by Betty Neels
‘No, William. My husband’s firm allows me to rent it. I have a home, thank you, and I have no wish to live with you and Editha.’
‘I’ve taken you by surprise. You must have time to think things over. There is a home for Francesca, too, and, of course, Finlay when he is free from his studies.’
‘Where would we live?’ asked Franny.
‘With us in Dorset, of course. I may say it’s a delightful house, may I not, Editha, without boasting? A pleasant social life, fresh country air, good food.’ Uncle William, carried away by his own words, added, ‘You would have every care and attention, Emma, and I’m sure that Francesca would find plenty to occupy her and an opportunity to meet people of her own kind.’
Franny said, ‘I’m sure you mean it kindly, Uncle, but it’s rather late in the day. We have made a happy life for ourselves here. Finn is doing well, Auntie is making a splendid recovery and I have a good job.’
She glanced at Auntie, who nodded agreement. ‘I’ll get tea. I’m sure you’d like a cup before you go.’
It wasn’t very polite, but Uncle William had never bothered to be polite when they had needed help and been ignored.
Presently Uncle William drank his tea, shaking his head sorrowfully from time to time, while Aunt Editha asked searching questions which Franny answered with a regrettable lack of truth. When they got up to go at last, she expected that Uncle William would renew his offer, but all he said was, ‘You mark my words, you will be glad of my generosity. I have not taken umbrage; I shall offer you a home again if and when it is necessary.’
With which pompous speech he took himself off with Aunt Editha in tow, out of the house to the waiting car—an old-fashioned Daimler with a chauffeur. Franny watched them drive away and went back to Auntie.
‘Whatever has come over your uncle?’ Auntie wanted to know. ‘After all these years, too. You don’t suppose that we should do as he asks, Franny? You wouldn’t need to work, and you’d have young friends and some decent clothes...’
Franny collected up the tea things. ‘I’m very happy as I am, Auntie. You don’t want to go, do you?’
‘No, love. It would have to be something beyond our powers to make us go.’
Four days later, plodding down Fish Street after a long and busy night, Franny slipped on an icy patch and sprained her ankle. The milkman, trundling past on his float, stopped, scooped her up and took her home. He phoned the doctor, too, who came some time later and examined her poor swollen ankle. He strapped it, told her not to walk on it, wrote an X-ray form for her and arranged for her to be taken to hospital. She had to wait there for some time and later, reassured that it was just a sprain which would heal itself with rest, she was sent back home again. She must see her doctor in a few days time, the casualty officer had said kindly, and take care not to put any weight on the foot.
It was the kind of nightmare Franny had always steadfastly refused to encourage. Even with painkillers the pain was severe, but, despite the doctor’s instructions, there were times when she had to disobey him. Finn was a tower of strength when he was home, but, despite Franny’s efforts, Auntie insisted on doing a lot of things she had no business to do. It was a relief when Franny, conveyed to the doctor’s surgery on the back of Finn’s old bike, was given permission to be prudently active. She hobbled into the house, feeling that the worst was over.
Only it wasn’t. There was a letter from Mrs Kemp in answer to the one Franny had sent to her. She regretted Franny’s accident but was sure that Franny would agree with her that she would be unable to keep her job open any longer—the temporary nurse who had taken over was quite willing to remain. A week’s wages were enclosed.
‘Well,’ said Franny, rather too loudly and cheerfully, ‘things couldn’t be any worse; they can only get better.’
It seemed that she was wrong. She had just put the letter down on the kitchen table when someone thumped the door knocker and she hobbled to open it. It was Uncle William.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE PROFESSOR, immersed in his work, found to his annoyance that Franny’s face, so lacking in looks and now so hard to forget, had imposed itself upon his mind. He must, he decided, go and see her again so that he might reassure himself that she was of no importance to him whatever. His temper, quite a nasty one, which he had learned to keep under control, was increasingly tetchy so that even the faithful Crisp asked him anxiously if he was working too hard. ‘Perhaps a few days off, sir?’ suggested Crisp.
The look of affront which he cast at the professor’s terse reply caused the professor to say quickly, ‘Sorry, Crisp. I’ve something on my mind—it makes me irritable.’
Crisp accepted the apology with dignity and told Trimble later that doubtless the professor was planning one of those tricky operations of his. The professor was actually planning his next few days’ workload—and not only work; he had numerous friends and a number of evening engagements. In a couple of days’ time, he reflected, he could give himself a free afternoon...
A plan he was forced to discard. He received an urgent summons to Brussels where a VIP had had a heart attack and the professor’s advice and probable surgery were top priority. He was there for three days, decided to operate in a week’s time, and flew back to London where a backlog of work awaited him. To visit Franny was out of the question, although his personal inclination was to go and see her. He could, of course, phone her at the nursing home, but he guessed that her nights were busy enough without added interruptions. He thought of writing, but he had no idea what he wanted to say.
At the end of the week he went back to Brussels and, since the VIP was an ill man and the operation a serious one, he stayed there until his patient was on the road to recovery. And, once more back at St Giles’, he worked his way through theatre lists, ward rounds and clinics. Only when he had cleared his desk of most of his work did he turn his thoughts to Franny once more.
* * *
A GREAT DEAL was happening at Fish Street. Uncle William had taken matters into his own hands while Franny, feeling too ill to stop him, nonetheless had done her best to reject his plans.
She had very little help from Auntie, who could only express relief that her brother had offered them a home again and that their troubles were over. Nothing Franny could say would persuade her that everything would be all right in a few weeks. For once Auntie was firm.
‘You’re talking nonsense, love. I’m useless, and don’t you pretend otherwise. You’re unable to work, let alone look after me and shop and cook and see to the house. You know better than I that while you have to hobble around like that your ankle won’t mend completely, and until it does you can’t get a job. I know you don’t like your uncle. Nor do I. But he is family and he has offered us a home. And it need not be for always.’
‘Finn...I can’t leave him. Where will he go if you give up this house?’
Finn, to her surprise, sided with Auntie. ‘I know we all dislike Uncle William, but we can’t go on like this, Franny. Even if I gave up and got a job it wouldn’t be enough to keep us, and you can’t work and look after the house and Auntie.’ He gave her a brotherly look. ‘You do look a bit of a wreck, you know, and that ankle isn’t getting a fair chance...’
‘But what about you?’
He grinned. ‘A bit of luck. Josh—remember I told you about him?—he and two other men have found a flat and they’re looking for a fourth to share. It won’t cost much—I’ll get a job washing up at one of the hotels...’
‘Indeed, you will not,’ said Auntie. ‘I shall sell this furniture and one or two things I don’t need and you will take the money...’ She saw Finn’s mouth open to protest. ‘As a loan. It should be sufficient to keep you going for a few months while you see if you can get a bigger grant...’
So very much against her will Franny gave in. Despite Auntie’s belief that Uncle Willia
m had turned over a new leaf and was prepared to make amends, Franny didn’t believe that; she neither liked nor trusted her uncle. He had turned his back on them when her parents had died, declaring he wanted nothing to do with them, and now suddenly out of the blue here he was, taking over their lives. Why?
And he wasn’t wasting time. Having wrung their agreement to his plans, he was arranging everything with ruthless efficiency. Auntie had given up the house, a firm had sent a man to look over the furniture, they were to be driven down to Dorset in a week’s time. Their small household bills were paid, Finn moved in with his friends... At least he was all right, thought Franny. Auntie had given him enough money to see him over the next few months.
‘For we shan’t need much money,’ she had declared cheerfully, ‘and I have my pension. I dare say William will give you an allowance.’
Franny didn’t say anything. If Uncle William gave her money she would throw it back at him. It was bad enough having to live on his charity, for that was what it was—he wasn’t doing it from love. So why was he doing it?
She pointed out to him that Auntie was still an out-patient at St Giles’ and needed to have regular check-ups. ‘I’ll write and explain,’ she told her uncle. ‘But you do understand that she will need to go up to the hospital at regular intervals? I’ll write to her doctor, too...’
Uncle William, paying one of his brief visits to make sure that they were doing everything he had laid down, took out his notebook. ‘Give me the names of these doctors and the hospital departments and I will see that they are informed. I will give them my home address so that they can contact your aunt. I will also explain matters to our own doctor, a very good man, who can get in touch with these hospital people so that your aunt has the best possible treatment.’
Franny, surprised at his concern, agreed, stifling a feeling that Uncle William was turning out to be too good to be true. She wished now, as she had wished every night in her bed, that she could have seen the professor. The wish became so strong that she actually went down the street to the phone box and rang the hospital and asked to speak to him, only to be told that he was in Belgium. When she enquired as to when he would return she was told that that wasn’t known. ‘Is it urgent? Concerning a patient of his?’ she was asked.
‘Yes, but it’s not urgent.’ She hung up and went back home. Perhaps it was as well that he hadn’t been there, for what would she have said? It was of no interest to him where she and Auntie lived. Auntie had been his patient. He knew that she had a home and someone to look after her and would have dismissed her from his mind until he might at some future date see her at one of his clinics. Perhaps, she thought wistfully, he would be told of Auntie’s new address... And then what? Franny asked herself. Did she really think that he would do anything about it? Of course not.
* * *
UNCLE WILLIAM LIVED in a small Dorset village some miles north of Wimborne, and although Franny had never been there she knew quite a bit about it, for her mother had described it to her many times and Auntie liked to recall her childhood there.
After Franny’s mother and father had married, they had never gone back. Uncle William, having recently taken over the house from his dead father, had made it plain that his young sister—since she had chosen to marry a mere schoolmaster—would no longer be welcome there. When Franny had written to tell him of her parents’ death, he had sent the letter back, torn up, washing his hands of both her and Finn. It had been Auntie, recently widowed, and equally ostracised by her brother, who had given them a home.
Packing the last of their clothes, Franny wondered again why Uncle William had had a change of heart.
It was hard to say goodbye to Finn but, as they reminded each other, she would be coming up to London from time to time when Auntie was due for a check-up, and Uncle William might invite him down to Dorset. She would miss Finn but she had the good sense to see that he would enjoy being independent. Perhaps once Auntie was settled in and happy and being well looked after she could find another job, but that was something she must keep for the future...
Uncle William sent a car for them, driven by a morose man who had little to say for himself, merely volunteering his name—Hancock, Uncle William’s chauffeur—settling them in the back and driving away without loss of time.
Auntie was excited, and Franny persuaded her to sit back and close her eyes. She still looked very fragile and Franny worried about her, but now perhaps she would get back to her former reasonable health—obviously life at Uncle William’s was going to be very different from Fish Street. Franny, easing her still aching ankle from its shoe, felt hopeful.
Brinsleigh Court, a pleasant Georgian house, stood on the edge of Brinsleigh village. As the car turned into its gateway, Auntie said, ‘I never expected to see my home again. I’m so happy that you are coming here to live, Franny.’ She sighed. ‘I have so many happy memories.’
And some unhappy ones, too, reflected Franny, although she didn’t say so.
They got out of the car and Hancock took their luggage from the boot. The big door under the porch had been shut, but now it was opened and a tall, stout woman ushered them inside.
She greeted them politely in a cold voice. ‘I’m Mrs Beck, the housekeeper. You will want to go to your rooms. Lunch has been delayed and will be served in half an hour in the dining room.’
If Auntie had expected a warm welcome, then she was disappointed. She acknowledged the housekeeper’s words with a dignified nod and asked, ‘Is Lady Meredith not at home?’
‘She will join you at lunch.’
Franny, going slowly up the stairs, her arm around her aunt, didn’t look at Mrs Beck. She knew with awful certainty that they shouldn’t have given in to Uncle William’s plans. But that was something she must keep to herself for the moment.
They had rooms on the first floor, comfortably furnished, with a shared bathroom. Auntie’s room had a small table and easy chair arranged near a gas fire, a bookcase and a reading lamp by the bed. Franny’s room was simply furnished—no fire, but a radiator in one corner, a narrow bed and an old-fashioned dressing table. It could have been a room in a small hotel—without colour, adequate and unwelcoming.
Mrs Beck went away. Hancock came with their luggage and Franny said, ‘Will you ask someone to bring us some coffee, please? I think my aunt would have wished us to have some.’
Hancock looked surprised, muttered something and went away.
Auntie was sitting in the easy chair. She looked so forlorn that Franny gave her a hug and said cheerfully, ‘I dare say Aunt Editha had to go out. You’re rather tired; we were up so early.’ She turned the gas fire on and waited until it glowed, then opened the first of her aunt’s cases.
She was arranging her aunt’s treasured photos and ornaments on the dressing table when a young girl came in with a tray on which were two cups of coffee and a small sugar bowl. She smiled in a friendly fashion and Franny thanked her and asked her name.
‘Jenny, miss. The kitchenmaid. And there’s Rose, the housemaid, and Mr Cox, the butler.’
When she had gone, Franny asked, ‘Has the house changed, Auntie? It looks exactly as mother described it to me.’
Auntie looked around the room. ‘The furniture is quite different. We had lovely antique furniture in our rooms—they were at the front of the house.’ She added drily, ‘This room, if I remember rightly, was our governess’s.’
‘Oh, I dare say they keep some of the rooms shut up nowadays,’ said Franny. ‘It must cost a lot to keep this place running.’
Auntie sipped her coffee. ‘Your uncle inherited a good deal of money as well as this house and the title.’
Franny thought it was a good idea to change the subject. She went to look out of the window, remarking on the wintry gardens below. ‘It will be nice for you to walk there later on,’ she pointed out. ‘I can’t think why Au
nt Editha didn’t give you a room on the ground floor so that you could go in and out easily.’ The idea of Auntie toiling up and down the stairs several times a day wasn’t very satisfactory.
A gong summoned them to lunch and they went downstairs and found Cox waiting in the hall, ready to show them the way.
This annoyed Auntie, and she said quite snappily, ‘There’s no need to treat us as guests. I was born and brought up here. I’m well aware of where the dining room is.’
Aunt Editha was already sitting at the table. She said, ‘Forgive me if I don’t get up. I’m exhausted after a meeting of the parish council. You had a good journey down, I hope? And you find your rooms comfortable?’
For all the world as though they were unexpected guests and not members of the family, thought Franny indignantly. She settled Auntie in her chair and sat down herself.
‘We had a comfortable journey, Aunt Editha. Is it not possible for Auntie to have a room on the ground floor? The stairs are very tiring for her and a room overlooking the garden would make it easier.’ She paused to look at the small portion of soup being ladled in to her bowl. ‘There’s a room beside the drawing room, isn’t there? Mother told me about it.’
Aunt Editha turned to Auntie. ‘If you are dissatisfied with your room you have only to say so. William and I considered the room you have been given to be entirely suitable.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Perhaps when the warm weather comes we may reconsider Franny’s suggestion. We have your welfare very much at heart.’
Franny didn’t believe a word of that, but she said nothing more. She had been silly to broach the subject so soon after their arrival, but she’d thought that as family she could speak openly. Presently she asked, ‘Where is Uncle William?’
‘He found it necessary to go into Wimborne. You will see him at dinner this evening. I expect you would both like to rest this afternoon; tea is at half past four in the drawing room.’