The Right Kind of Girl

by Betty Neels

Her red herring hadn’t been of much use. ‘I think so. My kind of a job anyway.’

  ‘You’re wasted—bullied by selfish women and changing babies’ nappies.’

  ‘I like babies.’ She added tartly, ‘It’s kind of you to bother, but there is no need—’

  ‘How old are you, Emma?’

  ‘Almost twenty-six.’

  He smiled. ‘Twenty-five, going on fifteen! I’m forty— do you find that old?’

  ‘Old? Of course not. You’re not yet in your prime. And you don’t feel like forty, do you?’

  ‘Upon occasion I feel ninety, but at the moment at least I feel thirty at the most!’ He smiled at her and she thought what a very nice smile he had—warm and somehow reassuring. ‘Have another doughnut?’

  She accepted it with the forthright manner of a polite child. She was not, he reflected, in the least coy or selfconscious. He didn’t search too deeply into his reasons for worrying about her future, although he admitted to the worry. It was probably because she was so willing to accept what life had to offer her.

  He went presently, with a casual goodbye and no mention of seeing her again. Not that she had expected that. She cycled back to Mrs Hervey and Bart, reflecting that she was becoming quite fond of him.

  It was the beginning of the third week, with another hundred pounds swelling their bank balance, when Mrs Hervey told her that the new nanny would be with them by the end of the week, and Cook and the housemaid would return in three days’ time.

  ‘And about time too,’ said Mrs Hervey rather pettishly. ‘I mean, three weeks just to get over flu…’

  Emma held her tongue and Mrs Hervey went on, ‘You’ll stay until the end of the week, won’t you, Emma? As soon as Cook and that girl are here I shall have a chance to go to the hairdresser. I’m desperate to get to Exeter—I need some clothes and a facial too. You’ll only have Bart to look after, and Nanny comes on Friday evening. I dare say she’ll want to ask your advice about Bart before you go.’

  ‘I think,’ said Emma carefully, ‘that she may prefer not to do that. She’s professional, you see, and I’m just a temporary help. I’m sure you will be able to tell her everything that she would want to know.’

  ‘Will I? Write it all down for me, Emma, won’t you? I never can remember Bart’s feeds and what he ought to weigh.’

  Certainly, once the cook and housemaid returned, life was much easier for Emma. She devoted the whole of her day to Bart, taking him for long rides in his pram, sitting with him on her lap, cuddling him and singing half-forgotten nursery rhymes while he stared up at her with his blue eyes. Cuddling was something that his mother wasn’t very good at. She loved him, Emma was sure of that, but she was awkward with him. Perhaps the new nanny would be able to show Mrs Hervey how to cuddle her small son.

  It was on her last day, handing over to a decidedly frosty Nanny, that she heard Sir Paul’s voice in the drawing-room. She listened with half an ear to the superior young woman who was to have charge of Bart telling her of all the things she should have done, and wondered if she would see him. It seemed that she wouldn’t, for presently Mrs Hervey joined them, remarking that Sir Paul had just called to see if everything was normal again.

  ‘I asked him if he would like to see Bart but he said he hadn’t the time. He was on his way to Plymouth.’ She turned to the nanny. ‘You’ve had a talk with Emma? Wasn’t it fortunate that she was able to come and help me?’ She made a comic little face. ‘I’m not much good with babies.’

  ‘I’m accustomed to take sole charge, Mrs Hervey; you need have no further worries about Bart. Tomorrow, perhaps, we might have a little talk and I will explain my duties to you.’

  It should surely be the other way round, thought Emma. But Mrs Hervey didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Oh, of course. I’m happy to leave everything to you. You’re ready to go, Emma? Say goodbye to Bart; he’s got very fond of you…’

  A remark which annoyed Nanny, for she said quite sharply that the baby was sleeping and shouldn’t be disturbed. So Emma had to content herself with looking at him lying in his cot, profoundly asleep, looking like a very small cherub.

  She would miss him.

  She bade Nanny a quiet goodbye and went downstairs with Mrs Hervey and got on her bike, warmed by that lady’s thanks and the cheque in her pocket. Three hundred pounds would keep them going for quite some time, used sparingly with her mother’s pension.

  When she got home, she took her bike round to the shed, went indoors and made some supper for Queenie, and boiled an egg for herself. She felt sad that the job was finished, but a good deal of the sadness was because she hadn’t seen the professor again.

  There was a letter from her mother in the morning, telling her that she would be brought home by ambulance in two days’ time. How nice, she wrote, that Emma’s job was finished just in time for her return. Emma wondered how she had known that, and then forgot about it as she made plans for the next two days.

  It was pleasant to get up the next morning and know that she had the day to herself. It was Sunday, of course, so she wouldn’t be able to do any shopping, but there was plenty to do in the house—the bed to make up, wood and coal to be brought in, the whole place to be dusted and aired. And, when that was done, she sat down and made a shopping list.

  Bearing in mind what Sir Paul had said about diet, she wrote down what she hoped would be suitable and added flowers and one or two magazines, Earl Grey tea instead of the economical brand they usually drank, extra milk and eggs—the list went on and on, but for once she didn’t care. Her mother was coming home and that was a cause for extravagance.

  She had the whole of Monday morning in which to shop, and with money in her purse she enjoyed herself, refusing to think about the future, reminding herself that it would soon be the tourist season again and there were always jobs to be found. It didn’t matter what she did so long as she could be at home.

  Her mother arrived during the afternoon, delighted to be at home again, protesting that she felt marvellous, admiring the flowers and the tea-tray on a small table by the lighted fire in the sitting-room. Emma gave the ambulance driver tea and biscuits, received an envelope with instructions as to her mother’s diet and went back to her mother.

  Mrs Trent certainly looked well; she drank her weak tea and ate the madeira cake Emma had baked and settled back in her chair. ‘Now, tell me all the news, Emma. What was this job like? Were you happy? A nice change looking after a baby?’

  Emma recounted her days, making light of the long hours. ‘It was a very nice job,’ she declared, ‘and I earned three hundred pounds, so I can stay at home for as long as you want me to.’

  They talked for the rest of that afternoon and evening, with Queenie sitting on Mrs Trent’s lap and finally trailing upstairs with her to curl up on her bed.

  Emma, taking her some warm milk and making sure that she was comfortable before she went to bed herself, felt a surge of relief at the sight of her mother once more in her own bed. The future was going to be fine, she told herself as she kissed her mother goodnight.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  EMMA and her mother settled down into a quiet routine: gentle pottering around the house, short walks in the afternoon, pleasant evenings round the fire at the end of the day. For economy’s sake, Emma shared her mother’s small, bland meals, and found herself thinking longingly of the fish and chips Sir Paul had brought to the house. ‘There was no sign of him, of course, and it wasn’t likely that she would see him again; the new doctor had come to take over from Dr Treble and the professor had doubtless taken up his normal life again. She speculated a bit about that, imagining him stalking the wards with a bunch of underlings who hung on to any words of wisdom he might choose to utter and watched with awe while he performed some complicated operation. And his private life? Her imagination ran riot over that— married to some beautiful young woman—she would have to be beautiful, he wouldn’t look at anyone less— perhaps with children—handsome little boys an
d pretty little girls. If he wasn’t married he would certainly have any number of women-friends and get asked out a great deal—dinner parties and banquets and evenings at the theatre and visits to London.

  A waste of time, she told herself time and again—she would forget all about him. But that wasn’t easy, because her mother talked about him a great deal although, when pumped by Emma, she was unable to tell her anything about his private life.

  Mrs Trent had been home for a week when he came to see her. Emma had seen the Rolls draw up from her mother’s bedroom window and had hurried down to open the door, forgetting her unmade-up face and her hair bunched up anyhow on top of her head. It was only as she opened the door that she remembered her appearance, so that she met his faintly amused look with a frown and her feelings so plain on her face that he said to her at once, ‘I do apologise for coming unexpectly, but I had half an hour to spare and I wanted to see how your mother was getting on.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Emma gruffly, finding her voice and her manners. ‘Please come in; she will be glad to see you.’

  She led the way into the little sitting-room. ‘I was going to make Mother’s morning drink and have some coffee. Would you like a cup?’ She gave him a brief glance. ‘Shall I take your coat?’

  ‘Coffee would be delightful.’ He took off his overcoat and flung it over a chair and went to take Mrs Trent’s hand, which gave Emma the chance to escape. She galloped up to her room, powdered her nose, pinned up her hair and tore downstairs again to make the coffee and carry it in presently, looking her usual neat self.

  Sir Paul, chatting with her mother, looked at her from under his lids and hid a smile, steering the conversation with effortless ease towards trivial matters. It was only when they had finished their coffee that he asked Mrs Trent a few casual questions. He seemed satisfied with her answers and presently took his leave.

  As he shook hands with the older woman she asked, ‘Are you still working here as a GP? Has the new doctor arrived?’

  ‘Several days ago; he will be calling on you very shortly, I have no doubt.’

  ‘So we shan’t see you again? I owe you so much, Sir Paul.’

  ‘It is a great satisfaction to me to see you on your feet again, Mrs Trent. Don’t rush things, will you? You’re in very capable hands.’ He glanced at Emma, who had her gaze fixed on his waistcoat and didn’t meet his eye.

  When he had driven away Mrs Trent said, ‘I’m sorry we shan’t see him again. I felt quite safe with him…’

  ‘I expect the new doctor is just as kind as Dr Treble. I’m sure he’ll come and see you in a day or two, Mother.’

  Which he did—a pleasant, youngish man who asked the same questions that Sir Paul had asked, assured Emma that her mother was making excellent progress and suggested that she might go to the surgery in a month’s time for a check-up.

  ‘No need really,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But I should like to keep an eye on you for a little while.’ As Emma saw him to the door he observed, ‘I’m sure you’re looking after your mother very well; it’s fortunate that you are living here with her.’ It was a remark which stopped her just in time from asking him when he thought it would be suitable for her to look for a job again.

  The days slid past, each one like the previous; Mrs Trent was content to knit and read and go for short walks, and Emma felt a faint prick of unease. Surely by now her mother should be feeling more energetic? She was youngish still—nowadays most people in their fifties were barely middle-aged and still active—but her mother seemed listless, and disinclined to exert herself. The days lengthened and winter began to give way reluctantly to spring, but Mrs Trent had no inclination to go out and about. Emma got Mr Dobbs to drive them to the surgery, when a month was up, after reminding her mother that it was time she saw the doctor again.

  She had already spoken to him on Mr Dobbs’s phone, voicing her vague worries and feeling rather silly since there was nothing definite to tell him, but he was kindness itself as he examined Mrs Trent.

  He said finally, ‘You’re doing very well, Mrs Trent— well enough to resume normal life once more. I’ll see about some surgical stockings for you—you do have a couple of varicose veins. Recent, are they?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but they don’t bother me really. I’m not on my feet all that much.’ Mrs Trent laughed. ‘I’m getting rather lazy…’

  ‘Well, don’t get too lazy; a little more exercise will do you good, I think. The operation was entirely successful and there is no reason why you shouldn’t resume your normal way of life.’ He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Come and see me in a month’s time and do wear those stockings—I’ll see you get them.’

  ‘A nice young man,’ declared Mrs Trent as they were driven home by Mr Dobbs and Emma agreed, although she had the feeling that he had thought her over-fussy about her mother. Still, he had said that her mother was quite well again, excepting for those veins…

  It was several days later, as she was getting their tea, that she heard her mother call out and then the sound of her falling. She flew to the sitting-room and found her mother lying on the floor, and she knew before she picked up her hand that there would be no pulse.

  ‘Mother,’ said Emma, and even though it was useless she put a cushion under her head before she tore out of the house to Mr Dobbs and the phone.

  An embolism, the doctor said, a pulmonary embolism, sudden and fatal. Emma said, in a voice which didn’t sound like hers, ‘Varicose veins—it was a blood clot.’ She saw his surprised look. ‘I’ve done my First Aid.’ She raised anguished eyes to his. ‘Couldn’t you have known?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, there were no symptoms and varicose veins are commonplace; one always bears in mind that a clot might get dislodged, but there is usually some warning.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have known?’

  ‘No, I’m certain of that.’

  There was no one to turn to, no family or very close friends, although the neighbours were kind—cooking her meals she couldn’t eat, offering to help. They had liked her mother and they liked her and she was grateful, thanking them in a quiet voice without expression, grief a stone in her chest.

  They came to the funeral too, those same neighbors, and the doctor, Cook and Alice from Mrs Smith-Darcy’s house, taking no notice of that lady’s orders to remain away. Mrs Hervey was there too, and kind Mr Dobbs. The only person Emma wanted to see was absent—Sir Paul Wyatt wasn’t there, and she supposed that he had no reason to be there anyway. That he must know she was certain, for the doctor had told her that he had written to him…

  There was no money, of course, and no will. She remembered her mother telling her laughingly that when she was sixty she would make one, but in any case there was almost nothing to leave—the house and the furniture and a few trinkets.

  Emma, during the next few empty days, pondered her future. She would sell the house if she could find a small flat in Plymouth, and train properly as a shorthand typist and then find a permanent job. She had no real wish to go to Plymouth but if she went to Exeter, a city she knew and loved, she might meet Sir Paul—something, she told herself, she didn’t wish to do. Indeed, she didn’t want to see him again.

  A new life, she decided, and the sooner the better. Thirty wasn’t all that far off, and by then she was determined to have built herself a secure future. ‘At least I’ve got Queenie,’ she observed to the empty sitting-room as she polished and dusted, quite unnecessarily because the house was clean, but it filled the days. She longed to pack her things and settle her future at once, but there were all the problems of unexpected death to unravel first, so she crammed her days with hard work and cried herself to sleep each night, hugging Queenie for comfort, keeping her sorrow to herself.

  People were very kind—calling to see how she was, offering companionship, suggesting small outings—and to all of them she showed a cheerful face and gave the assurance that she was getting along splendidly and making plans for the future, and they went away, relieved tha
t she was coping so well.

  ‘Of course, Emma has always been such a sensible girl,’ they told each other, deceived by her calm manner.

  Ten days after the funeral, her small affairs not yet settled, she was in the kitchen, making herself an early morning cup of tea and wondering how much longer she would have to wait before she could put the house up for sale. She would keep most of the furniture, she mused, sitting down at the kitchen table, only to be interrupted by a bang on the door-knocker. It must be the postman, earlier than usual, but perhaps there would be something interesting in the post. The unbidden thought that there might be a letter from Sir Paul passed through her mind as she opened the door.

  It wasn’t a letter from him but he himself in person, looming in the doorway and, before she could speak, inside the house, squashed up against her in the narrow little hall.

  At the sight of him she burst into tears, burying her face in the tweed of his jacket without stopping to think what she was doing, only aware of the comfort of his arms around her.

  He said gently, ‘My poor girl. I didn’t know—I’ve been in America and only got back yesterday evening. I was told what had happened by your doctor. He wrote— but by the time I had read his letter it was too late to come to you. I am so very sorry.’

  ‘There wasn’t anyone,’ said Emma, between great heaving sobs. ‘Everyone was so kind…’ It was a muddled remark, which he rightly guessed referred to his absence. He let her cry her fill and presently, when the sobs became snivels, he offered a large white linen handkerchief.

  ‘I’m here now,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and we’ll have breakfast while you tell me what happened.’ He gave her an avuncular pat on the back and she drew away from him, feeling ashamed of her outburst but at the same time aware that the hard stone of her grief had softened to a gentle sorrow.

  ‘I’m famished,’ said Sir Paul in a matter-of-fact voice which made the day normal again. ‘I’ll lay the table while you cook.’