She thought about it. She was still thinking about it when they arrived at the Widgeons’ cottage.
Inexperienced though she was, Caroline saw at a glance that Sue was seriously ill … Caroline had wondered once or twice if, perhaps, it were a false alarm and she had summoned Dr. Wrench from Wandlebury only to discover that his midnight drive through fog and darkness was unnecessary … but this was no false alarm. Sue was in pain, she was panic-stricken and hysterical, she wept and wailed and flung herself about in the bed and clung to Caroline with hot, damp hands.
“Oh, Mrs. Dering,” moaned Sue. “Oh, my baby! My little baby — it won’t live, I know it won’t! Oh, I’m frightened! Oh dear, what shall I do! Oh dear, I’m so frightened.”
Caroline was frightened too, but she hid her feelings and busied herself about the house, and she sent Widgeon to the cross-roads with a lantern to watch for the doctor so that he should not mistake the turning. This plan had a double advantage for it would hasten the doctor’s arrival and it took Widgeon out of the way. Now, having done all she could and made all the preparations she could think of, Caroline sat down beside Sue and held her hand and prayed.
She had been frightened and miserable, her nerves tense with apprehension, the responsibility weighing upon her like lead, but gradually all the fear and anxiety ebbed away and a flood of love and courage poured into her heart. She could feel it flowing through her and into the suffering girl like a warm comforting stream. Caroline did not move; she sat there quietly and let it flow — it was as easy as that — and presently Sue’s trembling hand relaxed and her moans ceased and there was silence in the room.
“What are you doing to me, Mrs. Dering?” whispered Sue.
“Loving you,” replied Caroline gently. “Shut your eyes, Sue.”
Sue sighed and shut her eyes.
It was very quiet now. A little breeze had sprung up and was whispering through the leaves of the ivy with which the cottage was covered (perhaps it would blow away the fog); there was a drip from the roof, a tiny splash as drop after drop gathered and fell; there was a mouse scratching in the wainscot; Sue was breathing quietly and rhythmically.
Minutes passed — or hours — Caroline did not know how long she sat there holding Sue’s hand. She felt peaceful and happy, she felt rested, there was no tension any more. She had ceased to strain towards the arrival of the doctor; she knew he would come and all would be well. Presently, in the stillness, she heard the sound of a car (a throbbing sound in the far distance). It came nearer. She heard it coining up the hill ... it was stopping at the gate. She heard steps on the gravel path and the grumble of lowered voices; the cottage door opened and shut quietly and there was the sound of feet upon the stairs.
Caroline had never seen Dr. Wrench before, but she had heard various descriptions of him; some of his patients swore by him, others said he was dictatorial and unsympathetic. He had been described to her as a funny little man with a wizened, monkey-like face and surprised eyebrows, but although this might have been true enough in one way it was untrue in another. Dr. Wrench was small in stature but his personality filled the room. Caroline trusted him at once. She stood up as he came in but he did not look at her; he walked across to the bed and looked at his patient.
“She’s quiet now,” said Caroline in a low voice. “Perhaps we might have waited till the morning, but I was frightened about her.”
“You were right not to wait,” he replied. He threw off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and began to give directions in a tone of authority. Dr. Wrench had taken charge and Caroline was only too glad to shift all the responsibility on to his shoulders. She moved about the room doing what she was told, unpacking his bag and fetching the kettles of boiling water which she had prepared.
Until now Dr. Wrench had not looked at her at all, but now, suddenly, she felt his eyes upon her. They were keen grey eyes beneath the curiously-shaped eyebrows.
“Can you help me?” he asked. “It’s going to be pretty bad but I want to save the baby if I possibly can. It’s their first, isn’t it?”
“I can do what you tell me,” said Caroline soberly.
“That’s all I want,” he told her. “Lock the door — we can’t have that man coming in and making a fuss at the critical moment.”
*
Caroline drew back the curtains and the grey light of dawn flooded the little room; it was all tidied up. Sue lay in bed, fast asleep, her hair straggling over the pillow in damp strands; the baby, wrapped in shawls, lay in the Moses-basket. It was the smallest atom of humanity Caroline had ever seen … it was alarmingly small (so Caroline thought) but Dr. Wrench was quite pleased with it — and Caroline had absolute confidence in Dr. Wrench. She had trusted him at once and as the night passed she trusted him more, and admired him profoundly; she had never believed any one could be so patient, so strong and sure and skilful. Certainly he was dominating, but Caroline did not mind that — she was glad to be dominated.
He joined her at the window and they stood there together looking out at the cold, grey morning. The fog had gone but there was white frost on every twig, on every blade of grass, and the whole world seemed to have been outlined with a pure white pencil.
“You’re not worrying, are you?” said Dr. Wrench in a quiet voice. “They’ll be all right. The baby is small but she’s a perfectly healthy little specimen; she’ll be bigger than you one of these days.”
This was the first time he had spoken to her in an unprofessional manner, and Caroline realised it was because their job was done. She smiled at him. His eyes were on a level with her own. If Sue’s baby grew to be bigger than Caroline, she would be bigger than Dr. Wrench.
“You must rest,” he added. “I suppose there’s a neighbour who can come in and look after them; there usually is.”
“I’ve sent Widgeon to fetch Mrs. Podbury — Sue’s mother.”
He nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “Mothers are useful people.”
“I’ve never thanked you for coming, Dr. Wrench.”
“We’ll cut that out.” he replied. “We’ve done a good job of work between us. Have you had any training — professionally, I mean?”
“No,” said Caroline. She smiled and added, “It’s just a hobby.”
Dr. Wrench chuckled. “Who are you?” he asked. “It seems a silly question when we know one another so well, but it would interest me to hear your name.”
“I thought you knew! I’m Mrs. Dering. I live a few minutes’ walk from here. You’ll come and have breakfast with me, won’t you?”
“Breakfast sounds good. I’ll just wait and see the old lady when she comes and tell her what to do, and then we’ll push off. It will suit me splendidly because I’d like to come back and have another look at them before I go home. I suppose the old lady is fairly sensible?”
Caroline gave Mrs. Podbury an excellent character ... “and here she is,” added Caroline.
They watched Widgeon and Mrs. Podbury coming in at the gate; Mrs. Podbury was hurrying, she was breathless and red in the face from her exertions; Widgeon was carrying her suitcase.
“She looks all right,” said Dr. Wrench. “I’ll go down and talk to her.”
Mrs. Podbury took charge of the situation without turning a hair. She had had seven of her own and had helped at the arrival of numerous other Podburys. The only thing that worried her was the fact that she had not been here to help in the arrival of this, her first grand-child. She had had a feeling last night, declared Mrs. Podbury, a queer sort of feeling — all shivery — and she had told Daniel she was sure it meant something, but Daniel had been most unsympathetic and had put it down to pickled onions … and what with the fog and all …
“Yes, yes.” agreed the doctor. “But that’s over. Please attend to my instructions, Mrs. Podbury.”
Mrs. Podbury attended. She was apt to be a little too chatty (like Sue) but she was no fool.
The sun had risen behind Cock Hill when Dr. Wrench and Caroline came out of t
he cottage together. Widgeon was waiting for them, he had a large wooden box in his arms. Caroline was quite shocked at Widgeon’s appearance. His hair was wilder than ever, his face was as white as a sheet and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. Perhaps Dr. Wrench was shocked, too, for he patted Widgeon on the shoulder.
“They’ll be all right, Widgeon,” said Dr. Wrench.
“Thank you, sir,” said Widgeon gravely. “Thank you for coming an’ — everything. I don’t rightly know ’ow to thank you — all you’ve done an’ us not your patients, even!” He hesitated and then added, “P’raps you’d take a dozen pots of ’oney, Doctor. I’ll put it in your car. It’s nice this year-clover an’ beans — I got a prize for it at Chevis Green Flower Show.”
“That’s a kind thought, Widgeon,” replied Dr. Wrench cheerfully. “Yes, I’d like a few pots of honey. Give me three pots — a dozen is far too many.”
Widgeon laughed shakily. “That’s funny, that is,” he declared. “You think twelve pots of ’oney is too much — too much for coming ’ere an’ saving Sue? I’d thought I should be giving you the bees — the cow, the cottage, everything I’ve got — Sue’s worth it all an’ more. Sue’s everything. I’d live without my meat an’ drink much easier than I could live without my little Sue. I’d give you my right ’and …”
“You keep your right hand to work for Sue and your little daughter,” Dr. Wrench told him.
“Yes,” agreed Widgeon, looking at it in a dazed way. “Yes, Doctor, that’s what it’s for.”
Dr. Wrench followed Caroline down the path. “He’s a good fellow,” said Dr. Wrench. “It’s curious how one gets the swing of blank verse when these country people are deeply affected. I’ve noticed it before. The townsman has lost it, but it still lingers in country places — Shakespeare’s English …”
Caroline made no answer; she was struggling with tears, which was quite ridiculous because everything was all right and there was nothing to cry about.
CHAPTER TWENTY
HARRIET’S CAR was a novelty to the Dering family. There was not enough petrol to go for long runs, but there was a little in the tank, and one fine Saturday afternoon Harriet offered to take her relatives for a picnic to Farling Woods. The girls accepted with delight but Caroline refused, saying she had not yet written her weekly letter to James and it must be posted that evening. She saw them off with all the paraphernalia necessary — with coats and rugs and sandwiches and thermos flasks — and then she went back into the house and sat down at her desk.
As usual Caroline had a lot to tell James, but it was quiet and peaceful and there were no interruptions (except from Comfort who looked in to say that this seemed a good opportunity to polish the hall floor) so the letter got written quite quickly and Caroline was just addressing the envelope to the base at Kuala Lumpur when the telephone-bell rang.
She picked up the receiver and said, “Hallo!”
“Is that Mrs Dering?” inquired a man’s voice — rather a deep voice and somehow vaguely familiar.
“Yes, Mrs. Dering speaking,” said Caroline.
“Mother!” exclaimed the voice. “Mother, this is James!”
Caroline was speechless.
“Are you there?” asked the voice anxiously. “This is James. I’m in London. I flew home, I didn’t tell you I was flying home because I knew you’d worry yourself frantic. I’ve arrived safe and sound.”
“James!” said Caroline faintly.
“Yes,” said the voice. “Yes, James. I’m here in London. I’m taking the next train to Wandlebury. I get to Wandlebury at five-ten. Can you meet me or shall I just find my way over to Ashbridge? I suppose there’s a bus or something.”
“I’ll meet you,” said Caroline.
“Are you all right?” asked the voice in urgent tones. “I mean, you sound awfully far away —”
“I’m perfectly all right. I’ll meet you —”
“Not if it’s a bother,” the voice adjured her.
The line went dead. Caroline listened for a few moments, but nothing happened, so she laid down the receiver. Her hand trembled and she had some difficulty in fitting it on to its stand.
“I heard!” exclaimed Comfort, appearing at the door. “I couldn’t help hearing! It’s Mr. James! Oh, isn’t it lovely!”
“Yes,” agreed Caroline in a dazed voice. “I suppose it’s true. It couldn’t be a — a joke or anything.”
“A joke! Goodness no! It was Mr. James’s voice, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Caroline. “It seemed to be. At least —”
“Of course it was,” declared Comfort. “It was him, all right.”
“I must think,” said Caroline, trying to rouse herself and take a grip of the situation. “He’s arriving at Wandlebury at five-ten, so I must get the four o’clock bus —”
“No, a taxi,” said Comfort firmly. “Then you’ll have it to come back in — see? It’s much the best. I’ll ring up Mr. Black and tell him to bring his big car. You’ll need the big car for the luggage. You go and change, Mrs. Dering. You’ll put on your blue tweed and the little hat with the feather, won’t you?”
“What about food —”
“I’ll see to it,” Comfort assured her. “I’ll stay and do the supper.”
Caroline was absolutely dazed. She had been writing to James in Malaya and now he was here — here in London — she could not believe it. She changed and drank a cup of tea and by that time the taxi was standing at the gate.
Comfort saw her into the taxi. “Have you got your bag?” asked Comfort.
“No, I must have left it —”
“I’ll find it,” Comfort assured her.
Comfort waddled back to the house, found the bag lying on the kitchen table and returned with it. “There,” she said, handing it in at the window. “There it is. You’ll be all right, won’t you, Mrs. Dering?”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Caroline.
The taxi was about to drive off when Caroline leaned forward. “Comfort,” she said, “I don’t know what on earth I should do without you.”
Comfort watched the car drive off and then went back to the kitchen; she stood quite still for a few moments with tears trickling down her cheeks … it was like one of her imaginary stories, very nearly, but it was true. She hadn’t imagined it.
“Fat old fool!” said Comfort mopping her eyes. “Standing here snivelling!”
There was a rabbit in the larder, so she would make a stew with thick brown gravy; she would open a bottle of blackberries and make a tart … but first she had better look out the sheets.
The London train was late. Caroline walked up and down the platform and waited for it. The dazed feeling had passed off and she was keyed up to the most frightful pitch of excitement. James was coming, it was incredible but true. She would see him in a few minutes, her very own James (the fat little baby that she had held in her arms, that she had bathed and dressed and fed; the little boy who had run to her with scraped knees and cut fingers; the big beautiful son who had gone away from her three long years ago … her own James). He was coming now, he would be here any minute, he was safe and sound.
But perhaps he wouldn’t come, thought Caroline, pausing in her walk. He might have missed the train … or there might have been an accident. James had survived the most appalling dangers, he had hunted Terrorists in the jungle and flown home thousands of miles across the sea but there might have been an accident on the way down from London … perhaps that was why the train was late. Caroline’s imagination took charge in its usual commanding manner and began to torment her with visions of the train overturned, the carriages lying upon their sides and enveloped in flames and James trapped in the debris, unable to move. She was so appalled by these visions that she tackled the station-master.
“You don’t think there’s been an accident?” she inquired.
“An accident! No, no, the train’s often late these days. We don’t go in for accidents on this line,” he added jovially.
>
Caroline was slightly pacified. “I suppose they would let you know —” she began.
“Here she is! Safe as the Bank of England!” exclaimed the station-master and hurried away.
Here she was, chuffing importantly as she slid into the station. Caroline’s eyes sought feverishly for James as the windows flickered past. There he was … no, that wasn’t James. People leaped on to the platform, dragging out suitcases, slamming doors, shouldering their way to the barrier. She saw a young officer in battle-dress with a smooth, brown head and rushed after him … but it wasn’t James. Tears pricked her eyes; he had missed the train; he hadn’t come.
Then somebody caught hold of her (a great, strong, broad-shouldered man with a brown face) and cried, “Mother, here I am!”
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh, James!”
She was being hugged to death almost. She was being kissed. “Gosh!” he was saying. “Gosh, how small you are! A tiny mother! You’ve shrunk or something.”
James had not shrunk. She was amazed at the size of him. He had gone from her a tall, slim boy with a pink-and-white complexion, he had come back a big man with a brown face and a small fair moustache … but his deep-blue eyes, which were so like her own, were James’s eyes. Her own James was looking at her out of them.
“Oh, James!” she cried, clinging to him. “It’s really you.”
“Of course it’s me,” he declared, laughing. “Who did you think it was? Are you in the habit of hugging strange men in railway stations?”
He had no luggage with him except a kit-bag. “It’s all coming by boat,” he explained in the deep voice which was like James’s voice and yet was slightly different. “I couldn’t bring it with me on the plane. We’ll get a move on, shall we? Do we go by bus or what?”
Vittoria Cottage (Drumberley Book 1) Page 12