Читать книгу An Innocent Bride - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 7

THE road was narrow, high-hedged and overshadowed by trees, and, like so many English country lanes, it wound its way in a series of haphazard curves through the quiet countryside, free of traffic and pleasantly warm in the sunshine of a spring morning.

The man behind the wheel of the dark grey Bentley drove unhurriedly, enjoying the peace and quiet, reflecting that there were still quiet corners of rural England which one came upon by chance. There had been no village for some miles, and the last of the solitary cottages along the road he had passed a mile back; there had been no cars… As he thought that a motorbike came round the next curve, travelling fast and in the middle of the road, flashing past the Bentley with inches to spare, just missing it.

The driver of the Bentley swore quietly as he took the next bend in the road, to slide to a halt and get out of his car. The contents of a shopping basket were strewn across the road, a bicycle, no longer recognisable as such, was tossed to one side of the verge, and sitting near it was a girl.

She appeared unhurt but in a fine temper.

‘That idiot—did you see him? On the wrong side of the road, driving like a maniac.’

The man, walking towards her, thought what a splendid creature she was: a big girl, with quantities of dark brown hair and a face whose beauty wasn’t easily forgotten.

He reached her side, a giant of a man, no longer young, his pale hair grey at the temples, but handsome, with a high-bridged nose and a thin, mobile mouth.

‘Yes. I saw him. Are you hurt?’

He bent to look at her and saw the blood oozing from a cut on her leg.

‘Stay still for a moment; I’ll fetch my bag.’

When he returned she said, ‘You’re a doctor? A fortunate meeting.’

He was gently cleaning the wound. ‘Indeed, yes, but in hardly fortunate circumstances. This will need your doctor’s attention. Where else are you hurt? You weren’t knocked out?’

‘No. I’m a bit sore here and there.’

‘The best thing is for me to drive you to your home and get your own doctor to see you. You live near here?’

‘About a mile down the road. Rose Cottage—it’s on the left-hand side, and another half-mile or so to the village.’

He had bandaged her leg, cleaned the scratches on her arms and legs and brushed the bits and pieces from her hair. ‘You will have some nasty bruises,’ he told her. He closed his bag, bent and picked her up without apparent effort, and carried her across to his car.

As he settled her in the seat she said worriedly, ‘You shouldn’t have done that. I’m heavy.’

She wasn’t altogether pleased when he said casually, ‘But you’re a big girl, aren’t you?’

He smiled at her. He had a nice smile, kind and at the same time impersonal. And it was quite true; she was a big girl. She sat, on the edge of tears now, watching him gather up the contents of her shopping basket and then pick up the mangled wreck of her bike and put it tidily on the grass verge. The sight of it was too much, and tears were trickling down her dirty cheeks when he got into the car beside her.

He took a quick look, offered a very large, very white handkerchief, and said in a voice as kind and impersonal as his smile, ‘You’ll feel better once you’ve had a good cry. There’s nothing like it for relieving the feelings.’

He sat patiently while she sobbed and snuffled, then finally mopped her face, blew her nose and muttered, ‘I’ll wash your hanky and send it to you.’ She looked at him from a blotchy and still beautiful face. ‘My name’s Gibbs—Katrina Gibbs.’

He shook the hand she held out. ‘Simon Glenville. Is there anyone at home to look after you?’

‘Well, no, but there will be soon—around one o’clock.’

He picked up the car phone. ‘I’ll ring the police and your doctor. You shouldn’t be alone until there is someone to keep an eye on you.’

He was already talking into the phone. ‘The police will be along shortly. Now, your doctor’s name—do you know his number?’

‘Yes. He has a morning surgery in the village; he’s there three days a week. He’ll be there today.’

She hardly listened when he phoned again, for she was suddenly tired and sleepy. Shock, she supposed; she would be all right once she was home—a cup of tea and perhaps half an hour’s nap on her bed…

Rose Cottage was no more than a few minutes’ drive. It was small, with red brick walls and a rather shabby thatched roof. It stood sideways on to the road, and a wooden gate opened onto a brick path leading to its front door, solid under the thatch of the porch.

Dr Glenville stopped the car and got out. He said briefly, ‘Stay there—have you a key to the door?’

‘On the left-hand side there’s a narrow ledge above the door…’

The key was large and heavy; Dr Glenville reflected that it was certainly too cumbersome to carry around in a woman’s handbag as he opened the door. It gave directly onto the living room, which was small and rather overcrowded with furniture. A half-open door ahead of him gave him a glimpse of the kitchen beyond. There were two other doors too, so he opened the one nearest to him—another small room, the dining room presumably—and when he lifted the latch of the other door he found a narrow curved stair.

He went back to the car, opened Katrina’s door and lifted her out.

‘I can walk.’

‘Better not until your doctor has had a look at you.’ As he thrust back the stairs door with a foot Katrina said urgently, ‘You can’t carry me up.’

She could have saved her breath. He didn’t reply, and on the tiny landing above, still breathing easily, he asked, ‘Which door?’

‘On the right.’ She added sharply, ‘Do put me down…’ He didn’t reply to that either, but laid her tidily on the narrow bed in the little room, took off her sandals and covered her with the patchwork quilt folded across its foot.

‘Lie still and close your eyes,’ he said, and at the thump on the door knocker he said, ‘That will be the police or your doctor. I’ll be back.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ said Katrina peevishly, but she closed her eyes and was asleep before he had reached the bottom of the stairs.

It was the police—at least, a constable, who was rather stout, with a cheerful round face, his bike leaning against the hedge by the gate. ‘Had a message,’ he observed, eyeing the doctor. ‘I live in the village. I’m to have a look and see what’s amiss. Miss Katrina’s not hurt?’

The doctor held out a hand. ‘Dr Glenville. I found Miss—er—Katrina in the road. A motorbike knocked her over, smashed her bicycle to bits, I’m afraid. I’ve phoned her doctor—she’s resting on her bed. I expect you need a statement, but could it wait until she’s been examined? She’s rather shocked, and has been bruised and cut.’

‘You saw the accident, sir?’

‘No, but the motorbike missed me by inches coming round the bend, and I found the young lady sitting in the road. A mile back.’

‘I’d best go and take a look. You didn’t get the number, I suppose?’

‘No. He was going at speed. I had to move the bike to the side of the road in case it caused a further accident.’

‘You’ll be here, sir?’

‘Yes, I’ll stay until her doctor gets here. You’ll want a statement from me, won’t you?’

‘I’ll go and take a look right away and send in a report.’

The doctor went to his car, unlocked the boot, took his case into the cottage and went into the kitchen. He supposed that he had better stay until whoever it was who would be back at one o’clock returned. He was in no great hurry to get home, and the girl shouldn’t be left alone.

He prowled around the kitchen, which was almost as large as the living room, with a tiled floor and cheerful wallpaper. There was a door leading to a long garden with a small window beside it. It was open and sitting beside it, composed and dignified, was a small black and white cat.

The doctor tickled it under its chin and, rightly interpreting its fixed stare, he found a saucer, the milk in the slip of a pantry, and offered it.

The cat scoffed it daintily, got down from the window and walked out of the kitchen and through the open door to the stairs, and the doctor, raised by a loving mother and an old-fashioned nanny, put the milk back where he had found it, washed the saucer and folded the teacloth tidily over its rail. Childhood teachings don’t die easily.

Footsteps coming up the garden path sent him to the door. The man about to enter was middle-aged, grey-haired, with a long thin face and a stoop. He said at once, ‘Dr Glenville?’ He held out a hand. ‘Peters—thank heaven you were able to help Katrina. Is she upstairs?’

‘Yes. The village constable came; he’s gone to take a look round. I’ll wait here for a bit, shall I?’

‘I’d be obliged if you could. Did you form any opinion? Nothing serious?’

‘It seems not, but I haven’t examined her—just bandaged a cut on her leg and made sure that she hadn’t been knocked out.’

Dr Peters nodded. ‘I’ll go on up.’

Presently he came downstairs again and joined Dr Glenville sitting on the wooden bench outside the door. ‘I can’t find much wrong—she tells me that she didn’t lose consciousness at all. She’s a healthy young woman; I don’t think there’s much harm done. All the same, I don’t like to leave her on her own. She needs to rest for an hour or so, don’t you agree? Knowing Katrina, she is quite capable, once our backs are turned, of coming downstairs to dig the garden or Hoover the house. She lives with her aunt, Miss Thirza Gibbs, who has gone into Warminster to see her dentist. Won’t be back until the bus gets in round one o’clock.’ He frowned. ‘I wonder if the vicar’s wife would pop over?’

‘If it is of any help, I will stay,’ said Dr Glenville, and wondered as he said it why on earth he had suggested it. ‘I’m on my way back to town, but the rest of the day is my own.’ He added, ‘I have beds at St Aldrick’s, so I have rooms in town, but I live at Wherwell.’

Dr Peters said, ‘St Aldrick’s’s—you’re the chap who wrote that article in the Lancet—the haematologist. I’m delighted to have met you, though I would wish for a more sociable occasion. But can you spare the time?’

‘Certainly I can. Do you wish me to say anything to the young lady’s aunt?’

‘Miss Thirza? Would you? And tell her that I’ll call in later today or tomorrow morning.’ He smiled a little. ‘She is a very forthright person—so, for that matter, is Katrina.’

Left on his own, the doctor trod upstairs, paused at the open door to ask if he might go in and crossed to the bed.

‘Dr Peters has gone, but I’ll stay until your aunt gets back. Would you like a cup of tea?’

Katrina sat up in bed and regretted it; she had the beginnings of a headache. Not surprising, really, with all the fuss… ‘I can’t think why you’re still here,’ she said rudely. ‘There’s no need. I’m not a baby and there’s nothing wrong with me at all. Do please go away. You’ve been most helpful, thank you.’

The doctor studied her face. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he asked again, in the mildest of voices.

She nodded, her eyes closed. She was behaving badly; she opened her eyes, anxious to apologise, but he had gone.

The doctor pottered round the kitchen looking for things while the kettle boiled. It was a pleasant little room, with cheerful curtains at the window, a small table against one wall and two chairs. The cooking stove was old but immaculate, and the cupboards were models of tidiness. But there wasn’t a great deal in them—the basic necessities, no tins or packets—and no fridge, although there was an old-fashioned pantry with stone shelves, which was very cool.

He made tea, and since the cat was staring at him in an anxious manner he looked around for its food. There were no tins, but there was a covered saucepan on the stove with what looked like some kind of stew in it. He filled a saucer and offered it, found a mug and went back upstairs. A pity that Mrs Peach couldn’t see him now, he reflected—a housekeeper of the old-fashioned school, she considered that no one who employed her should lift a finger while she or Peach, her husband and his house-man, were within reach.

Katrina sat up as he went in. He put the mug down, tucked a cushion behind her and offered the tea. This time he didn’t go away, but sat on the edge of the bed, steadying the mug in her hands, which were shaking.

‘Headache getting better?’ he asked, and when she carefully nodded he added, ‘Is there anything I can do while I’m here? Phone someone?’

She said bleakly, ‘We haven’t got a phone.’ She finished the tea and felt better. ‘I’m sorry to have been so rude and ungrateful.’

‘It’s of no consequence.’

He sounded so casual she wished she hadn’t said anything. I don’t like him, she reflected crossly. He’s being kind and helpful and all that, but that’s because he’s a doctor, and it wouldn’t do if he were to jump into that great car of his and drive off.

The doctor, aware of her edginess towards him, decided that, although she was one of the prettiest girls he had seen for a long time, she had a decidedly sharp tongue and had all the obstinacy of the proverbial mule. Probably had an unhappy love affair, he thought idly, and it’s soured her. A pity.

He went back downstairs and poured himself a mug of tea, and sat drinking it with the little cat curled up on his knee. What might have been the beginnings of a friendly relationship between them had become indifference on both their parts. Now and again, going through life, one met someone with whom one was incompatible, he reflected, allowing his thoughts to wander to the work waiting for him.

Presently he went quietly upstairs again and found her asleep, her hair an untidy cloud all over the pillow, her mouth a little open. There were scratches on her cheek and there was a bruise developing on one arm. She was a big girl, but now she looked like a child. The doctor studied her at some length, wondering why she chose to live so remotely. But that was none of his business.

He went back to the kitchen and later, when he heard the gate being opened, he went to open the front door.

The lady walking briskly up the path was of an indeterminable age, very tall and thin, with a narrow face and a sharp nose, wearing a no-nonsense hat and a dateless beige coat and skirt. When she was within a yard of the doctor she asked briskly, ‘And who are you, young man? I don’t expect to find strangers on my doorstep. You’re surely not a friend of Katrina’s?’

If that was a compliment it was surely a left-handed one, thought the doctor, and he stood aside to allow Miss Thirza Gibbs to enter her home.

‘No, no such thing. Your niece has had a slight accident and I happened to be the person to find her. Nothing alarming…’

‘I am not easily alarmed,’ said Miss Thirza Gibbs tartly. ‘Kindly get to the point. Presumably she is here?’

‘In her bed.’ The doctor had assumed the armour plating of his profession: an impersonal courtesy leavened with a touch of bracing sympathy. ‘Your niece was knocked off her bicycle by a motorcyclist who didn’t stop. She has a cut on her leg, is scratched and bruised and shocked. Dr Peters has been to see her and will call again. She didn’t lose consciousness.’

‘Why are you here, in my house?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Your niece is hardly in a fit condition to be left alone, Miss Gibbs. I trust that she will make a speedy recovery. Good day to you.’

Miss Gibbs went an unbecoming red. ‘I’m sure it was very kind of you,’ she began stiffly.

But she was stopped gently by his ‘Not at all, Miss Gibbs. Please give my best wishes to your niece.’

He got into his car and drove away, and she went into the house and then slowly climbed the stairs.

Katrina was still sound asleep and, despite her scratches and bruises, looked her usual healthy self. Her aunt went down to the kitchen, made herself a sandwich, laid a tray with bowl, plate and spoon, set soup to warm and sat down to wait. She had had a tiring morning, and her meeting with the strange man had upset her; she had always been in the habit of speaking her mind even at the expense of other people’s feelings, but the man had been kind. She dozed off, and when she woke, half an hour later, Katrina was sitting at the table, polishing off the last of the soup.

When her aunt opened her eyes she asked, ‘Has he gone? That man—he brought me home. I didn’t thank him properly. You saw him?’

Miss Gibbs got up and put the kettle on, for she felt the need for a cup of tea. ‘Tell me what happened, and, yes, I saw him, but only for a few minutes.’

‘Well, this motorcyclist was on the wrong side of the road—on that bend by the turnip field, you know?’ Katrina gave a matter-of-fact account of the whole business, because her aunt had no patience with emotional outpourings or embellished facts, and when she had finished she said, ‘It must have been a great nuisance for him.’

‘He is a doctor?’ Miss Thirza Gibbs frowned. ‘I’m afraid that I was a little brisk with him. Perhaps he gave his name to Peters, in which case it would be quite correct for us to write him a letter of thanks for his help.’

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Katrina. ‘I should think he’s forgotten all about it by now—besides, he didn’t like me.’

‘Did he say so?’

‘No, of course not, Aunt, but he was—’ she paused, seeking the right word ‘—forebearing. As though he was doing his duty and found it all a bit of a bore. I didn’t like him.’

‘In that case,’ said Miss Gibbs, ‘it is fortunate that we are unlikely to see him again.’

Katrina agreed, ignoring a sneaking feeling that even if she didn’t like him it might be nice to know a bit more about him.

But even if she were never to meet him again, at least she was to know more about him, for later that day Dr Peters came. Evening surgery was over, and he was on his way home, but he sat down for ten minutes, drank the tea Katrina offered him, and expressed the view that she was perfectly fit again although she would look a bit unsightly for a few days.

‘This man,’ said Miss Gibbs. ‘Katrina tells me that he is a doctor.’

‘A specialist. He’s a consultant at St Aldrick’s—a haematologist—a well-known one, too. He didn’t tell you? Well, he’s not a man to blow his own trumpet, I should imagine. Stayed for lunch, did he?’

Miss Thirza Gibbs looked awkward. ‘Well, no. We exchanged a few words and he drove away.’

Dr Peters shook his head at her. ‘Thirza, I suspect that you bit the man’s head off. We’re all used to you in the village, but a stranger might be taken aback.’

‘Perhaps I was a bit sharp. But now we know who he is we can write to him and express our gratitude.’ She gave Katrina an enquiring look as she spoke.

Katrina said, with a bit of a snap, ‘Aunt Thirza, we agreed that he would have forgotten us.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Dr Peters, ‘seeing that his whole day was disorganised.’

‘Well, I think we’re making a lot of fuss about nothing. I’ll write a letter if you want me to, Aunt, but I doubt if he’ll read it—he’ll have a secretary to deal with his letters—or his wife,’ she added slowly. He would be married, of course, with two children, a comfortable house in a good area of town and probably a country cottage or a villa on the Algarve. Even if she didn’t like him, that was no reason to grudge him success in life.

Dr Peters said, ‘I think a letter would be civil, don’t you? And by the way, he’s a professor—I looked him up in my medical directory. Simon Glenville—you could send it to the hospital. He’s got consulting rooms but I haven’t the address.’

He went presently, and as he and Miss Gibbs walked to the gate he said, ‘Katrina’s been a bit shaken; make her go gently for a couple of days. It isn’t like her to be snappy.’

Which was true enough, for she was a warm-natured and kind girl, liked by everyone in the village, always ready to give a hand where it was wanted, and, unlike her aunt, prepared to like everyone who crossed her path. All except, for some reason, the man who had come to her aid that morning. But that was no reason to be ungrateful to him. That evening Katrina sat down and composed a polite note to him. It took several attempts to get it right but, pleased with the final result, she posted it the next day and told herself that was the end of the affair.

Of course, she had to make a statement to the police, and then scour Warminster for a second-hand bike; a new one was out of the question and the pity of it was that she hadn’t been insured. But there had to be some means of transport. A bus went into Warminster each day, but bus fares were costly and she had long ago taken over the shopping, loading up once a week and going to the village stores for day-to-day needs. And they weren’t many, for she and her aunt lived frugally, growing vegetables in the garden behind the cottage, getting eggs from Lovegrove’s Farm along the road. It was amazing what a number of meals one could conjure from eggs.

Katrina wondered during the next few days about Professor Glenville; she might not have liked him, but she so seldom left the village that anyone not connected with it was of interest, however slight. But she didn’t speak of him to her aunt, and neither did that lady mention him. Her accident had been a small disruption in their quiet life, and neither she nor her aunt were given to dwelling on any mishap they might encounter.

Katrina made light of her bruises and cuts, did the bulk of the household chores, dug the garden and, once she had her new bike, shopped. The event had caused something of a stir in the village, which was so small and out of the way that anything outside its normal gentle routine was a subject for talk for several days. The people living there liked her and were vaguely sorry for her. It was no life for a pretty girl, living in that poky cottage with an elderly aunt, never meeting any young men. Several of them had hinted as much to her face, but she had fobbed them off, saying that she was very happy and had no wish for the bright lights.

‘But you’d have money to buy lovely clothes, and meet people,’ one well-wisher had reminded her.

‘But there are people here,’ Katrina had pointed out, ‘and when would I wear lovely clothes?’ And she had added in a voice which had effectively closed the conversation, ‘I’m happy here.’

Which wasn’t quite true. She wasn’t unhappy, but she was young and pretty and full of life; pretty clothes, visits to the theatre, dining out, dancing—she wished that she could sample them all, while at the same time knowing that it was most unlikely.

She had lived with Aunt Thirza since her parents had been killed in a plane crash when she was twelve years old. She had no brothers or sisters; there were numerous aunts and uncles and cousins, but Aunt Thirza was the only one of the family who had given her a home. That had been twelve years ago, before she had retired as headmistress of a girls’ school—a privately run establishment where Katrina had been educated. When Aunt Thirza had retired Katrina had been seventeen, and hopeful of going on to university. But it seemed that that wouldn’t be possible. Aunt Thirza had pointed out in her forthright way that she had only her pension, which would not stretch to it.

‘But something may turn up,’ she had said. ‘I suggest that you stay at home with me. You’re still young; a year or two won’t matter at your age. I shall write to your uncles and aunts and enlist their help. After all, they were your father’s brothers and sisters.’

However, offers of help had not been forthcoming. Did Thirza not realise that Katrina’s cousins were a constant drain on parental purses? Had she any idea what it cost to give them a start in life?

Vague offers of help in a year or two had been made, and so she had stifled her disappointment and agreed with her aunt that a year or so living at the cottage would be delightful. She had made a tentative offer to find work of some sort; she had her A levels, and she was quick and intelligent—a job in Warminster, perhaps? In a shop or as a dental assistant…

Aunt Thirza had been disapproving. ‘No niece of mine will waste her talents in a shop,’ she had said vigorously. ‘If your cousins can go to university, then so shall you. It is merely a question of waiting for a year or two.’

But the years had slipped by, and the cousins, no longer at university had still been a constant expense to their parents. The girls became engaged, and expected splendid weddings, the young men naturally needed allowances while they found their feet earning their living in something suitable.

After a few years Aunt Thirza had given up talking about university, and Katrina’s pleas to get a job had also been swept aside. She had plenty to keep her busy. She had taken over most of the household chores now that Aunt Thirza was getting on a bit, and besides, there was the garden, the Youth Club in the village, the church flowers, the various bazaars and fêtes—regular events. And she had friends, as Aunt Thirza had pointed out. Her aunt had ended by asking her if she wasn’t happy, in a voice which shook a little, and Katrina, seeing the unhappiness in the elderly face, had assured her that she was very happy.

And after that she gave up talking about jobs or university; her aunt had given her a home and affection when no one else was willing to do so, and she was deeply grateful for that. Besides, she was fond of the old lady.

Professor Glenville drove himself home, cutting across country along narrow, less used roads to Wherwell, a village tucked away in Hampshire but near enough to the motorway for him to travel to and fro to London each day, where he had consulting rooms as well as beds at St Aldrick’s. His friends and colleagues thought him crazy, living away from London, but he found the early-morning drive to his rooms a pleasant start to his day, even in bad weather, and, however late at night, he made a point of returning to Wherwell; only in an emergency would he spend the night at the small flat above his consulting rooms.

As he drove he decided what he would do with the rest of his day. He had been in Bristol for several days, for he was an examiner for several hospitals, but now he was free until the morning—he could do some writing, catch up on his reading, potter in his garden and take the dogs for a walk, and Mrs Peach, who ran his home with Peach, would give him a splendid tea…

He allowed his thoughts to dwell on Miss Thirza Gibbs and her niece, but only briefly, thinking it a pity, though, that Katrina had been so tart. Even making allowances for shock she need not have been quite so frosty. As for her aunt, he had been in his profession long enough to recognise her type—sharp-tongued, never looking for sympathy, and hiding a soft heart beneath a brisk manner. He decided that he rather liked her.

Wherwell was a delightful village, most of its houses thatched, the country around it peaceful. He drove down its main street and turned into a narrow lane, and then through open gates to his home, which was black and white timber-framed with its thatched roof curling round the upstairs windows. It was a fair size, and the garden around it was sheltered by trees. He drove round the side, parked the car, and went in through the side door, along a flag-stoned passage and into the kitchen. Peach and his wife were there. She sat at the table rolling out pastry, Peach at the other end of the table, cleaning the silver.

Peach got up at once. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said mildly. ‘You’ll be wanting lunch…’

‘No, no, Peach. One of Mrs Peach’s magnificent teas in half an hour would be fine. Everything all right?’

‘Right as rain, sir. Barker and Jones are in the garden. Tea in half an hour, sir.’

The professor picked up his bag and went through a door into the hall, which was long and narrow with a door at each end. He opened his study door, put his bag on the desk and went out of the end door into the garden. Two dogs were waiting for him, uttering pleased barks, running to him as he bent to fondle them: a coal-black Alsatian and a small dog of no known parentage, with a foxy face, heavy whiskers and a feathery tail. The three of them made their way down a path bordered by flowerbeds already full of colour, skirted a large lawn with a small pond at its end and went through a gate into the fields beyond. The dogs raced on ahead now, and the professor sauntered along, his thoughts idle, vaguely irritated that they turned every so often to the events of the other morning.

He went indoors presently, to Mrs Peach’s tea, and then spent an hour or so in his study with his dogs for company. He went back there after his dinner too, making notes for the book he was writing concerning his work. He was a clever man, wrapped up in his profession but by no means a hermit; he had friends, close friends he had known for years, and a host of acquaintances and family scattered throughout the country, but as yet he had found no one whom he wished to make his wife. And that was a pity, Peach had confided to his wife. A good man like the master ought to have been married years ago, with a handful of children. ‘Knocking forty,’ Peach had grumbled. ‘And dear knows he meets enough ladies to pick and choose.’

‘She’ll turn up,’ said Mrs Peach. ‘Just you let Fate take its course.’ Fate must have been listening.

It was a week or so after Katrina’s accident that she noticed that Aunt Thirza didn’t look well. Indeed, now she thought about it, she hadn’t looked well for some weeks. But Aunt Thirza wasn’t a woman to angle for sympathy for herself, and when once or twice Katrina had asked her if she felt all right, she had responded in her usual blunt manner. All the same, there was no denying that she was paler than usual, and lacked energy. And when one morning Katrina found her sitting in the living room with her eyes shut, instead of turning out the sideboard drawers which she had intended to do, Katrina took matters into her own hands.

Despite her aunt’s protests, she got on her bike and went to Dr Peters’ surgery and left a message with his receptionist. It wasn’t a day on which the surgery was open, but she knew that he would come and see her aunt as soon as he could; they had been friends for years and, however brusque Aunt Thirza was feeling, she would listen to his advice.

He came that evening, examined his old friend, taking no notice of her waspish replies to his questions and, despite her protests, taking a sample of her blood.

‘Well, what’s wrong with me?’ demanded Aunt Thirza.

‘You’ve been doing too much,’ he told her, and Katrina thought that she detected the impersonal cheerfulness with which the medical profession conceal their true opinion. ‘I’ll get this blood tested—it will take a day or two. I’ll let you know when I’ve the result and give you something to put you back on your feet. In the meantime, just take things easily. You won’t, of course!’

Three days later he called again. ‘Anaemia,’ he told her. ‘Nothing which can’t be put right with treatment. But I want you to see a specialist, just to endorse my opinion.’ And when Miss Gibbs began an indignant refusal, he said, ‘No, Thirza, my dear. We want the quickest solution, don’t we? So we’ll get expert advice.’

Katrina, walking with him to the gate, said, ‘Is it serious, Dr Peters?’

‘Perhaps, my dear. We must see what the specialist says. I’ll get an appointment for your aunt. You’ll go with her, of course.’

When he got back to his surgery he lifted the phone and asked to speak to Professor Glenville.