Читать книгу Rags To Riches Collection - Джанис Мейнард, Rebecca Winters - Страница 16

PETER and Paul fell upon her with a rapturous welcome. They had missed her, they chorused, and did she still remember the Dutch they had taught her when they were in Holland? And did she remember that lovely toy shop? And why did she have to live so far away? And was she to stay for a long, long time? For they had, assured Peter, an awful lot to tell her. But first she must go into the garden and see the goldfish…

They had a splendid tea presently, and then everyone sat around the table and played Snakes and Ladders, Ludo and the Racing Game, relics from Mr Ingram’s childhood. Then it was time for supper, and nothing would do but that Araminta should go upstairs when they were in bed and tell them a story.

‘You always did in Uncle Marcus’s house,’ they reminded her.

The day was nicely rounded off by dinner with the Ingrams and an hour or so round the drawing room fire talking about everything under the sun, except Marcus.

It was still dark when she awoke in the pretty bedroom.

‘It’s a bit early,’ said Peter as the pair of them got onto her bed and pulled the eiderdown around them, ‘but you’ve got to go again at tea time, haven’t you? So we thought you might like to wake up so’s we can talk.’

The day went too quickly. They didn’t go out, for the weather had turned nasty—a damp, misty, chilly November day—but there had been plenty to do indoors. It was mid-afternoon when Mr Ingram took the boys into the garden to make sure that the goldfish were alive and waiting for their food, leaving Mrs Ingram and Araminta sitting in the drawing room, talking idly.

They were discussing clothes. ‘It must be delightful—’ began Araminta, and stopped speaking as the door opened and the doctor came in.

He nodded, smiling, at his sister, and said, ‘Hello, Mintie.’

Nothing could have prevented her glorious smile at the sight of him. He noted it with deep satisfaction and watched her pale cheeks suddenly pinken.

‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ said Araminta, replacing the smile with what she hoped was mild interest, bending to examine one of her shoes.

Mrs Ingram got up to kiss him. ‘Marcus, how very punctual you are. We’re about to have tea. Such a pity that Araminta has to go back this evening.’

The doctor glanced at his watch. ‘You have to be back to get the boys settled in again?’ he asked Araminta. ‘If we leave around four o’clock that should get you there in good time.’

Araminta looked at Mrs Ingram, who said airily, ‘Oh, you won’t mind if Marcus drives you back, will you, Araminta? After all, you do know each other, and you’ll have plenty to talk about.’

‘But it’s miles out of your way…?’

Araminta, filled with delight at the thought of several hours in Marcus’s company, nonetheless felt it her duty to protest.

‘I am interested to hear how you are getting on at the school,’ he observed blandly. ‘I feel sure that there will be no chance to discuss that once the boys have come indoors.’

Which was true enough. They swarmed over their uncle and grown-up conversation of any kind was at a minimum. Tea was eaten at the table: plates of thinly cut bread and butter, crumpets, toasted teacakes, a sponge cake and a chocolate cake.

‘The boys chose what we should have for tea—all the things you like most, Araminta,’ said Mrs Ingram. ‘And, I suspect, all the things they like most, too! We always have an old-fashioned tea with them. I can’t say I enjoy milkless tea and one biscuit at four o’clock.’

She glanced at her brother. ‘Did you have time for lunch, Marcus?’

‘Oh, yes. It’s Briskett’s day off, but he leaves me something.’ He sounded vague. But there was nothing vague about his manner when presently he said that they must leave if Araminta needed to be back at the school by six o’clock. She fetched her overnight bag and got into her coat, then made her farewells—lengthy ones when it came to the boys, who didn’t want her to go.

‘Araminta must come and see us all again soon,’ said Mr Ingram. ‘She gets holidays just like you do.’

A remark which served to cheer up the boys so that she and Marcus left followed by a cheerful chorus of goodbyes.

Beyond asking her if she were comfortable, the doctor had nothing to say. It wasn’t until they were on the M4, travelling fast through the early dusk, that he began a desultory conversation about nothing in particular. He was intent on putting Araminta at her ease, for she was sitting stiff as a poker beside him, giving him the strong impression that given the opportunity she would jump out of the car.

She had said very little to him at his sister’s house, something which no one but himself had noticed, and now she was behaving as though he were a stranger. Driving to Oxford that afternoon, he had decided to ask her to marry him, but now he could see that that was something he must not do. For some reason she was keeping him at arm’s length, and yet at St Jules’ she had flung those arms around him with every appearance of relief and delight at seeing him. She seemed happy enough at the school. Perhaps she was trying to make it plain that she resented his reappearance now that she had settled into a job that she liked.

They reached the M25 and he was relieved to see that her small stern profile had resolved itself into her usual habitual expression of serenity. He waited until they had left the motorway, going south now towards Eastbourne.

‘You are happy at the school?’ he asked casually. ‘You feel that you can settle there, if permanent job should be offered, or would you prefer to use it as a stop-gap? You can always enrol at another hospital, you know.’

‘No. That was a mistake. I hope that I can stay at the school. Matron is thinking of leaving next year; there’s always the chance that I might get her job. I would be very happy there for the rest of my life.’

She spoke defiantly, expecting him to disagree about that, but all he did was grunt in what she supposed was agreement, which should have pleased her but left her illogically disappointed.

Presently he said, ‘You feel that you have found your niche in life?’ He shot past a slow-moving car. ‘Have you no wish to marry? Have a home of your own, a husband and children?’

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that was exactly what she wished, but what would be the point of wishing? Where was she to find a home and a husband and children? And anyway, the only husband she wanted was beside her, although he might just as well have been on the moon.

She wasn’t going to answer that; instead she asked, ‘And you, doctor, don’t you wish for a wife and children?’

‘Indeed I do. What is more, I hope to have both in due course.’

Not Christina, hoped Araminta, he would be unhappy. She said, at her most Miss Pomfrey-ish, ‘That will be nice.’

A silly answer, but what else was there to say? She tried to think of a suitable remark which might encourage him to tell her more, but her mind was blank. Only her treacherous tongue took matters into its own hands.

‘Is she pretty?’ asked Araminta, and went scarlet with shame, thankful that it was too dark for him to see her face.

The doctor managed not to smile. He said in a matter-of-fact way, as though there was nothing unusual in her question, ‘I think she is the loveliest girl in the world.’

To make amends, Araminta said, ‘I hope you will be very happy.’

‘Oh, I am quite certain of that. Paul and Peter are looking very fit, don’t you agree?’

Such a pointed change in the conversation couldn’t be ignored. She was aware of being snubbed and her reply was uttered in extreme politeness with waspish undertones. It seemed the right moment to introduce that safest of topics, the weather.

She spun it out, making suitable comments at intervals, and the doctor, making equally suitable answers in a casual fashion, was well content. True, his Araminta had shown no sign of love, even liking for him, but she was very much on her guard and anxious to impress him with her plans for her solitary future.

But he had seen her gloved hands clenched together on her lap and the droop of her shoulders. She wasn’t happy, despite her assurances. He wished very much to tell her that he loved her, but it was only too obvious that she was holding him at arm’s length. Well, he could wait. In a week or so he would find a reason to meet her again…

They were in the outskirts of Eastbourne and he glanced at the clock on the dashboard. ‘Ten minutes to six. Do you go on duty straight away?’

‘I expect so. There’ll be the unpacking to do, and the boys will want their supper.’

He stopped the car by the school entrance and she undid her seat belt. ‘Thank you for bringing me back; I have so enjoyed my weekend. Don’t get out—you must be anxious to get home.’

He took no notice of that but got out, opened her door, got her case from the boot and walked her to the door.

She held out a hand. ‘Goodbye, Dr van der Breugh. I hope you have a lovely time at Christmas.’

He didn’t speak. He put her case down in the vestibule and bent and kissed her, slowly and gently. And only by a great effort was she able to keep her arms from flinging themselves round him. He got back into his car then, and drove away, and she stood, a prey to a great many thoughts and feelings, oblivious of the small boys trooping to and fro in the hall behind her.

Their small voices, piping greetings, brought her to her senses and back into the busy world of the school. It was only that night in bed that she had the time to go over those last few moments.

Had he meant to kiss her like that? she wondered. Or was it a kind of goodbye kiss? After all, if he intended to marry, he would have no further interest in her, and any interest he might have had had been more or less thrust upon him.

She was glad that she had been so positive about the future she had planned for herself. She must have convinced him that she had no interest in getting married. There were hundreds of girls who had made independent lives for themselves and there was no reason why she shouldn’t be one of them.

No one would mind. Her mother and father would want her to be happy, but it wouldn’t worry them if she didn’t marry.

She was too tired to cry and tomorrow morning was only a few hours away. She went into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of Marcus.

With Christmas only weeks away there was a good deal of extra activity at the school: the play, the school concert, the older boys carol-singing in the town, and all of the boys making Christmas presents. Model aeroplanes, boats, spacecraft were all in the process of being glued, nailed and painted, destined for brothers and sisters at home. Cards were designed and painted, drawings framed for admiring mothers and fathers, calendars cut out and suitably ornamented for devoted grannies, and, as well as all this, there were lessons as usual.

Araminta, racing round making beds, looking for small lost garments, helping to write letters home, helping with the presents and making suitable costumes for the play, and that on top of her usual chores, had no time to think about her own life. Only at last when she had her free day did she take time to think about the future.

She didn’t go home; her parents would be coming back during the following week and she would go then. She wrapped up warmly and walked briskly along the promenade, oblivious of the wind and the rain.

It seemed obvious to her that she wouldn’t see Marcus again. It must have been pure chance which led him to visit his sister while she was staying there. Indeed, it was always pure chance when they met. He had had no choice but to offer to drive her back to Eastbourne.

‘I must forget him,’ said Araminta, shouting it into the wind.

She turned her back on that same wind presently and got blown back the way she had come. In the town she found a small, cosy restaurant and had a meal, then spent the afternoon shopping. Dull items like toothpaste, hand cream and a new comb, some of the ginger nuts Norma liked with her evening cocoa and coloured wrapping paper for some of the boys whose gifts were finished and ready to pack up.

She had an extravagant tea presently, prolonging it as long as possible by making a list of the Christmas presents she must buy. Then, since the shops were still open, she spent a long time choosing cards, but finally that was done and there was nothing for her to do but go back to the school.

The cinema was showing a horror film, which didn’t appeal, and besides, she didn’t like the idea of going alone. The theatre was shut prior to opening with the yearly pantomime.

She bought a packet of sandwiches and went back to her room; she would make tea on her gas ring and eat her sandwiches and read the paperbacks she had chosen. She had enjoyed her day, she assured herself. All the same she was glad when it was morning and she could plunge headfirst into the ordered chaos of little boys.

At the end of another week she went home for the day. It was a tedious journey, travelling to London by train and then on to Henley where her father met her with the car. He was glad to see her, observed that she looked very well and plunged into an account of his and her mother’s tour. It had been an undoubted success, he told her, and they would be returning at a future date. The details of their trip lasted until they reached the house, where her mother was waiting for them.

‘You look very well, my dear,’ she told Araminta. ‘This little job is obviously exactly right for you. Did your father tell you about our success? I’m sure he must have left out a good deal…’

Even if Araminta had wanted to talk to her mother there was no chance; they loved her, but she couldn’t compete against the Celts. After all, they had been involved with them long before she was born. Her unexpected late arrival must have interfered with their deep interest in Celtic lore, but only for a short time. Nannies, governesses and school had made her independent at an early age and she had accepted that.

She listened now, made suitable comments and, since her cousin had gone to Henley to the dentist, cooked lunch. It was only later, while they were having tea, that her mother asked, ‘You enjoyed your stay with those little boys? Dr Jenkell has told us what a charming man their uncle is. You were well treated?’

‘Oh, yes, Mother, and the boys were delightful children. We got on well together and I liked Holland. Utrecht is a lovely old city…’

‘I dare say it is. A pity you had no time to explore the hunebedden in Drenthe and the terps in Friesland; so clever of those primitive people to build their villages on mounds of earth. Your father and I must find the time to visit them. I’m sure something can be arranged; he knows several people at Groningen University.’

Araminta poured second cups and passed the cake. ‘You will be home for Christmas?’

‘Yes, yes, of course we shall. We are going to Southern Ireland next week, for your father has been invited to give a short lecture tour and there are several places I wish to see—verifying facts before we revise the book. It will be published next year, I hope…’

‘I get almost three weeks’ holiday,’ said Araminta.

Her mother said vaguely, ‘Oh, that’s nice, dear. You’ll come home, of course?’

‘Yes.’ Araminta looked at her cousin. ‘I could take over for a week or so if you wanted to go away.’

An offer which was accepted without hesitation.

Back at school, activities became feverish; the play was to be presented to an audience of parents who could get there, friends who lived locally and the school staff. So costumes had to have last-minute fittings, boys who suddenly lost their nerve had to be encouraged, the school hall had to be suitably decorated, and refreshments dealt with. Everyone was busy and Araminta told herself each night when she went to bed that with no leisure to brood she would soon forget Marcus; he would become a dim figure in her past.

She shut her eyes, willed herself to sleep and there he was, his face behind her lids, every well-remembered line of it; the tiny crow’s feet round his eyes when he smiled, the little frown mark where he perched his spectacles, the haughty nose, the thin, firm mouth, the lines when he was tired…

It will take time, thought Araminta, shaking up her pillows, and she tried to ignore the thought that it would take the rest of her life and beyond.

It wasn’t only the school play. The carol-singers had to be rounded up and rehearsed, and someone had discovered that she could play the piano, so that each evening for half an hour she played carols, not always correctly but with feeling, sometimes joining in the singing.

The school concert would be held on the very last day, so that parents coming to collect their small sons could applaud their skills. There were to be recitations, duets on the piano, and a shaky rendering of ‘Silent Night’ by a boy who was learning the violin and a promising pianist. It was a pity that the two boys didn’t get on well and rehearsals were often brought to a sudden end while they squabbled.

But it was a happy time for them all and Araminta, sitting up in bed long after she should have been asleep, fashioning suitable costumes for the Three Kings, to be sung by three of the older boys, although she was unhappy, was learning to live with her unhappiness. The answer was work; to be occupied for as many hours as there was daylight and longer than that so that she was too tired to think when she went to bed.

She didn’t go home on her next day off, but spent the day buying Christmas presents and writing cards. Her parents had never celebrated Christmas in the traditional way; they exchanged presents and Araminta made Christmas puddings and mince pies, but there was never a tree or decorations in the house. This year, now that she had money to spend, she determined to make it a festive occasion. So she shopped for baubles for the tree, and tinsel, candles in pretty holders, crackers in pretty wrappings.

There was a tree set up in the Assembly Hall at school, too, and the boys were allowed to help decorate it. The nearer the end of term came the more feverish became the activity. End of term examinations were taken, reports made out and the boys’ clothes inspected ready for packing. After the concert there would be a prize giving, and then the boys would go home. Araminta was to stay for another day, helping Norma leave the dormitories and recreation rooms tidy, before they, too, would go home.

Before the end of term the Gardiners gave a small party for the staff. Araminta had met them all, of course, but saw very little of them socially. She changed into a pretty dress and went with Norma to drink sherry and nibble savoury biscuits and exchange small talk with the form masters, the little lady who taught music and the French girl who taught French. Mr Gardiner was kind, asking her if she enjoyed her work, wanting to know what she was doing for Christmas, and Mrs Gardiner admired her dress.

The last day came, a round of concert, prize-giving and seeing the boys all safely away. Even those few whose parents were abroad were going to stay with friends or relatives, so that by suppertime the school was empty of boys and several of the staff.

Araminta and Norma began on the task of stripping beds, making sure that the cupboards and lockers were empty, checking the medicine chest and the linen cupboard, and then they spent the next morning sorting bed linen, counting blankets and making sure that everything was just so. They would return two days before the boys to make up beds and get things shipshape.

Norma was ready to leave after lunch. ‘I’ll go and see Mr Gardiner,’ she told Araminta, ‘and then go straight out to the car. So I’ll say goodbye and a Happy Christmas now. You’ll catch the train later? Have a lovely Christmas.’

Araminta finished her own packing, took her case and the bag packed with presents down to the hall and went in search of Mr Gardiner.

He was in his study, sitting at his desk, and looked up as she went in.

‘Ah, Miss Pomfrey, you have come to say goodbye. You have done very well and I am more than pleased with you; you certainly helped us through a dodgy period.’ He leaned back in his chair and gave her a kind smile.

‘I am only sorry that we cannot offer you a permanent position here; I have heard from our assistant matron, who tells me that her mother has died and she has begged for her job back again. She has been with us for a number of years and, given that your position was temporary, I feel it only fair to offer her the post again. I am sure you will have no difficulty in finding another post; I shall be only too glad to recommend you. There is always a shortage of school matrons, you know.’

Araminta didn’t say anything; she was dumb with disappointment and surprise, her future crumbling before her eyes just as she had felt sure that she had found security at last. She had really convinced herself that the previous Matron would not return. Mr Gardiner coughed. ‘We are really sorry,’ he added, ‘but I’m sure you will understand.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, of course, Mr Gardiner…’

He looked relieved. ‘The post was brought to me a short while ago; there is a letter for you.’ He handed her an envelope and stood up, offering a hand. ‘Your train goes shortly? Stay here as long as you wish. I’m sure they will give you a cup of tea if you would like that before you go.’

‘Thank you, there is a taxi coming for me.’

She shook hands and smiled, although smiling was very difficult, and went quickly out of the room.

In the hall she sat down and opened her letter. It was from her mother.

Araminta would understand, she felt sure, that she and her father had been offered a marvellous opportunity to go to Italy, where there had been the most interesting finds. Splendid material for the book, wrote her mother, and an honour for her father. They would return as soon as they could—some time in the New Year. ‘You will have your cousin for company,’ finished her mother, ‘and I’m sure you will be glad of a quiet period.’

Araminta read the letter twice, because she simply hadn’t believed it the first time, but it was true, written clearly in ink in her mother’s flowing hand. She folded the letter carefully, then crossed the hall to the telephone and dialled her home number.

Her cousin answered. ‘I’ve had a letter from mother,’ began Araminta. ‘It was a bit of a surprise. I’m catching the five o’clock train from here, so I’ll be home for supper…’

There was silence for a few minutes. ‘Araminta, I won’t be here. Didn’t your mother tell you? No, of course, she would have forgotten. I’m on the point of leaving—Great Aunt Kate is ill and I’m going to Bristol to nurse her. I’ve left food in the fridge and Cherub is being looked after until you come. I’m sorry, dear. Your mother and father left in a hurry and I don’t suppose they thought… Could you not stay with friends? I’ll come back just as soon as I can.’

Araminta found her voice; it didn’t sound quite like hers, but she forced it to sound cheerful. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be quite glad of a quiet time after rushing round here. I’ll look up some friends in the village. I’m sorry you won’t be at home, and I hope Christmas won’t be too busy for you.’

She must end on a bright note. ‘My taxi’s just arrived and I mustn’t keep it waiting. Let me know how you get on. I’ll be at home for a couple of weeks, and you may be back by then.’ She added, ‘Happy Christmas,’ with false brightness.

The taxi had arrived. It was too early for the train but she had planned to leave her luggage at the station and have tea in the town. Now all she wanted was to go somewhere and sit as far away from people as possible. She didn’t want to think, not yet. First she must come to terms with disappointment.

She got into the taxi. ‘Will you drive me along the promenade? I’ll tell you where I want to be put down.’

It was dusk already, and cold. The promenade was bare of people and only a handful of cars were on it. Away from the main street it was quiet, only the sound of the sea and the wind whistling down a side street. She asked the driver to stop and got out, took her case and bag, then paid him, assuring him that this was where she wished to be, and watched him drive away.

She crossed the road to a shelter facing the sea. It was an old-fashioned edifice, with its benches sheltered from the wind and the rain by a roof and glassed-in walls. She put her luggage down and sat down in one corner facing the sea. It was cold, but she hadn’t noticed that; she was arranging her thoughts in some kind of order. Just for a short time she allowed disappointment to engulf her, a disappointment all the more bitter because she hadn’t really expected it—nor would it have been as bad if she had gone home to a loving family, waiting to welcome her.

‘Wallowing in self-pity will do you no good, my girl,’ said Araminta loudly. ‘I must weigh the pros and cons.’

She ticked them off on her gloved fingers. ‘I have some money, I have a home to go to, I can get another job after Christmas, Mother and Father…’ She faltered. ‘And there is Cherub waiting for me.’

Those were the pros, and for the moment she refused to think of anything else. But presently she had to, for she couldn’t sit there for the rest of the evening and all night. The idea of going home to an empty house was something she couldn’t face for the moment, although she could see that there was nothing else that she could do. She had friends in the village, but she had lost contact with them; her parents were liked and respected, but hardly neighbourly. There was no one to whom she could go and beg to stay with, especially at Christmas, when everyone had family and friends staying.

The tears she had been swallowing back crawled slowly down her cheeks.

The doctor was well aware that school had broken up, and upon which day Araminta would be going home for the holidays; old Mrs Gardiner had been delighted to have another little gossip when she had visited him at his consulting rooms. She had even volunteered the information that the teaching staff and the matrons stayed at the school for an extra day in order to leave everything tidy. And she had added, ‘Miriam—my daughter-in-law—told me that the matrons stay until the late afternoon. They have a good deal to see to, but she is always glad when they have gone and the school is empty. I shall be going there for Christmas, of course.’

It took a good deal of planning, but by dint of working early and late the doctor achieved his object. By two o’clock he was driving away from St Jules’, on his way to Eastbourne.

Araminta had left the school ten minutes before he stopped before its gates.

‘Gone to catch the five o’clock train,’ the maid who answered his ring told him. ‘I said she was too early, but she was going to have tea somewhere first.’

The doctor thanked her with a civility which quite belied his feelings, then drove into the town, parked the car and began his search. The station first, and then every tea room, café, restaurant and snack bar. Araminta had disappeared into thin air in the space of half an hour or so.

The doctor went back to the station. He was tired, worried and angry, but nothing of his feelings showed on his face. He searched the station again, enquired at the ticket office, questioned the porters and went back to the entrance. There was a row of taxis lined up, waiting for the next train from London, and he went from one to the other, making his enquiries in a calm unhurried manner.

The third cabby, lolling beside his cab, took a cigarette out of his mouth to answer him.

‘Young lady? With a case? Booked to go to the station, but changed her mind. Looking for her, are you?’

‘Yes, will you tell me where you took her?’

‘Well, now, I could do that, but I don’t know who you are, do I?’

‘You’re quite right to ask. My name is van der Breugh. I’m a doctor. The young lady’s name is Miss Araminta Pomfrey. She is my future wife. If you will take me to her, you could perhaps wait while we talk and then bring us back here. My car is in the car park.’ He smiled. ‘If you wish you may accompany me when I meet her.’

The man stared at him. ‘I’ll take you and I’ll wait.’

Araminta, lost in sad thoughts, didn’t hear the taxi, and didn’t hear the doctor’s footsteps. Only when he said quietly, ‘Hello, Mintie,’ did she look up, her mouth open and her eyes wide. All she said was, ‘Oh.’

It was apparently enough for the doctor. He picked up her case and the plastic bag and said in a brisk voice, ‘It’s rather chilly here. We’ll go somewhere and have a cup of tea.’

‘No,’ said Araminta, then added, ‘I’m going home.’

‘Well, of course you are. Come along, the taxi’s waiting.’

The utter surprise of seeing him had addled her wits. She crossed the road and got into the taxi, and when the cabby asked, ‘OK, miss?’ she managed to give him a shaky smile. She was cold, her head felt empty, and it was too much trouble to think for the moment. She sat quietly beside Marcus until the taxi stopped before a tea room, its lighted windows welcoming in the dark evening. She stood quietly while the doctor paid the cabby, picked up her luggage, opened the tea room door and sat her down at a table.

The place was half full, for it was barely five o’clock, and it was warm and cosy with elderly waitresses carrying loaded trays. The doctor gave his order, took off his overcoat, then leaned across and unbuttoned her jacket, and in those few minutes Araminta had pulled herself together.

‘I do not know why you have brought me here,’ she said frostily.

‘I was hoping that you would tell me,’ said Marcus mildly. ‘The school has broken up for the holidays, everyone has gone home but you are still here, sitting in a shelter on the promenade with your luggage. Why are you not at home, Mintie?’

His voice would have melted the Elgin Marbles, and Araminta was flesh and blood.

She said gruffly, ‘I’ve been made redundant—the other girl is coming back. I thought I’d just stay here for a day or two.’

‘And why would you wish to do that?’ His voice was very quiet—a voice to calm a frightened child…

‘Well,’ began Araminta, ‘there’s really no need for me to go home. Mother and father have gone to Italy—the Celts, you know—and my cousin has had to go to an aunt who is ill. There’s only Cherub…’

He perceived that Cherub was the only close tie she had with her home. He said nothing, but his silence was comforting, so that she went on, pot-valiant, ‘I shall have no trouble in getting another job. I’m well qualified…’

A gross exaggeration, this, in a world of diploma holders and possessors of degrees, but she wouldn’t admit that, not even to herself, and certainly not to him.

The doctor remained silent, watching her from under his lids while she drank her tea.

‘Well, I must be going.’ She had never been so unhappy in her life, but she must get away before she burst into tears. ‘I cannot think why I have wasted my time here. I suppose you were just curious?’

‘Yes.’ He had spent a good deal of time and trouble looking for her, but he found himself smiling. He said in his quiet voice, ‘Will you marry me, Mintie?’ and watched the colour creep into her pale face as she stared at him across the table. ‘I fell in love with you the moment I set eyes on you, although I wasn’t aware of that at the time. Now I love you so deeply I find that I cannot live without you, my darling.’

Araminta took a minute to understand this. ‘Me? You love me? But I thought you didn’t like me—only you always seemed to be there when I had got into a mess. You—you ignored me.’

‘I did not know what else to do. I am years older than you; you might have met a younger man.’ He smiled suddenly and she felt a warm tide of love sweep over her. ‘Besides, you were always Miss Pomfrey, holding me at arm’s length, so I have waited patiently, hoping that you might learn to love me. But now I can wait no longer.’ He added, ‘If you want me to go away, I will, Mintie.’

Her voice came out in a terrified squeak. ‘Go away? Don’t go—oh, please, don’t go. I couldn’t bear it, and I want to marry you more than anything else in the world.’

The doctor glanced around him, for those sitting near their table were showing signs of interest. He laid money on the table, got into his overcoat, buttoned her jacket and said, ‘Let us leave…’

‘Why?’ asked Araminta, awash with happiness.

‘I want to kiss you.’

They went outside into the dark afternoon, into their own private heaven. The narrow street was almost empty—there were only two women laden with shopping bags, an old man with his dog, and a posse of carolsingers about to start up. Neither the doctor nor Araminta noticed them. He wrapped his great arms round her and held her close, and as the first rousing verse of ‘Good King Wenceslas’ rang out, he kissed her.