hand to him and he gave her a faint smile. “That’s better.” There was a moment’s pause; then she said earnestly, “Simon, must you go on with this ... this search?”

He gave her a long look. “Yes, now more than ever.”

Now that you’ve seen Paulette again,
she thought miserably.
“I wish I could help,” she said.

She thought hard for a minute or two trying to visualize the kind of people among whom Simon would need to search. What sort of lives would they lead, where would they spend their leisure? Talking and drinking in cafes?

“Simon why don’t you go back to the cafe where you met the man who knew Albert Poiret’s name?”

“But he was so vague,” he protested. “It was only that the name rang a bell with him. He couldn’t even tell me in what connection. It would be a waste of time.”

“Oh, but don’t you see? A visit from someone like you, a stranger,
well-educated
and so on, might be an unusual event in his life. Perhaps tonight when he sips his wine in the little cafe on the boulevard, he will tell his friends how a tall—” her eyes twinkled “—handsome stranger came inquiring after this Albert Poiret. Someone might say, ‘Oh yes, I remember him, he was something to do with the
Resistance
...
’”

His eyes gleamed with fresh hope. “Of course. That’s right. What a genius you are. I’d never have thought of it.”

She gave a pleased smile. “You would have got around to it. You’re a wee bit impatient, Simon. You could hardly expect to achieve miracles in one day, could you?”

“I suppose not, but I’m so anxious. Oh, Angela,” he said with sudden intensity. “If only you knew what this means to me. I’d give the world to be really free.”

“Simon
...”
she said in almost a whisper. “What is it you want to be free of? What is it that’s driving you all at once to find out the truth? You can be free anytime you want—this very minute. Freedom is merely a matter of choice, decision. Sometimes the real need is to get at the root of the trouble. Is it freedom from such hidden fear you want?”

He slumped in his chair and gazed at her, catching hold of her words, examining them. Then he said slowly, “You’re right in part, at any rate. I am afraid. All my life, that is, from about the age of 12 or so, I’ve been dogged by one fear.
Suppose my father was a collaborator?
This is the first time I have ever admitted that, even to myself. I’ve been so intensely trying to
believe,
trying to convince myself and thinking that I had succeeded. Yet all the time, I would never even allow the question,
What if the authorities were right?
to enter my conscious thoughts.”

“But Simon, what does it really matter? The main thing is to admit your fear, face it, then dismiss it. Most fears are groundless.”

They walked out into the warm, summer night and strolled toward the river.

“It’s not quite as simple as that, my dear,” Simon said after a moment’s thought. “It’s true, I need to face my fear, call it by its name. I am beginning to realize now the effect it must have had on my life. And tonight, thanks to you, it is coming out into the open. But perhaps you don’t realize the true character of a man who can betray his own country.”

“But Simon, think of the incredible temptation.”

“Every man, woman and child in France faced the same temptation. If one man could resist it, so could another, even allowing for differences in temperament. In times of war, and particularly in times of enemy occupation—Nazi occupation—the herding instinct is exalted. The patriot is the lover of his fellows and his country. The collaborator loves only himself, his own skin, his own comfort. He is despicable. I would hate myself if I were the son of such a man.”

The suppressed bitterness of years poured out with the words. Angela’s heart yearned toward him.

“My dear,” she said gently. “That too, is something you need to rid yourself of. You are a person in your own right, entirely different, separate from your father. How often do you hear of a vagabond father having a saintly son, or a devout man the possessor of a wayward boy. There is another fear still lingering in your heart, isn’t there? A fear of yourself. That, in similar circumstances you might behave like one of those despicable people? You must have more faith, Simon—faith in yourself and in other people. You are not bound to be like your father either way. As I said before, the war is history now. Feelings ran high in those days when you were virtually turned out of your own country. Wounds were still painful, memories fresh, but now people are forgetting—have already forgotten.”

“The French don’t easily forget,” he said bitterly.

He led her onto a quay and they sat down, watching the lights reflected in the still black water, like silver, phosphorescent birch trees in a dark wood.

“What you’ve been saying is all very true and I’m grateful for it,” he said. “I
have
been afraid of what might be hidden deep within me. It has made me intense and bitter, afraid to become too intimate with people. You know, Angela, apart from Tony Wilson, I don’t have one really good friend. It’s true that people live on their emotions in time of war, especially when the enemy is sitting on your doorstep and at your table. But the things people say, the things they do, and above all, the things they believe of you can leave permanent marks on a man’s personality. As you say, I can blot out the past in one single, simple decision. I can rid myself of fears of heredity, separate pride from fear, and
yet
...
Still, I must find out. I shall not rest until I do.”

“I know, I know. But first, try to cast all those things aside. Go into your search objectively with no fear of the outcome, be determined that whatever you discover, whether good or bad, will make no difference to the future. You can be free from this moment, from anything in your makeup or fear of the truth.”

Impulsively he drew her toward him. “Oh, Angela you’re a wonder. I shall never cease to be grateful to you.”

He held her close and pressed his lips on her hair.

Angela’s heart seemed to stop beating. Oh, Simon,
I love you,
she cried silently. For a brief moment she buried her face against his shoulder, storing up the memory of his nearness. If
only
...
But she knew his embrace meant nothing but gratitude. Gratitude, when she wanted, so desperately, his love.