by Betty Neels
The girl needed a lot of persuading. “Tis only a cold,’ she told Emma. ‘There’s half a dozen kids as bad. Come in and look if you don’t believe me.’
She was right. There were more than half a dozen, though—some of them small babies. Emma, although no nurse, could recognise the signs of whooping cough when she saw it. It would need several ambulances to take them to the nursery. ‘Look,’ she said to one of the older women, ‘I haven’t room to take them all, but I’ll go back now and send an ambulance for them.’
They gathered round her, all talking at once, but at last she got back into the Mini, with the baby and its mother in the back, and began her journey back to Moretonhampstead. As Diana had said, it wasn’t far, but the road was narrow and winding and little used and there were no houses or farms in sight. She was glad when the reached the nursery and she could hand the baby and mother over to Diana.
It was Maisie who led them away while Emma explained to Diana that there were more babies and toddlers needing help. ‘An ambulance?’ she suggested. ‘They are really quite ill and it’s so cold for them.’
Diana frowned. ‘Wait here. I’ll see if I can get help. Go and have a cup of coffee; you must need one.’
When Emma returned Diana shook her head. ‘Would you believe it, there’s nothing to be had until tomorrow morning—it’s not urgent you see…’
‘But they need more baby food and someone to clean them up—nappies and warm clothes.’
Diana appeared to think. ‘Look, I wouldn’t ask it of everyone but you’re so sensible, Emma. If I get more stuff packed up would you take it back? Why not go back to Lustleigh and pack an overnight bag just in case you feel you can’t leave them? I’ll get a doctor to them as soon as I can and you can go straight home once he’s got organised.’
‘You’re sure there’s no one available?’
‘Quite sure. There’s a flap on with a major road accident—whooping cough just doesn’t count.’
Emma was only half listening, which was a pity for then she might have queried that, but she was worried about the babies wheezing and gasping, so far from the care they needed. She said, ‘All right, I’ll go. I wish Paul were here…’
‘Oh, my dear, so do I. He’s such a tower of strength— we have been so close.’ Diana’s voice was soft and sad. ‘We still are and I know you won’t mind; it isn’t as if you love each other.’ She turned away and dabbed at a dry eye. ‘You see, his work is all-important to him; he cannot afford to be distracted by the all-embracing love I—’ She choked and took a long breath. ‘Of course, he has explained all that to you—he told me how understanding you were.’
Emma said, ‘I’d better be on my way,’ and left without another word.
She went over the conversation word for word as she drove back to the cottage, and although she hated Diana she had to admit that it was all probably true. Paul didn’t love her; he liked her enough to marry her, though, knowing that she would provide the calm background his arduous work demanded, whereas Diana’s flamboyant nature would have distracted him.
It was well into the afternoon by now, and the sky was threatening rain. She hurried into the cottage, explained to Mrs Parfitt that she might not get back that night and ran upstairs to push essentials into a shoulder-bag. Mrs Parfitt came after her. ‘You didn’t ought to go,’ she said worriedly. ‘Whatever will Sir Paul say when he hears?’
‘Well, he doesn’t need to know. I’m only going to the reservoir, and don’t worry, Mrs Parfitt, there’ll be a doctor there tomorrow and I’ll come home.’ She turned to look at the faithful creature. ‘Think of those babies— they really need some help.’
‘Sir Paul wouldn’t let you go, ma’am, but since you won’t listen to me at least you’ll have a bowl of soup and a nice strong cup of tea.’
Emma, who hadn’t had her lunch, agreed, wolfed down the soup and some of Mrs Parfitt’s home-made bread, drank several cups of tea and got back into the car. It was raining now and the wind had got up. She waved goodbye to Mrs Parfitt and Willy and Kate and drove back to the nursery.
It was amazing how much could be packed into the Mini; it was amazing too how helpful Diana was. ‘Don’t worry,’ she told Emma. ‘Someone will be with you just as soon as possible.’
She waved goodbye as Emma drove away, then went into the office and picked up the phone. ‘There’s no hurry to send anyone out to that camp on the moor. I’ve sent everything they need and the girl who is taking the stuff is sensible and capable. I’ll let you know more in the morning!’
Emma was still a mile or so from the reservoir when she saw the first wisps of mist creeping towards her, and five minutes later she was in the thick of it. It was eddying to and fro so that for a moment she could see ahead and then the next was completely enshrouded.
She had been caught in the moorland mists before now; to a stranger they were frightening but she had learnt to take them in her stride. All the same, she was relieved when she saw the rough track leading to the camp and bumped her way along it until the first of the buses loomed out of the mist. The mist had brought Stygian gloom with it and she was glad to see the lights shining from the open doorways. As she got out several of the campers came to surround her.
They were friendly—happy in the way they lived, making nothing of its drawbacks—but now they were anxious about the babies and Emma, taken to see them, was anxious too. No expert, she could still see that they were as ill as the one she had taken to the nursery. She handed out the blankets, baby food and bags of nappies, drank the mug of strong tea she was offered and prepared to return.
The mist had thickened by now and it was almost dark—to find her way wouldn’t be easy or particularly safe; she would have to stay where she was until the morning and, since there were hours to get through, she could curl up in the back of the Mini for the night. She helped with the babies, looking at their small white faces and listening to their harsh breathing and hoping that, despite the awful weather, an ambulance or at least a doctor would come to their aid.
No one came, however, so she shared supper with one of the families and, after a last worried look at the babies, wrapped herself in a blanket and curled up on the Mini’s back seat. It was a tight fit and she was cold, and the thin wails of the babies prevented her from sleeping, and when she at last lightly dozed off she was awakened almost immediately by one of the men with a mug of tea.
The mist had lifted. She scrambled up, tidied herself as best she could and got back into the car. If she drove round the reservoir and took the lane on the other side she would reach a hamlet, isolated but surely with a telephone. She explained what she was going to do and set off into the cold, bleak morning.
It was beginning to rain and there was a strong wind blowing; summer, for the moment, was absent. The lane was rutted and thick with mud and there was no question of hurrying. She saw with relief a couple of houses ahead of her and then a good-sized farm.
There was a phone. The farmer, already up, took her into the farmhouse when she explained, and shook his head. ‘They’m foolish folk,’ he observed. ‘Only just there, I reckon. Leastways they weren’t there when I was checking the sheep a few days ago.’ He was a kindly man. ‘Reckon you’d enjoy a cuppa?’
‘Oh, I’d love one, but if I might phone first? The babies do need to go into care as quickly as possible.’
A cheerful West Country voice answered her. They’d be there right away, she was told, just let her sit tight till they came. Much relieved, she drank her tea, thanked the farmer and drove back to tell the travellers that help was on the way.
‘Likely they’ll move us on,’ said one woman.
‘It’s common land, isn’t it? I dare say they’ll let you stay as long as the babies are taken care of. I expect they’ll take them to hospital and transfer them to the nursery until they are well again. You’ll be able to see them whenever you all want to. Some of you may want to go with them.’ She looked around her. ‘I can give three of you lifts, i
f you like.’
One of the younger women offered to go.
‘How ever will you get back?’ asked Emma.
‘Thumb a lift and walk the last bit—no problem.’
The ambulance came then, and Emma stood aside while the paramedics took over. They lifted the babies into the ambulance presently, offered the young woman who was to have gone with Emma a seat, and drove away. That left her free to go at last. No one wanted a lift—they were content to wait and see what the young woman would tell them when she got back. Emma got into her car and drove home, to be met at the door by an agitated Mrs Parfitt.
‘You’re fit to drop,’ she scolded kindly. ‘In you come, madam, and straight into a nice, hot bath while I get your breakfast. Like as not you’ve caught your death of cold.’
Not quite death, as it turned out, but for the moment she was very tired and shivery. The bath was bliss, and so were breakfast and the warm bed she got into afterwards.
‘I must ring the nursery,’ she said worriedly, and began to get out of bed again, to Queenie’s annoyance.
‘I’ll do that,’ said Mrs Parfitt. ‘No good going there for a day or two, and so I’ll tell that Miss Pearson.’
‘I’m not ill,’ said Emma peevishly, and fell asleep.
She woke hours later with a head stuffed with cotton wool and a sore thorat and crept downstairs, to be instantly shooed back to her bed by Mrs Parfitt bearing hot lemon and some paracetamol.
‘It’s more than my job’s worth, Lady Wyatt, to let you get up. Sir Paul would send me packing.’
Emma, aware that Mrs Parfitt only called her Lady Wyatt when she was severely put out, meekly got back into bed.
‘Did you phone the nursery?’ she croaked.
‘I did, and there is no need for you to go in until you are free of your cold. You’d only give it to the babies.’ Mrs Parfitt eyed her anxiously. ‘I wonder if I should get the doctor to you, ma’am?’
‘No, no—it’s only a cold; I’ll be fine in a day or two.’
Sir Paul, back from his travels, drove himself straight to the hospital, listened impatiently to his senior registrar’s litany of things which had gone wrong during his absence and then, eager to get back home, phoned his secretary, who read out a formidable list of patients waiting for his services.
‘Give me a day?’ he begged her. ‘I’ve a short list on the day after tomorrow. I’ll come to my rooms in the afternoon—I leave it to you…’
He was about to ring off when she stopped him. ‘Sir Paul, Miss Pearson phoned several times, and said it was most urgent that she should see you as soon as you got back.’
He frowned. ‘Why didn’t she speak to my registrar?’
‘I don’t know, sir; she sounded upset.’
‘I’ll call in on my way home.’
He was tired; he wanted to go home and see Emma, watch her face light up when she saw him. She might not love him but she was always happy to be with him. He smiled as he got out of the car and went along to Diana’s office.
He might be tired but good manners necessitated his cheerful greeting. ‘You wanted to see me; is it very urgent? I’m now on my way home.’
‘I had to see you first,’ said Diana. She was, for her, very quiet and serious. ‘It’s about Emma. Oh, don’t worry, she’s not ill, but I’m so upset. You see, she went dashing off; she simply wouldn’t listen…’
Sir Paul sat down. ‘Start at the beginning,’ he said quietly.
Which was just what Diana had hoped he would say. She began to tell him her version of what had happened and, because she was a clever young woman, it all sounded true.
Sir Paul let himself into his house quietly, took off his coat and, since there were no lights on in the drawing-room, went to the little sitting-room at the back of the house. Emma was there, with Queenie on her lap and the dogs draped over her feet.
When he walked in she turned round, saw who it was, flew to her feet and ran across to him in a flurry of animals. ‘Paul—you’re back!’ Her voice was still hoarse, and her nose pink from constant blowing, and it was a silly thing to say but she couldn’t hide her delight.
He closed the door behind him and stood leaning against it, and it was only then that she realised that he was in a rage. His mouth was a thin hard line and his eyes were cold.
‘What possessed you to behave in such a foolish manner?’ he wanted to know. ‘Why all the melodrama? What are the ambulances for? Or the police, for that matter? What in the name of heaven possessed you, Emma? To go racing off on to the moor in bad weather, sending dramatic messages, spending the night in a Godforsaken camp. Ignoring Diana’s pleading to wait and give her time to phone for help. No, you must race away like a heroine in a novel, bent on self-glory.’
Emma said in a shaky voice, ‘But Diana—’
‘Diana is worth a dozen of you.’
It was a remark which stopped her from uttering another word.
‘We’ll talk later,’ said Sir Paul, and went away to his study and sat down behind his desk, his dogs at his feet. He’d been too hard on her; he tried not to think of her white, puzzled face with its pink nose, but he had been full of rage, thinking of all those things which could have happened to her. ‘The little idiot,’ he told the dogs. ‘I could wring her darling neck.’
Emma gave herself ten minutes to stop shaking, then went in search of Mrs Parfitt. ‘Sir Paul’s home,’ she told her. ‘Can we stretch dinner for three?’
Mrs Parfitt gave her a thoughtful look, but all she said was, ‘I’ll grill some more cutlets and shall I serve a soup first? No doubt he’s hungry after that journey.’
‘That would be fine, Mrs Parfitt. I dare say he’s famished. Could we have dinner quite soon?’
‘Half an hour, ma’am—gives him time to have a drink and stretch out in his study.’
Emma went to her room, re-did her face and pinned her hair back rather more severely than usual, and then practised a few expressions in the looking-glass—a look of interest, a cool aloofness—she liked that one best…
Downstairs again, in the drawing-room, she picked up her tapestry work and began poking the needle in and out in a careless fashion, practising cool aloofness. She succeeded so well that when Paul came into the room intent on making his peace with her he changed his mind at once—the look she cast him was as effective as a barbed wire fence.
All the same, after a moment or two he essayed some kind of a conversation while he wondered how best to get back on a friendly footing once more.
Emma, her hurt and anger almost a physical pain, had no intention of allowing him to do that. She sat, mangling her needlework most dreadfully, silent except when it was asolutely necessary to say yes or no.
They had their dinner in silence, and as they got up from the table Paul said, ‘I think we should have a talk, Emma.’
She paused on her way to the door. ‘No, I have understood you very well, Paul; there is no need to say it all over again.’
‘Do I take it that you don’t wish to work at the nursery any more?’
Her eyes were very large in her pale face. ‘I shall go tomorrow morning as usual. Why not?’
His cold, ‘Just as you wish,’ was as icy as her own manner.
At breakfast she treated him with a frigid politeness which infuriated him—asking him if he would be late home, reminding him that they were due to attend a dinner party on the following evening and wishing him a cool goodbye as he got up to go.
When he had gone she allowed her rigid mouth to droop. She supposed that in a while they would return to their easy-going relationship, but it wouldn’t be the same—he had believed Diana, he had mocked her attempts at helping the travellers and, worst of all, he hadn’t asked her if any of the things Diana had told him were true. So, if his opinion of her was so low why had he married her? To provide a screen of respectability so that he and Diana could continue as they were? So why hadn’t he married her?
Emma’s thoughts swirled around in her
tired head and didn’t make sense. All she did know was that Diana had lied about her and Paul had listened willingly. She didn’t think that Diana would expect her back but she was going. Moreover, she would behave as though nothing unusual had occurred, only now she would be on her guard. It was a pity that she had fallen in love with Paul but, since she had, there was nothing more she could do about it—only make sure that Diana didn’t get him.
Her imagination working overtime, Emma took herself off to the clinic.
It was a source of satisfaction actually to see that Diana was actually surprised and a little uncomfortable when she walked in.
‘Emma—I didn’t expect you. You’re sure you feel up to it? I heard that you had a heavy cold.’
‘Not as heavy as all that. I’ll wear a mask, shall I? Are there any new babies?’
Diana’s eyes slid away from hers. ‘Three from that camp. They’re in isolation—whooping cough. They were in a pretty poor way, you know.’ She added casually, ‘I hear that Paul is back?’
‘Yes, didn’t he come to see you? I thought he might have popped in on his way home. He’s got a busy day— I dare say he’ll do his best to call in this evening. I’d better get on with the bathings or I’ll have Maisie on my tail.’
Maisie was already busy with the first of her three babies. She looked up as Emma wrapped her pinny round her and got everything ready before picking up Charlie, who was bawling as he always did.
‘I heard a lot,’ said Maisie. ‘Most of which I don’t believe. You look like something the cat’s dragged in.’
‘As bad as that? And I don’t think you need to believe any of it, Maisie.’
‘You’re a right plucky un coming back ‘ere. I couldn’t ‘elp but ‘ear wot madam was saying—being busy outside the office door as it were. And that ‘usband of yours coming out like a bullet from a gun, ready to do murder. If ‘e’d been a bit calmer I’d ‘ave spoke up. But ‘e almost knocks me over, sets me back on me feet and all without a word. ‘E’s got a nasty temper and no mistake.’