Ring in a Teacup

by Betty Neels

  ‘The goat,’ he explained to his patient, ‘and the chickens. Lucy’s gone to see to them.’

  Shirley nodded. ‘Oh, I’d forgotten them—there’s Shep and Tibby, too...’

  ‘Dog and cat? I didn’t see any sign of them. I expect they’re sheltering somewhere, if they don’t turn up I’ll go and look for them. Now I’m going to make some tea and then we can decide on our breakfast.’ He added comfortably: ‘I daresay someone will be along soon, now.’

  He sounded so sure and certain that Shirley only nodded; she had her twins and she was content.

  Outside Lucy found things rather worse than she had imagined. The wind was as fierce as ever and the snow, still falling, had piled against the side and back of the little house. The path Mr der Linssen had dug was already covered over and she seized the shovel he had prudently left by the door; she might need it.

  The goat was housed alongside the woodshed and the chickens next door. She found fodder for the goat and feed for the chickens, then found a bucket and milked the beast before going in search of the eggs. There were quite a few, so at least they wouldn’t starve. She piled them into an old basket, set fresh water and prepared to go back to the house. She was shutting the hen house door when a faint sound made her look down; a small cat had emerged from under the hen house floor and was eyeing her.

  ‘Come on indoors, then,’ invited Lucy, and started down the path, rather weighed down with eggs and milk and shovel. The little beast darted ahead, looking back to see if she were following, and then sat down outside the door beside a sheepdog, waiting patiently to be let in. He looked cold and hungry, but he obviously belonged; Lucy opened the door and the three of them went in together.

  Mr der Linssen welcomed them with a cheerful: ‘Ah, there you are. Shirley was wondering what had happened to Shep and Tibby. I’ll feed them, shall I? There’s tea in the pot, Lucy.’

  ‘Shep went after Ted,’ explained Shirley, ‘he’s that fond of him.’ A faint anxiety creased her placid face. ‘I wonder where my Ted is?’

  Mr der Linssen answered from the kitchen where he was feeding the animals.

  ‘I imagine he’s in the village waiting to guide an ambulance here,’ he observed placidly. ‘There’s a good deal of snow about and they might not be able to find their way.’

  Lucy drank her tea feeling peeved; no one had mentioned the goat or the chickens. She took her cup out to the kitchen and filled the kettle; the twins would need attention in a little while and she wanted some cool boiled water. She was joined almost at once by Mr der Linssen, who closed the door gently behind him before he spoke. ‘Not too good outside, is it?’ His eyes lighted on the eggs and milk. ‘I see that you’ve been your usual practical self—you must show me sometime.’ He poured the milk into a saucepan and put it on to boil.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ asked Lucy. She felt cross and grubby and longed above all things for five minutes at her own dressing table.

  ‘Breakfast, my dear. Porridge, I think, don’t you?’ He was at his most urbane, his head in a cupboard. ‘Eggs, bread and butter,’ his voice came from inside, ‘tea, we have them all here.’

  She gave his back an exasperated look. ‘I didn’t mean breakfast...’

  He straightened up and closed the cupboard door. ‘Wait, dear girl, wait. So far Shirley is quite satisfactory and the babies are warm and content. We’ll take a look at them and get them to feed—if they do, that will take us over the next few hours.’

  ‘But supposing they don’t? We might be here for the rest of the day.’

  He nodded his head with a calm which made her grind her small even teeth. ‘I should think it quite likely, although there is a good chance that a helicopter will get here sometime before dark.’

  She felt better. ‘You think so? I’m on duty tomorrow.’

  He spooned tea into the pot while she stirred the porridge. ‘The trains will be delayed and I doubt if anything much could get through the roads.’

  ‘You mean I’ll not be able to get back?’ She wasn’t quite sure if she felt pleased about it or not.

  ‘Do you mind?’ He sounded amused.

  Lucy didn’t answer that. ‘The porridge is ready,’ she remarked rather more sharply than she had meant to. ‘Are you hungry?’

  He was busy with plates and spoons. ‘Famished. Lunch yesterday was my last meal.’

  ‘Oh, Fraam!’ she had spoken without thinking, her voice warm with concern. ‘I’ll cook you three eggs...’ She remembered then that she had called him Fraam and added hastily, ‘Mr der Linssen.’

  ‘I don’t know about him, but Fraam could eat three quite easily, thank you. Have we more than this bread?’

  ‘There’s half a loaf in the bread bin...much more than we shall need.’

  He looked as though he were going to speak, but instead he spooned the porridge into three bowls, put them on a tray and carried it into the living room.

  Breakfast was a cheerful meal, the infants tucked up and still sleeping while the three of them fell upon the food, and when they had finished and Mr der Linssen had gone into the kitchen to do the washing up, Lucy dealt with her three patients.

  It was light now, as light as it would be while the snow continued. She tidied the little room, made up the fire, fed Shep and Tibby again, found a place for them to settle before the hearth and then, leaving Mr der Linssen to keep an eye on everyone, went upstairs to the tiny bedroom and did what she could to tidy her person. Even when she had washed her hands and face in the old-fashioned basin and combed her hair, she didn’t think she looked much better, but at least she felt rather more so. Her face was clean and her hair reasonably tidy; not that that mattered; when she went downstairs Mr der Linssen glanced at her with a casual, unseeing look which made her wish most heartily that she hadn’t bothered.

  But he pulled up a chair to the fire, put the cat on her lap and told her to go to sleep in a kind enough voice. ‘I’ll rouse you the moment anything happens,’ he promised.

  She hadn’t meant to close her eyes, but she was weary by now. She didn’t hear the helicopter, nor did she stir until the cat was taken gently from her lap and she was shaken just as gently awake.

  ‘They’re here,’ he told her quietly. ‘I’ll go out to them. Get Shirley wrapped up, will you?’

  She already had everything necessary packed in a case, and was nicely ready when Mr der Linssen came back with the pilot, carrying a light stretcher between them, as well as a portable incubator. The twins were small, they would fit into it very nicely. Lucy left the men to get Shirley on to the stretcher and turned her attention to the infants; and that done to her satisfaction, put on her anorak.

  ‘Don’t bother with that,’ Mr der Linssen’s voice held quiet authority. ‘I’ll come back for the infants.’

  She stared at him. ‘But aren’t we going too?’

  ‘No. Ted’s waiting at the Rectory, they’ll pick him up and take him on to Yeovil with Shirley and he’ll hope for a lift back or get on to a snowplough if there’s one coming this way. He wants to get back as quickly as he can—we’ll go as soon as he arrives.’

  She had no answer to this but bade Shirley a warm goodbye and went back to the incubator. Mr der Linssen was back again inside five minutes and took that away too with a brief: ‘They’re rather pushed for room, but they’ll manage.’ He had gone again before she could answer.

  She stood in the room, untidy again, listening to the helicopter’s engines slowly swallowed up in the noise of the wind, feeling let down and lonely. How awful it would be if Fraam had gone too and left her alone. She shivered at the very idea, knowing it to be absurd but still vaguely unhappy. Shep’s whine disturbed her thoughts and she got up to let him out.

  There was nothing to see outside and only the wind blowing, although the snow had stopped now. She shut the door and went b
ack to the mess in the room behind her, telling herself to stop getting into a fuss about nothing; there was plenty of work to get on with and if one worked hard enough one didn’t think so much. She picked up a broom and started on the great cakes of snow in the little hall. ‘The wretch!’ she cried pettishly. ‘He needs a good thump—if he were here...’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘BUT I AM here,’ Fraam’s cheerful voice assured her as he opened the door and then stood aside as she swept the snow outside. ‘Although from your cross face, I don’t think I’ll ask why you were wanting me.’ He took the broom from her. ‘The snow has stopped and the wind is lessening, but I’m afraid the lane is completely blocked—it will need a snowplough.’ He gave her a long, deliberate look. ‘Now hop into bed, Lucy. I’ll make up the fire and then I’m going outside to clear a path round the house.’

  She was glad to obey him without arguing, for she was peevish for want of sleep. She got on to the bed without a word and was already half asleep as he tucked the quilt round her.

  She awoke to the domestic sound of something sizzling on the stove and saw that the table had been laid and pulled close to the bright fire. She tidied the bed, poked at her hair before the looking glass and went to peer into the kitchen.

  Mr der Linssen was frying eggs, and beans were bubbling in a saucepan. He looked completely at home and somehow very domestic. His casual: ‘Slept well?’ was reassuringly matter-of-fact and calm, as though he made a habit of cooking scratch meals in snowbound cottages.

  Lucy, good-humoured again, thanked him politely and asked if there was any news.

  ‘None.’ He turned the eggs expertly. ‘The telly doesn’t work and there’s no battery for the radio.’ He turned to smile at her. ‘Just you and me, Lucilla. Two eggs?’

  They ate their meal cosily before the fire and halfway through it Lucy remembered to ask if he had cleared the path.

  He nodded. ‘Oh yes, and I’ve widened the one to the shed.’

  ‘Then I can milk the goat and see to the chickens.’ She poured more tea for them both. ‘Do you suppose we’ll get away before dark?’

  He leaned back and the chair creaked alarmingly under him. ‘Perhaps.’ He sounded casual about it. ‘I would suggest attempting it on foot, but we can’t leave the animals, and I don’t like to leave you here alone.’

  Lucy went a little pink. ‘You don’t have to worry about me. I would be perfectly all right.’

  ‘Certainly—all the same I have no intention of leaving you.’ He finished his tea and went on: ‘I should imagine they will get a snowplough through to us and bring Stevens with it; he’ll stay and we’ll go back.’

  ‘That sounds too good to be true,’ observed Lucy, and started to clear the table.

  But it wasn’t. She was cooking a hot mash for the chickens and explaining just what she was doing to Fraam at the same time when they heard the drone of a snowplough, although it was half an hour before it reached the cottage with Ted Stevens on it just as Mr der Linssen had prophesied, and over cups of tea Ted told them that Shirley and the twins were safely in hospital and that he would stay at the cottage, going down to the Rectory each day to get news of them. He was profuse in his thanks although a little in awe of Mr der Linssen’s elegance and great size, even in his stockinged feet and rolled-up sleeves. He wrung their hands, thanked them once again, pressed a dozen eggs on Lucy and walked with them to the snowplough, with old Tom Parsons, who had driven it there, striding ahead. It was a bit of a squeeze; three of them in the cab and Lucy, perched between the two men, was glad of Fraam’s arm holding her steady. It was a bumpy, sometimes slow ride and cold, but she felt content and happy. She wasn’t sure why.

  They were expected at the Rectory; the kitchen door was opened the moment they began to make their way up the kitchen garden path and Mrs Prendergast welcomed them with a spate of questions as she urged them to take off their jackets and go straight into the kitchen where they found a table laden with home-made bread, soup, great pats of butter, pots of pickles, cold meat and a large fruit cake.

  ‘I didn’t know when you’d be back,’ she explained, ‘so I thought a little of everything would do. Never mind about washing and tidying yourselves; you’ll need a good meal first.’ She beamed at them. ‘I’ve a pan of bubble and squeak all ready and bacon and fried bread, and tea or coffee...’ but here she was interrupted by her husband, who had come hurrying in with a bottle of whisky under one arm and glasses in his hand. ‘To keep out the cold,’ he explained, putting them down carefully before embracing his daughter and greeting Mr der Linssen warmly. ‘We are very anxious to hear your news,’ he observed, ‘we were a little worried at first,’ he glanced across at his guest. ‘Indeed, before you came, we were very worried about our little Lucilla. We were relieved to hear from the helicopter pilot that you were both in good spirits and safe and sound.’

  He poured whisky and then went down the cellar steps to fetch up a bottle of port for the ladies.

  ‘You don’t mind if I sit down to table like this?’ asked Mr der Linssen.

  ‘Heavens, no—food first and baths afterwards. You’ll stay the night, of course—we’ve put your Range Rover in the barn, by the way.’

  Mr der Linssen swallowed his whisky with pleasure. ‘You’re very kind, Mrs Prendergast.’ His glance slid to Lucy, sitting on the table swinging her legs, sipping port. ‘I should like that very much.’ And when Lucy glanced up at his words, he smiled at her. She wasn’t sure if it was the port or his smile which was warming her.

  They made a splendid meal, for after the soup Mrs Prendergast set on the table there was the bubble and squeak and everything which went with it as well as the cake and a large pot of tea. She sat at the foot of the table smiling at them both and when she judged they had eaten their fill, she urged: ‘Now do tell us all about it—your father has his sermon to finish and supper will be late.’

  So Lucy began, but when she got to the bit where Mr der Linssen had arrived, he took over from her, very smoothly, making much of what she had done to help him, until she exclaimed: ‘Oh, you’re exaggerating!’

  ‘No—how would I have managed without you? You forget the goat and the chickens—why, before today I had never heard of hot mash.’

  They all laughed, and he added: ‘And of course the babies—I’m not very experienced with infants.’

  Mrs Prendergast made an unbelieving sound. ‘And you a doctor—I simply don’t believe you!’

  ‘A surgeon, Mrs Prendergast,’ he corrected her gently, ‘and I haven’t delivered a baby since my student days.’

  Lucy, nicely full of delicious food, was losing interest in the conversation. Mr der Linssen’s deep voice came and went out of a mist of sleepiness. It was very soothing; she closed her eyes.

  She was dimly aware of being picked up and carried upstairs, two powerful arms holding her snugly. She wanted to tell Fraam to put her down, but it was too much bother. She tucked her untidy head into his shoulder and slipped back into sleep.

  ‘Worn out,’ observed her mother, briskly turning back the bedclothes. ‘We’ll leave her to sleep for a while.’

  Mr der Linssen laid Lucy gently on her bed, bent down and deliberately kissed her sleeping face, then waited while Mrs Prendergast tucked her in. ‘The darling’s absolutely out cold.’

  ‘The darling’s absolutely darling,’ remarked Mr der Linssen at his most suave.

  Mrs Prendergast bent over her daughter with the deepest satisfaction. Her dear plain little Lucy was loved after all, and by such a satisfactory man. She beamed at him as they left the room.

  It was quite dark when Lucy woke up and when she looked at the clock she discovered that it was almost ten o’clock. She got up and opened her door; lights were on downstairs and she could hear voices. Fraam would be gone, she supposed, the Range Rover would be able to follow the tracks of t
he snowplough and there was no reason why he should stay, even though her mother had invited him to do so. She had a shower, got into a nightie and dressing gown and wandered downstairs, wondering about him. He would have been on his way somewhere or other; she hadn’t asked and now she worried about it; he hadn’t had much sleep...

  For a man who hadn’t slept, he looked remarkably fresh, sitting opposite her father in the sitting room, with her mother between them, knitting. She stopped in the doorway, muttering her surprise as the two men got to their feet and her mother turned to look at her. It was Mr der Linssen who came to meet her and take her arm. His ‘Hullo, Lucy,’ was cheerfully casual as he pushed her gently on to the sofa beside her parent.

  ‘You ought to be in bed,’ said Lucy, ‘you’ve had almost no sleep.’

  He smiled but said nothing and went and sat down again, and Mrs Prendergast asked sharply: ‘No sleep?’

  ‘I had a good nap while Lucy cleared up my mess,’ he assured her.

  ‘All the same, you must be tired—I should have thought... Finish the row for me, Lucy, I’ll get supper. Toasted cheese?’ she suggested, ‘and there are jacket potatoes in the Aga,’ and when everyone nodded happily, she swept out of the room with: ‘You men will want beer, I suppose. Lucy, you’d better have cocoa.’

  Lucy said ‘Yes, Mother,’ meekly and went on knitting, suddenly conscious of Fraam’s eyes on her. It disconcerted her so much that she dropped a stitch and decided to go and help her mother.

  The kitchen was warm and comfortable in a rather shabby fashion; Lucy could remember the two chairs each side of the Aga and the huge scrubbed table since she was a very little girl. She set the table now and called the men to their supper and watching Mr der Linssen tucking into the simple food with obvious pleasure, wondered if he found it all very strange after his own lovely house. It seemed not; he washed up with her father to the manner born and then went back to sit by the fire while she and her mother went upstairs to bed, sitting back in his chair as though he had done it every day of his life. She kissed her father goodnight, smiled a little shyly at their guest and got into her bed, vaguely content that he should be there in her home, looking so at ease. She would have liked to have pondered this more deeply, but she went to sleep.