by Betty Neels
‘Mother,’ she said, and burst into tears…
The doctor sat on the bed beside her and took her in his arms again and let her cry until she was exhausted. When she had finally come to a stop, he mopped her face and said, ‘There’s my brave girl—and you must stay brave, Emma. I shall take you over to England this evening. We shall go to Mr Trump’s house, where you will stay for a few days. He will help you and advise you and make all the necessary arrangements. So, now I want you to come downstairs and eat something and pack a bag. We shall leave here as soon after five o’clock as possible.’
She peered at him through puffy eyelids. ‘Am I not to come back here?’
‘Of course you’re coming back. I shall come over and fetch you. But we will talk about that later. Just take enough with you for five or six days. I’m going to take Percy with me now; he will stay with Prince and Kulk until you come back.’
‘Did you phone Mr Trump? I’m sorry to give you so much trouble…’
‘Yes, I rang him and he is expecting you to stay. Don’t worry, Emma, he will explain everything to you this evening.’
‘But you can’t leave here—your patients, the hospital…’
‘Leave that to me.’ He gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘I’m going now. Be ready for me shortly after five o’clock.’
For Emma the day was endless. She packed her overnight bag, did her best to swallow the food Juffrouw Smit offered her and tried to think sensibly about the immediate future. But time and again her thoughts reverted to her mother and the awful suddenness of it all. She wanted desperately to know exactly what had happened. Perhaps she wouldn’t feel so grief-stricken once she knew that. She knew it was useless, but she longed to run from the house and go back to England without wasting a moment.
But five o’clock came at last and she stood ready to leave the moment the doctor came for her. She neither knew or cared how she got to Mr Trump; the doctor had said he would see to everything and she had thought no more about it.
When she had been waiting for ten minutes he finally came, but her nerves were on edge and when Juffrouw Smit offered him coffee and something to eat she could have screamed at the delay.
He took a quick look at her tense face, declined the offer and picked up her case. He was tired and hungry, for he had spent time arranging their journey as well as doing his hospital round and then leaving his registrar to deal with anything urgent.
Emma bade a hasty goodbye to Juffrouw Smit and made for the door, impatiently listening to the doctor telling his secretary that he would be there in the morning for his patients. He spoke in Dutch, but as far as Emma was concerned it could have been any language under the sun; if only they could start their journey…
She wondered from where they would get a ferry—and surely it would be far into the night before they got to Mr Trump’s house?
As though he had read her thoughts, Dr van Dyke said, ‘Just a short drive. There’s a plane waiting for us at Schipol; we will be at Heathrow in an hour or so.’
She hardly noticed anything of their journey; she was deeply thankful that she would be back in England so quickly, and at any other time she would have been thrilled and delighted at the speed with which they travelled, but now all she could think of was to get to Mr Trump as quickly as possible.
It seemed perfectly natural that a car should be waiting at Heathrow. She had thanked the pilot when they left the plane and hardly noticed the ease with which they went from it to the car.
The doctor, who had had very little to say on their journey, asked now, ‘You know where Mr Trump lives? I have his address but I am not familiar with Richmond.’
Half an hour later they were sitting in Mr Trump’s drawing room, drinking coffee while his wife plied them with sandwiches. To her offer of a bed for the night the doctor gave a grateful refusal. ‘I’ve arranged to fly back at eleven o’clock; I have appointments I cannot break in the morning.’
The quiet normality of Mr Trump’s home had restored some of Emma’s habitual calm. ‘But you can’t,’ she declared. ‘You’ll be tired. Surely there is someone who could take over for you…?’
She wished she hadn’t said that; he had gone to a great deal of trouble to get her to Mr Trump but of course he wanted to get back to his home and his practice as soon as possible. She had disrupted his day most dreadfully.
She said quickly, ‘I’m sorry. Of course you know what is best. I’m very grateful—I can never thank you enough… Of course you must go back home as quickly as possible.’
The doctor got up to go. ‘I shall be back for your mother’s funeral, Emma.’ He took her hands in his. ‘Mr Trump will take care of everything for you.’ He bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Be a brave girl, my dear.’
He shook hands with Mrs Trump and went out of the room with Mr Trump. The two men had talked on the phone at some length during the day, and now the doctor said, ‘I will arrange things so that I can get here for the funeral and stay for several days. It is very good of you to have Emma to stay.’
‘My wife and I are very fond of her, and we have always thought that she had less fun out of life than most girls. She was splendid when her father died. There’s Salcombe to decide about, of course.’
‘If you think it a good idea I’ll drive her there.’
‘That might be a very good idea. I’m grateful to you for getting her here so quickly.’
They shook hands and the doctor drove back to Heathrow and was flown back to Schipol, to get thankfully into his car and take himself home. Tomorrow he would get his plans made so that he could go back to England for as long as Emma needed him.
Mr Trump vetoed Emma’s request for an account of her mother’s death. ‘You are tired,’ he told her. ‘Go to bed and sleep—for I’m sure that you will, whatever you think. In the morning we will sit quietly and I will tell you all that I know. I can promise you that your mother and her friend died instantly; they would have known nothing.’
Emma, worn out by grief and the nightmare day, went to her bed and fell at once into exhausted sleep.
Facing her as she sat opposite him in his study the next morning, Mr Trump saw that she was composed and capable of listening to what he had to say. ‘I will tell you exactly what happened, and then we must discuss what arrangements you will wish to be made…’
It was almost a week later, on the evening before her mother’s funeral, that Emma went into Mr Trump’s drawing room and found Dr van Dyke there.
He got up and went to her at once and took her hands in his.
‘Emma—how are you? Mr Trump tells me that you have been such a help to him…’
‘Have you come…? That is, will you be here tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Mr Trump and I have talked it over and he agrees with me that, if you agree, I should drive you down to Salcombe after the funeral. You will have several matters to deal with there.’
‘Oh, would you do that? Thank you.’ She found her hands were still in his and withdrew them gently. ‘But you will want to get back to Holland…’
‘No, no. I don’t need to return for several days. Ample time in which you can attend to matters.’ He smiled down at her. ‘When everything is settled to your satisfaction, I’ll take you back to Amsterdam.’
Mrs Trump bustled in then. ‘Had your little chat?’ she asked comfortably. ‘I’ll bring in the tea tray; I’m sure we could all do with a cup.’
The doctor went after tea, saying that he would be back in the morning. The funeral was to be at eleven o’clock and he proposed driving Emma down to Salcombe shortly afterwards. From what Mr Trump had told him there would be small debts to pay in the town, and an interview with the bank manager.
‘I suspect,’ Mr Trump had said thoughtfully, ‘that there is no money—indeed, there may be an overdraft. Of course, the bank were not able to tell me this on the phone, but I feel I should warn you.’
‘Will you let me know if there is any difficulty? You may count on me to deal
with any.’
Mr Trump had given him a sharp glance. ‘I don’t think that Emma would like to be in your debt, even though you have proved yourself to be such a good friend.’
The doctor had only smiled.
It was a grey afternoon by the time he drove away from Mr Trump’s house with a silent Emma beside him. The funeral had been quiet; there were no close relatives to attend, although there had been friends who had known her mother when she had lived at Richmond. They had been kind to Emma, saying all the right things but careful not to ask as to her future. It had only been the Trumps who’d wished her a warm goodbye, with the assurance that she was to come and stay with them whenever she felt like it. And Mr Trump had added that she could count on him for advice and help in any way.
There was no will; her mother had delayed making one, declaring that making a will was a morbid thing to do, and he had explained that there might be very little money.
‘The cottage will be yours, of course, and I’ll see to that for you, and its contents, but I know of nothing else. You will need to see your bank manager… Ask him to get in touch with me if there are any difficulties.’
So Emma had a lot to think about, but the first muddle of her thoughts must be sorted out, so it was a relief when the doctor said cheerfully, ‘Do you want to talk? Perhaps you would rather have your thoughts?’
‘I’ve had them all week,’ said Emma bleakly, ‘and they’ve got me nowhere.’
‘Then think them out loud; perhaps I can help?’
‘You’ve done so much already. I can never repay you.’ All the same she went on, ‘I’ve forgotten to do so much. The cottage—I should have written to Mrs Pike, who used to clean it for us—and asked her to go and turn on the water and the electricity; it’s always turned off when there is nobody there…’
‘That’s been dealt with,’ he told her, ‘and there will be food in the fridge and the beds made.’
‘Oh, did Mrs Trump think of it? She’s been so kind.’
He didn’t correct her. ‘So that’s one problem settled. What’s next?’
Slowly, all her doubts and fears came tumbling out, but she stopped short at her biggest fear: her own future. The doctor hadn’t said any more about her going back to Amsterdam and she could hardly blame him; she had been enough trouble to him. But if, as Mr Trump had hinted, there wasn’t much money in the bank, she would have to find work quickly. ‘What about Percy?’ she asked suddenly.
‘I left him in splendid spirits. He and Prince are devoted; he even climbs into Prince’s basket and sleeps with him. They may not look alike but they are obviously soul mates.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to observe that they would miss each other when Percy came back to England, but she stopped herself in time; the doctor might think she was trying, in a roundabout way, to find out if he intended to employ her. Instead she said, ‘I must see to things at the cottage.’ A task she dreaded—sorting out her mother’s possessions, her clothes, looking through her papers.
‘Only after you have seen your bank manager and Mr Trump has advised you.’
He gave her a quick sideways glance. ‘Mr Trump told me how splendidly you coped when your father died; you will cope splendidly now, Emma.’
They were on the A303 by now, going fast through an early dusk, but as a roadside service station came into sight he slowed.
‘Tea, don’t you think? We still have quite a way to go.’
Over tea and toasted teacakes she asked him anxiously, ‘You don’t have to drive back this evening, do you? And won’t you be too late for the evening ferry? I didn’t think—I’m sorry I’ve made things so difficult for you.’
‘Not at all. I’m staying at Salcombe until you’ve got things settled as you want them.’
‘Staying in Salcombe? But it might be days…’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve taken a week or so off.’ He smiled at her across the table—such a kind smile that her heart gave a happy little skip; he would be there, helpful and self-assured, knowing what had to be done and how to do it. She smiled widely at him. ‘Oh, how very nice—and how kind of you. It will be all the quicker with two, won’t it?’
He agreed gravely and passed his cup for more tea, and Emma, feeling happier than she had done for days, bit with something like an appetite into her toasted teacake.
It was a dark evening by the time he parked the Rolls by the pub, took out her case and his own, and went with her to the cottage. He took the key from her and opened the door, switched on the lights and ushered her inside.
There were logs ready to light in the small fireplace, and he put a match to them before she had closed the door, and although the little room was chilly it was cheerful.
‘While you put the kettle on,’ he said briskly, ‘I’ll take the cases up. Which was your room?’
‘On the left… Cases? But there’s only my overnight bag—the case is in the car.’
He was halfway up the narrow stairs. ‘I’ll have the other room.’ He looked over his shoulder at her surprised face. ‘Did you really suppose that I would dump your things and leave you on your own?’
‘Well,’ said Emma, ‘I don’t think I’d thought about it.’ She paused. ‘No, that’s not true. I’ve been dreading being alone here. I thought you would have booked a room in one of the hotels and driven back in the morning.’
‘You must think me a very poor-spirited friend. But now we’ve cleared the matter up, go and make the tea; while we drink it we will decide what we will cook for supper.’
She took off her coat and went into the kitchen. She put the kettle on and got a teapot and mugs, then peered into the fridge. There was milk there, eggs and butter, bacon and a small loaf of bread.
‘There’s bacon and eggs and bread and butter,’ she told him as he came into the kitchen, and he saw with relief that the shadow of sorrow had lifted from her face. She was pale and tired and unhappy, but the sharpness of her grief had been melted away by familiar surroundings and his matter-of-fact acceptance of events. Without thinking about it, she had accepted his company as a perfectly natural thing. Which was what he had hoped for.
She cooked their supper presently, while he laid the table, and when they had washed up they sat by the fire talking. There were plans to be made but he wouldn’t allow her to get too serious about them. Beyond agreeing with her that seeing the bank manager was something which needed to be done as soon as possible, he began to discuss what groceries they would need to buy and the necessity of visiting Mrs Pike.
It was only much later, when she was in bed and on the edge of sleep, that she remembered that if she was to stay in Salcombe she wouldn’t need that lady’s services. And tomorrow, she promised herself, she would ask the doctor if he still wished to employ her.
She was awakened by his cheerful bellow urging her to come down to the kitchen and have her early-morning tea. She had slept all night, and although at the moment of waking she had felt a remembering grief, it was no longer an unbearable ache. She dragged on her dressing gown and went downstairs, and found the doctor, in a vast pullover, with his hair uncombed and a bristly chin, pouring the tea into mugs. His good morning was cheerfully impersonal. ‘I can see you’ve slept well. While you drink your tea I’ll go and shave.’
‘Have you been up long? I didn’t hear you.’
‘Proof that you slept well; your shower is the noisiest I’ve ever come across. While you cook breakfast I’ll go and get some rolls; they should be hot from the oven.’
It was a cold bright morning when, after breakfast, they walked through the town to the bank. At its door Emma said hesitantly, ‘Would you mind coming with me? I’m sure there’s nothing I can’t understand or deal with, but just in case there’s something…’
The manager received them gravely, uttering the established condolences, enquiring after Emma’s health, and acknowledging the doctor’s presence with a thoughtful look. He opened the folder on his desk and coughed.
‘I�
�m afraid that what I have to tell you is of a rather disturbing nature, although I am sure we can come to some decision together. There was a small sum of money in your joint account with your mother to which you added before you went to Holland. Not a great deal of money, but sufficient to give your mother a modicum of security. She had her pension, of course, and she gave me to understand that she had no need to contribute to household expenses so that the pension was an adequate amount for her personal needs. Unfortunately she spent her money freely, and when the account was empty persuaded me to allow her an over-draft, assuring me that you would repay it. In short, she spent a good deal more than the overdraft and there are a number of debts outstanding.’
Emma asked in a small shocked voice, ‘But what could she have spent the money on? Her pension was enough for clothes and spending money—there was a few hundred in our account. Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. I’m sorry, Miss Dawson, but I was assured by your mother that there were funds she could call upon, and since I have known your parents for a number of years I saw no reason to question that.’
‘Besides the bank, do you know to whom she owed money?’
‘I hold a number of cheques which the bank have refused to pay. It would be quite in order for you to have them and settle them personally. I suggest that I should open an account here in your name so that you can settle the accounts at your convenience.’
‘But I haven’t…’ began Emma, but was stopped by Dr van Dyke’s calm voice.
‘That is sound advice, Emma. Allow Mr Ansty to open a new account in your name, and perhaps he would be good enough to tell me how much is needed to cover any payments.’ When Emma opened her mouth to protest, he said, ‘No, Emma, allow me to deal with this for the moment.’
There was something in his voice which stopped her saying anything more. Only she gave a little gasp when Mr Ansty told the doctor how much was needed to cover the debts and the overdraft. After that she didn’t listen while the two men dealt with it, for her mind was wholly occupied with the ways and means of paying back so vast a sum. How on earth was she going to do it?