The Fortunes of Francesca

by Betty Neels

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so...’

  ‘And Miss...’ he had forgotten her name again ‘...is entirely satisfactory in her work?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lady Trumper, gobbling a little.

  ‘Then in that case is there any need to refine upon the matter? Elsie certainly had quite a severe cut, and it was unfortunate that it should have become infected. I’m sure that you will see that she does nothing to endanger her complete recovery.’

  He talks like a professor, thought Franny admiringly, and with an accent, too. I wonder what it sounds like when he talks in Dutch...?

  ‘I will overlook the matter,’ said Lady Trumper grandly, ‘but I must insist on no more plain speaking from Miss Bowen. My nerves are badly shaken.’

  How did one shake nerves? wondered Franny. Not that Lady Trumper had any. The professor, watching her face, allowed himself a smile. He spoke quickly before she could voice her thoughts.

  ‘I’m sure Miss Bowen will give consideration to your nerves in her future observations.’ He looked at Franny. ‘Is that not so, Miss—er—Bowen?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be very careful.’ Franny smiled at them both. ‘I like working for Lady Trumper and I will do my best to keep a still tongue in my head.’

  This forthright speech left Lady Trumper with nothing to say and the professor said easily, ‘Well, in that case, perhaps Miss Bowen might be allowed to go on with whatever she was doing while we have a little chat.’

  Franny knew a hint when it was uttered. She picked up the invitation cards and went to her little cubbyhole of a room and closed the door. She had been dismissed—kindly, but dismissed, just as Elsie would have been dismissed.

  And why should you mind? she asked herself. Remember that you are in a lowly position in this household. Not that it will be for always. Once Finn was a doctor with a splendid practice somewhere she would keep house for him and be respected as his sister. When he was married she would retire to a small bungalow and later live on her old-age pension.

  That she had got a bit muddled in her plans for the future didn’t worry her. She spent a good deal of time making plans, most of them utter rubbish and highly improbable.

  She wrote another half-dozen cards and paused, struck by the thought that it would be nice to marry someone like the professor. He had everything: good looks, a successful profession—at least, she supposed that he had—and a splendid motor car. Was he married? she wondered. And what exactly did he do? Professor of what? And why was he here in England when he had a perfectly good country of his own?

  Inquisitive by nature, Franny decided to find out. Franny being Franny, if she had the opportunity to ask him she would, but that wasn’t likely. However a few casual questions in the kitchen over dinner tomorrow might prove fruitful...

  She had finished the cards when she heard Lady Trumper’s raised voice, so she opened the door and said, ‘Yes, Lady Trumper?’

  ‘You have finished the cards? Stamp the envelopes and take them to the letter box and then come back here. I want you to take some documents to my solicitor. I do not trust the post. Hand them to the senior partner, Mr Augustus Ruskin, personally, and get a receipt for them. You are to take a taxi there. You may bus back.’

  ‘Your solicitor, Lady Trumper? Is his office close by?’

  ‘In the City. Please don’t waste any more time, Miss Bowen.’

  ‘It will probably be after five o’clock by the time I find a bus to bring me back here. Shall I go home, Lady Trumper? Of course, if I can get back here before then I’ll do so.’

  Lady Trumper, who was conveyed by car whenever she wished to go out and had no idea how long a bus journey took, said severely, ‘Very well. I believe that I can trust you to be honest.’

  Franny said nothing. There was a great deal she would have liked to say, but she wanted to keep the job. She stamped the invitations, then wrapped in her old mac since it was raining again, posted them and went back to collect the large envelope Lady Trumper had ready for her.

  ‘Barker tells me that taxi fares have been considerably increased. You will take ten pounds for the fare and for your bus ticket.’

  Franny was soon getting into the taxi Barker had summoned and prepared to enjoy the ride. She considered that it was a lot of fuss about some papers or other; anyone else would have sent them by registered post. But since it allowed her an hour or two of freedom she wasn’t going to quibble about it. The driver was a cheerful Cockney, and they enjoyed a friendly chat as he took her into London’s heart. The evening rush hadn’t started but the City pavements were crowded, lights shining from the vast grey buildings.

  ‘This is where the money is,’ said the cabby. ‘Talking in millions behind them walls, I dare say. Pity they can’t use some of it ter do a bit of work on the ’ospital. Up that lane there, St Giles’. ’Ad me appendix out there—looked after me a treat, they did.’

  Franny said with real sympathy, ‘Oh, poor you. Are you all right now?’

  ‘Right as rain. ’Ere’s yer office. Going back ter where I picked yer up?’

  ‘No, I’m to go home. I work there, but I live near Waterloo Station.’

  She got out and paid him and gave him a handsome tip. ‘Thank you for a nice ride.’

  ‘A pleasure—enjoyed it meself. Mind ’Ow yer go. Waterloo ain’t all that nice for a young lady.’

  The solicitor’s office was in a large grey building with an imposing entrance and a porter guarding it. ‘Take the lift,’ he advised her. ‘Third floor—Ruskin, Ruskin and Ruskin.’

  Brothers? wondered Franny, stepping gingerly into the lift and pressing a button anxiously. Or grandfather, son and grandson? Cousins...?

  The lift bore her upwards smoothly and she nipped out smartly. She disliked lifts, so going back she would use the stairs.

  The office was large, thickly carpeted and furnished with heavy chairs and a great many portraits—presumably of dead and gone Ruskins—on its walls. Franny made herself known to the severe lady sitting behind a desk facing the door and was asked to sit. But only for a moment, for after a word into the intercom she was bidden to go through the door behind the desk. It had MR AUGUSTUS RUSKIN in gold letters on it and when she peered round the door she saw him behind a vast desk. He must be a grandfather, even a great-grandfather, she thought. He stood up politely and she saw that he was quite shaky. But there was nothing shaky about his manner or his voice.

  ‘Miss Bowen? You have an envelope for me? Lady Trumper informed me of it.’

  He sat down again and held out a hand.

  ‘You are Mr Augustus Ruskin?’ Franny asked. ‘I’m to give it only to him. Lady Trumper’s orders.’

  He fixed her with a sharp old eye. ‘I am indeed he. You do quite right to query my identity, Miss Bowen.’

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ said Franny, and handed the envelope over. ‘Do I have to take any messages back?’

  ‘Thank you. No.’ He stood up again and Franny bade him a hasty goodbye, fearful that all the getting up and sitting down wouldn’t do someone of his age much good. The severe lady inclined her head without looking up as Franny went past her and ran down the stairs and out into the street.

  It was well past five o’clock now, and the pavements were packed with people hurrying home. She didn’t know the City well and made for the nearest bus stop. There was a long queue already there and the bus timetable was miles away. If she attempted to go and look at it, the people in the queue would think that she was trying to get on first. She walked on, intent on finding someone who could tell her which bus to take, but there were no shops and no policemen. She stood on the edge of the pavement on a corner, waiting to cross the side street. She would have to take the Underground.

  There was a steady stream of cars filtering from the side street into the main street, and she waited patiently for a gap so
that she could dart across, thinking longingly of her tea. Finn would be hungry, he always was, and Auntie wouldn’t have bothered to eat much during the day. She would make a cheese pudding, she decided, filling, tasting and economical...

  Professor van der Kettener saw her as he edged his car down the lane, away from the hospital. There she was, this very ordinary girl in her shabby mac, obviously intent on getting across the street. She looked remarkably cheerful, too. As he drew level with her, he leaned over and opened the car door.

  ‘Jump in quickly,’ he told her. ‘I can’t stop.’

  Franny did as she was told, settled in her seat, fastened her safety belt and turned to look at him. ‘How very kind. I was beginning to think that I would be there for ever. If you would put me down at the next bus stop? You don’t happen to know which bus goes to Waterloo, I suppose?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Why do you want to go to Waterloo?’

  ‘Well, I live fairly near the station.’

  He drove smoothly past a bus stop. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Oh, I had to take some papers to Mr Augustus Ruskin, Lady Trumper’s solicitor. Such a dear old man; he ought to have retired years ago. There’s a bus stop.’

  The professor said impatiently, ‘I can’t pull up here. I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, thank you. You sound cross. I expect you’ve had a busy day and you’re tired. The last thing you would want to do would be to drive miles out of your way. I’m quite able to get on a bus, you know.’ She sounded motherly. ‘Look, there’s a bus stop—if you’ll stop just for a minute.’

  ‘Certainly not. Kindly tell me where you live, Miss Bowen.’

  ‘Twenty-nine Fish Street, just off Waterloo Road. You have to turn off into Lower Marsh. You can go over Waterloo Bridge.’ She turned to smile at his severe profile. ‘You can call me Franny, if you like.’

  ‘Tell me, Miss Bowen, are you so free with your friendship with everyone you meet?’

  ‘Goodness me, no,’ said Franny chattily. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t dare be friendly with Barker.’

  ‘Ah, you don’t count butlers among your friends?’ observed the professor nastily.

  She refused to be put out. ‘I don’t know any, only him. At least...’

  ‘At least what?’ He was crossing Waterloo Bridge, and when she didn’t answer, he asked, ‘Well?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Franny. ‘It’s the next turning on the right and then the third street on the right.’

  Fish Street, even with the evening dark masking its shabbiness, all the same looked depressing in the light from the street lamps.

  ‘Left or right?’ asked the professor.

  ‘The left, halfway down—here.’

  He drew up smoothly, got out and opened her door. She got out too, to stand looking up into his face. ‘It was very kind of you to bring me home,’ said Franny. ‘You need not have done it, you know, especially as you didn’t want to.’ She gave him a sunny smile. ‘Your good deed for the day!’ she told him. ‘Goodnight, Professor. Go home quickly and have a good dinner; it will make you feel better.’

  He towered over her. ‘I have never met anyone like you before,’ he said slowly. ‘I trust Lady Trumper doesn’t have to listen to your chatter?’

  ‘No. No, she doesn’t, I only speak when spoken to. I’m sorry if I bored you, only I thought—well, I thought you looked the kind of person one could chat with.’ She crossed the narrow pavement and took out her key.

  ‘Goodnight, Professor.’ The door closed softly behind her.

  * * *

  THE PROFESSOR DROVE himself back over Westminster Bridge, along Whitehall, into Trafalgar Square and so into Pall Mall, going north until he reached Wimpole Street. He had a flat here, over his consulting room, for he spent a fair amount of time in London. He drove the car round to the mews behind the row of tall houses, walked back to his front door and let himself in.

  The hall was narrow with the waiting room and his consulting room on one side of it. An elegant staircase led to the floor above and he took these two at a time to his own front door, just as it was opened by a rotund little man with a thatch of grey hair and a round, merry face.

  He answered the professor’s greeting merrily. ‘A bit on the late side, aren’t you, sir? But dinner’s waiting for you when you want it. You’re going out later—I was to remind you...’

  The professor had thrown down his coat and was crossing the hall to one of the doors leading from it, his bag and a pile of letters in his hand.

  ‘Thanks, Crisp. Dinner in ten minutes.’

  His study was a comfortable room lined with bookshelves, with a fire burning in the small fireplace and a desk loaded with papers, a computer, telephone and reference books. He sat down behind it with a sigh of pleasure. This was where he would have liked to have spent his evening, writing learned articles for the medical journals, reading, going over his notes concerning his patients. If it hadn’t been for that girl he would have been home an hour earlier and would have had time to finish notes for a lecture he was to give later that week. He wondered briefly why he had stopped to give her a lift. She hadn’t been particularly grateful...

  He dined presently, changed and went out again, this time to an evening party given by one of his colleagues. He knew many of the guests there. All of them were pleasant people, leading pleasant lives—the men in one or other of the professions, the women well-dressed, amusing, able to carry on a witty conversation. He didn’t know any of them well and was unaware that he was liked. He got on well with the men and was charming to the women, but the charm hid a reserve none of them, so far, had been able to penetrate.

  He left early with the plea that he needed to go back to St Giles’ to check his latest patient—something which disappointed several of the women there who had made up their minds to beg him for a lift to their home.

  He thought about them as he drove back towards the City. They were all delightful companions, and a delight to the eye, so why were their elegant images dimmed by the tiresome Franny with her dowdy mac and damp, untidy hair? He supposed that he must feel sorry for her. He smiled to himself; she wouldn’t thank him for that. She needed no one’s pity; she was one of those tiresome people who bounced back...

  * * *

  AUNTIE AND FINN were in the sitting room, one with his head bowed over his books, the other silently knitting. They both looked up as she went in.

  ‘Did I hear a car?’ asked Auntie.

  ‘Yes. A Rolls-Royce. That doctor—he’s a professor—saw me as I came out of a solicitor’s office in the City and gave me a lift.’

  ‘Why were you there, dear?’

  Franny explained. ‘But I didn’t enjoy the ride very much. I expect he was tired after a hard day’s work. He was a bit snappy. I suppose he felt that he simply had to give me a lift once he’d seen me.’

  ‘Which Rolls was it?’ asked Finn.

  ‘Well, it was a Rolls-Royce. Aren’t they all the same?’

  ‘Not by a long chalk. What’s his name, this professor?’

  ‘Van der Kettener—he’s Dutch. Perhaps that’s why he’s so testy...’

  Finn gave her an exasperated look. ‘You only had a lift with one of the best heart surgeons in Europe. He was mentioned in a lecture the other day, goes all over the place, operating and lecturing, but spends a lot of time here. He’s honorary consultant in several hospitals. Lives in Holland. You lucky girl.’

  Finn went back to his books and Auntie said mildly, ‘Well, that’s nice, isn’t it, love? Such a clever man, no doubt, and yet sparing time to bring you home.’

  ‘Pooh,’ said Franny. ‘With a car like that it couldn’t have been a bother. I don’t suppose he ever has to queue for a bus or get his own breakfast.’

  ‘You don’t like him, dear?’
>
  She thought about that. ‘I think I’m sorry for him. He was ever so—so remote. Perhaps he’s quite different at home, with his wife and children. I wonder if they come over here with him, or do they live in Holland?’

  She glanced at the clock. ‘Heavens, is that the time? I’ll get the supper. Macaroni cheese.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘I was going to make a cheese pudding, but the macaroni is quicker. Pay day tomorrow—I’ll get fish and chips.’

  Finn gave a satisfied grunt, but Auntie sighed for the days when things had been different. Not that she wasn’t grateful for this poky little house in the wrong part of London, and her pension and the company of Franny and Finn. She had been a widow when they had come to live with her, and they had just lost their parents.

  If only she hadn’t fallen ill and Franny hadn’t had to give up her nursing training to look after her and Finn. They had had plans for the future—Franny, once trained, would have found a post at some hospital in a country town, they would have lived in a small flat and managed very nicely, while Finn trained to be a doctor. With him living on his grant and any money Franny could spare, they would have made a success of things.

  As it was now, they were in a cleft stick. Their combined savings were at a low ebb and there was no hope of Franny going back to the hospital; she had had to find this job where she could also cope with the house, the shopping and the cooking. Auntie had been warned that her doing anything other than the lightest of tasks might have serious consequences.

  The house, which they all secretly hated, had been offered to her at a very low rent after her husband died, by his firm, and, since there had been nothing else to do, she had accepted the offer.

  Her husband, a scientist, had had a good job and they had lived pleasantly in a pretty little mews cottage in Islington. But he had been so absorbed in his work that mundane things such as life assurance or saving for a rainy day had been overlooked. Auntie had never blamed him for that—he had been a good husband—but she was thankful that they had had no children.