by Betty Neels
‘You’d like Wibeke—Mrs Wolff…’
‘Shall I? How did you meet?’
Emma had glossed over her second job; her mother would have been horrified to know that she was doing someone else’s housework. ‘Oh,’ she said vaguely, ‘she is staying for a week in a rented cottage.’
There was no need to say more for her mother had lost interest.
As it turned out, the tea party was a success. Wibeke was a lively talker, full of the light-hearted gossip Mrs Dawson enjoyed, and willing to discuss the latest fashions, the newest plays and films, who was marrying whom and who was getting divorced. When she and the children had gone, Mrs Dawson pronounced her to be a very nice young woman.
‘Obviously married well and leading a pleasant social life.’ She looked reproachfully at Emma as she spoke. ‘Just as you would have if you hadn’t been so foolish about Derek.’ And when Emma didn’t reply she added, ‘I must say the children were quiet.’
Well, of course they were, reflected Emma, who had made it her business to keep them occupied—first with a good tea and then with a visit to her bedroom, where they had been allowed to open cupboards and drawers, try on her hats and shoes while George took the books from her bookshelf and piled them in neat heaps. For a three-year-old he was a bright child, so she had hugged him and told him that he was a clever boy, and that had led to hugs for the little girls, too. She felt a stab of envy of Wibeke…
The doctor called on his sister in the late evening.
She gave him a drink and sat down opposite him in the little living room.
‘We all went to Emma’s cottage and had tea. Have you met her mother? Darling, she’s a ball and chain round Emma’s neck. Charming, small and dainty and wistful, harping on about having to live here after an obviously comfortable life at Richmond. Told me that Emma had chosen to reject some man or other who wanted to marry her.’
The doctor smiled. ‘Ah, yes, the rat…’
Wibeke sat up. ‘You know about him? Have you met him?’
‘I happened to be handy at the time. He would never have done for Emma.’
‘Perhaps she will meet a man here, though she doesn’t have much of a social life. Not that she says much; it’s what she doesn’t say…’
‘Quite. Is Harry coming down on Saturday to see you back home?’
This was a change of conversation not to be ignored. ‘Yes, bless him. He’ll take George and most of the luggage, and I’ll have the girls. We plan to leave quite early.’ She peeped at the doctor. ‘Before Emma starts her cleaning.’
And if she had expected an answer to that, she didn’t get it.
When Emma got to the cottages in the morning there was a good deal of bustle. The children, reluctant to go, were being stowed into their mother’s car, and Wibeke was fastening George into his seat behind his father, who was packing in the luggage.
‘We’re off,’ cried Wibeke as soon as she saw Emma. ‘This is Harry. Come and say hello and goodbye!’
Which Emma did, uncaring of the fact that she would be late starting her day’s cleaning and sorry to see them go. She had liked Wibeke and Wibeke had liked her; they could have been friends…
The little lane seemed very quiet when they had driven away, as Emma fetched her bucket and brushes and started work.
It was a scramble to be finished by six o’clock, and the second lot of tenants drove up as she closed the door. She had managed to get one cottage ready in time for the early arrival of its occupants, but she told herself that, despite the extra money, one more week of doing two persons’ work was all she intended to do.
She told Mrs Brooke-Tigh that when she stowed away her cleaning things.
‘You young women are all the same,’ said Mrs Brooke-Tigh nastily. ‘Do as little as you can get away with for as much as possible.’
‘Well,’ said Emma sweetly, ‘if you cleaned two of the cottages you would only need to find one young woman.’
Mrs Brooke-Tigh gave her a look of horrified indignation. Emma didn’t give her a chance to reply but wished her good evening and went home. She was tired and, not only that, she was dispirited; the future, as far as she could see, was uninviting. The pleasant hours she had spent with Wibeke and the children had made that clear.
As though that wasn’t bad enough, she was met by her mother’s excited admission that she had seen the most charming dress at the boutique. ‘Such a sweet colour, palest blue—you know how that suits me, dear—I just had to have it. I’ve not had anything new for months. When your dear father was alive he never grudged me anything.’
Emma took off her shoes from her aching feet. ‘Mother, Father had money; we haven’t—only just enough to keep us going. How much was the dress?’
Her mother pouted. ‘I knew you’d make a fuss.’ She began to weep tears of self-pity. ‘And to think that everything could have been so different if only you hadn’t sent Derek away.’
Too tired to argue, Emma went to the kitchen to start the supper, and while she cooked it she drank a mug of very strong tea—a bottle of brandy would have been nice, or champagne. In fact anything which would drown her feeling of frustration. Something would have to be done, but what? Her mother had made up her mind to be unhappy at Salcombe; she had always taken it for granted that anything she wanted she could have and she had made no attempt to understand that that was no longer possible. If only something would happen…
She was coming out of the bakery on Monday morning when she met Dr van Dyke going in. He wasted no time on polite greetings. ‘The very person I wanted to see. Wait while I get my pasties.’
Outside the shop, Emma asked, ‘Why do you fetch pasties? Haven’t you got a housekeeper or someone to look after you?’
‘Yes, yes, of course I have, but when I have a visit at one of the outlying farms I take my lunch with me. Don’t waste time asking silly questions. One of my partners is unexpectedly short of a receptionist and general dogsbody. No time to go to an agency or advertise. He’s a bit desperate. Would you care to take on the job, Monday to Friday, until he can get things sorted out? Half past eight until eleven o’clock, then five in the afternoon until half past six.’
She stood gaping at him. ‘You really mean it? Would I really do?’
‘I don’t see why not; you seem a sensible girl. Oh, and there’s no evening surgery on Tuesdays and Thursdays.’
‘So I could still work at the library?’
‘Yes. Come up to the surgery after eleven o’clock and see Dr Walters. Talk it over with him.’
He nodded goodbye and strode away. Emma watched him go, not quite believing any of it but knowing that after eleven o’clock she would be at the surgery, doing her best to look like a suitable applicant for the post of receptionist.
She did the rest of the shopping in a hopeful haze, hurried home to tidy her unruly hair and get into her less scruffy sandals, told her mother that she would be back for lunch and made her way through the town.
The surgery was at the back of the town, away from the main street. It was pleasantly situated in a quiet street, and even if the surgery hours were over it was still busy. Bidden to wait, since Dr Walters was seeing his last patient, Emma sat down in the waiting room and whiled away ten minutes or so leafing through out-of-date copies of country magazines, at the same time rehearsing the kind of replies she might be expected to give. Since she had no idea of the questions she would be asked, it was a fruitless occupation.
The moment she entered Dr Walters’s surgery she knew that she need not have worried. He was a small middle-aged man, with the kind of trustful face which made women want to mother him. He was also a very good doctor, though untidy, and forgetful of anything which wasn’t connected with his work or his patients. His desk was an untidy mass of papers, patients’ notes, various forms and a pile of unopened letters.
He got up as she went in, dislodging papers and knocking over a small pot full of pens.
‘Miss Dawson.’ He came round the desk to sha
ke hands. ‘Dr van Dyke told me that you might consider helping out—my receptionist and secretary, Mrs Crump, had to leave at a moment’s notice—her daughter has had an accident. She will return, of course, but I need help until she does.’
He waved Emma to a chair and went back behind the desk. ‘Have you any experience of this type of work?’
‘None at all—’ there was no point in pretending otherwise ‘—but I can answer the telephone, file papers, sort out the post, make appointments and usher patients in and out.’
Dr Walters peered at her over his old-fashioned spectacles. ‘You’re honest. Shall we give it a trial? I’m desperate for help with the paperwork. I can’t pay you the usual salary because you aren’t trained. Could we settle for—let me see…’ He named a sum which made Emma blink.
‘I’m not worth that much,’ she told him, ‘but I’d like the job.’
‘It’s yours until Mrs Crump gets back. If after a week I think that you don’t deserve the money I’ll reduce it. No references—Dr van Dyke seems to know enough about you. Start tomorrow? Half past eight? We’ll see how we get on.’
For all his mild appearance, Emma reflected, he certainly knew his own mind.
The next few months were the happiest Emma had spent since her father died. She sorted patients’ notes from letters, and letters from the endless junk mail, she kept the doctor’s desk tidy, and saw that the day’s patients were clearly listed and laid on his blotter where he couldn’t possibly mislay the list, she answered the phone and booked patients in and out. She didn’t attempt to do any of Mrs Crump’s skilled jobs, and she had no doubt that that lady would have a great deal of work to deal with when she returned, but she did her best and Dr Walters, once he realised her limitations, made no complaint.
And in all that time she barely glimpsed Dr van Dyke. A brief good morning if they should meet at the surgery, a wave of the hand if she passed him on her way home… She told herself that there was no reason for him to do more than acknowledge her, but all the same she was disappointed.
All the wrong men like me, she thought crossly, and when I do meet a man I would like to know better he ignores me.
The season was at its height when Mrs Dawson received an invitation to go and stay with an elderly couple who had been friendly with her and her husband before his death. The friendship had cooled, but now it seemed that sufficient time had glossed over the unfortunate circumstances following his death and they expressed themselves delighted at the prospect of a visit from her.
‘So kind,’ declared Mrs Dawson. ‘Of course I shall accept! How delightful it will be to go back to the old life, even if it is only for a few weeks. You will be able to manage on your own, won’t you, Emma? You are so seldom home these days, and although I’m sure you don’t mean to neglect me I am sometimes lonely. There is so little to do,’ she added peevishly.
There were several answers to that, but Emma uttered none of them.
‘I shall be perfectly all right, Mother. You’ll enjoy the change, won’t you? When do they want you to go? We must see about travelling. Someone will meet you at Paddington?’
‘Yes, I couldn’t possibly manage on my own. I shall need some new clothes…’
Emma thought of the small nest egg at the bank. ‘I’m sure we can manage something; you have some pretty dresses…’
‘Last year’s,’ snapped her mother. ‘Everyone will recognise them.’ She added, ‘After all, you take half my pension each week.’
They mustn’t quarrel, thought Emma. ‘You will have all of it while you are away,’ she pointed out gently, ‘and we’ll put our heads together about some new clothes for you.’
‘I must say that since your father died, Emma, you have become very bossy and mean. I suppose it’s the result of living here in this poky little cottage with no social life.’
‘Now I’m working at the medical centre I haven’t much time to be sociable. And, Mother, we couldn’t manage unless I had a job. When do you plan to go?’
‘On Friday. I’ll collect my pension on Thursday; that will give me a little money in my purse. I want to go to the boutique tomorrow and see if there is anything that I can afford.’ She looked at Emma. ‘How much money can I spend?’
When Emma told her, she said, ‘Not nearly enough, but I suppose I’ll have to manage.’
A most unsatisfactory conversation, thought Emma, lying in bed and doing sums in her head that night. Mrs Crump wasn’t going to stay at home for ever. Sooner or later she would lose her job, and with summer coming to an end so would the kind of jobs she could apply for. Of course she could live more cheaply when her mother had gone, but once summer was over there would be the cottage to keep warm and lighted.
She shook up her pillows again, determined to think of something else. And that wasn’t at all satisfactory, for all she could think about was the complete lack of interest in her envinced by Dr van Dyke.
Mrs Dawson spent a good deal more money than Emma had bargained for. There had been such a splendid choice, her mother enthused, and really the prices were so reasonable it would have been foolish to ignore such bargains. At least she was happy getting ready for her visit, talking about nothing else.
Emma, tidying books on the library shelves, listening to Phoebe’s cheerful gossip, thought about her day with Dr Walters. He had been untidier than usual, and his morning patients had taken longer than usual too. It had been almost one o’clock before she had been ready to leave, and then she had discovered his scribbled note asking her to return for an hour that afternoon as he had arranged to see a patient privately.
She had hurried home, got lunch and rushed to the shops with her Mother’s wispy voice echoing in her ears; there was so much to tell her about the letter she had received from her friends and Emma couldn’t be bothered to stay and listen. Emma, racing in and out of the butcher, the greengrocer and the bakery, prayed for patience…!
Getting her mother away on time, properly packed and the journey made as easy as possible, hadn’t been the problem she had feared. Mrs Craig had offered to drive her mother to Totnes to catch the train, and the prospect of leaving Salcombe had changed her from a disgruntled woman to a charming lady who, having got what she wanted, was prepared to be nice to everyone. All the same Emma, who loved her mother, missed her.
Life became more leisurely as there was less of everything to do: meals didn’t need to be on time, the cottage, with only her in it, was easy to keep clean and tidy, and it no longer mattered if she needed to stay late at the surgery.
Her mother was happy too; she had met several old friends, all of whom wanted her to visit them. ‘I shan’t be home yet,’ she told Emma gleefully. Emma, relieved to know that her mother was once more living the life she enjoyed, permitted herself to forget the worries of the forth-coming winter. The summer was sliding gently into autumn, and although there were still plenty of visitors very soon now the shops would close for the winter. And still there was no news of Mrs Crump’s return…
Her mother had been gone for two weeks when Dr Walters, sipping coffee after the morning surgery, began tossing the papers on his desk all over the place. He found what he wanted, a letter, and he put on his glasses.
‘News, Emma. I have heard from Mrs Crump. She at last sees her way clear to returning to work.’ He glanced at the letter. ‘In a week’s time. That brings us to Friday, which is most convenient for there is no surgery on Saturday, so you will be able to leave after Friday evening surgery.’
He beamed at her across the desk. ‘I must say I shall be sorry to see you go; you have been of great help to me. I’m sure I don’t know how I would have managed without you. You will be glad to be free again, no doubt?’
‘Yes,’ said Emma steadily, ‘that will be nice, Dr Walters, although I have enjoyed working here for you. I expect Mrs Crump will be delighted to come back to work and you will be equally pleased to have her.’
‘Indeed, I shall.’ He put down his cup. ‘I must be off. I’
ll leave you to clear up and I’ll see you this evening.’
Emma set about putting the place to rights, her thoughts chaotic. She should have been prepared for the news but she had been lulled by several weeks of silence from Mrs Crump so that leaving had become a comfortably vague event which she didn’t need to be worried about just yet. She would have to set about finding another job, for her hours at the library would hardly keep body and soul together.
She finished her chores and left the medical centre just as Dr van Dyke got out of his car. For once he stopped to speak to her.
‘Rather late leaving, aren’t you? Not being over-worked, are you?’
‘No, no, thank you.’ She tried to think of something casual to say, but her mind was blank and at any moment now she was going to burst into tears.
‘I must hurry,’ she told him, and almost ran down the road.
He stood watching her fast retreating back, frowning; he had been careful to avoid her during the past months, aware that she attracted him and just as aware that he would be returning to Holland within a few weeks and that to allow the attraction to grow would be foolhardy. Perhaps it was a good thing that she showed no signs of even liking him.
He went along to his surgery and forgot about her. But later that evening he allowed his thoughts to return to her, smiling a little at her rage at the hotel and then again at the quite different Emma, playing with the children on the sands.
Back at the cottage, Emma gave way to her feelings. The situation called for a good cry, not a gentle flow of tears easily wiped away with a dainty hanky and a few sighs. She sat bawling her eyes out, her face awash, sniffing and snuffling and wiping away the tears with her hands, catching her breath like a child. It was a great relief, and presently she found a hanky and mopped her face and felt better. It was something which she had known would happen, and she told herself that it wasn’t the end of the world; she would soon find another job—probably not as well paid, but enough to live on. It was a good thing that her mother was away…
She washed her sodden face, tidied her hair and made a sandwich and a pot of tea, and, not wishing to show her red nose and puffy lids to the outside world, spent the afternoon doing the ironing. By the time it was necessary to go back to work she was almost herself again, fortified by yet more tea and careful repairs to her face.