Читать книгу Marrying Mary - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

MARY PAGETT, stripping a bed with energy, was singing at the top of her voice. Not because she was happy, but to quell the frustration within. For her father—that charming but absent-minded man—to invite Great Aunt Thirza to spend her convalescence at his home had been a misplaced kindness, bringing with it a string of inconveniences which would have to be overcome.

For a start Mrs Blackett, who came daily to oblige and suffered from a persistent ill temper, was going to object to peeling more potatoes and scraping more carrots, not to mention the extra work vacuuming the guest bedroom. And Mr Archer, the village butcher, was going to express hurt feelings at the lack of orders for sausages and braising steak, since Great Aunt Thirza was a vegetarian, and for reasons of economy the rest of the household would have to be vegetarian too.

There was her mother too—Mary’s voice rose a few decibels—a lovable, whimsical lady, whose talent for designing Christmas cards had earned her a hut in the garden to which she retired after breakfast each day, only appearing at meals. Lastly there was Polly, her young sister, who was a keen and not very accurate player of the recorder; her loving family bore with the noise but Great Aunt Thirza was going to object ...

Mary finished making the bed, cast an eye over the rather heavy furniture in the high-ceilinged room, with its old-fashioned wallpaper and wooden floor, sparsely covered by elderly rugs, and hoped that the draughts from the big sash windows opposite wouldn’t be too much for her elderly relation.

The house—a mid-Victorian rectory built for an incumbent with a large family—wasn’t all that old. After standing empty for some years it had been bought by her father, since it had been a bargain at its low price. But he, an unworldly man, had not taken notice of the size of its rooms, which made heating the place almost hopeless, or the lack of maids, or the fact that coal for the enormous grates was a constant drain on the household purse—nor had he considered the amount of gas and electricity which was needed.

He had his study, where he worked on his book, and Mary’s pleas for someone to clear the drains, paint the doors and put tiles back on the elaborate roof fell on deaf ears.

Her father was a dear man, she reflected, but unworldly. He was devoted to his wife and children, but that had never prevented him from delegating the mundane responsibilities of a married man to someone else and, since Mary was so conveniently there, they had fallen to her.

It had happened very gradually; she had left school with hopes of going on to university, but her mother had been ill and her two brothers had been home, and someone had had to feed and look after them—besides which Polly had still been a little girl. Her mother had got better, the boys had gone to Cambridge, but no one had suggested that Mary might like to do anything but stay home and look after them all. She had stayed quite willingly since, despite its drawbacks, she loved the shabby old house, she liked cooking, and she even liked a certain amount of housework.

So the years had slipped quietly by, and here she was, twenty-four years old, a tall, splendidly built girl with a lovely face, enormous brown eyes and an abundance of chestnut hair, her face rendered even more interesting by reason of her nose, which was short and tip-tilted. It went without saying that the men of her acquaintance liked her, admired her and in two cases had wished to marry her. She had refused them kindly and remained firm friends, acting as bridesmaid at their weddings and godmother to their children.

There was Arthur, of course, whom she had known for years—a worthy young man who rather took it for granted that one day she would marry him, and indeed from time to time she had considered that possibility. He would be a splendid husband—faithful and kind even if a bit bossy. He was also a shade pompous and she had doubts as to what he would be like in ten years’ time.

Besides, she had no intention of marrying anyone at the moment; the boys were away from home but Polly was thirteen—too young to be left to the care of a fond but unworldly mother and a forgetful father. Right at the back of her head was the half-formed wish that something exciting would happen—something so exciting and urgent that her prosaic plans would be dashed to pieces...

The only thing that was going to happen was Great Aunt Thirza, who was neither of these things, but a cantankerous old lady who liked her own way.

Mary went down to the kitchen and broke the news to Mrs Blackett, who paused long enough in her. cleaning of the kitchen floor with far too wet a mop to scowl at her and grumble with such venom that her dentures got dislodged.

‘As though we ’aven’t got enough on our ‘ands. And it’s no good you expecting me to do more for you than what I do now.’ She gave a snort of ill humour and sloshed more water over the floor.

Mary, side-stepping the puddles, made soothing noises. ‘When you’ve finished the floor,’ she said cheerfully, ‘we’ll have a cup of tea. I wouldn’t expect you to do more than you do already, Mrs Blackett, and I dare say that Great Aunt Thirza will spend a good deal of time resting.’

Knowing that lady, she thought it unlikely, but Mrs Blackett wasn’t to know that, and the latter, calmed with a strong cup of tea and a large slice of cake, relating the latest misdemeanour of Horace, her youngest, became sufficiently mollified to suggest doing a bit extra around the house. ‘I’d stay for me dinner and do a couple of hours in an afternoon—it’d ’ave to be a Tuesday or a Wednesday, mind.’

Mary accepted her offer gratefully. ‘It will only be for a week or two, Mrs Blackett.’

‘Where’s she coming from, then?’

‘She’s in St Justin’s. Her housekeeper will take whatever clothes she needs to the hospital and an ambulance will bring her here.’ Mary gave a very small sigh. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘You’ll want more spuds,’ said Mrs Blackett. ‘Going ter get a nice bit of ’am?’

‘Well, I’m afraid that Mrs Winton is a vegetarian...’

‘I don’t ’old with them,’ said Mrs Blackett darkly.

Nor did Mary, although she sympathised with their views.

She took a basket from the hook behind the kitchen door and went down the garden to pick beans, pull new carrots and cut spinach. Thank heaven it was early summer and her small kitchen garden was flourishing, although she would have to go to the greengrocer presently and get more vegetables, as well as beans and lentils and spaghetti. She hoped that Great Aunt Thirza would like that, though she was doubtful if anyone else would.

Before going back into the house she stopped to look around her. The house was on the edge of Hampstead Heath, with Golders Green not far away, and the garden offered a pleasant view and she stood admiring it. It would be nice to spend a day in the country, she reflected, and thought of her childhood, spent in a rambling cottage in Gloucestershire.

They might still be there but for the fact that her father had needed to be nearer the British Museum so that he could do his research and her mother had wanted a closer contact with the agent who sold her cards. Polly hadn’t been born then, and although it hadn’t mattered much to the boys, who had been at boarding-school anyway, Mary had taken some time to settle down at her new school and make new friends.

She went back indoors and presently out to the butcher, where, since it was likely to be the last meat they would have for a while, she bought steak and kidney in a generous amount and bore it home. It was a warm day for steak and kidney pudding but she was rewarded that evening by the pleasure with which it was received.

‘Everything all right, dear?’ asked her mother, and before she could reply added, ‘I’ve had a letter from Mr Thorne—the agent—he’s got me a splendid commission. I shall have to work at it, though—you’ll be quite happy with Great Aunt Thirza?’

Mary assured her that she would. She wasn’t surprised to hear from her father that he would be away all day at the British Museum. ‘But I’ll be home in time to welcome Thirza,’ he said. ‘Make her comfortable, won’t you, my dear?’

‘I’ll play her “Greensleeves”,’ offered Polly.

‘That’ll be lovely, darling,’ said Mrs Pagett. ‘It’s so nice that you’re musical.’

Mrs Winton arrived the next day in nice time for tea. She was tall and thin with a high-bridged nose, upon which rested her pince-nez, and she wore a beautifully cut coat and skirt of the style fashionable in the early decades of the century, and crowned this with a wide-brimmed straw hat. She had the same kind of hat, only in felt, during the winter months.

Mary had gone to the door to meet her and watched while the ambulancemen settled her into a chair and trundled her over.

‘That will do, thank you,’ said Great Aunt Thirza. ‘My niece will help me into the sitting-room.’ She turned to look at her. ‘Well, Mary, here I am.’

Mary kissed the offered cheek. ‘We are delighted to have you to stay, Aunt.’ She stopped as the men turned away. ‘If you’d like to go to the kitchen—the door over there—there’s tea and sandwiches. Thank you both so much.’

She had a lovely smile and they beamed back at her. ‘If that’s not troubling you, miss, we could do with a cuppa.’

‘Would you like tea, Aunt Thirza? It’s all ready in the sitting-room.’ She gave the old lady an arm and settled her in an armchair by the small tea-table. ‘Father’s at the British Museum; he’ll be back at any moment. Mother’s very busy; she’s just had an order for Christmas cards.’

‘Ridiculous,’ said Mrs Winton. ‘Christmas cards, indeed—child’s play.’

‘Actually they need a great deal of skill, and Mother’s very good at them.’

Her aunt sipped her tea. ‘Why aren’t you married, Mary?’

‘Well, I don’t think I’ve met anyone I want to marry yet. There’s Arthur, of course...’

‘A girl should marry.’ She pronounced it ‘gel’. ‘I don’t hold with this independence. My generation had more sense; we married and settled down to be good wives and mothers.’

Aunt Thirza was in her eighties. Mary wondered what it had been like to be young then—corsets and hats and gloves, not just on Sundays and occasions but even to go shopping, and not to be able to drive a car or wear trousers...

On the other hand there had been no television and there had been dances—not the leaping around that was the fashion now, but foxtrotting and waltzing. Waltzing with a man you loved or even liked must have been delightful. The clothes had been pretty awful, but they were pretty awful nowadays among the young. Mary, who sometimes felt older than her years, sighed.

Great Aunt Thirza was quite a handful. She had brought a good deal of luggage with her which had to be unpacked and disposed around the house according to her fancy. She poked her nose into the kitchen and made scathing remarks about Mrs Blackett’s terrible old slippers with the nicks cut out for the comfort of her bunions; she inspected the fridge, lectured Polly on her untidiness, interrupted her nephew in his study and swept down to the hut to see her niece-in-law, where she passed so many critical remarks that that lady was unable to pick up her brush for the rest of the day.

It didn’t matter how ingenious Mary was with the lentils, dried peas and beans, her elderly relation always found something wrong with them.

At the end of a week, having escorted her to her room, shut the windows, refreshed the water jug, gone downstairs again for warm milk, found another blanket, run a bath and listened to her aunt giving her opinion of the drawbacks of the house, Mary went downstairs to where her mother and father were sitting in the drawing-room—a room seldom used since it was large, draughty and, despite Mary’s polishing, shabby.

‘When is Great Aunt Thirza going home?’ she asked her father, sounding cross.

He looked up from the book he was reading, peered over his glasses at her and said mildly, ‘I really don’t know, my dear. She’s no trouble, is she?’

Mary sat down. ‘Yes, Father, she is. She has made Mrs Blackett even more bad-tempered than usual—she’s threatened to leave—and Polly is rebellious and I can’t blame her. I haven’t cooked a square meal for more than a week; I don’t expect that you’ve noticed but there’s not been an ounce of meat in the house for days and I, for one, am sick of spinach and lettuce leaves.’

Her mother looked up from the sketches she was making. ‘A nice steak with mushrooms, and those French fries you do so well, darling.’ She added hopefully, ‘Could we go out for a meal?’

‘It would cost too much,’ said Mary, who knew more about the housekeeping money than her mother. ‘We need a miracle...’

It came with the postman in the morning. Great Aunt Thirza was bidden to attend at St Justin’s in Central London where she had been treated for a heart condition—nine o’clock on the following morning. Should her examination prove satisfactory she could make arrangements to return to her home and resume a normal life.

‘I shall, of course, abide by the specialist’s advice,’ said Great Aunt Thirza. ‘He may consider it more beneficial to my health for me to return here for a further few weeks.’ She poured herself another cup of tea—the special herbal one that she preferred. ‘You can drive me there, Mary. It will save the expense of a taxi.’

Mary didn’t answer. Mrs Winton was comfortably off, well able to afford as many taxis as she could want; she could afford to pay for the peas and beans too, thought Mary peevishly.

To waste most of a day, certainly a whole morning, taking her aunt to the hospital was tiresome when there was a stack of ironing waiting to be done, besides which she needed to thumb through the cookery book she had borrowed from the library and find another way to cook kidney beans...

Polly, back from school at teatime, gobbling bread spread with an imitation butter, heavily covered with peanut butter, voiced the opinion that Great Aunt Thirza was quite well enough to go home. ‘Let her housekeeper cook that rabbit food.’ She rolled her large blue eyes dramatically. ‘Mary, I’ll die if I don’t have some chips soon.’

‘Perhaps I could have a word with the specialist,’ mused Mary.

‘Yes, do. Wear something pretty and flutter your eyelashes at him. You’re quite pretty, you know.’

‘I don’t expect that kind of man—you know, wildly clever and always reading books like Father, only younger—notices if one is pretty or not. If I had a heart attack or fainted all over him he might, I suppose.’

She spent a moment imagining herself falling gracefully into the arms of some doddering old professor. It wouldn’t do; she wasn’t the right shape. Fainting was for small, ethereal girls with tiny waists and slender enough to be picked up easily. Whoever it was who caught her would need to be a giant with muscles to match. ‘But I will wear that green dress and those sandals I bought in the sales.’

St Justin’s Hospital wasn’t far as the crow flew, but driving there during the rush hour was a different matter. Great Aunt Thirza, roused from her bed at an early hour, was in a bad temper. She sat beside Mary, her lips firmly closed, wearing the air of someone who was being shabbily treated but refused to complain, which left Mary free to concentrate on getting to the hospital by nine o’clock.

The outpatients department was already full. They were told where to sit and warned that Mr van Rakesma had not yet arrived but was expected at any moment. ‘I am probably the first to be seen,’ said Great Aunt Thirza. She edged away from an elderly man beside her who was asleep and snoring gently. ‘Really, the people one meets; I find it distasteful.’

‘You could always be a private patient,’ suggested Mary.

‘My dear Mary, you talk as though I had a fortune. Besides, why should I pay for something I can obtain for nothing?’

Mary wondered if having money made one mean. She wasn’t interested in her aunt’s finances. She changed places with the old lady and found that the snoring man was watching her. ‘Morning, love,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Don’t tell me someone as pretty as you needs to come to this halfway house.’

‘Halfway house?’

He winked. ‘Take a look, love. We’re all getting a bit long in the tooth and needing a bit of make do and mend to help us on our way!’ He winked again and added, ‘Who’s the old biddy with you? Not your ma, that’s for sure.’

‘An aunt—a great aunt actually. Shall we have to wait for a long time?’

He waved a vague arm. ‘Starts at eight o’clock, does his nibs, but, seeing that he’s not here yet and it’s gone nine o‘clock, I’d say we’ll still be here for our dinner.’

‘You mean the first appointment is for eight o’clock?’ When he nodded she said, ’My aunt thought she would be the first patient.’

His loud laugh caused Great Aunt Thirza to bend forward and look around Mary so that she could give him an icy stare.

‘I cannot imagine why this man hasn’t come, Mary. Possibly he is still in his bed...’

He wasn’t, though. There was a wave of interest in the closely packed benches as he walked past them—a very tall, heavily built man, his gingery hair tinged with grey, his handsome face without expression, looking ahead of him just as though there was no one else there but himself and his registrar beside him. Mary had ample opportunity to study him. He was, she realised, the man she had been waiting for, and she fell instantly in love with him.

After that she didn’t mind the long wait, and sat between the now sleeping man and an irate great aunt. She had plenty to think about, and most of her thoughts were of a highly impractical nature, but just for the moment she allowed day-dreaming to override common sense. He would look at her and fall in love, just as she had done...

‘At last,’ hissed Great Aunt Thirza. ‘Come with me, Mary.’

The consulting-room was quite small and Mr van Rakesma seemed to take up most of it. He glanced up briefly as they went in, asked them to sit down in a pleasant, impersonal voice and finished his writing.

‘Mrs Winton? You have been referred to me by Dr Cymes and I am glad to see you looking so well.’ He glanced at the notes before him. ‘You wish to return home, I understand, and if I find you quite recovered I see no reason why you shouldn’t do so.’

‘Young man,’ said Great Aunt Thirza sternly, ‘I had an appointment for nine o’clock this morning. It is now ten minutes past twelve. I consider this a disgraceful state of affairs.’

Mary went pink and stared at her feet. Mr van Rakesma smiled; Sister, standing beside his desk, gave an indignant snort.

‘Circumstances occasionally arise which prevent our keeping to our original plans,’ he said mildly. ‘Would you be good enough to go with Sister to the examination-room so that I can take a look?’

‘You will stay here,’ she told Mary as she went. Mary didn’t look up, which was a pity for she would have found his eyes on her. He couldn’t see her face, but her glorious hair was enough to attract any man’s eye...

‘Is there something wrong with your shoe?’ he asked gently.

She looked at him then, still pink. ‘No—no.’ She went on rapidly, ‘My aunt’s tired; she didn’t mean what she said.’

He smiled and her heart danced against her ribs. ‘No? A disappointment; I rather liked being called “young man”.’ He got up and went into the examination-room, and when he came out again presently he didn’t so much as glance at her but sat down and began to write. When Mrs Winton reappeared he told her that for her age she was very fit and there was no reason why she shouldn’t resume a normal lifestyle.

‘You have someone to look after you? A housekeeper ? A daughter?’

‘A housekeeper and, of course, should I require extra help, my niece—’ she nodded at Mary‘—would come.’

He nodded. ‘Then everything seems most satisfactory, Mrs Winton.’ He stood up and shook hands with her and bade her a grave goodbye, gave Mary a brief, unsmiling nod, then sat down and took up his pen once more.

It was Sister who said, ‘You’ll need an appointment for six months’ time, Mrs Winton; go and see Reception as you go out. Professor van Rakesma will want to keep an eye on you.’

Great Aunt Thirza stopped short. ‘Professor? You mean to tell me that he’s a professor?’

‘Yes, and a very clever one too, Mrs Winton. We’re lucky to have him for a consultant.’

Over lunch at a nearby café, Great Aunt Thirza observed that for a foreigner his manners had been surprisingly good. Mary murmured a reply, busy with her own thoughts.

‘Presumably,’ went on Great Aunt Thirza, ‘he is reliable.’

‘Well, he’s a professor. I expect he had to take exams or something before he could be one.’

‘I trust the exams were taken here in England. Our standards are high.’

‘Wasn’t the seat of medical learning Leiden? I believe it is still considered one of the best medical schools...’ She added, ‘He is Dutch.’

‘That is as may be,’ observed the old lady ‘I shall check with Dr Cymes.’

Mary, who had been wondering how she could find out more about the professor, said casually, ‘What a good idea. You must let me know what he says. Probably he’s over here on some exchange scheme.’

It was a slender chance, she thought wistfully; it was unlikely that she would ever see him again. How silly she was to fall in love with a complete stranger. ‘We’d better start back,’ she said briskly. ‘You’ll want to ring your housekeeper and arrange things.’

‘Naturally. I intend to leave your father’s house in two days’ time; that will give us the opportunity to pack my things. You will, of course, drive me home.’

At the thought of eating sausages and the weekend joint again Mary sighed with relief; she would have driven her great aunt to the furthest corner of the land...

Her mother and father expressed pleasure at Mrs Wimton’s recovery, and pressed her to stay as long as she wished, unaware of Mary’s speaking glance. Mary could see her wavering. Something had to be done—and quickly. ‘Polly, fetch your recorder and play something for Great Aunt Thirza.’

A wobbly rendering of ‘Greensleeves’, followed by an unrecognisable piece full of wrong notes, which Polly assured them was ‘The Trout’ by Schubert, put an end to the old lady’s indecision; she would return home, as she had first intended, in two days’ time.

It fell to Mary’s lot, naturally enough, to pack for her aunt, and then unpack everything again because that lady suddenly remembered that she would need a particular cardigan to wear. She did it all cheerfully, quite unmoved by her aunt’s fault-finding and lack of thanks, and two days later she got the car out, loaded the cases and settled Mrs Winton on the back seat.

Her father had come out of his study to say goodbye and her mother, in her painting smock and holding a brush in her hand, had joined him on the doorstep. Polly wasn’t back from school but Mrs Blackett, obliging with an extra afternoon’s work, glowered from the kitchen window.

Great Aunt Thirza said her goodbyes graciously, omitting to thank anyone, giving the impression that she had honoured them greatly by her visit and pausing long enough in the hall to find fault with several things around the house. ‘I’m sure, though, that you did your best,’ she added, ‘and on the whole the meals were palatable.’

These remarks were met in silence. ‘I dare say I shall see improvements when I next visit you,’ she said and swept out to the car.

The Pagetts watched their daughter drive away. ‘Perhaps we should wait a little before we invite dear Aunt Thirza to stay again, my dear,’ observed Mr Pagett, and added, ‘I do hope Mary will cook something tasty for supper...’

Mrs Winton lived in Richmond in a red-brick terraced house, which was much too large for her and stuffed with mid-Victorian furniture, heavy plush curtains and a great many ornaments. Her housekeeper had been with her for a good number of years—a silent, austere woman who kept her distance, ran the house efficiently and never talked about herself, which wasn’t surprising really since Mrs Winton never asked.

She opened the door as Mary stopped the car, wished them good afternoon and took Mrs Winton’s luggage from the boot. ‘We’d like tea at once, Mrs Cox,’ said Great Aunt Thirza, and swept indoors with a brisk, ‘Come along, Mary; don’t dawdle!’

Mary wasn’t listening; she had gone back to the car to give Mrs Cox a hand with the luggage.

She hadn’t wanted to stay for tea but good manners made it necessary; she sat on an uncomfortable horsehair chair—a museum piece if ever there was one—and drank weak tea from a beautiful Minton cup and ate a dry Madeira cake which she suspected had been in the tin ever since Great Aunt Thirza’s illness.

While she ate she thought of the sausages and the mountains of chips she would cook when she got home. She had no doubt that her mother and father and Polly would enjoy them as much as she would.

Driving back presently, it wasn’t sausages and chips on her mind, it was love—the sheer excitement of it, the wonder of it, just to look at someone and know that he was the one... Her euphoria was short-lived. ‘Fool,’ said Mary. ‘You’ll never see him again—it was pure chance; besides, he didn’t even look at you.’

She edged past a slow-moving Ford Anglia, driven by an elderly man in a cloth cap. ‘He’ll be married to some gorgeous wisp of a girl who he’ll treat like fragile porcelain.’ She sighed; no one, however kindly disposed, could describe her as fragile. ‘All the same, it would be nice to find out about him.’

She was talking to herself again, waiting at traffic lights, and the driver of the car alongside hers gave her a startled look. She looked sane enough, but he couldn’t see anyone else in the car...

Professor van Rakesma, unlike Mary, wasn’t talking to himself—he was going through the notes of his patients.

‘Mrs Winton,’ he said at length in a satisfied voice, and made a note of her address. He had no doubt at all that he would discover more of the girl who had been with her—a niece, the old lady had said, and one in the habit of giving extra help and therefore to be tracked down at some future date.

He handed the notes back to the patient nurse waiting for them and left the hospital. He was dining out with friends and anticipating a pleasant evening as well as an excellent dinner.

Mary and her family had an excellent dinner too; the sausages and chips were greeted with whoops of joy from Polly, and even her mother, a dainty eater, welcomed them with pleasure. There was a wholesome roly-poly pudding for afters too, and a bottle of red wine, pronounced delicious by everyone.

Her father, of course, hardly noticed what he drank, and her mother was too kind to do more than remark on its good colour. The professor, had he been there, would have poured it down the sink.

Never mind that—it was a celebration; they were a family again without Great Aunt Thirza to meddle and complain. No one actually said that; only Polly remarked that she hoped that her great aunt wouldn’t pay them another visit for a very long time.

‘Well, she only comes when she wants something,’ said Polly, ‘and she’s well again now isn’t she?’

‘She saw a specialist the other day?’ asked her mother, who, always being in her but working at her cards, had missed the tale of Great Aunt Thirza’s hospital appointment.

Mary, to her great annoyance, blushed. ‘Yes—he said that she was able to resume normal life again and that she was very fit for her age.’

‘Was he nice?’

‘He seemed very nice,’ said Mary cautiously.

Polly asked, ‘What did he look like?’

Mary longed to describe him in every small detail but that would never have done. ‘Oh, well, quite young—he was Dutch...’

‘But what did he look like?’ persisted Polly.

‘Very tall and big with gingery hair, only it was grey too, and he had very blue eyes.’ She remembered something and smiled. ‘Great Aunt Thirza called him “young man”!’

Her father said, ‘Your aunt was always outspoken.’

‘Did he mind?’ asked her mother.

‘No, he said that he rather liked it.’

‘He doesn’t sound like a specialist. Do you suppose that if I’m ill he’d look after me?’ Polly looked hopeful.

‘Well, no—he looks after people with bad hearts.’

‘Supposing you broke your heart—would he look after you?’

Mary said in a level voice, ‘No, I don’t suppose that he’s got time to waste on broken hearts, only ill ones.’ She got up from the table. ’I’ll bring the coffee in here, shall I?’

Life settled down into its accustomed pattern once more. Mary’s days were full. Her father had dropped a pile of notes all over his study floor and it took hours of work to get them in order again; her mother floated in and out of the house, absorbed in her painting, and Polly was away most of the day.

Mrs Blackett, free to do as she liked again, was her usual ill-tempered self, although she no longer threatened to leave, and Mary slipped back into her customary routine. And if her thoughts dwelt wistfully upon Professor van Rakesma she didn’t allow them to show; she had plenty of common sense and she was aware that day-dreams, though pleasant, had nothing at all to do with real life.

There was Arthur too. He had been away on a course and now he was back and, though she was reluctant to do so, she had agreed to go out to dinner with him—to a nice little place in Hampstead, he had told her; they would be able to get a good meal very reasonably.

The idea that she was only worth a reasonably priced dinner rankled with Mary, but she got out a pretty if somewhat out-of-date dress, put polish on her nails, did her face and piled her glorious hair on top of her head. She made sure that the casserole for the family supper was safely in the oven, and went to remind her father that she was going out.

He looked up from his writing. ‘Out? Well, enjoy yourself, my dear. Have you a key?’

She went down to the hut next. ‘I’m going out to dinner with Arthur, Mother. The supper’s in the oven; it’ll be ready at half-past seven. I’ve told Polly.’

‘Dear child,’ said her mother fondly, ‘go and enjoy yourself—who with?’

‘Arthur.’

‘Oh, Arthur, of course. Tell me, do you like robins on this card, or do you suppose a bunch of holly would be better?’

‘Robins,’ said Mary.

Polly was in the hall. ‘I’ll see to supper, Mary. Did you feed Bingo?’

The family cat had made himself scarce while Great Aunt Thirza had been there, only skimming in for his meals, but now he was in possession of the house once more, commandeering laps and eating heartily.

‘Yes—here’s Arthur...’

Polly caught her arm. ‘Don’t say yes, Mary,’ she whispered urgently. ‘He might propose!’

‘Arthur has never done anything hastily in his life; he’ll have to give a proposal a lot of thought, and he’ll lead up to it so gradually that I’ll have plenty of time to think about it.’

‘You like him?’

Mary said guardedly, ‘I’ve known him for a long time, love; he’s a good man but I don’t want to marry him.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think he really wants to marry me...’

Arthur had got out of the car and thumped the doorknocker; she kissed Polly and went to meet him.

Arthur’s ‘Hello, old girl,’ had nothing lover-like about it. She said, ‘Hello, Arthur,’ and got into the car beside him and enquired about his course.

Telling her about it took up the entire drive and he still hadn’t finished when they sat down at a table in the restaurant. It was a pleasant place but not, she decided, the right background for romance. Its pale green walls were too cool, and the white tablecloths and little pot of dried flowers echoed the coolness, but since Arthur obviously had no thought of romance that didn’t matter.

Mary ate her plaice, French fries and macédoine of vegetables, chose trifle for pudding and listened to him. She was a kind girl, and it was obvious that he needed to tell someone everything which had occurred at the course. She said ‘Oh, splendid,’ and ‘Really?’ at suitable intervals, and wondered what Professor van Rakesma was doing...

She thanked Arthur when he took her back home, offered him coffee, which he refused, and accepted his kiss on her cheek. ‘A splendid evening, Mary—we’ve had a good talk.’ He added, in a rather condescending tone which grated on her ear, ‘When I can find the time we must do it again.’

What about my time? thought Mary, and murmured politely.

Getting into bed, she decided that in ten years’ time Arthur would definitely be pompous.

She was getting the breakfast ready the next morning when the phone rang. Mrs Cox, usually so calm, sounded agitated. ‘Miss Mary? The doctor’s here; your aunt’s took bad. She wants you—ever so restless she is. The doctor said if you could come to ease her mind. Won’t go to the hospital, she says, at least not until you come.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can, Mrs Cox. Tell Great Aunt Thirza, will you?’

Mary switched off the gas under the frying-pan and went to find her mother.