Читать книгу Specialist In Love - Шэрон Кендрик, Sharon Kendrick - Страница 11

POPPY arrived punctually at her typewriter at nine o’clock on Monday morning to find the office empty, and she stood in the centre of the room rather uncertainly, unsure of what to do next—she didn’t dare try to alter anything else, not without the permission of Grumpy! And she had decided not to introduce the kettle or any plants until she had a better idea of just how long she would be staying!

One thing was for sure—his office looked a million times better—more spacious and less cluttered. And what was it they said? A tidy room means a tidy mind—maybe the quality of his articles would improve, and then he’d be forever in her debt!

She was bent over her desk, flicking dust off the electric typewriter and ineffectually moving pieces of paper around for something to do, when the door flew open with a crash and she looked up, startled, expecting to see Dr Browne; instead she was confronted by the sight of a girl of about sixteen, her eyes red from crying, her hair flying wildly around her face, and some poorly applied foundation attempting to cover what Poppy could see were angry red spots on her face.

‘Where is he?’ the girl demanded, on a note that sounded as though it could become a sob without very much provocation.

Poppy smiled encouragingly. ‘You mean Dr Browne? I’m expecting him in any time now. Won’t you take a seat?’

The girl flopped into the chair Poppy had indicated, and with trembling hands started fumbling around in her handbag. She pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes and had extracted and lit one, exhaling deeply, before Poppy could stop her. The familiar acrid smell of the smoke assailed Poppy’s nostrils and she was filled with a wave of nausea.

She spoke as politely as possible. ‘This is a hospital, you know. I don’t think it’s a very good idea if you smoke, do you?’

The girl stared at her belligerently. ‘I don’t think a lot of things are a good idea—like the fact that I resemble Frankenstein’s monster with this face of mine, but there’s not a lot I can do about it.’ She took another deep drag of the cigarette.

Poppy coughed. The room was filling up with smoke and she couldn’t bear it, and neither, she was pretty sure, would Dr Browne.

‘Please put it out,’ she requested firmly.

The girl’s bottom lip jutted out. ‘Why should I?’

‘Because my uncle died of lung cancer through smoking, and I’d hate to think that you might do the same.’ Her voice shook a little as she said it.

The girl looked up at her, distraught, her eyes filling with tears, and she held the cigarette out helplessly towards Poppy, bursting into noisy, childlike sobs.

Poppy took the cigarette and swiftly ran it under the tap of the sink in the corner, before dropping it in the waste-paper bin. She pulled out a paper handkerchief from her handbag and handed it to the crying girl.

‘I’m so sorry,’ the girl sobbed. ‘I’m a horrible person. But it’s not how he said it would be—he’s got no idea!’

Poppy tried without success to make some kind of sense of the garbled sentence. ‘Who?’ she asked.

‘Fergus,’ sobbed the girl again. ‘He doesn’t know what it’s really like.’

Fergus! It seemed strange for this wild young thing with the hurt young face to be on first-name terms with old Grumpy. Poppy wished she had had the courage of her convictions and had brought the wretched kettle in—at least then she could have made this poor child a cup of strong, sweet tea. Instead she handed her another hanky and smiled softly.

‘Doesn’t know what what’s really like?’ she probed gently.

‘College!’ The word came out in a sniffly sob.

‘You mean you’ve just started college?’ Poppy guessed.

‘Yes. We thought it would be good if I did my “A” levels there—people would be more mature than they were at school. Some hopes! I’ve had to put up with cruel teasing for years at school, and we thought it would be different at college—but it isn’t.’

By now Poppy was utterly confused. ‘Teasing about what?’

The girl stared at her with a hard, cold face. ‘This!’ She pointed to the livid spots on her face. ‘It’s called acne—don’t tell me you didn’t notice?’ she asked disbelievingly.

‘I did notice, yes,’ replied Poppy truthfully. ‘But it wasn’t the first thing I noticed—the first thing I noticed was how sad you looked.’

‘If people flinched every time you came near them, you’d look sad,’ the girl retaliated. ‘If boys didn’t want to kiss you, for fear of what they’d “catch”—you’d look sad too.’ A bitter look crossed her face. ‘Oh, what’s the point? You’d never understand in a million years—no one can help, not even Fergus, unless he’s got a magic wand which could give me a new skin.’ She got up from the chair, dejection written in the slump of her shoulders. ‘Tell him I called, won’t you?’ She started for the door.

Poppy rose to her feet, feeling utterly helpless. ‘I don’t even know your name?’ she queried.

‘It’s Virginia—Virginia Barker.’

‘Do stay and see him, Virginia,’ Poppy pleaded. ‘Now that you’ve come all this way, and you’re upset—stay here and let me get you some coffee.’

But it was no use, Virginia had lifted her chin and was gone. Poppy sat in impotent silence. There had been such raw anger in the girl. Surely something could be done to help her?

The door opened again and there stood Dr Browne, a briefcase under one arm and a stack of papers under the other. He nodded at her, without the welcoming smile she would have wished for.

‘All right?’ he asked tersely.

Poppy arranged three pens in a straight line and looked up.

‘Actually, no,’ she told him calmly. ‘A patient of yours has just been in here, sobbing and in a terrible state. A girl called Virginia Barker, saying that things are no better at college, that she’s being teased there too.’

He put the papers on to his desk. ‘Ah, yes—young Ginny. Why wouldn’t she wait?’

‘Because she was so upset, I told you. She said that no one could help her—she seemed rather desperate.’

He was removing his tweed jacket and hanging it over the back of his chair, to reveal a mauve and yellow plaid tie. ‘I’ll give her a call later,’ he said, and with this he began pulling more papers out of his briefcase.

Poppy sat there, aghast. ‘Is that all?’ she demanded.

He looked up, gazing round the room, as if unsure whether the question had been directed at him. ‘What?’ he demanded.

She was undeterred by the angry note in his voice. ‘I said is that all you’re going to say? The girl was really upset, surely there must be something more that we can do than just give her a call later. You. . .’

‘No—you! Listen to me for a minute, before you come out with any more of your naïve little clichés. Do you imagine for one moment that you’re the only person who cares about her? Do you think I hold some instant cure here in my hands, which through some sadistic urge I’m refusing to give her? Well? Do you?’

Poppy’s lips snapped shut. ‘I was only trying. . .’

Trying nothing! You were preaching to me. Of course she was upset. She’s had acne since the age of fourteen—a time when most girls of that age are just beginning to adjust to their burgeoning sexuality. Ginny at that age would rather have had a cave to cower in than a discotheque to go to dance and flaunt her beauty and her youth. She’s come a long way since then—despite the fact that with each year the acne has become progressively worse, culminating this year with a student teacher, albeit an ignorant one, asking Ginny to provide her with a doctor’s certificate stating that the rash wasn’t infectious. She even hinted delicately about AIDS. . .’

‘But that’s terrible!’ Poppy gasped.

‘Yes,’ he agreed grimly, ‘that’s terrible, but that, I’m afraid, is life. It was then that Ginny decided that she must go to college, and I agreed with her, but tempered with my agreement was the warning that it wasn’t all going to be plain sailing, that one of the most intrenchable characteristics of the human race is prejudice.

‘So you see, my dear Miss Henderson, it comes as no surprise to me to learn that she’s encountered it yet again, and I’d like to hear just what you suggest I do. Go down there and personally threaten to beat up anyone who’s insulted her? Or do you think I should be down in the bowels of this building, inventing a new face for her?’

The depth of his anger was shattering, and Poppy felt close to tears, but she had the sense within herself to realise that the anger was not directed at her personally, that he was as upset by Ginny’s problems as she was. But there was no doubt about one thing. That she owed him an apology.

‘I’m very sorry, Dr Browne,’ she said clearly. ‘I spoke out of turn. I didn’t know enough about her case, and I can assure you that it won’t happen again.’

He rubbed at the soft brown hair on his temple, slightly mollified. ‘Humph,’ he muttered. ‘At least you haven’t stormed out, leaving me in the lurch. I made my point, but perhaps I didn’t do it in the most tactful way—I do have the tendency to fly off the handle when I’m roused.’

Never! she thought, as her customary good humour returned. But she had an idea. ‘Can I ask you something else, please, Dr Browne?’

‘Not time off already?’ he asked suspiciously.

What kind of women had he had working for him before? she wondered.

‘No, nothing like that. It’s just that I know someone who deals with the importation of cosmetics. They bring in a lot of stuff from the States—there are new products on the market all the time. I just wondered whether I should speak to her, to ask if there’s anything revolutionary in the line of concealment products—I do know they exist.’

He looked unimpressed. ‘Oh, they exist all right, and they’re very useful for disguising birthmarks—port-wine stains and the like, but I’ve not heard of anything that’s particularly efficacious for acne. Ginny’s will probably have disappeared by the time she’s twenty-five.’

But that’s nearly ten years away, Poppy wanted to blurt out, but stopped herself in time.

‘However, there’s nothing to stop you trying,’ he finished, and she flashed him a huge smile of gratitude.

‘One thing, though,’ he warned. ‘Don’t become too attached to her.’

‘Why ever not?’ she asked in surprise.

‘Because she’s vulnerable, because she’ll probably like you—she’s not past the age where she might hero-worship you. So you’ll form an attachment with Ginny, she’ll put her trust in you—and then you’ll get bored with the job, and you’ll be off.’

She wished he didn’t have such a jaundiced view of everyone. His voice when he spoke was alive with passion and conviction; rarely had she met someone so quixotic, and she knew with some kind of uncanny conviction that she would not get bored with this job, with working for this man. She wanted this strange, prickly, grumpy individual to respect her—more than that, she wanted him to actually like her—but she suspected that winning his affection and respect wasn’t going to be easy.

‘I can’t imagine the job boring me, Dr Browne,’ she told him calmly. ‘And I have no intention of leaving. What do you think of your bookshelves?’

He glanced at them critically. ‘They’re not completely straight, are they? Didn’t you use a spirit level?’

She should have expected it! The word contrary must have been invented for Dr Fergus Browne!

‘Actually, no,’ she replied through gritted teeth. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to take them down and start again?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t be silly, I was only teasing! Would you get me a Dr Henry Burke at St Thomas’s on the line? I’d like to speak to him.’

She did as he asked, and then he handed her a tape for the audio machine.

‘I did this last night,’ he explained. ‘It has to be in as soon as possible, so can you give it priority.’

She nodded and took the tape, and the two of them worked in companionable silence for the next couple of hours, Poppy rattling away on the keyboard of the fairly new electric typewriter, and Dr Browne scribbling furiously.

When she presented him with the finished copy, he looked up with an expression of mild surprise on his face.

‘That was quick,’ he remarked.

Quick! She’d gone as fast as she could, but she knew she was slower than a lot of experienced secretaries. He really must have had some dud typists if he thought she was quick!

She glanced at her watch. It was almost half-past eleven.

‘Excuse me, Dr Browne,’ she began.

He looked up from the paper he was studying, the grey eyes focusing on her face as if she’d woken him from a trance.

‘Yes? What is it?’

Poppy wished he wouldn’t bark at her like that. ‘I’m going to get myself a cup of coffee. Would you like one?’

‘What? Oh, a coffee—yes, please.’ He started reading again.

‘Er—how do you like your coffee, Dr Browne?’

‘What? Oh—black, no sugar.’

‘And tea?’

He gave a click of annoyance. ‘What is this—the Spanish Inquisition? Milk, no sugar in tea.’

‘Thank you,’ she said in an exaggeratedly patient voice. ‘Now I know, and I shan’t have to ask you again. Just one thing more, Dr Browne. . .’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! What is it now?’

‘To fetch us a cup of coffee I have to walk all the way over to the canteen, which is a waste of time, and by the time I get it back here it will probably be cold. So I was wondering if I could bring a kettle in?’

He frowned. ‘I don’t see why not. Have you got a kettle to bring?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Poppy conversationally. ‘When we got our new jug kettle to match the kitchen——’ She stopped hastily when she saw the expression on his face, and remembered what he had said about not liking chit-chat. Miserable beast!

He was looking at her curiously. ‘Are you always quite so outspoken and persistent?’ he enquired.

It didn’t sound like an insult, she thought cautiously, as she considered his question.

‘I haven’t been, up until now,’ she explained. ‘My last job didn’t exactly encourage it.’

‘Your last job being. . .?’ he probed.

She was half inclined to tell him that he was now indulging in idle gossip, but on second thoughts. . .!

‘I worked at Maxwells,’ she told him.

‘Maxwells? The department store in town?’ He sounded surprised.

‘The very same!’

‘But not as a shop assistant, surely?’

She laughed. ‘A glorified shop assistant. My official title was “beautician”.’

‘Beautician?’ He had obviously never heard the word before. ‘And what does a beautician do, pray?’

‘She gets women to spend far too much money on make-up, that’s what!’

A shaft of sunlight speared through a dispersing storm cloud, giving his eyes the appearance of the silvery mercury she’d once played with in a long-distant science lesson.