Читать книгу A Winter Love Story - Бетти Нилс - Страница 6

CLAUDIA leaned up, took another armful of books from the shelves lining the little room, put them on the table beside her and sneezed as a cloud of mummified dust rose from them. What had possessed her, she wondered, to take on the task of dusting her great-uncle William’s library when she could have been enjoying these few weeks at home doing as she pleased?

She picked up her duster, sneezed again, and bent to her task, a tall, slim but shapely girl with a lovely face and shining copper hair, which was piled untidily on top of her head and half covered by another duster, secured by a piece of string. Her shapely person was shrouded in a large print pinny several sizes too big, her face had a dusty smear on one cheek and her nose shone. Nevertheless she looked beautiful, and the man watching her from the half-open door smiled his appreciation before giving a little cough.

Claudia looked over her shoulder at him. There was nothing about him to make her feel uneasy—indeed, he was the epitome of understated elegance, with an air of assurance which was in itself reassuring. He was a big man, very tall and powerfully built, not so very young but with the kind of good looks which could only improve with age. His hair was pepper and salt, cut short. He might be in his late thirties. Claudia wondered who he was.

‘Have you come to see Great-Uncle William or my mother? You came in through the wrong door—but of course you weren’t to know that.’ She smiled at him kindly, not wishing him to feel awkward. He showed no signs of discomfort. ‘Colonel Ramsay.’ His commanding nose twisted at the dust. ‘Should you not open a window? The dust…’

‘Oh, they don’t open. They’re frightfully old—the original ones from when the house was built. Why do you want to see Colonel Ramsay?’

He looked at her before he answered. ‘He asked me to call.’

‘None of my business?’ She clapped two aged tomes together and sent another cloud of dust across the room. ‘Go back the way you came,’ she told him, ‘out of the side door and ring the front doorbell. Tombs will admit you.’

She gave him a nod and turned back to the shelves. Probably someone from Great-Uncle William’s solicitor.

‘I don’t think I like him much,’ said Claudia to the silent room. All the same she had to admit that she would have liked to know more about him.

She saw him again, not half an hour later, when, the duster removed from her head and her hands washed, she went along to the kitchen for coffee.

The house was large and rambling, and now, on the edge of winter, with an antiquated heating system, several of its rooms were decidedly chilly. Only the kitchen was cosy, with the Aga warming it, and since there were only her mother, Mrs Pratt the housekeeper, Jennie the maid and, of course, Tombs, who seemed to Claudia to be as old as the house, if not older, it was here that they had their morning coffee.

If there were visitors Mrs Ramsay sat in chilly state in the drawing room and dispensed coffee from a Sèvres coffee pot arranged on a silver tray, but in the kitchen they all had their individual mugs. However, despite this democratic behaviour, no one would have dreamt of sitting down or drinking their coffee until Mrs Ramsay had taken her place at the head of the table and lifted her own special mug to her lips.

Claudia breezed into the kitchen with Rob the Labrador at her heels. Her mother was already there, and sitting beside her, looking as though it was something he had been doing all his life, was the strange man. He got to his feet as she went in, and so did Tombs, and Claudia stopped halfway to the table.

She didn’t speak for a moment, but raised eloquent eyebrows at her mother. Mrs Ramsay said comfortably, ‘Yes, I know, dear, we ought to be in the drawing room. But there’s been a fall of soot so the fire can’t be lighted. And Dr Tait-Bullen likes kitchens.’

She smiled round the table, gathering murmured agreements while the doctor looked amused.

‘Come and drink your coffee, Claudia,’ went on Mrs Ramsay. ‘This is Dr Tait-Bullen who came to see Uncle William. My daughter, Claudia.’

Claudia inclined her head, and said, ‘How do you do?’ in a rather frosty manner. He could have told her, she thought, instead of just walking away as he had done. ‘Uncle William isn’t ill?’ she asked.

The doctor glanced at her mother before replying. ‘Colonel Ramsay has a heart condition which I believe may benefit from surgery.’

‘He’s ill? But Dr Willis saw him last week—he didn’t say anything. Are you sure?’

Dr Tait-Bullen, a surgeon of some fame within his profession, assured her gravely that he was sure. ‘Dr Willis very wisely said nothing until he had a second opinion.’

‘Then why isn’t he here now?’ demanded Claudia. ‘You could be wrong, whatever you say.’

‘Of course. Dr Willis was to have met me here this morning, but I understand that a last-minute emergency prevented him. I have been called in as consultant, but the decision concerning the Colonel’s further treatment rests with his doctor and himself.’ He added gently, ‘I was asked my opinion, nothing more.’

Mrs Ramsay cast a look at Claudia. Sometimes a daughter with red hair could be a problem. She said carefully, ‘You may depend upon Dr Willis getting the very best advice darling.’

Claudia stared across the table at him, and he met her look with an impassive face. If he was annoyed he showed no sign of it.

‘What do you advise?’ she asked him.

‘Dr Willis will come presently. I think we should wait until he is here. He and I will need to talk.’

‘But is Great Uncle William ill? I mean, really ill?’

Her mother interrupted. ‘Claudia, we mustn’t badger Dr Tait-Bullen.’ She looked round the table. ‘More coffee for anyone?’

Claudia pushed back her chair. ‘No, thank you, Mother. I’ll go and get on with the books. Tombs knows where I am if I’m wanted.’

She smiled at the butler and whisked herself out of the room, allowing the smile to embrace everyone there.

Back in the library, she set about clearing the shelves, banging books together in clouds of dust, wielding her duster with quite unnecessary vigour. She had behaved very badly and she was sorry about it—and a bit puzzled too, for she liked him. What had possessed her to be so rude? She had behaved like a self-conscious teenager. She ought to apologise. Tombs, she knew, would come and tell her what was happening from time to time, so when the doctor was about to leave she would say something polite…

She spent a few minutes making up suitable speeches—a dignified apology, brief and matter-of-fact. She tried out several versions, anxious to get it right. She was halfway through her final choice when she was interrupted.

‘If those gracious words were meant for me,’ said Dr Tait-Bullen, ‘I am flattered.’

He was leaning against the door behind her, smiling at her, and she smiled back without meaning to. ‘Well, they were. I was rude. I was going to apologise to you before you left.’

‘Quite unnecessary, Miss Ramsay. One must make allowances for red hair and unpleasant news.’

‘Now you’re being rude,’ she muttered, but went on anxiously. ‘You really meant that? Great Uncle William is seriously ill? I can see no reason why I shouldn’t be told. I’m not a child.’

He studied her briefly. ‘No, you are not a child, but Dr Willis and I must talk first.’ He came into the room, moved a pile of books and sat down on the table. ‘This is a delightful house, but surely rather large for the three of you?’

He spoke idly and she answered him readily. ‘Well, yes, but it’s been in the family for a long time. Most of the rooms are shut up, so it’s easy enough to run. Tombs has been here for ever, and Mrs Pratt and Jennie have been here for years and years. The gardens have got a bit out of hand, but old Stokes from the village comes up to help me.’

‘You have a job?’

‘I did have. Path Lab assistant—not trained, of course, just general dogsbody. But London’s too far off. I’ve applied for several jobs which aren’t so far away so that I can come home often.’

He said casually, ‘Ah, yes of course. Salisbury, Southampton, Exeter—they are all within reasonable distance.’

‘And there are several private hospitals too. I didn’t much like London.’ She added chattily, ‘Do you live there?’

‘Most of my work is done there.’

She supposed that he hadn’t added to that because Tombs had joined them.

‘Dr Willis has arrived, sir.’ He looked at Claudia. ‘Mrs Ramsay is in the morning room, Miss Claudia. Jennie has lighted the fire there for the convenience of the doctors.’

‘Thank you, Tombs.’ She glanced at the doctor. ‘You’ll want to go with Tombs. I’ll come presently— I must just tidy myself.’

Left to herself, she took off her pinny, dragged a comb through her hair and went in search of her mother.

Mrs Ramsay was with the two men, making small talk before they began their discussion of their patient’s condition. She was still a strikingly beautiful woman, wearing her fifty years lightly. Her hair, once as bright as her daughter’s, was streaked with silver, but she was still slim and graceful. She was listening to something Dr Willis was saying, smiling up at him, her hand on his coat-sleeve. They were old friends; he had treated her husband before his death several years ago, and since he was a widower, living in a rather gloomy house in the village with an equally gloomy elderly housekeeper, he was a frequent visitor at the Ramsays’ house.

He looked up as Claudia joined them.

‘My dear, there you are. Come to keep your mother company for a while? Are we to stay here, or would you prefer us to go to the study?’

‘No, no, stay here. There’s a fire specially lighted for you. Claudia and I will go and see to lunch.’ She paused at the door. ‘You will tell us exactly what is wrong?’

‘Of course.’

In the dining room, helping her mother to set the lunch, Claudia asked, ‘Is Great-Uncle William really very ill, Mother?’

‘Well, dear, I’m afraid so. He hasn’t really been very well for some time, but we couldn’t persuade him to have a second opinion. This Dr Tait-Bullen seems a nice man.’

‘Nice?’ Claudia hesitated. ‘Yes, I’m sure he is.’ ‘Nice,’ she reflected, hardly described him; it was far too anaemic a word. Beneath the professional polite detachment she suspected there was a man she would very much like to know.

They were standing idly at the windows, looking out into the wintry garden, when Tombs came to tell them that the doctors had come downstairs from seeing their patient.

Dr Willis went straight to Mrs Ramsay and took her hand. He was a tall, thin man, with a craggy face softened by a comforting smile as he looked at her. He didn’t say anything. Claudia saw her mother return his look and swallowed a sudden surprised breath. The look had been one of trust and affection. Don’t beat about the bush, Claudia admonished her self silently. They’re in love.

There was no chance to think about it; Dr Tait-Bullen was speaking. Great Uncle William needed a triple bypass, and without undue loss of time. The one difficulty, he pointed out, was that the patient had no intention of agreeing to an operation.

Claudia asked quickly, ‘Would that cure him? Would he be able to lead a normal life—be up and about again?’

‘The Colonel is an old man, but he should be able to live the life of a man of his age.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Claudia, let Dr Tait-Bullen finish…’

‘Sorry.’ She flushed and he watched the colour creep into her cheeks before he said, ‘I quite under stand your anxiety. If Dr Willis wishes, I will come again very shortly and do my best to change the Colonel’s mind. I feel sure that if anyone can do that it will be he, for they have known each other for a long time. I can but advise.’

He glanced at the other man. ‘We have discussed what is best to be done—there are certain drugs which will help, diet, suitable physiotherapy…’

‘I’m sure you have done everything within your power, Doctor,’ said Mrs Ramsay. ‘We will do our best to persuade Uncle William, and if you would keep an eye on him?’ She looked at Dr Willis. ‘That is, if you don’t mind, George?’

‘I am only too glad of expert advice.’

‘Oh, good. You’ll stay for lunch, Dr Tait-Bullen? In half an hour or so…’

‘I must return to London, Mrs Ramsay. You will forgive me if I refuse your kind invitation.’

He shook hands with her, and then with Dr Willis. ‘We will be in touch.’

‘Claudia, take Dr Tait-Bullen to his car, will you, dear?’

They walked through the house together, out of the door and across the neglected sweep of gravel to where a dark grey Rolls Royce stood. Claudia stared at it reflectively.

‘Are you just a doctor?’ she wanted to know. ‘Or someone more important?’ She glanced at his quiet face. ‘Mother called you Doctor, so I thought you were. You’re not, are you?’

‘Indeed, I am a doctor. I am also a surgeon…’

‘So you’re Mr Tait-Bullen. You’re not a professor or anything like that, are you?’

‘I’m afraid so…’

‘You might have said so.’

‘Quite unnecessary. Besides, being called a professor makes me feel old.’

‘You’re not old.’

He answered her without rancour. ‘Thirty-nine. And you?’

She had asked for that. Anyway, what did it matter? ‘I’m very nearly twenty-seven,’ she told him.

He said smoothly, ‘I am surprised that you are not yet married, Miss Ramsay.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve not met anyone I’ve wanted to marry.’ She added pettishly, ‘I have had several proposals.’

‘That does not surprise me.’ He smiled down at her, thinking how unusual it was to see grey eyes allied with such very red hair. He sounded suddenly brisk. ‘You will do your best to persuade the Colonel to agree to surgery, will you?’

When she nodded, he got into his car and drove away. His handshake had been firm and cool and brief.

Claudia went back to the morning room and found her mother and Dr Willis deep in talk. They smiled at her as she went in, and her mother said, ‘He’s gone? Such a pleasant man, and not a bit stiff or pompous. Dr Willis has been telling me that he’s quite an important surgeon—perhaps I shouldn’t have given him coffee in the kitchen.’ She frowned. ‘Do you suppose Uncle will take his advice?’

‘Most unlikely, Mother. I’ll take his lunch up presently, and see if he’ll talk about it.’

Great-Uncle William had no intention of talking to anyone on the subject. When Claudia made an attempt to broach the matter, she was told to hold her tongue and mind her own business. Advice which she took in good part, for she was used to the old man’s irascible temper and had a strong affection for him.

He had been very good to her mother and to her when her father died, giving them a home, educating her, while at the same time making no bones about the fact that he would have been happier living in the house by himself, with his housekeeper and Tombs to look after him. All the same, she suspected that he had some affection for them both, and was grateful for that.

It was a pity that on his death the house would pass to a distant cousin whom she had never met. That Uncle William had made provision for her mother and herself was another reason for gratitude, for Mrs Ramsay had only a small income, and after years of living in comfort it would have been hard for her to move to some small house and count every penny.

They would miss the old house, with its large rooms and elegant shabbiness, and they would miss Tombs and Mrs Pratt and Jennie too, but Claudia supposed that she would have a job somewhere or other and make a life for herself. Somewhere she could get home easily from time to time. Her mother would miss her friends. Especially she would miss Dr Willis, always there to cope with any small crisis.

The days went unhurriedly by. Claudia finished turning out the library and turned her attention to the rather battered greenhouse at the bottom of the large garden. The mornings were frosty, and old Stokes, who came up from the village to see to the garden, tidied the beds and dug the ground in the kitchen garden, leaving her free to look after the contents of the glass house.

It contained a medley of pots and containers, filled with seedlings and cuttings, and she spent happy hours grubbing around, hopefully sowing seed trays and nursing along the hyacinths and tulips she intended for Christmas.

And every day she spent an hour or so with her great-uncle, reading him dry-as-dust articles from The Times or listening to him reminiscing about his military career. He still refused to speak of his illness. It seemed to her anxious eyes that he was weaker, short of breath, easily tired and with an alarming lack of appetite.

Dr Willis came to see him frequently, and it was at the end of a week in which he could detect no improvement in his patient that he told Mrs Ramsay that he had asked Mr Tait-Bullen to come again.

He came on a dreary November morning, misty and damp and cold, and Claudia, busy with her seed lings, an old sack wrapped around her topped by a jacket colourless with age, knew nothing of his arrival. True, she had been told that he was to come again, but no day had been fixed; he was an exceedingly busy man, she’d been told, and his out of town visits had to be fitted in whenever possible.

He had spent some time with the Colonel, and even longer with Dr Willis, before talking to Mrs Ramsay, and when that lady observed that she would send Tombs to fetch Claudia to join them, volunteered to fetch her himself.

Studying the sack and the old jacket as he entered the greenhouse, he wondered if he was ever to have the pleasure of seeing Claudia looking like the other young women of his acquaintance—fashionably clad, hair immaculate, expertly made up—and decided that she looked very nice as she was. The thought made him smile.

She had looked round as he opened the door and her smile was welcoming.

‘Hello—does Mother know you’re here?’ And then, ‘Great Uncle isn’t worse?’

‘I’ve seen the Colonel and talked to your mother and Dr Willis. I’ve been here for some time. Your mother would like you to join us at the house.’

She put down the tray of seedlings slowly. ‘Great Uncle William won’t let you operate—I tried to talk him into it but he wouldn’t listen…’

He said gently, ‘I’m afraid so. And the delay has made an operation questionable.’

‘You mean it’s too late? But it’s only a little more than a week since you saw him.’

‘If I could have operated immediately he would have had a fair chance of recovering and leading a normal quiet life.’

‘And now he has no chance at all?’

He said gravely, ‘We shall continue to do all that we can.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, I know that you will. I’ll come. Is Mother upset? Does she know?’

‘Yes.’ He watched while she took off the deplorable jacket and untied the sack and went to wash her hands at the stone sink. The water was icy and her hands were grimy. She saw his look. ‘You can’t handle seedlings in gloves,’ she told him. ‘They are too small and delicate.’

‘You prefer them to dusting books?’ he asked as they started for the house.

‘Yes, though books are something I couldn’t possibly manage without. I’d rather buy a book than a hat.’

He reflected that it would be a pity to hide that glorious hair under a hat, however becoming, but he didn’t say so.

Her mother and Dr Willis were in the morning room again, and Mrs Ramsay said in a relieved voice, ‘Oh, there you are, dear. I expect Mr Tait-Bullen has explained…’

‘Yes, Mother. Do you want me to go and sit with Great-Uncle?’

‘He told us all to go away, so I expect you’d better wait a while. Mr Tait-Bullen is going to see him again presently, but he doesn’t want anyone else there.’ She turned as Tombs came in with the coffee tray. ‘But you’ll have coffee first, won’t you?’

They drank their coffee while the two men sustained the kind of small talk which needed very little reply, and presently Mr Tait-Bullen went back upstairs.

He was gone for some time and Claudia, getting impatient, got up and prowled round the room. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll come again,’ she said at length.

‘There is no need for him to do so, but the Colonel has taken quite a fancy to him. Mr Tait-Bullen calls a spade a spade when necessary, but in the nicest possible way. What is more, his patients aren’t just patients; they are men and women with feelings and wishes which he respects. Your great-uncle knows that.’

Mr Tait-Bullen, driving along the narrow roads which would take him from the village of Little Planting to the M3 and thence to London, allowed his thoughts to wander. He and the Colonel had talked about many things, none of which had anything to do with his condition. The Colonel had made it clear that he intended to die in his own bed, and, while conceding that Mr Tait-Bullen was undoubtedly a splendid surgeon and cardiologist, he wished to have no truck with surgery, which he considered, at his time of life, to be quite worthless.

Mr Tait-Bullen had made no effort to change his mind for him. True, he could have prolonged his patient’s life and allowed him to live for a period at least in moderate health, but he considered that if he had overridden the Colonel’s wishes, the old man would have died of frustration at having his wishes ignored. They had parted good friends, and on the mutual understanding that if and when Mr Tait-Bullen had a few hours of leisure he would pay another visit as a friend.

Something he intended to do, for he wanted to see Claudia again.

He went straight to the hospital when he reached London; he had an afternoon clinic which lasted longer than usual. He had no lunch, merely swallowed a cup of tea between patients. It was with a sigh of relief that he stopped the car outside his front door in a small tree-lined street tucked away behind Harley Street, where he had his consulting rooms.

It was a narrow Regency house in a row of similar houses, three storeys high with bow windows and a beautiful front door with a handsome pediment, reached by three steps bordered by delicate iron railings. He let himself in quietly and was met in the hall by a middle-aged man with a craggy face and a fringe of hair. He looked like a dignified church warden, and ran Mr Tait-Bullen’s house to perfection. He greeted him now with a touch of severity.

‘There’s that Miss Thompson on the phone, reminding you that she expects to see you this evening. I told her that you were still at the hospital and there was no knowing when you’d be home.’ Cork lowered his eyes deferentially. ‘I trust I did right, sir.’

Mr Tait-Bullen was looking through the post on the hall table. ‘You did exactly right, Cork. I don’t know what I would do without you.’ He glanced up. ‘Did I say I would take her somewhere this evening? It has quite slipped my mind.’

Cork drew a deep breath through pinched nostrils. In anyone less dignified it would have been a sniff. ‘You were invited to attend the new play. The opening night, I believe.’

‘Did I say I’d go? I can’t remember writing it down in my diary.’

‘You prevaricated, sir. Said if you were free you’d be glad to accept.’

Mr Tait-Bullen picked up his case and opened his study door. ‘I’m not free, Cork, and I’m famished!’

‘Dinner will be served in fifteen minutes, sir. The young lady’s phone number is on your desk.’

Mr Tait-Bullen sat down at his desk and picked up the receiver. Honor Thompson’s rather shrill voice, sounding peevish, answered.

‘And about time, too. Why are you never at home? It’s so late; I’ll go on to the theatre and meet you there. The Pickerings are picking me up in ten minutes.’

Mr Tait-Bullen said smoothly, ‘Honor, I’m so sorry, but there is absolutely no chance of me getting away until late this evening. I did tell you that I might not be free; will you make my excuses to the Pickerings?’

They talked for a few minutes, until she said, ‘Oh, well, you’re not much use as an escort, are you, Thomas?’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I might as well give you up.’

‘There must be any number of men queueing up to take you out. I’m not reliable, Honor.’

‘You’ll end up a crusty old bachelor, Thomas, unless you take time off to fall in love.’

‘I’ll have to think about that.’

‘Well, let me know when you’ve made up your mind.’ She rang off, and he put the phone down and forgot all about her. He had a teaching round the next morning and he needed to prepare a few notes for that.

He ate the dinner Cork set before him and went back to his study to work. He was going to his bed when he had a sudden memory of Claudia, her fiery hair in a mess, enveloped in that old jacket and a sack. He found himself smiling, thinking of her.

The first few days of November, with their frosty mornings and chilly pale skies, had turned dull and damp, and as they faded towards winter Great-Uncle William faded with them. But although he was physically weaker there was nothing weak about his mental state. He was as peppery as he always had been, defying anyone to show sympathy towards him, demanding that Claudia should read The Times to him each morning, never mind that he dozed off every now and then.

His faithful housekeeper’s endless efforts to prepare tasty morsels for his meals met with no success at all. And no amount of coaxing would persuade him to allow a nurse to attend to his wants. Between them, Claudia, her mother and Tombs did as much as he would allow them to. Dr Willis, inured to his patient’s caustic tongue, came daily, but it was less than a week after Mr Tait-Bullen’s visit when Great-Uncle William, glaring at him from his bed, observed in an echo of his former commanding tones, ‘I shall die within the next day or so. Tell Tait-Bullen to come and see me.’

‘He’s a busy man…’

‘I know that; I’m not a fool.’ The Colonel looked suddenly exhausted. ‘He said that he would come.’ He turned his head to look at Claudia, standing at the window, lingering after she had brought Dr Willis upstairs.

‘You—Claudia, go and telephone him. Now, girl!’

She glanced at Dr Willis, and at his nod went down to the hall and dialled Mr Tait-Bullen’s number. Cork’s dignified voice regretted that Mr Tait-Bullen was not at home.

‘It’s urgent. Do you know where I can get him?’ She added, so as to make things clear, ‘I’m not a friend or anything. My great-uncle is a patient of Mr Tait-Bullen’s and he wants to see him. He’s very ill.’

‘In that case, miss, I will give you the number of his consulting rooms.’

She thanked him and dialled again, and this time Mrs Truelove, Mr Tait-Bullen’s receptionist, answered.

‘Colonel Ramsay? You are his niece? Mr Tait-Bullen has mentioned him. He’s with a patient at the moment. Ring off, my dear; I’ll call you the moment he’s free.’

Claudia waited, wondering if Mr Tait-Bullen would have time to visit Great-Uncle William or even to phone him. She supposed that he was a very busy man; he could hardly be blamed if he hadn’t the time to leave London and his patients to obey the whim of an old man who had refused his services. Then the phone rang, and she picked it up.

‘Yes,’ said a voice in her ear. ‘Tait-Bullen speaking.’

This was no time for polite chit-chat. ‘Great-Uncle William wants to see you. He says he’s going to die in a day or two. He told me to phone you, so I am, because he asked me to, but you don’t have to.’

She wasn’t sure if she had made herself clear, but apparently she had. Mr Tait-Bullen disentangled the muddle with a twitching lip and answered her with exactly the right amount of impersonal friendliness.

‘It is very possible that your great-uncle is quite right. I’m free this evening; I will be with you at about seven o’clock.’

He heard her relieved sigh.

‘Thank you very much. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed your work.’

‘I’m glad you phoned me.’

She could hear the faint impatience in his voice. ‘Goodbye, then.’ She rang off smartly, and then wondered if she’d been rather too abrupt.

He arrived punctually, unfussed and unhurried. No one looking at his immaculate person would have guessed that he had been up since six o’clock, had missed his lunch and stopped only for the tea and bun his faithful Mrs Truelove had pressed upon him. Dr Willis was waiting for him, and they spent a few minutes talking together before they went up to the Colonel’s room. Dr Willis came down presently. ‘They’re discussing the merits of pyrenaicum aureum as opposed to tenuifolium pumilum…’

Mrs Ramsay looked puzzled. ‘Is that some new symptom? It sounds alarming. Poor Uncle William.’

‘Lilies,’ said Claudia. ‘Two varieties of lily, Mother.’

Dr Willis patted her mother’s arm. ‘Don’t alarm yourself, my dear. Your uncle is enjoying his little chat. It was good of Mr Tait-Bullen to come.’

‘But he’s not doing anything to help Uncle…’

But that was exactly what he was doing, reflected Claudia, although she didn’t say so. Instead she asked, ‘Do you suppose he will stay for supper? Mrs Pratt can grill a couple more chops.’

But when he joined them presently, he declined Mrs Ramsay’s offer of supper, saying that he must return to London.

‘I hope we haven’t spoilt your evening for you—caused you to cancel a date?’

Claudia noticed that he didn’t answer that, merely thanked her mother for her invitation. ‘If I might have a word with Dr Willis?’

They left the two men, returning when they heard them in the hall.

Mrs. Ramsay shook hands. ‘We’re so grateful to you. Uncle did so wish to see you again—although I’m sure you are a very busy man.’

He said gravely, ‘The Colonel is going to die very soon now, Mrs Ramsay; he is content, and in no pain, and in Dr Willis’s good hands.’

He turned to Claudia. ‘I was bidden to tell you to read the editorial in The Times before he has his supper.’ His hand was firm and cool and comforting. ‘He’s fond of you, you know.’

He left then, getting into his car and driving back to his house to eat the meal Cork had ready for him and then go to his study and concentrate on the notes of the patients upon whom he would be operating in the morning. Before that, he paused to think about the Colonel. A courageous old man hidden behind that crusty manner. He hoped that he would die quietly in his sleep.

Great-Uncle William died while Claudia was still reading the editorial. So quietly and peacefully that it wasn’t until she had finished it that she realised.

She said softly, ‘You had a happy talk about lilies, didn’t you, Uncle William? I’m glad he came.’

She bent to kiss the craggy old face and went downstairs to tell her mother.