by Betty Neels
‘Is that you, love? You’re early...’ Mrs Pearson’s head appeared round the kitchen door. ‘Dr van Kessel, how nice to see you. You’ll stay for tea? It’s in the dining room—I thought that Margo might be hungry...’
‘You’ll stay?’ asked Margo. ‘That is, if you’d like to.’
‘Indeed I would. Thank you, Mrs Pearson—if you don’t mind having an uninvited guest. I happened to meet Margo, and it seemed sensible to give her a lift as I was driving this way myself.’
‘Now that was kind of you. Take off your coat, and you too, Margo, and go and fetch your father. You come with me, Doctor...’
‘He’s a professor, Mother,’ said Margo quickly.
‘He’s Gijs to his friends.’ He glanced at Margo and smiled. ‘And I hope Margo will allow me to call her Margo...’
‘Of course you may, if you want to. Everyone does.’
She gave him a wide smile and skimmed away to fetch her father from his study.
Sitting beside his hostess presently, Gijs reflected that it was a very long time since he had sat down to a substantial tea. At the hospital he drank the cups of tea brought to him and often drank them tepid, since he hadn’t the time to stop in his work. If he wasn’t at the hospital but at his consulting rooms, his secretary would sneak him a cup between patients—but five o’clock tea, such as this was, was a rarity. Sliced bread and butter arranged on a pretty plate, jam, honey, a covered dish of buttered toast, scones and a large fruit cake. Moreover, the tea was hot and strong, with plenty of milk.
‘I don’t suppose you have much time for tea,’ observed Mrs Pearson chattily. ‘Last time I was in London with the Women’s Institute we had tea at a hotel—little teapots barely enough for one cup and quite nasty looks from the waitresses when we asked for more hot water. And such mean little sandwiches and cakes. I dare say that’s fashionable. Where did you see Margo?’
‘At Lady Mellor’s house. I’m sure that Margo can tell you about it better than I.’
Margo told. ‘I dare say Lady Mellor had a lot to worry about,’ she finished, ‘and the butler was very nice about it. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, if you see what I mean.’
From anyone else, thought the professor, that would sound priggish, but somehow not from Margo—she is, after all, the vicar’s daughter, brought up to see good in everyone. Let’s hope she’ll never be disillusioned.
He said lightly then, ‘It was just our good luck that we should meet in such an unlikely place. I’m delighted to have had company driving down here.’
‘You like England?’ asked the vicar.
‘Very much.’ The two men started a discussion about the English countryside, but the professor volunteered no real information about his own country. Certainly he enlarged upon the social and commercial aspects, and enlarged too upon his homeland, albeit rather vaguely, but Margo reflected that he had told them nothing of his own home or where he lived. Perhaps he was married...
The thought was an unwelcome one which she thrust aside. Why shouldn’t he be married with a brood of children? It was none of her business. She did want to know, however.
Margo being Margo, it was no sooner said than done.
‘Are you married?’ she asked him. Then regretted it the moment she had spoken; the look of amused surprise on his face sent the colour into her cheeks and she mumbled, ‘Sorry, that was rude of me...’
‘No, I’m not married.’ He ignored the mumble. ‘I have never found the time.’
Mrs Pearson hastened to fill an awkward pause. ‘Of course one always expects doctors to be family men—I’m sure I don’t know why. A wife and children must be a hindrance to their work at times.’
He smiled. ‘I imagine that doctors’ wives quickly learn not to be that—rather, a pleasant distraction after a long day’s work. And my married colleagues are doting fathers.’
‘Then you should make haste and marry,’ observed Mrs Pearson.
The vicar put his dignified oar in. ‘I’m sure that Gijs will marry when he wishes to do so, my dear.’ He added thoughtfully, ‘I wonder why a patient should expect his or her doctor to be a married man? It’s an interesting point.’
So started an interesting discussion in which Margo took no part. She passed the cake, handed cups of tea round and wished herself elsewhere. Which was silly—after all, she hadn’t been very rude. She should have laughed it off for the trivial remark it had been, instead of feeling as though she had been nosey. Perhaps, horror of horrors, now he would think that she was intent on attracting him. He wouldn’t want any more to do with her. He would go away and she would never see him again. If she had been witty and pretty and charming, it might have been a different matter...
Professor van Kessel was either a man with the kindest heart imaginable or was prone to deafness; he apparently hadn’t heard her muttered apology. The conversation flowed smoothly, and presently, when he got up to go, he bade her goodbye with his usual pleasant detachment. He didn’t say he hoped to see her again, however.
Watching the Rolls-Royce gliding away towards the village, Margo told herself that he’d gone for good and she could forget him. Whether she wanted to forget him was an entirely different matter, and one she was reluctant to consider.
To her mother’s observation that it was a pity that they were unlikely to see him again, she replied airily that it had been pleasant meeting him once more and that she supposed he would be returning to Holland. ‘After all, it is his home,’ she said.
She collected the tea things and carried them out to the kitchen. ‘I thought I’d go over to see Mrs Merridew tomorrow afternoon. George said she might like some help with the jam. They’ve a huge plum harvest this year.’
Her mother gave her a thoughtful look. Despite the fact that George’s mother had made no secret of the fact that she considered Margo to be a suitable wife for him, the woman had no affection for her. She was, thought Mrs Pearson shrewdly, under the impression that once Margo married she would be able to mould her into the kind of wife she felt her George should have. That Margo wasn’t a girl to be moulded had never entered her head. She had too good an opinion of herself to realise that Margo didn’t like her overmuch, but bore with her overbearing ways for George’s sake.
Mrs Pearson, knowing in her bones that Margo didn’t love George, told herself to have patience. Somewhere in the world there was a man for her Margo—preferably the counterpart of Gijs van Kessel...
* * *
SO MARGO TOOK herself off the next day to Merridew’s Farm, intent on being nice to everyone, doing her best to keep her thoughts on a future when she would marry George and live there, and failing lamentably because she thought about the professor instead.
However, once she was at the farm, he was banished from her head by Mrs Merridew’s loud, hectoring voice bidding her to join her in the kitchen.
‘I can do with some help,’ she greeted Margo. ‘There’s an apron behind the door; you can stone the plums... You should have worn a sensible sweater; if you get stains on that blouse they’ll never come out.’
I have never known anybody, reflected Margo, rolling up her sleeves, who could put a damper on any occasion, however trivial. She began to stone the plums—a messy business—and paused in her work as the thought that she couldn’t possibly marry George suddenly entered her head.
‘Why have you stopped?’ Mrs Merridew wanted to know. ‘There’s another bucketful in the pantry. I’m sure I don’t know why I should have to do everything myself; you’ll have to change your ways when you marry George.’
Margo said nothing—there was no point at the moment. Besides, she was busy composing a suitable speech for George’s benefit.
He wouldn’t mind, she reflected. He was fond of her, just as she was fond of him, but being fond wasn’t the same as being in love. She wasn’t sure why she was so ce
rtain about that. A future with George had loomed before her for several years now—everyone had taken it for granted that when the time came they would marry, and she had got used to the idea and accepted it; she wanted to marry, she wanted children and a husband to care for her, and at twenty-eight she was sure that romance—the kind of romance she read about in novels—had passed her by.
But romance had touched her with feather-light fingers in the shape of Gijs van Kessel, and life would never be the same again.
She glanced across the table at Mrs Merridew, who was a formidable woman, tall and stout, with her iron-grey hair permanently waved into rock-like formations and a mouth which seldom smiled. She was respected in the village but not liked as her long-dead husband had been liked, and she was always ready to find fault. Only with George was she softer in her manner...
‘Fetch me the other preserving pan, Margo.’ Mrs Merridew’s voice cut into her thoughts. ‘I’ll get this first batch on the stove. By the time you’ve finished stoning that lot I can fill a second pan.’
Margo went to the far wall and got down the copper preserving pan and put it on the table.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ asked Mrs Merridew. ‘Never known you so quiet. What’s all this nonsense I heard about you and a pack of tramps?’
‘Not tramps—travellers. And it wasn’t nonsense. One of them had a baby by the side of the road.’
‘More fool her,’ declared Mrs Merridew. ‘These people bring shame to the countryside.’
‘Why?’ asked Margo, and ate a plum.
‘Why? They’re dirty and dishonest and live from hand to mouth.’
‘Well, they looked clean enough to me,’ said Margo. ‘And I don’t know that they’re dishonest—no more so than people who live in houses...’
Her companion snorted. ‘Rubbish! If any of them came onto the farm George would soon send them packing.’
‘Would he? Would he really? Or would he do it to please you?’
Mrs Merridew went red. ‘You don’t seem yourself today, Margo. I hope you’re not ill—picked up something nasty from those tramps.’
She set the pan of fruit on the old-fashioned stove. ‘While that’s coming to the boil we’ll have a cup of tea, then you’d better go home. I dare say you’ve a cold coming.’
Margo never wanted to see another plum; she agreed meekly, drank her tea, washed the cups and saucers in the sink, bade Mrs Merridew goodbye and got on her bike. She had wanted to talk to George but she wasn’t to be given the chance. She would come up early in the morning; he would be in the cow parlour and there would be time to talk.
‘Early back, dear,’ commented her mother as she came in through the kitchen door. ‘Weren’t you asked to stay for tea?’
Margo sat down at the table and watched her mother rolling dough for scones. ‘No. Mrs Merridew thinks I may have caught a cold.’ Margo popped a piece of dough into her mouth. ‘Mother, I don’t want to marry George...’
Mrs Pearson was cutting rounds of dough and arranging them on a baking tray. ‘Your father and I have always hoped that you wouldn’t, although we would never have said anything if you had. You don’t love him.’
‘No. I like him—I’m fond of him—but that’s not the same, is it?’
‘No, love, it isn’t. When you do fall in love you’ll know that. Have you told George?’
‘I’ll go and see him tomorrow early. Do you think he’ll be upset?’
Her mother put the scones in the oven. ‘No, dear, I don’t. George is a nice young man but I think he wants a wife, not a woman to love. She’ll need to be fond of him, of course, and he of her, but that will be sufficient. And that wouldn’t be sufficient for you, would it?’
‘No. I would like,’ said Margo thoughtfully, ‘to be cosseted and spoilt and loved very much, and I’d want to be allowed to be me, if you see what I mean. I would be a good wife and have lots of children because we would have enough money to keep us all in comfort.’ She laughed a little. ‘Aren’t I silly? But I’m sure about George, Mother. I’d rather stay single...’
‘I know you are doing the right thing, love. See what your father says.’
Margo laid the table for tea and presently, over that meal, the Reverend Mr Pearson voiced his opinion that Margo was indeed doing the right thing. ‘And if you feel unsettled for a while, my dear, why not go and stay with one of your aunts? Heaven knows, your mother and I have enough relations to choose from.’
‘I’d be running away...’
‘No, clearing the decks. And you wouldn’t go for a week or two. Give the village a chance to discuss it thoroughly.’ They all laughed. ‘There’s not much happening until the bazaar; it’ll liven things up a bit.’
* * *
MARGO WAS UP early, dressed and on her bike while it still wasn’t quite light, and was in plenty of time to see George while the cows were being milked.
She leaned her bike against a pile of logs and, her heart thumping hard despite her resolution to keep calm, went into the cow parlour.
Two of the cowmen were already milking, and George was standing by the door checking some equipment. He looked up when she went in.
‘Good Lord, what brings you here at this time of the morning? Mother said you were sickening for a cold. Don’t come near me, whatever you do.’
Not a very encouraging beginning, but Margo braced herself.
‘I haven’t got a cold. Your mother just thought I might have one because I didn’t talk much...!’
‘Won’t do not to get on with Mother,’ said George. A rebuke she ignored.
‘I wanted to talk to you for a minute or two—this is the only time when we’re alone.’
‘Well, let’s have it, old girl. I’ve not got all day.’
It was being called ‘old girl’ which started her off. ‘You have never asked me, George, but everyone seems to think that we will marry. Perhaps you don’t intend to ask me, but if you do don’t bother, because I don’t want to marry you. I would make a very bad farmer’s wife—and your mother would live with us.’
‘Well, of course she would—show you how things are done before she takes her ease and you take over.’
The prospect left Margo short of breath. She persevered, though. ‘George, do you love me?’
‘What’s got into you, girl? We’ve known each other almost all our lives.’
‘Yes, I know that. That’s not what I meant. Are you in love with me? Do I excite you? Do you want to give me the moon and the stars?’
‘You’re crazy, Margo. What’s that twaddle got to do with being a good wife?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think it must have a great deal to do with it. So you won’t mind very much if we don’t get married? You’re a very nice person, George. There must be dozens of girls who’d give anything to be your wife.’
‘Well, as to that, I reckon that’s so. Mother always had her doubts, even though she liked the idea of me marrying the vicar’s daughter.’
Margo swallowed her rage. ‘Well, that leaves everyone quite satisfied, doesn’t it?’ She turned to go. ‘Pass the news around the village, will you? I’m glad your heart isn’t broken!’
She got onto her bike and pedalled home as though the Furies were after her. She knew that George hadn’t meant to be unkind, but she felt as though he really didn’t mind one way or the other—and that was very lowering to a girl who hadn’t had much of an opinion of herself in the first place.
To her mother’s carefully worded question she gave a matter-of-fact account of her meeting with George. ‘So that’s that,’ she finished briskly. ‘And if you don’t mind I would quite like to go away for a week or two.’
‘You need a change,’ declared her mother. ‘There’s so little life here for someone young. I know you’re kept busy, but a change of scene... Have you
any idea where you’d like to go?’
The vicar looked up from his cornflakes. ‘Your aunt Florence, when she last wrote, expressed the view that she would be glad to see any of us who cared to visit her. Sunningfield is a village even smaller than this one, but it is near Windsor and within easy reach of London and I believe she has many friends. Your uncle was a very respected and popular man during his lifetime.’
He passed his cup for more coffee. ‘I will telephone her this morning and drive you there myself if you would like that?’
Truth to tell, Margo didn’t much mind where she went. All she knew was that she would like to get away for a little while and think. She wasn’t sure what it was she needed to think about, but think she must. She wasn’t upset about calling off the vague future George had sketched out for her from time to time, but she felt restless and she didn’t know why. A week or two with Aunt Flo would put everything back into its right perspective once more.
It was arranged that she should go in four or five days’ time, and in the meantime that gave the village the opportunity to adjust to the idea that she and George weren’t to be married after all. She would have been surprised at the number of people who expressed their satisfaction at that.
‘There’d have been no life for Miss Margo with that Mrs Merridew,’ observed the verger’s wife. ‘Nice little lady, that Miss Margo is. Good luck to her, I says!’ A sentiment which was shared by many.
Margo countered the questions from the well-meaning among her father’s congregation in her sensible way, packed a bag with the best of her wardrobe and was presently driven to Sunningfield.
* * *
AUNT FLORENCE LIVED at the end of the village in a cottage which had at one time been the gamekeeper’s home on the local estate. Lord Trueman, having fallen on bad times, had prudently let or sold the lodges and estate cottages, being careful to see that the occupants were suitable neighbours. And of course Aunt Florence was eminently suitable. What could be more respectable than an archdeacon’s widow?