Nurse Angela Page 7

  “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.

  At her restless stirring, he released her and stared out onto the black, shimmering water of the Seine.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They sat there for a long time watching the faint tremor that came and went over the inky water as the night breeze gently kissed its surface. Presently, Angela gave a slight shiver, and Simon pulled her gently to her feet. Together they strolled back to the Boulevard St. Michel and sat down at one of the small sidewalk cafe's to drink coffee. A deep silence fell between them, as each entered a separate realm of thought. Separate, yet curiously intermingling.

  Simon was filled with gratitude for the way Angela had helped to lay bare his hidden fears and self-deceptions, and for giving him a new hope of finding the truth. He would again seek out the man who might be able to help him trace Albert Poiret. Tomorrow he would go to the same cafe where he had met him. He found himself delving deeper and deeper into the past, reliving those far-off days of his childhood during the occupation. The scorn of the other children, their insults called after him in the street as his father walked and talked with the enemy; his mother’s terrible, inconsolable grief from which he had felt shut out when his father had died; his own loneliness and bitterness as his mother lived with he
r sorrow. Now, after all those years he was beginning to see the past in true perspective. But what of the future? It was almost too much to hope that his dream would come true.

  Angela’s thoughts were somewhat confused. She too, was remembering—remembering Simon’s words at the very start of their. journey. “I have thought lately about marriage.” “I could never ask any woman unless my conscience was clear.” “Suppose she should find out from someone else.” Her heart was heavy with thoughts she could not put into words. In spite of the fact that he was now in a happier frame of mind about things and in spite of her own assurances that it would make no difference to a woman about his father, he still wanted to pursue the matter. What she herself thought or felt was of no account. Indeed, why should it be? It was Paulette who mattered; Paulette whom he loved and wanted to marry. He had no doubt talked it over with her and she had insisted that he find out the truth. That was why he felt he must go on with his search. She glanced at his worried face. He was probably thinking about Paulette now.

  After a few exchanges about things of no importance to either of them, they walked back to Angela’s hotel. Each was wondering what the other had been thinking, trying to piece together words and phrases of personal significance, living again a look or turn of phrase that revealed the feelings of one for the other.

  At the door of the hotel, Simon said with a slight smile, “We have been serious tonight, haven’t we?”

  “Yes.” There was a moment’s pause. Then she said, “It still means a lot to you, this business of finding out the truth about your father, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. Yes it does, Angela. I can’t tell you why, except perhaps that it’s like some unfinished business that irks me. I want to make an entirely fresh start in what I hope will be a new life. Besides...” He gave her a long look. “In spite of what you have said, and in spite of my new attitude toward this thing, I still feel it would not be fair to—”

  She looked away from him and said abruptly. “You don’t need to explain, Simon. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. I must go in now. I’m tired.”