by Betty Neels
‘Nanny tells me that you may decide to move in with us. Your father doesn’t object to being alone?’
Her aunt had written to say that she would be arriving at the end of the week. She told him this, leaving out the details. He nodded pleasantly. ‘I’m sure it will give you more leisure. I hope you’ll be happy here. Pauline will be over the moon when you tell her.’
She thought wistfully that it would have been nice if he had expressed the same satisfaction, even if in a more modified form. She bade him a quiet good-night, more or less drowned by Miss Fortesque’s voice, pitched high, demanding that they should leave at once.
The week unfolded at a leisurely pace; Florina packed her things, got her room ready for her aunt and moved to the Wheel House. Her father bade her goodbye with no sign of regret, merely warning her again that she need not expect to go crying back to him when she found herself out of a job. She received this remark without rancour, aware that if he should fall ill again the first thing that he would do would be to demand that she should return home to look after him.
She enjoyed arranging her few possessions in her room at Wheel House, helped by a delighted Pauline. Once settled in, she found that she had a good deal more leisure. Cooking for the three of them took up only a part of her day; she helped Nanny with the ironing and the cleaning of the silver, took Pauline mushrooming in the early mornings, and, with Mrs Frobisher’s consent, started to give her cooking lessons. By the time Sir William arrived on Friday afternoon, there was a dish of jam tarts and a fruit cake, a little soggy in the middle but still edible, both of which Pauline bore to the tea table with pride. Sir William, a kind and loving parent, ate quantities of both.
The weekend was one of the happiest Florina had spent for a long time. For one thing, there was a peaceful content over the old home. Sir William insisted that they all breakfast together in the kitchen, a meal which Florina cooked with an almost painful wish to serve up something to perfection, just to please him. She succeeded very well; he ate everything put before him, carrying on a cheerful conversation meanwhile, even making Nanny laugh, something she seldom did. They were at the toast and marmalade stage on Saturday morning, when Pauline said, ‘I wish it could be like this always—just us, Daddy—you and me and Nanny and Florina. Must you marry Wanda? She wouldn’t sit at the kitchen table, and she’s always fussing about eating in case she gets fat.’
Florina saw the look on Sir William’s face. There was a nasty temper hidden away behind that calm exterior, and to avert it she got to her feet, exclaiming loudly, ‘Shall I make another pot of coffee? And how about more toast?’ At the same time she cast a warning glance at Pauline.
The child had gone very red and tears weren’t far off. She sighed and said, ‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’
His face was placid again. ‘That’s all right, darling. What are we going to do today?’
The pair of them went off presently, and Florina prepared lunch, decided what to have for dinner, made the coffee and went to help Nanny with the beds. The rest of the weekend was peaceful, and Florina, taking along the coffee tray to the patio where Sir William had settled with the Sunday papers after church, while Pauline fed the swans, thought how delightful life was.
She gave him breakfast the next morning, happily aware that he would be back on Friday afternoon. Wanda Fortesque had gone to stay with friends in the south of France, and Florina allowed herself the childish hope that something, anything, would prevent her from ever coming back from there!
The weather changed suddenly during the day, by the evening it was chilly and grey, and Pauline seemed to have the beginnings of a cold.
Nanny came down to the kitchen after she had seen Pauline to bed. ‘The child’s feverish,’ she declared. ‘I think I’d better keep her in bed tomorrow; these summer colds can be heavy.’
But when morning came, Pauline was feeling worse; moreover, she had a pinky, blotchy rash.
‘Measles,’ said Nanny, and phoned for the doctor.
He came from Wilton that morning, confirmed Nanny’s diagnosis, and observed that there was a lot of it about and that Pauline, having had an anti-measles injection when she was a little girl, would soon be on her feet again. ‘Plenty to drink,’ he advised, ‘and keep her in bed until her temperature is down.’ He patted Nanny reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
All the same, Nanny telephoned Sir William in London, only to be told that he was at the hospital and would be there all day. She put the phone down, undecided as to what to do, when it rang again.
Florina, making iced lemonade for the invalid, heard her talking at some length, and presently she came back to the kitchen.
‘Sir William’s not at home and won’t be until the evening, but Miss Fortesque was there. She rang back when I told her I wanted him urgently, said she would tell him when he got back. I would rather have phoned the hospital, but that would be no use if he is in the theatre or the out-patients.’
By the time they were ready for bed, more than ready, for Florina had suggested that neither Mrs Deakin nor Mrs Datchett came to work until Pauline was better, for they both had children, there had been no word from Sir William. Nanny telephoned once more, only to be told by Miss Fortesque that he was still out.
Pauline was much better in the morning and Nanny, while still a tiny bit puzzled as to why Sir William hadn’t telephoned, decided that there was no need to bother him, not until the evening at any rate. She and Florina spent another busy day, for the house was large and there was a certain amount of work to get through, as well as pandering to Pauline’s increasing whims. Nanny had a headache by teatime, and Florina persuaded her to go to bed early.
‘Only if you telephone Sir William,’ declared Nanny.
Florina waited until she had taken up two supper trays, eaten a scratch meal of beans on toast herself, before dialling the number she had been given. Miss Fortesque answered. No, Sir William wasn’t at home and wasn’t likely to be for some time and was it urgent? He had had a busy day and needed his rest. She slammed down the receiver before Florina had got her mouth open.
Nanny had a rash in the morning, a high temperature, a terrible headache and a firmly rooted opinion that she was going to die.
‘Nonsense, Mrs Frobisher,’ said Florina robustly. ‘You’ve got the measles. I’m going to get the doctor.’
He wasn’t quite as cheerful about Nanny. It transpired that she had never had measles as a child, an illness, which he pointed out to Florina, that could be quite serious in anyone as elderly as Nanny. ‘Keep her in bed,’ he advised. ‘Plenty of fluids, and don’t let her read or use her eyes. Keep the blinds drawn and take her temperature every four hours. I’ll be out to see her again tomorrow.’ He added as an afterthought, ‘Can you manage?’
Sir William would be home on the next day, so Florina assured the doctor that, of course, she could manage.
It was hard work. Pauline had made a quick recovery, although she still needed looking after and had to stay in bed for another day or so, but Nanny, suddenly an old, ill Nanny, needed constant attention. Not that she was a difficult patient, but she was feverish, her head ached and she fretted at lying in bed.
Florina, trotting up and down stairs with trays and cool drinks, was tempted to telephone Sir William again, but it hardly seemed worth it since he would be home in less than twenty-four hours. She settled her two patients for the night at last, and went to the kitchen to make out a menu for Sir William’s dinner for the following evening. It would have to be something quick, and which could be left in the Aga to look after itself. She made a chocolate mousse and put it in the freezer, made a vegetable soup, and then decided that she would make a cheese soufflé—something which could be done at the last minute. She had picked some peas and beans earlier in the day, and there was plenty of fruit and cheese and biscuits. She went to take a last look at her two patients and then went to bed herself, to sleep the moment her head touched the pillow.
Doc
tor Stone came again the next morning, cautioned her that Pauline should stay in bed for another day or so, declared that Nanny was holding her own nicely, but that she would need careful nursing, accepted a cup of coffee and remarked that Florina was managing very well.
‘No need to send you a nurse,’ he told her, ‘and, since there isn’t one available at the moment, that’s a good thing. Is Sir William coming down for the weekend?’
Florina said that, yes, he was, and thought tiredly of all the extra cooking there would be. She was, after all, the cook, and he had every right to expect well prepared meals to be set before him. Doctor Stone went, and she made a large quantity of lemonade, then made herself a sandwich and started to get a light lunch for Pauline. Nanny didn’t want anything, but Florina made an egg nog and spent some precious time persuading her to drink it.
She spent more time settling Pauline for the afternoon. There was the radio, of course, and her cassette player, and since reading wasn’t to be encouraged, a sketch-book had to be found with coloured crayons. Florina, finally free to go to the kitchen, put on a clean apron, tossed her plait over her shoulder and started to shell the peas.
She was very tired; she let the sound of the stream, racing under the house and on into the garden, soothe her. She was disturbed five minutes later by a leisurely tread in the hall, and a moment later Sir William said from the kitchen door, ‘Hello! The house is very quiet.’
When she turned to look at him he saw her white, tired face.
‘What’s wrong, Florina?’
She heard the sudden briskness of his usually placid voice. ‘Measles,’ she said. ‘Pauline started on Monday and now Nanny has it… Yesterday—I’ve had the doctor. Doctor Stone, from Wilton.’
‘Why wasn’t I told?’
‘Nanny telephoned you on Monday night, and then again on Tuesday. I rang again on Thursday evening…’
Sir William didn’t answer. He went to the telephone on the wall by the Aga, and dialled a number. Florina went back to shelling her peas and listened.
‘Jolly? Get hold of our Shirley and bribe her to sleep in for a few nights with Mrs Jolly. Then pack a bag and drive down here as soon as you can. Take the Rover and make all speed. We have a problem on our hands. Measles, no less!’
‘On your own?’ he asked, as he put back the receiver.
‘Well, yes. You see, Mrs Deakin and Mrs Datchett have children.’
‘Very wise. I’m going to take a look. Is Pauline on the mend? She had her jab when she was small.’
‘Yes, she’s over the worst. Mrs Frobisher is really quite ill, though…’
She heard him going upstairs two at a time.
By the time he returned she had finished the peas, had the kettle boiling for tea and had laid a tray with the tea things and a plate of scones.
He sat down at the kitchen table and told her to get another cup. ‘Very spotty, the pair of them. Nanny’s going to take a little while to get over it, but Pauline’s well out of the wood.’ He shot the next question at her so fast that she answered it without once pausing to think. ‘Who answered the telephone when you and Nanny telephoned?’
‘Miss Fortesque…’ She went red because he would think her sneaky. ‘I’m sure it was a misunderstanding…’
He didn’t answer that. ‘You’ve had your hands full—up for a good deal of the night, too?’
‘Well, yes. Nanny felt so hot and ill, but Pauline slept well.’
His rather sleepy gaze swept round the kitchen. ‘You’ve been running the place, and cooking, as well as looking after Pauline and Nanny?’
She misunderstood him completely. ‘Oh, but I had all day. Dinner will be ready at half-past seven, but I can put it forward half an hour if you wish. I don’t settle them for the night until about nine o’clock. Pauline likes her supper about eight o’clock and Nanny doesn’t want to eat at present—I’ve been giving her egg and milk and tea and lemonade.’
He smiled at her suddenly. ‘My poor dear, you are tired to the bone, aren’t you? You’ve got dinner fixed already?’ When she nodded, he continued, ‘We’ll eat here together, then you can get supper for Pauline and I’ll take it up; I’ll see that Nanny takes her fluids, too, and then I’ll wash up while you get Pauline ready for bed.’
She opened her mouth to protest, but he lifted a large hand to stop her. ‘I’m going back to take another look at Nanny and then to phone Doctor Stone. Which room should Jolly have when he comes?’
‘There is the small guest room at the end of the passage where Nanny is—I’ll make up the bed…’
‘Put the bed linen out; I’ll see to the bed, you stay here and get on with dinner.’
Florina, whose father had always considered the making of a bed to be a woman’s work, was surprised, but Sir William had spoken in a voice which, while quiet, obviously expected to be obeyed. She cleared away the tea tray and set the kitchen table for the two of them before getting the ingredients for the soufflé.
Sir William was as good as his word; she was ready soon after seven o’clock, and he fetched the sherry decanter from the dining-room and poured each of them a glass, and then sat down opposite her and ate dinner with a splendid appetite, talking about nothing much. When they had finished, he sent her upstairs to Pauline. ‘I’ll fetch the tray down; you tidy her up for the night and then come back here.’
It was pleasant to have someone there to arrange things; Florina did as she was told and half an hour later went back downstairs to find Sir William, one of Nanny’s aprons strained around his person, making the coffee.
‘Sit down and drink it,’ he ordered her, ‘then, if you’ll see to Nanny, I’ll finish up down here and say goodnight to Pauline.’
Nanny was quite willing to be settled for the night. Everything, she told Florina, would be quite all right now that Sir William was home. ‘You cooked him a good dinner?’ she demanded.
Florina said that yes, she had, but she didn’t mention that she had shared it with him at the kitchen table. There was no sense in sending Nanny’s temperature up! She wished her goodnight and went yawning down the staircase; bed would be delightful, but first she must make sure that the kitchen was ready for the morning. Sir William would want his breakfast, and there was early-morning tea, and what about Jolly—who was Jolly, anyway?
The kitchen door to the garden was still open and Sir William was out on the patio, leaning over the balustrade, watching the stream below him.
‘Come and have five minutes’ peace,’ he advised and she went to stand beside him, hot and dishevelled and very tired. He glanced sideways at her smiling faintly, surprised that it worried him to see her looking so weary. He didn’t say anything and she was glad just to lean there, doing nothing until a car turning into the gates roused her.
‘That will be Jolly,’ said Sir William, and went round the side of the house to meet him.
CHAPTER THREE
FLORINA was still standing on the patio when Sir William returned, with Jolly beside him. Jolly was the antithesis of his name. He had a long, narrow face, very solemn and pale, dark eyes, and hair greying at the temples, smoothed to a satin finish. He was dressed soberly in a black jacket and striped trousers, and wore an old-fashioned wing-collar and a black bow-tie.
Sir William halted in front of Florina. ‘This is Jolly, who runs my home. Jolly, this is Florina, who cooks for me and has been coping on her own for the last couple of days. I think we’ll send her to bed and we’ll discuss what’s best to be done. Off you go, Florina, sleep the clock round if you want to.’
She was quite shocked. ‘Breakfast…’
‘Ah, you don’t really trust us with the frying-pan. I dare say you’re right. Breakfast is at half-past eight. You do the cooking, we’ll clear up. We’ll work out a routine in the morning. Now, off with you.’
It was difficult to go against this casual friendliness. Besides, she had had a long day. She said goodnight to them both, and went upstairs to lie in the bath, half-asleep, and thin
k about how nice Sir William was. But the cooling water brought her wide awake, and she tumbled into bed, to sleep soundly almost at once.
She was wakened by Sir William’s voice, and shot up in bed, in an instant panic that she had overslept. He was wearing a rather grand dressing-gown, and stood by the bed with a mug from the kitchen in his hand.
He gave it to her and said cheerfully, ‘Tea—you’ve slept well?’ Then he sat himself down carefully on the side of the bed. He hadn’t appeared to look at her, but he had taken in her face, rosy from sleep, her hair freed from its tidy plait, hanging in a mousy tangle round her shoulders. She looked a different girl from the pale, tired little creature he had found in the kitchen on the previous evening.
He went on easily, ‘I’ve taken a look at our two invalids. Pauline is doing fine; Nanny’s still feverish—she’ll need a few days’ nursing still, but luckily she’s decided not to die this time, and is already giving orders about cleaning the bath and getting extra milk. A good sign!’ He got off the bed. ‘It’s half-past seven. When you’re ready, would you go along and make Nanny comfortable before breakfast? Jolly will see to the table for you and lay the trays and so forth. We’ll eat in the kitchen; that will save dusting the dining-room.’
He smiled and nodded and wandered away, leaving her to drink her tea and then, as quickly as she could, to shower and dress, reflecting as she did so that she had never met anybody quite like him before. She couldn’t remember her father ever bringing her a cup of tea in bed; he had always been at pains to point out to her, and her mother while she had been alive, that since a man spent his day working to keep a roof over their heads, it was only right that he should be properly looked after in his own home.
Her hair once more neatly plaited, wearing one of her striped cotton dresses, she went along to visit Pauline first, sitting up in bed and feeling so much better that she demanded to be allowed up.
‘Not until your father says so,’ said Florina briskly. ‘I dare say he’ll come to see you when he’s had breakfast. What would you like? Are you hungry?’