by Betty Neels
She was shown a small room, its walls lined with books behind glass-fronted cases and, she suspected, seldom read. But there was a comfortable desk under the window and a plentiful supply of notepaper. She spent the next hour or so happily writing to her family.
Diana greeted her petulantly. She declared that she hadn’t slept at all, that she felt ill, that her eyes hurt her and she had no appetite for breakfast. ‘I suppose you slept like a log,’ she observed crossly, ‘you’re such a great healthy creature.’
Euphemia held her tongue. There was no point in annoying Diana still further. She was a bad-tempered girl, given to self-pity, although probably the doctor hadn’t discovered that yet. She coaxed Diana from her bed, massaged her neck to dispel another headache, ran her bath and then brushed her hair. The mumps had caused it to fall out here and there and without its regular tinting it was returning to its normal brown; besides, it looked dull and lifeless. It was surprising what a good brushing did for it, though. Dressed and carefully made up, Diana looked a good deal better and in consequence consented to walk in the garden for a little while. The rest of the morning she spent on a chaise-longue, a big-brimmed hat protecting her pallid face from the sun and oiling herself with sun lotion, and Euphemia perforce sat beside her, a cotton sun-hat perched carelessly on top of her gleaming dark hair and not bothering about lotions, listening to her companion’s endless chatter about herself, her clothes, and the number of friends she had, none of whom, it seemed, she liked. ‘I’ve always been popular,’ she informed Euphemia smugly, ‘especially with men—I’ve had simply loads of them wanting to marry me. I don’t suppose you’ve had a proposal, have you?’
‘No,’ said Euphemia goodnaturedly, feeling sorry for the girl even while she disliked her; how awful to be so wrapped up in herself. ‘How did you meet Dr van Diederijk?’ she asked.
Diana smirked. ‘At a friend’s house—oh, almost a year ago, and we became engaged six months later, I’m precisely the wife Tane wants, of course I understand the running of a large house and I’m a good hostess.’ Her dark spiteful gaze rested for a moment on Euphemia’s C & A cotton dress and the sun-hat, perched so carelessly. ‘I know how to dress too.’
Euphemia, aware of the look, thought she would know how to dress too if she could have a purse as deep as Diana’s, but she refrained from saying so and listened with astonishment and disgust to Diana’s: ‘I don’t intend to have a child, but Tane’s got so many brothers and sisters I can’t see that it would matter. I mean, his name can be carried on by any of their children.’
Euphemia was glad that she was wearing her dark glasses. She said evenly: ‘I should think that being married without having children was like eating beef without mustard.’
‘What an extraordinary thing to say! I’m far too delicate in the first place, and I don’t care for children—I have no doubt Tane will understand and agree with me—he has only just begun to realise how frail I am.’
Euphemia turned a snort into a cough. ‘How fortunate that you’re marrying a doctor,’ and then suddenly sick of the conversation: ‘How about a gentle swim in the pool—it’s very good for getting you back into shape.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my shape—I’m a little slimmer than usual, that’s all.’ Diana glanced town at her beanpole figure with complacency. ‘But you may be right—it’s a pity you don’t know anything about massage.’
‘Yes, isn’t it.’ Euphemia made her voice sound casually friendly. ‘But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t get someone from Jerez to come up here.’
They spent ten minutes or so in the pool while Diana swam languidly up and down and then declared herself exhausted again. ‘And you’d better come with me,’ she declared. ‘I feel quite faint.’
Euphemia muttered under her breath. Diana was a hypochondriac and getting worse with every passing hour— Tane van Diederijk must love her very much.
He telephoned after lunch that day, and Diana took the call and went straight to her room afterwards, while Euphemia wandered off into the shady corners of the garden once more and wondered what he had said.
The days passed slowly. It was soon obvious that Diana and her aunt did not intend to leave the house or the garden; the pair of them lay about, complaining of the heat. Indeed, Euphemia saw very little of Mrs Kellard, for apart from the elaborate dinner each evening, she remained on one chaise-longue or other, reading or telephoning her friends. The idea of entertaining her niece hadn’t entered her head, and when Euphemia mildly suggested that they might take a drive in the cool of the late afternoon or go into Jerez in the early morning and see something of the town, she met with no success at all. ‘Though I suppose if you want to go, there’s nothing to stop you,’ said Diana ungraciously. ‘Tane said something about you having some time to yourself, but you don’t do anything all day, do you?’
Euphemia didn’t answer that. She was hardly overworked, but the hair brushing, rubbing in of lotions and creams, the fetching and carrying and coaxing to get up in the morning, to eat, to sleep, to take exercise, to swim—her day wasn’t her own; certainly the only time she felt quite free was in the morning before everyone else was up.
‘I should like that,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I’ll go when you’re settled in the garden tomorrow morning.’
Diana looked surprised. ‘Oh, all right, if you must—I daresay I’ll find some shopping for you to do.’ She added sharply: ‘I don’t suppose Aunt will let you have the car.’
‘I don’t want it, thank you. I shall enjoy the walk.’
At dinner that evening Euphemia was told that she was foolish to walk into Jerez. ‘It’s two miles at least and the road’s bad,’ said Mrs Kellard. ‘I should have thought that a nurse would have more sense.’
Euphemia just smiled and said nothing. She never talked much at meals; for one thing, she wasn’t often addressed by her companions, and for another she needed as much time as possible to eat enough to keep her going while they pecked at their food.
Euphemia had made friends with the housekeeper and the gardener and was on nodding terms with the maids. They had told her where to go in Jerez and pointed out that there was a bus where the lane from the house joined the main road; it ran infrequently, but she might find it useful on the return journey. And she got away more quickly than she had hoped. Diana wanted quite a long list of things, so many in fact that Euphemia said that she might not get back in time for lunch.
‘Well, that’s your worry,’ said Diana rudely. ‘The servants don’t do anything between half past one and four o’clock—you’ll have to eat out, though I don’t suppose it would hurt you to miss a meal.’
Euphemia’s tawny eyes sparkled with rage. She said sweetly: ‘I expect it’s the mumps which has left you so irritable. Perhaps we should get a doctor…’
She whisked out of the room and out of the house and instantly felt better—after all, there were only eight days left of Diana’s company, it was a heavenly morning, and she was free to potter round Jerez. She would be there in half an hour or so.
Only she wasn’t. She had reached the narrow side gate Maria had told her would be a short cut when she heard a child crying. There was no one in the garden. Euphemia opened the gate and peered around her; the crying was faint and disjointed and it took her a few moments to locate its source—a small boy lying by the side of the lane. He was extremely dirty and wearing a torn T-shirt and brief, ragged trousers; moreover his face was bloodstained, as were his hands.
Euphemia hurried smartly across the lane and knelt beside him. The blood was from a nasty scalp wound and had partly dried, making his dirty face and hands even worse than they were, and his small monkey face was screwed up with fright and pain. Euphemia took her handkerchief and wiped his tears away and said, ‘There, there, you’ll soon be better.’ He stopped his sobs for a moment to break into a torrent of Spanish. She couldn’t understand a word, but she cuddled him close and after a few minutes he stopped crying and let her look at his he
ad.
It was a nasty jagged cut which had bled a lot and since he had touched it with his hands heaven only knew if it was infected or not. She smiled reassuringly at him and noticed that his pupils were unequal, a sign that there was some local brain damage, she hoped nothing serious. But now she had to get help for him without delay, and luckily the house was only a couple of minutes’ walk away; she would carry him there, put him to rest somewhere quiet, clean him up and get someone to telephone the doctor. He was only a little boy and she guessed not over-nourished, and it was easy enough to carry him up to the house. The front door stood open and it was the nearest. She made for it and had a foot inside the house when Mrs Kellard, coming slowly down the stairs, saw her and let out a shriek.
‘It’s all right,’ said Euphemia soothingly, ‘I found this child just outside the gate, he’s been injured. If I could put him on a bed while someone telephones the doctor…’
Mrs Kellard seemed to swell with her indignation. ‘You must be mad! Bring a filthy brat into my house—heaven knows what dirt and disease he’ll bring with him. Don’t come a step nearer!’
‘Then may I take him to the servants’ entrance?’ Euphemia looked down at the small face against her shoulder. The child was only semi-conscious and needed help quickly. She looked up and saw Diana hanging over the banisters. ‘Diana, this poor child is injured, will you help me?’
‘Certainly not—God knows where he’s from. They’re tough, these peasants, he’ll get over it if you put him by the side of the lane—anyhow, someone will find him.’
Euphemia felt sick with horror. ‘But you must!’ she reiterated. ‘His mother…’
‘Won’t have missed him,’ interposed Mrs Kellard crisply. ‘They have so many children they wouldn’t even notice.’
Euphemia turned on her heel. There was a good deal she intended to say, but that would have to come later. First get help for the child. If she had known how to telephone she would have done so, but she didn’t; the best thing was to carry the child down the lane to the main road and get help there. She started off down the drive, aware now that the child, light though he was, was getting heavier every minute. She was round the bend out of sight of the house when she heard a car coming, a shabby taxi, chugging up along the incline. She shouted ‘Stop!’ as it hove in sight, but there had been no need for that; it had already done so with a fine squealing of brakes. Its door opened and Dr van Diederijk jumped out.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE DOCTOR took the child from her and laid him gently on a grassy patch between the shrubs. ‘Surely you would do better to go to the house?’ he suggested without bothering to greet her.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Euphemia furiously. ‘I’ve already been there. They—Mrs Kellard—wouldn’t let me go in with him. He’s dirty, you see.’ The scorn in her voice caused the doctor to give her a searching look through narrowed eyes. ‘I was taking him down to the main road— I thought I’d get a lift into Jerez, to the hospital—there must be one…’ She put a gentle hand on the matted hair. ‘He’s concussed—he was conscious when I found him, about ten minutes ago.’
The doctor didn’t look at her, he was examining the little boy with careful hands. ‘That’s a nasty wound, but I can’t feel a fracture. We’ll get him to the hospital at once.’ He turned his head and said something to the driver in Spanish and the man, who had got out to look too, got back in and turned the car.
‘You first, in the back,’ said the doctor, and put the child on her knee and got in beside her, steadying the boy’s head with firm hands. ‘Well, tell me what happened,’ he said. ‘Just the facts, no personal comments.’
Euphemia went very red and then white. If she had had a free hand she would have hit him. She said in a wooden voice: ‘I found him by the side of the lane outside the wicket gate at the top of the garden. I heard him crying. I can’t understand Spanish, so I took a quick look at him and then carried him up to the house…’
‘Go on.’
‘There’s no more to say.’
‘Oh yes, there is—Mrs Kellard wouldn’t allow you in. Why didn’t you fetch Diana? You could at least have asked her to telephone.’ He sighed. ‘It was really rather silly of you to start traipsing off in this heat.’ And when she didn’t answer, ‘Well?’
‘You asked for the facts. I’ve given them.’ Euphemia didn’t look at him but stared out of the window at the beginnings of Jerez, her arms cradling the child. There really was no point in saying anything more. He wouldn’t believe her, and it didn’t matter in the least, anyway.
They didn’t speak again until the taxi drew up with an exaggerated care engendered by the doctor’s warning to the driver. The hospital looked modern; she had a brief glimpse of it as the doctor got out and took the boy from her. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered, and then paused at her: ‘I have some shopping to do for Diana. I’ll find my own way back.’
His cool blue eyes studied her from her head to her heels. ‘My dear girl, have you looked at yourself lately?’
She was covered in dirt and bloodstains and somewhere along the way she had lost her sun-hat. ‘You’ll stay just where you are, Euphemia,’ said the doctor, ‘and don’t waste my time arguing about it.’
A remark hardly calculated to put her in a good mood. She opened the shoulder bag she still had with her and tried to tidy herself under the amused eye of the driver. She wasn’t very successful—besides, it was hot in the taxi, the street they were in was narrow, crowded with traffic and people, although at its end she glimpsed a broad thoroughfare lined with palm trees. She sat back and closed her eyes; she had missed her chance of seeing something of the town and perhaps she wouldn’t get another one. Her dress was ruined too… She opened her eyes at the sound of voices and saw the doctor and a man in a long white coat standing by the taxi. When the doctor turned his head suddenly and looked at her she closed her eyes again, but it was too late, the door was opened and she had to sit up straight and be introduced to the other man, one of the surgeons at the hospital. He was flatteringly interested in her. How long had she been in Jerez? What did she think of it? How long did she intend staying? She answered his questions composedly and when he suggested that she might like to see the hospital before she left, she agreed pleasantly. ‘But I would like to know how the little boy is.’
‘A concussion and a cut head. We have asked the police to trace his parents. Be assured that all will be done for his comfort.’ He was a good-looking man in a dark way, and he smiled at her now. ‘I cannot think how it is that I have not met you sooner. You are so beautiful—Miss Blackstock.’
She shot a sideways look at Dr van Diederijk standing silently beside his companion, his face inscrutable. She said clearly: ‘Thank you, Doctor. My day hasn’t been very pleasant so far, but I feel much better now, even though I don’t believe you. Look at me!’
‘But I have been looking at you, and you are beautiful.’
She gave him a very sweet smile. ‘You are very kind. I hope we meet again.’
She shook hands and sat quietly while the two men said goodbye. The doctor got in presently and the taxi went on down the street and turned into the boulevard.
The doctor said tightly: ‘There was no need to be quite so forthcoming, Euphemia.’
She turned to look at him, letting her thick lashes sweep her cheek and then lift to fringe wide eyes. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked sweetly.
‘Don’t provoke me, you know very well what I mean.’ She decided that his smile wasn’t very nice. ‘Tell me about Diana—is there any improvement?’
Euphemia hadn’t liked the smile. She lifted a nicely kept hand and ticked off her fingers one by one. ‘Her hair is better—I brush it and oil it and shampoo it. Her skin is much more supple and she has acquired a tan, she may have gained some weight, but she’s so bony it’s impossible to tell at present…’
He caught her wrist in a grip which hurt and the look on his face made her catch her breath. She said once: ‘I’m sorry,
that was unpardonable of me—I wanted to pay you back…’ Her eyes sparkled with tears. ‘You came all this way to see her and I couldn’t have been beastlier…’
He took her hand again, this time gently, and put it between his. He wasn’t smiling, but the bleak look had gone, but when he saw the tears in her eyes he said harshly: ‘Don’t cry, you’re not to cry.’
She sniffed. ‘Well, I won’t then, but I’m truly sorry…’
‘You were upset about the child.’ He frowned because she agreed with such haste.
‘Yes, yes—I should have stopped to think, I was very silly.’ She added humbly, ‘If you’ve forgiven me I’ll tell you about Diana.’
‘I’ve forgiven you, but I shall have something to say to Mrs Kellard about turning that child away. Is she a formidable lady?’
‘No, not to look at—rather wispy and fragile, if you know what I mean, and far too thin, just like…’ she bit back what she had been going to say and finished lamely, ‘like a pencil.’
If the doctor found this a peculiar description he didn’t remark upon it, merely observed: ‘I see. And Diana?’
‘I think you’ll see an improvement; she swims each morning and sunbathes and strolls in the gardens—her appetite isn’t good, but that’s partly because Mrs Kellard diets and persuades Diana to diet too.’
‘But surely you have encouraged her to eat?’ His voice was sharp and she flushed a little.
‘Yes, Dr van Diederijk, I’ve done my best.’