Читать книгу A Good Wife - Бетти Нилс - Страница 7

MR LIGHTFOOT’S stroke was only to be expected; a petulant man, and a bully by nature, his intolerance had led him to believe that he was always right and everyone else either wrong or stupid. High blood pressure and an unhealthy lifestyle did nothing to help this, nor did his liking for rich food. He lay in his bed for long periods, imagining that he was suffering from some serious condition and being neglected by Serena, and now the last straw, as it were, was to be laid on the camel’s back: he had ordered sweetbreads for his lunch, with a rich sauce, asparagus, and baby new potatoes, to be followed by a trifle.

Serena pointed out in her usual sensible manner that the sweetbreads would be just as tasty without the sauce, and wouldn’t an egg custard be better than trifle? ‘And I shall have to go to the village—the butcher may not have sweetbreads. What else would you like?’

Mr Lightfoot sat up in bed, casting the newspaper from him. ‘I’ve told you what I wish to eat. Are you so stupid that you cannot understand me?’

‘Don’t get excited, Father,’ said Serena. ‘Mrs Pike will be here presently, and I’ll go to the village. She will bring your coffee…’

While she was in the village he refused the coffee, and then, when Mrs Pike was working in the kitchen, he went downstairs and unlocked the cupboard where he kept the whisky.

Serena, back home, bade Mrs Pike goodbye and set about getting her father’s lunch. She did it reluctantly, for she considered that he ate the wrong food and was wasting his life in bed, or sitting in his chair doing nothing.

‘A good walk in the fresh air,’ said Serena, unwrapping the sweetbreads, ‘and meeting friends, playing golf or something.’ Only fresh air was contrary to Mr Lightfoot’s ideas of healthy living and he had no friends now.

At exactly one o’clock she bore the tray up to his room. He was sitting up in bed, propped up on his pillows reading the Financial Times, but he cast the paper down as she went in.

‘Well, bring the tray here, Serena. How very slow you are. Probably because you don’t have enough to do. I must consider dismissing Mrs Pike. There isn’t enough work for two strong women to do in this house.’

Serena set the tray on his knees. She said, in the colourless voice she used when she needed to show self-restraint, ‘Mrs Pike is sixty and has rheumatism; she can’t kneel or bend—you can hardly call her strong. Even if I’m strong, I have only one pair of hands. If you send her away it would mean that either I do no housework and look after you and cook, or do the housework and feed you sandwiches.’

He wasn’t listening, but poking at the food on his plate with a fork.

‘These aren’t lamb’s sweetbreads. I particularly told you that they are the only ones I am able to digest.’

‘The butcher only had these…’

Mr Lightfoot raised his voice to a roar. ‘You thoughtless girl. You are quite uncaring of my comfort and health.’

He picked up the plate and threw it across the room, and a second later had his stroke.

‘Father,’ said Serena urgently, and when he lay silently against his pillows she sped to the bed. Her father was a nasty colour and he was breathing noisily, his eyes closed. She took his pulse, settled his head more comfortably on a pillow and reached for the phone by the bed.

Dr Bowring, on the point of carving the half-leg of lamb his wife had set before him, put down the carving knife as the phone rang.

He addressed his wife and their guest in a vexed voice. ‘This always happens just as we are about to have a meal. Sorry about this, Ivo.’

He went to answer the phone, and was back again within a minute.

‘Serena Lightfoot. Her father has collapsed. He isn’t my patient. He showed me the door a couple of years ago; doesn’t believe in doctors, treats himself and has turned into a professional invalid. But I’ll have to go…’ He glanced at Ivo van Doelen. ‘Like to come with me, Ivo? She’s alone, and if he’s fallen I’ll need help.’

Serena, shocked though she was, didn’t lose her head. She ran downstairs and opened the front door, and then went back to her father. She had little idea as to what to do for him, so she sat on the side of the bed and took one of his flaccid hands in hers and told him in a quiet voice that he wasn’t to worry, that the doctor was coming, that he would be better presently; she had read somewhere or other that quite often someone who had had a stroke was able to hear, even if they were unable to speak…

The two men came quietly into the room and saw her sitting there. They saw the mess of asparagus, potatoes and sweetbreads, too, scattered on the floor. Dr Bowring said quietly, ‘Hello, Serena. You don’t mind that I have brought a friend—a medical man, too—with me? I wasn’t sure if there would be any lifting to do.’

She nodded, and looked in a bewildered fashion at his companion. It was the man who had been on Barrow Hill. She got up from the bed to make way for the two men.

‘Can you tell me what happened?’

She told him in a quiet voice, and added, ‘You see, he was angry because they weren’t the sweetbreads he had told me to get. The butcher didn’t have them.’ She sighed. ‘I annoyed him, and now he’s really ill…’

‘No, Serena, it has nothing to do with you. Your father, while I was allowed to attend to him, had a very high blood pressure; neglect of that condition made a stroke inevitable. You have no reason to reproach yourself. Perhaps you would like to make yourself a cup of tea; we shan’t be long.’

So she went down to the kitchen, made a pot of tea and sat at the kitchen table drinking it, for there was nothing else for her to do until Dr Bowring came downstairs.

When he did he sat down at the table opposite her. ‘You don’t mind Mr van Doelen being here?’

She glanced at the big man, who was leaning against the dresser. ‘No, no, of course not…’

‘Your father has had a severe stroke. He is too ill for him to be moved to hospital, I’m afraid. In fact, my dear, I believe that he will not recover. I’ll get the community nurse to come as soon as possible. If necessary she will stay the night. Presumably your brothers will come as soon as possible and see to things?’

‘I’ll telephone them. Thank you for coming, Dr Bowring.’

‘I’ll come in the morning, or sooner if you need me. If by any chance I’m on another case, will you allow Mr van Doelen to come in my place?’

She glanced at the big man, standing so quietly, saying nothing and yet somehow making her feel safe. ‘No, of course I don’t mind.’

‘Then if I may use your phone to get Nurse Sims up here. Until she comes I’m sure Dr van Doelen will stay with you.’

‘Oh, but I’ll be all right.’ She knew that it was a silly thing to say as soon as she had uttered the words, so she added, ‘Thank you, that would be very kind.’

Dr Bowring went presently, and Mr van Doelen, with a reassuring murmur, went upstairs to her father’s room. Presently Nurse Sims came, and he bade Serena a quiet goodbye after talking to Nurse Sims.

Serena had phoned her brothers; they would come as soon as possible, they had both told her. She sensed that they found her father’s illness an inconvenience, but then illness never took convenience into account, did it? She set about getting a room ready for Nurse Sims, and getting the tea. She had gone upstairs to see her father, but he was still unconscious and she could see that he was very ill. Nurse Sims had drawn a comfortable chair up to the bed and was knitting placidly.

‘There’s nothing for me to do. It’s just a question of waiting. Are your brothers coming?’

‘As soon as possible, they said. Is there anything I can do?’

‘No, Serena. Go and have a cup of tea. I’ll have mine here, if you don’t mind…’

Henry arrived first, and went at once to see his father, then accepted the cup of tea Serena offered him before going away to see Dr Bowring. He was closely followed by Matthew, who stayed with his father for some time and then came down to sit with Serena, not saying much until Henry returned.

Neither of them would be able to stay. Henry explained pompously that he had important work to do, and Matthew had his parochial duties. She was to telephone them immediately if their father’s condition worsened. She would be companioned throughout the night by the nurse, and in the morning they would review the situation.

‘It is impossible for Alice to come,’ Henry pointed out. ‘She has the children and the house to run.’ And Matthew regretted that his wife Norah had the Mother’s Union and various other parish duties to fulfill.

Serena bade them goodbye and went into the kitchen to see about supper. She wasn’t upset; she hadn’t expected either of them to offer any real help. They had left her to manage as best she could for years, and there was no reason to expect them to do otherwise now.

She got supper, relieved Nurse Sims while she ate hers, and then got ready for bed and went and sat with her father while Nurse Sims took a nap. Since there was nothing to be done for the moment, presently she went to her own bed.

She was in the kitchen making tea at six o’clock the next morning when Nurse Sims asked her to phone the doctor.

It was Mr Van Doelen who came quietly into the kitchen. ‘Dr Bowring is out on a baby case. Shall I go up?’

Serena gave him a tired ‘Hello.’ She was both tired and very worried, her hair hanging down her back in a brown cloud, her face pale. She was wrapped in an elderly dressing gown and she had shivered a little in the early-morning air as he had opened the door. She led the way upstairs and stood quietly while he and Nurse Sims bent over her father. Presently he straightened up.

He said gently, ‘Would you like to stay with your father? It won’t be very long, I’m afraid.’ When she nodded, he drew up a chair for her. ‘I’ll sit over here, if I may?’ He moved to the other end of the room. ‘I’m sure Nurse Sims would like a little rest?’

Mr Lightfoot died without regaining consciousness; Serena, sitting there holding his hand, bade him a silent farewell. He had never liked her, and she, although she had looked after him carefully, had long ago lost any affection she had had for him. All the same, she was sad…

Mr van Doelen eased her gently out of her chair. ‘If you would fetch Nurse Sims? And perhaps telephone your brothers? And I’m sure we could all do with a cup of tea.’

He stayed until her brothers came, dealt with Henry’s officious requests and questions, and then bade her a quiet goodbye. ‘Dr Bowring will be along presently,’ he told her, ‘and I’m sure your brothers will see to everything.’

She saw him go with regret.

The next few days didn’t seem quite real. Henry spent a good deal of time at the house, sorting out his father’s papers, leaving her lists of things which had to be done.

‘You’ll need to be kept busy,’ he told her, and indeed she was busy, for the writing of notes to her father’s few friends, preparing for their arrival and the meal they would expect after the funeral fell to her lot, on top of the usual housekeeping and the extra meals Henry expected while he was there. Not that she minded; she was in a kind of limbo. Her dull life had come to an end but the future was as yet unknown.

At least, not quite unknown. Gregory had come to see her when he had heard the news and, while he didn’t actually propose, he had let her see that he considered their future together was a foregone conclusion. And he had been kind, treating her rather as though she were an invalid, telling her that she had always been a dutiful daughter and now she would have her reward. She hadn’t been listening, otherwise she might have wondered what he was talking about.

Not many people came to the funeral, and when the last of them had gone old Mr Perkins led the way into the drawing room. Henry and Matthew and their wives made themselves comfortable with the air of people expecting nothing but good news. Serena, who didn’t expect anything, sat in the little armchair her mother had always used.

Mr Perkins cleaned his spectacles, cleared his throat and began to read. Mr Lightfoot had left modest sums to his sons, and from the affronted look with which this was received it was apparent that, despite the fact that they had expected nothing, they were disappointed.

‘The house and its contents,’ went on Mr Perkins in a dry-as-dust voice, ‘are bequeathed to a charity, to be used as a home for those in need.’ He coughed. ‘To Serena, a sum of five hundred pounds has been left, and here I quote: “She is a strong and capable young woman, who is quite able to make her own way in the world without the aid of my money”. I must add that I did my best to persuade your father to reconsider this will, but he was adamant.’

He went presently, after assuring them that he was at their service should he be needed, and taking Serena aside to tell her that he would see that she had a cheque as soon as possible. ‘And if I can help in any way…’

She thanked him, kissing his elderly cheek. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she assured him. ‘I don’t need to move out at once, do I?’

‘No, no. It will be several weeks before the necessary paperwork can be done.’

‘Oh, good. Time for me to make plans.’ She smiled at him so cheerfully that he went away easier in his mind.

Serena went back to the drawing room. Her brothers were discussing their inheritance, weighing the pros and cons of investments, while their wives interrupted with suggestions that the money would be better spent on refurbishing their homes and wardrobes. They broke off their discussions when she joined them, and Henry said gravely that of course the money would be put to good use.

‘I have heavy commitments,’ he pointed out, ‘and the children to educate.’ That they were at state schools and not costing him a penny was neither here nor there. Serena could see that he was anxious to impress upon her that she couldn’t expect any financial help from him.

It was Matthew who asked her what she intended to do. ‘For I am surprised at Father leaving you so ill provided for. Perhaps we could—?’

His wife interrupted smoothly, ‘Serena is bound to find a good job easily; such a practical and sensible girl, and only herself to worry about. I must admit that I—we are very relieved to have inherited something. It will be just enough to have central heating put in—the house is so damp…’

‘I thought the Church Council, or whatever it is, paid for things like that,’ said Serena.

Her sister-in-law went red. ‘We might have to wait for months—years, even—while they decide to have it done.’ She added sharply, ‘Matthew’s income is very small.’

Serena reflected that Matthew had a private income from a legacy both brothers had received from an old aunt years ago. Neither of them needed to worry about money, but there was no point in reminding them of that! She offered coffee and sandwiches and presently bade them goodbye. They would keep in touch, they told her as they drove away.

She cleared away the cups and saucers and plates, fed Puss and sat down to have a think about her future. She was a practical girl, and for the moment she put aside her own vague plans. They were to be allowed to take personal property and gifts before the house was handed over, and the house would need to be left in good order. She would need to get the cases and trunks down from the attic so that their possessions could be packed. There were bills to be paid, too, and people to notify. Only when that was done could she decide what she would do.

At the back of her mind, of course, was the reluctant thought that Gregory might want to marry her. It was an easy solution for her future but, tempting though it was to have the rest of her life settled without effort on her part, she was doubtful. It was, of course, the sensible thing to do, but under her practical manner there was the hope, romantic and deeply buried, that one day she would meet a man who would love her as dearly as she would him. And that man wasn’t Gregory.

She went to bed presently, with Puss for company, and since it had been a busy and rather sad day, she went immediately to sleep.

Gregory had been at the funeral, but he hadn’t come to the house afterwards, pleading an appointment he had been unable to cancel. He would come, he had assured her, on the following evening.

‘We have a great deal to talk about,’ he had told her, smiling and looking at her with what she’d decided was a proprietary look.

She hadn’t minded that, for yesterday she had been feeling in need of cherishing. Now, in the cold light of early morning, common sense took over. Gregory might not be the man of her dreams, but if he loved her she might in time learn to love him, too. She liked him, was even a little fond of him, but she had the wit to know that that was because she hadn’t had the opportunity to meet other men…

She spent the day busily, dragging down cases and a trunk from the attics, clearing out her father’s bedroom, and, after a sandwich and coffee, sitting down to write letters to those who had written and sent flowers. She had tea then, and changed into a sweater and skirt, did her hair and face and put a tray ready with coffee. She lighted a small fire in the sitting room, for the evening was chilly, and sat down to wait for Gregory.

He was late. His car wouldn’t start, he explained, adding that he would soon be able to get a new one. He smiled as he said it, but Serena, pouring the coffee, didn’t see that.

They talked for a little while about the funeral, until he put down his cup, saying, ‘Well, Serena, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t get married as soon as we can arrange it. I’ll move in here, of course. I’ve always liked this house. We can modernise it a little—perhaps another bathroom, have the central heating updated, have the rooms redecorated.’ He smiled at her. ‘We must use your money to its best advantage, and you can rely on me getting the best advice as to investing your capital…’

Serena had been pouring herself another cup of coffee. She put the pot down carefully. ‘But this house isn’t mine.’ She sounded quite matter-of-fact about it. ‘Father has left it to charity.’

Gregory said sharply, ‘But he has left you a legacy? He was comfortably off, you know.’

‘Five hundred pounds,’ said Serena, still very matter-of-fact. ‘The rest goes with the house.’

‘But this is preposterous. You must contest the will. What about your brothers?’ Gregory wasn’t only surprised, he was angry. ‘And how are you supposed to live? Something must be done about it at once.’

‘I don’t see why,’ said Serena in a reasonable voice. ‘If this is what Father wanted, why change it? Henry and Matthew are quite happy about it.’ She paused. ‘And if you’re going to marry me, I don’t need to worry, do I?’

Gregory went red. ‘You must see that this alters all my plans, Serena. I’m an ambitious man and I need a secure background, a good living standard, a suitable house…’

‘What you mean is that you need to marry a well-to-do girl. Not me.’

Gregory looked relieved. ‘What a sensible girl you are, Serena. You understand me…’

Serena stood up. ‘Oh, I do, Gregory, and nothing would make me marry you if you were the last man living. Now, will you go away? I don’t want to see you again, and now I come to think about it, I wouldn’t like to be married to you. Run along and find that rich girl!’

Gregory started towards her. ‘Let us part…’ he began.

‘Oh, do go along,’ said Serena.

After he had gone she went to the kitchen to get her supper—scrambled eggs on toast—and, since she felt that this was something of an occasion, she took the keys of the sideboard and chose a bottle of claret.

She ate at the kitchen table, with Puss at her feet enjoying a treat from a tin of sardines. And she drank two glasses of claret. She supposed that she would have been feeling unhappy and worried, but she was pleased to discover that all she felt was relief. She had five hundred pounds and the world before her in which to find the man of her dreams. She tossed back the last of the claret in her glass.

There was no need to look for him. She had already found him, although she wasn’t sure if a brief acquaintance with Dr van Doelen was sufficient to clinch the matter. She thought not. Indeed, it was unlikely that their paths would cross in the future. She would do better to get herself a job and hope to meet a man as like him as possible.

Nicely buoyed up, she by the claret and Puss by an excess of sardines, they went upstairs to bed and slept dreamlessly.

Henry came in the morning, telling her importantly that he had taken a few hours off in order to look round the house and claim anything to which he was entitled. Which turned out to be quite a lot: the table silver, a claret jug and three spirit bottles in a metal frame, and the best part of a Spoke tea service which had belonged to their mother, that Matthew would have no use for nor would Serena, Henry pointed out.

‘But I have no doubt that Matthew will be glad to have the dinner service. Father bought it from Selfridges, I believe, so anything which may break can be replaced. There’s the new coffee percolator, too; I’ll leave that for him. Where is the Wedgwood biscuit barrel, Serena?’

‘In the cupboard in the dining room, Henry. Shouldn’t you wait and see what Matthew wants—and what I might want?’

‘My dear girl, Matthew will want useful things which he can use in his home. Remember that he is, after all, living in a very small house, and has no social life worth mentioning.’

‘But he will have when he gets a parish of his own…’

Henry ignored that. ‘And you—you won’t want to be lumbered with a number of useless things.’

‘I don’t know why you say that, Henry. You have no idea what I am going to do or where I’m going. You don’t want to know, do you? Do you know that Gregory has jilted me? Or perhaps I should say he jilted my five hundred pounds.’ She added bleakly, ‘I thought he wanted to marry me, but all he wanted was this house and the money he thought Father would be sure to leave me.’

Henry looked uncomfortable. ‘You must understand, Serena, that Gregory has his way to make in the world.’

‘And what about me?’

‘You’re quite able to find a good job and do very well. You might even marry.’

Serena picked up a fairing from the side-table in the drawing room, where Henry was inspecting the contents of a china cabinet. The fairing was small, a man and woman holding hands, crudely done, yet charming. The kind of thing Henry and Matthew would find worthless. She would keep it for herself, a reminder of her home in happier days when her mother had been alive.

Henry bore away what he considered to be his; he had written a list of various other things, too. Serena hoped that Matthew wouldn’t wait too long before making his own choice. Henry was obviously going to exert his rights as elder son.

Matthew came the next day, bringing his wife with him. The dinner service was packed up, as was an early-morning teaset which hadn’t been used since their mother died. To these were added two bedspreads, a quantity of bedlinen, the cushions from the drawing room and, at the last moment, the rather ugly clock on the mantelpiece.

‘We shall probably be back,’ said Matthew’s wife as they left.

‘My turn,’ said Serena to Puss, and went slowly from room to room. She would take only small things that would go in her case or the trunk: her mother’s workbox, family photographs, two china figurines to keep the fairing company, a little watercolour of the house her mother had painted. She tried to be sensible and think of things which would be of use to her in the future. The silver-framed travelling clock which had stood on the table by her father’s bed, writing paper and pens, the cat basket from the attic—for of course Puss would go with her.

But where would she go? Mr Perkins had told her that she would be able to stay at the house for two or three weeks. Tomorrow, she decided, she would go to Yeovil and go to as many employment agencies as possible.

Without much success, as it turned out. She had no qualifications, and she couldn’t type, the computer was a mystery to her, and the salesladies asked for had to be experienced. She was told, kindly enough, to leave her phone number, and that if anything suitable turned up she would be notified.

But nothing turned up. The charity, anxious to take possession, were kind enough to let her stay for an extra week, and at the end of that week, still with no job in sight, Serena, Puss, her trunk and a large case, moved unwillingly into Henry’s house.

Just as unwillingly she was welcomed there. There was room enough for her, for Henry lived in a large house on the outskirts of the town, but, while he wasn’t slow to confide his generosity towards his sister to his colleagues, his wife made no bones in letting Serena see that she was a necessary evil. It was bad enough having her, her sister-in-law pointed out in the privacy of their bedroom, but to have to give house room to a cat as well…

As for Serena, she redoubled her efforts to find some sort of job. Housekeepers were in demand, and that was something she could do, but she wasn’t going to part with Puss, and no one, it seemed, was prepared to accept a cat, especially when the applicant had no references from previous employers.

Between fruitless visits to Yeovil, she was given no chance to be idle. Her sister-in-law, a social climber by nature, quickly saw her opportunity to widen her social life, since Serena was so conveniently on hand to do the shopping and prepare meals. And when the children came home from school there was no reason, since she had nothing better to do, why she shouldn’t give them their tea and keep an eye on them while they did their homework.

Serena, gritting her splendid teeth, accepted the role of unpaid domestic and put up with the childish rudeness of her nephew and niece and her brother’s pompous charity. His wife’s ill-concealed contempt was harder to bear, but since she was out a good deal Serena was almost able to ignore it.

She had been living with her brother for more than a week when one morning, as she was washing the breakfast dishes, alone in the house, there was a ring on the doorbell. She didn’t stop to dry her hands; it was possibly the postman—probably with the answer to two more jobs she had applied for. Perhaps her luck had changed at last…

It wasn’t the postman. It was Dr Bowring on the doorstep.

‘I had to come to Yeovil,’ he told her smilingly. ‘I thought I’d just see how you were getting on.’ He glanced at her wet hands and pinny. ‘Is Mrs Lightfoot at home?’

‘No, just me. Do come in. How nice to see you. If you don’t mind coming into the kitchen, I’m sure no one will mind if I make coffee.’

He looked at her enquiringly. ‘No job yet?’

‘Well, no. You see, I must have Puss with me, and so far no one will have her…’

He followed her into the kitchen. ‘What kind of job?’

‘Housekeeper or companion. I can’t do anything else.’ She spoke lightly, but he noted her rather pale face and the shadows under her eyes.

He said bluntly, ‘You’re not happy here?’

She put the instant coffee into two mugs. ‘Well, it’s not really convenient for Henry to have me here, and they don’t like Puss.’ She smiled. ‘But something will turn up.’

He stayed for a little while, vaguely troubled about her, deciding silently that he would keep an eye open for a job which would suit her. It was obvious that she was unhappy, although she had made light of it.

He told his wife about her when he got back home.

‘All we can do is keep our eyes open for a job for her,’ said Mrs Bowring, ‘and we shall have to go carefully; Serena is proud in the best sense, and she would hate to be pitied.’

Mr van Doelen had spent a busy day at one of the London hospitals; he was an orthopaedic surgeon of some repute and had come to assist at a complicated operation on a boy’s shattered legs. It had been successful, and he was free to return to Holland that evening, but, leaving the hospital early that lovely summer evening, he decided against driving up to Harwich and instead picked up the car phone and dialled Dr Bowring.

Of course he was to come and spend the night—as many nights as he could spare. ‘We’ll wait dinner for you,’ said Mrs Bowring. ‘It’s only four o’clock; you’ll be with us in a couple of hours.’

Once free of the London suburbs, the traffic thinned and he sent the Bentley powering ahead. The countryside was bathed in sunshine, green and pleasant and exactly what he needed after hours in an operating theatre. And he need not return until the evening ferry on the following day; he had expected to be away for two days, but the operation had gone better than they had expected.