by Betty Neels
‘What nonsense you talk,’ she remarked. ‘I’m going over to the Home to change. What time do you want to start?’
‘I take it Kitty is already here? Shall we say half an hour? Less if you can manage it. I’ll be in the car.’
There was no sign of Kitty when Emma got to her room, only a scrap of a note on the bed cover to tell her that Kitty had gone to tea with Willy and would be back in good time. But by the time Emma had changed into a neat blue linen dress and re-done her hair and packed an overnight bag, there was still no sign of her sister, and Emma, knowing her, decided that she had forgotten the time and went in search of her. She hadn’t far to look. Kitty was with the professor and Little Willy. They were all in the forecourt beside the Rolls and when Emma joined them Kitty cried happily, ‘Hullo, Emma darling—look, I’ve had a marvellous idea. Willy’s free on Sunday from ten until the evening, why shouldn’t he spend the day with us? I’ve already asked him,’ she added. ‘Justin thinks it’s a marvellous idea too. You’ll come, won’t you, Willy?’
Willy cast an uncertain look at Emma, who said at once, ‘That’s splendid—do come, Willy,’ and turned from his beaming face to catch the professor’s eye and wonder if despite its blandness he was annoyed at not getting Kitty to himself for the whole weekend. But that, she thought fiercely, was something he could sort out for himself. At least it was nice to see Willy so happy at the prospect of Kitty’s company. He looked even happier when that young lady, about to get into the car, put a hand on his arm and thanked him warmly for her tea.
‘Willy found a dear little café,’ she explained, ‘and we had a nice talk.’ She flashed him a brilliant smile and allowed herself to be ushered in by the patient professor, saying at the same time, ‘See you on Sunday, Willy, and don’t forget.’
It had seemed natural for Kitty to sit in front; Emma sank back into the leather luxury of the back seat and watched the professor stowing their bags in the boot. She would have liked to sit beside him, but he hadn’t even given her the opportunity of refusing. She watched him from the back window as he stood talking to Willy and wondered what he was saying; something to do with his patients, she supposed, and looked away quickly when he glanced up and caught her staring.
The journey home, after the rather laboured efforts of her own elderly car, seemed very short. Emma sat quietly, watching the two in front laughing and talking as though they had known each other all their lives, and although Kitty tried to draw her into a three-cornered conversation, it wasn’t very satisfactory, for the professor was driving fast enough to have to keep his eyes strictly on the road ahead. He drove well, taking no undue risks but never wasting time. Even when he turned off at Dorchester and had to rely on their directions through the country roads, he didn’t slacken his speed; only as they approached Mutchley Magna did he slow down to look around him. The village was pretty, with most of its houses grouped round the small green before the church. It was in a hollow, so that the little community discovered itself with unexpected suddenness to the traveller, and although it was no size at all, several lanes led back into the hills around it from its centre.
‘The first lane on the left,’ instructed Emma. ‘The cottage is on the right.’ She waved to old Mrs Beech leaning on her garden gate, as they passed. Mrs Beech was in charge of the post office and general stores; before night fall, Emma guessed that the village would know that the Hastings girls were home for the weekend with a man. Mrs Beech, who had a great eye for detail, would have noted the colour of his hair and the number of his car and the more obvious fact that it was a Rolls-Royce. Emma smiled. It would give everyone something to gossip about for days!
CHAPTER FOUR
THE cottage stood, small and sturdy under its thatch, by the side of the lane, from which it was separated by a nicely cut hedge, its open gate to one side of the small garden giving any passer-by a glimpse of a riot of flowers, colourful if a little untidy. Professor Teylingen turned the Rolls skilfully between the wooden gateposts and brought it to a silent halt before the cottage’s stout front door—a door which was immediately flung open to reveal Emma’s mother, a spaniel dog and two cats. The animals rushed out to investigate the visitors, but Mrs Hastings contented herself with a welcoming:
‘There you are—how clever of you to get the car through the gate. Emma has to try twice, don’t you, dear, quite often.’
Emma got out of the door the professor was holding open for her and caught his eye; the gleam in it compelled her to say at once, ‘I’m considered quite a good driver,’ a remark which did her no good at all, for the gleam brightened wickedly and he murmured, ‘But I haven’t disputed it, have I?’
They stood in the porch for a moment while Mrs Hastings embraced her daughters and gave her hand to the professor, who took it and said, ‘It’s most kind of you to invite me, Mrs Hastings.’
‘Ever since Emma told me you were at the hospital, I’ve wanted to, but Emma said that consultants didn’t mix with the nurses and it just wouldn’t do, but when I thought about it I decided that it was a load of rubbish—not you, Emma darling, just the silly idea. Why shouldn’t you mix if you want to?’
The professor smiled down at her. ‘Why not indeed? I quite agree with you, Mrs Hastings, and I hope for a start that you will call me Justin.’
‘Of course I shall. Now do come inside. You can fetch the cases presently and I daresay you can manage to get the car into the garage, though it’ll be a bit of a squeeze.’
She led the way down the small flagstoned hall and into the sitting-room, warning the professor to mind his head because the doorways were low and the ceiling dipped alarmingly here and there.
The room was charming. It had been furnished with the smaller pieces of furniture from the doctor’s house when it had been sold at his death. Most of them were Regency period, but there was an oak chest of considerable age and a Carolean worktable as well as a comfortable, rather shabby sofa and a pair of old-fashioned easy chairs flanking the inglenook. There was a good deal of china too and some nice little pieces of Nailsea glass on the inglenook shelf. The room ran from front to back of the cottage and french windows opened on to a small garden behind the cottage, its lawn in need of mowing, the surrounding beds full of flowers of every sort, giving a most pleasing picture.
The professor raised himself cautiously to his full height and looked about him with interest. ‘Delightful,’ he said softly, and Mrs Hastings said, ‘Yes, isn’t it? It seemed small after the house—you passed it as you came through the village—Queen Anne, opposite the church, but I’m alone a good deal of the time. Sit down, do,’ she waved him into one of the easy chairs, ‘and have some sherry. Emma brought a bottle back from Holland.’ She sat down too, rattling on about the holiday they had had while Emma poured the sherry and handed it round and then sat herself down by the open window, a little apart from the others, joining in the conversation pleasantly enough but not making any attempt to draw attention to herself. Presently her mother exclaimed, ‘Supper—I must go and see how it’s getting on,’ and Emma got to her feet and said, ‘I’ll go, Mother—is it anything special?’
‘No, darling. There’s a chicken in the oven and a trifle. While you’re looking at it I’ll take Justin upstairs and he can put the car away.’
Emma, once in the kitchen, stayed there. She had made sure that everything was cooking as it should, and there was little enough to do, but if the professor had come in order to see more of Kitty, she must give him the chance to do so. Little Willy wanted to see more of Kitty too and Emma couldn’t really blame either of them; Kitty was pretty and gay and great fun to be with and she loved her far too much to aspire to rivalry—besides, it wasn’t very likely that the professor, or Little Willy for that matter, would bother with a second glance in her direction while Kitty was around. She sighed and began to dish up, draped in her mother’s apron and with her hair a little wispy from the warmth of the little kitchen.
She was kneeling before the oven, gingerly
removing the chicken on to a plate she was holding with one hand, when the door opened and the professor walked in. ‘Why do you disappear?’ he wanted to know.
‘I’m not,’ replied Emma, and frowned at the chicken, which was proving tiresome. ‘I’m dishing up.’
He got down on his knees beside her, took the kitchen fork from her and speared the chicken neatly on to the plate, took the plate from her, transferred it to the plate warmer and closed the oven door.
‘Thank you,’ said Emma politely.
‘Justin,’ he prompted.
‘Justin.’ They were still kneeling side by side. ‘Though it really won’t do, you know—on Monday I’ll be calling you sir again.’
‘Only in public,’ he suggested mildly. He got to his feet and pulled her to hers. ‘And I shall call you Emma—after all, I have thought of you by that name ever since I saw your passport, and I can see no reason why I should not, can you?’
Emma was struggling with the apron. ‘No, not if you want to.’ She made her voice sound matter-of-fact, and went on fumbling with the apron strings which had got hopelessly knotted, and he turned her round to untie them, then turned her back again and before she could do anything about it, kissed her on her mouth.
‘Well,’ said Emma, ‘I never did!’
‘No? In that case allow me to repeat the action.’ Which he did with an expertise she might have expected from a good-looking man of forty.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said sharply, hiding delight and disquiet hopelessly entangled. ‘It’s an expression of—of surprise,’ she went on rapidly. ‘I’ve been kissed before, you know.’
He gave her a smile, faintly mocking. ‘But of course. Are not all girls kissed, just as all men kiss?’
She said, incurably honest, ‘Well, some girls get kissed more than others. If I were a man I’d only kiss the pretty girls.’
He shook with laughter. ‘But you’re no man, my dear Emma. What is that most wise saying in your language? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Men do not share the same tastes, you know.’
‘No—well, I wouldn’t know. I’m going to dish up the vegetables,’ Emma stated firmly, and lifted a saucepan from the stove and was thankful that at that moment her mother came in, saying, ‘Justin, as you’re here, will you carve? You must be an expert.’
His eyes narrowed with amusement. ‘I imagine you could describe my work as carving,’ he commented dryly. ‘I shall be glad to offer my talents, such as they are.’
Emma escaped then, up to the bedroom she would have to share with Kitty because the professor was in hers. She did her hair and re-did her face in an effort to cool her cheeks down a little and presently descended the tiny staircase to present a serene face to the other three—a serenity which she managed to preserve for the rest of that very pleasant evening.
She was up really early the next morning and crept down in her dressing gown to the back door, to fling it wide and let the animals out and then put on the kettle. She made tea, had a hasty cup, then went back upstairs to dress in old slacks and shirt while Kitty slept. In the kitchen once more, she drank a second, more leisurely cup and went into the garden and thence to the small paddock where the hens were. Emma liked the hens, she knew them all by name and they were as much part of the family as the dog and the cats, so that there was never any question of killing and eating them; they were allowed to die of old age, which, while not being very profitable, gave both Emma, her mother, and of course, the hens, satisfaction. And the hens repaid them by laying eggs with commendable regularity so that Mrs Hastings was able to add to her tiny income by selling them to various people in the village.
Emma rolled up her sleeves, let the hens out into the paddock, and started to clean the henhouse, a task which she disliked, but it saved having to pay someone else to do it. It was a delightful morning, giving the promise of a warm day, and Emma paused to look around her as, finished at last, she turned her attention to a chicken coop on the grass and allowed its occupants, mother and eight chicks, to wander into their wired-in run while she moved the coop to a fresh patch. She had bent to do this when she became aware of the professor standing beside her, in slacks and an open-necked shirt into which was tucked an eye-catching scarf. He said cheerfully, ‘Good morning, Emma. Where do you want this thing put?’ and moved it for her under her rather breathless direction. She hadn’t expected him to be up so early and she had been thinking of him in a dreamy fashion while she worked, and to be suddenly confronted by him now made it seem as though he had known that she had hoped—hopelessly—that he would come and find her. She said stiffly because she felt foolish, ‘Thank you. Couldn’t you sleep? It’s very early still.’
He raised an eyebrow, but his voice was placid. ‘I slept all night. I heard you go down and put on the kettle and when I looked out of the window and saw you going down the garden my curiosity got the better of me. You don’t mind? What do we do next?’
‘I was going to collect the eggs, but I’ll come and get you some tea first.’
‘No—let’s get the eggs while I’m here, we can always drink tea later.’
She gave him one of the baskets she had brought from the kitchen and they went around the henhouse without haste, picking up the good brown eggs until they had a dozen or more, and then carried them back to the cottage where Emma added them to those already in the big basket in the old-fashioned pantry.
‘You can’t eat them all,’ observed Justin as he added his quota.
‘No, we sell them. People like brown eggs, you know.’
She didn’t look at him. ‘Come and have your tea and I’ll take some up to Mother and Kitty.’
He was sitting on the kitchen doorstep when she got down again, drinking his tea and smoking a pipe. He waved it at her as she went in and said, ‘You don’t mind?’ and when she shook her head, continued, ‘What a nice easy person you are, Emma. I’ve only seen you in a temper once—when we met.’
‘You kicked the bumper.’ Which remark reminded her. ‘You haven’t told me yet how much I owe you—for the car.’
‘Nothing—and before you say you don’t believe me, let me assure you that it is true.’ He went on quickly before she could argue about it, ‘Tell me, how long has your father been dead?’
‘Eight years.’
‘So you were eighteen—you started your training then?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Kitty was at school?’ His questions were gentle and persistent.
‘Yes—she’s only twenty-two now—she was taking her “O”-levels.’
He turned to look at her, a steady probing gaze which disconcerted her. ‘So you had no fun—no trips abroad, no parties, no pretty clothes.’
She went a vivid and highly becoming pink. ‘I always wear old clothes when I clean out the hens,’ she began defensively, and then stopped because he was laughing.
‘Dear Emma, I didn’t mean…you look nice in anything you wear, even that shapeless theatre gown. But you must have missed a lot of fun. The kind of fun girls have when they grow up, before they settle down to a job or marriage. Have you never wanted to marry, Emma?’ His question was unexpected, his voice urbane. She turned away to the sink so that he shouldn’t see her face and said in a matter-of-fact voice which cost her quite an effort, ‘Well, yes, of course. I imagine most girls do. But I—that is…’ She thanked heaven silently as Kitty joined them to sit on the doorstep with Justin and make him laugh at her gay chatter.
He mowed the lawn after breakfast and then, when Kitty had made the beds, joined her on the lawn with a pile of books, lying companionably side by side in the sunshine while he explained some of the knottier points about chest surgery to her. They all had coffee together later on and then Emma, dressed once more in the blue linen and with her hair tidily pinned up, went off to the village with a loaded egg basket. She hadn’t many calls to make, but as she had known the customers all her life, the calls were lengthy.
Finally, she had only one more visit
to pay; she crossed the village green from the vicarage where she had wasted half an hour chatting to the vicar’s wife and climbed the hill past the church. The lane was narrow and winding and was called Badger’s Cross. It meandered up the hill and down the other side, to join a more important road a mile or so from the vicarage, and there were only three houses in it. The first two were close to the village, but Mrs Coffin’s little cottage was half a mile further on, tucked sideways into the road where it reached its steepest pitch. Mrs Coffin was turned seventy, and had lived alone there for the best part of ten years, going down to the village twice a week, once to order her weekly groceries, once to go to church. She was a brisk little woman, who wore sensible country clothes which never varied from year to year, although it was reputed in the village that she had money and to spare although no one really knew because although she was well liked she was reserved too.
Emma walked slowly up the hill, for it was by now quite warm, pausing to pass the time of day with the occupants of the two cottages as she went. Ten minutes later she pushed open the gate to Mrs Coffin’s well-kept garden and walked unhurriedly to the front door. The door stood open, but there was nothing strange about that; people in Mutchley Magna didn’t hold with shut doors. Emma beat a cheerful tattoo on its brass knocker, calling at the same time, ‘It’s me, Emma, Mrs Coffin!’ This information was met with silence and after a minute or so, Emma pushed the door open and went inside, where she stood in the sitting-room and called again, and when no one answered this time either, she put the egg basket down and went through the house, puzzled because Mrs Coffin had obviously risen from her chair in the sitting-room quite recently, for there was a cool cup of coffee on the little table beside it and the kettle was boiling its head off on the stove in the kitchen. Emma prudently removed it and went upstairs. There was no one there either, so she went out of the back door and down the garden as far as the hedge which separated it from the field where Mrs Coffin grew her vegetables.