Christobel

Christobel Part 9

Chapter 9: the journal

13th January, 1911

Perhaps I'm imagining it. Yes, I'm sure I must be. But less than two weeks into a new year, something a little strange does, vaguely, seem to be happening. Something between Dr. Pascal and I. I've said before that he seems to pay me more than polite attention during lectures. More than my fair share, at least. When he addresses we students, his eyes do seem to fall and settle on me to a rather disproportionate degree. I really don't know why though. There's nothing remarkable about my face, surely? It's a very ordinary one, I'm sure. And I'm only a lowly nurse; hardly on the same social level as he, so why should he find me so interesting? I feel almost a little guilty that I'm monopolising his attention. I don't want to be singled out for special consideration.

And when he asks us for comments, (to check on whether we are absorbing what he's telling us, I imagine!) he often seems to invite me to do so with his eyes, first. It's a little unsettling, I must admit. But yes; perhaps I am simply letting my imagination run away with me.

20th January, 1911

I'm beginning to think that it isn't imagination at all. Well, you can't imagine feelings, can you? He's continued to look at me in that strange, slightly disconcerting way. And then last evening, at the close of the lecture, as we were filing out, he caught my eye again (he'd been doing so throughout the session) and made what I took to be a slight gesture with his hands to stay. So I paused, and he came towards me, and stood and shuffled his feet, and now he wasn't looking directly at me but down at the floor, as if embarrassed. Then he said, to my astonishment, the words coming out in rather a rush, "Erm, Miss Farley, I was wondering if you would care to come to a café with me, to take tea, or possibly coffee? Er, unless you have other plans, of course?"

Well, I was completely bowled over! No gentleman has ever made such an invitation. I must have blushed violently (it certainly felt as though I was doing, at least). I was certainly completely dumbstruck by the unexpectedness of it. When I eventually managed to regain the power of speech, I could only stammer, "Er, yes, that would be very nice, thank you. No, I've nothing else planned, except to go to my room and read a book, or something dull like that."

He exhaled a rather obvious sigh of what I assumed was relief. "Oh, splendid!" he said.

But then doubts crept in. "But it isn't allowed, really, socialising with gentlemen. Miss Cavell would strongly disapprove. I would be in serious trouble if she found out."

He smiled. "Well, there's no reason why she should, is there? And this is not a nunnery after all. You haven't taken Holy Orders, have you?"

"Well, no," I said, weakening. His invitation was very tempting.

"Excellent," he said, sounding relieved again. "Well we'll walk into town, where we won't be spotted. Your reputation won't be threatened, I promise!"

And so I fetched my coat and hat and we (I with nerves slightly jangling, I must confess) walked to the city centre, and found a quiet café on the Rue des Chartreaux. It was small and there were few people patronising it on that cold, dark winter's evening, but with its fashionable Art Nouveaux decor and subdued lighting (it did not appear to have discovered the benefits of electricity yet) and somewhat smoky "Bohemian" atmosphere, it was charming, cosy and intimate. It was certainly a novel experience for me, at least.

We hung our coats on the stand by the curtained door and found a small circular moulded-iron table. A waitress appeared, looking, judging by her expression, grateful for a little custom. Dr. Pascal asked me what I would like to drink. I would normally perhaps have chosen chocolate, as the Belgians are such good chocolatiers, but opted for coffee, as I thought that he would probably choose that and I didn't want to appear completely naive and unsophisticated. The waitress asked if we'd like cakes too, and Dr. Pascal, deciding for both of us, said yes.